ARMADALE MARY
‘Where to now, folks,’ asked Daddy, ‘is it west or east?’
Uncle Wullie said he wouldn’t mind a donner up round Braemar, he hadn’t been there for ages. ‘Do you know there’s ancient pine there that grow so high they kiss clouds, and the burn water so cold at its source only the Gods taste it. Them, and travellers like ourselves, of course.’
He came from that part of Bonnie Scotland did my uncle, and beamed with pride when describing it. If anyone happened to disagree with him, then he proudly reminded the said body that a great Royal once fell in love with it at first sight, then wryly asked, ‘Well, tell me, why did Her Majesty build Balmoral?’
No one could argue with that, for Queen Victoria indeed said, and I quote: ‘There is no place on earth so majestic as my Deeside.’ She and Uncle Wullie have long since passed away, but I know they would have had no doubt that this part of Scotland would forever retain her beauty and remain ‘Royal’.
‘Fine, Braemar it is!’ answered my father, as he adjusted the wee velvet cushion behind his back on the driver’s seat.
I am eternally grateful to my Uncle Wullie, because if he hadn’t suggested going east, then my meeting with Mary would never have taken place, and a valuable lesson in life might not have come my way. This was, never to judge a book by its cover.
On one of the many snake-bends on the road from Blairgowrie to Glen Shee, I noticed a bent old woman. Her appearance sent shivers up my spine. I dived to the back window to get a good look at the old witch’s features before another bend took her out of view. We stopped up for the night in bonny Glen Shee.
‘Did anyone see the old biddy with the heavy bundle on her back? We passed her by about mile or so back at the Spittal.’ I looked round my relatives for a response to my query. Auntie Jessie frowned before answering me.
‘Don’t you be thinking on yon old witch. I’ve seen her many a time, on plenty roads. Big Wull Macdonald had a run-in with her over a dead hen. He said she was using it to hex some poor farmer who chased her out of his barn.’ This was typical of my Auntie Jessie; if she didn’t know a person then she gave them a character, and always one of a dubious nature.
‘Och, she’s only a tramp,’ said Uncle Wullie, blowing into the newly stick-piled fire to give it a heart. ‘Keeps to herself and never bothers a soul.’
Cousin Anna laughed as she said, ‘Maybe yon big heavy pack is full of bairns’ heads, Jess, so you better watch in the dead of night that an old, bony-fingered hand doesn’t reach into the bus and pull you out!’
‘Aye, by the lugs, no doubt!’ This remark from Daddy brought on hearty laughter as everybody gave my larger than normal ears a second glance.
Mammy saw my face turn bright red, smiled, and told me there was nothing wrong with my ears; then reminded me to fetch the water from the burn. ‘It’s half an hour gone since I asked you, my lass, to get water for the tea. Now be off with you, or it’ll be me grabbing the lugs!’
The burn water was crystal clear. Removing the top from the water can, I plunged it into the deepest bit and drank my fill. It was so cold and sweet I helped myself to another cupful. As I leaned over the pool a reflection joined mine in the mirror of the water. I stood up quickly, and standing behind me was my witch-cum-tramp!
‘Well now, I hope you haven’t frightened away my supper,’ she said, pointing at the fast-moving trout darting to and fro among the smooth stones at the either side of the burn.
‘Oh, sorry,’ was all I managed to say.
‘Never mind, lassie, I wasn’t hungry any road. Are you part of those tinkers camped by the March dyke?’
Had she not called us tinkers I might have felt a sense of fear. Instead my hackles rose at her remark, bringing anger instead. ‘We are travellers. Are you a hexy witch?’
She glowered at me. I took two steps backward and wished I’d held my tongue.
Saying nothing, she undid the broad leather strap placed round her head that held secure her weighty pack. ‘I’m no witch, but I tramp the roads, so that makes two of us. Now you’d better fill your can and be away with you. I’m back-sore and feet-weary and the last thing I need is a snottery-nosed tinker scaring away my supper.’ That said, she placed the heavy pack on the ground.
‘You said you weren’t hungry, and you’re the one with a dirty nose, it’s ingrained. When did that old wrinkled face last see a drop soap?’
‘Why, it’s a while since I had words with sic a fiery bairn. What do they call you?’
Mammy’s whistle brought our uneasy conversation to an abrupt end. Screwing the can lid tightly I started for the campsite, saying in answer to her question, ‘You tell me yours first.’
No answer did she give me, just muttered something under her breath, sat wearily down, removed a small pouch of tobacco from a pocket in her long black skirt, and began filling an old clay pipe with the stem half broke.
As I walked away she called out, ‘Mary, my name is Mary,’ then pulled a sad old face down onto her chest and covered her head with a black shawl.
As I hurried back with the water-can, thoughts of my encounter, albeit of an unfriendly nature, made me feel drawn to this tramp named Mary, and I just had to find out a wee bit more about her background.
As soon as supper was over I was sitting on the humpback-bridge crossing the burn where she settled for the night. ‘Where are you from, Mary? I’m Jessie, by the way. I want for you to accept my apology. I’m right sorry for being cheeky to you earlier on.’
She looked me up and down, then pulled the black wool shawl from off her head, saying, ‘Usually I tell nobody about myself, that’s how I prefer it. Are you an Angus tinker—oh, sorry, I mean traveller!’
‘No, we’re from Perthshire. I was born in Aberfeldy Cottage Hospital. A Dr Yellowlees brought me into the world.’
‘Yellatrees, gey funny name, is it not? Are you sure the good doctor was called that?’ she asked teasingly.
I moved nearer, reminding myself that the older you are the harder of hearing you get.
‘My mother said he was her favourite doctor at bringing bairns into the world, and as she had nine babies she would know, don’t you think?’
‘Michty, I think she would. Did they all survive? How many of each kind were they?’
My new companion seemed genuinely interested, and I was more than keen to tell her all about my mother’s attempt to swell Aberfeldy’s population.
‘Eight lassies, including myself, but sad to say she had a wee laddie who never survived.’
‘Oh, that was a right shame. What happened to the infant?’
‘Well, my mother seldom speaks on it much, but during a bad measles scourge, she lost him. John,’ I continued, ‘My folks gave him the name of my father’s best pal in the army, because he saved my daddy’s life, he did.’
My new friend settled herself back against her bulky pack and asked if I’d tell her how Daddy’s mate saved him.
‘Well,’ said I, very happy to tell this tale, which I knew off to a tee, on account of my father telling it on many a cold winter’s night with my sisters and I huddled round his feet, as wee Reekie turned our faces bright-red from the heat of her coal-stapped body.
It was nearing the end of the war and thoughts of victory were on the soldiers’ minds. Daddy and his mate Johnny Slay, who served with him in the Black Watch, transferring to the REMEs and then finally the Tank Corps, were advancing through the Black Forest in Germany. At long last the allies were beginning to see an end to six years of hellish war. The Germans, who’d been in retreat for three weeks, rallied and were soon pushing British and American troops back the way they came. Daddy’s tank took a direct hit from a severe mortar bombardment. He and Johnny escaped with little injury, but their officer, a young man from Bedfordshire, was killed instantly.
The Germans had dug deep pits throughout the forest. Daddy thought it was to bury the dead hastily, but wasn’t sure. Anyway, in the darkness the two comrades fell into one of the pits and couldn’t get out. Down in the pit filled with corpses and rainwater, the pair clung together as enemy soldiers scanned torches over the forest floor searching for survivors, who without doubt would have been shot. Several times during the long night my father slipped in and out of exhausted sleep. Johnny, obviously the stronger, held Dad’s head above the blood and water filling the hole, saving his life.
Early morning saw friendly troops descend upon the half-dead duo, retrieving them from the pit of death. Daddy promised Johnny, ‘When I have a son he’ll have your name, that’s a promise!’
A minute or two’s silence followed. Then Mary said, ‘I had a son, Andrew I called him, after his Dad. Curly blonde hair he had, the bonniest bairn in Armadale, I’d go so far to say in all of Skye.’
I looked at my old companion, and a solitary tear rolled down her wrinkled face. She fumbled in her skirt pocket, pulled out a piece of rag, wiped her face and then, before putting it back, blew hard upon her nose. ‘My wee curly-headed Andra, who’d have thought such a bitty wean would grow to six feet. As broad as he was tall, my laddie was. The navy, that’s where his heart took him, just like his father, sailors the both of them.’
I didn’t need adulthood to tell me this old lady’s son had passed on, but dare I push her to open a long-closed heart to tell such a story? However, without any prodding from me she opened her sore heart and said, ‘Both of them, my two men, husband in the first war, son in the second. Their ships were sank and they, God bless them, are buried on the ocean floor. Entombed in salt-eaten metal and rotted wood, my precious laddies never came home to our wee cottage in Armadale on Skye.’
Slowly I closed the distance between us and gently touched her shoulder. She drew back as if in some way a comforting hand was denied to her in her solitary world.
She continued, ‘I had no relative to turn to, or neighbour. My home became like a tomb. I spent more time outside than in, even when winter snow and wind froze my bones. It was towards the mighty ocean I gazed for comfort. For it was she who held them in her watery depths, in a grave I could not tend.
It was one day while staring out at the vast ocean I made a decision to leave my island home, go to the mainland, and find another life. This I did, but my heart found no peace, and soon the life I live today became my lot, tramping the roads.’
I closed my eyes with shame and thought on my Auntie Jessie’s words of witch, evil, mad—just a few of the adjectives used to describe this heart-broken, lonely old woman, who’d been dealt more than a fair share of bad luck!
‘Look, lassie, the sun sets and I haven’t even got my hap up yet.’ Mary had unburdened herself more than she meant to, and quickly changed our conversation.
I said nothing as I helped her pull her bed and bivvy from her pack. No pile of severed heads rolled out, only the necessary things to keep body and soul intact.
‘I’ll get a puckle sticks for your fire. The nights are fair drawing in. Mary, you’ll sleep better with a wee fire at the hap door!’ I wanted so much to help her, she seemed so vulnerable.
‘Aye, I’ll accept your help, lassie. Then I’d be grateful if you’d let me be. There’s a long road ahead of me tomorrow.’
‘Oh, and where are you going?’ I asked, before adding, ‘We’re going over the Devil’s Elbow to Braemar. Come with us, Mammy would be pleased, I’m sure, to take you.’ I had become concerned, worried about this sad old woman. It didn’t feel right she should be uncared for. I took hold of her skeletal hand. ‘Please, Mary, I’ll take good care of you, and I never make promises I cannot keep.’
Her look softened at my concern. Touching my face, then turning towards the high hills on our right, she said, ‘Do you see those hills away up yonder? There’s a sheep track will guide my feet into Glen Muick. From there I’ll visit Braemar, so if that’s where you’ll be then we will meet again. And if it’s not to be, bonny lassie, remember how vast the Heavens are. If we don’t meet in this life it’s certain we will in the next.’
No words passed between us as we busied ourselves, she building the small deer-skinned hap, me lighting a fire.
After chores were done she held out a piece of dried ham. I refused, saying she shouldn’t share what little she had, but thanked her just the same.
‘You away home now, pet, for I’m sure your folks will be worrying, and as for me, well, I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Oh, Mary, you can’t be serious about climbing up thon high hills. Anyroad, you’d need a powny to carry your heavy pack!’ I pleaded again for her to come with us.
That comment brought a hearty laugh, as she said she’d had a heavier pack in midwinter and managed fine. I could see my old friend had a will of iron, and no amount of pleading would make her change a set mind.
I hugged her. She smiled and thanked me, saying the last person who had done such a thing was young Andrew, the day he set off to defend his country.
She crept inside her tiny abode. I ran home to my family, my happy cheerful family.
In the early morning I decided to surprise her with sandwiches and milk for the hill journey, but when I got to the grassy bank by the humpbacked bridge, she was gone. The flattened grass and patch of burnt ground was all that remained. Panic filled my chest, I scanned the hillside, called her name: ‘Mary, Mary, I’ve got some food for you. Please don’t go without a decent goodbye!’
It was as if the mist that shrouded the hillside had swallowed her up. But if she fared well in the glen and didn’t get sick or something, we’d meet in Braemar. This thought consoled me. I had became fond of her like a third Granny. She should have a family; I had to see her again.
But before we left the wee glen snuggled at the foot of the high mountains, the notorious Devil’s Elbow had to be negotiated.
‘No way in this world do I sit in that bus while you drive it pointing towards God’s heavens,’ shouted Mammy at Daddy, ‘and neither do the bairns!’ With that said, she ushered us in a line to climb up and round the hairpin bends of the road. Truth is, no-one could blame her, because this stretch of narrow road was near on vertical. Uncle Wullie had a Bedford van, a lot smaller vehicle than our bus, and crept up without rolling backwards or stalling. Well, my dad feared no road, regardless of its width or gradient, and as this was the only way to Braemar, then upwards and onwards it was.
‘You coming, Jess?’ he asked me.
‘Can I, Mammy, please?’ I pleaded with her, saying that when the Links Market Fair came to Kirkcaldy she let me go on the divebombers.
‘First sign o’ the bus rolling back you jump out, do you hear me, lassie?’ she warned, then walked on up the way, my three younger sisters in tow.
It seemed to take forever. I remember every nail-biting inch of tarmac; every chug, chug and spurt from the engine’s gut brought my heart into my throat. At the bend itself I sank my nails into the back of Daddy’s neck, prompting him to shout, ‘Go and take a seat, lassie!’
I even forgot about old Mary, such was my experience of sheer terror. What a relief to feel the bus level off as the deer fence running round the foot of the Cairnwell Mountain came into view. Daddy pulled the bus onto a heathery layby and set up a wee fire. I spread a tartan rug on the heather, disturbing a red grouse who let me know how annoyed he was by almost choking on a guttural scream, as he reached for the misty sky with outstretched wings.
(Note: The Devil no longer bends the road to Braemar into a fierce elbow. It has been replaced by a wider and straighter road. It is far better for the driver, but to me personally the old road seemed more in tune to the terrain of that part of Scotland.)
Although we stayed in Braemar for more than a week, the old woman failed to arrive and I never saw Armadale Mary again.
Sometimes, when feeling despondent with life, I thought she might have slipped on a rocky outcrop in some desolate spot, or died of the cold on a high snow-covered hill.
Perhaps, while driving round a bend on a lonely road, a weary long-distance lorry driver thought he hit a lone deer, and she was thrown into a deep ditch to die of her injuries. But my mother reminded me that imagined scenes were just that, and that my dear old friend probably passed away in a kind farmer’s warm barn, who then saw to it that she was given a decent burial. Now she was probably happily surrounded by her son and husband.
Whatever happened, and wherever you are, Mary, I would like you to know this—I named my first son Johnnie!