26

IN DEFENCE OF THE PEARLS

I’ll speak in my mother’s voice.

‘I’d been hawking three solid days in a row. Started at the Atholl Palace in Pitlochry, where I foretold a cook she’d find her lost engagement ring under a stone bench, and thank God she did, because she presented me with a basket of fine oatcakes amongst other braw eaties. I loved them crumbly biscuits that only Scottish cooks can conjure up. She was so grateful that I left that kitchen with two whole florins and a bottle of the finest malt. The four shilling was well needed, but not being one for whisky, it gave me pleasure to pour it into the burn at Killiecrankie. Daddy, you see, was all too fond of the awful stuff, and when on it could blacken my poor mother’s eyes; he was just a demon with drink, my father. I remember shouting down intae the water, where I think a certain soldier leapt to his death in days gone by, “if ye’re still doon there, man, here’s a guid dram tae ye.”

I gathered washing for a Blair Atholl woman who’d hurt her shoulder, and in gratitude she gave me a present of two tweed skirts. Said she’d a bairn growing in her bowdie, and the skirts would be too small when her belly swelt.

I made up quite a few miles heading over the pass, but by the gods it wisnae half cauld. I arrived at Dalwhinnie, and met up with my family in our usual campsite a half mile beyond the Distillery. Mother was rare pleased with the basket and clothes. Daddy, thanks be, didn’t take any drink, and as was the case when he stayed off it, he was a really pleasant father. He’d got a job burning heather on the moor, which took from sun-up to its going down. There was no time for drinking, but he joked that on a down wind the smell of the “Angel’s Share” wafting from the froth-topped alcohol fermentation vats satisfied him.

I was feet-tired after my long road journey on the old A9, and after chores called over to my mother, sat stirring broth in a big black pot cooking over a grand fire, “Mother, if you don’t need me, can I curl ma toes in the burn?”

“Aye, lassie, away you go. I’m rare pleased with your hawking these days. There’s a laddie waiting somewhere, and he’ll treat you good, for there’s golden threads in you, wee Jeannie, aye, and silver yins and a’.”

I loved my mother’s way with words, and did hope that soon I’d meet a fine young man willing to better my lot, as all travelling lassies did in those fanciful days.

Over by the ash and willow trees flowed our lifeline, a freshwater burn. It wound down through miles of heather moorland and rocky ravines. The burn, a gift from Mother Nature to all wandering people, provided liquid to quench the thirst, and water to wash everything, especially our birthday suits, and on that day for me, with sore and puffed feet, it was heaven itself.

May blossoms glided softly from wild hawthorn bushes, dropping on waiting bluebells that were throwing out scents to please a fairy queen. Broom thrust above drystane dykes like hundreds of tiny soldiers wearing yellow caps. Summer was just around the corner; I felt weightless and content. I think in my heavenlike state I fell asleep, because then some lads were wading down the burn, shouting excitedly among themselves. They were not much younger than I, about four in number, and I went to see what all the noise was about. They seemed so busy my appearance hardly raised an eyebrow. “Hello boys,” I called, “what are you doing?”

“We’re pearl fishing, look at the pile of shells.”

I did indeed see the heaps of emptied mussel shells, which made me feel sick. “Why are you raping the bed of all those young shells, surely you can see there winna be ony in them. These older ones maybe, but not them.” I pointed to some shells that had hardly been hardened, and gave the laddies a right roaring.

One jumped up and lifted his hand, but the others warned him not to hit a lassie. I said to forget the lassie bit, I’d take them all on, but they pushed me and laughed. Before I left, one called out that their womenfolk would meet me and batter the spit from me.

Hot, more under the collar than sun-warmed, I dashed over to our camp site.

“Mother,” I spat the words, “is there other travellers near us? I’ve just had a run in wi’ wild bisoms who were raping a mussel bed, ripping intae the poor shells and them no near any age.”

Mother, who was busy cooking over the fire a mammoth pot of vegetable soup, said when she heard me ranting on about the laddies armed with pearl knives, “it’s a family o’ Crinnin folk”. She seemed worried, and asked me if I’d annoyed them. I told her I couldn’t give a pirate’s curse for their well-being, it was the annihilation of the mussel bed that bothered me.

My brother Matthew, who’d been out on the moor burning heather with Daddy, arrived home tired and weary and said, “Jeannie, yon Crinnin lads will be spouting tae their mither and her sisters about you. Mother is worried they’ll visit now with wild fighting talk.”

His words sent a shiver into my wet feet. Every travelling family knows too well not to upset the Crinnin, especially the women. It doesn’t take much to spur them into a fury, but look out when they are! They were three big brutes of females, famed for one way of fighting—head butting.

“Matthew, the lads were ripping every single shell apart, kenning fine if there were pearls in them they’d not be the size of a pin-head. It was the horrible way they laughed and threw the empty shells at each other. You ken me, brother, I cannae stand that type of thing.”

“Oh aye, Jeannie,” said Matthew, with as serious a look on his face as I’d seen, “but nevertheless, yon Crinnin dogs love a fight. Any excuse will dae, they need little wind in their sails. Mind, if stories are true, it’s the bitches that dae the fighting.”

My mother told Daddy about it as she poured him a deep bowl of soup, adding that if they came seeking to pagger, it was his wee Jeannie who’d take it.

Daddy sat down, took a slurp of his broth and said, “well, that’s a different way o’ daein right enough. Sorry, lassie,” he stuffed a chunk of crusty bread into his mouth and continued, “I darenae stand by your side if women throws the glove.”

“Well,” said I, “then it’s time I was away again.”

Mother shook her head, handed me my share of steaming broth and said, “No, Jeannie, I’m not seeing you off again, lassie, it’s no more than a half day since you came back. We’ll all go. Tae hell with the Crinnin belles.”

“Margaret, I’ve a whole month’s work burning heather. If we move, then where else will I get work?” My father handed over his empty bowl for a refill, adding, “listen, if they come looking for tae pagger oor wee Jeannie, then I’ll have tae show her how to handle her fists.” He sat down his too hot soup and grabbed my hands. Like he was handling gold he ran his fingers over each knuckle, asked for more bread and said, “we’ll get started right away, Jeannie. If yon wimmin mean tae pagger my lassie’s bonny face, then she’ll not be taking it easy-like.”

I was shivering inside, thinking what state my face would be in after three mountains of madness threw iron skulls in its direction, but Daddy’s words took away part of the fear. My daddy was, during his peak, a first-class street fighter. In fact he told everyone that’s what attracted our mother to him, his hard knuckles and swervy moves were irresistible. She always laughed at this statement, and pooh-poohed it, saying it was the black hair, twinkling eyes and the way he made the keys dance on his wee melodeon.

With an eerie silence coming from the Crinnin who were camped a mere half mile into the neighbouring glen, Daddy took me onto a flat grassy patch to show me his moves. Like a bee he buzzed around me, jerking and jabbing in a ghost-fight fashion.

“Don’t turn your back on me, I could take you down. Don’t leave the chin exposed, keep it low. Here, watch me.”

He pivoted, he ducked and he parried, kept moving, blocking an invisible blow, and catching his opponent’s jabs with an aggression I’d never seen in my father. I’d seen him angered with drink, but not like that, now he was controlled. He was in his past again, master of the ring.

“Now, Jeannie, whatever you do don’t get caught off balance, always keep up your guard. Watch their eyes, follow them at the same time, imagine you have more eyes than them, in the back of the head, at the side, keep watching. And no matter how close they get, never lean back, and slip your head away when reading their moves. Oh, and lassie, if you get tired, please don’t drop these hands. And for God’s sake keep the temper under control—a mad dog is easy kicked!”

For the rest of the day I became a boxer. It was strange how much energy flowed through my arms as I followed his expert instructions. Later, as we walked back to our beds, I asked my father why he never kept up his boxing.

“See this scar under my chin?” he lifted his head and removed his muffler. I never knew it was there on his neck, a scar stretching across his throat.

“That was a big brute of an Irishman called Traveller Buff Scarlet. We met on a field behind a pub on Stirling’s Drip Road. Said he was a flyweight, but every man on that day could see he was a lot heavier. Well, I held my ground and we battered it out, reaching nineteen rounds; longest I’d ever boxed. A fearsome bastard, yon Irishman. He hooked me with a one-two, and when I moved back a fish knife was flung at his feet by some snake relative. All’s I mind was the heat of blood running over my chest. Thank God he missed ma main artery, or me and you widnae be having this conversation. Come tae think on, you widnae be born.”

That night, as I lay under our canvas tent, it seemed not a bad idea; not being born, that is. What a long drawn out night it was. I listened at the chirr-chirring of a lone nightjar chasing moths. A hedgehog had found its mate and the two scraped away good style inches from where my head tried to sleep. Minutes seemed to have gone by when a solitary peewit jolted me from a dearly needed sleep with its pee-twit call. I’m sure nature’s creatures had got wind of a certain battle due to take place next day, because to cap it all I heard what I’d never heard before, the “squawk, squawk” of two herons flying low over our tent. One, aye, but never two of the noisy bisoms.

Sleep came in drips and drabs, and that night it was for me a luxury I’d been unable to afford. The dawn came in with a chorus from a skylark and I was certain no matter how apt my father’s wisdom had made my fists, without a good night’s sleep I’d be easy meat.

An early morning plunge into the burn sent all sleepiness flying, as water sprayed over every inch of my young frame. If thon women were approaching then I’d meet them wide awake.

It was quiet, though, and I began to hope that my imagination had been working overtime. Perhaps the dear ladies had no intention of fighting battles for their horrible offspring. But as I washed porridge plates and filled our tea koocazie [kettle], a great screech of soprano voices sent pheasant and grouse to shelter on a cloud. Wood pigeons joined them.

“Hey you Power lot, whaur’s the wee worm that chased oor weans frae the pearl burn?”

My fears were realised, and by golly in big time mode, because three of the largest females I’d ever seen stood like gladiators on the brow of the hill. Dressed in tweed skirts and heavy cotton blouses criss-crossed by paisley-patterned wraparound aprons, they were as mighty a gathering of Crinnin as I’d seen in many a long while. My poor mother, who I’d forgotten to say was heavily pregnant, called to them that it had been a storm in a tea-cup, and come away doon for a share of the tea. Glancing at me she whispered, “pick up yer bag, Jeannie, and run like hell. I packed it last night when you and your father were sparring.”

Daddy, however, who was in the process of shaving, rubbed the soap from his chin and walked up to me. Not a single look did he afford the Crinnin, just walked on by and said, “Remember and keep the head, Jeannie. Don’t let them rage ye, lassie.”

I felt my belly shift to my throat, and smiled through a frozen grimace. “Faither, I think yon beasts will maul me tae bits. Maybe I’ll keep ma head and run!”

“And spend the rest o’ yer days in the knowledge you run frae a fight? Do this, lass, and you’ll do it all the days of your life. I know that along with your golden threads there’s a Highland bull in there. Now get facing them heathen bitches.”

Daddy was rousing me to find a courage I still hadn’t known, but he was right: if I let these women chase me away, then who next? Travellers can’t afford to show fear. One day I’d have to defend a family against polis, factors, and farmers. If there was fear in me, now was the time to face it.

However, as the earth moved beneath my flayed feet, fear seemed to reach through me with tentacles of terror. Suddenly it all seemed too late, with me shaking to the bone, and three very angry ladies lined up to batter me senseless. It might seem strange, but they resembled three reddish-brown Highland coos. I felt that if I’d the use of a cartload of hay I’d have offered it to them. Daddy saw, though, that the uneven odds were not to his liking, even though I’d a wee bit of knowledge that these creatures did not possess.

“Listen now, girls, if you need to teach oor Jeannie a lesson, then do it one at a time. She’s a skelf-like lassie, so what joy wid ye get from attacking her all at once? I think she’d remember a lesson if she got it in turn from each of ye.” Daddy was offering them a form of fairness, but I wandered if that word had any meaning in their dumb lives. Without a word Maggie stepped to one side and Ella the other. I stood alone facing a scrum o’ a beast called Jinty. Her forte, and was I about to experience it, was the “frontal butt”. All the moves my father had taught me fell by the wayside, as Jinty lifted me into the air with a kick, and when the butt connected with my brow, down I went like a crumpled newspaper. My empty lungs desperately sucked for oxygen, as stars and bells filled my throbbing skull. The three witches slapped each other on the back as I lay there useless. Mother lunged forward, and would have taken them all on, had Daddy not hauled her back. “Leave her, Margaret,” he whispered, “oor Jeannie’s no finished yit, she’s rising to her feet.” My father smiled that twinkling-eye smile and exposed the scar beneath his muffler. “Give them what for, ma lassie,” he whispered, “do it for me.”

Jinty moved sideways and gestured to another clone to take over. I knew if this creature got the better of me I’d be mince, so before her heavy forearm left her side, my clenched fist with a power-packed punch went straight for her jaw. I balanced on my feet and went in with a right-left-right-left-right just like Daddy taught me. Whoosh, she spun around like a thronged hen, with eyes going everywhere, before tripping up on tied feet and hitting the deck. “Yes!” and “boy-o-boy, bring on the rest!” was all I remember screaming, before my father grabbed me and whispered, “Keep the heed. Ye mind I telt ye no tae loss the thinking.”

Too late, me and the remaining Crinnin had scores to settle. “Come on then, Maggie, here I am, you tae, Ella. Aye, you might knock me intae the gutter, but I’ll blacken an eye before ye drop me. Question is, which one o’ you Pretty Pollys wants it?”

Ella shook the ground as she stomped over and stood glowering down at me. I almost swallowed my thrapple when she put a hand on my shoulder. “By the gods, lassie, what would other travellers say if they heard us Crinnins got paggered wi’ a wee mort [girl] that stood the height o’ a puddock’s nose. Keep yer upper cuts and yer left hooks—we’ll shake a brave hand.”

Maggie and dizzy Jinty came over to me. I swear my knees and head didn’t know what to do. Was this a tactical move—would I be flattened by three overweight females? No! They each hugged me close, apologising for the laddies who treated the pearl shells with disregard, saying I was right to row them. I wasn’t half glad, though, to wave cheerio to the big Crinnin women, as they followed each other back to their campsite over the brow of the brae.

It might be a good time to tell you here, that although that incident was momentous to me, Mother started her labour within hours, which overshadowed all other events.

My two older sisters Winnie and Maggie were married at that time, and were travelling the road over into Tummel from Calvine. If they had been at my side then the odds would have been better divided, yet if they’d been there, maybe the Crinnin would have half-killed the three of us.

Sometimes what seems a foregone conclusion turns out differently—just as well, eh?’

Mammy had a wee glow to her face whenever she told us that tale, and laughed when we circled our fingers around her upper arm and said, ‘Tarzan Mammy!’