Telling Tales Read online

  Normally the barn, which you’ve to go through to reach the rest of the farm steading, is a soothing sort of place. But today it’s loud with the sound of apprehension. The cries of an enraged bull disturb the easier tenor of rustling straw stored under a high roof, round which the wind so often speaks. The sparrows who fly in through an open skylight window to gossip amongst the rafters fall silent.

  When the bolt of one barn door gets slammed back and the caller yanks it open, not one cat comes to greet the noisy visitor. Instead, they all flatten their ears and squat low. They watch from under the stairs leading to the grain loft as Mum strides past to burst through the other door, which gives on to the steading.

  But nobody needs to open Frankie’s door to see him. He’s missed that. Instead, he’s made a hole in the wall and now his head fills the gap. Were it not for his massive shoulders holding him back, he’d be out.

  Our mother halts for a second, draws up to her five-foot-three height; tightens the strings of her Fair Isle pixie hat; pulls the belt of her tweed coat with the same force; stamps her sensible brogue shoes and starts.

  The words snap out. ‘Stop that racket right now, ye orra vratch – ye scabbie brute – ye midden runt . . .’

  As she continues, her voice drowns out Frankie’s squeals. He shuts up. This makes the Italians think that if Hitler had been at the end of a similar tirade he might have had second thoughts about going in for them himself. And, even better, they wouldn’t be here.

  Nevertheless they are drawn to the spectacle.

  ‘Like the Colosseum, no?’ they wonder.

  The byre might be its poor cousin but the spectacle of man, or in this case Mum, against beast, draws them to watch. Not only that but their vocabulary is stretched by a whole lot of new words. Swapping sly grins, it’s clear the Italians understand such terms are for selective use.

  ‘So stick that stupid lolling tongue of yours back in, stop rolling your eyes and tidy yourself up,’ finishes my mother. ‘And go and do something useful, ye cranky limmer. See what you can do with that garland.’

  She points to an old horse harness resembling a dusty ornament and hanging from a peg on the wall. Frankie, as sheepish as it is possible for an Ayrshire bull in his prime to look, lowers his head and backs in. Eyeing the harness, he aims his horns and lumbers towards it.

  Mum explains to her audience, ‘That’s for Frankie to see if he can get it down so he can gore it to death. I thought it’d be enough to occupy him whilst I was away.’

  She picks up a pitchfork that looks as if it’s been cast aside by someone in a hurry and adds, ‘But he’s in such a state you’d think he’d been tormented.’

  There’s a scuffling of feet and lack of eye contact with the men before she continues, ‘Nobody likes imprisonment. Doubtless you’ll know the feeling. Go and block up that hole now.’ Then she stamps off.

  For countless reasons, the Italians would be delighted to know the war will soon be over and they’ll be free to return to their original lives. They won’t miss Frankie or he them, but our mother will miss her depleted workforce.

  Still, there’s a new person who comes around and he’s not fazed by Frankie, hard work or our mother.

  4

  GETTING OUT

  I miss Elizabeth when she goes to school. She’s not here to help lug out a big cardboard box from our clothes cupboard. Apart from our dolls, and my best friend Rabbit, it holds all our toys. Once the box is trailed through to the kitchen, it’s always tipped out, which is probably why it’s getting so bashed-looking.

  Mum would have got it from Mattie. As well as running the local shop, she’s Dunphail’s postmistress. If she gives us another, with a bit of luck it won’t have ‘Government Property Toilet Rolls’ written on the outside.

  Mum often says, ‘I wish you’d play in your bedroom,’ but once you put two beds and a huge chest of drawers into a limited amount of space there’s little room left. Anyway, I don’t want to play on my own: not this morning. There’re witches riding on the larch trees outside the window. The branches are writhing and swaying as if they want shot of their unwelcome passengers.

  ‘You must see them. There’s loads. Look at all those bony knees and evil faces. I bet they’re just waiting for a chance to fly in here,’ I say to Elizabeth, but she is far more interested in searching under the bed for her garters.

  Eventually surfacing, and without even bothering to look, she says, ‘Larch looks like that with its old cones on bare branches. Honestly, Jane! You and your imagination.’ With a shout of triumph, she brandishes two black elastic circles. ‘Look! Found them!’ Pinging them over her home-knitted, thick grey stockings, she starts to tie her liberty bodice. ‘Now, where’s my knickers? I bet you’ve pinched them.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, and pulling them out from under my bed, I throw them. ‘Here.’

  Catching them, she says, ‘You’re so annoying. You’re always taking my stuff.’ She points to a letter embroidered on the pocket. Against the knicker’s navy blue, it’s a definite pink.

  ‘That says “E”.’ She taps her chest. ‘For me! I sewed it on after Granny showed me how to do chain-stitch and, Jane, take your thumb out of your mouth! That poor Rabbit’s going to be bald with you twiddling his fur all the time.’

  I ignore her, putting one arm round my doll, Belinda, and clutching Rabbit with the other. Such a fuss about an occasional borrow! She should be far more concerned about the witches, but all she does now is pull on the knickers, the rest of her clothes and look round the bedroom. She wipes her nose on her grey jersey sleeve, picks her doll off the floor and plunks her on top of the chest of drawers. ‘There, Bluebell. You sit bonny.’

  ‘I’m telling Mum on you,’ she says, by way of a parting shot.

  Belinda hasn’t a chipped head, unlike Bluebell, who got it after her caring owner clunked her over the doorknob of the bathroom when she’d locked herself in by mistake.

  I think about this, getting up, then, putting the dolls together, say, ‘There, Belinda. You can sit bonny, too. Have a wee chat and tell her my sister really does love her. She’s just got a funny way of showing it.’

  Belinda’s never very good in the morning. Apart from Bluebell and Rabbit, I’m the only person that she speaks to, and often that’s not until after breakfast, so I pat her perfect head and explain that I’m taking Rabbit with me. ‘You know he’s usually under my pillow through the day? Well, I’m taking him with me. I’ve a feeling he’ll like some company this morning. I’ll see you later.’ It only seems fair to add, ‘And, not to worry you, but mind out for the witches.’

  With much huffing and puffing, I get the box through to the kitchen, pleased to be near Mum, busy in the scullery.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I ask, even if it’s perfectly obvious that she’s making the daily hens’ mash. It’s a mess of stuff left over from food scraps and old vegetables. Combined with oatmeal, the cooking mixture might smell quite tasty was it not mixed with the nauseating fumes from the Rural gas stove.

  There’s no reply, so I put my shoulder to the box and heave, overbalance and fall alongside the newly tipped-out toys. Surely the rattle of things crashing out onto our linoleum floor will get some attention.

  Only the smell floats through.

  Maybe Rabbit’s not so smart-looking as he once was, but if it wasn’t for his comforting presence I might be feeling abandoned amongst a collection of jigsaw pieces, crayons, yo-yos and just the body-bit of Dobbin my horse. The other night I dreamt that someone found his head and fitted it back on. They’d even oiled the wheels under his straight white legs. He could’ve run smoothly, only he’d hitched a lift in a doll’s pram.

  Elizabeth and I would love one of them. We often imagine wheeling the dolls round the farm. We’d point out things of scenic interest and in the absence of passers-by introduce Bluebell and Belinda to the barn cats. They’d be bound to look on with glimmering eyes: their sign of approval. Then, if cats could talk, and once we’d
passed but were still within earshot, they’d murmur amongst themselves, ‘Oh! There go the nice little Tombain ladies with their dear little babies. Such a pity about the one with the scar on her face. Wonder how she got it!’

  ‘What’s Dod doing, Mum?’ I call, aware that pram or no pram, he’ll only connect with a pair of hands. I’m not keen on getting mine either wet or dirty and it’s begun to rain.

  ‘Snedding neeps.’

  She must have heard a sigh because she adds, ‘Now, Janie, if he doesn’t cut off the tops and put them through the hasher, the calves’ll get pains in their pinnies. You wouldn’t want that now, would you?’

  ‘No,’ I clutch my stomach in sympathy, thinking of their mothers. They wouldn’t like it either: Charlotte especially. She was a bit tricky until she was de-horned. Now, if you keep clear of her hind legs and tarry rope tail, she’s easy to tie up in her stall to be milked.

  It’s my favourite job. She’s got a coat of hair as red as mine. It covers her neck in such velvet-like folds that I stroke them. Sometimes, when I think nobody’s listening, I whisper in her wooshy ear, ‘I know Dod said you’d to be watched when you’re being milked, but I think you’re a nice wee coo.’

  My mind drifts to Old Maudie whose horns aren’t apparently a problem but as soon as anyone speaks to her she breathes out like a dragon. Then she sweeps up her head and, just as you think she’s going to attack, she tugs out straw from the wooden haiks above her. The securing chain gives quite a rattle but that’s not a worry. I still feel useful. Maybe sometime that Elizabeth’s not around helping with the milking I’ll get a go.

  I’m looking forward to that. Neeps, however, are different and, to be honest, Dod’s tapner is petrifying. It’s like a small, curved sword, used for slicing off turnip-tops. Even if it’s biddable in Dod’s hands, it’s easy to imagine it slipping. Already I see it, arrow flying through the air, sharp, hungry for blood. If it makes contact, Bluebell’s scars will be nothing by comparison.

  Then there’s the neep-hasher! It’s like a monster on four metal legs with a ball weight resembling a head at one end of a moveable metal bar. At the other is a handle, whilst a masher-like weight sits in between.

  The first time I saw Dod snedding neeps he was whirling the tapner to fill the wire basket he calls a scull. It was a worrying name because it held scalped neeps, identical to our dolls’ bald heads.

  After Dod finished with the tapner and moved the full basket beside the hasher, I felt it safe enough to ask, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Aye. Jist gie me a minute.’ He pulled on the handle, making the weighted end swing up. ‘Right, Janie. Ye can throw in your neep noo.’

  I hadn’t calculated on their weight. Dod made it all look so easy but between needing both hands for carrying, then having to stand on my toes to reach up to the top of the machine, it took a while to tip in my neep. No sooner had it fallen into the sharp-bladed, V-shaped basket below than Dod leant on the handle. Helped by his and the ball’s weight, the masher came crashing down.

  ‘That could hiv been ma heid,’ I cried, horrified by the squelching sound of a neep being sliced.

  Dod has a unique form of encouragement: ‘Ach, Janie. Dinna be daft! Just you keep going. Ye’ll make a fine shot putter yet.’

  ‘I think I’m too little to help.’

  ‘I’ll tell your mam you said that the next time I hear you telling her it’s too early for a big girl like you to go to bed.’ He pointed to the scull. ‘But even a wee quinie can lift neeps.’

  Thinking back to this, I think it’s probably best to stay inside but, as I check and only see familiar play things, boredom comes calling. It’s enough to make you weep, especially when Mum, stirring-spirtle in hand, comes and, taking in the floor covering, of which I’m part, says, ‘You’ll put these all back. Right now!’

  It takes effort to squeeze out a tear and a bleat like the cry of Shadow, our pet lamb. If it was her, she’d get immediate sympathy, but all I get is a sniff and, ‘That’s a gey dry greet,’ before my mother goes back to hen-wife chores.

  I could shout that a softie would be crying much more and she’ll be sorry when her brave daughter’s dead but the last time that was tried she and Elizabeth laughed like grown-ups sharing a superior moment.

  I sigh and, righting the box, hoping it’ll hold, climb aboard.

  5

  GRANNY RULES

  ‘Never mind, you’ve got me,’ whispers Rabbit. He’s clever and, despite Elizabeth’s disapproval, never complains that his vest’s getting so worn. He’s as reliable as my thumb and though he can sometimes get as chewed-looking as his ears, he doesn’t mind. He’s so cute at reading minds, I seldom need to say anything as, snuggled together at the bottom of the box, eyes shut, with nothing better to do than feel sorry for ourselves, we remember our last holiday with Granny. She lives in Nairn, half an hour’s journey away if our wonky old car can make it.

  ‘Everybody needs a break,’ Mum says, which is odd because she doesn’t go anywhere herself. I miss her and the farm, so it’s a comfort having Rabbit, but Granny gets annoyed when she sees us together.

  ‘Sucking your thumb will give you sticking-out teeth. Why can’t you be like your sister? Look at her! She’s happy enough without having her nose stuck in a smelly old rag all the time.’

  She exaggerates. I know Granny really, really loves my sister and cared for her a lot after our dad was killed, but, fair’s fair. I bet Rabbit’s heard her and there’s the poor animal’s feelings to consider. It seems only fair to reply, ‘Yes, but Mum says Elizabeth bites her nails and if she’s not careful she’ll get worms.’

  Granny’s selective hearing kicks in. She doesn’t say anything; just hums in a tuneless way and goes off to clatter dishes in her huge kitchen.

  That’s one good thing about being here. The house might be called Fern Cottage but it’s excitingly big, with five massive bedrooms upstairs. On the landing wall, there’s a picture of a donkey’s head on a dark-blue background. I spend ages looking at it, wondering why it looks so sad. Maybe it’s homesick, too.

  Unlike Tombain, Fern Cottage has stairs. Jumping off them and sliding down the bannister is great fun and even better than bouncing on Granny’s bed – it’s in the room above the sitting-room and she only objects when plaster starts to fall off its ceiling.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ sighs Elizabeth. ‘Jane – you’re so annoying. Go and put Rabbit away. It upsets Granny. It makes her think you don’t like coming here.’

  ‘I do really,’ I say, thinking about someone who takes us to the circus and Nairn’s outside paddling pool. She also writes books and tells gripping tales in which Elizabeth and I are always funny, clever heroines. ‘But I hate her Sundays.’

  It’s a day very like Mum’s Mondays. It stretches long and dreary, with a starting point of Granny reading out what she considers inspirational bits from her Bible. We have a very long grace before breakfast, after which we go to church.

  ‘I can’t stand the organist,’ Granny says, obviously in full Christian spirit and so loudly that he must hear her. That’s bad enough but then, as if in competition with the music, she belts out the hymns – flat. It’s mortifying.

  After the minister harangues the congregation about its sinfulness, he follows with a welcome to visitors to the town. Then he leans over the pulpit and says, ‘And now it’s time for the collection.’

  ‘Aye,’ observes Granny as we come out of church, ‘his timing never changes.’

  Relieved of our sixpences, Elizabeth and I trail after her, both looking forward to the evening, when we’ll be on our knees thanking God for a good day. Silently, we’ll be praying for a better one tomorrow.

  ‘Mind you . . .’ I scratch Rabbit’s ears. ‘Not every Sunday’s boring. Remember the last one?’

  He shudders in my hand.

  Granny’s got a walnut cabinet so big it’s practically up to the sitting-room ceiling. Half of it’s got glass-fronted cupboards that are full of books w
ith small writing and no pictures. Between them and more storage places below are two blue felt-lined drawers holding little of interest other than a pack of cards and a pair of specs, minus an arm. I tried them on, wondering why Granny had kept them.

  ‘Fancy a wee game of Snap, Elizabeth?’

  She’s just learnt to read, and likes it so much her nose is never out of a book. She did manage to look up for a second but only to say, ‘Tch! You look daft. Anyway, I’m reading. Go and play that game of Clock Patience Granny’s friends showed us yesterday.’

  ‘You never want to play with me,’ I complained but she just turned a page, so I sat on the floor close by her. Patience isn’t really my thing: it’s more fun making a card house. I’d just managed to build up to a second floor when Granny came into the room.

  For a second she froze. Then she began, her voice scandalised and sharp, ‘Cards? Don’t tell me you’re playing cards on the Sabbath?’

  She raced towards the little house, then with the skill of a professional football player kicked it. The cards slipped from under her flying feet, with the Queen of Hearts landing on the floor. She looked startled, as if surprised by an attack.

  Granny ground out, ‘That’s a sin. A real sin. I don’t know what your grandfather would have thought – and him a minister. I hate to say this, Jane, but it’s a blessing he’s dead.’

  It was obvious that talking about him had upset her as well. Wanting to make things better, I shook off the specs and held them in front of her. ‘Look, Granny!’ I smiled, hoping that she’d share in the joke that she’d held onto specs that were broken.

  I could have added she must be glad she was wearing a whole pair but she’d crashed a hand over my ear (an OK pastime for a Sunday apparently) and hissed in the other one, ‘Ye wee limmer!’

  All I could do was listen to what ear-ringing sounds like. Elizabeth, however, threw away her book, erupted from her chair and, as she ran to the door, shouted, ‘I’m going to phone and tell Mum to take us home!’