Telling Tales Page 6

  Elizabeth glances up. ‘It’s not a real fiddle. It’s something he uses to sow seed.’

  ‘Aye, the only thing Dod’ll get oot o’ it’s oats,’ laughs Mrs Bremener, and even Lala lets a flicker cross his still face. Usually, the only thing that he allows over it is his cut-throat razor.

  It’s a morning chore so we don’t often see him doing it, but when we do even Elizabeth, so often lost in the Red Letter blood-and-guts tales, is drawn from its pages to watch the bigger drama of Lala shaving.

  In silent patience, he waits until Mrs Bremner takes a leather strap off a hook beside the fire and places it over the oiled cover on the cleared kitchen table. Lala, despite his tremor, sharpens the razor, sliding it back and fore over the strip as if spreading butter.

  Mrs Bremner tips hot water from the kettle into an enamel mug and puts it beside Lala, alongside a shaving brush and soap stick. She loads the brush, making it foam, then she soaps his face. For a moment, he looks like Santa Claus, then slowly, and with great care, he raises the razor with a trembling hand whilst we girls hold our breath.

  I’ve to stick my thumb in my mouth and wish Rabbit was here.

  11

  KILLER ON THE LOOSE

  ‘I’m goin’ oot tae the hens,’ Mrs Bremner announces.

  They’re penned so close to the house you can hear them in its wee wooden porch. It doesn’t have a door but there’s a bench on one side and it’s a great place to sit, shelter and watch if there’s curtains of rain. As they sweep over the fields and moor, they come, like callers, to beat on the corrugated-iron roof. Depending on the weather’s severity, the variety of sound is amazing, but it always makes a perfect drumming accompaniment to the hens’ chat.

  Today, however, Mrs Bremner has no sooner gone than clucking sounds break into the house. They speak of agitation. As if unaware, Lala draws the cut-throat very slowly down one cheek. Then he tracks the blade down the other side. As the noise level outside increases, he shakily manages the razor back into the shaving mug.

  The fire crackles and sparks with the larch logs I’ve seen him sawing on the wooden sawhorse outside the stick shed. I’m getting so warm it’s uncomfortable and I wonder if Lala’s stubble feels as rough to his palm as the horse-hair sofa does to my bum. At least the old man’s spared the discomfort of upholstering-buttons. I move off one, then freeze, terrified this might have distracted the razor now scraping under his chin.

  Undeterred, he continues in a practised rhythm, moving on to his chin and finally over his upper lip. There’s not a spot of blood and we breathe again: drama avoided. But a few seconds after, there’s more to come. The outside noise of hens in distress has moved into a terrible commotion.

  ‘Wonder what she’s going to do with that one,’ says Elizabeth. She sucks her bottom lip as we peek round the pot plant to see Mrs Bremner walk past the window with a hen under her arm. Its beak is wide open, squawking its distress.

  Suddenly both heads disappear, as the carrier bends down. All we can now see is her back bobbing, as if she’s stamping on something, whilst at the same time her shoulders move as if she’s also pulling something. Then there’s silence.

  ‘Think we’ll be going now, Lala,’ says Elizabeth, jumping off the sofa. ‘Dod’ll be looking for us. He said we could go with him to the station and shop. Come on, Jane, he’s got to pick up provisions for Monday.’

  But I’m glued to the sight through the window.

  ‘Look! The hen’s escaped.’ Surprised that Mrs Bremner’s not chasing after something heedlessly running about, I’m shocked when it drops, twitches a little, then lies completely still.

  I see an axe raised and close my eyes, sorry on opening them to see Mrs Bremner. She’s back in the house, swinging a headless bird by its feet. They’re dripping blood on hers and, worse than that, she’s looking pleased.

  ‘This’ll mak’ a fine droppie hen broth for the millie. Ma flour brush wis getting bald so I’ll get some feathers for it too.’ She means those tied with an elastic band that she keeps in a jam jar on top of the range. ‘Noo, tell your mam I can guarantee her soup as well as scones for Monday.’

  ‘What took ye? I thought you were only delivering the milk.’ Dod urges us towards the car.

  Elizabeth and I exchange glances, but before I can ask if he knows his mother’s an axe murderer she says, ‘Sorry. Ye must hae got the sowing done early. We thought you’d be much longer at it.’

  Dod nods. ‘I ran oot o’ seed.’ He shakes his head, blows out his cheeks, then continues, ‘Next year, if I can get your mither tae buy a machine instead o’ that fiddle, it’ll be a lot quicker, easier and give a better spread. Now, hop in, quines. The one at the back’ll hae tae stand. I’ve taken oot the seat tae mak’ room for when we get the millie rations and calf-feed sacks. We’re only goin’ three miles doon the road, so the back-seat driver winna hae a long stand.’

  I’m not sure what this means. Dod crinkled his eyes when he said it. Hopefully it’s a joke, so I don’t really mind when Elizabeth takes the front passenger seat. I see better standing and can annoy her, breathing down the back of her neck, and don’t have to shove for space. As we wait for Dod to get back into the car after it fails to start, we listen, fascinated by the number of curses needed to get it going with the outside help of a cranking handle.

  Tombain’s got two farm roads leading onto the main Forres to Grantown one. Our original has shrunk into a track and winds its mossy way through an avenue of spruce and larch. Halfway down it, Dod’s fashioned a huge sack into a hammock and has slung it between two trees. It’s a bit high to reach and, once there, a bit nerve-racking because it’s a long way to fall, and that might explain why we don’t use it as much as I think he’d like.

  ‘We’ll use it mair when the bonny days come,’ we promise him.

  That’s when the wild flowers appear, garlanding the way with their scents and colours. We’ll try to capture their beauty, picking some to press between the pages of heavy books.

  Flattened, they never look the same and we’re disappointed until Mum says, ‘Ach, it’s probably best to learn their names and leave them where they are. Then they’ll come again next year. I think you’ll find it’s like meeting dear old friends who’ll lift your heart with their loveliness. And maybe, too, you’ll find that that path makes an ordinary walk special. As for the other one, now, that’s quite different.’ She grimaces. ‘It’s far too exposed and it certainly doesn’t have any charm, even though it’s the one most folk use. You wouldn’t know we’d a front door the way it drives rough-shod up its brae in a flourish of granite chips and spent cinders, then spills travellers out at our back door.’ She goes on, ‘Not only that but if the bloomin’ road was more sheltered the last winter wouldn’t have left it with such a damaged surface.’

  Actually, it’s fine that we’re on this one. It’s too early for flowers and the car’s too wide for a narrow track. Anyway, it’s a lot more exciting driving along a road that’s full of ruts and pot-holes. As we’re carried in judders, leaps, stops and starts, Dod jerks the steering wheel this way and that, shouting, ‘Hang on!’ Elizabeth grips the sides of her seat whilst I grab its back, trying to keep balance. It’s a bit disappointing when we hit the smooth surface of the main road.

  It takes us past Tomdow. It’s our other farm and means Black Hill. When our parents first came here, they took it over because it was too small to support a separate living. But they didn’t need its cottage. Empty, by the roadside, it looks more unloved and lonely than an orphan.

  ‘Ghostie nay at hame the day,’ I say as we drive past it.

  ‘There’s nay sic things as ghosties,’ states Elizabeth.

  ‘There is so. I peeked in one of the windaes an’ saw a quinie.’ I blurt it out.

  I hadn’t told anybody about the afternoon when, bored at home, Belinda and I went exploring round the cottage and its old, neglected garden. Attracted by the sight of a splash of yellow hiding under a red currant bush, Belinda had
murmured, ‘I wonder, would that be gold?’

  On closer examination I said, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s daffies. Granny grows them. Of course you mightn’t know that, seeing as there’s none at Tombain, but you smell them. That’ll tell you. It’s a fine big clump. Maybe we’ll pick one or two to take home with us.’

  The flowers grew so healthily I wondered if there was somebody in the house who was caring for them. Yet the windows were blank and, at the front, too high to see into. However, there was one at the back and I managed, standing on my toes, to peep into the dusty interior.

  Belinda had been left beside the daffodils, so she never saw the small, sad face looking back. I turned away, all thought of picking a couple of daffodils gone, and just remembering to grab my doll before racing home. I hadn’t felt like speaking about it until now.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t yourself you saw? There’s still a mirror advertising Guinness hanging on the wall. It’s huge and left over from the days the house was an inn. Your mam says it was a bit of a den,’ says Dod. He looks back at me and smiles: ‘Mebbe it was a thirsty ghost wanting a wee dram?’

  ‘Ghosts don’t drink,’ says my sister firmly.

  ‘I did see someone,’ I persist. ‘An she gave me an affa fleg.’

  Whilst Elizabeth and I settle down to an argument about frights and ghosts, Dod puts the foot down and before we know it we’ve turned into the short road leading to the station.

  ‘Right, you quines. You can both jist bide here.’ Dod parks the car and gets out. ‘I’ve parked on a slope so it’ll be easier if I need a push to get started.’ He adds, ‘An’ by the time I get back I hope ye’ve feenished yer argument.’ He slams the door, giving us the chance to have an argument about something different.

  ‘Bloomin’ ghost! It’s all your fault we’re stuck here.’ Elizabeth crosses over to the driver’s seat and tries out the steering wheel. ‘Now we’re going to miss seeing the train coming in. It’s due any minute and we’ll see nothing with them in the way.’ She means a wall of green laurel bushes that come between where we’re parked and the railway line.

  I’m disappointed too. The station, part of the lonely strath that makes up our parish, is its busiest place, and when a train arrives it brings an even more excited bustle. At home, the plume of smoke and sound of an engine puffing over our moor carries a little magic and suggests that there might be another world beyond the one I know. Still, it’s nothing to the actual sight of a huge fire-breathing dragon racing down the line so powerfully; it’s difficult and a little frightening to think that it’ll stop to take anybody anywhere.

  When it does, it’s to the accompaniment of much sighing, creaking and squealing of brakes. The huge metal wheels make a grinding sound, as if reluctant to halt. It’s fascinating to watch the passengers, who sit as comfortably in their little room-like carriages as if they were at home, but with an ever-changing view. Stopped for a little while here, they’ll probably spot startled blackbirds flying out from the rhododendron bushes lining one side of the track and, if they’re quick, catch Jo, the stationmaster, on the other, swapping something with the engine driver.

  One day when Mum and I’d been at the station, I’d wondered at the quick, skilled exchange of something fixed to a loop-shaped handle. She’d explained, ‘That’s a key-token. It’s proof to the driver that his train’s allowed on the line. He’ll be looking for that at every station so he’ll have had plenty practice. If he’s heading up to Grantown, he’ll do the same at the Dava station.’

  It’s four miles up the track towards Grantown. I wonder if either name sounds as impressive as the ‘Dun-phail!’ Bert, the station clerk, porter and signalman, shouts. He stretches the name to make sure everybody’s clear as to their whereabouts.

  ‘I bet you Dod’s sitting in the office, catching up with all the news,’ girns Elizabeth, beginning to move restlessly. ‘And when the train comes in, and as soon as Jo goes out, Dod’ll be off the high stool into Jo’s chair and toasting his feet by the fire.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I agree, thinking of a cosy den-like place where there are shiny levers, ticking instruments, weighing machines and smelly paraffin lamps hung on hooks. There are waiting rooms opposite, reached by a footbridge across the railway line, but nobody uses them. It’s much nicer and far more interesting in the main office, where there’s a lot of local chat and people arrive to buy their tickets or wait for passengers coming off the train.

  ‘But maybe it’s a bit early for folk,’ I say. I’m lost in thought and annoyance in case the place is thronged with people and we’re missing the excitement of wondering who they all are and what’s their story, when something strange happens.

  ‘Hey, Elizabeth! The bushes are moving.’

  She’s bent down to look at the foot pedals – practising for her tractor-driving skills perhaps. When she looks up, she freezes for a second, then shouts, ‘It’s nay the bushes, ye gowk, it’s us.’

  It’s awful, but the car, like us, must’ve got bored of waiting and, having a driver at its wheel, has opted to go. It’s amazing how this old machine can gather speed without the petrol Mum keeps moaning she needs coupons to get. And it’s terrifyingly noiseless too. Leaves catch its sides as if saying their last goodbye whilst, gaping out the front window, I see the main road coming closer and closer.

  In the distance we can hear the train’s whistle – the signal that it will arrive any time now. But the sound of a tractor on the main road is more immediate. As we head towards it, I brace myself. Trying to remember the rest of the prayer Granny taught us, but pretty sure it didn’t mention cars, I settle for, ‘Dear Lord!’

  12

  A JOURNEY ACCOMPLISHED

  Prayers suspended. Speech ready for meeting the angels. Station road stretching fast behind us. In front: certain death. We’re seconds away from soaring onto the road when Elizabeth, in a super-human effort, shoots up to stand on the driver’s seat.

  ‘The handbrake canna be working. Hold tight,’ she mutters, yanking the steering wheel hard to one side.

  I’ll say this for my sister. She’s got a cool head. Just before we run out of laurel bushes, she’s aimed for them. The car ploughs into their green growth. Leaves slap at the windscreen, thin branches snap and crack as, slowing down and clearing a space, we crunch to a leafy halt. Birds scatter out, scolding whilst the train shrieks its arrival.

  Elizabeth crosses over to the passenger’s seat. As she sits down, she bites her nails. ‘I bet Dod’s not going to be pleased,’ she says.

  When he does come back, we’re as surprised as he is because after his initial reaction, he’s amused. ‘I didna expect tae find you pair sitting in the car as if it wis quite normal tae be parked in the middle o’ bushes,’ he says.

  After Elizabeth’s explanation, he says, ‘I don’t know what your mither will say to the scratches or the odd dent, but I hiv been telling her for ages there’s something wrong with the handbrake. Still, what can ye expect of a 1938 saloon?’ He clears his throat, which is usually a sign he’s a lot more to add, but, catching Elizabeth’s worried look, gives her a kindly poke instead. ‘Lizzie, what ye did wis quick thinking. You’re a smart wee quinie. Now all we need to do is get the car oot o’ here.’

  Once back on course, with the collected sacks loaded in beside me, he says, ‘But I’ll mebbe need tae give ye a few lessons afore I let you near the Fergie.’

  Just along from the station, and on the main road, is the shop and post office. They’re run by Mattie, who lives in the house adjoining the long, low building. As we stop outside it, Dod says, ‘Come on, quines. I dinna wint ye havin’ any mair crashes.’

  We scramble out of the car, taking a moment to admire Mattie’s fenced-off garden.

  ‘She must be a right good gardener.’ Elizabeth, looking approvingly at the neat lines of vegetables and fruit bushes, points to some huge leaves on red legs. ‘She’s even got rhubarb. My favourite – that and custard – especially Mrs Bremner�
�s kind. Ye ken this, Dod? She puts a wee droppie salt in hers. It tastes even better than Mum’s.’

  I can’t believe my sister! Not only is she comparing our mother’s cooking to someone else, but I’ve never seen her killing anything – and certainly not a hen. I got a right row once for squashing a fly with the net curtain covering one of our windows. But Dod’s grinning, so I don’t want to dishearten him.

  ‘Aye – she’s a grand cook,’ he says.

  Lest a car’s arrival, slamming doors and our chat’s gone unnoticed, a bell tings to tell Mattie that she’s got customers. There’s a room at one end of the shop where posties are sorting out mail whilst the shop bit has a wide wooden well-scrubbed counter.

  Close up, the counter’s too high for me to see over, so I stay beside the narrow entrance door. From there, it’s easy to see the shelves of jars of multi-coloured sweeties, with jelly babies gazing out as if dying to be set free. There’s also pandrops, Dod’s favourite mint-flavoured sweets. On show too, is a mixture of goods, from bottles of Camp coffee to bleach, shoe polish tins to laces – their leathery straps look like Pansy with a mouse, its tail hanging from her mouth.

  Mattie is small, round, smart and cheerful; her hands, neat and busy. Her free use of ‘uh-huh’ fascinates us. ‘You’ll be in for Mrs Macpherson’s messages, uh huh, uh huh,’ she says, and in a cheery way adds, ‘A good thing she phoned down the order, otherwise I’d still be trying to make out her handwriting, uh huh.’ She clucks. ‘And her a writer!’

  She consults a list written in a clear hand, presumably hers, then fishes in her sleeve for a small hanky edged with lace. She delicately dabs her nose with it, then consults Dod gravely. ‘It’s unusual having a millie at this time of year.’