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Storyteller Tony Bonning brings together stories from one of the most enigmatic regions of Scotland: a land hemmed in by rivers and mountains; a land that vigorously maintained its independence, and by doing so, has many unique tales and legends. Here you will meet strange beasts, creatures and even stranger folk; here you will meet men and women capable of tricking even the Devil himself, and here you will find the very tale that inspired Robert Burns's most famous poem, Tam o'Shanter. With each Story told in an engaging style, and illustrated with unique line drawings, these humorous, clever and enchanting folk tales are sure to be enjoyed and shared time and again.
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To the memory of my inspirational parents and grandparents Chick, Babs, Geordie and Bessie
– Tony Bonning
Dedicated to my wonderful son Maxim and dearest parents Ken and Mary
– Jo Jackson Bonning
First published in 2016
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2016
All rights reserved
Text © Tony Bonning, 2016
Illustrations © Jo Jackson Bonning, 2016
The right of Tony Bonning to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 6937 6
Original typesetting by The History Press
eBook converted by Geethik Technologies
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Introduction
1
Rashie Coat
2
The Milk-White Doo
3
Elphin Irving
4
The Carlins o Cairnsmore
5
Faeries and Changelings
6
John the Fisherman
7
Hoo tae Deal wi the Deil
8
The Black Sorcerer
9
Witches and Warlocks
10
Heather Ale
11
Songs of the Solway
12
The Wife of Lochmaben
13
Ghosts, Spectres, Wraiths and Poltergeists
14
Bannocks and Puddocks
15
Sanct Ninian and the Twa Herds
Glossary
Tony Bonning was born into a Scots-speaking farming family in South-West Scotland in 1948. He is a bestselling author, top storyteller and versatile singer and musician, and does over two hundred shows a year for children as his alter-ego, Aiken Drum. He is founder of the Galloway Children’s Festival, co-founder and play leader of the Play-it-by-Ear music groups and co-founder of the national poetry magazine, Markings. He was also part of the group that established the Wickerman Festival in 2002 and ran the Children’s Area for thirteen years. In his spare time he goes hill-walking with his wife Jo to write poetry. Tony has seven children and one god-daughter.
Jo Jackson Bonning was born and raised in the Cotswolds and has one son called Maxim. Jo and Maxim moved to Kirkcudbright in South-West Scotland seventeen years ago when her son was four to be nearer to her parents Ken, an Ayrshire man, and Mary Jackson, who also live in Kirkcudbright. In her early twenties, Jo gained distinction in her studies of textile design in Derbyshire and completed her art training at Goldsmith’s College in London in 1985/6. After her move to Scotland, Jo attended Strathclyde University to train to be a drama teacher and is currently teaching drama at Kirkcudbright Academy. Jo has greatly enjoyed illustrating her husband Tony’s book, especially as it is their first collaboration which has united both their areas of great interest: storytelling and art.
In 1846, Professor William Thom coined the term ‘folklore’, a much better and succinct description than the previous ‘popular antiquities’. This was the period when the serious study of folk beliefs, folk tales, legends and myths was put under scientific scrutiny. The major advantage was that the tales that were the entertainment and the education of people were collected by people like the Brothers Grimm in Germany, Charles Perrault in France, and Robert Chambers and J.F. Campbell in Scotland. This meant that the tales were preserved as books became more readily available. The downside was that literacy spelled the end of oral culture. Over the last twenty-odd years there has been a great revival in storytelling in Scotland and across Britain as a whole, not that it really ever went away, especially among the traveller community. I was fortunate that both my paternal grandmother and grandfather regaled me with tales, as did my mother. My grandfather, whom I lived with and cared for in his later years, would happily tell tales all through the night. In his world, the barrier between fact and fiction was often blurred, and was all the better for it.
For the past fifty years I have been fascinated by the history, culture and lore of Scotland’s South-West. It all began with curiosity at the Gaelic place names. At the age of twelve I cycled through a place blessed with the wonderful name of Clachaneasy. It took a while, but eventually I discovered that clachan was the Gaelic for ‘village’ or ‘settlement’ and easy was from Iosa, the Gaelic for Jesus. If you will excuse the dreadful cliché, I was now a man (or was that, boy) on a mission. The greatest realisation was that behind every name was a story filled with history, culture, geography and people. One could look at a place in four, perhaps five dimensions. It was, and is, exhilarating.
Dumfries and Galloway is 6,426 square kilometres – roughly 140 kilometres (eighty-eight miles) wide and seventy kilometres (forty-four miles) at its deepest. It comprises pastoral lowland, upland and mountains. It is divided into Dumfries to the east and Galloway to the west. Rivers play a big part in delineating the region. Furthest east is Eskdale then Annadale with Nithsdale as the west side of Dumfries. Galloway formerly began at the Nith but the area along the west bank of the Nith is now subsumed by the Dumfries area of Nithsdale. Between there and the river Cree is the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright and from the Cree to Portpatrick is Wigtownshire. Because of geography, Galloway was always a land unto itself and as a result there are many tales that are unique to the area. It was heavily influenced by connections with Ireland and the Norse-Gael – the Gall-Ghaedheil, who most likely gave the region its name. East of the Nith, Dumfriesshire had more of a Border influence, though many place names have a decidedly Norse ring to them. East of the Nith there are the Faery Folk – the Guid Neichbours; west of the Nith they are the Daoine Sith.
I have done my best to balance the tales according to place, but in the end the deciding factor was whether it was a good tale. The whole region has many hundreds of stories, many of which are similar, changing to suit time and place and the persuasions of the teller, and I have shown a bit of that in the tales herein. I hope you enjoy the selection.
The book could have been made easier by having everyone speaking in standard English. I have chosen not to for a number of reasons. Firstly, I was born into a Scots-speaking farming family in the South-West and it is my first language – it was thrashed out of me and my fellow pupils at school. We have a word for that nowadays: it’s called racism – not to mention elitism and classism. The people of the times these tales relate to spoke Scots and I feel this must be respected – many of the original written tales were wholly in Scots and are a difficult read, even for many modern Scots. With this in mind I have narrated in standard English but left most dialogue in the old tongue, with current Scots spelling. The one thing not changed, to avoid confusion, is ‘I’, which in Scots is pronounced as ‘A’. Preserving our language is vital to our culture. Even if we don’t use it generally, we should at least have a good grounding in it; otherwise we lose something of our national soul. At first, the language may seem difficult and there are many words not in English usage, but if you read the passage aloud the meaning will often become clear. If not, there is a fairly complete glossary at the end, so please take the time to use it.
Lastly, Jo and I would like to thank all those who have contributed to the making of this volume, in particular Lesley Garbutt and Russell Bryden of Kirkcudbright Library, for their enormous help over many years. Bless you.
Tony Bonning, 2016
Langholm, or the Muckle Toun, as it is locally known, is an attractive small town set among wooded hills on the banks of the River Esk. It is most famous for its woollen mills and is the birthplace of one of Scotland’s greatest poets, Hugh MacDiarmid (real name Christopher Grieve).
Long ago, the Laird and Lady of Langholm had a beautiful and gifted daughter whom they named Ella. As a young girl, her mother had shown her how to weave and spin and knit and sow and in each of these arts she became highly proficient. Her mother also walked with her through the woods that clad the hills along the banks of the Esk and filled her with a sense of wonder at all the gifts of nature. One day her mother cut some thin willow wands, formed them into a hoop through which she wove leaves and flowers. She then placed this rustic crown on her daughter’s head. ‘You have always been my princess, but now you are the Princess of Langholm.’ So awed by her mother’s creation was she that in time she learned how to weave grasses, plant stems and willow wands into dresses, shoes and other garments. Her finest creation was a coat made from the rushes that grew by the river; from this she was often called Rashie Coat.
It was winter’s end when her mother died. Rashie Coat was so distressed that she gave up on worldly things to the point where she would wear the same clothes day in, day out. She slept by the fireside and barely ate. Her distraught father, not knowing what to do, decided that it was best if she was married. This was quite the last thing she wanted to do. Besides, her mother had married for love and she would do nothing less. On the other hand, she did not wish to offend her loving father; he too had lost the person he loved most in the world besides her. Not knowing what to do, she decided to visit the hen-wife who lived at the bottom of the garden. The hen-wife looked after the hens, ducks and geese of the laird. Like all hen-wives she possessed some second sight. Not professionally like a spae-wife or dangerously like a witch, but more in the way of everyday wisdom.
‘Come in miss,’ said the hen-wife. ‘It is indeed a pleesure tae hae ye veesit oor humble cot. Whit can we dae fer ye?’
Rashie Coat stepped inside to be met with the sharp stink of hen droppings. She was about to step back out but decided it would be insulting. The woman proffered a chair that had a few badly wiped marks on it. Seeing the offending poop, the woman wiped it with her pinafore then proffered the seat again. ‘It’s alright, thank you. I’ve been sitting all day and could do with a bit of standing. Anyway, I wanted to ask your advice.’ The woman cocked her head to the side, the better to hear. ‘My father wishes me to be married, but I have no desire to wed just yet. Especially not to the sop my father has chosen. I don’t wish to sound mean.’ The hen-wife shook her head in agreement. Rashie Coat gave a sigh, ‘He’s nice enough, but just not right. What should I do?’
The hen-wife called her daughter from the garden. The girl was a big-boned, country lass with red hair partially hidden under a mutch; she too had her mother’s hen-like mannerisms and kept nodding her head as if she was about to peck. ‘Get me a bowl o watter frae the spring,’ said the mother. The girl took a wooden bowl from the rickety dresser and went out. The woman made small talk until the girl returned, then she set the bowl on a three-legged stool, bent her knees at right angles to each other and began to circle the stool making a soft, clucking sound. She then stopped and her head shot forward as if she was about to take a drink. Her nose stopped an inch from the water. She gazed into it then shot upright. ‘Ye maun insist that ye get a coat o beaten gowd afore ye will mairry the mannie.’
Rashie Coat gave the woman a bawbee as payment and went straight to her father and asked if he would get her a coat of beaten gold so that she might marry the suitor. Her father went into his vaults and removed a box of gold coins. These he took to his goldsmith and asked him to make a coat of beaten gold. Although the man had never made any such thing before he set to work and made an exquisite garment that not only shimmered with light but seemed to flow like silk. Rashie Coat was delighted and thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen as she swayed back and forth listening to the swish of the gold sheet. Her father stood and admired how beautiful his daughter looked dressed in this fine raiment. ‘Now can we arrange a day for your wedding?’
Rashie Coat stopped swaying and stood for a moment looking at the floor, ‘I can’t marry him, Father.’ She let the coat fall and ran from the room and made her way to the hen-wife, ‘What am I to do?’
Again the hen-wife sent her daughter for water, again she strutted round the bowl, peered into it, leaped up and proclaimed, ‘Ye maun ask yer faither tae get ye a coat made frae feathers o aa the burds o the air.’ Rashie Coat gave the woman a bawbee and went to see her father again.
Her father shook his head in amazement, ‘Do you not like your coat of beaten gold?’
‘I love the coat, but if I am to marry the suitor I must had a decent wardrobe.’
‘So be it!’ her father said in resignation. He called a retainer and ordered him to collect a bag of grain and ask the birds of the air if they would give a feather in exchange for a beak-full of the cereal. Always glad of a free meal, birds came from far and wide, dropped a feather and made off with their fee. The laird’s tailor then zealously stitched every feather to a coat of the finest silk brocade. The laird was highly impressed with the coat, as was his daughter, though her face looked glum. ‘You don’t like it?’ asked her father in surprise.
‘I love it but it has not convinced me that I should marry.’ She saw the look of frustration and rising anger in her father’s face. ‘Be a little patient. There’s something I need to do.’ With this she left swiftly and made her way to the hen-wife’s door. ‘I’m sorry if I’m wasting your time but I still can’t bring myself to marry the suitor. What shall I do?’
‘Come in and we’ll see whit the seein bowl sees.’ The hen-wife went through her ritual and again leaped up and said, ‘Ye maun get a coat and shoon made frae rashes.’
‘But I have shoes and a coat made of rushes.’
‘Aye missy, I ken that. But they, an aa yer claes, are bonny things and ye need something that is mair ... shall we say, humble: something like kintra-fowk wear.’ Rashie Coat gave the woman another bawbee and set off to see her father.
‘Why would you want such a thing?’ he protested, ‘Why not silk and fine grain leather?’
‘It’s what I need before I can consent to marry,’ she answered.
Her father sent for his best woodsman who, together with his wife, artfully made shoes and a coat that fitted Rashie Coat exactly. The laird was not impressed, ‘I have to admit they are well made, but they are not what I would expect a daughter of mine to wear; the coat you made was better. I said nothing at the time because you had made it and because your mother loved it, but it was not exactly becoming of a young lady. Now you really are Rashie Coat.’ He gave a long exasperated sigh, then taking her head in his hands he looked down at her with pleading eyes, ‘The wedding?’
Rashie Coat slowly took off the shoes and the coat and looked up into her father’s kind and loving eyes and, with her heart near breaking and tears welling, said, ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’ She turned and fled from the room. Dropping the coat and shoes at the back door the girl ran into the garden and down to the hen-wife’s little cottage. She banged on the door and incautiously opened it. ‘Hen-wife, are you there?’
‘Whit can I dae fer ye, young miss?’
The voice from behind made her jump and step back awkwardly into some mud at the side of the door. There was also a tone in the voice that unsettled Rashie Coat. ‘Oh! What a fright you gave me.’
‘Sorry aboot that.’ The apology came over as insincere, ‘Noo whit can I dae fer ye?’
‘I still can’t go through with the wedding. What can I do?’
‘I dinnae ken miss; there’s nae ither wey I can help ye. I hae duin ma best by ye. Noo by yer leave I hae tae get on wi feedin the chookies.’ She turned and walked away, leaving Rashie Coat with a feeling of helplessness.
Not knowing what else to do, Rashie Coat returned to her house and put on an old, plain dress along with the coat and shoes made of rushes. She then took the coat of beaten gold, the coat of many feathers and light slippers along with some apples and a chunk of bread and put them in a wicker basket. She strapped it to her back and slipped out of the house. It was just past midday, so using the sun as reference Rashie Coat headed westwards towards Lockerbie, some eighteen miles away, reaching it just before seven. Feeling that she was still too close to home, she spent the night at the base of a haystack before heading further west to Dumfries. There she found her way to a large imposing house in the centre of town and knocked on a side door. The middle-aged woman who answered seemed put out with the interruption, ‘What dae ye want?’ the woman asked brusquely.
‘I am a guid wirker and wondered if ye had ony wark ye needed daein?’ Ella said, disguising her upbringing.
‘Ye cam at the richt time; I hae juist feenisht aff a lass. I’ll show ye the scullery and ye can get on wi the dishes.’ The woman showed her the kitchen and the scullery, as well as the pallet that would now be her bed.
After Rashie Coat had finished the mountain of dishes, thrown out the dirty water and refilled the pots to heat the water for the next set of dishes, she set about clearing up the mess of ashes left by the last servant lass. In no time she had transformed the scullery and tidied up the kitchen, which pleased the cooks. She was a diligent worker and soon was popular with the other servants, though she was inclined to keep her own company. On Saturday afternoon, whilst she was helping the cooks with shopping in the mercat, she noticed a bookshop and, asking her leave for a few minutes, went inside and purchased a book of poetry. That night she sat with a candle reading and memorising the poems. Next day was Sunday and the laird, his wife, daughters, son and staff set out for church. Rashie Coat was left at home to make sure the dinner was hot on their return. She was blowing the fire to get it going when she was aware of a presence in the room. She turned and almost fell back into the inglenook in fright. Before her was the apparition of a woman. She wore a long gossamer dress, not unlike one her mother used to wear. Rashie Coat could not make out the face from the bright light that shone around it, but she noticed a circlet about the head decorated with leaves and flowers. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ the phantom said kindly. ‘Today is the Sabbath and not a day for work. Put on your coat of beaten gold and go to church.’
‘But I have to make sure dinner is hot and ready for the laird’s return.’
‘Be assured that on your return the dinner will be just perfect. Now go!’
Rashie Coat put on the coat of beaten gold and as she did the grimy, unkempt servant-look disappeared and she blossomed into the beauty she truly was. As she opened the door to leave she extemporised a rhyme:
Ae peat gar anither peat burn,
one, make
Ae spit gar anither spit turn,
Ae pat gar anither pat play,
pot
Let Rashie Coat gang tae the kirk the day.
go
With a smile and a wave she set out for Greyfriars Church. On the way she realised she had not asked the apparition who she was: a guardian angel, a fairy godmother or a guid neichbour? ‘All those things, perhaps,’ she thought.
Rashie Coat slipped in at the back of the Kirk and joined in the hymns and prayers. During the service the laird’s son, looking about the congregation, set eyes upon her and all through the remaining service kept looking in her direction. Just before the end she slipped out the door, removed the coat and made her way home. At the house, the table was already set and dinner was prepared and ready to serve. There was no sign of the visitor.
The following Sunday, as Rashie Coat once more prepared to cook dinner, her benefactor appeared. ‘It is time for you to go to church, young Rashie Coat. Put on your coat of feathers and fly away this instant. I will make sure that all is well here.’
Once again Rashie Coat opened her wicker basket, but this time she took out the coat of feathers and wrapped it about her; again she transformed. Stopping at the door, she recited her little rhyme:
Ae peat gar anither peat burn, Ae spit gar anither spit turn, Ae pat gar anither pat play, Let Rashie Coat gang tae the kirk the day.
As she walked along the High Street she chastised herself for once more not asking the visitor who she was. She slipped into the kirk and joined in the service, loving the joyful singing of the psalms and hymns and struggling not to have her mind wander during the long sermon. The fact that the laird’s son could not seem to keep his eyes off her was a distraction, though a little unsettling. Taking advantage of a boisterous rendition of the 23rd Psalm she took her leave and went home. Dinner was ready.
That week rumour abounded in the household that the laird’s son was beside himself with love of a strange girl about his own age, who appeared out of nowhere and had disappeared without a trace, only to reappear and disappear again. He had spent the past few days searching for this enigma, without success. Rashie Coat was aware of the talk but made no comment so as not to draw attention to herself. She was secure in the belief that her dowdy and often grimy appearance disguised her true self.
On the following Sunday her angel appeared again. ‘It is time for you to go to church, my little princess, and this time you must wear your coat and shoes of rushes.’ As she left the house Rashie Coat repeated her rhyme:
Ae peat gar anither peat burn, Ae spit gar anither spit turn, Ae pat gar anither pat play, Let Rashie Coat gang tae the kirk the day.
Before leaving, she looked at the figure before her, at the face that shone with a heavenly light and at the simple yet delicate diadem that adorned her head. There was something so familiar about the presence, but more than that it was the feeling of pure love that emanated from her. Although she loathed leaving, Rashie Coat closed the door and went to the kirk. She lost herself in the crowd and kept a wary lookout for the laird’s son. It wasn’t long before she became aware of being looked at. The lad had obviously placed himself near the door in anticipation of her arrival. In a restrained panic she quickly made for the door and leaped down the steps. She landed awkwardly and her left shoe came off. As she went back to retrieve it the young man came through the door. Rashie Coat turned and ran off up the street. She glanced briefly over her shoulder in time to see him pick up the shoe.
The following day, word went out round Dumfries that the laird’s son was looking for the young woman who had lost her shoe outside of Greyfriar’s Church. As the shoe had obviously been specially made, he would marry the person whose foot it fitted. A queue formed outside the house and girl after girl tried and failed. Gradually the word spread and people came from as far away as Kirkcudbright and Moniaive. The queue grew and grew but the search was fruitless until a mother and her red-headed daughter came all the way from Langholm. When finally the girl had her turn the shoe fitted perfectly, though it was noted that the foot looked, as one maid said, a bit ‘nippit an clippit’. And indeed it was, for the hen-wife, remembering that the barefooted Rashie Coat had stepped in mud at her front door, had performed acts of minor mutilation to her daughter’s feet to make them the same size as the footprint; so certain was she, by the descriptions given, that it was Rashie Coat the laird’s son had sought. The hen-wife decided that the laird’s daughter was either dead or over the border and so chanced her luck. It was in. The shoe fitted and the wedding was arranged. So as to end speculation, the laird’s son took his bride-to-be on a ride around the town wearing the shoe made of rushes. A little perplexed, but at the same time delighted at finding his lost love, he rode proudly out, she sitting behind him on his great charger. As he rode past Lincluden, a bird in a hawthorn tree sang out:
Nippit fit and clippit fit
foot
Ahint the laird’s son rides;
behind
Whilst bonny fit and pretty fit
Ahint the caudron hides.
cauldron
The little doubt that had niggled at him was fully realised and he tipped the hen-wife’s daughter from his horse, leaped off and retrieved the shoe. He rode at once for home and made his way into the scullery; staff quickly stood aside as he entered. Rashie Coat, on hearing the disturbance and loud voices, ducked down behind the water cauldron. The lad knew exactly where to go.
He leaned over the container and proffered a hand to Rashie Coat. She modestly raised her arm and allowed herself to be guided from her hiding place. He undid her mutch and let her hair fall about her shoulders, then he tenderly wiped the ash from her face. As he looked into her eyes, she knew she had, at last, found her one true love. Trying on the shoe was a formality. The fit was perfect, as was the moment. He turned and with a brief nod of his head shooed everyone from the kitchen. Taking her hands in his he leaned forward and very gently and sweetly kissed her. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked.
She laughed and threw her arms about him, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’
And so in time Ella became the first lady of Dumfries and of Langholm. Although the laird’s wife, she treated everyone, regardless of their station, with care and respect and was loved for it. And though she was usually addressed as Mistress or Milady, she was always affectionately known as Rashie Coat. She had great comfort in a loving husband and, eventually, loving children. But what comforted her most was the thought that just out of sight was someone who watched over her.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm collected märchen or folk tales in their native Germany. Their collection is certainly the best known in the world of folk tales. When translated into English, what became apparent to other collectors such as James Halliwell, J.F. Campbell, William Chambers and others was the commonality of many of the tales. No doubt storytellers took tales from books, such as Grimms’, that they then used, but more usually the tales were oral and travelled along the highways and seaways of the world every which way: Cinderella probably started in China, hence the shoe only fitting one specific foot, and versions of the famed Brer Rabbit can be found in Africa and China. The following tale would seem to have a common source with the Grimms’ ‘Juniper Tree’, because of the close similarity of the repetitive refrain. But, as in most tales, it takes on something of the culture where it is told. Similar versions are found in Hungary, Romania, Austria and England, and this one is from Scotland. Be warned, it is a shocking tale for adults. Unsurprisingly – to storytellers – it is very popular with children.
Long ago there was a man called Alan Hunter who fell in love with a girl called Belle. Though not the brightest of souls, Alan was loving and kind and relentlessly courted Belle for a year and a day. In the end, she agreed to marry him. The marriage was blissful and they worked together on their little croft on the long plain, Am Magh Fada in Gaelic, which gives the town of Moffat its name. Because of their hard work they prospered and so leased more land until they had a substantial farm and moorland for summer grazing. They had a small herd of sheep, six milk cows and numerous chickens, ducks and geese. They also had ten acres of arable land which they formed into rigs, or ridges – unfenced raised strips of soil, for growing oats, barley, hay and flax for clothing. On the in-by fields near the farm they built dykes to safeguard the animals and to keep them away from their crops in the out-by fields.
They had been five years married when winter came early. The land was dusted with snow, yet there were still leaves on the rowan tree that stood to the side, or cheek, of their front door. The young woman looked at the tree and made a wish that she would have a child with hair red like the rowan and skin as fair as the new snow. Soon after, the young woman found she was pregnant, and on a warm day in August she gave birth to a baby boy whom she named Johnnie. He had a shock of thick red hair and his skin seemed to shine white with an inner light. However, the birth was difficult, complications arose and, with no skilled surgeon within fifty miles, she died. Family gathered round and gave Alan support in his grief and a wet nurse was found for the child. In time, Alan settled down to life as a single parent. To remind him of the purity and beauty of his wife, he set two large white quartz stones beneath the rowan tree.
Running the farm on his own was hard and he thought it best and practical to get some extra help. He hired a young, unemployed man called Hugh Bowman who brought along his sister Morag to help in the house. The girl’s common-law husband had deserted her, and with a young daughter to care for was glad of the work. While Hugh was an adequate worker, his sister, also not the brightest of souls, was excellent. Morag had a hard edge, and when it came to chopping a chicken for the pot or taking a knife to the throat of a braxy sheep at the back end of the year, she did so without a second thought. What Alan especially liked was that her daughter Katie had great maternal instincts and spent her time playing with Johnnie, who had just started to crawl. She insisted on feeding, washing and generally caring for the boy.
A month later, Hugh was offered a job at a neighbouring farm with a higher wage. Though sad to see him go, Alan was quite happy he did not have to pay out two wages and his own; he could manage with Morag’s help. Shortly after, it seemed right and decent to Alan that, if Morag was living under the same roof, perhaps they should be properly married. Morag seemed happy enough with the arrangement, no doubt feeling more secure about Katie’s and her future. By this time, Alan loved Katie as if she were his own daughter and was fond of Morag, even with her occasional highly strung emotions. They had a penny wedding where neighbours and friends contributed a penny each to the celebrations. They settled down to family life, and though Morag was occasionally hard on Johnnie, this was mitigated by the obvious affection Katie had for the lad. She also insisted that he should not be called her ‘step-brother’ but simply her ‘brother’.