Opening sequence to unfinished book
CHAPTER ONE
The Black Yett, Forfarshire, Scotland, September 1899
“Steady, lass!” The driver of the dog-cart soothed his horse as it pulled to the right. “She’s always skittish here,” the driver explained to me. “She doesn’t like passing the old graveyard.”
We had reached a crossroads, where the Black Yett of Sidlaw, the main road, eased off towards Perth along the foot of the Sidlaw Hills, and our much narrower road headed north. Our road snaked up a pass between two green heights. The driver’s old graveyard was tucked behind a moss-furred dry-stane dyke, with a scattering of gravestones at different angles, as if each was trying to escape the bondage of the soil.
“It doesn’t look well-kept,” I glanced over the wall with little interest.
“No,” the driver shook his head. He climbed off his perch to settle the horse, fondling its ear and blowing into its nostrils. “Easy lass, I’ll lead you. Steady, now.”
I remained in the back of the cart as the driver walked us past the graveyard, with its single rowan tree splendid with blood-red berries and the grass rank over the humps of neglected graves.
“Why is it so unkempt?” I asked.
“It’s a suicides’ graveyard,” the driver said, shortly. He said no more until we were a hundred yards beyond the place, and he gave his horse a final caress and resumed his seat.
“Are there many suicides around here?” I asked as a smirr of rain slithered from the hills to wash some of the journey’s dust from us.
“Too many,” the driver said. “It can be ill land to farm.” He flicked the reins on the rump of his horse, and we moved slightly faster. The iron-shod wheels of the cart ground on the unmade road, deepening the grooves made by a thousand previous vehicles over ten centuries of use. This land had been inhabited for millennia, I knew. I could feel the history pressing in on me; I could hear the whispering voices of the long-dead and sense the slow tide of passing years.
To my northern eyes, the land was not ill-favoured. Grass and heather covered the hills, making excellent sheep country, with parks, or fields, where cattle grazed or lay together.
A colourful Gypsy wagon passed us, with the driver lifting a hand in acknowledgement and a gaggle of tousle-headed children running behind. When they waved to me, I smiled and waved back.
“Aye, only tinkers and Gypsies use this road,” my driver said. “Them and men who can’t afford to farm decent soil.” He shook his head. “We’d be better off without these tinker vagrants.”
I said nothing to that, being a bit of a vagrant myself. I watched the gypsy caravan lurch around a bend and heard the high-pitched barking of the Gypsy dogs.
The hills rose on either side; not the craggy granite of my previous home, but softly smooth, specked with the white forms of sheep and, redolent with patches of heather. I thought them friendly heights and hoped I had left my bitter memories behind me.
“Aye, it’s a dreich day,” the driver misinterpreted my thoughts, as people often do.
The Black Yett, Forfarshire, Scotland, September 1899
“Steady, lass!” The driver of the dog-cart soothed his horse as it pulled to the right. “She’s always skittish here,” the driver explained to me. “She doesn’t like passing the old graveyard.”
We had reached a crossroads, where the Black Yett of Sidlaw, the main road, eased off towards Perth along the foot of the Sidlaw Hills, and our much narrower road headed north. Our road snaked up a pass between two green heights. The driver’s old graveyard was tucked behind a moss-furred dry-stane dyke, with a scattering of gravestones at different angles, as if each was trying to escape the bondage of the soil.
“It doesn’t look well-kept,” I glanced over the wall with little interest.
“No,” the driver shook his head. He climbed off his perch to settle the horse, fondling its ear and blowing into its nostrils. “Easy lass, I’ll lead you. Steady, now.”
I remained in the back of the cart as the driver walked us past the graveyard, with its single rowan tree splendid with blood-red berries and the grass rank over the humps of neglected graves.
“Why is it so unkempt?” I asked.
“It’s a suicides’ graveyard,” the driver said, shortly. He said no more until we were a hundred yards beyond the place, and he gave his horse a final caress and resumed his seat.
“Are there many suicides around here?” I asked as a smirr of rain slithered from the hills to wash some of the journey’s dust from us.
“Too many,” the driver said. “It can be ill land to farm.” He flicked the reins on the rump of his horse, and we moved slightly faster. The iron-shod wheels of the cart ground on the unmade road, deepening the grooves made by a thousand previous vehicles over ten centuries of use. This land had been inhabited for millennia, I knew. I could feel the history pressing in on me; I could hear the whispering voices of the long-dead and sense the slow tide of passing years.
To my northern eyes, the land was not ill-favoured. Grass and heather covered the hills, making excellent sheep country, with parks, or fields, where cattle grazed or lay together.
A colourful Gypsy wagon passed us, with the driver lifting a hand in acknowledgement and a gaggle of tousle-headed children running behind. When they waved to me, I smiled and waved back.
“Aye, only tinkers and Gypsies use this road,” my driver said. “Them and men who can’t afford to farm decent soil.” He shook his head. “We’d be better off without these tinker vagrants.”
I said nothing to that, being a bit of a vagrant myself. I watched the gypsy caravan lurch around a bend and heard the high-pitched barking of the Gypsy dogs.
The hills rose on either side; not the craggy granite of my previous home, but softly smooth, specked with the white forms of sheep and, redolent with patches of heather. I thought them friendly heights and hoped I had left my bitter memories behind me.
“Aye, it’s a dreich day,” the driver misinterpreted my thoughts, as people often do.
31-35, F
