Bonnet Over the Snow, by Keith Ferguson

Family Legends is a competition run by BBC Radio Scotland and the Scottish Book Trust. A selection of stories will be published in a Family Legends book. Over the past few weeks, we published one story each week. You can read more of the stories on the Scottish Book Trust website.

Bonnet Over The Snow

by Keith Ferguson

'Away next door an' mak' sure your granny's all right. Take the lamp and give her this wee drop of milk.'

The cottage was only a few snowy steps away from Elrick farmhouse, at the south end of the Cabrach, but the girl was shivering from the cold by the time she opened the cottage door. Peering into the dim light she could see her grandmother hunched up in bed, her eyes as bright as ever. She gave the old woman the milk and busied herself stirring the dying embers of the fire with some of the precious remaining logs, then tucking the blankets securely round the frail body.

'Sit by me for a few minutes, lassie,' said her grandmother.

'Now that he's dead and buried I want to speak about your grandpa.'

She paused, looking into the distance amongst the dancing shadows cast by the firelight.

'You've just known him as an auld man. You should have known him in his prime.'

'Tell me how you first met,' said the girl.

From the depths of the bed came a chuckle.

'You won't have heard of our dreadful sins. Nobody speaks about that these days. It was 1843 that John and I were hauled up afore the Kirk Session. We had to confess to the Minister and elders that we'd lain together and promise to behave ourselves in future. We got off wi' a reprimand. And the result of that was your Auntie Jane.'

'Was that when you got married then?'

'Oh, no. The good Lord kens that John and I wanted to. We loved each other. But my father wouldn't have it. He was wild. You've got to mind that he was Lieutenant James Taylor, 'The Offisher' folk called him, well in wi' the big ones in the castle, veteran o' the French Wars. And my mother? She was fair affronted, brought up in Aberdeen to be a real lady. They wouldn't have John Simpson as a son-in-law, no' sure who his father was, no land, just doing odd jobs around the crofts.'

'That still doesn't tell me how you met.' replied the girl.

A log in the fire spluttered and spat sparks over the room. By their light the old lady's eyes gleamed.

'The Cabrach wasn't like it is today. There would be two-thousand folk at the annual fair in my young day. Today there wouldn't be two-hundred. There were ceilidhs and dances and entertainments. Your grandpa and I kept meeting and syne we fell for each other.'

'Did you go on seeing him after Jane was born?'

'I didn't dare to for years. It tore the heart out of me. And then it became too much and we got together again. So in 1848 we were up before the Kirk Session again, your Uncle James was on the way, confessing our sins, swearing repentance and all the rest. Another reprimand. They'd have come down a lot harder on us if we hadn't promised to get married later the same day.'

'So your father gave his consent this time?'

'Aye, well, he saw there was nothing else for it. The scandal of having two children born out o' wedlock would have been too much. Give him his due he used his influence to get John the lease of Elrick and 10 acres.'

'But the farm is much bigger than 10 acres.'

'Aye, and I wish my father had lived to see the sheer grinding toil my John put into making the Elrick what it is today. As the family grew - James, Alexander, William, John and your Dad Peter, forbye Jane our first, he broke in more and more of the hillside every year with his bare hands, tearing out the gorse and heather, heaving rocks to the side to make dykes, draining the land to make pasture for the sheep and ground to grow their feed. Every census he had to work out how much land he had, ten acres at first, then twenty, then forty and so on as the family grew until he was named as 'farmer of eighty acres'. Syne he retired and handed over the reins to your Dad.'

She sighed. 'Aye, he was some man, the auld breed, Nothing would daunt him. That was why he went out these ten days since, the snow falling like a blanket, to get food from Howbog. Eighty! I told him no' to be daft at his age, but he said your Dad was exhausted getting the sheep in by and fed. He'd aye looked after me and the family and he wasn't for stopping now. It was a fearful shock to be told he was lost and worse to be told he was dead. That's all I remember about it. Tell me, lass, how he was found.'

The young girl wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to control her voice.

'We knew something was wrong, Granny, when the dog came back but there was no hope to find him with the snow as deep as it was. When it melted days later the men found him. He hadn't got far on the road to Howbog. He was kneeling as if he was praying. His stick was planted alongside him with his bonnet on top, and that was all they saw at first.'

The old woman grasped the girl's hands.

'Thank you lassie. Now I can picture him. Let me sleep.'

It was 9am the following morning and barely light, as the girl pushed open the cottage door.

She had never seen death before but knew instantly. Her grandmother lay with her eyes closed and arms crossed in a peaceful stillness.

My wife Jean is great-granddaughter of Alexander and Jane Simpson.

Alexander's death is recorded 24/25 January 1895, the basic facts of the legend being included in a copy of report to the procurator fiscal attached to the certificate. Jane's death is recorded as between 9pm and 9am of 3rd/4th February 1895.

Family Legends is a short story competition run by Scottish Book Trust and BBC Radio Scotland.