Tales from the Tent by Jess Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

the end of the week my foot had healed perfectly.
    Geordie’s father, who by now was a permanent feature at our fire, gave me the next tale I am about to share with you. One of his lurchers had been splinter-speared while rabbiting. A
gaping wound on the poor beast’s side had rendered it near dead. A handful of spider moss was wetted, rolled into a ball and inserted into the wound. This pale green moss, which grows on the
bark of the silver-birch tree, has powerful healing qualities. Old folks swear it is Nature’s penicillin.
    When I enquired of Geordie’s father if he knew any stories, it was no surprise that the only tales he knew were to do with dogs. So, reader, if you’ve walked your old mongrel, and
got the cuppy close by, then here is the tale of—

 
    7
    HARRY ’ S DOGS

    ‘S o, old boy, I can only say sorry to you, but that’s the way of it. Please close the door as you leave.’
    Slower than he’d opened the heavy oak door of the factor’s office, Harry closed it behind him. Not even a glance backwards at the big house did he take as, flanked by his lassies,
his gun dogs, the old gamekeeper, with head hung, hobbled down the driveway towards the wee cottage in the glen. Mrs Brown, the shepherd’s wife, came to meet him. ‘Och man, me an’
Wull are fair vexed at thon factor’s decision. He’ll no find a better gamey onywhere in the hale o’ the country, and I’ll tell him when he bothers tae bring his fine self in
among us. Come you in fur a drappy tea, I’m thinkin ye’ll be needin yin.’
    Harry, usually reluctant to visit the kind lady’s kitchen on account of her blethering tongue, felt in need of a bit company, so ushering his girls under her table he sank onto her husband
Wull’s chair by the fire. Something he’d never usually do, but today his mind wasn’t on the niceties of good manners.
    Mrs Brown talked incessantly while preparing girdle scones, stooping every so often to pet the dogs lying under her table and to pop a bit of cold cooked rabbit into their mouths.
    ‘I mind when you an the old Laird were like brithers. Dae ye mind yon time, Harry, whin he fell an broke his ankle an you cerried him frae the quarry a’ the way doon tae the big
hoose, dae ye mind?’
    Harry took a swallow of hot tea and nodded. The shepherd’s wife could see his furrowed brow, and how hard he was trying to conceal a tear forming at the corner of his eye.
    ‘He needs to be by himself,’ she thought, and made some excuse that Wull had asked her to mind a sick ewe in the byre.
    Alone now with his dogs, Harry thought back on his life as gamekeeper on his friend Sir Gregor McEwan’s estate. They met during the war, he as a mere Private, Greg a Captain. After the war
their friendship continued when Harry followed in his father’s steps and became a keeper. Greg took over the running of his own father’s estate and became laird.
    During a blether while on a shoot, Harry discovered that a certain estate was looking for a good keeper. Imagine his surprise on discovering that the laird of this place was none other than his
old buddy, Greg. ‘Good God, Harry, what a great day this is, of all the keepers in the country there’s none I’d rather have than you! How in the name are things doing with
you?’
    ‘Och, I’m the better for meeting up with your good self again,’ was his answer.
    Drams were downed by the bottleful as the friends cracked on into early light.
    First off, Harry became under-keeper, then head-keeper, running the shooting on the estate with a free hand. Greg trusted his every decision and he never let him down.
    A few years down the line, Sir Greg married a city girl, a pretty debutante who tolerated country living for a while. She was never happy away from the bright lights, and when their first and
only child came along, a boy, she was determined he would be reared in the city. This unhappy union soon ended in divorce and so Greg threw himself into the running of the