Betsy Whyte - The Yellow on the Broom

The early days of a Traveller woman

This edition first published in 2001 by

Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

Reprinted 2002, 2007, 2009, 2012, 2017

Copyright the Estate of Julie Whyte 1979

Editors note copyright Peter Cooke 2001

ISBN 978 0 85790 720 2

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Polmont, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound by

MBM Print SCS Ltd, Glasgow

Little did I imagine when I first suggested to Betsy Whyte that she should set down on paper some account of her early years as a traveller that 27 years later Id find myself introducing a fresh edition of the autobiography that resulted.

I first met Betsy Whyte on a dark, damp December evening in 1973. Sitting at the fireside of her Montrose council flat, warming myself with a good strong brew of tea, I quickly realized that I had met someone special who could act as a wonderfully articulate, if modest, representative of her people. That same evening she readily recorded on tape for me and my student companion several long traditional tales of magic and the black arts, a couple of ballads, including eighteen verses of Young Johnston her own family ballad and a wealth of other material which I had never heard before: lullabies, childrens songs, a variety of traditional Scottish songs and ditties, as well as information on travellers customs and their cant dialect. We felt it was as if she had been waiting for someone to come along to turn on the tap, so readily, if shyly, did she respond to these strangers who had called unexpectedly on her.

It was the same when she began to write a totally new endeavour for one who belonged to a society that found little use for pen and paper. Regularly over the ensuing months packets of painstakingly penned episodes arrived by post, all ready for typing. It is clear, when one looks over her manuscript, that this was still an oral rather than a literary activity for Betsy; that she must have carefully composed and polished her narrative in her mind and committed it to paper only when satisfied that it flowed as naturally as the spoken word. This was not simply a steady stream of consciousness, for on each of those rare occasions when we found it necessary to question her about how she had expressed a thought, it was obvious that she had considered several alternatives before opting for what she had finally written. When it came to editing her manuscript, Betsys seemingly effortless dialogue needed very little work beyond occasionally normalising spelling and adding some punctuation. The division of her account into its natural succession of episodes was a task expertly and speedily achieved by Ian Gould, then managing director of W & R Chambers Ltd, who, unusually for a busy publisher, wanted to take on this enjoyable task himself.

Since its first publication in 1979, The Yellow on the Broom has seen several paperback reprintings, a large print edition, and has also been recorded onto cassette. In 19889 a dramatised version by Anne Downie toured around Scotland with Winged Horse Productions, and during 1992 the book was published in serial form in the Dundee Courier. Perhaps we should not be surprised at the continuing popularity of her engrossing account, nor of the equally enthralling sequel, Red Rowans and Wild Honey. One thing is certain: her story contains an enduring message that is worth telling and re-telling of the need to tolerate and respect people and communities who live a different life from our own and who continue to need some space on our crowded planet that they can call their own.

Peter Cooke
March 2001

Whats that youre doing, lassie?

My mothers voice startled me as I was sitting in the tent combing my hairwhen I should have been away to work. The others had left over half an hour earlier.

Then I heard Marys voice answer Mother. Im just washing out some clothes. I can see that youre washing but, lassie dear, you cant hang your knickers out like that there with all the men passing by looking at them. Look, lassie, double them over like this or pin that apron over them and they will dry just as quickly. If Johnnie comes home and sees your knickers hanging there, he will be your death.

Mother came back into the tent muttering to herself God knows what he was doing marrying a scaldie for anyway. You can put sense into them no way. Then she spoke to me. Are you not going to any work today? Im just going, Ma.

When I stepped out of the tent, I met Mary. She had not argued back with Mother but had done as Mother told her. Are you going to the field? she asked. Aye, I answered. Are you?

As the two of us made our way down the old road she asked me Did you hear your mother at me again this morning? Mother is only telling you for your own good. Remember the beating you got from Johnnie when you sat in front of the men with your legs apart? (Traveller men hate their wives doing things like that. A traveller woman would never do so, anyway.)

Mary was not a traveller. Johnnie, my mothers nephew, had met her when he was working in Perth. She had worked in Stanley Mill and went into Perth some weekends, for her mother lived there. She had been cooped in the mill for five years and the fresh air and outside life since she married Johnnie had agreed with her. But she was a bit befuddled with some of our strange customs.

Ach, youll soon learn, I told her. Youve only been married four months. We were all really fond of Mary.

Soon we reached the field where several men and women were pulling turnips. My father, uncles and their wives, Johnnie (Marys man) and also a man called Hendry Reid who none of us was very fond of. Hendry was too soulless-hearted, having been known to kick and batter his wife and childrenand horse when he had one.

This Hendry Reid was talking away as they worked. That man is always ganshin, I said to Mary. Some of the men are sure to lose the head with him one of these days. He is always bragging about how he can get other mens wives, and about what he done in the War, but my mother says that he hid himself in a cave in Argyllshire all the time of the War. His poor mother was trauchled to death carrying food for miles to him. Oh aye, he was a brave soldier!

We picked up our hukes (sickles, if you like) and started to pull the neeps. Mary was not very good at it, but Johnnie helped her to keep up. Soon it was after midday and, although it was October, the sun was beaking down on us. Hendry was still ganshin. My father and the other men and women could have seen him in hell. Nothing could have been more nerve-racking than his loud, squeaky, incessant voice.