Tales from the Tent Read Online Free PDF

stone wall, the fire was lit with a brag o’ heart and we were enjoying a hot mug of tea.
    ‘This is a good place,’ said Dad, ‘I think we’ll make a day or two’s lowie here’.
    Mam gulped a mouthful of tea before replying that any place would be better than the last place, then added, ‘God help us all if they ever find us.’
    ‘They’ll never find us, lass, and if they do then it’s a fight to the death.’
    Dad’s words sent a cold shiver up my back and the hair rose on my neck as a shy rabbit scurried through the thick undergrowth over by some trees. My brother Tommy felt my fear and moved
closer, entwining his arm through mine.
    Dad smiled and said, ‘now let’s not be shanning ourselves like this, it’s time for bed,’ then added, ‘look at the old moon, it’s heavy on the western side of
the heavens and we all know that means it’s past two in the morning, so off to bed with the lot of us.’
    I pulled the rug up under my chin as sleep was finding no place in me and thought back to the last place—and them! ‘Will I ever sleep again?’ I thought.
    Sleep did come that night, but not in a restful slumber that a child of ten should enjoy. No, it came within a dark cloud of nightmarish memories, ones that would plague me for the rest of my
life.
    It was the day before that we had camped briefly with some travellers of Irish stock, who kept my father busy dealing his horse for theirs. After swapping mares they hitched up to move further
up country. Nice folks they were.
    The three strangers who wandered on to the green seemed pleasant enough as they shared some twist with Dad. Mother even gave them tea and a buttered scone. I remember hearing one ask Dad if we
were the only travellers there. Yes, he told them innocently, there had been four or five Irish families but they’d moved on.
    This seemed to please them and they settled back at our fire, spending what was left of the day with us.
    Come teatime, Mother didn’t have enough food and told them so, apologising.
    ‘Oh, that’s fine, because we’re not here to eat your meat,’ said one of the strangers, a tall man.
    ‘No,’ laughed another, ‘we’re here for him.’ The older man had no sooner answered my mother than he stretched out a hairy arm and grabbed our Tommy. Father fumbled
with a burning stick from the fire, then, brandishing it in the air, shouted, ‘leave my son alone!’
    The third man, a dirty creature, unshaven and raggedy-clothed, came up behind father and knocked him to the ground. Then a sickening thud from his navvy-booted foot rendered father
unconscious.
    I screamed at the man who was running off with Tommy to let him go, while Mother scooped a bucketful of burning ashes from the fire and in vain threw them over the second man. Within seconds the
three fiends were out of sight, running off with our Tommy. Mother and I dropped to our knees beside father’s lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably. We’d heard the tales of
body-dealers, men who targeted vulnerable people. Unscrupulous men with wicked intentions of selling them to doctors for the practice of dissecting. But until then we had never believed the
scattered tales. There we were, then, victims of such demons. But some folks swear that God protects us! It certainly was true on that day, because who should discover that the horse father had
changed with them was lame? Yes, the Irish lads. And while they were bringing the mare back they came across the body snatchers. When they saw and recognised Tommy it didn’t take them long to
sort out those evil men and bring him home.
    Father was none the worse for his ordeal. It wasn’t the first hammering he’d had. After thanking the Irish we packed instantly and set off. Mother told me to hold Tommy’s
little hand. I held it so tight it went pale.
    Yes, my sleep was sorely troubled that night. But that was a long time ago.
    The Great War of 1914 came with its millions of casualties. Father followed the