The Tup Sale

Claire Nicolson

2005

Andrew had predicted it years in advance.

Anna agreed it was inevitable. 'It has to be,' she'd reasoned, 'there's a tractor involved.' This city-born girl's love of tractors was legend amongst the crowd.

Charles had made the introduction a year previously, but nothing had ever come of it, until now; now that Mairi had set about establishing a local, bi-lingual community newspaper. In the end, its only achievement was what brought me to this day, Thursday 13th October 2005.

My return mid-September from working in Cape Breton had been under duress. Coming home to finish my degree and do anything I could to facilitate my return was all I could think of.

But, here I was, only a matter of weeks later, waking up with insides like a lava lamp; all blobby bubbles bobbling around inside me. Today was the day. The Day.

Despite our destination I wanted to look smart, nice even, and having discussed the matter in depth with Andrew I knew what to extract from the wardrobe - smart jeans, a blue-green shirt, even new underwear! I straightened my hair too. And if anyone cared to look closely, a wee touch of make-up had been applied. Ha! Me making an effort! The finishing touches: my trademark blue and green Adidas trainers, a no nonsense black canvas Kangol shoulder bag and... green wellies, clean and waiting at the front door beside a sensible grey waterproof.

I like to remember that morning as though I pottered about until I heard the car turn into the square, but I suspect I paced between kitchen and living-room repeatedly. But finally there he was, out of the car and knocking on my kitchen door.

We had a drive ahead of us, from Ardvasar in South Skye to Dingwall and back. But first, a slight detour: he had to stop home and change. His parents happened to be visiting so introductions were made, brief words exchanged. I sensed a curiosity emanating from them: his mother, cooking bacon under the grill, beneath washing drying on the pulley; his father, pottering outside, waiting for our departure before commencing another chore.

He changed quickly and it wasn't long before we climbed into the smart, black four-wheel drive he was borrowing for the day from his father. The trailer was hooked up, ready to trundle the miles behind us.

The drive went well. Yes, there were silences, but not uncomfortable ones. I felt like an idiot only once: when I'd mentioned the temperature had changed (well, perhaps it was the second mention) he asked if I was obsessed with the temperature! Aren't we all, us islanders?

I felt the excitement deepen as we approached Dingwall: unsure what to expect from my first 'sale', eager not to mess this up.

Only a week previously I'd rather bravely emailed suggesting that we venture out, together, on a date. His positive response had those who knew me sniggering over the inevitability of it all: me and a crofter going to a tup sale!

Not quite as informed as I'd liked to have been, I'd scurried to the nearest dictionary to clarify just exactly what a tup was (basically, a ram). Arriving at Dingwall Mart I barely hesitated when a wrong turn somewhere between car park and entrance forced a clambering over seven foot high cattle gates. My recovering slipped disc held: I was determined to prove myself hardly, capable and not at all girly.

The sale was a success with the purchase of the subsequently named Hagar (he raped and pillaged his way through the croft's flock with disturbing Viking-esque aggression). With something akin to child-like glee I watched, listened, smelled and asked questions, though was left a tad disappointed to discover my oblivion throughout this crofter's bidding. Indeed, I think I may have chatted to him through the entire furtive process!

Like a little lost lamb I followed him around from ring to ring trying to spot bids being made by the mass of nodding, winking, twitching weather-beaten faces. I watched wee boys in blue boiler-suits mimic their fathers' actions. I tried to decipher more than the odd word from the auctioneer's narrative. I wondered whether each new entrant into the ring would prove worthy.

Lunch was homely farmhouse fayre: tasty soup and a roll, tea and shortbread: I didn't offer payment of any sort - bold girl!

A slight hiccup occurred when driving 'our' purchase through the run of pens and gates, which saw him corner me but somehow, thankfully, not butt or kick me, before he was loaded into the trailer and all too soon we were heading homewards. Our conversation was lively enough though the absence of a sign as to how things were progressing was leaving me a little on edge: I wanted this to be a beginning. Before long into the conversation dropped that sign, a marker, a progression: he'd show me round the croft at the weekend. Not an invitation, not a summons, but an assumption: this was indeed a beginning for us both.

It was at this point that my feet lifted ever so slightly off the floor, where they remained the length of the day and beyond as I floated blissfully along adapting to and embracing happiness.

Darkness was settling around as we unloaded the new king-pin and turned our thoughts elsewhere. His mother offered us food but I sensed an unease in the Crofter and realised it wasn't what he wanted. A bar meal in the Ardvasar followed, a good enough meal though for the life of me I can't remember what we ate. I do remember though that once we'd finished I laid my hand on the chair beside me in what I hoped was an open, available gesture. It was; within minutes he was holding it and he held it as we walked up the hill to the house where, a mere twelve hours or so earlier, had lived a single girl and where now there dwelled a crofter's girl.