Story by Eddie Bruce


            
The Turra Coo


            
 

            
As an impressionable youngster living in
            the country village of Aberlour in Scotland, I recall overhearing
            more than one reference to the Turra Coo legend. I won't say
            it haunted me, it was just one of those anecdotes overheard in
            adult conversation that you were mildly interested in, yet were
            reluctant to provoke the "children should be seen and not
            heard" rebuke.

            
As with Chinese whispers, the Turra Coo
            tale became more interesting every time I heard it. Still, I
            had more exciting things to do in those days so I subconsciously
            filed it away for future reference. I should explain that Turra
            is the local name for Turriff, a market town in Aberdeenshire,
            Scotland, while Coo…well, everybody knows where milk comes
            from.

            
Many years later I took a job as a dustman
            in the Moray Firth harbour town of Buckie. Arthur, my admirable
            foreman, had been a farm worker for most of his adult life and
            possessed that almost cynical attitude to life in general and
            animals in particular that seems to characterise some of the
            farming community. But oh, how I loved his lunchtime reminiscences!

            
Before agriculture became mechanised he
            had been a horseman, a better paid skill than most, the ability
            to plough a straight furrow being a source of pride in the days
            when ploughing matches and sheepdog trials were popular events.
            The everyday beast of burden in Scotland was the sturdy Clydesdale
            while in England they had their Shires. When I was about six
            or seven my brother and I used to exercise our local farmer's
            horses on Sundays by riding them bareback at a leisurely pace
            through the forest. Having on more than one occasion been left
            hanging from a tree branch when powerless to steer the mare clear,
            I can vouch for the stubbornness of the breed.

            
One of Arthur's duties had been to train
            raw colts his employer had purchased, mostly at gypsy horse fairs
            like Enzie, Rathven and Keith. Many would be highly-strung and
            cranky, testing Arthur's patience and ability to the limit. I've
            said he was cynical but he believed he was being hard to be kind
            when he broke the shaft of a pitchfork over the rump of a particularly
            fractious newcomer. He told me it was the turning point in his
            ongoing battle with Jake - the horse not the farmer. After that
            the animal would do anything for Arthur, nevertheless his tight-fisted
            boss deducted the price of a new pitchfork handle from his wages.

            
When Keith's annual feeing market came
            round - an agricultural show where farmers secured new workers
            by offering them a small advance on their wages - Arthur took
            up a better-paid job ten miles away. But within a fortnight he
            had a visit from his previous employer pleading with him to take
            Jake to the next market as he was unable to get the cantankerous
            animal to do anything for him. "And I'll nae feed a beast
            that winna work," he said.

            
Aware the stingy farmer might indeed starve
            the animal, Arthur duly paraded the sprightly Jake in the ring
            on the appointed day, docile and handsome as you like and attracting
            bids far in excess of the reserve price. But two weeks later,
            after exhaustive efforts to get any response from the dour creature,
            even Jake's new owner was knocking on Arthur's bothy door, pleading
            with him to take the animal off his hands - as a gift. "Aye,
            I had a lot o' free drams over the years thanks to Jake,"
            my foreman said.

            
I could read the pride in Arthur's face
            and I'd no cause to doubt his words. Somehow his story put me
            in mind of the Turra Coo and if anyone knew that tale it had
            to be him.

            
"Oh aye, the Turra Coo," he answered,
            knowingly. "My grandfather used to tell me aboot it when
            I was a bairn." He went on to relate how a Turriff farmer
            called Paterson was forced to sell his best milking cow following
            a particularly bad harvest. Along with a dozen others bought
            by a dealer that day, the docile

            Friesian was transported thirty miles away and sent out to pasture.
            About a week later Paterson was taking his remaining milkers
            home to the byre when he stopped and rubbed his eyes, amazed
            to see his favourite animal sauntering along in the midst of
            the herd as if she'd never left the farm.

            
At this point a glint appeared in Arthur's
            eye and the extra furrows on his brow told me he'd moved into
            embellishment mode. "They say Paterson never mended the
            broken fence. Aye and when times were hard, he'd just sell the
            coo again, an' again an' again…"

            
With hindsight I should've left it at that,
            but it was about that time that the fair town of Keith reinvented
            itself by sponsoring an annual folk festival. I love folk music.
            There I shared a jar or two with a talented group of Aberdonians
            who sang bothy ballads (farming songs) in Doric (an ancient north-eastern
            language that even near neighbours in Banffshire struggle to
            understand). Their show-stopper? The Ballad o' the Turra Coo!
            I liked the tune but hardly understood a word of the lyrics,
            although Archie MacPhail, the lead singer, was happy to interpret
            them for me.

            
"It goes like this," he said,
            clearing his throat and pursing his lips like a newsreader. "When
            Lloyd George introduced the National Health Insurance Scheme
            in 1913, a farmer called Robert Paterson of Lendrum Farm, Turriff
            refused to join. The powers that be retaliated by impounding
            one of his cows but when the Sherriff Officers tried to auction
            it in Turriff Square a riot ensued and they were chased out of
            town. Subsequent sale attempts also failed until she was eventually
            bought by neighbours and presented back to Paterson after a procession
            through the streets."

            
"Rubbish!" said I, gulping my
            drink then relating the tale I was familiar with.

            
Archie smiled sympathetically, ordered
            another round and raised his glass. "Tae the immortal memory
            o' the Turra Coo," he said, "Athur's Coo, I think -
            the one wi' the best tail."

            
© 2008 Eddie Bruce

            
 

            
Eddie Bruce lives with his
            wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of his plot-led
            tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually
            varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner,
            builder's labourer, brewer's drayman, London bus driver, trucker,
            mobile librarian - and a few he can't remember. He was born and
            brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving
            on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland
            as the "spirit" moved him. Along the way he met some
            interesting characters and has endeavoured to portray a few of
            these in his stories. Many of his stories are autobiographical
            in nature. As a recovering alcoholic he wrote them in an effort
            to recall the past, hoping that by doing so he might better understand
            where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to his real
            (sober) identity.