The Singin’ Tattie Bogle

Faye Robertson

apf.robertson@btopenworld.com

“This will nae do you any good,” I told the scarecrow. “The farmer’ll cast you out if you carry on like this!”

            Esmeralda paused in mid-song and looked along her outstretched arm to where I was perching on her hand. “What are you talking about?” she asked in her perfect middle-class accent.  She looked down at the other crows, hundreds of them, who had gathered before her on the field to listen to her singing. “They seem to be enjoying it.” 

            “You daft tattie bogle!” I snapped. “They’re nae the audience you should be performing for!  If the farmer comes to investigate why there are so many birds here, he’ll see your outfit and you’ll be out on the streets without a second chance!”

            She looked confused.  “Tattie what?”

            “Bogle.  It’s Scottish for scarecrow, lass.  Have you nae heard the poem?  ‘The Singin’ Tattie Bogle’?”  I closed my eyes and dredged up the words from the murky depths of my brain.  “Alane upon the field she stood, The tattie-bogle, tall an' prood. But certie, she wis smairt an' braw, A bonnie lass, tho' made o' straw…”  I opened my eyes.  I could see from her face that she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

            “Oh, I forgot you came from up north.” Her smile faded. “Don’t you like my singing, Charlie?”

             “Stop trying to change the subject.” I sighed. “And don’t look so wae. Of course, I love your singing.  It’s because I love it so much that I don’t want you to go.  You brighten up my day.”  I preened my black feathers so that I didn’t have to look at her, embarrassed that I had said so much.  “But if the farmer sees you looking like this, he’ll feed you to the cows, to be sure!”

            She looked down at her outfit.  “What are you talking about?  What’s wrong with my clothes?”

            I sighed.  “Your dainty gown, for example.  Where did you get it?”

            “My what?”

            “Your dress, lass.”

“Oh.  Um, Laura Ashley, I think.”

            “And your shoes: Manolo Blahnik, if I’m not mistaken?”

            She pulled a face.  “They were on sale.”

            “That isn’t the point!  And that bit of lace there – are you wearing a camisole?”

            She blushed.  “And French knickers,” she admitted.  “Real silk.”

            I rolled my eyes.  “You’re dressed too trigly for a tattie bogle!  Too smartly,” I translated at her baffled look.

            Tears welled up in her eyes.  “What can I do?” she whispered.  “I don’t know how to dress any other way.  I don’t want to be fed to the cows!”

            I patted her arm with my wing.  “Dinna worry, lass.  I’ve got it all sorted.  I’ve written to the BBC for some help.”  I hopped to the end of her arm.  “Meet me at the Crow Bar after the sun goes down, and I’ll explain it all.” 

I took to the air, knowing that she wanted to ask me more questions about why I had decided to help her, and also knowing that I couldn’t answer.  A crow in love with a scarecrow?  I knew she’d laugh me out of the field.  But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying to save her life.

*

At just around seven, I arrived at the Crow Bar, which was bathed in red from the setting sun.  I wasn’t sure whether she’d turn up.  Esme loved her fine clothes, and I’m sure the thought of dressing in anything other than the most beautiful materials and latest fashions filled her with horror.  But she didn’t want to go to the cows, either, and I hope that I had frightened her enough to make her realise that she couldn’t carry on dressing the way she always had.

            Sure enough, shortly afterwards Esme came into the Bar.  She stood in the doorway and searched the crowd nervously.

            “She’s here,” I told the two women standing by my side.  “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

            I hopped up to the young scarecrow.  “This is Esmeralda,” I said to the two women.  “Esme, this is Trinny, and this is Susannah.  They’re here to help you.”

            “Oh my God,” said Esme.

            “Come and sit down,” said slim Trinny, “and tell us all about it.”

            So Esmeralda joined them in the corner and told them the problem.  “I’m just dressed too well,” she finished tearfully.  “And if I don’t scare the crows, I’ll be made into cow food!  Can you help me?”

            Susannah leaned forward thoughtfully.  “Absolutely.  Don’t you think Trinny?  This is such a challenge!”  She patted the scarecrow’s hand.  “Don’t worry.  We’ll get you sorted.  First of all, we need to get you in front of the mirror!”

*

I hopped on top of the three-way mirror and surveyed Esme as she began to take off her dress.  Looking up, she clutched the garment to her and blushed.  “Go away, Charlie!”

            Muttering about people being too sensitive nowadays, I flew down onto a chair and perched there, listening to the three of them talking inside the closet.

            “You’re just too thin, girl,” said Trinny.  “We need to plump you up a bit.”  There was a rustling sound as she dipped her hand into the bale of straw they had brought along.  “Look, we’ll stuff a bit in here… and here… make you a bit curvier.  That’s better.”

            “And these are much too high, they’re practically under your chin,” said Susannah.  From Esme’s squeal, I could guess which part of her anatomy Susannah was cupping.  “More straw, Trinny.  We need a matronly look, like everything’s heading south.”

            More sounds of straw being stuffed into Esme’s frame.

            “Not bad,” said Trinny.

            “Not bad at all,” said Susannah.

            “Right, put your dress back on,” said Trinny.  “It will be a snug fit now, but there’s not much we can do about that until you get some more clothes.”

            The door opened and Esme came out.  The Laura Ashley gown was stretched tight across her bosom, which now hung low around her thickened waist.  “You look great, lass,” I told her.  “Much more fitting for a tattie bogle.”

            Esme mumbled to herself as she tried to straighten the dress.  “What now?” she said bad-temperedly.

            “Tomorrow morning we’re going shopping,” said Trinny.  “Every girl’s dream.”

*

The next day they gave Esme a hundred pounds, then sat her down with a few outfits displayed on mannequins and explained the sort of thing she should be looking for.

            “Absolutely nothing designer,” Susannah stated.  “We’re talking cheap, mass-produced basic necessities, like over-sized tee-shirts, baggy trousers, shapeless jackets… Try the charity shops for real bargains.”

            “And clashing colours and prints,” Trinny said.  “Reds and greens, blues and yellows, checks and stripes, you get the idea.”

            “Okay,” said Esme in a small voice.

            “Go on then.  See how you get on.”

            Esme walked out, head low.

            “Right,” said Trinny.  “We’ll catch what she’s doing on camera; see if she’s going in the right sort of places.”

            I settled down next to the girls, watching Esme on the screen.  I felt guilty when I saw the sad look on her face, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that it was all for her own good.

            She wandered down the high street disconsolately, looking in the occasional shop but failing to go into any of them.  When she stopped outside Next, however, Trinny sucked in her breath through her teeth.  “No!  That’s not the sort of thing at all!”

            Esme went in.  She walked up to a rail and picked up a pair of grey flannel wide-leg trousers.  “These aren’t too bright,” she said to the camera.  “Not too expensive, just your basic sort of outfit.”  She matched it with a pale yellow shirt.  “This will go nicely.”

            “No, no, no!”  Trinny stood, hands on hips.  “That’s it.  Come on, let’s sort her out.”

*

We caught Esme before she reached the till and made her return all the items she’d picked up.

            “Right, come with me,” Susannah demanded, taking her by the hand and leading her out of the door and down to the local Oxfam.  There she proceeded to take half a dozen items off the rails, including an outsize scarlet and blue striped shirt, a bright yellow jumper (for those cold nights), a pair of blue and black checked trousers and a truly awful luminous green hat with a scarlet bobble on the top.

            “Oh dear,” said Esme, leaving the shop with her bags.

            “Trust me, darling,” said Trinny.  “It’ll do just the job.”

*

An hour later, I perched on the back of a chair as Trinny and Susannah waited for Esme to come out of the changing room.  “I’m very excited about this,” said Trinny.  “I think we’ve done very well with our choices.”

            “She’s going to be the envy of the scarecrow world!” said Susannah, turning eagerly as the door opened.

            Esme came out, rather subdued, and stood in front of the covered mirror.  “What do you think?” she said, somewhat forlornly.

            Trinny’s eyes were bright with victory.  “Perfect!” she announced.  “Are you ready?”

            “I suppose so.”

            Susannah whisked away the cloth covering the mirror.

            Esme gasped.  I smiled wryly.  The checked trousers were about two sizes too big and had been cinched in at her waist with a tatty old belt; the collar of the striped shirt poked up beneath the sickly yellow jumper, and the lime green hat squatted on her head like a soggy, overripe piece of fruit.  To top it all, her once-neatly-styled straw hair now stuck out at untidy angles.

            “You’ve done it!” I told her triumphantly.  “The farmer won’t get rid of you now, lass.”

            “No, I guess not,” she said sadly.

            Trinny and Susannah came up to give her a hug.  “It’s worth it, to save your life,” said Trinny, giving her a squeeze.

            “All in a good cause,” said Susannah softly.  “Now, girl, go frighten some crows.”

*

 I stayed behind to say goodbye to the BBC team and thank them for saving Esme from certain death by dinner.  Then, after they’d left, I flew out of the window and down the lane to the farmland beyond.

            Esme was hanging on her post, shaking slightly in the stiff breeze that blew across the ploughed fields.  I alighted on her hand.

            “Are you all right, lass?” I asked.

            She turned and smiled at me.  “Yes, Charlie, I’m okay.”  But her eyes were sad.

            I tipped my head, surveying her with my beady eye.  “Come on, tell me what’s the matter.”

            “It’s just…”  Her eyes filled with tears.  “Now I look so awful – am I going to frighten you away, Charlie?”

            “Me?”  I was shocked.  “Of course not!  Why, it does nae matter to me what you look like.  I love you, Esme, not your designer clothes.” 

            Her face lit up and it was as if the sun had come out.  “Oh!  I love you too, Charlie.”

            I hopped a little closer.  “Oh Esme…”  I leaned forward amorously.  Then, I spotted something beneath her shirt.  Something white, and lacy, and very, very pretty.  “Esme?  What’s that?”

            She grinned ruefully.  “Well, the charity shop clothes were really cheap.  There was quite a lot of money left over.  So…  I treated myself.  Trinny and Susannah said it didn’t matter what I looked like on the outside: they said it’s what you’re like underneath that’s important.”

            “They weren’t talking about clothes,” I said softly, but I don’t think she heard me.

            Esme laughed.  “Well you know what they say: clothes maketh the tattie bogle.”  She started to giggle.  I kissed her on the cheek and she blushed. 

She started singing.  The crows, of course, were too frightened of her alarming appearance to land now.  But the sky above us was soon filled with birds on the wing, circling over our heads to hear the tattie bogle sing.

©2007 Faye Robertson

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