ON A COLD winter’s day in early 1825, a young lad called William was crossing the Nungate Bridge in Haddington.

He blew into his clasped hands to warm them, as he headed for the High Street. As he made his way, he noticed a small lump of coal lying on the frozen ground, and then another. Someone had left a trail of coal and when he turned the corner into Church Street he discovered the source of this trail.

An old woman, seemingly bent over with pain, was struggling to carry a bucket full to the brim with it. William stood for a moment, looking at the old woman, then offered to help.

“Let me gie you a hand,” he said.

She looked up at him, and smiled. “Och thank ye lad, ma hands are gye frozen wi the cauld”.

“You’ve dropped some wee pieces o’ coal, let me get them,” he said as he quickly ran back to pick up the small bits of coal which had fallen onto the ground. Then he took the bucket and walked with the old woman. He seemed to know where she lived as he stopped at the door of the stair in Church Street that led to her house. They walked together up the stair and he put the bucket down on her doorstep.

“Och thank ye lad,” she said, and smiled once again. William looked at her fondly.

“It was nae bother,” he said, “can I help ye tak it intae yer hoose?”

She nodded as she opened the door. Her flat was freezing inside and William secretly scanned it with his eyes. It was full of old furniture and ornaments from her life, very well kept.

“Let me mak yer fire,” said William.

“Och naw lad, I’ll wait until the nicht, as I havnae got much coal tae burn.”

“I’ll get ye mair coal” said William.

The old woman looked at him. “Och lad, that’s awfy kind o’ ye, but I hae nae siller and I cannae accept charity.”

“It isnae charity Lizzie,” said William, picking up a small piece of coal from the bucket. “Gie me this lump o’ coal and that will be enough payment.”

The woman looked at him. “How’d ye ken ma name?” she asked.

“I have bin in this hoose before, when I was aboot nine years old I think,” said William, looking around the room.

“It’s just the same, except it’s cauld noo. Ye were telling stories, and making clagham sweeties for us bairns. A’body kens ye as Clagham Lizzie fir that.”

“Aye, that’s richt son, I’ve hud many bairns in here fir ma tales n sweeties, but I have tae say I dinnae recognise yersel”

“I only came once,” said William, “but I remember it, and the stories you telt us that nicht”.

It had been five years before that William had come to Lizzie’s house. For most of her life she had worked hard looking after children from well-to-do families who attended the local school.

But in her old age she had to find another way to make a living. There was no such thing as old age pensions in those days and she was poor. So she made clagham to sell: a sweet made with treacle. She would boil the treacle, then let it cool, making a hard boiled sweetie. She sold her clagham to local children and adults. So people called her by her nickname “Clagham Lizzie”.

But Lizzie was also a very popular storyteller. She had lots of tales about kelpies, brownies, faeries and witches. Many of these stories were from her grandfather.

People young and old would cram into her small flat in Church Street to buy her clagham sweeties and hear her stories. On that night five years before, William had stood looking up at Lizzie’s window, which had a candle flickering on the sill. It had been cold then too, and his hands were frozen.

He knew that Lizzie would be telling stories and selling her Clagham sweets. But he wasn’t sure if he could afford them. He was from a very poor family. But he so wanted a sweet and to hear a story like the other children. So he walked up the narrow and dark turnpike stair, and stood at her door.

It was ajar, but he was too nervous to go in. He could hear Lizzie talking and children laughing. Sure enough, she was telling stories.

But he felt too shy and embarrassed to go in, and so turned to go back down the stairs.

Somehow Lizzie knew he was there.

“Come in, come in wee laddie, and join us,” she called out in a friendly way. He hesitated for a moment, but then went in.

“Close the door son, we dinnae want the stories tae fly oot” she told him.

The room was full of children, all sitting on the floor and sooking on clagham sweeties. It was quite dark. But there were candles giving a flickering light. It made a spooky atmosphere.

“Dae ye want tae buy some clagham?” asked Lizzie.

William nodded his head, but he had no real money. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a small potato.

“I’ve just got this,” he said, holding it out to her.

It still had dirt on it, as he’d taken it from someone’s garden. He had a few more in his pocket, but they were for his wee brothers and sisters. All the other children immediately burst out laughing.

“He’s trying tae pay wi a tattie he’s chored!”they said, mocking him. William felt humiliated and wanted to run out the door, but Lizzie gently placed her hands over his and held it for a moment giving him a big warm smile.

“Ah a tattie for a tale, and a smile for a sweetie” she whispered so the other children could not hear, “a perfect trade, if that is truly all you have”. She then gave him a clagham ball.

“Sit yersel doon oan yer bahookie, I’m just aboot tae tell a true story,” said Lizzie.

So William looked for a place to sit with the other children. A girl made space for him and he sat down. He put the clagham ball in his mouth. It was really tasty.

Lizzie’s fire was roaring and it made his frozen cheeks tingle. He held his hands out to the flames, warming them. He felt so cosy, in a way he hadn’t for a long time, if ever. And so on that evening Lizzie had told her stories and William had sat transfixed. He kept the stories in his head, and took them out of his mouth and told it to his brothers and sisters when he got home that night, as they huddled together to keep warm.

“Dae ye still tell stories?” asked William.

“Oh aye son, if ever someone wants tae listen” she said as she rested herself in her old chair, “but I dinnae mak clagham onymair, ma auld banes are tae weary noo”.

William made up her fire and soon had it roaring. The room quickly began to feel cosy.

“I’ll be back in a minute” he said, leaving her to snooze in her chair by the fireside.

He returned with a large sack of coal, filled her bucket and put the sack in the coal cupboard.

“Noo ye hae plenty tae keep the fire going,” he told her.

She smiled at him.“Och son, I cannae pay ye fir this.”

He whispered to her “a wee lump o’ coal and a smile, a perfect trade, if that is truly all ye have”.

Then she remembered him. “You were that wee laddie ?”

“Aye,” said William.

He could see she was tired and so he made the fire safe and left her snoozing in its warmth. He was late now so had to rush. He planned to revisit her later, but he had to work so much he had no time. Then later that year he heard of her death. But for William her spirit lived on; he still had her stories, and the memory of that cosy evening in which he felt the gift of a warm welcome and a warm soul.