SUMMER/AUTUMN 2015 ISSUE 26 THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/SummerFREE 2015 1

Reviews

s

e i

ity

un

r o t S

t

mm

Co

r o h S

Poetry

s

w e i

v Enter our free writing competition

er nt celebrating the re-opening of the I Borders Railway line - deadline Friday 26 June!

THE EILDON TREE NEW WRITING FROM THE & BEYOND 2 CONTENTS

GUIDELINES 3 The Unadopted Road – Tim Nevil 22 Ice Scream – Barbara Pollock 24 EDITORIAL 4 On Pharmacy Road – Margaret Skea 25 LINES WRITING COMPETITION 5 The Secret – Lewis Teckkam 28 POETRY Remembering Jeanie – Sandra Whitnell 30 Hymn to Creation – Norman Bissett 6 Who Am I? – Patricia Watts 32 Tapestry of Hope – Eileen Cummings 6 INTERVIEW WITH COLIN WILL 36 Sugar Plum – Christopher Hall 6 The Heron – Elaine Heron 6 ARTICLES Bonnets on the Coat Stand – Mary Johnston 7 Scott’s Treasures – Mary Morrison 40 A Chemical Investigation of Melrose Abbey – Bridget Hugh MacDiarmid and the Borders of – Alan Khursheed 7 Riach 44 Hyena – Gordon Meade 7 Life Experience and Memoir Writing – Raghu B. Windfall – Roy Moller 7 Shukla 47 Rough Relic – Jamie Norman 8 BOOK REVIEWS 50 Stormy Day – Keith Parker 8 Very Big Numbers – Ronnie Price 8 BIOGRAPHIES 60 Yammer – Hamish Scott 8 War Talk – Jock Stein 8 Clearing Out Mum’s Flat – Alexander Gunther 9 Feral – Colin Will 9 Stopping for a Chat – Colin Will 9 Once Gone, Twice Returned – Davy MacTire 9 Common Riding = Men – Judy Steel 10 Crossing Lammermuir – Kate Campbell 11 Nineteen – Vee Freir 12 Still Runs the Teviot – Toni Parks 12 Happy – Rafael Miguel Montes 12

FICTION Trousers, Cockroaches & Quantum Universes – Oliver Eade 13 Running Up the Escalator – Jane Pearn 15 Every Picture – June Ritchie 16 Oscar’s Last Sunset – Sean Fleet 18 Sittin Here – Alistair Ferguson 18 Ticking Bomb – Janet Hodge 19 The River of Silver – Thomas Clark 20 THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 3 CONTENTS WHERE TO FIND YOUR FREE COPY OF • If your submission is accepted for publication you THE EILDON TREE will be sent a copy of the work to proof-read before The Editorial Team and Arts Development, Scottish print. Borders Council thanks all venues and outlets for their • All contributors will receive a copy of the magazine support in promoting The Eildon Tree. • If your submission is not accepted on this occasion, please do not be deterred from submitting Scottish Borders Council Libraries alternative work in the future. Borders College Scottish Borders Council High Schools Publications Submitted for Review u3a Groups Publishers and authors may submit publications WASPS Artist Studios, Selkirk Forest Bookstore, Selkirk for review. We do endeavour to review as many books Masons Bookstore, Melrose as possible but cannot guarantee inclusion in the Main Street Trading Company, St Boswells magazine. Please note we are unable to return any Langlee Complex, review publications. Heart Of Hawick, Tower Mill Damascus Drum, Hawick The Editors and Arts Development Scottish Borders Council are not responsible for the individual GUIDELINES FOR SUBMITTING WORK views and opinions expressed by reviewers and TO EILDON TREE contributors. The Eildon Tree is available from all Submissions of new writing are invited for Scottish Borders Council libraries and a wide range inclusion in the next issue of Eildon Tree of local outlets throughout the Scottish Borders. The The Submissions Deadline is 31st October 2015. Eildon Tree can also be downloaded: http://www.scotborders.gov.uk/eildontree. Poems, short stories and non-fiction articles of local and national literary interest, as well as short novel The opinions expressed in this magazine do not necessarily extracts, are all welcome for consideration. reflect Council policy or practice in the arts.

• A maximum of 4 poems, stories or articles up to 3,000 words. • Electronic format: Arial pt 12, single line spacing, unjustified margin. • Book titles and quotes should be italicised, but without speech and quotation marks, unless specified in the text quoted.

• Include a brief biography, maximum 40 words. CAROL NORRIS SARA CLARK • Please do not resubmit work which has been seen previously by the Editors. • For an informal chat please contact Arts Development Tel: 01750 726400 • Teachers submitting work on behalf of pupils should contact Arts Development for further guidance.

HOW TO SUBMIT YOUR WORK IONA MCGREGOR JULIAN COLTON By post: The Eildon Tree, Arts Development, St Mary’s Mill, Selkirk, TD7 5EW EDITORIAL TEAM By email: [email protected] Carol Norris, Sara Clark, Julian Colton, Iona McGregor

(Please note: All work should be sent to the Arts Development PUBLISHING TEAM and not to individual Editors) Lisa Denham, Joy Dunsmore, Andrew Frost THE PROCESS • Your work will be sent to the Editors for GRAPHIC DESIGN consideration. Acceptance and inclusion in Graphic Design, Scottish Borders Council the magazine is at their discretion. • You will be notified when a decision has been made. Please be patient, we receive many submissions. COUNCIL 4 EDITORIAL

We have the second Yarrow, Ettrick and Selkirk Arts Festival (the YES festival) which will feature its own creative writing competition based on the theme of ‘Ballads,’ details of which are inside.

The Eildon Tree has always supported new and developing local writers and in celebration of the return of the Borders Railway re-opening in September after a gap of 45 years, The Eildon Tree is delighted to announce its own creative writing competition, aptly named ‘Waverley Lines.’

This is an excellent opportunity for writers of all ages and talents to stoke up the creative boilers and head on down the writing tracks! Lucky winners will receive the chance to ride on one of the first trains in the shape of a Golden Ticket, not to mention the possibility of scooping a generous cash prize. Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; Poems and short stories must be in keeping with And charging along like troops in a battle, the theme of the Borders railway which should give All through the meadows the horses and cattle: plenty of scope. And if you need a push start or a All of the sights of the hill and the plain little creative encouragement, look out for the poetry Fly as thick as driving rain; and fiction writing workshops at the Borders Book And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Festival organised and run by The Eildon Tree. Painted stations whistle by. We all know good writing doesn’t happen by ‘From A Railway Carriage’ by Robert Louis accident. It is a craft which has to be honed Stevenson through practice, continual reading, attending From A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885) writing workshops and constructive criticism. To paraphrase poet Colin Will writing in this edition, Welcome to the latest edition of The Eildon Tree, the you have to immerse yourself in the culture. There’s only Council supported creative writing magazine certainly plenty of it happening here in the Borders in the country. It’s a continuing testament to the this year. breadth and depth of writers living in our area. It’s also an indication of the value placed on nurturing I look forward to reading the chosen entries for the literary prowess that has long existed here in the Waverley Lines anthology. Borders, where we like to celebrate good writing, past and present. Councillor Vicky Davidson Looking ahead we have the ever-growing and popular Borders Book Festival in Melrose in June which goes from strength to strength. We have the Duke of Buccleuch sponsored Prize for which has become one of the foremost literary prizes in Britain. We have the launch of the Creative Residency inspired poetry book, Hairst which has been beautifully illustrated by local artist Helen Douglas. WAVERLEYTHE EILDON LINES TREE Issue 25. Spring/Summer 2015 5

creative writing competition

In celebration of the re-opening of the Borders Railway Line, Arts Development, Scottish Borders Council and the Editorial Team from The Eildon Tree creative writing magazine are holding an open competition.

Waverley Lines is a competition, inviting aspiring and established writers of all ages to submit their stories and poems inspired by the re-opening of the Borders railway line, past and present, as we count down to the official opening of the line on 6 September 2015.

There are two parts to the creative writing competition: poetry and short-stories. Poems and short stories Com m submitted must be in keeping with the theme of the I u n n Borders railway. Entrants might choose to write a poem

t it

e Event y or short story which is a fairy-tale, love story, thriller r s

v Sho or fantasy or any kind of genre and can be factual or Poetry i r

e t S fictional. In deciding the winners, consideration will be

w R t

e orie given to the relevancy of each entry to the spirit of the s v s i e competition, which is a celebration of the re-opening of w

s the Borders Railway.

Free Waverley Lines Workshops The winning entries (1st, 2nd and 3rd prize) in each category will be published in a special booklet Waverley Lines and the first prize winner of the best poem or Monday 8 June short story will win x2 Golden Tickets for the special 7 – 9pm: Short story writing workshop (18+) Supported by train journeys from one of the three Scottish Borders The Sir Walter Scott Club railway stations, Tweedbank, Galashiels or Stow on Galashiels Library Saturday 5 September 2015. Tel: 01896 664170 Further information is available at Thursday 11 June www.scotborders.gov.uk/artsdevelopment 4 – 5:30pm: Short story writing workshop (18+) Borders Book Festival, Harmony Gardens, Melrose Email: [email protected] www.bordersbookfestival.org Tel: 01750 726400

Friday 12 June 1.30 – 3.30pm: Poetry writing workshop for young poets (8 – 18) Borders Book Festival, Harmony Gardens, Melrose www.bordersbookfestival.org

Sunday 14 June 12:45 – 2.30pm: Poetry writing workshop (18+) Borders Book Festival, Harmony Gardens, Melrose www.bordersbookfestival.org

Sunday 14 June 3.30 – 5pm: Young writers story workshop (8 – 18) Borders Book Festival, Harmony Gardens, Melrose www.bordersbookfestival.org 6 POETRY

HYMN TO CREATION SUGAR PLUM

It’s all very well for you, Lord, No knowing why who can do anything and everything. You plucked the perfect image out of the sky. I should be so lucky. A trillion perfect daffodils materialise Whilst I’ve watched it ripen over time and Hyvot’s Bank, the Oxgang verges, the borders at the Cockit Hat, the grassy banks The pendulous moon. around the library and two supermarkets Sugar coated. are suddenly caparisoned in gold. Bitter sweet. Gratuitous exhibitionism after last month’s displays of snowdrops at Kailzie Gardens and Dundas Castle? Forbidden fruit. Crystal halo. My creativity, in comparison, errs on the side of modesty. It is, in fact pathetic. With my 2B pencils, Warning of frost. sketch pad, choice of brushes and selected acrylics, I wish to immortalise a single daffodil in a jam jar, Christopher Hall closely scrutinised, larger than life, to capture its magnificence. To reproduce its fine striations, THE HERON its tonal shifts through fifty shades of yellow, the gossamer kiss-curls of its petals’ tips, the Grey all grey save some snow white. platoon of Lilliputian guards in minute bearskins A solitary soul mate. at its pollen-covered core, magnet for bees and Lightly long legged and lean butterflies. her slender neck hunched and hidden. Stock-still. Silently watching. But I lack the skill. I cannot reproduce, foreshortened from my point of view, Still Zen master standing like the glorious receding trumpet or its frilly rim, a folded umbrella waiting; or adequately suggest its cheerful flutings not for the rain but to stab to the Household Cavalry. I cannot differentiate a nimble eel from the depths sufficiently infinite gradations of yellow of a bubbling icy stream. on other yellows, incorporating hints of titanium white, suggestions of cerulean blue. Such subtleties Steadily power-house wings are beyond my skill and I lay down my brush. Outside, beat till she is soaring sky high a trillion blithesome masterpieces not in the wind. over fields, trees and river. To nurture and feed her young Norman Bissett way up in the nesting tree.

TAPESTRY OF HOPE Elaine Heron Hope is my horizon, as I begin each breaking day, your promise will stay with me, my lips forever say.

Hopeless thoughts surround me, as I look inside my dream, your hand is there to hold me close, my solitude supreme.

Hope is my tapestry, as I weave it carefully, your face is all I ever see, my only reverie. Eileen Cummings THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 7

BONNETS ON THE COAT STAND and pattern of a known past remain. (Coat stand was covered with perhaps a dozen or But on closer examination of the walls and tracework, more men’s caps) the lichen exudations, the things he loves, are all scraped away. Two Cinquain Bonnets Bridget Khursheed on the coat stand, past suitors discarded while waiting for a hat to call: HYENA no luck. Hyena is best known Aa day for his laughter and yet sitting her leen you seldom hear she minds on the bunnets she lat by, wytin for a hat: Hyena actually laughing. greets sair. Hyena is also thought of as a ruthless killer but, Mary Johnston Hyena very rarely kills. If Hyena is to be remembered for anything, it should A CHEMICAL INVESTIGATION OF MELROSE ABBEY really be for all that blood. Just think about it Friedlander has made the trip by train to Melrose for a moment, in search of lichen. Here it grows in swags on trees and even a preliminary stroll by the river Tweed whenever you happen to reveals interest. It may not be necessary to travel see him, he is almost always to Northumberland after all. covered in the stuff. Gordon Meade He sits now warming by the fire it is raining and somehow the wet is sponged down into those draped trees. The clean air and new-built villas in a honeyed stone WINDFALL a laboratory of colour compared to smoke-filled town. Here I race through winter streets, discarding items in the breeze He nods to the party of James Darling and sons that’s buffeting Dunbar up from Suffolk although the father is local as I scramble to the station. and eavesdrops plans to go to Roxburgh or North. The old haunts will be shown but they decide against. Hurried west for seventy miles. There is no time. I fetch up on a platform, diminished by the absence Friedlander steps out in the damp of the scarf that I’ve donated. to look at the abbey and its primitive tanning pits the acidic conditions undoubtedly achieved I pass time searching snapshot eyes by the most intimate of chemicals. of missing poster persons The abbey itself is repaired and even at dusk blown up into fame at last allows an onslaught of the visitors when taken by the wind. staying in the hotel attached. Roy Moller Scott himself might have walked here not so very long ago. And to Friedlander’s tired eyes, the shape 8 POETRY

ROUGH RELIC High tonight, on the turn water stills. for a moment. The sea’s surface marbles, becomes torn shrouds of those it killed The Abbey’s bones smother defying its menace, drowned for the theft of fish. Kelso, empty windows

howling at the river. ( In 1881, 129 fishermen from Eyemouth were drowned when a freak storm struck the coast) Headstone needles stick pinpricks sewing Keith Parker the patchwork soil.

Cracked headstone lies VERY BIG NUMBERS shattered, reading It’s all in the numbers Stephen Hawking says, ‘gone but not for-‘ No philosophers here, please, who can’t add up. gotten the rougher Nor it seems do we now need a God---wonder if he wooing. Smoke seared knows yet. into fragments. So we should count our way to the stars, Sorting out time and space en route. At dusk, the Abbey’s face Only a trillion billion light years to a mathematical Granite eyes lack pupils heaven, Should we stare back? Although at the standard speed of light it may take a little time. Jamie Norman E=MC2…….QED then relativity-ally speaking. But can we trust SH to get the calculus right? …Perhaps, with the help of his superfluous god: STORMY DAY EYEMOUTH God’s rather good at maths. There is an easterly in the air. The horizon line of the waters Ronnie Price jagg’d with crumpling sea flares spraying anger at the wind’s meddling. YAMMER The bay, a soft mouth between headland’s rocky jaws where half submerged reefs, The yammer this Yird maks, a curving dragons back, showers waves to surf, the monie mous it haes, broken glass on Buss Craig and Hurker’s teeth. an yit ayont the Yird wha hears whit this warld says? Here humans, seduced by shelter gained the will to defy the water daring to pay the price that broken sea We dinna hear forby means broken boats and slaughter. whit life the cosmos haes: the monie mous micht speak Just out of reach we have laid down an mak thair ain adaes in a graveyard beyond the Bantry wall Hamish Scott the salted flesh, polished bone of the drowned who chanced a haul and failed the storms test.

They’re moored in temporary safety, WAR TALK until that certain day the unforgiving ocean Language is kinder than reality, well breaks through our civilized resolve, meaning, highbrow stuff. Words tell retrieves what once was stolen. our eyebrows to relax, they bend our ears and calm our fears with logic out of hell. The sea continually seeks its own So friendly fire has only good intentions, reclaiming what it long ago created. if taking out a person by mistake Sandstones, shales, limestones, is just some virtual target practice. bone, sinew, all returns to the recycling sea. Smart bombs are really clever, they THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 9 must demonstrate such sincere skill Escaped once, goats on the lam, to make a kill that’s clean, and peer they’ve reverted, resemble reviewed by military intelligence. those first goats, small, wiry, I.E.D. s are economical with language dragged – no doubt protesting – and with truth, if ‘improvised’ suggests from a Middle Eastern homeland it may not work this time around. Sheer by our farming forebears. damage must be totally excused They’ve adjusted, changed their diets by multiplying syllables till they spell for our soggy Scottish fare, col - lat - er - al – well, to make an omelette thickened coats to cope you need to break some eggs – with wind and damp, become and what are eggs but tiny shells like us – thrawn, cantankerous, in which the future of a species dwells? at home here.

Jock Stein Colin Will

CLEARING OUT MUM’S FLAT STOPPING FOR A CHAT Many things of beauty perished In my mother’s flat I watched a whinchat hunting, This time not fleeing Italy, Bohmen, marriage but death pecking among the stones of the path. Armed only with beak, eyes, and the determination A life of beauty raising a family brings, she’ll try anything – Gathered, moment by moment spider, beetles, caterpillar – to take back Gift by gift to her hidden brood in the gorse bush. Treasure upon treasure Smile upon smile Her home, wallpapered in green and yellow, is scented with coconut and fortified Lost in a sea of pragmatism by needles. She’s nimble, agile, alert Of speed for the frontal assault of sparrowhawk, Of confluence of time and space the darting swoop of merlin. Shedding skins At the merest hint of danger But living in memories she’s away, diving into cover or flying up, twittering, Gunther Alexander to distract a passing poet.

FERAL Colin Will Black and white, bearded and heavy-horned, slot-eyed, ONCE GONE, TWICE RETURNED the goats of Galloway nuzzle and munch their way down Thrice bound the slopes near Clatteringshaws. the hollow hills of my youth. Nobody milks them but their kids, Forever sought, nobody herds them, tends them, not caught but they do all right most years. or brought forward. Come ravening winters a few Thrice bound will peg out, drift-caught carcases the hollow hills rotting down or bird-picked of Eildon to rib barrels, spine snakes, by the thorn. boxy skulls, thickened for impact, horn curves a Fibonacci spiral. Davy MacTire 10 POETRY

HAWICK COMMON RIDING = MEN Men, men: Man and callant, in the saiddle, NB, this is not intended to imitate the inimitable The furst o’ the day. Teri tongue. A faither and son, riding lang-reined at a languid wauk Raise a cheer frae thae on fit – Hawick Common Riding equals men. The furst o’ the day. Men, men: At seiven in the mornin’ Men, men : Furst Friday efter furst Monday o’ June: Men on horses Men, booted, tight-breeched and bare-heided They come in their dizzens noo, Linger ootside High Street pubs, Their cuddies smairtened fur this day o’ days. Empty the ATMs, Manes are plaited, Heid fur their horses. Tails are shimmering horsehair, Coats glint back at the mornin’ sun. Men, men: Horses, clean-legged or shaggy fetlocked, Baldy-heided men wi’ paunches, Ribbed-kisted, deep-barrelled, or thoroughbred-lean, Troosered in chinos, shabby jeans an battered cords; Buckin’ or behavin’, snortin’ or stallin’ - A few crooned wi’ gaufin’ bunnets, baseball caps, All revellin’ in their naitural environment: the herd. Strine ranger hats. Atween the troosers and the baldy heids or hats Men, men: They sport strippit shirts, and ties that boast Men in green jaikets, That yince they threw booted legs ower the saiddle Saxhorns in their haunds, And rade the lang weys through the mosses. Men in coats o’ blue and gowd, Twigs o’ aik leaves in their bunnets – Men, men: Hey, man, that’s no’ a twig, young men, callants It’s hauf a tree, mair like!- On the cusp of legal drinking age, Fifes an flutes in fingers, Haudin pint glesses self-consciously Drums on their hips, In the mornin’ sun. A’ at the ready fur the furst melodic blaw. On their faces ye can see their likeness Tae thon callant whae has ridden Ken the Horse Men, men: A hunnert years. Men wi faces Carved frae the land, the mills, the rugby field. A wumman! A wumman! Yin or twae are wearin’ Still, she kens her place: The unmistakable features o’ the landit gentry, She’s gaitherin up the glesses, Matched by Panama hats, tweed jaikets, Takin them intae the pub. Hatbands and ties o’ auld regiments She’s nae barmaid, Or far-off boardin’ schules. But she kens her place: Men, men: Servin’ her menfowk. Men’s voices singing the auld sang Weemin, weemin! – That tells o’ a battle even aulder Twae o them settin’ on the roond steel bench And repeats that phrase sae ancient that Atween the Hub an the pub: It’s lost in the impenetrable mirk Sparkly necklaces aroond their thrapples O’ unrecorded history: Weel worn anoraks in case o’ rain. Teribus and Teriodin! Booted an’ a’, they are - Yin in spotty wellies, blue an’ white, Men, men: The ither, in a pair o’ joddy buits Men on horses, through Drumlanrig’s airch! At the end o’ twae lang legs And there, he leads them: king o’ the day: Encased in sheer black tights. The Cornet, the Hawick Cornet, Men, men: Wi Richt and Left haund Men and Acting Faither. A dizzen or mair men in a cafe, Ahint them yae streekit line Eatin a hairty breakfast O’ five hunnert horsemen – (they’ll need it, tae sook up the speerits Nae less, or sae it seems. Slidin’ doon their thrapples this lang day). THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 11

Men, men: O’ the big Mercedes Benz.. Mair and mair men on horses. They ken their place: Auld-farrant seats: feet forrit, Bussin the banner blue the nicht afore, Bums weel back; Following their menfowk Or cramped and curled up in the saiddle In a gaudy limo, no’ on a horse, In the jockey style the callants love tae preen. Eating curds and cream ootside the Hut, (By God, they’ll be sair the morn!). An lookin’ gorgeous. Ex- Cornets, future Cornets, would-be Cornets, Men frae ither touns Hawick Common Riding equals men- Auld men on steady mounts, But mair nor that: Bairns on faithers’ lead reins, It maks a’ men equal - And a’ the hunnerts in atween Save fur the Cornet. Follow their leader on this shinin’ day. A’ weemin are equal here an’ a’, A lass, a lass! Save fur the Lasses. Wad ye credit it! A rider o’ nae mair nor ten years auld Judy Steel Long blonde curls spilling doun her tweed jaiket Passes pointing fingers. CROSSING LAMMERMUIR -Na. na, he’s a laddie a richt – He bides at Ootbyeshields.Yin o’ twins. Herring Road The auld yins ken it a’. At Lammas, Tradition is uphauded yince again, creel heavy on her spine, Nae reid faces, nae tabloid heidlines rain seeps through the blue shawl. Mar the Cornet’s day, Hawick’s day. Five hunnert years o’ history and horses Friardykes Pass joyously the cheerful. cheering croods. Brother Jack, stepping out: one more day Men, men: within bounds. Men in the big yaller lorry Scoopin’ up the leavings o’ the horses. Mossy Burn They gain a cheer’, an a’. Water for distilling flows amber: The Lasses, the Lasses!, not for the excise men. Here the come the Lasses! Cornet’s Lass, Richt an’ Left, Beltondod An’ Acting Mither Swallows dress for dinner: Wave frae rolled-doun windaes a black pot on the swey O’ the big Mercedes Benz. simmers stew. They ken their place: Bussin the banner blue the nicht afore, Healing Well Following their menfowk The shepherd once told me In a gaudy limo, no’ on a horse, he went there. Eating curds and cream ootside the Hut, That was all. An lookin’ gorgeous. Crystal Rig Hawick Common Riding equals men- Cottongrass But mair nor that: as far as you can see It maks a’ men equal - fringing the young larches. Save fur the Cornet. Yadlee A’ weemin are equal here an’ a’, An old ring Save fur the Lasses. to put in my backpack and take home. 12 POETRY

Cracking Shaw Regiments of tall, slender, near naked Scots pines Gusts flick and drop your hair: play host to the woodpeckers’ cacophonous drill, whilst white grass a strangely soft their coiffured tops camouflage patient buzzards crown of thorns. weighing up their prey’s percentages

Spartleton Still runs the Teviot, eroding its route Look this way: inexorably through my vale I’m shooting the last frame as you were. A murder of crows cruise the six nine eight on another all-day breakfast swoop, Kate Campbell the scavenging menu of road kill delights offers up fresh badger and pheasant puree NINETEEN Still runs the Teviot, paying witness to diners, I left home chest out as it flows on by my side kitbag in hand heading to my Metal road so modern you cut me so deep and all-American future leave behind your litter and pollution your network links me to all villages and towns but in that pre-dawn part-light where more of the same beckons where grey sky meets grey ground the only sound the clack Oh running Teviot make me drink and of my black-shined boots sustain me for years to come as I stride in my mother-pressed never-before-worn sailor suit No leaping salmon now on this ladder of success, I slow and stand no water to slake the sheep’s thirst just a stony riverbed, evaporated bone dry, proves with trembling hands man meddler brought about his own demise take out my Pall Mall pack light up Still the Teviot is still, and runs no more through me. and think this is the furthest Toni Parks I’ve ever been from home. HAPPY Vee Freir Once again, he asks me how to be happy. STILL RUNS THE TEVIOT How to pretend that all these eighty-plus years, The weak sunrise smiles on my valley side dawn have not all come down to this bone-creak, revealing nature’s secret from absent burnt mist, these inflexible knees, words all spongetwisted into morning breaks on Fat Lips perch as it once more moans. surveys all its domain He wants to understand television again. And still runs the Teviot, its path heading north-east, Wants to see the cowboy, the puppet, the clown; ever eking out the sea all the white children applauding when told to.

Contours and patches in pantone hues, He wants to know where his wife went, descend to the riverbank’s side, where why the scrambled eggs have been going wrong, financial ruin lurks as a spiteful spate looms, why she doesn’t kiss his neck anymore. ruining crops and taking livestock lives When he holds his hands together, But still runs the Teviot, where only the foolish sleeps on his outstretched thumbs, thwart history makes tiny noises in his dreams, I want to tell him she is gone. I want to share my grief with him, THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 13 POETRY/FICTION bind our losses together, TROUSERS, COCKROACHES & build each other up again. QUANTUM UNIVERSES But I am so afraid he will be enraged, Something brown fell from my trousers onto the floor. fumble to get up, knock down the TV. I was about to put them on. Perhaps, I thought, a fragment of the chocolate I’d devoured the previous So afraid he’ll get up in my face, evening during a Cold War Mole in the CIA movie on demand to know where I’ve taken her. the telly – until it scuttled frantically in all directions. Chocolate never scuttles. Cockroaches do. If I were Rafael Miguel Montes a Buddhist I’d have left it in peace. I’m not. It didn’t survive the subsequent repeated and furious foot stomp. Later, I tried to explain to my Texan granddaughters watching Dr Who that I had solved the mystery of how cockroaches seem to appear from nowhere. After all, my trousers had been hanging up in the wardrobe overnight and cockroaches cannot jump like grasshoppers. : Quantum physics. The fourteen-year-old, destined, she says, for a career in genetic engineering, looked puzzled. “Parallel universes,” I explained. Teenager remained puzzled. There’ll be a cockroach universe overlapping our own like a cosmic insect ghost. This has to be the only possible explanation. Trousers act as interconnecting portals, which could explain the occasional missing husband/lover who leaves in his wake only a pair of hurriedly discarded trousers. The truth is too terrifying to relate to fourteen-year-olds: erring male human emerges in a cockroach universe to scuttle and sweat before being reduced to a sticky pink splat by a fifty- foot high insect. Quantum physics wasn’t on our curriculum at school in the fifties. Not because it hadn’t been thought about, but because it didn’t neatly fit into Einstein’s model of reality. But this is the twenty-first century. I was surprised the fourteen-year-old knew next to nothing about ideas that both blow apart all we’ve learned about the ‘nature of things’ and open doors on the unthinkable. Quantum computers, more than a theoretical possibility and already being tested by Google and NASA, will make conventional computers seem like pencil and paper jobs. So I humbly handed my granddaughter the latest issue of Scientific American and suggested she at least read an amazing article on the giant leaps forward in her own chosen science. It spoke of genetic engineering holding the key to cures in AIDS, cancer and for stroke victims, but a week later had not been read. The problem is that the US educational system, as with many across the world, focuses on what might be termed ‘straight-jacket learning’. The demands of continuous assessment with a requirement of nothing 14 FICTION

less than ‘A plus’ repeatedly in eventually re-instated with my Hence his nick-name. After him every subject allows no time for correct age-group in the junior came an Irishman, ‘Browne-with- wondering what it’s all about; no class, but the damage could not be an-e’. The man had two purposes time for that enlightening cave- undone. The label ‘dunce’ stuck, in life: one, to ensure everyone dweller experience when casual although paradoxically the taunts knew about the ‘e’ at the end of his observation of a rolling stone can strengthened my resolve to beat not-so-Irish surname; the other, be transformed into the wheel the ‘system’. Learning became my to knock W. B. Yeats. Yeats and that changes human society for all passion. Not at school, but from Keats happened to be the only time. Weekends and holidays are books, libraries, anywhere where poets I felt able to connect with at spent doing ‘homework’ defined I saw doors that might open onto that age. Shakespeare had been by the educators. The same a universe way beyond the closed destroyed by The Beehive. My granddaughter also complained doors of formal education. At English ‘education’ was finished off that her Catholic school taught school, I was only happy if I came by someone called Harding about her nothing about other religions. top in as many subjects as possible whom I remember only a name, That didn’t surprise me. What (including Divinity which I hated), boredom and a single essay: ‘What did was the fact that if she’s but that wasn’t my prime goal; it Advertising Means to Me.’ ‘Bugger really curious why didn’t she just was a by-product of a nightmare all’ is what I wished to write but it search the internet? She has her courtesy of Mrs Fruin. My goal was might have got me expelled and own computer and is one click acceptance. then I’d have missed out on the away from 45 million websites on My greatest love from seven grey knickers (vide infra). Buddhism. There are some really upwards was to read ‘creative’ No one taught me grammar interesting ones on the first page fiction. Not merely those books or anything interesting to do with on offer from Google. But… if it’s on fascinating subjects such as my native language. Got that later not on the curriculum then it’s Bacteria in the Milk Supply (my from Eats, Shoots and Leaves and not part of an educational ‘system’ choice of learning material aged Bill Bryson’s Mother Tongue. from which the eager pupil strays eleven... loved it!) but stories that Biology, on the other hand, was at her peril. provided parallel universes into taught by an inspirational teacher I should explain the reason for which I could escape from the way ahead of his time. Plus the my distrust of the ‘system’: she had perceived reality of being an ‘idiot’. biology lab was opposite the gym short, curly black (dyed?) hair, eyes I would arise from the fantasy of the adjacent girls’ school. The like knife slits and an unpleasant world of slumber at first light to girls wore grey knickers for gym, habit of slapping children’s legs, enter, for at least an hour or two offering a pleasing diversion from girls included. I’ll never forget before setting off for school, a pimpled, smelly boys. I always the slapper’s face. It belonged space created in the brain of an chose a desk by a window. So to Mrs Fruin, my infant school author who for me was no more biology became a testosterone- teacher. She had me put down a than a name. fired heaven and a medical career year, labelled a dunce. Suddenly Why didn’t I end up doing the only sensible thing that could I had no friends. I was separated English? Because I was taught be done with it. Medical training from my age-group peers in the in tedious succession by the being a serious business, one might junior school because infants, with four worst English teachers ever think it would have excluded the whom I was forced to hang out, to grace the face of our planet. Food Wonks of the world. Not a bit had a different playground. I was First, an Anglo-Indian, nick- of it. Enter ‘Shifting Dullness’. alone and miserable. My parents, named ‘Beehive’ because his Shifting Dullness, also a not well-off, paid for me to see voice resembled a hive of angry medical term for detecting someone at the Institute of Child bees, would read from Henry IV fluid in a diseased belly, was Psychology. I got IQ tested. The Part I to a class of ink-pellet- our distinguished Professor of result apparently made me eligible flicking teenage rebels. The bees Medicine. His nick-name was for Mensa. I had no idea what that were followed by ‘Food Wonk’, remarkably accurate and I doubt meant. Neither, apparently, had a terrified camp American who whether anyone ever learnt the grey-haired headmistress. tried anything to appease the anything from him. Conversely, my cause of his terror: us. Because tutor, a mere senior lecturer, was The reason for getting sent of his unusual script, ‘Good a gem of a teacher. He and other down? Apparently I fidgeted. Work’ written at the end of every good teachers at medical college Bored, my parents reckoned. Their academic offering, regardless of taught me how to be a doctor. Not persistence finally paid off. I was quality, looked like ‘Food Wonk’. only that. They taught me how THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 15

to learn – adding golden layers My wife’s job? A teacher, of course. founder of Pennsylvania. ‘If thou to the onion of my educational Once, at church, a young man called thinkest twice before thou speakest experience whilst covering up Keith came up to her to thank her once, thou wilt speak twice the (apart from the knickers) the for being such an inspiring teacher better for it’. It was advice that she many shades of grey left behind twenty-four years before, and for rarely managed to follow. by bad teachers from Mrs Fruin to making him realise how good he Gemma hurried when others took Shifting Dullness – mere passing was at maths. Although, like me, a more leisurely pace, seeming annoyances who, at best, ate into she’s no mathematician, she had to wish her life away in plans precious learning time. opened rather than closed doors for and promises and schemes for Learning how to learn must him. But she hates cockroaches, so tomorrow, next year. She’d say surely be an integral part of a good, I haven’t yet learned the Buddhist ‘I can’t live without something to balanced education for the world approach to our six-legged look forward to’ (she’d loved being around us is constantly changing. counterparts from that parallel pregnant). But she could spend And this should go hand-in-hand universe. so much time in the future that with good teaching. Plato knew this Oliver Eade she fell over her own feet in the over two thousand years ago. He present. Any group she was part realised that only education could RUNNING UP THE of could rely on her arriving late, free those shadowy prisoners from ESCALATOR laughing, apologetic, running her their chains in The Cave. When a hands through her thick springing fourteen year-old has far too much You know when you’re standing dark hair. But the staid, punctual homework to read about exciting on the escalator, bags tucked people put up with it because they advances in the field that is to in, patiently being carried up or needed her, with her ability to become her life, is something not down? And someone rushes past dream, to ask ‘Why can’t we...?’ seriously wrong? At least science and overtakes you? If you’re feeling was well taught at my school and charitable, you think, And she needed to learn. Always. those of us fourteen-year-old acne- ‘Poor soul – I hope she catches She sought to understand people, ridden brats wishing to pursue the her train,’ or fractiously, ‘What’s to explore ideas. Curious about sciences were encouraged to read the rush? He’ll only gain a few death, she wanted to know what the New Scientist weekly. I did and seconds.’ was on the other side and she still do over fifty years later. didn’t want to wait. My wife is Chinese. I love Gemma was like that – always in Last Tuesday, (a description of her country, its culture and a hurry. Too impatient to wait to the weather is unnecessary, but people. But I feel for those ten be transported serenely up to the if it helps you form a picture, it million young Chinese students concourse or down to the trains, was sunny) Gemma took a lethal who each year sit the gaokao, her mind already two steps ahead, overdose. ‘While the balance of her the country’s National College she would walk or run – not mind was disturbed,’ the coroner Entrance Examination which alone because she wanted to overtake will say. To her friends and family, determines whether a child goes or get the better of her fellow- it seemed like the same impulsive, on to university and if so which travellers, but just to get there inquisitive mind they were used to. one. It’s a two-day nightmare that quicker. ‘No, she certainly hadn’t seemed has led to many pointless suicides. depressed.’ Why, one wonders, does little of She was always questioning, ‘She didn’t have any obvious innovative scientific importance anticipating, her mind ahead of worries.’ emerge from a land of 1.4 billion? her legs; often ahead of her mouth, ‘She was her usual self.’ Perhaps because China is stifled by sometimes ahead of her manners. an educational straight-jacket of ‘Oops,’ she’d say, when someone Instead of waiting for the rote-learning little changed since looked at her strangely after a inevitable, she’d run up the moving the Tang Dynasty; a system that lightning riposte to a well-meant escalator, overtaking a few of us doesn’t inspire children to learn, observation. who might have expected to get like the cave-man inventor of the ‘I’ve done it again. I really should there before her. It wasn’t cheating wheel, from everyday life. I often remember to engage brain before – and how could it be a sin? She wonder whether I might have opening mouth.’ was going there anyway. We all scored more goals in my life if I’d She often used to say that her are. been taught how to learn at an favourite piece of advice came earlier age. from William Penn, wise Quaker, Jane Pearn 16 FICTION

EVERY PICTURE ‘Yes, Aggie, I do but there was Aggies’s eyes were popping something I wanted to see in the alarmingly. The pale eyes stare at us. She has Scotsman.’ ‘Ye might have asked me to yer wee played her part and is caught in ‘The article about the new Royal party in the Buttercup Tea Rooms black and white forever. baby, Princess Anne, has some then,‘ she pounced. ‘I saw the good photographs in the Scotsman pair of you ten days ago bletherin’ ‘Jings’, Janet,’ interrupted Jim. He was ower yer tea and those awfy chewy vexed at the attack on his friend. meringues.’ The tall handsome woman News outwith her stamping ‘We hadn’t planned a meeting punctuated the summer morning ground, however, was of no Aggie,’ Janet, once more, was with an uncharacteristic interest to Aggie. annoyed to find herself blushing, exclamation. ‘I always think one newspaper is ‘we met by accident.’ A small urgent figure was heading enough,’ she nipped, ‘but some folk ‘Ah ken fine Morag visits her towards her. The newsagent’s have mair money than sense.’ mother on a Tuesday,’ Aggie was open door provided a convenient Aggie’s voice, resonant of a wire triumphant. ‘Her man isnae weel if temporary respite. Jim brush on metal complemented either. She should not be leavin’ Lawson, resplendent in his new her complexion which seemed to him in the hoose himself coughing overall, stood behind the counter have received the administrations ower that expensive carpet they positioned at the perfect level for of sandpaper. Today, her bought last year in Edinburgh.’ children deciding how to spend cheeks were livid due to her To Janet’s relief, she saw Morag their pennies from the assorted heightened emotions. Janet walking towards them. Janet array of sweets. was uncomfortably aware of her quickly explained the situation He was delighted to see Janet presence as she left the shop. before Aggie could get a word in. Hamilton and frequently extolled ‘About the Flower Show, Janet,’ ‘I was just saying to Aggie we her virtues to his long suffering Aggies’s screech could be heard by hoped she could help with the wife. other shoppers whose avoidance Flower Show judging. We valued techniques had been honed by her opinion last year didn’t ‘She’s a perfect Lady’ he enthused. years of living near a dangerous we?’ Janet nodded her head His wife had to agree as Janet was gossip. enthusiastically. held in high esteem in the town. ‘Oh yes, Aggie,’ Janet, once more Morag smiled but maintained a ‘Good morning, Janet. How can I found herself blushing. ‘It’s quite guarded look. help you this lovely day.’ soon, isn’t it?’ ‘Of course Aggie, I remember how ‘A Scotsman please Jim’, Janet ‘Soon !’ you helped us last year.’ glanced at the doorway through This time Aggies’s outburst ‘You’ll need my help onyway. Yer which Aggie Heeps had barged. wakened a baby whose yells man is still no weel. Isn’t he?’ She was wearing her usual knitted drowned out any attempt by Aggies’s sympathetic tone lacked hat and tweed suit. No-one had passers by at listening to the authenticity. ever seen her in anything else. Her intriguing conversation. ‘Bill is much better thank you eyes darted round the shop taking ‘Ye ken fine it’s soon.’ Pointing Aggie,’ Morag replied quietly. in Jim’s overall and Janet’s new to the sign on the shop window ‘He certainly was enjoying himself hair style. she continued, ’It’s next week last night when he came oot the ‘Janet Hamilton,’ she announced and I’ve no been asked tae judge.’ Fleece Inn,’ Aggie smirked. as if passing judgement, ’ Just the Aggie’s accent broadened as her ‘Aboot nine o’clock it wis. Wis that very person I’ve been wanting to indignation increased. yer daughter he was with. She’s a see.’ ‘Ah wis yin o’ the judges last year bonny lassie. Lovely long yellow Janet tried hard to smile, ‘Hello if ye remember and had quite hair.’ Aggie, it’s a bonny morning.’ a time keepin you and Morag Aggies’s cottage was strategically ‘I thought you got a Herald Broom right. Yon gladioli o’ Nancy placed in the High Street and delivered by Alec Watson,’ Aggie Frame’s were too spiky’. provided her with hours of useful continued. ‘I saw him at twenty to Janet remembered Aggie’s bullying entertainment. seven this morning on his bike. He and their guilty capitulation as she Janet took her friend’s arm and is always quick off the mark. No wore them down. began to move away before Aggie like that yin who delivers mine.’ ‘We fully intended to ask you to could inflict any more wounding Aggie’s paper boy was Janet’s help Aggie, she soothed, ‘but we comments. nephew. Janet, to her annoyance, haven’t had a minute recently.’ flushed. THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 17

‘Let’s meet tomorrow in the hall to She envies you.’ Janet tried to pollen goes for my sinuses.’ discuss the table lay out. I think assure her friend. ‘I’ll bring the tea Morag and Janet exchanged we’ll need more this year. See you things tomorrow if you could spare glances and refrained from stating later Aggie.’ some of your Empire Biscuits. the obvious. That could wait for a Once out of earshot, Morag Aggie never offers anything but more appropriate moment. exploded. she’ll take all that’s going.’ Aggie continued complaining. ‘That woman! She knows Fiona Despite her comforting words, ‘Those gladioli are too leafy. I has short, dark hair and is in Janet knew Morag would have her think the lilies are the best this just now. She is evil and suspicions. Such is the power of year.’ spiteful. No-one likes her. It’s the evil tongue. ‘Yes,’ agreed Janet. ‘The lilies are time something was done but The following evening, the three indeed spectacular but it is the everyone is afraid of her. She judges were studying the tables in best exhibit overall that gets the knows everyone’s business. the village hall. first prize. Once we have thought Janet tried to deflect Aggie’s attack. ‘We had a lot of roses last year, if I it over we’ll leave the final decision ‘I know Morag but we are remember,’ announced Janet. till first thing tomorrow morning weak mortals compared to her. ‘Well, there will no be as many this ladies. Time to go home now. I Remember last year’s flower year,’ Aggie’s face had assumed a still haven’t decided what I’ll wear.’ show?’ smug expression. ‘I’ve been roon As they walked towards the Morag was thoughtful. the gardens and some of the roses door, Aggie, who had held back, ‘Who could the blonde have been are past their best. Mr. Grieve’s announced, ‘I never have a Janet,’ she quizzed. ‘Bill did go out no up to his usual either. I was problem wondering what to wear. to a club meeting at the Fleece last looking in his green hoose.’ I’ll lock up if you like. The floor night.’ ‘The woman is impossible,’ thought needs a sweep.’ ‘There will be a simple Janet. She was relieved to see ‘How very nice of you Aggie,’ explanation,’ Janet reassured her Morag looking calm. She even said Morag, puzzled. ‘See you friend. ‘You know what she’s like. smiled at Aggie. tomorrow then.’ She loves to upset people and is ‘Oh Aggie. I nearly forgot to Sartorial issues were the topic of as never happier than when she has a say that Bill thanks you for your the two women walked home. The victim.’ concern and he is much better. print dress or the georgette? ‘Even the children are afraid of Maureen Craig, the lovely bar ‘That was a friendly offer of her,’ announced Morag. Janet and maid, as you, no doubt know, Aggie’s,’ mused Janet. ‘Perhaps Morag helped organise children’s asked him to have a word with she feels guilty about Bill.’ parties for local festivals. ‘She her father who lives near the pub ‘I don’t trust her Janet.’ Morag joins in their games and manages about the new bowling fixtures. looked thoughtful. ‘I think she’s up to win the prizes. She always gets He seems to have caught the same to something.’ the last parcel in ‘Pass the Parcel.’ bug.’ Arranging to meet early the She is supposed to help but goes Aggie, ignoring Morag, began to fill following morning, the two women home with the bairns’ sweeties. the kettle. parted. As she walked home, Janet The pensioners complain that ‘Did anyone bring some biscuits?’ saw Tom Scott working in his she always wins at their domino she asked. garden. He came up to the gate to tournaments and somehow her greet her. ticket always gets picked for the The evening before the flower ‘Hello Janet. Big day tomorrow.’ tombola. She organises that event show entrants had been arranging ‘I see you don’t have an entry this of course.’ their displays and soon the hall year Tom.’ Tom’s asters were Janet nodded. ‘This year we will be was a mass of colour and scents. always of a high standard. strong Morag. If Nancy’s gladioli Lilies, roses, asters, daisies, gladioli ‘I think I’ve used the wrong feed are the best entry then she gets waited for their moment of glory. this year Janet,’ he said. ‘Or first prize.’ The curtains had been drawn to over-watered. Whatever I’ve done ‘Aggie doesn’t like Nancy,’ affirmed keep the hall cool and the assorted seems to have killed them off.’ Morag. ‘Nancy represents perfumes lay heavy in the air. Janet sympathised and was almost everything she lacks. She has a ‘That’s a bonny smell,’ Janet closed home when, to Tom’s surprise, she lovely family and is well-off. She is her eyes as she breathed in. ‘Better turned back and ran past him. also a very competent gardener.’ than anything from a bottle.’ As she quietly opened the hall door ‘That’s why you should not concern ‘It fair makes me sneeze,’ she saw Aggie standing at a table. yourself with her latest accusation. complained Aggie. ‘And that 18 FICTION

In her hand was a kettle, steam took his hand and began to stroke Aye fine day Jimmy, that’s Jimmy issuing from the spout. it. “The sky is so clear tonight I the local layabout his wife has tae ‘How kind of you to think of think I can see Heaven up there.” have three jobs just to keep the watering Nancy’s gladioli Aggie,’ Oscar felt a cool breeze drift house together. she murmured, ‘but I don’t think across his face. He wondered what He tells everybody he’s going to boiling water is a good idea. Give Heaven might look like. The silver take her away for a holiday this me the key. I’ll lock up.’ torch-light of the evening star…… year but we ah ken whae’ll be Wherewith to search the faces of paying. In the centre of the photograph, a the dead…. Angel tightened her woman with a radiant smile stands grip. She tugged and Oscar floated Hang on there’s that bottle beside a pot of flowers. She holds towards her. “It’s time to go,” she Blonde divorcee, she just moved up a sign ‘FIRST PRIZE’. Three whispered, “Come with me.” in a fortnight ago. This village ladies wearing judges’ badges are has far ower many incomers; in the background. Two, dressed Sean Fleet there only five minutes and they in pretty frocks, are applauding want to change everything. But the winner. A third, in hat and (Acknowledgement: Lines of poetry there’ll be trouble with that yin, suit, stands apart, staring into the from An Autumn Sunset by Edith with my binoculars I can see her distance. Wharton (1894)) washing line. She doseny wear thae June Ritchie frippery’s to keep her backside warm, ah can tell you. OSCAR’S LAST SUNSET SITTIN HERE Wait a minute; she’s talking to that Oscar could tell that the sun was “Aye that’s me John Everyman, Morag, Oh mark my words there’ll setting; the grey light that filtered ah just sit here at ma window and be trouble if that pair get together, through his eyelids was beginning watch the world go by, I’m getting when that Morag goes jogging to fade. He wished that he could old now, ah hardly ever go out. every man in the street turns round open his eyes and watch the sky to watch her go past that woman’s turn red, as the sun dropped below Yin of thae, Nightingale nurses chest is over developed, it’s no the horizon. But he could not. He comes roond twice a day and natural. had tried many times over the makes sure everything’s ah right. years- it must be years- since he What are these laddies doing was placed on his back in this bed. Well since you ask, I must admit, hanging about outside the Oscar tried to recall the burning this is a really friendly Village; I’ve chemist? Oh one if them’s away in sky and sea in Turner’s Fighting lived here all my life everybody The young devil I’ll bet his Mother Temeraire, but the image refused knows me, but we ah mind our doseny know what he’s buying. to come to him. own business. Good day to you Minister, he’ll be Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated I just sit here opposite the P.O and on his way to see old Willie Jones, day….. Wharton’s words drifted the chemist and watch folk go by. Willies been ill for months. into Oscar’s mind. Poems had kept him sane during his long There’s auld Mrs Smith she’ll That man aye looks hattered, I imprisonment in this insensate be going intae the P.O to get her don’t know, why he spends most body. He knew dozens by heart; Pension, she’s aye on the go early of his time visiting Widows and they were his life-blood. He had unlike her drunken Husband, you drinking tea, they say he buys his even composed some of his own- never see him before 12: and then sermons. for his posthumous collection. he’s heading for the pub. Then there were all the rumours Across the ensanguined ruins of about him and that young organist the fray.... A flash of colour startled Oh! That’s Granny Elliot, 80 years never believed them masell, but Oscar, but then the darkness old and you can set your watch you know what they say there’s no seeped back in. by her, every day she goes past smoke without fire. 9.30 on the dot, straight to the “Are you awake, Oscar?” It was off-licence to buy her half bottle of Poor old Willie Jones, worth Angel. She came to him at the Sherry. a pretty penny is Willie never same time every night, and Oscar married and a bit of a miser, if he looked forward to her visits. She dies there’ll be relatives turning up THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 19

at his funeral he didnae know he Paul grimaces, then heaves a sigh He turns to go through the had. “The ones in that new shop at the swivelling doors and catches sight Aye nothing like a death to bring far end of the Mall. Remember of an old man, an old man with out the Vultures. ..they were in the window,” time on his hands, sitting on a pink “I’ve seen hundreds of shoes in plastic bench. “Bet he wishes he God there’s that Traffic Warden windows , Rachel.” still had pals to play with” he asks she’s got her book out, does that “You must remember the red ones himself. woman never give up, if ye notice … with the wedge heel.” “I need that beer” he mouthed . its aye the men she harries never “Red shoes...... wedge heel? Rachel, ever bothers a woman. do you honestly need more shoes?” “Tennents please...a pint...been “Red shoes are a wardrobe busy today?” “Hello Geordie your doing a grand essential this season” she chuckles “Lunch time wasnae bad, but job”. He’s been the road sweeper “And very sexy.” everyone’s off to the Mall this for 20 years, aye fu of wee jokes. “Sexy shoes..I’ve heard it all....” he afternoon.” shakes his head, pursing his lips as “That’s where I’ve been,.. it was Poor man he was born in Hawick, if to emit a soft kiss. murder ...the place is heaving, still I don’t suppose he could help “You go on, then....I’ll catch you children jumping about all over the it. up in 5 minutes....the 101 on place” the corner of the High street is “Aye it will be the day, there’s a He telt me this one yesterday. supposed to be good ” she holds kids talent contest in the foyer this Why should a Headmaster never on to his arm as she bends down to afternoon, it’s to be on the telly”. look out of his study window in the take off her right shoe and rub her “Oh well just as well I got out in morning? I had to admit I didn’t toes. time” he says as the barman hands know. “My feet are killing me,.... I might over his pint. Because if he did he would have be more than 5 minutes, Paul” “My wife’s coming in a minute, nothing to do in the afternoon. “That probably means 5 hours” he she’ll be having a white wine, a smiles knowingly. “Tell you what, large one. She’s now decided she Oh here’s the Minister coming be in the pub by half three, and needs red shoes.” back That’s very sad Minister the we’ll have a meal in town before He lifts his pint and makes his way funerals Thursday you say, very we go home.” to the cosy snug in the corner. peaceful that’s nice to hear, it will “Right you’re on” she gives him a “How many pairs of shoes does a be a big funeral Willie was very teasing nudge in the ribs. “I’ll be woman need?” he asks the barman popular everybody kent him. with you in a tick, promise.” without seeking an answer. Paul weakens with her innocent Yes this is a real friendly village, we seduction, The blast rips through his all look out for one another.” “Give us a kiss, little miss red eardrums, riveting Paul to his seat shoes”. in shocked horror. The piercing Alistair Ferguson “No time, or I might need five screams stun him into an agonized minutes more” she jokes glaze. TICKING BOMB He watches her scurrying off in “What the bloody hell” the barman search of sexy red shoes. yells. Fingers fumble into black gloves. “Rachel is right,” he muses, “we The doors crash open. The stench With a token glance the die is cast . never do things together at the of evil dust escapes into 101 on the The clock is ticking weekend. We should go for walks... corner of High Street. for whom the bell will toll. in the country ... I hope she gets “Get in …. everybody in here” the bloomin red shoes ...next someone bellows Paul manoeuvres the shopping Saturday’s fixture is important.” “The Mall, it’s blown up ...” bags to check his watch. Ten He readjusts the balance of retail The sound of screeching sirens minutes to three and he is on his arms and tries to bombast the streets outside, beginning to tire of this place. digest the madness before him. while an eerie silence of trauma “Right then, Rachel, I’ve had “Kids should be outside kicking a envelops the lounge bar. enough” ball on a Saturday afternoon....not Paul scrambles through the haze, “Ok, but just give me 5 minutes shuffling round a shopping mall. confronts the torrid faces, the more..I really want to try on these They should be playing with their red shoes.” pals.” 20 FICTION

coughing,the spluttering and the dancing light. White horses are THE RIVER OF SILVER floating fog. leaping in the fiery sunset, shadows “I need to get out.” he yells in a are shimmering in the burning Everyone knew that in summer frenzied madness “my wife’s in the glow. the road to Quilmes would grow as Mall.” Yes it’s Paul, my Paul. I try to hold tropic as the jungle, and everything “You better no go out there,sonny, out my hand, just to let him know. on it become a mirage. After fuckin’ terrorists ...that’s what they “I got the red shoes, Paul.” the war, when the oil refineries are ...evil bastards … I want to put on the light,but started up again, the skies above blown to pieces...wee weans... there’s no switch...I try again...and Buenos Aires had turned green blown to pieces” again... with smoke, and the surrounding Someone tries to hold Paul firmly Please God give me light... the voice network of capillary roads were by the shoulders as an old man is tells me to let go again..... choked with drum-heaped trucks. carefully guided inside. Paul floats away quietly...my From then, things had gone from “In here Jimmy, you’ll be aw right stretching melts into darkness. bad to worse, and nowadays even in here.” the silver ripples of the Rio de la Paul stares at the old man, the Bright lights are flashing in the Plata, which ran along the cliff- old man with time on his hands. tunnel, the sky is burning with side road, were murky with the Broken fragments of pink plastic flaming flowers...... Dancing sky’s reflected grime. It was far are nailed to his coat, blood diamonds sparkle on the horizon. from the Argentina Juan Botasso stained hands clutch a single shoe. A beautiful rainbow fleets over my had grown up in, before the war, Someone’s shoe. head, but the colours fade as I try before the revolution. Though given to touch its wonder. to fantastic gestures, he was not Keep climbing ...there’s dust and I stretch out... into an empty hole... strictly speaking a political man, stones and gravel. Keep shaking, shivering, with floating and neither of these events had ...eyes...stinging eyes... red shoes and waves crashing over meant much to him; as he squinted choking smoke. “Help”... knees ... rocks. into the leaking wall of colours blood ... “ Paul ” burning... swirling “Paul, stay in the boat..” I try to call ahead he merely reflected on the ... eyes losing focus …... out....but the pain gnaws inside me. pity of it, that he, la arana negra, shiny shoes floating above...red I close my eyes as the tide turns and should now need glasses just to ride shoes...bright and red... let an inner peace pervade my soul. his motorbike. I need to get out...I need to…., I The sea is calm now, just a silent need to... Ho...Burning... Thumping ripple to disturb its mirror. La arana negra, the Black Spider .. .Thudding. The light at the end of the tunnel – that nickname had not stuck. “Paul... …... please someone...help” flickers, a gentle bleep keeping time. In fact, he had not been called I’m floating away... catch me... I squeeze him tight, to let him it in twenty years. The final had please. know, I am alright... not been quite the hoop-la then Rocks...there’s rocks...rocks that it later became – Juan did everywhere... head in my hands... Paul gently rubs my hand, his not kid himself – but there were yes...my hands ...where are they? thumb weary in my palm. those who said the first coup I try to stretch out... To dust … “Paul” might never have happened if only to the stones... stretch out to... “Rachel, it’s me,... Paul... you’re Argentina had won. It was not a screaming.... piercing pain.... going to be alright …” notion which found much favour ...someone’s moaning ... rasping, “I’ve been dreaming” with Juan (“Then perhaps El ...a gasp...faint fuddled groaning... a “You’re in hospital, Rachel, Presidente should have played in whimper to let me know everything is going to be fine...” goals himself,” he would caustically I am not alone . “Our father”...no remark) but it chimed in certain I need to keep climbing...need to... Tears flow as he gently strokes her aspects with his increasingly ...take my hand “hallowed be... God face... narrow view of his fellow man, and please” The clock on the wall ticks the there were moments indeed when I let go and slide into a long dark minutes away. he found himself wondering. There tunnel.....slowly...softly...slipping Tomorrow the doctor will explain had been no more World Cups ...to light far far away...bright why Rachel doesn’t need shoes any after that, no more finals. Juan’s burning light, flashing light... more. runners-up medal was rumoured to lie at the bottom of the Rio Plata – Janet Hodge THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 21

children attributed to this belief the his hands like water. But strikes hit the see-sawing horizon that lies water’s name, the River of Silver perfectly, as this Castro’s was, they ahead, with Montevideo in the – but in fact he had sold it from didn’t spin – they simply vacillated centre and nothing beneath but necessity long ago. No, that was not a little from side to side, like the silver silence. true. Necessity had played no part. point of a pen being scribbled in He had simply had enough. the air. Its stillness made it seem Here in mid-air he is safe from like the ball was getting bigger all the harm that is rushing in to On a clear day like today, as he rather than closer, a dark gigantic meet him – the russet sphere his climbed the cliffs and cut the sun eclipsing the countless eyes hands claw agonisingly towards, evening smog, he could see all the that ranged beneath it. There was the many-thousand stares from way to Uruguay across the Rio; silence. both sides of the river, open- and yet not until the last moment mouthed, intook breaths about did Juan spot the trucks as they The Argentinians had come to come roaring out, the very bulleted towards him, turning the expecting mischief, but the only earth itself, that gigantic moon, wheel of his motorbike towards the trick the Uruguayans had was their crashing up into his gut. His gaze clifftop’s edge. There had still been football. What a joke that was! travels up the wrinkled terrain time to react – in split-seconds Against better teams there was a of his sleeve, stripes like village shorter than these he had thrown chance at least. You knew what roads dashing along its canyons to himself at impossible distance, they were trying to do. Take France, emerge at the wrist, his thumb and turned thumping headers back into for instance. They always chose the forefinger visible behind his arm. the sky – but instead he watched correct pass, and the chance, and The shadows beneath are spilling and sat erect as the dusty ground the instant to take it – with them, everywhere, in all directions; and spooled out from under him, and everyone was on the same page. on the blank grey static of the Rio the brawling rushes of the river But Uruguay, though! Hijos de de la Plata, a single outstretched reached up. Then the wheels of his putas! They just stumbled from one arm has cast the shadow of a Ducati were spinning impotently mishap to another. This volley from spider, and each and every bird against the sky, and the grand Castro, in the final minute; Juan becomes a flock in flight. capital of Uruguay sprung up from had tensed and relaxed, tensed where it crouched on the other side and relaxed so many times that his Thomas Clark of the river, like a beast that drank, nerves were shot with waiting. Feet the only point of reference for Juan flat, he stood transfixed as the ball as he struggled in the air. crawled through a maze of limbs. A clean shot from an unclean Montevideo – I see the mountain! moment – it was the worst of every – where the final had been played, world. and was still played now, in the hilltops of men’s dreams. As he But he could see its whole scuttled across the invisible line circumference at least, so there of his goal, Juan Botasso wished could be no deflections, no clumsy desperately that when the brown shins or shoulders to turn away its ball (whose fleeting glimpses he arc. If he was going the right way followed from one place to another (and he thought he was, his studs like rumours of gold) emerged next biting into the dirt) the ball was from the ruck of legs and boots his. Stamping with his right leg, he and rolled-down socks, it would pushed away the ground below, his be flying towards him rather than feet lifting gently from the grass. away, the imperceptible whistle of His flight would be momentary – its valve cutting through the air, even now his entire body, from the its panels spinning in the artificial top of his stretching hand, curls light. If a ball spun, it assured accommodatingly for its return to him that not only had the striker earth, his hip presenting itself to failed to catch it right, but also that buffer, his bicep pressed, a cushion, the laws of physics had not been to his head. And in the sky above momentarily suspended, that the the Rio de la Plata, Juan Botasso shot would not simply pass through manages to right himself, set still 22 FICTION

THE UNADOPTED ROAD wondered precisely what it meant brambles and that he didn’t want but had never bothered to find out. to walk along a path which was so If I were to suggest a remedy I’d always imagined it to mean overgrown. Very wise, I thought. for all the ills which plague us in that the road had been abandoned Typical of her to point out such our daily lives, peace and quiet in some way by a parental dual truths. I expect Mister Atkins had would be my favoured choice. Not carriageway who was now far too complained to her in detail about simply peace and quiet but escape busy to pay it any attention, or that the diversion. – even temporary escape – to a it had been so long forgotten by the After lunch, I took myself off place in the countryside, unspoilt outside world that it was trying to for a contemplative walk alone. by progress and free from the ugly advertise for a family. I preferred My wife was all for this as the trappings of modern life. this idea. Indeed, as a sort of jokey purpose of our holiday was for This is what was prescribed holiday pastime, I decided to make me to regain my equilibrium. for me following a mild nervous it my mission to ‘adopt’ the road. Needless to say, I made straight for disorder – nothing to be concerned On my return to the cottage, I the unadopted road. As I walked about, the doctor had explained. announced the decision to my wife along it, I was struck by the beauty Many of us suffer from these who, finding the notion amusing, of the overgrown vegetation. disorders, some don’t even realise nevertheless went on to explain the Everything had been allowed to it believing that an increasingly sign’s true meaning. It was simply a develop freely, unchecked by scythe negative attitude towards life is part road that is not publicly maintained or hedge trimmer until, that is, I and parcel of the human condition. - a private road, in effect. This was reached a gap in the hedgerow. A I can see how my own informative but slightly missed gateway in rusting cast iron was downward slide was arrested by the point of my desire to see the showing through. By spring it the simple expedient of a change unkempt track as part of a loving would have been almost invisible of scene. Of course, at the time household. under the burgeoning brambles I could not have foreseen how The following morning, I took and weeds. Given the prickliness fundamentally my life was to Mister Atkins for his early morning of the dried-out branches, I had improve as a result of such a tramp. Once again, we approached little chance of opening or climbing holiday. But it did, and I am very the sign. I looked along the track over it. However, I could just see a grateful to my doctor for suggesting and judged it to be passable, building beyond. I stepped back to it. despite an attempt by weeds to the opposite side of the track and A search online found us envelop what remained of the stood upon the verge. Over the top the prettiest of cottages to rent. tarmac and to join up across the of the hedgerow, I could see a roof The location was ideal: not quite entire width of the track. I began almost completely covered in ivy. Highland country but with ample to walk along it. I’d gone only a few How I would have dearly loved to countryside and woodland walks yards when I noticed Mister Atkins have investigated further, but my for the most earnest of hikers and was not following behind. Instead, wife’s schedule for the day and most reluctant of dog-walkers. I he remained at the end of the track, Mister Atkins’ routine demanded fell into the latter category. Our refusing to walk any further. I my return. Springer Spaniel, Mister Atkins, continued a little way but decided My wife and I spoke little on our was always far more enthusiastic I couldn’t leave him there for fear visit to the village that afternoon. than I when it came to taking of him running off in the opposite I decided not to tell her about the exercise. However, once cajoled direction and becoming lost on his house – it wouldn’t have interested by his pawing and squeaking, I way back to the cottage. her. At the village shop we bought actually enjoyed the experience I hadn’t realised dogs could provisions for the next couple of of walking with him, especially in tremble. Stoic fellow though he days and then took a circular walk the peaceful surroundings of our was, Mister Atkins was trembling with Mister Atkins around the rented holiday cottage. quite noticeably. I thought at first it local environs. Arriving back at the It was on the first walk, shortly might be the cold weather until he cottage, I announced that I would after we’d arrived at the house, that began to whine. I attached his lead be going for another walk. This I saw it. A tiny, rather dilapidated and we continued our walk away did not go down at all well with sign at the entrance to what looked from the track. I recounted the my wife who questioned my need like a farm track. “Unadopted tale to my wife on my return. She for further exercise. I explained Road,” it read. I had come across reminded me that Mister Atkins that there was something I had to this phrase before and had had had an unpleasant experience do. She didn’t argue with me but as a puppy with some very sharp said that I was not to be too long THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 23

as it was going to be dark soon. I and he gave a vigorous wag of his my childhood pet. I told her that it remember being rather irritated by tail which rocked his little body wasn’t just the house or the dog but her trying to impose a curfew but from side to side. I allowed my eyes the furniture and all the bits and decided to let it pass and left the a few seconds to adjust to the dim pieces in the rooms. She reminded cottage without responding. light indoors. As they did so, I felt me that any belongings left by my Once again, I found myself at the my stomach rise into my mouth. I parents after they had died had entrance to the unadopted road. was standing in my father’s study. been sold at auction many years I followed it to the gate which It didn’t just look like my father’s ago. I had glimpsed earlier. Could I study; it was the actual room - the If she didn’t believe me, I’d take get through it to the other side, room that I used to rush into after her there. But, of course, there was I wondered? Possibly. It might playing in the garden so that I no way she was going out at this hurt a little, though. Carefully, I could throw my arms around my time. There was dinner to organise. separated some of the branches dear daddy. How could this be? There was that programme on which obscured the entrance. The The house was nowhere near where the television. I told her I wasn’t latch on the gate was very rusty but I had lived as a child. Yet here it hungry and that I certainly wasn’t responded to a little bit of . I was, overtaken by ivy and cobwebs going to watch television. I grabbed had managed to create just enough and in another location entirely. All the torch and put on my thick of an opening to squeeze myself the furniture and fittings were there overcoat. Mister Atkins stirred through. Ouch! The brambles were too. The desk, the lamp, the upright from his basket and seemed to very sharp and my face, neck and in the corner. Everything wonder why I was getting ready hands took a number of scratches. was as it was all those years ago. to go out again. I told him to stay It was worth it. I saw before me a What of the rest of the house? Was with his mistress who was by large house, circa 1860s, which was it all like this? With a mixture of now becoming quite agitated. She almost entirely encased in ivy. It delight and disbelief, I opened the warned me that if I went out again reminded me of my parents’ house door into the hallway. It was all the she would have to call Doctor in which I spent the early part of same. It was our house. My home. Collins. He certainly wouldn’t my childhood. I was very young So engulfed was I with emotions believe any of this nonsense about when we moved but remember that I had completely forgotten to finding my parents’ house. playing with my dog on the drive. be mindful of the time. Realising Why I used the torch to hit How coincidental, then, to see a how late I already was, I dashed out her, I don’t know. It wasn’t the dog. The same dog? It couldn’t be of the house and caught up with most practical of instruments and Reggie. It looked like him - same Reggie in the garden. I hoped he’d required repeated use to knock breed and colouring, same squint come with me back to the cottage her unconscious. I remember in his left eye. I called him over. He – I was loathe to leave him as I thinking that the bloodstain would came towards me and I must admit wondered who fed him and how he lose us our deposit on the cottage to having felt slightly faint at this was looked after. Refusing to step so I folded a tea towel and put it point. It was Reggie. I don’t know outside the threshold of the garden, under her head in the hope that how, but it was. ‘Hello boy,’ I said Reggie stood firmly and watched this would limit the damage to the to him. ‘Where’s Mummy? Shall we me make my way back through the carpeted floor. I then made my go and find her?’ I knew this was brambles and the iron gate. way as quickly as I could to the fantasy, but I had to see if there was I jogged most of the way back unadopted road. anyone inside the house - anyone I to the cottage, partly because I I passed through the gate and knew. wanted to tell my wife about my saw Reggie in the moonlight. He Reggie and I walked up to the extraordinary experience and was wagging his tail again. Not only front door. It looked as though it partly because I thought I might was the front door open but I could hadn’t been opened in years. I tried incur less of her wrath if I returned see a light emanating from a room the handle but the door was locked. more quickly. at the back of the house. It must Unable to gain access to the house Naturally she didn’t believe me be coming from the garden room, via orthodox means, I resolved to when I told her about the house. I thought - this was where we all break in and checked the viability Nor did she believe that I had used to sit in the evening before I of my plan by trying to lift one of met Reggie again. She said he’d went to bed. The door was ajar so I the sash windows. It moved easily be dead ten times over by now. went inside. There they both were, and I pushed it up far enough for All I had done was stumble upon sitting by the open fire. me to be able to climb inside the a derelict house and a stray dog house. I told Reggie to wait for me that just happened to resemble 24 FICTION

Dad asked me what his little bow tie and red socks. For extra parent’s bedroom over Benuto’s boy had been up to in the garden. I effect I sometimes carry a little Italian Ice Cream Parlour. The told him I’d been out playing with silver tray with a white tea–cloth room was large, running the width Reggie. Mum just smiled at me. I over my arm. I can always rely on of the shop and doubled up as a hadn’t seen that smile since I was a some clever Dick or Harry in the storeroom, piled high with boxes of child. I looked at their faces and felt auditorium to heckle, ‘You look like ice cream cones, wafers, flavourings overwhelmed by love and warmth. an Italian waiter in that get-up.’ and syrups. I was an only child Dad told me to take my seat by the ‘It’s ironic.’ I shout back, happy and my father had to endure the hearth. My usual seat. I sat down to embrace the stereotype as a humiliation of the ribald comments and gazed into the fire. convenient shortcut helping to pace of his many brothers, on the other my quick-fire routine. Much to hand my mother was probably very * * * my surprise my career as a stand- relieved. It has since been carefully up comedian has taken off and If I could remember as far back explained to me that my wife was I’ve even been booked to appear as the day I was born I would tell saved by Mister Atkins’ persistent as a guest on Loose Women next you that as soon as my mother barking which had roused her from month. But no matter where I am put me to her breast I spat out the her unconscious state. She’d had I always have the photograph in milk. One breast tasted of vanilla, just enough blood left, apparently, pride of place on my dressing table. the other of the famous Benuto to raise the alarm. I touch it for good luck before I go roasted almond flavour ice cream. I had been found wandering in on stage. I was, and perhaps still am, the a wooded area some hours later only Benuto to be brought up on and taken directly to hospital from Let me share the story of the powdered baby milk. From that where, with the help of Doctor photograph with you. I was just day on I was a disappointment. Collins, I was transferred to my coming up to six years old. The I refused to eat any ice cream. home. Life is less hectic picture was taken by my Uncle My mother tried to tempt me here – they do everything for me. Luca who was studying cold with raspberry ripple, chocolate Sometimes, when I’m walking physics at Manchester and hazelnut, coconut and toffee in the gardens, I imagine seeing University. He used his student chunks but I kept my lips firmly Reggie on the lawn. pass to travel by bus to Blackpool sealed. On the few occasions I Looking back, I don’t think I once a month. He was 22 and yielded to maternal , as would have survived the life I was studying for his PHD and dreamed soon as my mother wasn’t looking, leading before I took that holiday. of winning a Nobel Prize. He had I would put my fingers down my It’s funny to think just how much turned his back on the family ice mouth to make myself sick. taking a short break away from cream business – too predictable, one’s usual routine can change a he used to laugh. But somehow the Anyway back to the photograph. person’s life for the better. sound of refrigerators must have It was a cold October day. Harsh I would recommend it to anyone. been in his DNA and he strove breezes blew off the sea; the wind hard to achieve colder and colder was biting cold and holiday makers Tim Nevil . He was the first were few and far between. Uncle Benuto to go to university and all Luca took me to the Pleasure the family were proud of him. ICE SCREAM Beach, and then we walked along I was a different story. From the promenade and stopped to sit an early age I knew I was a Drum roll… da, da. Hello on a bench. Because of my aversion disappointment. My great- Liverpool. Hello Manchester. to ice cream I rejected anything grandparents had come to England Hello Rome… and to any post- sweet so we munched on savoury from Naples sometime between modern feminists in the audience I crackers. Uncle Luca broke one the wars. They came with just the apologise in advance for anything I in half and placed the two pieces clothes they stood up in, a few might say to offend you. My name in his mouth like fangs. He pulled bags of bits and pieces and most is Carla Maria Benuto and I’m here funny faces and made me laugh valuable of all - the family ice cream to entertain you…… murmuring, ‘Appy Alloween, recipe. I’m not sure how they ended Appy Alloween,’ and I couldn’t up in Blackpool, but it is as good Before I go on stage I have my stop laughing. Uncle took the a place as any to sell ice cream, in little rituals. I wear my lucky red photograph just as I had a fit of the fact a very good place. I was born, underwear beneath my outfit of giggles. and probably conceived in my black trouser suit, white shirt, black THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 25

Then we went to the amusement with laughter. Whenever I could I her clothes in shreds. Her legacy to arcade on the pier for warmth, went to the theatre at the bottom Ayisha a new memory: of a dust- we won a few bob on the one-arm of the pier. That’s where I learnt covered hand dangling by her side, bandits, which we spent on a bag my craft; the timing, some very bad a last look of terror in her eyes. of chips each. That day there was jokes and where eventually I got The dog Ayisha could save, a matinée performance in the my first break. tangling her hands in his matted theatre at the end of the pier. This I have my rituals; the lucky red fur, his whimpers stilled as she is where we always ended up on underwear, my black and white buried her head in his side, closing each of my Uncle’s visits and where uniform, and my photograph. My her eyes and ears to the sweat I was my happiest. Sadly I can’t happy six-year old self laughs at that blurred her mother’s face, remember what was showing, but I me as I take just one teeny weenie to the bundle of bloodied rags, to do remember it was the last time I whiff of chloroform to steady my her grandmother’s keening. For ever saw my uncle. nerves and I’m off…… a month now he has shadowed It was a while before anyone her, waking and sleeping, his ribs realised he had disappeared. That Drum roll… Hello Kelso. And to receding, his rough lick a comfort; winter was cold with deep snow any post -modern feminists in the while her grandmother looks on, and some hikers found him high audience I apologise in advance for strangely without complaint. up on Saddleworth Moors - frozen anything I might say to offend you. Ayisha traces her name in the solid. The coroner gave an open My name is Carla Maria Benuto dust of the parapet and pokes at verdict. No-one knew why he was and I’m here to entertain you…… a beetle lying prone, as if it too is out on the hills with nothing but sapped by the heat that rises in a bottle of chloroform and some Barbara Pollock waves. Below, imprisoned within pads of cotton wool in his pocket. the compound wall, chickens I like to think he was conducting ON PHARMACY ROAD scratch among the dusty shrubs. some experiment that must have Beyond, Wishtan spreads: a jumble gone wrong. I don’t know what I Ayisha lies on the flat roof of of mud-brick houses hidden among would have become if my beloved her grandmother’s house. Despite twisting alleys, their high walls Uncle Luca hadn’t died tragically so the early hour, heat from the clay guarding against the sun. A string young, but with his loss the shine tiles burns through her thin tunic of children, bright, like coloured went out of my life. and trousers, setting her skin on beads, thread their way to the When I was told the news of his fire. Each indrawn breath is a mullah’s house squatting beside the death I screamed and screamed. blend of heat and grit, stinging her one-room mosque. Yesterday she Desolate, I refused to eat for days. nose, drying her throat. The dog is too passed through that iron gate, Then one night I woke up and I flopped beside her, panting, and sat in the courtyard that serves as thought I heard Uncle Luca calling she touches her nose to his, the a school: chanted her numbers, me, ‘Carla, Carla. I’m here.’ I ran cool, dampness of it welcome. His formed her letters, listened to the downstairs to the ice cream parlour tail thumps, once, twice, raising reading of the Koran. Yesterday she but couldn’t see him. I sat by the puffs of dust so that they sneeze in was nine and therefore permitted freezer to wait, but lulled by its unison. He is almost better now, to learn. Today is her tenth steady hum I fell fast asleep. I woke his half-hoppity walk the only birthday. Today, by Taliban decree, up hungry so lifted the freezer lid reminder of the night she found she can no longer go to school. and tried each flavour a tiny scoop him, cowering behind the shield of She doesn’t want to watch at a time, but no, I still didn’t like empty kerosene drums, one paw but can’t help herself. At the end any of them. My parents found me trailing, the gash on his leg oozing of the line Ahmed hangs back, with ice cream smeared round my blood. turns, his hand raised, shading lips. My poppa lifted me up and The night her mother and his eyes. Ayisha stands up: a flash hugged me. My mother laughed. would-have-been baby sister died. of emerald against the sky; raises ‘Our little girl likes ice cream after She doesn’t know where the dog her hand in return, bridges the all.’ came from – perhaps he too had distance between them. She dips I hid my grief behind tantrums, been lifted by the blast from the her head, a reed bending before and bulimia, trying to get my stray shell; the blast that cast her the wind, unbroken; mouths, ‘Go parents attention by eating as much mother under the collapsing wall on.’ He is ten today also, but a boy. ice cream as I could. I kept thinking at the corner of the alleyway that She knows he’s too far away to of my uncle dying all alone, so I ran behind their house, so that she see her lips move, but her thought surrounded myself with people and was carried home, limp and bloody, flies to him, his response equally 26 FICTION

swift: ‘Later we will have our own cross to play without someone to She hugs the dog again, stands up school.’ Another boy appears in the take her. She looks at the roofs slowly. Today she has new work to gateway, grabbing Ahmed’s arm, opposite, from today, play too may do. Today she must start to practise and with a last backward glance, be denied her. to be a woman. It is too soon, he disappears beyond the gate. Behind her a bang, followed unwelcome, but she has no choice. Dropping to her knees she squeezes by a low rumble, a grey dust cloud * * * the dog more tightly, wedging filling the sky. Instinctively she Darkness settles on Wishtan, Ahmed’s promise between them: crouches, shushing the dog. A a cloak of cold imposing its own warm, secure. second rumble, a second fountain curfew. Breaking it, two men slip Later, when all of Wishtan of dust: clearing, settling. She raises silently into the kitchen of her closes its shutters against the her head, turns towards the sound, grandparents’ house. Ayisha is ferocity of the sun, they will huddle sees a tumble of bricks scattered startled awake by voices raised in together in the corner of the about a newly opened space where argument. One word repeated, deserted house that has become before there had been a clutter of louder than the rest, punctuated by their secret place, the hoarded roofs. A moment’s silence, then the emphatic thump she recognizes stump of candle guttering in the running footsteps, raised voices as that of the butt of a Kalashnikov draught from the gap between the carrying clearly in the still air. Two on the dirt floor: ‘Panjwai…’ There planks that board the windows, soldiers wave towards a gash in the have been other nights, other while Ahmed shares with her all he wall, shout at a third. Ayisha senses visitors: their voices low murmurs has learnt. Today and every day - at shock in their voices, tinged with that lulled her to sleep. But tonight least while the summer lasts. She fear. An old woman emerges from she shivers and crawls onto the thrusts away the thought of winter, the gap, shaking, her shayla across pallet beside Ahmed, curling vows to find a way. It is a vow she her face. An older man follows, into him, reassured by his even cannot qualify with the usual In his beard white-streaked, his skin breathing, by the sharp jab of his sha’Allah, for Allah doesn’t will it. creased, like paper folded many times. He stoops to tug a prayer elbow in her side. Tobacco smoke Nor would their father if he was to mat from the rubble, shaking it eddies under her bedroom door, find out. clean. warning footsteps signalling her Their father she fears more, for Ayisha knows them, has father sending her scurrying back Allah she can’t see, and so isn’t sure played with their grandchildren, to her own mat. She injects a faint about, although that is a sin she been shouted at for chasing their catch into each breath, readying knows she must hide deep within chickens: has wished them ill. herself to feign an awakening at her; along with her curiosity about She focuses on the prayer mat, its his touch. Heavier breathing above that other, more musical God, colours muted by the dust, thinks - her and then a draught brushing who once danced in the sounds is this my doing? her face, the faint click of the latch. that drifted from the military The old man reaches the Cautiously she opens one eye, lets base at the end of their road. The soldiers, gestures towards the out a whoosh of relief. To have road the infidels call ‘Pharmacy’. rubble. His voice is staccato-sharp, been found on Ahmed’s mat ... her She remembers the silent fall of like gunfire. ‘These are our homes. father isn’t slow to wield his stick. snowflakes, the jingle of bells, the That one my house. My children, In the morning she slips out lilting tunes which caused her feet my grandchildren, where are they onto the roof again, tracks her to tap, and the words that, though to live now?’ He pauses, gathers twin’s course to school, adds her unknown, repeated themselves in breath. address to her name drawn in her head and made her smile. One of the soldiers spreads the dust of the parapet. ‘...Sangin, Those soldiers are long gone, Helmand.’ A voice, crackling and but others, they say, are coming. his hands as if in mute apology, This time they will not roll in while another says in precise Dari, disembodied, breaks the silence. column down the road which, ‘The houses...we thought they ‘People of Sangin. Peace and the gouged through the centre of were empty.’ He is scribbling on blessings of God be with you.’ Wishtan, cuts her family in half. a piece of card, holds it out, ‘At She peers over the parapet. Few pass there now and the metal Jackson base, you will receive ‘...Help your Afghan brothers ... shutters that punctuate its walls compensation. We didn’t know...’ bring us the hidden weapons and rarely open. Piles of stones, three The old man spits at the soldier’s bombs so we can destroy them. or four high, dot its length, warning feet. ‘You know nothing.’ If you do this we can help you. If of danger. She can signal from her There is a stir below, her not...’ A high-pitched whine blanks grandmother’s house to her cousins grandmother calling, ‘Ayisha.’ out the voice, fades again, ‘...It is living on the other side, but can’t your choice.’ THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 27

She thinks of her mother, and ‘You can do this, Ayisha?’ are, that it is a matter of minutes of how she had no choice. The dog Her uncle is lifting a makeshift only. The first soldier appears, his stiffens under her arm and she plunger from the sack, attaching clothing and skin sand-coloured, looks up to see Nouri looming over the wires. He rests his hands on his face beardless. - Because he is her, blocking out the sun. her shoulders, stares into her eyes. a foreigner? Or because he is too ‘Your uncle is here and wishes ‘You know how it is. Last week, young? She cannot tell. He steps to speak to you.’ Panjwai. Yesterday, our houses slowly, deliberately, as the old do, Ayisha jumps up smiling, the destroyed. Tomorrow…’ he shakes swinging a metal circle attached dog leaping beside her. his head, ‘We will show them we to a long pole from side to side in Her uncle isn’t smiling. He do not abandon our brothers.’ front of him; each following soldier glances towards the black-turbaned He pushes her down to crouch stepping carefully in his tracks. stranger watching at the window on the floor, her eyes level with They have the look of youth, of her grill, and coughs, as if his mouth is the peephole gap. ‘Soldiers will cousin Sahid. She fixes her eyes on dust-clogged. ‘We have a task for come - in one hour, maybe two. the bend in the road, rests the palm you.’ When the first one reaches the of her hand on the plunger, tries to She darts a look at her corner...’ he punches downwards. make her mind blank. grandmother pummelling dough, ‘You understand? If this was not The line falters, the soldier at her grandfather running worry school day, we would entrust this nearest Ayisha hunkering down, beads through his fingers, but to Ahmed.’ His voice hardens, ‘As it hand outstretched. The following neither raise their head. is... you are honoured.’ soldier calls out and she doesn’t ‘Come.’ Her uncle hefts a need to understand the words to bulging sack and slams the door * * * sense his fear. She squints through behind them, sticking out his foot It is a long time to wait, a long the gap, sees a dog nosing along to stop the dog from escaping, his time to think. She kneels by the the opposite wall. Catches her puzzled yelps trailing them along window, her eye pressed against breath. But this dog has four good the alley. His grip on her arm is the slit, focusing on the strip legs, walks straight. The hunkering tight, as if he does not trust her of wall that is her marker, her soldier steps out of line, strokes to follow, and when she looks up finger hovering over the plunger. the dog’s head, slides one arm at him he looks away, so that her She remembers yesterday: the under the belly and scoops him question dies in her throat. In the old woman, the single tear that into his arms. He stands up, his deserted alley, the windows of the tunnelled through the dust on her breathing shallow, and adjusting houses planked, he stops, nods cheeks. The fading newspaper the dog to a more secure position, towards a door that sags on its pictures of Panjwai tacked to the inches forwards. The dog barks hinges. ‘You know this place?’ schoolroom wall: the first, of a once, settles in the soldier’s arms She looks down at the scuffed bare room, a lone figure hunched and she hesitates, her eyes darting markings in the dust, a perfect over a charred circle on the floor; along the line, allowing the first match for her sandals, recognizes the next, a child’s foot protruding soldier to pass beyond her line of the futility of denial. He doesn’t from a blanket in the back of an vision. The second also, and the wait for her answer, but is already open truck; in the last, an impotent third, her uncle’s voice hammering edging open the door, gesturing the crowd filling a narrow street, silent, in her head, ‘Panjwai … we do not stranger in, indicating the boarded though screaming. She nurses the abandon … you are honoured.’ The window, the narrow gap between mother and baby-shaped hole in one cradling the dog is half-way the bottom two planks. her heart, says, ‘I can do this.’ to safety, so still she waits, until The stranger nods. ‘It’s ok.’ He he too has disappeared. There are bends down to the base of the wall, * * * only three soldiers left. She sees pokes at the mud with his penknife, Her knees are aching, her back the face of the turbaned stranger forms an almost invisible hole. He stiff, but she doesn’t move for fear who accompanied her uncle, nods again, disappears outside and she will miss her moment. Off to his mouth a snarl, and belatedly Ayisha hears him scrabbling in her left the unmistakeable scrape of presses the plunger, shutting her the dirt. The question forms in her a ladder against a wall, the metallic eyes against the succession of head: what do they want from me? creaking as someone climbs. There flashes, the choking clouds of dust. Understanding washing cold over is a shouted question, a pause, an Small flames, like spent fireworks, her. as thin wires poke through indistinct reply, then the soft thud flicker in the line of blackened holes the hole, waving like scorpion as the climber returns to ground threading the road. One soldier antennas. level. She knows now where they is being supported towards the 28 FICTION

corner, dragging his leg. The final wooden tables, some with gingham hold-ups with the tube today” said one staggers behind, clutching cloths and others with decorative Ginger. his ears. From beyond the corner Formica tops, together with an Ayisha hears a soft ‘shush, shush’, odd assortment of chairs painted The tourists were talking to Rita the dog’s high-pitched yowl fading to match. Owned and run by who was helping them with their to a whimper. She imagines him two sisters, Ginger and Rita, the guidebook. They thanked her and wriggling up the soldier’s chest, tearoom has been in their family waved cheerily goodbye promising their faces touching, a pink tongue for decades. to come back again soon. As they licking thanks. She disconnects opened the door to leave, an the plunger, and careful to follow Sophie pushed a lock of hair into upright man with greying hair and her final instructions, stuffs it into her headscarf with paint-splattered beard held the door open for them the sack, coiling the ends of wire fingers as she approached the before he entered. The newcomer and burying them in the dust floor. counter. “Good morning Ginger, was wearing a grey herringbone Waits. spring is here at last.” “Still a bit tweed overcoat; it had fraying cuffs As the heat bleeds out of the parky though” replied Ginger and looked a bit tatty. His trilby sun, silence settling over Wishtan, pulling her cardigan around her, hat was scuffed and crumpled with she slips home, rehearsing her “your usual dear or can I tempt years of use. He sat down at the report: exaggerating injuries, you with a freshly baked scone?” largest table, greeted his fellow practising an apologetic shrug. “Oh go on then” smiled Sophie customers and took out his copy of and she turned to take her usual the Times. Margaret Skea seat and pulled out her iPhone. Rita, the older of the two sisters, “Hello John” said Ginger and Rita THE SECRET bustled over with a tray of tea together. things: a dainty milk jug, matching A spring sun shimmered over cup and saucer and china teapot “Hello ladies” said John returning a pretty array of assorted china all delicately decorated with pink the greeting, looking up from his ornaments sitting on the low roses. The scent of Earl Grey wafted paper, “A cappuccino and a Chelsea windowsills on either side of the from the pot as Sophie poured and bun please Ginger”. front door. The hand-painted ‘open’ glanced around. She nodded to sign trembled slightly as the door Bill who was tucking into Welsh John might be in his late sixties but was opened by a slim, pretty, young rarebit which he had liberally had the build of somebody a bit woman accompanied by a waft doused with Lee and Perrins. Bill, younger. He was of average height of distinctly chilly air. “Morning a muscular Jamaican, used to but held himself and walked as if Sophie, close the door quickly dear drive underground trains but now he was taller. His hair was collar you’re letting all the heat out.” in retirement he is a baritone in a length and greying and his bristly greeted an almost elderly, but still gospel choir. beard was a bit uneven. He wore glamorous woman in a colourful a white shirt and Paisley printed floral print frock. On the walls there are framed silk cravat. Almost every day the black and white photographs of café was open, which was six days The Lavender Lake Tearoom sits Fred and Ginger, Bob and Bing, a week, come rain or shine, John quietly up a side street off Clapham Gene Kelly, Ol’ Blue Eyes and the would come in at around 10:30 Junction, near Lavender Hill. The rest of the Rat Pack. Underneath and stay until 4 or 5. This had exterior is painted in a light blue them sat a garishly dressed couple been his routine for eight years or purplish colour with the name studying a crumpled map and a so. He always brought his copy of in faded red above the entrance. guide book. They had finished their the Times and usually a bundle Crystal-clear windows are framed frothy coffees and Chelsea buns. of letters. Most days he read the each side by a gathered pelmet Sophie thought they looked like newspaper before lunch and the and curtains in scarlet with cream Americans. “John not in yet?” she letters after. polka-dots a bit like a dolls’ theatre. said as Ginger brought over an A few passers-by go up the street enormous warm scone with some Today Ginger brought him his and now and again some tourists curls of butter and a tiny pot of jam. usual cappuccino with a swish of go into to the tea room as well as her petticoats, and he sat and drank the regular customers. The interior “Not yet dear, I think he might it while reading his Times paying is decked out with a selection of be getting the bus, I heard on particular attention, as usual, to the wireless there has been some the announcements, obituaries THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 29

and the personal columns. After Just then two young shop-girls “Oh yeah ok I see” said blondie. finishing the paper he started entered the café. “Two BLT’s, on his correspondence opening and two ginger beer floats please “Rita dear is their order ready yet?” each one carefully looking at the Rita love” said the one with the called out Ginger, who had been postmark first. He made two piles; pink and blue streaks in her hair. busy serving a couple of taxi drivers the left-hand one for recycling and Her friend with the bright brassy with filled rolls to take away. the right-hand pile he would keep. blond hair, who had her dark roots He opened a brown envelope with showing, said; “Make mine a cheese Rita fetched the girls’ food and set it an American postmark. In it was and chutney, I don’t fancy lettuce on the table. She returned to wipe an A4 print-out of a photograph today.” down the counter and help serve with a phone number written the growing queue. underneath it. He took out his “Right you are girls” Rita said wallet from his inside jacket pocket preparing the sandwiches, from a “John, are you ready for your and extracted a dog-eared black pile of buttered bread being heaped lunch?” Rita called over to him. and white photograph and laid the up by Ginger. The girls sat at a “Yes, thanks” he replied but his two pictures side by side. Bill by table near the window, and carried mind was elsewhere. He waved this time had finished. He came on chatting while messaging to goodbye to Sophie and he glanced up to the counter to pay, and called their other friends. at the faded cuttings on the wall. cheerio and sees you tomorrow as Rita served John with his lentil he left. Sophie was also ready to “Hey Rita, what’s that guy’s name soup and ham roll. She laid them leave. again?” said the girl with the pink down on the table as John put the and blue hair, as she pointed to a photographs and letters away to eat “Well ladies I had better get back to photograph on the wall. his lunch. The two sisters busied the studio, and get finished before “That’s Fred Astaire dear” she themselves behind the counter the weekend” Sophie said to Ginger replied “He was a famous dancer in serving the lunchtime sandwich at the till. the past”. customers.

“What’s on at the weekend?” asked “My Gran loves all them old black “John is in a quiet mood today”, Ginger. and white films an’ that” said the Rita spoke softly to Ginger. other girl. “An old pal from Art College has “Is he? It’s not like him” Ginger asked me to go with her to a film “Yes dear, all the people in the replied, still battling with the stack festival in Birmingham. It’s to photographs were famous film of buttered bread. Lunch time celebrate a long forgotten British stars” said Rita turning over some came and went and Ginger had film studio called ‘Blighty Pictures’; bacon rashers. by now finished her herculean they are going to show some of task of bread buttering. The pile their old movies that have been “Yeah Rita and Ginger are named diminished rapidly as sandwiches rescued”. She said still trying to after two of the leading ladies, ain’t were ordered, made, wrapped control that wisp of hair. that right Rita?” said the first girl and paid for. Later on the tea sucking up a mouthful from the tall time customers munched and “Oh how lovely dear, me and my sundae glass delivered by Ginger. slurped their way through more pal Jane saw all of them at our local sandwiches and rolls, cakes, buns, pictures. A few of the leading men “Yes dear. Our parents were meringues, coffees and teas. The were very good looking you know. big film fans, so they named us last customers left for the day and I remember one who came from after Rita Hayworth and Ginger then John stood up. He folded his round here; he was called Radcliffe Rodgers.” She said as she pointed sheet of paper with the picture on Fisher” gushed Ginger “Look to the other photos on the opposite and slotted it in his jacket pocket, there’s a picture of him here leaving wall, which had only female stars. put his hat and coat back on, lifted the Savoy with a lady friend” “Ginger Rodgers was well known his Times which he folded under she gestured to a wall of framed for being a co-star in lots of films his arm, and after he paid Rita, he magazine cuttings. “I hope you with Fred Astaire.” left just like all the rest, back into enjoy yourselves, I wonder if any of the darkening street. the old stars will be there. Do come “Dancing?” enquired the blond girl. and tell us all about it on Monday”. “I was reminded today of Radcliffe “Yeah, just like they do on ‘Strictly’ Fisher” said Ginger washing her said her friend. hands. 30 FICTION

“Who?” Rita asked, as she wiped the tall buildings opposite the café, track steep and rough. I feel my down tables and collected the last as the ladies shut up for the night. heart thumping, my skin damp. of the cups. Ginger turned the door sign to say The hollowed drovers’ road takes ‘closed’ as Rita put out the lights. me even higher. I feel faint with “You know, local lad, in the 70s the effort. High on the hill I find a he was big in British films” said Lewis Teckkam crumbling stone wall, and sit down. Ginger, “and furthermore he was a Below me, Peebles is taking shape big dish!” she added. REMEMBERING JEANIE out of the blackness of night. Today begins. Rita thought for a moment then Each year, on the 4th of September said “I remember you and Jane I go back to Peebles with my eldest From my pocket I take a tightly both had a crush on him. He was daughter, Maggie. I stay with folded piece of paper, cut from the a bit young for both you though. Auntie Ann in Old Town, number Peeblesshire News six years ago, Wasn’t Radcliffe Fisher his stage 74. Auntie has been a mother to and I carefully smooth it out on the name what was his real name?” me, bless her, for mine died as I broken stone wall. It is still too dark was born. She could have left me to read, but I don’t need to, I know “I don’t remember his real name in Peebles poorhouse. I owe her a it, I lived it. It’s a hard story to off-hand. He was a bit younger great deal. hold in your heart. A dark story in than us, but we were only slips of the darkness. My darling Jeanie. girls then too, weren’t we” Ginger As night falls and the air cools a little, Rab was working as a stonemason smiled wistfully. we sit with Auntie’s lodgers on the when we met. He said he was taken doorstep with our feet in the dust, with my shy and tidy ways, and I “We are still girls now, don’t you talking about the intense heat, which loved his strength and swagger. We think?” Rita laughed “The chap began a week ago. Folk are saying married, and settled in Peebles. in the off-license asked me for ID that September 1906 will be the Maggie was born within the year when I went to buy our sherry last hottest ever. Couples and families and I felt the comfort of my family. week. I wondered if he needed new stroll by, making the most of a slight I felt lucky. specs or something. I think we’re breeze. Not many recognise me still glam for our age though.” Rita under that dark sky: those who do He always liked his drink, but he remarked as she stood with her nod in greeting, or whisper gravely worked regular, and kept a roof cloth in hand. She was wearing her as they move on. We blether quietly over our heads, and usually some figure-hugging peach knee length until late. Then I lie down next to money for food. At first, ale made number under her white frilly my Maggie on the kitchen floor, eyes him sentimental: poetry and song. apron. open, remembering. Those were good times. I wish Maggie could remember them. “Of course we are!” Ginger said, I wake with a start, gasping for air, As more bairns arrived he spent giving a little twirl and a curtsey. and in the darkness slip outside. I less time with us, and drank more. long for an end to this stifling heat. He got fouler of speech, fists and “Anyway we haven’t heard of Perhaps the weather will break. insults hitting out. But I never let Radcliffe Fisher for years. I wonder A good drenching to damp down him touch my wee ones. what happened to him?” said Rita. the choking dust, which gets in everything. It was of course a Saturday when “Well after the big romance with it happened. We were lodging Lady Charlotte something, her The streets of the town are empty at 20 Biggiesknowe, with Mrs family was not happy so they sent as I walk to the end of Old Town Swinton. We had the room, she her to America to marry a tycoon. and stare down Biggesknowe, had the kitchen. My Aunt had come I’m not sure what happened to her which twists away from me. I can round for company, and we talked next, but after that Radcliffe’s film just make out the shapes of the low while I got food ready and Jeanie career took off, he did some big houses. I lived here once. I turn my played on the mat. Maggie and my movies. Then that TV detective back and walk quickly past Auntie’s younger son Stewart were outside series for quite a few years, but I house towards Neidpath castle, nearby, playing. They followed haven’t seen him in anything for turning up Rae Burn road. their pa inside as he burst in with ages” Ginger mused “Mmm it’s a that stupid drunken smile on his shame, he was so gorgeous”. The The loose stones slip under my feet face, an arm around his friend Tom evening sun slowly slipped behind as I stumble uphill, dust rising, the Neil’s shoulder for support, calling THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 31

for his food. At the sight of Aunt he bandaged her head, then made I could for my dear Jeanie. Day and Annie the smile broke into a snarl: me sit down and took my hand. He night I tried to comfort my child, there was no liking between them. asked me how it had happened. He listening to her fitful breathing Usually she left before he got home. was very kind and gentle... amid the snoring and mutterings She took one look at him and went of the old women in the long cold into the kitchen out of the way. A soft voice interrupts my dormitory. memories and I look up. Maggie What he was shouting? Hating has followed me up Hamilton hill. The doctor had her taken her away words, wicked names, a mess of She smiles and sits beside me, a from me, to the children’s hospital spitting, slurring and anger. His little out of breath, her dark eyes in Edinburgh. I knew it was for face was ugly with it, and his limbs sparkling at me like stars. I am the best. I slept like the dead for a seemed to have a life of their own, proud of her, a handsome hard- full day and a night. When I woke like a child’s puppet. Tom went working young woman, 16 years up, unrefreshed, the other me into the kitchen too. No one should old. We watch the red dawn in had gone. Now I thought I would come between husband and wife. silence. There will be no let up in burst with the pain of parting from the heat. her. Now I fully felt my pain, my Maggie got Stewart out of the way, sorrow, my hate. In my chest was and then my brave child came back “Come on, Ma, let’s get back” a black lump, hard as iron. I could and stood by me, as she often Not ready to face the day yet, we not cry: if I started I would never did on a Saturday night. I put his follow the road up and over, past stop. Five years later, I can still feel dinner on the table and thought to Standalane farm and down to that endless wail waiting to rise in leave him alone to eat, meaning to Rosetta Road. Maggie picks the my throat. take the children out until he was wild flowers as usual and we link sleeping, as was my custom when arms. She distracts me gently, with Rab had been found and held. he was in an ugly mood. So I picked gossip about friends and family Good, I thought, let him suffer and Jeanie up and started for the door. here in Peebles. We have these be punished. good memories too. It should have been me. He threw Penniless, with no one to support the poker at me. The black point hit Half way down Rosetta road is the us, we were paupers. There was my sweet Jeanie on the head. Hard. Poorhouse. Its high white wall puts no escape. By now our clothes had us in deep shadow as we walk past. been taken from us, and put away. I picked the poker up and looked Maggie squeezes my hand. We We wore the poorhouse uniform. at it. Then at him. We stared at know this place. Stewart was young enough to keep one another, frozen, he sober in by me, but they sent Maggie to the an instant. Then I carried her into This is where Dr Gunn bought me children’s part. I could not eat, but Mrs Swinton’s. We tried to stop the and Jeanie that night. He wanted I attended meals so that I could bleeding. Black blood on her red a quiet clean place where she see her in the dining room, and at hair. Perhaps heads just bleed a could be tended day and night, he prayers, and they let her visit us lot? Why wasn’t she crying with the said. Mrs Whyte, the Poorhouse once a day. It was a small mercy pain? matron, was a good woman, with that her hair was not cut to a boy’s young children herself. She would length, as had been the custom. But We heard the door slam and Auntie help me keep watch and pray. He what did all this matter? Just let saw Rab swaying down the road. I would call by twice a day. It was a Jeanie live. heard myself calmly tell Maggie to grievous wound, he said. But there be a good girl and get my hat and was hope. Doctor Gunn found the means boots, and the blanket. This other for us to visit my dear girl in me asked Auntie to take Maggie Later Auntie brought my other two the hospital, bless him. Jeanie and Stewart to her home. bairns to me. Kind soul that she had been my tiny, giggling, is, it gave her such pain that she bundle of muddy fun. Not now. It seemed as if I floated, still calm, had no means to take us from that She sometimes cried, she often to Lindores, Doctor Gunn’s house, shameful place. I didn’t care. She whimpered. But she lived still. mercifully close in Old Town. I felt told me that Rab had disappeared; her warm, alive in my arms. She the police were looking for him. It is already too hot as we walk could wake soon. The doctor laid For the next few days there was no down Young Street, seeing people her on a table. He looked grave as time, just this other me doing what stir into daily life, and we come to 32 FICTION

the corner of Biggiesknowe, now in duty to provide for his family, and WHO AM I ? day, not night, shadows, where my my duty to take him back and keep sorrow began. Mrs Swinton leaves him from the evils of drink. The Who am I? Well, I have a name; her house at number 20, waves, poorhouse was for families without at least I have a Christian name and comes towards us. Now we are means of support. I had a husband. - Diana - of that I am sure and a waiting for my Auntie. So, on his release, Rab fetched us surname the same as that of my and took us to Uphall, his home mother. However, I do have a Over the Cuddy I can see the town. A new start, he said. problem with this which I will tell courthouse, next to the Kirk: God you about later. and Justice. The trial. I have the We live near to his mother: she is I am going to begin my story newspaper report folded in my a strong woman and Rab dare not with my mother because she was pocket. Rab’s trial, aye, but our trial go against her. I am grateful, for the whole reason for me ‘being’. too. I turn to Maggie. she keeps his lower nature in check. I look a little bit like she did with We never speak of our dead child. similar hair and eye colouring and “They should’nae have made you He still drinks, but not so often. perhaps the same shaped mouth. give evidence against your ain And then he remembers Jeanie, There are, of course, plenty of well faither. For the love of God, you and cries for her. meaning people out there who were just 11 years old!” are keen to say ‘oh how like your How do we remember her? Well, mother you are’. My Mum was a Maggie looks at me, serious, hard. each year we return to Peebles, wonderful person and we spent “It was a rare pleasure. I knew what Maggie and me, to be there on the many happy hours together. Here, I was about” day she died. As the kirk bells toll I think, it is fair to add that she for nine o’clock, Maggie gives us the was much older than most of my They tried Rab for assaulting wild flowers she has picked. Auntie, friends’ mothers. I never really Jeanie and me. Jeanie still lived. Mrs. Swinton, Maggie and me drop thought about it until one day when His defence was that I was drunk them into the Cuddy, and watch she was meeting me from school and had dropped her. The jury them float to the Tweed. my friend said to me, “Has your knew it for a lie and found him grandma come to meet you?” guilty. Sheriff Orphoot said it must Jeanie would have liked that. “No that is my mother.” be harrowing for Rab that Jeanie “Well I think she looks a bit old.” was getting weaker. I hoped so. He (FOOTNOTE: It was at that point, I realised should suffer for his sins. Maggie Based on a report in the June 1900 she did look quite a bit older than stared him down: but he would not Peeblesshire News, which carried most other mothers waiting at the look at me and I would not look at a detailed account of the trial, school gates but it did not worry him. He was sent back to prison supplemented by other research, me particularly because she always for four months. Four months! We including Peebleshire poorhouse looked good. Her hair was shiny were sent back to the poorhouse. records and the 1901 Scottish and she wore it in a modern style; Census.) she was well dressed and while My dear wee girl left us on 4 not too trendy she certainly was September at nine in the morning. Sandra Whitnell not a frump. She wore make - up Just after her third birthday. The that was always just right so I had hospital did their best for her, Dr no reason to feel out of place or, at Gunn said. Maggie and I were at least, so I thought. her side as she left suffering and pain to the living. We wept and ***** consoled one another, beyond What was clear to me from a very consolation. A week later I found early age was that I did not have a I had a child on the way, my Daddy. youngest son. I could not be glad “ Mum, who is my daddy and why then, though I love him now. does he not live with us?” Mum explained, As Rab’s time in prison came to “There are different kinds of an end, Mr Whyte, the governor families, most have a mother and of the Poorhouse, called me into a father, some have just a mother, his office and told me it was Rab’s some have just a father and others THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 33

have two mummies or two daddies and it is Zoe who does not want I stormed out in tears. I did not for different reasons. They are all them to meet my friends. I know like upsetting my mother because family units. Ours happens to be a it’s nothing to do with my mother. she was so special to me but I could small unit with just you and me. Of They all seem to be so jealous of me not help wondering what she had course, brothers and sisters make and when they are with us I seem done to me. the family unit much larger. Zoe to be pushed into the background. ***** your sister was born a long time I decided I would tackle Zoe I worked even harder at school . I before you, so she no longer lives at the next time we met to see if she was determined to show everyone our home. Her daddy sadly died.”. knew who was my father. that even if I was only half a This satisfied me for a while. “You should know who is my person I would do well at school. As I grew older things became father, you are my sister after all.” I would show them that I am as more puzzling to me. We learned “ Half,” sneered Zoe. She was in a good as they are .My teachers were at school that it takes both a man’s particularly bad mood. “ Here is a worried because I did not bother and a woman’s eggs to make a picture of mother, my father and with friends and spent so much baby. So if I have no father how did me taken before you were born,” time working. My mother was I become me and how did Zoe fit she said pulling out a photograph concerned too. I no longer wanted into the picture. She had a daddy so from her handbag, “ But he is not to share leisure time with her which where was mine? She is my sister your father. He would turn in his had given us so much pleasure after all. grave if he knew what mother had before and I felt very distant Zoe has a husband and two done”. towards her, which I realise now, children so they are a complete I did not answer but wondered if must have hurt terribly but then so family. They are so lucky. How are someone was dead, how they could what, she had hurt me. they related to me I wondered? Zoe possibly turn in their grave. Now that I am older I is my sister, so my mother told me, “Well I am Aunty to Sarah and understand why Zoe resented me but how strange because she is so Cathy”. so much. Her father died when much older. That means Graham, “ Half “, she sneered again. she was small which meant that her husband, is my brother - in- I felt hurt by these remarks her mother, my mum, had to work law and their two children Sarah and chose not to say anything but it to earn money to keep them. Her and Cathy are my nieces. really set me wondering. Why did mother or my grandmother looked When we were together they Zoe have a daddy and not me. Why after her. This meant that mum seemed to be more like my sisters did Zoe resent me so. She was a lot could not spend a lot of time with than Zoe. older than me and she had two girls Zoe like she had with me. I did not They lived a long way off and one a little bit older and the other a know either of my grandparents we did not see them often but when bit younger than me. So I am half a Soon after Zoe was married we did meet Zoe did not talk to sister, half an aunt, I only had one grandmother died and left my me very much. She tried to make set of grandparents and belong to mother quite a lot of money. Mum sure that my mother paid a lot of half a family. In fact, I am and feel, was able to give up work. Then attention to her and her children. half a person. came Sarah. My mother tried to please them “ I looked after Sarah while Zoe too and I must admit on these “ Will you explain to me why I went to work. I loved doing this and occasions I did feel a little hurt am only half a person”, I asked my just adored Sarah ,” mother told me although I tried not to be upset. mother one day. “Today at school one day. “ Then they moved away “ Can we go to the park to meet we were looking at family trees and and I missed Sarah so much. Soon some of my friends,” I would ask. our ancestors. We all had to try to after I met a very nice man called “They would love draw our family tree. I can only Simon and eventually he came to to see Sarah and Cathy. do half. I cannot fill in a father’s live with me. We decided that we “Oh no, Zoe does not like them to branch of the tree.” would like to spend the rest of our go too far on their own” “ Never mind. Just do what you lives together ” I thought how silly. can.” My ears pricked up at this, “Well can I bring them here then?” “ Well I do mind. I’m sick of being perhaps I was at last going to find “No, dear. I prefer to see them half a person and what did Zoe out who was my father, on their own. We do not see one mean by her father turning in his “ So he was my father then. What another very often as you know.” grave if he knew what you had happened to him and why did you Well, whose fault is that I done?” not tell me this before?”. thought, not mine. True, I do know 34 FICTION

“ It is not quite as simple as that would sell his sperm and if you all the latest trends. Money was not ,” my mother answered. “ You see had IVF do you know the identity a problem. It was my not my fault, I told him I desperately wanted of the donor? There is no knowing although, Zoe obviously thought another child but he could not what kind of genes I could have so. I certainly had had things a lot understand that and said I was inherited.? What happened to better than she had throughout her much too old. Besides which we Simon?” childhood. had each other and that should be I could see that my mother was “ Hm! Seems to me a pretty easy sufficient . He was not going to be taken aback and was surprised that way for a man to make money the one to satisfy a whim of mine. I knew so much about it. though and being anonymous So I told him that I would find a “ Yes Diana, I did have IVF. One of means he does not have any of the way.” my eggs was fertilised from a sperm responsibility. I’m not sure I agree I began to feel even worse bank where donors remained with it. Any way, I will go away and by this time. Now I was not only anonymous. Now the Law in this think about it.”I was really angry half a person living in half a family country says, the donor must be and upset. but I was brought into the world registered and a child, born by IVF, ***** to satisfy a need or a whim. It was at the age of eighteen can visit the I am quite concerned about the fact beginning to look as though my father. You really were wanted and that my father is unknown because mother had slept with someone are truly loved. I intended to tell there could be more of his children else just to have a baby but this did you but you must understand that out there somewhere and it could not seem to be the sort of thing I it was a very difficult thing for me be possible that I could perhaps would expect my mother to do. to do and I suppose putting it off meet and fall in love with one of There was one other possible way has made things worse for both them and would not know that he though. I knew a little bit about IVF of us. Please, do not judge me too was my half brother. The result but not very much so I decided to harshly. Many men who donate of that could be catastrophic. My look it up on the internet before I sperm have a genuine desire to mum had lost another man too in broached the subject to my mother help someone in a similar position order to give birth to me so I must again. Whatever she had done it to me. It does not have to be a really have been wanted. seems as though she had alienated financial reason. Women donate I was thinking about all these her family and possibly friends, eggs too you know. Perhaps, when things and trying to come to terms although, they probably thought you are older you will understand with them when I heard a bump. I that Simon was my father. Who a little better. I do hope this is not ran downstairs to find my mother knows and as I said before it does going to spoil our relationship. on the floor. She had had a severe not matter what anyone else thinks. You are of course free to make up stroke. She was rushed to hospital It has become quite urgent to me your own mind and perhaps we but never recovered consciousness. now to get this matter unravelled. can discuss these things that are I was broken hearted. Was this my worrying you when you have had fault for being so angry with her? I found out, that before I was time to think about it. I could get There had been no time to say conceived it was possible to have someone qualified to talk to you. As sorry or goodbye. I was distraught. a donor father who remained for Simon he walked out because Now, I had no mother or father. unidentified. This seemed to me he was so unhappy about the Of course, Zoe blamed me and to be abhorrent. It meant that situation. ” said she never wanted to speak not only did I become to satisfy She looked so sad and I do to me again. They say time will someone else’s requirement but not think this was the whole story. heal the hurt I carry in my heart. also I was paid for. Perhaps, this It was hard not to judge and I did Perhaps so, but I will never know was the reason that my mother was try to look at it from my mother’s the answers now and I remain, half so reluctant to tell me. Was she point of view but could not really a person. ashamed of what she had done? understand. If she had never had Somehow I think not because she a child it would have been easier. Patricia Watts remained very loving towards me. Things did begin to fall into place At least she tried. It is me who has now and I could see why Zoe felt distanced myself from her. as she did and was obviously so “ Mum did you have IVF to jealous of me. Mum was able to conceive me?” I came straight out give up work which explained why with it one day when I was feeling we were able to have holidays. I quite aggressive. What sort of man could have good clothes and follow Thursday 11 June

5.45pm Keith Partridge: The Adventure Game £12, £10 4.45pm Gordon Brown & Hector Chawla £10, £8 6.00pm Peter Snow: The Battle of Waterloo £14, £12 4.45pm The Rhino Farm with Annabel Claridge £5 6.00pm Walter Elliot £10, £8 4.45pm Scottish Opera: A Bit of The Barber of Seville £8 7.00pm Gin Is In (gin tasting) £15 5.15pm The Walter Scott Prize for Historical Fiction £10, £8 7.15pm James Holland: The War in the West £12, £10 6.15pm Sally Magnusson £12, £10 7.30pm Michelle Mone £14, £12 6.15pm Gavin Francis £10, £8 7.30pm Rosemary Goring £10, £8 6.30pm Gordon Brown £14, £12 8.45pm Irma Kurtz: My Life in Agony £12, £10 6.30pm Thirty Years of The Three Chimneys £12, £10 9.00pm Andrew Marr £14, £12 7.45pm Owen Jones £12, £10 9.00pm MacArts Presents: Al & Sue £8 7.45pm Ian Fraser: Shredded £10, £8 8.00pm Alexander McCall Smith £14, £12

Friday 12 June 9.00pm MacArts Presents: The Bevvy Sisters £12

1.30pm Where's the White Rabbit? FREE 9.15pm Magnus Macfarlane-Barrow £12, £10 1.30pm Waverley Lines Poetry Workshop FREE 9.30pm Patricia Hodge £14, £12 1.45pm How to Get Your Children's Book Published £15 3.00pm Scottish Opera: Puffy Macpuffer £5 Sunday 14 June 4.00pm Waverley Lines Short Story Writing Workshop FREE 11.00am Mac and Bob: The Party Problem £5 4.15pm The Fabulous 4 Fish Fingers / Jason Beresford £8 11.30am Waverley and Other Railways £6 5.00pm Scottish Opera: A Little Bit of Carmen £8 11.30am Storytime FREE 6.00pm John Bercow £14, £12 12.00pm MacArts Presents: Afternoon Jazz £10 6.15pm Terry Waite £12, £10 12.15pm Gill Arbuthnott £5 6.15pm Kirsty Logan £10, £8 12.30pm £5 6.30pm Scottish Opera: A Bit of The Barber of Seville £8 A Feast of Fun / Nick Sharratt & Viv French 12.45pm FREE 7.30pm Alex Salmond £14, £12 Waverley Lines Poetry Writing Workshop 12.45pm £5 7.30pm Nikki Welch: The WineTubeMap (wine tasting) £15 Scottish Opera: Puffy Macpuffer 7.45pm Dom Joly £12, £10 1.45pm Polly and the Puffin with Jenny Colgan £5 7.45pm David Nobbs £10, £8 1.45pm Dindy and the Elephant with Elizabeth Laird £5 9.00pm Prue Leith £14, £12 2.00pm James Naughtie £14, £12 9.15pm Alex Norton £12, £10 3.00pm Storytime FREE 9.15pm MacArts Presents: Rory McLeod £10 3.00pm Scottish Opera: A Little Bit of Carmen £8 Saturday 13 June 3.15pm Borgon the Axeboy with Kjartan Poskitt £5 3.15pm Afternoon Tea with Jenny Colgan £15 A wonderful four days of talks, 10.30am Hugless Douglas with David Melling £5 3.15pm Holly Sterling £5 discussions, food & drink, live 10.45am Most Wonderful Thing / Viv French £5 3.30pm £14, £12 music, comedy and more for Alice in Wonderland all the family 10.45am Making History Come Alive! FREE 4.00pm Waverley Lines Young Writers' Workshop FREE 12.00pm The World of Bob with Simon Bartram £5 4.15pm Scottish Opera: A Bit of The Barber of Seville £8 12.00pm Bookbug Rhyme Session FREE 4.45pm M C Beaton £12, £10 12.15pm David Almond £5 4.45pm Alan Cochrane £10, £8 12.15pm Words About Eating £12, £10 5.00pm Jonathan Miller £14, £12 12.30pm Alice in Wonderland Publishers’ Workshop £5 6.00pm Matt Haig: Reasons to Stay Alive £10, £8 1.00pm Bookbug Rhyme Session FREE 6.15pm Borders Railway £12, £10 1.00pm Scottish Opera: Puffy Macpuffer £5 6.15pm David Crane £10, £8 1.45pm Knight in Training Viv French & David Melling £5 6.30pm Celia Imrie £14, £12 1.45pm Alice in Wonderland Family Workshop £5 7.45pm Chris Brookmyre £12, £10 2.00pm The Really Terrible Orchestra £14, £12 7.45pm MacArts Presents: Blueflint £10 2.15pm Afternoon Tea with Sue Lawrence £15 8.00pm Rory Bremner £14, £12 2.15pm Storytime FREE 3.15pm The Walter Scott Prize Shortlist £12, £10 3.15pm Sixteen String Jack with Tom Pow £5 Family Day Pass: Buy a Family Day Pass for either Saturday or Sunday 3.15pm Scottish Opera: A Little Bit of Carmen £8 and enjoy lots of family events at a 3.30pm John Bird & Rory Bremner £14, £12 special rate! A Family Day Pass costs ONLY £35 and permits entry for up to five 3.30pm The Dreamsnatcher with Abi Elphinstone £5 family members. The passes are valid for all events displaying the FDP logo. 4.45pm John Lister-Kaye £12, £10

Main image: Celia Imrie. Top row: Jenny Colgan, John Bercow, Dom Joly. Middle row: Kirsty Logan. Bottom row: Rory McLeod, Peter Snow

Whats On 15.indd 1 09/05/2015 09:54:10 36 INTERVIEW

How did you first get started writing poetry? What made you decide it was the right medium for what you wanted to say?

I first started writing poetry in the early 1960s, influenced by the American Beat writers, especially Kerouac and Corso. Then I stopped for around 20 years, didn’t even think about writing. In the mid- 1980s I started again, had my first poem published in 1989, and I’ve never looked back. For me, poetry is an act of communication. I want to share my words and ideas, ©John Savage using my own particular modes of expression. INTERVIEW WITH habit, and it’s good to try to write acceptable prose as well as poetry. COLIN WILL You’ve been heavily involved The Sunny Dunny blog is where I Poet, Publisher and Editor of The in Dunbar’s CoastWord write freely about anything I fancy, Open Mouse. Festival since its inauguration whether it’s things happening in a couple of years ago. How my life, thoughts on writing, or “A lad o’ pairts” is what they might did the festival first come anything else. I have another blog have called Colin Will not so very about, and how do you see it – cwdrafts.blogspot.com – where long ago. A hugely successful continuing to develop? poet in his own right, Colin has I post some of my older published poems, with comments and back contributed to the life of letters in I love the CoastWord Festival. stories. Scotland in many and significant Hannah Lavery started it in 2013, ways; as editor of The Open and I’m delighted to be part of What advice would you give Mouse, publisher at Calder Wood the team. The Festival is rooted in to poets just starting out Press, and long-time Chair of the Dunbar’s talented community of on the often long road to Board at Scottish poetry festival writers, but we’re also now able publication? StAnza, to name but a few of his to bring in established writers past and present roles. Colin’s from elsewhere. It has a strong Read as much poetry as you can. poetry has graced the pages of The following, and in the absence of Use the Scottish Poetry Library – Eildon Tree on many occasions, other major literary festivals in it’s free to access its large collection and so we were delighted to take East Lothian, it has the potential to of poetry and magazines. Go the opportunity to speak in much grow and to extend itself to other to readings and listen to other greater depth with one of Scottish local centres. poetry’s most engaging and poets. Develop a critical sense, and apply it to your own work. influential characters about his life You’re something of a weel- Start sending poems to your and career in writing. kent face on the poetry scene favourite magazines. Be prepared nationally in Scotland. What for rejections, but don’t be too You keep a blog at would you say are the benefits downhearted by them. If you have sunnydunny.wordpress. of getting out and about to talent, sooner or later it will be com. Does it benefit you in festivals, readings and so recognised. your writing? Would you forth? recommend the keeping of a blog or journal to writers? Hearing and seeing other poets, whether at festivals or readings, Writing a regular blog – and I try should be an essential part of every to write a new post at least every writer’s development. It gives fortnight – reinforces the writing you a kind of external yardstick, THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 37

a standard to aim for, and you can You were one of the original How have you seen the poetry learn technical things, such as how Edinburgh beat poets back in scene in Scotland changing to construct a set, and how writers the day. Can you describe what over the last few decades? Do should and should not interact with the poetry scene was like at you have any ideas about the an audience, which can help you that point? direction it’s going to take in with your own work. Besides which, the future? I’m a social animal – I enjoy the It was fairly chaotic, but so was my company of writers. life at that time. Writers, artists Going back to the 1960s, the poetry and musicians used to hang out scene was dominated by a group You’ve published several in cafes, and in each other’s’ flats. of established white, middle-class, collections of the course of I was playing jazz saxophone in mostly male poets who published your long career. How would those days, and I’d sometimes books. By the 1980s and 1990s you describe your progress as play in clubs, or read poetry. I met there were many more poetry a poet over this time? the wonderful Jim Haynes, who magazines in Scotland, although ran The Paperback bookshop in several haven’t lasted. The I’ve had eight collections published Charles Street, and that introduced magazines now publishing cast so far. I’ve been lucky in being me to American writers, who have their nets wider, attracting new able to work with two very fine always influenced me. I was at poets and readers from all parts publishers; Sally Evans of Poetry the infamous Edinburgh Writers’ of society. Long may they flourish. Scotland and Diehard, and Sheila Conference in 1962, and heard Pamphlet publishing has taken off, Wakefield of Red Squirrel. I’ve MacDiarmid denouncing Trocchi as has self-publishing, as more folk always been keen that each as ‘cosmopolitan scum’. I was discover they can do it themselves. collection should be different always an internationalist myself, Internet-only publications, poetry from the previous ones. My first so I wasn’t convinced. The panel blogs and e-zines are now a huge collection – Thirteen Ways of on stage in the McEwan Hall part of the publishing scene, and Looking at the Highlands – was descended into chaos, as the water they’ve helped to democratise largely environmental poetry. My in the carafes had been switched for poetry publishing. There’s still latest – The Book of Ways – is a Glen Grant whisky. an issue with quality control, collection of over 100 haibun, a especially among the self- Japanese form consisting of poetic What’s your writing routine publishers. A lot of them would prose with haiku. Ezra Pound said like? Do you have a fixed place benefit from strong editing, and a lot of things, some best forgotten, you like to write, or particular some need additional coaching but his most famous saying, ‘Make time of day you prefer? and mentoring. I particularly like it new!’ is something I try to live by. women’s voices in poetry, but in I don’t have a particular routine. the past, too many women poets As a competition judge, editor Sometimes, for no particular were patronised or ignored. That’s and publisher, you must have reason, a line will pop into my changing, but there’s still some read hundreds of submissions consciousness, and I work on it way to go. over the years. What are the mentally, maybe even completing things that are most likely a whole poem in my head, before Many poets lose interest to make you reject a piece of I can write it down. First drafts in being published in work? are always longhand, then I do the magazines once they first edit as I type them into the feel they’ve established What I like is freshness – a writer computer. I usually set them aside themselves. You’re clearly with something new to say, or an for a few days, then see if they need a hugely respected figure effective and original way of saying a bit of polish. About two-thirds of in Scottish poetry, but your it. I like to be startled. What I reject my drafts turn into finished poems. work continues to appear is the mundane, the humdrum, regularly in magazines up the obvious. I don’t like poetry and down the country. Do you which requires the reader to have feel that there is still value a degree in classics or semiotics in continuing to submit your to understand it. That kind of poetry to what some people academic poetry passes me by. A might think of as smaller poem has to connect with me on an publications? emotional level. 38 INTERVIEW

Oh yes, the magazine world is that’s had a huge impact on my MacCaig’s Collected Poems. I very important. If you add up writing. My scientific insights and love his work. There’s a deceptive all the magazine subscribers knowledge often influence my simplicity about it. You may think and readers, plus the internet choice of subjects for poems, and he’s writing a wee poem about magazine readers, they probably that’s been entirely positive. frogs, but it turns out to be a outnumber the buyers of printed poignant reflection on the human poetry books. And they’re spread You’re a seasoned condition. geographically. Poets can access performance poet. What do a wider readership if they submit you get, on a personal level, Sara Clark to different magazines, from out of giving live readings of different parts of the country and your poetry? internationally. And each time an editor accepts a poem, it’s a peer It’s part of the communication assessment of your work. When I process, and a very direct one. want to publish a poetry pamphlet Learning performance skills is very by a new poet, I always look for a important to all writers these days. sprinkling of poems which have For instance Larkin did very few previously appeared in magazines. public readings in the course of It means they have a potential his career, but you can’t imagine following, and they’ve jumped one a poet today working that way. of the first hurdles successfully. As Of course, not all poets are good for myself, I enjoy the challenge of readers of their own work, but sending poems to magazines who there are techniques which can be haven’t published me before. learned.

Before retiring you worked Calder Wood Press, the principally as a librarian and, independent publisher you later, at the Botanic Gardens run, is going from strength in Edinburgh. How, if at all, to strength. How do you go have these roles impacted on about choosing your authors? you as a poet? That’s kind of you to say so, but After my Beat period, I got a actually it feels like I’m now in a proper job as a librarian, got my running-down situation with the professional qualifications and press. I’m getting on a bit, and I began to develop my career. Then should probably be concentrating the Open University started up, more on my own work. I never had and I did a degree in science and an ambition to be a publisher; I maths while working in West just wanted to help some people Lothian Libraries. That led to whose work I liked to place it in me to work as a librarian in the front of a readership. I’m very British Geological Survey. I went proud of the 50+ collections CWP from there to be Chief Librarian has published, but I’m a poet who in the Royal Botanic Garden publishes, rather than a publisher Edinburgh – a lovely job. I had who also writes. Both of the started a research project on pamphlets I’m publishing this year scientific communication with are by award-winning poets, Nuala the University of Strathclyde Watt and Lindsay Macgregor, and while working at BGS, and I was I admire them enormously. awarded a PhD in information science in 1991. Later I moved into And finally, which poetry senior management roles at RBGE. collection would you take So my academic background is with you to a desert island? in science, not literature, and That’s an easy one: Norman 39

th th POETRY9 CHALLENGE – 15 2015 September THE JAMES HOGG BALLAD 2013 AWARDS Over Various£1000 in prize venuesmoney sponsored and by Richard, locations Duke of Buccleuch. in Selkirk, Yarrow and Ettrick valleys One prize £500 to be judged by Rab Wilson, Gerda Stevenson, Luke Wright and Stuart Kelly. One prizeNew £500 events to be include: awarded by voting in YARROW,ETTRICK AND SELKIRK. PrizesHaining £100 each for: Dreaming . Bestcommunity poem in Festival dance area (postal commission, district TD7) workshops and public performance at the Haining in Selkirk . Best poem by unpublished poet.

The winnersSally will Beamish be announced during & Scottishthe Festival in September Chamber 2015 at Bowhill, Orchestra near Selkirk Flodden commemorative commission THE CHALLENGE The valleys of Ettrick and Yarrow were the cradle of many of the finest of the great Border Ballads. The challenge for poetsVisual in 2015 is to Artsbring that & tradition Crafts into the present day, with the making of ballads set within fifty years of 2015. exhibitions, installations and workshops THE RULES AllSpoken ballads will be Word judged anonymously and the name of the entrant must not appear on the original. There is an entry fee of £5.00 per ballad Thecreative challenge conversations, is open to anyone throughout readings and andoutside workshops Scotland. Entrants must be 16yrs or over. Ballads must not have been previously published, accepted for publication, or currently entered in another competition. Entries cannot be returned. No more then 3 entries per person

The ballads should . Adhere to the convention of telling a story, . Be written in regular metre and rhyme. . Be between 20 and 200 lines in length. . Be written in contemporary Scots, including Border Scots, Teri, or and Galloway dialect, or English, including Northumbrian and Cumbrian dialects. . Use subject matter within last 50 years

HOW TO ENTER 1) Two titled but unsigned copies of your poem. 2) A separate sheet listing your name, address, postcode, telephone number, email address and title of your poem. 3) Cash/cheque( made out to YES arts festival) to cover your entry fee of £5 per entry

It should be delivered: By post to: YES Arts Festival, Selkirk Library Ettrick Terrace Selkirk TD7 4LE CLOSING DATE 30TH JUNE 2015.

For further information about the festival, visit: www.yesartsfestival.co.uk 40 ARTICLES

SCOTT’S TREASURES

Contemporary Writers engage with the collections at Abbotsford House through a series of workshops and events ©Kevin Greenfield Photography

Kirsty Archer -Thompson of Abbotsford Trust welcomes the audience

abroad which inspired his writing. Following the success of our first Poetry Showcase event last year,

©Kevin Greenfield Photography we are delighted to work with CABN again and encourage local writers to follow in Scott’s footsteps Sir Walter Scott addressing the audience as they take inspiration from our fascinating collection.’ Scott’s Treasures was an exciting partnership project between the Abbotsford Trust and the Creative Poets interested in Sir Walter Scott’s magnificent Arts Business Network (CABN). The project, collection of quirky treasures were invited through which ran through 2014, built on a Borders Poets’ a national call to take part in three workshops at Showcase held at Abbotsford in November 2013 Abbotsford House in June 2014 to inspire new which inspired both partners to develop further poems around the collections. The workshops opportunities for contemporary writers to engage were run by Borders based poets Julian Colton, with the eclectic collection at Abbotsford. Anita John and Dorothy Alexander who led the poets through different approaches and forms of The concept of the Scott’s Treasures project poetry. Dr Sandra Mackenzie of the Abbotsford was developed by Dr Sandra Mackenzie of the Trust illuminated the stories behind the individual Abbotsford Trust and Jules Horne (CABN Advocate objects, or ‘treasures’ and these formed the starting for Literature), and led to a successful funding bid to point of new writing over the summer. The three The Scottish Book Trust (Live Literature Funding). lead poets – Julian, Anita and Dorothy – provided On the launch of the project early last year, valuable feedback and review over the summer to Dr Sandra Mackenzie said: ‘Sir Walter Scott the individual workshop participants. described Abbotsford as “a museum for living in” All poets were then offered the opportunity of and filled his home with an astonishing collection reading their work alongside the three lead poets of artefacts, objects and treasures from home and at a Showcase in the Library of Abbotsford House THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 41

two performance poems.

It is hoped in the longer term to produce an anthology of poems and images from the project, and there are already further ideas for new writing projects, continuing the vibrant partnership with Abbotsford Trust.

Many thanks to Dr Sandra Mackenzie, Kirsty Archer-Thompson and staff at Abbotsford Trust, to Jules Horne, Stuart Delves, Ellie Zeegen, Janet Coulson, John Nichol, Kevin Greenfield and to Julian Colton, Anita John and Dorothy Alexander for inspiring and supporting the poets through the process. And… of course to the individual poets who took part in Scott’s Treasures, for their wonderful new work.

Mary Morrison, Creative Arts Business Network (Scottish Borders Council)

Scott’s Treasures was made possible through Live Literature Funding from the Scottish Book Trust (Live Literature Fund), Scottish Borders Council and the Ronald Duncan Literary Foundation. ©Kevin Greenfield Photography A selection of the poetry which was generated Edwina Lugg through the workshops was published in the in November 2014. The event was structured as previous edition of the Eildon Tree. Reprinted to a ‘virtual tour of the house through poetry’. Each accompany this article are poems by the 3 Lead of the 16 poets who took part had been inspired by Poets from the Scott’s Treasures project – Julian different objects in different rooms of the house, Colton, Anita John and Dorothy Alexander. including: the head of Robert the Bruce in the Hallway, a Toadstone amulet in the Study, Gasoliers www.scottsabbotsford.com and portraits of Scott and his French wife Charlotte www.cabn.info Charpentier in the Chinese Drawing Room. In the week before the Showcase, poets attended a skills performance workshop with Ellie Zeegen and Janet Coulson from Firebrand Theatre Company, who sensitively led them through various warm up and performance techniques which were invaluable for building the confidence of those who had less experience of reading their work in public. Ellie and Janet also provided support and staging of the event on the evening of the Showcase itself. An added surprise for the audience was the appearance of Sir Walter Scott himself (played by John Nichol) who led the audience from the Hallway to the Library, and introduced each poet in turn. It was an unforgettable experience for the audience who assembled that night in the candlelit atmosphere of the Library to listen to the range of voices and poetry forms – which also included a sung poem and 42 ARTICLES

SCOTT’S TREASURES POEMS But the loyal distaff, female line Will endure, hold everything together Carry him into the glorious future Support his legacy beyond time’s clouded horizon. Oh, the irony, the paradox We ghosts persist by mutual association.

Julian Colton

Raeburn’s Scott Portrait’s Response to the Return of Charlotte’s Portrait to the Library (In Haiku)

©Kevin Greenfield Photography Ah, so there you are Julian Colton They managed to bring you back I missed you, my dear. Lady Scott, née Charlotte Margaret Charpentier (1770-1826): And the dogs they too Portrait by James Saxton (fl. 1795-1828) Wondered where Charlotte had gone. Camp regards your face They have hung me back in the House again. Such a relief after Visitor Centre heat. With dog affection Here I can breathe, in this airy, light-filled room Sitting, hiding my club foot Amid the beautiful, green Chinese wallpaper For all of this time. Pneumatic pump, gaslight and chandelier. I did some writing And more deep contemplation The great man himself on the central wall While you were away Watches, weighs, my every move Quiet, kind, but proprietorial. You know I’m thankful With my wary black brown French eyes and tastes You were a very good wife An exotic fish in alien Tweed water. And fine mother too.

Broken English grates against gauche Border accents Yes, I know, I know Suspicions of a warring British nation. The things that I put you through Despite my lovely view to the Northwest It has been a trial How I sometimes miss my homeland France Crave excitement, artifice, refinement. A man has one life He grasps opportunity Oh, these petites-bourgeoisies Or falls by wayside Abbotsford is grand, but a construction A bold statement wrapped in la mystique. He has his deep drive Scots Baronial bricks and mortar transcends Or he has nothing at all Buttresses the personal, the social, political. This I do believe. So many questions: The writer, controller, auteur Did you enjoy the journey? His portrait will always be larger than mine And did you love me? My ever changing face frozen in this dark picture Saxton – not renowned Raeburn or Landseer Ah, yes, I suppose Expression lacks natural youthful flamboyance. I always put myself first. But then, don’t all men? Oui, he observes me now Senses, feels my unease My womb-like study: Knows I’ll surely put him and the children first. Did debt and books shut you out How he disregards our constant fears and worries For eternity? His mushrooming debts, fame and reputation Is slowly killing us all– Anne, Sophia and me. Julian Colton THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 43

Georgian Armchair in Scott’s Library

You’re different. The arms and feet of other chairs turn inwards: enclose and shield.

But you! Your arms stretch away in padmasana, open the heart and lungs to send breath to those you love,

transform into the sure necks ©Kevin Greenfield Photography of eagles, ready to face whatever may come, Anita John watchful both left and right.

The Wallace Chair Below your feather-dressed seat Read the oak chair in Walter Scott’s close room, your four clawed feet that one man, done to death by felon hand hold gently onto four round eggs. was guarding well his father’s land. Wallace, Were you Charlotte’s chair? Elderslie Knight, born of a common bond to break the cords of Lion’s rule Anita John and bring such wrath upon himself as no-one would wish on anyone else. Trace the carve of thistle, heather, leaf, rock, all that remains now of Robroyston House. Stirling keeps his sword, Scotland his heart. His death place is scarred by Smithfield Mart. All men adored must also endure hate; alive must also die. For all who fall, which man can full forgive while he still cries?

Anita John ©Kevin Greenfield Photography Italicised words are taken from part of the inscription Dorothy Alexander on the Wallace Chair at Abbotsford House.

Ward Against Witchcraft Mary (Toadstone Amulet) cum plurimis aliis For one thousand merks you may borrow me killed on wood to place around the sweet, plump neck skull bound with gold thread of your new-born babe. I will protect her from fairies, for I am toad the blade-smith’s axe and what is toad remains toad. I will not translating, by his own hand, sovereign relic allow spite and sadness to enter her cradle. Wear me and she will not prick her finger, hair bone heart-string eat the poisoned apple, torn be sequestered away in the secrecy of night. eye-witnesses salvaged impressions One thousand merks, you say? circumstance mechanism history Am I not worth it? For I am bufonite, all human ornament destroyed at the execution cast from the head of a living toad, placed in ritual on the red-cloth bed. beads cross wound-colour velvet You have your doubts? black satin adorned with day’s recess Oh, but I will smooth your brow, Dorothy Alexander watch over your whelp while crows clamour. Look! See how they caw, caw overhead, cum plurimis aliis as with many others call for a change, a changeling? [Words of poem all found in Scott’s Treasures poetry workshops handout.] Anita John 44 ARTICLES

as boys, we used to thread its dim streets playing HUGH MACDIARMID AND THE ‘Jock, Shine the Light’, and race over the one bridge, BORDERS OF SCOTLAND past the factory, and over the other, with the lamp reflections wriggling like eels at intervals in the Scotland is made out of cities and the country and the racing water, had an indubitable magic of its own), sea, which means it is so much more, as an imagined but by virtue of the wonderful variety and quality of space, a geography of the mind, than its centres of the scenery in which it is set. The delights of sledging population. This is why demographics are never on the Lamb Hill or Murtholm Brae; of gathering enough. And the way in which this might best be hines in the Langfall; of going through the fields imagined is there in the work of Hugh MacDiarmid. of Baggara hedged in honeysuckle and wild roses, Coming from Langholm, MacDiarmid might through knee-deep meadowsweet to the scrog nut be considered a son of , but he wood and gathering the nuts or craband-apples always claimed that his identity as a Borderer was there; of blaeberrying on Warblaw or the Castle Hill; paramount. He reimagined and revitalised this of dookin, and guddlin’ or making islands in the Esk identity in his poetry, supremely. That he also did or Ewes or Wauchope and lighting stick fires on them this in polemical prose essays, politically determined and cooking potatoes in tin cans – these are only and inflammatory, need not concern us so much a few of the joys I knew, in addition to the general here as the quality of his poems, which remains. He ones of hill climbing and penetrating the five glens rejuvenated the Scots language, giving it literary which (each with its distinct character) converge authority of immense reach. He reinvented the upon or encircle the town – Eskdale, Wauchopedale, Scottish character as multiple, diverse, not to conform Tarrasdale, Ewesdale and, below the town to any single stereotype or set of stereotypes. In this Carlislewards, the Dean Banks. sense, he opposed caricature. This set his work against lazy thinking, and continues to make it a challenge to I had the fortune to live as a boy readers. In a world a’ columbe and colour-de-roy For MacDiarmid, the Borders extended all along As gin I’d had Mars for the land o’ my birth the line, from Solway to Tweed, and his writing is Instead o’ the earth. imbued with the sense that the enemy – not a physical threat of bloody violence, but a far more insidious Nae maitter hoo faur I’ve travelled sinsyne threat of intellectual and ideological difference – was The cast o’ Dumfriesshire’s aye in me like wine; never far away, and had to be resisted, self-consciously And my sangs are gleids o’ the candent spirit and forever. This enemy was not simply to be defined Its sons inherit. by national identity but by intellectual and cultural authority, and exists anywhere, and at all times, within As a boy, MacDiarmid had an insatiable appetite for Scotland as much as outwith the Borders, and all books and an intellectual curiosity to find out about through human history. The magnitude of his work is everything. He read all the writing he could get his of this scale. hands on, including the contents of the Langholm His quality as a poet connects him to all the great town library. And yet he also had a marvellously writers of the world, and in that sense, his art is sensual appetite for the natural world – he loved the universal, about deeply human things, both qualities seasons, the hills and the rivers of his native place, and and failings. Yet at the same time it arises from his once said that as a young man he could tell exactly own time and place, and is unimaginable coming from where he was in Langholm by the different sounds of anywhere other than Scotland, and could not have the running water of the three rivers, the Wauchope, originated anywhere other than the Borders. the Esk and the Ewes. This bringing together of He writes about the Borders so lovingly it is surely intellectual strength and sensuality, thoughtfulness impossible to resist. In his essay, Growing up in and the physical world, was at the heart of his vision. Langholm, he wrote: Then there was the First World War. He had been a reservist since 1908 and was called After journeying over most of Scotland, England up to join the British army in 1916. He came to see the and central, southern and eastern Europe, as well as conflict as the inevitable outcome of the innate self- America, Siberia and China, I am of the opinion that destruction embodied in imperial values. However, ‘my native place’ – the Muckle Toon of Langholm, two events which occurred during that war, the Irish in Dumfriesshire – is the bonniest place I know: by uprising in 1916 and the Russian Revolution in 1917, virtue not of the little burgh in itself (though that provided two co-ordinate turning points in his life. has its treasurable aspects, and on nights when, His vision and creative output became fiercely driven THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 45 as he witnessed the scale of violently wasted human drawn directly from the Ballads, such as Andrew potential in the war. This was amplified in terms of the Greig’s novel Fair Helen (2013) or David Greig’s play sheer number of lives squandered, and this, in turn, The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart (2011). These increased his awareness that there is always more authors draw on the Ballads not only for thematic than one way of telling the story. Different stories, he inspiration but also for philosophical understanding. understood, were beginning in Ireland and Russia. So Long before them, that understanding stood he asked himself, what might be started in Scotland? MacDiarmid in good stead, and is at the heart of his This realisation of what has been wasted, what is at greatest later works, On a Raised Beach, Lament for stake, and what might be made of the world, is at the the Great Music, In Memoriam James Joyce and The heart of his work and vitalises his poetry. Kind of Poetry I Want. Almost every one of MacDiarmid’s best poems In 1967 MacDiarmid wrote a poem simply entitled is structured through an enactment of dramatic The Borders, in which he describes and praises his tension, beginning with a moment of piercing personal native place: isolation, revealing human vulnerability, loss, grief, risk taken, cost demanded, price paid, followed by a This is the land I love greater vision of what this signifies in the global or Whaur I was born and bred cosmic totality, the worth of such risk, its consequence And I come back to it noo of tragedy or gain, its delivery of fulfilment of potential As a man micht come back frae the dead. or devastation of possibility. Consider a selection of He begins with acknowledging the faur fuller and poems and see how this structure applies. richer life / The Borders had when I was a lad with In Empty Vessel, the young mother’s song of grief ‘a routh o’ sang / And prose and all the great writers, at the loss of her child is more meaningful than all the from Burns and Scott to Hogg and Stevenson, the world, the winds that blow over it, the light that curves anonymous authors of the Ballads, Thomas Carlyle: round it. In The Eemis Stane, the midnight earth in the cosmos is rich with human stories and truths that The hert o’ mankind is naked here cannot be read from a distance; they are like words on As naewhaur else and access gi’es a gravestone, covered by moss, lichen and snowdrifts To the haill range o’ human passions, of time and false rumour. A similar structure pertains Joys, sorrows, triumphs, tragedies. in The Watergaw, in A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle repeatedly, in To Circumjack Cencrastus and You meet them at ilka turn – there’s no’ throughout his career. A bend in the road that disna disclose In the 1930s, Lenin was crucial to MacDiarmid as A glimpse o’ King Arthur yet, or the soond he seemed to deliver a kind of liberation that at the Some horn o’ Elfland blows. same time opens and closes possibility. MacDiarmid demands that we think about what such a moment And in the people of this part of Scotland he invested might lead to, if it were to succeed. This is all the his greatest hopes: more difficult for us to read now, a century later, knowing how badly it failed. But a poem like The Here whaur the Romans were halted Dead Leibknecht gives us the argument in miniature: And the Angles thrawn oot working people are depicted, liberated from factory The bulwark o’ Scots independence regimentation (for industrial dehumanisation, we Is still as pooerfu’ and resolute. might substitute military uniformity of mind, the deadened imagination, religious fanaticism, capitalist He draws his poem to an end deploring the atomic indifference or numbness to history), but is the result lums at Chapelcross, prophetic of the hopes to end the of the revolution freedom to build better lives or nuclear presence imposed upon Scotland, but he also destruction of all that might be? The skull lies smiling draws attention to something ineffable in the Borders under the earth. The memento mori is sinister, and in Scotland generally: mocking, or maybe rather a permanent reminder of And weel may it be remembered the value mortality places on each one of us, insists England’s doon there but as True Tammas fund that we recognise and act upon. To the Nor’ East the Borders slide into Fairyland. It is a sense of the value of human life in the actual There’s nae divide ’twixt Scottish and magic world that connects him most profoundly with the grund. Border Ballads, and by virtue of that, also to Burns and Scott, and all the great Scottish writers – including Yet MacDiarmid was also well aware of the contemporary novelists and playwrights – who have practicalities of day-to-day politics. After visiting 46 ARTICLES

Ireland in 1928, he wrote: What are needed now are All militarist authority, all imperial power, is worth not poets and fiery propagandists and rebel leaders, nothing compared to the piercing beauty of this but administrators, economists, and practical experts. exquisite theme, and when heard, even without the He spells it out: autonomy is a delusion as long as words, played on a fiddle, only, it is, like the tune of there remains financial over-control by a junta of the third movement of Sibelius’s third symphony, international financiers. something everyone should give themselves a present Such considerations are as pertinent in the early of, and keep in their heads forever. More: Stevenson’s twenty-first century as they were when MacDiarmid song-cycle Border Boyhood sets MacDiarmid wrote them. We all still ask ourselves, and must poems for tenor and piano accompaniment, was continue to ask ourselves: What might be done, and commissioned and first performed by Peter Pears who cares enough to try to do anything worthwhile, with Stevenson at the piano in 1971, and remains to take the risks, win the triumphs, recognise the wonderfuly evocative, ideal for concert performance. differences and make the most of them? And A Wheen Tunes for Bairns tae Spiel (1963) is Towards the end of 2014, the writer and a set of three miniatures for solo piano, perfect for broadcaster Billy Kay produced and narrated a series piano practice for all children everywhere, for its of programmes for BBC Radio Scotland on the history contrapuntalistical glee, challenge, and tonal range, of Scottish literature, calling on many contributions from poignancy to wildness, from sorrow to dance. from writers, scholars, artists, commentators of all When our oldest son was learning piano, I asked his kinds. Yet he would be the first to confirm that it teacher about it and she got it and he practised, and only touched the surface of a vast store of material got better, and felt the achievement of it because of the broadcasting rarely deals with at all. How many challenge. These things are good. But how many hours hours on BBC and STV are given to writers, artists, are given to any of these writers, artists, composers, composers, and specifically, we might note seven on Scotland’s TV and radio, broadcast into all homes acknowledged greats from each area: Burns, Hogg, as natural to the birthright of all of us, regardless of Scott, Stevenson, MacDiarmid, Grassic Gibbon, specialist subscriptions and personal preferences? MacLean; Raeburn, McTaggart, Fergusson, Johnstone, Until recently, no school in Scotland was obliged in Gillies, Eardley, Redpath; Carver, Mackenzie, any way to teach Scottish history or Scottish literature. MacCunn, McEwen, Scott, Stevenson and Beamish. No wonder MacDiarmid felt lonely. Note the Borderers in those lists: almost all the The culture itself extends beyond any individual writers, the artists, major figures in any history of through time and across geography, but without modern art in these islands, William Johnstone and MacDiarmid our ways of approaching and William Gillies, and Joan Eardley and Anne Redpath, interrogating the culture, and matters of cultural value, both painters of remarkable Borders landscapes, and would be seriously diminished. the composers John Blackwood McEwen, whose Three What MacDiarmid allowed us to understand deeply Border Ballads and Solway Symphony are wonderful was the counterpoint of diversity and dividedness. works for full orchestra, F.G. Scott, whose song- Scotland, he insisted, was multiform, plural, rich settings of Burns, William Soutar and MacDiarmid are in possibility, but in fact, often and in many places, unmatched, and the astonishing Ronald Stevenson, divided and sectarian, violent and self-destructive. one of the greatest of modern composers, who died on How should the potential be realised for the benefit of 28 March 2015. Stevenson left a legacy of major work, people? utterly unique in its range, variety and scale, which The next generation of Scotland’s poets responded deserves full exposition to the public. Many more to and extended his vision. From MacDiarmid people might be enlivened by knowing it than anyone to , the evolution is clear: the suspects. Stevenson is famous for the epic Passacaglia comprehensive, changing idea of the process of on DSCH (1962), but he also wrote some of the most becoming that Scotland has always been engaged perfect miniatures. A’e Gowden Lyric is one of the in was MacDiarmid’s provenance, then a particular most adult, prayerful, secular, heartfelt songs, the loyalty to local attachment was evident in the poets simple text from a longer poem by MacDiarmid, sings who were writing through and after the Second out clearly: World War. Sorley MacLean, Norman MacCaig, Edwin Morgan, Iain Crichton Smith, George Mackay Better a’e gowden lyric Brown, Robert Garioch, Sydney Goodsir Smith Than the castle’s soaring waa were pre-eminent; then since the 1970s, confidence Better a’e gowden lyric grew and was evident among women, especially Liz Than onythin’ else avaa! Lochhead, Kathleen Jamie, Meg Bateman, Sheena Blackhall, Jackie Kay. In every poet’s work, local THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 47 attachment and personal voice were in changing of their running. As a Borderer, he knew about the alliance with international forms of address, the widest differences between things, even between these rivers. possible readership. And between these identities, But he also knew the larger song they all are part of. international, gendered, geographically local, And still, that river goes singing on. linguistically specific, the national provenance was crucial, still to be constructed in political statehood, Alan Riach still to be riskily fought for, a triumph still to be won. MacDiarmid’s practice was to take any situation LIFE EXPERIENCE AND MEMOIR – wherever you are – and drive it to the furthest WRITING extremes of possibility, where it starts to break down – and then to break it down. It breaks down and you Having a penchant for reading books translated from fall through to deeper ground, more secure ground, other languages, and hence of different cultures, I the foundation ground at a deeper level. And then his recently devoured a nearly four-hundred-page book practice is to take that situation to where it starts to translated from Swedish. The book, The Wandering break down. That was his methodology. That was his Pine, by the Swedish writer Per Olov Enquist, is habitual, characteristic practice. written elegantly as his first life novel. A memoir, in Now, anywhere along that route you can drop fact. in and say, he was an extremist, a nationalist, a It was an enjoyable read. The thought of communist, he was advocating the Scots language, he writing a few more chapters for my ongoing memoir was advocating the Gaelic language – but none of these project stayed in my mind unrelentingly for several are conclusive priorities. His job, as he understood it, days. I was not disappointed. Within a fortnight, was to imagine all these things, to write them, in works I was able to write two more chapters. I had not of art, and thereby allow others to imagine them. comprehended that someone else’s memoir could be That is to say, he was a writer, a poet, and intrinsically so enlightening, instructive and inspiring. opposed by practice to the failure that is physical That neatly brings me to the subject of life conflict or bloodshed. That was what he did. experience, the linchpin of every form of writing, not least memoirs and life novels. We keep on There’s mair in birds than men ha’e faddomed yet. accumulating life experience throughout the years – Tho’ maist churn oot the stock sangs o’ their kind from childhood to the time when we are in our eighties There’s aiblins genius here and there; and aince and nineties – even if we are not really aware of it. ’Mang whitebeams, hollies, siller birks – There are a hundred-and-one different sources of The tree o’ licht – achieving this invaluable gift. But parental mentoring, I mind our roots, our education, our place of work and our I used to hear a blackie mony a nicht travels are the main fountain-heads. Singin’ awa’ t’an unconscionable ’oor To put life experience in perspective: there Wi’ nocht but the water keepin’t company are three important elements of literary writing. One, (Or nocht that ony human ear could hear.) your passion for writing – the unquenchable impulse – And wondered if the blackie heard it either (demonic compulsion) to keep on writing. Two, life Or cared whether it was singin’ tae or no’! experience itself and lastly, your ability to spin the O there’s nae sayin’ what my verses awn information or knowledge acquired through life To memories like these. Ha’e I come back experience. To find oot? Or to borrow mair? Or see But why is life experience such a useful ally Their helpless puirness to what gar’d them be? for writers? It’s because the experience is natural, Late sang the blackie but it stopt at last. as it has been acquired in a practical way, i.e. first The river still ga’ed singin’ past. hand: you have interacted with people in their natural environment; you have conversed with them face to He was a Borderer in more than one sense. His poetry face to know the facts and the issues, taken in their performs or enacts possibilities, lacks inhibition, emotions and have empathised with them. The overall offers the challenges and self-extensions all people information gained, therefore, is broad-based and all- might healthily take up. It demands that you think encompassing. This is crucial – a mark of good writing. things through, seriously. It demands more than many This article now explores my theme in some readers in Scotland have ever given him. But it flows detail through the prism of the following two chapters into the carrying streams, each of the three rivers that of my memoir, alluded to above. They pertain to two come to a confluence in his native Langholm, as he different environments and cultures – India and noted, and that he could identify simply by the sound England. 48 ARTICLES

ONE – IN STITCHES them comfortable and happy. In keeping with that ethos, today you have been a powerful source of Early 1960. I had recently graduated as entertainment for the village folks and all those people a doctor from Patna University in India. It was a along the way during your four-mile race. A good moment of great joy, not least a door-opener for my start to your medical career. future journey (1969) to London. By mere coincidence, Words of wisdom – who could argue with that? the occasion turned out to be cause for a double celebration: my latest academic achievement and the TWO – MICROCOSMIC VISION celebration of Holi. Holi is a colourful Hindu spring festival Married? celebrated in honour of Lord Krishna. It’s equivalent to No, doctor. Christmas in importance on a Hindu’s yearly calendar. Children? Colourful? It’s because during the festivities, people Three. customarily apply coloured powder to the faces of their What a blunder, I wondered. families, friends and relatives and sprinkle coloured I looked at the patient sheepishly and water on one another. At home and at friends’ houses promptly apologized for my reckless way of too. The family reunion during Holi, like all other questioning. The patient, an urbane and lively woman religious festivals, is also the time for indulging in in her early thirties, looked puzzled. sumptuous food and drink. There is nothing to be sorry about, she said. While visiting a friend’s house in the village, I don’t have to be married to have children. It’s as I was persuaded to have a cold drink mixed with simple as that. She was trying her best to pacify me. bhang (leaves and flower-tops of the Cannabis plant). Somehow, I was not convinced by her clarification. It’s usual to have such a drink during Holi and is Having arrived in the UK not long before – at the tail not considered illegal in India – not at that time, end of 1969 – I was not in tune with local customs. anyway. I had no previous experience of taking that The following morning, as soon as I arrived in sort of cocktail. Within a few minutes I felt euphoric. the ward, the ward sister asked me to have a word with My euphoria soon reached a crescendo, resulting in the patient. continuous loud laughter, as if I had inhaled laughing I am in trouble, I muttered. I went straight to gas (nitrous oxide). I became hyperactive and shouted: see the patient, pondering over the ward sister’s wry I must see my doctor now. smile. I started sprinting towards my hometown, I was expecting the patient to be on her own. Daltonganj, where our doctor practised. I was being To my surprise, she was surrounded by a gentleman of followed by two of my village friends, possibly to her age and three bustling children aged between four ensure my safety. Apart from the marked euphoria, I and ten years. was more or less in control of my senses. Ah, sorry to bother you doctor, and thanks By the time I reached the doctor’s surgery, for coming to see me. breathless and exhausted that spring afternoon, my She then introduced me to her partner and their laughter was already on the wane. The doctor was three children – now standing to attention and looking relaxing in his surgery, reading his newspaper. puzzled. They must have been wondering what the fuss You seem to be very weary, he said, with a was all about! degree of apprehension. Have you been jogging? And, There is no need, then, to worry. So could congratulations. He was aware of my recent success my partner now take the children to school? she said, at the finals of my medical examination. I was too awaiting my approval. I was too embarrassed to look at drained to answer his query. By then my two friends her, let alone say anything. I just nodded. had caught up with me. They too looked worn out, but It was my first glimpse of the tolerance and they told the doctor the whole story in chapter and understanding of people in this great country. My verse. It was quite humiliating to listen to their account patient, uncomfortable as she was, by seeing me upset, of my uncalled-for adventure. I was soon back to my went to that length to convince me that I was not in the normal self. What an experience. wrong. Incredible. It was my doctor who stole the show. A All in all, the event provided me a loquacious, worldly-wise man in his mid-sixties, microcosmic illustration of admirable British character he nodded slowly a few times and pronounced his and resilience. That fine spirit, happily, continues version of events in his characteristic convoluted unabated to this day. style: A doctor’s job is to heal others and make THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 49

How is that for meticulous delineation of facts, for showing emotions, utilizing senses and the overall credibility of the narrative. If further proof is needed concerning the importance of life experience, the works of the novelist are shining examples. Her varied pursuits – studying law, becoming a social worker, travelling and working in Botswana and Saudi Arabia – speak volumes for her life experiences. Going by her past and current literary achievements, there is every indication that her writings will endure. Not a ten minute wonder by any means. The attraction of a memoir is that you don’t need to place events chronologically, unlike an autobiography. In a memoir, the events could be discussed in any order as long as the narrative is convincing, inspiring and written with passion. As the readers are the best judges of our work, they would ponder: that’s how they would deal with a problem if it comes their way. That’s the key message to convey in a memoir or a life novel: you equip them – the audience – with confidence and a sense of dependability. A fact worth noting if you are in a quandary as to how to go about writing your memoir: go to your roots. Most likely, you won’t be disappointed. You will have a sporting chance of success in your endeavour. Every family has its own reservoir of events and secrets. You need to delve into it. No wonder there is now a great interest in writing memoirs and life novels – an important genre in itself. Something else. When I finish writing my memoir, I would try my best to get it published through a traditional publisher. I am not against the new technology. But, if for some reason the technology fails – and it’s not beyond the limits of possibility – the entire account of my life would just evaporate. No, it won’t be available to anyone else including the future generations. So there you have it. My message is loud and clear: do not waste your life experience. You have it in your head. Use it. The memories on paper are bound to give a sense of fulfilment. And, who knows, if you write it with confidence and passion, others may like to emulate your handiwork. As I did Enquist’s.

Raghu B. Shukla

50 BOOK REVIEWS

the poor such as in Refugees and Billionaires, for instance. Clark is much more astute an observer when the poetry is driven by a particular setting or equally by a personal situation experienced at first hand. For example, in Ward 52 the poem is all the better for the intrusion of the poet’s twelve year old self and in Whilst Working at Subway the setting alone gives the reader more to cling on to as opposed to the emotionally distanced ‘we shoppers’ of Pink Cashmere despite the capitalised A SCARLET THREAD HOW TO DESTROY ‘Me’. What I really like about Clark By Elizabeth Burns By Sara A Clark is that she greatly appreciates the poetic genre and its potential and Poetry Pamphlet FeedARead.com Publishing is looking for consolations beyond ISBN: 978-0-9928946-2-7 Poetry mere material wealth, as in the 109 Pages humorous Take What’s Yours. A short pamphlet of ten poems ISBN:978-1-78510-478-7 This isn’t the finest piece in the centred around the life and work collection by a long way, but it of one-time Borders-based artist This is Hawick-based poet Sara shows Clark’s writing heart is in Anne Redpath(1895-1965) and the Clark’s first poetry collection. the right place which will stand sometimes strange interactions Containing a rich array of her in good stead in the future, as with Burns’ own life. There’s lots sestinas, sonnets, villanelles and will focusing her obvious writing of reflected and nuanced colour all manner of free verse pieces talent into stricter structures. in these poems and though they which accentuate rhythm and It’s no surprise that three of the strive to catch the essence and style a marked vocal style, you can strongest poems in the collection of the painter it’s a little lost in the imagine the poet reciting in are sestinas. A difficult form to details rather than locating her her kitchen or at her one-time grapple with at the best of times, true spirit. Still, by the penultimate workplace in Hawick’s Subway Clark manages to do so with a poem, Spain, the vagaries and as she constructed the poems. degree of success this reviewer can subtle shifts in her life and work This invocatory tone lends the only admire. Perhaps with such are beginning to shine through: collection an immediate and young talent to burn Clark needs appealing feel. This is poetry in the structural discipline such forms A harsher, starker country, the strictest poetic sense and you offer. Concluded by the engaging sometimes sinister. have to admire Clark’s ambition extended piece Faust: A Dramatic The blacks and whites of it, the as she gets to grips with the daily Poem, How To Destroy showcases gold barque. circumstances of life – work, a poet who clearly has much to say growing up, the vicissitudes about life and the world. Given Spain, says a critic, has done of love and relationships and, time and application to her craft, something to her. curiously for such a young writer, a and that Clark can avoid the pitfall preoccupation with death. Actually, of writing what she thinks others (Spain) there’s a lot of death in Sara Clark’s would like her to write, an easy work and she often brings to mind temptation in the Borders where A Scarlet Thread is successful in mature male writers such as WH folk like to celebrate place and the that it makes you want to learn Auden, Louis MacNeice and Dylan status quo rather than deconstruct more about the life and art of Anne Thomas. No bad thing in this or show the area’s less flattering Redpath. Perhaps this is a project reviewer’s opinion. Sometimes in aspects, Clark has the potential to waiting to be expanded into a Clark’s desire to write ‘large’ she develop into a leading poetic light larger collection? falls into the realms of the abstract in the Borders and beyond. or in other set pieces into a black Julian Colton and white world of the rich versus Julian Colton THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 51

TUMOUR RUMOUR with My children and my dad, By Kathleen Mansfield My brother and my cousins… Gratitude is shown with I want £6 those caring nurses, I want those Available from: clever surgeons, I want that team Whitie’s Book Shop, Peebles of healers’ and need of closeness Maggie’s at Western General by ‘I want a lover fully formed. Hospital (Contact Mark Cooper Later comes How do I feel?... in 0131 5373131) two parts. Emotions: rubbery, Author: kathleenmansfield8@ rough, broken orange peel. Terrific gmail.com imagery! Not surprisingly, past and present often merge in the writer’s This remarkable little book takes ‘musings’, but I was particularly us on a journey that is at times moved by Holy Water, Kathleen’s frightening, for we all fear cancer, description of her mother’s death at times hilarious, but always in a hospital in Billericay. Having thoughtful and deeply moving. KILLOCHRIES worked there as a medical student By Jim Carruth The author, Kathleen Mansfield, maybe gave it an emotional edge was diagnosed with breast cancer for me, but this is a powerful piece Freight Poetry, Freight Books in October 2013. She took to of writing that conveys that feeling 131 Pages writing (‘musings’) for herself, to of utter helplessness on the loss of ISBN: 978-1-908754-91-2 herself… about herself, elements a loved one without even a whiff that bring out the best in a writer, Glasgow Laureate Jim Carruth’s of sentimentality. Plus the love as a way of coping with the first full poetry collection is part for her mother lives on through maelstrom of emotions she was rites of passage, part lament for a her writing. By contrast, reference experiencing. Far from feeling disappearing, or fast disappearing, to lovesick Jeremy E. Johnson, burdened by internal monologue, way of farming life before the at the end on the book, is a hoot. as Kathleen alludes to in her Euro millions and quotas roll Whatever happened to Jeremy, preface, this reader felt privileged in. Killochrie is a ramshackle who read Plato and who looked to witness the strength of human Scottish farm overseen by a God- liked Woody Allen, I couldn’t help spirit that comes across in this fearing, Bible quoting old farmer wondering on closing the book? But diverse collection of prose and into which intrudes a long lost above all else, I also felt I’d been poetry written whilst the author younger non believing relative taken on a meaningful journey. As confronted despair, grief, fear and trying to escape the modern a doctor, I have known thousands uncertainty. Despite what she was world and his own cares and upon thousands of patients who going through, Kathleen wrote tribulations. Predictably the book have been through what the author on and at times allowed humour is about the coming together of has had to go through; never before to take over in riotous bursts. the two opposing views of life have I been taken to the emotional I couldn’t top chuckling when to reach a shared empathy and places visited in Tumour Rumour reading Confusion. The opening understanding. Still, this is an in quite the same way. This is stanza asks Who do I begin?... Who immensely enjoyable and profound a unique collection and will be are you?.. perhaps, we learn, Some read. Carruth draws his two main treasured by those who buy it. They sort of virus on the Computer? characters, and attendant farm life will also know that all proceeds Being Too tired to really think and surrounding nature, totally go to Maggie’s Centres, started the author then bids Goodnight in the round reflecting with great up in Edinburgh in 1996 but now to grumpy knickers. Yes, as she insight on the four seasons in with seventeen centres across the says, Thank God for a sense of the process. A simple plot and country attached to cancer units. humour. God? There is reference, structure interwoven with snatches Maggie Keswick Jencks, also a too, to a Catholic Upbringing of gospel works to great effect as victim of cancer, believed fellow (‘unbringing, Whoops’) but it Carruth writes surely in spare, sufferers should not lose the joy of is human relationships, and compelling prose-verse which living in the fear of dying. Tumour above all the love shown by her flows burn freely and makes for Rumour bursts with the joy of son and daughter, that shine an easy, undemanding read. But living. through. The short poem I it’s the depiction of the older

Want says everything, starting farming man which dominates this Oliver Eade 52 BOOK REVIEWS

collection. There are twelve poems outward. It has us peering from focused principally on various a safe place, through a wet mist aspects of his work and personality of breath on a cold pane of glass as he strives to keep the farm going into the vague warmth of another and attend to his blind, bed-ridden human form, determined to focus mother, while coming to terms on the humanity of its subject. with his younger relative’s urbane What a perfect tribute to his poetry world view: it is.

Today I lecture him Individually, the poems which on sonnet construction, make up this collection are compare it to the dyke windows with unparalleled views we are building back up. of their subjects –that they happen to be built into a pristine fortress As he seeks out is no accident. Whether misty That elusive right stone or clear, closed or open, these I talk of fit and position, COLD LIGHT OF windows offer exceptional views Metre and line-length. MORNING of the streets, hospitals, gardens By Julian Colton and graveyards which form the He points to the hole perfectly-lit landscapes of the left at ground level. Poetry poet’s memories. It’s the weygate spaces Cultured Llama 2015 that lat in the life. 74 Pages And what landscapes they are. ISBN 978-0-9926485-7-2 Taken as a whole these poems offer Viii poet the reader an incomparable vista A MA in American Literature, an – taking all who turn the book’s This is a collection which brings editor and educator of all aspects pages on a unique journey which to mind RS Thomas among of writing, widely published in a starts in Manchester and soars numerous others and will probably huge array of journals, magazines, through Scotland with apparently seal Carruth’s burgeoning and with three other poetry effortless grace. reputation. collections to his name, poet Julian Colton has every reason to rest on “Taken as a whole” – an easy thing Julian Colton his laurels. Fortunately for us, it to say, perhaps more difficult to seems he has been restless these do, considering there are over sixty past few years, during which time poems in this collection. You might he has somehow summoned into think so - but Julian makes it easy existence his magnificent fourth for his readers, with meticulously collection Cold Light of Morning. selected and structured poems which flow from theme to theme I use the word “summoned” only with unparalleled style. because, as with all important works of literature, it is difficult Take any three lines from any one to imagine this collection actually of the poems from this collection being written. First and foremost and you have a fresh lesson in how this book is a work of art. The to put into practice the age-old sleek, intriguing cover – featuring adage “Show not tell” – a phrase photography by the poet’s Colton perfectly encapsulates in daughter, Rozee Colton (a talented his poem of the same name, and artist in her own right) perfectly exemplifies in this collection. Not captures the essence of these only does he “capture the abstract” poems taken as a whole – honest – he holds it out for us to name reflection on the evening’s musings as our own, despite the deeply in the cold light of morning. The personal nature of his subjects. cover itself is expertly suggestive And in doing so, he has made his of the poet’s special style of gazing craft into art. THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 53

The closing three lines of Winter which she poignantly compares to Walk, for example - even taken the decay of a plucked lute string. out of the more complex context of Or in Summer is Late this Year, the poem as a whole, make fresh, in which an idealised summer is exquisite poetry of familiar local awaited so expectantly that the footpaths. real summer, wet and cold, passes by unappreciated. Or in Maryhill Turn and walk back from winter Shops, where the shop-fronts of bridal whiteness. Glasgow are still adorned with the Snow and ice will keep its own names of long-dead proprietors. counsel Big Time, the poem which most As I, star-flowing, glass-eyed directly addresses this theme, is river, shall too. ushered in by an Albert Einstein quote, which could stand just But the landscapes of Julian’s as well as preface to the entire describing, though beautiful collection: and literal at times, are revealed SHORT OF BREATH as complex and various fabrics By Vivien Jones The distinction between past, throughout the course of the present and future is only a Cultured Llama 2014 book. Motifs of motherhood and stubbornly persistent illusion. 84 Pages fatherhood form the warp and weft ISBN 978-0-9926485-5-8 90000 of this expertly personal tapestry, And this is strong poetry, interspersed with filaments of Three poems early on set the tone incidentally, spare and loss and desire, knotted with for Short of Breath – a strange unsentimental in its handling of unbreakable bonds of love little triptych of meditations on the passage of time. Clarity is very and blood. With the skill of an Pluto, “the ninth planet, since often the first casualty of modern accomplished Borders weaver, dwarfed”. The poems are linked poetry, but these are poems which Julian interweaves the rough thematically not merely by the pass straight through the eye and strands of life and death together subject of the dwarf planet but into the mind. Not simple, I should with a strength, skill and delicacy also by their celebration of the say, but works which honour to the which leaves the reader of this diminished, the marginalised, the utmost what should surely always book closing it with a distinct easily overlooked. Given voice be the writer’s primary duty – to feeling of having read not so much by Vivien Jones, Pluto’s relative take the reader with them as they a collection, but a novel of no small insignificance, its relegation to go. Vivien Jones takes us along importance. stature of a dubious kind; these with her everywhere she travels, things actually become virtues. and the places we go with her are And this is an enormously Unlike the “fat and gassy” Jupiter, well worth the visiting. significant book – not just for Pluto exists outside definition Colton, who has finally emerged and categories, in the galaxy of Short of Breath is available as an important British poet at potential, things yet to fully be. As through Cultured Llama the peak of his powers through its its title suggests, Short of Breath Publishing. More information on pages, but also for the Borders as is very much concerned with those its author can be found at a whole – a place often celebrated moments of becoming, the brief www.vivienjones.info. from within, but never so interstitials between absence and intimately, bitterly and tenderly presence. Thomas Clark as here, through the eyes of a local who was once a stranger among Time, too, the tick of a clock from its hills and burns – whose poems one second to the next, or the long document the lives which flicker gap between the taking of a photo among its landmarks with startling and the viewing of it. Mostly we are grace and clarity - not only as a living in the spaces between things, spellbound observer, but patiently, Jones seems to say. In Detritus, reverently, and completely in the where she invites us to consider cold light of morning. the distance between the end of a life and the extinction of its impact, Sara Clark 54 BOOK REVIEWS

Stichill Linn which go beyond the colonial expansion. His life as commonplace, find greater focus Governor in Australia, New and which benefit from a sense of Zealand and South Africa has been the poet having worked around written about extensively and his and through her subjects. Editor of legacy as one of the history makers the poetry website Poet and Geek it of these colonies, particularly New will be interesting to see what this Zealand, is assured. In his lifetime recipient of a Scottish Book Trust he was either revered or loathed in New Writer Award for poetry will equal measure. come up with next. History has not given his wife, Julian Colton Eliza any such recognition. This is the first biography to tell the story of the lives of both George and Eliza. Chessell has already published a biography of Eliza’s ROADS TO YAIR father, Richard Spencer, another SOME BORDER POEMS important figure in Australian By Bridget Khursheed colonial history. Eliza met and married George Grey when 48 pages. she was just sixteen. Without Twinlaw Publishing. a doubt, marriage is one of the Poetry. most complicated of all human ISBN: 978-0-9575913-9-4 relationships, both for those within and those without. To write about With its accompanying any marriage is challenging but photographs, locational notes to surmise about a marriage from and preface, this never less than 19th century Victorian times is interesting poetry chapbook doubly difficult. Viewed from appears to have a wider audience SEPARATE LIVES: THE the 21st century, the morals and in mind than just lovers of poetry. STORY OF SIR GEORGE sexual behaviour of our Victorian With poems inspired by the AND LADY GREY ancestors is one of hypocrisy and landscape, history and all manner By Gwen Chessell the restricted role that women of Scottish Borders subjects this played in that society, even more is indeed a poetical whistle-stop Hopping Mouse Press 2014 incomprehensible to our modern tour of the area with one eye on 376 pages PBK eyes. instructing the uninitiated on all ISBN: 978-1-326-11342-1 aspects of the Borders sensibility An innocent flirtation which in, it has to be said, a somewhat Colonial history has been took place on board a ship bound celebratory, never more than recorded and taught almost for England between a bored Eliza mildly critical style. As the preface exclusively from the point of and a naval officer, Henry Keppell says this is ‘our Borders’ made up view of men. Women have been resulted in a very Victorian display of ‘our Border folk.’ Written with virtually invisible in this version of misguided anger from her Khursheed’s layered, listing style of history. In her biography of husband. His ultimate revenge was the poems would quite easily stand the lives of Governor Sir George to lead to the couple’s separation. on their own two feet without Grey and his wife, Eliza, Chessell A separated woman in Victorian the photographs or notes and has attempted to address some of times had no rights. Chessell there is much here to catch the this imbalance and thus provide a has written of the ‘affair’ with attention of lovers of good verse. more realistic and arguably, a more compassion and attention to detail. Khursheed is at her strongest when compassionate view of probable Nor has she fallen in to the trap she throws off her observational historical events. of judgement of either George or shackles in poems such as Snow Eliza and has recorded the events storm in Asda carpark, Jethart Sir George Grey was an as dispassionately as it is possible snails, Border snow (there are lots important and well known from this distance in time. of different kinds of snow in this personality in British 19th century collection) The Reddle man and At THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 55

Chessell’s skill as a biographer future exploration of space to the to distort or stifle our thoughts is two fold. She researches her inviolable beauty of Antarctica. as to free them. The business of work very carefully to provide the Throw in the usual meditations naming things is a troublesome necessary facts and figures and she on death and life, and it’s a fair one. And yet, then takes these details to weave purview. a very human story about her Monie’s the nemm gien tae a bairn subjects. I say “usual” meditations, but in but aa mean howp fact these poems are anything Separate Lives has maps, black but quotidian. This is a mature What’s in a word? Not much but and white illustrations, a lengthy collection, a wise collection. Its what we try to put there. In these bibliography, comprehensive frequent reflections upon death “wirds”, Scott has captured much notes and an index. The Forward are authentic, not elegiac, genuine of life’s loveliness and mystery. written by Edmund Bohan from attempts to come to grips with Christchurch, New Zealand the end of existence and what Thomas Clark provides a thoughtful introduction it might mean. Considered and into the story of George and Eliza, contemplative, Wirds for the Day two very interesting people and evokes that stage in life where one their troubled marriage. is no longer searching quite so ardently for the answers, but rather Iona McGregor for the questions that make sense of everything that’s gone before. Approaching death, for Hamish Scott, seems to mean being near a new beginning, rather than a conclusion.

That doesn’t necessarily mean, I should point out, a new beginning in a religious sense. What I mean is that these are poems of renewal. Poems about the lives which will extend on after ours, and the lives which will follow. Flowers that will ALICE’S ADVENTIRS IN still grow, hope that will be born WUNNERLAUN By Lewis Carroll and clung to. After we are gone, season will follow season, and the Translatit Bi Thomas Clark Intae world will continue to turn. Wirds Glesca Scots WIRDS FIR THE DAY for the Day conveys that cycle Fiction By Hamish Scott poignantly and beautifully. Evertype 2014 The language is accessible 123 Pages The Laverock’s Nest Press throughout – non-speakers of ISBN: 978 1 78201-070-8 Poetry Scots should have few difficulties. 62 Pages In Scots as natural and unself- The Queen turnt rid wae fury, an, ISBN 9780992800574 conscious as this, the mood and efter glarin at her fir a meenit like

a wild beast, stairtit screamin “ Hamish Scott is something of a music of the poems are preserved Oaf wae her heid! Oaf wae— “ well-kent face in Scots literary somehow in a space separate from circles, and his latest collection the words themselves. Though One of the most difficult things from The Laverock’s Nest Press, it’s the words, as the title tells us, to achieve is to make the familiar Wirds for the Day, shows why. which the collection is really about. fresh and seem brand new. I Though predominantly short form Maybe that’s just a bit of imagine most folk would be and wrought in Standard Scots, misdirection. Scott despairs familiar with the quotation above the poems in this collection are repeatedly of words, our human in its original English context far from kailyard; Scott’s subjects need to use them, their inadequacy especially of course ‘Off with her range from suicide bombers to for the task in hand. Words are head…’ Even if you’ve never read the use of drones in war, from the fluid and subjective things, as apt 56 BOOK REVIEWS

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was based on a carving in the the characters, scenes, phrases grounds of Kelso Abbey. have entered the general consciousness and are readily The Witching Ground is a available to be drawn on. powerful, well written and To achieve that freshness you have researched work of fiction that to find your own way into the text will hook the reader from the to truly re-imagine it. Thomas beginning. It’s a real page turner. Clark has more than achieved that Scott is a born story teller and in his original and exciting use of I look forward to reading more Glesca Scots to tell the familiar novels from this very talented and tale. versatile writer.

There can be few better ways of Iona McGregor transforming a well told story than using the building blocks of THE WITCHING GROUND a different language. It makes By Robert S Scott the story live in the present and straddle the cultural landscape FeedARead Publications, 2015 of Lewis Carroll himself and Paperback, 398 pages Thomas Clark. The quotation ISBN-13: 978-1785105340 above is a fine example of the zest of the narrative and especially the Sometimes a novel just grips you dialogue. from the very first page and The In this translation the dialogue Witching Ground happens to be fairly zips along. one of those. Action, intrigue, believable characters and fast A good translator doesn’t just moving contemporary dialogue interpret verbatim but inhabits are all skilfully woven into this the story with their own language work of fiction, aptly subtitled – A supernatural thriller. which is of course interwoven with UP YON WIDE AND their own experiences, background LONELY GLEN and feelings. An excellent and The story begins with the Prologue: talented translator though doesn’t The Scottish Highlands – 1597. A Travellers’ Songs, lose sight of the original in the witch is burned alive. Fast forward Stories and Tunes of the process. to Chapter 1 – New York – the 21st Fetterangus Stewarts century and young Archaeology By Elizabeth Stewart - Compiled and edited by Alison McMorland What we have here is an excellent Professor, Heather Bruce whose and creatively talented translator very ancestor is this unfortunate 16th century witch, finds her Univ. Press of Mississippi in in Thomas Clark. Many times assocation with the Elphinstone career in crisis. Solution – travel when reading this the memories Institute, Univ. Of Aberdeen to Scotland with boyfriend and of previous readings simmered 2012 away in the background providing three of her students. Heather is 390 pages, 80 b&w illustrations, a solid base for the Glesca Scots to fascinated by her Scottish roots 145 musical scores, 1 map, soar and carry the story and this and it is in the Calder Castle that introduction, appendices, reader along. she starts her archaeological dig glossary, bibliography, song and here the past becomes the index, index PBK An excellent achievement. I look present, dark, threatening and ISBN 978-1-61703-308-7 forward to further volumes from disturbing. A wonderful and lovingly collected this writer whether as translator or There’s plenty for the local reader book, beautifully presented, of author of his own work. to identify with as well. The musical transcriptions, song typeface used on the cover was lyrics, memoir, stories, and lore Tom Murray taken from a group of tombstones from a matrilineal line of famed within the Jedburgh Abbey and the Traveller balladeers, musicians, inscribed stone in the frontispiece and storytellers. THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 57

Elizabeth Stewart is a highly The book is the result of a close combination. It is a labour of acclaimed singer, pianist, and partnership between Elizabeth love and friendship, enriched accordionist whose reputation Stewart and Scottish folk singer and validated by their communal has spread widely not only as an and writer Alison McMorland. knowledge. outstanding musician but as the The narrative, spanning five principal inheritor and advocate generations of women and written A relevant publication is Herd of her family and their music. First in Scots, captures the rhythms Laddie o the Glen: Songs and Life discovered by folklorists in the and idioms of Elizabeth Stewart’s of the Border Shepherd, by Willie 1950s, the Stewarts of Fetterangus, speaking voice and is extraordinary Scott which very interestingly was including Elizabeth’s mother from a musical, cultural, compiled for our own SBC Arts Jean, her uncle Ned, and her aunt sociological, and historical point of Development in 2006. Lucy, have had immense musical view. influence. Lucy in particular A labour of love, the book features As the Traditional Music Scottish became a celebrated ballad singer 145 musical transcriptions and Association Newsletter of that and in 1961 Smithsonian Folkways song lyrics, including eight original year reported, Alison McMorland released a collection of her classic piano compositions, folktale needed no introduction to ballad recordings that brought versions, rhymes and riddles, and members of the TMSA. For the family’s music and name to an eighty fascinating and evocative forty years she had collected, international audience. illustrations of the Stewart family. performed, recorded and Elizabeth Stewart, Mintlaw, published Scots song and was a Up Yon Wide and Lonely Glen is Scotland, is an outstanding leading tradition-bearer of our a significant memoir of Scottish practitioner of the traditional arts. time. Hamish Henderson wrote Traveller life, containing stories, An internationally recognized Alison stands out as one of the music, and songs from this singer, storyteller, composer, and principal modern interpreters of a prominent Traveller family. The song writer of remarkable ability, ballad singing tradition…uniting Title of the book is taken from the she has performed all over the scrupulous traditional fidelity song on page 29 of the same name: UK and made several tours of with versatile and resourceful America. She and her family have creative artistry. Willie Scott It wis up yon wide an lonely glen been visited by musicians, singers, died on 29th April 1989, close to Its shade by monys a lovely folklorists, and journalists for over 92 years of age, with a lifetime mountain fifty years. of songs and singing behind him and was a major influence on the An beyond the busy hands o men Alison McMorland, Compiler and work of Alison herself and that Twis the first time I went oot Editor, of Dunblane, Scotland, of many other singers who knew a-huntin. is a traditional singer, collector, him. Willie Scott was a unique broadcaster, teacher, and writer, figure whose significant presence, It had been tae me a happy day who over forty years has forwarded at the time of the folk song revival, bridged the old world with the The day I met my youthful fancy the cause of traditional music in her numerous recordings, new. He was a masterly tradition- She was herdin sheep on yonder publications, and classes bearer and ambassador of the knowe throughout the UK, Europe and songs and lore of the Borders as It’s the first time that I spied my the USA. recounted in his book. From the Nancy. old days of herds’ suppers and Women have been the great kirns to the clubs and festivals of Five more verses then the last carriers of the folk songs, stories the folk revival, Willie brought refrain: and traditions. his songs and stories, blending the Borders traditions, stemming It was her that I saw it was her This is a woman-to-woman book from Leyden and Hogg, into a that I got by Elizabeth Stewart, a remarkable repertoire that was as broad as it It was her that I mean tae keep Traveller, singer and storyteller was long and, in the nature of the contented and her family’s rich musical revival, adding his own creativity and style. The original edition Fareweel, fareweel, ye heathery heritage, created in collaboration of this book was brought into hills with the exceptional singer and folklorist Alison McMorland. This existence in June 1988, the result Fareweel, fareweel, my song is proves to be the perfect of ten years of deliberation and ended. 58 BOOK REVIEWS

hard work by Alison McMorland hallmarks of oral transmission”. Borders Council and the Scottish and Willie’s son Sandy, assisted by All deserve to be in current use. Arts Council. The book is available some willing supporters. Despite “The sheep were ma life, ma work; from: Scottish Borders Council its importance, as recognised by the songs were a by product – Arts Service. the School of Scottish Studies, a song’s no worth nothing to funding was hard to come by and anybody unless it’s expressed – it’s Carol Norris Willie financed the publication the feeling and the expression that himself. Somewhere along the makes the song” This is a very way, that first limited edition attractive and well-produced sold out and became very hard edition of a landmark publication to find indeed. My own copy and when this edition sells out was an illicit photocopy and - as inevitably it will – it should became well-thumbed over the remain in print. Earlier this year, years. Alison acknowledges the Alison McMorland presented assistance and input of many recitals of Willie’s songs from others to the making of this new the book, assisted by Geordie edition, which contains 57 songs McIntyre and some weel-kent and 4 poems (including some Borders singers and musicians. additional songs) - the major part The recitals were illustrated of Willie’s repertoire. There is a with a backdrop of slides and new transcription of the music DVD. They took place at the THE DEVIL’S TATTOO notation for each song from Border Gaitherin in Coldstream, By Brett Evans hand-written into printed, the Newcastleton Community Centre original introduction by Hamish and the Thorterdykes Roadhouse Indigo Pamphlets Henderson, a section based on in Hawick. Many of Willie’s family Indigo Dreams Publishing Alison’s taped interviews with and friends came along and joined Poetry Willie about his sources and his in the songs and reminiscing. 28 pages ISBN: 978-1-909357-78-5 life as a shepherd, illuminating Alison’s presentation, from the song notes by Geordie McIntyre, sure interpretation and crystal The shadow of Dylan Thomas and a useful glossary. The book clear delivery of the songs, to her looms large over this debut is illustrated with photographs direct concern for the detail of collection by North Wales poet - from Willie’s early years as a Willie’s life and work, made sure Brett Evans. Welsh lyricism, the child, with his family, through his these occasions were a poignant poet as drunken self-mythologiser, shepherding days, right up to the memory and joyful celebration of all lovelorn and isolate, abounds 1980s - and includes a notated the man and his singing. I hope throughout these twenty pieces. map showing the places where Alison gets the opportunity to take This reviewer couldn’t help but he lived and worked in the hills this show to a wider audience. come to the conclusion that and valleys around Hawick. The Sandy Watson, TMSA Borders perhaps Evans would benefit story of Willie’s working life as Branch. greatly from escaping his hero’s a herd, and the songs he sang, pervasive influence. Still, this reflect not only the hard times HERD LADDIE O THE GLEN is an impressive, enjoyable first of that way. Willie Scott, Herd Songs of a Border Shepherd collection. For all the wild man, Laddie o the Glen and Alison Revised 2006 The songs of Willie hard drinking self-deprecation, the McMorland Sandy Scott (Willie’s Scott, Liddesdale Shepherd emotional stasis and craving, there son) and Alison with Jan Miller’s and Singer. Compiled by Alison is a real craftsman at work here statue of Sandy and his dog. They McMorland with an introduction with a genuine ear for rhythm. are also full of joy, humour and by Hamish Henderson ISBN And yes, these poems would no humanity. This collection of songs 0-9545052-8-X (Shortlisted doubt be heard to best effect in a should be in the hands of all Scots for the Ratcliffe Prize 2007, an crowded smoky Welsh bar with a singers and anyone interested annual award for an important young Richard Burton crooning in the Scots and Borders song contribution by an individual to the vowels to a rapt and attentive traditions. Many of the songs are the study of folklore and folklife audience. Despite the clichés well-known, some less so. Here, in Great Britain and Ireland) This being hard to throw off, Evans is they are in the versions sung by project was made possible with certainly a name to look out for Willie, many bearing the “clear funding and support from Scottish THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 59

in the future. Poems such as In Bed with Ma Rainey, Teaching Jesus to Dance, Directed by Sergio Leone, and Reading Sean O’Brien in the Bath, to name just a few, are all fine, likeable pieces.

Julian Colton

Beyond Borders International Festival of Literature & Thought 22-23 August 2015 Traquair House, Innerleithen, EH44 6PW

Full programme launched in June 2015 T: 0131 557 7775 www.beyondbordersscotland.com

“a great intellectual feast for the mind” Beyond Borders Scotland @beyondborders_ Kamalesh Sharma, Commonwealth Secretary-General Beyond Borders Scotland BIOGRAPHIES

GUNTHER ALEXANDER SEAN FLEET BRIDGET KHURSHEED A chartered accountant working Sean gave up his day job in Sheffield Bridget is a poet based in the in practice and with Workplace and moved to Foulden, Berwickshire, Borders; she has received a Scottish Chaplaincy Scotland. A relative in search of inspiration for his Book Trust New Writers Award for newcomer to the Borders which he writing and other creative interests. poetry and edits www.poetandgeek. finds has similarities to his native He is an active member of Kelso com; her pamphlet Roads to Yair is Austria. Writers. available from Twinlaw Publishing and her work also appears in New NORMAN BISSETT VEE FREIR Writing Scotland, Southlight, The Born in Fife, educated in Aberdeen, Vee is a semi-retired clinical Rialto, and Gutter. @khursheed @ Norman lives in Edinburgh. After psychologist, who lives in the poetandgeek. 30 years abroad, working for the Scottish Borders. As well as writing British Council, he has been writing poetry Vee has written a pocket book DAVY MACTIRE since 1995. Featuring regularly in the on how to deal with stress called Myth is history, recalled only in small press he has to date published START to Stress Less. Her last poem distant memory. Here is my history fourteen collections of verse. was published in the anthology In as far as I can remember. The name Protest: 150 poems for Human I write under is Davy MacTire. I was KATE CAMPBELL Rights. born in 1959 of Scots parents and Kate lives in the Scottish Borders. educated mostly by my sisters. Kate’s work has been published in CHRISTOPHER HALL New Writing Scotland and Pushing Chris is a sculptor living near GORDON MEADE out the Boat and she has performed Jedburgh for 29 years. He carves Gordon is Scottish poet based on at the St. Magnus Festival with the stone & wood from mainly locally the East Coast of Fife. His eigth Orkney Writers’ Course. found materials. He particularly collection, Les Animots: A Human loves whinstone - in its raw Bestiary, a collaboration between THOMAS CLARK weathered state, it is very suitable for himself and the Scottish artist Doug Thomas is a Glaswegian writer and memorials & exhibition work. Poetry Robertson, will be published in poet now based in Hawick. His first is a primary source of inspiration. September 2015 by Cultured Llama poetry collection is forthcoming from Publishing. Gatehouse Press in 2015. He writes ELAINE HERON about sport for the Hawick News, Originally from Galloway, Elaine ROY MOLLER and writes about writing at www. was passing through the village of Roy is a poet and songwriter living thomasjclark.co.uk. Traquair 32 years ago and has lived in Dunbar. His work has recently there since. She is the founder appeared in Ink, Sweat & Tears, EILEEN CUMMINGS member of the Traquair Village Dactyl and Pilcrow & Dagger. Eileen lives in Selkirk, and is currently Choir. Elaine is currently studying His debut collection, Imports, was involved in making Experimental Creative Writing with the Open published by Appletree Writers’ Moving Image Art. Eileen also enjoys University. Press late last year. writing songs although her main interest is in poetry with a strong JANET HODGE RAFAEL MIGUEL MONTES structure, both rhythm and rhyme. Originally from Whithorn but now Born in Santiago de Cuba, Rafael is settled in Coldstream. Janet recently a Cultural Studies professor at St. OLIVER EADE joined the Kelso Writers Group Thomas University and a Cuban- A retired BGH doctor, Oliver has and enjoys meeting other budding American writer living and working published five children’s novels, one writers from the Scottish Borders. in Miami. His poetry has appeared young adult plus a prize-winning She has had to search for a new in The Caribbean Writer, The New adult novel. His short stories self-discipline in time and effort, and York Quarterly, and a number of reflecting world-wide travels and has rediscovered the pleasure and other academic and literary journals. family connections are available as satisfaction of writing short stories. His first book, Caboodle, was Lost Whispers from Amazon. He also released by Prole Books in 2015. writes plays. MARY JOHNSTON Born and brought up in rural TIM NEVIL ALISTAIR FERGUSON Aberdeenshire, Doric is Mary’s first Having worked on TV scripts Alistair left school aged 15 with no language. She is at present Scots and factual features, Tim now qualifications, and worked for 50 Language Society’s Makar Ben the concentrates on short story writing. years as a gamekeeper. He has met a Hoose. She can be heard reading The Unadopted Road was recently lot of interesting people over the years poems and translations of Grimm’s awarded the accolade of being and draws on these memories as a Fairy Tales on their website. Her selected for the ‘Fearie Tales’ event basis for his short stories. pamphlet The Angel and the at The Pitlochry Festival Theatre’s Aipple won the Callum Macdonald Winter Words Festival. Memorial Award 2014. THE EILDON TREE Issue 26. Spring/Summer 2015 61

JAMIE NORMAN ALAN RIACH JOCK STEIN Jamie is studying towards an Alan is the Professor of Scottish Jock is a preacher, piper and poet, MLitt in creative writing with the Literature at Glasgow University, the who began his working life in the University of Aberdeen. Originally general editor of the Collected Works Sheffield steel industry, and is now from Kelso, he loves haiku and of Hugh MacDiarmid and co-author retired and living in Haddington. concrete poetry and is primarily of the books Arts of Resistance, and concerned with traumatic, Scots and Arts of Independence. His fifth book LEWIS TECKKAM palimpsest poetry. He tweets from @ of poems is Homecoming. Lewis lives in Hawick and has been roflnorman. part of Borders Youth Theatre since JUNE RITCHIE 2007. He has performed in many KEITH PARKER After many years at the chalk face, of their productions and has also Keith has a Post Graduate Certificate June is trying to write. She is been an Assistant Director. He most in Creative Writing from Newcastle supported in this ambitious venture enjoys writing fantasy stories. University. He has been published by Peebles Writing Group. in a number of magazines including PATRICIA WATTS Acumen, StepAway and The HAMISH SCOTT Patricia has been writing sporadically Open Mouse. He visits Eyemouth Hamish was born in Edinburgh for the last eight years for children regularly. and now lives in Tranent, East and adults. She has entered short Lothian. His poetry in Scots has been stories in competitions for both TONI PARKS published in numerous outlets and genres and at last has made it into a Toni started writing creatively two his third collection Wirds for the Day ‘long list’. She is currently rewriting and a half years ago after moving to is now available. a novel and her autobiography is the Scottish Borders. Crime fiction near completion. is his usual fayre but a walk with the RAGHU B. SHUKLA dog stimulated Toni to write Still Senior Editor of an internationally SANDRA WHITNELL Runs the Teviot. contributed book on comprehensive Sandra lives in Peebles, having care of the elderly; short stories moved from North Yorkshire a few JANE PEARN published in Candis, Borders years ago. Currently inspired by Jane moved to the Borders from Writers’ Forum Anthology local archive records, which she the Isle of Man in 2005. Individual and Sarasvati (Indigo Dream uses to tell the moving stories of our poems, stories and articles appear Publishing); A Writer’s Handbook near ancestors, and explore current in print or online from time to time awaiting publication; currently attitudes towards poverty and and she has two poetry collections writing his memoir; writing and long benefits. published – Matters Arising and walks are lifelong hobbies. Further To. COLIN WILL MARGARET SKEA Colin is an Edinburgh-born poet BARBARA POLLOCK Margaret grew up in Ulster, but with a background in botany and Barbara was born in Manchester and has lived in the Borders for over geology. His eighth book, a collection has lived and worked in the Scottish twenty-five years. An award-winning of poems in the Japanese haibun Borders for over thirty years. short story writer, she won the Beryl form, was published by Red Squirrel Bainbridge Award for Best First Time Press in 2014. He chairs the Board RONNIE PRICE Novelist 2014 with her historical of StAnza, Scotland’s international Ronnie has been writing since his novel Turn of the Tide. poetry festival. schooldays, poetry and prose. Two novels and three non-fiction books JUDY STEEL have been published; also poems in a Judy Steel has lived in the Borders recent anthology. He is now writing for over 50 years. She has written short stories inspired by membership poetry over this time which has been of the Kelso Writers Workshops. published in various periodicals and anthologies. She has also written several plays and a volume of her memoirs. 62 CONTENTS