The FREE literary magazine of the North Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018

JENNIFER MORAG HENDERSON on the work of Man-Booker- shortlisted poet, ROBIN ROBERTSON, MICHAEL MARRA’S Black Isle gigs remembered by DAVID GILBERT, SALLY FRANK & GAIL LOW on losing, living and writing, PAUL F COCKBURN looks at Scottish fan fiction, AMANDA THOMPSON takes an artist’s view of old Scots words, BOB PEGG finds poetry in the fells PLUS Stories both flashy and longer, poems in diverse voices, a short play script, articles, reviews and new Gaelic writing EDITORIAL his summer, I had the pleasure of Contents travelling along much of Norway’s 3 Scottish fanfic – Paul F Cockburn mighty Sognefjord and meeting T 4 Dàin le Meg Bateman, Aonghas-Phàdraig Caimbeul, Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh, many Norwegians in places near and north of it. One of the many striking aspects of this Aonghas MacNeacail, Deborah Moffat area, obvious drama of mountains, glaciers 5 Poems by Mark Ryan Smith, Marc Innis, Matthew Gallivan and seascapes apart, is regional pride in both culture and language. 6 Poems by Sharon Black, Maxine Rose Munro, Anjali Suzanne Angel Western Norway, beyond Bergen, is a 7 The Vanishing Point – Story by Olga Wojtas, Prisoner – short play by Phil Baarda national stronghold of a distinctive form of written Norwegian called ‘Nynorsk’ (new 8 Poems by Sally Evanz, Ian McDonough, Sharon Gunason Pottinger, Linda Menzies Norwegian). Closer to Old Norse than the Mandy Macdonald language written by most people in the rest of the country, this is based largely on the work 9 A Question of Honour – Story by Ian Tallach of one man, Ivar Aasen, in the mid-1800s. Highland pebble – Frances Ainslie This student of language, playwright and 10 The Neil Gunn Writing Competition poet travelled widely and created a fusion of dialects that led later to Nynorsk. 11 The Boy – Story by Jo Gilbert That alone is fairly mind boggling – almost Going home – Flash story by Trudy Duffy-Wigman as if MacDiarmid’s ‘synthetic Scots’ was now the official, and widely used, language ofa 12 Dàin le Maggie Rabatski, Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir, Caoimhin MacNèill, chunk of Scotland. But the real pleasure of Dàibhidh Eyre, Eòghan Stiùbhart Nynorsk, for me, is in seeing and hearing 13 Poems by Leonie Charlton, Arun Sood, Robin Munro, Juliet Antill, Phil Baarda how a distinctive variant of a language (largely understood across the whole country) can 14 The Whole Hog – Story by Isobel Rutland enrich both contemporary communication 15 Frog Love – Flash story by Sherry Morris, Poems by Lydia Harris and sense of place. That’s part of the reason why Northwords 16 Losing, living and writing – Essay by Sally Frank (with Gail Low) Now, in addition to being an important 18 Poems by Robin Wilson, Judith Taylor, Hamish Myers, Iain Twiddy, Jim C Wilson medium for new Gaelic writing, also celebrates diversity of writing in many forms of Scots 19 Poems by Martin Malone, Eileen West and English, including in this issue. Roll those 20 Secrets – Story by Sheena Blackhall, Winter night – Story by Linda Tyler words on the tongue, and enjoy. n 21 Poets’ Paradise – Story by David McVey Kenny Taylor, Editor Three encounters wi ra Bodhisattva ay compassion in Maryhill – by dubh 22 The Wrong Idea – Story by S.A. MacLeod 23 Poem by Robin Wilson At the Northwords Now Website soon: 24 Poems by Evan Cowen, Janis Clark, Merryn Glover, Sheila Lockhart, Kirsteen Bell, northwordsnow.co.uk Joan Gibson Additional fiction Podcasts 25 A Scots Dictionary of Nature – Amanda Thompson Some poetry from the current issue Cataracts – Story by Roddie McKenzie 26 Poems by Howard Wright, Peter Godfrey, Susan Elsley, Marie-Bernadette Rollins 27 A long look at The Long Take – Jennifer Morag Henderson on the work of Robin Robertson 28 Reviews 31 Contributors’ Biographies, www.facebook.com/groups/northwordsnow/

Northwords Now is a twice yearly literary Designer Submissions to the magazine, preferably To submit your work online, go to our magazine published by Northwords, a not- Gustaf Eriksson through our on-line system on the website: northwordsnow.co.uk for-profit company, registered in February www.gustaferiksson.com Northwords Now website, are welcome. The next issue is planned for March 2018. 2005. Company number SC280553. They can be in Gaelic, English, Scots and The deadline for submissions is 25th Advertising any local variants. Please submit no more January 2019. If accepted, you will hear Board members [email protected] than three short stories or six poems, in MS about your submission Adrian Clark (Chair), Valerie Beattie, Lesley www.northwordsnow.co.uk/advertise.asp Word format (not .pdf). All work must be by 30th March 2019. Harrison, Kristin Pedroja, Peter Whiteley previously unpublished in print or on-line. Subscriptions Copyright remains with the author. Payment The Board and Editor Editor The magazine is FREE and can be picked up is made for all successful submissions. of Northwords Now Kenny Taylor, at locations across Scotland. See list on P31 acknowledge support [email protected] The fee for individual ‘home- Postal submissions of potential from Creative Scotland delivery’ is £6 for 2 issues, cheques review books should be sent to: and Bòrd na Gàidhlig. Gaelic Editor payable to ‘Northwords’. ISSN 1750-7928 Rody Gorman, The Editor, Northwords Now [email protected] Front cover image: The Last Days of Easter Brae Winter by Beth Robertson Fiddes, mixed media, Culbokie Advisory Group 92 x 122cm. Image courtesy of the artist and Dingwall Jon Miller, Peter Urpeth, Pam Beasant Kilmorack Gallery. www.kilmorackgallery.co.uk Ross-shire IV7 8JU

2 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 Scotland’s Literary Resurrectionists

Paul F Cockburn examines the habitual ‘borrowing’ of favourite characters from Scottish fiction

ack in 2012, the Scottish author McCaughrean deliberately entered a In some respects, the most obvious and screenwriter Ewan Morrison competition to write a sequel to Peter interest in Greig’s 1996 ‘sequel’ wasn’t just Bintroduced at least a few Guardian Pan; in contrast, Robert J Harris was that he dropped Buchan’s ‘great men’ and readers to a literary phenomenon with a undoubtedly first and foremost a ‘fan’ of boyish female admirers – focusing instead pedigree older than most probably had John Buchan. He’d read The Thirty-Nine on a widowed copywriter, an ex-Special thought: “fan fiction”, or “fanfic”. Steps at school, but it was as an adult Forces soldier with marital problems, and In its simplest form, fanfic is when that he’d discovered further Richard a jaundiced left-wing joiner. It’s the fact people write their own stories using Hannay adventures such as Greenmantle. that they were suddenly operating in a characters and scenarios taken from their Continuing to read Buchan’s self-defined very different Scottish Highlands, where favourite novels, TV shows, films, or even “shockers”, Harris also noted other the large private estates are now mainly real life—oh yes, believe it or not, there’s returning characters, not least the lawyer owned by foreign businessmen and actually fanfic out there about pop stars Sir Edward Leithen, the focus of Buchan’s international corporations. like Justin Bieber and Harry Styles. final novel Sick Heart River, published Greig’s novel was at the edge of fanfic, The ‘hook’ on which Morrison hung posthumously in 1941. not least because he was reading against that particular Guardian article was the Towards the end of that book, Leithen the original; and his writing style was, then-global success of E L James’s Fifty learned of the outbreak of the Second at least to some readers, more his own Shades of Grey, which the author had World War, and realised that thoughts than Buchan’s. Nevertheless, it’s worth developed from her early fanfic based of hanging out with friends such as saying that Greig’s eventual 2008 sequel, on characters from Stephanie Meyer’s Hannay, Sandy Arbuthnot and Sir Archie Romanno Bridge, not only developed ‘vampires-versus-werewolves’ Twilight Roylance were not going to happen. his own characters but arguably hit Saga. Since Fifty Shades had “hit 31 “If Buchan hadn’t died then, I bet he on an narrative that nevertheless feels million sales in 37 countries,” he pointed would’ve written a story out of that,” remarkably Buchanesque—the frantic out, “worried voices are asking: is this only writer to officially resurrect both Ian Harris explained. “During and after the search for the ‘real’ Stone of Destiny, in a the beginning of an era in which fanfic Fleming’s James Bond 007 and Sir Arthur First World War, he wrote stories set novel that’s more than just a home-grown overthrows original creation?” Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Closer during that War. If he had lived through riposte to The Da Vinci Code. Morrison dismissed such “paradigm- to home, St Andrews-based Robert J the Second, he probably would’ve In turn, John Macnab has inspired shift apocalypticism”, not least because Harris last year brought new life to John written a book about the characters in Robert J. Harris to pen another Hannay fanfic has a far lengthier history and Buchan’s most famous hero, Richard that conflict as well.” novel. In Castle Macnab, to be published diversity than you might imagine. Yes, Hannay. Harris’s notion of this “lost” Buchan by Birlinn in November 2018, Richard he accepted that it had “multiplied For the publishers, and often the late novel gradually evolved in his head to Hannay and “the Macnabs” must help exponentially with the invention of the authors’ literary estates, these new novels what kind of novel he would write to avoid European conflict by rescuing an internet” and, as he pointed out, some are certainly not published just for the fill that space. He was reluctant to take abducted foreign dignitary. professional writers were dead set against fun of it: simply put, there’s money to the idea any further, however, as he knew The plot sounds pretty much like a it. Interview with the Vampire author Anne be had in resurrecting literary characters it would require a lot of work with no Buchan “shocker”, but how does Harris Rice went as far as writing publicly to her already popular with huge numbers of obvious chance of publication. ensure that these books ‘feel’ reasonably fans, vigorously defending her copyright: readers. Until, by a weird coincidence, his consistent? “It has to be a Buchan story “It upsets me terribly to even think younger son Jamie started an internship at that appeals to Buchan readers, admirers about fan fiction with my characters.” Scotland has given the world its Edinburgh publisher Birlinn, whose back of Buchan who have enjoyed his books,” Yet in contrast, J K Rowling was initially fair share of popular authors, so it’s catalogue includes paperback editions he accepts, if only to ensure good sales. “flattered people wanted to write their little surprise that their work has in of all John Buchan’s novels. The idea of “It’s not just imitating; it does something, own stories” based on her Harry Potter turn inspired other writers (and their a new novel bringing together some of by bringing together other elements of novels—just as long as they didn’t try to publishers) to “continue” their tales. Buchan’s most popular characters piqued the Buchan stories. If you’re going to make money from them! Former British Poet Laureate Andrew their interest, which forced Harris to sit write stories that pick up somebody else’s If there is any distinction in fanfic, Motion, for example, was far from the down and spend several weeks working work, you could enrich it or be trashing this is arguably the only one that matters. first to attempt a sequel to Robert Louis out his proposal. it; with this book it seemed there was The vast majority of fanfic is written and Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Meanwhile, Birlinn’s interest in the Harris’s book another story to be told.” distributed with genuinely no financial the acclaimed children’s author Geraldine – given the Biblically-inspired title The No matter their quality, sequels and imperative; the point is for people to McCaughrean was genuinely surprised by Thirty-One Kings – was obvious; not just in prequels of classic books are nevertheless express themselves, not make a buck. the vast attention turned in her direction the speed in which it was commissioned, likely to be a gamble; yes, there’s the Their work is freely shared in print and after it was announced that she had been but also the mere nine-month deadline positive hook of a character or name online – on sites such as Commaful, selected to write a sequel to J M Barrie’s Harris was given to write it! that’s known, but there’s also the risk fanfiction.net, and Archive Of Our 1911 novel Peter Pan, officially sanctioned of seriously annoying the readers who Own – in what might be charitably by rights-holders Great Ormond Street Harris isn’t the only author to have don’t share the new writer’s vision of called democratic creativity. In contrast, Hospital. been attracted by Buchan’s work. The the character. In the end, perhaps the there is a far smaller proportion which When it came to writing Peter Pan in poet and writer Andrew Greig’s second best ‘sequels’ are those that come from is published by proper publishers and Scarlet McCaughrean told The Guardian novel, The Return of John Macnab, was a a completely different perspective, but found in bookshops which deliberately in 2006 that she “rummaged through deliberate, self-conscious rewriting of are nevertheless aware of what has gone don’t have any shelves labeled as “fanfic”. Barrie’s pockets a bit”, such as putting Buchan’s John Macnab. Buchan’s somewhat before? Inevitably, money is involved at every exploration – Barrie had been a close whimsical 1925 novel featured three of “One thought of mine is that there stage of the process. friend of ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ – at his most popular characters (including is a Scottish tradition of ‘The Adventure So we have John Banville continuing the heart of her novel. While remaining the aforementioned Sir Edward Story’ which comprises Sir Walter Scott, the adventures of Raymond Chandler’s “true to Barrie’s original book”, she Leithen) dealing with their individual Stevenson, Conan Doyle, Buchan and Phillip Marlowe; Stephen Baxter nevertheless wanted to create something mid-life crises by betting – under the Alistair MacLean,” says Harris. “I see providing “authorised” sequels for two distinctly her own. “What I attempted collective guise of “John Macnab” – that myself contributing to this as a folk iconic novels by H G Wells, with The was a literary counterpart – the matching they can poach a salmon or stag from musician might contribute to our musical Time Ships and The Massacre of Mankind; bookend. Same world, but somewhat right under the noses of the owners of a heritage.” n Anthony Horowitz, who is surely the reversed.” succession of Highland Estates.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 3 Poetry

A’ leughadh sna làithean saora Air Tràigh Dhòrnaich Soitheach nan Daoine Meg Bateman Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh Deborah Moffatt (July 2018, an Àird Bheag) Ceann slìom ròin chualas nuallan na gaoithe ’s onfhadh na mara, Ann an taigh gun dealan gu h-obann os cionn nan tonn sloisreadh garbh nan tonn air slige na luinge, agus buidheach dhen chuairt an-dè, placadaich nan seòl ’s bragadaich nan sgòd cleachdaidh sinn solas na maidne ach chan ann idir cho fìor àrd ri bathais gus leughadh – ceithir cinn òga bhàna ìomhaigh mhòir sian-lìomhte Diùc Chataibh Grùla ’s Brunnal, ’s mo cheann-sa liath ’s dà chnoc Scarrail, crùbte thar ar leabhraichean. air a’ chnoc chian ud mar fhamhair ri faire Tha sinn còmhla ach fa leth, le sùilean-cloiche spìocach gun aithreachas. ann an dubhar an tuill cha robh ach rànaich ’s rànail, aig amannan diofraichte, osnaich is acain, guidheachan ’s mionnachadh, an àiteachan diofraichte – A-nuas sròn chrom leòmach a’ dùr-amharc èigheachd fhiadhaich ’s crònanaich dhòlasach Howard’s End, Baile Naoimh Pàdraig, ris an tìr seo a mhion-phronn a dhòrn teann, Iapàn … Làg nam Bò, ri lìonmhorachd nan ìochdaran bochda Àirigh MhicLeòid, Aig ar casan, dà chù is cat, air na rinn e dìmeas, gun iochd a nochdadh na cluasan a’ priobadh ri crònan cuileig, fàileadh na mara, sàl ’s deòir, fallas ’s mùn, ris gach duilleig ga tionndadh. ach le crathadh-guaille reasgach gan sgapadh fàileadh an eagail, a’ ghalair ’s a’ bhàis, mar ghainmheach sa ghailleann ga greasad fàileadh nam beò, fàileadh nam marbh

mar na mìltean de ghràinean nan siaban Beinn Thota Gormshuil Bean Phàdraig a chì mi ag èirigh a-nis mu mo chasan nam fear sgiamhach, Aonghas-Phàdraig Caimbeul gan sìor-thogail gun chiall às an àite thuirteadh gun robh an long a’ dol Na sgonaichean gan sìor-leagail gun rian san t-seòl-mhara. gu Carolina a Tuath, tìr nan coille teth air a’ ghreideil nach teirig gu bràth agus cù a’ comhartaich fad’ às. Ach tha spìc-dealanaich mar bhuaic air a’ chlaigeann a nì coinneal-cuimhne dheth là dhe na làithean. M’ ionam ’s mo chiall ‘Ith suas’ thuirt i. Beinn Dubhagraich ‘Siuthad a-nis, ith suas.’ Thèid d’ ìomhaigh rìomhach a thalmhachadh fhathast! ach tha mi a-nochd ann an Àird Ulaidh, tìr ghlas nan achaidhean rèidh, ’s far am bi mi fhìn ’s ann a bhios mo chiall. An t-Òban air an rathad Aonghas-Phàdraig Caimbeul Aonghas MacNeacail

Thàinig Harold Wilson dhan bhaile, air an rathad a ghabh sinn an-dè còt’-uisge geal air agus pìob na dhòrn cha robh dìg eadar a’ chabhsair agus na raointean farsaing feòir ach fhad ’s is cuimhne leam air am biodh sprèidh a bhaile ‘g cha do chuir iad chariot òir ionaltradh - bha crodh ann, ach cha b’ aithne dhuinn a chèile, oir sìos gu Combie Street b’ ann a’ tadhal a bha mise, air na far an robh Iain còir faileasan nach robh ag ràdha aon ghuth mu na làithean a bh’ againn a’ toirt fa-near nan lilidhean ‘s cha tigeadh aon gheum eòlach nan uile ghlòir. à clach fhuar - nach bu siud mar a bha mealladh nan cleòc a’ toirt beatha thaibhseil dhan bhruadar a dh’èirich à deòin gun cumar beò an fheuraich far an dèanadh fleasgach is ainnir iomairt thioma air suirghe luideil inntreadh, mar gun robh iad arranta, cinnteach, ach bha sinne, nise, màirnealach mall, buailteach sealltainn cùl na sgeòil, feuch nach eil an dìg ann mar a b’ àbhaist, ach cuibhrigte le plaide fighte feòir

4 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 Poetry

Clues to unsolved cases Up in the quarry The doctor’s advice Mark Ryan Smith JCBs nose Marc Innis the blast’s spill, That night they watched picked up online, while the smoke where all pick-ups the slow burn is dragged through occur these days. thirty years – of the unused outbuilding, If ye canny sleep ye a cut-and-paste package, should dee summin. residents reported ready-made, for New York, Easy enough a gentle pulse Baghdad or Tel Aviv. of blue light. if my brain still worked. Took me 5 minutes On the hanging jackets to find my shirt. she smells smoke, finds If he’d done the right thing a tideline of sootstains Marc Innis Went doon late on, in the porcelain sink. long rain keeping went to meet his mates, all muppets in the huis. On July 15th we wouldn’t be having residents reported this debate. Don’t believe Having the choice, the mass breakdown they’re relieved that he’s still I’d be less of a man, of domestic appliances. living, they louns ay fetched mair of a luxury mousse. a fair auld premium. Every morning for a month Wrong again, the thick smell of low tide. That quine he walked hame, I heard all hints, a her name it wis Jean, garbled threat of violence. The story goes worked in the sheds, he had a talent straight shooting machine, How brave they all were for the zodiac, never easy letting her go from a safe distance. afore her Ma got back that he was kind of heart fae the bingo. Calm tae a point, but touched in some way. I broke baith joints. A canny chiel though Clach hit the coast A jagged glass muffled kains rep goes afore 2 nil. in a bunched red shirt. yer heid’s roun the door, that first impression ay crucial. On September 13th So, he wis happit, cooried doon, residents reported in his ain huis Heart Rot a terrible taste when news came through. Matthew Gallivan in the water, Yer brothers are gone, The fungal decay of wood and that the only thing ye’ve mair sisters noo, at the centre of the trunk. to rely on was the mail than any mortal man never coming on time. could handle. I’ll tell ye From a raddled elm straight loun, a god the blackbird reaches down would struggle. to pull the seams, stitched into the bull carcass; Dynamite day So, he’s walking roun far boats Mark Ryan Smith were built, he was built there too, sweet-white maggots harbour of fathers. Limpets and whelks chirping rain and laying When the bomb goes off made shite line bait, yer hert grew set eggs in the quiet heart: the game stops on rope, creels, nets, afore ye kaint owt, pale flesh for rattling beaks like a spot-the-ball. ye were speaking correct. hidden in the rump Smoke rises Maistly still do as foam sails new, of the tree from the latest wound falls like snow on streets they’ll in the quarry’s wall never stroll. Chapped hands cupped, 3 coins for a sup, and one of the boys as if he grew up scores an easy goal. in the florist window. ‘Hey! That doesn’t count.’

‘Like fuck it doesn’t,’ and the game kicks back into life.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 5 Poetry

Every year A Seat at Cailleach Farm Soothmoother Sharon Black Sharon Black Maxine Rose Munro

the same white morning lightflash (i) (Originally an innocent term for incomers blanketing the Sound, in a time when such were few, it has come She lumbers over marsh and machair – to be seen as derogatory) the same three skiffs with outboard motors coat tails flapping, stick feeling the way. tugging on their orange buoys, From where we stood back then, Ewes huddle by a five-bar gate. the whole damn globe was south. the same pink granite walls keeping in An empty bucket rattles on a post. It felt good to be able to label near the fishing stories, lambing stories, everything with one word, three The farmer’s truck is absent. syllables. A simple partitioning the peat-cutting, land-draining, rebuilding stories, The pier is empty, the dirt track too. of here/not here - worlds lay stories of subsidy cuts, at our feet, none above us. Only the gulls bear witness as they curve Bedrock northern facts told depleted fish stocks, land rights, above the fields, the pebbled yard us who we were, tempered of sons and brothers lost at sea; in gales of cold with its wooden bench, a brass plaque isolation. keeping out engraved Cailleach. When it was things Atlantic wind and rain and six long winter months, shifted I don’t know, the stories of how idyllic (ii) ground once solid became slippery life on these islands must be. underfoot we fell scrabbled for Don’t cover me in winter purchase on perfidious rubble while the barn owl’s still roosting, and when it stopped there we were - wide open plains. Outwith insularity. Sheela-na-gig the white heart of its face We had lost our way and I found Sharon Black dipped to its chest. Let me myself wondering if where we had stood was everything She looks out wearing light be adrift in a bog of flag irises, we thought it had been. across the south end of the island. The chapel sun in my throat is scaffolded, interlocking poles and earth in my voice. Let me rising thirty feet high beyond the wall. take it all in, in huge gulps Evening Draws On at Tote The opening on which she sits – Anjali Suzanne Angel legs spread, labia then in sips. Let me lift the soft bright wings of darkness to my lips. The new house sits on the rise of the moor, pulled wide – alone, is an arch of basalt and red granite, a face unknown among neighbors. weathered and freckled with light. A steel pole (iii) A crofthouse chimney prevails over crumbled stones, has been thrust through. She walks and walks, her basket surviving windows compete Fencing on the other side divides the view spilling boulders that roll for a sunset view. into twelve square frames: blue sky, two sheep to the sea, boulders big enough Taking its cue from the Highland landlord, on a sill above the bay, a skein of geese the burn at dusk dominates the croftland arrowing north beyond the abbey’s to land a boat on, build a home. with silver. heavy coat of grey. On they tumble: basalt walkways, Headlights through darkened alder and rowan cliffs of gneiss and tuff, granite columns break reflections on the startled loch.

landing upright in the fields. From time to time Under evening stars, she takes a chisel visitors’ sheets hang heavy and wet, no wind today on the isle. and tames a fallen rock in the image of a hare, gannet, weasel, otter, eel. A cow’s bellow paints question marks in the night.

At the bay, she tips the remnants of her cargo into the Atlantic: stepping stones

that will be named for islands when the animals break free.

Note: In Gaelic mythology, the Cailleach (‘old woman’) is a creator deity as well as a destructive Storm Hag.

6 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 ee Naples and die was one thing; too loud, but my wife says she enjoys it - see Naples and vanish was quite The Vanishing Point it’s company.” Sanother. Laurito could almost imagine that he There were barricades up now on heard the voices calling, calling names: the Via Partenope in the east, preventing Short Story by Olga Wojtas Paola, Vincenzo, Giovanni. anyone walking the Castel dell’Ovo “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry to where half the disappearances had ✯ have intruded.” occurred. The Riviera di Chiaia was “Got what you came for?” asked Sir also blocked at the west end, where the William as he showed him out. others had gone missing. The chief was in “You’ve been very helpful,” said a frenzy, he knew his job was on the line, relieved to find he spoke Italian. “Dreadful possible for me to go in briefly to have Laurito. He knocked on the door of the and he had officers engaged in a fingertip business, officer, all these people simply a look?” flat below, but there was no answer. The search of both areas. disappearing off the face of the earth. I Sir William sighed. “You’ve got a job woman in the bar said it was unoccupied. Laurito, not only a policeman but also haven’t the faintest idea what I can do to to do. I understand.” Laurito decided it was time for a search a keen amateur photographer, had an help, but if you think there’s something He opened the door. “Darling?” he warrant. embryonic theory, but it wasn’t one he ... ” called softly. “You’ve got a visitor. He’s “Oh, God, do you think he knows?” was prepared to share. The chief wasn’t “I’d like to look out of your windows,” come to see the beautiful view from your asked Sir William’s wife. known for indulging flights of fancy. said Laurito. window.” “He can’t possibly know,” said Sir But Laurito couldn’t stop thinking about “Be my guest.” Sir William took him “How lovely,” came a faint voice. “Do William, hauling a tripod and camera vanishing points. He went home and into a small kitchen with a window bring him in. My beautiful view.” from underneath the day bed. “But he’s buttonholed his son, who got consistently overlooking the bay. Laurito peered out. Laurito felt his breath suspend as a smart biscotto. I’m sure he suspects high marks in maths. He could see straight down from the Via though he had fallen into the bay itself. something.” “If you solve a problem for me, I’ll get Partenope to the barricades but his view The walls were entirely covered in “Oh, William, are you certain this will you that computer game you want. See to the right was blocked. mirrors, reflecting a dazzling scene that work?” these two points here? What point links “Could I see next door?” he asked. was simultaneously more real and less real “Not certain, my darling, but hopeful. them?” “Certainly.” Sir William led him than the one beyond the wall of glass. By Ever hopeful. Let us have faith.” His son did the necessary calculations into a bedroom, which Laurito noted the window, lying on a day bed, was a pale Sir William set up the camera and and located the top floor of an old was entirely masculine, with no sign woman swaddled in a satin quilt. watched Laurito walk across the piazza, palazzo. Laurito headed over there and of a woman’s presence. He went to the Laurito, still disconcerted by the dual then go into a street where he was hidden stopped at the neighbourhood bar for an window, but still couldn’t get a clear view image, made his way to the huge window. from view. Sir William counted carefully. espresso zuccherato and some background to the right. “Forgive the intrusion – I won’t be a He focused the camera and pressed the information. “Sorry, I need to go to the next door moment,” he said, feeling he shouldn’t shutter. “His name’s Sir William Hamilton,” room.” look at the dying woman. “Tell me!” said his wife. said the middle-aged waitress. “He’s an Sir William’s expression changed. “My “My beautiful view,” she repeated. Sir William brought her the camera English milor, but he gets upset if you call wife is next door. She’s unwell. Not to Laurito looked out. This was it. and showed her the image on the screen. him that.” put too fine a point on it, she’s dying.” When he stood just here, he saw the two “There. Success. So now we can capture “Trying to be a man of the people, is Laurito, taken aback, murmured vanishing points. At both barricades, there them at any vanishing point, whether he?” something he hoped was appropriate. was activity. Police cars were arriving, we can see it or not. Isn’t technology “No, he’s a milor, all right. He gets “That’s why we’re here,” Sir William sirens on, lights flashing, officers jumping marvellous?” upset if you call him English. He’s married went on. “I wanted to get her away from out and standing in irresolute little He laid down the camera and held her but you never see her. Keeps her locked the dreadful Scottish climate. The light groups. He was aware of other noises, like in his arms. “All that blood, my darling. up for fear of her running off with one here makes her feel better, so at least her voices, as though they were in the room You’re going to be better in no time.” of our handsome lads.” She eyed Laurito last days will have been eased.” with him. And another faint voice was added to critically. “He’ll probably let you in.” “Of course I don’t want to disturb “The neighbours below,” said Sir those behind the mirror, Laurito calling The milor let him in, and Laurito was her,” said Laurito. “But would it be at all William. “They play their television much out for his wife and son. n

Prisoner A Short Play by Phil Baarda

A dark cell-like room. He arranges them. Jak stands on one of the chairs. Two chairs. Occasionally I might arrange them like The officer throws him a rope. Jak Two chairs. they’re in opposite corners of a boxing ring, They make do as a bed. Jak fashions a noose and puts it round his neck. He arranges them. He arranges and lays down on them. The officer throws the other end around a high beam. and then I might fight with myself. Or sometimes a writing desk. Jak Do I kick the chair? Once I made myself a house, and hid inside it How? He arranges them, and sits, writing. for many hours, Can’t you kick it away?

At times, when I’m being fanciful, He arranges them. Officer No. they’re a boat, You know I can’t. Another time, I built a hospital and mended He arranges them as such. myself after I’d beaten myself up in the ring. Jak You can’t? A hot air balloon. How cool would that be? or a train. I could, fly away. Officer Sorry.

He arranges them. The door opens. Jak tries to kick the chair he’s standing on, but can’t. He tries several times, unsuccessfully. Or a deckchair. And parasol. Officer It’s time.. Jak Howbaout I make it into a horse instead? He arranges them. Jak Now?

Go-kart. Officer Now, prisoner 82914367A.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 7 Poetry

Time in Tatters John o’ Groats Sunday, May Day Sally Evanz Sharon Gunason Pottinger

sounds of orchestra in a northern garden The police cordon tape flaps lightly in the breeze silent piano where the record player turned, cheerful blue and white as if to say cigar, blind man in the country orchard, Bear with us for a moment and all will be fine again a small wasps’ nest and pear tree huge and frail, No one believes it. Even before we know it is a body a woman’s body found on the wrong side thirsty wait for the lush red pears on grass of the sea-stone divide here on the edge of the world. ranks of may trees in dusky blossom, the beck ran south of all, the dead cow, The police, the coast guard, even the ferry man focus tents in the glade and the magpie tree, on the work at hand, neutral expressions, avoiding the eyes of those of us who stumbled into this woman’s death. Japanese anemones, pumice stone walls, The ferry man hurries to the boat, schedule to keep he says girls playing tennis then winter aconites so many his eyes say I’ve seen this before and hoped never old maid studies fairies, permission to see it again. Tonight he’ll hold his wife a bit closer to walk round seeking her not so recent youth, a bit longer and she’ll know not to ask why.

sacred wood and the pig man, the one-armed gardener the lady standing in the middle of the lawn wouldn’t you like to go and live in town Diving Belle this empty photograph of a framework Linda Menzies

tennis girl died last month met her granddaughter Immaculate in her dignity, she drowses in beige, someone else remembered the pig man’s wife jolted from a half-formed dream by a distant car horn. just the tallest trees no orchard cigar smoke Her bones grind as weighted years shift on a cushion. time attainable in tatters only is The dream lingers as she plunges into memories of Portobello pool, where her young body dives through salinated mist, twisting in a parabola of energy. Canada The wrinkled surface corrugates, releasing silver coins, Ian McDonough opaque pearls; the girl emerges seal-sleek, exulted, breasting towards the lapped steps and chrome rail. Five hours in from Prestwick to Detroit we peered down on Labrador’s wastes, A suicide blonde – dyed by her own hand – sits poolside. a randomness recalling nothing On guard, she knits briskly, red lipsticked mouth counting. you could match against memories, Her chair creaks vault-loud as wool speckles, damply. sparking fear from deep within your spine. The girl springs from the weathered board, the move Canada rushed beneath us, a light suddenly clumsy, as she fumbles the swallow dive. each fifty miles or so, like stars Her head bangs the board, but she surfaces, groggy. at the farthest edges of our universe, stretched by frightful expansion. The lifeguard clicks her needles without pausing, Calls out: “Dinnae dae that, hen, you’ll brak’ the board!” Solitude was a boulder in my mouth: around me the sleeping breath The dream empties: the old woman gazes of fellow passengers waxed and waned. beyond the blossom flaring from perfect trees, Dozing beside me and smiles at the memory of the young woman you whispered from your dream... Who once held silver aloft. Each of us is on a lifeboat, drifting.

Bennachie from a train, October Mandy Macdonald

cloud washes the Mither Tap wraps her in her own weather

withered, seed-exploded willowherb, army of feather dusters by the railwayside

a hawk hangs over the stubble-shaven fields their rolled gleanings tidied for the sun’s inspection

trees shrug off their summer clothes gold and green fall, and are wind-rustled away

autumn cleans the land

8 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 t goes without saying - technology boldest of team managers, is reduced to has changed our lives beyond what A Question of Honour mumbling behind the back of her hand. Ianyone imagined just ten years ago. ‘Thankyou! Wikipedia, exactly! It tells So why say it? me, just in case we need another definition, Just to make sure we’re all on the Short Story by Ian Tallach that honour is ‘the idea of a bond same page. Well, the same screen, if you between a person and society.’ Sounds like. Language lags behind, as always. ✯ pretty abstract. I looked at the pictures. Language languishes. Ha! The old ones There were two: one of a nobleman in are the best. Is that an old one? Probably. the 18th century, defending his honour There’s nothing new these days. Except – pistols at dawn and all that. And the technology. (Why not, I say. Company directors, want is people saying ‘dirty old man’ other depicts a Japanese Samurai about to I’ve got to tell you something. But, first area managers and systems analysts all behind my back!’ There’s another round commit seppuku: ritual disembowelment. you have to know – I’m not a luddite! put in their place! Brilliant!) And there’s of suppressed laughter like a tiny wave Heaven help us! I can almost hear you Let all reactionaries step aside. Defeatists, something about his casual tone, a sort of collapsing on a pebble beach. Then he all conclude that honour is a bad thing. gainsayers, regressive elements – be gone! gentle mockery, like Dylan in his prime, continues. ‘Anyway, this librarian comes Throw it out! It’s holding us back. Chose And let the future in. The future is now that makes it feel like he’s addressing us over. She looks like she’s about to whisper, the opposite – dishonour! Either way, … now. It used to be so distant: futuristic, from somewhere else. A younger, freer but she doesn’t. Just like all the others in it’s just an abstract noun.’ He pauses for if you like, but that’s all in the past, that time, I guess, when things were more that bloody place, she practically shouts. effect. ‘Like love. Yes, love’s a bit archaic kind of thinking. What I mean is, let us spontaneous. Roles are reversed now. It’s embarrassing! Not so long ago you’d too. People do the cruellest things for all be grateful for the revolution … of He’s young: we’re old. Now we’re the hear a pin-drop in the library. There was love!’ He’s gritting his false teeth by now convenience. Together. We can do this ones who’re standing stiffly to attention, a kind of etiquette; people came there and forcing out the words. ‘Life would thing together. Count me in! in obeyance to some stultifying protocol. to read, not have a party! There was a be so much more convenient without But, I do need to tell you about the ‘Virtual tradition’, maybe you could call sort of unspoken unspoken-ness: almost the things we can’t define: qualities, party last Thursday night, at our place. it. Ha! You’ve got to laugh. something sacred about being surrounded concepts, abstractions. Well … true.’ He Mainly colleagues, straight from work, Then he says something cringeworthy, by knowledge.’ looks around the room. ‘BUT, trouble is, fresh from the office, not yet fully but funny too - ‘Double-u, double-u, ‘Why did you call her over?’ I ask, we might just be defined BY them. So, disengaged from whatever they’d been double-u! Who-the-hell chose the only trying out my voice to see it’s still there. boys and girls – this is my parting shot – doing. Everyone still at their interface, the letter with three syllables? Obviously, ‘Because of honour!’ he smiles with love each other. Honour each other. Don’t flicker of computer screens behind their someone who didn’t speak! In any event, his eyes and lifts a trembling forefinger ever forget! This is the stuff of life! When eyes. Well, I’d forgotten we’d invited this I was in the library, trying to send an to point at no-one-in-particular. ‘Well, to you’re my age, you’ll see. But looking old-timer. He’s our neighbour. Always e-mail. Trying, being the operative word.’ be exact, how to spell it. Honour. It was back it’s all too late. I wish I’d loved more, talking to us in the lift. We couldn’t really A titter passes round the room, like some underlined in red, in my e-mail. That’s honoured other people more. Yes. It has to not invite him. Eustace is his name. D’you dousing from a sprinkler, nipped in the why I called her over. Well, she says I need do with other people. It’s all to do with know anyone called Eustace?! Thought bud before it can get out of hand. to click ‘review’ and then check ‘spelling other people.’ not. The man is 85 or thereabouts. ‘I’m sorry, folks,’ he hangs his head. and grammar.’ And it tells me to spell it At this, he collapses in a fit of coughs and Anyway, he makes an entrance at ‘I’m interrupting. You youngsters have a h-o-n-o-r! Well, I suppose you can guess splutters. And we’re thinking this could exactly the right time - he and his party. Don’t mind me.’ the rest – she said someone must have really be his parting shot. It certainly did wheelchair. The guests have almost all There’s an awkward pause. Eyes shift set spellcheck to the American version. sound valedictory. And at that moment, arrived but no-one’s talking. Interaction in my direction. The blush is rising up Ah! Relief. I wasn’t losing my marbles! Jane chokes on her pinot noir. She grits put on hold while ties are loosened, drinks my face. I stammer out -‘N … no. You’re I could spell it h-o-n-o-u-r if I liked. As her teeth, but this only ensures the purple are poured and nervous eyes take in the not interrupting anything. The floor is for the Yanks: each to their own. Life’s mist is evenly distributed to every corner room. Some sip their wine but hold it yours.’ too short to get curmudgeonly.’ of the room! We all explode with laughter. in their mouths; the silence is so thick, He chuckles again. The atmosphere is I handed him another glass of wine. Eustace slaps his thigh, fighting for breath that even swallowing might draw too still up-tight, but something lifts. ‘Well, ‘Well’ he slurs, after guzzling that one and almost going blue. He rallies, though, much attention. I swear it’s that bad! If we alright,’ he clears his throat. ‘The librarian too. ‘Next thing I know I’m on this thing and smiles, accepts another wine, downs had a camera on the ceiling – a go-pro, – lovely girl – you folks would say she called Wiki … ehm …’ it and tells us he must go. ‘But, thank maybe – filming this would be of interest was ‘a hottie’, but I won’t; last thing I ‘Wikipedia?’ Jane, normally the you all!’ he says. I wheel him to his flat to psychologists. Psychopathologists, across the landing, followed by a round more like. Ha! Not funny, really. Bridge, of cheers, applause and hoots. my partner, and I are serving drinks. At He might as well have been Bob least we’ve got something to do, but I’m Dylan.n embarrassed beyond words. This is our party. Our fault. And I can’t even speak!

So, Eustace has no place to wheel his chair but to the middle of the room; the peripheries are all used up. He brings with him a smell of pipe-tobacco. Pairs of Highland eyes that had been darting furtively about The Ceilidh Place Bookshop now find a place to rest: a focal point. Ullapool Pebble And seeing this, he laughs … throws back By Frances Ainslie his head and laughs. A long, sonorous, The small bookshop with a big range of quality wheezy, chuckle! All 90 pounds of him, books found a pebble in my pocket, peach- bent over in that wheelchair, helpless as From art to travel, biography to philosophy, skin soft. It’s a polished cabochon a baby, gasping for another breath. He contemporary fiction to nature writing, children’s books Ipebble smoothed by endless tides. coughs. But when he finally inhales, he to poetry, politics to natural history, hill walking to Splintered from rock and abandoned by looks around and, I can only guess, he history, Gaelic books to sheet music and lots in a loch-side. It’s only a daft wee pebble, a sees a sort of desperate expectation in between. keepsake, a memory, a talisman. Washed their faces. A hope … for levity, a safety pale as a winter moon and moulded by valve … a social laxative. Something like Browse the eclectic collection with a Scottish literary a mermaid’s thumb. A pebble that glints that. bias with mica flecks in sunlight. Its journey I hand him a glass of merlot, which told in scars of silver. A simple pebble, he guzzles. He wipes the stain from his @ceilidhbooks ceilidh place bookshop that took two million years to fit snug lips with the back of his hand. ‘Girls and 14 West Argyle Street, Ullapool in a bairn’s hand; to fit perfectly in a www.ceilidhplace.com boys,’ he says, clearly enjoying himself. pocket.n

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 9 The Neil Gunn Writing Competition – a fine wide sweep By Kenny Taylor

The Philosopher sat on a half-buried boulder which was warm with the series, was launched at an event in explained why he had travelled more than Eden Court Theatre this September. This 600 miles, from the south of England to the sun. He was well up now towards the ridge that gave on the moor followed a ‘lecture’, shaped as an amalgam Dingwall, to be there: and he commanded a fine wide sweep of country. The liberation of of readings, musings and recollections, by “The Neil Gunn prize has been the hills was upon him, of the wide stretch of valley land that went the life-affirming Scottish makar, Jackie quite significant in my personal history. Kay, herself a lead judge of a previous My wife Eva won it in 1995, not long away towards the town, of the sky that ran with the high horizons competition. after we emigrated to Scotland, with her of the earth, a summer-blue sky alive yet half-dreamy with white Fifteen competitions over thirty short story ‘Family Business’. I won it in years – and counting – is an impressive 1997 with ‘Half A Million Pounds And clouds, distant horizons with the blue arch flattening beyond them track record and a growing legacy. Ann A Miracle’. The Neil Gunn award, along into unimaginable remoteness. Yule has been involved from the outset, with several other awards I won around trustee Charlotte Macarthur for the last that same time, helped to launch my seven competitions. “What keeps us all subsequent career as an internationally going,” says Charlotte, “is a common published writer. My wife had no such belief in the importance of encouraging ambitions for a literary career; she was t’s 75 years since those words, behind the megalomania of a leader, behind writers of all ages and stages and happy being a secondary school teacher. describing Tom, the philosopher-hero the religion of an economic system, there is providing an opportunity for them to She could get around to writing more Iof Neil Gunn’s ‘The Serpent’ first that individual, the individual who suffers, have their writing read by expert judges. stories when she had more time, maybe appeared in print. I think of them at times who dies, who loves. When we forget that Neil Gunn himself went out of his way after she retired.” when I visit the viewpoint memorial to individual, when we forget to pay tribute, to encourage and support other writers Sadly, that was not to be. Eva died in the writer, a monolith surrounded by above all things, to the living core and flame and we hope our competition follows 2014. Now Michel hopes to work on carved stones and inscribed words up on of the individual life, at that moment we are his example. We have plenty of evidence unfinished short stories she left behind, the Heights of Brae to the northwest of heading for the organisation of death. from entrants over the years that winning to bring them “to a state where people Dingwall. This was the area where Neil The first Neil Gunn Writing a prize has been a significant step in their can read them.” Gunn and his wife Daisy lived for twelve Competition (won by Bess Ross, later of development as writers.” Legacy. Also still a crucial aspect of the years; where he wrote more than half his ‘A Bit of Crack and Car Culture’ fame That is undoubtedly true for the writing competition, which includes the 20 novels. His preference was to write in and more) was launched the year after now internationally acclaimed author, use of quotations from Neil Gunn’s work the morning and walk in the afternoon, the unveiling of the monument. The Michel Faber. Speaking as lead judge of to provide themes for each of its sections. taking a route that often crossed the current one, now open for entries of prose entries at the prize ceremony for “We do this for the schools sections, ground where the monument now new prose and poetry and the 15th in the 14th competition last year, Michel which are open to pupils attending stands. Highland Council schools, as well as the I sometimes wonder if the idea for the adult poetry and short story sections, title of his novel ‘Wild Geese Overhead’ which are open to writers worldwide,” came to him on one of those walks, as says Charlotte. the grey geese swirled down to the fields “We hope this acts a reminder to and bays of the Moray Firth below. NEIL GUNN entrants of Neil Gunn’s legacy. We’ve It’s decades since the idea for the been delighted this year to have help in monument first sprang to the minds of achieving this aim from James Cook and Ann Yule and her late husband, Kerr 2018 2019 Jenny Wilson, who’ve been working with Yule. The notion formed during a walk Highland schools to raise attainment on the Heights. From that concept, the in literacy. Jenny has put together some Neil Gunn Memorial Trust was formed, lesson plans and also written a great leading to an official opening at the introduction to Neil Gunn for pupils. viewpoint on 31st October, 1987. Lucky “You can find all these resources the folk who were there on that day, to by visiting James Cook’s blog at www. join Sorley MacLean and Jessie Kesson highlandliteracy.com” for the unveiling. Lucky the writers who The trustees are also delighted, she have been inspired by what is now the says, that the lead judge for the current Neil Gunn Trust since then, both in competition is distinguished columnist their own work, entered for the biennial and broadcaster, Ruth Wishart. competition, and in occasional overviews THEMES From the previous competition, in lectures of the great novelist’s writing For both the adult poetry and adult short story sections Michel Faber’s words still resound for the and of concepts suggested by his work. there is a choice of themes present one: “If you have a story to tell, or More than a decade ago, Christine “Suddenly something came out of the land, a deep feeling to express in poetry, then Russell wrote a feature in Northwords tell that story and express that feeling. Now Issue 7 to celebrate the first some cool shiver of Spring” “Neil Gunn himself believed in twenty-one years of the Neil Gunn Trust. “....at last, all of the pieces, the whole pattern” encouraging unpublished and upcoming In that, she quoted some of Neil Gunn’s writers. Some of you have the potential words, extracted from his personal diary TO ENTER GO TO to embark on a career as writers; others of 1940 and used in a commemorative www.highlifehighland.com/neilgunn may simply have one thing which is programme produced for the opening of trapped in your brain, which is waiting the memorial viewpoint. Reading them The closing date is Friday 8th March 2019 for you to find the right words to give in the context of current politics, those it an existence outside of you. So, in the words are as true now in a wider context days and months and years to come, I as they were nearly 80 years ago: hope you will find those words.” n Behind all the calculations of the intellect,

10 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 t made a car crash out of my best such gentle concern, looking up with a friend, stretched her flat stomach like The Boy frown sore bits jojo and I’d smile, all better Ia balloon, she cursed and swigged now and walk away. What am I supposed Gaviscon like a wino from a brown paper to say? How do you explain self-harm to bag for 8 months. Short Story by Jo Gilbert a toddler? When it finally came out after days of I learned children go through stages, false alarms, it tore her from hole to hole, ✯ phases and odd behaviours, ones that 38 stitches in all and when I saw her, she aren’t as weird as my own mummy would looked like a cock-eyed Victorian asylum have me believe. Bap-head went through patient, all mad curls and shell-shocked. 5.30 this morning, where are you? The past and here she was, handing me four an ‘oh, I’ll just break my heart any time Congratulations, it’s a boy. wee man has been calling for you. hundred quid of her own money and her someone I love’ leaves phase. Fuck’s sake, I’m glad it was sleeping the first time Talk about a punch in the guts. Calling? child. I still can’t name the feeling, but can you get him off me I plead. Mummy I saw it otherwise I might have accused: For me? Why would be my first question. it kept me going in some of my darkest peels him off my leg. I’m coming back what the fuck did you do to my friend? I made up terrible stories, refused to speak times. soon! I could not bear that snotty face I was only there to see her anyway, but to him in baby language, told him he He was kinda cute for a rugrat. People of genuine heartbreak, awkward pat on didn’t say, just nodded and smiled before smells all the time and called him things would comment on it all the time. He’s the shoulder okay then bye love you turning away from the wrinkled alien like bap heid, tattie heid, muffin boy and not mine, I’d qualify before anyone had and I scuttled away. I could still hear version of its Dad in the Moses basket. anything else apart from his real name. a chance to think it. The Boy was never him screaming from around the corner. The thing was awake next time and I wasn’t aware that babies could ‘like’ a whiney kid or a high-pitched squealer, Waaah, joooojooo. I never wanted a I didn’t coo like the others, I don’t have people. He couldn’t even say my name aye, you know - that scream - the one human to have that much power over me. a maternal bone in my body and I was properly. It was like a ch-ch noise and that could smash glass and explode brains I wondered how my friend bears it. thirty years old and I’d never even held then he’d clench his whole body like he at the same time. My little best friend helped me a baby. was getting an electric shock. Apparently, We, I mean me and The Boy just defrost, become a real human. The Boy Do you want to hold him? that’s what he did when he was excited. giggled and capered, giggled and capered, and I grew up together and he taught me No. how to laugh and play. He doesn’t have Here. any hang-ups or bullshit, he just loves, You would have thought she’d handed unconditionally. This wee soul has taught me a ten-pound slug by the look on my You would have thought she’d me more about love than any other face and I saw the baby’s face contort like person on this planet. mine oh fuck no its gonna start greetin. handed me a ten-pound slug by the Now, he’s not so wee. Twelve going I’m nae good with babies I stated and on fifty and I call him by his name, but politely handed back the living machine look on my face occasionally still The Boy because we that did nothing but eat poop puke and think it’s funny. I told my Mum, I want to cry. go back to uni and be a writer and I got As much as I tried to avoid what I waves of fear and panic oh my God you called The Boy, my friend had him now Can you take him a couple of giggled and capered. It was usually me can’t do that what will happen if and a raft and no time to herself, so The Boy went afternoons a week? being told off for taking things too far. of assorted barriers as to why I couldn’t. everywhere we did. I tried to be a friend She was demented and needed to go I tickled him mercilessly and I liked I ran it past my brother, who is a logical and I passed things politely from the back to work. making him laugh. We began to bond, Vulcan, often scolding me for being into giant bag that held everything a baby You know I know fuck all about kids. the friend wrecker and me, despite my all that ‘tree hugging hippie shite’. He’s would ever need and more and I took my Oh please. I don’t want to farm him distance he did not want to leave my side my voice of reason sometimes though turn at pushing the pram and feeding the out to people he doesn’t know. fucking hell I couldn’t even pee. I’ll just and I got supportive, yet practical advice thing but managed to avoid the nappies The first time I took The Boy out be a minute I shout as I make a run for it well how will you afford it etcetera waffle for a long time and thank God for that on my own, I was handed four hundred and I’ve hardly sat down for two seconds waffle. I told my best friend and she was because that arse was stinking – how can pounds in cash. To change it into pesetas before his fat little sausage fingers appear like yeah go for it, jack in your job you something so small create such evil? for her holiday. under the bathroom door I’m having hate and do it and The Boy’s face lit up I had no intentions of forgiving The I trust you, she said. pee I shout, and The Boy replies with a and said are you going to write a book and Boy for hurting my friend. I kept my The magnitude of that statement hit muffled jooojooo as he tries to slide his I said aye and without a flicker of doubt distance, but she had other ideas. Rabid me like an artic lorry. In my former life face through the wood. Now, The Boy is he said straight away can you dedicate it early morning calls went something like as a full time professional dosser, nobody making me laugh and I feel a weird flutter to me? He believed. So, I believed him, this: and I mean nobody, not even my own in my chest. and here we are. Where are all the people who said Mother would have trusted me to go Muffin Boy would fall asleep, holding For Seamus, because he asked first.n they’d help me when I had this baby? You to the shop with 50p for a pint of milk. my hand from the snug car seat and my were one of them I don’t care if you’re ill, I’d never have come back with it. This friend would get all teary eyed and think get down here! I haven’t had a fag since woman knew everything about me, my it was adorable. He’d rub my scars with

addy says the bus is going all Mummy helps me up the next two the way to Inverness, through Going Home steps. The steps are really high. I say Dthe hills and through the hello to the bus driver. He says hello too. mountains. Mummy has a window seat for me. I sit ‘Can me and you go to Inverness, Flash Story by Trudy Duffy - Wigman down and Mummy gives me a drink of Daddy?’ water. The door of the bus closes and ‘Maybe one day, son. But not in the ✯ I haven’t said goodbye to Daddy. He is winter. See, it is already getting dark. It outside the window and waves at me. I will be pitch black by the time you come wave back. Mummy looks ahead. She into Perth. That is far enough for today.’ doesn’t look happy. The Big Blue bus is coming. It stops at step out and then a man who is as old rucksack is in the way. My new jammies The Big Blue bus drives away from the bus stop. There is a funny yellow man as Gramps, though he doesn’t walk with are in there, the ones Daddy bought me the bus stop with me and Mummy on the side of the bus. a stick. Then Mummy sticks her head yesterday. He’s kept the old ones, for the and Rupert in it. We are only going to ‘Daddy, that man is also going to through the door and waves. next time I am coming. Rupert is also in Perth but the bus is going all the way to Inverness, isn’t he?’ ‘Alright, young man,’ says Daddy, ‘in you my rucksack. Rupert is a bear and he and Inverness. n The door swings open. Two ladies go.’ And he lifts me up the first step. My I are always together.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 11 Dàin

Sgoil nan Seanmhairean, Cafaidh Canada VI – Thall ’s a-Bhos Phangane Caoimhin MacNèill Eòghan Stiùbhart Maggie Rabatski anns an ùine a thug e dhuinn Tha na cuantan air an traoghadh ’S milis leath’ an tràth cofaidh ceart Chan fhàs na ròsan tuilleadh nuair a thilgeas i dhith a dheasachadh Tha an lios làn de phreasan loma aodach luaithreach na banntraich; nach deach am bogha-froise dùbailte Tha an uair sin gu dòigheil sruth-aoibhneis a’ sileadh tro cuislean a-mach a bith nam shuidhe ris a’ chonasg bhuidhe nuair a shuaineas i uimpe ’s cuimhne leam do bhòidhchead sàri àlainn na sgoile,

dath pinc dàna na h-ibhis An Latha a’ dearbhadh nach boin i do dhuine Caoimhin MacNèill Canada VII – Brataichean seach dhi fhèin. an latha ag uinneagachadh Duilleag dhearg air talamh geal Nach iad seanairean a’ bhaile a chlisgeas — mo mhial-chù a’ cliseadh Gealach is Rionnag is Crann na Fala cà ’n deach a’ chailleach a chrùb seachad sradag a’ chianalais nam bhroilleach Leòmhann agus Craobh an Daraich gun fhiosta na h-èideadh thaibhseil? Trì-dhathach le Reul na Mara

cà ’n deach a’ mhàldachd bha cho tarraingeach Fuachd umha m’ fhallais an latha thugar thairis i gu pòsadh Dàibhidh Eyre Canada VIII - Coyote gun i na dusan bliadhna dh’aois? Nam sheasamh air bonn a’ ghlinne Chuala mi coyote a’ comhartaich Cha chrom i ceann riutha tuilleadh. sna h-Ailpeannan. Ann an lios anns a’ choille gu cleasmhor Tha i ’g ionnsachadh mar a leughas i tha flùraichean ruadha, a’ feuchainn ri foill fhaighinn orm an Leabhar Naomh air a son fhèin. purpaidh, buidhe, geala agus m’ fheòil fhuasgladh far mo chnàmhan agus achadh Cha mheas i ach am fear uasal làn fhàileadh na costaige. a dh’aithnich gun robh gliocas domhain nan seanmhairean truaillte le nàire neo-litearachd, Bòidhchead. Canada IX – Dithis Aoibhneas. Fhuamhairean Is thug e dhaibh cothrom sgoile Sìth. nach d’fhuair iad nan òige, agus an trusgan pinc òirdheirc Ach choimhead mi an-àird gu Mont Pourri, Nuair a thàinig am fuamhaire gus an dathadh air ais thuca fhèin. a chaidh a bhuannachadh le sreapadairean gu tìr san naoidheamh linn deug, bha fear eile a’ feitheamh ris Mas ruig i gàrradh na sgoile agus chuala mi na clagan troma tha gnothaich aice sa bhanc’. a bha timcheall mhuinealan nam bò - Fionn Mac Cumhaill agus Glosscap Bheir am bancair uaibhreach an t-òrdan ag amharc air a chèile ‘Cuir làrach d’ òrdaig an siud. An siud!’ agus bha mi air ais mìle bliadhna agus a’ tuigsinn Ach ’s ann a sgrìobhas i h-ainm aig bonn na h-eighe mòire, gur e na daoine beaga suarach gach litir cruinn coileanta, ’s i a’ gearradh a’ ghlinne bhon talamh, a chuireadh gu bàs iad is tuigidh e teas dearg na nàire agus cuideam an t-saoghail fhuair, ghil sin air a’ cheann thall a’ losgadh tro chuislean fhèin. a’ laighe orm gun mhaitheanas.

Agus bha mi gun chomas gluasad - reòthte agus dall - Canada X – In Our Hearts We Behold The Hebrides ’s mi a’ faireachdainn A Cheart Chuairt fhuachd umha m’ fhallais Thig air ais cuide rium Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir nam shùilean dha na beanntan agus air cùl m’ amhaich fhèin. ’s dha na làithean ùra ’S ann a’ ruith na ceart chuairt a tha sinn ged a dh’fhaodamaid a ruith na b’ fheàrr: dh’fhaodte an t-astar a thomhas le barrachd faicill gun uimhir a chiont air ar n-anail.

Dh’fhaodadh aire na bu mhotha à bith againn air na h-iongantasan timcheall oirnn: saoghal gun tìm seach na h-uairean goirid rin gearradh no an call no am mealladh le aois.

Dh’ fhaodamaid colainn nach robh cho coimheach a chosg àireamh na b’ fhìrinniche a phrìneadh air ar broilleach – le taghadh mu a bhrìgh – agus nochdadh san aon sunnd ge b’ e an t-sìde gus glaodhaich dhan fheadhainn a bhios ri call, a tha a’ toirt droinneadh air an fheadhainn a bhios ri buinnig, gun faighneachd ciamar no mun latha air am bi an ath chuairt.

12 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 Poetry

Rhapsody Wheesht, mo ghràidh Suicide Mango Phil Baarda Arun Sood Juliet Antill

Armpit’s a good one. In the morning Gaga lit a fire September, and soft plump pendulums So’s groin. How about after crumpling Sunday Post pages dangle from mama-mango facetious? Pretty good. into flammable orbs and placing There’s also jurisdiction. them beneath the kindling and peat each gilded orb marking time Scummy? Frisk? Zit? in the hungry breeze. All crackers, not half. Her swollen hands clasped tight Try these: socket, gruel, the tinder that grated against the A sharp gust loosens pulchritude. Ah, pulchritude. Bluebell matchbox from which the maternal bond A beautiful word. I had read football trivia to my uncle and a single fruit falls, Fire catching, she ambled to the kitchen skims fearlessly the steep to boil milk for breakfast after washing DNA On Iona dram glasses and brushing crumbs green awning; Leonie Charlton from the bacon pieces and biscuits it lands on concrete

Black and tan border collie The drinkers, wheesht mo ghràidh, lay asleep. rupturing its flawless skin broad-backed as the Suffolk tup by the hostel scattering the sunlight of its flesh. pads by on time-loosened pasterns he holds my gaze, I see them then Peatfire (Proustian) those lean ancestors, still coming by, going by Arun Sood Newcomers in his wool-flecked eye. Robin Munro stacking kindling Seven swans fly from beyond placing winter drifting low, peat seven wild and singing swans Ten Minutes of Weather Away blowing drifting as the snow. Leonie Charlton ember We will share in darker days In your writing shed an off-white wooden sill your hands, in mine lifted by their sheen, dimpled with fly shit and burnt matches . we will breathe their kindred air balances a window pane, a jar, an eagle wilder, northern, keen. feather as wide as your fist that a man from twenty-four years ago gave you just the other day Eviction early sunshine takes all that in Robin Munro through spiders’ webs which Summers of sharing, seem crystalline with time, yet swallows and our kind, if you brush them with the back of your hand they’ll disappear homes behind the Solway winds around an old farm yard. you know that because you did it just the other day on that other wooden sill, in that bothy Appreciation. ten minutes of weather away from here) Property has value added without ivy, nest sites, crevices and they resolved to nothing, absolutely nothing and me. around a cassette tape - And swallows? Bob Dylan’s Freewheelin that hadn’t been played in decades. Tell them as they cross increasing deserts, This morning, out beyond the feather and fly-shit pass a day as hirondelles, you see something akin to cloud-shadow to seek a northern remembered steading, move across Ben Cruachan, graceful as a Goldie tell them Farmer Brown requires a better return than theirs and you have the human-most luxury of wondering how time might dissolve on the tongue.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 13 he sun swung around the Fit had he been thinking? Oh aye, gazebo, sizzlin his bald patch. The Whole Hog Natalie. Lucky number three. TTurnin it the same shade as his He would’ve been happy to stop at face that was hot fae the smoke waftin four bairns, three wi Aileen, a drunken up fae the pig. Short Story by Isobel Rutland mishap wi Tanya - but then Natalie The bloody pig. Literally, the bloody trapped him. He should’ve kent better pig. ✯ at the age of forty-five, but she was only Kevin stabbed it wi a skewer, as far thirty and loved babies. He sometimes as the nib would go. He held his breath, wondered what she saw in him. But her praying the juices would run clear, seeing wouldn’t bother guests. Naebody worried enough hounds, but Stevie and the lovely previous boyfriend battered her, maybe it stars as he bent to clock the steady drip that the smoke might bother Kevin. Permata, he met her oot in Jakarta, were was just that Kevin didna use his fists. drippin of bleed in the tray. ‘So this if far you’re hiding. Is it nae struggling to have kids. Kevin once joked Just then Plook reappeared wi a spring It was the heat; that was all. ready yet, Kev? Harris and Flora think that they were welcome to one of his, in his step. He righted himself but kept his head their throats hiv been cut.’ then worried Permata might take him ‘How’s the hog coming along then, bowed as he prodded at the charred meat, Stevie, the eldest of his two brothers, seriously. She didna aywis get his jokes. Kevin?’ he peered at it, as though that feart to glance up in case a hungry queue looked at hame on Plook’s well-kept There were times when he wished it would help. began forming, all slavering for a slice. lawn, wi his pressed shorts and a t-shirt had been him with the low sperm count. ‘Anither couple of hours, at least.’ Did they nae understand a beast that size Kevin assumed was on-trend. But no, his tadpoles were stronger than Plook’s face grew darker than the mass would take hours to cook? His brothers both started as roughnecks that swimmer that won all the medals of clouds sitting richt above their heids There was a mix up wi the dates and offshore. Hard, heavy grafting shovin pipes – Phelps. now. instead of the hog arriving yesterday clartit in mud, working their way steadily He flung a damp tea towel ower his ‘Get that off!’ He flapped at Kevin’s evening, as planned, it had been trotting to good jobs wi plump pension schemes. heid, adjusting it so it covered both his unorthodox headgear. about the park. Mistakes happen when They bought big hooses, splashed out on baldy bit and the back o his neck. It Kevin glared. your boss is best pal’s wi the fermer. He’d four by fours - things he’d never afford maybe wasna the look Plook expected of ‘There’s nae law against it.’ rocked up wi his trailer at noon, crackin managing a glorified chippy. his chef, but Kevin was buggered if he ‘You look daft! We need to get this lot a joke. What happened to Miss Piggy ‘There’s salad and jacket potatoes,’ he was going to let hissel burn ony further. fed afore the rain comes on. Lara’ll blad when she lost her voice? – She became offered. He worked the handle, spinning the hog her good shoes if this ground goes saft.’ disgruntled. Kevin hadn’t laughed, out ‘Jacket potatoes. Hark at you! Could round. ‘I canna help it. I canna serve raw of principle. As far as he could make out you nae just say a baked tattie?’ When his mates took metalwork and meat.’ the only Muppet was himsel for even ‘Far are they?’ woodwork at school, he’d gone oot on ‘But this has been planned for weeks. I attempting the roast in such a short time. ‘Who?’ a limb takin Home Economics. His dad expected better fae you, Kevin.’ He turned the spit up, high as it would ‘Harris and Flora.’ wisna that happy about it, but his mam Kevin clutched the skewer tight, feart go. ‘We’d to leave them in the car. Permata snapped jist to leave him be. It was a to move. If he lost the rag now, he didna That’s when he spotted him wi his wasna happy but Plook was feart they’d time of collecting things; stick fae his ken far he micht poke it. shirtsleeves rolled up so aabody could dig up his bulbs.’ pals; recipes from Mrs Wimple which There was ringing in his ears as he get an eyeful of the flash Rolex he was ‘Dinna call him that.’ he hid under his mattress, for things like calmly removed the tea towel and handed wearing. It was his boss, Plook. Though ‘Fit?’ cheese sauce and brandy snaps filled wi it along with the skewer, blunt end first, Kevin wouldna dare call him that to ‘You ken, fit. I’ll lose my job if he cream. When he left school early to go to Plook then walked awa. his face. It was what he was kent as at hears.’ to catering college, his mam made him ‘Hing on,’ Plook roared. ‘If you walk school. ‘So that’s aa you have to offer – a bit o stand at the back door so she could tak awa now, Kevin, you’ve nae job come He came stormin out of the gazebo wi lettuce and a tattie?’ his photo. He’d felt a real man, aa decked Monday morning.’ an armful of rustic buns, almost trippin ‘I saw Warwick wi some rustic buns.’ oot in his whites. He could see himsel Kevin kept walkin as cold splats on a crate of craft beer. Kevin’s throat was Stevie laughed so that the beer he was cooking in top kitchens. Who knew far smacked his dome. He should’ve kept the parched. He could be doing wi a cold sipping shot from his nose, onto the shirt catering would tak him? tea towel. Problem was Plooks’s pad was one. He hadna thought like that in a lang that might cost more than Kevin earned But aa he’d done since was slog for a oot in the country and he’d given Kevin time. He darena even peep at the booze in a week. pittance; crappy jobs working his arse off a lift wi the rustic rolls. Now Kevin had piled high in that wee tent. He’d nae idea ‘Text me when it’s done.’ Stevie for other fowk. nae wye hame. He kept walkin til he where aabody was going to hide if the nodded at the roast. Aabody kent the money was good came to a port-a-loo, round the side of rain came on, because there wasna room ‘I’ll have doggie bags ready. So when offshore. His brothers egged him on to the hoose, out of sicht of the party. One in there. Fat, dark clouds were already did you come hame?’ apply for a job as camp boss, but Kevin bog for sixty fowk, fit was Plook thinkin? gathering up the Dee. There was no way ‘I’m hame for good.’ was feart o heights and the thought of He tried the handle, edged in sideways, Plook would let them shelter in his fancy ‘Fit d’ya mean?’ heading out ower the sea in a tin can wi squeezed past the tiny hand basin and new-build, nae wi grassy shoes on. ‘The rig’s been stacked.’ only rotors keeping him up would’ve had shut the door. Plook’s real name was Warwick ‘Bit you’ll find something else, wi him shittin himself. He’d been upfront *** Nicol, who enjoyed the last laugh when your experience?’ about it wi Aileen, his first wife, that he Stevie rapped on the hard plastic. his pimples dried up and his business ‘Market’s flooded. I’m nae like you couldna go and, give her her due, she ‘Come on Kevin. It’s lashin out here took off. He was what folk admired, a wi transferable skills, which reminds me never forced him. Things micht a been and there’s only one toilet. You’re causin self-made man. He started wi the local there’s something I need to ask you…’ aright wi Aileen, if he hadna buggered a queue.’ chippy and, ower forty years, built it up Kevin’s heart sank, he kent what was things up wi his drinkin. But his second Kevin’s cheeks were weet. A horrible into a successful restaurant chain, flogging comin. He’d been avoiding Stevie for wife, Tanya, she was a different besom gasping escaped fae his throat. Shit, the nuggets and burgers to families like weeks. He’d be wantin back the grand entirely. She wanted to keep up wi her walls were so thin he was feart to fart in Kevin’s. Plook’s wife, Lara, was a bit on he’d lent at Christmas. Five kids with pals, spending fifty quid on a pot of een of these, aabody would hear. Aabody the plump side, but that was only to be three step-kids disna come cheap, Kevin cream to clart on her face. The sex with outside would ken he was bawlin like a expected wi aa the chips. Kevin managed had nae option but to ask for a len. Tanya was brilliant though. He should baby. the Peterhead outlet, where business was ‘Ken fit, it can wait til your finished.’ have seen that she’d scarper wi somebody He scrubbed at his een with the heels brisk, something he should’ve felt proud Stevie nodded at the hog. younger who’d shower her wi Ugg boots of his hands. of, but wasn’t. ‘It micht be a while…’ Kevin prodded and handbags. Fit a bloody mess he made o things! ‘Lara needs these. I’ll be back in a the crispy skin that crinkled at his touch. Raindrops the size of pebbles plipped ‘Come on, Kev.’ Stevie’s voice was minute.’ ‘I may as well get another then, since on the hog makin it hiss. That’s aa he unusually gentle. Kevin breathed easier as Plook Plook’s payin.’ needed. It looked like jist a passing Kevin hauled up his boxers, belted his disappeared behind a glossy laurel hedge. Stevie wandered off in search of shower. He wondered if he should lob aff jeans and opened the door. He darena The popping of corks and fowk laughing anither beer. a bit, go into the house and stick it in the look up at the string of fowk waitin. floated on the breeze. Kevin and the spit Harris and Flora were a poodle oven. Naebody would ken. But Plook Stevie grabbed his arm. were plonked down wind, so the smoke crossed wi something fancy, Kevin could was a stickler for detail. Lara demanded ‘Come back to the car.’ never remember what. They were cute a hog roast. They set off at a fair trot round the

14 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 back of the hoose to Plook’s driveway, heid. Maybe Natalie was right. Maybe his where there was a special parking area blood pressure was wrang. marked out with fluorescent cones. His ‘Fit have I got to dee wi Waitrose Poems by Lydia Harris boss thocht o aathin. Aathin except how and Markies?’ many bogs were needed and how lang it Stevie shook his heid. took to cook a pig. ‘You ken how to run a kitchen, to ‘Get in,’ Stevie shouted above the din scale up Permata’s recipes, aathin aboot of the rain. health and hygiene. Fit you say, are you ‘Bit your interior. I’m soakin’ in?’ ‘Get in!’ ‘Fit you on aboot?’ Kevin slid on the ice-white leather, his ‘Do you fancy being our business trainers squelching in the foot well, as the partner? Permata, you and me – thirty rain on the roof competed with Harris odd percent each.’ Disposal of the Body as Individual Act and Flora’s barking. Kevin couldna believe what his ‘Enough!’ Stevie ordered. brother was offerin, a stake in a business …what we find on archaeological sites- …must be only Harris and Flora grew silent. Kevin when he, Kevin, had nithin to put in. the most durable parts… This makes it all the more wonderful to find traces wished his bairns would behave so well. ‘I dinna ken fit to say, Stevie.’ of ‘individual acts’. Hazel Moore (Ease Archaeology, Westray, 2018) ‘So fits this aa about?’ Stevie turned in ‘Say aye.’ the driver’s seat, staring at him. Guests were leaving now, their March 27th 2005 Kevin looked out the windscreen at Porsches and Range Rovers splashing Plook’s nine hole pitch and putt. Fa else through puddles, mud sticking to their You lower the vessel into a supermarket bag. The vessel is plastic had that in their garden? The wee flags sides as it chucked it doon. but made to look coppery, to suggest an urn, ceremonial. You were droopin limp. He cracked opened the car door and fill a thermos with coffee, pour an inch of Single Elmlea into a ‘I just cock up aathin.’ Kevin clenched stepped out onto the tarmac, spreadin his bottle, park the car at Newbiggin, set out on foot towards the sea, his fists tight to stop greetin again. hands wide like a man on a cross, blinkin a ditch full of gorse to your left, a dyke to your right, no beasts in ‘That’s nae true, Kev. You shouldna say up at the rain. the field. You feel a little awkward when you reach the cliff top, things like that. You’ve got five toppers o Flora, or was it Harris, started barkin that grassy stretch between the dyke and the edge. Fulmars roost kids and Natalie’s different fae your first again. on the ledges. You loosen the vessel’s lid and fling the pink-grey two.’ Stevie lent across the passenger seat. ash high over the turf as if it was seed and you and the small Kevin winced at the mention of ‘Fit are you deein? Aabody’s lookin.’ Sunday wind were a dance, your bodies fluid, boneless. The ash Natalie’s name. How was he gan to tell Kevin laughed. drifts, vanishes into the brome, barley and fescue. No trace left her he’d lost his job? ‘Get a grip!’ Stevie reached for the by the time you sit and pour coffee into a mug, add a dash of ‘She deserves better. She wants to start passenger door, slammin it shut. Elmlea. He would like this part. This little picnic. The sun doesn’t an aromatherapy business but aathin she Rain cooled Kevin’s cheeks as he blink. You don’t cry. That afternoon you walk to Noltland where maks at Aldis goes on the bairns.’ parted his lips so it coated his tongue. It Hazel has uncovered a bone comb, beads and the post holes of a ‘Things can change…’ tasted sweet and good. n pallisade, close to where women tended corpses. Individual acts. ‘Plook telt me nae to bather comin in Sheep horns, scallop shells and flint flakes placed on ochre. on Monday morning.’ ‘I wasna speaking about that. Mine I wanted to ask you somethin?’ Frog Love ‘If it’s about your grand…’ Kevin By Sherry Morris Day Trip to Foresterhills started. Stevie waved him aside. hen she was still a little girl, (after Karlis Verdins) ‘No, it’s more exciting than that.’ He adults asked her what she settled in his chair, as if about to tell a Wwanted to be. She took to the air, flew above the flex of Hoy’s spine. Later, on story. Stevie aye liked to be the centre o ‘A frog,’ she always replied. If someone land , when she was lost, a gentleman showed her the lift, said, attention. asked why, she’d lie, say she liked jumping ‘Hey, imagine you’re in Lidl, start at veg., pass meat and eggs, spin ‘Working offshore isna aa it’s cracked and swimming, wanted a tongue that your wheels across the clean tiles and, Voila! She’s on the couch up to be,’ he began. ‘Awa fae hame aa the could lick eyes and catch flies. and Dr Shakel’s hair quivers time, hearing Permata greetin doon the She didn’t say she’d memorised The close to her cheek as he highlights the x-ray, as he pushes a phone when her periods start… onywy, Frog Prince by heart. probe up her nostril. She straightens the vine on her bag, sets now I’ve got my redundancy I dinna At school, she drew green-eyed her shoulders to the Cytologist’s room while the tendrils twist want to go back. I want to try something princesses kissing blue-eyed frogs. like needles. Drill, drill. Back in the city, she buys three bendy different.’ ‘How sweet,’ her teacher said. ‘Already notebooks at The Flying Tiger. When she lifts off, like washing Kevin micht have known this would looking for your prince.’ on a line, she breathes a huge breath over Scapa Flow, sweet- be about Stevie. She’d frown, outraged heart thumping smelling and smooth. She’d like to record the woman in ‘Visit ‘Thing is,’ Stevie prattled on. ‘I think in protest, but she kept her mouth shut. Aberdeen’ who said, ‘Sorted’, another woman on the 747 Award- it would be good for Permata to have Leaning in, looking closer, it was the Winning Bus, who told her about Wallace and rindless goats’ something to focus on, other than lookin teacher’s turn to frown. cheese. And lastly, the woman behind her in the queue who had efter Harris and Flora. You ken how she ‘Sweetie, you’re Toni with an ‘i’, not difficult blood. loves to cook, nasi goring, gado-gado, aa a ‘y’. that tasty Asian cuisine? Well there’s a gap She knew who she was. in the market…’ Her best friend, Amy, stared at the ‘Now’s nae the right time to open pictures, then her, disdain and disgust a restaurant,’ Kevin jumped in, before overflowing from those green eyes, Stevie got ony stupid ideas. ‘Nae we the leaving her clinging to the tear-soaked way the oil is.’ He’d nae patience for pages of her tale. Stevie’s plans. He just wanted to go hame. Sitting alone on the dock on summer He felt a bit shivery. He wasna sure if he evenings, listening to the throaty croaks of micht be suffering fae a touch of shock. frog love, she’d mouth her truth: to be the ‘I’m nae speakin about a restaurant. frog turned prince, forever receiving the Permata wants to make upmarket ready- sweetness of a girl’s kiss. Living happily meals for Waitrose and Markies. That’s far ever after. Somewhere it must be true. you come in.’ All around her fireflies blinked their Stevie was starting to give him a sare acceptance, their light assured. n

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 15 people with Parkinson’s disease experience that I can control my movements. I have a loss of dopamine; the messages controlling a wheelchair now. I thought it might Losing, living and movement stop being transmitted efficiently. be liberating, not having to depend on others, but it hasn’t been that way. The * wheelchair is more difficult to drive than I thought, and having to pull up writing The disease progresses slowly. After the your trousers in an undignified manner diagnosis had sunk in, I felt I had to pack doesn’t help. Besides, the paintwork on By SALLY FRANK (with GAIL LOW) in as much as I could before everything door frames has suffered. came to a head. I retired early. Ironically, Medication gives me a small window getting Parkinson’s enabled us to buy of freedom from immobility; I can get out Kildunan, our home on Tiree. At first, of bed and feel relatively normal. Other things were no different. I drove up and times, I can lie in bed and know that I’m down to Oban on my own, charged not going to be able to move. I need to around the house. I had an abnormal have things all within arm’s reach. It’s amount of energy. Even when I slept almost as if I need a personal slave to do Emerald green, Kildunan blue I am struggling with the medication as fitfully (I don’t sleep at all well now), I my fetching and carrying for me. usual, either stiff or dizzy, sometimes both had lots of energy. Kildunan became an he alarm goes off at 1:45am and stiff and dizzy. urgent project. I had to get everything * we blunder about in the dark ready before I wound down completely. Tdoing all those necessary things * I remember the summer evenings’ bike Parkinson’s disease is a progressive, that precede leave-taking: sorting out rides, bird song, night-time noises, degenerative neurological condition that affects rubbish, adjusting the central heating the cows walking about the fields, the the control of body movements. It causes and carrying all the absolutely essential, Dark, grey-black... corncrakes... hearing all the birds. I still trembling in the hands, arms, legs, jaw, and hitherto completely overlooked, items love the stillness and being on my own, face; rigidity or stiffness of the limbs or trunk; of luggage into an assortment of carrier At fifty one, I was formally diagnosed though this is now sometimes tinged slowness of body movements; and unstable bags to take to the car. At this point, with Parkinson’s disease. What with fear. posture and difficulty in walking. Early Tim and I are both really ratty but he precipitated a visit to the doctor was a symptoms are subtle and occur gradually. has the edge, having been up and down strange difficulty with my left hand. I * It happens when the neurons (nerve cells) the path three or four times already this couldn’t change gear when driving ‒ that normally produce dopamine in the brain morning, not to mention the twenty or found it difficult to get the gear stick into and orange gradually die. The death of these cells leads more trips last night. At last, we are on place. We changed to an automatic car to abnormally low levels of dopamine.... our way. The roads are empty; only one but we also made an appointment to see The art of losing isn’t hard to master; Parkinson’s disease is a chronic, progressive car going the other way. We board the six a neurologist. Eighteen months on the so many things seem filled with the intent illness, and no drug can prevent the progression o’clock CalMac MV Clansman at Oban waiting list; after various tests on my arm to be lost that their loss is no disaster of the disease. for Coll and Tiree and, as with all our and shoulder, I finally met the consultant. ferry journeys, I sleep, read, knit and eat He did some further tests: I had to walk take the drug, L-Dopa, which * bacon rolls. We arrive in Tiree at 9.05am. along a line, push against his hand and converts to dopamine by my body. But other funny little tasks like touching IL-Dopa, like serotonin, is also a mood Lose something every day. Accept the fluster It is wonderful to be back, despite my thumb and forefinger together, on regulator. When I’m short of L-Dopa and of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. the fact that it is freezing cold and the both hands, as fast as possible. He looked crash, movement isn’t possible. These are The art of losing isn’t hard to master. 40mph wind expected tomorrow is at my medical notes and then said, my “off” periods and I go from feeling building slowly. Archie and Peggy, elderly “Write down your name and address”. on an even keel about everything to Before Parkinson’s, my life was crofting neighbours, drop by to say hello. I wrote as instructed, and as I wrote, shutting down in absolute despair. completely different. I had a part-time Archie keeps his hat on, though he is the letters became smaller and smaller. There’s a concrete barrier between me job as an Educational Psychologist. I eventually persuaded to sit down after I The consultant looked up from his desk and my body, between me wanting to also managed a team. Initially, we were set a chair for him in the doorway of the and said, “You’ve got Parkinson’s”. He get up and not being able to, looking at involved in dealing with children with kitchen. He can’t remove his wellies or added, “Micrographia. That’s one of the my foot and willing it to move, but not difficulties and assessing them early for his over-trousers without a lot of fankle. major symptoms of Parkinson’s.” “But being able to make it do so. My body a school placement. Quite often, we On the few occasions that he has done Parkinson’s is something that only old is just leaden. I can’t always speak, or I had to battle against medics who were so, the over-trousers roll down into twin people get,” I said. He replied, “No, it’s don’t speak properly. Sometimes people also advising parents about their child’s pools over the tops of his boots, and he not. You’re at the youngest end of the treat me as if I’m mentally disabled or potential and progress. And that could be sits apparently legless but with a pair of normal distribution age of onset. So stupid. I was once told by the therapist to quite disheartening. Yet the work was, at toe-caps sticking out. you’re not unusual.” And that was it. put my hands up to indicate to company times, also very rewarding. around me that I want to speak ‒ like I loved dancing, and used to teach Most mornings, we have a routine: May 10th 2001, I left the hospital in a in schoolroom ‒ but opportunities don’t Swingnastics classes. It came about a Co-op shop, a bit of cleaning and state of complete shock. always happen. Sometimes, I hold all because I went to an exercise-to-music tidying. We go to Susan’s house in Scarnish sorts of sentences in my head, and want class one day (this was the seventies and for tea on Saturday and they come to us * desperately to say them but the openings a new phenomenon). I found it great fun later in the week. Today the weather is never come and so I am silent and the and decided to start a class. I always used fantastic and Tiree is magical: blue sky Parkinson’s disease is a chronic (long-term) conversation around me moves on. Every to feel wonderful after these exercise that extends forever, melding with the sea, neurological condition. It is progressive and little thing is simply exhausting. Often classes. Sometimes I would leave work and hardly any breeze. There are perfect symptoms worsen over time. It is named after I am angry and frustrated. In my “on” thinking that I was too tired to teach days here and we’ve just had five of them Dr James Parkinson, who first described the periods, when the drug kicks in, I can do Swingnastics but I would go home on a on the trot now, with the wind switching condition in 1817. People with Parkinson’s little things for myself. Friends and carers high. Music and movement... and dancing. from south to north. A cloudless blue sky disease experience a loss of nerve cells in the are well meaning; “I’ll do that for you”, It was great ‒ that fitness enabled me to with clear sunshiny light. At 10:40pm, part of their brains responsible for controlling they say, taking the Tupperware from my walk with Tim on over more demanding the dusk is only starting. It’s pale pink and voluntary movements. This part of the brain, a hands to unclip it, but it matters to me terrain. purple, and full of bird calls: corncrakes small cluster of cells deep in the centre of the that I do what I can when I can. Even One summer holiday, before the illness, crexing, peewits and oystercatchers, and brain within an area called the basal ganglia, so, it takes so much longer just to do the both of Tim and I walked down the north juddering snipe. is the ‘substantia nigra’. The nerve cells in the smallest task. In my “on” periods (which rim of the Grand Canyon with friends, substantia nigra usually produce a chemical can vary greatly), I rock back and forth, Graham and Pat. We were so naïve and * called dopamine which helps transmit messages back and forth. These movements are not inexperienced. We had permits to camp from the brain to the rest of the body via the involuntary, Tourette-like tics but they are for three nights. We assumed there would Friday, the weather is grey and cold. central nervous system... As these cells are lost, very reassuring to do. They remind me be a range of shops where we could buy

16 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 provisions but there weren’t, so we ended blind and deaf. She was in her mid-to- up just buying enough pot noodles to last late twenties, very attractive, and always us three days. We then had to be been immaculately dressed. She didn’t work. reminded to carry water by the Park There was little family support and she ranger. We parked up somewhere near cared for this small child all on her own. the entry point ‒ the only car in the car Most people thought that there was no park at five o’clock in the morning ‒ and hope for the child but she continued off we set, four friends. The men in the to try to stimulate him. She had so few group had big bags of water, which they material resources but she just battled carried on their backs to stash half-way on. I admired her fortitude and tenacity, down so we might have a water supply her dogged desire to encourage her on return. Off we set, down the canyon. child’s development. She became quite Hiking down you’re actually moving knowledgeable about his condition. But through geological history, walking she needed help of a personal kind too. down through layers of beautiful rock, Social services really needed to take on through different landscapes and different board her issues as well as the child’s. Her geologies, all with such beautiful names: life was really quite small but I never saw Kaibab limestone, Bright Angel shale, the her upset. Red Wall, Surprise Alley. When we got I don’t have to crash to get angry and to our first designated camping space, frustrated. I can feel very, very sorry for it was breathtaking. We turned a corner, myself. and there was Thunder River - a huge waterfall bursting from a cave in a vertical the art of losing’s not too hard to master drop. There were cottonwood trees with though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. the tiniest leaves fluttering in the breeze. It was such a lovely place. We hadn’t seen * a single soul on our journey down. On the second day of our walk back, Writing it there was a major thunderstorm which h o i s w r i t i n g this “I”? In one lit up the whole canyon with lightning. of our earlier conversations, I said There we were, the four of us, standing Wto Sally, “You should write about on this ledge with a tarp over our heads, having Parkinson’s; between the medics and looking down on the Grand Canyon in the carers, I can see how you are feeling more the rain, thunder and lightning. All the and more diminished. Parkinson’s - both the terror and beauty, and the enormity of illness or the medical language of diagnosis or the place. Pat and Tim were sandwiched treatment - doesn’t define all of you.” She tells between me and Graham. We looked at me that she doesn’t have the energy or the each other and smiled broadly. sustained motor-coordination to write a long I hold onto these images in my mind piece. We talk about what we’d like to see in Sian MacFarlane before falling asleep. Graham died recently the essay, arrange a time for an interview and of cancer. The surgeon said he was the then record it. I collect past emails, interview course, imagine. Yet pretending as if I could, of me now. When I was first diagnosed, fittest man he’d ever done surgery on. transcripts and, later, lay them all flat on my leads to an ethical and aesthetic quagmire I refused the obvious “What have I done dining room table to take stock: a mosaic of born of inequities: an able-bodied person to deserve this?” or “Why me?” question. * paper that I am to gather up into a vivid life. writing ‘as’ someone who is suffering from The answer is always, “Why not me?” There seems to be no other way to narrate all the debilitating symptoms of Parkinson’s, And that helped. The doctors don’t know. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: except in first person, preserving as much of assembling, selecting and shaping a voice that We don’t know. The pills I take give me a places, and names, and where it was you meant her melancholy and frustrations as well as her isn’t always hers to affect. small window of movement. to travel. None of these will bring disaster. wry sense of humour. This kind of bearing witness reduces the But what happens when that window Then I start to write, joining up texts, one you speak ‘in place of’ to... silence. Gayatri closes? At some point, I’ll find out. They These last few years, I’ve been losing inhabiting her “I”, knowing all the time I Spivak warned us of this a couple of decades tell me that however many pills you take, many things I cared about. I keep making am not her, but trying to work with the grain ago. And acknowledging these problems won’t you can’t avoid the immobile stage. And a list of all the things I’ve lost since I had and timbre of those words and experiences. make any of the difficulties go away either; yet sometime in the future, there’ll be no Parkinson’s to give to the consultant in When I email an early draft to her, I write, surely the risk must be worth to witness the more windows. Is it dark ‒ black for the order to get him to take me seriously. “I’ve tried to preserve your words and the trauma, emotional intelligence, the fortitude future? I have a wonderful Parkinson’s emotions as much as I could, but have also and core stillness in a friend I admire... who nurse called Catherine. Besides Tim, 1. Being able to knit compressed, shaped and quilted together to feels that she is, at times, simply lumpen flesh. she’s been the one who has kept me 2. Being able to exercise make the writing more seamless.” In her reply This “I” should neither seem transparent nor going. She sees the fear. Yet without 3. Being able to read a book with she seems bewildered and, perhaps, also cross. act as a smokescreen, but must be a witness, an giving any false hope or promises, she’s sustained concentration “Did I think this?”, she says. I apologise, but interlocutor, and must make space for readers. reassuring. I’m not religious but I hold 4. Writing am secretly also affronted. “But this is you!”, Despite our frank exchanges, it is only recently onto the sentiment expressed in one of 5. Dancing to music I want to shout, “everything I’ve written you that I have picked up the courage to ask the my favourite poems, “the leaping greenly 6. Having a good sleep have more or less said.” Between more or questions I had evaded previously in our spirits of trees/ and a blue true dream of 7. Having a sex life less is, of course, an abyss. The art of losing – friendly, everyday exchanges. Even now I do sky... everything which is natural which 8. Having a social life Sally’s generous gift of ceding control of words, it obliquely... is infinite which is yes”. I may not be able 9. My self-confidence is, of course, my gain. If having Parkinson’s can be described a to do that much longer in the future but 10. My independence How can I make a shoe fit for Sally to don colour, what would it be? It’s dark ‒ black, I am alive today. n and strike her way across the page? Stitching dark grey-black, tinged with orange. * together fragments of Sally’s previous emails, Orange because it is a fiery extreme and Elizabeth Bishop’s moving poem, “One Art”, elicits those feelings of rage, frustration Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture our conversations and discussions about the and despair in me. And on days that you find Acknowledgements: I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident medical discourses on Parkinson’s, editing life bearable...? I think it’s emerald green, With thanks to Kirsty Gunn and Lindsay and then showing the work to her, have made Kildunan blue. Every now and then I get Macgregor for their helpful suggestions When I was still working, I remember for awkward and testing times. And yet they so very angry and frustrated. But it’s not on the original manuscript, and to Sian one young mother who had a very have also been clarifying in all sorts of ways. always possible to attach that to a feeling MacFarlane for use of her linocut, “Tiree disabled child, multiply handicapped, I don’t have Parkinson’s, though I can, of about Parkinson’s ‒ the illness is a part Storm”.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 17 Poetry

Torridon Rooms by the sea The Room With No View Robin Wilson (after a painting by Edward Hopper) Jim C Wilson Judith Taylor the wilderness says something This room’s a cube, too small for me to stand and you are busy listening - You know by the light in, too small for me to lie in – and grey – the pitch is sharp with birdcalls somehow not dull, not bright, just basic neutral grey, the tone is a monster growl when the sea’s near. and if I were to sleep (curled up) when I awoke I would not know how long I’d been asleep, underfoot the flint slides Landbound, how you mistake if it had been two hours or it had been until you must move or fall – that silver shifting two days (or twenty years) and so I would so you strive above it all and you seek it not know what day it was (or year) and what is more I would not know if it were day there should be communion unwary how, if you build your house or night, this room’s grey walls being windowless with moor and lichen rock in reach of the sea, that freedom (and doorless too, I should have said) and when but nothing feels like pleasure - it speaks to you will be all its own I think of food I can’t be sure about you are an off-day witness how hungry I should be, not knowing when not the imagined conqueror never yours. it was I last had food and do I need a wash Though you case your stone foundations and where’s my keys and dog, and do my friends is this the best view? even in caulker’s tar not know about all this and how I came is this the best glen? to be in this small room, this too small room where’s the GPS? still where I’ve been writing this for, well, I’ve been where’s the outcrop that tide will come. writing this for thirty hours or thirty years no one has stood upon? although these days or nights one can’t be sure of anything, the length, the heights, the depths. suddenly light flares out behind the boulder storm - The Rig this could transcend Iain Twiddy all previous distractions Beyond The Dunes If people can live on an oil rig Jim C Wilson you take a photograph drilled in to the middle of the sea – to define an epiphany like a rickety metal spider, Beyond the dunes the sea is grey and deep; to prove your measurement it’s edging up the beach, like liquid lead – of memory and wonder braced and craned, cranked, straining-platformed, cold, almost, as sleet. So I will keep like landing gear on a distant planet, to my path, eyes near-shut, fixed straight ahead. then press to send or a pond-skater sunk to its knees Then home once more, I have a compulsion but there is no signal to dive deep down into myself – and write; no signal for how you feel in mud, the tides tugging at the feet, but, as the daylight dies, I emulsion wind the only solid thing in sight a wall, until I see nothing but white. jerking like vultures at a carcass – Winter winds are moving in the roof space; I hear them sigh. A second wall shines white Ancestry if men can work there, leeching the earth, as darkness spreads. Soon, all will be in place, Hamish Myers the sea as deep as the air above, I think. Now all the house is gripped by night. like walking outside without trousers; Beyond the dunes the sea is deep and black. I saw you coming from the West- Across my finished paintwork runs a crack. The burning ash of Atlantic coasts if men can sleep suspended above Blew through hunted Gauls and Basques the bed, the cold their only blanket, And lit up Cork and Drogheda when one deep lurch could bring the whole thing With the red man of the myths and legends. Mappa Mundi matchsticking down, one spark flood the sky Robin Wilson Then sailing North to Borve and Bosta with a ravenous cataclysm In the space behind the storm. as the oil spurts like an artery, lichen fizzing over a granite boulder You took a farm of green and blue like the distant lights of a metropolis And played out quiet games of chess then surely I can dig in a bit and I could be Easy Jetting homeward As you were buried in the sand. longer here, with less of an anchor, above the flat glare of amber suburbs until the reason begins to flow clear. towards the harder glare of women Now tonight I read again Your stories in my headlights. or I could be a traveller with no family Round Stoer to Forss and Kirkwall nothing to turn into the iron wind for - The Autumn storms you felt the same aimless on a soggy autumn deer-track Shape questions over Orkney shrines- hesitating in front of a blistered rock with the world’s map covering its skin Do you believe in ghosts Or just the tremors of the past?

18 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 Poetry

Sumburgh, 1952 IV Martin Malone The Lightkeeper’s Wife I There’s always a good breeze up here to dry the washing out Advertisement and stuff to do with the hens or the vegetable patch.

Good ones acquire the mettle for confinement Both bairns were born up at the Head, so it is all they’ve known, and the solitude of the wild shore. He will be they love this posting, play round about the light and pet the goat. a handyman to a high standard and, through study of the sea, he’ll come to grasp its power. And the local folk look up to Bob, like he was the minister, doctor or a teacher. We’ll be sorry when the time comes. A man of parts with a knack for engines, at stations with radar or radio beacons he’ll have a flair for telecommunications. A useful cook and good companion, he The Sixty-One Eileen West won’t make a fortune but will be at peace with himself and the world. Main chores One came in shyly and shook my hand without a smile. are long hours in the watches of the night. Without the look or language of an oilman. Not for everyone, this keeping of the light. What he’d seen had made him fragile. One of the sixty-one. II A wife stared at me with a reproachful eye. The Inspectors Am I the enemy? Do you think I’m someone? He, nervous, fiddling with an unfamiliar tie. Drop by here once a year, Another of the sixty-one. so, everything is polished and everyone well-dressed. To some we were the enemy: “the Company”. Spick-and-span is normal All full-blown and high-flown and on our throne – no more than our duty – of money-saving villainy while they toil in agony. and we’ve enough men What is left of the 288: the sixty-one. to keep things gleaming. Come when you want, One watched his mate as a fireball fall to the black water. inspect what you will It plays in his head still and for always like a horror re-run. fuss over this and that, Sleep has been denied him since the slaughter. your visit holds no fear He wishes he was not one of the sixty-one. for the likes of us. Some carried openly their scars: crutches, one in a wheelchair. But none could hide the scarring of their minds: worn like a hand-me-down. III With shame and hurt of unfairness: an ongoing mental warfare. Those who think they survived: the sixty-one. The Lightkeeper’s Daughter For one, it was all about production, the pipes and a valve, We climb the stone wall A Geordie with the jargon: notebooks full of denial when he was done. and edge down the slope All a sort of insanity, his conscience to salve to watch puffins for hours, because he became one of the sixty-one.

More broke down reliving the 8th July. snuggling into the cliff’s nook, Tears dissolved the strokes of my Pitman me in Dad’s coat out of the wind, as they sobbed in their effort to reply. drinking tea from his thermos. Guilty at being one of the sixty-one.

The way they flutter in to land, One felt he was there for blame, like black and orange confetti, detecting in his interview a certain undertone, is my door into summer. My pages peppered with “sue” and “claim” He hurt, that one of the sixty-one. Once, when we look down, there’s a huge shark cruising Only one came escorted with an entourage, at the foot of the bluff. New counsellor, new love and new lawyer riding shotgun. Grandstanding performance betraying too much reportage. I remember thinking to myself The one famous one of the sixty-one. it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. Daddy laughs and pulls me close. Harrowing but an honour to be the stenographer Recording the words and wounds of each father or son who survived their worst night. THEIR Piper Alpha. All sixty-one of the sixty-one.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 19 t wis a plottin hett day in July. Mrs ‘Uncle Tam wints tae see ye Mary. Wabster’s washin wis hingin on the Secrets Cam ben wi me.’ Iline luikin wabbit, an her dother Jessie Fin Mary gaed intae uncle Tam’s room, wis powkin a snailie oot in the gairden he wis sprauchled oot on his bed. He wis wi a twig, ettlin tae makk it cock oot its Short Story by Sheena Blackhall mither nyaakit, barrin a mingin semmit hornies. Ower the dyke cam the soun o guffin o swyte, booze, an fush. Aneth he baas bein stottit agin a garage yet, tae the ✯ wore naethin ava. Mary hid niver seen a soun o bairn chantin: nyaakit mannie afore. ‘Ging up tae him Mary. He wints ye Caa caa the ropey, They gaed back intae the Lanie an skweel frien’s name wis Ina. Aabody likit tae touch his todger. Luik, I’ll show ye.’ Yer maa’s awa tae the shoppie, their baa-stottin: Ina, she wis gweed hairtit an blythe, bit Ina tuik her uncle Tam’s todger in her Tae buy a cake o soapie, her claes guffed o swyte an dried pish wee haun, an ruggit it up an doon. Mary Tae wash yer little dockie’ I had a little monkey, an her heid wis hudderie an flechie. wis horrified. Uncle Tam’s physog wis a Its name wis Jocky Broon, The dominies at the skweel likit Ina as hotterel o blackheids. He hid thin blaik ‘Ma, can I play ootbye wi Sally?’ speired I pit it in the bath tub, weel. They tuik peety on the wee sowel. stringgly hair an rotten teeth. His todger the wee quinie. Tae see if it wid droon. Whyles at denner time, they washed her stood up like stick o rhubarb, reid, wi ‘Aa richt, bit nae farrer nur the Lanie,’ It drunk up aa the watter, in the staff room lavvie, an cuttit her hair veins breengin oot. cam the repon It ett a cake o soap, an caimbed the beasties oot wi a beastie ‘Ye’ll get pennies like me gin ye dae Her dother didnae need twa tellins, an It deed the next mornin, caimb. An they’d bring in secunt haun it,’ quo Ina. ran oot tae meet up wi her frien Sally. Wi a bubble in its throat. claes an sheen fur Ina, an fed her whyles Bit Mary didna wint uncle Tam’s Sally Mackintosh wis adoptit, an nae lang In cam the doctor, wi brukken biscuits an toast. The queer pennies. She ran aa the wye hame an syne her fowk hid adoptit ag ain, a loonie In cam the nurse, thing wis, aince a month Ina wis flush. niver devalued aince. Nae lang eftir thon, aboot three month auld. In cam the leddy She’d cam tae skweel wi her pooches she flittit wi her family tae the Lanie. An ‘Wid ye like tae see ma new brither?’ Wi the big black purse. stappit wi siller an treat aa her class mates thon wis aa there wis tae the story. speired Sally. ‘He’s jist ooto his bath.’ Oot gaed the doctor, tae lucky tatties, aniseed baas, liquorice The three quinies, Sally, Mary an Jessie Jessie follaed her frien up tae the Oot gaed the nurse, strips an coo candy. It wis a mystery richt played ropies till teatime: Mackintosh hoose an intae the kitchiet. Oot gaed the leddy eneuch. Then ae day, Ina invited Mary The new bairnie wis lying bare nyaakit Wi the big blackpurse. hae fur tea. I’m awa in the train’, on a bath tool on tap o the kitchie table. An you’re nae comin wi me, He wis crawin an curmurrin like a cushie Nae lang eftir, they wir jyned bi Mary Her hoose wis the boddom storey o I’ve got a lad o ma ain, doo. Archibald, a quinie new flittit intae the a tenement. The gairden wis waist heich An ye canna tak him fae me. Mrs Mackintosh wis boo dower the Lanie, a year aulder than thirsels. Mary’s wi docken leaves, an a sotter o dug keech. He weirs a tartan kilt littlin, surroundit bi creams an poothers. fowk hid bidden in an orra airt o the toun The yett wis chippit peint. Inbye, Ina’s He weirs it in the fashion, ‘Watch this,’ she telt the twa quinies. till a hyne-aff kinsman hid deed withoot faimily war cooried roon a newspaper An every time he cocks his leg, She tuik a licht haud o the loonie’s family an left his his gear an hoose tae table cloot, happit wi chips an haddies. Ye see his dirty washin. wee todger an staiked it tae its pynt wi their thirsels. Jessie an Sally likit Mary Ina’s wee brither wis staunin in fyled her jewelled, nail-varnished fingers. The weel eneuch, she wisnae ower roch an she hippens an twa inch o snotters hingin frae Afire ye cud say Whigmaleerie, Mrs todger bedd straicht up like the Eiffel wisna din raisin, an shared her jacks an his snoot. Ina’s ma wis gley-eed, pirn taed, Wabster wis oot in the Lanie cryin Jessie Touer. scraps wi them, an whyles sweeties. Jessie hallyrackit bit friendly eneuch. in fur her tea. ‘I cam wirk magic wi ma fingers,’ she telt Mary aboot the todger, an Mary said ‘Cam awa in quinie. Ye’ll be Mary. ‘I pued some rhubarb sticks fur yer tea,’ lauched. ‘Ae day ye’ll larn thon tae.’ she’d heard aboot sic things frae a skweel Stick in till ye stick oot. Ma brither Tam’s quo she. Rhubarb crumble an custard… Jessie an Sally warna muckle interestit frien at her auld hame. An syne she telt hame frae sea this wikk. He wirks on a thon’s yer favourite!’ in todgers, tho it wis the first time Jessie them fit the auld skweel frien hid telt trawler. Ina, takk yer uncle ben his tea.’ Bit Jessie cudnae face the rhubard. She hid seen ane, an it wis a thochtie bumbazin her, bit they warna tae tell onyither body, Ina gaithered up a haunfu o chips in a settled fur sugar on bried instead. n that she didnae hae ane. She thocht that cause it wis a secret. paper cone an skippit aff intae the neist mebbe she’d growe ane ae day, like the The three dowpit doon on tap o a chaumer. She wis gaen a wee whylie. Fin snail’s hornies. granite dyke, an Mary began. Weel, the she cam oot, she cried tae Mary:

he young woman steps off the like a spectre which has strayed into a bus, its last passenger, and into Winter Night medieval city. Tthe winter night. The driver calls Clouds cover the moon. The chimes goodnight, take care. Concern flickers in of a clock cut softly through the winter the man’s eyes; perhaps he has a daughter Flash Story by Linda Tyler night. She counts the strokes. Twelve of her age. The door closes with a sigh o’clock; she is not late. Icy cold, she and she watches the bus move slowly ✯ hugs her coat to her thin body and crosses along the Great Northern Road, until its the shadowy quadrangle. comforting glow disappears. In the doorway of the Chapel she waits, A full moon emerges from behind the her heart thudding as the snowflakes clouds, the light bathing a snow-covered fingers touch the firm surface of her her neck then slip down her skin. She swirl. landscape. Alabaster pavements and purse; she brought nothing else, wanted turns up her coat collar and fights back a A dark figure hastens round the corner sleeping buildings stretch silently ahead. nothing else, when she slipped from her wave of panic edging into her fluttering and into view. In the distance a dimly-lit hotel appears parents’ house. heart. The high stone walls of University ‘Catriona.’ The man’s breath fogs in to ride a white-capped sea like some Her footsteps are as soft as velvet as Walk press in; birches reach long skeletal the frosted air. ghostly ocean liner. she turns and crosses the bridge in the branches towards her hurrying figure. She smiles at him. He takes her hand, She knows that all her life she will blue-tinged moonlight. Snow begins to Closer now stands the tower where gently rolls back her woollen glove and remember this night. fall again. Glancing back, she sees her she is to wait, its crown soaring into the kisses the inside of her wrist. She looks The cold pinches her face and she footprints are already disappearing. The sky. The silvery cobbled path opens into down at the melting snowflakes on her shivers; she must complete her journey. way ahead is as fresh as her new identity. the High Street and she hesitates, standing warmed skin. n Sliding gloved hands into pockets, her Cold white flakes caress the nape of

20 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 od rarely allowed anyone else “Poetry enables us to taste emotions into his Holiest of Holies but he Poets’ Paradise beyond our normal experience” or some Gmade an exception for the Dead flannel like that.’ Poets. He knew what disgruntled poets ‘Michty, Will - we’ll need a marketing could be like. Short Story by David McVey copywriter. Nane of us would write Every dead poet who had ever lived, mince like that.’ anywhere in the world, was crowded into ✯ ‘I would,’ chirped a little man who a vast space under tasteful pearly lighting. had worked all his life on greetings card Giant screens enabled the more distantly verses. seated poets to view the platform party. give a warm Dead Poets’ welcome to Liz as poets keep dying and our numbers By the time the discussion had risen and That year’s President stood up to give the Lochhead!’ continue to swell?’ flourished and begun to die down, they welcome. There was great roar of applause which ‘I always used to say,’ mused John had agreed to institute a Paradise Poetry ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he began, ‘we took a long time to die down. Then, a Donne, ‘that any man’s death diminished Day. There would be public readings, free have a lot of business to get through and bald, grey, bearded, dead Scotsman near me. Now, any poet’s death increases us.’ pamphlets and special programmes on summer’s lease, if I may say so, hath all too the front shouted, ‘Wait a minute! She’s ‘Our Lord has been most gracious on Heaven’s own TV channel, with additional short a date. Firstly, I want to thank Our not even dead! First we let women in, this occasion,’ resumed the President, ‘but coverage on the Red Button. Lord for letting us use these premises for now it’s the living!’ we need new permanent club rooms. A ‘Bit depressing, isn’t it?’ said Sylvia our AGM. As you know, our club rooms ‘Now, now,’ said the President, ‘this cockpit, you might say, that can hold the Plath, ‘If some people aren’t reading are now too small for our needs; poets is Paradise, not your grim Poets’ Pub! vasty fields of France.’ poetry, can this really be Heaven?’ keep dying and joining our ranks, so it is Women are full, equal members in our ‘What’s he on about?’ muttered a ‘Nobody reads poetry among the most gracious of Our Lord…’ society. cool, young but dead performance poet, living, now, either,’ said Sir Walter Scott. A mutinous murmuring broke out ‘Aye,’ shouted Robert Burns, ‘the mair ‘What’s France got to do with it?’ ‘Of course, at one time, everybody read from a group huddled around the main women the better!’ There was a little more discussion and mine…’ entrance with their backs to the meeting. ‘I wish I was back down there,’ said the then an Accommodation Committee ‘That was verse, Wattie!’ chortled ‘Who are they?’ asked the President. grizzled poet to the man on his left. was formed under the chairmanship of Wordsworth. ‘What you wrote wasn’t ‘That’s Keats and MacDiarmid and the ‘I prefer it up here,’ said his neighbour. Thomas Hardy, who, after all, was an proper poetry!’ rest of ‘em,’ said his Vice-President, Maya ‘I can see, for a start.’ architect. ‘Their meetings will be a right Angelou. ‘When they got here they were ‘Och, Milton, it’s no all about you.’ bundle o laughs,’ whispered Robert Burns The poets settled down to hear an kinda disappointed to find out there was ‘Is there nowhere at this meeting a to Robert Fergusson. inspiring address from their guest speaker, a God and Heaven and all, so they spend man can get a drink?’ shouted a curly- ‘And so to the issue of poetry reading,’ and then the President announced the their time trying to forget it. But they haired Welshman. the President continued. ‘In Paradise, our end of the formal meeting; ‘If you’ll all can’t forget it if they’re in the Holiest of ‘You’ve been asking that every week potential readers are, after all, dead…’ proceed to the lesser Holy of Holies, a Holies. They don’t wanna come in.’ since you got here, Thomas,’ Milton ‘…sailors, home from sea, and hunters finger buffet had been prepared. This is ‘Mewling, puking infants,’ muttered shouted back, ‘You have eternal bliss - home from the hill…’ Robert Louis a great networking opportunity so make the President. what do you want drink for?’ Stevenson whispered to himself. the most of it. And I’ve arranged for flights ‘Shall I go and read them some of my The President restored order with a ‘…and you might think that their of angels to sing thee to thy lunch.’ Psalms?’ said King David, bringing forth a few bangs of his gavel. ‘Now, my friends, existence couldn’t be further enhanced. The poets flowed in a seemingly endless flutter of laughter from the vast audience. we have two issues we must address before They have eternal life and eternal bliss. tide towards the exit. Above them flew When the room was silent again, the Ms Lochhead speaks to us. Firstly, the low Why would they read poetry?’ angels, terrifying in their dazzling bright President continued. ‘We have a special level of poetry reading here in Paradise ‘To make them feel miserable?’ said holiness, praising in stereo surround- guest who will speak to us later,’ and here and, secondly, our capacity problems. Burns. ‘Some poems dae that.’ sound; ahead of them they smelt the he gestured towards a small woman seated Where can we hold our future meetings ‘Yes, Rab, though in any poetry- welcoming aroma of mini sausage rolls further along the platform, ‘So please reading campaign we had better say and vegetarian vol-au-vents. n

ndins. Beginnins. Nothin iver “Ye’re welcome.” beginnin or endin. Continuity Three encounters wi ra Bodhisattva ay As A walk away, she calls, “Dae ye Econtains entropy, stasis happin tae huv any sper chinge?” contains movement. Nae metter how compassion in Maryhill, Glasgow “A don’t think so,” A say, puttin wan many times ra knife chops, severs, slices, ay ma bags doon an puttin a haund in ma divides, nothin separates. poackit. by dubh “A know A’m kind ay rippin ra cunt * * * oot ay ye,” she says. “A don’t mean tae.” A get in ra lift oan ra 10th floor. Ra ✯ “A huvnae goat any,” A say. “Sorry.” man awready in ther came fae higher up. “Thanks anywiy. Thanks a lot.” E could be 35, or 60; ra povurty, diet, “Take care.” A pick up ma bags an smokin an bevvyin in ra Wyndford gie walk hame. age a different meanin. E’s smokin in ra lift, even though it’s Walkway by bushes. Wi cannae see each a boattle ay Irn-Bru, anither a boattle ay * * * against regulations, an fur a second A uthir, but A hear im. “Ye’re a good girl, cider, an ra thurd a mix ay food an claes. In Tesco, a young man mumbles a consider no gettin in ra lift wi him, but eh? A’ll look eftur ye. Ye’ll feel bettur “Excuse me,” she says. “Wull ye gie me question tae ra middle-aged man at ra A dae. soon. C’moan an wu’ll huv a wee walk a haund? A cannae get they bags ower ra checkoot. “Dis it coast 50 pence tae pay He’s talkin tae is dug. “Ye’re ma good aboot.” fence. wi a debit cerd?” girl. Ye’ll feel better soon, eh? Good girl.” “A’m homeless, an A need tae get tae “Naw, no here, pal. It’s free.” n “Is she ill?” A ask. * * * ma tent.” “She goat somethin oan er tail oot It snawed in ra Wyndford ra day, but A put ma ain bags doon oan ra slushy ther in ra grass.” E points tae a hairless, noo it’s evenin, an ra snaw has turned tae grun, an she passes hurs tae me ower ra crusty sore. “A goat some cream fae ra vet, ice an slush. A walk through it in baby fence. an she’s gettin bettur.” steps, kerryin a heavy bag ay groceries Then she climbs, hings, an jumps. When wi leave ra buildin, A walk by in each haund. Thir’s an iron fence, an a Whin she lands she slips, an A catch an ra rivur, an e walks wi ra dug oan ra path young wumman oan the ither side ay it. steady er. thit runs parallel, separated fae ra Kelvin She’s goat three plastic bags; wan hauds “Thanks.”

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 21 hen you think about and crouched on the other side. Mairi’s being seven or eight, you The Wrong Idea eyebrows wriggled and the boys kept Wremember the red of your shouting. You both looked out at the clothes and your sunburn, of gums with sea. It was getting choppy in the wind. missing teeth, and flushed cheeks in the Short Story by S.A. MacLeod Underneath each wave it was dark, a kind photos of you and your sister. There was of hollow where the sun couldn’t get to. white too: the crests of waves, seashells ✯ The light was changing to pink, like the glued to rocks and the shiny tin of the postcards your mother sent to everyone caravan you stayed in. Some days you from the caravan. She didn’t write much, remember blue. Not just the blue of the just: ‘Having a lovely time’. sky, or the turquoise of the cans of baked ‘Do you think Mammy’s having a beans, but a magical violet-blue that was made you go to. All that stepping and I’m the king of the castle and you’re the lovely time?’ you asked Mairi. there and then gone. jumping, all these red outfits. dirty rascal. ‘I don’t know.’ As far as your mother was concerned, When the rain eventually stopped, you They were sitting up on the only there was only one colour. woke to the sound of hysteria in your landmark on the beach - a weird solitary The next day the boy from the beach ‘Red, that’s your favourite, isn’t it, mother’s voice. Some people are affected rock. One boy jumped up, pushed his came to your caravan when you were still Gillian?’ she would say, when you’d by the moon, but it was the sun with her. friend down and shouted, in bed. never expressed such a preference. Then She was singing operatically, ‘Oh what a No, I’m the king of the castle get down you ‘Wakey wakey!’ he shouted and you she would dress you in it from head to beautiful morning!’ She had burst into dirty rascal heard him knock on the metal. Your foot, like a letterbox. It was almost a your bunk bed room and sang until you You stared at them for a while mother opened the door and spoke to premonition. You glowed scarlet before put your head under the pillow. wondering what they were doing and him. she even had a chance to embarrass you. When the singing stopped, the then one of them noticed you. ‘They’re not up yet!’ you heard ‘Workers of the world unite!’ your shouting began. ‘Why are yous wearing long sleeves?’ her roar. uncle Jim used to say when your mother, ‘Come on! Out of your beds! It’s a he said. He said words differently from You felt the thud of her footsteps and sister and you arrived at his door clad in lovely day and the birds are singing and you, had fair hair and sand stuck to his she burst into your room. crimson. Then he would laugh and your the rabbits are jumping, let’s go to the face. ‘There’s a boy to see you.’ Dad would laugh too when your mother beach!’ ‘We got burnt.’ ‘OK!’ You slid down the ladder out of told him later. She didn’t get it though. You could hear the seagulls, but it was ‘That was stupid.’ your bunk bed. Mairi sat up in hers and She didn’t understand and that made her always a mystery to you where she got You looked down. Why didn’t they get her hair got stuck to the bed above. angry. the information about the rabbits. burnt? Why were you stupid? ‘Ow,’ she said. You pulled it out for her, ‘Your brother called me a prostitute Your Dad was already outside, washing ‘Didn’t yous have any sun cream?’ but some strands were stuck in the wire again!’ she shouted, once she got home. the car with a hose. You looked at Mairi who was looking under the mattress. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,’ ‘Is Daddy coming to the beach?’ You at the boy. ‘We’re just coming!’ You shouted to replied your Dad. ‘Why on earth would asked. ‘Come on up here, if you like,’ he said. the boy. he do that?’ ‘Let’s get you in the sun and get some You both ran towards the rock and ‘Hurry up!’ he said. ‘I know what he’s like, that brother of colour in your cheeks.’ climbed up beside them. You could see all You threw off your pyjamas and started yours. He’s always making snide remarks. You tried again. ‘Is Daddy coming to around: the people on the beach, a dog, getting dressed. He’s a nasty piece of work.’ the beach?’ the sea and the sky. ‘I’m just putting on my knickers,’ you ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean ...’ ‘It’s about time you got some sun on You looked at the rock and found one yelled. ‘Can’t you even stand up for me? you.’ of these white sun-hat shells. ‘And I’m putting on my vest,’ said You’re always taking his side. I’m sick You remember walking through the ‘Look,’ you said to Mairi, ‘it’s a limpet.’ Mairi. and tired of you always taking everyone sand dunes in your flip flops carrying ‘A what?’ she said. ‘Me too!’ else’s side.’ your plastic bucket and spade. You loved ‘A limpet. We did it at school.’ ‘And that’s my T-shirt,’ ‘Look…’ the feeling of the sand sliding over your ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘is it alive?’ ‘I’m putting on my shorts,’ shouted She wouldn’t listen. She got angrier toes. Your sister Mairi dropped her spade. ‘Yes, it lives in its shell. Inside it’s got Mairi. and angrier until she went off to bed in ‘Mairi!’ your mother shouted, ‘What everything. It’s got a foot and a tongue You came out of the room and headed a huff. d’you think you’re doing?’ and teeth.’ for the caravan door. Your Dad never usually said much You picked up Mairi’s spade and held ‘Tongue and teeth? And… has it got Your mother was blocking your way, a when your mother was around. In fact her hand as you walked towards the eyes?’ Cyclops in the doorway. nobody did. She was the unreliable sparkling sea. You wanted to walk and ‘I don’t know.’ ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she narrator of the world around you, the walk right into it. ‘What about ears?’ growled. sports commentator misinterpreting the ‘Where are you going? Let’s stop ‘The teacher never said, but they don’t You looked down. What had you done game of your life. When you think of here.’ like it if another shell tries to sit in their now? the sound of being seven or eight, you Your mother put down the tartan rug space.’ ‘Do you think it’s OK to shout about remember her voice. and your Dad started opening the navy ‘In their space?’ your underwear to boys?’ And the smell of that time was the blue windbreak. There was hardly anyone ‘Yes, they push it away.’ You looked at her face, as red as her Calor gas of your caravan holidays. Your else on the beach. He hammered the posts ‘But how can they do that? It looks clothes. Dad said Calor gas was dangerous and to into the sand using a big stone. You were dead, Gillian.’ ‘It’s disgusting. You should know better. be careful. The whole caravan could go ready in your bathing suits, but you had ‘No, it’s alive.’ You’ll give him the wrong idea.’ up in flames at any moment. One match to wait for the command. ‘Is it really alive?’ Her wide open eyes ‘What idea?’ asked Mairi. and that would be it. Whoosh! And he ‘OK, get in the sea. In ye go.’ stared at you. ‘Don’t give me that cheek. You know laughed, as if he liked the idea. You ran down the beach. The The blond haired boy touched the what I mean!’ At night the caravan shook when your Highland sea was always freezing, but you limpet. ‘Off out with you. Go out and play mother stomped around and it rocked wanted to stay near to it. If you went up ‘Look!’ he said and he pulled the with your boy.’ when she shouted at your Dad. Now and on the sand dunes, there might be trouble. shell off the rock. It was grey and gooey You walked out of the caravan slowly. then you imagined the sea had come right Your Dad ran towards you in his bathing underneath. ‘What did she mean?’ asked Mairi. up over the beach and you were floating trunks doing a silly walk, then he sprung ‘You’ve hurt it now!’ said Mairi. ‘You’ve ‘Knickers and vest are bad words,’ you and rocking on the waves. into the sea and splashed as you and Mairi hurt it and it’ll die.’ said. screamed. You held hands, the three of ‘It’s only a shell,’ he said. ‘Like bloody and damn and… big That summer, it started to rain the day you, and jumped over the waves. His friends had jumped off the rock bum…?’ after you came to the caravan and then By that night your skin had turned and were walking away. He threw the ‘Shhhh! If we say them… people…if it poured down for a whole week. The red and sore and the next day you had shell at them. we say them, it’s the wrong idea.’ raindrops battered the tin roof all night to wear long sleeves to go out. That was ‘Hey!’ one of them shouted and picked ‘The wrong idea,’ repeated Mairi. as if someone was up there dancing. And when you saw three boys of around your up a stone to throw back. You went to meet the boy. And now you thought of all the classes your mother age, climbing a rock and singing a song. You and Mairi jumped off the rock you worried that he would be different

22 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 because you’d given him ‘the wrong idea’ seagulls were screaming. ‘What d’ you If only you had been fast that time you ‘What have you brought me?’ whatever that was and it was your fault. think you’re doing?’ your mother was picked the bluebells.Your mother had been ‘These,’ you said, looking at the You’d done it. And he would know. You saying in your head. angry and then you saw her watching the bluebells and noticing that they were weren’t sure what it was OK to say and You followed the voices and found the telly. There had been nothing on TV at drooping and had turned darker, kind of not OK to say, so you didn’t say anything, boy and Mairi in a cave. the time because it was the afternoon. Just purple. just in case. But he would know. Now ‘Look!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ the test card: that girl with the blackboard ‘What did you pick them for?’ Her you knew that boys know things and that Inside you heard water dripping and the hairband. That girl you wanted to lips were close together and she seemed made you feel funny. and there was a damp smell. Whenever be when you grew up. Your mother was to snarl. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the you said anything your words moved staring at the test card and her face had You looked at her angry face. beach!’ around the cave and came back, even a no expression on it, but her eyes looked ‘For you,’ you said looking at the You remember rushing through the whisper, it made you even more worried bloodshot. You didn’t know if she was flowers. sand dunes with the reeds stroking your about saying the wrong thing. Mairi was waiting for a programme to come on, but ‘What would I want with some nasty legs, the wind in your ears. The boy was skipping around. She started shouting. usually there wouldn’t have been anything withered flowers eh? Look at them, half saying something that you couldn’t hear. ‘Wooh!’ before Watch with Mother at 4 O’clock. dead.’ Mairi was dancing down the beach. What The boy joined in. It was a hot day for spring and you She stood up and grabbed them from did the boy know? Why were you so ‘Arse!’ he said. went out to play and when you were you. bad for saying these words? Mairi did a ‘Shut…up!’ said Mairi. on the hill with your friend you saw the ‘Out of my way,’ she said and marched cartwheel on the beach. Suddenly she ‘Shite!’ he shouted and the word bluebells under the trees, that magical off to the kitchen. was upsides down and then the right way bounced around ‘Shi-i-i-i-te’ violet glow. You thought they looked so You heard the thump of something up again. You felt heavy and stuck in the ‘I’m…telling…on…you,’ shouted lovely. And you wanted to make your landing and the flip top of the kitchen sand. The boy was zig-zagging across the Mairi. mother happy so you started to pick bin. You followed her in, scanning the beach, nee-nawing like an ambulance, ‘Who…are…you…going…to…tell?’ them. You thought of her blank face kitchen for the blue of the flowers, but or maybe it was bee-bawing because he ‘I’m…telling…my…mother… you… staring at the telly and you pulled them you could only see the pale Formica and came from down in Glasgow. The sea said…bad…words.’ out with their juicy stems. They were so the red of the linoleum floor. was sparkling. Fat seagulls were swooping ‘Your…mother’s…a…nasty…cow!’ small that you needed to pick a lot and You looked up at her. from the sky. Your mother would be in ‘How…do…you…know?’ soon you had a big bunch of them. The ‘Well?’ she said, ‘What are you staring the caravan angry and it was your fault. ‘I…heard…her. My…mother’s… stems felt slimy in your hand and already at? Out of my sight, go on, out of my She would be cleaning in that fast way, much…nicer…than…yours.’ the blue flowers didn’t look as good as sight ‘til I make the tea.’ that loud way. Or shaking something. ‘You’re…a…liar!’ they did on the ground. You set off home Shaking the carpet out or the bedclothes ‘Celtic…forever!’ said the boy. with your bunch of flowers. You went And if you could have been fast like or emptying the bins. At least she didn’t ‘What’s…that?’ down the steps beside the hill and along the crab, it might have been OK. The have a Hoover here. You thought of ‘Haven’t…you…heard…of…Celtic?’ the street, said bye to your friend at the crab was scuttling sideways, but you had her face when she was hoovering. The ‘No…what…is…it?’ entrance to the lane and waved, holding walked home slowly with the flowers. You corners of her mouth turned down and ‘They’re...a… fuckin’… football… the bluebells like a trophy. When you got had walked in the heat and the bluebells her forehead wrinkled like it was her who team!’ near the house you could still hear the had turned purple and withered. And you was making the noise. Often she seemed ‘A fuk…king… football… team? music from the telly. The afternoon music couldn’t show her how lovely they had to be attached to the machine, possessed ‘That’s…right’ that meant there was nothing on. Maybe been on the hill. You thought you could by its shaking and vibrating. ‘How…many…players…in…a… your mother was still watching the blank make her happy, but you weren’t fast The boy was waving now, jumping up fuk…king…football…team?’ screen. You were going to surprise her. enough, you were slow like the limpet and beckoning you to follow him along The boy started laughing. You went in the back door and through stuck to the rock, the bluebells had died the beach. He floated like a feather, while ‘Jesus… girls… are… stupid!’ he the kitchen. Going into the living room and it was your fault. You’d said bad words the sand sucked you under. He went shouted. you could see the top of her head above to the boy and it was your fault. towards the harbour, ran between the the chair. rocks and then disappeared from sight. You stood at the side of the cave ‘Hello Mammy!’ There was no reply. And you stood up and walked away ‘Come on!’ you heard him shout, ‘over watching them and then you looked out You walked towards her with the from the crab and the rock pool, away here!’ at the sea again and your eyes hurt going bluebells, seeing the side of her stern face from the cave. Mairi and the boy were You caught up with him climbing over from the dark to the light. You felt dizzy staring at the telly. The test card girl was still shouting and their voices faded the stones and between the pools. Slimy and walked away from the cave to look staring back, at least the girl was smiling. as you got nearer the sea. The seagulls seaweed covered the rocks. The sea air at the rocks and the pools around them. You stood beside your mother offering screamed above you. And now you can tasted salty. Then he disappeared again. And maybe it was the crab that reminded her the bluebells. see yourself, a child of seven or eight, ‘Over here!’ You heard, but you you. The crab was moving sideways ‘Look, what I’ve brought you Mammy,’ standing there looking at the sea. And you couldn’t see him. This time his voice was along a rock, clambering slowly, and then you said, ‘Look Mammy!’ can’t remember what you were thinking, echoey. scuttling away and if you could have been ‘What?’ she said turning her face but it might have been about the colour He had gone and was just a voice. The fast like that it might have been alright. towards you quickly. blue. n

Lullaby For it’s the scale of the betrayal the pride that swelled our chests A Folk Singer it’s the time that it took when we were young chevaliers it’s the pettiness of history is dismissed by winter’s breath (for Dave) it’s that we haven’t changed a bit that returns no whisper of youth Robin Wilson or prospect of the world’s honour did you walk the birks of Aberfeldy? stories do not sleep did you hear the mavis singing? but you can summon company stories never sleep did you follow Bonnie Dundee? when you call we will respond they find you in the dark did you drink a service to your lassie? with love songs of our own and make your hurt sing are you my ain kind dearie-o? stories do not sleep it’s the first chord you borrowed it’s the Floo’rers o’ the Forest stories never sleep because it belonged to you truly falling as the moon stands still they find us in the dark it’s the first chorus you shared and make our hurt sing when voices recognised their loss and all the rogues and wantons and lifted up their testimony passing round the parting glass cannot sing us back to blooming

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 23 Poetry

Evan Cowen World of blue hills, green skies, a yellow beach, There is Palm tree shading dark figures from an orange sun. an echo rock The chill clean air can’t penetrate at Loch an Eilean Such warm confusing lies, beguiling charm, island Loch, where you cock She stays, not breathing, gasps beneath its weight. an ear and hear (watch!) a hook that, sung, caught itself (look!) among and clung the forty tendrilled pine and spun (pretending, haughty chime) a web and lunged The Chimney Sweeper toward the further shore - a wave in fervour to rebound, Sheila Lockhart a lathe of sound now We pause on our midsummer hike, Drowns This wee black moth suggests shade, Down A smudge of soot in the shifting sunlight Beside the Old Military Road. There is an echo rock (where is?) where stood stock still there cupped hands hear your holler fill the wood, He rests in shivering grasses shocked, up. Knock the distance, land erupts Matt charcoal on a shiny stem, to rally back the syntax you convey Wings fringed with a thin dusting of ash. and leaves a voice And now, quick shimmy of taffeta, he’s off without a shape. To perform a delicate strathspey, Rock echo His evening dress, like some black-coated Goth, Echo Discordantly elegant on the bleak moor. Rock Were you dancing then, Chimney Sweeper, When Caulfeild’s men smashed stones Waiting with Greyfriars You are changing gear, To build this road, Bobby navigating new roads And redcoats marched to break the Highlands, Janis Clark over bridges and round bends Or when the bonnie prince rode by that I say you take too fast. To Inverlaidnan House, that’s now a ruin? You say the instructor says Did they pause on this track, those violent men, I scanned the photos every day for weeks, you hesitate too much Spotting the smoky blackness of your wings, sifted out the mountaineers, the cavemen and I say Your small, uncanny shadow on the grass or those to avoided when the moon was full. If in doubt go slow And, like us, more pensively He looked quite nice. We both liked dogs. but you say Continue on their way? No. The Grassmarket glowed in midday sun. You are not in doubt. Nearby, Wee Bobby waited his arrival. Mingling with tourists, I waited too, You practice roundabouts, Suith in watched a pigeon bob and coo, indicating entering and leaving. Kirsteen Bell tail feathers splayed to lure a mate. Then the long road through the forest as the day ends A fere air souchs throu the birkenshaw When the sun cried off behind a cloud, in fading colour on the loch Whisperin its wicht hishie-baa my watched warned it was getting late. a glow on the white mountains. Weirin its braith in a leafy wharle My first and last time. An soothin the sair pechin saul Before I left, I patted Bobby’s nose Near the slope where we used to go sledging and marvelled at his patience. you do a three-point turn. The full moon rises behind the trees and I hear its instruction: Celebrating a Cypress Juniperus communis Driving Lesson Look left, look right, Merryn Glover Pay attention this night. juniper smoke saining a new year in He is indicating an ancient medicine You have the keys He is leaving. jenever fortifying dutch courage to win and a handful of lessons the dry london processing of savin under your belt with various botanicals therein while I have empty hands berries of juniperus and citrus skin and the passenger belt The Reunion tonic, ice and lemon the linchpin across my heart, Sheila Lockhart the raj sugared bitter quinine with gin feet together, lips sealed. mother’s solace, maudlin heroine Brisk breezes sweep the New Town street, heart of the cocktail hour – no sin Our first time swapped, Festival madness in her step now additional aromatics begin you reverse out of the drive, She hesitates, peers through the open door a gin evolution a la Darwin and accelerate away, leaving Still there these thirty years and more? gin for joying, the sunset behind till Thinned hair, pale skin, worn slippers on his feet, gin for ageing it meets us again down the hill A gust quakes her heart in its foundation, whatever, whenever, GIN. lighting the river, Spots of cold rain splash her face. your concentrated face, He speaks her name, not forgotten then? my eyes. She enters, remembering this place, his embrace. Joan Gibson

24 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 Savour the huam

Artist Amanda Thompson on the roots of her new book

Sc o t s Di c t i o n a r y of Nature old dictionary made me begin to wonder specificity to describe their everyday roar; force, impetuosity, often as denoting (Saraband) has been a long about lost connections to land and place activities. As I listened and heard these the violence of the wind. Atime in the making. As an artist, and perhaps even ways of seeing and being new (to me) words, they informed Words pull us together across borders much of my work is about the Scottish in the world, and I began wondering what additional ways of seeing and gave me and times. I have lovely conversations Highlands, and in 2010, when I made an else I might find. different understandings of the places with a friend from Yorkshire, where we artist’s book called A Dictionary of Wood, Eard-fast means a stone or boulder fixed where I was walking and of the activities compare Scots and Yorkshire words. I I was doing research about the remnant firmly in the earth, or simply, deep rooted they were carrying out. And there were always remember him telling me a story Scots pinewood forests of Abernethy, and in the earth, and it’s a word that seems to other phrases too, some quirky, others about his elderly father who had fallen about Culbin, a Forestry Commission get to the heart of this book. It resonates pithy. An older forester told me about a down in his garden and couldn’t get up. forest in Morayshire. Earlier that year, in with ideas of place and belonging, makes man who started working for the Forestry “Help!” he shouted, when he heard the a second-hand bookshop in Edinburgh, I me think of deep connections to places Commission but was not very good at postman at the door, “I’m rigwelted.” had found an old Jamieson’s A Dictionary and particular landscapes and makes me his job: he was not “wid material”, the The postman, also a Yorkshireman, heard Of The Scottish Language, abridged by consider how language can assist or be at forester said. his cry and knew to go and help him up, John Johnstone and published in 1846. the root of such connections. I decided to systematically go through as rigwelted describes a sheep stranded on The original price of £11 was embossed the Jamieson dictionary looking for its back. I couldn’t think of an equivalent in gold on the spine, and I bought it LAND words related to wood, and did the same word in Scots, and joked that perhaps our for £20. In opening random pages, I’d adder-bead, -stane n the stone when I subsequently found a Supplement sheep just didn’t fall down, but when I come across words such as timmer breeks supposed to be formed by adders. to Jamieson’s Scottish Dictionary, edited looked through these old dictionaries, (timber trousers), meaning a coffin, and adder-bell, -cap n the dragon-fly. by David Donaldson and published in there it was… Awalt sheep: a sheep that has dedechack: the sound made by a woodworm adhantare n one who haunts a place. 1887, and then a copy of The Scots Dialect fallen on its back and cannot recover itself. in houses, so called from its clicking noise, and Dictionary, edited by Alexander Warrack because vulgarly supposed to be a premonition Between 2009 and 2013 I was doing a and published in 1911. I started making BIRDS of death. doctorate and an element of my research my way through each of these dictionaries, caper-lintie n the whitethroat. I loved these words and more: related to the gradual changes that happen noting words – most of them completely cat-gull n the herring gull. they had a resonance and a particular over time in the forests of Morayshire and unfamiliar – first in relation to wood, then catyogle n the great horned owl. feeling to them that was sometimes Abernethy and how, when one is familiar over the years birds, weather, water, and of chack, check n the wheatear. poignant and affecting, and sometimes with a place, one sees many more layers course, the land itself. The focus on words conveyed a prosaic descriptiveness that and begins to recognise the subtlest of relating to walking came at a later date, as I’m not a lexicographer, a linguist, or nonetheless spoke of close connections these changes. I was also interested in I began to think about how we discover a historian of the Scottish language, but and an attentiveness to the nuances of how we make sense of and articulate our places by moving through them; and how as an artist I am interested in words and the landscape, what it contains, how we relationships to the land, both visually places themselves (and what we’re doing language and how we might describe move through it, and even specific times and verbally. As I walked with foresters in them) dictate how we move. our world. In mining these dictionaries, of day or year. Break-back: the harvest moon, and ecologists, I came across words like I’ve found words that are rarely heard, so called by the harvest labourers because of gralloch, used by a deerstalker to describe WEATHER no longer in use or perhaps largely the additional work it entails. There were the innards of a dead deer (and the verb Banff-baillies n white, snowy-looking forgotten. These “found” words evidence also words like huam: the moan of an owl to gralloch, which so viscerally describes clouds on the horizon, betokening foul a confluence of local and social histories, in the warm days of summer, evocative of the task of removing them). Such words weather. allude to changing ways of life and shifting that feeling of the haziness of a long, hot were unfamiliar to me, and yet foresters baumy adj balmy. connections, and point to fascinating summer’s day as it spills into evening. This and ecologists used them with ease and beir, bere, bir, bier n, v noise, cry, relationships with nature and the land. n

hi alarm gied yi a flehg so everybodys goat thi hump thi day. Yi yi blooter it intae silence- Cataracts like this place, especially thi auld songs Tanother day sterts. Yi hae that oan thi juke boax, yi sing alang, they`re a wee bevridge aff thisideboard before Yi laughing, they enjoy a guid sang an a sesh, even turn on thilicht. It disnae matter; Short Story by Roddie McKenzie so yi dae a few mair. Megic! Thit feeling naebody hame but yersel. Tae auld tae of being “tap o` thi huhlltoon Ma”- fur this faif; yet tae youthie tae stehrve. ✯ who wuz it that said yon yi ask? Och, But it wuzna aye like this. When Wha kerrs! Yi close yer een tae savour ye first stairted in thi Cleppy Road, it. When yi open them wherr ur they a`? before thi bairns, it wiz a joy to get up Maist fowk are braw when yir helping it. Ach, sumtimes it jist gits tae yi and Ye go roond thi big curved bar and ther fir work. A brah crowd o` lassies and aw them choose thi frames and thi bairns thi day yi snapped at thon stuffed shirt. they ur. thi strappin laddies fae thi mills doon thi that jist need a wee bittae re-assurance. Yi Yi ken yi wur a bittie ootae order, but fur “Hullo ther.. ony body wid think road drappin` by fur a blether. Noo wi like that bit o` thijob. Felt part o` a team her tae pit a complaint in aboot yi.. ah ye were gi`in` me thi boady swerve,” yi wurkin` roon thi toon, ye dinnae get tae that wiz keekin oot fur people. Nice tae mean tae say... . Then...suspentit ! Whits shout, an gang ti gie thim a wee hug. But ken wha`s wha in a shop afore yir moved help them see thi telly, thi Tullay or thi that aboot? Yi asked Cath. She tells yi tae yir feet catch oan thi brass rail and thi on tae thi next yin. Jist like thi licht passing grandbairns again. But she wiz a bizm! keep thi heid; she`ll see whit she kin dae . wine glass in yir han creshes oantae thi thro thi windae- in and awa`. A richt nippie sweetie, her an thi designer Stull, stiddy noo, walk oot proud, dinnae bar. As thi shards clatter across thi bar tae Eh! Cheenged days noo. Thi bairns hanbag. Some o` them that come in here gie them thi satisfaction. Yir een burn, bit a spinning stop, yi see ther een; oot like being heid bummers in thae bioteckae jist wind thersels up. Yi ken thit lenses, yi keep yer dignity, ken whit eh mean? prawns, thim drawin` back slowly, like yi works. Dinnae see thim much- ther eh arnae megic een. Thae fowk dinna get Nae point in gangin` hame sae early, were mental an a`. And as thi rose-tintit bizzy. But wi Tommy gone, it wiz back thi idea that when yer auld yer een jist jist mair time tae kill. Yi gang up tae thi glesses fa` awa, yi see clearly, an` it izna tae work. Cannae jist trail roon thi hoose dinnae work as weel. Thers a limit tae `View tae relax. Thi vino goes down bonnie. n in yir rovies. So Yi went back tae work whit lenses kin dae. Mind yi, tell them pretty guid. Yi like thi crowd in here, wi thi opteecians. that an they git pussay and blame YI fur ther usually mair chattie though. Seems

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 25 Poetry

Foreshore We are the people of Scarp. Gone Howard Wright We hauled our boats up the shore, Susan Elsley fetched water at the well, Jellyfish at the high-water mark. combed the beach for driftwood, and sang. Catch her before she’s gone Exploded silicon implants. Tell her that it doesn’t matter Punctured eyeballs; inner workings MacInnes, MacLennan and MacLeod That the plate cracked of a soft engine, mechanism by runrig furrows and the purple hill Scattering melting moments, of watercolour and albumen, that rang with schoolhouse voices. With a crusty bag of sugar whiskey heart and brain of milk. Our names kissed others’ lips before we went. Standing in for the porcelain daintiness Of past sharing

Call her and take a skelf of time The Seafront Kyleakin ferry remembered To laugh about the dog running puppy-wild Howard Wright Peter Godfrey And she got in a fank and you had to Hold her, her breathing slowing to The worrying croak of swings. Nobody there. Yellow crest – lion rampant A gentle exhale, Wrapped up in themselves, taking what’s on offer, on a shiny red funnel Respite against people are mistaken in what they might find there: seen through mist and slanting rain, The chemical clouding childhood, small rebellions; a breath of salty air; smoke wafting with the wind. something to stay forever that was never really there. They think twice, half-hoping to travel as far by car, Cars and lorries snug on deck Now it’s past, lift your head hearing that nothing had changed down there in a din of steel and rivets And put it soft, weep-down since ships moored in what was then the harbour. that drifts out half a mile, On the cornflower rug which braced her Some even say, with justification, nothing was there slips past its sister vessel. As the zephr wind tore her from in the first place. Chips from a backstreet trailer, Warm sodded earth, probably, but that’s neither here nor there. Far-flung lamps a constellation, Leaving you salt lipped Ice cream in the park by the seawall, foul or fair? green and red, dim white and blinking With the tang of absence A roundabout painfully turns. Nobody there. as a searchlight arcs the cosmos, Now, a shred of evermore. falls on capstans and dark waves.

The Waterfall If You’re Out There Howard Wright Leaving Marie-Bernadette Rollins Susan Elsley A pair of rainbows where it paused Don’t come complaining to us about war – and fell again. Looking up, eyes shaded, Here is the final cry you had it coming. you gained a corona while the river fled, Of an old weary heron fast and low, over the shelf of basalt Caught in the cleft Don’t feed the stove with iron and ice if from remnants of the plateau. Ionised Of the split rock you want it burning. pure colours, lionised unspoilt spectrums spanned stepping-stones and rock litter Here is a winsome sparkle Don’t appease our wounds with elixirs that to steep paths leading across and out Peaking from the gorm-black sky you know won’t be numbing. of the Amazonian gloom, the deluge On a haar-frost night of housing already around our ankles. By the hill road Don’t promise us next May when you know that When wasps hit the picnic, we beat Here is the blow-by you won’t be returning. and battled and stamped them into the dirt. Smell of budding pine For a short time we were in paradise. Hooching with fiery sparrows We’ve mourned the moon through each feeble night but At the slip of day this eye can’t find sleep.

Here is the butter silk Don’t condemn vices you burden us with In a Hebridean cemetery Of crumpled sea storm fronds from cradle to tomb. Peter Godfrey Sneaking up on the bent grass By the bleached tombola Don’t reproach us for ravishing fields that We are just stones, you gave us to reap. somewhere between boulder and pebble And here, here is the last sigh, lodged on a mound of grass, A soft swither of a glance, If you want us to repent, then tell us a twist of ewe’s wool on the rusting wire. Then a pull on the door of the old place who’s praying to whom? And the sharp creak of leaving. Some a slab blotched with black and yellow or a wafered menhir split in a storm. The marram grass has grown so high some of us are hardly noticed.

Iris blades crowd in a ditch below and on the white tràigh clear waves lap the sand. Shadow of Husival across the kyle – a wheatear rides the wind on sapphire sea.

26 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 REVIEWS A Long Look at The Long Take

Short-listed for the 2018 Man Booker Prize (to be awarded on 16th October), Robin Robertson’s novel in verse The Long Take (Pan Macmillan) has been described as ‘remarkable’ and ‘showing the flexibility a poet can bring to form and style.’ JENNIFER MORAG HENDERSON considers the book and the poet

orth-east writer Robin dialogue of film. Robertson has said Robertson’s new book The that he thinks poetry should be read NLong Take has been acclaimed aloud to be savoured, and combinations as a unique and genre-defying ‘noir and descriptions in The Long Take reach narrative’, but it is not a dark, dense moments that need to be re-read and text: it is full of “daggering light and sun tested: directionless and hungover, Walker laid out everywhere”; a sharp, bright wakes up: “He found himself misplaced illuminating read that throws stark black in his bed all night, mislaid…” shadows. Robertson is a poet, the winner Robertson has translated Swedish of all three prestigious Forward Prizes, Nobel prize-winning poet Tomas and The Long Take is something special, Tranströmer, and he said of Tranströmer yet also a logical progression from his five that he “continually returns to symbolism previous poetry collections. that stands in opposition to the natural world… most specifically, the car, the Robertson was brought up in Aberdeen, driver, the mass movement of traffic…” – where his father was a university chaplain. and this is where The Long Take is going He went on to study English there, as well. Walker lives his unhappy life and his work often recalls the north of pounding the streets of his adopted cities, Scotland, particularly the coast. Poems in but the bulldozers are moving in and we the 2010 collection The Wrecking Light are coming into the America where the talk about “The fishboxes of Fraserburgh, car is king. Aberdeen / Peterhead… nothing but the As well as his poetry, Robertson has a names / of the places I came from years Robin Robertson. parallel career in editing. Not just a student ago…”, while the penultimate poem in Photo by Niall McDiarmid. of Alistair Macleod, he was also his editor, the collection, “At Roane Head”, winner and he works or has worked with writers of the Forward prize for ‘Best Single The story of The Long Take is based docks where the fish are received, but including Irvine Welsh, Ocean Vuong, Poem’, is well known for its gruesome around a soldier returning from the soon moving on again, to Hollywoodland A.L. Kennedy, Sharon Olds, Michael tale of selkies. However, Robertson’s Second World War. Scarred by his war and the city of the movie industry that is Ondaatje, Alan Warner, Ben Okri, Janice concerns are not purely Scottish, but experiences and unable to settle back referenced throughout the book. Galloway and James Kelman. Editing and something more international. He home in Cape Breton, Canada, he travels, From the beginning, Walker shares his writing are not necessarily compatible, continues around different coastlines, first to New York, then west to Los interest in literature and film, the art forms and “Mortification”, a collection of with their liminal mixture of sea and Angeles and San Francisco. “He walks. where he finds respite from his restless essays Robertson edited, looks at the land; at the edge, where things meet. That is his name and nature.” we read at thoughts: he encounters filmmaker clash between the magic of writing and Some poems go to the Mediterranean, the start, and Walker takes us with him Robert Siodmak, and stands on street the business of promoting literature. It others north to Scandinavia. The Long through the seedier side of these cities of corners as film crews run take after take. should be required reading if not for all Take starts in eastern Canada, but travels 1940s and 50s America. He finds work as a newspaperman: “I’m aspiring writers, then certainly for all arts “to another coast, a different ocean…”, The Cape Breton setting – and the interested in films and jazz. Cities,” Walker administrators who refuse to understand across America “sea to shining sea” – precise use of language – are reminiscent says to an editor, as he looks for work. why authors don’t like doing talks for free. “He’d arrived. Somewhere.” of Alistair Macleod’s wonderful novel No That said, the roster of names Robertson “At Roane Head” is probably Great Mischief, and Robertson studied “ ‘Cities?’ has worked with includes many whose Robertson’s best-known poem, and, like for his Masters under Macleod’s tuition, ‘Yes. American cities.’ work has made Scottish literature magical much of his writing, this is poetry used at the University of Windsor in Ontario, ‘What about American cities?’ – whilst reaching an international to tell a story, not poetry as personal Canada. But whereas No Great Mischief ‘How they fail.’ ” audience that makes writing viable as a confessional. Throughout Robertson’s was a richly Canadian novel that Scots Assigned to the City Desk, Walker business. Writers need a practical streak. collections he returns to long poems or could see themselves in, The Long Take’s finds himself following police cars, As the wrecking-ball moves in, The sequences of poems. There are Celtic Canada is sometimes very Scottish: we covering murders. Long Take moves to its conclusion. folktales and Greek mythology; Acteon never hear of the French Acadian side Readers familiar with the tone of sees the goddess Artemis bathing naked of Cape Breton, or the long Africadian The character of Walker himself recalls Robertson’s poetry know from the start and is turned into a stag in 2006 collection culture and history of Nova Scotia. another literary reference: Robertson has that there is little chance of a happy Swithering; while in Robertson’s first Walker is a traditional man, silent, spoken before of his admiration of Welsh ending. Walker is not going to win, he book A Painted Field, the biographical believing that the girl he has left behind poet David Jones, whose protagonist Dai is only going to find, as the sub-title of “Camera Obscura” told the story of can never understand the horror that Greatcoat walked through Jones’ “In the book says, “A Way to Lose More photographer and painter David Octavius men faced in the war. The Cape Breton Parenthesis”, a prose poem of the Great Slowly”. The vile Pike, Walker’s over- Hill, the creator of the huge painting of scenes are glimpsed mainly in flashback, War. keen colleague at the newspaper, shows the main architects of the Disruption however, and most of the action takes The form is not intrusive: poetry that the new world cares little for those of the Church of Scotland. Robertson place in America – and here The Long seems like the best way to express who served and are still fighting their tells Hill’s life story through poems, and Take goes somewhere different, turning the disconnected thoughts of the war demons. The only redemption is for the poetical diary entries and letters. The from an old story of contrasting country veteran, his short diary entries and brief reader, who can see what art has been Long Take takes this story-telling form to and city, to a meditation on the changing conversations with fellow citizens of made out of the wreckage of the Second book length. city itself. Walker leaves the fishermen of the city’s underbelly, the precise words World War, the veterans’ lives, and the Cape Breton, first finding work in the of his newspaper copy, the elliptical ruin of a dream of a city. n

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 27 REVIEWS

St. Julian of Norwich, an important and Poland and a broken marriage, and headed internationally revered Christian mystic towards bankruptcy. He stayed on at the and anchoress of the late 14th and early cafe for ten years. Fiends Fell concludes 15th century. The biography closes with with a short, spare lyric sequence called a famous quote from Revelations of Lark and Merlin, but most of the book is Divine Love by her: “All shall be well, / taken up with a journal that chronicles and all shall be well, /and all manner of a sliver of that time - from June to the /thing shall be well.” The link may be following February - interspersed with tenuous, but All Will Be Well is a beautiful verse, mostly minimalist evocations of love song and one of Michael’s finest. landscape, weather and birds: I was privileged to spend a little time with him on other occasions a gold crest of light when he performed at Resolis. His caps black mountains first visit was memorable. The plan was to offer him a meal and a bed for the and a raven night. He arrived at our cottage, politely on an overhead powerline refused food, drank copious amounts of coffee and asked if he could lie down slung below cumulus somewhere. Expecting him to stay the night, the bed was made ready for him. Up on the escarpment, Pickard keeps He was obviously suffering from pre- busy. He helps-out the lasses in the cafe, performance nerves – something which serving food from the take-away hatch to Peggy, in her conversation with James bikers, cyclists and day-trippers, cleaning Robertson, confirms just got worse as up after everyone has gone home. His the years passed. After the gig, which was five-year-old grandson Ottis visits for a big success, he decided to drive home a while. He writes. Late in the year an to Dundee and said he would analyze unnamed lover visits, and they party on his performance en route! We often joke wine, weed, poppers and sex. Winds are that we should put a plaque above the forever present, assaulting, assuaging, bed: ‘Michael Marra almost slept here.’ I whining to be let in; the place has a wind think he would have appreciated that. of its own, the Helm Wind. Whenever he can, Pickard is out in their midst - Arrest This Moment is essential reading always engaged - up to Black Fell, down Michael Marra: Arrest This Moment typical laconic, bone-dry humour, and for all Marra aficionados and for those to Fiends, taking photographs, making by James Robertson allows Michael, wonderfully witty, to only slightly acquainted with the man or sound recordings, building a shelter Big Sky, with project support from have the last word. his work. It reveals so much about him where he can enjoy a quiet spliff. Creative Scotland Alba Chruthachail Conversation number eight is with and is strewn with wonderful anecdotes, At night, ex-partners, his dead mother, Review by David Gilbert Peggy, Michael’s wife. This describes their photographs, prints of many of his a talking raven, visit Pickard in his dreams. early life together and sheds some light on paintings and quotes from his closest When he’s awake, memories constantly Michael Marra, who died in October his legendary pre-gig nerves. It also reveals friends and collaborators. Replete with a suck him back into a vivid past: beatings 2012 at the age of 60, was a gentle, gifted how demanding it could be supporting full discography, both written and visual, in the ‘backward class’ before quitting man. An humanitarian who inspired the career of such an intense and deeply and a chronological list of his shows, plays, school at the age of fourteen; discovering deep affection, he was unique. A one- committed artist and performer and how films etc., it is beautifully produced with that the woman he’d believed to be his off. Everybody said so. A multi-talented important this support was. great attention to detail. This ranges from aunt was actually his mother; the medieval songwriter, musician, singer, artist, Everyone who encountered Michael, the wonderful, kaleidoscopic portrait by Morden Tower in Newcastle upon Tyne, producer, actor-playwright, arranger and however briefly, has a tale to tell. So I’ll Calum Colvin which graces the front the celebrated poetry performance essentially, as noted on the book’s back take the liberty of telling two. Inspired cover, to the choice of layout, typeface venue he established with his first wife cover, a “chronicler of the improbable, by a performance Michael gave in and paper. Connie, when he was seventeen. Of the celebrant of the underdog”. 2003, a few of us formed a promoting It’s difficult to believe that Michael, poets who read in the tower - Ginsberg, He was an enigma impossible to group [Resolis Community Arts – still ever the perfectionist and stickler for Creeley, Dorn, Ferlinghetti among them pigeonhole; so how do you write a functioning – Ed.] so that we could book every detail, wasn’t directing the design - it’s Basil Bunting whose spirit haunts biography that truly reflects such a him in our own hall on the Black Isle. By from Robertson’s kitchen! It does him Fiends Fell. man and celebrates his life? Perhaps the coincidence, the hall is only a few miles justice. A joy to read and a book to Bunting was well into his sixties, answer is take an oblique approach: don’t from the ‘Big Sky’ office of Dundee- treasure. n living in obscurity and on the brink of take the obvious chronological route. raised Marra enthusiast, Bryan Beattie, poverty, when the young Pickard called The last thing that Michael Marra was, who originated this book project. We Fiends Fell on him, looking for contributions to a was obvious. Make it as kaleidoscopic pledged to try to get Michael back to Tom Pickard magazine he was planning to start. Out and unconventional as his life was and perform every two years, and achieved Flood Editions (Chicago 2017) of the meeting came a mutual flourishing weave a tapestry from all those colourful that goal several times. This included Ballad of Jamie Allan which led to Bunting producing his threads. his very last solo gig in 2012, just a few Tom Pickard masterpiece, the long poem Briggflatts, James Robertson has done just that months before he died. Flood Editions (Chicago 2004) and to Pickard finding a mentor, teacher, and to great effect. That he loved and Chatting with Michael after the sound Review By Bob Pegg and friend. In interviews Pickard has understood the man is clear throughout check that evening, the conversation consistently spoken of his debt to Bunting the book, but especially so in the turned to football, a passion of his (there’s In summer 2002, Tom Pickard the poet and, specifically, of the pieces of advice the sequence of Kitchen conversations, a section in the book titled ‘Football’) came to live in the annexe of Hartside older man gave: cut back, and again cut nine in all, a brilliant device which and my home team, Norwich City. I Top Cafe, an isolated stopping place back your lines; value the music of words weaves through the book and pulls the don’t follow them closely and he soon two thousand feet above sea level in the above their meaning; most importantly, strands together. The first seven of these left me behind with his knowledge of Cumbrian Pennines, looking out over a when the apprentice asked what verse conversations, and number nine, are with the current Canaries team. In my youth, landscape that extends, south to north, form to use: “Invent your own.” Michael himself, or rather with his spirit. I was a regular supporter, and the walk from the mountains of the Lake District Music is a recurring motif in Fiends Robertson conjures-up Michael’s voice to the ground in the Carrow area of to the Galloway hills. Pickard was fifty- Fell. Wind strums a powerline like an with uncanny accuracy, alive with his the city passed close to the church of six and down on his luck, retreating from Aeolian harp. It plays across a chimney

28 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 REVIEWS

In early March 2018, when there was thick snow on the fells, fire gutted the Hartside Cafe, consuming the annexe where Tom Pickard once worked and slept. A mobile van now caters to the bikers, cyclists and day-trippers who still stop there to break their journeys and marvel at the view. Photo: Bob Pegg lip “like a sooty flute.” In a gale, the inside spare poetry in which Fiends Fell excels. writer’s five previous collections and The Walrus Mutterer of the house breathes like the bellows of One of my favourites would be at home adds scores of new poems. Jim has the by Mandy Haggith (Saraband) 2018 a concertina. At the end of November, in either book: unusual distinction of being one of Review By Kenny Taylor with the cafe about to close for the season, Britain’s few poets-in-residence for a and a wind coming from the north “like she sat astride me professional football club: St. Johnstone, Last autumn, author and poet Mandy flying ice”, Pickard tells himself: in the dark in his home city of Perth. Several poems Haggith wrote in Northwords Now 34 and we were drunk are drawn from his passion for the game. about how an ancient Greek had been … if I can sort out the heating and debt There’s both humour and resignation in part of the inspiration for her current problems, I believe I can accommodate rain on the attic roof these, drawn from decades of manning writing and travels. Pytheas of Massalia winter and pick up where I left off with my a random patterning of impact the terraces: was an explorer and scientist, who wrote piper. a book about his journeys far, far, north or was it The history of scunnered includes all of us from the Mediterranean. Fragments that The piper is Jamie Allan - musician, static from her stockings in our shades of team colours, joy, misery survive include one that suggests he made thief, serial army deserter, stravaiger, lit the room & everything in between landfall at the latitude of Clachtoll Broch incorrigible snook-cocker - born in an instrument – an Iron Age structure near Mandy’s Northumberland around 1734, possibly I was inside of The selection ranges far beyond home in Assynt. of Gipsy parentage, and died in prison the stadium, including through wider Cue The Walrus Mutterer, published in 1810, while awaiting transportation Flipstones – New and Selected Perthshire: “You try to understand it and this spring as the first in The Stone for horse stealing. In the high cafe, Poems what happens?/It changes colour, re- Stories trilogy. Pytheas may have been Pickard is working on the libretto for by Jim Mackintosh (Tippermuir) 2018 shapes itself” and in breadth of language. the initial inspiration, but the book’s a ballad opera based on Allan’s exploits. The Language of Lighthouses This is a poet who relishes the power of primary focus is a young woman, Rian, This preoccupation is hinted at in Fiends by Alison Seller 2018 guid Scots in some of the selections, fairly and several other women besides. Taken Fell, which mentions Allan from time to Review By Kenny Taylor coaxing the reader to speak the words into slavery from Clachtoll after being time (as an unreliable guide across the aloud, as in “sat an suppit the slae-berry staked in a gambling wager, Rian suffers treacherous landscape of the uplands), and Over the past four years, the Hugh Miller brose.” The result is a book whose poems many hardships through the book as contains a cold-blooded sequence about Writing competition has become an can be savoured for their fresh insights she voyages away from Assynt. Not the Nell Clark, once a partner of Allan, who intriguing part of the Scottish literary into everyday experience. least of her tormentors and captors is was “hung and anatomised” for robbing scene. As befits the 19th century polymath Alison Seller’s slim, hand-stitched Ussa, a female trader with the heart of a and murdering 80-year-old Maggie honoured in the name, this interest stems volume contains just a few poems, all splintered iceberg. Crozier in a remote borders bastle [a in part from the ways that entries have rooted in her home village of Cromarty. Pytheas features, but despite the fortified farmhouse characteristic of the drawn on science to create art in poetry But watching from that doorstep, she can plot-shaping implications of some of area]. and prose. cast her gaze much wider, across ‘This his actions, seems almost a peripheral The opera was premiered in 2004 at Two of the prize winners from the first Northern land/caught between Atlantic character in this first volume. As befits the Sage Gateshead, with a score by John High Miller competitions have published breeze/and Norwegian ice/intersecting matriarchal society the book describes, Harle. There’s a cracking video of a collections in the last few months. Their heaven and earth.” the interplay of powerful women, live performance (www.youtube.com/ winning poems are included, but beyond The collection concludes with ‘Deep whether vicious or benign, is to the fore. watch?v=LHQe7mHq5Rc). Flood those, the books are very different in Absence’ (a wonderful title) which links That, and the strangeness tinged with old Editions have published a version of the both scope and tone. deep time and the death of Hugh Miller’s magic in the character of the ‘mutterer’ text, which brings together historical Jim Mackintosh’s Flipstones is a daughter. A small nugget, fresh from the himself, Manigan. testimony, the lyrics of songs (which substantial volume of almost 170 pages, Cromarty shore. n Beyond the opener, where a cast flourish in performance), and the kind of which draws on selections from the of characters so large as to be dizzying

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 29 REVIEWS seems to issue from the broch, the way and unorthodox polemic exposes flaws The latest in a line of more than ten she asked for two halves, the main characters relate to each other in all political systems, asserts belief in collections stretching back to the 1970s, decanted them into a pint glass. I like and reveal parts of their stories becomes liberty, fraternity and equality. The last Walter Perrie’s new work includes the to picture her, backlit by the jukebox more and more intriguing. As with all stanza blossoms into fruitful uncertainties poem ‘What can the makar?’ where he in the pub’s smoky fug, raising good historical fiction, this is a book through the words of Morgan, Lowell, writes that the makar illuminates this that tarnished gold to her lips. which takes some facts about the past Eliot , Crane, Poe and Lear. “Wishing where, this when, this cast. His Sorceries is full and then, through its artistry, makes you to end more resoundingly,” the note of wheres, whens, folk and creatures, each Glisk illuminates the bodily-ness of life feel that past as a living presence. Roll on confides, Gray enables us to reflect on the offering a moment of insight. But Perrie with tenderness. It is also a robust analysis volume two: I’m itching to find out what process of composition, the playfulness of qualifies the possibilities of language and of the ways society has diminished women. happens next. n the poet and the raw uncertainty of the poetry, admitting (with candour, given In ‘You Ask Why I Seldom Write About human heart. his status as a poet, editor, publisher and Men’ Stewart deftly reverses gender roles, Sand and scrim and tarnished gold The final poem in the collection, ‘Last critic) that language is limited. ‘What can and describes marginalised men, inviting Poetry Review By Lydia Harris Request’, is a moving accommodation the makar?’ ends: us to notice the way language has been with death but at the same time with life. appropriated. Guts Minced with Oatmeal: Ten It engages with the thinking of Johnson, all we thought we were collapses in earthquake There is fascinating range in these Late Poems Hume and Dante and finds a home in the and metaphor. poems. Each offers pleasure where Alasdair Gray, Fras Publications, 2018 words of Robinson Jeffers. The language language and sense fit perfectly together. Heliopolis is direct, the subject huge and the patient, These poems of humility are not Hugh McMillan, Luath Press, 2018 balanced stanzas bring us close to a afraid of “time holding eternity’s rage in Like Alasdair Gray, Ken Cockburn Sorceries courageous voice. This poet of solidarity his long strong arms.” The makar’s eyes invites us to enter a dialogue with Walter Perrie, Fras Publications, 2018 invites us into his confidence. We are are on eternity and time. The pamphlet and about his poems. ‘The Afterword’ Glisk changed and moved by this contact. is rooted in this paradox. Its author does in Floating the Woods lets us into the Sarah Stewart, Tapsalteerie, 2018 not shrink from big abstractions and process of creating; often playful and Floating the Woods The outcome of a residency at the from distilling from them - in roads, hills, always intriguing. His methods are as Ken Cockburn, Luath Press 2018 Harvard School of Hellenic Studies lizards and bindings. In the beautiful love beautiful as the poems. So ‘The Solitary awarded in the summer of 2017, Hugh poem, ‘Though you are sitting beside Reaper’ is conceived as: “translations of McMillan’s Heliopolis is rooted both me’, the poet asks: “how can a twain (Wordworth’s) reaper’s song made by a Alasdair Gray has been a major figure in classical Greece and contemporary be wholly one?” The language of love poet familiar with Basho’s work.” in Scottish literature and art for many Scotland. The poems are urgent and full is qualified, “a two letter shift from is to decades. His work spans seven novels of movement. Macmillan ranges from was.” The poem asserts that we are “fast This poet of fragments and random which he has written, designed and tender lyrics in ‘Birthday’ to political in our osmotic chain”, the condition comings together, whose currency is what illustrated, plays, short stories, poetry, satire in ‘364 BC’, from meditations on we all share but the experience unique the eye sees and the ear hears and nothing drawings, paintings and murals – haunted ruins in ‘Cottage’ to the elegiac to each lover. Perrie’s poems are robust second-hand, through his collaborations including the huge ceiling mural at Oran tone of ‘The Shades of One Shade’. expressions of fragility. They offer a lucid and projects, makes writing an adventure. Mor in Glasgow. The conceptual framework of the and honest account of this separateness. An adventure for the reader too. He “I’ve always been interested in the book gives each poem a classical context, Water bubbles through the collection. shares with Gray a delight in the texts of beginnings and endings of things,” he invites us to look through an ancient In ‘Spaces’ and ‘As Glaciers Retreat’ it other writers. He also explores the use has said. So his recent collection of ten Greek lens. ‘Foteinos’, the final section, shapes language and metaphor. The five of other languages. Interesting too is his late poems holds special interest, as a is filled with moments of illumination. short lines of ‘Glen Etive’ carry much of use of given measures, the alphabet, the distillation of a life in verse. It opens with “Hope is keeping opening your mouth” the emotional weight of Sorceries. Here months of the year. “These constraints” gratitude to the poet’s parents and ends he writes in the poem ‘Hope’, vibrantly human memory and landscape are one he writes, “evoke (memories) in a way with an invitation to: “obey that call into alive to current problems. and the poem’s soft rhymes enable the that more direct approaches often fail to fertile nothingness.” These deeply serious poems are also reader to reflect on the act of reading. do.” The poems are framed with a capable of giving great delight. McMillan Perrie’s poems draw us further into “the confessional prologue, ruefully entitled handles language deftly and lightly, paints enigmatic, the sovereign.” After this task, Cockburn collaborates regularly with ‘Critic Fuel’. The reader begins her vivid images, subverts our expectations. the final poem is a song to prompt us visual artists, which led to some of the voyage through this life, made wonderful He challenges and engages us. ‘Watcher’, to hymn, praise and make elegy and to work in this collection. This includes the by contact “with art, science, magic and in the section ‘Hyperborea’, wonderfully let poetry carry the whole palette of six poems of ‘Ness’, which form a linked history” in conversation with the poet. evokes the world of the light keeper. experience. Which is what this pamphlet chain of responses to the eponymous river. Gray’s tone is candid and self-deprecating, The moths and the sailors exposed to of quiet but potent sorceries does, each They were composed to a brief drawn as he promises his readers a “nourishing the possibility of extinction, drawn to poem a Hirundo rustica, “a bold bundle of up by sculptor Mary Bourne as part of oatmeal of greater writers’ ideas.” This the light ‘thrown like a rope across the purposes.” the River Ness Art Project - a series joyous delight in and debt to the work back of the ocean’ and the keeper himself of inter-related works commissioned of others is one of the pleasures of the watching the moths beating on the glass, Sarah Stewart names her pamphlet to highlight the ways the River Ness collection. ‘End Notes’ continues the then the muted sorrow of the final line: with the Scots word Glisk, which can connects Inverness to other times and dialogue started in ‘Critic Fuel’. Friendly reel in hope after hope after hope. The be defined as: gleam of sunlight through other places. The sequence is mesmeric. accounts of the genesis of each poem, poem taps into human tumult with cloud; a glow of heat from a fire. Figuratively, Collaged reflections assemble the river’s they enrich one’s reading and feel like delicacy, as does ‘Psalm 121’, whose tone a glimpse of the good. And that’s what parts, from its tongue to its creatures, poems in their own right. moves from light to comic to tender so glints and glimmers over these poems. from the names of its tributaries to its Humanitad, a poem of almost two smoothly it feels effortless. The collection The opener describes a disastrous act power-balance with the tide. hundred lines described by Gray as ends appropriately in a burst of sunlight of disappearance, while the closing a ‘wee epic’, surveys the history of - ‘In Lit’ - where Dumfries becomes one takes us to the ruins of the house These ‘woods’ are entirely welcoming humankind in septets at an even iambic Heliopolis. Nymphs at the fountains take where the writer’s mother was born. and entirely unfamiliar. The poems are pace. Without breaking step, Gray selfies and the sun drops words in our These are poems of steady strength. They spare and exuberant at the same time, offers his analysis - moral, political and palms. venture into pain, the unpredictable and with such variety of response to the economic - of the development of the “Poetry” he writes, “will come today impossible, without self pity and always endlessly fascinating world of the poet’s human condition. As hunter-gatherers, from sand and scrim.” Reading this book trusting the image. Describing her young imagination. The reader cannot help but we “made bone needles, coracles of skin.” gave me a day of sun, with poems created mother being refused a pint in a Dundee be exhilarated by this collection. n The “forging of iron blades” led to an from sand and scrim which turn out to bar – “We don’t serve pints to ladies,’ the “impoverished majority,” to “gaining be the flesh, blood and bones of our own barman said.” - she writes how: wealth by lending wealth,” to “world wars experience. that have not ended yet.” Gray’s civilised My mother did not flinch. Coolly,

30 Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 CONTRIBUTORS’ BIOGRAPHIES

Frances Ainslie lives in Perthshire. A finalist in David Gilbert is a lapsed Landscape Architect, a founder S.A. MacLeod’s short stories have appeared in Waiting Hillside and Cur. He’s an Associate Teaching the 2017 Costa Short Story Award, she writes member of Resolis Community Arts and Cromarty anthologies, online and been shortlisted for competitions. Fellow in Creative Writing at Aberdeen University. poetry, fiction & non-fiction and is currently and Resolis Film Society and an enthusiastic supporter She has just completed a novel that moves between doing an MLitt in Scottish Literature. of all the arts, particularly film, music and painting. contemporary Scotland and wartime Japan. Linda Menzies lives in Dunfermline and has had poetry and short stories published in magazines during the Anjali Suzanne Angel is a Skye poet, lyricist, Jo Gilbert is a writer and spoken word artist from Aonghas MacNeacail Poet in three languages, past 20 years. Her first novel was published this year. ghostwriter and former journalist. She writes Aberdeen who won the 2018 StAnza slam and is songwriter, journalist, broadcaster, translator, about UK history, travel and is working currently working on her first poetry collection. scriptwriter. A Borders-based, multi-award- Deborah Moffatt À Vermont (USA), a’ fuireach on a book of essays about Hungary. winning Skyeman, he is a Fellow of the Association ann am Fìbha a-nis. Bidh dà cho-chruinneachadh Merryn Glover writes poems, stories, for Scottish Literary Studies, with an honorary aice air fhoillseachadh ann an 2019, “Eating Thistles,” Juliet Antill lives on the Isle of Mull. Her poems plays, novels and lists. She is very happy to Doctorate of Literature from Glasgow University. (Smokestack Books), agus fear ann an Gàidhlig. have been seen most recently in Magma, New finally tick off ‘get poem published’. Writing Scotland and the ezine Antiphon. Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir Rugadh Màrtainn Mac Sherry Morris lives in the Highlands where Peter Godfrey lives in the Hebrides and an t-Saoir ann an 1965 agus thogadh ann an Lèanaidh she pets cows, watches clouds and dreams up Phil Baarda is a playwright and theatre maker covers his tracks by working as a journalist. e. Ghlèidh Ath-Aithne, cruinneachadh de sgeulachdan stories. Her published work is here: www. from the Highlands. Creative director of Mangonel goirid, Duais na Saltire Society airson Ciad Leabhair uksherka.com. She also tweets @Uksherka. Theatre Company, he also runs the Inverness Lydia Harris has made her home in the Orkney ann an 2003. Anns an Iuchar 2018 chaidh an nobhail Playwrights – a group of drama writers of all kinds. island of Westray. In 2017, she held a Scottish ùr aige Samhradh ’78 fhoillseachadh le Luath Press. Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander living in Book Trust New Writers’ Award for poetry. Glasgow and still suffering from the culture shock. Her Meg Bateman Tha Meg Bateman, a rugadh an Dùn Ian McDonough has published four collections poetry is an exploration, and interpretation, of this. Èideann an 1959, na h-ollamh aig Sabhal Mòr Ostaig Jennifer Morag Henderson’s book Josephine of poetry, most recently A Witch Among The san Eilean Sgitheanach. Tha i air trì leabhraichean Tey: A Life was included in the Observer’s list Gooseberries (Mariscat 2014). His work has appeared Robin Munro now lives on Bute, after den bhàrdachd aice fhèin a thoirt a-mach, agus tha of the best biographies of 2015. Her website in Poetry Review, Ambit, New Writing Scotland running a bookshop in Galloway. His two i cuideachd air trì cruinneachaidhean de bhàrdachd is www.jennifermoraghenderson.com and other places. Brora Rangers supporter. published poetry collections are The Land of Ghàidhlig eadar-theangachadh is a cho-dheasachadh. the Mind and Shetland like the World. Marc Innis has been writing a novel for some time. Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh Tidsear ealain Kirsteen Bell is a poet, writer, copywriter, and His book of poems Sireadh is available online. air chluainidh ann an Inbhir Nis. Hamish Myers lives in the Highlands and enjoys literature student (University of the Highlands and writing poems mainly inspired by the history, Islands). She lives and works on a croft in Lochaber. Sheila Lockhart is retired and lives on the Black Isle. Roddie McKenzie has published in Nethergate landscape and natural rhythms of the area. She started writing poetry two years ago following Writers’ anthologies since 2006 and recently Sharon Black is from Glasgow and lives in the a bereavement and now finds she can’t stop. also appeared in Lallans, Seagate III, New Writing Bob Pegg lives in Strathpeffer in Ross-shire. He is a Cévennes mountains in France, the subject of her Scotland 35, 50 Shades of Tay and Rebel. songwriter, musician, author, and occasional storyteller. fourth collection.www.sharonblack.co.uk Gail Low teaches at the University of Dundee. Having written academic essays for most of her working life, she Caoimhin MacNèill Tha Caoimhin MacNèill Sharon Gunason Pottinger’s novel, Returning: The Sheena Blackhall is a writer, illustrator, traditional ballad is just discovering the possibilities of the essay form. na òraidiche aig Oilthigh Shruighlea. Am Journey of Alexander Sinclair was published in 2015. singer and storyteller in North East Scotland. In 2009, measg nan leabhraichean aige tha The Brilliant Her work has also appeared in New Writing Scotland. she became Makar for Aberdeen and the North East. Mandy Macdonald’s poetry appears in journals & Forever agus The Diary of Archie the Alpaca. and anthologies in and outwith Scotland, with Sgrìobh e am fiolm Hamish: The Movie. Marie-Bernadette Rollins is a Dundee-based Aonghas Pàdraig Caimbeul ‘S ann bhon An Leth contributions forthcoming in Multiverse (Shoreline poet, editor and non-native English speaker who Mheadhanach an ceann-a-deas Uibhist a Deas a tha of Infinity) and Vaster than Empires (Grey Hen). David McVey has published over 120 short stories believes in the power of words across borders. Aonghas Pàdraig Caimbeul. Tha e air grunn leabhraichean and also writes non-fiction articles. He lectures in fhoillseachadh, nam measg ‘An Oidhche Mus Do Sheòl Sian MacFarlane works as a graphic designer at Tangent Communication at New College Lanarkshire. Isobel Rutland enjoys penning novels as well as Sinn’, ‘Aibisidh’ agus ‘Memory and Straw’ a ghlèidh in Glasgow. A graduate of DJCAD, University of Dundee, short fiction. She won the Romantic Novelists’ duaisean thaobh ficsean is bàrdachd na h-Alba. more of her work can be seen at: www.sianmacfarlane.org Martin Malone lives in north-east Scotland. Association Elizabeth Goudge Award in 2015, He has published two poetry collections: The is an arts correspondent for The Wee Review and Leonie Charlton (Bonniwell) lives in Glen Lonan in a member of the Aberdeen Writers’ Studio. Argyll. She recently completed an MLitt in Creative Writing at Stirling University and writes fiction, Mark Ryan Smith lives in Shetland. His poems have non-fiction and poetry www.leoniebonniwell.co.uk appeared in various places, including New Writing Scotland, Gutter, Ink Sweat and Tears and Snakeskin. Adrian Clark is a keen Gaelic learner who chairs the Northwords Now board and is Hon. Secretary and Arun Sood teaches Romanticism, Gothic Literature former chair of Evanton Wood Community Company. and Critical Theory at Plymouth University and is also working on several writing projects, including a book Janis Clark’s poetry is published in a variety Northwords Now at Ness Book about the transatlantic cultural memory of Robert Burns. of magazines and anthologies. She received two commendations for the Geoff Stevens Festival & Dingwall’s Word on the Ian Tallach was raised in Taiwan and Hong Memorial Award and other competitions. Kong, worked in Botswana and retired from paediatrics with progressive M.S. He now lives in Paul F Cockburn is an Edinburgh-based Street Glenurquhart with his wife, daughter and son. freelance magazine journalist specialising in arts & culture, equality issues, and popular science. Judith Taylor originally from Perthshire, now lives He is Scotland editor for broadwaybaby.com As part of NBF 2018, Kenny Taylor will be joining and works in Aberdeen. Her first collection, Not in Nightingale Country, is published by Red Squirrel Press. Evan Cowen is a Lake District-born resident of Rosemary Badcoe, editor of online poetry magazine Fort William. Gripped by writer’s block throughout Antiphon, in the Highland Print Studio, Inverness, at Amanda Thomson is a visual artist and writer who university, he’s recently picked up the pen again. lectures at the Glasgow School of Art. Her award-winning Fuelled by good coffee and bad weather. 4pm on Saturday 6th October to discuss the pleasures artwork focuses on place, space and landscape in Scotland. and challenges of publishing literary magazines. dubh is a writer and hermit in Glasgow Iain Twiddy studied literature at university, and who spends a lot of time meditating or lived for several years in northern Japan. His poems walking the city without destination have been published in The Poetry Review, Poetry As part of Dingwall’s 2018 Word on the Street, several Ireland Review, The London Magazine and elsewhere. Trudy Duffy-Wigman says that: “Flash fiction is my natural home. The sparseness of writers whose work often appears in the magazine Linda Tyler lives in Aberdeenshire. Her short stories words: a haiku in prose. English is my second will be joining the editor in Highflight Books from 2pm have been published in the UK, the US and Australia. language. I was born in the Netherlands.” on Saturday 20th October to launch this edition of She is currently seeking a publisher for her first novel. Susan Elsley writes poetry and fiction and lives Northwords Now. Tea, coffee and cakes will combine Eileen West is a former freelance journalist, advertising in Edinburgh. Her work is influenced by Scotland’s copywriter and magazine editor who is now exploring wilder places and our interaction with them. with readings and conviviality. www.word-on-the-street. her creative side and dabbling in fiction and poetry. weebly.com Sally Evanz has been publishing poems and Jim C Wilson is an award-winning poet who lives in books of poems for many years. She is celebrating Gullane and has for many years run the Poetry in Practice her retirement by studying for a PhD in workshops at Edinburgh University. His five collections Creative Writing at Lancaster University. Keep in touch include Come Close and Listen (Greenwich Exchange).

Dàibhidh Eyre Rugadh Daibhidh Eyre ann an Robin Wilson has had two poetry collections published Siorrachd Lannraig a Tuath ann an 1972. Tha dàin With occasional news about Northwords Now and other by Cinnamon Press - Ready Made Bouquets (2007) and aige air nochdadh ann an irisean leithid An Guth, aspects of the literary scene in the north through Myself and Other Strangers (2015). His poetry has appeared Gutter, Irish Pages, Tuath / Northwords Now, Poetry in many UK poetry magazines and literary journals. Scotland agus Poblachd nam Bàrd. Bha e na bhàrd air following us on Twitter @NorthwordsNow and Facebook mhuinntireas aig Fèis Bàrdachd StAnza ann an 2018. Olga Wojtas won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers www.facebook.com/NorthwordsNow/ Award in 2015. Her debut novel, Miss Blaine’s Prefect Sally Frank lives in Fife and Tiree. When she can, and the Golden Samovar, is published by Contraband. she walks the machair with Tim, planning. Howard Wright lectures at the Ulster University, Matthew Gallivan is a Canadian living in Belfast School of Art. Long-listed in the 2016/17 Belfast. His poetry and short stories have National Poetry Competition and widely published, been published in numerous journals. his first collection is King of Country (Blackstaff Press).

Joan Gibson lives in Kinross and is a member of Kinwriters. She began writing short stories and poetry in retirement.

Northwords Now Issue 36, Autumn 2018 31 Ullapool Shore Adrian Clark

She takes her time seeking weathered shards along the shore, I stride on, pocketing the odd one, Wondering at the abrading power of sand, sea and stone In rendering jagged glass from mindless acts To potential jewels at our daughter’s hands.

For what is waste, a sage has said, but atoms temporarily out of place.

Handmade jewellery made from sea glass found on shores all over Scotland

www.etsy.com/uk/shop/byrois

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Where to find a FREE Northwords Now Northwords thanks all the locations below for their support in distributing Northwords Now. Special thanks go to all the librarians who put us on display.

Inverness Waterstone’s, Elgin An Tobar, Tobermory, Mull Edinburgh Waterstones, 69 Eastgate Centre Yeadons of Elgin The Fruitmarket Gallery, 45 Market Street Eden Court Theatre, Bishop’s Road The Loft Bistro and Venue, E.Grange Farm Aberdeenshire Blackwells Bookshop, 53-9 South Bridge Inverness College, UHI Millennium Campus History Links, Dornoch Books & Beans, 12 Belmont St, Aberdeen Scottish Poetry Library, 5 Crichtons Close Leakeys Bookshop, Greyfriars Hall, Church St Dornoch T.I.C Lemon Tree, 5 West North St, Aberdeen Elephant House Café, 21 George IV Bridge Moniack Mhor Writing Centre, 4 Teaverran, Kiltarlity Neil Gunn Centre, Dunbeath Heritage Centre Newton Dee Café, Newton Dee Village, Bieldside, The Village, 16 S. Fort Street Highland Wholefoods, Unit 6, 13 Harbour Road The Pier, Lairg Aberdeen Filmhouse, 88 Lothian Road Museum & Art Gallery, Castle Wynd Abriachan Forest Trust Blackwell’s, Old Aberdeen, Aberdeen MacNaughtons Bookshop, 3-3a Haddington Place Waterstone’s, 69 Eastgate Centre Torridon Visitor Centre Aberdeen City Libraries St Margaret’s House, 151 London Road HICA, Dalcrombie, Loch Ruthven, by Dores Loch Ness Clayworks and Cafe, Drumnadrochit Woodend Barn, Burn o’Bennie, Banchory Summerhall, 1 Summerhall Visit Scotland, High St Tain Service Point Yeadons of Banchory, 20 Dee St, Banchory Amnesty Bookshop, 12 Roseneath St, Marchmont Bogbain Farm, Drumossie The Hub, Muir of Ord Aberdeenshire Libraries Word Power, 4-5 Nicolson St Simpsons Garden Centre Loch Torridon Community Centre Hammerton Store, 336 Gt Western Rd, Aberdeen Out of the Blue, 36 Dalmeny St, Edinburgh Hootananny, Church St The Bookmark, Grantown on Spey Spindrift Studio, The Marina, Banff Edinburgh Bookshop, 219 Bruntsfield Pl Culloden Battlefield Visitor Centre, The Highland Bookshop, 60 High St, Fort William Better Read Books, Ellon Golden Hare Books, 68 St Stephen St., Stockbridge Raigmore Hospital Cocoa Mountain, Balnakiel Craft Village, Durness Banff Castle and Community Arts Centre City Arts Centre, 2 Market St HICA Orbs Bookshop, 33A Deveron St, Huntly Islands, West & North Glasgow Highlands (plus Moray and Perthshire) Isle of Eigg Craftshop, Isle of Eigg South Centre for Contemporary Arts, 350 Sauchiehall Street Highland Libraries Colonsay Bookshop, Isle of Colonsay Stirling Libraries Òran Mòr, 731 Gt. 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The Nairn Bookshop, 94 High St, Nairn An Buth Beag, Skeabost, Isle of Skye The Byre Theatre, St Andrews Tell it Slant, 134 Renfrew St Moray Libraries Mor Books, Struan, Isle of Skye J & G Innes Bookshop, St. Andrews WASPS Studio, The Briggait, 141 The Bridge Gate The Ceilidh Place, 14 West Argyll St, Ullapool Ceol na Mara, Dunvegan, Isle of Skye Topping & Co. Bookstore, 7 Greyfriars Garden, St. Oxfam Books, 330 Byres Rd Ullapool Bookshop, Quay St., Ullapool An Crubh, Camuscross, Isle of Skye Andrews An Leanag, 22 Mansefield St Storehouse of Foulis, Foulis Ferry Staffin Stores, Isle of Skye The Forest Bookstore, 26 Market Pl, Selkirk Glasgow Concert Halls Achins Bookshop, Inverkirkaig, Lochinver Sligachan Hotel/Seumas’s Bar, Sligachan, Skye Kesley’s Bookshop, 29 Market St, Haddington, Caithness Horizons, Old Town Hall, High St, Thurso Ravenspoint, Kershader, Lochs, Isle of Lewis East Lothian VisitScotland, High St, Aviemore An Lanntair, Kenneth St, Stornoway Prestongrange Museum, Morrison’s Haven, Prestonpans Invitation to readers to suggest additional locations - Birnam Arts Centre Acair Ltd, Stornoway Montrose Library, 214 High St, Montrose, Angus contact [email protected]. We will also send Anderson Restaurant, Union St, Fortrose Hebridean Jewellery & Bookshop, 63 Cromwell St, Su Casa, Lorne Arcade,115 High St, Ayr John Muir Trust, Station Road, Pitlochry packs of 12 or 25 or 50 to individuals who are keen to Stornoway Moffat Bookshop, 5 Well St, Moffat distribute locally. The Bakehouse, Findhorn (village) Taigh Chearsabagh, North Uist Giraffe Cafe, 51 South St, Perth The Blue Cafe, Findhorn Foundation Shetland Arts Trust, Mareel, Lerwick Ewart Library, Dumfries Moray Arts Centre, Findhorn Foundation Shetland and Orkney Libraries Gracefield Arts Centre, 28 Edinburgh Rd, Dumfries Sutor Creek, Bank St, Cromarty Western Isles libraries The Tolbooth and Albert Halls, Stirling Cromarty Arts, Church St, Cromarty Carraig Mhor, Isle of Islay The Bucleuch Centre, Langholm Spa Pavilion, Strathpeffer An Buth Bheag, Ferry Rd, Kyle