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THE EILDON TREE

SUMMER/ AUTUMN 2017 ISSUE 29

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New writing from the Scottish Borders & beyond

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CONTENTS GUIDELINES 3

The Visit – Kathleen Mansfield

EDITORIAL 4

No Exceptions – Lewis Teckkam

POETRY

My Kind Of Girl – Patricia Watts

Sheep’s Eye – Jean Atkin

INTERVIEWS

The Last Horse – Jean Atkin

Lesslie Oliver – Julian Colton

A Haar Visitation – Richard Bond

Rona Munro – Julian Colton

Greenfinches come to a winter garden –

BEST KEPT SECRET

Leonie Ewing

After the Funeral – Greg Michaelson

Scissors – Gill Foulds

St Abbs and the Wrass Driftwoodman –

Ruth Gilchrist Over by Christmas – Susan Gilchrist

The Drove Road – Bridget Khursheed

WRITING SHOP Artists, Gardens and Words – Valerie Lees

When we danced – Clare Watson

The last room Socrates sat in – Carol Norris

BOOK REVIEWS 38 Traffic Island, A1 near Fort Kinnaird –

Bridget Khursheed Lost Autumn – Iain R Martin

Indigo Ink – Barbara Pollock

All too soon – Gordon Scapens

Murmuration – Jean Taylor

Margaret’s Voice – Jean Taylor

Love is not enough – Andrew Thomson

The Last Dry Stone Dyker – David White

BIOGRAPHIES 48 ROAD TO RIO

SHORT STORIES The Imitation of Christ – Paul Brownsey

A Likelihood Of Snow – Tim Nevil

CONTENTS 2

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GUIDELINES WHERE TO FIND YOUR FREE COPY OF THE EILDON TREE

The Editorial Team and the Creative Communities team, Live Borders thanks all venues and outlets for their support in promoting The Eildon Tree. Live Borders Libraries Borders College Scottish Borders Council High Schools u3a Groups WASPS Artist Studios, Selkirk Forest Bookstore, Selkirk Masons Bookstore, Melrose Main Street Trading Company, St Boswells Langlee Complex, Galashiels Heart Of Hawick, Tower Mill Damascus Drum, Hawick

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GUIDELINES FOR SUBMITTING WORK TO EILDON TREE

Autumn/Winter submissions of new writing are invited for inclusion in the next issue of Eildon Tree. The Submissions Deadline is 30th September 2017. Poems, short stories and non-fiction articles of local and national literary interest, as well as short novel extracts, are all welcome for consideration. • • • • • • •

A maximum of 4 poems, stories or articles up to 3,000 words. Electronic format: Arial pt 12, single line spacing unjustified margin. Book titles and quotes should be italicised, but without speech and quotation marks, unless specified in the text quoted Include a brief biography, maximum 40 words. Please do not resubmit work which has been seen previously by the Editors. For an informal chat please contact the Creative Communities team Tel: 01750 726400 Teachers submitting work on behalf of pupils should contact the Creative Communities team for further guidance.

HOW TO SUBMIT YOUR WORK

By post: The Eildon Tree, Live Borders, Creative Communities Team, St Mary’s Mill, Selkirk, TD7 5EW By email: eildontree@liveborders1.org.uk (Please note: All work should be sent to the Creative Communities team and not to individual Editors)

REPUBLISHING THE SAME AUTHOR

We publish work by both emerging and established writers and strive to support the work of professional and aspiring writers. Due to the volume of submissions we receive, it is our policy not to publish work by the same contributor in consecutive issues to help make way for new writers. If your work has appeared in the Eildon Tree previously, please refrain from submitting further work until at least 2 issues have passed since your work was printed.

THE PROCESS

• Your work will be sent to the Editors for consideration. Acceptance and inclusion in • the magazine is at their discretion. • You will be notified when a decision has been made. Please be patient, we receive many • submissions. • If your submission is accepted for publication you will be sent a copy of the work to proof-read before print. • All contributors will receive a copy of the magazine. • If your submission is not accepted on this occasion, please do not be deterred from submitting alternative work in the future.

Publications Submitted for Review Publishers and authors may submit publications for review. We do endeavour to review as many books as possible but cannot guarantee inclusion in the magazine. Please note we are unable to return any review publications. The Editors and the Creative Communities team, Live Borders, are not responsible for the individual views and opinions expressed by reviewers and contributors. The Eildon Tree is available from all Live Borders Libraries and a wide range of local outlets throughout the Scottish Borders. The Eildon Tree can also be downloaded: www.liveborders.org.uk The opinions expressed in this magazine do not necessarily reflect Live Borders policy or practice in the arts.

CAROL NORRIS

SARA CLARK

IONA MCGREGOR

JULIAN COLTON

EDITORIAL TEAM Carol Norris, Sara Clark, Julian Colton, Iona McGregor

PUBLISHING TEAM Lisa Denham and Joy Dunsmore

GRAPHIC DESIGN Graphic Design, Live Borders

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WELCOME

WELCOME TO THE EILDON TREE 29. As you are reading this editorial the winter has given way to spring. No doubt in that slow, tremulous Scottish Borders way with which we are accustomed – a few green leaves on reluctant trees and perhaps a few degrees higher temperature. Globally, and elsewhere, change is often effected much more quickly than it is here, but change is inevitable and its ramifications are felt, albeit subtle. How to cope with change, especially when not what we anticipated or wanted? Well, if you’re a writer one way to deal with it is to write about it. It needn’t be overt or obvious - a sly poetic metaphor here, an everyman, or everywoman, character there. Change, in other words, offers up numerous writing possibilities. The Nineteen- Eighties was a decade of political and social turmoil, but just look at some of the music and wider culture it produced; likewise, the Nineteen-Sixties. And positive change, change which individuals can effect or have an effect on, can come from so many diverse sources, from so many different voices, soft as well as the hard and blatant. So write that poem or collection which has been marinating in your sub-conscious through the cold days and nights of winter, pick up the baton of the novel which so many agents and publishers have rejected. Tinker with the play and revisit characters that were abandoned as lost causes. Imbue them all with your sense of dissatisfaction, your aspirations, hopes and fears, your illusions and disillusionments, happiness and sadness. As it currently says on a wall in Selkirk ‘Never give up.’ There are so many ways to win the struggle, to express innermost sorrows and desires. Writing, the inner-sanctum of the individual, is an

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ideal place to begin any fightback whether communal or private. Two people who seem to have mastered the trick of getting on with it are the esteemed Dramatist Rona Munro and the children’s bookshop owner Lesslie Oliver. Recent incomers to the Borders, both are featured in exclusive interviews as part of this edition and speak eminently good sense about writing and the writing business. The editors of The Eildon Tree are pleased that so many of you are following the submission guidelines of the publication, especially regarding frequency of submission. This guideline was implemented to give new writers the chance to be published. We are greatly encouraged by the fact that this stipulation hasn’t seen a reduction in the quality of the submissions received, as you will see when you read the selected pieces. Enjoy and keep sending in your submissions. We never tire of reading them. This will never change. Julian Colton Carol Norris MBE. Iona McGregor Sara Clark The Eildon Tree Editors.

POETRY SHEEP’S EYE

In the drone of slow flies stacked like Spitfires. Iron hooves scrape the cobbles as he shifts.

The metal bucket’s clatter carries down steep fields, brings back the flock in flurries through the snow. They run in their clouded breath.

The air by the stall post switches with his tail. A swallow loops his haunches, flies out past me.

Shake their horns by the gate. They are hungry and untrusting, all except the tame one, who stands, her summer’s lamb latched to her side

Jean Atkin

A HAAR VISITATION

and her Hebridean fleece seamed with coal’s dull shine, swinging like a clootie tree of crimped dark ribbons.

Like slothful behemoth it squats offshore slumbering quilt, then as it wills, awakes and rolls silently charges full-tilt.

I look into the innocent eye of a sheep and see that powers of reason don’t mean much, compared to this warm life.

All form, hue, chroma now erased, earth’s richness becomes bland, nor sight nor sound nor warmth, stillness, entropy’s cold dead hand.

She’s nose-deep now in grassy hay. She lifts her muzzle up and breathes on me, Then startles at a strutting crow and steps away.

Whimsical wisps might ebb and flow, teasing flash of landscape, and sunbeam shafts intoxicate plying light fantastic.

Jean Atkin

THE LAST HORSE The last horse to stand in the stall at Longbank was bay, and tall must have worked hard through the war, used up on these steep slopes and those long winters, with never quite enough fodder. Gleaming last week, at eye height, his three black tail hairs still caught in the stall post. A low March sun shined all their length until I saw him in the stall, a summer Sunday, after church. He dozed on his feet

Then melts away within the hour resides a week or day, what business ours the time it keeps the Haar will have its way.

Richard Bond

GREENFINCHES COME TO A WINTER GARDEN The mob arrives during a heavy downpour intent on raiding the hips of my Burnet Rose impervious to thorns and ranks of bristles they spread out, work steadily through the bush pecking at the round, black and puckered fruit— felted, nut-hard seeds crumble from their beaks.

Slow and methodical, for an hour they feed rain bounces off sleek khaki feathers an occasional skirmish disturbs the calm two males rise in the air, stout bills clash wings fan out and flutter, hanging raindrops reflect a burst of yellow, a fizz of lemon zest.

Leonie Ewing

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POETRY SCISSORS It was a time for which I did prepare, Admitting to myself no knowledge yet Of what had leapt from eye to eye, a snare – A gentle, potent, thrilling lustful net. Woven in time and poised above our heads A shaft of sunlight caught it as it fell. It gleamed and shook with trembling silver threads, Most seeming lovely, more than I can tell. But I have felt the lure of lust before; The surge of energy, the rise of power. I know tumultuous passion’s roaring shore: Salt bitterness when it has had its hour. With you yet blind, the net shone out of me. I simply took the scissors; cut you free.

Gill Foulds

ST ABBS AND THE WRASSE

Salt matted, your hair will not brushYour skin already so papered. Your eyes are scuffed like sea glass Come up out of the sea my friend. Empty your shoes of time Be something to your children Take up and play your voice You have been gone too long. Come back to the fire Daub yourself with colour Sleep in a bed that does not rock Come up out of the sea my friend. Make the sea your sail not your rudder Your compass not your holdfast You have been gone too long Come up out of the sea my friend.

Ruth Gilchrist

The day was fine and there was joy he held it aloft for me to see – a Wrasse. Sun shining through webbed spikes a crown on a glaze of reds, reflecting;

OVER BY CHRISTMAS

The Old Sandstone cliffs. Salt corroded harbour bollards. Roofs of red pantiles. And a phone box perched sentinel on the path. He knelt bowed his head to the sea and lowered the Wrasse back to be A jewel beneath the surface. The day was fine and the joy three fold; His for the catch, mine for the witness and the fish – for the sea.

The pointing finger and the bill-board stare stirred up the men made them aware just where their duty lay. And they enlisted. They held youth’s certainty day follows night. Fixed on their bayonets and prepared to fight. Dawn found them cold, face down in clay. There’s no assurance after night comes day.

Susan Grant

THE DROVE ROAD Ruth Gilchrist

that long walk we took up the strath the path expiring into turf and quartz

DRIFTWOODMAN

erratic and moraine clumped the way led here and we followed

You have been gone too long. The town; forgotten they missed you. Your name drifts in the closes Come up out of the sea my friend.

no beasts but us as we chewed our opposition to each other in companionable strides

Your apples have ripened And your wife has sold them. Your wisdom; fallen among the shadows You have been gone too long.

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no dogs at our heels wheeling at distractions

POETRY no turfy bothies unpeopled by us children unmade migrated

INDIGO INK

that long walk we took up the strath the empty land our only market

Bridget Khursheed

TRAFFIC ISLAND, A1 NEAR FORT KINNAIRD It isn’t exactly what I planned but then what was that? Blood stains drying beneath the gravel, shards of car or messages from those who came before sealed in Victorian glass? I landfall anyway, all mine lit for nothing by carriageway beams. Consider inhabitation: a hogweed burrow lined with down, sound-proofed or digging underground a crab-like coat of containers, eco-cups and wrappers knobbling my home or grazing rights, goats perhaps could make a living here in the flow of salt-spattered traffic. Indigenous plants can grow. Pulling the commuter tides close tight, I study the weeds; explore the darkening butts and rag hours spent driving past to work - a speck of time, nothing except interchange roundabout - and this is exactly what I own; have won.

Bridget Khursheed

LOST AUTUMN This apple tastes of earth and umber Picked from darkening grass under a slivered moon We wait for dawn and the shadow of the trees The night moist cobwebs hung from hedgerows The sweetest scent of latest blooming flowers The cold pond’s sparkle of reflected light Once more we taste the painful joy that is

I found her lying by the side of the road, Her body wafer thin, her clothes worn out. No name, no address but her story Written on her neck in lines of indigo ink: Kerry, Reece, Sam-Ibiza-1998, All entwined with hearts and butterflies. As I checked her pulse I wondered, Who were these precious ones, emblazoned Across her skin? Slowly she came around, ‘Too much to drink, too much to forget,’ she muttered. Then getting to her feet she staggered away. So I’ll never know who these loved ones were, Kerry, Reece, and Sam, or who or what She was trying so hard to forget. The storylines of her life, written in indigo ink. Barbara Pollock

ALL TOO SOON Mountains in the distance will welcome boldness, scoff at age limitations. He watches light dancing, clouds changing shape to decorate the summits. He remembers the rush when he wore the world as a cloak of excitement, when the followed path was more than a journey to attain rugged peaks, when he could light a year with a day encompassing determination. Now the only way he can touch mountains is with his paintbrush.

Gordon Scapens

This time, this place.

Iain R Martin

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POETRY

MURMURATION

LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH

It started as a whisper riffling through sedge grass a rumour of trouble across the face of the water a suspicion of breath gathering words from the lochan a hiss from an exhaust at the ashy end of the day.

Sometimes love, alone is not enough. Tenderness and care have a part to play Love can be too much. It sometimes means a single touch, At other times it is a sunny day. Sometimes it swallows you up, in passion, And you don’t see the whole scene. Too busy looking ahead, You forget where you have been,

One starling gathered another a magnet drawing iron filings across a news-rag sky thousands of birds on the edge of transition ready to wheel in sentient syncopation, dry snow crystals billowing from the path of an avalanche.

Jean Taylor

MARGARET’S VOICE At seven they silenced her told her to lip sync to the music. She mimed.

It can shape your life.

Andrew Thomson

Jesus Loves me twinkle twinkle jinglebells. She was my sister together we shared a tone deaf bedroom.

THE LAST DRY STONE DYKER The adder slithers to a stone the sun has warmed, Scuffs a skin from its back on the Dyker’s wall. The scene brings fear and mistrust to the Dyker’s eyes, The snake is supple, lithe, easy to loath and despise. He picks up a stone, aims, throws before it can strike. The adder spits, recoils in offence, slinks away to its lair.

She tested me below the blankets with Bonny Dundee the Skye Boat Song boots that were made for walking.

The Dyker slumps, breaths with relief; straightens his back, From the depths of his torso his spine gives, then cracks. He winces with pain, forces his back straight; spine reset His tired eyes look at the wall he just built for a bet. He stands there, tense, a hand propped on his side, Feeling the pain of his age and the hurt to his pride.

In the lower register she taught me to sing out loud opened me to all the music a girl needs to know.

Jean Taylor

Because it can also be blind Sharing has a part to play. Separation and pain play their part Suddenly love, is a heavy heart. You do things in love and for love That brings a clouded day And yet - and yet, there is no other way. The trials, the tribulations, the pain in your heart Is the price you pay when you are apart? The depth of your love cannot be measured It can lift you into a wondrous world.

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The ravages of weather; wind and rain on his face; Sun in the summer, have deformed his young shape. He can’t bend his knees or back, can’t touch his toes, God how it hurts; he could once toss a caber and fight, Love and dance and drink whisky all hours of the night; He recited Burns with a passion to the sound of the pipes.

POETRY

He works whenever the needs of his own world dictate; Bills to be paid, drink in his belly and food on his plate. The Dyker’s affinity’s with his Bard, the hills and heather; He’s lived with the land, watched pheasant and grouse Lift to the sky; eaten his ‘pieces’ in nature’s domain, Built his walls on the hills in the sun, wind and rain. In threadbare ‘trews’, shaped to the bow of his legs, A shirt, long in the sleeve, tartan, in keeping with kin. Lank hair falling on shoulders once proud and strong, The last Dyker stands and stares at the wall he has built, At the stones and rocks he gathered from a rivers bed. He raises his cap, his spare hand scratches his head. He sighs and he stoops and wonders how, how? Could I have aged when my mind is clear and so young. I hurt in the knees, my hips and my back give me hell, My hands are gnarled, my joints beginning to swell. But my mind’s as clear as the water I gather to drink. He weeps as weary eyes look at the lines of labours past. Walls crumble as ages pass, stones return to river’s bed. Walls replaced by wire mesh; “thank God I’ll soon be dead.” These thoughts invaded his mind, sharp as the flint and stone Of his craft now embracing fields; walls built by men alone. He picked up the last stone, the last he would ever lay; Keyed it to the wall, kissed it in salute and walked away.

David White

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SHORT STORIES THE IMITATION OF CHRIST Arthur is on his hands and knees, crawling up ice. Sometimes he slides back down a bit. He’s had to abandon walking after falling flat, discovering too late that here the trodden snow has compressed into ice. In his head he tells Marion, “I genuinely believe I fell because my knee was too painful when I tried to control my legs. The pain from when I tumbled myself down the stairs.” Saying this feels like a step towards forgiveness. Even at the top of the rise, the path gives no safe footing. Is he going to have to crawl in the winter dusk all the way back to the road? In the gloom beneath an oak tree there’s, yes, a man, standing stockstill; in a hunting jacket; no bag on his back; no sign of a dog; eyes fixed on Arthur like he’s waiting for him. He steps forward and extends an arm. Arthur pulls himself upright, telling Marion, “Of course, he wasn’t waiting for me. Some sort of forest ranger? But I knew that was daft, too, here in a little tame wood above where we live.” The man says, “You look as if you could do with a friend. Let’s be friends. Tom Breck.” Even though Arthur is still clinging to one arm, the man manages to remove his other glove and hold out the hand. It’s still just light enough for their breath to mingle visibly in the cold air. Arthur pants and sways like someone who’s so flustered by what he’s been through, so occupied with pulling himself together, that he doesn’t notice the hand held out. Removing gloves to shake hands is supposed to symbolise really close friendship. He says in the voice men use for complaining good-naturedly about their wives, “Phew, thanks.

Blame the wife I’m out walking on the arctic tundra. Or, rather, not walking, ha-ha! You should take more exercise, it’s for your own good, etcetera, etcetera. You know what women are like!” In his head he says, “Only joking Marion.” Breck says, “No, I don’t know.” A homosexual? “He literally picked me up— from the ice!” he tells Marion, and she laughs, her laughter such a contrast with the suffering he failed to witness. The hand is still held out for shaking. Arthur says, “Actually, my wife has passed away.” Passed away makes it sound as if it wasn’t an ordeal at all, for anyone. “But it still feels like she’s going on to me about exercise, so here I am, haha. Well, goodbye. I just live down in Helensburgh. Thanks again.” He shakes the hand without taking his glove off, turns to continue on his way. At once his legs slide out from under him and only Breck’s grip stops him falling again. Breck says, “I’d better come along with you. Hold on to me. I’ve crampons on my boots.” As they pick their way together, Arthur looks down like someone needing to concentrate so hard on where he’s putting his feet that he’s no attention left for conversation. Glances sideways, not maintained lest they invite eye contact in addition to arm contact, allow Arthur to gauge that Breck must be, like himself, in his sixties. There’s an age-roughened face, wiry greyish hair beneath the woolly hat, probably a full head of hair. Very thick lips. He’s lither and leaner than Arthur; slim rather than old-man skinny. He looks about

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him, at the dense trees on the one side, at empty darkening moor on the other, with the confident interest of someone refusing to take the ageing process seriously and, by this means, actually keeping it at bay. “Okay?” “Thank you,” says Arthur. Could that exchange be construed as Breck renewing his offer of friendship and Arthur accepting it? Like someone drawing on a lifetime’s experience, Arthur adds, “You know, I’m not sure that at our age people make friends any more. Didn’t I read somewhere that you’ve made all your friends by the time you’re twenty-five? You’re not really receptive after that.” Breck’s silence causes Arthur to continue, “I mean, real friends are people you’ve known a long time and have shared interests and things with, a shared history.” “Or you can just start behaving like friends and see what happens.” There is a solitary cheep from deeper in the wood, like a light going out. It’s a refuge to tell Marion, “A complete stranger asked if he could be my friend, just like that.” The fact that he can think of her as a refuge

People who must have thought he deserved support. Hadn’t forfeited it. feels like forgiveness. Humorously, for she wouldn’t mean it, she replies, “Well, a friend or two would get you out from under my feet.”

SHORT STORIES Breck’s remark about behaving like friends hasn’t gone away. Arthur persists, “Known a long time, like people at work before I retired. I’m sure plenty of people would be—the modern phrase— there for me if I needed them.” He laughs heartily at the phrase. “The church was overflowing for Marion’s funeral.” People who must have thought he deserved support. Hadn’t forfeited it. “I’m glad.” Breck sounds relieved that lots of people attended the funeral of the wife of a total stranger. He must be odd; which is much less unsettling than being sinister. He can hear Marion saying, “There’re a lot of odd people about.” She adds, laughing, meaning it only as a joke, “And I’m not excluding you, Arthur Riggs!” At last the path emerges onto tarmac. Arthur stamps snow off his boots, disengages himself from Breck, and suddenly the streetlights come on all the way down into Helensburgh. “Terra firma! I’ll be all right now. It’s gritted underfoot. Thanks again! You’ve been a real friend.” Passing off Breck’s bid for friendship as though he’d just been talking of a friendly act. “I’ll walk down with you.” “But I’ll be holding you back. My bad knee.” He sets off at a pace slow enough to try anyone’s patience. “We can tell each other something about ourselves.” “Age and address, height and weight, distinguishing birthmarks, ha-ha.” Though mentioning birthmarks could be misunderstood. “Something from your childhood, perhaps. We tend to be less ashamed of things from so far back.”

“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Arthur discovers he’s put on a burst of speed, is several steps ahead of Breck. He tells Marion, “Okay, I have.” “Some people are always ashamed of revealing something about themselves, even when it’s not at all shameful.” “Not me, I can assure you.” Could Breck be a blackmailer, seducing strangers into revealing secrets? “I’m not sure what you have in mind. You go first, to give me an idea.” That should keep Breck occupied for the mile down to where Arthur can escape into the railway station. Marion smiles her admiration of Arthur’s cunning. Breck has caught up with him. “Well, let’s see. Johnny Cauley was a boy in my class at school.” Entertaining Marion like someone visiting at a hospital bedside, Arthur says, “Not only a homosexual but a schoolboy crush!” “He was always in trouble. In my school only the headmaster did beatings. Caning, not the tawse. ‘Headmaster’s study at four!’ the teachers said, meaning: I’m sending you to be caned.” “A beating fetish, too!” Arthur tells Marion. “I was going through a religious phase. Poky Prufoot, the RI teacher—they called it Religious Instruction then, not Religious Education—had been talking about Jesus taking the punishment for other people’s sins. He described the crucifixion in gory detail. We all deserved to be crucified, he said, but Jesus chose to undergo it in our place. ‘In your place,’ he said, pointing individually at some of us, including me.” “They wouldn’t be allowed to scare kids like that today.” Arthur chuckles as you do saying things like that. They are making good

progress past the big houses behind walls and gates. If your house has a turret, it must make a difference to how you feel about your life. You don’t feel shame when you can go up into your very own turret. “One day when Cauley had been told, ‘Headmaster’s study at four!’ I rushed off there as fast as I could when lessons finished, to be ahead of him. I knew he’d take his time, postponing his arrival as near to insolence as he dared. I said, ‘Please sir, Cauley has been sent to you to be beaten, but please beat me instead.’ “The head was furious. He obviously thought it something Cauley and I had cooked up but then he saw Cauley in the corridor behind me and told me he’d deal with me after Cauley. I thought I’d failed: I’d end up beaten as well as Cauley, not instead of. “After a while the door opened and Cauley swaggered out. He looked at me with contempt and said, ‘I take my own punishment.’ That didn’t stop him and his cronies starting on a new thing of bullying weaker kids into owning up to things the Cauley crowd had done. “But when I was called in, I wasn’t beaten. The headmaster asked me if Cauley had made me ask to take his punishment for him, and I said, ‘No, sir, it was my own idea.’ “ ‘But don’t you see, Breck, punishment is supposed to teach the wrongdoer to change his ways, and it can’t do that if someone else is punished, can it?’ “I didn’t dare reply, and, like people in authority do, he insisted on an answer. ‘Can it, Breck?’ “I said, ‘But I’m trying to be like Jesus, sir, taking the punishment for other people’s sins.’ “

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SHORT STORIES “For goodness’ sake—a religious nutter, too,” Arthur, at her bedside, murmurs to Marion, yet at the same time a box is opening and something malignant is flying out and dissolving into the air because Breck is going to say, “Your turn.” What if he were to tell Breck that when he set off downstairs to answer the ‘phone call that he knew was the hospital summoning him for Marion’s last hours, he placed a foot on the edge of a stair where the foot couldn’t but slide away from under him, couldn’t but tumble him headlong down the stairs, and by the time he’d picked himself up—with a painful knee for which he’d never sought treatment, a permanent penance and punishment—the ringing had stopped, allowing you to conclude it was probably just a bloody cold call, not the hospital, for the hospital wouldn’t have rung off so quickly, and of course someone who was visibly panting and swaying, visibly flustered by what he’s been through, still pulling himself together, could easily forget that you can check for voicemail or dial to find out the number that’s been calling—what if he told Breck all that? “ ‘… glad you take your religion seriously, Breck, but I am sure Mr Prufoot would tell you that you are taking it too far. Is Cauley a particular friend of yours?’ I said No. He asked if my parents were well, then told me to run along home.” “Right, my turn,” says Arthur, but Breck hasn’t finished. “That wasn’t the end of it. When my father died I found a letter from the school summoning him to discuss my ‘friendships with other pupils’. I had to see a school doctor, who examined me all over without explaining why, and then a Mrs Birks, some sort of child psychologist, I think. But it all died down.”

“You believed you could take the punishment for other people’s sins! My turn. I thought I’d tell you—”

out a gloved hand for a farewell handshake, saying, “Well, thanks again for the helping hand.”

“I’m not sure I believed. Believing doesn’t enter into it when you’re so totally taken over and gripped by something as I was: Be like Jesus and accept Cauley’s punishment.”

“Till next time,” says Breck. Such warmth in voice and eyes.

Arthur postpones his turn. “You make it sound like it had nothing to do with you.” “Nothing to do with me, when what I did rolled up everything I was? Nothing left over to do anything else?” “So what you did was who you are, the modern phrase. Or were. Making you powerless to do anything else.” He tells Marion, with cheerfulness that hasn’t been there for a long time in their conversations, “Whatever was I thinking of?—Opening boxes, about to tell a complete stranger about things that are personal to us.” Breck says, “Your turn.” “Oh, but here’s the station, look. I’ll need to get my train.” “Let’s have a drink.” “I’d miss my train.” “There’s a train every half hour.” He’s not pleading, is only a nottoo-stern headmaster effortlessly puncturing the kid’s excuses. “Oh, but I have to get a bus after the train and buses on our route stop early.” “Don’t forget to give me your address.” His voice assumes they’ve struck a deal to be friends. He’s even produced a pen and notepad from the hunting jacket. It feels like expiation of what Arthur’s going to do, that he doesn’t refuse them. He writes Hugh Maclaren 431 6271, and an address mentioning Bothwell, well away on the far side of Glasgow. He hands back pad and pen and smiles as nice people do and holds

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Arthur goes into the station, waving goodbye like a friend would, and queues at the ticket office and purchases a return ticket for Cardross and gets on a train and travels two stops and waits at Cardross for a train that takes him back to Helensburgh. When he walks out of the station, he does not, as a shifty person would, look about for Breck, and in fact not looking about for Breck will guarantee that Breck has not waited to catch him out.

… I just live down in Helensburgh. Arthur said it! God, Breck knew that all that palaver about the train was just, well, lies, yet was still set on being friends. Arthur, walking westwards along the Helensburgh seafront above dark waters, halts and looks round for Breck. Alas, there’s no sign of him. Even so, despite his knee, Arthur is walking fairly jauntily as he cuts away from the seafront up to the house in West Princes Street where, when Marion’s loss was imminent, he was powerless to do anything other than the thing that was who he is. Standing upright again before her, he asks her, “Would you say that someone who keeps pressing you to be friends is needy, the modern word?” Perhaps Breck is back on duty by the ice. “You pressed me to marry you often enough,” she replies, but laughs in a way that makes clear she’s very grateful that he persisted because, despite being who he is, he made her happy.

Paul Brownsey

SHORT STORIES A LIKELIHOOD OF SNOW It’s rather sad to think I won’t be coming here again. Odd as it may sound, I’ve rather grown to like the place and popping back every now and then has certainly helped me come to terms with what happened. The snowfall was unexpectedly heavy that evening, much like it is now. I remember feeling annoyed with myself about leaving behind my “motorist’s survival box”. I’d needed to make room in the car for our old washing machine which I’d taken to the tip a few days earlier. The box had all the essentials in it – a spade, a blanket, a torch – all the things one never needed until… well, until they were needed. Needless to say, I’d completely forgotten to put it back in the car. Nor had I checked the weather forecast - not that it would have done me much good as the snowfall and high winds must have taken everybody, including the emergency services, by surprise. Had I known just how bad it was going to be I wouldn’t have stayed-on at the office that evening. I’d had a few things to tie-up and I always hated to leave any bits of work unfinished before the weekend. When I did venture out, there was hardly any traffic at all on the road. Although the snow was pretty thick by then, I was able to follow the rutted tyre tracks of cars and lorries which had passed through earlier in the evening. Slippery though it was, I was sure I’d be able to make it home without too much delay. I just had to keep my speed down and take each corner at walking pace. I was only a few miles from home when my progress was halted by a temporary road sign: ‘Road ahead closed’. Was it really,

I wondered? Well, I wasn’t going to risk it. Anyway, if I did get stuck I’d probably be prosecuted for ignoring the sign. I remained stationary and pondered my next move. Although I had never deviated from my route home, I was sure there must be a way to bypass the main road somehow. I’d remembered a colleague saying they lived in a small village the other side of the hill which was convenient for joining the main road in the mornings. I don’t know why but I

I don’t know how I imagined I could continue my journey. I suppose it was an instinctive reaction to restart the car and try to get it moving again. Of course it was hopeless. The wheels span and the car dug itself deeper into the snow. Realising how futile it was even to try to get the wheels to turn, I resolved to dig out as much of the snow from beneath them as I could. Then I remembered: No spade. No spade, no blanket, no torch. No provisions, even. Just

That’s when I saw the lights of the other car. was pretty sure it was this stretch of road they’d been referring to. I’d passed a narrow lane on the left about half a mile before so I turned the car around and headed back to it. I paused before the turning. Would I make it up the hill? It clearly hadn’t been salted and if I’d met anything coming in the other direction we’d have both ended up in a ditch. I told myself not to be such a wimp and made my way slowly up the lane. Within yards of entering it, the car began to slither from side to side. It was a herculean task simply to keep the thing in a straight line. The further I went, the less traction the car seemed to have. At one point I felt like a helpless passenger who was unable to influence the car’s movements in any way. The combination of poor visibility and lack of traction unnerved me and it was a sudden veer to the right that made me over-compensate with the steering wheel. The more I tried to regain control of the car, the more I realised there was nothing I could do. I just had to wait until it came to a stop. Which it did - in the ditch.

me and my phone. Thank God I had my phone. I reached into my jacket pocket to retrieve it. Wrong pocket. It wasn’t in the other one, either. I felt my face flush as I slapped my hands about myself to find the phone which was… on my desk at the office. I was well known for keeping my head in company - always calm and in control in front of my family and colleagues. I was the one who could get you out of a tight spot. Stuck in a lift? Don’t worry, I’m here. Only, there was no one with me that evening. I felt a sense of panic rise within me and had to use every psychological trick I could think of to keep my nerve. I began speaking out loud – as though I was sitting beside myself and directing the action. I looked around inside the car to see if I could use anything to dig with. A ring-binder languishing on the back seat looked the part. I reached for it and grabbed the door handle to let myself out. The door opened about two inches and was met with a wall of snow. I lowered the window and leaned out. The biting

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SHORT STORIES wind slashed at my cheeks as I peered down and saw the lower half of the car submerged in the snow. The wind was driving it towards my side of the road and, within only a few minutes of the car veering into the ditch, a further eighteen inches of snow had accumulated alongside it. I tried to raise the alarm by sounding the horn and flashing the headlights. Then my calmer self took-over. If I was going to be buried in my car, I needed to conserve as much of its energy as possible. I’d read somewhere that if you were trapped in your vehicle in a snowdrift, you should run the engine for twenty minutes and then switch it off for the same amount of time. This would charge the battery and provide heat whilst the engine was running and allow the engine to rest and conserve fuel when it was turned off. Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep! That was the other piece of vital information I remembered. To fall asleep would hasten hypothermia and dramatically increase the risk of death. I would talk to myself – sing even. Whatever happened, I was not going to fall asleep. I started the engine again, and kept it running for the prescribed twenty minutes. I found a packet of marshmallows in the glovebox which, despite having been opened some weeks before, were still fresh enough to consume. The sudden rush of sugar cheered me. I decided I would remain inside the car at least until the weather had stabilised. Someone would find me, I was sure of that. My wife would declare me as missing and a search party would be mobilised. I just had to sit tight and wait. It was hardest during the times when the engine was switched off.

No heating, no light. All I could do was count down the minutes until the engine could be switched on again. It must have been around midnight when, on the umpteenth cycle of ‘engine on, engine off’, I felt myself dozing. It was the sensation of my head falling forwards that woke me. The sudden worry of the consequences of becoming unconscious made me sit bolt upright and I stared out of the windscreen with my eyes open wider than ever before. Sheer willpower - and the odd marshmallow - kept me awake right through to the first light of morning. Oddly, I felt more awake now than I had at any time throughout the night. The thought of daylight encouraged me and I was more certain than ever that rescue would be on its way. That’s when I saw the lights of the other car. Visibility was still poor and I wasn’t sure at first if they were the lights of a car. They might have been a reflection on the windscreen or maybe two distant sources of light that seemed closer than they actually were. I leaned forward and wiped the inside of the windscreen. Two red lights, the tail lights of a car, perhaps a hundred or a hundredand-fifty yards ahead. But how? A rescue vehicle? Couldn’t be. How did it get ahead of me and why was it facing the wrong way? Could another car have been in front of me all this time? Thinking there might be another stranded driver nearby, I began to rally. What if there was a child on board or an elderly person who might be freezing to death? Did they have a motorist’s survival box? I knew I had to try and reach them somehow. I tried the door

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again but it was still blocked by the snowdrift. I pressed the window winder button and, after a false start, the window dropped down albeit at a slower pace than usual. I put the remainder of the marshmallows in my pocket – the other driver might need a sugar hit – and clambered out of the window. It was a soft landing. The snow hadn’t compacted and I sank a few inches into it. I picked myself up and began stumbling towards the lights. I called out and waved my arms but it would have been difficult for anyone to hear me above the noise of the wind. As I got closer, I saw the lights more clearly. They were quite small and rounded in shape and belonged to what looked like a classic car, circa early nineteen-sixties. How odd, I thought. Indeed, how irresponsible for someone to take their classic car out on a night like this. As I came upon it I looked through the rear window and could see two occupants sitting in the front seats. I banged on the window to alert them to my arrival. They didn’t move. I went around to the front of the car and saw an elderly man and woman smiling at me through the windscreen. ‘Are you alright?!’ I shouted, exaggerating the movement of my lips to make sure they could understand me. The woman wound down her window and beckoned me. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch your death!’ The car was less snowbound than mine and I was able to open the rear door enough to clamber inside. ‘How long have you been here?’ was the first of my questions. ‘Since the snow started,’ said the woman turning to address me.

SHORT STORIES I looked at her and then at the back of the man’s head. They were both smartly dressed but not too formally - as though they had been on their way to a friend’s house for dinner. They seemed relaxed and perfectly comfortable with their predicament. ‘I’ve only just seen your tail lights - I’ve come from the car behind. I’ve been stuck since about eight o-clock.’ ‘Yes, we saw you,’ said the man, looking at me via the rearview mirror. ‘Listen,’ I started. ‘I don’t mean to be critical, but don’t you think it was a little bit foolish to venture out in this… this car of yours?’ The man turned his head towards me. ‘Why so?’ ‘Well,’ I said, trying not to sound rude, ‘it’s not exactly the latest model, is it? And the heating can’t be up to much…’ ‘Are you not warm enough, young man?’ asked the woman. ‘Well… yes, I am but...’ I looked around me at the car’s interior. ‘I must say you’ve kept it in very good nick.’ ‘Aye,’ said the woman. ‘Gerald always looked after his cars. He used to spend every Sunday afternoon cleaning and fettling them.’ They both chuckled ‘Aye. Happy memories.’ ‘It looks like you still do look after it. It’s immaculate,’ I said. ‘Thank you,’ said the man. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bag of marshmallows. ‘Would either of you like one of these – they’re all I have, I’m afraid.’ The two of them chuckled again but refused the offer. I was happy not to be alone. Talking kept me alert and, more importantly, awake. The

conversation was sporadic but polite. After an hour or so of fairly inane small talk, I was surprised to find how little I had learnt about these two people. They had asked me lots of questions but had given away almost nothing about themselves. When the conversation finally dried-up I returned to the topic of our current situation and asked if either of them had a mobile phone or if they had made any attempt to alert anyone. The woman’s response confused me. ‘There’s no need. They know we’re here.’ ‘How?’ I asked. ‘We always return to the same spot whenever there’s a likelihood of snow - just in case,’ said the man. ‘Aye. Just in case,’ reiterated his partner. I began to feel a little uneasy and suspected that my new friends were not entirely aware of the danger we were in. If they were making no attempt at getting rescued, I was going to have to take action alone. ‘I’m going to leave you to it,’ I said and reached for the door handle. ‘No,’ said the woman firmly. ‘We’re much better-off together. It won’t be long now.’

He turned around to face me. ‘I’m so sorry - really, I am.’ A sense of unreality swept over me. I turned around again to see if I could attract the attention of the rescuers. ‘Over here!’ I shouted. ‘They’ll not hear you, my dear,’ said the woman calmly. I watched as a snow plough gave way to a fire rescue vehicle. A crack team of two men and a woman, all wearing high visibility jackets, jumped out and quickly dug their way into my car. One of the men leaned inside and then emerged, shaking his head. The others stepped forward and, with some effort, withdrew a body. ‘Like us,’ began the elderly woman, ‘you thought you’d woken up in time. We imagined we’d been awake all night, but we’d droppedoff only a couple of hours after we’d got stuck in the snow. A local farmer found us the following day. He tried to bring us round but it was no good - we were stiff as two boards, weren’t we, Gerald?’ ‘We were,’ agreed the man. ‘That’s why we’ve kept coming back year after year,’ continued the woman, ‘- so that the next poor souls wouldn’t be alone when it happened. ‘It’ll be your turn to wait for them from now on - whenever there’s a likelihood of snow.’

I pulled at the handle but the door would not open. Nor would the window when I tried to wind it down. Feeling a little panicked, I looked behind me to see if I could somehow get out through the back of the car. Glancing out of the rear window, I could just make out a set of orange and then blue flashing lights approaching from the distance.

Just like the couple in the car, I’ve been returning to this very same spot whenever the weather’s been like it is tonight – waiting to hand over to the next ‘poor soul’. And it’s very nice to meet you at last.

‘They’ve come for us!’ I shouted. ‘I must get out. Let me out of the car!’ I grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him.

Tim Nevil

. . . .

Make yourself comfortable - it won’t be long now.

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SHORT STORIES THE VISIT The following extract is from a novel I am currently writing. It is a redemption tale of a middleaged woman who gave up on life following a cover-up in her twenties. Meg shivered and her mind raced back to that afternoon with her father in Chadwell Heath ... ‘Hello?’ Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah was playing in the background as Meg lifted the intercom receiver. ‘Hello, my girl. How are you doing?’ Her stomach lurched, ‘Oh, gosh. Dad!’ Meg wasn’t expecting visitors. ‘Well? Are you going to buzz me in?’ ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ The entry phone trilled its welcome and Alf climbed the stairs, noting the apple green walls and the musty air of the stairwell. Meg rented above a parade of shops in Chadwell Heath. The external Tudor panelling at odds with the modern shopfronts. Upstairs, Meg and her kitten, Dinah, had a warm, bright home. Meg peeked from behind the door. ‘Come in. Come in!’ she beckoned. She embraced the kindness that was her father. How secure he made her feel! Maybe it was going to be alright. He was looking well. Thinner perhaps.

‘There’s no milk,’ was all she could think to say. Smiling, he held her at a distance. She was dressed in oversized pyjamas, baggy and comfortable. She was a little pale. The truth was there’d been no supply work for a while and daylight had not kissed her face since Monday. ‘You’ve put on weight, my girl!’ Meg coloured. She was carrying well - neat and discrete. ‘It suits you,’ he smiled. ‘Oh, Meg. You look great!’ He embraced her again, his arms wrapped around her shoulders and his cheek resting on hers. She was his girl; the very one. ‘Never mind the milk. Get yourself dressed and we’ll go to that cafe downstairs. Sam’s, is it? I can run to buying my girl a cup of tea and a scone. Or do you fancy breakfast?’ On her mother’s birthday Meg had sent flowers - a beautiful, enormous bouquet - but her silence was unusual. Alf’s mind had been prodding and rearranging an algebraic problem of possible reasons, from man trouble to school trouble, to cancer (God forbid). He’d not been able to puzzle it out. And he hadn’t wanted to worry his wife with his worries. Alf adored his wife. He would protect her from worries till the day he died. ‘Breakfast! That sounds good. I’ll go dress ... Dad! This is such a surprise. What are doing here?’ ‘I took a joy ride starting at six thirty this morning to see my girl,’ he grinned. ‘I wanted to see how London was treating you,’ Alf reasoned it better to ease his way into the crux. ‘It’s been a while, my girl.’ ‘I know, Dad,’ she avoided his eye, ‘I know ... Just take a seat Dad. I won’t be long.’ Meg turned towards the bathroom. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ She was all smiles and

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happy-to-see-you on the surface. ‘How’s mum?’ she called over her shoulder through the open door. ‘I’m sorry I missed her birthday.’ Meg was turning on the tap and grabbing her toothbrush, ‘Did she have a good day?’ Alf could no longer see Meg. He was talking to the wall. Within fifteen minutes the pair were seated in the cafe. Tea and toast, sausage and eggs, mushrooms and beans steamed on large welcoming plates. Meg was both delighted and anxious. She wouldn’t be able to hide the truth. Perhaps her Dad had already guessed? ‘So …’ ‘So, it’s not …’ Meg looked over her Dad’s shoulder to the passing cars and pedestrians. She bit the bullet. The tension inside and the pretence was excruciating. ‘So, you spotted I’ve put weight on, then?’ Her Dad nodded with a mouthful of sausage and brown sauce. He was glad she looked so healthy. He hadn’t known what to expect when he had called without warning. Alf loved both his girls, but he loved Meg more. Davina was more prickly or was it less giving? Alf had especially loved telling little Meg stories. He would turn out the light and lie on the floor between Davina and Meg’s single beds and tell them the antics he got up to as a boy. At times he would fall asleep before them. Now, he wanted to know Meg’s story. Why was she avoiding her parents? Meg continued, ‘Well, that’s good. It’s good you approve. It’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you and mum, but … well...’ Meg couldn’t do it. She looked at her Dad, her lovely, caring Dad as he relished his crispy fried bread. He wouldn’t understand. She did a sudden wheelie in her head and changed direction.

SHORT STORIES ‘Actually Dad, I’ve lost my job.’ ‘Really?’ Alf’s mouth was full of golden yolk. Meg nodded. She fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘Oh Meg,’ Alf was taken by surprise. He swallowed his mouthful of egg. ‘Why didn’t you say, love? Mum and I would have you home in a shot. You know you can come home anytime. Anytime you like. The door is always open.” Meg inwardly relaxed. She knew her Dad would come up trumps in a fix. ‘Is that why you’ve been avoiding us?’ Meg nodded. ‘Oh, Meg, you know we care about you. We’ll always help you. You must have been strapped for cash and you still sent Mum that beautiful bouquet of flowers.’ His eyes softened. Meg smiled weakly in return. ‘What happened, love?’ Alf knew London was a bad idea. Probably a kid with a knife or a teenage girl with body piercings making up stories about my girl. He knew it wouldn’t be Meg’s fault. She was a good teacher. They’d always said that in Italy. ‘Well, it’s been difficult ...’ started Meg. What was she going to say? She couldn’t go into it all Michael, Pippa, pregnancy, death, deceit, dalliances. Dad wouldn’t understand. It was complicated … and modern. Not Dad’s style. ‘It’s because I’m going to have a baby, Dad.’ Meg whispered, embarrassed. Her employment status was more accurately down to Pippa’s vicious attack in the staff room, but Meg didn’t want to revisit that fiasco. And since then, Michael had disappeared. Who knew what might have happened? God, it was a huge mess.

Alf stopped chewing. He looked at the table, at his plate. He became acutely aware of his knife and the fork in his hand. His movements seemed to slow down. He remembered a similar conversation twenty seven years before. We’ll marry, he’d said, without hesitation, and neither he nor his young bride had mentioned it since. Not a single word would come to him now. He’d mentally rehearsed his reaction to cancer or job loss but this? He had never expected this of his Meg. ‘Dad?’ Alf put down his cutlery. He coughed, covering his mouth with a clenched fist. His eyes surveyed the checked tablecloth as if he might find an answer hidden in its pattern. The usual clink of cutlery on crockery seemed to hush in horror. Alf imagined the entire cafe listening. They judged him a bad father. He can’t have brought this girl up right. Or … had he heard her right?

the adjacent table where two men were tucking into similar fare and a third was drawing with satisfaction on his morning fag. The tension in Alf’s jaw travelled up his cheek, piquing the muscles under his thin skin. ‘Right ... Well ... That’s good. It needed doing, the fence ... I suppose …’ Meg took a breath to continue, ‘Okay, Dad, it’s -’ ‘It got damaged in the winds and it blew across the garden. I had to get it seen to.’ Alf resumed his breakfast, his eyes focused intently on the mushrooms and his jaw chewing methodically. ‘So I’m due in four months and I couldn’t … I couldn’t ... I didn’t want to …’ her eyes glistened, ‘I wouldn’t .. won’t … I can’t get rid of it -’ Meg’s body was about to twang across the greasy spoon. She wanted to say, ‘I will be the best mother on this God’s earth and I’ll use all the skills you taught me, Dad. All the fun and games and time you gifted me, I will gift

Alf could no longer see Meg. He was talking to the wall ‘Dad?’ Meg wanted her father’s approval - or acceptance at least. She knew this was hard for him. ‘I’m getting the fence repaired,’ her father responded. Then there was nothing. No more words to capture and send forth into the still, thick air between them. Meg lifted her solid, off-white teacup and looked over the rim at the familiar man opposite her. She was searching for a point of contact. She could almost smell her father’s fear curling towards her, riding the Players smoke from

this baby.’ But tension rammed her words tight into her chest and anxiety stood, silently, on guard. She wanted to explain that this little being was part of her and part of Michael. Her pregnancy was more precious than diamonds or gold or honour or ideal love. This little person was Meg’s hope. The workmen on the next table glanced in their direction. Alf winced. His eyes darted to Meg’s. There was blame and mortification in his look. He threw a quick look at the men, daring them to say anything. The nearest,

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SHORT STORIES stocky labourer reached for the steel teapot, demonstrating that very British trait of pretending not to notice. Alf quickly surveyed the cafe, before hissing, ‘How exactly did you get yourself up the duff, girl? Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of nonsense? You’re not a teenager. Were you taken advantage of?’ He didn’t wait for her response. He pushed his chair back and stood, indicating she should too. He took her elbow and led her out. Three men’s eyes were seemingly focused on their breakfasts, but their peripheral vision targeted the older man and his daughter. As the door swung close, they sank into animated conversation. Alf marched his daughter the short distance to her flat in silent anger. He steered her up the stairs and waited while she unlocked her door. Inside, he strode to the window and stood looking across at the Tudor patterned buildings opposite. Meg was silent. She sat in in the battered armchair at the far end of the cosy sitting room, crumpled upholstery surrounded her frame, and she wondered where the wise father she trusted had gone. Alf asked, ‘Were you raped?’ He couldn’t look at her. ‘No, Dad, I wasn’t raped.’ ‘So, where’s the father then?’ Alf swivelled to face his girl, his turkey neck quivering with rage. He was challenging her to produce a clean shaven, wholesome man who was going to stand by her and do the decent thing. ‘I didn’t bring you up this way!’ he declaimed. His girls weren’t these modern, women-cando-it-for-themselves types. ‘I spent my life - my whole life - instilling family values and respect into you! We didn’t even know you were dating - your mother and I. You’ve

told us nothing. We’ve been worried sick over you. I thought you had cancer or something!’ Alf was red and hot. He paced the width of the room. ‘It’s not that Italian bloke’s kid, is it? The one you told your sister about? She told us he was married. Bastard. It’s not his, is it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Whose then?’ Meg didn’t answer. She was looking at the dust gathered by the skirting board, yet seeing nothing. When had her Dad starting calling people bastards? ‘Tell me!’ Alf’s frustration and disappointment were escalating. ‘Why won’t he do the decent thing? You can’t even know him. You’ve not been home long enough to sneeze, let alone have a ‘relationship’. You’ve only been back in the country six months. Whose child are you carrying?’ Alf waited. ‘You don’t know, do you? You hardly know the bloke or you’d tell me. He could … he could be a mass murderer! You wouldn’t even know.’ ‘Dad! Don’t be ridiculous.’ ‘Ridiculous! Me? That’s rich! You’re off getting a bun in the oven and losing jobs and not talking to your family and -’ ‘He’s not a murderer, alright. He was a friend.’ Meg knew this was the wrong thing to say. Alf threw her a look of contempt. ‘A friend? That’s disgusting. A friend?’ he repeated. ‘You disgust me! Decent men and women don’t fuck with their “friends!”’ Meg felt the hot pain of his verbal punch. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him that he was an idiot. A fool. Out of touch. He was cruel. She wanted to wail at her loss. Michael was gone and she was carrying the tragedy of their unborn child, already half-orphaned, perhaps, in her womb. Meg wished

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she had the gumption to get up and slap her beloved father hard across his face and tell him to get the hell out of her house and to never speak to her in that manner again. She didn’t ever want to see him again. She said nothing. She sat, silent and in misery. Her belly ached with grief; her mind shut down, clog by clog, protectively. ‘You can’t bring up a child on

The clock beat time on the white walls of the silent room. your own. You don’t even have a job!’ His anger was guttering. His voice, raised and rough, a moment ago, softened. ‘Oh, my God, this is terrible. Your poor mother. This will break her heart.’ He sat on the sofa - the far end - away from his troubling daughter. His old immuring eyes darkened. The clock on the wall slurred … fuccckkk … fuccckkk. ‘You’ll have to give it up,’ Alf’s concluded. ‘Mother doesn’t need to know. Davina doesn’t know, does she?’ he threw a look to Meg. She refused to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening. ‘Adoption. That’s the answer. I know it’s not fashionable these days, but someone will be grateful. You’ll be doing them a service. They’ll be able to bring up the child well - they’ll be working,’ he looked with disdain and melancholy at his favourite daughter, ‘and you can put all this behind you. You can still meet someone. You don’t need to tell them about this sordid business.’

SHORT STORIES Meg neither nodded or argued or agreed or disagreed. She wanted her father gone. She had never, not once in her life, fallen out or even contradicted this man. He had stood tall on the love pedestal always. Crash! When the wind blows the cradle will rock; when the bow breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, ... The steely grey man eased himself from the sofa. ‘Don’t come home till you’ve given the child away. I’ll think of something to tell your mother.’ His voice was a mix of threat and conciliation. ‘We can fix this,’ he said to Meg, as if this was a tidy solution for them both. He pulled his wallet from his inner pocket. ‘Here. I’ve got a hundred. That will see you through for a while. I’ll send you a cheque next week. I don’t want you going hungry, my girl.’ He offered a lopsided, toothy grin. All the better to eat you with. She stood up shakily. She didn’t take his money. He laid it on the coffee table. He kissed his daughter’s passive cheek. Drawing back, he looked at her quizzically. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. I am. But you know it makes sense. You’ll see it makes sense once this is all over and you’ve found yourself a proper man and you’re properly set up with a home and a family. You will.’ Alf believed his words. The clock beat time on the white walls of the silent room. Alf saw himself out...

Kathleen Mansfield

NO EXCEPTIONS “I want ten grand by Friday; no exceptions.” I was lying in bed, Nat’s text going round in my head. The bedside clock was showing 1am. There was no way I could get to sleep. What the hell was I going to do? Sarah had been asleep since 10:30; flat on her back and tucked into the duvet. I could feel her rhythmic snoring vibrating gently. There was a chilly draught on my bare arms and I wished I’d started wearing the pyjamas Lauren got me last Christmas. This is no good. I’ll have to get up. I edged slowly out of bed, so as not to wake Sarah, and reached for my dressing gown. It was a present from Katy to match Lauren’s pyjamas. Thank god no one got me slippers to finish off the old man look. Bloody hell it was freezing already and not even winter yet. As I crept downstairs, Nat’s words still ringing in my ears, I considered my options: cocoa or brandy? By the time I reached the hallway I had decided: cocoa with a shot of brandy in it and I headed for the kitchen. Oh god, oh god, what am I going to do? How can I find that kind of money? Even if I could, how could I keep it from Sarah? Someone would find out. Sarah will kill me. The girls will be devastated, they’ll never forgive me, and they’ll take their mother’s side. How can Nat do this to me? Stupid cow! How could I have been so bloody stupid? Attracted by a glimpse of midriff and cleavage, then seduced by a shed load of flattery. I of all people should have known better. I made myself a mug of cocoa the old-fashioned way, to

avoid waking Sarah with the microwave beeping; I added a slug of our best cognac to it and headed for the sofa. How could Natalie do this to me? My reputation, my job and it would ruin Sarah’s career. If it got out it would be round the internet in minutes and plastered all over the tabloids. And it would get out. Why didn’t I consider the risks before having an affair? Especially with a crazy girl who was clearly high as kite most of the time. Always flirting with me, hanging round after classes and following me around. Nat only liked the idea of Philosophy, thought it was cool, but she was never really interested in any of the course. How could I have been such an idiot? I think she was just going through the motions to get near me. I remember the time when she turned up at the house; I couldn’t breathe when I looked out of the window, and saw her at the gate. She is nothing like Sophie. I quite like sitting in the dark looking out at the frost glittering in the new LED streetlights. Outside it is still and silent. On the side of the comfortingly warm mug it says “World’s Greatest Dad”. I wonder how Katy and Lauren are getting on. Lauren is graduating soon and she seems to be doing really well or so she tells us. She may even get a First. Katy and James are getting serious. I suppose it will be a lavish wedding, to rival all their friends’ ones and then probably babies on the way. Oh dear God, Grandad Joe! Sarah wouldn’t mind being a granny but she wouldn’t have any time for them. She’d expect me to do all the baby-sitting.

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SHORT STORIES I hardly ever see Sarah; she’s so busy. We don’t seem to get any time together these days; she’s always at some meeting or another. Wining and dining with captains of industry, trade delegations and all the Party stuff. Natalie always made time for me. She took me to some great parties and clubs – at least I think they were great but I was so pissed - and the rest! I still have no idea what most of the stuff we took was. An old man like me having a great time with a beautiful wild twentysomething. Nat was my midlife crisis and I loved every minute of it. How would the great philosophers deal with this problem? Mill might say that I had been behaving like a pig; thinking only of “lower pleasures”, and that the only person that had any pleasure from it was me. I hope I wouldn’t start anything like that again. I might have more with darling Sophie, more of the higher pleasures perhaps? Bentham said: “Create all the happiness you are able to create: remove all the misery you are able to remove”. How can I do that now? I had a great time with Nat to begin with. All that partying with coke and dope and her whacky druggie friends, it was a last chance to be wild like I had never been when I was her age. How can I divert this tide of misery before it engulfs us all? It will come out, whatever I do, I’m sure of it. What course of action could I take to minimise the damage? When Nat first raided my wallet to pay her dealer, alarm-bells began to ring. I should have heeded them, but maybe it was

too late by then anyway. Months later, when I realised she was stealing from other students to buy drugs, I told Nat I didn’t want to see her anymore and she went mental, chucking stuff about and screaming threats at me. Her flat, like her life, was in a total mess as usual, but I walked out and left her to it. She dropped out of all her courses and I didn’t hear from her for months, until the call earlier today and that text tonight. In the meantime I’d met Sophie.

I topped up my cold cocoa dregs with brandy. Sophie is quiet, serious, studious, intelligent and very, very pretty. Quite the opposite to Natalie which is, I suppose, why I was drawn to her. She reminded me of Sarah when we were younger. Sophie loves me. I topped up my cold cocoa dregs with brandy. Outside one of our neighbours was struggling to get their car started and I could hear the hum of the milk-float coming up the road. It was still too early for the birds to start singing. I headed for the kitchen and started making coffee and toast. I heard Sarah shuffling down the stairs and she came into the kitchen checking her phone and looking a bit bleary. She gave me a brief pat on my shoulder and sat down without looking up. ‘Morning darling, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’ I slid a mug of coffee and

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plate of toast across the table to her and sat down opposite. I was still half asleep and not really hearing what Joe was saying. I carried on surreptitiously checking my phone and then something in his tone suggested whatever he was going on about was serious. A few things flitted through my head – lost his job – got cancer – wants a divorce? Then I started listening. My mind was struggling to make sense of what he was telling me. Blackmail? An affair – with a student! Drugs! What the fuck has he been doing? I looked across at him; half hanging out of his dressing gown, unwashed, unshaven, his hair all tousled, clutching the mug the girls had bought him. ‘World’s greatest Dad’ - arsehole more like! And he’s reeking of booze – typical. All the while I carried on buttering toast and spreading marmalade on it. Taking bites and chewing them on auto-pilot. I’d nearly finished my coffee and he hadn’t stopped talking yet. I poured out the last dregs from the cafetiere and, waving it at him, interrupted Joe to ask him to make some more. He looked a bit dazed for a moment as if I’d just woken him up, but then he just carried on making the coffee and was still babbling on. I was beginning to process the soundbites of actual information hidden amongst his hollowsounding apologies and panicstricken blethering. How couldn’t I have suspected what he was up to? Was I too focussed on my own life, my work, to even be interested in anything that Joe was doing? What will happen to both our careers when this gets out? Am I going to be the laughing-stock of Holyrood, my cheating junkie husband plastered all over the tabloids? This could be the end of me. What shall we do now? Does he still love me? Obviously not. Do

SHORT STORIES I still love him? Probably not. We can’t pay up and hope to keep it quiet that would be idiotic. My phone was buzzing and bleeping but I managed to ignore it. I helped myself to another mug of coffee and slice of toast and tried to think clearly. It was impossible to concentrate properly with him gibbering away. A cloud of thoughts was buzzing round my mind like wasps. I had to be on my own and think this through. I need to call Alastair and check my legal position and consider my options as quickly as possible. I plonked my mug down, teaspoons and knives clattering, and stood up. “I’m going to shower and get dressed. Don’t do anything. Don’t call anyone, don’t answer the phone or speak to anyone till I come down. Do tidy yourself up a bit for God’s sake.” I watched Sarah climb the stairs until her feet vanished from sight and then poured myself some dregs of tepid coffee and ate the rest of a half-eaten slice of toast. Well that could have been a lot worse. I felt some sense of relief from having told her and I knew that Sarah would sort everything out. She was always so good at this sort of thing. Problem solving. The clattering of the letterbox made me jump and I heard the sound of the shower starting upstairs. I was drained and stood up slowly using the table for support. The hallway tiles felt freezing on my bare feet and I stuffed the post into my dressing gown pocket and hauled myself upstairs to the family bathroom. I am always amazed by how much better a hot shower can make you feel. I felt nearly normal again when I wrapped a big towel around my waist and stepped out onto the landing.

I plonked my mug down, teaspoons and knives clattering, and stood up. Sarah, dressed for business as usual, came out of our room carrying her office bag and buttoning up the jacket of her suit. She wasn’t smiling but she gave me a look that seemed almost reassuring. I listened to my instructions and, promising to keep my phone on, I gave her a peck on the cheek. She didn’t flinch. After Sarah left I made fresh coffee and toast, dashing back upstairs while the kettle boiled to retrieve the post and my phone from my dressing gown. I put on some Miles Davis and began sorting through the post. Among the supermarket flyers and the broadband and insurance offers a postcard and a letter with a US stamp stood out. I flipped over the postcard, Greetings from Vancouver, it was from our neighbours visiting their daughter. The letter was in a heavy cream envelope and had a Harvard postmark. I was staring at it when I heard a text alert. “Hi Dad can J n I come for tea tonight about 7? Kxx” I texted back “Sounds great love dad xx” and noticed I had a missed call and a voicemail. “Hey Joe, I’ve got some exciting news. Call me when you can. Love you.” The sound of Sophie’s bubbly voice sent a shiver down my spine. Oh God what is it? I hope she’s not pregnant. I slid the phone away from me and picked up the envelope. I found a place to park quite near Natalie’s building. The area was a bit seedy and I hoped it was too

early for car thieves to be out and about. As I climbed the stairs I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say to the girl. I knew better than to threaten someone who was already desperate and I thought the plan, that Alastair and I had come up with, was sound; but I wasn’t sure that Natalie would feel the same. She left the chain on when she answered the door and her darkrimmed eyes darted from side to side suspiciously. “Hello Natalie. You know who I am. Can I come in? I need to talk to you.” My footsteps echoed off the stairwell synchronising with the rhythm of my pounding heart as I hurried away from the gaunt figure in her squalid surroundings. She seemed to accept the way out I had offered her and I hoped she wouldn’t change her mind. I felt like she was a bomb that I had to defuse. I drew a sharp breath in as I unlocked the car, got in quickly and locked the doors again. Fingers fumbling I searched for my phone and called Alastair to update him. My heart rate slowed a little and I began breathing normally as his reassuring voice advised me. Natalie’s flat was off St Leonard’s and I called Emma as I drove past The Pleasance to let her know I’d be there in five minutes. I was usually at my desk when Emma came in; still it wasn’t much after 8:30 yet so I wasn’t all that late. As I parked the car I called Joe and told him what I’d done, and I felt his relief wash over me. I hoped for both our sakes that my faith in

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SHORT STORIES the solution that Alastair and I had planned was not overly optimistic. After Sarah’s call I turned up ‘So What’ and danced round the kitchen. Feeling elated and slightly breathless I called Sophie. “Hey you what’s this exciting news?” I crossed my fingers and held my breath. “I’ve been offered a place at Princeton. Mum and Dad are totally thrilled” she gushed. I smiled imagining her twirling round and round. “That’s brilliant. Well done Soph. Meet me for coffee at Artista, eleven-ish?” “Great, can’t wait. See you then. Love you” “Love you too. Bye.” “Bye.” I decided I would splash out on some halibut from Eddie’s for tea. Sarah’s favourite. I slit open the Harvard envelope, slid out the letter and began to read. “Dear Professor Coltrane, I am delighted…” As my eyes slid over the words I tried, and failed, to dislodge the earworm squatting in my head. “Sutherland no more Lewis no more Bathgate no more” I pocketed the letter and my phone, grabbed a ‘bag for life’ and opened the front door.

Lewis Teckkam

MY KIND OF GIRL I am Asmir and I’m on the last lap of my train journey from Bridgewater, to visit my parents in New York . I am very engrossed in this book. Not that Kind of Girl. Well, if the title makes you think immediately of romance you would be near the mark. As a dutiful son I try to visit my parents as often as possible. As a result of their continued support I now have employment with excellent prospects. They sacrificed a great deal so that my sister Demila and I could have the benefit of a university education. We are Bosnian Muslims and life during the1980s became very hazardous. This was prior to the Balkan war when Bosnia Herzegovina declared independence from Yugoslavia. Bosnian Muslims were targeted by the Bosnian Serb army with the result that many Muslims sought refuge abroad and a large number settled in the US. My parents had the foresight to leave in 1990. A decision which had lasting effects on the family. They were intellectuals and, therefore, able to emigrate to New York where they settled in Astoria. Astoria had a large Mosque and they could worship in peace which was a source of great comfort to them. It was a particularly difficult decision for them because my grandparents did not wish to leave their homeland to accompany them.

Grandparents played an important role in helping to raise a family. My father was of a mixed marriage and had settled with his family in Yugoslavia as a small child. Both my parents spoke English well but despite this, the traumatic circumstances coupled with two small children made adjustment to their new environment difficult. I was born in 1986 and Demila in 1988 and being children of emigrants and of mixed blood made growing up doubly difficult for us both. My parents never really integrated so Demila and I straddled two very different cultures. I missed not having grandparents, who with other family members had been a constant source of support just like the grandmother of the author of this book. I am walking through the front door of my grandmother’s house and the smell of Bosnian stew, full of flavour from lamb, tomatoes bell peppers, onions and spices, from the kitchen hits my nostrils and there is my grandmother with her furrowed brown leathery looking skin and a scarf keeping her hair from her face as she hovers over a hot stove with a large ladle in her hand. My last memory of her. Unlike this author we were not able to bury them. We had no means of knowing what even happened to them or other family members. My last girl friend gave me this book. We broke off our

The train is slowing down. I take a quick look out of the window as I sense we are approaching a station. 22

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SHORT STORIES relationship recently, it was the latest of several. “Here, read this,” she said throwing it at me as she left in a fit of pique. I would like to settle down but I am beginning to think I will never find the right person. This book is crude, but nevertheless, funny and a gutsy exposition of modern feminism. I don’t know whether it was given me to help my plight or merely to highlight my inadequacies. It is part memoir and I wonder why the author who is from a wealthy professional / artistic family who has everything, feared death from such an early age. It must be New York neurosis coupled with a liberal upbringing. I contrast the memory of my early fear, a dread of real death, with this psychotic fear. It must feel real to her though but I find it very sad that someone, living in such an unstructured and liberal environment, has been so fearful of death for so many years.

“You were too engrossed in reading to notice me sitting across the way from you. I’ve read it too. Take this it will serve as a book mark” With that she moved towards the door to exit the train. I hastily put the piece of paper along with my book into my rucksack that I had clutched on my knee for the entire journey. I removed my ear buds , adjusted my thick knitted hat and moved with the surging crowd to alight. I caught sight of the young lady who had given me the book mark already on the elevator. She stood out in the crowd , with her smart suit and long black hair flowing around her shoulders but once she reached the top I lost sight of her. I opened the door of my parent’s apartment and the rhythm of their native music drifted through and

the aroma of Bosnian Hamburgers and Kabobs , my parent’s favourite food, hung in the air. My father embraced me, “ Ah my son welcome home; how your beard has grown,” he chuckled giving it a gentle tug. “But you cannot disguise those refined facial features,”quipped my mother as she threw her arms around my neck. The evening was happily spent enjoying the food, lovingly prepared by her and chatting about family matters. When I went to bed I remembered the piece of paper given to me for a book mark. I unfolded it and much to my surprise found a cell phone number. I wondered if this was deliberate or a mistake. My curiosity nevertheless was aroused. I chose to think the young lady intended me to call. Wise or not I decided I would do so before leaving New York because, she seemed like “ My kind of girl.”

Patricia Watts

The train is slowing down. I take a quick look out of the window as I sense we are approaching a station. It is just slow enough to see the look of disappointment of waiting passengers when they realise the train is not going to stop. Taylor Swift’s song “ We are never ever getting back together”, sounds through my ear buds; how very apt. Life is bitter sweet. Next stop is mine. End of the line. I close my book. I sense someone standing close by and a pleasant voice said,

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SHORT STORIES

PRESENTS

The Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tale Directed by David Bon

Promenade Performances in the grounds of Traquair House, the oldest inhabited house in Scotland. WED 31 MAY TO SAT 3 JUNE, 7.30PM

Tickets are available from the Eastgate Theatre Box Office 01721 725777 or online www.eastgatearts.com

WED 7 JUNE TO SAT 10 JUNE, 7.30PM

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017

www.shakespeare-at-traquair.co.uk

INTERVIEWS Lesslie soon learns that she is a hard working astute individual willing to go the extra mile to make any project or event successful. Eildon Tree editor Julian Colton popped along to the bookshop for a cup of tea and a chat and to discover what she considers to be the current trends in children’s book publishing. It makes for interesting reading for all those writers who feel they have a children’s book inside them. Julian Colton: What did you do in life before setting up Bookworm?

Interview with Lesslie Oliver by Julian Colton

Lesslie Oliver: I’ve been a personal trainer. I have a degree in integrated health. I also worked overseas as an air tours manager. My first job was as a dental nurse. All my jobs have involved talking, interacting and working with people.

Anyone walking along Selkirk High Street recently will have noticed a new brightly-coloured premises called Bookworm. Established by bubbly and enthusiastic Mancunian Lesslie Oliver, The Bookworm children’s bookshop has quickly made its presence felt in the local community. It’s not uncommon to pass by and see inside a host of smiling children’s and adult faces listening to a story or taking part in some other creative activity.

JC: Have you always wanted to run a bookshop?

Owning a bookshop is perhaps one of those wish list enterprises which many folk dream of undertaking. However, setting up a bookshop at any time is a precarious business, doing so at the height of austerity, and in a particularly niche sector of the book market, perhaps takes more than the usual amount of courage required. Whoever meets with

LO: We moved to the Borders because my husband Adam relocated to the Borders for work.

declined by fifteen percent in the last five years. Even Amazon have just opened up a physical bookshop at Seattle University in the States. It’s very rewarding because I’m working with children and promoting a love of books. JC: You do a lot of activities for children. What form do they take? LO: I do lots of storytelling sessions. The children pay a pound and that goes toward purchasing a new book from the bookshop. It’s a loyalty scheme book club. We do events including writing workshops for children. We also premiered, if you remember, your Border Ballad Rhymer’s Stone and it was fantastic the number of children we had writing at your ghost story writing workshop. I also specialise in themed events such as Harry Potter, Roald Dahl, dragons and pirates. I do arts and crafts themed activities around certain books. Today we did the bear hunt. For a special day like Poppy Day we raised money by making poppies. This might sound highfaluting, but it is quite holistic in that it all ties in together.

INTERVIEWS LO: I’ve probably wanted to run a bookshop since the birth of my son Aaron. I’ve worked with children’s clubs when working abroad. My biggest interest and engagement with kids was when I worked as a countryside management ranger. I organised school visits. And I’ve always been a bit of a bookworm. JC: Why Selkirk?

JC: You established Bookworm during austere times. Has it been tough to keep going? LO: It’s tough with regard to the amount of time you have to dedicate to it, but it’s the right time because physical books are on the increase. E-books have

JC: You have used social media to promote the bookshop and yet, as you said earlier, physical books seem to go against the electronic grain. How do you balance both worlds? LO: People book in advance for events online, which is a great help. And people love a mobile phone, don’t they? I think people want an instant answer from a business prior to attending. So it’s the real world. They can work hand in hand, they’re not mutually exclusive. Most of the parents who come into my shop use social media.

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INTERVIEWS JC: What are the current trends in children’s books? LO: Depends on the customer. There’s a huge trend for traditional books such as Swallows and Amazons. JC: Really? LO: Yes. And good old Enid Blyton is back in favour. JC: I loved The Secret Seven as a boy. LO: Me too. They were my favourites. David Walliams is massive at the moment and so is old faithful Road Dahl. There’s also a lot of interest currently in non-fiction and large format books. Families like to put them out on a table and open them up. It’s almost a rekindling of family traditions. It’s also an alternative to the prevalent use of social media during the day; coming together at night-time to research and exchange mutual interests. It’s a binding influence on family and other shared communities. Sharing seems to be the way forward. JC: Do you envisage staying in Selkirk or expanding elsewhere? LO: If it’s something that works as a business model after five years I would maybe roll it out elsewhere in the Borders. But I would have to sell a lot of books before thinking about such a move. JC: Who are your favourite children’s authors? LO: Historically, Enid Blyton and Shirley Hughes. As a child I didn’t have a lot of access to books. My Mum was dyslexic. Somebody gifted my family a box of books. It was like opening a Pandora’s Box for me – Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, Ben- Hur by Lew 26

Wallace. I think I was reading Stephen King and James Herbert by the time I was ten. I really enjoyed Shakespeare – Macbeth and The Tempest in particular. I loved To Kill A Mockingbird and Wuthering Heights. So my tastes are very eclectic, which is always the best way to be. Today, I like Young Adult books by writers such as Patrick Ness and Lari Don. I think David Walliams is absolutely amazing. I love the adult writer Matt Haig who also writes brilliantly for children. JC: Which book most affected you as a child? LO: Lord of The Flies by William Golding was quite an eye-opener. Now everybody talks about bullying. Then it wasn’t a topic for discussion. I was bullied at primary school, so it had a resonance with me. JC: What direction do you see the children’s book world going in the future? What kind of books are going to appeal to future generations? LO: For me it’s interesting watching adults come into the bookshop with children. They’re often looking for different things. A lot of younger children choose books based on illustration. At London Book Week last year there were a number of illustrators who loved books as children, but not as textual narratives. There’s lots of ways to read a book. So many children like to look at the pictures, but it can be a kind of stigma to do so. Does it matter if a child loves a picture book, so long as it grabs their interest? An interest can always be fed and it will evolve into curiosity about other books and authors. Big name

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authors often have big name illustrators attached to their work. This will probably continue to be the case in the future as illustrators can help enormously to drive the narrative. Many leading illustrators work with more than one author. Maybe libraries have done well in the past because children have freedom to choose their own books. There was essentially a lot of choice. I want to give children and adults a lot of choice via Bookworm.

INTERVIEWS seemingly without any gaps or pauses to the present day. The list of stage plays, screenplays, television dramas and radio work is long and very varied: Ladybird Ladybird, The James Plays, A Kick Up the Eighties, and episodes of Doctor Who are just a few of the very many highlights.

Interview with Rona Munro by Julian Colton

On the street where I live in Selkirk folk recently started telling me ‘There’s another writer in our street.’ When I inquired as to who it was, they didn’t know much about this mystery person other than ‘It’s a woman’. It was only when I ran into writer Jules Horne, who was passing my house some time later, that I finally discovered the elusive scribe was no other than the famous Scottish dramatist Rona Munro. Jules sent her a picture of me and one day I was walking my dog Dulcie when a small shy woman, who was out jogging, stopped me and asked ‘Are you Julian?’ Since then I have spoken many times to this friendly, anything but reclusive lady. A bit of light research also revealed the extent and range of her writing credits, hits and awards. Measured by any yardstick, Rona Munro has a high quality writing CV stretching back to the early eighties and

When I catch up with Rona for this interview in her flat in Selkirk surrounded by shelf loads of books, she has just finished writing a very hush hush Doctor Who episode to be transmitted next year, but already her writing mind is moving on to the next subject. Rona is the epitome of a successful working writer, yet, as this following interview demonstrates, her writing feet are very firmly on the ground and she proves to be an exemplary interviewee with good insights and advice for all writers. Julian Colton: Tell me a little bit about your background, where you were born and raised? Where you studied? Rona Munro: I was born and brought up in Northern Scotland just outside Aberdeen in a place called Marycoulter. I went to school at Mackie Academy in Stonehaven which is Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s old school too. I later attended Edinburgh University where I studied history. I think everybody expected me to do English, but looking back I think I was just being bloodyminded. History is where you find all the best stories, so it was the right choice for me. My Dad was a uni lecturer and my Mum was a radiotherapist.

JC: Did you train to be anything other than a writer, do other jobs? RM: I was an office cleaner when I left University. I thought if I took a proper job I’d never start writing. The problem with jobs is you get involved with them. It’s similar when you do writing workshops. I’ve done a lot of them, but they do tend to stop you from writing. I’ve also taught at Davidson University in North Carolina where I was a Professor of Creative Writing. My son, who was a teenager at the time, stayed at home and studied while I was working away. We spent a lot of time Skyping. He now works in film as an art director, so he’s done well. JC: What made you want to be a writer? RM: My Scottish Uncle Angus, Angus MacVicar, was a working writer all his life. He started out as a journalist, but progressed into novels and radio dramas. He wrote well into his nineties. (At this point Rona takes down from one of her bookshelves a volume by Angus MacVicar. Her shelves of novels, dramas and radio play titles are vast.) Uncle Angus basically wrote to please himself rather than focusing on some notion of ‘high art.’ Books like Silver in my Sporran were bestsellers. He wrote about sixty books. He was a fantastic role model. He was writing really good stuff. I think writing is for everybody. It shouldn’t be just an elitist profession. Uncle Angus was a great encourager and mentor and the first person to call me a writer. I tried everything to get writing. I worked with a lot of different actors. I’ve always done a bit of everything – radio, television, film – but theatre is my main writing preoccupation.

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INTERVIEWS JC: Was it a struggle initially? RM: Yes and no. Financially, yes. But it’s not as if it’s become any easier! I was really lucky. I left uni in the early eighties and my first professional production was Fugue in ’83. JC: That’s really early to be having such success. RM: I was trying hard and going at it all the time. At about the same time I had my first radio show, a thing called Kilbreck, a kind of Scottish Archers, set in a fictional Central Scotland new-town. JC: Like Cumbernauld? RM: Yes, like Cumbernauld. I also briefly wrote comedy sketches for shows such as A Kick Up the Eighties. JC: Which other writers/ dramatists, poets influenced you when you were starting out? RM: Apart from Uncle Angus there was a very small community of Scottish playwrights such as Tom McGrath and Jo Clifford. Obviously, there was John McGrath and 7:84 with The Cheviot, the Stag and the

Black, Black Oil which was very influential. Liz Lochhead was a massive influence too. She came to our school and talked about being a writer. Seeing a young woman being a writer made a great impression on me. JC: Which writers do you like now? RM: Playwrights I like include Linda McLean, Sarah Ruhl and the Davids- Greig and Harrower to mention but a few. There are so many good writers. JC: So why drama? What makes you want to write for stage and television rather than fiction or poetry? RM: It’s sociable. You get to work with actors and directors. Starting out I worked with the Edinburgh Playwright’s Workshop set up by George Byatt. The idea was to bring actors and writers together. It was unique in that they would do any of the plays written by the writers. It was literally hand in any script and they would do a rehearsed reading before an audience and then the audience would give constructive feedback. You received a whole range of comments. You really had a strong sense of what an audience was thinking and feeling. It was important that one or two voices weren’t allowed to dominate the proceedings as can be the case with some readings. The fantastic thing was that a script which might have seemed weak or flawed could sometimes really come to life. JC: So what was the fundamental thing you learnt from the process? RM: I essentially learnt two things: Firstly, an audience is more

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important than critics. Also, actors are a playwright’s friends or allies. They put themselves on the line in order to represent your work. That’s why I love theatre so much. It’s all in the teamwork. A theatre production is a conversation. I start the conversation by writing the play. I then talk to the director who in turn talks to the actors. The actors then tell it to the audience, who tell you what they think and feel by clapping or not. JC: And what is it about a particular subject makes you want to write about it? For instance The James Plays, Doctor Who, gangs in Manchester or whatever? RM: Short answer – am I going to get paid? Long answer – can I even do it? You always get offers in the same vein as your successes. For example, Ladybird, Ladybird, which I wrote for Ken Loach; I had offers to do similar things which were more or equally traumatic. And there are things you write about out of love. For example, The James Plays, which turned out to be the most successful thing I did for theatre. JC: Which of your pieces has given you most satisfaction or do you look back on with most fondness? Or is it never like that for you. Are you like Alex Ferguson was and just move on to the next game, the next play? RM: The James Plays was professionally the best thing I’ve done. It doesn’t get much better than that. It was about that company of actors and the three plays and because it was so huge we were all in the rehearsal room together for five months. I love being in the rehearsal room.

INTERVIEWS It’s my favourite bit. You see the actors putting their talent in and you all get closer to each other as a consequence. We’ve all stayed friends. A lot of folk thought it was a big risk. We got away with it. It sold out. Over 5,000 people seeing it daily at The Festival Theatre, imagine that? It actually passed the taxi driver test. One driver asked me where I was headed and when I told him he said: ‘Oh, I hear it’s really good. I’m trying to get a ticket.’ We really should produce the plays that people want to see. They shouldn’t be just about high art, but be accessible to all. Bold Girls early on in my career was very successful. Iron was another I loved and won awards for, but The James Plays represent the pinnacle of my career so far. It was massive on all fronts. JC: What made you come to the Borders? RM: My Mum and Dad moved here. My Dad’s family come from this part of the world – Ancrum, Lilliesleaf and Melrose. When my Dad died, my Mum, who is ninetynine, needed more support. JC: Are you involved in the local writing scene? RM: Only socially. I’ve been to a few Cultural Forum meetings. I also want to concentrate on my work rather than writing workshops and the like at present.

JC: Do you think you will stay here? RM: I would love to. But you never know what’s round the corner. I have good neighbours which is always a blessing. JC: What are you writing at the moment? RM: I’m writing something about James IV and I’m also doing a play for Birmingham Rep. It’s Bollywood meets Pride and Prejudice. JC: Any special pet subject which you are still hankering to write, but haven’t managed to start yet? RM: I would love to write ScienceFiction, but I don’t know if I’ve the skill. But that’s why I love it so much. Writing it is so hard. My Uncle Angus wrote a Forbidden Planet series. He was a bit of trail blazer who was much imitated. JC: What advice do you have for aspiring writers? RM: My advice is just to hang on in there. It’s not luck; it’s got to be hard work. No point in waiting on luck. You have to rewrite and rewrite. That’s the job. You have to put in the hours to learn the craft. In drama you should go and see stuff, go to the theatre. If you want to write screenplays, watch a lot of cinema. Want to be poet, read poetry. You learn from everything.

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SHORT BEST KEPT STORIES SECRET

After the Funeral

Green had been born in Selkirk. His first novel – Time Well Told had been picked up by a small publishing house, and became an international best seller after a libel case brought by a misguided minor celebrity. With the proceeds from the film, he had bought the house in the village on the moor, where he had lived ever since. The 34 year hiatus between birth and blockbuster remained unaccounted for.

AFTER THE FUNERAL GREG MICHAELSON

As I left the churchyard, I was hailed by a woman of around my own advancing age, who invited me to join the mourners for a small libation in the village inn. Of course I accepted.

1. I stood pensively as Jocelyn Green’s coffin was lowered into the freshly dug grave. I had made my academic career out of analysing his writing; my small monograph on his Teviotdale Chronicles had been well reviewed, and the Masters module I offered was always oversubscribed. However, although I fulminated against the contention that to know a novel one must know the author, I was not ashamed to admit my deep frustration at my almost total ignorance of my subject. Indeed, I was surprised by the invitation to the funeral. Green was a very private man and, over the years, his agent had rebuffed all my attempts to interview him. And there had been no public notice of his death. The funeral was held in a small Episcopalian church on the edge of the moor. Despite Green’s fame, there were only five other mourners, none known to me. The service was straight from the Book of Common Prayer, and the eulogy added nothing to what little was publicly known about him. Which wasn’t very much at all.

The funeral fare was decidedly better than the usual breaded protein. I could sense my fellow mourners sizing me up as we politely nibbled smoked trout on sourdough: it was clear that they knew each other well. As they introduced themselves to me over coffee, I slowly realised that these were the only people that Green had ever acknowledged at the ends of his muscular bodice rippers. No, that’s most unfair. Green wrote astonishingly well and his stories were crafted masterfully. His narratives were always first person, and each novel was from the standpoint of a different character, bringing subtly nuanced changes in style from book to book. Nonetheless, my interest in what was deemed a low genre always amused my more classically minded colleagues. The mourners were the executors of Green’s will. He had been tickled by my monograph and had requested that I write his official biography. I would be paid well.

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I was taken aback. I was flattered, of course. But I was also daunted, given the scant public record of Green’s life. I told the mourners that I had no idea where to start. The mourners told me that, as far as they were aware, they had known Green better than anybody else, and that I should interview each of them in turn. 2. First, I went to visit Mary Chisholm in her retirement flat in Coldstream. The flat was small and very tidy. There were no family mementos, and few books beyond what looked like a complete set of Teviotdale Chronicles in a case in the hall. Mary, an occupational therapist, had met Green when he was in his mid thirties. A merchant seamen since leaving school unqualified at fifteen, he had been badly injured in a container hoist failure, necessitating lengthy rehabilitation. Green was very angry, and very bored, when Mary first encountered him. He was also functionally illiterate, so she offered to teach him to read and write. Mary was a strong believer in grounding education in the lived life, so she began by asking Green to tell her about his time at sea. Green was a gifted raconteur, with an instinctive feel for the finer nuances of human foibles. Mary was entranced by his tales, which she wrote down and read back to him. After several months, Green could haltingly read his stories aloud for himself, but still struggled with writing, so Mary brought him a portable typewriter. Green quickly took to the machine, but had no patience with touch typing, preferring instead to peck out his stories with two index fingers.

BEST SHORT KEPTSTORIES SECRET Mary wanted to show his writing to others, but Green resisted, so, without telling him, she sent off one of his stories to a competition in the local newspaper. The story was highly commended and eventually appeared in the centre spread of the weekend racing supplement. Mary arranged for a copy to be sent to Green. Once he had finished ranting at her, Green burst into tears. Then he asked Mary if there were other competitions he might enter. As Green’s rehabilitation slowly progressed, he assembled a dozen published short stories. Mary gathered them together and hawked them round local publishers. There was little interest in a collection, but one small publisher fastened on a tale based loosely on the tribulations of Green’s grandfather, and suggested that this might form the basis for a much longer work. The ensuing novel became the first of the Teviotdale Chronicles. This made a lot of sense to me. The key male characters in the Time Well Told are sea farers, and their personalities are strongly drawn. I felt buoyed by Mary’s account and began to think about a revised edition of my monograph. 3. I was further buoyed by my second visit, to Arthur Newcombe, Green’s publisher. Arthur lived in a ramshackle house full of books in Dunbar. Before Mary Chisholm had introduced him to Green, his publishing empire was based on commissions from local residents and organisations, typically collections of poetry, and memoirs and histories set in the rural hinterland. He was particularly proud of his early use of Thomas Bewick’s engravings as illustrations.

Arthur quickly took to Green, hazarding, rightly as it turned out, that there was more to him than short stories. He published the first of the Teviotdale Chronicles out of his own pocket, and promoted it through bookshops and libraries across Central Scotland. Green refused to have anything to do with publicising his work. Arthur said that, in many ways, that was a relief: Green had a strong Borders accent and was often tongue tied in company. Also, Green’s reticence added a miasma of mystery, which, as the Chronicles progressed, helped build their following. Most illuminating, Arthur knew somewhat more than Mary about Green’s early life, as a cousin had gone to secondary school with him. Green was an only child who had been raised by his father, a smallholder. It was thought that Green’s mother had run away with the insurance man from the National Farmers Union. At school, Green had been surly and withdrawn, given to sullen outbursts when pressed by teachers. In the playground, he was teased by the other pupils for his unkempt appearance and the holes in his boots. The cousin had also said that Green was a regular church goer and, at Sunday school, had loved reading Bible stories aloud. I was nonplussed by this stark inconsistency with Mary Chisholm’s account, and challenged Arthur, who persuaded me that Green’s adult illiteracy was probably a side effect of his head injuries. As with Mary, what Arthur told me chimed with my reading of Green’s novels, which are strongly rooted in an insular upland community. I must confess that I found myself beginning to rethink my stated refusal to view

literature as anything other than a found object, open to its readers’ personal interpretations. 4. Edward Ramsay, Green’s solicitor, lived in a tidy detached house on a modern estate on the edge of Kelso. Two cars sat in the drive: one a roadster, the other a SUV. Throughout my visit, Edward’s wife Marjory fluttered in the background. Edward ignored her. This visit shattered my complacency: Edward flatly contradicted both Mary and Arthur. Green had never left dry land and there had been no accident. He should have gone to sea straight from school, but, on the night that he was due to sail, had been arrested after a drunken brawl in a dockside bar, and jailed for the manslaughter of a sea mate. Edward’s father had represented Green at the trial. And Green was far from illiterate. He had been a prolific spinner of stories, mostly very violent and misogynistic. Handwritten on hard toilet paper, these had circulated amongst his fellow inmates. Mary had worked in prisons not hospitals. However, she had recognised Green’s potential as a writer and, as she herself had told me, had honed his skills by persuading him to write frankly about his own experiences. I was cross and then amused at this flagrant misdirection. Clearly, Green’s executors had confabulated what they might tell me, but none too skilfully. I wondered who they were protecting, Green or themselves: I knew that they were also Green’s sole beneficiaries. So I decided to continue with my interviews and write, not a biography as such but, rather, an account of how the different people who knew Jocelyn Green had wilfully misread him.

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SHORT BEST KEPT STORIES SECRET Nonetheless, I couldn’t help recalling the graphic depiction of brutalisation and redemption in a young offenders’ institute, in Green’s third novel, Hard Place and Rock. 5. My fourth interview was with Genevieve Bellamy. This involved an expensive call to an Australian mobile phone number, as she was returning to her home in Sydney immediately after the funeral. Genevieve claimed to be Green’s daughter. I was unpersuaded. Genevieve was most offended. I apologised profusely. According to Genevieve, Green had indeed gone to sea but had jumped ship in Fremantle, where Genevieve had been conceived in a one night stand. By the time that Genevieve’s mother had realised that she was pregnant, Green had long vanished. Many years later, Genevieve’s mother had contacted Green, after seeing the film of Time Well Told and recognising his name in the credits. Green, anxious to avoid any adverse publicity, had arranged regular support payments through his solicitor Arthur Newcombe. Genevieve had never actually met or talked with her father, but commented that the accurate descriptions of Australian rural life in Ten Pound Pom, the fifth Teviotdale novel, suggested that he’d probably worked on an outback sheep farm. She did, however, mention letters from her father to her mother, and, when pressed, agreed to send me copies if she could locate them. 6. My final visit was to Wilfred Randle, who lived in a run down cottage on the far side of the moor from Green’s village. Weeds sprouted through the carcasses of rusting vehicles in the overgrown vegetable garden. I was not invited into the cottage.

Leaning over the rickety gate, Wilfred told me that he and Green had been lovers, and that Green had borne their child, Genevieve Bellamy. He also said that, to the best of his knowledge, Green had never left the Borders and had never been incarcerated. I was deeply disturbed by this preposterous assertion. Even a cursory reading of any one of the Teviotdale Chronicles showed that Jocelyn Green must be a man, and one of considerable life experience. Wilfred laughed and said that just showed how skilfully she wrote. 7. I spent the following day in Edinburgh. At the public records office in Register House, the only documentation I could find was for a Jocelyn Green who had lived and died in the 18th century. At the National Library, there was a catalogue entry for this Green’s Picturesque Chronicles of Teviotdale, but the books were held in the reserve collection, and could only be inspected with considerable prior notice. The next morning, I returned to the village. The church was locked and the manse was shuttered. At the inn, I enquired guardedly about Green’s past but no one was wont to gossip with a stranger. And no one knew anything of the minister who had conducted Green’s funeral service: the church had been deconsecrated many years ago. The barman told me that private funerals for people with strong local connections were not uncommon, so I paced the cemetery, inspecting the stones. In total, there were six markers for Jocelyn Greens. The earliest, decorated with elaborate skeletal memento mori, was that for the Green I’d found in Edinburgh. The other markers were far younger: each date corresponding to the publication of one of the faux

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Green’s novels. The most recent grave still lacked a marker. I telephoned Edward Ramsay. Marjory Ramsay, who seemed to double as his secretary, told me that he was with a client. I asked when he might be available. She checked his diary and reminded me that I had an appointment with him that very afternoon. I had no recollection of making such an arrangement. Sounding somewhat flustered, Marjory asked me if I wished to cancel the meeting. I most certainly did not. 8. I arrived at the Ramsay house at the appointed time. I was very angry to have been so gulled. And I wanted answers. I rang the doorbell. After a decent interval, I rang it again. Then I tried the front door. The front door was open. I let myself in. There was a pile of coats on the hall chest. At the end of the hall, light came from the dining room where I had interviewed Edward Ramsay. I walked down the hall and entered the dining room. At the head of the table sat Marjory Ramsay. To her left were Arthur Newcombe and Genevieve Bellamy. To her right were Wilfred Randle, Mary Chisholm and Edward Ramsay.

BEST KEPTSTORIES SECRET SHORT “So,” I said to the assembled company, as I sat down opposite Marjory Ramsay. “Which one of you is Jocelyn Green?” “We all are,” said Marjory. “We all are.” “That’s not possible!” I said. “Yes it is,” said Mary Chisholm. “I wrote the original short story for Time Well Told.” “And I turned it into the novel,” said Marjory. “Why didn’t you publish it in your own name?” I asked. “It was just for a lark,” said Mary. “The nom de plume. And we thought the ambiguity in ‘Jocelyn’ was funny.” “We were astonished when it did so well,” said Marjory. “That dreadful woman’s court case really placed it in the limelight.” “We didn’t want to write any more,” said Mary, “so we held our first funeral to try and symbolically bury Jocelyn Green.” “But Arthur insisted that we write another one,” said Marjory, “so we told him that if he wanted another one, he could write it himself.” “So I did,” said Arthur Newcombe. “With a lot of help,” he added hastily.

“Goose Gray Skies,” I said. “That’s right,” said Arthur. “It was such hard work.” “You’re telling us,” said Mary, looking at Marjory. “We buried poor Jocelyn again,” said Marjory. “But Wilfred had noticed that there were too many graves with the same name, so we had to rope him in as well.”

“Hard Place and Rock,” said Wilfred Randle. “It’s all true.” “That’ll be right,” snorted Arthur Newcombe.” “So we buried Jocelyn once again,” said Marjory, “but then they made that awful film.” “We all agreed to it,” said her husband Edward. “And it wasn’t so bad.” “Yes it was!” said Marjory. “The money came in handy, though,” said Edward. “And I wrote the next one, Life Knows Best.” “By then,” said Mary, “burying Jocelyn after each novel had become a ritual for us.” “That’s how I got involved,” said Genevieve Bellamy. “I was such a big fan after I saw the film, that I gobbled up the books and really wanted to visit where they were set. It was pure coincidence that I was in the village for the next funeral.”

“Ten Pound Pom,” I said. “You’ve destroyed me, you know. I’ll be a laughing stock. Why me?” “You’re the expert on Jocelyn Green,” said Marjory Ramsay. “You’ve made your name out of him. So we thought you could write the next one. Your book’s nonsense by the way.” “Isn’t it,” I said, ruefully. “Isn’t it.”

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WRITING SHOP

Artists, Gardens and Words A Short Story Writing Workshop The idea for this writer’s workshop came, as all the best ideas do, through a chance remark. Artist Linda Kinsman-Blake’s subtle flower paintings depicting scenes of domestic interiors inspired author Iona McGregor to wonder what would be the story beyond the image. Thus was born the Artists, Gardens and Words workshop. The beautiful setting of Priorwood Gallery and Gardens, Melrose, administered by the National Trust for Scotland, was the venue for this unusual writer’s event. Facilitated by author Iona McGregor, who also tutors the Kelso Writers Workshop, the two hour workshop was open to both experienced writers as well as those just beginning their writing journey. It began in the Priorwood Gallery which displayed a selection of Linda Kinsman-Blake’s vibrant textural paintings. To begin with, the 10 writers were asked to consider the question ‘what is a short story?’ Next, using observational skills on one specific painting, the group listed everything that could be seen right down to the smallest detail. Asked to think of a character who might belong in the picture and then to visualise what might be happening to them, the classic What If…?, the group adjourned into their own individual creative space. Free to wander at will and sit and write in the gardens

bathed that afternoon in the rare but blessed commodity, Scottish sunshine, they were encouraged to use all their senses to add detail to their writing. After 45 minutes the group came together for feedback and those who wanted to shared their stories. The diversity of the writing was as surprising as it was exciting. From Greek philosophers; to an old woman’s youthful memories; the key that held a lifetime’s secret and a sewing lesson which bridged a generational gap between grandmother and granddaughter, all of these topics and more were explored. Some writers found and completed their short story on the day, others used the time to contemplate and develop a story line and characters to take away and finish later. However there is no doubt that the stories inspired by the paintings were enhanced by a collective creativity seldom found when working in isolation. I hope that artist Linda KinsmanBlake will be amazed and delighted with the stories which her paintings inspired. She may well pick up her brush with even more anticipation in future! Many thanks must go to Linda and Iona for conceiving and facilitating the workshop and the National Trust for Scotland for the use of Priorwood Gallery and Gardens.

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Valerie Lees

Further stories written at the Priorwood Gardens workshop can be obtained by email to Iona McGregor mcgregor.iona@ btinternet.com **** A PICTURE TELLS A THOUSAND WORDS: A Short Story Writing Workshop conducted by Iona McGregor. This writing workshop draws inspiration once again from a new series of original oil paintings by Linda Kinsman-Blake and is open to beginner and experienced writers from sixteen years upwards. To be held during the Borders Book Festival 2017 at The Gallery, Melrose, 23 Market Square, Melrose TD6 9PL. Sunday 18 June 2017 1 pm – 3 pm. Booking is advisable. £10. Limit to 10. Further details: Email info@ thegallerymelrose.co.uk and robyn.kinsmanblake@googlemail. com

WRITING SHOP

When we Danced The blanket was on the floor. She knelt down to pick it up. It was soft, warm and comforting. Pulling it towards her face she buried her nose into the dark blue fabric. It smelt of wool and dust. She stood up and shook it, watching the dust motes dancing like miniature fairies in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the french windows. The room smelt too; musty and closed in with a faint odour of something familiar but unreachable. She went back to the french windows. They were slightly ajar still from when she had entered just now. She pushed them wide open letting the air from the garden stream in to freshen the empty room. It was a little chilly so she put the blanket around her shoulders.

I had always loved this room. When I was a small child I used to sit at the shiny coffee table for hours looking at my aunt’s picture books if it was raining and playing in the garden when it was fine. I was there when her friend planted the magnolia. “This tree will have flowers fit for a fairy princess” is what he said to me. It was what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told everyone who asked the question so he knew my ambitions. I was six years old and, of course, blissfully unaware of what I would be facing in the future. There was laughter from the garden and a voice said “Shouldn’t you be cleaning?” “Yes,” another voice chimed in “And polishing that floor until it shines.” Her face tightened. She quickly drew the doors closed and locked them. She turned her back and

The Blanket. An original oil painting by Linda Kinsman-Blake.

walked into the room pulling the blanket close around her. Fists banged on the glass. “Don’t be like that. Come on. Let us in. We’re here to help.” She had heard this too many times before.

I was just fourteen when it first happened. I had been confused but said nothing to anyone. Two years later I was living in fear and being dragged by my appalled parents to doctors, therapists and hospitals of varying reputation. In the many years following I have found it hard to know how to live. I have found it hard to want to live. I have never become a fairy princess. Like any supposedly sensible adult I have ceased to believe in fairies. She had not meant to turn but the sound of a bucket being dropped startled her into movement and she stared in bewilderment because there were faces looking back at her through the glass.

Do not engage with them. This had been drummed into me from the very beginning. They are not real. My question then was how can they not be real? They speak to me every day. It took some time before I came to accept that it was all in my head. A while longer to say yes to the medication. It was the costumes that did it. They were simply the best she had ever seen. She felt the fear and the coldness inside her dissolve and transform into something like joy. They smiled, nodded and beckoned to her. An hour later the room was sparkling and clean. They had found the old french polished coffee table out in the hall and dragged it between them. The tall one had produced a rough linen cloth and draped it over the still shiny surface. They had then lifted the champagne bucket on top. It was filled with ice and the appropriate bottle. Dusk had fallen and they had lit candles and put them at intervals on the floor.

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WRITING SHOP “Here’s your costume” the tall one came towards her with a white dress, full skirted and decorated with embroidered golden ribbon. She put it on. It was a perfect fit. The other one, who was hanging up stars on a rope they had stretched across the room, said “I think it is now time to dance.” That is when the music began.

I spent the last week of my aunt’s life, beside her at the hospice. One day she was sleeping and I was sitting reading. Something made me turn towards her and she was looking at me, her eyes appeared full of a knowledge that I didn’t understand. “What is it aunty? Do you need me to get something for you?” “Listen to me, Stella. You really must go your own way. I know you can. You are a strong, brave woman. What you have been told over the years is not necessarily right for you.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “You think your life is unbearable but it doesn’t have to be. Please believe me, Stella, I know what I’m talking about.” I was very shaken up by this and didn’t know what to say. I took her hand and mumbled something conciliatory. The next day she was looking a little better and sitting up when I arrived. We chatted amicably for a while and then she suddenly said, “Do you remember when you were a little girl you wanted to be a fairy princess?” I laughed, “Yes, me and every other little girl, I imagine.” “You could be one still if you wanted.” I laughed again, thinking that her proximity to death was making her muddled. She appeared aware of my thoughts; “You think I’m a silly

old woman on the way out but just remember what I’ve said. She felt exhausted. She felt released. She felt that she could keep on dancing throughout the night. The music was deep and high, melodious and exciting, fast and slow. It continued hour after hour. The candles went out and the stars began to glow. Her companions looked different in starlight. Strange how she only noticed their wings when it was dark.

It felt like the only light in my life had been snuffed out when my aunt died. I knew it was going to happen but I had been hanging on tightly to every minute left with her. I stood desolate outside her room in the hospice. One of the nurses, her name was Angela, came towards me, took my hand and said, “She was a wonderful woman. We are going to miss her too.” She slipped something into my hand. “It was on the bedside table. It’s got your name on it.” I looked at the envelope, took a deep breath and opened it. Inside was a short note in wobbly hand writing. Dear Stella, This is for you with all my love. I know you will look after it. Remember what I said. So maybe it was not just the costumes. Maybe she really was brave and strong and she was finally deciding to embrace a world that she had been told to resist. The champagne was fizzing through her blood enhancing her feeling of lightness. Her dress really was beautiful.Was her aunt watching her dancing in that room, knowing that she would be safe in this house? Did it matter who her companions were? In fact, was it not possible to decide for oneself what was real? Despite everything, this was the best night of her life!

I was astonished and overjoyed

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in the midst of my grief. My aunt had given me a home. Her home. It was all too much to take in. The moment was too short. I needed more moments. With her. How could I manage without her in the world. What was I going to do? She had given me her home. Her home. I loved that place. But she wouldn’t be in it. I needed to think. I needed to cry. I needed to .... Just .... Let ... Go. She did not notice the change of night into morning. She just became aware of an unusual calm slowly settling upon her and that she was alone. The blanket was hanging over the rope where the stars had been. The doors to the garden were open. She could hear a blackbird singing. Beautiful. She walked into the garden bare foot and smiling and across the grass to the magnolia tree. It was covered in flowers and glorious. She broke off several small branches, turned and went back inside. The bucket no longer contained the bottle but the ice had melted. She placed the flowering branches into it.

I’ve tried for so long not to engage with that crazy, mixed up world. It is either all made up; my imagination mocking me from outside or I am a very unwell person. These are the two choices that have been presented to me. I don’t like either of them. Over the years I have prevaricated, leaning towards one and then the other. But last night. Yes. Last night I came across a third option and I danced with it until morning. Clare Watson

WRITING SHOP

The last room Socrates sat in We left the room as it was afterwards. The room with the table, around which we had our last meeting. Before, we, that is, his Disciples, of whom I am one, had placed flowers from the courtyard in the vase on the table, a symbol of the Beauty of Nature. I was amazed how calm he was. Almost joyful. Serenity. How could this happen? I was angry, so were my fellow followers at the gross injustice he had suffered. We think it was a very bad Political decision. We believe he was scapegoated for the recent disasters in Athens, our ignominious defeat in the war against Sicily with the loss of forty thousand men, the flower of our manhood, and the outbreak of plague immediately following. It was a show trial alright - lacking in Justice. We tried to get him away – we had it all organised and it could have been easily and safely done- to Macedonia and exile there. We would have followed him and kept up our philosophical discussions and learning. We could have established another School there, just as well as in Athens. But he said he was seventy, and did not want to live anywhere except Athens.

Black Pearls. An original oil painting by Linda Kinsman-Blake. The present Government is not following the way of the Good Government we seek, following the Way of Truth, Justice, Beauty and Love for all citizens. I was destined for a major role in Politics as, unlike Socrates, I came from the ruling classes. But I am disgusted with the Elite and refuse to follow this path now. I shall continue to follow Socrates beyond the grave, and like the sunlight out in the courtyard, I shall truly see the Shadows inside, as he demonstrated in his “cave simile”, the Shadows of Ignorance and bias which hide Truth. Those living in darkness all their lives, only know darkness and shadows of each other, they believe are the only reality, they have no knowledge of the brightness of the sun outside, until they decide to step outside. Only then can they perceive that the Truth is quite different.

Yes, I shall seek the light of Divine inspiration, beauty, truth, justice and the Good, the unity of these in the One Immortal entity, Love, the true reality behind all we see in the created world. That dark purple necklace of dark opal, he left on the table, funereal purple, his chain of death, which he wore after he was sentenced to death, but took it off at the table, before he went to lie down on the couch in the inner room. I see it is symbolic of him casting off death in order to return to his immortal soul in the Heavens. You see, he believed in that. Now I think about it, I believe that is how this serenity filled him after he took off the “chain of death”. He was in Heaven already. Written after the death of Socrates in 399 BC by his pupil and follower Plato. From the Academy of Plato at Athens 387BC

Carol Norris

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017

BOOK REVIEWS THE ANGEL’S WING - The Continuing Trials of Harry Somers By Pamela Gordon Hoad Mauve Square Publishing 2016 PBK 338 pages £ 8.99 ISBN: 978-1-909411-49-4 This is the second book of a trilogy, following the fortunes of a 15th Century English Physician, Harry Somers, who has also developed forensic skills investigating political murders, in which historical personages exist alongside fictional creations. In 1442, Harry Somers, escapes from a death penalty in King Henry’s England, to Padua and its famous University, there to pursue a Doctorate in Medicine. He has travelled from England with his Pharmacist friend, who sets up shop in Padua, & also by a twelve year old boy, Rendell, his factotum. The Italian cities of Padua, Verona & Venice, comprising the then Venetian Terrafirma, are well known in detail, and immaculately presented in their historical context by the author, forming the backdrop to this very engaging thriller. Time was welcomed with precision in Padua thanks to the great astronomical clock, high on its commanding tower. The eminent Professor of Medicine at Padua stood like a heron, poised & watchful, ready to swoop on

NOT FORGOTTEN By Lesley Ann Anderson Vanguard Press 2015 PBK 300 pages £8.99 ISBN: 9781784650575 This is a lovely book covering many levels of life, from one of the many voices now writing in our Borders region in an amazing creative outpouring. The persistence of memory of love is a major theme. There are the voices of Ruth and Anna,

his victims and savage them, not physically, but with the force of his mental powers. He interviews Dr Somers who has qualified from the University of Oxford and states The teaching would have been highly theoretical & arcane I imagine & regarding the prohibition of Holy Church against dissection, states Papal Decrees on such matters do not carry weight in this University. You will attend my next dissection. Alas, we soon find out who the subjects for dissection are, and Dr Somers having met one of these in life, is very distressed when he attends the dissection. The intrigue begins as the Professor knows of Dr Somers forensic researches investigating crimes in England, and requests his help to investigate thefts of medicinal substances from my good friend, a well- known & powerful apothecary. So we hear of such substances and poisons in use in the 15th century. A trail of murder and political plotting leads us as we journey through the brilliantly described landscape. A story replete also with some passionate love affairs. There is great detail of the history of the time which makes this a very authentic story and the history of medicine at this time is very well researched and described. We end in the Most Serene Republic of Venice, with the performances of the Council of Ten in dramatic style. A fascinating book deserving to be read.

protagonists in the story, who lost their mothers very young, aged 14 and 3 respectively, Ruth’s from cancer, her mother dying in Peel Hospital, and Anna’s from a road accident in Galashiels. There are unanswered questions for both the young children about the circumstances around their great loss, and this continues to greatly influence their lives. But it is rather comforting for readers of us living here to read descriptions of walks and experiences around our own home town environs over the last thirty years. There is an immediacy

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Carol Norris

transmitted to us, heightening our involvement in the story. The surviving, but estranged father of Ruth, still living in Galashiels, further alienates his daughter after her return, by accurately described alcoholic behaviour, after she returns, really, to find her never consummated lost love:

She knew it had been years, and wondered if it is actually possible to be in love with the memory of someone more than the actual person themselves. Indeed it seemed as though she was simply

BOOK REVIEWS stuck like a magnet to the memory of him. -meeting Mick was a scene she played over and over again, like a favourite record. After her meeting up with Mick, due to a series of misunderstandings, in one of which he gives a very different view of her father to the one she holds, she is overcome by guilt: quite literally only minutes away from the encounter of her dreams, that she felt everything that she had returned for had amounted to nothing. and - hear the door to what she had dreamt was the rest of her life, slamming shut in her face. Further to the continuing deep influence of memory on our lives, we hear of the earlier life of Mick’s father in law, Anna’s grandfather, whose own mother, Rosalia, was a Roma healer and seer in Poland. She was murdered by the Nazis on her farm and Henryk, her illegitimate son, made a miraculous escape, eventually coming to Scotland based in Galashiels from where he was sent by the War Government to install sea defences along the eastern coast, in particular at North Berwick. The narrated journey is vividly described, walking in extreme deprivation and danger, through occupied Poland, to

Trieste in Slovenia, thence to Northern Italy by boat, finding his way up the valley of the River Po, into France, finding this country now also occupied by the Nazis, jumping on and off coal trains, eventually reaching a Channel port. When Henryk returns to Poland, with his granddaughter Anna, we hear a wonderful description and history of the salt mines of Wiekiczka, which are still open to visitors, and where Henryk’s father worked. That is another story in this book. Anna has inherited the psychic gifts of her Polish greatgrandmother, has out of the body experiences in which she sees the future and receives communications from the beloved dead. She possesses The Sight in Celtic lore. This is an important part of the narrative but remains a mystery of course. Quoting the Bard: There are many things in Heaven and Earth Horatio which are not dreamt of in your philosophy. My only tiny criticism is the references to The German Army in the first part of the book. Because of the ages of Rosalia and Grandfather Henryk now, we are puzzled whether this may mean WW1, but in the later half of the book, The German Army is clearly referred to as the Nazis. Better that nomenclature was carried throughout I think.

Carol Norris

THE MERGING Second Book of the Beast to God Trilogy Oliver Eade Mauve Square Publishing 2016 299 pages, Pbk ISBN: 978-1-909411-48-7 £6.99 Here we have the second book of the Beast To God trilogy. The first book is The Golden Jaguar Of The Sun, but you don’t need to have read it to enjoy this book as the author kindly gives a synopsis of that book right at the start. In The Merging Oliver Eade has created an intriguing story with multidimensional timelines from modern day Texas to the ancient world of Anasazi Puebloans and even further back to the Aztecs. The story begins with Adam Winters being woken by his sister, Chloe, at three o’clock in the morning. Chloe has had one of her ‘real dreams’ in which she encounters a girl from a strange world who begs Chloe to help her. A very distressed Chloe tells Adam all about how the strange girl has relayed to her that there is a prophecy and in that prophecy Adam is Leaping Jaguar and his girlfriend, Maria, is White Deer and they are needed to save the girl’s people and bring about the doom of an evil man. Chloe has a remarkable gift of being able to draw exactly what she dreams really accurately and when she shows Adam and his girlfriend, Maria, her drawing it is clear that the girl in the dreams is a Native North American. And what is more, Chloe is adamant that Adam and Maria are the only ones who can help as there is only one thing strong enough to defeat the evil and that comes from something that Leaping Jaguar and White Deer alone have.

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BOOK REVIEWS In the meantime, Maria and Adam are off to New York to record an album. This will be Maria’s second album and she has already made her name as an accomplished singer. With the help of Adam and Chloe’s aunt, Jac, an expert in Native North American culture they persuade their parents that Chloe can go too and the three young people will stay with her at her apartment. At the recording studio in New York, Bruno, who is helping on the album invites them all to dinner, where they meet up with Bruno’s younger brother, Lee, who Adam saved from drug pushers the previous year. Lee turns out to be a wonderful photographer and hits it off with Chloe and shows her one of his photos. Chloe can’t believe it, but the photo is of the Meso Verde in Colorado and is exactly the place of Chloe’s ‘real dreams’ and where she always ‘meets’ the strange girl. And so begins the adventure to visit the Meso Verde and see what they can find. Can Adam and Maria fulfil the prophecy? Can they stop the evil man from destroying a nation? Can Adam conquer his jealousy and emotions? The story is full of teenage angst and a whole lot of death and destruction across dimensions and fairly zips along with a bit of Aztec and Native American history and geography thrown into the mix. One word of warning though: there is quite a lot of violence and some sexual content so I think when Oliver Eade has aimed this book at the Young Adult market, that’s exactly what he means. I found the book ‘unputdownable’ and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Vee Freir

BORN UNDER A WANDERING STAR Memoirs of Forty-Five Years On The Overseas Circuit Anne Prentice Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd 2016 ISBN: 9781785540462 (Paperback) ISBN: 9781785540479 (Hardback) ISBN: 9781785540486(e-book) £14.99 (Hardback) 377 pages I found this autobiography a fascinating read. As the title suggests, Anne Prentice, now a Borders resident has travelled the world and lived and worked in many varied and interesting countries. This is a carefully written chronicle of a period in time from not long after the Second World War to the present day. Told with precision and attention to detail that is mind blowing as the writer is now an octogenarian, here is a tale of an adventurer. Anne was born into the seventh generation of a family who served in the India of the British Raj. Her prose is delightful:

Birth is unremembered. This is just as well perhaps since Anne will discover, many years later when she delivers her children, that newborns may arrive in the world looking like victims of a mugging; pushed, pulled, pummelled, punched, reddened and bruised. Her earliest memories, in 1936, are of a train to Liverpool dockside bound for…India. A geography degree from Edinburgh University opened worlds to Anne, firstly in Greece

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and the Middle East and onto Jamaica. Marriage to an engineer followed and the wanderlust was able to continue. Anne has lived in Afghanistan, Algeria, Tanzania, Kenya, Jordan, Pakistan, Turkey and to Scotland where:

Moving into life in Britain, into life in the Scottish Borders, into life as owner-occupiers of an apartment in a corporate mansion house after so many years cocooned in company housing existing socially as here-today-gonetomorrow people, promises to be as challenging as setting up in any of the overseas contracts hitherto faced. And in the Scottish Borders it is here that Anne finds:

Buds, leaves, flowers, nestlings, lambs, foals emerge, burgeon and pullulate while the earth thrills with life and pulsates with colours as rainbows arch across the sky’s crenelated cloudscapes… Thus it happens that retirement descends both as an end and a beginning. A life well lived. A chronicle recorded stacked to the brim with humanity. A precious glimpse into a personal world. Into another era and another time. A page by page story of adventures and observation. What more is there to say? Read the book.

Iona McGregor

BOOK REVIEWS LEARN TO STRESS LESS

field.

Dr Vee Freir

Practical and effective advice is the key to this book. To help people deal with tackling stress in their lives, Dr Vee has set out fifty tips and highlighted them in bold print. She then follows this with reasons why the tip works. Designed to be read as a 50 day stress management programme or just to dip into from time to time, this little book is a gem. The book concludes with two bonus tips which give advice on avoiding the modern day stress of Christmas and the New Year.

ISBN: 978-1530927388 Pbk 100 pages £4.99

Stress is one of the biggest problems in today’s world and it affects all of us from time to time. These are the introductory words to a useful self help book written by Borders based, Dr Vee Freir, a Consultant Clinical Psychologist who has worked both in the NHS and Private Practice and is internationally recognised in her

SELKIRK’S MAVELLOUS MONUMENTS – A Poetic Odyssey Julian Colton Photography by Rozee Colton PBK 61 pages Poetry 2016 Commissioned by Selkirk Conservation Area Regeneration Scheme, supported by Historic Environment Scotland. This is a most welcome collection of twenty-eight poems concerning Selkirk’s very distinctive buildings and stone monument heritage in the equally distinctive voice of the poet Julian Colton. In this his fifth poetry collection he describes the colourful history of Selkirk and environs as reflected in its public architecture and how it resonates with the present. Subjects covered include statues to the explorer Mungo Park, Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg and Fletcher who fought at the Battle of Flodden. Yarrow & Ettrick Spinners Mill, Selkirk’s Churches, Aikwood Tower, the War Memorials and Bernat Klein’s iconic studio also feature. What might ostensibly be a very

dry subject magically comes to life through this collection’s poetic pieces.

The Haining is A perfect metaphor for Scotland This dilapidated mansion. Estates here predate Act of Union Sandstone walls of an inverted Empire….

The beauty of this little book has to be its simplicity. If just a few of the straightforward tips were to be followed regularly, positive results would occur. This book follows on from Dr Vee’s first book on Stress Management, START to Stress Less. Dr Vee writes weekly on Twitter: @ dr_vee.co.uk. Her website is www.dr-vee.co.uk The book is available at Scottish Borders Council Libraries and on Amazon.

Iona McGregor

forms including haiku, free-verse and poems written with a more traditional rhyming structure such as the excellent Ballad of Rab Henspeckle, an interpretation of a traditional local ghost story told in thirty-four verses of rhyming couplets:

The mystery man drew out a purse A small bag the colour of a hearse

The forgotten Moroccan who tilled the garden, Tender plants still wildly flower His drowned ghostly daughter lazes to the dairy. The powerful poem centred on Flodden begins-

Flodden is a blood-filled memory A rude blank page, a deep mythology…. Illustrated throughout with excellent photographs by Rozee Colton, Selkirk’s Marvellous Monuments contains all kinds of different poetic

At the sight Rab began to squirm Beside nuggets of goldwriggling worms. This compelling poetry collection is a most valuable contribution and asset to the Selkirk community but it will also be of great interest to lovers of Scotland’s wider history, architecture and literature. Limited run first edition copies are available to purchase priced £10. Contact Julian Colton in person or via his Facebook page: www.facebook.com/julian.colton.3

Carol Norris

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BOOK REVIEWS

WHATEVER THE SEA – Scottish Poems for Growing Older Edited by Lizzie MacGregor The Scottish Poetry Library/ Polygon Poetry 81 pages The population of Scotland is ageing. Putting aside such notions of ‘the grey pound,’ there is a large and steadily growing constituency of older folk needing to be catered for, their interests and needs met. This winsome collection reflects the emotional concerns of older people - what it means to be elderly: the insecurities, hardships, obsessions, pleasures, pains and compensations. Often the pieces are looking back on youthful past relationships and how they endured into the future as over time obstacles have been overcome. And while such an act of reverie understandably sometimes gives way to nostalgic sentimentality, as an idyll of quietly shared marital bliss is drawn, this collection never teeters over into the mawkish. From the outset a mature, realistic tone is struck with this arresting image of old age offered by Alan Hill:

Sonnets, haikus, and all manner of free-verse abound as various aspects of ageing is tackled. A collection which numbers Edwin Muir, Edwin Morgan, Ian Crichton Smith and Douglas Dunn in its ranks, to name just a few of the stellar names, is always going to be of the highest quality. There is perhaps a little padding in the midsection, but on the whole Lizzie MacGregor has put together a balanced, entertaining and nuanced body of work. Though, as with many ‘Scottish’ anthologies, there does seem to be a narrow, traditional definition of who is Scottish at work here. Still, a lot of good poetry is showcased, without the Dylan Thomas raging at the dying of the light, and it is a pleasing choice which is accessible and enjoyable in tone. This light touch collection probably works best as a reference to be dipped into and quoted at one’s leisure and will have special resonance for, shall we say, older poets and readers. It used to be cool to be young; today vintage is hip. Now where did I put my spectacles?

That is a strange day when you wake to discover age has drifted down imperceptibly, like dust and you’re totally covered. (‘That is a Strange Day’)

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Julian Colton

STAUNIN MA LANE– Chinese Verse in Scots and English Brian Holton Shearsman Books 2016 ISBN: 978-1-84861-466-6 £12.95 144 pages

Efter readin this wunnerfu collection, ah felt that dumfoonert bi the beauty o the leid that ah jaloused the anely wey tae review it wis tae dae sae in Scots. No jist acause readin it haes inspired me that much but acause, in sae daen, ah’ve learnt that mony braw new wirds that it seems an awfy shame no tae uise them. There’s muckle tae treisur in this gey important collection, whilk is dedicatit tae the scriever’s brithers, a hertfelt poetic tribute whilk touched ma hert frae the very stairt. The beuk itsel is a richt bonny object, frae its mesmerisin cover tae its hertfelt efterwird. The typesettin is inspired, settin oot ilka poem in Scots, Chinese an English in sic a wey that each poem seems laid oot as a mervelous confection tae enjoy in its ain richt. Comparin the threi poems tae ane ither as yin reads throu the beuk is a fascinatin an educational experience, an yin tae be relished. Holton haes includit nae glossary wi his beuk, urgin us tae read the Scots National Dictionar, a gesture ah fair admired, as it invites the reader tae come tae grips wi the leid in a hauns-on wey whilk anely increases their fascinatioun wi the bonnieness o the leid. Whiles ah did hae tae turn tae the dictionar a hantle o times, the poems are scrievit in sic a wey as tae speir the reader tae airt oot the beauty o the leid, an the English owersettins mak the poems aw the mair accessible tae the reader.

BOOK REVIEWS Ah teuk Holton’s beuk wi me on a raik tae Yorkshire ower Yuill, an read a wheen o these poems tae ma ninety-year-auld aunt, a rale luver o poetry. She wis enthralled, an delitit in readin back tae me the follaein o Holton’s poems, Hairst Muin Owre Dongting Lochs:

#UNTITLED TWO – Neu! Reekie! Publishing 2

into said establishment or become the establishment.

Edited by Kevin Williamson and Michael Pederson

Of course, many of the star writers on show here will simply wish to support an organisation that is doing a good job, keeping a thriving scene going. It’s also easy to imagine the publishers of this collection needing to expand its potential reading public. Star names certainly help to sell books, whether poetry purists like it or not. It also has to be said that some of the less recognised writers in this collection are, either self-consciously or unwittingly, operating in a sub Irvine Welsh ‘choose life,’ or post Scottish Referendum ‘acutely aware of being Scottish’ paradigm. So, you can see the editors’ ‘damned if we do, damned if we don’t’ predicament when putting together this collection. Still, it would have been nice if this was a book bringing a whole new set of poetic voices to our attention for the first time. Allowing for these observations/reservations there is some very good work on display here despite the fact much of it has been in print before. Although appearing tough for toughness sake, Helen Mort’s three pieces sparkled and had bite. Patience Agbabi’s inventive Unfinished Business caught the eye as did Polly Clark’s Elvis the Performing Octopus:

Neu! Reekie!/Polygon 114 pages Poetry.

Yir letters stopt Efter we twa pairtit: Ye’ll be the daith o me Ye hairtless thing. Whae’er ye meet, whae’er ye see Gets sweet naethins frae ye. A hae no douts – Yir lugs is burnin nou! She read it oot wi a muckle smirl on her face, an wis that delitit wi bein able tae unnerstaun the poem she went oan tae read oot a puckle mair, an is nou a firm convert tae the Scots leid. In yon wey, Holton haes giftit us wi a leid ower mony o us didnae even ken we haed. Wi this beuk, Holton haes makkit clear his genius, an siccart his place in the history o the Scots leid as yin o its finest makars. In Staunin Ma Lane, Holton haes polished the mony facets o the Scots leid tae a bricht sheen, creatin a gem of sic brilliance as tae mak it richt deservin o a place on every beukshelf in Scotland. Ah cannae recommend this beuk eneuch. A truly beautiful wirk o art.

Sara Clark

Billed as ‘Scotland’s favourite avant-garde noisemakers’ this is Edinburgh’s most popular live poetry venue’s second venture into publishing following last year’s equally imaginatively billed #Untitled One. Fast becoming the Ant and Dec of the live poetry scene, Neu Reekie’s self-styled poetry curators Williamson and Pederson can appear to do no wrong. Fair play to them; making a seemingly minority art form like live poetry palatable, let alone appear cool, is no mean feat. Having never been to a Neu Reekie live event I wasn’t sure what to expect when I opened this gold coloured paperback’s pages. What I certainly wasn’t prepared for was a contents page listing a very high powered, mainstream selection of poets and writers; a veritable who’s who of Scottish publishing with long-standing, award winning Makars, best-selling authors, publishers, media personalities proliferating. This is largely a collection of writers secure of their places in the Scottish creative writing firmament rather than a new wave kicking against an established order. Perhaps Neu Reekie eschews such distinctions between writers, but this reviewer can’t help thinking that there is a quid pro quo relationship going on here between an establishment wishing to appear hip and happening and in touch with street level and a successful live poetry organisation that needs no raison d’etre other than to aspire further

Elvis changing from spilt milk to tumbling blue pulsing with colour like a forest in sunlight. Elvis does the full range, even the spinning top that never quite worked out, as the striplight fizzes and the flylamp cracks like a firework.

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BOOK REVIEWS Elvis has the water applauding, and the brooms, the draped cloths, the dripping tap, might say that a story ends in the wrong place

AYE

Stuart A. Paterson Published by Tapselteerie, 2016 ISBN: 978-0-9926631-8-6 £5

always ends like this – fabulous in an empty room, unravelled by the tender men in white, laid out softly in the morning. Salena Godden’s in equal measure strikingly funny and painful My Tits are More Feminist than Your Tits had the added appeal of appearing in print for the first time. Ross Sutherland’s Here and Wayne Price’s The Lovers and The Moustache also made a good impression. As an accessible introduction to many of this country’s leading poets this book will have wide appeal. Purchasing it also allows you access to the other half of #UntitledTwo – the compilation album. Looking down the list of lesser known poets, the feeling persists that it would have made for a much more adventurous publication if the printed volume had a more generous sprinkling of them.

Julian Colton

Following hot on the heels of his 2015 collection Border Lines, Galloway’s Stuart A. Paterson returns to the lists with this latest volume from Tapselteerie, Aye. Well-known for his work in both English and Scots, Aye is nevertheless Paterson’s first collection in the Scots language, and proves well worth the waiting for. Though the collection sets out on a polemic note with the referendum-related poems Aye and Naw, it is Paterson’s powers of observation and reflection which provide the real impetus for the poetry which follows. By this I mean not simply that the poetry in Aye is startlingly descriptive, although it is. What I really mean is that Paterson has a fantastic talent for peeling back the onion layers of memory and meaning from whatever scene he happens to be observing. Take, for example, the collection’s fourth poem, Gless, in which the narrator (we presume Paterson himself) describes a vagrant mongrel on the street. The poem darts in and out of empathy for the beast, alternating images of ugliness and poignancy, until the narrator’s eventual admission that:

Ah see owremuch o masel in yersel this time o nicht tae clap ye. The poem, which could easily have lapsed into sentimentality, actually winds up being not merely an empathetic poem but

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a poem about empathy, both its necessities and its difficulties. And so it is throughout the collection, as Paterson circles his subjects – a courting couple, a father, a child – as warily as an underdog boxer, looking to engage without getting sucked in. But it’s human nature to get pulled in over our heads, swept up by thoughts we would better have left alone; and it’s the raw, terse honesty of Paterson’s Scots which drags us in with him. In poems such as Faither and Wheesht, through pure psychic force Paterson salvages from the byre some measure of truth, however partial or temporary it might be. Nowhere is this idea of a poetry of remains made more explicit than in the collection’s final poem, Rockliffe.

Time’s drunk the dregs o the day awa. Ah’m birlin the gless… These are strange times we live in, and who knows what will happen in the future, except that it will be the only thing that happens to us and we will have to make the most of it. And for a collection which begins with both hope and despair, surely there can be no more fitting and ambiguous a concluding thought than this: This seems te be hoo it’s ayewes endit –

things we thocht had come to pass hae only noo jist stertit. Sara Clark

BOOK REVIEWS MY HEART IS TOO BIG FOR MY PACEMAKER– Shane Jagger

Beshara Publications ISBN 978-0-904975-17-8 48pp soft cover £10 MY HEART IS TOO BIG FOR MY PACEMAKER is an aptly named book – for this is, indeed, all heart. Here, we have a truly beautiful collection of poems, bound together by the theme of love, which flows like an inexhaustible current from page to page. As his poems progress, Jagger recollects the many faces which love has shown to him throughout his life, and he urges his readers to embrace them all, as in this extract from his poem, Vision:

See how love makes you more beautiful A lasting beauty not like the fleeting of light on a windblown hillside But one that is etched in eternity Remembered before and beyond time

Jagger’s mindful inner eye is always wide open in this way as he drifts, almost egoless, above the many-coloured landscapes of his life, looking down and reflecting, with exquisite clarity, upon the winding paths of love and loss that he has walked, observing and recalling the monuments of solace and sorrow, of life and of death, that populate

its surface with an unparalleled clarity of language. Take this passage from his poem, Facing.

A question of life and death when you face who you are beyond all doubt and imagining A beauty is born from the dust and the day may be just beginning

The subjects touched upon in this beautifully designed and produced pamphlet are among the most difficult a poet can ever face – not only because to do so requires great courage, but also because in facing these subjects, they are tasked with describing the indescribable. Jagger has proved himself more than equal to that task here.

Morning star in the sky and a moon so bright

I Love You Can I say more?

The years of darkness disappear This is a timeless book, whose poems are perfect expressions of love - pure and simple – its subjects will always be relevant to its readers, who will find it remarkably easy to slip inside these pages and become lost in the contemplative silence they contain, emerging, I hope, as I did - with a renewed sense of gratefulness for the high points of life and a greater acceptance of its lows. Jagger makes this possible, not only because he is a skilful poet, but also because, as it seems from the subjects of these poems, he is skilled in the fine and often difficult art of living – learning from his pain with awe and acceptance, and ever aware of the bittersweet nature of the passage of time when observed with such a sense of wonder, as in the poem, Early, written in the hours before dawn.

No I don’t think so Jagger states, at the end of Three Words, the final poem in this heartwarming collection. But he has said much more than that – in writing this book, Jagger has somehow managed to put across the all-encompassing nature of that love, not to mention how very much that love means to him, and in so doing, he has produced a truly remarkable book of poetry which speaks straight to the heart.

Sara Clark

This time is magical Before the fray, peace fills the room Sweet calmness in the early hours Before dawn A precious gift.

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BOOK REVIEWS DUST BLOWING AND OTHER STORIES Margaret Skea

Sanderling Books 2016 ISBN: 978-0-9933331-2-5 152 pages Pbk £5.99 It has been a pleasure to read this collection of Margaret Skea’s award winning collection of short stories. I emphasize ‘pleasure’ because every one of these twelve stories is well written. Margaret Skea has mastered the craft of short story writing. The characters, the location, the history are varied but they all have one thing in common. These are the stories of ordinary men and women sometimes caught up in events beyond their control. Take Magda’s War for instance, Longlist: Historical Novel Society (2014):

July 1914: Johann The talk is everywhere: of the noble Prussian cause, of the defence of the Fatherland, of honour and duty and sacrifice and pride. This is a tale of ‘everywoman’ with a husband and two sons and a war. Then the heart breaking story of Ayisha, On Pharmacy Road, a young girl in modern day Afghanistan 3rd: Rubery (2013); Shortlist: Mslexia (2012). The story so intense that it moved me to tears: Ayisha lies on the flat roof of her grandmother’s house. Despite the early hour, heat from the clay tiles burns through her thin tunic and trousers, setting her skin on fire.

Margaret Skea is a true storyteller. Her characters live with you after the story is read. Who can forget Jean in Edinburgh, full of sad memories of the past in Battenburg for Tea or eighty-seven year old Agnes in Gull’s Calling in her Northern Ireland rented home holding in her hand the demolition notice: The letter came on the first of July…It was official, franked. There had been talk, oh, ages before, when the men from the council came, looking around, asking questions. Talk of hot water and bathrooms and such-like. In another story, Sow the Wind, Shortlist: Booktown Writers (2013) we enter the mind of a man and a couple desperate for a child: “Where are you going?” I say (wrong words, wrong tone).

She stiffens.

I try again (gently, gently) “Please, Caro… “ She hesitates, but doesn’t turn, her voice splintering, like the first fringe of ice on the edge of deep water. “I don’t know”. Every story in this collection is memorable but I will finish this review with the story that provided the title for the collection, Dust Blowing, Winner: Winchester (2009); Shortlist: Fish (2008): Underfoot a pocket of sand shifts and I slip sideways, swallowed ankle-deep. Ahmed reaches out a steadying hand to my elbow, but when I lift my head in thanks his gaze remains fixed on the horizon and he does not turn.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017

And I see that we have both begun this other, more difficult journey, but I cannot tell how it will end. Only one thing is certain. The dust blows always from the north and it carries away our footprints in the sand. Iona McGregor

Serendipity and Dr Muir In 2014 the Heritage Hub received a collection of diaries written by Selkirk GP Dr John Stewart Muir from his descendants, the Roberts family. The collection totals 40 diaries, an almost complete set from 1899 to 1938, when Dr Muir died. Staff began transcription in the autumn of 2014 and entries from throughout the period of WWI are blogged daily, 100 years to the day since they were written. When transcription began no one really knew what content would be found or whether it would be of interest to the wider public. However it soon became clear that the diaries provided a fascinating insight into the society of Selkirk in this period as well as examining the local response to the First World War. Last year Live Borders Archives approached John Nichol and asked for his help to share the story of Dr Muir in a new and creative way. In February over 100 people, including several of Dr Muir’s descendants, came to see John’s one-man production Dr Muir: The Beloved Doctor. To say John embraced the role is an understatement; he truly embodied Dr Muir and it was a captivating performance. Plans are afoot for a further two performances at Bowhill Theatre in November. Dr Muir has been part of the Heritage Hub family for almost three years now and during this time staff have enjoyed uncovering links between his diaries and other individuals and projects. John, while working on the script for his performance said “the diaries have opened my eyes to a bygone Selkirk with unfamiliar and familiar place-names that I have been compelled to seek out and acquaint, and reacquaint, myself with. It’s fascinating to find that, although ‘the past is a foreign country’; the folk are just the same. Particularly interesting to me were the links I found with Doctor Muir just by talking to people, who either remembered him or his family, or knew people connected with him.” This was illustrated wonderfully in May while in the recording studio working on a series of podcasts entitled Dr Muir: The War Years. David Little, owner of Sound Station, Galashiels was particularly interested in these two entries from 1914.

3 August 1914

Lovely morning & glass rising slightly promising a fine day but a strongish wind rose & there was some heavy rain in the afternoon. I had not much to do and finished at 1.15. The girls all went to Minchmoor motoring to Yarrowford & back from Traquair. They got very wet. There was not much in connection with the continental tragedy evidently momentous events are in the future. Was called out late for Mrs Little (Jeannie Walker) Croft Terrace but it proved to be a false alarm.

28 August 1914

Was coming and going all day with Mrs Jas. Little (Jeannie Walker), Croft Terrace. Was twice at Linglie at a little boy Inglis who had his head cut about a fortnight ago & has developed symptoms of tetanus. There was a message to Mr Goodfellow, Old Broadmeadow & thinking it was a confinement I got Menzies to go but it wasn’t. I did not see Mrs Little over till between 5 & 6. It was raining at night. Attended a meeting of the Red X Executive & looked in on my class for a few minutes at night. David suspected that the Mrs Little to whom Dr Muir refers was his paternal grandmother. A quick check of the records by Heritage Hub staff confirmed that this was the case, and the baby causing Mrs Little all the worry was David’s father Arthur Thomas Little. The finished podcasts are available through www.liveborders.org.uk/archives where there is also a link for the daily blog at http://heritagehub.tumblr.com.

HERITAGE HUB HEART OF HAWICK, TD9 0AE T: 01450 360699 | E: archives@liveborders1.org.uk

www.liveborders.org.uk

BIOGRAPHIES JEAN ATKIN Jean Atkin has published ‘Not Lost Since Last Time’ (Oversteps Books) also pamphlets and a novel. Her recent work appears in Magma, Envoi, The North, Earthlines and The Moth. She works as a poet on education and community projects. RICHARD BOND Richard took up poetry in 2014, with East Berwickshire U3A. He started writing and thinks it tremendous fun recently joining the Eyemouthbased creative writing group ‘Eyewrite’. Richard is now semiretired with occasional overseas trips and lives with his wife near Coldingham. PAUL BROWNSEY Paul Brownsey lives in Bearsden and is a former lecturer in philosophy at Glasgow University. His book, His Steadfast Love and Other Stories, was published by Lethe Press in New Jersey, USA. LEONIE EWING She published Bairns and Beasts, with co-writer Barbara Mearns, in 2012. Her poetry has appeared regularly in Southlight and The Dawntreader. She had a prize-winning SF story in Fusion and a short story in Octavius magazine. GILL FOULDS “My first ambition was to be a nurse until, luckily, a copy of Shelley fell into my lap and overturned everything. Poetry is now my life-support. I am a selfconfessed word-smith.” SUSAN GRANT Susan Grant is a member of the Edinburgh writing group Words on Canvas, some of whom recently read new work at Stanza. She lives in Fife and runs a small creative group called Poetry Share.

BRIDGET KHURSHEED Bridget Khursheed is a poet based in the Borders. A Scottish Book Trust New Writer Award winner, her book of Border poems Roads to Yair is published by Twinlaw Publishing. KATHLEEN MANSFIELD This excerpt is from Kathleen’s first novel. Kathleen is a writer, drama and yoga leader. She runs creative writing workshops at Kailzie Creatives in Peebles and Yoga classes in Eddleston as well as holistic retreats in the Tweeddale hills. She is playing Camillo this summer for Shakespeare at Traquair. IAIN R MARTIN Born on the Isle of Skye in 1943, Iain graduated with a MA from Aberdeen University. Iain taught English and worked abroad, chiefly in Egypt. Iain is interested in the ancient culture which created the Stones Circles in Scotland. GREG MICHAELSON Based in Edinburgh, I like to write about how things aren’t and how they might be. My stories have been published since 2001. My novel The Wave Singer (Argyll, 2008) was shortlisted for a Scottish Arts Council First Book award. TIM NEVIL Tim Nevil is a writer living in the Scottish Borders who, having worked on TV scripts and factual features, now concentrates on writing short fiction. ‘A Likelihood Of Snow’ is the second of Tim’s works to be selected for the Pitlochry Festival Theatre’s annual Winter Words Festival. BARBARA POLLOCK Barbara is a member of the Kelso Writer’s Group. As well as writing short stories and poetry she is working on various writing projects including a book for children and a novel. GORDON SCAPENS Retired early to pursue other interests, including writing. This is a way of rationalizing the modern world. Over 900

THE EILDON TREE Issue 28 Summer/Autumn 2016

poems published in many magazines but I’m still learning as I go along. JEAN TAYLOR Jean Taylor belongs to Words on Canvas – a group of writers who work in collaboration with the National Galleries of Scotland. Her poetry has been published in a range of publications including Orbis, Northwords Now, Freak Circus and Poetry Scotland. LEWIS TECKHAM Lewis lives in Hawick and is a long-standing member of Borders Youth Theatre. He loves stories: in books, films and plays. He enjoys writing fiction and is hoping to develop some writing for the stage in the near future. ANDREW THOMSON Andrew is a member of the Kelso Writers Group. A member of U3A, active in their Poetry Group. An octogenarian with a passion for life. PATRICIA WATTS I have written children’s and adult fiction concentrating recently on short stories. One was long listed in NWC. A photograph of an Asian youth on New York underground. reading ‘Not my kind of Girl’ was the inspiration for this submission. DAVID WHITE I am a retired Projects Engineer with overseas site experience. Since retirement I have been an hotelier; I now work with wood. I have made rocking horses, currently I mount clocks and barometers in turned surrounds. I write for pleasure.

Road to Rio 2016 Olympic Creative Writing Competition Road to Rio 2016 was a writing competition for young people in primary or secondary schools on the theme of up and coming Olympics, organised by the Creative Communities Team in partnership with colleagues in Sports Development, Libraries and Archives, Live Borders and Creative Learning, Scottish Borders Council. The competition ran from May through until the middle of September 2016 when the Olympics in Rio ended. There were four accompanying writing workshops for young people led by writer, Tom Murray at the Borders Book Festival and Tweedbank Sports Centre in June, and Peebles and Duns Libraries during the summer holidays. Here are a selection of the winning entries and what inspired young people about the Olympics.

Primary Schools – poetry category

1st Prize Magic Feet by Jasmine Sharp, Yetholm Primary Oh to be fantastic at anything gymnastic! I know I’d be a winner if I was a swimmer! I’d jump the highest jump, higher than the sky! Everybody cheering as I look like I can fly! With my magic feet, at anything I could compete! Running for miles and never needing a seat! Wow, to be an Olympic winner before I get old! You can keep your Bronze and Silver! I’m going for GOLD!

Primary Schools – poetry category

2nd Prize Table Tennis Sonnet by Jared Anderson, Ednam Primary The crowd in Rio are going crazy, The players are relaxed but not lazy, They walk to the tables to start the game, And hoping to enter the hall of fame. The ball is flying and spinning around, China smashes it and it hits the ground, Britain restarts with a whack of the ball, The ball’s not returned and now it’s two all. The game is exciting, very intense, The crowd is screaming the noise is immense, Everyone is up and waving their banners, Jumping on seats forgetting their manners.

Category 1a – Short story Category 2a – Short story With one last smash China is knocked out cold, Category 1b – Poetry Category Britain victorious, Olympic Gold. 2b – Poetry 3. You can use up to 500 words in a short story or maximum PRIZES of 20 lines in a poem. Books 4. You can enter as many times as you want. Book tokens Work published 5. Competition closes on 19th August 2016 FOR MORE INFORMATION CONTACT T: 01750 726400 | A: St Mary’s Mill, Level CrossingTHE Rd,EILDON SelkirkTREE TD7 Issue 5EW29| Summer/Autumn E: libraries@liveborders1.org.uk 49 2017 Registration No SC243577 | Registered Chari ty No SCO342 27

ROAD TO RIO Primary Schools – poetry category

3rd Prize Olympic Pole Vault Sonnet by Isaac Anderson, Ednam Primary With the crazy hype and the training to get strong, You’d think it’d be impossible to go wrong, With the pole vault you leap and you go high, Flying up so you touch birds in the sky. Pole vaulting may be harder than you think, Cause you could hit the devil’s pole in a blink, So there I go limbering up ready, I pray and pray the pole will stay steady. Now foreign athletes fight prevailing winds, And the horror as my turn begins, I sprint with the pole push it off and jump, Somehow I get over without a bump. Crash! Bang! I hurl into the mat, Beaming victoriously lying flat.

******* Primary Schools – short stories category 1st Prize Dreamer and Achiever by Natalie Beatton

With her mum missing, how does Avyanna take up team GB’s spot as a substitute? Will she make it only 4 months since breaking her leg?

She was falling in agony as her dreams slipped out of reach. Avyanna awoke with tears streaming down her face. This room wasn’t familiar it was pearl white. Oh yeah she was a substitute for team GB in the 100m sprint! There Avyanna was, a 17–year old girl chosen for the substitute! There was no going back now. Avyanna put on her lucky socks, her lucky shorts and her lucky t-shirt because she was going to need as much luck as possible and she knew it. For the next 6 hours she put everything into building strength and power. Ever since she was a small baby she was born to run, so she was given the name meaning strong, powerful and beautiful. This afternoon if something goes wrong Avyanna will have to compete instead of an amazing athlete and if she fails…

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017

She had no coach, she was on her own. Avyanna went to register to say she was there but she couldn’t escape the mean comments. “We all know you’re only here because silly people think that team GB has a chance.” “Good luck on team GB losing!” “Leave her alone what did she ever do to you?!” Avyanna couldn’t believe her ears. She spun around to see a smiling face that despite all the mean comments made her feel happy. “Hi, I’m Asha Philip. Don’t let it bother you, they’re just worried you’ll beat them that’s all. “Thanks for that. Oh, I’m Avyanna by the way.” “Are you the one that got chosen as the substitute?” “That’s me, I guess. Good luck. See you around?” “Yeah, thanks.” The next 3 hours went by in a blur. Suddenly an important looking man said “you’re on in half an hour so get warming up!” “Wait, there must be a mistake”. “Move it!” Avyanna was lost in thought. There was no time for daydreaming because the stadium was packed and noisy. Avyanna rushed into the locker room and got into her tracksuit. She sprinted past famous athletes to make it in time for the announcement of the competitors. Avyanna’s name was called last and there were mutters of confusion. Avyanna stumbled to the starting line. Everything happened in slow motion. The gun was shot. This was it, but suddenly her leg screamed in pain. The dream was coming true and then her heart stopped. In the crowd there was a distant voice “strength, power, beauty”. Avyanna was sure it was a dream but in the crowd was a beautiful face smiling. “MUM!” Avyanna forgot she was even racing. She closed her eyes and ran. Slowly she lifted her head and smiled. Avyanna had won the gold at Olympics 2016. Avyanna’s parents were let through the applauding crowd. She was safe in her parent’s arms. Everything was perfect, because her mum was home again. There she was with her parents either side of her with the gold medal hanging from her neck.

ROAD TO RIO Primary Schools – short stories category

2nd Prize Rebeca’s Dream by Gudrun Yip, Parkside Primary “Stop day dreaming you really need to carry on with your homework” said Rebeca’s mum to Rebeca. “Sorry mum.” Rebeca replied. The doorbell rang “ding dong ding dong.” “Come in” shouted Rebeca. “Hi Rebeca, I’m just wondering if you would like to come to the gym today?” asked Isabel (Rebeca’s friend) as she came in. “Of course I’ll come, but I need to get my kit first” said Rebeca as she ran up the stairs. “I’ll wait down here for you!” shouted Isabel. Rebeca grabbed her kit and started running down the stairs. Then suddenly she slipped and banged her hip. “Rebeca are you alright?” asked Isabel as she ran up to Rebeca. “I think I’m alright” said Rebeca in a small voice but she remained lying on the floor and couldn’t get up. “We better take you to the hospital for a check-up” Rebecca’s worried mum said. So they carried Rebecca into the car and drove to the hospital. When they got there they went into the A&E. “Rebeca Hill!” called a doctor. So Rebeca was given x-ray and afterwards the doctor said “I’m afraid Rebeca, that you’ve hurt your hip and you will need to use a wheelchair.” “Oh no, how am I going to be in the GB basketball team?” worried Rebecca. “You’ll just have to do without it” said her mother as she pushed her away on a wheelchair. “Rebeca please don’t be upset, maybe you could take part in other competitions” said Isabel softly. “That’s not the problem, the problem was that I was chosen to be the centre and now I can’t” as tears rolled down from Rebeca’s eyes. After Rebeca signed out of her basketball team, none of her friends came to her house again. But after a week there came the sound of a knock on her front door. “Come in” said Rebeca softly. “Surprised?” shouted Isabel. “Rebeca in place of you, I have now joined your basketball team!” “Look I’ve been talking to the team and they suggested that you could join the Paralympics instead! said Isabel. Rebeca couldn’t speak at all, her mouth was wide open. She was so happy that she dropped her pen and hugged every one of the team members who came with Isabel. In a few weeks time Rebeca was ready to play in the Paralympics

and she travelled all the way to Brazil. Although she was nervous she was also excited and brave at the same time. When her team was called up she bravely wheeled on to the platform. You may be thinking this is the end, but this is only the beginning.

Primary Schools – short stories category 3rd Prize At the Olympics by Hannah Bradley, Langlee Primary Have you ever wondered about being at the Olympics? I have and now I’m here in Rio. I’m Hannah Bradley and I’m a new Olympic swimmer…. The Olympic Village is huge and on my bed is: me, Katie and Daisy (my room mates). I am on Skype to my family. All I am thinking about is my big swim tomorrow. When I lay down in my bed I imagine me winning gold and being on the podium. Music is all I can hear around me. It’s 9:10am in Rio and I’m leaving the Village. WHAT… HELP! AMNESIA…I FEEL LIKE I’VE GOT AMNESIA! I can’t remember my PLAN for the BIGGEST SWIM OF MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!! So I talk it through with my coach and I finally remember it. I was just a bit nervous. A bit I’M a lot nervous! Finally I can see the pool and the crowds. Swim suit on and now I’m on the starting block ready to dive in to the pool and swim. “Take your marks1”…. Wooo! There’s the whistle. GO GO GO! 8 lengths of the pool is what I do. 7 lengths later… I have just finished the 7th and now I’m on the 8th length, I’m WAY ahead until… I end up losing my pull and stop swimming! “Wait, come on Hannah. I know you’ve tired however you need to keep going.” I say to myself so I continue and… so nervous I think I’ve won but… Straight to my coach in tears. Seriously I can’t believe I was last! I see Amber Star about 20 meters (in the pool) from the finish line and then she has won first! Well I think she has it’s a photo finish… She has won! Despite me in tears I’m soooooo happy for her. She comes to me and I say “I’m going to give up swimming forever Amber.” She slaps my hand and says “Don’t give up on your dream silly!” so that I go to sleep thinking I can’t give up on the biggest dream of my life. So that’s my Olympic story. What’s yours?

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017

Come and join us for the 9th annual Borders Heritage Festival 2017 Borders - Where People Place and Myth Meet From 1st - 30th September 2017 we celebrate Year of History, Heritage and Archaeology right across the region from Eyemouth to Peebles Theatre, Music, Dance, Living History, Tours, Archaeology, Family Friendly events, Walks, Talks, Exhibitions and Workshops hosted in beautiful historic buildings and castles in the wonderful landscape of the Scottish Borders. Visit our web and social media pages for all the details https://www.facebook.com/bordersheritagefestival https://twitter.com/BHeritageFest

http://www.liveborders.org.uk/whatson

http://www.scotborders.gov.uk/heritagefestival

THE EILDON TREE Issue 29 Summer/Autumn 2017