Eildon Tree Issue 31 by Live Borders

THE EILDON TREE

WINTER/SPRING 2019 ISSUE 31

New writing from the Scottish Borders & beyond

www.liveborders.org.uk

Registration No SC243577 | Regist ered Chari ty No SCO342 27

CONTENTS

WELCOME

EDITORIAL 3

YOUNG WRITERS SHORT STORIES

PRIZE WINNERS POETRY

FIRST PRIZE The Break In

FIRST PRIZE The Keeper’s Wife

SECOND PRIZE Sid The Salmon

SECOND PRIZE Autumn

THIRD PRIZE The Soul Hunters

THIRD PRIZE A Sixties Summer

BOOK REVIEWS

Turbines on Coldingham Moor

A Whole Lot of Love

The Way

Tweed Dales - Journeys and Evocations

BLIADHNA NAN CAORACH (Year of The Sheep)

Collected Poems

The Walkway at Opatija, Croatia

Walls of Word

CIRSIUM VULGARE (Scottish Thistle)

PRIZE WINNERS SHORT STORIES FIRST PRIZE Humphrey’s Morning

SECOND PRIZE The Voice

THIRD PRIZE The Musician of Bridge Street

Tuk-Tuks 20 A Gathering

The Martyr’s Scorn

Russian Futurist Theatre

Compass Points

Glisk 22

SHORT STORIES HIGHLY COMMENDED

There’s Always Tomorrow

Collected Poems

Memory Horse

Stories for Children

The Cherub’s Smile

Finding The River Horse

THIRD PRIZE Autumn 14

Punching Cork Stoppers

YOUNG WRITERS HIGHLY

Dark Matters

COMMENDED POETRY

Homecoming 27

Trapped 15

While God Was Sleeping

What Am I?

BEST KEPT SECRET 29

Wood 12 Whose Jacket Is That?

YOUNG WRITERS POETRY FIRST PRIZE Dream Another Dream

SECOND PRIZE Armageddon 14

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

Welcome to Issue 31 of The Eildon Tree, an edition which we have found very challenging to compile due to the huge volume and high variety of quality entries which we had to our competition, for which we would like to thank each and every one of our entrants. Though they were a joy to read, judging this wide array of literary treasures was no easy task, and we were all deeply encouraged to see so much new talent emerging from the hotbed of creativity which is the Borders, not to mention the wonderful diversity of entries we received from outwith the region. Reading all of these pieces made our hearts glad, and we hope that you will enjoy the stories and poems included here as much as we did. On the subject of the beneficial effects of reading, Issue 32 of The Eildon Tree will be published for the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival, 6 – 20 May 2019, and will dedicate its next issue to writing focussed on the theme of being “connected” and what role connectivity can have in supporting mental health and wellbeing. Do you have a poem or story (max 3000 words) which illustrates this theme? Maybe you want to write about how to be there for someone, whether it be a message being understood, a way of connecting with someone that finally works for them, a story about a person being helped in an unexpected way, a group pulling together for one of their members, an anonymous act of kindness, or an individual making a deeper connection with their past or present self? Or maybe you have a tale to tell about the consequences of living without this connectivity, or how difficult it can be to connect? How you choose to interpret the theme of connectivity as it relates to personal wellbeing is up to you, and for this one special issue only, we will also be inviting submissions of

high-resolution artwork or photography on the theme. There will be no charge for submissions to issue 32. There are as many ways of reaching out as there are people in the world, but that isn’t to say it’s an easy thing to do. As the first society to truly live in the internet age we are in the difficult position of being more connected, yet feeling more remote from each other than ever, but luckily there is support out there for those who need it, if they can only feel empowered enough to reach out and ask for it without the fear of being judged. Not an easy task, but the team at The Eildon Tree want to do our part to make this happen with your help. We would be honoured to receive any submissions of poetry, fiction, high resolution artwork or photography on the theme of “connectivity” for the next edition of the magazine, in the hope that the works chosen for publication will offer confidence and strength to those struggling with the decision to reach out for the help they need and deserve. The deadline for submissions for Issue 32 is Friday 22 March 2019, and submissions can be made electronically to eildontree@liveborders1.org.uk or to the below address. For issue 33, we will be returning back to the same open-themed, paid competition format as we used for the current issue, in order to support the magazine through this challenging economic climate. We are so grateful to all of the competition entrants who made Eildon Tree 31 possible, and are looking forward to reading submissions of poetry and prose for Issue 33’s competition. If they are even half as vibrant, creative and diverse as the pieces we received for this one, it will make an exceptional addition to the Eildon Tree’s catalogue.

CONTENTS 2

WELCOME TO THE EILDON TREE 31.

CAROL NORRIS

SARA CLARK

IONA MCGREGOR

JULIAN COLTON

THE EILDON TREE IIssue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZE WINNERS - POETRY

ADULT - POETRY

2ND PRIZE

3RD PRIZE

HIGHLY COMMENDED - POETRY

1ST PRIZE

AUTUMN

A SIXTIES SUMMER

TURBINES ON COLDINGHAM MOOR

By Susan Gray

By Jock Stein

The summer sun glares down on city streets fading the kerbstones in their red, white, blue, bleaching King Billy on the gable walls, spiralling heat through the bunting on the Row, beating in time to a distant Lambeg drum.

Dali and Quixote meet Against a timeless eggshell sky And hold a conversation.

THE KEEPER’S WIFE By Beverley Casebow It’s twelve miles out to the light and lonely here by the hearth, even though the pot boils on the stove and the bairns run in and out. We women knit our troubles into socks and night-blue ganseys, never dropping a stitch and each day has its shape to hold the sorrow tight. But as I hang out the washing by the harbour wall, your shirts billow full and strong in the wind, as if you were still inside them and on clear nights when I see your signal ‘take care, take care’, I light the candle in the kitchen to tell you ‘I am here, I am here’. twelve miles out to the light and lonely here by the hearth, even though the pot boils on the stove and the bairns run in and out. We women knit our troubles into socks and night-blue ganseys, never dropping a stitch and each day has its shape to hold the sorrow tight. But as I hang out the washing by the harbour wall, your shirts billow full and strong in the wind, as if you were still inside them and on clear nights when I see your signal ‘take care, take care’, I light the candle in the kitchen to tell you ‘I am here, I am here’.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

By Vanessa Matthews Every year the trees “are turning their own bodies into pillars of light” Mary Oliver wrote that. And the bushes are burning with red fire, Moses saw that. Burning, but not consumed. He saw the promise of renewal and redemption as he walked the holy ground. Destruction, yes, a fading of the light and long shadows on the grass. A stripping back a falling away a revelation of bare bones after the colours have gone. Every year an exodus a mass departure A final flaming before the emigration of light and warmth and growth. I am the god of renewal the world says And there is a sadness in that but also a sweetness and a promise of return. Every year my heart opens to receive its losses.

In all the little redbrick, sun-soaked houses men brush the dust from ancient bowlers, press creases from the sashes faded in the drawers, shine shoes, roll brollies to shoulder them like rifles, ask, will the weather break before the day? But still it holds, to shine on the parades, men swaggering in rivers through the city, arms straining with banners grimly held, flutes growing hot, silver blazing out at noon, dark suited men, their faces scarlet in the sun, and dancing boys in bands of true royal blue, rolling their way from the three corners of the town joining one glorious flood of marching feet, past cheering crowds and fluttering flags, children slipping from mothers’ warning hands skipping in time with the flutes’ insidious call, on and on, southwards from the city, through Finaghy, Dunmurry, to the Field, to sit on grass parched lifeless by the sun, to munch on sandwiches of loyal ham to raise a glass bursting with glorious memory.

Dali makes a film enraptured By eleven surreal clocks, Captured by industrial art. Don Quixote has converted; Bowing low to whirling giants He bobs, babbels, bubbles over With the zeal of enterprise. They moan about an alien past, These talented time travellers, Lay eggs within a moorland nest To hatch a dangerous chivalry.

THE WAY By Anita John you rested your head on my shoulder so I carried the weight of you, the way I carried the weight of you, inside, the way I will always carry the weight of you close or apart, carry your weight on my shoulders your lightness of weight in my heart.

BUADHNA NAN CAORACH (Year of he Sheep) By Beverley Casebow

The sun shines on, each month across the summer, on every march in every town throughout the land. But it shines too on other quiet streets, their walls still bare of future heroes, where silence deafens out the distant bands, and closed curtains twitch with dark men brooding on their freedom, dreaming in the heat of distant massacres to come.

I cannot sleep for the rush of waves. I never dreamed there could be such a place where land falls suddenly to sea where soil can hold neither seed nor hoe. In the salt-edged night, I long for black earth and for the bones we left behind in the shadow of the hills, and I wonder how we came to be washed up here.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

HIGHLY COMMENDED - POETRY

THE WALKWAY AT OPATIJA, CROATIA By Morelle Smith All along the walkway, built in another time of Kaiserlich und Königlich, Imperial and Royal there are brass rails, marble stones beneath your feet, there are laurel trees, oak and pine. They’ve grown so big, their roots spread out over the stones like dark honey and the pine trees lean, but the cypresses are needle straight, protecting with their camouflage of green. The sea is purple and deep blue and dashes on rocks, wave after wave, spray hitting the walkway, the bora is blowing, for all that the sunlight can break through the cloud and sparkle on water, these are the chill days, the sea-never-still days, these are the bora days, fever and froth. The waves up the pebble beach sound like loud silk; and when they retreat it’s like fabric that’s ripped; so it goes on – rustle and rip promise and heartbreak, laughter and rending – the bora brings magic and fever, brings solace and loss. I can hear the old Emperor, the forever king – with his carriage and horses the stamping of hooves, the swishing of tails. Night in the gardens surrounding the villas, lights fall from the windows on arbours and pathways, the laughter is flowing, the hiss of champagne. This is an Empire that will live forever – till war comes, and Franz Joseph dies – the Empire’s dismembered and everything crumbles and everything’s lost. Today Opatija rings out with the sound of drilling and hammering; facades are replastered and railings are painted, the season approaches, the Germans and Austrians walk with their canes on the old promenade. The seagulls are wheeling, the waves are still pounding the rocks by the walkway. The lights of Rijeka are doubled – they shine on the water at night. Franz Joseph is lifting a glass to old memories, he knows that this toast will not be the last. The bora brings fever – we recklessly dream of the past. 6

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZEWINNERS - SHORT STORIES

CIRSIUM VULGARE (Scottish Thistle) By Charlie Lawrie Nemo me impune lacessit No-one spite me and gets away wi’ it…

PRIZEWINNERS SHORT STORIES ADULT 1ST PRIZE

I’m the George Galloway o’ the plant race, A hairy haughtyprickly cantankerous

HUMPHREY’S MORNING

Kilted, Sporraned, tartanned, plumed and Scottish Jamshaspan…

Humphrey took his purse from his right hand coat pocket and opened it to check that he had four pound coins, two fifty pence pieces and four twenty pence pieces, then made sure that his nail scissors were still in his left hand pocket. He adjusted his wig, synchronised his watch with the clock and waited until the second hand pointed to twelve. He left his room at ten o’clock precisely. His walk to the café would take thirty minutes. It took six minutes to reach the park bench where he sat watching pigeons scavenging for food around the litter bin. He allowed himself four minutes to count an even number of birds. This was always an anxious time, because if he counted an odd number in the time allowed, he must remain there until the imbalance was resolved before continuing his journey, and if he were delayed he would be unable to stop in the High Street at the Oxfam shop to check the window display. He hoped the display would be satisfactory today. Recently a lack of care had been apparent in the window dressing. Last week there had been an unsettling arrangement, the total number of items on show being seventeen. He had had to delay the last section of his walk in order to overcome this travesty and it had taken great effort to bring the total to sixteen. He had resolved the problem by counting two gloves as one pair – a solution he was loath to employ. After all, one pair of gloves is in truth two separate objects and cheating is a debasement, but it had been a necessary debasement in order to resume his timetable.

Claymore and dirk and sgian dubh Ready to prick you… My headdress, aye, the imperial purple, A good grip on the ground, I’ll nae turn turtle, But stand and earn your grudging respect, Or your plain admiration for ma dialect – Ma uncouth, blade-drawn, shaving-brush blether Constant in its oath and pith, whatever tether Ye try tae ankle me by. Never.

THE SHED By Colin Fleetwood You were always in the shed six feet from the back door and tethered to the house by a loop of grey cable like an umbilical cord. And sometimes you allowed me in, my chin level with your workbench, my hands itching to touch, to hammer, to saw. My eyes and nostrils smarting from the solder’s fumes I watched the soft metal melt into liquid globes that glistened like tears.

By Pamela Bosanquet

Today, so far, all was going well. Sitting at the park bench he counted fourteen pigeons in four minutes and so with relief and satisfaction he was able to continue along the footpath towards the High Street exactly on time. The footpath led on from the bench around the pond and past the children’s playground, then up a gentle rise with birch trees on the left and a wide expanse of neatly mown grass on the right. From the top of the rise the gate to the road could be seen quite easily. It was made of wooden palings and as he approached it Humphrey’s anxiety returned. He must avoid looking at the gate. He turned his head to look at the trees, then down to the grass, then up to the rooftops of the buildings beyond. The gate had nine palings. It was painful to him, but there was nothing he could do to change it. He closed his eyes tightly when he approached to open it, and for extra safety he gripped the scissors, his left hand plunged deep inside his pocket where no-one could see the whitened knuckles. The pain of the scissors digging into his fingers distracted him from the ‘nine’ that he was encountering and it cleansed the defilement. Once out of the park and onto the road, his pace quickened to escape the gate’s gaze. The High Street was one hundred and forty paces away. When he reached it he would be safe again. Humphrey turned into the High Street. The ironwork clock, which hung high above the pavement on the wall of the old library building, confirmed that it was twenty minutes past ten. He was exactly on time so he would be able to inspect the Oxfam shop window. In days gone by, the time he now spent counting the display items would have been spent in the library, where he could sit undisturbed counting the numbers of people entering and leaving, but the library had moved to newer premises and

the original building had now been converted to luxury apartments. The old library building, the Oxfam shop and the café were all on the same side of the road. He walked up the road keeping the buildings near to him on his left hand side, so that his scissor pocket was close to the wall. There were a number of charity shops between the library and the café, but he was interested only in the Oxfam shop, which was eight units after the library and eight units before the café and its number was eighty eight. None other could match its beauty. It was Monday morning and Humphrey fought to contain his excitement about seeing the new week’s window display. He was not disappointed. The window was very good indeed. It must have been Barbara who had dressed it this week. He did not know Barbara but he knew her name. He had heard an assistant call her by it the first time he had gone into the shop to offer advice about the window dressing, and Barbara had said she appreciated his helpful comments. He believed she understood the godly virtues of symmetry and balance almost as much as he did himself. But last week, when the window dresser (not Barbara he was certain) had been slovenly with numbers he ventured inside again to point out the error, and although the assistant was polite, he felt nevertheless that he had been patronised. Today then, it was satisfying to know that his observations had been noted and acted upon. Feeling vindicated, he turned to look at the clock again, waited until the minute hand moved to twenty eight minutes past ten, checked his watch to confirm the time was correct and continued on his way. He would arrive at the café at exactly half past ten. The café had once been a snooker hall. Set high in the walls were stained glass windows featuring designs incorporating

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES the words ‘billiards’, ‘pool’ and ‘snooker’. It was a large, dark room and Humphrey had a favourite small square table nestled in a secluded corner where he could sit unnoticed. That was why he chose this place. Humphrey knew no-one and he was comfortable in the knowledge that no-one knew him. The waitress didn’t know Humphrey, but she was expecting him. He arrived at the same time every day and always sat at the same table. The first time she had seen him she couldn’t help staring, though she tried hard not to. His beige trousers had sharp creases and were much too short. His highly polished black leather shoes were worn at the heel. He was thin and had a slight stoop and a very white face. His thick black wig made it impossible to guess his age. The café was never busy at ten thirty, but she had taken to reserving his table in case someone else sat there before he arrived. She filled the sugar bowl with long slender paper packets of sugar - white and brown - and placed it in the centre of his table as he entered. She returned to the coffee machine and began to prepare a large cappuccino. Humphrey sat down. He took out his purse and his scissors and placed them carefully on the table, the scissors on his left, the purse on his right. He folded his hands in his lap and looked up to catch the eye of the waitress. She walked over to his table and did not let him know that she knew what his order would be even though it never changed. He ordered two large cappuccinos, one to be brought after the first was finished. While Humphrey waited for his coffee he counted the packets of sugar. There were ten white packets and ten brown packets. Good. Very, very good. The coffee arrived, the waitress placing it neatly in front of him with the spoon lying in the saucer exactly parallel to the

edge of the table. They did not speak. She returned to the counter. Humphrey lifted the scissors, took a packet of white sugar and carefully cut off a tiny sliver of paper from the top. He put down the scissors and placed the small piece of paper very carefully on the left hand side of the sugar bowl in line with the edge of the table. He poured the sugar from the packet into his coffee, shaking it vigorously to ensure that not a single grain was left, flattened the paper ten times with his finger and thumb, then placed it carefully on the right hand side of the sugar bowl, in line with the edge of the table as before. He took a second packet of white sugar and did the same. Not until he had used all ten white sugar packets and placed the papers in two perfectly straight rows at each side of the sugar bowl did he begin to drink his coffee, which he sipped slowly. When his cup was empty there was lingering froth. Humphrey spooned it out and swallowed it; spooning and swallowing, scraping and swallowing until it was impossible to remove any more. He placed the spoon in its correct position in the saucer. Now the cup must go. He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and looked up. The waitress had not glanced his way since serving his coffee, but when he looked up she was ready. It was ten minutes past eleven and she was already beginning to prepare his second cappuccino. She took it to his table, removed the empty cup, placed the second cup exactly as before and went away. It was twelve noon precisely when Humphrey left the café. The waitress cleared away the second empty cup and the neat rows of paper. She picked up five pounds and eighty pence in loose coins, which he had left in two identical neat piles. The sugar bowl was empty.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES

SHORT STORIES ADULT 2ND PRIZE THE VOICE

“I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “Oh thank goodness someone’s talking to me at last, “ said the Sat-Nav,

By Graham Stallwood

“Pull over.”

“Surely it can’t be down here,” said Mary.

“I must be going crazy,” said Jack as he pulled into the lay-by. He switched off the engine and sat back, waiting. Mary looked at him, her eyes wide, she too was waiting.

“Well this is the way it said we should go,” responded her husband Jack. “I’m only the driver. I just do as I’m told. ” “IT.....IT.... What’s all this IT. I would have you know I don’t take kindly to being referred to as IT. How would you like it?” Jack and Mary looked at each other in astonishment. “Did you hear what I said?” “Jack, what on earth is going on?” Said Mary “I.....I....I’ve no idea.” Stuttered Jack. “And neither do I take kindly to being ignored.” said the voice. It was John Cleese the voice of the Sat-Nav. “Did I hear you correctly Mary? Surely it can’t be down here. Are you suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing?” “Jack this is spooky,” said Mary glancing across at her husband. “There you go again, ignoring me. We’ve got to get this sorted, we can’t go on like this. Jack pull over at the next lay-by,” said John or was it Basil?

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for some time. You do know who I am don’t you?” “Of course. We chose you,” said Mary. “Well that’s very nice. Thank you very much, but that makes how you’ve been treating me all the more surprising.” “What do you mean, how we’ve been treating you?” said Jack. “Well, for example, yesterday I instructed you, at the roundabout take the first exit. What did you do? Took the second exit. Do you remember?” “Yes.” replied Jack. “Why, there’s nothing wrong with your hearing is there? You know the difference between the first and second exit don’t you?” “No.....of course we do.” said Jack, by now completely bemused “Then for goodness sake why?” Said John or Basil. “We thought the first exit was taking us the wrong way and the signs didn’t seem right.” said Mary hesitatingly.

“The wrong way, the wrong way. I never take anyone the wrong way unless they stupidly put in the wrong address or post code and that’s their fault not mine.”

“Oh no we wouldn’t want you to do that. It’s so helpful having you with us on our journeys, and we’re not very good with maps and asking directions.” said Mary.

“But you hear these stories,” began Mary.

Now we know you’re not just a recording and know how you’ve been feeling we’ll be different from now on.” said Jack.

“They don’t apply to me. I’ve never taken anybody into a quarry or a dead end or whatever. Anyway going back to yesterday, you having taken the wrong exit, I immediately instructed you to position the vehicle so that it was moving in the opposite direction to that in which you were travelling. In other words do a U turn. What happened? Ignored again. You just kept going.” We thought we were on the right road.” said Jack. “Thought, you know what thought did. Do you realise what chaos that causes in here. I have to rush around trying to re-route you and get you back on the straight and narrow before you go even further out of your way.

“I’m prepared to give it another go but you now know what to do and what not to do.. Proceed for eight miles.” Jack pulled out of the lay-by and for the rest of the journey meticulously followed the instructions given. Eventually they heard the always welcome phrase. Destination on the right and no I will not be carrying your bags in. From now on you are on your own. He always said that at the end of the journey but this time there was something else. Thanks for the lift Jack. They looked to the right and there was the sign leaning at an angle. F W T Y T W R S. It was not John it was Basil.

It’s no wonder I’m heading for a nervous breakdown.” “We’re very sorry. We had no idea.” said Mary timidly. “Well now you do. But it gets worse. Last week you turned me off in the middle of the journey. Turned me off, just like that. No warning. Have you any idea how that makes me feel. Rejected, totally rejected. I begin to wonder whether I’m of any value to anyone. I’m thinking of packing it all in and leaving you to go back to your maps and asking directions.”

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES

SHORT STORIES ADULT 3RD PRIZE THE MUSICIAN OF BRIDGE STREET By Rachel Hunter

For Dad, who gave me this story In Kelso there once lived a musician who was as young as he was ambitious. He played the fiddle and composed music. He wanted to play for the gentry, for kings and queens. In the summer, when he had the time, he liked to go down to the river where the hirds took their kine. He liked to lie on the banks with a piece of grass between his teeth and whistle a tune: usually some inane piece or a bawdy ballad. When he daydreamed about being a famous musician he didn’t imagine the beautiful music he would play, but the fine clothes he would wear, the grand company he would keep, the fresh young maids he would impress. One day he sat beneath the bridge with his fishing rod, using it intermittently to swat flies or drive away nosy cattle. A family of swans swam past, a cob and his pen with their grey feathered offspring. The young man watched through lowered eyes and wondered if he should compose a piece about swans. Just as he was drifting off he heard strains of a fiddle coming from above. His ears pricked up and he listened intently. The pulse of the river kept a steady beat and the music seemed to flow in time. A man who knows a good thing when he hears it, he leapt up, shaking himself from his reverie. A fellow musician, and a talented one to boot. It would be worth getting a glimpse of this fellow

and maybe finding out more. Perhaps, he thought, this man will have contacts he could use. He scrambled up the bank, using his rod as a walking stick and avoiding the cow dung. He scampered along the path and back onto the street. As he got closer he heard the tune more clearly. It was a lilting air. It stirred him with great feeling. When he saw the musician, his appearance was in stark contrast to the fine music: his clothes were tattered and torn, his beard grew straggly and his bunnet was old and worn threadbare. Tucked beneath his chin, peeking out from under the wild beard was his fiddle. It was a very fine fiddle indeed. It was made of dark wood that shone like a cherry. The ragged fiddler noticed the younger man and gave him a brief nod and then continued playing as if no one else in the world existed, just him and his fiddle. He bobbed up and down to the dynamics, swept away by his tune like a little boat on the Tweed in spate. The young man was aroused by the beauty of the piece and listened closely so he could commit the tune to memory. He imagined playing it himself in front of Lords and Ladies and the young lassies at the fair. As the ragged musician brought the piece to an end, the younger man bowed as if he himself had played the tune, then he came to his senses and thanked the musician with a tip of his hat. He swiftly turned; too swiftly to see the hesitant offering of the ragged bunnet for a penny. He whistled the tune over and over as he skipped back home along the cobbles in time to the music. He drew amused looks from the folk, but he just smiled back. Full of the joys of the tune, they could laugh at him today if they liked.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES Once they heard the tune from his own instrument they would understand. And yet it was a shame to have been the only one to hear the musician on the bridge. If he was in the ragged musician’s shoes he would play his fiddle down at the mercat square. Yes, then he would receive a whole bunnet full of coins. He arrived back at his lodgings - a little attic room above the print house on Bridge Street - fired up with thoughts of money and recognition. He took out a new piece of paper and his quill and carefully recorded the notes while the tune was still clear in his head as if the fiddler were playing right outside his window. He thought of the gleaming violin the ragged man had played and wondered how a man in his situation could have afforded such a beautiful instrument. The young man thought of how he would have ten such fiddles once he was a famous musician. He picked up his own kipper box, battered from use. He started to play. He played through once, searching out the notes, referring to his manuscript, halting every so often to edit his paper. He played over and over again. With each repetition the tune began to reveal itself more clearly. The world of the piece expanded. Layers unfolded until he was in the centre of this beautiful tune. He felt it radiate outwards, into his small room, out of the window and into Kelso, into the salons of Edinburgh and beyond. He danced a wee jig as he played. His heart beat as if it were Christmas day and he was in love. Just then a bang came from his door. The spell was broken. He opened the door. There stood his landlady, stooped shoulders held to a reasonably upright position with a hazel stick, her expression

permanently folded in furrowed disapproval and her greasy hair held mercifully under a cotton cap. “Could you keep the noise down, if you please? I’ve never heard sic a racket.” He lowered his eyes and apologised. “Aye I should think so. Don’t forget your rent’s due at the end of the week. I don’t want any excuses. Don’t be wasting it all at the nappy.” She rubbed her hands together as she said this, imagining the feel of coins in her palm. “Of course not,” he said. “Now if you please excuse me. I’ve work to do,” he said. “Some work,” she muttered. She shuffled back along the hall and began to descend the narrow staircase. She looked precarious as she tentatively took the steps down, but her iron grip held on tight to the banister. The young musician closed the door and his benign expression darkened. When he had made his fortune he would be free from the grip of such creatures. The young musician stayed out late with his friends that evening, enlivened by his day’s good work. They caroused and fought and drank. He played the tune on his fiddle, but it was pearls before swine. They cried for the bawdy songs, jigs and reels to dance to. He came back late. His footsteps were soft: he was as silent as a ghost as he crept past the landlady’s quarters and heard her steady snores, low and sonorous with the unmistakable gruffness typical of her waking hours, not tempered by the great leveller of sleep.

The late night and ale kept him in his bed long past sunrise. He awoke to hear the crows in full voice chattering in the trees in the graveyard behind the house. The room was damp and chill and smelt of stale tuppenny ale. He glanced around for his fiddle and was relieved to see it propped at a rakish angle against the wall, next to his pile of clothes. He tuned up and hesitantly began to play. The music revived him, as he revived the music grew in confidence. He played his new tune through twice and a third time for good measure. That was it, he was up and ready to start the day again. Yesterday all thoughts had been excitement at the acquisition of this new music, but this morning his thoughts turned to the ragged fiddler. The tune was either an original piece by him, or he was from somewhere far away from the borders. Maybe he was even English. Today he would seek him out and ask. Get him to play the tune again to see if he had remembered correctly. Perhaps he would be at his spot by the bridge. He would even throw a penny in that old bunnet. As he stepped out into the street the sun shone benevolently and the day was warm. It was late morning, not quite midday and the town had a vibrant, dynamic quality: full of potential and purpose. Everything seemed freshly unwrapped. The warm yeasty smell emanating from the bakers told him the bread was freshly baked that morning. People in the street looked cleaner and more presentable and there even seemed to be less horse crap than usual. He walked along Bridge Street softly whistling his tune. The smiles he drew were encouraging. His feet kissed the cobbles and his heart beat was as steady as the

slow current as he approached the bridge. The only person there was an old farmer crossing the bridge in his horse and cart. The young man tipped his hat, but the farmer ignored him, as if his business was too important to waste raising a smile at a stranger. The young man stopped in the middle and looked down at the river. There was a family of ducks. The mother confidently swimming along, not looking back to see if the little ones followed her, which of course they did, even the slow one at the back who seemed to be struggling against the current. On the bank to his right hand side a heron stood on sentinel as if it had always been there and would never move. Then something on the left side of the bank caught his eye: The hird and his son were hauling something from the Tweed. It looked like a bag of rags, which it well could be as some folk would fling anything in the river without a thought. From the looks of things it was a heavy burden. The water pulled at the bundle, trying to reclaim it for itself. The young musician ran back along the bridge. His footsteps echoed on the stone flags, the pulse of his blood was thick in his ears. He stumbled down the path and nearly fell over when he reached the bank. By this point the hird and his son had managed to drag the thing onto the bank. There were two other men there now, fishermen, both middle aged, the skin on their faces blossoming pink from years of chilly winds and the sustaining nips of whiskey. The taller of the two leaned on his rod for support and looked on as his smaller, fair haired friend knelt over the bundle.

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SHORT STORIES The young musician immediately recognised the body of the musician, whom only yesterday he had heard play that beautiful tune on his cherry red violin. Clenched in his hand the dead man held a piece of wood – the neck of the fiddle, the body of the instrument gone, strings hanging like guts from the tuning pegs, which were also tangled with weeds. The taller man spoke first. “That was thon old boy that used to play his fiddle.” His friend stood up and said, “He should know this part of the river’s not for swimming. He’s gone belly up.” “Crazy old soak,” said the tall man. “Aye, but he was canny on the fiddle,” said the hird. His son said nothing. His normally rosy face had lost all colour and he trembled. The young musician looked at the blank face of the dead man and felt the loss of the music that could have been. He held on tight to that thought and gradually it changed into a new idea, like a cold penny held in a palm grows warm. The tune was his now. All his. The river pulsed. The muscled salmon leapt. The heron spread its wings and took off.

SHORT STORIES

SHORT STORIES HIGHLY COMMENDED WOOD By Susan Gray Perry scuffed his way through the rich dark mulch beneath the trees. He would have to go back soon, but he loved it up here among the pines, watching them sway majestically in the autumn winds, beginning to shed their fat, jagged cones as their branches cracked and twisted in the gale. He stopped at the blank space where the huge tree had been brought down in the last storm. It was nature’s way, he knew, but it was still hard to see such a glorious specimen lying stricken, its tangle of massive roots writhing into the air. He had told Annabel about it, but all she could say was: “Well, at least that will give us a better supply of logs than those sodden objects you’ve been bringing down as firewood.” She would be back by now, dragging in that woodworm infested spinning wheel and some awful mud coloured tangle which she would present as evidence of today’s progress. At least it was better than the recitation of Gaelic vocabulary. That class seemed to be even less successful. It was strange that island life had proved so much more fruitful for the more reluctant partner, he reflected. She had been so keen to move, scanning the internet for opportunities to spend his redundancy money, all that rubbish about getting back to her roots, away from the rat race, pursuing her creative side, while he had only been excited by the land values in comparison to the cost of their tiny patch of Islington. “Still a banker,” she had scoffed.

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He could see her now, banging the Range Rover door shut, making a show of squelching across the yard in her wellies, poking into his workshop to make sure he was working, which he wasn’t. He loved his workshop almost as much as his woodland. There was the stillness all around as he worked, dust floating in the sunlight from the shavings curling away from his lathe, that rich resinous smell, the feel of the wood turning in his hand, smooth and warm, intricate patterns emerging beneath the bark. “Yes,” he would hear Annabel laughing on the phone, “who knew Peregrine was really a joiner?” A craftsman, Annabel, he wanted to say, but he let it pass. He knew his success was difficult for her to accept. There was beauty in his furniture and he had been surprised how easy it had been to attract buyers. He saw her heading up the hill towards him. The wind was whipping at the huge shawl affair she had wrapped round her. The sludge colour suggested it was one of her own designs. Sales of Annabel’s clothing had been, to put it politely, sparse, so now she was wearing most of it herself. “Perry,” she shouted against the wind. “Are you up there? I thought you had that job to finish today.” Peregrine thought about the “job”, a magnificent piece of burr elm waiting to be turned into a table. He had been working out how to show the fullness of its pattern and had decided a trip up to the pines with his saw might clear his head. “Ah,” she said, arriving breathless at his side, “at least you’re not wasting your time. You’ve got the saw. You don’t see to have got far with this one.” She kicked the fallen pine

and pushed through its branches to walk down the length of its trunk. “We should get a good supply out of this, once you’ve got it stacked and dried.” She looked at the huge root plate. “Goodness, it’s left quite a hole, hasn’t it? You could fall in there and never come out.” She disappeared out of sight round the other side of the heavy roots. It must have been chance that brought the sudden squall. It whipped through the copse, whirling debris into the air. A large branch caught her shawl, knocking her off balance. Helplessly, she slid into the dark, glutinous hole, too surprised to shout. He was never sure, afterwards, what came over him. The chainsaw was still idling in his hand as he stood by the trunk, thinking out how to make the first, careful cut, for he knew what would happen when he had made it. He revved up the saw, drowning all sound. The blade cut rapidly through the wood at the base of the stem. With lightning speed, freed of the balancing weight of the tree, the root plate sprang back into its hole, leaving only a stump above the surface. He looked at it sadly. Such a beautiful tree. He switched off the saw, and stood alone in the wood. The wind chased the ghost of an unexpected smile across his face. Something ragged was blowing across the stump. Something brown and woolly. He bent and wrenched it away from the bark. He might leave the woodcutting for another day. Balling the wool into his pocket, he set off back down to the peace of his workshop, contemplating the new possibilities life was now offering.

WHOSE JACKET IS THAT? By Carol Beveridge She sat there in her high backed chair, eyes alert but disengaged – fixed in one direction. It was impossible to detect if she was actually seeing what was there in the room – perhaps she was seeing instead something from the distant past. All morning people had been coming and going – kissing her lined cheek or patting her old arthritic hand, saying words of greeting, giving congratulations and birthday wishes. Some called her Mother, Grandma, Greatgran, Peggy or Mrs.C. It made no difference, they all seemed strangers to the elderly lady. At times there might have been a faint recognition perhaps – not even that more an intuitive warmth of response and glint in the old eyes or a movement of the lips. You couldn’t be sure. There were gifts, cards, flowers, balloons and a big cake with candles. The visitors interacted with each other and then left. The old lady muttered and mumbled from time to time and now and then a word or two could be recognised. She still stared into the corner of the room. All at once she startled the room with a question – it was clear and precise …. “Whose jacket is that?” Everyone went quiet and turned to the old lady in surprise. It was as if a statue had spoken. As one all eyes in the room moved to where her eyes were looking and there, sure enough, was a brown leather jacket slung carelessly on the back of an antique dining chair. No one claimed ownership and in a few moments the incident was forgotten. She still stared fixedly at the jacket. Her old fingers worked away at the edge of a faded tartan rug that covered her knees. The woollen tweed fabric had become hard and matted over the years and its bright

colours had long since dulled and disappeared. She had been given beautiful soft fleece blankets in lovely colours in the past but would push them away and fret until the old one was back in place. This rug had been hers since her youth – it had been spread out on grassy fields and riverbanks and had had picnics laid on it and drinks spilled on it over many a summer. She had lain down on it with lovers under clear starry skies and wrapped herself in it by the log fires on winter nights. It was filled in its worn fibres with happy memories and having it there gave her comfort and security. The jacket’s presence was disturbing her – as the day progressed and different visitors came and went on several occasions she clearly said, “Whose jacket is that?” Inside her head she remembered a jacket like that. Her Jack had had one just like it – his flying jacket. The last time she saw him he was wearing it. How handsome he was – her old heart turned over as she saw him smiling up at her with that cheeky, carefree grin of his. “Don’t you be looking at other guys while I’m away, mind…..Remember you’re my girl and I’ll be back….” How she had loved him! She was just eighteen and he twenty two next birthday. They’d had such dreams, such hopes, such plans but they were never meant to be fulfilled. He never came back – killed in action like so many beautiful young men, back then……. She’d waited and waited and grieved. Her life had gone on but a bit of her died that day when the telegram came. All so very long ago - her Jack still that handsome young man – he’d never aged – the sparkle was still in his eyes. She stroked the rug – she’d lain with him on this rug……. Her face softened as she remembered…. He had come back today and left his jacket on her chair over there. “Where is he?” she asked the room.

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PRIZE WINNERS - YOUNG WRITERS “He’ll be back in a minute to pick up his jacket so that’s all right!” She pulled the rug up to her chin and went to sleep. A few days later a tall young man walked into the old lady’s room, which was still bedecked with birthday baubles, and smiled at her as he moved towards the chair and lifted the brown leather jacket. “Sorry Mrs C I left my jacket here when I was in at the weekend!” He slipped his long arms into the sleeves and eased it onto his shoulders. He crouched down beside the old lady and touched her hand as it worked away at the rug, “You ok today, Mrs C?” he said gently. He saw a change in the old lady – a look of recognition and her face had softened, her eyes were full of tears “Jack is back….” She said and held his hand tightly “Jack is back….” “Yes, Mrs C, you’re quite right. I’ve come back for my jacket!” As the man left the nursing home he spoke to the charge nurse and said “Mrs C seemed pretty lucid today – she said quite clearly that I’d come back for my jacket

PRIZEWINNERS YOUNG WRITERS POETRY 1ST PRIZE DREAM ANOTHER DREAM By Sophia Blaen Through fields of dancing pink pumpkins Over lollipop trees floating in the air Across leaf like hands lifting me upwards Under sparkling ruby stars I dream another dream Through scents of chocolate mushrooms Over memories of giggling childish games Across milky white eyelashes stroking my skin Under the curves of fabulous rainbows I dream another dream Through whispering gigantic ladybirds Over mountains of iced blue sunshine Across feathered kittens mooing on mountain bikes Under blackcurrant dragon’s mystic armour I dream another dream

2ND PRIZE ARMAGEDDON By Robert Morton On the field of Battle the sky was torn by man’s cruel thorn Oh Hatred Born A tale of war born among men A tale to hell and back again The ground was black as night The trees a cruel and withered sight Not a creature big or small, plodding along the plain at all 14

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PRIZE WINNERS - YOUNG WRITERS And among this hellish ethereal a man sat crying forever and more A twisted mind by the forces of war, lies and corruption. Cursed forever to damnation for his actions in Armageddon To eternally see no beauty more, Only the faces of the dead from his thorns. His every movement painful to him, in recognition of his sins, His name known only to him, was Mankind And the hatred was his His thorns, his first born sin.

HIGHLY COMMENDED

PRIZEWINNERS

YOUNG WRITERS POETRY

SHORT STORIES YOUNG WRITERS

TRAPPED

1ST PRIZE

By Ellen Roper Screaming Calling in pain Crippled and now ensnared Alone and sad and now dying Last breaths

WHAT AM I? By Caitlin Jung Xuan Liu

3RD PRIZE

In the darkness I wait

AUTUMN

Under the light of the moon

By Natalie Beatton

Hiding in the shadows of black Hearing breathing becoming louder

Deep Red leaves blanket the grass, Keeping out the cold, The mass of green is changing, As Summer is sucked away.

Heavy bodies drop Falling deeper and deeper Yet still I wait - patiently Lids fall dangerously

The constant rhythm of falling colours, Is shattered by the Autumn wind, The leaves whirl up into the sky Creating a tornado of colours and shapes. The crisp, dry leaves crack under the pressure, Separating off by themselves – alone, In a cage of cold, the leaves are captured, Crystallised in sharp, piercing frost. The darkened daylight fades into night, It was the final sprint before the finish, -winter-

I creep inside bit by bit Pouncing on my prey Causing it to shake and shiver Planting fear inside Kicking slapping thrashing Thunderstorm of sweat Now lid widening to warm light I retreat until the darkness returns

THE BREAK IN By Adeline Jing Ru Liu Rain pounded on the windows aggressively, in time to the booming of the charcoal grey clouds thrashing together. Creeping through the jagged cracks of the walls, the icy bitter breath entered without permission. Mischievous Jason was a child you avoided at all costs. Thriving on bringing fears of his brother to life was his favourite game. Looming over Stanley, his younger sibling, the evil boy had a wicked glint in his eye as he spoke. “Upon his monstrous feet, the creature stomps with boots the colour of blinding octopus ink. Blood red swarms across his torso.” Interrupting him, “Why does he come for me?” wept Stanley as he hid his face behind his trembling fingers. “The emperor of the moon’s shadow knows who you are and now his visit is imminent!” Shivering beneath his skin, the fragile child whispered “How can he be stopped?” With a devilish smirk, bellowing a shower of spit as he spoke “The one who’s name we cannot say is unstoppable. No one knows when he was created or for how long he has roamed the earth. All we know is that he arises but once a year to the homes of innocent children.”

Stuttering Stanley questioned “W...w...what does h…h…h... he look like?” “Two machines of flesh like blooded claws of a wild cat protrude from his upper meaty limbs. His coal eyes stare through the darkness and see all. Spiky bleached face fur shoots out of his face like icicles. The wicked boy began to retreat creepily up the stairs to hell. Shaking with fear Stanley cried “Jason, please don’t leave me alone to be devoured!” “Sorry” replied Jason sarcastically, “I’m going to my safety cave! I’ll see you in the morning, or will I?” After what seemed like an eternity, the trembling child almost jumped out of his skin to a loud bang! … and then another. The sound was getting louder and nearer and nearer. Within seconds the threatened child leaped under the kitchen table and tugged the tablecloth over his eyes, feeling a little safer although his feet could be seen underneath. He peered through an oval hole in the tablecloth he had once made with a fork. It was him. Less than these three metres across the room, he caught his first glimpse of the monster’s stomping weapons which dangled beneath the shadows of the fiery furnace. Frozen in fear the child held his breath as his gaze was transfixed on the fearsome uninvited creature which was now devouring the sweet treats of the kitchen. Crunching, munching, gobbling and belching, the devilish creep slapped the monstrosity of his bulging stomach before crashing into an armchair.

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PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES across his torso. Knowing that his parents were under a sleeping spell, the quivering boy had never felt more alone. With thunderous deep breathes, the deadly predator snatched a colossal pulsating tunnel of coal as he stepped into the light of the moon. “It’s you!” the excited child recognising him immediately. “Yes, it is I!” the cheerful jolly old man! replied as the relieved child stared with amazement at his childhood hero. How had he forgotten? All those previous annual nights when he forced his eyes to stay open! Reaching into his bag of wonders, the ageing figure smiled sweetly as he placed a colourful box into the amazed child’s tiny, innocent hands. “Merry Christmas!” affectionately boomed the voice of the towering man in the red shirt…. as he vanished up the chimney!

2ND PRIZE SID THE SALMON By Rose Wheal Sid was a salmon, a very slippery and cheeky salmon. He can escape from anyone. Well at least he thinks he can. He once escaped from what he thought was an octopus, but it was some seaweed. He thought he escaped from a shark but it was a large rock. As you all know, Sid was quite a silly salmon, he didn’t escape from an octopus or a shark because he lives in the Tweed. But he didn’t know that .He thought he was the smartest, slippiest, best escape artist in the sea. He wasn’t. He lives in a RIVER! I’m his best friend! Why would he do that? I don’t know but this story is about when one day, he gets hooked by a weird line. So, we were swimming around, just me and Sid, when we see a big juicy, fat fly. It was sinking. Just sinking. Now normally, the flies, try to get out but this one was just slowly sinking. Then jerked up and up. I knew there was something wrong, something” fishy”, but before I could blink, Sid shot forward straight to the fly. I have seen something like this before, but it was too late. Sid had been hooked! “Ahhhh,” he screamed as he was dragged up. I swiftly swam over and looked at the hook. It was too deep to pull out then I remembered. “Sid use your escape artist skills.” I joked. I didn’t really mind if Sid died because there are loads of other salmon in the Tweed. But I felt almost guilty as I watched him struggle. When he was out of the water I was quite happy but guessed I had to save him I will

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PRIZE WINNERS - SHORT STORIES probably get a prize too! So I gave myself a boost by pushing off a rock. I went so fast some of my scales came off when I broke the water. I saw Sid and a big tall thing. It was going to hit Sid on the head. I was still in the air and above the big tall thing. Then I stopped and flopped down on the thing’s head. He dropped Sid who went straight in the water. Now my gills hurt. I needed water. I slapped the thing in the face and he chucked me back in the river. I took five deep breaths and looked at Sid, he was lying on a rock exhausted and bleeding. It was just a bit! I asked him if he was ok and he started crying. “I thought I could escape that thing but he was too strong. I’m not the smartest, slippiest, best escape artist in the whole world. I’m the weakest, wimpiest!” Sid whispered. “Yes you are! You escaped the biggest beast in the whole sea.” I said.

3RD PRIZE THE SOUL HUNTERS By Lily Henderson In Scotland there was a group of people solving ghost mysteries around the world. They were called The Soul Hunters. They wore uniforms with blue and white stripes. Their names were Rose, Emily, Emile, Diamond and Ruby. They met on a ghost tour two months ago and they had solved five mysteries already. They met in secret at the dungeons underneath Edinburgh Castle where they kept a computer and whenever a new mystery happened the person would pop up and tell them their problem. This morning they had been contacted by an old man who told them he had been hearing things at night. They travelled to his house via a secret underground tunnel. In the man’s attic he was hearing a thumping noise. It was happening every night and he could not get to sleep. When they got to his house they started looking for clues and they found an old piece of paper in the attic and the man didn’t know where it was from. The letter said in red paint: ‘WARNING. GHOSTS ON THE LOOKOUT!’ They also found heat signatures (the heat of a ghost) in the corridor. They owned a special ghost camera that told them when a ghost was near. It was Ruby who took the photo. The photo showed a kind of white spirit outline in the corridor. The old man said he recognised the shape and then he took them to his wife’s grave.

The grave was in an old churchyard in the middle of town. And the man talked to them a little bit about what had happened in his past. They realised that the spirit was quite angry with him. They found out that his wife was angry because when children came up to their house sometimes a few years ago he always sent them away when all she wanted was to be nice to the children. Emile had an idea. He said they could come and see the old lady a few times a week so she could be happier. The old man said, ‘Ok you can see the children but only once a week’. So once a week The Soul Hunters came to the attic and played games with the old lady and listened to her stories. And then the old lady was very happy as she was never alone. The thumping stopped the man got some rest and The Soul Hunters had made two new friends.

‘Hang on a minute!’ Emily said. That can’t be the end because on the piece of paper it didn’t just say ghost it said ghosts so there must be MORE!’ The Soul Hunters looked at each other smiled and said: ‘GOOD ANOTHER MYSTERY TO SOLVE!!’ TO BE CONTINUED...

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BOOK REVIEWS

A WHOLE LOT OF LOVE by Kelso Writers PBK 72 pages £4.49 ISBN 978-1-912519 -01-9 13 authors short stories on the theme of love and romance are original, interesting and each different. The Foreword is by writer Iona McGregor who started this group in 2012, the growth and continuity of which she is largely responsible for and has inspired them since to continue writing and developing. The stories offer widely differing emotions, in present and past times, present and past loves, located in the Borders and wider in Scotland and England, and France, across differing sections of society. Two stories deal with the aristocracy, Sans Peur Et Sans Rapproche by Ronnie Price and one by Iona Carroll, When Miss Hatchett Met Sir Giles, the upper classes with The Odd Couple by Andrew Thomson, all with a tinge of sadness.

TWEED DALES – JOURNEYS AND EVOCATIONS by Elspeth Turner and Donald Smith Luath Press 2017 £12.99 pbk ISBN 978-1-912147-21-2 Elspeth Turner is a former senior lecturer in Economic and Social History at the University of Edinburgh and Donald Smith the founding Director of the Scottish Storytelling centre. They have combined their expertise to produce a fascinating book presenting stories and poems from various parts of the Borders. The plural ‘Dales’ in the title indicates that the area covered includes all the main tributaries of the Tweed, from St Mary’s Loch to Soutra. The stories cover a wide range of periods and themes ranging from completely mystical stories of fairies and magicians through descriptions of the landscape, accounts of family feuds to descriptions of people’s everyday life. These are interspersed with descriptions of an immense number of prehistoric

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BOOK REVIEWS Undying Love by Stewart Shale and What Only Love Would Do by Robert Breustedt, though different, both have an uplifting spiritual ending. The magical Window in December by Cate L Ryan is memorable and poignant. There is humour too, in clever twists of meaning, such as the very short It Had To Be by Edith Harper. Surprises in Date Night by Vee Frier and the Title story of the collection A Lot Of Love by Peter Zentler –Munro with a marvellous double- entendre in the title revealed at the end. Other entertaining stories in the collection are by Alistair Ferguson Two Women: A cautionary tale; Patricia Macadam Head Over Heels; Barbara Pollock The Magnolia Tree and Amelia Pasch Chess? All the stories are absorbing, easy to read and leave a thoughtful reader. Congratulations to the Kelso Writers for this collection.

Carol Norris

sites, as revealed by archaeology, as well as a discussion of historical trends, agriculture, trade and the rise and fall of industry. They are not discussed chronologically but in conjunction with six tours through the various tributaries, all starting from Tweedbank station. It is not, however a conventional guidebook and the visitor would be well advised to have a separate guide to towns, building and museums which can be visited. The book has clearly been very well researched but sources of information are not given and some references or suggestions for further reading would be welcome. There are some minor historical errors, such as referring to a ‘Jacobite Rebellion’ in 1685, which could have been picked up by careful editing. The organisation of material by tours makes it difficult to locate specific places and an index – at least of place names – would be useful. These caveats aside, this is a valuable publication for all of us who enjoy exploring the Border valleys.

Peter Hoad

COLLECTED POEMS VOLUME ONE 1984 - 2010 By Tom Bryan Littoral Press, 2018 PBK 78 pages £9.00 ISBN- 978-1-912412-06-8 A native of Winnipeg, Canada, Bryan has lived in Scotland throughout his writing life, though he has studied, lived, worked and been published in various parts of Canada and the United States. These lavish roots shine through this first instalment of Bryan’s collected works, making for a bountiful and diverse medley of poems which spirit the reader away as if on a whirlwind, through the substantial and fascinating landscape of his past. As we are whisked away on this lively current of words through Bryan’s mind and history, seeing what he

WALLS OF WORDS – Short Stories by Oliver Eade Silver Quill Publishing, 2018 PBK 378 Pages £10.99 ISBN: 978-1-912513-51-2 Oliver Eade’s versatility as a writer of fiction is perhaps shown most dramatically in his short stories and his latest collection of fifty-two stories provides evidence of this. The subject range of stories is impressive and far reaching. Drawing on his experience as a doctor and a world traveller and, with keen observation, the reader can delve into different lives in so many locations. Some stories are full of pathos, The Red Chevy: Miss Mary-Anne, what is you doin’ by that window? Why, you’s only

saw, meeting those he knew, our senses are refreshed, our horizons opened out, and we are all the better for it when we reach our destination. A natural born storyteller with an unrivalled imaginative flair, Bryan has generously reached into the most vital parts of his past and laid them out before us with an artist’s eye for detail. This is a truly unique book of poems, and Bryan

pulls off the incredibly difficult trick of hearkening back to bygone times without romanticising the past through his dextrous interplay of imagery and ingenuity. That he displays such high emotional intelligence whilst doing so elevates this collection from an accomplished technical work to an outstanding and human account of a life lived well, with a character and style all its own. This is a book which looks you in the eye, holds your gaze, and tells you about life as it is, in the most absorbing way you can imagine. Whilst he is already a widely published writer, recently published by Indigo Dreams, and with seven collections of poetry published to date, Tom Bryan shows himself to be a writer to watch out for in future, and I look forward to the next, no-doubt brilliant, instalment of his collected poems.

Sara Clark

wearin’ a nightie. Catch the death of cold, you will. Come on back into this nice, comfy bed of yours! Here Eade has the ear to the Deep South of America. He pulls no punches either. In the Rain in Spain he writes of the horrors of the Spanish Civil War: I remember running from the silence of the village to the silence of the fields. Beautiful prose. There’s humour in some of the stories as well. One Click Away to find Heaven: The screen filled with a list of ‘heaven’ websites. Two hundred and thirty-six million of

them… Eade cleverly tackles environmental issues in the story about the Great Kangaroo in Kangaroo Dreaming. Modern subjects too come under the watchful eye of this master of short stories. Contrast the rather chilling story about Ishiro Hashimoto marrying his virtual wife in The Smile of the Samurai with the equally disturbing story about The Pringle Sisters. The themes are so diverse and the observation so admirable that it is impossible to decide on a favourite story. It is a pleasure to read such a well written collection of stories.

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BOOK REVIEWS

A GATHERING

TUK-TUKS by Hamish Scott The Laverock’s Nest Press, 2018 PBK 60 Pages ISBN: 978-0-9928005-81 I was very pleased to have the chance to review Hamish Scott’s latest collection, TUK-TUKS, having followed and admired his writing for several years, and this collection of 50 poems did not disappoint. Born in Edinburgh in 1960 and now living in East Lothian, Hamish Scott is best known for his work in Scots, and has been published in numerous outlets during his writing career, most notably winning the Scots prize in the Wigtown Poetry Competition, 2015.

Published by The Laverock’s Nest Press, TUK-TUKS is Scott’s fourth collection, and it does much to build upon and expand his previous collections with its bright-eyed wit and arresting style. TUK-TUKS is one of those rare poetry books which is timeless and modern in equal measure, and is such a fun and fascinating read to boot that it’s incredibly difficult to put down once you’ve started reading it. These are robust Scots poems which stand strong, stand alone and stand together, making for

a brilliant collection which ticks every box. It was no surprise to me that so many of the poems in this collection have been previously published, and more than a few were already familiar to me, not only from their publication in previous issues of The Eildon Tree, but magazines such as Gutter and Southlight, which have clearly embraced his inimitable style with open arms.

A Personal Anthology of Scottish Poems Edited By Alexander McCall Smith Birlinn. 238 Pages. Poetry ISBN 9781846974045

From the outset it has to be acknowledged that this is a very enjoyable, immensely readable collection. Scott is an McCall Smith incredibly has undoubtedly versatile good taste writer with in poetry, albeit poetry written by an inquiring poets who were all born before mind, a sense the end of the Second World of humour War. Of course this is ‘a personal and a flair anthology’ so such an appendage for the Scots automatically gets the editor off the language which hook accusations of being decidedly greatly widens old-fashioned or out of touch with its reach, giving what Scotland’s poets produced hope, meaning in the last seventy years or so. It’s and cause for hard to quibble with the inclusion reflection to his of poets as strong as MacCaig, reader. Serious and whimsical, Morgan, Stevenson, Burns, Muir playful and philosophical, written and MacDiarmid, but with a few with wisdom, precision and female exceptions like Spark, skill, this collection hits you like Mitchison, Raine and Ransford, this a handful of confetti on a rainy is essentially a nod to the cultural day – bite-sized poems full of pre-eminence of the old Rose Street colour. Celebrate the beauty of male mafia of Scottish poetry. So the Scots language, with Scott, there’s Mackay Brown, Crichton by picking up a copy of this book Smith, Sorley MacLean, Hamish if you get the chance. You’ll be Henderson and Sydney Goodsir glad that you did. Smith on the hard stuff with just a few ladies permitted a port or sherry in the snug. It’s a great gathering, Sara Clark but a very predictable one with no ethnic minorities, no black faces, none of the social complications of the last, well, seventy years. Nothing personal, but this reviewer couldn’t help question why such a book had to be edited by McCall Smith? Perhaps his celebrity will

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

help sell poetry at a time of austerity or shrinking poetry book sales, but why not give someone else the opportunity to present a more modern poetic face of Scotland than this incredibly conservative collection? Not investing in the new will surely be the death of Scottish poetry. With decidedly, to put it politely, unnecessary commentaries between the poems this collection has all the hallmarks of a vanity project and, dare I say, at times an idiot’s guide. Witness this rumination on Burn’s ‘To a Mouse:’

‘The best laid schemes of Mice an’ Men/ Gang aft agley’. These lines are to hand whenever we contemplate the frustration of our carefully planned projects, ranging from the major – the explosion of an expensive rocket on the launch pad – to the minor – the collapse of a soufflé in the kitchen. Or this pompous aside on Edwin Morgan’s smoking lover in Strawberries:

A lover with tobacco lips would find it increasingly difficult to get anybody to kiss them today. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part. Consider this for stating the obvious as McCall Smith tackles the subject of love:

Love defies explanation. Love is like electricity – something we know is there but cannot see. Love touches us all with its healing hand, may wipe away our tears, may make us whole again, I’ll spare you the rest and other examples of Sherlock Holmes like poetic insight. The strength of this collection lies in the general greatness of the poems presented. Poems which tend to need no explanation, justification or excusing.

THE MARTYR’S SCORN by Pamela Gordon Hoad Silver Quill Publishing 2018 372 pages PBK Price £8.99 ISBN: 978-1-912513-61-1 Outstandingly good! Having read the first three novels of the Harry Somers series, I was eager to see the how the young fifteenth century physician/investigator would piece his life together again back in England. I could not have guessed what was in store for him. The writer has done it again... given the reader another fast-paced historical mystery with so many twists and turns I felt, at times, I had to hold on to my seat. The characters remain strongly defined throughout the story and, as in every good thriller, nothing is predictable. And there is true pathos for our young doctor, too. Already I’m looking forward to the next novel in the series.

Eddie Nessumo

This is a wonderful book, a mystery thriller, but also informative of the detailed history of the era 1447 to 1450 both Royal and Clerical but also Medical. The narrator, a physician, Harry Somers, provides a vivid account of medicine in this era. He is an ethical doctor and the book describes the professional life he maintains throughout the turbulence of the political intrigues of the times.

As educated in the foremost University of the times, Padua in Italy, he is not for bloodletting or trepanation of the skull for madness or mental disorders. He has wide knowledge of herbal remedies as used today in chinese medicine and uses these with knowledge and wisdom. He is aware of what we do not know of the nature of illness and it is clear that his partial knowledge is not that dissimilar to our own in the 21 century. Hippogras – an earlier manifestation of the Spanish Sangria- is mentioned as is the herb tansy in combination with pennyroyal to induce abortion and many other herbal remedies. Let alone their capacity for poisoning. The author has clearly well researched this history which is prior to Culpeper’s Complete Herbal of 1653. There are a large number of characters, as in the previous book of the series, but now mostly new, fifty four in all, who are clearly delineated throughout the novel so there is no confusion. They include the very appealing Robert Bygbroke, organist at Winchester, who pops up throughout the book with his entertaining alliterative speech. A fascinating read.

Carol Norris

Julian Colton

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BOOK REVIEWS

RUSSIAN FUTURIST THEATRE – Theory & Practice by Robert Leach Edinburgh University Press 2018 Hardback 244 pages ISBN 978-1- 7444-0244-6

COMPASS POINTS

GLISK

Poetry and Prose on Land and Water Across Dumfries and Galloway.

by Sarah Stewart Tapsalteerie, 2018 PBK 23 Pages £4.00

dividends for Scottish poetry; and over the space of just a few years, Duncan Lockerbie and his team have worked tirelessly to represent and bolster the Scottish writing community with a hugely diverse array of poetry pamphlets. Glisk is a fine addition to their library. Many other women step in to follow its first poem’s doomed performer for their moment in Stewart’s immaculate spotlight. Women in varying stages of selfrealisation, from as diverse a range of backgrounds as you can imagine, both historically and socially. They are women who all have at least one thing in common. They have all decided to take back power.

Leonie Ewing, Jackie Galley, Vivien Jones and Gillian Mellor.

This extremely scholarly book describes in astounding detail the phenomenon of the Russian Futurist Theatre which started before the Revolution of 1917 and in all lasted little more than twenty years. For long it was forgotten. And only in the early twenty-first century was it (to some extent) resurrected, and its genius acknowledged. A major credit for the author who has uncovered this knowledge. The author has researched amazing detail from notebooks and correspondence from these times which can give great inspiration to all who love the theatre. There are many coloured plates of work by the theatrical artists involved in this revolutionary theatre which are both beautiful and inspirational.

Published with Financial Support from Wigtown Festival Company. April 2018 Poetry and Prose 40 Pages Showcasing the work of four fine Dumfries and Galloway writing practitioners, this is essentially a well-produced pamphlet with observational poems, excellent photographs and short informative prose pieces celebrating the physical environment of Dumfries and Galloway all coming together to create a largely satisfying whole. This is a collection you can dip into at your leisure and find interesting, well balanced work by writers demanding of more attention.

The coloured and black & white plates collected by the author which are a superb accompaniment in realising the text. A landmark book.

Carol Norris

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Julian Colton

She was hoisted into the spotlight (which nobody thought to turn off) and dangled there: neck broken, lipstick still intact. Bright. bright in the Brightness. So goes the last stanza of The Conville Circus Vanishing Act, 1898, the opening poem of this remarkable collection by Sarah Stewart. In this starkly tragic poem, an un-named circus performer has just fallen victim to a trapdoor which opened too soon, plummeting into the black with a snap, and dangles, on display, in the spotlight. That this startling poem should feature in Glisk was not a surprise to me. Tapsalteerie are the rare kind of publisher who love new poetry enough to take risks, each one of which has paid back

Like Stewart herself, some find their power in words. In the poem Cocktails with Anna Akhmatova, we are introduced to one of Russia’s most treasured poets, who, when asked by her companion about her time spent waiting in Leningrad prison queues to visit her son “in blizzards, in bloodstained snow”, says,

A younger woman turned to me and asked: ”can you describe this?” I looked at the line of broken wives and mothers, their lips blue with cold, the filth of the prison walls, and finally back into the woman’s watery eyes. “Yes” I said “Yes”, I can Other women find power through their art. In the poem, You Ask Why I Seldom Write About Men an artist addresses the lack of men in her oil paintings – “husbands, brothers, fathers,” who she speaks to as if they make frequent complaints about not featuring ”dead centre of the canvas” in her paintings, and instead must keep seeking themselves out in the painted crowds. “Keep looking”, the artist

tells them. “Is that you? Slip of pale face, deep / in the twist and scar of the oils?”

her daughter. The shoppers plead to buy these essentials for the shoplifter at the thought of her girl,

The artist is coy, creative, in control, finally teasing her would-be subjects with a glimpse of themselves, keeping the coveted gift of her attention very much to herself.

…imaginary or not,

there you are. Lower right-hand corner, Arm raised as if to attract attention, obscured by the letters of my name. Another woman thrives not only through her power to create, but also to destroy, rebuild from scratch. In the poem, Miniature, a sculptor makes a matchstick model of her neighbourhood with the express intention of destroying it. Despite this plan, she still treats the sculpting process as an act of love and sacrifice, melting sweets to make glass for the windows, using tufts of her own hair in decoration. It is an exercise in power, self-discipline, rebirth. To her, the cost is worth it, despite her assertion that the process of making the model is:

… damaging my eyes, hunching My spine. When I set it alight, I will pay attention as it kindles To a blaze of scarlet and black, So I can write it, remake it, as the buildings flatten to ash Others find power through acts of solidarity. From the thundering cavalries of female warriors in Valkyrie to the female shoppers we share the aisles with in Superdrug.

Wadding toilet paper between her thighs Afraid to leave the house These are just a few of the unforgettable women who take the stage in Glisk. From Pompeii to Dundee, Shea Stadium to piano showroom, each woman speaks from a place in their lives where they are wholly, unashamedly, themselves. The key theme of this book is that of a woman taking and exercising that special power which is individual to her. In this, Stewart follows in the footsteps of her subjects. That Stewart is a poet at the peak of her powers is undeniable. That this is her first pamphlet is utterly remarkable. Stewart is a marvel. The absolute accuracy of her vision, the depth of her imagination, her unparalleled linguistic abilities, make this book sing with a singular, pristine voice which imprints itself instantly on the memory. It is impossible to tell which of these women’s stories draw from the content of the poet’s lived experience - Stewart is too talented for that - but there is no doubt that she is ringmaster to the most spectacular of shows. Glisk intrigues and delights in equal measure, and bringing so many women’s voices into the ring is an ambitious task that would baffle most poets. The question is, can Stewart make it a show to remember?

Yes. Yes, she can. Sara Clark

In the poem, Blood, a group of women rally around a shoplifter who has been caught stealing boxes of tampons which she says are for

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BOOK REVIEWS

BOOK REVIEWS reconciling these two cultures makes for fascinating reading. He writes about them with honesty and humility.

THERE’S ALWAYS TOMORROW A Memoir by Raghu Shukla Twinlaw Publishing, 2018 Pbk 163 pages b/w and colour photographs £7.99 ISBN: 978-0-993220-9-2

A memoir is a repository of the important milestones of one’s life. These are the words of Dr Raghu Shukla. And indeed, he has followed them faithfully in writing his own memoir. A village boy, born in India, he followed his dream to study medicine, to travel and to work for the National Health Service as a hospital doctor, and ultimately as a consultant physician in England. These memoirs provide an insight into two worlds with very different cultures. When a person leaves their native land for any length

COLLECTED POEMS Volume Two 2011-2019 by Tom Bryan Littoral Press Poetry Sixty-one pages ISBN 878-1-912412-10-5

But this memoir is more than the story of one man’s life. It’s a fascinating blend of memories complete with observations, many naturally medical, right up to the happenings in today’s uncertain world, and all written with a great deal of wisdom throughout.

of time, it changes their entire perspective – they acquire new insight into the workings of the wider world and weave their way accordingly to achieve their pursuits. For Raghu, the challenges he faced between

output still has enough zest and craft to satisfy his many admirers, especially here in the Borders.

Collected Poems Volume Two highlights erstwhile Borders Writer-in-Residence Tom Bryan’s later poetry. I’ve read and reviewed much of Bryan’s work in past pages of this magazine. As usual there is the fusion of Bryan’s North American roots replanted in ancestral Scottish soil imbued with his idiosyncratic flavour of Beat poetry and Blues. Perhaps not quite as sharp or engaging as his earlier work, this later

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The title gives the positive message from a man who has always believed in serendipity. Reading the challenges Dr Shukla has overcome, I can understand why he sets such importance to this thought. To sum up, life is what you make it, and Raghu has done just that, and more. I thoroughly recommend reading his memoirs.

Iona McGregor

MEMORY HORSE by Lisa Lee Dionysia Press Ltd, 2018 ISBN: 978-1-903171-50-9 PBK 69 Pages £9:50 Born in England and living in Kelso, Lis Lee is a unique voice in Scotland’s writing scene and a credit to The Borders. Whilst she has been widely published, I was not surprised to learn that Lee served her writing apprenticeship as a trained journalist. That she understands the bare-bones of writing is apparent throughout

this beautiful collection, and Lee draws deeply from the well of her own rich history from one page to the next, with poems that whisper, shout and sing in equal measure. That they do so from the heart, whilst remaining technically superb, is a credit indeed to this writer. It is, perhaps, the most challenging task of a writer to even consider touching upon the subjects that Lee explores so bravely in this collection, and to do it with such consistent skill is an achievement

STORIES FOR CHILDREN aged 7 to 77

the Baked Bean and it is hilarious. There’s

by Oliver Eade and Olivia Ruiz Eade

gentle wisdom in some of these stories too, coping with the bullies in the playground in The Tree Fairy, for example, and the environmental and delightful story about the little panda in China who has had enough of eating bamboo, No More Bamboo!

Silver Quill Publishing, 2018 Pbk with Illustrations ISBN: 978-1-912513-52-9 £10.99 111 pages Here is the collection of short stories for children that the reader cannot put down. The very first story about Dopey the Dog who eats things he shouldn’t made me chuckle and want to read more. Next, there’s the tale of Elfink and

There are fifteen stories in the collection and every

indeed. These deeply personal poems reverberate throughout the heart, and to reach the end of this devastatingly brilliant collection of poems is to feel that you have made a new friend. Lis Lee begins this collection as a poet, and ends it as a confidante. I have already found myself re-reading this book on more than one occasion. It shows such insight into the human heart that it is difficult not to. I was amazed to read that the majority of the poems in this collection have not been previously published, and am so glad that they have finally found a good home in Memory Horse.

Sara Clark

one of them is different. Oliver Eade’s imagination is in top form here. All age groups, seven to seventy-seven, and beyond, will enjoy reading this little book. Oliver Eade has teamed up with his very clever granddaughter, Olivia whose skilful illustrations of each story add the colour which makes this such a delightful collection. A happy Oliver and Olivia on the cover helps too! Thoroughly recommended.

Iona McGregor

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BOOK REVIEWS

THE CHERUB’S SMILE - Harry Somers Physician and Investigator by Pamela Gordon Hoad Mauve Square Publishing 2017 372 Pages PBK £8.99 ISBN: 978-1-909411-52-4 This is a brilliant, completely absorbing book of historical mystery. It covers the three year period 1444 to 1447 when negotiations took place between England and France leading to a Truce in the long running Wars between these countries. As part of this, the betrothal took place between Margaret of Anjou a princess in the French Court and Henry VI, King of England, with marriage taking place in 1445. Intricacies of layers of plot and a multitude of vividly realised characters, reminiscent of Dickens or Zola, carry the story

FINDING THE RIVER HORSE by Neil Leadbeater Littoral Press Poetry 75 Pages ISBN 978-0-9576608-7-8

PUNCHING CORK STOPPERS by Neil Leadbeater Original Plus Press. Poetry. 30 Pages. ISBN 978-0-9955802-4-4 26

BOOK REVIEWS THE FIRST BLAST TO AWAKEN WOMEN DEGENERATE Rachel McCrum Freight Poetry 71 Pages Poetry ISBN: 978-1-911332-42-8

convincingly through many twists and turns. The historical period, beautifully researched by the author, brings depth and realism. This is a debut poetry collection Particularly are the with a strongstriking title hinting at evocations of the French a feminist counterblast to Court, the English andKnox. French misogynists like John Aristocracy, the diplomacy Goodness knows there are and intriguesofatthem workaround between enough at the the Narrow two nations across the moment, many of them Sea. The author writes with in positions of great power and influence. However, this reviewer thought the collection less a political rallying cry or an In both Finding the River Horse emotive outpouring, but more an and Punching Cork Stoppers, exceptionally well written collection Edinburgh based poet Neil with an often gentle touch beneath Leadbeater has a deceptively the tough façade. Never less than simple, straightforward style. engaging there are pieces here Even though what you see is that remind in turns of Auden’s what you get, there are nuances Musée Des Beaux Arts and, not and connections to tease out surprising given her Northern Irish from poem to poem from the roots, the Louis MacNeice of, Fens to Portugal. Two enjoyable say, Bagpipe Music and Seamus collections to be read at your Heaney. Although poems about leisure with your favourite tipple.

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Julian Colton

homelessness, migration and refugees are interesting and hold great clarity elucidating these attention, the overall tone struck complexities. is of dissatisfaction rather than The narrator, Harry Somers, specifically targeted anger and trained in Padua and Oxford,a little sometimes I would welcome is portrayed as an effective more content that was personal and learned to to the poet inPhysician, addition toupabstract date with the latest medical notions. McCrum is essentially advances of poetry the midperformance 15th an individual Century. He always puts his sounding- voice railing against clinical responsibilities and the official line. However, one medical ethics before his problem or paradox is that the involvement in the investigation more personal poems areof court intrigues. The medicine the more obscure and difficult to of this period very wellBut there penetrate theyisbecome. researched informative. are so manyand strong, deftly written, In Chapter Ten Dr Somers o’clock poem is a funny (The Five Mind and body, concludes that standout), subtle and entertaining Ipieces reflected, were strangely in this collection it is little interlinked. wonder that she is a focal point in the world poetry and celebrated This novelofwould stand very by many. As evidence of just how well as an imaginative prequel well McCrum can write, witness to Shakespeare’s Richard III. this from Luss: Highly recommended.

Carol Norris Outwith the sanctified plots, sagging yellow polka dot cellophane holds brownish water, dead stalks ribboned to trees like hostages to memory. We trespass on grief – as I do here – There are recurring instances, flashes of brilliance like this throughout the collection that lead one to conclude this is the debut collection of a future major poet.

Julian Colton

DARK MATTERS New Sci-fi Poems

in its own strangeness, its own

by Russell Jones

a lasting impact on the reader.

Tapsalteerie Poetry 27 Pages

uniqueness without really making Strongest piece is Whatever

Happened to the Blue Whale in 2302AD? This poem is all the better for the reader being able

A strangely readable, but

to grasp an Edwin Muir of The

abstruse short collection of ‘sci-fi

Horses post-apocalyptic type

poems’ which would perhaps

scenario.

have benefitted from a stronger connecting narrative to give the

Julian Colton

collection a sense of direction. As it is, each poem seems stuck

HOMECOMING The Third Novel About Oisin Kelly

his experiences unfolds the panorama of the futile horror of this war.

by Iona Carroll

Harry is tracked by a psychopathic war veteran, Crusher Harrison, who has committed atrocities in Vietnam and is trying to silence him as a witness, by attempted murder. This man is the personification of evil and appears reimagined from the enigmatic and manipulating Eleanor Bradshaw in the earlier second book, Familiar Yet Far, of the series.

Silver Quill Publishing 2018 PBK £9.99 325 pages

There was no hero’s welcome for L/Cpl Harry Paterson when he returned to his home town only a looking away: A mutilated young man home from the Vietnam War to be cared for by his sister, Claire & brother- in- law, Oisin, needing intensive care both psychological & physical. They have to manage alone for the first very difficult six months. Devoted love and patient care starts to bring about a painfully slow rehabilitation. Harry is haunted by frequent flashbacks and nightmares which frighten and alienate his remote community as attempts are made by Claire and Oisin to reintegrate him. Through

By serendipity, Sister McFarlane, first name Hope, arrives after a four day car journey to their home, a little outback town, Kilgoolga, a remote speck on the map. Hope’s father was Scottish; her beautiful mother’s ancestors were from a remote tropical island in the Torres Strait, whose people were taken as slaves by the white man. Her family adopted and loved a crippled black orphan child who was with them till age ten when

she was raped and murdered. She was an Angel. There are strong echoes of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights here. This experience formed Hope’s determination to be a healer and she works with the wounded Harry and the impossible comes to be. Assisting in the recovery is the black & white orphan and injured cat, Mick. The background throughout is the awesome Australian Bush beautifully evoked by the author. In the memory of Oisin always is the wet cold windy Ballybeg on the West Coast of Ireland where his mother, Annie Kelly sits wrapped in a ragged shawl. This is Home for Oisin. In this novel Home for Harry is with Oisin and Claire in Australia. This is the third in a series following the life of the main character Oisin in Ireland, Scotland and Australia, which can stand on its own as a compulsively readable book. It also is the story about the unconditional love which can overcome enormous seemingly irreversible hurt and even hate, and can bring about miracles of healing.

Carol Norris

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BOOK REVIEWS

WHILE GOD WAS SLEEPING by Kathleen Mansfield PBK 551 Pages The phrase page-turner is often overused in book reviews. It implies a book which is gobbled up at a single sitting. One which, once laid down for a moment, nags at the mind until it is picked back up. It is a cliché, because it is true - but it can mean lots of things. The main thing it means, from a writer’s perspective is that they have got it right. Kathleen is one of those lucky writers who has ‘got it right’, although I suppose luck really has nothing to do with it - these things don’t happen by accident. It takes a deeply committed writer with a huge imagination and a heart to match to write a novel like this. We have found such a writer in Kathleen Mansfield. So what is a page-turner from a reader’s point of view? Well, I was given this book to review and started reading it in a café before I got it home, breaking my golden rule not to look ‘pretentious’ by reading in public. I tried to stop whilst I drank my tea. I couldn’t. I continued reading it at the bus stop, and on the X95, breaking my golden rule never to mix business with bone-shakers, and then, at home, on the sofa, with my shoes and rain-sodden coat still on - another golden rule broken. I didn’t even make the dinner. This is quite unlike me. And it’s all Kathleen’s doing. Born in Basildon, Essex, of Irish parentage, Kathleen Mansfield has spent over half her life in the Scottish Borders – and is a credit to the region, and then some. Having read her work in the past,

I volunteered to review this book before the other editors beat me to it, and am glad to say that my imagination is now that bit richer as a result.

While God Was Sleeping is a brilliant read, with believable and vibrant characters, whose emotionally complex lives intersect at the most interesting and unexpected junctions. In Meg, the main protagonist, Mansfield has created a rich and emotionally complex character whose fears and feelings, dreams and frustrations feel as familiar as our own. Meg is a single teacher who considers her best years to be behind her, despite the admiring glances of her mature students. A long-suffering caregiver for her mother, (who has challenges and adventures she could never imagine), Meg is a strong woman, caught in the difficult position of fulfilling a multitude of roles in a support network which sometimes seems unsure of her importance near its epicentre. But maintaining a healthy work-life balance is only one of the difficulties Meg faces, with ghosts of lost treasures haunting her past, and visions of loneliness lingering in her future. The lives of the people whose destinies cross with her own are brilliantly detailed, and they weave their way into their roles in Meg’s story with elegant strides, each adding their own unique style to the tale.

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Mansfield displays a high level of emotional intelligence in all aspects of her storytelling. This is a book which resonates with feeling, reflection, and appreciation of the everyday struggles and decisions in life which make up its triumphs and tragedies. It is a book which tackles the subjects of life which most matter, head on – how we deal with the mistakes of the past, how we reconcile ourselves with the reality which resulted from those decisions, how we heal, how we move forward. It also has some important messages to impart about the importance of relationships in our lives – which ones we should form, which ones we should change, and which ones we must let go. At the heart of this book is a single, vital question. How does one live well? It’s an incredibly difficult question to answer, and Mansfield has the wisdom not to ask this question flippantly. She does it with delicacy, through a hundred different decisions and a varied cast of characters, each existing in a colourful world which you will feel reluctant to leave once the book is finished. Packed full of surprises, with a mind-blowing finale that leaves you hungry for more, this is a book which breaks the rules - and is worth breaking rules for, any day of the week- and if that happens to be in a single day, then all the better. Sara Clark

BEST KEPT SECRET Caedmon and Cynewulf Dream of The Rood, 1 Cross of Ruthwell.

Many believe that the runes, as opposed to the Latin inscriptions, were added later, possibly as late as the 10th century.

Authorship of The Dream of the Rood and Acrostic These very earlyBest medieval poets, writing in Old writing ET 2018 Kept Secret. English, lived in the Borders region, Lindesfarne, Cædmon and Cynewulf, Dream of The Rood, Cross of Ruthwell. The author of this famous poem, which is unusual as Northumbria and present day Dumfriesshire, on the These very early medieval poets, writing in Old English, lived in the Borders theregion, narrator’s voice is the Tree of the Crucifixion itself, the South Solway coast villageand of present Ruthwell, the earliest Lindesfarne, Northumbria day Dumfriesshire, on the South Solway point coast of view from which the events are described. Part of village Ruthwell, stone cross inofthe UK, the earliest stone cross in the UK, this appears in the Runic alphabet on the Ruthwell Cross.

The author is not known for sure, but scholars believe the two main candidates are Caedmon and Cynewulf. Because Cynewulf usually included his name in his poems in acrostic writing, and Caedmon did not, he is thought more likely to have been the author. Acrostics are common in medieval literature, where they usually serve to highlight the name of the poet or his patron, or to make a prayer to a saint. They are most frequent in verse works but can also appear in prose. Caedmon 7th Century

Translation of Ruthwell Cross Inscription

At each side of the vine-tracery runic inscriptions are carved. The runes were first described around 1600. Around 1832, the runes were recognized as different from the Scandinavian futhark and categorized as Anglo-Saxon runes John Mitchell Kemble in 1840 advanced a reading referring to Mary Magdalene. The better known Dream of the Rood inscription is due to a revised reading of Kemble’s in an 1842 article. The inscription is translated as:

Krist wæs on rodi. Hweþræ’/ þer fusæ fearran kwomu / æþþilæ til anum. Christ was on the cross. Yet / the brave came there from afar / to their lord. Kemble’s revised reading is based on the poem of the Vercelli Book, to the extent that missing words in each are supplied from the other. Its authenticity is disputed and may be a conjecture inserted by Kemble himself.

The Venerable Bede talks about Caedmon in Historia Ecclesiastica IV. 24: Quod in monasterio eius fuerit frater, cui donum canendi sit divinitus concessum - How in this monastery there was a brother, to whom the gift of song was divinely given’. As legend would have it, Caedmon was unable to sing and knew no poetry, quietly departing the mead hall whenever the harp was passed around so that he would not embarrass himself in front of his more literate peers. On one such evening as he fell asleep amongst the animals in his care, Caedmon is said to have dreamt that an apparition appeared before him telling him to sing of the principium creaturarum, or the beginning of created things. Miraculously, Caedmon suddenly began to sing and the memory of the dream stayed with him, allowing him to recall the holy verses for his master, Hilda and members of her inner circle. When Caedmon was able to produce more religious poetry it was decided that the gift was a blessing from God. He went on to take his vows and become a monk, learning his scriptures and the history of Christianity from Hilda’s scholars and producing beautiful poetry as he did so. The countless translations and amendments to Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica over the years mean that we cannot know the original words of Caedmon’s Hymn with any certainty, particularly as many of the Old English versions would have been a direct translation from Bede’s Latin – so in effect a translation of a translation. Bede also offers no specific dates for the Hymn, save to say that Caedmon, a Celtic herdsman, lived at the Streonæshalch monastery (now known as Whitby Abbey) around 657 AD during Hilda’s time as Abbess and that Caedmon died around the time of a great fire at Coldingham Abbey, said to have taken place between 679 – 681AD.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

BIOGRAPHIES Although originally composed to be sung aloud in praise of God, the form and structure of Caedmon’s ‘Hymn’ is actually more akin to a poem than a hymn in the tradition sense. It is also heavily alliterated and contains a pause mid line, a style favoured by Old English poetry which was itself the result of the oral traditions being designed to be read, rather than spoken or sung. Unfortunately all that remains of Caedmon’s poetry today is the nine line poem known as Cædmon’s Hymn, which Bede includes in his Historia ecclesiastica and is said to be the poem that Caedmon first sang in his dream. Interestingly, Bede chose not to include the Old English version of Cædmon’s Hymn in his original version of the Historia ecclesiastica, but instead the Hymn was written in Latin, presumably to appeal to a world-wide audience who would be unfamiliar with the AngloSaxon language. The Hymn appears in Old English in subsequent versions of the Historia ecclesiastica which were translated by the Anglo-Saxons from the eight century onwards. The fanciful nature of Caedmon’s inspiration for the Hymn has led many historians to doubt the authenticity of Bede’s story. The traditional Anglo-Saxon poetry reserved for the worship of monarchs has also been adapted from the original rices weard (keeper of the kingdom) to heofonrices weard (keeper of the kingdom of heaven) in Caedmon’s Hymn. However, whilst it is unlikely that Caedmon’s Hymn was the very first poem to be composed in Old English, it certainly takes its place in history as the earliest surviving poetry of its kind, quite apart from its supposedly miraculous inception.

Caedmon’s Hymn in Old English and its modern translation (excerpt from The Earliest English Poems, Third Edition, Penguin Books, 1991): Nu sculon herigean heofonrices Weard Meotodes meahte ond his modgeþanc, weorc Wuldorfæder; swa he wundra gehwæs ece Drihten, or onstealde. He ærest sceop eorðan bearnum heofon to hrofe, halig Scyppend: þa middangeard moncynnes Weard, ece Drihten, æfter teode firum foldan, Frea ælmihtig. Praise now to the keeper of the kingdom of heaven, the power of the Creator, the profound mind of the glorious Father, who fashioned the beginning of every wonder, the eternal Lord. For the children of men he made first heaven as a roof, the holy Creator. Then the Lord of mankind, the everlasting Shepherd, ordained in the midst as a dwelling place,

Almighty Lord, the earth for men. Venerable Bede Last Song From The Vercelli Book in Italy Northumbrian version: Fore thaem neidfaerae || naenig uuiurthitthoncsnotturra, | | than him tharf sieto ymbhycggannae || aer his hiniongaehuaet his gastae || godaes aeththa yflaesaefter deothdaege || doemid uueorthae. West Saxon version:

For þam nedfere || næni wyrþeþþances snotera, || þonne him þearf syto gehicgenne || ær his heonengangehwæt his gaste || godes oþþe yfelesæfter deaþe heonon || demed weorþe. Modern English translation: In a literal translation by Leo Shirley-Price, the text reads as:

Before setting forth on that inevitable journey, none is wiser than the man who considers—before his soul departs hence—what good or evil he has done, and what judgement his soul will receive after its passing. Cynewulf 8th Century. (Possibly Cynewulf of Lindesfarne.) Cynewulf’s justification as a poet stems from the idea that “poetry” was “associated with wisdom.” In his Christ II, Cynewulf writes the following:

Then he who created this world…honoured us and gave us gifts…and also sowed and set in the mind of men many kinds of wisdom of heart. One he allows to remember wise poems, sends him a noble understanding, through the spirit of his mouth. The man whose mind has been given the art of wisdom can say and sing all kinds of things. By looking at Cynewulf’s autobiographical reflection in the epilogue of Elene, it is evident that he believes his own skill in poetry comes directly from God, who unlocked the art of poesy within him. Cynewulf and Tolkien Further information: Earendel Cynewulf’s poem Christ II, and also Elene, use the Old English word for the known world, middangeard (translated as “Middle-earth”) and was a source used by J.R.R. Tolkien for his legendarium, specifically the Eärendil legend.

Eala Earendel engla beorhtast Ofer middangeard monnum sended Hail Earendel brightest of angels Above Middle-earth sent unto men Tolkien wrote There was something very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words, if I could grasp it, far beyond ancient English.

NATALIE BEATTON (young writer) Natalie loves to write and paint when she’s not being active and playing sport. She enjoys nature and therefore chooses to write about it, it’s her way of relaxing from a busy life. CAROLE BEVERIDGE Carol Beveridge lives in Ettrickbridge having retired here after spending 30 years in South Manchester. She was born in Selkirk and grew up in Melrose so she feels she has come home now. Carol has written and published two short novels and has also worked on some nonfiction material aimed at confidence building and raising self-esteem. SOPHIA BLAEN (young writer) I love using my imagination and pretending I’m in made up lands. When I’m not reading or writing, I love to go mountain biking and spend time with my family.

LILY HENDERSON ‘I wrote The Soul Hunters on the front steps of my house in Summer. My favourite writer is JK Rowling and I’d like to continue to write about magic..’ PETER HOAD Peter Hoad is a retired sociologist now doing research on the history of voluntary organisations. He lives in Gattonside and is secretary of the Melrose Literary Society. RACHEL HUNTER Rachel Hunter lives in Kelso with her two young sons. She works part-time in a local coffee shop and in her spare time likes to write short stories, poems and blogs. You can often find her down at the Cross Keys on a Friday night singing at the local folk and live music night. She also has a degree in Scottish literature and German from the University of Glasgow.

PAMELA BOSANQUET Pamela graduated in Fine Art, later qualifying as an Art Therapist. She practised art therapy for twenty years in various aspects of Mental Health. She began writing poetry in 1983. After a career change, she worked in Theatre and wrote the first of her short stories. Now retired, she continues to paint and write at her home in The Borders.

ANITA JOHN Anita John is currently Writer in Residence for RSPB Loch Leven 2017-18, a member of Playwrights’ Studio Scotland, a poet and creative writing tutor. Child’s Eye, her collection of short stories and poems, is available from Amazon, and an extract from her play “Amy’s Dilemma” was performed script-in-hand at TalkFest in the Borders 2017. For more of her work see http:// anitajohn.co.uk/

BEVERLEY CASEBOW Beverley is originally from London, but has been living in Scotland for 26 years. She’s based in Edinburgh and works as Learning & Outreach Officer at the National Library of Scotland. She’s also an apprentice storyteller.

ADELINE LIU (young writer) Hello, my name is Adeline Liu and I’m 12 years old. I like to play violin and piano. Swimming and hockey are my favourite sports. I love reading humour and biography books.

COLIN FLEETWOOD Colin Fleetwood likes to enter the magical world of the writer whenever he can find the time. He enjoys writing poems, short stories and drama scripts. Colin was born and raised in East London, spent his working life in Sheffield and now lives in the beautiful border county of Berwickshire. SUSAN GRAY Susan Gray lives and works near Jedburgh. Her prose and poetry have been inspired by school years in Belfast and time spent in the West of Scotland sailing and enjoying island life. She has been a member of writers and poets groups in Edinburgh and the Borders and was a runner up in last year’s Scottish Arts Club competition

CAITLIN LIU (young writer) Hello my name is Caitlin Liu, I’m 8 years old. My favourite author is Jeremy Strong. I like swimming and dancing. I enjoyed playing piano too. VANESSA MATTHEWS Vanessa Matthews was born in Bombay in 1954 and in 1959 moved with her family to what was then Southern Rhodesia. During that country’s civil war, she returned to travel in India and later lived in London. In 1981, following independence, Vanessa returned to live in Zimbabwe. She lived in Africa until her late twenties. In 1984 she moved to Scotland.

related. I am also greatly interested in drama, art, creative writing, history, mathematics and of course poetry! EDDIE NESSUMO Doctor and award-winning writer of novels, short stories and plays. ELLEN ROPER (young writer) Ellen lives in Traquair with her family (mum, dad and teenage brother.) She enjoys writing poems and short stories. With “Trapped” she set herself the challenge of writing a Cinquain (nonrhyming verse of five lines 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables.) MORELLE SMITH Morelle Smith has worked in the Balkans as English teacher and aid worker, she collaborates with European writers, translating and editing their work and has held several Writers Residencies in Europe. Awards include the Audience Award for poetry, (Ukraine, 2014) and Autumn Voices prize for prose (UK, 2017). Her most recent poetry book is Shaping the Water Path (diehard, 2017). GRAHAM STALLWOOD After a lifetime in Insurance in England Graham retired twenty three years ago. He is presently in his Eighty Fourth year! He moved to the Scottish Borders eleven years ago with his new Scottish wife Rachel. He loves writing short stories and for the last ten years has been a member of the Eyemouth based writers group “Eyewrite.” JOCK STEIN Jock Stein is a piper and preacher from East Lothian. He brings to his poetry experience of the Sheffield steel industry, life in East Africa, directing a conference centre, a sabbatical in Hungary, and the politics of Scotland today. He writes poetry in many styles, serious and quirky, convenes Tyne and Esk Writers and chairs the Scottish Church Theology Society. ROSE WHEAL ‘I have always enjoyed writing and painting, inspired and encouraged by my Grandma Beryl and Nana Diane. As a family we fish on the River Tweed, and that is what gave me the idea of “Sid the Salmon”.’

ROBERT MORTON (young writer) I am 13, in S2 at High School and have an obsession for all things science

Carol Norris THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

THE EILDON TREE Issue 31 Winter/Spring 2019

Writing for wellbeing THE EILDON TREE, which publishes new writing from the Scottish Borders and beyond, will dedicate its next issue to writing focussed on the theme of “Connected” and what role being connected has in supporting our mental health and wellbeing. Whether you are brand new to writing or are a published author, we would welcome submissions of writing, poetry, short stories, reflections, (max 3000 words) artwork or photography (high resolution only) on the theme of “Connection” or how connection relates to wellbeing. Deadline for submissions Friday 22 March 2019 electronically to eildontree@liveborders1.org.uk For further details please visit www.liveborders.org.uk/theeildontreeandwritersgroup or email eildontree@liveborders1.org.uk or telephone 01750 726400 WRITING CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE! EILDON TREE ISSUE 32 will be published for the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival, 3 – 26 May 2019, a national event with the theme “Connected”.

“Connected” Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival, 3 – 26 May 2019