Eildon Tree March 2018 by Live Borders

THE EILDON TREE

SUMMER/ AUTUMN 2018 ISSUE 30

New writing from the Scottish Borders & beyond

www.liveborders.org.uk

Registration No SC243577 | Regist ered Chari ty No SCO342 27

CONTENTS EDITORIAL 3

BOOK REVIEWS

GUIDELINES 5

A Commentary

POETRY

Firecracker – The Journey Of A Lost Toy

After the Battle

Katharina: Deliverance

First Spring

Dragons Can Be Darlings And Other Stories

Man Made

Shaping The Water Path

Moonlight Kiss

The First Blast To Awaken Women Degenerate 29

Palm Trees in a Junkyard

The Year Of The Crab

Jam Season

BIOGRAPHIES 31

Some Recited Poetry

Sweet time a-flying

The Tree

Whiskey Jack

Cresting a Rise

Foreboding 10 The Cat Sone

At Dawn

The Farmer’s Lament

SHORT STORIES At home with Andy

No Turning Back

Shopping Lists

The Crow’s Nest

SCOTTISH BORDERS HERITAGE FESTIVAL

THEATRE 22

CONTENTS 2

THE EILDON TREE Issue 30 Summer/Autumn 2018

WELCOME

IT’S COMPETITION TIME: Welcome to The Eildon Tree, and, to quote The Weather Girls, ‘have we got news for you’: The next issue of the magazine, Eildon Tree 31, will be run on competition lines. The reason for this change is that, in the current economic climate, sustaining the magazine is becoming increasingly more challenging. In order to keep The Eildon Tree magazine going, in the short term at least, entry to the magazine will be on a competition basis with entry fees and competition prizes. It is intended that entry fees will generate enough revenue to finance the printing of the magazine. There will be first, second and third prizes in two Open Adult categories of poetry and fiction with prize money of £100, £75 and £50 in each respective category. The winners and second and third prize-winners in each category will automatically be printed in the magazine along the best of the entries shortlisted. All entries will be judged anonymously. 2018 is Year of Yong People and to show our continuing commitment to the development of creative writing at all levels, there will be a competition in fiction and poetry open to all school age children and young people (including Home Schooled children) who are resident in the Scottish Borders region. Entry to the school age competition will be free but limited to one fiction and one poetry entry per young person. There will be prizes of book tokens for first, second and third place per section. All prize-winners will also be invited to a prize-giving ceremony coinciding with the publication of The Eildon Tree 31 in Spring 2019 at a venue to be announced. Winners and runners-up in each category will also receive a free copy of their work published in The Eildon Tree magazine.

There is no set theme for each of the competition categories. The Adult competition is open to all in and outside the Borders except for employees of Live Borders and relatives of The Eildon Tree editors or judges. School age entrants must be resident in Scottish Borders region and will not pay an entry fee. Individual entries of a poem or story in the Open Adult category will be subject to an entrance fee of £5 sterling. Open entrants may enter as many times as they wish, but each poem or story must be accompanied by an individual fee of £5. There will be no entrance fee for school age entries. Entrants’ names must not appear on pages of their stories or poems. Names, addresses and category/title of each entry being submitted should appear on a separate sheet of paper. Please include the entrant’s contact details and if relevant, the name of their school and the entrants age if under 19 years. Of course, proud parents and carers can also endorse and submit their children’s entries if they consider them to be of significant merit. Entries should be sent to: The Eildon Tree Creative Communities Live Borders St Mary’s Mill SELKIRK TD7 5EW Tel: 01750 726400 E-mail: EildonTree@liveborders1.org.uk

THE EILDON TREE Issue 30 Summer/Autumn 2018

WELCOME

It is requested that in the school age sections, teachers only submit stories and poems which they consider to be of a high standard of writing and deserving of a possible prize. A deluge of entries in the school age category would be very difficult and time consuming to administer. Poems, short stories and non-fiction articles of local and national literary interest, as well as short novel extracts, are all welcome for consideration. • A maximum of 4 poems, stories or articles up to 3,000 words. • Electronic format: Arial pt 12, single line spacing unjustified margin. • Book titles and quotes should be italicised, but without speech and quotation marks, unless specified in the text quoted • Include a brief biography, maximum 40 words. • Please do not resubmit work which has been seen previously by the Editors. • For an informal chat please contact the Creative Communities team Tel: 01750 726400 • Teachers submitting work on behalf of pupils should contact the Creative Communities team for further guidance. The deadline for submission of all entries is 31st October 2018. Winners to be notified before Christmas 2018. Running a writing competition is a new and exciting prospect for the Editors and Live Borders. We look forward to receiving your entries. The editors of the magazine and Live Borders staff hope that contributors and readers will show that they value and support high quality contemporary writing in the Scottish Borders by entering the

THE EILDON TREE Issue 30 Summer/Autumn 2018

competition. We wish to maintain and build on excellent production values that currently exist for the publication. Of course it is still possible to see the magazine online via https://www.liveborders.org.uk/ theeildontreeandwritersgroups and we will be creating some space on the CABN website so people can download previous issues. It is hoped that these developments will help to secure a bright future for the magazine and continue the Borders’ strong literary tradition of producing top quality fiction, drama and poetry. The Eildon Tree is a highly respected literary magazine the whole country over and beyond. Winning any of the categories will indicate significant literary merit and esteem. Closing date is 31st October 2018 so you have 5 months in which to get writing! Send in those entries. Make a name for yourself. Julian Colton Carol Norris MBE Iona McGregor Sara Clarke The Eildon Tree Editors

CAROL NORRIS SARA CLARK IONA MCGREGOR

JULIAN COLTON

GUIDELINES WHERE TO FIND YOUR FREE COPY OF THE EILDON TREE

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

THE PROCESS

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

Publications Submitted for Review

We are now on twitter! For the latest news and updates you can follow us on twitter @LiveBordersAC

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

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMITTING WORK TO EILDON TREE

The opinions expressed in this magazine do not necessarily reflect Live Borders policy or practice in the arts.

Autumn/Winter submissions of new writing are invited for inclusion in the next issue of Eildon Tree. See pages 4 and 5 for full details.

HOW TO SUBMIT YOUR WORK

By post: The Eildon Tree, Live Borders, Creative Communities Team, St Mary’s Mill, Selkirk, TD7 5EW By email: eildontree@liveborders1.org.uk

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

PUBLISHING TEAM Lisa Denham/Susan Garnsworthy

GRAPHIC DESIGN AND MARKETING Live Borders

(Please note: All work should be sent to the Creative Communities team and not to individual Editors)

REPUBLISHING THE SAME AUTHOR

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

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POETRY AFTER THE BATTLE

MAN MADE

After the battle There was a graveyard of souls

This body of water called reservoir is as close as I can get to nature here, though it’s manmade. As man made as me, made from woman and man. Artistry shows in all we do, whether we see it or not.

After the battle There was a curtain of tears After the battle There was an encore of grief After the battle There was a sigh of relief

Ellen Roper Age 10

FIRST SPRING You equipped us with pens and paper, not just To keep us busy on long journeys, but to share Your own delight spotting nature. Birds. Rabbits. Deer. The other hidden lives that surround us. Yet years later, crossing the high border plains Battling the last rage of a week’s winter’s gales, Our swaying car passing overturned trucks, We trailed blinking-wet brake lights, seeing nothing. But on reaching you the wind dropped. Becalmed. Numbness befitting those first days, sleepwalking The long, dulled glass corridors overlooking The distant estuary, to your blinds-shut room. No horizon. And within days you were gone. We quietly retreated South. Routines resumed. Passers-by in their own lives didn’t know Or care. Held hostage to our senses. Curtains drawn. Missed calls. Cocooned reactions. Divisions. Darkness. Darkness. All was loss. It seemed an age. But out there, light’s gradual reach thawed The ground to a misty breath. First, snowdrops Nudging through. Birds, skittish, hungry, unseen. It must have happened because now, here we are: The sky, a bright and brittle smarting blue. The air a claw grip achingly unfolding. But still too sweet, too soon; embattled, winter-braced. What’s it all for, if not seen by you? Days must be lived in. What else can we do? First spring, then remaining seasons must come. Remembering you anew with each altered one. The first lambs are born. Let us count them for you.

Peter Burrows

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Sepia waves grab at foamy edges and there are fish in there, muscles moving in a brown world. I wonder if rocks line jagged, cratered, Mars-like depths. Or do they swim in forests? Do they know their bodies are owned? Council claimed? Only hooks with a license can pierce their skins. Or their names? Trout, truta, trota, breac, brithyll, to mouth a few. If they are indeed trout, I’m just guessing. It’s how I imagine them to be. And that’s all that’s here inventions. The council, the hooks, the names, mean nothing. Trout or not, the fish still swim.

Maxine Rose Munro

MOONLIGHT KISS He wheels away his cello on a trolley. We are not the most paying of guests, seated on the plaça with paella and moussaka. In any case, he does not claim monopoly in the arts of entertainment. His interests served, he leaves El Beso y la Lluna to Jordi playing saxophone, whose volley of notes might prove an earner. Such contexts weave our words and sketch books into one, spark a sudden memory of Joan Miró, and the folly of dividing poetry and painting, which suggests the moon might see a kiss approaching sooner.

Leonie Ewing

POETRY PALM TREES IN A JUNKYARD I was making my way on The Metro, from Long Beach to Los Angeles, heading on for the race track in Santa Anita, at the bottom of the mountains, where the summer fires often rage, often turning many of those glorious days of blue skies into grey plumes of glitter and doom. I passed through Compton, nothing more than a glorified shanty town, like something on the edge of Rio or anywhere else in the third world, where houses are barely houses and humans barely survive. The palm trees’ leaves were mourning the ghettos of Los Angeles County in an automobile junkyard where two dudes were standing, drinking in the shade in order to hide from the torture of that white sun in heaven. It reminded me of home, in Scotland, when we use to sneak into the back of old derelict buildings, as teenagers, getting drunk for kicks, thinking there was some sort of glorious future waiting for us on the other side of our adolescence, which was the ultimate goal for most people back then, the goal being just to be able to make it out of the monotonous existence of high school. No one cared about graduation, (we never used that word) just merely escaping was enough. I recently saw the same boys I grew up with, who, as men, spend their lives getting drunk in local bars,

faces now as weary as the derelict buildings they drink inside of. I don’t know what I was looking for myself, or what I thought I had escaped from, if I escaped from anything. I wondered, as I approached downtown, looking out to the west onto the hills, where the sign, those famous nine letters, lie, quickly realising it was not quite what I had once dreamed, even though I was heading east, away from that kind of crowd, with no grand illusions I was deviating from anything. I was merely on a different path, heading for the foot of the mountains with who knows how many others, hoping with all hope to come out of that slaughterhouse of a betting ring with something, anything, even though we all knew better than that.

R K Wallace

JAM SEASON In the meditation of topping and tailing gooseberries I think of us in steamy kitchens capturing summer’s sweet stickiness behind glass as bulwark against winter’s bitterness. I remember the patient stirring of pans bubbling full of sugar, rhubarb, raspberries and the nervous testing for the setting point, drops like gems wrinkling on a cold saucer. I see the careful ladling into warm jars, the laying on of waxed circles, the final sealing. We shared the quiet pleasure of glowing ranks of well-set jam on the kitchen shelf. I shall miss you this jam season when I have do all this by myself.

Edith Harper

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POETRY SOME RECITED POETRY

THE TREE

Some recited poetry to avert madness Learn it, learn it by heart, A distraction from perpetual hunger.

I heard the fall, but did not see the fall itself This slow sky-aimed, green-feathered arrow Came crashing down in next door’s abandoned garden. We knew it as “Mrs McDonald’s tree” Legend said she’d planted it half a century ago. In this world of wood and stone, it was her mark.

To avert madness, lulled by the whisper of the sledge. A distraction from perpetual hunger, Those blank hours of the daily march. Lulled by the whisper of the sledge, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought… Those blank hours of the daily march, Repeating stanzas, over, and over.

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought… focussing on this moment, not future or past. Repeating stanzas, over, and over, longing for the hiss of the primus stove. Focussing on this moment, not future or past, not on the pemmican hoosh bubbling. Longing for the hiss of the primus stove, a rhythm, a pulse, like an old squeezebox. Not on the pemmican hoosh bubbling, some recited poetry. A rhythm, a pulse, like an old squeezebox, learn it, learn it by heart.

Kathryn Metcalfe

SWEET TIME A-FLYING Time, you deceitful old devil… Aged ten we have all the time in the world. Forty, and still some to spare. At fifty though we start to count the years ahead. Then at seventy…eighty… Wowie, where did it go? How did the past become so squeezed-up? Where went those emaciated years? Dear God, can I have another go, please?

Ronnie Price

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Her husband and one son long dead, another Down south, who hardly visited her at all. She was alone; The garden was her limit of existence. Sunlight streamed through this new gap, and more than once That same afternoon, I caught myself staring stupidly At this raw cut, this open wound of wind and light, Made by four men with their chainsaws. One had climbed Up the trunk, as if to meet the tree on its own terms To talk it down, explaining why this had to happen. “You’ve done well, old thing. See how high you’ve grown, How closer you are to Heaven than when you first started You left behind a lesser earth; it’s much improved! Come down. I’ll hold your hand. I promise”. A rope was wrapped Around the bole, the metal teeth bit, the end drew near. History became a matter of minutes, seconds. Angles developed, acute perceptions cracked and shattered The earth shook, cut deep. Its last act was to land On a paving stone, cracking it in two. This is where I came in. As I said, I heard but did not see. I’d been collecting logs – it’s arms and hands, no less – From the smiling men for a later burning. As payment I’d offered tea and biscuits “Just finish off the entire pack lads, thanks again!” Later I’d laugh with mum over the idea That a solo pack of biscuits was good Payment for all this fresh firewood! As they ate I went around the back and found the tree laid out

POETRY Bisecting the back garden, this wooden hypotenuse With its still-white stump. For half an hour I wrestled logs away Picking the choicest cuts, the most wood I could carry. Half-way there I rested, and stood in wonder at the sundered ground The riven earth, the shattered stone. There was one log, however, I couldn’t get, tucked just under the trunk. Eventually, I worked it free, and I stood amazed. At the soft bark skin, the living wet within The ancient water held in thrall to wood. Exposed to unforgiving air, it slowly dried. “What kind of tree was it?” I asked. “A spruce” Came the reply, mouth full of custard cream. So that’s it. Named. Indefinite article applied. For us it was the tree; to them, a tree. One of many they had felled in their time, Nothing more. What did it think of this new world It had not sought to move towards, That caught its quarter-circle with a crash? Did it mourn the loss of horizons, a diminished sky? At least, that was how I imagined it. Traipsing home To altered skylines I caught a glimpse of an old lady Through the kitchen window. Sad she seemed, This first planter. Downhearted, dumbstruck by The fall of her disciple, her final child.

Andrew McEwan

WHISKEY JACK He drank the way a saw is drawn across a tree, the blade at first filling the space of what is displaced, holding it together for a while. But the wrenching free is more difficult every time, each stroke biting more deeply than the last, cutting through

GLEN SANNOX Cresting a rise you find yourself enwrapped in something near sheer fright a cringing yet elate-sensed inner space an aggrandised bemirrored hall, perhaps, of ancients, beards and brows and bony juts who drape from high as if some aracne blanket-folding mystery intersecting slopes to left and right somewhere off plain sight walkers zigzag down the glen give or take a phone or two they are the same good sort knowledgeable dads in shorts and shouty kids who claim rare bugs as me and mine who in the nineteen fifties viewed and screwed our eyes same tops that danced against the sky where bolder climbers crawl the prescribed routes to recommended peaks infringed by drift-soft power of cloud in steps unlike the grouchy backs of humped old Grampians. Solidarity of linked crags dropped from ridge walled against man boy and midge For the grip of men in these immensities as fragmentary and ineffectual as memories of ancient holidays in the valley of the insectual. Beyond the frowns of blanket folding elders the refracted eye sky-size peers in gaps and particles.

Philip Hutton

another ring, another year, until the last circle – the first - is breached, the heart broken, and all that is left is the falling.

Michael Stephenson

THE EILDON TREE Issue 30 Summer/Autumn 2018

POETRY FOREBODING

AT DAWN

I sense what is coming in your voice the stumbling of words the memory lapses so I will nail the present moment hard and deep that it lasts for ever and speak the words the only words that matter while I can for we are all vulnerable

I’ve lost the way to climb today each step I meant to take Leads me past the hills I knew and paths my boots would make I’ve seen the deer in battling form in herds a thousand strong The blackcock dance in strut and tut afore the sun at dawn

and always the sweet soaring impulse to be free trembling hot in flames alive

i’ve seen the hills a-running with burns so thick with foam The heather soaked and flistening and bog-oak bleached like bone I’ve heard the screaming plover cry with whirling beats so strong As curlew mourn the dottrel pipe on tundra moors at dawn I’ve seen the hares a-skipping from brown to brilliant white And corries deep in winter snow from blue to purple bright Icicles flash a twinkling each droplet bathed in form And moonbeams step in shadowed form, afore the light of dawn

J. Ronay

THE CAT STONE

I’ve lost the way to climb today for each step that I took My map in head has lost all sight, I dare not stand and look By compass line and north degree, baptised but not been born For now I’ve lost my final year to walk the hills at dawn.

Forced in what Furnace? hurled in what Tumult? In what Glacier ground? sat now what Aeons round in bracken under steeps?

Jim McRobert

Chunk granite fifty tons and fifteen feet what covenants, what skirmishes thereby! Trysts beneath half blacked starry sky but never a what or who or why when they passed “Removal of obstruction” by at Any Other Business. Came quarrymen, lorrymen, fusemen, drillmen, shafts in those feline flanks were mined and dynamite poked into blackness that small deflection of the road be realigned and Humber peaceably pass Hillman. So what rebuff, what slight or sniff or tiff served to dish offical policy? ...did fishy whiff, a baited hint by phone deflect the plan? Frustrate the bang? Some cat! Some mat! Walker, cyclist on your way to Sannox, count the drill holes any day.

Philip Hutton

I’ve seen the steps of innocence striding in the snow Of birds unknown and little beasts, and animals as they go And lava flows and pebbles dash with mica shaped and torn For all my years as I did walk upon the hills at dawn

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THE FARMER’S LAMENT This pain, this pain a cannie bide aw this killin’ I feel inside they’ve ta’en aw ma lambs an’ sheep nery a yin can this fermer keep an’ not sae lang ago shot aw the kye ower thirty munth or so God yi know we love this Ian’ please show us noo yer mester plan. A’m sure a’ll no get ower this ma hert is bleedin’ it’s the sounds a miss tae me, tae me this wis nae job but a piece o’ pleasure a felt frae God a roon’ aw the fields an’ time in the byre an’ raisin’ yon calves or young lambs by the fire those killers in Government will ne’er un’erstan’ thur breakin’ the hert o’ this fermin man kin vi no see the tears runnin’ doon ma face it’s no whit yid expect frae a man o’ ma age.

Jim McRobert

SHORT STORIES

AN INVITATION AT HOME WITH ANDY Andy was a rough diamond from Glasgow who had acquired pace and polish as he went through his long and turbulent life. He had lived in Scotland and in Yorkshire, Cambridgeshire and London. He had moved into quite a few houses but had found it much harder to find a home. He remembered his first home. He lived with his Mum and Dad (sometimes), on the top floor of an East End Glasgow tenement. A room and kitchen, a long lobby with a coal bunker at the end, a toilet on the landing (shared with two other families). He told his Pals (Wullie, Ali and Gordie) that he lived in the Penthouse. He didn’t talk about the rats scurrying up and down the stairs. Andy didn’t mind them, on the stairs, but sitting in the toilet, reading the Dandy, he felt vulnerable and he got his Dad to fix a brass snib on the inside of the door so that the long tailed, large, Glasgow tenement Rat, shouldn’t get at him. He had always found work, at one thing or another. His Glasgow accent was sometimes a help, sometimes a hindrance. He made friends (not like his Pals in Glasgow) He lived in many types of accommodation almost always shared, sometimes with strangers. They could be Houses, Flats, Villa’s, Apartments, Barracks, Hostels, and Caravans -------they were never a home. Now he lived in Scotland’s Capital, (he didn’t tell his Glasgow Pals that he now lived in Edinburgh). His dream flat was all he had ever imagined. A small garden front and back.

Deep pile carpet throughout. Filled with opulent and stylish furniture. When he pressed down the light switch every one of the carefully chosen and expensive table lamps, all eight, in the two rooms came on at the same time, another switch and all his favourite bits of music flooded the whole house. ----------As the music faded,------so did the dream and Andy was faced with Reality-----The reality, was a very, large double doored, Victorian wardrobe, now his new and latest home, safely lodged in a passage off the Royal Mile near the Castle (A Prestigious Address at last) it had been a big task for Andy and his three Pals from Edinburgh, William Alastair and George. They borrowed a hand cart, loaded up the Victorian relic and pushed it up the historical hills of Edinburgh from The Grass Market to the top of The Royal Mile. The wardrobe was a big step up from his cardboard box. He had fixed a brass snib on the inside so that the Edinburgh Rat could not get at him. “Ah. Yes” he sighed as he settled down with all his worldly possions safely stored underneath him in the long bottom drawer that was his bed. “There is no place like home “.

Andrew Thomson

He told his Pals Wullie, Ali and Gordie that he lived in the Penthouse

NO TURNING BACK The door clanged shut behind me. The key turning in the lock much like the vice tightening round my heart. Fear choked me. Life! Life! It was my own fault. Stupid! How could I have been so stupid? The cross examination had been thorough. Dissecting my motives. Probing my character. My veracity. I was tired. I know I was. But that was no excuse. My brief had been confident of a not guilty verdict or, since it was Scottish law, at least a not proven verdict. Sure, I murdered my best mate and wife stealer John Swinton, but I knew it would be hard, if not impossible to prove. Renowned as the best defence lawyer in Scotland, with a formidable reputation and flamboyant character, my lawyers summing up had been brilliant. He mesmerised the jury as he carefully wove silken threads of doubt through the prosecutions mainly circumstantial evidence; creating a web to ensnare then dispose of any predispositions towards a guilty verdict. His final summation was truly theatrical. Chest out like a malignant bullfrog, both thumbs drawing his robe together he strolled back and forwards along the length of the jury box, head cocked, brows furrowed in his impassioned defence. Finally, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Pause. “For a man to be found guilty in our fair-minded country, his conviction must be beyond reasonable doubt. My client has stated time and time again that he did not murder John Swinton. So, after all the propositions you’ve listened

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SHORT STORIES to so graciously, there still remains the question, what happened to the body?” He let his words hang like motes in sunshine. Then stepping back, he raised his voice and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that there IS no body of the supposed deceased, because he is not dead!” The jury looked sceptical. “And,” again pausing for effect, “In a couple of minutes he will come through that door at the back of the court room,” he said pointing dramatically to the said door. Every head turned expectantly to that portal. Two minutes ran to three, then four. The sound of a gavel made them all turn to face the judge. “Enough of the theatrics Council. Either John Swinton comes through that door or you’re playing charades with this court.” “I’m sorry Your Honour.” He said with a sweeping bow. “John Swinton will not come through the door. But, every juror turned to look for him, so their very actions indicated their belief that John Swinton could be alive. Therefore, at the least, I call for a not proven verdict. I rest my case.” He sat down with a triumphal flourish. The judge scowled at my council. Adjusting his spectacles began his summing up address to the jury. Reviewing the salient points from both prosecution and defence councils he finally said, “Please do not be overly swayed by my learned councils dramatic end piece. Yes, he’s correct regarding Scottish law. And you now have to retire to come to your conclusions. There are three verdicts which you may return; guilty, not guilty or not proven. The learned defence council used a particularly dramatic means of showing there might be a reason

to return a verdict of not guilty, or not proven beyond reasonable doubt. It behoves me to draw to your attention to the fact that, on cue, every person in the room turned to look to the door. Except the accused. You need to draw your own conclusions in your deliberations.”

Robert Breustedt

even in the cupboard. I’ve never seen anyone eat so much. No wonder she’s so fat. I think she eats more than Ian and me put together. I should cut down her portions. I’ll buy some Jam That’s cheap enough. She can have that on bread if she’s hungry. I’d better get another loaf of Bread

SHOPPING LISTS Butter There’s an offer on own brand sunflower spread. I’ll have that. Bread Sliced white is the cheapest but I’ll never hear the end of it from Lauren if I don’t get wholemeal. Oil I’ll get peanut oil. I like it. It’s inexpensive, light and flavourless. No good for Lauren, though, with this mysterious peanut allergy coming out of nowhere. I don’t remember this coming up before but of course Ian backs up everything she says. Chicken Chicken thighs. They’re a bit cheaper. Vegetables I’ll see what’s on offer. I can do a chicken casserole for Ian and me with the peanut oil and I have a bit of olive oil left at home. That will do a vegetable casserole for Lauren, now that she swears she’s a vegetarian. A likely story. I know it was her who ate that ham I had put by for Ian’s sandwiches but when I taxed her with it she got all whiny and defensive and said I was picking on her. Biscuits? No chance. Madam would be through them before they were

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then. She’ll complain it’s not healthy but she’ll have to lump it. I don’t know why we’ve got her, anyway. I married Ian for better or for worse but not for Lauren. She says she doesn’t like her mother’s new boyfriend but she doesn’t like me any better. And why is she always here? Doesn’t she have any friends? Dishwasher tablets We’re running low. There’s bound to be an offer on. I suppose if we don’t get this loan extended I’ll be washing the dishes by hand and we’ll have to sell the dishwasher. I don’t expect I’ll get much help from Madam. I don’t what they teach them at that school Ian’s paying for but it’s certainly not self-sufficiency or the smallest amount of common sense. Anyway, the school will have to go, too, if the business fails. All these economies I’m making will count for nothing. We won’t be able to make up the debts by cutting down on the groceries. Perhaps Sheila’s toyboy would like to put his hand in his pocket for her school fees. I doubt it. He’ll find nothing in there but betting slips. I think Sheila has to buy his cigarettes for him. Cake A really small cheap one. I’ll put it in the freezer and leave a note telling her to put both casseroles into the oven when she comes home from school and take the

SHORT STORIES cake out to thaw. She can have her casserole and leave ours in the oven until we get back from London after the bank meeting. If it all goes badly at least there will be something to eat when we get home. Lauren’s meal will actually just need to warm through, but I’ll tell her it needs another hour to cook, otherwise she won’t bother to put the oven on at all and there will be no meal for us. The cake should be ready to eat by then. That will make her shift herself. That should do for now Black dress or perhaps Black blouse and Black skirt That way I can mix and match and get more use out of them. Actually I could have both. The meeting went very well. Better than we could have expected. We not only had our loan extended but we were offered a further top-up. This means we can really get the business going again and pick up all of those customers we’ve had waiting while we tried to sort things out. We were so excited. I persuaded Ian to stay in town for a celebratory drink while we made plans; then we took a later train home. The mood dropped a bit when we found Lauren dead in the kitchen. Anaphylactic shock. We were too late for an ambulance but we called one anyway, and the Police came and looked at the casserole dishes. I told them they could scrape her dish until the spoon came out at the bottom; they wouldn’t find any trace of peanut oil. I had been extremely careful. They asked if I had warned her about the oil in the chicken casserole and of course I said I had, but that it hardly mattered

anyway; Lauren was a rabid vegetarian who said the Meat was Murder. I said I couldn’t be expected to know she would finish her own meal and start on ours. Accidental Death. Of course Sheila was round here dragging the Toyboy with her, screaming that I had murdered her daughter, but I soon settled her hash. I told her if she cared so much for Lauren she should have made sure she was safe at home. I said that Lauren told me, on the one occasion that she wasn’t whingeing about something, that she was afraid to be alone with the Toyboy. You should have seen their faces! Sheila looked shocked and the Toyboy looked shocked and a bit guilty. Well, well! I think I’m on to something there. I also said I had not mentioned this to Ian. Yet. Flowers and a Wreath I’ll find out from the florist what size wreath Sheila is getting and then order the next size up. I’m not having Ian outdone by her. He was the only one who cared about Lauren, after all. While I’m out, I’ll pick up some Holiday Brochures After all that’s gone on, Ian could do with a good holiday. Not one of these bargain breaks, either. Now that we’re not paying through the nose any more for Lauren’s school fees, we can afford somewhere better. That should do for now.

Jo Jones

THE CROW’S NEST After dawn, the docks were a hive of activity. Between sailors loading cargo onto huge freighters, carpenters getting to work in the dry docks, the fish markets opening for business and the gulls and seabirds that flocked around them, the morning air was full of noise. Ren woke to it, as usual, and extricated herself from the pile of rags and blankets she used as a makeshift bed with her younger sister, Mira. It was far better than sleeping on the streets, though the two of them usually had to huddle together for warmth regardless. She moved carefully, trying to let her sister sleep undisturbed, and slipped out the window of the disused warehouse they called a home.

She felt like her heart was was pounding so hard it would burst right out of her chest She spent the day looking for work. She had been running errands for old Jacob at the Sunken Arms, an inn near the seafront. She didn’t get much for it, but it had been enough to buy a little food for Mira and herself, and had kept them going for a few weeks. Up until a few days ago, when he’d caught her stealing some of the old cheese from the larder, when she’d expected him to be out on business. That was the end of it. She’d caught a blow across the head from one of the heavy pewter tankards he’d thrown at her, and he’d told her not to come back when she ran.

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SHORT STORIES She tried taverns, dockyards, market stalls, anywhere she could think of where people might have need of a (admittedly small) pair of hands. She ventured into the Southern Ward, where there was usually plenty of work with the stables, or the many trade caravans coming into the city, but only for strong, able-bodied adults. As she had repeatedly been informed, nobody needed a scrawny little whelp who barely looked like she could withstand a stiff breeze, never mind unload a cart or push a wheelbarrow. It was starting to get late, and Ren was getting nervous. They only had enough food for a couple more days, at a stretch, and the idea of getting caught stealing again was unbearable. She’d gotten lucky before, occasionally stealing some fruit or bread from the marketplace when she’d truly gotten desperate, but what would Mira do if her big sister just didn’t come home one day? The thought terrified her. But she didn’t have a lot of options. Reluctantly, she reached into her bag, and pulled out the scrap of paper that had been sitting there for a couple of weeks. She’d came up with the idea a while ago, but had chickened out when she realised how much trouble she’d be in if it went wrong. Now, she didn’t have much of a choice. And if she was going to do it, today was her best chance. She took a deep breath, and started walking towards the Trades Ward. The man behind the counter eyed her warily as she entered the 14

shop, as he always did. Her pulse quickened. He was busy serving a customer already, but she could tell he was keeping an eye on her. She did her best to look bored, and pretended to look at the parcels of salted meat arranged on the shelf. “Hey!” The shopkeeper’s stern voice made her jump a little. “No touching the merchandise!” He turned back to the man he was serving, his scowl turning into a congenial smile. She tried to keep her breathing steady. It’s fine, she thought to herself. Same as usual. You’ve done this dozens of times. It’s no different now. Don’t act like it is. The customer paid, and moved over to one side to pack his purchases into a large backpack, the kind she had seen used by the travellers and caravaneers coming into the Southern Ward. The shopkeeper thanked him, and turned to her. “Now, what do you want? Another delivery for Merryweather? Strange time for it.” She walked up to the counter and handed him the folded paper. “Evening, Dorin. Mr. Jacob wanted some supplies for a trip. He’s leaving in the morning, so he told me to pick them up now. Said to put it on his tab.” She tried to sound disinterested, even though her throat felt painfully dry as he examined the order sheet she’d forged. He frowned and looked her hard in the eye. She felt like her heart was pounding so hard it would burst right out of her chest, but she kept her expression loose and returned his gaze, raising

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her eyebrows in unassuming confusion when he didn’t look away for a few seconds. Finally, he relented. “Alright. Stay there. I’ll get everything together. And I told you before, it’s Mr. Evensea to the likes of you.” He placed the order sheet on the counter, and walked off into the storeroom behind him. It was all Ren could do to stop herself from sighing in relief, when she suddenly realised that she was still being watched. Her eyes snapped up to the other customer, who had finished packing away his goods, and she almost choked when she realised he was staring at her. He wasn’t a remarkable man. He was on the older side, a thick black beard speckled with grey covering most of his face. He was dressed in nondescript travelling clothes, although his deep red sash reminded Ren of the extravagant merchants who’d come in on grand ships from the south. There was something odd about his boots that Ren couldn’t quite put her finger on, though, and then there were his eyes – grey eyes, like cold iron, that were fixed upon her. His gaze wasn’t openly hostile or leery, which only unsettled her more. He had a bemused curiosity about him as he regarded her carefully, appraisingly. What was so funny? Had she made a mistake? Should she run? A thousand dire possibilities raced through her mind, but instead of acting on her fears, she froze. She was going to get caught, and her sister was going to be alone, and instead of running and saving herself, she was paralysed with indecision. Then, the man simply picked up his bag and left. Ren blinked. Was that it? Her face burned as she realised how much she’d overreacted. Stupid,

SHORT STORIES stupid. Some old merchant gives you a funny look and you panic like you’re staring down a wolf? Dorin returned with a large parcel, and laid it down on the nowvacant countertop. “You tell your master that I expect to be paid on time at the end of the month. I’m not going to keep him on credit if he’s late all the damn time.” The shopkeeper grumbled, but she was too distracted by the parcel she now cradled in her arms to acknowledge him. She’d never seen so much food all at once, before. She nodded obediently in response, and left.

She took a minute to collect herself, let her pulse slow down. She didn’t need Mira wondering why she was so out of breath, after all. She felt a little twist of guilt. She still didn’t know how to explain any of this to her.

She’ll have to learn sooner or later. May as well be now. She thought, turning the corner behind the warehouse. And there he was, leaning casually against the back wall. The strange customer, with the cold eyes. She felt her body tense, her instincts screaming at her to turn around and run. But she couldn’t.

And there he was, leaning casually against the back wall. She couldn’t believe it had worked. The sense of tension that had built up inside her was rapidly dissolving into euphoria. This feeling alone was almost more exciting than the weight of the food she held in her hands. Underneath it all, however, a seed of fear was itching at her. What if she got caught? This was bigger than a loaf of bread. How would she explain this to Mira? She’d never told her about the thefts.

Her heart beat hard. Her sister’s happy hum drifted from the halfopen window above them. She couldn’t leave this man so close to Mira, despite the effort he was making to appear unthreatening. He was inspecting a piece of paper with interest, but she still felt as if he could see every bead of cold sweat that rolled down her forehead. That very same feeling of being watched had hounded her all the way home.

She suddenly felt exposed, standing on the open street with her arms full of stolen goods. She ran home, taking the backstreets when she could, but she wasn’t thinking about staying hidden, she just wanted to be as far away from suspicious eyes as possible. She knew she was being paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched until she was finally back at the warehouse, squeezing between the familiar pile of crates to safety. Only then did she stop to breathe.

He turned the paper over, and Ren felt her stomach twist sickeningly as she realised what it was: the fake order form. She’d handed it to Dorin herself. He’d left before her. She’d seen it on the counter! How could he No, she told herself. The counter was bare, after he left. I didn’t notice. But when? I was looking right at him the whole time. Yes, her inner monologue continued, almost ruefully. You

were looking right at his face. Not his hands. Not when he picked it right up off the counter from under your nose, not when you were too stunned to think straight. Idiot! She realised then, what had seemed so odd about his shoes. They weren’t the heavy walking boots of a traveller, nor were they the fine, ostentatious shoes of a southern merchant. No, they were light, dull in colour, and so soft-soled that his footsteps barely made a sound.

They were the boots of a thief.

“I have to say, this really is a fine piece of work.” His loud, friendly drawl reverberated in the quiet alleyway, making Ren jump. “Had that shopkeeper completely fooled. Might’ve fooled me, too, if I didn’t know for a fact that Jacob Merryweather has been out of town for a good three days already.” He straightened up, tucking the fake note in one of his many pockets, and started pacing back and forth as he spoke. “Now, the funny thing about theft, is that a lot of things are basically fine. If a cheeky little brat wants to pick a pocket here and there, or steal an apple from a cart, nobody really cares. The victims might be unhappy about it, but the guards aren’t going to put up wanted posters for a piece of missing fruit, you know? Life moves on. The city moves on. “But things like this-” he patted the pocket where he had placed the note, and clicked his tongue. “Well, complex little heists like this are a bit more complicated. You have evidence left behind. You have a lot more than just a day purse going missing. Even if it seems small, in this case, people pay very generously to make sure things like this just don’t happen to them. The guards are very grateful to have less of this sort of

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thing happening on their watch. It’s a truly remarkable arrangement on all sides, really. “That’s why it’s very important that this doesn’t happen.” He stopped, and turned to face Ren for the first time. He’d spoken lightly, conversationally, and wore a friendly smile on his lips. It did not reach his eyes. Ren was once again reminded of the terrifying sensation she’d felt in the shop, when this man had stared at her. Of being as helpless as a mouse, that had carelessly wandered into a snake’s lair. “That’s why, when it does, it’s very important that the perpetrator be punished appropriately.” The silence filled the alleyway like a flood of ice water. Ren noticed that the sounds that had fluttered down from the high window had also stopped. So now she knows. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except the both of them getting out of this alive. She thought of the makeshift weapon in her pocket, a shard of glass half-wrapped in fabric. She’d never actually used it in a fight. It’d have to do. Fear rose like bile in the back of her throat, and she swallowed it down resolutely. She couldn’t freeze this time. No matter how intimidating this man was. She’d throw the package at him as hard as she could, grab the shiv from her bag as she ran at him, and-

“Well!” The man clapped his hands, and she dropped the parcel in fright. “It’s a good thing nothing happened, then, isn’t it?” To Ren’s confusion, his smile now seemed genuine. “Fortunately, everything was bought and paid for in full, nothing was stolen, and although good Mr. Evensea will be a little confused when he does his bookkeeping at the end of the day, everything will balance out fine, so he’ll just chalk it up to tiredness and move on.” Ren was dumbfounded. “I don’t...” She frowned, and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Why?” The word almost sounded like an accusation. The man laughed, a booming, jovial sound that only unsettled Ren further. “I wasn’t kidding when I said your note was good work.” He shook his head reflectively. “Not to mention that little performance you put on. A bit inconsistent, but a good start. Seems a shame to put an early end to a promising talent like that,

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just because you don’t know what the rules are. Besides, if I can get a new assistant at the cost of a few coin’s worth of food, that’s a good deal for me.” Ren bristled at the assumption that she’d work for him. She already felt like he’d mocked her with his description of her ‘performance’, and she still didn’t feel any more inclined to trust him. “Yeah? A good deal, huh? And what do I get out of this?” His eyes turned cold again, and Ren regretted her outburst. “You get to live,” he said, his gaze flickering in the direction of the window. “You and the little one. I say that’s quite a debt you owe me. There aren’t many in our organisation who would give you the chance to pay it back.” Ren swallowed thickly, but said nothing. The package of food was still at her feet, and she stared at it numbly. They’d been desperate, but it hadn’t been worth their lives. What had she gotten them into?

Sam Deas

KELSO WRITERS Learn how to write better fiction and get your stories published A short story writing course and a meeting place for writers of various genres beginners and experienced writers welcome. Join us at the Abbey Row Community Centre, Kelso TD5 7BJ On alternate Tuesdays 2.30 pm – 4.30 pm £2 per session Email kelsowriters@gmail.com Or phone Iona McGregor 01573 410277 http://kelsowritersworkshop.blogspot.co.uk

Featuring Music & Arts Food & Drink

Beyond Borders Scotland @beyondborders_ #BBIF

in the Walled Garden

Beyond Borders International Festival

25-26 August 2018 Traquair House, Innerleithen, EH44 6PW

Full programme launched in June 2018

www.beyondbordersscotland.com

“It’s like joining a rather wonderful party, but you are talking about serious matters, interesting matters” Kate Adie, Former BBC Chief News Correspondent

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SCOTTISH BORDERS HERITAGE FESTIVAL 2017 REVIEW

“Borders – Where People Place and Myth Meet” “Borders – Where People Place and Myth Meet”, was an ambitious programme of four creative commissions which expanded the programme for the Borders Heritage Festival in 2017, Scotland’s Year of History, Heritage & Archaeology, to celebrate the unique creative culture of the Scottish Borders. The four creative commissions, Lighting the Borders, Sounding Out the Past, Where Teviot Rins and Illuminating the Past, formed key elements in the programme with site specific creative events and performances in historic houses and locations, across the Scottish Borders. Delivered by a new, cross-sectoral partnership comprising Live Borders, Scottish Borders Council, and the recently established Borders Heritage Forum, with support and involvement from creative and cultural venues, companies and tourism businesses, the programme took place in a range of locations including historic houses, fortifications, archaeological sites, museums, mill buildings, libraries and natural locations of cultural, historic and archaeological significance, drawing on the cultural heritage, history and the creative communities of the Scottish Borders.

Members of Pentland Writers exploring the John Buchan Way ©John McCann

THE JOHN BUCHAN EXPERIENCE On 26th September 2017 members of Pentland Writers entertained an audience with readings inspired by the wonderful selection of artefacts displayed in the John Buchan Story Museum, Peebles. We discovered some fascinating facts about John Buchan, perhaps most famous for his novel “The 39 Steps”, but obviously a man of many facets. Stuart Delves advocated him as one of the great nature writers, alongside writers such as Edward Thomas and the more contemporary Robert Macfarlane. Stuart read a beautifully observed passage from Buchan’s memoir, “Memory Holds the Door,” illustrating the author’s close affinity with nature and the Scottish Borders landscape. Archie Hunter, inspired by a South African inkpot, shone a light on John Buchan’s time in South Africa

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and how, in particular, he helped ease the conditions for women and children in the camps for displaced tribes, developed during the Second Boer War. Anita John highlighted the tragic effects of the First World War upon the Buchan family by reading extracts from the letters of John Buchan’s younger brother, Alastair Buchan and imagining his mother’s replies. Alastair was killed on the first day of the Battle of Arras in France on 9th April 1917. The Buchan family also lost their youngest daughter, Violet Buchan, to bronchial illness at the age of five. Peter Macnab, moved by photographs showing Violet’s decline in health, explored Violet’s short life, showing a lively mind and spirit, and resulting in a devastating loss for the Buchan family. As well as touching upon tragedy, many objects in the Museum inspired fun and flights of wild

imagination! Sara Innes, on seeing John Buchan’s collection of fishing ties, was inspired to write a beautiful poem detailing the elements of fly-fishing and brought the subject vividly to life with her reading. Peter Macnab brought a touch of humour to the occasion with his rhyming poem “From a Fish,” following in the tradition of both Robert Burns and William McGonagall! Finally, John McCann took us on two imaginative journeys with his readings, firstly escaping into the hills of the Scottish Borders as a young boy with all the freedom, danger and excitement that brought. Secondly, inspired by ostrich feathers used in ceremonial headgear, John explored the “Meaning of Life,” a clever and entertaining examination of the ways in which we use feathers to adorn ourselves, and a fitting end to the evening. For inspiration, the Pentland Writers spent time at the John Buchan Story Museum and benefited from the knowledge of Lady Deborah Stewartby, granddaughter of the famous author. They also walked the John Buchan Way from Peebles to Broughton and held an evening with historical writer Sara Sheridan, funded by Live Literature Scotland. Pentland Writers would like to thank the John Buchan Story Museum, Lady Deborah Stewartby and Live Literature Scotland, without whom this project would not have been possible, and to thank the Scottish Borders Heritage Festival for including and promoting this event. All in all, it was an evening very well spent! Anita John, on behalf of Pentland Writers

WRITING AUTHENTIC HISTORICAL FICTION AND MAKING WALLS SPEAK My aim, as a writer of historical fiction, aside from presenting a good story, is to give readers a ‘you are there’ experience. The key is authenticity, and although the primary focus must be on the where and when, much more is needed. I enjoy running seminars and workshops on creating authenticity and was delighted to be given the opportunity to provide two events as part of the Scottish Borders Heritage Festival. One was a daytime, interactive seminar, in Galashiels Library, and the other an evening workshop in the iconic setting of Mary Queen of Scots House in Jedburgh. The best way to ensure authenticity (note - we can never claim strict accuracy) is to immerse oneself in the period, so that it’s possible to write as naturally about the particular period as it would be to write about last week. The Galashiels seminar was an overview of lots of different ways of revealing period, including writing style and the use of archaic language; dialogue; lifestyle details such as clothing, food, and travel; and the wider context, including politics, economics, and social mores. We examined both effective and ineffective extracts from a variety of texts. It is easy to overload a story with extraneous historical detail, and even when correct a detail should only be included if it has relevance either for characters or for the plot. Anachronisms, whether of language or detail should be avoided: for example it’s good to check the first documented occurrence of a word, or the provenance of a plant. Geographical details are also important and we discussed

a particularly glaring inaccuracy in one very well known book. Good research is vital, including, wherever possible, visiting locations, and that is what the workshop at Mary Queen of Scots House was all about. We spent two fun hours considering features of the building and how they would impact on 16th century characters, including going walkabout inside and outside. We turned off the lights to experience how far candlelight could penetrate according to where candles were set; what it was like to write, climb the stairs or go to the loo by candlelight; and how much light could be seen through the windows from outside (note: for health and safety reasons we had to use battery operated candles, but they did flicker authentically). We considered the architecture, including the variety of colours and sizes of stone and the impact on the stonework of historic versus modern pointing. We threw buckets of water at the exterior in order to see how the appearance of wet stone differed from dry. We touched and listened and smelt. Amazingly, after 50 years without a fire there was still a strong smell of soot. Finally, we chose a character and imagined what it would have been like to be there, as that person, in 1586. Experiencing for oneself, as far as possible, is invaluable and I was delighted to later read a piece from an attendee, inspired by the event.

Margaret Skea

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SCOTTISH BORDERS HERITAGE FESTIVAL WORDS AND MUSIC SOAR IN NEW BORDER SONG CYCLE, SOUNDING OUT THE PAST Scottish Chamber Orchestra/ Scottish Borders Heritage Festival Lyrics and music are in my DNA, so the chance to write for brilliant composer Suzanne Parry and the Scottish Chamber Orchestra on a new Border song commission was heaven! The brief was tight and the subject – Border houses – epic, so we found ourselves wandering round Abbotsford, Aikwood Tower and Bowhill suspecting several symphonies were needed to do them justice, and wondering how we could work them into a cohesive piece in a very short time. We hadn’t worked together before, didn’t have a shared vocabulary or process, and there was also the terrifying matter of workshop days with children from four local primary schools, who would write and compose group songs to be performed at a public concert in Selkirk’s Volunteer Hall. A challenge! Visiting the houses, Suzanne and I were struck by how few stories there were about women who lived there. We imagined the feisty reiver wife of Aikwood Tower, who’d hustle children and cattle inside its broad walls, and roar through the arrow slits at the marauding horsemen. We wondered about young women singing for marriage in a brocaded drawing room, the despair of unsuitable suitors, the tightness of stays and the lovemagnified heart. We wondered about a ghoulish girl trapped in an oak kist on her wedding night, and her awful death, and hoped the whole thing was a mischievous fabrication by Walter Scott. As a dramatist, I was drawn to writing viewpoint lyrics for three women characters, including the dwindling

kist-girl. Suzanne meanwhile looked for themes and colours for her musical palette of three instruments – violin, clarinet and cello, and an extraordinary singer: Hannah Rarity, Scottish Young Traditional Musician of the Year. When you write a dramatic shape, you’re looking for a turning point, a volta when things change, to provide a distilled story-essence. With the ballad-inspired The Reiver Wife, this was the moment when she served her ‘dish of spurs’ and goaded her husband into revenge, with the bass clarinet creating a rumbling darkness into which delicate light grew in each chorus. The Kist Bride, meanwhile, was a heart-stopping countdown from exhilaration to despair. I’d offered a mischievous Scottinspired coda to suggest it was aha! just a story, but Suzanne’s better instincts prevailed, and the stretched moment of the girl’s demise, beautifully placed by the quartet – Three. Breath. Two. Less – was electrifying. Then, in The Palimpsest, we heard a debutante’s drawing-room recital for her secret love: fragments of Burns’ My Luv is Like a Red, Red Rose intercut with her inner thoughts. The Selkirk pupils meanwhile composed three further songs with our help: Abbotsford’s own stoney voice sang out in I am House, Joshua Reynolds’ Winter portrait of Caroline Scott came to life in Caroline’s Song (Bowhill), and in By the Ettrick Water (Aikwood), a reiver family fled from danger in a whirl of arrows hooves evoked by the violin and cello. The songs were beautiful and moving, and I hope tapped something of the spirit of the iconic houses that inspired them. We’d love to do more!

Three Border Songs by Suzanne Parry and Jules Horne can be heard online here:

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https://www.sco.org.uk/creativelearning/current-projects/1205sounding-out-the-past More about the creative collaborators here: www.suzanneparry.com www.juleshorne.com www.hannahrarity.com www.sco.org.uk

Jules Horne

FROM THE FLEETY WOOD more Dark Roads mean less Fluity Woods a hunt that ends in a defile: Buccleuch

Allar Bank alder, allar, becomes orchard; orchard becomes dwelling a transformation Hagburn to Hawk Burn a change of heart from Staney Burn to Honey Burn an alteration in attitude Hangingside to Hawthornside a shift in perception Woollee to Wolfelee

Laird’s Hill, exactly where you’d expect itbetween Rut Head and Eldrig a place of puns The Minister’s Entry The Acre is not an acre planted in the right place Cherry Cottage on Sunnyside

bourtrees mark boundaries the chapel wasn’t the first sacred marker at the confluence

The Common is a place you don’t meet every day

WRITING HISTORICAL SHORT STORIES

when the witter’s doon the bath’s broon

Historical research always leaves unanswered questions. While managing a family history project a couple of years ago, my volunteers found lots of interesting events but couldn’t discover what had happened subsequently, for example, did Agnes Aitchison’s son survive measles in 1882 ? There’s lots of scope for imagining what led up to incidents, what impact it had on people, what happened afterwards and creating a story. I set up a small creative writing group to create some stories for the Berwick Literary Festival. One story was broadcast last year as a radio drama. You can see some of these works on http://berwick900. blogspot.co.uk/search/label/ Creative%20Writing%20Group. Last year, I ran a workshop for Borders Heritage Festival about writing historical short stories. After talking about why to write historical short stories, research and historical sources and providing examples of newspaper articles, excerpts of reports, a picture, a map, adverts, a letter, accounts, a census page, a 19th century poem

the mint in Acreknowe Burn makes islands of our tongues every hope takes a dip now and then

The Fleety Wood: a proposal for the remediation of the upper Teviot watershed, was an artist project and book commissioned by CABN as a key creative commission in one of the four highlight projects, “Where Teviot Rins” which comprised the creative programme “Borders – Where People Place and Myth Meet”, in the Borders Heritage Festival 2017. It includes a watershed map (Gill Russell, with Alec Finlay); a phylogentic watershed (Alec Finlay, with Gill Russell); and place-names with translations (Alec Finlay with assistance from Margaret Scott and Douglas Scott). The booklet is available from CABN and morning star. This text is a response to local place-names and place-name elements, especially those around Hawick. by Alec Finlay

and a prison diet for people to look at, I read one of my short stories and talked about the difficulties I encountered. There was time for participants to begin writing a short story and an opportunity for a few brave souls to summarise the example they chose and what they had written so far. In a later session, some people came back and read out their finished stories.

by Peter Munro

COUNCIL

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THEATRE REVIEW

THE WINTER’S TALE, SHAKESPEARE AT TRAQUAIR

Courtesy of Shakespeare at Traquair Theatre Company

What a lovely evening and a beautiful production - it really was a delight. I felt genuinely transported and happily re- awakened to Shakespeare’s love for people and his ability to highlight our foibles with such humanity. There was such a gentleness to this production – the promenade aspect so deftly handled - scenes appeared and disappeared as we moved with the players through the tale. Amazing story-telling by the company - actors, director, musicians, dancers - and Traquair was perfect for that play - even the house was immaculately cast. And the shepherds – this aspect taking on a delightful resonance in the land of Borders sheep & the Ettrick shepherd – and I couldn’t help thinking - Shakespeare meets James Hogg – now there would be a play!

and taught throughout Scotland, the UK & abroad. She is Chair of the East of Scotland Branch of Equity and in Summer 2017 toured her one woman show Bonnie Fechters – Songs and Stories of Hope and Resistance” - about women of courage.

WINTER’S TALE AT TRAQUAIR. (31st May – 10th

June 2017)

the walled garden, and the bucolic charms of Bohemia, which were played out in a clearing in the woods. And there is nothing romantic about that first half. Shakespeare returns to old themes; jealousy, power – how it corrupts, how it is abused - and the suffering of the innocent. We don’t know the source of Leontes jealousy, it may lie in his boyhood relationship with the visiting Polixenes, it may simply be his tragic flaw, but allied to his royal power, it is frightening to behold. Scott Noble puts in a powerful performance as this tortured, cruel, irrational figure, desperately justifying himself to an incredulous world. The promenade situation allows him to direct his argument right in the audience’s faces as he paces up and down in front of them. Shakespeare allows his courtiers and noblemen the freedom to contradict him. They do not live in such fear as, say, Macbeth’s nobles did. So the drama is driven by the dispute between them, and we are drawn in as various characters appeal directly to us.

THEATRE REVIEW Please pass on my congratulations to all (including FOH, our guides & the barstaff)

Morna Burdon has worked in theatre for 30 years. Starting at Theatre Workshop Edinburgh, she has directed, performed, written

The first week of this year’s Shakespeare at Traquair production, The Winter’s Tale, was blessed with great weather, the second week less so. I caught it on the second Wednesday, a pleasant, breezy evening, if not always enough to disperse the midges. After Tuesday’s rain, however, those wonderful grounds were absolutely glowing, and the peacocks in good voice.

The Winter’s Tale, coming late in Shakespeare’s output, is often classified among the late romances. It is very much a game of two halves, or perhaps a homeand-away fixture, divided between the severity of Sicilia, which was reflected in the relative formality of

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THEATRE REVIEW

It was oddly reminiscent of all the political argument surrounding us at the time. Carol Norris as Paulina is particularly striking, her delivery having a severe and authoritative tone, a sign that she has a role to play in the outcome… Leah Moorhouse plays Hermione with all the dignity and pain and strength that Shakespeare requires of his innocently suffering women. She is less pathetic than, say Desdemona, and rightly so. So far, this is the stuff of tragedy: Leontes must surely die to clear the sickness he has loosed upon the kingdom, with Hermione an innocent sacrifice, like Desdemona or Cordelia before her. And so to the second leg in Bohemia, where the hapless Antigonus (Hugh Salvesen) abandons the baby Perdita and exits, famously, pursued by a bear. Or, in this case, four little robbers with swords, to be dismembered by a bear off in the woods, as reported by shepherd’s son Mike Boyd. Mike and Boyd Wild make a great father and son team of rude mechanicals, an absolutely surefooted performance from each of them. Director David Bon has fixed on the figure of Time, the Chorus to guide and inform us. This is played with panache by a masked Alyson Stafford, resplendent in top hat and black suit with longtailed jacket on which is painted a skeleton, white like an x-ray. She moves us on sixteen years by turning an hour-glass, just like that, to find Polixenes and the faithful “Camilla” planning to attend a rustic fair in disguise to investigate prince Florizel’s apparent interest in a certain shepherd’s daughter.

There is an element of genderswitching in the casting. Perfectly Shakespearian, but not as he knew it: Kathleen Mansfield’s brave and honest Camilla is originally Camillo, and Prince Florizel is played by Esme Biggar, so that the two young lovers, who would be played by boys in Shakespeare’s time, are played by girls – and very splendidly, almost in the girl-plays-romanticmale-lead tradition of modern pantomime, with Laura Day a wonderfully innocent and engaging Perdita. The fair provides the excuse for song, dance and music from the large cast of youngsters and the company’s perennial earlymusic band, plus some clowning from ace pedlar and con-man Autolycus (Paul Nicolson). We are happily miles away from all that cruelty and suffering in Sicilia. Then, in a distant echo of his one-time friend Leontes, Polixenes strikes. Angus Shearer plays him as sharp-witted and decisive, a bit of a cold fish, in some respects an opposite to Leontes. But now he turns severely on Perdita and her family, and with terrible threats forbids Florizel ever to see his love again. Of course Perdita’s origins are revealed and it all works out. We are still in the realms of romance… But what of Leontes, now that Perdita has been restored after sixteen years of penitence? Finally, Shakespeare seems to be offering restoration to a character with flaws of tragic proportions. The famous coming-to-life of Hermione’s statue is a great piece of theatre, but has always been problematic for readers and students. Basically, he liked to be ambiguous: you can take it at face

value if you are that gullible, but there is much evidence, notably the reference to the wrinkles Hermione has developed over the years, that points in the other direction. When this Hermione finally flung her arms around her suffering husband’s neck, however, the sense of restoration and forgiveness was quite wonderful, leaving us to applaud yet another S@T triumph.

Ian McFayden

CURTAIN UP ON SCOTTISH BORDERS PLAYWRITING PROGRAMME Challenging. Exciting. Rewarding. These are the words that best describe my experience as a playwright on the first Scottish Borders Playwriting Programme. I count myself very fortunate to be part of the project introduced last year by Playwrights’ Studio, Scotland (PSS). The group met for the first time in Heart of Hawick (HoH) in early July. We were all a bit nervous, unsure of our playwriting ability. Would each of us - amateurs - be able to create a new 45-minute, one-act play and develop it for public performance by professional actors? Fortunately, the steadying hand of PSS Associate Playwright Jules Horne was on the tiller. Her six monthly workshops at HoH discussed playwriting theory and practice. Reading and examining the work of established playwrights was inspiring. It was a battery charge for our work. In August, we sampled the mayhem of the Fringe, enjoying a workshop with playwright Lynda Radley and a performance of Frances

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THEATRE REVIEW

Poet’s award-winning Adam at the Traverse. A reception for playwrights sealed the deal. With Jules’ written feedback, I was able to shape 10 scenes into Better at the Strath, the story of Dougie, a 60-year-old teacher taking his first free bus trip to Inverness. In January, extracts from the group’s eight plays were read, rehearsed and staged at the MacArts Centre in Galashiels. This was part of PSS TalkFest in the Borders, a five-day celebration of plays and playwriting, including workshops and scriptin-hand performances of Borders playwrights Rona Munro (Brace Position), Tom Murray (What Lies Beneath?) and Jules Horne Horne (Handfast), which is due to premiere at the Byre Theatre, St Andrews, in the summer. As I write, I’m preparing for writer/ director James Ley to critique my (redrafted) play at a script surgery in Galashiels. I’d like to think that Better at the Strath can only get better. As I said in my rambling vote of thanks on the MacArts stage, I regard PSS as the NHS for playwrights in Scotland: a limitless source of care and support. More than that, the organisation has a key role in championing drama across all platforms and making a valuable contribution to Scotland’s rich arts culture. I’m so grateful to PSS, Jules, my local playwriting pals, the actors and director Stasi Schaeffer. It’s been quite a trip - mostly by bus and it’s not finished.

Campbell Hutcheson

The plea we hear most regularly and passionately from playwrights based outside the central belt of Scotland is, “please come here and work with us!” As a national organisation (albeit a tiny one), we take this responsibility very seriously. We encourage playwrights from right across Scotland to take part in our core Programmes such as Mentoring and New Playwrights’ Awards, and to make use of our Services like the National Script Reading Service. Over the last 14 years, we have worked with playwrights from Shetland to Wigtown and most places in between. However, in order to do something more intensive, and long-term, we needed local support and expertise. Having Jules Horne ‘on the ground’ as our Associate Playwright in the Borders allowed us to pilot a range of development activities – workshops, a writing group, rehearsed readings, script surgeries – and play our small part in facilitating a community of playwrights. The Borders is already rich in literary tradition and contemporary writers living and working there, so we were really pushing at an open door. We are delighted that the Programme has gone so well. We were pretty overwhelmed by the welcome we received from writers and public alike – and we look forward to what the future brings!

Fiona Sturgeon Shea Creative Director Playwrights’ Studio, Scotland

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The Playwrights’ Studio, Scotland Scottish Borders Playwriting Programme involved 16 playwrights, 67 aspiring writers and over 200 theatre goers at events held in Hawick, Galashiels, and Duns between summer 2017 and January 2018. Nine new Borders playwrights (Thomas Clark, Campbell Hutcheson, Kirsty Jobling, Anita John, John McEwen, Laura McIntyre, Robert Sproul-Cran, Sarahjane Swan & Roger Simian) received monthly workshops as a group as well as individual mentoring and script development with industry professionals. They are continuing to develop their scripts with Playwrights’ Studio. For more information about Playwrights’ Studio, Scotland please visit the website www.playwrightssstudio.co.uk

THEATRE REVIEW

TALKFEST IN THE BORDERS

exploration of character and plot even further.

‘What Lies Beneath?’ By Tom Murray performed by Firebrand Theatre Company

This was a new way of writing for me, a real learning curve. I am used to writing a play mainly through dialogue and speech. This process of workshops and reading has broadened my stage vocabulary. Watch this space for details of future full performances.

‘Brace Position.’ By Rona Munro Rehearsed readings by professional actors as part of Talk Fest in the Borders at MacArts, Galashiels 26TH January 2018. The rehearsed reading of What Lies Beneath was part of an ongoing process of play development supported by Playwright Studio Scotland. It included two days of intensive workshops in late 2017, which led to further work on the play culminating in the reading in January 2018 as part of TalkFest in the Borders. During this reading three superb actresses Ellie Zeegan, Janet Coulson and Fiona Wood gave life to my words.

During the second half of the evening I was lucky enough to be in the audience for Rona Munro’s play Brace Position. Rona is one of the most exciting playwrights currently working today. Her work for the stage include the trilogy, The James Plays, for the National Theatre of Scotland. For TV she has written for Doctor Who! Brace Position was a two hander which wove humour and emotional depth perfectly together. The play drew you in wondering what relationship the two characters were to each other. I went through various

possibilities until the answer was revealed and the story took on an even deeper context. Thanks to all who came out and gave such encouraging feedback and discussion during the question and answer session. Thanks to MacArts for such a welcoming venue. A huge thanks to Playwright Studio Scotland for their support of the workshops and the reading. To actress Fiona Wood, to the team at Firebrand Theatre Company, Janet Coulson, Ellie Zeegan and Richard Baron for their immense insight which gave me a different perspective to my own writing.

Tom Murray

The above named actresses, director Richard Baron and myself were involved in the workshops. The primary objective of the workshops was determining how best to combine dialogue and visuals in telling the story. This is vital as the play is to be being performed outdoors, set during an archaeological dig. There therefore could not be too many speeches competing with the elements. Visual image or action, in this instance, is more effective in telling the story. A story about uncovering emotions and facts that challenge the characters’ personal histories. The reading helped immensely to progress the

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BOOK REVIEWS COMMENTARY

poems themselves return again and again to the premise that an unacceptable idea can be made palatable just by gussying it up in the right terms – Tax Haven, Refugee Status, Shock and Awe.

Jock Stein Handsel Press 32 pages Poetry ISBN 978-1-9212052-40-0 When a new poetry collection opens with a poem on the subject of language, the reader cannot help but be drawn to it as a kind of foreword in miniature, a little manifesto for what is to follow. Jock Stein’s new collection Commentary kicks off with just such a poem - War Talk - a considered invective against language’s power to make benign and ordinary what ought to be unspeakable. Stein’s own examples – ‘friendly fire’, ‘smart bombs’. We can all think of others. But what makes Stein’s poem original and worth reading is the unexpected direction he takes this in. Language is, like the soldier who fight in such wars, as much the victim of the conflict as the aggressor – words like ‘col-lat-er-al’ wind up literally exploded, dispersed into their meaningless constituent syllables. This war on language is clearly something which concerns Stein greatly. Take the title of the collection itself, Commentary, that word which used to mean considered opinion and now is associated with little more than random conjecture. (Vide Stein’s own poem on this subject, Macro-economic Forecasting, which compares the ‘truth’ of pollsters and politicos with the truth of poets.) Even the names of the

A self-described ‘poet, piper and preacher’ from East Lothian, Stein and his poetry will no doubt be familiar to regular Eildon Tree readers. Indeed, some of the poems in Commentary first saw the light of day in these very pages. Strong and unsentimental, Stein’s is a voice difficult to forget and even harder to ignore. The ideas are always challenging. The images are always remarkable. And it hangs together exceptionally well, this collection, wide range be damned. From Tuscany to Guernsey to Catalonia, from modern Scotland to ancient Greece – but for all that, Stein is interested not in the past or in the elsewhere but in where we are now, and where we might be headed. Political, but not party political, angry, but not enraged, heartsore, but not hopeless – Commentary is a collection for our times, but - thankfully - not of them. Sara Clark

FIRECREACKER – The Journey of a Lost Toy By Pat Mosel Published by Twinlaw Publishing Nov. 2017. Price £6.99. Paperback. Pages 223 Large Print. ISBN: 978-0-9932220-6-1 A delight to read this flowing, kind and gentle narrative, which has no false word or sentiment, yet flies over our world, touching – really all of it.

A Magical Tale for children and adults. Yes, very much both, 26

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for distressed unhappy adults especially, this tale of innocence, with its insight and balance will be comforting. A yellow and pink toy Koala Bear is lost. She changes colour and glows vivid orange hues when either she is upset or learns something new, - learning glows, -these sparks were a part of her and there wasn’t very much anyone could do about them, though this tended to frighten her friends. Once - the glow lit her own way up the tunnel for several meters. Sometimes there was a glow of learning of

BOOK REVIEWS KATHARINA: DELIVERANCE

. The historical background of the German reformation and the peasants war has obviously been well researched with a discussion of various pamphlets that were circulating at the time. There is also a real feel for the buildings, towns and countryside in which the story is located and this benefits from the grant Margaret received from Creative Scotland to visit the places involved.

By Margaret Skea Sanderling Press, 2017, £9.99 pbk ISBN 9 780993 333149 Local author Margaret Skea has already made a name for herself as writer of historical novels. She has now turned to the rather different format of ‘fictionalised history’ in which real characters and events are presented in the form of a novel To mark the 500th anniversary of the German reformation, she has chosen to examine the life of Katharina von Bora, who became the wife of Martin Luther. This is planned to be in two volumes, the first of which Katherina –Deliverance has just been published. The main text deals with her childhood at home, stays in two convents, escape from the convent and time in Luther’s city of Wittenberg until she was about 25, but it is interspersed with flashbacks, dated 1552 when she is looking

gigantic proportions. That is just when something really good and brave is to happen as when a Good Witch restored from the ashes of the Bad One, places an acceptance spell on the little bear Firecracker to let you make a difficult choice, to accept yourself for who you are. There are no endings, just new beginnings. As when a magical chest of healing remedies, Tantrum Treatments, antidotes for witches spells and defoliants, pills for highs and lows, for claustrophobia and anxiety is finally found in the Castle of Mac Mac, who is being

at her past in an apparent state of delirium. It is all written in the first person historical present which means that everything is seen from Katherina’s perspective at the time of writing. This is a powerful way of expressing her thoughts and feelings but means that other people’s ideas and historical events have to be recorded when Katherina hears about them. This is very deftly done by means of her eavesdropping on what should be private conversations.

poisoned by the Bad Witch cum Housekeeper, becoming subject to destructive temper tantrums as a result. Other characters of course, Magpie who thinks he will be an opera Singer in the next life, but is rather a thief - or Collector he says, - in this one, causing a lot of trouble. His life is bravely saved by the Bear & Company despite this. Well, Firecracker, who had learned to count her blessings even although she was a stranger on a strange path, and company who - are never surprised at the

The reader knows from the beginning that Martin and Katherina will get married but the mystery is how this comes about, as it is not a conventional love story This makes for a gripping tale and the reader is left guessing as to how they will settle down to married life. Fortunately this should become clear in the followup book, Katharina – Fortitude, due to be published next year.

Peter Hoad

unexpected, says at the end - I will stay in this world for hundreds of years, just like the trees. I was made to last. Let us hope the the same is true for love and compassion which is at the core of this book. The delightful line drawings in the text of the characters, black and white, but some with colour, are all created by the author and are a superb accompaniment in realising the text.

Carol Norris

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DRAGONS CAN BE DARLINGS AND OTHER STORIES Kelso Writers 2017 ISBN: 978-1-912519-00-2 85 pages Pbk £4.99 From Maupassant to Michel Faber via Chekhov and Maugham, short stories have shone literary lights on behaviour and experience in ways that show us what it is to be human. This delightful collection of stories from the Kelso Writers’ Workshop does exactly that. All very different in terms of style and focus, they take the reader on a journey that is sometimes hilarious, often intriguing and occasionally disturbing. The amusing title story, Dragons Can be Darlings, has a darker side: the very real risk of mistaking identities of hospital patients with the same name. An old lady struggling through the snow with her zimmer frame gives two gerontophobic boys a lesson they’ll not forget in Blood on the Snow. In other stories, a cop turns out to be a serial killer, a girl’s imaginary friend could, it seems, be a ghost in Bluebells from Alice, we learn the story behind the ‘Leotard’, and a feather from a dying dove in Montreal, after being blown away, reappears as if by magic… a ‘talisman’, as suggested by the story title? Then there’s a psycho in Florida who goes after a woman who cancelled an order, whilst in the Fellow

Passenger an encounter on a train has me thinking about the physics of time warp. I warmed to the ‘rough-cut diamond’ of a Glaswegian of At Home With Andy, whose dreams somewhat exceed reality, but at least he ends up in Edinburgh and not Yorkshire or London. No Mad Dance, an individualistic piece of writing about a walk downtown in Kelso seen, or rather ‘written’, from the point of view of a dog by the Greek name of ‘Vasili’ and his forty-something female owner. This collection, the second to be published by the group, comprises twenty stories. There are many writing groups up and down the country, but few go to the trouble of making sure their members become published authors, let alone produce two books of stories. All credit to the Kelso Workshop for achieving this. I encourage Borderers to support the Kelso Writers’ enthusiasm and read these stories. Who knows? This might draw more potential writers out of the woodwork, for one thing is certain: good writing can only come from extensive reading. Order online at http://kelsowritersworkshop. blogspot.co.uk

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Oliver Eade

SHAPING THE WATER PATH Morelle Smith Diehard Publishers 58 pages ISBN: 978-0946230-98-3 Can there be a more challenging subject for poetry than that most innocuous of activities, travel? Nothing is easier than to set out to write about all the different places you have visited, only to find yourself writing the same poem about the same place, over and over again. And so there can be no higher tribute to Shaping the Water Path, in the first instance at least, than to say here is a collection of travel poetry which makes its places real. Individual. Here is an Albania not at all like its Poland. To move, between poems, from Smith’s Bosnia to her France is to make a real mental shift, to cross some invisible date line of the mind. As the world becomes smaller and smaller, and a McDonalds lurks on every far-flung corner, the ability to conjure up the wonder of a place seems increasingly lost, a gift from the Nineteenth Century long misplaced by our own. But here is poetry which blows that notion out of the water. Here is discovery. Here is travel. By the by, when I asked earlier if there was a more challenging type of poetry than the poetry of travel? I’m sure at least one person out there thought of prose poetry. Almost impossible to get such things right – but Smith manages it handily here. Take this passage from the title poem:

Beyond the Japanese screen – its beige branches, leaves, birds and blossom design on black

BOOK REVIEWS background, like a landscape glimpsed in a sudden headlight as the car crests the hill and dips down again, so the vision disappears… Prose poetry like this makes you wonder why all poetry doesn’t just drop the line breaks and get on with it. Imagery this powerful doesn’t need to tell its readers when to stop for breath.

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

Which is ironic, because if any poetry I’ve read of late warrants the epithet breath-taking, Smith’s fits the bill exactly. Over and over again I found myself stopped in my tracks by lines like

The sun has the whole estuary to itself, fingers water, turns stones inside out, revealing their true colours. and Don’t you envy birds this intimacy with the ocean? A generous and gorgeous collection which does not so much break new ground as re-open sites which ought never to have been buried, Shaping the Water Path is evocative, exciting, and completely unforgettable.

Sara Clark

This is a debut poetry collection with a strong title hinting at a feminist counterblast to misogynists like John Knox. Goodness knows there are enough of them around at the moment, many of them in positions of great power and influence. However, this reviewer thought the collection less a political rallying cry or an emotive outpouring, but more an exceptionally well written collection with an often gentle touch beneath the tough façade. Never less than engaging there are pieces here that remind in turns of Auden’s Musée Des Beaux Arts and, not surprising given her Northern Irish roots, the Louis MacNeice of, say, Bagpipe Music and Seamus Heaney. Although poems about

homelessness, migration and refugees are interesting and hold attention, the overall tone struck is of dissatisfaction rather than specifically targeted anger and sometimes I would welcome a little more content that was personal to the poet in addition to abstract notions. McCrum is essentially an individual poetry performance sounding- voice railing against the official line. However, one problem or paradox is that the more personal the poems are the more obscure and difficult to penetrate they become. But there are so many strong, deftly written, funny (The Five o’clock poem is a standout), subtle and entertaining pieces in this collection it is little wonder that she is a focal point in the world of poetry and celebrated by many. As evidence of just how well McCrum can write, witness this from Luss:

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

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BOOK REVIEWS THE YEAR OF THE CRAB Gordon Meade Cultured Llama 73 Pages ISBN: 97899 738133 Poetry.

style makes for a strangely very readable and paradoxically enjoyable collection. Perhaps in his desire to be truthful and straightforward this sometimes robs his poems a little of their ‘poetry,’ but in a collection centred on pain and stark life and death choices this is not unsurprising. Pieces such as Revision and Over and Over Again are all the better for being slightly removed from the immediate ‘C’ concern and allow the reader to emotionally breathe a little, but as he makes clear in

A Prophet of Doom Impossible as it may seem, my intention is to try and beat this cancer into submission with words.

The Year of the Crab chronicles a year in the life of Fife poet and cancer sufferer Gordon Meade; from diagnosis through to treatment and eventual remission and recovery. Given the seriousness of the subject matter, the treatment and its effects, one might expect such a collection to be downbeat and perhaps a touch depressing. True enough, Meade pulls no punches and in turn we witness his fears, his lows and grouchy complaints and, yes, at risk of embarrassing him, his incredibly stoical bravery. Written in simple, sparse, un-flowery language, his conversational often characteristic enjambment

There are many other strong poems in this collection including A Room With a View, SemiPermanent and A Trinity to name just a few. Having seen and heard Gordon Meade read I know he is probably a writer best appreciated at a live event where his wonderful softly spoken vocal style brings out the little nuances and inflections in the text. Though focused on the strong possibility and nature of death throughout, these poems are profound in their simplicity and immensely lifeaffirming.

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Julian Colton

BIOGRAPHIES ROBERT BREUSTEDT I returned Kelso in May last year after a thirty year absence. I have had a number of short stories published in writers group anthologies and am at present working on a novel for young adults. PETER BURROWS Grew up in Tayside and Strathclyde but now lives in the North West of England. His poems have appeared in The North, The Interpreter’s House, The Cannon’s Mouth, South, Cake, Southlight, Orbis, Reach Poetry and Ink, Sweat and Tears. SAM DEAS Sam Deas is a 25 year old lover of stories and aspiring writer, who lives in Hawick. LEONIE EWING She published Bairns and Beasts, with co-writer Barbara Mearns, in 2012.Her poetry has appeared regularly in Southlight and The Dawntreader. She had a prizewinning SF story in Fusion and a short story in Octavius magazine. EDITH HARPER I moved from Edinburgh to Kelso recently and have joined the Kelso Writers group. I write short stories and poetry and have had poems published in ‘Northwords Now’, writing magazine and, most recently, in the ‘Sounding Borders’ initiative souvenir anthology. PHILIP HUTTON Studied at Gray’s School of Art, Aberdeen, and taught art in Borders Schools, and continues Oil Painting and History of Art evening classes at Borders College. He has been writing poems since 2000, and has entertained the Melrose Literary Society with talks on Ruskin and Iris Murdoch. He is a native of Peebles, he and his wife Robina live on the High Street.

JO JONES Jo Jones comes originally from the North West of England and moved to Kelso from Canterbury in 2015. She writes mainly short stories and poetry. ANDREW MCEWAN Is always on the lookout for the next long walk, the next good book and the next cup of tea. A good story is all you need, and isn’t it great that the Borders is full of them? JIM MCROBERT My father’s relations come from the Canonbie region, I was schooled near Lockerbie. I discovered rhyme whilst recovering from a car crash. ‘The Farmer’s Lament’ was my first poem. ‘At Dawn’ was written when told I had Parkinson’s. KATHRYN METCALFE Kathryn Metcalfe is a published poet from Renfrewshire. She is one of the Mill Girl Poets, a group of poets who wrote and performed a stage show about the heritage and lives of the Paisley Thread Mill workers. She founded Nights at the Round Table, a poetry/ spoken word evening which takes place once a month in a Paisley coffee shop which has now been going for 4 years. MAXINE ROSE MUNRO Maxine Rose Munro has spent the last few years pootling about the small presses and online journals (most recently in The Open Mouse; Ink, Sweat and Tears; and Pushing Out the Boat). Find her here facebook.com/maxinerosemunro RONNIE PRICE Ronnie Price is active in a local U3 a poetry group and has had some poetry published. Ronnie is also a member of the Kelso Writers with five books having been published by MX Publishing.

J RONAY I’m originally from Edinburgh but now live in Aviemore. I’ve had gaelic poems published in GAIRM, Poetry Scotland and Northwards Row and also some English ones in Beyond Diagnosis, FIRST TIME and other magazines. I’m still scribbling away! ELLEN ROSA ROPER AGE 10 Lives in Traquair with her elder brother and parents.The poem came in one natural flow of expression after Centenary events marking The Great War and the haunting melody of a piano piece she was playing at the time touched her heart. 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. MICHAEL STEPHENSON Michael Stephenson lives and teaches in West Lothian. His poems have been published most recently in The Herald, The Glasgow Review of Books and 404 Ink’s The F Word. A first pamphlet collection is forthcoming in 2019 ANDREW THOMSON Andrew is a member of the Kelso & District Probus Club, the Kelso Writers Group and a member of U3A’s Poetry Group. An octogenarian with a passion for life. R.K. WALLACE Lives in the west coast of Scotland. He spent a number of years living and working in America. He is founder of Clochoderick Press. Palm Trees in a Junkyard is his first book of poetry.

THE EILDON TREE Issue 30 Summer/Autumn 2018

A wonderful weekend of talks, discussions, food & drink, live music, comedy and more for all the family...