Cat Wumman, is Stevenson’s second short story collection – nine different stories of contemporary Scottish life, inspired by folk tales, poetry and Scots ballads. We hope you enjoy revelling in the wonderful Scots language in this extract.

Cat Wumman: Tales o’ Nine Lives
By Gerda Stevenson
Published by Luath Press

Warlds Apairt
Efter a Japanese tale,
The Auld Wumman an her Dumplin 

‘DENNER TIME!’ 

The door bursts appen. Dinnae ken whit day it is, but I’m no in bed. I’m back in ma wheelchair. Mibbe the doctor’s been, or mibbe no. 

In comes the trolley. ‘STEW WI DUMPLINS THE DAY!’ 

I yaised tae mak guid dumplins, wi suet frae the butcher’s up the street. Tasty in a stew. But no in yon care hame. Like champin on sponge, thae dumplins. I gie a face like a soor ploom tae lat them ken whit I think o their trash. 

‘NAE NEED TO GIE ME YER GIRNIN GIZZ,’ bawls the astronaut. ‘WE’RE DAEIN OOR BEST FOR YE!’ 

‘Weel,’ says I, ‘Ye could stert wi findin ma hearin aids. Then there’d be nae need tae yowt at me.’ 

I’m feelin hungert, somehoo – mibbe aa the stramash wi ma eejit dochter. I tak a laith wee nibble at a dumplin. Bingo! It tastes no bad! Must be a new cook in this hellhole o a locus! I’m that hungert, ma fingers are fumbling wi the fork, an the dumplins cowp ontae the flair. The astronaut’s left the door appen, an the dumplins roll oot the room! Dinnae ken whit cam ower me, but I grup the wheels o ma chair, an I’m like yin o thae wheelchair tennis pleyers ye see on the telly, hurtlin masel frae the room, an on doon the corridor, chasin efter the dumplins like ma life dependit on it! 

I’m spinnin at tap speed noo, past a cleaner wi her mop – she looks at me, her een like plunkers ower her mask, fair dumfoonert! I’m juist aboot tae hit the double doors when a muckle sinkhole appens in the flair – an the dumplins, me an ma wheelchair gae fleein throu it, doon, doon intae a kinna unnerwarld. Bi some guid luck, I laund the richt wey up, aa in yin piece! I wheel masel alang a stane passage, the ceilin no faur frae ma heid, a single dumplin rollin aheid o me. There’s a thin sliver o licht at the tither end. I follae it intae a chaumer whaur fowk are sittin roon a fire. The smell o roastit meat maks ma mooth watter. Yin o them picks up a dumplin that’s cam tae a staunstill afore me, an gies it a sniff. They’re aa gowpin at me an ma wheelchair, like I’m an alien frae ooter space. I can see their pint – aathing in their hoose is made o stane – stane sidebuird, stane beds an seats (I’m shair I’ve seen this place on the telly afore), animal skins an furs; nae wid tae be seen, nae china plates nor mugs, nae cutlery – they’re eatin the meat wi their fingers. 

A wumman, her hair in lang braids, haunds me a bit. It’s wairm an tender when I bite intae it, wi a crispy cracklin on the ootside, the maist deleecious piece o meat I’ve iver tastit. The fat’s dreepin doon ma chin. I fumble for a hanky in ma dressin goon pooch, but a wee lassie gets up, an dichts me clean wi a bit o wuiven cloot. I’m mair auld nor ony o them, but they’re treatin me like I’m ryalty, or some god that’s drapped in frae heiven! Cannae unnerstaund a wurd they’re sayin – some furrin leid they spik – but it’s plain as parritch they mean weel. A man’s cutting ma dumplin in hauf wi a sherp, flat stane, an haein a guid look at it. I nod, an pit ma fingers tae ma mooth tae say: ‘It’s sauf tae eat – it’ll no kill ye!’ He gies me a bit tae try first. I pit it in ma mooth, an cast him a smile. Syne he cuts it up intae mair wee pieces, an shares it oot amang his fowk. Aabody nods – they like the taste o it. 

There’s a smaa windae in the stane waa, nae gless pane – it’s appen tae the air. I can see a beach throu it, an saund dunes, gress blawin in the wund. I wheel masel ower the stane flair an pit ma face tae the caller air – the smell o the saut sea maks me greet. I’ve bin locked up ower lang in yon care hame, wi naethin but the stale reek o bed pans an bleach. 

They’re aa watchin ma ivry move. A young wumman wi a bairn at her breist gies me a saft look, like she kens hoo I’m feelin. The bairn nods aff. She gets up an haunds the wee dossock tae me, wairm in ma airms, its hert beat agin mine. Ma dochter niver wantit bairns, an ma son’s the same. Truith tae tell, ye couldnae cry us a faimily. But these fowk I’ve fell intae, comin an gangin atween a hantle o hooses, they’re like yin muckle faimily. 

I get tae ken them, ilk ane o them. We dinnae spik the same leid, but we pick up a wurd or twa frae yin anither, an mak sense maistly wi signs, yaisin oor haunds. They seem tae ken whit I need – nae bawlin at me, nae shoving me aboot wi rubber gloves. They help me tae the lavvy when I need it – a chaumer, whaur they haud me ower a stane pit wi a drain ablow, the sea rinnin throu it tae wash awa the waste. They’re aye makkin douce wee sighs an souchs while they tak tent o me – I think it’s their wey o showin me they care. Syne they wash me wi watter they hae wairmed on the fire, dichtin doon ma maist private pairts wi saft, weet oo, awmaist like it’s a haly ritual. 

An they hae learned hoo tae push ma wheelchair, an tak me tae the shore. I like tae watch them gaitherin shellfish. The bairns rin aboot, pickin up cowries, clams an razor shells, bringin them tae me, drappin them on ma knee in a heap. I bade bi the sea when I wis a bairn, an it’s like bein back hame. A wumman gies me threid wi a fine bane needle, an I mak necklaces an bangles for the bairns, sittin there in the gowstie blaw o the saut sea wund. Ma arthritis disnae seem tae bather me – I can dae fine wark wi ma auld bowlt fingers. 

Whiles I wunner if I’m here, or if it’s juist a dwam… I huvnae got ma hearin aids, sae hoo come I can hear the seabirds cryin, the deer bellaein, an aa the soonds o the faimilies bletherin, lauchin, an singin? It’s aa sae clear! An the smell o life fair kittles up ma saul frae the meenit I wauken – breid bakkin on a stane slab ower the fire, herb drauchts bubblin awa – nane o yon disinfectant skooshed aboot aawhaur, killin yer senses. 

Mind you, I miss the tree ootside ma windae. I miss its wrunkelt bark – like me, aa the lines o lang life scored intae oor skin. There’s nae trees here. Nane ava. They burn dried seaweed on the fire, heather tae, an ony bits o drift wid they gaither frae the shore. I dinnae think they’ve iver seen a tree. I tak a stick o brunt heather frae the fire. Syne, at nicht, lyin in ma bed on saft strae an sheepskin, shaidaes pleyin wi the deein embers frae the middle o the chaumer, I draw ma tree on the stane waa. Its brainches are raxin oot tae me, an I’m raxin back wi ma airms. 

Cat Wumman: Tales o’ Nine Lives by Gerda Stevenson is published by Luath Press, priced £8.99.