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Leonie Charlton inherited a love of wildlife, landscape and the Hebrides from her parents. After the death of her mother she planned a journey across the islands on Highland ponies with her friend, Shuna, and as a tribute to her mother, a jeweller and collector of beads, Leonie would leave behind a trail of beads on her travels. In her memoir of this trip, Marram: Memories of Sea and Spider-silk, Leonie reflects on both her surroundings and her memories.

 

Extract taken from Marram: Memories of Sea and Spider-silk
By Leonie Charlton
Published by Sandstone Press

 

The three Terns from last night skittered by, all pointed wings and forked tails and chattering noisily, so close I could make out the flash of orange on their beaks, the tiny stab of black at the tip. I stood up and headed to the shore, crossing the sand to the huddle of rocks covered in seaweed. When I put my hand down to steady myself Bladderwrack slipped under my palm. Looking closer at the fronds of seaweed, on each one a mid-rib was visible and decorated with air sacks like small green olives. Oystercatchers pipped at me while I watched a canary-yellow Sea Snail take close-in suckery steps, stretch by shiny stretch. The magic of being down on this level, how much we miss as our heads go about our days all the way up there in the air, so far away from our feet.

I stepped onto the body of dry rock, where clumps of Sea Pinks seasoned the stone, and walked carefully to the end where it met a milky sea. It was a clouded-over day and St Kilda was nowhere to be seen. The rock I was standing on was black, marked with splashes of dove-grey and old-gold Lichen. I would leave the pottery fish bead here on the rocks, and the next spring tide would draw it away. A friend of Mum’s in Galloway had made these pottery fishes for her thirty years previously. Mum tended to stay clear of ‘craft’, seeing what she did as ‘art’, but this little pottery fish, with its blobby gold spots and clumsy yellow outline, was surely craft, and had somehow slipped through the net. I squatted down, laying it on the rock, and yes, it belonged. Its spots were the same colour as the Lichen, its body the very same green-brown as the Bladderwrack below.

Mum hadn’t been a great one for exercise, and was scornful of ‘sporty’ people, but she liked going for walks and riding. She also liked to swim. Some of my earliest memories are of her swimming in the public pool in Holyhead. I can still feel the surges of her strong breaststroke, how dizzily dangerous it had felt clinging on to her shoulders. Dad has a cine film of us in Ghana. Mum, young and slim, flared trousers, midriff showing and her hair swinging impossibly thick and red. A barrage of hair, surely too much for one person. And that colour, bright bay if she’d been a horse. The film, silent and speeded up, of her under a tree smoking a cigarette, walking and joking with the Ghanaian grooms at a polo yard, us being given pony rides. The African bush and the old Cortina on red dirt roads. Dad, young and handsome, his beard dark, eyes smiling. Will’s face already full of mischief, Tom and I white-blonde from the sun. The three of us splashing in an outdoor swimming pool, playing and performing for the camera. Mum at the side of the pool, laughing, diving in. I touched the pottery fish bead one last time. If I had another, I would have left it here, nose to tail with this one, like her star sign, Pisces.

Mum’s favourite bird, the Raven, croaked as we approached Vallay House which sat eerily in the muted morning light. I couldn’t see the bird, but the ponies were on the skyline by the house, heads up, looking straight at us. Ross’s mane was lifting out in all directions. He was getting saltier and wilder-looking by the day. They were standing against the disarray of an old iron fence, each upright post leaning waywardly, each cross-piece unsprung, a far cry from the neat line it must once have been. The rufous red of its rust stood out against the wet pigeon colour of the house walls. Gold Lichen swept the house’s graceful lines and curves. Large square windows, and small porthole-shaped ones, looked out at us, lacklustre without glass. The crow-stepped gable ends bit into a dull sky.

Parked outside the house was a tractor, rusted away to finger-touch crumble. The sea air had been hard on it. We looked through windows and saw tiled fireplaces, moulded ceilings fallen to the floor, a fire grate in mid-air where the first floor had collapsed. A sister Starling to the one we’d seen yesterday landed on the grate, hissing, her mouth full of Grubs, before hopping up into the chimney cavity.

‘Do you know anything about this place?’ I asked Shuna. ‘Did someone say it belonged to a photographer?’

‘Yes, a historian and photographer, his name was Erskine Beveridge.’

‘What a great name.’

‘It’s a sad story. His son inherited the house and lived here alone. He was forbidden from marrying the love of his life, became an alcoholic and died crossing the sands to Vallay, caught by the tide.’

The Raven croaked again. So close now it must have been somewhere in the building. Maybe it had a nest here, or was just on the prowl. We looked in on a circular room as a Pigeon flew low over the fallen debris following the curve of the wall, soft feather-flap of air as it passed before disappearing through an archway. The place was derelict but pulsing with life.

Ross and Chief followed us back down to the steading. ‘We’ll be back for you soon,’ I said to them, climbing over a wall. We wanted to explore the east end of the island and Angus had asked us not to go with the ponies as there were cows calving. As Shuna climbed over the wall beside me a buff bird whirred by before disappearing into the long grass.

‘A Corncrake!’

‘That’s the first one I’ve ever seen,’ said Shuna. ‘Oh, this place…’ I couldn’t agree more.

The tide was going out and we followed a trail of neat cattle hoof-prints and tiny pink cockle shells across the bay towards the promontory of Àird Mhic Caoilt. Past a gate with a hand-painted sign warning Cows Calving, Please Keep Out were the dun and the standing stones that Anne had told us about. The dun was easy to spot, a circular stone-built wall straddling the pre-existing bedrock. The sea was encroaching now, and I wondered how it had looked when it was first built 3,000 years or so ago. Had there been trees, and where had the high tide mark been way back then? Now the tides were breathing on the dun and sometime in the not-too-distant future the sea would take it. We sat on the grassy top of the wall but weren’t the only ones to ever rest there. Little tubes of goose shit were dotted all about. There was a fence running through the middle of the dun with seaweed hanging from each square of rylock. I loved that this fence was there, that there were no paths to this ancient site, no signage, and wham-bam, a stock fence put up right through its centre. It was a living, breathing monument with tides and cattle and geese smoothing its edges.

There was an entrance way to the right, a beautifully crafted stonework channel that I imagined had originally been a doorway but was now a conduit for the sea. A tiny bird watched us from a grass tump beyond the dun. Bright glare from the sun came through the cloud and the air was warm. To my left a thick hessian rope dropped from beneath the turf, hanging over the inner wall of the dun and disappearing into a tangle of seaweed and silverweed below. I found my bead, a gemstone I didn’t know the name of. Roughly shaped, its purple hues picked up the blush of an empty crab’s shell and the pink in the quartz running through the gneiss. I threaded the bead and tied it onto the thick rope, drawing the knot extra tightly.

‘Shall we leave the standing stones for another day?’ Shuna said. ‘It’s so nice just sitting here, listening to the Oystercatchers.’ I nodded, feeling a jolt of pleasure at the thought of coming back here sometime.

 

Marram: Memories of Sea and Spider-silk by Leonie Charlton is published by Sandstone Press, priced £8.99

Witherby’s publishing journey is one of Scotland’s biggest success stories and yet you will rarely find them mentioned in the mainstream book press. They have found their niche in books on shipping, which are read and referred to across the world. Well done Witherby Publishing Group – long may your books set sail!

 

It’s a little known fact that the oldest independent publisher in the English speaking world is based in Scotland and that its entire business is focussed around shipping.  So, as a company, we are very excited about 2020 having been declared the year of Coasts and Waters!

In 1998, Iain Macneil, a 3^rd generation merchant seafarer from the Isle of Barra in the Outer Hebrides, set up Seamanship International (previously Todday Publications), a company dedicated to the provision of digital and printed training and reference materials for seafarers. After building a global profile from small offices in Govan, in 2008 he initially merged with and then took over Witherbys, a specialist provider of regulatory and guidance publications to the shipping industry.

Now based in Livingston, Witherbys is one of Scotland’s largest and most successful publishing houses, with a portfolio of over 400 specialist titles that are exported to over 110 countries.

Established in a London coffee house in 1740, Witherbys has long been involved in the maritime industry, initially drawing up and publishing marine insurance clauses for use by merchants, ship owners and their sponsors. In 2008, when Seamanship International bought the company from the 7^th generation of the Witherby family, the name was changed to the Witherby Publishing Group and the company was brought, in its entirety, to Scotland.

At that point the hard work really began for husband and wife team, Iain Macneil and Kat Heathcote, as they set about the task of bringing the existing publications up to date, identifying opportunities for new publications and strengthening relationships within the industry.

12 years later, having grown the company tenfold, Witherbys is now one of the largest providers of regulatory and guidance materials to the marine industry.

Witherbys is the publisher for many international maritime bodies, taking on the responsibility for getting important information to a global industry that, while operating in English, is staffed by a diverse range of nationalities.  The  company’s success and expansion in this area has been due to its skill in ensuring complex rules and procedures are described in a uniquely unambiguous and straightforward style. This style was developed through continuous round table discussions with mariners, both from within the company and from outside, and for any new subject matter it is still the approach that is taken.

We keep up to date with regulations by observing proceedings at the International Maritime Organization (IMO) and through regular meetings with partner clients that include the Society of International Terminal and Tanker Operators (SIGTTO), the Oil Companies International Marine Forum (OCIMF), the International Chamber of Shipping (ICS) and The Baltic and International Maritime Council (BIMCO).

Witherbys also has its own successful portfolio of publications, primarily concerned with navigation, safety and operations for larger tonnage ships, particularly tankers and gas carriers.

Unusually, Witherbys has been creating and protecting digital content for nearly 20 years. It is estimated that there are more than a million protected Witherby eBooks in use today, on over 40,000 ships and in marine offices, including digitised mandated publications on behalf of the IMO (International Maritime Organization), the United Nations agency for shipping.

A privately owned company, Witherbys has a strong sense of community and social responsibility. Proud to be part of both the Living Wage Scheme and the Scottish Business Pledge, Witherbys also channels a significant percentage of its profits to its Charitable Trust, which supports individuals and groups in sport, the arts and education.

In 2019 the company’s 54 employees, including a modern apprentice and 4 interns, moved into a state of the art office and warehousing facility, ‘Navigation House’ in central Livingston.

To get a real insight into the company, however, we need to explain the pictures at the top of this article!

One of the most successful series of publications in the ‘Passage Planning Guides’, which are reissued at 2+ yr intervals and cover shipping ‘hotspots’ such as The Straits of Malacca, The English Channel and The Great Barrier Reef. They are always written and reviewed in partnership with local authorities and industry associations (such as UK, French, Dutch and German Deep Sea Pilots, Australia Reef Pilots, Port of Singapore Pilots and the Panama Canal Authority).

After a discussion of need for a detailed passage planning guide to the Panama Canal, particularly its new locks built for large LNG carriers and the like, CEO Iain Macneil, Commercial Director Kat Heathcote and Technical Advisor for Navigation Scott Campbell headed to Panama to work with the Pilots for 10 days, discussing every aspect of the publication. During that time they travelled with the pilots as they went about their duties guiding tankers through the canal, climbing up and down ladders attached to the sides of moving ships to do so!

It is this level of attention to detail and immersion in the subjects we publish on that makes us a unique and trusted source in our industry. The Future? More of the same.

In Catriona Child’s second novel, now out in paperback from Luath Press, we are introduced to Hannah Wright, a dedicated swimmer with a promising future in the pool. Then she meets Mariele, an elderly lady with a secret past, and an unlikely friendship is formed.When she is forced to give up her swimming dreams, it is Mariele’s own story that gives Hannah the strength to negotiate her new expectations. Here, we meet Hannah, unsure yet committed.

 

Extract taken from Swim Until You Can’t See Land
By Catriona Child
Published by Luath Press

 

It’s a dumb rule anyway, no diving. Diving is the only way to enter a pool.

None of this descending down a flimsy, metal staircase while it rattles off the tiled walls.

None of this lowering yourself feet first from the edge, the cold water chilling you from the toes up.

No, that just gives the water the advantage, gives it the power. If you don’t dive in, then you struggle to get your shoulders under. You have to bounce, bounce, bounce, try to plunge yourself deeper, deeeper, deeeeper, until you finally build up the courage to submerge completely.

You’re beaten before you’ve even managed to dunk your head under. Game over. Back to the showers with you.

Diving gives you the upper hand, puts you in control.

 

The woman doesn’t speak, although her lips keep moving. Vibrating, quivering. Dark, like she’s wearing purple lipstick.

 ‘Are you okay?’

 Her fingers spread and the purse falls from her hand. Change spills, rolling and clattering off the counter and onto the floor.

 I move out from behind the till but before I can get to her she crumples. There’s a thud as she hits her chin on the glass-fronted counter.

 Shit, that was loud.

 A crack runs out along the glass, slicing the reflection of Panini stickers, Rizla papers and mix-up sweets beneath it.

 My heart’s pounding as I move towards her. She’s lying on her side, blood dripping from her chin. Her false teeth have fallen out. I accidentally kick them in my haste and they spin away across the floor.

 I kneel beside her, knock a display of chewing gum off the edge of the counter. It falls, showering us with packets of Extra.

 ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say.

 She doesn’t look well, not well at all. She gasps for breath, fumbles with the buttons on the collar of her blouse, blood pours down onto her hands but I don’t think she’s noticed she’s bleeding.

 ‘I’ll get that,’ I say and undo her top button. Her hands grab at mine, clammy and damp.

 She’s wearing a silk scarf tied around her neck so I lift it, press it against the cut. The blood, warm and sticky, seeps into it, turns the pale silk dark.

 Shit, what do I do? What the hell do I do?

 Shirley’s the first aider, not me. Where is she?

 

The chlorine, the wet, the chill, it hits you all at once but it doesn’t matter. Because you’re straight into your stroke and the cold’s gone before you’re halfway down your first length.

I know how to work the water with my hands, with my feet. I know the shapes to make with my arms, my legs. Keyhole, figure of eight, breakout, pull through. My hands are paddles, the roll of my shoulders, the froth at my toes.

Push me on, propel me forward. Push me on, propel me forward.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

 

My hands shake as I squeeze the scarf. Blood oozes, dribbles between my knuckles.

 ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be alright,’ I say, but my voice is different from how it normally sounds.

 Her eyes roll backwards, eyelids fluttering. She looks worse now, if that’s even possible. There’s no colour in her face, drained away with the blood through her chin.

 Shit, I think she’s dying. She’s dying and I’m just sitting here letting it happen. I need to do something.

 Come on, Hannah.

 I let go of the scarf. My hands are covered in blood and I wipe them on the woman’s jacket before digging my mobile out of my jeans pocket.

 999

 ‘Hello, you’re through to emergency services, what service do you require?’

 My brain has stopped working. Service? What service do I require?

 Ambulance, ambulance, ambulance, ambulance.

 ‘Sorry, ambulance, please.’

 ‘That’s alright. Can you tell me what’s happened and the address?’

 ‘It’s Shop Better, on the High Street in Kinross. I’m sorry, I can’t remember the exact number, next to the Post Office. An old woman’s collapsed, she’s bleeding.’

 ‘Is she breathing?’

 

. . .

 

Cap tight against my skull, costume a size too small, slick against shaved skin. Bubbles rise to the surface from my nose, my mouth.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

The water slides off me, gathers like pearls on my nails, my bare skin. I’m impervious. Silky and varnished.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

 

. . .

 

Her face is red, hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.

 ‘I need help can you breathe for me?’

 I know it’s a horrible thing to think but I don’t want to go near that old woman. I don’t want to touch her. Her chin’s stained with blood, seeped into the wrinkles, paint filling in the cracks.

 ‘I don’t know how.’

 ‘I’ll show you.’

 I shuffle forward so I’m on the other side of the woman.

 ‘Pinch her nose, form a seal.’

 I lean forward. She smells. It’s so strong, meaty.

 I put my lips over her mouth, slowly, willing the ambulance to show.

 I try not to think about what I’m doing. Think about anything else, even Shirley doing Dad is preferable to this. Shirley’s tits, Shirley’s tits, Shirley’s tits.

 The woman’s face is cold, clammy. I can taste salt. I close my eyes, blow, but I’m barely touching her, not forming the seal that Shirley’s so keen on. My hair’s covering her face, it makes it easier. I press down harder, blow again. Pretend I’m kissing a mermaid.

 ‘Well done, one and two and t h r e e and four and five and six…’

 Shirley’s counting’s getting slower, her chest heaving.

 Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

 ‘…twenty-six and twenty-seven and twent y – e i ght and twenty-nine and thirty.’

 Mermaid kiss, mermaid kiss.

 ‘One and two and three and four…’

 

Dark tiles, T-shaped on the bottom of the pool tell me the wall’s coming. I don’t need the reminder though, I know exactly where I am.

I know the number of strokes, the number of breaths. I close my eyes and I still know where the wall is. I can’t gauge distance on dry land, but in the pool I have an inbuilt GPS system.

I stretch with my arm, a flash of red fingernails. Then my hand pulls me down, flips me over into a tumble turn. My feet plant on the wall, firm, no sliding on wet tiles. Knees bend, I thrust myself forward, arms out in front, head down. Streamline. A short breakout, hips undulating, dolphin kick, then I’m back into my stroke.

 

. . .

 

My knees buckle and I sit down on the pavement. People walk past, stare at the ambulance, at me, try to peer in the shop window. Nosy bastards. I can see the kids from the High School, getting closer, closer.

 Girls and boys in blazers and ties and black shoes, pounding along the pavement towards me. Laughing and joking and bumping into each other. After their crisps and their Irn-Bru and their donuts and their ten pee mix-ups.

 I spit the gum out into the gutter. Everything’s spinning and there’s black spots in front of my eyes. I think I might pass out. Shirley would never survive another cycle of CPR.

 I close my eyes, lean forward and put my head between my knees. I don’t care that the kids are getting closer, that they can see me sitting on the pavement. If I keep my head down and my eyes shut, they’ll go straight past and it won’t matter.

 I won’t see them, they won’t see me.

 Like being underwater, everything muffled.

 Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

 

With each length, I loosen off. Shoulders, hips, wrists, ankles, neck. Heart pumps. Lungs swell.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

I’ve got the lane to myself. Not many people can be bothered getting up this early to swim.

(late compared to when I used to get up)

The Daybreak Dip.

One of the reasons why I like this time so much. I’m free to power up and down the pool, nobody in my way as I count the metres before work.

400m.

800m.

1200m.

 

Swim Until You Can’t See Land by Catriona Child is published by Luath Press, priced £8.99

In reviewing Deborah Orr’s much-anticipated memoir, Motherwell, Lee Randall is reminded that we have lost an incredible talent and formidable woman.

 

Motherwell: A Girlhood
By Deborah Orr
Published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson

 

Two years ago, ahead of an event I was chairing, I invited Deborah Orr into the authors’ yurt at Edinburgh International Book Festival as my guest.

‘So this is what it’s like,’ she said.

‘But you’ve been before, right? With. . .’ I trailed off, reluctant to name the Famous Author she was divorcing, knowing things were complicated and painful.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘He never brought me.’

‘Never mind, you’ll be here soon in your own right, talking about your memoir. I’ll ask to interview you.’ We smiled, relishing the idea.

But Orr died last October, shortly after her 57th birthday, months ahead of Motherwell’s publication. She is missed as much for her journalism—trenchant, funny, bold, poignant—as for her compelling personality, which was all that and then some. Reading Motherwell proved emotional. Deborah’s vividly alive on these wise, beautifully observed pages. I put off finishing it, for that would consign her to the past tense.

Orr grew up in the shadow of Ravenscraig, ‘a steelworks the size of Monaco,’ whose ‘stunning, dystopian panorama’ filled the eye and psyche, moulding a community’s aspirations. When the steelworks shut down the population lost its group identity.

The most dangerous aspect of group identity, she asserts, is group narcissism. Orr believed in the centrality of narcissism. Her question wasn’t are you a narcissist, but what kind of narcissist are you? ‘Once you know how to spot it, narcissism is everywhere. Narcissism explains many aspects of human society. It is, I believe, the psychological motor behind patriarchy, behind racism and behind most, if not all, prejudice. The need to feel better than others, or that others are no better than you.’

Here in Scotland, it feeds a confusing duality: ‘The  Scots, it sometimes seemed, hated everything that wasn’t Scotland. This was very true in my hometown. . . . Conformity was absolutely everything.  . . .   It was bewildering, this . . . constant keeping of two flames, one of Scottish victimhood, the other of Scottish superiority. So much past, so little present. . . . The heritage industry moves in when people don’t know who they are any more and had to focus on who they were instead.’

Echos of this reverberated inside their home. ‘We’re a funny old family, heightened self-love in a constant battle with exaggerated self-loathing.’ Her mother, Win, was funny, talented, and often warm and loving. She could also be cruelly shaming. Win needed constant praise—a trait Orr says she inherited. She adhered to strict beliefs about her place in the world. For Win, agency over a man was the ‘Great Prize.’ ‘My mum slagged off . . . women she didn’t feel superior to, who were different to her in a way that made her doubt herself, because she was so invested in the perfection of her womanhood, and so proud of it.’

It wasn’t until Win died, says Orr, ‘that I was able even to begin to work out how my own life had really been about just two irreconcilable things: defying my mother, and gaining her approval.’ Frequent belittlement left Orr feeling like a perpetual disappointment, but complaining exacerbated the problem. Whatever happened to you was worse for Win—even your cancer.

Imbued with shame, Orr learned to keep secrets, such as bullying by her peers, which included being pelted with bricks. Bricks. She staggered home bleeding, and lied about falling over. She was seven.

Superficially, her adored father was easier to get along with, but she eventually realised his views were often harsher than Win’s. John masked his fears with bravado and intolerance. Handsome, innately intelligent but barely able to write due to an interrupted education, he had a strong work ethic and was inordinately proud of never missing at the factory. He was also a bully who fell out with neighbours, and nurtured a hatred of Catholics that flared when he was most disappointed and dissatisfied with himself.

Throughout Motherwell, as in the column she wrote after her mother’s death, Orr expresses deep love for her mother, but Win’s inability to accept Deborah’s individuality created a rift. She expected Deborah to validate her life by recreating it. ‘Every time I did something that Win wouldn’t have done, it was as if she’d lost control of a part of herself.’

Unlike her younger brother, Orr never had a key to the house. Her parents monitored her whereabouts and would have censored her thoughts, if they’d had a mechanism to do so. They flagrantly violated her privacy. Neither accepted Deborah having, much less enjoying, sex. Win said sex was awful but an obligation. John said, ‘I know what men are like. Because I am a man.’ Though they denounced and belittled her, though they warped her ideas about love, Orr’s reckoning is compassionate: ‘The self-loathing of it. The sadness. What an unfortunate, unlucky pair, so eager to support each other in self-abnegation. So keen to shore up the other in their mutual horror, their culturally fostered mutual horror, of something as simple as sex.’

‘Collective narcissism’ keeps everyone in line. It trapped her parents, who were baffled and threatened by her urge to achieve and need for individuation. Those urges carried Orr away to university although they forbade it, and bore her onwards to London. There, the daughter of a man who couldn’t write, became a renowned journalist. There, the daughter of a woman who controlled the family’s words found her voice.

Motherwell is full of telling details, startling stories,  humour, horror, and warmth. It’s full of anger and empathy. It reminds us that in addition to losing an extraordinary woman, we’ve lost all the books she never had a chance to write. It’s all the more reason to cherish this memoir and her memory.

 

Motherwell: A Girlhood by Deborah Orr is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson, priced £16.99

BooksfromScotland’s New Year’s Resolution is to read more short stories. And we’ve loved delving into Dan Brotzel’s collection, Hotel Du Jack, released later on this month. His stories are playful, funny and can really tug at the heart strings. We’re sharing two brilliant pieces of flash fiction, and we hope you enjoy them enough to spur you on to investigate the full collection.

 

Stories taken from Hotel Du Jack
By Dan Brotzel
Published by Sandstone Press

 

Listing to Port

 

SATURDAY

Alka Seltzer

Vit B tabs (ones that fizz)

Coffee

Red Bull

Doritos

Eggs

Sausages (thick ones)

Mail/Mirror/FourFourTwo

 

TUESDAY

Smints

Mouthwash

Nice boxers

Bananas

Condoms

Guardian/Economist/Vanity Fair/TLS

Get cash out (loads)

Condoms

 

FRIDAY

Condoms

3 bottles red wine (min £12 each)

Big pack spaghetti

2 medium onions

Olive oil

3 garlic cloves (how many bulbs = 1 clove?)

500g lean minced beef

90g chestnut mushrooms

400g can chopped tomatoes

Hot beef stock (or cold and reheat?)

Worcestershire sauce

Ground black pepper

Sea salt

Tomato puree

Freshly grated parmesan (to serve)

1tsp oregano

Teaspoons!

Decent plates

Knives

Forks

Daffodils

Vase for flowers

Wine glasses

CDs? (timeless but not cheesy – Motown?)

CD player

Speakers

Subscribe to Spotify (no ads)

Get laptop fixed

1 kg potty puree (dried herbal incense thing)

Bin bags

Dishcloths, wipes, tissues

Shake n vac stuff

Kitchen roll

Nice duvet cover/Pillow cases/Sheets

Toilet bleach x 4

Handgel

Antibacterial cleaners, all kinds

Dry-clean rugs? Curtains?

Gin (NOT Tescos own)

Fever Tree

Posh ice cream

Baileys

Croissants

Coffee

Strawberry jam

Blueberries, raspberries etc

Milk

Condoms

Furry handcuffs??

Polyfilla

 

WEDNESDAY

Nice card or nice writing paper

Perfume (expensive)

Fancy hand conditioner stuff? (posh)

Earrings or nice bracelet? (both?)

Box and bubble-wrap

Post Office – send Express? Get her to sign?

Send flowers

 

THURSDAY

Call EE – check phone working

 

FRIDAY

Call EE

Get Cosmopolitan/Marie Claire etc

Library – get that Mars & Venus book

 

SATURDAY

Call EE

Call mum

 

SUNDAY

Lager x 12

Wine box (red) (or white)

Tissues

Wotsits (big pack)

Chocolate milk

Large bar Dairy Milk

Pepperami

Potato waffles

Chocolate milk stuff

Pot noodles

Coffee!!

Band-Aids

Savlon

Doughnuts

Bottle of port (Tesco’s own)

 

 

Foods of Love

 

We met at a farmer’s market, standing by a stall offering South African beef jerky and biodynamic Stilton. I laughed as you hoovered up all the samples, feigning gourmet appreciation to cover your greed.

On our first date, we saw Super Size Me at your beloved arthouse cinema, followed by Belgian waffles and ice cream.

The next few months were a blur of weekends in bed, fortified by home-made cafés au lait and Cumberland sausage sarnies.

The day you proposed, we sat against a windbreak on the beach, one cold February morning. Remember? We shared a tray of vinegary chips to wash down the little bottle of warm Cava you’d bought along. (I’ve still got the wooden fork somewhere.)

The allotment. Years it took to get it, and then we found chard and squash were about the only things we could grow that didn’t get eaten away. But all those wonderful picnics we had there, drinking stewed tea from your grandad’s old Thermos. Rummagings in the shed. And all those excruciatingly ingenious marrow recipes . . .

After I gave birth to the twins, you surprised me with a feast of things I’d had to give up while pregnant: bubbly, Brie and prawns. Mealtimes took on their happy routine: slowcooker casseroles on a Saturday, Sunday roast, hot chocolate after the kids’ school concerts, your eccentric ‘power salads’ in summer.

For your fiftieth, I got you that French Country Cooking course you were always going on about. It was always easier to get you to cook when it was for some birthday or special event – I lacked the ‘big match temperament’, you’d say. (You lacked the ‘washing-up-as-you-go gene’, I’d reply.)

And so we entered a double-cream era of cassoulets and tartiflettes, ragoûts and terrines de veau, soufflés and coq au vin. You were happy to drive miles for an obscure ingredient or kitchen implement, something you’d only ever use once that was then tucked away in the back of the cupboard with all the other oddities.

After your scare came the keep-fit years – the bikes, the lycra, the couscous, the pine nuts, your obsession with fresh carrot juice. Our Katie marrying Alexios and the big fat Greek wedding feast his family put on – we didn’t eat for a week afterwards. Our retirement trip to Japan, and our first (and only) taste of fish sperm and curry doughnuts.

But of all the meals that make up a marriage, I never saw this one on the menu: vending-machine Hula Hoops for me, and nil-by-mouth for you.

 

Hotel Du Jack by Dan Brotzel is published by Sandstone Press, priced £8.99

There’s a new fictional detective in town! Happily-married DI Strachan is called to the sleepy town of Burrowhead after the mysterious death of psychotherapist, Alexis Cosse. She’s the creation of Helen Sedgwick, author of The Comet Seekers and The Growing Season, who has turned to crime for her latest novel. We caught up with Helen to chat about DI Strachan and When the Dead Come Calling.

 

When the Dead Come Calling
By Helen Sedgwick
Published by Point Blank

 

After writing two stand-alone novels, what made you decide to embark on a crime series?

I have two completely different answers for this question, both of which are true!

The first one is that I didn’t really decide to do it at all, it just happened. I was visiting St Ninian’s cave (a wonderfully atmospheric place) and a ghostly crime story started growing up around me, with the setting and voice and characters all there, so I started writing. There’s an element of trusting my subconscious and writing the story that wants to be written, for me. And then as I wrote, it became clear that it was more than just one novel – the place and the people in it needed more time than they could have in one book and so it became a trilogy.

The second, more practical answer is that I started writing When The Dead Come Calling while I was pregnant and I needed to know how much money I was going to have coming in, and when. I remember sending the first draft to my agent and saying that I thought it wanted to be a trilogy but that, if I was going to keep writing with a young baby, I needed the financial security of a three book deal. Thankfully, and amazingly, she got me one.

 

In starting a series, what impact does that have on the writing process of the individual book? Do you have a sense of how the series will continue?

I’m approaching the three books together as a single complete story – so in a way it’s the same as writing one book, just bigger. I know the overall arc of the whole trilogy, I know how the circumstances will change, I know the key events, and I know the ending of the third book. But other than that, I tend to allow myself a lot of freedom, and the details of the plot and the development of the characters tends to happen quite organically for me. But the overall shape of it is a trilogy – the three books are needed to create the whole.

Since Book 1 is now published, Book 2 is at the second draft stage and I’ve not yet started writing Book 3, that does mean I occasionally have panic attacks about whether I’m actually going to be able to tie everything up!

 

You’re slaying quite the sacred cow in When the Dead Come Calling, that of the lone, damaged maverick detective. How did DI Strachan come to you, and how are you getting on with your new creation? You’ll be spending a lot of time with her!

I was at a great event at Wigtown Book Festival with three crime authors a few years ago, and I can remember them talking about how a detective needs to be damaged in some way to be engrossing – and, being me, I immediately wanted to try and write the exact opposite of that. I wanted to know, is it possible to write a novel in which your detective is a really decent, kind person who loves her husband and spends her spare time gardening?

The answer is that I’m not actually sure yet because truthfully, as the book goes on, Georgie gets her fair share of problems to deal with. She does have a history that increasingly haunts her. But she is a different sort of detective, I think, and I do often feel she’s out in the garden with me, tending to the vegetables.

 

Rural crime mysteries are becoming increasingly popular. Why did you decide to set your series in a small village?

I live in a small village – in fact, not even that, I live in a strip of houses with woodland behind and fields in front, a few miles from the nearest village. I think the setting and landscape rose up from where I am, and also from the atmosphere I wanted to create and the sense of isolation that I wanted the story to have. Setting it in a village on the northwest coast of England tied in with the politics that seeps into the story as well. I’m very interested in the urban / rural divide, what that can mean for people, the different social problems and also strong communities that can arise. Although I must stress that I love the area where I live – and the fictional village of Burrowhead became a haunted place unlike any other!

 

When the Dead Come Calling tackles the subject of ‘false memory syndrome’. Can you explain what that is and why you decided to feature it in your novel.

False memory syndrome is a condition in which people have or develop very strong memories that are incorrect. I’ve always been fascinated by memory and how nebulous it can be – the brain rewrites our memories continuously, emphasising aspects that we think about more than others, and potentially recreating older memories after other more recent experiences we have had. I started researching it years ago for a novel that I wrote some time before by debut came out, and although that novel itself was never published (and never will be) some of the ideas and research stayed with me and found their way into my crime series. When The Dead Come Calling is about the past and how the crimes of our past, even when long buried, can colour our present – those layers of buried history seemed to fit with the idea of layered memories as well, and so the themes naturally came together.

 

Which writers, crime or otherwise, have you turned to for inspiration for When the Dead Come Calling?

It’s a rather unusual crime series and I’m trying not to be influenced by any writers in particular… I’d say my influences have ranged from The Wicker Man to Kate Atkinson! The nightmarish feel of Samanta Schweblin’s Fever Dream was a big inspiration I think, and the ghostly haunting of Sarah Waters.

 

What are you looking forward to reading in 2020?

My to-be-read pile is overflowing from my double-stacked bookcases, so there’s rather a lot! In terms of new releases, I’m really looking forward to the new Carys Bray, When the Lights Go Out, and to Chris Whitaker’s We Begin At The End.  BRIT(ish) by Afua Hirsch and Things We Say in the Dark by Kirsty Logan have been calling out to me for some time. I’m currently reading Claire Askew’s What You Pay For (Claire and I have an event together in Edinburgh on 29th January that I’m really looking forward to). And I also want to read / re-read everything by Naomi Mitchison and Ursula Le Guin!

 

When the Dead Come Calling by Helen Sedgwick is published by Point Blank, priced £14.99

A much-loved classic stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page, and often you return to them again and again. Jane Eyre is one of those much-loved classics and the fabulous Barrington Stoke will be publishing their retelling of the tale this month. We asked author Tanya Landman how daunting it was to tackle such an iconic novel.

 

Jane Eyre: A Retelling
By Tanya Landman
Published by Barrington Stoke

 

Retelling Jane Eyre for Barrington Stoke was quite possibly the most enjoyable piece of writing I’ve ever done. I didn’t have to agonise about creating a plausible plot or believable characters because everything was all already there for me – a fully fleshed out world and its inhabitants –  to dive into. My task was simply to distil the essence of a 185,000 word masterpiece into a novella a tenth the size.

Gulp!

Could it be done? Was it possible?  I had no idea. But I felt compelled to try.

How did I do it?

The answer is, I don’t really know.

In my experience acting and writing are very similar things.  To create a believable human being you have to climb inside someone else’s heart and mind and look at the world through their eyes. The process is instinctive and therefore difficult to explain. Very little of it is logically planned.

The reason I can’t write on trains or in cafes – and in fact try to avoid public spaces altogether when I’m in the throes of creating – is because I talk out loud to get the voice and the rhythms of speech right.  From the very outset my Jane had a very strong Yorkshire accent. There are sometimes moments of magic when a character becomes three dimensional. They seem to fully inhabit you and start speaking all by themselves and the writing part of you has simply has to type it up.  Jane’s voice flowed straight from her/my mouth and on to the page.

Looking back at the process now I suppose I found it easy because I’ve always loved Jane Eyre. In my teens I returned to the book over and over again as a comfort read. I adored Jane’s righteous fury, her wild passion, her sense of injustice: I absolutely identified with her.

Returning to Jane Eyre as an adult I noticed things that I hadn’t as a teenage reader. The portrayal of Bertha Mason – the mad woman in the attic – was particularly problematic. How was I to address Rochester’s vile belief that his wife’s madness and her racial heritage are inextricably linked? My answer was to keep the madness, keep the debauchery and drunkenness, keep the deceit on the part of her father and brother, but break any connection between that and her skin colour.  As for the rest of the book – I kept the plot and cut the padding. I kept the passion and cut the piety. St John Rivers – who I found deadly boring as a teen – didn’t even get a name check.

As an adult and a writer it was a rare and delightful privilege to actually become Jane for a while and tell her story as if she was sitting by the fire, confiding it to a close friend. If people enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it I’ll be very happy indeed.

 

Jane Eyre: A Retelling by Tanya Landman is published by Barrington Stoke, priced £7.99

At last year’s Wigtown Book Festival, BooksfromScotland were presented with this marvellous anthology of Gaelic literature by Clive Boutle of Francis Boutle Publishers. They specialise in documenting the literary histories of minority languages in Europe, and if The Highest Apple is indicative of their list, then we highly recommend you check them out. To give you a sampler of the goodies inside The Highest Apple, we share here pieces from each era in the anthology.

 

Extracts taken from The Highest Apple: An Anthology of Scottish Gaelic Literature
Edited by Wilson McLeod and Michael Newton
Published by Francis Boutle Publishing

 

Muireadhach Albanach Ó Dálaigh

 

M’anam do sgar riomsa a-raoir

M’anam do sgar riomsa a-raoir,
calann ghlan dob ionnsa i n-uaigh;
rugadh bruinne maordha mín
is aonbhla lín uime uainn.

Do tógbhadh sgath aobhdha fhionn
a-mach ar an bhfaongha bhfann:
laogh mo chridhise do chrom,
craobh throm an tighise thall.

M’aonar a-nocht damhsa, a Dhé,
olc an saoghal camsa ad-chí;
dob álainn trom an taoibh naoi
do bhaoi sonn a-raoir, a Rí.

Truagh leam an leabasa thiar,
mo pheall seadasa dhá snámh;
tárramair corp seada saor
is folt claon, a leaba, id lár.

Do bhí duine go ndreich moill
ina luighe ar leith mo phill;
gan bharamhail acht bláth cuill
don sgáth duinn bhanamhail bhinn.

Maol Mheadha na malach ndonn
mo dhabhach mheadha a-raon rom;
mo chridhe an sgáth do sgar riom,
bláth mhionn arna car do chrom.

Táinig an chlí as ar gcuing,
agus dí ráinig mar roinn:
corp idir dá aisil inn
ar dtocht don fhinn mhaisigh mhoill.

Leath mo throigheadh, leath mo thaobh,
a dreach mar an droighean bán,
níor dhílse neach dhí ná dhún,
leath mo shúl í, leath mo lámh.

Leath mo chuirp an choinneal naoi;
’s guirt riom do roinneadh, a Rí;
agá labhra is meirtneach mé –
dob é ceirtleath m’anma í.

Mo chéadghrádh a dearc mhall mhór,
déadbhan agus cam a cliabh:
nochar bhean a colann caomh
ná a taobh ré fear romham riamh.

Fiche bliadhna inne ar-aon,
fá binne gach bliadhna ar nglór,
go rug éinleanabh déag dhún,
an ghéag úr mhéirleabhar mhór.

Gé tú, nocha n-oilim ann,
ó do thoirinn ar gcnú chorr;
ar sgaradh dár roghrádh rom,
falamh lom an domhnán donn.

Ón ló do sáidheadh cleath corr
im theach nochar ráidheadh rum –
ní thug aoighe d’ortha ann
dá barr naoidhe dhorcha dhunn.

A dhaoine, ná coisgidh damh;
faoidhe ré cloistin ní col;
táinig luinnchreach lom ’nar dteagh –
an bhruithneach gheal donn ar ndol.

Is é rug uan í ’na ghrúg,
Rí na sluagh is Rí na ród;
beag an cion do chúl na ngéag
a héag ó a fior go húr óg.

Ionmhain lámh bhog do bhí sonn,
a Rí na gclog is na gceall:
ach! an lámh nachar logh mionn,
crádh liom gan a cor fám cheann.

 

My Soul Parted From Me Last Night

My soul parted from me last night,
a pure body, dearly-loved, is in the grave,
a stately soft bosom taken from me
wound in a single linen sheet.

A beautiful white bloom plucked
from the tender, bending stem:
my heart’s darling has drooped,
the laden branch of yonder house.

I am alone tonight, O God,
treacherous the crooked world you see;
lovely the weight of the fresh form
that was here last night, O King.

Pitiful to me yonder bed
covered by my long rug;
Ah, bed, on you I have seen
a long noble body with tumbling hair.

A person with a gentle face
was lying on one half of my bed;
the only comparison, the hazel bloom
to the dark womanly shadow of sweet voice.

Maol Mheadha of the dark brows,
my mead vessel at my side;
the shadow that has parted was my heart,
a jewelled flower planted here has dropped.

My body escaped the yoke
and made off as her share;
I have become a body in two parts
since the bright lovely gentle one left.

She was one of my feet, one of my sides,
her complexion like the whitethorn,
no one was more loyal to her than to me,
she was one of my eyes, one of my hands.

The new candle was half of my flesh,
harshly have I been treated, Lord;
telling of it I grow faint –
she was the very half of my soul.

My first love, her big calm eye,
her bosom, ivory-white and curved;
neither her soft breast nor her flank
ever touched a man before me.

We were together twenty years,
sweeter our words with every year,
eleven children she bore to me,
the new, lithe-fingered, long branch.

Though I am, I am not,
since my smooth nut fell,
since parting with my dearest dear
the drear world is empty and bare.

Since the day the smooth support
was set up in my house
it was never said a guest had beguiled
the one of the fresh dark brown hair.

O people, do not make me stop,
it is no sin that weeping be heard;
my house has been stripped bare
by the parting of the bright brown glow.

The one who snatched her away in a rush
was the King of hosts and King of roads;
small the fault of the one with branching hair
her leaving her husband while young and fresh.

Beloved the soft hand that lay here,
O King of churches and bells;
Alas, the hand that never blasphemed,
it is torment it is not under my head.

 

Seumas Mac a t-Saoir (James Macintyre)

 

Òran don Ollamh MacIain

An t-ollamh thàinig à Sasann
’N coinneamh ri masl’ thoirt do dh’Alba,
Ged fhuair e suairceas da chleachdadh
Na astar air feadh nan Garbh-chrioch,
Cho luaithe ràinig e dhachaigh
Gu garaidh altram an t-seana-bhruic
Na rug an trùileach an asaid
De bhreugan ascaoin ’s de shalachar.

Ach ’s e ’n Donas fhèin a spor thu
Thug an toil dhuit gun a chàileachd:
Bu chomhartaich dhuit ris a’ ghealaich
Bhith tabhann ri clannaibh nan Gàidheal –
Is olc, a thrù, nach tug thu ’n aire
Mun robh thu cho labharra dhàna
Nach e ’n cù as cruaidhe dealann
As doimhne a ghearras a nàmhaid.

’S dearbha nach fiach leam it’ iolair
A spùilleadh, no tharraing à balg, dhuit:
’S math a dh’fhòghnas leam a’ ghèadhach
Shlìom, ghlas, laghach gad mharbhadh –
Ceapag bhog challtainn gun chorran,
Gun ghuin, gun oirean, gun chalg oirr’,
A lotas do theanga ’s do cholann
As comh-buige re torran mhealgan.

Chan eil mi creidsinn ga-rìreadh
Gur Iaineach friamh na bèiste,
’S ann a fhuaradh e le mhàthair
Ri coigreach le nàdar Bhènuis:
Balach gun mhodh, lomlàn miosgainn,
Tràill neo-mhiosail air fhèin e –
Is tusa an fheòil a chaidh a dholaidh,
A dhùbail boladh, air brèinid.

Ach chan eil coille gun a crìonach
’S bidh clamhan lìonmhor sna seòcaibh,
’S ainneamh ri fhaotainn magh cruithneachd
Gun bhuilgear ann, gun fhòtas;
Tha coimeasg ri fhaighinn gu minig
Anns na gineachainn as bòidhche,
’S chan iongnadh thusa bhith ad thrustair,
Ad thàir, ’s ad ghusgall de d’ sheòrsa.

Gur tu an losgann sleamhainn tàrrbhuidh,
’S tu màigein tàirrngeach nan dìgean,
Gur tu dearc-luachrach a’ chàthair
Ri snàg ’s ri màgaran miltich;
’S tu bratag sgreataidh an fhàsaich,
’S tu ’n t-seilcheag ghrànda, bhog, lìtheach,
’S tu ’n cartan nach fhurasta thàrsainn
Uait na thàrras tu nad ingnean.

Gur tu ’n sgonnachù gollach, sgallach,
’S tu tramasgal salach gach fàs-phoir,
’S tu soplach is moll na fasgnaig
An àm sìol reachdmhor a chàthadh;
’S tu tom odhar an tombaca,
Gur tu stad feachda o bhlàraibh,
Gur tu croman-luch’ na h-ealtainn –
’S tu nis mìr-cagnaidh nam bardan.

Gur tu fuidheagan an aodaich,
Gur tu cnò-chaoch na fìor fhàsaig,
’S tu am madadh-allaidh air chonfhadh,
Gur tu meas toirmisgt’ a’ gharaidh,
’S mòr tha de bheusan, a bhalaich,
A’ bhruid air carradh ad nàdar –
Chan iongnadh ged tha thu sgreamhail
San fhail anns an deachaidh t’ àrach.

Cha bu tu ’n droigheann no ’n cuileann
No ’n t-iubhar fulannach làidir,
Chan eil mìr annad den darach
No de sheileach dearg nam blàran;
Tha chuid as mo dhìot de chritheann,
Ìngnean sgithich ’s làmhan feàrna –
Tha do cheann gu lèir de leamhan,
Gu h-àraidh do theanga ’s do chàirein.

Ceann puinnsein a chinnich na fhàsach
Den fhailbhe ’s den àileadh lomlàn
Gann uiread maighdeige-tràghad
De dh’eanchainn nàdarr’ ad throm-cheann,
Chan iongnadh ged thigeadh toth gràineil
O dheudach beàrnach do ronnachraois
’S do chom gun chridhe gu d’ àinean
Ach uiread màileid de dhomblas.

Am measg nan iasg ’s tu ’n dallag mhùrlaich
A’ bhiast mhùgach sin ’m mac-làmhaich,
’S tu ’n t-isean à meadhan na brèine,
Am broc ’s a shròn na chèir tri ràithean,
A’ mhial chaorach dhan ainm an t-seulain,
Salach an sprèidh tha dhuit càirdeach –
’S mur bitheadh nach toil leam ainm eisge,
Gun dùraiginn fhèin do sgràilleadh.

Ach nì mi nis a bhrìgh do sgòrnail
Glomhar ad bheul mòr a sparradh
Nach dealaich riut fhad ’s as beò thu,
Gach aon deireadh lò ga theannadh;
Bharrachd air na gheibh thu de riasladh
Air ballan-stiallach gad spannadh –
B’ fheàrr dhuit nach beirte bho thòs thu
Ach ad mharbh-laogh bò gun anam.

 

A Song to Dr Johnson

The doctor that came from England
For the aim of slandering Scotland,
Though he found civility practised
In his trip round the Highlands,
No sooner was he home again
In the old badger’s nursing-sett
Than the rogue bore a foetus
Full of coarse lies and rubbish.

But it’s the Devil who inspired you
That gave you love without his genius:
It was howling at the moon for you
To be baying at the Gael –
Too bad, you wretch, you didn’t notice
Before being so rude and insulting
That the dog which barks the loudest
Does not bite his foe the deepest.

For you I’ll certainly not trouble to plunder
An eagle’s feather, or draw one from a quiver:
The goose quill, slim, grey and pretty,
Is quite enough for me to slay you with
A soft stave of hazel with no cutting edge,
With no bite, no edges, no point on it,
For wounding your tongue and your body
Which is as soft as a heap of fish-milts.

In truth I do not really believe
That this creature’s a true son of John,
It’s to some stranger his mother bore him
Through the natural laws of Venus:
A discourteous churl, full of malice,
He’s a slave with no self-respect –
You’re a heap of flesh that’s gone off,
Always smelly, now with twice the stench.

But there is no wood that won’t wither
And kites are plentiful midst falcons.
It is rare to find a field of wheat
With no thistles there, no weeds.
An admixture is frequently found
In the most perfect of conceptions.
So it’s no surprise you’re a rascal,
A reproach, and a reject of your race.

You’re the slimy yellow-bellied toad,
You’re the sluggish crawler of ditches,
You’re the lizard of the swamp
Which creeps and slithers through sweet-grass;
You’re the ugly wasteland caterpillar,
You’re the foul, soft, slimy snail,
You’re the botfly hard to relieve
Of what you’ve seized in your claws.

You’re the mean, vile, greedy cur,
You’re the foul trash of each growing-crop.
You’re the dirt and refuse of the corn-fan
When good strong seed’s being winnowed;
You’re the pale stools of tobacco.
You’re what stops armies going to battles,
You’re the kestrel of the birdflock –
You’re now the chewing-gum of the poets.

You’re the thrum-end of the cloth,
You’re the shell with no nut in it,
You’re the hydrophobic wolf,
You’re the banned fruit of the garden,
Many brutish habits, you churl,
Have formed a scab in your nature –
It’s no surprise you’d be disgusting
In the pigsty you were reared in.

You’d not be the thorn or the holly
Or the tough enduring yew,
There’s not a bit in you of oak
Or the red willow of the plains;
Most of you is of aspen,
With whitethorn nails and alder hands –
Your whole head is made of elm,
Especially your tongue and your gums.

A head of poison that became a vacuum
Full of emptiness and air
With scarce as much as a little shore-whelk
Of natural brain in your bloated head,
It’s no surprise if a foul smell wafts
From your huge spittlemouth’s gapped teeth
Since your trunk has no heart for your liver
But just a satchelful of gall instead.

Amongst sea creatures you’re the purblind dogfish,
That snuffling monstrosity the catfish,
You are the chicken from amidst the stench,
The brock with his nose three seasons in his arse,
You are the sheep-louse that they call the tick.
Vile are the creatures that are kin to you –
And if it weren’t that I hate the name of satirist,
I myself would wish to make fun of you.

But now on account of your throaty gargling
I’ll stick a gag in your massive mouth
That won’t part from you as long as you live.
Being tightened at the end of each day;
On top of all you suffer I’ll have you
Being flayed alive at a lashing-post –
You would wish you were still-born from the start
As the soulless foetus of a calving cow.

 

Niall MacLeóid (Neil MacLeod)

 

Am Faigh a’ Ghàidhlig Bàs?

Tha mòran sluaigh am beachd an-diugh
Nach eil ar cànain slàn,
Nach fhad’ a chluinnear fuaim a guth,
Nach tèid i chaoidh nas fheàrr;
Gu bheil an aonta bh’ aic’ air ruith,
Nach tog i ceann gu bràth;
’S a dh’aindeoin buaidh MhicIlleDhuibh
Gum faigh a’ Ghàidhlig bàs.

Tha sìol nan sonn gan cur air chùl
’S am fearann ga chur fàs;
Tha fèidh is caoraich air gach stùc
Mun robh na laoich a’ tàmh;
Tha cinneach eil’ air teachd don ùir,
’S ag èirigh suas nan àit’,
Tha toirt am bòidean air gach dùil
Gum faigh a’ Ghàidhlig bàs.

An leig sinn eachdraidh chaomh ar tìr
A sgrìobadh de gach clàr,
’S a Ghàidhlig chòir a chur a dhìth
Le linn nach tuig a gnàths?
A’ chànain aosda, ghlòrmhor, bhinn,
A dhùisgeadh fuinn nam Bàrd,
Am fan sinn dìomhanach gun suim
Is daoi ga cur gu bàs?

Dùisg suas, a Ghàidhlig, ’s tog do ghuth,
Na biodh ort geilt no sgàig;
Tha ceudan mìle dìleas dhut
Nach dìobair thu sa bhlàr;
Cho fad’ ’s a shiùbhlas uillt le sruth,
’S a bhuaileas tuinn air tràigh,
Chan aontaich iad an cainnt no ’n cruth
Gun tèid do chur gu bàs.

A’ chainnt a dh’fhoillsich cliù nam Fiann,
’S an gaisge dian ’s gach càs;
Tha ’n euchdan iomraiteach bho chian
Ag àrach miann nan àl;
Na leòmhainn threun nach tug le fiamh
An cùlaibh riamh do nàmh,
Tha iomadh gleann, is cnoc, is sliabh,
A’ luaidh air gnìomh an làmh.

Chan eòl dhuinn ceàrn an ear no ’n iar,
No fonn mun iath an sàl,
Nach faighear cuid an sin dhen sìol
A’ leudachadh ’s a’ fàs,
Tha ’g altram suas, le dùrachd dhian,
Gach sgeulachd agus dàn,
A bhiodh an sinnsearan a’ snìomh
An tìr nan sliabh ’s nam bàgh.

Ach ’s geàrr a bhios an ùin’ a’ triall
Gum faic sinn, mar is àill,
A’ Ghàidhlig mhùirneach, mar ar miann,
An cathair inbhich, àird;
A’ sgaoileadh eòlais, tuigse, ’s ciall
Bho h-ionmhasan nach tràigh;
’S a’ taisbeanadh le neart a rian
Nach teid i ’n cian seo bàs.

’N sin togaidh i le buaidh a ceann,
Le aoibhneas nì i gàir;
A teudan gleusaidh i gu teann
Le cridhe taingeil, làn;
Gun cluinn Mac-talla feadh nan gleann
Gach doire ’s allt cur fàilt’,
’S an osag chiùin air bàrr nam beann
A’ giùlan fonn a dàin.

Ach buaidh is piseach air na laoich
Tha seasmhach air a sgàth,
Chaidh àrach ann an tìr an fhraoich,
Ge sgaoilt’ an-diugh an àl;
Ged chaidh an sgapadh air gach taobh,
Cha chaochail iad an gnàths;
Chan fhàs an eachdraidh lag le aois,
’S chan fhaigh a’ Ghàidhlig bàs.

 

Shall Gaelic Die?

Many people opine today
That our language isn’t well,
That not long will her voice be heard,
That there’s no recovery in sight;
That her lease is all but run,
That she’ll never raise her head;
And in spite of Blackie’s influence
That Gaelic is going to die.

The descendants of warriors are despised
And their land is being cleared;
There are sheep and deer on every peak
Round which the heroes dwelt;
Another race has entered the land,
Rising up in their place,
Swearing to every living soul
That Gaelic is going to die.

Will we let the sweet story of our land
Be scraped from every page,
And noble Gaelic ruined
By an age that doesn’t understand her ways?
The ancient glorious melodious tongue
Will we stand helpless, idly by,
While a churl puts her to death?

Wake up, Gaelic, raise your voice,
Have neither misgiving nor fear
There are hundreds of thousands loyal to you
Who won’t desert you on the field;
As long as burns cascading flow,
And waves pound on shore,
They’ll never consent in words or form
That you’ll be put to death.

The language that spread the Fianna’s fame
And their intense bravery in every case –
Long have their renowned deeds
Inspired each generation’s zeal;
The fierce lions that never turned
Their backs fearfully to the foe,
There’s many a glen and hill and peak
That speaks of their dextrous deeds.

We know no place in east or west,
Or land lapped by sea,
Where their descendants are not found
Burgeoning with new growth,
Who carry forward, with purpose keen,
All those stories and songs
That our ancestors used to weave
In the land of hills and bays.

But it will only be a short time now
Till we see, as is our wish,
Delightful Gaelic, as we desired,
On a high distinguished chair;
Disseminating knowledge, understanding, sense,
From her unebbing wealth,
Proclaiming in the strength of her ways
That she won’t die this long time.

Triumphantly she will raise her head
And with joy she will cry;
Eagerly she will tune her strings
With thankful brimming heart;
And Echo will hear throughout the glens
The greetings of grove and burn,
And the gentle breeze on the tops of the hills
Carrying the tune of her song.

But success and good luck to the men
Who stand up for her rights
In the land of heather they were raised,
Though scattered their generation today;
Though they wander in every land,
They will never change their ways;
Their history will not grow faint with age
And Gaelic will not die.

 

Calum MacLeóid (Calum MacLeod)

A’ Togail an t-Srùbain

Shuidh e aig bòrd taobh a-muigh taigh-seinnse ann an ceàrnag bhòidheach, shàmhach nach robh e air fhaicinn an latha roimhe. Nuair a thàinig an gille a-mach dh’iarr Daibhidh leann. Thàinig e a-mach an ceann mionaid le botal mòr le àrcan ann, ceangailte le uèir tro amhaich a’ bhotail. Rinn an t-àrcan pop beag fo làmh a’ ghille agus ghluais an uèir air ais gus an tàinig an t-àrcan gu tàmh ri taobh bil a’ bhotail.

Bha e airson sgrìobhadh. Lorg e na bhaga am bòrd-ceadachaidh a chleachd e ann an Glaschu agus air an taobh bhàn thòisich e a’ sgrìobhadh.

Chan eil fhios agam ciamar a thachair seo. Rinn mi mo dhìcheall gun a bhith a’ dèanamh cron air duine sam bith. Dìreach aon mhearachd bheag agus sin e. Chan fhaigh mi cuidhteas ciont.

Chan e sin buileach an fhìrinn shlàn ge-tà. Dh’fheuch mi cron a dhèanamh. Agus is mi bha soirbheachail. Cuideachd, cha bhi mi an-còmhnaidh a’smaointinn air. Uaireannan a-nis thèid agam air uairean a thìde a chaitheamh gun chuimhneachadh air. Tha seo air fàs bho mhionaidean agus tha mi an dòchas, an ceann greis, gun tèid agam air làithean air fad a chur seachad gun a bhith a’ cuimhneachadh air na thachair.

A’ leughadh thar na tha mi air a sgrìobhadh tha e soilleir nach eil mi deònach fhathast fiù ’s a bhith ga sgrìobhadh sìos. Nach neònach sin?

Corp.

Lorg mi corp. An uair sin …

An uair sin dh’fhannaich mi mar chealgair, oir ’s e sin a th’ unnam. Uairean, cha thric idir, ach uairean nar beatha thèid ceist no deuchainn no dùbhlan air choreigin a chur romhainn agus fàilligidh sinn.

Ach, fhathast, lorg mise an corp.

Sin e. Sin na lorg mi agus sin a thrèig mi. Sin a dh’fhàg mi fo bhròn, a sgoilt mi as an t-suidheachadh chofhurtail a bh’ agam, cofhurtail gu leòr, agus a thug orm tighinn an seo.

Lath-eigin, tha mi an dòchas, cuimhnichidh mi air na thachair. Bidh na beàrnan eadar smaointean mun chùis air a dhol am meud gus bliadhnaichean a lìonadh. Latha buidhe Bealtainn air choreigin.

Chan urrainn dhomh soirbheachadh a-nis, oir tha fios agam agus tha mi a’ creidsinn cuideachd, nach fhaigh mi lorg cho fad ’s is beò mi air a’ chorp a-rithist. Uill, cha lorgainn ann am Bratislabha e gu cinnteach!

Bha uair teans agam. Sin an latha, a’ mhadainn Dihaoine a lorg mi an corp. Nam bithinn an-diugh air ais anns an t-suidheachadh sin …

Chan eil mi air ionnsachadh bhon ùpraid is bhon sgudal a thàinig thugam as dèidh dhomh an corp a lorg agus a chall ach nach eil àite dhomh anns an t-saoghal sin. Cha tèid agam leigeil leis na feachdan ceart an rannsachadh aca a dhèanamh agus cha tèid agam air feitheamh airson fios fhaighinn bho na h-aithisgean is aithrisean agus a h-uile mac-mathar a’ leantail nan dleastanasan
proifeiseanta aca agus sin agad e.

Lorg mise an corp agus lorg mise na seangain agus lorg mise fìor aodann na coimhearsnachd agam agus an cultar agam mar a tha e san latha an-diugh. Agus chan eil mi gus gabhail ris.

Thill e am peann chun a’ bhùird agus thog e am botal a bha e air fhalamhachadh.

 

Gathering the Cockles

He sat at a table outside a bar in a beautiful, quiet area he hadn’t seen the day before. When the waiter came out David ordered a beer. He came back in a minute with a big bottle with a cork, connected by a wire through the neck of the bottle. The waiter’s hand made the cork give a little pop and the wire moved back until the cork stopped against the lip of the bottle.

He wanted to write. In his bag he found the boarding pass he had used in Glasgow and on the blank side he began to write.

I don’t know how this happened. I did my best not to harm anybody. Just one mistake and that was it. I can’t get rid of the guilt.

That’s not really the complete truth though. I tried to do harm. And I certainly succeeded. Also, I don’t think about it all the time. Sometimes now I can spend hours without thinking about it. That’s increased from minutes and I hope that, in a while, I’ll be able to spend entire days without reflecting on what happened.

Reading over what I’ve written it’s clear that I’m still not willing to write it down. Isn’t that strange?

A body.

I found a body. And then …

Then I fainted like a coward, because that’s what I am. Sometimes, not often at all, but sometimes in our lives we are presented with a question or a test or a challenge and we fail.

But still, I found the body.

That’s it. That’s what I found and that’s what I abandoned. That’s what made me depressed, that’s what tore me away from the comfortable situation I had, well, comfortable enough, and made me come here.

Someday, I hope, I will remember what happened. The gaps between thoughts about the incident will have grown to fill years. Some fine day or other.

I can’t succeed now, because I know and I believe that I won’t find the body again as long as I live. Well, I certainly won’t find it in Bratislava!

Once I had a chance. That was on the day I found the body, that Friday morning. If I was back in that situation today …

I haven’t learned anything from the uproar and the crap that I experienced after I found and lost the body except that there is no place for me in that world. I can’t let the authorities do their
investigation and I can’t just wait to get information from the reports and accounts with everybody simply carrying out their professional responsibilities and that’s it.

I found the body and I found the ants and I found the true face of my community and my culture as it is today.

And I’m not going to accept it.

He put the pen back down on the table and he picked up the bottle he had emptied.

 

The Highest Apple: An Anthology of Scottish Gaelic Literature, edited by Wilson McLeod and Michael Newton is published by Francis Boutle Publishing, priced £30

David Robinson speaks to Francine Toon about the inspiration and setting behind her first novel, Pine.

 

Pine
By Francine Toon
Published by Doubleday

 

If they ever make a film of Pine, Francine Toon’s debut novel, it will probably begin much the same way as her book. The opening shot will establish the setting: a village in a wooded Sutherland valley, with adults shepherding oddly dressed children from door to door. It’s Hallowe’en. Of course it is. When else would you want to set a Gothic novel?

We don’t need to notice too much about the villagers, but we’ll let the camera pan on their faces just long enough for us to recognise them in later scenes: a ceilidh, perhaps, or the hunt for a missing teenager. Most of the time, though, the film will focus on a ten-year-old girl called Lauren and try to work out what she makes of the world. Take, for example, that skinny woman in a white dressing gown she has just caught a glimpse of from the passenger seat of her dad’s car as they approach the village.

‘Who’s that?’ she asks him.
‘Who’s what?’ he replies, turning up the music.

Who that was, and whether or not Lauren has in fact just seen a ghost, and if so why, and is the subject of her novel. Toon doesn’t believe in the supernatural herself, but writing horror or fear is, she says, like trying to write humour – ‘you need the equivalent of comic timing to make sure that a “reveal” lands in the right way. I’m fascinated by that process and how other writers like Shirley Jackson or MR James managed it.’ Or, she could have added, the contributors to Haunted Voices, the anthology of Scottish Gothic storytelling, from new imprint Haunt Publishing, which she has just started reading.

Toon is already well regarded as a poet and has worked for the past three years as editor at Sceptre, where she has shepherded a number of novels to publication, including Starling Days by Rowena Husayo Buchanan, which was shortlisted for the Costa Novel of the Year. When it came to choosing the setting or the protagonist for her own novel, however, she didn’t have any hesitation.

Its Sutherland village, she says, ‘is a blend of two places I lived – Rogart, a hamlet north of  Dornoch, where we moved up to from London when I was about eight, and Clashmore, where we lived beside a really big pine forest.’ After the bustle of London, where she couldn’t even play in the street, the potential freedom to explore that this part of Scotland offered made a deep impression. It was at Rogart, a place so remote that you might even spot wildcats there, that she imagined the woman in white making her first, fleeting appearance.

Dornoch added something else to the mix. ‘It captured my imagination that Dornoch was the last place in Britain to execute a witch [in 1727]. She was called Janet Horne, so in the book the valley is called Strath Horne, although I imagined it in a slightly more New-Age way. At Royal Dornoch golf course, next to the 17th hole, there’s what they used to call the Witches’ Pool, where witches were “swum”, ie tortured and drowned… So there’s something in the air, and even if you don’t believe in the supernatural, it’s easy to imagine that there actually was something out there. . . ’

Perhaps to the young Francine the supernatural seemed just that bit more real than it had in England. Certainly, she noticed, there seemed to be more interest in ghost stories in Scotland.  It wasn’t just learning to recite Tam o’ Shanter, or the ghostly ‘urban myths’ even the teachers delighted in telling at school. ‘They really scared me, those stories, but then I got to telling them myself, so even from the start there’s been an element of horror about my storytelling.’

She had originally intended to make Lauren the same age as she had been when she first arrived in Scotland, but she then made her a bit older, so she could better understand the adult world.  Lauren is also English, and is bullied because of it. Was that something else drawn from life?

‘It wasn’t as bad for me as it is for Lauren,’ Toon concedes, pointing out how friendly the villagers and most of the children had been. ‘But when I was ten, I had this growth spurt and was so much taller than the other children, and I was this strange child from London and had an English accent,  so . . . On the other hand, it did give me that outsider’s perspective.’

Ah yes, the outsider’s perspective. How often do you find it when you interview authors that apparently easy explanation for why they became writers in the first place? With Toon, you wonder how much her writing owes to the shock of that move to Scotland when she was eight. Is that why she is able to convey such a clear sense of the multiplicities of middle childhood, the way Lauren can adore the simplicities of Frozen at exactly the same time as working out the psychological complexities of reading Tarot cards, or how she can be one minute worrying about her father’s health, the next belting out Bat Out of Hell as a Halloween ‘treat’?

Changing countries, standing out from the crowd. Just being different. Sometimes that can be all it takes to set you out on the road to becoming a writer. It can be many other things too. For Stephen King, the master of the modern gothic horror novel, it was coming across a box of fantasy paperbacks from the 1940s that belonged to the father he never knew.

In 2008, having studied classics at Edinburgh University and worked for Chambers Dictionary, Toon headed back to England for a job at Hodder & Stoughton, where among other things she was editorial assistant to Stephen King’s UK editor. She’s keen to emphasise that she never worked directly with Maine’s horror maestro, but all the same she would certainly have read his books in proof form before they appeared in the shops.

That’s how I read Pine too, in a proof copy which her publisher promises ‘unites the gloom of the modern gothic with the pulse of a thriller’. That’s fair enough, I thought, when I finished the book, but the blurb went on to claim that the book was set ‘in a place that feels like the end of the world’. If Sutherland really did feel like the end of the world, I can’t imagine Toon wanting to return. Yet a couple of days after our chat, that’s exactly where she was heading, back to see friends. She might have an outsider’s perspective, but she’s got an insider’s one too.

 

Pine by Francine Toon is published by Doubleday, priced £12.99

BooksfromScotland enjoyed the Q & A with Tom Mole, author of The Secret Life of Books, in the Making Mischief Issue, so much that we have decided to make it a regular feature. This month we speak to Mark Douglas-Home, whose next instalment of The Sea Detective series, The Driftwood Girls, was published this month.

 

The Driftwood Girls
By Mark Douglas-Home
Published by Penguin

 

The book as . . . memory. What is your first memory of books and reading?

I loved comics – The Beano and The Dandy – and adventures. My favourite books in childhood were The Island of Adventure by Enid Blyton, The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann David Wyss, Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by CS Lewis and A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes. I enjoyed stories about children in danger in faraway or strange places!

 

The book as . . . your work. Tell us about your latest book The Driftwood Girls. Is there something in particular you’re setting out to explore?

The Driftwood Girls, the fourth in the Sea Detective series, is a story about two missing women, a mother, then twenty three years later, her daughter, and how unexplained absence keeps in agonised suspension those left behind. My interest in ‘the missing’ stems from when I was a newspaper reporter. I interviewed women whose husbands had gone out for ‘five minutes’ to buy cigarettes or a newspaper and had never returned and, in one tragic case, a woman whose husband died in a North Sea disaster but whose body hadn’t been recovered. Until it was, she was paralysed. She couldn’t be certain he was dead, nor did she dare to believe he was alive. More than six months later she still hadn’t been able to empty the basket of washing she had filled the day of the accident. Nor had she worn make-up.

 

The book as . . . object. What is your favourite beautiful book?

The book which is always a pleasure to hold and to open is The Birds of Scotland which was published in two volumes by the Scottish Ornithologists’ Club in 2007. It’s an astonishing undertaking and a wonderful reference book: 1,632 illustrated pages containing everything you’ll ever need to know about 509 bird species.

 

The book as . . . inspiration. What is your favourite book that has informed how you see yourself?

I’ve never had that favourite book, no inspiring secular bible, if you like. However, there are many books which I associate with different stages and times in my life. These include Narziss and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B by JP Donleavy and The Old Man and The Sea by Ernest Hemingway.

 

The book as . . . a relationship. What is your favourite book that bonded you to someone else?

There are two, involving the same people: King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard which I read to my two children when they were young; also Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson which I read in my twenties and, many years later, that same copy was borrowed in turn by my daughter and son until, finally, the binding disintegrated from love!

 

The book as . . . influence. What is your favourite book that made you see the world in a different way?

I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Used and Abused a Small African Nation by Michela Wrong is as memorable as it is shocking, required reading for anyone still harbouring a misty-eyed view of colonialism or the consequences of big power meddling. Eritrea was abused by its first colonial master, Italy, asset-stripped by its next, Britain, then ravaged and wrecked by American and Russian rivalry and armaments. This book’s lesson: big powers crush little people without even being aware of their effect and leave suffering as their legacy.

 

The book as . . . entertainment. What is your favourite rattling good read?

There are many (any book by Sarah Waters, for example) though I’ve chosen An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris because it’s a masterclass in how to construct an involving, page-turning novel from historical fact, in this case the Dreyfus Affair. I didn’t want it to end!

 

The book as . . . technology. What are your favourite audiobooks or eBooks?

I listen to audiobooks only on long car journeys. A favourite recently was The Dry by Jane Harper; another was Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. I don’t read eBooks because writing books on screen is more than sufficient screen-time for me!

 

The book as . . . a destination. What is your favourite book set in a place unknown to you?

Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg is a novel set on St Kilda, based on real historical events. It tells of the arrival in 1830 of Rev Neil MacKenzie and his wife Lizzie. His mission was to introduce the superstitious and ill-educated St Kildans to God; hers to be his support and mother to his offspring. Isolation, both emotional and social, as well as cruelty – three of Lizzie’s children die – changed them, as did a God who was every bit as unyielding as the conditions on St Kilda itself. It’s a compelling, beautifully written story about a marriage under stress and the harshness of 19th century island life.      

 

The book as . . . the future. What are you looking forward to reading next?

Two novels by the American writer Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge and Olive, Again; also, with great anticipation, the concluding part of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy, The Mirror & the Light, to be published in March.

 

The Driftwood Girls by Mark Douglas-Home is published by Penguin, priced £8.99

Not all memories are happy ones and Rebecca Wait’s gripping yet tender novel, Our Fathers, explores the aftermath of a terrible family tragedy. In the novel, Tom witnesses his father shooting dead his mother, brother and baby sister. We catch up with him as adult, still reeling from his childhood, returning to his Hebridean home to visit his uncle to make sense of his father’s motivation.

 

Extract taken from Our Fathers
By Rebecca Wait
Published by Riverrun

 

Tom studied his uncle discreetly. Malcolm was wearing an old green apron, which had presumably belonged to Heather, and was stirring the sauce with frowning concentration. There was something incongruous about seeing his uncle dressed like this, brandishing a wooden spoon and making a dish which Tom associated with his mother. It seemed unmanly, though Tom realized what an absurd idea this was.

A feeling of shame came over him suddenly, a plunge of his stomach. And there was something behind it: a memory, he thought. Tom used to try to close down his thoughts in these moments, to prevent them bringing back anything he didn’t want to see, but often that made it more painful in the long run. It was better, he had learned, to be brave and to face up to the memory at once. So, deliberately, masochistically, he followed the threads of the feeling until he found the memory attached to it. The laundry one, as he thought of it. Back again. It was a straightforward event in itself: his mother had asked him to help put away the laundry and he had refused. Then, later, this had led to a row between his parents. It was the timing of the incident that gave it an unsettling significance, and Tom knew this was why it came back to him so regularly: it had taken place just a couple of days before the murders. And although as an adult Tom could see that the two probably weren’t connected, still a sense of horror infused the memory that was far disproportionate to its content.

He turned his eyes away from Malcolm and lived it again. He saw his mother standing by the sink, her hair loose. He was supposed to be going out to meet Angus to play. Tom had never been sure if the scene took place in the morning or afternoon, but he could feel the urgency of the meeting in his body, that tightness of anxiety – not that he was keeping Angus waiting, but something else, something vaguer, perhaps caught up with one of the deeper fears of his childhood – of missing out, of being left behind.

And his mother had said something like, ‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve helped me put these clothes away.’

Tommy had believed he was going to do what she told him as he always did. He was surprised when he opened his mouth and said, ‘No.’ Then he felt the frisson in his whole body at having defied her.

He wasn’t sure exactly how his mother had responded, but he knew she had stood firm and, amazingly, he had too. He had hated her in that moment, and he remembered the shock of this feeling. ‘I have to go and meet Angus,’ he had told her, over and over, feeling himself a hero in his defiance. ‘He’s waiting for me.’ And then the bit he remembered most clearly, knowing as he said it that he was going too far, but saying it anyway: ‘Laundry is women’s work.’

He didn’t recall what his mother had said to that either. She had been furious, he was certain, but her words were lost. He was not sure why he had silenced her in so many of his memories.

Into this stand-off between them his father had entered. Tommy had felt a lurch of fear that was like falling, the certainty now that he had overplayed his hand. His father had looked to them both to explain the noise. He must have been in his study working.

They had told him, or perhaps Tommy’s mother had told him, reluctantly, maybe, in her quiet voice. Perhaps Tommy had chimed in shrilly in his own defence, saying that he didn’t have time, that Angus was waiting for him, or perhaps he had remained silent, fearful.

He remembered, though, how his father had responded. His father, standing in the kitchen doorway, doing that half-smile he sometimes did. He had said something like, ‘Katrina, the boy needs to be outside playing, not tied to his mother’s apron strings.’ Then he had turned to Tommy. ‘Off you go. We won’t let her turn you into a lass.’

And Tom remembered how he had slunk out, the mingled sense of satisfaction and betrayal, and how – he believed – his mother had not looked at him as he left. He felt the triumph at having defeated her and the horror of it, and caught up with it all was the warmth that flooded him when she turned her smile on him, how she would crouch down to listen to him when he was trying to tell her something, the feel of her as she hugged him and he slipped his arms around her middle and squeezed. Tommy adored no one as he adored his mother. He had confided in Nicky once, when they were very little, that he loved his mother even more than God and Jesus, and Nicky had told him, ‘You can’t say that,’ before adding comfortingly, ‘I do too.’

Tom knew that he had not enjoyed that afternoon, or that morning, whichever it was, playing with Angus. He had thought of his mother the whole time, of how angry she must be, and worse, how hurt. Getting your own way, he had discovered, did not feel the way you expected it to. It made you lonely.

Malcolm turned and said, ‘Almost done now,’ and Tom nodded and got up to lay the table.

 

Our Fathers by Rebecca Wait ublished by Riverrun, priced £14.99

A new year often inspires you to try something new. Marion Dunn had the same feeling when she turned 50, and joined a boxing gym. She found herself transformed by the sport and has written a knockout memoir on her experiences in the ring. Here we share an eye-opening – and hunger inducing – first session.

 

Extract taken from The Boxing Diaries
By Marion Dunn
Published by Saraband

 

I have signed up for a women’s boxing session, and in the changing room I speak to a woman with badly dyed blonde hair and a slightly mad glint in her eye. She tells me that she has been in the boxing ring fighting competitively as an amateur but has been recently injured and has lost fitness.

I change into my gear and have a little last-minute shadow boxing session in front of the changing room mirror before the main session starts. Even though it is supposed to be a women’s only boxing session, we are initially directed to a largish group of men and women, where we warm up under the watchful eye of the coach, skipping and shadow boxing interspersed with other familiar exercises. We have to sprint in a dogleg pattern across the gym floor to avoid the Victorian ironwork. The room seems to be divided into two halves. Most of the women are directed into the right hand half of the room and, mysteriously, the woman with the mad glint in her eye, the men and I are directed into the other half, where things begin to look a bit more serious.

I have had to fill in an online form about my boxing skills (or lack of them), so surely the coach must know that I am still a novice? The boxers in my group appear to be more experienced, carded or ex-carded types, which means they either carry or have recently carried medical cards to allow them to box competitively in the ring. After a few further exercises I am paired up with the woman with the mad glint in her eye, and I get my first taste, or rather trial by fire, of defensive boxing.

She throws a sharp jab. I am not expecting this so rather embarrassingly I am still wearing my glasses. I block the shot with my left hand, with my hand in a vertical orientation and the palm facing inwards as I have seen the other boxers do at my local gym. She throws a right hand – I parry or push it out of the way with my right. This goes on for a bit. We stop for a breather.

I warn her that I am wearing a rather expensive pair of glasses that I don’t want to lose. We start up again. The glasses seem to have enraged her somehow. The jabs and right hands come thicker, faster and harder, and my glasses are knocked to the floor. I am having real trouble blocking the shots now. I sense that she has it in for me, and I am cross because it should be obvious that I am novice and will gain nothing from the session if she treats it like a boxing match. Neither will she. I guess that she is somehow frustrated by her injury. The coach rushes over and without hesitation slings her out of the gym, and that is that. I am glad to say that this is the one and only time I have experienced this type of undisciplined behaviour in any boxing gym.

I attend two further sessions at the same gym over the next few weeks and both are worthwhile. In the first session one of the professional coaches who has a cauliflower ear spends time with me going right back to basics with my boxing stance. This is incredibly worthwhile. I practise moving around the boxing ring for the first time. I am told to ‘swing my hips like Elvis’ which I try in vain to do.

In the second session I am paired up with a much saner female boxer, Michelle. We both practise some genuinely useful defensive moves at a more civilised pace, before enduring a fairly punishing fitness session. At the end of this session, I am placed in the boxing ring with a much more experienced male boxer for five three-minute rounds. My sole purpose is to try and break down his defences and to see if I can score any points against him at all.

I consider myself to be quite fit now, but rather cruelly I am not allowed to rest between the rounds. Instead, I am given a series of exercises including fast step-ups on a bench to keep me ‘occupied’. Apparently, this keeps the necessary blood pumping round the muscles between the rounds.

My opponent is not throwing any punches at all at me, but even without this obvious distraction it is completely exhausting work. Because he is an experienced strategist, somehow he is making me do all the work. I seem to be whirling round and round the edge of the ring, feebly throwing punches into the air. He can read me like an open book and merely ducks, slips or rolls out of the way of my clunky jabs. He barely seems to move as I try my hardest. It is abundantly clear that he is completely at ease and well able to defend himself from any of my rather pathetic attempts. In fact, his is a textbook demonstration of proper boxing defence. In a way this gives me hope as I see that good defensive boxing is at least possible by someone.

Something must change, I think, as the bell rings and rings and the fourth round starts. For the first time ever, I actually start to engage my boxing brain. I must try something new or face complete humiliation in the eyes of the few onlookers. I feint a right hand shot. This causes him to momentarily drop his guard, and I plant a good left hook. I drop towards the floor by flexing my knees. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and this temporarily confuses him. I move forward in a display of pretend confidence. He moves back onto the ropes, and I deliver a couple of good body shots, then I am spent. The bell rings. At least I have managed something. The fifth round passes in a blur of exhaustion without event, but I do manage to deliver punches right to the last.

I thank my opponent and we fist-bump gloves in the timehonoured way. He takes off his headgear and smiles. He has barely broken into a sweat, but I am all in. I ask him for his honest comments. ‘Well, you are clearly a novice and lack technique, but there is some determination and punching power there. You were even punching quite well in the fifth round.’

Though not a proper boxing match or even a sparring contest, this experience did have a sense of reality about it, and from now on, I think, I will never be afraid to step into the ring under the gaze of onlookers, as long as I am adequately prepared. Perhaps this means never.

After getting changed, I have the immediate and quite primal desire to eat. It is an overpowering sense of hunger that I have rarely experienced. Fortunately, I have a couple of cereal bars in the car. Feeling faint, I wolf these down. Perhaps these will stifle the hunger pangs before I can reach my favourite café in Rivington village, a couple of miles away.

After driving only one mile along the Bolton Ring Road, I turn off into a small park. God Help Me! I have to eat again. Right Now! I fumble in a rucksack in the boot of my car and thankfully I find a few soggy glucose tablets right at the very bottom. Simultaneously, I glug down a whole flask of sugar-rich coffee. Then I feel as high as a kite as my system is simultaneously swamped with endorphins, sugar and caffeine. It is the most glorious feeling imaginable. It makes me wonder what real boxers must feel like after a real match.

Eventually I make it to the Rivington café. It is an old, slightly damp, churchy building stuffed with wet dogs and their earnest owners out for weekend walks on the Bolton fells. Years ago, I recall that my partner shamed me in this café by asking for Eccles cakes. ‘They’re Chorley cakes round ’ere, love,’ came the swift reply.

I ask for beans on toast with scrambled eggs, and pray, pray, pray for it to be quick. I am thirsty again and ask for a pint of tea loaded with sugar, then another one, then another one. It might be the road to diabetes hell, but I need it right now.

I sink into a dreamy torpor. I am tired, but also alert and incredibly elated. The food revives me enough to make it back home by teatime. I wonder if I will ever replenish my reserves of energy.

The following day, I lie languidly on the sofa and eat three enormous meals, one after the other, one of which is just a giant pan of spaghetti. ‘You’re never going eat all that?!’ Haydon says, aghast. I know that it is slightly disgusting, but I just stuff it straight in, gratefully all the same. I am still ravenous.

‘After all,’ I lie, ‘I’m allowed – I’m a boxer.’

 

The Boxing Diaries by Marion Dunn is published by Saraband, priced £9.99

There are so many books to look forward to in the coming year, so we thought we’d pick 10 authors on their first or second books to watch out for. They’re future superstars!

 

Martin MacInnes 

We’re very much looking forward to Martin MacInnes’s second novel, Gathering Evidence, after the success of his debut, Infinite Ground. He’s a writer who defies description, and likes to push boundaries in genre and form, while exploring ideas of technology, the environment and the world(s) we live in. In Gathering Evidence, we are taken to a dire future where a research team, led by Shel Murray, visits an exclusive national park to observe one of the last troops of bonobo chimpanzees. Amid unusual behaviour and unexplained deaths, Shel suspects her team is being hunted, and when her partner, John, is attacked, she realises that something even more catastrophic has to be stopped.

Gathering Evidence is published on 6th February. (Atlantic)

 

Shola Von Reinhold

In 2020, Jacaranda Books will be joining forces with Words of Colour Productions for its Twenty in 2020 initiative, celebrating black British writers. One of them is Scotland’s Shola Von Reinhold, a recent graduate from the Creative Writing MLitt at the University of Glasgow. Jacaranda will be publishing their debut novel, LOTE, which follows the narrator Mathilda’s fixation with the forgotten black Scottish modernist poet, Hermia Drumm. A fan of modernism and the avant-garde, Shola explores the ephemeral nature of art and beauty, and how art stakes its claim in history.

LOTE is published on 26th March. (Jacaranda Books)

 

Jane Alexander

Jane Alexander, a creative writing teacher at the University of Edinburgh and the Open University, is just about to release her second novel, A User’s Guide to Make-Believe. Her first novel, The Last Treasure Hunt, was published in 2015 and selected as a Waterstones Debut of the Year. Taking its cue from Black Mirror and Jane’s own fascination with virtual reality, A User’s Guide to Make-Believe follows Cassie, an employee of of the manufacturers of the virtual reality experience Make-Believe, as she herself gets caught up in using it to relive her memories of a past relationship.

A User’s Guide to Make-Believe is published on 23rd January. (Allison & Busby)

 

Laura Guthrie

Another debutant, Laura Guthrie will be publishing her her first YA novel in the summer. Anna is a modern reimagining of childhood favourite, Pollyanna, where Guthrie’s Anna, who has Aspergers’ Syndrome, finds herself transported to Scotland to live with her reclusive mother after the death of her father. With two plays, a PhD and several award-winning short stories under her belt, we’re bound to hear a lot more from her in the future.

Anna is published in June. (Cranachan)

 

 

Colin Bramwell, Chris Boyland, Carly Brown & Bibi June

The wonderful folks at Stewed Rhubarb are encouraging all poetry lovers to subscribe to their Fellowship of Stewed Rhubarb this year to receive all their publications as well as other lyrical treats. They will be releasing pamphlets from four shining stars in Scotland’s spoken word scene: Jigsaw by Colin Bramwell, User Stories by Chris Boyland, Dramatis Personae by Carly Brown and Critique of the Criminal Justice System by Bibi June.

The Fellowship pamphlets will be published quarterly throughout 2020. (Stewed Rhubarb)

 

 

Graeme Armstrong

Coming highly recommended by the award-winning, and fellow Airdrieonian, David Keenan, as well as Kerry Hudson and Janice Galloway, Graeme Armstrong’s debut The Young Team looks set to dazzle us all in 2020. We follow the teenage years of Azzy Williams who’s ready to smoke, drink, fight and do anything for his gang of pals, though it might not all be good for him. Graeme Armstrong was picked up for Picador’s New Voices 2020, and the novel is based on his own experiences of growing up.

The Young Team is published on 5th March. (Picador)

 

 

Deborah Masson

It’s always good to get a new fictional bobby on the beat, and Deborah Masson’s creation, DI Eve Hunter, is pounding the mean streets of Aberdeen in her first novel, Hold Your Tongue. On her first day back from a sabbatical,  DI Hunter is called to the scene of a gruesome crime. A young woman’s mutilated body has been discovered in a hotel room with a newspaper headline about the victim’s burgeoning modeling career is pinned to her. It is up to Eve to find the killer before they strike again. The novel is already garnering strong praise with fans already looking forward to its follow up.

Hold Your Tongue was published on 26th December 2019. (Corgi)

 

Ali Whitelock

Ali Whitelock’s first book, Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell was a brilliant memoir of her childhood growing up in the west of Scotland. She now dedicates her writing time to poetry and her first collection And My Heart Crumples Like a Coke Can will be released in the UK later on this year. If you like poems that are honest, hilarious, visceral, tender and always surprising, you should definitely pick this one up.

And My Heart Crumples Like a Coke Can is published in April. (Polygon)

 

Joe Donnelly

Joe Donnelly, a Glasgow-based journalist and mental health advocate, loves video games. And he is tired of reading about the supposed bad influence gaming has on the young and the introverted. His debut, Checkpoint: How video games power up minds, kick ass and save lives, seeks to counter those stories, reflecting on the comforting and healing effect that exploring digital worlds and narratives can have on mental health both personally and on a wider scale.  The rehabilitation of gaming culture starts here!

 

 

Hannah Foley

Former nurse Hannah Foley won the Kelpies Prize for childrens’ writing in 2018, and this year sees the publication of that award-winning entry. The Spellbinding Secret of Avery Buckle is a childrens’ book (8-11 years) full of magic, adventure, enchanted bicyles and a host of characters from Scotland’s myths and legends. If you want to know Avery’s secret, you’ll have to get a copy!

The Spellbinding Secret of Avery Buckle is published on April 23rd. (Floris)

It’s always a delight to take part in the end of year round up podcast with Alistair Braidwood of Scots Whay Hae!, one of the best websites and podcasts celebrating Scottish culture. If you’re still looking for recommendations Christmas gifts, then let us give you a whistle stop tour round the books that caught our eye over the year.

 

Check out the Scots Whay Hae! website for more excellent Scottish culture.

Rosemary Hector has re-imagined the Nativity story through a series of poems offering different voices and perspectives. If you’re looking to see this story anew, this beautifully-illustrated book is a perfect gift for Advent. We’ve selected here a few of the poems from the collection to kick start your Christmas reflections.

 

Poems taken from A Quickening
By Rosemary Hector
Published by Muddy Pearl

 

Matter of Belief

The guide from National Geographic suggested
it could have been a trough, rather than a manger,
where Mary laid her baby, since Bethlehem,
banked by olive and almond trees, is on an aquifer
and was built to defend water. He pontificated that
water and height, the soil and its fertility, defence,
boundaries and access remain political issues.
Trough or manger; a problem? The mystery is
in contested territory, in politically charged times
God became matter, and tiny, contained.

 

Star of Bethlehem

A conjunction of planets:
a comet; a nova (birth of
a new star), or a miracle
(without explanation)?
Oblivious, the quilters
sense the need for joy
in their choice of colours, know
effort should focus more
on effect than on perfect points;
a burst of visual delight.
They choose this pattern,
cut cloth, stitch and patch
this many-sided star,
and sense its significance,
the ancient story.
Learned men. Interpreters
of skies. The decision
to trust their knowledge,
traverse deserts, hopeful,
follow what they could see,
follow the foretold.

 

Art

Did he come down to be mocked up
in plaster of Paris, or pale wood
painted with vermilion wounds,
paraded through streets each fiesta?
Did he come down to be a statue
handled by men in white gloves,
gently winched onto a plinth?
Did he come down to model
for Raphael or Leonardo;
on a beatific Mary’s lap?
Yes, he came down, for all our poor
attempts to represent what we sense,
or consider beautiful and in good taste;
he came down and has compassion
on our worst art, and on our best.

 

Lament

… oh i cry for our country a bank with no money
a shop with nothing to sell a sandpit not safe for play
because of litter and needles and dog shit
oh i weep bitter tears for our country …
Isaiah’s metaphors were for different times; he wrote
of neglected vineyards, deserts, burning straw, as he wept
for Israel, God’s lovely nation. It was the same observation
as today; a failure of justice. Rightness offended.
A prophet’s lament is not personal, but mirrors
things as they are. It speaks to those in power,
nor does it offer an answer, provide a neat narrative
with a rhyming conclusion. The call is to consider, return.
Say ‘sorry’ and attempt to restore all that is broken.
Yet within his descriptions of darkness and woe a small voice
slips in; light. There will be a child. Named ‘God with us’.
With us, in all our metaphors. In all our times.

 

A Quickening by Rosemary Hector is published by Muddy Pearl, priced £9.99

It’s fair to say that Billy Connolly is both National Treasure and absolute legend. His earthy, surreal and utterly hilarious outlook on life has been gracing stages across the world for decades, and can now be found in print in his latest book, Tall Tales and Wee Stories. To celebrate publication, BooksfromScotland was delighted to look back at some of Billy Connolly’s most famous routines. Enjoy!

 

Tall Tales and Wee Stories: The Best of Billy Connolly
By Billy Connolly
Published by Two Roads

 

 

The Crucifixion

 

 

Incontinence Pants

 

 

The Welly Boot Song

 

Tall Tales and Wee Stories: The Best of Billy Connolly by Billy Connolly is published by Two Roads, priced £20.00

When Stephen Rutt moved to Dumfries-shire, noting the daily lives of the birds in the area connected him to his new home. Wintering: A Season with Geese is his memoir of those first winter months, and we’re delighted to present this extract here.

 

Extract taken from Wintering: A Season with Geese
By Stephen Rutt
Published by Elliott & Thompson

 

I am falling more deeply for geese on a daily basis. Although I am told the winter won’t always be like this – they are wild geese after all, predictably unpredictable – the regular skeins flying over are captivating me. Sinking deep inside me. It is new for me. In a new place they are making me feel, tentatively, at home. Connected to the world, while it just happens around me, daily and unadorned. It is not a famous spectacle, these passing skeins of geese, not the top billing on wildlife TV. These geese just quietly go about their daily movements, as I go about mine. I am one insignificant human to them but they are reminding me that I am a part of the world that stretches as far away as Iceland, part of the running rhythm of winter.

*

These pink-footed geese know Dumfries better than we do. The skeins we see scoring the sky are following regular routes. Well-travelled sky paths. Geese can be long-lived, if they avoid foxes, polar bears, powerlines and men with guns: the average life expectancy is eight years, but the oldest recorded bird was thirty-eight when it died. The Solway has seen pink-feet live through to their twenties. These are just the ringed birds that we know about, that have been found again. In the thousand-strong flocks there could be some that are older. I wonder at the generations of geese contained in each skein.

*

A morning, a week later. The first skein comes, shaped like the nib of a fountain pen, drawing a northbound line through the sky. I am walking northeast through the town, to the station, on an early golden morning. The third skein skips across, between the roofs of the shops, just off the high street. The fifth veers off eastward, into the sun. The sixth is the vanguard of the two-coach rattling train to Glasgow, ploughing its slow way through the hills to the city. I look up the word ‘skein’ on slow mobile internet from the train. It’s from the old, obscure French word ‘escaigne’, meaning an amount of yarn. The word makes a sort of sense. Although it is the only use of the word ‘skein’ that does not have a textile meaning, I like the way it suggests threads. Threads of geese in the sky, sometimes unravelling, sometimes like a ball of string, trailing a loose end. The skeins we see are stringy strands of the geese. It is only roughly, only occasionally, the precise V-shape of the classic imagined geese skein. Each flock is social. It seems mildly ironic that we should move to a place where I know nobody, and for the birds to be obviously together, benefiting each other. These skeins are social forms of flying. Each goose reduces drag for the one behind it. Each goose helps another.

It is possible to think these skeins ancient, that they have been scoring the sky since time beyond memory. It’s not true. British pink-footed geese come almost entirely from Iceland and Greenland. The rest of Europe’s come from Svalbard, the archipelago halfway between Norway and the North Pole. The Icelandic population increased spectacularly during the twentieth century. I start reading. The Birds of Dumfriesshire, compiled in 1910 by Hugh S. Gladstone, suggests that the bean goose was more common but was being displaced by the pink-footed goose.2 But all grey goose species look similar to some degree and even now, with modern knowledge and modern optics, identification is not easy. Early accounts are mired in confusion and misidentification. What is clear is that over the twentieth century the pink-footed goose became exceptionally common on the Solway Firth, where once it had been either irregular or unknown. The bean goose is now so rare in Dumfries and Galloway that if you see one you have to write a description of it for a panel of four men to adjudicate on whether you are correct.

I was dimly aware that pink-footed geese were supposed to be here in Dumfries, in the way that one is dimly aware of gravity or local politics: I know of the existence of these things and vaguely how they work and affect me, but that is it. Although I can’t imagine a time when I become obsessed with the machinations of councils or the essentials of physics, as necessary as they may be. I was not anticipating how frequently my thoughts would return to the geese, how my eye would be scanning the horizon for the smudge that betrays a skein on the horizon. I was not anticipating how much I would become obsessed with the geese. I was not aware how much they were becoming part of my life.

This is not unique to me.

 

Wintering: A Season with Geese by Stephen Rutt is published by Elliott & Thompson, priced £12.99

David Ouimet’s I Go Quiet is beautiful, special book celebrating the wonder of books and the imagination. It’s an ideal gift for those you know who prefer to be found in a quiet corner rather than in the thick of the Christmas crowds. We hope this taster of some of the stunning illustrations will get you rushing to the bookshops!

 

Illustrations taken from I Go Quiet
By David Ouimet
Published by Canongate

 

 

 

 

I Go Quiet by David Ouimet is published by Canongate, priced £12.99

The end of the year is often a time of reflection, particularly on those who are no longer with us. David Robinson is moved by the bravery and honesty of Kenneth Roy’s memoir on his terminal illness, In Case of Any News.

 

In Case of Any News
By Kenneth Roy
Published by ICS Books

 

Try as I might, there is no way in which I can give this month’s column a seasonally jolly topspin. It’s not about Christmas, carols, cracker jokes, stupid sweaters, office parties, balloons or stuffed turkeys. It’s about saying goodbye to all of that, about the empty chair at the feast. It’s about dying.

Most of us have read books by people who know they are dying and want to put into words what their life meant, to describe their experience of love and friendship before it all goes away. I’ve ghost-written such a book myself, on behalf of a man dying of a brain tumour, and in terms of how much it meant to its subject, it is probably the best thing I have written. But in the vast literature of death, I have never come across anything quite as moving or brave as the late Kenneth Roy’s In Case of Any News.

I didn’t, I hasten to add, know him: I never met him, saw him on television, or heard him speak. I haven’t read any of his other books, heard of the charities he founded, or written for Scottish Review, the magazine he founded and edited, in either its printed quarterly (since 1995) or (since 2008)  online weekly iterations. My admiration of his book isn’t tainted by friendship or professional courtesy: in short, it’s not personal.

I had, though, read his journalism for years. From it, I had constructed a mental picture of him: a bit crabbit, perhaps, not the sort to throw himself into the mad social whirl but commenting on it from a laconic distance. A cynic, possibly; definitely not a joiner-in or a booming extrovert. One thing for sure: his byline was a byword for clarity of thought and expression, usually with a dollop of wit on the side – ‘writing worth reading’, in the words of the Scotsman advert from the days when he was writing for it or Scotland on Sunday.

Magnus Linklater begins his excellent introduction to In Case of Any News by saying that he always saw Kenneth Roy as ‘the conscience of Scotland – a writer who gave it a wee nudge when he thought it had strayed off course’. I’d put it slightly differently: that he had a knack for asking awkward questions. If he were reviewing his own book, for example, he’d probably ask what on earth the living could possibly hope to learn from a book written by someone who is dying. He might even have been sceptical about the whole project: that would, after all, be the contrarian position, and Roy never shied away from taking the minority view. What, he might ask, can a writer teach us about Death when it is already in the hospital room, scythe raised?

This drastically foreshortened focus is the truly remarkable thing about Roy’s ‘diary of living and dying’. He began writing it on 4 October 2018, just after being told that his cancer was terminal and ended it on 1 November, four days before his death, and yet for all his caveats about not having had time to edit it properly, it  is complete in its own right. A rare and ultra-lucid despatch from very edge of life, it is a last testament of will from a writer who ‘wonders how near the finishing line I can get and still file a line or two of copy’. And that’s the key: these are the final pages of a reporter’s notebook, and he will struggle through sleeplessness and embarrassment (vomiting, soiling the bed) and pain to fulfil that oh-so-simple-sounding journalistic instruction to ‘tell it like it is’.

But that, he says, is the easy bit. Recording what is life like in Room 303, Station 9, at Ayr Hospital is straightforward reportage of the kind that writes itself (yeah, right). The really worrying bit, he adds, is that if he suddenly runs out of any added insights into the business of dying, any last words of wisdom, the whole project will be doomed to failure.

Now this, remember, is what Kenneth Roy has decided he will do with what remains of his life. Finishing this book is his one remaining ambition. Not reading poetry, because the words float away, unabsorbed. Not watching films, because or reading histories because, well, what’s the point? Even music palls. Religion doesn’t help, because he’s not a believer. The news no longer matters and will happen without him. Philosophy doesn’t console, not even Seneca. Pastimes are pointless when there is so little time to pass.  But 3,000 words a day: that counts for something, doesn’t it, even if only a fragment to shore up against ruin? Spurred on by his estimable consultant Dr Gillen, he carries on.

Of course, he has his visitors, and they have their place in the reporter’s notebook, although – and again, this is another way in which this book differs from most other examples of this curious sub-genre – they are not its primary focus. As family and friends take turns by his bedside, one is never quite sure who is who. Perhaps he didn’t want to embarrass them, but my own guess is that he didn’t want to dwell on the love and friendship he was leaving behind him lest it undermine his own purpose. Wallowing in self-pity isn’t his style. Nor does he bore us with the details of his treatment, because that’s what they are, just details.

He tells us something of his life, and it’s not remotely what I expected. A bleak background in Bonnybridge, driven to truanting aged 12 by a bullying maths teacher and leaving school three years later without a single qualification. An embarrassing, alcoholic father (‘no good purpose. would be served by a celestial reunion’) and reserved mother. Wondering why he and his sister never talked much about either of them, he notes that ‘dying doesn’t necessarily release inhibition; it can actually reinforce it.’

And if belatedly confronting the past is a strange experience, so too is life on Station 9. ‘Overwhelming love. Overwhelming love. Overwhelming love. I am surrounded by it, wrapped in it, and I am trying to learn at the end of my life to learn how to deal with it and respond to it. It isn’t easy. It’s the most difficult thing I have ever done.’

Read that paragraph again, you can see just how far it is from my initial mental image of Roy (crabbit, cynical, witty etc). Yet his affection for the NHS staff who look after him (and to whom the book is dedicated) is clear enough. If there has indeed been a change in him, it has happened in front of our eyes as we are introduced to them – the assistant nurse who helps him to shave, the nurse who makes time for a kind word before she goes off shift, everyone who cleans up after him or cares for him, or who quietly understands what it’s like to be afraid to go to sleep when you’re not sure if you’ll wake up in the morning. The palliative care expert who quietly asks him if he wants to carry on.

Maybe, if he had time, he would have edited that paragraph about overwhelming love. But that’s the point. He hasn’t. He notices how his whole style is shifting, becoming less energetic, less elaborate and more direct. He has things to say, but it’s getting harder. He is fighting against tiredness, interrupting his own narrative even more than the most po-mo novelist (has that first chapter been lost for good? Has he gone over the top in the heartfelt tributes to Station 9 at the end of his self-penned obit in Scottish Review?  Should he have written it straighter, maybe with a joke in the first par?). But he hasn’t time to change anything. It’s there, 49,000 words, at one and the same time raw and thoughtful, and delivered, somewhat miraculously, just in time for that final, and sadly unalterable, deadline.

I wrote earlier on that I had never met Kenneth Roy, and that’s true. But In the course of writing this, I remembered that I had received an email from him. Three years ago, compiling one of those Books of the Year round-ups, I had asked him to pick a couple of books that had impressed him. He replied courteously  and in time for my own deadline. So I’d like to repay the compliment.  If anyone asks me for my own book of the year, this is it.

 

In Case of Any News by Kenneth Roy is published by ICS Books, priced £14.99.

The Secret Life of Tartan is a gorgeous and fascinating book on our nation’s cloth, ideal for the fashionista or history buff in your life. Within its pages, Vixy Rae speaks to many people involved in the tartan industry, and in this extract she speaks to Peter Macdonald, a tartan historian.

 

Extract taken from The Secret Life of Tartan: How a Cloth Shaped a Nation
By Vixy Rae
Published by Black and White Publishing

 

Peter MacDonald is a man who quite possibly has forgotten more than I will ever begin to know about tartan. Peter is Scotland’s foremost tartan historian; his main area of interest is the Jacobite era and the early commercial production of tartan. And so, in my quest to weave together the whole historical pattern that is tartan, I turned to him as surely the world’s leading authority on its history and its design. I posed a few questions to help ease myself into this new, intricate world of structure and colour, hoping to broaden my knowledge by absorbing some of his. I came away from our meeting convinced that if you were to cut him in half, he would be tartan all the way through – like a stick of rock, only more stylish.

 

Vixy Rae: How would you define tartan? What is its defining quality?

Peter MacDonald: Historically, the term tartan was used to describe a type of cloth, irrespective of pattern. More commonly, it describes the multi-coloured, cross-barred pattern woven from solid coloured yarns, which distinguishes it from tweed. As a design, tartan is not unique to Scotland but only here did it develop the cultural significance that is inextricably linked to the Highland clans and which later became perhaps the unifying symbol of Scottishness. It is the Fabric of the Nation.

 

For you, which tartan represents the pinnacle of design in colour and complexity of sett?

There are a number of contenders for the title but perhaps the finest example is the tartan designed in 1713 for the Royal Company of Archers’ first uniform. The tartan was replaced by the Black Watch tartan in the late 18th century but not before it had been used as the basis for Ogilvie and Drummond of Strathallan tartans.

 

And which is your least favourite?

I’m not a fan of a lot of modern fashion tartans, principally because they often use colours and colour combinations that are non-traditional; for example: pink, yellow, purple and light blue, which I just don’t find pleasing. I also find the current trend for dull and bland colours, such as those of the Outlander range of tartan, visually unsatisfying and historically misleading. In the 18th century, red was the colour of choice for those that could afford it, the gentry were invariably painted in red-based tartans and the majority of surviving specimens reflect this.

 

What is the earliest surviving garment made from the cloth?

The nature of our climate and soils, together with the need to reuse garments and cloth in the past, means that few old examples of tartan survive. We have nothing that was created before the mid-18th century and only a number of examples associated with the Jacobites.

 

When was tartan’s defining moment? When did it become noteworthy in historical terms?

 If there’s one date that is significant above all others it is 1822, the date of Sir Walter Scott’s Royal Pageant and the tartan jamboree associated with George IV’s visit to Scotland.

 

There appears to be a revival in the wearing of trews. Do you think this takes away from the Scottishness of tartan use?

 No, why should it? Trews (triubhas) have been part of Highland dress since at least the 17th century, long before the development of the modern kilt.

 

When Sir Walter Scott was planning the Royal Pageant, many clan chieftains apparently had no idea what their tartan was. Or is this a myth?

In 1815 the Highland Society of London set about collecting ‘traditional clan tartans’ in order to preserve them. They wrote to the clan chiefs asking them to submit a specimen of their clan tartan. The trouble was that the idea that there had been such a thing as clan tartans was a recent invention.

The Society’s correspondence reveals that most of the chiefs had no idea what their ‘true clan’ tartan was. The chief of MacPherson supplied a tartan that only a few years before had been a Wilsons’ fancy pattern which they called No.43, Kidd or Caledonia. So many chiefs submitted a piece of Government (Black Watch) tartan, probably because they’d served in the army, that the Society’s officers had to restrict the number that they would accept.

 

The world is becoming a global village. Is it important for tartan to be celebrated and held in high esteem around the world?

 For me, it’s more important to preserve an understanding of the historical use and traditions of tartans for future generations. I was fortunate to have met and learned from some of the significant tartan researchers of the past – now there’s just me. Where is the next generation and how do we collate and preserve our history? The work of the Scottish Tartans Authority is important in helping to preserve knowledge but there’s always more to do.

 

What is the most obscure tartan that you know of?

Goodness, where to start? The Scottish Tartans Authority has over 9,000 tartans on its database; fewer than one hundred pre-date 1800, so my answer would have to be one of the early 18^th century cloths.

Undoubtedly the most obscure tartan, in terms of rarity and uniqueness, is that from the only known surviving coat of the Ancient Caledonian Society (ACS). The coat, which is in the collection of the Scottish Tartans Authority, dates to c1786 when the ACS was formed. The previously unknown tartan was almost certainly designed for the Society and is unusual in having a decorative silk motif woven into it. On each of the red squares there is a white rose and two buds representing King James VIII/III and the Princes Charles and Henry. The use of such obvious Jacobite iconography only thirty-three years after the last execution of a Jacobite leader is extraordinary and shows just how safe it had become to make such references without fear of reprisal. Tartan, with a secondary design such as the rose motif, would have been woven on an early Jacquard-type loom, probably outside of Scotland, possibly in Norwich which was famous for this type of weaving.

 

Do you have a favourite, little known story about the cloth you could share?

I wove the material for Prince William and Prince Harry’s first kilts. The tartan was the Prince Charles Edward, an early variation of the Royal Stewart tartan, which is said to have been worn as ribbons on the wedding coat of Charles II.

Thirty-odd years later, I was privileged to work on a version of the Prince Charles Edward Stewart tartan that the Scottish Tartans Authority gifted to HRH Prince Charles; a tartan which he often wears when in Scotland.

 

The Secret Life of Tartan: How a Cloth Shaped a Nation by Vixy Rae is published by Black and White Publishing, priced £25.00