THE BEST OF SCOTTISH BOOKS

Romance, mystery and bookshops – what a perfect combination for a dose of well-crafted escapism. Author, Jan Ellis, has now created three brilliant books in her Bookshop by the Sea series. Here she tells us how she came to write her novels.

 

A Summer of Surprises/The Bookshop Detective/French Kisses and a London Affair
By Jan Ellis
Published by Waverley Books

 

The Accidental Novelist

I need to begin this with a confession. Well, two in fact. The first is that I never intended to write fiction; the second – whisper it! – is that my stories began life as computer code. Both things came about when I was approached by a digital publisher to write a history book, but we couldn’t agree on a topic. ‘No problem,’ they said. ‘Why not have a go at women’s fiction instead?’

The first rule of being self-employed is to say ‘yes’ to everything so, ignoring the fact that I hadn’t written stories since the age of about seven, I whizzed over a proposal, contracts were signed and off I went into the great literary unknown.

Fortunately for me, once I sat down and thought about the setting and the basic plot, I was amazed by how quickly ideas flowed. As soon as my heroine Eleanor Mace appeared, the personalities of her sister Jenna and other characters followed on quite naturally. I particularly enjoyed designing The Reading Room – Eleanor’s fictitious shop – because I work for part of the BA and have serious bookshop envy.

My stories are generally described as ‘romcom’, but the emphasis is firmly on the humour of everyday life. I became very fond of Eleanor and her eccentric bunch of friends and family – especially mother Connie and her octogenarian squeeze, Harold – so I was delighted to revisit them in The Bookshop Detective.

When thinking about this book, I wanted to come up with an old-fashioned mystery that would involve the sea-faring traditions of a small coastal town. Eleanor becomes intrigued by a Victorian crime report and sets out to discover what happened to a young lad at the centre of the story. She also becomes embroiled in a mystery much closer to home. I especially enjoyed researching the history and I’m very fortunate to have a learned friend who was able to answer my peculiar questions about wrecking and the Victorian penal system.

It was relatively easy to come up with puzzles for The Bookshop Detective to solve, but I had no idea what the solutions would be. Fortunately, the characters worked them out – phew! Of course, even uplifting stories need tension, so there’s a sub-plot around Eleanor, her new husband and the interfering ex-wife, Freya.

One of my favourite characters to write was an old-fashioned librarian referred to by Eleanor as ‘Dismal Deirdre’. She ended up with a bigger role than anticipated, although this wasn’t entirely my fault. ‘We like her,’ said my publisher at Waverley Books. ‘Can you give her a bigger role?’ So I did, then they said, ‘Oh, no! What if we upset all the librarians and they refuse to stock the book?’

I believe in living dangerously, so Deirdre stayed. (Disclaimer: some of my best friends are librarians and they are still speaking to me. Just about.)

Friends are often the catalyst for some of the funniest events in my books. One kindly allowed me to include an incident she had with an exploding dress and a stapler that I put to good use in a book-launch scene. The pleasures and perils of running an indie bookshop are key to the storyline.

So, dear reader, whether you’re looking for contemporary romance, comedy or mystery, I hope you will find plenty to entertain you.

 

The Bookshop by the Sea series by Jan Ellis is published by Waverley Books, all at £7.99

Sadly, love doesn’t always work out the way you’d hoped. Fiction and Feeling’s Katie West has put together an enlightening and inspiring anthology that looks at how it’s possible to have a good divorce from those who have been through it.

 

Extract taken from Split
By Katie West
Published by Fiction and Feeling

 

How do you survive the end of love? Same way you survive the end of the world.

I’m a divorcee. But I’m not sad, angry, or broken, and neither is my former husband. When I tell people I’m recently divorced, the look they always give me? I know pity when I see it. I understand that reaction; marriage is this thing, this contract, this relationship that is supposed to last forever. The entire goal of marriage is to have no end, till death do us part and whatever. When I tell people that my marriage has ended, the only seemingly appropriate reaction is to mourn the broken promises and then politely inquire as to my well-being. This is a reaction I don’t appreciate because it takes away from the work I have done to survive the end of love.

Think about it this way, if you’d seriously and diligently prepared for the apocalypse so that, when it finally happened, not only did you survive, but you thrived, would you like people to treat you delicately and with sympathy? I want people to high five me and congratulate me on discovering a new way of living, to celebrate with me my new understanding: that survival is insufficient.

I understand that my circumstances may be unique, but I also think it’s important to know that we don’t have to go through particular life events the same way as everyone else or feel the way that others expect us to. I believe that Apocalyptic survival – both literal and matrimonial – is best achieved in two phases: Phase 1 is Survival. If you make it through this, you can move on to Phase 2: Knowing that Survival is Insufficient. This phrase comes from an episode of Star Trek: Voyager (my favourite Trek) and is used to express the importance of freedom and individual choice. It’s used to recognise the difference between surviving and living. I’m sharing this with you because the apocalypse of my marriage was one of the best things that ever happened to me, and I’m going to tell you why, and how.

Phase 1: Survival

 Everyone preparing for the apocalypse should understand the basic Rule of Three if they hope to be successful: three weeks without food kills you, three days without water kills you, and three hours without shelter kills you. These rules can handily be applied to marriage, too.

So when the world ends, what will you do? Have you thought about it much? I have. I’ve thought about it a lot and the first thing I’m going to do when shit goes south is find my former husband, Matt. We’ve talked about the apocalypse and how it will happen and our plans to survive. We’ve discussed infectious diseases, economic collapse, famine, flooding, environmental disasters, and nuclear war. We have an outcome for every eventuality; chance of survival is always slim – we’re realists – but if we make it, we have plans. We planned for every possibility. We voraciously read post-apocalyptic books and watched post-apocalyptic movies. We planned our escape routes and discussed weapons of choice. But while we were busy planning for the apocalypse, our marriage ended.

If the end of my marriage was like any particular kind of apocalyptic event, it would have been a slow flood. You know it’s raining – raining quite a bit actually – and you keep waiting for it to stop, but eventually you accept it’s not going to. That this is it. As we noticed the world was starting to flood, we were angry and blamed each other, but when the end of the world comes, there’s always more than one person to blame, so you’ve just got to get out a lifejacket, pack up your gear, and go searching for a boat. The thing that most people don’t understand though, is that while it was raining, my husband held the umbrella for me so I could put on my lifejacket, and while he searched for a boat, I kept his gear dry. By the time the flood waters were at our knees we knew that there could be life after this, but we’d have to take separate boats. We spent the last few months of our marriage just preparing to set out alone.

The end came five years and three months after we said our vows and, because of our preparation, very little changed when it did. In essence, the apocalypse of our love had come, but we had food to keep us full and satiated, water to keep us hydrated and clear, and shelter to keep us safe and warm.

Phase 1.a: Food

 When you’re not hungry you feel one of two ways: either you don’t even notice it, or you feel very comfortable, safe, and content. To feel that way in my marriage meant I needed money, as unromantic as that sounds. Not having the money to buy the things you need is extremely stressful and gives a marriage a very anxious undertone. There have been long periods of time in my life, and in my marriage, where I had no money and had to rely on the kindness of strangers to support me and, by extension, my husband. This is probably why, even though I am a picky eater, I will eat any food as long as it’s free; so here’s hoping that whatever apocalyptic event we’re faced with also comes with the demise of capitalism and the destruction of our current monetary structures.

And speaking of free: do you know what’s free in a world where the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet? That’s right, basically nothing. But being married makes it much easier to live in a world where nothing is free, which, in turn, can make separating a lot more difficult. Maybe alone you can make twenty bucks last for three weeks, but married life means you have forty bucks. Married life means two people sharing all the bills and you get a bigger apartment, a faster internet connection, and you eat more than just Kraft Dinner and pizza, theoretically. So, if you’re the person in the relationship who makes less money, separating from your partner often means separating from the quality of life you’ve become used to. Your life suddenly becomes stretched, spread over distances you didn’t even know existed, let alone how to navigate on your own.

But if you’re the person who makes more money – say almost twice as much as your partner – then you’re me, and you feel like you’re creating a situation where your partner will starve. If food is required for survival, and money is food, then the best way I could ensure both Matt and my own survival was to share what I had. Which is why we lived together for eight months after we separated, shared a credit card for over a year, and just split our Netflix account a week ago. Neither of us starved, both of us stayed comfortable, safe, and content. This is probably not a very popular piece of advice, but if you’re aiming for mutually assured survival after divorce, sometimes that means sharing your food stores with someone who no longer shares your table.

Phase 1.b: Water

 Finding fresh water during an apocalyptic event is paramount. Three days! You only have three days to come across a water source that isn’t contaminated, stagnant, or, you know, an ocean. Three days is also about as long as I could go without talking to my husband; my need to communicate was a thirst, especially as things got more difficult. It is the very nature of language to flow, and so, like water during end times, words during a marriage, and a divorce, are paramount. Finding the right ones, those without salt, without toxicity, is a skill that helped me survive. My former husband is my best friend. I say ‘former,’ because ‘ex’ sounds so shallow, so rough. The language we use to talk of the end of things is often small and sharp, like the wreckage of ships jutting up from a calm sea. Look at the ‘end’ compared to the ‘beginning’; everyone is so verbose at the beginning of things.

The language my former husband and I used at the beginning of our marriage was not in keeping with this idea. Our words have always been small, but instead of sharp, they’ve been full, they’ve quenched in single gulps. We lived our entire marriage knowing there would be an end. In our minds, it was the end of the world, not the end of the marriage, but it still resulted in an urgency to get to exactly how we were feeling. The end of the world doesn’t have time for you to sit around and think about what you want to say; the apocalypse demands you say it now, say what you mean, choose your words with conviction, this may be your last chance. So that’s how we spent our marriage, saying what we meant and waiting for the end that would make it all justified. We were great communicators. These words kept us sated, so we continue to share them. Our words to one another are a bracing fresh water source we can draw from anytime we get thirsty out here beyond the end of marriage.

Phase 1.c: Shelter

 In some apocalyptic circumstances, finding shelter will be no problem. If, for example, a virus wipes out 99 percent of the planet’s population, there’s going to be a lot of empty houses. However, if we find ourselves in a nuclear wasteland or a Waterworld situation, shelter may be more difficult to come by. In marriage, think of love as your shelter. Love can be something you stumble upon when you weren’t really looking, or it can be hard to come by no matter how badly you need it. But the fact remains, you can only survive three hours without shelter in harsh environments, and divorce can be a very harsh environment. Many people get divorced because they’re no longer in love with the person they married, and that’s okay; there is more love being put out into the world than there are people to receive it and they will find love again. But at the end of my marriage, my love didn’t end.

I loved my husband from the day he emailed me in university and all it said was, ‘What’s your story, Katie West?’ The first time we hung out, we were both seeing other people, and we sat in the basement of the university library and he told me his theories on the end of the world. And I told him mine. And that day we started making plans, not about the future of us, but for what we would do in a future so doomed to fail. I loved him not like in teen vampire movies and epic fantasy books; it wasn’t romantic – it was necessary. I needed a place to keep my heart safe and Matt was it. He became the walls that protected me from harsh winds of criticism, the roof that kept me dry when my depression stormed around me, he generated the heat that kept me stable and functioning. And when we built this shelter, we built it strong enough to weather a flood, so it remains to this day. The love I felt hasn’t really changed; it has remained as four sturdy walls and a roof over my head. People think this is weird, if I still love my husband, why did we get divorced? Because survival is insufficient. Even during the apocalypse, you eventually have to leave the shelter and start to live again.

Phase 2: Survival is Insufficient

 The phrase ‘Survival is Insufficient’ highlights the difference between surviving and actually living. This is Phase 2 of the Apocalyptic Survival Plan, wherein surviving is not enough. Survive and you’re Max instead of Furiosa; survive and you’re Katniss instead of Peeta; survive and you’re Sergeant Ed Parks instead of Melanie. You might think you’re fine, and people may even see you as the hero of the story because you survived; you survived the end of love and what could be more difficult than that?

What’s more difficult is what comes after. When it’s done, when the smoke clears and you receive your official divorce papers in the mail, you ask yourself now who are you – what are you? This is when you realise survival is insufficient. Just getting through it with food, water, and shelter isn’t enough. Now you must create new habits and ways of being, ones that push you forward towards a life that is scary and fills you with anxiety and is most definitely the best life you’ve ever had. A new habit can be as seemingly insignificant as sleeping in the middle of the bed, to something more substantial like taking up new hobbies. I did weird things, like shoemaking, tried watercolour painting, refreshed my high school skills with sewing classes, and pushed my body into new positions with yoga. I did all of these new things by myself. I wanted to understand, after over five years of marriage, who I was when I was alone.

While I was married, I was surviving a slow flood; after I was divorced, I was living a life I chose. I quit my job. I switched careers. I moved to a new continent. I wasn’t running away – I was choosing to live. I do a lot of things now that I didn’t do before; small things like drink cocktails and meet more than one person at a time, but also big things like write seriously and see a vague outline of forever.

Don’t fear the end. The apocalypse can be a herald of death and isolation, just as divorce can be a herald of loss and loneliness, but though these endings are scary times, you can survive, and you can thrive. The end of the world is coming, but I came out of a marriage happy and free and with a friend who will always have my back, so the apocalypse can suck it.

 

Split by Katie West is published by Fiction and Feeling, priced £12.00

The twentieth-century Scottish Renaissance saw a dramatic change in Scotland’s literary landscape, where our writers increasingly engaged with social and political issues and bestowed, once more, a literary status to the Scots language. A Kist o Skinklan Things is a brilliant selection of the best work from this period. Reaquaint yourself with some of Scotland’s most inspirational poetry.

 

Extract from A Kist o Skinklan Things
Edited by J. Derrick McClure
Published by ASLS

 

 

Thesaurus Paleo-Scoticus

I mind when I was a bairnie hou ma mither
brocht out ae day a kist o skinklan things,
ferlies I thocht them, ilk mair rare nor anither,
aa kind o gowdies, stanes and chains and rings,
braw orleges that made her guidsire vauntie,
auld fallals that belanged her grannie’s auntie.
I thocht ma forebears maun be queens and kings,
sic sma delytes can mak a bairnie canty.
I’m canty yet wi sma delytes, albeid
ma baird’s sae black and swack. I ken a thing
that’s like a kist o ferlies gif ye read.
Frae Jamieson’s muckle buik the words tak wing,
auld douce or ramstam, lown or virrfu words,
for musardry o thocht or grame o dirds,
our forebears useit, to flyte or scryve or sing.
I’d wuss to be a falkner o sic birds.

Douglas Young

 

Pantoum fer Winter

doun riven the tint braith
mawkin scribbles owre the snaw
wee arles o sun-daith
water warstles wechty, slaw

mawkin scribbles owre the snaw
sternies bou tae the mockrife mune
water warstles wechty, slaw
nou the taid an puddock sloum

sternies bou tae the mockrife mune
houlets hunker saft as haar
nou the taid an puddock sloum
grippit fest in dwinin lair

houlets hunker saft as haar
winter’s nieve is cauld an sterk
grippit fest in dwinin lair
aa maun learn tae dree the mirk

winter’s nieve is cauld an sterk
doun riven the tint braith
aa maun learn tae dree the mirk
wee arles o sun daith

Kate Armstrong

 

The Makar

Nae man wha loves the lawland tongue
But warsles wi’ the thocht—
There are mair sangs that bide unsung
Nor a’ that hae been wrocht.

Ablow the wastrey o’ the years,
The thorter o’ himsel’,
Deep buried in his bluid he hears
A music that is leal.

And wi’ this lealness gangs his ain;
And there’s nae ither gait
Though a’ his feres were fremmit men
Wha cry: Owre late, owre late.

William Soutar

 

A Kist o Skinklan Things edited by J. Derrick McClure is published by ASLS, priced £14.95

Harry Giles is one of Scotland’s most exciting poets working today. His collection Tonguit explores themes such as nationality and sexuality with real verve, inventiveness and a rigorous playfulness with language. We hope this taster has you seeking out the full collection.

 

Extract taken from Tonguit
By Harry Giles
Published by Stewed Rhubarb

 

Brave

Acause incomer will aywis be a clarty wird,
acause this tongue A gabber wi will nivver be the real
Mackay, A sing.
Acause fer aw that we’re aw Jock Tamson’s etcetera, are
we tho? Eh? Are we.
Acause o muntains, castles, tenements n backlans,
acause o whisky exports, acause o airports,
acause o islans, A sing.
acause o pubs whit arena daein sae weel oot o the
smokin ban, A sing.
acause hit’s grand tae sit wi a lexicon n a deeskit mynd,
A sing.
acause o the pish in the stair, A sing.
acause o ye,

A sing o a Scotland whit wadna ken workin class
authenticity gin hit cam reelin aff an ile rig douned six
pints o Tennent’s n glasst hit in the cunt,
whit hit wadna
by the way.

A sing o google Scotland,
o laptop Scotland,
o a Scotland sae dowf on bit-torrentit
HBO drama series n DLC packs fer
paistapocalyptic RPGs that hit wadna
ken hits gowk fae hits gadjie,
tae whas lips n fingers amazebawz
cams mair freely as bangin.

A sing o a Scotland whit hinks the preservation o an
evendoun Scots leeteratur is o parteecular vailyie
n importance bit cadna write hit wi a reproduction
claymore shairp on hits craig,
whit hinks Walter Scott scrievit in an either tide,
whit hinks Irvine Welsh scrievit in an either tide.

A sing o a Scotland whit wants independence fae Tories
n patronisin keeks
n chips on shouders
bit sprattles tae assert ony kin o
cultural autonomy whit isna
grundit in honeytraps.

A sing o a Scotland whit hinks thare’s likely some sort o
God, richt?
whit wad like tae gang fer sushi wan nicht but
cadna haundle chopsticks,
whit signs up fur internet datin profiles n nivver
replies tae the messages,
whit dreams o bidin in London.

A sing o a Scotland whit fires tourists weirin See You
Jimmy hats the puir deathstare,
n made a pynt o learnin aw the varses tae Auld
Lang Syne,
n awns a hail signed collection o Belle n
Sebastian EPs.

A sing o a Scotland bidin in real dreid o wan day findin
oot juist hou parochial aw hits cultural references mey be,
n cin only cope wi the intertextuality o the Scots
Renaissance wi whappin annotatit editions,
n weens hits the same wi awbdy else.

A sing o a Scotland whit hasna gied tae Skye,
or Scrabster,
or Scone,
bit cin do ye an absolute dymont
o a rant on the plurality o Scots
identity fae Alexandair mac
Alexandair tae Wee Eck.

A sing o a Scotland whit cadna hink o a grander wey tae
end a nicht as wi a poke o chips n curry sauce,
whit chacks the date o Bannockburn on
Wikipaedia,
whit’s no sae shuir aboot proportional
representation,
whit draws chairts on the backs o beermats tae
learn ye aboot rifts n glaciation
n when hit dis hit feels this oorie dunk,
this undesairvt wairmth
o inexplicable luve,
whit is heavt up,
in the blenks afore anxiety is heavt up
by the lithe curve o a firth.
Whit wants ye tae catch the drift.
Whit’s stairtin tae loss the pynt.

A sing o a Scotland whit’ll chant hits hairt oot dounstairs
o the Royal Oak, whit’ll pouk hits timmer clarsach
hairtstrangs, whit like glamour will sing hits hairt intae
existence, whit haps sang roon hits bluidy nieve hairt,
whit sings.

 

Maeshowe
Chambered Cairn, Winter Solstice

Lown i the lair
o five thoosan year,
we wauk the luntit
lip o winter
whiles hit starn
the runit flags.

We’re suithless: gabbin,
lowsin shaidaes,
raxin fer some kin o
mynd i the muivement
o starns n starn.

Haud haunds n braith.
Aw unconcernit
the thief cried sun
steals intae the rouk.

The wicht cried muin
taks back the lift.
Wi sou wi the birlin.

Banes wir nivver
kistit here.
Nae faith but in time.

 

Tonguit by Harry Giles is published by Stewed Rhubarb, priced £10.99

It’s not too late to start with your resolutions for the new year, and a great one is to bring more poetry in your life. Pan Macmillan have made this easy with their brilliant collection A Year of Scottish Poems, bringing together 366 poems from Scotland’s poets, past and present, with many in Scots as well as standard English. We’ve got a few wee gems here for you now.

 

Extracts taken from A Year of Scottish Poems
Chosen by Gaby Morgan
Published by Pan Macmillan

 

Kidspoem / Bairnsang

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu’ed oan ma pixie an my pawkies
it wis that bitter
said noo ye’ll no starve
gie’d me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum
and sent me aff across the playground
tae the place Ah’d learn to say

it was January
and a really dismal day
the first day I went to school
so my mother wrapped me up in my
best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood
twirled a scarf around my neck
pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens
it was so bitterly cold
said now you won’t freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom
and sent me off across the playground
to the place I’d learn to forget to say

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu’ed oan ma pixie an ma pawkies
it wis that bitter.

Oh saying it was one thing
but when it came to writing it
in black and white
the way it had to be said
was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead.

Liz Lochhead

 

John Anderson my Jo

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter doun, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

Robert Burns

 

Scottish Haiku

A bonny Ayrshire
chews the cud on Ben Nevis –
noo that’s a high coo!

John Rice

 

A Year of Scottish Poems, chosen by Gaby Morgan is published by Pan Macmillan, priced £12.99

Now in his nineties, the North East folksinger, Jock Duncan, spent over fifty years of his life seeking out and interviewing Scottish veterans of the First World War. Transcribing their testimony, told mainly in rich and earthy Scots, on an old manual typewriter over two thousand Sunday mornings, Jock’s labour of love has gifted us a truly unique glimpse into the real-life experiences of those who left the farms of North East Scotland for the fields of Flanders and France. The stories of 59 men, representing 16 Scottish regiments including the Gordon Highlanders and the Black Watch, are told here for the first time, in their own exact words. Be prepared for laughter and tears in equal measure.

 

Extract taken from Jock’s Jocks
By Jock Duncan
Co-published by NMS Enterprises Ltd – Publishing & the European Ethnological Research Association

 

For most of Jock’s men their first encounter with military culture and authority would come when they responded to Kitchener’s pointing finger and headed voluntarily to the recruiting offices across the north east. Lord Kitchener, the first serving soldier to be appointed to cabinet since the 17th century, distrusted the Territorial Force, and opted instead to create a network of special service battalions attached to the regular full time regiments of the army right across the nation. Setting out to recruit one hundred thousand volunteers, his ‘Your Country Needs You’ poster campaign must surely be one of the most successful marketing projects in history as young men from shipyards, factories, transport depots, professional football teams and virtually every walk of life responded enthusiastically and volunteered to fight in the New Army. The farming folk of the north east were no different:

 

I jined up wi ma pal Fred Duncan efter the leaflets cam oot fae Kitchener needin a hunner thoosan men.  We biket wi a lot mair fae Millbrex ti Peterheed ti jine up in the 5th Gordon Highlanders.  We wis teen richt awa ti dee wir trainin an gid oot ti France fae Bedford in the Spring o 1915.  Fred wis teen wi a lot o idder volunteers to the newly formed Machine Gun Corps that eer, bit he wis killed on the Somme.

Sandy Simpson, Woodhead, 5th Gordon Highlanders

 

Others testify to the fact that there were around thirty farm servants who cycled the twenty- five or so miles together from Millbrex to Peterhead that day – it must have been quite a sight, this peloton of ploughmen!  Some local farmers tried to confiscate the posters and hand bills, understandably worried that they would lose their workforce, but it was an ineffective ploy. There was to be no holding them back.

The numerous stories of recruitment and volunteering collected by Jock and presented in Chapter Three generally follow the same grand narrative which applies throughout the nation. What comes through powerfully is the eagerness of these volunteers to sign up, to go, to get involved, to do their bit. There is an edge of excitement there, almost a levity, as these men, reflecting back much later in life, recall their youthful enthusiasm at the start of the great adventure. Several lads admitted to Jock they had lied about their age, Robert More, of the 4th Seaforth Highlanders being just one of an estimated 250,000 boys in the British army who fought in the Great War while underage:

 

I wis in the Terriers at Perth.  Wi their Black Watch battalion. I wis mustered when war started, I went to my officer and told him I wanted back to my own lot in the Black Isle.  I was granted my wish and sent back up north to join the 4th Seaforth Highlanders at that time still at Nigg.  I wis only 14 years old. We went from there tae Inverness and stayed there a while, then later entrained for Bedford Camp. We were sent tae France in October 1914 and joined the 1st Corps, 1st Division, 3rd Brigade. …  As I had went off in 1914 when I wis 14 years old my folk tried to get me home a few times.  I always refused when I wis called in front of the C.O.  I suppose I liked it though it was rough at times.

 

Whatever their age, when the volunteers arrived onto the fields of Belgium and France, the realities of war kicked in very quickly. The bulk of this book comprises detailed and often graphic accounts of the experiences of these men in virtually all of the main theatres of war on the Western front and in Gallipoli. In almost every case their stories are told in a rather matter of fact manner, with little attempt to add further to the drama, and often with a humour that on first reading may seem surprising. Violent death was a daily occurrence, and many of the men represented here were wounded, some several times over. And yet there is very little evidence of bitterness, and almost no politically infused questioning of the reasons why they were there in the first place. In fact, one of the few hints of protest contained in these narratives comes from Alec Robertson of the 5th Gordon Highlanders when recalling the words of his new Commanding Officer who had replaced the highly popular Lt Colonel Grant who had lost an arm to a shell explosion:

Colonel MacTaggart came after Grant.  He was a wee man who came from the Lancers.  When we came out of the Somme, he addressed us and said that it was an honour to die for our country, but I don’t think we appreciated that.

For sure, Alec would have agreed with Wilfred Owen’s rejection of that ‘old lie’, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’.

 

Jock’s Jocks by Jock Duncan is co-published by NMS Enterprises Ltd – Publishing & the European Ethnological Research Association, priced £12.99

Barbara Henderson wanted to write a childrens’ novel about the Highland Clearances and worried that she couldn’t do it justice if she didn’t get the language right. Here she tells us how she tackles the problem.

 

Fir for Luck
By Barbara Henderson
Published by Cranachan

 

Portraying the languages of Scotland can be a challenge – I certainly struggled with the responsibility of portraying a Gaelic-speaking society in 1814 and 1841 in my Highland Clearances novel Fir for Luck.

I am not a Gaelic speaker. Did that preclude me from writing about a Gaelic speaking world?

I didn’t think it should provided I cared enough about the story to do it justice; in terms of characters, plot – and yes, of language too. After all, language forms a large part of our identity.

I was daunted. I am a big-picture person, not naturally meticulous. For many years, this was the reason why I stayed away from historical fiction altogether – I simply didn’t believe I could do it justice. But then I realised: Linguistic faithfulness is similar to historical accuracy. Too much and you risk alienating modern readers – child readers in my case. A sprinkling is enough, I was told – small details of life in the 19th century. but don’t overdo it, otherwise, you risk distracting the reader and lose momentum. The same, I was told, applied to the Gaelic language, or Scots for that matter.

Well, losing momentum was the last thing I wanted. A sprinkling it was.

I began by throwing in the odd Gaelic word to remind the reader where we were. Greetings, exclamations and other non-essentials, so the reader could skip over them and not lose momentum while taking in a flavour of the linguistic landscape in the world I am portraying.

It seemed to work.

By contrasting simple syntax and vocabulary with elaborate structures, I was also able to suggest the divide between villagers and their simple concerns, and the officials who are threatening them with eviction. It was important to me to picture the scenes of confrontation authentically, so I describe the delay of translation.

‘It’s on our way back that we see the notices: one outside the church and another one on the post along the road, one on the schoolhouse wall and two pasted to the walls of the outhouses on the path into Ceannabeinne:

A Public Meeting will be held on Thursday at three o’clock at Durine Square. In attendance will be the Sherriff of Sutherland: Mr Lumsden of Dornoch. Representatives of all Rispond townships must attend.

Between us, we manage to translate it word for word from the English, although I’m sure the Reverend would have done it quicker and better. Hugh nods thoughtfully and marches faster to catch up with Father.

Of course, I wish I was a fluent Gaelic speaker, and that I could write easily in Lowland Scots for my current work in progress. But it would be counterproductive to suggest that we can only portray these societies we are part of them. A little research, a well-directed question to those who know more than us is enough for a sprinkling of authenticity.

And thankfully, that is all that is needed.

 

Fir for Luck by Barbara Henderson is published by Cranachan, priced £6.99

Who doesn’t love a good sing-song? And we’re lucky in Scotland that we have a back catalogue of folk songs that will easily have you stamping your feet. HarperCollins have just released this dinky delight of a pocketbook full of our very best, and here we reproduce Hamish Henderson’s legendary ‘Freedom Come All Ye’.

 

Extract taken from Scottish Folk Songs
Published by HarperCollins

 

Freedom Come All Ye

Roch the wind in the clear day’s dawin
Blaws the cloods heelster-gowdie ow’r the bay,
But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin
Through the great glen o’ the warld the day.
It’s a thocht that will gar oor rottans
– A’ they rogues that gang gallus, fresh and gay –
Tak the road, and seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys, tae sport and play

 

Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war, when oor braggarts crousely craw,
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid an’ clachan
Mourn the ships sailin’ doon the Broomielaw.
Broken faimlies in lands we’ve herriet
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair;
Black an’ white, ane til ither mairriet
Mak’ the vile barracks o’ their maisters bare.

 

O come all ye at hame wi’ freedom,
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom;
In your hoose a’ the bairns o’ Adam
Can fi nd breid, barley bree an’ painted room.
When Maclean meets wi’s freens in Springburn
A’ the roses an’ geans will turn tae bloom,
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o’ the burghers doon.

 

Have a listen to this version of ‘Freedom Come All Ye’:

 

Scottish Folk Songs is published by HarperCollins, priced £6.99

David Robinson was not born in Scotland, and yet cannot do without a sprinkling of some Scots words in his vocabulary now. Here he explores his own curiosity on a language that fascinates and confuses him in equal measure. And publishers: there’s a call to arms at the end, which BooksfromScotland think is a very grand idea indeed.

 

I have quite a few books on my shelves by friends, but only one that is written by one friend, translated by another and illustrated by a third. It’s written in a language that I don’t speak, yet which I partly understand even though I was never taught it.

Precious and the Puggies (Itchy Coo, 2010) by Alexander McCall Smith (translated by James Robertson and illustrated by Iain McIntosh) is that book and it is, of course, in Scots. And of all the subjects anyone born, like me, south of the Tweed should be wary of writing about, Scots is fairly near the top of the list. So although – see below – I’ve got something to say about it, I’m going to tiptoe away from that well-planted minefield of the extent to which it should be taught, published or broadcast. That’s up to Scots to work out. Not people like me who weren’t born here.

That said, I’m broadly sympathetic. Who wouldn’t be?  When, in McCall Smith’s story, the young Precious Ramotswe, in the middle of solving her very first case, walks home from school down a path that winds round boulders, Robertson’s Scots seems to emphasise its tortuousness. “It was a narra, joukin path – here and yon, muckle boolders had whummled doon the brae thoosans o years syne and the path had tae jink aroond them. In atween the boolders, trees had raxed up, their roots snoovin their wey through the gaps in the stane.” Whummled, joukin: you don’t have to be a Scots language obsessive to see its beauty, to see it lifting a child’s imagination, making it grow and twist around its subject like those raxin, snoovin tree roots. Breathes there a teacher with her soul so dead as to say no, we won’t have that kind of language here, in my classroom, thank you very much? In its own country?

Of course not. And the child whose brain takes in both rolling stones and whummlin stanes is, I don’t doubt, going on to have a greater number of thoughts zapping across his or her synapses. Those different thoughts will make different connections, no doubt giving a greater fluency in other languages too. Scots might have some problems, but equally clearly it is a language with its own verve, power, past and presence.

So yes: I get all of that. And yes, I can see how in the thirty-plus years I’ve lived in Scotland, some Scots words have started to invade my English. “Wee” is obviously so much more versatile than “small” and so has replaced it completely, just as “dreich” sounds even more perfectly miserable than “dreary”, so I’ve already made the switch. Gallus, shoogly, thrawn, thirled, scunner, besom, sleekit, sonsie, flyting have all staked an inviolable claim on my vocabulary, either because they’re clearly so much more expressive than their English equivalent or because there isn’t an equivalent in the first place. Even when both the English and Scots words have their own quiet beauty – beyond and outwith, for example – there’s a subtle difference in meaning. Before I came up here, I’d never used outwith. Now I’d never be without it.

Against that, there are words that defeat me completely. Take “gantin for a gunk”. It’s on the cover of Billy Kay’s The Mither Tongue along with such obvious Scots words as “baffies” and “pinkie” so I thought it must be equally well-known. Not to me it isn’t. Google doesn’t help. Gantin: “Scottish word commonly used to describe one who smells, or a person who is ugly, also said to describe the genitalia of a female,” says urbandictionary.com.   In Glasgow, it adds, the word means “to be in dire need of sexual satisfaction.” “Gunk”, according to the Dictionary of the Scots Language at dsl@ac.uk, means “a bitter disappointment” or “a dunce”. And yet, according to Kay, gantin for a gunk means nothing you could guess from any of that but “desperate for a shock”, which is the sort of phrase I can barely imagine using in the first place.

You can’t, in other words, guess Scots. And right enough, whenever I try, I get things wrong. Bonnie broukit bairn means neglected, not – as I’d have guessed, broken. And Precious and the puggies was nothing to do with slot-machines or dogs or even “the hole in a game of marbles into which marbles are rolled” (the only meaning given in the Dictionary of the Scottish Language) but monkeys. Monkeys! Did you know that? I didn’t.

Actually, I would have guessed that one easily enough from Iain McIntosh’s artwork for McCall Smith’s book, which handily has a monkey hanging upside down over the cover byline. But not every Scots word inside it is as obvious. Would I have guessed that jalouse meant guess? Maybe. But at least all of this makes me think. If I ruled the world and wanted to spread Scots, what would I do? How could I do it while minimising wrong guesswork? And where’s the gap in the market?

Itchy Coo, it seems to me, do an excellent job in spreading Scots in our primary schools. But what is there for adults? Nothing. Naething.

We’re not all born in Scotland. There are 470,009 Scots who come, like me, from south of the border. Maybe, also like me, they’re a little bit lazy because they already speak what even Billy Kay admits is “the most useful language in the world”. Or maybe these adults come from further afield, from Iraq or Syria, say, and they already have English but yearn to put down deep linguistic roots here in Scotland.  When they look up phrases like gantin for a gunk, they too might get meanings hopelessly wrong, as I did. When they use English to guess Scots, they might go similarly astray.

So here’s a thought. Someone should find and translate from English into Scots a book that is a) aimed at adults not children, b) massively popular (ideally most people should have read it already in English or have their own copy) c) not too long and d) out of UK copyright.

I’m no expert, but I reckon all of Orwell should be coming out of copyright in 2020, so there’s plenty of time to line up a publisher and get in that Open Project funding application in to Creative Scotland for a Scots translation of Animal Farm. If they insist it has to be by a Scottish writer, well, there’s no problem with The 39 Steps (or any of Buchan’s books come to that) but we’ll have to wait until 2035 for Ian Fleming and 2045 for a square go at a Scots PG Wodehouse. Which is, I think you’ll agree, a bit of a shame, eh what?

 

Precious and the Puggies by Alexander McCall Smith & translated by James Robertson is published by Itchy Coo, priced £6.99

One of BooksfromScotland’s favourite releases last year was Amanda Thomson’s A Scots Dictionary of Nature. Here, she tells us more about her thoughts on the book and the Scots language.

 

A Scots Dictionary of Nature
by Amanda Thompson
Published by Saraband

 

Why are the words contained in the dictionary important?

The words help us to deepen our understanding of people and places, and they also pull us across time. They tap into the social history of Scotland – ways of living, being and interacting – but also reveal more personal connections, sometimes across different generations, so they allow us to remember in lots of different ways.

 

Why do you think these words, and the book as a whole, have so captured people’s imagination?

I think the book has captured people’s imagination in the same way that coming across the original 19th-century Jamieson’s A Dictionary of the Scots Language in a second-hand bookshop caught mine. Some words are really sharp and call it like it is – a fir gown for a coffin, for example. Many are poetic and hugely evocative, like huam – the moan of an owl on a warm summer’s day.

Other words we haven’t heard for a long time and perhaps remind us of childhood – I remember my papa calling sparrows speugs, and going for a dawner (walk) with my family every Sunday afternoon. So there are connections to people and places that resonate, and there’s also a poetry to a lot of the words and their definitions that captures the imagination.

 

 What do these words say about Scotland’s people / culture / history?

They speak of a close relationship of people to place and landscape and to working the land  – a lot of the words aren’t cosily nostalgic but point to the trials and tribulations of life. There’s something incredible about a harvest moon being called the break-back by harvest labourers because of the additional work the moon signified at that time of year. Or words relating to bonnage (bondage), or a word like herezeld, described in Jamieson’s dictionary as ‘the best beast on the land, given to the landlord on the death of the tenant’.

 

What is the future for the Scots language?

I’m not a linguist, so I can’t really say. Language is always evolving and it becomes what we need it to be. When I was doing background research for the book I came across 19th-century writers worried about the demise of the Scots language even then, and I think a part of Jamieson’s impetus behind the book was a fear of losing the language.

I’m more interested in how we can use certain words to see and understand the world before us – and in these Scots words there is an attention to the details of nature that I think is important to keep: in order to care about something you have to notice it, and these words aid that process, which is crucial as far as I’m concerned.

 

What are some of your favourite words in the dictionary?

My favourites change every time I look at the book. It depends, sometimes on where I am and what I am doing: whilst walking on a stormy day, I love the notion that trees flounce in the wind. And I love the specificity of some of the words or phrases – a calledin-o’-the-blade, for example, is a slight shower which cools and refreshes grass.

There are so many words that are onomatopoeic – you can almost guess their meaning even if you don’t know the word: a glousterie day is filled with wind and rain, and gludder is the sound of a body falling into a mire. To spoonge means to go about in a sneaky or suspicious way, so as to excite suspicion, as in “there he’s gauin spoongin’ about”.

We’re just past new year and I made sure to take the crap (crop) o’ the water – the first water taken from a well after midnight of December 31st, supposed to bring luck for the new year.

 

A Scots Dictionary of Nature by Amanda Thompson is published by Saraband, priced £12.99

BooksfromScotland are big fans of the up-and-coming Chris McQueer. His short story collections Hings and HWFG have given the Scottish literary scene a welcome injection of energy, imagination and gallus gallows humour. We’re delighted to share with you, from HWFG, ‘Hawns’. It’ll have you choking on your pint.

 

Extract taken from HWFG
By Chris McQueer
Published by 404 Ink

 

Hawns

‘Here, pal,’ the woman sitting herself in the corner of the pub shouts to you. ‘C’mere a minute.’

You give her a polite nod and a smile and look back down at your phone. You angle yourself away from her a wee bit. She looks…weird. Skinny, in a black and white stripey top. Lank, greasy hair. She’s middle-aged, maybe a wee bit older. A wee bit twitchy.

‘Can ye no hear me?’

You stare at your phone, hoping if you avoid eye contact she’ll get bored and just leave you alone.

The barman is away to change the barrel. For now, it’s just you and this weird old wifey.

‘Suit yerself. Fuckin ignoramus.’

You look over at her after a couple of minutes of silence. She has her hands under the table, resting on her thighs. She has a pint sitting in front of her. A pint that she’s leaning forward and drinking through a straw.

She catches you looking at her, and sups down her pint, keeping eye contact with you.

‘Goat yer attention noo, eh? C’mere,’ she nods at the empty seat directly in front of her.

You look around the pub. It’s still only you two.

What have you got to lose from going over to talk to this woman? Nothing, really. She’s probably harmless. If anything, you’ll get a good wee story out of it to tell your pals. Maybe you could tweet about it later on. That would get some good numbers.

You walk over to her table. You extend a hand for her to shake before you sit down but she doesn’t reciprocate.

‘Ahm gonnae tell you a story.’

This is going to be good, you think.

‘Couple ae years ago, there wis this team ae surgeons. Scottish they wur. They wurnae joost the best in Scotland; they wur the best in the world. Transplants wis their hing. They could dae anyhin. Livers, hearts, lungs, kidneys. Some say they wur gearin up tae dae full HEID transplant in the near future.

‘But see these surgeons? Ye know the phrase “work hard, play harder”? These cunts wur the very definition ae that. They worked as a team. Five ae thum. Three boays and two lassies. They’d take it in turns, helpin each other oot in the theatre.

“You hawd that an ah’ll get that bit”, “You grab that, ah’ll attach that then she cin sew it aw the gither”, that kind ae hing. They hud this… understandin wi each other. Like fitbaw players ah suppose, guys that have played the gither fur years an years, oan the pitch they know exactly where the other cunts will be withoot even lookin. They could dae anyhin these surgeons.’

You hear the sound of typing on a computer keyboard. The barman has appeared behind the bar once again. He has his laptop out.

‘Here, you listenin?’

You turn back round to face the woman. ‘Aye, sorry.’ She leans forward and takes another long drag from her pint and finishes it. She whistles at the barman the way a farmer would whistle at a sheepdog.

‘Aye, so. These surgeons. Best in the world at surgery. But they wur the best in the world at boozing, shaggin, sniffin gear an poppin pills anaw. They wur paid a fortune, as ye cin imagine, an fuck me, these basturts knew how tae spend it. They wurr oot awwww the time. Naebody at the hospital minded though. These surgeons could hawndle it nae bother at aw.’

The barman plonks another pint down in front of her. He takes the straw from the empty glass and slips into the new one.

‘There ye go, Tracy.’

The woman doesn’t acknowledge him and continues her story.

This team ae surgeons wis due tae perform this pioneering bit ae surgery; Scotland’s first ever double hawn transplant.’

You lean in closer. A double hand transplant? Surely not. You’ve heard about thumbs and fingers being reattached after grisly accidents but an entire hand? TWO entire hands? No chance.

‘A double hand transplant?’ you ask.

‘Aye,’ she says. Taking a sip from her fresh pint.

‘As in not re-attaching someone’s own hands after an accident or something. Attaching hands… from a donor?’

‘Aye that’s wit ah said.’

‘I didn’t know that was a thing.’

‘Aw aye. It’s a hing awrite. It’s kind ae common noo but these surgeons were gonnae be the first people in Scotland tae even attempt it. It wid be good practice, they said, fur when they eventually done the heid transplant. Anywey, the night afore they wur due tae dae the transplant, you know wit they done?’

You shake your head. You’re on the edge of your seat here.

‘They went oot oan the randan of course. That wis thurr tradition. The night afore a big operation they’d go oot fur a few drinks. Always joost a few though. Wis never a fully blown night oot, naw, that came efter the surgery. But that night? Well, it happened tae be thurr Christmas night oot. An they wurnae geein that up fur anyhin.’

You zone out for a minute, not listening to her now. It was her. You know it. She knows that you know it. She was who these surgeons were operating on. It was her who got the double hand transplant and the surgeons fucked it up. She doesn’t want you to see them. That’s why she wouldn’t shake your hand. That’s why her hands haven’t moved from under the table. That’s why she’s drinking her pint through a fucking straw.

‘You listenin ae me?’ she snaps. She’s caught your eyes drifting downwards, trying your best to see her hands through the wooden table.

‘Aye, sorry,’ you say.

She looks you up and down. She looks disgusted but carries on undeterred.

‘The night afore the operation, the surgeons went wild. They were gettin massive bonuses fur this. Line efter line they hoovered up. Lines ae God knows wit. Knockin back the dearest champagne the bar hud. They wur fucked. The operation didnae kick aff until 12pm the next day so it wis awrite, they thought.

‘Wit they didnae realise though wis that they wurnae even gettin hame efter that night. They wid huv tae go straight tae the hospital. Straight intae theatre, cause these greedy basturts joost didnae know when ae say “enough’s enough.”.’

You can tell from her voice she’s getting upset here. Understandably, you think. With a roll of her shoulder, she uses her top to wipe away a tear that’s creeping down towards her cheekbone.

‘So what happened?’ you ask. You know this is clearly a difficult story for her to tell but you need to find out more. She composes herself and carries on.

‘That night, the surgeons left the bar they wur in an then went tae a hoose party in Shawlands. Mair booze, mair drugs. Next hing they knew, it wis nine in the mornin. Wan ae thum realised the time an phoned a taxi. Bundled her pals intae it and told the driver tae take thum ae the hospital. They stoapped at a cafe,’ she laughs. ‘Coffee. As if that wid sober thum up.’

She sucks greedily at her pint. You turn your head to look at the door as she nods towards it. Two burly guys walk in, nod at the woman, and sit at the bar, motioning the barman over to them and engaging in hushed conversation. One of them has a grossly bent-out-of-shape nose.

‘When it wis time fur the operation, they wur still paralytic. Fawwin aboot the place. That poor wummin they operated oan,’ the woman looks down at her hands. ‘She hud nae idea. Put tae sleep afore she could even see the basturts that wurr aboot tae ruin her life.’

‘Was it you?’ You can’t help yourself. The woman looks up at you with a furrowed brow. The men at the bar stop talking.

Then the woman laughs.

‘The wummin that they operated oan wisnae me,’ she leans over the table and makes intense eye contact with you. So intense that it takes a few seconds for you to realise she’s stroking your clasped hands with her fingers.

You pull away in shock and stare at her hands. They slip back under out of sight before you can get a good look at them.

But they look normal, you think. Totally fine.

‘It wis me who done the operation.’ She stares down into her lap. ‘We made a cunt ae it.’ Another tear falls down her face. ‘A right cunt ae it. The operation should’ve took us upwards ae 11 hours. We rattled through it in less than four. Still hawf cut. Still oot wur faces.’ She shakes her head. ‘Still cannae believe we thought we could get away wi that.’

‘What did you do wrong? What happened?’ you ask. You hear one of the men at the bar suck in air through his teeth. The woman takes a breath to compose herself before continuing.

‘We thought we’d huv a laugh,’ she sighs. Clearly still burdened with the guilt of what she did all those years ago.

‘We put the poor lassie’s hawns oan the wrang way.’

‘The wrong way? Like palms up or something?’

‘Mibbe that wid’ve been worse than wit we did. But wit we done wis still terrible. We stuck the right hawn oan her left airm and the left hawn oan her right airm.’

‘Jesus Christ. That… that’s terrible.’

‘Aw ah know that, pal. Ah know that fine well. But that wis only the start ae the bother.’

You feel yourself leaning in close again. That was only the start? Turning up to work, steaming, and putting someone’s hands on the wrong way? How much worse can it get?

‘See, if it wis yer normal, run ae the mill sepsis victim who’d loast her hawns an then hud new wans transplanted oan the wrang way by a team ae highly trained but also highly drunk surgeons, ye could joost gie them a few quid tae no go ae the papers, a grovelling apology and get them fixed, right?’

You can’t believe that doctors could be so callous. You shrug your shoulders. ‘I mean, aye, I suppose.’

‘Well this wisnae yer average sepsis victim. This wummin wis the burd ae this hardman gangster fae Govan. None ae yer small time Paul Ferris type stuff. This cunt wis international. Fucking Pablo Escobar wi a Rangers season ticket.’

The door to the pub opens again. It’s a man and a woman this time. A well turned-out couple. They sit at the bar, a few seats away from the two burly men.

‘He wis stawnin there as soon as we wheeled oot his burd. Aw excited tae see her new hawns. He wanted tae stick an engagement ring oan her fur a wee surprise when she woke up. He sees us aw laughin an jokin, huvin a cerry oan, howlin at oor handiwork. He comes flying err as soon as he sees her. He takes wan look at her hawns an clocks straight away that suhin’s the matter. Clear as day, thurr oan the wrang way.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He went apeshit. Started shoutin aboot how he’d huv the best lawyers in the world sortin this oot. Threatenin tae kill us. Callin us every name under the sun. He grabbed wan ae mah colleagues and battered him til he wis black an blue. Took four ae us AND a couple ae nurses tae get him aff.’

‘He calmed doon eventually. Told us we hud tae fix the mess we’d made there an then.’

‘Did you?’

‘We said we couldnae. It wid take months tae find another suitable donor. They hawns we’d used awready wid be nae good. They widnae be able tae last through another operation, they’d be in tatters. But this cunt wisnae takin naw fur answer.

He told us tae get her ready tae go back in an he’d be back wi a new set ae hawns.’

Under your breath you say, ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Ah know, pal. That wis oor reaction anaw. That made us sober up awrite. We kept the wummin under anaesthetic fur a few mair oors until we could figure oot a plan, hopin we could huv it aw sorted afore the guy turned back up again.

‘Then he comes stridin intae the operatin theatre, blood oan the collar ae his shirt, cerryin this big ice boax an dumps it mah feet. Ye know wit wis in the boax, eh?’

You nod solemnly.

‘The chances ae this guy findin a suitable donor in only a couple ae oors, never mind removing thurr hawns in a way that wid make them viable fur transplant wis probably a million tae wan.

‘We wurr like that, “It disnae work like that”, tryin ae plead wi the guy. Then he pulls oot a fuckin gun!’ She laughs at this. ‘Ah hud never seen a gun in real life afore, don’t hink any ae us hud. The sight ae that wis enough tae make us comply. So we did it. Another hawn transplant.’

‘Fucking hell,’ you say. You turn round to the bar to look at the other patrons. They’re all looking at you.

‘That lassie died afore she came roon fae the anaesthetic. The guy wis distraught. He ran away, actually ran away, roarin an greetin. It wis a shame, it really wis.’

‘So then what happened?’

‘Nuhin. Fur a long long time. We covered up wit we done. Paid aff the cunts in the mortuary tae say the wummin died oan the operatin table. The shock ae it aw. Wan ae the boays broke her sternum wi a hammer so it looked as if we tried tae resuscitate her.’

Your feel your mouth hanging open.

‘The gangster guy never went tae the polis urr the papers urr anyhin. We thought we’d goat away wi it. A fuckin miracle.’

‘So did you get away with it?’ This is going to go fucking viral when you tweet about it later. Even if it is obviously a wind up.

‘We thought we did. Thought we’d goat aff scot-free fur wan ae the biggest atrocities in medicine ever. Until a couple ae year ago that is. Guess wit happened?’

You shrug your shoulders again. ‘No idea,’ you smirk.

‘Gangster cunt turns up at the hospital wan night. The five ae us stawnin in the car park, huvin a laugh efter a hard day at work, an there he comes. Oot the darkness like fuckin Batman. We very near shat ourselves. Two seconds later a Transit van comes screechin intae the car park. The guy slides open the side door an tells us tae get in. We joost aw look at each other. Ah remember ah joost couldnae process wit wis happenin. Ah wis so sure we’d goat away it. Then he gets his gun oot again.

“In,” he says.’

You raise your eyebrows. Guns? Gangsters? Hand transplants?

This is wild.

‘We aw bundle in. Nae clue wit’s gonnae happen next. We wurr drivin aboot fur ages, eh?’ she shouts over your shoulder. You spin your head round and one of the men sitting at the bar is looking at you. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ he says. Now everybody at the bar is looking at you.

Panic stations now. This is weird. You turn back round.

‘He took us tae a pub, joost like this.’ The woman looks around the room. Then you hear the noise of keys jangling.

The barman locks the door.

‘He made mah colleagues dae this tae me at gunpoint in the cellar ae a fuckin pub.’ The woman lays her hands flat on the table. At the end of her left arm is a very clear right hand. At the end of her right arm is a very clear left hand. Her thumbs point out the way. Her two pinkies meet in the middle.

You almost fall off your chair at the sight of this. Angry, pink scar tissue zig zags across her wrists.

‘Ah’ve been wantin tae get these fixed fur a while noo.’ She drums her fingers on the table. ‘Ah’ve goat the people that can dae it fur me.’ You hear the sound of wooden stools shuffling on the wooden floor. The three men and the woman who came in earlier come over to your table and loom over you.

‘Aw ah’ve been waitin fur is a donor.’

You can’t even say anything.

‘Ah’ll never furget your face, hen.’ She smiles at the other woman. ‘Greetin as ye put that anaesthetic mask oan me, tellin me it was aw gonnae be awrite. Retribution wis the word

he used. That’s the last word ah cin mind afore a went under. Well, the day ah get mah retribution.’

‘It won’t work,’ you say. ‘Surely? I mean how do you know I’m even a match?’

‘We work in a hospital, pal. Well, ah mean, ah don’t, no anymerr. Cannae dae much wi yer hawns oan the wrang wey cin ye?’ the woman laughs. ‘We’ve goat aw yer records. You’re a perfect match, pal.’

‘Please,’ you sob. ‘You can’t do this to me.’

The team of surgeons grab you.

 

HWFG by Chris McQueer is published by 404 Ink, priced £8.99

 

Itchy Coo have been doing a sterling job translating bestselling childrens’ books into Scots for 17 years and we love to keep an eye on what authors they seek out to get the Itchy Coo treatment. Reading Jeff Kinney’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid in Scots had us fair roarin’ in the office, and we hope you love this little taster too.

 

Extract taken from Diary o a Wimpy Wean
By Jeff Kinney, translated by Thomas Clark
Published by Itchy Coo

 

SEPTEMBER

Tuesday

Richt, afore ye say onythin: this is a JOURNAL, aye? No a diary. I ken fine whit it says on the front. But when ma Maw went doon the shops I SPECIALLY telt her tae get yin that didnae say “diary” on it.

Braw. Aw I need is for some bam tae spy me cairtin this book aboot and get the wrang idea.

The ither thing I want tae get oot the road is that this wis ma MAW’s idea, no mine.

But she’s no richt if she thinks I’m gonnae be writin aboot ma “feelins” or ony o that. Sae if ye’re waitin on me giein it aw “Dear Diary” this and “Dear Diary” that, ye can awa and rin.

The anely reason I’m gaun alang wi this at aw is that, wan day, when I’m pure mintit and famous, I’ll hiv better things tae dae than staun aboot answerin fowk’s stupit questions aw day lang. Sae this book is gonnae be wirth its wecht in gowd.

Nae nae kiddin, I’ll be famous yin day. But for noo I’m stuck in high schuil wi this bunch o eejits.

And can I jist say for the record that I think high schuil is the dippitest idea ever inventit. On wan haun, ye’ve wee stank-dodgers like me that hivnae even hit their growth spurt, and then ye’ve these muckle gorillas that are needin tae shave twa-three times a day.

And then fowk wunner whit’s wi aw the bullyin in high schuils.

If it wis up tae me, like, yer year group wid be based on whit size ye are, no whit age. But I dout then ye’d hiv yer lads like Chirag Gupta that’d still be in Primary Wan.

The day’s the first day o schuil, and the noo we’re aw jist waitin on the teacher tae hurry up and feenish the seatin chairt. Sae I decidit tae pit a few thochts doon in here jist tae pass the time.

While I mind, here’s some awfy guid advice for ye. First day o schuil, aye? Watch oot whaur ye decide tae sit. Itherwise, ye mairch intae the clessroom and plank yer stuff doon on ony auld desk and nixt thing ye ken the teacher’s sayin –

 

HOPE YE’RE AW HAPPY WI WHAUR YE’RE SITTIN, CAUSE THESE ARE YER SEATS AW YEAR.

 

And that’s you sittin there wi Chris Hosey in front o ye and Lionel James up yer back.

Jason Brill stoatit in five meenits late and he wis aboot tae sit tae nixt tae us and aw. But I managed tae pure hunt him at the last meenit.

See nixt period? I’m scoofin masel a seat wi aw the bonnie lassies the meenit we step in the door. But I doot if I dae that, it’ll jist gaun tae shaw I hivnae lairnt a thing fae last year.

Ach, I dinnae ken WHIT the story is wi lassies these days. When we were in primary schuil, it wis aw deid simple. Deal wis, if ye were the fastest rinner in yer cless, ye got yer pick o the lassies.

And in oor Primary Six, the fastest rinner wis Ronnie McCoy.

It’s aw a lot mair o a fankle nooadays, but. Noo it’s aw aboot the kind o claes ye wear or how mintit ye are or if ye’ve a nice bahookie or whitever. And louns like Ronnie McCoy are staunin there wi their heids birlin, wunnerin whaur it aw went wrang.

The maist popular laddie in oor year is Bryce Anderson. Pure does ma heid in. See, I’ve AYEWEYS been wan for the lassies. But lads like Bryce and that hiv anely caught on in the past couple o years.

I mind how Bryce uised tae cairry on back in primary schuil.

 

LASSIES ARE PURE MINGIN!

 

But dae I get ony thanks for stickin up for the lassies aw this time? Dae I chocolate.

Like I says, Bryce is the maist popular laddie in oor year, sae aw us ither louns are stuck fechting it oot for the ither places.

Noo, faur as I can suss it aw oot, I’m somewhaur aroond 52nd or 53rd maist popular this year. Guid news is, but, I’m aboot tae shoot up a place, because Charlie Davies is aheid o me, and he’s gettin his braces nixt week.

I try tae gie the skinny on aw this popularity stuff tae ma pal Rowley (wha’s like as no floatin richt aboot the 150 mark, by the by), but wi him it jist gans straicht in wan lug and oot the ither.

 

Diary o a Wimpy Wean by Jeff Kinney & translated by Thomas Clark is published by Itchy Coo, priced £6.99

Claire MacLeary is releasing her third novel, Runaway, with Saraband this month. If you’re ready for another slice of Tartan Noir with a dash of the doric, best get down to your nearest bookshop!

 

Extract by Runaway
By Claire MacLeary
Published by Saraband

 

Mad Mike

 

‘Jeannie?’

The voice was frighteningly familiar.

‘Mikey?’ She squinted through the security spyhole. ‘That you?’ She hadn’t been expecting him.

A distorted face glowered back. ‘Who the hell dae ye think it is, Clint Eastwood?’

‘N-no,’ she faltered.

‘Well, open the door.’

Jean Meston eased the door a fraction. She peered through the crack.

‘Now.’

The safety chain strained under the man’s weight.
Jean unlatched the chain from its housing. ‘Och, Mikey.’ She opened her arms, a tentative smile on her lips. ‘Ye canna be too sure. No these days.’

Mike Meston stormed past his wife.

Gingerly, she pushed the door to, followed his dark shape down the hall.

‘Christ’s sake.’ He whirled to face her. ‘This how ye’ve been living?’

Covertly, Jean ran her eyes over the disordered settee, the stained carpet, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. ‘I’ve no had the time, what wi one thing an…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I’ll gie ye time,’ Mike thundered. ‘Wean in bed?’

‘Naw.’ How to explain Willie’s absence? ‘He’s at his Gran’s.’

‘Get us a beer, then. Ah’m gaspin fur a swallow.’

She stood, immobile.

‘Go on.’

There was silence, then, ‘There’s nae money fur beer.’

He cast her an evil look. ‘An ye ken why.’

Jean struggled for an excuse. ‘Benefit’s no in.’

‘Benefit, my arse.’ Mike stood, hands on hips, legs straddled. ‘I’ll tell you why there’s no beer. My income’s gone up in smoke.’

‘Well,’ she ventured, ‘if you’d stuck wi what you were used to…’

‘Puntin the odd nicked phone or carton o fags? Widna keep a roof ower our heids. Too many other punters on the game.’

‘But… drugs, Mikey?’

‘That’s where the money is. An it’s no as if it was heavy stuff, like, heroin or naethin. Onywye,’ – his lips formed a thin line – ‘it’s your fault it’s gone down the tubes.’

‘Mine? How?’

‘Fur no keepin a tight rein on thon laddie o yours.’

‘Yours an aw,’ Jean shot back.

‘Aye.’ Long pause. ‘Mebbe.’

‘You’ve a neck.’ She drew herself up. ‘The way you sent the loon roon pub doors, an him the age he is.’

‘Bastard might as weel be occupied if he’s no at the school.’

‘He wullna go tae the school.’

‘That’s at your door an aw. He widna get the chance tae skip school if you wurna blootered in the mornings.’

‘Ah wisna blootered. The wean widna get oot o’ bed. An wi nae man in the hoose Ah couldna mak him.’

Mike flexed his biceps. ‘Ye couldna get a wee loon on his feet, is that what ye’re tellin me?’

Jean took a backwards step. ‘Aye, that’s the God’s honest truth. If Wullie’s set his heid against it, naebody could. No me. No the teacher. No the Schools Inspector. No the Social. An…’ She was grasping at straws, now. ‘Ah dinna ken how ye’re layin the blame at ma door. Wisna down tae me ye landed yersel in the jail.’

‘Dinna even go there, ya idle cow.’

‘It’s down tae thon Fatboy.’ Jean moved to mollify her husband. ‘If Willie hudna got in tow wi him, nane o this wid huv happened.’ When, the previous year, Mike had been sent down, he’d dispatched ten-year-old Willie to act in his place as runner for local drug dealer Christopher Gilruth, who went by the name Fatboy.

‘Aye. Weel, he’ll no be botherin onybody fur a while.’

‘How d’ye ken that if ye jist got oot?’

Mike puffed his chest. ‘Jungle drums.’

Jean quailed. If her husband knew about the outcome of the Fatboy affair, what else had he heard? She cosied up to him. ‘Hiv ye hud yer breakfast?’

‘Naw. Couldna wait tae get doon the road.’

‘Come in aboot.’ She took him by the sleeve, led him through to the kitchen. ‘Ah’ve no long made a fry-up.’

‘Is that what ye’d call it?’ Mike Meston eyed the plateful of food. ‘Twa eggs an a puddle o beans? Whaur’s the meat?’

‘There’s nae money fur…’

‘How d’ye fancy that fur a fry-up, then?’ He grasped her by the hair, shoved her face into the plate of food.

She fought for breath as the congealed egg yolks filled her mouth and nose, the still hot beans scalded her skin.

‘Be my guest.’ He pushed down harder.

Desperately, Jean scrabbled for the edge of the table. She tried to brace herself, push back, but his grip was too strong.

‘Fit ur ye sayin tae it now?’ He yanked her head up.

She brushed the back of one hand across her face. Gobs of egg and clusters of beans dropped to the floor.

‘Weel?’

She stuck two fingers into her mouth. Cleared her throat. ‘Naethin.’

He threw her the evils. ‘Canna hear you.’

She took a breath. ‘Naethin.’

It was then he put the boot in.
Jean felt the searing pain as one of her ribs cracked. Maybe more than one.

She drew her knees up to her chest.

Covered her head with both hands.

 

Runaway by Claire MacLeary published by Saraband, priced £8.99

BooksfromScotland were massive fans of David Keenan’s debut This is Memorial Device. Here, Alistair Braidwood discovers that Keenan’s follow up more than lives up to the energetic, adventurous promise of his first novel.

 

For The Good Times
By David Keenan
Published by Faber

 

David Keenan’s 2017 debut This Is Memorial Device announced his arrival as a novelist in such a barnstorming manner that you couldn’t help but wonder how he was going to follow it. Now he has, and, as we should have expected, he does so with élan, subverting all expectations.

For The Good Times, is set mainly in 1970s Northern Ireland (some memorable away days aside), slap bang in the middle of that none more euphemistically titled time, ‘The Troubles’. For those who lived in Ireland and the UK in the ’70s – ’90s there are many of the familiar and widely reported touchstones – the H-Block prison and hunger strikes, the Europa Hotel (infamous as the most bombed hotel in the world), Republican and Loyalist groups known best by three letters, gun-fire at funerals, sectarian songs, balaclavas, bombast, and bomb-blasts. Keenan captures the time and place perfectly, not only with such knowledge and detail, but also using music, fashion, and other cultural references to great effect.

The story focuses on narrator Sammy and his three closest friends, a group of young Jack-the-Lads who just happen to be running violent, and sometimes deadly, errands for the Provisional IRA and other offshoots if they’ll have them. Buying into the more extreme mythology of the Republican cause, these boys are playing dangerous games, with a desire to be the cock of the walk as long as that walk isn’t Orange.

Obsessed with the life and style of the singer Perry Como, and dressed in only the best of gear, violence is second nature to them justified by the belief that they are committing it for a worthy cause. To most they are seen as gangsters, thugs, and smugglers, but they have a strong sense of their own worth and shared identity. If Shane Meadows and Martin Scorsese collaborated on the film adaptation of Bernard McLaverty’s Cal then the script may have been something like this, walking the fine line between condemning, or at least demonstrating, the terrible effects of self-righteous violence, and romanticising it.

This may seem like a fairly straightforward premise but Keenan uses it to explore cultural mythology and memory, place, masculinity (toxic or otherwise), the psychology of gangs and groups, and the need for individuals to belong, but also stand-alone. Just when you think you have a grasp of what is going on and understand the essence of what you are reading, things shift just enough to discombobulate. This will not be unexpected to those who read his previous novel which showed a writer almost bursting with ideas – so many that at times what unfolded came close to being overwhelming.

For The Good Times is leaner in terms of ideas and style allowing the story and the characters more time and space to breathe. The result may be a more conventional narrative (it would have to go some not to be), but it makes for an equally satisfying read, if not more so. If you tried This Is Memorial Device and found it wasn’t for you then you should give Keenan a second chance. He’s too good a writer not to.

That’s not to say that he has dispensed with the literary flourishes altogether. There are songs, poems, and comic book stories, and not many other writers would have quotations from the aforementioned crooner Como, Aleister Crowley’s ‘The Master Therion’, and Friedrich Nietzsche. They may seem incongruous bedfellows, but all tell you something about what you are about to read. There are also séances, astral connections, perversions, and rumination on the nature of art, as well as further evidence that Keenan may have an obsession with mannequins.

All of these unexpected detours remind you that this is a writer who is pushing everyone involved out of their comfort zone. He is a player of games but with serious intent, and it forces you to ask questions about what is written, and how. In my review copy the numbers on the Contents page were all “00”. I have since found out that this isn’t deliberate, but with Keenan I wouldn’t have been surprised. With doppelgangers, the bureaucracy of institutions, betrayal, the power of sex, seduction and obsession, and the need to find an identity when others simply want you subsumed, it has clear echoes of George Orwell, Franz Kafka, John Fowles and Milan Kundera.

However, for all the artistry this novel wouldn’t work without the characters being believable, especially when they are thrown into extraordinary circumstances. Keenan shows he has a keen ear for how people speak, but to do so in an accent other than your own throws in another ball to keep in the air. It’s always a risk to take on the voices of a time and place which is so infamous, but from the first sentence to the last the mask never slips, and you absolutely believe these are lives lived. He also understands how people act in their different groups, and how they think and act when they are alone. The bold and the brave versus the insecure and uncertain – this is a world where front can literally be a matter of life and death. You realise that the time and place has been chosen for good reasons.

For The Good Times is a multi-layered novel of extremes set in the most extreme of times (it is also extremely funny). It plays with form and structure, yet, for all its sensational subject matter and style, it is an acute examination of the human psyche. For David Keenan it is another magnificent, and memorable, achievement and cements his growing reputation as one of the finest writers around.

 

For The Good Times by David Keenan is published by Faber, priced £12.99

With only a few shopping days until Christmas, BooksfromScotland recommends picking up Luath Press’s guide to the fashion industry, How to Get Into Fashion. It’s a small, but a perfectly formed, stocking filler, and its author, Eunice Olumide, talks to BooksfromScotland about its publication.

 

How to Get Into Fashion
By Eunice Olumide
Published by Luath Press

 

How to Get Into Fashion may be a book dinky enough to fit in a pocket or a handbag, but its author, Eunice Olumide—Scotland’s first black supermodel—is someone with big ideas and is working hard to have the world catch up with her. She laughs as she recalls that she decided to write the book as ‘my family were going to kick me out of the house for spending so much time on social media.’ Following a successful career in modelling, acting and activism, Eunice had gathered a massive following online offering advice to aspiring models on a range of topics such as how to get an agent, what to expect from agents, what to wear to a casting, as well as make up tips for meetings. The guidance proved so popular, she realised capturing it all in a book would save her time—as well as her tweeting thumbs—and give herself the space to concentrate on her other projects.

Eunice has enjoyed success in the fashion world, but knows a lot of work needs to be done to make the industry a safer, more ethical place of work. Realising that there was no union for models, she joined forces with Equity to campaign for protection and representation for models, even speaking at the House of Lords on developing legislation. She is also keenly aware that though the fashion industry, compared to other culture sectors, are leaders in diversity often representing people of colour, different kinds of masculinity, and, in the main, paying women more than men, there is still a lot of work to be done to represent the true diverse nature of our multicultural world.

Still, in writing How to Get Into Fashion, Eunice is keen to focus on the positives in her advice to fashionistas young and old. The book also includes chapters on healthy eating, fitness, and information on jobs in fashion outside of modelling. She is also keen to focus on keeping good mental health with advice on common roadblocks, how to deal with rejection, and how to create your own definition of success.

When BfS asked Eunice about her own successes, though she admitted ‘being in Italian Vogue was pretty cool,’ her proudest moments were getting her Masters degree at 21—she was the first of her family to go to university—along with her charity work. She has also branched out from modelling into acting and broadcasting, and is heavily involved in the arts with a permanent space in the National Museum of Scotland as well as her own gallery in London. She was also named as a design champion for the V & A in Dundee when it opened this year. Eunice takes her busy schedule in her stride saying ‘I see myself as an artist and I communicate myself through my art in different ways.’

And her last piece of advice for her readers? ‘Be honest and real because people can tell.’ We heartily agree.

 

How to Get Into Fashion by Eunice Olumide is published by Luath Press, priced £9.99.

 

If you’re still undecided about what to get you loved ones for Christmas, take some inspiration from Books from Scotland’s Vikki Reilly and Scots Whay Hae’s Alistair Braidwood as they blether about the best of Scottish books from 2018. Get your feet up with your favourite tipple, have a listen – then hit the shops!

 

 

https://scotswhayhae.com/2018/12/17/that-was-the-year-that-was-its-the-best-of-2018-podcasts-part-1-books-2/

Sports biographies fill many a stocking on Christmas day, and the fine people at Quality Chess have just released one that all budding Grandmasters will cherish. Here at BooksfromScotland, we have a little taster.

 

Extract taken from Vladimir Kramnik: The Inside Story of a Chess Genuis
By Carsten Hensel
Published by Quality Chess

 

Much has been written about Vladimir Kramnik. What I can add is an authentic first-hand impression of this extraordinary man and the most important events in his great career. Nobody else was as close to the great matches of the 14th World Chess Champion over such a long period of time. Our friendship began back in the 1990s and stays strong. And in the intense period from 2002 to 2009, I was his professional advisor.

During specific phases of his career, certain circles have tried to portray Kramnik as a boring, self-centred pragmatist. Even Garry Kasparov, his predecessor on the chess throne, joined in this criticism for a while. But those presenting such an image of Kramnik have either no idea of who or what they are talking about, or simply wished to create this image out of self-interest.

Kramnik, a positionally active and very creative player, has played some of the most beautiful games in chess history. And the way he plays chess is how he conducts himself away from the board: sometimes chaotic, sometimes emotional, sometimes brilliant – but consistently authentic. Few, if any, have enriched the development of this magnificent game as much as Vladimir.

We are setting out on a journey through four decades of the life of the 14th World Chess Champion. On the way we will experience many emotional moments and come into contact with the dark side of the chess world.

In 1992 Garry Kasparov won the super-tournament “Dortmund Chess Days”, nowadays known as the Sparkassen Chess Meeting. On the floor below, in the public bar of the Westfalenhalle, 17-year old Vladimir Kramnik shared first in the accompanying Dortmund Open. He achieved this in great style, ahead of another 541 participants, including more than 100 international title holders. This success drew the attention of the chess media to the young Russian for the first time. Garry Kasparov said: “The most talented of all the players here is Vladimir Kramnik. All the others are making moves, but Kramnik is playing chess!”

I had heard of Kramnik the year before, picked up in passing in conversation with the ex-world champion (1948-1963) Mikhail Botvinnik, but it was only at this moment I really paid attention. Vladimir and I got to know each other better and better during the 1990s. After the Dortmund tournament of 1992, Kramnik received invitations to all the top events. He quickly climbed into the top 10 of the world ranking list, a place he would not relinquish until November 2014 (at the time of printing, October 2018, Kramnik is ranked 7th).

In 1993, Kramnik was invited to the top group in Dortmund, a tournament which he won for the first time in 1995 and would go on to win a further nine times in his “Dortmund living room”. His ten victories in such a high-level international competition represent a special record in the history of sport.

In the account which follows it is Vladimir Kramnik the man who is to be portrayed, while at the same time priority will be given to what happened during his time as World Chess Champion. It is the first biography to be published since he won the world championship title in a match in 2000 against Garry Kasparov.

Vladimir has contributed to this book quite considerably. My work was made easier by notes I had made during his great matches. Once years have passed, we tend to see things through a particular lens. For that reason, I have tried to present Kramnik’s and my views from as close as possible to what was happening at the time. I was helped in this by a dozen folders of material, notes in my weekly planners, as well as interviews and comments made by Kramnik at the time.

At the end of each chapter Vladimir Kramnik himself reviews the most important games played at these key moments in his career. These annotations are not the usual deep analysis of possible variations we see in magazines and tournament chess; rather they describe what the 14th World Champion was feeling at these peaks of his career.

At the end of the book there is a detailed historical record. This includes, amongst others, all Kramnik’s world championship games played between 2000 and 2008. There is also information about all previous world champions in the history of classical chess, based to a great extent on the opinions of Vladimir.

It would be a great satisfaction to Vladimir Kramnik and me if this book ignites in any reader of this book an interest in the most splendid of all games, chess. I hope you will read on and patiently study many wonderful games by the 14th World Chess Champion with a smile on your face.

Carsten Hensel
Dortmund, October 2018

 

Vladimir’s style is linked to enjoying the game. He likes to play beautiful chess. For him beauty comes to life more in the depth of the process and less in some extraordinary event: “As a child I would have liked to become a painter and later I integrated this desire into my play. I like to be creative. In this way I can penetrate more deeply than usual into the subtleties of a position.”

The public is another important factor for Kramnik. When hundreds of people stream into the playing hall and millions of chess fans follow his games on the internet, that is a great source of satisfaction. However, not all chess lovers can see all the nuances of the game. When we talk about depth and understanding, the analysis provided by a chess engine is often of little help. Kramnik does not find this so tragic: “The more people there are at a concert by a musician, the more intense the effect the performance will be on each individual. Whenever I am at a concert, I know that I can only reach a certain depth in my listening to the music. But feeling that perfection is to be found at a greater depth than my subjective experience has always fascinated me.”

Vladimir Kramnik’s favourite colour is blue, and he is particularly fond of desserts. He likes double espressos, from time to time a good glass of red wine, and also after particularly great efforts sometimes a small glass of single malt Scotch whisky. He can no longer tolerate much alcohol since in 2005 he was diagnosed with a rheumatic illness, which is chronic and demands almost total abstinence.

Kramnik is a lover of literature. His favourite works include Siddharta by Hermann Hesse, whose work he has discovered in recent years, The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, Animal Farm by George Orwell, and Generation P by Viktor Pelevin. He likes the movies directed by Stanley Kubrick and Miloš Forman, although in general he prefers reading. His favourite actors are Robert De Niro and Inna Churikova.

His musical interests are universal, though he is turning more and more to classical music. His favourite composer is Johann Sebastian Bach. Vladimir is good friends with several virtuosi, including Vadim Repin, about whom Yehudi Menuhin once said: “He is simply the best and most perfect violinist that I have ever had the privilege of listening to.” In painting he feels an affinity to impressionism and loves the works of the Italian painter Amedeo Clemente Modigliani.

Karpov’s Best Games was the chess book which had the greatest influence on him as a child. For one simple reason: in the Soviet Union it was for a long time the only chess book which was available to him. As for his favourite players, he names them in chronological order: Emanuel Lasker, Alexander Alekhine, Bobby Fischer and Garry Kasparov.

What Kramnik considers as the most important character trait in a person is integrity. Vladimir Kramnik is married to Marie-Laure Kramnik, née Germon. He got to know the former journalist at the major Paris newspaper Le Figaro during an interview in 2003. Marie-Laure and Vladimir married in 2007 in the Russian Orthodox church in Paris and are proud parents of two children: Daria and Vadim. The family lives in Geneva, Switzerland.

 

Vladimir Kramnik: The Inside Story of a Chess Genuis by Carsten Hensel is published by Quality Chess, priced £22.50

Another Christmas recommendation: My Name’5 Doddie: The Autobiography by Doddie Weir, published by Black and White Publishing, priced £20.00

We’re big fans of small gift hardbacks here at BooksfromScotland, and fans of AL Kennedy too, so her latest release, The Little Snake, is definitely on our Christmas list. Here, Laura Waddell discovers its message of hope, trust and kindness.

 

The Little Snake
By AL Kennedy
Published by Canongate Books

 

Just in time for Christmas comes a short fable wrapped in gold. The cover of The Little Snake by AL Kennedy shines with the scales of snake Lanmo.

Google tells me this word means ‘death’ in Haition Creole. The reader doesn’t have to know this to appreciate the solid two-syllable name, rare and befitting an unusual creature, but simple enough for a child to grasp. But although the snake slips away periodically, on lengthy missions tasked with delivering fatal bites to an array of deserving humans at the end of their lives, at the core of this story is a warm heart. An unlikely friendship forms between this mysterious, cold-blooded snake and a little girl called Mary, on whose lips the name seesaws.

Mary lives in a town once prosperous where locals charmingly flew red kites above the chimneytops. Details are simple enough to avoid tweeness, but we get the gist. The collective has degraded and the future is uncertain. Change has happened in a short enough space of time to be within her own short living memory. Mary has a small garden on the roof of her parents’ building, across which she takes tiny steps so as to make a short walk feel long and satisfying. It’s the perspective of a child who has very little, using her imagination to make humble things vast. Although the town struggles to procure food, there grows a rose and simple vegetables. The family eat, resourcefully and good-natured, until the time comes when self-determination alone cannot make up for societal ill fortune.

Lanmo the snake is witnessed only by Mary when he arrives at her home one day. Small, and self-conscious of this, he is prone to boasting and unwittingly funny. Despite Lanmo’s deathly habits he chooses not to eat Mary, and the two become friends, cuddling up together for confidences and naps. Things become strained only when he tries to eat Mary’s kitten, but he spits it out again. The kitten sneezes with a “meoof”, grooms its fur back into shape, and all is well. When Lanmo is away from Mary, he sends her good dreams; Mary counts his long absences to the day.

As things become worse, Mary’s family leaves, and a boy from school she has taken a liking to tags along. Lanmo discovers a note she has left behind and makes his way to her, finding Mary and the boy in the woods, sleeping in trees for protection. Others from the town have dispersed, too, and Mary’s parents left the two to continue without them, with the implication they were not up to continuing the journey. Lanmo offers to wed the pair, with the logic that the word of a golden snake can be no less official than registered celebrants. For rings, he gives up two golden scales to Mary, who plucks them from his body; they mould fluidly around fingers. This is sacrifice: love hurts. But not so much physically for Lanmo losing scales as the knowledge that Mary is travelling to an adult realm, and he will make fewer appearances in her life. The married pair travel on to a new town with the help of the snake’s guidance; it appears over a hill as a beacon of safety and prosperity, and there they live their lives. They’re happy, but the magic of a speaking snake is something left in childhood.

Being a fable, The Little Snake is filled with symbols infused with magic and meaning. Golden rings, good dreams, a difficult journey, and a speaking creature are the backdrop to a subtle battle between good and evil. Mary, pure of heart, loves the snake easily, and tries to teach him what she knows of the emotion. It’s Lanmo’s journey, perhaps, that takes the hardest road. He already has a moral compass; those he takes out with his fangs include an exploitative industrialist, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it clue as to why Mary’s impoverished home declined while others prospered, hinting at Capitalist inequality. But the warmth of love, and acting in its interest, is new and difficult for him. Mary has never doubted the little snake; she has firm expectations for his capacity to love, and perhaps it is this faith which has made it possible.

Deceptively simple, as fables are, there are parallels with the real world in the themes of displaced peoples, arduous migration, and loneliness. Reading it, I thought of Irmgard Keun’s Child of All Nations, a story narrated by a child which describes crossing Europe in the late 1930s to seek safety from rising ethno-nationalism. The Little Snake is subtler and the lesson we learn from it, that love and friendship lead the way to a safe and happy society, is more optimistic, but perhaps no less true for that. A child’s perspective, after all, can observe what adults can and will not.

Adult and child readers alike will leave with a fondness of this little snake who appears, scales glinting, as a symbol of hope when it is needed most, hoping that was a shimmer of gold they glimpsed from the corner of their eye.

 

The Little Snake by AL Kennedy is published by Canongate Books, priced £9.99

Another Christmas recommendation: A Wee Bird Was Watching by Karine Polwart, illustrated by Kate Lieper, published by BC Books, priced £6.99

Gorgeous cookbooks are always a mainstay on Christmas and bestseller lists.  Father and son, Tom and James Morton have given us a tribute Shetland life that will make your mouth water and have you booking a trip there for the new year. Here is their perfect recipe for your Christmas leftovers.

 

Shetland: Cooking at the Edge of the World
By Tom & James Morton
Published by Quadrille

 

Shetland didn’t really have Christmas until Christianity came calling in the middle of the last millennium, initially in the form of strange, clifftop monastic communities from Ireland. When it took root, Christmas grew in the fertile soil of Yule or Jöl.

And now we get to the trows or trowies – a word derived from the Scandinavian Troll. Their legend is intertwined with Yule. There are all kinds of abstruse academic discussions in Shetland as to who the trowies were or who they represent – some say they were the remnants of the Pictish inhabitants of the soaring brochs: the stone-built structures that remain best preserved in Shetland.

To me, the trows signify some of the darkest fears of a small rural community. The child-stealer. The thief. The kidnapper and the husbandgrabber. The dreadful monster from the sea that lurks in the dark and will destroy you and all you love. Best guard against the trows. And, if you happen to be seduced by their music and end up in their hollow mound or cave, never, ever eat their food. Or they will have you forever.

Seven days before Yule Day, legend says that trows had permission to live above ground. Various precautions were taken. Two straws were formed into a cross and laid at the entrance to the yard where the corn and hay were stored. Animal hair was pleated and pinned over the door to the byre. And a blazing peat was carried through all the outhouses.

A day later it was Helya’s Nicht, another occasion for milgruel. Then came Tammasmas Nicht. No work was done after twilight on Tammasmas and breaking that rule was bound to bring bad luck:

 

The very babe unborn cries, “Oh dül, dül”, ( ‘dül’ – sorrow.)

For the brakkin o” Tammasmas Nicht

Five nichts afore Yule.

 

The Sunday before Yule was Byaena’s Day, and it was time for the head of an ox or cow. Substituting a sheep’s head was permissible. Once the fat and meat from the head was used, the skull was thoroughly cleaned and a candle placed in the eye-socket, ready for Yule morning. This was considered both acceptable and indeed, welcome.

On Yule Eve, even the poorest family would eat meat. There was ritual washing: three pieces of red-hot peat were dropped into the water when hands or feet were washed, or the trows would paralyse them. People put on clean clothes, cleaned the house and hid away anything considered unholy. All doors were left unlocked with a lamp lit and a piece of iron near the door.

For Yule dawn, the candle in the cow’s skull was lit and carried through the house and adjoining barn, where the animals were especially well fed.

There was a morning glass of spirit – sometimes home-distilled, sometimes imported rum – and breakfast was taken. Yule cakes (more scalloped bannocks) were made to resemble and symbolise the lost sun. From then, meat was key. Salted, smoked fresh mutton, beef – no dirty pork – along with salt or dried fish. Vivda (dried meat). Some even had wild ducks, captured in early December and fattened in cages. Oh, and stovies.

Once the animals were fed, Yule Day was a day of rest, although as the short day passed and night fell in the town of Lerwick, bored young men’s thoughts turned to dangerous pastimes. Namely, lighting tar-filled barrels on fire. This practice morphed into the festival of Up Helly Aa, which was once the name for the twenty-fourth night of Yule. Fire always played a part – it signified the lightening of the coming days and scared away those pesky trows.

 

Our Christmas

I love Christmas, and I love it for the way it brings light to the darkness. It’s all about being together, at home. Has my entire extant family ever been at home together at Christmas? Not yet. But a large chunk of them regularly do trek to Shetland, amid the extreme weather, the cold, the darkness and the risk of trow attack. And there is fire and warmth from the Rayburn and the well-oiled central heating. There is good food, fine wine, and the best whisky I can afford.

We watch TV. We squabble and fight and laugh. We even go to church, for that once-a-year visit to the disused otherwise Hillswick Kirk. Candles flicker in its cavernous interior, which smells of damp. We sit and remember other Christmases, those that are lost to us. We sing hymns, badly, and listen to a sermon nobody remembers. And I think of that one magical year when we went into the Kirk in hard, blustery frost, and emerged into the calm, muffled silence of heavy snow, falling, covering our sins like forgiveness. We took off our gloves and shook hands and smiled.

 

Leftover stovies

2 large onions
2 tbsp dripping from your roast (lard will do)
1kg (2lb 4oz) potatoes, peeled and sliced
500ml (2 cups) leftover gravy or meat juices (or stock)
500g (1lb 2oz) leftover cooked meat, cut into 2–3cm (1 inch) chunks
good sea salt
freshly ground black pepper

 

More stovies because stovies are wonderful. And the reason stovies were so much a part of Yule is because they are made from leftovers. Imagine all the aspects of a roast dinner, chopped and mushed together with gravy. Astounding.

Cooked meat is an essential.

Slice your onions as finely as you can be bothered. Chuck them into a large, heavy-bottomed pan with a lid, together with the dripping, and stick it on a medium heat. Fry until soft.

Slice your potatoes thinly – this can take a wee while. Layer them all over the fried onions and pour in your gravy. Add the meat, then top up with enough water or stock to cover.

Stick the lid on and bring to a boil. Then, once boiling vigorously, turn down to a low heat so that it barely simmers.

Cook for about half an hour, stirring occasionally. Check regularly and keep cooking until the potatoes start to fall apart – this is proper comfort food. Taste, and be ready to add a good bit of salt and a healthy dose of pepper for that background bit of Scottish spice.

 

Shetland: Cooking at the Edge of the World by Tom & James Morton is published by Quadrille, priced £25.00

Another Christmas recommendation: Gary Maclean’s Kitchen Essentials, published by Black and White, priced £20.00

Shaun Bythell’s The Diary of a Bookseller has been delighting readers ever since publication in 2017. BooksfromScotland are delighted he has written an exclusive piece for us giving us an insight into the run up to Christmas in his bookshop, and it’s not what you might expect!

 

The Diary of a Bookseller
By Shaun Bythell
Published by Profile Books

 

Christmas in The Bookshop

For most retailers, the run-up to Christmas is the best of times. For my business, it is the worst of times. Apart from the insufferable cold that inevitably accompanies this time of year, daily footfall – like the temperature – drops to single figures in December. This is, in part, due to the fact that the economy of Galloway is heavily dependent on tourism, and this month is not a time when people choose to visit. And even if they did, I very much doubt whether many of them would be buying second-hand books as Christmas presents for their loved ones. Quite why this is the case bewilders me, but I suppose people generally like shiny new things as gifts rather than old books.

My efforts to decorate the shop for the season are frequently the subject of conversation among the other traders in Wigtown, and not for positive reasons.  While everyone else puts their decorations up at the end of November, I wait until exactly one week before Christmas Day. I walk down to the disused railway line with a sack and a pair of secateurs, like some sort of demonic Santa, and cut enough ivy to fill the sack. The freshly cut ivy is then placed, with no nod to any sort of aesthetic, in the front windows of the shop, on top of which are (literally) thrown a set of fairy lights. I think it looks nice, but popular opinion is most assuredly not with me on this, and I’m daily berated for my lack of effort by other businesses and strangers alike. One year, I cleared everything out of the shop windows and put a solitary humbug in each one. I can’t say that praise was heaped upon me for my imagination.

The rest of Wigtown, though, makes a good effort to embrace the bling of the festive season – we have an enormous Christmas tree in the square, and the shops are festooned with flashing lights and all the usual garish horrors that try to bring light to the darkest month. The festivities include Christmas carols by the tree, accompanied by the Creetown Silver Band, and a Christmas Fair in the town hall. This requires someone to dress up as Santa and give presents to the children who turn up. Several years ago, nobody volunteered to play the role, so Jessica – my partner at the time – offered to be Santa, and on that day Wigtown had its first female, Jewish Santa Claus.

Shortly before closing time on Christmas Eve there is, without fail, a surge of panicked farmers desperate to buy something for their wives, who inevitably show up on the 27th to return whatever their husbands have seen fit to buy for them. More often than not, these reflect the taste of the purchaser rather than the recipient, and farmers love nothing more than Westerns. My sales of Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey spike on Christmas Eve, and three days later the shelves are replenished by disappointed spouses.

Last year’s best-selling book in the shop during the festive period was Eilidh MacPherson’s 300 Farmers of Scotland, one of the few new books I stock. I bought a dozen copies, I think, and to my astonishment they sold almost straight away, predominantly (I suspect) to people who she’d included in the book.

The week between Christmas and New Year is – in marked contrast to the week before – extremely busy. Despite the unspoilt landscape and lazy pace of life, Galloway has little in the way of employment opportunities, and many of the industrious young tend to leave the area for more metropolitan lifestyles. They do, however, have to return occasionally to visit their families, and Christmas is the one time when they have little choice but to come home. Starved of daylight and desperate to escape from those most closely tied to them by consanguinity, these exiles flock to the shop to hide for a few hours, and dodge the inevitable leftover turkey and sherry-sipping great-aunts. During this week the shop is populated by bushy beards and skinny jeans as the youths who have been financially forced to leave the area are forced by family to return. It is also a time when many of my childhood friends return, and social life picks up considerably, although I’m usually working alone in the shop, so miss out on most things, but no matter – at least the shop is busy, and there’s a sense of bonhomie about town.

Once New Year has passed there is a mass exodus from Galloway as people return to work. With this comes a crippling drop in takings in the shop, but after 17 years I have finally become accustomed to it, and budget accordingly. Between New Year and Easter, barely a soul darkens the doorstep of the shop and I become (as Dickens describes Scrooge) a  ‘squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner’ until the spring sun finally warms up the soil enough for flowers and people to come out once again.

 

The Diary of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell is published by Profile Books, priced £8.99

Another Christmas recommendation: The Bookshop Detective by Jan Ellis, published by Waverley Books, priced £7.99