Can't Stop The Writing

(Another shortlisting in a competition. Made the final shortlist of eight this time so I am quite pleased with that. Written two more stories this past week, one related to a project that I am working on; the other just a voice getting in the way of what I should be doing... still on course to complete the things I had set myself to do this summer. And here's another piece from Port Brokeferry)

CHRISTINE CUTS HAIR AGAIN

Evelyn phoned to say she wouldn’t be in today. The first time she ever was sick since starting with Christine. Morag took the call. She wanted to hand the phone to Christine but she was late down this morning and Morag was alone in the salon. Evelyn sounded like she was in some pain. Easy enough to do over the phone, and Morag had trouble believing her story. She’d looked well enough talking to the boy Kelso the day before.

‘What shall I tell Christine?’

‘Just tell her I have a headache. Kept me awake all night. Been popping pills every couple of hours and it still hasn’t shifted. Just tell her that.’

‘Will you be in tomorrow? Saturday. Only we’re booked up the whole day. What do you think? Will you make it in then?’

Christine shrugged and smiled and unpacked her scissors and combs and clippers. She checked the appointments for the day and calculated how busy she’d be if she picked up all of Evelyn’s clients. Morag thought she took it well.

‘Have to earn my money today then.’

Morag noticed that the writing on the back of Chrtistine’s neck had almost disappeared. She was wearing a lower cut blouse too, and had covered any remaining marks with foundation. You had to know there’d been writing there to see any sign. Morag noticed that there had been words written across Christine’s left breast. Once she’d noticed she couldn’t help looking, just to see if there was anything that she could actually read.

‘She’s been a bit odd, this week, don’t you think?’ said Christine. ‘A bit moodier than usual. It’s not that boy at the fair, is it? The one Evelyn was all moon-eyed about last summer, remember? I saw he was back. They don’t always come back, you know.’

Morag was surprised that Christine knew about Kelso.

‘Good looking boy. You’d know him if you saw him. Thin as sticks but he might very well clean up nice. A bit young for her, I thought. But…’

Morag pretended not to know.

‘Only I saw him the other night. He was with Helen and Edwin’s lass. Grace, is it? She was dressed up like she was going to a party and they were definitely together. Do you think that’s what’s given our Evelyn a headache? It would give me one if the man I was after went off with someone else. What do you think, Morag?’

Morag said Evelyn had sounded in some discomfort. She’d got no sleep. Was taking pills every few hours. Said she’d probably be back in on Saturday.

‘Still in her bed, then? Yes, I’ve had days like those. If you know what I mean. Well, just so long as she’s in tomorrow.’

Morag was staring at Christine’s left breast. Maybe it was obvious. Christine pulled her blouse up at the front and looked at herself in the mirror, brushed a hand over her exposed skin. Turned her head from side to side to see if Lachlan’s words on her neck were covered.

‘If the phone rings we should just take turns answering it. Is that ok? I’ll handle Evelyn’s appointments. Should be able to manage.’

Again Izzy in PB

(Well into the 2nd summer project and am certain it will be complete before the schools start back. One or two other balls up in the air, too. Feels good to be busy, and at the same time not too busy. Here's another Izzy piece from Port Brokeferry.)

IZZY AND THE SECRET SHE SHARED WITH BLAIR

Izzy’s mother kept to her bed late. It was to be expected after the day before. Izzy took her up a cup of coffee and a slice of toast on a plate. She’d laid everything out on a tray with a lace-edged napkin and a folded newspaper and a white ceramic ramekin dish filled with apricot jam, a silver teaspoon to serve it with. It was something her father used to do on Sunday mornings when the shop was closed and the day was truly theirs. Izzy remembered the smell of those days and the sound of laughter from her parents’ bedroom, laughter that stretched well into the morning. Now Izzy did the same on days when her mother stayed in bed late.

Izzy told her mother she looked like a girl again. Fresh and bright-eyed. Like it was the opposite of Rip-Van-Winkle. That she’d slept sound for years and the time had slipped away from her. It was a test of sorts, to see if her mother was back in the place she should be. Izzy’s mother laughed at Izzy’s nonsense and told her she was as daft as her father had been. Izzy recognised the laughing and knew that her mother was back where she was.

Downstairs Izzy told Blair that she was running a bit behind things today. She skirted past him and slipped behind the post office counter.

Blair cleared his throat as if he was about to reply. Then, as though he had thought better of it, he stayed silent.

Izzy began sorting through the mail, putting the letters and small parcels into order. She moved quickly, talking to herself in whispers, reciting names and addresses, just as a child might recite the times-tables learned by heart, her voice all sing-song and dancing. There was a new name in the mix today. A woman called Rose had taken one of the cottages by the sea and there was a letter for her. Finding it brought Izzy up short just for a moment. Then, having adjusted to this new note in the music, she resumed her chanting.

Izzy checked the parcels again, like she might have made a mistake. She was looking for something that was not there. Just like her mother, she thought. Expecting something and finding nothing. She looked at the date on the clock above her head. It was maybe too soon. Even if it had been sent first class it was too soon. She’d look again tomorrow.

Blair cleared his throat again and Izzy looked up from the counter.

‘Is it something you have lost, Izzy?’ he said.

Izzy did not hear the words at first, heard only the sound. She looked at Blair and her face showed that she had not understood.

‘Only you seem to be looking for something,’ said Blair. 'That's what it looks like.'

‘Yes,’ said Izzy. And it was not how she had imagined their first real conversation going.

‘Your mother was like that. Always looking for something in the post. Small parcels from a place in Germany, or postcards of German churches with German writing on the back and stamps that I never saw before. Maybe it is something the same for you, Izzy?’

There was more there than she had ever heard Blair say before. It caught her by surprise. Her head was full of thoughts but her mouth had few words.

‘It is something the same,’ she said.

Blair thought he had said too much.

But it was something the same, for Izzy was looking for a parcel sent from Germany, and maybe a German stamp in the corner and her mother’s name written on the front and the shop smelling of cologne again when it came, for days afterwards, and weeks maybe.

‘It is something the same,’ she said again and she winked at Blair and pressed one finger to her kissing-lips, urging Blair to secrecy.

Blair smiled at Izzy, and he nodded his head, for keeping a secret was something that he could do, something he did, day on day.

More good competition news and another PB piece

(Yay! You don't have to win to be thrilled. The Hemingway Short Story Competition 2010 attracted over 1650 entries. One of them was something I wrote and, for the third year in a row, I am amongst those receiving an Honourable Mention. That feels like an achievement. I am thrilled. I have said before, it feels good to have hits across the pond.)

LOOKING IN AT WINDOWS

Callum leaps the garden fence. The day is dull and grey and a wind is blowing. The sound of cables hitting metal and wood makes a ringing sound from the harbour and the flap of cloth in the air is sharp and a constant drumbeat.

Susan is asleep in her bed, the curtains fully open. She is dressed. Her face is creased as though she is not really asleep, but forcing her eyes shut against seeing something she’d rather not see. Or as though she is perhaps in some pain. She has a chair wedged up against the handle of the door. Callum resolves to call on her sometime in the afternoon. Maybe with some ring doughnuts and some fresh bread.

Corinne in sleep is a different picture. Her face is blank. Like stone or marble that has been made smooth and looks soft when it is hard. Like paper that is new and not yet marked. A clean blank page. That’s what Callum thinks. Then he laughs at his own fancy.

He lights a cigarette at the corner of the house. He looks over his shoulder and along the whole empty stretch of the front. Then he moves on.

There’s a light in old Tom’s bedroom. Like they used to do when the boats were out. Lights left on to guide the fishermen safely home again. Lillian is sitting on the edge of the bed and she is speaking to herself. It looks to Callum as if that is what is happening. On the bed are several envelopes, all open and the pages of the letters from the envelopes scattered on the floor.

Callum does not know what any of that means. He wonders how old Tom is and thinks about knocking on the door and going in. Then he decides against it for now. Lillian will be in the shop later and he’ll have a word with her then about how it goes with old Tom.

Sinnie is sitting up in her bed. Callum is careful this time that she doesn’t see him. She is wearing her orange nightdress and is writing down her dreams. Owls she has been dreaming of lately. That’s what she told him over the counter in the shop. Owls in silk waistcoats with silver buttons. She laughed when she told him and said she might be losing her marbles. Last week it was squirrels in top hats of bright colours. Their tales tickled her face as though she was a tree and they were running all over her. Callum would have made a rude joke, except it was Sinnie.

Eileen is not home, he thinks. The curtains are open and that is not usual. And Lachlan Davie is home. He is standing looking at himself in a full length mirror. He is covered from neck to foot in writing. Black scribbles that Callum cannot read from where he is. Lachlan is twisted, trying to read what the writing on the back of his left thigh, high up where there is no hair.

A dog stands to attention on the green. It has been watching Callum. He stubs his cigarette out on the grass, then makes a whistle as though calling to the dog. It barks at him and he makes his way to the bakery.

The First of Friday in PB

(OK, so this is the first of Friday in Port Brokeferry and followers of this project will recall that each new day starts with an 'official' document that pertains to the history, geography, sociology etc of PB. So here's something in that vein.)

A VISIT BY A BIG FELLOW FROM THE UNIVERSITY IN EDINBURGH

HH was a big man. He had to duck to pass through the doors of the houses in Port Brokeferry and he did not fit the tables or chairs that we sat at. His clothes did not hang natural on him and for all his height he looked half a man in his jacket and trousers. He was from the University in Edinburgh. The school of Scottish Studies is what he said. He drove a small van that stuttered and coughed when he started the engine; it frighted the dogs and the children. HH was affable enough and at the same time serious in what he was about.

He gave a talk in the church hall. It was well attended, I thought. Everyone was respectful in their silence. Mrs MacKinnon had the hall laid out nice and she had made sandwiches and there was beer for after the talking. HH said he was collecting songs and stories. He was looking for singers and musicians. He had a big box that he explained would record the voice and the music. He was after old songs, he told us. Not ones that could be heard on the wireless. He was making a document of all the songs in Scotland before they disappeared. The University gave him time to do that!

Annie Bell was the natural choice. Although her voice was a little cracked now that she was in her seventies, she could still hold a tune and her head was full of songs. She boasted that she never forgot a song that she had learned. HH set up his machine there in the hall and Annie stood at the front. She looked a little nervous and very small standing next to the big man. He reassured her that there was nothing to worry about.

Annie sang just the one song. Then she said she’d had enough for now and that it would take a glass or two of whisky to get her singing more. She could be like a child sometimes. The song she sang was ‘The Lost Boat’. It was a favourite of hers. Annie had lost her husband before the war and singing the song made her remember him. She sang it with some emotion that night.

The song is reproduced below.

THE LOST BOAT

There’s a bonnie man I love and he loves me

And we hae been the gither a lang enough time

So’s I ken a’ his thoughts times afore he does

An’ I like to think an’ maybe he kens mine.

So I knew soon as he did, I swear it true -

He was out at the fishin’ and the sea a’ flung,

I saw the nets were torn and the boat was takin’ water,

An’ I knew ma bonnie man’s time was run.

I called out his name, loud as a woman may cry

And I saw he raised his een and he turned to me his ear

Then he held his arms high as if tae hold me close

An’ he called out my name and said he loved me dear.

I waited on the shore till dark gied way tae light

And in the yellow o’ a new day a sad song I sang

It is the saddest song and the seals do ken it weel

For they aye come to listen an’ to see what ‘tis that’s wrang.

‘Tis a boat is lost I tell you, an’ three o’ oor best men

And yin’s a bonnie man loved me an’ I loved him

An’ time has passed and a lot of time, but aye

I miss a bonnie man loved me an’ I loved him.

(A Report from The Historical Society of Port Brokeferry, January 23^rd 1953.)

Annie Bell died a year after the public singing of ‘The Lost Boat’. She was seventy nine years of age. The taped recording remains in the archive of HH at The University of Edinburgh. The above is the only published transcription although reference to the song was made in a recent publication entitled ‘The Sea Can Be Cruel: Songs of the Scottish Fishermen,’ Published by Faraday Books, 2004.

The Last of Thursday in PB

(This represents the last piece for Thursday in Port Brokeferry. The next will take us into Friday. So this is a kind of summary piece with a fair number of snatched glimpses of some of the stories.)

MAD MARTIN TELLS ATHOL ABOUT WHAT HE SAW AT THE FAIR

I saw Dugald with Sharon at the fair. He shot three ducks with a rifle. It made a noise when a duck fell over. Like a bell was ringing. Dugald won a blue bear with a yellow ribbon round its neck, or he could have had a yellow bear with an orange ribbon. He chose the blue and gave it to Sharon. Dugald hadn’t shaved. His face was grey. Sharon called him McVey and she held tight to the blue bear.

I saw Kyle making eyes at a woman with blond hair. He was grinning. Like a Cheshire cat my mum would have said. Do you know my mum? She’s gone into the ground now. Like a cat that has got the cream is what she’d say about Kyle’s grinning. If she wasn’t asleep. What you grinning at Kyle Downs? The woman wasn’t grinning. She was busy taking money from the people sitting in the small cars. She had a leather bag over her shoulder and it was heavy with all the money that she had collected.

I saw Mhairi without her paints. She told me the picture would be finished by Sunday. I asked her how many days that would be and she laughed. She held up three fingers. I counted them to make sure. There was blue paint under her fingernails.

Guthrie was there too. He was with a woman who is new. I asked her if she had seen Col. She looked at me funny. ‘Col?’ she said. I thought she was going to say that she had seen him. I was sure she was. I felt a bit dizzy then. Like butterflies were in my head. Guthrie leaned forward and he spoke for her. He said that no she hadn’t seen Col. He said it kindly and patted my shoulder. I believed him.

And Grace went into one of the trailers. The one with the blue door. Red curtains at the window. I think it was Grace. She was wearing a yellow dress and white shoes. She looked pretty. Then I counted to fifteen. Slowly. And someone else went into the same trailer. The dogs knew him and they did not bark. I went near and a dog started barking at me. Its name was Max. I asked Max if he was cross. He just kept barking.

A woman dressed in black and with bangles on her wrists, so many I could not count them, she came over and told Max to be quiet. She sounded cross, but she wasn’t really. She told me I should go away. She knew my name. I did not know who she was. She said I was upsetting the dog. I did not see how that could be. We were friends.

Then you came and Magnus smiled at us and Lachlan Davie was drunk and pee’d against a wall. Did you see that? And the music was hurting my ears and Evelyn was waiting for Lachlan to finish. After that we walked together around the green. Just watching. I asked you if you had seen Col. You said you hadn’t seen him in a very long time. I could see in your eyes that you were telling no lie.

Then you brought me home. I could still hear the music playing. Even with the door shut and the curtains closed and the kettle making a humming noise when the water boiled. The music was very loud.

PREVARICATING

(Yesterday, prevaricating, not getting down to the second summer project on the plan, reeling from the intense input into Port Brokeferry this past two weeks, and so I took an old story of mine, one that had something in it, and had done ok but was not quite right in my mind. I gave it a new skin and a new voice and now I think I am pleased with it. I think it sings now and the story deserves the voice and the voice deserves the story. For now here's the next installment of Port Brokeferry.)

MAGNUS WAITING OUTSIDE THE BANK

Magnus waited for Eileen. He sat at the bottom of the steps to the bank. Callum stopped to pass the time and to smoke a cigarette. They talked about old Tom and his going away in the ambulance. Callum shook his head. It didn’t mean anything except that he was sorry for Tom.

‘Talked in his sleep, you know. Been doing it for years. Made no sense most of the time. Just broken words. Just sounds that were like words that are chopped into pieces. Could keep it up though. Like he was holding a whole conversation or telling a long story to himself. I asked him about it once and he said I was daft.’

Magnus did not ask how it was that Callum knew old Tom talked in his sleep. Nor did he point out that Callum was already talking about him in the past tense. He looked away up the street to see if Eileen was there. Then he checked his watch.

Dodie Bredwell cycled by, a bag of books on his back and his red scarf missing. He was laughing though. ‘It’s a good night for it,’ he called to Magnus sitting by himself outside the bank. He laughed again and swung away towards 'The Ship'. At least Magnus assumed that he’d find him in 'The Ship' if Eileen wanted to go for a drink after work.

It was getting cooler, Magnus thought. And a wind was picking up. He watched an empty crisp packet blow past, moving as though pulled and pulled by an invisible thread. He looked up and noted that there were clouds shifting across the sky.

‘Locked yourself out?’ joked Athol Stuart. He was on his way to the green where the music was a little louder than before. He could hear a dog barking and children screaming.

Magnus smiled and explained to Athol Stuart that he was waiting for someone. He didn’t need to say who. Athol nodded and returned the smile.

‘Have you seen Martin anywhere?’

Sharon stepped out onto the street. She looked to left and right. She noticed Magnus. She looked away again and then she went back into her house.

Magnus wondered if he should maybe walk to 'The Bobbing Boat' café just to see. He wondered if it would mess things up his calling for her like that. Eileen said Guthrie was a bit odd at times. Kept her longer than the hours of her agreement. Sometimes for no reason, it seemed to her.

Magnus stood up and walked to the green. He saw Athol Stuart talking to Mad Martin. One of the fairground dogs was barking at them. It was tied to the steps of one of the trailers and the face of a blond woman appeared briefly at the small window.

‘Found him,’ called Athol Stuart and Magnus acknowledged him with a grin. Then he turned and walked back to the bank, taking slow steps, looking like he was killing time. He turned the collar of his jacket up against the chill in the air. On the green the dog stopped barking and a song began playing that Magnus recognised. He was singing the words under his breath when he saw Eileen running towards him.

‘Guthrie’s got a woman,’ she said when she reached him. Blurted it out like it was something he’d want to know. ‘He’s got a bloody woman. She came to the café after I left last night. She’s there again now. Fuck!’

Magnus took her hand in his. ‘Sod Guthrie,’ he said. ‘You want a drink?’

Yay! (and an oops!)

(Another competition shortlisting... they called it 'shortlisted winner' which I suppose is nice and a small remuneration for being shortlisted. And the other good news is that I have now completed the first draft of this whole Port Brokeferry project, 127 pieces, and I will continue posting the pieces here until the blog has caught up with where I am. I may have to go back and tweak a few that I have already posted, but it's mostly done now. Next week, I turn my attention to the other project I have set myself to complete this summer. Yay!)

(PS oops! Posted 'Berlie's Opens' twice - so have put a new piece below... was just so excited at completing this project! Sorry, readers.)

‘THERE’S NO NEED FOR YOU TO WORRY, MR STUART’

Athol Stuart sat back in his chair. The clock on the wall said it was five past five. Grace was making him a cup of tea. He should really let her away; she’d stepped in at the last minute and taken her mother’s afternoon shift.

Athol had kicked his shoes off, something he rarely did in the office. It had been a busier day for him than usual and he’d been out on the street more than was his habit. He flexed his toes and sighed as if there was pleasure in just that. Of course, the fair being in meant he needed to be a visible presence. That was the main reason why he’d been on his feet more today. There’d been the offer of another policeman coming in to share the load, just for the two weeks that Berlie’s was there. Athol had said he’d cope.

Already he’d had to help carry Kyle Downs home from the green and the fair hadn’t even opened at that point. And Martin was more excitable with strangers in the village. He’d left him down on the sands with Mhairi sketching him for a new painting like she’d promised. Tonight was the opening of the fair and so there’d be work for him to do.

A quick cup of tea and then he’d have to be out there again. Right now he turned his attention to Grace. He wanted a quiet word with her, but wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. He watched her carrying the cup from the kettle to his desk, in two hands, careful not to spill it.

‘Thanks, Grace. For the tea and for the extra hours today. It's appreciated.’

‘That’s ok,’ she said. ‘Lillian has the baby this afternoon and it gives me a break.’

He was surprised that she’d said so much. She was usually quieter than that and not so cheerful. That could be accounted for by the fair too, he thought. And that was what he wanted to talk to her about.

He unbuttoned his tunic and sat up to drink his tea. Grace made to go back to her cleaning, but he asked if she would mind sitting with him for a moment.

Grace looked a question at Athol Stuart, shrugged and pulled up the only other chair in the office.

‘Only, I was wanting to say something.’

She looked anxiously around the room to see if she had done anything wrong, to see if she had done something different from normal.

‘I saw you last night,’ he said.

Then he paused. Just as he had been trained to do. Just as if he was interviewing a member of the public about some misdemeanor. Pause long enough and they give you something you didn’t already know. Grace gave nothing.

‘All dressed up in yellow. You looked nice. Like you were off to somewhere special.’

Grace said nothing. If there was a point to this then she would wait for him to make it before she said anything.

Athol took a drink of his tea and set the cup back down on the desk.

‘You have to be careful with these fair folk. They move all over the country and haven’t got the time to be settling with the one girl.’

He watched her closely, for any sign that he had got near the mark.

‘Oh, I am sure he’s a nice enough lad, really. I’ve never had any trouble with him. Been coming here a few years now. Name’s Kelso, I think. You’ll know. Only, seeing you with him last night, I was concerned. For you, Grace. Just worried for you.’

‘There’s no need for you to worry, Mr Stuart,’ she said.

Then there was a silence between them. Grace looked up at the clock. She stood up.

‘Really,’ she said. ‘No need.’

Then she went back to her work.

Athol watched her as before.

PB hots up

(In the real world I have 14 pieces to complete. It is going well, moving a little slower as I draw nearer to the end and do not easily want to leave this place that is called Port Brokeferry.)

BERLIE’S OPENS

The music started early and all the light were on, though it wasn’t yet dark. Kelso and Lynn were on the street handing out flyers that said Berlie’s was now open, just in case the music hadn’t alerted people to the fact.

One or two of the kids from school had followed the music and stood at the edge of the green waiting for something to happen. Wallace came out to them and said the first ride on the Waltzer was free so long as they had money to pay for a second. He handed out free whistles too, enough that it made good business. No more than a handful.

Evelyn saw Kelso moving along the street. Christine Cuts Hair had just closed and Morag had locked up. They both heard the thump thump of the music from the green and the shrill scream of whistles blowing. Then Evelyn saw the blond woman handing out leaflets. She looked like she had slept rough and was not really smiling when she smiled. Kelso was on the opposite side of the street. He was stopping to talk to the people he met. When Evelyn saw him, he was in conversation with Callum from the bakery.

Morag was saying something about Christine and Lachlan, and she was suddenly aware that Evelyn wasn’t listening. She looked up and followed where Evelyn was staring. She saw Kelso and decided she shouldn’t be there when they met.

‘I’ll maybe catch up with you later,’ Morag said and she turned down beside Mhairi’s Port Brokeferry Giftshop.

Evelyn waited until Callum had finished his cigarette. He nodded his head at the boy, Kelso, and disappeared into his shop. Then Evelyn began walking towards him.

At first Kelso didn’t recognise her. He held out a leaflet for her to take, just as though she was any other customer in the street. She did not take it but stood there waiting for him to really see who she was. When he did, his smile slipped and he was lost for words.

‘It’s Evelyn,’ she said.

‘Of course it is, Evelyn.’ He looked over his shoulder as if he was afraid he might be seen. ‘So, how are you doing?’

‘Is that all,’ she said. ‘A year away and that’s it?’

Kelso shrugged and looked at his feet.

‘I thought we had something a little more than ‘how are you doing’ between us.’

‘It’s been a year,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d have forgotten by now.’

‘How the bloody hell could I do that?’ she said. She pulled the sleeve of her blouse up, high enough so that he could see the letters of his name tattooed on her arm. He’d done it himself, with a needle and some Indian ink. They were drunk at the time. Drunk and naked in his trailer. The letters looked like something a child would have written. ‘How the hell could I forget that?’ she said.

He shrugged again.

Already there was a smell of meat cooking hanging in the air, thick and sweet. And underneath the burning oil of the generators. People were beginning to notice and were making their way to where Berlie’s was. Kelso thrust a leaflet into Evelyn’s hand and said he’d see her later.

‘Doesn’t it mean something?’ she said.

He shrugged once more.

A small scandal in Port Brokeferry

(As promised, these Port Brokeferry pieces will be posted faster now. I have less than 20 to write for the project to be finished... but more than 60 still to hang up here. For anyone interested, it is going extremely well, and lots of magic coming into how the 'stories' are being tied up. Keep coming here.)

A BLOND GIRL IN A MAN’S SHIRT

Kyle Downs is seen stepping away from a trailer on the green. It is late in the day and he should still be at work, but he has spent the afternoon with a blond haired woman called Lynn. She is thirty-three years old and speaks with an English accent. Kyle didn’t know her before today. She came into his shop, pretended to be looking for a newspaper until the shop was empty and then she’d asked him his name. Just came right out with it.

‘I saw you last night,' she told him. 'At ‘The Ship’. You was drinking alone. I hate that. You was looking like you was in the wrong place. I’d have come over only I was waiting for someone, see. Never showed, though. Someone called Lachie or Lachlin or something. You probably know him.’

Kyle had noticed the buttons undone on her shirt. It was a man’s striped shirt, a little too much room in it for her, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the tails flapping like a dress about her thighs. She was wearing a blue denim bra underneath.

‘This your shop?’

He’d said that it was and had asked then if he could help.

A phone call from the shop had brought Elspeth in to mind things for the afternoon and after a drink or two at ‘The Ship’, Kyle and the blond girl dressed in a man’s shirt had taken a bottle of vodka back to her trailer.

It is Blair that has seen Kyle Downs at the end of the afternoon, still drunk and stepping unsteadily down the four steps of a trailer onto the green. From inside the trailer he hears a woman’s laughter and her whoop and holler. She calls after Kyle. Just the one word, ‘cunt’, and then she laughs again.

Blair has to agree but would have put the word ‘stupid’ in front of what she had called Kyle. There are few secrets in a place like Port Brokeferry and there Kyle was, blind drunk and making a disturbance in the centre of the town.

‘Here, I’ll help you home,’ Blair says and he puts an arm around Kyle’s waist and walks him back to his door. Athol Stuart has heard the noise and seeing Blair struggling under the weight of Kyle Downs, he goes to help.

Blair tells Susan that he’d found Kyle drunk on the green. Just that. He doesn’t say anything about the blond woman in the trailer or what she had called after Kyle.

Susan Downs leads the way through to the bedroom and Athol Stuart and Blair half carry Kyle to the bed. There are few words. As they leave, Athol Stuart walking ahead of Blair, Susan lays a hand on Blair’s arm, like before. She says ‘Thank you,’ so quiet only Blair hears. ‘Thank you,’ for she understands something of what has happened. The shirt Kyle is wearing is not his own. It is a striped shirt and at least a size too big for him and there’s lipstick smudged on the front.

MOVING A LITTLE FASTER

(Another piece from Port Brokeferry. Am well into the writing of this project. Approaching the hundred mark, a hundred PB pieces written. So I am posting them at a slightly faster rate. Expect one every two days at least.)

A FEW WORDS WITH KERRY

Kerry hadn’t wanted to stay in the house. ‘Could we just walk?’ she’d said. And so they were walking. Helen’s arm linked in hers. Out past the fair and towards the red sandstone cliffs beyond the village. There’s a path there that takes you to the highest point so you can look down over the whole of Port Brokeferry. Then a little further, on the downward slope and out of view of the village, there stands a derelict cottage. Just the four walls and no roof. Crushed beer cans in the fireplace and cigarette ends stubbed out in the grass that carpets the floor.

They walked without saying much at the start, without even having agreed on where they should walk. Slow and slow their steps, not in any hurry to be anywhere. Kerry avoided meeting the eyes of people they passed in the village. Helen nodded and made some small comment on the brightness of the weather and smiled to everyone they met.

When they left the fair behind, they were almost alone. Up ahead the boy from Berlie’s was out walking the three dogs and Mad Martin was with them, running here and there in just the way that dogs do, with no heed of the energy they were using. Mad Martin running too and calling after Col.

‘Edwin says he’s missed you the last couple of days. On The Silver Herring. Keeps a seat for you, he does. Held the boat back a little yesterday in case you were running late.’

Kerry did not reply. She looked away from Helen and out across the sea. She understood that this was why Helen had called, why they were walking arm in arm. Edwin had put her up to it.

‘It’s not like you, Edwin said. And I agree. It isn’t. And so we thought maybe something was up.’

Still Kerry kept quiet. They walked on. Mad Martin came running towards them. He was excited and out of breath. One of the dogs followed him part of the way and then ran back to join the boy.

‘Have you seen Col?’ said Mad Martin. ‘Have you seen him?’

Helen ignored the question. ‘Are you out with the dogs, Martin? Is that what you are up to today?’ Her voice was loud and there was space between the words as though she was speaking to someone hard of hearing.

Mad Martin turned tail and ran back to Kelso and the three dogs. They crested the hill and disappeared from view. Then Kerry and Helen were alone again and it was quiet except for the wind moving through the grass.

‘Just, if there’s anything we can do? To help, you understand.’

Kerry stopped, pulling Helen to a stop, too.

‘It’s Ward,’ she said.

‘What’s that bastard up to now?’ said Helen. She was not someone who swore easily and the word ‘bastard’ sounded strange in her mouth, like she was speaking something foreign, something French or Spanish.

Kerry was surprised at Helen swearing. Helen was surprised herself.

‘Whatever it is he’s done we can deal with it, Kerry. That’s what friends do. Please let us help. He’s just no good and you were well shot of him when he left.’

‘He’s dead,’ said Kerry.

‘Fuck, no,’ said Helen and then realised what she’d said. The tone of her voice changed, like the wind when it drops suddenly and everything is quieter than before. ‘Oh Kerry, I am so sorry.’

Kerry did not know exactly what it was Helen was sorry for.

Love is a kind of madness!

(Have had a good couple of days on this project and think I may have all 127 pieces written in just about a week. Of course, getting to the end requires a lot more thought for each of the stories. And I am not sure that I want to totally leave this Port Brokeferry place behind me.)

IT MUST BE SOMETHING

‘It must be love,’ whispered Dodie Bredwell into the ear of Alice Greyling.

He was close enough that when she turned to him, he almost kissed her cheek.

‘What?’ she said.

Dodie Bredwell pointed to Corinne and Munro sitting together in the playground.

Alice Greyling laughed and heads suddenly turned in the staffroom, and seeing Dodie Bredwell so close and so quiet raised eyebrows.

‘Look at them. Almost touching. And she’s laughing at everything he says. And she’s put the poetry away for today. Just the two of them and all the world running in circles around them and they are too fixed on each other to notice.’

Alice Greyling nodded at everything Dodie Bredwell said, not seeing that they were still drawing the attention of the rest of the staff in the room.

‘I blame you, Toadie Bredwell,’ she said.

She’d asked him why he did what he did with the names of everyone he knew. Then she’d given him one of her own. Toadie Bredwell. It was not meant nastily. He hadn’t taken it as so. ‘If you kiss me, I might turn into a prince,’ he’d joked. She hadn’t known if that was an invitation or a harmless flirtation.

‘Why do you blame me? What have I to do with any of it?’ he said.

‘It was you who introduced her to W.B.Yeats and his love affair with Maud Gonne and his poetry. That’s what she’s been reading recently. All that stuff about cloths of heaven and dreams and romance.’

Dodie Bredwell laughed this time, and though that was nothing so strange, it still occasioned whispers and nods of heads from the rest of the staff in the room.

In the playground, Munro looked up at the staffroom window. He saw that Mr Bredwell and Miss Greyling were there looking down at them. He pretended not to see. Corinne was telling him about sitting with old Tom and how she didn’t know what to say to him, so she had read him something from the book in her pocket.

‘I don’t think he heard. Just something to fill the time and the quiet. Not so quiet really, what with the noise he made with his breathing. Also it stopped me looking too closely at him as he slept. Reading the book, I mean.’

‘Talking of which – don’t look, but we’re being closely watched right now.’

Corinne turned to see who in the playground was watching them.

‘I said don’t look. Mr Bredwyn and Miss Greyling upstairs.’

Corinne laughed and this time did not look. Not immediately at least, and when she did, not directly.

‘Do you think they could be lovers?’ she said when she had seen them, Mr Bredwell standing behind Miss Greyling, his head level with hers.

‘What? Miss Greyling? Malice Greyling? She doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘love’. And as for Bredwell, he’s just too much for someone like her. He’s just too loud and too… well, too full on, you know, always cheery.’

Alice Greyling laughed then and Munro saw her laughing. He hadn’t seen that before and he wondered if he was maybe wrong in all that he had just said. ‘’Course we only know them as teachers. They’re maybe different as people.’

‘What do you suppose they are looking at?’ said Corinne.

Munro shrugged.

Sad Day In PB

(More news will follow shortly about a series of workshops I am to do at a big book festival... all very interesting and exciting.)

THE INDECISION OF DOCTOR KERR

Doctor Kerr visited twice. The second time he was accompanied by Marjory. He looked worried after the first call at old Tom’s house. Gave instructions to the minister to phone if things got any worse. Said the same thing to Lillian.

Back at his desk in the surgery after that first visit, he made a note in Tom’s medical records. The old man’s breathing was more laboured. His pulse was racing and he was falling in and out of sleep. Doctor Kerr’s hand was shaking as he wrote. More than usual, he noticed. He sat back in his chair and bit on the end of his pen. He felt uneasy. He should be doing more, he thought.

When Marjory came in with a cup of tea, he was lost in thought. She seemed to know what was in his head. She suggested that maybe it was time to phone the hospital. That was what had occasioned the second visit to old Tom’s, Marjory carrying his black leather Gladstone bag and Doctor Kerr looking serious and concerned.

Old Tom was no better. Marjory passed the stethoscope to Doctor Kerr and opened the buttons on old Tom’s pyjama shirt. She took old Tom’s wrist and counted his pulse against the second hand of her nurse’s watch pinned to her jacket. They consulted together in whispers and the minister saw them come to some sort of agreement.

Doctor Kerr asked if Lillian knew where the phone was. Then Marjory made the call.

Lillian packed a small bag of essentials: toothbrush and clean pyjamas and old Tom’s slippers. She knew that he would not be up and about in the hospital but packing the slippers seemed somehow hopeful, as if it could happen. She also slipped a letter into the bag, one of the letters from Tom’s daughter, Angela, and a black and white picture of her when she was a girl at the school.

‘Someone should be with him,’ said Doctor Kerr, expecting that Lillian would offer.

‘It’s the least I can do,’ said the minister quickly. He picked up a pack of cards from the bedside table and slipped them into his pocket. There was something hopeful in that, too.

The ambulance came within the hour. It came in silence and no blue lights flashing. Still it drew the attention of villagers in the street. They collected in small knots of concern and conjecture. Guthrie and Eileen came out onto the road to see what was about. Christine came out too, and Evelyn. Morag stood at the door with her scissors and her comb in her hand and asking again and again who it was. Men from 'The Ship' came out, too, and hid the bottles they were drinking from behind their backs in case respect was called for. And Callum from the bakery; and Struan Courtald in his waistcoat with the buttons done up, though he tried not to stare; and Athol Stuart, all the while looking to see where Mad Martin might be.

There was not much to see when Old Tom was carried out to the street, strapped to a stretcher and with an oxygen mask over the bottom half of his face. The minister climbed into the ambulance beside Tom.

Mr Struan Courtald did not think the minister being there was a good thing. There were others in the street who had the same thought.

The doors of the ambulance closed and it moved quietly back the way it had come. Marjory stood with her arm around the shoulders of Lillian and together the watched it leave, watched it till it could no more be seen and the street had emptied in front of them. Doctor Kerr stayed inside the house. He was looking for his stick. He was sure it should be with his bag. Maybe he'dleft it at the door. Maybe he hadn't brought it this time. He wasn't sure.

Yet another PB piece

(Have just been invited to do another museum workshop event - in another city. That should be fun again. Here's another PB piece.)

TEA FOR TWO AND A FRUIT SLICE

Aidan ordered a pot of tea for two and a fruit slice. Yes, with butter. Eileen wrote down what he said on her small pad. Then she asked if that would be all. He wondered if there could be sugar on the table and a clean spoon. And if the cups could be in saucers and not chipped at the lip.

Eileen smiled and delivered the written order to Guthrie who was behind the counter tinkering with the coffee machine again.

‘So, who is she?’ she asked him.

They were in the middle of a conversation. Guthrie was telling Eileen about his visitor of the night before.

‘She used to work here. Way back. When my dad was in charge and I was just learning how to run things. She did what you do.’

‘Was she as pretty as me?’ said Eileen and she leaned across the counter so that Guthrie could see down the front of her blouse.

Guthrie blushed and pretended to be more interested in the workings of the coffee maker.

Eileen misread the blush and thought this girl had maybe meant something to him.

‘Was she perhaps an old flame?’ she teased. ‘That’s the word my mam would have used. Did you hold hands with her behind the till when your dad wasn’t watching? Kiss her in the cupboard at the back?’ Then Eileen was laughing.

Guthrie had done all of those things, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard what Eileen had said.

‘Does she have a name, this naughty girl from your past?’

‘Moira,’ he said, and her name in his mouth felt strange.

‘Moira. Moira and Guthrie. And what’s she doing back here in Port Brokeferry?’

Truth was that Guthrie had no answer to that question. He’d been asking it himself over and over. She was staying at the Victoria Hotel. Room 31. No significance in that and he wondered why she had told him. He’d walked her back to the hotel after their shared coffee. They were like teenagers at the bottom of the hotel steps, like they had gone back to how things were when they’d last been together.

‘I’d invite you up, but old Struan Courtald is on the night shift and we wouldn’t want to start any gossip, would we?’

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. That was it. She went up to her room and Guthrie went back to check he’d locked the door of 'The Bobbing Boat'.

Eileen put two small balls of butter into a glass dish and made sure the sugarspoon was clean and the cups not chipped. Then she took Aidan’s order to his table and laid things out as if for two.

‘You expecting someone?’ she said.

‘Could be,’ he said.

The Push To Finish

(Ok, so the Summer hols are upon us - must start that drive to complete two biggish writing projects. By the end of the summer, Port Brokeferry will be finished and my second children's book drafted. That is the plan, at least. So here we go with another piece from Port Brokeferry - they should come a little faster now.)

ROSE MAKES A START ON SOMETHING

There were things about the place that Rose remembered. Small things. Like the shells on the windowsill of the cottage. Not that they would be the same shells as when she was a child, but it seemed to her to be the habit of people who lived by the sea to collect shells and to arrange them in the light where they could be seen.

The taste of the air was something the same too. Only faintly now of fish, but salt and sea and freshness in every breath. Rose had risen early enough to see the sun come up. She’d sat in a chair by the open back door and watched the day brighten into light and noise. The sound of the first gulls was familiar to her.

Rose smiled to herself, remembering something else from way back: small green crabs in a child’s brightly painted tin bucket half-filled with clear water. As the tide had come in she and Carrie had set them free again, just at the water’s foamy edge, watched them scuttle sideways into the sea and away. Then Rose and Carrie had run sideways up the beach pretending to have clipper claws instead of hands and snipping at the out-of-reach gulls.

Rose breathed in deep. Her head was clear and she thought of work. It was the first time in over a year. Maybe the doctors had been right. Maybe this was just the tonic she needed.

‘Don’t rush it now,’ said Carrie. In Rose’s head she heard her sister, as clearly as if she had been there in the room with her. ‘Take your time and just get yourself straight.’

Rose made herself a cup of instant coffee, no milk and no sugar. She sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a clean page in front of her. Before ten o’clock she had filled both sides of the paper in writing so small she had to hold it close to her face to read it. No crossing out. That was sometimes a good sign. Later she would type it into her computer and it would be the start of something.

She dressed then. She was pleased with herself. She tied her hair back from her face with a thick black elastic band that left a smell on her fingers. She brushed her teeth and grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. She stuck out her tongue and widened her eyes. Then she was laughing at herself.

‘If you get lonely at all, just pick up the phone and I’ll be down on the next train.’

Rose shut the front door and stepped to the end of the front path. Before she could open the gate a man dressed in white with a white cloth cap on his head, reached over and offered her a brown paper bag.

‘From Callum’s Bakery. A small something to say welcome to Port Brokeferry. Saw you arrive yesterday. It’s just some scones. I’m Callum, by the way. The wife’s next door in case you need anything.’

The bag felt warm in her hand.

‘Fresh from the oven,’ said Callum.

Rose wasn’t sure she liked having been noticed. She said nothing and Callum winked and left.