More news and more PB

(October has proved to be quite a good month for me. Aside from my appearance on Schmu radio and the workshops in Aberdeen; aside from the Bridport Judges giving my work a nod and a shortlisting in one competition and a highly commended in another; aside from all those I have just been told that I am the winner in another competition. Just the ray of sunshine a writer needs at this darker time of the year. Wow! Here's more from Port Brokeferry.)

KNOWING WHAT’S TROUBLING HUNTLY

‘It tastes different,’ he says. ‘I don’t know. Not so sweet and not so peppery. Different.’ He sets his knife and fork to six o’clock on the plate and pushes his plate away from him as though he is finished without having really started.

He doesn’t come out with it straight away. Never does. But I know. There’s something on his mind. Been in his head since early doors. I know, just like I know when he’s sad and he won’t say, or confused or worried and he will not admit that he is. He says he understands when he doesn’t and I know those times, too. I’m Huntly’s wife and I know him and I know there’s something troubling him today.

I offer him something else to eat. I ask him if he’s sick. If he is not himself today. But I know the answers before he brings them out.

‘No, nothing else to eat. No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Really. Don’t trouble yourself. I just think I might be coming down with something.’

But he isn’t sick. I can see that. I lay the palm of my hand against his forehead and there is no temperature, and I never expected that there would be. I stroke the side of his face and look him in the eye and offer him a cup of tea. And he says maybe that would be good.

He’s been quiet today. Quieter than usual. More turned in on himself. And he has not really settled to anything. Even the newspaper has been unread. He opened it but I could tell he wasn’t reading. Turning the pages is all, one after the other and not taking in what was there.

I make him a cup of tea and place it before him. He looks up and smiles, but the smile is not real, just the shape that he puts his mouth to.

And I think I know what it is that’s been on his mind, for it’s been on mine, too. There’s a change in things and I do not know how this will be for Huntly. It’s about Alice. Every morning for years, at her window and dreaming of something lost, and Huntly watching her from a small distance, and these last days she’s something found to take its place. He must have seen the difference.

It’s been a long time coming, I think. And it makes sense really. Well-suited. The surprise is that it has taken so long and that they did not each see it before now: Dodie Bredwell and Alice. I’ve seen a change in her. She is suddenly brighter and I’ve seen her laughing and she moves different, like there is a new lightness to her body. Happier is what she seems. The first time for almost as long as memory: Alice, happy. But I know that Huntly won’t see it that way. Not at first. It’ll be like he’s lost something now. Something he never really had, but lost all the same. That’s what he’ll think.

‘How’s your tea?’ I ask him.

He nods and smiles and it is again just the shape of a smile. And I know him, and I know it will take some time for Huntly to adjust and he will need my help in that.

‘Maybe you’d like to go out tomorrow,’ I say. ‘It’s set to be another warm day. And it’d be good for you to get some air and some colour to your cheeks. You’ll feel better for it. I know you would. I just know it.’

And Huntly nods again, but I know what that nod means.

Another Port Brokeferry Piece

(This week I have been asked to do a public reading in December. By my old writers' group, which is nice. Here's another Saturday piece from Port Brokeferry.)

AND THERE WAS TIME

It had been a good day for business. Three trips to The Snag and back and seals came to the boat each time. And a dolphin was spotted, some way off so that Kerry wasn’t sure, but it caused some excitement on that trip.

Edwin was in a good mood. He called Kerry his lucky charm and the free pass he’d given her was, he said, his best investment. And being so high spirited, when he returned to harbour at the end of the day, there was Mad Martin waiting and Edwin gave the time to tell a Finn story, as he’d said he might.

‘What’ll it be?’ said Mad Martin. ‘What’ll it be?’

And Finn’s boat was far from land. As far away as it was possible to be. Sea and ice in all directions, as far as the eye can see, and further. And whales spotted at a distance some days, recorded in the ship’s log, and looked for and lost again. And once, a bird, with wings as wide as a man is tall, circled overhead and then left without coming near.

‘The story of Lagan MacNeill,’ said Mad Martin, and he pulled his jacket tight-closed about him even though the day was still warm.

So cold it was that words froze on the lips and men were disposed to sleep when they should have been awake. And Finn was at the wheel alone, a lit oil lantern giving small warmth to the air, small warmth and a sooty taste to each breath. And the sound of the sea against the rise and fall of the ship was a measured drumbeat that rose up through his feet.

‘Slow and slow and slow,’ said Mad Martin and Edwin pressed a finger to his lips for Martin to hush, for there were others listening to the story. Children there were, their first day in Port Brokeferry and this would be a memory they would take home with them. And Kerry had stayed to hear Edwin’s tale. And a woman who was rooming at the Victoria Hotel and seemed somehow familiar to Edwin, like he’d seen her before.

Slow the progress they made, slow the thoughts they had, and slow the cold blood moving in their veins. Everything slow, like time moved differently there, where the fishermen were. And they each one felt alone and cut adrift from everything. And Finn at the wheel, peering through the grey light, wiping the misted glass clear so he could better see.

‘And what he saw then,’ said Mad Martin. And Edwin threw him a look that Martin understood for he had had that look before.

And what he saw then! said Edwin. For out of the grey loomed a ship with its sails furled. An old ship such as Finn had only seen in pictures, and once such a ship berthed in a city port for visitors to walk on and wonder at how things stood in days that were gone. And here was a ship something the same, and a crew sailing her. Ten, Finn counted, and they were to a man singing, their voices deep as a growl.

Edwin growled when he said the word and Mad Martin put a hand over his own mouth and he made a small noise, like a whipped dog whining.

And at the wheel of that ship stood Death.

Moira smiled and the children that had gathered copied Mad Martin with their hands over their mouths.

As certain as I stand here before you: Death. All flesh stripped from his bleached bones and clothed in flowing black and grinning a toothy grin. Death, and a ghostly crew. Finn could see that now – the blank blank looks on the faces of the ten men who manned the ship, if men they could be called. And their song was all sound and no words, Finn could hear that too. Not really a song, but a rhythmic moaning that fitted well with the drumming of the sea against Finn’s boat. And Finn called on his own crew, called them out of sleep, rubbing their eyes and not believing what they saw.

‘But…’ said Mad Martin.

But, said Edwin, one man there was who could not be roused. A man who slept on. And Finn shook him and slapped his cheek and called his name, as loud as a call can be. And he did not wake. Not ever. For he was as deep in sleep as ever man was and as cold, too – out of breath and out of time.

And the Ship of the dead turned away from them and Death was laughing and the ghost-crew of the ship was increased by one. That’s what Finn wrote in the ship’s log and he swears it was true, every word. And the dead man was Lagan MacNeill.

Mad Martin said not a word. And the children listening did not know whether to laugh or clap and so did neither. And Kerry nodded. And Moira looked out across the sea as if she might see the Ship of the Dead moored somewhere close by.

WHAT I HAVE BEEN UP TO THIS WEEK!

BEING A WRITER (and not writing!)

I am just back from the city of Aberdeen where I have been doing a few book promotion events. On Wednesday 20th I ran two creative workshops for children as part of the Aberdeen Art Gallery's exhibition of The Lewis Chessmen (the second leg of their Scottish Tour). The workshops were a great success and the children really worked hard for me, which was terrific considering they were all officially on their mid-term break. Parents also hung around for the whole event, in numbers, and said afterwards how much they had also enjoyed the presentation and how inspiring it was. Ticks all the boxes I had hoped to tick, and books are selling through the gallery shop, and though I would never say it was a doddle (because I do work quite hard), it was fun and easier than the 'day-job'.

On Thursday 21st I returned to Aberdeen Art Gallery for a second event. I was interviewed for Shmu Radio and The Reading Bus Project that runs in Aberdeen. Two boys, David and Thomas, did an excellent job and had some really searching questions for me. I have never been interviewed and recorded before so this was very exciting. I was also asked to read from the book and that was recorded, too. And, what was really terrific, (all of it really) was that Jenny, who runs the project, and her American team-mate, who was overseeing the operation of the recording equipment, had both read my book - that really impressed me. They both enjoyed it, too, and that was a bonus. And in the 'down-time' at the end of the recording, the two young interviewers were seen huddled in a corner reading their own copies of the book. It doesn't get much better than that - a real ego-stroke moment.

Thank you to everyone who was involved in the organisation of these two events.

More from PB

(A few more pieces of mine hung up on the web this weekend, in strange places, but fun, too. Still Saturday in Port Brokeferry - and here's another piece.)

JUST AS THE MINISTER HAD ASKED

Corinne was with Lillian. Just as the minister had asked. They were in old Tom’s house and that was strange. They both thought so, for they talked with their voices lowered, like people in church. Lillian was talking about Tom and telling Corinne what she would miss about the old man. Corinne wasn’t really listening. Not really. But it was enough that she was there, just as it had been enough she’d sat reading to old Tom when he wasn’t really listening to her.

‘I used to keep an eye out for him. Looking from my window I could see if he was up and about. And if he caught me looking he’d wave and throw me a wide grin. I made him soup some days. Was making it for myself anyway and easy enough to make a little extra for Tom. He liked a good vegetable broth with ham cut into pink pieces. And Callum dropped in every other day with leftover bread. That’s what Callum said, leftovers, but I think he kept a loaf back specially for Tom.’

They started in the bedroom. Lillian threw back the curtains and opened the window to freshen the place. The bed was unmade and Corinne could see the shape of Tom left behind in the sheets. Like a part of him was still there. The mark of his head left on the pillow. Lillian stripped the bed, carried the sheets and pillowcases off to the kitchen and fed them into the washing machine. Towels, too, from the floor of the bathroom. And she cleared the dirty dishes into the sink and ran a bowl of hot soapy water.

‘He had a daughter, you know.’

Corinne didn’t know.

‘Angela. There’s pictures of her in a book someplace. Stick-pin thin and hair as dark as crow stares. Always laughing, in the pictures at least. Left the village as soon as she could. Itchy feet and wanting to see the world, just like the young do. Got as far away as it is possible to get from Port Brokeferry. Went to South America and became a nurse.’

Corinne had picked up a clean tea towel and was drying the dishes before they’d had time to drain. She felt she had to be busy, too, like Lillian. Cups and small plates with flowers on the rim and flaked gold bands. She had to open several cupboards before she found the places they belonged.

‘Angela married a man from Colchester. All that way to Peru and Argentina and she marries a man from Colchester. Name of Matthew. And that’s the last old Tom knew. There were letters once and then postcards and then nothing. For years nothing. All Tom’s last years. He just read the same letters over and over. Sad, don’t you think?’

Lillian cleared the fridge of food. Some things she put in a plastic carrier bag for Corinne to take back to her mother and the rest she threw into the bin that stood at the kitchen door. Cupboards she did the same, cleared the shelves, and bread that was hard she got rid of, and three day old scones or older.

‘I’ve written to her. To Angela. To the last address he had for her. Not the first time I have done that and no reply to any of the other letters I sent. But I thought she should know that her father had passed. She ought to know that. So I sent a letter, saying how he hadn’t suffered and how he thought of her right to the end. It’s what a daughter would want to know about her father, I think.’

Old newspapers Lillian threw out and junk mail that had piled up on the table in the kitchen. And she reached under the sink for bleach and bathroom cleaner and cloths.

‘You’re a quiet thing, Corinne. Here I am prattling on about a man you never knew and you listening like I was a schoolteacher and here was a lesson worth listening to.’

Corinne smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Or maybe you’re not really listening and your mind is elsewhere. On a boy maybe, and he is all you can think about. The way his eyes look at you and the gift of his smile and the brighter the day is when he is in it.’

Corinne blushed. 'His name's Munro,' she said, and that was all that she said.

More from Saturday in Port Brokeferry

(Another Port Brokeferry piece.)

ONE BUTTON ON STRUAN COURTALD’S WAISTCOAT, UNDONE

Not in the garden this time, though it was a bluer brighter day and there was no wind. Sinnie and the women from the fair, the one dressed in black with coloured cloth tied to the ends of her crimped hair and her wrists all heavy with jangling bracelets. Her nails looked bitten and still dirty, her fingers marked too, like she had been fixing one of the generators maybe. And they were sitting inside, Sinnie and the woman, at the table in the kitchen, and all the doors closed.

‘Just between ourselves?’ Sinnie said. And she was fingering the edge of the tablecloth and her voice almost a whisper though they were alone. ‘Because I wouldn’t want this getting out. Only you were such a help the last time and I just don’t understand.’

The woman from the fair helped herself to sugar, three teaspoons like before and like before she did not stir the cup.

‘No clothes on this time,’ said Sinnie. ‘Two nights in a row and sitting on the back of the waist-coated owl and I am wearing no clothes. I think it is what you said and I blush to think of it. Me and Struan Courtald. Known him since he was boy in short trousers and I was a slip myself. Struan! Why Struan? It makes no sense. He’s with Ina McAllister, everyone knows that. Everyone except maybe Ina’s girl, Sharon.’

‘There’s sense in dreams and nonsense, too. Maybe it means something, maybe it doesn’t,’ said the woman and she reached across for a digestive biscuit, lifted the plate and offered one to Sinnie who waved the offer away, her impatience barely disguised.

‘I can’t look him in the eye. Not anymore. Said good day to me this morning, there in the street, and all my words came out tangled together and he looked at me funny and asked if I was alright. I pointed to one of the buttons on his waistcoat – it needed fastening.’

The woman nodded and her face was serious.

Sinnie got up from her chair and immediately sat down again.

‘Is there more tea?’ asked the woman from the fair.

‘More tea?’ said Sinnie.

‘Just if it’s no trouble. I’m a bit dry, you see.’

Sinnie checked the pot. There was more tea. She put milk into the woman’s cup and filled it to the lip. Then she set the teapot down on a ceramic tile that showed a white bird like a seagull or a dove. She watched the woman heap three more teaspoons of sugar into the cup and once again the woman did not stir it.

Then the woman sat back in her chair, waiting for Sinnie to continue.

‘And last night he said something.’

‘Who said something?’ said the woman.

‘Struan Courtald. The owl. In the dream he did. There I was sitting on the back of Struan Courtald and wearing no clothes and he spoke. I remember the words precisely. Woke up soon after and wrote them down in my book. It’s better to write them down as soon as you wake, otherwise they become confused or forgotten.’

There was a quiet then. Like Sinnie was drawing breath. Or pausing for dramatic effect, as storytellers do. But then there was nothing. The woman from the fair sipped at her tea and looked out of the window at the sea, flat and as smooth as glass, she thought. Then not glass but the pavement when it is wet and the sunlight on it turns it to silver. Still Sinnie did not pick up the thread of where she was.

‘And?’ said the woman after a time had passed. ‘What was it that he said?’

Sinnie, unable to give utterance to the words, opened the book and pointed to what she had written when she woke. She held one hand over her mouth and watched for a reaction in the woman’s face.

In a voice that was unmistakably Struan Courtald’s, the waist-coated owl said, ‘Sinnie, I will wear my waistcoat unbuttoned for you.’

'Do you see?' said Sinnie. 'And then a button on Struan Courtald's waistcoat, this morning, undone. What could it mean?'

Saturday at The Bobbing Boat Cafe

(Another piece for Saturday in Port Brokeferry)

PARDON GUTHRIE’S FRENCH

‘The Bobbing Boat’ café is awash with people. All spilled out onto the pavement and beyond the chairs and tables arranged there. And Guthrie and Eileen are rushed off their feet, scarcely a moment to look up from what they are about, and everywhere regulars rubbing shoulders with visitors, sharing tables and apologising for doing so.

Aidan is there with his tea-for-two-space and a single fruit slice on a small plate. It is as if he is expecting someone so nobody asks for the seat beside him, though there’s plenty that look at it, as if maybe they can see the someone Aidan is expecting, as if the person must be there sitting all quiet and not drinking the tea.

When Magnus turns up at ‘The Bobbing Boat’ Eileen is pleased and flustered both at the same time. ‘It’s Saturday,’ he says, ‘and this is as close as I can get to you for now.’ She calls him a daft bastard, but she says it under her breath so that Guthrie does not hear, and she kisses him quick as fizz and directs him to Aidan’s table.

‘He’ll tell you he might be waiting for someone, but no one ever comes,’ she says to Magnus and she hurries off to see to another order.

‘Is it Magnus?’ Guthrie says to Eileen. And what he means when he says it is as clear as glass and Eileen can see through to the thing that he means.

‘It is Magnus,’ she says. ‘And I won’t hear a bloody word about him from you Guthrie, if you’ll pardon my French.’

Aidan pours Magnus a cup of tea and offers him milk and sugar and a share of his fruit slice. ‘Is it Eileen you’re here for Magnus?’ he says, and he does not wait for an answer. ‘She’s all glitter and spit, she is. Nice as ninepence sometimes but cross as sharp sticks if you do her wrong. You’re a lucky man, Magnus from the bank. Been waiting for her to sit down and have a cup of tea with me for more than a month. I know, and you’re maybe right – thinking I’m old enough I could be her father, but I’m just talking tea, so you’ve no mind to worry.’

Magnus laughs and says Aidan is alright. Then he says that he wouldn’t mind a piece of the fruit slice after all, if it is still on offer.

‘That woman is here again,’ Eileen says when she reports back at the counter for two black coffees and two bacon rolls, back at the counter where Guthrie is running calculations in his head and ticking off the orders he has already serviced. ‘Out on the green bench across the road. Like before. Just sitting there looking to catch your eye.’

Guthrie stops then. Just long enough that he sees her. And she sees him, stopped and looking. She waves, not so that she is not seen, and her face lights up.

‘Is it Moira?’ Eileen says to Guthrie and her voice is all twitter and tease.

'It is,' says Guthrie. 'And not a bloody word,' he says, 'not a bloody word,' and he is blushing when he says it and can't hold back the smiles, and he has lost where he was in his calculations and the orders needing filled, and the coffee machine is making a noise again, a broken hissing noise, like it could be laughing and trying not to be.

The third piece of good news in a week

(Have been away seeing friends. Back today and I find two more of my pieces hanging up on the web and I am on another competition shortlist that is still being judged. The number of competition hits for the year is almost at my best yet. And I have another children's novel making a noise in my head...

Here's the next bit of Port Brokeferry.)

KERRY’S BETTER DAY ALL ROUND

There were three sailings scheduled for the Saturday, and it was busy at the harbour with the extra visitors just off the bus and more expected later in the day when the train came in. Edwin got Mad Martin and Bran to hand out leaflets advertising the boat trips out to The Snag and back. ‘One leaflet per group,’ he told them. No point in throwing good money away, and the leaflets cost money.

‘Tell about the mermaid, Finn,’ said Mad Martin. ‘Or what was found in the belly of a whale. Or the one about the fisherman that married a fish.’

Edwin promised to tell Mad Martin a Finn story later in the day, if he had the time.

‘The story of the lost boat and the starfish compass?’

Edwin said again, ‘If there’s time.’

And Mad Martin told everyone about Finn’s stories and how there’d be one on the boat if there was time and how Finn told the best stories.

Kerry came down and offered to help too, with the leaflets. It was the least she could do, she said. She was in better spirits, seeing a way forward for herself, a way to stay where she was in Port Brokeferry. Sad for Ward and she’d heard about old Tom, as well; but better in herself.

‘There’s a new picture in Mhairi’s shop window.’ Mad Martin told everyone about that, too. ‘And Martin is in the picture and Col is not there. Have you seen Col?’

Kerry smiled at the visitors who looked funny at Martin and what he said. And she directed them to the ticket office where they could book a trip out on The Silver Herring. And she told them about the seals on the rocks and assessed the weather for them and promised them a good sailing. ‘Not so good yesterday,’ she said. ‘But today is a brighter day.’

There’d been another letter for Kerry. From Ward’s woman. She’d written how sorry she was and how bad she felt about everything. She said she couldn’t think straight, not with him gone, even though she’d known she’d face the loss one day. It was sooner than she had expected and now there was the funeral to arrange. Her brother was helping her, she said. Then she’d written some words from Ward. Things he’d asked her to pass on. Ward’s words written in this woman’s hand – that was strange. And she’d enclosed a cheque for Kerry. Ward’s woman could have torn it up, Kerry knew that. It was not a small cheque and tearing it up would have been easy and no one would ever have known. She hoped that Kerry would be at the funeral, this woman who had taken everything from Kerry and here she was giving something back.

‘Mhairi has a new picture in her window and it is Martin with no shoes and no socks and no Col. Have you seen it yet, Kerry?’

Kerry told Martin that she hadn’t but that she would.

‘Better hurry,’ said Mad Martin. ‘It won’t be there long. Mhairi is almost giving it away. That’s what Col would say if he saw it. Almost giving it away it costs so little. And Mhairi laughs at Athol Stuart, the policeman, when he says it, too.’

And there is a queue at the ticket kiosk and the music from Berlie's reaches down to where they are and there is the sound of laughter hanging in the air and a girl with a balloon on a string smiles up at Kerry and it feels like a better day all round

Another Nod From The Bridport Judges

(Another good piece of news and unexpected: The Bridport Prize judges have given another nod to my work. Not yet on the winners' podium, but another shortlisting credit. Over 6000 stories entered this year so this recognition feels very good indeed. And here's the continuing story of Port Brokeferry.)

FALSE EYELASHES AND SMELLING OF PARMA VIOLETS

Elspeth climbed the three steps and knocked on the door. Then she stepped down onto the grass again and waited. The music from the fair was loud, drowning out the choke and growl of the generators that were hidden behind painted boards showing girls with flashing blue eyes and bright teeth and perfectly plump breasts. It was like there was a party on the green and she hadn’t been invited, like she was a sour neighbour there to complain about the noise.

Elspeth heard a woman’s voice calling from inside the trailer. Still she waited at the foot of the steps. Waited for the door to open so she could see the woman face to face. Then she would decide what she was going to do.

The woman was blond, her hair all lacquered curl and lift, and she was wearing a man’s shirt with the collar turned up and a belt around the middle. She had on a creased skirt that Elspeth thought was too short for a woman of her years, even if she had the legs.

‘What is it?’ said the woman. ‘I’m sort of in the middle of things.’ She had to shout to be heard. She had one false eyelash on and one off, and her lips were pale and her cheeks smudged pink like a doll’s. She had a mark on her neck like a bruise or a bite. ‘Got to see a man about a dog, a very thirsty dog, if you get my drift,’ she said.

‘It’s Lynn isn’t it?’ said Elspeth.

The blond woman looked her up and down, taking the measure of this woman who dressed plain like a schoolteacher. ‘It is Lynn,’ she said. ‘And who might be calling on Lynn?’

Elspeth did not offer up her name, but asked if they might talk, privately, just the two of them. Inside.

Lynn disappeared back into the dark of the trailer leaving the door open and Elspeth climbed the stairs and followed her.

It took a moment for Elspeth’s eyes to adjust to the dimness of the trailer, even with the light leaping in through the open door. And there was a muffled quiet inside – the music stayed outside. Lynn sat in front of a mirror, leaning close to the glass, and she was applying a glossy red wax to her lips with a small brush. She pressed her lips together, then pouted like she might kiss her own reflection.

‘A private talk?’ Lynn said when she had done.

Elspeth was looking at the mess of the bed and the discarded clothes dropped on the floor and empty beer bottles collected in drunken arrangement in one corner of the trailer and the dinted crowns of bottletops arranged on the narrow sill of the window.

Lynn caught her looking. ‘Wasn’t expecting company,’ she said. ‘Leastways not the sort of company that minds how things are.’ And she picked up the dropped clothes and pushed them into a drawer, and pulled the bed straight without really making it.

‘It’s about Kyle,’ said Elspeth.

Lynn sat on the edge of the bed then and left a space for Elspeth to continue.

‘He’s my brother, you see. And he’s going through a bad patch. With his wife. Things not as they should be between them. You know. And he didn’t come home last night. And I know he’s been here. With you. And it’s none of my business, it isn’t, and I should leave well alone, I know that. Only there’s a girl. His girl. My niece. Pretty as a picture, she is, and still at school. Not yet finding her way and this could be…and I thought… if you just knew…’

Elspeth broke off then. It was all there. Everything she had to say. Not as direct as she had thought she’d be, but there if this woman called Lynn could read between the lines.

Lynn turned back to the mirror and carefully fitted her second false eyelash. She blinked and winked, first with one eye and then with the other. Then she spritzed a sweet perfume onto her neck, sweet like bubblegum or parma violets.

‘I hear what you’re saying, Kyle’s sister. I do,’ she said when she’d done. ‘And I can see that you mean well by your brother. But like I told you already, there’s this man I’ve got to see about a dog and it’s a right thirsty bastard.’

And it was left at that. Lynn retraced her steps onto the green where the music was all hop and jiggle and she could hear the screams of girls on the waltzers. Then she walked away from the party, once again feeling like the complaining neighbour and not really sure that she had been heard.

News and Then Grace and Kelso in PB

(I do well enough in the writing competitions I enter, but it comes as the pleasantest surprise to find myself on a shortlist where my writing was entered by someone else. My children's book, 'The Chess Piece Magician' has made it to the shortlist of a neat award. Results are not till next May, but it means that lots of children will get to read my book as they decide which book on the list gets the winner's prize. Win or lose, this just feels so good to have made the shortlist of five. And below another Port Brokeferry piece... a bit sad, this one.)

THE CONFESSIONS OF GRACE AND KELSO

They met outside the village. Way out above where Douglas’ Prayer Cell was cut into the red stone cliff face. They walked there separately, so that they were not seen, seeming to come from two different directions. Grace had got her mother to mind the baby and Kelso had begged a couple of hours off, even though Berlie’s was already thumping when he’d left.

They met with things to say and neither of them sure of how they would tell the other or what would happen once they had. They met at first pretending that nothing was any different, not fearful of what was ahead. The moment was all there was. And what would be was a way in front of them.

Maybe she said his name and he said hers. They embraced and held onto that, not counting the time that passed, not caring if all time stopped then and there.

Maybe that is too fanciful: they embraced and held that embrace for some minutes without a break. Then when time was something between them again, still they held onto one another, not sure of what they were about to do.

‘I have something to tell you,’ said Grace. Maybe she said it quiet. Maybe he didn’t hear. ‘I should have told you before. On that first night you were back in Port Brokeferry. I should have told you then. But I wanted it to be like it was. A year ago. I wanted to go back to that time, when it was easy and there was just you and just me. It is different now.’

‘I have something to tell you, too,’ said Kelso. His voice was serious and his words not certain. It was, as she’d said, all different. Thinking of coming back to Port Brokeferry had kept him with Berlie’s, it was everything that had kept him there, and now he was back and Grace was Grace, and he did not think he could leave when the fair left. Not this time. But staying meant something hard, too. He had to tell her about the girl called Evelyn carrying his name scratched onto her arm and how it meant nothing and was something that was before Grace.

‘There’s something you should know,’ he said. And the words were what she had wanted to say next and that confused her. ‘There’s a girl called Evelyn. She works at the hairdressers.’

Grace knew Evelyn. She sometimes cut Grace’s hair. She was nice enough. Grace did not know why Kelso was talking about her.

‘And last year, before you and I, before we were what we were, well, Evelyn and me, we…’ And he wasn’t making much sense. Grace broke from him then. Held him at arm’s length and looked him in the face.

‘It was the one time,’ he said. ‘We were drunk and it was the one time. And she has my name tattooed onto her arm. That’s how drunk we were. But it meant nothing; it means nothing. Grace, you have to believe what I am telling you.’

Grace understood and she did believe him. She had to. There were bigger things to be borne. She stroked his face with the flat of her hand and Kelso felt it was alright again, that it was not so different after all, that they had gone back to how it was.

‘Kelso, there’s a child,’ Grace said.

He didn’t understand.

‘It’s yours,’ she said. ‘Mine. Ours. I should have written to you, but I kept it to myself. No one knows. I wanted to tell you on that first night. I tried. I said a lot can happen in a year, remember? And it has. But you said you didn’t want to ever be trapped again and this felt then like it might be a thing to trap you.’

He wasn’t holding her now. And she wasn’t holding him. It was different again, just when he thought it was the same. For a long enough time they stood with space between them. Not speaking. Not anything. And time was again something that held no importance for them.

‘It’s not a trap,’ she said, bringing them back to the moment.

Kelso didn’t say anything. He had not the words for this.