Hawick Missal Fragment Project - Writers' Workshop

Hawick Missal Fragment Project - Writers' Workshop Saturday 30th November 2013 Hawick and Melrose The project is seeking writers interested in contributing responses to the story of the Missal fragment, its music and the object itself. The resulting poems will be published on the Fragments website and a selection chosen for an illustrated book that will be displayed and archived with the Missal fragment itself in the Heritage Hub in Hawick. The creative writing project kicks off with a workshop on 30th November 2013 in Hawick and Melrose learning more from experts about the Missal fragment and Abbey life. Please contact bk [@] khursheed.co.uk for more information on how to attend the workshop or look at http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/learn/poets/calls-work-and-residency-opportunities or http://www.fragmentsproject.co.uk/ for more on the project as a whole. The project is a partnership between Historic Scotland and the Heritage Hub in Hawick supported with funding from Creative Scotland.

Exodus from Eden

Here is a story I wrote some years ago, I feel confident enough to post it as it once won third prize in a competition - I hope you enjoy it.  

  Exodus from Eden

Eden drive, third left off Mistletoe Avenue, middle of August, middle of the afternoon, middle class, middle income, middle aged.  Number 12a, semi with off road parking to the front, no distinguishing features.  Until you enter the back garden.
The Eden of Eden Drive.  A rectangular patch transformed into a jungle of foliage and flower, boundaries blurred.  Boisterous planting.  An all too perceptible narrowing of the grassy path – meant to alter perspective.  On the patio, sweltering on a lurid sun lounger, in shorts, socks and sandals, Eddie slumbered sweatily.
At the furthest end of the garden, hidden from view by the meandering sweeps of the path and borders, up against the old churchyard wall, was the shade border.  Secret, shadowy and cool.  Leah was on her knees, rump in the air, torso and arms stretched far into the greenery, weeding.  A myriad of shade loving plants vied for space.  A climbing hydrangea overwhelmed most of the ancient wall.  A shapely Cercis, ‘Forest Pansy’ ensured dappled shade until the early morning sun had passed over.  The soil here was dark and fertile, moist, well mulched.  The other borders, in full sun, were gaudy and overblown – a riot of colour to horrify the horticultural snob.
Summer evenings, as Eddie slouched in front of the TV, Leah began what for her was the next best thing to weeding.  The hose lay coiled and ready for this ritual, and on days when rain made watering unnecessary, Leah felt robbed.  Weekend watering included a foliar feed.  Leah had treated herself to a Hozelock Spray System.  She carefully mixed the plant food, not too little, not too much.  As she stirred, the water turned pale blue, twenty or so pumps on the handle to get the pressure up and she was off, her yellow plastic tank on wheels trundling behind.  To drench the leaves of all the plants took four fills of the tank.
The garden began life as a rectangular lawn with regiments of spring daffodils in narrow edging borders.  Eddie’s pride and joy.  The lawn had been weed free, in bowling green condition.  Then the children arrived.  Prams, swings, tents, paddling pools and the family dog Sukie’s attentions left it in disrepair.  Daisies, moss and creeping buttercup took over – Eddie gave up.  As the children grew, they commandeered the garden less and less.  A refugee from the noise and demands in the house, Leah took over the garden.  She avidly watched Geoff Hamilton, Mr Smith, Titchmarsh and all, absorbing information, scribbling down plant names.  Over the years her personal paradise had emerged.  New beds opened each year, digging up almost all of what remained of the lawn, following a ‘conceal and reveal’ theme (Titchmarsh – Gardener’s World).  The path narrowing idea came courtesy of Monty Don.
On the lounger, Eddie stirred.  “Leah………………  Leah…………..  Tea love.”
While the kettle boiled, Leah emptied the dishwasher.



Saturdays had been hectic, human full times – when the children were still at home.  Now they were scattered across the planet, Leah’s own personal Diaspora.  Bizzy in Rome, Becky on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean, and Mark. 

 “Mark’s in aviation.”  That is how Eddie described it, before quickly changing the subject.  His only son a pilot?  Air traffic controller?  Is it true what they say about  cabin crew?  Eddie knew how the conversation would go – and avoided it.
Mark had told Leah when he was fifteen, after one of who knows how many rows with his father.  From the garden Leah heard the raised male voices.  The girls had retreated to their bedroom, radio full volume.  Refugee to referee Leah moved towards the house.  The front door slammed as Eddie stormed out – barely able to control his rage.  Leah heard his car roar away, he would be back later, when he had calmed down.  A tearful, shaking Mark stumbled out of the back door just as Leah reached for the handle.  They sat together in the garden.  Leah held him to her heart.  Mark left home first.  Becky was next, the eldest, now a nursery nurse coordinating a team of nursery nurses and the crèche on ‘Spirit of the Caribbean’.  Bizzy followed her sister, and was nannying for an American diplomat’s family in Rome.  They kept in touch – with Leah.

 Leah knew how cruel families could be.  True to their word, not one of them, not even her mother, had ever contacted her again.  “Marry out and you stay out forever”.  Probably the last words her father ever spoke to her, she was not sure.  It had been a time of such noise and wailing, bolts of lightning, crashes of thunder, pillars of salt and a Red Sea of tears.

 Leah stared out of the kitchen window at her beautiful garden.  The Buddleia was truly magnificent this year, alive with Peacock butterflies, hoverflies and bees.  In one bed huge dusky pink Opium Poppies, seed pods already forming, towered above Sedums just hinting at the thousands of individual carmine flowers forming each head.  In another, a standard Fuchsia with blooms like crinolines had butter yellow African Marigolds shrieking around its feet.  Roses rambled up fences.  Rudbeckia, Petunias and Nasturtiums everything arguing as to who is the fairest of them all.

 Eddie’s doughy body spoiled the view.  He had been a good husband, either faithful or very discreet, a good provider.  A good father when the children were little, he had even been known to push the pram on occasions, a rare thing back then.  The problem was that he was trapped in a time bubble, somewhere back in the 1950’s.  The sexual revolution, women’s liberation and the swinging sixties had passed him by.
His son should have a man’s job - and be normal.  His daughters should be married and raising their own children.  The Chandler line looked like it would end with him – Edward George Chandler – unless Mark pulled himself together, (a hope to which Eddie clutched like a shipwrecked mariner to a piece of flotsam).  Given the way his daughters were carrying on they were very likely to produce little Chandlers, but they would not count.

 Leah took the tea out to the patio.  Eddie had fallen asleep again.  She set the tea tray on the table, poured a cup for herself, and sat down under the parasol.  Was this all there was to look forward too, life with this balding, perspiring, overweight anachronism.  Having sacrificed her birth family Leah had poured herself heart and soul into their children.  Why?  Just to see them once a year?  Just for the odd ‘phone call?  Just because they could not bear to spend time with their father.  He was overdue for a heart attack, up for early retirement; soon he would be at home all day, every day, until death.  Death she could cope with.

The shade edged round to cover Eddie.  He groaned and hoisted himself into a sitting position.  His breasts lay on his belly, his belly lapped his thighs. 

“Garden looks nice love.  Oh, tea’s cold.” 

Waiting by the kettle, looking out over her garden, Leah decided. 

That week she drove to the garden centre as usual.  She ‘phoned Bizzy in Rome.  Left a message for Mark and Johnny.  Booked her flight, arranged for travellers’ cheques and Euros.  Friday morning she waved Eddie off to work, hoovered, dusted, emptied the dishwasher, ordered a taxi for 3:15 – then, just one last job in the garden.

By two thirty it was done.  Every leaf of every plant glistened with droplets in the sun, every blade of grass in the path sparkled.  Everything was saturated.  She left a note for Eddie saying she had gone to see Bizzy, needed time for herself, women’s problems, menopause.  In the shed she left two sacks of fine lawn seed.


Eddie had been totally amazed on reading the letter.  Nothing had changed; everything was as it had always been.  Leah had not complained, what was there to complain about?  She had not mentioned the ‘Change’- he had not noticed anything.  Confused and irritated he picked up the ‘phone, slamming it down when he realized he did not know the number to dial for any of his children.  Where did she keep the ‘phone book?  He looked around helplessly.  Eventually he found it, in the draw of the telephone table.  He dialled Bizzy’s number but could not think of a message to leave in reply to the American drawl of the answer phone.  He tried Mark, Johnny answered, Eddie put the ‘phone down. 
How do I ‘phone a bloody ship?” he shouted.  “Selfish, selfish little bloody …..What am I supposed to eat?  Oh, Leah.”

He slumped in a chair, too angry to cry.  He would have stormed out, slammed the door, roared off in his car – but who would have noticed?  He ordered an Indian takeaway to be delivered which he ate in front of the television.  He decided to do nothing, ‘phone no one; after all, she was the one who had gone swanning off with no thought for him.

Half way through the first week, with no word from Leah, he got his secretary to arrange for a daily.  Mrs Marjorie Smith.  Marge, knew it was temporary.
“Until my wife gets back from visiting our daughter.”  She came in the morning, dusted, hoovered, filled and turned on the dishwasher and prepared a meal left in the oven on the timer to be ready when Eddie got back from the office.  On Fridays she would take the laundry home with her and bring it back washed and ironed on Monday morning.

That weekend Eddie noticed the plants beginning to droop.

“Water, I’d better water them or Leah will be upset when she gets back.”  Eddie muttered to himself.  Over the following week, still no word from Leah, and the plants looked worse despite Eddie’s efforts with the hose.  He looked in the shed for the first time in years, found the Hozelock and went to the cupboard for the fertilizer.  He took out a plastic bottle with a little liquid left in it.  He could have sworn the fertilizer was granular, blue granules.  This must be something new.  Peering through his bifocals he first noticed the hazardous substance sign – below that ‘Contains Glyphosate’ – below that ‘Herbicide’.  He smelt the contents of the bottle, then the residue in the sprayer. 

“Bloody Hell, Bloody Bastard Buggering Hell.  She’s Killed the Bloody Lot.”

Eddie sat down on a sack, one of two sacks leaning against the shed wall – he looked down.  ‘Marchant’s Finest Lawn Seed – For the Perfect Lawn.”



Eventually Mrs Marjorie Smith moved in as housekeeper.  She had been a widow for many years and enjoyed having a man to look after again.  There was some gossip in Eden Drive, but that soon died.  Eddie put the garden down to lawn.  In retirement, this luxurious turf was his pride and joy.  Never to be walked on during frost or when the soil was saturated.  Aerated, scarified, fed and never, ever cut shorter than one inch, unblemished by speedwell or daisy, beautifully striped.  The only reminder of Leah that remained was the Cercis; its dappled shade stole light from the grass, making it less lush beneath its canopy.  Eddie dug the turf away in a circle and planted daffodils.


Mark wrote.  His mother was fine, she had a job in Italy, just outside Rome, housekeeping for a wealthy family only in residence for part of the year.  She was learning Italian from a group of local women who made lace; she was learning to make lace too.



Eddie and Marge puffed and panted their way up the narrow street from the square where the coaches parked.  Marge had never been abroad – her George had not approved of abroad.  She was beguiled by Italy, the heat of the sun on her skin, the unfamiliar sounds and smells.  At the top of the hill a group of local women sat making lace.  Gypsy dark they sat in the shade clicking their bobbins and chattering.

Their eyes met with a flash of recognition.  A brief nod before the tour guide shepherded her flock into the Basilica.  When they came out Eddie looked - Leah and the other lace makers had moved on. Marge squeezed Eddie’s hand.  She had never been so happy.  They shuffled off down the steep hill to the coach park.


Leah had gone to the local market.  She bought onions, peppers and wonderful local tomatoes.  Her employers were away in London. Tomorrow, Mark and Johnny, Becky, and Leah’s new grandaughter, Ebony Angelique, were coming to stay for a week – Bizzy planned to join them on Sunday.  To celebrate their all being together Leah had needed one or two more ingredients for a special pudding she had invented – a sort of Italianated custard tart containing ground almonds, eggs, milk and honey.

A Biddable Robin

He woke up with a start.
A robin stood on the inside of the window ledge chirping "Get up ! Get up!"
It was a surprise to see a bird so close, particularly a bird that wasn't afraid of him or the house or even the slightly-drawn curtains gently moving to and fro in the breeze.
He leant forward and opened the curtains and looked out; not onto a terrace of grimy brick and dead matt black windows, not onto a busy road with cars, buses and juggernauts but onto a rocky outcrop with coloured heathers, clumps of grass and an enormous pink boulder. The bird, now perched on the bed headboard at the foot of the bed, chirruped "Get up ! Get up!". He got out of bed slowly, washed at the sink, dressed and climbed down the stairs. The smell was enticing, delightful and promising bacon, frying tomatoes and - was that a tang of fish ? Granny called him into the kitchen and gave him a bowl of porridge and a side plate of crispy bacon bits.

He mixed the bacon bits into the porridge, added pepper and began to eat. "A slice of fried bread for the fish
?" she called. "Yes, please, Granny" came the delighted response. "You're up late !" she said. "Did Ruaraidh not waken you ?" bringing  the pan to the table. She moved the bowl and put the bread on the plate and then a piece of grilled mackerel on the bread. "Ruaraidh ?" he queried. "The robin" she replied. "I sent him up, an hour ago." Patrick stared at Granny, mouth agape, wondering what to say. "You sent him up ? How ? I thought it was just a stray bird. Can you talk to other birds ? How do you know his name is Ruaraidh ?"

"Too many questions" she replied, rather abruptly. Then, in a kinder tone, "Eat your breakfast." A long pause - Patrick began to eat the fish. "You'll get used to our ways soon enough" she stated.  A door banged. She turned towards the sound and listened. "That'll be Tormod." "We need some peat for the fire, will you help him fetch it, please ?" "of course, Granny, but shouldn't I wait for Mum ?"

"She had a long drive, she said you got lost, so I think she should sleep in a bit." "I'll tell her where you've gone."

The back door opened and a short middle-aged man came in. He was dressed in grey tweed trousers and a blue tweed jacket. Under the jacket was a torn pullover over a pink shirt and he had a yellow cravat round his neck and a yellow pointed handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket.

He came towards Patrick, with a big smile, extending his hand "Hallo, I'm Tormod Og. Are you ready to set out ?"
Granny exclaimed "Give him a chance ! He'll need to have some milk, brush his teeth and put his shoes on and you could have a cuppa." Tormod looked up at the sky "Well, I'm thinking it'll rain soon and you know Horace doesn't like rain but half a cuppa would be fine."  "Away and get ready, Patrick." 

Just as Tormod drained the last drop of tea, Patrick arrived downstairs and put his shoes on. Tormod and Patrick went out the front door. "Who's Horace ?" Patrick asked. As they went through the gate, he saw a horse and a cart standing beside the pink boulder he had seen from the window. "Iph'm. That's Horace. He's a horse so we call him Horse."
To Patrick's surprise they didn't get into the cart; Horace walked with them pulling the cart. "The road out of the village is gey steep so he can't pull us and the cart." As they breasted an incline, Patrick saw six other houses and a shop. "Where's the rest of the village ?" he asked. "Iph'm. That's it, though Shore is about half a mile away in the next bay. It's a bit bigger but there's no shop nor road to get there. You'll see it tomorrow when we go to church."

On the road above the village, Tormod helped Patrick into the cart and took the reins and off they went, Patrick asking questions all the time, arriving about 20 minutes later at a field. Tormod drove the cart into the field turned round in a wide circle, stopping beside some mounds. "This is what we've come to collect - they're peats.

Load them into the cart like this, please" showing Patrick how to lift and stack them. Eventually the cart was full, and then Patrick wondered and asked where they would sit. "Iph'm. Horse can't pull us and the peats so we have to walk."

The walk back home took an hour and a quarter, Patrick asking questions occasionally. "Can Granny really talk to the birds ?"  A long pause. "Iph'm. Well, she believes she can and the birds evidently believe she can because mostly they do what she tells them." 

What language does she use ?" Another long pause. "Iph'm. Well, it tells us in the Bible that Gaelic was the language of the Garden of Eden, so she uses Gaelic and it's clear that the birds understand her otherwise they wouldn't ken what to do."

The last 20 minutes of the walk was spent descending the hill into the village with the brakes on and Tormod holding on to the cart with a long rope, Patrick beside him.
Horse stopped beside a shed next to the house and under Tormod's direction, they unloaded and stacked the peats and entered the house to find soup awaiting them.


© Peter Munro

Gaelic in the Borders Ceilidh in Maxton on 15th November

The Gaelic in the Borders Ceilidh on 15th November was great fun. Two girls played a flute and violin duet and the violinist also played a solo. 2 people played accordions and one the piano. We had Gaelic, English and Scots songs and a lady and I each read 2 short stories.

For supper there was leek and potato soup, carrot and courgette soup, lentil soup accompanied by bread, butter and oatcakes and several puddings: raspberry pavlova, apple pie, trifle, chocolate cake, fresh fruit salad, cheesecake.
Both the carrot and courgette soup and the lentil soup were excellent, I didn't try the other one. Of course, I ate too much; even so, there was a lot of food left over.

And....
I won a bottle of malt in the raffle !

Borders Poets' Showcase

Borders Poets' Showcase To be held on Tuesday 26th November 2013 7 pm – 9 pm in the Library at Abbotsford House. Thank you to all the poets who responded to the call for submissions for the Showcase event. There were strong submissions and the aim is to do further events to support and promote the work of poets in the Borders. A panel at the Scottish Poetry Library had the enjoyable job of reading through all the submissions, and selected the following 5 poets to present their work in the wonderful setting of the Library at Abbotsford House. View full biogs for all the poets, along with details on how to book tickets for what will be a great event in the atmospheric setting of the Library at Walter Scott's former home, Abbotsford House on the CABN Events page http://cabn.info/events-talks/scottish-borders-poets-showcase.html Poets: Julian Colton Stuart Delves Anita John Bridget Khursheed Laurna Robertson note - the capacity of the Library at Abbotsford House is limited, so book your tickets for this event asap!

Session 4 Creating Characters

This session we will learn how to create believable characters. The use of writing exercises to bring characters to life will help make our characters interesting to the reader. Tuesday 19th November 2013 2.30pm - 4.30pm Abbey Row Community Centre, Kelso

Book Week Scotland in the Scottish Borders

There are some interesting events in the Book Week Scotland programme in the Scottish Borders.

Have a look at the whole programme for the Scottish Borders.

Also see the Publishing Workshop with Gordon Lawrie.

Publishing Workshop with Gordon Lawrie

There are some interesting events in the Book Week Scotland programme.

We've talked about a workshop on publishing ebooks.

Here's an opportunity that costs nothing but the travel to Penicuik:

Author Gordon Lawrie from Comely Bank Publishing presents a workshop designed to inform the budding author about all aspects of publishing. Learn about text and formatting, ebooks, dealing with agents, publicity and much more. More information.

Also see the Book Week Scotland programme in the Scottish Borders.

Session 3 Writing from Life

The third session of our writers' workshop will be held on Tuesday afternoon 5th November 2.30 pm - 4.30 pm at the Abbey Row Community Centre, Kelso. This session will focus on how to convert fact into fiction drawing on your own life experiences. A short story should easily emerge from the writing exercises that we will do. Editing the story is homework! Look forward to meeting you all again.