two great workshops hone our members` skills

Scrivens
Spring 2016
The quarterly magazine of Tyne & Esk Writers
TWO GREAT WORKSHOPS
HONE OUR MEMBERS’ SKILLS
Run by authors Ribchester and Simpson
Scrivens is the newsletter of the
Tyne & Esk writing groups in
Midlothian and East Lothian.
Submit your stories, articles and
poems to us at
muirse@hotmail.com
Hi everyone,
IN THIS ISSUE
Lucy Ribchester (pic below) and Catherine Simpson (pic above) put T&E
members through their paces in the first two of this year’s free writing
workshops. More than a dozen members in each event worked hard at the
John Gray Centre in Haddington. They drafted, edited, brainstormed and
generally produced thoughtful and creative pieces of writing. You can read
Sheila Thacker’s piece Things that go Bump in the Night on p6, which she
wrote during Catherine’s workshop. Shirley Muir says, ‘I surprised myself
and wrote a short science fiction piece. Others wrote some evocative
personal memoir pieces – it was a marvellous couple of really productive
workshops.’
Our thanks to both tutors for their superb leadership and for sharing with
us their writing expertise.
Update by our Convener
CoastWord 2016
Book launches by our members
Taking to the Airwaves
SHORT STORIES
Infinite Thoughts by Lorna Dixon
Invisible by Anne Whittet
The Haircut by Anne Jones
Twice Lucky by Paul Duffney
Things that go Bump in the Night
by Sheila Thacker
The Back Road to Varanasi by
Keith Saunders
Chickens to Milk by Sarah McLean
POETRY
To Absent Friends by Kenny
Gilchrist
For a While by Moira Galbraith
Winter Clearing by Ruth Gilchrist
The Wayward Kiss by David
Forbes
ELSEWHERE: And also in this bumper issue of Scrivens don’t miss news of
THREE book launches by our members on p4. Jules Riley, Stella Birrell and
Claire Askew have new volumes in the shops and online. Buy them now!
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www.http://tyne-esk-writers.com
Infinite Thoughts by Lorna Dixon
Julie switches the radio over to Classic F.M. She
needs something more relaxing than the Morning
Service to get her through her daunting pile of ironing.
Her thoughts begin to drift.
‘In the beginning was the Word. That’s how the bible
starts. And the Word was God. Or perhaps it was
Dog? It depends whether you read from the left or
the right. Dog is God backwards. The beginning can
be the end and the end can be the beginning. If you
are looking at something from behind the front
becomes the back. The only thing you can be sure of
is that there must be something in the middle. You
must be in the middle of your life because if you are
not you can have no past or no future. You’re sure
you’ve been born and assume that you are going to
die.
‘Oh, no. That stain is still there. I’ll have to wash it
again, his favourite shirt. Eating spaghetti in a white
shirt is so ridiculous!
‘Yes, life is just all the stuff in the middle – all the
muddled, mortifying, inconclusive mess that happens
from day to day as the earth spins on its axis and
revolves around the sun. On and on into infinity.
Hang On! Infinity – what does infinity mean? It
means there is no such thing as an end. But does
that mean there is no such thing a beginning either?
What am I wittering on about – this metaphysical
nonsense? Finish the ironing and get out into the
sunshine before the rain comes on again.
Life’s too short!’
To Absent Friends - From the
Lighthouse
by Kenny Gilchrist
You sailed away in the fifties,
to live a bountiful life in Canada.
Though you sailed over to the
after life this year.
Obols were placed for Charon.
The lighthouse remains,
the constant,
shining its beam at night.
Connecting family members,
still sailing in life's stormy seas.
Remember to book for
this year’s CoastWord
festival in Dunbar, on
May 27-29.
Ruth Gilchrist will be reading at an
event in the Dunmuir Hotel. And several
Tyne & Esk members have collaborated
in a film poem project, not to be missed!
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INVISIBLE by Anne Whittet
Most of the day had been spent on the beach. Mother, father and two year old daughter. Their rented holiday cottage was
perfectly placed, overlooking the rocks on the sandy shore. A picnic in the front garden, a lazy hour or two when the tot was
having her afternoon nap, and back to play on the beach, exploring rock pools, building sand castles and paddling.
Now the child was tucked up in her cot, early evening and the father read indoors. The mother went to swim in the sea. She loved
the feel of the cold water lapping over her shoulders as she pushed forward her arms in a breast stroke. At eye level, the
meniscus of the salty water was an azure blue film in contrast to the browner depths. She turned on her back to gaze at a
cloudless sky, then flipped around, in no rush to leave the water, the solitude was perfect. A dart of sound, the plaintive cry of a
curlew, came from a nearby small island, behind which, the palest gold sun was now low and the sky was just beginning to blush
on the horizon. The curlew’s cry came again, a repeat alarm clock. “Time to get out” she thought.
She hadn’t brought a towel, it was only fifty yards to the cottage. As she swam and then waded to the shore, she saw her
husband at the cottage door. He was talking to a very attractive woman. That was fine, but with no towel to wrap round her she
became self-conscious, reluctant to walk toward the beautiful stranger, exposing her imperfections in full view of this impeccably
dressed and noticeably charming person. All the way toward the house the chatting pair watched her walking up the beach and
onto the single track road to the cottage. She didn’t mind that she was wet, but wished she had brought a towel to hide behind.
She joined them, feeling very uncomfortable now, offering a close up of her nearly naked self, tangled hair dripping. Her husband
introduced her to the lady from the cottage next to theirs. The three shared a few pleasantries and said goodnight.
“She seemed very nice and so pretty.”
“Yes, I thought so too, and very friendly.
You’d never guess that she’s blind would you?”
She was shocked to hear this, felt so shallow. She walked into the kitchen.
Deeply ashamed of her self-obsession, imagining that her appearance was being judged
by a woman who could not see, someone less fortunate than herself. She learned from
this, she would throw off the shackle of self-consciousness, realising that to others, it was
of no importance how she looked.
A BUSY START TO THE YEAR
We are now in our final year of receiving funding from the library services of East and Midlothian. Our thanks go to
them.
We are grateful for their financial and administrative support over the years. Now we are planning initiatives to
encourage new members and secure new funding for our future.
Tyne & Esk Writers is very busy right now – here are some updates
o
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o
o
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A grant of £4000 has been secured from Seedbed to enable us to keep Claire Askew with us
A T&E leaflet will be distributed soon to generate new recruits in our writing groups
A members’ survey is about to be sent out – we need to know what members want from T&E, so do tell
us
A new Pathhead group is beginning to take shape
Claire is in the process of editing an anthology of T&E members’ work
Some writing groups have made up folders with examples of their written work and placed them in the
local libraries - a showcase for our expertise and a warm invitation to new members.
George C Cunningham,
Convener, Tyne & Esk Writers
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CONGRATULATIONS! BOOK LAUNCHES BY TYNE & ESK MEMBERS
Jules Riley of the Musselburgh group has just
published The Man in the Sepia Photograph, a
collection of 17 of his previously published short
stories. It is available from Amazon or direct
from Jules. Contact him on julesariley@aol.com
Stella Hervey Birrell of Dalkeith Writers Group
releases her first novel, How Many Wrongs Make
a Mr Right? on 15 April 2016. A story about frogkissing, bed-hopping, sliding off your lily-pad
with embarrassment, and croaking with joy. You
can buy it from Amazon. Stella’s blog space is
https://atinylife140.wordpress.com/
For a While
by Moira Galbraith
For a while,
I was only half a person.
Living,
but only half alive.
Then you entered my life,
and made me think,
that I’d survive.
You taught me,
to reach out for things.
You showed me my limits,
were not limited.
For a while,
we were happy.
Then the darkness came
to block out the light.
And we both knew,
things were far from right.
Although now,
I’m only
half of two.
My tears have dried,
I no longer need you....
Claire Askew’s first anthology of her poetry has
just been published. This Changes Things unsettles
the homely and recognisable. Creative Writing
Fellow, Claire’s advice to getting your first
anthology published? ‘Write lots of poems. And I
mean lots.’
Winter clearing
by Ruth Gilchrist
            
The clippers clip sharp.
The Haircut by Anne Jones
I was finishing my meal after work when my Aunty Babby
said, ‘Come on, I’ll let you do mine, go get your new
scissors.’
She was relaxed in front of a mirror set up on the kitchen table. I’d watched
top stylist Mr Eckert, saw how it was done, knew what to do. I divided the hair
into sections with my black professional comb, closed the scissors round a
chunk of her grey hair and watched it hit the floor. I measured round my
aunt’s ear, then stepped round to the other ear, measuring again. I kept going
side to side, back and forth, chopping and chopping, struggling to get both
sides to match until there was almost no hair left .
My Aunt thanked me, pulled on her hat and slipped me half a crown.
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Furious, stupid, sting of
spike.
Fearce and fast the frost,
Warm but wispy white my
breath
As tangles are teased and
tamed
And the clippers clip sharp.
Twice Lucky by Paul Duffney
I picture what was once a meadow but has long been churned into a vast swamp.
In pre-dawn light, human eyes toil to make sense from chaos. Here are distorted
barbed wire defences, hastily repaired only last night by teams of silent men.
That rickety pile of sticks betrays their dugout. Nearby, a lean figure is skulking,
camouflaged against earth insulted by so many shell bursts.
At closer range he seems a boy, not a man. He sighs audibly, his jacket
smeared with mud; trews damply adhering to his legs. He’s tall – a mite too tall
for trench work – but someone’s got to patrol, every hour of the clock, to warn
sleeping friends below of gas attacks. Unsteadily, he treads the rain-soaked
furrow. Is the trench wall high enough to conceal his gangling form? The soldier
blinks nervously at the sunrise, stooping here and there, wary of snipers.
Small as an insect, he crawls among the mud. The shell is too stunningly
fast for its track to be visible. A moment ago it was in the breach, behind enemy
lines, four miles to the east. Faster than thought it is here, flinging concrete and
dirt two hundred feet in the air, its immense blast drumming against breast bones
and ribs.
The pile of sticks has gone - the trench beneath has opened like an ugly
wound. A cloud of smoke and dust is already sneaking away into a forest to the
north-east.
Somehow, out of the soil, a lone insect re-emerges. Teetering for a
moment it seems to right itself and begins inching towards the jagged rim of the
new shell hole. Grey eyes are staring from a grimy face - a man's face - but what
he witnesses in that war grave he will never share. The deepest wounds stay
locked in soldiers' minds, for they'd just be misunderstood in the foreign world of
home, where madness and cruelty are strangers. Now he must remember his
orders, for here, within the innermost circle of their torment, both enemy gunner
and allied brother are bound alike by regulations. He must turn away to limp
along a maze of noiseless trenches, in his shock still unaware of the reddening
gash in his boot. He must seek out a living officer and blurt out a report he'll later
repeat, waking from countless nightmares, of seeing all of his comrades 'blown to
Hell'.
What's left of this soldier's tale I can still recite by heart. The envious
officer will point out his flesh wound - tell him that he's lucky, twice over, to have
survived and with a precious Blighty one - his ticket home. Busy angels would
care for him now and conscientious men would fetch him safely away from war's
murderous machinery back to a home and long-missed wife.
So, in time, this boy's luck also gave life to a daughter and through her
(my mother's) life, to me - to let me live my life through and doubly to bless my
grandfather's luck on the day he found his way out from Hell.
5|Page
LIBRARY PHOTO
THE WAYWARD KISS BY DAVID FORBES
You would’ve believed anything he told you, just as I believed,
so intense was his telling of it.
His story, a tale so alive, so singular, would have drained the colour
from your face, deluded your sense of daylight.
Waylaid, that was it! He snaffled a year of my life for each cliffhanger ending, every white-knuckle ride,
Each yawning leap of faith, every bravado second – and the girl
he loved and lost.
And then, suddenly, he conjured up the cuckoo clock, that spoke
“the truth about desire” on the hour, every hour.
At that moment he seemed surprised, ambushed, by his own wayward
thoughts, and he laughed, a thief’s laugh,
The laugh of the ageing cat-burglar, who leaves his dna kiss on the
portrait of the lady of the house,
The kiss that makes him young again; the kiss that threatens to put
him in prison for a long, long stretch…
Could it be yer man has told this tale so many times he can’t help
taking it into uncharted waters,
Or worse, that he has he taken leave of his senses, forgotten the thread
that binds all fervent romances.
I just have time to pay for the whisky chasers, a small price to pay
for a share of someone’s dreams and serenades.
The barman pours a single Bell’s for old Tom, who smiles, thumbing
through When God Laughs, a library book.
“Words can be
like X-rays if you use them
properly -- they’ll go
through anything. You read
and you’re pierced.”
Aldous Huxley, Brave New
World
“The scariest
moment is always just
before you start.”
Stephen King, On Writing:
A Memoir of the Craft
Things that go bump in the night by Sheila Thacker
After it got dark the silence got louder, every fluttering leaf, snapping twig, scampering rabbit sounded eerie and
threatening.
The same path during the day welcomed the changing seasons, fallen autumn leaves quicken steps as we
rustled and kicked our way through them, wild snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils and bluebells heralded spring after
the bare trees of winter with the crisp crunch of frozen foliage, summer brought out the wildlife that frolicked in the
overgrown undergrowth.
Yet at night this walk was dreaded, hard to see in the half light, owls hooting exacerbated the fear.
One evening Angie and I were walking back after a late shift, arms linked talking loudly to drown out any noise,
we walked on past the beech hedge. I heard something, we walked quicker then again heard stirring and rustling,
then a hand came out of the hedge. Angie saw it too.
We both screamed and ran for our lives, not stopping until we reached the front door. Then straight to Mrs
Avery’s office!
“Come in.” We opened the door. “Sheila, Angela, Yes?”
“Mrs Avery there’s a man in the beech hedge,” I panted “He put out his hand.”
“What utter nonsense!” Mrs Avery suffered from teenager intolerance.
“A hand in the hedge? Trouble with you girls is you have overactive imaginations - now calm down! Stop being so
silly.”
“It’s true, Mrs Avery,” Angie protested, “we heard noises and both saw the hand, there’s a man hiding in the
hedge.”
“Well you are the only ones to see it: harrumph!” She picked up her phone and dialled the police.
Of course when they arrived whoever it was had gone. To this day it remains a mystery. It was dismissed as two
young girls imagining things as they were frightened to walk alone in the dark. What next? Did we want lampposts
in the woods? Should Mrs Avery meet us each night and bring us back like children?
“Goodnight, Mrs Avery,” we chorused, adding that we were sorry to cause a fuss.
“Yes, I should think so,” Mrs Avery barked. “Go to bed and forget all about it. Good night.” Her door slammed.
We went to bed feeling shame and guilt – plus shaken and still a little scared – just forget it!
That was our Counselling - swinging sixties style.
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The Back Road to Varanasi by Keith Saunders
We arrived at Varanasi Airport. There was no
transport to take us the ten or so miles to the
city. The mini-bus had broken down, we were
told. But, soon three taxis were whisking us on
our way. I was in the front one with Amit, our
guide.
‘We are going to take the back road,’ he said.
In minutes, madness had crowded in at either
side as we drove through a narrow village
street. I suppose it was a village – it seemed as
if we were charging straight through the middle of a completely
over-the-top film set.
Thanks to Goodreads
from where we sourced
the writers’ quotes by
Proulx, King, Huxley
and Fitzgerald on
pages 6 and 7.
Hoe-makers were belting hell out of gun-grey metal. Cycle
repairers, in their narrow space between the hoops of tinseldecorated cycle tyres, were hammering bent wheels. Bread
makers were pummelling away at great dollops of dough.
Carpenters with huge mallets and tiny chisels fashioned ornate
head-boards. Shirt makers, as if in a power gym, pedalled
furiously on their Singer sewing machines – and a dhal seller
wielded a paddle in his cauldron, as if he was white water rafting.
Dog barked, kids scampered, bikes with side-saddle
passengers, swung alarmingly into the road and our driver’s right
hand was super-glued to the car horn.
Then suddenly he stopped and switched-off. We were
waiting for the others. Silence.
“Cut out all
these exclamation points. An
exclamation point is like
laughing at your own joke.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald
A line of orange marigolds skirted the brown road like a
strand-line. Mustard seed dotted the green fields like an
Impressionist painting. And two women, who looked as if they
were from the Uttar Pradesh School of Deportment – one in a sari
of terracotta and sand, and the other swathed in lemon and lime –
walked towards us in slow motion.
Their right arms curved up to support the huge water pots
on their heads; their left arms curved out to balance, and their hips
swayed gently in sequence.
The never ending tribhanga … the characteristic pose of
Hindu figures … the tribhanga … the three curves.

7|Page
“You should
write because you love the
shape of stories and
sentences and the creation of
different words on a page.
Writing comes from reading,
and reading is the finest
teacher of how to write.”
Annie Proulx, The
Shipping News
Chickens to Milk by Sarah McLean
You couldn't be a victim if you were a viper, a clown if you were a killer. This wasn't a circus. Just as well,
really. If it were, the old barn he was passing would morph into a tent and—Never mind. Goats to feed and
chickens to milk. Other way round. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
The barn door was half-open, and even from here he could hear the small scuffling noises inside. The mice,
making the most of the cat-free periods to build their lives, tiny bricks one on top of the other. Like Lego, and yet
it could be so easily taken apart. Lego and life had so much in common now he came to think about it. So many
different colours, different shapes, made with boys in mind and not girls, stuck together to form fortresses and
motorbikes, and in the end, a heap of tiny pieces. But this was wrong, of course. Not all Lego structures were
broken up. Every life was. It didn't matter. Pigs to talk to and his wife to muck out. Other way round?
He moved around slowly to the back of the barn. Even had the door been closed, the cat would have had no
trouble getting in. The hole in the side could have admitted his youngest daughter if she'd been prepared to fold
herself nearly in half. It looked at him sadly, it seemed, this blind eye, tiny flecks of paint rusting, water dripping
into the barn and out of it, tears, rain, the same. He would have to fix it, but he thought perhaps he wouldn't. Not
now.
The rest of the paint was peeling like old skin. He reached out and rubbed his thumb along it, winced at a
splinter, took his hand away. Now his own skin was pierced, peeling. Stupid to dwell on these things. Horses to
bath and his daughter to saddle. Other way round.
He paced back to the barn door, the gravel crunching under his boots. Despite the rain of ten minutes ago, the
sky was now boasting a strong, orange sun. He wished it would go away. He had always hated working in the
heat. Wrong job, but it didn't—
"’scuse me, Mister."
He jumped and turned, bashing the barn with his fist in annoyance and leftover fright when he saw the small boy
running towards him.
"What you doin' here, lad?" he growled, raising his gun.
The boy stopped in front of him and staggered backwards, almost tripping over.
"Beggin' pardon, sir," he stammered, "but my ma and me were walking up by them fields yonder when she
suddenly had a great thirst on her. Says to me to run to the nearest farm and get her some water. So here's I
am, sir, if you'd be willin’.”
"Them's my fields up there," the farmer said irritably. It wasn't true, but what difference did the truth make? It was
only a postponement of the lie.
"Beggin' pardon, sir," muttered the boy again. "But if my ma don't get something soon I'll wager she's gonna fall
down. She's carrying, you see."
"Carrying? What, a basket, or summat?"
The child shook his head solemnly.
"A bairn, sir. Her third. First there was me, then there was a second, but it never—“
"All right, all right," the man snapped, "I'll get ye yer water. Here, take this."
As he gave the boy his own flask, which was almost half-full, the cat slunk past them
and through the barn door.
"Thank you right kind, sir," the boy said, a smile lighting up his dirty face. "She'll be right as rain wi' that, she will."
Continued on page 9...
8|Page
Chickens to Milk continued
"When's she havin' this bairn then?" the man asked.
Instantaneously, he wished he hadn't.
"Any time, sir. That's what she says. So I'd best get this water to her
quick as silver."
Again, the man asked a question with no idea why, cursing himself
immediately afterwards. But curses were as ineffective as blessings.
"You lookin' forward to it, are ye? Yer ma havin' another to go with ye?"
The boy stood silently for a moment, chewing his fingernail. Then he
said, "I s'ppose I am, sir. There ain't no reason why I should hate it."
The man suddenly wanted the boy to disappear, to leave more quickly
than he had come. He believed he wanted it more than he had ever
wanted anything in his life.
"No, indeed, lad. Well, best be off with ye to yer ma then."
He turned away and pretended to be peering into the barn. He halfexpected the child to say something else, to ask something, to prolong
the conversation, but with a cheery: "Thanks again, Mister," he departed
with a crunch of gravel so much quieter than that which the farmer
caused when he walked.
But quiet or not, he thought, it was a sound, a sound on an earth that
spun round a sun that shone so strong that you felt like you could touch
it. Touch it, extract the heat and hold it cupped in your hand.
The farmer raised his own hand, palm up. He would hold the heat, hold
it and squeeze it, be blinded by the light, close his eyes to protect
something that was already gone and then throw the fiery ball, throw it
onto the barn and watch it crumble into dust whilst the cat and mice
screamed, no longer in battle, united in—
He took the box of matches from his pocket, held them up, looked at
them. He shook the box, listened to the sound of tiny animal bones
rattling, felt the ash and the heat come together in the most dangerous
of love affairs. But it didn't matter, and there was no reason, no time.
Not with goats to feed and chickens, chickens to milk.
Sarah McLean
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TYNE AND ESK WRITERS
MAY TAKE TO THE AIR!
We are so excited that
some of our writers may
be performing their
work on local radio.
Watch this space for
more news about this
amazing opportunity.
This will really put Tyne
& Esk Writers on the
map – broadcasting to a
local community in
Scotland.
Good luck, writers!
STOP PRESS STOP PRESS
As we go to press there
are rumours of secret
rehearsals...and planned
recordings...