This Year's Writerly Weekend.

Another writerly weekend. This time in wonderful weather, blue skies and little wind. After an amazing meal in Café Andaluz, Glasgow, and a couple of drinks, we retired to our rooms in the Premiere Inn.

Next day was spent checking in and meeting up with friends in the Westerwood Hotel, Cumbernauld for the 48^th annual conference. 

Prize winners. My trophy is invisible because it's glass!

The schedule for the whole weekend, starting with dinner on Friday night, is full. A lot of organisation and hard work by the committee of S.A.W.

I imagine that, unless someone proves me wrong, we from Caithness travel the furthest to attend this weekend of talks, competitions, workshops and socialising.

But true to form, our small writer’s circle do well.

I won the Barbara Hammond trophy for the best self-published novel with Isa's Daughter and Morag Oag won a second for her non-fiction children’s novel, Living with Sheep, and a third for her under sevens' story, Boogie the Centipede.

All in all, it was a successful and enjoyable weekend.

 

all the trophy winners

Operation Snowdrop

'There's going to be a blizzard.' my father said, and I watched as he brought in extra drinking water and coal and a large shovel. I didn't worry over much. whatever happened my parent were there and they would keep me safe.

The following morning, I woke up to a silent darkness. The house was encased in snow. My father was already tunnelling his way to the byre to tend the animals.

He also tunnelled a path upwards, and once the blue sky could be seen, us children, decked out in wellingtons, hats coats and scarves, clambered out. only the top of the roof and the chimneys were visible.  The large drifts made excellent sledge slopes. We could tunnel in and build caves, then fall back indoors with freezing feet and fingers, desperate to warm up and get outside again. The fact that our snow caves could collapse and bury us never entered out heads. 

When we ran out of water, my father brought in tin pails full of snow and put it on the stove to melt. Several of our sheep wandered over the cliff edge and fell down, sinking in the soft snow. My father tied a rope around his middle and rescued them. Trapped in their freezing bubble, all had survived. 

Unfortunately for us children, being snowed in did not last long. I well remember the disappointment when I woke up one morning and the snow had almost disappeared. 

We perhaps fared better than many of our mainland neighbours, since those who relied on electricity had to do without. We relied on bottled gas and solid fuel and still had warmth and light. 

http://www.britishpathe.com/video/operation-snowdrop-aka-operation-snowdrop

snow in Caithness

Almost a disaster (Another Tale from Stroma)

It was a dark and stormy night -- yes, honestly, I just wrote that.

As you already know, I was brought up until the age of nine on Stroma, an island in the Pentland Firth. Our transport to and from the island was a yawl, not more than eighteen feet long.

My mother and I had been in Wick for the day and were homeward bound in our small but sturdy craft that had weathered many a storm.  The light was fading, but we should have made it before nightfall. Suddenly, the engine died and we were plunged into darkness. 

Now, the back-up plan for any boat in trouble, would normally be hoisting the sail. Not only would this give us wind power, but islanders, seeing a boat under sail, would be alerted that something was wrong.  Unfortunately, my father cleaned out the boat that day and the sail was back on the island in the sail-shed.

The tides in the Pentland Firth are pretty strong, and with no power we were being swept towards the notorious Boars, a place where several currents meet causing whirlpools and high lashing waves. As we were dragged nearer, we were tossed around.

Luckily my mother had bought torches that day -- a present for my cousins who lived on the island. With the light, my father struggled to get the engine going again.

I was scared, crying. They put me under a tarpaulin and the spray rattled like hail above my head as the boat bucked and rose on the waves and plunged into the troughs.

Meanwhile, my grandmother, carrying my baby sister, continued to look out the window, searching the firth for any sign of the boat. In the darkness, we were invisible, the tiny torches not able to carry enough light to send a signal.

Finally the engine spluttered to life and we fought our way from the lashing waves back to calmer waters.

I don't remember the welcome we must have got that night as relief flooded the family. But, as I had been taught, I did say my prayers and thanked God for delivering us from the jaws of the ocean.

Our boat, The Tern, in calmer waters.

My writing journey

Mary Rosie’s War is the direct continuation of The Broken Horizon. When the story opens, Chrissie and her family have moved to the mainland to live in John O’Groats and Mary is seventeen years old. War is breaking out in Europe, and Britain is on high alert. Today I am 30,000 words into the story. I aim to do at least 1000 words daily. I do not know how the story will end. (I’m still unsure how I will begin it but watch this space for a sample coming soon.)

Outside the sun is shining, but it is deceptive. The wind is bitter. I have to steel myself to face the cold, otherwise my two dogs will not be walked, and I will not have any exercise either. I will spend my time sitting at the computer (not always writing)

 You can order any one of my books from Amazon or message me directly

 www.catherinebyrne -author.com

Extract from Mary Rosie's War.

From the distance came the deep drone of a solitary plane.

‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours,’ said Sally, pulling a moue of distaste. ‘Could that be Jerries?’

The girls looked at each other, smiles slipping, their hands clutching their cups. At dusk on 16th March an attack had been made on Scapa in Orkney by fifteen enemy bombers. Four officers had been killed, and four officers and three ratings wounded. And that event, though many miles to the north, had brought the war to their door.

‘I’m not sure…’ Rita’s voice was lost as the thunder of the plane came so near it could have been right outside. The girls rose as one and crossed to the window. ‘Bloody hell, that’s close,’ said Sally.

Suddenly the world around them seemed to erupt. Cups rattled in saucers, the building trembled.

Customers leaped to their feet and ran out of the door into High Street, desperately looking for a safe haven. A pall of black smoke rose from the direction of the harbour as another explosion rent the air  flashes of fire, smoke, thick and black belched from down river.

‘On my God,’ someone screamed. ‘They’re bombing the town.’

A woman dropped her shopping basket and ran past the girls. ‘Ma bairns,’ she screamed, ‘I left them playing…’

Everything seemed to happen at once. The clanging of the fire engine’s bell, children crying, people running around like confused ants as the managers of shops and banks with cellars, herded them into relative safety.

Another Tale from the Islands

I was four years old and I saw tiny horses galloping over my bedspread. My mother put a cool hand on my head and announced that I had a temperature. Then I began to feel so ill I thought I was dying. Granny came in with a basin of water and bathed me. I was no longer in my cot, but in my parents' bed. At some time during my sleep the curtains had been closed, like they did when there was a death. I wanted my mam.

‘She’s gone away for a new baby,’ Granny told me.

I knew then, for certain, that I really was dying. Mam had already gone for my replacement. The curtains were already pulled in preparation. I started to cry and sank into another hot stupor.

I must have been very ill for about three weeks as, living on an island, mothers were taken to the mainland to have their babies. They left before their due date, especially during the months of winter when there was a possibility of being storm stuck. (this was November) Also, the lying in period after childbirth was two weeks.

I don’t remember much about having measles. I know now that both my brothers had been struck down at the same time. 

As well as running her own croft single handed, my granny had to look after three sick children and attend to the animals on my parents’ croft. 
My father had several other jobs on the island, and also spent time with my mother and new daughter on the mainland.

By the time my mother returned I felt a lot better, but was still kept in isolation in case my germs harmed the baby. I was only allowed to see her by standing at my bedroom door while an adult held her up in the doorway of another room at the end of the passageway.

Little flashes of memory forever ingrained on the mind.

My little sister and me on a day trip back to Stroma.

Hiding from the wind.

Here in the long grass there is no wind. I like to hide from the wind. I look up at the sky, a bonny blue with white steamy clouds scudding across it. I am lying on my back in the hay field and the breeze through the grass is like rushing water climbing up the shoreline and fading away, the sound the sea makes when Mam takes us to the beach. I mustn’t go alone though. There are otters there that’ll crunch my bones until they hear the crack. Mam told me and she knows best. She says that all the time.

  A sea-maw flies above and it swings about in the wind. Mam shouts for me from the door. ‘Yer tea’s ready.’

  She’ll think I’m lost. She’ll worry. She might even come looking for me. I don't answer.

  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she shouts.

  My stomach grumbles. It’s been a while since dinner and that was lentil soup with boiled beef, which I hate. I love scrambled egg and buttery toast with hot milky tea. I still say nothing.

‘Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to the dog,’ she shouts and goes back indoors.

  She’s not worried about me. She doesn’t care if I’ve gone to the beach and been eaten by otters. She doesn’t care if I’ve fallen in a hole. Well, I'll just hide here until it grows dark, maybe I'll die of cold in the night, then she'll be sorry, they'll all be sorry.

The house where I was born

But I'm hungry and the thought of scrambled egg and toast finally gets the better of me and squashes my mini rebellion. I stand up, shake the grass from my skirt and go indoors where it's warm and the kettle sings and the table is piled with eggs, toast and bannocks. The news is on the wireless and my brothers are eating and arguing over a comic.
'Eat up before it goes cold,' Mam says. This time, she doesn't need to tell me twice.

Isa's Daughter

Chapter One

'You can't get married to the minister.' A horrified Annie Reid faced her mother.

Isa wiped rough, red hands on her apron. 'Why not?’ Her brown eyes, so like Annie’s own, grew darker as she stared at her daughter.

Annie knew that look, the look that said no amount of argument would change Isa’s mind. That knowledge, however, did nothing to deter Annie. ‘How could you put another man in Dad’s place?’

‘I’ll never forget your father, but he’s gone. I’ve been lonely. In any case it’s hard enough for Bel to feed herself let alone us as well.’

'So we’re leaving Scartongarth? Dad might have been heir to the farm. Why should Bel have it?' Annie set her hand against the lime-washed wall which held the faded framed photograph of her grandparents on their wedding day.

Isa gave a pained sigh. ‘Look, Annie, there was no will. I imagine it should have been your cousin Jimmy’s, but he doesn’t want it. His sister does.’

‘But you said we might have a claim…’

Isa held up her hand. ‘I said it was a possibility only. I didn’t know then how Bel felt about the place and I won’t fight her for it. She's worked hard to keep it going with the war and all.'

‘Then why did we come back? Was it for him, the Reverend Charleston?’

‘Of course not. There was nothing left for us in Canada. You know that.’

The arguments died on Annie’s lips. She, too, had been captivated by Bel’s gentle charm and had no real desire to take the croft from her. However, as far as her mother’s plans were concerned, she had to use all the ammunition she could think of. 'So we'll be moving into the manse? You who never had time for religion.’

Isa sighed. ‘It’s a fine big house and Donald has his stipend. We’ll be comfortable.’

‘Is that why you’re getting wed, so we won’t starve?’

‘No. I like Donald a lot and he’s a good man. You’ll be welcome until you decide your future. You’re clever, Annie, you could go back to school, maybe get a job in an office.'

Annie considered this for a minute. Perhaps her mother marrying the minister wasn’t such a bad idea after all. ‘Would he pay for me to go to college?'

‘You’re my daughter. I wouldn’t expect him to even if he could afford it.’ Two pink dots appeared on Isa’s cheeks, a sign that her patience was wearing thin.

Annie cocked her head. ‘Then how will I ever get a better education?’

Isa took an inward rush of breath. ‘It’ll not be with Donald’s money, I’ll tell you that now.’ She turned her back and, grabbing a duster from the rod across the mantelpiece, began to rub at the range with small, quick movements.

Annie pursed her mouth and stared at the floor where the flagstones shone with Isa's regular polishing.

'Maybe, maybe if I had a word with Mr Dick...' Isa twisted around to face her daughter.

‘Mr Dick – the schoolteacher?'

‘He could give you some learning at nights. I could do a bit of washing, a bit of cleaning for him. If you want an education we'll find a way to make it happen.' Isa spoke with the grim determination that had taken them through all the hardships of their lives.

Annie’s mood lifted. Perhaps, after all, there was a chance of her doing better than ending up a herring gutter or a servant or worse still, having to marry to keep food on the table and become like the island women she saw around her, producing bairns and slaving from dawn to dusk in order to live another week.

‘I still won’t live with you and the minister,’ she muttered.

‘Bel would never turn you out, but see how you get on with Mr Dick. Right now I want you to go to Lottie’s shop. I need to make some bere scones for tea.’

Annie snorted. ‘I’d best go get my coat then.’ She moved sideways around the table in the middle of the floor. To go anywhere in this room she had to move sideways. Against one wall sat a pinewood dresser which held the crockery, on another was a bed in a recess with a door on either side, one leading to the passageway, the other to a steep staircase. On the third wall was the window with a sideboard in front, on the fourth was an iron stove and a mantelpiece with a rod for drying clothes. It was all so different from the roomy space where they had lived in Canada until a few weeks ago.

Annie climbed up to her room beneath the rafters, sat down on her makeshift bed with the large sack of chaff for a mattress that Bel called a caff seck and put her head in her hands. In spite of her words, she liked Donald Charleston and he would be good to her mother. She had seen how quickly the rounded curves of Isa’s body had turned to angles and the strands of white had streaked her coal-black hair after the Great War took her husband. Then the drought had devastated the land. Over the years, Annie watched her mother’s beauty fade as they struggled against poverty. Annie Reid hungered for more. She had thought something better would be waiting for them in the place her parents referred to as ‘home,’ but the war had devastated Britain, nowhere more than the islands. Without an education, a woman had few options.

From beneath her pillow she pulled out the magazines she had bought to pass the long hours on the journey to Scotland. In the meagre slice of day entering through the skylight, she studied the photos of grand ladies, fine carriages and city streets. ‘One day,’ she said, and slapped the magazine closed.

Annie knew she was beautiful. Even if the pock-marked mirror on the passage wall hadn't told her, the way men's eyes followed her did. No, she was not going to settle for becoming a mere crofter-fisherman's wife or a skivvy for some rich family.

She didn't want lessons from Mr Dick with his big belly and bulbous nose and the veins that stood out on the backs of his hands like fat worms. The young teacher, the one who taught the first year pupils, he was a different matter. Even his name had an exotic ring to it. Alexander Garcia’s black hair was short and he shaved most days, not like the young men of the island who, it appeared, only shaved once a week. But it was his eyes that really got her: dark, intense, burning with a fire that matched her own. From the first time she’d seen him, she’d been wondering how to get his attention. Unwittingly, her mother had given her the excuse.

‘Where are you, lass?’ Isa’s voice came from below.

‘Coming, Ma.’ Annie stood up and lifted the coat which doubled as a blanket. She was taller than the average woman and could only stand upright where the beams met in the middle to form the roof.

Downstairs her eyes fell on the big pot on the range. Her stomach clawed for a good feed. She lifted the lid. ‘Is there anything to eat other than porridge?’ She had never been fond of the grey, gooey sludge and since it had become their staple diet she detested it.

‘There’s a crust of bread in the larder and some cheese.’ Isa went to the jar on the mantel and took out some copper coins. ‘See if Lottie’s got any flour, then go and collect the eggs.’

Outside, a sharp breeze blew in from the Pentland Firth lifting the strands of hair that flew round her face. She never tied her hair in a knot or plaited it the way the local women did.

Sucking in the sea-salt air, she looked around. After the big, bright skies and miles of prairie she had grown up with, it would take time to get used to the flat expanse of Raumsey with its one-storied stone-built cottages, miles of ocean beyond, and a sky that was seldom free of clouds.

Sloping down from the shingle path, behind the hummocks of waving grass, the pebbles on the beach rattled as angry breakers smashed over them. For seventeen years she had grown up in Alberta and had never seen the ocean. Now she embraced its wildness; it was the one thing that fascinated her about this island. If only her dad were with them now, he would have built a boat for the fishing and turned Scartongarth back into the success it once was. Her brother Dan, who had remained in Canada, would come to help them run it, she would go to university, and her mam would not be marrying the minister.