Hame

The lichen grew jist on wan side o’ th’ stane, in whorls o’ copper an’ gowld which crumblt aneath her fingers lik th’ driet porridge she pickt fae th’ breakfast table. Porridge thit her granny used tae mak, thick an’ claggie ‘at fell fae her spurtle in gey globs.

‘Awa, quine,’ granny wid mutter, as Flora’s fumblin tae clean th’ mess smeared it deep intae th’ grain o’ th’ wood.

Bit thae times wur past. Th’ spurtle wis loaded oan th’ han caert at th’ gate, alang wi’ th’ muckle broth pot, an’ th’ jar o’ oats, an’ th’ set o’ plates ‘at her mith’r hated, an’ aw thair ither belongings. An’ Granny lay cauld in th’ kirkyard, which wis jist as weel, her mith’r said, cause this shock wid hae kill’t her, an’ onyway she niver wid hae managed th’ journey. This day wis thair last. The day they wer being cleared tae th’ coast.

Flora sat at th’ tap o’ th’ dry stane dyke an’ pulled her shawl tighter roon her chest as th’ wind whippt th’ ower th’ wa’. There wis watter in th’ air an’ th’ sky flittered wi cloods o’ grey an’ blu an’ purpl’, lik great bruise oan a bruise. This wee corn’r wher stane met th’ tussocky gras o’ th’ hill wis th’ only paert o’ gaerden shinin’ wi’ th’ feeble erly mornin’ sun, as it keeked roon th’ sid o’ th’ hoos. Nestled intae th’ inner corn’r o’ th’ wa’, just unner Flora’s swingin’ feet, wis th’ gooseberry bush she hid plantit fae a seed, which granny say’d she mustnae fuss ower ciz th’ wee folk mak’ thair hames in th’ roots o’ gooseberries, safe fae pryin’ fing’rs ahint spikes an’ thorns. Whaer naeb’dy c’n wheekle ‘em oot.  Tis a’richt tae gather th’ fruit, bit ye mistnae be diggin’ aroon th’ roots. Flora aften chatter’d awa tae th’ faeries as she pullt unions or pickt stanes fae th’ endlessly pebblt tattie bed.

‘Th’ faeries lik a blether,’ Granny sayt, an’ she mistae bin richt ciz th’ bush pusht itsel up hale an’ strong an’ noo th’ tap maist leaf wis grown up neer her weist.

‘Flora,’ call’t her mith’r fae aside th’ caert. Ticht lipp’d an’ firm, a mith’r made fae driet grass n’ thistl’doon, sae empty noo ‘at if it werna fer her thick sol’t boots she micht lift aff th’ groon wi’ th’ wint. Her fichtin’ hid burnt awa her spirit an’ her smile an’ she wis keepin th’ wee bit o strenth ‘at wiz still in her bones fer her turn at th’ shafts. Flora wis tae walk aside th’ caert aw th’ way tae th’ sea. Awa past th’ hills, tae far awa’ tae ken, wher ye can find work tae feed faem’ly, b’t th’ air smells aff an’ yer skin tastes o’ salt.

Flora jumpt fae th’ wa’ an’ began shufflin her feet alang th’ path throu th’ gaerden tae th’ gate. Gaps in th’ lines o’ plants which shud hae fed ‘em til win’er shoat wher they hid pullt an’ cut whit they coud carry. Wee, tiny tatties an’ carrots fit fer dolls wer trussed in sacks an’ th’ rest o’ th’ crop wis tae be left in th’ groon an’ wid go tae seed, or mibbes th’ laird wid hae it. At th’ caert her faith’r wis checkin ‘at neen o’ th’ bundles wid shift an’ her mith’r wis gazing at th’ licht on th’ hills. Slanty, flat licht ‘at pierced th’ cloods an’ made yer een watr tae look, an’ though aw Flora wanted wis tae go an’ bury her heid in her mith’r’s skirts an’ cry until her een wer empty, she walkt wi’oot a wurd an’ stood an’ wacht. Ben Kilna at th’ front, undulous an’ curlin an’ Ben Euich ahint, just liftin’ its bawd heid. There wis spot half way doon th’ sloap, invisible tae maist, which mak’t a sma’ rise an’ wid catch th’ sun befere th’ rest o’ th’ hill. Soon th’ wee bit patch wid licht up yellow lik gorse or fire, bit by then they’d be goan an’ there wid be naebody left wha kent hoo tae read th’ hill.

‘Maw,’ sait her faither.

‘Paw,’ her mith’r answert.

An baith her pairnts turnt tae th’ caert.

Wan last look, she thought. Th’ naked posts which hid strung th’ drying line, th’ earth beds ‘at hid growt onions fer her granny’s granny, an’ back tae th’ gooseberry bush wher th’ wee folk wer tae be left tae fend fer ‘emsels.

‘Wait,’ she sayt an’ pit her han’ oan th’ caert. Tuggin th’ pick an’ th’ spade fae amang th’ mony tools wedgt ontae th’ caert, she went bak tae th’ gooseberry, an’, liftin th’ pic high, she pierced th’ haurd soil. Wheechin awa’ th’ tall grass, stull yella fae win’er, wi’ her haunds, she cut a circle around th’ bush spillin rich, dark earth, tearin the wee white roots or slicing ‘em wi’ th’ spade, deeper an’ deeper. She pushed her hauns throu th’ spikes tae th’ central stem an’ rockt th’ plant til it wis a’most awa, baerly helt. An ‘en she slippt th’ blade intae wan side o’ her carvt circle, angling th’ sharp edge an’ slidin it unner th’ central roots sae th’ hale bush liftit an’ tippt. Then she pit her foot oan th’ han’le an’ stampt haerd.

A sudd’n deep snap. Th’ soond o’ somehin brok’n. She thocht o’ th’ tap root which anchor’d th’ plant deep in th’ earth, torn in twa lik a worm split in half, th’ twa sides shriveling awa’ fae each ither. Taking strength in sorrow, she lifted th’ bush, niver lookin doon intae th’ hole left ahint, th’ groond ‘at wis missin, th’ roots left ahint. As she held th’ root ball tae her chest an’ walked tae th’ caert she imagind its hurt seeping intae her, its utter incomprehension, its anguish. Or mibbe it wis just th’ faeries sobbin.

‘Dinnae greet,’ she sayt tae th’ plant as she tuckt it safe intae th’ broth pot an’ startit walkin doon th’ hull.

The laird coud tak th’ croft. The sheep coud eat th’ hills. Bit th’ faeries, th’ magic, th’ magic wis leaving on th’ caert, wi’ ‘the folk.

Statement on Language

Writing in a language with no set spelling for any of its words is incredibly freeing and absolutely terrifying. I grew up in Aberdeen speaking Doric, a dialect of Scots which has now been reclassified as a language, and on Shetland Island, famous for its singsong sound, and now as an adult I live in Edinburgh, and so when it came to writing in Scots and deciding for myself what sound to write, I had to choose between two or three sounds ringing round my head for the same word. To me they all sounded right, and I would use them all in different contexts, varying how ‘Scottish’ I sound to fit in with who I was talking with. This is something I was told off for during my acting training, constantly being asked what my ‘true voice’ is and it was only in the research for writing this very language statement that I found out it is completely normal and is called accommodation or code switching! Code switching is varying your accent depending on social context and is very common when Scottish people are talking to others who might not understand our broad accents. We simply copy the way English sounds to help out our conversation partner.

So, after much thought, I wrote a Scots which is probably most similar to the Scots you would hear around Edinburgh (although some Doric phrases may have snuck in!). I made this choice because, as my piece is set during the Highland Clearances, the people would have spoken Gaelic not Scots, and because of this, any version of Scots I chose to set my story in would not have been historically accurate, and I believe Edinburgh Scots to be one of the most well-known to non-native Scots speakers. It certainly is the version that is most often seen on television or in films, and so perhaps if my story is someone’s first experience of reading Scots they have a fichtin chuns of understanding it

Having said this, it was interesting writing about a place in Scotland where, in the time of which I was writing, people of would have spoken Gaelic, but the majority of the current population would speak some version Highland Scots, largely due to the events in my story. And so my little narrative, gently told from a child’s point of view, hopefully captures some of the history of Scotland at a point where language and dialect in Scotland were both moving fast.