Word Obsessive

This is certainly a post for writers.
       Editing and rewriting puts you in a different mind-set to plain, straight-ahead writing.

 
       I'm editing and rewriting a lot lately. I've been rewriting the Sterkarm books, for republication this summer, and I've been rewriting a WIP progress with the working title of Bad Girl.

     Rewriting always seems to make me pernickety about words.

     While I'm bashing along on first drafts, thinking only of working out the plot and motivation, I don't bother much about the words. Just slam them down.

      But when I'm rewriting, it all slows down. I become a bit obsessive. I think: would that character use that word?
      Would this word even exist in English at this time?
      Would they use that form of the word? Is it in character: would they use a slangier term, something more official, something politer - or ruder?
      While rewriting, I seem to pick up the dictionary every ten minutes. I'm always worrying about exact meanings, origins, tone, colour...

       A couple of years ago, while in rewriting mode, I crossed the Forth Bridge into the Kingdom of Fife (with my laptop in my luggage.) The Forth Bridge crosses the Firth of Forth; and on the other side of Scotland, there's the Solway Firth. Further north are the Cromarty and Moray Firths. I started idly wondering about this word, 'Firth.' Why, I wondered, does Scotland have firths where England

Aerial view of Forth Bridge, courtesy of Google.

has channels and sounds?

         A firth is a long, narrow inlet of the sea. Which is exactly what a fjord is - hang on!
        Scots English is even more heavily influenced by Scandinavia, and has retained more of the Anglo-Saxon than 'Standard' English, or the English further south. Could there be a connection?

        In 'fjord,' the 'j' is sounded like a 'y' or 'i' while that final 'd' sounds more like 'th.'
        In other words - and say this with a Scots accent -  'F-yuh-rrrrr-th.'
        Firth and fjord, I thought: they're the same word! I think there are few people in the world who could be as excited as me by this. Some very junior lexicographers, perhaps. A few very naive linguists. And maybe some other writers (though, in their case, not necessarily about 'firth' and 'fjord.')
       I grabbed my OED as soon as I could:

                    FIRTH, n. a narrow inlet of the sea. ORIGIN ME (orig. Scots), from ON fjorthr (see FJORD)

          Oh, I was very happy. The identity of 'firth' and 'fjord' is obviously a well-known fact in the dictionary-compiling community, but it had never occurred to me before, and I doubt if I would have made the connection if I hadn't been obsessing about the sounds of words and their origins, in rewrite mode.

         The present bout of rewriting brought on another of these connections. I was reading something by an American, which spoke of mowing the grass in their yard.

        Now, to me, 'yard' has always meant an area of hard paving or concrete, usually quite small. So the area of hard paving just outside my back-door is my 'yard.' Some of my older relatives lived in yards. An alleyway led from the street into a small square surrounded by small houses. At the centre of the square were blocks of shared lavatories and wash-houses. All of the square was paved. It was a 'yard.' These placed were often named 'Something Yard.'
 
          So, for years, when I was younger, I imagined American streets and towns as places quite without flowerbeds or lawns - because they themselves always talked of their yards.

         My mother loved flowers. She had lots of roses, lilies, magnolia and anything else she could persuade to grow. The place where they grew was 'the garden.' The garden was on the other side of the small paved 'yard.' She was happy for us to play 'on the yard.' She was not happy when we gambolled in her garden and broke down favorite plants.
         At my own house, the 'garden' begins immediately on the other side of the 'yard.'

          As I grew older, it slowly dawned on me that when Americans said, 'yard,' they might, just might, be talking about a place where they grew flowers, bushes and trees.
          Because my brain's is rewrite mode, and is scrambling restively about among meanings and nuances of words, a casual reference started it off on: Why do Americans say 'yard' where we say 'garden'? And it suddenly dawned on me that, just like firth and fjord, they're the same word.

       I was rewriting the Sterkarms, which is set among the pele towers of the Scottish Borders during the 16th Century. A pele tower had a great thick wooden door. But wooden doors could be hacked or

A raid on Gilknockie Tower

burned down, so behind it there was a door-sized iron grille, hinged so it could be fastened across the doorway. Even if enemies succeeded in breaking through the door, they would still have to get past the iron grille, which wouldn't give way to axes or fire so easily.
        The technical name, among archaeologists and historians, for one of these grilles is 'a yett.' It's called that because, in the dialect of the Borders, the letter 'g' is often pronounced as 'y', as it often is in Scandinavian languages. 'Yett' is the same word as 'gate,' but with a different pronunciation.
       So, I thought, 'garden' may once have been pronounced as 'yarden.'

       And that 'd' in the middle of both words? Pronounce it as 'th', as in fjorth, and you have 'garth' or 'garthen.' Or even 'yarthen.' I supposed that the 'en' at the end either meant 'small' as in 'kitten' or, possibly, it was 'the'. In Scandinavian languages, the definite article is added to the end of a word. So, in Norwegian, 'book' is 'bok' - 'the book' is 'boken.'

         Then there's the word, 'garth.'

                   garth, n Brit. 1 an open space surrounded by cloisters. 2 a yard or garden.

       In Norse Myth, there is Midgarth(d) and Asgarth(d). Midgarth is often translated as 'earth' - Middle Earth, or here, this place where we all live. It's the open space, yard or garden where mankind lives. It's in the middle, because there are worlds above and beneath it.
       Asgarth is the open space, yard or garden where the Aesir or gods live.

       So 'garden' was once 'yarthen' or 'yarth' - which comes very close to 'earth.'  ('Earth' is derived from the name of the Norse mother goddess Jord or Yorth.)

       One more dive into the dictionary.

          yard, n 1 chiefly British a piece of uncultivated ground adjoining a building, typically enclosed by walls. 2 N. America the garden of a house.   ORIGIN OE geard 'building, home, region' from a Gmc base rel. to GARDEN and ORCHARD.

           There, at the end of 'orchard' is that 'yarth' again. (And 'orchard' proves to be one of those odd, doubled words. The first syllable comes from the Latin hortus, meaning 'garden.'  So orchard means 'garden-garden.' Or, I suppose, 'garden-area.')

           garden, n, chiefly British, a piece of ground adjoining a house used for growing fruit, flowers or vegetables. ORIGIN ME from Old North Fr. gardin, var. of OFr jardin, of Gmc origin, rel to yard.

          Don't let those Old North Fr. fool you - they were Vikings.

          So now I know why Americans say 'yard' while we Brits say 'garden.' As so often, the American are using a somewhat older version of the word or phrase.

          That's a relief. I can stop worrying about it now.

A Book's Colouring

At the moment I'm working on three books at the same time. I've always worked on two or more books at once.

I've always been aware that each book develops its own atmosphere and colouring - and that as I move from one book to another, the mental 'weather' can change drastically. But, while being aware of it, it's never been something that I've thought about very clearly, or tried to pin down, until now.

The Sterkarms, for instance. The colouring of the Sterkarm books is red and black, like their badge - and the colouring came first, before I decided on the badge. When I think of the books, or the work I have to do on the third book, this is what pulls together all the disparate characters, plot-lines, scene-settings and so on - the glowering red and black colouring.

For me, the Sterkarm books are dark, low rooms, half filled with peat smoke. A glimmer of red firelight flickers on the underside of the grey smoke. Embers glower redly.

The Sterkarm books have many scenes which take place outside, but in my mind, in this overall impression, the days are overcast, the sky thick and grey with cloud. The greens of the hillsides are dark, the bracken russet - all the colours tilt towards their darker shades.

But then, if I move to the other book I'm working on, Follow The Dogs, there's a big, instant change. The book is set is Scotland, as are the Sterkarm books - it's about a boy following herd dogs across Scotland, from Fife in the East, to the Isle of Mull in the West. He

Follow The Dogs by Susan Price

describes sheltering from bad weather, and grey, wet days - yet in my head, this book is fresh and bright. The hills are a brighter green, the sky blue. A fresh, cool wind blows through it. For me, the book is full of air and space - the view from the hills above Oban, across the sea to the Hebrides, with the water blazing like polished silver.

And take a third book. I've been dressing up my Story Collector, which is a series of folk-tales, told in the 'frame' of an elderly gentleman in the 19th Century. Mr. Grimsby, a retired manufacturer, collects stories from his maidservant, her grandmother, an old soldier, and others.

When I think of this 'frame', I see polished brown leather, brass and firelight. I smell the gas-lights that burned in the house I was born in, and coal burning in a grate.

But if I think of the stories told within the frames, I 'see' something altogether lighter - in fact, something very like the silhouettes I've

Art work: Andrew Price

been creating (with a lot of help from my brother) for the title page of each story. They remind me, a little, of the blue and white tiles used to decorate stoves and fireplaces.

I'm not sure if I'm explaining it clearly, but the impressions I describe above are nothing to do with the descriptions of the scenes within each book. Instead, they are a sort of handle by which I can grab everything to do with a particular story and bring it together so I can enter it.

I mentioned it to my brother, and he immediately understood what I meant. He said it exists for paintings too. Before a painting exists, he said, while it's still only an idea in his mind, it has an atmosphere, a colouring, by which he can 'hold' it. Then, since he usually sketches first, before adding colour, he has to find the lines that form it. But even after he's found those lines, and what was once just an idea is firmly drawn - the picture still retains that mental colouring and atmosphere.

I'm curious to know if others recognise this. Do your books, your poems, your paintings each have their own unique colouring and atmosphere, which sum them up in your mind?

And I'm Out The Other Side...

          ...Of World Book Day, that is - or rather, the week it takes

Guess which Urban Myth I told...

place in.
          Over ten days, I went into three schools. I know some writers do much more, but these three visits involved long drives, overnight stays - and I get old, I get old. It was enough for me.
          The first school was Arthur Mellow's Collegiate, near Peterborough. So that was a 200 mile drive and an overnight stay. In a chilly B&B, which wasn't quite as freezing as the one I stayed in during December, but still far from comfortable. B&B owners seem to think that England is a suburb of Melbourne, where December through to March is the hottest time of the year.
          I spent the entire day at Arthur Mellows working with the same group of 'gifted and talented' pupils, presenting a Creative Writing Workshop. It's unusual, in my experience, for a school to be as bold as this, and I applaud it.
          First I told the group a short story, an Urban Folktale.
          Then I showed them how the suspense in that story was created, that it's not so much what happens in a story that creates the interest, but largely down to the way it's told. It doesn't matter, in fact, whether a story is about someone's life being endangered by a serial killer, or an old teddy-bear trying to find his lost owner - the story will follow the same pattern, and whether the story works or not will largely depend on how it follows that pattern.
          I gave them copies of the story I told them, and had them identify the 'building blocks' of the story. Then I set them the task of inventing their own story, in brief outline. It could be any kind of story - provided it included all the building-blocks we'd looked at. In this way, I hoped to get them to invent a complete story, with a satisfactory ending - and not, as so often happens, to charge off into their first idea, and then be dissatisfied and disappointed because they couldn't find an ending.
          They worked on their stories for an hour, while I went round finding out about them. There was an age-range from 11/12 to 14/15, and a wide range of subjects. I encouraged them all to start thinking about their ending. Who did they want to 'win'? Was it to end happily or sadly? With others, I discussed re-arranging their story's elements, to achieve a better structure.
          In the hour immediately before lunch, we held a 'writer's surgery' where they heard each other's stories - which were wonderfully varied and imaginative - and gave each other feedback. How well had the building blocks been handled? What worked well about the story? What could be improved?

          In the afternoon, we took a look at building character, and setting scene. I enjoyed the day enormously.  One student wrote on her feedbac form (and entirely without coercion from me, as I'd left my knuckledusters at home): 'I want to be an author when I’m older and workshops like this one are inspiring and helpful. THANK YOU!'

The Sterkarm Handshake

          At Cardinal Griffin, I've just been appointed their 'Patron of Reading,' and this was a first visit, a 'getting to know you' day. I saw several classes, for an hour each time, and told them something of my life, and about the ideas and research behind my book, The Sterkarm Handshake.
          And there was cake for lunch - baked by the lovely librarian, Jacqueline Biddle. Some senior students came along to join us - but had all eaten their packed lunches at break!
          It was a fun day, with some very acute questions from the students, and I look forward to working with Griffin again.
          Griffin was a mere hour's drive from home - but good lord, the traffic! At roughly 3-45pm, the traffic on Birmingham's car-park (the M6) was so horrendous that I pulled off and drove home through the urban sprawl of the Black Country, where, if you can credit it, the roads were quieter, and I was able to get out of second gear.
          A pit-stop at home that night, and then next day I set out for Salisbury and my B&B.
          I thought I was never going to get there. I drove and drove and drove, but the roads seemed to keep unwinding on an endless spool. I think I drove, that day, on every kind of road that exists in the UK (with the possible exception of the roads on the Isle of Mull and the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, whose unique roads sometimes take a break and disappear from view altogether.)
          But after three hours and 120 miles (only 120? It felt like much more) I arrived at my B&B, which was on a farm, Swaynes Firs Farm. There were ornamental ducks, a very warm welcome from the charming landlord, and a good breakfast the next morning.
          I was away at 7-30 am, to drive to the school, Godolphin, an independent girls' boarding school, founded in 1726. I spent the

morning in the Prep school, where first I told the girls about myself in assembly - and then had a hugely enjoyable time until about half eleven.
          First, I read my books, The Runaway Chapati, and How The Bear Lost His Tail, to the youngest. They chanted out the choruses, were afraid for the chapati, and sorry for the bear, and a good time was had by all.
          Then I used the wonderful StoryWorld cards by John and Caitlin Matthews. Each card has a very detailed and beautiful picture on it, with questions to prompt ideas. The children were split into groups, and I gave each group a character card. When they'd had a moment to think about it, I gave them another card,

One of the StoryWorld cards

which featured a place or an object. I asked them to find the link between their character and the subject of the new card.
          If you want to see the power of story in action, use these cards. We tell stories about everything, we think in stories, we teach with stories - and the excitement and glee of the children as they spot some detail in the card and 'discover' some new twist in their story, is beautiful to see. And I, as ever, was amazed and delighted by the ideas they came up with - things I would never have thought of, and never expected.
          I gave them a little guidance - asked them to think about their endings.
          At 11-30, I was fetched to the Senior School and there, immediately before lunch, I began the Creative Writing Workshop by telling, and breaking down, an Urban Myth. After lunch (which was very good) the girls divided into two groups and worked on their own stories. Again, I went round, seeing as many as I could, advising them to think about what kind of ending they wanted, so they knew where their story was heading.
          At the end of the afternoon, we had a writers' surgery - all gathered in the lovely old school hall. We dragged chairs and benches into a big circle, and I grabbed the headmaster's throne.
         The girls' teacher feared that they might be hesitant to criticise each other's work, and there'd be nothing but praise - but the girls had not only come up with very different stories - all complete with endings which ranged from happy to doom-laden - but gave each other excellent feedback on what had worked, and what was confusing, and what defied belief.
          I stressed that this kind of criticism is an ordinary part of a writer's working life - that if someone said their story wasn't believable, they shouldn't be crushed. It simply meant that you rewrote the story, changing details, until it was believable.
          And then I was out the door for a three hour drive home. After two hours, stopped at a Little Chef, for a coffee and bacon and eggs. The glamorous writer's life.
          I wouldn't change it, though.

And have you guessed what the Urban Myth was yet?

 Photo: Wikimedia Commons, Pato Garza

Pubowrimo 3

2, 278 words.
          That's how many I got done in this week's pubowrimo.
          First, I went off to a garden centre, to buy some in-the-green snowdrops. And some winter aconite and a hellebore, because they were there.
          The hellebore is beautiful, and reminds me of my mother. She always called it 'a Christmas rose.'

Christmas Rose

          I love the aconite. It's bright yellow, and smells of honey.
          And of course I love snowdrops. That goes without saying.

Wafts of honey scent...

          I also bought a large - a very large - plastic pot, because I caught Diarmuid Gavin on TV, making a 'container water-garden' to attract insects to the garden by adding another eco-system, in miniature. I loved the idea. And since it seems fairly simple and inexpensive, I'm set on doing it. So I've got the pot. The plants will have to wait until later, I think, until water stops turning to stone in my back-yard. I know the water plants are hardy - even the water-lily, it seems, tough as old boots - but they'll have enough trouble surviving anywhere near me without adding sub-zero temperatures to their lot.
          Anyway, afterwards, I met up with my friend, and we went to the pub, bought cider and settled in - in the corner by the fire this time.
          I had a quite tricky part to write, where a character has been set up by another, so it seems that he's made a serious suicide attempt. This results in him being sectioned under the Mental Health Act and admitted to a secure ward. I had no idea how to tackle this.
          But as soon as I walked through the door of the pub, ideas started to pop. It's all becoming a bit Pavlovian. Pub = write.
          Two thousand, two hundred and seventy-eight words. And I'm getting some ideas for the next part too. The gloves are coming off. The Bad Girl is baring her teeth and becoming frankly murderous - and the object of her homicidal intentions is a character uncomfortably like my beloved auntie. I didn't realise I was basing this character on Beloved Auntie until she was firmly established and it was too late. It's a little inhibiting. Has anyone else found themselves authorially threatening the life of a favourite relative?
          My friend reports that he managed another solid 700 words - and he's pleased because he didn't think he'd be able to write anything this week. He also confesses to two unofficial pubowrimos at home - domestowrimos, I suppose. With tea instead of cider. He's trying to steal a march on me. He did another 700-ish words in each stint.
          Ha! I'm still ahead.
          Not that it's at all competitive, of course.
          The secret, I think, is a free-flowing, scribbly pen that flows easily over the paper, without needing any pressure. The writing is sometimes hard to decipher when you come to type it up, but you can't half cover the pages.

Character

Saw this quote in the Big Issue, from actor Eddie Marsan:

Eddie Marsan: Wiki Commons

"I learned that acting's not about doing anything - it's about thinking the thoughts of the character. And listening with the same set of prejudices your character has."

          I thought that was brilliant.
        I turned it over in my mind, as you do, trying to find fault with it - and I couldn't.

A writer acting while crowds faint

        I've often thought writing was akin to acting - without the performance part most of the time, obviously. But, as a writer, you think about what your character looks like, and what they would choose to wear (supposing their situation allows them to have a choice. But even then, what they would prefer to wear, if they had a choice, says something about them.)
        You think about what they sound like. Do they chatter, or hardly speak at all? Do they speak in a low, level tone, or quickly - or nervously?
          Do they listen to others, or try to drown out anything anyone else has to say?
         What kind of words do they choose to use?  Do they avoid slang because they think it's common - or make a point of using it,  to claim identification with a certain group. Or they may simply use the language of their time and place because they don't know any other.
           What's their predominating trait? - Suspicion? Anger? Fear? Because that trait is going to govern the way they respond to situations, even if they have it well under control. - Though not necessarily in a straight-forward way. Someone who is grounded in Fear, for instance, is not necessarily going to behave timidly. They might, like an agitated, snarling dog, respond with aggression.
          Do they think things through carefully or act impulsively? Do they tend towards dithering or decisiveness?
          Above all, perhaps: What do they want? What is it they are always striving towards? - Victory? Security? Status? Love? Power?
          How is all this affected by their physicality? - I mean, can they rely on their good looks for charm, or have they had to work on their charm of manner?
          Or are they charmless, and try to intimidate, one way or another?
          Are they confident of being able to move, run, jump - or do they have to factor in that their body is not  agile or reliable?
          But once you've worked all this out, you try to bring it all together, and then step behind it and inhabit it. You try, as Marsan says, to 'think the thoughts of your character.'
          This, I think, is why I often find it helpful to have 'a model' for a character: a very clear visual image of what they look like, how they move, how they dress. Once I've worked out a character, I find I can throw this image over all the 'characteristics', and the visual image helps to pull them all together. I can then think of the image, step inside it, so to speak, and look out through its eyes.

          I don't know how much time actors spend thinking about the other characters in a play but, as a writer, once you've 'played the part' of one character, you step over into another character and do the same again.
          And, while inhabiting one character you listen to the others - as Marsan brilliantly says - 'with the same set of prejudices your character has.' - Because those prejudices will colour the understanding - or misunderstanding - of what is said by the other characters and will dictate the listening character's reaction to them.
         So then you can work out what the listening character will say or do - before you move into another character and assume their thoughts and prejudices.
          This is why, having written a scene from one point of view, I often have to take a break and go for a walk or do the washing-up before writing another. I need time to struggle out of one set of thoughts and prejudices, and struggle into another. - Costume change!
          I'm doing this quite often as I write my present WIP. It started with three points of view - one a teenage girl, the second her father, and the third his new girl-friend. Then the ex-wife suddenly spoke up and pushed her way into things.
          Before taking up each character, I have to stop and think: what does this one want? What's their attitude to life? And then I have to try and understand, see, and hear whatever's going on in the story with their mind, filtered through their prejudices.
         I'd be really interested to hear the thoughts of other writers and actors on this - and don't hang back if you've never appeared 'on the professional stage' of either profession. It's insight into the craft I'm interested in, not whether you've been paid!


Photo of Eddie Marsan File:EddieMarsan09TIFF.jpg licensed with Cc-by-sa-2.0

       

Game of Seven: The Two Dogs

The 'Game of Seven' seems to be the latest craze among

literary bloggers, and it's quite fun.
          The idea is that you take your work in progress, go to the seventh page, count seven lines down, and then quote the next seven lines (more or less.)
          So here goes:-

            “You stay there,” Mrs. Thomson said, “until my husband gets home. He’ll know what to do with you.”

            Mind that she did not ask me into the kitchen. I was to stand in the yard until her husband came home, and he would know what to do with me – as if I was some new tool. I was to stand outside and eat in the yard, like the rest of the farm’s livestock. I was not good enough to step into the kitchen.

           That was the start of the worst time of my life. I had hard times in later years: hard living and hard work. But there has never yet been a time worse than that.

          This isn't exactly a work-in-progress. It's more a work-with-agent.
         The narrator is Sandy and, at the age of 10, he had just been bonded, by his mother, to work for the Thomsons until he is twenty-one.
          The book tells the story of his mistreatment, and how he runs away to home. His mother orders him back to the farm. She doesn't have the money to repay his bond.
           But the bad treatment grows worse, so Sandy runs away. He is breaking his bond, and has also taken carrots and oats from the stable, so he has stolen food too. He knows that he could be hung for theft, if caught.

Wikimedia Commons: Jean-Louis Petermann

           He falls in with two drove dogs, who provide protection and company. They are making their way home, alone, after the end of a drove. Sandy, with nowhere else to go, decides to follow the dogs to wherever they're going. Together with the dogs, he walks across Scotland to its West coast - and then follows the dogs further, to the Hebrides.
         Secretly he hopes that the dogs will lead him to a new home, even though he mistrusts everyone.

           A few publishers have already seen it and rejected it. The consensus seems to be that the story is too slow, and too old-fashioned. The fact that it's being told by a man to his children, makes it less exciting.
        They're right - and publishing is a business, and there's no reason why they should publish something they don't think will sell and make them a profit. But I had to write the story as I felt it should be.
          As I worked on it, I considered, and rejected, ways to make the story more exciting. I could have had the boy hotly pursued by the authorities, or vengefully pursued by the farmer - but I didn't feel that either would be realistic, or historically accurate.

          At the time the story is set - roughly 1800 - there was no official police force. To have the boy hunted and arrested, the authorities in each district would have to have been contacted, with a description, by letter. They would then have had to consider it worth the time and effort to search for, and arrest, a ten year old boy. Even if this had been done, I couldn't imagine the hunt being pursued with enough vigour to make the story exciting.
          To lead the hunt himself, the farmer would have had to leave the work of his farm - even though he has little idea of where the boy has gone - and ride for miles, asking for him. I thought it more likely that the farmer would go to the boy's home and, if he didn't find him there, would make a few local enquiries, and then give up. (The farmer does reappear, vengefully, towards the end of the book.)

Not a keeper...

         For me, the story is not about a chase, and whether or not the boy will be caught. It's about resilience. It's also about getting up and walking away from a bad situation - about having to courage to gamble that the devil you don't know may be better than the devil you do. (I've never been convinced by the view that just because a devil is familiar, you should stick by him. Go and find another.)
         It's about the young hero coming to the realisation that just because these people have treated him badly, it doesn't mean that all people will always do so (which is a notion that traps many adults in misery, so a lesson worth learning early, I think.)
       Here, the boy is trudging through the hills above Oban, when he hears the hoofbeats of ponies coming up behind him.

'The Handsome Drover' by Heywood Hardy

     I glanced back and saw a couple of men coming along on two tough little ponies. By their clothes, I thought them drovers, on their way home from market...

     Not so long before, I would have run from the path and hidden from those men, but now I was bolder. I turned back to my road, taking no notice of the riders.

     I thought they would go by, taking no more notice of me than I took of them. Instead they came up beside me, and slowed. The nearest rider spoke to me, in Gaelic. It meant no more to me than the bird twitter all around.

     I looked up and saw a man looking down at me from the pony’s back. He wore a thick tweed coat, and a tweed cap pulled down low, and a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck.. all sparkling with drops of rain caught on the wool. His beard and moustache were thick and curly, both grey and dark, so I couldn’t see much of his face, except for his blue eyes and big yellowish teeth.

     I looked away and carried on walking. I thought he would think me dumb or stupid. I thought he would soon be tired of yapping at me in Gaelic, and would kick up his pony and ride on.

     Instead, after waiting a while for an answer, he said, in English, “The laddie with the doggies!"

     I looked up in surprise then.

     He laughed, and coughed, with deep, rumbling sounds. "Aha!" he said. "English! Everywhere we hear tell of the laddie with the doggies."

     I wanted to run away and hide then. I felt caught out, and trapped. But we were in a steep-sided gulley and they were on horses. I wouldn’t be able to run far before they caught me.

     "Don't you run, don't run!" said the man with the red scarf. "Look at doggies!"

     I did. Spot and Patch were trotting alongside me, but they were looking up at the men on the horses. Their tongues hung out over their teeth, and their tails wagged.

     “The doggies ken us well,” said Red Scarf. “We ken the man of them."

     The other man had a pipe in his mouth. He laughed around it, and it wagged as he said, “That we do!”

     “You know their owner?” I said.

     Red Scarf laughed. "You can talk, so you can! Aye, I

'Waiting for Master' - by Edward Robert Smythe

ken their owner. He’s cried Lachlan Maclean... What might you be cried, laddie?”

     “None of your business,” I said.

     "A strange name for a laddie," Red Scarf said. “Hector, have ever you heard of a laddie called ‘None Of Your Business’ before now?”

     The man with the pipe laughed, and I scowled at them both, my shoulders hunched up and my bottom lip stuck out.

     Red Scarf’s pony still plodded beside me. "Is it that Lachlan’s doggies have looked after you well, None Of Your Business?”

     Oh, how I hated him. "I have no stolen them!" I said. Those dogs were worth far more than the oats and carrots and sacks I had stolen. I would have been hung three times over for stealing them.

     "No, no, indeed," he said. "We never thought you had stolen them. We were wondering if, maybe, the doggies had stolen you?"

     His pipe-smoking friend laughed again.

     I could think of nothing to say, but trudged on in silence, refusing to look at them. If I ignored them, I thought, they would be bored and would ride past.

     But they let their horses slow to a dawdle. I looked up and was startled to find Red Scarf watching me. His eyes were very blue among his brown wrinkles.

     "You must leave them thieving doggies," Red Scarf said. "They will lead you into bad ways." He drew up his horse. I saw that another track joined ours just at that place. It led away downhill. “We go this way, None Of Your Business,” Red Scarf said. “We are going to pay a visit to my sister who married a man from here. Leave them bad, thieving doggies to tend their own business and come along with us. My sister will stuff you like a goose for Christmas."

     That was a wonderful, tempting thought. Food and plenty of it – and a warm, dry place to sleep. I hesitated, I admit.

     But no doubt this man’s sister would be glad of a boy she could set to work, and feed on scraps, and belt for no reason at all.

     "Come on lad!" Red Scarf said, and Pipe-Smoker laughed again.

     I looked at Spot and Patch. They were trotting away down the main track. They were clever — they knew which way I should be going. Spot looked over his shoulder at me... I turned my back on the riders and walked after the dogs.

     "Lad!" Red Scarf called after me.

     I turned and walked backwards, so I could keep an eye on him, and run away if he came after me.

     "Lad." He made his pony walk towards me. “One night in a house will no hurt."

     Spot and Patch came trotting back to me. They sat down beside me, but Spot looked from me to the main track, making it very clear that he wanted to be getting on. "Clear off,” I said to Red Scarf. I told you, in those days, I was a hard little nut. I hadn’t any manners.

     Red Scarf nodded to himself and felt in the pocket at his belt. He took out a coin and offered it to me, leaning down from his saddle.

     “I don’t want your money,” I said. I knew that people always want something in return when they give you money...

     "I was not giving the money to you," he said. "It's for the doggies." He threw the coin and it landed on the hard trodden earth of the track. Both dogs trotted over and sniffed at it, as if they really thought it was meant for them.

     "Be so kind as to look after it for them,” Red Scarf said. “God go with you. I will look for you in — " He said something that I didn’t understand — but I didn’t think I would ever see him again, so it didn’t matter.

          My agent says there are a few publishers to see the book yet, before we give up. But it's quite possible that I shall be publishing it myself.

 

'The Shepherd's dog' by Howitt

     Anyone interested in the old droving trade, or in Border Collies, might enjoy this site - The Border Collie Museum