Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Later that night, as my own words shone on the walls around us in a glittering black ink that never seemed to dry, and yet did not run or blur, I looked up at Stellan. ‘Can we have beautiful blonde children, and live here in this flat all the time, if you are spirit and I’m not? I can cook for you and wear long shirts instead of dresses.’ ‘No.’ Despite my carefully frivolous phrasing, this question had been playing on my mind for several weeks, and its answer came now with the short finality I had feared. I scrunched my face and buried it in his shoulder. ‘I’ll live with you in the spirit world then. I don’t like this one anyway.’ Gently, Stellan nudged my face out of his shoulder and looked at me. ‘No, you can’t do that either. The spirit world is strange and scary. It is full of deals and double-crossing.’ I looked at him, eyebrow raised. He snorted softly. ‘Your world has those things, yes. But there is a difference. Deals and double-crossings in your world are not also laced with evil magic.’ ‘I’m not sure about that.’ To this he said nothing, but closed his eyes, shifted his long body to rest beside me, instead of above. I looked around my bedroom; my cool, inky haven in the humid night. Aside from Kitta’s unsightly stain in the corner, the room always looked more beautiful, somehow, when Stellan was here… as though the moon and starlight were able to ooze in through the open window along with his presence, and colour the space with their nocturnal glamour. Since the restaurants had closed, the smell of the Glasgow summer night was different - laden now, only, with the day’s blossoms and the dusty heat drifting up from the pavement - and not the heady scent of Finnieston curry houses that I had only then come to realise were so synonymous with my city. Now, without them – the rich smells of food and spices, of beer, of Friday-night city lust, and without the implications activity, and life, and people that came with them, it was very easy to imagine that Stellan and I were the only two beings left, held together in the quiet bedroom which had become, for those few precious months, the unlikely meeting spot between our separate worlds. ‘That’s not what you want,’ he said eventually, sternly. ‘You don’t want to live a life hidden away from your own world. There are beautiful things in your world.’ ‘No,’ I said, petulantly. ‘Yes. You are one of them. By hiding here, you are denying your world the gift of you.’ ‘That’s bollocks,’ I said. ‘No. You are just afraid, and lazy.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘In your world, you can use your stories. You can make money to live by, if you tell them.’ ‘But I don’t want to.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because. Because… doing that properly involves work, and phone calls, and events, and… people who work in publishing.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Yes. Well. What were you saying earlier? About evil magic?’
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‘Nightbirds’, a novel
Full synopsis: https://somethingonpaper.weebly.com/extracts/nightbirds-novel-synopsis-and-writers-statement Chapter 12. Jack Preliminary notes ☾⋆ About this chapter: During her time in Portfearn, Cathy meets Jack. Jack is around the same age (mid-20s), and he strikes up a rapport with Cathy after learning of her literary background. Jack’s distant family suffered losses as a result of the Moray Firth fishing disaster in 1848. For a long time, Jack has wanted to write about the incident in an article, and he thinks Cathy might be able to help him to finish it, and get it out into the world. She is initially reluctant; all of her attentions at this point in the novel are tied up with the ‘experienced older man’ aspect of Edward, and on first meeting she finds Jack boyish, associating him with other disappointing men her own age. Nonetheless, one night at the Castle Hotel, Cathy allows Jack to persuade her to accompany him on a boat ride across the Dornoch Firth so he can tell her about the history of the seas that surround the village, and the events of the fishing disaster that shook his forefathers. The below is a draft of the opening of Chapter 12, which narrates their first outing together. ☾⋆ Not long after I drew level with the Pictish warrior woman*, I spotted Jack ambling along the cobblestones towards me. ‘Hallo!’ he called out, in an exaggerated Teuchter accent. In the daylight his face looked less boyish than it had at the Castle; his nose was sharp and long, and an anticipatory sort of smile played about his lips, as if foretelling a frisson of humour he already knew would come to pass between us over the course of the afternoon. ‘Halloo,’ I said. He stopped in front of me, hands in his pockets. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet; a mannerism designed either to keep out the cold, or which was simply a by-product of that slightly frenetic, vital energy I’d noted in him the first time we spoke. His smile split into a grin for a brief moment, then calmed. His green eyes watered slightly in the cold, bright afternoon. He bit his lip very briefly, still smiling, then gestured elegantly down the harbour with one arm. We set off along the harbour. ‘Right, we’ll need to go down to the hut to get a boat,’ said Jack bracingly. ‘That’ll involve speaking to the SS, I’m afraid.’ ‘The SS?’ ‘The SS, aye. Sandy Salter. He lets the boats out. He also owns that very attractive line of cottages above the beach. Rents them in summer. Tourists ‘n’ that. Ken?’* ‘The ones with the massive plastic dolphin plaque things above the doors?’ ‘Those, yes. He’s something of a patriarch around these parts.’ ‘Related to, er… Sally Salter? Of Local Post Office fame?’ ‘Yes. Husband of. And! Their offspring are Susan, Sheila, Sandy and Sean.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes. They’re the Kardashians of the Tarbat Ness peninsula.’ I chortled. ‘Clearly!’ ‘Right, but you’ll need your serious face for the SS encounter, he’s no’ called that for nothing.’ ‘Right, okay.’ ‘Okay?’ said Jack, turning to look at me, another split-second grin breaking his face in two. It was as if his smile were a self-fulfilling prophecy; it rubbed off on me, sprung onto me, almost, from his lips to mine. He sniggered briefly through his nose. ‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I can stop laughing in a second. In a heartbeat. I can rein it in. At any moment I can stop – poker face. You’re a giggler, I can tell. SS doesn’t like a giggler. He’ll discern from your giggling that you don’t take him and his family seriously. He’ll know it with the SS radar. And he’ll punish you in subtle yet extremely impactful ways for the duration of your time here.’ I snorted. ‘I’m telling ye.’ Jack turned sharply, nimbly descending a small stone stairway cut suddenly into the wall on our right. I followed, and found myself standing beside Jack in front of a small stone hut. Above the door was a weather-worn wooden board, painted in faded teak paint. ‘Salter Boat Hire.’ I followed Jack through the door. Inside the hut, at a plywood desk, stood a large man in a dark green gilet. He made a noise of greeting that sounded a bit like ‘Eyp.’ ‘Eyp,’ said Jack in reply. ‘Y’in’fir?,’ said a person who was clearly Sandy Salter. He looked me up and down. ‘We’re wanting to rent a boat, Sandy. Fishing boat. This is Cathy. I’m going to take her out and show her the Firth. She’s going to maybe help with the article about the accident.’ ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Weegie, are we?’ said the SS immediately. ‘Eh… yes, aye.’ ‘City girl, eh?’ ‘She’s living with Briar and the laddie in the white cottage up the hill from Main Street,’ offered Jack. Sandy’s face darkened. ‘That laddie’s no long for this world, the rate his mither’s going wi’ thon gin.’ Jack, not missing a beat, laughed amiably. ‘Och, if ye mean the amount of bottles the P.O. are getting through, I think old Carlo helps with that, Sandy, to be fair.’ Sandy cleared his throat darkly and begun leafing through the huge dusty log book in front of him. Any flirtation he’d had with the idea of a longer conversation with Jack had clearly evaporated at the mention of Briar and my connection to her. ‘You’re wanting a boat, then,’ he said. ‘Aye, for the afternoon, please,’ said Jack brightly. ‘Yis can take Dòchas, but be careful. Choppy this afternoon.’ ‘Right y’are, Sandy. She’s a lovely boat.’ ‘He knows his way around a boat,’ said Sandy to no one in particular, eyeing Jack suspiciously. ‘Knows his way around for a boat, aye. I’ll say that. Very good in the boats for his age’. Jack smiled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He clearly didn’t quite know how to receive this comment; twice Sandy had made Jack’s gift sound more like grounds for distrust than a skill deserving of his praise. Sandy turned slowly and pulled a set of keys from the glass box on the wall. ‘Dòchas, then,’ he said to Jack. ‘Dòchas.’ Jack took the keys and lead the way back up the iron stairs to the cobbles of the harbour. Back on street level, I spotted Mrs. Adair with her dogs Marti and Pellow. She looked set to say hello, but on seeing Jack, she drew us both a look so filthy I burst out laughing. ‘What was that about?’ ‘She, eh… doesn’t like me,’ said Jack. We were at the dock now, heading in the direction of a deep green and red fishing boat tied with rope to the jetty wall. ‘Yes… Yeah, no, I can see that,’ I said, still laughing. ‘What did you do, run Marti over?’ He ignored this, stopping near Dòchas and standing back to square up the little boat. ‘Jack!’ He threw me a quick look. ‘No. I didn’t run over Marti, no.' Then, as an afterthought, ‘I don’t drive.’ ‘What did you do, then!?’ ‘Nothing, I didn’t do anything.’ I stared at him, eyebrows raised. Jack sighed as if steeling himself to tell a story he’d been forced to regale several times before. ‘Right, there was a rumour. About my family.’ ‘A rumour?’ ‘Aye, a rumour.’ ‘There was a rumour about your family.’ ‘Yes, Cathy.’ I adopted a Noo Yoik accent, taking the piss. ‘People from arawnd heya, they tawk. There was tawk, ya know, about my family—’ Jack laughed. ‘It’s true.’ There was a pause while I waited for him to elaborate. He said nothing, fully absorbed, it seemed, in sizing up our vessel. ‘Right – I mean, you can’t not tell me,’ I said, as he climbed onto Dòchas and steadied himself on the deck. He made this look like a very easy thing to do. ‘Right, right, no, I will tell you, but just get in the boat first, right? Safely.’ ‘It seems quite easy, from what you did.’ ‘Right… well, just concentrate on what you’re doing though.’ ‘I am.’ I lowered one foot onto the deck and tested my weight. The whole boat moved under the pressure. I squealed in surprise. ‘See? Even step one isn’t that easy. It’s alright, just put your full weight on,’ said Jack, now squinting up at me, the afternoon sun full and bright on his face and the water beyond him. ‘If I put my full weight on it’ll definitely capsi—’ ‘It won’t. It just feels like that at first. Go ahead. Then you can step in with your other foot.’ I looked down at him from the harbour, doubtful. That lithe little smile was still playing about his lips, but I sensed that I could trust him. Slowly and distinctly ungracefully, I clambered onto the boat. ‘Yes! Well done. Right. That’s you, then. First time on a fishing boat. And you’re, er… on. Properly. Well done.’ ‘Yes, so, back to the rumours,’ I said, grinning. He laughed. 'It’s not that interesting. You know how to untie a fisherman’s knot?’ ‘Do I look like I can untie a fisherman’s—’ ‘Not really, no. Shall I show you?’ A seal popped its head up in the shallow waters near the boat. ‘ Fuck’s sake!’ I said loudly, surprised. ‘He’s friendly!’ Jack looked at the seal mildly, unphased. It looked back at him, curious, then ducked its slick head below the water line. ‘If I do the knot, will you tell me the story?’ ‘Yes, alright. Right, you sit over on that side of the deck and have look at the rope that’s tied to the side, coming from the harbour.’ ‘Okay.’ Right, so… Yeah, no that one. That one there. Aye. So, my dad’s dad, so, my grandpa, shall we say, I didn’t know him, but he’s got a bit of a rep, shall we say.’ ‘ 'Ooh.’ ‘Quite the shagger. Quite the shagger, I’m told.’ ‘Who told you? Your dad?’ ‘Well, no, it was my mum. My dad doesn’t like to get into it. but my mum does. After a gin or ten. My maw gets right into this chat.’ ‘Right, and? What, he shagged the minister’s wife?’ ‘Well, yes. That sort of thing. Exactly that sort of pish, yes. Right, do you see how the knot—' ‘So you are descendeth… descendedth… of a heathen.’ ‘Er, yes. Hence, Mrs. Jeannie’s growlers. Folk dinna’ forget roon here. Ken.’ ‘Is that it? There must be more to it.’ ‘Mrs. Jeannie and the like are old-fashioned, god-fearing folk, Cathy,’ said Jack solemnly. ‘Now listen – it’s not a normal knot. It’s hard to untie because of something called jamming.’ ‘Is Mrs. Jeannie aware of the antics of one Marti Pellow? I mean, if he’s going to inspire the names of her children she’d better be aware of what that man’s been up tae.’ Jack roared with laughter; a rugged, full sound, before going quiet again just as quickly. Poker face. ‘Absolutely not, Cathy. Mrs. Jeannie isn’t aware of any of that muck. And I don’t advise telling her, unless you want an OAP casualty on your soft, uncalloused hauns.’ ‘It’s not you, though, is it? You didn’t shag the minister’s wife, I mean. You’re not your grandpa.’ ‘No, but I am of the blood line. My faither sprung from forth his loins, and as far as some folk are concerned, I’m tarred with the same brush. Take that, would you? Also, it doesn’t help that I’m being spotted promenading with the next worst thing to a Minister’s-wife-shagging heathen.’ ‘What?’ I say dumbly. ‘A city girl. A WEEGIE, no less. You couldn’t have even been from Edinburgh. Had to be Glasgow. Harlot. Harlot that you are. Now, enough. We’re here to learn. So. Do the knot.’ ‘What?’ ‘You said you wanted me to show you how to sail a fishing boat.’ ‘Oh right. Aye. Well, saying ‘do the knot’ and pointing vaguely at an unidentified object, wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’ ‘It’s not an unidentified object, though. It’s the rope we’ve been discussing for the last… several minutes.’ I took the rope, half smiling, and fumbled the tight knot with cold, slippery fingers. It felt impossible, like trying to loosen welded metal. ‘Jack. This is the most difficult knot that has ever been.’ He smiled, taking pity. ‘Sorry. But I was trying to explain. It’s hard. Right, you move up to the other side and I’ll come where you are. So we don’t capsize.’ I moved to the other side of the bench and he took my place next to the rope, holding the knot in both hands for a second before working his fingers gently over the tension. It came apart almost instantly. He gave it a single hard shake and the rope lashed in one clean, straight stretch across the deck. ‘What the fuck, Jack?’ I said, laughing disbelievingly. ‘Well, it is my job. You were supposed to do it. So you can learn.’ ‘I know, but it was like you just touched it and it unravelled.’ He looked down at his hands, eyebrows raised appraisingly, as if all of a sudden convinced of their magic. ‘Right. Let’s get out on the water.’ ‘Also. Marti Pellow’s a bloody Weegie as well,’ I said, as he made his way up to the front of the deck. *In the village there is a bronze sculpture of a Pictish warrior woman on the harbourfront, often used as a meeting place. * ‘ken? / ‘d’ye ken?’ = do you know/understand? |