3rd October 2015
'Big Geordie:Tales From A Scottish Mining Village'
To give a taste of the content and style of my latest recently published book, I have provided a portion of one of the stories - leaving off before the crux was reached in any of them.
This is how one little yarn entitled 'Climpy House' begins:
"I remember the scene as my faither 'Big Geordie' told the story to me, many years ago. I might have been about ten or eleven at the time. My dad was 'big' in all sorts of ways: physically, in the way he was regarded by others - especially when he had a gleam in his eye that said 'don't meddle with me', and the way he always had time for anyone less able than him.We were seated in front of a big coal fire, warm and comfortable. Now and then the wind outside would make the flames curl higher as the draught slid under the kitchen door.
He began: ‘I was cycling home, son, after a back-shift at the pit: Kingshill Number Three, if I remember right. It was dark, about 9 o'clock, a foul night of wind and rain. In fact, the weather was so bad, when I think back, it reminded me of 'Tam O'Shanter': and especially the bit about ‘Auld Nick’ and Kirk Alloway being in a bleeze. I was nearly blown off the bike a few times. The flying rain struck at my face, each drop like a razor-sharp knife.’
I sat bug-eyed, rooted to the chair. My dad had captured my attention completely, because I had been studying Burns at school, and for the last few days had been prattling on about his poetry. The fearsome images in 'Tam O'Shanter' were very real to me: the old ruined church, thunder crashing, lightning flashing; the horrible images of murderers, strangled bairns, cut throats, bloody knives - and the devil, were all fresh in my mind. I can see myself yet: seated beside the warm ingle nook, leaning forward, mouth hanging open in anticipation of my dad’s next words.
‘If my memory serves me right, lad, it was long, long before I was married and before you were even thought of.'
When I think of it now, he was looking at me slyly before he continued.
‘We, that is, your Granny and Grandpaw and all the family, lived next to Climpy House, when I was wee boy; it was a great big dreary pile. If you remember, I pointed to the place once, when we were out for a run in the car.’
He nodded at me while saying this, urging me to remember, which I did, I think – eventually.
He continued: ‘The big mansion was built in Queen Victoria’s time, but it had been neglected; and after the Wilsons of Wilsontown died out, it was allowed to crumble away.’
He took down his pipe from the mantle-piece and began to fill it from his old battered tobacco pouch.
‘Aye, it was queer,’ he muttered, ‘and a bit mysterious too, the way they all died and that family fizzled out.’ He was quiet for a few moments, gazing soulfully into the fire and shaking his head, before returning to the tale.
‘I think you only ever saw the place as a broken-down heap, son; but even in its prime it must have been ugly. In my day it was an evil-looking, brooding, monstrosity. It wasn't that it was so very old – just gloomy and menacing. Standing as it did, on the edge of the moor, stark and forlorn, it looked for all the world like a cathedral raised in the wilderness; the folly of some rich man. Everything about it was dilapidated. Both wings were empty shells. Lichen and ivy grew everywhere. The windows had no glass in them, the casements were weathered and cracked; they were like creepy, black, sightless eyes.’
If I am picturing correctly things as they were then, he stopped speaking at that point, but kept looking at me, picking-up my reaction, because I was shuddering at the scary pictures he had induced.
Eventually, he knocked his pipe against the grate, gave it a few sucks and continued.
‘Aye, my lad; anyway, it was a wild, uncanny night and as I said, I was coming back from my work at the pit. I had to cross the Muldron Moor, and ye ken how bleak and melancholy that is, all covered with moss, ten feet deep; and many the poor traveller has wandered in there never to be seen again.’
I remember him keeking at me as he said this; sort of hiding behind his pipe as he held a hand to the re-filled bowl.
‘Well, son, the wind was howling across the waste lands of the moors like a banshee. Now and again there was the merest glimmer of moonlight, just enough to make-out the road. I was sure something black was keeping pace with me, racing across the moor on my left-hand side.’
I was riveted by this. I knew the road my dad was travelling that night. It even scared me in the daylight. His voice seemed hushed when he spoke again, as if someone else might be listening. I think I might have looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was there.
‘I cycled fast, son, down the brae towards the stone bridge that crosses the stream. The next thing, I was flying over the handlebars of the bike, and before I hit the ground my head glanced against the stone parapet of the bridge. As you might expect, I was a bit dazed, but all I could think of was whether the bike was okay; it was. But I’ll let you know something, my lad, to this very day I don't know what caused me to fall. But it's gey queer, eh?’
I nodded in agreement with him. Something very strange was going on that night, I was sure of that.
‘Anyway,’ my dad continued, ‘I could still ride the bike, so on I went: through the Headless Cross and past Cock-ma-lane. It's all uphill from there; skirting Foulshiels, past Leven Hall – where the king of the goblins is supposed to live – and on to Breich.’
He looked hard at me. ‘You know how dreich Breich can be son.’
While I smiled at my old man’s play on words, I still felt myself shiver.
‘What a sad and sorrowful list of names, dad.’
I remember being on tenter-hooks, but the old devil reached for his pipe again, and I had to wait in watchful silence while he went through the long rigmarole of lighting the smelly thing. He must have used half a box of matches to get it going. Or was it deliberate. Anyway, after several good sucks at the old briar, he was off again.
‘Oh aye, laddie, I was sair puffed oot when I finally reached the crest o’ the brae, then began to thread my way through the forest. It's an old Caledonian one, full of oaks, sycamore, rowans and the like. You must remember these woods, son, they stand about a quarter of a mile from the old house.’
He cocked his head while looking at me, inquisitively.
‘Oh aye, dad,’ I lied.
He was quiet again. Then he said, ‘I'll tell you this, my boy, yon next five or ten minutes were the scariest of my life.’
I can still see myself sitting there, eyes wide. Nothing, but nothing, frightened my dad.
With maddening slowness he drew on the pipe once more, before continuing.
‘Son, I felt that the woods were moving, they were closing in from all sides – reaching out for me. The wind continued to whistle and moan through the branches. Just like that.’ He pointed towards the kitchen window with his pipe, which, even with the curtains drawn, allowed a current of air, whistling and groaning, into the room.
I dragged my eyes from the window and back to my father.
‘Aye,’ he continued, ‘it seemed to say: ‘Come to me, come to me, I’m waiting for you’. One or two older trees, oaks I think, with twisted branches, reached out, threatening to grab hold of me with their outstretched arms. Some of them seemed to have gnarled faces, hooked noses and tilted chins. I was terrified and pedalled like mad.’
I was on the edge of my chair by now. ‘What happened, dad, what happened?’
But he was in no hurry. Only when he was ready did he begin again.
‘Head down, I pedalled like fury, I can tell you. Then quite suddenly, I was free of the trees. I looked up – I have to admit, son, I was so scared I had been keeping my head down low over the handlebars – and there was Climpy House!’
‘But,’ and here he paused, ‘but, there was something different, something strange about it. You could tell immediately that something queer was going on. Silhouetted against the night sky, the stone-work of the old ruin gleamed; it was a deep blood-red colour. What’s more, it was no longer a dilapidated heap. Now it was a monstrous, hideous, nightmare: an edifice of massive proportions, dominating the area.’
If my memory serves me right, at this point my dad again shot a quick glance out of the corner of his eye in my direction, before continuing:
‘And I could hear voices carried on the wind, son. There were flashes of light here, there and everywhere. The windows, normally hollow empty sockets, flickered and glowed with some kind of inhuman illumination. In front of the building, small figures danced in a ring, in a weird ceremony. They jumped up and down, before proceeding round and round the fiery building in an ever-growing frenzy, seeming to acknowledge it as their master.
The house was alive. The closer I came, the more uncanny everything appeared; and I also seemed to hear strange wailing noises as I approached..."
I hope you found this extract enjoyable. If you want to find out just what 'Big Geordie' was seeing, and the conclusion to the story, just contact:
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