‘The Leech and the Pearl’


Catherine Maitland was born in Madras to an Anglo-Indian mother and a British father but, unlike her pale-skinned mother, Catherine is brown. Sent ‘home’ to boarding-school, she endured loneliness, and then the trauma of her mother’s death. Later, when mining engineer Hugh Oates is attracted by her ‘difference’ she is happy to marry him and move to a village near Glasgow. After Hugh’s death, she finds out that her biological father was a doctor, Donald Leishman. Married and with a son, Terence, his last-known address was in Edinburgh. Catherine, without a family of her own, resolves to find her half-brother.

Ciggy is homeless and a story-teller, and by cleverly manipulating people to do his bidding, he acquires a hut in the woods above Catherine’s village. He persuades Catherine to befriend him, and soon she asks him to help find Terry Leishman. Her own search, by ‘phone and rail and road, takes her to Aberdeen and then the highlands, and the information she uncovers leads to some surprising insights into not only her three parents, but also her husband: she discovers friendship in surprising places.

Catherine’s search ends when Ciggy shows her where Terry Leishman died, and her eyes are opened to Ciggy’s lies and deception. Moreover, Ciggy’s retracing of the life that he shared with Terry has uncovered some unfinished personal business. He sets out on the road again, to a village in the highlands…

The story is set in Scotland in the 1980s, with back-story in 1950s Cornwall, and 1930s Madras.


I wrote The Leech and the Pearl in the 1990s, after I left Glasgow, where I had been a lecturer and research supervisor in the University’s Zoology Department. So why have I published the novel now?

After several rejections by agents (one well-known agent who went on to lead a publishing house told me ‘I loved it, but it’s not going to make me mega-bucks’) and a couple of publishers, I lost heart and was ready to move on to another project (background research for Seaside Pleasures), so I put the ms in a metaphorical drawer.

But throughout the years it has always been my favourite of the six novels I have written: I am still sorry that Ciggy and Catherine don’t exist in real life so I can meet them (they are very real to me, nevertheless).

I no longer have an agent, nor do I any longer have the patience for the slow business of finding a publisher – so I have decided to publish The Leech and the Pearl as an ebook in the hope that other people will read it and become involved with Catherine’s story.

Although I’ve revised and edited sections, I have not transferred the action to the present day – for Catherine had no access to a mobile phone or a fax machine. She could not have hunted down information though the internet and emails – she had to use telephone calls and letters, and summon up courage to speak to unknown people or wait for posted replies.

The idea for Ciggy as a character developed from one of my short stories, Garden Birds, which was short-listed for the Ian St James Award.

Background to Catherine’s and Ciggy’s stories

Catherine in India

My father and his two brothers were born in Madras (Chennai) where my grandfather was working as Chief Engineer on the Madras & S.M. Railway. The boys were sent ‘home’ to England, to boarding school. as was normal for children in this situation, they were ‘farmed out’ to the family of a vicar in Sussex in the holidays, and usually saw their parents once a year when they came to England on leave. I knew very little of my father’s life in India, other than that his family had lived in Madras, gone to church at the Presbyterian St Andrew’s Kirk and, in the summer, would leave Madras for the cool of the ‘hill station’ at Ootacamunde. His parents and sister came back to England on the last boat through the Suez canal in 1945 and eventually retired to the Bournemouth area.

My father had been only about 8 years old when he was sent away to school and didn’t often talk about his childhood, but when I decided I’d like to write about ‘Catherine’, he began to remember little details of aspects of his life in Madras, and looked out his collections of postcards and a few faded family photos. His cousin, John Edmonds, had also lived briefly in Madras and been sent to school in England – before he died, Canon Edmonds (as he became) wrote me a long letter in response to some of my questions.

Living near Oxford during the period when I was writing The Leech, I frequently visited the fascinating Indian Institute Library at the Bodleian, to browse through its wealth of papers, letters and maps. Reading about St Andrew’s Kirk I discovered that the inside of its dome was deep blue and painted with depictions of the stars that would be seen over Scotland.

I had bought a street map of Madras from ‘Books from India’ in Museum Street, London, and when I later wrote to the proprietor to ask if he knew who could help me find out more about the Kirk, he immediately sent me the name and address of Mr S Muthiah, editor of the Madras Musings: “If anyone can really help you, it will be this man!”

And ‘this man’ did!

In November 1996 I received a letter and a package from Mr Muthiah, containing photos and a booklet that reprinted an 1881 article by the Kirk’s architect, Major de Havilland. Mr Muthiah had managed to visit the Kirk (“getting any information or permission from the Kirk is like pulling teeth”) and persuade someone to open it, then had photographed the painted stars inside the dome. Sadly, they no longer depicted the starry sky above Edinburgh, but had been repainted with a random pattern of stationary and shooting stars. (Now those too may have vanished – twenty years after I posted that letter to Mr Muthiah, the Kirk has its own website and photo gallery, which seems to show the inside of the dome as an unembellished blue .)

Catherine in Cornwall

I grew up in Cornwall near Minions Moor, and at 10 years old was sent to boarding school in Truro. Although I was there slightly later than was ‘Catherine’, her description of a Saturday outing, walking in a ‘crocodile’ and wearing uniform and wellies, then skating on the estuarine mud, are – surprisingly – based on fact. (There was no dead man.)

As for Catherine’s husband Hugh Oates, and his fascination with stone and slate: my long-time friend Dr Peter Stanier, an industrial archaeologist with a special interest in Cornish quarries, helped me with information, and a colleague of his, Dr Tony Brooks at the Camborne School of Mines, answered my many questions about the career trajectory of Hugh’s life.

Catherine in Glasgow

To live in Glasgow in the 1970s and ‘80s felt like living in a series of closely linked, yet separate, small towns. The area around Glasgow University was much less developed than now, and there was indeed a low wall on Byres Road where people would sit to watch the world go by, to wait for the pubs to open (at 5pm), and to wait for friends. It was always a meeting place, by accident or by intention. (But Catherine would never have sat there herself, so she would not have seen the homeless man, Ciggy.)

The Finnieston crane, which appears later in Catherine and Ciggy’s stories, was at that time surrounded by a fairly derelict, bull-dozed area by the quay. The Garden Festival had not happened, the current fine buildings that surround the crane had not even been designed. In its heyday, the crane was used to lift steam locomotives from the dockside into the holds of ships: many would have been destined for India.

Catherine in Aberdeen

I took the train to Aberdeen to meet up with a former colleague, Dr Les Chappell, then lecturing at the University, who had kindly offered to show me the geography of the city. On the train I was ‘entertained’ by a fair-haired man who was on his way out to the oil-rigs – he offered me rum and coke, and (seeing that I was trying to read) dug around in his kitbag to find his own book for me to read. He was not unpleasant, and eventually wandered off to find the drinks trolley. Unfortunately for Catherine, her ‘Sandy’ was a misogenist and racist; my British Indian research student had been subjected to similar sorts of abuse on public transport elsewhere.

Catherine’s search for information about her half-brother required her to write and wait for letters and make phone calls – she could not have used a mobile phone, a fax machine, or the internet at that time.

Catherine in Torridon

Anyone who knows the Torridon area will probably recognise the small coastal village as Shieldaig, but none of the characters Catherine meets are based on real people. There are indeed small, mis-shapen pearls to be found in mussels gathered on from a shore not far away.

scottish mussel pearls
Pearls from Torridon mussels

Ciggy and the ‘green huts’

For several years my family and I lived close to the ‘green huts’ at Carbeth by Blanefield. The range of ‘designs’ of the huts and their gardens, tucked in amongst the trees, was hugely diverse, and we got to know some of the hutters well. The University of Glasgow owned the fishing rights to the loch down amongst the huts, and I’m indebted to my then colleague, Dr Ken Lockey, fisherman but not poacher, for explaining how poachers so regularly depleted the loch of stocked trout.

The green huts were initially built during the war, as a safe place to decant families from the city, and the subsequent stories of the hutting community have taken many turns. At the time when Ciggy lived there, the land was owned by the Barnes-Grahams  who lived in the nearby ‘big house’ (we had permission to clear up fallen timber from their wood, to burn in our open fire).

In 2013 and after several well-publicised disputes, the Carbeth Hutters bought the land from the Carbeth Estate.

carbeth from big issue
Big Issue, no.136, September 11th 1997

The history of the Carbeth huts, with a photo gallery (many of the huts are now much grander than in Ciggy’s day), weblinks and other information is now on a website.

Ciggy at the marine station

The marine station is based loosely on what was then the Universities Marine Biology Station at Millport (UMBSM) on the Isle of Cumbrae.

UMBSM in the 1970s
A postcard of UMBSM in the 1970s

None of the characters Ciggy meets at UMBSM are based on real people.

For three years I helped run marine courses at UMBSM for our Glasgow University students: I have very happy memories of that time, and still remember the smell of the aquarium, and the excitement when RV Sepia sounded her horn as she returned with her catch. Several colleagues (Professors Geoff Moore and Jim Atkinson, Dr Alan Taylor) and the skipper of the Sepia subsequently helped me with details about trawling methods, specimen preservation, and animal species found in the Clyde.

Ciggy in Glasgow

When writing about Ciggy and the homeless shelter I was much influenced by an exhibition, ‘It’s a Roof‘, of photographs of homeless men at the Great Eastern Hotel Hostel, taken by the internationally-known photographer Jane Evelyn Attwood, and shown at Glasgow’s Museum of Transport in 1996. (Strangely, and unlike some of JEA’s other photographic projects, they remain unmentioned, let alone shown, online.)

And what did Ciggy do next …?


Garden Birds

Mrs. Smith lives on her own. She lives in a detached house at the edge of the village. The front of the house is almost hidden from the road by a cupressus hedge, neat and darkly green, and the garden behind the house is hedged with hawthorn and crab apples. The house and garden are very secluded, and it is said about Mrs. Smith that she keeps herself to herself.

She is rarely seen about the village. It is a busy, active little village, with a playgroup, poetry‑reading, drama, a club for the old folks, and the W.I. There is a church, and a Harvest Thanksgiving, and a Christmas Fayre; and there are charity envelopes to be distributed and collected, and sponsorship forms to be touted, for hearts, or kidneys, or for the inner‑city homeless. Mrs. Smith leaves out the weekly money for the milk and for the papers, but she doesn’t answer the doorbell. Indeed, when people talk about her (which they now do very rarely) it is thought probable that her doorbell has been disconnected. But Mrs. Smith is not yet old, perhaps not yet even seventy, and people know that the milkman will keep an eye on the pints. She is to be allowed her little eccentricity.

Mrs. Smith can imagine very easily what ‘they’ say about her: that she is unsociable, or lonely, or even a little mad; that she is mean and a misanthrope, or perhaps is merely deaf. The fact is, Mrs. Smith enjoys her own company. In actual fact, that is not quite correct: she is often irritated by her own company and considers herself, though intelligent, to be rather silly and immature, but she enjoys the company of the birds and wildlife in her garden.

The back garden is narrow, not much wider than the house and garage, but it is long and curving, so that she cannot quite see the end. She likes to imagine that all manner of interesting birds and animals are carrying out their busy lives just out of sight. When she is not herself busy, gardening or shopping, she likes to walk quietly round her garden, examining the shrubs and trees; she knows where a blackbird nests in the cupressus, and which birdbox contains bluetits, and she throws out scraps for the robins and chaffinches, and delights in the return of the chiffchaff to the hawthorns. Always, when she reaches the curve that hides the end from view, she treads softly, alert for movement and the flick of wings. Once, a sparrowhawk swooped by, and another time she surprised a fox, who had been dozing in the grass beside the hut. He rose softly to his feet and stared, then slipped away quickly through a hole. Since then, she always stands for a few moments and looks carefully at the hut, hoping to enjoy again his company. She has not forgotten him, or his smell.

Nor is it likely that Mrs. Smith will ever forget Terry, or his smell. Of course, if he now smells at all, it is a socially‑acceptable smell, of shampoo and deodorant. But when he first entered her life he was as rank as a rain‑soaked fox.


It was afternoon. The hawthorn leaves were orange and faded green, and bullfinches fluttered among the berries. Crab apples lay in yellow mats beneath the trees. Mrs. Smith shut the garage door, relieved to be home, and went round to the back of the house. She left her shopping by the door and walked down the path, relaxing in the peace. She hardly knew what was around her, but the air was fresh against her face. A bluetit scolded from a tree, and she drifted out of her pleasant daze and saw that she had reached the corner. At once ‑ so deeply ingrained was the habit ‑ she became stealthy and alert. She looked: there was no fox. But there was a smell, a memory of a smell. She sniffed again, but it was elusive, gone. She trod on an apple which, compressed against the damp grass, shot out like a marble, a bullet aimed at the shed. The thud echoed like a groan. There was a growling rumble, and a rustle, as though a large animal were shifting on the ground. Bears! she thought, wildly. A bear escaped from the zoo! But there were no scratches or paw‑marks, or signs of trampled plants. More likely, it was a badger. She smiled in anticipation, and moved closer, slowly, a little apprehensively.

The hut was wooden, rotten, twisted as though the wind had leant against it. It had no door, the front was open, and it was so unreliable as a shelter that Mrs. Smith kept nothing there. Optimistically, but a little scared, she peered around the open end.

And gave a loud, hoarse cry!

The man’s eyes flew open, the whites of his eyes, his teeth white, bright against the dark skin and shaggy hair. He seemed about to yell, but then his mouth relaxed, and the wet redness of his lips stretched into a smile within his beard.

‘Ah! Good morning,’ he said, and twitched the nondescript grey greasiness of his coat around himself more tightly.

Mrs. Smith’s voice was faint, but now outraged. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get into my garden?’ She could not stop. ‘This is my  garden! Go away!’

The man held up his hand, open and limply curved, near his face. He was apologetic, conciliatory. ‘Must’ve given you a shock. You gave me a shock!’ He tried to laugh, and shuffled himself upright, to lean against the leaning wall.

‘But how did you get in?’ Her voice was stronger, more indignant.

‘Ah. Yes. Through the hedge ‑ a small hole. I took care, there’s no damage. You’ll see. It was a yaffle brought me, tapping up there ‑’ he pointed to the branches of the apple tree above their heads ‘‑ he was up there, where it’s all rotten. I heard him.’

‘Are you a birdwatcher, then?’ (It might explain his strange behaviour, and are these clothes his camouflage? Is he, then, respectable, unthreatening? But the stale, dirty smell of him almost overpowers her. He is nothing but a tramp.)

The man looked at her from under ragged eyebrows, and again his beard cracked open in a smile.

‘I watch them. And they watch me. Look there, at that robin. See how he’s listening, cheeky little beggar!’

The robin, indeed, appeared to be following every word. His head was tilted and his skinny black legs quivered, then he flew down to some crumbs that the man had sprinkled on the ground. Mrs. Smith was astonished. The robin had never come this close before. The man bent down and held out his hand, and the robin flew up onto it, clicking nervously in his throat. Entranced, Mrs. Smith almost forgot her fright and anger. But she recovered and asked the man, again, to leave. After all, this is her private property and he is trespassing.

‘Yes, ma’am, if that is what you want,’ he said, apologetically; he seemed to become more stooped, and she saw then that perhaps he wasn’t very well. He coughed a little, gently, without any fuss. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. You seem a kind lady. Many people would have thrown me out at once, but I can see that you like birds. If you would be good enough to let me rest here another ten minutes, then I’ll be on my way again. And leave you to enjoy your garden.’

Mrs. Smith felt, briefly, embarrassed compassion, and that perhaps she was being unreasonable; after all, he has done no harm. But she hardened her heart, because her secret garden had been violated.

‘Ten minutes, then, no more,’ she agreed, and turned away quickly.


The garden is long and curving, and she cannot see, from the house, if the man has left.  For the rest of the morning, she was anxious and unsettled. She wandered around the house, moved and dusted ornaments, and watered potted plants. She stared out of the windows at the back, decided they were dirty, and polished them with milky smears of lavender‑scented cleaner. For lunch she ate an apple and some cheese, and chopped up the pieces of cheese rind to put out on the bird‑table. She was intending to sit and read the newspaper, as she usually did after lunch, and doze a little, but the uncertainty became unbearable.

He was still there. He was sitting in front of the shed with his arms held out in front of him, unmoving and stiff like a wooden soldier. Her first thought was that something terrible had happened, that he had had a stroke, even that he was dead and cold in rigor mortis. Images of police and coffins and undertakers’ cars flashed in her mind. But then she saw the chaffinches about his feet and on his hand, and the robin on his knee.

‘Look,’ he said quietly, without turning his head. ‘Even Missus Blackbird’s here! She came down to show me her foot, you see, just as I was about to be on my way.’

Mrs. Smith looked; the female blackbird had only one foot, the other perhaps bitten off by a cat. Even as she looked, the lame bird flew up and teetered unsteadily on the man’s knee. Despite herself, Mrs. Smith was enchanted.

‘You wouldn’t have a few scraps to spare, would you?’ the man asked. ‘I’ve nothing left, myself, finished it all off yesterday.’

‘Oh. Yes. I see … I’ll … wait a minute, I’ll go and fetch something.’

She was flustered, unsure. She should force him to go. But he seemed to care about the birds, he just wanted to feed that poor hurt bird before he left. And did that mean he hadn’t eaten since yesterday? She hurried back to the house, puzzled and upset.

In the kitchen, she didn’t know what to do. She dithered, cut bread into cubes for the birds. She cut another slice to make a sandwich, put the slice away again, then looked in the cupboard and brought out a tin of soup. But that meant a bowl and spoon, and she’d have to wait, or he’d have to bring them to the house. So she cut another slice of bread, and made a sandwich, cheese and pickle. And then, at the last minute, she sliced up a tomato and put it inside the bread. She nearly forgot the bird‑food and had to return to the kitchen to collect it. By then, the birds had gone.

‘They’ll soon come back,’ he said, ‘when they see all this.’

‘The sandwich is for you.’

Thank you, missus. That’ll give me strength for my travels. You have been very good to me, missus, and I shan’t forget your kindness.’ He stood up and held out his hand. There was confusion as he tried to shake the hand with which she proffered the sandwich, and his teeth glinted briefly.

‘What’s your name, missus, that I may remember you by?’

‘Smith. Mrs. Smith,’ she said hesitantly, not really wanting him to know.

‘I’m Terry. Well, goodbye, then ‑ I’ll just eat this and go. It’s been very nice here, Mrs. Smith, you have a lovely garden.’

‘Thank you. It’s nice and private, too,’ she couldn’t resist adding. ‘But where shall you go?’

‘Oh, round and about, same as always.’ Terry was cheerful, dismissive.

‘Don’t you have a home?’ she asked, and regretted the silly question he was a down‑and‑out, a tramp. ‘A place to stay?’

‘Oh no. But I’ll find a shelter somewhere. Don’t you worry about me. You’re a very kind woman, to be concerned. But I shall find somewhere. Of course, not everyone’s as decent as you have been, and I can see their point of view. I mean, I can see why people don’t want someone like me hanging around in their nice quiet garden.’ He took a bite of the sandwich and chewed. ‘Nice bread. Your own tomatoes? Yes, I can quite understand why people are a bit nervous of having someone like me around, with me looking like this. Look a bit dangerous, don’t I?’ He laughed to himself, and shook his head. ‘But it can be a bit upsetting, though, sometimes. I just like to watch the birds …’

‘And you’re so good with them! You can’t be dangerous!’

She hadn’t meant to say that, the words just came out, but now that she had said it, it seemed true.

‘But who’s to know that?’ he asked. ‘Apart from you?’

Terry looked away into the distance, suddenly quiet and wistful. There was a long silence.

‘Yes. I see. Well ‑ perhaps …. it would be alright for you to stay a little bit longer, just a day or two. Two days, yes. No more.’

He swung round, delighted. For a moment, she thought he was going to grasp her arm.   ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘I don’t mean in the house. I mean down here ‑ in the hut. You do understand that, don’t you? I wouldn’t want you near the house.’

She immediately felt awful for saying that, but he didn’t seem to mind.

‘Of  course you mean in this hut! It’s a palace! I’ll just go and get my things.’

‘What things?’ She was shrill, imagined furniture and crockery appearing, the hut turned into a shanty‑town shack.

‘Saucepan, mug ‑ not much else. Stashed them in the field. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Smith, I can fend for myself ‑ plenty of wild stuff around to eat, catch a rabbit if I’m lucky.’ With a shock she realised that she hadn’t thought about his food and drink; he might have interpreted her invitation as including meals! Relief at her narrow escape from the potential misunderstanding blotted out further worry about his welfare. She suddenly wanted to be back in the comfort of her kitchen.

‘Two days. That’s all.’

‘You’re a kind and generous woman, Mrs. Smith. I could tell it the instant you began to speak.’ He waved goodbye, as she backed away up the path. ‘ I won’t trouble you. You won’t know I’m here. Oh ‑ and you won’t mind if I make a little fire, will you ? ‑ to boil up my pan. I’ll be very careful.’

She did mind, but of course she didn’t say so, just weakly shook her head. And of course she did know he was there. She thought of him constantly; she imagined him squatting on the ground, curled up in his coat. A faint scent of woodsmoke drifted into the house. She wondered where he got water, what he was cooking; perhaps even now he was sitting talking to the birds? How did he persuade them to come so close? She wished she could learn the trick. But she could never ask him. Why had she let him stay? She felt his presence, dark, smelly, choking up the bottom of the garden. He was homeless, he seemed harmless; but she wanted him to go. Sometimes her head hummed with fear and guilt. She must make sure he’d go!


For the whole of the next day she avoided the back garden. She tried to read, and to do some ironing, and she sat and listened to the radio. Stifled by the indoor air, she pottered in the front garden, finding minor tasks of tidying. A woman from the village, out walking her dog, was surprised when Mrs. Smith seemed disposed to chat, indeed seized on the woman’s perfunctory ‘good afternoon’ almost with eagerness. Such was Mrs. Smith’s relief at the apparent normality of this human contact, that she was almost overwhelmed by the need to tell about Terry and to ask for help. But a robin, that had been perching nearby on a branch, suddenly flew off towards the back garden, and Mrs. Smith was seized with the conviction that it was a spy. Terry’s presence was a dark secret that clamped her tongue, and she abruptly ended the conversation and rushed indoors. The incident was, of course, discussed widely, and those who were interested were gratified to have their view confirmed, that Mrs. Smith was alive and fit, but more than a little strange.

That night, it rained. Mrs. Smith awoke at two o’clock, to hear the rain drumming on the roof and spattering against her window. She imagined how the water would be blowing and dripping into the hut. He was due to leave today. She pulled the blankets over her head, trying to drown out the sound and stifle her fears; but she saw the pools of water on the floor and heard his chattering teeth. Then she was angry, and tossed and groaned. There were proper hostels, weren’t there, where he could go? She was not at all responsible for the wretched man, he had trespassed. He was trespassing or was she? Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them ….

In the morning, tired and cross, she marched resolutely down to the hut. She was determined: he must go.

‘Morning!’ he called cheerfully.’A bit wet last night, wasn’t it?’ He stood by his tiny fire, wrapped in a filthy rug. His clothes were draped around on bushes and hanging from the trees.

‘Oh? Did it rain?’ she asked, coldly unsurprised.

‘Mrs. Smith, you sleep the deep sleep of the just and good! Did it rain! It poured, Mrs. Smith, and your hut leaks like a sieve. Not that I haven’t had a very pleasant stay, though, and I’m very grateful.’

‘You’re off, then?’

He was cheerful, exuberant. ‘Just look at my clothes! All soaked! Now,’ he added, seeing she was about to speak,’ it’s alright, I know you want to get rid of me today. That was our agreement. You’re saying to yourself, why doesn’t he go to one of those hostels, aren’t you? You probably were even thinking that you should get some help to ask me to move along …’

‘Oh no!’ she interrupted, embarrassed; the thought had crossed her mind.

‘Yes, well, I quite understand, Mrs. Smith, I sympathise entirely. From the goodness of your heart, you gave me two days, two happy days, I might add, when I could be free to enjoy this lovely world. And now my time is up! But, as you can see, I have a problem ‑ just temporary, it’ll soon be put right. You are a sympathetic and sensible woman, Mrs. Smith, and I know you won’t mind if I wait an hour or two until my clothes are dry?’

Of course she minded; but what could she do? She couldn’t force him to put on wet clothes and go, he seemed quite old, he might catch pneumonia.

‘Well … only an hour or two. That’s all.’

She knew the clothes would take longer than that to dry. It would be quicker if she took them in and put them on a radiator. But the implications of that action crowded into her mind until she thought her head would burst with fear.

So she waited until lunchtime, then went back. He was still there. But he was dressed, and the place was tidy. He was sitting on the garden bench feeding a robin; stroking it. His back was towards her, and he was whispering softly, humming. The robin was quite unafraid, not even eating, just watching.

Mrs. Smith crept closer, trying to hear; she was drawn towards them, a curious calm flowed into her body. She sat down on the bench next to him and watched the bird. Terry didn’t acknowledge her, but kept on with his strange murmuring. The robin was quite unafraid, almost sleepy in its calmness. She watched them; she didn’t know how long she had been there but she gradually became aware that he had stopped stroking the robin. He was stroking her instead, gently, his hand running down from her shoulder to her elbow, lifting, running down her arm, over and over again. She was mesmerised, and ensnared, caught in the limelight of his great dark eyes. The robin flicked its wings and was gone, and Terry brought the palm of his other hand up towards her face. Small pieces of bread remained. His low chuckle stopped her in the act of bending her head, her mouth towards the food.

Mrs. Smith sat like a statue, her glazed eyes staring at the ground. She felt sick with fear and ‑ what else? After a few minutes of immobility, Terry removed his hand and stood up.

‘I’ll just stay a few more days, if you don’t mind.’ He was matter‑of‑fact. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could order me some milk and get a few pieces of chicken to stew with the veg. I’m partial to the taste of bird …’

She looked up at him; his eyes were dark and mocking.

‘You’re such a generous woman, Mrs. Smith. I can tell that you’re longing to look after me. You just don’t want to embarrass me by admitting it, do you? You’re too good, Mrs. Smith, too good.’

She stumbled a little when she stood, and he moved to help her; he held her shoulder, and his smile was red and wet.


Perhaps the milkman thought that Mrs. Smith had taken a fancy to milk puddings, but he left the extra milk and the weekly bill without comment. Perhaps the checkout girl at the supermarket was surprised that the frugal Mrs. Smith was now shopping more copiously than before, but she made no comment as she handed out the extra carrier bags.

The garden needed attention, and Mrs. Smith forced herself to behave normally, to go out and work in the back garden. These days, the garden seemed to be full of birds ‑ a greater spotted woodpecker, a heron, groups of twittering long‑tailed tits. Often, she would feel a strong force pulling her towards the bottom corner, and there she would find Terry, sitting and making his curious mutterings, surrounded by birds and even, once, a mouse. He would nod at her, let her stand beside him, and later, she would want to give him something, and he would accept it with his usual comments about the goodness of her heart and her generosity, and how she must tell him when he should go.

She noticed that he had weather‑proofed the hut with boards, and that he had built a hearth, beside which lay cut wood. But she didn’t want to know where he found wood or water, or how he managed for a toilet. The hole in the hedge was now obvious, but he seemed to have a strange ability to merge with his background and disappear; once, from her bedroom window, she had seen him briefly in the field, but then it was as though he had vanished, for suddenly he was no longer there.

She wouldn’t let him near the house, and she didn’t feed him every day. She wanted to pretend he wasn’t there. But once, when she had a feverish cold, she stayed in bed and later, when she went down, there was only one pint of milk on the doorstep. After that, he took his milk each day, although she never saw him. The thought that he came near the house disturbed her, and she checked the locks each night.


One bright day in early winter, she decided she’d ask him to help her cut the hedge. After all, she reasoned, indignant, prepared to make a scene if he refused, he took her food and gave nothing in return. Except the birds. Terry agreed to her request, without comment, but with a strange sideways smile. He worked hard, too hard, because soon he began to sweat and stink, and the smell of him was more than she could bear. Perhaps it was also more than he could bear.

‘Now, I know you don’t want me in your nice house, Mrs. Smith, and I can quite understand the reason why. It’s your nice, clean house, after all, nice and clean and spacious for a good‑hearted woman like yourself to feel at home in. But ‑ I was wondering ‑ and I’ll quite understand if you refuse ‑ if you would just let me use your bathroom, and a bit of soap and hot water. Just to wash off this dirt. But only if you don’t mind, of course. I don’t want to be in your way.’

She wished she had a downstairs toilet with a basin. But she led him in and showed him upstairs to her bathroom, and gave him a towel and soap. Her agitation was so great that she dropped a teacup in the kitchen, and she felt too sick to drink. Yet, when she thought of his dirty clothes, she crept upstairs to her bedroom, to find the old pullover of her husband’s, and the shirt that she had kept for a painting overall.

Terry had washed his hair and beard. His hair was sleeked back, pressed down; he looked cleaner, stronger, and this new version of him frightened her still more.

‘Here!’ she said, hastily thrusting the clothes at him. ‘And now, please go!’

‘Go?’ He looked surprised, but then he smiled. ‘Ah yes, of course. I see now. You have been very tactful, Mrs. Smith. You realised that I was embarrassed by my great debt to you. And now that I’ve helped you with the hedge, you’ve shown me that I’m free to leave.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘You’re a clever, good woman, Mrs. Smith. Even sending me out into the world clean and with new clothes.’

She was totally bewildered, by his words and his presence; he seemed to have grown, and filled the hall.

‘No … no … I didn’t mean … Please just leave the house … Oh, I don’t know. Please.’ She was near to tears, made little pushing movements against him, pushing him towards the door. She caught sight of a tin of meat on the table, that she had meant to give him, and pushed that at him, too. ‘Take this, too. Oh, go away! And thank you for your help.’

‘There, there, Mrs. Smith,’ he said, gently. ‘Don’t you fret, I don’t want to be in your way. I quite understand, and I’ll go back down to my little shed and keep out of your way.’

He reached out and held her shoulder, and made little murmuring noises in his throat, but she managed to pull away, and he let himself out of the back door.

Mrs. Smith sat at the kitchen table and sobbed hysterically. What could she do? Why was she unable to make him go? She avoided Terry for several days after that, although one evening she left some tins by the back door, and in the morning they had gone. She smelt woodsmoke and knew that he was there. In the evenings, she tried to read, or went up to her bedroom to watch television, but she imagined Terry wandering round the garden, staring at the house. One morning, she found a footprint in the soft ground beneath the sitting‑room window, and she pictured him prowling, peeping, peering. She was besieged! She drew the curtains tightly, and listened anxiously for noises in the night. She became thin and tense, and the supermarket checkout girl wondered if she was ill, but didn’t like to ask.

Then, one morning, after another agonised and sleepless night, she cursed herself for a weak woman. Today he would be made to go. She drove to the nearest charity shop, where she purchased, very cheaply, trousers, two shirts, a jacket and a scarf. She drove home, took up the carrier bag, and strode purposefully down the garden. She would not falter.

Terry was cooking: an appetising smell of stewing meat came from his pan. He stood up briskly.

‘Nice smell, isn’t it, Mrs. Smith? Blackbird stew!’ He grinned. He seemed taller, younger, stronger than before. She couldn’t think about what he’d said.

‘Terry. You have to go, I can’t have you here any more. Here are some clothes for you. Please pack up and tidy up. I’m going into town to the library after lunch, and I expect you to have gone by the time I return. If you haven’t, I’m going to call the police.’

She didn’t look at him as she shot out the words, rapidly like bullets, but she knew he would be smiling ruefully and shaking his head.

‘Mrs. Smith. Well, well, Mrs. Smith, what a wonderful little fireball you are! I knew that one day you’d have had enough. I respect your wishes, Mrs. Smith, I do indeed. You’ve been more than good to me. I’ll do as you say, Mrs. Smith.’

She looked at him then, quickly, to see if he was joking.

‘Oh yes. I’ll tidy up here and leave this little hut of yours, that’s been my own little home. It’s done me very well. And I’ll put on these fine new clothes and—’

‘Yes, Terry. Put them on and go!’ She couldn’t bear to listen any more. ‘I mean what I say. Goodbye!’

At that, she turned and walked away briskly, resisting the need to run. In the kitchen, she sat down and put her head in her hands, shaking, but proud of herself. She’d done it! And it seemed that she had won. Of course she wouldn’t call the police ‑ how could she? What would she tell them? That she had harboured this man whom she hated, for several weeks, had fed, watered and clothed him, had allowed him into her house ‑ and now wanted him to leave?

She thought how Terry had insinuated himself into her life. She pressed her hands over her ears to block out the memory of that compelling, curious humming that pulled her, the memory of the lassitude that swept through her, for which she dared not acknowledge, even to herself, her longing. The unsuccessfully repressed memory of his hands stroking her shoulder, her wing, smoothing her feathers, made her throat tighten with nausea. But he would go; she was certain. She couldn’t even dare to contemplate what would happen if he didn’t.


It is late afternoon, and the sky hangs grey and heavy as Mrs. Smith shuts away her car and carries her bag of library books to the front door. She is light‑hearted, free. As she searches through her handbag she realises that she has forgotten to pick up her key. There it is, inside, on the hall table. Irritated, but not dismayed, she goes back into the garage and looks under a pile of old newspapers. But the spare key isn’t there. She looks again, thinking it must have been displaced, and she looks under the empty petrol can and behind the box of softening cooking apples. Then, increasingly anxious, she hurries around the house, testing the back door, looking for an open window. But it is early winter, the windows are shut, and double‑glazed. And the toolshed, with the hammer, screw‑drivers and the spade, is locked.

She could walk into the village and ask someone to come and help, but she doesn’t want the bother of questions, and thanks, and cups of tea. Nor does she want people, now that the place is hers. She wanders down the garden, looking vaguely for a useful implement, and she thinks of Terry and what he might have left behind. Her heart beats a little faster, and she is breathless as she turns the corner (although she almost hopes that he is still there, to help her in her predicament).

But she can see at once that he has gone. The outside of the hut has been tidied, the ashes scraped up and scattered on the compost heap. She stands and looks round helplessly, wondering if she could find a piece of metal or a nail. And then she sees a light flash on, from the corner of her eye.

A light has been turned on in her sitting‑room. Startled, she hurries back up the path. She sees a figure ‑ Terry ‑ inside her house. But when she reaches the window, he has gone. She bangs loudly on the pane, and shouts his name. She scurries round to the back door and hammers with her fist. No‑one comes; but there is a light on in the kitchen. Gasping, she runs round to the side, and sees Terry through the window. His back is to her, he is standing by the kettle, pouring, making tea. The first few raindrops splatter on the ground.

‘Terry!’ she screams, banging with a pebble upon the window. ‘TERRY!’ Why he is in there she neither knows nor cares.  ‘Terry, let me in!’

He turns briefly towards the window. He is tall and straight, his teeth gleam through his well‑trimmed beard. He looks straight at her as he smiles. But perhaps he smiled only at his own smart reflection in the darkening glass, because he turns his back on Mrs. Smith.

The rain is suddenly heavy, wetting her hair, and she continues to bang loudly on the window‑pane. Terry picks up his tea and goes out of the kitchen, turning off the light. Mrs. Smith staggers weakly round the house, knocking and sobbing, but there is no response. The winter evening rushes in, and her hair is plastered to her head. The changing light patterns of the television flicker on her bedroom ceiling.

Mrs. Smith walks slowly down the path, slipping on old, wet leaves. The hut is quite dry inside, although it smells of rain‑soaked fox. Terry has piled rugs from the spare bedroom, and her favourite shawl, upon the plastic garden chair. He has even left her teabags, matches and a can of soup. He is so kind!


Shortlisted Ian St James Award 1993 (3700 entries), and published in Acclaim vol 2 no.10, 1994


Weaving: a gallery

‘Weaving it all together’.

Rugs, cushion covers, wall-hangings: here is a gallery of some of the weaving I have done over the years, on a peg-loom or a circular loom. I use fleece from our own sheep (Wensleydale, Portland, Herdwick of various ages – young sheep are blackish-brown, older sheep varying shades of grey – and Hebridean) and fleece given me by friends or bought at Cockermouth’s annual WoolFest (white or caramel-coloured Blue-faced Leicester, Castlemilk Moorit, Corriedale, Icelandic, Jacob, Ryland, Swaledale, White-faced Woodland, Welsh Black, Zwartbles).

shorn sheep june14 001


All fleeces are washed and carded, and woven or felted in their natural colour or with dyed Merino. Some rugs have panels of ‘hookie’ or have felted flowers, or are trimmed with materials such as sari silk or woven wool; sometimes the felted wool or strips cut from woolly jumpers are ‘quilled’ to make different shapes.


A few rugs and wall-hangings are also inspired by the Solway Firth – its Mosses (raised mires), the pebbles (or even the coloured slag) on the shores, the Moon-jellyfish that get cast up at certain times of year.


I make to order, or as the mood takes me, and sell privately and through Percy House Gallery in Cockermouth. You can contact me here or through Percy House.

Rectangular Herdwick rugs

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Various circular rugs


Rectangular rugs using other breeds

Cushion-covers, wall-hangings, and miscellaneous

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‘A Blank Canvas’


Laetitia sits by her drawing-room window. A small tornado of dust spins across the black tarmac of the garden and catches on the leaves of dandelions and shepherd’s purse that have pushed up through the cracks, but Laetitia’s eyes are closed and she does not notice.

She smiles as the chairman’s bluff, warm voice repeats the listener’s question to the panel: a garden can bring so many problems  but at the turn of a switch, the experts are there, like doctors, to offer comfort and advice. Her bony hands, knobby with arthritis, stir slightly on her lap as she deftly untangles and ties back sweet-peas. The salvias are thick with scarlet blooms, and the banked-up straw has worked wonders in suppressing weeds and slugs beneath the strawberries. Her narrow, bent back aches slightly, but she has been stooping to fill a punnet with the fruits that smell of summer.

Outside, starlings chase each other across the lumpy grey surface, unafraid of the tabby cat that sprays the fence. But Laetitia’s new garden is a rich mixture of shapes and colours, through whose lush profusion the striped cat stalks like Rousseau’s tiger.


The trouble had started when Adams had become obsessed with vegetables. For years, he had cossetted the herbaceous border and pruned the shrubs with deliberation and care; he had attacked slugs and greenfly, and dosed the leather-jackets in the lawn; he had planted out the summer annuals with artistry and skill. He knew that Laetitia had liked to watch him, and she had sometimes tapped on the window and waved, so that he had nodded and adjusted his cap, his cheeks warming faintly with pleasure. The obsession with vegetables, however, had germinated in his old age and had rooted and strength-ened even as he grew more frail.

At first he had confined himself to a few spring onions and radishes, sneaking them into a corner of the furthest flower-bed.  But gradually the obsession had grown within him, spreading like a gall. He had become more ambitious, he had fretted about the waste: there was so much land, wasted on useless flowers. Bare soil should be made into food: soil and sunshine and a tiny seed could be transformed into something good to eat. What he really wanted to grow were waxy white potatoes and runner beans. He liked the idea of beans with their scarlet flowers, the bamboo supports peaked together like a wigwam. And perhaps a few carrots; they looked good on a plate, meat and three veg., white, green and orange, as pretty as any bed of annuals. He’d need to ask her, of course. She might not like it. It would need some thinking about, how to tackle her. It was her garden, after all, though he never saw her in it. He scarcely spoke to her, except to get his money. But she saw him, and saw the garden; she sat there in her chair, watching from her window. He was sure she hadn’t seen the radishes, but beans were tall — he’d have to ask.


Laetitia heard the latch on the garden gate, and watched as Adams wheeled in his bicycle. He was looking old, she thought; he was bent like an old twig with cracking bark. His face was gaunt beneath the earth‑coloured tweed cap, and his eyes were almost hidden behind the thick‑lensed glasses.He pushed the bike slowly along the path, his knees bent, his feet sticking out sideways as though … as though he had wet himself! She covered her mouth with her hand as she smiled, then rebuked herself and pulled her navy cardigan down over the top of her pleated skirt. She supposed he would be coming in this morning to ask her about growing more vegetables.

In the evenings, when she made her customary slow and solitary progression around her garden, she had noted the radishes and spring onions hidden behind the delphiniums, but she hadn’t minded because she liked to watch the crimson spheres and thin white columns grow.

But the other day she had watched as Adams had stared for a long time at the far end of the herbaceous border, and had then paced out imaginary rows. He might as well, she murmured to herself, he might as well. Just a few, and as long as the vegetables look attractive. But no cabbages or brussel sprouts, they’re so  common.

Later in the summer, when the evenings were long and balmy, she took up her two sticks and slowly negotiated the back steps into the garden. A dog barked briefly next door, and a car revved in the road, but here bats flittered round the eaves and a blackbird, relieved of this year’s offspring, sang from a bough of the plum-tree;  Laetitia stopped to listen, a smile lighting up her wrinkled, sagging face. The new vegetable patch was prolific and it didn’t really matter that Adams had planted a row of dwarf beans behind the lavender hedge, they were not visible from the house. The fuchsias were beautiful this year,  dense bushes of  flamboyant pendants. But she did wonder why the Shasta daisies, that usually reared up at the back, had not yet appeared;  she must remember to ask Adams to keep an eye on them and to replace them, if necessary, with something tall.

Adams now came to work with several carrier bags tucked into his bicycle basket, and Laetitia sat at the window and watched as he knelt by the rows of carrots, or gently pinched the swelling beans to test their size. The weighted bags hung from the handlebars when he left, and, once or twice, he knocked at the door and gave her samples of his produce, the fruit of his labours and her soil. But her fingers were too stiff to prepare them properly, she preferred the frozen or tinned varieties, so she smiled and thanked him, and told him to keep the vegetables for himself. She wondered, idly, what he did with so much produce  — perhaps he sold a few, to augment his gardener’s pay.  She couldn’t begrudge him that for he had bought the seeds and, if he made a small profit from his work, well, he deserved it, he had served her well.

In the autumn, while Laetitia day‑dreamed and listened to concerts on Radio Three, Adams enthusiastically mulched the beds. He spread compost, then dug it in with handfuls of bonemeal, and he mounded up soil around the leeks. His wiry old body quivered with the effort, and his face was flushed with excitement.

But, when Spring arrived, and the pale green swords of the emerging delphiniums mysteriously shrivelled and died, and the cornflowers and campanulas failed to appear, he was quick to knock on the kitchen door and explain that the soil was starved of nitrogen, even the compost hadn’t helped. He talked quickly, animatedly (Laetitia had never heard him talk so much) about rotation, and leguminous plants, and nature’s cures. She must not worry, he said, the slits of his eyes glittering behind his glasses, he would cure the soil organically, that was the modern thing, and she would see the plants flourishing again. He would make the desert bloom, he said: she should  just be patient, if she would.

Laetitia was uneasy, but she would have to let him do as he suggested because there was nothing she could do herself. She marvelled as Adams skipped around the garden like a spring lamb. He hoed and raked and planted, he hammered nails and ran wire supports along the fences. Barricades of thorny rose‑clippings, cages of wire‑netting, flickering bird-scarers: the garden was transformed. And, as May advanced to June, feathery leaves, spiralling tendrils and grey‑green spikes appeared, in rows, and clusters, and climbing up the fences. The dark bulbous heads of beetroot bulged above the earth. Huge orange trumpets bloomed among broad hairy leaves, sweet‑scented flowers of broad beans and shy white peaflowers all nodded in the summer breeze — then turned brown and withered, to give life to their fruits. And the herbaceous border contained not one uselessly decorative bloom.

Now, Adams came three times a week instead of two, and would take no extra money. He harvested in a frenzy, pulling, lifting, cutting. His carrier bags were so full they split and burst in the middle of the road; he abandoned them and their contents in the gutter. Once, from her bedroom window, Laetitia saw him leave the bulging bags by someone’s dustbin.

Soon he gave up the pretence of coping with the harvest, and the vegetables swelled and rotted with old age. But he could not stop: Laetitia watched helplessly as he transplanted leeks, and sowed another row of lettuce. She longed desperately for pelargoniums and sweet peas —  but the huge peapods turned white and wrinkly, the broad beans grew broader and the radishes bolted behind the gardener’s back. She tried to hope that Adams knew what he was doing, that the soil was thankfully sucking up nitrogen, or whatever it was, in preparation for next year’s antirrhinums; but she knew that Adams’ obsession, and his vegetables, were rampaging uncontrolled.

In the autumn, when Adams had piled  yet another compost heap with yellowed pea‑vines and courgettes that had become marrows, and had begun to lift the last of the potatoes, Laetitia rapped on the kitchen window with her teaspoon, and imperiously beckoned him to come into the kitchen. She demanded, in her thin clear voice, to know whether the experiment had worked:  she wanted her flowers reinstated.

For a moment, Adams stood quite still with shock. His bald head shone and his eyes glittered feverishly as he attempted to straighten up and look his employer in the eye. He waved his arms stiffly from the elbow, and shuffled his sturdy boots.

Not yet, he said, these things took time. He would need to test the soil, he said; he would have to get a kit, and test the soil scientifically. He was sure the cure was working well, but she should not expect too much in just one growing season. Sprouts, now, brussel sprouts, they might just do the trick. And all‑year spinach, that would keep the cure ticking over. He could, of course, try for a few frost‑hardy perennials, but …. He looked out of the window, and shook his head doubtfully.

Laetitia knew she could not win. She let him return to his potatoes, and she made herself a cup of tea. She took out her favourite bone-china cup that was hand‑painted with blackberries and purple plums, and she half‑filled it with dark smoky‑flavoured Lapsang then carried it carefully to her chair.

She sipped her tea and mourned her flowers. And she watched as Adams mounted his bike and rode off, slowly, down the road, his bent legs scarcely propelling the aged machine. Soon he would take his holiday; but afterwards, it would all begin again — the mulching, and the trenching, and the obliteration of all that she had loved. She sighed, and put down her cup, and she lifted the heavy telephone directory onto her lap.


The builder was stout and ruddy‑faced, an Irishman who said that yes, to be sure, he’d do it in a day. He knew a gang, he said, who’d lay tarmac in a flash. It took them three days, but it was that digger there, you see, the corner was a bit tricky, and yes, no indeed, the rubbish would be gone tomorrow.

The noise of their machines and the smell of hot tar had filled the house, and neighbours had stopped to stare, but now the garden was good and flat, an easily cared-for, blank, unpainted canvas.

Laetitia closed the curtains, and poured out a tiny tot of brandy. Her hand shook a little and she found it hard to hold the glass. She turned on the television, and then sat down in her favourite chair, lifting her legs up onto the footstool, and tucking her skirt around her knees. The credits rolled silently up the screen, and while she waited for the programme to start, about the gardens of Sissinghurst and Stowe, she wrote out a cheque to Mr. Adams, calculated for one month’s wages at four days a week. Tomorrow, if the weather was fine, she would make an expedition to the Post Office. She might even treat herself to a  copy of ‘The Gardener’s World’.


(This story was short-listed for the Wells Festival of Literature short story competition in 2002)

Giacometti’s Finger


You do not need to talk in a gallery.  Dim white spaces rustle and whisper above polished floors. Peopled spaces, where muted sounds jostle to be heard, the sounds of thoughts and whispers, and footsteps, footsteps slow and soft or with positive heels.  Listen! To the negative spaces positively bursting, pushing at the limits, bustling with half-heard phrases from unheard minds.

Listen to the question marks hanging like hooks: ‘What am I supposed to think?’ ‘What was happening in his mind?’

Feel how the minds reach out tentatively yet must forbid the longing hands to touch. ‘Please do not touch’. It is not allowed. But the sculptor touched, moulded, daubed and fingered the plaster, and later caressed the rough and dully-gleaming bronze. Where his finger-tips smoothed the surface, the light now reflects. Shadows lie in the grooves, in the valleys of the mind.

Thought is uninterrupted in the shadows of my mind, for no one needs to speak. And we may not touch.


Do you see that one over there, with the short,

orange hair? She’s just dying to …


 I need my tea.

Someone sat on my chair

while I was lifting a piece of paper

that had dropped

on the floor.


… She’s going to touch it. Look!

She must be stopped.

Ah, she’s seen us watching, she saw your glare.


There were only three words on it.

 A tiny piece of paper,

torn from a notebook.

Royal Academy. Where?


Where are we at? That’s

not to be indulged in,

such existentialist chat.

We are here.

I am, therefore I see.

That orange-haired one sees, but does not

believe it is.

So she needs to touch. And feel.

To be sure it’s there.


I don’t know what you’re on about.

I need my tea.


I saw how he crumpled the piece of paper that he had picked up, stuffed it into the pocket of his navy serge trousers. His body bulges about his belt — even the sculptor’s grim humour would be unable to reduce him to manageable proportions; to an elongated stick-torso lacking viscera, not at all.

That paper fell from my notebook.

I wrote a simple question: ‘Where?’

The woman was looking in a shop-window, looking at shoes that I thought she could not afford, perhaps yearning for expensively-shod feet. I could have asked another man, but women can be more sympathetic, so I came and stood beside her with my question extended. I made myself unthreatening, a genuinely questing face.  She was surprised, but it didn’t take her long to understand, for she glanced along the street and then pointed.

She mouthed, ‘That way,’ silently.

Her mouth and face made exaggerated movements. Behind us the traffic roared and a bass-beat drummed from a passing car, vibrations trembling in the diesel haze.

I smiled and cupped my hand behind my ear, and formed my lips into another question: ‘What?’

Oh!’ she replied, out loud, and ‘Sorry.’ She shouted a little to help me understand: ‘That way, opposite Fortnum and Mason’s. You can’t miss it. You’ll see the pillars.’

I saw the pillars. A small girl clasped one, hugging it as she watched a pigeon that waddled, fat-breasted. From ground-level, adult legs and torsos are pillars (but not so the body of the one who wants his tea, the one who has my paper and the spheroid frame, enceintured like a figure-eight).

A child’s head must angle back on its shoulders, looking up at tall figures scurrying past; but here figures are cast in freeze-frame, rooted to the bare bronze like trees anchored in brown forest mulch.

Tall trees, stirred into violent motion by the battering wind. Children were shrieking in the wind, tilting their bodies, arms spread, trying to fly; the wind was snatching away their shouts and laughter, stimulating their living bodies with its own furious energy. Ahead, the trees bent and roared, and I walked silently away, swiftly fleeing that memory, in amongst the tall dark trunks. Deeper and deeper into the dimness, until the dark, comforting pillars remained unmoved by the shaken canopy and the sounds were muted. Not even a blackbird chirred in warning when I leant against a living trunk and stared into the unspeaking future.

But she was moved by my shaking body. She came to me from the darkness, her pale beauty softly shining with green-white moth-light among the columns. A ghost? A mirage of things ahead? I could not tell, but she came to me, smiling; like ivy she wrapped her arms around me and bound me to the grey, smooth bark, holding me until I was still. And I wept because I could not speak, but she laid her fingers against my neck. She leant her head against my chest and pressed her ear against my throat and when, unspeaking, I said, ‘I love you’, she entwined me in her pale blonde hair like moonbeams and said, ‘I love you, too.’

She heard my silent words and gave me hope, but soon afterwards her pale column of light grew dim and dark and she left me. She left me hope, and she went away. But she couldn’t take away the memory: the memory of the misguided missile, flying in play, that had once homed in soundlessly on my home of sound. The memory,  of children screaming, clutching at each other and at the remnants of my voice — as I lay with shattered throat and screamed, unscreaming …

Is he ill? That one over there,

fluttering his hands?

Who shakes, and pulls at his poloneck,

and makes strange faces.

Is he ill? Is he having a fit?

‘Excuse me, sir, are you unwell?’


The one with orange hair watches,

sees how – in answer to the question –

he takes out his notebook

from the pocket of his jacket.

His pencil scratches; he writes,

at once becoming calm.

She sees, and touches on

his inability.


A piece of paper with three words,

‘I am alright.’

But there was a streak of white, a scar.

A mark at his throat.

A sign of previous harm.


I had become uncalm. I make odd groaning sounds in my haste to explain and reassure, and my mouth snarls. But now he has my two notes to compare, no longer to puzzle over because all is clear. People had stared, sensing an interesting distraction, but now they have all moved on, and the dim white spaces softly rustle with unspoken sound. For no one — save the watchful attendants — need talk in a gallery.

Around us the thin figures stare into the void from tiny, pedunculate heads, and men stride ceaselessly, locked forever in a single measuring pace; forever trapped in that moment of their silence. We — they and I — are trapped inside our heads. We may not speak.

But surely, here, this is one who calls? His long arm points, his finger outstretched, his left arm curves behind, beckoning.  I can almost hear his voice, urging us, begging us to ‘Hurry! Come and see!’

He is urgent in his need to show, his finger straight and statuesque as a black pointer’s nose. I look to see what mysteries we should see, but he points only at passing people, spectators moving past his gaze, schoolgirls with sketchbooks, a drifitng greybeard. A young woman with orange hair.

And then I see the story that he seeks to show. He does not gesticulate to indicate but to create: multiple shadows at his feet, grey radii on a whitened base. The left arm grasps an invisible world, holds it against his shoulder; its shadows, each like a succeeding movement caught by stroboscopic light, grope straight-armed, then curve and pull, enfold.

‘Come close,’ he is saying,’ let me put my arm around your shoulder and show you the world.’

But with his other hand he points, and the shadows of the pointing hand stir a memory and I search my mind for connecting images. I stare and stare, and crouch down, mesmerised by the silent drama at my feet.

A living hand lays a small object, a lipstick case, near the shadow’s free end. The woman in black with the orange hair crouches by the sculpture’s toes.

‘That’s a fish, she says quietly. ‘In a moment he will strike and catch it.’

She smiles and leans forward, and her short bright hair is lit like the sun that breaks through dark clouds. At my instant of identification, she had seen it, too. My hands are rigid, I feel my face and mouth contorting  and, in frustration, I push at the sound, trying to force it out.

‘A heron,’ she whispers.

I nod, struggling and spasmodic.

‘Yu – uh – ss.’ I say. It is very loud.

She laughs softly. ‘Ssh. We’ll get thrown out for talking.’

She reaches out to help me to my feet, for I am weak with disbelief.


Excuse me, madam.

Please don’t –


Hush, leave them be.

They grope

at shadows only; things that cease

existence when the lights

are out.  See

how she needs to touch

his throat.

To feel.

To be sure

his voice is there.



This story was inspired by the shadows on the floor at the Royal Academy’s exhibition of Giacometti’s sculptures in 1998

giacommetti man pointing


The envelope merely stated: ‘To the young lady who lives in the basement flat’.

There was a single sheet of paper inside, upon which was written a poem, in firm black ink. Catriona read it quickly, unable to take in the words.

To “The Lady‑with‑the‑Sky‑in‑her‑Hair”

Your black hair, glossy,

Reaches out

And entwines the blue sky,

Wraps it

In shining fingers

And pulls it down

Around your head,

Like a blue, silk shawl.

You are a celestial pillar,


In beautiful, fierce anger.

And even the cat

Is cowed.’

There was no signature. She read it again, and now she knew who had written it. She saw herself, raised high above the viewer’s head, enhanced through his vision, and she was moved and excited. But she was also fearful, that he should interpret her in this way, and thus ensnare her.

As she folded the piece of paper, she saw another line of writing, on the back: ‘What you need is a Tom!’ Even as she read this suggestion (or was it a proposition?), she thought she knew what was in the black plastic sack, upon which the envelope had been propped: and she was disgusted.


There was another dead cat in the lane behind the terrace. Catriona could just make out its shape, where it lay stiffly in the mud. She hung her tights on the washing‑line, then leaned over the railings to stare down. The lane was a dark, rutted gorge, its cobbles long since displaced by heavy lorries and an endless sequence of men with road‑drills, spades and inappropriate tarmac. It was bounded by stone walls that were pierced by wooden doors, some strong and locked, like Catriona’s, others broken and hanging. Behind the walls and their backgardens and dustbins rose even higher walls, four storeys high, of stern Victorian terraces.  The cat, once so large and vivid orange, was diminished and darkened by the surrounding stone. Would this corpse, too, suddenly vanish overnight?

The terrace in which Catriona lived curved around the top of the hill, so that the windows and back‑door of her basement flat opened onto a steeply‑sloping lawn. Her garden was small ‑ the grass ragged, the few shrubs alive but stunted, and the patch of soil that nourished nasturtiums and daffodils was adequate but sooty ‑ but she was happy to use it as an extension to her tiny flat. Yet it was a constant irritation that the neighbourhood cats used it, too. It was not only their noise that irritated (and sometimes, in the night, frightened) her: it was their casual acceptance that any patch of sunlight was theirs, that the dustbin and shrubs were parish boundaries to be sprayed with pungent stink, and that the powdery soil had been provided as a public cats’ convenience. The cats clawed open dustbin sacks, then sat and chewed, heads tilted, at stringy offal and kitchen towel soaked in miscellaneous juices; they formed small gangs that paced, with twitching tails, glaring at the opposition; and they hunted for newly‑parked cars, searching out the warmest engine, and stamped their muddy feet in triumph on the bonnet.

Catriona hated them. She rapped on the window or she opened the door and threw things. Once, she threw her shoe and, so powerful was her anger, the shoe sped the length of the garden and dropped over the railings, out of sight. When she went to fetch it, treading cautiously down the steep, slimy steps towards the wooden door, the cat (amused and undeterred) peered down at her descending head, and purred.

There was so much food: not merely carelessly thrown junk, but purposely‑placed food, offered by cat‑owners and by cat‑less people who felt sorry for the strays. There were little bowls and dishes, and opened tins. When Catriona walked down the street, past the rows of doorbells and empty milk‑bottles, there was even the occasional saucer left on a top step, the surface of the milk crusty with floating dust. There was also the man who put out meat. She had seen him in the back lane; he looked about sixty, and wore a suit, and he came out of the green back gate, the one with peeling, scabby paint, the house that had sixteen door‑bells at the front. She wouldn’t have paid him much attention except that he held out a bowl and called for the cats in a strangely high, thin voice. The cats clearly recognised the call: furry heads lifted and turned, backs were arched and stretched, and cats of all colours leapt lightly off resting places, slunk around corners, and bounded towards the bowl. The man’s feet were lost in a multicoloured snarl of fur, and within seconds the bowl was empty. A few of the lucky ones ran off to sit and crunch at bones, little delicate bones that splintered like chicken. Catriona hoped they’d choke.

drawing from 'cats'

There was a lunchtime in early spring when Catriona escaped from her office to sit in the unexpected sunshine in the park. The trees were still bare, but blue and white crocuses were piled like  carpets on the lawns. She chose a bench in the sun, and sat with eyes closed, head tilted towards the imagined heat. But soon a shudder indicated that someone  had joined her on the bench. She opened her eyes slightly and saw a man, and tried to suppress her annoyance that she could not be permitted to sit alone. But then it seemed that the man was familiar, and she peeped again, and puzzled. She was almost sure it was the cat‑man from down the lane, but he wore an unfamiliar tweed jacket and a matching cap, and he was a little older than she had thought. It was annoying, the way he fidgeted and muttered, and she was just making up her mind to move when he said:

‘Excuse me … I wonder if you could help me. What is the name of the spice that one obtains from crocuses? Or croci, I wonder if one should say?’

‘Oh! I’m sorry … I don’t ‑ ‘

‘You see, I’ve temporarily forgotten ‑ wretched memory!’ His voice was gentle, self‑deprecating. ‘It’s from the stamens ‑ you know, the yellow rods, inside.’

‘Yes, I know which are the stamens.’ Catriona was offended. ‘Saffron.’

‘Ah yes. Saffron.’

‘Why? Are you thinking of collecting some?’ She was prepared to be judgmental.

‘Oh no! I merely needed the word. Thank you.’

The man turned away, and watched the squirrel that had been stopping and starting among the flowers. His lips were moving, though, and occasionally his hands twitched impatiently.

The squirrel reared on its hind legs, then dropped down and scuttled towards a tree. The man gave a pleased little snort.

‘Did you see?’ he asked. ‘That’s what I find hard to capture. The skeleton itself must flow, and loop and turn.’ He was trying to explain with his freckled, bony hands, as well as with his words. ‘But the words must flesh it out, do you see ‑ almost disguise the structure. That’s what I can’t get right.’

Catriona was embarrassed; she was prepared to dismiss him, possibly as a victim of some sort of dementia. Yet he seemed harmless, and one didn’t often meet interesting people in the park.

‘You don’t see what I’m getting at, do you? Listen!

Sinuous snake‑shape,


through saffron ‑

you see there, that’s why I needed your help ‑

through saffron.

That suddenly curls,

furry fluffball,

grey among blue and yellow


uncoiling and stretching

its bristling, prickling

whiskered tail …

I haven’t got any further, yet.’

‘Yes. I do see. I think.’ Catriona wasn’t sure whether to be impressed, or wary of the old man’s pretensions. ‘Have you done poems for other animals?’ She tried to think of a suitable example. ‘How about a cheetah? Or an ordinary  cat? You’re fond of cats aren’t you?’

Catriona was sure it was the same man; but his face closed and his expression was blank.

‘Fond of cats? No. No, I’m not fond of cats. There is no fondness in them, they do not reciprocate ‑ they can only take . Good heavens, look at the time!’ (He didn’t even consult his watch.) ‘I must be going. Goodbye!’

And he was gone, moving surprisingly briskly through the lunchtime strollers.

It was a few weeks before Catriona saw him again. She hid behind the damply‑hanging towels and watched as he called the cats. This time, he held the bowl high, out of reach, and he pushed the cats aside with his foot so that one, and only one, could receive his gift. He walked backwards, encouraging the brown Burmese to follow, enticing it in through the garden door. The graceful animal stepped daintily out of sight.

He didn’t notice Catriona that time, but he saw her, a few days later, when the scarred grey cat leapt over the railings.

Catriona had flung open the door and chased the cat down the lawn. The animal bundled itself together, then unfolded like a flying fox and hurled itself at the far wall. It scrabbled and bunched its body against the stone, then pulled itself up, to sit, panting and glaring at its pursuer. She burst out laughing at its anger and then realised the cat‑man was below her in the lane. He held a plastic bin‑bag that hung heavily as the wind rattled rubbish on the stones.

‘No, I’m not fond of them,’ he said, ‘and nor, it seems, are you!’

‘It was ‑ defaecating ‑ on my lawn.’

The elderly man continued staring up at her, wordlessly, until she became uncomfortable.

‘Mmmm …. a lion rampant, gold on green.’

‘It looked more like a suction pad with claws,’ Catriona said, puzzled, but trying to be helpful.

He looked at the angry cat, and smiled. ‘Yes. Oh yes. That’s a nice idea. Thank you so much.’

Catriona smiled back, and then went inside.


She poked the black bag with her foot, but it was ungiving and hard. She patted it cautiously with her hand and its contents were curved and tall, so, since the bag was not heavy,  she took it, and the letter, downstairs to her flat. She read again the poem ‑ and was no longer frightened. She cut the string and rolled back the neck of the bag, and stared into the unblinking glass eyes of the ginger tom. His broad face glared at her, his back was arched, his hair bristled stiffly round his neck, and every part of his body signalled ‘Keep off!’ Catriona stroked him gently; so cold and dead, yet skilfully reincarnated to such heat and fury. His legs, fixed firmly to the stand, were stiff and straight. She expected him to raise his tail and spray the cupboards, marking the kitchen as his territory.

The ginger tom, captured, then recaptured in such rampant gold perfection. As she, too, had been immortalised in words, and petrified, azure‑tipped.

It was not until the weekend that Catriona felt confident enough to respond. The poem had been unsigned, there had been no address, but the gift had laid a burden of uncertainty upon her that must be cleared. In her handbag she carried a small replica of a fossil fish that she had purchased at the Museum gift shop and had wrapped in blue metallic foil. The bones of the fish, compressed and preserved by aeons of hardening sediment, were starkly drawn as though by an engineer’s pen.

Catriona’s feet crunched on the poet’s basement step and, thoughtfully, she pushed aside the small, crushed shoulder‑blade with her shoe. She rang the bell, but there was no answer, and the curtains were closed. A girl, going up the front steps, saw her and told her that he had gone.

‘Three days ago. He’s flitted ‑ he was way behind with the rent.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘No, he didn’t tell anyone, just skipped. I hope he’s got somewhere to go, though, he left loads of stuff behind. He must’ve been a bit weird, though ‑ do you know what they found in there?’

‘No.’ But she could guess.

‘Cats! The place was full of dead cats, all stuffed and mounted. Gross!’

Catriona shook her head in amazement, laughing with the girl, and walked away. She wondered if there had been a stuffed squirrel, too.


This story was published in Chapman, Scotland’s Quality Literary Magazine‘, volume 81, in 1995.


‘Figure in a Landscape’




figure in a landscape cover

ISBN 0-7472-5296-3
Headline Review
Published 1996

Available from Amazon

In her cottage on a remote Scottish island, Harriet Falmer has almost forgotten that solitude is not the normal human state. Conscious of the burden of guilt that drove her here, she lives from day to day, working in her garden, fishing, exploring the hills – herself as much a part of the landscape as the curlews and the deer.

Apart from occasional trips to a distant village, her contact with the outside world is limited, and contact with her one-time husband and her lost son take place only in her imagination.

Harriet is dismayed when zoologist Jos Allen sets up camp nearby, his purpose a study of seal behaviour patterns. In a rage she tries to sabotage his work, but he won’t easily be dislodged: it is Harriet herself who is forced to move to a bizarre new dwelling when a storm destroys her cottage.

Her new haven, and the changes that have come, start a healing process that brings a sense of purpose to Harriet’s life.

Extraordinary impact … we shall hear more of Ann Lingard – Birmingham Post

A simple but powerful story – Chapman

‘The Fiddler’s Leg’


fiddler's leg cover

ISBN 0-7472-5297-1
Headline Review
Published 1996

Available from Amazon (for an exorbitant price – ‘rarity value’, perhaps?) or from the author (for considerably less – contact me)

Julian Kersland, a talented but crippled violinist and leader of a baroque ensemble in Glasgow, is the focus of the needs and theories of a diverse range of people. Early on, his school chaplain convinced him that the accident to his leg and the subsequent pain were necessary for the expression of his musical talent. Now, when Julian is in his 30s and wondering where his talent should lead him, both Margaret Gillespie, a solicitor’s wife, and Isobel Hutchinson, a medical student, are intrigued and attracted by his disability and his good looks. Julian, unaware that those around him see the leg rather than the man, is approaching crisis. He becomes obsessed by Isobel, harried by Margaret and tortured by the trauma associated with his talent. But one evening he tells Tom, a Scottish folk-fiddler, the story of his accident. In confronting the truth, he can begin the journey to acceptance.

Ann Lingard’s powerful new work proved to be my favourite book this year … extremely well written. – Helen Peacocke, Oxford Times.

‘Otmoor 2000 AD: a reflection on an English landscape and its community’

otmoor2000 cover


edited by Bruce Tremayne and Ann Lackie (Lingard)

Published by The Otmoor Group, 2001; ISBN 0-9539682-0-0

This is a book about Otmoor, a unique area just North-West of Oxford. Bruce Tremayne, who initiated the project, wrote in 2000: ‘It is rare indeed in lowland Briain at the turn of the second millennium to find an area of countryside so relatively untouched as Otmoor.’

And thanks to the RSPB and their large wetland Reserve, and the MOD, whose firing range ensures that a large area remains ‘relatively untouched’, Otmoor still (in 2017) remains unique and very special.

The book includes chapters on:

A Sense of Place‘. Bob Bixby

A Boggy Common‘. Bruce Tremayne

Geology. Chris Cheetham

A poem, ‘Swanbeat‘. Sue Edginton

The Last 200 years. Chris Cheetham and others

Wildlife. Ann Lackie (Lingard) with interviews and contributions from local people

Farming. Richard Hawes, Chris Cooper & Alistair Helliwell

The Human Population. Ainsworth Harrison

Village Reminiscences. Betty Roberts

Past Threats, Future Fears, and Hopes. Bruce Tremayne


‘Lifetimes’ : Personal stories from the Lothian Birth Cohorts


During 2012 I had the enormous pleasure of visiting and meeting some of the participants from the Lothian Birth Cohort studies – older people in their 70s and 90s. I listened to them, and wrote their ‘life-stories’, as part of the ongoing studies on ageing and cognition in which they are participating.

This ‘Lifetimes‘ project was in collaboration with Professor Ian Deary and his team at the Centre for Cognitive Ageing and Cognitive Epidemiology (CCACE), Department of Psychology, University of Edinburgh,  and was made possible by funding from Age UK’s Disconnected Mind project and CCACE.

As Professor Deary explains:

“In June 1932 and June 1947, nearly all 11-year-olds who were attending school in Scotland sat a test of verbal reasoning. In the past decade, over 1500 of these people – now in older age – were recruited to the Lothian Birth Cohorts 1921 and 1936.
The rich scientific data from these studies have contributed to our knowledge about why some people’s thinking skills age better than others. Each life, though, has stories, details and colour that are not captured by questionnaires, medical tests and brain scans.
In ‘Lifetimes’, both the participants and scientists from the Lothian Birth Cohort studies tell us about their lives and influences.”

These fascinating, amusing and inspiring ‘lifetimes’ are now available as a free paperback (contact CCACE for further information), as ebooks, and online.

At the Lifetimes event at the Midlothian Science Festival in October 2014, the book – and the process and ethics of writing ‘lifestories’ was discussed by the audience, and met with a very interested and favourable response, and discussion.