by Guest Blogger | 12 Feb, 2018 | Uncategorized
A man in an anorak shuffles down the carriage. He sits heavily as if cut from a rope. A girl looks up, shifts and frowns into her book. He glances at her. His face looks shrunken, as though once bigger.
The train picks up speed, sways on the tracks. Stiffly, like a man with his neck in a cast, he turns to the girl and mutters,
‘Does this train go to Aberdeen?’
‘Aberdeen?’ the girl looks up from her book. Her skin flushes. ‘Yes it does.’ She moves closer to the window and continues to read.
‘Where are you getting off?
She glances up, ’Edinburgh,’ and carries on reading
‘Oh lovely. Is that where you’re from?’
She closes the book on her hand. ‘No I’m from Australia.’
‘Oh lovely. You’ll be exploring all the places then.’
‘Yeh,’ she frowns into her book. Her skin flares as though allergic to the questions.
‘Oh lovely.’ He strokes his knee under the table.
The train trundles on. He stares at the world slipping by the window, face blank as ply board. He pulls a leather bound book from the anorak, eyes unmoving. The book has “Holy Bible” printed in gold on the spine. His pale hand places it down. LOVE is tattooed, one blurred letter on each digit. Half his forefinger is gone, stumped at the end. He stares at the book cover.
The train glides into a red brick station. It steams and waits grumpily as passengers trail on. People hug on the platform, muffled in jackets and hats. Voices rise and swirl like ghosts of their creators. Electronic announcements boom steadily, seeping from the bricks.
A passenger with a boxer dog approaches the table opposite. He hustles the dog under the table.
‘Get under there boy,’ he says in a low voice as if not to embarrass the dog.
The dog circles urgently, wrapping the lead around its self before slumping on the floor.
More newcomers peer down the carriage in search of seats. Bags weigh down their arms. With them comes a chill that hasn’t yet died in the heat and stillness of indoors, the smell of dead leaves and a freshness carried in on the rosey tips of noses.
The owner of the dog is enormous. His upper arms are like two ham joints. A vest clings to his bulging chest. On one of his biceps are three scars in a row, as if a giant cat has attacked him. He sniffs and empties a shopping bag onto the table. Standing, he wolfs down a handful of crisps then zips his shoulder bag and pushes it onto the rack with one arm.
Bricks ease past the window. The engine moans, desperate to drag its trailing body into the open. The burly man does not sit. He takes an iPod from his trouser pocket. The headphones look like dental floss dangling from his hands. The dog noses a few circles under the table before sticking its head into the aisle.
‘Get your arse in there boy, get in there. Sit. Sit.’ He shunts the dog with his foot.
The dog looks up with drooping eye lids, circles a few times and lies down like a deflated balloon.
He munches and looks out of the window. Fields open up, divided by lines of poplar. Lonesome oaks are proud, earth worn underneath where animals have lain. Stubby cottages are peacefully resigned to their position.
On the table opposite, the man in the anorak turns halfway towards the Australian girl. His eyes stare out of the window as if he can’t turn his head enough to look at her. Her skin flares again.
‘Are you travelling all alone?’ He asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh……. I once travelled alone from Inverness to London. I had to go down for work ya see. A lot a my pals in Inverness were rough ya see. They didn’t work, they hung about doing heroin and lazing about. I didn’t want to sit around on the heroin so I took the train all the way down to London like.’
The girl doesn’t answer. He continues to gaze out of the window.
‘Of course there’s heroin in London too eh. But I’ve found God now.’ He takes a pen and places it on the bible. She looks at the finger. ‘Keeps me safe and away from the heroin.’ He sits upright as he talks, his tiny, melted head sticking out of the oversized collar.
‘It must be lonely being up here without family and friends,’ he says.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘There must be times when you need company like, being up here alone with nobody to talk to.’
The pen rolls off the table. He bends down to pick it up. On his way up, his hand brushes past the girls knee. She freezes and stares at the table.
‘No, I’m fine thank you!’ She moves her knees up against the side of the train.
The burly man sits, facing the window with headphones in his ears. He lifts his heel to the music. Supermarket sandwiches and crisp packets are strewn on the table with a litre bottle of coke. He rolls his head to the beat, closely shaven neck stretching out.
His nose is wide and misshapen. His eyebrows are strong ridges. One is stained blue with a bruise that covers the lid and corner of his eye socket. Trees stand in the fields, skeletal with a few leaves dangling. He admires the green fields slipping past and sinks into a peaceful daze.
The hand with the stubbed finger rests on the bible. The girl is just out of his vision, huddled up against the window, her book pressed to her face. His dead stare cuts across. His eyes are glazed and don’t flicker or shift with the rushing landscape. They just stare, as if a fly could land on them and cause no disturbance.
The food trolley shudders down the carriage. The dog leaps up to the seat opposite the owner and collapses, eyebrows twitching.
‘Get your arse off that seat, get, get,’ he hisses. ‘Go on get down.’
The dog jumps down.
The huge man sits back in his seat, sniffing and breathing. He tears open a sandwich, tiny in his hands. Munching, he feeds a crust to his dog. It looks up at him, tail beating the floor.
The girl’s book covers her face.
‘You’ll have a time in Edinburgh. Good people in Edinburgh….My people are from Edinburgh. My family.’ The words creep from his mouth. Pale lips stretch across his face as if a surgeon has stuck them on. ‘Are you staying in a hostel?’
‘Yes. I’m staying in a hostel.’ She crosses her leg and lifts the book to her face, forehead a mess of wrinkles.
‘Aye, I’ve stayed in lots of hostels in Edinburgh. See my family were never always good to me. Especially my Ma like. Aye she was awful crude to me. Used to fuck me about for no reason at all.’ He curls his hand to a fist. ‘So I spent lots of time in the hostels like…..Are you staying there long?’
‘Four nights.’
‘Oh lovely.’ He pats the bible. ‘Aye it’s a lovely town Edinburgh.’
Coastline appears beyond the double glazing. A cliff of jagged rocks drops down to pale, ragged grass. The man in the vest takes out his headphones and leans towards the window. He watches the sea chopping silently, boats still on the horizon, the beach calmly receiving the infinite beat of the sea.
‘Aye, your family must be missing you, a pretty lass like you. Your Papa must be missing you all the way back the other side of the world. I bet you’ve got a nice family back there eh? A nice lass like yourself. I bet you’ve got a good family to go back home to eh?’
The burly man turns his head. He takes his eyes off the landscape and focuses on the window sill.
You must miss them a wee bit no?’ He chuckles, a scratching croak, more suited to a corpse than a living man. ‘Aye you must. No need to be brave darling.’
‘No. I don’t miss them,’ she looks up. ‘I’m reading if you don’t mind.’
The dog owner turns from the window, rolls up the headphones and puts them away. The dog gets up and he shunts him with his foot. ‘Sit down dog, sit!’ The dog curls up on the carpet.
‘Aye no worries darling.’ He taps the bible with his stumped finger. ‘No need to listen to me gabbing off, I just like a chat you know?
‘That’s OK, I’m guna read now.’
The train rocks. The burly man moves to the aisle seat, opens a pack of crisps and rests his forearms on the table. He sniffs and munches hungrily, his knee bouncing up and down.
Across the aisle, the man in the anorak inhales between his lips.
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘Theres nothing wrong with being friendly. You know there’s nothing to be afraid of darling.’
The dog owner finishes the crisps and folds the packet into a tight rectangle.
‘It’s some world if you cannae talk to people like.’
The dog snarls and the man in the anorak turns from the girl. ‘What’s wrong with you dog, eh?’ The dog snarls again.
He turns back to the girl and leans towards her, breathing in her ear, ‘It’s ok to be friendly.’ She stiffens and jolts upright, an electric shock running through her spine.
The huge man stands. He crosses the aisle and rests both fists on the table. He stands there, hovering over the shrunken pea head. The head turns, startled eyes glistening and retreats into its scrawny neck. A meaty hand picks up the bible and pushes it into the puny man’s chest. The tiny man clutches it against himself. His upper lip twitches and he scrambles to his feet, a knee clunking on the table. A deep snarl rumbles from the dog. He glances at it then limps down the carriage, stooping and wrapping the anorak tighter to his body. The dog owner sits back down.
The girl breathes unsteadily, her eyes wide and rabbit like.
‘Thank you,’ she says shyly. ‘He was starting to scare me.’
‘No bother, he was scaring my dog too, that’s why he had to go.’ He smiles and the girl looks at the blue bruise covering his eye. ‘Where are you getting off?’ He asks.
‘Edinburgh.’
‘Oh lovely, is that where you’re from?’
‘No, I’m from Australia.’
‘Oh lovely, you’re out exploring then.’
‘Yeh.’ the girl glances down at the cover of her book. Her skin flares.’
by Guest Blogger | 12 Sep, 2017 | Other People's Stories
This text was read out at the memorial event to Stephanie Wolfe Murray at the Edinburgh Book Festival on 23 August 2017 by my big brother Kim. Photo by Peggy Hughes.
One of my earliest memories as a three or four year old was being given the mighty responsibility of doing the washing up. It was my first real sense of accomplishment. This had been long trailed by Mum as a special treat in store for good behaviour. Now I was finally getting to do the washing up on my little stool feeling proud as punch. I was Mum’s little helper. I don’t remember how long it took for the penny to drop, that washing up was an irksome chore to be avoided at all costs.
But by that time it was too late. There were four of us, all boys, close in age I was the eldest and there was no avoiding being co-opted into the frenzy of morning and evening panics to get to school or get dinner together and, well, forget about homework. For a long time we commuted from a dilapidated country house in the borders to school in Edinburgh in a variety of second hand bangers that Mum would drive into the ground.
She was always working late so after school I would end up in the Canongate office at 17 Jeffrey Street circa 1975, packing books in the front window for the grizzled Australian sales manager Dave Morgan. Thick brown paper wrapping. Sellotape, proper twine tied tight, but not too tight, according to Dave’s exacting instructions.
The back rooms were Mum’s realm. Corridors of books and manuscripts. Often entire print runs would end up as semi-permanent towers squeezed behind doors. There would be a flow of interns, editors, accountants, publishers, authors and illustrators who themselves had become co-opted by Mum as part of the whirlwind carousel that was Canongate Publishing. It wasn’t that there was a massive number of books being published each year, but gradually the nest of home grown authors started to grow into a flock. Foreign titles, histories, really imaginative childrens books. Even….bestsellers…thank you Antonia Fraser, Jimmy Boyle, Alaisdar Gray for keeping Canongate afloat for these early years.
So Mum ended up through sheer chance at the centre of this Scottish literary revival in the 70’s when Edinburgh really felt like a cultural desert. However unlikely it seemed that someone from her background, with no higher education to speak of, with only a love of books and beauty and wild places, could pull this feat off. She did.
So we’re here to celebrate this tonight and we’re going to hear from those who worked closely with her as a publisher and a friend and were affected or influenced by her in some way. I can only say on behalf of my family that we have been quite simply overwhelmed and moved by the tributes and eulogies we have received from so many admirers from every walk of life. We all knew how special, how infuriating, how determined she was. Between ourselves we referred to her as the Boss. But she was also incredibly loving and kind and forgiving.
And I think that’s what’s going to stay with me into the future.
*
Many other people gave short talks at this memorial event to our mother, including Alexander McCall Smith, Alasdair Gray, Tom Pow and Jamie Byng. I will make available the audio recording soon.
by Guest Blogger | 10 Jul, 2017 | Other People's Stories
This was the first address given at the funeral of Stephanie Wolfe Murray on the 5th of July 2017, at the Old Parish Kirk in Peebles.
By Gavin Wolfe Murray.
Stephanie, my mother, Mummy, the boss. She meant the world to me and I have been amazed to discover over the last few days how profoundly she affected the lives of so many people. She was a saint.
Endlessly loving, giving, thoughtful, curious. She always put others first. She always wanted to help, to care, to listen, to share, regardless of who it was.
My first memories are of Braulen, west of Inverness. Landsdowne Road in London. Glenternie in Kirkton Manor. Society House near South Queensferry, St Leonard’s Bank in Edinburgh. So many happy memories. More recently mother lived at the Laundry House at The Glen, and finally Glenlude House, high on the hill above Traquair, with the flag flying, and flowers of every colour, and house martens feeding their young in their little mud houses under the eaves.
Wherever Mummy lived was the centre of life for the whole family and a haven for poets, lost souls, travellers, neighbours, strangers; no one was turned away. All her homes were distinct but they were all the same because she was there. The aluminium cooking pots, the indestructible oak dining table, the Beatrix Potter books, worn and frayed with nibbled pages. I read the Tale of Miss Tiggy Winkle to her recently. They were very similar although my mother was a lot prettier.
Come inside, the door is open. The dogs are barking, a wonderful smell is coming from the kitchen, children are laughing, unopened letters are scattered on the table with card scores written on the back. There are seed packets, cups of tea, a pile of beetroot leaves from the polytunnel, and there is my mother chopping an onion, stirring the stew, popping rhubarb crumble into the over, wiping her dirty garden hands on a stained and torn tea towel, then greeting me with a happy smile: “Hello baalamb! Would you like a cup of tea?”
I want to tell you about my mother growing up in the War with her mother and her sister Virginia; how well she played the piano, the viola, organ, and flamenco guitar; the debutante staying at Blenheim Palace and gracing the covers of fashion magazines, living in Florence, New York, Paris, driving at impossible speeds on the wrong side of the road to get us to school on time, smoking opium in a tribal village in the jungle highlands of Thailand, riding a yak in Tibet, meeting my father and talking till dawn in a tree, barefoot, grabbing the notebook from a traffic warden’s hand and tearing off the first sheets and then driving away, living in a tent in Kosovo while helping displaced people, picnics on the river and on the hill, summer days making daisy chains, picking elderflowers, raspberries, blackcurrants, throwing on a thin cotton dress at the first hint of summer, and laying on a rug on the lawn, reading a book, pressing flowers into the pages of a book, publishing books with Canongate, changing the face of Scottish literature forever, a model and inspiration for women, visiting her children and grandchildren in America, the Maldives, Romania, raising her grandchildren, swimming in the sea, at the witch’s pool, living in a hut in an African village walking into the Sahara desert to raise money for Maggie’s Centre, giving endlessly to charities, passionately concerned about climate change, working to find a better way to live that would have a positive impact on people and the planet, singing in the Traquair choir, listening to Radio 4, talking about current affairs, making orange marmalade to send out at Christmas, hanging Christmas decorations, setting out the nativity figurines, cutting her own hair, rescuing stray dogs from Montenegro and Portugal and bringing them home to Scotland, holidays on Rhum, Eigg, Barra, Colonsay, Arran.
I want to tell you these things and many more but I have no more time. But I have the rest of my life to cherish the memory of my sweet mother, Stephanie. I do have the rest of my life to honour my Mother by living as well as I can, by loving and caring for others, and for the world.
Mummy, I feel you here with me always. Your spirit will never die. I love you forever.
by Guest Blogger | 12 Feb, 2017 | Journeys
Intro by Rupert Wolfe Murray.
One of the purposes of this blog is to encourage people to travel and to write.
I’d like to encourage people to write for this blog. I’m always looking for personal stories about travelling, or writing, and in this instance I’d like to introduce you to a new guest writer by the name of Jordan Greene, a Brit who wants to share some travel advice. Travel (or writing) tips are great as they break down the mystique of travel and make it more approachable for all those folks out there who want to break out of their routines and hit the open road.
*
5 Ways to Get Good Deals Abroad, by Jordan Greene
Looking to save some money when you’re next on the road? It’s always satisfying to squeeze every penny out of your trip, but doing so isn’t always easy.
Here are five ways to get good deals while travelling:
Haggle
While you might cringe at the prospect of having to barter down a salesman in a foreign market, it can result in getting stuff for half price.
There are many useful articles which explain how to haggle down prices – including knowing when it is, and isn’t, appropriate.
Don’t worry if you’re unsure of your bartering skills. I wasn’t born with the gift of the gab, but after practicing at a few stalls in Asia I soon learnt how to get the price down.
In many parts of the world, for example India and the Middle East, haggling is a normal part of life. Shopkeepers and stall holders expect clients to haggle, and they often set their prices artificially high so they can drop them – and still make a profit
Look for discounts
A good way to look out for sales and discounts is simply to ask local people. Locals are often glad to help travellers with advice like this and their advice will often be more reliable than just searching for discounts by walking around. It can also save a ton of time.
Seeking out discounts saved me a lot of money on my travels. There are plenty of handy tools out with amazing savings options.
Travel in Low Season
If you want to make the most of some seriously reduced prices, it might be worthwhile to travel at a time of year when less people will be on holiday – the low season.
The prices of flights and accommodation will always be cheaper during these periods, but it does come at a cost – colder weather and less “touristy” events being hosted.
That said, I found that during my winter travels I was able to get a heap more done. No crowds meant no queues for me.
Avoid Tourist Traps
It stands to reason that tourism hotspots are going to be more expensive than other areas of a nation.
Business people know there’s going to be an influx of people and so they ramp up the prices. Most tourists don’t have the experience to check out cheaper options.
Why not avoid the tourist traps and eat at a place that’s been overlooked? Take my word for it, you’ll find lots of amazing places off the beaten track.
Be Frugal
Saving money on every little thing helped me massively when it came to affording those slightly costlier items on my travels.
If you feel like a restaurant costs a bit too much, don’t eat there. Just walk out. If an item is too expensive, don’t buy it. Walking out of a shop or restaurant feels embarrassing the first time, but you get used to it pretty quick and it’s quite satisfying.
You’ll be able to find a cheaper and equally good alternative nearby.
These are my five top tips for getting a good deal when abroad. Stick to them and you might even find yourself with some cash when you get home.
Jordan Green’s short Bio: I’m a backpacker and a self-taught cook. I’ve been to a few countries, mostly in Asia and Europe. I write articles as a part-time job. I have two lazy dogs: a pug called Bingo and a husky called Reese.
Photo credit: an image created by Google to celebrate Carmen Mirandas 108th birthday
