Stevenson Cat Wumman

Tales o Nine Lives
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80425-265-9
Verlag: Luath Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Scots, Sardinian, 128 Seiten

CAT WUMMAN, is Stevenson's second short story collection - nine different stories presenting contemporary Scottish life inspired by folk tales from around the world, Scots ballads and the poetry of Coleridge and Hugh MacDiarmid. These dark tales (which include four weddings but no funeral!) will irresistibly draw the reader in.

GERDA STEVENSON is a multi-talented, award-winning Scot. The writer, actor, singer, and director has produced widely recognised works. This recognition consists of multiple awards, including a BAFTA for Best Film Actress Award. Stevenson has travelled the world with her previously published theatre productions and poetry, which have also received much acclaim.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Stevenson, Gerda

Leseproben

The Tither Side

Efter the Scots / Irish folk tales,

The Man that Gaed Ower the Watter

an The Man Whae Hud Nae Story.

I WISNAE MASEL. Aa churned up, staundin there on the jetty in ma kilt. The groom an aa the guests wur waitin on the island – the ferryman hud cairried them the mile ower the watter in his boat, back an furrit, a dizzen at a time. Noo it wis ma turn, wi ma sister Amy an her bridesmaids.

I heard them lauchin afore I seen them comin oot the hotel. She gied me a wave:

‘We’re aa ready, Adam!’

She fair looked a picture, linkin doon the path tae the jetty, her lang white goon an veil flichterin in the breeze, the maids a blur o pink ahint her. I stepped on board, an me an the ferryman gied them a haund intae the boat. The fower o them, sittin there wi their bouquets, looked like a bunch o roses theirsels. Skelfs o sunlicht jouked ower the loch, glentin like the gless beads I’d stitched intae the train o Amy’s goon. She’d gone for the Mary Queen o Scots look – a high neckline wi a beadit lace collar. The queen went intae hidin on the island when she wis a bairn, an I pit it tae Amy that the style wad be fittin.

I wis gled the wather blessed her waddin wi a guid show, but I felt I wis losin her. She wis aa ma faimily – brocht me up iver sin mither walked oot when I wis still a bairn, an faither left us tae fend for oorsels. He didnae leave, but he micht as weel, for he wis niver there. Doon the pub wi his mates, maistly. He turnt up on the big day, mind. No tae walk Amy doon the aisle – it wis me she picked tae dae thon. He wis juist there for the bevvy.

The ferryman untied the raip an lowped back intae the boat.

‘There’s nae gangin back noo!’ he bantered wi Amy. ‘I’m takkin ye ower tae the tither side!’

I wisnae shair whit he meant, tho the lassies lauched at it. But the wey I wis feelin, it soondit bodefu.

The strain o bagpipes lilted ower the loch like a threid drawin us closer tae the island’s shore. It wis late May, an we stepped intae a clood o bluebells. There’s somethin ither wardly aboot the place. I hauf expectit tae see the wee queen flittin atween the trees. The guests wur driftin aboot the cloister o the ruined priory, like fantoush simmer flooers in their hats an coloured goons. Faither wis there, giein it laldy wi his mates.

I’m smoothin the train o Amy’s goon, makkin shair it’s spreid oot in its clam shell shape, when faither shimmies up tae me: ‘Whit’s wi the kilt, Adam? Could ye no pick a bridesmaid’s skirt tae fit ye?’

His mates aa gafter like hyenas at the notion. He’d niver lat up sin the day he fund me in Amy’s bedroom – I wis juist a bairn – tryin on her claes. Amy didnae mind – she kent ma weys an she liked ma feel for weemen’s gear.

‘Leave Adam alane, faither,’ she says. ‘Awa an sit doon. We’re aboot tae stert.’

The ushers gaither the guests tae the seats set oot on the gress atween the ruined waas o the kirk. The piper strikes up wi Rowan Tree, an Amy taks ma airm. We step slaw throu the columned airch, nae roof abuin us, juist blue simmer sky. I sweir I hear a bairn’s lauchter frae the wids – the ghaist o a lauch.

Back at the hotel efter the reception, the ceilidh’s in fou swing. The bevvy’s fair flowin, aabody’s dancin. The best man taks ahaud o the mic: ‘Up ye come, folks! Tell a story, sing a sang, show yer bum, or awa ye gang! Dinnae be feart! Gie’s yer tall tales! A bottle o Laphroaig tae the wan whae can tell the biggest lee!’

Up they gets ontae the stage, yin efter anither, an the hale place is in fits, Amy an her man an aa. Then faither stotters up tae me, swaverin frae side tae side, grabs me bi the airm, an afore I ken whit’s happenin, I’m staundin on the stage wi him.

‘Come on, Adam,’ he croons, aamaist swalliein the mic, his airm roon ma shoothers. ‘Tak yer turn. Dinnae be shy, son! Tell us aboot the lee ye’re livin! Gie’s a lauch, ye wee San Fairy Ann!’

The place gaes quate. Amy gets up at the tap table. But her man pulls her back doon. Faither’s een are bleared wi drink, an he’s sweein on his pins.

‘Lat me alane!’ I hiss at him. ‘I’ve naethin tae tell.’

He leans back intae the mic. ‘Wad ye believe it! Ma son can live a lee, but he cannae tell wan!’

I lowse masel frae his grup, flee frae the stage, the room, the hotel, the dram in ma nieve aamaist jaupin oot the gless. I rin doon tae the jetty, ma hert hammerin in ma breist.

The muin’s fou. A hoolet caas throu the still nicht. Ma braithin slaws, panic dwines. The ferryman’s awa, back at the bar, cooried in wi the guests, beers an drams aa lined up. He’ll hae a tall tale or three tae tell, nae doot. I step intae his tethered boat, an sit for a whilie, listenin tae the lap-lappin o the loch. The waves bab the boat aboot, lithesome-like, an the motion caums me, lats me gaither ma thochts.

Whit is it wi ma faither? Yince in a blue muin he turns up, an it’s aye the same – he sticks the knife intae the pairt o me that husnae ony airmour. Amy’s aye bin strang for me, an her man’s aaricht, seems tae tak me for masel, but she’s his noo. I swallae whit’s left o ma maut. Its gowd gies me a spate o wairmth.

Afore I ken whit’s happenin, the raip sclithers loose, an the boat taks aff ower the watter, tap speed, like it’s taen a notion tae gie me a hurl! Mibbe I’m in a dwaum – I’ve hud a few: prosecco efter the vows, wine throu the meal, an a maut or twa at the ceilidh. But I’m no fou. I catch sicht o ma brogues in the muinlicht. It’s like they’re meltin awa, an in their steid twa bonnie reid velvet shuin, ilk ane wi a neat-turnt heel aneath twa slim ankles! An ma shanks – nae woolly socks an sgian dubh – they’re sleek an shapely noo, hairless unner the sheen o fine silk hose! Ma kilt, sporran an semmit huv aa vainished, an a green linen kirtle flows frae ma jimp wee waist ower ma slender hips an thighs. But miraculous o aa –ma breists! Twa globes, saft an fou, wi yon sweet howe atween them, keekin oot frae the neckline. There isnae a hint o stubble on ma chin, just saft skin, satin tae the touch. Ma hair that wis clippit an daurk, tummles ower ma shoothers in thick gowden faulds. I’m dumfoonert – stamagastert aathegither! Whit the hell’s happenin?

Midnicht races intae the daw. The cloods are wechtie, like pillaes fit tae burst. The boat wins the island shore, an snaw faas thick as feathers. A daurk man, strang as an aik, happed in an auld-farrant plaid, staunds wi his airms oot tae greet me.

‘Whaur hae ye been?’ he says. ‘I hae waited sae lang!’ He ties the raip tae a tree, an gies me a haund oot the boat. Then he haps the cloak o his plaid aboot me, an hurries me doon a windin path tae the wids. We pass the priory. Mibbe it’s juist a cantrip, cast bi the veil o snaw, but it seems the kirk isnae a ruin ony mair – the airch I walked unner wi Amy juist oors syne hus a roof! The soond o monks singin their chants drifts throu the cauld lift.

We’re barely in the door o his but-an-ben, when the man taks ma face atween his daurk haunds and speirs: ‘Why did ye tak sae lang?’ His blue een are drinkin me in, like he’s fund the maist precious thing he’d tint. I’d nae notion o whit he meant, an he didnae press me for an answer. He juist stood there, haudin me ticht bi the ingle, the lowe o the fire wairmin us baith. I felt I’d come hame.

Ma green kirtle, reid velvet shuin an silken hose wur pit bi in the press for a time when I micht hae occasion tae weir them. In their steid, he hud simple, clean claes set oot for me – a saft, muslin sark, wi a plain broon goon, an a peenie tae tie ower it. Days passed, weeks an months. I forgat aathing aboot ma ither life. I wis a wumman noo. We did aathing thegither, ma man an me: tendit the kitchen gairden for the monks, an fished for them on the loch. Ilka saison hud its wark, an he learnt me aa aboot the wild an halesome plants o the wids – hoo tae tell yarrow frae pushion hemlock, wild garlic leaves in early simmer, berry pickin come the hairst. Frae time tae time he’d row tae the mainland for wheat, barley an oats tae mak oor breid, ale and parritch. An when the loch wis jeelt ower come winter, we pleyed at curlin on the ice. The monks wur douce an blithe, an I liked tae hear their singin. ‘Him that sings prays twice,’ they said, an ‘truith throu learnin’ wis whit they sairched for – sae ma man telt me.

In time, ma belly filled wi bairns – twins we hud, the lassie fair as masel, the laddie daurk, like ma man. He wis there for me, at the jizzen-fecht, clappin ma belly an back throu the pain. I claucht his airms an grupped the sheets, skraikin ma thrapple hairse as the bairns reeved ma flesh on their road intae the warld. It wis bluebell time, a cairpet o them aawhaur, the hale island singin wi the colour. I’d sit in the wids, a bairn at ilka breist, as they sooked their fill in a clood o scented blue.

‘I hear tell there’s been a battle,’ says ma man yin day. ‘The English are burnin an lootin up the Forth. We’ll suin hae twa mair bairns rinnin aboot, for oor wee queen’s comin tae hide here, wi her cousin an mither.’

We wurnae shair...