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Pushing Out the Boat: Our Blog

Welcome to the POTB Blog where we post articles about our activities and the people involved, including extracts from our magazines, author profiles, commentaries and more. If you have ideas for the Blog, do get in touch.


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More Words Up on shmu FM

By Webmaster
posted on 26 March 2023

 

The arts programme Words Up on shmu FM ran a series of monthly broadcasts featuring Pushing Out the Boat in August 2022 – March 2023. The producers have kindly given us permission to publish copies of the broadcasts here for the benefit of those who were unable to listen live.

The first three progammes were published earlier on the blog. Here are the next four programmes.  The final programme will follow shortly.

We’ve split the programmes up into short sections, with a brief description of each, and (for copyright reasons) we’ve excluded the music played in these broadcasts.The presenter and interviewer for all the programmes is Loraine Mudie.

4. An interview with Douglas Bruton (broadcast 17 November 2022)

5. An interview with Heather Reid (broadcast 15 December 2022)

6. An interview with Vivien Jones (broadcast 19 January 2023)

7. An interview with Martin Walsh (broadcast 2 February 2023)

8. An interview with Alison Green (broadcast 23 March 2023)


Programme 7: An interview with Martin Walsh

Broadcast 2 February 2023

Part 1 (6 mins): Introduction and welcome by Loraine / Martin tells us about himself and how he became involved with Pushing Out the Boat / Martin paints the colourful background to the poem he’s about to read – New York Dialogue [Issue 14, p28]

[Musical interlude: New York, New York from On the Town]
 

Part 2: (10.5 mins): Martin talks about his time in Sierra Leone, working for VSO  then gives an introduction to the next story / Martin reads the first part of Momadu and the Sardine Fishers  [Issue 9, p74]

 

Part 3: (12.5 mins): The story pauses / Prompted by Lorraine, Martin speaks about meeting the Fante people featured in the story and his experiences going fishing with them / Martin reads the second part of Momadu and the Sardine Fishers  [Issue 9, p74]

Part 4: (2.5 mins): Lorraine and Martin chat about the story Martin has just read /Martin talks a bit more about the people of Sierra Leone and the legacy of the slave trade / Lorraine then reads Martin’s poem OoT a Bot’le [Issue 9, p25]

[Musical interlude: Good Morning Starshine from the musical Hair]

Part 5: (10 mins): Martin reads his story set in South America, Malupa and the Flying Bananas [Issue 11, p51]

[Musical interlude: Everybody Salsa by Modern Romance]

Part 6: (3.5mins): Martin talks to Lorraine about what he likes to read / Lorraine wraps up the interview, thanking Martin and giving details of how to contact her at shmu

[Programme ends with The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams]
 
Recordings of the final programme coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Programme 6: An interview with Vivien Jones

Broadcast 19 January 2023

Part 1 (15 mins): Introduction and welcome by Loraine / Vivien talks about her writing career then reads her story Daniel Does Lunch [Issue 11, p7]

[Musical interlude: Food Glorious Food from the Oliver the musical]
 

Part 2: (23 mins): Vivien chats with Loraine about Pushing Out the Boat / Vivien speaks about her interest in Renaissance music and the background to the story she is about to read /To set the scene for the story, David Hatcher plays Recercada Segunda by Diego Ortez, on the viol, a piece recorded specially for this broadcast /  Vivien reads her story Muse and Rapture  [Issue 14, p77]

[Musical interlude: Twelve Bar Blues performed by Eric Clapton]
 

Part 3: (6 mins): Vivien talks about the connection between Eric Clapton and Renaissance music / Lorraine chats with Vivien about what she likes to read / Vivien explains the background to her next poem Last Night Supper Mevaggisey [Issue 12, p77]

[Musical interlude: Cornwall My Home by Fishermens Friends]

Part 4: (5 mins): Vivien talks about her latest writing project based on artifacts from the Devil’s Porridge Museum / Loraine wraps up the interview with details of how to find out more about Pushing Out the Boat

[Programme ends with The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams]
 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Programme 5: An interview with Heather Reid

Broadcast 15 December 2022

Part 1 (4.5 mins): Introduction and welcome by Loraine / Heather talks about her writing then reads her poem Saxicola torquata [Issue 14, p61]

[Musical interlude: African Drum Music by Headspace]
 

Part 2: (14 mins): Heather chats with Loraine about Pushing Out the Boat, the submission process, attending the launches and meeting the team / Heather reads her story Saving Olive Ridley [Issue 15, p14]

[Musical interlude: Under the Sea from the Little Mermaid]
 

Part 3: (9 mins): Heather gives the background to the poem she is about to read/ Heather reads her poem The Butcher’s Wife [Issue 15, p73] /

[Musical interlude: What’s love got to do with it? by Howard Jones]

Heather chats about what she likes to read, her latest work and her plans for the future / Loraine promotes Pushing Out the Boat  then winds up the interview with details of how to contact her at shmu

 
[Programme ends with The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams]
 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Programme 4: An interview with Douglas Bruton

Broadcast 17 November2022

Part 1 (18 mins): Loraine welcomes listeners and introduces Douglas Bruton /  Douglas speaks about his engagement with Pushing Out the Boat then gives the background to the story he is about to read / Douglas read his story When Coal was Lost [Issue 12, p72] / Loraine relates a memory inspired by Douglas’s story

[Musical interlude: Working Man by Rita McNeil]
 

Part 2: (18 mins): Inspired by the next story, Loraine relates a tale about William Penny, a distant relative then she reads Douglas’s story Waiting for William [Issue 11, p76]

[Musical interlude: Adagio for Strings Sea by Barber]
 

Part 3: (8 mins): Douglas speaks about his book Blue Postcards then reads an extract [available on Amazon] / Douglas chats about what he is reading at the moment and about his new book, being published in Feb 2023 / Loraine wraps up the interview

[Programme ends with The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams]
 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Oils well that ends well

By Lily Greenall
posted on 30 January 2023

 

‘Oil’s Well That Ends Well’: Pushing Out the Boat collaborates with University of Aberdeen and NDC on creative writing workshop

Recently, Pushing Out the Boat was offered the exciting opportunity to collaborate with the University of Aberdeen and the North East’s National Decommissioning Centre in hosting a youth creative writing workshop. The workshop was titled ‘Oil’s Well That Ends Well: New Energy Stories for the North East’ and was held in November at the Decommissioning Centre in Ellon.

It was attended by pupils aged 12-14 from Ellon Academy and was led by Shane Strachan: a well-known North East writer, current Scots Scriever, and long-time friend of Pushing Out the Boat. It was also organized by University of Aberdeen Ph.D. student, Ines Kirschner, who is specializing in the environmental humanities. The workshop aimed to encourage young people to share their views about environmental issues and climate change and to explore these ideas in a piece of flash fiction. The pieces were then entered into a competition.

Pushing Out the Boat is lucky enough to publish the winning entry here. ‘Then vs Now – A Time Before’ is a lovely, thoughtful piece about the possibility of a more sustainable world and a brighter, greener future. The writer is Erin Moore, who is an S3 student at Ellon Academy. Congratulations, Erin!


Then vs Now: A Time Before

By Erin Moore
posted on 30 January 2023

 

Then vs Now: A Time Before

The year is 2047, the Eco-Friendly Act has been active for just over 15 years now. I wonder sometimes if life would be better with all that new tech they banned, but then I look at my history books and realise that humanity would’ve died out if we had continued the way we were.

My name’s Emma. I’m writing this as an essay for my history project at school. I’m 15 years old. Before the Eco-Friendly Act in 2032, people were animals. They were horrible to each other. Girls calling other girls names because she couldn’t afford the newest designer clothes, boys fighting other boys because they want a girl to like them. It was hellish.

The worst part about it all was that they knew they were killing the planet, and they did nothing. Nothing at all. All advancements in new tech were harmful and toxic to the environment and even the people who tried to change things were quickly shot down by government officials because they couldn’t profit from it.

The Act was only put into place after the 2029 Great Pacific Garbage Patch grew so large that it started to affect major businesses, halving the income for those who denied there was a problem.

The Eco-Friendly Act meant that we could no longer participate in the usage of fossil fuels, we could no longer cut back the forests for use in industry. We were forced to co-exist with nature.

This brings us to where we are now. Skyscrapers are overgrown with flowers and vibrant plants, as all new buildings must incorporate vertical gardens to combat the toxic greenhouse gases that have been pumped into our atmosphere for generations. We now use a mixture of solar, wind and wave power to supply electricity worldwide via the new Nikola Tesla Wi-Fi grid to provide greener energy for next to nothing. Our restored symbiotic relationship with the planet is only just beginning. However, we now hope for a future together.

 By Erin Moore – S3 Pupil at Ellon Academy


Reflections from a prose panellist

By Jan Simpson
posted on 20 December 2022

 

Thank you!  Thank you to everyone who submitted.  As a member of the Prose Panel, it has been a real treat to savour a broad and diverse array of pieces.  As always, we can only choose a very small selection from those which intrigued us.  Considerations of length, subject matter or voice can give the edge to one from a group of otherwise equally worthy stories.  These are some reflections on what I read:

A complete story is always more satisfying to read.  An extended piece of prose, regardless of how beautiful the writing, is ultimately dissatisfying if it fizzles out in the last two paragraphs.

We can accept an extract from a novel but think carefully about selecting an extract, ensuring it can stand on its own.

Resist the temptation to reach for obvious phrases.  We all use them in conversation but writing is an opportunity to experiment.  A well-placed descriptive verb always brightens a paragraph.

Eyes are the windows of the soul – aargh.  That may be true but what about other facial features?  Can they betray something remarkable and hypnotising?  Perhaps a pattern of freckles or a little pool of sleep clinging to an eyelash?  Distorting an image helps the reader see it in a fresh way – they get to do some work too.

Be wary of snide narrators.  A writer I respect very much, and a good friend of the magazine, told me never to judge my characters.  So, whether it’s mothers-in-law, noisy neighbours or cats feeling superior to dogs, use a disparaging tone with a very light touch.  The same goes for smug.

Have a go at humour.  Why not?

Edit and polish.  Edit and polish.  If possible, ask someone you trust to read over your piece.  It is invaluable for picking up lost meanings or areas of confusion, as well as typos.  Never rely on someone else’s song lyrics to do your writing for you.  And, archaic phrasing and inversions in contemporary pieces will quickly turn your piece stale.

Finally, take your reader to the hidden room behind the false wall where there are secrets but also truths.  Open the door and tickle their imagination.

 


Words Up on shmu FM

By Webmaster
posted on 16 December 2022

 

The arts programme Words Up on shmu FM is running a series of monthly broadcasts featuring Pushing Out the Boat in August – December 2022. The producers have kindly given us permission to publish copies of the broadcasts here for the benefit of those who were unable to listen live. We’ve split them up into short sections, with a short description of each, and (for copyright reasons) we’ve excluded the music played in these broadcasts.The presenter and interviewer for all the programmes is Loraine Mudie.

1. An interview with Lily Greenall, POTB Editor (broadcast 18 August 2022)

2. An interview with John Boland (broadcast 15 September 2022)

3. An interview with Eleanor Fordyce (broadcast 20 October 2022)

4. An interview with Douglas Bruton (broadcast 17 November 2022)

5. An interview with Heather Reid (broadcast 15 December 2022)

6. An interview with Vivien Jones (broadcast 19 January 2023)

7. An interview with Martin Walsh (broadcast 2 February 2023)

8. An interview with Alison Green (broadcast 23 March 2023)


Programme 3: An interview with Eleanor Fordyce

Broadcast 20 October 2022

Part 1 (4 mins): Introduction by Loraine / Eleanor introduces herself then reads her poem Strata [Issue 16, p63]

[Musical interlude: Starry Starry Night  by Don Mclean]
 

Part 2: (8 mins): Loraine chats with Eleanor about being a Dons supporter which provides the background to the next story / Eleanor reads her story Sweet Sorrow [Issue 8, p48]

[Musical interlude: The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen sung by Iona Fyffe]
 

Part 3: (9 mins): Lorraine and Eleanor chat about the music that has just been played / then they chat about  holidays past, setting the scene for the next reading / Eleanor reads her story The Lost Shoe [Issue 13, p88]

[Musical interlude: Summer Holiday by Cliff Richard]

 
Part 4: 10.5 mins): Eleanor talks about  Pushing Out the Boat / Lorraine mentions where to get the magazine / Eleanor talks about being Scottish and relates a tale about her granny, the inspiration for her next poem / Eleanor reads her poem Bidin [Issue 7, p15/ Lorraine winds up the interview

[Programme ends with the music: Caledonia sung by Dougie McLean]
 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Programme 2: An interview with John Bolland

Broadcast 15 September 2022

Part 1 (5 mins): Introduction by Loraine / John introduces himself then reads his poem The Type [Issue 14 p13]

Part 2: (11 mins): John speaks about Pushing Out the Boat then explains the background to his trio of stories Three North East Vignettes / John reads the first of the three vignettes – Rubislaw Hole [Issue 14 p16]

[Musical interlude: North Sea Tiger played by Frank Robb]
 

Part 3: (6 mins): Lorraine asks John to explain the background to the second vignette / John reads Milonga [Issue 14 p17]

[Musical interlude: Libertango played by Yo Yo Ma]

 
Part 4: (7 mins): John talks about the third vignette / Lorraine reads The Lady Who Lunched [Issue 14 p17]

[Musical Interlude: Ladies Who Lunch sung by Elaine Stritch]
 

Part 5: (10 mins):  John reads The Retention Bonus [Issue 14 p12] / John talks about his latest work, inspired by the Piper Alpha disaster /  Lorraine winds up the interview

 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Programme 1: An interview with POTB Editor, Lily Greenall

Broadcast 18 August 2022

Part 1 (17 mins): Introduction by Loraine / Lily gives the history and background to Pushing Out the Boat / Loraine reads the short story Be Careful What You Wish For by young author Naomi Greenwood [Issue 16 p5]

[Musical interlude: Wishing on a Star by Rose Royce]

Part 2: (6 mins): Lily reads Calum at Talmine, a poem by Donald Goodbrand Saunders [Issue 16 p89] / Lily explains the selection process and submission procedures for the magazine

Part 3: (9 mins): Loraine reads Big Sis, a story by Mhari Aitchison [Issue 16 p39]

[Musical interlude: Sisters are doing it by themselves by Eurythmics]

 
Part 4: (10 mins): Loraine reads Switherin (Harbour of Refuge), a poem by Alistair Lawrie [Issue 16 p8] / Lily gives tips for submission / Loraine asks Lily what she likes to read / Issue 17 news / Roundup of where to find and how to contact  Pushing Out the Boat and shmu

 
Recordings of next programmes coming shortly – see Words Up Schedule for dates and details.

Crowdfunding - how did we do?

By Aenea Reid
posted on 3 June 2022

 

We did it! We raised £1772 through our crowdfunding campaign, which will increase to just over £2,000 once Gift Aid is received from HMRC. Together with sales and event income, this should be sufficient to cover the publication costs of the next issue. Hurrah! So we’d like to say a huge thank-you to everyone who made a donation to our campaign.

Raising the funds to publish our lovely magazine is a recurring challenge. Income from sales and events are not sufficient to cover the full costs, requiring us to seek additional sources of income to keep us afloat. In the past, we have received grants from Aberdeenshire and Aberdeen City councils but this year, as the public sector reels from the effects of lockdown, it was clear their priorities were elsewhere. So, taking a deep breath, we decided to explore the opportunities offered by modern technology and launch a crowdfunding campaign.

After reviewing the alternative crowdfunding platforms, taking into account such things as appearance, fees, support for charities and ease of use, we opted for Crowdfunder. Then began the hard work of designing our Crowdfunder pages, explaining who we are, what we do, why we’re seeking funding, what we’ll do with the money we receive and deciding what rewards we could offer to donors in return for their contributions.

The next challenge was publicising the campaign which we did through mail shots to our supporters, postings on social media (Facebook, Twitter and Instagram) and encouraging all the team and their friends to spread the word as widely as possible.

The fundraiser was open for a month (March 2022) during which we received 64 donations, the majority of which were made in the opening and closing weeks of the campaign. Around a third of donors opted for one of our rewards which included being named and thanked in print in Issue 17, receiving a copy of the current issue, being put on the list to receive a complimentary copy of Issue 17 once it is published, and being entered into a draw to receive a signed copy of the Walrus manuscript.

Walrus was a humorous and whimsical story written by former editor, Martin Walsh, about the exploits of a walrus, stranded on Aberdeen beach, then looked after in a tenement outhouse in Torry. It was published in instalments here in the POTB blog during the campaign. The manuscript, signed by Martin, was won by Lady Thornfield, an artist whose work features in Issues 14 and 15 of POTB.

If you missed it, our fundraiser project page is still available to view on the Crowdfunder website. Although that project is now closed, donations can be made at any time through our Crowdfunder Charity page where they will always be extremely welcome. Thank you for your support.


The Boat sails again - our first post-Covid live event

By Roger White
posted on 4 May 2022

 
Blue Lamp event
Click on the image for a few more photos of the event

A grey Sunday outside, but inside at Aberdeen’s Blue Lamp an afternoon lit up by words, music, laughter and friendship.

This was Pushing Out the Boat’s first post-Covid lockdown event face-to-face. More importantly, it was our first chance to say a big ‘Thank you’ to retired but long-standing crew members Freda Hasler and Martin Walsh, who did so much over the years to keep this particular boat afloat.

As if their work for the magazine weren’t enough, Martin also agreed to curate the afternoon’s readings, so very much a personal choice, and one that worked perfectly. Most of the prose and poetry was taken from past issues of the magazine and is listed below. In addition, special guest and friend of Pushing Out the Boat Wayne Price read an extract from a tense piece about adolescent fear he’d started during lockdown.

Thanks must go to the afternoon’s other readers, Eleanor Fordyce and Alison Green, and to singer Alastair Eddie, who entertained us pre-event and during the interval with a selection of standards from the great American songbook.

It would be invidious to highlight individual pieces by any particular author or reader in the face of so much good material. For those not present, there was an instructive lesson to the author of this article from sight of Martin’s running order and its single word characterisation of each piece as ‘sharp’, ‘earthy’, ‘poignant’, ‘playful’ and so on.

In keeping with Martin’s well-judged taste, two of his own pieces listed quite rightly as ‘humour’ opened and closed the programme – Long Haul Flight (not in any issue of the magazine), and New York Dialogue, his weel-kent conversation between a Central Park squirrel and a migrating Mexican humming bird, who he miraculously summonsed from the audience in the shape of Lou Parra Lazcano. They both appear in the photo at the head of this post.

It was a great culmination to the afternoon’s entertainment, and was followed by a presentation of gifts to Freda and Martin on behalf of all POTB crew members by current magazine editor Lily Greenall.

Oh, and finally the afternoon raised almost £200 from donations and sales, a useful adjunct to our recent online crowdfunder (of which more anon in a forthcoming blog post). Our thanks to Lewis at the Blue Lamp who generously provided the venue for us, and of course to all our contributors and audience.

Anyone interested in their feelings about the magazine and their input to it over the years can find separate Q&A posts on this blog with Martin and Freda, as well as a heartfelt tribute to them by Lily and POTB trustee Judy Taylor.

———————————–

Work from Pushing Out the Boat read at the Blue Lamp, Sunday 24th April 2022. Copies of all the issues concerned are available from our online shop.

Issue 7

Eleanor Fordyce – Bidin
John Hargreaves –Deep in a Russian wood
Maureen Ross – A Woman writes to her Imaginary lovers
Auld Yin – Peeweets

Issue 9

Heather Reid  – The S Word
Martin Walsh – Momadu and the Sardine Fishers
Martin Walsh – Oot o a botle
Rapunzel Wizard –Urban Shaman

Issue 11

Maureen Ross – The Love Calculations of the Gentleman Spider

Issue 12

Eleanor Fordyce – Wish You Were Here
Alison Green – The Six Wives o Harry Troup
Stephen Pacitti – The Possom Spider

Issue 13

Eleanor Fordyce – The Lost Shoe

Issue 14

Martin Walsh – New York Dialogue

Issue 15

A C Clarke –Poems I Don’t Want to Write
Sheila Templeton – The Iceberg that sunk the Titanic

 


Walrus

By Martin Walsh
posted on 22 February 2022

 

Martin Walsh has written this amusing and whimsical story to be published in instalments during our crowdfunding project to raise funds for the publication of the next issue of Pushing Out the Boat and to get our finances back into balance following the damaging effects of the Covid years. If you enjoy it, please consider making a donation.


Chapter One - Encounter

Published 25 Feb 2022

Chapter One – Encounter

It was a bitter February afternoon.  The sea was wild, the wind slicing spume off the waves, whisking it like soap suds onto the sand.  I was on one of my regular daily runs along the long, deserted stretch of beach, north of the river Don. The driving sleet was so fierce that I had to press my hand over my forehead as I ran, keeping my eyes to the ground a few feet ahead.  That’s why I didn’t see him until the very last moment.  He let out a warning growl, ‘Wrrrr‘.

‘Good gracious!’ I said, skidding to a halt and struggling somewhat for words.  I gazed at his doleful expression and those two scary-looking tusks. ‘You’re a bit far from home aren’t you?’

He looked at me through baleful eyes.  His voice, deep-throated, full of hesitance, redolent of the arctic wastes: To be frank, sir, I haven’t a clue where I am.  Where are all the ice-flows?  Where are my companions?  What is this place?

‘This place, my friend, is Scotland,’ I didn’t think he’d be bothered with specifics.

Never heard of it, he said.  And then, with the saddest eyes you have ever seen,  I’m so tired, so very tired.

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, suddenly overcome with compassion.  I knew fatigue – I was a long distance runner.  But what could I do for this poor creature so far from home?  It didn’t take a genius to see that he needed rest, a chance to recalibrate his body compass,  to eat some nourishing food, and regain his strength away from the prying eyes of my fellow humans. Before I could stop myself, before even considering the logistics, I blurted out,  ‘Why don’t you come back with me?’

But I don’t know you, he said.  Then, after scrutinizing my face for some moments, his expression seemed to soften.  I do like your moustache though; you remind me of my brother – before he tusked.

I wanted to laugh at this; but I didn’t know whether walruses (especially tired ones) had a sense of humour and I didn’t want to offend him.

Do you have somewhere safe I might sleep?

Even as the wind-driven sleet bit into my cheeks, my mind was racing.  I lived three stories up in a Torry tenement.  Even if he could manage all those stairs with that great blubbery body of his, I could hardly get him there without my neighbours seeing him.  Co-habiting with a walrus might raise eyebrows.  But then I remembered the brick outhouses in the yard at the back.  Each flat had its own one.  They were Spartan but just about big enough to accommodate a walrus even at full stretch.  ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied.  But how to get him there?  It was on the other side of town and without easy access to the shore.  Luckily, I thought, I have a van.  ‘Have you ever been in a motor?  I asked.

What is motor?

‘Never mind, I’ll explain in good time.  My place is a little distance from the sea, too far to walk, that’s why I need the motor for transport.  Besides I have to prepare your accommodation.’  Walrus looked at me blankly.  ‘Look,’ I pointed, ‘just along here, there’s a place where I can get my motor down to the beach – but I have to go and fetch it.  I reckon I can make it back here in an hour.’

What is hour?

I rolled my eyes, trying to think.  Why does everything have to be so difficultI remembered a Japanese fisherman friend who could estimate the time by measuring the height of the sun above the horizon with his hands.  But the sun and horizon were hidden.  ‘Listen my friend, just wait here, I’ll be back as quickly as I can.  Trust me.’ For some reason I touched my heart at this point.  To my astonishment he repeated the gesture by placing a flipper across his shiny chest.  ‘You can either hide up there among the dunes,’  I gestured towards them, ‘or better still, just paddle a little distance offshore and keep your tusks below the waterline.  If any humans pass, they’ll just think you’re a seal.  Understood?’

He looked at me but said nothing and I couldn’t read his expression.  I’d have to do all this by sign language. Briefly I wished I’d been in the marines where they teach that kind of stuff.  I pointed towards the waves making a swimming motion, then raised and lowered my forearms, palms down in a ‘wait-out-there’ gesture.  Next, like a second-rate charades player, I tried to indicate running home then reversing direction and driving back to collect him.  I could see he was trying to fathom things out as I set off back towards the city.  I turned to wave just before exiting the beach and was relieved to see him making his way into the waves.  But would he be here when I returned?

~~~

I raced home, the north wind at my back, with a renewed sense of purpose, something I had lost during these Covid days.  I loved beach-running, imagining myself a latter day Herb Elliot, the Aussie athlete who had honed his strength and endurance on the steep sand dunes of Portsea, South Australia.  Although way before my time I’d read about him in one of my dad’s books.  I no longer felt the cold as I pounded on through the docks, across the river and home to the gull-echoing granite canyons of Torry.

Opening the tenement door, I tore through to its dismal rear yard and out again into the sleet.  The light was already beginning to fade as I pushed open the unlocked door to my shed.  Mine was the last one in the line – a line of brick-built outhouses so strangely out of kilter in this city of granite.  But it was the best one for Walrus: in the unlikely event of anyone going to their sheds in this weather, no-one would pass his door.

I had a bike in the shed, a few tools and a broom; but what I really needed were the three stout 8 inch wide planks that I kept there.  I hauled them out and tested their strength against the wall.  They were mighty heavy and I could only manage one at a time as I hauled them along the corridor to the front door and across the pavement to my van.  But shit, the car keys were in the flat – six flights up.  Thankfully I was still running on adrenaline.  I was up and down again, then back in my shed, dragging everything outside and brushing the flag-stone floor.  All ship-shape.  Guest accommodation ready!

I man-handled the planks into my van and jumped in.  ‘Walrus – here we come!’ I hollered, smacking the steering wheel with excitement.

~~~

By the time I reached the beach again, darkness had almost fallen.  The headlamps drilled long boreholes through the frenzied air above the sea, the waves dramatically white-maned against the darkling sky.  Walrus was nowhere to be seen.  Maybe he’s scared of the light, I thought, turning off the headlamps and the engine, then battling down to the water’s edge.  The wind and the sea roared in my ears.  I scanned the horizon.  I couldn’t see anything.  I began to pace up and down the beach, cupping my hands around my mouth, and hollering.  ‘Walrus!  Walrus!  Where are you?’   My spirits ebbed as the sky darkened into night.

Then I heard him.  ‘Wrrrr’, that same deep-throated growl he had used when we met.  ‘Oh, thank god,’ I said, ‘I thought I had lost you.’  Leaning against the wind, I watched him haul his great body out of the waves.  His eyes were rheumy. ‘You must be cold,’ I said.

Cold?  He gave me a pitying look.  No sir, this is hot.

‘Of course,’  I said, feeling rather stupid, ‘and no need to call me sir, please call me Mike.’  I gave him a little bow.  ‘Do you have a name I might address you by?’

Walrus.

‘No other names?’

Walrus. He repeated, looking, I thought, a little exasperated.

‘OK Walrus, let’s get you home.’  I gestured towards the van.  Through the spindrift darkness, we walked together – like the walrus and the carpenter – up the gentle slope of the beach.  Once at the van I opened the back doors and pulled out the three planks, laying them side by side to make a broad ramp.  ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ I said, gesturing towards it.   He gave me a weary look and began to inch his mighty frame up the ramp and into the van’s interior.  Stout as they were, the planks creaked and bent alarmingly under his weight.  I could barely watch and wanted to help him but his look of affronted dignity held me back.  As he flopped down exhausted onto the metal floor, the van sank deeply on its suspension and I noticed that his rear flippers were hanging over the back sill.  I pointed at them, ‘You’ll have to pull those inside,’ I shouted above the wind, ‘so that I can close the doors.’  He looked at me blankly but understood once I eased the doors shut.  ‘And it will be hell-of-a-noisy once we get moving,’ I said.  But his eyes were already closed.

Oh my god, I thought, don’t die on me!  But his mighty chest rose and fell in gentle reassuring waves.  His flippers flexed easily as I lent my weight against the doors and felt them click.  I drove home as gently as I could, trying to recite verses from ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ and then turning on a recording of ‘Homeward Bound’ by Simon and Garfunkle, hoping it might sooth Walrus as we drove over the hissing tarmac – though I doubt he heard a word or sound above the roar of the engine.

Driving over the cobbles of Victoria Bridge into Torry, the van was buffeted by a massive gust of wind which, without the ballast of Walrus, might have driven us onto the pavement and up against the parapets.  The sleet had now turned to horizontal snow as I pulled up in front our tenement block.  Although it wasn’t late, not a soul was about and the kirk across the street was almost obliterated from sight by the denseness of the blizzard.  Perfect, I thought, the gods are with us.  With keys in hand, I slipped quickly out of the van to open the back doors.   Unbelievable, Walrus was still asleep and snoring loudly, his whiskered upper lip trembling with each out-breath.   It would have been funny had I not been so anxious.  I patted him urgently on one of his back flippers.  ‘Walrus,’ I said, ‘come on old chap…’  But before I could finish, his eyes snapped open in terror and he let out the most almighty roar, his mouth open wide, his lower lip quivering.

‘It’s OK, Walrus, it’s OK,’  I held up my hands, palms towards him and lowered them very slowly.  ‘Remember me, MIke – I’m your friend – you know, the one who looks like your brother.   We met on the beach and now we’re home.  Somewhere safe.  Somewhere to rest.’  His look of fear gradually subsided, turning first to bewilderment then to utter weariness.  It seemed cruel to ask him to move but I had no choice.  I hauled out the three planks and he slid down them, his passage comically assisted by the skim of snow that had already settled on the ramp.  I tried not to laugh.  ‘OK, follow me, there’s a bit of a step here.’  I said pointing with one hand while working the front door keys to the tenement with the other.

I was surprised how easily he hauled himself along the floor – the sound of a heavy object being dragged across the lino, accompanied by the slap-slap of his front flippers.  Once in the back yard, he stopped to look up at the swirling snow, to sniff the air and to wrinkle his broad snout in satisfaction as if reassured by the elements.

I opened the shed door.  ‘Here we are my friend.  No palace, I’m afraid but you’ll be OK here and I’ll bring you some breakfast in the morning.’  Walrus slid inside. ‘I’ll close the door, just to keep you safe.’  But he was already asleep again, slumped in a corner.  I mopped the tenement corridor en route to my flat.  No sense in raising unnecessary suspicions…

Intrigued? Want to know what happened next? Chapter Two – ‘What do you give a Walrus for Breakfast’ will be published here on 8th March.

Chapter Two - What do you give a Walrus for Breakfast?

Published 8 March 2022

Chapter Two – What do you give a Walrus for Breakfast?

The next morning I awoke at dawn and went straight to my food cupboard, scanning its contents for a walrus breakfast.  The only possibility was an old can of Portuguese sardines in tomato sauce.  I tried to make up a Lewis Carroll-type verse: He wept like anything at the taste of tomato sauce… But it was too early in the morning for creativity and I went back to my usual worrying.  What on earth do walrus’s eat, apart from feckless young oysters?   Anyway, I was desperate to see how my new friend had survived the night, so I opened the tin, slopped its contents onto an enamel plate, grabbed a loaf of bread and scooted down the stairs.  It was bitter outside in the back yard.  Six inches of snow had fallen during the night but I knew that was the least of my worries.

I pushed open the door to the shed and there he was – a dark, shiny mound, like a huge sea-sculpted boulder, still sound asleep.   I didn’t tap him this time, just whispered a quiet ‘Morning Walrus.’ I slid the plate of sardines towards him, leaving it a few inches from his muzzle.  He was so deeply asleep that he didn’t even seem to hear the grating sound of enamel across the concrete.  How on earth will he eat, I wondered, without those ridiculous tusks getting in the way?  I didn’t have long to wait.  With his eyes still closed, I watched his broad, whiskered snout begin to quiver and his nostrils to twitch.  He opened an eye, its expression morphing rapidly from lugubrious to terrified and then, more slowly, back to baleful as he recognized again the face that reminded him of his brother.

‘You must be starving,’ I said.

‘Wrrrr,‘ he replied, but quietly this time, as if in assent.  He lumbered slowly towards the sardines.  Lifting his head delicately above the plate he let out another ‘Wrrrr‘.  This time I could have sworn there was a hint of appreciation in its utterance.  For those acquainted with cats, you will be aware how many shades of meaning they can express in a single ‘meow’, ranging from apparently deep affection:  Oh, I so love you master, to a sharply barked command: feed me, you laggard, have you no sense of urgency?

Perhaps it’s the same with Walruses, I mused.   The next thing I knew, Walrus had buried his head in the sardines, his tusks clicking noisily on the plate.  So that’s how they do it, I reflected, with their muzzle pointing vertically towards the ground (or seabed) and their tusks pointing backwards toward their chests.  It was all so obvious when you watched him.  To say that Walrus wolfed the sardines would be an understatement.  When he’d finished, I noticed a daub of tomato sauce on his nose and burst out laughing.  Ignoring me, he hooked his tusks under the empty plate sending it spinning noisily across the floor as he searched desperately for more sardines.

The look in his eyes as he gazed at me was heart-rending.  Shrugging apologetically, I offered him the loaf.  He looked at it for a while, gave it a dismissive sniff then stabbed it with his tusks.  He must have been desperate though, because he snaffled the whole thing down before turning his eyes on me once more.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘look I’m really sorry, Walrus, that’s all I’ve got in the house.  Consider it just a small appetizer.  I’ll need to go out and buy you a proper breakfast, you’ll just have to be patient with me.’  This was so typical of me – never thinking things through!  I’d figured out from his anatomy that he must be a benthic feeder and wouldn’t normally be able to catch fish; but he obviously loved their taste (or was it just the tomato sauce?  My last cat, Mactavish, loved it too).  Thankfully Torry was full of fish houses so, with luck, I could bulk-buy cheap fish to satisfy what I imagined would be his enormous appetite.  Once again I resorted to charade-like gestures:  I’m going to have to lock you in, be back soon, trust me mate.

~~~

Hooking a Covid mask around my ears and over my face at the entrance to the first fish house I came to, I pushed through the dangling strips of thick plastic sheeting, and into its cave-like interior.   Wasting no time on niceties, I blurted out to the man behind the counter, ‘Can you sell me a box of cheap but wholesome fish, I’ve an army to feed.’

He scrutinized me curiously from beneath his white plastic fish-monger’s hat, his body clad in shiny yellow, his white-booted legs planted squarely on the fish-wet concrete.

‘There’s nae cheap fush these days, pal.  Cheapest ah hiv is smaa haddies, nae gutted like.  A box’ll set ye back fufty quid.’

‘Jeez,’ I said, ‘nothing cheaper?’

‘Sorry pal.  Ye could aye try John Charles up ‘a street, he sometimes his mackareels, aat’s aboot as cheap as ye’ll get.’

So that’s what I did.  I bought a big fish-market sized box of mackerel – they were cheaper – and hoisted them with some difficulty into the back of my van.

By the time I’d lugged the box, with its 40 kilograms of fish, through the tenement and across the snow to the outhouses at the back, I was knackered.  I leant, breathing heavily, against the shed door.  Walrus must have heard me because he let out his now customary greeting from behind the door.  It was muted this time, thank god, but I thought it carried a note of desperation.

As I unlocked the door he gave me a look which unequivocally said  ‘I could eat a horse.’ or whatever the walrus equivalent was.  But what if he doesn’t like mackerel?  I was back in  worry mode again.  I knew there was no way he could catch a mackerel even if they did live up there in the arctic.  But I needn’t have worried.  I tossed him a fish to test his response.  It was instantaneous.  His ‘Wrrrr’ was the most enthusiastic yet.  It was a wrrrr without qualification, without even a ‘where’s the tomato sauce then?’

I was overcome with relief and joy; I could have hugged him.  Forgetting where I was, I let out a whoop of triumph and danced a little jig in the snow.  Idiot! I kicked myself, what on earth was I doing?  Glancing upwards through the whirling snow, I scanned the window apertures in the grey cliff of the tenement.  No sign of prying eyes, I noted with relief, but suddenly I was almost knocked over by Walrus shooting out of the shed to bury his head maniacally into the box of mackerel – in full view of anyone who might be watching.

‘Walrus, no!’  I scolded, waving an index finger at him as I tried to drag the box into the shed, but he hooked his tusks over the opposite  side and he was much stronger than me.  I had to wait until a pause in his eating frenzy.  Only once he’d lifted his head out of the box was I able to jerk it away from him and back into the shed.  He followed, galumphing,  and I quickly slammed the door, leaving him to his feast.  As I made my way back toward the tenement I thought I saw a curtain twitching on the second floor.


Chapter Three - Ina Seivwright

Published 8 March 2022

Chapter Three – Ina Seivwright

Back in my flat I warmed my backside against the radiator, luxuriating in its heat as I stared out of the window and watched the snow swirling by, smudging the outline of the docks beyond.  I was supposed to be working – working from home – but I just couldn’t face my laptop, couldn’t stop thinking about Walrus.  What the hell was I going to do with him?  How long could I keep him cooped up?  How long would it take him to recover his strength?  What on earth would I do if he’d been spotted by the curtain twitcher?

There were two flats on each floor in the tenement and, if my guess was right, that curtain belonged to Mrs Seivwright – she who disapproved: disapproved of my efforts at polishing  the communal stairs, tutted at the occasional girl friends I brought back to the flat, didn’t like the English.  My fears were soon confirmed as there came a sharp rat-a-tat at the door.

Standing before me stood the mighty bulk of Ina Seivright, her slippered feet apart on the landing, meaty fists on hips, face red and breathing heavily.   She came straight to the point.

‘An fit wis aat ah jist seen comin oot yer sheddie?’

‘No idea, Mrs Seivwright.’

‘Ye ken pets is nay permitted.’

‘And what d’you think you saw?’

‘Nay sure.  Couldnae see recht thro the snaa.  Bit it wis affa big.’

There was nothing else for it.  I would have to tell her.  ‘What would you say if I told you it was a walrus?’

Her jaw dropped, I could see her trying to process the information, comparing the size of what she had seen with this revelation.  She scrutinized me with a look of utter disbelief.  ‘I’d say ye wis aff yer heid.’  But I thought I caught a flicker of interest in her eye.  Maybe I could even win her over.

‘Would you like to meet him?’

‘Ye’re kiddin?’ she replied.  My God was that the hint of a smile? ‘Ah’ll hae tae get ma beets on first.’

‘I’ll see you down there. then.’

Waiting patiently outside the shed, I watched Ina emerge from the tenement and trudge slowly out through the snow.  As she drew near I put a warning finger to my lips and opened the shed door a couple of inches.  The stench was overpowering.  Slumped In the corner lay Walrus, eyes closed, chest rising and falling gently, his flippers folded over his chest like a portly gentleman after a mighty pub lunch.  Pinching my nose and waving my hand in front of my face, I opened the door a little wider.  I beckoned Ina over to look inside, putting a finger to my lips once again so she wouldn’t awaken and frighten Walrus.

Ina’s face was transfixed, a look of utter enchantment replacing her normal sour expression.  Walrus was a picture of contentment, having consumed half his box of mackerel.  I closed the door and we left him in peace.

As we re-entered the tenement, Ina invited me into her flat for a fly cup.  I told her the whole story, of how I’d stumbled across Walrus and brought him home, having promised him a quiet spot for the night to rest up.  She gazed at me with a look of astonishment.

‘Promised him? Are ye tellin me, the craiter spiks?’

‘Well his eyes and body language speak to me and I seem to hear words.’

She gave me a slightly quizzical look, the kind you might give a daft person but I didn’t really care.  The main thing was she clearly shared my enchantment with Walrus, and I was sure she wouldn’t make trouble now – maybe she might even be able to help.

‘I’m worried,’ I said, ‘I really haven’t much of a clue what I’m doing here.  The only animal I ever cared for was a cat.  I hate confining Walrus but I don’t want anyone seeing or pestering him – he needs to rest.

‘Fit aboot the Marine Laboratory?’

‘You mean that ugly building up the road near the golf course?  What about it?’

‘M’be they’ll hae some cliver chappies in there that can help.’

I turned the idea over in my head.  The place was supposed to be full of boffins wasn’t it?  Maybe there would be someone there who could advise me.  ‘Good thinking, Ina.  I’ll try and find some contact details on my lap top and give them a ring.  Thanks for the tea, I’ll keep you posted.’  And with that I was out the door and galloping up the stairs to my flat.