And at that moment the fat woman saw. She saw the years of discipline, she remembered how thin and unfed and pale the thin woman had always looked, how sometimes she had had to borrow money, even a shilling to buy food. She saw what it must have been like to be a widow bringing up a son in a village not her own. She saw it so clearly that she was astounded. It was as if she had an extra vision, as if the air itself brought the past with all its details nearer. The number of times the thin woman had been ill and people had said that she was weak and useless. She looked down at the thin woman’s arm. It was so shrivelled, and dry.
And the elder walked on. A few yards now till he reached the plank. But the thin woman hadn’t cried. She was steady and still, her lips still compressed, sitting upright in her chair. And, miracle of miracles, the elder passed the plank and walked straight on.
They looked at each other. What did it all mean? Where was the elder going, clutching his telegram in his hand, walking like a man in a daze? There were no other houses so where was he going? They drank their tea in silence, turning away from each other. The fat woman said, ‘I must be going.’ They parted for the moment without speaking. The thin woman still sat at the window looking out. Once or twice the fat woman made as if to turn back as if she had something to say, some message to pass on, but she didn’t. She walked away.
It wasn’t till later that night that they discovered what had happened. The elder had a telegram directed to himself, to tell him of the drowning of his own son. He should never have seen it just like that, but there had been a mistake at the post office, owing to the fact that there were two boys in the village with the same name. His walk through the village was a somnambulistic wandering. He didn’t want to go home and tell his wife what had happened. He was walking along not knowing where he was going when later he was stopped half way to the next village. Perhaps he was going in search of his son. Altogether he had walked six miles. The telegram was crushed in his fingers and so sweaty that they could hardly make out the writing.
Murdo’s Xmas Letter
Dear Friends,
Another Christmas has come again, and I am sending you a report of my activities during the year. It doesn’t seem so long ago since last Christmas was here, but as we all know it is twelve months ago – no more and no less.
My main project in the early part of the year was to encourage Scottish writing, by running a competition for short stories. I asked for a sum of ten pounds to be enclosed with each story: this was to cover administrative costs, coffee, stamps, and whisky, etc. The prizes which I presented in March were ten pounds for the best story, one pound for the next story and 10p for third best. I hope to do something similar for Scottish Writing next year. I shall advise entrants that a maximum of 200 words is entirely reasonable, as it seems to me that one of the faults of Scottish Writing is that it is too long, and with shorter short stories I shall be able to apply better my critical techniques. Far more emphasis should be placed on the single word, which is the hallmark of the truly great writer. What I look for first is good typing, then originality.
Another project in which I was involved gave me great satisfaction. I have noticed in the past that the standards of In Memoriams in the local paper is very low, and it seems to me that with a little practice they could be improved. I therefore started a workshop for that purpose. I told my class that epitaphs have concentrated mainly on names and dates, without referring in depth to the individual nature of the dead person. I told them that the best writing of the twentieth century is above all truthful. Thus if the dead person was highly sexed, perverted, or a habitual thief, this should be stated. As a result of our final workshop (the cost for the whole course was £50 to each member) I shall put together a small anthology of the best In Memoriams.
Here are two examples:
“May James Campbell’s randy bones rest in peace.”
and
“May John MacDonald be able to find his way to his own grave.”
The classic, I think, was
“Let her RIP.”
I may say that the sales of the local newspaper have soared since these epitaphs were inserted and I had a congratulatory message from the editor.
Old clothes is another area of my research, the idea for which I got from the local Oxfam. I have started a campaign by which I hope to convince people that old clothes are better than new ones. The logic of my argument goes like this. Community, I say, is the basis of our life here in the island, and what would be more communal than to wear clothes which in the past have been worn by someone else. In this way we inherit history, sweat, stains and genealogy. Old clothes are like a time machine: they give an insight into the past that cannot be gained in any other way. Look, I say, at these rags which better men and women than you have worn. They did not know where their next meal was coming from. Indeed they did not know where their last meal had come from. Do you not wish to have thoughts like them, pure healthy thoughts, and not impure unhealthy thoughts such as people who wear new clothes have?
Such people, I say,
