Newhame – Chapter 2

Henry Higgenbotham was not a man to start his drinking so soon after lunch, but his appointment was in the village pub, The Silver Darlings, where he made his way by turning right at the top of Cat Loan and crossing over the road.

Entering the pub, Henry marveled at the lack of marketing nous displayed by some people in Newhame. This place could have been given over to faux-witchy memorabilia – broomsticks, crystal balls and the like, since that brought in the majority of the town’s tourist trade. Instead The Silver Darlings held steadfast to the dim and distant fishing tradition of the town. What little decor there was consisted of faded images of the town’s ancient mariners from the days of grainy black and white photography. Henry ordered a Guinness, and the landlord said, “I’ll bring it over when it’s done pouring.” Henry noted his Irish accent and felt his pint was in safe hands.

While the stream of black nectar trickled into his glass, Henry took a closer look at the photos on the walls. “Now them were the days!” the landlord called over. “When men were men.”

“And the sheep were nervous,” Henry chuckled, finishing the joke.

The landlord looked him up and down, then said, “No, that’s Wales you’ll be thinking of, sir. No, not a sheep shagger among those lot. They’d be too tired to get it up, after a long day out on the briny deep.” He came out from behind the bar where Henry’s pint glass was just approaching the half-full mark. “See, my own Da was a fisherman over in the old country.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “I thought this was the old country.”

“To you, maybe,” said the landlord, shrugging. “Not to me. Galway is where my people are from, though I don’t remember much of the old place myself. By the way, the name’s Leary. Tim Leary.” Catching the look Henry’s face, he was quick to add – “No relation! No, I’ll not be doing with hard drugs, LSD and such. Ale and stout are mind-bending enough for the likes of me, I can assure you … Mr …?”

“Higgenbotham. Henry.” He shook the landlord’s hand.

“The very man!” said the landlord. “A chap rang not five minutes before you came in, a Mr Arnott. I’m to tell you he’s been delayed but you’re to wait. And he’s paying for whatever you’re drinking, and you can’t say fairer than that, now can you Mr Higgenbotham.”

So saying he reached behind the bar and flipped the handle on the Guinness tap. The last drop lingered on the lip of the spout, then fell with a plink onto the top of the perfectly formed pint.

“No,” replied Henry, taking the pint from Leary’s outstretched hand. “I guess you can’t.”

“Well, then,” said Leary knowingly, “I’ll just let you get on with that pint in peace, Mr Higgenbotham.” He retreated behind the bar to study a racing form while Henry settled himself at a table for the front window, overlooking Newhame Bay, and waited.

#

Fiona Blyth, mistress of the Old Manse, chairperson of the Farmer’s Market committee, and general village grand dame, didn’t miss much that went on in the village of Newhame; so it was no surprise that she saw Henry descend Cat Loan, ascend it again, and make his way to the pub, from the perfect vantage point of Maggs the Butcher.

She was commiserating with John Maggs as she watched Henry go down the Loan. John’s wife had recently left him, which hadn’t helped his already dour disposition. Not ordinarily a big talker, a sense of grievance and loneliness had loosened his tongue, and Fiona was getting the full story while he slowly wrapped her lamb chops, sausages, and pork medallions.

“Aye, you’d no believe it of her, ken,” he said, shaking his head. “And him a travelling salesman!” He barked out a short, bitter laugh. “I mean, how clichéd is that? Unbelievable ….”

Fiona wanted to tell him it was all too believable.

Shirley Maggs had been – was – a vibrant woman, exuding sexuality and joie de vivre from her very pores; what it must have been like for her married to such a lugubrious, po-faced numpty like John Maggs, Fiona could only guess at and shudder. Talented butcher he was, there was no denying it, but he was such a boring bastard …. Fiona looked at him pityingly. She knew for a fact he wasn’t a day over 35, but he carried himself like a man twice his age.

Still, Fiona wanted to stay in the shop and track the progress of the curious American who had recently seemed to take up residence somewhere in or around Newhame. It was maddening. Even with such a extensive web of contacts as she had, she had only been able to get the barest details – his name, his favourite cut of meat and the fact that he took the Guardian every morning. So, since Magg’s shop was the prime viewing platform for doings in the village, she humoured John with a pitying question.

“A traveling salesman? Tsk tsk tsk, how humiliating! Don’t tell me it was that weasly little man who supplies Morag with her magical beads? What’s his name? Something daft ….”

“Star-Raven!” John spat the name out. “Bloody poser. Coyote Star-Raven if you’d like it in full. Him with his baldie heid and beard, and woolen robes – woven on fairy looms nae doubt ….”

Fiona was only half-listening. She watched as Henry trotted along to The Silver Darlings. She had watched with interest his conversation with Morag down the Loan in front of her house. She guessed that Morag knew something and was stringing him along. Fiona looked on Morag as a friendly rival to the post of village wise-woman. Half Fiona’s age, Morag seemed to know a tremendous lot without actually trying, and Fiona envied her talent for nosing out seemingly un-nosable information.

“You poor thing,” said Fiona, sensing something was up and not wanting her leave her perch just yet. She knew Maggs only needed a little encouragement to set him off again. “What’s the latest then, John? Is there any hope she’ll come back to you?” Fiona felt vaguely horrible for getting his hopes up for her own crass ends, but needs must was always her motto.

John snorted. “Nae danger, hen! Nah, I did speak to her the other day. She was nice and all, but she was only being polite. She said there wasnae any chance of reconciliation, she’s in love with the bastard and she couldn’t leave him, he’s her soulmate! Her SOULMATE! HAH!” He slammed his palm on the glass counter top, and Fiona was so startled she almost missed the silver Mercedes purr down the High Street and glide to a stop in front of the pub.

Desperately wanting to keep John talking and watch the giant bald man in sunglasses step from the driver’s side and open the passenger door, she muttered, “Surely there’s always hope, John,” although she knew perfectly well that the chances of Shirley coming back to Newhame were roughly the same as her staying with Mr Star-Raven – that is to say, nil.

She threw a fleeting, commiserating, pitying smile at John, then looked back just in time to see a woman step from the Merc. Yards of flowing purple floated around her in no particular shape; loosely cut, Fiona’s discerning eye noted, to disguise a pretty chunky figure. Yes the nascent double chin told the whole story: young(ish) but already running to fat.

The woman wafted along the pavement and into The Silver Darlings. It was more than Fiona could take. She quickly paid John, patted his cheek and said, “There there, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, John,” but not believing a word of it, and rushed in an almost unseemly haste from the shop and along the street to the pub. If she was lucky she just might be able to steal a march on Morag McKillop, and that was worth a minor social faux pas any day of the week.

Newhame – Chapter 1

If you stand on the High Street in Newhame and face out to the Bass Rock, behind you will be the main shops of the town: Maggs the Butcher, The Tuppenny Ha’penny Tea Room, a small but thriving bakery – Hanson’s – who have recently expanded into whole foods with modest success. Two charity shops, a cheap new junk shop (Only a Pound), O’Brien’s Antiques, Farragon’s Fishmonger, Cheap as Chips chip shop, and of course The Silver Darlings, the village pub run by Tim Leary. A small Co-op food store rounds out the small but perfectly formed town centre.

In front of you, tumbling down to the rocky shore are three “streets”, consisting of flights of weathered wooden steps – the old residential part of town, once fisherman’s cottages, these are a curious, uncharacteristic mix of stone houses and timber-framed buildings that would seem more at home on America’s New England coast.

Walk along until you are opposite Maggs the Butcher, and you will be standing at the top of Cat Loan, the central flight of steps. Look down the steps and at the foot is a Celtic Cross erected on a flat platform of stone at the town harbour, above the high water line.

If you took it into your head to wander down for a look at the cross, your attention might be caught by a sign on the door of one of the stone cottages:

“Cat’s Cradle
Esoteric Sundries
Morag McKillop, Prop.”

Open the door, perhaps hesitantly, to the tinkle of Buddhist prayer chimes hanging over the doorway, and step inside

Morag McKillop looked up from her computer in the tiny office just off the shop premises when she heard the chimes tinkle. She looked despairingly at her tax calculator program. Understanding it all seemed so close, and yet so far away. But it was without regret that she shoved back her swivel chair and went into the shop.

A man had come in, middle-aged, portly, bespectacled. He looked over at her, smiled, said, “Hi!” in an unmistakably American way, and returned to perusing the shelf with the tarot cards.

“I have an album with the decks displayed if you you’d like to see them more closely,” offered Morag, taking the two-ring binder from under the counter and opening it for her customer.

“Oh! Thank you very much …,” he said, coming over immediately. “Fascinating …,” he said, half to himself as he paged through the dozen or so pages of card samples. “All these different takes on a basic set of images. Do you find they take on slightly different meanings for you when you use the different decks?” He looked up at her, glasses slipping down to the end of his nose with the sudden movement.

“What makes you think I read Tarot?” asked Morag.

The man looked embarrassed. “Oh, no reason, I just thought that … you have such an extensive line … you must be … well … uhm, do you do readings by any chance?”

Morag laughed.

Pity poor Henry Higgenbotham. How often does a person actually fall in love at first sight?

Try to see Morag through his eyes. Five foot eight inches to his five foot nine, she looks him steadily in the eye on his own level. Thin, catlike, long, deep brown straight hair, shot here and there with streaks of grey – that falls like a satin sheet over her shoulders and down to the middle of back. Dressed today all in black, polo neck jumper accentuating her elegant throat, face somewhat weather beaten; what some would call gaunt Henry saw as finely chiselled features – pale skin and startlingly green eyes, freckles – my god, Henry never realised just how attractive freckles could be!

His impressions of the Cat’s Cradle were of a tidy, clean, well-organised shop with the standard inventory of such places: books, jewellery, crystals, and yes, the Tarot decks. Quite a good selection of beads for such a small place, but nothing unusual. The light had struck him, however, as soon as he had come in. The shop was a more modern extension into the yard of the original stone cottage, and its gently sloping roof had a row of skylights that flooded the place with light even on such grey day.

Grey it might have been outside, but in Henry Higgenbotham’s heart a clear light shone.

To Morag, though, no such revelations had yet occurred. The man in her shop was a potential customer, yes, well-dressed and well-mannered, but she thought she knew who he really was. Amused, she decided to bide her time.

“Yes,” she answered. “I do give readings. Are you interested?”

“Uhm, I mean, sure! Why not?” the man grinned, and for the first time the word “attractive” occurred to Morag. She responded with a small smile.

“Shall we make an appointment then?” She took out a diary and placed it on the counter top next to the Tarot album.

The man peered at the upside-down writing. “Do you do many readings – I mean, is business good along those lines?”

Morag looked up sharply, closing the diary with a snap. Before the man could react, she said, “How’s tomorrow night for you? Nine o’clock?”

“Hang on a sec …,” The man took out an electronic organiser from the inside pocket of his jacket. Morag nodded to herself. Her suspicions were being confirmed. Not a holiday maker, this was a man whose time was precious and fully booked. But if he was coming in for a reading he must be staying somewhere nearby. Yes, yes it was all becoming clear.

“Oh – tomorrow at nine? Hmm. Oh, what the hell,” muttering to himself now, “I can reschedule that, move that there …,” He moved a plastic stylus rapidly over the tiny screen of the organiser. Then, firmly snapping it shut, “Yes, tomorrow night at nine. Will I just come here to the shop?”

“No, I’ll show you.” Morag led the way out the front door, onto the wooden landing in front of her house, then left to the gable end nearest the harbour, where a short flight of steps led up to a door on the first floor. “Come up this way,” she said, pointing. Then, “Do you want to come back in and look at anything else?”

Henry hesitated. He really would have liked that a lot, in fact was inclined to see if she wanted to nip up to the tearoom for a coffee, but Morag had guessed right about him – he had an appointment right now. This little excursion had been entirely unplanned.

“I’ll have to pass – but I’ll see you tomorrow – at nine!” he said, tapping his organiser before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. With a little wave, he turned to go back up the wooden steps.

Morag pursed her lips. It was naughty, but … “Come back anytime … Mr Higgenbotham.”

He gave another little wave, then stopped in his tracks. He turned and descended slowly back to her landing, a bemused look on his face.

“You should have said you knew me.”

“But I don’t know you”, Morag replied.

“Then how …?”

Morag tapped her forehead. “Trade secrets. The spirit sees all, knows all.” Then she laughed out loud, and Henry smiled again.

“Tomorrow at nine,” he said, making his way back up the stairs.

“I’ll be here,” Morag said quietly, almost to herself.

Newhame – Prologue

From: Hidden Gems of East Lothian

If you find yourself in the village of Newhame, you know you are off the beaten track.

Nestled on the East Lothian coast between Dunbar and North Berwick, where the Firth of Forth opens to the North Sea, Newhame enjoys the mildest of climates, and one of the great landscape features of Scotland: the Bass Rock rises from the sea directly opposite, at times a glowering hulk, at others an alabaster beacon. In addition, the ancient stronghold of Tantallon Castle sits on the adjacent promontory, still imposing in its senility, even when periodically shrouded in scaffolding.

Once a bustling fishing port, Newhame never had the beaches or stretches of link landscape that helped its larger neighbours attract tourists in greater of lesser numbers once the fisheries declined. Not on a railway line, nor even directly on the main road, Newhame cannot even rely on passing trade to keep its teashop open.

What has stopped Newhame from gently fading from the map altogether has been two groups of people: the farmers, and the witches.

There is a thriving farming community, still, in and around this corner of East Lothian, and Newhame early on jumped onto the “Farmer’s Market” gravy train, that one Saturday a month finds it once more a bustling hive of activity. Although never historically a market town, it has nevertheless plugged a gap in the rural shopping experience of the surrounding commuters and tourists that for some reason its more dynamic neighbours of North Berwick and Dunbar overlooked. This monthly influx of people and stall-keepers keeps Newhame in the consciousness and on the calendars of a wide cross-section of East Lothianites, and even those further afield.

A more select group of visitors also keeps Newhame firmly in its sights. Witches, Druids, and a variety of other Pagans make an annual pilgrimage to this otherwise unremarkable East Lothian village. A nearby woodland campground and rustic holiday chalet park plays host to scores of these sometimes colourful, sometimes Gothic, sometimes naked delegates to the annual “Witches of Lothian” conference.

What has drawn this rather eccentric mix of academics, crystal-gazers, shamans and skyclad celebrants to a cosy corner of a lovely but usually overlooked part of Scotland?

East Lothian has always been noted for its witches, most famously those who were alleged to have raised a storm in the Forth to sink the ship carrying James VI and I, but Newhame’s more sinister claim to fame is that the normally docile villagers roused themselves to an uncharacteristic frenzy to perpetuate the last known execution of a witch in Scotland, as late as 1789 ….

Newhame – a serialized novel – introduction

Friends,

I am proposing to start putting up chapters of my novel-in-progress, “Newhame”, onto this blog to add to my other creative works.

I have put up chapters in the past in a couple of different forms, firstly as a blog, then as pages on a read-only wiki, and now I have come back full circle to a blog format!

I haven’t really made much progress on this over the last year, so the plan is that putting chapters up will spur me on to finish the first draft of the novel before people have caught up to where I am in the writing of it…

So, serialising implies a regular publication schedule, and I propose that Sunday be the day of publication. The first chapter will be put up this Sunday, the 23rd of May.

I’m making no great claims for this, particularly as it is still very much a first draft. I’ve had various comments, both good and bad, so I’ll leave readers to make up their own minds.

My method so far has been to just write on without major revision for the first draft. Part of me feels that serialising it should be a prompt to look at it a little more critically, but I think my emphasis at this point should still be to soldier on ahead, and only stop to revise when the first draft is complete. I realise that this means what I am publishing here might well be patchy, unconnected to other bits, and very much subject to change. However, I will cross those braided streams when I come to them.

As a taster before Sunday, I am putting up the “Prologue” in parallel with this post. As usual, comments welcome, though I will say again that no major changes to this draft will be implemented until the whole is complete. At that point I may well take people’s comments into consideration before embarking on a second draft. But that doesn’t mean I’m not reading them and pondering them!

Enough backstory, on with the show…