Pride and Prejudice revisited

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sixteen year old boy in possession of his own motorbike is not going to be best pleased at having Pride and Prejudice foisted upon him for his Higher English. Gordon Bennett! I swear that I read every word as if each was a tin of beans I had to check for defects as part of a stiflingly boring factory job. Past my eyes they rolled. I missed nothing. I missed everything. "It's so funny!" a studious girl in my class exclaimed. She must have been trying to impress someone by pretending to find the book amusing, I reasoned. Not for the first time I was wrongly attributing a base motive to someone because such a motive was the only one I could conceive of having myself.

In a rare act of rebellion I wrote a bitterly sarcastic critical evaluation of the novel. My English teacher, fully entitled to beat me about the head with the complete works of Jane Austen, nevertheless chose to respect my opinion. He commented that I should put P & P aside for a few years but should return to it at some point. It was not something I anticipated doing, despite feeling that I owed him as much.

Now, to get in the mood for the rest of this piece, you could perhaps stick 'Eye of the Tiger' on the stereo, because the rematch- Steele versus Austen- occurred this summer. I did not expect to enjoy the experience, viewing it like a tough hillwalk with visibility occluded by persistent drizzle. The best I hoped for at the end was a dull ache that would prove that the exercise had been in some way beneficial. Maybe this time I would at least be able to feel some sympathy for Elizabeth's father. Anyone subject to a sixfold dose of synchronised PMT was bound to arouse some emotion in me. Such was the downbeat air with which I approached my task.

But I liked it. Damn it, I almost laughed out loud a few times. The relevance to life that I had, (so cleverly I thought at the time) dismissed as a youth was there for anyone with a modicum of maturity to savour. My English teacher was right.

It has become important to me that he should know that I know appreciate his wisdom. His name was Mr Jimmy Anderson, PT English at Lanark Grammar in the seventies and, I believe, an assistant head on Islay thereafter. If you know him, pass on my regards, though the hope that he should remember me is doubtless a vain one in both senses of the word.

Goin tae church

Ah kent Jesus wis guid

Sae Ah felt a wee bit bad 

No likin goin tae church

It hadnae been sich a scunner

When Ah wis wee

And efter the meenister 

Wha Ah liked

Telt the weans a story

We got tae get oot tae Sunday scuil 

But when ye got a wee bit aulder 

Ye hud tae stay fur the fu whack

And a didnae like the claes 

Mair than that, Ah hatit them

Ken hoo yir scuil shirt goes nicen saft 

Efter a while? Weel

Yir Sunday scuil ane disnae 

And a didnae like they Rupert Berr troosers 

Ah'm shair if it wis up tae Jesus

Ye could wear whit ye wantit 

Even jammies, but his faither

God, ye needit tae dress up fur

And Ah got tellt at scuil Ah wis a rotten singer

And mair than hauf the time ye were singin 

Sae whit wis Ah supposed tae dae?

Staun there wi a gowdfish gub

Flappin open and shut?

Jesus micht say

Jist draw a picter

Ye're no bad at that

But probably no God

Ah kindae thocht o God and Jesus

Like Batman and Robin

And Ah aye wantit tae be pals wi Robin

No Batman wha wid be a bit hard goin

Robin wis mair fun but

Ah doobt ye're supposed tae be thinkin 

O Batman and Robin at the hymns 

Sae Ah aye looked at the buik 

Tae see when we were hauf wey through

It wis like goin up a big hill on yir bike

And ye kent the warst wis ower 

But there were some guid anes

Like Onward Christian Soldiers

And ye felt fowk were itchin

Tae march aboot the church

Swingin their airms ahint the meenister

Wha wid be cairryin the cross o Jesus

Goin on before whitever that meant

There wis a fair bit o whitever that meant

At the church

It wis thee and thou and words

That even ma granny's pals

Or auld Mrs Glenmoor at the scuil didnae say

Sae Ah wid look at the clock

And the hats like flyin saucers

And the pipes fur the organ were like rockets

And Ah wis shair a laddie cud rin

Fae the back o the church tae the front

Jumpin frae ane pew tae the next

And Ah imagined daein that

Wi nae troosers, shoutin and bawlin 

And Ah'd never git allowed back

But ma maw and paw wid be affrontit 

And even Jesus widnae find that funny

Sae Ah never did it

And Ah ken Ah've gone on a bit

But that's the wey it wis at church.

The source o the Belstane Burn

Auld Mrs Glenmoor wis bein crabbit again
"I'll bet none of you know the source of the Belstane Burn!"
She thocht weans jist sat aboot daein nothin 
But that wisnae fair
Me and Dougie Gray were aye explorin 
Like the time we fund a hole wi two auld motors in it
And a sheep's heid skeleton 
Wee Bobby Graham wis wi us

And he cried it a "goat's underwear"
And Dougie and me couldnae stap laughin

But ye're pittin me aff

Ah wis telling ye aboot the Belstane Burn
We stertit at the wee bridge on the road
And follaed it through this field
It was a braw day, aw shimmery
Wi peewits- ye could hear but no see them
Ah had ma cub jumper roon ma waist
Wi aw the badges aff fur Ah wis in the Scouts noo
And we were wearin oor sandals
Ken the anes wi soles like rubber broon sugar?
There was this wee bing
And when we got roon it
Ye wouldnae believe it!
There wis a hill, but no a real hill
If ye get whit a mean
A hill like someane hud made it
And the burn disappeart!
Me and Dougie ran up
We couldnae wait tae see whit wis at the tap
And we got
Tae the tap
And looked
Ower
And
The
Source 
O
The 
Belstane
Burn
Wis
A dried up reservoir!

He says he saw it first but it was me
Or mibbe baith thegither
There wis a wee bit watter comin in
And the Belstane Burn comin oot
And ye could gang in and play
But best of aw
There wis this auld tower
Goin doon, no up
And it wis aw rustit stupit 
But if ye were carefu,
Ye could walk alang a kinda bridge tae it.

Weel, hud there no been a bank robbery in the toun?
And me and Dougie thocht this wid be a great place
Tae hide the money. 
And ye could look doon the tower
But aw we saw wis an auld ladder
Fawin apairt, 
Ye wid need tae hae been aff yir heed
Tae gang doon it
So we didnae.

And when we got hame
Ah'd lost ma cub jumper
And ma faither gied me a row 
But no a real row 
Fur goin intae the moors
Withoot sayin whaur we wir heidit 
But ye kent from the wey he said it 
It was jist whit he'd hae done
When he wis a wean.

And when we tellt Auld Glenmoor
She jist said, "Oh aye."
Weel a bet masel a million pounds
She hudnae been there fur yonks
And didnae ken 
It wis aw dried up.
 

Matchbox Milk Float

It was in a dream I had, a toy
Pale green with a white abstraction of milk crates
Up back. I think I had one like it
When a child, maybe a present, or perhaps
An impulsive purchase now remembered
Unbidden, to fit at night amongst my thoughts
Too crowded when awake, with fears
For a mother, so cast adrift, diminished by disease
That she would put a coat on over nightclothes
And head off to the shops, or try to open
Her back door with a fruit knife or a coin
Until I had no choice. The deception
Was the greatest of my life.
"This is like your lunch club,
"But they'll let you stay
"A little longer 'til we sort your doors."
I left her at the care home, lost but safe.
One week later there it was,
Play-chipped amongst some jumble on a stall
Its simple form as pleasing as before
The milk float from my baffling dream
I bought it, put it in a bag
In my fleece pocket where it still remains.
I take it out, I turn it in my hand
Or, when alone sit it on the dashboard of my car
Where it skites from side to side
As if driving free while all the time
Controlled by things it cannot change
Hearing this, you may call me childish or,
In kindness, childlike. I disagree, but
I often wish that it was true.

The colours o numbers

Numbers. Ah could coont afore Ah went tae schuil. Yin nicht Ah wis in ma bed and Ah decidit tae coont tae a hunner. Whit a feelin! Ah got tae eighty odds and felt Ah wis awa up high and if Ah didnae keep coontin, Ah'd faw doon an end up in a heap wi yin and twa and three and aw the wee numbers. Mind you, they wee numbers were like freens.

Yin. A black number. Does its ain thing, like yon cat that walked by himsel wi his tail stuck up. It wis in a book.

Twa. A blue number. Ye can rely on twa. It thinks things oot, has a wee blether wi itsel.

Three. A rid number. A bit o a superhero number, but like Robin, no Batman.

Fower. Yellae. Sensible number, twa by twa.

Five. Blue, but lightern twa. Hauf o ten. Like ten wis when it wis a young laddie, oot havin fun.

Six. Awfie pale yellae. Ye can make a triangle oot o six dots but it's no the maist exciting number. Kindae fills a space atween five and seeven.

Seeven. Green. Clever, magic number.

Eight. Purple. Ower fond o its foods. Freenly number, like yir uncle. Ma uncle had this yooni maths books wi deid eights in it. ∞∞∞∞ They're no deid eights by the way, they're cried infinites.

Nine. Aye changin colour, dependin on the way ye look lat it. An amazin number, ye can make it intae a square wi three rows o three dots. Nine is like Batman. Ye wid want nine on yir side in a fecht. Nine kens aw aboot mechanics, like yir dad, and space.

Ten. Ten thinks it's great, sittin there like God in a chair, waitin for everythin tae come up tae it. But ten wid be nothin withoot the cat that walked by itsel, and wid only be the cat withoot zero, the hero, the golden ring. Zero is amazin. If it wisnae for zero, which was inventit by an Indian but no yin wi a horse, we wid aw hae stupit numbers like on the clock in ma class. VII, XI, whit's that aw aboot?

Numbers were like a gang but a good gang like Oor Wullie's except there is ten o them, no countin ten. Mibbe mair like the Broons, a faimly, no a gang. Except there are no lassie numbers. Mibbe six, Ah cannae tell. Ah asked Elsie Campbell if she thocht ony numbers were lassies, because she is yin, but she looked at me the wey she did when Ah asked her whit colour wis Wednesday in her heid.

Mrs White

Mrs White 

"Thank you for inspiring my son"

Ma maw wrote tae Mrs White

But ma maw didnae ken

There were twa Mrs Whites

Guid Mrs White

Read braw stories on Friday

And did aw the voices

And kent bits o science

Jist flooer science, mind ye

No space or rockets

But it wis mairn maist teachers

Except the heidmaister

The ither Mrs White

Gied ye big stupit rows

If ye watched ITV

But no Ivanhoe.

You don't watch Ivanhoe?

Find Sir Walter Scott a bit beneath you?

Well, Mr White doesn't.

She wis like Jerry the moose

Wha ance drank this ginger

And turnt intae a monster

That Tom Cat wis feart o

And she'd turn back

And be awfy nice

And dae some flooer science

Then go aff her heid

Not one of you children

Has written in their diaries

That the coltsfoot is now in bloom!

Ah made a wee licht

Wi wire and a battery

And shawed Mrs White

Because it wis science

And she said Ah wis clever

And Mr White wis a teacher

Ah could gang tae her hoose

And he'd shaw me mair lichts.

Ah wisnae that keen

Tae gang tae her hoose

So Ah tellt Mrs White

"Oh I might have a book"

Moose

Ginger

Monster

Ew Eh meght hev eh book!

Eh'm tew hegh end meghty

Tew talk tew a person, Eh've got a book!

She went on and on

But it didnae stap there

Efter weeks and weeks

Anither teacher cam in

Here's a boy, Mrs Glenmoor, 

Who when you offer him the chance

To meet a teacher from the big school

Says, "Ew, Eh meght hev a book!"

What sort of person

Would rather look at a book

Than talk to a person?

And Ah wished it was Star Trek

And Scotty wid beam me

Or Ah wis the Blue Peter tortoise

And could hide in ma jumper

Ah couldnae be like whit

Mrs White must hae been

When she was a lassie

Wi jist Ivanhoe

And fillin her diary

Wi the coltsfoot in bloom

And no feart tae gang

Tae her auld teacher's hoose

Oh mother, Ivanhoe is finished

And it's just that awful Thunderbirds

So I'm off to my teacher's house

To learn about lights

From her husband from the big school

And I'll make sure I look

To see if the coltsfoot is now in bloom.

And nane o her stories

Were as excitin as Batman

And nane o her flooer science

Wis as guid as ma book

But efter aw that

-Ye micht no believe me-

Ma maist favourite teacher

Wis guid Mrs White.

A real poem, in colour

I used to go to a Writers' Group. After a few months, I felt secure enough to recite a "real" poem there. I had road-tested some of my manky, mingin Itchy-Coo rhymes on them. I had made them laugh by reading accounts of my early days of teaching. They had heard my attempts at children's stories and not been impolite when subjected to a most ill-advised attempt to translate one into Scots.
I thus felt confident enough finally to run a serious poem past the group. If they responded well, I intended to send the piece for consideration by Biggar's Brownsbank Committee in the hope that they would display it in the town's poetry garden.
"Volts are green," I read, trying to avoid a cliched poetry voice. "Green as the sea-snakes tracing across my oscilloscope screen . . ."
When I got to the end, there was silence. I decided to break it myself. "I got the idea for that one day when I was summarising the quantities used in electricity. I was writing each one in a different colour on the board and I realised I wasn't choosing the colours at random.
"Voltage is green to me. Power is yellow."
Nothing.
"It's like the way we give different colour to the days of the week. Monday is red for me, but Saturday is sky blue."
"Errr . . . do you do that? That's really weird . . . that's really interesting."

I never tried a "real" poem again. But here is that one in full.

The colours of physics

Volts are green
Green as the sea snakes
Tracing across my oscilloscope screen
Current is blue
Outlined in silver
Like the sparks that spit
From the pitted dome
Of the Van de Graaff machine
Leaping charges
Charge is white
White as the polythene rods we rub
With dusters as yellow as power.

(I'll get my coat)