Author: julietrobinsonscot

I'm a daydreamer with a pen in hand, weaving tales that transport me and others to new realities. Reading is my portal to endless universes, and I devour everything from magical realism to sci-fi epics (though a good mystery never goes amiss!). My background in archaeology fuels my fascination with history, ensuring even fantastical stories have a touch of real-world richness. Writing is my escape, my passion, and the bridge that connects me to a community of incredible fellow creators. Through words, I explore the unseen, celebrate the extraordinary, and find magic in the everyday.
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Give Me To The Soil

They struggle to bring him up, the slope is

steep, their heights uneven. They almost

lose him as they approach the crest

I look skyward to catch my laughter

Sombre faces serious stares,

forced silence and constructed grief

Painted by the influence of perception

assumptions deep as the ocean

The words spoken round the cut,

are long, laboured and clichéd

Pious, unctuous, heavy with faith

celebrating a life, itself a long sermon

I watch a woodpecker, radiant green

a blur of light. It flashes from tree to tree

scurries up the bark, knocks on wood,

cocks its head, takes flight – a whorl of colour

His female descendants come forth,

Cluster, then break into song, high and shrill

The words of their hymn competing with the birds,

whose song hold more warmth, more authenticity

When you think it would end, it goes on

I study the groups, tight family huddles.

I try to pick their expressions, attempt

understanding of their place in this play

A variety of masks displayed, none natural

But then how could they be? Though death

is part of nature, humans pretend it away

It is other, removed, divorced, unspoken

The bearers return, take up their load,

hoist him and swing him out over the void

Down he goes, almost tumbling headfirst,

but salvaged at the last possible moment

Then it’s done, a wooden box holding grave dirt

passes around the gathered – a mimicry of the one below,

A congregation of hands take their solemn pinch,

a token of the inevitable to lay a man to rest.

Unique the sound of earth hitting wood,

differs with each cemetery

Here it’s the slap of clay on pine,

hollow, though a body fills the cradle

The soil here is changed, altered by the dead

by the rot of bone and flesh, the wood and cloth

dissolving. Necrosol, the true alchemy of death.

Creation universal, born of nature and time

We break apart, voices low and reverent

I let them pass, fold into an oaks shade

There is no burden of grief for me, no sense of remorse

I search for it – the guilt does not come

Bury the old, their measure is complete

no sorrow for what was spent or wasted

Mourn the young, there is a loss

a branch snapped to soon, season failed to turn

Why linger at the grave? The dead do not dwell

they have dispersed, to who knows where

Their memory is claimed by the mourners

shaped to please their own desires

Give me to the soil, let the earth reshape me

not those who mourn, I will feed

the trees, sate the worms. May the memory  

of me be the woodpecker’s quick flight

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

The Bonnie Lass

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I went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought. I snorted, better still comb the tangles from my life, but no, things don’t work like that do they, no easy fixes. I paused before opening the bathroom door, tried to give myself a pep talk, but it didn’t work. So instead, I just forged ahead.

There was more smoke in the corridor now. Not really a surprise. The sprinkler system was doing its best, but it was older than The Bonnie Lass, having been stripped from a drifting trawler twelve years hence. I held my hand out, let the smoke-stained water fall upon my palm. What does it taste like I wondered, sea water mixed with smoke, there had been whiskies like that. I licked my palm, the coarse skin tickled my tongue, but the water tasted nothing like my memories of whisky, it was bitter, with a hint of engine oil.

We had sealed the balk heads. The fire should have been contained. The plan had been to let it burn itself out. The Bonnie Lass is a big ship, one of the largest still out on the waters, a fire in the crew quarters was manageable.

I climbed up to the bridge. William and Fritz were arguing in low voices but fell silent as I approached. William seldom lost his temper, and Fritz whilst impetuous didn’t often challenge the captain.

‘Elizabeth,’ William smiled. But I know the man well enough to see beyond the curve of his lips, ‘How fare the rest of the crew?’

How does he think they are doing? Does he imagine their making the best of the situation? Should I tell him that as I passed the crew galley I saw Francis and Juno twisted together in the pursuit of carnal needs they hadn’t explored before. What about poor Jenny who had hung herself. Could I explain Turk’s painting, how he was throwing colour as if to create a universe into which he could flee. Did I need to say that Jack was sitting out on the bow humming a piece of music I dimly recalled from my childhood, ‘My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea, hmmm hmm, hmm hmm.’  What did William want me to say.

Fritz did the talking for me, with his fists. His huge right paw slammed into William’s face, swiftly followed by his left. William blinked, his face paled, and he crumpled to the floor. Fritz turned to me, waiting for my reaction, but I gave him none. I said nothing and I did nothing as he hoisted William’s feet and dragged the fallen captain from the wheelhouse. I crossed the boards and stood at the helm, took in the view from the bridge’s windows. Smoke billowed from the ship; the fire had not been contained. The Bonnie Lass shuddered as a blast rolled through her, the engine rooms had succumbed. The lights flickered, the engines stalled and just before the power went out, I set a course.

Twenty-eight years I had been aboard The Bonnie Lass, most of them hard, but we’d made a living. We’d trawled for salvage, we harvested drifting vessels, we’d once seen a floating house with a family of cats living aboard it. I patted the helm, the ship owed us nothing, we were good.

I passed Fritz as I climbed to Monkey Island, he was fishing, though no line fed his rod. I watched as he reeled in his imagined thread, checked a hook that didn’t exist, rebaited it, then cast for the horizon. I didn’t ask where William was.

I settled against the radar mast, which had been stripped of its paint by harsh winds, biting waves and time. The Bonnie Lass had navigated it all, but this was her final whorl. From up here the smoke that belched from her ravaged body seemed a shroud. The ocean was a stilled stage, not a wave washed its boards, no wind pulled at the smoke, even the cries and groans of the dying ship were muted.

It was slow. Drawn out. Deliberate. Water began to boil at the stern, the hungry bite of the ocean taking its due. The Bonnie Lass didn’t fight it; with the grace of a diving bird, she tucked her nose and began her descent. There was no crashing roar, just a deepening silence. It was harder now to lean against the radar, the inexorable pull of the ocean’s maw threatened to topple me from my perch. I wedged my foot against the rails and kept my seat. The grey of the ocean was rising to meet me. I thought of the cats on the floating house and wondered where the waves would take them.

© Juliet Robinsons, all rights reserved 2025

Dinner Guests

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‘I’m going to check on lunch.’ Nancy smiled, though Robin who knew her like the back of his hand saw that it didn’t turn the corners of her mouth.

She headed to the dining room, wishing she had never quit smoking. A caterer was putting the final touches to the elaborately set table. How had she become the overseer of such dinners.

‘All ready?’ She asked, in what she hoped was a crisp and calm voice.

‘All set.’

Returning to drawing room she tried to catch her husband’s eye, but he was engrossed in Ileana, possibly her conversation, she thought tartly. Instead, she cleared her throat and declared dinner ready.

Drinks were poured though Ileana refused, asking for sparkling water. The starters arrived, and they were exquisite.

Robin sat next to his latest girlfriend Jade a younger variant of the last three. She was smiling at him raptly, twirling a finger through her hair though he kept trying to drag others into their conversation. Casting his eye towards Nancy every so often she thought perhaps pleadingly, but really, he had brought this on himself.

Torin sat between Ileana and Nancy; his shoulder slightly turned from his wife and his attention on Ileana. She laughed at his jokes, but kept glancing towards Nancy, almost placatingly.

‘Torin says you used paint.’ Ileana beamed.

Nancy took a large drink of white wine and looked at the woman. She could see the appeal, and at least this one was intelligent.

‘Yes, I had a studio not far from your new gallery. The southside was a little different back then.’

Torin turned to his wife. ‘Ha! More than a little, I thought you would be kidnapped. You know she really was talented but along came Alexander.’

She. Was. Nancy’s nostrils flare.

‘She still is,’ Robin corrected. ‘Stick your head round the door on the right before the bathroom, it is filled with her recent work.’

Torin sat up straighter and shot a look at Robin.

‘You’ve been allowed in the studio.’

‘Just once, back in January when you and Ileana were setting up the itinerant exhibit in Amsterdam.’

A tension vibrated round the table, four sets of eyes avoided each other, the other two cast round in amusement and confusion.

Jade changed the conversation though Nancy didn’t think it was because she had picked up on the other diner’s sudden rigidity.

‘I adore children, I would love to be a stay-at-home mother.’ She was looking directly at Robin, but he refused to notice.

Michael giggled loudly. ‘I hate children, and I need a smoke, please excuse me. I trust I have time between courses?’

He stood not waiting for a response.

‘Let me show you to the terrace.’ Nancy volunteered.

Outside he offered her a cigarette, but she declined.

‘Why am I here?’ He asked.

‘Ileana was meant to be bringing her assistant, young, Italian, with an arse you can bounce off a wall. He’s possibly your type.’

‘You’re trying to partner me off? Spare me. Relationships are for those who have given up on life.’

Nancy sighed, reached over, and snatched the cigarette from his hand. She leaned back against the rail, enjoying a long drag she held it in her lungs for a long time, savouring the chemical heat. As she exhaled, she felt herself wilt and Michael put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into her friend and not for the first time that she and he could be something more to each other, but neither’s sex quickened the others pulse.

The second course arrived, swordfish in a lemon and garlic sauce.

‘So, Ileana, when does the new gallery open?’ Robin asked.

‘Next month in theory, but Torin keeps insisting that the space isn’t right for his new pieces.’ Her eyes lingered on the artist in question. They shared a smile.

Michael tried to kick Nancy under the table but missed and scuffed his foot up Robins leg. Robin glared at Michael, who tried to signal with his eyes that boot hadn’t been intended for him. Ileana continued unaware of the ocular bout and the glacial look Nancy had hurled at her.

‘I have never meet with an artist with such passion for the entirety of experience regarding their work. Torin is a purist, a talent, a perfectionist.’

Torin frown and waved as if to brush off Ileanas compliments and Nancy felt her eyebrows raise at this effect modesty.

‘No, its true!’ Ileana insisted.

Torin sat back languidly in his chair. ‘This collection is the peak of everything I have been working towards, my entire life. I am not apologising.’

The caterer started to clear the table; she paused at Ileana’s plate which was untouched unsure if she should take it.

‘I am sorry,’ Nancy said. ‘Don’t you like swordfish?’

Ileana fleetingly touched a gentle hand to her stomach, just for a second and Nancy may have been the only person who noticed.

‘It doesn’t seem to agree with me at the moment.’

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

Mind Burble

This piece was just an exercise in tension an attempt to keep its tone low.

Harriers and Guilt

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It was a splendid summer morning, warm with no breeze and not a cloud in sight. To Harry it had seemed as if nothing could go wrong. The day lay before him, and he was free as a bird. He would take the path over the hill and stop by the Horse and Cart for a drink.

He wasn’t even at the ridge when the Harrier came along the valley skimming the fields and trees. He felt as if he were a God as he looked down on the plane. 

It banked – movements so precise they seemed impossible. Then something went wrong. It pivoted. Spun sideways. Catherine wheeled and slammed into the hillside below Harry. Smoke and debris plumed skywards and moments later a ground shaking roar blasted him. Before he knew what he was doing he was running down the slope towards the burning wreck.

It was raging inferno when he reached it, molten and twisted metal, heat so fierce his skin crackled. But despite this he tried to reach the pilot.

*

Inga had printed the directions before she left the office, but somewhere along the winding roads a left or a right had gone awry and now she was geographically embarrassed. Though she sensed she wasn’t that lost, things seemed familiar, the way the road swung back and forth across the hillside and slunk between ancient bands of trees. She had known before she set off that this wasn’t far from where Jay had, had his accident. His memorial service the year after had been held in a small grey stone church halfway up a hill, very like this one.

Had that really been forty years ago?

The church had been nestled into the hillside only a mile from the crash site. At the end of the service, she had loitered near the kissing gate, as her sister, now a widowed thanked the minister. A man dressed in a shabby but immaculate suit, lingering at the back of the churchyard caught her eye. One side of his face was a raw puckered ruin, he reminded her of the veterans who drank in the village pub, but she was young. She had asked her asked her father who the man at the back of the church was, and apparently, he was the witness to Jays plane go down. She made to approach him, but he had cut and run the second he saw her headed his way. His haunted face had been seared into her mind though, gaunt checks, shadowed eyes, fire ravaged skin.

The road turned back on itself and there buried in the hedge was a rotting kissing gate.

*

It was a splendid summer morning, warm with no breeze and not a cloud in sight. Harry shut the shed door behind him and wondered what he might do with the rest of his day, he had finished clearing the ivy from the crypts far faster than he had expected. A car door slammed out on the lane, likely someone coming to view the commonwealth war graves, tourists often stopped in to see them. A woman of about his age was standing in the shade of the kissing gate when he reached it.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I don’t know maybe, I’m lost but other than that, there used to be a church here, right?’ She wasn’t looking at him, but past him into the graveyard.

Harry nodded, ‘Yeah it burnt down a few years back.’

‘Oh.’ A frown flashed across her face. ‘My brother-in-law had a plaque there; I can’t believe we didn’t hear about the fire.’

Harry’s heart stuttered and not just because of his arrythmia. ‘Jay Roberts?’

She turned to him, looking at him properly, her eyes lingered on his scars for the familiar second, ‘Yeah. Was this your church? Were you the minister?’

‘No, I just keep the place tidy.’ She was frowning again; it seemed an expression that came easily to her. ‘I saw the crash.’ Harry whispered.

Her eyes snapped back to him, ‘You were at his memorial.’

‘I wanted to speak to his widow, I wanted her to know I tried, I did, but …’ Harry’s gut twisted, he had been waiting for this reckoning.

She smiled sadly, ‘There was nothing you could have done.’

Then they were embracing, though Harry wasn’t sure who had initiated the hug. When they broke apart, he was lighter, the guilt he had carried having finally found release. He helped the woman -Inga on her way and asked that she pass on his regards to her sister, who he learnt had remarried. He asked after the two children he remembered from the funeral, now both in the forties, with kids of their own. Before she left Inga paused at the gate, ‘I’m glad he wasn’t alone, that you were there.’

‘I did little good.’

‘You tried.’

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

Mind Burble

This is another blending of truth and fiction. Though for the most part this is a true story, names have been changed and Harry was not injured on the day. He and Inga (my mum) did however meet like this forty plus years after the death of my uncle.

I don’t know what the chances of that were, getting lost in the Lake District, stopping at a familiar landmark to ask for directions and the person who you approach for help is the one who witnessed the death of your brother in law. isn’t the world a strange place? As you can imagine this chance meeting had a big effect on my mum. What were the chances? Have you ever experienced something like this?

Leopards and Holly Trees

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Growing up we had an ancient holly tree in our garden. My dad used to tell me a leopard lived in its branches.  

‘Watch out for the leopard,’ he would say. ‘They love to eat dogs and little girls.’

 ‘Leopards don’t live in Scotland it’s too cold.’ I would protest.

And he always replied, ‘You never know with leopards.’

I knew there wasn’t a leopard, but with the sinking of the sun our garden would change its face, becoming a wilder place, one where leopards might just lay in wait. If I had to venture out there in the dark, perhaps to take the bins out, I would beg my dad to wait at the back door, then I would run through the garden, giving the holly tree a wide berth. I wasn’t sure how far a leopard could leap, but I wasn’t taking chances. My dad had a questionable sense of humour. While waiting for me by the back door, he would utter a deep, rasping sort of bark which he claimed was a leopard call. It sounded ridiculous, but as he had grown up in the foothills of Thunhisgala he knew what a leopard sounded like. When he was about six, not long before the family moved to Ireland a leopard started picking off their dogs, my grandmother loved the dogs, and she took to waiting on the porch with a borrowed gun. Eventually she managed to shoot the beast, and my grandfather, mighty impressed had the pelt preserved. My grandmother protested, feigning embarrassment but it was her who hung it on the wall, not wanting people to walk upon her trophy. 

They didn’t bring many things with them when they went to Ireland, but the leopards pelt was one of them. It hung above the range in the kitchen, incongruous to its rural Irish setting. When my grandfather died my grandmother moved to Scotland to help her sister run a hotel near the Turnhouse RAF base. The pelt came with and was hung in the snug where it was the subject of much interest, especially when folk found out my diminutive grandmother had shot the creature. 

In 1939 the pelt went missing. The 603 Squadron had been in the hotel snug, celebrating as they had downed the first Luftwaffe bomber over the British mainland. At some point the leopard skin had been removed from the wall to be worn as victory cape and the next day it was nowhere to be seen. My grandmother sent my dad down to the base to try and get it back, but nothing came of that.  

The following spring several leopard sightings were reported around the area. My grandmother followed the stories as she knew it had something to do with her leopard skin. One morning a secretary working for the ministry of war based at the Cammo Estate encountered the ‘leopard’, getting a good a look at the creature. Which turned out to be a large dog dressed in a leopard fur. So that was the end of that and apparently my grandmother’s leopard skin as it failed to reappear.

In 1971 my mum who had recently moved to Edinburgh won piloting lessons in a writing competition. She earned her licence and took a second job at the Edinburgh Air Centre, Turnhouse in order to keep flying as it was an expensive hobby. That Christmas they threw a masquerade fundraiser in aid of RAF veterans. My mum hadn’t the time to put together a costume, but one of the club members, Jim had come to her aid. He dug out an old leopard skin which he admitted he and his friends had stolen from a hotel during the war, he laughed as he remembered their trick of dressing the squadrons mascot in the pelt. He then draped the fur around her, declaring her an Egyptian priestess.

My dad had been at that party on a date, but when he saw a beauty dressed in a leopard skin, he had to speak to her. Of course, he had told her about the leopard which had eaten his dogs, how his mother had shot it and the furs subsequent theft from their hotel. At this point my mum had called Jim over.

That Sunday Jim had driven mum out to the hotel, where my grandmother was reunited with the leopard skin. It was returned to its spot on the wall in the snug, where it hung until the hotel burned down in 1979, the year I was born.

When dad died, he requested his ashes scattered in Sri Lanka, but civil unrest and covid made that impossible. So, my mum and I did the next best thing, we took him to the Zoo and emptied his urn into the leopard enclosure when no one was looking. The leopards didn’t seem to mind, they didn’t stir from their hiding places, and I wondered if they were even in the enclosure.

Yesterday I was out walking the dogs, we wandered through Holyrood and down into Meadowfield Park. It was warm, I swear the summers in Scotland often seem tropical now, I don’t remember them being this hot and humid when I was young. The dogs took off into the trees searching for squirrels and I followed them, enjoying the damp cool under the branches. As I walked along half buried in thought I almost stepped under boughs of a holly tree which I hadn’t spotted hidden amongst its neighbours. I stopped, smiled knowing up into the trees thick green branches then cut a wide berth around it, as you never know with leopards.

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

Black and White Slinker

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Black and white slinker

strolls into the room

He who owns the house

but pays for nothing

With a spine bending stretch

paws fasten into the blue chair

Pong. Scratch. Pick. Slice.

‘You twatting cat, none of that’

The look he casts over me

scathing defiance indifference

Again, the claws dig, cut

Making, unmaking, owning Cat Lord.

Prince and Master

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

A short walk and a long drop.

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Image – Microsoft Bing Image Creator, 20th May 2025

‘Put on your boots, strap on your gun, come on let’s ride.’ Abner, always with a sense of the dramatic.

The posse crossed the border in darkness, horses blowing hard, my hands numb on the reins. We hit the snowy plains as the sun rose, its glare fierce on the white world, but it did nothing to warm me.

Round noon we reached the pass, where Decker and I rigged the cliffs with dynamite. We hid them best as we could, the train would have to slow here as the tracks make a steep curve, we didn’t want an attentive engineer spotting anything. Then all we had to do was wait.

Lopez, Red and Decker played cards, I saw to the horses and the twins Laird and Kit heated up some foul-tasting coffee. Abner, he sat apart and made notes in that book he keeps. A thinking man, or at least that’s what he wants us to believe. 

We heard the train long before we saw it, the shrill piping of her whistle and the chug of her engine reverberating off canyon walls. A ripple of excitement flowed through the posse. Decker hurried to the detonator, the fire was kicked out, I brought the horses up, girths were tightened, guns were checked and we mounted. Bravado and swagger were high, today would see a big pay out. The train below belonged to Arnold Wallace and our sources assured that a back dated payroll was onboard.

On Abner’s signal Decker blew the dynamite. The cliff walls heaved, as if taking a deep breath then blew outwards and tumbled onto the tracks. The whistle cried again and brakes screamed. All along the train windows fluttered open and guards poked their heads out.

Kit and Laird opened fire, their Winchesters cracking loudly as they picked off guards and enginemen. Then we were away, hooves kicking up muck and rocks as we bore down on the train. The plan was simple. Abner and I would take the armoured car, we had bolt cutters and dynamite. While we did this the others would subdue the guards and rob the passengers.

Things went smoothly, we met less resistance than expected. Far less. The vault was as promised, a treasure trove. Alongside the payroll we picked up ten gold bars. Abner strutted as if he had laid them himself, while I wondered about the ease of the robbery.

Lopez’s horse dragging his lifeless body along the tracks alerted us to the arrival of the Pinkertons. For a moment the world stilled, then they were on us, guns firing.

A set up and we had fallen for it.

Saddlebags bulging, we scrambled back to our mounts and flew. Our horses weren’t fresh, they didn’t have the legs for a race. Decker chose to face the Pinkertons. Lairds’ mare went down and Kit turned to help his brother. Red, we lost in the woods. Abner and I raced on. Not far from the border, with freedom in sight he turned, aimed his colt at my horse and shot her out from under me.

Down we went, a tumbling mass of horse and rider, a flurry of bank notes, snow, and dirt. I watched Abner cross the river and disappear.

The Pinkertons brought me in. They gave me a choice, a short walk and a long drop, or information on Abner. I ratted my brother out; I spilled my guts.

Red danced on the line while I waited to see if my information brought Abner in. I wanted to live, but my betraying talk proved worthless.

On a fine spring morning I was taken to the gallows, a crowd had gathered to watch me drop, the mayor and other dignitaries. Just before the gallows man dragged a sack over my head a well-dressed gentleman who stood next to the mayor doffed his hat to me and smiled with satisfaction, Abner.  

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

Mind Burble

This is an old piece. I love a good Western, but had never attempted one. There was a limit of seven hundred words for this piece, so it was a bit of a squeeze!

Tea

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‘Morning Alden.’

‘Ms Woodwhite,’ Alden brings the trolley to a stop. ‘Eleanor Winter the police released her body this morning.’

‘Thank you, if you could help me get Eleanor on the table, I would be grateful.’

Alden and I have done this many times, once Eleanor is safely resting on the slab, I sign off the required paperwork, see Alden out and then I read the police handover that Eleanor brought in with her. Her family have already been in touch, they identified Eleanor while she was still at the police mortuary, and they’ve requested a closed casket funeral.

Twenty-three-year-old medical student, she’d taken a gap year to travel, the baby of the family with two older sisters, she loved reading, liked to dance and apparently was an excellent cook. Pretty, well the young woman in the photo is. Eleanor suffered in the last hours of her life, and the trauma of this is evident when I open her body bag, it’s hard to match her corpse to the smiling photo in her file.

I put the radio on, and music fills the room, ‘Hello Eleanor, I’m Catharine I ‘am going to get you ready.’

My duty to Eleanor is simpler than normal, her internal organs have been removed by the police coroner, her body sewed neatly back together. Still, I wash her again and her body tells me that she fought. I massage her limbs working out the rigor mortis that has set in, then shave her, after all these years I find it easier to shave the dead than the living, bring a razor to my own legs and I will draw blood. Her lips are burst, she lost teeth, and her jaw has been dislocated it takes me a while to wire it straight and then shut. What were her last words, I have a feeling she didn’t beg, I sense defiance.

While the arterial embalming runs, I drink coffee, reply to emails and handover Mr Lamont. He has been here for two weeks now, waiting for his sons to travel back across the Atlantic in order to bury him in the family plot on Mull. They collect him and they don’t remind me in anyway of their father, who was a lean and wry witted man. They have been softened and rounded off by their time in America. They place their fathers cardboard coffin in the back of a rental van and away the Lamont’s go.

The bell rings and a childhood friend of Eleanor’s stands at the door, she has brought clothes for her friend to buried in. I bring her into my office and offer her comfort, I listen to her stories about Eleanor, and they fit with who I have come to imagine my client was. Her friends heart lightens, and I am glad, because Eleanor’s was a life that should be celebrated. As I see her friend off, she hesitates, then takes from her bag a battered copy of the Hobbit.

‘Please can you put this in with El?’

Eleanor is to be buried in soft cotton pajama’s printed with dogs, the pictures are cute and colourful, the fabric is worn. I dress her in them as the sunsets, I sort her hair, brushing it out, gently smoothing it into place, so it falls upon her shoulders. Though it is to be a closed casket funeral, I apply light make, bringing the appearance of life back to cold skin, the flush of love and laughter to bruised cheeks. I fold her left arm across her waist and bring her right hand to rest over her heart, under it I place her book. She is ready.

Black tea leaves, peppermint rolled and then chopped, a crushed bay leaf, a snip of rosemary, cinnamon, two birch leaves, a teaspoon of dried powdered willow bark (measure carefully), orange peel, three pink peppercorns and honey (be generous).

I brew familiar recipe in a chipped blue teapot which once belong to my grandmother Tilda. She taught me the recipe, just as she taught me how to deal with the dead. Once its ready, I take it out onto the porch which is heavy with the scent of magnolia and clematis, it’s a warm night and the stars seem strangely distant. I pour two cups and sit back to wait.

It isn’t long before I hear footsteps light and sure of themselves, the screen door swings open and out comes Eleanor. She’s golden, full of promise and ready for what comes next. I gesture to her cup of tea; she sits down, and we drink.

After a while she asks, ‘Why is it we never love the people we ought to?’

‘He handed himself in.’

‘I deserved better.’

‘You did.’

We drink in silence, finishing our tea. For a while she sits holding her empty cup, in the palm of her hands. I don’t rush her; she has all the time in the world. Eventually she places the empty vessel on the table and stands.

‘I’m ready now.’

‘I know.’

I gather the empty cups and head back inside alone.

© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved

Lang may yer lum reek

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‘Time is priceless, but its free. You can’t own it, you can us it. You can spend it. But you can’t keep it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.’

‘That’s good. A pseudo philosopher once took a shit here. Pass some bog roll.’

Fiona’s hand appears under the stall wall, she’s wearing emerald, green nail polish, which is heavily chipped, I take the sandpaper she offers.

‘Thanks – Call Gregs ma for a good time.’

‘Is there a number?’ Fiona asks.

‘Several.’

‘Don’t drink water, fish have sex in it.’

‘Solid advice.’

The toilet next door flushes.

‘You ladies do know this is gents, right?’ Callum asks.

‘Wash your hands!’ Fiona shouts.

The tap runs and a second later Fiona shrieks. By now I am finished and am hiking up my tights, which have twisted something rotten.

‘Callum Brown!’ Fiona roars. ‘I can’t believe you tee-pee’d me!’

‘Ha!’ Callum snorts.

I unlock my cubicle and stagger out, somehow in the last few minutes I seem to have gotten drunker – the inebriating stench of the men’s toilets. Callum standing at the sink wetting another handful of loo roll.

‘I wouldn’t,’ I warn him.

‘I’ll take my chances.’

I shake my head at his stupidity, Fiona is a force to be reckoned with. After washing my hands and give myself the once over. My eyeliner is halfway down my cheeks, so I push it back up, and smear some concealer over the grey stains its left behind. Callum launches his second barrage of missiles at Fiona, who screams. She is going to kill him.

Her cubicle door flies open, and she stands with her head lowered, eyes ablaze, like a bull about to charge, she’s even kicked off her heels, they lie discarded on the floor. Given the state of the tiles this was either very brave or very foolish of her.

‘Shit!’ Callum shouts and he takes off.

Fiona’s after him like a hound. ‘I’m telling mum!’ she brays.

What is about family gatherings that causes us to revert back to our formative years, I wonder. Perhaps the intellectual who wrote that nonsense about time might be able to answer that question. I leave the bathroom just as Uncle Angus tries to enter it, he looks at me in confusion, so I tell him that this is the ladies.

‘Oh, sorry.’ He wanders down the hall to the actual women’s, stops in front of the door then turns back to me, ‘Una! You’ll get me arrested for being some sort of creep!’

Laughing I make my way back into the packed bar. I know nearly everyone here, villagers, friends and family. The air is heavy with the warmth of our crush and thick with conversation. I can hear Fiona and Callum over all of this, they are still arguing, but unlike when we were young, neither of them is crying and no punches have been thrown. I force my way through to the bar and try to get the young server’s attention, but before I can Betty Tolworth starts bellowing for silence. I glance at the clock, surely it’s not that late? But right enough it’s 11:50. When nobody responds Betty smiles at me, picks up the large metal bell she keeps behind the bar and is rumoured to have once used to break up a fight.

‘Would you like the honour?’ she asks.

Taken aback by this gesture of trust and the offering of such power, I smile devilishly, and snatch up the bell eagerly.

‘On you go,’ she says.

With a heady sense of authority, I start swinging my arm and the bells tolling silences the White Harts custodians (even Callum and Fiona). Carried away by all of this I find myself shouting, ‘Bring out your dead.’

‘When you’re quite finished Una,’ Betty says. She’s standing arms folded and eyebrow raised, but she’s smiling. ‘You all know what that means! Out! All of you! Every last one of you.’

‘What about Brian?’ Someone asks. Brain is fast asleep, propped up at the far end of the bar.

‘I’ll deal with Brain,’ Betty says ominously.

And with that we start making our way out, there’s a scrummage at the door as people pull on coats, search for cigarettes and make sure they have everyone they arrived with. Its cold outside, it’s been a harsh December, even the river has frozen over. We crowd into the small car park like a milling herd of sheep. I spot Duncan and Isles who are huddled smoking by the beer garden gate and make my way over to them, ‘Cuz!’ Duncan greets me as he taps out a cigarette for me, I’m drunk enough to take it, and regret it almost instantly when the smoke hits my throat and the world spins.

The sound of feet rushing over gravel announces Callum’s arrival. He’s flushed and looks pleased with himself, I assume because he’s managed to get the better of his sister. The rest of our clan slowly gathers as we stamp our feet and huddle against the cold. Uncle Angus stinks of whisky, his cheeks are furnace red and he sways on his feet like he’s moving to a tune only he can hear. Fiona managed to sneak two pints out with her, and we pass these between us as we wait.

Behind us the church bell begins to toll, the crowd counts along with the strikes, ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!!’ we bellow as one.

Inside the White Hart the piano starts up – Old Lang Syne. I hear the back door to the pub bang open and Betty calls out, ‘Friends and family only.’

And at Hogmanay everyone is family or a friend.

© Juliet Robinson, all rights reserved 2025

Mind Burble

I am writing at the moment, just slowly and mainly my focus is on editing. I hate editing, and I really struggle to get on with it.
This short piece was written for a workshop. The quote ‘Time is priceless, but its free. You can’t own it, you can us it. You can spend it. But you can’t keep it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.’ – comes from Harvey MacKay and was the prompt we were set for the workshop.

The title – Lang may yer lum reek, is a Scottish new years greeting, or indeed Hogmanay greeting and is essentially a blessing. Lang means long, yer means your and a lum is a chimney. Thus it means may you never be without fuel for your fire, or indeed warmth, health and good fortune.

Tuesday

Published on by julietrobinsonscot1 Comment

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ I say as I tentatively stroke the cat’s fur. He’s wet and stretched out as if in mid-bound, no sign of any trauma, other than the distinct lack of life.

‘What did you say?’

‘I told the cat I’m sorry he died,’ I say to the lady who has decided that I need her help in dealing with this but isn’t actually helping in anyway. She just wants to be part of this, without responsibility. ‘Can you watch him while I nip back to my house to get a blanket?’

‘What for?’

‘To wrap him in.’

‘No why do I need to watch him?’

I roll my eyes. If the cat was alive, we would be sharing a look right now.

‘I live just there,’ I gesture at my house two up from where we are. ‘I won’t be a second.’

I regret asking her to stay with the cat but she begrudgingly agrees. It isn’t like it’s going anywhere, but I don’t like the idea of it being there alone.

I grab a cleanish dog towel from the car and head back to the cat. I lift him gently onto the towel, again telling him I’m sorry. My reluctant helper frowns as I talk to the cat and takes a step back when I pick him up. I really don’t know why she stuck around. We part ways and I place the cat on my doorstep while I call the vet to see if they can check him for a microchip. To my surprise they ask if I can wait till the end of the day to avoid upsetting clients.

So now I need to store the cat somewhere. I glance at him in the muddy dog towel and realise I also need something better to wrap him in. I post a careful message about the cat on the neighbourhood Facebook group then go in search of a better shroud.

It’s hard. I don’t really have any old towels, they automatically become dog towels and are mud stained and smelly. So I go through my blankets, but this also isn’t easy. I don’t want to pick something to cheerful. What would the owners think if they should get in touch via Facebook and come to collect him before I take him to the vet. So, the dancing duck picnic blanket won’t do, and the cat taco fleece blanket is a definite no for obvious reasons.

I don’t want to use something that looks nice either in case the owners feel they must wash and return it, so the baby quilt is out. Finally, I remember a blue herringbone blanket of my mother’s, that I had only hung onto because it was hers. I know mum wouldn’t mind me using it for the cat, she was an animal lover.

I wrap the cat in the blanket, with some difficulty as he’s large and rigor mortis has set in. I can’t get both his tail and his face in the wrapping, so I settle on leaving his tail protruding as this is less distressing than his face with the wide staring eyes and lolling tongue.

I then ponder where to store him, I can’t leave him in the house, the dogs and my cat will be a little too interested in him. I also don’t want him in the car. I know he won’t start to smell between now and 17.00, but I still don’t want to risk it. So, he goes into the summerhouse on an old Lloyd loom which I have been meaning to fix-up.

By now my post on Facebook has gathered some comments, a few pictures of a lady’s missing cat who doesn’t look anything like the one in the summer house, I let her down gently. Helpful comments from people suggesting I go door to door as it must be a local pet. I imagine this scenario, me walking the streets ringing bells, asking people if they have a pet cat, do they know where it is, and could it possibly be the dead one in my summerhouse? No, I’m not doing that either.

Finally, 17.00 rolls round and I gather up the cat, but when I get to the car, I can’t juggle holding him and opening the door, so I have to place him on my general waste bin momentarily. My neighbour Hilary appears and hurries over, she has her phone showing a picture of a lovely tortoise shell cat.

‘Is this the cat?’

‘No, he’s a grey tabby,’ I gesture to the wrapped bundle on the bin. But it isn’t there. Its gone. Later that night I pour myself a generous glass of wine and toast my new motto – if at first you don’t succeed, hide all evidence that you ever tried. I spent a good while blocking everyone who commented on my dead cat Facebook post before deleting it. I don’t want to have to explain to a stranger that not only is their cat dead, but I’ve also lost its body.

Mind Burble

Its been more than a hot minute. I am working on a longer project at the moment and find it hard to create shorter pieces whilst doing this. I have also started the dreaded editing phase so am easily distracted …