family – A Year of Time

Harriers and Guilt

Published on Oct 2, 2025Oct 9, 2025 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

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.’

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?

Lang may yer lum reek

Published on Jan 27, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot5 Comments

‘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.

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.

Inga

Published on Sep 24, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot3 Comments

London. Her first summer away from home. Her first in a city. Not just any city, London. She never, not even fifty years later, got over the excitement of that summer in London. The heat of the summer, which seemed to spill into everything.

She had flat in Belgravia. A job in advertising with a respectable paper. She was woman, it was the seventies, and she was making strides. Not sure how she had managed half of this. But she was here.

The rent had been cheap. The flat secured through a friend of her mother’s. But her pay had been minimal. And standards had been high, it was expensive being a woman. Especially one in the business of advertising. Clothes, makeup, hair and socialising. The bars in London had been a far cry from the country pubs where she had come of age drinking cider. Sometimes she missed those musty places, where the field workers came in smelling of the sun, sweat and grass, hands caked brown from their toil in the fields. Sometimes.

Here everything was fast, exciting and new. People had a way of talking – confident. She felt part of something huge here in London, even if she spent most of her days brewing coffee, running errands, answering the phone, collecting lunches and making dinner reservations.

She had been young and beautiful. Flushed with the potential of a life just begun.

At party she met Amado. He had been invited by one of the executives who had a passion for the occult.

Amado. He was dangerous. The sense of it had lingered around him. He had been finely dressed, smoking a pipe, like her father. A long face, roman nose, heavy eyebrows that framed stark staring eyes. Eyes that she had felt on her.

Her skin had crept and crawled when he came to speak to her. He wasn’t keen to hear about her, he just wanted to talk about himself, he was writing a book, he was a magician, and he quickly dropped the name of supposed mentor into their conversation. Crowley. She knew that name.

As politely as possible she had detached herself from his conversation. But he had haunted her steps for the rest of the night and indeed for the remainder of that warm and vibrant June.

Parties, so many parties that month and he was always there. She kept him at arm’s length. Easy enough to do. But one night he followed her home. After that, he had been everywhere. The park where she and her friends sunbathed on the weekends, the grocers, the newspaper stand at Knightsbridge tube station. Always her shadow. Yet he never approached. Just lingered. Watched. Then one day he was gone.

On the night of June 21^st, the summer solstice, her doorbell rang. Though she was in rush to ready herself for a dinner with clients she answered it. Amado. He was crowded up to the door and loomed over her. She stepped back, her mouth dropped open, ready to scream, to alert passers-by. Silence. They stared at each other.

He was sweating, it dripped down his forehead and into his brows. He wasn’t dressed for June. Trench coat and boots, but this wasn’t why he perspired. He was nervous.

‘I have a gift for you.’ He glanced over his shoulder, then reached into the duffle bag he carried.

A gleam of white, a flash of teeth, in his hands rested a skull. He thrust it at her and she took it. Shocked, she held it staring down at empty eye sockets. He turned and hurried away.

Clutching the skull, she shut the door.

June had continued hot and glorious, filled with parties. Amado had gone. A cloud had lifted. Eventually she took the skull home to her parents and her father buried it next to the asparagus bed.

Mind Burble

This is an older piece, its not so much a short story, but something that happened to my mother in the seventies. My mum passed away in 2021 and I have enjoyed writing wee snippets about her life. I find it cathartic. Under the Apple Tree which I have previously shared here was loosely based upon my mum also.

Stumbles

Published on Aug 16, 2024Aug 16, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot19 Comments

It’s been a long summer and creativity has fled!

I don’t expect I am alone in finding the summer a poor time for writing.

The weather is better (well I do live in Scotland, so it remains fickle) and it draws you out and with no school to occupy my child … the limited free time I have to write vanishes.

Autumn and winter for me are deeper times of creativity. I feel more myself in the Autumn, and in the winter, I turn into a cave dwelling hermit, so writing is easier!

Hopefully now schools back on I might find my muse again?

Bunny

Published on Jul 18, 2024Jul 17, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot13 Comments

I’m heading south today for my uncle’s funeral.

Brian, or Bunny as we all knew him, sadly passed away two weeks ago. These last few years thanks to Covid and life I haven’t seen nearly as much of him as I would have liked. In fact the last time I saw him was my mother’s funeral at which he read his favourite poem – A Coat, by William Butler Yeats.

A Coat

I made my song a coat

Covered with embroideries

Out of old mythologies

From heel to throat;

But the fools caught it,

Wore it in the world’s eyes

As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it

For there’s more enterprise

In walking naked.

William Butler Yeats

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/12893/a-coat

Bunny was someone who always made you feel seen, heard and valued. He was fascinated with life, interested in everything and was a talented artist. He persued art for the love of creation. He was a photographer, a painter and a sculptor, though there was little he couldn’t turn his hand to.

I have done many things in my life, but the
most important segments are the periods
from 1960 to 1980 and 2004 until the present when I was and am now making
sculpture and drawing. The gap in-between
I foolishly devoted entirely to business and
regard these as fallow years.

Here Bunny talks of himself and his art. I am so struck by what he says here, fallow years. I keep thinking about this phrase and Bunny. He was a wonderful person, complex and intelligent. We all loved him very much and we all miss him, my aunt most of all who he loved above everything.

I have many memories of Bunny, him in Orkney hidden behind the lens of his camera, him cooking in his kitchen, sitting on a veranda in Tuscany drinking wine with him, Bunny bustling around in his workshop or working on his Mac. When he worked he radiated a calm sense of purpose which was hypnotic. I loved that if I ran cross country to my aunt and Bunny’s house, upon arrival he would offer me coffee or wine, never a glass of water, even if the sun wasn’t past the yardarm yet.

I haven’t yet really processed that Bunny has moved on, gone ahead or left us. This won’t really happen until the funeral, but even then I don’t know when or if his passing will ever feel real. Its been three years since my mum died and I still feel like she could just be away on holiday.

https://flickr.com/photos/noust123/