The Dowie Neuk

[Stewart]

Already it was morning. The crashing sea was audible from down in the harbour, and the damp wind lashed off the window, streaks of saltwater running down the glass. Into George Mackintosh’s room the morning chill slipped, overpowering the still crackling hearth. George had been sitting in the tatty armchair, his feet resting on the small table, watching his newborn son sleeping in his crib. He looked outside for a moment, watched the rain blur the view, before lifting his feet and dropping them to the floor. Grow fast, son, he thought, I can’t take the mornings if they are going to be this long.

The baby twitched, turned its head, and continued to sleep. He was his father’s son. That the storm outside hadn’t troubled the lad meant he’d grow up to be a strong fisherman, a master of the sea. Yes, definitely his father’s son.

George stood up from his seat, found his footing, and walked over to the fire. He held his hands over the embers and felt little heat. So he picked a couple of bricks from the copper scuttle and tossed them into the fire. They crackled but failed to burn and, grabbing the poker to the side of the hearth, he stoked a feeble flame from the warmth beneath the ashes. It seemed no stronger than a candle as its amorphous spark massaged the coal.

The clock atop the mantelpiece had stopped during the night, its hands frozen a few minutes after two. Whatever time it was, going six maybe, the sun had begun its ascent. George could see a glimmer of sky through the rain-splashed window, the orange of dawn filtering through the ashen clouds. He would need to get a move on; the fish never came to him.

A splash of water would be enough, icy cold water, to clean the hands and wash the sleep from his eyes. Then down to the harbour to ready the Brenda for a day’s trawling. Callum and Kirk would no doubt be there already, mending the nets and greasing the runners. They would understand if he was a little late.

There was a creaking behind him as he rubbed his hands under the dribble from the tap. Laura, his daughter, was coming downstairs from the loft. She had swathed herself in a lengthy housecoat, a sash securing it to her budding curves. Her dark hair was untidy from the pillow, knotted locks hanging past her shoulders.

“Morning, Da,” Laura said. She saw the fire was still burning when she reached the last step. “Have you slept much?”

“Nah,” George said, shaking his head. “There’s too much to think about.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t go fishing then. A rest would do you good.”

George turned from her and looked at his son. “I can’t do that. If anything I need to work harder. We have another mouth now.”

“How is he?” Laura walked over to the crib.

“He’s fine, I think. Not a peep from him all night.”

Laura smiled. “He does look peaceful.”

“It’s just as well,” George said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d started crying. Your mother always handled that when you started.”

Laura’s smile fell away. “I miss her.”

“We both do.”

There was a framed photograph of Jill on the wall; a sepia portrait where she looked out over her family, her smile muted to something more resembling a frown. Her hair, dark brown like Laura’s, was lifted high in a tight bun, from where it then cascaded down her back.

It hurt to look at the picture so soon after her death. Maybe in time he would be able to look at it and smile as the memories washed over him. But right now the memories, even the happy ones, carried a sting worse than being salt-whipped by the wind. They hurt on the inside. George reached up and took the photograph from the wall; a clean patch of wallpaper lay underneath.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t look at her now. Not now, not so soon.”

“You can’t forget her!” Laura reached forward and grabbed the photograph from her father’s hands. And, raising her voice: “She’s more than just a picture on a wall.”

The baby stirred at his sister’s outburst, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as his mouth opened to cry.

“Now look what you’ve done,” George said. He bent down to hush the child, his hands dallying over, unsure of what action to take. “Come on, son,” he said, “quiet now.”

Laura put the photograph on the coffee table and, pulling back his covers, scooped the boy from the crib. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, whispered to him. He was soon settled, his wail reduced to a gargle. “That’s it.”

George watched, taking mental notes. He hadn’t heard what she’d whispered but assumed it to be nothing important. It was the sound that calmed the boy, not the meaning.

“I think he’s just hungry,” Laura said. Then she leaned in close to the child and, her voice low, said, “Aren’t you? Yes, you are.”

Here was a mother in the making. Her fifteen years belied a certain maturity beyond. All that time spent with Jill while he was out on the Brenda had taught her the lessons of motherhood. In a few years, God permitting, she would make good use of them.

“You’ll make a fine mother one day.”

“In a way I’m a mother already.” Laura’s eyes glanced down at the boy and returned to meet her father’s.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll be out fishing all day,” she said. “You can’t take a child out to sea.”

“And you can’t claim parenthood over your brother.”

“But I will be the one that raises him, at least until he’s old enough to fish.”

George nodded. “Feed him, yes. Clean him, yes. I suppose you will be like a mother to him.”

Laura looked at the photograph on the table. “I’ll make sure he knows who his mother was. His eyes are beautiful,” she said, “like hers.”

“Yes, blue like a calm sky.” George looked out the window. Although the storm had relaxed, there was still the occasional drop of rain speckling the glass. The clouds were almost gone and the orange of dawn was now fading to the same shade as the boy’s eyes.

“You should get a move on,” Laura said. “There’ll be nothing on the table tonight if you don’t get out there.”

George looked at the clock, forgetting that it had stalled. “You’re right. I’m surprised the guys haven’t come looking for me.” He collected his boots from beside the door and plunged his feet into them. “Damn, these should have been next to the fire overnight.”

“Ma would have done that for you,” Laura said. “She always did.”

“I know,” he said. “It was the little things like that that made her special. You just don’t appreciate them until they stop.”

Laura placed her brother back in his crib. His chubby arm reached up for her, his little fingers clasping the empty air. “We’ll get you fed soon.”

“I should be back after lunch,” George said.

“I know.” Laura didn’t look up from the boy. “You always are.”

“But I shall need your help, Laura.”

“With what?”

“The herring catch. Your mother’s no longer here.”

A look of disgust creased Laura’s face. “Am I to be a wife as well as a mother?”

George took his jacket from the hook on the door. “No, of course not. We just need to pitch in together and work these things out.” He struggled with threading his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “Help me, please.”

Laura stepped over to him and took the jacket, holding it open for him to slip his arms into the hollows. As his hands appeared round the cuffs she helped it over his shoulders. “There, all done.”

“Thank you,” he said and, pulling it from his pocket, he placed his bunnet atop his greying head. “We’ll speak later.”

“Fine, fine.”

The key was in the door and just needed turned. As George opened the door a gust of wind stole in and extinguished the fire in the hearth. Laura drew the boy’s covers over him.

“Hurry up and shut that, it’s freezing.”

George gave her a half-hearted smile as he closed the door.

This piece is a fragment from a novel idea set around a Scottish fishing village circa 1907. Personally, I think the dialogue (and my dialogue in general) is a bit weak, so apologies for that. I'm trying. It's untitled, despite the title of this thread. And if I was to rewrite it, then baby would be crying.

[gil]

I liked the whole thing, and as you anticipated, I have a few quibbles about the dialogue.

At a glance, "yes", "guys", "lunch", "don't", "can't", "haven't" would all be replaced with "aye", "lads", "dinner", "dinna", "canna" "havena". And the dialogue is all a little drawing room in character. I know whereof I speak, as my paternal grandfather started life as a fisherman working out of Cockenzie at the turn of the century - the rest of his family were still at it when I was a lad in the forties, and, whatever they thought, these men would never use a nancy phrase like “Yes, blue like a calm sky” - too cissy and weak for these windswept heroes. You'd be lucky to get a grunt out of any of them unless it was to do with fish prices or beer. I don't suppose your modern Stonehaven trawlerman is very much different.

I don't like to criticise, and I can't tell you where to immerse yourself for the true vernacular, but I think you have to do it.

EDIT:
Oh, and a draught in the door usually makes a fire flare up, not go out.

[HP]

Blixa, you really do write very sensitively. This is handled very gently, and holds much promise. Not sure whether this is your first draft, or not, but if it is then it's darn good. I don't know whether you're looking for suggestions or not, so ignore my comments if you prefer, but I would cut out some of the padding that for my money doesn't earn its keep here. I've highlighted what I'd scrub in red to make it easier to follow. I think it was Tobias Wolff who made some pertinent comment about never putting in the incidental stuff that doesn't tell the reader anything of value, and he's dead right. I would also try to get something in this first page that really makes the reader sit up and take notice ... something one of the characters says, or does, that immediately makes you curious as to what's going on. What you've got so far is perfectly fine, don't get me wrong, but it's safe writing, rather than exciting, because the situation and the characters are running along familiar lines. With regard to your concerns about dialogue, I think you're not doing badly at all, but I'd abbreviate some of it. A silly, but effective example would be the condensing of I shall to I'll - that sort of thing. And the more you get into the story and the characters begin to take over, the better you'll hear their voices ringing in your head ... so not to worry too much at this stage anyway. But all in all hats off to you for a very commendable start ....

Already it was morning. The crashing sea was audible from down in the harbour, and the damp wind lashed off the window, streaks of saltwater running down the glass. Into George Mackintosh’s room the morning chill slipped, overpowering the still crackling hearth. George had been sitting in the tatty armchair, his feet resting on the small table, watching his newborn son sleeping in his crib. He looked outside for a moment, watched the rain blur the view, before lifting his feet and dropping them to the floor. Grow fast, son, he thought, I can’t take the mornings if they are going to be this long.

The baby twitched, turned its head, and continued to sleep. He was his father’s son. That the storm outside hadn’t troubled the lad meant he’d grow up to be a strong fisherman, a master of the sea. Yes, definitely his father’s son.

George stood up from his seat, found his footing, and walked over to the fire. He held his hands over the embers and felt little heat. So he picked a couple of bricks from the copper scuttle and tossed them into the fire. They crackled but failed to burn and, grabbing the poker to the side of the hearth, he stoked a feeble flame from the warmth beneath the ashes. It seemed no stronger than a candle as its amorphous spark massaged the coal.

The clock atop the mantelpiece had stopped during the night, its hands frozen a few minutes after two. Whatever time it was, going six maybe, the sun had begun its ascent. George could see a glimmer of sky through the rain-splashed window, the orange of dawn filtering through the ashen clouds. He would need to get a move on; the fish never came to him.

A splash of water would be enough, icy cold water, to clean the hands and wash the sleep from his eyes. Then down to the harbour to ready the Brenda for a day’s trawling. Callum and Kirk would no doubt be there already, mending the nets and greasing the runners. They would understand if he was a little late.

There was a creaking behind him as he rubbed his hands under the dribble from the tap. Laura, his daughter, was coming downstairs from the loft. She had swathed herself in a lengthy housecoat, a sash securing it to her budding curves. Her dark hair was untidy from the pillow, knotted locks hanging past her shoulders.

“Morning, Da,” Laura said. She saw the fire was still burning when she reached the last step. “Have you slept much?”

“Nah,” George said, shaking his head. “There’s too much to think about.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t go fishing then. A rest would do you good.”

George turned from her and looked at his son. “I can’t do that. If anything I need to work harder. We have another mouth now.”

“How is he?” Laura walked over to the crib.

“He’s fine, I think. Not a peep from him all night.”

Laura smiled. “He does look peaceful.”

“It’s just as well,” George said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d started crying. Your mother always handled that when you started.”

Laura’s smile fell away. “I miss her.”

“We both do.”

There was a framed photograph of Jill on the wall; a sepia portrait where she looked out over her family, her smile muted to something more resembling a frown. Her hair, dark brown like Laura’s, was lifted high in a tight bun, from where it then cascaded down her back.

It hurt to look at the picture so soon after her death. Maybe in time he would be able to look at it and smile as the memories washed over him. But right now the memories, even the happy ones, carried a sting worse than being salt-whipped by the wind. They hurt on the inside. George reached up and took the photograph from the wall; a clean patch of wallpaper lay underneath.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t look at her now. Not now, not so soon.”

“You can’t forget her!” Laura reached forward and grabbed the photograph from her father’s hands. And, raising her voice: “She’s more than just a picture on a wall.”

The baby stirred at his sister’s outburst, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as his mouth opened to cry.

“Now look what you’ve done,” George said. He bent down to hush the child, his hands dallying over, unsure of what action to take. “Come on, son,” he said, “quiet now.”

Laura put the photograph on the coffee table and, pulling back his covers, scooped the boy from the crib. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, whispered to him. He was soon settled, his wail reduced to a gargle. “That’s it.”

George watched, taking mental notes. He hadn’t heard what she’d whispered but assumed it to be nothing important. It was the sound that calmed the boy, not the meaning.

“I think he’s just hungry,” Laura said. Then she leaned in close to the child and, her voice low, said, “Aren’t you? Yes, you are.”

Here was a mother in the making. Her fifteen years belied a certain maturity beyond. All that time spent with Jill while he was out on the Brenda had taught her the lessons of motherhood. In a few years, God permitting, she would make good use of them.

“You’ll make a fine mother one day.”

“In a way I’m a mother already.” Laura’s eyes glanced down at the boy and returned to meet her father’s.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll be out fishing all day,” she said. “You can’t take a child out to sea.”

“And you can’t claim parenthood over your brother.”

“But I will be the one that raises him, at least until he’s old enough to fish.”

George nodded. “Feed him, yes. Clean him, yes. I suppose you will be like a mother to him.”

Laura looked at the photograph on the table. “I’ll make sure he knows who his mother was. His eyes are beautiful,” she said, “like hers.”

“Yes, blue like a calm sky.” George looked out the window. Although the storm had relaxed, there was still the occasional drop of rain speckling the glass. The clouds were almost gone and the orange of dawn was now fading to the same shade as the boy’s eyes.

“You should get a move on,” Laura said. “There’ll be nothing on the table tonight if you don’t get out there.”

George looked at the clock, forgetting that it had stalled. “You’re right. I’m surprised the guys haven’t come looking for me.” He collected his boots from beside the door and plunged his feet into them. “Damn, these should have been next to the fire overnight.”

“Ma would have done that for you,” Laura said. “She always did.”

“I know,” he said. “It was the little things like that that made her special. You just don’t appreciate them until they stop.”

Laura placed her brother back in his crib. His chubby arm reached up for her, his little fingers clasping the empty air. “We’ll get you fed soon.”

“I should be back after lunch,” George said.

“I know.” Laura didn’t look up from the boy. “You always are.”

“But I shall need your help, Laura.”

“With what?”

“The herring catch. Your mother’s no longer here.”

A look of disgust creased Laura’s face. “Am I to be a wife as well as a mother?”

George took his jacket from the hook on the door. “No, of course not. We just need to pitch in together and work these things out.” He struggled with threading his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “Help me, please.”

Laura stepped over to him and took the jacket, holding it open for him to slip his arms into the hollows. As his hands appeared round the cuffs she helped it over his shoulders. “There, all done.”

“Thank you,” he said and, pulling it from his pocket, he placed his bunnet atop his greying head. “We’ll speak later.”

“Fine, fine.”

The key was in the door and just needed turned. As George opened the door a gust of wind stole in and extinguished the fire in the hearth. Laura drew the boy’s covers over him.

“Hurry up and shut that, it’s freezing.”

George gave her a half-hearted smile as he closed the door.

[Stewart]

Originally Posted by gil

At a glance, "yes", "guys", "lunch", "don't", "can't", "haven't" would all be replaced with "aye", "lads", "dinner", "dinna", "canna" "havena".

I suppose that's the biggest problem in that I'm a west coaster with little experience of the east coast in which I'm wanting to set it. Plus I personally don't use local slang when I speak, and find it rather hard to include colloquial dialogue.

I was hoping to take a day trip to Anstruther over the summer to visit the fishing museum there for more of a feel of life back then and just partake of some of the local lingo. I've got a couple of books that have been helpful as regards the sale of herring and the types of fishing craft available.

Oh, and a draught in the door usually makes a fire flare up, not go out.

Very good point.

Thanks for your thoughts, gil.

Originally Posted by HoneyPotts

Blixa, you really do write very sensitively. This is handled very gently, and holds much promise.

Thank you very much, Honey. I'd never heard my writing described as sensitive before, but it's partly what I would like to achieve. I need to work on being more bleak to complement it.

Not sure whether this is your first draft, or not, but if it is then it's darn good.

Yes, it's a first draft that I wrote a few months back, save for a couple of quick changes. (Such as removing the word coffee from before table. ) I posted it here hoping to get excited enough to want to continue with it. I might do just that.

I don't know whether you're looking for suggestions or not, so ignore my comments if you prefer, but I would cut out some of the padding that for my money doesn't earn its keep here.

Feedback, suggestions, what you liked, what you didn't, errors, etc. I'm happy to receive anything. And, reading over your "red pen" marks, I can't help but agree that there's a fair amount of padding in their that, when I read it, seems like part of the story, but comes away as obvious mush when highlighted.

I would also try to get something in this first page that really makes the reader sit up and take notice ... something one of the characters says, or does, that immediately makes you curious as to what's going on. What you've got so far is perfectly fine, don't get me wrong, but it's safe writing, rather than exciting, because the situation and the characters are running along familiar lines.

I was thinking of adding a few more kids - two just doesn't seem plausible - with the baby crying its head off to induce a bit of stress in old George. And perhaps a new slant with Laura...perhaps happy that her mother has died.

[HP]

Originally Posted by Blixa

I was thinking of adding a few more kids - two just doesn't seem plausible - with the baby crying its head off to induce a bit of stress in old George. And perhaps a new slant with Laura...perhaps happy that her mother has died.

Ah, so you're writing it without a rough plot already worked out, then? No probs with that, of course, Blix. But yes, I love the Laura being pleased at her mother's death - particularly if we don't find out why she feels that way for a while. The not knowing, and the fact that this reaction of hers is somewhat unexpected, unusual, will keep your readers anxious to find out why. But a great thing to do before you put eager fingers to keyboard (in other words even before that first draft) is to just start writing a character study for each of your cast. Not a 'brown hair, blue eyes' sort of nonsense, but what they're feeling and thinking when the scene opens, what they hate, love, foibles, gifts, worst fears ... all the rich internal colour and unique patterns of their personalities. And don't be afraid to just type out your thoughts about these people as they crash into your head, nor to hit the delete button if you come up with something that doesn't ring true, or feels too stereotypical, somehow. It works differently for every writer, but knowing who and why your characters are the way they are, before you start anything, is a great shortcut to getting the story right. Of course, you'll continue to find new depths to them as you write, which is just joyous - like playing God and creating new life that really does exist in its own right, albeit only in your head at first.

Edit: can I just say how much I really do admire your enthusiasm and commitment to the scribbling process ... and that also very much comes over in what you write, somehow.

[Noumenon]

More basic agreement from me, especially in making George more tight-lipped as he's not only a gruff man of the sea but a recently (?) bereaved one too; but I would suggest that rather than lose some of the more civilised dialogue you could reassign it - put his words in Laura's mouth, have her fill out his silences or embelish his one-word responses. If he can only think of the baby's eyes as "Blue", she can add the heartfelt detail for him, etc.

[Hekaterine]

HoneyPotts has the right idea, I think - if you can really get to grips with who your characters are, then the plot will come from that.

I'm told by a friend who is in the enviable position of writing for a living (and making a living at it) that the main reason for manuscripts being returned from publishers is lack of characterisation.

Getting a feel for their physical characteristics would also help - even if you don't include this in the narrative. For example, if you know how Laura dresses, sits, stands, wears her hair, this will all help when you are putting her in a certain situation and wondering how she would behave.

Thora Hird apparently always started to decide on how to portray a character by deciding what sort of shoes she would wear...