Iain Mills from Largs says: "I write prose and poetry in a variety of genres, though it is fiction that gives me the greatest buzz. I’m really pleased to be one of the winners. I felt that my story, The Cauld Blast, came together well, though, as always, I still had a few uncertainties about it. It will be good to see it in print and I would like to think that people will enjoy reading it – even if they feel the cold seeping into their bones as they do so. Perhaps it illustrates that Scotland’s heritage is rich but can also be bleak.

 

THE CAULD BLAST

A’ve walked up the gentle brae tae the auld kirk at the crossroads sae mony times; in summer when the big trees are full o birdsong and in autumn when the rain rins down it like a torrent and the sodden leaves clump together by the roadside. Today it’s ower slippy tae walk up it, the trees stooped wi snaw an the bumps shinin wi ice. A went out yesterday tae check ma snares, an aw A found was a skinny wee rabbit – trapped by its leg an frozen solid. A was frozen solid maself by the time A got hame.

Three year ago, A walked up tae the kirkyard behind ma Meg’s coffin, an since then the auld hoose has been that lonely, though it’s jist a wee bit place. In summer A can go tae the inn in the village an usually somebody will buy me a drink an gie me a bit o company. It’s the cheapest howff around, but A still cannae afford tae buy ma ain, no now that A’m no workin. Sometime the inn-keeper’s wife, Mary, slips me some hot food an a warm smile. A aye got by wi a bit o work here, an odd-job there, but wi ma back an ma hauns like this, naebody wid tak me on now.

Come evenin A jist sit in ma chair an think, listenin for the mice daein their best tae get intae the bag o oats that the Parish gies me. Maybe if A’d learned tae read A could pass the time.

Sometimes folk drap in tae see me, but no often in winter, an no when the snaw’s blanketin the fields an lanes. At least A’ve a roof ower ma heid. Ma nearest neebor’s near a mile away an – in this weather – it might as weel be fifty mile.

Ma son, William, was named efter me, and Ellen, ma daughter, wis efter Meg’s mither. Sometimes A think A hear their voices out in the yard when the wind blows aroon the hoose, but A know it isnae really them. William died o fever when he was jist twenty, an Ellen stays in Dumfries – she’s a maid in a big hoose there. She doesnae get much time aff and where A am’s no that easy tae reach, so A hardly see her.

It’s cauld jist sittin here; A can feel it seepin intae ma bones.

A’ve never really known anywhere else. Ma faither came here as an orra man at the big farm near sixty year ago, and we got this wee biggin tae stay in. A got a job oan the big farm tae, an though ma brithers moved away, A stayed right here. There were hard times but there were guid times as weel, an it was a fine place tae grow up. Me an ma brithers never went tae a school – the parish school didnae open till after we were too auld for it. A remember the dances in the village or at some o the bigger farms; A mind the haymaking when we aw got together – that’s where A first met Meg. There were the twilight walks an fishin in the burn, the Kirk twice on Sunday an the hirin fairs. A can see thae things an A can hear the voices, but they’re jist faint

echoes now. A never mind o bein cauld when A wis young; A cannae mind bein warm these last few years. Ye just have tae take it a day at a time, there’s no much point lookin intae the future an what it might bring.

There’s a noise outside an A strain ma lugs tae mak out what it is ower the blusterin wind. A think A must be hearin things. Then A hear it louder, the sound o a horse an cart; the wheels skitin oan the ice an the horse’s hoofs. The bangin oan ma door worries me in case it’s somebody up tae nae good, but A never bar ma door so whoever’s outside could walk straight in if they were of a mind tae.

A creak out of ma chair an go tae the door. As A open it a snaw flurry blows in, an at first I canna make out who it is.

“Wullie, how ye farin’, man?” It’s Robert, ma nearest neebor. Everybody else cries me William except him. Behind him his horse is snortin clouds o steam an pawin the frozen ground.

“Robert – it’s grand tae see ye lad, whit brings ye here?”

“Well, it’s either here, Wullie, or takin up an invite tae dine wi the King in London, an A think there’s a better class o company here, man.”

That’s probably ma first smile the day.

“Wullie, Jean’ll hae some food on the stove an A’ve a wee dram or two that’s needin drinkin. A thought A’d pick ye up an tak ye ower tae oor hoose. A can either bring ye back later or gie ye a cot for the night...”

“Och Robert, you’ve nae room, what wi the bairns...”

“There’s plenty room. An A see you’ve yir coat oan already – ye must have been expectin me.”

There’s aye that twinkle in his een; he loves tae laugh an joke.

The back road tae his farm is difficult, wi drifts in the hollows an ice where it rises. He’s draped an auld horse blanket roon me, an it might reek a bit but it’s helping keep the cauld blast out. A feed will be good an A havnae had a guid whisky for ages. Him an Jean only took up the lease a couple o years ago, but he’s already weel-kent. He can be a wild yin at times, an Jean puts up wi a lot, but ye can see he’s got a heart o gowd. Some call him Rab the Rhymer, but tae me he’s jist Robert.

WHAT MADE THIS A WINNER?

Bernard Bale: “The work that has gone into this is phenomenal – there is no computer in the world that could make a translation like this. It is not just hard work but it also sets the reader a challenge to read it, digest it, understand it and enjoy it from start to finish. It is a very human story with endearing characters. It is also very cleverly descriptive and has a great feel-good factor. You can't help feeling that no matter how 'Cauld' the 'Blast' you have a haven. Great work!”

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