Most of my stories are based on real life. As a recovering alcoholic I wrote them in an effort to recall the past, hoping that by doing so I might better understand where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to my real (sober) identity. Two stories, "Gulf" and "Tarradale's Option" are tributes to the Sutherland crofting community amongst whom I was privileged to live for three years. The American connection in "Gulf" is inspired a long-standing involvement with U.S. Internet writing communities. Special thanks to Bob Church for vetting the American dialogue, etc. "Gulf" is based on a real happening in the early seventies. "Orra Loon" and "Bonny in Black" (originally "Strushle Jock") are set in Speyside and culled from my experiences growing up in that district. My father worked at Aberlour Orphanage and I attended school there in the forties and fifties. The home, which used to house 350 boys and girls, had its own farm, school and church. The school clock tower is all that remains today of that Dickensian institution. For "Insulated Conductor," a humorous tale of life on London Buses, I try to convey a cockney touch, as with "Potholes and Speed" and "Dodgy Night Out." I spent three years as a bus driver with London Transport and a few more learning the quirks of the furniture removal trade. "Friendly Fire" draws on my bleary recollections of life in Jersey and the destructive self-indulgence that was to have far-reaching negative effects on innocent people's lives. "Jerusalem" and "My Brother's Keeper" are practically autobiographical, charting how I eventually reached the stage of reaching out for help for my addiction at the expense of a life-long friendship. I live with my wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of my plot-led tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner, builder’s labourer, brewer’s drayman, London bus driver, trucker, mobile librarian - and a few I can't remember. I was born and brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland as the “spirit” moved me. Along the way I met some interesting characters and I have endeavoured to portray a few of these in the stories.Thanks for visiting.Ed. FAVOURITE LINKS Calling all ABERLOUR ORPHANAGE old boys and girls, particularly those who lived at the home before the admin changes that preceded its demolition. A Reunion Fellowship Website has been set up by Trevor Russell that contains heaps of information, links and photos. Click on http://www.orphanage.co.uk/ Thanks. USEFULL WEBSITES FOR WRITERS AND READERS BOB CHURCH - A writer with attitude and an excellent command of the English language. Engrossing. http://www.idlehandsmag.com/bobchurchblogs/R. ERIC SWANEPOEL - Author of 'Saving the World and Being Happy (The Computer Ager),' a revolutionary novel. Visit his informative website.http://hometown.aol.co.uk/computerager/index.htm DEE RIMBAUD - Artist & Writer. Editor of The AA Independent Press Guide and The Book Of Hopes And Dreams. Innovative website and writers' resource.http://www.thunderburst.co.uk/ BOOK REVIEW MONTHLY - Excellent Readers' Website"Book Review Monthly is written by bookshop staff for bookshops. It is our mission to review and promote books that readers REALLY enjoy not those forced on us by big publishing houses with financial clout. In other words we are not literary snobs or publishing lackies."http://www.bookreviewmonthly.co.uk DRIFTERS OASIS - The Art and Passion of the Written Wordhttp://www.driftersoasis.com/home.htmlCOFFEE CRAMP REVIEWS - dedicated to writers , poets, illustrators and readers of every genre. http://coffeecrampreviews.tripod.com/id36.htmlLITERARY VISION MAGAZINE - "the free-range rooster of creative writing"http://www.litvision.org/index.html PREDITORS & EDITORS - A guide to publishers and publishing services for serious writershttp://www.anotherealm.com/prededitors/pebp.htmAESTHETICA - A Review of Contemporary Artists (York, UK)http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/ LAURA HIRD - The Edinburgh author's informative and entertaining website (UK)http://www.laurahird.com/ ZEBIDEE JONES - Newly launched Interactive Forum for students and novice writers. Join now to make new friends, improve your skills and help others. (Stroud.UK)http://www.zebideejones.com NEW WRITER'S MARKET- Provides new and experienced writers and poets, as well as those offering them services, with a professional platform to market, publish and sell their work or services. http://www.newwritersmarket.com TALESETC.COM Mike Chapman (The TaleWagger) - Excellent collection of selected writings. (US) http://talesetc.com/index.html FICTION RESOURCES - Fiction related news, books & web resources (US) http://www.utyx.com/fiction/ READERS UNBOUND - The Best reading on the web!http://www.readersunbound.com/ SELFLESS MIND - Where minds like yours matter!http://www.selfless-mind.com WRITERS UNBOUND - Helping writers one issue at a time.http://www.writersunbound.com/ LIT.ORG - A Community for writershttp://www.lit.org LITSCENE.COM - The Search Engine for writers.http://www.litscene.com/Save Our Short Story - Arts Council Campaign (UK) http://www.saveourshortstory.org.uk Book Publicity - Comprehensive Writers Resource (UK) http://www.bookpublicity.co.uk/home.htm LITLINKS - Literary Links on the Webhttp://www.LitVillage.com . Bookworm's Lair - First Class Literary Site (German based) http://www.bookwormslair.de/books_e.htm Meghdutam - Everything you need for hours of online reading pleasure! (Indian) http://www.meghdutam.com AuthorMe.Com - Support for new authors and much more (US) http://author-me.com/ ABC Tales - Writers arm of The Big Issue (UK) http://www.abctales.com/ U.K. Authors - Popular and well organised writer's resource (UK) http://www.ukauthors.com/index.php Authors Den - Gathering of Writers (US) http://www.authorsden.com/ The Burry Man Writers' Centre - Scottish/US Resource http://www.burryman.com/ Idle Hands Magazine - First-Rate Writers Resource (US) http://www.idlehandsmag.com/ AUTHORS' WEB SITES (Mainly Short Stories) David Gardiner - http://davidgardiner.net/ Laura Hird - http://www.laurahird.com/ Susanne Marie Knight, "Romance Writing with a Twist" - http://www.susanneknight.com Patricia Tuthill - Read Patricia's account of her PublishBritannica experiencehttp://www.freewebs.com/patriciatuthill/ Diane Dees (Princess Cafe) - http://www.princesscafe.com/Cafe/Welcome/index.html Charlie Sundt's FICTION ON THE WEB http://www.fictionontheweb.co.uk Nan's Nook - http://nanjacobs.com/ Val's Ramblings - http://hometown.aol.co.uk/ffiordfancier/index.html Val's Ramblings (Secod edition) - http://hometown.aol.co.uk/valsramblings/index.html Val McDermid - http://www.valmcdermid.com/ John Griffiths - http://www.e-griff.com Mike Kahmann - http://members.aol.com/ssbymjk/index.html RECOMMENDED READS (AMAZON) "THE RAINBOW MAN AND OTHER STORIES" by David Gardiner (anthology of excellent works by this acclaimed author) - http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/tg/stores/detail/-/books/1904781012/reviews/026-9018811-5901262 http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1904781012/qid=1069153699/sr=1-/102-9025687-0502559" SAVING THE WORLD AND BEING HAPPY (The Computer Ager)"http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/141371756X/qid%3D1098806508/202-7066054-4051867http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/141371756X/qid=1098806758/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/104-7204093-5893500?v=glance&s=books ALCOHOL ADDICTION WEBSITESAlcoholics Anonymous - http://www.alcoholicsanonymous.co.uk/ Al-Anon (for families and friends of alcoholics) - http://www.al-anonuk.org.uk/ About Alcoholism - http://alcoholism.about.com/Molly's UK Alcoholics Anonymous Website - http://www.aamolly.org.uk/ Samaritans - http://www.samaritans.co.uk/ SCOTTISH WEBSITES The Royal Scottish Corporation - A helping hand for London Scots http://www.royalscottishcorporation.org.uk Undiscovered Scotland. The Ultimate Online Guide -http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/index.html Scotland Aerial Photos - Panoramic views of the Highlandshttp://www.alanmoar.flyer.co.uk/index.htm SaltireCross.com - Your Source of Information for Scotland http://www.saltirecross.com HI~Arts – for up-to-date information on arts and events in the Highlands and Islands http://www.hi-arts.co.uk Caithness Community Website - http://www.caithness.org/ Electric Scotland - http://www.electricscotland.com/ Scotland.com - http://scotland.com/ Scottish Tales - http://www.scottishtales.com. Highlander Radio - http://www.celticradio.net/ Celtic Art - http://www.bennettcelticart.com Cece's Scottish Tartan Themes & Screensavers - http://luceouro.tripod.com/tartanthemes.html U.S. Scots Magazine. Complete resource for North American Scots - http://www.usscots.com/ MISC.dmoz Open Directory Project - http://www.dmoz.org/ Open Here - Comprehensive up-to-the-minute all-purpose U.S. website - http://www.openhere.com/ Trucking Etc. - http://transportcafe.co.uk (Drivers' website with pictures of Northern Lights and more) Splat Comic Links. Arts & Shopping Links Directory. http://www.splatcomic.com/links/artdir/literature/literature-Short-Stories.asp AUTHORS WEBSITES STANDFAST - by Mary T. Dresser. The Glory Days of History. Follow the adventures of Johnny Grant after the Highlanders' defeat at Culloden. http://www.marytdresser.com/ TURTLE ISLAND by DARREN E.LAWS. "A web of deception, entwined with a depth of sensual sex undergoing a great murder mystery. Great." http://www.deathcam.net/ SUICIDE STRING by BURT KEIMACH. "A serious manual of "mass instruction"; a major warning for everyone everywhere! What can happen in the wake of 9/11 when suicide bombers run wild. A riveting tale with a stunning end. http://suicidestring.co.uk IN THE SHADOW OF ALEXANDER, A SOLDIER'S TALE by G.A.HAUSER. "The author has captured the narrative, setting and pace of a story that will keep you rooting for the main characters as you would in a thriller and has made this Historical novel equally thrilling and enthralling. An excellent novel!" http://www.authorga.com/ THE WATCHERS by G.K.McLAREN. "“An engrossing page turner which presents a bizarre yet believable kaleidoscope incorporating The Apocalypse, conspiracy theory, the blue touch paper of the Middle East, Biblical prophecy, a sci-fi 'other' race, recovered memory, lost love, a Central Scotland car chase, some underpants and a hair dryer. A 'visual' novel that shows the writer knows his field well. Part Ray Bradbury, part Buchan's 39 Steps with television's The X-Files, The Invaders and Spooks in there too, an impressive debut which manages to bring both comfort and necessary unease to the reader.“ http://www.litterali.com/Watchers/The_Watchers/the_watchers.html PAPR: KUT by IAN McLACHLAN. "A novel about survival: how the past survives in us, and how we survive in the present." http://members.aol.com/nuweightbodies/pindex.htm NECKLACE OF WARM SNOW by Brenda Hall. "First published by Zander Ebooks in June 2002, it won an EPPIE award for best inspirational novel in March 2003." http://www.worldsapartreview.com/necklace.htm SECRET TIDE by Douglas Arnold. "This first novel , set in Plymouth England, contrasts a naive, out of work, ordinary family man, with hard bitten, vicious crimminals, awash with illicit money..." http://www.authorsden.com/douglasarnold Site sponsored by Epping Bowls Club - only kidding, but if you live in the vicinity, why don’t you come along, meet some nice people and enjoy a great sport. Website http://www.eppingbowlsclub.co.uk My grateful thanks to those who visited my website and hopefully enjoyed reading the stories. ******************************************************************* The Turra Coo As an impressionable youngster living in the country village of Aberlour in Scotland, I recall overhearing more than one reference to the Turra Coo legend. I won't say it haunted me, it was just one of those anecdotes overheard in adult conversation, that you were mildly interested in, yet felt you daren't risk the "children should be seen and not heard" rebuke. As with Chinese whispers, the Turra Coo tale varied slightly every time I heard it. Of course I had more interesting things to do in those days so I subconsciously filed it away for future reference. I should explain that Turra is the local name for Turriff, a market town in Aberdeenshire, while Coo…well, everybody knows where milk comes from. Many years later I took a job as a dustman in the Moray Firth harbour town of Buckie. Arthur, my admirable foreman, had been a farm worker for most of his life and possessed that almost cynical attitude to life in general and animals in particular that seems to characterise some of the farming community. But oh how I loved his lunchtime reminiscences! Before agriculture became mechanised he had been a horseman, a better paid skill than most, the ability to plough a straight furrow being a source of pride in those days when ploughing matches were as common as sheepdog trials. The everyday beast of burden in Scotland was the sturdy Clydesdale while in England they had their Shires. When I was about six or seven my brother and I used to exercise our local farmer's horses on Sundays by riding them bareback at a leisurely pace through the forest. Having on more than one occasion been left hanging from a tree branch powerless to steer the mare clear, I can vouch for the stubbornness of the breed. One of Arthur's duties had been to train raw colts his employer had purchased, mostly from gypsies, at horse fairs like Enzie, Rathven and Keith. Many would be highly-strung and cranky, testing Arthur's patience and ability to the limit. I've said he was cynical but he just saw it as being hard to be kind when he broke the shaft of a pitchfork over the rump of a particularly fractious newcomer. He told me it was the turning point in his ongoing battle with Jake - the horse not the farmer. After that incident the animal would do anything for Arthur but still his tight-fisted boss deducted the price of a new pitchfork handle from his wages. When Keith's annual feeing market came round - an agricultural show where farmers secured new workers by offering them a small advance on their wages - Arthur moved on to a better-paid job ten miles away. But within a fortnight he had a visit from his previous employer pleading with him to take Jake to the next market as he was unable to get the cantankerous animal to do anything for him. "And I canna feed a beast that winna work," he said. Aware the stingy farmer might indeed starve the animal, Arthur paraded the sprightly Jake in the ring on the appointed day, docile and handsome as you like and attracting bids far in excess of the reserve price. But two weeks later, after exhaustive efforts to get any response from the dour creature, even Jake's new owner was knocking on Arthur's bothy door, pleading with him to take the animal off his hands - as a gift. "I had a few weekends on the razzle thanks to Jake," my foreman said. I could read the pride in Arthur's face and I'd no cause to doubt his words. His story somehow put me in mind of the Turra Coo and if anyone knew that tale it had to be him. "Oh aye, the Turra Coo," he answered, knowingly. "My grandfather used to tell me aboot it when I was a bairn." He went on to relate how a Turriff farmer called Paterson was forced to sell his best milking cow following a particularly bad harvest. Along with a dozen others bought by a dealer that day, the docile Friesian was transported thirty miles away and sent out to pasture. About a week later Paterson was taking his remaining milkers home to the byre when he stopped and rubbed his eyes, amazed to see his favourite animal sauntering along in the midst of the herd as if she'd never left the farm. At this point a glint appeared in Arthur's eye and the extra furrows on his brow told me he'd moved into embellishment mode. "They say Paterson never mended the broken fence. Aye and when times were hard, he'd just sell the coo again, an' again an' again…" With hindsight I should've left it at that, but just about that time the fair town of Keith reinvented itself by sponsoring an annual folk festival. I love folk music. There I shared a jar or two with a talented Aberdonian group who sang bothy ballads (farming songs) in Doric (an ancient north-eastern language that even near neighbours in Banffshire struggle to understand). Their show-stopper? The Ballad o' the Turra Coo! The tune was fine but I hardly understood a word and had to have the lyrics interpreted. Archie MacPhail, the lead singer, was happy to oblige. So this was the gist of the real story. "When Lloyd George introduced the National Health Insurance Scheme in 1913, a farmer called Robert Paterson of Lendrum Farm, Turriff refused to join. The powers that be retaliated by impounding one of his cows but when the Sherriff Officers tried to auction it in Turriff Square a riot ensued and they were chased out of town. Subsequent sale attempts also failed until she was eventually bought by neighbours and presented back to Paterson after a procession through the streets." Archie bought me a large Strathisla, saying I looked "gie peely-wally." When I felt better we toasted the immortal memory of the Turra Coo - Arthur's version of course. (c) 2006 Eddie Bruce Before you go, here's another story set in the North East. ORRA LOON Walter Gourlay became the orra loon at Logiewell when he left Aberlour Orphanage at fifteen years old. Orra loon is North-East of Scotland farming speak for extra hand or spare lad, the scornful label following the recipient into old age. The robust, handsome, introvert lad was taken to the farm in the warden's black Buick, his first experience of motorised transport, fed jam sandwiches by Ella Kirk, the farmer's wife, then shown his bothy - a shed between byre and the stable, next to Glen's kennel. A month later he bought a bike to travel the forty-mile round trip to the home on Sundays. But soon enough friends of his age group were despatched to more distant airts. Walter knew he had to resign himself to the drudgery of Logiewell, which entailed blind obedience to his devoutly religious, tyrannical master, as well as to moody Alistair, his wayward son. Nonetheless, by the age of twenty-three, he had visited Aberdeen and also North Africa - although soldiers in World War Two missed out on the scenery. The Kirks had farmed Logiewell, with its stones and uneven, marshy ground, for generations. Robert senior had returned from the First World War nursing a severe facial injury, acquired, some said, not in the trenches, but accidentally, on manoeuvres at Salisbury Plain. The wound healed badly, leaving his mouth permanently distorted, in a lopsided grin that belied, or maybe caused, his habitual dourness. Barring weekly services at nearby Edenkillie Church, he and Ella lived reclusively on their four-horse smallholding. Traditionally, their first son was named after his father, Then five years elapsed before Alistair was born, with their daughter Jean arriving a year later. They hired Walter as a replacement for young Robert, when he joined the Royal Air Force, just after the war started. Alistair was thrown out of agricultural college for misbehaviour. The father tended to compare his enlisted son's skills with hapless Walter's uselessness. He imposed a strict discipline on the young orphan, peppered with biblical quotes and paternal counsel. The youth, who had never known his parents, accepted all of it in good grace, thankful for the crumbs of comfort dispensed by Ella, in the form of patronising praise and extra helpings of mince and tatties. When Robert junior was reported missing, shot down over the English Channel, the old man retreated even deeper into gloom. Alistair assumed more control of everyday affairs than his age and unstable disposition justified. For two years Walter tolerated Alistair's hurtful 'orphan' remarks, knowing that at least the father was a man of principle. His high standards were cruelly illustrated in an anecdote conveyed to him by the blacksmith, soon after his arrival. The farmer had been called to Forres by his son's headmaster, where he was told of a serious charge of a sexual nature levelled at Alistair by the parents of a female pupil. The case went to court and Alistair got twelve strokes of the birch, which compared favourably with the extra hiding his shamed father gave him. The two seventeen-year-olds were carting turnips home in the rain, both weary from their labours and Crabby, the old grey mare, was struggling to pull the cart along the winding muddy track. Walter jumped off to lighten the load, but Alistair yanked on the reins, guiding the horse on to a steep banking used as a shortcut by the cattle at milking time. "Dinna be daft Ally," shouted Walter, "she'll never make it!" "She'll bloody have tae! I'm soaked to the skin." He raised the whip, stinging the big Clydesdale's wet rump. The panic-stricken beast scampered up the incline, but when the weight of the laden cart pulled against her, she collapsed in a heap between the shafts, puffing like a labouring steam engine. Walter advanced towards the stricken beast, penknife in hand. "Aye, she's gettin' past it, anyway Watty," said his companion. "better put 'er oot o' her misery." As Walter sliced the harness securing the shafts, the weight of the load forced the unshackled cart to tip backwards, throwing the driver to the ground amidst a heap of muddy turnips. "You stupid loon! My father'll kill you! D'ye ken how much that harness cost?" "No, and the harness is maybe mair important to him than an orra loon, but it's still cheaper than a horse." Walter spent an anxious night in the bothy, but it was as if the traumatic event had never happened. Crabbie's harness was replaced and afterwards Alistair spoke to him only to discuss the day's work - almost, it seemed, with a tone of respect. ooooOOOOoooo When Robert suffered his first heart attack, Jean left her boarding school and came home to help her mother. Now sixteen, Walter had scarcely noticed her development from gangling academy schoolgirl to attractive young lass. When she came home between terms, she was always confined to the farmhouse with the family - and Walter knew his place. Now skilled and strong, the farm servant followed war reports on his wireless in the bothy he now shared with border collie Glen, but he brooked no grand illusions about serving king and country. Wasn't the ailing king partly German? And what chance did an orra loon have of owning a square inch of the country? All the same, there were times when he felt drawn by a desire for adventure, maybe even heroics. Yet the reality of battle scared him. When he passed his medical examination for the Gordon Highlanders, he accepted his fate philosophically, celebrating his imminent departure with his first visit to the Highland Games. The carefree atmosphere shocked the serious young adult, his formative years being devoid of social interaction. He wandered around in shy confusion, eventually taking refuse in the beer tent. "Whit are you doin’ here, Watty?" Shocked surprise was followed by disbelief that anyone there should know him. And who dared challenge his right to be wherever he wanted to be? He blinked to gather his thoughts, staring blankly into the bright blue eyes of his boss's daughter. "Nane o' your business, Jean, I've the day off. I'm awa tae the Brig o' Don barracks on Monday, ye ken." She shifted her weight awkwardly from one too-tight court shoe to the other, nearly tripping on the uneven grass surface. "No...no...I didna mean tae be bossy. It was jist the shock o' seeing you sitting there...in a suit!" "Aye, well..." "I jist wanted to see the games, Watty, that's a'. Mither's awa to Elgin getting' the messages. She'll be back aboot six." As she blushed a deep crimson, she added "Whit are you blushin' for loon?" Walter pointed to the bench. "Sit there and I'll buy drinks." He stuck his chest out as he walked to the refreshment area. "I'm goin' tae be a sodger," he confided to the barman, who allowed him a large whisky and a pint of India Pale Ale. The young man, about to spend three years at the beck and call of corporals, sergeants and other ranks, felt a strange sense of freedom. The alcohol dispelling inhibition, they were drawn towards the marquee by the stirring country-dance music played by an accordion band. They staggered around the temporary flooring, improvising a routine that bore no relation to the Eightsome Reel - or even the Gay Gordons. Soon Ella arrived to frogmarch the dishevelled pair from the tent. In the back seat of the Austin Eight, Walter crooned bothy ballads he'd heard on the wireless, while the farmer's wife lectured her errant daughter about the evils of drink. Walter lay awake in the lamplight, euphoria now replaced by guilt and fear, yet it was no surprise when she came to him just after midnight. Earlier she had been telling him of her lonely life at boarding school, which he related to his own experiences in the orphanage. She added that when her mother showed her affection, the old man would intervene and make her feel worthless. They recognised a need in each other. When the door hinges creaked and Glen growled softly, he'd been lost in thought. Then she was kneeling by his bed, angelic in a white cotton nightdress, her pale beauty accentuated by the glow of the paraffin lamp. He cradled her in his arms, his guilt shut out by the heady mixture of longing and lust. Then, as desire overtook them, more fear of the unknown. ooooOOOOoooo News of Robert's second and fatal stroke reached Walter as he sailed from Southampton. On the voyage he contemplated life at Logiewell with Alistair in charge. He could always sign on again, he thought, should he be lucky enough to return. Then as the campaign raged on in North Africa and his division engaged the enemy at close quarters, the scenes of mass slaughter in the unbearable heat concentrated his mind only upon survival. With no word from Jean since embarkation, in quieter moments he took to reading the small volume of poems and songs by Robert Burns he'd bought from a stall in Aberdeen's Market Street. The last four lines of a ballad held significance for him, even in that bleak, desert wasteland - There's no' a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's no' a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. When an infected shrapnel wound to the thigh ended his tour of duty, Walter spent many months in army hospitals abroad and back in Britain. Letters from Jean were assuring, but hints about Alistair's drinking, his neglect of the farm and her mother's worsening TB, suggested the welcome might not be unanimous. When he was discharged, just before VE Day, he went back to Logiewell, the only home he had. The aging collie ran out to greet him, warily. It wasn't just the daft navy blue pinstripe demob-issue suit that made Walter feel strange, but the sight of the neglected whitewashed walls of the house and stedding, with rusty, abandoned implements scattered around. Huge nettles sprouted through gaps in the cobbled yard while the once-tidy drying green was a mess of cornflower and dandelion An unhealthy-looking Alistair opened the front door. "Well, well - look what Glen brought back fae the midden!" Jean came running, instinctively hugging the homecoming soldier, before reverting to the casual, formal attitude she was brought up with. "Aye, come awa in Watty. You've been sorely missed. Put your suitcase doon by the door." "So you're a hero noo, eh Watty?" said Alistair, as tea was being poured. "Killed three Germans, I hear. Is it true?" Walter stared at the carpet. "Where did you hear ..." "Robertson fae the Hatton. His son Tam joined the Gordons, jist efter you. Well, is it a fact?" "Leave him be, Ally," said Jean hurriedly. "Think shame! Whit a thing to ask onybody!" Then to Walter, hurriedly, "We've been short-handed these past years. You'll be staying: at least for the harvest eh? I've tidied the bothy. Mither'll be relieved to ken you're safe," she said, with a meaningful glance at her brother, "my auntie in Nairn is lookin' efter her. I visit every week." In spite of Jean's ceaseless flow of conversation, Walter didn't doubt who was the dominant sibling. Although he appreciated her intervention, he knew Robert's death hadn't changed Alistair's attitude towards him. But her eagerness for him to stay was more than matched by his own desire to be close to her. And the bothy now boasted an electric bedside lamp. His physical wound would heal, he knew, but the scars on his soul would remain forever. A Fordson Major tractor had replaced the Clydesdales, with the stables converted to garage it. Gone too was the herd of Aberdeen Angus beef cattle, their show-winning rosettes still tacked to the wall. Only a few of the Ayrshire milkers remained in an untidy byre, a symptom of the malaise that pervaded the farm. Harvesting of the corn and barley was already behind schedule, and Walter had his own reasons for working most of the daylight hours to catch up. First amongst these was the need for a proper, nightmare-free, sleep. While Alistair sloped off to the Masons Arms, he would spend time fine-tuning the tractor, the farm's only workhorse now. He acquired spare parts and turned the garage into a workshop, experiences of vehicles abandoned in the desert a constant reminder to him of mechanical fallibility. Jean was equally busy, contending with the cooking, visiting her mother, and even helping out in the fields when she could. Alistair just kept on being Alistair, despite the shortage of labour at the time, and provoking Walter was still his favourite sport. "Ye ken, Watty, I dinna believe you killed any Germans at a'. Ye widna hae it in ye. Whit do you say Tam?" His second remark was to young Tom Robertson, who'd come over for the day to help with the threshing. It was traditional that neighbouring farmers would rally round on the busiest day of the season. Jean had brought tea and homemade scones and the tired workers were sitting by the last of the corn stacks for their afternoon break. Tom squirmed and toyed with the straw beneath him. "Aye, well, my regiment never got as far as Africa - and I'm bloody glad they didna. That's a' I'm saying." "Aye, but ye ken Watty well enough. He couldna even put auld Crabbie oot o' her misery when she was nearly gasping her last. C'mon Watty, own up!" Walter finished his tea and stood up, staring long and hard at his employer. "I'm warning you noo, Ally - stick tae things that ye ken aboot." He turned away to check the tension on the drive belt between the tractor and the threshing machine. "Even if that's little enough," he added. She came to him in his bothy at dusk, the first time he'd seen Jean on her own since he came back. Not that he had made any effort to persuade her; there were things going on in his head that no-one could share, least of all the girl he loved. They held each other close, then sat on the bed. "I came to tell you there's nae much money for your wages. We've been in debt since we bought the tractor, but we'll be selling the grain soon..." "So you've come tae share my bed instead, eh Jean?” he chided. “That's fine wi' me. The debt widna be because Ally's drinkin' a' the profits, would it?" "It's nae funny Watty. And that stuff Ally keeps askin' aboot Germans; maybe you'd feel better tellin' me," she said gently. "Ye need tae get it aff your conscience.." "You jist widna believe whit happened oot there; there's nithing I can compare it wi'." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "Maybe sometime...but you've enough to worry aboot wi' your mither's illness and your brither running the ferm into the grun." "But Watty, you've been sae quiet since you came back. Can you nae be strong, stand up to Alistair...?" "No, I canna fight your battles lass. I'm still jist the orra loon in the bothy an' that's a' I'll aye be to your femily. Aye, and tae think this is whit I fought for, this is whit I ki..." He reached over and pulled her close; she was sobbing now. "Oh, Jean, I'm sorry. Pay nae heed. I dinna ken whit gets into me these days." She shook him off and rushed out, dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes. Ella's funeral was at Edenkillie Church. Local farmers were there in their dark Sabbath suits, though they'd hardly known the reserved farmer's wife. Besides Alistair and Jean, the only close relative there was Mary, Ella's more robust younger sister. When Walter tried to express his condolences, she turned away, scooping up the little girl she'd brought with her, as if the farm labourer might be harbouring a disease. Following the harvest, incessant rain added to the depressive mood at Logiewell. Neglected drainage caused fields to flood and ploughing becoming a hazardous chore. Walter was offered well-paid work with the only agricultural engineer in the district, which he declined without really knowing why. Jean was civil to him, but distant. If he wondered whether she was avoiding him, with her almost daily visits to her aunt in Nairn, he never mentioned it And his tormenter was testing his patience with continual snide references to Walter's active service. Because of his dedication to work, and his boss's lack of it, the orra loon was given a free hand. "I'm takin' a plough-share tae the smiddy," he told Alistair, late one afternoon. "I'll nae be hame for supper. Tell Jean for me; I'll maybe stop in by the Grouse Inn on the way back." "Aye, okay loon, tak yer time. It'll dae yi' good." In the relaxed atmosphere of the remote little public house, Walter was sipping his fourth pint of heavy beer, grateful for the dulling effect of the alcohol on his senses. Only the friendly tone of Alistair's parting remark troubled him. Two drinks later, he bid the landlord goodnight and strapped the piece of heavy steel to the handlebars of the solid Raleigh Roadster, worrying about Jean, and convinced that his devious employer had something in mind, other than his employee's welfare. The day-long blue sky, cloudy now and darkness falling fast, he turned off the main road, on to the beech-lined, pitted track that led to Logiewell. His eyes now accustomed to the gloom, he freewheeled the down slope, carefully avoiding familiar potholes. Nearing the bend close to the farmhouse, he looked up fleetingly. What he saw, just yards ahead, made him lose all co-ordination, except the instinct to brake. The bike fell to the ground as he tugged on the straps securing the ploughshare. As the moon broke through the clouds, it lit up a white-shrouded apparition, calling his name and uttering insulting phrases in a strange German accent. His heartbeat raced as the ghost advanced slowly towards him. He thought, momentarily, of the last, quite recent, time he had experienced such terror, but the heavy, sharpened steel share was in his grasp now, and his regimental motto was in his mind - Stand Fast. He judged his swing well, ensuring that the sharpened weapon made contact with apex of the white target, as soon as it came within arms reach. The pole-axed figure groaned only once, then twitched a few times in the moonlight. Walter remounted his bike and cycled back to the main road. There he gathered his thoughts, before turning towards Forres and the police station. He knew by the feel and sound of the blow that he had killed - again. Then he saw in his mind, the bodies of three German soldiers, lying by their retreating gun-carrier - axle-deep in sand. Three young men with more to live for than he ever had. He screamed to his God for understanding. Jean didn't come to see him before the trial, nor did she attend the proceedings. On the stand, Walter's commanding officer described him as an exemplary soldier, whose bravery in action accounted for the deaths of least three enemy soldiers. The irony, in a murder trial, of being described as a killer, didn't escape Walter, although it made him think long and hard about that fateful night at the farm. Was his reaction simply panic? Self-preservation? Or was he aware, even in that fleeting moment, that the spectre was just his deranged employer dressed up in a sheet? Did he wield the weapon in fear or anger, even hatred? The charge was reduced to culpable homicide and he was sentenced to five years. It was a year later when she visited him in prison. She looked distressed. "I've something to tell you Watty." He studied her face, seeking a clue to the betrayal. She was still lithe and bonny, but her eyes no longer sparkled. "Oh aye? Took ye lang enough, lass." "I'm getting' merried...tae Tom Robertson fae the Hatton. I canna cope wi' the ferm by mysel' and Tam's been a big help." "Aye, and his father's nae short o' a bob or two either." "I'm fond o' him..." She blushed. "I'm sorry if ye think I deserted ye by getting' jailed," he said eventually, "but it was Alistair doin,' nae mine." She turned and walked to the exit, glancing round once. "I owed it tae ye to tell ye tae yer face, that's a'." He pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I'm thinkin' maybe you owe me a wee bit mair than that," he murmured, but only to himself. Suicide attempts delayed his integration, but after a while Walter accepted the prison regime, making plans for a future upon his release. It was much later that he came to accept his situation. Orphans, he decided, had little or no chance of living a normal life. Without parents, they were set loose with only a strict grounding in Christianity to guide them, bible wisdom that was irrelevant in the real world, and people who sought to employ kids from the home were seldom inspired by selfless motives. Life in the army was more akin to that in the home. With nowhere to turn in his loneliness, he penned a letter to the warden. He was amazed when he received four letters from former classmates, answering each of them on the day they arrived. Three were from boys he had known and liked, two of whom had gone to HMS Ganges as naval cadets and the other now a corporal in the Black Watch. The other note was from Margaret Fraser. He remembered her well enough as a nice-looking, shy girl, who embarrassed him regularly by leaving love letters in his desk, during the third year. From the tone of her correspondence, it was plain her feelings hadn't changed, not even asking an explanation for his current dire circumstances. As Margaret proved her commitment by visiting regularly, he became aware that their renewed acquaintance went deeper than just a shared upbringing. When he wrote to Allan Shaw, who owned the farm machinery workshop in Forres, the offer of work was still open. Indeed the man's faith in Walter was such that he guaranteed lodgings as well. A year later Margaret was able to leave her life of refined slavery, as a housemaid at Tulloch House, on the Countess of Shellfield's estate. They married at Elgin Registry Office, renting one of the many farm workers cottages left empty after the war. Though post war shortages continued to affect the lives of many, the couple hardly noticed them. They took the twins to the Nairn Games when they were two. The event was historically a family day out, where sideshows, dodgem cars, coconut shies and shooting galleries vied for patronage alongside serious sporting events such as caber tossing and Cumberland wrestling. By late afternoon, parents as well as youngsters, weary of the noise and heat, gravitated towards the gates leading to the bus stop. The two families were facing each other at close quarters before they realised. Walter instinctively stopped walking, placing his arm around Margaret as she frowned and steadied the pushchair. Jean looked much older than passage of time could account for, having acquired her mother's unbecoming seriousness. For a few seconds he pictured how she had been on the night of their fumbling lovemaking in the bothy. Tom Robertson towered protectively over his wife, while aunt Mary stood some distance away, fussing over an ice-cream stain on the young girl's dress. The girl seemed surprisingly tall for her age. "Aye Jean, it's been a lang time." He nodded to the man. "Tam." "Watty," she acknowledged, her eyes moving towards the mother and children. Walter, who had earlier fought off the instinct to doff his cap, now struggled for words. "This is my wife Margaret... Eh...the loons are twins...they're, eh, two an' a bit. Meg, this is Jean an' Tom. They ferm Logiewell, ye ken - where I used tae work." Margaret dropped her eyes in deference, blushing awkwardly, looking as if unsure whether to shake hands or curtsy. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." At the bus stop, Walter turned to watch the other family as they boarded their car. The young girl appeared to be gazing at him as they drove past. Margaret broke the silence. "Watty, ye' hivna said a word since we met that couple. Is there something wrang?" Walter shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. He pulled her close. "No lass, nothing's wrang. I've a bonnie wife and twa strappin' bairns; whit else could a man ask for?" The girl in the car looked back at the bus stop until it was just a speck on the horizon. She was a healthy ten-year-old, who would never lack love or security. Yet, like Walter, she would never know her real father. Then again, with luck, she'd never need to. (c) 2003. Eddie Bruce. ******************************************************************************** REVIEWS ******************************************************************************** EDDIE BRUCE'S FIRST COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES TOLD WITH THE CONFIDENCE AND FLAIR OF A NATURAL STORYTELLER - "THE WORD" (Essex Cultural Services, Chelmsford, U.K.) ........................................................................................................................ Few short story anthologies possess the ability to continually change pace while simultaneously controlling their content. Mr. Bruce delighted me with his timing and amazed me with his craft as he blended hyperbole with sentiment, Cockney slang with Edwardian sophistication, all mixed together with a smattering of Highland dialect. This book understands the nuances of life offered to those who work for a living yet its understated tone allows the reader to read between the lines and draw conclusions without being clubbed by trite metaphors or bawdy language. It is, quite simply, elegance without the pretence. To his credit, the author refuses to bemoan his characters' simple existence. Rather, he elevates them through their own actions as they deal with life in its barest sense. Folks, this is a great book. Miss it at your own peril. Reviewed by Bob Church, Quincy, Illinois, U.S.A. for IdleHandsMag.com ........................................................................................................................ While I’ve yet to read this book, I am quite familiar with the works of Mr. Bruce and have no doubt that Mr. Church is correct in his evaluation. For that reason, I have just placed my own order for a copy of “A Drifter’s Legacy.” I think you should too. - Billy Jones, Editor, Idle Hands Magazine ........................................................................................................................ WHAT FELLOW-WRITERS SAY ABOUT THE STORIES IN "A DRIFTER'S LEGACY" GULF “What a wonderful story, beautifully written. Congratulations!” - Wilma Barnett. “Your story is wonderful...makes me want to go there too.” - Betty Eskdale. “Ed, what you have here sir, is a fine piece of writing, a delightful read and emotionally uplifting story!” – Robert Montesino. ORRA LOON “Mr. Bruce, I don't know what else to say, except I truly love your writing. :)” – C.L. Bishop. “A Scottish treasure......” – Betty Eskdale. “I found myself pulled into the life of the orphan, I liked everything about the story...thanks.” – Paula Hodges. “Ed, this is wonderful. So well-crafted and poignant. I nearly expected Alistair McLean to be narrating it on Masterpiece Theatre. I had no problems with the dialect, either. Just masterful..” – Bob Church. BONNY IN BLACK “This is an awesome story.. I enjoyed the story as well as the writing..” – Candy Clontz. “This is extremely well written and captivating, held my attention from beginning to end.LOL. That in itself is a compliment if you only knew I was a spacey blonde. He He He. Awesome writing I look forward to reading more.” – Janet Owenby. “Outstanding work, from start to finish....perfection.” – Kay Lee Kelly. “I think this is a defining story for you, laddy. This could not be written by one who had not lived it. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but there seems to be a certain poignance associated with the words that filters through each scene, more or less saying 'There but for the grace of God, go I', and that is what I shall take from it The dialogue is rich and full... my only exposure to Scottish dialect is from the movies, but I had no problem picturing each scene and there was nae a waird I dinna ken! This is just great, Eddie. I loved it! Your best work yet, in my opinion.” – Bob Church. TARRADALE’S OPTION “A beautifully descriptive piece that gives your readers a real feel for the Scottish Highlands and what being a Highlander is all about. Makes me feel like booking a flight, but after reading this I think it would be prudent to leave the wife at home! Great Job Eddie!” – Robert Montesino. “A Realy Great Story.” – Audrey Sullivan. “I found this, despite its surface simplicity, to be full of mood and subtext. A great combination, in MHO. :) You really sucked me into the setting. Enjoyed this very much!” – Nan Jacobs. “A well-told tale, Ed. The scenes you set were well-adapted to the tone of the story; bleak without being morose, filled with sentiments without being sentimental (as convoluted as that may sound). Small towns are truly universal, aren't they? The unique flavor of the Highlands aside, the characters exhibited much the same sorts of behavio(u?)rs known to bedevil denizens of rural settings here, as well. The story flowed as effortlessly as John MacKay's tales of Ben Loyal and the Duke of Sutherland, efficient without being terse and filled just enough history to entice me to a wee dram of Macallan's Speyside.” – Bob Church. INSULATED CONDUCTOR “You deserved a 10, you got a 10... I wish I had an 11... where is my 11?.. I had it a minute ago... maybe...no, hmmm...well, anyway, I loved it...” - Paula Hodges. “Great knockabout style in a story that kept me interested from go to whoa! The rhyming slang didn't bother me: I picked that particular vernacular up as a tin lid in the old Steak'n'Kidney (N.S.W.). This tale should go on to bigger and better fings!!” – Patrick Talty. “What a hoot!! I loved the mental picture of the bus stuck in traffic and Laura running for the gift then getting back on the wrong bus--the whole shebang! And of course he bought it--Gina thought just like he did (only a good number of steps faster, heheh). PS...Can we please have a London Cockney slang dictionary from you someday? :-)” – Nan Jacobs. SEE PAGE 135 FOR GLOSSARY OF DIALECTS - Ed. I do believe the short-changing clippie has driven me quinsy, as well. Ha! Ed, this is a hoot! I loved it! The dialect is priceless, the narrator's escapades are funny as hell, and the story... well, like I said, I laughed myself through it. The idea of a grifter infiltrating the ranks of those expected to stop the grifting is just perfect! Inside your chest cavity beats the heart of a scammer. Reading this makes me want to take a short shufti at how the other half earns a crust selling iffy gear out of the back of a van! Heehee... Great stuff, Eddie... just great! – Bob Church. POTHOLES AND SPEED “A truly enjoyable story. I love the consistant tone carried throughout. Very well written.” – Trish MacQueen. “I feel like I just found a gold mine... I loved your story and will be back for more of your work...” – Paula Hodges. “Eddie, the story has a nice flow, is packed with emotion and conflict, and the characters are believable, if a bit quirky. Plus, it has a charm that is unique to your stories. I liked this very much” – Bob Church. “I'm with Bob. This is a fine pull-you-along tale. Tops!” – Aaron Schmookler. DODGY NIGHT OUT “Ed. I think it's one of your best.” – Aaron Schmookler. FRIENDLY FIRE “I loved the irony in this story. It reads as a journal or diary, crafted event by event; simple, yet very effective. The "narrator as character" style is quite charming, in that the only intrusion into the scenes (by the narrator) were those necessary to the flow of the piece. This construction allowed for the sad irony at the end. The only thing I would change is to remove the line "A litany of impotence". The passage fully and ably leads us to that inescapable conclusion without it. My exact thought during the sentence before it was, 'How ironic... impotent in life as well as in the sack'. I'm hooked on your prose, Ed... I love your British "stiff-upper-lip-think-outside-the-box-avoid-author-intrusion" writing style. From now on, whenever you write something, I think I'll just tag along... like a benevolent Jonah.” – Bob Church. “I love the story of this story, and the tone of it as well.” – Aaron Schmookler. FIXER “The dixie chicks should write a song about this guy...lol good write..” – Paula Hodges. “The "Che Guevara Estates"? Ha! I love it! If Uncle Fidel could see us now... Good story, Eddie, I enjoyed it immensely.” – Bob Church. RECEIVER “Good story, Eddie, I enjoyed it immensely.” – Trish MacQueen. “I liked this, Eddie. I can picture an old scam artist on the streets, waiting to pick-pocket any sucker who falls for her shenanigans. This almost reads as a three act play, except for its brevity. I loved the descriptions of the old equipment, too. All of that stuff has been obsolete for fifty years. The British parlance is very charming, Eddie... thanks for sharing…” – Bob Church. BOOKIE’S RUNNER “This is a compelling story. I particularly like the tone of the thing, offhand and close to the subject.” – Aaron Schmookler. “Ed, there are so many gems in this story... "he had money to burn and I was potless". Ha! I haven't heard that expression (or more correctly, half an expression) in years! I just loved the dialect and phraseology. Reading this is like taking in a breath of fresh air... not the same ol' stale American expressions I hear (and write) every day. Thank you for this... it's excellent!” – Bob Church. “Eddie..I really enjoyed reading this story..and all my bets are now in the off mode! LOL” – Nancy Pawley. JERUSALEM “Nice job of wrapping this piece in its own drama. Just enough inferences to tell the story without talking down to the reader. Very skillfully woven tale. Thanks for sharing with us, Ed. Lots to think about...” – Bob Church. “The thought that comes to my mind after reading this story is, 'except for the grace of God, there go I.' It's so easy to give in to the varying ways, shapes and forms of temptation that lead us to self-destruction.” – Nancy Pawley. “With very few lines, you've created some very vivid characters. That's tough stuff and well done.” – Aaron Schmookler. ........................................................................................................................ As given in the title, this is a collection of short stories. The period covered is from World War Two to the present day and also spans the genres of romance, crime and life. The thread running through them all is whisky. How it is made, tested and drunk with the inevitable result, for some, of over indulgence and ultimately alcoholism. Most of the stories have a 'twist' which is usually unexpected, thus refreshing. The first title, 'GULF' is a tale of our times. A young American lass puts a message in a bottle as part of a class project and years later it fetches up on a wild highland beach in Scotland. What develops is both a charming and ironical story made more so by the use of dialect. This, at no time, compromises understanding and the lilt and cadence is implicit in the reading. If you have ever visited the Highlands of Scotland, you'll find this akin to a return trip. "ORRA LOON" tells of a young orphan's struggle for recognition and self-respect. Harshly treated by his employer and his employer's son, he reaches maturity quickly during action in Word War Two, but finds that little has changed on his return to "a country fit for heroes." The tale explores class attitudes of that era and how lives were pre-determined by upbringing. 'BONNY IN BLACK' relates the story of John, an adolescent low in self esteem who nevertheless accomplishes much by diligence as an apprentice cooper then as he reaches adulthood, marries and settles with Mary. Becoming too fond of the product of his work and at odds with Mary's family, he resolves his difficulties in an ultimately destructive way. In this story you'll find the characterisation drawn very finely. Bruce has the knack of sketching with economy, no extraneous puff and every word counting. In 'TARRADALE'S OPTION,' rural life in Scotland comes to the fore with this tale of poaching, peat, love and gentle revenge. Written in low key style, the last line comes as a shock, yet provokes laughter. Oh, how cruel! With 'INSULATED CONDUCTOR,' Bruce moves to London and to a 'fly-boy with street cred.' who works as an inspector hunting down fraud by employees for London Transport buses. Here, I'd guess the author knows the job since his description of people, attitudes, routes and scams is spot on. Romance gets in the way of the job but how is Gina 'creaming' London Transport? I'll leave you to find out; the lady's ingenious. Still in London, 'POTHOLES AND SPEED' brings Duncan who is trying to build up his road haulage company and avoid any crooked associations. For self-starters in this business, it's always difficult. 'It fell off the back of a lorry' has been a cliché since they were invented. Again, Bruce's ear for dialogue and dialect comes to the fore; he has the argot in all the right sequences. 'Guys and Dolls' it ain't, this is realspeak, to be heard on the streets of the capital anywhere. Does Duncan escape? Find out. More of Duncan in 'DODGY NIGHT OUT' where by now his own road haulage business has dived, he hopes temporarily, and he is operating his own scam with a very lively and crooked lady named Kathryn on the company they both work for. As the 'net' closes in on them, they, in a mix of both astuteness and stupidity try to save the situation. Cleverly observed, this is a vignette of how normal people react outside the 'boom and bang' of Hollywood treatments. 'FRIENDLY FIRE' is set in Jersey; 'Mecca for hedonists' and 'for the male seasonal migrant worker it's easy living, with an ever changing selection of sun-seeking single girls'. Although Jersey is part of the United Kingdom, it's still an island of 'ex-pats' a kind of miniature 'Happy Valley' where sun, sex, adultery and money all contribute to the melee and can lead to a 'crime passionel'. A hotpot of mistaken motives and deeds, with a kick at the end. Don't get friendly with Jim, the 'FIXER'. This is a health warning. A truly creepy and sinister story that would have delighted Poe, if he'd been around today. Having read it, you'll be wondering if there are many more around like Jim. This is a particular gem because it's very difficult in a short story to convey the ideas and emotions propelling the plot. Bruce achieves this, far more than adequately, by crafting each word and wasting none. With 'RECEIVER' we're back in London and listening to a conversation between an older and younger woman. It isn't until the last few sentences it becomes clear the dialogue you've read is full of reverses and euphemisms for what is really happening. An amusing tale of a biter, bit. 'THE BOOKIE'S RUNNER' is a period piece, which describes the activities of a man, with hopes for the future, who collects bets to back horses, dogs or whatever is running. Until the '70's in England, illegal. Naturally, the temptation to fiddle Barney, someone doing rather better in life, eventually becomes too strong. The essence of the title becomes obvious in the denouement. 'JERUSALEM' starts at a drying out clinic for people with addictions. When Batholomew arrives, the narrator is foggily half de-toxified and reading William Blake. Given Mr. Blake's polemics, it's surprising he's not back in the pub. Group therapy is not 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'. More a meeting of bewildered individuals wondering why they're watching a video in Welsh language with sub-titles and doing exercises more fitted to a school of drama. From 'Jerusalem', Blake's immortal song, Bruce extrapolates the story of laughing Mary and wealthy Bartholomew and the subliminal meaning which for them, becomes a truism. 'MY BROTHER'S KEEPER,' is about two lonely boys growing up in an orphanage. One, is the son of parents employed at the home and Rab, the other, is an inmate. The narrator becomes a clerk in a whisky distillery and both young men by seventeen years of age are hardened drinkers. Sometimes living together in Scotland and London, in between adventures alone, the attitudes of alcoholics to non-drinkers are succinctly described. As is the effect upon marriage and families; this is achieved in very few words that say it all. The final sentence will have great resonance for anyone who has been, or is, alcoholic. This is Bruce's first collection of short stories and it's an achievement. He's produced a work that, whilst having a common thread, is very varied in content and interest thus never dull. It isn't full of pyrotechnics, but beautifully and thoughtfully crafted and true to those he writes about. These are people who will never find their 'fifteen minutes of fame' and probably wouldn't want to. Suffice to say they can get through life without damaging themselves and others too much in the process and find some pleasure along the way. In short, Joe and Jane Public. The whole work makes the point that so-called ordinary people are anything but, once you go beyond appearance. If you were to describe the book in musical terms, it would definitely fall into the 'Country' category, but without the whine of self-pity. My recommendation is buy it. If you're a reader you won't be disappointed and if you are also an aspiring writer of short stories, you have a book of templates of how these should be written. Pre publication review by Dione M. Coumbe, author of “Dathan Charles” http://www.dathancharles.com/ 16th. July 2003 "Written with a wonderful sense of irony and dry humour, acclaimed and emulated by fellow-writers for their technical perfection, these stories will reduce you successively to shocked silence and helpless laughter. Mr. Bruce can find humour in tragedy and a vein of sadness just below the surface of comedy. These could only have been written by someone who had lived a long life in the role of an outsider, and who understands the uneasy truce that defines the end point in the battle against alcoholism. A truly riveting and unforgettable journey through the soul of a superb storyteller with a wealth of stories to tell." David Gardiner. London, U.K. 1.10.03 Eddie Bruce will take you into the lives of totally believable people...they are real! You will laugh and cry and become involved with each story and character. Mr. Bruce writes of life that many of us never experience, fortunately; yet we can experience through his words, and be understanding. I consider this a 'must-read' for everyone interested in learning more about people of the world...especially the 'unfortunate' who become the 'fortunate'. Jackie R Jinks from Arlington, TX United States. 12.10.03.