Pentland Writers: Bethany Halcrow
Writing is good for your health. I am interested in writing as a means of self actualisation; I think that we can use writing (as we can every type of art) to express things that we feel otherwise unable to express. In doing so, we come closer to a sense of self that is more integrated, more true and real – one which makes us more healthy in every aspect of ourselves and our lives. I think this is why, at the moment, I write autobiographically.
Soap (A Poem) - My Sister’s Flat (A Poem) – Evening (A Poem) – Doctor (A Poem)
Plastic icy leaves climbed up the window,
the pink walls,
of your narrow, rectangular bathroom,
“Imperial Leather” stamped in capitals
on the metal rectangle
in the centre of the bar of soap.
Light shining dimly through the net curtain.
“Ah live by masel”, you said by way of explanation,
as we giggled in the hallway at you sitting on the toilet,
door wide open,
woollen shirt hoiked to your armpits and white petticoats
tumbling over your knees.
The dug would come staggering through,
keek at you from the doorway,
her eyes grey and cloudy.
I remember your son, my dad, picking tics out of that dog’s belly as she lay supine on the sheepskin rug,
his fingers as slow and careful as he could manage
– your Renfrew council flat being bereft
of his medical tweezers.
I remember you came to stay with us after that dog was put to sleep,
you sitting long,
long and heavy in the garden,
watching the sun sink closer towards the hills.
Far from your pink, narrow bathroom,
and the Imperial Leather soap,
which glistened wet and pink
on the opaque surface
of your bathroom sink.
The budgie flies around when he wants to,
sits on the dripping dishes in the drying rack,
or chews someone’s hair, standing on their head.
Big leaves like hands,
and your exotic memorabilia:
a stalk thin African man, feathers sticking out his hat;
a wooden, jewelled lizard clinging to the wall;
and two gleaming hookah pipes.
The TV plays Radio Scotland.
From the windows you can watch the sea.
Illustration by Ben Murray
Halfway up Arthur’s Seat we found a spot close to the sky,
to put our feet on the ground and our eyes on the water,
and stretched our arms up and shouted,
and screamed and ran as hard as we could.
We laughed at what the people on the top of the hill would think of us
– two mad folk making a ruckus down below.
But they only shifted slightly, didn’t seem to notice
in the sun-shot, dusky light.
My sister was grateful to the birds
for their swooning and cawing.
I was grateful to the ship on the horizon,
that seemed to float in mid-air above the grey water.
Illustration by Ben Murray
My dad was a doctor, the village GP.
He wouldn’t talk about it if we asked a question,
always said, “that’s private and confidential”.
There were blue editions of the British Medical Journal
stacked beside the National Geographics –
the photographs of blistered scabs
and wounds weeping yellow pus
made me sick and fascinated.
They were even on the front cover –
and, I noticed, definitely not for sale in the newsagents –
I supposed my dad bought them
from a shady-looking character down a dark, littered alleyway.
He had a gentle manner my dad,
I think he was a good doctor but
I remember when he gave me my jags,
he held me tight, completely tight, my arm locked between his fingers
while I screamed and squirmed –
no need to worry about disgruntled parents, after all –
I don’t remember getting any lollipop or sticker
from his drawer.
Once my mum went out
so I had to sit in his room in the health centre with him.
I had a book to look at, it was about pandas,
drawings of them chewing on bamboo sticks,
but really I watched my dad,
and another man who sat across from him, facing him,
but their chairs were angled,
to make it more informal
easier
less pressure.
My dad was in his brown suit and the other man was bigger than him
but my dad was the doctor and he listened to the man
said some words, printed out a piece of paper,
and signed it with a scribbled flourish.
The other man took the paper, stood up, smiled at me and left.
The pandas in the jungle
miles away from me and my dad
in his room in the health centre,
with his stethoscope on a hook on the door
and the white bed in the corner,
with the curtain to pull around it.