Gift from the Gallowgate (35 page)

I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was utterly devastated. After waiting all that time, with expectation increasing by the day, it was as though I’d been cut off in my prime. I
phoned Sheila to tell her the bad news, and ended, ‘That’s it! I’m finished! I’m going to tear up everything I’ve ever written.’

She told me not to be silly, to persevere. One swallow didn’t make a summer. One rejection didn’t mean that it was no good. ‘Send it to Collins,’ she ordered. ‘They
did say something nice about your whodunit.’

I telephoned Collins this time and asked who dealt with family sagas. I was given two names, and one being so obviously Scottish, I settled on him. Without changing one word, I enclosed a new
covering letter and sent off the box again, with little expectations, I must admit.

Only a week later, I got a phone call saying that they would accept
The Brow of the Gallowgate
if I shortened it by twenty per cent. To give you an idea of exactly what this involved, I
was being asked to cut out what almost amounted to the length of an Agatha Christie novel, but if this was the only way to get my book published . . . I was on top of the world, dancing my own
height, or however else you care to describe that feeling of absolute heaven.

I set to with gusto, chopping bits out here and there, whole sentences, whole paragraphs, even in one or two instances, whole chapters . . . as long as it didn’t interfere with the plot. I
got a letter asking if I needed help, that Collins would supply someone to do the hatchet job for me (not in those words), but I held firm. It was my baby and I didn’t want anyone else
spoiling it . . . or to be more specific, it was my pie and I didn’t want anybody else’s finger in it.

Then, of course, there were the long months to wait until my manuscript went through all the various stages, although, apart from the shortening they didn’t want any further changes made.
First to come were the proofs, the sign that it was truly, definitely, happening. I took my red biro out of retirement and set to work to mark any printers’ errors with the signs indicated in
the instruction sheets I got. I said ‘work’, and I really mean work! I couldn’t believe the amount of misprints there were . . . and not of my doing. I may be haphazard as far as
housework and so on is concerned, but I’m a perfectionist with my scripts. An odd few errors might slip past me unnoticed, but very, very few – then, at least. I’m more fallible
now.

The time of publication drew nearer and nearer, and at last, one morning in late March 1990, the postman delivered
my
copy of
my
very first book. I showed it to Jimmy as soon
as I unwrapped it, and revelled in his congratulations – he was almost as excited as I was. But that wasn’t enough for me, so I ran upstairs to let Doreen see it. My heart was beating
sixty to the dozen with excitement and pride, but I also wanted her to allay my fears that it may not be a success. After all, she had read it in its infancy and at almost every revision, and I
wanted her to praise it once again.

I waited, my heart nearly bursting out of my rib cage with impatience to show off the most important piece of literature ever printed, but I finally had to admit it – SHE WASN’T
IN!

What an anticlimax! I stood there with my beautiful hardback in my hand contemplating whom else I could boast to, but the decision was settled for me. The door from the stairs opened at that
point, and out came the postman – the deliverer of this most precious article in the first place. When I flung myself at him in relieved delight, he must have wondered where the avalanche had
come from, but give him his due, he spent some time inspecting the tome, admiring the cover and asking all kinds of pertinent questions. What is more, he and his wife came to more than one of the
talks I gave in the Central Library on later occasions.

I was taken aback (but thrilled) by the attention given to my book. Collins had arranged for it to be launched in the Main Library, where I was expected to give a talk, too. I
was petrified. Standing up every day in front of a class of ten- to eleven-year-olds does not prepare you to face around seventeen adults ranging in age from early twenties to the seventies, male
and female. I had, of course, written out what I intended to say and had to keep referring to that, but it seemed to go down quite well, and during the refreshments break, most of my audience came
up to ask me something. It was heady stuff!

Then I signed books in a few shops in Aberdeen – one giving it a second launching with wine and savoury bites – and in places as far away as Inverness. One of the local newspapers
sent a reporter to interview me, and my book and I had quite a write up. Also in the local
Leopard,
as I’ve already mentioned.

One little anecdote (as true as I’m sitting at this computer) before I leave this topic. At that time, a mobile library van came every Tuesday for the benefit of the elderly residents and
young mothers of our community. (This service has long since ceased, but that is by the by.) Doreen attended it regularly, bringing books for me as well as for herself, and came back one afternoon
desperate to tell me what had happened while she was there. Hearing my name mentioned by one of the two ladies in front of her, she had pricked up her ears. Their dialogue went something like
this:

I have no idea whether or not her ‘lassie’ enjoyed
The Brow of the Gallowgate
, but it couldn’t have been in more basic company, could it? Bloomers,
huh?

In the interval between the revision of the novel and its publication, I had begun another,
The Road to Rowanbrae,
also suggested by a photograph – of the croft
belonging to my mother’s grandparents. I naturally gave this the title
Toddlehills,
and forwarded it to Collins as soon as it was completed. I was horrified when it was returned with
the comment, ‘We are not keen on the idea of jumping from the early 1900s to the 1980s with alternate chapters.’

I had begun, as the book stands now, with the discovery of a skull, and then gone on to have the young man trying to place whose it was by finding out the names of the people who had lived in
the croft that had stood there originally. One chapter followed what he thought had happened and the next told what had actually happened those eighty or so years earlier, and time about until the
final denouement. The editor said that she wanted me to leave the first chapter as it was, but to follow the old story to just before the end.

This meant a tremendous amount of work, and I found myself with far too many words. It was at the editor’s behest that forty years were cut out, the tale jumping from 1942 to 1982.
I’ve always felt that this must annoy readers, but the people I’ve asked have said that, although they did notice the gap, it didn’t detract from the plot. Thank goodness!

Even with the revision over, they were not happy with the title, and dozens of my suggestions were turned down, even
The Bargain Wife,
which I thought was quite clever since it turned
out that she wasn’t a bargain to him at all, but which the editor considered too ironic. Jimmy and I then went down to Surrey to spend a holiday with Sheila. On the one and only rainy
afternoon we had, my daughter and I sat down to think of a suitable title to give my second book, inventing some hilarious names by joining the first part of a place name with the second part of
another, and eventually came up with
The Road to Rowanbrae.
This originated from Gowanhill (remember my childhood holidays there?). Thank goodness, this pleased the editor.

When I first sent off
Rowanbrae
, I had decided to revise
Time Shall Reap
and try it again. In only a few weeks, it had to be set aside again until the editor
was satisfied with
Rowanbrae,
but then I knuckled down to it. Collins, if you remember, had already rejected it a year or two before, but the revision must have done the trick, and
Time Shall Reap,
although first to be written, was third to be published. Doreen, naturally, was delighted about this. She’d played a large part in its life.

In September 1993, Collins made a change in their publishing system. Previous to this, hardback books had been sold under the name of Collins, and paperbacks under various
names, Fontana and Grafton to name two; now they were to take all their books out under HarperCollins Publishers Limited.

The launch was held as a buffet/dinner in the Cholmondoley Room, House of Lords, to which grand ‘do’ Jimmy and I were invited. He didn’t want to go. He couldn’t mix with
people like that. He’d just feel like a fish out of water. He was only a common working man and he would likely put his foot in it – or both feet – as soon as he opened his mouth.
He’d just let me down. He wouldn’t change his mind for me, but Sheila eventually persuaded him that he would be letting me down by
not
going.

The invitation specified ‘7.00 p.m. for 7.30 p.m., Carriages 10.45, Black Tie’, so the problem now was what to wear. Neither of us had clothes suitable for such a grand occasion, and
Jimmy hated the idea of having to wear a ‘monkey suit’, but Bill took him in hand, and Bertha came with me to make sure that I’d choose something appropriate. In my mind, I could
picture myself in something floaty, and as soon as the lady in the very exclusive shop took out this beaded, sequinned two piece, I knew it was the one for me. It sounds tacky, but it really was
lovely – colourful, yet not gaudy, with the background mostly navy. The floor-length skirt was scalloped round the hem, as was the loose top, which came to below my fingertips.

The price horrified me, but I’d set my heart on it. There were, of course, all the accessories to buy, a small evening bag, dainty navy shoes, a navy stole (I couldn’t spoil the
effect by wearing a coat). Jimmy got his ‘monkey suit’, a bow tie, decent black shoes.

We had now booked a room in a hotel not too far from Westminster, being told that we didn’t need to confirm by letter, but on the day before we were due to fly down, I thought I’d
better make sure that everything was in order. Thank heaven I checked. Our booking had been missed. There was no room at the inn!

Panic-stricken, I phoned several London hotels, but all were fully booked. At last, I chanced upon one between Buckingham Palace and Scotland Yard. The reservation clerk said that they would
require confirmation by fax, so, not having this facility, I’d to ask my nephew to do this for me. Off we went next morning. I knew that the hotel would be satisfactory, the price guaranteed
that, but I really wasn’t expecting the opulence, the almost suite-like proportions of our room – with an L-shaped dining and sitting area. We didn’t dine there, of course. We had
the buffet/dinner on the Wednesday evening, and on the Thursday, we ate in the hotel’s vast dining room. In for a penny, in for a pound – that was us, and Sheila, working in London at
the time, got Thursday afternoon off to come and hear how we had fared the evening before.

We took a rest after we arrived there on the Wednesday, to refresh us for the evening meal. We had also been offered a tour of the Parliament buildings if we turned up at 6 p.m. instead of 7
p.m., and we jumped at the chance. It was most interesting but very exhausting, and although we enjoyed every fact-filled minute, we were glad when it was time to go to the Cholmondeley Room. We
were welcomed by the Earl of Buckingham and two of HarperCollins’ executives, and given a glass of champagne. Then we had time to mingle a bit – glasses being topped up every now and
then most discreetly by the waiters – and met several well-known authors, plus a few, like me, not so well known.

Jimmy surprised me – and himself, I think – by chatting quite easily to other husbands, probably in much the same boat as he was, rather uncomfortable at first. Quite a few of us
were standing out on the balconies admiring the Thames in the lights from other buildings, when the thunderstorm began, and we were quickly taken inside and the windows closed against the rain. The
display of lightning, reflected in the water, went on for about twenty minutes, a rare and unexpected addition to our items to talk about when we got home.

Then we had to consult the seating arrangements and the first course was served. There was a lovely camellia in a plastic container for each lady and a huge golf umbrella for each gentleman,
with the HarperCollins logo on it. There were only two authors from Scotland, so Jimmy and I were alongside Christine Marion Fraser and her husband, both extremely friendly people.

Having disposed of the melon and port, we were asked to help ourselves from the long tables set up in a smaller room off the main area. They were absolutely groaning with meat and fish dishes,
and every kind of accompaniment the most fastidious eaters could have wished for.

The selection of desserts was not so large, but large enough, including an array of different kinds of cheese. This repast was rounded off with coffee and mints, and it goes without saying that
during the entire meal, all glasses were replenished with wine as soon as the level dropped even a fraction of an inch.

The evening ended around 10.40 p.m., when the carriages arrived. We didn’t qualify for a carriage of course, but we did need a taxi because we didn’t know how to get back to the
hotel. With so much alcohol on offer, some of the men were standing at the side of the street waving their colourful umbrellas to attract a cab, so Jimmy followed suit. We were only charged
£2 – in London, mind you, at 11 p.m. – so you can understand how far we had to go. Just round the corner, really.

After breakfast the following morning, we had a walk to the Palace and along Birdcage Walk a little, returning through St James’ Park. It was a lovely crisp, autumn day, and we sat for a
while watching the world go by. Sheila was joining us at 12.30 p.m. for a drink before lunch, and after that was over, we went up to our little ‘sitting-room’ to tell her about our
experiences of the night before.