I watched for a few moments as the poor woman struggled to peg her sheets up in the howling wind – I could imagine them taking off and eventually draping themselves round some poor unsuspecting soul in Norway – before she turned round and spotted me. I apologised for bothering her and asked if I could speak to her for a few minutes.
She seemed pleased to have a short respite and stood with arms akimbo as I asked my questions. I was very lucky in finding her. She had been born and brought up in the Yardie, and had moved to another of the houses when she was married. She had followed the herring fleet when she was young, and gave me much information on being a fisher girl and all I wanted to know about the inside of the dwellings. While she was speaking to me, her husband came out and had a long chat with Jimmy – they got on straight away – and then I thought I’d better leave her to her sheets.
Before we went back to the car, however, we walked through this minuscule village, and were amazed at what we saw. We had learned that the name Yardie came from the fact that the houses were no more than a yard apart, so there was street after street, all quite short and amounting to around fifty houses in all, facing each other or back to back. It’s difficult to describe the set up, with the end of each street having the gables facing the sea, while at the top, the gables face the main road north – or south, depending on the way you’re facing.
They were alleys more than streets and I’m not sure how many there are. We were fascinated, and I couldn’t wait to get home to start writing about it, but naturally, we paid Isobel a brief visit first.
The number of words I could add to a manuscript already a few thousands more than I was allowed was limited, so I didn’t succeed in writing as much as I’d have liked about the Yardie.
For the cover, I was asked to supply photographs of Pennan, where some of Lizanne’s misfortunes take place, and this time, Sheila and John were up on holiday, so we took them with us and had dozens of photographs for the artist to choose from. However, after providing a very attractive rough draft, the man who had supplied all the previous covers died while playing squash, so it was another artist who did The Girl with the Creel cover. At first, I didn’t care for it so much, none of the photos had been used, but it does give an eerie feel to it, fitting in with the plot, and I must admit I’ve come to like it after all.
During the week of publication, I gave a talk in Buckie Library. The local bookshop had closed some time before, so the books on sale had been supplied by a shop in Elgin. Isobel was there, of course, and two men from HarperCollins, but I can’t remember anything much about that afternoon except the old man sitting reading in a corner; most ungracious, I thought, and not even one of my books. At first, I wondered why he was keeping so far from the other people, and the afternoon was well on before it dawned on me that he hadn’t moved as much as a muscle since I began speaking. It was then that I realised the truth. He was a full-sized wax model! Most realistic.
My seventh and eighth books, The House of Lyall (2000) and The Back of Beyond (2002), were mixtures of snippets of incidents I’d heard over the years, plus a very small part (fictionalised) of a relative’s early life in London.
By then, my book signings for these were confined to Aberdeen City, and were most successful. In the space of a week – three sessions of two hours in different stores – I signed hundreds of books, chatted a little to as many as I could, and went home each time happily exhausted, but as high as a kite.
I feel so flattered by all the compliments I’m paid, I have to remind myself that I’m only a best seller in the northeast of Scotland, although I keep being told of shops and airports all over the world that stock my novels nowadays. I think their attraction lies in the fact that they are easily read, a relaxation when on holiday, an introduction to readers from other parts to my home area.
The warmest reception I have ever had was in 2003, when I was asked to talk to St Machar Academy Parents’ Reading Group, who were trying to brush up their own reading skills. Apparently they had made hard weather of the books they had originally been given, and then a bookshop had advised the dedicated gentleman who runs this facility to try them with something local, something with which they could identify. My name was among the writers suggested, and it seems that my book (I can’t remember which one – it may have been The Three Kings, most of the others had gone out of print) did the trick.
They were proud of knowing the real places where incidents in the story were supposed to have taken place; they had discussed where the fictional places might be; and they were all anxious to read more. They made it so obvious that they were delighted to meet me, had dozens of questions ready to ask, and all in all, it was the most rewarding afternoon I had ever spent – that I ever will spend, more than likely.
Thus I carried on, launching into a ninth story, bringing in sycamore trees because Sheila’s garden has two rows of beautiful old sycamores round which her husband, John, has designed a truly professional garden.
I was intrigued when I heard of a family who were shocked to learn of a grandmother’s death in a Mental Institution when they’d been led to believe she had died almost seventy years before. No mention had ever been made of the place where she had been incarcerated since she was a young woman. Not only that, there was evidence that her actual marriage certificate, when it was eventually run to earth, had been altered, very amateurishly. There was, of course, much more to the true tale than this, but I used it as a starting point for my main mystery. What follows is entirely my own invention, and has nothing to do with the facts.
It would have been almost the end of 2002 and I was slightly more than halfway through the first draft of The Shadow of the Sycamores when I was asked by Birlinn if I would write my autobiography for them. The trouble was that my contract with HarperCollins stated that they had to have first offer of any book I wrote, so I said I’d have to ask if I was allowed to do this. I called Louise and she said it was all right for me to write for another publisher as long as it was non-fiction. All fiction had to go to them.
I explained to Birlinn that I’d have to finish Sycamores before I could make a start, but they wanted my memoirs to come out around Christmas of 2004. To the uninitiated, this may sound like plenty of time, but by then it was well into January and nothing had really been discussed. I flew on with the novel, making dozens of mistakes because I was in such a hurry, and then, during February, I had a visit from my new ‘boss’.
He explained that not only did they want my own little ups and downs, but also a background of what life was like as I progressed through the years. He gave me Christmas 2003 as a deadline, but I had to make him give a little on that. The next date mentioned was the end of March, which only allowed eight months for revisions, also for copy editors and proof-readers to do their bits.
My priorities lie with HarperCollins, so I set myself a strict routine of novel in the mornings and autobiography in the afternoons. I should have known, of course, that I wasn’t up to spending a full day on the computer, and I was forced to concentrate on my novel and stop working at lunchtime. Having gone over and over it and corrected it as much as I could, I gave it to John to post for me. That was on 18 August 2003.
With this off my mind, I was free to concentrate on . . . I called it The Gift of the Gab, which was what my granny called me, but this title was not acceptable. I am still trying to come up with another.
On 1 September, I still hadn’t heard if Louise had got the manuscript, so I called and asked. She said she had, and would be in touch with me later. This was the normal procedure. She had to have time to read the story, and pick faults or otherwise with it. I was usually sent several pages of comments – bits she liked and wanted to know more about, or bits she didn’t like and wanted to be taken out; characters she liked and those she didn’t, and so on. A whole lot of extra work, but she knew what would sell.
I had no premonition of what was about to happen.
CATASTROPHE
24
It was into October before I got the telephone call, and I was shocked to hear the fateful words, ‘I’m sorry, Doris, it’s bad news, I’m afraid.’
I swallowed hard. ‘You’re rejecting it?’.
‘It’s not that exactly. We . . . don’t want any more of your books.’
The second swallow was hampered by the huge construction in my throat. ‘You don’t want any . . . what’s wrong with my books?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them, it’s just . . . it’s just that reading styles have changed. People don’t want to read about the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They want up-to-date novels, set in the twenty-first century.’
Although I knew that Louise was speaking for only the younger generations, I couldn’t find the words to argue with her. My stalwart fans, men as well as women, were in all age groups and told me constantly how much they enjoyed reading about the olden times.
‘You’re taking it very calmly,’ my now ex-editor observed. ‘Remember, Doris, you’re not the only one. There are quite a lot of writers being told the same thing. And you’ll easily find another publisher.’
I found the strength to say, ‘Please return my manuscript.’
And that was that. I was in deep shock. I felt indignant, resentful, hurt, mortified. The anger came later. HarperCollins must have known for months that the change was on the cards, yet they’d let me carry on with this last novel to the bitter end. I had even phoned at one point to ask if there was a deadline for the manuscript and was told, ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s no hurry.’
I suppose that should have told me something, warned me. Instead, being so sure of myself, I thought that they were allowing me extra time because of my advanced age. How wrong can a person be? I was devastated.
Worse, however, was to come. I had taken longer than usual to write The Sycamores because of a very nasty accident I had in July. I missed my footing going up two steps and went down on my knees – my usual landing position – but hit my head on the corner of the building. Next day, and for two weeks afterwards, I was sporting two lovely black eyes and feeling decidedly unwell. In fact, the force of the impact on my left temple affected my concentration to the extent that I was unable to write for some time.
Just before this mishap, I had been asked by Birlinn to provide a black-and-white photograph of myself for their records. This had to wait, of course, until I was back to something resembling normal, but Alan took some snaps of my shiners as long as they were in full bloom, so to speak. As a joke, I had sent one in an envelope along with the manuscript to Louise on 18 August, to explain the lengthy wait.
When the manuscript duly arrived back, what did I find? The covering letter was still nestling under the elastic bands keeping the loose pages together. Not only that, the envelope containing my mugshot was still there, too.
This proved that the story had never even been read! How could they do this to me? In a rush of humiliated fury, I dashed off a letter to Louise on the computer giving vent to all the venom I could dredge up. I often take this step if something annoys me, but once I’ve got it off my chest I usually tear up the vitriolic letter and write another, more tactfully. This time, however, I sent the original.
Some years earlier, I’d been asked to write for another publisher, but refused because I felt it would be disloyal to HarperCollins. I had also asked them for permission to write this autobiography, but they obviously did not feel the same loyalty towards me – after I had written eight novels for them. I’ll be perfectly honest. This business really sickened me, and I still haven’t got over it.
I do have some good news, however. The Shadow of the Sycamores should be published in June of this year, if all goes well. The publisher who had ‘headhunted’ me before, and whom I had sort of depended on to take it, has now stopped publishing, but handed the manuscript to Black and White, also an Edinburgh firm, as is Birlinn.
I’m on the home stretch now. After my very first talk in the main library in 1990, a lady came up to me in great excitement. ‘How does it feel to be an author?’
At that time, I hadn’t had time to feel anything other than excitement myself, and even after almost fourteen years, I don’t feel any different. I try not to let the compliments I get turn my head. After all, only those who like what I write would take the trouble to come to meet me.
My one regret is that I didn’t start writing sooner, but on the other hand, a woman gets more experience of life as she grows older. I count myself very lucky to have the ability to write books other people enjoy reading, also that I enjoy writing them. As for retiring from this career . . .? I’ll just say that I prefer writing to any other occupation I’ve had, and I’ll keep on unless it becomes a burden to me.
Thinking over what I’ve achieved, I feel quite proud of myself. Not only have eight of my books been published, nine counting this latest, but they have also been taken out in large print for the sight impaired and audio for the completely blind. I was more than impressed when I was sent my first audio book – fourteen double-sided cassettes in a very lovely case that opens twice, and lasting for at least fourteen hours. Not only that – if you’ll excuse my boasting – The Three Kings has been published in Greek.
While I’ve been compiling this rather garbled account of my life, my problem has been deciding what to include and what to leave out; in which year a particular incident took place; should I tell what people did or said if it may be to the detriment of the persons concerned? I’ve got round this last at times by giving false names or initials, but if anyone does recognises her- or himself, let me say here that it was an oversight, and I am sorry if they are offended.
I must mention how grateful I am for the support given to me by my family. They have all contributed something – providing photographs for covers, checking facts, suggesting titles, driving me around in the pursuit of information. I’d have been lost without them. I have, however, spared my children’s blushes by playing down what they have achieved. I did mention earlier a little of what Alan is doing with regard to his music, but Sheila studied for many years, achieving qualifications to further her career. She has also reached her fourth year of the Open University, although she is due to retire this year. I have one grandson, who is in his fifth year at the Grammar School, and is just coming up to his ‘A’ levels. I won’t embarrass him by saying more, but I am proud of them all.
Finally, I’d like to thank all the readers who have given me as much pleasure with their compliments as I have given them. This last stage of my life has actually been more rewarding, emotionally than any of the others.
That’s it, then. I didn’t mean to get sloppy, but I’ve run out of witticisms at the moment. Maybe I’d better finish with a toast:
Here’s tae us,
Fa’s like us?
Damn few
And they’re a’ deid.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM BIRLINN BY DORIS DAVIDSON
BROW OF THE GALLOWGATE
The brow of the Gallowgate is where Albert Ogilvie buys his property in 1890 - the shop he has dreamed of for years, and above it, a house with nine rooms to accommodate the large family he and his beloved wife, Bathie, desire. As their babies are born - there will be eight in all - Albert employs three sisters, one after another, as nursemaids. Bathie finds Mary and Jeannie Wyness more than satisfactory, but Bella, the youngest, is troublesome and sly, and creates a set of distressing circumstances resulting in her dismissal. The years go by, with their joys and sorrows, and war splits up the close-knit Ogilvies, some of whem eventually emigrate to New Zealand. And it is there that Bella Wyness, her resentment of the family grown to black hatred, will wreak her terrible revenge...
COUSINS AT WAR
The sequel to her novel ‘Brow of the Gallowgate’, Doris Davidson’s latest novel follows the fortunes of the Ogilvie family through the World War II. Olive is determined to have her cousin Neil as her husband and won’t allow anything or anyone to get in her way. So when her younge
r cousin Queenie is evacuated from London and begins to attract Neil’s attention, Olive does all she can to avert the relationship. When warnings and threats fail, Olive concocts a web of lies to blacken Queenie’s character and destroy her cousins’ love. Despite Olive’s success, her actions fail to secure Neil, who finds himself involved with other girls, finally meeting and falling for Freda. After this Olive will stop at nothing, no matter how despicable, to make sure Neil is hers forever. The consequences of her actions shock everyone and send the extended Potter and Ogilvie families into turmoil.
GIFT FROM THE GALLOWGATE
This is the extraordinary story of a remarkable woman. Doris Davidson was born in Aberdeen in 1922, the daughter of a master butcher and country lass. Her idyllic childhood was shattered in 1934 with the death of her father, after which, in order to make ends meet, her mother was forced to take in lodgers. In part due to her father’s sudden death, Doris left school at fifteen and went to work in an office, gradually rising through the ranks until she became book-keeper. Marriage to an officer in the Merchant Navy followed in 1942, then divorce, then her second marriage. Her life took the first of two major changes in direction at the age of 41, when she went back to college to study for O and A levels, followed by three years at Teacher Training College. In 1967 she became a primary school teacher, and subsequently taught in schools in Aberdeen until she retired in 1982. Not content with a quiet retirement Doris embarked on a new ‘career’ and became a writer, publishing her first work in 1990. Eight books later (and another one nearly finished), she is one of the country’s best-loved romantic novelists and has sold well in excess of 200,000 copies of her books. In this engaging and candid autobiography, Doris Davidson recounts her growing up in Aberdeen in the ‘20s and ‘30’s, the war years, her marriage and the unexpected paths her career has followed. With her novelist’s skill, she brings into vivid focus a life of rich experience in a book every bit as riveting as her works of fiction.
Gift from the Gallowgate Page 29
