From All Angus (Angus Writers' Circle Anthology 2015)

Motorway, looking to where High Street and another group were gathered.

  ‘Attention please. Can you make your way to the marquee?’ came a posh, high-pitched voice. I looked to see a Leafy Lane beckoning the roads to a gap on the opposite side of the clearing where the top of a large tent was visible.

  ‘We are still waiting for Cycle Path,’ said the Main Road.

  ‘Psychopath more like,’ mumbled the Motorway.

  ‘I’m coming,’ came a voice.

  ‘About time,’ the Motorway shouted as a Cycle Path came rushing into the clearing.

  ‘You look tired. Been working flat out?’ joked the Motorway. ‘Get it? Flat! Tyre! Cycle!’

  ‘Very funny,’ panted the Cycle Path.

  Hanging back as the rest headed for the tent, the Dual Carriageway took the Motorway aside. ‘I heard Leafy telling Avenue she had a plan to divert traffic away from the village this weekend.’

  ‘But that means that all the traffic would end up on me and you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You leave Miss Leafy Lane to me. I will teach her a lesson,’ growled the Motorway.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been holding back a water main that is ready to burst. I wasn’t sure when to let it go, but now I am. I will let it rip Friday afternoon.’

  ‘But that will cause chaos.’

  ‘It sure will. They’ll have to cone me off and divert traffic through the village. Leafy won’t know what hit her. Traffic will be bumper to bumper along her all night.’

  ‘Oh you are awful!’ said the Dual Carriageway.

  ‘Talking of cones, have they arrived?

  ‘Yes Traf and Fic are already in the tent.’

  ‘Come on! Hurry up you two.’

  ‘Coming, Leafy. We’re caught in a bottleneck.’ They giggled, finishing their beer and heading towards the tent.

  I tried to follow but could not move. I felt something across my chest. Then I heard a voice. I turned to see a man in a hi-viz vest waving. ‘Move on, mate. You’re holding everyone up.’

  I apologised, adjusted my seat belt and started the car. As I went to drive away my foot slipped off the pedal. I looked down and saw that my shoes were covered in green slimy mud.

  I am a part-time author, living in Carnoustie. I am a member of Angus Writers’ Circle and a keen golfer. I am looking forward to retiring next year and concentrating on my writing and lowering my handicap.

  I have been writing in various genres for many years. Having recently written several short stories for my grandson, I feel I have now found my niche in children’s adventure stories and have finished my first children’s novel.

  HAMISH McNIVEN

  THE PRIZEGIVING

  Donnie woke to the sound of birdsong. He was cocooned in the duvet as usual. Pleading with his mum to keep the winter duvet on had failed. It was July now, so the summer one it had to be.

  As the bedroom was at the rear of the flat, it did not get the sun until late afternoon. Mornings were cold, and the pale blue walls did not help the temperature.

  Donnie had ideas of using warm colours, having plenty of storage and picking up bargains to furnish the room. But, with money tight, redecorating was down the list.

  Mother and son had settled into their new home with little fuss, both being glad to leave the damp, cold flat in the run-down area of town. Any longer there would have killed Donnie’s mother. Her chest infection and asthma had made her very ill and she was admitted to hospital.

  Staying with foster parents when his mother was in hospital was a great comfort. They took him to visit regularly. Their years of experience helped him to settle, to feel safe. Being part of a family setting was new to Donnie. Mealtimes were lively, with everyone seated around the table talking about the day’s events. This was so different from sitting with your meal on a tray watching television.

  He sometimes missed the buzz it gave him.

  Glancing across to the chest of drawers, he smiled. A photo frame caught the light from a gap in the curtains. The certificate it contained marked a turning point in his life. Primary school was now finished; he was looking forward to the rest of his education, and he had done well considering all that had happened over the last few years.

  Donnie had to go to prizegiving on the last day of term. He had to collect his prize.

  ‘Can they not post it?’ he’d pleaded.

  His mother’s reply was very firm: ‘You will go and you will wear your uniform.’

  The Mary Yule Prize had been awarded to him for the best short story in the Primary 7 classes. Judging of the competition had been done by Miss Mary Yule herself.

  Donnie’s story involved the journey of a stray cat abandoned after the arrival of a puppy; surviving on the streets until being picked up by the driver from the Cats’ Protection; his recovery at the cattery; and finally being adopted by a couple.

  Donnie had done some research, finding out about the Cats’ Protection, visiting the cattery and talking to helpers about what they do, grooming and feeding the cats. He added some of his own feelings of loneliness and uncertainty. All of this helped to tell the tale of the young cat:

  Oscar was a young male, ginger with white feet. He was quite big for his age, but, living rough, his coat was matted and he needed flea treatment.

  The staff gave him a bowl of food which he quickly ate, then brought up again just as fast. Food would have to be given little and often, and a visit to the vet was a must.

  Writing the story was easy. Donnie knew what he wanted to say, but the process of getting it onto the paper was hard. Writing in his notebook, he just scribbled down what came into his head.

  In the library he put the story onto the computer, before saving the draft to a stick. It took a few visits to complete his story but after reading it through twice he was happy. He printed off two copies just to be safe.

  The surprise of winning gave him a lift, but also brought trouble. The last school year he had been a victim of minor bullying. Some rough and tumble and name-calling. Spud Walker (named after the crisps) was the chief tormentor backed by Dave Ross and Donnie’s one-time best pal Stu Tate.

  Spud had what Donnie didn’t: wealthy parents. His father owned a haulage firm and a big house with a swimming pool. With this came arrogance and Spud was very spoiled, always getting everything he wanted.

  Donnie told people he was named after Donnie Munro, the Runrig singer, but in fact it was after Donny Osmond. His mother had had a teenage crush on him. Stu was never any good at being tactful and let slip the source of his name. That led to a big argument. Donnie felt betrayed by his close friend. They stopped meeting up and Stu became one of Spud’s friends. All the name-calling and scuffles he could put up with, but losing his pal hurt most.

  Donnie’s win gave Spud a final chance to torment him. It would be his last act before summer and the move to a fee-paying High School. Dressed in school uniform added to the problem.

  Donnie left for school on the final day knowing he would have to be alert and on his guard for Spud and his friends looking to spoil his day. If he could lie low until prizegiving, things would be OK.

  The plan was working fine until a wrong choice – a left turn instead of a right – brought him face to face with Spud outside the gym. No chance to hide. Donnie started running.

  ‘Get him!’ Spud’s voice echoed in the corridor.

  Heart pounding, Donnie headed towards the main toilets and sanctuary. With Spud on his heels, Donnie raced into the toilet. Breathing hard he composed himself, facing the door. He waited for Spud, fists clenched. Action had to be taken.

  Spud charged through the door. Losing his footing, he nosedived into the corner. The sound of the closing door masked the sound of the contact. A loud groan came from Spud.

  Dave and Stu came through the door and found Donnie bent over Spud. Without a word being spoken, the two boys left the toilet.

  Kneeling down, Donnie thought he saw b
lood coming from Spud’s head. As he stood up to get a paper towel, the janitor appeared with bucket and mop to tidy up.

  He grumbled at Spud, ‘It’s those Bain twins again, been having a water fight. These tiles are so slippery. No wonder people get hurt.’

  Helping Spud to sit up, Donnie could see a small cut, and pressed the towel to his head to stop the bleeding. The door opened and Mr Andrews, his Primary 7 teacher, entered followed by Stu.

  The teacher bent down to look at the cut. ‘Well then Walker, what have you been doing?’

  Spud mumbled something inaudible. The teacher dismissed the boys, sending them off to the Assembly Hall. They walked side by side down the corridor with not a glance or word spoken. Stu joined Dave at the rear.

  Donnie was shown where to sit by Miss Preston, who was in charge of the prizegiving and had to make sure the pupils collected the correct prizes.

  In the middle of the row, Donnie sat quietly facing the front reflecting on what had just happened. He would have hit Spud. But after that he did not know. Anyway it didn’t matter now.

  A nudge from his neighbour alerted him to the fact that his name had been called. Standing up, he straightened his tie. Head up, shoulders back, he strode towards the stage. Climbing the stairs, Donnie took a deep breath, preparing to face the whole school.

  As the headmaster announced his name and his award, polite applause greeted him. He shook hands with Miss Yule, and a loud whistle came from the back of the hall. Donnie knew it came from Stu as he had heard it many times before.

  Returning to his seat, Donnie looked to the rear of the