CREATIVE WRITING COMPETITION
Short Story Finalist
Ronnie’s Story
by Kris Haddow
“Ronnie Blair, Shit the flair,
Licked it up and asked fir mair.”
“Ronald, has only got one ball,
The ither, he shat oot in the hall.”
“Ronnie, Ronnie, gie us yer answer do,
Don’t just sit there and squeeze oot anither poo...”
A put up wi’ a’ sorts a jibes when a wis wee. Ma school years were rotten as
hell. A wis a nervous boy, shy, quiet. Ma faither said a wis queer fae the age
o’ seven onwards; queer as in strange, a mean – a wisnae a nancy or owt like
that. An oddball. No surprising considering what we’d had tae put up wae at
hame, me and ma brithers. A think a spent maist o’ ma younger years living in a
permanent state o’ fear.
Ma faither wis a drinker. Ye didnae ca’ folk alcoholics back then – drink wis
the norm roon’ oor way. A lot o’ the miners liked a tipple after a hard days’
work, and whae’d blame them, they spent half their days grafting in the dark.
But oor faither liked his drink mair than maist men, and the drink liked him back
just fine.
He took it oot on us when ma mither left. We’d been up the Coal Burn fishing and
swimming a’ day, so we were nane-the-wiser when we got back late. Faither wis
already pissed oot his face, clean tear tracks streaked doon his otherwise filthy
face. He still had his pit gear on and hadnae washed; he’d been sat there a
while. He wis cradling their wedding photie at the table like it wis a wean,
maudling and greetin’ like he did when Nana died. That wis the first night a saw
him really lose his temper. He battered George first for askin’ why there wis
nae dinner, then Pete got it for askin’ where mither wis.
A hid. A kent better.
It’s funny writin’ aboot it noo. Ye’d think a wis talkin’ aboot the eighteen
hundreds, Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist times and a’ that. But a’m no. A’m
talkin’ aboot nineteen eight two here – no even thirty year ago. Here’s me, a
bit shy o’ forty, still finding it hard tae talk aboot when a wis a boy.
A remember quite clearly the day the name crying started. It wis aboot two year
after mither left, and a wis pushing ten. Faither had been oot on strike like
the rest o’ the miners in ‘eighty four, and we had sod all coming in. We were
starving, the lot o’ us. Mrs Cooper fae the Sally Army would gie me and ma
brithers pieces and cake while faither was oot picketing. He kent fine well we
were getting fed elsewhere. The proud and stubborn auld bastard that he wis,
though, he never let on that he kent, nor did he ever thank her. Onyway, it wis
roon about then that ma problem started. A couldnae say then whit had caused it;
a bug, ma nerves or the poor diet. A remember being in Mrs McAdam’s classroom
trying tae finish a maths test when a broke oot in a cauld sweat. Ma eyes went
bleary and ma breathing was heavy. I felt ma stomach start tae grumble as though
wi’ hunger, and then in a state o’ blind panic and wi’ a wave o’ horror it
happened. A had messed masel.
“Ronnie disnae like fitba’, he’s only got wan hobby,
He likes tae sit at the back at the class, and squeeze oot dirty big jobbies.”
Laugh, go’n. A ken ye want tae. It’s whit the rest o’ them did. A sat there at
first in pure shame, the thought o’ being caught making me nauseous. How wis a
gonnae get oot o’ this? Ma mind wis racing wi’ excuses tae get me oot the room.
But a wisnae fast enough. David John McKeown chipped in first.
“Gads, whae’s farted? That’s stinkin’!”
Archie Johnstone joined in.
“He that smelt it, dealt it, McKeown!”
Folk laughed while Mrs McAdam scowled and told the pair o’ them tae shut up and
get on wi’ their test. A had started tae shake by then. Tears were streaming
doon ma face, ma body racked wi’ sobs. Kim Newlands kent there wis something
wrong wi’ me. But she never asked me if a wis a’right. Instead, she shouted
oot:
“Mrs McAdam, Ronnie’s greetin’!”
A’ eyes were on me. A just sat wi’ ma heid hung in shame, still crying, but now
quite openly. Mrs McAdam walked towards me. There wis nae escape. A cannae say
for certain whit happened next, a just remember wakening up in the nurse’s room
wi’ a pair o’ auld P.E. shorts and a scabby t-shirt on. A had blacked oot.
Ma faither wis mortified when he wis telt. Mr McKenzie, the Headmaster, kept me
back till well after the bell had went then drove me hame in his Rover. A sat in
ma mither’s auld chair by the fire and kept ma eyes fixed doon on the rug till
they’d finished talking. When they did, ma faither saw McKenzie oot, walked back
in tae the room and belted me full force across the jaw.
“Bed. Now.”
There wis nae point arguing wi’ him. A’d seen whit ma brithers got if they
answered back. A spent the night curled up in a ba’ under ma blanket, wishing ma
mither wis still aboot tae make everything better.
That wis the first time. No that it became a regular habit, a’d like tae point
oot. But it did happen anither twice. The second time caused a scandal and wis
talk o’ the steamy. By the third time a wis the village idiot. An outcast.
That ‘dirty wee Blair boy’. George and Pete started getting it in the
playground, and before long they wouldnae stick up for me any mair. A wished a
wis dead.
Thankfully a didnae have tae put up wi’ it for much longer. Faither lost his job
when the pit shut doon, so we got decanted tae ma Aunty Marion’s hoose on the
Ayrshire coast. A loved it there. She wis just three streets back fae the
front, and we were free tae go running and paddling as often as we liked. The
best thing though wis the fact ma faither didnae come wi’ us. He went tae Glesga
tae find work. No that he got owt tae start wi’, but before long he wis
labouring and sending Aunty Marion a postal order wi’ oor keep once a fortnight.
Aunty Marion wis brilliant. She hadnae heard fae ma mither either in the couple
o’ years since she’d left, but she still spoke fondly o’ her. She had a notion
she’d mibbe went tae London wi’ a fella she’d been at school wi’ years ago, but
wherever she’d went and whoever she’d went wi’, she didnae want anything tae dae
wi’ us noo. Aunty Marion looked a bit like ma mither. She wis braw, wi’ big
curly hair and she a’y wore makeup. She wisnae married or anything, which wis a
shame, a’m sure she coulda got a man if she’d wanted tae. She loved having me
and ma brithers there. She’d a’y wanted a family.
We’d been there about nine weeks before a had ma first wee accident. It wis
aboot three o’clock in the morning. A silly thing, really. Pete grabbed me and
twisted ma arm and said if Aunty Marion kicked us oot because of it he’d kill me.
But she never. She gied me a cuddle and telt me no tae be daft, and tae away
and run masel a bath.
The following Thursday, she took me doon the toon. She said she’d made an
appointment wi’ Doctor Laidlaw tae get me checked oot. A panicked, but she said
no tae worry, they just wanted tae see if he could help me. A had a couple o’
tests done, was asked a few personal questions that a willnae share here, and
before a fortnight wis by they’d discovered a had Crohn’s Disease. When Laidlaw
first said it a thought he meant crone as in witches and wondered what the hell
kind o’ spell a’d had cast on me. But he explained it, and telt me whit they’d
dae tae help me live wi’ it. Aunty Marion smiled and telt me things would be
just fine.
A’m a new man nowadays. A’m still a bit shyer than maist folk, but a’m no as
withdrawn as a wis when a wis a boy. Aunty Marion taught me tae write stories
tae bring me oot ma shell, and wi’ her support a’ve even learnt tae dae it in ma
ain tounge. She’s one in a million, ma Aunty Marion.
Growing up wi’ Crohn’s wisnae easy, no by a long chalk. But wi’ love and
support, a’m leading a much happier and healthier adult life.
“I first heard about the 'see me' writing competition on a creative writing forum
and was encouraged by a university tutor to enter. When I saw the theme was
'support' I had a few initial ideas, but settled on a boy's experience of Crohn's
Disease as I have first hand experience of the effects it can have on people. I
wrote in modern Scots as I'm passionate about our language and dialect - it's
important to me to capture how the people I know actually speak to each other.”
“I was surprised and excited to reach the finals as this is the first piece of
writing I've been brave enough to submit anywhere. I'm looking forward to meeting
the judges and finalists in Edinburgh, and to sharing my story with the people
who have supported me.”
Kris Haddow