Electricity by Angus Peter Campbell sampler

Angus Peter Campbell is from South Uist. He has worked as a
lemonade factory bottle-washer, kitchen-porter, labourer, forester,
lobster-fisherman, journalist, broadcaster, actor and writer. He
graduated from the University of Edinburgh with Double Honours
in Politics and History. His Gaelic novel An Oidhche Mus Do
Sheòl Sinn was voted by the public into the Top 10 of the Best Ever
Books from Scotland in The List/Orange Awards of 2007. His
poetry collection Aibisidh won the Scottish Poetry Book of the Year
Award in 2011 and his novel Memory and Straw the Saltire Scottish
Fiction Book of the Year in 2017. Tuathanas nan Creutairean
(George Orwell's Animal Farm in Campbell's Gaelic translation)
appeared in 2021. Constabal Murdo 2: Murdo ann am Marseille
won the Gaelic Literature Awards Fiction Book of the Year Prize
for 2022. In 2023 he was named as the Gaelic Writer of the Year at
the Highlands and Islands Press Ball Media Awards.
Liondsaidh Chaimbeul, who made the drawings in this story, is an
Honours graduate of Edinburgh College of Art. She works as a sculptor,
designer and school bus driver. Her art work is on display in public
places from Benbecula to Irvine and in several private collections. She
represented Scotland at the first ever Scottish International Sculpture
Symposium in 1986.

Electricity
a novel by
ANGUS PETER CAMPBELL

First published 2023
isbn: 978-1-80425-050-1
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
Printed and bound by
Clays Ltd., Bungay
Typeset in 10.5 point Sabon by
Main Point Books, Edinburgh
Images © Liondsaidh Chaimbeul
Text © Angus Peter Campbell 2023

One can always exaggerate in the direction of truth
Matisse

Contents
Acknowledgements 9
My Dear Emily… 11
1 Silver Morning 15
2 Home 19
3 Mam 39
4 Dad 46
5 Niall Cuagach 57
6 James Campbell 76
7 Lisa 86
8 Electricity 95
9 Mrs MacPherson 119
10 The Cèilidh 133
11 Fair Saturday 155
12 Frog Sunday 175
13 Old Murdo and Mùgan and John the Shoemaker
and Hazel and Effie the Postmistress 196
14 The Meeting 216
7

15 After 232
16 The Den 242
17 The Cows 253
18 Cycling 259
19 Flying 264
20 Ploughing 272
21 Hydro 284
22 Polishing 292
23 Together 296
24 Switched On 311
25 Antoine 321
26 Edinburgh 326
27 Returning 339
I write this by candle-light, Emily 365
8

Acknowledgements
My thanks to everyone who helped make this book. To Louis de
Bernieres, Catherine Deveney, Professor James Hunter, Fr Colin
MacInnes, Karen Matheson and Selina Scott for their generous
endorsements. To Peter Ferguson for the cover photograph. To
my wife Liondsaidh Chaimbeul for the beautiful map and handdrawings
as Annie, and to my daughter Ciorstaidh for the drawing
of the yellow on the broom. To Jennie Renton, Maddie Mankey,
Amy Turnbull and Gavin MacDougall at Luath Press for their work
and support. My special thanks to Gwyneth Findlay who edited the
novel with grace and precision. She said on first reading the novel
that it was like getting a big hug. I hope that you also feel the same,
warmly welcomed into this community by Annie, Mùgan, Niall
Cuagach, Lisa, Sgliugan, Hazel, Dolina, Mrs MacPherson and all
their pals. Taing dhaibh, agus tapadh leibh uile. Enjoy!
9

10

My Dear Emily,
I hope you’re well. And may Gran’s adventures make you
feel even better! Remember that time we camped out for the
night? I know it was just the back garden, but you said it was
like being in the middle of the forest, because you could hear
the wind blowing through the trees and the owls hooting far
off. We were at the centre of everything. And how we both
snuggled into the sleeping bags and lit our wee torches and
then played shadows on the canvas, and you said it was an
elephant when it was a mouse and then when we put the
torches together yours was the sun and mine the moon! In the
morning, I was the only one who heard the birds singing, for
you were fast asleep in my arms. Said you were cold during
the night though we both knew it was just an excuse and I
was so pleased when you snuggled in and slept, breathing
warm as toast, while the wind whispered outside. All that
mattered was that we were alive and together.
I wish I could go over and see you, or that you could fly
over here. If I were with you I’d hug you long and close, and
I know I’d want you to hold on and never let me go. I’ve
written down my story for you, as promised. As a sort of
tent in which we can coorie in! Everything has kind of raced
by, and all I want to do is to tell everyone I ever met how
beautiful and strange they all were.
Once upon a time, it seemed as if change came from
the outside, like a gale-force wind, when all the time it was
ourselves. But you can shelter from the wind. I look in the
mirror and see the changes. Those lines on my forehead when
I deliberately frown, and the way my mouth purses when I
put on my lipstick. Inside, I am forever the girl I was, running
across the machair in the middle of May inhaling the sweet
smell of the clover while the larks sing overhead.
I had wee headaches at first and didn’t think anything of them.
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angus peter campbell
Though Mam said she’d also had them when she was my age
and that they would go after a while. Which they did. There were
some things we didn’t talk about in those days. You just found
out about it by magic, as it were. Like finding an unknown object
on the shore and by handling it discover it was light and made
of plastic, and that if the bit at the end was fixed (which Dad
repaired) it could fly! It was a toy plane. Things can surprise us.
The thing that happened was that I grew up the same time
electricity arrived. It was as if the two were directly connected.
The way the bulbs sizzled when they were first lit was the way
I felt. Crackling and fusing together and then illuminating
everything with that soft, flickering light.
But we also feared it. Sensed that nothing would ever be the
same again. Dad feared the loss of the hearth and the fire. Mam
knew what speed meant. It spoilt the making of things. She
always did things slowly. Carved the bread as if it felt every cut.
Milked the cow gently, because it made the milk creamier. Folded
the tablecloth ever so softly, because the linen remembered all
her kindness. In the midst of it all I met Antoine, and it was as if
the whole place was lit up by will-o’-the-wisp, with my bike and
the grass and the seashells all shining! It’s all that matters, those
moments. Remember how the moths all hovered outside the
tent that night, vainly trying to get in? They never did, and once
we turned the torches off, all was silent, except for your quiet
breathing, and me trying not to breathe in case I woke you.
Everything will pass, my darling. That’s all. The bad too,
so hold on to the good, for its day will come again. And
just to remind you of the shadow-shapes we made with our
hands in the torchlight, I’ve done a few drawings to chum all
these words I’ve written. They are in memory of dear Mrs
MacPherson, who made the best cup of tea and the nicest
scones in the whole world, even though you think Gran does!
I learned the recipes from her, so really it’s always been her
scones. As is everything else, sort of hand-me-downs which
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electricity
arrived like lightning and quiver on like a candle. You know
fine I can work a computer, but I’ve written all this out by hand
because you once told me that you liked my hand-writing since
it was like those white swans we saw swimming in Inverleith
pond! Remember, a dog barked suddenly, and the swans looked
at each other, as if wondering whether to fly away, but then just
dipped their heads into the water and carried on fishing.
Isn't it amazing how we remember all the details of some things,
and can't remember a thing about others? Bet you remember
the name of your first pet and infant teacher! Flora the Frog and
Miss MacIsaac! It’s a beautiful starlit night here in Edinburgh.
I was down the bottom of the garden earlier, just as the sun set.
The maple and cherry trees were red and orange, and Hector the
Hedgehog, my daily evening visitor, was trundling along as usual
between the gate and the hedge. He loves the apple cuts I leave for
him there every night. When you next come over, bring some of
those Fujis with you, which he likes so much! They’re impossible to
get over here. Poor old Hector has got such a sweet tooth!
I know it’s daft, but you know what I’ve done, Emily? The
reason I was down the bottom of the garden was not just to feed
Hector, but to set up the tent! It’s a warm night and I’m going to
sleep out there for old times’ sake. Don’t worry – I’ve got three hot
water bottles ready and those fluffy pyjamas that you said make
me look like Paddington Bear! Come out with me and if you take
your torch we can once again make the sun and the moon and
the elephant and the mouse. And if I get cold, can I just snuggle in
beside you so that I get nice and warm, like toast? Let’s, Emily!
Oh, and I got a large packet of the Liquorice Allsorts we
both like we can share with everyone. I promise I’ll keep
the yellow ones for you and the stripey white and black and
orange ones for myself, and folk like Campbell will just have
to make do with the plain sticky black ones, so there!
Love, Gran xxx
13

1
Silver Morning
It’s been good. When I was wee we used to play a game. Dolina
and me. As we cycled along, she counted the things to her left, and
I counted the things to my right. The houses and the people and
the stones and the walls and the sheep and everything. Without
cheating, because that spoilt the game. You couldn’t just say that
you saw five starlings when there were only three. We made up
stories about everything we saw.
The big rock as we turned northwards by the machair track
was Helen Carnegie who’d been turned to stone by the wicked
witch, and the river that ran into the sea was the Mississippi for
me and the Amazon for Dolina. Mine had swamps we had to swim
through, and hers had crocodiles we had to wrestle with to get to
the other side. They always took big bites out of our legs.
We also played houses. Pebbles were little cottages and
we made long and winding sandy roads up to them
and kings and queens and princes and princesses
and witches and goblins and magicians
lived in them. Smoke always curled
out of the chimneys, and I still
can’t draw a house without
putting a wee road up
to the door and two
matching windows and a
curl of smoke rising up to
the blue air. The door is
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angus peter campbell
always open and the kettle forever on the boil.
There was a small cave down by the shore that was our first
castle. Duncan and Fearchar helped us pull an old cupboard door
down to the castle, and if anyone wanted to enter they had to knock
three times on the door with this special white stone before they
were allowed in. Inside, we had sticks and a kettle and a cupboard
and shelves and everything where we held big feasts. In the summer
when the days were long and there was hardly any night we lit a fire
and roasted marshmallows on sticks and then ran and danced until
the sun shone orange.
I’m writing with a pencil because that’s how I learned to write
at school, and I know that if I make a mistake I can rub it out and
start again. We used to rub things out with the heel of the white
loaf, but these days I use Jamieson’s round erasers. I get them from
Simpson’s round the corner. Thing is, with the loaf you could still
see the smudge, as if writing and sums had as much to do with
rubbing out as putting in!
Same with everything. Mam was forever washing things and
Dad always clearing fields so that the potatoes would grow. It
was as if nothing could happen without something else being
removed. When Niall Cuagach divined for water he never knew
where the exact spot was, or whether it was a trickle or a well. We
watched him following his stick ever so carefully and then came
that remarkable moment when the twig twitched, and there it was.
Water. It was as if the stick was alive in his hands. He gave us the
stick to try, but though we waved it about everywhere we never
found water. It only ever worked for him.
The first time Mam gave me a pencil when I was about two
or three she cupped her hand round mine and made this amazing
shape which she said was an ‘a’, and then she cupped my hand
and made a different shape and said ‘And that’s a capital A’. It was
like the difference between a lamb and a sheep, I thought. I got it
right first time and didn’t even have to rub it out and that’s been
my aim all my life.
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electricity
The birds are singing outside. They are always at their best at this
time, first thing in the morning, as if every new dawn is a surprise
to them, needing a song. Goodness, the way Claudia my neighbour
moans, as if it’s a trial being alive. I’m lucky, because I have trees in
my garden, so all the birds gather there, summer and winter. They’ve
grown since you last climbed them! I sleep well enough, though I
wake early. But no matter how early, the goldfinches are always up
before me. The gowdspinks. On spring and summer and autumn
mornings they are in full song by six or seven, but even in winter, because
I put seed out for them, there they are as soon as the sun rises.
Maybe the sun himself rises when he hears their songs?
I’ve had my breakfast. Today, fruit and
yoghurt. And black decaffeinated Earl Grey.
The one with the blue cornflower blossoms
and bergamot you thought was a perfume
the first time you were here! I add orchid
petals. For the antioxidants, I tell myself!
Though it’s really for the colour which
matches that gorgeous Japanese pot you
bought me from the charity shop.
Oh, and did I tell you I bought a stove?
The man installed it a while back, but it
wasn’t working properly. Then he came back
and fixed the flue. Blamed the flue of course, saying it was faulty!
And you know what? The local garage down the road sells those
bags of peat, and once the fire gets going good and proper with
wood and a handful of coal I add the peat so that the fragrance of
my childhood fills the air. Forgive an old woman adding her bit to
global warming, my dear child!
It’s a silver morning here. The sun is shining in through the
kitchen window and the percolator is already bubbling. Wasn’t
it lovely being outside on a clear and starry winter’s night? We
might have been eaten by moths or frogs! Or been invaded by
those starships you said you saw flying between the moon and the
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angus peter campbell
horizon! And isn’t it nice too to be back inside, the stove cosy and
warm, and the smell of coffee in the air, and this new day and the
chance to tell you all those other things I forgot to tell you about
after the man in the moon fell asleep when the clouds covered him!
Remember?
18

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