Tantallon Terrace

My little world of North Berwick once seemed so big. The High
Street, sandwiched by tall, granite buildings. Granny, with a
personality too big for the town. Grandad, whose hand I never let go
of, who I trailed as if I were his shadow. Now only the permanent
fixtures of the Bass Rock and the sea islands retain their enormity.
The hazy banks across the sea aren't fairyland, just another part of
the Scottish mainland, with lights and lives like ours.

Back here, I return to that child-like state. I frolic across the
rocks, seaweed slippery, jutting out my arms to steady myself. For if
were to fall now, it would be so much harder to get up. I fell over a
lot as a bairn, I'd jump up and all would be forgotten. Now I never
fall. There would be no Grandad to comfort me. So I ensure that I'm
like him, as steady as the seashore rocks.

I wonder how many times I've passed former classmates without knowing
it. Or even seen their children playing on the beach. Who's the class
golden girl now? In my day it was Debra Crocker, all blonde hair and
blue eyes. Does she have a daughter as pretty and as kind as she was?
You see, no one would recognise me now, with my bottle-blessed red hair
and my London accent. Oh, I'm sure that if I ran into a few older
citizens, memories could be jogged. They may recall Harry Haston, who
worked at the Royal Bank, and his eccentric English wife, Pip.

But I was used to freaks. My flighty aunt and my petal-pretty mother
would both show up in their glam rock gear. Where most mothers would
present their offspring at the school gate in coffee morning twinsets,
mine was dressed in Swinging London glad rags. A pale blue linen
trouser suit and cork platform shoes, a small blue star tattooed on her
cheekbone. Now she covers that star up with a mole, trying to forget
the days when she thought that it was a good idea.

One November evening, my grandparents took me to Tantallon Terrace, to
peruse a big old house on the seafront. There were no lights, just
Grandad's hand to hold on to. But when Granny put a handwritten sign in
the window that read 'SOLD', my little brain assessed that this would
be our next familial port of call. We moved into the beachside grey
stone and immediately, we set to work. Persian carpets were unfurled in
the dining room and the hall was lined with dark mahogany furniture. My
mother and auntie took it upon themselves to furnish the house
themselves, as if they'd never flown the nest. They bought their
treasure from a jolly gentleman from the village, whom they nicknamed
Randy Buchanan.

The staircase was carpeted in rough hessian, held in place by brass
rods. It led to the bedrooms of my grandparents, mother and my small
self. Granny and Grandads' view of the Bass Rock, seabirds soaring
above the summit. My mother's floaty lilac affair, with its dressing
table of posh perfume. My room with the pussy cat wallpaper that I'd
bullied Grandad for, with complementary blue walls. Years later Suzi
Quatro and T.Rex posters would appear, along with greasy
thumbprints.

Back downstairs was the bathroom, shadowy and filled with spiders. Bed
and Breakfast in the spare room, a seasonal money spinner that Granny
undertook. The bed would be decked with yellow nylon coverlets, as the
kitchen table was set for visitors. And the kitchen itself, the warmest
room of the house, which enjoyed a back-of-the-house view of the woods.
Life in here revolved around a large table, where mundane meals of egg
and chips gave way to New Year's Day tribal gatherings. Then Great Aunt
Margaret would descend with the Shaw clan from Edinburgh. Unpulled
crackers saved for next Yuletide were persuaded to come out of storage
fifty-one weeks early, to appease wee-me, and we'd chomp on turkey and
trifle in our papers hats.

Was it really such a lifetime ago? I can still smell those days and
feel that house, with its draughts and shadows. And it hurts, because
three years after we'd bought it, the Irish rover in Granny was
triggered. It was wagons roll, as crates were shoved in the boot and
Donny Osmond posters torn from the wall. Granny never stopped nagging
Grandad about moving house, and she wasn't about to quit now. They'd
built up their savings, buying and selling property in Edinburgh, a
trait that Granny learned from her father. This time they did a deal
with a family from Lady Jane Gardens.

And what a deal it was! They must have been laughing all the way to the
beach, said my mother years later. They would have our resplendent
home, with its warp and weft of stories. In return, we were welcome to
their pebble-dashed shoebox and its cardboard walls. But we're right
opposite a housing scheme, sighed my mother, after the deal was done.
She was still in her Ken Market rig-out, Silk Cut in hand burning down
to the stub. So many times we've talked about what could still be
ours.

But for now I look towards the Bass Rock and sketch, in greens, greys
and blues. Back in the summer of '73, I sat on this same spot of beach
and watched the waters. Out at sea, tugs pulled oil rig platforms along
the Firth of Forth, heading up the North Sea coast to Aberdeen. The
Bass Rock is my friend, a 'he' not an 'it', set in my soul. A jut of
granite that once guarded Mary of Scotland's coasts against Elizabethan
England. He's steeped in history, and not just mine.

I see a red kite dancing through the air, leaping up and over the Bass.
It flutters and holds in mid-air, until dipping in whirls. With its
long tail it looks like a sperm, and apes so well the dancing journey
towards new life.