Podcast transcript for Vision 65, April/May 2014
RNIB logo - RNIB: Supporting people with sight loss
Nicky: Hello, and welcome to this special April/May podcast for Vision magazine with the winners of our annual members writing competition. My name is Nicky Barranger and I present the audio version of the magazine. This is just a taster of Vision which is produced as a 78 minute long radio-style programme on CD. Vision includes news, features, competitions and letters from our members.
In the latest edition of Vision magazine, we announce the winners of our annual writing competition for RNIB members.
If you like what you hear, you could join RNIB as a member and receive six editions of Vision magazine a year and get a range of other member benefits, including free telephone book clubs and member forum events.
Alec: Winners of the Annual Member’s Writing Competition
Nicky: And now it’s time to announce the three winners of our annual members writing competition. The theme was: "A Day in the Life" and we had more than 60 entries which included poems, short stories and a letter. The quality of the writing and the diverse approaches to the subject, meant that the judges who included writers: Natalie Haynes and Philip Hoare, faced a difficult task choosing the winner. It was so close, that in the end, we decided to have two joint second place winners, with one receiving a commendation from Man Booker Prize 2013 judge, Natalie Haynes.
So, here with a fanfare…… is the announcement for the 3 winners
for our annual members’ writing competition.
A Day in the Life of William Purvis, 1752-1832 by Douglas Walker
Douglas Walker is the winner of this year's competition. Douglas who is 70, won with: "A Day in the Life of William Purvis, 1752-1832". In his story, Douglas imagined what it must have been like
to be blind at the start of the 19th century in his home town of
Newcastle. Here’s Douglas explaining how he came to write it.
Douglas: When I looked at the title for the story "A day in the life", I thought about blind Willy Purvis who was quite a well-known figure in Newcastle in the late 18th and early 19th century. He was in effect a busker who went round the pubs in Newcastle playing his fiddle and singing various songs. He used to sing songs about the local happenings in the community. I'm a volunteer with the local talking newspaper in Newcastle, so it set me thinking as to how William Purvis would find his information. Clearly he couldn't read and it was before braille was developed, so really I thought it would be word of mouth and possibly someone reading the local Newcastle Courant to him. So really that's how I thought it would be unusual, I have an interest in local history, so I thought well, blindness, local history - put them together and hopefully it would form a reasonable story.
Nicky: The judges said that this unusual entry “captured the Historical voice really well, that it had a beautiful sense of time and location and it fully placed the reader into the hardships of 19th century northern life. So, – judge for yourself… here’s Douglas’ story read by our talking book narrator, Mark Elstob.
A day in the life of William Purvis, 1752 to 1832
Hello my name is Blind Willie Purvis, son of the soot blackened, coal blackened town of Newcastle. I am nearing the end of my sixtieth year and have been dubbed as the Ancient Laureate of Tyne, although in my younger days I was called the Minstrel.
It is Friday 13 December in the Year of Our Lord 1812 in the Reign of our good King George III, God Bless Him poor soul, poor soul and God Bless his son the Prince Regent.
My father John was a Waterman but was crushed to death under tons of coal as the Collier, Cushy Butterfield was being loaded with the black gold from the Staithes at Willington Quay.
The Keelman's Hospital could not save him despite many tears and fervent prayers from my dear mother Margaret. She still lives although now much reduced by age and infirmity. Her sight remains sharp, thank God, and she can still read the news from the Newcastle Courant to help with my verses. We now both dwell tolerably well in the All Saints Poorhouse.
In earlier days when John Wesley preached in Sandgate he found much drunkenness foul language and rough mode of speaking from the locals, including the women and the bairns.
But I have always found that the good folk of the town are most generous and friendly towards me and will always shout greetings to me as I trudge the streets and clarty lanes of the old toon. I suppose I must be instantly recognised with my long sturdy stick as my only guide and my fiddle strapped to my back.
I do like well my grey over coat with its buckles in the style of the jackets worn by the Keelmen of old. I am renowned for my happy, contented nature and my well thatched pate but I cannot abide the infliction of a hat despite having being given many over the years. I could only wear these accoutrements for a few days before casting them aside.
Although the Keelmen have rough manners and an even rougher way of speaking they are generally sympathetic towards me and without their charity I could not survive as well as I do.
Today I had fancied to take myself up to Pilgrim Street to drop in on Messrs Clapham and Jilpin's Chemists' Shop to get a dole of Spanish juice, which is never denied me.
On leaving All Saints the wind is blowing hard up the Tyne and is enough to cut a poor body to bits. No doubt old Bony retreated from Mother Russia with this very wind at his back.
So instead I will wend my way to the taproom of the Keelmans Lodge to enjoy the crack and sing some local ditties to amuse the regulars.
Finding the Taproom door to the Lodge I enter and head for the raucous voices in the far corner. A chair, Willie, cries one of their number, sit you down and you'll be in want of a beer, no doubt. Comfortably seated I take a long draught and exclaim bonny beer, bonny beer, thank you Doctor, thank you just the job on a day like this.
Tell me the news of the day, my bonny hinny's, I ask.
The news is bad, my bonny lad. Many of the Scots have gone home for lack of work. The owners are holding back the coal to push up the price and to make matters worse the coal owners on the Wear have built their first Staithes to speed up the loading directly to the Colliers.
Will the Wearmen strike?
Nowt surer Willie, nowt surer. The Staithes were the death of your father and they will be the death of us all.
Sad news, sad news indeed. On a happier note my dear mother has read to me from the Courant that a new dance called the waltz, a most immoral and disgusting entertainment, has caught on wonderfully well at the Assembly Rooms on Fenkle Street.
I will be there tonight with my new bonny lad to dance the night away, announces our serving wench Betsy. When the last candles go out he too, like you Willie, gropes around most wonderfully well in the dark.
God help the poor man if he weds you Betsy, my brazen hussy, I retort.
Willie we once heard you sing a little song will you kindly repeat it? This is my cue to sing for my supper and begin with Buy Broom Buzzoms.
Certainly certainly. Let me tune my fiddle and clear my throat. A drop of the Jamaica will serve quite nicely for the purpose.
I start singing
Had I but a wife I care not what she be
If she be a woman that's enough for me
Perhaps Betsy's new man is desperate for a wife and will be happy with any woman!
After many more such verses, most of which are unpresentable here for the genteel ears of my dear listeners, I have been told many times that my deep bass voice is the lowest form of singing which I suppose must be true, or is it my verses?
Having survived this unlucky day I must now take my leave of my appreciative if somewhat rowdy audience and tap my way home down Pudding Chare with the sweet notes of the Geordie Anthem the Keel Row ringing in my ears.
NICKY: Thank you to Mark Elstob who was reading "A Day in the Life Of William Purvis 1752-1832".
Letting Go by Harriet Smith
Our joint secondwinner is Harriet Smith. Harriet who is 23, wrote this piece whileshe was at studying creative writing at University where she discovered that writing came naturally to her. Here is Harriet introducing her winning entry.
Harriet: The story I wrote for the competition is about my first day at secondary school. I went to boarding school at New College Worcester and it's about that experience of the first day. I wrote it at university, I had to write an assignment for the autobiography module and so it's based on personal experience. I wasn't really sure if I'd get anywhere with it. I entered it and then when they rang up - it was really, really exciting. I was very pleased with the story. It was called "Letting Go". Basically there are some themes in the story like letting go of your parents and learning to be independent and growing up and that sort of thing.
Nicky: Judge Natalie Haynes commended Harriet for writing a well
crafted short story – and that “she had taken an ordinary
situation and made it solid and had beautifully captured all
the sensory details of smell, sound and touch.” So here is Harriet’s winning entry: “Letting Go” read by talking book narrator, Emma Powell.
Letting go
I step out of the car and take my Mum's hand, and we walk across to my new boarding house. Although it isn't cold, I button up my coat.
"There's Jackie and Rebecca," Mum says.
Encouraged by this, I walk faster. I'm pleased Rebecca's here, because she'll be the only friend I have for a while. She comes over and gives me a hug. We walk down a smooth pathway to reach the door. About halfway along, I almost fall on a squashed apple. At the entrance, I step on something soft. It's a rough doormat, I think.
"I suppose we'd better get these bags into your room," Mum says and presses the doorbell. We stand waiting for someone to open the door. But no-one comes. I shuffle my feet, and chew a piece of skin on my lip. For a moment, I think we've arrived on the wrong day. Maybe I can spend a few more days at home. But then the door opens and a woman says,
"Hello, I'm Linda. You must be Harriet and Rebecca. Come in, we've been expecting you."
As I enter the house, the air smells damp and one of the floorboards creaks. We follow Linda down the corridor, noone attempting to make any conversation. It seems to take a long time, but eventually we stop outside a door.
"This is your room," Linda says and the door opens with a squeak. Mum thanks her, and Linda's footsteps fade into the distance.
The first thing that hits me when I walk into the room is the size of it. It seems far too big for Rebecca and I to sleep in. It feels empty too, and when I touch one of the walls paint is peeling off it. The carpet's rough beneath my feet and is nothing like the soft one I'm used to at home. I scrape my heel along it and punch my fist against the wardrobe.
"I can't believe the beds aren't even made up," Mum whispers to Jackie.
Mum guides me over to the chest of drawers. I take the neatly folded clothes from my case and sort them into the various drawers. Mum says she's made my bed. I perch on the edge and it's lumpy. The blanket on top feels itchy and uncomfortable. I wonder how I'm going to be able to sleep on it.
As we approach the school building that afternoon, I hear the sound of a fountain. The rushing water calms my nerves a little. A clock strikes the hour nearby. Its chime rings out across the campus, making me jump. I grip Mum's arm.
"Oh, that's the clock above the fountain," she says. "You'll probably be able to hear it from the boarding house, too."
I haven't noticed the clock until now, even though we've been here most of the day. Then we're at the main entrance, and Mum opens the door. When I walk inside, I'm hit by the smell of new books and coffee. It's quiet, apart from a few teachers running up and down corridors. Mum puts my hand on a banister. I climb the stairs with care. When I reach the top, someone takes my hand.
"Hello, I'm Mrs Harrison and I'll be your form tutor."
"You go with Mrs Harrison," Mum says, dropping my arm.
I allow her to guide me to the classroom. The corridor is long, but at last we reach a door and I walk in. The room is small and warm. Although the carpet is rough, it's a little softer than the one in my room.
"This is your desk," Mrs Harrison says, resting my hand on it. I trace my fingers over it and find my name in the right corner.
"You've got a shelf, too," Mrs Harrison says.
I walk a few steps forward and find it. It's made of wood and there's a chip in one of the edges. The door opens and Mum comes in.
"This is a cosy little room," she says.
I sit at my desk. My feet are sweaty and my back aches. I rest my head on the desk and begin to cry. I try to stop myself, but I can't. I feel awful crying in front of Mrs Harrison, but she doesn't seem to mind. Mum pulls me to my feet and holds me tight. We say goodbye to Mrs Harrison and Mum guides me out of the classroom. I stand still, and Mum continues to hold me until my sobs ease a little. Soon afterwards, Jackie and Rebecca join us and we walk back to the boarding house.
Back in the room, I familiarise myself with the surroundings while Mum tunes my radio. I open my wardrobe and examine the few items inside. My slippers and dressing gown are the only things in there. I caress the dressing gown, breathing in the smell of home. I walk over to the window and touch the curtains. They're thin and droopy compared to my thick ones at home, and a couple of the edges are frayed. I hear Mum start to sort the tea. She passes me a ham sandwich. I finish it quickly despite my nerves. Mum hands me a chocolate biscuit, but it's harder to eat this. The chocolate tastes too sweet.