Kenneth C. Steven, writer, poet
Notebook
A CHRISTMAS CHILD It was a clear, frost-sharp night in the middle of November. Rachel had banked the fire; the thick smell of mutton soup filled the house. Perhaps it was that that had cheered Angus; he had had no luck with the fishing, came home dispirited and worried after five days at sea. And because he had had no luck, neither had anyone in the village. This was the worst time in the year; this was the hardest of it. >
CONQUERING 1960. It was the autumn Mrs Giggs broke my mother’s favourite vase. It was the autumn Charlie Rutherford ran away with the woman who owned the Tower Hotel. And it was the autumn my parents sat glued to the television because of some international row over pigs. I couldn’t understand why everyone was getting so worked up about the Russians and some pigs. One evening my mother was even dabbing her eyes as she came out of the living room, and when my father finally switched off the little black and white box, and come out and shut the door soundlessly behind him, it was as though he had closed the door on a funeral. >
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