Referendum Day

Referendum Day

A misty autumn morning, golden leaves falling, Glasgow traffic a little quieter than usual.  A large, red sandstone secondary school, entrance sporting the understated small black and white notice ‘Polling Station’.   This is a well educated, relatively wealthy middle class area, near the University.  The tenement flats are large, comfortable.  Doors with stained glass, gardens well tended, metal railings neatly painted.  Built in Glasgow’s wealthy Victorian past.   ‘Second City of the Empire’, they called us then.  There is a row of shops on the main road – delicatessan, cafe, fruit shop.  This is comfortable Glasgow, far in soul if not in miles from the rambling chaotic 50’s schemes on the outskirts.

Pinning on my large blue and white ‘Yes’ badge, I start my 12 hour stint.  The role is to welcome voters, answer questions if any when asked, hand out leaflets if anyone wants one.  To ‘be the face of the ‘Yes’ campaign for the day.  We are not permitted within the building where the vote is taking place, so it’s standing on the pavement.  There are two ‘No’ reps there as well, leaning on the fence, red and yellow leaflets ready to go.  My leaflet is softer, more gentle.  Two open hands, an adult’s cradling a child’s, resting on a white blanket.  ‘Scotland’s Future in Scotland’s Hands’ it says simply.  ‘Vote Yes’.  

And so the day ticks on. Two policemen appear, lean on the wall, chatting.  People came in a constant stream.  Young families, cradling babies, clutching sticky little hands; old people, chatting to friends, some leaning on sticks; laughing teenagers, still in school uniform, students in fashionably torn jeans.  And the frail.  People who can hardly walk; one woman clearly very ill – pale, bandaged head, thin as a willow, leaning heavily on her friend; an old Asian couple, the wife slow and pained as she stumbles beside her husband.  Determined, so determined to vote.  Scotland’s future in Scotland’s hands.

I smile, wish everyone ‘Good Morning’, Good Evening’, ‘Good Afternoon’.  They take some leaflets.  I look after three dogs, two children, one baby, help someone up the ramp to the door, take photos for people.  One young couple take a tiny baby from his pram. ‘Will you take a photo of us?  We want to show him when he grows up.  It’s history you know’.  Some people walk towards the door, head down, looking at neither ‘Yes’ nor ‘No’ representatives.   

But many make their intentions clear – ‘Yes’ stickers, badges, rosettes, T-shirts.  They come bounding towards us – ‘I’m so excited!’ ‘This is it!’  ‘This is history!’  Their eyes are bright, their excitement palpable.  ‘Enjoy your vote!’ we say. Three times during the morning people ask us ‘What can I do to help?’ ‘What do you need?’’ ‘Anything I can do?’.  We send them to our local ‘Yes’ base to be deployed.  After voting, many come up to us. ‘How do you think it’s going?’ ‘Will we win? No – don’t tell me.  We have to win!’

Some ‘No’ voters also make intentions known – a scowl at us, nod to the others, the occasional small badge.  They are noticeably less effervescent.  They have an air of grim determination.  They are not happy and it shows.  

‘No’ seem to have trouble getting helpers out.  Their rep. is now alone.  It’s about 3pm and he has had no lunch, but no relief can be found for him.  I offer to get him a coffee but he declines.  I even offer to distribute his leaflets, but he wisely declines that as well – I suppose he doesn’t want them distributed into the bin.

A reporter turns up.  Interviews us.  Takes photos.  TV turn up – a documentary for BBC.  They make a young girl walk up to the door time and again, filming her from all angles.

About noon, a man appears – burly, about 6’, 18 stone, closely shaved head.  He stands a bit away, raises a purple megaphone to his mouth.  ‘Citizens of Glasgow’ he shouts, ‘Do not be intimidated. Vote NO!’  The police discuss this, and go into the building to take advice.  Official ‘No’ look concerned.  People scuttle past to vote.  He leaves after about an hour, returning after dark.  This time it is noticeable he shouts particularly at women who are alone, frightened in the shadowy street.  One woman, incensed, grabs one of our leaflets and fulminates volubly.  The police approach and tell him to quieten down, but after they re-enter the building, he starts again.  I ask if I can do anything, but am told it will only be portrayed that ‘Yes’ are trying to intimidate.  He is huge and male and about 40, I am small, female and 66.  But I am a ‘Yes’ supporter, and according to the ‘No’ dominated media, we intimidate people.  So I get the point.  

So what are my impressions as the heavy wooden doors slide shut at 10pm? 

Firstly, people were desperate to get their voice heard.  No disability, rushed diary, heavy shopping bag would stop them.  

Secondly, ‘No’ seem to be able to intimidate with impunity, because the media only carry stories of problems with ‘Yes’.  

Thirdly, ‘Yes’ has far more people offering help.  At the ‘Yes’ base, the organising genius scratched his head over where to send me.  Too many people, where to put them all?  ‘No’ seem to have far less helpers.  

Fourthly, and this will be the lasting impression for me, now poignant, was the joy, the anticipation, the laughter of so many of the ‘Yes’ voters.  The same atmosphere that pervaded the city last night.  People openly smiling at you, eyes gleaming, laughing easily.  We were going to build a new country, a new Scotland, one where the vulnerable could be our priority, where the rich and powerful would not twist everything out of shape.  Where Scots of all colours, shapes and sizes would be welcomed.  Where we could take our cheerful place in the world, and be known as just who we are, Scots, and not have to constantly explain.  Where there would be no Establishment of People of Power and wealth 400 miles away, who do not understand us and who do not have the interests of quirky, thrawn, mischievous, big-hearted Scotland as any sort of priority.  Where the dark shadows of black submarines would not drift silently through our beautiful misty lochs.  Where our resources would be our own to use to grow our country.

And it was taken away.  We took it away from ourselves.  As Scots so often do, we snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.  

They sent some of our own to bully and cajole us.  They controlled the media – every paper except a Sunday one supported ‘No’.  Research by a Professor of Media proved BBC bias.  They persuaded people all over the world to tell us we were not entitled to our own country – President, Leaders, the Pope, the famous – all coincidentally suddenly realised this tiny country was on the planet and ought to be told not to be.  Keeping apart from another country’s democratic process suddenly was forgotten.  You could interfere in ours and nobody minded.  

Then they called in the supermarket bosses to No. 10.  ‘Your weekly shopping will cost you more’ they told the poor.  The people who sold them horse meat last year.  And not true, as they admitted later.  They called the banks in.  ‘All your banks will leave.  You’ll lose your jobs’.  They leaked this while the Bank’s boardrooms were still in discussion.  And it wasn’t true, as leaked emails proved.  ‘Your pensions will fall’ they cried.  The Pensions department said not true, but still they repeated it, in leaflets through our doors, huge hoardings, TV ads.  They terrified the elderly poor, people who often couldn’t use the internet to check the truth, people who had been brought up, as I was, to respect and believe authority.  Relentlessly, they turned the screw on the most vulnerable.  They made promises they knew they could not keep, and 12 hours after the result, they began to renege.  To watch the Establishment in action is a terrifying thing.  

But they need our oil, they need renewables, they have nowhere else to house Trident.  You cannot put it in Falmouth, they say, because it is beautiful and heavily populated.  Glasgow is 30 miles away?  Is it indeed?  Imagine that!

In the face of all this and more, it is truly astonishing that we got 1,600,000 Scots to be prepared to say ‘Yes’.  It was against every possible expectation.   

They say we won really because now we will be more united.  With whom?

But they took our hope and our joy.  

45% of us could clearly see our new Scotland.  We knew it would be difficult but we knew we could do it.  For our kids.  For our grandkids.  

The Unionists took over George Square last night.  I heard from someone who was there.  The ‘Yes’ folk were meeting to meditate together.  They took off their badges and rosettes, their T shirts and stickers, folded their flags and quietly left.  The Unionists burned the Saltire and mounted police intervened.  The newspapers reported it.  Said the ‘nationalists’ had rioted.

My daughter wept in my arms today.

This is not over yet.

Meg Lindsay, 19/9/14 

The Granny who made up her mind

The Granny who made up her mind

Waiting for you, my tiny unborn grandson, my wee boy. I’ll hold you close, a heavy bundle of warmth against my heart. Your tiny fingers, sea-shell nails, will curve around mine. I’ll watch for your dark gems of eyes to open and gaze into mine.

I’ll change you, bath you, pile bricks for you to scatter, hold your plump arm as you paddle, point out the crab and the waving seaweed, read that book again, and again, and again... help with homework, wipe ice cream from your cheeks, wait in the playground.....
You’ll enter a wide world, full of dangers, challenges, opportunity. You’ll become a man – tall, laughing, bright eyed with excitement. Or crushed with frustration and blighted dreams.

And right now I have one chance, one real opportunity – for once, I can influence what your world will be like. What chances you will be offered. There is no status quo. This is a parting of the roads, a choice of direction, of which sort of change we want.

Voting No is a once and for all decision – the power will remain out of my reach, the power to change your world, my dear wee boy. The wars, the weapons, the poverty, the unemployment – I’ll only be able to watch from the sidelines as far away they decide what your life will be like. You’ll live in footnotes and parentheses, afterthoughts, Scottish addendums to the policies and legalities that will define your future.

Voting Yes is not once and for all – we can work the problems, embrace the challenges, grasp the opportunities – every election will bring us the chance to change things, again and again. A world that is designed with you in mind, by people like me, who care about you.

I will not gamble with your future, my lovely wee boy. I will not place it in hands far away that I cannot influence. I will place it where I and others who love you can change it and refine it, time and again. I can do this for you now. I can give you a new country.

Meg Lindsay, August, 2104

The Lass

The Lass

They all knew who she was, although they seldom saw her.  Some met her in the mountains, her hair as long and dark as the mist which flowed liked smoke down the lofty corries.  Others caught sight of her with her skirt caught up from firm young legs, as she danced through the ripening corn, her locks a burnished halo in the dawn light.  And those who talked with her on the beach, when the dying sun poured gold over their island bays, remembered cheeks like ripe apples, framed by amber curls.

Her voice was low, and made them think of glassy burns caressing rounded boulders.  Her frequent laugh was woven through with friendly chiding if they became too proud.  But her lips, red as rowan berries, most often framed encouragement or advice, as down to earth as the peat hags and kail yards where so many days were spent.  They said they wouldn’t call her pretty, and indeed, if that word echoes neat and tidy sweetness, then indeed she was not.  But in her homespun simplicity mixed with wild mystery, she could at times be beautiful.

But best of all were her eyes.  Amazing orbs they were, lustrous like the balls of glass that bob suspending fishing nets from atop the grey sea.  Some said that they were purple or topaz, others declared them darkest blue or even black.\PBut their startling feature was the way that they reflected in their clear dark depths all that was around them.roThere the folk saw their landscape, so familiar that it caught their breath, as when you walk again the childhood road from school, and every crooked stone or bending tree brings back the sense of home.grAnd there they saw themselves reflected too, and knew for certain who they were.

So they loved her, and when she danced, swirling in a vital, careless frenzy, and holding out warm, supple hands to them in invitation, they felt a warmth of belonging that could not find expression.amFor they were folk who had little use for words, but whose feelings ran deep like the dark minches and firths that surrounded them. FAnd thus the countless seasons passed, familiar verses in the poem of their plain lives.

Now and then, men would come, high on sleek black horses.ilTheir thin hands, their oval faces, their soft shirts and cuffs – all were pale and smooth.esAnd so were the long words they used, which left the folks in awe, not knowing what to say. (Sometimes these smooth ones would ask to take the lass, and she would look to her folk to see if they agreed.x8But they were confused.6)The smooth ones must know best, and said they needed her, that she would help them win their distant wars, or make them all grow rich and strong. And as she rode away, folk watched her chin glowing against her dark shoulder as she gazed back till she was out of sight.  But always she came back at last.

Then came the day the smooth ones told them that the lass must leave for ever.  There was another, they said, who was rich and beautiful, and whom in time these folk would learn to love as well or better.   It seemed the lass had lost her usefulness.  But she would not go.  Instead she fell down as if dead upon the pebbled earth, and lay still.  Then the folk raged and shrieked, and ran amuck on cobbled streets, and wept.  They lifted her gently, and carried her to a tiny croft, and laid her there to see if she would wake.  But she did not.  The smooth ones said she would most surely die, and told the folk to leave her, as was surely best.  So they slowly parted, and their heavy footsteps dented the peaty turf, which filled with dark pools, reflecting nothing.

The years trudged on.  The other one was indeed rich and beautiful.  Tight golden ringlets framed her pretty face, and tiny feet like white mice played in and out of silken robes, and walked on neat green lawns.  They tried to love her, and to believe that she loved them, but she was far away and seldom saw them.  They aped her way of speech and dress, and learned to dance and sing as she did, in neat and measured tone.  But when they travelled near enough to see into her eyes, she seemed to look beyond them, and not to realise who they were.

The decades marched on.  Now and again, the folk were content.  Now and again, they were not.  They still recalled the lass, and told their children of her, beside the sweet peat smoke, or the black-leaded range in their single end, or in the slimy holds of emigration ships.  They told them how she danced with them, and when the children begged for her return, they told them she was dead.  But in their hearts they wondered if they told the truth.

Still she lay in the silent croft.  It became overgrown, first by twisting brambles and bright green nettles, then by buzzing tenements and factories.  Shipyard cranes towered over it, and folk crawled in them like spiders trapped in webs of their own making.  And far away, across an oil black sea, flames blossomed like yellow flowers which nod on the distant machair.

Others came, escaping polished marching boots, or dust-bowl hunger, or simple hatred.  And through the mists of this new land, they recognised her presence, and joined the flow of wordless longing.

No one really knew when folk began to say that perhaps she was not dead.  The first who did were laughed to scorn, or told that they were mad.  But gradually, the folk became more curious.  They searched through books and music and memories and souls.  At last they found the tumbled stones and there she lay, quiet and still, but surely only sleeping.

The smooth ones heard what they had done, and came in sleek black cars to see.  They agreed that she was not dead, and said how glad they were, but warned the folk not to hope she could awake.  Her coma was too deep they said, and certainly she could not hear them, or even know that they were near.  And they left the folks unsure, not knowing what to say.  They looked from them to her and back again, and slowly left.

But they could not forget that she was yet alive and beautiful.  They began to believe that if they called to her, perhaps she just might hear.  The smooth ones warned them with concern.  After all, she now had slept so long, it must be that if she woke she would be frail, or weak of mind.  Even if not, how ever could she live with the rushing world that now was theirs – would would not fit, she could not cope.  Best not to call her.  If they called and she stayed still, what fools they all would seem for chasing such a fantasy.  Thus it was that uncertainly they gathered where she lay, and called her.  But their voices were doubtful, out of tune, and soon fell silent.  Confused, they stumbled back to office blocks and shopfloors.

But some who lingered saw her eyelids move, as if the glorious orbs responded, and her soft  hands returned the warmth of tender touch.   Word of this slowly spread, as near twenty years fled by.  Their belief grew stronger.  They found and listened to each other’s voices as they had long forgotten how to do.  And so they came again, this time walking quietly, but with firmer stride.  And they called her, their voices ringing together, from kelp-skirted piers, square glass schools, and shopping malls.

And she stretched and sat up, yawning, rubbing her eyes with plump brown fists.  Then, whirling her strong young legs to the floor, she laughed, and called them daft for ever thinking she was dead, and told them to get a move on and find some clothes for her to wear, or sure she’d look a proper sight in housing schemes and shops. 

And jumping up, she took their hands and ran with them outside to dance on rain-wet tarmac streets.  And in the gleam of city lights, they looked into her laughing eyes, and saw themselves reflected, and knew again exactly who they were.

Meg Lindsay, 13/9/1997