Last December I was a small part of a wonderful evening of music and words which was the Hark! Sound of Stories event organised by Tracks Darlington.
Having been chosen for the commission to create a new piece of work on the theme of wintering, it was an absolute pleasure to work with Eve Conway who wrote the song ‘Hope Town’ while I wrote the very short story called ‘The Book Binder’, both finding inspiration from each other.
If you weren’t lucky enough to be at the event, then here is your chance to experience Eve’s amazing voice. There is such heartfelt beauty in the song that resonates so very well with the themes in my story. I hope you enjoy both creations.
Last night I had the great privilege of reading a new piece of work commissioned by the team at Hark! The Sound of Stories. Kicking off the night as the first reading was a little daunting but the sell-out audience were extremely welcoming and appreciative.
My story The Book Binder was written as part of a collaboration with the amazingly talented singer Eve Conway After meeting and discussing our creative inspirations, sharing what we love about music and words and life, I wrote my flash fiction piece in response. There was also the location of the evening that influenced me. We were lucky to have the space provided by Darlington Library which has recently undergone a refurb and it was an amazing place to perform.
The theme of wintering, set by Fran and Sarah from Tracks Darlington was also a major influence to the finished story. And it was fitting that the snow had fallen and temperatures were below freezing!
It has been a wonderful experience to work in this collaborative way and with such a talented musician. The story is below if you would like to read it.
The Book Binder
It is late in the afternoon. The fire sighs and shifts its weight, impatient to be noticed. Lucia ignores it and opens her scratched leather roll which houses her needles, waxed threads and knife. The bone folder, her grandfather’s, lies next to the awl in the fold of the pouch. The smell of linseed oil from the tools conjures a memory of him measuring and cutting with precision. She glances at the photo of her daughter, Grace, the firelight reflected in the glass, and a melancholy smile reaches her lips. Lucia lifts her eyes to the window as if expecting to see them both in the dusk. The sky is darkening to smoky grey. She flicks on the lamp and bends her head to the task.
Cally is a winter baby. She was expected in the ice of January but born in the unexpected snow of November. When her exhausted parents wanted a book for their daughter’s naming ceremony, Lucia had been the natural choice. She’d suggested a simple Turkish map book, showing Cally’s smiles on each unfolding. But they wanted a book where family and friends could add kind words for Cally to read when she grew older. So they chose a rectangular one edged with crimson Japanese stab binding.
Lucia places mustard coloured paper, patterned with red squirrels and robins onto her cutting mat. Uses her ruler, the metal cold in her hand, to measure and score it. Cuts card, thick and rough between her fingers, for the front and back of the book. Gives careful consideration to the placing of the plump chested robin to ensure it sits proud in the centre of the front board. On the back a squirrel faces east as though searching for the dawn. Lucia smiles. Grace would have loved this book. Now she uses the glue loosened by the warmth of the fire to fix the paper. She must wait for it to set.
She goes to the window and sees the day has gathered itself in. Quiet as an assassin. There are no street lights here. Her converted chapel stands alone on Silent Hill. Snow has fallen since she last looked out. Light from the window picks out small, precise footprints which draw in dark shadows from the whiteness; the ghost of a fox. Lucia has seen it, a vixen she thinks, a few times this year. Its reddy – orange coat welcome in the grey wash of winter. Over the crackle of the fire Lucia hears the tick, tick, tick of a magpie. She sees it bob in the silver birch. Scans the trees for its partner but it remains alone. One for sorrow.
Lucia pulls the heavy velvet curtain and returns to her workstation. Photos of Cally and her parents lie face down in a wallet at the end of the bench. She measures and cuts the paper that will make up the pages of the book. Uses the bone folder to score the edges and folds the leaves into position. The wooden handle of the awl sits in the palm of her hand, as though it was made for her rather than her grandfather. She thinks of her daughter’s tiny palm, then tucks the memory away. She punches holes in precise locations ready for stitching tomorrow. Now she places the book into the press for the night, tightens the screws. Tidies her tools away then tends to the fire.
Pam Plumb Writes 