I had many happy hours in the company of the group and it was most helpful over the years

On the other hand I loved to talk about Ronald and read some of the poems he had liked. One especially of Browning’s, A Woman’s Last Word. I read more of Browning, found solace and wrote poems also of my grief. Sometimes I even dared to read them out at writers’ meetings.

I’ve heard it said by people that they don’t know how it’s possible to do this but, oddly, at the time, it’s comforting, keeping that person with you, not letting go, is comforting.

It can also of course be dangerous. One wrong word and the hurt goes searingly deep. I was most fortunate in my friends and fellow writers.

One day, a friend, a neighbouring farmer’s wife, took me out to Dens Road Market in Dundee. I saw a bunch of beautiful knives there with lovely bone handles going for very little.

I bought them. I remember thinking, what on earth am I buying knives for? I’ll never use them, my life is over, no more entertaining or anything like that.

Gradually things improved a little. Sister-in-law Pat had a small get-together once a week and asked me along. This was always fun and it was safe.

Collection

One day, after about three months, I got a phone call. It was from Duncan Glen, the editor of one of the top Scottish poetry magazines, Akros.

Recently I had started sending him some of my poems. I had been told by one well-published writer that it was useless sending him anything as he had enough good work for 10 years-worth of magazines, so I hadn’t done so for five years until one day I thought I’ll send some poems, anyway, and, rather to my astonishment, they were accepted.

Since then I had been in contact quite a bit with Duncan. He had sent a very kind letter after Ronald died and now, over the phone, he was asking if I would consider putting a collection together.

He would publish it. Would I like to come down to Nottingham where he was professor and discuss it. Why not? I thought, and accepted his kind invitation.

I stayed with the Glens for four days. Duncan and Margaret, his wife, were kindness itself. I immediately took to Margaret – an attractive and busy lady who had been such a huge help to Duncan in bringing out Akros on a regular basis.

She told me of their struggles in the early days when they had spent hours sewing the magazine together and had used the pram to transport them down to the Post Office.

She had a party while I was there with different and interesting people. She took me to the pictures. It was Ghandi on the wide screen.

I began to see there was light at the end of the tunnel and went home to work on the collection for Duncan that was to become No Promises.

Now, I was determined in my spare moments to throw myself into poetry. That was the year of the opening celebration of the Scottish Poetry Library, an occasion I will not forget.

Snow had fallen in Edinburgh. I went with a friend – a rather frail friend. We walked together down a narrow Edinburgh lane to St Cecilia’s Hall where it was held.

I told my friend to hang on to me so that she would not slip. It was me who slipped, fell all my length on the icy, narrow pavement.

But inside St Cecilia’s Hall was warmth and happiness, haggis and whisky and Tessa Ransford, who was to make such a success of the library, leading proceedings.

Connections

It was in this year also that I met Brenda Shaw for the first time. Brenda was a lecturer at Dundee University. She was also a member of the university’s writing group that Anne Stevenson had begun 10 years or so before.

She was editing at the time, the Seagate collection of poetry, poems by all who had connections with Dundee.

She had written to Duncan Glen asking for permission to use certain poems and telling of her project.

He had written back to say that a Dundee collection wouldn’t be complete without some of my work being represented.

Whereupon Brenda got in touch with me. I can always remember the first day I met Brenda standing on the steps outside Dundee University.

I took to her immediately, felt a rapport. We have been friends ever since. She asked me to give a reading and talk to the university writers’ group, which I did.

They were an interesting, diverse and friendly lot of people. Before the reading I was taken to a lunch high on top of the University Tower building with its huge windows and magnificent view over the rooftops of Dundee to the river beyond.

Brenda invited me to join their group. They met on a Wednesday afternoon in a room at the university. I was already a member of two writing groups.

I thanked them kindly and said I would love to join but I might not be a regular attender. However, I became just that, had many happy hours in the company of the group and it was to become most helpful to me over the years.

That first year on my own also made up my mind to attend one of the Avron Foundation weeks. I had heard quite a bit about the foundation that Howard Sergeant had helped to create.

It had two centres in England, one in Devon and one in Yorkshire. It was the Yorkshire one I opted for. I chose a week before hay time.

I’d go down by coach. I liked travelling by coach and it didn’t cost too much. I started off early in the morning and changed buses at Glasgow.

Alone

At Manchester I had problems finding where to catch the bus for Hebden Bridge. On the map it had looked very close to Manchester. But no one I asked seemed to have heard of it, let alone know where I should catch a bus that went there.

Eventually I got there and changed buses again for the little village of Heptonstall. There I came to a standstill. There was still a couple of miles to go and I had a heavy case. I got a taxi. It was getting dark. The taxi dumped me in what seemed the middle of nowhere at the top of a steep stony track.

“It’s down there,” the taxi driver said. “I can’t take you any further. It’s too rough,” and he was off into the night.

Perhaps I have never felt quite so alone as I did standing at the top of that track. Darkness was creeping in fast. I had to walk down that ravine in amongst these ghostly trees towards an immensely tall chimney that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

I learned later that once there had been a woollen mill there. An owl hooted eerily as I began to descend the path. Apart from the unnatural chimney, I could see no other sign of habitation.

Implanted in my mind was the picture in the brochure of an old stone house belonging to Ted Hughes standing on the right of the stony slope – no house there. I walked for what seemed quite a distance until I came to a corner.

It was dark and it was eerie. I was frightened of what I might meet round that corner. What monster would I find?