Gift from the Gallowgate (38 page)

I explained to Birlinn that I’d have to finish
Sycamores
before I could make a start, but they wanted my memoirs to come out around Christmas of 2004. To the uninitiated, this may
sound like plenty of time, but by then it was well into January and nothing had really been discussed. I flew on with the novel, making dozens of mistakes because I was in such a hurry, and then,
during February, I had a visit from my new ‘boss’.

He explained that not only did they want my own little ups and downs, but also a background of what life was like as I progressed through the years. He gave me Christmas 2003 as a deadline, but
I had to make him give a little on that. The next date mentioned was the end of March, which only allowed eight months for revisions, also for copy editors and proof-readers to do their bits.

My priorities lie with HarperCollins, so I set myself a strict routine of novel in the mornings and autobiography in the afternoons. I should have known, of course, that I wasn’t up to
spending a full day on the computer, and I was forced to concentrate on my novel and stop working at lunchtime. Having gone over and over it and corrected it as much as I could, I gave it to John
to post for me. That was on 18 August 2003.

With this off my mind, I was free to concentrate on . . . I called it
The Gift of the Gab,
which was what my granny called me, but this title was not acceptable. I am still trying to
come up with another.

On 1 September, I still hadn’t heard if Louise had got the manuscript, so I called and asked. She said she had, and would be in touch with me later. This was the normal procedure. She had
to have time to read the story, and pick faults or otherwise with it. I was usually sent several pages of comments – bits she liked and wanted to know more about, or bits she didn’t
like and wanted to be taken out; characters she liked and those she didn’t, and so on. A whole lot of extra work, but she knew what would sell.

I had no premonition of what was about to happen.

It was into October before I got the telephone call, and I was shocked to hear the fateful words, ‘I’m sorry, Doris, it’s bad news, I’m
afraid.’

I swallowed hard. ‘You’re rejecting it?’.

‘It’s not that exactly. We . . . don’t want any more of your books.’

The second swallow was hampered by the huge construction in my throat. ‘You don’t want any . . . what’s wrong with my books?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with them, it’s just . . . it’s just that reading styles have changed. People don’t want to read about the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries. They want up-to-date novels, set in the twenty-first century.’

Although I knew that Louise was speaking for only the younger generations, I couldn’t find the words to argue with her. My stalwart fans, men as well as women, were in all age groups and
told me constantly how much they enjoyed reading about the olden times.

‘You’re taking it very calmly,’ my now ex-editor observed. ‘Remember, Doris, you’re not the only one. There are quite a lot of writers being told the same thing.
And you’ll easily find another publisher.’

I found the strength to say, ‘Please return my manuscript.’

And that was that. I was in deep shock. I felt indignant, resentful, hurt, mortified. The anger came later. HarperCollins must have known for months that the change was on the cards, yet
they’d let me carry on with this last novel to the bitter end. I had even phoned at one point to ask if there was a deadline for the manuscript and was told, ‘It doesn’t matter.
There’s no hurry.’

I suppose that should have told me something, warned me. Instead, being so sure of myself, I thought that they were allowing me extra time because of my advanced age. How wrong can a person be?
I was devastated.

Worse, however, was to come. I had taken longer than usual to write
The Sycamores
because of a very nasty accident I had in July. I missed my footing going up two steps and went down on
my knees – my usual landing position – but hit my head on the corner of the building. Next day, and for two weeks afterwards, I was sporting two lovely black eyes and feeling decidedly
unwell. In fact, the force of the impact on my left temple affected my concentration to the extent that I was unable to write for some time.

Just before this mishap, I had been asked by Birlinn to provide a black-and-white photograph of myself for their records. This had to wait, of course, until I was back to something resembling
normal, but Alan took some snaps of my shiners as long as they were in full bloom, so to speak. As a joke, I had sent one in an envelope along with the manuscript to Louise on 18 August, to explain
the lengthy wait.

When the manuscript duly arrived back, what did I find? The covering letter was still nestling under the elastic bands keeping the loose pages together. Not only that, the envelope containing my
mugshot was still there, too.

This proved that the story had never even been read! How could they do this to me? In a rush of humiliated fury, I dashed off a letter to Louise on the computer giving vent to all the venom I
could dredge up. I often take this step if something annoys me, but once I’ve got it off my chest I usually tear up the vitriolic letter and write another, more tactfully. This time, however,
I sent the original.

Some years earlier, I’d been asked to write for another publisher, but refused because I felt it would be disloyal to HarperCollins. I had also asked them for permission to write this
autobiography, but they obviously did not feel the same loyalty towards me – after I had written eight novels for them. I’ll be perfectly honest. This business really sickened me, and I
still haven’t got over it.

I do have some good news, however.
The Shadow of the Sycamores
should be published in June of this year, if all goes well. The publisher who had ‘headhunted’ me before, and
whom I had sort of depended on to take it, has now stopped publishing, but handed the manuscript to Black and White, also an Edinburgh firm, as is Birlinn.

I’m on the home stretch now. After my very first talk in the main library in 1990, a lady came up to me in great excitement. ‘How does it feel to be an
author?’

At that time, I hadn’t had time to feel anything other than excitement myself, and even after almost fourteen years, I don’t feel any different. I try not to let the compliments I
get turn my head. After all, only those who like what I write would take the trouble to come to meet me.

My one regret is that I didn’t start writing sooner, but on the other hand, a woman gets more experience of life as she grows older. I count myself very lucky to have the ability to write
books other people enjoy reading, also that I enjoy writing them. As for retiring from this career . . .? I’ll just say that I prefer writing to any other occupation I’ve had, and
I’ll keep on unless it becomes a burden to me.

Thinking over what I’ve achieved, I feel quite proud of myself. Not only have eight of my books been published, nine counting this latest, but they have also been taken
out in large print for the sight impaired and audio for the completely blind. I was more than impressed when I was sent my first audio book – fourteen double-sided cassettes in a very lovely
case that opens twice, and lasting for at least fourteen hours. Not only that – if you’ll excuse my boasting –
The Three Kings
has been published in Greek.

While I’ve been compiling this rather garbled account of my life, my problem has been deciding what to include and what to leave out; in which year a particular incident
took place; should I tell what people did or said if it may be to the detriment of the persons concerned? I’ve got round this last at times by giving false names or initials, but if anyone
does recognises her- or himself, let me say here that it was an oversight, and I am sorry if they are offended.

I must mention how grateful I am for the support given to me by my family. They have all contributed something – providing photographs for covers, checking facts,
suggesting titles, driving me around in the pursuit of information. I’d have been lost without them. I have, however, spared my children’s blushes by playing down what they have
achieved. I did mention earlier a little of what Alan is doing with regard to his music, but Sheila studied for many years, achieving qualifications to further her career. She has also reached her
fourth year of the Open University, although she is due to retire this year. I have one grandson, who is in his fifth year at the Grammar School, and is just coming up to his ‘A’
levels. I won’t embarrass him by saying more, but I am proud of them all.

Finally, I’d like to thank all the readers who have given me as much pleasure with their compliments as I have given them. This last stage of my life has actually been
more rewarding, emotionally than any of the others.

That’s it, then. I didn’t mean to get sloppy, but I’ve run out of witticisms at the moment. Maybe I’d better finish with a toast:

BROW OF THE GALLOWGATE

The brow of the Gallowgate is where Albert Ogilvie buys his property in 1890 - the shop he has dreamed of for years, and above it, a house with nine rooms to accommodate the large family he
and his beloved wife, Bathie, desire. As their babies are born - there will be eight in all - Albert employs three sisters, one after another, as nursemaids. Bathie finds Mary and Jeannie Wyness
more than satisfactory, but Bella, the youngest, is troublesome and sly, and creates a set of distressing circumstances resulting in her dismissal. The years go by, with their joys and sorrows,
and war splits up the close-knit Ogilvies, some of whem eventually emigrate to New Zealand. And it is there that Bella Wyness, her resentment of the family grown to black hatred, will wreak her
terrible revenge...

COUSINS AT WAR

The sequel to her novel ‘Brow of the Gallowgate’, Doris Davidson’s latest novel follows the fortunes of the Ogilvie family through the World War II. Olive is determined to have her cousin
Neil as her husband and won’t allow anything or anyone to get in her way. So when her younger cousin Queenie is evacuated from London and begins to attract Neil’s attention, Olive does all she
can to avert the relationship. When warnings and threats fail, Olive concocts a web of lies to blacken Queenie’s character and destroy her cousins’ love. Despite Olive’s success, her actions fail
to secure Neil, who finds himself involved with other girls, finally meeting and falling for Freda. After this Olive will stop at nothing, no matter how despicable, to make sure Neil is hers
forever. The consequences of her actions shock everyone and send the extended Potter and Ogilvie families into turmoil.

GIFT FROM THE GALLOWGATE

This is the extraordinary story of a remarkable woman. Doris Davidson was born in Aberdeen in 1922, the daughter of a master butcher and country lass. Her idyllic childhood was shattered in
1934 with the death of her father, after which, in order to make ends meet, her mother was forced to take in lodgers. In part due to her father’s sudden death, Doris left school at fifteen and
went to work in an office, gradually rising through the ranks until she became book-keeper. Marriage to an officer in the Merchant Navy followed in 1942, then divorce, then her second marriage.
Her life took the first of two major changes in direction at the age of 41, when she went back to college to study for O and A levels, followed by three years at Teacher Training College. In 1967
she became a primary school teacher, and subsequently taught in schools in Aberdeen until she retired in 1982. Not content with a quiet retirement Doris embarked on a new ‘career’ and became a
writer, publishing her first work in 1990. Eight books later (and another one nearly finished), she is one of the country’s best-loved romantic novelists and has sold well in excess of 200,000
copies of her books. In this engaging and candid autobiography, Doris Davidson recounts her growing up in Aberdeen in the ‘20s and ‘30’s, the war years, her marriage and the unexpected paths her
career has followed. With her novelist’s skill, she brings into vivid focus a life of rich experience in a book every bit as riveting as her works of fiction.

WATERS OF THE HEART

Young Cissie McGregor flees to Dundee with her stepmother Phoebe after her abusive, drunken father has destroyed their family. There, for a while, she finds happiness - with Bertram
Dickson, son of the wealthy mill-owner who is Cissie’s and Phoebe’s employer. But, too late, she finds Bertram has not married her for love. After she bears him the son they’ve yearned for, he
takes the first excuse to throw her out on the streets - keeping her beloved child. Cissie has known the worst before. She will survive and she will win through. But while she builds up her own
business and fights for the return of her son, she must finally confront the consequences of those events long ago in Aberdeen when her childhood innocence was shattered...

TIME SHALL REAP

It is 1915, and Elspeth Gray is young, unmarried, heavily pregnant and destitute in a strange city. Having no one else to turn to, she throws herself on the mercy of a compassionate woman
she once met briefly on a train. Helen Watson and her husband, themselves expecting a baby, gladly give the desperate girl a home. After Elspeth’s son is born, however, Helen tragically loses her
own child, and in her traumatised state transposes the two births in her mind. With the neighbours also believing that little John is Helen’s baby, rather than the single girl’s, Elspeth
gradually finds herself deprived of her own child. A second chance for happiness comes along for Elspeth through marriage to David, a soldier badly scarred by the war. But her children must
survive the calamities of another war, and the tangle of secrets overshadowing her youth causes misunderstandings that eventually lead to disaster. Only when the full truth becomes clear can she
and her family find happiness and freedom from guilt...