Alison Craig, poet <link rel="canonical" href="http://www.laurahird.com/showcase/alisoncraig.html"><meta name="DESCRIPTION" content="Alison Craig, writing showcase on www.laurahird.com"><meta name="KEYWORDS" content="Laura Hird, Canongate, Rebel Inc, Nail, Born Free, Edinburgh, Alison Craig, poet, Scottish poet, writing showcase, Arvon Foundation"><body><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://uk-sobs.org.uk/" style="padding: 5px 10px;">Casino Sites Not On Gamstop</a><a href="https://energypost.eu/" style="padding: 5px 10px;">Non Gamstop Casino Sites UK</a><a href="https://www.colofonrevistaliteraria.com/" style="padding: 5px 10px;">Casino Online Sin Licencia</a><a href="https://www.itspa.org.uk/" style="padding: 5px 10px;">Best Slot Sites For Winning UK</a><a href="https://www.actualite-de-la-formation.fr/" style="padding: 5px 10px;">Meilleur Casino En Ligne 2025</a></div> <table width="100%" table border="0" cellspacing="3" cellpadding="3"> <tr> <td width="30%" valign="top" 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href="http://htmlgear.lycos.com/specs/guest.html"></a><br> <a target="_NEW" href="http://htmlgear.lycos.com/guest/control.guest?u=laurahird&i=1&a=view"><font face="arial,helv,helvetica,sans serif" size="-2">View My Guestbook</font></a><br> <a target="_NEW" href="http://htmlgear.lycos.com/guest/control.guest?u=laurahird&i=1&a=sign"><font face="arial,helv,helvetica,sans serif" size="-2">Sign My Guestbook</font></a><p></p><hr><a href="http://www.dream-tool.com/tools/messages.mv?index+laurasmessageboard"><h3><b><font color="blue">MESSAGE<br>BOARD</font></b></h3></a></font><br><hr><br>  <script type="text/javascript" language="JavaScript">var site="s15angeltrev"</script> <script type="text/javascript" language="JavaScript1.2" src="../js/counter_site-s15angeltrev.js"> </script> <noscript> <img src="../meter.asp-site-s15angeltrev.jpg" alt="Site Meter" border="0"> </noscript>  </font></font></center><p> </p><td width="70%" valign="top" bgcolor="FFCC66"> <font size="3" font="Times New Roman"><br><br> <br> </font><center><font color="red"><h3> <b> 'TRIBAL'<br><br> </b> by Alison Craig</h3></font></center> <p><br></p><blockquote> In the corner of the playground, bounded on two sides by crumbling red brick walls, was a colossal lime tree. Its trunk was bigger than the portable toilets in the senior playground, and seemed to hug itself with coiling limbs that reached upwards into branches even thicker than my father’s arms. It reminded me of Shiva in the glossy school encyclopaedia. It must be at least as old as my mother, who was inconceivably old, or perhaps even as old as my grandfather, who looked like God. <p> The tree was the place to be, even though it dropped thick brown dust on still, burning summer days, along with clouds of tiny black flies that could be smudged under a finger. It was where all the small, pretty, popular girls gathered at playtime and after lunch. They had an undeclared monopoly. They wore flowered dresses with frills and pleated yokes and skirts that fell away like the wings of an angel. Their hair shone, pulled tightly against their perfect round skulls before cascading like a summer waterfall down their shoulders, or bouncing in fat plaits down their backs. They had eyes as clear as pebbles in a jar, button noses and lips like little magenta cushions. Their teeth were white and neatly arranged. They giggled and talked in whispers behind cupped hands. It was a conspiracy that I could never be a part of. I would sit on the wall a little way away banging the rubber heels of my flat sandals off the decaying bricks, making my knee-length socks fall in ungainly bulges around my shins. I was not allowed to have ankle socks with trims like doilies. I would look down at my plain cotton dress, try to flatten the hair that grew like a field of autumn hay from my head. </p><p> I had my friends. Like goofy, carrot-headed Beth. She wore trousers that were too small for her with bits of curtains sown neatly to the bottoms. She was adopted. I was fascinated. I couldn’t imagine calling somebody “Mum” who wasn’t, having a stranger cook my dinner and tell me to go to bed. How did she get through every day without sobbing into a drenched handkerchief, howling her indignation? I loved her. I wanted to take her home with me. </p><p> But I still longed to be part of the tribe, the Perfect Ones. If I could be with them, I would be allowed to have dresses of flowing gossamer and patent leather shoes with heels that would make me look at least 10. Something, I was sure, could be done to tame the rebellious mass that was my hair. I would not let them down. I would know their secrets and would not tell. </p><p> One day, I stood and watched them, twisting my heel into the ground and swinging my shoulders, all nonchalance. I had been doing this watching, hovering, more and more. And then, could it be that my dreams had come true? One of the girls – she was in my class and the prettiest of the group in her lacy cardigan – turned and looked at me straight on, then beckoned me with one hooking finger. My heart knocked uncomfortably. They had noticed! I had always known that my persistence would pay off. My conscience briefly remembered Beth, who was sitting on the step drawing a horse in her little notebook. But I was here, and… I half ran, half sauntered, swallowing my smile into a tight lump in my throat. I felt the shade of the leaves and smelt the dusty bark. They didn’t know that I came and stood here on Saturday mornings. “Amanda,” she said, teeth showing. I stood, said nothing. She looked at me, a Mona Lisa smile. Then she jabbed a bony finger once onto my breastbone, pushing me onto my heels. I swayed. “GO A-W-A-Y,” she said. Blood whooshed from my whirling head to my leaden feet. She looked so lovely. I was ugly. </p><p> Next thing I was sitting next to Beth on the worn step, arms hugging knees. She held her chewed pencil in soft fingers. I looked at her drawing. Her horse was good, all proportion and supple sweeps. I wanted to go home with her. <br><br><br> </p><center><font color="red"> © Alison L. 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