August 13, 2013

Back in Time ⁰

 

“It’s been raining since Glasgow,” grumbled Vicky, “rain, rain, rain, and it’s so cold, probably be snowing in a minute and we’ll freeze to death. ‘Car found with four frozen Americans’, it’ll be in all the papers, you’ll be sorry you made us come, Dad.”

“Not if he’s frozen,” said her little brother, Ewan. “That’s enough,” Mother said coming to life; she hadn’t spoken a word since they had set off from the airport, driving perilously on the wrong side of the road, “do stop complaining Vicky, we’re all tired and cold not just you, and we’re almost there; look, that’s the sign for the ferry.”

“Wow,” said Ewan, “two languages, look, can you say that Dad?”

“Failte, welcome,” said Dad, “That’s Gaelic, my granny spoke Gaelic, she wouldn’t speak a word of English, ever.”

“Why not?” asked Vicky.

“That’s a long history,” replied Dad, “the cousins will tell you, lots of stories to tell around the fire, we’re going to have such a great Christmas.”

Dad maneuvered the car down the rattling ramp and onto the ferry. They were the only car. Hail rattled on the deck, and mixed with rain to slide through the scuppers.

“Only five minutes, said Dad, seeing Mother biting her lips, closing her eyes at each lurch of the vessel, as it pulled away from the dock,  “then a few miles up the road and we’re there.  I can’t wait to see Tarbet House again, you’ll fall in love with it Ellie, it’s the real thing, built in the seventeen hundreds.”

Mother shivered and pulled her scarf down over her face, “As long as it’s warm, and there’s a kettle.” Dad laughed and held her hand, “I promise you the kettle.”

On the other side of the loch a sudden squall of snow blotted out the old inn crouched opposite the landing place, and a curtain of rain and hail swept over the boat to hide the dock buildings on the shore  behind them. The afternoon had faded away.. They were in no man’s land thought Vicky, between present and past. This trip back to Dad’s childhood home where his granny had been housekeeper, and his father a stock hand, better be worth it. She and Ewan had grown up with tales of the ‘Big House’; the bustle of the farm and stalking parties, great gatherings of relatives, the romance of the Highlands and mystery of Dad’s mother who was never mentioned in the stories, or at home.

The ferryman, staggering cheerfully toward them, took Dad’s fare, “You’re lucky, this’ll be the last ferry.  You have a good night now,” he called as he lowered the ramp and watched them drive off.

A few scraggy sheep trotting in the road turned their ghostly yellow eyes to watch as Dad drove carefully past them.  There were no houses, no other cars, nothing moved in the fields and on the hills, now covered with drifting snow and the shadows of night.

“Watch for the house sign,” said Dad, “on the right, coming up after the bend, if we see the post box we’ve gone too far.”

“Watch for their Christmas lights,” said Ewan, “they will have lights won’t they?”

But there were no lights. They saw the house sign, drooping from its chain, at the last minute and the car skidded as Dad made the turn and bumped up a rutted, stony drive way. The house was in darkness, no lights showed in the farm buildings behind it. Dad pulled up, and he and Mother got out of the car.

 

“The cousins were supposed to be here before us,” he said, “they were going to get the house opened up and they were bringing the Christmas dinner, venison.”

“Probably the weather held them up too,” said Mother, “how do we get in? I can’t see a thing where’s the door? Turn the car, we can see with the headlights.”

The headlights showed the long stone house wall, tall shuttered windows and a solid, black, wooden door.  Dad pushed and pulled at the door, rattling the handle. The wind wailed sadly round the house corners; no one answered Dad’s knocking.

Vicky and Ewan got out of the car, “We’re hungry and it’s freezing, can’t we go to a hotel or something?” said Vicky.

“We could go back to the one by the ferry,” said Ewan, “maybe they will have burgers.”

“Maybe we should,” said Mother, “and try again tomorrow, obviously there is no one here, they must have got held up.”

Dad turned the car again and crept down the icy drive; out on the road the snow was blowing hard now and packing under their wheels, the car barely moved, slipping sideways when Dad tried to accelerate.

“It’s no good,” said Dad, “I don’t want to get stuck in a ditch.”

“Look out!” shouted Mother, “Sheep!”

Three sheep reared up from the road edge in front of them, blundering into the car.  Dad wrenched the wheel and the car spun around, and slid into a stone wall with a crump.  The sheep trotted off into the snowy darkness as the engine died.

“Now what?” asked Vicky, “can you get it going again?”

But the car refused to start and the snow was turning to icy needles, stinging their faces, rattling on the car roof as they got out and stood looking at it.

“That’s it, said Dad, “we’ll just have to go back to the house, there must be a way in, maybe I can get in through the pantry window somehow, it always used to be left on the latch.”

“Bring your back packs,” said Mother, grabbing her overnight bag, “we’re not coming out again in this weather.” She hugged Ewan, “It’ll be fine, we can make a fire, and the cousins will be here tomorrow, I’m sure.”

They trudged back to the driveway; two milk churns stood at the entrance, “Funny,” said Vicky,

“I didn’t notice them before, and where’s the sign?”

“Come on Vicky, don’t hang about, it’s too cold.” Dad and Mother pushed on, pulling Ewan between them. Vicky followed. She smelled wood smoke, or a pipe? Impossible. She looked around, wasn’t that a glimmer of light? There to her right, coming from the shuttered windows? She hurried forward.

Ewan was leaning against the wall, “Dad and Mother have gone round the back,” he said, “to break in.”

Vicky hardly heard him, she was looking at the window, there was a light, there behind the shutter.  She turned around, sheep bleated from the barn and a cow mooed a reply. What.. ? She turned again, pulling Ewan to her. Now she heard the clatter of a busy kitchen. Was it the cousins playing tricks?

She knocked on the black door.  Someone was coming. The door creaked slowly open. An old woman holding a candle aloft looked at her. She pulled her shawl tight across her chest, speaking in her own language.“So yer back and you brought the boy.”  She spat on the ground. “Well, yer not welcome, English, and yer not stopping.”

The door shut in Vicky’s face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 13, 2013

Back in Time ⁰

August 5, 2013

The Coffee Wars ⁰

 

Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five?  She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring.  She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!”  It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.

She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on.  Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself.  She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed.   One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway.  She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.

The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art.  He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in?  Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee?  Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off.  He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored.  Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark.  Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket.  Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning?  Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”

“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”

“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?

“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember?  I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”

Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”

“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”

Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.

Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program,  speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’

“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss

our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”

 

Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.

She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage.  He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.

 

Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.

“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.

Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.

“How will you get back?” asked Art.

“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.

“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”

 

Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.

“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.

“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Coffee Wars

Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five?  She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring.  She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!”  It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.

She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on.  Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself.  She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed.   One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway.  She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.

The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art.  He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in?  Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee?  Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off.  He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored.  Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark.  Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket.  Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning?  Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”

“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”

“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?

“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember?  I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”

Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”

“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”

Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.

Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program,  speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’

“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss

our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”

 

Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.

She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage.  He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.

 

Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.

“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.

Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.

“How will you get back?” asked Art.

“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.

“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”

 

Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.

“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.

“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”