Frances Gilbert

Author Frances Gilbert

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.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Village Dream 0

The village drowsed in the sun. A stream made its way past the cottages, each one with its little bridge leading to the graveled path that ran along the fronts. On the other side of the stream the pub, the village shop and the old smithy, slumbered behind closed doors.  Everything was still, seen through a haze from up on the hill where Jack had parked the van. Even the trees in the churchyard and the manse garden were motionless against a cloudless sky.

Jess and Jack looked down from the hill where Jack had parked the van.

“It’s like a painting,” said Jess, “one of them we saw in that museum when we went with school that time,  but not even a dog, where is every one?”

“Holiday weekend,” said Jack, “and most folk will be at the fair today, the castle and grounds are open, they’ll all be there trying to get a look at milord at home in his smoking jacket.”

“You’re ridiculous, no one wears a smoking jacket, not even the royals these days, but I could do with a smoke myself, give us a ciggie.”

“You didn’t earn it,”

“Well, I’m fed up of doing it outside, or in your dirty van, it’s not nice. Why can’t we have a place of our own, or one of them cottages, lovely they are, go in close the door, your own little place.”

Jack looked at her, sitting on the van step, her dark hair loosened in their lovemaking, fell round her shoulders but she had re buttoned her blouse, and smoothed her skirt, now she pulled her shawl over her lap and poked through his jacket pocket looking for the cigarettes.

“If I could find a place, private like, on our own, would you do it proper, you know no clothes, let yourself go like?”

Jess  considered, “I might, but  I want a place like one of them cottages, and a big double bed and a proper cuppa after.”

“You’re on, get in, let’s see what’s what down there.”

He drove the van farther down the hillside track parking against a hedge.

“Give us them binoculars, Jess.” He scanned the village. “What about that one then, the blue door right at the end of the row, back a bit?”

“How can I see?  You got the glasses, give ‘em here,” she took the binoculars and peered through them.

“Which one?”

“Blue door at the end of the row, there’s a big hedge along the side.”

She was silent for a longtime, adjusting the lens from time to time and tipping her head and moving the glasses from side to side.

“Blue door and them little shutters, it’s lovely.”

They watched the village for a long time, taking turns with the binoculars.

“It’s like we’re living there, Jack,  look the shop is open now, I can see the sign, Shop and  Post Office, and there is a dog, asleep on the pub step, it’s magic”

 

“Right, that’s where we’re going then, you stay here, I’ll be back for you.”

“What if someone comes, what am I supposed to be doing up her on me own? I could be attacked”.

“OK, OK, walk down, past the village and go in to the castle grounds, get a cuppa at the caff, I’ll come back to the car park for you. Don’t be talking to anyone neither. Now where’s me overalls and that big parts box?”

Jess watched as Jack changed into his overalls and an old cap. He took the box from the back of the van and stuffed various bits of rubbish in it, “Don’t want no rattling,” he laughed. He tore the labels off the box and scribbled the name of the village on one side under some older printed addresses.

 

 

Down in the village the afternoon stretched past tea time and in the shop old Aggie thought about closing up and going for her own tea.
“Pull down the blinds,” she said to her assistant Gladys, “no one else is going to come now, we might as well shut up.” She shuffled off in to the back to put the kettle on. Gladys was just turning the door sign to ‘closed’ when a van drew up and a young man got out. He came in to the shop, bringing a whiff of machine oil and sweat,

“Got a package here for the end cottage, but no one’s at home, all at the fete are they?”

“No, said Gladys,” that’s Margaret, she’s away. Aggie, when is Margaret coming back?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Deliveries, shall he leave it round the back in the shed?”

“Deliveries this late, on a holiday?”
The young man grinned at Gladys, “Backed up they are, and their truck broke down on the motorway. I’m just doing the local stuff, OK, I can put it in the shed, no dog to bite me, eh?”
“No,” said Gladys, “she doesn’t have a dog, you’ll be all right, I’ll tell her to look in the shed when she comes back.”

“Right then, the shed it is,” and he swung out of the door tipping his cap.

“Lovely, he was,” sighed Gladys

Jess and Jack waited until the shadowy evening drew over the village and then crept down the hillside behind the cottage.  Shielded by the hedge Jack picked the lock on the side door

“No bolt, thank goodness,” he breathed and eased it open. He and Jess stepped into a tiled back lobby with a stone sink, and then through into the front room.  Two chairs and a dark Welsh dresser stood by the fireplace, a gate leg table folded down stood against the back wall and a clock ticked on the other wall, next to a twisting staircase.  “It’s lovely!” breathed Jess.

Upstairs two bedrooms rested under the beams; one filled with boxes and trunks, the other with a brass bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, and a small table holding a candlestick.

“Oh Jack, Jack ,”  but Jack was already tearing off his clothes and pulling her down, “all of them, off,” he said tugging at her skirt and wrenching her blouse off her shoulders, “come on, girl .. . don’t mess about …”

“Did I earn it, then?” asked Jess reaching for the cigarettes, “and where’s my cuppa?”

“You earned it, but I didn’t see a stove, she must have an electric kettle somewhere though.”
Jack went down stairs and Jess sat up, she lit the candle and looked around the room. The walls were painted a smudgy yellow color and the curtains, old faded and torn along the seams were the same color with a rose pattern woven into the fabric. Dark beams ran over her head.  There was a small iron fireplace and on the mantelpiece a collection of ornaments.

Jack came back, “I found a kettle and the tea, no milk though, but here, look what she had, we can have a drop of this instead,” and he held up a bottle of Glen Livet, “give you new strength,.” He grinned wickedly and got back into bed with her.

 

Jess woke, “Jack, what’s that, listen.”

“It’s birds Jess, the dawn chorus, we got to get going, don’t want old Margaret coming back early and catching us, here get your clothes on and smooth the bed, I’ll put away down stairs.”

He stopped by the door and looked back at her, she looked beautiful, hair tumbled, her face soft, the quilt only just covering her, “We could do it again, Jess, like this, I can always find us a place.”

“I know you can, Jack.”

She put the room to rights and gathered up her things; passing the mantelpiece she quickly picked up a china pig and put it in her pocket.

 

 

Months later two police chiefs met to discuss issues in their respective counties. They dealt with travelers, rubbish dumping, urban gangs trashing local pubs and moved on to the latest thing, a rash of break ins in outlying villages, where nothing was taken except an ornament, and no damage done, only a rumpled bed.

“Something and nothing,” said one of them, “these old biddies can’t remember how they left the place or what they had, dreaming they are half the time. Shall we have another round? Shout up the girl will you.”

“Talk about dreaming, look at her.” said his partner, “Waitress!”

Jess leaning against the bar fingering the little wooden owl in her pocket, jumped.

“What can I get you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The village drowsed in the sun. A stream made its way past the cottages, each one with its little bridge leading to the graveled path that ran along the fronts. On the other side of the stream the pub, the village shop and the old smithy, slumbered behind closed doors.  Everything was still, seen through a haze from up on the hill where Jack had parked the van. Even the trees in the churchyard and the manse garden were motionless against a cloudless sky.

Jess and Jack looked down from the hill where Jack had parked the van.

“It’s like a painting,” said Jess, “one of them we saw in that museum when we went with school that time,  but not even a dog, where is every one?”

“Holiday weekend,” said Jack, “and most folk will be at the fair today, the castle and grounds are open, they’ll all be there trying to get a look at milord at home in his smoking jacket.”

“You’re ridiculous, no one wears a smoking jacket, not even the royals these days, but I could do with a smoke myself, give us a ciggie.”

“You didn’t earn it,”

“Well, I’m fed up of doing it outside, or in your dirty van, it’s not nice. Why can’t we have a place of our own, or one of them cottages, lovely they are, go in close the door, your own little place.”

Jack looked at her, sitting on the van step, her dark hair loosened in their lovemaking, fell round her shoulders but she had re buttoned her blouse, and smoothed her skirt, now she pulled her shawl over her lap and poked through his jacket pocket looking for the cigarettes.

“If I could find a place, private like, on our own, would you do it proper, you know no clothes, let yourself go like?”

Jess  considered, “I might, but  I want a place like one of them cottages, and a big double bed and a proper cuppa after.”

“You’re on, get in, let’s see what’s what down there.”

He drove the van farther down the hillside track parking against a hedge.

“Give us them binoculars, Jess.” He scanned the village. “What about that one then, the blue door right at the end of the row, back a bit?”

“How can I see?  You got the glasses, give ‘em here,” she took the binoculars and peered through them.

“Which one?”

“Blue door at the end of the row, there’s a big hedge along the side.”

She was silent for a longtime, adjusting the lens from time to time and tipping her head and moving the glasses from side to side.

“Blue door and them little shutters, it’s lovely.”

They watched the village for a long time, taking turns with the binoculars.

“It’s like we’re living there, Jack,  look the shop is open now, I can see the sign, Shop and  Post Office, and there is a dog, asleep on the pub step, it’s magic”

 

“Right, that’s where we’re going then, you stay here, I’ll be back for you.”

“What if someone comes, what am I supposed to be doing up her on me own? I could be attacked”.

“OK, OK, walk down, past the village and go in to the castle grounds, get a cuppa at the caff, I’ll come back to the car park for you. Don’t be talking to anyone neither. Now where’s me overalls and that big parts box?”

Jess watched as Jack changed into his overalls and an old cap. He took the box from the back of the van and stuffed various bits of rubbish in it, “Don’t want no rattling,” he laughed. He tore the labels off the box and scribbled the name of the village on one side under some older printed addresses.

 

 

Down in the village the afternoon stretched past tea time and in the shop old Aggie thought about closing up and going for her own tea.
“Pull down the blinds,” she said to her assistant Gladys, “no one else is going to come now, we might as well shut up.” She shuffled off in to the back to put the kettle on. Gladys was just turning the door sign to ‘closed’ when a van drew up and a young man got out. He came in to the shop, bringing a whiff of machine oil and sweat,

“Got a package here for the end cottage, but no one’s at home, all at the fete are they?”

“No, said Gladys,” that’s Margaret, she’s away. Aggie, when is Margaret coming back?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Deliveries, shall he leave it round the back in the shed?”

“Deliveries this late, on a holiday?”
The young man grinned at Gladys, “Backed up they are, and their truck broke down on the motorway. I’m just doing the local stuff, OK, I can put it in the shed, no dog to bite me, eh?”
“No,” said Gladys, “she doesn’t have a dog, you’ll be all right, I’ll tell her to look in the shed when she comes back.”

“Right then, the shed it is,” and he swung out of the door tipping his cap.

“Lovely, he was,” sighed Gladys

Jess and Jack waited until the shadowy evening drew over the village and then crept down the hillside behind the cottage.  Shielded by the hedge Jack picked the lock on the side door

“No bolt, thank goodness,” he breathed and eased it open. He and Jess stepped into a tiled back lobby with a stone sink, and then through into the front room.  Two chairs and a dark Welsh dresser stood by the fireplace, a gate leg table folded down stood against the back wall and a clock ticked on the other wall, next to a twisting staircase.  “It’s lovely!” breathed Jess.

Upstairs two bedrooms rested under the beams; one filled with boxes and trunks, the other with a brass bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, and a small table holding a candlestick.

“Oh Jack, Jack ,”  but Jack was already tearing off his clothes and pulling her down, “all of them, off,” he said tugging at her skirt and wrenching her blouse off her shoulders, “come on, girl .. . don’t mess about …”

“Did I earn it, then?” asked Jess reaching for the cigarettes, “and where’s my cuppa?”

“You earned it, but I didn’t see a stove, she must have an electric kettle somewhere though.”
Jack went down stairs and Jess sat up, she lit the candle and looked around the room. The walls were painted a smudgy yellow color and the curtains, old faded and torn along the seams were the same color with a rose pattern woven into the fabric. Dark beams ran over her head.  There was a small iron fireplace and on the mantelpiece a collection of ornaments.

Jack came back, “I found a kettle and the tea, no milk though, but here, look what she had, we can have a drop of this instead,” and he held up a bottle of Glen Livet, “give you new strength,.” He grinned wickedly and got back into bed with her.

 

Jess woke, “Jack, what’s that, listen.”

“It’s birds Jess, the dawn chorus, we got to get going, don’t want old Margaret coming back early and catching us, here get your clothes on and smooth the bed, I’ll put away down stairs.”

He stopped by the door and looked back at her, she looked beautiful, hair tumbled, her face soft, the quilt only just covering her, “We could do it again, Jess, like this, I can always find us a place.”

“I know you can, Jack.”

She put the room to rights and gathered up her things; passing the mantelpiece she quickly picked up a china pig and put it in her pocket.

 

 

Months later two police chiefs met to discuss issues in their respective counties. They dealt with travelers, rubbish dumping, urban gangs trashing local pubs and moved on to the latest thing, a rash of break ins in outlying villages, where nothing was taken except an ornament, and no damage done, only a rumpled bed.

“Something and nothing,” said one of them, “these old biddies can’t remember how they left the place or what they had, dreaming they are half the time. Shall we have another round? Shout up the girl will you.”

“Talk about dreaming, look at her.” said his partner, “Waitress!”

Jess leaning against the bar fingering the little wooden owl in her pocket, jumped.

“What can I get you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The village drowsed in the sun. A stream made its way past the cottages, each one with its little bridge leading to the graveled path that ran along the fronts. On the other side of the stream the pub, the village shop and the old smithy, slumbered behind closed doors.  Everything was still, seen through a haze from up on the hill where Jack had parked the van. Even the trees in the churchyard and the manse garden were motionless against a cloudless sky.

Jess and Jack looked down from the hill where Jack had parked the van.

“It’s like a painting,” said Jess, “one of them we saw in that museum when we went with school that time,  but not even a dog, where is every one?”

“Holiday weekend,” said Jack, “and most folk will be at the fair today, the castle and grounds are open, they’ll all be there trying to get a look at milord at home in his smoking jacket.”

“You’re ridiculous, no one wears a smoking jacket, not even the royals these days, but I could do with a smoke myself, give us a ciggie.”

“You didn’t earn it,”

“Well, I’m fed up of doing it outside, or in your dirty van, it’s not nice. Why can’t we have a place of our own, or one of them cottages, lovely they are, go in close the door, your own little place.”

Jack looked at her, sitting on the van step, her dark hair loosened in their lovemaking, fell round her shoulders but she had re buttoned her blouse, and smoothed her skirt, now she pulled her shawl over her lap and poked through his jacket pocket looking for the cigarettes.

“If I could find a place, private like, on our own, would you do it proper, you know no clothes, let yourself go like?”

Jess  considered, “I might, but  I want a place like one of them cottages, and a big double bed and a proper cuppa after.”

“You’re on, get in, let’s see what’s what down there.”

He drove the van farther down the hillside track parking against a hedge.

“Give us them binoculars, Jess.” He scanned the village. “What about that one then, the blue door right at the end of the row, back a bit?”

“How can I see?  You got the glasses, give ‘em here,” she took the binoculars and peered through them.

“Which one?”

“Blue door at the end of the row, there’s a big hedge along the side.”

She was silent for a longtime, adjusting the lens from time to time and tipping her head and moving the glasses from side to side.

“Blue door and them little shutters, it’s lovely.”

They watched the village for a long time, taking turns with the binoculars.

“It’s like we’re living there, Jack,  look the shop is open now, I can see the sign, Shop and  Post Office, and there is a dog, asleep on the pub step, it’s magic”

 

“Right, that’s where we’re going then, you stay here, I’ll be back for you.”

“What if someone comes, what am I supposed to be doing up her on me own? I could be attacked”.

“OK, OK, walk down, past the village and go in to the castle grounds, get a cuppa at the caff, I’ll come back to the car park for you. Don’t be talking to anyone neither. Now where’s me overalls and that big parts box?”

Jess watched as Jack changed into his overalls and an old cap. He took the box from the back of the van and stuffed various bits of rubbish in it, “Don’t want no rattling,” he laughed. He tore the labels off the box and scribbled the name of the village on one side under some older printed addresses.

 

 

Down in the village the afternoon stretched past tea time and in the shop old Aggie thought about closing up and going for her own tea.
“Pull down the blinds,” she said to her assistant Gladys, “no one else is going to come now, we might as well shut up.” She shuffled off in to the back to put the kettle on. Gladys was just turning the door sign to ‘closed’ when a van drew up and a young man got out. He came in to the shop, bringing a whiff of machine oil and sweat,

“Got a package here for the end cottage, but no one’s at home, all at the fete are they?”

“No, said Gladys,” that’s Margaret, she’s away. Aggie, when is Margaret coming back?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Deliveries, shall he leave it round the back in the shed?”

“Deliveries this late, on a holiday?”
The young man grinned at Gladys, “Backed up they are, and their truck broke down on the motorway. I’m just doing the local stuff, OK, I can put it in the shed, no dog to bite me, eh?”
“No,” said Gladys, “she doesn’t have a dog, you’ll be all right, I’ll tell her to look in the shed when she comes back.”

“Right then, the shed it is,” and he swung out of the door tipping his cap.

“Lovely, he was,” sighed Gladys

Jess and Jack waited until the shadowy evening drew over the village and then crept down the hillside behind the cottage.  Shielded by the hedge Jack picked the lock on the side door

“No bolt, thank goodness,” he breathed and eased it open. He and Jess stepped into a tiled back lobby with a stone sink, and then through into the front room.  Two chairs and a dark Welsh dresser stood by the fireplace, a gate leg table folded down stood against the back wall and a clock ticked on the other wall, next to a twisting staircase.  “It’s lovely!” breathed Jess.

Upstairs two bedrooms rested under the beams; one filled with boxes and trunks, the other with a brass bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, and a small table holding a candlestick.

“Oh Jack, Jack ,”  but Jack was already tearing off his clothes and pulling her down, “all of them, off,” he said tugging at her skirt and wrenching her blouse off her shoulders, “come on, girl .. . don’t mess about …”

“Did I earn it, then?” asked Jess reaching for the cigarettes, “and where’s my cuppa?”

“You earned it, but I didn’t see a stove, she must have an electric kettle somewhere though.”
Jack went down stairs and Jess sat up, she lit the candle and looked around the room. The walls were painted a smudgy yellow color and the curtains, old faded and torn along the seams were the same color with a rose pattern woven into the fabric. Dark beams ran over her head.  There was a small iron fireplace and on the mantelpiece a collection of ornaments.

Jack came back, “I found a kettle and the tea, no milk though, but here, look what she had, we can have a drop of this instead,” and he held up a bottle of Glen Livet, “give you new strength,.” He grinned wickedly and got back into bed with her.

 

Jess woke, “Jack, what’s that, listen.”

“It’s birds Jess, the dawn chorus, we got to get going, don’t want old Margaret coming back early and catching us, here get your clothes on and smooth the bed, I’ll put away down stairs.”

He stopped by the door and looked back at her, she looked beautiful, hair tumbled, her face soft, the quilt only just covering her, “We could do it again, Jess, like this, I can always find us a place.”

“I know you can, Jack.”

She put the room to rights and gathered up her things; passing the mantelpiece she quickly picked up a china pig and put it in her pocket.

 

 

Months later two police chiefs met to discuss issues in their respective counties. They dealt with travelers, rubbish dumping, urban gangs trashing local pubs and moved on to the latest thing, a rash of break ins in outlying villages, where nothing was taken except an ornament, and no damage done, only a rumpled bed.

“Something and nothing,” said one of them, “these old biddies can’t remember how they left the place or what they had, dreaming they are half the time. Shall we have another round? Shout up the girl will you.”

“Talk about dreaming, look at her.” said his partner, “Waitress!”

Jess leaning against the bar fingering the little wooden owl in her pocket, jumped.

“What can I get you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy on the Hill 0

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old ewe and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy From the Hill

Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two.  The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.

 

They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off?   Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what?  How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back?  Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses.  He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”

Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream.  The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him.  The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken  that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides;  those who had lived here, gone, moved  off,  long ago.

The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.

“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless  water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.

Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside.  The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on.  He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.

“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.

“Ben!”   Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that.  Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone,  but where was it?

 

The mist settled about him.  A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”

“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”

A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.

 

A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.

“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.”  He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.

“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.

“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,

Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face.  Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.

 

“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”

The boy stared at him.

Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”

The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down.  It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.

The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”

Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.

“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.

“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies  and I’m thinking you’ll  better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”

Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,

”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”

He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.

“The king?”

“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”

A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward  along with the sheep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

v

Not One of Us 0

Not One of Us

 

Helena walked back through the village after the meeting in the rectory to plan the Best Kept Village tour. She had declined the offer of the new member, an apparent single mother who had suddenly arrived in the empty cottage at the back of the pub, to “go down the pub for a few drinks,” and was annoyed to see her neighbor and faithful henchman, Marion, accepting the invitation.

“She’s not one of us,” she hissed angrily at Marion, “she’ll probably be gone in a few weeks, her type never stays put for long.” But Marion had eagerly followed the tights and Tee shirt (really, for a meeting in the rectory, completely inappropriate) down the lane to the Jolly Miller.

Now Helena walked back to her house at the end of the green, critically surveying the gardens as she passed.  Some of the cottage gardens were quaint, she had to admit, not that she liked that blowsy Gertrude Jekyll look, but the village’s curve of stone cottages around the green and their colorful front gardens certainly drew visitors. Indeed it was the mainstay of the village attractions. Only Mrs. Binns on the end spoiled the effect with a proliferation of gnomes in various undignified poses. She particularly disliked the fishing one with his bulbous red nose and beer can at his feet.  She was annoyed to see that a real beer can, in fact two, had been placed next to him and someone had been tossing coins into his little pool. Really it wouldn’t do at all.  She would have to say something tomorrow.

She paused at the end of the row and looked back across the green.  The church and rectory gardens needed a bit of grooming. She would check that tomorrow too. The post office and general store almost buried under hanging baskets, pots, buckets and milk crates planted up with fuchsia and lobelia, was another show point.  She was glad they had taken her advice about keeping to a color scheme at least; a little restraint was necessary. Ivy, the post mistress, had been quite annoyed when she had suggested it, but no doubt about it, it was an improvement.

She crossed the lane at the end of the green and, skirting the pond, went up the smoothly raked graveled drive of her own home, Mill House. Ted was sitting out on the terrace, wine in a cooler beside him, the lemon trees in their stone containers lined up neatly along the terrace edge, and the two Labradors lying quietly at his feet.  He poured her drink and pulled the chair forward for her.

“So how was the committee?” he asked. “Did you organize the litter crews, and parking?”

“The farmers are doing the parking and that old man from the new bungalows is doing the litter, he has  a group already, they are going out morning and evening, until the judges have been,”

Ted laughed, “I saw him this morning with his pointed stick and two little girls: he is a real character.”

“He is all right,” said Helena, “I used to be on the parish committee with him; he was quite good. He has a bit of a northern accent, Lancashire I think, but at least he knows proper committee procedure.

“So all in hand then.” said Ted.

“Except for the new member, that woman from behind the pub. She doesn’t know her place, full of ridiculous suggestions – she wanted ‘something for the kiddies’. I told her we don’t encourage children. If any come they can sit on the green and have an ice cream.  Now she has gone off to the pub with Marion, to see if they can do a barbecue on Saturday evening for the committee.”

“That would be fun wouldn’t it?”

“Ted, you know perfectly well after the judging we go to the rectory for sherry and cheese straws, we certainly don’t want barbecue for all and sundry, it’ll be karaoke next. I will have to go and have a word with the committee; tell them I don’t think she will work out. We don’t want her sort on anything else, like the Harvest committee, for goodness sake. No, I should make sure she gets the push now.”

Ted said nothing. He rather liked the new comer. Mandy, she said her name was when he had met her down the lanes one early morning. He was walking the labs and she had her dog, Franny, an absurd little shih tzu  all hair and bows, on a pink lead. Since then they had met several times. She had told him about her husband killed in Afghanistan at twenty-three, and he had told her about his son, killed in a senseless street brawl at twenty-two.

She had said she was making a new life away from family and friends. “I need to remake myself,” she had said. He said it was the same for him; he needed to get away from the city and the stupid crowds of aimless, senseless, young people, find himself again.

So after taking Helena her morning tea, placing the china cup carefully on her side of the nightstand between their beds, he found himself putting the leads on the labs and jogging down the lanes to where Mandy and Franny waited for him in the big field.  While the dogs romped and chased, Mandy and Ted made love on the grassy bank, unfettered, uninhibited.

Then one evening after another committee meeting Helena came back with the news that the newcomer was leaving, “Going back to where she came from she said, goodness knows where that is, she said there isn’t enough to do here.”

“No wonder,” said Ted “you pushed her off every committee.”

“Well,” said Helena, “she wasn’t one of us, was she?”

“No,” said Ted, “she wasn’t.”

 

Morning Has Broken 0

 

Morning Has Broken

 

Fern opened window, her routine check every morning after interrupted nights. Now, early morning, a breeze fluttered the curtains, rain hissed on the glass. She looked for the jogger but the road was empty, and the lane opposite, hung with dripping trees, led away into the grey mist. He wouldn’t come today.

Behind her George lay curled up on his left side, smoothed into the covers, almost invisible in the bed; a line snaked from his hand to the drip secured to a makeshift pole. The district nurse had come in on her way back from a new baby call.  She had washed him and settled him and inserted the drip.

“It’s just waiting now,” nurse had said, “it won’t be long, he’ll probably go today”

She went over to the bed, watching the level in the bag. Perhaps he would drift away as the solution fell, each drop taking away a memory, a sigh, a breath.  Perhaps he was gone already, the brain just doing its closing down rituals, on auto pilot. She wanted to interrupt it, call his name, touch his face with her hands, pull him to her, kiss him, a kiss of life? She remembered drowsy summer afternoons of their other, younger life, babies kissed into life in this very room when sunlight patterned the ceiling and the kissing went on forever. But he looked stern, as if he was watching for any unseemly action on her part, so she put her hand over his at the place where the line went in. She stroked his hand and waited.

Gradually morning noises filtered in from outside; the milk cart whined down the road, next door the dogs woofed and snuffled in the front garden waiting for their walk, a few houses away the old man came out of his gate and set off to get his paper, cars swished past on the wet tarmac, voices sounded with the eerie clarity of damp mornings.

 

“So I told him, I’m not waiting forever, I have to get on with my life…”
“That’s it, grab your chances I say.”

She went to the window again,  two women were walking down the road. They were young, clipping along in high heels and short skirts.  She didn’t know them, maybe they had moved in to one of the empty houses down the road. She had lost touch with things since George had been so ill.

“I don’t think he was ever really interested anyway, he never could remember my birthday.”

“Move on, he’s over.”

“You’re right, live now.”

 

Fern watched them until they rounded the corner. Then the road was empty. The lane opposite stretched back, it was clear now and she could see to the bend. Would he come now? Surely he would come now. She had watched for him so many mornings; he would come, he must come.

 

She opened the window wider. A dampness and stillness seemed to spread into the room, just the muted tick of the machine, and the slowing, intermittent breaths of the body on the bed witnessed the wait.

She sat next to George again, was she supposed to say something? Not a prayer, he wouldn’t allow that. But would he know? If he was right, no God, no hereafter, he wouldn’t know. If he was wrong, wouldn’t he need some intervention on his behalf?  Matching her breaths to his she brought up her mantra, allowing herself to slip into that meditative state which had given her strength so many times to endure his angry obduracy. Breath in, breath out … in, out, breath in, breath out, no more self,  reaching to where he was now. Did he know? Did he feel her with him now? He gave no sign.

 

The level in the bag had dropped right down. A memory, a sigh, a breath, a silence.

 

Fern walked to the window.  The sun was pulling the mist away.  A black bird called loud and clear. The taut, spandex clad figure appeared, on the green, squatting, bending, stretching, flexing, in the clear light. She watched him as she always did. She undid the clip on her bundled up pony tail and let her hair ripple down, matching each  rhythm of his body as she pulled her fingers through her long hair.

 

He had come, morning had broken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short Story – Separacation 0

Deciding to include short stories in my blog.  Here’s one to start the Summer off. FB

Separacation

Fantasy holiday: everyone has one – “what I would really like is to. .. see the Pyramids, climb Kilimanjaro, row down the Amazon, take a theatre week in London, a spa break in the country … “

Bella snapped her paper irritably, the weekend section always annoyed her and this one was worse than ever, so called stars featured in their bliss on a fantasy holiday … you could write in and enter a competition and win the spa break … or the mystery trip

“Stupid, probably a spa in Birmingham and a mystery trip to Blackpool,” she snorted and threw the paper on to the couch where the cat immediately pummeled it into a satisfying crackly bed.

Evan would be mad.  “Oh well no use crying over spilt milk, or crumpled paper, they couldn’t afford a holiday anyway, an unplanned early retirement had killed that hope.

Maybe they should plan a what did they call that, a staycation, do something local and different, a spa trip, a few meals out in a good restaurant, maybe a stately home and gardens visit … actually that didn’t sound bad, leave out the spa though, she wasn’t stripping down for any young madams ’s eyes and the thought of Evan scuffling about in a robe and slippers forgetting to tie the belt and mishearing  conversations was not appealing … how come the stars never seemed to have to deal with past their sell by date husbands on their fantasy vacations? Or vice versa come to that. Maybe they should do separate vacations?

She dismantled the coffee machine and tipped the grounds into the compost bin, whew it was getting a bit whiffy, she should empty it today.  She looked out it was raining still and the path was muddy, she would go down later on. She hid the compost bin in the broom cupboard, no point getting him angry, he hated the compost bin. The cat made a dive for the cupboard, it was currently having a love affair with the mop, scattering shreds of news paper and knocking over its water.

“Dammed animal, get out, go on, scarper,” Evan was down, shuffling into the kitchen in his weekend outfit, grey joggers, a worn T shirt that their son Jeremy had sent him which said “ keep calm and carry on”, and backless trodden down leather slippers which looked as if they had been inherited from Scrooge. He toed the cat out of the back door, “Go on get out. I don’t know why we keep that animal. Now get the floor mopped, and pick up all this paper for goodness sake. I hope it’s not today’s”

“Today’s didn’t come.” Bella lied smoothly, better a lie than a tantrum, she flattened the cat’s cushion on top of the rest of the paper,  fed the toaster and clicked the kettle on for his tea.

Definitely separate vacations .. . separate staycations.  What would be good if she was on her own … get up when she wanted, take the bus to the coast and sit on the front in that nice little Italian café and have delicious coffee, walk along the beach and look for shell and fossils, take the bus back and get a Indian take out, and eat it in the sitting room on the good couch.  The toaster popped, the water boiled, she put the toast on a plate and poured water into the teapot.

Separate staycations  … separacations .. yes, and the second day go with her cousin into town and do the art galleries and have lunch at that ancient, creakingly respectable store lunch room, the one with the cretonne covered couch in the ladies’ room and the kind attendant who would hand out aspirin, advice, hot damp towels and guard your parcels … another world.

But what would he do, maybe go fishing with his brother? Go to the railway museum?

And the third day, a coach trip to a stately home, tea in the National Trust cafe, cake and biscuits and a wander around the gardens. That was enough for a first separacation.

Evan was muttering, “No paper, no butter, no marmalade, wet floor, stupid cat, austerity, budgets, early retirement, no vacation this year,”

“Your brother called,” she said, “he wants to go fishing, next week, three days he said, up the river on his boat.”
Evan looked at her, “He never goes fishing, nor do I, what is he talking about, be more like booze cruise. I’m not going, call him back and tell him I can’t go.”

“Call him yourself, it’s more polite, a booze cruise might be fun, relaxing.”

The cat door clattered and the cat lunged back into the kitchen with a mouse in its mouth, which it dropped and began batting around the table

Evan shouted, “Bastard cat!” and jumped up. His slippers skidded in the water and he lurched forward,. Swiftly Bella pushed away the chair and the mouse leaped across his foot. With a roar Evan crashed to the floor, striking his head on the stove as he went down, and lay still, blood oozing from his ear and nose.

Bella picked up the compost bin and went down the garden to empty it onto the compost pile. She did a bit of fiddling about in the shed, and the veggie patch until a shower blew over.

Then, smiling, she went in doors to start her separacation.

blog from Cambridge 0

having a lesson in navigating the site from my clever manager, Abigail,

Watch me on WTNH 0

Last week I appeared on WTNH Channel 8 Connecticut Style.  Click here to watch the show: Frances Gilbert appears on WTNH Connecticut Style Tuesday March 5th

Frances Blog posts test 0

This is a post for the Blog for Frances Gilbert site