Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 2, part 1

I talked about Day One in Dunoon in my last entry, leaving off just as we boarded the ferry to Gourock, on our way to see Royalist and the other tall ships at last.

It was a beautiful clear sunny day, with a wind just cool enough to keep it from being unpleasantly hot. On the top deck of the ferry, we discovered that the walkway went right round the bows under the bridge. Going forward, we saw this cruising along the far bank:


I thought she looked rather odd with her straight bow and curving stern. I wouldn't go as far as to say she is ugly - I don't believe any vessel with sails is ever really ugly - but she certainly looked business like. I thought from here that she was actually very modern, but that's just an illusion because of her new masts and spars; she's actually from around the late 1800s or early 1900s, and her design was actually pioneered in Aberdeen. This sort of vessel was used for fishing. Although, I didn't learn that until two or three weeks later, when we stopped in Aberdeen on the way home from Shetland, having visited Lerwick as the next port of call on the Tall Ships race.

Looking downriver, we could see right out to see, past both Arran and Cumbrae (Arran's the lumpy one on the right):


On the other side, we could see up Loch Long:

Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 1

I hate fibromyalgia. But instead of moaning about feeling bad, I am going to tell you about what I did on my holidays. I had two holidays, this year, both of which were full of lots of fun, excitement, amazing experiences, and they were both very ship-oriented. Since I was old enough to read about tall ships, I've always wanted to go to sea. I learned to sail dinghies when I was about 9, and I've sailed yachts - I've even participated in accidentally pirating a yacht! But despite dreaming about going to sea on a tall ship, and reading everything about them that I could get my hands on, I never had the opportunity. When I was 16, the Tall Ships Race left from Leith, and I went to see the ships with my family. The point of the Race is that a certain proportion of the crews are between the ages of 15 and 25. They have to have a certain number of teenagers on board. I was old enough to go, and many of the ships were wanting crew - but my parents felt that though I was old enough, I was still a bit too young to go. I swore to myself I'd do it before I reached 21, but money was the issue, and there was a boy - a very, very bad influence - and then I went to university, and before I knew it, I was 21. I've sworn now that I'm going before I'm 35 - and with more intent to actually do something about it.

Anyway, we'd planned a week's holiday in Shetland - where my family is from - as the Tall Ships race was leaving from Lerwick on the last leg of the race to Norway. Shortly after this was arranged, we discovered that Royalist, the sea cadet training vessel, was also participating in the race, but only as far as Greenock. P sailed on Royalist several times when he was young, while I'd only seen photos of her, and once - from afar - her masts, when she was in Gosport for fitting out and we were in Portsmouth. It wasn't hard to decide to go through to Greenock to visit the Tall Ships there, as he was keen to see her again, and I was keen to see her properly for the first time. We decided to stay in Dunoon, because it was more scenic, cheaper, and allowed us to explore the area.

On the ferry across to Dunoon, we spotted several tall ships motoring up the Clyde. One of them looked suspiciously familiar. As she came closer, it seemed as though she had gunports, for cannon. Royalist has gunports; we were suspicious. As we watched, we became almost convinced that it was Royalist. Closer still, and there was no doubt about it. We grinned at each other in glee. What perfect timing, and a brilliant start to the holiday! That was just the first of several incidents of perfect timing over the course of the weekend.
Once off the ferry, we headed along the promenade to our B&B, which was right on the shore. Our room was really big, and looked out across the bay; we were up in the attic, with a dormer window giving a view both up and down the Clyde. Anyway, after dropping our bags, we headed back out to explore the town. Behind the hills on the other side of the river, the clouds were turning a menacing blue-grey. As we turned into the Tourist Office, a jagged fork of purple lightning made me jump (and yell with glee; I like thunderstorms). Once again, excellent timing. We wandered along the high street looking at the shops, while the clouds drifted in our direction (while I secretly hoped for more thunder).


We headed back towards the Castle House museum, which was actually built as a family home originally, and had a spectacular view over both beaches and across the Clyde. We were climbing the hill just as the rain began, though sadly, there was no thunder. We investigated the museum, which had information about Iron Age roundhouses found in the area, as well as examples of the way the house would have looked in the Victorian period when it was lived in. Once the rain was over, we headed out to take photographs from the top of the hill.


This was taken next to the flagpole. You can see the shower of rain which passed us by, heading down the Clyde.


I liked the yacht moored below us, and watched a man pottering about on deck for a while. We saw the yacht again later in the week further up the river. That chimney in the distance is the powerstation. Beyond, you can see Arran, and right out to sea:

This, that, and the next.

I started my new job on Monday this week. I'd already been in to visit them twice, which I think worked really well; I came in knowing where essentials like the cafe and the toilets are, so negating the sense of new-ness. I knew where my office was, how to get to it, and I was even organised enough to leave myself some chocolate in my desk drawer. (The Chocolate Tree peppermint flavour - it is what After Eights dream of being. Delicious.)

Anyway. My last job was in Social Sciences, and my new job is in Proper Science (Biological variety). It's common knowledge that core-sciences have way more money to bandy about than, for instance, your average History department. I'm really noticing it; it's the little things. My computer is brand-new and very speedy. I have a lovely 19" widescreen monitor. As an admin, there are a whole host of ginormous advantages in working in a science dept:

• We have our own mini finance department. Instead of having to jump through eighteen hoops to send off an invoice for payment, I just pop it in an envelope and our mini-financiers take care of it for me.
• Taxi fares: I'm used to having to pay these out of pocket, and then having to claim expenses. Here, they have a contract. The only paper to change hands is a receipt.
• Accommodation: they're already set up with credit at pretty much anywhere we might want to put people. No hasty negotiations, no worry about getting the payment through before the guest arrives, and no worrying about how on earth to do late bookings.
• Websites etc: These are all well-built with excellent interfaces - updating is a dream. As opposed to having a website that has incestuous nesting tables, and no CSS - so that if you change a menu item, you have to change it on every single page on the site.
• Anything which might speed things up and make one's life easier.

Okay, maybe these things seem rather trivial, but when you're dealing with these every day, the amount of time saved is huge. Everything just runs smoothly, it's delightful. My new manager laughed at me when I did a happy dance about the finance stuff.

There are a bunch of other interesting things about the new place though:

• Bathrooms. These are on alternate floors; even numbers for the women, odd for the guys. I work on an odd floor, so have to trot up or down to go to the bathroom. Seemingly everyone developes excellent bladder control, since it's quite a hike to get to the bathrooms.
• My building is an old one with a new one wrapped round it. I enter through a lovely airy modern atrium, go through a door, and find myself in something straight out of the 60s. More accurately, something straight out of the 60s that's never been renovated. The stairwell is like something from Fallout 3/any post-apocalyptic scenario you wish to mention. Except with peppy "If you climb to this floor every day in a year you'll have climbed three Munros" notices. The first time I came here (two years ago for an interview) the servitor took me up in the lift, "because they break down all the time and you don't want to get stuck in there without a radio...there's no mobile reception." Needless to say, I've only used the stairs since I started, although apparently the lifts don't break down - with anyone in them - any more.
• Because I work in a building inside a building, it takes me about 4 minutes to get from the front door to my office. Literally - I timed myself leaving the building the other day.
• I work in an actual lab with actual experiments going on. We have "Containment Level 1" and "Biohazard" stickers all over the doors. The offices are round the outside, with big picture windows and gorgeous views. The inner walls and doors are all glass, so the lab tables in the centre are brightly lit.
• They test the fire alarm every week. For two and a half minutes each time. At first I thought it was annoying, but now I'm thinking that if the fire alarm goes off we're all going to wait 2 and a half minutes before doing anything, and if it takes us 4 minutes to exit the building, it's going to be 6 minutes of a blaze in a multistory building before anyone actually gets outside.
• I have to tweet. As part of my job. This is awesome.
• I also have to blog. As part of my job. This is also awesome.
• I am going to be part of the team arranging a crazy high-profile event with the BBC at this year's Festival. Eeeeeek. But also awesome. But eeeeeeek!

This is the last moan I'll have about the old job. On my last day, my old manager asked if I was going to be doing condensed hours at my new job, because if I was, I could work for them on my extra day off. Um, no. If I'm doing condensed hours, that means I'm still doing a 40 hour week, just over 4 days not 5. That means I don't want to do a 48 hour week instead of having a day off in the middle of the week (which is really for health reasons - invaluable for when I'm having a bad week). Then I was quizzed on where and whom I was going to work for. Previously I'd been told to approach New Job and ask to work for them part time so I could work for Old Job part time. I'd said this was not a good idea in a manner which should have made it obvious that I personally did not want to. I was then told that she would approach New Boss for me. (This against a background of refusing to let someone work part time for their old job - so okay to do to someone else, not okay to have done to you. Riiight.) Anyway, I refused to tell anyone where I was working after that. It's morally and ethically wrong for Old Boss to approach my new job (against my wishes) and tell them I'd work for them part time - not to mention illegal - but this seemed not to be a problem. I attribute this madness to massive mindbending quantities of stress, since it's not usual behaviour. So when I was given the old once-over about where I was going to work, I was naturally rather suspicious, and therefore reticent.
Anyway, it's all over with now - although I do think about my old colleagues often. It's a horrible stressful situation to be in regardless of whether you're the one being offered vast quantities of money to work 50 miles away (and therefore the one having to manage the whole thing), or whether you're the one having to work there until you find another job.

Oh yes, one last thing. I recently upgraded to the HTC Wildfire. I'm incredibly pleased with it; the battery life is two and a half to three days (when I'm playing with it non-stop), the touch-screen is sensitive enough but not too sensitive, and it's an Android phone (my first) as opposed to a Nokia, so I'm having fun getting lots of free and useful apps. If anyone has any to recommend (free or otherwise), please do so!

A story

The year I turned seven, my parents bought the beach house, and my world changed. Instead of the city centre garden, we had a whole beach! There were islands, and a cave, and the paddling pool. Then, as we got older, there was the swimming pool proper, with slides, and diving boards, and floats; endless games of pirates, capture the float, or diving down to see who could sit on the bottom for longest, watching the legs of tourists above us. They looked like frogs.
Later on, we learned to sail. Havoc took us to explore the islands out in the bay, and beyond. She gave us freedom from the land, and when the wind was strong, and the sails trimmed just right, we felt like we were flying.
At night, once everyone had fallen asleep, I'd creep through to the family room, and watch the moon across the water. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, the yellow beam splashing across rocks and sand and grass, then on, out of sight towards Fife. I'd have conversations with the Older Me, telling myself that no matter what happened, I would always be able to come back here. However bad things were during term time, however bad things were in the future, the beach would always be waiting, silently, the water silvered by the moon as the waves whispered against the sand.
The winters, too, were wonderful, filled with wind and thundering waves, spray flying high over the empty swimming pool, flooding it so that the water spilled over, and we had to jump onto the steps over the rocks, out of the way. Where the tourists' legs had looked like frogs, now seaweed floated serenely. Beyond, the water was churned up, a seething mass of white that would draw back then roar in again, thundering against the wall and sending the spray soaring over our heads so that it would seem as though it was raining. We would laugh into the teeth of the gale, marvelling at the wildness of it all.
Later on, we'd sit by the fire and listen at the wind howling round the house and down the chimney, sending the sparks up in clouds. At night, I'd watch the bay as the lighthouse flashed, the foam on the waves ghostly in the moonlight.

Eventually, we grew up, and the beach house was closed. We moved on, studied, worked, but always in the back of my mind was the image of the beach, first thing in the morning, the sand fresh from the outgoing tide. The air would be cool, but with the promise of heat as soon as the sun was fully up. We would be the only ones out, except for a man walking his dog over on the far side. Plenty of time to build forts and play pirates, imagining the marauders coming into the bay, their sails gleaming in the sun. I always promised myself that I could go back, and one day, it happened; the beach house was opened again, the rooms aired out and painted, the old things restored or replaced. I'd be able to walk on the beach - can adults build forts and play pirates? - or go sailing, or watch the waves.

Then there was the accident, and everything changed. The darkness had arrived, and with it, the sleepless nights, and the pain that dulled everything else. And now, as I lie here sobbing, my legs so full of pain that I can't feel my toes, I imagine that somewhere, somehow, a little girl and her brother run side by side down to the beach. Slipping off their shoes, they wriggle their toes in the warm sand. As I watch, they gather up the flag on the old iron post, and climb up the side of the dune to where the diggings of the previous day show the beginnings of a proper fort. The girl digs a hole and plants the flag securely. As she stands beside it, surveying her domain, her eyes meet mine. For a long moment we look at each other, and then she smiles, and turns to her brother. "Let's finish the fort; the pirates will be coming round into the bay any moment. Then this afternoon, we can go and play in the swimming pool. They might have the blow-up slide ready by then."
As the image fades, my heart feels full, as though it will break. This world may not be what I dreamed, but at least I know that somewhere in a perpetual summer, part of me will always be playing, down on the beach, or in the pool, or on the island. Part of me will always be happy. And maybe, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, just maybe I can go back there, and join them, if only for a moment.

Ghost Story II

Part Two

... Anne stared at the rock for a long time, as the beam from the lighthouse swept repeatedly over the bay, and the waves made gentle swooshing noises against the beach. Although the moonlight cast the side of the rock into shadow, no figure seemed to appear. The rock sat there innocently, in the manner of rocks everywhere. It had been a dream. Anne sighed, and rubbed her eyes.

"You’re looking for her, aren’t you?" A girl’s voice said softly next to her. Anne’s eyes flew open. Sitting next to her on the window seat was a girl, about Anne’s age, dressed in ragged blue cut-off jeans, a scruffy red t-shirt, and bare feet. The face looked like the face from Anne’s dream, but it was a little older, a little rounder, and the hair was dry and fluffy, not hanging wet and lank.
"You dreamed about her, didn’t you?" Repeated the girl. "Someone who looked like me?" she prompted.
Anne nodded.
The girl sighed, and looked sadly down to the beach.
"How do you know about her?" Anne asked, "And who are you? For that matter, what are you? What’s happening, why am I seeing ghosts, if that’s what you are?"

The girl settled back against the cushions, tucking her legs up under her. "We are ghosts, if that’s what you want to call us. I’m Ruth, and the girl in your dream, that’s my sister Mary. We used to live here, with our parents. The bedroom you’re sleeping in is my old room." She smiled, "You’ll like it when the sun comes in during the day. It smells good, and you can hear the waves, and the day seems full of promise..."

The smile faded, and she looked sad again. "Mary and I loved sailing. Our father had taught us. We had a little dinghy called Havoc, that we sailed together, although we could both sail it on our own. One summer holiday, I caught chickenpox, and was stuck inside. It was a beautiful sunny day, and Mary wanted to take Havoc out. My father said she’d better not, it was due to get windy later on, but Mary said she’d be back long before the storm came in.
"She would have been back on the beach, but the kicking strap broke, so she moored out in the bay while she tried to fix it. It got windier and windier, Havoc was bouncing about on the mooring. She gave up trying to fix it, and instead cast off, meaning to sail back to the beach. My parents were down on the beach by this time, I was watching from the window here. We’d sailed in windy weather before, as long as Mary was careful, she’d be fine. But she was halfway back to the beach when a strong gust came in round the harbour wall, and flipped Havoc over. Mary didn’t have a chance to react, she was thrown into the water. We think she must have hit her head, or maybe been trapped under the sail… but she didn’t come back up."

A tear rolled down Ruth’s cheek, as she looked at the beach and saw the scene played out again. Anne too could see it in her mind, as she looked at the water, so calm and innocent now.

"We waited for so long. Too long. Havoc tossed on her side in the waves, but there was no sign of Mary. They got the lifeboat out, but it was too late.
"They found the body next day, and brought her in. She looked so peaceful… You’d never know she’d been battered about by the storm.

"My father never forgave himself. He felt he should have forbidden her to go sailing that day. This house, which had been full of laughter and sunlight, cozy winter evenings round the fire, high adventure and fun… it was all gone with Mary. I’d never been so alone.
"And then they wanted to leave. My parents couldn’t stand to look out every day, to where it happened. They’d see it playing before their eyes… But I didn’t want to leave. I loved this house, this town, this place. The sky, the sea… And Mary was still here. She’d come to me about two weeks after she drowned, her hair was still wet, and she was wearing the clothes she’d gone sailing in that hot day. She said she was lonely, and she asked me to convince them not to leave. Even though they couldn’t see her, she could see them. She said sometimes she’d come in and kiss my mother on the forehead, and hold my father’s hand. He had big, worn hands, that always made us feel safe. She said she felt safe when she held his hand, and not alone. I promised her that we’d stay, that I’d stay. I promised I’d never leave her...

"But I couldn’t tell my parents why we shouldn’t go. And they couldn’t live with the hurt. So one day, one awful day, we left. I promised Mary that I’d come back for her. I promised myself, too. I loved this place. It was home."

"I did eventually come back, but it was too late. Too long. My parents have moved on, they’re happy now, I think. There was a car crash, you see, seven years after we left. It was fatal. They went on, but I came back. I had to see this place again, I had to see Mary. We could be together again, play on the beach, wander the streets, swim in the pool, laugh at the day-trippers. An eternal childhood.

"But Mary had changed. She never forgave me for letting them leave. She said she had found other ways of preventing herself from feeling lonely in the seven long years that we were away.

"So I sit up here, and look out over the bay, and think of the nights that she and I used to sit here and talk. We’d imagine walking out along the moon’s silver path to a land of enchantment and adventure. We’d plan our holidays here, camping on the island, sailing, exploring. I try and stop Mary taking more people away with her, when I can. That’s why I sent you that dream. One day, I hope she’ll change back to the Mary I knew.

"They say, in the town, that if you stay here at night, you can see a little girl sitting on that rock on the beach. And they say, that if you walk along the beach at night, and look up at this window, you’ll see a little girl looking out to sea. Even if the house is empty.”

Ruth turned to look at Anne.

"And they’re right," said Anne softly. "And that’s why my father was able to get this house for so little. No-one wants to stay here."

Ruth nodded.

"What can I do?" said Anne suddenly. "Isn’t there something we can do? Something to help Mary, so you and she can be friends again, so you can both walk out along the Moon’s path together, and find your land of adventure?"

"I can go any time," said Ruth, "But I won’t go without Mary. And she won’t talk to me."

Both girls stared down at the beach. As they did so, a cloud passed over the moon. When it had gone, they saw Mary, the girl from Anne’s dream sitting on the rock, her arms around her knees, her pale face, expressionless, looking up at them.

Anne woke late the next morning. The sun was streaming in through the open curtains, and as Ruth had promised, the room smelt good, a combination of sunlight, warmth, the smell of the sea, and… breakfast.

Over breakfast, plans for the day were discussed. As her family debated the merits of the open-air pool versus the beach, Anne tucked into toast, and tried to put the events of the night from her mind, at least for now. When questioned, she put her vote in for a day spent at the pool. She wasn’t too keen on spending more time near that rock, even though – a cursory glance through the window showed – it was sitting there rather innocently.

A day spent at the pool soon put the night’s story from Anne’s mind. She and Philip went on the slides, tried out the blow-up obstacle course (and succeeded in completing it on about their twentieth try; there was a certain trick to getting round the palm trees without falling off), and when they had commandeered a float each, they played pirates. By the end of the day they were tired, happy, and had even turned slightly brown from all the sun. They met their Aunt Jane on the way back from the pool. She was invited back to the house for tea, and the all walked back along the road together, Philip (his computer games forgotten), talking excitedly about plans for tomorrow.

"Oh," said Aunt Jane, as Anne’s father unlocked the front door, "You’re staying in the Haunted House." She smiled.
"Haunted house?" Anne’s father laughed, "Well, that would explain why it was so cheap to rent it. You must tell us the story over tea. I’m sure the children would love to hear it."

After tea, they settled in the sitting room overlooking the bay, and Aunt Jane started her story.

"The family that used to live here had two little girls, only a year apart in age. The father taught at the school, and the mother kept a sweetshop in the town. The girls seem to have been very popular here, they were active at the sailing club, and had their own little boat, they could often be seen sailing in the bay there. One day, the father punished a rather rowdy boy from a difficult family; he made the boy stay in school and miss a sailing race that was on that evening. It seems that in revenge, the boy came and vandalised the family’s dinghy. He boasted about it to his friends, and various people at school. Until, two days later, the youngest girl of the family drowned. It seems she’d taken the boat out, a storm had come up, and the damage caused by the boy made the boat unsafe. When it capsized, the little girl, Mary, was hit on the head and drowned."

"How awful!" Philip exclaimed. "Did they catch the boy?"

"No," Aunt Jane said. "Although it was common knowledge that he had damaged the boat, causing the accident, his father lied to protect him. There was not enough proof, so the police could do nothing. Mary’s father had to go to school, and teach the class, and see that boy grinning at him, every day. Of course, he couldn’t stand it.
"At the time of the accident, their older daughter, Ruth, had chickenpox. She was infectious, so hadn’t been to the school, and didn’t know about the boy who had vandalised the boat. In order to protect her, and so that the father shouldn’t go mad from grief and anger, the family moved away. It was terribly sad; they were all killed in a car crash seven years later. They say that the older girl, Ruth, never got over the loss of her sister."

"My goodness, Anne, are you alright?" Anne’s mother looked at her in concern. "You’ve gone very white."
"Oh, I’m fine Mummy, I think I’m just very tired."

Anne sat on the windowseat, her mind going over what her aunt had said, joining the details with those of Ruth’s story. She’d said she would go to bed, but her mind was too busy for her to sleep. If Ruth didn’t know about the other reasons her parents had left, then she couldn’t have told Mary. Perhaps if Mary knew, she would understand that all the blame for her loneliness couldn’t lie with her sister, or with her parents.

Once the house was quiet, Anne put on her shoes and a jacket, and crept down the stairs. She left the latch off on the front door, and closed it quietly behind her. Once over the wall and on the beach, she headed for the rock. Close to, it was about half her height, and she could see the foot and handholds that would let one clamber up and sit on top. She did so, the rock under her fingers still feeling warm from the sun although it was nearly midnight. She sat with her legs drawn up under her, the way she had seen Mary sitting.

The beach was quiet. Anne could hear a lone seagull somewhere out at sea, and the gentle rhythmic whispering of the waves. It was another clear night, and from where she was sitting, there was a moonlit path going across the wet sand, and out over the waves, out to sea, beyond the point of the bay. She turned, and looked up to her bedroom window. A pale face, filled with longing, looked down at her. She looked away, turning to look back at the moon.

Mary stood between the rock and the sea, in the middle of the moon’s reflection. Dressed as she had been in Anne’s dream, she looked small and forlorn. She held out her hand to Anne.

Slipping down off the rock, Anne took Mary’s hand, and followed her. The moonlight on the waves seemed to create a glittering, magical path. Mary said nothing, her eyes dark in her face, her wet hair hanging down her back. When they reached the entrance to the bay, Anne stopped. "Mary."
"What?" Despite being a menacing ghost, she sounded like a petulant small girl.
"I have something to tell you."
Mary turned to face Anne, stepping between her and the moon, so all that Anne could see was the dark eyes in a pale face, expressionless.
"Well?"

"Ruth told me about what happened..." Anne began. She hurried on as she saw Mary’s features begin to twist in hatred at the mention of her sister’s name. "But Ruth was ill with chickenpox at the time. Your parents didn’t tell her everything."

For a long time, the two girls stood in the moonlight. Anne talked, telling Mary the whole story, everything her Aunt Jane had told her. As Mary listened, the hate drained out of her features. As Anne talked about Mary visiting her parents, a tear rolled down Mary’s cheek. "Mummy..." she whispered. "Daddy..."

"You can see them again." Anne said gently. "Don’t stay here. Go with Ruth. Go to the enchanted land of adventure, at the end of moon’s path, out at sea. Your parents will be waiting for you. They’ve waited a long, long time. Why don’t you go to them, tell them you love them? Your mother has waited a long time to hold you again."

Two tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks. She looked at Anne, then at last, turned and led the way back to the beach. When they reached the rock, Ruth was waiting for them, sitting on top of it. She slid down to join them, landing softly on the sand.

Mary said nothing, but held her arms out. Ruth went to her, and put her arms round her. The sisters said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Then, holding hands, with Ruth leading the way, they walked down the beach and out to sea, along the glittering silver path. Ruth looked back, just once. Anne waved.

As they approached the mouth of the bay, Anne thought she saw two figures, a man and a woman, standing on the path, holding out their arms to the children. Ruth and Mary seemed to see them too, as they ran forward, still holding hands. The little family was complete. As they faded from view Ruth seemed to look round at Anne once more. "Thank you..." The waves seemed to say.

For a long time, Anne sat on the rock, and looked out at the horizon. When she went back to her room, she sat on the windowseat, and looked out at the bay. The lighthouse beam flashed over the bay, a long path of yellow light in brief, bright competition to the moonlight. Somewhere over the bay, a seagull called. Anne fell asleep, listening to sound of the waves.


~~~~Fin~~~~

I think it will need some editing, but that's for another night. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Ghost Story

Part One

The journey down in the car had been long, hot and cramped, and was not improved by Anne’s younger brother Philip periodically asking whether they had reached their destination yet. The destination in question was the town to which Anne’s aunt had recently moved. It was a typical sleepy sea-side village, with old Victorian sandstone buildings overlooking the promenade and the beach. Anne’s parents had managed to rent one of these for, as her father had observed, "a ridiculously cheap price", for the duration of the holidays. Philip had been vocal about his doubts as to whether the place would be any good for a holiday, but Anne was less certain. There were two beaches, and a park, and plenty of countryside, and even a swimming pool. She thought that she might get a chance to do some writing and painting, and plenty of reading, and maybe a little walking. Philip, a true child of the technological age, had bemoaned the apparent lack of internet access (her parents refused to set up an account for just a couple of months, and Philip thought this quite unfair), and had instead brought his games machine and entire collection of games.

They had arrived, finally, and were standing outside the house. It appeared a little foreboding, Anne thought, with its dark empty windows. Anne’s mother was cooing over it, however, and Anne had to concede that she did have a point. Windows aside, it was a typical Victorian three story house, in red sandstone, looking somewhat the worse for wear, mostly thanks to the salt in the sea wind. It was, as the advert had said, almost right on the beach; separated only by a one way street and the promenade bounded by a short little sea-wall.

Inside, the house was cold and dark, the heating having been turned off for a while. Anne’s father, following the directions that came with the lease, soon had the heating turned on, and the gas-fired boiler started with a roar. While the house heated up, they had a look around, Philip eagerly running on ahead, despite his earlier protestations that he should "thoroughly hate the place." The lowest floor was not much but a glorified cellar and storage space; there was a large drying-room next to the boiler room, and another room that was locked.

"Probably has the landlord’s personal goods in it." Anne’s father observed.

At the front of the house there was a small sitting room, and small room lined with bookshelves full of books.

"A library for you, Anne." Her father smiled.

Upstairs were the lived-on floors. There was a master bedroom, a bathroom, and the dining room at the back, and at the front there was a formal sitting room, and a large kitchen. The top floor was reserved for the children – two bedrooms, one at the front and a larger one at the back (which was immediately claimed by Philip), and a big playroom which ran the length of the house. Philip was overjoyed to find that it had a large television.

Much later on, after they had unpacked, and had had tea (fish and chips as a treat, since neither of Anne’s parents felt like cooking after the drive), Anne excused herself from the family gathering in the sitting room, and went upstairs to unpack her room. Her feelings for the house had changed from her first impression; inside, with the heating on, the house was warm and homely. Her room was lovely; she was rather glad that Philip had claimed the larger one. This room had yellow-painted walls, with a few paintings on them. Being an attic room, it had a sloping ceiling on either side of the large dormer window. Best of all, however, in Anne’s opinion, was the windowseat. She could sit with her legs drawn up and look out over the beach, over the water, to where the sea and the sky met; no land in sight, except for the lighthouse island at the far end of the bay.

Anne made her bed, and unpacked her things, thinking about how bare the little bookshelf looked with her few books propped up untidily on it. Perhaps she’d retrieve a few books from the "library", to make it look better. She’d even read them, if there were any good books down there. As she pottered about, it got dark outside, and the room felt very comfortable, with the light on, and the sound of the waves on the beach. She thought it must be lovely in winter, when the storms came, and the wind howled round the house, salt in the air misting the windows. She noticed that the lighthouse light actually shone into her room, making a triangular patch on one wall. She sighed. This would be a good holiday, she thought.

Later that night, she woke up. The lighthouse light was still shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit on the window seat. There was no sound except for the endless waves, murmuring against the sand. The tide was out, and the lower part of the beach was wet, reflecting the track of the full moon, just rising, a silver-gold road leading out to sea. There was a big rock, in the middle of the beach, and Anne reflected that had they been younger, she and Philip would probably have played on and around it, making it into a fort, or an island as the tide came in.

Gradually she became aware of a small figure, sitting on top of the rock, with it’s legs drawn up. As she watched, the figure looked up, straight at her window. It seemed to be a small girl, with long dark hair hanging in strands about her face. As Anne watched, the girl beckoned to her eagerly, almost pleadingly. Anne nodded, and without thinking about it, she slipped on her shoes, and pulled a jacket on, on top of her pyjamas. She was aware only of a sense of urgency, a need to go and walk on the beach, a need to go and talk to the girl who was sitting on the rock. She hurried out of the house, not stopping to pick up the keys which were lying on the hall table. She crossed the road and stepped up onto the sea wall. She jumped off, feeling the soft dry sand filling her trainers, and crossed over to the harder part of the beach below the tideline, to where the girl was still sitting on the rock.

Now Anne could see that the girl was about her own age, but so pale that she almost seemed luminous in the moonlight. She stood in front of the rock, as the girl held out her hand. Anne took it. It was cold, very cold, and Anne realised that the girl wasn’t wearing a jacket; only a skirt and a vest, and her feet were bare. The girl slid off the rock, still holding Anne’s hand, and led her down the beach, following the gleaming path where the moon was reflected in the wet sand, that dried out around their feet as the stood on it.

At the edge of the water they stopped, looking out to sea.
"Don’t you wish you could walk out there, following the moon’s path?" The girl said, her voice soft and melodic.
Anne nodded.
The girl tugged her hand, and led her forward.
"We’ll get wet." Anne said, her own voice sounding flat and dull in comparison.
"No..." whispered the girl. "Not tonight... tonight it’s a full moon."

Anne didn’t have time to say anything, as the girl tugged her forward. She expected her foot to feel the cold water as it seeped into her shoe, but.. there was nothing. She looked down, and found that they were standing on the reflection of the moon’s light, a few inches above the water. The girl ran forward, laughing, pulling the astonished Anne after her. As they ran, a sense of delight filled Anne, and she laughed out loud too.

Suddenly the girl stopped. "We can’t go any further."

Anne looked around. They had come to the end of the bay; they were even with the headlands of two arms of land that formed the bay. Beyond lay the open sea. She looked at the girl, a sense of unease filling her.

"Perhaps we should go back now." She said.

The girl just looked at her, and shook her head. The big dark eyes in the pale face, that had looked so innocent and lost before, now seemed to be menacing. The smile too, made Anne uneasy.

Suddenly she was falling, being sucked downwards, the cold of the water shocking her as it closed over her. She tried to move her arms to propel herself up again, towards the surface, but her arms seemed to be stuck to her sides. Her legs seemed to be held together, and still she was being sucked down. The water around her seemed to be filled with light, as if it was daytime, and she could see the sand below her, rippled from the motion of the waves as they rolled in. There were rocks below as well, and it was to those that she seemed to be being pulled.

Panic was filling her mind, as she felt the rocks beneath her. She tried to kick herself up again, to the surface, her breath was beginning to run out, and her lungs felt as though they were burning. As she bent her knees to push off, a hand grabbed her wrist, and suddenly she felt she could move again. The grip was strong. It was the girl again, her hair floating around her head, the big eyes dark and bottomless.

"Join me..." The words seemed to be breathed straight into Anne’s mind, as the girl moved towards her. She came closer, until she was close enough to stroke Anne’s cheek with a finger. The girl leaned in, sucking the last of Anne’s breath away. The water was pushing in on her, and the grip on her wrist was like steel. She gasped, and sea water filled her lungs. Choking, she breathed in more sea water...


...Anne woke up, gasping for breath. She was in bed, the covers tangled round her legs. She lay still for a moment, watching the lighthouse light shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit at the open window, trying to push the dream from her mind. Down on the beach there was a big rock, just beyond the tideline...

Joan: A story.

There was a little girl called Joan. She lived in a land with no trees, just grass and hills and peat and rock. And the sea. The sea had claimed her father, and her stepfather, as was its habit in those days. The men of the island didn't get buried there. The graveyard by the little church was full of women, and babies, but only a handful of men. Joan could see the church from the front door of the croft where she lived with her mother, and sisters, and her grandmother, and her great grandmother. It was a very small church, and Joan used to think of it as being hunched against the wind. Today, Joan was looking at the church, and the beach, and the waves, and wondering whether she would see them again. She promised them she would come back, one day. Joan didn't want to leave, but the living was hard in those days, on that island, and her mother couldn't support Joan and her three sisters with the money she got from sewing on the island. They would have to move. Not down to the big town, on the other island, but away, away south, to the really big city, full of dirt and dust and smoke.



Joan's mother had promised her that there she would be able to go to a proper school, and have proper shoes. But Joan didn't want to go to a proper school, or wear proper shoes. She liked the walk across the hills to the tiny corrugated iron school with its old oak desks. She liked the warm fur bootees that they made themselves, with the extra bits of fur to tie round their legs in the winter to trudge through the snow.

"Joey!" Joan's mother called her from inside. Joan's grandmother was called Joan too, so although Joan was her proper name, her family called her "Joey". She hated it. With one last look at the blue water and gleaming white sand, she turned back inside to help her mother pack their meager belongings.

~~~

Joan stood in the playground of the big school. It was intimidating: a big, grey imposing building, full of other little girls running around. There were boys too, but they were in a separate bit of the playground, and had their own door. The little girls here weren't very nice. They teased Joan because of her accent; she spoke with the soft, singsong dialect of the Islands, while they spoke "proper", like everyone in the Big City. Joan was slowly learning to speak like they did. She didn't want to lose the soft burr of the islands, but no-one here understood it.

But, as hard as it was fitting in, Joan enjoyed school. She got to learn the English, and the French, and Mathematics. She enjoyed English the most, because they learned poetry. Each day they had to go home and learn a verse, and then recite it in class the next day. Joan was clever, and her teachers said she would do well. Perhaps, they said, she should go on to take the exams, and maybe become a teacher.

Joan found herself a quiet corner of the playground, and took out her poetry book. She was learning another poem, not one from class, but one which she liked the sound of. A shadow fell over her book as she murmured the words to herself. She looked up.
"Joey Moar? Hello. I'm Margaret Black."
"Hello." Joan said cautiously.
Margaret sat down beside her, and glanced at her book. "Oh!" she cried, "Do you like that poem? I love it, I've been teaching it to myself."
Joan laughed. "I love it too, it sounds so good. I've been teaching myself too."

Every day, the two friends would sit on the playground wall at breaktime, holding hands and reciting poetry together. But they were getting older. Margaret was the oldest of ten children, and although her father was alive, the living was hard for her parents. They couldn't afford to keep Margaret on at school. She would need to find work.

It was the same for Joan. Although there were only four children, Joan was the oldest, and her father and stepfather were dead. Her mother couldn't afford the uniform and the school fees. Joan would also have to find work.

So, one day, when they were fourteen, they said goodbye to each other, and to the school playground, and to their dreams of teaching. They promised to recite the poems to themselves, every day, so that one day, if they met again, they would once more be able to hold hands and say the words they knew so well, and maybe recapture some of the innocent dreams of childhood.

~~~

Joan is an old, old lady now. She's got married. She's had children. Some of them died, and some of them lived. She's seen a war, and rationing, and she's been bombed. Her daughter has died. She's seen her husband die, and her sisters. She's watched her other daughter live, and grow. She's seen her meet a boy, and she's been the Mother of the Bride. Her daughter has had children of her own. Joan dotes on her grandchildren. She's done well with her life, with the chances she was given. But now, her health is failing, and she must be looked after. So she is moved into a home. A nice home, but still a home.

One day, she meets one of the other residents, Maimie. They get to talking about where they grew up, and where they went to school. They found out they went to the same school, and were even in the same year.
"But," says Maimie, "I didn't know a Joan. I did know a Joey Moar though."
"That's me!" exclaims Joan. "But I didn't know any Maimie. I did know a Margaret though, a Margaret Black."
"That's me!" exclaims Maimie.

And so there they sit, the two old ladies, who have seen their lives pass, their friends and family live and die, who have survived a war, and bombing, and who have raised children, and grandchildren. They sit in the sitting room, and hold hands, and recite poetry from those long ago days. They both remember all the words, perfectly. Here, in the impersonal surroundings of the care home, at the end of their lives, they have a friend from the very beginning, with whom they will see the very end.

And when Joan's granddaughter comes to visit, they tell her the story, and they recite the poem from that day in the playground, Margaret with her "proper" voice, and Joan with a trace of the old, soft accent from the islands. They hold hands, and they know every word.


~~~Fin~~~


Joan is my Grandma. I love her very much.

Moonlight II

Later on, the moon has moved round enough that its full light is shining through the window. This time, it seems that the footstool has picked up the occasional table's bad habits, with the added cunning (on its part, at least) that it is low enough to remain unseen in any light coming through the window.

I sit on the windowseat, and look out, and it seems that for a little while, my body is stopped by the beauty of the scene. The moon's light is now hard, and vibrant, lighting up the wet sand where the tide has gone out, and picking out the little white wavelets that are coming in from the sea. The water itself reflects the sky; a dark greyish-navy colour. The islands - little more than jumbles of rocks with an iron post on top to warn daytime sea-farers - stand out black against the water, as does Cave Point. In reality, it's Point Garry, but to a child, Adult Names have no real significance. Far better to describe things as they really are; but these names seem to stick even into adulthood.

There appear to be no clouds in the sky at all, but there are no stars either. The moon is far too bright. Sheilding my eyes with my hand, the stars eventually begin to appear. Orion has moved round, and now a small, bright star, twinkling red, has taken his place.

Opening the window again, the smell of woodsmoke has gone; everyone else is in bed at this hour. I'm the only one up, the only one awake to feel and see the beauty of the scene. I like it that way. I can be at peace with the world. There is only the noise of the waves, an occasional insomniac sea-bird, and nothing else. No cars speeding past, no groups of youths shouting to outdo each other, or girls with high-pitched neighing laughs. At this time of night, there's just me, and the beach, and Time, marked every minute by the lighthouse's neverending turn. The light doesn't seem to flash on an off; the beam picks up the moisture in the air, and you can see it, like a searchlight, as it plays over the rocks, and sand, and putting green.

I have the desire to slip outside and down onto the beach. First I'd feel the hard, chilly wood of the steps, then the colder dry sand at the top of the beach. I'd walk down below the tide-line, watching as the moonlight glistened on the water seeping into my footprints. Before going home, I'd sit for a while on the Marooned Rock, a boulder that sits some way below the high tide mark, alone on a sandy beach. It's a good rock for climbing up on as the tide comes in, rushing around it, higher and higher, until eventually it's deep enough that you can claim to be properly marooned. Then you can jump off, splashing water up inside your skirt - I, the girl who hated skirts, always wore one on the beach. It was good for carrying sand.

I'm beginning to get cold, and sleepy. I avoid stubbing my toe on the footstool again, but bump into the occasional table, which has somehow moved round to the other side of the chair since my last visit. I quietly promise vengeance upon it, then, limping slightly, I head back to bed.

Moonlight

Slipping into the darkened room, I skirted the chair and coffee table, and managed to outsmart the small, engraved occasional table that lately had developed a habit of lying in wait for me, in the shadow of the windowseat, just exactly where I would trip over it, sending the table and surface contents crashing to the floor.
There was a parallelogram of moonlight draped over the far end of the windowseat as I sat down, plumping the cushions. I always thought paralellogram was such an odd word; I would forever think of that shape as a squished rectangle, which is what I'd named it when I first met it, a long time before paralellograms entered my world.

I looked up and to the left, through the window behind my head. The moon, although bright, wasn't quite full. Tonight, it seemed to be alone in the sky. There were no stars near; only two could be seen over the bay. I knew from their positions that they were the bow and feet of Orion the Hunter, although his distinctive belt was hidden behind a loincloth of cloud. There was a breeze coming through the crack in the window, and I wrestled with the ungainly, willful locking mechanism (installed, no doubt, to keep The Tenant's Sprogs from trying to throw each other out the window). Holding it with one hand, I turned the old metal handle and swung the window open. It was very cold outside, and the scent of woodsmoke from the cottage below-and-across-the-garden (my childhood name) tickled my nose. Walking home from the station, you know you're nearly there when you can smell the woodsmoke on the breeze. If it's an easterly wind, you can smell the smoke all the way from the church at the bottom of the road, which is a bit of a cheat, I feel. Although the waves that come with an Easterly more than make up for it; they are tall, and foamy, and dangerous. I've seen them take a yacht from its moorings in the bay, and deposit the remainders - foam, woodchip, pieces of fiberglass, and one lone red plastic cup - on the beach. I've even crouched under one when it broke over the harbour wall, feeling the unexpected weight of water on the back of my neck. If you stand up, you'll be swept over the wall and back out to sea, they used to tell us, though we knew that was a lie. You only got swept out if you were fool enough to stand on the wall.

Tonight there is a westerly wind. The tide is almost fully in; the streetlights light up the water as it breaks at the foot of the wall beyond the cottage. In the dark, it can look like there are people walking back and forth on the beach, in front of the lights, as the successive breakers don't reflect the light. The bay is lit up with the moonlight; I can see the land perfectly black, outlined by the water which is ever so slightly grey-silver. The lighthouse beam turns placidly, lighting up a path that seems to go from the slates on the roof outside the window all the way to Fidra. When I was little I always wondered what it would be like to walk along that path, how fast you'd have to run to get there before the light went out. If you went at the right time of year, the puffins would greet you with their raucous calls.

The moonlight didn't just light up the bay. There were streaks of cloud coming into view, silver against the rest of the sky. There was a ribbon of cloud that went right across the bay; an airoplane was flying into it. Above my head were three short, fattish sticks of cloud. As I watched, they were thinned out by the wind, two of them falling behind, until I could quite clearly see the Enterprise. I wondered how geeky that made me. I'd heard somewhere that no matter where you look, the Enterprise will always be somewhere in the sky. It's the natural state of clouds, apparently. I wasn't so sure about that latter bit; as for the former, I didn't have a habit of seeing Enterprises, so I couldn't comment. As I thought about the Enterprises, I heard the church clock on the highstreet beginning to strike ten.

The sound of the waves was beginning to make me thirsty. I realised I had left my bottle of water on the kitchen table, and thought idly about going downstairs to get it. I ought to be going to bed. I was preparing to close the window, when I heard the church bells again. This time they were much closer: evidently Blackadder's church had a bell too, although I hadn't heard it since I was a child, despite it being nextdoor-but-one. It stuck ten, fully two minutes behind the other one. Very like Blackadder, I thought. I did know (had had it explained to me when I was little) that Blackadder's kirk didn't belong to one Edmund Blackadder, but the association made in childhood had stuck irrevocably.

I got up to fetch my waterbottle, and tripped over the occasional table. This added to my theory that it did actually move around to trip me up when I wasn't looking. Idly plotting the table's demise, I left the room, closing the door behind me. Out in the bay, the light continued to turn, and the waves continued to break, while around the outskirts little people got on with their little lives.