Story - Missing you

 'Happy New Year Dave'

'Happy New Year to you too - but I'm not Dave.  Who are you?'

'Oops, sorry.  Must have written his number down wrong.  I'm Gerry.'

'No problem.  I'm Graham.  In Aberdeen.'

"Opposite end of the island.  St Ives.'

And so it began.  A mistyped digit, a series of texts, and two curious minds.  The first exchange didn't last long, but a couple of days later it turned out we both had a bit of time on our hands, and we started to question, answer, find out things.  At first it was just the usual chat - jobs, families, had we always lived there?  That sort of stuff.  Something clicked, no one defining moment, but a growing appreciation that we were on the same wavelength on so many subjects - music, art, TV, even politics (although it took a few months to get to that one...).

Gerry was thirteen years younger, so we were at slightly different points in our lives, but that never mattered.  There was always something to talk about, to discuss in detail.  Text gave way to Whatsapp, and emails.  Photos exchanged, plans discussed, we were in touch most days.

And confidences.  It turned out that both of us, independently of one another, had decided this relationship was something to keep to ourselves, a bit of life that was for us only.  We were both only children, so maybe that had a part in those decisions.  But I think it was a deeper, darker need in both our lives.  Sharing secrets doesn't come naturally to men, not with other men.  Especially not if it involves thoughts you're ashamed of.  Even to yourself.

It took over a year for me to ask Gerry if he was happy with his life.  Like, really happy.  We'd both moaned about work of course, and about our kids.  But I'd tried to hint at a bigger problem, one I hadn't shared with anyone else.  Was I being smart, and reading between the lines, or engaging in wish fulfilment, to think that my virtual pal was giving off similar clues?  Smart was the answer.  Both of us had unhappy marriages, both of us knew we wouldn't have the nerve to leave, both of us had kept going without confiding in anyone.  Face to face would have been impossible for our uptight natures, but a virtual pal was another matter.

Once the initial barrier had been cracked it allowed both to let go of those banged up feelings, resentments, fears, and push them across the anonymity of the internet to a fellow sufferer.    It brought us closer together, and ensured we never met.  Our talk of one day meeting up had always been in the hypothetical dimension of our friendship, we both knew we couldn't find an excuse to get away without owning up to our spouses, and that was never going to happen.   Now it wasn't what we wanted either, and talk of the real world dissolved.

I'd 'known' Gerry for almost ten years when he told me.  Told me before he told anyone else.   He had the big C.  Pancreatic.  Diagnosed way too late for much to be done.  He had six months, maybe a year.   Did he want to talk?  Like, really talk, using our actual voices?  It was a question that had never come up before.  But neither had death.

We did talk.  Twice.  Laughed at the accents, joked we couldn't understand, and, for once, avoided the truth.  Neither of us could cope with this when it was a clearly a real human being on the other end.  We returned to the virtual.

Together we went through his treatments, his agonies, his terrors and joys.  We laughed.  I cried.  He probably did too.

His messages became less frequent.  And, heartbreakingly, much funnier.  I made him laugh in return.  There was a gap of over a week.  Every day my anguish expanded, my dread got deeper.  How long did I have to give it before I could admit that he'd gone?  Really gone.

And then he wasn't.  He'd been rushed to hospital in the middle of the night, but they'd managed to stabilise him and he was back home.  Photos of Gerry in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, comprehensively tubed and wired, giving a thumbs up.  He was exhausted, but still going, stuck in bed, stuck at home, missing me during those long few days.  I wanted to ask, but couldn't.  So he old me anyway.  No, there was no way of knowing which of his messages to me would be his last.  That night had been a reminder of how quickly changes could happen.  So let's say our goodbyes now, because there would be nobody to tell me he'd gone.  So we did.

He was still 'with' me for another three weeks.  Then, once again, he wasn't.  Never was again.  It took me nearly four months to accept it, to try to jam that wee radio beacon of hope within me.  My wife... never asked.

I'm happy I wasn't Dave.  I'm happy I made a friend like no other I've had in my seventy one years of jumbled up existence.   I'm happy that we supported each other.  

We never met.  Never shook hands, never had a pint together, never sat on the sofa watching a game.  And I miss him.  I miss a man the rest of the world would think was a stranger to me.  I miss him more than I ever missed my parents, more than I ever missed my kids when they left home, more, probably, than I will miss my wife.  How can that be?  Life is communication.  Life is in words, emotions, sharing.  Gerry's gone.  He took so much of my life with him.

Story - I shall wear purple

 Once upon a time there were two kingdoms who were constantly at war with each other.  The wars were never about anything important, but the kings of both countries were always taking offence over silly things.  So they had the War of the Trampled Asparagus (which left a peculiar smell behind for weeks after), the War of Black Cats (it fizzled out because nobody wanted to cross the road), the War of One Hundred Beefsteaks (that was a particularly bloody war), the War of the Idle Tinker (more of a skirmish than an actual war), the War of the Martins (nobody could ever figure out if this had begun as a fight over birds or people with boring names), the Lost Columns War (quite a peaceful one in the end), and many, many more.

This went on for years and years and years, and the people of both countries were getting sick of it, what with their sons getting killed and their young women raped and the asparagus crops ruined.  But the kings kept finding reasons to attack one another, although they never did any of the fighting themselves.  Or went near to where fighting took place.  Or sent their sons into the fighting.  And they kept their women, and their vegetable patches, at a safe distance from the enemy.  

And so yet another war began, this time because one king accused the other (it doesn't really matter who was who) of deliberately displaying badly drawn cats, felines that looked full of evil, knowing full well that his opposite number's regal symbol was a pouncing tom.  And that, for those mad monarchs, was enough reason to send out the troops.  Again.  This war, which began life as the War of the Wicked Puss, would come to be the known as The War to end All Wars, and later as the Peace of the Gilberts.  And this is why.

I don't think I've told you yet, but the army of one side, let's call them the Northish Army, wore blue uniforms.  And the army of the other side, we'll refer to them as the Southish, wore red coats.  It was the Fourteenth of May in this long ago year, in a distant century, and there was a small battle taking pace, only about thirty on either side.  Neither side was really winning, but they weren't losing either.  Which suited most of them well, except for their stupid young officers, who still believed in daft notions like patriotism and glory.  As darkness was falling each officer commanded one of their men to sneak forward along the edge of the cliff and see if they could find out exactly where the enemy were, with a view to mounting a night time attack.  Each man set off, reluctantly, and cautiously edged forward, wondering how long they'd have to be away from their friends until they could turn back and say that at least they'd tried.  So neither was paying as much attention as he should to what was around him, and both got a big surprise when they found themselves face to face, barely a meter apart. There was just enough light from the moon for one to see that the fellow he'd encountered was wearing blue, and for the second to see red.  Both hoped the other would run away, but neither did.  Both hoped the other would say something, but neither did.  So, each at the same time, realised that this other man, was, according to customs of the time and the whims of their king, their enemy.

So they fought.  But without weapons, without conviction, and without any real desire to hurt their opponent.  They danced around one another for a few minutes, took the odd swing and missed, until the man in red tripped over a tussock, staggered into his adversary, and both found themselves falling over the edge of the cliff.  On the way down they were convinced that they were going to die, but luck was with them.  They fell into the huge wooden wash tub of the village that sat by the beach.  The washing had long since been done, but the soapy water, still surprisingly warm, remained, and it was deep enough to break their fall so that they didn't break any bones, but each took a blow to the head and fell unconscious immediately.  Luck was even more in evidence, because they both finished sitting in the water, with their faces just clear enough so they wouldn't drown.

They came to in the morning when one of the women of the village found them there in the suds and splashed some water into their faces to see if they were alive.  Spluttering, sore and surprised, they looked at the woman, looked at each other, and gave big sighs of wonderment that the luck I mentioned had spared them.  Both wanted to laugh, but found that it hurt too much.  But they couldn't help themselves when they eventually emerged from the tub.  A night spent in frothy cleanser had leached the dye from their jackets, the colours mixing in the water, and their clothing had both taken on the new hue.  A fetching shade of light purple.

They agreed that this clearly indicated they were on the same side now (even more so when each discovered the other's name was Gilbert) and that they should become friends - and their kings and officers could go hang if they didn't like it.  The woman said how lovely it was to watch them seeing sense and didn't they know that that was how all the people, in both kingdoms, felt about these stupid wars?  And if they could become friends like that couldn't they persuade their fellow soldiers to do the same?  They both saw the sense this woman talked, so they came up with a plan.

Each went back to his platoon and led them forward along the cliff, saying this was the best route to spring a surprise on the enemy.  They'd arranged to meet near the place of their encounter the night before.  When the two groups came upon one another the Gilberts sprang into the middle and said they were friends now, because they both wore the same colour, and wouldn't it be good if everyone did the same?  All the men agreed, except the stupid officers, so they were grabbed and thrown over the cliff at almost the exact same spot as the fall the night before.  Everyone heard a big splash.  The Gilberts told the other men to take off their coats and throw them over the cliff too, then they led the way down to the little village.

When they got to the beach they found the two officers dead.  That 'almost' had been enough.  Nobody was upset about this as the young men had been truly horrible.  They also found their coats in the big sudsy tub, being worked hard by the woman and her friends.  The women told them the job would take a few hours, but if they went round the corner there was a party waiting for them, with food and drink and music and dancing.  A Peace Party they said.

It was a wild party. The men had a wonderful time, and slept the night away in an exhausted stupor.  When they woke they found that their coats were now dry, and were all the same shade of purple as the two Gilberts.  Keeping together they went from one of bit one army to another, spreading their message of peace to both sides, and all the soldiers turned on their stupid officers and wanted their coats dyed purple.  The people rejoiced to see the war ending this way, the kings fumed and shouted, but had to run away for fear the people would turn on them, and both countries became republics and signed a hundred year treaty to be allies and collaborators in progress.  

And that, children, is why every Sixteenth of May is Wear Purple for Peace Day, and why I dress up like the Emperor Nero.

Story - Fly me to the...

 "Police have identified the man as 78 year old Arthur Macauley from Cardoon, and remain uncertain about the events which led to his death on the rocks at Marris Bay.  Mr Macauley lived alone and has no known family.  Neighbours say he kept himself to himself and was seen as a harmless eccentric by the local community."

Arthur danced around the workshop, a weird raggedy dance of flailing limbs and uncoordinated joy.  Forty six years it taken him, but he'd done it.  Forty six years of stupidity, genius, frustration, achievement, tears of anger, tears of joy, dedication, resignation, imagination, repetition, success and failure and, finally, success.  Four and half decades of a life given over to one aim.  And just when you think time must be running out...

His mother had died when he was a lad, and he became close to his father, near idolised him. The old man was a bit of an inventor, a bit of an entrepreneur, a bit of everything really, and he encouraged his son to be likewise.  So in the sixties Arthur had come up with a few ideas for some electronic gadgets that had made him a decent sum of money.  When his father died suddenly, and totally unexpectedly, Arthur was only 32, and withdrew into himself.  Left with the big house, it's spacious workshop, and more than enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, he gave up his business life, gave up on his few friends, and set about finding himself a purpose.  He already had a good idea where he might find it.

In the early days of his tinkering about, Arthur noticed something that had played on his mind ever since.  He'd accidentally dropped a small battery powered torch into a box that contained a new kind of generator he was working on, was briefly distracted by his assistant, and forgot to remove it when he went back to his experiment.   When the new machine was switched on, and bombarded with radio waves, the torch suddenly appeared from the top of the box, apparently floating free of gravity.  Arthur was astonished and tried quickly to recreate  the phenomenon, but couldn't get it to work.  He returned to the task in hand, and the resulting product turned out to be one of his biggest money spinners.  But he could never get the torch, or any other object, to lift again, and didn't have the time he needed to pursue it.

Until he found himself without his mentor, and feeling adrift from humanity, but with time and money and a need for goal for his life.  If he could figure out how that torch had risen and learn how to make it happen at will, he would have discovered something that would see him immortalised.  Levitation, anti-gravity, call it whatever, but here was a phantom worth pursuing, a potential boon to a world he had disconnected himself from.

He set to work, and work, and work.  Failure after failure, but he never let the setbacks deflect him from his lifework.  It took more than thirty years, but eventually he got another torch to rise.  He still didn't understand it, but he could at last dispel the inner doubts that tried to convince him that the original event had been a mirage.  Another six years for him to be able to grasp the basic concepts involved and get the experiment to work every time.  And now another seven had passed and he'd finally perfected a device that could rise, not from the laboratory conditions of a protected box, but from an open surface, and with enough power to lift the spanner he'd chosen as his trial object.  The dance been long in coming.

It took a further 2 years of building ever larger and larger lifters before he was able to reach for the ultimate prize - a machine that could lift a man from the ground and respond to his instructions.   False dawns abounded.  His body wasn't what it once was, so it was harder to bring the necessary steadiness and concentration to bear.  But one day his contraption carried him half a metre into the air, went forward three metres, and set him back down again without too much of a thump.  And he knew that this time he was close.

The flights within the workshop, got a bit higher, a bit longer, a bit more controllable, until he reached the point where there was no longer enough space.  He would have to take the biggest leap so far and venture outside.  Not yet ready to go public - he demanded perfection of himself before that could ever happen - he thought about how best to avoid unwanted eyes.

His nearest neighbours were over four hundred metres away so there was ample privacy for him to undertake some short hops.  The lifter emitted little noise, but plenty of light, so it would have be in daylight hours, preferably in bright sunshine.  He became more attentive to the weather forecasts.

On clear days dawn flights became his routine.  He reached a height above the top of the workshop roof, he flew the whole length of the building.  Further adjustments, new refinements, and he was able to make a circuit of the walls from which his innovation had emerged.  Then over his home, then several figure of eights around house and workshop.  He felt close to being ready to go public, but wanted one more test flight, somewhere beyond the safety of his own property.  The flightpath to the cliffs, some kilometre and a half away, need not cross directly over any other homes if he planned his route carefully.  He went back to his weather studies.

The morning arrived, he set off at five thirty, the light not yet strong, but more than enough to navigate by.  Takeoff went smoothly, he rose to a level that took him well clear of the treeline, and followed a zigzag course to the coast.  He had never know such exhilaration.

He should have known.  He did know, but should have remembered.  If he stayed above the land there wouldn't have been a problem.  But joy is a powerful drug, overcoming sense with ease.  He let his judgement falter in the moment, allowed himself to drift beyond the cliff edge.  The effective change in altitude cancelled out the anti-grav and he was falling before he could make any adjustments to his controls.  His final thought, "they never knew...".

"Following the recent unexplained death of Arthur Macauley, investigators have discovered a collection of unusual machines and devices in the large workshop adjacent to the deceased's home.  So far nobody has been able to figure out their function, but they have evidently been manufactured by Mr Macauley himself, probably over a period of several decades.  Police would like to hear from anyone who has any knowledge of these discoveries, or what Mr Macauley was trying to achieve."

Story - Yellow Coat

 I will never forget her face.

It had been a good, productive, morning.  I'd woken around six thirty, coffee and toast and straight to my desk.  Near enough the whole of chapter eight flowed out on to the screen in the hours to midday.  When I returned I'd go back to it and do some editing, sort out the closing paragraphs where there was a still a decision to be made, and that would be a decent day's work done.  I had a microwaved potato with some beans and cheese, and set off to walk along the front to the old abbey.

Writing, for me, is a matter of habit, of settling into a comfy routine.  I'd moved into the cottage three weeks ago and quickly established the pattern of my days.  Sleep, write, eat, walk, read, eat, write, read, sleep.  Simple, predictable, soothing, with the bagginess I needed for thinking time, contemplation.  I'd brought about a month's worth of supplies with me so I didn't even need to head into the village.  My walk took me in the opposite direction, heading west along the coast.  

I found that walk on the second day and had stuck with the same route ever since.  It exercised my body, stimulated my senses, raised questions in my mind.  And kept me away from others.  Down the hill from the cottage, a mile along the dune-shaped coastal pathway, then the climb up to the cliff and along to the fourteenth century ruin that marked my turning point.  The way back invariably into the wind and spray, and frequent rain squalls, coming in off the North Sea, ensuring I returned glowing, tingling, breathless, ready.  Every day the light was different, rolling shadows of cloud across the battered land and bruised waters, sending down shafts to highlight different details of my journey - a stunted tree, a rock the size and shape of a JCB, and, most memorably, a seal observing my progress from the whitecaps.  The abbey would be bright and welcoming, or dark and apprehensive, or shady and mysterious in the haar.  Best of all I saw nobody.  Except my silkie.

Until that day.  I was on my way back, in the sandy undulations before my final climb, so I didn't see her until we were about a hundred metres apart.  Then I couldn't miss her.  A mustard yellow waterproof, hood up, above blue jeans and daffodil wellies.   Her head was down, invisible at first, like she was treading carefully, unfamiliar with her route.  My hermitting instincts had me think of climbing to my right and concealing myself in the long beachgrass, but a writer's curiosity won out, and I kept to the trail.  

She briefly vanished from sight as we both stepped down into dips in the path, so that when she first saw me we were only a few metres apart.  She stopped, and I had a chance to see her close up.  About thirty five I thought.  From beneath the hood strands of brown hair wisped in the breeze, giving her face an uncertain and constantly shifting shape.  Pale white skin, a hint of pink in her cheeks, no makeup I could see, the nose straight and narrow above a wide tight mouth.  Her indeterminate eyes seemed to see and not see me at the same time.  Not a memorable face.  But the look she gave me - that was memorable.  That was unforgettable.  A desolate, uninhabited look.  No trace of fear, no sense of acknowledgement, I felt like a tree to be circumnavigated.  

I said Hi, the limit of my social skills at the time, but she just put her head back down and walked past me, shoulders scrunched up to make herself as narrow as possible, to avoid any possibility of contact.  For a few moments I watched her luminous back, and then the dunes took her from me.  I returned to my isolated home, turning over the incident in my mind and wondering where she might fit into my plot.

The following evening I was going over my morning's work when I heard a car approach, doors slam shut, boots on the gravel outside, and the inevitable knock on my door.  Even with all that time to prepare it still felt like a startling intrusion on my existence.  I opened up to find Little and Large, two women police officers.  Little spoke.

"Good evening sir, sorry to bother you, but we're making some enquiries about a woman who's gone missing and just wanted to ask you a few questions.  Mind if we come in for a minute?"

I let them in, saw them take in the state of the place.

"I'm a writer.  Keeping myself to myself while I get on with my work, so I don't see much."

"No problem sir, we won't take up much of your time."  She looked at her pal and went on.  "Can you tell me your name please, and where you're from?"

"Donald Ramsay, I'm up from Edinburgh, looking for a bit of isolation to work in."  I wondered if the name would generate any recognition, but nothing doing.  

"We're trying to trace the movements of a woman who we've got reason to be concerned about.  Is that your coat sir?"  She pointed at my brown stockman's coat, hanging on the back of the door, ready for the morn.  

"Well, yes, of course.  You need something long and dry around here."

"Indeed sir.  Were you out wearing it yesterday?"

"Yes, I go along towards the abbey every afternoon."

"And did you see anyone while you were out?"  She sounded slightly impatient now.

"Yes, a woman.  First person I've seen in the three weeks I've been going that way."  I paused, but their faces indicated they wanted more.  "Woman, mid thirties I'd guess, yellow coat and wellies, blue jeans.  Looked a bit... empty."

"Empty?  That's a strange word to use sir."

"Vacant.  As if there was nobody home.  Empty.  I can't think of another way to put it."

"Where was this sir, and can you recall the time?"

"Down on the path through the dunes."  I waved my arm vaguely in the relevant direction. "Must have been about four by then, I was nearly home."

"And did she say anything?"

"No.  Not a word.  I think I said Hi, you know, just trying to be sort of neighbourly, but I'm not sure she even heard.  Ignored me and went on with her walk.  Because of the dunes I wasn't able to see her for long."

"And did you go out that way again today?"

"Yes, same route, pretty much the same time.  It's become my routine."

"Didn't see anything different today?"

"There was a beam of light from the clouds that lit up the wee island about a mile out from the cliffs, and the abbey seemed even more foreboding than usual, and..."  I trailed off, their faces clearly indicating this wasn't the sort of 'different' they were interested in.  "But no, not really, nothing that would help you."

"Did you go into the abbey today?"

"No, not this time, like I said it was really dark and gloomy, so I went round the outside and then headed back.  Why d'you ask?"

"A note was found there, tucked into a gap in the stone bowl near the middle.  It mentioned a man in a brown drover's coat.  We believe it was written by the woman we're looking for."

"Are you able to tell me what it said?"

"Just thanks for saying hello to her, and that she wished she'd talked to you.  You looked different to the others."

"Others?"

"We're not yet clear what she meant by that.  Is there anything else you can tell us about the incident?"

"Em, not really, I think that's it.  I saw her walk towards me, although I got the feeling she hadn't seen me.  We both stopped when we got close and she looked at me, but still as if she hadn't really seen me.  I said something and she put her head down and went on, seemed careful not to come near me.  Then she was gone and that was it."

"OK sir, thanks for your help, that's been really useful."  She didn't sound convincing.  "We'll be off now.  Please ring this number if you can think of anything else that might be of assistance."  She handed me a card.  PC Jean Muirhouse.

"Thank you PC Muirhouse."

She nodded.  Large nodded.  And they let themselves out.  I watched them get into their car and drive away.  Nobody waved.

A week later I walked into the village to top up my supplies.  Shuffled round McKenzie's General Store piling up my needs and wants for another three or four weeks, and hauled it up to the counter.  Mr McKenzie (I assumed) had greeted me when I came in, but saved the interrogation until he had me captive, waiting on his adding up.

"You'll be the man in Dougie Rae's cottage then?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"The man Jeannie was wanting to talk to?"  I raised my eyebrows.  "PC Muirhouse you'd be knowing her as.  She was wondering who had the coat" he said, nodding at my garment.  

"Yes, she came to see me.  I couldn't really help her much."

"Had you not seen our Mary then?"  

"The woman in the yellow raincoat?"

"That would be the one.  Mary McCallum."

"Only very briefly.  We didn't talk."

"No, well, she wasn't saying that much lately, and I suppose she won't be again.  It's a sad way to go though."

"Go?  She's not coming back?"  If he was going to quiz me I might as well see if there was a story in it.

"You'd not heard?"  I shook my head.  "She was found washed up on the shore on Saturday, along at Redcrags Bay."  It was Thursday now, I'd seen her on a Wednesday, so she was found three days after I'd seen her.  What had happened to her, what had she done?  And could I...?

"Where's Redcrags?"

"A couple of miles along from the old abbey.  Not easy to get to.  She was spotted by Jamie from the boat.  You don't see many seals wearing yellow, do you?"  I hadn't been along that far, but I knew I would be tomorrow.  

"She was a local here?"  

He paused and looked around before replying.

"Yes, I suppose.  I suppose she was.  Sort of.  But not really one of us, if you know what I mean."

"Not really.  I mean, I'm not one of you either, so I'm not sure what you're getting at."

Another pause, another look towards the door to the back of the shop.  Clearly considering how much to give away to an outsider.

"She'd been born here right enough.  Grew up a bit wild, went as soon as she could, over to Aberdeen we think."  

I gave him an encouraging look and he started up again.

"Poor Greta."  Another pause.  "Her mother, Greta McCallum.  Fine woman, did her best, widow.  Didn't deserve a bairn like Mary.  Fair broke her heart, eh?.  Died a couple of years back.  We all miss her.  All of us."

He drew to a close again, but I wasn't going to stop there.

"So Mary came back to her?"

He looked surprised.

"To her?  No, she'd never have done that.  Not Mary.  Poor Greta."

It was going to be a slow process.

"So Mary didn't get to see her mum before she died?"

"See her?"  A sudden look of anger flashed across his face.  "See her?  No, she wouldn't bloody see her.  Didn't come near until the poor woman was buried.  Not even home for the funeral.  But she was quick enough to take up Greta's place, free home for her.  Just moved in without a word to anyone.  Besom."

"She wasn't well liked here then?"

"Well liked?  She wasn't even badly liked.  Ignoring our Greta all those years, doing whatever she was doing.  There was a lot of anger in the village, can you understand that Mr...?"

"Ramsay."

"Mr Ramsay.  Can you understand that?  Ignoring her mother all those years, never a word after she left, then moving back in like that as if she owned the place.  Which she did it seems, but all the same.  Nobody had any time for her.  I wasn't going to serve her, that's for sure.  Got all her stuff delivered from somewhere and I don't miss the money."  His tone was fierce.  He stopped and recomposed his expression as he remembered he was speaking about a dead woman.  "I'll just add this lot up for you."

I paid my money over, asked if he could call me a taxi back to the cottage with my load of supplies.  He turned to the storeroom door and called out.

"Rab!  Man here wanting a taxi up to Dougie's place."  A small red haired man emerged, grabbed a load of my stuff from the counter, gave me a quick cock of the head to follow, and silently went out through the back room.  I lifted, carried and followed.  A Nissan awaited.  My stuff went in the boot, I went in the back seat and avoided looking at his mirror.  One questioning session was enough, and I guessed he'd been listening anyway.  

When we got to the cottage he finally spoke.  "I'll give you a hand in with this lot."  And he did.  As he was leaving he turned and looked at me, looked at the messy room, looked back at me.  "Did you speak to her?"  I knew exactly who he meant.

"Not really.  Said Hi, but she ignored me."

"Aye.  She would.  But at least you said more than the rest of us."  And he walked back to his car before I could think of a reply.  Maybe it was best that I didn't get a chance.

All I'd said was Hi.  I will never forget her face.

Story - Neighbours

When did you stop believing Santa Claus?

I was nearing thirteen, but I was always a bit of a gullible child.  And the world was different back in the sixties.  My own kids would have been about ten or eleven, although I think my son was just pretending for a couple of years so his wee sister didn't know.  Not for her sake, but so he could take the piss out of her with his pals.

Nowadays they learn early.  A few days after Xmas I was coming up to my front door just as the woman next door emerged with her kids.  The boy's about five and had a shiny new bike in his hands.

"That's a lovely bike, did Santa bring you that?"  He looked at his sister who nodded fiercely, then turned back to me with solemn visage.

"My Mum and Dad gave me it.  There is no Santa."  It sounded rehearsed.  His mum shrugged at me with a 'what can you say?' look.  And off they went.

But they stayed with me when I went inside, and I could imagine what had happened.  The girl, she's about seven, had made a discovery.  Maybe it was under the bed, or in a cupboard she wouldn't normally go into.  These flats aren't all that big, so there's only so many hiding spaces.  She checks her mother is busy, seeks out her brother, hand over his mouth, swears (threatens) him to silence, and takes him to see the stash.  He turns back to her, wide eyed, curious.

"Has Santa been already?"

"No stupid, Mum and Dad put it here, there is no Santa.  They just pretend.  I heard someone say it at school, and this means they were right.  We'll keep quiet about it, OK, and then see what they say on Xmas day?  Right?"  He knew better than to question when she said like that.

I felt a little bit sorry for him.

I'd been knitting little animals for my grandkids, each one to contain a mini easter egg.  A couple of chickens, a rabbit, a bear.  Cute, personal, a bit different.  I'd even done the bear in the colours of a favourite football team.  They were fun to do so I thought who else might like them, and I remembered the little sceptic next door.  Another chicken, another rabbit quickly emerged from my needles.  Chocolate covered goo inside, wrapping paper applied, and into a small brightly coloured bag I'd found in my hoard.   A gift card saying "Happy Easter from the Leith Easter Bunny".  Last thing before bed I put the bag on their doorstep, left my creations to their fate.

The next day the bag was gone.  That afternoon a post came up on the community Facebook page, mother and kids smiling, wooly figures in hand, caption saying thanks to the Easter Bunny.

And that was that.  Except in my head.  I could see the surprise when mum opened the door.  Looking round to see if anyone was lurking, watching.  The kids puzzled, wondering, watching as the bag is brought in.  Who's it from, who's it for?  Mum reads the gift tag.

"I think this is for you two."  Hands it over and the girl digs in, pulls out a pair of small colourful packages, weighs each up before handing one to her brother.  They tear the paper off, examine the contents, pleasure and puzzlement playing across faces, querying this unexpected start to their day.

"You did this?" says the girl, half questioning, half accusing.  The mother shakes her head.

"Nothing to do with me.  Look, see how different the handwriting is, showing shopping list alongside the card.  I'm as surprised as you are."  The girl reads her parent's face, sees genuine confusion.  "It must have been the Easter Bunny, like it says."

Girl and boy look at each other.  The boy nods, already convinced.  She's... almost there, wants to believe, doesn't know what else there is.  Then mum's getting the photo set up and she's swept along with it all.

They don't believe in Santa Claus.  But the Easter Bunny?  She's still out there, somewhere between doubt and belief and the streets of Leith.

Story - Collection

One final wipe and it went into the cabinet, with the small red card so carefully prepared.  That made ten.  He had no idea how many more he might add to the collection, but he'd felt no inclination to stop yet.  Every new one added to the memories.

Of course the first three meant far more than any of the others, the very first one the most of all, but continuing the collection meant continuing the connection.  Every means of keeping that connection alive felt worthwhile pursuing.  And, if he was honest with himself, he got a bit of a thrill for the risk he took each time.  She'd liked that.

The first had come from a fancy gastropub in Scarborough, where they'd gone for a romantic weeknd.  Drinking their G&Ts, she'd talked about how lovely the glasses were.  Shapely semi-opaque goblets with the crest of the hotel engraved on the side of the bowl.  He'd never done anything like it before.  But somehow he managed it without anyone noticing.  She was shocked and delighted when he revealed it on their return to their room, baffled at how he'd kept the secret, even from her.  Her joy in this unexpected 'gift', and the adrenaline he'd fed on from a volatile mix of fear, excitement and achievement, gave their lovemaking an extra frisson that night.

He was able to surprise her twice more, with attractive gin glasses lifted from the a posh restaurant in town they'd never been to before and doubted they'd ever afford again, and the circle bar of the Grand Theatre.  Both times she was shocked, charmed, thrilled at his audacity and devotion.  They had always been a quiet couple, safe and predictable, and this new found facet to his behaviour, and the hint of the illicit it brought to their relationship, added a spark to their existence.  She'd look at the glasses in the cabinet and be reminded that he wasn't quite the man she'd married, that he was a man of unexpected secrets and abilities.  

And then she was gone.  Throat cancer.  Three brutally short months.  One devastated husband left to mourn, to remember, to live a half empty life.  Tonic without the gin.

Six months later and he was in another bar in another theatre, on his own.  Nice glass.  She'd have liked that glass, he thought.  He drank his drink and, without conscious thought, had it concealed and on it's way to join the trio behind the glass at home.  He found himself lost in the joy of imagination, of her pretend disapproval, the light in her eyes, the buzz in his being.  The memories rekindled.  It was one way to bring her back, maybe the only way..

Now there were half a dozen more.  Every time his drink came in a glass she'd have loved.  He'd started going places for drinks just to see what glasses they came in.  Collection.  Obsession.  Love.  His triangle of risk, and a reason to keep on going.

Story - You Shall Go to the Film

"Martin!"  Martin's head appeared round the side of a shelving unit.  "Get your mop.  Aisle sixteen.  Now!"  The Floor Manager walked back out before he got an answer.  Martin was already busy, unloading a pallet onto the warehouse shelves, and the Warehouse Manager would be furious with him if he stopped.  And the Floor Manager would be furious with him if he didn't.  But Martin was used to people getting angry with him, he well knew how annoying he was. He thought about asking someone what he should do, but there was nobody around, and the aisle spillage might be dangerous to customers, so he decided he should go and do that.  And he did.

He was right.  There was glass and slippy liquids all over the floor and there could have been a nasty accident, maybe even for a child.  Martin was pleased with his choice.  But he received no thanks from anyone out front, just told three times to hurry up and get it all cleared.  And he got the bollocking he expected when he got back to his pallet.  But he still thought he'd done the right thing.

Fifteen seconds after the Warehouse Manager's tirade ended the tannoy sounded.

"Martin Keele to the manager's office immediately."  Martin looked at his gloomy boss, who glowered even more darkly and turned his back, strode off.  He took that to mean 'yes, OK', so he headed up to see the shop manager.  He'd never even been in there before, never had the call, so his mind fizzed over with possible explanations, but he didn't think it was another bollocking.  The big boss would hardly know who he was, and would think him too unimportant to waste time shouting at - there were plenty of others able to do it for him.

"Aah, Martin, come in, come in.   Take a seat." 

A seat?  Martin readied himself for further surprises.  "You know that SupaSava runs a monthly competition for staff with ll kinds of different prizes?"  Martin nodded, he'd heard about it in his basic training, and knew somebody who knew somebody in another shop who knew somebody who'd actually won it once, and got tickets for a play.  "Well it turns out that May's winner is here.  As in people from this shop."

The shop manager paused, looked closely at his most junior member of staff.  Martin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.  

"Do you like the cinema Martin?"

"Oh yeah Mr Smart, I go every week."  He wondered if he'd won a couple of film tickets, which would be so much better than having to go to a boring play.  The manager stifled an uncertain cough.

"Well we've been given ten tickets to the premiere of Caught in the Headlights at Leicester Square on the twelfth, next Wednesday.  I've been asked to choose six of the people to go, and head office have told me the other four names, presumably chosen at random from a a staff list.  And you are, em, you are one of those four.  Now you don't have to go if you don't want to, because you'll be representing the store, indeed the company, so it might seem like a lot of pressure to you.  Anyway you might already be busy next week.  Are you?" he ended hopefully.

But Martin was already visualising the red carpet, and who'd be on it.  He knew about Caught in the Headlights, knew it starred Keara Blakely, and knew she'd be going to Leicester Square.  Martin was a long time fan of Ms Blakely.

"No sir, not busy at all sir, and I don't think I'd feel any pressure and it would be great to go and I really like, like really like, Keara Blakely.  So yes, I'll go, I'll go if that's what they want me to do, happy to go sir.  Very happy."  Martin beamed appropriately, looked a couple of centimetres taller.  

"OK then.  OK."  The manager paused again.  "I'll see to it you get your tickets and all the arrangements and, er, have a nice time Martin."

"Thank you Mr Smart"

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When the details arrived it turned out there was a bit more to it than just a film ticket.  First Martin would have to go Tanmores, Gentleman's Outfitters, for his black tie outfit.  He'd never worn a dinner jacket before, let alone a bow tie.  When he saw himself in the mirror he remained wordless for thirty seconds, baffled at the transformation.  He didn't look like that in his anorak.  The shop assistant was relieved when Martin finally uttered a few words, worried that he'd done something to upset his customer.  Then he saw the grin, the sparkle in the eyes, and could share the happiness.

A couple of stretch limos took Martin and his co-workers to the film theatre.  Not that the others paid much attention to him, embarrassed by his resemblance to a manically giggling penguin.  At the theatre they weren't going to be watching the red carpet.  They went in walking along it, just as expectant crowds of fans were beginning to gather, and were shown into a large room where free drinks and a buffet were on offer.  While his colleagues drank champagne Martin sought out the mini sausage rolls, before disappointedly settling for venison tartlets and quails eggs.  

They were taken in to the theatre, shown to seats in the second row, listened to the opening speeches, Martin watching every move, following every word, of Keara Blakely, the star of the show.  He watched the film, he loved the film, thought it was the second best thing Keara had ever done, and he'd seen them all.  Martin was enjoying himself.

Back to the big reception room, but this time with cast and crew mingling with the guests.  Martin took a glass of something to blend in, but didn't drink, didn't talk.  He watched.  He watched the actors, he watched the director and writer and producers and director of photography and the CGI woman and the makeup guy and most of the time he watched Keara.  He was happy watching.

"Martin."  No answer.  "Martin!"  A tug on his DJ sleeve made him listen.  It was Mr Marchant, the Produce Manager who'd made himself de facto leader of their dectet, dragging him off to gather with the others.  They'd been asked to meet a few people as a group, the lucky prizewinners who'd been allowed into this world as outsiders.  "Just leave the talking to me" said Marchant.  A few grumbles in response, but nobody was brave enough to object.

First came the producers, then the director and some of the techies, and finally the actors.  Marchant did their talking for them, looked sharply at Christine Graham when she tried to engage the director, coughed loudly when Peter Simkins asked the CGI woman a tech question.  Finally the lead actors, Else Kruger, Alan Cresswell, and Keara Blakely herself.  

"We all loved the film and thought you gave your finest performances to date." Else and Alan shone their teeth and said their thanks, dying slightly inside at the blandness of these people. Keara was about to add something when Martin spoke out.

"I do agree they were all great performances, and that's definitely the best I've seen from you Alan. But I think your Gabrielle in The Backstreets of Genoa is still your most powerful role," he said, nodding at Else, "and Keara, I still prefer you in Grime Street, that was a stunning piece of acting, especially the warehouse scene, but I'm sure you'll surpass it one day. Headlights' writing doesn't really provide you with the chance to reveal those depths of emotion, does it?"

Marchant jumped in, horrified at Martin's presumption. "I'm sure Ms Blakely doesn't want to be bothered with your views, so maybe we'll let her get back to some of the important people, eh?”

But Keara had years of experience ignoring men who thought they could tell her what to do. "Not at all Mr... Thingummy. It's good to hear from someone who doesn't just tell me what they imagine I want to hear. You've no idea how tedious it is hearing the same banalities over and over," as she gave him the look that had turned back an army in Erica Johnson, "and nobody's more important than a real film fan," turning back to Martin. "So is Grime Street your favourite of mine?"

"No, but I think that's your best performance, though it’s a shame that Randall as the baddie felt miscast, and there were a couple of plot holes that spoiled the flow of the storyline. The Dreaming Sea is my favourite. Not just strong acting, but one of the most perfect soundtracks, and some stunning cinematography, especially the undersea stuff. I know your role was comparatively minor, but your character's revelations on the island were such a critical pivot in shifting our sympathies from Farrell to Krechov."

"You're right, and it was a joy to be directed by Jean Stillwell, I hope I get to work with her again one day."

And that was that. The other two actors drifted away. The SupaSava group drifted away, even Marchant realising that he wasn't going to be able to override Keara Blakely. Martin chatted happily, so absorbed in the film world that it never occurred to him that if you'd told him beforehand that he'd be chatting with his favourite actor for over an hour he'd have been petrified. Keara chatted happily, relieved to find a young man who loved movies, talked movies, knew movies, and didn't stare at her with the eyes of a sick puppy.

"I think I need a drink. D'you want one?"

"I'm fine thanks, but..."

"OK. Stay there. Don't move. I'll be back in five." And Keara was off into the sparkling crowd, leaving Martin to realise what he'd been doing for the previous seventy minutes. It had been as easy for him as it was hard to believe now.

"Jeez, you're still here Martin. Come on, we've got to go now, the cars are waiting and Marchant's fuming, saying he'll leave you behind if you're not there quick." Peter grabbed Martin by the arm and hustled him across the floor and up the broad wine-carpeted stairs to the main entrance. Keara returned to no Martin, saw him being manhandled out, plonked her drink into the hands of the nearest penguin, and ran after them. As she reached the foot of the stairs she looked up and saw Martin stagger, grab at his ear, and disappear like a child being pulled in by a particularly clumsy octopus. Something tiny object flashed in the light, fell to the carpet.

By the time she reached the top they were gone, and she reluctantly made her way back into the reception. A metallic glimmer on the second step down caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. A stud earring, shaped like a tiny wave of surf. She remembered seeing it before.

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Caught in the Headlights proved to be big box office. After the Leicester Square launch Keara Blakely had one night at home and then four months doing the rounds. The Canadian premiere, the Australian premiere, the US premiere. Festivals, celebrations, public appearances, thirty eight red carpets (she counted every one). Flashlights, spotlights, crowds, politicians, directors, journalists, one to ones, one to manys, interviews, charity dinners, TV and radio and bloggers and vloggers. Flight after flight, hotel after hotel. It felt good to come home.

Home to relax. She was exhausted. Happy, yes. Thrilled by how well the film, and her own performance, had been received.    But tired of the fawning, and entirely fake adulation, of the smiling and chatting with people she didn't know and would never see again, of the interviewers who understood so little about filming, of the desperate desire she saw lasered at her from so many eyes.  She wanted honesty, and some understanding.  Old friends and family played their part, but none of them had any real love for cinema.  Her secretary, Simon, was efficient and effective, but reticent to speak his mind, and even if he did would it have been worth hearing?  She missed... something.

She'd been home a couple of days, slutting her way through the hours, and looking for the key to the drawer in the old kitchen table where she kept her 'for my eyes only' stuff. It turned up in the bowl in her study, along with a tiny wave shaped stud. Which took her back to Leicester Square, one of the most absorbing conversations she'd had in years, and a man being rushed out of the building as if he was about to turn into a pumpkin or something. She never did learn his name, but hadn't he been part of some work group who'd won a prize?

One call and she had the name SupaSava, and the location of the shop the party had come from. She could get someone to sort it out for her, but a weird idea was groping it's way into her brain, like a particularly determined octopus.

The next morning she was on the road and heading for a town she'd never been to before, looking for a supermarket she'd never shopped in before. Parked up, went in, asked if she could speak to the manager. Smart didn't recognise her immediately, but went into full fawning mode when he realised. At least it made him helpful.

"I'm looking for one of the men who came to the movie premiere back in April. Didn't get his name, but I have something I think is his, and I'd like to meet him again. It's not often I get to meet so knowledgeable and interesting a fan."

"Oh certainly, certainly, let me just bring up the list of names. What age would you say he was?"

"About twenty five maybe? Twenty six? Something like that."

OK, I have four here who'd fit, but I think we can rule out a couple of them. Let me call up the others." Smart got the call out for Ben Crighton and Gerry Crimmin, and they duly obeyed their way to his office. Keara shook her head. She'd didn't recall either of them. What about the other two?

"That would have to be Peter then. Knowledgeable and interesting aren't the adjectives that would normally spring to mind, but perhaps he has hidden depths I've yet to see" Smart said with forced jocularity.

"And what about the fourth man? Couldn't have hidden depths as well?"

"Martin? Oh, I really don't think so, I really don't. What you see is what you get with Martin."

Peter Simpkins came into the office.

"Oh it's you." Smart's face mixed surprise with relief at Keara's words. And fell sour again when she said "You're the one who dragged him up the stairs, aren't you? Took him away from me when we really just getting going. Is he around?"

Smart cut Peter off before he had a chance to reply. "I don't think Martin is in today, but I really don't think he's the one you're looking for."  

Keara went up to Peter, looked directly at him and asked "Have you seen Martin today?"  He opened his mouth, looked at Smart, closed his mouth, opened it again and still no sound emerged.  Peter looked like he was wishing he wasn't there.

"I'll take that as yes.  Would you call him please Mr Smart" the 'Mister' given full thespian significance, "or should I go out and have a look, maybe ask around?"  The manager did as he was told.

Martin went up to the office, as puzzled at receiving the order as he had been all those months before.  And surprised to find that sitting in front of the big boss was his favourite actor. Keara got up and came towards him. 

"Hello Martin, it's good to see you again , it's a shame some people made it so difficult."  Smart looked at the screen on his desk.  "I think I've got something of yours."  And she handed him the tiny wave.

Martin looked at the shiny stud in his hand and smiled warmly at the person who'd come all this way to hand it over.  "I wondered where I'd lost it.  I got it to remind me of..."

"...The Dreaming Sea" they said together, and laughed.

"What time do you finish work today?"

"Six."

"Would you be able to have dinner with me after that?  There's something I'd like to ask you.  And we never got to finish off our conversation at the premiere properly."

"Yeah, sure, that would be, em, really good.  There was still so much I wanted to say and ask and, you know..."  He'd seen Smart looking at him.  

"Right, I'll be back here then.  If I'm not there by the door look out for a blue Audi in the car park.  See you then."  She turned.  "Thank you Mister Smart, it's been good to find someone so knowledgeable and interesting in your shop."  She grinned at the confused Martin and left the office.  Smart barked "Get out.", and Martin followed rapidly.

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Martin asked if he could go up to the manager's office the following morning.  Where he presented Smart with his notice.  "I think with the leave I'm due that means I finish on the sixteenth?  Will somebody check that for me?  I hope so, because Keara's expecting me to start my new job on the nineteenth, and I've got to get myself moved to London by then."

"HR will be in touch.  What happened Martin?"

"I got a better offer sir.  A much much better offer.  I think my fairy godmother must have been looking out for me or something."  

Smart never saw Martin again.