Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Short S. > Once in a Lifetime
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1349 guests online and 2 members online |
Shorts
| print friendly version | |
| Once in a Lifetime | |
| By Robert | ||||||
| 21 August 2008 | ||||||
|
Ever felt you were on a treadmill, that you were engaged in the labour of Sisyphus? That you were suffocating? That only something wild could change your life? We all have these thoughts sometime, but for some they are more than thoughts... Those who’d been around at the time wanted to know if I was her relative, friend, or lover. Once they knew I was none of these they couldn’t tell me enough: parts of it untrue, but which parts? They said it was one of those empty days in Galloway, peaceful and bird less. The early morning tide had exposed the estuary’s mud banks like two great, grey whales. An old Rover slid effortlessly along the coast road in a weak, faltering sun. Clear of the quiet harbour town it pulled up within sight of a small wooden boathouse nestling in trees half a mile away on the far side of the widening estuary.Two men, an older man dressed formally in a dark suit, white shirt, tie; the younger in the country style of faded glory, old brogues, light open necked checked shirt, autumnal green cardigan, stepped out of the car to admire the view. The older man began lecturing the younger man. ‘Of course, we are very fortunate, as you can see. I’m sure that you will be very happy here.’ ‘I thought Gloucestershire was beautiful, but this, this is something else.’ ‘We are very proud. Of course, the best view of all comes from out on the water.’ ‘From your boat?’ ‘Aye, a wee Snapdragon, I sail from just over there.’ The older man hastened back to his preferred topic. ‘This is a very popular place to work. Academically, we choose the best. Of course, integrity, moral commitment, these lay at the core of what we do, what we are …’ The younger man appeared to be listening earnestly but was more concerned with looking. He looked for a long time. Eventually the older man had to repeat the young man's name. The younger man apologised, said he was drawn into the beauty of the place. The older man said he understood. He was enchanted too, even after all these years. The older man had more to say, but his words were lost on the sea breeze that kept the younger man from falling too deeply into the fantasy that had taken a grip on his life. Back in town, Rose sauntered along the High Street, passing one immaculate shop front after another, glazed eyes flickering over rouge coloured beef, skin bound offal, hand knitted jumpers, and lavender scented vanity bags. She glanced at her watch. Quickening her pace, she crossed the empty High Street, pushed against the heavy mahogany doors and squeezed into the smug warmth of the Royal Bank. Andrew Walters was waiting for her on the far side of the counter. His face broke into a smile. ‘Come through, come through,’ misplaced urgency in such sombre surroundings, she thought. ‘Moral commitment is required of all staff at the Academy - not a zealot, mind - just a sense of duty: Noblesse Oblige.’ The older man was speaking quickly for fear the young man would interrupt. ‘Principled, someone who fits in…’ on and on he droned. ‘This particular part of the estuary is my favourite.’ The younger man’s eyes remained locked on the distant boathouse. ‘You say that is where you keep your boat, across the other side of the Dree, Rector?’ he asked, in his best Eton accent. ‘Aye, the ‘John Paul Jones’; it’s nothing special, I suppose, but I have an affection for it, and it has taken us to the Isle of Man. Do you sail Sir David?’ ‘A little,’ he lied, not for the first time that day.'Since I gave up the City.' ‘Well, you must come out wi’ me and my wife sometime. No, no, I insist.’ The older man couldn’t believe his luck. A shared interest with Sir David: who knew where this might lead? Possibilities flashed through his mind. Sensing his companion’s enthusiasm ‘Sir David’ seized the moment. ‘This Saturday?’ ‘Well, um’ stuttered the Rector, rather taken aback by the urgency of Sir David’s response to his vague offer. ‘We have a civil defence course in the morning; it’s a dry run to the fall out shelter in the hills, rather hush, hush. But, well, if you’d like to come down to the boathouse after lunch, I’d be more than pleased to take you out.‘What a capital idea.’ Rose left the manager’s office barely twenty minutes after she had entered. Twenty minutes too long as far as she was concerned, not long enough for Andrew Walters. Pushing her way back through the great doors, into streets of closed lunchtime shops, Rose sleepwalked her way back to the Academy. Two hours later sullen school children streamed through the streets, overwhelming the handful of idling tourists. In a few brief moments the energy of youth was sapped by whitewashed cottages and manicured gardens watched over by grey stone villas. Rose slipped out of the Academy shortly after the last child had been absorbed. She walked the silent streets, pausing for a while on a bench under a large beech tree. Looking down from a grassy mound above the harbour square she became aware, not for the first time, of an illusion. In front of her lay what appeared a prosperous, self-confident town. But she knew this town and she knew how to look through the shadows. She could see the small barman from the Fisherman’s Inn, running self-consciously, with small skipping steps, in his open necked shirt, from the back bar, from back street bookmakers, from backhanders, from failure. Sometime later, a yellow, single decked bus pulled into the square. Rose climbed abroad for what she knew would be the last time. The darkness of the hills was waiting, a cloak to conceal her secret. But, first the bus had to cross the Dree. Rose looked down from the window and in those swirling waters, as they raced the short distance to the sea, she saw her freedom. It was Saturday morning but neither of them was in the mood for breakfast. Paul stood by the bedroom window staring across the valley to the hills that lay between them and the town. A small red smudge was making its way across a distant field. It was Grieve, out on his tractor: every day the same. Paul kicked the old brogues to one side and slipped on his white trainers. Rose called from the kitchen. ‘If you’re not having any breakfast then we might as well set off.’Paul looked at his wristwatch. It was ten o’ clock. He thought for a second, walked into the kitchen ignoring the bread and ham. ‘I'm too nervous to eat.’ Rose took the keys from the windowsill and walked to the back door. Paul took one last look: a few old clothes, nothing that could be used to trace them. Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the new private estate that stood above the town, and stopped outside the neat bungalow of Andrew Walters. Paul waited in the car as Rose walked steadily between manicured lawns down the concrete path to the beautifully varnished front door. She rang the doorbell and waited. For too long, the only sound Rose heard was the thumping of her own heart. Then, she thought she heard a noise coming from the other side of the door, slippers on a thick piled carpet. ‘Miss Ellery, what a pleasant surprise. Do come in.’ Stepping inside she reached into her shoulder bag and drew out a small gun. Holding it at waist height she pointed it unerringly at the bank manager. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’ he asked. She flicked her gun, waiving it towards the living room. ‘From Yorkshire, I believe’ ‘Lincolnshire’, she answered. Apparently unaware of the gun she was holding at his stomach, the manager moved past Rose into the kitchen. ‘The pace of life not a little too slow for you here?’ What is this man up to? she thought. She was confused, and began to feel dizzy. She knew that she had to act. ‘A gun, I’ve got a gun,’ she announced in confirmation to herself. He didn’t look up from filling the kettle. ‘You’ve really taken me by surprise, I must say. I would never have thought it. It just goes to show…’ ‘And – and I’m pointing this gun at you.’ ‘So I see.’ The manager looked, appaarently concerned for the first time. ‘That’s better,’ she thought to herself. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. ‘The keys, Mr. Walters: the keys; all of them.’ The rest was easier than she imagined. Mr. Walters (call me Andrew) behaved impeccably. Outside the bank he even wished the church minister a very warm ‘good morning’ without a hint of nervousness. He wasn’t intimidated by Paul, who tried to play the part of a hood, or by their vague threats. He occasionally shook his head wistfully, as he told her she was destroying her career. ‘You will never regain your membership of the General Teaching Council after this.’ At 10.55 two figures emerged from the bank with a discreetly packaged bundle, which Andrew Walters insisted on fastening with strong brown tape. By 11.00 Paul and Rose had crossed the Dree and were heading down the coast. The Rector, and Morag his wife, returning from the hills, and their civil defence duties, admired the view as they drove on to the boathouse. The Rector reflected upon the satisfactory state of the world. ‘It’s been a most rewarding week, Morag. We made the run to the bunker in under 20 minutes. It’s good to know if that terrible day was ever to arrive, civilisation would be protected for future generations in our own sweet Galloway…’ ‘Indeed, Alistair.’ Morag was rather bored with the whole thing and was scanning the sea for distractions. ‘My dear, isn’t that the 'John Paul', off the headland?’ The Rector’s first response was one of scepticism, and then anger. But after a moment’s reflection he became more stoical. ‘Sir David must have misunderstood my intentions. However, I’m sure he is a fine sailor. ‘Yes, dear.’ ‘Aye, it’s clearly a misunderstanding. Someone of Sir David’s background…’ The Rector had momentarily reassured himself. ‘He appears to be out with a friend. Up from England, no doubt, possibly his good lady wife.’ ‘Looks like Miss Ellery to me dear.’ ‘Sir David will be an asset as Chair of Governors. He is a little younger than I had been led to believe, but background compensates for lack of years – he appears a little far out. He came up early so that he could be fully briefed before - I’m not sure about the mainsail…’ Finally, his voice trailed away as the Rover pulled up alongside a small group of men gathering outside the boathouse. ‘Sir David Hope-Dunmore,’ announced a very upright English gentleman thrusting his hand through the crowd. The Rector opened the car door and stumbled out. ‘Sir David? You’re mistaken, he’s out in …’ he whispered desperately. ‘Oh look,’ said Morag, pointing out to sea, ‘and there’s Constable Knock and Andrew Walters in the lifeboat. Is it part of the civil defence exercise?’ ‘I think I’ll have to sit back down for a moment. Morag, you don’t think that they are sinking the 'John Paul' do you?’ he wheezed. ‘Well, Alistair, it seems rather like…’ she looked down at her husband who had turned a peculiar colour. At this point the first of the bank notes washed up onto the beach at the feet of the Rector, who was muttering incoherently to himself. ‘Let me drive you home dear,’ Morag said kindly, shaking her head. ‘You are such an incorrigible snob.’ As the lifeboat bore down on the becalmed snapdragon, rising water lapped around Rose’s ankles. She stood there, powerless, and contemplated the futility of her labour. In time, she decided, without regret, that even this was better than that. Or, so it was said.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|