Ian Ledward, Cupar u3a - Second Place
Scotland
A Cold Comfort Affair
‘Are you having something to start?’ he asked.
‘Don’t think so.’ she said. ‘I’ll just have a starter as my main. It’s only lunchtime after all.’ There were two or three other couples in short sleeves sitting outside on the small upstairs terrace of the restaurant. Seafood was the speciality and the menu looked promising. It was one of those occasions when it was going to be difficult to choose because everything appealed.
‘I’m going to have the whole smoked sea bass - no starter. I’ll drive. It’s my turn.’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll have the smoked lobster and treat myself to a large glass of the Prosecco.’
‘Ooh,’ he replied with a pout. ‘Take advantage of a situation.’ They placed their order and when the waiter returned to the table he made a display of carefully opening a new bottle of fizz and gently twisting and easing the cork out so it hissed spitefully at the glass of mineral water that cowered alongside the large wine glass.
There was a couple sitting behind them talking in the animated stage whispers that force you to tune in and listen despite yourself. And as they listened they looked at each other, eyes widening with disbelief.
Six months later, on a sharp day with the smell of frost lingering in the shadows, the sky was the deep blue of winter and any hint of cloud was a figment of someone else’s imagination. There was snow, pink-tinged, on Gallow Hill to the north across the expanse of the river estuary with its pale ochre reed beds just catching the light in the thin cold morning.
They’d been sitting in the car for half an hour and nothing had gone past on the single track road. The conversation overheard in the restaurant last summer had led them here; those giving away their secret not realising that the recipients of this precious knowledge were also hunters, prepared to wait, then to go to any lengths if an opening presented itself. The description had been of the abandoned church, a track down to the river and a ruined house on the shore. The talk of big dogs and guns had not been enough to put them off.
‘Let’s hope this is right place,’ he said.
‘You’ve got everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘And gloves?’
‘Yes.’
‘For both of us?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes! But I hope we won’t need to use the tape or the rope and certainly not the cleaver.’
‘If they prove to be particularly vicious, you never know,’ she said, ‘and you might need to use a bit of persuasion. You’re the bloke after all. I’m just along for the fun and the pickings,’ she said with a wicked smile.
‘It’s incredible that they gave so much detail away. It’s almost suspicious,’ he said. ’How did we not know about this place?’
‘They’d no idea we knew what they were talking about, did they?’
'Do you think there’ll be anyone else there?’
‘Maybe, but a chance like this doesn’t come along every day. You know how long we’ve been looking.’
‘It’s going to be dark soon. I wish we hadn’t left it so late,’ he said.
‘We’ve been through all this. Less chance of anyone else being about and it is private land.’
‘But if anyone does turn up…’
‘…we’ll just show them the camera and my sketch book and they’ll think we’re artists out getting source material. What a wimp you’re becoming. Come on, let’s go. You can fight them off,’ she laughed.
They got out of the car taking the rucksack containing plastic bags and equipment and made their way along towards the small stone church. This was the landmark that told them where the track should be leading down to the river. A slight dip in the ground concealed the old graveyard from the road. Just beyond its entrance was the gate they were looking for. It was secured by a rusty chain with a padlock big enough to secure a bank but easy enough to climb over. ‘This looks right. It fits the description,’ she said. ‘They mentioned holly and ivy and a farm track.’
‘It certainly hasn’t seen much traffic in a while.’ Overgrown though it was, the path had been wide enough for a tractor at one time, but not recently he noticed. Underfoot was rubble and shale and it was still possible to see the ruts made by farm vehicles. The track led down and swung gently left where it became a narrow footpath.
‘What was that noise?’ His eyes darted about.
‘Pigeons? They make flapping noises like that you know,’ she suggested sarcastically, ‘but we need to be quiet just in case.’
‘I think we should have gone into the church to pray for safe passage,’ he said, making a feeble attempt to smile.
‘Thank you for that great comfort from a fully paid up member of the Secular Society.’
When they came out of the woods they were standing on a bank a few feet above a shingle beach with the river only a few yards away. ‘It looks as though the water comes right up,’ she said.
‘I think the tide’s coming in. Look at the ripples.’ She looked at him dubiously. ‘Come on wimp, let’s get moving. It’s not going to be easy walking and we’ve still a way to go.’
Half an hour took them to a small stream beside the dilapidated bothy that their inadvertent guides had carefully described. As he kicked the door open, rats scurried away into the darkness beyond and the smell of damp, mould and decay drifted out as if gasping for fresh air. The aptly named ‘Sure as Death’ Sandbank lay sharply outlined a mile or so up the river, uncovered by the tide. ‘Let’s hope we find them before someone comes and finds us. And I’m sure the tide’s coming in!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I think I can see something. Come on, it can’t be much further.’ Up ahead was a small group standing, but too far away to make out any detail. At this distance their limbs seemed to be intertwined and held at strange angles waiting to be stripped. ‘This could be them,’ she said, as they looked at each other moving more quickly, now that their quarry was in sight.
Two hours later they were back at the car fumbling in their excitement to get in with only a few stars to help them see their way. There had been some serious struggling and the cleaver had been necessary after all. They had numerous wounds on their hands, arms and legs and their gloves were stained red from their efforts but with everything stuffed into the plastic bags and hidden in the rucksack, they could relax. They were on their way home.
‘What are we going to do with all of them?’
‘What do we normally do?’ And as she looked at him they both laughed with weary relief, excitement and feral grins of anticipation.
Nearly a year had passed and the tree decorated with white twinkling lights stood in pride of place in the corner. The cold outside had preserved the snow that had fallen in the night. Inside, the room was warm and comfortable. The window allowed the pale sunlight to come in and warm itself by the fire burning in the open hearth. The perfume of birch smoke lingered in the air like incense as they relaxed. A goose pie cooked in the oven and a plum pudding steamed away on the hob.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she said. She held out a flask containing a deep ruby liquid, reminiscent of blood. The label had two words on it. Carefully, with the aid of a butler’s thief, he eased the cork out, sniffed, and poured a small amount into each of two small crystal glasses. They sniffed then tasted the bittersweet liquor. Looking at each other and smiling in appreciation and at the memory of the previous winter’s adventure.
‘Mmm, this has to be the best sloe gin we’ve ever made!’
‘Happy Christmas darling.’
‘Where the river runs, who would take the risk,
of gathering in the sloe?
With spines that poke and cut and gouge,
only the brave who are in the know.’