by Jim Ody
Paul and Debbie had no intention of meeting wolves, bears or Gruffalos, eat live animals, or drink each other’s urine. No, theirs would be a slightly more mundane version known as a gentle stroll. The plan, if at all this loose tag could be attached, was to walk along the road and into the small fishing town. From here they would of course need to sample either a local alcoholic beverage and a basket of chips, or quietly sip tea and coffee while munching down homemade cakes and scones—their crazy spontaneity would not allow such rigorous planning. With a belly full of tucker and a goofy smile, they will drag themselves up the cliff path—no doubt thinking that doing so with a full stomach was a recipe for an edition of one of those rescue programmes, the ones featuring helicopters and coast guards saving embarrassed and, more than likely, “adventure walkers” who had toppled over the cliff having got a hard piece of granola wedged in their throat and became disorientated…
Then it would be back through the woods to the house. A couple of hours max—that was the plan. Maybe check out the hot tub—with or without clothing.
There had been a brief drizzle of rain that had added a sparkling sheen to the road and to the grass on the verges. The air was still warm, and the sun had bullied its way through the clouds that now looked soft enough to cuddle.
“Maybe we can go somewhere exotic next year,” Debbie said as the track joined the lane and began to wind round to the right.
“Yeah, although I am enjoying this place,” Paul said. He knew this was all they could afford but didn’t want it to seem like it was a break they were just making do with.
“What about the Caribbean? You fancy walking on white sands?” she said, still dreaming.
Paul smiled. He couldn’t argue with that. “I think I could go for that,” he agreed. “This is certainly a nice place but…erm…”
“A bit odd?” Debbie said.
“Yes. There are hardly any cars. There’s a guy with a CB—”
“And the strange little boy!”
“Exactly. I feel like this is a weird sci-fi show from the eighties or something.”
They laughed and joked for a while. They even stopped for a second and stole a moment for a kiss.
The gradient was still a little steep, which of course meant they would be doing the same climb up the other side, but soon it opened into the street with the post office. There was no sign of Benji this morning as they walked by, so they weren’t sure whether or not to pop in, and then further down the road they passed Ginny’s house. Things seemed quiet and still.
Down the bottom and well into the town, they could see the water and seagulls the size of hawks. They really did appear to be getting bigger these days. Stood prominently in front of them was a pub called The Smugglers’ Rest, probably as common a name for coastal taverns as The Red Lion or The White Hart in other parts of the country. Its thatched roof, and worn-and-weary look certainly gave the impression of being “ye olde”, and possibly featured in an episode of Most Haunted—although the Lattes Served Here sign gave way to a contemporary twist and almost a relief that they hadn’t suddenly stepped out of a time machine…
Looking further up ahead, there was a newsagent’s and a handful of shops, all surrounded by dozens of small cottages presumably built for the fishermen of old.
“There are a lot of houses down here. More than I was expecting,” Debbie said as they walked forward holding hands, unsure whether to venture into the pub or not.
“I think there’s a bigger main road on the other side of town, so not everyone comes in and out on this road.”
“Yes, but how many cars have we seen.” She pointed all around. A lonely Metro and an old sea-rusted Transit van were all they could see.
“We should probably get some fish to eat, don’t you think?” Paul said, looking out at the boats coming back in.
Debbie made a face that suggested it was not a high priority for her. “I’m not a big fan of fish.”
Paul stopped and held up his hand. “I know, and neither am I, but the point is we should try the local food. We don’t like fish because we live in Swindon which is nowhere near the coast.”
“Can it be battered?” she said, fluttering her eyelids at him. “Pleeease?”
He turned and kissed her cheek. “Maybe so, Debs. Maybe so.” She had an interesting way of stopping any discussion like this with her womanish ways. She snuggled into him, and her hands roamed freely over.
“You lookin’ ta get arrested?” a gruff voice barked out.
The pair turned and took in the sight of a mass of grey beard and wild hair. The piercing blue eyes with crow’s feet in the corners suggested that it was said in jest, although that may well have been a leap.
“Pardon me,” Paul said naturally, switching to polite gentleman. “We just got married!”
“Where? In that there pub! Haw! Haw!” He laughed, a cigarette wiggling in the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t no churches around here for twenty mile.”
Debbie was always better in this situation, as Paul was more inclined to either go by way of the sarcasm route or get angry and sulk. Debbie could switch on her girly politeness which often had her unknowingly shaking her ample bosom to deflect any hostility. Paul had commented on more than one occasion that if buxom wenches were used in the front line more, then wars would decline almost overnight. Given the choice wouldn’t we all rather make love than war?
“Really? No churches, why is that?”
As with most bearded men, when asked a question, one requires to almost milk the answer from the brain by means of tugging on the beard like a teat. This man was no different, and it seemed extra milking was required along with deep weathered frown lines, suggesting he both grinned and frowned in equal parts.
“Well, now. I’ve not thought about that for a while. Of course, at one stage there was a church over yonder, but a great storm unleashed winds and rains like we’d never seen before. The roof caved in, but not before a fire broke out. A lot of people died, and this here is a place that religion struggled to hold such importance anymore.”
“Gosh,” Debbie said. “Tragedy is usually the glue the sticks people together, strengthening beliefs, rather than the wedge that drives them apart.”
The man nodded to that. “You see, missy, round these parts we’re quite spiritual, but that don’t mean we’re religious. We come from a Pagan tradition, not Christian. That was brought here later by the Celts and the introduction of the Catholic church. There were many that took on both beliefs, hedging their bets, I s’pose…” He paused, grinning at his little joke, and then carried on. “But this only proved that the strength and power lay in the elements, and not of God.”
“Would God not power the elements? I don’t see how that stopped people believing,” Paul added a little sharply. Sometimes his argumentative behaviour got in the way of his logical beliefs. He had no strong views either way on the validity of God or the Bible.
“It is not for you to see, young man. It is for you to take the word of an old man that offers it up to you, is all.”
Paul held his hands up in a surrendering gesture.
“Look, I meant nothing by it. No offence.”
“None taken.”
“Thank you for your insight,” Debbie added with her verbal Band-Aid. “Although I wonder whether you can answer me a question? It seems very quiet around here. Where is everyone?”
He nodded slowly again and began to milk his beard once more. “These houses you see here are owned by four types of people mostly: fishermen, city folk as a little getaway, folk working in other towns, or the unemployed/retired.”
“I see,” Debbie said.
“The fishermen spend their time out on the boats. They’ll have already been out and back once this morning, and now they’re back out there in the mighty grey. The city folk you’ll see roll in now and again with large fancy cars. The workers in other towns were born here and more than likely will eventually move away. Then lastly, the unemployed and the retir
ed will be here until their dying day, unable to afford to move away.”
“And you?” Paul asked. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like a fisherman.”
“Well, lad, that is exactly what I am! I suppose you could say I’m retired, but does a farmer ever retire?” He paused.
“I guess I had never thought about it.”
“Well, if you live in your place of work, then historically your farm is then run by your family. You may not contribute as much as you used to, but you’ll still help out all you can. ‘Tis the same for me. My sons are fishermen, and my daughter works at the market selling to those fancy supermarkets, but I’m there still going out on the boats at least once a day, and then I’m unloading and checking the catch.” This was a world far removed from what both Debbie and Paul were used to in Wiltshire. The sea was a long way away, and the smell of fish rang true of nostalgic holiday memories rather than hard work.
“We shouldn’t keep you any longer,” Debbie said with a big smile.
“Aye, best be off. You need anything and Ol’ Jack will help you in the ‘Rest’ there.” He nodded back to the pub.
“Okay. Will do,” Paul said as the guy turned away. Paul quickly called after him. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“They call me Woody,” he said, holding out a hand that engulfed Paul’s. The large calloused hands had worked hard for many years.
“I’m Paul.”
Debbie stepped forward again. “And I’m Debbie.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you.” He paused for a second as if wrestling with something before adding, “Where are you staying?”
Paul suddenly felt a little uneasy at giving the exact details so answered, “Up in the woods.”
Woody nodded slowly. “Thought so. You be careful in them woods. Some folk have…” He then waved away his own talk. “Look, I’m just a crazy old man who’s spent too long in the elements. Pay me no mind.”
“It strikes me that experience and wisdom are intertwined. What is it that you were going to say?”
“It’s just…well, some people have gone walking in them woods and never returned. Accidents happen round here. Look, there are a lot of stories and tongue-waggling over rum…” He then appeared to try and make light of his previous words. “If it’s not mermaids and stories about monsters from the deep, then it be about the woods. It is the idle talk of lonely and tired old fishermen looking for excitement in an otherwise mundane life!” He chuckled.
“I’m sure it’s anything but!” Debbie grinned.
“Yeah, there have been things I’ve seen, but that’s for another time. You go on now and pay my drivel no mind!”
“Okay, see you another time,” Paul said.
“Bye.”
They watched him go past them and into the pub. It would seem that the fisherman was taking a liquid break.
“Well that was, er, interesting,” Debbie said, grabbing Paul’s hand.
“Yes, let’s find a tea shop.”
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Sixteen
T he bell rang loudly as they pushed open the door. A large counter full of huge cakes and pastries welcomed them and the strong aroma of coffee was thick in the air. A small, portly, middle-aged woman waddled out from behind a curtain which presumably led back to a kitchen.
“Good morning, my lovelies.” She smiled, although her voice was not as warm and welcoming as it might’ve been. Or that’s what Paul thought.
“Hi,” Debbie said, once again the more forward of the two of them. “Can I have a tea please? Paul, a coffee?”
“Yeah. Oh, and a large slice of that coffee & walnut cake, too, please.”
“Make that two pieces!” Debbie added and, without realising it, smoothed her hand over her stomach.
“Right you are, my lovelies. Take a seat, and I’ll bring it over to you.”
They walked over to the far side, the beautifully dark and shiny wooden floorboards creaking with each step.
Out the window, boats could be seen moored in the harbour, gently bobbing on the waves, and the gigantic seagulls swooped down, scavenging for food. Perhaps in years to come they would start carrying off children and pets.
“Look at that sea,” Debbie said, pointing out off into the distance. The murky dark waters appeared to hold their own energy that was nothing like the blue skies above which, apart from a few cotton wool clouds, seemed serene and tranquil.
“I don’t fancy being out on that trying to catch my fish.”
Paul smirked. “You got seasick on that canal boat on some of the calmest waters in Britain!”
Debbie had to smile at that. “I had eaten a lot that day,” she said with humour, slapping him gently on the arm. “The cream was off on that scone that I wolfed down.”
“Ri-ight!” Paul over exaggerated a nod.
Their drinks and food were soon sat in front of them. Both gave off sounds of enjoyment before slowly drifting off again to that happy time.
They fell silent, apart from slurping and chomping. For a moment, two versions of the same memory projected in two separate minds. There were flashes of colour from flowers on the riverside, the heat from the sun, and then the dark cloud of a week later that they both refused to remember. That day had been especially good because, up until their wedding day, it was their happiest time. In a montage of each of their lives, at least a few seconds were guaranteed from that day.
Paul reached out and grabbed Debbie’s hand and rubbed it gently with his thumb. He looked up at her and the way her eyes twinkled, the golden curls falling down her neck. Her small nose was slightly upturned, and her full lips had a hint of gloss. Her natural beauty was there for all to see, and sometimes he worried that people thought that was all he was interested in, which was definitely not the case. She was everything he wanted.
She was everything she was not.
With a small crumb balanced on her lower lip, Debbie suddenly frowned, and Paul worried that she was thinking of that time. Then she pointed before muttering, “Isn’t that the little boy again?”
As Paul strained his eyes, he realised she was right. The odd little fellow was sat down on a wall. He then got up on the wall and held out his arms like a plane. The wall was only a couple of feet wide, and there was a drop the other side going into the harbour.
“What is he doing?” she said. “If he falls, he could kill himself.” The boy had a calmness about him that was almost a little disconcerting.
“Shit, he’s closed his eyes!” Paul said, jumping up and knocking over what was left of his coffee. They ran out of the teashop, momentarily blind to where they were.
As they turned the corner towards the harbour, he was nowhere to be seen. It was yet another strange incident.
“He’s gone!” Debbie screamed as they ran over to the wall. Looking over, they could see no one in the water. And that’s when they saw him sat at the bottom of the steps with his feet splashing in the water. He suddenly looked up at them, grinned, and waved. It wasn’t so much as spooky, as cheeky and somewhat mischievous. It was almost as if he knew when to disappear like a game of hide and seek.
“What is he up to?” Paul said.
“Maybe he’s just a lonely child?”
“He’s some sort of magician, or perhaps he’s a ghost!” Paul then stopped for dramatic effect. “Or, what if we died on the motorway yesterday or our cabin blew up, and we are the Bruce Willis of this whole thing?”
“Unlikely,” Debbie’s voice of reason said. “He is an odd little chap though!” They both waved back to him.
“Should we take him home?” Debbie said.
“What, back to Wiltshire?”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “No, you bloody fool, back to his house!”
“You know what? His mother didn’t seem overly worried, and it appears he does this sort of thing all of the time. Let’s just leave him to it. We won’t be able to do this next week.”
She nodded, and they turned away
and headed for the cliff path.
Up past the harbour, the pavement soon ended and turned into a track that was a mixture of mud and gravel. This led up to an old stile that had seen many better days. They both jumped over it expertly, then looked at the field ahead that suddenly rose with a harsh gradient. Around the outside was a well-worn track made by walkers, with a fence and small thick bushes to the waterside. Up ahead in front of them, trees appeared looming, their thick branches like large arms reaching out as if to pluck innocents from their life with a quick movement.
As the trees appeared, they saw a bench and took a moment to stop. They were both fairly fit, with Paul playing five-a-side football once a week, and Debbie swimming and doing the odd fitness class, but of course the muscles used mainly for hill climbs were now being pushed further than they had ever been before.
“This sounds a bit funny, but I keep looking around and expecting to see that boy stood there grinning at me,” Paul said as he gazed out to sea.
“What, Benji?”
“Yeah, that’s his name. I keep forgetting.”
“Should he not be at school or something? It’s Monday, and it’s not the summer holidays now.”
“What d’ya reckon? Homeschooled?” Paul wondered out loud.
“His mum runs the post office, surely she wouldn’t have time to do both, would she?”
Paul threw up his hands at that. “I have no idea how homeschooling works, but no, I would assume that she would have to be with him and not be working in the shop.”
“What if he’s off ill or, I don’t know…” She trailed off, it was a hard one to explain.