Autumn and Other Months
A Year of Short Stories
By
Alistair Shand
Copyright 2016 Alistair Shand
Published by Clockmill Publishing
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
January – A Glasgow New Year
February – Kawasaki Cupid
March – Last Ferry
April – Running on Empty
May – Irn Bru
June – Crazy Gill
July - Spanish gold
August – White Roses
September – Lunch with Mary
October - Autumn
November - Lentil Soup
December – Santa of Sauciehall Street
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone who sat through early versions of these stories. Your advice and critiques are appreciated!
I’d also like to thank you, the reader, for taking this year long trip with me.
January – A Glasgow New Year
New Year
1st January 1980 3 a.m. A new year, a new decade. A new beginning.
I walked along Great Western Road, heading to my parents’ house. Most of the windows were darkened. A few were lit, emitting party noises and the recorded glee of accordion music. The pavement was glazed with the rain that had accompanied the Bells and reflected the street lights in an artistic way. And it was cold. The alcohol seemed to be wearing off.
As I walked, I reflected on my life. My circle of friends was breaking up. People were moving on, now that University was over. Some to London, one to Chicago and one to New Zealand. It seemed time for me to move on too – or at least find a new circle of friends.
Half way home, I met a drunk man. He wore the traditional first footing outfit – a bunnet and raincoat – tastefully set off by a bright red scarf that was probably a Christmas present. He was waiting patiently for the green man to appear on the traffic lights – although the streets were empty. He pre-empted my question. “I know – but knowing my luck, a taxi would whizz round the corner and skelp me on the arse.” He produced a hipflask from nowhere like a magician. “Drink?” I had a swallow of some rough whisky and we wished each other a good year. “I’d better get home,” he said, mostly to himself, then “Could you do me a favour?” I tried to look non-committal. “You see, I told the wife I was just popping out for 1 or 2 pints, but..” He shrugged his shoulders, “you know what its like at the New Year. She’ll kill me when I get home – but if I bring a guest...” He led me off the main road into the maze of a housing estate I’d never noticed before. 2 or 3 turns and we were at his house.
The living room lights were on. “They’re still up. My daughter Kate will be up too.” He opened the door and shouted in “Only me – and a friend.” The living room door flew open – but his wife had been disarmed by the mention of a friend. Her voice welcomed me – but her face had long been nursing its wrath.
“This is John,” improvised my host. “Mind Old Bobby I worked with in the stores? This is his grandson.”
She smiled without conviction. “I’ll get some sausage rolls and mince pies.” They both went into the kitchen. I looked around the room. It was warm and welcoming and decorated with pictures of a girl from birth, all the way through school. That must be Kate, I thought.
The door opened and the girl in the pictures came in. “Hi, I heard voices. I’m Kate.” She was about my age, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
“I’m Robert – but your father thinks my name is John!”
“Don’t worry – I’ll call you John too.” She slumped onto the couch and grabbed a handful of crisps.
“So why aren’t you out tonight?” I asked. “Big party night!”
“I was supposed to be going out – but I split up with my boyfriend at Christmas. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas – and I said “Oh, nothing!” And that’s what he got me. Stupid arse!” She shook her head at his foolishnes.
“His loss” I ventured, winning a smile.
The sound of raised voices came from the kitchen. Kate explained “Don’t worry – they’re always like that. I think they enjoy it.”
She inspected me, then “Have you got a girlfriend?”
“No...”
“You doing anything on Saturday night?” I shook my head nervously. “Could you do me a favour? “ She used exactly the same tone as her father. “You see, I’m supposed to be going to an engagement cum house warming party at my pal’s. And it would be a real embarrassment to go on my own.”
I gave it a few seconds thought. “Would your ex be there?” I pictured a jealous ex-boyfriend battering me into a pulp.
“Oh no – my pals all hated him! Honest, it’ll be a great night – a good bunch of mates they are.”
“OK then.”
We agreed that I’d pick her up at her parents’ house at 8 – “and don’t dare stand me up or I’ll kill you!”
I left shortly afterwards, fortified with sausage rolls, mince pies and the thought of a new social circle.
After a few false starts I found the main road again and made it home by 5 a.m.
But I could never find her house again. I didn’t know the street name – or her surname. Or the house number. All I knew was her name. Kate.
February – Kawasaki Cupid’s Arrow 125
The wedding festivities were coordinated by John’s new mother – in – law. The reception was held at her house – tastefully converted farm buildings surrounding a traditional courtyard. John had lived there for a year and ran his business – repairing and restoring and selling motorbikes - from one of the buildings in the courtyard.
When we arrived, we looked at John in amazement. We were used to seeing him dressed in jeans and dripping with engine oil. Now, he was dressed in a white suit, no doubt selected by his mother – in –law, and looked like an anaemic Gatsby. “Thank God! umans Humans! Hhhhhhhhh Humans!” he said “I’m going mad here!” He pointed towards the French windows where Frances, his bride, was having her dress examined by a squealing squad of geriatric aunties. “That dress cost me a Honda 500. And the shoes? The best part of a Yamaha D125.”
“So where is your workshop?” Stephen was not one for formalities and was as much a motorcycle fan as John. The groom looked around nervously – but there was no sign of his mother in law. He pointed at a door across the courtyard and led the way. We followed.
Behind the door there was a reassuring world of oil and machinery. There were bikes and bits of bikes everywhere and a chaos of metal tools. “This is one I’m working on,” John said. “Honda Goldwing – 1200cc engine - goes like buggery. And one for you Stephen. An ancient Triumph Bonneville!” He moved away from those monsters to another smaller bike. “This is the one for you, Jim.” He looked at me hopefully. Since we met he had been trying to convert me to motorbikes like a crazed missionary. “Kawasaki 125 – ideal for the beginner!” It was smaller and looked less scary than the others.
“I had one of them once” chimed in Stephen “Nice wee things. Fast without being scary. Scoosh to ride”
“Have a shot,” insisted John.
Before I knew where I was, John was pushing the bike into the courtyard. “You won’t need a helmet, just out there!” I noticed guests were spilling out into the courtyard and standing around decorously, sipping champagne in the Spring sunshine. I got on the bike. John briefed me on the controls –“Hand brake, foot brake, gear pedal and clutch. Just take her slowly across the courtyard till you get used to it.” The engine was ticking over –“like a wee kitten” Stephen said. John added “Oh, by the way the clutch is a bit..”
By that time, I had let in the clutch and the bi
ke took off like a crazed bull. I saw the whole thing in slow motion as the far wall rushed towards me. It must only have been seconds but it seemed like an age. Eventually I remembered to release the throttle and use the brakes. It skidded to a halt. I came off the bike in a rattle of gravel. John ran across the courtyard and examined the bike like a worried father. “No damage there” he pronounced in relief.
One of the guests came running across. A young woman with long red hair in a long green dress. “Hi, I’m Liz, I’m a nurse” and she checked me for damage. “I think you’ll live” was her verdict. “And your suit survived too!” She added “I’m a pal of Frances, the bride.”
“Glad to meet you I said. “I’m Jim, a pal of the groom. Maybe we could have a dance later –check if I really am OK?” She smiled and nodded and then went off to join the other guests.
An old uncle was sitting near us watching it all. “By Christ, son” he intoned “You might have fallen on yer arse, but I think you landed on yer feet there.”
March – Last Ferry
It had been a futile race for the last ferry from Colintraive. While I blamed the slow drivers down Loch Lomondside and over the Rest and be Thankful, my wife blamed me for leaving late. We snarled at each other all the way past Strachur and through Glendaruel.
By the time we got to Colintraive, the sun was starting to set. The pier office was locked up and the ferry secured. The only sound was the gulls, laughing at us. The crossing seemed so short. You could almost skip a stone across to the other side.
We glared at each other. “What are we going to do now? Turn round and drive all the way back home? Get a B&B?” I could tell my wife wasn’t happy.
I had an inspiration, borne of desperation. “You stay here, I’ll try the hotel.”
“Hotel? We cant afford that!”
I left her in the car, ranting away to herself.
I went into the public bar. It was decorated with photographs from the hotel’s long and illustrious history, but I had no time to examine them. The bar was busy. I caught the eye of the barmaid, a kindly maternal looking woman. “We’ve missed the last ferry. Do you know anyone who could take us across?”
She thought for a moment, and then scanned the room. “Is Auld Bob here?” All eyes turned to a far away table.
“I’m here, hen! What is it?” An ancient bearded man in an equally ancient wax jacket rose slowly to his feet and came to the bar, clutching a half-empty pint glass in his huge hand.
“This boy here has missed the ferry. Could you take him across?”
He pushed his bunnet back, revealing a nearly bald head. He looked at me then, more fondly, at his drink. “Maybe.” His jacket smelt of tobacco, beer and the sea.
“I’ll pay you. We need to get across for my mother’s birthday. She’s waiting for us. A tenner?” He looked unconvinced. “And a drink?” The gantry was impressive. “Malt of your choice?”
His face crinkled into a smile. He turned to the barmaid. “Highland Park. The 21 year old one. Have it on the bar in 15 minutes. And he’s paying!”
I left money with the barmaid while Bob finished his pint. Then we went back to the pier head. I phoned my mother to pick us up at Rhubodach.
I parked the car in the hotel car park and we packed a small case with over night essentials while Bob brought his boat to the jetty. Unlike his jacket which had seen better days, his boat, a 12 foot clinker dinghy was in perfect condition. Soon we were in the boat - and Bob was cursing his outboard motor. “Bloody Seagull engines. No wonder they went bust!” On the third attempt, it coughed apologetically into life and we were slowly crossing the narrow strait. The sea was a mirror and the sun had nearly disappeared, leaving only a multi-coloured cloak draped over the mountains.
We reached the far shore and clambered out. I gave Bob the promised tenner and thanked him. “Birthday wishes to your mother,” he replied, touching his bunnet in an informal salute. I pushed his boat out and the outboard spluttered back into life. I watched his boat disappear off towards Colintraive. The engine was the only sound. Then it too stopped and I could hear his boat getting hauled up over the stones to the high water mark. After that, silence and darkness.
Soon, I saw the lights of my mother’s car as she came to collect us. It was the only light on this side of the water. She arrived with the message, “There’s soup waiting for you... I’d nearly given up hope you would come!”
The next day I got the ferry back across and collected my car.
A year later, we were back for my mother’s birthday. A different plan. We left early to meet my mother for lunch at the Colintraive Hotel. There was a new chef who had introduced a new menu. The steak pie had won great renown locally.
When I was there, I looked in at the bar. The same bar maid was there absently polishing the bar. “Hi. Is auld Bob here?”
She looked at me. “You are the boy that missed the ferry last year! You have become a legend!” She pointed at a printed notice behind the bar. “Bob has turned professional.” The sign read. “Missed the ferry? Ask for Bob! £10 flat fare.”
The bar maid continued, “He’s on a retainer from Bute taxis. Then there’s all the teachers that live on this side and go for a drink in Rothesay! Bob’s still not happy! Moans about his outboard motor!” Then she pointed at the gantry. “He still likes Highland Park though.”
April – Running on Empty
The engine cut out and the rented Transit van slowed to a gentle halt. Bobby, driver, drummer and roadie, opened the van door, threw his roll-up into the night and swore softly. “I’ll have a look, boss.” He clambered out of the van and stood in the rain, gazing blankly under the raised bonnet, pointing his torch at random components.
Dusty smiled watching him. Neither of them knew anything about engines. Doug the bass guitarist’s real job was as a mechanic - but he had gone off with Ralph, keyboards and saxophone, to a 21st party in some rural backwater. So he and Bobby would be reliant on someone coming to assist them and help them back to Glasgow. This was supposed to be a main road but it was deserted at this time of night. God, he was too old for van adventures. He should be sipping martinis on a beach in Spain or Jamaica, not touring out of season caravan parks five miles to the north of nowhere.
At last, a car approached and Bobby flagged it down. After a brief chat with the driver, he opened the van door. “This guy is going to give me a lift to a phone box and I can get the AA to fix the van. Will you be OK here, Boss?”
Dusty nodded and raised his hipflask in salute. The car left. He sat back, undid the top of the flask and swallowed some brandy.
His mind drifted back to how it all began. He smiled at the memories. Sitting on his bed in his parents’ house with the guitar he had begged for his birthday. It was huge and had strings like telegraph wires. He was given a book to learn songs from – “Frankie and Johnny”, “Shenandoah” and “Bobby Shaftoe” were soon mastered. Then he started trying to write his own songs. His first attempt had proved the most successful:-
“Rocking round the old windmill tonight,
Dance around in the bright moonlight,
Dance around to the crazy crazy sound,
Dance ten feet off of the ground,
Rock, rock, rock until morning light,
Rocking round the old windmill tonight!”
A three chord masterpiece. It had been a major hit at school and youth club dances with the band he had hastily assembled with some school pals.
His mother put their name in for a national TV talent contest. When they were rehearsing, one of the production assistants approached them, “Right, lads! What’s your band called?”
“The Y-Nots!”
He sneered. “Hah – the Y-fronts? You’ll need a better name than that!” He gave them a brief appraising glance. “Dust Storm and the Hurricanes – that OK?”
They didn’t win the contest but a nation of teenagers had seen them performing “Rock around the Windmill” and that catapulted them into t
he big time. Looking back, they were one-hit wonders. They toured Britain with the other bands of the period – cinemas, town halls and open air band stands. For a brief period, Dust’s haircut was the talk of the tabloids with young men the length and breadth of the country persuading barbers to give them a DA with a bouffant top.
But time marched on and he was left behind. New bands emerged and then they too were forgotten. Dust rocked on. Band members left to pursue careers and raise families – but Dust replaced them with ever younger musicians and kept on touring, enjoying the lifestyle. The venues and crowds got smaller – all they wanted to hear was his one hit. Still it seemed better than being a plumber or working in an office like the old band members were. Sometimes he missed the camaraderie – the current band members were young enough to be his kids. But at least for that hour when he was on stage he was still Dust Storm. And he was too long in the tooth to try anything new.
Every now and then there would be a “Where are they now?” or “Whatever happened to?” documentary and he would be featured, still grimly playing away with his quiff wobbling on stage. And every year or so, there would be Rock and Roll revival show in a big venue like Blackpool with the other survivors, still pretending they were the height of cool. Every year they were fewer. Eventually he would be top of the bill.
It was getting colder. He took another gulp of brandy. He was getting too old – he should retire – maybe write his memoirs – he had some good anecdotes. Like the one about Gene Vincent and the bus shelter. He chuckled at the memory. Still smiling, he remembered a song they used to sing backstage. He started to hum “Rock and roll I gave you all the best years of my life” as his left hand formed the chord shapes on his hipflask.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep, a faint smile lingering on his lips.
The AA van arrived with flashing lights. Bobby got out the passenger door. “We’re here, Dust! Soon get you home! Dust? Dust!”
May – Irn Bru
It was a sticky morning in late May. It was the School Sports Day – and I hated school sports. I decided not to go to school. I didn’t mind running around the streets or playing in the park – but not running around a park in shorts for the amusement of teachers and parents! It was OK when I was 5 or 6 – but I was nearly 9 now!
I went into the kitchen, adopting my most pitiful look and said I had a sore head and my throat was on fire. I almost convinced myself. My mother wasn’t too bothered. “Right, Mary! You can stay off. But, if you are ill – you’ll have to stay in your room!”
I nodded my head and did my best to look miserable.
At first it was OK. I read a book. Then I watched people out of my window. That was the great thing about living in a tenement on a busy street like ours. There was usually free entertainment. My granny said it was like a free ticket to the Empire.
But not today. There were no drunk singers, no women arguing at the bus stop. Not even wee boys risking their lives running across the road. Nothing.
The day got hotter. Not a breath of wind. I went through to the kitchen. My mother was standing at the cooker, stirring a pot and mopping her brow. She glared at me. She was always irritable in warm weather. I said “I’m very thirsty!”
“I’m thirsty too!” She smiled, briefly. “Away down to the shop and get a bottle of Irn Bru. Not the first shop – the second one!” I nodded. My mother was having a feud with the man in the first shop – she was always having a feud with someone. Usually it was me. “And straight back home! And don’t dare drink any!” she shouted after me as I ran out the door.
I clattered down the close onto the street, holding the exact money tightly in my hand. None of my pals were there – they must all be at school.
I got the bottle of Irn Bru from the second shop and headed home. There was a knot of people outside the City Bakeries shop. Something must have happened. I wormed my way through the adults. There was a wee baldy man lying on the ground. “Man has fainted. Give him room!” said a big man, taking charge. The crowd drew back a token distance. He took off his jacket, folded it up and placed it gently under the fallen man’s head as a pillow. He cradled his head and loosened his collar. “Anybody got water? Something for the man to drink?” I stepped forward with my Irn Bru. The big man nodded gravely, undid the cap and held it to the wee guy’s mouth. He choked, coughed and woke up. The big guy wiped the bottle top with his sleeve and replaced the cap. “Thanks,” he said, handing me back the bottle. “Yer a good lassie.” The wee guy was helped to his feet and looked around shame-faced. The entertainment was over. The crowd dispersed.
I went back to our close and up the stairs. I gave the bottle to my mother. I was going to tell her what happened but she was too quick for me. “You’ve had a glug out of this!” I tried to explain – but she wouldn’t listen. I ducked under her lazy left hook and went back to my room, slamming the door behind me. Should have gone to school.
June – Crazy Gill
I am in a bed in the hospital, wired up to more electronic beeping machines than you would see in a bad Science Fiction film. Every now and then, a policeman wanders in and is chased away by a nurse who tells him “he is still unconscious”. I don’t try to dissuade them. He must be desperate to question me. I don’t know what to tell him. I close my eyes, and go back to sleep.
It all started on Thursday night. The first night of the school holidays. I had gone into town for a drink with a friend – but now that we were eighteen, somehow it didn’t seem as much fun as it had before. So, I was headed home.
Then I met Jim. He was accompanied by his girlfriend, Mary, and another girl. Mary was considered exotic – largely on the strength of her going to a different school. I could see from Jim’s face he needed assistance. He wanted me to help him out by chatting with the other girl so he could focus his attentions on Mary.
“This is Gill,” he introduced us. “She goes to school with Mary”. Gill was a small redhead with a cheeky grin and a rucksack. As Gill and Mary were still 17, we went into the Black Knight Bar – a bar known to be friendly to under-age drinkers.
Mary seemed anxious to catch my eye. She accompanied me to the bar to carry back the drinks. She whispered in my ear. “Watch out! Gill is, well, crazy! Wild!” She made a gesture, thrusting imaginary objects into imaginary pockets. “And she’s a klepto! Just be careful.”
I thanked her for the warning.
When the pub shut, Jim and Mary headed off, hand in hand, in the direction of Mary’s parents’ house. Gill and I went off towards her house – which was in the opposite direction.
We chatted. We talked about the weather, holiday plans, what I was planning to study at University, people at her school she hated. She didn’t seem that crazy.
I awake again to hear the policeman talking. “If he can’t help us no-one can.”
Then the nurse answers “There was a lot of alcohol in his system. And he suffered concussion. His memory may well be affected.” I close my eyes again.
As I was walked Gill home, it started to rain. Not just normal rain, but a proper Scottish summer downpour. We went into a foul smelling close, seeking shelter. Gill wandered nosily to the back of the close – then gestured me to come closer. “Look over there! The back door of that shop is open.” She looked carefully. “The cleaner is out the back, having a sly fag! A shop would be much better to shelter in than this place!” At the time, it seemed a sensible idea.
We could hear the cleaner coughing, as we sneaked into the back shop. It turned out to be a bank. Gill produced two pairs of gloves from her rucksack. “Fingerprints! Need to be careful!” It was obvious which parts of the bank had been cleaned and which were still to be completed. There was a spotless office with a big desk and chairs. The manager’s office, probably. We settled in there, concealed behind the desk. We could hear the cleaner coming back in and bashing about other parts of the bank. Eventually, she finished, turned off the lights and left. We emerged from the office. The only light was from the stre
etlights outside. Gill produced a torch from her rucksack. We looked around. Both external doors were locked with obvious alarms. Everything had been tidied away “Nothing worth stealing!” was Gill’s comment. She shone the torch around the place, whistling a jaunty tune. Then, “What’s this?” On a desk at the back of the bank, there was a leather satchel. I went over and examined it.
“I’ve seen these! It’s for the nightsafe. Shops put their takings in them” It was locked with a tiny padlock.
Gill swore softly. “If only I had my tools.” She felt the satchel like a child examining a wrapped Christmas present. “Something in it. Feels like notes! I’ll get it when I get home.” She shoved the satchel in her rucksack.
I awake to hear the nurse fussing about my room. “He’s still sleeping. I keep telling that policeman we can phone the station when he wakes up.”
Then another more authoritative voice, maybe a doctor. “His health is our priority. I’ll get rid of the police.” God bless the NHS. I fall asleep again.
“How are we going to get out?” I knew it was an obvious question, but it needed an answer.
“I’ve got a plan.” She looked at her watch. “3 a.m. now. Won’t be anyone here until after 8. Ah well.” From her rucksack, she produced a half bottle of Jose Cuervo and two plastic cups. She poured two healthy measures. “Cheers!”
We passed the time swapping tales of school and our future dreams. It passed swiftly. Sunlight started to peek through the windows. Gill checked her watch. “Time to get moving!” She looked at the main door of the bank. Then she fetched a chair from the manager’s office. “You sit here.” After the tequila, it seemed a perfectly normal idea. Then she produced a length of rope from her rucksack. “I’m going to tie you up – as if you have been held hostage.” I slumped giggling in the seat. She started tying me up. “When they see you, it’ll give them a shock, and I’ll make a break for it.” I sat there trussed up for a while as we waited. Then, there was a rattling at the door – someone was unlocking it. She gazed at me. “I better make it look a bit more convincing.” I saw something red from the corner of my eye. Just before it hit me, I realised it was a fire extinguisher.
I awake to hear Gill’s voice. “Oh yes, Mrs Robinson, we have been going out for a good wee while now! He’s a nice lad, your son.”
Then I hear my mother’s voice. “Funny, he’s never mentioned you! You must come and see us once he is out of hospital!”
I close my eyes again.
July – Spanish Gold
Alan put on his mask, and slipped slowly underwater. The water was still, clear and not too cold. It was a perfect day – the kind normally seen only in Visit Scotland brochures. He swam lazily out into the bay. It was as his grandfather had so often described. In the middle of the bay, there was a tiny island. Between the island and the beach, there was a small rocky outcrop where a family of seals were lazing in the late morning sun.
Alan tried to imagine the scene his grandfather had described so many times. A ship from the Armada. Battered by storms, it has sought shelter behind the island only to run aground on that outcrop. “Half the men scrambled to the shore – the rest, lost to the rocks and the sea.” It all seemed tranquil now.
Every time his grandfather had started the story, his parents had groaned. “Here we go again!” “He read in a book years ago, now he thinks it’s an old family tale!” His grandfather had been born a few miles down the coast, and his family had fished and farmed there for generations. It was a tale, he said, passed down through the generations.
Following his grandfather’s death, Alan had researched the history of the Armada, and there was a missing ship that seemed to fit the bill. The San Esteban. A “patache” – a small two master. It had been seen by another Spanish ship a dozen miles north at the height of the storm, but hadn’t made it back to Spain. He then had researched the geography of the area and identified this bay as the most probable location. He hoped his grandfather had been right. There were no accounts of people searching for wrecks in this area. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
He had a quick swim, examining the bottom through his mask – just in case there was any sign of the wreck. An inquisitive seal came towards him, eager to see what he was doing. The seal peered at him then turned away, curiosity apparently satisfied. Alan took a deep breath and dived under the water. The bay was big and deep and there was lot of area to cover. Maybe he’d be lucky. But nothing. But he had only covered a small portion of the bay. He needed some way of narrowing the search.
He swam back to the shore. He sat in the sun beside his brother’s van, watching the seals. He needed to get the van back by Monday morning. He needed to sign on then anyway. Face up to reality. Deep down, he knew that this obsession was just killing time.
A girl around his age was walking down the road towards him, wearing shorts and a t-shirt. She was slim with short blonde hair. She stopped to speak to him. “Camping here?” He nodded. She pointed at his scuba gear that was scattered beside the van. “Looking for the wrecks?”
“You know about the wreck?”
“Wrecks! There are two of them!” She smiled. “An old Spanish one and a landing craft from a practice in the Second World War.”
“It’s the Spanish one I’m looking for – I didn’t know anyone knew about it.”
“An old family story. Some distant relation saw it.”
“Mine too! My grandfather’s family farmed just down the coast. A croft. Just scattered rocks now.”
She nodded. “My family still live around here. But there are a lot of abandoned crofts.” She pointed out to the bay. “The version I heard, the ship hit those rocks then came back this way before it sank.” She made a series of actions with her hands to demonstrate the last movements of the San Esteban. “So the wreckage is spread from there to there.” She pointed out towards a spot east of the rocks, far from where Alan had looked.
Alan nodded. “That makes sense. And saves me a lot of work! I’d like to find anything to prove my grandfather wasn’t just making it up!” They sat on the beach casually throwing pebbles into the water, watching the seals as they basked in the sun.
She pointed. “Those rocks, where those seals are, they are invisible at high tide. They wouldn’t have seen them. Especially in a storm! Would have ripped a hole in the side of the ship.”
“It was called the San Estaban. I’ve done some research on the story. Well, it helped fill my days!” A bitterness crept into Alan’s voice. “And once I have found it, I’ll need to look for something else. Anything to keep me away from my parents moaning at me to get a job! What do you do around here?”
“I swim, fish, sit in the sun! That’s what my family does!” A seal swam close to the shore and looked at them quizzically, as if eavesdropping.
“That sounds good. I have nothing to go back to. No job, no life!”
She looked at him with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve seen some traces of the wreck. A cannon, some goblets. Just sitting on the bottom. I can show you them if you like?”
“Never been tempted to bring them up?”
“It seems funny. People died there. Be like grave robbing. Know what I mean?”
He nodded. “I suppose so. I just want something to prove to my parents the wreck is here, and my grandfather wasn’t mad!”
She looked at him with her dark brown eyes, as if judging him and his motives. “OK. I don’t suppose one goblet will make any difference after all these years. You ready to go back in?”
Alan smiled “Yes.”
“OK! I’ll be back in a minute. Need to have a word with my mother.” She stood up and walked off around the point. Alan busied himself checking his scuba equipment. He might use it later. He’d have to sell that when he got back. His mother had been nagging him about that for months. It was too dear a hobby for someone with no job.
She was back in a few minutes. “Ready?” she asked, already moving towards the water in he
r swim suit. “I swim in this bay every day. The water can be cold but it’s clean. Good for fishing, too!” She walked out into the bay, and slid smoothly into the water. Alan followed her more clumsily with flippers and snorkel. She swam with an effortless crawl out into the bay. She stopped in the middle of the bay, treading water, the seals looking quizzically at her. Alan reached her. “About here.” She pointed down into the depths.
They dived deep into the clear water. It was deeper than Alan expected. The bottom was sandy and it was easy to see the outline of buried objects. There he saw a goblet and the outline of a cannon buried in sand. He grabbed the goblet, raising a cloud of sand. She tapped his shoulder and pointed at a seal performing effortless underwater acrobatics. Eventually, they swam back to the surface, then onto the rocks. They sat basking in the sun, “We must have been down there for ages!”
“Just long enough,” she said, pointing.
He looked and saw his body floating face down in the middle of the bay. He looked down and saw the goblet held in his flipper.
Autumn and Other Months Page 1