He was called Oak because of his immense size and mighty branch-like arms that swayed in passionate symphony with his words. He was a farmer by day, a humble, quiet man known for his hard work and trustworthiness, but by night he was a mighty man of God, the thunderous prophet voice of an ancient warrior God beating down from a fragile pulpit on a stunned congregation.
(Variant of a passage out of “Far From The Madding Crowd”)
Aaron Leibowitz gazed dreamily at the rolling waves crashing endlessly like a nagging wife on uncaring rocks, battle after battle only briefly interluded by the sea’s sulky withdrawal. He liked this place: desolate and alone, it was unfrequented by all except that occasional startled cormorant, and he came here to escape, to think. He sat hunched over, braced against the icy wind, drawing his knees together below a great white beard, his deeply creviced face crumpled in contemplation around two intelligent eyes that shone like forgotten pools of youth in an ageing desert.
“Here’s fine,” spoke a commanding female voice. I looked up from my book, slightly irritated at the interruption. The speaker was a smartly dressed woman of certain years, leading what was presumably her husband in tow. They sat down opposite me and I moved some of my things from the table between us, exchanging polite smiles with the man who, despite being immaculately suited in tweed and Savile Row tie had a crumpled look about him that contrasted starkly with her fine, stiff lines.
The man breathed out with obvious relief and turned to the woman, “That was close! I’m glad we caught the train. It’s too chilly to be standing long on the platform.”
She looked at him scornfully, “Of course we caught the train, Henry – didn’t I keep on telling you to hurry up?”
“Yes, Maureen,” he replied, “I was just saying…”
But she was no longer listening, having found something of greater interest in her handbag to attend to. He shrugged and looked out the window as the train pulled slowly out of the station, past misty green, hedge-rowed fields dotted with dopey-eyed sheep.
I was about to return to my book when a shrill ring pierced the air, causing a number of train occupants including myself to jump. The woman took out a sleek black mobile phone from her bag and answered briskly. “Hello?”
A thin, metallic voice spoke rapidly on the phone.
“Tony, stop!” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear excuses. I need the presentation ready for Monday … What? … I see … Well look, if you want to see to your daughter’s birthday party, then I will find someone else to do this, someone I can rely on … What’s that? … Ok, good. I knew I could count on you. Just buy her something nice to make up for it – you can expense it … Good-bye.”
She clapped the phone shut and put it back in her bag, smiling with evident satisfaction. The man looked at her with raised eyebrows, but she glared coldly back at him. “One of us has to work!”
“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he replied sulkily.
“Obviously not hard enough,” she harrumphed loudly, oblivious to or perhaps uncaring of the several onlookers. “I think you enjoy the easy life too much; David was made redundant last year and landed another top job within 3 weeks.”
He looked away, shaking his head sadly, a wealth of unspoken hurt in his eyes. “Some wedding anniversary this is turning out to be.”
She did not answer and they remained silent for the remainder of the journey.
I didn’t feel like reading any more.
“Hello, Sweetie!” said Keesha as she hugged her friend enthusiastically. “Long time no see! Life has been such a complete hullaballoo, you wouldn’t believe it! I have so much to tell you. What’s it been? 2 months? I can’t remember. We did see each other at Andy’s 21st, didn’t we?”
Jen nodded and smiled to herself. She was used to Keesha’s whirlwind entrances.
“So,” continued Keesha, pausing for breath. “What are you drinking?”
“Martini,” replied Jen.
“Hmm! Sounds delish. I think I’ll have one too…. Yooohooo!! Bartender! 2 Martinis, extra olives.”
“No olives for me,” protested Jen.
“Bosh!” said Keesha. “You can’t have Martini without olives!”
The drinks arrived and a moment’s peace prevailed while Keesha took a long, deep sip.
“That is really good,” she sighed. Then she turned to her friend. “So, news! You will never guess what I have bought for myself!”
“Shoes?” replied Jen.
“No, better than shoes. A puppy!”
“That’s nice”, said Jen, staring vacantly at her drink.
“Nice!?” exclaimed Keesha. “What’s up with you then? I said PUPPY. Hello??? You know I’ve always wanted a dog. “ Then she paused, feeling slightly hurt. “I thought you would be excited for me?”
Jen reached over and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. I am Keesha, really. Just got a lot on my mind.”
Keesha looked intently at her friend. “Well?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Keesha lifted up her left arm, flicking her fingers loudly and shouted. “Bartender! Two more Martinis. Better run a tab!” Then turning to her friend, “Come on. Let’s have it.”
Jen stared at her drink, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. “David broke up with me”, she said. “It was almost our 3rd year together … we were going to go away for the weekend … I was sure he was going to propose.” Then she broke down, sobbing deeply.
Keesha’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no… Jen. I’m so sorry. You poor thing.” She flung her arms around her friend’s neck and kissed her. “Me and my big mouth, jabber, jabber, jabber, and here you are hurting!”
I smelled the meal long before it arrived, such was my anticipation: young lamb slow roasted to perfection, stuffed with gilded garlic cloves and garnished with sprigs of tender green rosemary, fresh from the herb garden I could smell on sunny days from my window. I lifted the cold, metallic plate cover and to my delight discovered, along with the soft roast potatoes encased in gorgeous crunch, a medley of fresh, steaming carrots, tender leaks and sweet petit pois. To the side perched a modest glass of chilled white Chardonnay dripping with icy condensation, and a little bowl in which a finely moulded crème caramel still wobbled with thrilling anticipation amidst a sea of bitter-sweet syrup, promising the perfect end to the perfect meal.
I sat quietly while I slowly ate the wonderful repast, pausing to savour every delicious morsel in my mouth before swallowing it ever so gently, so as to not ruin the sublime moment. It seemed even the birds and the sea stopped their incessant noise out of respect for perfection.
One might be forgiven for thinking the room was a tawdry boudoir, so lurid were its dark pink walls. However the large black poster on the wall gave it away: “Come into my lair” threatened a smirking cartoon monster with twinkling eyes, “We have cookies!” The room was tiny, with scarcely any room to swing a fish, never mind a cat. A practical, white single bed filled one side, its compact built-in drawers overflowing with clothing, while opposite a small cupboard formed an alcove for a minute desk which was bedecked with homework books, scraps of paper covered with colourful doodles, a broken MP3 player and a half eaten biscuit. The tiny paper bin beneath the desk spilled its contents onto the unseen green carpet: a paper rubbish trail that morphed seamlessly into heaps of shed clothing. A large white, wooden-framed window completed the scene, opening generously onto a view of the Kent Weald valley below, lush with green, hedge-rowed fields, occasional trees and dopey-eyed sheep.
The pink duvet stirred and a little tousled head emerged sleepily from an orderly dream world.
“It just happened!” I cried, tears of frustration welling up inside me.
She looked at me with longsuffering bemusement. “You mean to say that heap of dirty clothing at the bottom of your cupboard just appeared, from nowhere?”
I nodded vigorously.
“Nothing to do with you?” she continued, peering intently into my eyes.
I met her gaze unflinchingly. “Nope.”
“Are you sure you are telling me the truth, Robbie?” I could hear the growing sternness in her voice but nodded again.
She sighed and took my hand gently, leading me to the window from which could see across the valley to the blue mountains shimmering in the distance.
“Those mountains,” she said, pointing. “How do you think they came about?”
I looked at her earnestly, years of Sunday School training clamouring for attention, and replied, “By accident.”
She looked at me aghast, but then regained her composure. “That’s just silly and you know it. Now tidy up those clothes and stop talking nonsense! I’ll wash your mouth out with soap if you lie to me again.”
“But, Mum!” I protested.
“Now!”
Check out my story ‘Lunar Landing’ published at Gloom Cupboard.
I walked up to the bar and sat down on the empty stool.
“You don’t want to sit there,” said the bartender.
“Oh? Why not?” I replied.
“It’s haunted.”
I laughed, but then stopped when I saw he was not laughing with me.
“You’re serious?”
He nodded.
“Well get me a drink and tell me more.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“What’ll you have?”
“Pint of Guinness, and pour yourself one too.”
He thanked me and I watched as he pulled two draughts. He was a large, portly, red-faced man – standard bartender stock. His large meaty hands dwarfed the glass as he placed it in front of me. I took my first sip and looked at him expectantly. He leaned forward earnestly.
“I’ve been the landlord of this here pub for nigh on ten years. We don’t get very many visitors, not since they built the bypass, you see. In fact, you’re the first stranger we’ve had in months.”
“I’m not a stranger – I grew up here,” I protested.
“I know, Joe, but then you moved to Dublin and got educated and all, and you know how that puts you in the minds of the people around here. Anyhow, let me finish. When I first started we had a fella by the name of Henry Mallone what used to come in here, every night, always sitting on that stool. I don’t recall him ever missing a night. Then, one night, just for a laugh, one of the other punters, a fella called Toby, Toby McGuire, sits in Henry’s place. Henry comes in, sees Toby on his stool and tells him to move, on account of how its his seat. Toby was a young fella like, and didn’t take kindly to Henry’s tone. I think he’d had a few too many too. So, he tells Henry to feck off, and Henry goes ballistic. I tell you, I never seen anything like it. He was such a quiet man normally, but that night he were like a crazed beast, effing and blinding, and then he starts to lay into Toby. I tried to stop things, but they fought like animals, breaking up the place, until suddenly Toby lands a lucky punch and decks old Henry. Henry fell like a stone but knocked his head on a table and died there in then. It was a terrible thing to be sure.”
He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and took a long drink.
“There were an inquisition and all, but the tribunal decided it were accidental death and nothing further happened. But Toby was a heartless bastard. He showed no remorse, and fool that he was, he decided he’d take Henry’s seat for his own. I remember telling him off but he didn’t listen to me. I’m just an old fool, right? The thing is, a few weeks later he disappears. He’d been living with this gal, Mair, a pretty young thing, complete waste on the likes of him. She came in here asking after him, but we’d not seen anything. The polis came later, but he were never found.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
He raised his hand. “Not long after, there was this other fella, also a young ‘un, Jerry was his name, arrogant as they come. He started to come to the pub and made himself right at home in old Henry’s seat. No respect for the dead these youngsters. Two weeks later he’s missing too. But they found him, mind you, not two miles from here, in the moors, dead as they come.”
I nodded, “Yes, those moors can be pretty dangerous if you’re not careful. Suck you right under.”
“Indeed,” continued the old man, a queer look in his eyes, “except that he weren’t drowned. They found him sitting next to the dead willow tree, hugging it with all his might, his face full of dread, like he died of fright.”
I smiled to myself. Superstitious old codger.
“So what do you reckon scared him like that? Henry’s ghost?”
He looked at me.
“You may sneer, young man, but that’s two deaths unexplained. I tell you it’s old Henry being possessive about that stool you’re sitting on.”
I snorted, but will confess to being a little less cocky. However I stood my ground.
“Pah! Ghosts. No such thing.”
“That what they teach you in Dublin?” he asked before shrugging and returning to his duties. “Suit yourself.”
I had another few pints and chatted to a few of the locals, before finally calling it a day. I bade them all good night, and was about to leave when the bartender called me over. He had a queer look in his eyes.
“Watch yerself out there, lad. Its a grim night for believers and unbelievers alike.”
I smiled, thanked him for the story, and left.
It was a chilly, moonlit night, and I was not looking forward to the half mile walk back to the B&B along the old Clairin road. A fine mist rose from the moors on either side of the road, swirling around my feet as I walked. I was thankful for the intermittent moonlight because apart from the twinkling lights of the village far ahead the road was dark. I walked briskly, the warm glow of alcohol buzzing pleasantly in my head while I mulled over the evening’s strange, implausible story.
Suddenly behind me I heard the sound of gravel being trodden under foot. I spun around to look but the road was empty.
“Who’s there?” I called, but the night was deathly silent, pausing it seemed to watch the scene unfold. I could see my breath clouding before me, the air suddenly feeling very icy. Then I smiled at myself – these moors had an eerie effect on locals and visitors alike it would seem – and resumed my journey home.
Then I heard the sound again, but this time right behind me. I froze in my tracks and turned around slowly. My spine tingled with anticipation and I felt every muscle in my body tense with the primal desire to flee. A shadow, large and looming stood before me, the moon glinting off dark, hollow eyes.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The shape didn’t speak at first, then approached, slowly, reaching out large, familiar, meaty hands, a large amorphous shape in one them, and I braced myself, wanting to scream, but somehow unable to.
He spoke.
“You forgot your coat.”
