The Old Men and the Sea

The moon was one day on the wane and the old iron bell clanked out across the bay. The nimble breeze carried in a fresh, crisp spray that began to clean the streets of the wispy tendrils of night that still remained. Fires shook out the static, lazy air of the awakening houses and blew a rich perfume of sardines and coffee into bedrooms. While some small heads were still hiding beneath the sheets, resisting their mothers usual threats, twelve men pulled on their boots and made their way to Old Maclaurin's statue on the cliff top. They each placed a fish at its feet.

Rory McKillock quickly taught the ceremonial poem to Angus Laidlaw's son, Craig, who had taken his dead father's place in the twelve. He nodded when he had it, smiling a little, enjoying the feeling of being a novice at 67. They followed the path down the tapered side of the east cliff wall, marching down to the stony beach of the cove. Each man unravelled the thin brown rope he'd brought wrapped diagonally across his torso. They tied themselves together with a 25m spacing and slowly spread out to form a curve of twelve straight lines, around the incoming sea.

This was a local annual tradition, probably the only that was older than any of the current participants. It would survive them. Time and the tides, two things man can never stop. In the thousand years since King Canute had tried the one, both had kept on coming. The day itself bobbed like a ship at anchor, not fixed exactly to the calendar but never straying too far. They took the full or new moon closest to the Spring equinox, some time around the end of March. Here, the sun and moon locked arms as part of the endless celestial hoe-down and spun the seas in a merry dance.

Each man's job was to stand where the wave broke and move back to mark the new highpoint if a wave passed him. They covered the full curve of the beach. The cove itself was mostly made up of the soft rock cliffs, brown and craggy and full of nesting birds and loose footholds. The winds and the seas and the oh-so-subtle movement of the land would cause whole sections to tumble into the sea. The sound would echo up to the village a few times a month and everyone would hold their breath, waiting for the noise to settle. Castles made of sand, and all that.

The rope enabled them to watch how the water was shaped that day, a battling army steadily advancing its borders. With half an hour left till high-tide, they could see that it was coming furthest up just to the right of the middle of the beach's curve so the old men detached the ropes and drew tighter around the tongue tip of the longest lapping wave. They would take it in turns to place a thin cane on the highest stone that the sea kissed, allowing them enough room stand out of water's way, not wanting to interfere with its sloshing path. When the cane remained on a stone for over fifteen minutes, after the time for high-tide had passed, it was accepted as the tide-stone and the man holding the cane picked it up and dried it with a handkerchief and then placed it carefully in his pocket.

They went back up the cliff path and at the top were met by the whole village, many of whom had been watching the whole process from the beginning, smoking pipes and discussing the past and the future. Next to the statue, the caster was waiting. It was a young lad called Steven. The headmaster of the school picked a boy each year, balancing a hefty build with a character deserving of the honour. They placed the stone in his hand and then, together, recited the old poem. Then Rory nodded to Steven and he took a short run up before hurling the stone in a shallow arc, straight out into the hungry sea. A cheer went up, breaking the reverent silence, and chatter broke out as everyone bumbled back to the village. Pubs filled up and dusty bottles were pulled up from the cellars, kept aside for this day.

The stone sank in the grey water and settled on the bed. The currents dragged and fish swum by. The water rolled in a myriad of eddies and whirls, some conflicting and some combining. The stone began to creep its way back to shore.

The wind that the willows brought

Toad races around behind the stacked chairs. Heads swivel and crane, following the clattered sonic path. The cardboard car slaps against seat backs and clips the reverend’s ear as it's tugged around the corner and up the central aisle. The following line of assorted policemen and woodland creatures bump and stutter into each other like an awkward conga, which stops and starts fitfully.

Toad leaps triumphantly back up onto the stage and performs two satisfied hops. The hops are noticeably odd; his upper body barely changes position, he almost seems to tuck his legs up into a floating torso and then snap them back again. It highlights the quality of the little boy's performance, he's so other. He tilts his top hat forward and smirks, an artful dodger for a second with the jaunty angle and the flowing purple of his slightly ragged coat.

The policemen and creatures have found their way back to their positions in the two chorus lines that flank the raised platform stage. Ratty and Mole push through from the back, readying themselves to clamber up and join Toad. From the back of the hall, standing on a low bench, the teacher gestures to them to begin but before they react, all eyes snap to a crash and a shout from out in the audience.

Mole stares gormlessly as Ratty shoves past and weaves through the rows of little chairs, brushing past my lank frame, tucked up like a praying mantis. Teachers gorp at each other, hoping for something to come down the wire, a semaphore in glances, but no one can make out what has happened.

Finally a few heads pull back and I can see Ratty's delicate face paint slipping from her cheeks in chalky streams. Her hand is on her grandfather's chest and she looks at her mother in seeming slow motion as her hand comes up to cover her mouth.

I watch Toad on the stage. He stands on his spot, still twitching his shoulders in total dedication to his character. He waits for his cue.

Locking Eyes

He leans into the tops of the tap handles, resting his chin on his hands, and stares at the girl across the dark wood bar as he waits for her pint to fill. It overflows and he doesn't even notice. Her head stays down as she picks at a suede frill that hangs from her strap. Occasionally she tugs hard and he can glimpse into the bag; each time is a tantalising moment of nothing. What does he even want to see? He guesses there is a book in there. And a pair of sunglasses. And a tampon. And an untouched apple. And a small compact. And a lighter?

She doesn't want to look up at him, she's too nervous. Is he just staring at her? Why is he taking so long? She doesn't know what to do and she digs her nails tighter into the suede strand, yanking the bag back and forth. Harder and harder, it twists slightly around her and rucks up her cardigan around her shoulder. Finally, she over does it and the contents spill out; some on the floor, some on the bar.

The boy doesn't even help, he's mesmerised by her suddenly spluttered contents, it's caught him totally off guard. She scrambles her book from the floor, along with a hairbrush, a phone, her wallet and a hair-clip. She stands back up. On the bar is a lighter, a banana and some Vaseline. The pint behind the bar has over filled the drip tray and dribbles heavily onto the boy's crotch.

Their eyes meet.

An empty message

The remaining hangers clattered together as I tugged my jacket free, their empty bones rattling out a final farewell. The whole cupboard was like a carcass with the thin, white pole a spine. I had finally picked it clean. She must have removed her clothes at some point earlier as if she couldn't stand them to become further tainted by mine, like I would cling to her forever as hidden fibres. That actually sounded about right.

I slid the swollen suitcase onto the floor and sat on the bed so I could press it down under my Converse and wrench the zip around. I didn't even want any of this stuff, I'd have taken it the last time if I had. I was just tired of arguing; she said she wanted it out so out it was going to go. The zip broke, not the teeth but the handle on the zipper came off, so I tied it... with a tie.

I pottered around the room, a room she'd returned to later but I (I had been told) would never see again. My pictures hadn't been replaced, they were just gone; far more damning. I toyed with some of her things, feeling their weight and wishing for some memory to spark like it would in a movie; a couple staring into a shop window from a sunny street, a slender hand pulling a ribbon from a box, clothes dropping onto a wooden floor around red high heels and the camera tracking away to follow whatever had been knocked to roll across the planks. Nothing came though. I pocketed a lipstick.

I found a pen and paper and an envelope and I settled at the little desk beside the bed.

“You left me a letter”

“Yeah”

“It was blank”

“It was written from the heart”

Toothpaste Kisses

Her shoes matched her lipstick. He wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't tried to put her foot behind her head. The booth's low light poured down the pear curve of her upturned calf, sheer tights sparkling in alluded silk. His gazed slalommed to halfway down her thigh, where the edges of her short grey wool skirt clapped against either side of the stretched flesh. A narrow ladder, like a mouth, marked a taught line his eyes didn't dare to cross. The mouth opened wider, teasing him with a broad smile of white skin.

As she pulled tighter on the back of her ankle, cocking her knee, her hips thrust closer too him. Her skirt hiked higher and another inch of her slid free as if she were being squeezed out like toothpaste.

His eyes switched nervously to the five empty glasses on the smooth black table; two Martinis, two mojitos and her untouched water, so much for good intentions.

Later, she kissed his hand while telling him he was her favourite guy in the office. The smeared vermilion on his palm was all the colour left in yet another familiar evening going nowhere. Her shoes were removed by someone else that night. His stayed on, eventually covered by a blanket pulled lazily over his half-tanked frame. He slept, one curled hand clutch tight to his chest. He dreamt it grew mint.