A Winter's Tale

“Do you like my new motor”? Dave asked Jack.

“Must have cost you a few bob”, said Jack.

“And then a few more”, said Dave. “Want to come for a run out in it with me?” 

“Sure”, said Jack. So that is what they did.

Dave’s new motor was an SUV pick-up that looked to be top of the range and brand new, although he explained to Jack that he had bought it secondhand from someone who had had a business loss and needed to realise his assets.

“So you collected it today, did you?” Jack asked as they set off down the main road leading out of town. “Everything sorted? Tax, insurance, that sort of thing?”

“I’m working on it”, said Dave. “It’ll all be settled tomorrow.”

“So you’re not actually insured yet?” Jack asked, slightly concerned.

“Don’t worry,”, said Dave. “It’ll be fine”.

“Where are we going?” asked Jack.

“I thought we’d go fishing at Jackson Pond”, said Dave. “I’ve got all my gear in the back”.

“Jackson Pond?” asked Jack. “You do know that it’s private property and no fishing’s allowed there?”

“I’ve been there dozens of times”, Dave said. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see – just fine”.

“And I take you know that there’s a 40 mph speed limit down here?” said Jack. “You’re doing a good 60 at the moment”.

“I’ve got to give the truck a good workout”, said Dave. “There are no speed cameras on this stretch, and I’ve never been caught before. It’ll be fine – absolutely fine”.

As they whizzed down the road Jack heard a sudden clonk. He glanced in the wing mirror to see that the petrol cap had fallen off and was bouncing along the road. He told Dave what he had seen.

“We’ll pick it up at the way back”, said Dave. “I did wonder if I’d put it back properly when I filled her up earlier. There are one or two things I need to get used to with a new truck, and that’s one of them. Don’t worry. It’ll be absolutely fine.”

“I’ve just thought of something”, said Jack. “You do realise that it’s the dead of winter, the temperature’s way below freezing and the lake will be frozen solid? So how are we going to fish in it?”

“I’ve thought of that”, said Dave. “We’ll make a hole in it. You’ll see - everything will be absolutely fine.”

When they reached Jackson Pond, having passed several signs that read “No Entry” and “No Fishing”,  they stopped the truck on the slope leading down to the lake, which was indeed completely frozen over. 

“This ice looks pretty thick”, Jack said as they got out of the truck. “How are you going to make a hole in that?”

“With this”, said Dave, pulling a large axe out of the back of the truck, along with all his fishing gear. “It’ll be fine – absolutely fine.”

They made their way across the ice, and were about to start cracking a hole in it, when Jack spotted something that he felt constrained to draw to Dave’s attention. 

“You know you said that you needed to get used to one or two things on your new truck?” he said.

“That’s true”, said Dave.

“Does that include the handbrake?” Jack asked.

“Why do you say that?” Dave replied, at which Jack tugged on his sleeve and pointed him towards where the truck was gently making its way onto the lake and spinning round as it did so.

“Don’t worry”, said Dave. “As you said, this ice is pretty thick and we’ll be able to drive off it with no trouble at all. Everything will be fine – absolutely massively fine.”

And with that Dave swung his axe at the ice and made a substantial crack in the surface. He followed this with another huge blow. 

“This’ll be great”, said Dave. “A few more hits like this and we’ll have a hole we can fish through. It’ll be absolutely, massively, hugely fine.”

Jack then felt the need to tug on Dave’s sleeve a second time. What he had seen, but Dave had not, was that the first crack Dave had made in the ice was growing. It was not only growing wider, but snaking off in the direction of where the truck was marooned on the lake. They watched in horror as the crack reached the truck, which then toppled over sideways and plunged to the bottom through the chasm that the crack had now become.

Not even Dave could claim that this new situation was even remotely fine.

And so it proved. The truck proceeded to leak fuel into Jackson Pond and kill every single fish in it. It was not difficult to identify the culprit, and also to discover that the truck in question was neither taxed nor insured.

The private prosecution that came Dave’s way was to cost him considerably more than he had paid for the truck, and he was also wrong about not being caught by a speed camera. Indeed, once the case came to court and all the charges were totted up, he found himself required to pay what – in words he would have found familiar – could best be described as an absolutely massively huge fine.

© John Welford

My Journey to Burnside Farm

Normally I prepare for my holidays well in advance, but on this occasion I did not. It was to be a week’s walking break in the Highlands of Scotland, staying at a farm that offered bed and breakfast and a packet of sandwiches for my daily roaming over the fells.

The only information I had about the place was that it was called Burnside Farm and that it was reachable from the remote village of Lochanhead, which was fortunate in being served by the railway line to Wick and Thurso.

I therefore turned up, late one Friday afternoon, at an otherwise deserted railway platform within a short walk of what appeared to be quite a small village. However, one thing in my favour was a tattered notice on the gate as I left the station, announcing that a taxi service was available, courtesy of Hamish.

So all I had to do was find and ask Hamish.

The village did not appear to have a lot of amenities, but it did boast a pub called Mackenzie’s Bar. This would surely be a good place to ask where I could find Hamish.

There was a man behind the bar, who I presumed might be Mackenzie, and two customers talking to each other at a small table in one corner. I asked the barman the obvious question, and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the duo in the corner.

I walked over. I felt it would be rude to butt into their conversation, so I waited for a suitable pause, which simply did not arrive. I coughed, gently. The two men stopped talking and slowly turned their heads in my direction, after which they stared straight at me, saying nothing.

“Are you Hamish?” I asked one of the heads.

A pause.

“Aye”, said the head.

“Are you the taxi driver?”

Another pause, slightly longer this time.

“Aye”.

“Can you drive me to Burnside Farm, please?”

The head named Hamish stared at me, unblinking.

“I could.”

But Hamish gave no indication that he was going to do anything further. He just sat there, motionless, for maybe half a minute. It was clearly up to me to move things further.

“Then might you …”

“If you would nae be so rude at interrupting a body in the middle of his sentence,” said Hamish with unexpected speed, “I was about to say that I could run ye t’ Burnside Farm were it not that I’ve just had five whiskies and am about to start on number six. You would nae want a drunk man behind the wheel of a taxi, now would ye?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would”, I said. “What should I do then?”

Hamish thought for quite a long time before giving his answer.

“At times like this,” he said eventually, “I call on a man I know called Dougal to help out. So maybe I’ll ask him.”

“I’d be grateful if you would”, I said. “Can you do so now, please?”

Hamish went back to staring at me.

“Ye Sassenachs are so impatient”, he said. “Wait till I’ve had me next whisky, then I’ll see about asking him.”

Hamish turned his head away. I noticed that the glass on the table in front of him was empty, but that he was not making any move that looked as though he was going to get it refilled. He stared silently at the glass for what could have been a whole minute.

“Would you like me to get you a whisky?” I asked, hoping that this might hurry things along.

“For a man who is so hasty in interrupting a fellow’s train of thought, you’re mighty slow at taking a hint”, Hamish said.

So, with Hamish now getting outside whisky number six, the time seemed right to broach the subject of contacting Dougal.

I coughed, even more gently than before. The two heads again swung in my direction.

“So … err … you were going to get in touch with Dougal”.

After the not unexpected pause, Hamish once more gave voice. “That I did”, he said, “and I always keep ma promises, don’t I, Dougal?” 

This last comment was asked of the second man, who had remained completely silent up till now.

“You do that”, said the man I now knew to be Dougal. “Ye may be a fearful sinner, Hamish, but ye have always been a man of your word, I will say that for ye.”

Eventually Hamish replied with, “Then would ye kindly do what this Englishman wants and drive him tae Burnside Farm?”

“Aye”, said Dougal, “That I will.”

And – much to my surprise – Dougal stood up. I noticed that the glass in front of this second man appeared to contain nothing more innocuous than water, which was a great relief. The prospect of being driven along a narrow, twisty Scottish lane by a man who’d been knocking back the hard stuff for hours in Mackenzie’s Bar was not one that I wished to contemplate.

We made our way outside to where a car stood at the kerbside. 

“Is this your taxi?” I asked.

“Aye”, said Dougal.

We got in.

“So do you often drive it for Hamish?” 

“I always drive it for Hamish,” said Dougal. “I am a member of the Kirk, with a mission to turn sinners like Hamish away from the Devil’s Brew, and I spend many an hour persuading him tae mend his ways, but I fear with little effect. He will surely roast in the fiery pits of Hell, but not for want of trying on my part.”

I had heard of people like Dougal before. He clearly belonged to the Free Presbyterian Church, known colloquially as the “Wee Frees”. I had heard them described as following a less jolly variety of Calvinism, with a strong aversion to sin in all its forms. I reckoned that doing nothing to offend Dougal would be in my best interests if I wanted to get to Burnside Farm.

I therefore said nothing when we sat in the car, doing nothing and going nowhere. Eventually, Dougal spoke up.

“Let us offer a prayer for our safety during this journey”, he said, and proceeded so to do.

The prayer was mercifully short at only five minutes, and did include a request to the Almighty to protect from sin the soul of the stranger – i.e. me – who was to be Dougal’s companion for however long this ride was going to take.

With the prayer over, I had assumed that we might actually get going, especially as it was now getting dark. But Dougal had other ideas.

“There is one thing I must do”, he said “Tarry a wee while, will ye? I’ll nae be long. There is a shop I must visit.”

So saying he stepped out of the car. When he came back I was amazed to see that he was carrying a large bottle of whisky. I did not dare to ask him why he was buying what appeared to be a particularly good brand of single malt, but fortunately he explained anyway.

“There is nae point in resisting temptation unless ye have temptation tae resist”, he said. “I like to keep a bottle of temptation in my house at all times, so I can practice resistance.”

I could not help but ask him why he needed to buy a bottle tonight. Surely he must already have one at home?

“I am sorry to say that my resistance was broken last night”, he said. “On numerous occasions”.

“And now”, he said, “the most important moment of all”.

“You mean we’re actually going to get going?” I asked.

“Not so hasty”, said Dougal. "I mean that I need to ask you to pay the taxi fare. I’ll be good tae ye, despite your impatience, by only charging you the minimum fee. I’ll trouble ye to pay me now, before we start, just in case you try to do a runner when we get there. Thirty pounds, please”.

Thirty pounds? That was half of all the cash I had on me for the week! However, I really had little choice if I was going to get to Burnside Farm tonight, so I duly paid up.

And then the miracle happened. Dougal started the engine, put the car into gear, and we began to move. The noise of the engine rose to a whine, and I fully expected Dougal to change into second gear. 

But he did not. Instead the engine noise, having reached a deafening peak, declined as the car slowed down and came to a halt. This was not what I had expected.

“Is there something wrong with the car?” I asked.

“There’s nae rang with the car”, Dougal said, and he pointed ahead to where the headlights picked out a board at the side of the road that read “Burnside Farm”.

We had travelled all of a hundred and fifty yards.

© John Welford

Dreaming David

David would have been the first to admit that he had some very odd dreams. He told me the other day about the one he had the night before he had to meet an important client. His boss had told them that the client was arriving a day early, due to a mix-up over his travel arrangements, and David was given the job of keeping him entertained for the day and ensuring that he was in a thoroughly good mood when the business meeting was held the following day and – all being well - a large contract signed.

Knowing just how much responsibility was being thrust on his shoulders, it took David a very long time to get to sleep and, when he did, that’s when the dream started.

It began with him meeting the client, who was a big man – very big. Actually - very, very big. 

He introduced himself as Mr Li’ath.

“That’s an unusual name”, said David, getting a crick in his neck as he strained upwards to look at the man’s face that was way above his. “How do you spell it?”

“L-I-A-T-H. With an apostrophe after the I.”

“Very unusual”, said David, still gazing skywards.

“It was my grandfather’s idea”, explained the voice from the heavens. “It used to De’Ath – with an apostrophe - but Grandad was sued by someone who accused him of being a liar during a business transaction and he thought it would be a good joke to say that if De’Ath lieth, than Li’Ath would be a good name for him”.

“I see”, said David, although he was not all that sure that he did.

“Not a very funny joke”, said the big guy. “But you can call me Jerry”.

“Jerry?”

“Yes. Short for Gerald.”

There was an awkward pause during which David was thinking that he had never seen anyone who looked less like somebody called Gerald.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Jerry asked.

David had it all worked out. He reckoned that his best move would be to show the company’s client the best that the capital city had to offer, beginning with a tour of the National Gallery.

However, it did not take long for David to realise that Jerry was not enjoying the experience of viewing some of the world’s greatest art treasures, so he cut it short.

“What’s going to happen this evening?” Jerry asked.

“We’ve got seats at a concert”. David said.

“That’s sounds OK”, said Jerry. “What’s the band?”

“Not a band,” said David. “An orchestra. The London Philharmonic, playing Beethoven and Schubert at the Royal Albert Hall.”

Jerry’s face fell. “I hate all that culture stuff”, he said. “I suppose you could call me a Philistine”.

David had a problem. How could he hope to win that contract tomorrow if Jerry hated everything he was doing to entertain him?

But Jerry then came to his rescue – sort of. As they walked along the street he spotted a poster for an event that was about to take place that very evening.

“That’s it”, said Jerry, “we’ll go to that!”

“That” turned out to be a cage-fighting tournament, which was something that David had only a vague idea about but Jerry seemed to be extremely excited by. 

The scene in David’s dream switched to the cage-fighting venue, which was full of thousands of screaming fans surrounding the cage in which two sweaty and well-muscled men were throwing each other around, with first one and then the other getting the other hand and beating seven kinds of brick dust out of their opponent.

Jerry was clearly loving what he was seeing, hollering and whooping with everyone else – with the sole exception of David – but merely being a spectator of the carnage was clearly not what he had in mind. Dragging David with him, he marched up to the organiser’s table and demanded to be allowed to go into the cage and take part in a fight.

The man in charge of the event – a bruiser who looked to be only slightly smaller than Jerry – seemed only too willing to agree with this idea. 

“You’ve fought before?” he asked.

“Many times”, said Jerry. “Back home I fight under my old family name, De’Ath, but I leave out the apostrophe.”

The man’s expression suddenly changed to one that could only be described as hero worship. “You mean to say you’re Dr Death? This is amazing. I’ve always wanted to meet you – you’re a legend. Two hundred fights and never a defeat – twenty opponents permanently paralysed. Of course you can fight here tonight.”

He turned to his public address system and announced to the crowd that the greatest cage fighter of all time, the one and only Dr Death, was going to get in the cage and show everyone how it was done. The crowd roared their appreciation.

The man produced a consent form for Jerry to sign. “Full name?” he asked.

“Gerald Oliphant Li’Ath”, said Jerry.

“Who are you going to fight?” asked the man.

“I’ve got my opponent right here”, said Jerry, picking David up and dropping him onto the table.

“Isn’t he a bit small?” said the man. “I can’t see him lasting five seconds against you, and the crowd are going to want their money’s worth.”

“Oh, I always come prepared”, said Jerry, and he produced an enormous syringe with a huge needle on it. 

“This stuff is the ultimate in steroids.”, he said. “Once I’ve injected him with this he’ll grow to three times the size with muscles he could never imagine. In no time at all he’ll be able to beat any man alive in a cage fight, with the sole exception of me, that is.”

As David watched, the syringe seemed to change colour and shape. It was now long and green, with purple stripes. The business end looked more and more like a snake, with deadly fangs, but was that really what they were? 

David shook with fear as he heard the hiss of the hypodermic needle, but that dreadful noise was drowned out by the roars of the crowd, calling his name in a chant – David, David, we want David – David, David, wake up, David.

Wake up?

So he did, to find his wife staring at him in alarm.

“You do say the most extraordinary things in your dreams”, she said. “I hope you’re going to be all right when you meet your client today.”

Fortunately, that turned out to be case, and the contract was duly signed the day afterwards. To celebrate the success, David was invited by his boss to join him in the company’s private box at the Royal Albert Hall, for a concert performance of Saul by George Frideric Handel.

“It features your namesake, David”, said his boss. “Just after you’ve defeated Goliath.”

He couldn’t understand why David declined the invitation.

© John Welford

Familiar Figure: a poem

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

Nobody laugh, nobody snigger

Don’t stare for long, it’ll only get bigger

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

Not in the passage, not in the hallway,

Is it imagined? I’m telling you no way

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

The familiar figure is standing just there

It seems I could touch it, did I but dare

Is it a threat, should I beware?

The familiar figure is standing just there

The familiar figure is there and it stands

Is it going to speak? It holds up its hands

What will it say? What are its demands?

The familiar figure is silent and stands

The figure I see is someone I know

What is its name? Why am I so slow?

If I turn around now, will it just go?

The figure I see is someone I know.

The figure, familiar, is something I see

But is it a doorway? Could it just be

I’ll be fully awake if I count up to three?

It’s only a mirror, that figure is me.

© John Welford