Ambushed by Anne?

It was good, this week, to brush strokes with our old friend David. He spends much of his time travelling the world, the rest of his time looking after the world through the United Nations.

 

He is more used to sending postcards to us from exotic places, rather than blogging, and when I introduced him to this one he promised to ambush it at some time. Instead Anne popped up promising to supply information on Bertram Lloyd (see an earlier entry on this). But I could not reply to Anne; so if you are out there please email me on Lloyd as I'm keen to know more. I'm assured David is not Anne!

 

None of this is central to what I'm going to share with you; it's more a case of lost and found. I have been thinking a great deal about a short story I wrote many, many years ago. It has taken effort beyond the call of duty to search and find this manuscript. But at last I have it and that will be the main part of this blog. Not all of it, but the beginning, at least. I hope you like it, I'm not sure ... by my feelings are too strong to ignore.

 

S C A R E T T A

 

Music rings in the distance; a bell sends taunt emotion through the limbs of Scaretta. She is standing on a hill-top, it is early evening. To her right a stone hut sheltering amid trees and heather. What she is looking for, or listening to, remains within her aura.

 

Alfred Bregan returns from wood stacking. He carries a jug of milk from the farm. Inside a stone hut the metal stove shines from the reflected sun; careful hands have cleaned its complete design of wrought ivy twists. Upon its heating area are several saucepans, brown enamel on the outside and black within. Alfred enters the door and throws a sack to the floor, he leaves the jug on the stone next to the window. Sun is central in the sky and harvest combines are left in the field; men walk to the local Inn for beer with their food. Alfred takes from the sack a freshly killed rabbit and sitting down on the stool, begins to skin it. His large blackened hands have a gentle experienced manner, and lightly skim the grey fur leaving a red, blood dripping, meat. The stone floor seems to consume each red pool that falls upon its surface; a bright midday sun restores a fine lustre to the grey stone walls. Alfred places the skinned rabbit on the table, from the cupboard he brings home-baked bread and churned butter which are placed on the table along with one plate and knife and fork. His hands are now reddened from the blood and this disturbs him enough to halt any moment of indecision. At the outside water butt he immerses each arm full length into the centre, freely splashing and rinsing away the dirt from the skin on arms and face. The water has controlled the thick hair, black upon his arms, so now it lays in neat patterns full and strong. The beard too is more discernable on the brown face, distinct powerful bones around the eyes and cheeks. He walks back into the hut and arranges a few pots upon the stove, in preparation for a meal. His arrangement finished, he stands and surveys with an amount of latent satisfaction. Alfred takes from a hook on the wall a three spiked weapon of unusual and ominous design, with this he walks out of the hut and along the path that runs towards the fields and forest.

 

Shall I continue?