She whimpered. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “No, not much.” “I remember an old cottage behind the shore, we must try for that. We could never get up those cliffs in the dark and it’s miles to Lochaline.
Together they got to their feet. The wind helped to blow them up the shore. A darker black shape appeared against the cliffs. “Can we get in? We’ll freeze out here.” “I don’t know.”
A small porch was in the centre of the cottage and inside was pitch dark. With numb fingers he felt the door seeking for a handle or a knob. Just as he despaired of finding a way into the cottage, his finger entered a hole, felt a wooden lever, and the door opened. They stumbled inside away from the noise, wind and rain. It smelled musty and was totally black.
“I hope there’s a torch somewhere.” he said and began to feel around. “Perhaps by the door or by a fireplace.” Minutes passed and then “This might be one.” The light, which dazzled their eyes after the complete dark, showed a room with a fireplace and two dark doors. “Is that a Gaz lantern?” “Yes, and perhaps there are matches if there is a kitchen.”
Within a few minutes they had the lantern lit. “The fire is laid in the grate - we’d better light it, we’re both frozen.” “But what about the owners?” “We’ll light the fire - there is a note in the kitchen - ‘Use what you need and please replace for the next person.’ There is even some food.” As the kindling began to blaze, he turned to see her shivering and dripping as she stood in a puddle. “See if you can find a towel - if not use a blanket off one of the beds. Strip off, dry yourself and wrap up in a dry blanket while I stoke the fire. We’ll be all right now - I was seriously worried in the dinghy and again when I could not open the door.” With chattering teeth, she nodded dumbly, took the lantern and went into the bedroom.
Two lives quietly saved by the hospitality of absent strangers.
UNTIL THE FLAG DROPS.
Marcus looked up. Half the tables were empty. At the next one the blonde girl leant forward, concentrating hard with the tip of her tongue just showing between red lips. She had smiled at him before the matches started and he wondered …..
Angry with himself for letting his mind wander he fixed every scrap of attention back onto his own board. It was his opponent’s turn to move after a hard match and Marcus was in a weaker position though time might work to his advantage. Failure by either player to make his first thirty moves within the set time automatically lost the game. He studied the board intently while quiet ticks interrupted the silence and the adjacent timeclock faces showed Marcus had slightly less than one minute available for his next two moves while his opponent's clock had nearly two minutes left. But Michael had three moves to make and the position was difficult and complex.
Marcus had lost material and his queen-side rook was threatened, but on the other side of the battlefield he had more than one checking opportunity and even an indirect threat of checkmate. However Marcus could see the attack was not watertight since Michael could block the final combination of pieces. Had Michael seen this possibility and, more importantly, that it would not be decisive? Marcus watched Michael’s face which was totally focussed on the board, while out of the corner of his eye he also watched Michael’s clock and listened as the seconds leaked away. He expected that his opponent’s move, when it came, would be to defend the king’s position, and he held his own breath while willing Michael's clock to move faster. More seconds passed - already the minute hand had pushed the flag, a little hinged pointer which would drop when the hand reached its tip, almost to the horizontal.
Michael glanced at the clock, started slightly, put his hand over his knight, pulled it back and then moved a bishop. He immediately tapped the top of his clock to stop it and to start Marcus’ clock.
Marcus gazed intently, thoughts whirring. A simple checking attack would chase Michael’s king for three quick moves. The sequence would be easy for Michael to read, the moves forced, and after two moves the time threat would disappear and Michael’s material advantage would almost certainly allow him to win. Marcus needed to create complications and perhaps under time pressure Michael might blunder or think too long and lose through letting the flag fall before completing his thirtieth move. The sooner Marcus moved, the harder for his opponent. Pretending confidence, though painfully tight inside and conscious of his heart beating, he moved his knight to a position where it could be taken, where if not taken it could become another threat, while taking it would appear to weaken Michael’s defences on the other side. His arm darted to stop his clock and restart the other. He still had a few seconds left for one further move within his time limit, while Michael playing black had to make his move and then reply to Marcus’ next one before his flag fell. Marcus decided on an immediate response which he could play whatever Michael did and hunched expectantly over the table. The faster he played, even with a bad move, the less time Michael would have to analyse the new position and select his move.
His opponent’s eyes and attention flickered from his king’s corner to Marcus’ knight, exposed and waiting to be taken diagonally opposite. Was it a trap? Had Marcus a winning attack if he took the knight? His hand trembled as he took the piece and his shaky finger missed the button on the clock and had to tap it again. The moment it was pressed Marcus moved his remaining rook to the file leading to Michael’s king and pressed his own button. The second hand on Michael’s clock face jerked up towards the vertical as Michael hesitated, then reached for his queen and lifted her. But before he placed her on a new square or could tap the top of the clock the red flag fell and swung gently on its hinge.
Marcus gently breathed out, his acute and painful tension gradually released. Slowly Michael toppled his king onto its side. This was not the moment for triumph. “Very bad luck.” said Marcus seriously as they shook hands and completed the match sheets.
He was aware of someone behind him. “I won as well. Let’s celebrate.” murmured the girl.
DOUGLAS IN TROUBLE.
Now a tale from our dog Douglas – a cross between a black and white sheepdog and a French gundog – highly intelligent though not quite literate – for example he was liable to mistake “toast” for “post” when spoken at breakfast-time and dash to the front door to grasp the mail as it came through the flap. Here he describes an unpleasant adventure.
Tale A
Rastus and I were in a real fix. Behind us stood a cliff which was too steep to climb, while in front was a crumbly edge over which we looked far down into a quarry. The ledge narrowed to nothing at each end.
I should not have followed Rastus – but she likes the smells of rabbit and deer too much, and so do I. This morning after slipping out of her gate she called for me and we went up the hill together. We went over the top much further than ever before. A rabbit ran across short grass so Rastus went after it. She is rather fat and when the rabbit dodged, she carried on and fell out of sight. When I went to look for her the cliff edge slid away under me, and with a roll, bump and a scrape I joined her on the ledge.
We were not badly hurt, but we were stuck, unable to go up, down, or sideways. When we went near the front edge little stones fell away and rattled down into the quarry. So we barked, but nobody heard us, and then we barked louder, but it was no good.
I began to think of water, longing for a drink, but there were no puddles nor was there any shade on our ledge. The sun shone almost straight down on us. Our black coats became hot while we lay and panted.
Suddenly people arrived in the quarry and we barked as loudly as we could. But they took no notice and began to fire guns and make a lot of noise. Rastus was frightened by the bangs. We became very tired with dry mouths, and our barks became husky and almost disappeared.
Much later the people left and night had nearly come. I was terribly thirsty and Rastus was whimpering quietly when in the quarry far below I saw Master and Mistress. I tried to bark but no noise came. Then they saw us high up in the quarry and began to climb towards us. Eventually they st
ood below us and my Master could just reach up to the ledge. He called me but the stones and soft rock began to give and crumble and I shrank back again. Then he spoke sharply and I went nearer, and he caught my collar and lifted me down to a small lower ledge with a path down to the Mistress. And in the bottom of the quarry were dirty puddles – I did not mind the mud, the water tasted wonderful.
Master went back up for Rastus, but she trembled too much and would not go anywhere near the edge, so he had to clamber almost over the edge himself to drag her trembling and moaning down to the lower ledge. She is bigger than I am, but rather stupid – and she is certainly not brave. Eventually her panic subsided, she noticed that she could walk down from the lower ledge, and she went straight to the largest muddiest puddle and rolled in it. So we were too filthy to be allowed in the family car, and Mistress walked us back over the hill. Rastus’ owners were so pleased to see her that they were not angry, despite her messy muddy coat. And our barks returned after a day or two. After that adventure we know better than to explore so far from home.
or tale B
B).......... I saw a stick poking out from our ledge. Sticks have always interested me a lot – I like to catch and carry one when I can, and sometimes they taste nice. So I crawled over to it and began to pull it out of the ground, but to my horror the whole area of stones where I was lying began to slide downwards. In a cloud of rocky dust I fell but stopped after a few yards on another narrower ledge. For a few minutes stones fell past or onto me, but they were all quite small. And when they stopped I found that I could walk along the ledge and down a slope to the bottom of the quarry where there as a lovely puddle to drink.
Then I wondered what to do. Rastus was still on the top ledge on her own. I decided to try to find my way home, and after an hour or two and when it was dark I came across a familiar path with a few of my old markings. From then it was simple, but when I got to the door of my house, I could not bark. So I lay down and fortunately Mistress opened the door to put out the milk.
“Where have you been all day?” But I could not reply without my bark.
They looked at my coat and feet. The neighbours came in and asked “Where is Rastus? Were they together?”
“He seems to have pale dust in his fur and paws. – Perhaps he’s been in a quarry.”
So we went in two cars. The quarry was locked, but I pushed through the hedge while they climbed the gate. We had torches and I led them up to the ledge below Rastus, and eventually we lifted her down.
When Rastus got to the bottom of the quarry she leapt into the biggest and dirtiest puddle there and rolled about – but Labradors are often messy. Her owners were very angry when she jumped into their car covered with mud. So I don’t expect she will be allowed out on her own for a long time. And when she is, I won’t go to the top of the hill again in her company!
THE STAND-IN
Michael suspected that he might really be stupid since he was told that so often at home, but he knew his hearing was sharp. He would lie in bed and identify the sounds from the streets and fields nearby – the soft call of a distant owl, a train several miles away, and he knew the footsteps of the various night walkers, the young people from the next street, the old man who shuffled to the post box after dark, and sometimes his father’s heavy tread.
When the night was quiet he also could hear his parent’s voices downstairs, and they were often critical. “He’s far too quiet and slow. I don’t know how I come to have such a feeble, hopeless son – might as well have had a daughter.” “He’s not a bad lad, Jack. You come down pretty heavily on him.” “Something or somebody has to ginger him up – he’s so wet.” “Well, he used to have a terrible temper when he was small. Anyway, he hopes to get into the cricket team.” “Fat chance of that – most of the other boys are bigger and quicker – he’d be far better trying to concentrate in class than going off imagining he could play sports. Those wicket-keeping gloves which Mildred gave were ridiculous. They’ll never get any use.” Michael rolled over and pulled the bedclothes over his head. That way the rustling of the clothes and the sound of his own breathing blocked out unpleasant conversations.
In the morning at breakfast he announced “William Stevens hurt his hand last week – I may keep wicket for the Under-fifteens today.” “Under-fifteens!” snorted his father “That’s just children’s cricket. Waste of time.” “Michael” said his mother quietly “Don’t forget to put the inners in your bag, dear. Your flannels and shirt are on top.” and after breakfast Michael caught the school bus with his satchel and cricket bag.
At break Stevens came up to him. “My finger isn’t quite better yet, Morris. Stinky will put you in the side – make sure you don’t miss any catches. But you can’t borrow my gloves. Use the grotty school ones.” Michael thought of showing him Mildred’s present and decided not to. “I’ll do my best, Stevens.” he said. Sometimes Michael felt rage rise inside him, but as on this occasion he had learned to hold it back.
Mr. Perrett (Stinky behind his back) called him over before lunch. “Morris – I want you to keep wicket for the Under-fifteens today. Stevens is injured. Have you any gear?” “Yes, Mr. Perrett. Thank you, Sir.”
Michael had never before changed in the match dressing room. He joined the other boys of the home side, and together they covertly watched the visiting side swagger up to the pavilion and into the other changing room. The captain muttered “They look a tough lot. They’ve only lost one match this season, and beat us badly at their place.”
And so it proved. They were a strong team. Michael soaked his inner gloves under the tap before pulling on the wicket-keeping gauntlets, and performed quite well, though few balls came straight through to him since the visiting batsmen hit most of them. However he took one catch and stopped the majority of the throw-ins. But the visitors made a big score and declared at tea.
Over tea the home side noted how the visitors clustered round a tall lad. “That’s their fast bowler.” someone whispered. “He took five of our wickets last time.”
Michael looked at the batting order – he was number ten. He went and sat on the grass to one side of the sightscreen and watched the play. The fast bowler was indeed quick and accurate. Wickets fell, the fast bowler was rested, and the score rose slowly, too slowly to have any chance of winning so a draw was the best they could hope for. When the fifth wicket fell, Michael put on a pair of pads and selected from the team bag a pair of batting gloves and a bat. The home team watched the game dispiritedly.
About twenty minutes before the time for drawing stumps, the fast bowler was brought on again, took the eighth wicket, and Michael slowly walked in to bat. He took guard and looked at the bowler. The first ball reared up and hit him painfully on the left thigh, above his pad. “Well bowled.” called the wicket-keeper. The bowler smiled and Michael felt anger lift into his chest. He rubbed his leg and as the bowler delivered the next fast ball, he jumped forward swinging the bat. To his great surprise the ball flew from the edge over the off-side fielders. He and the other batsman took two runs.
So Michael continued to advance towards the fast bowler swinging his bat. He missed many balls, but the wicket-keeper stood so far back that there was little danger of being stumped before he returned to his crease. And he managed to hit the straighter balls. The feeling of rage produced by his bruised thigh and the bowler’s smile gave way to a slightly different aggressive and positive desire to attack this bowling. He savoured an intoxicating sense of achievement when he felt the sweet sensation and sound of a cricket ball hit by the middle of a bat. He was not berserk - he would not have known the word – but exultant with the joy of battle and a battle going well. The fast bowler was replaced.
The home side played out a draw, and Michael returned to the pavilion hearing the claps of his side and the polite applause of the visitors. “Well done, Morris.” said Stinky Perrett, taking off his white umpire’s coat. “Good innings. I want you in the side next Wednesday.”
That
evening when Michael’s father came in his mother said. “This young man scored fifteen not-out and is in the colt’s side again next Wednesday.” His father looked across “Excellent. Though it’s only boys’ bowling. I’ve always said you should be out sporting more, as well as doing your homework.” Michael remembered the overheard conversation and the different criticism from the previous night. A certain irritation stirred inside him, but he controlled it as usual, smiled, and replied “Yes, Dad. I’ll start straight after supper.”
NIGHT WATCH
Jack felt sick, cold and empty. The forecast was Force 8. He sat on the slight shelter of the lee side while in the tilting cockpit above him, Daniel clutched the tiller. It was Daniel’s first voyage and Jack wondered how he felt.
Pale crests of breaking water sped by, and above him the reefed mainsail pressed the yacht over onto her side. A scrap of foresail was supposed to make her easier to control, but he felt it just added to the heeling and the strain. They were making nearly six knots.
The wind note changed up an octave. The lee rail dipped under. “I can’t hold her. What do I do?” shouted Daniel. The crash of falling crockery from the cabin was heard even over the scream of wind.
Jack clung on as the sea poured over him into the cockpit. “Into the wind” he yelled. “I can’t.” “Hang on.” Jack cast off the sheet holding the small area of foresail and struggled up the almost vertical cockpit to the rudder, wishing he had previously been in a similar sea. Thank goodness both had lifejackets and long safety lines.