The Moniack Mhor writers group, led by Cynthia Rogerson, has been meeting remotely during the Lockdown. They have been writing pieces inspired by the situation. This is the first of two pieces by Martin Russell. We’ll be presenting the second part tomorrow.
I go down the communal stairway, out the door, and find that the fresh air is still there. No people though, not even the noisy, brattish, ankle biters who climb on the bike shed roofs. I walk through the wee wood, and there doesn’t seem to have been any new fly tipping. Maybe there was a tidy up, just before… the thing we don’t mention. Then, there in front of me is a male dog walker, carrying a black plastic shitbag. He and his dog are very slow, so when he sort of goes right at the canal, I, quite deliberately go left onto the towpath. I am nearly at the narrow lane when I hear the sound of someone whistling. I turn round and see a young man a little way behind me who is carrying a small backpack. I decide I can get through the narrow lane and then let him past safely.
I turn left again to hear the sound of the little waterfall which you can always hear but never see for all the foliage. Today is no different. I try a variety of angles, but nothing helps. A not very athletic looking runner breathing heavily, jogs past.
The boatyard shed is all shut up and locked, there are no flying sparks today. The Caley Cruisers office has a note in the window saying what to do with deliveries. The cruisers, or torpedo boats, as I prefer to call them, are moored in their neat rows, no captains-for-a-week, no excited children in evidence. A little further on the light blue yacht I admire has lost its blue protective cover, so I take a picture of it. The boat of my dreams – as if I know anything about boats. There are lots of boats in the marina, barely bobbing, as there is no wind. It’s still. Quite eerily still.
I reach Jimmy’s wee black boat, the Hiawatha. I walk along the side of the vessel, until the small wooden cabin is in view. Its door as I expected, is closed. There is clearly no-one there, as there hasn’t been for many weeks. I’m thinking that Jimmy must be dead. A few weeks back, a female boatyard worker told me that his Westie had been put down, and that Jimmy was in hospital. When I asked if there was any hope, she just made a face. He wouldn’t have wanted to come back to all this anyway. An old man living on a draughty boat. Better out of it Jimmy, like your wee dog. I take a photo of the Hiawatha anyway. I hope they carried him with his yellow wellies on top of the coffin, sang Gaelic hymns, and drank lots of whisky.
There are no people now. Maybe the ones I saw earlier were the phantasms; the memory of the towpath. There is nobody working on a boat, either. It is like a Scottish Presbyterian Sunday. Then I hear running water, maybe a toilet flushing, so there is someone inside the showroom, and a car parked in front confirms the fact. But there are no more people until I go back through the narrow lane and see a woman coming towards me. She looks solid enough. I contort my face into an imitation of a smile, and she seems to smile back. As usual, I hold my breath.
There is still no-one in our cul-de-sac, and when I re-enter our building I think that I am the first person I’ve heard today going in or out, and it’s nearly two o’clock. My young friend across the landing still has her bedroom curtains drawn. Apart from my footsteps, everything is silent. Maybe the neighbours have all turned into pillars of salt, frozen where they were at ten forty seven this morning.
I open a bottle of Black Isle Goldfinch beer. It’s after half past two. It’s allowed, isn’t it?
I have a tune in my head. It is called ‘You Gotta Sin to Get Saved’.
Views/opinions expressed are the author’s own and do not represent those of any individual from Moniack Mhor or Moniack Mhor itself. Copyright remains with the author.