by David Wilson
Waffles the cat had made himself comfortable on an armchair, catching the sun as it shone in through the bay window. Abigail put a hand under his rump and tried to lever him off the chair but Waffles miaowed loudly and wouldn’t budge an inch. ‘Bothersome cat,’ she muttered, as she went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, and then returned to sit in the chair opposite Waffles, watching him relax in the warm sun. ‘I think you’re an old cat aren’t you Waffles? You seem to have that look about you, and a distinct lack of get up and go.’ She sighed, ‘I know how you feel.’ Her head drifted onto the back of the chair and she watched the trees outside the window sway in the gentle breeze. Waffles looked up and miaowed as the kettle clicked off in the kitchen and then he resumed his relaxed position. Abigail laughed to herself, ‘You might as well have a cup of tea since you’re as much at home here as I am by the look of you,’ she stroked him on the head as she walked past to the kitchen. ‘What a trusting cat. You must come from a good home to be this easy with people. Although once you get to our time of life there’s not too much left worth fearing, is there Waffles?’
As she came back in with her cup of tea, she went back out into the hallway and looked at the small pile of plastic bags on the floor. Right, she said to herself, we need some sort of indexing system for those I think. If I’d let the library get into that state then we’d never find anything. She went upstairs to the large cupboard in one of her spare rooms, rooting around the boxes of Christmas decorations, cards, tinsel, and a holly wreath for the front door which she didn’t know if she would bother putting up this year. Aah, here we are, perfect.
She went back downstairs and stood the green, plastic card tree against the wall just inside the front door. Down each side there were slots in which you could slide cards to display them rather than have them lined up along the fireplace. She slotted the charity bags into the tree in order of the days they had to go back out on the doorstep. There, she thought, standing back admiring her ingenuity, there’s always a solution if you think about it. It won’t get me on Dragons’ Den but problem solved.
Once back down in the lounge, she sat down in her armchair again and enjoyed the heat from the sun which had moved round just enough to hit her chair as well. Five minutes and then you’re going out, I’m sure your owners might be wondering where you are. But five minutes came and went as Abigail’s eyes closed and she drifted into a sound sleep, with a gentle purring from the cat the only sound in the house.
Chapter Four
Alasdair Mills’ wife, Sophie, checked herself over in the bedroom mirror, adjusting her grey woollen jumper and smoothing down her dark trousers. Her short blonde hair had been carefully brushed and minimal make-up applied just to show willing. After all, the other members of the Stirling Community Planning Committee were generally a reserved bunch and as she was trying to organise the biggest event in their history she wanted to appear in every way respectable and in command of the job. She came downstairs to find Alasdair sitting on the sofa gazing at a pair of tatty old slippers on the table in front of him. ‘Still trying to come to terms with the fact that you paid eight thousand pounds for those flea-bitten things?’
Alasdair looked at her. ‘These are not flea-bitten things as you well know, and they were worth every penny!’ He picked them up gently and put them back inside the glass display case which he had ordered to be specially made for them and which would have pride of place in his study bookcase very shortly. The slippers had once belonged to Sir Walter Scott and as Alasdair had a passion for collecting everything he could to do with the man, when these had come up for auction a few weeks ago he had decided he must have them for his collection. He knew they would cost him a tidy sum since they were highly prized by Walter Scott collectors, and the museum at Abbotsford, Scott’s former home, wanted them badly as well. But Alasdair had held his nerve and outbid everyone else for them and not without a huge air of satisfaction had he posed for a photograph in the paper to make sure other collectors could see that he had been victorious. As far as he was concerned this was the crowning glory on his collection of first editions and other items – a pair of slippers once owned and, who knows, perhaps even once worn by the great man himself as he wrote.
Sophie was getting organised, ‘Are you remembering I’ve got my committee meeting tonight?’ He nonchalantly picked up the newspaper as if not really interested.
‘Yes. Do you want me to come along to lend a hand?’ he said, trying again to hide his peevishness at never having been invited to attend the Stirling Community Planning Committee despite his status as a respected local solicitor, now retired of course.
‘No thanks, I think you’ve done enough to help me out already, don’t you?’
He looked hurt. ‘Why, what have I done?’
‘You know very well this is the last meeting before the big day on Sunday and I’ve got to keep everyone on side and make sure things are organised. That’s difficult enough but as you well know Bridget McAllister will be there and I’m not exactly her favourite person at the moment.’ He lifted his newspaper and rustled it into shape.
‘She shouldn’t be so touchy. Anyway, I’ve got a Collectors’ Club meeting tonight at the Smith. I’ve persuaded Abby to come along and see if she likes it.’
Sophie sat down next to Alasdair. ‘How is she doing? I’ve not seen her much recently what with being so busy with the organising committee.’
Alasdair lowered the paper again. ‘I think she’s fine, although she seems like a shadow of who she used to be. It’s like the winds just died from her sails.’
‘I hoped she would be picking herself up again by now, it’s been nearly a year since Arthur died.’
Alasdair smiled at her. ‘But when you’re married that long it takes a long time to even start getting over it, if you ever do. She mentioned she’d been looking through Arthur’s stamp collection and had found a list of stamps he was missing to complete it and she might try to find them. I think she felt it would just be a nice thing to do for him since he can’t do it himself now.’
‘That’s nice, might help her to move on. Is there anyone at the club that can help her with it?’
‘Yes, Bruce is a stamp man so he’ll hopefully be able to give her some pointers. Arthur was quite the philatelist and his collection is quite impressive; he showed it to me a few years ago when he used to work on it in the office at lunch. Well, we’ll see how she goes. I think it might just do her good to get out and about again. She’s as tough as old boots really, she’ll be fine.’
Sophie kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s just not true what everyone says about you is it?’ a wry smile forming on her lips. ‘You’re quite a considerate soul after all.’ She got up before he could reply, ‘I’m going to head off, see you later.’ She disappeared out of the lounge door, picking up her coat and shoulder bag as she went, leaving Alasdair to gaze wistfully at his famous slippers, his face a picture of pride and joy.
Alasdair was organised and leaving the house fifteen minutes later to walk round to Abigail’s house, which was only five minutes away, as he and Sophie also lived in the King’s Park. He turned right at the end of his garden path and walked up the street, past a white works van parked at the road, although no one was inside. ‘That’s the trouble with these old houses,’ he thought, ‘always something going wrong with them.’
At Abigail’s house he knocked on the door and waited to see the frosted shape of Abigail through the glass coming to let him in, but she never appeared. This time he gave the door a louder knock and bent down to the letterbox, ‘Abby! Come on, tick tock tick tock!’ He heard movement inside and let the letterbox go with a metallic crack as it closed.
A few moments later Abigail opened the door and was about to chide him for making such a racket but before she could, a ginger fur ball came racing down the hall and out through Alasdair’s legs nearly knocking him off balance. ‘Good God Abby! What the hell was that?’
‘That was Waffles, and I didn’
t think he had that amount of energy in him. He’s been keeping me company this afternoon.’ She watched as he ran over the road and then came to a sudden stop, clearly deciding it was now time to wash. ‘He’s fast for an old cat.’ Alasdair closed the door behind him.
‘Where did he come from? He’s not yours is he?’
Abigail glanced back. ‘What if he is?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, ‘But no, he just appeared on the doorstep and then made himself at home. He was on a five-minute warning but I fell asleep in my chair, the heat from the sun just knocked us both out. I’ve never seen him before, so I think he’s maybe new to the area. I’ll not be a moment and then we can go.’ She started walking up the stairs as Alasdair went into the lounge.
‘Can’t cats sense when people are unhappy or in need of company?’ he shouted up after her, ‘I think it’s an inbuilt thing they have. Or is that dolphins? I think it might be dolphins, Abby.’ The bathroom door closing upstairs cut him off and he carried on the discussion in his own head.
The lounge was a traditional Victorian style, with a large bay window and a feature fireplace with a black cast-iron fire and sturdy mahogany surround. The wall around the fire was painted the Victorian red that Alasdair thought should be written into the title deeds if you were buying one of these houses; that and you must always have your outer front door painted black, and it must always have a holly wreath on it during December. The suite was a leather Chesterfield style, and along the opposite wall from the fire there was a large, dark wooden sideboard. Alasdair plodded around the room while he waited, looking out at the pleasant evening, and then, walking past the sideboard, he stopped as he noticed all of the photographs that had been strewn across the top. She’s been wandering down memory lane again, he thought as he picked through some of them. They ranged from Arthur and Abigail’s wedding day, at which Alasdair was the best man and looking quite dapper in the photographs, to them walking out on their honeymoon, to the birth of their son Charlie. ‘Happy times,’ he mused as Abigail walked in and found him looking at the pictures.
She just smiled. ‘I thought I’d do a bit of tidying but I didn’t get very far. It’s amazing how you can lose time in your memories.’ Alasdair smiled.
‘We’d be lost without them. Wasn’t it Charlie’s fortieth this year?’
‘Yes, last month. He asked if I wanted to go over and stay with them for a while but I don’t think the Florida sun would be good for me nowadays.’
‘Be just what you need, Abby, a nice holiday and some proper sunshine.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, we should get going. So how many people do you think there’ll be at the meeting?’
Alasdair let out a thoughtful sigh. ‘Difficult to say really, I’m hoping for a good turnout. Our numbers had dwindled a little by the last meeting in May, but we all agreed to have a recruitment drive while we had our break so could be a big turnout. We had best get going and not keep them all waiting!’
Chapter Five
The Smith Art Gallery stands on Albert Place and is an imposing building with Greek-style pillars on its façade, and a pedestrian area out front adorned with flags and banners advertising the current exhibition on ‘Rugs of the Reformation’, one of the gallery’s more obscure offerings. Inside, the foyer led past the enquiries desk and beyond to the gallery rooms where the main exhibitions were housed, and beyond that the permanent collection of various Scottish and local artefacts. Namely, several to do with the social history of the area, quite a few to do with William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, and the pride and joy of the Smith, the oldest football in the world. Standing in front of this particular exhibit was a twenty-five-year-old man, wearing jeans and a zip-up casual top, and a tidy head of mousy brown hair. Bruce Dickson stood quietly gazing at the football, waiting patiently for the last ten minutes before the Stirling Collectors’ Club meeting began. He was lost in a daydream when a member of staff from the gallery stood next to him, ‘Amazing isn’t it?’ Bruce looked around suddenly, ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to give you a start. I just thought you might be thinking how amazing it is that we have something that’s the oldest in the world?’
Bruce stammered a reply. ‘No, I was just looking. I mean yes, it is.’
‘Do you like football? I’m quite a fan, Stirling Albion you understand, so more of a masochistic thing than anything else but you’ve got to support your local team, don’t you think? Anyway, it always impresses me that we’ve got this here.’ Bruce looked at the football again.
‘I suppose, I’m not really a sports fan. I prefer watching movies to sports.’
The man looked at him curiously. ‘Not any sports? You must like at least one, even if it’s something daft like shinty or tiddlywinks?
‘No, not really.’
‘Ok, but you must still admit that it’s amazing we’ve got this here. It was found in the castle and dates back to the fifteen hundreds you know. They found it up in the rafters in Mary Queen of Scots’ bedroom. I mean, how did it get there? I used to get hell from my parents playing football in the garden, never mind in the bedroom. I bet someone was having a fly kick about while Mary was off somewhere else and then had to scarper. It probably wasn’t the done thing to knock on the door later and say, ‘Sorry your Majesty, can we have our ball back?’
Bruce gave a weak smile. ‘I suppose not,’ he said as the man puffed his cheeks out, clearly finding this was like pulling teeth and deciding to move onto someone else. Bruce, glad that his enforced sociableness had ended, wandered back through to the small room off the foyer where they had laid out around twenty chairs for the meeting, all of which were empty apart from the one now occupied by Bruce himself. How am I going to explain this to Alasdair, he thought as he looked around the empty chairs, he’ll not be happy.
As Bruce was sitting in the empty room at the Smith, Sophie Mills was taking her seat at a table in the small room set aside at the council offices for their meeting tonight. The members of the Stirling Community Planning Committee were taking their seats while the chairperson for tonight, who much to Sophie’s dismay was Bridget McAllister, brought everyone to order, ‘If you can all settle down please we can begin.’ She had a voice like an old school mistress and spoke down to everyone as if they were her pupils. Sophie smiled in her direction hoping to thaw the freeze that had been evident when she entered the room, but this was met with an icy scowl that seemed to suggest that permafrost had set in. ‘If I can have your attention please,’ Bridget shouted down the table, ‘I’d like to bring this meeting of the High Tea in the Park organising committee to order.’
High Tea in the Park had been Sophie’s brainchild, much to Bridget’s disgust, and was inspired by the pop festival which took place every year in Perthshire; however this one was a little more civilised and hence, High Tea in the Park. With the event only six days away Sophie had everything planned with military precision, despite attempts by her husband to help her. She felt very protective about this part of her life since Alasdair was used to being involved in various things when he was a solicitor and now this was her turn and she wasn’t going to let him barge in. High Tea in the Park would take place in the King’s Park where the large grass events area would play host to a stage where classical musicians would play through the afternoon and into the evening, and two large marquees would serve high teas all through the event, with proceeds going to local charities. When Sophie had first proposed the idea it had been met with some scepticism but Sophie had thought it through quite carefully. The timing of the event near the end of July was key, since a lot of performers and orchestras were in Scotland already for the Edinburgh Festival starting in early August and, just as Sophie had predicted, they jumped at the chance to use this event to have a warm up and try out new pieces of music on the public. On top of that, as everyone agreed, who doesn’t like a high tea? Toast to start, then a nice main course and tea and cakes to finish. It was lovely, and time it was given the status again that it once had as it was certainly a very civilised
way to spend some time while enjoying the excellent music.
Sophie spread her notebook out on the table and looked to Bridget to hand over the floor to her so that she could go over the final points. Bridget glowered over in her direction and nodded her head and Sophie smiled at the rest of the group.
‘Good evening everyone, and thank you Bridget. I’m glad you could all come tonight. I’m pleased to say that I have had confirmation back from the Helsinki Fiddle Orchestra that they will be able to attend,’ this met with nods of approval as they were highly regarded, ‘and also the Paris Flugelhorn Orchestra have said they can do an hour for us in the evening so I thought they might be a good lead up to the fireworks at ten o’clock to close the event?’ Again, nods of approval all round, with Peter Finchburgh, an elderly gentleman held in good esteem in the committee, holding up his teacup in salute.
‘Well done Sophie, jolly good show. This is going to be a belter!’ A cough from the top of the table drew everyone’s attention as Bridget gave them a sardonic smile.
