by David Munro
Before leaving for Ardrishaig, I stood and admired my revitalised garden. The Angus I met in 1896 would have been delighted with the result. Also, weeds had been cleared from the courtyard and driveway, plus years of autumn leaves had been removed. They filled the flattop lorry twice! Next on my list of urgent tasks – a cleaner to spruce up Docharnea’s interior. In the village, I’ll get a local newspaper and check out the advertised services. Rather than take transport into Ardrishaig, as previously, I’ll walk. With my age now fifty-six, I should undertake more exercise.
Accompanied by warm sunshine, I strolled along the pavement, gazing at Loch Fyne in the distance. I’ve experienced the view for more than a century, yet the thrill doesn’t diminish. Thirty minutes later, I entered a newsagent, and came out with an edition of the Argyllshire Advertiser. My next stop would be the village supermarket to stock up on food. Having discovered a cost-free delivery service, I made arrangements. To sit down and read my newspaper, I came across a coffee shop. Sitting down, I cast my gaze around the bright interior. I remember this place being the former tearoom where my great-aunt, Olivia, and I shared a pot of tea in 1940. The previous day, I had prevented my great-uncle from a fatal motor accident, and to convey her gratitude, she wanted to thank me. Unknown to Olivia, I was her future great-nephew! However, when we chatted, she appeared as if aware of a family connection. A woman’s intuition?
“Yes, sir.” The shop assistant paused. “Yes, sir!”
I looked up. “My apologies.”
A tall slim woman smiled. “What can I get you?”
“A white coffee, please.”
“Would you like a scone, cake or biscuits with your coffee?”
“Do you have any doughnuts?”
The shop assistant nodded.
“What do you have?”
“Jam, custard and plain.”
“Plain, thanks.”
“One or two?”
“I’ll have two.” I need to put on weight.
“Back soon.”
The stocky waitress who served me in 1930 wore a plain black dress. This vibrant individual has a stylish red top and tight black trousers, therefore, pleasing on the eye. I turned to the sports section of my newspaper with interest. This summer would be a prominent one due to a World Cup tournament, and the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. The city’s hoteliers will be gearing up for this prestigious event, rubbing their hands in anticipation. As the shop assistant returned with my order, I came across ‘Services’, and an abundance of tradesmen, though, no domestic cleaner. Upon finishing my coffee, the shop assistant approached. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“Nothing to eat or drink, however, I’m in need of a domestic cleaner.”
The shop assistant glanced at a nearby table. “That woman cleans for several local businesses. Shall I enquire for you?”
“Please do.”
She went to speak with the woman, who then looked over, rose from her chair, and came across. “Can I sit down, please?”
“Certainly.”
“My name is Nanette,” she said smiling, “where is your property?”
“Dochar.”
“Is it Docharnea?”
I nodded.
The curvy auburn-haired woman laid her hand on my arm. “My mother’s great-aunt worked there a long time ago.”
“What was her name?”
“Nancy.”
Ardrishaig is indeed a small place.
“Three families employed her.” Nanette beamed. “Is your surname Carsell-Brown?”
“I’m James Carsell-Brown.”
“Nancy worked for a James Carsell-Brown, and his wife Elizabeth.”
I remember them well.
“Poor James, being murdered in New York.”
“What became of Elizabeth?”
“After returning from America, she bought a hotel in Inveraray, then acquired more. Later, Elizabeth sold her share of the company to a business partner.”
“To retire?”
Nanette nodded. “Elizabeth and her second husband moved to the French Riviera.”
“A local chap?”
“Yes, Adam Fraser.”
Adam got his wish. “What year did they move to France?”
Nanette paused. “1949. Unfortunately, Adam passed away five years later, but Elizabeth lived to the ripe old age of ninety.”
Not if I hadn’t pushed her out of a runaway horse’s path.
“A penny for them.”
“I lived in that part of France.”
“When?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“Has your property been empty for all that time?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“I may be there for a couple of days.”
“I understand.”
“Is it haunted? A rumour exists that the ghost of a coachman appears at night.”
I laughed. “Only once a year – the 31st October.”
Nanette laughed.
“You won’t be bothered for another five months!”
“That’s okay, then.” She smiled.
With starting that rumour, my grandfather and great-uncle have a lot to answer for.
“I could start the day after tomorrow.”
“Splendid, see you then.”
Nanette got up, and departed the coffee shop. I returned to my newspaper and turned to an article on the Glasgow Commonwealth Games. I attended the 1938 British Empire Exhibition in Glasgow’s Bellahouston Park only last year! I folded my newspaper, went to the cash point, and paid the helpful assistant. Since my visit in 1930, the shop has had a makeover, and perhaps several times, but that damn doorbell still remains!
I walked along the main street, and approached the village hall. I observed a billboard poster and moved closer. It publicised a debate on Scotland’s future, which would take place on Friday 6 June at 7.30pm. A date in 1944 that became synonymous for an allied invasion of Europe. Let’s hope this will be a peaceful harmonious debate. Representing the ‘yes’ campaign would be Alistair Lambton, a Conservative councillor, and his opponent, Alec Struthers, a local Scottish Nationalist councillor. Could those individuals be descendants of people I have also encountered back in time? I must go to the meeting and find out.
I arrived at the village hall later than expected, but managed to find an empty seat. Interest on Scotland’s future had gripped the residents of rural Ardrishaig, including teenagers. A well-groomed middle-aged lady next to me sighed. “I feel my age tonight.”
I smiled. “Most of the teenagers don’t look eighteen.”
“Have you just returned to Scotland?”
I nodded.
“Sixteen year-olds are now allowed to vote.”
“Sixteen?”
She nodded
That explains it.
“I am not against them being given a say, however, do they possess the knowledge and experience to decide Scotland’s future?”
Good point.
A man sitting next to the lady leaned towards her, and shook his bald head. The wrinkles on his face highlighted a long existence. “They’re too young. At eighteen, I fought Hitler.”
I could hear noises of discontent from behind and glanced round. A group of teenagers in dark blue tops glared at the man.
The lady looked at the man. “This is the 70th anniversary of D-Day.”
“I’ve the scars to prove it!”
A groan followed from one of the teenagers. I looked at the clock on a wall, and it showed a few minutes until the debate commenced. Having attended a rowdy meeting here in 1938, hopefully this time no eggs will be thrown.
Five minutes later, a lady and two gentlemen walked onto the wooden stage. The chairperson introduced both guest speakers and then announced this evening’s format. Alistair Lambton would put forward the argument for a united Britain, and Alec Struthers an opposing view. I turned to the lady and whispered, “do both men live in the village?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “and
Alistair Lambton is the grandson of Alan Lambton.”
I nodded.
“Have you heard of him?”
“Yes.” In 1912, I met him when he was a boy.
“The other chap is from a staunch Christian background. His family has been involved with the local church for many years. Alec is an excellent choirmaster, similar to his father and grandfather.”
How will he conduct the audience?
“He resembles his grandfather, in a dignified way.”
My thought also.
“There is a rumour that his grandfather did undercover work in the war.”
It’s not a rumour, as I found out to my cost in 1940.
Alistair Lambton spoke about financial stability relating to currency, pensions and the National Health Service. Alec Struthers advocated fulfilling Scotland’s potential to become a richer nation. Alistair Lambton then emphasised a ‘yes’ vote could result in large companies relocating to England and many jobs lost. Alec Struthers highlighted further North Sea oil fields, which would create jobs. Arguments continued from each speaker, and once they had concluded, the chairperson asked for questions. A woman in the front row raised her hand. “What is plan B for the currency?” she said looking at Alan Struthers.
He did not give a direct answer, but added that Scotland could retain the present currency. An elderly man raised his hand, and the chairperson acknowledged him.
“Will pensions and benefits be cut Mr Struthers, given there will have a smaller pot of cash?”
Alec Struthers shook his head. “If Scotland becomes richer, then benefits would be increased.”
“And what of pensions?”
“I don’t envisage any pension reduction.”
A younger man raised his hand.
“Yes?” said the chairperson.
“Mr Lambton, will Scotland be devolved more powers from Westminster?”
Alistair Lambton straightened his tie. “I would say it is a distinct possibility.”
A teenager raised his hand, then again.
“Go ahead,” said the chairperson.
He stood up. “Mr Struthers, will more jobs be created in an independent Scotland?”
“Tax and DVLA Organisations will be based in Scotland, rather than centralised in England. Oil and gas research is a ‘forte’ for Scottish companies. The aforementioned will create jobs under an independent and entrepreneurial Scotland.”
The teenager sat down, and whispered to a friend. “What does entrepreneurial mean?”
“The chance of a job.” His friend grinned.
A gentleman in a dark suit, white shirt and sober tie got up. “Mr Struthers, your Party wants to rid Scotland of nuclear weapons?”
Alec Struthers nodded.
“Have nuclear weapons not prevented another major war? If we didn’t have them, the Russians would bully us. A submarine loaded with nuclear missiles from Faslane patrolling the Atlantic, is a deterrent, is it not?”
Silver-haired members of the audience clapped, and in particular, the Normandy veteran.
“And you want to get rid of Faslane!” The gentleman shook his head, and sat down.
“Nuclear weapons have not stopped wars, Syria and the Ukraine are perfect examples,” stated Alec Struthers.
Other sections of the audience cheered and clapped. A broad smile appeared on Alec Struther’s face.
Twenty minutes later, the discussion ended in a peaceful and cordial manner. The audience appeared split on a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ vote. Thursday, September 18, would be an eventful day.
CHAPTER 7 - A LOST LOVE
July brought glorious warm sunshine and clear blue skies. I may regret not replacing Docharnea’s well-worn patched-up grey slated roof. Wet and windy weather could result in buckets at the ready for leaks. A benefit of the dry summer – my lawnmower is not overworked. Given the amount of grass, it is a welcome break. As for inside the property, a proficient domestic cleaner had added a sparkle.
Feeling content, I went for a late morning walk. After a short while, I approached the grey-haired lady’s house. As before, she tended to her garden plants.
“Good morning,” I said smiling.
She looked up. “Hello, again.”
“Still busy, I see.”
“My flowers are to blame.”
I glanced at different shades of roses. “The weather has been kind to them?”
“And the weeds!”
I laughed.
“Where are you headed?” She laid her trowel on the dyke.
“Nowhere in particular, just out for a brisk walk.”
“Rain or shine, a friend of mine would take regular walks along this road.”
“For exercise?”
The lady shook her head. “She met a chap many years ago, then he suddenly disappeared, but maintained he would return as he left.”
“Disappeared?”
The lady nodded. “I felt she nursed a broken heart.”
“What was your friend’s name?”
“Abigail.” The lady looked into the distance. “She stayed outside Dochar, about a quarter mile.”
Abigail Anderson, whom I met in the mid-sixties. I have to pay her a visit.
“She kept active, until she passed away.”
I paused. “How long ago?”
“Just last year.” The lady sighed.
It would have been good to meet with Abigail again.
“She retained her good looks.”
I smiled. “Who lives in the property now?”
“A retired couple.”
“I’ll let you tend to the flowers.”
“My back gives way after an hour, I’ll finish in a short while.”
“See you, later.”
“Bye.”
As the lady picked up her trowel, I heard a buzzing sound, but dodged the yellow and black pollen-gatherer. I followed the pavement and recalled Abbie and myself going to Glasgow, for a pop concert forty-seven years ago. I will visit her place of rest to pay my belated respects.
I arrived at Ardrishaig’s cemetery, and walked through two eight-foot tall grey iron gates.
An eerie silence engulfed the cemetery, and although fine weather, no birds sang. I spotted a woman with a long black dress and dark shawl, standing in front of a grave. I will ask her where Abbie has been laid to rest. As I walked towards her, she turned around, and the face of a young woman confronted me. She gripped the woollen shawl around her neck.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for the grave of Abigail Anderson.”
She pointed.
I looked ahead. “Next to the tall headstone with a cross?” I take it a stare means ‘yes’. “Thank you.”
Her lifeless eyes made me feel uneasy, and the black attire accentuated an ashen face and white neck. I walked to Abbie’s grave, and bent down to read the headstone inscription.
‘Abigail Syme Anderson, 1930 – 2013’.
I thought about our first encounter in 1938, accompanied by her mother in Dochar. Two years later, our paths crossed in the spring when I reappeared wearing a coachman’s uniform, and Abbie remained unfazed! In 1967, when I sought accommodation at the Grey Gull Inn, she greeted me at reception. With my physical appearance unaltered, she recognised me. Abigail became the only person aware of my true identity. Disappearing after our friendship blossomed made me feel callous. Next time, I will bring flowers.
Upon leaving, I observed that I had the cemetery to myself. I looked at my watch, and headed for the village coffee shop.
When I reached it, other village residents shared my addiction. I spotted an empty chair, where a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform underneath a jacket sat. I approached, and she looked up.
“Is this chair taken?” I touched it.
She shook her head. “It’s all yours.”
“The shop is busy today!” I sat down.
“A poet is reciting from her new book.” The nurse glanced at her watch. “She’s due to start in five minutes.”
�
��A local poet?”
The nurse nodded.
“An excellent way to promote a new book.”
“She has also done a recital at the hospital.”
“Are you on a lunch break?” I glance at the uniform.
“No, my shift has finished.” The nurse grinned.
“What is the poet’s name?”
“Ella Lanbury, she’s my mother. After retiring several years ago, she had time to spare, and made use of it.”
“Did she secure a publishing deal?”
“Eventually, but my mother sent her work to many publishers, plus several agents.”
Maybe I should write about my time travel experiences.
The shop assistant approached. “Can I get you something before the recital starts?” She looked at both customers.
“A black coffee, please”, said the nurse.
“White for me, please.”
The shop assistant departed with a smile.
“Prior to retirement, what did your mother do?”
