by David Munro
Masquerading as a coachman, but our paths did not cross. “Since you are a Psychic, has contact ever been attempted?”
“On a number occasions, but there’s been no response. You remain the sole person I’ve met who’s seen my great-aunt.”
“What about others who have seen her?”
The woman stared. “They’re dead.”
The shop assistant reappeared.
The woman looked at her watch. “I must leave.”
“I’ll have another, please.”
The shop assistant smiled and departed.
“Take care.” The woman stood up.
“Why did Ann Anderson return to the cemetery at one o’clock?”
“The thirteenth hour of the day.”
The woman lifted her bag, walked to the exit, and before leaving looked in my direction. Minutes later, the shop assistant came over, lifting empty cups and saucers.
“Did Susannah read your palm?”
“No, but she made it sweat.”
The shop assistant laughed.
After she left, I reflected on what the Psychic had to say. After Edward Beaumont’s death at the Somme, Ann Anderson could not face a life without him. A century on, she still mourns for her lost love. Why am I the only person she reveals herself to? Also, my great-aunt Olivia has the middle name of Ann.
September brought less daylight, and evening business-networking opportunities. As people returned from summer vacations, the local Business Club began a series of monthly meetings for Ardrishaig, Lochgilphead and Inveraray members. Ardrishaig’s Grey Gull Inn hosted the initial meeting on Monday 1st September. Being a qualified marketing professional, perhaps I can obtain work. Writing a novel is all very well, but it doesn’t put food on the table. If a business reference is required, I can mention a past example. Using 21st century marketing techniques, I advised my great grandfather in 1938 on how to promote his supplies of wine. Producing positive results, word spread to local entrepreneurs, resulting in a marketing revolution. As a consequence, prosperity within the area exploded.
I arrived at the Grey Gull in good time for the 7.30pm start. Whilst entering reception, I straightened my tie. The dark attired lady with short auburn hair sitting behind a desk looked up. “Business Club meeting, sir?”
I nodded.
“Your name, sir?”
“James Carsell-Brown.”
From a guest list, the lady put a tick against my personal details with her silver pen. “You’re the first to arrive.”
“Are many expected?”
“We have thirty-two guests registered to attend.”
“Splendid.”
“Coffee, tea and sandwiches will be served at the event.”
“How long has the Business Club existed?”
The receptionist smiled. “Long before my time.” She laid her pen on the desk. “I believe it began in the 1950s.”
“Sixty years, that is a long time.”
“I’m sure someone with a similar surname to yourself started the club.” The receptionist looked at the sheet of paper. “Yes, Carsell-Brown.” She looked up. “During the 1960s, an upsurge in business success occurred. My grandmother’s friend worked here as a receptionist at that time, and often spoke about the good old days!”
“What was her name?” Could it have been Abigail?
“My grandmother?”
I smiled. “The receptionist.”
“Abigail Anderson. Robert, her father, worked here in the bar.”
He may have served me.
The receptionist glanced towards the entrance door.
As members arrived to register, I went into the function suite. A crisp white tablecloth covered a long narrow table with plates, crockery and paper napkins. A tall well-groomed lady dressed in a white blouse, navy pinstripe jacket and skirt appeared, and surveyed the table’s contents. Members took their seats, and the guest speaker, a representative of
Scottish Enterprise, stood.
The talk related to export markets, and given the upcoming referendum, a relevant topic. When he finished answering a multitude of quick-fire questions, he slumped down, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. A well-deserved round of applause followed, then members left their seats and dashed to the table. The well-groomed lady set down two silver pots. “Tea on the left, coffee to the right. Help yourselves to milk and sugar.” The lady smiled. “Sausage rolls, sandwiches and assorted biscuits will follow.”
I approached the table. “A good spread.” I’m feeling hungry.
She leaned forward. “A lot of preparation, I’m glad it’s only once every three months!”
“The next meeting is at a venue in Lochgilphead?”
She nodded. “Then Inveraray, and the following month, back to us.” The lady flicked blonde hair off her jacket.
“Spread around the spread!”
She laughed.
“Where in Inveraray is the next venue?”
“The Burgess Hotel.” She departed.
It’s not that long ago I attended their Christmas Eve dance in 1929! Members helped themselves to tea and coffee, then as plates of ‘finger food’ arrived, they disappeared. Whilst drinking and eating, members mingled and discussed the forthcoming Scottish Referendum. Uncertainty relating to partnerships with England and other countries were high on everyone’s list, plus concerns if an independent Scotland could keep the same currency. If not, this may result in serious trade repercussions for Scottish businesses whose main customers are located outwith Scotland. A member next to me hinted the major Scottish banks could relocate to England, and would they still ‘prop’ up Scottish businesses? Looking around, members’ concerns did not affect their appetites, and after more food appeared, it vanished. Drinking my coffee, I observed the business gender ratio had altered. When I attended a similar meeting fourteen years ago, businesswomen represented a quarter of members, it’s now a third, and they’re younger.
I left the suite, and being early evening, went into the bar for a beer. A barman who enjoyed hearty meals looked my way. “What can I get you, sir?”
“A lager, please.”
“A pint?”
I nodded.
He filled my glass, and set it down. “£2.50 please, sir.”
I handed him three coins. I remember when several pennies would suffice, however, the beer tasted like vinegar.
“Did you enjoy tonight’s meeting, sir?” He wiped the counter top with a cloth.
“Yes, informative and interesting.” I lifted my glass and took a sip.
“What type of business are you in, sir?”
“Advertising and marketing.”
He grinned. “No need to market the lager you’re drinking, even the foreign beers have been seen off.”
“A quality lager.” I took a swig, coughed, then set it on the counter.
“Okay, sir?”
I nodded. It’s strong.
“No watered beer here, may I add!”
I believe you.
“Did many attend the meeting?”
“Around thirty.”
“In recent years, it has not been well attended.”
“Any particular reason?”
The barman shrugged his shoulders. “My son attended tonight’s event.”
“Oh?”
“He graduated from university and then started an information technology company.”
“Where did he graduate from?”
“University of the West of Scotland.”
I sipped my lager. “Have you worked here long?”
“I own the establishment,” he said grinning. “I inherited it from my father.”
That’s a surprise.
“My grandfather started the business.”
I set my glass on the counter. I stayed here in 1938, could that have been Mike, who loaned me a record player and several records?
The owner held out his hand. “I’m Mike, named after my grandfather.”
I shook it. “Jame
s.” His grandfather had a slimmer waistline. “A distant relative met a Robert Anderson who worked here, have you heard of him?”
“His daughter Abigail worked as a receptionist in the 1960s.”
The owner excused himself to serve another customer, and I began to reminisce about my visit here in 1967, meeting Abigail. Minutes later, he returned and wiped the counter. “I recall my father telling me of a family trauma which concerned Robert Anderson’s young sister.”
“What happened?”
“She committed suicide.”
“How long ago?”
He paused. “About two years after the First World War started.”
My goodness, Ann Anderson.
“Robert’s parents and brother never got over the tragedy.”
When the owner once more excused himself, I took a swig. Interesting, a family connection between Abigail and the young woman. Still, the question remains, why am I the only person who can see her? I finished my drink, bade farewell to the owner, and headed home.
Two days later, I made my way to the cemetery hoping I would see Ann Anderson’s ghost. Being aware of certain circumstances, my curiosity heightened. Will this mysterious young woman reappear again? After all, it has happened on two recent occasions.
Late morning, I approached the iron gates with anticipation, as well as apprehension. I entered, but the cemetery belonged to myself. I walked over to visit Abbie, stood for a short while, then glanced at Edward Beaumont’s grave. I spoke to him 118 years ago! Time travel can indeed be a complicated experience. I retraced my steps to the exit and met a familiar individual. “You’ve usually gone by this time, sir, I must be early!” He took out a silver pocket-watch from his grey waistcoat pocket, and grinned.
His attire doesn’t alter. “I tried to find the grave of a young woman who died a century ago.”
“Her name, sir?”
Ann Anderson.”
“I’ll take you to it.”
I followed him to the far end of the cemetery, where he pointed to a small grey headstone.
I stared.
“I’ll leave you now, sir.”
I looked at the workman. “Thank you.”
He tipped his grey cap, and departed.
I walked over to Abbie’s grave, lifted a flower, and laid it in front of Ann’s headstone. A gust of wind appeared, however, the flower did not move.
After a stroll to the main street, I went for an early afternoon coffee. In the shop, I sat down at a window table, and waited. Thursday could be a momentous day in Scotland’s history, and with only a couple of days, it was on everyone’s lips. The shop assistant approached carrying a tray of used crockery. “The usual?”
“Please.”
Beth entered, spotted me, and came across. I saw the shop assistant look our way, and nod.
“Still on night shift duties?”
“I need a strong cup of coffee!”
I laughed.
Whilst Beth removed her jacket, the shop assistant came across with two cups, and set them down. “Black and strong, Beth.”
She looked at the shop assistant. “Thanks,” she said, then turned to face me. “What did you do this morning, James?” Beth lifted her cup, and took a sip.
“I visited the cemetery hoping to get a glimpse of the ghost.” I smiled.
“Which one?”
I paused.
“There are two.”
“Two?”
“The young woman, and the gravedigger.”
I lifted my cup, and took a sip.
“Don’t tell me you’ve seen the gravedigger as well!”
“This morning, and on two other occasions.”
“Beth set her cup on the saucer. “Nobody has seen either of them for decades, yet you’ve seen both!” Beth took another sip.
I moved forward. “I’m aware of what happened to the young woman, why the gravedigger?”
“It’s reckoned he suffered a massive heart attack digging a grave, and is buried where he collapsed.”
“Poor chap.” I sighed.
“His job meant everything to him.”
“When did he die?”
“1926.”
That would explain why he had a pocket-watch.
Beth looked towards the counter. “Ah good, here comes my refill.”
The shop assistant laid another black coffee on the table, whilst looking at me. I shook my head, lifted my cup and took a sip.
“I haven’t seen Abigail’s daughter for some time.”
I choked.
“Are you okay?”
I coughed.
“It must have gone down the wrong way.”
In more ways than one. I set my cup on the saucer, then coughed.
“You’ve gone pale.”
No wonder.
Beth finished her first cup, then lifted the second.
“How old is Abigail’s daughter?”
Beth looked upwards. “I would say, about mid forties.”
Born in the late 1960’s. “When did you last see her?”
Beth paused. “About five or six years ago.” She sipped her coffee. “Never again did she visit her mother.”
“Strange.”
Beth shrugged her shoulders.
“For Abigail to visit her daughter, it involved a three hour coach journey into Glasgow, then a connection to Edinburgh.”
Beth sipped her coffee. “It’s a trek.”
I nodded. I may be a father, and have a daughter who will be older!
Beth smiled. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Not particularly. I drank the remaining coffee, and glanced at my watch. “Must go, a workman is returning to complete repairs.”
“See you later.”
“Bye.” Hopefully, the walk home will clear my head.
CHAPTER 8 - INTERVENTION
I went upstairs and entered the computer room determined to start my book. If I delay any longer, it will never get started, and having discovered that I may be a parent, a distraction is welcome. Where to begin the story still ponders, however, I’ve gone for an ideal location. After all, I have authenticity at my disposal, therefore, I’ll go into the coach house and get a ‘feel’ for its surroundings.
Walking across the courtyard, I observed the need for a strong weed-killer. How do they grow so fast? I opened the main door, put the key into my trouser pocket, and walked up the staircase with its familiar sound. I wandered round the coachman’s quarters to reacquaint myself, then stared at the wall mirror. Why is there no reflection? Mystified, I moved closer, peered, then had to steady myself. Given my past experiences with this mirror, I should have known better. Scrutinising my surroundings, everything appeared normal, and I gave a sigh of relief. I walked down the staircase, and at the bottom, found the door locked. I held my breath and looked at my watch, it had stopped. Damn! I took the key out of my trouser pocket, and opened the door. After stepping outside, I shook my head. The trees around the property had not matured, and only the sound of small birds could be heard. The villa and courtyard looked similar to a previous visit in 1912. Instead of grey gravel, the courtyard combined grass and dirt. And I thought the courtyard in 2014 required attention! I gathered my thoughts, and stared at the coach house. Why have I been sent back? I had resumed a normal existence, and once more, it has been disrupted. As a rabbit ran across the courtyard, I followed its path. There are only tyre tracks, which confirms the timeline is after 1912, when a vehicle replaced the coach and horses. With no one about, and a summer climate, perhaps the residents are on vacation. I took a deep breath – the air is fresher. I approached the rear door that I had exited only minutes ago and found it locked. During this period, Nancy is the housekeeper and she’ll no doubt remark that I require a good feed. I walked round the villa with caution. Not only is there a scarcity of vehicles, also properties. Dochar only had a few properties in 1912, Docharnea being the second property built in 1896. With my light-coloured shirt and dark trousers, at least I’m d
ressed for a traditional summer. Alas, in this era, collarless shirts were the norm, and trousers with turn-ups. My pair of stylish narrow shoes without laces could raise a few eyebrows, although, most people don’t stare at the ground. It would be an easy solution to go back into the coach house and attempt to travel back to 2014, but would I arrive there? If as my instinct suggests, I’m here for a reason, therefore, I have to find out. Also, my previous interventions brought good fortune to others.
In the driveway, I heard a vehicle, and observed it going past. Moving at a slow pace, I had time to observe the chassis of an automobile, circa WW1. Also, the road had no pavement, therefore, this era does not take pedestrian welfare into consideration. I pondered on what to do. As the property is empty, should I take refuge in its coach house? Nancy may not appear for some time, and I have to eat. There may be food in the kitchen, however, I’m not going to break into my own property! I checked the cash in my pocket – £12. In this timeline, that could keep me in food and lodgings for at least a week. I won’t be able to use the two £1 coins, but hopefully, my £10 note will blend in.
I walked with caution along the disjointed road’s edge towards Ardrishaig. Never again will I complain about the poor state of its roadside pavement, because at least in the future, one exists! In this era, motor vehicles are a rarity in a rural village where only the wealthy can afford one.
After twenty minutes, only a single vehicle passed, and when it did, the driver waved. Such is the restricted speed of this era’s vehicles, together with driver etiquette. Then, a coach and two horses came towards me with the driver perched on his seat smiling and waving. I acknowledged, and remembered having to clean the coach house stable. Poor chap, I hope he isn’t blessed with a strong sense of smell.
Upon reaching Ardrishaig, I went to the Grey Gull Inn. Whenever I required lodgings, it served my purpose. Before entering, I removed my 21st century watch, and put it into my trouser pocket. I waited at reception for several minutes, then knocked three times on the wooden desk. A toilet was flushed and soon a woman wearing a high-collared cream blouse and long brown skirt appeared. “Sorry, to keep you waiting, sir.”
“Do you have a spare room?”
The woman nodded. “Due to the war, most of our rooms are available.”
