by David Munro
At mid-morning, I went to Ardrishaig in search of information for my book. As it will require a greater insight to this area, the local library should provide assistance. I approached the traditional stone building located next to the village hall, and stopped to reminisce. A boisterous crowd in 1938 gave the speaker pelters, and an egg was thrown. Smiling, I entered the library and walked up to its reception desk, where a petite redhead tapped her cell phone screen. Not wanting to disturb her frantic action, I stood still. Seconds later, she laid her phone on the desk and then turned round. “Oh!” She put a hand to her chest. “You should have knocked.”
“I’m not in any rush.”
“I was browsing Facebook, then sent a message through Twitter.”
Phones have indeed progressed.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I would like to research the local area.”
“Do you have a particular location in mind?”
“Just in general.”
The library employee’s phone started to ring. “Excuse me, sir.” She picked it up, and answered the call. “I’ll get back to you later, Geoff, I’m busy right now.” She ended the call, and placed her phone on a grey filing tray. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“It’s okay.”
“You can use a computer which we provide for members, or the traditional method.” She smiled.
“Perhaps a bit of both.”
“This way, sir.”
The employee led me to a single desktop computer, reached for a nearby chair and placed it at the table. I sat down and stared at the screen. “Can I tell it what to do?”
She laughed. “Given our budget, not this model, maybe ten years from now.”
I positioned myself in front of the screen.
“Do you know how to operate it?”
I frowned. Compared to mine, this is advanced.
The employee moved forward. “I’ll give you a quick lesson.”
She took me through a series of keyboard processes, and then I did my best to repeat them. “Information Technology is not one of my strengths.”
“Got it?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Any problem, just ask.”
After she left, I browsed through websites relating to Ardrishaig and neighbouring Lochgilphead on culture, history and travel. The latter site being conventional travel, and not the mode I experience, although, it is faster.
Going through an assortment of sites and reference books proved fruitless, therefore, I shut down the computer. When I returned to reception, no one was in attendance, so I waited. Minutes later, the employee emerged from a back room. “My apologies, I had to reply to an urgent text.”
“I understand.” The cell phone now dictates a person’s routine.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“Do I have to register or sign a library document?”
She shook her head.
“Are mornings usually quiet?” I’ve had the place to myself.
“Thursday morning is not our busiest.”
“Are you in charge of the library?”
The woman smiled. “I’m the librarian.”
“Do locals use the library?” I looked at the deserted study area.
“There are regulars, though not many.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Next year will be my thirtieth anniversary.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Soon after starting, I recall a precocious teenager who came to the library on a regular basis for five years, then stopped.”
“Perhaps her family relocated?”
“She gained a place at a city university and left the area.”
“A city would be an eye-opener compared to Ardrishaig.”
The woman laughed.
“What subject was she going to study?”
The librarian paused. “Accountancy, she wanted to become a Chartered Accountant.”
“She must have been numerate.”
“One of my relatives attended the same secondary school, and April excelled in arithmetic and accounts.”
“April?”
“Did you know her?” He has the same eyes.
“A neighbour spoke of her mother.”
“She passed away last year.”
“Was there a good turnout?”
The librarian nodded. “April didn’t look well.”
With her mother having passed away, it’s not a surprise.
“Thin and pale.”
“Is she married?”
“I’m not sure.” He is an inquisitive one.
A male visitor entered the library and then approached reception. I said goodbye to the librarian and as I walked home, my thoughts focused on April. At least I know she attained a place at university, and did she achieve her professional goal? I should have asked what city.
Later that evening, I started my novel by formulating the all-important plot. It will involve an innocent bystander who becomes embroiled in espionage, witnesses a wrongful killing, and sent back in time to prevent it. I laid out a structure for the story, and after several hours, started to yawn. Being close to midnight, I saved my work, then had supper.
I lay in bed thinking about the introductory scene, and soon after, felt myself dropping off.
“James.”
I opened my eyes.
“James, do not be afraid,” a woman’s voice whispered.
I lifted my head from the pillow, looked around my darkened bedroom, and pressed the bedside light switch. The room remained dark, and I peered at a shadowy figure in the corner.
“James, I am a friend.”
As it was a warm calm voice, I did not feel intimidated, and listened.
“I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“Go to Edinburgh, seek out April.”
“Who are you?”
Finding courage, I got out of bed, and the shadow disappeared. I walked over to the corner, and scrutinised it. Returning to bed, I pressed the bedside switch, and this time the light came on. After switching it off, I lay back. Who was she?
After waking up, I looked at my alarm clock, and reflected on what had happened. I may not have been perturbed at the time, however, I am now. A spirit had appeared in my bedroom, spoke to me, and then vanished! Did it happen? Yes, it did. I lay and reflected on the surreal and sinister experience.
Throughout breakfast, my mind wouldn’t rest, and even music from the radio wasn’t a distraction. Could there be a connection to my spiritual experiences at the cemetery? By seeing only a shadow, her identity remains a mystery.
A short time later, I left Docharnea to visit the cemetery in the hope that I could find an answer. According to Beth, the workman is also a ghost, and may enlighten me. He struck me as a worthy chap. Prior to my own time travel exploits, if someone had suggested it was possible, I would have laughed. Since it’s a reality, why not believe in ghosts?
I entered the cemetery, and observed only a silver-haired woman laying flowers in front of a headstone. I walked to Abbie’s grave, faced the grey headstone and sighed. If I had not left in 1967, how would my life have turned out? A gust of wind blew in my direction and I felt a chill. The woman approached me. “She was a lovely person.”
I nodded.
“We met often in the village, and chatted over a cup of tea.” She smiled. “Are you a relative?”
“A friend.”
He’s too young to be a friend.
We departed Abbie’s grave, and whilst heading towards the gates, I spotted Ann Anderson! As in previous visits, she wore black and stood at Edward Beaumont’s place of rest. I stopped and stared.
“What’s wrong?” The women stared
“Over there, the young woman.”
“A young woman!”
“Yes, in a long black dress and shawl.” I pointed.
The woman looked, then turned to face me. “You’re the only person here.”
I looked at her, then Edward Beaumont’s grave. She’s gone.
“Cemeteries can play tricks on the mind, you know.”
I headed for the main street, and its popular coffee shop. Upon entering, I placed myself at one of the vacant tables. Looking around, it would appear Tuesday is not the most profitable day of the week. The shop assistant came across, and gave her usual smile. “A white coffee, sir?”
I nodded. “Do you have Danish pastries?”
“One or two?”
“Two, please.” My cholesterol is in check.
“Back soon.”
Noticing a newspaper on the next table, I reached over, then browsed through the ‘Scottish Daily Mail’ with interest. On my visits to the past, reading a newspaper resembled a history lesson, however, this time the news is topical. One of the main stories related to Alex Salmond. Following his defeat, he had relinquished control as leader of the Scottish Nationalist Party, and deputy leader Nicola Sturgeon would take charge. Also, due to internal party politics, Scottish Labour leader Joanne Lamont had quit. The political landscape in Scotland was indeed in a process of change. In terms of the Scottish economy, it had low inflation with unemployment falling. On the downside, ‘zero employment’ contracts which left workers vulnerable to pay restraints. Working as a coachman in 1896. I had a better deal. An intriguing article under the technology section revealed quantum computers had been introduced in Canada. One device could undertake the work of many current advanced computers. I should replace my ‘dial-up’ with a quantum device and then I’d be ahead of the pack rather than playing catch-up! What would the Victorians have thought about this article? An extract from HG Well’s novel, ‘The Time Machine’? The shop assistant returned with my order and I put down the newspaper. After she left, I continued reading with interest. The conflict between Russia and Ukraine, plus, a civil war in Syria, dominated the international section. Diminishing oil prices have affected the Russian economy, and sanctions from America plus Europe would not please Premiere Putin! As for Syria, British Nationals are heading there to fight. A similar situation existed in 1937 when men left Britain for Spain to fight in the country’s civil war. I sipped my coffee, set the cup down its saucer, and turned to the sport section. Apart from Glasgow Ranger’s financial predicament, golf’s Ryder Cup at Gleneagles received good coverage. I put down the newspaper, and sampled the shop’s pastries. A middle-aged woman came into the shop and then spoke to the assistant. Several moments later, the woman distributed leaflets to customers at a nearby table, then approached mine. “An event to honour Ardrishaig residents who died in the First World War is being held in our village hall.” The woman handed me a leaflet. “A momentous anniversary.”
I took the leaflet, and read it.
“Will you attend?”
I nodded.
“A commemorative plaque has been placed outside the village hall with a list of residents who received bravery awards, also those who sadly lost their lives.”
I looked up. Admirable.
After the woman departed, I finished my coffee, went to the counter and paid the shop assistant. Before heading home, I stopped outside the village hall. I looked down the list of names printed in gold letters on a dark brown plaque for Edward Beaumont’s name, which had Victoria Cross initials alongside. However, also on the list appeared the name of Ann Anderson, awarded the Military Medal, therefore, I had to investigate. Entering the village hall, I went to a reception area where a well-groomed woman looked up from her desk. “Yes, sir, can I help?”
“I have returned to Ardrishaig and a name on the plaque could be a distant relative.”
“What is the person’s name, sir?”
“Ann Anderson.”
“You’re in luck.” The woman smiled. “My grandfather was a close friend of her youngest brother, therefore, I’m aware of her. In July 1916, she joined the Nursing Corps and moved to France seven months later, where she was based in a temporary hospital near the front line.”
“Did she return to Ardrishaig?”
The woman shook her head. “Whilst Ann attended to a wounded soldier, a German shell exploded in the vicinity, and she was hit by shrapnel.”
“She didn’t survive?”
“Her wounds were fatal.”
“Her family must have been saddened.”
The woman nodded. “However, in caring for the sick, they were proud of her contribution to the war.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“You’re welcome, sir, see you at the event.”
I left with a feeling of sadness, but also happiness. Although Ann Anderson’s life had been cut short, it is remembered as an honourable one.
After a visit to the florist, I arrived at the cemetery. The eerie atmosphere was no more, and birds could be heard. Approaching Ann’s grave, I laid white carnations in front of the gravestone, and stood reflecting for several minutes. As I turned to leave, an elderly stocky man stood in front of me and tipped his grey cap. “I have a message for you, sir.”
It’s the cemetery worker.
“A young woman asked me to convey her gratitude.”
I looked towards Ann’s grave, then turned to face the workman. He had vanished.
CHAPTER 10 - IN SEARCH OF APRIL
Following the revelation about Abbie having a daughter, and spiritual guidance, a trip to Edinburgh beckoned. The spirit’s voice intrigued me, and I had heard it before, but where? Could it have been a relative, or perhaps Abbie herself? After all, April is her daughter, and I am now the guardian, albeit April will be in her forty-seventh year and older than me! I could treat the visit as a short break, although for the previous eighteen months, they have become routine. As opposed to my usual mode of travelling, I’ll go to Edinburgh by conventional means. Checking the Internet, I discovered that at this late time of year, a coach from Ardrishaig to Glasgow is only twice daily. A contrast regarding trains from Glasgow to Edinburgh, with four every hour.
I packed a small suitcase, and walked the short distance to Dochar’s solitary coach stop. The start of October had seen much rainfall, however, today remained dry. Already, dead leaves had fallen from surrounding trees onto the pavement and roadside. Then, the afternoon coach arrived, and I had my pick of seats. Sitting down, I recalled coming here in 2000, as the coach resembled a post-war relic. This version is comfortable, warm and clean, and according to an internal coach poster, it has wi-fi!
After forty minutes, the coach reached the small town of Inveraray, where three passengers departed, then two boarded. I checked my downloaded timetable, and Tarbet was the next stop. A short while later, the coach went round a sharp bend, and came to an abrupt halt. A woman in front reading a magazine looked up, whilst others stared straight ahead at rocks and earth which had tumbled down from a hill.
“This road is notorious for landslides!” said a fellow passenger.
Within several minutes, a queue of vehicles had formed on the narrow country road. Cars reversed and headed for a detour, however, as the coach did likewise, a loud noise came from its rear. The driver applied the brakes, and went outside to investigate. When he returned, a shake of the head followed, and he addressed the handful of passengers. “Sorry folks, it’s a burst tyre.”
“What about a replacement?” said a woman.
“What, change the tyre!” said the driver.
“A coach,” replied the woman.
The driver once more shook his head. “One would have to come from our depot near Glasgow, and the road will be blocked for the foreseeable future.”
“What now?” said a young woman, as she looked at other passengers.
Returning to his seat, the driver made a call on his cell phone, and moments later, faced the passengers. “As replacement transport will not be available until tomorrow morning, the company has agreed to pay for overnight accommodation.”
“Where?” said another woman, “we’re in the middle of nowhere!”
“The Tarbet
Inn,” said the driver, “it’s five minutes walk back that way.” He pointed.
“Not with my corns!” said the same woman.
“Will there be enough rooms?” I said.
The driver nodded. “At this time of year, the place is dead.”
I looked around the coach. Only four passengers.
“Can we go there now?” said the young woman.
The driver nodded. “I’ve spoken to our company representative, and he’ll contact the Tarbet Inn. Show your coach ticket at reception.”
Three women and myself left our stationary coach, and walked along the deserted road to the Tarbet Inn. On our arrival, we produced a ticket, signed the register book, and received room keys.
“Is dinner and breakfast included?” said the young woman.
“Breakfast only,” said the male member of staff.
The young woman looked at her watch. “It’s only just after five, surely dinner is included.”
“What, no dinner?” said one of the other women.
“Do you serve bar snacks?” I said.
The member of staff nodded. “In the lounge bar, between seven and nine o’clock.”
The young woman sighed. “It’s better than nothing.”
We went upstairs to our rooms, with mine being at the far end of a landing. I entered, closed the door, and laid my suitcase on a brown carpeted floor. Looking around, a modern en-suite bathroom and bedside radio pleased me. To ensure the radio worked, I switched it on, and smiled.
Just before eight o’clock, I made my way downstairs and met a fellow passenger returning to her room.
“Does your radio work?” the woman asked.
I nodded.
“Lucky you.”
Upon entering an empty lounge bar, the male member of staff looked up from reading a newspaper. At the bar, he handed me a printed menu card. “Evening, sir.”
