by David Munro
“Thank you.” I took it.
“Something to drink, sir?”
I looked at the three beer fonts. “A glass of lager, please.”
He poured lager into a medium-size glass, then laid it on the polished wooden bar counter.
“Could I have steak pie and chips, please?”
“Certainly, sir, I’ll inform my wife.”
After he departed, I cast my gaze around the small but pleasant lounge bar. The teak wooden tables and chairs matched the flooring. Dark green curtains covered two windows and contrasted well with magnolia patterned wallpaper. The member of staff returned with a smile. “Be about ten minutes, sir.”
“Do you have much passing trade?” I lifted my glass, and took a sip.
“Whenever a landslide occurs,” he said laughing. “Our busy time is at the weekend.”
“From the village?” I set my glass on the counter.
“Both villages, Arrochar, as well as Tarbet.”
“Is it just yourself and your wife who work here?”
“We had a barman, but he’s gone.”
“A seasonal worker?”
“Cash went missing from the till.”
“A regular problem with retail outlets.”
“There is still one of your group to appear.”
“The tall woman?”
He nodded. “The other two came down sharpish!”
“Perhaps hungry.”
He smiled. “They did appear to have good appetites.”
A woman walked into the bar and then ordered a glass of ginger beer. After paying, she sat down in the far corner, and took out a magazine from her bag. The owner’s wife arrived with my food and looked at a table near the bar. “Is this okay, sir, or would you prefer to sit elsewhere?”
“There is fine.”
As she left, I sat down with my drink, and tucked in, observing the woman sitting in the corner using a cell phone. Twenty minutes later, I finished my meal and also the lager. The third female coach passenger rushed in with an expression of shock and approached the bar. “A man has collapsed on the landing!”
“A man?” The owner frowned.
She nodded.
The owner and female passenger left the bar, and went upstairs. I observed the woman put her cell phone and magazine into her bag, then leave. A short time later, the owner’s wife came into the bar with a worried look. “Sir, your room.”
I stared.
“There has been an attempted theft!”
I dashed upstairs, and observed the owner with a police officer outside my room. When I approached, the owner frowned. “Mr Carsell-Brown, can you check that all your belongings are intact?”
“What’s happened?” My room door is ajar.
“A thief, sir,” said the police officer.
I sighed.
“My former barman,” said the owner.
“He has been apprehended,” said the police officer.
Holding my breath, I went into the room, and observed my open suitcase with items on the floor. I checked the contents, then returned to both men. “All my belongings are there.”
“What about cash or credit cards, sir?” said the police officer.
“I keep them in my possession at all times.”
The police officer grinned.
“Where is the thief?”
The owner pointed to a room. “In there with another police officer, and nursing an injury.”
The other two women passengers emerged from their accommodation and stared in our direction, then at each other.
“Everything is okay, ladies,” said the police officer.
“How did he receive an injury?” The owner must have thumped him.
“When in your room, he claimed a ghost appeared.” The police officer stared at the entrance. “As it approached him, he fell back, and passed out.”
“A ghost!” I looked at the owner. “Is the inn haunted?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Moments later, two police officers led the distraught intruder away. I locked my door, and went downstairs to the bar for welcome refreshment. The owner’s wife chatted to the young woman passenger, then looked my way and smiled. “A drink to calm the nerves, sir?”
“Yes, not to calm my nerves but to toast the ghost!”
The young woman laughed.
“A lager, sir?”
I nodded.
The owner’s wife poured lager into a large glass, then filled a smaller one with white wine, and set them on the bar counter. “On the house.”
“Thanks.” I lifted mine. “To an admirable spirit.” I took a sip.
“I’ll drink to that.” The young woman lifted her wine and did likewise.
I set my glass on the counter. “It has been an eventful day.”
“Not the norm for here,” said the owner’s wife.
“I’ll also drink to that,” said the young woman. She took a swig, then put her empty glass down.
“Another?”
“Yes, thanks.”
A glass of white wine came forthwith, and the young woman drank it, leaving a moderate quantity.
“Are you bound for Glasgow?” I said.
“Yes.” She set her glass on the counter. “What about you?”
“Also, Glasgow and then a connection to Edinburgh.”
“For business reasons?”
“Family reasons.”
“I may be working there soon.”
“Oh?”
“Tomorrow, I’ve a job interview with an agency in Sauchiehall Street, and if successful, I’ll be based in Edinburgh.”
Tall, slim and blonde, no doubt a model. “What type of agency?”
“An escort agency.”
I glanced at the owner’s wife.
“They deal with clients who are in the city on business, and want female company.”
The owner’s wife raised her dark eyebrows.
“It pays well.” The young woman smiled.
I’ll bet.
“I believe a replacement coach will arrive here at 8.30,” said the owner’s wife, “what time is your interview?”
“One o’clock.” She lifted her glass. “I intended to stay at a hotel in Glasgow tonight.” She finished her wine, and placed the glass on the counter.
I finished my lager, and put the empty glass aside.
“Another?” said the owner’s wife.
“I will retire.”
The young woman looked at her. “I’m ready for another!”
I bid both women goodnight, went upstairs to my room, and as I opened my room door, entered with caution.
Lying in bed, I pondered over recent instances with the spirit world. Then, I smiled, this ghost did me a good turn.
As the sun shone with a slight nip in the air, my three fellow passengers and I boarded the replacement coach for Glasgow. Our driver told us that due to the landslide, a detour would be made, adding fifteen miles onto the journey. The young woman groaned, however, it may have been hangover-related. Looking weary here’s hoping she’ll give a good account of herself at the interview.
Shortly before ten o’clock, the coach arrived at Buchanan Street Bus Station, and as I got off, wished the young woman good luck.
“Thanks, I’m going for a strong black coffee!”
I walked via the Royal Concert Hall and then through a pedestrian shopping mall. Seven minutes later, I arrived at Glasgow’s Queen Street Station for a train to Edinburgh Waverley. After purchasing my ticket, I went to the designated platform, but just as I reached it, a train departed. A railway employee noticed my frustration and approached. “There will be another in twenty minutes, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a busy service, hence, three per hour.”
I won’t have long to wait.
“During the Commonwealth Games, four trains left every hour.”
On time, a train arrived and passengers got off, whilst those waiting, boarded. In my plush window seat
awaiting departure, I recalled a similar trip to Edinburgh in 1940 by steam locomotive and carriages with hard seats. Although an uncomfortable excursion, the novelty of travelling by steam lingers, along with the distinctive smell. The luxurious powerful streamlined diesel multiple-unit sped to its first stop at Lenzie, then Falkirk High. Linlithgow and Haymarket followed, and the train emerged from a long tunnel into Waverley Station’s multi-platform arena. When it stopped, doors sprung open, and passengers headed for the exit gates. Leaving the platform, I followed an exit sign, which guided me up an escalator to Princes Street. Since my visit in 1940, no taxi stands existed. I had to find accommodation for my stay in the Capital and spotted a Tourist Information Office on the opposite side of this busy historic street. After spending the first twenty-seven years of my life in Edinburgh, I’ve now become a visitor. I crossed at a pedestrian walkway, and soon reached the premises. Three tourist advisers with a presentable appearance sat and chatted to a member of the public. As one information-seeker departed, the adviser looked my way, and I approached the vacant chair.
“Please take a seat, sir.”
I sat down, and laid my suitcase on the polished laminate floor.
The adviser smiled. “How can I be of assistance?”
“I require single accommodation.”
“For how long, sir?”
“Perhaps a week.”
“Is it a room with an en-suite bathroom you require?”
I nodded.
“Any particular location within the city?”
“Central, if possible.” It will be easier to travel around the city.
The adviser’s nimble red painted fingernails tapped the desktop keyboard, and she stared at her screen. “Unfortunately, most city centre hotels and guest houses are fully booked.” She glanced at me. “There is accommodation at a hotel not far from here, at £85 per night.”
I’ll skip that.
“Do you have a preference for the type of accommodation?” The adviser plucked a blonde hair from her dark blue blouse.
“No preference, a comfortable bed will suffice.”
“What is your budget?”
“Within reason.”
She smiled. “It has to be central?”
“If possible.”
The adviser tapped her keyboard several times, stared at the screen and then me.
“There is a room available in the Royal Mile.”
“Terrific!”
She glanced at the screen. “It’s a shared bathroom with another occupant, however, a reasonable price.”
I pondered. “What part of the Royal Mile?”
“Bottom of the High Street.”
I stayed there in my time as a student.
“The World’s End Close.”
“I’ll take it.” That’s a coincidence.
After finalising details, I walked up North Bridge, then down the Royal Mile with its assortment of shops, cafes and bars. Since my student years, the area has become more commercial, and with it, less studying for local under-graduates!
I arrived at the World’s End Close, walked through a passageway and approached a brown wooden door with an intercom next to it. Realising the adviser had not given me a name, I pressed one of six buzzers and waited.
“Yes?” said an authoritative male voice.
I moved closer to the voice transmitter. “I’m here about the room for rent.”
“Wrong buzzer, next one up – Hendrie.”
“Thanks, sorry to disturb you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I pressed the appropriate buzzer, however, no response came. I hope the person is in! As I was about to try again, I heard a voice.
“Yes?”
“I have come about the vacant room.”
The door opened automatically, and I faced a grey concrete winding flight of steps with brown walls. I entered, closed the door, and walked up two flights. The landing had maroon carpet tiles, and in keeping with the property’s ambience, pictures of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile hung on walls. A woman stood outside the entrance door, and held out her hand. “Andrea Hendrie.”
I shook it. “James Carsell-Brown.”
She drew her hand away. “It’s cold!”
I smiled. “Warm heart.”
She laughed. “Come in.”
I entered, and Andrea closed the door. The bright narrow hallway had paintings of Edinburgh’s ancient Canongate and Grassmarket, which caught my attention.
“Are you interested in art, do you paint?”
I laid my suitcase on the dark wooden flooring. “A distant acquaintance specialised in landscapes, but I don’t have that talent.”
“What is it you do?”
“Business consultant.” And time traveller.
“Are you kept busy?”
“Most of the time.”
“Have you come to Edinburgh on business?”
“Family business.”
“I detect a slight Edinburgh accent, are you originally from the Capital?”
“After my studies at Edinburgh University, I moved to Aberdeen, then Nice.”
“How did you find living in Nice?”
“I enjoyed it.” Apart from being kidnapped.
“Me too.”
“Can I see the room?”
“Certainly, this way.”
Picking up my suitcase, I followed Andrea along the hall, then was shown a room. As the saying goes, you can’t swing a cat, however, it appeared spotless and cosy. My host smiled. “It’s not the most spacious of rooms, but warm, and I make a delicious breakfast.”
I turned to Andrea. “You’ve got me hooked.”
She pointed. “The bathroom is down the hall.”
“Do you stay in the property?”
“Some of the time, I have a cottage in Stow, and commute between there and here. I own a bookshop in Galashiels, and another in Rose Street.”
“What type of books do you stock?”
“Crime, historical fiction, romance and horror.”
“Time travel?”
Andrea shook her head.
“You’re handy for Rose Street.”
“It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”
“You’ll soon be able to take a train to Galashiels.”
She nodded. “The Borders line from Edinburgh will soon reopen, and Waverley Station is just around the corner.”
Her property is indeed an ideal central location.
“I’ll let you settle into your room, let me know if you want to discuss any issue.”
“Thanks.”
Whilst unpacking, I thought about April, and where do I begin my search to find her?
As she may have attended Edinburgh University, I could contact them for a last-known address. No doubt I would be made aware of a certain ‘Database Protection Act’ that the institution adheres to. The local police station may assist, then again, April is not a missing person, and if I’m asked details about myself, it will be difficult to explain where I’ve been for the past fourteen years. I will ponder and consider options over an evening meal in one of the local establishments.
Following a good night’s sleep, and Andrea’s breakfasts, I called Edinburgh University from my room. As the number was engaged, I tried again, and a well-spoken gentleman answered. “Edinburgh University, can I be of assistance?”
“I am a former student and want to trace a past acquaintance.”
“An acquaintance you say?”
“Yes, a former student.”
“What is your name?”
“James Carsell-Brown. I graduated in July 1981 in an arts discipline.”
“Hold on, please.”
I sat upright on my wicker chair, and could hear a computer keyboard clicking. I moved the cell phone to my better ear.
“Found you, although, the current details we have is that you are based in Aberdeen.”
“I now stay near Ardrishaig. When I return, an update of my personal details will be forwarded to the
university.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Edinburgh, hence, my urgency to contact this person.”
“We do not give out information on former students.”
“It is important.”
“What is the name?”
“April Anderson, she studied Accountancy, and would have graduated in 1989.” He’s quick on the keyboard.
“She graduated in 1990, however, I cannot give you her address. Also, she may have moved, similar to yourself.”
“If you could give an indication of her last-known district, it would be a starting point.” I gripped my phone. “You wouldn’t be revealing her address.”
The operator paused. “Very well, the district is Granton.”
“Thank you, I’m grateful.”
“Goodbye, and good luck.”
I left my accommodation, and caught a bus from North Bridge to Granton. A good place to start would be the local church, and even if April isn’t an attendee, I may receive information of her whereabouts.
Twenty-five minutes later, the bus reached my destination. The driver let me off near a church, and upon entering the grounds, a woman with short white hair walked towards me. As she approached, an inquisitive expression ensued. “Are you lookin’ for someone?”
“The minister.”
“You’re out of luck, he’s no’ in the church.”
I sighed. “That’s a pity.”
“Is it aboot the forthcomin’ Halloween event?”
“I’m looking for someone in the district.”
“Whit’s their name?”
“April Anderson.”
The woman paused. “I lose track of names nowadays, people do not stay in one place for long.”
Me included.
“Why not try the local newsagent?” She pointed. “In that row of shops.”
“I’ll do that.”
I accompanied the woman out of the grounds, and as we departed, she wished me well. I arrived at a newsagent, and was greeted by the male shop assistant.
“Yes, sir?”
“I wish to know if a certain person still lives around here.”
“People who come in here usually wish for a lottery win!”
I laughed.
“What’s their name, sir?”
“Anderson, April Anderson.”
A customer who browsed through magazines on a metal rack looked my way. “A family of that name stay in Granton Crescent.”
