Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Beneath an Icy Surface

  Birds don’t rise early for the sake of it.

  The daily grind of the office or checkout does not concern them.

  They have two lines of communication; call and song.

  Gossip works perfectly well in the car park of a local supermarket when A has not seen B for ages and feels the urge to compare the price of this and last week’s soap powder but, in a world where action is literally the difference between life or death, our feathered friends dare not devote a second of their time to hobnobbing and tittle-tattle.

  For almost three days, a bleak silence had hung over the village but, at last, a new morning signalled a change, and the occasional creature could be seen flitting from tree to tree as it spotted an opportunity for nourishment and much-needed sustenance. Just as the temperature had dropped so freakishly some seventy-two hours earlier, the barometer, persuaded and led by the hand of this warmer weather front, surged into life to encourage both man and beast.

  With snow and ice melting at such a devastating rate of knots, there would undoubtedly be a price to pay in parts of the lower-village, but as ‘Blinky’ had no river to speak of flowing through its centre, things could be much worse and the populace was in a much healthier position to emerge from hibernation than would prove to be the case in neighbouring hamlets.

  Along with the usual irresistible cholesterol and calories on offer for their final breakfast together, the stranded guests had something else to look forward to after they had drained their respective coffee and tea cups; a return to freedom. The mood around the breakfast table reflected the shared optimism of a crew that had collectively seen the rescue ship on the distant horizon, and they speared their extra sausages with gusto.

  The general conversation had noticeably increased by several decibels, and when Arnold overheard, amongst the good-mannered banter, ‘Oh, absolutely, we must get together again sometime,’ it was a clear indicator that the jailer was approaching with his set of keys and the prisoner’s cell was going to be unlocked within the hour. Matson had never seen Edith Moseley appear anything other than hard-faced, but even she seemed to have been lifted by the prospect of release. His mind drifted…

  The bulldog was once a savage animal, whose speciality was to fly at the face of its quarry and to use its massive jaws to bite and hold on to the victim’s nose. Its own set-back nostrils help the dog to breathe as it did so. The sport was outlawed in 1835. By 1900 the bulldog had – with no conscious attempt to change it – become ‘a ladies dog as its kindliness of disposition admirably fits it.’ The purists were far from happy; particularly when furtive crosses with pugs further tamed the breed. Dogs, like people, change…

  By mid-morning, all but two of the house-bound guests at Arnold Matson’s public house had left the premises to set off on a manageable, though still fairly precarious journey homewards. I say two guests remained, but one of the pair was about to make an unexpected announcement and departure.

  Harold Garstang held out his right-hand in a gesture of friendship towards Arnold Matson.

  ‘Well, thanks for everything, Arnold,’ he said with all sincerity,’ you’ve looked after us as though we were your own.’

  Conversation between the two men had been kept to a bare minimum since Garstang’s spiritual revelation in the lounge bar two days ago, but Matson bore the old man no malice.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Harold,’ he said, shaking Garstang warmly by the hand, ‘It’s been different, but nonetheless, a pleasure.’

  Matson’s sentiments were undoubtedly genuine, but there is much to be said for the old adage that when a heart has been broken, it can never go back to the shape it once was. There was no question that what Garstang had told Matson in the bar on that freezing morning had made such an impact on Arnold that he felt he would never quite see the old man in the same affectionate way that he had done previously.

  And yet, why should Matson’s opinion of Garstang alter at all? Garstang had merely acted as the messenger boy and hadn’t intentionally delivered the news in any spiteful manner. He had simply, if a little insensitively, presented the facts pertaining to an apparition that had been observed by his life-long friend, Edith Moseley. Garstang had meant no harm, so why look on him in a different light now?

  But there she stood. The same unfathomable and impenetrable character as the one who had arrived for a drink and a chat three days ago. Chat? When did she ever as much as change her expression, never mind chat?

  Which is why Harold Garstang’s next couple of sentences were almost as big a revelation as the one’s he had delivered previously in the lounge bar.

  ‘Well…I’ll be going, Arnold…I’ll see myself out. I don’t live that far away and he’ll get me home alright, won’t you boy?’ Garstang’s faithful canine raised one eye half-heartedly. ‘I’ll be going?’ thought Matson, before taking the pair of them in one at a time.

  The chill and ice from the last few days seemed at once to return to the hallway, and the mechanism of the wall clock was the only sound to be heard. A few long moments passed until the silence was broken at last.

  ‘I want to stay Mr Matson,’ said Edith Moseley, with an invisible frost on her breath…’I want to talk to you.’