Life, Love and Death Read online

  Rob worried, Rob always worried, about everything, beneath the gruff exterior there lived the heart of a nervous lovelorn poet. In this case he worried that Ann did not know how much he loved her, how much he had loved her from the very start but he knew who he was, a gruff, stolid fisherman that could provide the woman he loved with a roof over her head, food on the table and not much else.

  He was never one for conversation and often when he had indulged in idle chat the mood had turned to fists when he once frequented the pub’s in the town.

  Rob did not know how to love in the way that those he read from knew. He would never be Romeo, with his calloused weathered fisherman’s hands and rough grizzled face.

  He would never be Cyrano De Bergerac with a quick wit, a quip and a French accent. Bloody French Just lucky for being born in France.

  Loving words did not drip like honey from a sailors tongue he knew and so he wrote about her always meaning to tell her and let his written words form the syllables that his sailors tongue could not. He had always meant to show her the folder’s, he had always imagined watching her reading some of the poems or stories he had written both about and for her.

  He imagined her face breaking into her own beautiful smile and her grabbing him and holding him tight until she stopped crying from the joy she read in his words. But he held off showing them to her, he had never been a confident man despite all outward appearances and was worried that she would have been scornful of his efforts or even have laughed at them.

  Then before Rob knew what was happening she was not there and he had no one to show them to. He did not believe his work wasted because she did not see the stories but rather that they were a record of her life and one day someone may read them and know what a wonderful woman she had been.

  He never did show her the stories and poems, not even the great work he finished just before she died.

  So he tied it in a red ribbon and placed it in the box he kept under the small table in the living room.

  Ann never opened the blue folder that was tied with red ribbon, as she knew by then how much her husband loved her and did not need to know any more than she already did. Her heart was happy and her mind but her lungs did not grow better with the others. She wished, to the end of her days that he had shown his love more when alive but understood the way things were. As her breathing grew worse she wondered what she should do with all his poems, short stories and the manuscript that coiled in red ribbon, lay at the bottom of the box.

  Ann and Rob had no children and so Ann decided that the box should be sent to Rob’s brother Neil, Ann’s siblings had no interest in such things and anyway had passed from this world before Rob and she did not know her nephews and nieces as they were spread over the world and had no use for visiting an old auntie in an out of the way place. She did not blame them.

  And so Ann had left instructions with her lawyer that after she died the box be passed onto Neil, Rob’s brother.

  I have no idea wither my father, Neil, read all the wonderful stories and poems passed onto him by his sister in law, he never mentioned them to me when he lived nor, it seems had he to my mother.

  Yet upon my father’s death I was given an ordinary cardboard box, found in the attic of my Mother and Fathers house. My mother had the attic cleared, being too infirm to climb up there anymore.

  The box was tied closed with brown hemp string and under it was a note; handwritten, facing upwards that simply said: “For Raymond” in blue ballpoint pen with my father’s rather florid N. Walker signature below it.

  My name is Raymond Walker, my father Neil Walker, my uncle Robert (Rob) Walker that appears in this tale. I have tried to tell this tale well and hope that you like it. I have not yet opened the ribbon bound folder, there is so much that is wonderful that has been passed to me, I dare not.

  Yet.

  The End

  I hope that you enjoyed this “Faerie River “Tale, there are many more of them for you to read should you wish to. Many of them are short and easily read such as this one, others much longer and a little more complex. I hope that you liked this one. Many do.

  Raymond Walker. June 2016.

  The End.

  I had every intention of “Eternal Love” appearing as a stand-alone story, I think that it deserves it but Amazon and most other e-book publishers no longer allow you to sell for free. This is just a short story even if a rather beautiful one and so I felt that I had to add to it, making it worth the purchase price, which will be the lowest that I am allowed to sell it at. The one story was worth that little price, I think, never mind those that I Have added. Anyway you are getting three great tales for the minimum purchasable price.

  I think that you may enjoy them and hope that you do.

  I hope that I have whited your appetite for some glorious tales with “Eternal Love” and that you are wishing for more tales that strike you as unusual or different.

  I wish to provide you with such stories.

  To this end I have added a short narrative tale that I hope you will like.

  I have called it “The picture upon the wall” though I think it a silly title and I will one day change it.

  A Picture Upon the Wall.

  By Raymond Walker

  A Picture Upon the Wall.

  By Raymond Walker

  1.

  I do not mean to play upon your feelings or emotions here but there is no way that I can imagine that this tale will not tug on your heartstrings. This is such a story. I am a writer but then you know that as you are reading one of my creations now. A humble short story I conceived in a matter of minutes and wrote in a few short hours. This is no epic tale that will enchant and amaze, there are no volumes to pour over, there is no deeper meaning to the tale than the words you see in front of you, do not search for a story hidden within another for it is not there, everything is exactly as it seems.

  One evening, a storm tossed night in December, not unusual in Scotland as the rain rarely ceases during the winter months, the wind howling outside but barely heard through the tightly closed windows and doors, only the odd sound piercing the house from the small gaps in doors, windows and through the letter box drawing with it the light tang of salt as the tides race in and out.

  It is a modest house, small with only a living room, dining room and bedroom but it suits us, it is handy for everything that we need. The dining room is small and multi-purpose, it includes the desk where I sit writing this, a dining table that is normally pushed up against the wall where my wife sits to use her laptop but can be pulled out and set up on the odd occasion that we have visitors.

  It has a small sofa bed that can be used by occasional visitors, and a large bookcase, filled with great books and ornaments that is wide and filled from floor to ceiling.

  We have decorated the room in a gothic style as It suits my personality and taste, my wife also does not mind this though her preference is for a minimalist style. This room, in no way shows her preference’s, nor her style, being packed full with furniture, the walls adorned with Celtic and Norse plaques, candle sconces and the odd painting that we have picked up here and there.

  And it was there that I sat writing day after day, night after night working on whatever novel, story or article I had decided to air my views upon.

  2.

  It was there in my garish dining room that I sat one-night writing, whatever I happened to be writing, and lost the thread of the tale. I sighed and sat back in my computer chair, my gaze sliding away from the large monitor I have in front of me to the wall behind it.

  It is painted a dark rose.

  Dark Rose is a colour that I knew would cover the stained cream paint below it. I had given up smoking you see, and wished to neither smell the nicotine nor see the stains it had left upon the yellowing walls.

  A dark rose should hide it I thought and my wife agreed.

  I am not sure that she even likes the shade nor the darkness it delivers unto the room but very much likes th
e idea of a smoke free house and little yellowing going on. My wife was once a smoker as well but had given it up completely many years before me. She had willpower and used it, gave up with barely a whimper and little complaint. She has never relapsed to my knowledge.

  There are marks upon the rose wall where my guitars have been placed back to rest, after having been played, machine heads scraping lines upon the paint.

  Ah but the music they produced whilst lifted makes a few scrapes little payment for the joy and horror that they have produced.

  I'm a Blues man at heart and if you like the blues then you may well have heard some wonderful sounds coming from the small dining room in which I sit typing this. If classical, Jazz or opera is to your taste? Well then all you will have heard is screeching guitars and weeping notes that you will have hated but if you like the tender sadness of the blues then you will have liked every note born from the southern US States.

  Above the guitars, the slender scratches, made by the guitar’s machine heads to the rose paint, is again untouched, flawless for a few feet.

  Above that again lies a painting in an ornate thick gilt frame, an original oil, that measures about five inches square in actual terms but when you include the large gilt frame is nearly a foot square. It is lovely.

  This painting, at first glance, looks bright and vibrant with vivid hues of lilac and violet above an azure sea.

  It depicts three cottages, whitewashed, all with different coloured roofs. One yellow, another sage and the last New England, faded, blue: it appears at the first glance jolly. Three pretty cottages sat above an azure sea and under a harvest moon.

  As I sat back on my computer chair, looking for the right word or thought to continue what I was writing, I scanned the wall and my eyes lit upon the painting. My wife and I had bought it on a holiday somewhere.

  It had been up on that wall for many years, lovely but unseen, my gaze directed at the computer screen or my note book that lay on the desk in front of it.

  For the very first time I really looked at the painting.

  3.

  The painting was lovely, it was what drew us to it and made us buy it. Small but possessed of vivid colours and a landscape that that was reminiscent of my native Scotland.

  A view that I was used to, growing up in Peninver and Campbeltown, one a small seaside village the other a vibrant town close by but both closely linked with the sea and the fishing industry.

  I looked at the painting for a while until the something that I had wished to recall reappeared in my mind and I returned to writing whatever it was that I was writing at the time.

  I finished and retired to bed but there was something in my mind about the painting and sleep eluded me.

  Not an unusual thing for me, I have suffered from Insomnia for most of my life but in this case it was even more insidious than usual, the picture; I had seen something in it, something that made me uneasy, made me feel hopeless and alarmed. I had seen faces staring back at me from the windows of the glowing cottages. I had seen shapes in the darkness.

  Remember that I am a writer and as such possessed of a wonderful imagination, that creates things where nothing has been, enters faces into a picture where none exist, puts words into people’s mouths and even explains the inexplicable.

  I did not therefore trust my own judgment; a fantasist should never assume that they are right. After all pure invention is my natural state.

  4.

  With this in mind I had called upon a friend, one of sound mind and disposition, one, capable of assuring me of my own senses, one that I knew I could trust. He would tell me the truth no matter my own thoughts, even if he knew that it may disappoint or even hurt. He was one that I would trust my life to, not just my thoughts and opinions.

  A stalwart fellow, sure of his own abilities and possessed of a natural logic far surpassing my own.

  He was my oldest friend and though in middle age, like myself, he maintained a solid presence, a robust vigour even the depredations of age had affected him more kindly than it had been to many others, myself included.

  His hair was still full, thick and mostly black, the only difference to his younger years was the addition of flecks of grey at his temples which, in his case, only made him seem more distinguished. His jaw was still straight, resisting the blurring and paunchiness that my own now displayed, his nose regal and his eyebrows straight, uncluttered, not given to the wiriness that so often comes with age.

  In short, despite his years he was still possessed of vigour, solidity, of sense and learning. Despite being only two years my junior he had not succumbed to age in the way I had.

  I welcomed him and took his coat, offering him refreshment of tea or coffee as I lead him through to the dining room.

  Making sure that he was seated comfortably I hurried to the kitchen and made us both a cup of tea returning quickly to find him standing studying an Ibis and snake mural of Celtic origin that sits upon one of the other walls.

  “Is it real”, he asked, blunt and to the point as usual, his voice deep with an Ayrshire Scot’s accent, not of the rough sort yet still noticeable, rolling his R’s and his A’s sounding like Ahh’s. “It is not” I replied, “though it is a reasonably accurate depiction of a real plaque”, “found somewhere in Kent I believe, it is marvellous is it not”? He nodded in reply still looking closely at it but saying nothing.

  “It is not that piece that I have asked you here to look at, though I must say that I do like it myself, rather it is the paining above the computer, you will have noticed it before when you have been here for dinner or a drink”

  It seems so normal, so unassuming, a simple landscape, that I suspect that you have barely glanced at it”

  I saw him startle as though to disagree but held my hands out waving him down, “do not worry, my friend, even though I have owned it for many years, I have barely noticed it myself, and it was only last weekend that I noticed something very unusual about the painting”.

  I was sitting writing, as is my wont of a weekend evening, as you know, and I lost track of a word, sentence, or something, I cannot recall what It was now but I find that when such a thing happens the best thing to do, for me anyway, is to stop thinking of it.

  So what I normally do is focus upon something completely different for five minutes or so and then when I resume, all is clear again.

  That is exactly what I attempted to do upon this occasion and so I stopped writing, sat back upon my chair and my gaze drifted upwards to that painting”. I nodded towards it, on the wall above my writing desk. He stretched his legs and put his hands on the chair arms to stand but I waved him down again.

  5.

  “It is a small painting and so you may wish to retrieve your spectacles my friend”, I said to him, “look closely at the yellow white glow issuing from the windows into the surrounding evening”. The painting was small though colourful, it was unassuming, a cottage scene like many others. “The warm colour of many candles burning in the widows upon a summer evening”, “lighting the night around” gave the oranges, browns and yellows of the sunset a preternatural glow.

  I wished to tell him no more, I did not wish to influence what he may see for himself, I did not wish him to be swayed by my thoughts and ideas, though he was not really that kind of man anyway.

  “Now you have your spectacles you see that do you not”? “That wonderful warm glow, how lovely the houses look, how quaint and comfortable”

  “I know, my friend, that you have not seen inside and that comfort to you, is an arm chair, an open fire, fizzling warmth into the air and this you cannot see in a two dimensional picture but you get the idea of beauty and comfort from it? He nodded vaguely and continued to peruse the painting, standing on his tiptoes to get closer to it.

  He was a fully formed fellow, fit for his years and reasonably slim but had never been tall. He had followed the genetics of his parents and was short and slim but what he lacked in stature he made up with intellect and r
easoning.

  “I saw the nod and incline of your face even if you said nothing my friend, perhaps it is because there is also something of this painting that does not seem right, something that discomfits you?

  Something that is other than it should be”. I noted your slight nod upon my thoughts and ideas. You, my friend, felt it too, you noticed and accepted it”.