The scribblings of a widower in his sixties who has discovered the therapy of the written word. Join me on my journey from grief to satisfaction and how I eventually got there.
About me
I am a sixty-five-year-old widower, (In 2023). I discovered writing to cope with the grief of losing my wife of thirty-five years to cancer. I began by writing my first short story, The Slow Cooker (Link to the story here).
This was followed by a story about each of the five stages of grief. Here I am, over one hundred and fifty stories later and four novels in progress.
Follow me on my journey, whether you’re a fellow sufferer or just keen on a story.
READ MY NOVELLA; THE PAINTING, FREE!
Read how a young Scotsman falls in love with a woman in his dreams, to discover that she exists when he meets an old Egyptian painter. Read about how their meeting saves the world from nuclear war.
Today’s Story
The Borders Route
The Waverley Route was a railway line that ran south from Edinburgh, through Midlothian and the Scottish Borders, to Carlisle. The line was built by the North British Railway; the stretch from Edinburgh to Hawick opened in 1849 and the remainder to Carlisle opened in 1862
From the outset of opening as a through route the line known as the “Waverley Route”, thanks to its passing through the romantic countryside immortalised in Sir Walter Scott’s “Waverley” novels. The Line closed in 1969 as part of the Beeching cuts.
The line was partially reopened on 6th September 2015, where amongst the first passengers, an elderly man recalled a journey on the old line and a horrifying memory that had stayed locked in his broken mind for over seventy years.
The shiny, new Scotrail train left Gala station dead on time. “Made up of six carriages,” the announcer had called clearly into the clean, fresh Borders air. Hamish McClean and his carer Jodie took their seats in the almost empty carriage, a luxury in these days of crowded public transport. He had a good feeling about this journey, Edinburgh was by far the best place in the whole world. Hamish’s world consisted of a triangle between the capital, Berwick-upon-Tweed and Hawick, and a beautiful world it was too.
The first stop was the village of Stow, nestled in the valley of Gala Water. His excitement grew at the completion of the first stop and in anticipation of the next, Gorebridge. He began to bounce in his seat and Jodie placed her hand on his shoulder.
As the train left Stow, Hamish gazed out at the lush, green Borders landscape, a paradox of the cloudless, sunny day. Through the window, he noticed a collection of houses skirting the river like jewels on a necklace. Between him and the hamlet, a wide, flat floodplain opened and it was then that the memory returned. That which had been locked away, depriving him of a normal life and branding him an imbecile. Hamish closed his eyes so tight that fireworks exploded on his retina but he couldn’t erase the image.
***
The boy could hardly contain his exhilaration. Even the dreach weather failed to dampen his enthusiasm. Everything was new to him, from the sulphurous smell of the engine’s smoking stack to the firm bristly feel of the carriage’s seats. The railway had arrived and with it a huge new world beyond the boy’s wildest imagination. Fear gripped him as his surroundings began to move and the blurred image of Galashiels station disappeared, to be replaced by greenery.
The liquid sunshine, as they called it here; which had fallen for over a week, could not dampen his spirits as anticipation replaced trepidation. Hundreds of tiny lenses plastered the window, distorting the trees and fields like a giant kaleidoscope. Periodically, the droplets of rain would join together, jolted by the motion of the carriage, sending long, silvery racing snakes rushing to the winning post of the window frame. A mist of condensation spread over the glass as the warm air of the compartment hit the cold window. The boy drew a face on the cloudy surface and then wiped it away with his sleeve, leaving an arc of clear glass.
There was a sudden jolt as the train slowed down and the boy was sent flying into the lap of his mother opposite. His tiny body was not used to this strange form of motion, it was as if he’d been shut in a shoebox and shaken around. Settling back into his seat, he was just in time to see the platform slide away beneath him and they were on their way again. His mother opened the carriage window slightly and drops of cold rain fell on the boy’s face. He squinted through the mottled glass at the houses of stow village where his aunty Peggy lived. On the flat green between the river and the railway, he noticed something strange. Rubbing the glass, he failed to make the image clearer so pressed his face against the cold surface, trying to see between the droplets. As a river of water dribbled past his eye, it left a clear spot. Through this viewpoint, the boy could make out two figures in the field. One was in a black coat and hat, the other in white shirt sleeves and who seemed to have his hands behind his back. Hamish thought the latter stupid for not wearing a coat. He knew his mother would scold him for going out in such bad weather in just a shirt.
Suddenly the man in black lifted his arm towards his companion. The boy noticed he was holding something. Then there was a puff of white smoke from the object and a faint crack was heard through the open window. The man in white disappeared into the long grass and the other man lowered his arm, turned, and walked away. The trees rushed by obscuring his view but not the memory of what he had just witnessed.
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Read my other stories from past days.