Duplicity and Other Stories E-Book

Doris Davidson

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 479

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A novella and collection of short stories by Scotland's favourite novelist. Two men sit petrified on Christmas Eve at the thought of spending it in supernatural company; a young family makes a tense Cross-channel trip in fear of some unspecified threat; an old man contemplates jumping to his death at the thought of being evicted from the house in which he has lived all his life. In this book, Doris Davidson looks back over an immensely successful writing career in a collection of twenty short stories, which also includes her eagerly awaited latest work, the novella "Duplicity". Covering a wide range of themes and moods, these stories are a wonderful tribute to the skill and imagination of one of Scotland's best-loved authors.

Leseprobe

Duplicity

Also by Doris Davidson

Brow of the Gallowgate

Cousins at War

Gift from the GallowgateThe House of LyallJam and Jeopardy

The Nickum

The Three Kings

Waters of the Heart

Duplicity

and other stories

Doris Davidson

This eBook edition published in 2012 by

Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

First published in 2009 by Birlinn Ltd

Copyright © Doris Davidson 2009

The moral right of Doris Davidson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-558-1

ISBN 13: 978-1-84158-824-7

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Table of Contents

Foreword 

1. Never Marry A Policeman 

2. The Witch 

3. A Gift From William 

4. The Night Before Christmas 

5. Monte Meets The Conquistadores 

6. The Bobbydazzler 

7. Paul, First and Foremost 

8. The Peak Of Happiness 

9. Search For A Prince 

10. The Arches 

11. The Christmas Baby 

12. The Christmas Spirit 

13. From Paula’s Journal 

14. Beginnings 

15. The Tomato Plant 

16. Committed 

17. The Intruder 

18. Teddy Bare 

19. Decision at Gowanbank 

20. Duplicity 

Dedicated to Doreen, my No. 1 fan right from the beginning, who died just before Christmas 2008.

Foreword 

These short stories have been included in order to show my progress as a writer (if any). I had been a scribbler since my schooldays in the mid thirties, jotting down little tales for my own and my pals’ amusement, although none of those were worth keeping. It was not until the late sixties that I had the urge to write for publication, and as you will see, very few of these stories were accepted, but I never threw any away. An apparent influx of aspiring authors cropping up then, it grew harder and harder to have anything accepted, and I gave up, promising myself that I would try again once I retired.

It was around 1985, aged sixty-three, before I got round to making another attempt, by which time I was set on writing a novel. It was 1989 before I was successful, when the fourth book I had written, The Brow of the Gallowgate, was accepted, and was published in 1990. Luckily, I had stored the other three, in order of writing Time Shall Reap, The Road to Rowanbrae, Jam and Jeopardy, which have all been published since then.

If any aspiring authors are reading this, take heart. Do not give up if no publishers seem to be interested. Make some improvements and try again, but - one piece of advice: - DO NOT OVERWORK ANYTHING. This leads to lacklustre prose, as does having too many long, unfamiliar words, which break into the actual plot.

Feel free to make your own judgement as to whether or not my writing has improved over the nineteen years since I wrote the first of my fifteen novels. Does practice really make perfect?

Never Marry A Policeman 

Dorothy turned a page of the book she was reading and stretched lazily for her packet of cigarettes. As she pressed her lighter, she thought, this is the worst bit of being married to a policeman.

When David was on the two-to-ten shift, she was alone every evening; and he didn’t always manage to come home at the proper time. Sometimes it was after midnight before she heard his key in the lock. Tonight seemed to be one of those nights - it was half past eleven now.

She laid down her book and walked across to the window, but could see nothing when she pulled back a corner of the curtain, and wearily let it drop again. She couldn’t concentrate properly on what she was reading when David was so late. The thought that something could have happened to him always lurked in her mind. So many policemen were injured or killed nowadays in the course of their duty.

Sitting down in the armchair once again, she picked up the paperback. She had read only about half a page when a faint noise made her lift her head to listen. Was it David putting his key in the lock? After a moment or two without hearing anything else, she bent her head again.

Creak! There was someone there, and it couldn’t be David; he’d have come straight in here. She listened again and there was silence for some time, then creak, creak, creak! Yes, someone was tiptoeing along the hall.

Dorothy didn’t move. It might be a burglar. He could be armed and would shoot her if she opened the door. She couldn’t even summon help on the telephone, for the telephone was in the hall. Her best plan would be to keep still and whoever was out there would think that she was asleep, or that she had gone out and left the light on for security.

Then she realised that he might come into the room to make sure. She shouldn’t have persuaded David to make the house all electric. If they’d still had a coal fire, she could have used the poker to defend herself.

There had been no sound for a few minutes. Could she chance opening the door and using the phone? The man must still be there somewhere, though. He could be standing outside the door right now, listening for any movement. Her scalp prickled at the thought, and she concentrated all her powers of hearing on the door. Yes, she could clearly make out the regular rhythm of someone breathing heavily.

She had often heard people saying that their hair stood on end with fear, and she could understand it now, for she felt as if every strand of hair on her head was standing to attention. But was it with fear? She was really quite calm; calm, but inadequate. She could do nothing without giving away her presence. But - if she could hear his breathing the man out there would surely hear hers. Holding her breath, she was relieved to hear the creak, creak, creak of the floorboards once again.

He was going towards the kitchen, so she exhaled slowly and could hear definite movements. What could he be doing through there? Did he imagine that people kept their valuables in their kitchens? Surely not. A more sinister explanation came to her. He might not be a burglar at all. He could be a KILLER. He could be looking for something to use as a murder weapon. The bread knife? The meat carver? A hammer?

David kept some tools in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinet. Yes, murderers usually prefer a blunt instrument. What would her husband do if he came home and found her lying in a pool of blood? Oh, David, please come home before it’s too late.

That was a drawer being closed. Had he found a suitable weapon? It dawned on her that she was now sitting erect in her chair, her white knuckles desperately gripping the arms. This was fear! She had turned stone cold, though rivulets of perspiration ran down her face and between her shoulder blades.

She riveted her gaze to the door handle as the footsteps drew nearer and nearer. They stopped right outside the door! In stark terror, she watched the handle slowly turning until it was at its furthest point and the door opened slightly.

A scream dying in her throat before it actually started, she saw the handle being silently returned to its proper position and heard the footsteps retreating to the kitchen. He must have remembered something, something bigger and better for the job he meant to do. At that moment, her eyes caught sight of a lamp on the coffee table near the door. It had been made from a solid brass candlestick David’s father had given them when his wife died.

If only she could reach it before the murderer came in, she could use it to defend herself. Easing herself out of the chair, she took three quick steps and positioned herself behind the door. She picked up the lamp, gripping it by the neck, and stood ready to swing it as the intruder came back towards her. Terror gave her unsuspected strength, and as the door swung open, she struck with all her might.

She felt the heavy base of the lamp crunch sickeningly into the man’s skull and leaned back against the wall exhausted, but thankful that the body now lying crumpled in the doorway was not hers. She would have to telephone the Police Station now and report what she had done. After all, it had been self-defence - there would be no doubt about that - and David would be very proud of her.

Bracing herself, she stepped carefully over the man’s feet and switched on the hall light, but as she dialled the familiar number, she turned and saw, sitting on the hall table, a tray set for two.

Horror dawning, her eyes travelled slowly round and down to David’s body lying in a pool of blood on the floor.

***

Word count: 1017

Published in the Sunday Mail, 8 August 1971

If I remember correctly, I received the marvellous amount of £16, but since it was the first short story I’d ever had published, I was absolutely delighted. I WAS A PROFESSIONAL AUTHOR!

The Witch 

Peter’s granny lived in an old tenement in Mill Street. She kept a jar full of lovely sticky sweeties, and she spoilt him outrageously, so he loved going to see her.

‘Ach, he’s only a bairn, Mary,’ she would say when his mother scolded him for doing something he shouldn’t.

The only thing he didn’t like about Mill Street was Aul’ Babbie, who lived on the ground floor of the same tenement as his granny. He was terrified of Aul’ Babbie. She was very old - over a hundred, Peter thought - but that wasn’t what scared him. She had a hooked nose, a long, pointed chin and straight, straggly hair. She was the personification of all the pictures of witches he had ever seen. Her face wasn’t green, of course, but when she opened her mouth you could see her two broken teeth. No more, just the two broken teeth.

The children of Mill Street liked to torment her. When they played hide and seek, they would hide in the dark lobby outside her door, and run away laughing if she came out to see who was making a noise. She usually did.

‘Get awa’ oot o’ here!’ she would shout, ‘an’ leave an aul’ body in peace.’

They would shout back, knowing that she was too crippled to chase them, and she usually went back inside her house and slammed her door. Peter joined in their games when he was visiting his granny, and would shout as loud as the rest of them when Aul’ Babbie was on the warpath.

‘Ye young hooligans!’ she was liable to shout at them. ‘Ah’d murder the lot o’ ye if Ah got ma han’s on ye.’

‘Canna catch me, canna catch me, Aul’ Babbie canna catch me,’ they would chant, and take to their heels.

‘Ah ken fine fa ye are,’ she would cry and shake her stick at them. ‘Ah’ll tell yer ma’s on ye. An’ you, Peter Ritchie, Ah’ll tell yer granny.’

The children knew that she never carried out her threats, but Peter had a huge worry of his own. What if Aul’ Babbie lay in wait for him in that dark lobby? She could grab him as he passed to go upstairs to his granny’s house. She could take him inside and torture him to pay him back for all the times he had annoyed her. She might even murder him and nobody would ever know what had happened to him.

‘I wish the old witch was dead,’ he whispered to himself. But witches never die.

When Hogmanay came round with all its festivities, Peter was staying with his granny. He wasn’t allowed to see in the New Year, but he didn’t mind that, because there were always some ‘first-fitters’ who came later on through New Year’s Day.

In the afternoon, there were about five extra people in the house when another knock was heard. Peter rushed to answer the door, ready to shout ‘Happy New Year’ to whoever might be there. The words froze on his lips when he saw Aul’ Babbie standing on the landing. She made her way past him, surely more unsteady on her feet than usual. He closed the door and slowly followed her into his granny’s kitchen.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Aul’ Babbie was laughing and joking with the other folk. He had never heard her laughing before and noticed that it was more of a cackle than a laugh.

Definitely a witch’s laugh. More convinced than ever, he sat down close beside his mother and silently prayed that Aul’ Babbie wouldn’t stay long.

Surprisingly, his prayer was answered. She stayed only long enough to get a dram and a piece of his granny’s home-made black bun, then rose to go. As she passed him, he saw, with horror, her bony hand coming out to touch him. He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the side of his chair.

She merely patted him on the head. ‘That’s a richt fine laddie ye’ve got, Mary,’ she said to his mother. Peter let his breath out slowly and opened his eyes to see the old woman hobbling to the door.

His granny had just come back from seeing Aul’ Babbie out when they heard a great thump and a rumbling noise.

‘The drunk aul’ fool has fa’en doon the stair,’ said Mr Duff, who lived across the landing.

They all ran out to see if she was hurt, leaving Peter by himself. He felt too numb with horror to move. If she was dead, it would be his fault for wishing her dead, he thought. She would know he was to blame and she’d come back to haunt him. By the time they all came back, he had worked himself into a terrible state.

He looked at their faces, trying to read the answer to his unspoken question. ‘Is she … dead?’ he managed to ask, at last.

‘Na, na, laddie,’ his granny assured him, ‘but she fell fae the top step richt doon to the next landin’. Poor aul’ sowl. As if ha’in’ a wooden leg wasna bad enough, noo she’s broke her good ane.’

Peter gaped at her. ‘What did you say, Granny? About a wooden leg?’

‘Mercy me, bairn. Did ye nae ken she had a wooden leg?’

The boy’s spirits lifted as he realised what this information meant to him. Never again need he be scared at Aul’ Babbie. She was just an ordinary old woman after all.

Whoever had heard of a witch with a wooden leg?

***

Word count: 929.

Published in the Kincardineshire Observer, 14 April 1972

Written at the end of 1971 and sent to at least three magazines. I can’t remember which, but it was rejected pretty quickly each time. Then I took a chance and sent it to a weekly newspaper printed out of Aberdeen. It was not a ‘freebie’ (it cost 2d per week), and published news local to its area, and this being my husband’s birthplace, we had it delivered. I had noticed that it always included a very short story, and I felt that The Witch was as good as any of them.

I got a phone call saying that they bought all their stories from other publications and could only offer me £1 for it, although it was better than the stories they usually printed. It wasn’t what I had expected, but what the heck? At least it was a payment and it would be printed.

A Gift From William 

The story which the teacher had told the class that afternoon had made a deep impression on William. Fancy a baby getting all those presents from people who came to see it.

His sister’s baby hadn’t got any gifts, for nobody had come to see it. There must be something wrong with it, because Mary had been crying ever since she’d brought it home. She hadn’t been pleased about her baby like that other Mary in the story. Jesus must really have been a wonderful baby, William thought, to make everyone so happy.

His mother didn’t think much of Mary’s baby, either, not as far as he could gather. ‘I can’t understand why Mary won’t just have it adopted,’ she had said to his father. ‘People would soon forget, if the child wasn’t here as a constant reminder.’

‘Well, she wants to keep it,’ his father had answered, ‘and there’s nothing you can do about it, dear. After all, it’s her life.’

‘You don’t understand either, Bill. It’s the disgrace.’ His father had patted his mother’s shoulder. ‘It’ll soon be forgotten, love - a nine days’ wonder.’

William hadn’t understood half of their conversation, but he realised that his mother didn’t want the baby in the house. He decided he had better take a close look to see if he could find out what was wrong with the baby to make everyone so unhappy.

He knew that his mother and Mary were in the kitchen, so he went over to the pram standing in the corner and peered down at the little face which was all that was showing above the covers. He had half expected to see something horrible and was pleasantly surprised to find that it looked much the same as any other baby he had seen. In fact, it was quite pretty, like a doll in its pink jacket and its eyes shut.

But, if the baby looked so beautiful, why were his mother and Mary so unhappy about it? He puzzled over it for some time, then suddenly it came to him. It was because nobody had come to see it, or give it gifts, but he could put that right. Yes, he could give the baby a Christmas gift and make it just like the Baby Jesus.

He didn’t have any money, though. He wondered if there was anything he could sell, but his train set was broken, so no one would want to buy that. Nothing else he had was worth very much.

Wait - there was the new winter coat his mother had bought him. Anyone would pay a lot of money for such a beautiful coat - lovely and hairy, with five leather buttons to fasten it. He had felt like a prince the only time he had worn it. He didn’t want to sell it, the best coat he had ever had, but if it would make his mother and Mary happier about the baby he would willingly give it up. He would get a few pounds for it, he was sure, and he could buy a really good present with money like that. Not gold or myrrh or that other precious stuff, of course, but something worth giving.

But - what would his mother say about him selling the coat? He remembered hearing her tell his father that coats for children were very expensive nowadays. ‘I’ll just have to make do with my old winter coat,’ she had said. ‘William has grown out of his and he’ll have to get a new one.’

No, it wouldn’t be a good idea to sell it; his mother would probably be angry with him. Or else she would start crying, and he didn’t want to see her crying any more -she cried too much already. What could he do?

Just then, Mary came in to change the baby, a process that usually made William so embarrassed that he left the room, but today he was so preoccupied that he didn’t even notice. Mary took the baby over to him when she was finished. ‘Keep an eye on her for me, William, till I wash the nappies, there’s a good lad.’

He looked at the baby who gave a little mew and opened her eyes, so he hastily laid her down in the pram and gave it a gentle rock. ‘I’m going to bring you a gift,’ he announced decisively. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to manage it, but I promise you I am. I’ll let them see that I like you, little …’

He stopped, aghast. This baby didn’t even have a name. Mary always said, ‘the baby’, while his mother usually called it ‘that child’. So that’s why they were always crying - no one had remembered to give it a name. Whoopee! He would give the baby a name for a Christmas gift; what a wonderful idea. Nobody had thought of it and it wouldn’t cost anything. He would pick a really magnificent name and make all the family proud of him - and of the baby.

When Mary came back, he went up to his own room and thought over all the girls’ names he knew. What about the girls in his class at school? One of their names might do.

Lynne? No, she had a spotty face.

Susan? She nipped you when you weren’t looking.

Lorraine? He liked Lorraine, and thought she was pretty, but lots of girls were called Lorraine, and he wanted something special.

This was much more difficult than he had imagined. He looked at his books to see if he could find a better name there.

Alice in Wonderland? The name Alice didn’t seem to fit the baby.

Hansel and Gretel? He quite liked the idea of Gretel, it was unusual, but he didn’t think his mother and Mary would like it.

‘Tea’s ready, William,’ called his mother.

After teatime, he went back to his room and lay down on his bed. He wondered how babies ever got names if it was so difficult to choose them. By the time he went to bed, he still hadn’t hadn’t found a name, and he tossed and turned for what felt like hours before he fell asleep.

He dreamed of that first Christmas, of how the Angel Gabriel appeared to Mary and told her that she would have a son, of how the Angel told the shepherds in the fields when the Baby Jesus was born, of all the gifts the Three Kings brought.

When he woke in the morning, he knew that somewhere in his dream was the name he was seeking, but he couldn’t think what it might have been. Then he remembered! The Angel Gabriel! That was it - what a perfect name for the baby! ‘Angel Gabriel.’ He said it slowly, letting it roll round his tongue and savouring the beauty of the sound. He could bet that no other baby ever had a name like that.

He froze, suddenly. How could he make a proper gift of a name? It wasn’t something you could wrap up in Christmassy paper or put in a fancy box, and he did so want to make it a good gift. A gift card! He had seen them in the shops with pretty pictures on them, and they just had to go in an envelope. He couldn’t buy one, of course, but he could try to make one. He could write the name on a piece of paper in his best, joined-up writing, the kind they were learning at school.

He rummaged about in his toy box, looking for his drawing book, and at last he found it - luckily with a few empty pages. Tearing them out carefully, he searched for his packet of felt pens. A red one was all he could find, but it would do. Red was a nice, cheerful colour. He went down on his knees and laid the book on his bed, putting one of the blank pages on top.

He made a mistake on the first page, and it wasn’t until his third attempt - on the last page - that he was satisfied that he had done his best writing. He studied it critically. It didn’t seem much for a gift of such importance, but he could draw something on it to brighten it up. What would a baby like? He drew a little butterfly for a start and it looked quite good, so he drew a few more. Then he decided it needed a fancy pattern around the edge, so he spent the next half-hour making little squiggles all the way around. He propped the card against the mirror on his dressing table, and stood back to admire the effect. It looked really good, he thought, and all he needed now was an envelope.

He took the strongest white envelope he could find in his father’s bureau, slipped the card inside and licked the flap. Thumping it vigorously to make it stick down properly, he let out a long sigh of satisfaction. All that remained to be done was to write on the front, and it didn’t matter so much about that. The card was the real gift, the special gift.

With love from William, he wrote, laboriously, then placed the envelope with its precious contents inside the drawing book. He would give it to the baby tomorrow; that was Christmas Day, the proper day.

William went about for the rest of that day with a secretive smile on his face, making his mother wonder what mischief he was hatching, but as he was behaving rather well otherwise, she didn’t upset him by asking any questions.

Once, when no one else was in the room for a few moments, he moved over to the pram. ‘Angel Gabriel,’ he said, experimentally. The infant hiccoughed and opened her eyes, then to William’s delight, a smile passed across the tiny face. This convinced him that she liked the name and he gave a whoop of joy, causing his mother to pause in her preparations for the next day to listen for the crash which inevitably followed the familiar noise. Nothing happened, however, so she shrugged her shoulders and carried on.

When he was hanging up his stocking that night, a disturbing thought bothered William. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘will Santa know about the baby?’

She didn’t answer immediately, and he looked anxiously into her face. She looked as if she might cry again, so he put his arm round her neck. ‘Mum,’ he repeated, ‘will you hang up a stocking for … it?’ He had nearly given his secret away.

She gave him an unexpected hug. ‘Yes, darling, I will. Santa won’t forget her, I promise.’

William rose before anyone else was up and ran downstairs to see what Santa had brought him. He enjoyed opening the packages, but he knew his greatest thrill would come when the baby’s envelope was opened. Making sure that indeed there were other gifts for the infant, he took the envelope out of his pyjama-top pocket and pushed it well down into the other stocking - like his, one of his father’s large golfing socks. It was going to be a happy Christmas after all.

He could scarcely contain his excitement until the rest of the family came down, and when at last Mary starting taking the things out of the baby’s stocking, he held his breath in glorious anticipation.

‘Oh, thank you, Mum. Thank you very much.’ Mary’s voice was choked as she shook out a lovely lemon pram cover. ‘Dad. This is gorgeous.’ She held up a furry teddy bear for William to see.

He was wondering why she was thanking them for the things that Santa had brought when he heard her say,

‘What’s this?’

He lifted his head and saw that she was looking at the envelope - his envelope. His heart began to beat faster, but with studied nonchalance, he murmured, ‘It’s my gift to …’ He stopped. He had nearly given the game away, again, ‘To … to … it,’ he finished, lamely, pointing to the pram.

His sister opened the envelope, read the card and passed it over to her mother and William felt a great weight descending on him They didn’t like the name -they would have said something if they did.

Then his mother said, ‘What does it mean, William?’

He looked down at his slippers,, his face scarlet. ‘It’s my gift to the baby,’ he said, doggedly. ‘It’s a name for it.’

‘But why?’ Mary was obviously puzzled.

This was when the boy decided to tell the whole truth, so he stood up and looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Well, Mum and you don’t seem to like it, and nobody ever gave it any presents, not until Santa came last night. Babies should get gifts, like the Baby Jesus. And it didn’t even have a name.’

Mary ran out of the room at that, but before he could say anything, his mother followed her. He looked across at his father, who signed to him to sit down and eat his breakfast. Each mouthful of cereal tasted like sawdust to him, and he was just about to excuse himself from the table when the two women came back. He stared at them in surprise; they had their arms round each other and were laughing and crying at the same time.

Mary stretched out her free arm and pulled him to her. ‘Oh, William, it’s a lovely gift, and you don’t know how much it means to me.’

‘It wasn’t for you,’ he objected. ‘It was for Angel Gabriel.’

His mother patted his cheek. ‘I’m afraid we can’t call her Angel Gabriel, darling, because that was a man, but it was a really good idea, just the same.’

He swallowed to get rid of the lump in his throat, but couldn’t trust himself to speak. His mind was a jumble of confused thoughts. They didn’t like the name he had so carefully chosen. There couldn’t be a man angel, he’d never heard of that before. All angels were beautiful girls, he had always believed. But his mum knew everything, and she was always right. That meant that his gift to the baby was useless.

Mary saw the bitter disappointment in his face and wished she could comfort him. He had gone to a lot of trouble to try to make the family happy. ‘I know, William!’ she cried suddenly, as an idea occurred to her. ‘We’ll call her Gabrielle for short. But we’ll always know she was named after an angel, and that it was your idea.’ She watched him anxiously as a teardrop spilled over and trickled down his cheek.

After a moment or two, however, his face cleared. ‘Gabrielle?’ he whispered.

Oh, yes, he thought, it sounded nearly as good as the name he had chosen. ‘Gabrielle,’ he repeated. It sounded better the more he said it. His gift was a success after all.

***

Word count 2506

Published in Woman’s Way, December 1973

This magazine stopped being published not long after this story was printed, and I sincerely hope that I wasn’t the cause of its demise …

The Night Before Christmas 

Whooo-ooo-ooo! The whistling of the wind coming in round the window frame was annoying rather than frightening, and the two slight figures huddled by the fireplace were suitably annoyed.

‘Why has somebody not done something about the window before this, Archie?’ the younger one said mournfully.

‘How would I know? It’s a damned disgrace after all this time. I remember when I was a laddie …’

‘Ach, not again man. I’m tired of hearing about when you were a laddie. It’s the same every winter, like the cold did something to your brains.’

‘Oh, well I’m very sorry.’ Archie, the elder by a good number of years, sounded quite offended. ‘I was only saying …’

‘I know what you were only saying, but I’m saying …’

Whooooosh!! They both jumped back as a fluff of soot came spewing down the chimney.

‘Ach, the wind’s changing.’ Archie shook his head in disgust. ‘I suppose you’ll be saying next that somebody should block up the lum.’

‘There’s no need for you to be sarcastic.’ Fergus was offended now. ‘We shouldna have to freeze like this every winter.’

Archie was silent, his white head hunched into his shoulders, his arms clasped round his middle, while Fergus regarded him sadly. ‘It’s bad enough the rest of the winter, but to be as cold as this on the night before Christmas … it doesna seem right.’

‘Whisht, man.’ Archie lifted his head as a distant clanking came to his ears.

‘What is it, Archie? Are you hearing something?’

‘I would be hearing something if you didna keep speaking.’

They both strained their ears for a few moments, but the noise was not repeated. ‘What was it you thought you heard?’ Fergus persisted.

‘I didna think I heard something, I did hear something,’ Archie snapped.

Realising that he was getting nowhere, Fergus changed his tactics. ‘If you would tell me what you did hear, seeing your hearing’s apparently better than mine, we might be able to settle down again.’

Archie was only slightly mollified by the back-handed compliment. ‘It was chains rattling,’ he volunteered.

‘Ch … chains? Ghosts, d’you mean?’ The younger man was very agitated now.

‘Huh!’ Archie snorted. ‘There’s been nothing like that in this place for as long as I’ve been here.’

‘That doesna mean to say …’ Fergus was stopped by a malevolent glare.

‘I thought I could hear something else, man. Would you just keep your big mouth shut for a while? You never stop blethering.’

Fergus grimaced and said no more, but he looked even more alarmed at the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. His head jerked up, but Archie motioned to him to be still. The footsteps drew nearer.

‘We’d better get out of sight,’ Archie whispered. ‘We don’t want anybody to know we’re here. We’ll just have to wait and see who they are and what they do.’

They stood up noiselessly, and went to crouch behind the dilapidated sofa by the far wall. In a few seconds, the door creaked slowly open.

‘I canna see a thing in here,’ a deep voice said, peevishly. ‘Hold up the lantern, Sandy.’

An arc of pale light swept round the room, growing brighter as the bearer advanced, and Archie had to hold Fergus back from poking up his head to have a look.

‘It’s an awful big room, Donald,’ said another voice with less resonance.

‘It is that, and just look at that fireplace. It’s big enough to roast an ox.’

‘You’d never want to roast an ox, surely?’

‘It’s just a saying.’ Donald sounded rather exasperated. ‘And that couch. It could seat six, I wouldna be surprised.’

The lantern now illuminating the area around their hiding place, Archie and Fergus remained absolutely motionless until the beam swung away again. They had been unable to look before, but with the light not focused in their direction any longer, they took the chance to peep over the low back of their shield. At first, all they could see was the lantern, because everything behind it was in darkness, but as the light moved round, they could see two shadowy shapes. One was round and small, but the other was huge.

They looked at each other in dismay, and with his mouth against Fergus’s ear, Archie whispered, ‘We’ll have to scare them away.’

Fergus turned his head and put out his hand to find the other man’s olfactory organ. ‘You canna scare them away, if they’re ghosts,’ he muttered into it.

Archie gave him a push, and started to moan softly.

‘What was that, Donald?’ One of the newcomers stood still to listen. ‘Did you say something?’

‘I thought it was you, Sandy.’

Both voices held a deep note of apprehension, so Archie moaned again, a little louder this time and Fergus joined in, an octave higher, more a screech than a groan.

There was dead silence when they stopped. The two figures in the middle of the room stood as though transfixed. ‘It sounds like g … ghosts,’ Donald said at last, his voice low and quivering.

‘You never said nothing to me about the place having ghosts,’ Sandy said, nervously.

‘Nobody never said nothing about it to me, either, and I’m not paying good money for a haunted castle, even if it is cheap. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

To convince them, Archie moaned again. He didn’t fancy strangers moving in and upsetting their placid existence.

‘I thought it was cheap because it was needing a lot of repairs,’ Sandy observed slightly unsteadily, as they moved towards the door, ‘and I was quite willing to give you a hand to fix things up and get rid of the draught there would likely be, but …’

The door closed behind them with a loud click, their footsteps echoed along the corridor and died away, then the heavy portal clanged and there was the sound of chains and lock being secured.

‘You see what you did?’ Archie exclaimed, accusingly. ‘If you hadna been so sure they were ghosts, they’d have bought the castle and fixed things up, and we’d have been warm every winter instead of near freezing into snowmen.’

‘It was your idea to scare them away,’ Fergus said, childishly, ‘for I thought the little one might be Santy Claus, and I’ve aye wanted to see him, ever since I was …’

‘For any sake, man! It’s your brains that get touched wi’ the cold, I’m thinking.’

‘You’re as bad!’ Fergus retorted, trying to have the last word for a change. ‘If they had been ghosts, they wouldna have been frightened of other ghosts, now would they?’

‘You were,’ said Archie dryly, and walked through the wall.

***

Word count: 1138

This ghost story was written in February 1977 for a school puppet show and was very well received. Because of its theme, and also because I had no idea where to send it, I did not attempt to have it published.

Monte Meets The Conquistadores 

Monte watched his grandmother expertly turning the cakes which she was baking on the flat stone in the heart of the fire outside the house.

‘No one in all Mexico can make such tortillas as my grandmother,’ he boasted.

Marilia, his friend ever since they could crawl, was sitting beside him, marvelling at the deft way the old lady used her hands to flatten and shape the cakes. The girl wanted to see everything, to learn how to be as quick as Monte’s grandmother. She was to marry Monte in two years, when they both reached the age of twelve, and she wanted to be a good wife to him.

In a few minutes, the old lady piled the tortillas on to a flat wooden platter. ‘That will be enough,’ she said smiling, as she handed the plate to Monte, who took two, giving one to Marilia and biting hungrily into the other.

‘Grandmother, tell us about Montezuma, King of all the Aztecs,’ he begged. He loved to hear about their king, the greatest king who had ever lived, after whom he had been named.

‘I have told you many times,’ the old woman said. She was now sitting cross-legged, like the children, on the ground.

But the boy knew that she liked to tell about the journey she had made as a young woman - over the mountains to see Montezuma’s Palace in the lake city of Tenochtitlan. ‘Please, my grandmother, tell us again.’

‘We Aztecs are blessed by our gods to have such a good king,’ she began. ‘His palace is within the city’s walls, next to the Temple of the Humming Bird. It is large, very large.’ Her brown wrinkled face had a faraway look as she recalled the wonder she had felt when she had seen it, so majestic in the waters of the lake.

‘How many bedrooms did it have, Grandmother?’ prompted Monte, although he already knew the answer. He never tired of listening to her tale.

‘Over a hundred, each one with a stone bath and running water.’ Her tone was hushed in reverence.

Overcome by the thought of such magnificence, Marilia asked, ‘Was the palace the only large building, Old One?’

‘Oh, no. There were many temples, each to a different god, and another palace that had belonged to Montezuma’s father. There were streets, and canals, and fountains, and many, many wonderful houses. There were other buildings also, where young ones like you could learn how to read, and write, and count. All those things were started by the great Montezuma himself, and the houses he built for his lords were all made of stone.’

The grandmother rose and brushed the dust from her long black skirt. ‘Go now, Monte, my boy, and gather some wood for the fire, before your father comes back from the fields.’ She pulled her embroidered shawl back off her head, bent down and passed through the low open doorway of the mud house which was their home.

Marilia accompanied her friend to help him gather the wood, and they made their way down the steep mountain path. ‘What a great king Montezuma must be,’ she whispered as they stepped carefully through the stones. ‘Building all those beautiful places and caring so much for his people.’

‘My father says that he is not always so good,’ Monte told her. ‘He says that the gods the king worships are cruel and they have to be fed with human hearts. He sends out his tax-gatherers and any person who cannot pay his taxes is taken back to Tenochtitlan and given to the gods as a sacrifice.’

Marilia shivered. ‘He does not sound so good after all, this Montezuma.’

‘He is good in all other things. It is only his religion that is cruel. Father says the king lives in fear of the god Quetzalcoatl - the feathered serpent - who was driven out of the kingdom by the other gods hundreds of years ago. The sacred books foretell that he will come back to claim the city in the year of One Reed.’

Turning pale, Marilia grabbed his arm. ‘But this is the year of One Reed. I heard my father say so.’

Monte nodded. ‘That is why the king is so afraid. The traders and the men at the market have told my father that there is news of a great army coming to capture Tenochtitlan.’

She looked at him with pride. He knew everything that went on in the world, but she did hope that what his father had heard was not true.

They were alarmed at that moment by the sound of someone shouting, although it was difficult to judge how far off the person was because of the echoes from the surrounding mountains. To their relief, a moment later a man came running round the bend in the path.

‘Father!’ cried the boy, but the terror in the man’s eyes made him add, ‘What is wrong?’

It was some time before his father could find enough breath to tell them, and Marilia felt herself starting to shake in fear at the thought of what he might be going to say.

‘The great army is coming,’ he managed to gasp at last. ‘I was finishing my work in the main field when I saw clouds of dust in the distance. I waited until I could see what was causing this - sometimes the llamas stampede if they are frightened by a rattlesnake or a puma - then I saw them. Many, many men are on their way with banners and flags. The god Quetzalcoatl must have sent them to destroy Montezuma’s kingdom.’

‘But what are we to do, Father?’ The boy asked as the man started to run again.

‘I do not know, my son, but we must go home at once.’

The grandmother was not so easily alarmed. ‘The army will not harm us if we do not put up a fight,’ she said when her son had breathlessly given her the news. ‘If Quetzalcoatl sent them, they will want only to capture Montezuma’s city. He must be warned.’

‘I will go,’ offered Monte. ‘I will take the mule and ride over the mountain. The great city lies at the foot of the other side, does it not?’ He knew that from his grandmother’s stories.

She spent no time in arguing, but cut some tortilla, laid out some fruit and a flask of goat’s milk on one of her shawls, tied them up and handed over the bundle. ‘Take this to eat. It is a long, long journey to Tenochtitlan.’

As he passed other mud huts like his own, Monte pointed back and shouted, ‘The army is coming! They have come to destroy the king’s city.’

It took some hours for the boy and the mule to clamber up the rocky mountain, and when they reached the top, Monte halted the sturdy little animal and stared down in surprise. He had always known that the city of Tenochtitlan was beautiful, but even from his grandmother’s descriptions of it he had never imagined anything as large as the panorama spread out in the valley below.

It was not until he was much nearer that he could see the white buildings and giant temples reflected in the waters of the lake - the fabulous Halls of Montezuma. As he tore his eyes away from the glorious sight and looked around him, he saw smoke rising from another mountain not very far off. The Mountain of Fire. He had heard his grandmother speak of it, and she had said its real name was Popocatepetl.

Gaining renewed strength, Monte urged the mule onwards. He could not bear the thought of the beautiful city being invaded by enemies. His father had told him that the Sacred Book foretold this, and that the invaders were to be led by a tall, white-skinned, black-bearded man, whose followers would unleash thunder and lightning on Tenochtitlan.

After another hour or so, he heard what sounded like the hooves of many mules, but coming much faster than mules could travel. Looking over his shoulder, he saw about fifteen men riding strange animals, larger than mules and much more impressive. This was no great army, so he relaxed and waited for the men to catch up with him.

As they passed, they shouted to him in words which he could not understand, and carried on down the path. He urged his sturdy steed forward again, but the beast was exhausted from the long hours they had been travelling, and could go at only a very slow pace.

Some time later, he again heard sounds behind him and turned round. This time, it was indeed an army, descending on Montezuma’s city, now only a few miles off. Dismounting, he led his mule to some nearby bushes; from this hiding place he watched while hundreds of men rode past. Leading them, on an animal like those which had passed before, was a tall man, white-skinned and black-bearded, just as the Sacred Book said. After him came men with crossbows, men with chained hounds and last of all came men with strange rods in their hands.

He watched while they entered a small village farther down the mountain, with mud houses like his own. Some of the Aztec men tried to stop the army from going on, but suddenly the men at the rear of the line took up their strange rods and made thunder and lightning spit past the local men, making them jump back in alarm. He waited until the army had moved on, and then rode into the village.

‘Who are they?’ he asked one of the wailing women, who had come out in curiosity.

‘He said his name is Hernando Cortez,’ she answered. ‘He has come to capture Montezuma’s wonderful city. He comes from a land called Spain, far across the ocean, and they have conquered the rest of Mexico - the Maya, the Toltecs and all the smaller tribes - and now he wants to claim Tenochtitlan and all of Montezuma’s gold and treasures for his own king. He called his men conquistadors, and they mean to capture the city with their crossbows and rifles. The rifles are what made the thunder and lightning. Fifteen men on horses - the strange animals are called horses - have gone on before. Cortez said there will be no bloodshed if our king gives up peacefully.’

It was too late now for Monte to warn the king, but he carried on down the mountain path, anxious to find out what was happening. When he neared the city, he saw that Montezuma himself had come to the gates, and was waiting at the end of the broad causeway which had been built across the lake as an entrance. His golden throne was carried by eight lords in silken robes, and his jewelled crown was also decorated with green plumes. Even the soles of his sandals - visible from the way he was sitting -looked to be made of pure gold.

The boy lay down behind a group of bushes to watch and to listen. Surely the great king would be able to stop this army from plundering the city?

When Cortez and the conquistadors came closer to him, Montezuma looked scared, but ordered his bearers to lower him to the ground so that he could speak to the strangers. Monte wished that he could hear better, so he crept as close as he dared. Cortez had dismounted from his horse and faced the king boldly.

‘If the god Quetzalcotl has sent you to destroy my city,’ Montezuma said, ‘I beg you to listen. I will give you all my gold and jewels and any other riches you want, if you will leave all the buildings I have worked so long to have erected.’

Monte’s eye was caught by a man in plain clothes who appeared then. The face was familiar but it was a moment or so before the boy recognised him to be the Wise One, who travelled amongst the villages on the mountain, and who was said to have visited many foreign lands. He went fearlessly up to the leader of the army and was translating what the king had said. Cortez listened carefully, then turned and spoke to two of his men, who stepped up to the king and took hold of his arms.

Monte held his breath. Were they going to kill Montezuma? But the king smiled, and they all went inside the city gates - the king and the two men holding him, Cortez and the Wise One.

The rest of the Spanish army were standing outside the walls, so Monte plucked up his courage and walked past them, into the city where the Aztecs were murmuring together. ‘They have taken our king a prisoner,’ said one man.

‘We must fight the enemy,’ said another. ‘They must not destroy our lovely city.’

One of the lords stepped forward now. ‘They will kill Montezuma. Without a king we will be lost, and they will kill us all.’

‘I will be your king.’ A tall, cruel-faced man pushed himself forward. ‘Montezuma is a coward and will put up no fight, but I will lead you to victory.’

Some of the other men cheered, but Monte heard one woman whisper to her husband, ‘He is wicked, that one. Many men will die before he, too, is killed.’

The husband nodded. ‘He could never be as good a king as Montezuma.’

Cortez, who had been talking with the king and trying to reach an agreement, suddenly brought him out to the city walls to tell his people what had been decided. Most of the Aztecs went down on their knees to show their king that they believed in him, but the self-appointed ruler issued orders to the slingers to let loose their ammunition on the invaders. With the first volley, Montezuma himself was struck on the head by a stone and fell to the ground.

An eerie silence fell now, then the slingers were again told to fire, and Cortez and his conquistadors turned and retreated. They joined the rest of their army and left Tenochtitlan.

Running up to the Wise One, Monte asked, ‘What will happen now? What are they going to do?’

The man shook his head sadly. ‘Hernando Cortez intends to gather a larger army and come back to destroy the city. Montezuma had said that they could have all his gold and treasures, and Cortez had promised that there would be no fighting, that they would leave the city as it is. Now this new king has ruined everything, and there will be much bloodshed. It will be the end of the Aztecs.’

‘Would you have liked our city to fall into the hands of the conquistadors?’ Monte asked.

‘They are not wicked men, although their religion is different from ours, my son. They worship only one god, a good god, who asks for no human sacrifices. He even sent his son, Jesus Christ, to earth to show the people how he loved them. Their religion is called Christianity.’

When he went home a few days later, Monte told his friend some of what had happened.

‘So Montezuma joined their Christianity?’ Marilia said, happily, ‘and all ended in peace?’

‘It did not end like that. The people of the city chose another king to lead them, a cruel man. Montezuma went out on to the walls to speak to them, and when they saw him they knew they still loved him, and went down on their knees before him. The other man was angry and ordered our slingers to let loose a volley of stones at Cortez and his men, and Montezuma was accidentally struck on the head. He died just a few hours afterwards.’

‘Then Cortez won the city for Spain?’ Marilia’s eyes had filled with tears of sorrow.

‘No, our people defended bravely and the Spaniards had to withdraw, but Cortez vowed that he would collect a larger army and come back to win all Mexico for his emperor - Charles the Fifth, of Spain.’ His face assumed a determined expression. ‘I hope that I will be old enough to fight when he comes back. I would not like to see Tenochtitlan fall into the hands of the Spaniards … and yet … their Christianity sounds better than Montezuma’s religion, and Cortez did not mean to fight.’

After briefly thinking this over, Marilia said, ‘Yes, with Montezuma gone, it would be better if Cortez and his men were to rule over us instead of this cruel new king.’

‘We must live in hope that the conquistadors do return.’

***

NOTE:

Hernando Cortez went on to gather a much bigger army, and built a huge fleet of ships to cross the lakes. He and his conquistadors destroyed the city of Tenochtitlan in November 1519, and it was in this place that Mexico City was built.

The Aztecs were a Mexican tribe ruled by Montezuma. They were good at building stone houses and making tools, but they had no wheel, nor any form of transport except boats and mules. They were dark-skinned and black-haired, and the men had no beards.

***

Word count 2878

This story was written in 1981 for a competition run for the Writers’ Conference, held once a year in Pitlochry. Most of us who attended were only would-be writers but enjoyed listening to REAL authors talking about their work. I was disqualified, because the story had to be written for reading to children, and the age had to be stipulated. I put the age as 10-12 and the judge maintained that children of that age did not want to be read to. I pointed out that I had been teaching this age group for some time, and they loved having stories read to them. I did not send it anywhere else, and it is only included here because it is different from anything I wrote later.

The Bobbydazzler 

‘But Mam, a’ the ither loons’ve got bikes, an’ they mak’ a richt fool o’ me ‘cos I havena gotten ane.’