Seaside

I am not terribly keen on thunder and lightening. I suppose thinking about it, I have never met anyone that is, but its effect seems heightened when sitting in a compact caravan alone, feeling it slightly shudder as the subsequent rain hammers seemingly on all sides. The day has been warm though, the leaves beginning to fall from the poplar trees, the first tell tale sign that Autumn has begun. It was so nice this afternoon in fact that I decided to go on a little drive. A man can only take so much working on his own, that, tiring of lime mortar, yes it is possible, I went to the hilly compagne to the east of here as Jean Pierre told me it was particularly impressive. And so it was. Well wooded with oaks and chestnuts, I drove up winding lanes briefly emerging into the sunlight before plunging down valleys under the canopy of trees, my old Peugeot van chugging as I climbed up again as though complaining at having to go further than the local building merchants. The roads seemed like a labyrinth, and I was almost enjoying being in the position where I was not exactly lost, but not all together sure where I was, when I crested the brow of a hill and was confronted by a lovely view of a lake, framed perfectly by woods and the odd sunlit field populated with a few cream coloured cows. The vista seemed timeless and I pulled over to savour nature at its best, when, listening to the crowing of rooks high in the treetops, I began to realise I had seen a similar view before. The water may not have looked so azure blue and the trees so profuse towards the water’s edge, but in its own way it was as beautiful. It was perhaps thirty years before when my Dad unlocked his mini bus and urged the youngest of us to get inside whilst he talked with the couple of older men out side. Grinning, they climbed into the front three seats, my dad taking the wheel, and after starting the engine he turned to address the men in a manner which he believed evoked the spirit of Henry the fifth before Agincourt. After giving a brief outline of the job we were going to, which I knew was to be at a power station, I was then surprised when he turned to Dave, who was the young apprentice and told him that he was in for a treat as we were working at the seaside. As I began to open my mouth to say that I knew the power station to be only about forty minutes away and that as we lived in the midlands at possibly the furthest point in the British isles from the sea this was impossible, I saw my Dad staring at me with his keep quite look. He then went on to say that as it was a long drive and we needed to get cracking when we arrived, that it would be a good idea if Dave had a little sleep on the way. From being quite sluggish after a night out with his mates though, Dave sat up, grinning like a kid on a school trip. Drives to work in the mini bus usually follow a similar pattern. Different to the drive home when there would be excited voices talking of football, girls and the night ahead, to work it would be crumbles about the weather and the traffic and any number of misfortunes to complain about and this day was no exception. After about half an hour, tired of listening to the conversation of the older men talking of cars I settled back in my seat and looked out of the window at the weak sun lighting up an autumn scene of trees halve shorn of their leaves and realised we were near the reservoir where many times as kids my parents used to take us for walks around the water’s edge and in and out of the woods. About to tell my Dad that I remembered those days, I was surprised when slowing down the hill that presented such a panoramic view of the reservoir, he braked before turning into the small car park that often used to have an ice cream van parked there, much to our delight. "Here we are then young Dave, the seaside." Dave, who had in fact been dozing, suddenly stood up with an incredulous look on his face. I found it almost unbelievable that in this day and age that a young guy like that had never seen the sea before. But as he got out with one of the biggest grins I had ever seen on somebody’s face and rush to the water’s edge with a look of wonder, I realised that there are still people who have perhaps never left the confines of their own towns and cities. Feeling a little sorry for him and thinking it was possibly a little cruel, I got out of the mini bus and started to walk after him. "Leave him," said my Dad. "I will tell him soon enough, let him enjoy being somewhere different." He never seemed to notice the grins and sniggering of the others as he climbed back in, or even that we were driving across a bridge to the other side of the ‘sea’. But later on when I saw my Dad take him aside and tell him that in fact it had not been the sea but a reservoir, I asked him if he didn’t mind.
"No" he said, "I ain’t seen one of them neither."

Rats

Not many people's favourite animal are rats, and so it seems to Tom. After slinking away unseen the other night, I have just found a small dead rat near to the step of the caravan. I presume it was he who left it and although it appears to have no marks on it I don't think it had a cardiac arrest as it was passing the caravan. I like to think that he brought it to me as  a gift for helping him out, and although not a particularly nice one for humans, I suppose his gift range is a little limited. I expect it was more likely though that he dropped it as he caught sight of me as he was making good his escape. He will probably return for it when it gets dark.  Rats hold a singular place in my affections. When I was but a young chap with only the acquisition of girlfriends, money and a decent left foot on the pitch to stretch my mind, I was working on the construction of a new brewery maltings. Like most young  men, I probably had an over inflated opinion of my own abilities and one day after saying that I could work quite easily on my own, I found myself in a labyrinth of concrete lined dark tunnels with flickering lights every ten meters or so which felt like I was on one of those scary video games. Near every light there was a steel joist that held up the concrete slabbed roof.

"Just wrap the stainless steel mesh around each one, tie angle beads on the edges and render them with three coats," said my dad with a smile that knew my ego would not let me utter any grievance about being given this god forsaken job. He knew as well as I, that it meant carrying trestles and planks, as well as barrowing the sand and cement and wire etc, underground along long, cold corridors, with my footsteps the only sound to accompany me. After a couple of days with no daylight, I was beginning to feel like Jack Nicholson stalking those corridors in The Shining, when pushing the wheelbarrow along to where my trestles were set up, I heard a funny kind of rustling, scratching noise that seemed to be getting closer. Picking up my speed a little that had lapsed into a plod, I gripped the handles tighter and broke into a trot, which isn't easy when your barrow is full to the hilt. With the noise getting closer and more sinister I stopped and turned and shouted out that whoever was there to stop mucking about, or words to that effect. But in the dimness I still couldn't see anything until in the glow of the last light behind me I saw a mass of rats running my way with god knows what aim in mind. Leaving the barrow where it was, I took off, reaching my top speed in a time that I had rarely achieved on the football pitch, but even so was surprised when I approached the trestles and leapt onto the planks before the rats reached me. Feeling like a builder's version of Indiana Jones, and I do believe he was a carpenter once, I looked back to see fat rats, bloated on Barley, run under the trestles and off into the darkness with barely a squeak in my direction. Where they were going and in such a hurry  I never found out. In the three months it took me to do what seemed like endless beams, the rats came again on three more occasions, but by then I was almost used to it.  It's getting dark now and I am beginning to wish I had moved the rat further away, but if it is there in the morning I suppose it means that it was meant for me.

Martyn Walker is the author of Stopcock, available on Amazon

Tom

Still on my own, and with the villages and towns full of smiling tourists, it all feels a little hollow to me. Maybe that's why I started this blog, but does anybody actually read them anyway? I have been thinking about not bothering to write anymore when I met Tom. When I say met, I mean I heard a faint gurgling meow kind of noise in the old lime tree that grows over the roof of the caravan. To be honest I am not even sure he's male, but when I looked in the dense foliage about an hour ago, I finally spotted what looked like the Cheshire cat grinning down at me. He seemed to be just happily sitting there, his ginger and white fur  a good camouflage amongst the shadowy leaves, but after a couple of minutes and me opening a carton of milk and pouring him some out into a bowl, I felt something was wrong. Fetching my ladder, thinking he had bitten off more than he could chew, I leaned it on the branch he was on and tried to coax him down. Still he did not move. So slowly climbing the rungs, I decided to attempt a rescue. Halfway up, I noticed some grubby floral fabric near his head which on closer inspection I found was a long makeshift collar that he had entangled in the branch until it held his neck tight to it. His Cheshire cat grin was of slow suffocation. He didn't move, I expect through exhaustion at the struggle to free himself, as I tried to release him, but the fabric was strong so I went back down to fetch my Stanley knife. Gently sawing at the fabric and with soothing words I cut through it and was surprised when he still sat there. Backing down the ladder, I pulled up my plastic chair and watched as he opened his mouth a few times and moved down the branch a little. Nudging the bowl of milk a little closer to the base of the tree, I was glad for the first time since being here that I was on my own, as the sight of me crouched down talking in a high pitched voice, tool belt dragging on the floor must have looked a picture. Eventually he made his way down on to the roof of the caravan before tentatively dropping down and under the caravan. He is still there now, still shy of venturing out, but it has given time to think abut what idiot what make a collar for a cat with a piece of fabric over a meter long and knotted round his neck. Surely not Jean Pierre? He seems so common sense like, but there is no one else here for over half a mile! Oh well, we will see what happens, and hopefully he will still be about when the kids get here as they have always wanted a dog or cat. That's if I can coax him out from under the caravan.

Martyn Walker is the author or Stopcock, available on Amazon