Cherry Ghost

Four

He woke with a start. The fire still burned in the hearth, although by now the logs had been reduced to a glowing pile of embers that pulsed as if life was beating at its very heart. Life created by the air that was dragged through them by the storm that still raged outside. Rubbing his swollen eyes, he peered around the room but could not determine what if anything had roused him from his sleep. The window pane rattled as the rain lashed against it like pebbles tossed ashore by the relentless waves. The howling wind in the boughs above indicated that the storm, far from blowing itself out, was as ferocious as ever. Carefully and methodically he trained his eyes around the room, taking extra care to check in the shadows, absorbing every feature and recalling if anything was out of place. All appeared in order. Nothing had changed; nothing differed except that Woody had finally roused himself and left the warmth of his corner.

'Probably needed to stretch his legs and couldn't put off a visit outside any longer'.

Glancing out of the window he concluded that there would be no delivery today. Nor tomorrow. The waves would continue crashing for some time yet, driven by the winds and currents created by this deep atmospheric depression. He realised however that he needed to go to the wood shed and replenish his supply of logs before the fire burnt itself out completely.

Pulling himself slowly from his chair he decided to brave the short journey without pulling on his still damp waterproofs. Slipping on his boots at the back door he stooped to pick up the wicker basket he'd purchased on a rare visit to Inverness three years ago just after Easter. He'd been driving along the A9 and spotted a roadside sign advertising homemade plant pots, pine furniture and the like and decided on a whim to pull over and take a look at what was on offer.

Negotiating a few pot holes on the narrow farm track that took him away from the busy traffic on the main road behind him, he instantly began to feel more at home. The quietness of this rural setting became more appealing as he drew closer to the farm house and buildings that jostled together around an old cobbled courtyard. Small groups of swallows and swifts were busy swooping and screeching overhead as they busied themselves preparing to rebuild their nests after their long journey north from sub-Saharan Africa. An ideal location for them, as the overhanging roofs and open windows into the outbuildings coupled with the bountiful supply of moths and midges would ensure a ready food supply for the imminent arrival of their young.

A small black and white collie barked a quick welcome as he pulled to a stop outside the barn. Stepping out he patted it gently on the head as it pushed against his legs enjoying the extra attention. Chickens clucked in alarm and scurried noisely to the shadows as he strode towards the farm house door. A sign pointed him to a building to the left and following the instructions he pushed open the door to discover an old shippon that had been transformed into a makeshift shop

Twenty minutes later he was nearly a hundred and fifty quid lighter but the proud owner of a substantial bird table, large wicker basket and a new walking stick carved from a lovely piece of beech that sported a very distinctive handle shaped into a golden eagles head. The bird table was now a permanent feature outside his kitchen window. The cover offered by the overhanging branches from the pine outside and the shelter from the bothy meant that it was well used and he had received a great deal of satisfaction from watching the various visitors that regularly used it throughout the different times of the year. His keen sense of what would make a good photo meant that he had managed to capture many of these on his trusty Canon and some of the results had made their way onto his walls. He had been so pleased when a photo of three visiting waxwings perched on one of the branches silhouetted against a cloudless winter blue sky had made it through to the final of a national wildlife photographic magazine. He hadn't won, but the mere fact that his photo had even been selected was an enormous sense of pride to him.

He opened the door and made a dash for the woodshed. Briefly wishing he hadn't been so hasty in his decision not to get fully togged up, he strode quickly across his yard and put his shoulder against the shed door and pushed it open. Rain drops fell onto his neck and began to run along his collar bone causing his shoulders to hunch together in a vain attempt to keep the water out. A scrabbling noise caught his attention from somewhere behind the logs stacked against the far wall. Moments later Woody shot out chasing a small mouse, cobwebs trailing from his whiskers, eyes fixed on his target.

'Good to see there's life in the old man yet' he mused as he put the basket down and began filling it up, trying to choose the driest pieces to reduce the amount of spitting and frapping any damp logs would cause. As much as he liked the crackling of an open fire, he didn't enjoy having to stamp out flying sparks that landed on the homemade rag rug which lay in front of the hearth, preferring not to use a guard whenever possible due to the drop in heat that using one meant. He'd grown quite fond of this rug, in as much as you could grow fond of such items, a hand me down from his gran's old place. The one item which he'd requested from the house clearance, too many years ago now.

Many childhood afternoons had been spent playing as a young boy on the rug in front of his grandparent's fire with the random collection of plastic soldiers, the obligatory cowboy and American Red Indian, a few animals from a farm set he'd once got for Christmas and a random mixture of Lego bricks he'd managed to acquire over the years. This rug had created jungles, served as crashing ocean waves or featured as the alien surface of various planets and moons. Wherever his collection of toys and imagination took him, the rug had been there too, and so when he had been suddenly faced with the prospect of losing it forever, he'd felt the overwhelming need to rescue it and take it into his home. It gave him a sense of continuation that, like his battered leather chair, contributed to making the bothy a place of retreat where he could slip away from societies gaze and recharge his batteries safe in the knowledge that no-one knew where he was.

He glanced around the wood shed in an effort to locate Woody but without success so headed back to the warmth and comfort of the bothy. Stamping his feet on the worn coir doormat as he swiftly closed the door behind him, he dropped the basket in its place and grabbed a couple of fresh logs to feed the fire. Satisfied that they were properly placed he returned to his chair and picked up the TV remote and settled down to catch up with current affairs on the BBC News channel ever thankful that his satellite dish continued to pick up a good signal.