Tales of the Extraordinary

the Extraordinary

  Gerrard Wilson

  Copyright 2014 by Gerrard Wilson

  The Fog

  It was a cold November evening, so cold the weak, autumnal sun made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended the previous night. As I approached my friends’ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family tradition to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, including the family’s migration from the tiny outpost of the same name, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of guests had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights.

  Opening the gate, I walked along the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a facsimile of a lion’s head, I gave the door an assertive knock. I waited for my hosts to respond.

  “Is that Jeremiah?” Christine asked, calling to her husband, upstairs.

  “Yes, darling,” Charles replied, making his way downstairs, to the door. Opening it, he greeted me. Seeing how frosty and cold it was outside, he said, “Welcome, Jeremiah. You must be frozen – come in. Hand me your coat and hat, then get yourself to the sitting room.”

  I made my way into the sitting room, where Charles offered me the armchair directly in front of their roaring log fire. Stretching out my hands, warming them, I thanked him for his hospitality.

  Entering the room, Christine said, “Jeremiah, it’s so good to see you – and on such a cold night!”

  “You know me,” I chuckled, “out in all weathers…”

  “Out in all weathers is one thing – but this?” she replied, opening the curtains, gazing at the frost covered ground.

  “How about a nice glass of Madeira, to warm you up?” Charles asked.

  “Sounds good,” I replied.

  Picking up the bottle of Madeira wine that had been resting in front of the fire, warming, he said, “Won’t be a tick.”

  I smiled; I had no need to reply, because my two friends, whom I had known all my life, knew me inside out.

  “Here you are,” said Charles, “a glass for the weary traveller.” He handed me a glass full to the brim with the fiery brown liquid. “And one for you, dear,” he added, offering his wife a glass, also.

  As my two hosts joined me, relaxing in their wonderfully comfortable armchairs, sitting in front of the sparkling, crackling log fire, I thanked my God to have been blessed with such good friends.

  As we caught up with all the gossip, talked about our plans for the future, and reminisced about the good, fun times we had enjoyed over the years, the evening passed quickly (time seems to have that effect, when you’re having a good time, doesn’t it?).

  Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that was past eleven, so knocking back the last of my Madeira wine (my fourth glassful, I might add), I thanked my congenial hosts for their hospitality, then extricated myself from the comfortable chair.

  “You’re welcome,” said Christine, giving me a little peck on the cheek.

  Handing me my coat and hat, Charles said, “You’re always welcome in our home.”

  Buttoning my coat, pulling the belt tightly closed, I shivered, thinking of the cold night facing me outside. After donning my hat, I was ready to go.

  Charles gasped in shock when he opened the door. “Look,” he said, “I’ve never seen so bad a fog!”

  While we had been cosy and warm inside, drinking our Madeira wine, having a good time, a heavy fog had descended. It was bad, really bad, a pea souper if ever I saw one.

  “You will have to stay here for the night,” Charles insisted. “You’ll never find your way home in that!”

  “The spare room is made up,” said Christine. “It will be no bother.”

  I thanked them for the kind offer, and would have gladly accepted it at any other time, but having early start on the morrow, I had to get home, to prepare for it. Thanking Charles and his beautiful wife for the lovely evening, I bid them goodnight, making my way down the fog-shrouded garden path. As the gate closed behind me, I heard Christine saying to her husband, “I do hope he will be all right…”

  As the door closed behind me, I pulled up the collar of my coat, and with eyes staring down at the pavement (it being the only thing I could see clearly in the fog) I began the long walk home.

  Surrounded, engulfed by such an extraordinarily thick fog, everything on the journey home appeared different. Even the streetlights took on an unreal, surreal appearance within the foggy gloom. At one point, I almost walked into one, just avoiding it at the last second. The intersections in the road, the places where I had to pass from one street to another proved a real hazard. Although there were no cars or vehicles, I was still terribly afraid when I crossed these places. At one point, when I was half way across a particularly wide street, I thought I heard a car fast approaching. Panicking, I ran for my life. I need not have bothered, though, because nothing came, and all that I got for my efforts was a grazed knee when I tripped on the curb and fell. It hurt.

  As I limped forlornly along, the warm Madeira wine but a memory, I saw no one else. Apparently, I was the only person foolish enough to be roaming the streets in the mother of all fogs, especially at so late an hour. Suddenly I stopped; puzzled by the unfamiliar looking street I found myself in. “Did I take a wrong turn, back there, when I fell?” I whispered. Squinting, trying to see through the pea soup, I tried to make out some of the buildings. It was impossible – it was far too foggy to have any hope of seeing them clearly.

  There were gates, though. “That’s a good start,” I said, touching the first one. It felt slightly familiar. “These gates, these metal gates – do I recognise them?” I asked. Opening the first one, I had a brainwave. “I will knock on the door of this house, so I will,” I said, “and ask the householder to tell me where I am. Yes, that’s a good idea,” I muttered, making my way up the red and black tiled path.

  On reaching the door, I knocked it hopefully. However, no one answered the door. Despite knocking the door another three times, no one came to see who it was. Undaunted by this failure, I made my way out through the gate, to try my luck at the next house.“There will be someone in here,” I muttered, “I am certain of it.” Despite knocking six times, however, the door remained unanswered.

  “Third time lucky,” I said loudly, giving the next door along a loud rat-a-tat-tat. I waited, I waited, and I waited some more, but no one answered that door either.

  “Where is everyone?” I complained, exiting the gate, dejected and miserable.

  Giving up on this tack, I retraced my steps to where I had tripped on the curb. When I got there, I immediately saw where I had gone wrong. “Ah,” I said happily, “I took the wrong turn…silly me!”

  Keeping to the inside of the path, the buildings (what I could see of them, that is) took on an increasingly familiar appearance. “Won’t be long now,” I said quietly, my spirits rising, “until I’m home, drinking a nice cup of tea.”

  “Conkers bonkers,” I laughed as I passed alongside the horse chestnut trees bordering the Council Offices grounds. Under these trees, the fog was much lighter. I bent down, searching for conkers. My cold fingers soon found one. As I held the conker tightly, my mind returned to my childhood days, when conkers were such prized possessions. It’s strange how our priorities in life change as we grow older, isn’t it? Something that is so important to us today might be of little or no interest to us tomorrow. Where I am now living, in Ireland, children (and adults) have little or no idea about playing the game of conkers. The sheer number of conkers le
ft rotting beneath horse chestnut trees every autumn never ceases to amaze me. Perhaps children nowadays are just too busy playing with their Nintendo’s and so forth.

  Pocketing my shiny new conker, I continued my journey along the deserted road. It’s only a mile to go,” I whispered confidently to myself. “It’s only a mile, only one short mile until I can turn the key in my front door, and have that cup of tea. I began whistling, thinking about it.

  Although I now knew where I was, my progress began to falter. You see, because I was getting closer to the river, the fog became thicker and thicker and thicker. In fact, it became so thick, so dense, it got to the point I could not even see the ground beneath my feet. From there on, I chose my steps carefully, cautiously, slowly. I did not want fall a second time.

  Because I was now walking so slow, ever sound, every footfall seemed that bit clearer, that bit louder. My own footsteps seemed to