Winters Ghost

I had promised, sometime ago now, due to my success at the book festival, to return to the marvelous small but enchanting seaside town of Wigton and do a book signing when my next novel came out. I kept to my promise though I sometimes wish, now, that I had not.

I arrived in Wigton, a small seaside town on the southern coast of Scotland on a grey day in early November, eyeing the tumbling sky as I stepped from my car and headed towards the beautiful and quaint bookshop that stood across the square from where I parked.

 It was, had been, and still was, raining heavily and the humped stones of the cobbled square were slippery with the blustery sheets of rain casscading, it seemed, endlessly, from the heavens. The wind whipped between the old beige and red sandstone buildings that cornered me on three sides, the open side filled with an unremitting grey, concrete wall against which the sea beat with relentless fury, pouring tons of seawater into the square with each wave, just for it to recede, drawing what it had left upon the square back with it through small recessed drains that bubbled and frothed with the force of the water. I could smell the salt in the air and a little wood smoke as I slithered upon the slippery cobbles, the water turned dirty from the road and grit, splashed from the ruts between the stones staining my shoes. I had been sensible enough to wear tough but shined shoes hoping to make a good impression but my feet were already soaking, it was a day for wellington boots or better still a wet suit.

I grabbed the front of my coat and held it tight to my chest wincing at the sharp wind and sea spray as I stopped before the shop to review it. It was grey and solid looking, stone; granite, with large windows. Inside, books were displayed in pyramidal shapes but were only smudges hidden behind salt stains, ancient glass that had begun to settle, magnifying some, disuniting others, and running water cascading down from the slate roof distorted all in a kaleidoscopic fury of colour.

 Yet I suspected that on a clean day, a nice day, a sunny day, that all would have been perfect. The shop was quintessentially “Old Scot’s Bookshop” and already shouted Spartan and Sere but library like and effective, at me and I had not even entered.

I imagined the denizens of the shop; bespectacled, wearing brown cardigans and Brown brogues with irritating tweed skirts and impossibly thick brown tights, that had many bobbles upon them, in-between.

If Male, then wearing brown, sackcloth coloured Farah slacks with patch pockets sporting a few unsavory stains, in the front, a striped shirt, yellow and brown or red and brown and a tank top of an indeterminate grey to match the crazy hair and bushy eyebrows that sprout in all directions. He would have large teeth, yellowed by years of pipe smoking, but a shy and knowing, slightly manic smile and a stoop from sitting hunched over, reading arcane texts or alchemical tomes and would smell slightly odd.

Not of sweat or B.O. but rather of snuff or mothballs or pipe tobacco.

 I shook myself from this reverie for a second to walk towards the sea wall despite the waves and wind. We all marvel at natures forces and we all quail at disaster but we humans are curious and wish to look it in the eye as it comes to get us. This was one of those days where we feel that the weather is out to get us.

The sea wall is high, climbing to almost eight feet of solid blocked reinforced concrete and almost thirty feet above the sea. No one will fall over this sea wall accidentally. A fall into the sea here would be nothing other than suicide or murder, no child, no matter how adventurous or daring would take such a chance.

Yet eventually the sea reclaims everything, and despite the spray and rain I climbed to the walkway and looked out upon the chaotic torment. I stared awestruck and humbled by the Kraken before me that consumed the long shingle beach with a carnivores veracity, patches of golden sand and small rocks that tumbled and fell with each passing movement of the giants teeth, devouring beach with every surge of its hide and teeth, pulling rocks back into its hungry maw, shells, small fish, crabs and all manner of sea creatures scrabbling to pull themselves away from this all-consuming monster that has no thought or sense but devours all that lies in its way with no cunning, no mind, yet with a strange kind of avarice, wishing all to be part of it, to be consumed by it.

Everything would be swallowed in its monstrous and socialist mouth for it considered no creature or man better than any other, it consumed them all with a random precision that made women weep and grown men, strong and able, quake as they strode upon the wooden boats that they used to ply these shores searching for fish.  The wood here was strong, sturdy and a well-shaped and caulked boat could survive for a while at sea but all sailors knew their fate; it was written in the stars that they gazed at every night looking for direction.  Some prayed to those stars thinking them a message from god, a fate or a guide, others wept upon seeing them and finding a way home.

My author’s thoughts still played upon my mind as I returned to the cobbled square, soaked and cold and looked again upon the bookshop.

Frames painted Navy blue, did not even shudder in the tremendous, swirling Neptunian wind but the sky laced with Norse fury, Thor's thunderheads raced and boiled while Odin's lightning bolt's flew.  The windows stood uninviting in this stark landscape, a solid wood door, also Navy blue, stood between the symmetrical windows also framed, also strong and resilient, also old, It looked like “The Old Curiosity Shop” I realised, or the way I had envisioned it in my mind but I reached out and grasped the brass door handle and it was then that I entered the bookshop.

I suspect that in the summer, in the sunshine, the large cobbled square filled with hotels, craft and book shops, all painted bright and opposing colours would have looked rather inviting but even the Taj Mahal would have looked dismal on this day.   

Solidity was my first thought and my next as I pushed open the big door that took all my strength to shift, solidity made the wide stone walls and solidity made the wide and deep chimney breast that contained an open fire, billowing out heat, that I stood in front of, my clothes steaming as they dried, my heart warming to the place even if I was still chilled to the bone.

The fireplace was huge, stone and erupting heat from the burning logs held in its embrace. The smell of wood smoke at once, invasive and also comforting. Our ancestors lived with this fugue on a daily basis, generation after generation and I am one of their, eventual, children and can be comforted by all they knew. Cro-Magnon Man found a cave and given fire by Prometheus stolen from the gods, gave us warmth and comfort. Bloody Prometheus, we would probably have developed pelts were it not for that aberrant titan. We would probably have been warm all winter long, our pelts would probably have been waterproof like a beavers, as well. I could have done with being waterproof today. 

My clothes steamed and dried by the huge fireplace. I must have seemed a creature from hell, my clothes steaming the rain from them as I stood by the open fire. Vulcan's forge come to life in the form of a rather bedraggled author.

Black clad, in my trench coat, my once shiny shoes, Jeans and dark hat. I thought of introducing myself with the gruff words, “My Name’s Batman” As I warmed, giving of steam sufficient to power a locomotive, but becoming comfortable for the first time since I stepped from the car. I began to notice my surroundings, not just the fireplace I stood in front of, drying off.

It was a book shop, of course, and so filled to the brim with books, as you would expect a bookshop to be. Yet in my experience you get bookshops, always cool; they sell books, hence the title: bookshop, but some play at the idea where others completely buy into it. This one had bought the idea, taken out a mortgage on it and lived the idea. Any book-lover will tell you the difference and this was one for the book-lover, it was beautiful, dotted here and there with embrasures filled with curios. I was glad of the warmth, the comfort that it provided and so had studied it as my coat and trousers began to dry. When I turned, finally myself again, to say my hellos and greet my hosts, my mouth surely opened, but not a word exited it.

 There were books everywhere. Books set upon shelves, upon the floor and on the wooden stairs that led to the second floor. There were books of great antiquity, hardbacks and modern paperbacks all jostling for room in the small shop. Every available space was covered with them.

They sat one upon the other in piles, row by row by endless row, rack upon rack, Pile upon pile and I remember looking at every one. I liked the spines, the titles and more the words that I imagined to be contained in this wondrous mass of literature. The Lady that stood before me, addressing me, drew me back from my fantastical wonders to the day and present.  She was small in height but sturdy in girth wearing a blue uniform consisting of jacket and skirt, I assumed the blouse’s colour was optional as others were wearing white but hers was also blue.

I have been writing again what it seems will eventually be called "Winters Ghost" and it is proceeding apace. I thought that I would post the first chapter here and see what you think. I hope you have read it to the end and reached this comment. This is a true Gothic Ghost story and I do hope that you like it.

Raymond Walker July 2016.