At the end of 2020 we had a competition for 1000 word stories. The theme was to base the story on any one of a selection of photographs. The competition was judged by the Glasgow author and good friend of Campsie Writers, Pat Feehan, who also provided a copy of his latest book, Lucky Larry, as the prize.
Valerie de Villiers’ entry – ‘Old upturned ship’s hull on the beach‘
Duncan Gray’s entry – Christmas in Ljubljana
Old upturned ship’s hull on the beach
By Valerie de Villiers
I walk from my cottage onto a shingle beach, empty wine glass in one hand and a bottle of chilled Chardonnay in the other. I stop and look up at the stars and moon looking down on me wondering as I am ‘what am I doing here’ and ‘why?’
A few days ago I had quit my job in the city. I was burnt out, the pressure of working at the stock exchange had eventually broken me. ‘You need some peace and quiet’ I was told by the doctor. So I guess that answers my ‘why’ question.
I checked the Scotsman newspaper for To Let properties. ‘Cottage in the highlands, quiet retreat, long lease’. I answered the advert.
The sea gently lapping around my feet I turn and move slowly along the beach to the place where I first saw her emerge from the sea. I am an old man now but time has not erased my memory, it is a though time has stood still.
It was late afternoon. I had gone down to the sea for a swim which I loved to do. Lying on my back floating to the gentle swell of the waves, watching the seagulls soaring above me, then suddenly swoop down diving into the blue of the sea to emerge fish in beak. The sun catching the spray sending myriads of colour flashing before my eyes. Other seagulls swooping down to try and steal the fish. I laugh out loud as it reminds me of the stock exchange.
It was on such a day the sun’s golden bar kissing the waves as it slowly sinks to await another day.
I stand watching and listening to the sea as it heaves to and fro. I am at peace. I walk towards the hull of an abandoned rowing boat, the moonlight playing gently along its broken lines. I sit in the shadow and comfort of this once proud and valued vessel. Ah what stories it could tell I think, if only there was someone to listen.
As my own story for it was on such an evening as I sat beside this old boat pouring myself a glass of chilled wine, sipping slowly as memories came flooding back from when I first saw her emerge from the sea.
I rub my eyes in disbelief glancing at the half empty bottle of wine and thinking ‘You’ve had enough’ but no this was not my imagination as slowly she moved towards me, long wet hair clinging to her lithe body. The only sound was the waves and my breathing. She sits beside me and smiles. I am captivated. ‘It is unusual for someone to be here, why are you alone?’ I do not answer for still I think that it is the wine talking.
The sky is now midnight blue with a full moon, the milky way and stars the brightest I have ever seen. She rises and moves gracefully back into the inky darkness of the sea disappearing with a flip of her tail.
I step out of my cottage onto the shingle beach and walk towards the now rotting hull of the fishing boat. I sit sipping my chilled glass of Chardonnay wine and wait ……………
This was the winning entry:
Christmas in Ljubljana
by Duncan Gray
My grandfather, David Fraser, is a sly old fox. That’s as you’d expect, given that he’s a veteran of MI6 and the bad old days behind the Iron Curtain. I was quite young when I guessed he was a secret agent. My mother taught me never to speak about it. None of us, him included, ever talks about it. We all know better.
Using all his skills, somehow he persuaded my mother that this year he and I would miss the family Christmas and go on a trip together instead.
“We’re going to Ljubljana in Slovenia,” he told me, “you know I used to work there?”
Oh I knew all right. He was my secret childhood hero and I’d read lots of spy books. I was scared stiff when Mum told me he was in Ljubljana. I thought she meant the Lubyanka, the Moscow prison that terrified all foreign agents.
I arranged days off from my employers and we flew to Slovenia on December 23rd. We were settled into our hotel by lunchtime and then out for Grandad’s guided city tour. It started at the Dragon Bridge, then we saw the Butcher’s Bridge statues, the famous cathedral door and the market before taking the funicular up to the castle.
Looking out with the city spread below us, he checked no one was near and said
“This is a special day, an old spy and a young spy out in the world together.”
I gave him my best indulgent look.
“Grandad, just because I have a Civil Service job doesn’t mean I’m in the Security Service.”
“What is it you call work? The Foreign Office Innovation Network? If that’s not an obvious cover story I don’t know what is.”
He grinned and I just shook my head. It was interesting though, he’d never openly even hinted at his past in Intelligence before.
We felt almost frozen by the time we got back down to street level, so the first stop was a stall by the river where we sat on tall stools and drank cups of hot glühwein. The spicy red wine revived us, and we were soon ready to move again.
“There’s somewhere I want to go.” he said and led off over a bridge and southwards. We left behind the fine Austro-Hungarian architecture and when we got to where he wanted it was a plain square. Front and back there were ugly concrete office buildings of the 1970s tradition. Grandad settled on a bench while I spotted another stall and bought more glühwein.
“This’ll be Republic Square,” I suggested, because I’d done a bit of research before we came, “where the crowds demanded independence. Was it 1991?”
“It was. I was here, right in the middle of it.” he replied. “Those were amazing days. It all happened so quickly and then my job here was finished.”
Another revelation, I noted.
It was dark by the time we made it back to the city centre. Christmas lights covered everything and festive crowds were gathering. We were about to cross the Triple Bridge to Prešeren Square when I spotted Grandad playing the spy again. The bridge has three separate spans and he suddenly diverted from the first one and crossed by the third. It’s a simple technique intended to flush out any low level surveillance. I learned it myself at the training school. I looked but couldn’t see anyone who might have been watching us. Actually I probably shouldn’t have mentioned being at training school. Also, we were being watched.
The square was filled with tables and chairs and stalls selling food and drink. Grandad was explaining the story of a statue to me when a voice came from behind, speaking in clear, accented English.
“David Fraser, what has brought you back to this city after all these years?”
I turned and was faced with a thin old man almost hidden inside his thick jacket.
Grandad replied without turning. “Zlatko Jokić, I came back because I assumed you’d be dead by now.”
Zlatko laughed heartily and the two of them started shaking hands and slapping shoulders. He looked me up and down and said “So you’ve become so old you have to travel with a carer now?”
“This is my granddaughter and I don’t need any help. You’re the one who has a walking stick.”
Then Grandad handed me twenty euros and pointed in the direction of a stall selling hot chocolate and hot gin.
They were seated at a table well away from the crowds and the heating when I came back with gins and a box of fries.
“I presume you two are old friends” I said to ease myself into their conversation.
“Quite the opposite” Zlatko replied “We were bitter enemies for many, many years”.
Grandad nodded. “That’s true. Zlatko was a secret policeman back in the days of Tito and Yugoslavia. He had the nerve to accuse me of being a Western agent and made my life hell.”
“Untrue, I was no spook. I was just an ordinary traffic policeman.”
These exchanges went on all evening. The two old men told countless stories, secrets and lies, while I was sent on regular trips for more gin. After the last one Grandad announced “Zlatko is going to take us out in his car tomorrow to show us the beauty of Lake Bled.”
“You refused that trip the last time I offered.” said Zlatko.
“That was 1975. I’d have been shot and buried in the woods”.
So that’s it. That evening told me I’m now an insider in Grandad’s secret world which I’ve envied for ever. When I was first invited to apply for the Security Service I suspected he might have been behind it. Now I’m sure.
Zlatko put the final nail in the coffin: “And you, young lady, I imagine you will be a spy too. Now that your country is no longer an ally, after your Brexit, you’ll be coming back here to steal our secrets.”
Campsie Writers Group 