Pebbles from a Northern Shore

By Peter D Wilson

The loss of a child's pet leads to grief but eventual acceptance; two stories offered to a magazine raise questions of which is fact and which is fiction; the tale of a wise and beneficent Empress with a surprising origin is recalled through her gift of a child's bauble; showing off to impress a girl has grim results; the romance between a mediaeval serving-maid and the page of her lord's best friend interacts through a roughly-executed fifteenth-century portrait with present-day occupants of the same castle; machinations in the rivalry between two church choirs, and their involvement with a murdered Russian oligarch, climax in the resolution of a long-standing quarrel; an ancient musical instrument passes through a succession of modern families until it reaches the player for whom it is destined; misunderstandings by an over-confident novice
missionary, stranded in the wilds by the illness of his mentor, lead to horrifying blunders; an elderly man, reminded by a simple melody of his youthful infatuation with a friend's sister, revisits the site of a 1920s house-party associated with her and at last achieves peace; the psychological significance of a particular recurrent dream is recognised after many years; a curious ring given by a French aristocrat to his executioner during the Terror proves
surprisingly helpful; and a deceased author, entertained by the characters in one of his uncompleted stories who have finished it themselves, is finally reconciled with a long-lost love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter D Wilson
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465824813

Peter D Wilson

Peter Wilson was born in Nottingham, England, in 1936. After education at Nottingham High School, where he changed course from classics to science because he couldn’t get on with Greek, he gained an open scholarship to St. Edmund Hall, Oxford, to be taken up after National Service (1955-57) in which he was a radio mechanic at the SHAPE military headquarters near Paris. At Oxford he gained first-class honours in chemistry, then took a PhD at Leeds University.In 1964 he was appointed to a research position at the nuclear reprocessing site at Sellafield in Cumberland (the north-western corner of England), then operated by the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Agency (UKAEA) of which the relevant division became British Nuclear Fuels plc (BNFL) in 1971. He remained there until retirement in 2001, mostly working on process chemistry development. For the last dozen years he was chiefly concerned with certain aspects of long-term waste management and related strategic issues, helping to form the company technical policy thereon and presenting its rationale in international discussions. He was also the technical member of a team representing the UK in gaining acceptance of an extension to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty to cover a possible loophole. His book "The Nuclear Fuel Cycle" (Oxford University Press, 1996) has become the standard text on the subject. Following his retirement, BNFL set up and financed a "Peter Wilson Medal and Prize" for research and communication, to be awarded annually for ten years at Leeds University.He lived in Seascale, a coastal village near to the Sellafield site. His interest in amateur dramatics dated back to the 1960s and for many years he was an active member of the society based in Gosforth, the next village inland. His collection of stories, plays and film scripts along with some factual material may be found at https://peterdwilson.wixsite.com/peterwilsonscripts

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PEBBLES FROM A NORTHERN SHORE

Stories by

Peter D. Wilson

Copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011

Peter D. Wilson asserts his right under the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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Disclaimer

These stories are works of fiction, and any resemblance therein to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.

Cover photo copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011.

Seascale beach, Cumbria, UK, looking towards St Bees Head and Scottish coast.

Original JPEG file (without inscription) available on request.

CONTENTS

Ermine

The Competition

Flashback

The Empress of China

The Hand

Ernscar

On Wings of Song

The Legend of the Hurdy-Gurdy

Culture Shock

Graceful Ghost

The Gift

Sunset

Epilogue

ERMINE

I remember clearly - at least, I seem to remember, although by now it is probably no more than the wraith of a memory, a recollection of having remembered - my father calling softly one morning from the back door, Come and look at this - but quietly, don't frighten them. Huddled in a corner of the garden were three little creatures, two dark, one pure white apart from a black tag to the tail. It's an ermine, my father said. Normally they're white only in winter, but this one's kept its warm coat until now. I don't blame it. And shivering, he went back inside.

I've always had an affinity with small animals (compensation, perhaps, for ineptitude in human relationships) and these three fascinated me. I inched forward, offering extended fingers - yes, inviting a nip, but I didn't know or care. The two darker animals shrank back, but the ermine held its ground for a time, then itself came timidly towards me, sniffed at the finger tips, and eventually rubbed almost like a cat against the palm.

My mother had come silently up behind me and passed some scraps of raw mince that the ermine, after a little hesitation, tried and then ate eagerly. The two darker stoats scattered when more of the mince was thrown to them, but crept back gingerly and tucked in as though they had been starving for days. Quite possibly they had.

Over the next few weeks the three came regularly to be fed and gradually lost much of their nervousness. Indeed they seemed quite inquisitive, but only the ermine - we christened her Irma - would venture into the house. My mother, not relishing the idea of messes in her over-scrupulously cleaned household, was half intrigued, half horrified when it first happened, but there were no accidents, at least none worse than a few rather muddy paw prints near the door, and she was used to mine; after a little ritual complaint, her anxieties gradually faded. She even commented eventually what a lovely and surprisingly well-behaved animal Irma was.

When the weather improved and with it, presumably, the hunting, we saw less of the others but Irma still came, less for the food than for the company. It was extraordinary that she should so take to human kind, but perhaps her peculiarity of retaining the winter coat, as she still did, made her unwelcome to her erstwhile companions.

We discovered that she had a lair in a wilder part of the garden that my father mostly tended meticulously. Even so, she liked to see what was happening indoors, and would spend some time investigating my pockets. At a party one evening, the guests were startled when a little head with a pair of beady eyes popped up from there in the middle of the meal. Another time, when she hadn't been seen for several hours and we weren't sure that she had gone out for the night, we found her curled up in my school cap.

I did once take her to school, but her darting about upset the girls and distracted the boys, so the teacher firmly forbade any repetition.

She had been with us for quite some time when we had a family outing and I thought that she would appreciate a change of scene. Curiously - the mind plays peculiar tricks - I can't remember exactly where it was. In later years I often searched for it, but with no success, and maybe I've mis-remembered some distinctive features of the approach or even imagined them, but there was certainly a wide valley with a stream and, beside it, a roughly conical hillock with a grassy hollow at the top. Another thing I don't recall is why I decided to stay there while everyone else went on down the valley; maybe I had to prepare for an exam, or more likely, having scrambled up the rather steep slope with some difficulty and loss of breath, I simply didn't want to waste the effort by coming straight down again.

It was a warm, windless, sunny day with scarcely a sound apart from the chirping of grasshoppers, the rippling of the stream, and perhaps some bird song; at any rate, the almost unbearable beauty of the violin part in 'The Lark Ascending' still brings it back to me. I dozed over a book, and Irma, after ferreting around for a while, came back and rested in the shade of my discarded jacket. I must have fallen more soundly asleep, for suddenly there was a shout from across the stream, Come on! It's time to go home. I grabbed my jacket and prospected a way down. I was physically as well as socially nervous and awkward, the grass tussocks were slippery, and the descent took all my attention. At the bottom, Irma was no longer with me, and call as I might, she failed to reappear. The others joined in, but eventually there was no choice but to leave.

For weeks, I returned every time I could persuade anyone to take me to search and call, but without success. My father, gently as always, tried to wean me away from it and at last put his foot down. She's a wild animal after all. She's probably gone off with others of her kind. More probably my instinct was right, and she had met with some accident. We never saw her again.

Time may dull the sense of loss; it never eradicates it. Sixty years on, after vastly worse events, it still hurts beyond all reason. But time can also bring a little wisdom. Given the disparity in life span, that loss, one way or another, was inevitable, and for a child it was perhaps better to be sudden than to watch a beloved creature age, sicken and die slowly. We do well to count our blessings. Looking back through tears, I can be thankful at least for what we were given; a presence of grace and beauty that was with us for a while at its best, and then went quietly away.

Return to Contents

THE COMPETITION

I never wanted to run the parish magazine. Indeed, I never imagined doing it until Mike Evans, who had dealt with it for years, was made redundant and thought himself lucky to land a job at the other end of the country. He tackled me one Sunday after the morning service, much to my astonishment. Why me? It's not my line at all.

You've done the odd piece from time to time, so I know you're literate. You don't disappear for weeks on end. You know most of the people who put in the regular entries - and what's more, you seem to get on with them fairly easily.

There are plenty of others who can do that.

Maybe, but I've been through all the possibilities, and none of them will do. What I've seen of their writing would either shock the old stagers or bore the pants off a marble effigy.

Does that really matter? Surely the editor's job is to assemble the material, not to write it.

Don't you believe it. There are always gaps to fill, and you haven't seen half the stuff in anything like the form I get it. And don't tell me you haven't time; you've only just retired, so you can't have picked up the usual load of voluntary jobs yet. If it's any help, I don't move for a couple of months, so I can hold your hand for those two issues.

So I was talked into it; always a soft touch, as my wife complained (she takes after her mother, but we needn't go into that). I can't do with having you under my feet all day.

Well, your feet don't have to be in that particular room all day, do they?

It's got to be cleaned.

Once a week is quite enough.

And that piece of heresy left her, for once, speechless. If I got in her way, as she put it later, it was better than having me cause mayhem by driving for Meals on Wheels.

As it turned out, the job wasn't as difficult as I'd feared, and most people seemed fairly happy with the result. They probably glanced through the bits that directly concerned them and skipped the rest. However, after about a year, one of the bright young teenagers happened to comment that it was all a bit tame and predictable, and couldn't we liven it up a bit? Looking back over the past half-dozen issues I had to admit that she had a point.

The question was, what to do about it? She had nothing particular to suggest, but after discussions with various friends someone proposed a short story competition, and it seemed as good an idea as any. So we set it up, with fairly relaxed rules: original work, a thousand words give or take a hundred or so, the winning entry to be published in a special issue of the magazine. The parish funds wouldn't run to much in the way of a prize, but there would be the option of sherry or a box of Belgian chocolates. As there weren't all that many likely entrants, they could put in as many pieces as they wished. I persuaded a literary friend from my student days to judge the entries, and he wasn't likely to know any of the authors, so we didn't need to bother with pseudonyms.

The deadline was getting uncomfortably close with no sign of any response when Bob Jones came along rather tentatively with a couple of pieces. He wasn't sure if they were suitable and wanted my opinion before formally submitting them. I knew something of his daytime work; he produced accurate, clear, concise, strictly grammatical and dry-as-dust technical reports, exactly as required but hardly the stuff of fiction, so on the quiet I was not too hopeful but relieved that he had saved the competition from being a total flop. One of the stories, he explained with a touch of embarrassment, came from a particularly vivid dream, the other from an actual episode in fact.

That week we had visitors with young children who needed constant entertaining, and by their bed-time I was too tired to face Bob's efforts as I imagined them, so a few days passed before I could go through them. They both proved a surprise. The first I read was an uncharacteristically sentimental childhood reminiscence of a white stoat, found apparently starving, that had more or less adopted the family and become something of a pet before disappearing back into the wild.

If that seemed out of character, the second story was far more so; quite fantastic, in fact, but then dreams often are. It started off ordinarily enough describing a simple if puzzling incident. He had been unable one Christmas morning to find his watch, normally left overnight on the dressing table. He lived alone, no one else had been in, and the watch was nowhere else he might inadvertently have put it. As with most habitual actions he had no positive recollection of having taken it off the previous night; he knew the strap was badly worn, and he feared it must have fallen off without his noticing, possibly at the midnight service or on the way back. Nevertheless he searched again and more thoroughly that evening, pulling the table further away from the wall but finding only dust behind it. Then he saw that the watch had reappeared, not against the wall where it might conceivably have fallen but in a clear space where he couldn't possibly have missed it earlier.

He could think of no plausible explanation, and was almost tempted to blame gremlins, especially when the pattern was repeated. Other items disappeared for varying intervals, to be found in places already searched. Sometimes they seemed to work a little better than he remembered. The oddest incident, superficially trivial but disturbing, concerned a Pilot drafting pencil. Or rather, he thought that was the make, but he happened to notice some days later that it was marked Navigator.

He had never previously doubted his own sanity, but as the incidents piled up, he became more and more worried about them and began to think along those lines. Half-jocularly he commented on one or two of the less bizarre examples to some of his closer friends, and was greatly relieved - at any rate in one sense - to find that they too were having similar experiences and putting them down to absent-mindedness or the mischief of children. Thus reassured, he concocted a theory that some invisible alien intelligence was at work, with no sign of malice (that at least was comforting), but inquisitive enough to borrow artefacts, take them apart to see how they operated, and return them reassembled once it was satisfied. He supposed that to check its conclusions it made copies, sometimes with functionally insignificant errors of detail, and on occasion it made the more serious mistake of returning the copy instead of the original.

Then his secretary was off one day without explanation or any subsequent recollection of the absence. And the single earring that she always wore on her left side was now on the other.

When I next bumped into Bob he was gratified that I quite genuinely considered both his entries eminently suitable, and especially that I thought either of them could stand a good chance of winning, depending on what mood the adjudicator was in. (I saw no need to mention the lack so far of other competitors.) He had some queries about the format required for the final draft, and I assured him that so long as it was neat and legible, nothing about the actual arrangement really mattered. I also commented how lucky he was to have seen a stoat in its winter colouring, as I never