George

George thought about his own times up in Lochaber, and around Glen Affric, and further south in Knoydart; he thought about the few people who lived there, and the people he’d met, in the bothies, or on the road, almost never on the hill, for the hills were big, and the paths ill defined so the walkers were well scattered.

And he thought about his own Applecross story, that’s special, he thought, I’ll keep it to myself, and then he felt a sudden pain inside, a pang of guilt and sadness. He pulled himself up and started to write.

Mikey was up early today, he never slept in anymore like in his kid years, but he managed sometimes to avoid his habit of lying a bed thinking. He got up, pulled on his coat, and escaped down the stairs and out into the street. It was October, and some mornings the fog had been hanging like an eerie shroud closing off everything outside the immediate, but this morning was going to be bright, and was already crisp.

Mikey lived in Park Royal, which is not a park, and far from royal, standing between the Great Western Railway and the Western Avenue which was the nearest thing London had to a motorway. Park Royal was a developers wet dream. He had an attic apartment in a little Victorian half terrace opposite a light industry park. It was about as cheap as it gets, but Mikey kept it nice. Mikey took his letters, and a couple of cards with him to the caff, where over a steaming mug of strong tea, he opened them, but not the council one. He stuffed them all in his back pocket, opened or unopened, and smiled at Joe as he banged down a plate of greasy food, just how Mikey liked it.

Mikey didn’t often do breakfast, he’d wave at Joe every morning as he passed, but rarely stopped, he’d worked here once, but when the factory opposite had closed Joe had had to lay him off.

George was distracted, he couldn’t do Mikey for the moment, his own mind was clouding with his own affairs, and poor old Mikey was getting squeezed out. He was thinking of the highlands, of Applecross, Toscaig, the old single track, twisting roads, the tea bar at the end of the road south from Glenelg, Sheena’s… Sheena must have long since hung up her oven gloves, and baked her last scone, (or microwaved it). You didn’t worry up there, if Sheena was running a tea bar, and it was going to be the last chance of sustenance, a microwaved scone was a fair compromise. George was new to this sort of writing, he knew he had to give something of himself, he had nothing else to give, but the things he wanted to share most, were the things he feared most, and he feared that folk would see through him. He was playing for time really, hell, poor old Mikey wasn’t even hungry, and was getting over his old habit of sloppy fried breakfasts, though it was all that was on offer in Park Royal.

Luckily George lived in a slightly nicer suburb closer in to town, a small terraced house looking out onto a park. This morning a small troupe of infants were being driven around the park in their bright yellow bibs, holding hands in pairs, with teachers at either end enjoying the fresh air, and the time out doors. George heard his wife still banging around downstairs, he thought she’d gone to work.