test for fb
Archive for September, 2011
Test for FB compatability
A rustling of some kind invaded his thoughts, a noise from behind his pillow. Some small creature scratching at the wallpaper, a sound that reminded him of bees gathering resin from off of varnished, wooden garden surfaces in summer in order to construct their hives. Then came a sniff sniff in his left ear. Not Bonnie, his mothers golden Labrador. It was too weak a sniff for her, also his ear was not getting a soaking from her wet nose. Next came a tousle of his hair. He stirred and opened his eyes. A hedgehog by his head took one look at his shocked expression and took off on a course down the length of the hut. Daylight, and the hard floor greeted him again for a second dawn in a row.
Disappointment fought with relief for the upper hand. He was back in this estranged world for sure, and that thankfully offered an explanation as to why his mind had not been clear back home. That was the dream, surely? The time felt real now, right here at the present. Not the least because a stiffness had invaded every joint and muscle, so in turning to rise his body reacted and enforced a slow motion on even the slightest movement, be it limb or digit. It took him a minute to kneel, crouch and then after stretching all extremities, exit the hideaway and stand up straight to assess the morning on offer.
Still warm, no clouds, hunger, no rain, isolation, sadness, relief. All these perceptions came to the fore at one fell swoop and resulted in a resolution. He was going to get back home somehow today. He blurted out, “but how Mac?” The answer to that question was the key to his very future, and not only his, Sal and the family too. Obviously the bridge was the solution, but it offered no reprise yesterday. Would today be any different? “If not then a job to get some money Mac.” Those words broke his dream of the pub incident. A cold shiver traversed his spine whilst his skin wetted with perspiration. “Perhaps that was a warning, a prep for the days to come, who knows? anyway, forewarned is forearmed. Just watch yourself that’s all.” That was another priority, someone to talk to, a conversation of any sorts. Although he had always had self dialogue another face to talk to was always the nicer option.
Shoes on feet and pullover wrapped around his shoulders he set off to repeat the itinerary of the day before. The only difference to this dawn walk being a total resolve to not be back up what was already a well known pathway when daylight faded. His handheld showed the time, six thirty two, another long day ahead. The plus side to that was more time to sort out his future. Off he trod towards the crag, breakfast, fresh water and hopefully freedom.
The morning passed as expected, unfortunately. After breaking his fast came another fruitless attempt at a return under the bridge. It was all he could do to walk about aimlessly, paying no attention to sight or sound, imprisoned by his thoughts and fears of the future. Not even the bleating of lambs or sun reflecting off the babbling brook inspired him to take back the day. Total melancholy. He ought to know better, he was a fighter not a loser. But the mood was hard to kick off, it grappled with every positive twist he tried to put to his situation. The adventure, the privilege, the story once he did find home, because find it he would of that he was sure. Stuck in the moment one field merged with the next, the blue horizon holding no comfort or joy, and that is how mid day passed him by and how he found himself on a grassy lane not encountered before.
A couple of hundred yards along this lane he came across a chance meeting with an elderly gent at his farm gate. Behind this tired soul his muddy, sloppy, hoof marked yard running between a stone farmhouse and derelict outbuildings betrayed the fact that cattle had passed through earlier for milking, and if any other confirmation of the event was needed, the evidence of the herd in the adjoining field and one of them nosing up to the old timer was enough. The farmer was leaning on a metal post with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. Surprisingly it was him who started up the conversation with a gruff “afternoon fella!”
Mac jumped at the chance.”Good afternoon to you too. Taking the mid day air?”
“Before I fricken get back to it, got a very long day in prospect.” You and me both Mac thought. The old mans weak frame and sunken face, partly disguised by a flat cap and threadbare brown corduroy coat did not give the impression that he was the farms workforce, far from it in fact. “Top fricken field to plough tday, wont do itself.” His voice carried a melancholy melody of rasping delivery.
“Big farm you have then?”
“Too fricken big these days. An yung uns don’t wanna know. Fricken let me down again the good for lazy fricker.” As he spoke his tired eyes searched the lane in a forlorn hope of the chastised youngster appearing. “Bin at it since six as it is.”
Mac saw an opportunity. “Good job we met then!” he dared to say. “If you would like I could help.”
The dry, almost transparent skin around the old mans eyes and mouth shifted a little. “Can ya plough lad? Yon fricken field?” A bony finger pointed to an obvious tractor two stone walls away.
The work was only a quarter done, but the terrain looked straightforward enough. Mac thought a moment, such a lovely day to be in touch with nature and on top of that hopefully make a friendship. He worried though on the mechanics of the vehicle. Surely it could not be much different to what he knew. Granted they were a lot noisier engines and ran on fossil fuels, but the principle of stop and go must be similar. He jumped at the chance. “I’ll have that done by evening, easy.”
“Don’t want it mucking up mind.” This instruction came with a tap of his hand on the gate. The cow turned and bolted. “Can’t pay ya much either, so say now if yud rather not.” The words again seemed to be spoken with song in his voice.
“Be my pleasure.”
“From round ere are ya?”
“No not really. Whitby actually. Just passing some time walking the countywide a little.” Be careful Mac, he did not want another interrogation. “Can’t decide on a career so clearing my head by walking, just finished university.”
“And ya say ya can plough do ya.” He did not sound convinced.
“My dads a farmer.” Stop at that Mac.
It did. The elder handed over the keys of the tractor. “We’ll see how ya does then. Off ya fricken go.” With that he turned to make for the farmhouse ten yards away as if his life depended on reaching its grey door immediately. Mac was obviously in charge of the tractor, plough and field.
“Nice to be trusted.” He shouted excitedly across the pungent yard.
“Mind how ya go.” That was probably an attempt at praise and thanks all rolled into one Mac realised, but by now his benefactor was around the corner of the barn.
“How difficult can it be?” was all that kept coming to him as he walked, almost ran with a skip and jump in his step, to the old red tractor. The foxgloves and nettles lining his way cheered him on, he now had a purpose to his day, and no doubt a challenge.
Once inside the cab all became apparent. Ignition for the key, three pedals where he was only used to two, go and stop, a stick device with numbers on it presumably for motion, and several levers to the rear of the cab for controlling the plough. He turned the key.
The vehicle lunged forward two yards and stalled. Not a good start. “Hope I’m not being watched from the farmhouse,” he joked, “but probably am!” The wheels were obviously engaged.
By trial and error over the next ten minutes or so he sorted the gears and clutch mechanism, firstly by pressing the wrong pedals, then by pressing the correct ones, and finally by pressing them in the correct sequence. “Nothing to it!” he congratulated his reflection in the side window once on the move. The principle was identical, it was just the engagement of the drives that took some mastering, but by the third furrow he was ploughing as he did back home. In fact, and all things being equal he realised that this field he was working was just about in the same vicinity as Gramps’ land. How could that be?
He stopped the engine. The idea of Gramps’ plot had caught him off guard. A longing for his heart of oak squeezed a salty tear from the inner corner of his left eye. It trickled down to the corner of his mouth.
He went over it all again, the shiver on his back had returned. What other possible scenario was there for the events happening to him? It was not sensible or correct to imagine and accept this new world. Why was his mind succumbing and not arguing for another explanation? Here he was, sat in a tractor, ploughing at a field that occupied land belonging to, but not in the hands of his own family. In a time where he no more belonged than the old farmer did in his. But still, this obviously was reality, this world was his now. No gaps in time evaded his memory, no odd changes in direction of the day or events. Just oddities themselves, like the tractor, the old man, the rabbits, the hut, life itself. Was he the luckiest person alive, privileged in encountering such a time slip, or was it a curse of unimaginable proportions, and further more was he still being aided in some way? A blanket of mist invaded his minds eye in an attempt to empty all his fears and thoughts, it shrouded his soul, but only for a second or two. The farmer would be watching. Common sense prevailed. He turned the key again and the engine roared into life, it made him jump with fright. “Going to have to get used to the noise here Mac!” Above the engine sound he hardly heard himself speak.
The afternoon passed by quickly and sure enough by six o’clock the field was ploughed just as predicted. In the effort he had completely overlooked any lunch so as he took the tractor back along the narrow potholed lane to the farmyard his belly was grumbling. The remains of the rabbit and fruit would be a welcome meal once he had delivered his charge.
Turning slowly into the yard of slurry he brought the vehicle and tow to a careful halt. The old man was there at an open door waving a gesture to come inside the farmhouse. Mac trod carefully across to the property and entered a whitewashed hallway. At the far end of a drab tarpaulin covered floor was a brick bunker of coal and logs next to a black cast iron stove. The farmer sat next to both in darned woollen socks and dirty green overalls. He still wore the flat cap, but at an odd angle. His rickety wooden chair matched the decor for age and use. The temperature of the hallway told of the stove being in full bloom all the day. “Ya nearly frickin ran the tractor through the barn there lad. Did ya not see I’d left the frickin field gate open for ya?”
Mac knew he had done nothing of the sort, but did not go on the offensive. He needed some more work tomorrow if possible, and by the look of the farmer and his house he was not in any fit state to be running a garden never mind a farm. “Sorry for that.” Change the topic he thought. “Nice soil you have in these fields. Took no ploughing at all. I’m Mac by the way.” he added as an after thought.
“Looked like ya had a bit of fricken trouble to begin with fella. Was watching ya from the bedroom window.” No offer of a name came up.
Think quickly. “Yes, the plough bit a little too deep.”
“Frickin plough, years old that is.” On the stove was a large pan. The old man pointed it out. “Get ya sen some of this frickin ash. It’s bin made yesterday by my daughter. It’s not frickin up to much but it’ll fill ya up.”
Over by a cobwebbed window looking out over the field of cattle was a plastic grey patio table and chair. On the table a place set for one. Whitish bowl with spoon and fork. As surprised as he was after the torrent of abuse at everything and everyone Mac did not need to be asked twice. He filled the bowl with the thick, souplike offering and returned to the table.
It was magnificent. Piping hot, full of meat and vegetables, and the taste was out of this world. He laughed under a long exhale of breath at that thought. While he ate, outside the Friesian cattle chewed and went about their task of converting starlight into muscle and milk.
The stew was delicious, it was so good he looked longingly to the pot when his bowl was empty. “Go on then, get some frickin more if ya wants.” The farmer was in his lounge by now through a doorway with no door to it. “Mags’ll be bringing somat else tomorrow.”
Mac caught a glimpse of the living room as he filled his bowl for a second time. Red leather upholstered sofa and chairs of luxurious quality stood on a dark blue and mustard patterned carpet. There was a huge widescreen television hung on one wall and an open fireplace opposite. This hearth was where the farmer knelt, attempting to draw sparks into life using a newspaper over the opening. “Got any place t’ stay?” He shouted over the noise of the raging flames. “Ya welcome t’ barn cross yonder. It’s kitted out wi a bed an all.”
That knocked Mac for six. He was certainly not expecting that offer, but after the hard floor of the hut even a straw bed would have been an improvement. He burst out a reply. “Yes please, that would be great.”
“There’s sum bedding in yon cupboard behind ya. If ya want some work tomorrow there’s frickin plenty for ya. I’ll give ya twenty for t’days ploughing if ya want to call it a day.”
“No, I’ll be up with the dawn.”
“Yes ya will. I’ll have some bacon on if yon frickin shopkeeper ever gets ere wi’it.”
It was obvious the elder had no kind words for any person or object. It was his way of the world, his term of endearment almost. As if to justify the life thrust upon him he had to strike back with a vengeance. Mac felt sorry for him, but wondered if angered his curses could turn to actions. Not that he would be a match for anyone save some weakling of poorer experience. So as not to test him further he finished his bowl, gathered some blankets and bid good night to his host now recumbent on the sofa watching football on the widescreen. A short reply was all that was returned.
Once back across the muddy divide and up a flight of external stone steps to a first floor doorway Mac gave a sigh of relief. As much as he appreciated the hospitality of the old farmer he was glad to have a little distance between the two of them. On pushing, the bleached greyish blue door creaked open on two heavy creosoted hinges.
There was an obvious theme to the decor. A white walled room which held no surprises, just a metal bedstead with mattress and a small, old pine dresser. The interior felt cool but certainly not damp and by the fragrant odour in the air would seem to be have been inhabited recently. Mac could not believe his good fortune. A single four pane sash window looked out on the milking parlour and beyond to the crag. There was no carpet on the oak floor but it felt warm to his stockinged feet. At last he was at rest.
“Probably hay in a barn below,” he reported on the handheld as part of an evening diary entry. Having had no time to record in the day, he thought carefully on the afternoon encounter and took a few photos of his new abode. “Compared with the hut this is magnificent, though it doesn’t in any way replace home, or you Sal, I miss you so much. I had a dream last night about you and when I awoke I felt so down knowing I can’t be with you.”
A shrill whistle, as if instructing a dog interrupted him. It was just that. The farm’s herd slowly marched through the yard en route for milking. Bringing up the rear guard a classic black and white collie and its raven haired female companion. A woman of tall stature, quite thin, though a long, brown wax coat and green wellingtons did not give too much away. “That could be Mags,” he continued, dictating to the handheld, “best keep out the way for the time being, let her father tell her about me first.” Once she had entered the building he made up the bed and laid on top of it out of sight.
The next hour or so he spent putting down the facts and his emotions, playing a few games of solitaire and backgammon in and amongst and by the time the humming of the parlour ceased and all the beast were returned to the field the fragrant blue flannelette bed covers had wrapped him in a cocoon of safety and oblivion.
His evening and twilight were spent ‘playing out’ as he and Sal called it, for though his family were never far from his thoughts he realised that to keep emotions at bay time must be used normally, in this odd sense of the phrase, and not passed in brooding and fixating on the tragic consequences of the situation. So, to that end he had ‘played’ at mountain climbing up the smooth, cracked and creviced granite rock face of his hideaway to the very top where he then sat for the evening overlooking the dale. Like some ancient ancestor he rested there, cross legged, for a good hour casting a gaze over the landscape ahead of the rocky outcrop.
The waining sun had played its part with the scenery on offer by blanketing the view with such a rosy glow that he longingly envied the dog walkers crisscrossing the paths and fields. If he were back home that would be him. To his pleasant surprise though, he actually caught one of them wave a gesture towards him, as if they knew who he was. Obviously they thought they did, but the distance between had played its deceiving part. Even so he waved back to acknowledge the greeting and not let them down, after all it had been such an enthusiastic gesture to begin with, and if the truth be known he actually liked the idea of a friend, even a misinformed one.
For the time of year the temperature still held up, even as moonlight became the illuminator of his lonely walk back along the track at the field’s edge which led on to his bed. For a second night he was forced into occupying that hovel of a hut. At least tonight it should smell less of debris and more of fresh air.
Body and nature followed the same routine of the previous night. An owl hooted from a far off perch whilst small animals which may well be destined to be its prey shifted noisily through the dark and still vegetation. Mac settled to think and mull over what facts had been learnt so far, how different this world was and what his future held. Thankfully with a fuller stomach than last supper time it was not long before a darker veil drew across his sense of disbelief and longing.
Within what seemed like an eye-blink he was suddenly and unsuccessfully struggling to explain to a public house proprietor and prospective employer why he had no identification. He should not have revealed that he was not from this country either he realised. What a stupid mistake. “You speak good English to say you’re not from here!” the portly, grey bearded publican commented. “And you say the last bar you were in never asked you for even a name?”
That was also a bit of an outlandish statement Mac conceded to himself, but more pressing was how to mend the situation. “It was only a three day stint at a festival in the middle of a field.” That ought to do it.
“What do you think Jack?” The landlord was now inviting one of his regulars into the conversation. “Jacks a police officer,” he explained. “A fella here wanting a job but no I.D. whatsoever, not even a bank card!”
The ruddy face of law enforcement looked Mac up and down with a disbelieving stare. “Not get paid without any I.D. mate, you lost it?”
“No, I am lost actually. I have completely lost my memory.” Mac grimaced. He knew he should not have gone down this path as soon as the statement had left his lips. Why had he admitted that fact was a complete mystery? His mind did not seem to be his own.
“Dementia.” The local nodded to his host in a somewhat sympathetic but also mocking fashion. “Poor sod,” he added. “Come on son let’s get you down to the station. I’ll deal with this Malc.” The bald head and beard nodded in appreciation.
“No thank you all the same. I’ll be on my way.” Mac was frantic, how would he explain his extraordinary predicament to the police. Presumably they were the equivalent of the authority of order. Dominoes fell one by one in his minds eye as hormones sky dived his senses.
“Not so quick sir.” The off duty constable had him by the arm. “It’s for you’re own benefit I need to get you back where you belong.”
That will be a tall order Mac thought as he was almost frog marched passed the gaming machines towards an illuminated exit silhouetting a few patrons stood in the doorway puffing on those sticks. Reeling from the uncontrollable chemical assault on muscle, blood vessel and neurone he was just a hairs breadth away from throwing up when he slipped his captors grip. Mac ran for his life.
Once outside, the sound of doves cooing from their high-street perches surprisingly relaxed his racing mind and spurred him on. With a hasty move he turned and skittled down a very narrow ginnel between the inn and the next stone building of a chemist shop. Echoing footsteps of himself and the law jumped from one tall wall to the other along the longish alleyway, these intermingled with calls of those doves again. The end of the snicket could not come quick enough, he knew that once it did he would be able to stride out faster and definitely evade recapture. Strangely it seemed never to come, the end of the alley and sunlight. Always another half dozen steps away.
The cooing from the doves stirred him again. This time to awaken. His head in both hands he was slumbering on the patio table where both Sal and he had obviously fallen fast asleep in the lazy sunshine of the beautiful spring day. The white doves sang again and brought him to all senses.
Looking up skyward the cranes were just disappearing out of view over the tops of the next door neighbours trees. He must only have dozed off for a moment or so, or perhaps they were on a subsequent circuit of the area, anyhow that was no matter. He was awake from the silly nightmare and must come to terms with it all again and try to fathom out why such dreams were haunting him. What had triggered these unthinkable scenarios.
The laptop was closed. He must have shut it. In sleep mode, the indicator flashed orange and reminded him of the finished piece that needed sending. Then there was the conference in a little under two hours according to the wrought iron garden clock.
Everyone except the sleepy pair seemed to be away on tasks, no one answered his calls as he circumnavigated the shale courtyard bounded by log barn, potting shed, garage, stables and greenhouse. Only the two horses acknowledged him by poking their heads out over their green stable doors. As he passed each one of them they welcomed a rub of their foreheads with a nod of their heads and a snort or two to return the affection. “Nobody about Pepper,” he confided to one, the grey mare. “Where are they all?”
Sal came through the stone archway between the laundry and barn and into the enclave to join him. She had heard his shouts also as she stirred from her siesta. “They’ve all gone to cheer on Ben at the school, they told us yesterday. Don’t you remember?” Ben was the teenage son of Donald and Sylvia next door but one.
“Oh!” He did not recall, and that was strange, he never forgot things.
“The rugger tournament?” Sal continued to explain.
“Must’ve slipped by me Hun.” He pondered further.
Sal had a quizzical look across her face. “You not going down again are you Mac?” He nodded sideways affirming the negative. “So you feel ok love?” This question changed his head movement to one in the vertical plane, though he did not say a word. He simply could not remember the conversation about the families trip out this afternoon and it really bothered him.
A slight pain in his palm reminded of the injury inflicted somehow the day before. He had not given it any thought of late, but it came as if to bring him an aura of the dream he had of the hut and that other world.
“C’mon we’ll go and join them. It’s always a good game when Ben’s playing.” Sal wanted to bring him out of himself. He looked self indulged in her eyes and she had seen those signs before.
The rugby match was just the tonic. Ben, although only fourteen was strong for a teenager and played to win, as did all the team. The local delight from the massive turnout of the result over the neighbouring parish reminded Mac if his own school life. ‘A decade of absolute enjoyment in education’, the authority described these formative years and not one student passing through was ever let down or disappointed.
The campus of education, leisure and administration was more than a place of learning. Second only to the Meeting Hall, it was the place where all the community came together for secular events, and even some of the larger religious festivals. The local colloquialism attributed to it was ‘the forum’. This not only described its function but also its architecture. Set in the round the massive central open area of stadium proportions was enclosed by palisades of stone archways leading to many a mews of buildings which comprised the hub of the locality as well as its seat of learning.
A well mannered procession of sporting victory around the perimeter ended the afternoon’s match but this was to be followed by a local folk artist in concert continuing the proceedings of the day. Mac had been at school with her and knew her work very well. She was a local and national celebrity of some fame and standing. Mum had packed a picnic to eat at the tables. “Shall we grab a bite and stay on?” he asked taking consensus from the family. After deliberation the younger stayed, but the elders made a way back home to settle and eat there.
All in all the al fresco meal and impromptu concert took up the rest of the day. It went by in what seemed like a moment, as things do when they are so enjoyable Mac acknowledged to Sal, Mum and Dad as they all walked arm in arm down the hill through the park to home.
“Wait till you get older you two,” his mum answered, “time passes even more quickly then.”
“And when you get to my age!” Gramps added with a wry smile as he hop, skipped and jumped along the path.
Mac caught him up by a similar method which involved a cartwheel as well. That foolish additional movement though brought on a nausea which stopped him momentarily, though he did not let on. He gathered himself again.
“Such a lovely day.” The remark was whispered to Sal, and it was accompanied by a squeeze of her hand in his.
Laid in bed after supper, Sal already asleep beside him, Mac concentrated on the dream once more. The railway incident had started it all. But events leading to that incident appeared to be the last time he had full clarity of his home life. A full recollection of his self and the passage of time here in his town. What was bothering him above all other aspect was the absence of any memory of walking to the forum today. Granted the game and concert and so on were crystal clear but there appeared to be vacant episodes to the day. Times missing from the continuity of events. Such as the walk there, but also if he put his mind to it, no interval in the concert, and the massive picnic. How had mum brought all that food to the forum?
The conference call! At four o’clock. He had missed it, and what is worse had not given it a second thought after gazing at the garden clock earlier. How could that be? Was he off on a roll again? Not possible. In actual fact apart from the shiver of the dreams which plagued and invaded both shoulders every so often, and the natural panicked reactions to the
events in his dreams he felt on top of the game. So why forget about the conference? Worse still, why did it not bother him?
Test for Fb
No spots now. I have supposed to have paired this blog with facebook. So let’s see if it passes a link
Bin laid up for 6 days now with these itchy spots. Bored but tired when I attempt to do a lot. Think I have managed to sink blog with facebook?……..
Bin laid up for 6 days now with these itchy spots. Bored but tired when I attempt to do a lot. Think I have managed to sink blog with facebook?……..
Poorly at home with shingles. Itch itch hurt hurt tired then not. Just connected blog to Twitter I think ?…
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