Book One First encounter

2

The sun was beginning its swift journey across the vast canvass of sky.

Staring out the shop window; I hastily drank my coffee, my companion long since departed, then rising from my chair, I exited through the shop door; outside the sky became gradually darker, grey cloud cover fading to black, until night finally settled itself like a shroud upon the harbour.

Sweeping hair out of my eyes I stood in silence, silently contemplating the events of the day to myself. My hair billowing out on the winter breeze behind me, like a golden sail, my hands hung loosely by my sides, cutting the figure of some sort of iconic romantic heroine against the Scottish countryside as I watched the last rays of sunlight dance briefly across the edge of the horizon, before disappearing behind the distant hills.

The insipid moon, a pale silhouette, struggling to free itself, from behind dark ominous looking clouds, which spread across the night sky, signalling the coming of a storm; folding my arms tightly across my chest in an effort to keep warm, I made my way down Saul Street, the cold wind lashing mercilessly at my back.

Turning left at the corner, and then straight onto Stoker Avenue, I walked past a small row of shops, which consisted of a tiny run down pharmacy, a rather age worn post office that looked as though it had stood on its grounds since the beginning of time; a small grocery store that seemed to have doubled up as a gift shop and next to that a supermarket, the only fairly modern convenience that I had come across. The name of the company Somerfield mounted on a huge plastic banner, above its grounds, the huge neon-green lettering illumining the darkness of the car park below.

I then hurried past several rows of spacious looking semis that were lined up along the street, a showcase for the wealthy people who lived there. Crossing over the deserted stretch of road, and then round the next corner, I walked straight into the heart of the less privileged part of Skye Village on Brahms Street.

The dark outline of Cragston hill looming above me, like a great sleeping giant curled up above the harbour; my tiny white cottage sitting at its edge, little more than a shadowy speck in the distance. The shopping bags I'd hauled across my shoulders, making my arms feel like lead weights.

My feet aching from the long walk, I forced myself onwards down the mile long stretch of Brahms Street; finally touching the gravel trail that separated me from the pathway leading home as the first drops of rain began to fall from the previously clear night sky.

Light at first it became gradually heavier as I ambled uphill feeling utterly miserable, and wishing that I'd the foresight to bring my coat along. By the time I'd made it halfway up the hillside I was caught in the middle of a torrential downpour. Soaked to the skin, and shivering, my teeth chattering, my skin clammy and cold; my rain filled trainers squelching noisily. The tattered ends of my jeans trailing through puddles the size of small ponds, making me feel more, and more uncomfortable with each step I took.

Small trails of water seeping under the collar of my v neck t-shirt, and down my back, making me shudder involuntarily, my wet hair hanging in my face, getting in my eyes, making it difficult to see; the pathway in front of me, the cobbled stones seeming to stretch out for miles, making me wonder if I would ever reach home.

Reaching into the pocket of my rain sodden jeans I rooted around blindly for my house keys, nearly running the last couple of metres to my cottage;, my quivering hands, and fingers making the simple task of opening my door near impossible.; the warmth of the cottage hitting me in a wave as I shut the front door behind me.

Grabbing a towel from the linen cupboard nearby, and dropping the shopping down onto the carpet, I quickly dried my hair, placing the now wet towel round my shoulders, and switching on the fake open fire in the middle of the room.