The Fog Read online

The Fog

  Gerrard Wilson

  Copyright 2014 by Gerrard Wilson

  The Fog

  It was a cold November evening, so cold the weak, autumnal sun made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended the previous night. As I approached my friends’ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family tradition to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, including the family’s migration from the tiny outpost of the same name, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of guests had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights.

  Opening the gate, I walked along the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a facsimile of a lion’s head, I gave the door an assertive knock. I waited for my hosts to respond.

  “Is that Jeremiah?” Christine asked, calling to her husband, upstairs.

  “Yes, darling,” Charles replied, making his way downstairs, to the door. Opening it, he greeted me. Seeing how frosty and cold it was outside, he said, “Welcome, Jeremiah. You must be frozen – come in. Hand me your coat and hat, then get yourself to the sitting room.”

  I made my way into the sitting room, where Charles offered me the armchair directly in front of their roaring log fire. Stretching out my hands, warming them, I thanked him for his hospitality.

  Entering the room, Christine said, “Jeremiah, it’s so good to see you – and on such a cold night!”

  “You know me,” I chuckled, “out in all weathers…”

  “Out in all weathers is one thing – but this?” she replied, opening the curtains, gazing at the frost covered ground.

  “How about a nice glass of Madeira, to warm you up?” Charles asked.

  “Sounds good,” I replied.

  Picking up the bottle of Madeira wine that had been resting in front of the fire, warming, he said, “Won’t be a tick.”

  I smiled; I had no need to reply, because my two friends, whom I had known all my life, knew me inside out.

  “Here you are,” said Charles, “a glass for the weary traveller.” He handed me a glass full to the brim with the fiery brown liquid. “And one for you, dear,” he added, offering his wife a glass, also.

  As my two hosts joined me, relaxing in their wonderfully comfortable armchairs, sitting in front of the sparkling, crackling log fire, I thanked my God to have been blessed with such good friends.

  As we caught up with all the gossip, talked about our plans for the future, and reminisced about the good, fun times we had enjoyed over the years, the evening passed quickly (time seems to have that effect, when you’re having a good time, doesn’t it?).

  Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that was past eleven, so knocking back the last of my Madeira wine (my fourth glassful, I might add), I thanked my congenial hosts for their hospitality, then extricated myself from the comfortable chair.

  “You’re welcome,” said Christine, giving me a little peck on the cheek.

  Handing me my coat and hat, Charles said, “You’re always welcome in our home.”

  Buttoning my coat, pulling the belt tightly closed, I shivered, thinking of the cold night facing me outside. After donning my hat, I was ready to go.

  Charles gasped in shock when he opened the door. “Look,” he said, “I’ve never seen so bad a fog!”

  While we had been cosy and warm inside, drinking our Madeira wine, having a good time, a heavy fog had descended. It was bad, really bad, a pea souper if ever I saw one.

  “You will have to stay here for the night,” Charles insisted. “You’ll never find your way home in that!”

  “The spare room is made up,” said Christine. “It will be no bother.”

  I thanked them for the kind offer, and would have gladly accepted it at any other time, but having early start on the morrow, I had to get home, to prepare for it. Thanking Charles and his beautiful wife for the lovely evening, I bid them goodnight, making my way down the fog-shrouded garden path. As the gate closed behind me, I heard Christine saying to her husband, “I do hope he will be all right…”

  As the door closed behind me, I pulled up the collar of my coat, and with eyes staring down at the pavement (it being the only thing I could see clearly in the fog) I began the long walk home.

  Surrounded, engulfed by such an extraordinarily thick fog, everything on the journey home appeared different. Even the streetlights took on an unreal, surreal appearance within the foggy gloom. At one point, I almost walked into one, just avoiding it at the last second. The intersections in the road, the places where I had to pass from one street to another proved a real hazard. Although there were no cars or vehicles, I was still terribly afraid when I crossed these places. At one point, when I was half way across a particularly wide street, I thought I heard a car fast approaching. Panicking, I ran for my life. I need not have bothered, though, because nothing came, and all that I got for my efforts was a grazed knee when I tripped on the curb and fell. It hurt.

  As I limped forlornly along, the warm Madeira wine but a memory, I saw no one else. Apparently, I was the only person foolish enough to be roaming the streets in the mother of all fogs, especially at so late an hour. Suddenly I stopped; puzzled by the unfamiliar looking street I found myself in. “Did I take a wrong turn, back there, when I fell?” I whispered. Squinting, trying to see through the pea soup, I tried to make out some of the buildings. It was impossible – it was far too foggy to have any hope of seeing them clearly.

  There were gates, though. “That’s a good start,” I said, touching the first one. It felt slightly familiar. “These gates, these metal gates – do I recognise them?” I asked. Opening the first one, I had a brainwave. “I will knock on the door of this house, so I will,” I said, “and ask the householder to tell me where I am. Yes, that’s a good idea,” I muttered, making my way up the red and black tiled path.

  On reaching the door, I knocked it hopefully. However, no one answered the door. Despite knocking the door another three times, no one came to see who it was. Undaunted by this failure, I made my way out through the gate, to try my luck at the next house.“There will be someone in here,” I muttered, “I am certain of it.” Despite knocking six times, however, the door remained unanswered.

  “Third time lucky,” I said loudly, giving the next door along a loud rat-a-tat-tat. I waited, I waited, and I waited some more, but no one answered that door either.

  “Where is everyone?” I complained, exiting the gate, dejected and miserable.

  Giving up on this tack, I retraced my steps to where I had tripped on the curb. When I got there, I immediately saw where I had gone wrong. “Ah,” I said happily, “I took the wrong turn…silly me!”

  Keeping to the inside of the path, the buildings (what I could see of them, that is) took on an increasingly familiar appearance. “Won’t be long now,” I said quietly, my spirits rising, “until I’m home, drinking a nice cup of tea.”

  “Conkers bonkers,” I laughed as I passed alongside the horse chestnut trees bordering the Council Offices grounds. Under these trees, the fog was much lighter. I bent down, searching for conkers. My cold fingers soon found one. As I held the conker tightly, my mind returned to my childhood days, when conkers were such prized possessions. It’s strange how our priorities in life change as we grow older, isn’t it? Something that is so important to us today might be of little or no interest to us tomorrow. Where I am now living, in Ireland, children (and adults) have little or no idea about playing the game of conkers. The sheer number of conkers left rotting beneath horse chestnut trees every autumn never c
eases to amaze me. Perhaps children nowadays are just too busy playing with their Nintendo’s and so forth.

  Pocketing my shiny new conker, I continued my journey along the deserted road. It’s only a mile to go,” I whispered confidently to myself. “It’s only a mile, only one short mile until I can turn the key in my front door, and have that cup of tea. I began whistling, thinking about it.

  Although I now knew where I was, my progress began to falter. You see, because I was getting closer to the river, the fog became thicker and thicker and thicker. In fact, it became so thick, so dense, it got to the point I could not even see the ground beneath my feet. From there on, I chose my steps carefully, cautiously, slowly. I did not want fall a second time.

  Because I was now walking so slow, ever sound, every footfall seemed that bit clearer, that bit louder. My own footsteps seemed to take on a life or their own, echoing audaciously down the empty streets. Stopping at a curb, I listened in case a stray vehicle might happen to approach. Strangely, peculiarly, I heard the sounds of footsteps, footsteps somewhere deep in the fog. My ears cocked, but the sound of the footsteps – they stopped. Was there someone out there, someone lost in the fog, someone following me, hoping to find his or her way home in safely? Could I have imagined it? Was it just the sound of my footsteps, echoing into the night? I waited, trying to calm my rattling nerves. After hearing nothing for well over five minutes, I began walking again. Hearing only the sound from my feet, I relaxed, breathing that bit lighter. This reprieve, however, did not last for long, because the sound of the footsteps, the other set of footsteps, began again. This time, they were closer than before.

  It was odd, strange, bizarre – frightening, for whenever I stopped walking the sound of the other footsteps also stopped. When I began walking again, they did likewise. Like an invisible shadow, the footsteps followed me.

  I began to get scared, thinking it a lunatic who would slit my throat without a moment’s hesitation. I tried rapping on another few doors, hoping the occupants of these houses might see fit to answer. No one answered, not even one. I was puzzled and confused, wondering how everyone could be in bed – and fast asleep.

  Only a half-mile left to go; although the footsteps had not gone, they were at least no closer to me. I saw that as a positive. I was still in with a chance of getting home without someone murdering me in the dark of the night.

  “Excuse me, please,” a male voice said, somewhere in front of me.

  “I beg your pardon?” I replied, happy that another soul was abroad (apart from the one who owned the menacing footsteps, that is).

  “I bought this parrot from you only last week...” the voice continued, “...but it’s dead.”

  “Hmm, that sounds familiar,” I whispered, listening intently.

  “It appears all right to me,” said a second person – also a male.

  “All right?” the first man replied, his voice rising with anger, “I suppose he’s all right, if you happen to like dead parrots…ones that have been nailed to their perches!”

  I laughed. There was no one in front of me. I was listening to a television programme – a repeat of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, to be exact. I wondered where it was coming from, but because of the almighty pea soup, it was impossible to find out. Despite this failure, it did cheer me up, though, and I set off with renewed vigour, thinking at least one other person was still awake – even if they were only watching ancient repeats on the telly.

  “A quarter mile to go, Jeremiah,” I told myself. “Only a quarter of a mile, then you will be out of this terrible fog, safe from whoever is following you.”

  My house, my home was getting tantalisingly close, as minute-by-minute, yard-by-yard, I trundled through the pea soup I was in. Suddenly, I saw a gate, and I shouted, “I know that gate! It’s Mrs Pereira’s front gate!” I was so happy, seeing it. I felt like kneeling down and kissing it, but I did not. No. Instead, I began to run; I began running as if my life depended on it. “No one is going to get me,” I yelled defiantly, “no one at all!”

  Yes, it was still foggy, incredibly foggy, but I kept on running, dashing down the street to my house, my home. Like a man possessed, I sped through that fog as if it wasn’t even there, forward towards my final destination.

  Stopping at a gate, MY GATE, I fumbled in my pocket, trying to find my key. Pulling it out, I inserted it into the door lock. Opening the door – my front door – I went in. I was home. NOTHING could harm me now.

  “Excuse me,” a voice called out from behind me.

  Turning round, I looked out from my doorway, into the fog. “Who’s there?” I asked, afraid.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to be bothering you,” the voice continued. “I think I have something that belongs to you…”

  My eyes narrowing, I said, “Where are you? Show yourself!”

  Footsteps, I listened with trepidation to the sound of footsteps, his footsteps, getting closer and closer. Suddenly, from out of the fog, he appeared; a man, an incredibly old man, in a black coat so long it dusted the ground. He was smiling; the old man was actually smiling. With an arm outstretched, he said, “I believe this is yours?”

  Leaning out from the doorway, I tried to distinguish the object. “It’s my hat!” I cried out, quite in surprise, “Where did you find it?”

  “You dropped it, a mile or so back,” he replied, handing it to me. “I knew it was yours, because no one else was about. I would have returned it to you sooner, but in all this fog, I had quite a job trying to work out where you actually were. I had to keep stopping and starting, listening to your footsteps… You are okay with that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, and thanks,” I replied, relieved that he was not an axe murderer.

  “I’ll be on my way, so,” he said, turning towards the gate.

  Feeling guilty for having such bad thoughts about him, I said, “You wouldn’t like to come in for a cup of tea, would you?”

  “It depends,” the pensioner replied.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you have any biscuits,” he said, laughing.

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied.

  “Never mind...” he answered, once more heading for the gate.

  “How about a glass of warm Madeira wine?” I asked.

  If there is a moral to this story, I feel it must be something along the lines of the following...

  ‘When the night is so dark you yearn for the dawn more than anything else, when it finally arrives it might not be what you expected.

  THE END

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  Harry Rotter – An excerpt