Watch the Wall my Pretty

I took a walk to clear my head, but thoughts of smugglers must’ve really spooked me

My head had been banging all day. I was trying to work but the tension around it, pressing in at my temples, was starting to make me feel dull and stupid. I decided a walk might make me feel better.

I kicked off my slippers by the back door and pushed my feet into the cool rubber of my wellington boots, and my eyes flicked to the hook where Brandy’s lead used to hang. I missed my furry companion, she had put some purpose into my day. Getting up early was never fun, but I did it for Brandy. To see her kicking up sand or making tracks as she tore around the beach, or dashed through the sand dunes, always lifted my mood, even when it was raining sideways.

I zipped up my coat, waterproof and practical in style, but not the scruffy, muddy one I used to wear for walking Brandy. That coat had pawprints on it where she’d jumped up to remind me her ball wouldn’t throw itself. I pulled on a baseball cap and locked the back door. The property I rented looked like an old church, with buttressed walls and little windows peeping out of the eaves. It had a basement kitchen and the staircases within it were narrow. Luckily it was furnished, I could only imagine the struggle I’d have had getting large furniture to the bedrooms.

Which way should I walk? A left turn led towards the village, a short walk to the distractions of shops and businesses, with people who might nod and say hello. Urgh!

Decision made, I turned right and trekked past my only neighbour’s house. Soon the track narrowed and devolved into a path. The hawthorn hedge dropped away and the flat fields spreading on either side allowed me to feel small and alone. This track led all the way to the coast, without Brandy I never had the inclination to walk the full distance. Centuries ago it was reputedly used by smugglers to bring their haul of booty inland.

The wind buffeted me as I strode out, making my eyes water but ‘blowing away the cobwebs’ as my granny used to say. After walking briskly for about half an hour, my headache lifted, as did my mood. I let my thoughts ramble this way and that, not touching the work problem that had vexed me all day. Sometimes the best way to discover a solution is by occupying your mind with other things — I’m quoting my granny again.

Pirates and smugglers occupied my thoughts as I walked, imagining the wooden barrels of rum or madeira wine they might’ve rolled along the path I now trod. Tea and other commodities were smuggled, precious cargo in wooden caskets like treasure chests, maybe silks or lace depending on where the ships had sailed.

Smuggling was sometimes portrayed as glamorous, but contemplating shipwrecks where lives were lost, it became more menacing. Cunning villagers dodging the duties on imports was one thing, but wilfully luring cargo laden ships so the crew might drown as they broke up on the rocks was harder to contemplate.

Smugglers reputedly hid their bounty in the Little Armoury where I now lived. Its church-like appearance made it an asset, allowing it to be overlooked by the excise men. A religious building wasn’t expected to be involved in anything unlawful, yet up and down the English coast many clergymen were paid handsomely to look the other way, while the cool dark spaces in their churches concealed hot bounty that could get the smugglers hanged.

“Watch the wall my pretty,” I said to myself as I turned for home, remembering an old nursery rhyme. Or was it a folk song, about making sure to look the other way, so you didn’t see the smugglers doing their nefarious deals?

“Ask no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” I said aloud, but the wind whipped my words out of my mouth.

The sky was now burdened with heavy grey clouds which threatened imminent rain, so I put some extra hustle into my walk. I felt alert now, blood was thrumming in my veins, but dusk drew in, and the gloom around me increased. It was exhilarating as I hurried home against the encroaching storm, trying to plant my feet safely on the path when I could no longer see the ground clearly.

Tonight it seemed like my neighbours’ house was empty — its windows were blind black eyes in the brick frontage. Their drive was devoid of cars and a high yew hedge wrapped dark wings protectively around the property. My place, further up the track, perched on its ridge like a bird of prey, looking equally dark — I’d forgotten to leave a lamp on.

My feet crunched softly on the stones underfoot, it seemed like I’d missed the rain, but as I dug into my pocket for the key a few fat drops began to fall. I looked up at the facade of the Little Armory. Its arched, church style windows looked dully back at me, but then something moved. A pale shape was suddenly behind the glass.

Tremors of fear inched up my spine and icy dread pooled round my heart. I sucked in a horrified breath. Who was in my house?

My feet were frozen in place as a gaunt face seemed to stare out from my home. With my sanctuary breached, I felt too numb to scream, and who would hear me anyway? I looked helplessly at my car, its damn keys were indoors. The rain fell, hitting the leaves with a hissing noise. It almost drowned my moan of despair as I tried to decide the logical thing to do.

A spooky series from Jacinta:

Submitted for the prompt ‘fooling yourself’ on Microcosm.

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