Conversations with “The Father”
Part III
Part III
A lone church bell breaks the silence across a riverside town still bathed in an ethereal blanket known as the “Forever Mist”. The clock face of St Luke’s church remains one of only two illuminations now that pierce the mist. The time may be roughly 1.07, the hands of the illuminated clock long since stopped, but the bells still toll every quarter of an hour and on the hour, their beautiful chimes the only sound available after the 7pm curfew.
A lone streetlight illuminates the “Riverside Restaurant”, it’s street level A-Board still firmly upright and in place. As is the remainder of the town with the bookshop window piled high with bargains old and new, the coffee shop next door with its maze of luxurious seating areas in pristine expectant condition, awaiting their latest customers. The hotel on the hill may be clouded in the mist but the antique shop isn’t, the white shutters as vibrantly visible as the expensive gifts in its window display. Nothing is out of place in this ghost ship adrift in an oceanic fog. The “Open” sign is still visible in the window of the florists, the dark imposing doors to the Town Hall appear to be slightly ajar, but that could be just a trick of the light. The scant light in this mist can play tricks with the mind. An old man told me that once.
A long time ago.
The restaurant’s A-Board, with not a speck of dust to be seen, still stands proudly against the elements. “Come and join us to see in the New Year of 2027” reads the top line before in even bigger and bolder letters underneath “Half-Price drinks until 9pm!”.
That was three months ago.
There’s a third, albeit brief, illumination from the middle of the bridge, but it could just be the mind playing tricks again. That old man’s tale from a time before time. There are ghosts wherever you want to see them he said.
Electrical spirits in an electrical universe.
There’s a fourth illumination, briefer and smaller than before but enough to outline the shadow of a man cloaked in black, a fedora hat tilted slightly to one side. A plume of smoke joins the mist above him.
“Did you hear the news Father?” a second man calls from the foot of the bridge.
It was just past 1am as The Stranger made his way through the mist entangling and cloaking his home town. The singular chime from St Luke’s Church mattered little as it was forever 1.07 here but the illumination from the clock face was always welcome. The gorge of the deep lying river afforded spectacular gradients in the mist as The Stranger approached the bridge. He stopped briefly to take in the pristine if ghost like appearance of the river side shops. A union flag was draped across a wooden display table in the window of a boutique clothing store, two smiling mannequins appearing to hold hands in the entrance way. The local pub, closed now for three months yet appearing for all the world to be open and ready for business, another casualty of the forever mist. The Stranger catches the briefest flicker of an illumination in the reflection in the windows of the pub. “I hope that was my friend” he muses to himself and not my mind playing tricks on me again. That old ghost story told by an old man.
A long time ago.
The Stranger sees another flicker of light from the middle of the bridge as he quickens his pace up the hill and toward the entrance way to the bridge.
“Did you hear the news Father?” The Stranger calls from the foot of the bridge.
“What have they said now?” responded The Father, laughing uproariously. He offers his hand to greet his oldest friend, with The Stranger replying with a simple “thanks mate” for the expected cigarette, now magically in place of his old friend’s handshake. A flicker of a match later, The Stranger continues:
The Stranger: “They say this damned mist may clear with the warmer weather. They showed experiments in Thailand, New Zealand and parts of America where they’ve been able to lift the mist temporarily”.
The Father: “And you believe them son?”
The Stranger: “I don’t know what to believe any longer Father. I can’t even rely on my own memory any more. You see, I’m certain I was at the Riverside Restaurant on New Year’s Eve. Remember that night? Of course you do! I bet you could give me a lowdown on the entire evening, aside from your dalliance with Maggie! I remember that, but little else since”.
The Father: “You may be my oldest friend but I have no desire to spill the beans on the beautiful Maggie. Loose lips sink ships, son. Loose lips sink ships”.
The Stranger: “Oh stop being so coy you old rogue! I’m pleased for you old man. Maggie is one in a million”.
The Father: “Yes she is son. Yes she is. Now, tell me why you’re here on this coldest of early mornings”.
The Stranger: “Memory, my oldest friend. Memory”.
As the two old friends peer through the mist, The Stranger motions to the gently curving river beneath and away from them, hugging the riverside resplendent with the shops, pub, restaurants and the hotel, all locked inside a time standing still. As The Father lights another cigarette, his oldest friend regales him with stories of yore and the stories he’s heard so many times before. They’ve been friends now for longer than they each wish to remember. It’s not only the mind that plays tricks on you it seems, but memory too. The Stranger takes a drag of his cigarette as he continues:
The Stranger: “Can you just make out where the river turns to the left up ahead? Boy did I have some strange conversations right there! At least, I think I did”.
The Father: “You did, son. You’ve told me many times before”.
The Stranger: “All those river walks with my son. My goodness. See that small wall beside the river? He used to jump off that into my arms! If he did that today we’d fall in an embarrassing heap! Like we did on that icy Christmas before the mist, the two of us slip sliding our way off our feet and flying into the air before a painful return to an icy path. The things you remember, eh Father?”
The Father: “All precious memories son, you know that. How is the young tyke?”
The Stranger: “He’s grand Father, absolutely grand. I just worry for his memory, his bank of memories if you will and…….”
The Stranger tails off in a mumble as he takes a final drag of his cigarette, a huge plume of smoke escaping high into the mist above. The Father approaches his friend but The Stranger turns away and toward the church high on the hill. The clock face may say it’s 1.07 but two chimes and the tolling of its bells signifies it’s exactly 2am now, in a land without time.
The Stranger: “I wonder what he makes of this world now Father, this upside world of the mist and the comforts we all shared just 90 days ago on that beautiful New Years Eve I can no longer remember. And before you ask me, yes I’ve asked him”.
The Father: “And what did he say?”.
The Stranger: “What do you think he said? Have you tried talking to a teenager!”
The Father mumbles a reply but The Stranger continues without listening:
The Stranger: “He’s seen me with the world at my feet and yet at rock bottom. He’s seen me at rock bottom with the world at my feet. Do you get that Father?
There’s another mumbled reply. The Stranger hears only one word “ghosts” but the rest are lost within the mist.
The Stranger: “I wonder what he thinks of me, not as a Father like yourself, but as a human being. Does he admire anything about my character, my achievements or the way I carry myself, for good or ill? Does he wonder what I was like when I was his age and without the baggage of the ghosts of the past and the memories of the present? We live in a very different world to the one we grew up in Father and I wonder what memories he’ll have of me when I’m only a memory to him. An old man once said that there are ghosts wherever you want to see them. Do you remember that Father?”
The Father turns to respond to his oldest friend but there are only footsteps in the frost leading away from him and across the bridge.
The bells of St Luke’s Church toll three times.
Thanks for reading. “The Father” is a character I’ve played around with for years. Feel free to play around with the scenario yourself if you wish. You can pay me in magic beans at a later date or do me the honour of reading Parts I and II below or the most recently published article from within the cave of wondrous delights that is my archives:
Conversations with “The Father”
Part Imedium.com
Conversations with “The Father”
Part IImedium.com
“Triangle of Sadness” (2022)
“I’m not obsessed with money!”medium.com