Conversations with “The Father”
Part II
Part II
The year is 2027 and the grandest old lady in all of the world remains shrouded in a mist. The “World News Network” repeatedly calls this the “Forever Mist” but a year or so into the lockdown the mist, forever or not, rarely features any more on the single rolling news outlet still able to broadcast. Time is irrelevant now, yet St Luke’s Church still chimes ten bells against a clear upper sky illuminated by the fullest of moons.
The crackle of a match replaces the toll of the church bells.
A man in black is illuminated for a fraction of a second, before disappearing in a haze of smoke.
The Stranger: “It that you Father?”.
The Father: “Aye son. I’m always here, and especially so on a wondrous and star filled night such as this”.
The Stranger: “I guess you’ve given up on the lockdown restrictions then?”.
The Father: “I could ask you the same question son! What brings you here tonight?”.
The Stranger: “Oh come on! You know me better than that. Just look at that beautiful full moon tonight. Isn’t she a beauty! I couldn’t bear to miss it! This reminds me of the time before the mist and being alone here on the bridge one night, this old town a whisper quiet and directly above the bridge was the biggest and fullest moon you ever did see. My what a memory that is Father!”
The Father: “Still telling those old tales I see!”.
The Stranger: “It’s the stories that keep us alive Father. Else everything is a copy of a copy”.
The Father: “Pardon?”.
The Stranger: “Everything is copy of a copy”.
The Father: “Pardon?”
The two men, these two old friends from a time long ago wink at each other before sniggering at their own joke. They’ve been friends now for longer than any of them dare remember. The Father offers his hand to greet his old friend but The Stranger has already ambled past him.
“Quick” urges The Stranger. “I have something to show you”.
A lone church bell beautifully signifies a quarter past an hour that time has seemingly now forgot. The Father repeatedly chides his younger yet oldest friend for walking too fast and too far ahead. “I can barely see you son in this mist!” he finally declares before almost toppling into his oldest friend mere yards later. “The bench is a little damp from the mist” declares The Stranger but The Father professes a desire to stand. Taking a lone cigarette from his packet before seemingly magically producing a second cigarette from the misty air for his friend, The Father scratches a match alight as the two friends share a knowing look before watching the match fizzle away in the enveloping mist. The Father executes a perfect smoke ring that pierces the mist. “What a perfect night for a ghost story” he laughs loudly, but now largely, to himself. He takes another long drag from his cigarette and is about to ask his friend what he wanted to show him, but he’s beaten to the punch.
The Stranger: “See those mannequins in the shop window?”.
The Father: “Barely but yes. I see them”.
The Stranger: “Remember me telling you how I made that old couple laugh one day. Sat right here I was. Reading a book probably, making random conversations with strangers, passing the time on a sunny day. I pointed to those mannequins and said, with more than a touch of pride, that I lived her and at night, I’ve often seen those mannequins come alive and cavort like sex crazed maniacs in the shop window. Boy that memory makes me smile! Do you remember me telling you that Father?”
The Father: “Just like every other story son. I remember them all. I’m like an elephant son”.
The Stranger: “What, a fossil from the dinosaur age with an unfeasibly long trunk and stupendously large ears?”.
The Father snorts a derisive laugh as he extinguishes his cigarette. His younger companion raises an arm in the mist mimicking the raising of an elephant’s trunk before laughing heartily. “I used to play chess with George right outside that hotel” he continued “All summer long in the sunshine. Tourists stopping for an update as to who’s move it was. Slowly coming to grips with the intricacies of that mighty game. George mocking me for not understanding the nuances of the game quickly enough”. The Father smiled before wryly saying George acted like a Russian Grandmaster.
“No!” exclaimed his friend, “more Polish/French artist”.
The two friends laughed once more before The Father stole his friend’s thunder this time.
“Now follow me. I have something to show you”.
There are three separate tolls from the bells of St Luke’s Church. “It must be a quarter to the hour” mused The Father as he ushered his friend down the steps that lead to the object of their joint affection. Riverside the mist is even more dense than at street level but The Father knows instinctively where his old friend will be. He stops to light another cigarette and the brief flickering of his match flame illuminates his lifelong friend perched on the bench beside the bridge. There’s no invitation to sit beside The Stranger this time, The Father merely handed his friend another magically appearing cigarette before standing in the corner of the viewing platform right beneath a grand old lady submerged in the swirling mist.
There’s a quiet now, perhaps for the first time this evening.
The Father: “Wow! Did you hear that owl?”.
The Stranger: “The forest on the other side of the river is full of them. I call it “owl song” and I’d rather not have the official definition. Owl song sounds romantically poetic”.
The Father: “Do you still talk to the grand old lady, son?”.
The Stranger: “Sometimes, Father. Sometimes. It’s nearly that time of the year again and I have no idea what to do with the memories. I live in a memory every time I sit on this bench. I believe it helps. I tell myself it helps. But I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure of anything any more”.
The Father: “You used to say that photographs were like a time machine and memories are much the same. I guess I try to push the right button on the time machine for the right memory. Back to when you and I first met or when I first met the future love of my life or seeing my first child being born. Do you remember how we first met son?
Son?”
The church bells now toll for the hour. Were there 11 or 12? Was it midnight? Had the witching hour begun?
The Father walked toward the bench to find a condensation streaked outline where his oldest friend had once sat.
All was quiet but for the owl song drifting through the mist from the other side of the river.
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 Part I below or my recently published articles beneath it from within the cave of wonders that is my archives:
Conversations with “The Father”
Part Imedium.com
Reds seal 13th League Title as Clem is accorded a heroes return
Retro Series Vol 26: Liverpool 3 Tottenham 1, 15th May 1982.medium.com
“Spector” (2022)
Madness in the mansion on the hill.medium.com