Six Bizarre Short Stories for Skeptics by G K McGilvary

Author:G K McGilvary
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Unbelievable stories, strange tales, unexplained events, coincidences, weird and wonderful things, mysterious happenings
Publisher: G K McGilvary
Published: 2016-03-24T00:00:00+00:00

These are for Real

Jack Morrison and Me

This is absolutely just as it happened: no pretence, no cutting corners or telling porkies. The year: 1971, summertime.

Accompanied by my wife, Margaret, I had decided to take a run in the car, We thought it would be lovely down the east coast, away from Edinburgh, ending up at the lovely little tourist town of North Berwick. It's really quite a famous place, boasting two superb golf courses of its own and so near one of the world's major links, Muirfield, where 'The Open' is very often held.

The little town and locality really does have a magical, fairy-tale feel — from the hill (or 'Law' as it is called) that peaks above the town (with its arch composed of two whalebones), to the ruins of Tantallon castle, stark and bare on the high cliff face and looking out to sea. This, once a Douglas stronghold faces the large bulk of the Bass Rock, with its wonderful, towering cliffs, home to many sea birds; while further away, the May Island shimmers far out in the waters of the Firth. Disney could not create a better scene of mysticism and wonder, the perfect setting for ‘Camelot’.

Anyway: the car was parked, ice creams had been bought (it was before we had our children) and we strolled towards the old harbour, chatting and licking our treats. The road reached a point where the walker had either to go straight on, down a slope to the blocks of solid stone that formed the ancient harbour (a safe haven in foul weather) or turn right and go towards the east sands, the Bass Rock and the gaunt, ravaged, forbidding sprawl of Tantallon. We stopped at that point and I began to speak of my visits to North Berwick, long before I met her.

'See over there,' said I, pointing with my free right hand to a building off to the right; the other hand was still holding my ice-cream cone, 'that's the open air swimming pool. I know you won't believe this, Margaret, but quite a number of years ago I used to come down here with a pal; we were both in the RAF, 'way up in Peterhead'. His name was Jack Morrison. Like me, he came from Edinburgh.’

For a moment or two I was lost in memories. ‘We came down here quite a bit, both before and after we left the RAF. We liked the place. He owned a smart little car. Sometimes we would come prepared for a swim; but honest! the water was freezing. Still, I continued, ‘it was never as cold as the North Sea that pounded what the 'Blue Toon' (Peterhead) liked to call its holiday beach; and nothing like the cold, green waters of Tarlair outdoor pool at MacDuff. Brrr.'

'Aye, Margaret,' said I, continuing, lost in memories, 'other times we came to eye up the talent at the dancing.' With that I looked towards the harbour, with its high wall, noticing, as I did so, two figures standing talking on the quayside there—a man around my own age and an older woman.

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