The Lighthouse at Devil's Point by Gary P Moss

Author:Gary P Moss [Moss, Gary P]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-22T22:00:00+00:00

It was early evening when Tim returned to York the next day. A quiet Sunday, and to his pleasant surprise, the trains had arrived on time and no engineering works had held up the journey. The air was frigid. Disembarking, he blew steam clouds and rubbed his hands together. He had much to ponder.

He’d woken fresh in the morning after a great night’s sleep, which surprised him considering he initially thought the hotel bed was too small, the pillows too firm, and the quilt too heavy. He’d taken a long walk before breakfast, along the winding streets that had on previous occasions felt so odd to him. Like floating, as if he wasn’t there at all. But not this time. He’d felt as though he was part of the town now, that he shared a little of its history, that he’d really lived there. Even the grass, carrying a light frost, had seemed brighter, more alive.

It was as though some weight had been lifted from his shoulders the evening before, as if some great truth had broken through this weird twilight existence each time he’d visited previously. Perhaps it was the lie within the truth? Well, not a lie exactly, as it certainly wasn’t intentional, but a mistake, a warped memory. It had saddened him deeply, seeing the photograph of his granny and him, to the point where he desperately wanted to reach out to her, to tell her he loved her. He felt as though, in the photograph, he was merely a prop, a useless thing to fill the frame, unable to help or to prevent a wasting disease. Strange. Odd that in exchange for giving up the lie, or the mistake, he’d been presented with something else; a new acceptance, at least underfoot, as if the ancient strands holding Thornberry together had finally accepted him, had decided to let him walk unfettered.

Like other people. Like other people with uncluttered, true memories.

Coming out of the railway station, Tim decided he’d walk back to his apartment, a roomy place above an antique shop. He’d bought the freehold years ago but had no need of the shop. It was already rented out to a delightful lady who’d been worried she’d lose possession, but Tim was very happy for her to stay. She’d been ecstatic when he’d informed her that she’d only have to pay a nominal rent.

Gothic-inspired Lendal Bridge was tourist-free at that time of night. Tim, for once, was able to walk along unhindered by rushing city workers and dawdling visitors. He couldn’t blame the tourists at all for wanting to slow down and admire the great River Ouse, particularly when a high sun made the water glitter and dance. He glanced down at the tarpaulin-covered pleasure boats, an unchanging fixture on the river since he arrived in the city as a young lad. Some of his schoolmates had worked on them, scrubbing decks in the summer holidays for much-lauded wages. Not Tim though. Not then. Since the swimming lessons,

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