8 1/2 in Winter
Jon Vickers-Jones
Mitch Minor paused at the entrance to the hotel grounds. She looked up and down the deserted road: no traffic, no people, no breeze, no sound. She squinted her eyes against the bright winter sun and looked across the green of the esplanade. The pier pointed like a cold white finger out into the sea.
The sea was flat and calm, a big muddy pool. If she gave one good stamp of her Wellington boot, the ripples on the water would spread outwards to rock the ship that was anchored in the bay. Seamen would be rolled out of their bunks, their plates would slide off the tables, and the captain would spill his tea. Laughingly, she decided to leave the sea alone.
Daffy, Copper and Sandy, who barked at, ran after, and retrieved the stones that she threw for each of them, would look after the beach. They would run, stop, look back, and run again. Four legs were fun, and their loud barks were good for answering the waves that noisily crashed onto the sand, waves that fell flat into a whispering bubbling spread of water. In the area where the waterspout rose out of the sand bar that she called “land of the sinking sand,” there appeared a small, sparkling spray of water.
Her mind wandered again, thinking that the next time she passed by, instead of poking at the water spring with a stick, she would dare to stand right on top of it. She would pretend that she could balance (although precariously) as the force of the water lifted her up high—higher than the harbor wall, high above the coastguard’s cottage, so high up that she would be able to look back over the town. People would stop and stare, shading their eyes and pointing with awe. “Look at that brave girl on the waterspout,” they would say. She would raise her crooked stick, and with a loud command make the water tower slowly descend again into the sinking sand. Then the crowd would roar approval and clap; some would even throw coins.
Then her dogs would enter the scene. Daffy, the daft one, would crouch low and bark at all and sundry. Copper, with his lovely bronze color silk coat, would run after the rolling coins. He would be keen to show everyone that he knew where they had fallen. Sandy, the brains of the trio, would retrieve them and place each one of the coins at her feet. Mitch pushed the day of dreaming about the waterspout out of her mind. Playing on the beach was yesterday and maybe tomorrow, but not today. Today, she would go into the town.
Her feet made a stamping sound as she marched like a soldier: Turn right. Go straight ahead. Go past the Palace hotel. At the Regent, she took another glance across to the pier. A huge sign presented itself at the entrance. “Closed to the public today," it seemed to shout at her. She was at a low blue wall, the paint peeling and top stones breaking loose. (Later, in the spring, the blue paint would be recoated, and all the loose stones repaired. It would be ready for the summer tourists to be disobedient by sitting upon it.)
She glanced sideways at a huge board. "Curly Fields presents,” it read. An oblong space on the board dotted with old glue marks and small tatty corners of paper, declared indeed what he had presented in the past and what would be presented in the future. There were some famous names, old names, and new names added to the world of the Torquay Theatre. Mitch’s eyes glazed over as she stared at the poster while her mind sauntered into space, thinking its own imaginative thoughts: “Curly Fields presents Mitch Minor, the greatest Oomjar in the world. First time in this country! A stupendous show! This is a show that you will talk about for the rest of your life!” The hidden voice boomed.
She was no longer on the sidewalk, but on stage at the Torquay Theatre. The lights went down, the spotlight momentarily blinding her eyes. She felt the hush of silence descend upon the audience. The thrill of contact with the darkened space swept over her. She gave the best performance of her life. The audience sat spellbound throughout the entire show.
She took three curtain calls then turned away from the faded poster board, and walked towards the green light of the pedestrian crossing up ahead.
“Hop, skip, jump, don’t tread on a line or else you’ll fall over and break your spine,” she sang, as she skipped along the pavement slabs.
“Hop, skip, jump, hop, skip. Oh horrors!” she said.
She had landed on a line, not a straight one mind you, but a crooked one. It was a crack in the paving slab. She thought quickly, holding her breath. Did a crack count as a line? If it did, then she dare not move in case she fell over and broke her spine. But she couldn’t stop here forever; one thing was as bad as another. Of course, a crack didn’t count! Lines were made when the slabs were laid, and cracks appeared much later, so they would not count. Or would they? She would have to take a chance. She set down her left foot that had been suspended in midair for the last thirty seconds. Bam! Her breath came out in a rush. Phew! She was safe! She walked on. She stared ahead and began daydreaming again.
The green light was near. Across the road, she could see the little red man lit up in the lamp. “Stand still. Do not cross!” He seemed to say. “Press the button and wait.” She did not want to cross, but the button was there, waiting to be pressed. Suddenly, all around her were hundreds of people, full of moans and groans. They were milling about aimlessly. Many were carrying wailing bundles of sound. They were on both sides of the road trying to cross. With trepidation, she pressed the button.
A great big hissing monster of a machine appeared, then ground slowly to a halt. The driver in the cab of the machine was frantically dashing from side to side, turning wheels and pulling levers while he mopped his face with a large red and white spotted handkerchief. The little red man in the lamp disappeared, and his green brother, moving his arms and legs, appeared. The grateful mothers scooped up the noises and fought their way across the road. After a few moments, red man changed places with green man, and with a quick flick of a lever and a spin of a wheel, old spotted hanky man made the monster machine disappear into dreamland, leaving just a wisp of steam to show where he had been.
Cautiously, she approached the corner of the high street, stopped, leaned forward, and peered up the long empty stretch of Torbay Road. Nothing stirred. The great empty eyes of closed shops stared back at her. Some were asleep with brown paper pasted on their windows to keep out the light. They were resting from the strains of being stared at by tourists during the short summer season. She studied the “sentry box” that was standing guard at the corner. Its dark green curtains had been removed. The round revolving seat was long gone. Its flashing lights were out, but it was ever watchful for the intrepid passerby. Its faded paint still showed that it was "Ideal for passports, ready in three minutes.” She stood inside the box and communicated with Headquarters. The commander told her that her mission was not finished. She must carry on. She must not fail. The whole world depended on her success. In the smoked glass she saw the reflection of her strained face staring back at her. She longed to leave this planet, but she had work to do. She stepped out of the photo machine and walked past the long row of intimidating windows. Her mind was racing. Fact and fantasy intermingled and became all jumbled up in her head.
The heavy shutters of “Penny Arcade” held back the wild hungry animals. In the summer they were fed dimes and quarters, and maybe even unsuspecting children. She feared to pass their cave. She felt sure that they were lurking, waiting behind the shutters. Just as she was midway past the store, terror of terrors, the shutters rolled upwards with a screech of rusty cogs and wheels. Moonraker and the Dreadnought were in front, their enormous mouths open wide. A quick snap, gulp, and swallow, and she would be gone. Timid Bambi held back, but was pushed on by the bright, chromed, light flashing beasts. Weeks of starvation had made them mad with fury. They wanted to eat, and she was going to be their breakfast. Thankfully, just in time, the tall gray-haired keeper stepped in front of them, waving his magic chain with a thousand keys. His other hand held up the long silver rod with a yellow plastic handle, called a screwdriver. The monsters cringed back into their places. They were still snarling and furious, but more afraid of the rod which could, with a deft twist, undo all their nuts and bolts. The keeper turned to look at Mitch, but she hurried on in case he changed his mind and left her to a dreadful fate. The signs in some of the closed stores still proclaimed their virtues.
“Gifts galore.”
“Seating for one hundred inside.”
“Pelosi’s have been making ice cream for over seventy years.”
“That must have been a lot of ice,” she thought. Imagine a mountain of ice cream. It reached all the way up to the clouds. It climbed far, far up, glistening and gleaming in the sunlight; and there, right at the top, was a huge red ball. Mitch stared and stared at the mountain. Then she began to climb. At first, the climb upwards was easy. She stopped now and then to sample the delicious flavors. She marveled at the glorious colors of pink strawberry ripple, brown chocolate sauce, and green Neapolitan, all intermingled with the aroma of white vanilla and Cornish cream. Her feet grew a bit colder, and she was grateful for the anorak that kept her warm. Mitch snuggled her face into the soft blue scarf, wrapped around twice before being tucked into her belt. The long silver spoons that she used to dig her way to the summit gleamed from the reflected sunlight. She must not give up now. She was nearly at the top. She, herself, hated cherries, especially on top of ice cream, but she knew that others relied on her. They had all begged and pleaded for it; however, not one of them was brave enough to climb the ice mountain. They stood back shamefaced when she volunteered to get it for them.
Now, near the top, she stopped and looked back at the hundreds of black dots with upturned faces. They were bobbing and swaying as they watched her make this historic climb. She would not let them go without it now that she had come so far. After a few more feet, she reached the summit. The great sticky red ball towered above her head. She dug away the ice from one side, and using the silver spoons as levers, she managed to start the ball rolling down the side of the mountain. She stood and watched it gathering speed. The black dots cheered and waved their arms, then turned and ran for their lives. The ball caught the slow ones, knocking them aside like skittles in a bowling alley. She would not climb down. She would just sit there and wait for the sun to melt the mountain into a milky pool. She sat on the curbside looking at the last spot of ice cream, and tried to decide if the ant that had arrived on the scene knew that this was food and not just a lake.
The gentle sound of music reached her ears. La Taverna was open for business. The bar manager, Peter, or Rolly Polly as she called him, turned the card: O-P-E-N. She spelt the letters aloud. Her nose was squashed out of shape against the glass door. People stopped lifting their glasses and stared back at her. They looked harmless, but one never knew. Never the less, she plucked up courage; she crossed her eyes and poked out her tongue. She made a horrible face. It worked! She had won the first round. Some people fell off the tall stools. Tables and chairs went flying as others made a wild rush for the rear exit. One old lady fainted with shock and sat slumped on her seat. The floppy hat she wore was tilted over one eye, just like an Aunt Sally at the fair. Glasses, and bottles crashed to the floor. The chef came around the side of the bar; he did not realize that the pizza he had just taken from the oven was dripping hot melted cheese all over the carpet. Rolly Polly gazed around at the chaos that Mitch had caused. He ambled slowly towards the front door. His outward calm hid the anger and fury that he felt about the chaos this cheeky kid had created and the unsightly breathing marks she had left all over his glass door. She looked for a second or two straight into his cold, blue eyes, then turned and fled from a fate worse than death.
She ran faster as she heard the ringing bell. She must get there before the gates of the level crossing finished moving. A train was going to leave. There was no time to climb to the top of the bridge. She would have to stand at the gates and watch it depart. The clicking noise of the engine changed to a whine as it built up power before moving off. The man in the signal box stood ready. He pulled a lever. The wires that ran alongside the tracks tinkled and shook. They turned the small wheels near where she stood, and the heavy arm of the signal fell with a clang. The train moved out carrying its passengers to far off places. She started to count the windows, but lost her place as she studied the people seated inside.
Mr. Daily Times sat upright, firmly gripped at the edges by two bodiless hands. There was a quick shutting and opening as one of his pages turned with a rustle and a hidden cough. Old Mrs. Flower Hat sat with a sad face staring into space with tearful eyes, thinking of the grandchildren she had just left. She knew that this was the last time she would visit them. Now she was going back to the little terraced house that was her home in the soot and grimed street of the city. Loving memories of her past life were stronger than today’s family ties. Mr. Red Nose slumped into a corner seat. Two heavy-lidded eyes gazed down to his ash-smudged waistcoat. He stubbed out his cigar, made a quick scratch on his nose, sniffed, took a deep breath, and emitted a big sigh before lounging into the contented snore of a long sleep. At the next window two small grubby hands spread themselves either side of a laughing face. Mitch thought of waving as the tiny eyes caught hers, but closed one eye and wrinkled her nose instead. The face stopped laughing and let out a fat red tongue. “Soppy kid,” she said to herself, and pushed her hands deeper into her pockets.
The gates swung open wide. Mitch followed after them. Stepping over the bright metal rails, she looked up the track to watch the two white spots of the train buffers disappear around the bend. She felt sorry for the kind old man in the signal box who turned the big wheel and pushed the levers. Soon he would not have his warm cozy box with its gleaming brass handles and his open book full of neat handwriting. The book was a chronicle giving details of trains that had come and gone. He was to be replaced by an automatic gate with flashing lamps and clanging bells. He waved to her. She smiled and waved back.
The cold clean air struck her face and she took a deep breath. She turned right onto Hyde Road. Hyde Road! She read the sign again. Where had she seen that name before? Then she remembered: Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So, this must have been the road where the mad beast terrorized the population. No wonder the people in this street looked so frightened as they hurried by. After a while she thought that there did not seem to be as many people in the street. She asked herself why. An old man was acting strange. Why was he holding up his hand and staring at her with such wide eyes? All the people were all behaving very strangely as she passed them. Her hands were thrust deep down into her pockets so she knew that they could not see them. She glanced at her reflection in the window of the hair salon. She noticed that she had started to change! She could see long hair appearing on her face. Her teeth were growing into fangs. Now there was no need to hide her hands. She held them up before her eyes. The hair on her hands was growing thick, and her nails had turned to claws. She turned from the shop window ignoring the wild screams of the assistant inside.
The remaining people in the street had fled. They had closed and bolted their doors behind them. The street was deserted. A stray dog on the other side of the road whimpered and cried as he cowered in a doorway trembling like a leaf in a storm. She trudged towards the alley that led to the park. It was the only way out of this cursed street. She dragged her twisted and gruesome foot behind her, it’s scrapping and stomping adding fear to the hearts of all who heard it.
She was only ten or so yards from the entrance to the park when an old woman, leaning heavily on a walking stick, turned into the street. Mitch didn't know why, but she feared people who carried sticks. In her distorted mind, she also thought that people feared her. They drew level with each other, and the old woman spoke, “Good morning, my dear, are you in pain?" The old fool, Mitch thought, of course she was in pain. Her whole body ached, her mind was a reeling mess, and had the old woman no fear? Couldn't she see the blood dripping from her claws? Wasn't she scared by the long fangs protruding from her mouth? The woman went on talking, “And what is your name?”
“I'm a monster and my name is Mr. Jekyll,” came the reply. She made quick slashes through the air with her claws.
“Ah! I see,” said the old woman. “But if you are a monster, I think you mean your name is Mr. Hyde, not Mr. Jekyll, but never mind, never mind. Well, as long as you are not ill. I must be on my way.”
She continued to rattle on. “Take care, and mind how you cross the road.”
The old woman walked on, using her cane as a support. When the people who had been hiding saw that Mr. Hyde had not attacked the old woman, they slowly came back out into the street, and ignored Mitch completely. Mitch Minor did not care. Let them be happy for one more day, tomorrow she would return and eat them all up. She hurried on into the park.
The jungle looked a forbidding place, and the wide river that wound through it was a dangerous crocodile-infested obstacle that would have to be crossed before she could reach civilization again. Cautiously Mitch hacked her way through the undergrowth, ignoring the calls of wild animals. She had no weapon except her machete, but she knew that this was all she would have needed if only she had not been so exhausted through lack of proper food and sleep. For three days now she had struggled to reach this far. Just one more day and night, then she would be safe. Could she hold out that long? Crossing the river had been easier than she anticipated. She found an old native bridge built across the narrow, but very steep gorge. Halfway across she looked down at the foaming river below. The bridge was old and rotten, but thankfully it held her weight until she was safely across. Then it only took a few well-chosen blows to cut away the supports and send the bridge crashing to pieces. At least her pursuers would be delayed whilst trying to find another way across. She came to the edge of the lake. Without a boat she would have to go around. She rested on a high mound, studying the terrain. In the distance she saw the smoke rising above a headhunter’s village. She would have to go through their camp, or at least very close to it.
Several hours later she looked down into the village. The natives of Torquay were resting after returning from a hunt. She looked for the chief and saw him surrounded by his best huntsmen. They were all smoking their pipes filled with the intoxicating leaf that would soon send them into a dreamy sleep. If she moved quickly they might not see her. Quietly, she dodged between the huts until she reached the other side of the village. Luck was with her. Even the village dogs had not taken any notice. One old dog had opened his eyes, and scratched his ear. Perhaps he had been too tired, but almost at once he had fallen asleep again. The trees and the undergrowth began to thin out, and up ahead she could see the road. She had finally made it. In a matter of hours she would be safe. The diamonds that she carried would make her rich. She would never go near another jungle for as long as she lived.
Mitch Minor hung up her anorak, and scarf in the hallway. She left her "seven league" boots on the step. They were muddy and would have to be cleaned later. She picked up a book and settled down into a comfortable old armchair.
Her mother came in. “Oh! Hello Mitch. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“It was okay,” Mitch replied.
“Where did you go? Down to the beach or through the town?”
“The town,” mumbled Mitch.
She began to study the star plans in front of her. Somewhere was the secret hideaway of the Venusians, and she, space pilot MM 103 was the only person who could find them……..
Jon Vickers-Jones is a writer, storyteller, painter, scenic designer, director, and creativity instructor from Britain. He has published books of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, and children’s stories. He was a guest storyteller at the St. Neots Folk Festival in Cambridgeshire, England.
