Week 4: Flash Fiction

Blether

Leaving his friends, he came out of the station and looked around the empty streets. Out of the early morning haze, he saw a woman hobbling towards him, muttering under her breath. There was no one else. He approached her, readjusting the backpack on his shoulder.

“Sorry, hi there. I don't suppose you'd know where I could buy some really thick wooly pyjamas?” he said. She paused in her muttering and looked up at the boy. He was a tall lad, a little rough around the face with dark bags under his eyes. She caught the whiff of the night before on his breath. She cackled lightly.

“Hud somethin' tae bevvy lest nicht? Cheeky. An' whaur ye aff tae wi' 'at poke? Hikin' frae th' looks ay yer sheen. Sae pijamas? Lit me hink... mah mukker ary booght some nae tay lang ago, a bonnie blue pair gart ay lambs wool aye, och noo whaur was it? doon near joseph´s ur, nae,bide, aye doon by th' boats, th' docks. Bein sunday its closed thocht, but jist knock oan th' duir, he will answer,” she said tipping her head towards the town. She smiled at the boy, who looked bewildered. Lowlanders, she thought.

“The docks?” he ventured.

“Aye, th' docks. Gang doon 'at brae, an' 'en straecht doon pest th'...” She indicated with her hands in that helpful way as strangers do, but for the life of him he had no clue what she was saying. He thanked her and headed off in the vague direction she had pointed.

He looked at his watch as he descended the cobbled high street and picked up speed; ten minutes until the connection. He twisted and turned down various streets, following the smell of the sea. He only past a few people as he went, setting up their Saturday stalls in the cold air. On one last turn he emerged at the docks. A lonely fishing boat was moored at the side, a solitary seagull standing guard on the mast above. He looked left, right. Had she mentioned a name? A man in a grey woolly hat was walking along the shore front further up. The boy looked left again and started along the bay, frantic for the shop. He reached a row of houses with windblown flower boxes. He turned and ran back, now passing the seagull and in the other direction. No luck. His heart was racing; six minutes. The man in the hat was closer now. The boy dashed towards him. But before he got a word out, the man looked at him with his weathered face and smiled.

“Ye can buy pyjamas ower thaur,” he said.