The Mists of Time

dark nature night tree

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The warm, water-laden up draught from Penrod Cove rose up the cliff face. There it met the cold night air flowing down St Wilfrid’s pasture and condensed into a thin line of mist, sparkling in the pale moonlight, lending a gently magical feel to the landscape between St Wilfrid’s Church and the cliff edge.

“Is that you, George?”

“Yes, it is, Tom.”

“I didn’t know if you’d still be able to make it.”

“I don’t know why but I haven’t moved on yet.”

“If you’re still here I suppose that means I got a little bit longer as well.”

“It’s not like the old days, is it?”

“When I first came, you could reckon on half a dozen or more but slowly they’ve all moved on.”

“We are the youngest. There’s been nobody new since you came.”

“There’s been nobody new since the last vicar died.”

“What’s the use of that team Ministry? Two Vicars in Swanscombe – and seven parishes.”

“The poor old church here only getting two services a month – apart from Jack Bicknell’s weekly prayer meetings.”

“He and Kate fell on their feet, didn’t they?”

“Poor old Kate she didn’t last long.”

“And she was gone before I got here.”

“And you been here two years more than me.”

“I feel like it’s all done. I feel empty.”

Hey George don’t you fade away.”

I feel I ought to get back – in case they call.”

“Hang around, it’s not long now.”

“Why Tom, I think you’re afraid of being left on your own. You will still have Jack at the old vicarage.”

Yes, he’ll be on his own now that young couple have gone on their winter cruise. They can afford it after making all that money in the City. It’d have been nice to have made millions and retired at 35.”

“I wonder what made them buy the old vicarage, rambling old place, eight bedrooms five reception rooms, kitchens and stables.”

“They made a nice place for themselves in the stable block.”

“And made a nice flat for Jack over the kitchens.”

“And they do B and B Easter to Michaelmas.”

“And then go off round the world for the winter. Not bad, eh?”

“We don’t know where we’ll be next year we might not be back here.”

“Nothing we can do anything about. We better be getting back. Good night Tom.”

“Good night George.”

A very keen-eyed medium might just have seen two thin wisps of mist separate and sink into the turf of the churchyard in front of their own plain gravestones as the church clock rang the first bell of midnight to herald All Saints’ Day.

Author: Greg

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