Humphrey Nightgall was in the mood for adventure. At 84 years old, he was perhaps a little way past his adventuring days, but he was still in the mood.
He promised himself that he would not go far. He got up out of his battered leather armchair and went to the pantry. He selected a few tins - corned beef, baked beans, soup - and a few other essentials, enough to last a couple of days at least. He looked around the cabin for his haversack. It was in the corner by the door. He took it into the pantry and placed his provisions into it. Then he went through to the bedroom and pulled a change of clothes from the chest of drawers. From the bathroom he brought a toothbrush, toothpaste and some soap. He added a flashlight and spare batteries to his supplies.
Outside the cabin, the first snows of the year had not yet fallen. The sky was a hard flat grey. Humphrey Nightgall considered that an adventure was not an adventure without some adverse weather conditions. He still felt like a young man. He strapped his snow-shoes to the haversack.
Angela Foster stirred in her bed. The duvet was kicked and shuffled into disarray, her pillow was half hanging over the edge of the bed. Her face was pushed up against the other bunched half of the pillow. Her husband's arm was flung across her head. She woke up and pushed herself upright. Her husband opened his eyes.
"What?" he said, as though she had asked him something.
"Nothing. Didn't speak. Morning," she muttered through her sleep-thickened mouth. "Man! What's the time?"
Angela Foster's husband flung an arm out and grabbed for the alarm clock. He peered at its face. It was 10.30.
"I should be at Grandpa's." Angela Foster continued to kneel on her side of the bed, staring unfocused at her sloppy pillow.
Humphrey Nightgall shut the cabin door behind him and headed out into the woods. A short way up the track that passed through the woods was a sheltered part of the river where Humphrey moored his flat-bottomed boat. Reaching it now, he placed his haversack in its flat bottom and climbed in himself. He started up the outboard motor and unfastened the mooring rope. Slowly he began to make his way up the river, going further into the backwoods up country.
Humphrey still felt like a young man. He knew how to skin a rabbit. When Mary had still been alive, when he had actually been a young man, he would catch rabbits and skin and gut them for her to make stews and pies. He thought he might try to catch a rabbit on this adventure. He had his knife in its sheath in one of the pockets of his hunting jacket. He patted it now, as he steered the boat up the river, with his free hand, to make sure.
Angela Foster dried her hair while her husband continued to lie in bed. She hated the way he just lay there, solid like a log, unmoving and unmovable. She hated him more and more recently. She turned off the hairdryer and looked at herself in the mirror. Was she a fool? She looked at him through the mirror. Or was she just too idle to leave? She sighed and began to dress.
Humphrey Nightgall had travelled a fair distance up the river. He had seen no-one on either bank. He had heard only distant sounds of life from the woods. He reached a sheltered spot in the water, with a gentle shore on one bank of the river, and decided that this would be a good place to moor the boat while he continued his journey on foot. If he was not mistaken, further ahead the river would begin to narrow anyway and become unnavigable. He steered the boat for the shore, allowing it to run slightly aground, then he cut the engine. He tied the boat to a conveniently hanging branch, shouldered his haversack, and began to beat a path into the woods. It was hard to tell the position of the sun through the canopy of trees above him, but Humphrey guessed that it was around
Angela Foster did not even have time for her morning cup of coffee. She was already half an hour late. She was supposed to be picking her grandfather up from his sheltered housing bungalow and taking him to the optician's in town for his check-up. She hoped that he would be sitting ready to go when she arrived. If he was, they could just make it. She flew out of the house and got into the car. She turned the ignition. The engine failed to fire. She tried again. Still it did not catch. She turned it a third time. The engine sputtered into life but she could hear that it was missing. She supposed she would have to take it in for a service. Her husband was useless. He did not have a clue about cars. He drove a company car and felt no responsibility for its maintenance. She drove the clapped out old thing that she had had since graduating. She reversed off the drive, out into the road. The car bucked a little as she was reversing. She put the brakes on and changed to first gear.
"Don't die, don't die," she muttered.
The engine died.
She popped it into neutral and put the handbrake on. She did not want to risk anything today. She was late enough. She turned the ignition and thankfully it sputtered into life again. She lurched and coughed her way down the street. If any of them were up, or not out at some garden centre, she was sure her suburban neighbours would be grimacing behind their net curtains and vertical blinds.
Angela Foster had not chosen to live in this part of town. Her husband had decided that the area, and in fact the particular street, would be convenient for him to get to and from work. Angela worked in the centre of town at a day-centre for adults with learning difficulties. She would have preferred a nice terraced house in the town centre so that she could walk into work. Do her bit for the environment. Rid the planet of the heap she was driving. However, as he was paying most of the mortgage, her husband had decided he had final say over where they were to live.
Sometimes, Angela Foster wondered how she had wound up married to this man. Especially, she thought to her self now as she approached a junction, when there were pleasant men, like Carl at work, to whom she would much rather be married. Carl was lovely. He was tall, softly spoken, gentle and had very close cropped hair, like velvet. Angela knew, she had stroked it once. So had all the other women at work. Carl lived, alone Angela had recently discovered, in a terraced house close to the centre of town. He cycled into work. He had lovely legs. He was a project worker at the day centre. He had warm brown eyes. Angela suspected that he could probably fix cars as well.
She missed the turning off the by-pass that led towards the estate her grandfather lived on, she was so lost in thought.
"Bugger!" she muttered.
Now she would have to drive to the next roundabout and either double back on herself or cut across town, and they would probably not make it to the optician's.
Humphrey Nightgall had trampled down some of the undergrowth to make himself a small clearing. He found a handy rock to sit on and gathered some wood together to make a fire. From a pocket in his hunting jacket he took a box of matches and lit some dried grass he had placed underneath some twigs within the firewood. He soon had a healthy blaze underway. He took a can of beans from the haversack and his billy can. He heated the beans up, dropping some corned beef in with them. It was quite a tasty meal. Who needed rabbit, anyway?
Humphrey went down to the river to wash out the billy after he had eaten, and brought it back filled with water to make a drink of tea. He had remembered to bring tea-bags and a small plastic bottle of milk. For a moment Humphrey was confused. It was a while since he had been out on an adventure and he was beginning to wonder whether he had confused the idea with going on a picnic. Nonetheless, he enjoyed his cup of tea. He sat before the fire for a while, enjoying being out in the fresh air. Living in the cabin was fine, but since they had put the double-glazing in for him, he had begun to feel stuffy-headed. It was definitely good to be out and about.
Angela Foster swung round the roundabout and began driving hell for leather down the other side of the by-pass. She was almost at the turn off for her grandfather's estate when a police car appeared from nowhere in her rear view mirror and flashed her to pull over.
She did so, and switched off her engine. The police officer took his time in walking from his car to hers.
"Oh hurry up," she muttered.
The police officer tapped at her window. She wound it down and smiled at him, she hoped innocently but she knew that it was more likely to be sheepishly.
"Yes, officer?" she said.
"Can you confirm your name and address, please madam?"
Angela did so.
"Are you aware, madam, that you were travelling at 70 miles per hour in a 40 miles per hour zone?"
"Oh, gosh, was I? Oh, I am sorry. You see, officer, I'm supposed to be collecting my grandfather and taking him to an optician's appointment in town and I'm terribly late," she gabbled at him, then smiled again.
"That is no reason for failing to comply with the speed limit, is it madam?" the officer asked as he began to write out a ticket. "May I see your driver's licence and vehicle registration documents, madam?"
"No, officer," Angela Foster said. "I'm afraid I've left them at home."
The police officer handed her the ticket. "You have 7 days in which to present yourself at your local police station with your driver's licence and other vehicle documentation, madam. The ticket gives details of how to pay your fine."
"Yes, officer. Thank you."
Angela set off, more slowly, and continued on her way to her grandfather's bungalow, cursing under her breath as she went.
Humphrey Nightgall trampled out the fire. Even in winter it was important to be careful about things like fires. It was more important to be careful if one lived in Australia, of course. The outback was like a tinder box, by all accounts. But even in the backwoods here, one had to be careful.
Humphrey looked at the bean can and the corned beef tin. He knew that he should do something with these too, but he could not for the life of him remember what. He still felt like a young man, but sometimes his memory let him down. After all, he was 84. He supposed these little memory lapses were understandable. He was not worried about the tea-bag. He knew that would rot away eventually. He looked at the two tin cans before him. He did not want to put them into the haversack as they would be messy and the sharp edges were a hazard. He had already almost cut a finger on one.
Suddenly it came to him. He should bury them. He set about digging a small pit using a stick and his hands. He did not like to get mud under his fingernails. Mary had always said that he had beautifully kept fingernails. Mary would not have forgotten what to do with the empty tins. She would have brought a plastic bag to put them in.
Humphrey put the empty tins into the hole he had created then began covering them over.
Angela Foster stopped the car outside her grandfather's bungalow. She looked at her watch. There was no way now that they could get into town in time for the appointment. She would have to telephone the optician's and try to make another appointment. Which would mean another wasted Saturday. She sighed.
She loved her grandfather, but she was beginning to resent him. Or rather she was beginning to resent her parents for retiring early and clearing off to Spain, leaving her with the responsibility of making sure her grandfather was okay. Her husband was no help, making the most of the opportunities occasioned by her absences to head off to the golf club with his boss and other work colleagues.
She decided that she could not sit outside her grandfather's bungalow like this for the rest of the day. She ought to go in.
She made her way up the garden path and rang the doorbell. There was no reply. She peered through the living room window. Her grandfather was not in there, but Angela could see through to the kitchen, and was able to see that the back door was open. The silly old fool was probably in the back garden feeding the birds. She took her key from her bag and let herself in.
As he was making his way further into the backwoods, Humphrey Nightgall suddenly heard a noise somewhere in the woods to his left. Something was shuffling towards him. He stood still for a moment, behind a nearby tree, listening to the creature's approach. It was probably a bear. He took the pistol from its pocket in his hunting jacket. If it was a bear, it probably would be of little use to try to shoot it, but the feel of the pistol in his hand gave Humphrey a little comfort. He did still fell like a young man, but even so he knew that, running, there was no way he could escape an angry brown bear.
Angela Foster picked up the mail that was behind the door of her grandfather's bungalow. She put it on the table in the living room. She would sort through it with him later. She walked through to the kitchen and stood at the back door. She could not see her grandfather in the garden, which puzzled her, as it was only small. He must have been out there at some point because she could see a pile of earth by one of the rose bushes, where he had obviously been digging.
She called out, "Grandpa?"
The brown bear emerged into the clearing just behind Humphrey Nightgall. Humphrey peered at her round the tree. She could obviously smell that he had been there. She opened her mouth and growled slightly, then she shuffled further into the clearing, heading for the place Humphrey had just buried the tin cans. She snuffled at the pile of earth, then emitted another low growl. Humphrey slowly raised the pistol. If he could just wound her in the shoulder, he might be able to slow her down and give himself a chance to reach the river and head back down to the boat.
Angela Foster crossed the garden to where her grandfather had been digging, for whatever reason. She trod the earth down more neatly.
A slight movement at the bottom of the garden, behind the apple tree brought from the old house just before her grandmother died, caught her eye. She turned towards it.
"Grandpa? Is that you?"
Humphrey Nightgall knew that he had to fire now. The brown bear had obviously caught his scent and was heading towards the tree he had hidden behind. Quickly he slid back the safety catch, aimed, and fired the pistol.
Angela Foster heard the pistol shot and felt the bullet enter her right shoulder. Then her grandfather, clad in his pyjamas, rushed out from behind the apple tree, raced past her up the garden and shut himself in the kitchen.
"Ouch," she managed to say through gritted teeth, but it did not do the pain justice, so she tried a "Bloody Hell, Grandpa," as well.
Her shoulder was bleeding profusely. She put her left hand over the wound, which made no difference, and walked up the garden to the back door. She could see her grandfather watching her through the kitchen window. He was still holding the pistol.
She tried the back door. He had locked it. She saw him aim the pistol at her through the window and ducked just in time as the shot whistled over her head. Miraculously the window did not shatter.
As she crouched on the ground at the back door to her grandfather's bungalow, bleeding from the wound to her right shoulder, Angela Foster thought to herself, 'He's finally flipped.'
She raised herself up slightly with her left hand and looked up at the kitchen window. Her grandfather was peering back at her. He ducked back when he saw her looking back at him.
"Well, at least he's stopped shooting," Angela muttered to herself. "That's something I suppose."
She sat on the ground with her back to the wall and banged at the back door with the flat of her hand.
"Grandpa, it's me. Angela. Let me in please. I'm not going to hurt you. You can put the gun down," she called. "Not that you don't deserve to be hurt, you old git," she said to herself.
There was no reply.
Humphrey Nightgall knew he was lucky to have spotted the old shack that still had a door when he rushed past the bear into the woods on the other side of the clearing. He could tell that he had not wounded her sufficiently to make a proper escape. He would have to hole up in this shack for a while until the bear got bored and left.
He had guessed correctly that she would follow him to the shack, so he had bolted the door behind him. He could see her through the grimy window, trying to scrape at the door with her one good front paw. He aimed at her again though the window. She dropped down just as the bullet whizzed by.
She stayed down for a while. When she reared up again briefly, Humphrey ducked back from the window, afraid that she would try to swipe at him with her great paw, through the glass which miraculously had not shattered.
Humphrey Nightgall still felt like a young man, but that run from the tree to the shack had knocked the breath out of him. He sat on the floor for a moment to regain his composure.
Outside the bear began throwing herself at the door and growling loudly. Humphrey had the feeling that she was not going to leave in a hurry. He was going to have to try to kill her. He would have only one shot, he knew. Calmly he went back to the window.
Angela Foster stood up again. She went over to the window to see if she could tell where her grandfather had gone.
The bullet entered her skull cleanly, right between the eyes. It lodged itself in her brain.
The Coroner said at the inquest that death would probably have been instant.
As he had the whole day off, after the verdict was given in the morning, the late Angela Foster's husband played a round of golf in the afternoon.
© J R Hargreaves
