DUSTY RENDEZVOUS

A couple of evenings ago, towards nine ‘o’clock, I took old Josh, the golden 57 varieties dog, for his long walk, from the caravan site in Dunbar to the cement works. The cloud had intensified, forming a solid and lowering grey wall. The breeze had dropped and the air felt heavy, as if I was having to push myself through it. The dullness of the day contrasted with the days of bright sunshine that had preceded it. We walked the metalled roads to the works. Apart from the hum of motorway traffic separated from us by a bank of trees, and the odd hiss of a passing high-speed train, there was no noise. I saw no other person for the duration of the walk. The atmosphere felt oppressive, eerie. It seemed as if an electrical storm would descend on us and light us with St Elmo’s Fire, as it did Hans, Axel and the Professor in Journey to the Centre of the Earth. My tee-shirt, shorts and baseball hat seemed scant defence for such an eventuality. The dog looked equally apprehensive. The storm never materialised. Had we been walking anywhere else, we would never had contemplated the possibility of one. The place was just so creepy, so heavy. A footpath finally led us down to the works. A baby magpie lay dead on the ground in front of me, looking up through half-opened eyelids. It had taken its first fluttering steps from the nest and had fallen like a black and white plumb-bob straight to the ground. The hawthorn trees were covered in grey dust. Nearby, a movement startled me. It was merely a score of rabbits bolting away. I was startled momentarily, and cursed myself for my jumpiness. I found that I was sweating profusely. We finally set upon the works. It’s an ugly brute, this manufactory, towering over the flatlands, a huge industrial rocket-ship surrounded by a Heath Robinson concatenation of tubes and pipes, all covered in tawny-grey dust. It’s always been an object of mystery to me, because of its location in the middle of nowhere and its Meccano construction. I was glad to be away from the place. There was no birdsong, not a hint of noise. Amongst the detritus thrown from wagons onto the grass verge, I came across a brand-new left-handed chrome-leather welder’s glove. The forefinger was pointing away from the works and back down towards the caravan site. I was only too happy to follow its silent advice, and I won’t be walking back there at that time of night in a hurry.