A flash of light Charles Roberts

He stood with his back to the fire, his shoulders hunched and brow furrowed with age and toil.  A pipe hung from the corner of his mouth its bowl clasped by a gnarled hand, his deep blue eyes stared at the dark, rain spotted window which reflected the firelight.  He was of an age where reflections of the past were as important, if not more important than worrying about the future; he took the pipe from his mouth, gave a cough, looked to his right and turned in that direction; took four steps and bent down, pulling his right hand from his trouser pocket he reached down and flicked the switch on the wall socket, the lights on the Christmas tree flickered into life.

Martha’ll like that, he thought, so will the grand kids when they come tomorrow, they always come on Christmas day, he stopped and turned back to the fire  and resumed his position, pipe in mouth, back to the fire.

The kids had tried to persuade him to have an electric fire instead of the log one he was now toasting himself in front of, less work they’d said, but he refused, “just bars them electric, no life in ‘em, not like a log fire; there’s life there, see all sorts of things in there you do, animals, birds, dragons, dancing girls,” he said winking at the grand kids, “feels warmer too, ‘sides who’d pay the bill every quarter, cost more to run.”

A flash of light caught the corner of his eye, he turned his head, lightning, he thought, count the seconds to see how far away it was…., twenty….., thirty…., nothing; long way off, he thought, storm coming in…., heard it on the radio this morning…., shipping forecast.  He dropped his hands to the seat of his trousers and ran them down the backs of his legs, done that side, he thought, as the hot cloth touched the backs of his legs, he moved slowly towards the window, another flash…., count….., just the noise of the rain pattering on the window and the crackle of the burning logs.

He put his hands on the window sill and peered out into the blackness, you could see a storm coming a long way off here on the coast, all he could see was the reflected firelight and the slight phosphoresces as the waves broke on the beach below.  He turned back to the fire, another flash of light, he looked, but saw nothing, heard no thunder, just the spitting of the logs on the fire, rain must be coming straight down, he thought, only way the fire would spit like that.

He stood now facing the fire, hands on the mantle shelf, looking into the mirror above the clock he’d been given on his retirement from work, fifty years he’d worked in that….., another flash in the mirror broke his thought, he turned; strange, he thought, it seemed to come from the north, from the land and not the sea.  Where had the forecast said the storm was coming from? He puzzled trying to remember, eyebrows coming together in thought, the east was it? Yes, the east; that’ll be from the sea, not the land.  He smiled to himself, got it wrong again they did, just like the storm in eighty seven, made a complete hash of that didn’t they, spent the last days of work clearing the fallen trees from the roads and pathways, damn hard work that in the wind and rain.  Everybody wanted their road done first so they could get to the office.  John’d lost the fingers off his left hand, one day when the chainsaw he was using had kicked back, bad luck, but that’s life; he’d remembered that he picked them up and slipped ‘em into John’s pocket just as the ambulance arrived; might need them he’d said as they carted John off.  Another flash, he turned and looked at the window, the rain beating against it harder now and the fire was spitting more. 

A hot splinter flew onto the tiled hearth, better put the guard up, he thought and reached to his right for it, grabbed it just as another splinter flew out of the fire and landed on the toe of his slipper, he kicked and the cooling splinter went back into the fire.  Damn, he thought, must be wet wood, he put the fire-guard up just as another splinter flew out hitting the guard, good that one would have landed on the rug.  Martha’d kill me if I damaged this rug like the last one, ‘careless old fool’ she’d said when she saw it, ‘I cannot leave you alone for five minutes can I?’  Went on and on as if I’d have burned the house down or something, and it was only half an inch across, but the grand kids had bought this one last Christmas. She’d told him that if he did the same to this one then he’d be out on his ear and into a home for the silly old fools, the kids had laughed, but her face was as straight as a poker.

Even after all this time, almost sixty years, he still couldn’t tell when she was joking or not, he could read her thoughts, he knew when she was happy or sad, but she had this knack of keeping a straight face when she was joking.  Another flash, a lot nearer this time, still no sound of thunder.  He started to get worried, could it be coming from the road that led to the house, he’d read somewhere that the thieves targeted the elderly in isolated places, the more he thought about this, the more he worried.  Eighty five years old and frail now, not like he used to be, fit and strong, nobody would tackle him then, but now he knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance.  Another flash, longer than before, then…, after a while, a noise from the kitchen.

He bent and picked up the poker, let ‘em come, he thought as he ran the poker through his left hand, I’ll go down fighting, I’ll give ‘em what for.  Suddenly the door opened and there, silhouetted in the doorway, stood Martha,

“What the devil are you doing here in the dark?  You silly old fool, ‘ave you no sense?”  She switched on the light and turned to go back into the kitchen, “last time I go to the supermarket on Christmas Eve.  Them shops are murder at this time of year. My own silly fault.  I should have known better at my age.  Have you been all right dear?  Have you put the lights on the Christmas tree yet?”  She called from the kitchen.  “Would you like a nice cup of tea?”

He put the poker back down, “That’d be right nice love,” he called.  “Cup o’ tea would go down a treat.”  He settled down in his favourite arm chair, by the fire, and watched the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree, she never even noticed, he thought.