Where The Windrush Wends, by Mike Everley, chamomile tea

The Windrush meandered under several small stone bridges in the centre of Bourton-on-the-Water. Hotels and restaurants built of golden Cotswold stone stood proudly near the river's edge. The areas rich history dated back to Neolithic times, with evidence of habitation from that period up to the Roman era, when Icknield Street connected Bourton to Templeborough in South Yorkshire. During the Middle Ages it had become sheep territory known for its production of wool. Now, in the summer months, it was swamped with tourists from all over the world snapping away with their digital cameras and mobile phones, each trying to capture the charm of Olde Worlde England that the Tourist Board had carefully crafted for them.

    Ducks trod water or clustered along each bank of the river accosting visitors for food, the emerald sheen of a mallard or the bright red bill of a moorhen standing out amid the rest.

   This had been their favourite place. Near enough to Cheltenham to make day trips in summer and winter possible. Now along with memories there was a sense of melancholy. Although the model village and the motor museum remained, nothing seemed quite right. Something was missing. Even the Edinburgh Mill shop, a favourite haunt, lacked its usual charm. It took him awhile to realise that what was missing was not in the town but in himself.

 

The Riverside Cafe was relatively quiet. A few out-of-season tourists sat on high backed wooden chairs in front of square, polished tables laden with the remnants of all day breakfasts. Plastic replicas of yellow lilies stood erect in tall, glass vases amid the plates and condiments. Red mural tapestries, picked out by carefully positioned spotlights, hung from the white walls and added a splash of colour to the dining area, creating an overall impression that was clean, minimal and modern.

    A young couple, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, occupied the table they normally sat at. He ordered a toasted teacake and a latte. He sat nibbling at its edges rather than eating.

 

Later that evening the winter sun cast golden reflections across the Windrush and made the light frost on the pavements shine like myriads of diamonds. The trees stood stark and bare against the skyline.

    Before leaving home he had poured the ashes from the urn into an orange Sainsbury's bag to make them look less conspicuous. The ducks had already gone to sleep with their heads tucked under their wings as he slowly let handfuls of ash scatter onto the quietly moving water. Soon she would be travelling through the Gloucestershire countryside she loved so much.

    On the other side of the river an elderly couple stopped for a moment and glanced at the stooping grey haired man, apparently still feeding the ducks, before moving on.

     Slowly he made his way to his car, depositing the empty bag in a bin. Ahead lay the short journey to the empty house.

 

He would not be coming back.

About the author

Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.

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