York Short Story

Leaving

By Bob Adams In the distance you see warehouses and rusty cranes across grey water. You lean over the safety rail. The side of the ship falls to immeasurable depths. Down and down to oily water that swirls in eddies and warps. Further upriver the sun emerges from dark clouds that rest like slabs of stone on the roofs of the city. Then it prises its way out and bursts along the riverbank. With a golden touch it washes woods, industrial wastelands and empty roads. Even the river sparkles, freeze-framed for a second in its rush to the sea. You feel a vibration as distant engines rumble to life. You grip the rail as it starts to hum. There are shouts as sailors release chains and the ship is gradually freed from its bonds. A smell of diesel wafts down from the funnel. Foam boils up under the stern. The ship is ready to go. You are almost alone on the high deck now. Most passengers have gone below. The sun makes its way around the port, picking out masts and stays as it goes. They shimmer in its touch. It transforms this place. Gives hope. Another passenger smiles across at you. Her auburn hair and yellow coat catch the light. Maybe she notices your sadness. You smile back. There is no need to utter any pleasantries about the weather as the clouds have departed and it is beautiful now. The sun is an orange ball dropping gracefully onto the toothed surface of the city. The ship eases off the pier and drifts sideways into mid-channel. A loud hoot makes everyone jump. The engines increase in volume and the foam becomes a rush of thudding water. The ship, already following the tide, starts to race with it. Buildings and moored ships fly past. Over to the other side of the estuary you notice a beach with multi-coloured huts lining its promenade. There are the remains of sandcastles, earthworks in the sand where only a few hours ago children played. Now lovers stroll and solitary men fish off the pier, their nets and equipment piled up for the catch that never comes.

To the northern side of the river windows still flash orange in the light. There is a castle, high up on a cliff. Red and green lights wink from the river mouth. The ship starts to sway gently from side to side as it reaches the boundary to the SHORT STORY open sea. Then the land releases its grip and the ship steers southeast following a line of buoys. There is no one on deck now. The sun has gone and the dark clouds are back. It is time to go below and seek out your cabin, maybe something to eat. You wonder if you should have spoken to the woman on deck. Taking a last glance over the rail, all you can see now are reflected lights from the ship, its wake disappearing behind in a giant curve.

About the author

Bob Adams is one of the founder members of York Wordsmiths, a writing group that started twelve years ago. He writes occasionally for the York Press and is currently writing a history of Bootham Park Hospital, where he used to work..

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