Peter--Ending with an Apple

Midnight and the eve of St. Gelig.  Two forlorn figures, a man and a woman, walk slowly along the deserted promenade.  In the night sky above, occasionally the troubled light of the moon breaks through, casting pale shadows amidst the  swirling cloud.  Across the overcast beach the sea lies lost, impenetrable.. 

Supporting each other, the couple move like grief-stricken mourners following an invisible hearse.  They progress past a row of beach huts and sombre dunes until they reach the formidable iron gates of the pier and their supporting brick alcoves.  Sobbing, the woman bends and, with the aid of her husband, attaches a bouquet to the metal bars.  A card lies in the centre of the deep red roses:

                                         In memory of Ned, our beloved son

                                         Who disappeared here on St. Gelig’s Day 20l0.

                                         You will never vanish from our hearts.

Retreating a few paces, they hold each other close.  Only the murmur of the wind and the sound of the  sea breaking rhythmically on the shore can be heard.

Suddenly, a shadowy movement in the overcast alcove catches their eye.  The woman gasps,  her husband clutches her.  “Good God!  Who is it?  Peering forward in the dark recess of the alcove, they can now make out the crooked shape of an old crone squatting in front of a basket.  Her head slightly bowed, she is lost in a black shawl from which only her two bony hands protrude. The right one is clenched, the palm of the left wide open.

Puzzled, the man disengages from his wife, desperately feeling his pockets. He has nothing, nothing at all  but a small red apple.  He stares at it apologetically and places it  in the open  palm.  Without looking up, the crone, extending her arm, opens the  fingers of the right hand to reveal a key on a red ribbon. Without questioning, the  man takes it and as he does so the woman points to the gate.

Momentarily the couple look at each other; the woman nods.  The gate creaks as they enter the pier.  Not knowing what they are doing or why, slowly they advance like a couple of trespassers, each step making  a dull thud on the bare boards.  A sea mist is growing about  them, drifting like ghosts across the pier, and the boathouse at the far end is soon lost to view. They hesitate.  As they stand, perplexed and indecisive, the moon suddenly breaks through, casting  a bright glow.  Within the fog, shadows seem to be dancing and then a figure slowly emerges and walks towards them.

The woman cranes her head.  The fear and pain on her face gradually dissolving as her eyes  light up and she races forward crying.  “Ned.  NED!   NED!”