The start of Tuesday in Port Brokeferry

(As promised, a new Port Brokeferry piece for Xmas... enjoy and a happy one to all my readers)

SINNIE’S DREAM

Sinnie’s light is on. She is sitting up in bed writing her dream into a blue leatherbound notebook that she keeps by the bed for the purpose. Outside it is growing light and Callum is listening at Tom’s window. Sinnie does not know this.

‘I dreamed of owls again. Three owls. Faces like flowers and eyes as shiny as new coal, or ink when it drops from the pen onto the page. One of the owls was larger than the rest. He stood tall and proud, his chest all puffed and swollen. He was wearing a waistcoat like Struan Courtald from the Victoria Hotel. I did not know that in the dream and do only think of it now. The silver buttons were the same. All fastened and shiny. He had a watch on a chain and that is something Struan Courtald once had. The other two owls were all feathers and flashing eyes.’

Sinnie pauses there. She bites the end of her pen, her eyes closed, trying to see again the dream that is already thinning into something like nothing. She is smiling to herself, but does not know that she is.

‘The waistcoated owl had something in its beak.’

Sinnie nods her head, remembering.

‘At first I thought it was the body of a mouse, all limp like a drawstring purse that has nothing in it. The owl bowed its head and laid the gift on the floor at my feet. Then the three owls did dance together. I do not recall if there was music when they did this, but there were colours in the dark space behind them and I felt as though I was dancing too.’

Sinnie’s face is flushed. As though she really has been dancing. She looks at the window. The curtains are not quite closed. Maybe that is why she blushes pink. Maybe she thinks she has been seen. Maybe she thinks something is revealed.

‘Owls do represent wisdom and learning. I have sometimes thought that Struan Courtald is a clever man. But what he is doing in my dream I do not know. As for the gift he has laid at my feet, the dancing did distract me from discovering what it was. Maybe it was just a mouse, as is the way of owls.’

Sinnie reads over what she has written. Then she sets aside the pen and the blue leatherbound notebook. She turns out the light and lays her head back on the pillow. Could be there is a reason that she does not remember what it was that the owl in the shiny buttoned waistcoat laid at her feet. She closes her eyes, but she does not sleep.