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    Young Ornithologists
    Young Ornithologists
    Young Ornithologists
    Ebook167 pages1 hour

    Young Ornithologists

    By K.R. Cohen

    ()

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    About this ebook

    'Barry asked Karen to go on a camping trip. Karen (as usual) said yes, and she and Barry booked time off work to go in September. And that weekend September would come...'
    A minor odyssey into the English countryside, meeting sundry characters concerned with workaday matters of the heart. Includes perfume, bickering and bird-feeders. Also, inertia, camping, and companionship. Illustrated with twenty-four scene-setting pictures. Suitable, perhaps, for thirty to forty-year-olds (who like reading books like this).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherK.R. Cohen
    Release dateJun 2, 2016
    ISBN9781310368844
    Young Ornithologists

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      Book preview

      Young Ornithologists - K.R. Cohen

      .

      ..

      …

      Young Ornithologists

      By K.R.Cohen

      Copyright 2016 K.R.Cohen

      Smashwords Edition

      …

      ..

      .

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      …

      Die Forelle, an extract of which appears in the text, is a poem written by Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart (1739-1791)

      which was later set to music by Franz Schubert (1797-1828)

      …

      Chapter 1

      Immediately, as he edged out from behind the counter, Barry's hay-like beard seemed incongruous with the dark suit he was obliged to wear for work. Still, if the suit wasn't quite his style, it, together with the perfume bottle he was holding in one hand and the paper testing strips in the other, went some way at least to making him look the part. And, with the brashness of the gauche and a diffident smile, he advanced to coincide with an unlikely-looking customer.

      Excuse me, sir. No. Hold on. Do you want to smell this, mate? I mean, do you have a special lady in your life?

      No. Just my wife, really. Well, my wife. Gotta say that, haven't I?

      The man didn't stop or even slacken his pace. Or come to that, wait for an answer, and Barry consoled himself with the speculation that he’d probably only come in to use the Gents, anyway.

      But even if that were so, though Barry had worked here for what felt like forever, it was generally agreed that he was not a natural salesman, and in his sixteen-year tour of the shop's departments, from Depot to Menswear, from Ladies' Fashions to Kitchen & Home, he'd had ample chance to disprove the hypothesis, but hadn't.

      And here, of late, in Fragrance, he'd settled. He'd slotted in temporarily when someone else had moved on to better things, and, so far, had not been moved on to better things himself.

      He looked over at Karen on the Beauty counter. She seemed to be lost in thought, gazing up at the stuccoed ceiling, and at the large windows below it. The pinkish light that filtered through the glass and suffused the room still gave her a particular feeling of being somewhere special. Cool, sedate, filled with light and lightness. And working here didn’t feel like it had been ‘forever’ to Karen. There had even been a time when it had seemed quietly glamorous. More than that. A pocket of civilisation. More exciting, almost, than being in the city, where you could count on having the largest shops and the latest fashions. Here, out of the city, where it might not be expected, was a little of that elegance, the little to her that was enough. Had been enough. Still was enough.

      But sometimes when she’d wax lyrical about their home town, Barry would ask her:

      Yes, but, how can you find what you’re looking for if you just stay put?

      And she’d say: I've never worked out what you are looking for.

      "Me?"

      Who else?

      She looked back at Barry now, who, for her entertainment, was pretending to pick his nose. She frowned at this, and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. Then smiled, sort of, in a bemused kind of way. Looking forward to Saturday, as was he. Because Barry had asked Karen to go on a camping trip. Karen (as usual) had said yes, and she and Barry had booked time off work to go in September. And that weekend September would come.

      Chapter 2

      Karen had expected that Barry would take them in his blue Fiat. But on the Saturday morning as she waited in her sitting room for him to arrive, a green dormobile swerved laboriously into the space outside her house, and Barry stumbled out of its driving seat and onto the pavement, glazed in an early morning sweat.

      Where's your car?

      Er. We're taking this. Charles Hodges wants it to have a run. He's going abroad this year so he won't get a chance to.

      Charles Hodges from the pub Charles Hodges?

      Yeah, that's right.

      "Charles Hodges wants?"

      Yeah, well. I'm helping him. And he's helping us.

      Helping himself more like it.

      Don't be a rain cloud, Karen. This is actually good news. We've got a lot more flexibility this way, if you think about it. Anyway, put your bags inside while I use the loo, will you?

      Is your AA membership still running, Barry?

      Yes.

      Good. Because we'll more than likely need it with any vehicle belonging to Charles Hodges.

      Bullshit.

      Charming.

      Still, she couldn't help but secretly be excited at the unexpected turn of events. She had always liked camper vans, and she loved the light, bright shade of this one's paintwork. Like the sun shining through horse chestnut leaves.

      They loaded up and left, made good headway, and by lunchtime were more than halfway to the campsite. Barry wanted to push on, but Karen insisted they stop at a pub she knew. She'd been there once before with a boy called Dorien. He'd spent the whole time they were there playing on the fruit machine, turning round occasionally to smile at her. The pub, at least, was nice, and she'd wondered at the time how it would be to go there with someone she actually liked.

      This is five miles out of our way, you realise? Karen?

      Nonsense. Don't talk rubbish.

      Yeah. Two and a half miles here. Two and a half miles back to the main road.

      Oh, so what? I hope we won't just be doing what you want on this holiday, Barry.

      No. But we're not even there yet.

      Yes, we are. The journey's part of it. The holiday's already started so far as I'm concerned. Why don't you try and let your hair down for once? Enjoy it, can't you?

      Oh, look. There's a fruit machine. Got any change?

      Chapter 3

      Closing in on the environs of the site a couple of hours later, they still managed to miss the turning first time around, and it wasn't until they were several miles further down the road, riding through dark halls of country lanes, that Karen had suggested that they double-back. And this time, Barry caught sight of the little notice half hidden by that summer's green leaves, and made a sharp right into what seemed an impossibly insignificant track.

      This isn't it, is it, Barry?

      Yes. It is. This is it. Coltstocks campsite.

      And a hundred yards on a larger notice beckoned them into a clearing with a respectable number of tents outcropping a wooden building in the centre. Barry parked up, and went inside without another word. He came back after about ten minutes.

      I've paid. For the whole week. Give me a hand pitching my tent, will you?

      All right. But who's…is anyone going to sleep in the van?

      Mm. Yeah. You sleep in the van. And pitch your tent later on, if you want to. Or not. You see? This gives us more options. I mean we've paid for it anyway.

      Okay. Maybe we can swap in a few days.

      No. It’s all yours. You can invite all your boyfriends over.

      What boyfriends? Chance would be a fine thing.

      Confucius say fortune favours the brave.

      What's that supposed to mean?

      Come on, give us a hand.

      They pitched the tent inside fifteen minutes. As it happened, it was the one Barry had been given by his mother and father on his twelfth birthday. And he could still feel a ripple of that excitement as he pulled it out of its special bag. The fabric was a little faded from the intense transcendental orange it had been on that early blue morning so long ago, but considering it was over twenty-five years old, they both agreed it was in pretty good condition.

      And even Karen, all those years before, had been excited by the tent. Especially when it was decided that they should try it out in the garden that very night. It was decided? Barry had decided. Barry always decided things in those days. He had said the word, and Karen, of course, had tagged along. She hadn't actually lasted that long in the event, but she started off with great enthusiasm. They'd borrowed Mum and Dad's sleeping bags, and had collected an assortment of overnight provisions: biscuits (party rings, the ones with coloured icing); half a bottle of cream soda; and some cooking chocolate. But once the torch was extinguished, the stage having been set by Barry's attempts at telling ghost stories, Karen wasn't so happy. It was the thinness of the polyester she didn't care for, the hardness of the ground, and the noises. Even in their suburban garden, the various creatures which stirred in the night were not to her liking. And when the foxes started their racket, which sounded like birds with big beaks squawking prehistorically and in physical pain, Karen demanded that she be escorted back to the house. He told her to stay put, like Scott of the Antarctic undoubtedly would have done. But

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