A relic of the past.

A relic of the past.

With a sigh, James Stewart rolled over on his side, he struggled to rise from the hollow formed in his chaff filled mattress.  Reaching for the matches beside their bed he confirmed his inborn instinct it was five a.m.

Trying not to disturb Isabel, he slid into his clothes, the rough board floor cold on his feet.

Tiptoeing to the kitchen, he lit a lantern at the back door and let himself out into the cold morning air.  Although no stars shone, frost sparkled on the ground and the air was crisp.  The world beyond his circle of light was dark and foreboding. 

In the stable he settled the restless horses down with some feed, before fitting their harness... It was cold in there and James moved to each piece of harness checking it item by item, in preparation for his bi-annual journey into the city.

Outside, the stillness of the early morning surrendered to the sudden gust of southwest wind, the probability of rain loomed.  Though James was comforted with the thought those twenty five sacks of grain were neatly stacked on the dray and secure under a tarpaulin he had borrowed from his neighbour the previous day.

Again he circled the dray testing the load.

Returning to the house, he found a log, placed on the previous night’s embers was blazing in the grate, each finger of orange flame casting an eerie shadow of light across the room.

From an iron pot on the black iron stove, Isabel was ladling thick porridge into a plate.  She gestured to James to take his seat at the table.  ‘Have you got my list?’  She asked.

James patted his breast pocket, ‘aye lass, I’ve got your list.’

That list was important to Isabel, it contained a list of the things she wanted him to buy in the city, such as material for a new dress and bits and pieces for mending the children’s clothes.

They discussed the coming journey.  Just suppose he could not sell their grain in the city.  They had before and they would do it again.  Anyway he would lower the price till no merchant; at least no sane merchant could refuse to buy.

Following a second helping and four slices of toast, James slapped his belly with ham sized hands.  Belching he said, ‘well that should keep me going until nightfall.’

As he wriggled into his oilskins, Isabel handed him some sandwiches wrapped in brown paper.  She also produced several small coins, these he would not accept, it was all the money they had.  In response to his protests she motioned for him to be quiet, pressing the coins into his calloused hand.

With a smile, he flicked a penny to her, saying, ‘if I fail to return, let no man say I left you penniless.’

Kissing her tenderly on the forehead he moved through the door into the grey morning light.  Isabel busied herself tidying the breakfast dishes.  She heard the dray as it passed by the kitchen window, its iron rimmed wheels crunching on the frozen ground, as it disappeared into the wintry dawn.

Before dousing the lamp, she pondered the possibility of no kerosene coming from town, their meager supply of candles would have to suffice for the remainder of winter.

She thought of James perched precariously at the front of the dray.  Of the thirty or so miles of rough terrain he had to negotiate, coaxing those massive Clydesdale's to greater effort in the bitterly cold weather.

My sketch of that relic of the past, attempts to depict the colourful era of that once famous Clydesdale horse and of the men and women who scratched out a living from a rugged landscape.

Who knows perhaps this old dray did once belong to an Isabel and James Stewart