Monday, December 01, 2008
Harold shivered and pulled the duvet up further. He was certain he’d caught a chill rounding up those damned horses in the early hours of last night - and without so much as a thank you from the stables they’d escaped from. Then there was Jasfoup’s barbeque in the cold near-dark, although he’d lit a bonfire to keep everyone warm. Harold had no idea where Jasfoup got all those old fence posts from but they gave off a good heat despite smelling of manure.
He was still cold and risked getting up to put another blanket on the bed, a heavy one made by his Aunt Lydia, though he hadn’t seen her since he was a child. The colours were faded but he could still make out part of his old ‘Bleep and Booster’ curtains she’d cut up for patchwork.
He snuggled down again, glad for the extra layer but woke up soon after shivering once more. He rolled over, wrapping himself up like a caterpillar.
“Oy,” said a voice. “You’ve nicked all the blankets, you swine.”
Harold sat up, switching on the bedside light. “Uncle Frederick?” he said. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“I was cold, Harold. Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Uncle, you’re not supposed to feel the cold. You’re a ghost.”
“Aren’t I allowed to have feelings, then, because right now I’m feeling hurt and resentful. This was my bedroom before you inherited the house, you know.”
“I know.” Harold sighed. “But your feet are like ice.”
Photo by Chris Zimmer