“Gale force wind winds” I remembered the met office parroted as I walked past the grey stone tenements pleasance towards the tool cupboard. “Perfect day for a trip to the beach” I muttered as I walked through the gated arch and saw a group of fleeced Dirties huddled in the shelter of the old cargo container. The sun had definitely thought better of joining us; A persistent rain was falling and the wind seemed to be doing its best to strip the coat from your back then square you up for a fist fight.
Inclement weather or not, plenty of people showed up to take on this weekend’s task. Kenworthy had been sent word from Count Sil and Eden Burgh, the two big shots in charge of this town, that a punk going by “Japanese Rose” was causing trouble down in Cramond. Apparently they were messing up the dunes, rare enough places these day, plus important for a bunch of birds known as Curlews. That was good enough for me, so we loaded the mattocks and rode the 41 down to the shore front.
The wind kicked up a gear or five as we headed down from the village past the yachts huddled on the mouth of the Almond. The causeway across to the Island has already sunk under the grey water for the day and the dunes stretched 100 metres to the east. We got our first look at Japanese Rose, a spiky customer who fought spine and thorn when you started pulling, then snapped just as you had got a good hold. Still, there isn’t much that can stand up six or seven mattocks.
Some tree regrowth was also trying to muscle in on the dunes but they got no sweeter treatment than the rose and soon bundles of sticks were being dragged across the sand to the refuse pile. Between the de-vegetation and litter picking it was grim work, but they don’t call us “The Dirty Weekenders” for our internet search history.
Mears stared too long into the abyss of thorns and roots, for a while we weren’t sure he would make it back. He made it out though, retreated to build a wind break to keep the sand out of our sandwiches.
The wind was to much to much for some of us and headed back to town. The rest went back to business, there was too much rose to clear but we made a dent. Last thing was to roll Mear’s windbreak off the beach, pull our soggy coats around us and head to the Hoose to try to drown out the howling of the wind with drink and nachos.
Will
(for actual Noire fiction follow this link http://ae-lib.org.ua/texts-c/chandler__the_big_sleep__en.htm)