Pettigrew dismounted his bright red bicycle. It was a fine August day and he longed for a walk and some fresh air.

After ensuring his bicycle was secured, he commenced his walk along the Great South Wall at Ringsend, where it embraces the briny waters of Dublin Bay. It was 6 pm and he could hear the bells tolling from St Patrick’s Church.

Pettigrew was 55, and lived alone. He was finicky and checked his pockets to ensure he had everything for his two mile walk. “I’ve me morning paper, I’ve me mobile phone and I’ve me biro to do me crossword,” he muttered. “Everything’s tickity boo,” he chuckled.

Pettigrew passed through the barriers that prevent cars from driving down the pier. The only sounds to be heard until he reached the Poolbeg Lighthouse would be the waves crashing against the rocks and the chatter of people passing by.

The sun was strong and Pettigrew wore a baseball cap to protect his head. As he walked he kicked some debris from the pier into the sea, pretending to take penalties for Manchester United. The unfortunate goalkeeper hadn’t a chance.

After walking for ten minutes Pettigrew sat down at The Half Moon Swimming Club. He opened his newspaper at the crossword page and read a few clues for some of the swimmers to hear. One down, “postman’s bag,” he read aloud. “How many letters?” a swimmer inquired. “Fuckin’ thousands,” bellowed Pettigrew to the indignation of the swimmer.

Pettigrew then removed his jacket and his shirt. He looked towards the sun with closed eyes and palms facing outwards. Pettigrew seemed to be meditating and people would nod amusingly in his direction as they passed by.

“I’ll keep me head covered and get a little sun on me body. I don’t want to end up with one o’ those melanoma things,” he muttered.

He knew all about it, melanoma, carcinoma, barcelona. He laughed aloud at the idea of Barcelona and some swimmers glared at him and made eyes to heaven.

Pettigrew could see people walking towards the lighthouse. There were fishermen and families and people with dogs coming and going along the pier. And among them he noticed an old lady and she was dressed for the middle of winter.

“Jasus that’s funny,” he said, “and I don’t mean funny ha ha, I mean funny peculiar. A big heavy overcoat and a scarf, sure that’s not right. She’ll be a ball o’ sweat be the time she makes the lighthouse. And she has her shopping trolley with her as well, not right, couldn’t be right.”

It was almost 7 o’clock and the sun danced on the incoming tide. Pettigrew didn’t complete his crossword. “I’ll finish it after me tea,” he muttered.

“There’s a thing now,” he said “what’ll I have for me tea? Maybe a nice tin of salmon and a few slices of brown bread with lashings of butter. And a tomato sliced thin to go with the salmon, gorgeous.” He licked his lips in anticipation. “Oh, and some hot tea to wash down the salmon and the tomato and the brown bread, mighty.”

Pettigrew kept a well stocked fridge ever since his mother had died eighteen months ago. He did his ‘big shop’ as he called it on Friday evening at the local supermarket. He brought a list of all he needed and ticked them off as he put them into his shopping basket.

Pettigrew rose from the seat at the swimming club, put his paper into his pocket and headed towards the lighthouse. “Sure isn’t everything tickety boo,” he repeated.

He noticed the yachts in the sea off Dun Laoghaire. And his gaze followed the wash from the Stena as it crashed onto the rocks beneath him.

In the distance he could see the old lady who was dressed for the middle of winter. She had almost reached the lighthouse. “And pushing a trolley,” said Pettigrew, “not right, definitely not right.”

He sat on the pier wall and from his breast pocket he produced a small white napkin and placed it in the palm of his hand. He opened it, and gently touched the contents with his middle finger.

A tear welled in his eyes as he caressed the wedding ring. “Bollocks, I hate feeling like this,” he said, “all sad and fucked up.” He drew the sleeve of his jacket across his face, smearing the tears.

He touched the gold chain and the miraculous medal that nestled beside the wedding ring. I’m supposed to chuck these into the briny, God knows she’ll never wear them again, and that’s for sure. You don’t need jewellery when you’re in a box, or miraculous medals for that matter.

He declined the sea’s invitation and instead folded the napkin over his mother’s jewellery. Pettigrew returned the napkin to his breast pocket, “I’ll keep them for another little while,” he said.

He then continued his journey along the pier. As he neared the lighthouse he could see the old lady who was dressed for the middle of winter, her frail figure resting on a red wooden bench.

She was eating a sandwich and drinking tea which she had poured from a flask. “Well be Jasus she’s come prepared, I’ll give her that,” said Pettigrew. Sandwiches and tea no less, she must be here for the long haul.
He sat on the bench, with the flask and sandwiches between himself and the old lady. “Would you like a cuppa scald,” she said. “I’d love one,” said Pettigrew.

She took a mug from her shopping bag, filled it with tea and handed it to him. “God bless ye Missus,” he said, as he sipped the tea. He felt like asking “do ye come here often?”, the way you would at the dances when showbands were playing. But he just continued sipping his tea.

He could see the old lady was wearing a coat and scarf, and corduroy slacks. “Do ye feel the cold much,” he asked, trying not to laugh. “Not a bit,” she replied. “Well be jasus I wouldn’t like to see ye in the middle of winter,” he thought to himself. ‘It’ll be dark in an hour and this ones’ showing no signs of moving.’

Pettigrew and the old lady sat on the bench dwarfed by the lighthouse, eating sandwiches and drinking tea. “I wonder is she well, in her head like,” thought Pettigrew.

Pettigrew was getting worried about the old lady who was dressed for the middle of winter. It’ll be dark soon and she’ll be here on her own with only the lighthouse for company. “Do you live far?” he enquired. “No, not far,” she replied. “By Jasus you’re a bundle of info,” he said sarcastically. “If I went home, would you be lonely here on your own?” “Not a bit,” she responded.

“Things ain’t tickety boo here,” said Pettigrew. He wanted to find out how old she was. “I turned 55 in June,” he said. “And what do ya want, a medal?” she scoffed. “Sure I’ll be 80 at Christmas if God spares me.”

Ah, ‘info’ at last, thought Pettigrew. An eighty-year-old who pushes a shopping trolley and dresses for the middle of winter. “And what’s your name,” he pressed. “Mrs Dalton,” she said. “Mrs Dalton,” he repeated aloud. She rolled up the sleeve of her coat to retrieve a paper tissue. As she did so, Pettigrew noticed a nametag on her wrist. One of those yokes you get when you’re in hospital.

It was almost dark and Pettigrew was up to ninety. He slipped his mobile phone from his pocket, moved casually away from the old lady who was dressed for the middle of winter, and made the phone call. He then returned and sat down beside her once more.

“Do ye do crosswords?” Pettigrew enquired. “I do,” she said. “Here’s one for ye so. Postman’s bag.” “How many letters?” she asked. “Fuckin thousands,” said Pettigrew. The old lady laughed at Pettigrew’s joke.

In the distance Pettigrew could see the blue flashing light. “They’ve moved the barriers he thought. Here comes the meat wagon.” The ambulance came to a halt. Two men got out.

Pettigrew arose from the bench eager to explain. “Everything’s tickety boo,” he said, suggesting all was under control. “It’s the old lady, she’s dressed for the middle of winter, and she’s pushing a shopping trolley. She likes tea and sandwiches and she does crosswords.”

One of the attendants took Pettigrew gently by the arm. “That’s fine John,” he said. You hop in there and we’ll check the old lady. John Pettigrew climbed calmly into the ambulance and sat down. “Sure isn’t everything tickety boo,” he said.

As the ambulance pulled away, Pettigrew looked back at the lighthouse and at the bench where he had been sitting. But there was no trolley and no flask and no old lady who was dressed for the middle of winter.

Our judge for this short story competition was Kate Holmquist, who is a columnist and editor with ‘The Irish Times’. She has written two books, ‘A Good Daughter’ and ‘The Glass Room’.