The fog rolled in overnight. It had settled around the treetops before I went to bed, but it silently crept through the bare branches until it covered the roads, the fields and the river. I left the house before dawn and entered the oblivion of the day.
I pressed on towards the Thames, coughing as the freezing air caught in my lungs. The path seemed longer than I had remembered and although the density of the fog was unexpected, it was not unwanted, and I wrapped my knitted scarf more tightly around my neck and covered my mouth with it in an effort to stifle the sudden loud coughs that could give me away.
As I reached the riverbank, the sun rose just enough and began to burn off the fog; the river came into view with the bluish shadows of the trees on the bank opposite. Snapshots of the tree’s reflections shimmered in an iridescent steel grey in the river and undulated slightly with the movement of the current.
I waited in the silence and listened.
In the freezing fog, the silence was broken by the snap of the odd branch or a catch of heavy breathing. I was not alone.
My scarf had slipped down and as I stood still, waiting for the inevitable, I pushed the loose hair that had escaped from my heavy coat out of my face. The stray strands had crystalised and crunched in my fingers; I realised that my breath caught on the ends; it must have been below freezing. In one way or another, I could die by this bank and in the short time I waited, the sun rose further and illuminated the white fog and myself in my black coat. Steam rose off of the river and created a haze in which it would be easy to disappear.
Two geese emerged from the fog and waddled close to my feet. I coughed into my scarf startling them into flight over the river honking as they drove their wings into the mist. I sidled down the bank towards the mooring, slipping on the icy grass and geese droppings until I reached the short dock. I pulled the leather gloves from my hands and stuffed them into my pockets. The rowboat was exactly where I thought it would be and I reached down to untie the rope from the post, but I stopped just before I touched it. A spider’s web, large and complex, formed a triangle between the post and the rope, heavily frozen white lace. It was beautiful. Delicate and perfect, nature’s tatting. I peered closer into the boat and in the corners and between the seats, frosted spider’s webs decorated the crevices like wedding finery. Though the sun was rising, the fog still hung heavy and the footsteps echoed closer and closer. I pulled the rope and released it from the post shattering the spider’s web.
I tip-toed across the wooden planks of the dock and eased myself into the rowboat sliding into the middle and held on to the sides briefly for balance. I removed one of the oars and pushed it against the dock and drifted towards the middle of the river and under the low-lying fog just as I heard a voice say, ‘I can’t see her.’
I fixed the oar into place and as noiselessly as possible; I removed the other oar locked it in and let the oars dip into the water. I pulled gently, lining the boat up with the shadows of the trees that I could now see lined both banks. The skin of my hands stuck to the oars and I wished I had put my gloves back on but there was no time to stop now. The winter sun rose fast, and I could see the fog in the distance dissipating. Despite the promise of the warmth of the sun, my fingers were so cold that the first two on each hand ached with stabbing pains so sharp I wondered if I would be able to keep up the pace as I closed them more tightly around the oar and pulled. Ignoring the pain, I manoeuvred the boat into the current as I had been taught and the boat moved faster and faster as I rowed.
Two swans escorted me briefly, gliding next to the boat, balanced and pure like some divine symbol of protection sent aid and abet my escape, as I tried to vanish along the steaming foggy river. On the bank were two figures, one with a rifle raised towards the river and the boat. A shot rang out. One of the swans faltered, let out a painful yelp and lost its balance. It was a crime to kill a swan, but I did not think they cared about the law. I gripped the oars harder, my fingers now blue, and rowed harder leaving the other swan to swim around its dying mate.
From the bank, the voices argued and grew distant. The dying swan had bought me some time and as I passed under the old stone bridge, I disappeared.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 