The yellow overcoat

If you looked at a map it would take you two hours to locate Scree.

Small was not the word you use to describe the town, and neither was quaint. Perhaps desolate and lonely would be more fitting.

Sat in the foothills of the Scottish Highlands, Scree was the home for a population of 2500. The High street ran from the bridge over the River Tee, directly north to the top of Scree Hill, where the local police station watched over the empty store fronts and abandoned cars. To the East of the High street, residential homes littered the edges of the jigsaw road and sprawled out covering the mile of dry land before the River Tee curled round, her banks subsiding more each year, discouraging any further buildings to be built. On the west side, sitting in the shadow of Scree Hill, Scree School (which housed both the primary and secondary schools), a sixties built, concrete block of a building, crumbled and dropped tiles into the neighbouring industrial estate.

Where the bridge leapt over the river, like a wounded show pony, to the south, the A27 started the glorious journey out of Scree.

The only accommodation in Scree, aside from the pitiful houses the locals resided in, was a small, and regularly empty B&B at the south end of the Highstreet. Situated as such, to claw any tourists straight into its clutches as soon as they step foot over the bridge into Scree.

On this particular morning, like many other mornings, Scree B&B stood unoccupied by guests. School children ambled slowly over the Zebra crossing on the main street, flicking sleep from their eyes and tugging jackets over their uniform clad bodies as the first down pour of the morning splashed onto their shoulders. No child noticed the stranger, standing stock still on the bridge. The bright yellow overcoat the stranger wore, hid their eyes, and dangled midthigh, like a beacon calling people to look, to notice where they stood. A flashlight flickered from a right hand and a duffle bag swung from a left shoulder, and nobody saw the stranger on the bridge.

Despite the peculiar appearance of the stranger, the most peculiar aspect was that they seemed to be heading into Scree, rather than desperately trying to escape, as many locals often did.

For twenty minutes, the stranger stood, letting the fresh rainwater run down their jacket, dripping to the ground, joining the steady flow of water off the bridge and into the torrid depths of the river below.

In Scree B&B, Racheal, who had lived in the town since her birth twenty-five years previously, typed away at the small reception computer, setting up the register and opening the till. The job, she told herself, was just temporary. It was easy, due to the lack of customers, and paid just enough to help support her ill mother and save for her final escape. An escape, which would have to wait until her mother passed. And although it was a terrible thought for a daughter to think, she reckoned her mother’s death would come soon. She reckoned and perhaps, also hoped.

A small bell rang at the front door, and without looking up, Racheal called out.

“Morning Matt, no sheets for washing this week, but thanks for stopping by”. The reception fell silent again. A lack of response was never good, Racheal thought, Matt was chatty, he lived to talk. She glanced towards the door, and almost instinctively went to shield her eyes as she was met with the brightest yellow overcoat to grace the B&B.

“Oh, hello….” Racheal said, giving the stranger a good look up and down “..Umm would you like a towel to dry off?” The young girl watched as a tanned hand sprouted from the sleeve of the jacket, reached up and pulled down the hood, a spray of water landed on the reception carpet and joined the new damp spot caused by the guest.

“A towel would be great thanks, and a room for the night”. The stranger, Racheal pondered, was beautiful.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

She was about 5’10’’, probably Italian, strong and beautiful.

“Hello? Planet Earth to receptionist lady?” The stranger quipped.

“A towel” Racheal blurted.

“That is what you offered, but at this rate I might already be dried off”. It came out with a low, rumbling laugh, and the receptionist swooned, a blush creeping up her chest and onto her cheeks. She giggled somewhat unattractively, looked down at the desk and back up at the Italian.

“A towel, I can get you that, just give me a minute and I’ll be right back with one”.

Scurrying out from behind her desk, Racheal disappeared into a store closet, sighed deeply, smiled, and laughed at the irony of an out lesbian, standing in a closet, fangirling over a beautiful woman in the next room. Grabbing a fresh towel, she headed back in the direction of the front desk. The yellow jacket had been neatly folded, and placed on the far end of the desk, cautiously laid down to avoid soaking any of the tech or paperwork which littered the surface. Blushing an even deeper red, Racheal stood in the closet doorway, ogling the newcomer, who now stood in a fitted basketball jersey and was flicking through the scarcely used visitor book.

“Here you go” the receptionist called out, once her blushed had crept back down her cheeks. Trying to position her hands on the towel in the right way to ensure a brush of hands when she passed it across to the guest.

“Oh, thank you. My jacket can only take so much water and your town certainly seems to enjoy dropping it heavily on people” she bantered, reaching out for a towel, her soft hand grazing the edge of Racheal’s.

“Its Scree’s strange way of welcoming you into the town” she replied rather dreamily as her eyes lingered on the guests’ long fingers. That reply seemed to please the stranger, as she hummed contently for a minute, drying off her hair and face.

“The rain doesn’t feel almost as welcoming as you do”. Racheal gasped quietly, the gentle smirk on the tourists face quickly reignited the deep blush that had been simmering on her chest, erupting on her face.

“Well, when the guest is as pretty as you, welcoming you feels like the easiest thing in the world”.