Whisky Galore and a Reluctant Racer
Whisky Galore and a Reluctant Racer Stanley is standing next to the horse holding the reins in his right hand with all the horse’s luggage and feed piled nearby. His wife, Clare, is standing next to him although by no means still as she is clearly agitated. Mr Wagstaff’s brother is leaving, travelling slowly down the road in his four by four pulling his old, dilapidated horse box, his right arm extended out of the window attempting a goodbye gesture that lacks sincerity. Clare is wearing a dubious expression, the sort full of a thousand apposite questions which she is striving to arrange in a coherent order before enunciating the most important. She opened her mouth intending to speak, a frozen moment when just her jaw moved. She then turned and moved towards the open front door, slowly at first and then with increasing velocity until inside. Then she slammed the door shut. Not much had been said except, “What’s that?” to which Stanley had replied, “I think it’s a horse, at least...