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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

If I only had one day to stop over in – Bratislava – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Bratislava? Spend It at the Castle – And You’ll Never Forget It

If you’ve only 24 hours in Slovakia’s capital, there’s one spot that does it all: Bratislava Castle. From sweeping Danube vistas and a dash of medieval intrigue to cozy cafés and instant photo ops, the castle compresses the city’s soul into a single, unforgettable experience.

Why the Castle Wins the “One‑Place” Crown

What You’ll GetHow It Fits a One‑Day Itinerary
Panoramic Views – A 360° sweep of the Old Town, the Danube, and the distant foothills of the Carpathians.You can see the whole city without hopping on a bus.
History in a Nutshell – From Great Moravian roots to Habsburg splendor, the castle’s museums condense centuries into one hour.No need to chase multiple museums; the core story is right there.
Photo‑Ready Backdrops – Fairy‑tale towers, a red‑brick façade, and the river below.Instagram‑ready shots in minutes, not hours.
Café Culture – A charming terrace café serving Slovak pastries and a glass of locally‑bought borovička (juniper schnapps).Perfect for a quick bite or a leisurely coffee while you soak up the view.
Easy Access – A short, scenic walk or a quick tram ride from the train station or airport.No logistics nightmare—just step out and arrive.

How to Make the Most of Your Castle Visit

1. Get There Stress‑Free

  • From the Airport: Take the bus 61 (≈ 15 min) to the city centre, then hop on tram 9 (one stop to “Hlavná”). Walk up the gentle hill – the castle looms ahead.
  • From the Train Station (Železná stanica): Tram 9 or 10 drops you at “Hlavná”; the castle sits a 5‑minute uphill stroll away.
  • Tip: Buy a 24‑hour public‑transport ticket (€4.20) – it covers trams, buses, and the funicular if you decide to ride up.

2. Time‑Slot the Visit

Time of DayWhy It Works
Morning (9:00‑11:00) – Fewer crowds, soft light for photos.Ideal if you’re catching an early train or flight.
Mid‑day (12:00‑14:00) – Café open, perfect for a leisurely brunch after a walk.Great for “foodie + view” combo.
Late Afternoon (16:00‑18:00) – Golden hour casts a magical glow over the Danube.Best for dramatic sunset shots.

Pro tip: The castle’s interior museum closes at 17:00 (last entry 16:30). If you want to peek inside, aim for the early‑afternoon slot.

3. The “Must‑Do” Inside the Walls

  1. Quick Museum Tour (45 min) – The Slovak National Museum’s exhibition showcases royal artifacts, medieval armours, and a replica of the 1848 revolutionary flag.
  2. Staircase to the Terrace (5 min) – Ascend the iconic stone staircase; it’s a photo‑op in itself.
  3. Terrace Café (30 min) – Order a trdelník (cinnamon‑sugar‑coated pastry) and a cup of Slovak coffee. Sip, savour, and watch boats drift by on the Danube.
  4. Panorama Shot – Snap the cityscape from the highest viewpoint; the Old Town’s red roofs against the river look spectacular both day and night.

4. Extend the Magic (If You Have a Few Extra Minutes)

  • Roman Remains: At the castle’s base, you’ll find a small archaeological site with Roman bricks—an unexpected glimpse into ancient Pannonia.
  • Green Belt Walk: A short stroll along the Vazovské Mesto park leads you to the UFO Observation Deck on the SNP Bridge for an alternate sky‑high view (optional, but worth it if you have 20 extra minutes).

What to Pack for a One‑Day Castle Adventure

ItemReason
Comfortable walking shoesThe hill is a gentle incline, but cobblestones can be slippery.
Light jacketEven summer evenings get breezy over the Danube.
Reusable water bottleStay hydrated, especially if you’re exploring on foot.
Portable chargerYou’ll be snapping photos and using maps.
Cash (Euro)Small cafés and souvenir stalls often prefer cash.

A Sample 8‑Hour Stopover Itinerary

TimeActivity
08:00Arrive at Bratislava Airport / train station
08:15Buy a 24‑hr transport ticket; board bus 61 / tram 9
09:00Arrive at Bratislava Castle – start museum tour
10:00Climb to the terrace, grab a coffee & trdelník
11:00Walk down to Old Town (just 5 min) – brief photo stop at Michael’s Gate
12:00Lunch at Koliba Bratislavská (traditional Slovak cuisine)
13:30Return to the castle for a second look or relax in the park
15:00Depart for airport / station (allow 45 min for travel)
16:00Flight/train onward – memory of the castle fresh in your mind!

Feel free to swap lunch for a quick bite on the terrace; the castle’s café is perfect for a light meal.

Final Thought: The Castle as a Micro‑City

A single landmark can never replace a full‑day wander, but Bratislava Castle packs history, culture, cuisine, and a panoramic postcard‑ready view into one compact, accessible spot. It’s the perfect “anchor” for a brief stopover, letting you leave the capital with a vivid mental picture—and a handful of stunning photos—rather than a vague sense of “I was there”.

So next time your flight schedule gives you a layover in Bratislava, skip the endless list of “must‑see” spots and head straight to the castle. Trust us: one day, one place, one unforgettable memory.

Want More Stopover Tips?

  • Subscribe to my newsletter for weekly city‑break itineraries.
  • Download my free “One‑Day European Capitals” PDF checklist.
  • Follow me on Instagram @TravelWith[YourName] for daily visual inspiration.

Safe travels, and may your balcony view of Bratislava’s skyline be as spectacular as the city itself! 🚂✈️🗺️

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 265

Day 265 – Writing Exercise

…

I was in the middle of a dream, or at least I think I was, because my imagination had turned me into a knight in shining armour, just about to save the damsel in distress, when there was a strange sound.

I’m sure they did not have cell phones back in the Middle Ages.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at the clock.  8 AM.  Then I saw the cell phone, screen lit up and vibrating. Normally I turned it off.

I picked it up.

Gran.  My grandmother, the nice one whose bright and cheery manner never quite made it to my mother, was calling.

“Gran, what’s up?”

“Sam.  You sound like you’re still asleep.”

“I am.  What’s up?  What’s my mother done now?”

Gran only called me when one of two things happened.  Her daughter had disappointed her again, or she needed my help.  I did say she could call me at any time.

“I’ve had a slight accident, and they took me to the hospital.  It’s just for a few days, then I must go home.  I called your mother, but she’s too busy.  As usual.  Can you…”

“Of course.  Let me square things away with the Uni, and I’ll be on the next plane out.”

“I don’t want to drag you away from your studies.”

“You won’t be dragging me, or if you are, it’s because I want to be.  The going is getting tough, but I don’t think I’m tough enough to get going, or whatever the saying is.  It’s not a problem.  I’ve been thinking of tossing it in; this will give me some thinking time.  I’ll call you when I get to Idaho.  OK”

“Very good.  Thank you, Sam.”

“Not a problem.  If I had chucked it in, I was going to come out anyway.  I doubt whether I’d be welcome back home.”

“Probably not.”  I heard voices in the background.  Then, “Got to go, the doctors are here.”

I put the phone back on the table.

There was movement on the other side of the bed. “Who dares call you at this hour?”

Erica.  The girl of my dreams, the damsel in distress.

Then I remembered.  The scene in the bar.  Trading punches, then being thrown out onto the street by two very big security staff members.

I didn’t start it, but Roger, a fellow student who had more money than sense, was treating his girlfriend, as it happens the very same girl I would like to have as a girlfriend, very badly.

And I got the impression she needed to be saved.

Silly me.

Except, a few minutes later the same security men threw her out too, though with slightly less vigour.  By that time, I had managed to sit up.

In the gutter.

Not exactly where I could make a good impression, but the fact I had defended her when no one else did earned me a few brownie points.

Then reality hit. She stayed.

“My grandmother.  She’s just been taken to hospital, and … oh, shit.”

I just managed to spark up a relationship with the girl of my dreams, and now, when I should be consolidating my good fortune, I was going to have to leave her.

By the time I got back, she would have forgotten me.

“You have to go.  I’m guessing her daughter, your mother, is too busy to look after her.  Or any of her other children.  You’re the last port of call?”

“I am.  But…”

“You want to stay here with me.  First night, and all that.  I can see your grandmother means a great deal to you.”

“So do you.”

“I can see that too, now.”  She took my hand in hers.  “Maybe I can come with you.  I’m sure they’ll let me take some time off.  My parents are too busy making my brother the focal point of our family to care what I do.  And you won’t be there forever.  Or maybe you will.  So, we can both go.  It’ll give Roger a chance to get over what he’s just lost and give me a chance to see who you really are.”

“Are you sure?  It’s Idaho, nothing like Philly.  Everyone knows everyone else and their business.”

“You can take me horse riding.”

That was an odd thing to say.

“If you want to.  Not exactly what I envisioned as a second date.”

“Then I won’t tell you just yet what I have in mind for the third.”

….

When I finally got to look back, as one does when they get old enough to reflect on what most people called ‘the good old days’, I would get to say that morning was when I fell completely and utterly in love with Erica.

Not that I hadn’t before that, but up till that moment it was, I thought, unrequited.

It took another hour before we got out of bed, then another two to get tickets on the first plane out, and pack.  We called at her lodging, where it took her 10 minutes to throw what she needed in a case.

By the time we got to the airport, we both had switched from on-campus to off-campus

At the airport, we discovered there were no direct flights from Philadelphia to Boise, and we had to go via Denver, where we would have a three-hour stopover.  It meant we wouldn’t get to Boise before 6 pm.  Interestingly, she would not let me pay for her ticket.

I had always assumed she came from the Philadelphia area, and it was a shock to be told, right after the airplane levelled out, that she came from Denver.  The very airport we would be at for the layover.

Or fortuitous.  She had called her family while in the boarding lounge and tried to arrange a meeting, telling them she was travelling for business and had about an hour or so to meet up.

Judging by her expression at the end of the call, it wasn’t very successful.

Over coffee, she gave me the family story.  She came from a large family; they had a farm, and it had been in the family for six generations, with the original family coming from England.  It had been handed down to the eldest son, all of whom were given the same name, and the families in turn all had between eight and twelve children, and over time spread over the country, and some returning to England and others to Australia.

She had four older brothers and three older sisters.  She was the baby.  Jake was the eldest, and he was the one everyone fussed over.  She had left home in disgust when they refused to buy her a car as they had for the other seven.  She had secretly applied for a place at Penn and got it.  They didn’t even seem to care when she walked out the front door with her suitcase, nor did they offer to take her to the railway station.

And there was a whole lot more to the story.

By the time we reached Denver, I hated her family as much as she did, and it surprised me that she had asked them to come and see her at the airport.

…

Harbouring fears that they would lose our luggage, and lamenting the fact that I should have just put what I needed in a carry-on, we went into the terminal and headed for a place to eat.  The food on the plane was ordinary.

Halfway through what was supposed to be chicken and something in a sandwich, a voice behind us yelled out, “Erica?”

Half the terminal heard her, and when we turned, we were getting the same looks of disapproval she was getting from what was obviously her sister.  They looked almost like twins.

“Rachael.”

She stood just in time to catch a very exuberant sister in a hug.  A hug that told me she was missed by at least one person in her family.

“Where are the others?”

“Jake won a trophy for something, and there’s a celebration at home.  A hundred freeloaders looking for free beer and lunch.”

“Of course, anything else is more important.”

When she let her sister go, she noticed me.  I was trying to blend into the background.  It didn’t work.

“Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend.”

“I thought that was some rich guy, Robery, or Jonus or something.”

“Yesterday’s news, Rachael.”

She looked at me.  “I’m Rachael, Erica’s big sister.  Cause her trouble, you will become my enemy, and you don’t want me as an enemy.”

Erica whacked her on the arm.  “Shut up, Rachael.  I don’t need you to fight my battles.  Apologise.”

She just looked sullen.  Then changed the subject.  “You should have come home.”

“That isn’t home.  Not anymore.  I walked out that door, and no one, not even you, came after me.”

“They regretted it.”

“No.  They regret having me.  Or anyone else other than Jake the Magnificent.  Bastard.”

She went back to her chicken sandwich, virtually snubbing her sister.  Rachael came over to the chair next to me and sat.

“She hates us.” She said to no one in particular.

“After what she told me about the family, I’m not surprised.”

“What do you do?”

“Learn.  I’m at the university where your sister studies.”

“You go to university?”

Erica looked at her.  “I told you and them a dozen times, and no one listened.”

“Because you’re supposed to do the right thing.  Mom had a nice boy picked out, and you would have been great together.”

“Richard?  He was as dumb as dogshit, Rachael.”

“Can’t be that dumb if he inherited the Camford farm, and just about everything else in town.”

Erica just shook her head.  “He told me if I went away to go to the university, we were done.  I’m not going to be one of those dumb wives who dote on their husband, have kids, and wither away into oblivion.  Look at Margaret.  She’s an alcoholic, bored out of her brain.  She can’t even look after one child, left alone with six.  It’s just madness.”

“It’s not like that.”

Erica shrugged.  “It is, and nothing will change.  Who has Mom saddled you with?”

“No one yet.  Maybe I’ll leave too and come and join you in Philadelphia.”

“Maybe you should.”

…

From there, the conversation veered into family territory, stuff I knew nothing about, and they only remembered I was there when the announcement was made for our connecting flight to Boise.

Rachael asked why she was going there, but Erica ignored her.  She simply said to say ‘hi’ to the others and that they might make a better effort to come and see her on the way back.

Then, after a hug and a wave, we were heading to the plane.

The second leg was mostly in silence.  I was not sure if it was the disappointment of only her sister coming to see her, or the fact that her brother had stolen all the limelight, or if she thought it was a mistake to even ask them to come.

I knew families were the biggest problems anyone had, because they just didn’t go away, and you couldn’t really escape them.  Work, bad boyfriends, and just about anything else could be managed, one way or another.  Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters couldn’t.

I did say that maybe there would be a change of heart when she returned, but I doubt she wanted or needed to hear that.

…

Given the time difference between Philly and Idaho, we arrived in Boise after the sun had gone down, what little of it there was, and looking out the window of the plane, it looked bitter and miserable outside.  Maybe snow was coming.  We got our bags, collected the rental, a large SUV, and headed straight to the hospital.

We would see my grandmother first, then get to the hotel.  The nurse on the floor gave us a short rundown: she had seen the doctor, got the diagnosis, a dislocation rather than a broken bone, and been patched up.  It amused me when the nurse said she was feisty for an eighty-year-old, which told me she had a lot of fight left in her.

Last time my mother mentioned her, she had told me she was practically at death’s door, old and feeble, and should be in an old folks’ home.  I knew what my grandmother’s views on that happening.  None.

When we quietly entered the room, she looked as though she was asleep.  The nurse had brought in another chair, and we sat.  I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “I’m here, Gran.”

She opened her eyes and smiled.  “With a friend, I see.”

She never missed anything, eyes and ears as sharp as ever.

Erica came over.

“Gran, this is Erica.  She decided she wanted to see Idaho; why, I’ll never know, but I’m glad she came.”

“Mrs Macreadie.  Sam has told me a great deal about you.”

“Hopefully all good.  The bad, I’m sorry to say, landed in his mother, but let’s not dwell on that.  You are very welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“How long is the prison sentence?” I asked her.

Gran had this way of categorising her hospital visits as prison sentences because it was almost like being locked up.

“They’re sending me home tomorrow.  Bad sprain.  Got to be more careful getting down the stairs.”

“I have an idea about that.  We’ll talk about it later.  I’m so pleased that you are not at death’s door; otherwise, I would have to contend with my mother.”

“You might have to, yet.  She’s threatening to come and sort out my affairs.  Apparently I can’t do anything myself.  I rang to tell her not to worry, but I think that’s rallied her to the siblings’ cause, that I should not be on my own.  I told her you were coming to look after me after I asked her to do just that, and she said she was too busy.  What does that woman do all day that she is that busy?”

“Marshalling the neighbours, running her morning teas and lunches, and being the busybody in chief.  And moulding my sisters in her image.”  I shook my head. 

“Well, hopefully she won’t come, and I won’t have to find your grandfather’s blunderbuss.”

That was a surprise.  It would have to be an antique.

“Does he have one?”

“And an armoury down in the basement.  You might what to have a poke around this visit.  There are all sorts of stuff down there, and you might be able to start writing that family history you keep promising me.”

“I might just do that.  Since you seem to be OK, I can stop panicking, and we can go to the hotel, get a bite to eat, and then come back.  If that’s OK.”

“I’m just glad there’s one person in the family who thinks I’m important.  That’s fine.  Bring your friend back, and we’ll talk.”

…

By the time we got to the room and noticed we had an excellent view of a car park, I felt exhausted.  Except for airport fast food and a sandwich on the plane, we hadn’t eaten much.

The hotel restaurant wasn’t accepting new diners, so the concierge sent us to a small Italian trattoria where he said to mention his name, and that the food was to die for.

It was.

But aside from the food, it was more about Erica, who had slowly morphed into someone completely different and made the whole experience, given the circumstances, beyond anything I could have expected or even hoped for.  Her melancholy on the flight from Denver to Boise had gone the instant she saw my grandmother.

And over dinner, the conversation flowed, with the help of some very nice red wine.

We dodged the relationship question, or the instant decision to come with a total stranger to see an equally strange grandmother.  In my mind I wondered if she had considered if I might be an axe murderer, because she had put a lot of trust in me having a good character.

I asked earlier if she wanted a separate room, but she reminded me there was no point being coy anymore.  Last night and this morning were proof enough to her that I was, so far, trustworthy.

Over the three courses, she explained more about her family life, how she was the forgotten child, how her brother sucked all the energy out of every room he walked into, how he was going to save the world.  It was a similar story, a bit like my own, only it was about following tradition, and I didn’t; therefore, I became the black sheep.

Time passed like an invisible enemy in the night, and it seemed everything was taking twice as long.  Checking in, sorting out a problem with the room, finding somewhere to eat, and then the slow service at the restaurant.  Any other time it wouldn’t matter, but today, it was difficult.  It was just before the end of visiting hours when I got back, and they let me in only because I was family.

She was reading a book when we came in and put it down.

“I hope you got something to eat.”

“We did.  Exquisite Italian.  Not that I would know, after the family didn’t take me to Italy with them.”

Erica was surprised.  There was a lot more that was shocking, but I wasn’t going to cast doubts in her mind over dodgy parents.

“They left you behind,” she asked.

“Have done so since I was thirteen.  I always stay with Gran.”

“We make bets about what places they are going to post on Instagram.  You’re better off not going to all the expensive and crowded tourist spots.  You can do it later, and I’ll tell you where to go. Bob, your grandfather and I used to take a villa overlooking the Mediterranean for the summer and spoil our children.  None of them appreciated anything.” She looked at Erica.  “Does your family go on holidays?”

“Never left America, and rarely outside the state.  I’m one of the few that had ventured further afield.  We have a Christmas reunion, and Thanksgiving when everyone comes, all forty or so.  It’s horrible.  I’d love to travel, one day.”

“How long have you known this rascal?”

Erica looked at me, and I gave a little shrug, meant to convey, answer truthfully.  Gran could see through the disingenuousness.

“Together like this, a day, but in wistful thinking time, about a year.  He has always fascinated me.”

“How?”  It was out before I could stop it.  “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.  You don’t have to tell me or anyone anything.”

“I know, but I will anyway.  You seem to put everyone else first before yourself, trying to help.  One day it might get you hurt.”

“Roger was being a prat.”

“You didn’t have to try and punch his lights out.”

“I did.”

“Promise me you’ll think twice before you do it again.”

“Sorry, in defending your honour, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Erica sighed.  “Of course you would.”  She looked at Gran.  “Is he always like this?”

“He will protect the people he cares about, an admirable quality he inherited from his grandfather.  The only one of all the grandchildren I might add.”

My cell phone, sitting on the bedside table, started vibrating, and when I looked at it, the name “Mom” was displayed.

Gran saw it too.

“You’d better answer it.  She’ll just keep ringing.”

I picked up, answered and put her on speaker so we could all hear.

“Hello, Mom.  Isn’t it past your bedtime?”  She never answered her phone when I rang after six, and she rarely called me at all, unless it was for something, though not so much since I moved to Philadelphia for University.

“Have you seen your grandmother yet?”

I hadn’t told her I was going, but she probably guessed Gran would call me.

“What makes you think I would be?”

“Sam, don’t be obtuse.”

“Hello, Gwendoline,” Gran said.  “I thought you were too busy to be bothered about me.”

“That’s not what I said.  I said I had a situation to deal with that could not be postponed.  How are you?”

“Nothing but a sprain.  I promised the doctors I’ll be more careful.”

“You should not be rattling around in that huge mausoleum on your own.  Jack and I have been discussing what we think will be best for you.  This accident had only reinforced what we were talking about a couple of months back.”

“Packing me off to an old folk’s home to die?  Not going to happen.”

“Joan and William both agree.”

“They just want money to finance their extravagances, Gwen.  You not so much, but I know your business is not faring well now.  Don’t for a moment think I don’t know what your ulterior motives are.”

“We are very concerned.”

“Don’t be.  Sam is here, and we are interviewing for a live-in nurse and housekeeper, and Sam and I are going to move my bedroom downstairs.  I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.  You do not need to worry about me.”

“Just the same, I’m coming out to stay for a few days, and we can talk about it.”

“You don’t have to, Mom; I’ve got everything under control.”

“You?  You couldn’t organise getting yourself to high school.  No.  I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.  What are you doing there? Aren’t you supposed to be at university?”

“Unlike you, some things are more important than others.  And since you’re not paying the bill, it’s none of your business what I do.  Now, it’s time for Gran to get her rest.  We have a long drive tomorrow.  Goodnight.”

I hung up.

“There’s something else,” Gran said.  “Gwen would never waste her time coming out here just to have me thrown into palliative care.”

“You know?”

“I have a good idea, but you’re right.  I need my rest.  I’ll see both of you tomorrow; it will, as you say, be a long drive.”

…

I do not know why, but perhaps it was the driving, and the necessity to concentrate on the road, but my mind was not quite monitoring everything else.  I knew in the back, both Erica and Gran were having a grand old time talking about anything and everything.

Perhaps if I had been more attentive, I would have listened in and learned a great deal about a girl I really didn’t know much about at all.  Apart from her maybe thinking I was an axe murderer, perhaps she was one.

But not knowing was supposed to be one of those things that slowly unwound itself over the coming years as your love for each other grew.  I like surprises as much as anyone, but there were some that were best left in the box.

Which is why I had to wonder why my thoughts at that moment focused on Gran’s sister, and as it happens, her identical twin.  There was that story, known to all but never repeated, that both girls were working night shift at their local diner when a movie talent scout came in for coffee.

When Gran came out, she served him, and after a while he started asking questions.  It seemed he thought she could become an actress, a star.  I’d seen pictures of the two of them from back then, and they were both incredibly beautiful.

Gran said she would be interested.  He went away, and she heard no more about it.  She told her sister, and she thought it odd.  They were not the sort of girl talent scouts usually looked for.  Of course she would know, because she bought every movie magazine there was, and went to the movies every week.

As much as would have it, the talent scout returned, but this time it was Guinevere, Gran’s twin on service, and because he couldn’t tell the difference, offered her the chance.  Guinevere told no one, packed her bag and left the next day

Gran never forgave her.  Or at least I believed she never had, because she never mentioned her, and we never saw our great aunt.

Not unless it was in the headlines, the social pages or in a B-grade movie.  She just didn’t quite have the talent to match the beauty, but she had done very well out of it.  Daughter of a car salesman makes good. 

Gran, of course, met the son of the car salesman who was also a car salesman, one who had a very large company with car yards all over three states.  Until my uncle Ben took over.  The less said about that, the better.

But it must have been how the sunlight shone on Gran’s profile that in that instant made her look just like her sister, and how they both had looked in their younger days.  It was a subject I dared not ask about, but I was intensely interested in the cars, the people, and life, particularly during and just after the war.

But then there was Guinevere.  Why did my mind switch to her?  I had met her once, at my grandfather’s funeral.  She had come in what she thought was a disguise, but I could see through it in an instant.  She was skulking in the distance, watching on, afraid to be seen.  It was where I learned about the ongoing feud between the sisters, and the reason why no one ever mentioned her.

It was not the fact that she had taken the opportunity; Gran was the sensible one who would not have seen the purpose or practicality of it.  She would have discovered just how hit-and-miss acting could be, and how hard it would have been.

Gran was practical, another trait that didn’t reach her children, and if anything, all of them were more like their great aunt.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I liked her.

It was a fleeting moment, a fond memory, and it took another half hour off the two-hour drive to Fairfield, and eventually, the mausoleum my mother couldn’t wait to escape.

…

About five minutes away from finally getting home, Gran shivered.  I could see her expression change, and it was like something medical had happened.

Erica saw it.  “Are you alright?”

She sighed, then gave a wan smile.  “Yes.  It was one of those moments, like you walk over someone’s grave.  I had it once before, when my twin sister was brutally attacked, many, many years ago.  Since I haven’t seen her for so long, I could not imagine anything happening to her.  She should have died, but just came back, bigger and better.  As she always did.”

There was no malice in her tone, which was surprising.  Some things could never be laid to rest, not even after all these years.

I couldn’t explain the expression on Erica’s face, but I suspect learning Gran had a twin was just another revelation on top of a hundred others.  Perhaps she was starting to wonder what she had got herself in for.

Then, just before turning into the property, we all saw it—a 1935 Rolls-Royce 20/25 Grand Tourer.

Gran said it first.  “No wonder I’m shuddering.  It’s Guinevere.  That’s the car our father bought her as a wedding present.”

“Guinevere?  Why would she come here, of all places?  Last I read, she was languishing in a celebrity home for old actors, or something like that,” I said.

“Guinevere never languishes, Sam.  She commands.  Damn her.”

I stopped beside the Rolls Royce and switched off the engine.  After a long and tiring drive, I took a moment before getting out, envisioning the spectacle we were about to be afforded.

By the time we reached the front door, the sight that met us was as if a mirror had been placed there.  Identical twins, right down to the hairstyle and expression.  There were a hundred questions, or statements, I would have delivered before the one Gran delivered.

“So that bad feeling I just got wasn’t you dying a quick and simple death?”

“Nice to see you, sis.  No, it was me that had the bad feeling yesterday, and it scared the living hell out of me.  Thank God it was only a small sprain.”

“Why are you here?”

“This thing we have has gone on long enough.  I had apologised a thousand times; you would not have taken the opportunity. I did and made the mess of my life you would have it if you’d gone.”

“I would not have accepted.”

“You don’t know that.  Walter Benson had embarrassed you, and as I recall, you wanted to be anywhere but home.  You would not have survived.”

“And you could?”

“You know just how mean and ornery I could be, and it felt good punching Walter”

I knew I got that from somewhere.  My Great Aunt.  From what I read, Walter was not the first person she hit.  And it was somewhat surreal seeing the two of them toe to toe, one inside, one outside, each with the same heated expression.

“You done telling me what to do?”

“I was first, you know, therefore your elder.  It’s my job.  That and protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, especially from you.”

“You do.  Your Gwendoline will be here tomorrow, and you need to be ready for her.”

They stared at each other across the threshold, seemingly oblivious to Erica or me.

“I can handle her.”

“No, not this time.  I made a mistake.  I gave an interview, having been flattered by a well-known but scheming journalist.  I didn’t tell her, but she knew about the trust.”

A complete change of expression and manner.  “How?”

“I thought I’d been careful.  Apparently not careful enough.  Anyone with a little knowledge could have uncovered it, but it would take extra knowledge to link it to us.  Apparently, Gwen was only too happy to oblige.  It’s called chequebook journalism.”

Gran sighed.  “Alright, stop blocking the door, and let me get settled.  Then you can tell me how you screwed up.  Again.”

…

In my experience, secrets never remain secret for very long.  My sister was a case in point.  She swore on a stack of Bibles she could keep a secret.  I trusted her, and then she blabbed.  After that, I never trusted anyone fully again. 

Our house had a plethora of secrets: the affairs my father had, the girls my older brother got pregnant, the relationship my sister had with her teacher, and don’t get me started on my mother.  I made a promise to myself on my thirteenth birthday that I would never tell anyone anything I learned or was trusted with as a secret.

It didn’t earn me any respect, and it certainly made me an outcast in my own family.  It was why I escaped to go to the university in Pennsylvania.  It was just far enough away from my parents that they wouldn’t land on my doorstep, and I need not worry about my siblings; they care only about themselves.

As for Erica, this whole trip was unwinding like a bad family movie that had everything, with more twists and turns than a best-selling novel.  All we needed was a murder to turn it into fodder for a Hallmark Mystery.

“Your family is far more interesting than mine.  Just having a living, breathing B-grade Hollywood actress who went through the golden years is just mind-blowing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and alcohol.  She did have to perform.”  And then, after saying it, realised what could be misconstrued.

That story came after a few revelations that I didn’t know about, and which Gran had hidden very well from everyone.  She was not the lonely, tired, old lady one step from a retirement home.  She was very wealthy, if not reclusive, and an active philanthropist.  Or, if her sister was telling the truth, they both were custodians of a trust set up by their father to look after his legacy.  It was not about spending his fortune frivolously but keeping up the good work he started and finding the next generation to keep it going.  That, apparently, wasn’t going to be Gran’s children, or Guinevere’s children.  They were alternately branded as parasites and pathetic excuses for human beings.

It pained me to hear the demolition of my parents and their children, thankfully excluding me, and the children, all ten of them, and her ex-husbands.

And the jewel in the crown of everything they owned, houses, apartments, shopping malls, was the motor vehicle museum in Pasadena, with about a hundred vintage vehicles dating from 1924, built up by grandfather and his father before him.  Cars that were rented for special events, cars that were used in historical movies.  They even had the car, or one exactly like it, that Bogart used in The Maltese Falcon.

My mother knew about some investments.  She knew Gran could not live the way she did in the house that had been in the family for a long, long time.  She did not know about the rest until the publication of the article last week.

But that was the least of the revelations.  The biggest:  that my mother had been calling Guinevere and tried to make use of the funds by asking Guinevere for a loan, a loan she said would be repaid ten times over.  When Guinevere asked her why she hadn’t asked her mother, she simply said all her mother had was the house, and she had apparently had it appraised, and it wasn’t worth much.  She said she was putting up a few million towards a sure thing Jasper had learned about from his friend at school.  He was a computer whiz and had created an app that played the stock market, and the testing had been fantastic.  Returns in two weeks, double in two months, and over time, a small fortune.

It was a bestseller.  They went to market to a large Fortune 500 company but wanted to buy it outright for peanuts, so they decided to market it themselves.  They just needed the seed money.  This was a year ago.  Ten million.  Chump change, Jasper called it.

Guinevere said she would go fifty-fifty; Mom had to put in five.  I knew they didn’t have it, and so did Guinevere.  She had risked a second mortgage on the family home.  Times were tough; sales were slow. The app made money, but nothing like the returns that were promised, and now the company was filing for Chapter 11, and the sure thing was no longer a sure thing.

Had they asked me, I would have said no.  I’m sure Dad would have too.  Now it made sense why she was coming home to see Gran.  In any other circumstances, my mother would never visit other than for Christmas and Thanksgiving.

“Money changes people, Erica,” I said.  “My parents have always traded on appearances, which is why I don’t fit the mould.”

“And yet here we are.  Are you sure you didn’t know any of this?”

“As I sit here, and if you get me a bible, I’ll swear on it.  You said you knew me.  I am that person.  I tell the truth.  Gran would punish me if I didn’t.  The last thing I want is their money, because it makes you responsible for something, and it adds all the worry of looking after it.  I figure if you have nothing, then no one can take it away from you.”

‘We’ve never had money.  I worked long and hard, earning enough to get me to university, and still worked to get by.  I figure if I get a good job, I might be able to travel for a year or so and then worry about the rest of my life.”

“Boyfriends?”

She smiled.  “I have one now.”  She took my hand.  “I don’t regret coming, and I certainly don’t regret being with you.  I’ve been treated better in the last two days than all the time I was with Roger.  He had money, a lot of it, and it changed him.  I can see now he thought he was better than everyone else, an attitude handed to him by his parents.”

“Well, when you see mine tomorrow, you might change your mind.”

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow.  Why did Guinevere put us in separate rooms?”

That was a question I didn’t have an answer for, but perhaps it was not so strange that they were interconnecting rooms.

…

When I woke up two mornings ago and answered the phone, there was no way I could have known that my whole life was about to undergo a radical change.  Not that I knew it two days later when, for the third morning in a row, I woke up next to the most amazing woman, the one.

The moment I woke up that morning, I knew. 

I didn’t know exactly how she felt, but the fact she had not packed her bag and left told me there was room for hope.

That morning was given over to a leisurely breakfast/lunch where everything was on the table for conversation, where stories were told, some true, some not so true, but it didn’t matter; what did was the fractured relationship between two sisters who clearly loved each other more than anything but had not the courage to be the first to let go of a silly feud.

They were as one.  They finished each other’s sentences; they had the same taste in food and clothes, but not men.  Only their father could tell them apart, and they used to torment their mother mercilessly.

Listening to it all, I believed I had found the reason for my discontentment at university.  I was not cut out to be an accountant, a dreary CPA like my father and brothers.  I wanted to be a journalist, a writer, someone who wrote down or wrote about the travails of my great-aunt’s life.  It was a mesmerising story, and as the time neared for my mother’s arrival, Guinevere asked, “You should be doing a course in literature, journalism, or writing, because I can see you’d make a great writer.  In fact, how would you like to write my biography?  Just think about it.  We’ll talk more before I go.”

Then the transformation began, and Guinevere became Gran, and when my mother knocked on the door, it was like watching a Hollywood movie, starting at the door, and ending when my mother walked into the lounge room and saw Gran sitting in her chair. 

It was, as Guinevere said it would be, a fait accompli.

…

Two years later, we were all at the launch of “Larger than Life”, a biography of Guinevere Macreadie.  It had just been released, and it was an instant best seller. 

I was not surprised.  I wrote it, with a lot of help. Guinevere was right.  I was a writer, and as it happened, a good one.  Or so the editor said, and who was I to argue?

My wife was standing beside me in the most amazing gown, something Guinevere had an old friend, a Hollywood dressmaker from the golden years, ‘run up’.  She had just been given the news; we were having twins.  Girls.  No problems with the names; they would inherit their great-grandmother and her twin sister’s names.

Of course, true to our family ‘tradition ’, no event could ever run quite to script. 

Erica’s brother Jasper staggered into the room, drunk, and told everyone that his sister was ruining his wedding.  It was the first time she had heard about it.

I just heard her mutter, “Family!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

“One Last Look”: nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate: after Ben told his wife, Charlotte, he would be home late one night, he left early and, by chance, discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 53

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

I thanked the CCTV operator and left with Joanne to go back to the third floor and Monica’s office.  Joanne had called her the moment we made the discovery, and she was there to make sure I made it.

It was a passing thought I leave, but I would not get past the soldier at the front door.

We waited for a few minutes in the outer office where an efficient personal assistant was typing faster than I could think.

A buzzing sound broke the steady keyboard sounds, and she said we could go in.

I could imagine another page and a half being entered in the time it took for us to get from the chairs to the door.

Inside, the office had wooden panelling, shelves lined with books, a minibar, benchtops covered in trinkets picked up in many travels, and strategically placed in a corner, four chairs and a coffee table.

Monica was sitting on one, and she motioned for us to sit in two others.

Was a fourth person expected?

If there was we were not waiting for them.  As soon as I was seated, she asked, “What did you find?”

She already knew, via Joanne, but perhaps this was a test.

“There were two people at the café, or perhaps one, the intermediary that O’Connell was looking for inside, and another nearby, like out the back of the café.

“I’d been too wrapped up in surviving the aftermath of the bomb to see O’Connell head for an alley near the café.  I thought it might be to check on the intermediary, but apparently, it was to meet someone else who obviously survived.”

“Anna Jacovich.”

Of course, Joanne had briefed her.  No secrets among friends.

“What do we know about her?”

Joanne answered that one, “She’s a fugitive, and Interpol is looking for her, as are the local police.”

“And she’s here?”

“If she hasn’t run.  A bomb nearby can do that.  She has to know people are out there actively trying to kill her like they did her husband.”

“He originally created the USB?”

“It looks like it.  And my guess, Dobbin was using O’Connell to act as a journalist and buy the information off her before it went to the highest bidder.  If we were to throw hypotheses out there, it’s not a stretch to believe Severin and Maury, as Westcott and Salvin, supposedly ex-department, were charged to get inside the lab and investigate the data breach, found out who it was, followed them here, and then set up an off-book surveillance group to watch the players culminating in the botched operation I was just on.  Severin wasn’t working for Dobbin but someone else, which means someone else in this department has an active interest in the breach, and who was running his or her own operation.  That wouldn’t be you would it?”

“That would be someone in a corner office.  I can barely see daylight here.  In other words, not high enough up in the food chain.  Like you, I’m staggering around in the dark.  Dobbin has a corner office.”

“Who’s in charge of matters concerning biological weapons?”

“The MOD.  Not us.”

“But you have experts.  You must come across credible threats from time to time, and I doubt you just hand it over.”

“We’re supposed to.  There is a chain of command you know.  It’s not like the movies.”

The way this operation had been running, that was exactly what I thought.

“That’s what I think I know.  Still no indication O’Connell is alive, but I suspect Dobbin does know, and just not telling.  Might also know where he is.  Perhaps while I’m trying to find him, you go over Dobbin’s head and find out.”

“Easier said than done.  You need help?”

“No.  Everyone I work with has their own axe to grind, so I’m better off alone.”

“That Jan woman?”

“Especially her.”

“OK.  Keep me, via Joanne, informed.  If you need anything, tell Joanne.”

Meeting over.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 18

Can we say, full steam ahead?

…

The captain and the Chief Engineer were a team. I was on the outside, and I doubted being temporarily being promoted would change that.

And while it might not hamper the running of the ship, there might be pushback on some of my decisions, so it was going to be important to have his support.

But it was time to bring up the reason for my visit. “The Admiral said we have a faster ship than most of us were aware of.”

“Project Alpha. It was need to know, as you can understand.”

“Who exactly is aware of the fact?”

“Three engineers. The captain, the navigator, helmsman, and six engine specialists. Van was going to tell you before the general announcement in a day or so once we’ve gone through the preparations before a short test.”

“It didn’t happen in the trials before the handover?”

“It did, but it was not the resounding success we were expecting. It’s the reason for the delay in departure.”

And the reason I was on the ship at all. Had the ship left when it was.intended, I would have still been on the moon base waiting for transport. The fact I made it at all was all down to fate. Which, for once, was on my side.

“You were on board for the trials?”

“As was Van. You would gave been,too, if you hadn’t got stuck at the moon base.”

“The problem, if it was it was problem, I assume has been fixed?”

“Let’s hope so. We’re going to need it, if what I hear is true.”

“Last question, when?”

“By the time you get back to the bridge. We’ll need to have another talk later.”

“Of course.”

There were so many questions the chief engineer, and obviously the captains best friend certainly on-board the ship, didn’t ask, starting with information on the alien.

I suspect he already knew as much about the alien ship as he needed.

Back on the bridge it was hard to tell whether anything was happening. Unlike a freighter where there was no more than three present any one time, out of a crew of about twenty. Here, there was about twenty or so, each quietly monitoring systems.

The second now first officer .jumped out of the captains chair the moment he heard the elevator doors open.

“No change, still on course for Uranus.thw two shipyard still there, effectively in our path, no sign of the other ship, but we believed it is cloaked, or at the very least, obscured from our scanners.”

“Very good.”

I took the.few.steps.to the navigation console.where.i could see our trajectory, and.the planet Uranus which intersected.our path.

“Mr Saville.”

He preferred being called by name, not rank.

“Sir?”

“I assume you’re across Project Alpha?”

“Yes.” He had a quizzical expression, that said, how do you know about it?

“Stand by, were about to see if it works this time.”

Quizzical expression to total concentration. I saw him enter code, and the console change to a different screen.

As I turned to return to the captains seat, not that I felt like sitting in it, I saw a message flashing at the top of his screen, “System awaiting command”.

Umpteen billions worth of research, technology, and man power was sitting on the end of a green button that had the word “go” on it.

We were according to my console, sitting on an SSPD of 3.25. It was close to the tip speed I knew we were capable of, and just under cruise.

I sat. A short announcement. I was not sure what to expect when we moved to a higher speed, but I was guessing it would be similar to what it was like now, a gradual increase in speed, to the maximum.

We’d soon find out.

“Attention all personnel. We are about to run a test on our propulsion unit.”

“Mr Saville.”

“Sir.” He turned to look at me.

“It’s the moment of truth. Let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: Hotels versus the rest

Leave, Vacation, or Holiday – don’t you deserve a break?

Some people we know have come up for a holiday in what could be described as a very touristy location.

But is it for a ‘holiday’?

They have come from one state and are staying in what could be called an apartment, not a hotel.  They are here for a week.

So, they have a kitchen of sorts and can cook their own meals, unlike staying in a hotel room and having to eat out or in the hotel restaurant, and the apartment has a mini laundry.

How much different is this to being at home?

Perhaps we need to have a definition of the word ‘holiday’ and its variations.  A lot of people’s use the term ‘vacation’.  Others use the term ‘leave’.  Leave’s a difficult term because it can cover a number of types such as annual, sick, and maternity.

But whatever we want to call it, is it when you’re taking some time away from work.

Is it when you go ‘away’, that is to say anywhere but home?

You say, ‘I’m going on vacation.”

We say, “Oh, where are you going?”

Some say camping.  Is that any different than staying in an apartment, or even a holiday house?  Still all the same chores, cooking, cleaning, washing.

Is this why so many people are now going on cruises and hotels are so full these days.

There will always those who will go camping and stay is self-serve places like apartments, but for me, a holiday is staying in a five-star hotel where the only worry is where the nearest dry cleaner is.

 

 

 

What I learned about writing – Not to use Figures of Speech

I found this explanation on the internet for what figures of speech are: ‘a word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for rhetorical or vivid effect.’

We as writers should not use these in our writing because most people might not understand their use.  I think it sometimes adds a degree of whimsy to the story.

I remember some years ago when I was working with a Russian chap who’d not been in the country very long, and though he had a reasonable use of English, he was not quite up with our figures of speech.

And made me realise when he kept asking me what they meant, just how many I used in everyday use.

Most of these figures of speech use descriptions that do not necessarily match the word being described, such as ‘I dance like I have two left feet’.

And that pretty much sums up how good I can dance.  But …

‘Like a bat out of hell’, not sure how this got into the vernacular

‘Like a bull in a China shop’, describes a toddler let loose

‘More front than Myers’, as my mother used to say, but in context, Myers is the Australian version of the English Selfridges or Harrods or Paris Galleries Lafayette.  It refers to the width of the street frontage of the stores

‘As mad as a hatter’, though not necessarily of the millinery kind, but, well, you can guess

‘As nutty as a fruitcake’, provided your fruitcake has nuts in it

You can see, if you get the references, they are somewhat apt, and, yes, they sometimes creep into my stories.