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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.

Featured

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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 17/18

Days 17 and 18 – Writing exercise

On your 18th birthday celebration, eating out with parents and brothers and sisters, your youngest sister blurts, “You do know you’re adopted.”

…

I had always been last for everything.  I had three elder brothers and two elder sisters, and then there was me, tail end Charlie, my father called me, a name I didn’t quite understand.

I thought it was because there were six years between me and the older siblings.

My brothers went to the best school, all three excelling in their studies and after high school, college and university.  My sisters went to the same school my mother attended, and college, but then chose marriage and children over a career.

Me, I attended grade school, middle school, high school, and had moderate success, but there was never any suggestion that I go to college.

It seemed that as the last one, I had not inherited the smarts of my other siblings and that the farming job I had with the Renfrews, out on the road to Weston, was good enough.

I barely graduated high school, and was discouraged from going to the prom, perhaps because I did not have a girl I could ask, though I suspected my siblings had ruined any chance I might have had with the one I thought would agree.

It was what it was, though I could never understand why they apparently disliked me so much.  It was not overtime, but from about the time I turned ten, I began to notice a distinct separation, like I was not one of the family.

I didn’t complain. 

But now, school over and prom gone, it was my 18th birthday, and I was heading into town to the family party.  Not the lavish affairs that were thrown at the country club for my siblings, with practically the whole town attending, this was just a quiet meal.

Again, it wasn’t a big deal.  I heard my parents talking about it one night when they thought everyone had gone to bed or was away.

The hushed voices in the main room.

“It’s not as if we can’t afford it, and he is a member of this family.”

“And if your sister…”

“What?  Thrown herself at you, and you couldn’t…”

“I think I’ve more than made up for that indiscretion a hundred times over.”

“But it’s never been the same, second best, if he was lucky.”

“You know why.”

“Well, it’s wrong.”

“He’s lucky he has a home, people who care enough.  Your sister, God rest her soul, was never going to cope.  He’ll be moving on once Renfrew makes his job permanent, and that’ll be the end of it.  God knows we’ve paid him enough.”

It was a conversation that made no sense.  I had no idea that my mother had a sister, not one that was referred to in those terms. 

The Renfrews had always employed me on and on over the years, but I thought I had got that job on my own merits.  Perhaps then I hadn’t, but it was not a question I was going to ask

My father had been irritable of late and not well disposed towards me, and the siblings that remained at the home had taken less interest in me since the eldest John had got married and left to work in New York.

About the time he left, six years ago, things changed.  I had seriously believed that the family thought I had driven him away.  Certainly, on several occasions, by the youngest sister, she had insisted that I was causing unnecessary problems between ‘her’ parents.

Were they not mine too?

But the day arrived.  I was in town with one of the few friends I had from school, and had agreed to join them at a particular time.

When I got there, they had all arrived and had already ordered.  It was like they had decided that I was almost irrelevant.

At least there was a seat next to my mother. 

She seemed to be the only one who cared whether I was there.  The others were arguing over what they were getting and the merits of besting each other with the most expensive dishes.

I was never that lucky and rarely got to choose.  The others would say that, as the youngest, I should be having the children’s meal.  Even when I got older, it was a running joke, one that neither parent stopped.

But today I was 18.  At the same time, my older brother got the keys to a new car, and a wad of money.  The same sort of gifts flowed down through the others.

I had expected the same, but that morning, there was a card with seven names scrawled on it, without any well-wishes or anything.  There was definitely no money, and had I been expecting a pleasant surprise now, I honestly believed that that ship had sailed

Perhaps they no longer had the money, certainly they no longer bragged about how well off they were, and the last time John was home, I had heard him asking for money, and my father telling him things were tight.

So, no car and no money.  And by the look of it, no present.  Of course, when the food came out, I could see that no expense had been spared for them.

It was going to be just like I had been told it would.

…

A question that I never thought would enter my head when old man Renfrew handed me a small boat wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with common garden twine.

Underneath the twine was an envelope with my name on it and the words “For your 18th birthday”.  When I asked him who it was from, he simply said it was on the front porch when he came home.

That was two days before my birthday.

Inside the envelope was a card, but mysteriously, it didn’t say who it was from, and a letter in an envelope that looked quite old and yellowing at the edges.  My name was written on it in rather exquisite lettering, Aloysius Charles William Henry.

What did that mean?  Was my last name Henry?  I didn’t think so.

Under my name was, ‘Do not open this until after your 18th family birthday party’.

I was curious, and had I not exercised the patience my mother had tried to teach the rest of her children, I might have torn the envelope open in the hope of finding a large cash reward or a loaded credit card.

It’s what seemed to motivate the other siblings.

I guess inadvertently, my parents had taught me all the virtues of patience and no expectation, but by all the wrong methods.

I then asked Mrs Refrew, who was less grumpy than her husband, and I knew she recognised the writing, and quite possibly who it was from, but she said that the good Lord had his reasons, and patience was a virtue.

So, without the benefit of whatever sage advise or revelations that lay within that envelope, I went, with a promise to myself that I would not show any emotion because I had reached the conclusion that there was something in my past that had been covered up or omitted, and that best guess, my father or mother had had an affair and I was the product of it. 

It was the only explanation for my treatment over the years and the change in the way my siblings treated me, at least from six years ago.  That was when they must have told them, the last of their children turning 18.

The youngest sister, still unmarried and prone to having bad relationships and bouts of drug addiction, was currently clean and had been for nearly a year, and this party was more about her achievement than my birthday.

As a reward the had given her a multi-thousand-dollar gift card.  I had seen it as a put-down, and I think it was deliberate on her part just to put me in my place.  I simply smiled, which seemed to annoy her.

In her sickly sweet voice, she said, “I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday.”

“Every bit as much as your year of sobriety, Anna.  At least I won’t be having another 18th Birthday.”

OK.  I didn’t mean to be that harsh, but I was human after all.

The dulcet tones turned into her angry squeak.  “What do you mean by that?”

The table went quiet, and all eyes were on me.  I’d just attacked one of their own, and the pack mentality came out.  Hyenas circling the dying animal.

“Three times now.  And given your choice in bad boys, I expect we’ll be back here next year.  You’re only 18 once.  Thankfully.”

“You’re an ass, Charlie.  You do know you’re adopted and you’re not one of us.  You don’t even deserve to sit at this table.”

My so-called mother looked horrified.  My so-called father and the rest of them looked smug.

What were they expecting?  For me to turn into a blubbing mess so they could laugh at me.

“That was uncalled for, Anna.”

“It’s true.  Why did you bother wasting your time?  I hope he’s not getting anything in your wills.  He’s not even family.”

Then I saw something I had never seen before in my life.  My so-called mother was angry.

“It depends on your definition of family, and unfortunately, no one in this family ever taught you the meaning of it.”  She turned to her husband.  “You promised.”

“They deserved to know.”

“Do you remember what I said back when you made that promise?”

“God, woman, that was 18 years ago.  Who cares?”

“You will.  And every one of these spawn of the devil you’ve created.  You know who I am.  You know what I gave up.  Well, I suspected you had betrayed me, so I took the appropriate steps.”

She stood and looked down at me with moist eyes. She was genuinely ashamed.  “Charlie.  I’m sorry you had to find out this way.  I was going to tell you the truth tonight.  Well, it seems that time has arrived early.”  Then she looked around at the sea of astonished faces.  “In what you might all call a cruel twist of fate, you are all now going to pay for your father’s sins.  No more money, no more handouts.” Then to her husband.  “Start looking for a job.  You’re going to need one.”

“Seriously, Martha, all this over a bastard son of a prostitute?”

I saw a small shudder going through her and the clenching and unclenching of fists.  She was beyond angry now, and the look on her face was one of pure hatred and disgust.

“You forget one important detail.  She was a prostitute who had a three-hundred-million-dollar inheritance, which she left to me to look after her son.  You have all benefited.  I’m willing to bet he did not tell you about the conditions that came with the benefits.”

“Anna was the one who blabbed.  None of us.  We’re not at fault.”  John was in full panic mode, seeing his never-ending well dry up before his eyes.

She glared at him.  “You sat back and laughed along with the rest of them.  You are the eldest, supposed to set an example.  Of what, greed, and ambivalence.  All of you had a chance to prove yourselves, and you missed it.  One chance.  You are all cut off; there will be no inheritance.  Now, get out of my sight.”

Dinner half eaten, drinks about to be served, not one of the siblings wanted to irritate her more than they already had.  I suspect all of them believed, as they shuffled out, that things would be back to normal tomorrow.

My so-called father didn’t move.

Her eyes rested on him.  “You don’t mean any of that; it was just a wake-up call to what I admit have been a few annoying children.  But let’s face it, we both spoiled them.  It’s as much….”

She picked up her glass of wine and threw it at him, the wine not the glass.

“Rethink those words, Roger.  If that’s the defence you’re going with, you’re in big trouble.  Leave now before I pick up the phone and call my lawyers.”

He stood slowly.  “We can talk later.  How will you get home?”

“Charlie can take me.”

I could see his nose wrinkle at the thought of my so-called mother being seen in a ’60s Ford truck.

Another repentant look at her, he left, joining the others out on the pavement.  They hadn’t gone, still stunned from their mother’s outburst.

She sighed, then sat.

I was stunned, still trying to come to terms with what had been said.  Adopted.  My so-called mother had a sister worth 300 million.  How?  I was my mother’s sister’s child.  And something else I remembered, my father was my father in a weird twist of fate.

I was, in a sense, family.  But my aunt, who was my mother for all intents and purposes, hadn’t done a very good job.

…

It was five minutes, maybe more, before she spoke.  I think that at that time she ran through every scenario, and not one of them would suffice.

A sigh, then, “You should be angry.  I don’t think there’s anything I can say that you would believe just how sorry I am.  That’s on me.  I want to use the excuse that both my twin sister and I were stupid spoilt drug addled kids who honestly believed life had no consequences, that we could do whatever we liked. 

“I met your father, Susannah stole him, he dumped her and picked me, then shagged her anyway.  She got pregnant, couldn’t handle it, killed herself, and it was a miracle you survived.  We agreed to adopt you and call you our own.  After all, there was no difference between my sister and I.  I just went away with you for nine months, and everything was fine.

“My problem was in marrying your father; I had to forgo my inheritance.  I got an allowance, but I didn’t really care all that much about money, and let him manage it.  I had no idea how much he disadvantaged you to the benefit of the others, not until a year ago, with Anna and her endless visits to rehabilitation.  And all the money he’d poured into John’s black hole was caused by idiotic investments.  The others are not much better.

“I’m sorry you got nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It taught me lessons they will never get.  If you have nothing to start with, then every step up is appreciated all the more.  Perhaps the best birthday present was to see them finally look as scared as I have felt all my life.  It won’t hurt them, but It might be too late to make a point.”

“It’s never too late.  And the point will be made.  Did you get the box?”

“With a card and a letter?”

“Yes.  Did you read the letter?”

“No.  It said not to until after the party.”

“You have it?”

I took it out of my pocket and showed her.  I knew now who it was from.  My mother.  My real mother.

She took it with shaking hands and tears running down her cheeks.  There were eighteen years of pain etched on her face.

“I was there when you were born.  She had one last breath in her; as she breathed life into you, she exhaled her last.  I loved you like you were mine, until I got lost in a sea of self pity an post natal depression.  We were twins; I felt her pain, I felt everything that she would have felt.  I’m sorry I wasn’t made of stronger stuff.”

“I think I’ve always regarded you as my mother.  Though preferring the other five, well, that took a little understanding, of which in the end I had none.”

“I come from an era of women who preferred to hide behind their husbands.  It was drummed into us, but Anna was never going to be like that.  Still, that’s not an excuse.”  She handed the letter back.
You should read it now, then we can decide what to do.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Yes.”

…

If you are reading this, you will have just turned 18, a very important moment in your life.

If you have not been told, you will have been adopted by my twin sister, and she has promised me she will look after you better than I could.

I was not very good at managing anything.  Our lives were ruined from the start by parents who did not care at all what happened to us, that if they threw enough money at the problem, it would go away.

Money does not solve problems; it simply amplifies them into bigger problems.

I hope she has not gone down that path.  If she has, then I am sorry that I trusted her, that you did not get a life that was not as it should have been.

And if, on the other hand, she has managed to teach you the value of life, and more importantly, that it is family, those we choose and those we have to live with, and others who will have a guiding influence that will make us who we will become.

Given the five examples that constitute her current children, I’m not holding my breath that she will make a good fist of it.

Still, on my deathbed, I can only hope.  Perhaps there is some afterlife where I can come down and reprimand them if they falter.  You will be the judge of that.  Try not to be too critical.  Her upbringing, like mine, was terrible, and it’s hard to break out of a cycle you’ve known and been subject to for most of your life.

But, whatever the circumstances you find yourself in, if you are reading this letter, my sister has had the wherewithal to give it to you.  It means even if she is ashamed of what happened, it cannot be so bad that you might unequivocally hate her.

In the box is a key to a safety deposit box.  It is where your inheritance is.  The other key’s location can be obtained from the family lawyers, name and address with the key.  It can only be given to you, so you will have to undergo a DNA test and a few other identity tests that Freda will help you with.

What you do with your inheritance is up to you. I can only hope that you will not take a leaf out of my book and waste the opportunity to do some good, the good I realised far too late that I could have done.

Remember that I loved you then with all of my heart, and will to the end of tine.

Susannah.

…

“Were you that bad?”

“What did she say?”

“Your parents threw money at the problem, hoping it would go away.”

“Then yes.  I married your father to break that cycle and find some normality, but he was a poor fool who found himself in a world he couldn’t cope with.  My parents were right to disown me.”

“You had your sister’s fortune.”

“No.  We never mentioned that to him, only that she would provide a certain sum for your upbringing.  We had money, but that boost allowed helping to help indulge his children, where in the end they were no better off than my brothers and sisters were.  He wanted the life I hated.”

“And by a quirk of fate, you both brought me up the way in which mother had hoped you would, by a totally different method.  Resentment.  I have not once ever had to thought i could have anything I wanted, not like the others.  Cars, gift cards, credit cards with no limit, houses, and apartments.  None 9f them really work for a living, and I can’t see how they’re going to function.”

“They can come and see you for advice on how to live within their means.”

They were still outside the restaurant, trying to come to terms with what just happened.  They’d turned on Anna, then the father, then each other.

“Did you mean what you said to them?”

“Yes.  No more.”

“I don’t think they quite get that.  They’re still outside.”

She shrugged.  “Then it’s going to be a cold day in hell tomorrow.  We have a road trip.  New York.  I want to tell you everything about your mother before we go home, our home, where she came from, and where you will be welcomed.”

“How could that be possible?”

“That you will discover is the advantage of being a firstborn Rossiter.  My sister was born three minutes before me, and therefore, is the eldest child.  The eldest Rossiter then becomes the heir.  You were her first and eldest child, and therefore the current heir to the Rossiter legacy. 

“And you have a sister, something my husband never knew about, a twin sister.  The caretaker.  There is a world that my husband and my other children know nothing about because I was excommunicated. 

“Because now you are of age and can accept the inheritance, if you want to, of course, there’s no obligation; it has to be your choice, you can give me the chance to come back, but that too is only at your discretion, and I will understand if you rule against it.

“But its complicated and messy and swamped with rules and protocols and its the reason both my sister and I ran away. You might too when you discover the full extent of it.”

“I can make their lives easier,” I waved a hand in their direction.

“You could, but they never made it easy for you.  None of us did.  By choice or by ignorance.  That might never have changed if it had not been for Anna’s outburst.”

“But you said you were making changes.  That means you knew you were wrong and wanted to do something about it.”

“After 16 years of neglecting my sister’s wishes?”

I shrugged.  “We will have much to talk about.  Shall we go?  Out the back.  I had a feeling, one way or another, I would be slinking out of here.”

Good to see, also, it had started snowing.  It was the first of the season, and it meant Christmas was around the corner.  It might not be fun at home, but as a member of the town’s Christmas committee, the pageantry, the fete, the Christmas tree plot, and charity events always made it worthwhile.

Perhaps this year I could do more.

My mother, so-called, was my mother, good and bad.  She was the only mother I’d had, and I’d learned from school that it wasn’t always a luxury for all the kids there.

I gave her a hug, which surprised her, a hug that had every one of those 18 years her twin had been gone, but rather strangely was still with her in body and spirit.  I realised then I didn’t have to imagine the woman I had never met because she was the woman standing there in front of me.

It was the best and only present I could ever want for what was the most memorable and remarkable birthday of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

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

 Parisian Odyssey: Making Memories in 24 Hours at the Eiffel Tower
Subtitle: How to Craft an Unforgettable Day in the City of Light

Paris—the city where every cobbled street hums with history, every café table holds a story, and every landmark feels plucked from a dream. But when time is your most coveted luxury (and you’re stuck with just 24 hours), where do you begin? While the Louvre, Notre-Dame, and Montmartre all clamour for attention, there’s one icon that transcends mere sightseeing: the Eiffel Tower. More than a landmark, it’s the heartbeat of Paris. Here’s how to make your brief stopover a day you’ll remember forever.

Morning: Conquer the Iron Lady

Start your day early at the Eiffel Tower to avoid crowds. A pre-booked ticket to the top is non-negotiable—trust us, skipping the queue will save precious minutes. Ascend the 125 meters to the second floor for a panoramic view of the city: the Seine slicing through neighbourhoods, the distant dome of Sacré-Cœur, and the green sprawl of the Bois de Boulogne. If you’re energetic, the 164 steps to the first level (1,710 total to the top) are free, though the lift is worth it for efficiency.

Pro Tip: Grab a pastis or croissant from one of the restaurants on the first floor. It’s breakfast with a view!

Midday: Stroll the Champs-Élysées Backdrop

The Eiffel Tower isn’t an island—it’s a focal point for some of Paris’s most iconic scenery. Walk west toward the Champs-Élysées, a 1.2-mile boulevard that’s the epitome of Parisian glamour. Stop at the Arc de Triomphe for a photo (and climb for an even more divine view), then cruise past luxury shops like Dior and Louis Vuitton. You don’t need to spend a cent—just bask in the je ne sais quoi of Parisian elegance.

Unexpected Detour: Veer south to Trocadéro Gardens, a sprawling park with fountains and shaded paths. It’s a peaceful respite and the perfect spot to picnic with a baguette and fromage from a nearby market.

Afternoon: Seine Secrets and Hidden Gems

By 3 PM, head to the Seine River. The Eiffel Tower is visible from nearly every bridge here, but two spots are must-sees:

  1. Pont d’Iéna (military museum) for a photo-perfect view of the tower against the sunset.
  2. Rive Gauche Promenade for a leisurely walk past Left Bank cafés and the Institut de France.

If time allows, hop on a 1-hour Seine River cruise. As the boat glides past bridges and monuments, the Eiffel Tower will loom like a guardian, its silhouette contrasting with Haussmann-era architecture.

Evening: Twilight Magic and Farewell Glows

As dusk falls, make your way to Port de la Conférence (just south of the Eiffel Tower) or Pont National. Here, you’ll witness the tower’s daily ritual: a sparkling display every hour, where over 20,000 bulbs twinkle for five minutes. It’s romantic, awe-inspiring, and utterly unique to Paris.

Culinary Finale: Dine at a Seine-side restaurant like Le Jules Verne (inside the Eiffel Tower, reservations essential) or Café de l’Escargot for a jazz-tinged bistro vibe. Either way, you’ll cap off your day with the tower as your backdrop.

Why the Eiffel Tower?

In a day, you can’t do everything in Paris. You can’t visit every museum, every bakery, or every cabaret. But with the Eiffel Tower as your anchor, you’ll experience the city’s soul:

  • Iconic Energy: It’s the symbol of Paris you’ll recognise in movies, music, and literature.
  • Versatile Vibe: From bustling tourist hub to tranquil riverside retreat, it adapts to your dream.
  • Time Efficiency: Its centrality lets you explore adjacent neighbourhoods without exhausting yourself.

A 24-hour stopover is fleeting, but a day spent weaving through the Eiffel Tower’s orbit? That’s an hourglass filled with light, history, and memories.

Final Thought: Paris isn’t just seen—it’s felt. Choose the Eiffel Tower, and let it sweep you off your feet. After all, you’re not just visiting a city. You’re stepping into a masterpiece.

Bon voyage, and bon appétit! 🇫🇷

What I learned about writing – Writing, spelling, punctuation and style are acquired over time

It’s about writing English, the perfect words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the use and abuse of punctuation.

What is it that we are supposed to start learning seriously in Grade 3 or 4 when we are 8 or 9 years old, when there are far more interesting things to learn about?

Oh, and you start to write in ink, not those terrible biros that used to leak everywhere and smudge on the page, but a real pen, nib, and ink, with ink wells that an ink monitor would fill every Monday morning, and discover what the rodent children stuffed in them.

(Usually blotting paper).

I remember my first attempt was a disaster, and the teacher sent me back to writing in pencil.

Then there were the words, adjectives, adverbs, nouns, verbs, subjects, predicates, etc.

That was four words too many.

Then there were commas, full stops, semicolons, colons, exclamation marks, question marks and other things that I think I have forgotten about.

Then all those words are so confusing, they are spelled the same, spelt differently, but when pronounced, are exactly the same to the ear. Blue, blew, so, sow, you get the idea.

I’m with Truman Capote, I do not practise what I preach!

That’s called writing style, and yes, I spell the words correctly, I review and correct any grammar errors, and then have an editor tell me it all runs like a well-oiled machine.

But that has happened only after 50 years of practise!

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

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

One Day in London: Making the Most of Your Stopover

Are you lucky enough to have a one-day stopover in the vibrant city of London? With so much to see and do, it can be overwhelming to decide how to spend your limited time. As a seasoned traveller and blogger, I’m here to share with you the one place to visit that will make your day in London truly unforgettable: The British Museum.

Located in the heart of the city, the British Museum is one of the world’s greatest museums, housing a vast collection of artifacts from ancient civilisations. With a history spanning over 250 years, this iconic institution has something for everyone, from history buffs to curious travellers.

Why The British Museum?

  1. Unparalleled Collection: With over 8 million objects on display, the British Museum boasts an incredible collection of artifacts from around the globe, including the Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles, and the mummies in the Ancient Egypt gallery.
  2. Iconic Landmark: The museum’s stunning Greek Revival architecture is a work of art in itself, with its grand entrance, sweeping staircases, and beautiful courtyards.
  3. Free Admission: The British Museum offers free admission to all its permanent collections, making it an accessible and budget-friendly option for travellers.
  4. Central Location: The museum is conveniently located in Bloomsbury, within walking distance of several major tube stations, including Holborn, Russell Square, and Tottenham Court Road.

Must-See Exhibits

  1. The Rosetta Stone: This ancient Egyptian artifact is one of the museum’s most famous objects, and for good reason. The stone’s intricate hieroglyphics and Greek inscriptions helped scholars decipher the secrets of ancient Egyptian language.
  2. The Mummies: The British Museum’s Ancient Egypt gallery is home to an impressive collection of mummies, including the famous Gebelein Man, who is over 5,500 years old.
  3. The Elgin Marbles: These stunning marble sculptures from the Parthenon in Athens are a highlight of the museum’s Greek collection.

Tips for Visiting The British Museum

  1. Plan Your Visit: With so much to see, it’s essential to plan your visit in advance. Consider purchasing a guided tour or using the museum’s mobile app to navigate the collections.
  2. Arrive Early: Beat the crowds by arriving early, and take advantage of the museum’s peaceful morning atmosphere.
  3. Take a Break: The British Museum has several cafes and restaurants on site, offering a range of refreshments and meals. Take a break and recharge before continuing your exploration.

Conclusion

If you only have one day in London, make the most of it by visiting The British Museum. This world-class institution offers a unique and unforgettable experience, with its incredible collections, stunning architecture, and rich history. Whether you’re a history enthusiast, a curious traveller, or simply looking for a memorable experience, The British Museum is the perfect destination for your one-day stopover in London.

So, what are you waiting for? Book your ticket, grab your camera, and get ready to discover the wonders of The British Museum!

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 17/18

Days 17 and 18 – Writing exercise

On your 18th birthday celebration, eating out with parents and brothers and sisters, your youngest sister blurts, “You do know you’re adopted.”

…

I had always been last for everything.  I had three elder brothers and two elder sisters, and then there was me, tail end Charlie, my father called me, a name I didn’t quite understand.

I thought it was because there were six years between me and the older siblings.

My brothers went to the best school, all three excelling in their studies and after high school, college and university.  My sisters went to the same school my mother attended, and college, but then chose marriage and children over a career.

Me, I attended grade school, middle school, high school, and had moderate success, but there was never any suggestion that I go to college.

It seemed that as the last one, I had not inherited the smarts of my other siblings and that the farming job I had with the Renfrews, out on the road to Weston, was good enough.

I barely graduated high school, and was discouraged from going to the prom, perhaps because I did not have a girl I could ask, though I suspected my siblings had ruined any chance I might have had with the one I thought would agree.

It was what it was, though I could never understand why they apparently disliked me so much.  It was not overtime, but from about the time I turned ten, I began to notice a distinct separation, like I was not one of the family.

I didn’t complain. 

But now, school over and prom gone, it was my 18th birthday, and I was heading into town to the family party.  Not the lavish affairs that were thrown at the country club for my siblings, with practically the whole town attending, this was just a quiet meal.

Again, it wasn’t a big deal.  I heard my parents talking about it one night when they thought everyone had gone to bed or was away.

The hushed voices in the main room.

“It’s not as if we can’t afford it, and he is a member of this family.”

“And if your sister…”

“What?  Thrown herself at you, and you couldn’t…”

“I think I’ve more than made up for that indiscretion a hundred times over.”

“But it’s never been the same, second best, if he was lucky.”

“You know why.”

“Well, it’s wrong.”

“He’s lucky he has a home, people who care enough.  Your sister, God rest her soul, was never going to cope.  He’ll be moving on once Renfrew makes his job permanent, and that’ll be the end of it.  God knows we’ve paid him enough.”

It was a conversation that made no sense.  I had no idea that my mother had a sister, not one that was referred to in those terms. 

The Renfrews had always employed me on and on over the years, but I thought I had got that job on my own merits.  Perhaps then I hadn’t, but it was not a question I was going to ask

My father had been irritable of late and not well disposed towards me, and the siblings that remained at the home had taken less interest in me since the eldest John had got married and left to work in New York.

About the time he left, six years ago, things changed.  I had seriously believed that the family thought I had driven him away.  Certainly, on several occasions, by the youngest sister, she had insisted that I was causing unnecessary problems between ‘her’ parents.

Were they not mine too?

But the day arrived.  I was in town with one of the few friends I had from school, and had agreed to join them at a particular time.

When I got there, they had all arrived and had already ordered.  It was like they had decided that I was almost irrelevant.

At least there was a seat next to my mother. 

She seemed to be the only one who cared whether I was there.  The others were arguing over what they were getting and the merits of besting each other with the most expensive dishes.

I was never that lucky and rarely got to choose.  The others would say that, as the youngest, I should be having the children’s meal.  Even when I got older, it was a running joke, one that neither parent stopped.

But today I was 18.  At the same time, my older brother got the keys to a new car, and a wad of money.  The same sort of gifts flowed down through the others.

I had expected the same, but that morning, there was a card with seven names scrawled on it, without any well-wishes or anything.  There was definitely no money, and had I been expecting a pleasant surprise now, I honestly believed that that ship had sailed

Perhaps they no longer had the money, certainly they no longer bragged about how well off they were, and the last time John was home, I had heard him asking for money, and my father telling him things were tight.

So, no car and no money.  And by the look of it, no present.  Of course, when the food came out, I could see that no expense had been spared for them.

It was going to be just like I had been told it would.

…

A question that I never thought would enter my head when old man Renfrew handed me a small boat wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with common garden twine.

Underneath the twine was an envelope with my name on it and the words “For your 18th birthday”.  When I asked him who it was from, he simply said it was on the front porch when he came home.

That was two days before my birthday.

Inside the envelope was a card, but mysteriously, it didn’t say who it was from, and a letter in an envelope that looked quite old and yellowing at the edges.  My name was written on it in rather exquisite lettering, Aloysius Charles William Henry.

What did that mean?  Was my last name Henry?  I didn’t think so.

Under my name was, ‘Do not open this until after your 18th family birthday party’.

I was curious, and had I not exercised the patience my mother had tried to teach the rest of her children, I might have torn the envelope open in the hope of finding a large cash reward or a loaded credit card.

It’s what seemed to motivate the other siblings.

I guess inadvertently, my parents had taught me all the virtues of patience and no expectation, but by all the wrong methods.

I then asked Mrs Refrew, who was less grumpy than her husband, and I knew she recognised the writing, and quite possibly who it was from, but she said that the good Lord had his reasons, and patience was a virtue.

So, without the benefit of whatever sage advise or revelations that lay within that envelope, I went, with a promise to myself that I would not show any emotion because I had reached the conclusion that there was something in my past that had been covered up or omitted, and that best guess, my father or mother had had an affair and I was the product of it. 

It was the only explanation for my treatment over the years and the change in the way my siblings treated me, at least from six years ago.  That was when they must have told them, the last of their children turning 18.

The youngest sister, still unmarried and prone to having bad relationships and bouts of drug addiction, was currently clean and had been for nearly a year, and this party was more about her achievement than my birthday.

As a reward the had given her a multi-thousand-dollar gift card.  I had seen it as a put-down, and I think it was deliberate on her part just to put me in my place.  I simply smiled, which seemed to annoy her.

In her sickly sweet voice, she said, “I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday.”

“Every bit as much as your year of sobriety, Anna.  At least I won’t be having another 18th Birthday.”

OK.  I didn’t mean to be that harsh, but I was human after all.

The dulcet tones turned into her angry squeak.  “What do you mean by that?”

The table went quiet, and all eyes were on me.  I’d just attacked one of their own, and the pack mentality came out.  Hyenas circling the dying animal.

“Three times now.  And given your choice in bad boys, I expect we’ll be back here next year.  You’re only 18 once.  Thankfully.”

“You’re an ass, Charlie.  You do know you’re adopted and you’re not one of us.  You don’t even deserve to sit at this table.”

My so-called mother looked horrified.  My so-called father and the rest of them looked smug.

What were they expecting?  For me to turn into a blubbing mess so they could laugh at me.

“That was uncalled for, Anna.”

“It’s true.  Why did you bother wasting your time?  I hope he’s not getting anything in your wills.  He’s not even family.”

Then I saw something I had never seen before in my life.  My so-called mother was angry.

“It depends on your definition of family, and unfortunately, no one in this family ever taught you the meaning of it.”  She turned to her husband.  “You promised.”

“They deserved to know.”

“Do you remember what I said back when you made that promise?”

“God, woman, that was 18 years ago.  Who cares?”

“You will.  And every one of these spawn of the devil you’ve created.  You know who I am.  You know what I gave up.  Well, I suspected you had betrayed me, so I took the appropriate steps.”

She stood and looked down at me with moist eyes. She was genuinely ashamed.  “Charlie.  I’m sorry you had to find out this way.  I was going to tell you the truth tonight.  Well, it seems that time has arrived early.”  Then she looked around at the sea of astonished faces.  “In what you might all call a cruel twist of fate, you are all now going to pay for your father’s sins.  No more money, no more handouts.” Then to her husband.  “Start looking for a job.  You’re going to need one.”

“Seriously, Martha, all this over a bastard son of a prostitute?”

I saw a small shudder going through her and the clenching and unclenching of fists.  She was beyond angry now, and the look on her face was one of pure hatred and disgust.

“You forget one important detail.  She was a prostitute who had a three-hundred-million-dollar inheritance, which she left to me to look after her son.  You have all benefited.  I’m willing to bet he did not tell you about the conditions that came with the benefits.”

“Anna was the one who blabbed.  None of us.  We’re not at fault.”  John was in full panic mode, seeing his never-ending well dry up before his eyes.

She glared at him.  “You sat back and laughed along with the rest of them.  You are the eldest, supposed to set an example.  Of what, greed, and ambivalence.  All of you had a chance to prove yourselves, and you missed it.  One chance.  You are all cut off; there will be no inheritance.  Now, get out of my sight.”

Dinner half eaten, drinks about to be served, not one of the siblings wanted to irritate her more than they already had.  I suspect all of them believed, as they shuffled out, that things would be back to normal tomorrow.

My so-called father didn’t move.

Her eyes rested on him.  “You don’t mean any of that; it was just a wake-up call to what I admit have been a few annoying children.  But let’s face it, we both spoiled them.  It’s as much….”

She picked up her glass of wine and threw it at him, the wine not the glass.

“Rethink those words, Roger.  If that’s the defence you’re going with, you’re in big trouble.  Leave now before I pick up the phone and call my lawyers.”

He stood slowly.  “We can talk later.  How will you get home?”

“Charlie can take me.”

I could see his nose wrinkle at the thought of my so-called mother being seen in a ’60s Ford truck.

Another repentant look at her, he left, joining the others out on the pavement.  They hadn’t gone, still stunned from their mother’s outburst.

She sighed, then sat.

I was stunned, still trying to come to terms with what had been said.  Adopted.  My so-called mother had a sister worth 300 million.  How?  I was my mother’s sister’s child.  And something else I remembered, my father was my father in a weird twist of fate.

I was, in a sense, family.  But my aunt, who was my mother for all intents and purposes, hadn’t done a very good job.

…

It was five minutes, maybe more, before she spoke.  I think that at that time she ran through every scenario, and not one of them would suffice.

A sigh, then, “You should be angry.  I don’t think there’s anything I can say that you would believe just how sorry I am.  That’s on me.  I want to use the excuse that both my twin sister and I were stupid spoilt drug addled kids who honestly believed life had no consequences, that we could do whatever we liked. 

“I met your father, Susannah stole him, he dumped her and picked me, then shagged her anyway.  She got pregnant, couldn’t handle it, killed herself, and it was a miracle you survived.  We agreed to adopt you and call you our own.  After all, there was no difference between my sister and I.  I just went away with you for nine months, and everything was fine.

“My problem was in marrying your father; I had to forgo my inheritance.  I got an allowance, but I didn’t really care all that much about money, and let him manage it.  I had no idea how much he disadvantaged you to the benefit of the others, not until a year ago, with Anna and her endless visits to rehabilitation.  And all the money he’d poured into John’s black hole was caused by idiotic investments.  The others are not much better.

“I’m sorry you got nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It taught me lessons they will never get.  If you have nothing to start with, then every step up is appreciated all the more.  Perhaps the best birthday present was to see them finally look as scared as I have felt all my life.  It won’t hurt them, but It might be too late to make a point.”

“It’s never too late.  And the point will be made.  Did you get the box?”

“With a card and a letter?”

“Yes.  Did you read the letter?”

“No.  It said not to until after the party.”

“You have it?”

I took it out of my pocket and showed her.  I knew now who it was from.  My mother.  My real mother.

She took it with shaking hands and tears running down her cheeks.  There were eighteen years of pain etched on her face.

“I was there when you were born.  She had one last breath in her; as she breathed life into you, she exhaled her last.  I loved you like you were mine, until I got lost in a sea of self pity an post natal depression.  We were twins; I felt her pain, I felt everything that she would have felt.  I’m sorry I wasn’t made of stronger stuff.”

“I think I’ve always regarded you as my mother.  Though preferring the other five, well, that took a little understanding, of which in the end I had none.”

“I come from an era of women who preferred to hide behind their husbands.  It was drummed into us, but Anna was never going to be like that.  Still, that’s not an excuse.”  She handed the letter back.
You should read it now, then we can decide what to do.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Yes.”

…

If you are reading this, you will have just turned 18, a very important moment in your life.

If you have not been told, you will have been adopted by my twin sister, and she has promised me she will look after you better than I could.

I was not very good at managing anything.  Our lives were ruined from the start by parents who did not care at all what happened to us, that if they threw enough money at the problem, it would go away.

Money does not solve problems; it simply amplifies them into bigger problems.

I hope she has not gone down that path.  If she has, then I am sorry that I trusted her, that you did not get a life that was not as it should have been.

And if, on the other hand, she has managed to teach you the value of life, and more importantly, that it is family, those we choose and those we have to live with, and others who will have a guiding influence that will make us who we will become.

Given the five examples that constitute her current children, I’m not holding my breath that she will make a good fist of it.

Still, on my deathbed, I can only hope.  Perhaps there is some afterlife where I can come down and reprimand them if they falter.  You will be the judge of that.  Try not to be too critical.  Her upbringing, like mine, was terrible, and it’s hard to break out of a cycle you’ve known and been subject to for most of your life.

But, whatever the circumstances you find yourself in, if you are reading this letter, my sister has had the wherewithal to give it to you.  It means even if she is ashamed of what happened, it cannot be so bad that you might unequivocally hate her.

In the box is a key to a safety deposit box.  It is where your inheritance is.  The other key’s location can be obtained from the family lawyers, name and address with the key.  It can only be given to you, so you will have to undergo a DNA test and a few other identity tests that Freda will help you with.

What you do with your inheritance is up to you. I can only hope that you will not take a leaf out of my book and waste the opportunity to do some good, the good I realised far too late that I could have done.

Remember that I loved you then with all of my heart, and will to the end of tine.

Susannah.

…

“Were you that bad?”

“What did she say?”

“Your parents threw money at the problem, hoping it would go away.”

“Then yes.  I married your father to break that cycle and find some normality, but he was a poor fool who found himself in a world he couldn’t cope with.  My parents were right to disown me.”

“You had your sister’s fortune.”

“No.  We never mentioned that to him, only that she would provide a certain sum for your upbringing.  We had money, but that boost allowed helping to help indulge his children, where in the end they were no better off than my brothers and sisters were.  He wanted the life I hated.”

“And by a quirk of fate, you both brought me up the way in which mother had hoped you would, by a totally different method.  Resentment.  I have not once ever had to thought i could have anything I wanted, not like the others.  Cars, gift cards, credit cards with no limit, houses, and apartments.  None 9f them really work for a living, and I can’t see how they’re going to function.”

“They can come and see you for advice on how to live within their means.”

They were still outside the restaurant, trying to come to terms with what just happened.  They’d turned on Anna, then the father, then each other.

“Did you mean what you said to them?”

“Yes.  No more.”

“I don’t think they quite get that.  They’re still outside.”

She shrugged.  “Then it’s going to be a cold day in hell tomorrow.  We have a road trip.  New York.  I want to tell you everything about your mother before we go home, our home, where she came from, and where you will be welcomed.”

“How could that be possible?”

“That you will discover is the advantage of being a firstborn Rossiter.  My sister was born three minutes before me, and therefore, is the eldest child.  The eldest Rossiter then becomes the heir.  You were her first and eldest child, and therefore the current heir to the Rossiter legacy. 

“And you have a sister, something my husband never knew about, a twin sister.  The caretaker.  There is a world that my husband and my other children know nothing about because I was excommunicated. 

“Because now you are of age and can accept the inheritance, if you want to, of course, there’s no obligation; it has to be your choice, you can give me the chance to come back, but that too is only at your discretion, and I will understand if you rule against it.

“But its complicated and messy and swamped with rules and protocols and its the reason both my sister and I ran away. You might too when you discover the full extent of it.”

“I can make their lives easier,” I waved a hand in their direction.

“You could, but they never made it easy for you.  None of us did.  By choice or by ignorance.  That might never have changed if it had not been for Anna’s outburst.”

“But you said you were making changes.  That means you knew you were wrong and wanted to do something about it.”

“After 16 years of neglecting my sister’s wishes?”

I shrugged.  “We will have much to talk about.  Shall we go?  Out the back.  I had a feeling, one way or another, I would be slinking out of here.”

Good to see, also, it had started snowing.  It was the first of the season, and it meant Christmas was around the corner.  It might not be fun at home, but as a member of the town’s Christmas committee, the pageantry, the fete, the Christmas tree plot, and charity events always made it worthwhile.

Perhaps this year I could do more.

My mother, so-called, was my mother, good and bad.  She was the only mother I’d had, and I’d learned from school that it wasn’t always a luxury for all the kids there.

I gave her a hug, which surprised her, a hug that had every one of those 18 years her twin had been gone, but rather strangely was still with her in body and spirit.  I realised then I didn’t have to imagine the woman I had never met because she was the woman standing there in front of me.

It was the best and only present I could ever want for what was the most memorable and remarkable birthday of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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In a word: Pilot

Everyone knows the man or woman in the left seat up the front of the airplane, is the person we entrust with our lives the moment we get into the air. It is usually an airplane, but it can also be a balloon, or a helicopter.

There are some who still say, if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings. Still, it’s quicker to fly sometimes, than drive, and I’ve always had the desire to learn to fly a plane but just never got around to it.

A pilot doesn’t have to be in charge of a plane, he or she can also be in charge of a ship, generally when they arrive at a port and have specific navigational information getting the ship to the berth.

Of course, it can apply to anyone who is steering the ship.

And it can also mean to guide, people through a difficult phase, a forest, or a hike.

First episode, when a TV show is commissioned the first episode is always called a pilot. It’s used to test the audience’s reaction, and sometimes it still amazes me what succeeds and what fails. It seems my favourite shows generally last only one season.

There’s a pilot light, which is a small continuous fire, used to ignite a larger one.

A pilot program is one that is rolled out to a few people as a test before introducing it on a much larger scale. I used to use these when creating teaching programs for computer skills.

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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