Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I took a moment longer to study the differences in the maps, trying to see what our edge was.
“So, according to this map, Alex would be looking for a stretch of shore with two rivers going inland, which you say are no longer there.”
“I do because they’re not. Well, they’re not visible these days from the seaward side, and not really visible from shore either because I think one of the two might have started where the mini marina is.”
The mini marina wasn’t as marina as such, rather an area of seawater surrounded by a promenade with a bridge over the entrance from the ocean, and a lot of expensive Italian tiles. It was part of the redevelopment of the old marina when the shopping mall had been built.
“Wasn’t that the old marina, which was part of the old navy yard for PT boats?”
Everyone knew the potted history of the town and the navy yard that put it briefly on the map. There had been an inlet where a marina was built in the early days. Then with war looming, the navy was looking for a place to build PT boats, carry out repairs to medium-sized warships, and train PT crews.
“One and the same. There’s very little in the archives about what happened back then, but I did manage to find a document, mentioned in my father’s notebook, about the navy set up a base. Attached to it was a geological report that stated two facts, the first, they would be building over a watercourse which at the time was believed to be underground, and secondly, deep foundations would be required. In the event all of it was ignored, they built the port and it was operational up until the end of the war.”
After which as everyone knew they shut the facility down, put up fences and signs with the words hazardous and dangerous, and trespassers would be shot, and it sat there like a festering eyesore until a plan was mooted to turn the site into a mall.
It was a favorite place for us children to go and play, having the fearless mentality that every child was born with. Yes, there were hazards on the grounds, in for form of rusting metal and hundreds of barrels holding what must have been hazardous material, but best of all, there were two nearly intact boats moored there, and I remembered being captain at least once on a vessel that had taken on everything the enemy had.
“And then they built a mall.”
He nodded. “My father always said that it was doomed to failure. There’s a section in his notebook about an earlier plan to rebuild the marina with facilities to repair those new larger ocean-going yachts that proliferate in Bermuda and places like that, only he couldn’t find anyone to back the project. The Benderby’s at the time didn’t like the idea, and since they basically owned the town nothing was going to happen without their approval.”
The mall, however, was something the Benderby’s could get their hooks into, in the building of it, then a slice of every business that moved in. It would also be good for employment, and people employed mean customers for their other criminal activities. Deals were made with the Cossatino’s and everyone was happy. For a few years anyway.
That’s when a newspaper expose on the mall was published.
Exposes were never plucked out of thin air and presented, there had to be a catalyst. There had been allegations of corruption regarding all aspects of the mall, from planning through the opening day, and especially in the building. Allegations of payoffs to get approvals, substandard materials used, and the worst allegation, that the builder had not properly cleaned up the site before building commenced.
All of this came to a head when, not long after the tenth anniversary of opening, large cracks started to appear in the floors and walls, so bad that nearly half the mall, that part that had been built over the old navy base, had to be closed, and now was in danger of collapse.
The mini marina, the focal point for the mall, had also been closed because the pool had become polluted from the old navy base waste that had been improperly disposed of in the foundations rather than being properly removed and stored in a special dump. But there had also been other problems like excess water continuously flooding the lower level carparks, and flowing into the sea pool making it unusable, and at times, very smelly.
Boggs’s father had discovered at the same time as his research for the treasure maps, that the water came from the underground river that had been mentioned in the geological report made before the naval base had been built. Just because it hadn’t been there at the time, didn’t mean it wasn’t there at all. It just depended on rainfall back up in the hills, and the year the problems started for the mall coincided with the wettest period for the area in more than 50 years.
His father’s notebook was a goldmine of information, Boggs said.
“It appears there was a lake right where the map says it was, about a hundred years ago. Since then an earthquake caused a fault line that drained the lake and makes a river instead. That river ran from the hills to the sea. Until someone decided to build on the old lake, raised the level and piped the river underground, and drawing from it for the towns and sounding areas water supply. That in effect reduced the water flow from the lake to the sea to a trickle, or rather a stream.
“But every now and then when it rains heavily and for a long period, the stream becomes a river, and it backs up until with nowhere else to go, it floods the mall carparks. The lowest level carpark is actually the lowest depth of the river, and it comes out at the sea where the pool now is. Unfortunately, with the old naval waste rotting in those old rusting barrels, it collects that waste and not only stinks up the mall but also the pool area which is why it’s now closed.
“And the bad news is, it can’t be fixed. But that’s got nothing to do with our quest. It’s just an aside to our quest, proving that three of the landmarks on the treasure map actually existed once, and in some form still do. The thing is, neither the Benderby’s or the Cossatino’s will realize that which means we have a clear run at getting past the first hurdle and with any luck we will be able to identify the river from the hills which is the starting point.”
A simple job, no doubt in Boggs’s mind. He never had any trouble coming up with hair-brained schemes, only the logistics to carry them out. This one required proper transport because there was no way we’re going to be able to cycle there and back in a morning, the only time I had free for exploring.
“How do you propose we do this?”
“Rico’s car. It’s sitting in the marina carpark. The keys for it are on his boat.”
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.
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.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, 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.
Chasing leads, maybe
…
Darkness fell in a noticeably short time, and we left the pub at about six. In the hour so we have been there I’d been keeping a close eye on the comings and goings, and in particular, if O’Connell came in, or someone else that might look like him.
He hadn’t, nor had any mythical family members. Well, it had been a long shot.
Jennifer hadn’t volunteered anything more to the conversation and sat working her way through a piece of fried fish and a bowl of chips. Neither had looked appetizing. I would have bet she’d have the chicken, but I was wrong, and probably it wasn’t going to be the first time.
“Do you have a gun?”
It was after ten minutes of silence. It worried me that she didn’t ask how far it was or how long it would take. And then, out of nowhere, the gun question.
“No. Why would I have a gun.?”
“We were issued with weapons. I still have mine.”
“Did you bring it with you?”
“No. Like I told you, I didn’t think I was still working for the Department. They didn’t ask for it back, so I didn’t give it to them.”
“Or the identities?”
“No. It was odd though; they didn’t ask about them either.”
“Maybe they were going to wait a while and then ask you back.”
This was a weird conversation to be having. By this time we were in Peaslake Lane, and not far from the house I pulled over to the side of the road, under a tree.
The houses were set back in a rural setting. Between the darkness and the undergrowth, the chances were we could get to the house without being seen. From where I was sitting, no windows or doors were visible.
I made sure the car’s internal light didn’t go on the moment the door was open.
“Are you bringing your cell phone?”
“Why. I’m not envisaging having to call anyone, nor am I expecting a call.”
I shrugged, and slipped mine into a pocket where I could easily reach it I needed to.
I got out of the car, and she followed. She left he bag in the car. The first sign of training kicking in; eave all un-necessary baggage behind. Perhaps having a gun might have been a good option if we ran into trouble.
Oddly enough, now that I thought about it, Monica hadn’t asked for mine back either, but it was sitting at home in a safe, along with the five other identities Severin had issued each of us with.
I locked the car, equally as silent and invisible as she joined me.
“Which house?”
“Three along. Follow me and keep your eyes and ears peeled.”
I didn’t have to tell her, but it didn’t hurt to emphasize the importance of stealth. There were people home in other houses, lights in windows just discernible through the trees, one house a window without a curtain, a view into the dining room, but there was no one at the table.
If we were visiting them, perhaps we’d be in time for dinner.
The house we were looking for was in darkness from our approach.
“You keep an eye open this side, and I’ll go around the other, then come back. I’ll see if there’s an easy entry point.”
“What if someone is home?”
“Doesn’t look like it from here, and I’ll be surprised if there is.”
A moment later she had disappeared into the shrub line and I was heading across the front of the house, heading for the other side. I kept well away from the front door, just in case there was a motion light, or worse, a motion detector that might set off a silent alarm.
But, that might already have happened, and if it had, no one had made a move inside.
Down the side was walls and windows, no doors or French doors leading out into the garden. None of the windows were at a decent height for us to clamber through, and if we had to, it was going to be difficult.
I continued on, around the back, where there was more success. French doors leading onto a patio, and then the lawn. In the corner was a greenhouse, and next to that a rose garden. Or at least that was what both looked like in the dark.
The moon, for the moment, was hidden by dark clouds.
Perhaps it would rain, though it had not been in the forecast, but, this was England, and it could rain at any time, especially when you didn’t want or need it. There was no light, or motion sensor over the French doors, so I crossed the patio and looked through the doors.
I had expected curtains, but these hadn’t been completely drawn. No large light or lamp on, but there were indicator lights, several red and one a particularly bright blue, casting a rather long shadow over furniture and what looked to be a carpet square.
Out of curiosity, I tried the door.
It was open.
Then I had the blind panic moment of thinking it might be alarmed.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modeled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I image back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
Under by itself is a rather boring word, you know, under the moon, under the sea, under the influence, which is not hard to be if you’ve been hypnotised or after a few drinks.
Under is anything beneath something else.
But let’s add it to some other words like,
Underrated, which means it is better than what others give it credit for.
Underwear is what you would wear underneath your clothes.
An understudy is a person who takes over a lead role when the lead is incapacitated. And how many understudies are guilty of harming the lead, in order to get a big break?
And not get away with it?
Understood, an agreement that might or might not be in writing that something will happen, that is, it is understood that I will be the next president.
Or not. Who on earth would really want to be president of anything?
So in the spirit of trying to confuse everyone all of the time, I have a conundrum in the form of a question, what is the difference between under and underneath?
To me there is none, you can be under the sea or underneath the sea, or under the table or underneath the table, but then there’s another, you can be under the influence but not underneath the influence, though technically you could, if you wanted to use confusing English.
And, just to add to the confusion further, I can say that the submarine sailed under the sea, underneath the sea, but, in actual fact, it doesn’t.
What is under the sea is the sand, or sea bed, and a submarine does not plough its way through the sand, does it?
What we really should be saying is that a submarine moves through the water.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
That first encounter outside the confines of the hotel has shaken him. He realises that he really has no understanding of women and that his first love with Jane had done nothing to prepare him.
It only reinforces the notion that he should simply avoid her where possible.
Yet, over dinner, she tells him her story, not the real story, but close enough to the truth. In doing so, allowing the door to be ajar, she realises this could become complicated very quickly.
And yet, despite her resolution to remain aloof, she is curious. Who is this Henry?
The beach quickly becomes Henry’s thinking place. He ruminates on what a friend on board the ship, Radly, might think of his situation. Radly is a lady’s man and would have swept Michelle off her feet by now.
Michelle reappears, and, curious about him, asks him who he is, those usual questions, where he lives, and what he does.
Why? If she is only there to hide, why get involved?
I had never been to a ball and had only seen what one was like on TV.
When I first received the invitation, on a gold embossed card with old style and writing in ink, real ink, I was astonished. I was not from a class of people whom one would associate with such a high-society event.
My father, when I had shown him the invitation, said it had obviously been sent to me by mistake, that it was some other William Benjamin Oldacre, not me. When I showed him the envelope with my address on it, he then said someone was playing a game.
I was inclined to believe him, so I called the RSVP number and spoke to a lady by the name of Charlotte Bingham, who had a very posh voice.
I told her my name, and then told her there must be some mistake.
“We don’t make mistakes, Mr Oldacre.”
“To be honest, ma’am, I am not a man of means, if you take my meaning.” I wanted to say I was just one of the rabble, but it seemed a little too blunt.
“You don’t need to be, to be a respectable and respected young man. Miss Emily said that you would find some excuse, and her instructions were if you were to call, to insist you come, and if you were having difficulties to call her on the cell number she gave you. I’m marking you down as a yes, and I look forward to meeting you.” The line went dead before I could reply.
Miss Emily.
My first encounter with her was anything but cordial, in fact, I had called her lazy, indolent, egotistical, annoying, and overprivileged, all in one breath. She was the typical rich brat to who the rules didn’t apply, the person who didn’t have to wait in queues like everyone else and whose schedules were made for other people.
Sadly, all the boys rich or poor grovelled at her feet, so it was a shock to her when I told her exactly what I thought of her. From there, we ignored each other, as much as it was possible, until a week before when we just happened to be in the cafeteria at the same time. I had been running late and almost walked away.
I joined Xavier in the queue, just as I noticed her with three of her equally bratty friends and a few people ahead in the queue.
“You must be starving,” Xavier said, “your nemesis is just ahead, and being her usual obnoxious self.”
“Unfortunately, hunger trumps common-sense.”
It was precisely the moment she turned around and saw me. Sometimes, she would make a sarcastic comment, but most of the time, she just ignored me. With one eye on her, I noticed as several others did, three boys, one of whom I knew, Oliver Richenburg, equally as entitled but not half as obnoxious, heading towards her.
It was clear if he was going over to her, that it was not a social call. In fact, I had heard on the grapevine, the social media account that kept up with all the rumours about the so-called social set, they had had an acrimonious breakup when she posted some telling details about his life. He had cheated on her, or so it was said, and it had spiralled out of control.
She had seen him steaming across the room, heading straight for her. Everyone in the hall was on alert, expecting to get a front-row seat to a gigantic bust-up.
“Brace yourself, the proverbial was about to hit the fan.””
This means I’m not going to get anything to eat, and without food, well, I was not a happy person. There was only one course of action. I timed my arrival at the exact moment the two faced off. Both were surprised to see me.
“Just…”
Oliver was just about to launch into his opening argument when I glared at him and said, in a harsher tone than intended, “Before you launch into what I’m sure will be just the right amount of outrage, let me say this. You’re an idiot. You had a girlfriend that most of us would give a right arm just to be noticed for five seconds, and you cheated on her. Wow, Oliver, you’re not going to have much of a married life if you can’t keep it in your pants.” I turned on Emily, “And you, well, you know what I think of you, but seriously, who posts utter drivel on social media in a language that only cavemen could probably understand. I’m sure I’ll get a spray before long, but quite clearly, we’ve all had enough. Take your cat fight outside.”
“Who…” She went from amused to angry in the blink of an eye.
“Who? Who what? Who cares. Get out of here the pair of you before I do something I regret.” I think I displayed just the right amount of unhinged insanity that they both left.
I looked over at the head of the queue; everyone was watching them leave. “Shows over folks, let’s eat.”
That following few days before the invitation had been interesting, to say the least,. I had gained an unwanted notoriety that raised my profile from the usual obscurity to fifteen seconds of fame, where people I didn’t know came up and told me it was about time both of them were put in their place, to there who just shook their head. What was more disconcerting was that she now noticed me, and I was not sure if I wanted to be noticed.
Now, getting an invitation, just took it to a whole new level. My first inclination was just to not go. It was for me and a plus one. There wasn’t a girl l knew to take but when my sister, two years older and a survivor of college histrionics, learned about the invitation she said we were going. Darcy was more of a tomboy than the average girl of her age, and a lot tougher. She’d also heard about the fracas in the canteen and had said, “You could do a lot better than to pine over what you can’t have”.
I told her I had no intention, and she just snorted, adding, “We’ll see.” Now I really didn’t want to go, because she was going to find a new way to humiliate me.
And when the day arrived I was feeling quite sick. I’d received a message on my phone that a car would be arriving at six to pick us up. The RSVP lady was making sure I didn’t change my mind. Darcy was, surprisingly, impressed. And I was equally impressed to see the jeans and Polo shirt norm transform into a very beautiful young woman in the most amazing ball gown. All I could say was, “Who are you and what have you done with my sister.”
At precisely six, there was a knock on the door, which my father opened. It was a real-life chauffeur. My father yelled out, even though we were waiting in the next room, “Your pumpkin has arrived.” I was glad my misfortune was causing him amusement. The chauffeur didn’t bat an eye.
It was not a pumpkin. It was a Rolls Royce, a car I’d heard of but never seen.
Darcy was thoughtful, having got past surprised. “I think she’s trying to impress you, Will. Is there something going on that I need to know about?”
“I assure you she’s just trying to put me in my place. “w
I hadn’t taken much notice of where the ball was being held, but twenty minutes after being picked up I realised we were heading out of the city. It meant it could only be in one place, the spider’s lair, the family home, a mansion you got to drive past and could barely see behind the surrounding wall. Reputed to have more bedrooms than in the houses in my street, my father was amused that one family could live in such a place without getting lost.
We were invited to the castle, and it was becoming more like Cinderella with each passing minute. Sweeping majestically through the gates it was like passing through a portal into another world. It was a moment not lost on Darcy, who squeezed my hand and whispered, “Just remember their real people just like us.”
I got the impression she didn’t quite believe it herself.
It was a clear run-up to the majestic front entrance to the building, which seemed small but almost overwhelming close-up. The car stopped at the bottom of red carpeted stairs leading up into the house. The doors were opened by two men dressed in uniform. At the bottom of the stairs, waiting, for a very elegantly dressed woman.
She smiled when we reached her. “William, Darcy. Welcome.”
“You’re the lady on the phone.”
“Yes. My name is Charlotte, Miss Emily asked me to greet you and make sure you know where to go.”
Darcy was now looking somewhat lost in awe.
She asked, “Is this place for real. It’s like a fairy tale.”
“It has that initial wow factor, but that wears off after a while. Come, follow me.”
We walked slowly up the red-carpeted stairs and into the foyer with columns, a marble tiles floor, and the biggest chandelier I’d ever seen. I was expecting to see a fountain in the middle, but there wasn’t, just a table, a very large vase, and a flower arrangement that defied description.
We turned left through a portico, to where two more men dressed in uniform stood on either side, with another. We stopped, and Charlotte said to him, “Mr William Oldacre and Miss Darcy Oldacre.”
He read out our names by way of introduction to the people milling in the anteroom, but perhaps more for the line of people down the side where it seemed we were to be greeted. Charlotte led us to the head of the line, Miss Emily’s father.
“Mr James Edward Rothstein, may I present William Oldacre and his sister, Darcy.”
It was like greeting royalty, but I was not inclined to bow. Darcy was by now amused by the formality, even though she looked as though she belonged. She was certainly as beautiful in her gown as the others.
He held out his hand for a handshake. “So you are the young man who told Emily she needs to learn proper English before she uses those ghastly social media apps, I think they call them. I have to say I could not agree with you more.”
“Sir, I didn’t really mean anything by it.”
“Well, your words seemed to have had the desired effect, and I thank you. Perhaps before the night is out, you could deliver some more good advice. She won’t listen to us.”
“I think that race is run. She’s not likely to speak to me, and I’m not sure why she asked me to come.”
“She didn’t, I did, but I suspect she’ll either thank me or hate me more.” He sighed. “Us men will never understand women. The night is young, my boy, have fun.”
With that, I was dismissed and sent to Emily’s mother, Theresa, her older sister, Jasmine, her other sister, Kendra, and twin brothers, Samuel and Thomas. That left Emily, who needed no introduction.
It was hard to tell if she was amused or angry. I simply put a frown on my face, thinking it would preclude any conversation.
“Your father has a unique sense of humour, Emily,” I said.
“He does, indeed.”
Darcy took a step back and looked at the pair of us, then smiled. “I can see why he did. I’m Darcy, Will’s older sister. You piss him off, you piss me off, and that you don’t want to do.”
“Not more than I already have?”
“I’ve no doubt there’s a very simple explanation for it, but let me sum it up in one sentence. Try to see what’s in front of you. Actually,” she looked at me, too, “It’s good advice for the both of you. Now, I was promised top-shelf booze, where’s the bar?”
Charlotte had watched the exchange with an amused expression. I suspect she knew every one of Emily’s foibles. “I’ll take you. I think I need a drink too.”
Emily looked at me. “You said you would give your right arm to be noticed. Well, you’ve been noticed. And when I’m done here, you and I have a few things to discuss. And your name is down on my card for the first dance.”
“What makes you think I can dance.”
“You can, so don’t tell me otherwise.”
“What makes you think I want to dance with you?”
“Because when you do, I will answer three of your questions. Anything. And you have to answer just one for me. Deal?”
“This is not one of your little schemes, is it?
She shook her head. “Don’t make me stamp my foot in annoyance William. I promise you, what you see is what you get. No schemes, no tricks, no lies.”
It was too good to be true. This was a rabbit hole I didn’t want to go down, but did I have a choice?
I nodded. “OK. Where’s the bar. This is going to require fortification.
I stayed at the bar, slowly working my way through several bottles of beer that I’d never heard of, while I watched Emily, and the family, finish greeting the guests, and then mingle with everyone on a less formal basis.
There were over two hundred people but the ballroom did not seem crowded. People gathered together in groups, and the Rothsteins dutifully stopped at each for a few minutes. It was interesting to see Emily behave much like an ambassador, a side of her I had never seen.
Every now and then, once she knew where I was, she looked over, discreetly, and smiled.
It was not lost on me what Darcy had said, and the few words we had when I reached the bar were surprising. “She likes you a lot, you know. Knowing you, though, you’ll blow a good opportunity through prejudice or stupidity or even both. I know you like her to William, no one professed their disdain more who does not love their nemesis. Don’t make me have to thump some sense into you.”
She was right, of course. I fell in love with Emily the first time I saw her, knowing that we could never be together, which made it frustrating and annoying, and went a long way towards explaining why I was hostile towards her. If she despised me, it couldn’t go anywhere. Now, here, that façade was going to be impossible to keep up.
Then, all of a sudden, it was time for dancing, the orchestra, yes it was a real orchestra, was playing the first stains of a Viennese Waltz. Perhaps if I just sidled along the bar towards the exit…
“I can dance too, you know.” Emily must have known I would try to disappear. “Many, many painful lessons when I could have been out with my friends. No possible use for it on this earth, but there it is. Take my hand, William, show me there’s more than just a grumpy man under that immaculate tuxedo.”
As they say, the gauntlet had been thrown down.
About twenty couples had taken to the floor and were arranging themselves in a circle, and we all ended up facing each other.
The music started. I bowed to Emily. Emily curtsied to me. She took my hand, did a twirl, and we came together, very close.
Could she hear my heart beating? It was almost racing. Just standing there was perhaps the most intoxicating moment of my life.
Then it began, first one way, then the other. I kept an eye on those on either side, maintaining distance.
“You’re not counting your steps, are you?” We parted, and she came back, close in, and whispered in my ear.
“No. Just making sure it’s the right one.”
Out again, back again, close, going around and around, trying not to get dizzy. It was the one thing that bothered me in classes.
“Is this close enough for you?”
“Is that your one question?”
She frowned. “No.”
Concentration, then. “Ask your first.”
“Have you always been this entitled, bratty child?”
“Yes.”
Well, that didn’t give me much to work with. At least she admitted it.
She went out, doing a twirl, then came back, a smile on her face.
“Next?”
“Why am I here? I’m not in the same stratosphere you are, and it seems pointless. Except if you want to point out to everyone here that I don’t belong.”
“What was it you said one, flying at 30,000 feet without oxygen. Put it this way, you wouldn’t know if you were not there with me. Get ready, I call it the skipping bit.”
I’d forgotten about it. It was not long but brought many a learner undone.
Over, twirl, back, a close hug, then a little separation, hand behind her back, arm on my shoulder.
I thought about that answer. Did she think I was her equal? I certainly didn’t think so.
“You didn’t answer why I am here?
“Because I asked my father to invite you.”
“Third question, “Why would you invite me given our history?”
“Hold that thought, we’re changing partners for a circuit.”
Then, all of a sudden she was gone, and opposite me was one of her friends, whose look told me I really shouldn’t be here. Whatever Emily’s motives were, they were hers alone.
One minute and twenty seconds of utter silence, with a girl who I would never get to dance with within a million years, from a world I could never expect to be part of.
In the end, “Well done Will. Just don’t disappoint her.” And then she was gone, and Emily was back.
“Where you come from does not define who you are Will, and I failed to realise that. We got off on the wrong foot, metaphorically, and I want to change that, starting now. Now I have just one question, and you have to answer honestly.”
The thought of what she might ask filled me with dread.
“It took me a while to work out why you hated me so much. One of your questions proved it, and you think you’re not good enough for me. Most boys pretend to love me so they can get what they want, but they don’t love me the way you do, do they?”
Cornered, with nowhere to go.
Stop, twirl, out, back, together. I wished it would end and I could run away.
“Would it matter what I said?”
“Yes, William, it would.”
“Then no they don’t, and yes, I do, have done so from the first day I saw you. Make of that what you will, but it’s the truth.”
And, then, the dance was done. A bow, a curtsey. She could have walked away. Instead, she held out her hand, and I took it. She was quite literally the most enchanting girl in the room, and for the moment, she wanted to be with me.
She smiled. “Your name is in number two place on my dance card, so there’s no escape.”
“And probably number three.”
She nodded. “Oh, and in case you haven’t realized it yet, for some unknown reason, I seem to be in love with you, too. As my father often says, the night is young, and we have much to explore.”
It seems rather strange reading letters that were written by my parents before they were married.
They’re not love letters, but just words, words that knowing my father and mother as I do, seem so totally at odds with that knowledge.
The thing is, I never knew anything of theirs from that era existed, even though I knew my mother was a hoarder, and we didn’t discover the extent of that phobia until it was time to move them from their last residence to the retirement home.
There were cases and boxes filled with papers, letters, cuttings, and everything else in between. Nothing had been thrown out.
And whilst I knew those letters existed, there was the yuk factor involved, such that I would never want to read them because, well, that was my parents’ stuff.
So, all of it was sorted, most of it thrown away, and only what we thought was of any intrinsic value was kept. Those letters were part of the ‘keep’ pile and ended up in an old metal steamer trunk, and there they have lived for about ten years.
With the recent cleaning of my office, much to Chester’s disdain, the trunk suddenly looked out of place in a clean room.
My grandchildren ‘found’ this trunk and started looking through the contents and finished up with the letters.
And, being the curious people, they were, they started reading them, of course, stumbling over understanding the handwriting, which was based on what we learned in school, cursive script. That meant I had to interpret the writing for them.
Talk about morbid curiosity!
And like I said, in reading them, formed the impression that these two correspondents were nothing like the people I knew growing up.
These letters dated from 1948 and 1949 when they were married in June of 1949. There was no doubt it was a different time, and they were different people. My mother came from a country town and went to work in Melbourne around that time. I know that during the war, those years from 1939 to 1945 she was a student at Dandenong High School.
It was odd to realize that considering we eventually moved to Dandenong, and that may have had something to do with it.
My father served in the war till 1946, and then after being discharged from the army, worked as a projectionist until he went overseas for nearly a year, ostensibly to see how the war had affected Europe. After that, he went back to being a projectionist at the Athenaeum in Melbourne, and later on, not knowing much of his work history, he would always tell us about the movies, especially those that came up on television.
There’s more I’m sure, like the fact my mother had another chap on the go at the same time, but it seems he was not interested in settling down.
Perhaps more will come to light in further reading, but like it said, it seems very strange to be reading those letters, much like walking over a grave; it gives me the odd shiver down the spine.
No doubt, the next time the grandchildren visit there will be another installment.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 