How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.
In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.
But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.
I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.
Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.
But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.
I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.
Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.
I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.
Or I could be underwater.
Everything was blurred.
I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.
What happened?
Why was I lying down?
Where was I?
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
It was a blank.
What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.
I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.
I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.
“My God! What happened?”
I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.
I was blind. Everything was black.
“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”
Was I that poor bastard?
“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.
“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”
“What isn’t broken?”
“His neck.”
“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”
I heard the shuffling of pages.
“OR1 ready?”
“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”
Magic.
It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.
Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.
Or somewhere.
I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.
Was it night or was it day?
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Where was I?
Around me, it felt cool.
It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.
I didn’t try to move.
Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.
A previous unpleasant experience?
I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.
My grandfather.
He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.
I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.
I couldn’t.
I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.
“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She had a very soothing voice.
Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.
“Everything is fine.”
Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.
“Just count backwards from 10.”
Why?
I didn’t reach seven.
Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.
It rose above the disinfectant.
She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.
It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.
The next morning, she was back.
“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”
More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.
The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”
Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.
How could that happen?
That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.
But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.
I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.
I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sleep was a blessed relief.
The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?
Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”
So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.
But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.
This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.
This time sleep was restless.
Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.
Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.
The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.
“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”
I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.
I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.
I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.
I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.
I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.
Then a moment when nothing happened.
Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.
Nothing.
I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.
“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.
Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.
She wiped my eyes again.
I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.
I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.
Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.
I nodded.
“You can see?”
I nodded again.
“Clearly?”
I nodded.
“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”
I couldn’t wait.
When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
Aside from the fact that it really means part of something else, we’ve got to remember that it is one of those ‘i before e except after c’ things.
I have a piece of the puzzle. Well, maybe not. You know what it’s like when you’re assembling a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle. Yes, you get to the end and one piece is missing.
You’re so angry you want to give someone a piece of your mind.
Just remember not to give too many people pieces or you will become mindless.
We might be listening to a musical piece, which can be a movement, I think, in a symphony
Or we might piece together the parts of a child’s toy, especially on that night before Christmas when everything can and will go wrong. I’ve been there and done that far too many times.
I’ve been known to move a chess piece incorrectly, no, come think of it, I’m always doing that
Some people call a gun a piece.
This is not to be confused with the word peace, which means something else, and hopefully, everyone will put away their pieces (guns) and declare peace.
And, every Sunday, at the church, there’s always an opportunity to say to the people around you ‘peace be with you’.
I wonder if that works very well if the person standing next to you is your enemy?
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.
A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.
Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.
Our exit strategy.
I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.
Only Davies seemed unperturbed.
I had to ask. “Did you know there was an airport here?”
“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park. Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“All you had to do was ask the right question.”
It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.
Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers. I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.
I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette. I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.
“Nice shooting back there,” I said. It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others. That no one else got shot was a miracle.
“Just another day at the office.”
“Well, it hasn’t ended yet. I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance. There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure. But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible. We should be along later with the packages. I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you. He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us. I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”
“As you wish. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Good. Make sure your radio is working and on. I need to know if anything goes sideways.”
“It won’t.”
I wish I had his confidence.
A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group. Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.
“This is an interesting development Lieutenant. Is there a problem I should know about?”
“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there. Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another. Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”
No, he hadn’t. And the thought had crossed my mind too. A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander. There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all. If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.
“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.
“Problem?” he asked through the window.
“No. We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”
He shrugged. I looked over at the Colonel. “Time for you to be moving on. You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability. I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Better if you didn’t have to. My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”
“You’re having a plane sent in?”
“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.” I glared at Jacobi. “How does he get to the airstrip?”
“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road. Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”
He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked. I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t. It was preferable he didn’t come with us.
“OK. You have a point. No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”
He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.
“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.
Back to my other problem.
“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”
“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”
“The meeting is on.”
“They’re waiting for us.”
“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered. “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”
Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him. There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it. And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.
“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression. If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him. Until then, play nice. But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint. If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”
Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him. A nod to me.
“He can go with you in the lead car. Davies can come with me and keep driving the car. They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”
“Fair enough.” I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”
“And half a dozen shells. Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”
“Easy to get at?”
“If need be.”
“Good.” I looked around at the rest of the team. “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”
I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes. It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen. No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would. Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.
“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies. Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.
I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her. She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint. There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.
Or that was how I suspected it would go down. It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.
Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.
I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway. I never was when going into battle.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
Johannsen hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been in the room when Leonardo reported to Wallace, to tell him that the villagers had been neutralised, and he brought the ring leaders of the so-called resistance to the castle.
By his reckoning, Leonardo and his men had killed probably 20 or so people who had nothing to do with the war, other than try to live around the war going on in their backyard.
In fact, when he had arrived at the castle, the intention was to work with the locals and the resistance to facilitate the onward movement of prized defectors. Until Jackerby arrived, and the dynamic changed.
Johannsen hadn’t realised that Wallace was a double agent, not until it was too late.
The thing of it was, Wallace thought he was a double agent too, a belief Johannsen had taken extreme care not to dispel. And, where it was possible, he had tried to help those caught up in Wallace’s trap.
Wallace was already in situ at the castle when Johannsen arrived with another four men to join those already there, on order from London to vet the incoming defectors. Those four he had met at the plane, and he hadn’t realised they were not who they were supposed to be. By the time the four who had been replaced were found, it was too late to stop the mission.
That brought the complement to 10 including Wallace and himself. Then he received a message, one he assumed was from Thompson, advising the arrival of a further 5, Jackerby and four soldiers.
He soon discovered that those orders were false.
When Jackerby reported to Wallace, and the fact Wallace sent him out of the room, he stayed behind, hidden, to listen to the conversation. There he discovered he was in the midst of an enemy operation that had enlisted a number of double agents across Euprope from the German Army.
He then tried to warn Thompson in a coded message, but that had been substituted by Wallace with another, causing another lamb to be sent to the slaughter, Atherton. When Jackerby first arrived, he advised Wallace, not Johannsson, that Atherton was not one of them, so an attempt was made on,his life, but failed.
For a while that was the equivalent of throwing a cat among the pigeons.
By the time the paratroopers arrived, there was no effort to hide who they were or what they were doing. The castle was, for all intents and purposes, a Nazi stronghold, there to collect and execute defectors. All he had to do was play his part, and try not to rouse the suspicions of Jackerby, whom, it seemed, trusted no one.
Wallace wasn’t all that interested in being as suspicious as Jackerby, who had to be gestapo, or worse, one of the SS.
But luck was on Johansson side when he took a plan to Wallace that would essentially free Atherton, and then have Atherton lead them to the other resistance. It was also a master stroke to select Burke, a simple man who liked to think everything was his idea.
That Atherton had got away was no fault of his, but those charged with following him. Jackerby had tried to mess with him, but Wallace intervened, telling Jackerby that he had had missing people too and should be out there looking for them.
With any luck, Johansson thought, they would be dead, a likely result since none of them had come back yet. Now, all he could do was sit and wait for Atherton and whoever was left from the resistance to come and stop Wallace, and especially Jackerby.
Johansson knew that Atherton had a good working knowledge of the castle’s architecture, because on one occasion they had discussed archaeology. Johansson was not an archaeologist, but had worked with one and an assistant, before the war, at several digs.
He was hoping Atherton had a idea where there might be a secret entrance to the castle. It was old, and in his spare time, he had been pacing out room measurements, looking for nooks and crannies, and anything else that would be useful.
He had found a room full of swords, not exactly in fighting condition, but might be useful in a situation that called for a weapon. After all, he had taken a few sword fighting lessons at the university.
He had traversed several stone passageways, found two different passageways from the upstairs down to the radio room, and beyond that, where there was an exit or entrance, what in modern terminology would be called the tradesman’s entrance.
It was for all intents and purposes, a back door.
He had also gone around the whole perimeter of the outer castle wall, looking for holes. When he thought about it, leaving holes in the wall was asking for trouble because the idea was to keep people out, not to leave quickly and quietly in the middle of a siege.
And this castle had seen a few sieges in its time. More than once if he could travel back in time, he would have like to see what it was like 200 years ago, or more.
But there were only three entrances or exits that he knew of. There were no grates on the ground, or anywhere within 20 yards of the exterior wall, or conveniently hidden in the surrounding forests.
He was also sure there were hidden passageways inside the castle that must go somewhere, a result of checking internal measurements of rooms, and a few came up oddly short a few yards.
Still down in the dungeon on another of his subterfuges, the new arrivals guard had just appeared.
M is for — Metamorphosis. An unrecognisable change, not necessarily for the better
…
A change is as good as a holiday.
I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.
Joey has been like that since we were little, from that first day at elementary school and then off and on until we graduated college.
Well, I did. Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden. She didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.
That was probably the reason when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.
He tried.
And now he was heartbroken
I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me. It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.
“I’m back, bigger and better than ever. See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 p.m.”
Typical Joey.
You could never keep a guy like him down. Another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulging his every whim, and there he was, Joey 2.0.
This would be Joey 13.5. Maybe.
Last time, he had gone surfer-Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.
With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surfboard money could buy. And after lessons from a world-famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.
What was it going to be this time?
I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with. I just had to tell her that.
I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.
We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough. With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.
I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.
That in itself should have set off alarm bells.
Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.
I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.
When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly and, if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.
It was not hard to see why.
Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.
Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.
There he was.
When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.
What’s that saying? He who hesitates is lost.
I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.
“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”
I sat down next to Penelope, but not next to Penelope. She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.
There was no kissing or touching.
I could feel the ice wall building between us.
“Had to, Ethan. Had to. Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level. It was time to shape up or ship out.”
An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man. I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.
“Can you believe it. Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited. It’ll be such fun.”
I saw the look between them.
I sighed. That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.
Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?
“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.” I looked at her. “But don’t cancel going because of me. I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”
I stood.
“Hey, Ethan. What’s going on?”
I looked at him. “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”
There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face. “Are you alright?”
I turned to her. “Perfectly. We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work. Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late. You two carry on without me. I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”
With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.
It’s funny how things work out.
Walking slowly back to the office, I wasn’t angry or upset with either of them. In any other set of circumstances, I might have been, but something told me that what had happened was meant to happen.
Yes, as my grandmother always said, things happen for a reason.
Penelope didn’t call, nor did I call her. What I’d seen was the last nail in the coffin that was our relationship. Obviously, she was not the one for me.
When I got back to the office, Wickham finally remembered what he’d called me about, and that was that I was not going to get the promotion this time; it was going to someone who had been there a short time, head hunted, and fast tracked.
It happened.
My opinion of him was less than what I had been told, but that was the corporate jungle. Paper qualifications counted for more than experience.
I quit and walked out of the office fifteen minutes later. I didn’t bother going back to my office to throw what little I had into the obligatory cardboard box. I left the phone and keyboard with Dave, the security guard and probably the only real friend I had in the building.
While walking to my apartment, a small, cramped space in the Lower East Side, I pulled out my own cell phone, a cheap serviceable model that had just enough bells and whistles to get onto the airline sites and book a ticket to (Arizona) later that afternoon.
I gave notice on the apartment, packed what I needed into a backpack, and a half hour later, I took that one look back on the life I’d never liked.
It took a few seconds to open my eyes and see what was really going on around me.
There was no point in telling my parents what had happened. They had always eschewed my choices, that I never wanted to live in their shadow or take the advantages they were willing to hand out, like my brothers had.
It’s why I never told anyone how insanely rich my family were. How else would I have known Joey. We had both taken the same path and had a bet going on who would crumble first.
He did.
A week later, after that fateful 3:00, an envelope arrived with a crisp ten-dollar note. Nothing else.
Bet settled.
I won, but in the scheme of things, I’d lost.
Gran, at least, was understanding. She was a wise old lady who had to endure the worst of what the Lancaster’s were, mean, nasty bullies who ruled with an iron fist.
She hadn’t wanted that for me and had convinced me to strike out on my own. I had, and when I failed, she was there to pick up the pieces.
There weren’t that many pieces to pick up.
“Your parents are coming to visit.”
Breakfast was mandatory. Those first few days after returning, she had let me alone, but after that, the ranch foreman came in with a bucket of cold water.
It only happened once.
“Should I go down to the south paddock and camp out? I don’t really want my mother to tell me the same old stuff.”
“No. You need to stand up to her. I’m surprised she still comes here after the last time.”
Grandma and Mother hated each other. Gran called her a heartless gold digger, which wasn’t far from the truth, though it hadn’t started out like that.
“Have you heard from Penelope?”
My Gran knew everything about everyone and had said she was not the girl for me. I knew she had an army of private investigators, so she probably knew more about her than Penelope knew herself.
As for Joey, he was a lost soul. She knew that his parents and grandparents were not at fault for his state of mind. He just wanted an easy life and thought that their money would complicate things. Except he still took his weekly allowance.
We agreed to disagree
“No, but then she doesn’t know where I am or what my number is to call.”
“A girl like that is more resourceful than you might think.”
I gave her one of those looks I gave her sometimes just before she came out with a revelation.
“Are we talking about the same Penelope?”
She just shook her head. Something was afoot.
I was learning to be a ranch hand. Well, that wasn’t quite true; I’d been doing that since I could sit on a horse. I think the correct term was learning the ropes.
Lately, my life could be summed up in a series of metaphors.
The foreman, son of the foreman before him and so on, ubiquitously named Larry, yes, you guessed it, was going through the finer points of peeling of a single beast from the herd.
My roping skills needed refinement, but I was getting there.
It was fine but cool. Fall, just before the snow arrived and Winter settled on the landscape. It was that part of the year I loved.
Especially Christmas.
I always, without fail, came home for Christmas but never brought Penelope. For obvious reasons.
We were not far from the main house, part of the herd getting checked out before changing pastures. I could see a car coming along the road that led from the main road to the house.
My parents.
My father hated the farm, hated where he’d come from, and preferred to be something else, anything but a rancher. Not like in the old days, almost a law unto themselves.
My Gran still was, to a certain extent.
I looked over at Larry, and he nodded. Time to go and greet them. Gran had insisted I be there.
I arrived just in time, as the car pulled up at the bottom of the stairs. The ranch house was impressive, a two story mansion with surrounding verandas on both floors, so impressive it could be seen a mile from the main road.
I was still sitting on the horse, dusty and sweaty from the ride. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for my father first, my mother second, and then a third passenger, Penelope.
Odd that she should be travelling with my parents.
She immediately saw me. I was going to get down. Now, I’d say what I needed to and then get back to work.
After giving me a long, hard stare, she said, “You look different.”
Neither my father nor mother said anything other than the usual look of disdain and followed my Gran inside. She had given me a different look, one I didn’t recognise.
Should I get off my high horse?
“No. It’s still the Ethan you knew before. It’s just that I’m where I belong. Why are you here?”
“You are a hard person to find. To be honest, I was astonished you had disappeared into the wind in one afternoon. I called. Phone disconnected. I went to your apartment, it was up for rent, called your work, you had resigned. Why?”
“There was nothing left for me in New York. When I saw you with Joey, I knew everything I wanted to achieve was a pipe dream.”
“But I’m not with Joey, I never was.”
“It didn’t look like it. You are someone who likes material things, very expensive material things. That apartment, even if I got the promotion, and I didn’t, probably wouldn’t, by the way, still would barely cover the rent.”
She didn’t reply but instead made a face that left me somewhat confused.
“OK. I was momentarily diverted. But in his defence, he told me that he would never date a girlfriend of his best and only friend in the world. He was as surprised as I was when you left without a word.”
She hadn’t moved. Neither had I, except the horse was getting restless. He wasn’t used to standing around. I patted him on the neck and told him it wouldn’t be for much longer.
“You didn’t tell me about all this.” She looked around and then back at me.
“Why would I? A girl has to love me, not for what I have or as it happens, don’t have, but for plain old nobody me. It’s my number one rule.”
“That’s what Joey said. Joey said you never really needed anything but the right people by your side.”
“And you?”
“A fool who took her eyes off the ball for that fraction of a second, all it takes to lose the one you finally realise is the right one, the only one.”
“Who has wealthy connections, the sort who could fund the sort of lifestyle you could easily become accustomed to. I’m sure when Joey realises you’re free, he will give you everything you want. I have to get back to work.”
I left her there, staring at me with a look that if it could kill, I would be dead.
Here’s the thing.
She annoyed me. She was flirting with Joey. In the back of my mind, I sort of knew if she was my girlfriend, Joey would not try to take her away from me.
He did that once, very early in our friendship, and I punched him, very hard, where it hurt. And didn’t speak to him for months.
But she flirted with him. She didn’t flirt with others, or perhaps she did, and I didn’t know. But that, for me, wasn’t really acceptable. Perhaps I was too demanding, but once you’ve been cheated on, it leaves a scar that never quite heals.
Now, I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought I did; I thought she was the one. Now, she knew I had the family that could fund those desires.
Everything was different.
Except…
Seeing her again brought back a lot of memories because she had been the one I had spent the most time with and probably knew me better than anyone else.
I didn’t think I would find anyone who had that ability to bring out the best in me and get me to strive for more and achieve more than I thought I could.
But the bottom line in any relationship now or ever is that there was never going to be a pile of money to pander to her every wish. That Lower East Side apartment, though cramped and dingy, was infinitely preferable to that in Trump Tower on the Upper West Side, overlooking Central Park.
We had spent some time there, and she hated it. She, herself, lived in a posher apartment in the upper west side with four other girls, all of whom aspired to a better life.
I’d often wondered what she saw in me. I was never going to give her the things she wanted, even if I did climb up that corporate ladder.
All this went around and around in my head while unconsciously doing all the tasks Larry set me, as if I had been doing it all my life. Perhaps all I needed was to be reminded of who I was.
As the sun began to set, we headed back. I didn’t want to go back to explain myself to my parents or my grandmother, who by now would be very unhappy with me. I think I knew who it was who told Penelope where I was. What I didn’t understand was what changed her mind about her. I could name at least three times when she told me I could do better.
Then, looking up into that setting sun, I could see a lone rider coming from behind the house where the family stables were located.
Coming closer, I could see it was a woman and then closer still that it was Penelope. I had no idea she could ride a horse.
Well, it never came up in any conversation.
Larry looked at me. “Your friend?”
“Was.”
“Is. City girls get on horses to impress young Ethan. And she sits well.”
We both stopped and waited until she reached us.
Larry greeted her in his usual manner, “Miss. Not a good idea to be out here this late.”
“Larry, is it?”
He nodded
“I’m Penelope. Ethan’s grandmother said it was fine for you to leave me in Ethan’s care.”
“Did she now. You need to know this fellow is a little careless when left to his own devices. I don’t think I can.”
“I trust him completely, Larry.”
Larry shook his head. “Your funeral, ma’am. If that’s what you want?”
“I do.”
“Fair enough.” He glared at me. “You look after her, or you will have me to deal with. Understood?”
I did and nodded
“Good. Tomorrow. Early. Don’t make me come and get you.”
He was still muttering to himself as he headed back to the stables.
I sat there the whole time and watched the proceedings. I was not sure what she was up to, nor my grandmother sending her out like this.
“What are you doing?”
“Riding a horse. It’s one of the more sedate in the stable, but I don’t think your grandmother quite believed me when I said I could ride.”
“Can you?”
“Since I could walk. My mother thought it would be an asset, along with accountancy so I could manage running a house, ballroom dancing in case I needed to attend a ball, or simply dance a waltz at my wedding, horse riding because she always believed my husband would be a rider, cooking because she said the way to a man’s heat was through his stomach. There are others too numerous to mention, but in the end, before she died about two years ago, she said it was her opinion I would be quite the prize “
“And you were fine with that?”
“Where I come from, Ethan, it was either that or working as a server in a diner, a teacher, or a governess. I wasted an education because I thought chasing the unattainable was better, only to have to run away to a large city where no one knew the mistakes I’d made. Even as that nobody you professed to be Ethan, you never once looked down your nose at me. You loved me unconditionally. You never asked who I was, and so I loved you back, equally and unconditionally. You still do. I know you do. I can feel it when you look at me. If you really hated me that much, I would have seen and felt the revulsion and believe me, I know what that’s like.”
My grandmother knew who she was from the start, and yet she didn’t intervene. Or tell my parents. What was it about this girl that had finally impressed her?
“I’m not who you think I am, Ethan, but I didn’t lie to you. I just skimmed over the bad bits. The worst, perhaps, is that I have a daughter, the mistake that to me was not a mistake but the best thing to happen to me. No one wants to date the mother of a young child. I should have told you ages ago. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
And still my grandmother didn’t set off the alarm bells. What could I say?
“You know I’m not going to take handouts from anyone in my family, that I have to make it on my own. I don’t know how I can be the sort of man you need in your life.”
“But you are exactly who I need, who I want. I’m not looking for rich, Ethan. I found you long before I knew who you were, and it didn’t matter. It’s taken a long time to realise that. It’s why I’m here, now, hoping against hope you will forgive me.”
It might have been a different story had I not received a text from Joey. I don’t know how he got my number but then he had the resources to do almost anything.
And if he wanted Penelope, she wouldn’t be here.
He basically told me I was the biggest fool on the planet, which was pretty rich coming from him. He said that she had wanted to know more about me because she knew that there was more. I wasn’t telling her, but that he said was not for him to tell. Instead, he was regaling her with stories of our youth, and how he got into trouble, and I got him out of it. Perhaps I had misinterpreted interest in the story as something else, which would never, ever happen. He said he had told her to tell me the truth about who she was and why I would be missing out on the one true love of my life. He added it might be sooner than I think and not to botch it.
It had begun to worry me that I had.
“Your grandmother told me about a shack, somewhere in this south paddock, the one you threatened to go and hide in when you hear your parents are coming. By the way, they are not so bad.”
“You obviously met them on a good day.”
“Try flying down in the corporate jet with them. I was scared half to death I was going to get the third degree. Instead, a chef cooked lunch, and we had French champagne. Haven’t they heard of cheese and pickle on rye and bottled supermarket water?”
“They can’t do cheap. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. They didn’t give me the option to decline. The shack?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because your grandmother thinks we need to start again, this time on a proper footing with no lies or omissions.”
“It’s a few hours, in the dark, over hill and down dale.”
“It’s a clear sky and a full moon.”
“Two hours in the saddle?”
She smiled. “I’m made of strong stuff, Ethan, as you will find out. And I’m sure Larry won’t mind another cowgirl at muster time.”
“Let’s just see if you survive the ride first.”
“So, we’re good?”
“Ask me tomorrow morning.”
She shook her head. “You’re never going to admit you’re wrong, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re going to vex me till the end of time.”
“Yep. Are we going to keep jabbering or are we going?”
“Lead on.”
I did, trying not to show that I believed I had won my first argument with any woman I’d ever known. It was highly likely, however, it was going to be the last, so I would savour it for as long as possible.
Include the elements, who does this person think they are, who are they really, what are they running from or to, and what just happened they cannot undo.
…
I knew her simply as Emma, the enigmatic woman who lived in Apartment 772, five doors up from me. Sometimes she would be alone, sometimes with a man whom I assumed was her husband. They were quiet and unassuming and had lived in the block for about a year.
Amonth the others on our floor, there were the busybodies, the people who had more time than sense and spent their time talking about matters they generally knew nothing about. Emma was one of those subjects.
To them, she was not married, the man was really two who looked the same, possibly brothers, and that arguments had been heard, up the stairs, and from within the apartment. I simply told them it was none of their business.
Each morning, I would leave for work at the same time. Emma was more erratic but would also leave for work about the same time. I took the bus from the stop outside the building; she took a bus from the other side in the opposite direction.
Each evening, I would come home on the bus, stopping on the other side of the street. Not so often, Emma would come home in a car, driven by the man she was seen with in the building. She would get out, and he would drive off, only to return a half hour later on foot.
No, I wasn’t a stalker; she had simply piqued my interest.
…
This morning was different.
I came down to join the others at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that was three minutes late. i was running late.
Emma was on the other side of the road, standing next to the shelter, but there was something else. A case, not a large one, not a small one, but one just enough for her to pack enough for a free days away.
This sent my deductive mind into overdrive.
IT was cold but the sun was out, and she was holding rather than wearing her red coat with the fur collar. She was not wearing her usual white blouse and black pants, but a summery yellow dress with flowers on it, a yellow ribbon in her hair, and instead of practical flat heeled shoes she was earing high heels. It completely transformed her into someone else.
My assumption that she was an office clerk or shop salesperson was shattered. Perhaps she was something else entirely. Had my bus been on time, I would have missed this transformation. Perhaps she was emulating the epitome of a 1950s housewife.
She was certainly nothing like the type of woman that would be associated with the man who brought her home. He was rough, unkempt, perhaps a factory worker or something else. My mind briefly went to a dark place and back again. No, it was not possible.
Of course, all of this speculation could be resolved in an instant if only I had the courage to talk to her, and now that I had seen her in this guise, that might never happen. She was far too nice for the likes of me.
I;d seen her glance nervously over the road, as if she was looking for the man in the car, the man we saw with her in the corridors of our building. Did he bring her home last night? Was she running away from him? It would explain the nervous glances. Those nervous glances extended to the direction the bus came from, and she was willing it to arrive so she could get away.
If he did come out and saw her trying to escape, would I try to intervene and save her? No. I was too much of a coward to do that. Those furtive and apprehensive looks confirmed my suspicion that she was leaving. He was not her type, and maybe was once, but not now. Not this version of her.
Had they argued? Had it got violent? I hadn’t heard anything, but then I never did. I went to bed early so that I was fresh for the next day. What could have happened that precipitated this? If she was trying to get away, would she come back?
…
My attention was diverted for a moment on a pair of badly behaving school children. when I looked back, I could see the stricken look on her face, staring at the entrance to the building. I turned around and saw the man, quickly looking up and down the street, then over the road.
His manner told me he had seen her, and he was almost running towards her.
I looked up the road and the bus wasn’t coming. She had picked up the suitcase but in the motion of doing that she had dropped her coat, and buy the time she picked it up he was there. He grabbed her by the arms and was yelling, not too loudly, at her.
I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking.
She looked devastated and didn’t put up any resistance. He was trying to take her case and she wouldn’t let him. Others at the bus stop were moving away, not wanting to get involved.
I made a decision. it might not be the right one, it might be none of my business, but to me it looked like he was hurting her.
I crossed the road and stepped up to them.
He stopped and glared at me. “You want to go away, little man.” Full of himself and arrogant. I knew then what he was. Italian, recently arrived, with halting English. There were a few near where I worked, men who were recently arrived, looking for a new life.
I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “You might want to rethink that, sir.” He stepped back slightly. My detective’s badge carried only so much weight, and people like him generally had no respect for the law.
I looked at her. “Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”
She looked at me, trying to remember where she had seen me. It was certainly not as a policeman. I rarely let anyone know who or what I was.
Over the other side of the road, my bus came and went. Damn.
“Yes,” she said. “You are from apartments. A policeman. Yes, this man is annoying me. I wish to go to my sisters.”
“And this man?”
“Comes from home, thinks we are still,” she hesitated, looking for a word, “friends. That is home, not here. He is terrible man at home, why I leave. I do not wish to see him, now or ever again.”
“OK.” I turned back to him. “Leave now, sir. She does not want to see you.”
“Not true. This is wife, my woman, she is mine, do what I tell her!”
She came and stood beside me. “Was married, divorced now. I am not his.”
He took a step towards me and tried to push me aside to get to her, as she moved backwards to stand behind me. Perhaps I acted on instinct, perhaps it was the fact he was going to shove me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted him to one side, and when he tried to resist, I levered him onto the ground, pinning his arms behind him.
A patrol car pulled up just as he hit the ground, and two uniformed officers jumped out, one with a hand on his gun. I held up my badge and said, “This man was trying to take this woman away forcefully, I told him to stop after identifying myself as a police officer, and when he didn’t, I had to restrain him.
The bus arrived and pulled in front of the police car. The two policemen had the man in custody and were holding him.
She looked at the very angry man, and at the bus. “May I catch bus. My sister is waiting for my arrival.”
“You want to prefer charges against this man?” I asked.
“No. I just want to leave. Please.”
I looked at the two officers. “Go. We’ll detain this man for a few minutes. Give him a warning.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her case and walked over to the bus. She took one last look back, and then she was gone.
I had no doubt I wouldn’t see her again.
They gave him a warming and then let him go, waiting until he had walked off. He gave the nastiest of looks, and I knew my business wasn’t done with him. He didn’t look the sort who would let it go.
West Lake is a freshwater lake in Hangzhou, China. It is divided into five sections by three causeways. There are numerous temples, pagodas, gardens, and artificial islands within the lake.
Measuring 3.2 kilometers (2 miles) in length, 2.8 kilometers (1.7 miles) in width, and 2.3 meters (7.5 feet) in average depth, the lake spreads itself in an area totaling 6.5 square kilometers (2.5 square miles).
The earliest recorded name for West Lake was the “Wu Forest River”, but over time it changed to two distinct names. One is “Qiantang Lake”, due to the fact that Hangzhou was called “Qiantang” in ancient times. The other, “West Lake”, due to the lake being west of the city
It’s about to get busy, with a number of activities planned, and the warmth of the day is starting to make an impact.
The tour starts in the car park about a kilometer away, but the moment we left the car park we were getting a taste of the park walking along a tree-lined avenue.
When we cross the road, once again dicing with death with the silent assassins on motor scooters.
We are in the park proper, and it is magnificent, with flowers, mostly at the start hydrangeas and then any number of other trees and shrubs, some carved into other flower shapes like a lotus.
Then there was the lake and the backdrop of bridges and walkways.
.
And if you can tune out the background white noise the place would be great for serenity and relaxation.
That, in fact, was how the boat ride panned out, about half an hour or more gliding across the lake in an almost silent boat, by an open window, with the air and the majestic scenery.
No, not that boat, which would be great to have lunch on while cruising, but the boat below:
Not quite in the same class, but all the same, very easy to tune out and soak it in.
It was peaceful, amazingly quiet, on a summery day
A pagoda in the hazy distance, an island we were about to circumnavigate.
Of all the legends, the most touching one is the love story between Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen was a white snake spirit and Xu Xi’an was a mortal man.
They fell in love when they first met on a boat on the West Lake, and got married very soon after.
However, the evil monk Fa Hai attempted to separate the couple by imprisoning Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen fought against Fa Hai and tried her best to rescue her husband, but she failed and was imprisoned under the Leifeng Pagoda by the lake.
Years later the couple was rescued by Xiao Qing, the sister of Baisuzhen, and from then on, Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an lived together happily.
The retelling of the story varied between tour guides, and on the cruise boat, we had two. Our guide kept to the legend, the other tour guide had a different ending.
Suffice to say it had relevance to the two pagodas on the far side of the lake.
There was a cafe or restaurant on the island, but that was not our lunch destination.
Nor were the buildings further along from where we disembarked.
All in all the whole cruise took about 45 minutes and was an interesting break from the hectic nature of the tour.
Oh yes, and the boat captain had postcards for sale. We didn’t buy any.
Lunch
At the disembarkation point there was a mall that sold souvenirs and had a few ‘fast food’ shops, and a KFC, not exactly what we came to China for, but it seemed like the only place in town a food cautious Australian could eat at.
And when tried to get in the door, that’s where at least 3 busloads were, if they were not in the local Starbucks. Apparently, these were the places of first choice wherever we went.
The chicken supply by the time we got to the head of the line amounted to pieces at 22.5 RMB a piece and nuggets. Everything else had run out, and for me, there were only 5 pieces left. Good thing there were chips.
And Starbucks with coffee and cheesecake.
At least the setting for what could have been a picnic lunch was idyllic.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 