Category: blogging

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2024 – N is for No will, no inheritance

…

I was happy where I ended up, far, far away from the madding crowd, a misquote from the title of one of my favourite books.

One of six siblings, I had three brothers and two sisters, and being the youngest of the six, I was the one the other five gave the hardest time

It might have been because my parents spoiled me rotten, being the surprise, they never expected.  That and much later, when our parents died travelling in a far away and relatively dangerous place, on their way home from visiting me.

That was the day I basically never saw or spoke to them.  In a sense, it was easy.  They were in England, too wrapped up in a squabble over the spoils of an undocumented inheritance, and I was happy being the forgotten son in Africa.

I had never wanted anything to do with family life in England, not living in the large house, the servants, the other properties in Europe, managing the farms, and later as grew older, watching the responsibility of it all slowly crush my father, trying to keep it all afloat while the other five siblings tried to squander the fortune in ways that beggared belief.

He knew what was happening, it was one of the reasons why he came to visit me. I wondered why he had come alone, but it turned out that the day they were both coming, she had got very ill.

It was then he told me that when they returned, the debt collectors would move in, and everything was lost.  He knew it wouldn’t bother me, I had never had any interest in the family fortune or now lack thereof as it turned out.

He had wanted me to return home and sort out the mess, but I declined.  Instead, we spent a few days together reliving old and better times l, then took him back to Nairobi and spent a day with my mother.  It was clear he hadn’t told her.  It would be a shock when they returned, but they would survive.

Except they didn’t return, at least not alive, killed in a freak accident on the way to the airport.  When I sent word home of their deaths, there was not one response from any of the children.

In the end, I made arrangements with the estate manager at their home to send them home to be buried in the family plot.  In a last-minute change of heart, I accompanied them back to England, and then to the Manor House which, when greeted by the Estate Manager, told me that the house had been repossessed by the bank and that everyone had been evicted.

In a final act of kindness, we were allowed to bury them in the family cemetery, in a service run by a priest I’d never seen before, attended by people I could not remember as family friends.  Perhaps the only relevant attendee was a man I recognised, my father’s legal friend, Dobbins.

He only asked one question: Did I have a copy of the last will and testament.  Apparently, my father had come out to discuss it.  I told him he did not, and I did not have anything.  We just talked about the old days, and he left.  He just shook his head and left.

Not one of my brothers or sisters turned up to the service.  Why would they? There was nothing in it for them.  That would come with the reading of the will…oops, there was no will.

You never get what you wish for, and apparently, Lamu Island, about ten hours’ drive from Nairobi in Kenya, was not far enough away.

It was no coincidence that I ended up in Kenya, the brother of my great, great, great grandfather had served in the British army and then retired, and instead of going home, bought a small plot of land on Lamu Island and built a place to spend the rest of his days.

Successive generations made improvements until the line died out, the place came up for sale, and knowing its heritage and connection to the family, I bought it.

It was why, on a bright autumn morning, I was sitting on the front porch staring out across the landscape, paying attention on a car heading along the road that rarely had vehicular traffic.

It could only be heading for one of three places, two further up the road, if it could be called that, to my neighbours, or to my place.  Neither of my neighbours was currently at home, and I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it was either trouble or an unexpected visitor.

I took a few minutes to prepare for any eventuality and then went back to my seat.  The car slowed as it approached my driveway, then stopped.  I could see there was only one person in the car, but it was hard to tell who it might be.

My cell phone rang.

Was it the person in the car?  If so, how did they get my cell number?

There was a phone number but not a name.  It was an English-based cell number, but no name, therefore not someone I knew.

I shrugged and pressed the green button.

“Jeremy?”

It sounded like my sister, Felicity, one year older and the one whom I had the most angst with.  I hadn’t missed her after leaving and deliberately avoided contact since.  I’d be very annoyed if my father had told the others where I was.

I could pretend to be someone else, but it would seem churlish.  I had no doubt it was her.

“Turn around and go home.”

“Can’t.  I flew in with a friend and they won’t be back for two days.  I figure you would at the very least put me up for that time.  We have things to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss.  You and the rest of the vultures might, but it has nothing to do with me.  I told Dad I wanted nothing to do with him, his assets, not that he has any, or you lot.”

“That might be what you think is the situation, but exactly the opposite is true.  He didn’t die intestate, nor did he die penniless like he told everyone, and despite your protestations, he left you the lot.  And I’m here to help head off the angry mob.”

As much as I wanted to believe it, this seemed a con to get in the door.  I’d hear her out and then get Adolf, a friend who lived nearby to take her back to the airport.

“Whatever.  You’ve got an hour to prove your case, and then you’re gone.  I know for a fact he had nothing. He proved it when he was here, so whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

“I don’t have any choice.” 

The line went dead, so I guess I would have to wait and see what the three of them had concocted.

I watched the car, and after the phone call, it surprised me that she did not drive in but sat outside and made another call.

I suspect she was calling the siblings to tell them she had found me and was about to plead their case.

It was stupid to think or believe that our father had left anything behind other than massive debts.  There was no way that our mother had left anything because her fortune or lack thereof was tied up in our father’s financial mess.

He had told me quite plainly there was nothing left and that the receivers were moving in the moment he arrived home.

And if her information came from our father’s lawyer, then he had not mentioned anything when I spoke to him.  He has asked if I had a copy of the will, and that I didn’t mean the last will stood which apportioned the estate to the other siblings, excluding me, because he and I had a falling out at the time.

Nothing she said made sense.

Ten minutes passed before the car continued from the front gate to the house.  I remained on the deck, and watched her park the car next to mine, get out, smooth out the wrinkles, and walk up the stairs.

That last meeting, however long ago it was, and it still rankled, and I was angry.  There were not going to be hugs nor apologies for distancing myself from all of them.  I had nothing in common with any of them, and I’d made my views quite plain the last time I saw them all together and didn’t pull any punches.

It was odd that she was here now.

“Don’t get settled,”  I noted she had left her bag in the car.  “State your case.”

I didn’t move, and there was no way she was setting foot inside.

She held out a piece of paper, neatly folded.

“A copy of the will.”

I glared at her and then at it.  “Where did you get it?”

“It was under one of the drawers in his study.”

“Who found it?”

“Jacob.  You know what he’s like?”

“I do.  His most notable trait, forging his father’s signature so he could escape school.  If that’s your evidence, then it’s not.”

I took it, unfolded it, and glanced at the contents.  It was worded like a six-year-old would, and had about ten lines that simply left all his worldly possessions to me.  The writing was scrawled, as were the witnesses’ names I didn’t recognise.

“It’s a forgery.  And he had no worldly possessions.  Who are these witnesses?”

“Dobkins partners.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that when I saw him at the funeral?  Moreover, why did he ask me if I had a copy of the will?”

OK, I could see what might be happening here. The angry mob were throwing a fake, hoping I would proffer the one they believed her left with me that was to their benefit.

This was Andrew’s doing.  He was the most devious of the lot.

I had my cell phone, and I’d put Dobkin’s phone number on it when my father visited.  He had said I would have to talk to him when things got bad.  When they had, I’d expected a call.  He did not.

Was he in league with the siblings thinking there were a few pounds to be made?

I called the number, and he answered.

“It’s Jeremy.  I’ve got Felicity here with some cock and bull story about me being the only beneficiary of a non-existent fortune my father didn’t leave behind, in a will that was obviously forged by Jacob.  I’ll be happy to prove it.”

His response was predictable. “You have a new will then?”

They were all in it together.

“We had this conversation.  There is no other will, and this one I’d rubbish, and you know it.  He died intestate.  If there’s spoilt to be had, the vultures split it between them.  If not, don’t bother me again.”

I hung up.

I glared at her. “Whatever this is, whatever you lot have conspired between you, forget about including me in it. There’s nothing to be bad.  I don’t have a copy of my father’s will.  That’s not why he came here.  While he was here, he told me between Mother and you lot, you have bled the estate dry, and there was nothing left.  Since I was the only one who wasn’t a bloodsucking leech, he thought I might have some idea of how to save the family home.  Short of a miracle, I did not.”

“Then how do you account for this?”

She pulled another neatly folded piece of paper and held it out.

“What is it?”

“A list of assets.”

I took it more out of curiosity than anything else and looked at it.  It had the title ‘Investments’ and was a list of stocks and bonds with the purchase date, and another date, about a month before he came to see me.  Under the latter date was a value.

It was written in the same spidery handwriting that was almost the same in the will but with key differences.  This was his writing. The will wasn’t.

It was the same documents he had shown me when he visited, and he had said when he cadged it all in to pay the debts, it had fallen short by nearly three million pounds.

He’d also shown me the bank documents, including the one that advised that he had a specified period to find that remaining sum or risk foreclosure.

They were still in the satchel the police had delivered along with what belongings he and our mother had at the time of their deaths.  It was all upstairs in the attic, none of which I could find the desire to look at or send home.

I could see now why the vultures thought there were spoils to be had.  That asset list was worth nearly twenty million pounds.

“I bet you and your fellow vultures eyes lit up when you saw this?”

“Only the fact he left it to you, not us.  We all need that money, and as you say, you don’t.”

I shrugged.  “You have spoken to his investment bankers before you came, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head.  None of them had any common sense, not where money was concerned, and not while there was an endless well to draw from.  They wouldn’t because none of them considered investing or even saving for a rainy day.

“You’ve come a long way for nothing.  You can stay until your ride returns.  I gave her the two sheets of paper back.  “The will is fake.  The list of investments, he cashed in trying to save the family home.  He fell short by three million.  Is any one of you still living in the house, or did the bank take it?”

She didn’t have to answer.

“Andrew and Jacob set you up, Felicity.  If they came, I’d shoot them without hesitation.  You, I would think twice.  And I think you know that Will was a fake, and that because the bank took the house, there was nothing left.  If you don’t, then perhaps I should shoot you.”

She was sullen over dinner after I showed her around the house.  It wasn’t much, but I never had the same expensive tastes as the others.

They had all worn the mantle of the Lord’s in waiting, pushing that life of privilege to the limit.  It was never a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. They were the Joneses.

Until the well went dry, and it was interesting reading their comeuppance one by one as they found themselves explaining what happened.  Or not being able to, because none of them understood the nature of their problems.  They had spent all their time relying on our father to do it for them.

I knew that Felicity was smarter than the rest of them, she had been the only one who was academically gifted and had aspirations of being, of all things, a jet fighter pilot in the RAF.  Neatly succeeded if there hadn’t been an accident that, in the end, saw her discharged from the service.

From there, she became an airline pilot, an envious job, and how she managed to get to my place. 

It didn’t make sense to me why she would buy into Andrew and Jacob’s scheme, and I tried to draw it out of her.  Perhaps giving her the facts had made her realise what a waste of time the exercise was.

Whatever the reason, she went to bed a very sad woman.

Assuming that she was not going to believe what I had told her, I made that trip to the attic and found my father’s satchel.  I took it down to my study and laid the papers out on the desk.

Then I went to bed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 96

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160902_093753

This is Chester

Once again, it’s Sunday night, and he’s looking for a philosophical discussion.   COVID 19 is off the topic list.

He’s suitably disappointed that the Trump Show is over, as far as we are aware, though he’s not surprised.

But he is worried that two cats have tested positive.

I try to tell him that it is in New York, about 18,000 miles away, where there are over 200,000 cases. We have just over 1,000 and they are all isolated so we cannot be harmed.

I guess it’s hard to convince a cat when his mind is made up.

We’ve also taken the grandchildren off the list of topics too,

They arrive a few hours ago, and studiously ignored him when they arrived. I tried to point out that he was in hiding when they arrived, but again, the stubbornness of opinion is amazing, or normal.

I should be used to this sort of contrariness.

So, what is on the discussion list?

Outlander, Season 5 Episode 10. Well, I say, we haven’t seen it yet, so don’t tell me what the plots is.

He looks at me as if I’m mad. I only get to see it when you do, he says. How should I know what the plot is?  In fact, what is the plot?

Time travel, I say.

Pity we can’t do some of that, he says.

Why I asked, and really, I should know better.

Because I could go back to the day you came to the pet shop and hide. I have given you 18 years to improve, and you’re still the same as you were then.

Discussion over.

Not his favorite food for dinner tonight.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 45

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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

“Silly question, what were you doing in the hotel with this ‘operative’?”

Yes, it sounded odd the moment I said it, and, if it was the other way around, I’d be thinking the same.

“We joined forces, thinking we were in danger, at the time, not knowing that she was working with Dobbin.  I discovered that later, by chance.  She doesn’t know I know.”

“And she’ll be waiting at the hotel?”

“Dobbin wants the USB.  She believes we’re collaborating, after telling me she works for MI5, on a different mission involving O’Connell.  She had apparently been undercover as a fellow resident at the block where O’Connell had a flat, and a cat.  The cat, of course, had no idea his owner was a secret agent.  The flat was sparsely furnished and didn’t look lived in, so it may have been a safe house.”

“Wheels within wheels.”

“That’s the nature of the job.  Lies, lies, and more lies, nothing is as it seems, and trust no one.”

“Including you?”

“Including me, but keep an open mind, and try not to shoot me.  I’m as all at sea as you are.  And, just to be clear, I’m not sure I believe Quigley that the information is lost.  People like him, and especially his contact, if he was a journalist, tend to have two copies, just in case.  And the explosion might have killed the messenger, but not the information.  Lesson number one, anything is possible, nothing is impossible, and the truth, it really is stranger than fiction.”

“Great.”

A half-hour later I’d parked the car in a parking lot near Charing Cross station.  The plan, if it could be called that, was for me to go back to the room, and for Jennifer to remain in the foyer, and wait.  If anything went wrong she was to leave and wait for a call.  For all intents and purposes, no one knew of her, except perhaps for Severin and Maury, but I wasn’t expecting them to be lurking in the hotel foyer, waiting for me.

As for Dobbin, that was a different story.  It would depend on how impatient he was in getting information on the whereabouts of the USB, and whether he trusted Jan to find out.

I’d soon find out.

The elevator had three others in it, all of who had disembarked floors below mine.   As the last stepped out and the doors closed, it allayed fears of being attacked before I reached the room.

As the doors closed behind me, the silence of the hallway was working on my nerves, until a few steps towards my room I could hear the hissing of an air conditioning intake, and suddenly the starting up of a vacuum cleaner back in the direction I’d just come.

 A cleaner or….

Remember the training for going into confined spaces…

The room was at the end of the passage, a corner room, with two exits after exiting the front door.  I thought about knocking, but, it was my room too, so I used the key and went in.

Lying tied up on the bed was a very dead Maury, three shots to the heart.

And, over the sound of my heart beating very loudly, I could hear the sound of people out in the corridor, followed by pounding on the door.

Then, “Police.”

A second or two after that the door crashed open and six men came into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting for me to get on the floor and show my hands or I would be shot,”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Mistaken Identity – The Final Editor’s Draft – Day 10

This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.

…

One third of the month is gone and this writing job is not getting any easier.

The notion that we can sit down and over 30 days, we can write a 50,000-word novel would be, to some, a preposterous notion.

For me, it is not. I have done it for three years in a row, and even without having a plan.

This one has a plan, but that plan only sometimes stretches to a day or two ahead, depending on how I’m going.

Today, it had been hard going because I set time aside to just sit down and write it, but you all know how fickle that can be. Devote time, and the words don’t come, have no time and try scratching in between a lot of other jobs, and the words are flowing.

It is annoying to say the least.

Bit, for today, Jack has discovered he does, indeed, have a doppelganger, and that he is related, which explains the uncanny likeness. Of course, he has been followed to the island, and run to ground in a park where the two meet face to face. Oh, and the doppelganger has a name, Jacob.

It could have got ugly, but Maryanne is there, though Jack is still not sure why, and her presence averts what could have been an ugly showdown,

Instead, some words of advice. Jack must ask his mother for the answers.

A fine time for Jack to discover that his mother has been lying to him for his whole life.

But, of course, any attempt to get her on the phone is proving difficult.

And it might mean the end of his holiday.

Our Jack is not a happy man.

Yes, word-wise we have reached the halfway mark, but story-wise, it appears it will take a little longer.

More tomorrow.

Searching for locations: Central Park, New York

It’s a place to go and spot the movie stars, or perhaps their dogs.

It’s a place to go for long walks on idyllic spring or autumn days

It’s a place to go to look at a zoo, though I didn’t realize there was one until I made a wrong turn.

It’s a place to go for a horse and carriage ride, although it does not last that long

It’s a place to go to look at statues, fountains, architecture, and in winter, an ice skating rink

I’m sure there’s a whole lot more there that I don’t know about.

I have to say I’ve only visited in winter, and the first time there was snow, the second, none.

Both times it was cold, but this didn’t seem to deter people.

But…

We decided to go visit another part of the park, this time walking to West 67th Street before crossing Central Park West and into the park where Sheep Meadow is.

Once upon a time sheep did graze on the meadow, but these days it is designated a quiet area inspiring calm and refreshing thoughts, except for a period in the 1960s where there was more than one counter-culture protest, or love in, going on.

And, there’s the sign to say it was Sheep Meadow,

and that’s the meadow behind the sign,

Well, I don’t see any sheep, but of course, that’s not why the meadow is named or should there be any sheep on it.  That greenery that can be seen, restoring for the spring, was a very expensive addition to the park.

As a matter of fact, there is nothing was on it, because signs were up to say the meadow was closed for the winter, a new and interesting variation on the ‘Don’t Walk On The Grass’ signs.

I’m sure I could climb the fence, or, maybe not.  I’m a bit old to be climbing fences.

So, unable to walk on the grass, we tossed an imaginary coin, should we go towards West 110th Street, or back to West 59th Street.

West 59th Street won.

and, just in case we had any strange ideas about walking on the grass, the fence was there to deter us.  Perhaps if we had more determination…

One positive aspect of the park is that you could never get lost, and the tall buildings surrounding the park are nearly always visible through the trees, more so in winter because there is no foliage, maybe less so later in the year.

There is also a lot of very large rocky type hills, or outcrops where people seem to stand on, king of the mountain style, or sit to have a picnic lunch, quickly before it freezes.

Yes, it is cold outside and seems more so in the park.

I wondered briefly if it ever got foggy, then this place would be very spooky, particularly after the sun goes down.

NANOWRIMO – April 2024 – “The One That Got Away” – Day 15

A new meaning to ‘a change of life’

…

It was not the thought of having a large house in the most expensive part of London, the servants, or what he could do with the money.

That was all for the charitable intentions she had set out a long time ago when he had mentioned that there was a lot of good she could do rather than just spend it on drugs parties and alcohol.

Yes, that was the first of what he called the doosie arguments.

After that, it was the unkind remarks of her friends, what he called the hangers-on and aristocratic deadbeats.  It earned him no kudos, so he went off and did his own thing.

He should have tried harder.  It was clear she had loved him, but there were too many forces pulling at her, the friends, the lifestyle, the parents, the aristocratic blood.

That all came back in that moment he saw Adria, her best friend and perhaps the only other voice of reason, and who had been in the beginning his arch enemy, the one who tried hard to prove he was just like any other man; and in the end, became an ally when she found he wasn’t anything like she expected.

Just too late, the damage had been done.

This visit brought back some very raw memories, and having to work with her again was going to be difficult.  Perhaps it would only be fleeting because this was going to be a fly-in fly-out job, sort out the mess, and move on.

He could see the original bequest to her charitable organisation had been sequestered from everything else, and all he had to do was divorce the new charity, pull out her interest in it, or that of her organisation as a parent and let them sink into what she had called ‘piggie quagmire’.

It was what he had always feared would happen that someone like her father would intervene and take everything from her.  Having met Howard, he could see that would never have happened.

…

Words today, 1,863, for a total of 27,696

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

whatsetscover

Searching for locations: New York, USA

After arriving latish from Toronto, and perhaps marginally disappointed that while in Toronto, the ice hockey didn’t go our way, we slept in.

Of course, the arrival was not without its own problems. The room we were allocated was on the 22nd floor and was quite smallish. Not a surprise, but we needed space for three, and with the fold-out bed, it was tight but livable.

Except…

We needed the internet to watch the Maple Leafs ice hockey game. We’d arrive just in time to stream it to the tv.

But…

There was no internet. It was everywhere else in the hotel except our floor.

First, I went to the front desk and they directed me to call tech support.

Second, we called tech support and they told us that the 22nd-floor router had failed and would get someone to look at it.

When?

It turns out it didn’t seem to be a priority. Maybe no one else on the floor had complained

Third, I went downstairs and discussed the lack of progress with the night duty manager, expressing disappointment with the lack of progress.

I also asked if they could not provide the full service that I would like a room rate reduction or a privilege in its place as compensation.

He said he would check it himself.

Fourth, after no further progress, we called the front desk to advise there was still no internet. This time we were asked if we wanted a room on another floor, where the internet is working. We accepted the offer.

The end result, a slightly larger, less cramped room, and the ability to watch the last third of the Maple Leaf’s game. I can’t remember if we won.

We all went to bed reasonably happy.

After all, we didn’t have to get up early to go up or down to breakfast because it was not included in the room rate, a bone of contention considering the cost.

I’ll be booking with them directly next time, at a somewhat cheaper rate, a thing I find after using a travel wholesaler to book it for me.

As always every morning while Rosemary gets ready, I go out for a walk and check out where we are.

It seems we are practically in the heart of theaterland New York. Walk one way or the other you arrive at 7th Avenue or Broadway.

Walk uptown and you reach 42nd Street and Times Square, little more than a 10-minute leisurely stroll. On the way down Broadway, you pass a number of theatres, some recognizable, some not.

Times Square is still a huge collection of giant television screens advertising everything from confectionary to TV shows on the cable networks.

A short walk along 42nd street takes you to the Avenue of the Americas and tucked away, The Rockefeller center and its winter ice rink.

A few more steps take you to 5th Avenue and the shops like Saks of Fifth Avenue, shops you could one day hope to afford to buy something.

In the opposite direction, over Broadway and crossing 8th Avenue is an entrance to Central Park. The approach is not far from what is called the Upper West Side, home to the rich and powerful.

Walk one way in the park, which we did in the afternoon, takes you towards the gift shop and back along a labyrinth of laneways to 5th Avenue. It was a cold, but pleasant, stroll looking for the rich and famous, but, discovering, they were not foolish enough to venture out into the cold.

Before going back to the room, we looked for somewhere to have dinner and ended up in Cassidy’s Irish pub. There was a dining room down the back and we were one of the first to arrive for dinner service.

The first surprise, our waitress was from New Zealand.

The second, the quality of the food.

I had a dish called Steak Lyonnaise which was, in plain words, a form of mince steak in an elongated patty. It was cooked rare as I like my steak and was perfect. It came with a baked potato.

As an entree, we had shrimp, which in our part of the world are prawns, and hot chicken wings, the sauce is hot and served on the side.

The beer wasn’t bad either. Overall given atmosphere, service, and food, it’s a nine out of ten.

It was an excellent way to end the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr. Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner now over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

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Mistaken Identity – The Final Editor’s Draft – Day 9

This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.

…

Today Jack is about to become as confused as he ever will be. Well, maybe not as ever, but it’s the start of a time when he will not know what is happening.

Firstly, there’s Maryanne. Whilst the full extent of the enigma she will be for nearly three-quarters of the book, may need a little adjustment when it comes to the first edit, I know something about her now, and those characteristics will gradually be dropped in front of the reader.

Some will say, after this chapter, that she is in trouble. Jack has known that from the start, but that assessment really comes from a distinct lack of understanding of women in general. Yes, he had had girlfriends, but not like Maryanne.

And, before you asked, yes, she is, in part, modelled on a woman I once knew, and she was nothing like any other woman I had known. She was genuinely a beautiful soul, and very much misunderstood.

Jack is fortunate in that he is hesitant to take that last step, though I suspect he might want to, but there are reasons for holding back.

These will be more apparent in the next chapter … I hope.

It’s written in my head, and I’m tempted to stay up and write it, but it’s late, and life other than being a writer will impinge on my time tomorrow.

More tomorrow.