Category: blogging

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 29

Sometimes the easiest solution…

…

If I was to assume the recent visit by one of the so-called pirate ships as a benchmark for transporting a person between ships, then we’d have to get closer to the larger transport vessel where our crew member, logically, was being held.

The fact I was contemplating it was after the discussion with O’Mara, which, quite frankly, was like something out of a science fiction novel.

He’d started it with, “We have been working on a plan “

The same plan, I presumed, that the Lt Colonel had been referring to, only this time with more detail.

“You might not be aware that every member of this crew has a specific marker in their system that both enables us to track where they are, within a reasonable distance, and monitor their well-being.”

I was going to ask exactly what he meant by that, but amongst the reading material I’d been given before boarding, was a paper on the advances in medical science and how this related to space travel.

We all had a series of vaccinations, and I assumed one was to give us that specific marker. I suspect another was to give us nanites that would aid in our recovery as well as maintain our health in somewhat trying circumstances.

And, no, we’re were not meant to become super-soldiers, though work was being progressed on that too.

“It gives us the ability to track our people, and, yes, the two crew members’ life signs came back when we arrived here, and we are currently monitoring the scientist. That’s to say we know where she is, and that she had not been harmed.”

There was only one point about the plan that held any concern, we just didn’t transport people, not because we couldn’t, but because of the risk. Cargo was fine, but people were a little different. There had been testing, and it had worked, but then problems occurred, and it took only the slightest of issues during the transfer, for it to go wrong. After three accidental deaths, it was decided to ban it until the process could be more refined.

Of course, in line with everything else of this ship, the transporters were the latest versions with considerably upgraded hardware. The distance was still a problem, but getting a lock onto an individual was easier with the new markers provided to this crew.

We were, for all intents and purposes, guinea pigs for the new system, something else I didn’t know until now.

The question was, would she want to be transported? The fact the pirate ships were able to transport people with success was interesting given they would only have the old equipment, but they had an incentive to use it, it was a primary means for them to escape.

And that, too, had raised another issue, they had to have a marker, not necessarily the result of a vaccination, it could be a small device, and that could only be given to them by the guards, which meant it was likely the off-world prison authority was corrupt, not unheard of since it had been contracted out. It was just another paragraph in a report that was growing exponentially in size.

The Admiral was surprised to hear from me. I thought it best, in one of those cover your rear moments, to give him a heads up on what we were planning to do.

But to a more important matter I was sure he would be interested in hearing, “The trial for running at a much faster speed was a success, and that we are closer to travelling at the speed of light. But it seems we are not the first people to do so. It seems the people who stole the plutonium have the same capability.”

“The aliens?”

“No. Our scans of their ships and personnel show they are not. We believe the ships are older vessels discarded on the edge of space, refitted, and manned by escaped convicts from the Mars mining prison.” Saying it out loud didn’t quite sound the same as it had in my head.

“Or it is the result of a country that is not exactly playing by the rules that everyone agreed to for the exploration and exploitation of space.”

“So it was known we might run into some people who have another agenda?”

“Not in that direction, no.”

“Well, it seems they have a base on or under the surface of one of Uranus’s moons called Oberon. I suspect the plutonium is to fuel their base, which is far enough out of the mainstream that we might not have discovered it for years.”

“You then have to wonder why they told you about it?”

That answer was provided in a sudden and alarming manner.

“Bridge to Captain, we have three incoming vessels, and I think they are not here for a social visit.”

To the Admiral, “I have to go. Let’s hope the weapons we have are adequate.” I cut the call, saying, “Be there ASAP. Is the gunnery sergeant at her post?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell her she has permission to return fire if they attack.”

“Very good.”

I had considered why they hadn’t attacked when they had the chance earlier, but perhaps that visit was just to return the Captain’s body. If they were privy to information about our vessel, they might know of its capabilities, and not wish to engage. Of course, there was another reason, perhaps they were waiting until all three ships were free, and assume there was safety in numbers.

Whatever the reasons, we’d soon find out.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 136

Day 136

Writing exercise – drag them into the story

…

I wanted answers.

I mean, don’t we all?

They were not difficult questions.  Where are my grandparents?  Why haven’t we seen them?  Are they still alive?

The single answer was that they died not long after my older sister was born.  But it was not the answer that bothered me. It was the delay my mother took to reply, and even more telling was her expression.

I’d seen that expression before, and it was clear to me that she was lying, or more to the point, not telling us the truth.

I had tried, over the years, to discover the truth, but each time, there was always a variation of the same answer: that they were no longer around.

And, because we were not old enough to go out and investigate, that was sufficient to quell any sort of investigation that I or my older sister, Kayla, might have instituted.

Until now.

In a totally unexpected moment in time, my first year at university, and a simple assignment, one that required us to discover who our ancestors were and what impact they may have had on our lives. 

It was a simple matter, and to my astonishment, most of the kids knew of and/or frequently interacted with their grandparents and also knew of their forebears further back.

I had nothing.

…

So, here’s the thing…

I had a document that told me exactly how to investigate my family history.

First step: How to get birth certificates for my parents.  All I had to do was prove who I was; if I wanted a certified copy, and thinking that might cause them to alert my mother, I opted for just the bare bones report.

Finally, I had two names: my mother’s father, William Westbrook, mother, Vanessa Westbrook, nee Cartager.  In other words, my grandmother was Vanessa Cartager, and she was from Dorchester.  My grandfather came from Dorchester.

Second step:  Once I knew their names, I looked for any other children, provided they were born in Dorchester.  My guideline document said that, going back in time, people didn’t really move around unless significant events forced them to.

Armed with their names, I went online and found the outline records for births, marriages, and deaths and searched for the names.

I found Vanessa Cartger.  Born 1936.  Married in 1958 to William Westbrook, both from Dorchester.  Checking parents William and Vanessa Wentworth, 1959, my mother Jennifer, 1961, a boy William, 1963, a girl, Kayla, and 1965, another boy, John.  I had an aunt and two uncles.

None of the names turned up in the deaths, but they could have died in any one of a hundred or so little villages or somewhere else.  It was beginning to look like the proverbial needle in a haystack type search.

It was possible to go further back one generation to find my great-great-grandparents’ names, but I had enough to start with.

I was not going to go home and ask.  I was going to Dorchester to do what I wasn’t sure, but it seemed a good starting point.

…

I booked into a small hotel on Saturday afternoon, after driving up from London. It was not as if I was the sort of person to drop everything on a whim, but it was rather close.  Kayla asked me where I was going, and given her close connection to our mother, I thought it best not to tell her, except I was going away for a few days.  Cornwall, perhaps.  She knew I was interested in the tin mines of old

I deliberately hadn’t told her my interest in our forebears, at least not this time. The last time she had blabbed to mother and caused a ruckus.  It made me wonder what it was my mother had to hide.

I went to the Deanery, which was simply a church and churchyard and thought it odd that people called it home, and for one of the siblings, it had been home for a few years, according to census records.

There, I was able to discover death records for the cemetery, and it held one Jennifer Westbrook, born 1861, died 1861.  Not possible, or it was not the same Jennifer, or did Vanessa give birth to two Jennifers in the same year, one dying at birth?

And a grave location

The graveyard was a very solemn place, bordering one scary, and I guess if I delved deeper, I would find that I had forebears buried here.  They could have gone to the church and sat in the same pews I had.

Just the thought of it sent a shiver down my spine.

It was peaceful, and for a long time, I was alone.  Until I neared the grave of the infant Jennifer.

And discovered an elderly woman at the same location, standing in front of a rather ornate gravestone.

She looked up as I approached.

“I haven’t seen you before.”  It wasn’t a reproach but curiosity.

“I’m looking for a Jennifer Westbrook, though it appears it is not this one.  I’m sorry.” I could see now that it was a family grave with the daughter and the father, William Westbrook’s name on it, with today’s date, a year before.  “You would not be Vanessa Westbrook?”

A stern expression, “Who are you?”

“A person who is chasing the white rabbit.  My studies require me to search for ancestors.  My name is Peter Davies. My mother, Jennifer Westbrook, married Robert Davies in one of the villages around here, and she said her mother had died before I was born.  I’ve been searching the parish records and stumbled upon several Jennifers.  I can see this is the wrong one.”

“You’re mother is deceased.”

“I thought so.  Her mother’s name was Vanessa Cartager, and later, Westbrook.  Or that’s what it says on the birth certificate.

“Then the confusion is not confusion.  You just have the wrong birth certificate.  It’s a simple mistake.  There’s a half dozen Vanessa Cartagers in various parts of Dorset, it’s a common enough name.  Back to the drawing board, as they say.”

“Yes.  You’re right, of course.  I’m sorry if I have caused you any distress.  This must be a difficult time for you.”

“William.  Yes.  But he’s the lucky one.  He’s with her now.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

I thanked her and started walking away.  I only had one issue: little Jennifer’s birthdate was exactly the same as my mother’s, and my mind had just gone to a very dark place.

My mother had created a fake ID. I’d read about it recently in a thriller novel, and had thought at the time it was simply an author’s imagination.

It was not.

My mother had to be a spy.

And then I laughed out loud at the thought.  I was even further away from ever finding out who she was.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: Innsbruck, Austria

On this occasion, we drove from Florence to Innsbruck, a journey of about 500 kilometers and via the E45, a trip that would take us about five and a half hours.

We drove conservatively, stopped once for lunch and took about seven hours, arriving in Innsbruck late in the afternoon

The main reason for this stay was to go to Swarovski in Wattens for the second time, to see if anything had changed, and to buy some pieces.  We were still members of the club, and looking forward to a visit to the exclusive lounge and some Austrian champagne.

Sadly, there were no new surprises waiting, and we came away a little disappointed.

We were staying at the Innsbruck Hilton, where we stayed the last time, and it only a short walk to the old town.

From the highest level of the hotel, it is possible to get a look at the mountains that surround the city.  This view is in the direction we had driven earlier, from Florence.

The change in the weather was noticeable the moment we entered the mountain ranges.

This view looks towards the old town and overlooks a public square.

This view shows some signs of the cold, but in summer, I doubted we were going to see any snow.

We have been here in winter, and it is quite cold, and there is a lot of snow.  The ski resorts are not very far away, and the airport is on the way to Salzburg.

There is a host of restaurants in the old town, and we tried a few during our stay.  The food, beer, and service were excellent.

On a previous visit, we did get Swiss Army Knives, literally, from a small store called Victorinox.

And, yes, we did see the golden roof.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 32

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

The Ormiston’s from the papers

…

The Ormiston story and that of the thousand or so acres between the sea and the mountains are now known as Patterson’s reach, but once called The Grove, began in 1865 when the original Henrich Ormiston arrived from Germany.

Originally intending to go to Australia to grow grapes in South Australia, instead, his fate turned West to the Americas, and, eventually, this part of Florida.  He started out with the intention of growing grapes, but when that failed to materialize, he moved on to Oranges, hence the name, The Grove.

He had married before leaving Germany and had two children, Marta and Gunter before leaving, and Friedrich after he arrived in 1866.  That Friedrich died, according to the gravestone, in 1924.  Neither Marta nor Gunter stayed, leaving Friedrich to carry on the business, have an only child which he named after his father, Heinrich, born in 1899 and who died in 1976.  He in turn had a single son, which he named Friedrich, the infamous person with who Boggs father had a tempestuous business relationship.

Friedrich was born in 1932, during the depression, and it was about that time that the notion there might be buried treasure, somewhere along that coastal area of Florida, floated by a university professor, Emil Stravinsky, who specialized in old pirates.  He had published a book that basically speculated where treasure might be found, and one of those areas was right smack bang in the middle of The Grove.

This information was plucked from the paper’s births, death, and marriages column around the specified dates, the death notices giving some light on the respective Ormiston’s life and toils on their land.

Heinrich, Friedrich’s father, fell for the story hook line and sinker, and with a promise to share the proceeds of an estimated multimillion-dollar trove, invested a fair chunk of the savings he’d amassed over the years in the first of many treasure hunts.  The name Stravinsky rang a bell in my head.

A quick look forward to the most recent editions showed it was the man who had died on Rico’s boat, who was, in fact, a third-generation relative of the original professor, an archaeologist in his own right, and digging a bit further into the story, the paper had published a dozen or so extracts from the professor’s book, hinting their subject matter had been derived from a particular pirate’s log, and from notes made over the years of research by the professor.  It sounded like there was a diary.

I was going to have to find a copy of the professor’s book, which, if it had been published nearly 90 years ago, would now be out of print.

When the father, Heinrich had failed to locate the treasure, the son Friedrich continued the search, only he put more time and effort into more meticulous research rather than take the professor’s word of its whereabouts.

This was about the time Boggs’s father came into the picture.

He had lived and worked in the Caribbean and discovered quite by chance when a storm had blown his boat way off course on a weekend sailing run, the ruins of an encampment and hidden inlet on an uninhabited island where he believed the pirate had operated from.

While waiting to be rescued, the storm had damaged his boat, he took the time to explore, and although he hadn’t told anyone at the time of his rescue, he had discovered a box buried near where a building had once stood containing a map, several coins, a sextant, and a flag.  The news of those discoveries came some years later when it was revealed he’s struck a deal with Ormiston to renew the search for the treasure.

When the result of that expedition came to nothing, each of the partners blamed the other for the lack of success, with Ormiston all but telling anyone who would listen that Boggs had created the map himself for the purpose of extorting money under false pretenses.

Boggs then had to produce the map, where it was authenticated as a map that had been created at the time of the pirate’s reign, but no one could say whether it was just an invention of someone at the time, or it was real.  The fact nothing was found suggested the latter, and it marked to start of the feud between Boggs and Ormiston.

The question in my mind was whether Boggs had that particular map, and had he shown it briefly to me?  Certainly, one of the maps he had was quite old, but there were so many variations, and they all looked equally as old, it was hard to tell.

One point I was quite certain on, none of the maps I’d seen showed the treasure’s final resting place as being in a cave, and I got the impression just before when I’d run into Boggs, that it was exactly where he was going.

Had that been the clue his father had referred to?  Even with the so-called original map, if it showed the treasure hidden in a cave why did Boggs need Ormiston’s help?

Had Ormiston known that might be the final resting place of the treasure?

I would soon find out.  My next stop was the library.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but 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’d 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?”

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

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

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

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

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but 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 quite varied reasons.

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr. Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, 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 wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, 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 over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

Searching for locations: Somewhere in Tuscany, Italy, a hilltop town

It’s a town we visited in Italy when on a private tour.  Of course, I wrote it down on a notepad app on my phone at the time, and, yes, not long after that, an accidental reset lost all the data.

Now, I have no idea with the name of the town is, just that it was a picturesque stopover in the middle of a delightful private tour of Tuscany.

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There are narrow laneways that I suspect no one 300 hundred years ago planned for cars

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Narrower walkways that lead to very dark places

 

Walkways on the side of the hills that look down on the picturesque valleys

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And rather interesting hillsides, some of which provided inspiration for Leonardo da Vinci

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Or maybe it was this landscape, though it is difficult to see what could be found as inspiration in such a bland hillside

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A lot of houses, some of them quite large, nestled in amongst the trees

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Gardens, of sorts, balcony’s, not so big, and hidden doorways

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Even not so secret passageways between houses.

All in all, it was an interesting visit, and it made me wonder what it would be like to live here, all crowded together, rather than living on our relatively isolated quarter-acre blocks.

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

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

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

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

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

Routine was the word she used.

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

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

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

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it had.

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 136

Day 136

Writing exercise – drag them into the story

…

I wanted answers.

I mean, don’t we all?

They were not difficult questions.  Where are my grandparents?  Why haven’t we seen them?  Are they still alive?

The single answer was that they died not long after my older sister was born.  But it was not the answer that bothered me. It was the delay my mother took to reply, and even more telling was her expression.

I’d seen that expression before, and it was clear to me that she was lying, or more to the point, not telling us the truth.

I had tried, over the years, to discover the truth, but each time, there was always a variation of the same answer: that they were no longer around.

And, because we were not old enough to go out and investigate, that was sufficient to quell any sort of investigation that I or my older sister, Kayla, might have instituted.

Until now.

In a totally unexpected moment in time, my first year at university, and a simple assignment, one that required us to discover who our ancestors were and what impact they may have had on our lives. 

It was a simple matter, and to my astonishment, most of the kids knew of and/or frequently interacted with their grandparents and also knew of their forebears further back.

I had nothing.

…

So, here’s the thing…

I had a document that told me exactly how to investigate my family history.

First step: How to get birth certificates for my parents.  All I had to do was prove who I was; if I wanted a certified copy, and thinking that might cause them to alert my mother, I opted for just the bare bones report.

Finally, I had two names: my mother’s father, William Westbrook, mother, Vanessa Westbrook, nee Cartager.  In other words, my grandmother was Vanessa Cartager, and she was from Dorchester.  My grandfather came from Dorchester.

Second step:  Once I knew their names, I looked for any other children, provided they were born in Dorchester.  My guideline document said that, going back in time, people didn’t really move around unless significant events forced them to.

Armed with their names, I went online and found the outline records for births, marriages, and deaths and searched for the names.

I found Vanessa Cartger.  Born 1936.  Married in 1958 to William Westbrook, both from Dorchester.  Checking parents William and Vanessa Wentworth, 1959, my mother Jennifer, 1961, a boy William, 1963, a girl, Kayla, and 1965, another boy, John.  I had an aunt and two uncles.

None of the names turned up in the deaths, but they could have died in any one of a hundred or so little villages or somewhere else.  It was beginning to look like the proverbial needle in a haystack type search.

It was possible to go further back one generation to find my great-great-grandparents’ names, but I had enough to start with.

I was not going to go home and ask.  I was going to Dorchester to do what I wasn’t sure, but it seemed a good starting point.

…

I booked into a small hotel on Saturday afternoon, after driving up from London. It was not as if I was the sort of person to drop everything on a whim, but it was rather close.  Kayla asked me where I was going, and given her close connection to our mother, I thought it best not to tell her, except I was going away for a few days.  Cornwall, perhaps.  She knew I was interested in the tin mines of old

I deliberately hadn’t told her my interest in our forebears, at least not this time. The last time she had blabbed to mother and caused a ruckus.  It made me wonder what it was my mother had to hide.

I went to the Deanery, which was simply a church and churchyard and thought it odd that people called it home, and for one of the siblings, it had been home for a few years, according to census records.

There, I was able to discover death records for the cemetery, and it held one Jennifer Westbrook, born 1861, died 1861.  Not possible, or it was not the same Jennifer, or did Vanessa give birth to two Jennifers in the same year, one dying at birth?

And a grave location

The graveyard was a very solemn place, bordering one scary, and I guess if I delved deeper, I would find that I had forebears buried here.  They could have gone to the church and sat in the same pews I had.

Just the thought of it sent a shiver down my spine.

It was peaceful, and for a long time, I was alone.  Until I neared the grave of the infant Jennifer.

And discovered an elderly woman at the same location, standing in front of a rather ornate gravestone.

She looked up as I approached.

“I haven’t seen you before.”  It wasn’t a reproach but curiosity.

“I’m looking for a Jennifer Westbrook, though it appears it is not this one.  I’m sorry.” I could see now that it was a family grave with the daughter and the father, William Westbrook’s name on it, with today’s date, a year before.  “You would not be Vanessa Westbrook?”

A stern expression, “Who are you?”

“A person who is chasing the white rabbit.  My studies require me to search for ancestors.  My name is Peter Davies. My mother, Jennifer Westbrook, married Robert Davies in one of the villages around here, and she said her mother had died before I was born.  I’ve been searching the parish records and stumbled upon several Jennifers.  I can see this is the wrong one.”

“You’re mother is deceased.”

“I thought so.  Her mother’s name was Vanessa Cartager, and later, Westbrook.  Or that’s what it says on the birth certificate.

“Then the confusion is not confusion.  You just have the wrong birth certificate.  It’s a simple mistake.  There’s a half dozen Vanessa Cartagers in various parts of Dorset, it’s a common enough name.  Back to the drawing board, as they say.”

“Yes.  You’re right, of course.  I’m sorry if I have caused you any distress.  This must be a difficult time for you.”

“William.  Yes.  But he’s the lucky one.  He’s with her now.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

I thanked her and started walking away.  I only had one issue: little Jennifer’s birthdate was exactly the same as my mother’s, and my mind had just gone to a very dark place.

My mother had created a fake ID. I’d read about it recently in a thriller novel, and had thought at the time it was simply an author’s imagination.

It was not.

My mother had to be a spy.

And then I laughed out loud at the thought.  I was even further away from ever finding out who she was.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

In a word: Choice

We are often told that it’s the choices we make that shape our lives.

It’s true.

What distinguishes the basis of those choices is the circumstances of the individual.

What a lot of people don’t realize is the diversity of backgrounds of everyone, and that in a minority of cases, the few that really have no choices at all.

Yes, there are those who have no control over their circumstances, and therefore no choice whatsoever.

Inevitably, the people who are first to criticize those who apparently made the wrong choice, are those that have never found themselves in similar circumstances.

And probably never will.

This perhaps is the biggest problem with governments who are staffed with advisors who do not understand the plight of the common man.

I never had the same opportunities as those who could afford a university education.  My family were working class and were relatively poor.  Had I not hot a scholarship who knows what sort of education I would have got, if any.

Certainly, my father never got an opportunity to get a good education, but, at the time, during the great depression, his choices were limited, whereas those with any sort of wealth it was a different story.

And his lack of choices reflected on us, and that lack of opportunity haunted all of us as time passed.

It was always a case of the haves and the have not’s.

Yes, we all have choices, but sometimes it really is the lesser of two evils, and not whether we will have the fillet or the rib eye steak.