Category: Fiction

“How could that possibly happen…” – A short story

I had hoped by the time I was promoted to assistant manager it might mean something other than long hours and an increase in pay.

It didn’t.

But unlike others who had taken the job, and eventually become jaded and left, I stayed. Something I realized that others seemed to either ignore or just didn’t understand, this was a company that rewarded loyalty.

It was why there were quite a few who had served 30 years or more. They might not reach the top job, but they are certainly well looked after.

I had a long way to go, having been there only 8 years, and according to some, on a fast track. I was not sure how I would describe this so-called ‘fast track’ other than being in the right place at the right time and making a judicial selection.

When it was my turn to be promoted, I had a choice of a plum department, or one most of my contemporaries had passed over. At the time, the words of my previous manager sprang to mind, that being a manager for the most sought-after department or the least sought-after, came with exactly the same privileges.

And, he was right. I took the least sought-after, much to their disdain and disapproval. One year on, that disapproval had turned almost to envy; that was when the Assistant Managers were granted a new privilege, tea, and lunch in the executive dining room.

“So, what’s it like?” John asked when our group met on a Friday night, this was the first after the privilege was granted.

He had been one of the three, including me, who had the opportunity to take the role. Both he and Alistair had both declined, prepared to wait for a more prestigious department. It hadn’t happened to them yet.

“The same as the staff dining room, only smaller. Except, I guess, the waitstaff and butler. They come and serve you when you have to go to them in the staff room. They’re the same staff, by the way, except for the butler.”

I could see the awe, or was it envy, in their eyes. “but it’s not that great. The Assistant Managers all sit at one end of the table, and we’re not part of the main group, so no sharing of information I’m afraid. And the meals are the same, just served on fancier crockery.”

“Then nothing to write home about?” Will was one of those who they also thought to be on a ‘fast track’. I was still trying to see how my ‘fast track’ was actually that fast.

“Put it this way, the extra pay doesn’t offset the long hours because you get overtime, I don’t, so on a good week, you’d all be earning more than me. Without responsibility, if anything goes wrong. I think that’s why Assistant Managers were created, to take the blame when anything goes wrong.”

That had been the hardest pill to swallow. Until I got the role, I hadn’t realized what it really involved. Nor had the others, and it was not something we could whinge about. My first-day introductory speech from Tomkins, my Manager, was all about taking responsibility, and how I was there to make his life easier. It was a speech he made a few times because he’d been Manager for the last 16 years, much the same as the others, and promotion if ever, would come when they died.

And Manager’s rarely died, because of their Assistant Managers.

“How old is Tomkins now?” Bert, a relative newcomer to our group, asked. He was still in the ‘in awe’ phase.

“About the same as Father Time,” I said. “But the reality is, no one knows, except perhaps for the personnel manager.” O looked over at Wally, the Personnel Department’s Assistant Manager. “Any chance of you telling us?”

“No. You know I can’t.”

“But you know?” I asked.

“Of course, but you know the rules. That’s confidential information. Not like what you are the custodian of, information everyone needs.”

Which, of course, was true. Communication and Secretarial Services had no secrets, except for twice a year when the company Bord of Directors met, and we were responsible for all the documents used at their meetings. Then, and only then, was I privy to all the secrets, including promotions. And be asked ‘What’s happening?’.

“Just be content to know that he’s as old as the hills, as most of them. It seems to me that one of the pre-requisites for managership is that you have been employed here for 30 years.”

Not all, though, I’d noticed, but there wasn’t one under the age of fifty.

And so it would go, the Friday night lament, those ‘in’ the executive, and those who were not quite there yet.
It seemed prophetic, in a sense, that we had been talking about Mangers and their ages. By a quirk of fate, some weeks before, that I learned of Tomkins’s currents state of health via a call on his office phone. At the time he was out, where, he had not told me, but by his the I believed it was something serious, so serious he didn’t want me, or anyone else, to know about it.

That phone call was from his wife, Eleanor, whom I’d met on a number of occasions when she came to take him home from work. I liked her, and couldn’t help but notice she was his exact opposite, Tomkins, silent and at times morose, and Eleanor, the life of the party. I could imagine her being a handful in her younger days, and it was a stark reminder of that old saying ‘opposites attract’.

She was concerned and asked me if he had returned from the specialist. I simply said he had but was elsewhere, and promised to get him to call her when he returned. Then I made a quick call around to see where he was and found that he was in Personnel. I left an innocuous message on his desk, and then let my imagination run wild.

At least for a day or so, the time it took for me to realize that it was probably nothing, the lethargy he’d been showing, gone.

I’d put it out of my mind until my cell phone rang, and it was from the Personnel Manager. On a Sunday, no less. In the few seconds before I answered it, I’d made the assumption that Tomkins’s secretive visits to the specialist meant he needed time off for a routine operation.

Greetings over, O’Reilly, the Personnel Manager, cut straight to the chase, “For your personal information, and not to be repeated, Tomkins will be out of action for about two months, and as that is longer than the standard period, you will become Acting Manager. We’ll talk more about this Tuesday morning.” Monday was a holiday.

All Assistant Managers knew the rules. Any absence of a manager for longer than a month, promotion to Acting Manager. Anything less, you sat in the office, but no change in title. There was one more rule, that in the event of the death of a manager, the assistant manager was immediately promoted to Manager. This had only happened once before. 70 years ago. If a manager retired, then the position of Manager was thrown open to anyone in the organization.

It was an intriguing moment in time.

Tuesday came, and as usual, I went into the office, with only one thought in mind, let the staff in the department know what was happening, of course, the moment I was given the approval to do so by Personnel.

Not a minute after I sat down, the phone rang. I picked it up, gave my name and greeting. It was met with a rather excitable voice of the Assistant Manager, Personnel, “I just got word from on high, you’ve been promoted to manager. How could that possibly happen…”

Then a moment later, as realization set in, “Unless…”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The 2am Rant: Have you ever been sidetracked

Started to write a post, get so far, and another theme or idea slips in, and demands to be written first?

I’m on this nostalgia kick, simply because when I turned on the TV to catch up with the latest news, it was on a channel that shows old movies.

In case you don’t realize it, I love old movies, not just those from Hollywood, but also from Britain.

What was on?

An American in Paris.

Well, it had to be one of my favourites, even though I’m not a great fan of Gene Kelly, the sheer majesty of the music more than makes up for the story in between.

Could it be said, then, this was from the golden years of Hollywood? Such bright and cheerful movies such as Singing in the Rain, and An American in Paris, perhaps exemplify the Hollywood musical.

Years before, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were the quintessential musical stars, followed by the likes of Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and later Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. A couple of musicals, in particular, comes to mind, firstly the Wizard of Oz and then High Society.

Moving forward to more modern times, several stand out in the 1960s, My Fair Lady and Sound of Music. By this time theatregoers were dining on the superb talents of Rogers and Hammerstein, and Learner and Lowe. Of the former, musicals such as Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I were on my list of favourites.

Even later still in the 1970s, there is Funny Girl, and Hello Dolly, which have a connection to the past with its director, none other than, yes, Gene Kelly.

But it seems once the 60s had passed the notion of the Hollywood blockbuster musical had gone, and we were left with clip shows like That’s Entertainment, put together while Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were still alive. We still had the film versions of the stage plays, but the lustre had, somehow, gone.

Perhaps it will return, who knows, after all, everything old is usually new again, it just takes time to go full circle.

Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

…

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.

1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.

2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.

3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.

4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.

5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.

6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.

7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.

8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.

9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.

10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.

Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.

Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

What I learned about writing – You can write anywhere

It’s amazing how quickly you discover the imperfections of road makers.

As odd as that sounds, a recent trip on a bus, actually earlier today, in fact, got me thinking about just how bad some of our roads really are.

As any writer will tell you, that half an hour or so on the trip to work or home, is just waiting for a few lines to be written, on your phone, or on your tablet.  I venture to suggest a laptop computer just might be a little difficult, and prone to stray eyes from the people sitting or standing near you.

And the tightness of the space available to you.  I know, I’ve tried.

But, if you’re not in the mood to research, I did a little of that too, by the way, the desire to write is tempered by the movement of the bus and your ability to type coherent words on a small keyboard in a very large, rocking, metal thing.

I have to say I have a large streak of jealousy for those people who can hammer out large texts to their friends while riding the bus, and in the most awkward of conditions, using both thumbs, and carrying 26 bags of groceries and dry cleaning, as well as having a full on political discussion with the person sitting/standing next to them.

Even when the bus hits a pothole, does a sudden lurch that sents the unsuspecting sprawling.

With my interactive word completer turned on, it is astonishing what words finish up in my small attempt at writing as my fingers fail to find the right letters, and creates what only could be described as the ramblings of a madman.

Perhaps I might have better luck tomorrow.

 

 

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me,  you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

…

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.

1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.

2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.

3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.

4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.

5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.

6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.

7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.

8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.

9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.

10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.

Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.

Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

In a word: Might

We might have to use some might to beat the mite.  Confused?

Might is force, so expending might be much the same as what Thor does with his hammer.

We might expend some force; this might be a maybe.  You’re never quite sure when someone uses the word might, whether or not they will actually do it.

I might do a lot of things, but somehow, I never seem to get around to actually doing them,

Of and just for the record, it’s the past tense of the word may.  You know, you may do something, or you might not.

You might also use the word might when being polite, which seems to be a rarity these days because everyone is terse, tense, and in a hurry.

So might I go to the movie will always get a resounding no if it means you get home late at night.   And you’re only 10 years old.

I might be interested, but I don’t think so.  Let me think about it.  Which also means no.

Of course, if you’re slack in doing homework, you might want to try a little harder next time.

What might have been if only you tried harder?

Then there’s that little pest called a mite, though it goes by a lot of other names, one of which is everywhere, a termite.

Or a dust mite.

It also could be used slangily for a child in distress, that is, look at that poor little mite, he looks so tired.

Or another word for slightly, for example, the girl seemed a mite embarrassed.

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 19

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

What sort of people would be seeking to travel by ship back to England from Australia in April 1915

In April 1915, civilians seeking to travel by ship from Australia to England would have been predominantly British subjects with deep ties to the “mother country”. The outbreak of World War I in August 1914 had drastically changed the context of ocean travel, transforming passenger liners into military transports while introducing new dangers from German U-boats. The people who made this risky journey would have had compelling and urgent reasons, unlike the voluntary migration that defined the pre-war era. 

Military-related reasons

The Gallipoli campaign began on April 25, 1915, but Australian troops had already been in training in Egypt since early 1915. Civilian travel was therefore strongly influenced by military matters. 

  • Families of soldiers: The families of soldiers preparing to fight in Europe or the Middle East would have had a range of motivations to travel. Some may have been seeking to visit relatives fighting in the war, while others could have been returning to England to wait out the war closer to family there.
  • Returning wounded soldiers: Some of the earliest wounded troops from the Gallipoli campaign may have been shipped back to England for treatment.
  • Soldiers on leave: Troops who were ill or wounded were sometimes sent to England to recover before returning to the front or being repatriated to Australia. 

Personal and professional reasons

Despite the war, some civilians with urgent matters still had to travel, though the number of civilian passengers had dropped significantly. 

  • Settling estates or dealing with family emergencies: Individuals might have needed to travel to manage pressing family matters, such as inheriting an estate or attending to a sick or dying relative.
  • Business trips: Essential business-related travel, though rare, would have been undertaken by those with connections to the war effort or other vital industries.
  • Government officials: Personnel in government service or diplomacy would have been required to travel between Australia and the UK for official duties. 

Impeded migration

Travel was not happening in the typical fashion. Normal migration patterns to Australia from Britain had been disrupted by the war, meaning that few people were moving for purely leisurely reasons. 

  • Government restrictions: The British government had fixed age limits for conscription, which, combined with the shortages of shipping, heavily restricted the movement of male immigrants.
  • Fewer migrants: In turn, this meant fewer assisted passage immigrants were travelling to Australia, reducing the overall pool of travellers. 

“More or less…” – A short story

It was meant to be time to reacquaint as brothers.

Louis and I had not seen each other for decades, and when he returned, about a week before, I got the impression there was more than just ‘missing his brother’ going on.

But that was Louis. He was never one to say what or how he felt about anything, preferring to be the strong silent type, and it had not fared well for him transitioning from teenager to adult.

As for me, when our parents split up, Louis went with our father, and I stayed with our mother, and, given the amount of acrimony there was attached to the split, it was no surprise to anyone that Louis and I had effectively become estranged.

In fact, when I had tried to find them, about two years after the split and our mother had died suddenly, all I found were loose ends. They had effectively vanished.

With that part of my life effectively over, I had married, had children and watched 30 years disappear before Louis suddenly popped up. He simply knocked on the front door one afternoon, Helen answered it, and within minutes they were the best of friends. I’d had that rapport, once, many years before, but life and circumstances had all but ruined that.

Or perhaps that was just me, worn down by that same life and circumstances we were all supposed to take on the chin.

His arrival was a welcome distraction, and when, after a week, he suggested that he and I go on a hike, the sort our father used to take us on when we were a family, I agreed. Helen was happy to be rid of me, and I guess a week without our arguing would suit everyone.

It was probably fortuitous timing. Helen and I had finally got to the point where divorce lawyers were about to be called in. The children had all moved on and had children and problems of their own, and we, as parents just didn’t gel anymore.

Besides, I said, just before I joined Louis in the truck, ready to embark for the wilderness, it would be time to clear my head.

And by day two, my head was clear, and Louis, taking the lead, led us along the ridgeline, a trek he said, that would take us about seven hours. We’d stopped the previous night in a base camp and then headed out the next morning. We were the only two, it being early in the season with snow still on the ground.

Above was the clear cloudless blue sky and in front of us, trees and mountains. There was snow on the ground but it was not solid and showed no signs of human footsteps, only animals. The air was fresh, and it was good to be away from the city and its pressures.

Approaching noon, I’d asked him if we were about halfway. I knew he was holding back, being the fitter of us.

“More or less.”

“More or less what, more closer or less close than we should be.”

I watched him do a 360-degree turn, scoping out our position. It was a maneuver I was familiar with from my time with the National Guard. I’d used my backcountry experience that I’d learned from my father, as a skill I thought they might be able to, and eventually did, use. I got the feeling Louis was looking for something.

“You get the impression we’re not alone?” I asked. I had that nagging feeling something was not right, not from about two miles back in the forest. It was like my sixth sense being switched on.

“Doesn’t seem so, though there have been a few animals lurking behind us, probably surprised anyone’s about this time of the year. It’s been a while, so I’m just getting a feel for the trail. This is, for now, our mountain.”

There was a time, from a time when we were kids, that I could tell when he was lying. He was better at covering it, but it was still there.

Where we’d stopped was a small clearing, a staging point that would be used by other trekkers, still overgrown because of lack of trekkers. Ahead there were the signs of a trail, and after six months, it would become clear again. In places, as we had made our way from the base camp, sections of the distinctive trail had all but disappeared, but Louis seemed to know where he was going, and it was not long before we had picked up the trail again. This spot was a lookout, giving a spectacular view of the valley below, and a fast running river through it.

I walked to the edge and looked up and down the valley, and at the trail that ran along the cliff for a short distance. I looked down, not the wisest of things to do, but it was long enough to catch sight of several charred pieces of wood. On top of the snow. The thing is, someone had been along this trail before us, and recently, something I thought wise to keep to myself.

Back at the log, I sat for a moment and drank some water, while Louis stood patiently, but impatiently, for me to join him.

“You look like you’ve got somewhere to be.” Probably not the wisest thing to say but it was out before I could stop it.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then it was gone. “If we stop too long, joints will freeze up, especially when it gets colder.”

“Sorry.” I put the container back in the pack and joined him. “Let’s go. The cold and I don’t get along very well, and it’s been a long time since the last time I ventured into the great unknown.”

“Helen said you gave up trekking when you married her.”

“She wasn’t a trekker, Robbie. We all have to give up something, sooner or later.”

Another hour, feeling rather weary, we’d come to another small clearing and a place where I could sit down.

“You always were the weak link, Robbie. Admittedly you were younger, but you never seemed to grasp the concept of exercise and fitness.”

I looked up at him and could see my father, the exact stance, the exact words, the exact same sneer in his voice. It all came rushing back as if it was yesterday, the reasons why I chose to go with our mother, that another day with his bullying would be one too many. And he was a bully. And, in an instant, I could see the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Out of shape after languishing in an office, perhaps,” I said, “but I was never the disappointment our father always considered me.”

“You didn’t join the army, follow in his footsteps, as he wanted us to do. I did. Proudly served, too.”

I could see it. Like father, like son. No surprise Robbie had followed in his father’s footsteps. And it was a clue as to what Robbie had been doing since I saw him last.

“So, tell me about it.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t. Let’s push on.”

I’d also thought, along the way, he might ask questions, delve further into the problems that Helen and I were having, but I knew she had told him all he needed to know. I’d been held up at the office, and had rung to ask her to take him to dinner, get to know him, she might get to learn something of my life before I met her, details of which I hadn’t told her other than that my mother was dead, my father had left and taken Robbie with him. My past, I’d told her from the outset, was not something I would talk about.

I didn’t ask what they talked about, but I could see a change in both of them. Perhaps she had succumbed to Robbie’s charm, back in school all the girls did, but they all soon learned he was not a nice person, not once you got to know him. I didn’t warn her, and perhaps that was regrettable on my part, but it reflected the state in which our relationship had reached.

I’d also tried, once or twice, to find out if our father was still alive, but he deflected it, changing the subject. That meant he was still alive, somewhere, perhaps annoyed at Robbie for coming to see me. If I was a betting man, I’d bet our father would have denied permission for
Robbie to do so, even if he was a grown man and capable of making his own decisions.

Odd, but not surprising. Even now I could remember my father had secrets, and those secrets had fed into the breakup of our parents.

“So, you’ve been dodging it for days now, but you still haven’t told me if dad is alive or dead. He’d be about seventy-odd now.”

He stopped and turned to face me. “Would it matter if he was alive? I doubt you’d want to see him after what mother must have said about him.”

Interesting that he would think so. “She never had a bad word for him, and wouldn’t hear of one spoken, by me or anyone. And I have wondered what became of him, and you. At least now I know you spent time in the Army. If I was to guess what happened, that would be high on my list.”

“No surprise then you became an office wanker.”

Blunt, but, to him, it was a fact. I’d used that expression when telling Helen one time after a very bad day.

“We can’t all be heroes, Robbie.”

I put my hand up. Alarm bells were going off in my head. “You can come out now,” I yelled.

Robbie looked puzzled.

“I know you’re there. You’ve been behind us for about a half-mile now.”

A few seconds passed before the cracking of a twig, and then a person in a camouflage kit came towards us.

He’d aged, hair and beard grey in places but almost white now, but the face was familiar.

“What brings you to this part of the woods, Dad. Or is it just an unlucky coincidence?”

—–

© Charles Heath 2020-2021