Category: Fiction

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 22

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

Finally, our protagonist is travelling first class back to England.  He thinks to himself that if the ship is torpedoed, he might have a better chance at survival, but there is that thing about women and children first, so it’s a moot point.

A casualty of war seems his inevitable lot.

There are doctors and nurses on board, and he mentions he travelled out with a particular young lady and asks if they know her.  Only too well, and well, he does wish in the end that he didn’t ask.

It is not surprising, though, because Louise is a kind, gentle, but apparently fun-loving soul given the right circumstances, and he is, in a way, glad that she survived the voyage and found a way to be useful. And fortunately, perhaps, not married or in a serious relationship with a young doctor.

He would never be able to compete with that.

It’s a fascinating run, from Fremantle to Colombo, all the while wondering if there is a German ship out there waiting for them.

There is not.

Coaling in Aden, and then through the Red Sea, familiar territory, and heat, which he is almost accustomed to through his first stint on the way out, and then a year in outback Queensland.

No one believes him when he tells them he was cattle mustering.

They do, however, take his title seriously, and no one will call him David.

…

1915 words, for a total of 34945 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 27

Well, it’s been a monumental process to get to the point where I think I can start writing Chapter One.

This, of course, might not be the first chapter; it might finish up somewhere else.

If there was a plan, then this would be chapter one.  In fact, right now, I’m going to sit down and do a plan with as much as I know about where the book is heading.

One, about Bill and his introduction to the reader

Two, a phone call to interrupt the dream

Three, having to go into work – there’s a disaster going on, and he’s the only one who can fix it.

Well, not necessarily others, but this is the nineteen seventies/eighties, and women were still not looked upon or considered as being able to hold the same position as Bill – we’ve certainly come a long way in forty years.

And that, of course, is another stream in the book, proving that a woman, and one in particular, is clever and given the recognition she deserves.

I’ve also got to remember that there is no internet, and there are no mobile phones and a lot of other stuff that is now regarded as commonplace and taken for granted.

We had telephone boxes, telephones on desks that connected to a switchboard, dumb terminals connected to mainframes, modems that were bulky and very, very slow, and communications ran very differently from those today, and networking was a variety of technologies that mostly don’t exist anymore, like Ethernet and token ring, and software like 3Com and Novell.

I know I’m going to forget sometimes because it’s going to be hard not to have the MC pull out his cellphone and call on the spot.

Anyway, here’s the first attempt…

…

A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm.  High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in the sunshine, intensifying the richness of the greens and browns.

It was spring.  Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight.  An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mowed.

I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence.  But, as I got older, the dream changed, and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.

There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged.  It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night, as I was trying to get to sleep.  Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.

Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off.  Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.

I cursed and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound.  I’d put it there, so I would have to wake up to turn it off.  And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.

Not that I really wanted one because, since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work.  It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table, two chairs, a desk, and a well-worn lounge chair.  I’d been there for years and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.

And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organised by Ellen fifteen years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class.  We’d been happier then, but happiness was fleeting for me, and soon after, the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.

I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along.  She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.

It should not have been a surprise given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army, and the nightmares active service had fueled, but it was, and it sent me spiralling to a new low.

But that was five years ago.  I came out of the fog a year after that.  Ellen was gone, the girls came to see me from time to time, and all I had left were memories.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  I was on holiday.  No work, no pressure, nothing.  I could go back to my grandmother’s house and visit.  I had been promising myself I’d do that soon, even if it was now a country hotel.  From the advertising, it had not changed one bit; the house and grounds intact.

Or I could throw a dart at a map and get on the next plane there, though, knowing my ability with a dart, it would be in the middle of the ocean.

I could do almost anything I wanted.

….

It’s not much, just a taste.  But it’s enough for now.  I’ve made a start.  Now, all I have to do is come up with the next 100,000 words or so.

….

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 45

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

We flew north at low altitude, crossing the border into the Sudan, then ran along the border, heading back to the landing field we’d arrived on in Uganda.

It was basically a two-hour flight that in the end was eventless.  After everything that had happened over the past 24 hours, it wasn’t hard to doze off, leaving Davies to get us back.

I was woken suddenly by a thump on my arm.

“Need your help landing this crate,” a squeaky voice in my ear said.

I could feel the plane losing altitude, and the engines not making the same noise as they had just before I’d dropped off to sleep.  It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago we were taking off.

She leveled the plane at 1000 feet, and flew over the airfield, the landing lights on, and I could see the strip from start to end.  It looked a lot longer than the one we’d taken off from.

Turning sharply, I could hear the landing gear being activated and saw green lights come on one the dashboard.  Down and locked I assumed.

She then went through a series of landing checks and told me what she wanted me to do to assists, and then everything seemingly OK, we came in to land.

This landing was a lot bumpier than that in the C130 earlier, but she got us there, throttled back, and slowed the speed before heading for the terminal buildings.

Once there, she let the engines run for about a minute or so before switching them off.

Once the propellers stopped turning, the silence in the cockpit was strange.  At the rear, the door was opened, and everyone was getting off, the Colonel first to make sure none of his men shot anyone by mistake, and then the rest of the team.

Davies and I were the last to leave.  I got the impression she would have stayed, just a little longer, and it was telling that she patted the dashboard in what I would call a loving manner, thanking the aircraft for its service.

“I can see you like flying these old planes,” I said, still seated and taking in the moment.

“There’s something about them.  You have to fly them, they don’t fly you, not like the F15’s or any of those other jets that have autopilots.  No, this comes from the days of real flying.”

“You said your Dad has one?”

“Yep.”

“Then the art of flying is not lost on you.  Perhaps one day when I get lost, somewhere where this plane lives, you can take me up.”

“Any time.”

She dragged herself out of the left seat and headed towards the rear of the plane.  I took a moment longer, then followed her.

Maybe she could teach me how to fly.

Or maybe not.

I keep forgetting I hate flying in planes.

As I stepped off the plane onto terra firma again, I could see just inside the range of my peripheral vision, some activity by the terminal building.

Suddenly, a man was running towards us.  He was also yelling out, words to the effect, ‘they’re coming’.

Who?

The Colonel looked up just as the man, almost hunched over out of breath, reached him.

“They’re coming.  A helicopter, heading towards us.”  Several more huge breaths, then, “An hour at best.”  He looked at me.  “You have to go.”

Then he handed the Colonel a sheet of paper, and he quickly scanned it.

Then he said, “Your friendly militia decided the ransom wasn’t enough and they’re coming to take them back.”

“How is that possible?  Can they just cross borders like that?”

“This is Africa.  Anything can happen.  By the time their mission is done, it’ll be too late for us to scramble anything to attack them.  You need to go.”

Davies had come back, assuming it had something to do with the plane, and after taking in what the Colonel had to say, said, “We need more fuel.  Not much, but it’ll take time.”

The fuel truck had already come out and begun the refueling.

“Go tell the driver how much you need.  You’ve probably got a half-hour, a little more before you take off and go before, they get here.”

She headed towards the fuel truck, muttering under her breath.

I yelled out to Monroe, “Round up everyone and get them back on the plane.  Wheels up in half an hour.”

I could see her mouth the word why.

“Seems we’re about to get a visit from some very unfriendly people.”

Enough said.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 309

Day 309

When words become more than words

…

From Page to Panorama: Weaving Mythopoetic Grandeur into the Fabric of Reality

We’ve all experienced it. That moment when a skilled author transports us, not just to a place, but into a feeling, a scent, a visceral understanding of something utterly foreign yet strangely resonant. It’s the magic of descriptive writing, the alchemical process of turning mere words into sensory experiences. But what happens when we take those finely honed fictional tools and turn them towards the canvas of our own reality? What happens when we begin to weave the mythopoetic grandeur, usually reserved for fantastical realms, into the mundane fabric of everyday life?

This is where the truly transformative power emerges. It’s not about escaping reality, but about re-enchanting it. It’s about recognising that the same imaginative muscles that conjured dragons and epic quests can, with a shift in perspective, illuminate the epic within the ordinary.

The Foundation: The Art of Observational Detail

Before we can imbue our reality with mythopoetic grandeur, we must first become masters of observation. Fictional writers are meticulous. They don’t just say a character is sad; they describe the slump of their shoulders, the way their eyes lose their sparkle, the quiet tremor in their voice. They don’t just say a forest is dark; they paint a picture of gnarled branches like skeletal fingers, shafts of light like ethereal swords, the damp, earthy scent of decay and rebirth.

Applying this to real life means waking up our senses. It means noticing the way the morning light bleeds across the linoleum of your kitchen, transforming it into a pool of molten gold. It’s observing the intricate, almost alien architecture of a spiderweb glistening with dew, a delicate, ephemeral fortress. It’s listening to the symphony of a city at dusk – the distant siren a mournful lament, the laughter of children a fleeting melody, the rumble of traffic a subterranean dragon stirring.

The Alchemy: Infusing Significance and Symbolism

Once we have our raw observational material, the next step is the alchemical process of infusing it with meaning. This is where the “mythopoetic” truly takes hold. We move beyond simple description to interpretation, imbuing our observations with layers of significance and symbolism, much like ancient storytellers did.

  • The Mundane Becomes Mythic: A walk to the grocery store isn’t just an errand. It can be a pilgrimage through the daily labyrinth, a quest for sustenance that echoes the ancient hunts. The cashier, with their practised smile, could be a guardian of provisions, a dispenser of earthly blessings.
  • The Everyday Becomes Archetypal: The familiar faces we encounter can be viewed through the lens of archetypes. The wise elder at the park bench might embody the archetype of the Sage. The boisterous teenager could be the Rebel, challenging the established order with youthful energy.
  • The Emotional Landscape Gains Depth: Sadness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a “gathering storm,” a “heavy cloak,” a “deep well of unspoken grief.” Joy isn’t just happiness; it’s a “sunburst,” a “lightness of being,” a “song rising from the soul.”

The Grandeur: Elevating the Narrative of Our Lives

The ultimate goal is to elevate the narrative of our own lives, to recognise the inherent grandeur that often lies dormant beneath the surface of routine. This doesn’t mean fabricating events or pretending our challenges aren’t real. Instead, it’s about framing them within a larger, more resonant context.

Consider a difficult conversation. Instead of simply recalling the angry words, we can describe the “clash of wills,” the “stalemate of emotions,” the “fragile truce that followed.” A moment of quiet contemplation isn’t just zoning out; it’s “diving into the depths of the inner sea,” “listening to the whispers of the subconscious.”

Why Does This Matter?

Turning fictional descriptive skills to the rendering of real life in mythopoetic grandeur is more than just a creative exercise. It’s a way to:

  • Deepen our appreciation for life: By seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary, we cultivate a richer, more vibrant experience of our existence.
  • Foster resilience: Framing challenges as epic struggles or tests of character can empower us to face them with greater courage and determination.
  • Connect with something larger than ourselves: Mythopoetic language often taps into universal themes of creation, struggle, love, and loss, fostering a sense of belonging to something ancient and profound.
  • Communicate more effectively and evocatively: Whether in personal writing, artistic expression, or even everyday conversation, this elevated language can captivate and resonate with others.

The world around us is a vast, intricate tapestry, already rich with potential for wonder and awe. By learning to wield the tools of fictional description with conscious intent, we can begin to see the mythopoetic grandeur woven into the very fabric of our reality. We can stop being passive observers and become active, imaginative narrators of our own magnificent lives. So, open your eyes, awaken your senses, and start painting the world in hues of myth and legend. The grandest stories, after all, are often the ones happening right under our noses.

What I learned about writing – Days can disappear in the blink of an eye

I had so many things planned, those little bits and pieces that seem to get away from you.

It’s now Thursday night, and I have only just come back to this post to write some more or maybe finish it, but that should give you some idea of how easy simple things can get away from me.

To fill in the gaps in the story, I started to make a list of those bits and pieces, and that was the first mistake.

I frightened myself.

Tuesday disappeared in writing down what was on my writing slate. For instance,

Episodes 11 to 15 of the murder story, because my characters are having a fight in my head

The treasure hunt story is done, just needs a few tweaks

Episode 47 of the Castello di Brolio story, where the Germans are about to find themselves on the wrong end of the war

Episode 1 of the WW2 story – this has a start, but is it Episode 1?  What bothers me is that I wrote some of this on the plane, but it disappeared somewhere, so I’m not sure when this may get done.

Writing instead of insomnia  is actually giving me insomnia

Episodes 151 through 177 of Being Inspired, Maybe – Volume 4. This is a series of photographs, and the story inspired by them.  Volume 3 is at first draft, and the photos are being associated with the stories.

Just about finished editing Volume 2, and I’m about to publish Volume 1.

Episodes 60 through 63 of PI Walthenson’s second case, new additions to the story, and although there is a title, the jury’s still out on whether it’ll be adopted.  There’s an interesting dynamic developing between the son and the mother, a woman whom he is discovering to be nothing like the one he thought he knew.

And, don’t get me started on where I am with Strangers We’ve Become, I just finished the 10th read and edit.  The book is done, but rereading told me, or the cat did far more emphatically, there are a few gaps.  This needs to get done, and I need to ‘stick the courage to the sticking point’.

Wednesday arrived, and I was looking at the list, wondering what I was going to do next and realised that I’d been putting off writing the next few posts on the travelling blog, which desperately need to be done.

So…

Travelling blog times two, and now it’s Thursday.

Damn, where did the week go?

“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

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

Writing a book in 365 days – 309

Day 309

When words become more than words

…

From Page to Panorama: Weaving Mythopoetic Grandeur into the Fabric of Reality

We’ve all experienced it. That moment when a skilled author transports us, not just to a place, but into a feeling, a scent, a visceral understanding of something utterly foreign yet strangely resonant. It’s the magic of descriptive writing, the alchemical process of turning mere words into sensory experiences. But what happens when we take those finely honed fictional tools and turn them towards the canvas of our own reality? What happens when we begin to weave the mythopoetic grandeur, usually reserved for fantastical realms, into the mundane fabric of everyday life?

This is where the truly transformative power emerges. It’s not about escaping reality, but about re-enchanting it. It’s about recognising that the same imaginative muscles that conjured dragons and epic quests can, with a shift in perspective, illuminate the epic within the ordinary.

The Foundation: The Art of Observational Detail

Before we can imbue our reality with mythopoetic grandeur, we must first become masters of observation. Fictional writers are meticulous. They don’t just say a character is sad; they describe the slump of their shoulders, the way their eyes lose their sparkle, the quiet tremor in their voice. They don’t just say a forest is dark; they paint a picture of gnarled branches like skeletal fingers, shafts of light like ethereal swords, the damp, earthy scent of decay and rebirth.

Applying this to real life means waking up our senses. It means noticing the way the morning light bleeds across the linoleum of your kitchen, transforming it into a pool of molten gold. It’s observing the intricate, almost alien architecture of a spiderweb glistening with dew, a delicate, ephemeral fortress. It’s listening to the symphony of a city at dusk – the distant siren a mournful lament, the laughter of children a fleeting melody, the rumble of traffic a subterranean dragon stirring.

The Alchemy: Infusing Significance and Symbolism

Once we have our raw observational material, the next step is the alchemical process of infusing it with meaning. This is where the “mythopoetic” truly takes hold. We move beyond simple description to interpretation, imbuing our observations with layers of significance and symbolism, much like ancient storytellers did.

  • The Mundane Becomes Mythic: A walk to the grocery store isn’t just an errand. It can be a pilgrimage through the daily labyrinth, a quest for sustenance that echoes the ancient hunts. The cashier, with their practised smile, could be a guardian of provisions, a dispenser of earthly blessings.
  • The Everyday Becomes Archetypal: The familiar faces we encounter can be viewed through the lens of archetypes. The wise elder at the park bench might embody the archetype of the Sage. The boisterous teenager could be the Rebel, challenging the established order with youthful energy.
  • The Emotional Landscape Gains Depth: Sadness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a “gathering storm,” a “heavy cloak,” a “deep well of unspoken grief.” Joy isn’t just happiness; it’s a “sunburst,” a “lightness of being,” a “song rising from the soul.”

The Grandeur: Elevating the Narrative of Our Lives

The ultimate goal is to elevate the narrative of our own lives, to recognise the inherent grandeur that often lies dormant beneath the surface of routine. This doesn’t mean fabricating events or pretending our challenges aren’t real. Instead, it’s about framing them within a larger, more resonant context.

Consider a difficult conversation. Instead of simply recalling the angry words, we can describe the “clash of wills,” the “stalemate of emotions,” the “fragile truce that followed.” A moment of quiet contemplation isn’t just zoning out; it’s “diving into the depths of the inner sea,” “listening to the whispers of the subconscious.”

Why Does This Matter?

Turning fictional descriptive skills to the rendering of real life in mythopoetic grandeur is more than just a creative exercise. It’s a way to:

  • Deepen our appreciation for life: By seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary, we cultivate a richer, more vibrant experience of our existence.
  • Foster resilience: Framing challenges as epic struggles or tests of character can empower us to face them with greater courage and determination.
  • Connect with something larger than ourselves: Mythopoetic language often taps into universal themes of creation, struggle, love, and loss, fostering a sense of belonging to something ancient and profound.
  • Communicate more effectively and evocatively: Whether in personal writing, artistic expression, or even everyday conversation, this elevated language can captivate and resonate with others.

The world around us is a vast, intricate tapestry, already rich with potential for wonder and awe. By learning to wield the tools of fictional description with conscious intent, we can begin to see the mythopoetic grandeur woven into the very fabric of our reality. We can stop being passive observers and become active, imaginative narrators of our own magnificent lives. So, open your eyes, awaken your senses, and start painting the world in hues of myth and legend. The grandest stories, after all, are often the ones happening right under our noses.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

In a word: There

Yes, the dog is over there. It’s a place somewhere other than where you are currently.

Or, you could say, there was a brave man, but he couldn’t help so there was no hope. It doesn’t refer to a place.

Or I’m taking you to the border, but from there you’re on your own.

Confused yet?

Let’s try by adding a similar word, their

It means belonging to a group as in, it was their dog that caused the damage.

Of course, this can be twisted a little, and you could say, everyone has to bring their own pack, meaning at times it could refer to one, or many,

Then just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water, there’s they’re.

This is a contraction for they are, so it’s they’re not going to fo as their told.

Wow, it starts getting complicated when you use two or more of those similar words in the same sentence.

Confusing?

That’s why it always pays to have a dictionary handy.

Just in case autocorrect fails, which it seems to quite often for me. I’m not sure why.