OK. Then, writing can’t be a way of life; the important part of writing is living. OK. And lastly, you have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it.
Wow!
How do you make sense of that?
…
Perhaps somebody else has worked out what this conundrum means.
I’ve been trawling the endless collection of Twitter descriptions provided by my fellow writers, noting that there used to be a restriction of 140 characters.
How do you sum yourself and/or your life in 140 characters, or even 280?
I started out with a few catchphrases, something that would draw followers. I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchphrase. But how will my writing encapsulate that? It needs a little qualification or substance.
I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author? Is there a difference? Is there a guide to what I can call myself?
My life, quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, is married happily, has two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years in parenting and surviving in a world that isn’t easy to live in.
To be honest, I don’t think anyone would be interested in any story based on those precepts. Actually, that sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?
Maybe it would be better if I were a retired policeman, or a retired lawyer, or a retired sheriff, or a retired private investigator, or a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.
Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbodies don’t quite cut the mustard. Should we try to embellish our personal history to make it more appealing?
It’s much the same as writing about daily life. No one wants to read about it; people want to be taken out of the humdrum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.
And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.
I want to escape the mundanity of everyday life and become something, someone else, and, with a little luck, you, the reader, will come along for the roller coaster ride with me.
Or come out of retirement, join a secret intelligence agency and go and save the world.
Then write about it.
Then I’ll be living in such a way that my writing will emerge from it.
Yet…
Death and mayhem sound so much better in my head than in reality.
The Myth of the Perfect Moment: Why You Should Stop Waiting to Write
“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a work on paper.” — E.B. White
We’ve all been there. You have the laptop open, a fresh cup of coffee, and a quiet house. But then, the lighting isn’t quite right. Or you’re feeling a bit sluggish. Or perhaps you’re waiting for that “divine spark” of inspiration that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in traffic.
We tell ourselves that we are just preserving our creative energy for a moment where we can be our “best selves.” But as E.B. White famously pointed out, that elusive “ideal condition” is a trap. If you wait for the stars to align, you’ll be waiting forever.
The Perfectionism Paradox
The desire for the perfect environment is rarely about comfort; it’s about fear. Writing is an act of vulnerability. When we wait for the perfect conditions, we are engaging in a subtle form of procrastination. By convincing ourselves that we can’t write because the conditions aren’t right, we protect ourselves from the possibility of writing something bad.
But here is the truth that every professional writer discovers eventually: The work is not found in the perfect moment; it is found in the discipline of the messy, imperfect ones.
The Reality of the “Working” Writer
If you look at the history of literature, you’ll find that the greatest works were rarely written in ivory towers or secluded, idyllic retreats.
Maya Angelou famously rented cheap hotel rooms to force herself to focus, often stripping the rooms of any distractions to face the blank page.
Franz Kafka wrote late at night, exhausted after his day job at an insurance company.
Countless parents have written their masterpieces in fifteen-minute increments during nap times or at kitchen tables while dinner bubbled on the stove.
These writers didn’t wait for the world to stop spinning so they could write. They carved out space within a spinning world. They understood that writing is labour, not a luxury.
How to Kill the “Ideal Conditions” Habit
If you find yourself paralysed by the need for perfection, it’s time to break the cycle. Here are three ways to stop waiting and start creating:
1. Lower the Bar: Give yourself permission to write “badly.” The goal of a first draft isn’t to be brilliant; it’s to exist. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a draft that is already written.
2. Create Rituals, Not Requirements. Instead of needing total silence, perfect temperature, and a specific mood, build a “trigger” that tells your brain it’s time to work. It could be putting on a specific pair of noise-cancelling headphones or playing the same three songs on repeat. These rituals are portable; you can take them anywhere.
3. Embrace the “Micro-Session” Stop waiting for a four-hour block of uninterrupted time. If you have ten minutes before a meeting or while waiting for a laundry cycle to finish, write. Those small pockets of time add up to pages, and pages add up to a book.
The Bottom Line
E.B. White’s warning is a call to arms for every aspiring creator. Your life is not going to pause to accommodate your art. Silence will be broken by sirens; inspiration will be interrupted by laundry; your mood will fluctuate from high to low.
The “ideal conditions” you are waiting for are a ghost. Don’t let your legacy be a pile of unwritten ideas. Write now, write messy, and write anyway. The world doesn’t need your perfection; it needs your voice.
Oncoming headlights, a bright light flashed in our eyes or walking into a dark room and a halogen light suddenly snaps on.
You’re still seeing red flashes for hours afterwards.
Literally, blind means you’re not able to see anything, i.e. you are visually impaired. That’s the first meaning of the word people will think of.
But…
It’s another of those words with a few other meanings, such as,
A blind is a window covering; usually it goes up and down, and some you can see through slats. Very good for nosey parkers, and subplots in stories.
Being blind to the truth means that you refuse to accept it for specific reasons, generally brought on by a belief or a prejudice
It can be a hidden enclosure from which to observe or shoot animals
And for the more interesting uses
Blind drunk, I think a lot of people have been there
Flying blind, pilots do it at night, but some of us have figuratively done it a few times, but not in a plane
And lastly, a blind tasting, where you’re not sure what you’re going to get, but usually it’s for a wine tasting, to see if you can tell what’s good and what’s swill.
Sadly I can never tell the difference, which is why I usually stick to beer.
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
The Myth of the Perfect Moment: Why You Should Stop Waiting to Write
“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a work on paper.” — E.B. White
We’ve all been there. You have the laptop open, a fresh cup of coffee, and a quiet house. But then, the lighting isn’t quite right. Or you’re feeling a bit sluggish. Or perhaps you’re waiting for that “divine spark” of inspiration that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in traffic.
We tell ourselves that we are just preserving our creative energy for a moment where we can be our “best selves.” But as E.B. White famously pointed out, that elusive “ideal condition” is a trap. If you wait for the stars to align, you’ll be waiting forever.
The Perfectionism Paradox
The desire for the perfect environment is rarely about comfort; it’s about fear. Writing is an act of vulnerability. When we wait for the perfect conditions, we are engaging in a subtle form of procrastination. By convincing ourselves that we can’t write because the conditions aren’t right, we protect ourselves from the possibility of writing something bad.
But here is the truth that every professional writer discovers eventually: The work is not found in the perfect moment; it is found in the discipline of the messy, imperfect ones.
The Reality of the “Working” Writer
If you look at the history of literature, you’ll find that the greatest works were rarely written in ivory towers or secluded, idyllic retreats.
Maya Angelou famously rented cheap hotel rooms to force herself to focus, often stripping the rooms of any distractions to face the blank page.
Franz Kafka wrote late at night, exhausted after his day job at an insurance company.
Countless parents have written their masterpieces in fifteen-minute increments during nap times or at kitchen tables while dinner bubbled on the stove.
These writers didn’t wait for the world to stop spinning so they could write. They carved out space within a spinning world. They understood that writing is labour, not a luxury.
How to Kill the “Ideal Conditions” Habit
If you find yourself paralysed by the need for perfection, it’s time to break the cycle. Here are three ways to stop waiting and start creating:
1. Lower the Bar: Give yourself permission to write “badly.” The goal of a first draft isn’t to be brilliant; it’s to exist. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a draft that is already written.
2. Create Rituals, Not Requirements. Instead of needing total silence, perfect temperature, and a specific mood, build a “trigger” that tells your brain it’s time to work. It could be putting on a specific pair of noise-cancelling headphones or playing the same three songs on repeat. These rituals are portable; you can take them anywhere.
3. Embrace the “Micro-Session” Stop waiting for a four-hour block of uninterrupted time. If you have ten minutes before a meeting or while waiting for a laundry cycle to finish, write. Those small pockets of time add up to pages, and pages add up to a book.
The Bottom Line
E.B. White’s warning is a call to arms for every aspiring creator. Your life is not going to pause to accommodate your art. Silence will be broken by sirens; inspiration will be interrupted by laundry; your mood will fluctuate from high to low.
The “ideal conditions” you are waiting for are a ghost. Don’t let your legacy be a pile of unwritten ideas. Write now, write messy, and write anyway. The world doesn’t need your perfection; it needs your voice.
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or, I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realised I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last, the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work, I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
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.
The debriefing team were not quite what I expected, a man and a woman, one a Major, the other a Lieutenant, and it was apparent they had just met before coming into the room.
He was Major Lallo, Army intelligence, and the woman, Lieutenant Jill Monroe, a familiar name as I’m sure I’d heard it before.
Lallo was not a fighting soldier, he was a paperwork man. I suspect he was more at home with an order book, and filing communications though that didn’t explain the rank, which he would have to have front line experience to attain.
Monroe looked to me to be the sort of woman soldier that had to prove she was better than any man and had the muscular form to go with it. Not the sort of a woman to get into a fight over or against.
She stood at the end of the bed, and I suspect by her posture that she was there to make sure I didn’t run, which, by the way, was physically impossible.
Lallo sat in the chair beside the bed, tried to make himself comfortable. He was going to ask the questions. He had a small notebook he took out of his pocket with a list of questions. The small pencil that slotted into the binding was there to write down the answers if any. I was not sure I was up to answer any questions.
Settled, he started with, “You don’t have to answer, but I suggest you do. I think by now you are starting to realise that, no matter how strong you think you might be, you’re not. If you decided to be unforthcoming, then you can be assured that we will be interrogating you with a lot more, shall we say, enthusiasm than in the past.”
By the way he said it, I got the impression he would be the one. His tone had changed suddenly, to a man who enjoyed others discomfort, and he was looking forward to breaking me if it came to that.
“And if I don’t have the answers to your questions, or should I say, not the answers you are expecting, what then?”
“One step at a time. We’ll start with the easy questions first.”
I’m not quite sure what he classified as easy. I didn’t think there were any.
“How long have you been at this base?”
Maybe I was wrong. “Two months, three days.”
“How did your transfer to this specific base come about?”
“I don’t know. I was at a training base in Ohio one day, then being presented with orders to get the next transport out the next.”
“Did you, or someone else you know, request your transfer to a new base?”
I didn’t think that was possible. Someone of my rank went where they were told to go.
“No. I’m a Sergeant, not a General.”
But was it possible Colonel Bamfield arranged for me to be transferred. Given the fact he was here, now, it was not beyond the realms of possibility. But if so, why?
“What was your function at your last base?”
What had this to do with my current situation or anything else for that matter?
“Instructor.”
“In what?”
“Infiltration, covert operations.”
“And I’m assuming then you been involved in these, shall we say, covert operations?”
No use denying it. It was obvious he had seen my file, which all of a sudden had some very disturbing possibilities. Just how much information though.
“Yes, but they’re classified and I can’t tell you anything and that.”
“Normally that would be the case, but…” He left the sentence hanging there for a few seconds before adding, “There was a problem with your last operation, the reason, it appears, you were transferred to the training base in Ohio. Is that correct?”
A mission that I had been told never to mention, speak of to anyone, no matter how high their rank in the military or government, or even think about again.
A mission I was told had been buried so deep it would never see the light of day.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
There was no time for an explanation, picking up on the urgency in my tone. They gathered up a few belongings because I added they couldn’t come back, and, after Cecelia and I tossed the work phones on the kitchen bench, we headed down the stairs to the basement.
By the time the call with Alfie ended, I realized that we were just supposed to find her, Rodby had a whole other team on standby ready to ‘extract’ her. And, if I was not mistaken, it would be against her will if she didn’t want to go with them. It was why she greeted us with a gun, she knew what might happen.
Perhaps she knew the Rodby’s better than I did.
Like certain parts of London various groups of building basements were used by the defence forces and government offices, and the one Juliet was staying in might have been one because the basement was connected to another and another, and it felt like it had once been offices, given the green walls, arrows and exit signs, and overhead lighting.
At the end, we came out into a narrow alley between buildings and not far from that, Russell Square underground. Just before descending, Cecilia gave me a new phone. She had brought another two burner phones, acting on instinct, or perhaps knowing how much of a maverick I was. Or she had simply changed roles, and become a maverick of her own.
We took the train to the one place I thought, for the moment, to be the safest. Heathrow airport, and on the way, Cecelia booked two rooms at the hotel nearest to the underground station. Five more people, some with bags would not look out of place. But just Cecelia and I checked in with other IDs, and took a room each, and the others wandered up after us.
Almost an hour and a half later we were sitting in the room Cecelia booked for her and me, both with a second bedroom, but this one had a dining area. She smiled at me when I realised there were two rooms.
“Now, I’m going to assume that you will trust me to a certain degree, and when I say I have no idea what is going on, except that it has to do with the Burkhardt family, there’s an inheritance that needs to be claimed in a few days, and there’s someone trying to assassinate Juliet, who appears to be a direct descendant of the count and an eligible heir.”
I looked at Vittoria, who was still very confused with the turn of events, and probably evaluating whether I could be trusted or not. “I now believe you are Juliet’s mother.” Now that mother and daughter were sitting side by side, the similarities between them.
Vittoria and the countess were sharing another pizza that Celecia had ordered up through room service, along with several bottles of red wine. Juliet went over to the kitchenette, opened one, and poured five glasses.
It was not a bad wine, perhaps an Italian Sangiovese.
Juliet remained standing and looked at her mother. “Even I’m confused at the moment. When do you and the countess become friends?”
“We have been for quite some time, particularly after I realised she had nothing to do with my banishment. That was the count, at the behest of his mother, who has been the true villain in both our lives.”
Vittoria looked at her daughter, “I’ve come to realize the threats against all of us are the work of that vile woman. This is the third or fourth attempt on your life, I’ve been attacked twice, and now the countess just escaped from what I perceive to be a threat, instigated by her.”
“Are you saying my old friend is working with her? I hardly think she knows who the old woman is. And assuming that she doesn’t, what other reason would she have to do with what just happened.” She looked at me, “You came to the opera with us, so you must know her.”
“Not because I was a friend of the family, I’m not. I think now I was asked along for a very specific reason, one she might not have been privy to, but that her husband, my old employer, was. And my experience over the years is that nothing to do with him is ever straightforward.”
“Are you one of his people now?” The way she said it, it sounded like she considered me a hatchet man.
“No, not exactly, nor is Cecelia. We just do this and that from time to time. I thought I was in retirement, Cecelia is in between acting roles, and he simply asked us to find you.”
“Then if you were seeking the countess, how did you know about me, and turn up at the conference hall, coincidentally when an assassin tried to kill me?” Juliet made a good argument.
“I may have done a little research. The countesses feud with Vittoria, and the uncovering of photographs, one of which had the teen version of you with your mother, Vittoria, at the Chateau in Sorrento, the same Chateau where the countess resides. Sometimes we get lucky. I was surprised though Juliet, given your history. I didn’t bring them, and, by the way, I was the one who nearly got shot and killed.”
I could see Vittoria shaking her head. “If you can make the distinction, then others can too. Neither of us are now safe. At least I can discount orange ribbon girl. I knew she was tailing me, and I thought I lost her.”
Cecelia smiled. “You wish. Top of my class for surveillance.
I thought I would add a little spice to the conversation, “Why did you give the impression you’ve been trying to kill the countess?”
That brought a look of consternation from both. The countess answered, “Only for the sake of appearances, and to keep the rest of the family away from the idea that we had joined forces, which is the only way we’re going to keep them from realizing we know more about them than they think we do.”
“But not enough to stop them from trying to stop both of you and now all three of you, from claiming the inheritance?”
“It is actually all of the business. The Count held all the shares. It was his, passed down from his father, and all he had to do with the rest of the family members was give them jobs. That ownership would be passed to me, or any children of ours if there were any. We could not, but he told me on his death bed there was one.”
“Juliet.”
“Whose mother was the woman he wanted to marry but was not allowed to, but whom he had got pregnant and promised to look after. Nobility and their secrets. But he also told his brother, Alessandro, who in turn told the mother, who really is a nasty piece of work. She made it perfectly clear to me before I came to London that it would be for the best if I did not attend the signing of the inheritance papers in a few days’ time. If I chose not to, I would be given a house to live in and a large sum of money for my helpfulness. It is the reason I got away from the hotel the night of the opera, because I believe Alessandro had arranged for me to be kidnapped, or worse.”
“Who would get the assets, if not you?” I asked.
“As per the provisions of the will, Alessandro who is the next male heir, who had arrived at the hotel and was waiting in my room to see me. I understand it would not be good business for the company to be run by a woman. Especially one without any experience and had been sent to make sure it didn’t happen.”
“That story about a bitter rival?”
“It was always Alessandro. I had first met him, and we had one date before I was swept up by the Count and taken away from him. He never forgave me for passing him over. He had always expected his older brother would marry for love and let him take over the business.”
“And you suspected he was there to remove you when he knew that with the girl the count had confessed existed with a stronger claim? I doubt that was why he was there. You are not a threat to them. Not according to the terms of the will.”
The countess glared at me. “How do you know this?”
“Let’s just say I know.” I turned back to Vittoria. “Why were you trying to get close to Alessandro, surely he knew you were his brother’s former lover?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. Perhaps I have changed since those early days. I was surprised she didn’t recognise me from the time I spent with the Count. It was mostly to find out what they were planning, but he wasn’t that interested in me, or would he talk about the family. Perhaps he knew I had a romantic attachment to his brother all those years ago, though at times he seemed too stupid to know what day it was. He couldn’t run the business; if you want an opinion, it is the old woman who wants it and nothing ever stands in her way. She is ruthless. I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed the count. And now she is after my beautiful daughter.”
“Well, we can’t let that happen.”
The whole story was a tangled web of deceit and lies, just the sort of stuff that really old families like the Burkehardt’s were. And typically the old women were the matriarchs that kept everything going.
But I wasn’t so sure Alessandro was as stupid as Vittoria made out.
“How do you two know each other?” Vittoria’s gaze went from me back to Juliet.
Juliet answered. “He was injured and spent time in hospital. I was there working on rehabilitation programmes, and I drew the short straw. We spent a lot of time together, it went on for a little after he was discharged, and then my world exploded. We ran into each other recently when I got into some trouble with an old acquaintance who used my stepbrother as leverage. Evan got him freed and sorted the problem. We didn’t get back together.”
“And yet you speak so fondly of him?”
I hoped Vittoria was not one of those match-making mothers.
“He saved my brother, and me. That’s it.”
And to prevent any more discussion, I said, “We need to formulate a plan that gets you to Italy as soon as possible but not by conventional means. Rodby is already all over the trains, planes, and ferries.”
“What other way is there?”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
And probably would be, if I was away on holidays in Europe, simply because I’ve always wanted to be in Belgium on a Tuesday just so I could use that line.
By the way, it’s out of a movie, but I’m not sure which one. Obviously, it wasn’t that great if I can’t remember it.
But…
Searching for locations for my stories takes a lot of time and effort, using Google Earth and other means, like street view. Finding houses or apartments required a great deal of real estate research, almost to the point of buying a property.
Is there any better way to see the street it’s in, the neighbours, the neighbourhood, and inside the house and gardens? Almost as if you lived there, which of course you do in the story.
In reality, I’m in Canada on the Trans-Canada Highway heading towards Banff, on icy roads in winter. Yes, that’s where we were this year in early January, getting a feel for the place, the roads, the weather, the people, and the places.
Cold, yes. Atmospheric, yes, exciting, double yes. Sometimes research is really fun, well, I don’t call it that, otherwise everyone else will think it was not the birthday treat that it was meant to be.
And was.
My wife’s 65th birthday will be one she certainly will never forget.
So..,
Writing is proceeding better now that I’ve knuckled down. The Trans-Canada experience has been translated into a story attached to a photo and will be posted soon
The treasure hunt has taken shape, now that it’s moved beyond the initial two episodes, and we’re digging in for the long haul. New players and contingency plans. Evil will be lurking behind and under every rock.
And as for the helicopter crash and its aftermath, this morning, a new idea and direction came to me, and this saw frantic scribble notes before I lost it. At least, I was not in the shower this time.
It’s going to have three parts, the first is nearly done, the second, clearly formed in my mind, the third, well, isn’t that always about retribution or revenge?
We shall see.
And the Being Inspired series just got 39 and 40 written, and ready to be published.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 