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.

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

Writing a book in 365 days – 118

Day 118

Easy reading/Hard writing

…

I often wondered when reading other authors’ works if it was as hard for them to write the story as it is for me.

I mean it’s not that hard to get that initial first draft down on paper, what is hard is honing that messy, often shapeless story into the finished product, which often is an easy read for the reader.

I used to devour a book in a night, sometimes a day or two, but the reading never reflected the blood, sweat and tears the author put into it.

And I doubt the reader gets that.

Everything takes time to create. A car, a house, a factory, an apartment block. You can cut corners, and the object will fall to pieces or fail in some other manner.

If you cut corners when polishing a story, making it easy for the reader to devour, when it is not, no one will buy your books.

So, creating that polished book is no easy task. It’s not simply a matter of getting the words on paper and sending them off to the publisher.

It doesn’t work that way.

I’m sure after writing that first draft, and when you pick it up some months later to start the editing process, that first read will be like climbing a sheer mountain without climbing gear.

It certainly will not read the way a reader expects it to. In fact, you will probably not recognise what it is you wrote, or if you did, you don’t remember writing it that way.

That’s why you have beta readers.

That’s why you have an editor.

Just hope they realise perfection takes time.

‘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: Flight

There is a saying, if God wanted us to fly then he would have given us wings.

Unfortunately, he didn’t, so we do not get to know what it’s like to be in flight,

Unless…

We take an aeroplane, which usually has a flight number such as QF607, or in conversation, ‘I’ll be taking the 6 o’clock flight’.

If someone runs away, then we say they have taken flight.

If we roll back a few years, say about 80, to World War 2, flight tales on a whole new meaning.

It refers to a group of planes, in one case a number of spitfires, or,

The man in charge, a flight lieutenant, also colloquially known as ‘flight’.

This is not be confused with the word flite which has several very obscure meanings,

First, it means to quarrel or argue, or engage in a debate, and

Second, to make a complaint.

But one that sticks in my my mind is Flyte, from Brideshead Revisited. they were a very interesting family.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir. It was her worst nightmare.

…

Don’t do today what you can do tomorrow?

It’s a common mantra, where people honestly believe that they will live long enough to get everything done.

That is, until you go to a funeral for a person who died long before they should.

Funerals are by definition sad occasions. It is a time to reflect on the life of the deceased, a time when everyone who knew them comes together to celebrate their life, a lifetime spread over many, many years.

It is also a time when the whole family comes together, like births and weddings, where we discover the changes to those we haven’t seen in a long time, particularly when the family is spread out all over the country. And, sometimes, surprise new members, young and old.

I’ve certainly had a few of those.

It can also be a moment in time when you begin to reflect on your own mortality, especially when the deceased was in their 40s.

The fact is, death can strike you down at any time. While trying not to be morbid, with the threat of COVID hanging around, and the fact it does not discriminate age-wise, it’s not possible to discount the possibility that it might happen to you.

And, sitting in the back row, listening to the eulogy, you can’t help but think about how much or how little time you have left, and, quite possibly, what it is you have or haven’t done with your life.

Perhaps the question should be, are you going to put off till tomorrow what you can do today.

The sad fact is, we all do. We all believe we will have plenty of time to get things done. We live by a number of rather interesting mantras,

old enough to know better and young enough not to care
don’t do today what you can do tomorrow
there’s plenty of time to go on that overseas trip

How many people have died young, and done nothing of what they had planned to do later in life?

I know that I was one of those people, who thought if I worked hard, by the time I reached retirement everything would be paid off, the children would have moved on, and we would have enough money to live out our days in relative comfort, and we would have the time to see the world in leisure.

Then, something changed.

For our 30th wedding anniversary, we were going to go on that once-in-a-lifetime holiday, before all those goals had been reached. Perhaps we had an inkling that we might not be able to travel when older, that if we didn’t do it then, it would never happen.

It was perhaps fortuitous that we did.

Now past retirement, older but not necessarily wiser, travelling anywhere is difficult, and our financial situation is not what we had planned, and all of those dreams would have been shattered had we not moved everything forward by about 20 years.

And with the global pandemic starting about the same time we originally planned to start our worldly travels, had we stuck to the plan, it would never have eventuated.

Was it good management, foresight, or just good luck?

We’ll never know.

But something I do know, and is the best advice I can give anyone.

Don’t put off today what you can do tomorrow.

Why?

No one realises tomorrow never comes.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 10

Now, that was unexpected…

…

Like everyone who was in that artificially silent environment that was the flight deck of a shuttle, unexpected sounds caused unexpected results.

The Engineer cursed.

The Pilot, Myrtle, hesitated for a moment, as if not quite sure what to do, highlighting the fact she had not been in such a situation before, but quickly recovered, and brought up the incoming object on screen.

Note to self: amend the training program to allow for random objects to come out of nowhere.

We all looked at the object. Myrtle should have been taking us into the freighter, but had got overawed by the not easily identifiable ship approaching.

“Our ship will take care of the problem,” I said. “Take us into the freighter.”

As if surprised that she should be asked to do so, she realised it was not her job to be staring at the screen, and muttered, “Oh, yes,” before resuming our passage.

Another note to self: Proper command structures and language should be used at all times.

A minute or so later we were in the cargo bay and the cargo doors were closing. Once closed and the atmosphere adjusted, the deck would become a hive of activity.

There was still a static picture of the craft on the screen, and it was one I’d seen before, an old vessel that dated back over a hundred years. I’d seen it in a space museum on the moon.

I was tempted to ask the Captain what was happening, but knew that to interrupt would not be worth the reprimand.

The engineer had seen one before too. “You don’t see those craft very often, if at all. Or this far out in space. They only had a limited trave distance, didn’t they?”

“Unless someone had been tinkering.” Several had been built as exploration ships, but the majority were freighters, used to build the outer colonies on the nearest planets.

A new drive would enable it to travel to the outer rim of our galaxy, but not much further if there were no readily available fuel supplies. Those that were available were tightly regulated by space command.

Cargo doors closed, deck pressurised, suddenly the whole deck was alive with people and machinery, our people meeting with the freighter crew and arranging for the cargo for Venus to be loaded. Myrtle was to stay with the shuttle, monitoring the loading.

I went down the ramp and was greeted by the first officer of the freighter, a chap I’d once served with, Jacko Miles. Jacko loved being in space, but no longer interested in the machinations of Space Command. The simple life of a freighter first officer was all he desired.

Except his face, right now, had the visual lines of worry.

“What happened?” We were past the usual introductions, and general bonhomie.

“Stopped, boarded, and a crate removed.”

“What was in the crate?”

“No one is saying, but whatever it was, it must have been important to attack us for it.”

My private communicator vibrated in my pocket. The captain was calling, and didn’t want anyone else listening in.

“Just give me a moment,” I said taking the communicator out of my pocket and answering the call. “Yes sir?”

“We have a problem.”

And in that moment, I had to agree with him. Jacko now had his hands in the air, and behind him were two people with handheld weapons trained on him, and me.

…

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 10

It was a relic from the past, put back together by a dedicated group of volunteers who had not wanted the last vestiges of the past to disappear.

Train enthusiasts, the called themselves.

They’d put together a steam locomotive, five carriages, a restaurant car, and the conductor’s car. The original train might have been twice to three times as long, but these days, the tourist market rarely filled the train.

I was one of a group who made it their mission to visit and rate every vintage train, not only in this country, but all over the world. It was a sad state of affairs when I first began, with locomotives and carriages dropping out of the system due to lack of funds, but more disheartening, the lack of government assistance in keeping it’s heritage alive.

It seemed money was short, and there were better things to spend it on, like two brand new 737-800 jets just to ferry the prime minister and government officials around. Just think of what that quarter of a billion dollars could have bought in heritage.

But it is what it is.

What I had before me was one of the most recent restorations to check out, and on first glance, it was remarkable just how lifelike and true to age it was.

Of course, I was of an age that could remember the old railway carriages, what were called red rattlers because of the ill fitting windows that went up and down, allow fresh air, or in days gone by, smoke from the locomotive hauling the train. I had not travelled during the last glorious years of steam, but the carriages had lived on briefly before the advent of the sterile aluminum tin cans with uncomfortably hard seats.

These carriages were built for comfort, and my first experience had been a five hour trip from Melbourne to Wangaratta, in Victoria, on my way to Mt Buffalo Chalet, a guesthouse owned by the Railways.

That too had been a remarkable old chalet style guest house with a room and all the dining included. I always left after the week having put on weight. Breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner, every day, and high tea on Sunday.

But this carriage, the polished wood that had shellac rather than varnish, highlighting the timber’s grain, the leather seats with generous padding, the curved ceilings with hanging lights, windows the could be opened and closed, allowing fresh air to circulate.

There was also a carriage with the passageway, and five or six separate compartments, each sitting six passengers. I remembered these well, having quite often ridden in one to work for some years when the country trains still ran.

It was always remarkable how a sight or a scent could trigger such memories.

For this carriage on this train, it used to ply the Gympie to Brooloo branch line from about 1915 onwards.

That was the history. It only went as far as Amamoor these days, it was still long enough to capture the sensation of riding the rails back in what is always referred to as the good old days, even if they were not.

Now for the ride….

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 116/117

Days 116 and 117

Secondary characters – Writing exercise

Relation to protagonist, are they trusted, dialogue differences, what is their purpose, one thing to remember them…

…

There were a few years of animosity between Alan and Jay. And a healthy dose of resentment.

Alan was the eldest son and, as such, should have commanded some respect and, to be fair, had been treated very well.

Until Jay was born.

It didn’t matter that Mary had popped up in between them, except that she would always be their mother’s favourite.

But from the moment Jay arrived, he had commanded all the oxygen in any room he walked into. He could do no wrong, not even when he was deliberately bad. And no matter what Alan did, he was always wrong, or jealous, or worse, very childish.

Alan suffered it until he could leave, which was the day after he turned 18. He simply put what he needed into his backpack, and left for work as he did every Thursday evening, went to the bus station and took the night express to anywhere that far away from what had ceased to be his home.

Over the next five or so years, Alan kept his head down and kept himself to himself, having learned the hard way that he could not rely on anyone other than himself.

He was largely a product of his experiences, and if or when anyone asked him anything about his life, he simply said he had been orphaned in his teens, bounced around the system until he was old enough to leave and make his own way.

He finished high school. There was no possibility of going to college. His grades and finances precluded both. He’d initially worked as a busboy and worked his way up to waiter. He had applied to the police academy, but they had not even deigned to write back one way or another.

Perhaps it was not in his destiny.

As for home, he had only a passing interest. There had not been one word about his departure, and endless news about the golden boy Jay. Basketball champ, football champ, swimming champ, Prom King, and graduated top of the class.

Of course he would.

He was everything that Alan wasn’t. He was the pride and joy of his parents. And in that whole article about him, there was not one word about the other son. It was like he didn’t exist.

On the seventh anniversary of Alan’s departure, the family sat around the table as they did every Sunday. The morning visit to the church for another of Pastor Bill’s illuminating sermons, then back home for lunch.

Those occasions after Alan left were introspective, where everyone had an opinion as to why he left. Only Mary knew why he had gone, and where, a secret she shared with the Sheriff when her parents had requested his assistance in finding out what happened to him.

Oddly, no one believed he had become a victim of foul play, but equally oddly, no one but Mary could see that their treatment of him was going to always lead to only one eventuality.

Three times, Alan’s mother secretly hired a private detective to find him. Three times, the detective came back to tell them he had disappeared without a trace. Only Mary knew that on the last occasion, after telling him what she knew, he found her brother, and in accordance with her wishes, he told them one thing but gave Mary a slip of paper with her brother’s address.

That had been three days ago.

Now, sitting at the table, looking at the feast, waiting for her father to say grace. He was at one end, her mother at the opposite end, and Jay was sitting opposite her.

It had taken every one of those seven years to hate him as much as her older brother, but for different reasons. Jay was evil. It was as simple as that, a boy without a conscience and no scruples whatsoever.

She, too, would have left before now, but her mother was ailing, and she couldn’t leave her, not with Jay, who wouldn’t care about her, and a father who doted more on his son than his wife.

She looked over towards her and could see she was unwell. The latest visit to the doctor wasn’t good news. Not knowing where Alan was only made matters worse.

“I want Alan to come home,” she said suddenly, in a tone that had more fire in it than usual. The latest report from the detective had reduced her to tears.

“Why?” Jay muttered. “He was a spineless moron, and showed his true colours when he left, without so much as a by your leave.”

“You think?” Mary said, glaring at him.

“What’s your beef?”

His smug look annoyed her. She had discovered he did nothing but trash his brother’s name to anyone who would listen.

“Tell us why Bonny went to the sheriff’s office, Jay?”

Wendy, a friend of Sally, who was a friend of Ada who worked in the sherries office, had confided that Bonny, Jay’s latest girlfriend, or if the rumours were right, ex-girlfriend, had complained that he had assaulted her. Mary suspected it was more than just ‘assault’.

Their mother switched her glare from Jay to her husband. “What have you two done now?”

Exactly the result Mary wanted. Jay was looking very guilty.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Jay muttered, suddenly standing up, sending his chair crashing backwards. “If this is going to be another bitch session, I’ve got better things to do. He’s gone, get over it.”

With that said, he stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” her father said.

“No, Jack. This is all your fault. If you had disciplined him years ago, we wouldn’t be here. Whatever he’s done this time, you’re not going to smooth it over.”

He simply shook his head and followed his son out the door.

Mary reached over and took her mother’s hand in hers. She could see the tears welling in her eyes. Jay had finally torn their family apart.

“We’re going on a road trip. We need to spend time together away from this place. They can fend for themselves for a few days.”

“Where?”

“It’ll be our secret. Go throw a few things in a bag, enough for a week or so. We’re going now.”

“What about…”

“They can clean it up or wallow in it. You’ve done enough for the ungrateful pigs. It’s time they did something for you.”

It took Mary a day on the road to finally coax the truth out of her mother. A secret so devastating that she cried all night. Cancer. Inoperable. And six months, perhaps a year. Mary knew it was bad, just not this bad.

The next morning, after getting back on the road and then stopping at a diner for coffee and apple pie, Mary told her where they were going.

The change in her mother was instant and brought her back to life, the slow descent into despair suddenly arrested.

“I thought…”

“I spoke to the detective this time and told him what I knew. I figured that Alan never wanted any of us to know where he went, but there were clues which I kept to myself, and he did tell me why he left, and swore me to secrecy. I don’t think I need to tell you, you’re smart enough to realise what drove him away. I heard from him a few weeks after he left to tell me he was safe, that it was best not to try and find him, and he was not coming home.”

“Were you going to tell me? Us?”

“Not Dad or Jay. They can live in blissful ignorance. Besides, they’re about to find themselves in a whole world of pain. But in your case, I had decided on a road trip later, but seeing you yesterday, I realised that I couldn’t wait. And knowing what we know, I’m glad we’re doing it now.”

“Are you sure he will be where the detective said? Or that he will want to see me, or you?”

“That’s why I have to initially go by myself. I know he will be surprised to see me, and when I explain the circumstances, he will agree to see you.”

“Perhaps he might be annoyed with me not trying to reach out earlier than this?”

“I think if he wanted to see you, he knew where you lived. It might not be you personally that kept him away, but to be fair, you didn’t stop Jay.”

“No. You’re right. I didn’t. For a long time, I didn’t have the courage, and now that I have, I hope it’s not too late to right that wrong. I’ve decided I’m not going back. I don’t want to spend my last days on God’s earth with either of them.”

…

Searching for locations – Port Macquarie – Day 3 – Part 1

The Maritime Museum

The three houses that make up the maritime museum used to be the pilot’s houses. They were built between 1896 and 1937. There used to be four but one was relocated to another part of Port Macquarie.