Category: Writing

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 43

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

Mayer fought the urge to panic, and then consider giving himself up.  He remembered what the Standartenfuhrer said, and knew that it was not an option.

He slid back into the forest, then far enough back, stood, and ran, the thick snow not only hampering his speed but also covering the sound of his flight. 

He stopped and listened for the sound of the following soldiers, but all he could hear was the sound of a locomotive and his breathing.  His heart was pounding, not used to such exercise or fear.

The soldiers must have stopped where the running person had fallen, and then on the verge of the tree line when the Standartenfuhrer had been shot.

He kneeled down and struggled to catch his breath.  He had the bad the Standartenfuhrer had thrust upon him as they got out of the car, and hoped it had a map, but it was too dark to look now.

From earlier, he remembered the other side of the railway tracks had trees too, and the road that led to the border, the village, if there was one, and the railway station.  There would also be a small shunting area, freight sheds, or something else to hide in, maybe even a signal tower.

Somewhere warm, and with some light, so he could plan his next move.  He was not sure what the Standartenfuhrer Had planned, but it certainly could not be by car the whole way, and they would not make the rendezvous by walking.

The plan had to include going by train.

Brenner pass was along the main track from Austria to the south of Italy, and from an earlier look at a map, the train would go through F, Verona, Bologna, to Florence where he would find the next guide.

Details of that guide hopefully were in the bag, a bag that he would have to hide or lose if he was captured because it would give away the escape route and resistance members who helped those fleeing Germany.

If he had the time or could think straight.  The cold was making that very difficult.  And there was the shock of losing the Standartenfuhrer.

It took five minutes to regain a certain amount of calm and be able to think. 

First, he had to get back to the tree line and see where he was, in proximity to the village, and the railway tracks.

That took about ten minutes carefully picking his way through the trees.  There was no path, it was dark, and he kept hitting low branches and getting covered in snow. There was enough down the back of his neck to make him very uncomfortable.

When he reached the tree line he looked back from where he had been, about a kilometer, and he could see the torches of the soldiers milling around where he and the Standartenfuhrer had been.  The train was still there, the locomotive’s light blazing in front, lighting a short distance of the track in front of it, almost blindingly bright. 

He was not sure why it was waiting on the track.

Looking the other way, there were two sets of tracks, a wide clear area, then another track with several flat cars and a guards van sitting in darkness, all of which were covered in snow.  They were not being used, so the van might provide some shelter.

He just had to get over there, about 100 meters distant.  The problem was there were lights, not very bright, at regular distances, but short enough that a man might present a shadowy outline if anyone was looking.

If he stayed low and run fast, it might just work.

A train whistle in the distance, coming from Italy caused him to shrink back into the cover of the trees.  Another train was coming.  It was oddly busy at a very late hour.

The locomotive also had a bright light that lit up the edge of the tree line, so he had to go further back to get away from it, and wait until the train passed.  It had a lot of flat cars with tanks and troop carriers on it, going back to Germany.  There were no soldiers so perhaps the equipment was needed elsewhere, maybe that final push to England he kept hearing about.

Once that train passed, the one that had been waiting finally restarted its journey south and slowly rumbled past him.  It was almost like a passenger train with no priority had had to wait until essential war trains passed.

When that train had gone, the surrounding area descended into a quiet, also silent field.  The snow had begun to fall heavier, which would be advantageous, and after several long looks in both directions, he ran, crossing the tracks, the empty space, and then to the guard van where he hid between it and the freight car until he caught his breath.

And see if anyone had seen him, expecting whistles and shouting coming from up the track.

Another look showed that only two torches remained back where there had been frenetic activity.  He hoped they considered they had caught the people they were looking for.

He went down the side of the guard’s van to the door, climbed the ladder, and tried the door.  It was unlocked.  There was no reason why it would be locked.

He went in and shut the door, and immediately it was warmer, and certainly dryer.  IT was impossibly dark inside, so he felt around in the bag and found a torch.  Someone had been clever enough to add a torch, some first aid equipment.  The papers included a map.

He checked the cabin for windows and found the shutters were closed, so he didn’t have to stifle the torches light.  A further check showed a bed at the end of the cabin, with a blanket, musty but dry.

There was a stove, a kettle with water, and a tin of tea leaves.  He wasn’t going to start a fire, so no tea.  There was no food, so the hunger would have to remain for a while longer.  The water tasted alright, but he could melt some snow if he needed more.

A place to stay, at least until daybreak when it would be wise to get into the forest on the roadside, and head towards the village, or perhaps wait for a train and see if he could hide on it for the trip south.

First, he needed some rest.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 26

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Maury drops in for a search

 

I moved to the doorway and switched off the light, sending the room back into inky darkness.  Not good for the eyes, going bright light to instant dark.  We stood together behind the door as it opened inwards, Jan ready with her gun.

The door opened slowly, at the same time letting light in from the corridor, making it easier to see.

Opened fully, the visitor tentatively stepped into the room, and once the shape moved past the door, I slammed it shut and Jan lunged with the gun.  

I was not sure what result she was expecting but the person fought back, and as they turned to wrench the gun out of her hand, I let loose a punch, aiming for the head, and as hard as I could.  I head a cracking sound followed by a thump as the body hit the ground.

When I turned the light back on, there were two surprises.  The first, that I’d managed to knock someone out, and the second, Maury was back for a second look.

Why?

It didn’t matter.  He wasn’t going to be unconscious for very long.  Jan had some twine in her room, I wasn’t going to ask why, and she tied his hands and legs together, trussed almost like a turkey.

We left him on the floor when he’d fallen.  Unconscious, he was too heavy to move, or lift.

“Is this man Severin, Maury or Nobbin?” she asked.  She’d saved the questions until after he’d been neutralized, and we’d taken his gun off him.  Also, a knife.  She’d also look through his pockets to see if he carried any identification.  He didn’t, and I wouldn’t expect to find anything.  At the moment I was the same, and since I threw the phone’s sim card, I was now completely anonymous.

“Maury,” I said.

“The attack dog?”

“Not able to attack us at the moment, but yes.  I wonder why he came back?”

“We should ask him,” she said, “when he wakes up.”

We were sitting in the chairs, turned around to face Maury lying on the ground.  He had wriggled, and realizing he was tied up, tried harder to escape the bonds, and then relaxed when he realized he couldn’t.

His eyes turned to us, and it felt like a death stare.  

“This is a mistake,” he said.  “untie these ropes and I might make an exception for you.

“Why are you here?” I asked him.

“That’s none of your business.”

“But it is mine.  This is my flat, and you’re trespassing,” Jan said.

He switched his death gaze to her.

“I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To ask you if your next-door neighbor left anything here with you to collect at a later date.”

No doubt with a menacing attitude, which would end in violence because Maury was not the sort to take no for an answer.

“Most people would knock on the door, and politely wait until it was answered.”

Most people.

“I was told there would be no one at home.”

“And it couldn’t wait until I returned?  I’m sorry, but you have broken into my flat and I’m going to call the police.”

He looked at me.

“That’s not a good idea.  Tell her, Jackson.”

“I don’t work for you, or Severin, anymore.  In fact, when I went back into the office, I got dragged aside and interrogated.  No one seems to know who you and Severin are.”

“That’s because our operation was on a need to know basis.  How do you think our business works?  Not by telling everyone what you’re doing.  Now untie me, and I’ll be on my way.”

“No,” Jan said.  “Not until you tell us exactly who you are and who you work for, and why you deemed it necessary to murder O’Connell.”

Maury looked at me again, and there was no mistaking the anger.

“You do understand what the Official Secrets Act means, don’t you Jackson?”

“More or less.  But it depends on who it is you speak to whether that’s relevant or not.”

Back to Jan.  

“Who are you, then?”

“As you keep pulling out of your hat, it’s on a need to know basis, and, of course, we just tell everyone what we’re doing either.  But one thing I’m sure of, we do not go around killing agents.  As far as I can tell, O’Connell was working for an agency, possibly yours but I don’t think so, and in the course of his investigation, he came across some valuable information.  Information, I’m told, you want.  What is it and why?”

“Are you serious?”

He shifted his glare back to me.

“Seriously Jackson, who is this person?”

“Someone, I fear, who is going to cause you a great deal of grief if you don’t answer her questions.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I don’t have to tall you or anyone else the nature of my business.”

I saw her shake her head.  “I take it, that’s a no.”  She shrugged and pulled out her phone and dialed a number.  “Always the hard way with you people.”

“Sir,” she said when the call was answered.  “I’ve got a character named Maury tied up in my flat.  Breaking and entering for starters.  Yes, I’ll be here.”

She put the phone back in her bag.  “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

All we had to do was hope that Maury didn’t have a backup.

© Charles Heath 2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 20

Day 20 – Writing exercise

You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you.  Bye.”

20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.

…

I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.

Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.

I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.

And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.

For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.

She had no enemies.

But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.

Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.

One of pure joy.

And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.

One I saw her put there.

She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.

And the hushed coversation”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…”

“Of course, I adore you.”

“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday.  See you then.”

It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.

If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all.  Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?

The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running.  She would be missed.  I would not.

…

Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.

It was, even for me, an odd choice.  It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.

We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.

Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.

I cursed her in four languages.

She cursed me back in five.

I helped up.  “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”

“Why?”

She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.

I got in the way.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.  Should I?”

“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”

And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.

A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.

Good luck with that.  The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king.  She didn’t look like queen material to me.

A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.

Literally.

She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king.  For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.

She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.

Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince?  She could not be divorced.

I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.

Who would turn down an offer like that?

We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.

It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.

Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.

…

I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.

My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.

My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.

I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.

Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.

I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be.  It became part of Royalty Inc.

20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.

20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.

…

“Where have you been?”  Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.

Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.

She hadn’t believed my luck. 

I hadn’t believed my luck.

Now my luck had run out.

“You know I hate these things.”

“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house.  Or wherever it is you go.”

I made a face.  “You love this pompous.”

“Of course.  Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”

Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.

“Discretion dear.  Discretion.”

Isabella suddenly appeared at my side.  “Where were you?”  It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.

“Looking for you.  The party glow had disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”  And smiled in a way that was not usual.

“You’re being strange.  Too much champagne.”

And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think she’s having an affair “

I nearly choked.  How could she possibly think that?

“No.”

“Would it matter if she did?”

Did she know something I didn’t?”

“Everything has a use-by date.  Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.  “You’re a fool.  Always was, always will be.  Go and mingle.  They’ll be going home soon.”

…

“You were acting strange tonight.”  Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.

I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip.  It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.

“You disappeared.  Poof!”

“I did not.  I was probably in the restroom.”

“With your cell phone?”

She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting.  Would she lie?

“I was expecting an important call?”

“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”

She didn’t answer.  Not immediately.  Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.

“No matter,” I said.  “It’s none of my business.  I have an early morning with the horses.”  I went over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Have fun down in London.”

As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.

“How do you know I’m going to London?”

I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure.  I know you so well.”

She looked miffed.

“What if, for once, you are wrong?”

“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”

She let go of my hand.  “I love you.  And thank you for a wonderful party.”

“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

“After 20 years?  I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”

She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.

“Nothing dear.  I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”

She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.

“Come with me.”

This was new, too.  “Where?”

“Wherever.  Anywhere.  Just come with me.”

“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned.  I don’t think you need me.  I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else.  I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about.  That’s it.”

She shook her head.

“Only a fool would believe that Henry.  If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“No.  You’d probably be a queen.”

“I am a princess.”

“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other.  Titles don’t define us, Isabella.  What’s in our hearts defines us.  My heart is yours, Bella.  Don’t ever forget that.  Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”

..

She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.

It had been a while since the last time.

She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.

I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.

Our relationship was built on trust.  I trusted her.  I had no idea what she thought of me. 

She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.

I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.

I did not fear for her safety.  I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.

There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about.  The king was old and getting on.  It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem.  There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.

Yes, I had spies everywhere.

I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.

I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see.  They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.

I shrugged.

All good things must come to an end.  I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.

I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends.  I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.

They were her friends.

Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand.  The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.

The place could survive without me.  It would have to eventually.

So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.

Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.

It took a week to get there.  My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit.  I did.

And the marvellous thing about it.  No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James.  I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed.  The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.

…

I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.

Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.

I glared at her over the newspaper.

“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”

Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.

“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka. 

“Anyone tell you you are rude?”

“Frequently.  It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”

She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened.  “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to be your father.  I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”

“My father wouldn’t care.  Not as much as you do, apparently.  My name is Daphne.”

“Do you only have one name, like Cher?  Is that an American thing?”  I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.

The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly.  Had she been here before and complained?

“No.  But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”

I sighed.  She was not leaving.  “Henry.”

She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.

“Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.  Having coffee.  Reading the paper.  Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”

“And who is rude?”

“And who is rude.  Why are you here?”  Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”

I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.

“Well, I’m sorry about that.  I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk.  I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I’m here for some lone time.  Get away from everyone and everything.  The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”

She gave me a curious look.  “You break up with a wife or girlfriend.  You cheated, she cheated.”

“That’s what happened to you?”

“Me?  No.  Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”

I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American.  Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was. 

I shrugged.  “You are what you are.  Savour it while you have it.  Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures.  This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

“If you had an iPad it would.”.

“I refuse to live in the digital world.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“So people can’t find me.  We survived without them once; we can do it again.  Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”

I didn’t think she would.

…

I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear.  I didn’t find out if it was true.

But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring.  She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything. 

Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.

It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older

I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air.  Winter was coming, and it was getting colder.  The surroundings reminded me of home.

I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me.  There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.

Then I got the faint hint of perfume.

Not Daphne.

Isabella.

Damn.

I pretended to ignore her.  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.

“I was having such a good time.”  I opened my eyes and looked at her. 

She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth.  Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.

No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.

“Without me?”

“Without you.”

“I thought you loved me?”

“I do.  Enough to set you free.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t that what you want.  After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone.  I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”

She looked at me with serious concern.

“What are you babbling about.  Use by date?  Fish.  What had fish got to do with anything?”  Then she stopped, took a breath.  “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning.  You overheard my conversation.”

“I was wandering around near the morning room.  You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“And you thought…”

“It was time to move on.  You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore.  I see you with your people.  They are your sort of people, I’m not.”

She sighed.  “You are a silly, silly man.  I love you more than anything.  Anything Henry.  It’s why I’m here.  I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you.  You’re acting strange.  I thought you were sick.  I thought you were dying.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“It felt like I was dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it.  I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you.  I’m not interested in anyone else.  This is a nice place.  What made you come here?”

“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”

“Good choice.  Where are we?”

“On a ship.”

“No, where are we?”

“Queenstown.  Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea.  Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”

“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”

“She’s not my cook.”

I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon.  People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”

“You’re busy.  I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t ever do this to me again.  I had to move heaven and earth to find you.  You’re very good at disappearing.”

“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”

“She’s going to be your new companion.  There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing.  I thought you had been kidnapped.  I was going to tell you but…”

There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.

“I didn’t know.  And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”

“You were rude first.”

“Is she here?”

“No.  I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard.  Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”

“Can you swim?”  Her expression changed.  It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

If I only had one day to stop over in – Rome – what would I do?

One Day in Rome: Making the Most of the Colosseum Experience

Rome, a city where ancient history and vibrant culture collide, can feel overwhelming in a single day. With countless landmarks vying for your attention, how do you choose just one place to make your stopover truly memorable? The answer lies in the heart of the Eternal City—The Colosseum. This iconic monument is not just a structure; it’s a portal to the past, offering a day packed with history, architecture, and a touch of Roman magic. Here’s how to turn your one day into a timeless memory.

Why the Colosseum?

The Colosseum is Rome’s most enduring symbol of imperial grandeur. Built in 80 AD, this ancient amphitheatre once hosted gladiatorial battles, epic hunts, and spectacular spectacles. Visiting it is like stepping into a living museum of Roman engineering and ambition. Unlike sprawling sites like the Vatican, the Colosseum allows you to delve deep into a singular, monumental narrative. Plus, it’s centrally located, making it a gateway to other historic treasures.

Start Your Day with a Skip-the-Line Tour

Beat the crowds and start your adventure early. Booking a skip-the-line guided tour in advance (like the Colosseum, Roman Forum, and Palatine Hill combo ticket) ensures you maximise your time and access exclusive areas like the Gladiator Hypogeum, where you can imagine the chaos of the underground staging area before battles. Early mornings (before 9 AM) are ideal for fewer crowds and cooler temperatures.

Pro Tip: Opt for a VIP tour or evening tour for a more intimate experience. The Colosseum under a sunset or moonlit sky? Unforgettable.

Explore the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

Adjacent to the Colosseum, the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill are a must. Once the political and social heart of Rome, the Forum’s ruins—from the Temple of Saturn to the Arch of Titus—tell stories of emperors, senators, and citizens. Palatine Hill, where emperors like Augustus and Nero lived, offers a glimpse into imperial opulence. Let your imagination wander as you walk through marble colonnades and crumbling temples.

Hidden Gem: After your guided tour, stroll outside the Colosseum’s walls to the Appian Way or Circo Massimo Park for a quieter moment. The Colosseum’s silhouette from a distance is a photo opportunity you won’t want to miss.

Break for Lunch Like a Local

Rome isn’t just about history—it’s also about food. After your ancient adventure, indulge in a Roman classic at a nearby trattoria. Try Supplì al telefono (fried rice balls) or Cacio e Pepe near the Colosseum. The Centrale Food Market, just a 10-minute walk away, is perfect for a quick, authentic bite.

Afternoon: Hidden Treasures and Winding Alleys

Post-lunch, explore the neighbourhoods surrounding the Colosseum. Wander through Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, an underrated square with fountains and modern flair. For a quieter alternative, visit Basilica di San Clemente, a stunning church with layers of history beneath its church (a Roman house church, and even a 1st-century Mithraic temple).

Evening: Sunset and Stories

End your day with a romantic walk around the Colosseum at sunset. The golden light casts a magical glow on the arches, and the atmosphere is electric. If time allows, catch a night tour—the guided stories under torchlight add a dramatic edge to the Colosseum’s tales.

Final Thoughts

While Rome is a city of endless wonders, the Colosseum offers a concentrated dose of what makes it unforgettable. By focusing on this singular icon—along with its nearby treasures—you’ll gain a deeper appreciation for Rome’s legacy while leaving with memories of grandeur, history, and a touch of local flavour.

So, whether you’re a first-time traveller or a returning explorer, let the Colosseum be your anchor. With a bit of planning, even a fleeting day in Rome can become a chapter of your eternal story.

Buon viaggio! 🍷✨

What I learned about writing – Minimalist writing

I don’t think this is going to make me a better writer. I like to describe things, set the mood, set the place, set the characters, and then jump in.

Minimalism requires you to strip away all of that baggage and get to the heart of the matter.

Here’s the problem:

I spent the next seven days planning to remove my worst enemy.

Why?

There has to be motivation, though I guess it could be a series of short vignettes that explain the lead-up to this drastic situation.

I have a problem sometimes getting to the point. We get there, but perhaps we should have made a left at Albuquerque and instead, gone on the grand tour.

Just think, if I wanted to see London, Paris and Berlin, what would be the fun in that? I want to see everything possible in between, like the Eurostar, Disneyland, the Rhine and all those castles and vineyards.

Stories are like that, too. We need the details to make educated guesses and keep reading to see if we are right.

‘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

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Venice – what would I do?

A Day in Venice: Making the Most of Your 24-Hour Stopover

Venice, the City of Water, is a place that has captivated the hearts of travellers for centuries. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and unique culture, it’s no wonder that Venice is a top destination for many. But what if you only have a day to spend in this enchanting city? Is it possible to make the most of your 24-hour stopover and create unforgettable memories? The answer is yes, and it all starts with visiting one iconic place: St. Mark’s Square.

The Heart of Venice: St. Mark’s Square

Located in the heart of Venice, St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) is the city’s most famous landmark and a must-visit destination for any traveller. This stunning square is surrounded by breathtaking architecture, including the magnificent St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile di San Marco (St. Mark’s Bell Tower). As you step into the square, you’ll be struck by the sheer beauty and grandeur of your surroundings.

Why St. Mark’s Square is a Must-Visit

So, what makes St. Mark’s Square the perfect place to visit during your one-day stopover in Venice? Here are just a few reasons:

  • Unparalleled Architecture: The square is home to some of the most stunning examples of Byzantine architecture in the world, including the intricate mosaics and golden domes of St. Mark’s Basilica.
  • Rich History: St. Mark’s Square has been the centre of Venetian life for centuries, with a history dating back to the 9th century. You can almost feel the weight of history as you walk through the square.
  • Cultural Significance: The square is a hub of cultural activity, with street performers, musicians, and artists adding to the lively atmosphere.
  • Accessibility: St. Mark’s Square is easily accessible by vaporetto (water bus) or on foot, making it a convenient destination for travellers with limited time.

Tips for Visiting St. Mark’s Square

To make the most of your visit to St. Mark’s Square, here are a few tips to keep in mind:

  • Arrive Early: Get to the square early in the morning to avoid the crowds and enjoy a more peaceful atmosphere.
  • Dress Modestly: Remember to dress modestly when visiting the basilica, as it’s a place of worship.
  • Take a Guided Tour: Consider taking a guided tour of the square and its surrounding attractions to get a deeper understanding of the history and culture.
  • Enjoy the Views: Don’t forget to take in the stunning views of the square from the top of the Campanile di San Marco, which offers breathtaking vistas of the city.

Conclusion

In conclusion, St. Mark’s Square is the perfect destination for travellers with a one-day stopover in Venice. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and cultural significance, this iconic square is sure to leave a lasting impression. By visiting St. Mark’s Square, you’ll be able to experience the essence of Venice and create unforgettable memories of your time in this enchanting city. So, make the most of your 24-hour stopover and head to St. Mark’s Square – you won’t regret it!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 20

Day 20 – Writing exercise

You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you.  Bye.”

20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.

…

I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.

Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.

I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.

And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.

For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.

She had no enemies.

But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.

Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.

One of pure joy.

And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.

One I saw her put there.

She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.

And the hushed coversation”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…”

“Of course, I adore you.”

“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday.  See you then.”

It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.

If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all.  Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?

The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running.  She would be missed.  I would not.

…

Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.

It was, even for me, an odd choice.  It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.

We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.

Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.

I cursed her in four languages.

She cursed me back in five.

I helped up.  “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”

“Why?”

She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.

I got in the way.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.  Should I?”

“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”

And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.

A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.

Good luck with that.  The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king.  She didn’t look like queen material to me.

A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.

Literally.

She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king.  For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.

She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.

Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince?  She could not be divorced.

I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.

Who would turn down an offer like that?

We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.

It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.

Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.

…

I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.

My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.

My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.

I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.

Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.

I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be.  It became part of Royalty Inc.

20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.

20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.

…

“Where have you been?”  Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.

Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.

She hadn’t believed my luck. 

I hadn’t believed my luck.

Now my luck had run out.

“You know I hate these things.”

“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house.  Or wherever it is you go.”

I made a face.  “You love this pompous.”

“Of course.  Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”

Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.

“Discretion dear.  Discretion.”

Isabella suddenly appeared at my side.  “Where were you?”  It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.

“Looking for you.  The party glow had disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”  And smiled in a way that was not usual.

“You’re being strange.  Too much champagne.”

And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think she’s having an affair “

I nearly choked.  How could she possibly think that?

“No.”

“Would it matter if she did?”

Did she know something I didn’t?”

“Everything has a use-by date.  Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.  “You’re a fool.  Always was, always will be.  Go and mingle.  They’ll be going home soon.”

…

“You were acting strange tonight.”  Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.

I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip.  It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.

“You disappeared.  Poof!”

“I did not.  I was probably in the restroom.”

“With your cell phone?”

She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting.  Would she lie?

“I was expecting an important call?”

“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”

She didn’t answer.  Not immediately.  Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.

“No matter,” I said.  “It’s none of my business.  I have an early morning with the horses.”  I went over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Have fun down in London.”

As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.

“How do you know I’m going to London?”

I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure.  I know you so well.”

She looked miffed.

“What if, for once, you are wrong?”

“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”

She let go of my hand.  “I love you.  And thank you for a wonderful party.”

“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

“After 20 years?  I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”

She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.

“Nothing dear.  I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”

She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.

“Come with me.”

This was new, too.  “Where?”

“Wherever.  Anywhere.  Just come with me.”

“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned.  I don’t think you need me.  I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else.  I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about.  That’s it.”

She shook her head.

“Only a fool would believe that Henry.  If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“No.  You’d probably be a queen.”

“I am a princess.”

“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other.  Titles don’t define us, Isabella.  What’s in our hearts defines us.  My heart is yours, Bella.  Don’t ever forget that.  Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”

..

She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.

It had been a while since the last time.

She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.

I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.

Our relationship was built on trust.  I trusted her.  I had no idea what she thought of me. 

She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.

I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.

I did not fear for her safety.  I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.

There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about.  The king was old and getting on.  It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem.  There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.

Yes, I had spies everywhere.

I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.

I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see.  They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.

I shrugged.

All good things must come to an end.  I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.

I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends.  I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.

They were her friends.

Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand.  The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.

The place could survive without me.  It would have to eventually.

So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.

Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.

It took a week to get there.  My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit.  I did.

And the marvellous thing about it.  No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James.  I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed.  The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.

…

I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.

Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.

I glared at her over the newspaper.

“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”

Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.

“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka. 

“Anyone tell you you are rude?”

“Frequently.  It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”

She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened.  “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to be your father.  I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”

“My father wouldn’t care.  Not as much as you do, apparently.  My name is Daphne.”

“Do you only have one name, like Cher?  Is that an American thing?”  I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.

The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly.  Had she been here before and complained?

“No.  But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”

I sighed.  She was not leaving.  “Henry.”

She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.

“Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.  Having coffee.  Reading the paper.  Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”

“And who is rude?”

“And who is rude.  Why are you here?”  Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”

I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.

“Well, I’m sorry about that.  I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk.  I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I’m here for some lone time.  Get away from everyone and everything.  The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”

She gave me a curious look.  “You break up with a wife or girlfriend.  You cheated, she cheated.”

“That’s what happened to you?”

“Me?  No.  Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”

I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American.  Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was. 

I shrugged.  “You are what you are.  Savour it while you have it.  Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures.  This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

“If you had an iPad it would.”.

“I refuse to live in the digital world.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“So people can’t find me.  We survived without them once; we can do it again.  Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”

I didn’t think she would.

…

I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear.  I didn’t find out if it was true.

But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring.  She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything. 

Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.

It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older

I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air.  Winter was coming, and it was getting colder.  The surroundings reminded me of home.

I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me.  There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.

Then I got the faint hint of perfume.

Not Daphne.

Isabella.

Damn.

I pretended to ignore her.  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.

“I was having such a good time.”  I opened my eyes and looked at her. 

She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth.  Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.

No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.

“Without me?”

“Without you.”

“I thought you loved me?”

“I do.  Enough to set you free.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t that what you want.  After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone.  I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”

She looked at me with serious concern.

“What are you babbling about.  Use by date?  Fish.  What had fish got to do with anything?”  Then she stopped, took a breath.  “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning.  You overheard my conversation.”

“I was wandering around near the morning room.  You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“And you thought…”

“It was time to move on.  You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore.  I see you with your people.  They are your sort of people, I’m not.”

She sighed.  “You are a silly, silly man.  I love you more than anything.  Anything Henry.  It’s why I’m here.  I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you.  You’re acting strange.  I thought you were sick.  I thought you were dying.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“It felt like I was dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it.  I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you.  I’m not interested in anyone else.  This is a nice place.  What made you come here?”

“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”

“Good choice.  Where are we?”

“On a ship.”

“No, where are we?”

“Queenstown.  Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea.  Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”

“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”

“She’s not my cook.”

I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon.  People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”

“You’re busy.  I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t ever do this to me again.  I had to move heaven and earth to find you.  You’re very good at disappearing.”

“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”

“She’s going to be your new companion.  There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing.  I thought you had been kidnapped.  I was going to tell you but…”

There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.

“I didn’t know.  And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”

“You were rude first.”

“Is she here?”

“No.  I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard.  Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”

“Can you swim?”  Her expression changed.  It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

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.

…

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: cue

Another small and sometimes confusing word.

The first meaning that comes to mind is a cue is a prompt, often from someone standing behind the camera in a television studio.

That is to say that a cue is some form of signal, a wave, a nod, or verbal.

A cue can also be where a tape or recording is set to a certain place, ready to play.  One could assume, if playing tracks off an album of songs, and you wanted to play the fourth track, then you would cue it up, ready to go on, of course, the moment you got a, yes, cue to play it.

Then there is a cue used in a game of pool or snooker, that is a long thin tapered piece of wood with a felt tip.  

Not exactly my favourite game, but it’s always the cues fault, not mine.

This is not to be considered with Que which is a shortened form for Quebec, in Canada.

Or que, which for some reason, only in California, is short for barbecue.

Or Queue, as in a long line, or a short one, of people waiting to get on a bus, or waiting to get tickets  

In my experience every queue I get in is always a long one, and then suffer the frustration of waiting hours only to be told the tickets have all been sold.

Almost as bad as being stuck in a traffic jam, which is technically a queue of cars, never to get through the first set of lights, and sometimes not the second.

And don’t get me started on phone queues.  

Queues are for people who have a lot of time on the hands.