…

Some things happen randomly.  Some things are unexplainable.  Some things happen for a reason.

What happened to us didn’t happen for a reason, nor was it random or unexplainable.

Well, not at first.

…

I remember that day as if it were yesterday.  I came home from school and there were seven police cars in the street.

I was not sure what I thought from the top of the street, but it wasn’t that the police were in our house.

They were.

I had to plead my case that I actually lived in what they were calling a crime scene.  No one would tell me what happened until a woman about the same age as my mother came out to see what the shouting was about.

I was trying to tell people who wouldn’t listen that it was my house.

I’ll never forget the way she looked down on me like I was dirt beneath her feet.  A person who would want to reach me would have come down to my level.  She did not.

“Who are you making all this noise?”

“I live here.  This is my house.  My father and mother and my sister live here.  Is my mother here?”

“Wait here.”

She went back inside and came back with my mother.  My mother’s face was expressionless, and I only saw that look once before in my life, when she was told her brother had died.

I remembered that day too, and what she said.  ‘Do not trust these English people, they lie, they twist your words.  They say they do not hold grudges, but they never forget.  Never.’

I had no idea what she meant at the time, but seeing the woman and the fact a man was standing close to her as if she were a criminal, was enough.

“Your father is dead.”  It was a simple and succinct statement.  She would say no more until the police left.

The only question in my mind then was who that woman was because she certainly wasn’t the police.  Not the normal police that is.

They said my father committed suicide.  I didn’t get to see the crime scene but was taken to a friends place where my sister was, and we were not allowed to return home for a few days.

My mother had been questioned for three days by both the police and other people, people she thought were security agents, though she had no idea why my father would interest them.

Except, of course, he was German.

We were never asked any questions and allowed back after the house had been cleaned and restored to normalcy.  A day later, when looking for the first time ever, since we were never allowed in his study, I found a small smudge of blood.

It didn’t seem significant.

My mother, our mother, outwardly was the same as she had been, except now, without her husband, she seemed different, not so frightened.  I could see the fear in her eyes every time he came home.  In her eyes and my sisters.  I didn’t know why and didn’t ask.

Not then.

A week passed, and I came home to the same scenario.  Five police cars, flashing lights, and they were at my house.

Again.

I didn’t have to go through the same identification. The policeman at the door knew who I was.

He asked me to wait, and a few minutes later, the same woman came out.

“This is getting to be a regular event,” I said.

“It won’t happen again.  Come inside.”

From the front door, I could see the tail of destruction.  Someone had searched the place and looked everywhere.

And I mean everywhere, down to ripping the plaster off the walks and ripping up floorboards.

“Who would do something like this,” I asked.

“Exactly the question we would ask.  It seems someone thought your father had something worth stealing.  It’s equally obvious by the damage they didn’t find it.”

“That’s because he didn’t have anything.”

She gave me that grown-up, I don’t believe you looked and then took me to my mother.  Equally resolute and angry as the time before.

“You might want to consider moving.  These people might come back.  They did not find what they were looking for.  I suggest you think long and hard about what it might be these people want.”

“I do not know anything about my husband’s business. I did not want to know, and he didn’t tell me.  I never went into his office. None of us did.  We are not being chased out of my home.  My husband did nothing wrong, I have done nothing wrong, and we are not moving anywhere.”

We were forced to stay with a friend while the house was put back together, and life returned to a semblance of normalcy.  An elaborate alarm system provided security so we could sleep at night, but odd noises kept me awake for a long time after.

But they did not come back.  Whoever they were.  At times, I used to think there was a similar car sitting down the street watching us.

In time, it all passed.  In sccprdabc3 with my father’s wishes, I studied engineering and eventually graduated.  My sister eventually married the boy she started dating at university and then moved to France for his work, leaving my mother and me alone.

My mother found a job, something she had not been allowed to do while my father was alive and kept mostly to herself.  We kept the house, and my father’s study exactly as it had been before he died, and life went on.

Then, instead of taking up an appointment at my father’s old engineering company, I changed my mind and decided to do journalism instead.  My mother wasn’t pleased but didn’t try to change my mind.  She just stopped talking to me.

Then, almost to the day, ten years later, it all started again.

This time, the person who broke in hardly left a trace, and everything had been put back, all except one piece of paper.

Whoever it was, they were interrupted because I thought I heard a mouse from downstairs, and instinctively, I knew it was in the study.

At first, I thought it was my mother. She sometimes went down there to read a book. All of the novels on two of the shelves were written in German.

It was not her, but I did see a shadow, and by the time I reached the back door, that shadow had disappeared.  That door had been opened with a key because I had stuffed the lock with a putty substance and fragments if it were on the inside floor under the lock.

Back in the study, I checked the papers in the top drawer, and one was out of place.  In the middle, as if it had been hastily replaced.

I looked at it.  A letter from his father to his son, very short, reminding him to send the book he had recently mentioned.  That was all.

Except…

It could not possibly be from my father’s father he had died many years before the date on the letter.  Or could it?  A fragment of a conversation I overheard a long time ago when my grandparents had visited, came back, a name, and if I was not mistaken, a very familiar name.

I put it back neatly and went back to bed.

I will check everything else that was in the drawers tomorrow.  And I would send a letter to the German Government in charge of Stasi files.  If I was not mistaken, my father’s parents had been stranded in East Germany when the wall went up, and that made my father East German too.

And if that were the case, it would explain everything.

…

If you were to ask any child what their first scary memory was, it would more than likely involve a relative.  I think I was unlucky.  I had two, relatives that is, and both were scary.

It might be that they were from a different country, across the sea, and for a child what was a long, long way away.  We were not rich so unless they visited, which as far as I was aware, was once when I was about very young, we never saw them at all.

My only memory of them was that they were tall, dressed in dark clothes, and spoke differently to us, though it surprised me that my mother could speak that way too.  Later I learned a different way was a language called German, and my mother decided to teach me it.  My father wasn’t pleased, especially when she and I spoke in German, because he never bothered to learn it himself.

It should not have come as a surprise that I was told not to annoy them.  Perhaps someone forgot to tell my parents I was a child, and invariably inquisitive, and that we rarely did as we were told.  Pity then that first encounter was fleeting and decidedly unmemorable, and being too young to care, erased the almost from my mind.  I don’t think I endeared myself to them.

Move forward 20 years, and although there were some references to these strange people that my mother referred to as distant and unforgiving members of an intransigent and disinterested family, we had not seen them again, but my mother had travelled to where they lived several times, always returning very upset and angry.

Until one dark and gloomy morning when a letter arrived, delivered to the door by the postman.

That morning she had been putting away some of my father’s stuff in the study, and, being nearest to the front door, went to see who it was.   When I called out to ask her who it was, there was silence, except for the ticking sound of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.  Yes, it was that loud and, at night, sometimes annoying.

I slowly came down the stairs, unconscious trying to avoid the creaking steps, and stopped at the bottom.

 “Mother.” 

I knew she had been in the study, so I went up the passage and stopped in the doorway.  She was sitting in my father’s chair, something that would have been forbidden, for any of us, when he was alive.

She looked as though she had seen a ghost.

“Is everything alright?”  I could clearly see that it wasn’t.

In her hand was a piece of paper and what I assumed was the envelope it came in on the floor.

She looked up at me.   “Your grandfather is dead.  My mother wants us to go to the funeral.”

Was it significant that she called her father my grandfather, and did not refer to her mother as my grandmother?  But what was more significant was the look on her face was the same as it had been when she had been attacked.

It wasn’t hard to put two and two together; the breaking had something to do with my grandfather, and she had been dreading this day.

“Where?”  It was a question I knew the answer.

“Germany.”

We had in recent times started to have conversations about where she came from and how she arrived in England.  We’d got as far as her mother’s grandparents leaving before the second world war to escape the Nazi regime, how she had returned to Germany as a child and met and married a German engineer, my father, a boy from a good German family approved by her father.  It felt, she said, as if it had all been arranged in her absence, but he had been attentive, polite and generous in those first years before and after marriage.  It was only later he changed.

She said after she married him and they returned to England where he had transferred for his work, that he became a vain and possessive husband who had virtually cut her off from all her friends and relations until his death.  My father’s parents had passed away at the time of the pandemic, much to my mother’s relief, and as for her father, it seemed that he and her mother were more supportive of her husband than her daughter.

Since my father’s death she had been a lot more at ease if not wary of people she didn’t know, although she still tended to prefer her own company.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to simply ignore the letter, pretend you didn’t get it.”

“I had to sign for it.  They are nothing if not thorough in dealing with matters such as this.  It would have been far worse if Gerhardt had been alive.”

“Do you have to go?”

“You know the answer to that question as well as I do.   It might have been better if I had returned to Germany after Gerhardt had died, but I refused, and it resulted in being excommunicated.  I can’t for the life of me understand why I’m being summoned now.  I told them then, when I was leaving, I never wanted to see or speak to them again.  When his parents died and we had to return for the funeral, he wanted to stay there, telling me only after we got there that he was going to transfer back to Germany, and we could live near my parents.  Gerhardt was always their favourite, and when my parents insisted, I obeyed my husband’s wishes I told them my life was in England and I had no intention of moving back to Germany especially anywhere near them.  Gerhard admonished me, taking their side, and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he still wanted to have a wife when he returned to England, he should not speak of the matter again.”

This I was learning for the first time, and it explained the frosty relations on their return, though that had been when I was younger and didn’t understand why grown-ups were always so cranky.

“What would have happened if we had gone back?”

“You would have been taken away from me.”

It was a simple response, but one if I let my imagination run wild could have had any number of connotations.  My father had always told me I was going to be an engineer like him and his father before him.  It was not a request or a suggestion.

It was not what I wanted, but I was terrified of him.

It was only after he died that I was able to switch to a less intense field of study, a journalist, and one day, to become a best-selling author.  It was hardly the occupation of a Schroder would be what he would say in barely restrained anger, his usual mode of addressing me.

“Then we have much to be thankful for.  I guess it means we have to go, but this time I’m old enough to look after you.”

“It may not be that simple.  My family are not noted for being what one might subjectively call normal.”

“Then let’s be unpredictable.”

I remember a few weeks before my father died, he had dragged me into the study and proceeded to give me a dressing down, not for the first time, but that time I had deliberately pushed him. It was the lecture on what the Schroeders stood for, and that was not flippancy.  Then when I back chatted with him, for the first time, he completely lost it.

And wittingly or unwittingly he let slip that family honour went back centuries that generations of his family had served their country proudly in many wars and that if his great-grandfather was alive, I would be shot.  German soldiers, given the wealth and standing of his family, were the chances…

At the time I just didn’t want to think about it.

When she didn’t respond, I said “I think it might be time to let you into a secret.  I have been seeing a girl who works with me at the newspaper.  I didn’t think she liked me but apparently, she does.  And surprise, surprise, she speaks German, as well as French, Spanish, and Russian.  I’ll ask her if she would like to come with us.  They won’t know what hit them.”

For the first time, in the wake of what was the worst news, there was a glimmer of a smile.

“I knew there was something.  Perhaps you are right.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

There was very little that interested me at school.

I used to think that all I wanted to be was a scientist, even when I had no idea what that meant, and that school was nearly 12 years of distraction.

As I got older and the various branches of science were brought to my attention, I started to think it was going to be too hard.

Botany, biology, chemistry, physics, and then each again part of something else, or a name that loosely held together a lot of other branches.

I was not interested in trees, animals, or humans.  I didn’t like the idea of exploring elements or minerals.   I wanted something big that few had seriously studied, that might have potential for a groundbreaking discovery.

Then I went to the space exhibition at the Smithsonian, and I was sold.

Like a great many others, I watched all the science fiction television shows like Star Trek or Star Gate, read books, and pondered over the possibility of there being other people out there in an endless universe.

After all, only so much could be conjured up by the writer’s imagination, and I spent a lot of time and effort investigating what was possibly right and what was definitely wrong.

That research managed to disprove a lot of the imaginary parts but left a few that might have the distinct possibility of being true, and in one instance, a large number of writers went back to a single piece of so-called evidence.

A place in a mountain range in Peru where there were caves with drawings that could be detected as actual sciences and their spaceships, and over the years, the number of sightings of UFOs.

According to some, it was a meeting place because most sightings were of multiple sets of lights.  Of course, there were photographs, but the thing with photography was that they could be faked.

I was going to have to see it for myself.

Hiking camping and living in rough terrain was second nature.  I was an outdoors person and a lot of the research required going to remote and sometimes dangerous places.  Aliens, it seemed, didn’t like urban areas.

I was going by myself, but in conversations with a fellow UFO enthusiast, one of the sceptics I often butted heads with, in internet forums, asked if she could come along for the ride.

Her reason was to provide a counterbalanced view.  She didn’t believe in UFOs or aliens.

I thought about it.  The fact I disagreed with her views, and we argued might have made it sticky at times, we had a strange sort of rapport in everything other than aliens.  I did say it was not for the faint-hearted, but she took that to mean not for girls and simply made her more determined.

She was going whether I liked it or not.

I shrugged.  That last video meeting, up till now the only way we’d met. was almost a fight.  I guess when I ended the call, I was going to finally meet her in person.

That was three days later at Lima’s Jorge Chavez International Airport.  I arrived the day before and had arranged accommodation, and then went to the airport to greet her.

I was not sure what to expect.  I’d seen her face over time, but that was about it, and being hopeless with faces was worried I might not recognise her.  It didn’t matter, she recognised me.  As it turned out, she was almost nothing like what I imagined.

“Peter Jacobson, I presume?”

It had to be the same day some football team was arriving back home, the waiting area was packed with fans, and it was going to be impossible to find her.  And, typically, they came out first, and the crowd went wild.  It was inevitable that I would miss her.

“Jennifer?”

“The same.”  She saw me looking at the crowd, now chanting.  “I would have to pick the same plane as the national football team.  It’s nice to meet you in person. You seem less professor-ish.”

I took that as a compliment, though with her I could never be quite sure.  What I could see was she was a hugger, which wasn’t a bad thing.

Given the nature of my studies and work, I didn’t have a lot of time for a relationship, and although I had girls as friends, there had never been one I could call a girlfriend.  Jennifer was the one I’d known off and on the longest.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”  I was practical because the next few days were going to be difficult, and seeing her, she seemed to me to be more accustomed to less vigorous pursuits.

She had labelled me as sexist once or twice for reasons I couldn’t understand, but now I think I could, and realised it the moment she frowned at me.

“Tell you what.  When we get back to the hotel, we’ll square off and see who wins.  I know who I’m betting on.”  Her tone had an edge to it, not the best way to start an expedition.

I shrugged.  This girl was going to change my attitude and a lot more before we were done.  “I’m sorry.  I guess there’s a bit too much of my father in me.  It’s no excuse, though.  I’ll try harder to be less of a moron.”  I held out my hand.

She took it.  “We make a great pair.  I’m overly prickly, taking offence about everything.  Most men think I’m a model, and the rest hit on me. You’re the only one so far who hasn’t.”

I could see even now that she was attracting attention.

“I’m hoping that’s a compliment.”

She smiled.  “It’s going to be fun.”

I thought it was going to be anything but fun.

…

Jennifer, I soon discovered was one of those people who was easy to get along with, and in another sense, it was easy to misinterpret the easy-going and almost flirty manner as something else  She was one of those touchy-feely types, and I was, to a certain extent, uncomfortable with.

I didn’t want to be misinterpreted but knew eventually I would because it was inevitable.  I was to a certain extent a standoffish and reserved sort, or so I had been told.  I tried to explain this and became tongue-tied, something that had never happened to me before.

She thought it amusing.

It was when I finally realised she was also very beautiful, and when we went out to dinner, she attracted a lot more attention, something she didn’t seem to notice or perhaps deliberately ignored.

It was just something else that concerned me, but it would not be for very long.  Where we were going, she would be completely wrapped up, and no one would be able to tell who or what she was.

The next day, we were heading for Cusco in the mountains where we would be staying with a friend I’d met on the internet and who had told me about the significance of the area.

He dropped us off at the start of the walking track that would take us 2km up into the mountains, to a place where there was a plateau about the size of 12 football pitches, reputed to be a UFO landing site.  We arranged to meet him back at the drop-off point in 4 days.

It took the better part of that first day to Trek up the side of the mountain and reach the edge of the plateau which when first sighted looked as though it could definitely be a landing site for large craft.

Winter was not far away, it was covered in patchy snow but soon it would be completely covered.  It would also be very cold, and I was thankful the real cold had not yet set in.

We set up our tents in a sheltered area at one end.  I had to admit I was surprised when Jennifer had shouldered her pack for the Trek and then made it to the top.  She had stamina and determination.

We cooked dinner and had hot drinks, then rugged up and went to bed.  It was dark early, and the wind had picked up.  The skies were cloudy, but a clear sky was expected the next day.

A rather strange noise woke me, and instead of pitch-black darkness, there was an odd eerie glow that was bright enough to be seen threw the tent material.

I put on the outer layer of clothing and put my head outside the tent flap.  Above us, quite some distance up in the sky was a bright light.  It was too big to be a star or a planet.

I would have said it was the landing lights of a passing plane, but it was too low, there was no sound, and it was not moving.

“You saw it too?” Jennifer put her head out and was looking upwards.

“I saw a light shining through the tent.”

“What do you think it is, without stating the obvious.”  She gave me one of her sceptical looks.

It suddenly moved sideways, slowly, then did a wide circle to come back to the original position.

It could have been anything.  I wanted it to be a UFO,

“Perhaps some local with a large drone with powerful LEDs making it appear that it’s a UFO.”

She smiled.  “I’ll make a sceptic out of you yet.  I mean, if this place had been cited as one where odd events occur, you have to ask why aliens come here all the time and not other places as well.”

The light suddenly went out, and we were shrouded in darkness.

“Well, that was exciting,” she said.

Fully awake now and needing to stretch, I got out of the tent and stood up.  Jennifer joined me.

“Coffee?”

The cold was seeping through the layers and a hot drink would help.  She nodded, looking up at the sky.  It was clear and now the focal point had gone, there were stars.

I lit the camp stove and put the kettle on.

Suddenly there was a humming sound and instinctively looking up I could see where stars had been a blackness.

Something was blotting out the stars.

Then a few seconds later bright lights came on, not the sort that were a single or several searchlights but hundreds in a very large circle, slowly descending a short distance from us.

At a guess, it was an aircraft about the size of a football field. Now visible side on, it was about eight or ten stories tall, with rows of pale light indicating the levels, and the shape more or less a dome.

I looked sideways at Jennifer, and she seemed awestruck.

“Unless the Peruvian government is secretly experimenting with a new form of aircraft, this has to be a UFO,” I said.

“It’s not possible.”

We watched it come down and then settle on the surface about three or four hundred yards from us.  The main lights went out and a new yellow set around the base replaced them giving the whole area an eerie glow.

“And yet something is over there,”

She came over and took my hand in hers.  “We can’t stay.  Who knows what is in that thing.  How do we know it’s friendly or dangerous.  Do you really want to find out?

It seemed we would not have a choice.  I felt a slight tingling sensation and then lost consciousness.   My last thought was, whoever or whatever it was, they didn’t want any witnesses.

…

When I woke I was standing, still holding Jennifer’s hand, but inside a large room with no furniture, windows or anything.  Just walls and doors.

Seconds later a man suddenly materialised in front of us, a man dressed in a sort of outfit ancient monks used to wear.  A man who looked very much like us, though with less refined features.

He looked like he was trying to speak, or marshall his thoughts.

Perhaps overawed or suffering from the effects of whatever they did to us, I went with “You’re obviously not from this place?”

His expression changed, perhaps one of recognition.  “No.  Perhaps not.  Why are you here?”

Odd question.  He or someone else on board had transported us here.  Or did he mean here as in the plateau?

“We were expecting you,” I said. We weren’t but I thought it was a good response.  I could see Jennifer was simply stunned.

“That is not possible.  We had troubles and set down to make fixes.”

“Why here?”

“One of many ports in what you call the universe.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Many times.  Sorry, the problem is fixed.  We must go.  Perhaps we will meet again.”

He slowly disappeared, we got tingly again, and then nothing.

It was light outside when I woke.  The sun was out, it was quite warm, and there was no sign of the patchy snow.  It was like prewinter had turned into summer.

Jennifer was beside me, slowly waking too.

“What happened?” She asked.  She’d also realised the change from the night before.

Coming up over the ledge was my friend and several others.   When he saw us, he came running.

“Peter, Peter, you’re alive.  We didn’t know what happened to you.”

He hugged me then Jennifer.

“What do you mean.  We were here the whole time.”

‘”No.  You disappeared.  When I came back four days later you were not there.  We came looking for you. Found your camp, and nothing else.  It’s been almost a year.  Where have you been?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

The email I received said:

“Go to Newark airport, go to the United booking desk and give them your name.  Take proof of identity.  Pack for five days, light.”

It was going to be, supposedly, a magical mystery tour.  I read in a travel magazine that a company offered five-day inclusive trips to anywhere.  You do not get the destination, just what to take.  Then, just be prepared for anything.

I paid the money and waited until last evening when the email came.

I was ready.

When I presented my credentials as requested, I found myself going to Venice, Italy, a place I had never been before.

When I looked it up, it said it took about 10 hours to get there with one stop in between.  Enough time to read up on the many places to go and see, though according to the instructions, everything had been arranged in advance.

I could also take the time to brush up on my schoolboy Italian.

When I got off the plane at Marco Polo airport, in Venice, it was mid-morning, but an hour or so was lost going through immigration and customs.  A water taxi was waiting to take me to a hotel where I would receive further instructions.  I was hoping it would be on or overlooking the Grand Canal.

At the airport, I wondered if there was going to be anyone else on this trip or whether I would be doing it alone.  I’d read that sometimes like-minded people were put together for a shared experience.

We had to agree and then fill out an extensive profile so they could appropriately match people.  Sometimes, people join at different times along the way. You just never knew what was going to happen.

That random unpredictability was just what I needed, having just gone through a breakup after a long period of peacefulness and stability, and frankly, I would not have chosen this type of tour if I had not.

It was a pleasant half hour or so winding our way through the canals, having paid the driver extra to take a long route.  I’d not been to Venice before, but I had read about it, and while some of the negative comments were true, it didn’t diminish the place in my eyes.

And the hotel, on its own island overlooking the main canal, was stylish and elegant, and my room was exactly where I’d hoped it would be.  I think I spent the next hour just looking out at the city and the boats going by, like a freeway, a never-ending stream of traffic.

A knock on the door interrupted what might have been described as a dream.

On the other side of the door was a smartly dressed youngish lady in a uniform of sorts, who looked like a summer day.

“Mr Benson, my name is Conchetta, and I will be your guide for tomorrow.  I am delivering a folder with the places we will be going for your perusal.”  It was the most exquisite, accented English I’d ever heard and just wanted to hear more.

She handed me the folder with a smile.  “Until tomorrow.”

And left me wondering what just happened.

…

The next morning I went downstairs to the restaurant where breakfast was served and found a wide variety of different items that could serve any number of different tastes.

Mine ran to cereal, followed by bacon and eggs on last to fruit and coffee.

I brought a newspaper down with me, mostly to practise my very bad Italian, and had set it to one side after finding a table.

A waiter came and filled my cup with coffee, black, no sugar, my preferred type for breakfast.  Then it was simply a matter of watching the other people come and go.

Ten or fifteen minutes passed with the usual arrivals, and being the peak time, there was a wait.  Except some people who thought they were more privileged than others and pushed forward.

I’d seen the particular gentleman the previous evening when he checked in and was making a point about having booked the best room in the house, a statement I last heard in an old Hollywood movie.  Mr J. Dexter Pierpoint.

Now it seemed he was too important to wait in line, virtually shoving a woman ahead of him out of the way.  The staff at the door were trying to deal with him, and the melee had attracted everyone’s attention.

Meanwhile, in what had to be karma, the lady was shown in without having her room checked, a privilege she thanked them for.

It took five minutes to get Mr J. Dexter Pierpoint under control, by which time my attention came back to the lady.  It might not have except she was standing next to my table, looking for somewhere to sit.

“If you can put up with a much less boisterous American, you may want to sit here.  I do not take up much room.”

She turned slightly to see who was addressing her and then smiled.

“I have nothing against Americans, well, perhaps just one.”  She inclined her head lightly to give me a second look over, perhaps trying to decide whether to accept the offer.  “Thank you.”

She sat.  Her breakfast was healthy.  Muesli, I think, and multigrain bread.  She had the appearance of someone who looked after themselves, a few years younger than me, but at a guess, recently retired, either a schoolteacher or librarian.

Of course, she could equally be a top MI6 agent because all I knew about her was that she had a British accent.

“I apologise for my fellow citizens’ brashness.  It seems an element of our people seem to think the world owes them a favour.  I do not.”

“You don’t need to.  It just seems like the world has gone crazy.  I hope it’s not in the water.”

She had a look on her face, one that made it impossible to tell if she was serious or not.

“Do you talk over breakfast, or should I sit in companionable silence?” Best to find out if she’s a talker or a quiet one so that I could not be construed as ruining it one way or the other.

“You mean you want to interrogate me?”

“I rather think it might be the other way around.”

“What would you do if I were not here?”

The waiter came with coffee, but she was a tea drinker.  There was no surprise there.

“Go back to studying the room and its inhabitants, hazarding guesses about who and what they are.”

“For what reason?”

“So that people think I have a purpose being here.”

“Do you?”

Another waiter delivered a pot of tea.  I could see the tag sticking out of the top.  English Breakfast.

“Not really.  It’s the first morning of a tour, Venice is the first stop.”

“But that is a reason is it not?  You’re on holiday, or as the Americans call it, vacation.”

“I have another name for it, but that’s a long story you don’t want to hear.  My name, by the way, is Jay, named after Jay Gatsby of the F Scott Fitzgerald novel.  My mother was an avid reader.”

It elicited a smile.  “I gather you get that comparison a lot.”

“Yes.  It’s better to get it out of the way and move on.”

“I am Millie, short for Millicent to which I refuse to answer if you use it.  There is no relation to any character in any book that I know of.  My mother didn’t read books, just magazines.”

She poured some tea out of the pot into her cup and stirred it for about a minute, then took a sip.  It looked quite dark, which meant strong.  I preferred tea weaker.

She looked around at the hustle and bustle, taking a moment to look at each person, and then came back to me.

“What category did you put me into?”

I looked at her, having switched from bemused to something else.  Was it a challenge, and if I didn’t get it right, she’d lob a breakfast roll in my direction.

“Is that the same category of question; do I have a death wish?”

There was, all of a sudden, a hint of laughter in those blue eyes.  I suspect once upon a time she was a very beautiful blonde.  Still was very attractive, though I told myself I was not here to pass judgment.

“Death wish it is.  Retired schoolteacher or librarian.  Or just for something different, a top spy for MI6.”  There, it was said.

She laughed outright.  “I’ll own up to the librarian.  As for the rest, possibly a dream I had once.  Now, about you?  Let me guess, a retired executive of a multinational company.”

I guess I had the look.  I was not in a suit this morning, I had dressed down to a tie, vest, and jacket.

“Close.  My family has owned a shipping company for a century or so, starting with one ship, and now, it’s so successful that they don’t need me.  Someone suggested I take a world tour.”

“By yourself?”

“My wife died about five years back, and I thought I found someone else, but it didn’t work out.  I think I still hadn’t got over Ellen.”

“It’s hard.  My William passed two years back.  I miss him but I have to move on, so I’m told.”

She looked up, and I could see a young girl, late teens perhaps, searching the room and then stopping at Millie.

“Oh, dear.  She found me.”

“Your granddaughter, I presume?”

“My son didn’t like the idea of me visiting Italy alone.  Had this strange idea I might be taken by a fancy young Italian boy.  She’s here as his spy.  Apparently, she speaks fluent Italian.”

“And perfectly capable of fending off the would-be Italian Romeo’s.”

“That too.” She stood.  “Thanks for offering me a seat.  We may or may not run into each other again, but it was interesting.”

Another smile, and she was gone.

The first day, and I’d already said more to a stranger than I had in years.  I hadn’t realised that my life had got so boring or that I had so irrevocably wrapped myself up in my job that I’d missed everything else going on around me.

Perhaps that was why my last relationship failed.

Perhaps that’s why my children had practically forced me into getting away from everything, what Harry, my eldest son had said, “Take the time to wake up and smell the roses.”

I saw Conchetta, the guide appear in the doorway, and realised it was my cue.  The first day, quite literally, of the rest of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Some coincidences could never be explained.

It wasn’t long after Janine had died that I was sent out of the room while the hospital staff did whatever they did after a patient died.  I was by the nursing station, and two were talking.

“You wouldn’t believe it.  just as one patient died, the other came out of her coma.  The exact second.  It had to be divine intervention or something.”

I didn’t ask, but I could guess.  I walked up the passage to Margaret’s room and looked in the door.  She was awake.  Well, her eyes were open, and she didn’t look like she was in a coma, but I wasn’t a doctor.

But I had to wonder if there was a connection between the two events.

Those last few days with Janine were impossible.  I don’t know if she realised the pain she caused me in making those baseless accusations or not, and I could only put it down to the medications the doctors had her on.

She was certainly not her usual self.

Something that did come out of it, not that she had intended it, or that I had consciously thought about it until now, was what would have happened to Margaret if she had not recovered.

I’d noticed that there was no next of kin on her paperwork, which meant that she might have died and just been cremated or just would have disappeared.

No one deserved that fate.

It was only a fleeting thought because the moment the hospital staff had completed their work, the administrator arrived and wanted to know what I was going to do.  Whilst sympathetic to my loss, they still had a hospital to run and a bed to free up for the next patient.

That meant for the next few days I was tied up with arranging funerals and organising the three children who had been on a rotating cycle of being with her at the hospital, and then altogether at the funeral, a feat only manageable at Christmas.

They stayed just long enough to see if there was anything to inherit and when they realised it was all passed to me, asked me if I would be OK, each said they were willing to stay if I needed them but were on the next plane out when I said I didn’t.

Perhaps I would see them again at Christmas.

I know the day after the last child left, I was sitting alone in the dining room with a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper wondering what I was going to do without her.

Someone had suggested I should pack up all her things and donate them to a charity.  The girls had taken what they thought she would want them to have, and suggested I hire someone to do it.  They couldn’t; the memory of her passing was too raw.  It was for me too, but then I had a whole house filled with reminders and memories.

That’s when I had to get out of there, if only for a few days, and it was where, as if driven by an unseen force, I ended up back at the hospital, and after an hour of wanting to but not wanting to I found myself knocking on Margaret’s door.

I didn’t know if she was well enough or had even recovered enough to have visitors.

She turned her head, saw me, and smiled.  “James, come in.  What a pleasant surprise.  Oh, and I’m sorry for your loss.  I was devastated when I heard that Janine had passed.  How are you?”

It was probably more than she should be saying.  She looked tired if not very sad.

“I don’t know how to feel or what I should do.  I couldn’t stay at home, and I know it sounds stupid, I didn’t have anywhere else to go?”

“That’s not stupid at all.  You’ve just suffered a terrible loss, and it can be very disorientating.  Come and sit.”

I went over to collect the chair and sat where she could see me without having to move too much.

“You don’t have to say anything.  Perhaps you simply take the time to reflect on what you had and what you still have.  That will never go away, not as long as she remains in your heart.”

Had I expected those words?  No.  Perhaps coming from someone else, they may have sounded hollow, but I got the impression she meant every word.  Perhaps having suffered a hugely calamitous point in her own life, she had gained an insight into how precious life was, and it was not meant to be frittered away or ended until it was the time.  She certainly sounded different to the last time we met.

“I was told that I woke up the exact moment Janine died.  I doubt there was a significance that it was just a coincidence.  I certainly never expected to come back, and no, what I did was not because of something I did or said.”

Those were the words that Janine had used, almost to the letter.  it had crossed my mind, but what I had said, someone needed to, and if it could not come from what was once a friend, then she was beyond help.  “Janine seemed to think that I was responsible.”

“Is that why you’re here?”  she asked when I didn’t say anything. There was no reproach in her tone, just curiosity.

“Not really.  I thought I would come and see how you were.  Perhaps it was the notion that I could lose two people I cared about was worrying me.  You know me well enough to know that I speak my mind when I’m with friends, and I always wanted to believe you were one.  I was hurt when you chose William, but it was not unexpected.  You were raised with certain expectations, and I could never fulfil those, for your parents, or you.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.  I know what I did, and I’m not proud of it, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you.  But I can’t blame my parents and their expectations, just my stupidity in not realising that I should have chosen love.  Because of that, I have the rest of my life to pay penance.  I do hope, though, despite everything, that we might still be friends.  God knows I don’t deserve it, but I promise I will never hurt you again.”

That thought, a leopard never changed its spots came into my mind, but then, most leopards don’t go through near-death experiences.  I shook my head, though I couldn’t say why.  “This is too soon,” I said.  “I feel sad, and I feel angry, and I feel cheated.  It’s not your fault.” I stood.  “Perhaps another time.”

Why was I there?  What on earth had made me think going to see Margaret for any reason was going to assuage the pain I was feeling?  And it was pain, far stronger than I imagined it would be.  An onlooker would say I was a mess, and they would be right.  Janine, if she knew what was happening, would be disappointed.  I knew she would want me to be strong for the children’s sake, and I had been.

But in those hours, days after they had returned home and I was alone, that was when it came home and hit me.  I was alone.  I had no one to talk to, no one to do the things we did together, no one to just be there.  it might be said that I took her for granted, but I think over time, you both do that to a certain degree.  You do stuff, you argue, there a good moments and bad moments, but that was what a relationship was, and you look forward to being together for the rest of your days.

When that is cut short, when one or the other dies, there’s an empty spot that can’t be filled.  And it was the reason why, at that moment in time, I couldn’t function.  It was why, a week later, after several phone calls from my eldest son, David, not being answered, the police came to see if everything was ok, and I was found unconscious on the floor.

I woke up in the hospital, and an odd sensation went through me moments before I opened my eyes, an image of someone waving to me as they disappeared into a bright light.  Had I just experienced my own near-death experience, had I just spent some time in heaven’s waiting room, where Janine had told me in no uncertain terms that I had to pull myself together?

I certainly felt like I used to after she told me off.

“Thank God.”

I turned to see David; concern written all over his face.

“I thought we all thought we’d lost you too.  why didn’t you simply ask one of us to stay with you?”

“You have your own lives to live.”

‘You are a part of those lives, and we want, no, need, you to be in them for as long as possible.  I should have realised.  Mum said you’d be lost without her, but we thought she was joking.  You’ve always been so solid in the face of every catastrophe.”

“Perhaps I’m the one who should be sorry to cause you trouble.”

“You are no trouble.  And I’m here for as long as it takes.”

…

Time heals all wounds.  Well, most of them anyway.

With life again in the house, people coming and going, the sounds of children running around and being nuisances as only children could, a new life was created, a new normal.  Janine was not gone. There were photos of her everywhere, things that were hers everywhere, and it was like she was still there.

A year passed, the anniversary of her death, and the whole that had been created by her departure was not as large as it had been, and the subject of whether or not I would ever find someone else, not to replace Janine, but to be a companion, a friend, someone who might make life a little less lonely was actually discussed at the table.

I thought it was too soon. They thought it was time I considered it.  After all, they knew that their mother would be happy for me if I found someone who could be, as David put it, a special friend.

I was sitting at what might have been called my favourite spot at the Golden Bell Cafe, overlooking the town’s botanical gardens.

It was a time of reflection, the gardens were the place where I’d proposed to Janine, and she had accepted, and it subsequently became a place we made time to be together.

When I’d finished the coffee and cake, I would take a walk there, the excuse being I had to walk off the calories.

It was also an excellent spot to see comings and goings, and being the small town it was, I knew most of those going by.  Usually, it was the same people, but this morning there was a new face.

And to be honest, I knew I was going to see her again, and the thought of it did not upset me.  It might have once, but I was in a better place now than I was.

This was not a coincidental meeting.  I had long suspected David had discovered that Margaret had been an old girlfriend and knowing him he would have checked her out and had thought if I saw someone familiar from the past, it might be beneficial

It had his sticky fingers all over the plot.  David always meant well, especially when trying to help his siblings, sometimes with hilarious results, and they were used to his interceding.

When our eyes met, she smiled.  She, too, had benefited from time passing and had almost become her old self again, at least physically.

When she reached the cafe, she joined me at the table.

“It is nice to see you again, Margaret.”

“And I you, but I have to be honest with you.”

“David came to see you and ask if you’d try and brighten up an old fossil like me?”

“He didn’t call you an old fossil, but I believe he believed he had the best of intentions, but not the history.”

“No.  But he means well.  And if you want me to be honest, I’m glad to see you.  Life is too short for both of us to hold onto the past.  Whatever happened then did for a reason, and probably with the intention that it might be possible to have a second chance later on.  Maybe this is our later on. I know Janine would be upset with me if she knew how sad I’ve been since she passed, and perhaps at some point, she might give me a sign.”

“I don’t deserve a second chance, James.  I should not have done what I did.  I loved you, you know that.”

“Then perhaps we will take it one step at a time.  Today. Coffee, cake, and a walk in the park.”

“One day at a time is fine,” she said, with what looked like teary eyes.

I had no idea what she was expecting, perhaps for me to be my usual bad-tempered self when I saw her, but it didn’t seem right, and enough time had passed before seeing any other women

At my age, it was going to be impossible, which is why Margaret was ideal.  I still had feelings for her, probably always did, and just suppressed them while I was with Janine, but now seeing her across the table, those feelings were being given a workout.

I put my hand on hers, and she looked up.  A tear escaped and ran down her cheek.  “Then you pick what you want us to do tomorrow.  Where are you staying?”

“The guest house.”

“Then tomorrow I’ll come and get you.  I have a big empty house and you can stay with me.  There’s a lovely room with your name on it.  Now that’s settled…”

I think I knew at that moment, when I’d looked into those teary eyes that whatever we had those many years before had not gone away but just lay dormant, waiting for the chance to re-emerge and take both of us by surprise.

Even so, there was a measured reluctance to go that next step, not until I got a sign from Janine that she was happy for me.

And when I got to a point where I thought it would never happen, it did.

We went to the cafe and the usual walk. We talked about the usual things and what we were going to do, but I sensed she was getting frustrated that I was still hesitant.

It had been over a year since Janine had passed, and everyone had thought enough time had passed that I had a perfect opportunity to be happy again.

We got home and she went upstairs to her room.  We were not sharing the room or the bed, not yet, and that might have added to the frustration because there was no reason not to.

I noticed a letter on the sideboard near the front door and picked it up.  It was addressed to me in Janine’s writing.

A letter from the grave.

I held it with a shaking hand.  All I could think of was that it would be advice, or just one last word, her penchant for always having the last word.

I opened the envelope and there were several sheets, handwritten.  It was dated after we had that argument when I dropped on to see Margaret when she was in a coma in the hospital.

It was a rather odd time to write a letter to be delivered a year after her death.

…

Dear James

This might feel a little creepy, and I’m guessing that thought has passed through your mind.

It is not.  It’s an apology because I admonished you for no reason other than my jealousy running wild, but perhaps underlying that, it was my insecurity.

I had in the beginning of our relationship wondered if it was going to last, that the moment Margaret came to her senses and saw what she had lost, she would come back and take you away from me.

It was silly, but I could not believe my fortune when she left.  Of course, you were very sad but I had no doubt that I could make you happy, happier than you would have been with her.

The truth is, we were meant to be together.  All I had to do was put away those fears that I might lose you one day and just get on with it.  I can’t say I’m not glad she didn’t come back.

Then, when she did, those fears rose again.  When you went to see her, I wanted to stop you, but doing so may have had the opposite effect.  I was glad to learn whatever you may have felt for her, that you were not sorry for her or her situation, nor did you want to pick up where you left off.

I guess it was the only part of you I never understood, and I never asked because it might stir up demons that didn’t need to be woken.

I went to see her after you did, and it was spooky to come face to face with your worst fears.  She had hardly aged, whereas the rest of us had been worn out by living a hard life.

Sorry, jealousy again.

I told her about us, the highs the lows, everything she would not have experienced, and as far as I could see, didn’t.  She was not a mother, she was not a housewife, and she didn’t work crazy jobs to bring in enough money to ensure we could give our children the best life they could have.

As you can imagine, she had no answers.

But as I understand it, she now had no life, and the people she thought she could rely on later in life had abandoned her.  Those sorry circumstances led her to where she is now, and for that, I am sorry for her.  No one should ever finish up alone and unloved.

So, having duly thought about it, I can see no reason why you should not consider letting her back into your life.  She could use a friend, and if nothing else, you would be a very good friend.  If it becomes something more, then so be it.  You have a lot of love in that heart of yours, James, and it won’t hurt to share some of it with her.

If I know you as I believe I do, you will have thought about it, and think it is too soon, or that it would sully your memory of me.  It won’t.  You will never forget me.  I know you that well, James.

All you have to do now is make the first move.

Jan

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

I remembered once hearing my mother say after my father had died suddenly, that she regretted not doing more travelling when he was alive.  I also remembered her often saying there never seemed to be enough time to get everything done, that there would be time enough later on to do all those things they never seemed to get around to doing.

It was a familiar lament made by many others during what seemed to be, rapidly passing years.  Until, inevitably, something completely unexpected happened, and equally inevitably, all those plans became moot.

For Janine and me that moment came when we were both sitting in the doctor’s surgery right after he told us the test results were not as good as he had hoped, and more tests were needed before he could positively tell us what was wrong.  Those words of my mother’s came back and hit me like a ton of bricks.

Janine had been tired much more than usual, and lately, everything had become much more difficult.  It was harder to get up in the morning, harder to contemplate cooking, let alone eating, and all those daily chores were more of a chore than before.  When I asked him to hazard a guess as to what the problem was, he refused to speculate but said it was possible he would know more after the next round of tests.

To be honest, I think he knew already.

I think Janine did, too, and was prepared to put a name to it simply because she was now living the same sort of life her mother had, as had her mother before her.  A rare and debilitating form of cancer.

Janine had known it was hereditary, but when it hadn’t affected her the same time as her mother and grandmother, she had believed it had slipped a generation.  Her mother had the first effects of it in her late 30s and died just before she turned 45.  Janine had reached 45 and wasn’t expecting it.  It could still be something else, the doctor said, but his expression that day was not one of hope.

After that first day, I wondered if our lives would end in a sea of regret, wishing that with the benefit of hindsight, we would have done things differently.  But there was a silver lining.  About a year before, we had talked about the possibility of her getting ill and had drawn up a bucket list and began to tick items off it.  Had Janine always known subconsciously that this might happen?

It was a question I was never going to ask her.

We had moved into the room we both knew was going to be Janine’s final home.  She was too weak and in too much pain to be far from the hospital, and this was, the doctor said, the final leg of the race.

I wanted to believe her when she told me she had made her peace with God and the rest of the world, and that she was not going to go out with any regrets.  We had not finished the bucket list, but we had given it a good shake.  I tried to be stoic in the face of her impending death, but sometimes, that was a little hard. 

We had been looking forward to growing old together, and it was one regret I found hard to reconcile.

Her favourite saying had become better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. 

And then, one morning, she had asked, “Why was Margaret, given who she was and how badly she treated people and the fact you were one of them, was your first love?”

Margaret had been the subject of many a conversation in those first few months we dated after Margaret had effectively dumped me.  It had made Janine angry, and for that reason, Margaret was persona non grata

It was something I’d not thought about in a long time. I guess it had been on her mind, especially when in the beginning she had said she always believed she had been my second choice.

“You were never a second choice or the rebound girl,” I said then as I did now. 

And while I wanted to believe that was true, to a certain extent it was a lie.  If the truth be told, she had been there and had always had a ‘thing’ for me, and my sister had always maintained Janine had hoped Margaret would revert to type, untrustworthy to the point of inevitably letting me down.  My sister had also always believed Janine and I would end up together.  In her eyes, we were much better suited, and as time passed had proved.

But Janine asked in the next breath, had I always held a torch for Margaret, with the hope that one day she would come to her senses?

“When you accepted my proposal, my heart was never anywhere but with you,” I said, wondering why she was bringing the matter up now.  “I never had any intention of taking her back, or talking to her, not after what she did.”

“You had not the tiniest regret that you wouldn’t get to be with your first love?  After all, that’s the one that makes the most impact on your life and how it plays out over time.  I always believed part of you was always with her.”

Why would she think such a thing when I had never given her the impression that I was anywhere but with her?

“I have no regrets marrying you.  None.  Margaret sowed the seeds of her destruction for better or worse, and I was not inclined to rescue her or help her in any way when everything fell apart.  Going to see her a few months back was not because I was still interested in her or thinking we might get back together.  Just seeing her and what she had become was reason enough to stay away.  No, believe me when I say she was a bullet dodged.”

I didn’t understand why Margaret was even a subject for discussion in her last few weeks when we should have been reminiscing on what we had.  It caused me some concern she should ever think that she was not the woman I had wanted to be with for the rest of my life.

And what had brought this on? I had not mentioned Margaret since that night I left her at the restaurant, and I had made a point of not talking to Margaret either over the phone or by email.  She had tried to contact me, and I had ignored her.  There was nothing she could say that would make me think that she and I should be together.  Ever.

So, I had to ask why she was so worried about my loyalty or that she could ever think that my heart belonged to anyone else but her.  I had, I said, never given her reason to ever think it was not.

“Because she is about six rooms up the passage from here on life support.  She tried to commit suicide and I suspected that might have been because of something you said or did.”

It bothered me that she could think that, but I guess it was not entirely unexpected given her state of mind.  Margaret had never been the subject of any conversation when she was well.

When we first started dating, I told her exactly where I stood regarding Margaret, and it had never wavered since.  It had helped that Margaret was wise enough to stay away.  I might have done something stupid had she shown her face, even after her relationship with William had fallen apart.

I was never going to be her second choice or backup plan.  But I could see, now, those thoughts had crossed Janine’s mind, how the fear of being a second choice could be considered.  The thing is I had no idea how to reassure her I was not interested in Margaret, in a coma or not.

A few days later, though, when I put my head in the door of the room where Margaret was sleeping, I realised it was a mistake.  I should have realised Janine would have spies everywhere.  She was not normally this paranoid, but in her heightened state, everything would have a meaning even if I couldn’t comprehend what it was.

When I walked into the room, she had that expression on her face that I equated to trouble.  Much like being on the Titanic just before it sank.

“You went to see her,” she said before I could even sit down.

“It would seem out of place if I was not curious as to her condition.  And given the fact she was in a coma and didn’t know I was there, and the fact it was only for a few minutes, is hardly worth mentioning for obvious reasons.  You should not have told me if you didn’t want me to go there.”

Her health deteriorated rapidly, the doctor saying that once the pain reached a certain level, she would become virtually comatose because of the pain medicine.  That morning I reassured her that Margaret meant nothing to me and despaired that our last conversation was not of happier times.  The doctor had said the medication would mess with her thoughts, so I should just nod and agree.

That afternoon she slipped into the final stage, and for all intents and purposes, looked like an angel sleeping.  Twenty-three hours later, the longest period of my life, she died peacefully.  She opened her eyes just before passing and smiled. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Here’s the thing.

What happened should not have happened, but it did.  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong people.

It earned me a beating simply because the arresting officer was a belligerent fool, and of course, I had to stir him up.  I wanted to see what I was up against, and what I learned, I rather wished I hadn’t.

And it meant, if I got to walk away from this, I had a lot of explaining to do, and not just to my captors.

I sighed.  It could be worse.

The bench in the cell was hard and uncomfortable, but it was meant to be like that for a reason.  The occupant was not meant to be comfortable.  It was cold, then hot, then cold again.  I’d expected a few buckets of ice-cold water thrown at me, but they were holding off on that treat.

Big ugly looking guards with guns came to the front of my cell and banged on the iron bars with those guns, making what they thought was a statement.  In the end, they were just big ugly men with guns banging on the iron bars to keep me awake.

Do that for a few hours.  Alternate light and dark.  Disorientate.

Deliver water, and make it look like you’re not the bad guys here.  Lace that water with something terrible, yes, been there, and had that treatment.  Stomach pains, dehydration, deprivation.

It was all part of the softening-up process.

Number six visitor was different from the rest.  He came and went, staying only for a minute, two at the most.  He was dressed impeccably and had a well-groomed manner about him.

The rest, the guards, perhaps the jail chief, all looked like they slept in their clothes, hadn’t had a shave or a wash forever, and looked perpetually angry.

He was the master interrogator.

He let the theatrics continue for another 14 hours, making sure I got little sleep and no relaxation.  He sent in a few soldiers to give me mini beatings, just in case I forgot I was the trespasser, not them.

Then he had me half dragged, half escorted to a lower room, one that had nothing in it but two chairs.  No tools of trade, just a bare room, with, I noticed, blood stairs around the drain, under the chair.  A predecessor may not have had a good time in this room.

The guards secured me to the chair and then waited outside, facing away from me.  They’d obviously been instructed not to engage in conversation or answer any questions.  When I thought about it, they probably didn’t speak English.

An hour later he sauntered in as though he had all the time in the world.  He did.  He stood outside the cell for a few minutes, looking at me, perhaps daring me to speak.  Later maybe.

Then he dismissed the guards.

Unsurprisingly, the door wasn’t locked.  I’d guessed as much, so perhaps it was a test to see if I could escape.  It was a bit difficult, even for me, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“So, Mr Tomlinson, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Good start, give me a chance to incriminate myself.

I thought briefly about the circumstances, about having an invitation to a party, using this as cover to case the residence, and, if it was possible, making my way upstairs to the owner’s study and looking for evidence of his participation in various illegal activities.

It was a long shot at best, my contribution to the briefing before I embarked on this folly, was that no so-called legitimate businessman would keep that particular type of evidence at home.

I was told I would be surprised just how many people in a similar position thought they were above the law.

Anyway, I was caught out before I started looking and only managed a cursory examination, which in my mind justified my belief there would be nothing there.

“Wrong place, wrong time.  I took the wrong door.  As corny as it sounds, I was looking for a restroom.”

“When everywhere from the ground floor up it was very clearly labelled no trespassing?”

“The need for a restroom sometimes outweighs the risk of breaking house rules.  There was an unusually high demand on the lower floor aside from the fact the main restroom was out of commission.”

“Come now, Mr Tomlinson, we both know that’s not quite true.”

“Then why, firstly, was the upstairs room not marked out of bounds, and secondly, why was the door unlocked.”

“It was not.”

“At the risk of starting a childish to and fro, it was unlocked.”  It hadn’t been locked, that was true because we did have a little inside help, but that was not for me to explain.

I could see a reddish tinge starting to build up at the top of his cheeks, a sure sign of impatience, and the fact he was not going to let me verbally spar with him for much longer.

“You were caught where you were not supposed to be.  What were you looking for?”  There was an edge to his tone, impatience showing through.  He was a man of quick temper, which may or may not be an advantage to exploit.

A little nudge perhaps, “This is going to become tiresome for one of us.  Do you have a name.  It seems only fair you tell me since you know mine.”

“My name is irrelevant.”

“And yet I will find out eventually.  You do realise I am, among many things, a journalist, and that I am here to cover that party, and the announcement both Lady Pelham and Mr Davies were going to make.”

“Then you should not have been poking around in places you have no right to be.”

“A judgement call made by a man who too readily jumped to the wrong conclusion.  My understanding was that the deal could not be sealed if the three organisations didn’t sign the letter of intent, which, I was informed, was going to be at the celebration, after, of course, the usual dull speeches.  I have a feeling at least one of the organisations didn’t sign.  Not yet anyway.  You might want to check that small detail before we continue.”

He shook his head.  “You think I’m a fool.”

“Not yet, but it may still come true if you make a hasty decision.”

I’ll be honest, round about then I was praying for a miracle because his patience was at an end.  I was stalling, but it couldn’t last much longer.

Just as he stood and was about to leave the room, we both heard the resounding thump on a door and accompanying shout, which if I was not mistaken was, “Open this door, you fool.”

No prizes either for guessing who it was.  Davies.

The door was opened and Davies and several other men, representatives of the government, including the Interior Minister, the man we all believed was also the head of their so-called secret service, and no doubt boss of my interrogator, all came in.

A look passed between the minister and the interrogator, which told me he had been on borrowed time to get to the truth.  It also told me the minister had known where I was all the time.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” The interrogator met the men before they could get much further into the room.  If he was hoping to stop them from seeing me, it failed.

Both Davies and the minister both saw me tied up, at the same time.  Davies was shocked to see me, the minister not so much, but trying hard to look surprised.

“What is he doing here?” Davies demanded.  Then he swung around to look at the minister, “Did you know he was here?  You told me you had no idea where he was.”

“I did not.  Fontaine?”  He then turned to his interrogator.  “Explain this situation.”

“We caught him in Mr Davies’s study, a room strictly out of bounds.”

Davies glare went from my interrogator to me.

“Looking for a restroom, the one downstairs was suffering a malfunction, I believe,” I said.

Davies took a moment, then said, “Yes, it was.  Someone had stuffed a lot of paper down the drain.  It’s a bit difficult to mistake a study for a restroom.”

“The door was open, just one of many I tried to see if it was a restroom.  It was in darkness so I’ had to step inside to find a light switch.  Apparently, this man,” I nodded to the interrogator, “thought I was up to something else.  I guess, when you’re a journalist, most other people consider us as bad as, if not, a spy.  I apologise for not making it to our interview, but as you can see, I was tied up.”  It was a joke in poor taste.  “Out of curiosity sir, am I to assume the agreement was signed, sealed and delivered.”

“It was not, and I believe we now know the reason why.”  He glared at the interrogator.  “Free this man right now, he’s coming with me.”

“And the charges of trespass,” the interrogator asked.

Davies glared at the minister.  “We can continue with this charade and lose several billion dollars of investment, or we can label this a very bad mistake, and end it now.  I’m sure Tomlinson here will be glad to forgive and forget this matter.”

For a minute it didn’t look to me like the Minister was going to give in, but then he simply sighed and relented.  “A mistake which will have consequences, Mr Tomlinson, I assure you.  Whatever we can do to make up for this, please let me know.”

With a wave of the hand, the misunderstanding was over.  I’m not sure what the Minister could give to make up for the 14 hours plus of bad treatment, but I was sure, judging by his expression, that he wanted nothing more than to have me executed by firing squad, but had to sacrifice that satisfaction by taking a large share of the billions on offer.

The thought that the country would benefit from this deal was an idealistic notion that some people thought possible, but everyone else knew it was just a payment to the current government to keep their allegiance and the supply of certain minerals that were otherwise quite scarce.

No doubt once I reached safety I would be advised not to write about my experience.  Nothing would come from embarrassing our new ‘friends’.

Davies took me back to the hotel, and directly to Alexandra Pental’s suite.  Davies apologised profusely for the overzealous guards at his house, and my incarceration which, to explain the cuts and bruises, equally overzealous prison guards who would be punished severely.

She smiled and nodded, said all the right words, and then dismissed him with the promise she would be attending the signing in one hour.  It was her preference for a more low-key event.  After that, we would be taking our leave, and requested the private jet at the airport be refuelled and cleared to leave the moment we were aboard.

It was clear in her manner that she was less than impressed and had given serious consideration to cancelling the deal.  I had no doubt the Embassy officials had several heart attacks for various reasons when the signing was postponed.

The door had barely closed when she glared at me across the room, then, after a minute, which was worse than the 14 hours in that cell waiting for the interrogation, she shook her head.  “Drysdale told me that he had demanded to know what they’d done with you, and all he could get was denials.”

“The minister knew all along, I don’t think Davies did.  He was too shocked when they burst into the cell block.”

“What the hell were you doing in a cell block?”

“Preparing for the interrogation.”

“Not like that we see on TV?”

“That would be far more acceptable than what I was probably going to get.  Except the interrogator was holding back.  Perhaps he knew U wasn’t going to talk, or he was hoping the minister would bail him out of trouble.  The minister, by the way, doesn’t want this deal.”

“Why?”

“I suspect he made a promise to the Chinese.  There’s an unofficial report there was a Chinese delegation here last week, wrapping up the details of another offer, one that gets the Minister a bigger share of the proceeds, and a lot more say over internal affairs.  Your deal just gives him money.  I believe he wants to run this country as a dictatorship.”

“But that is going to happen?”

“Not today at any rate.”

There was a knock on the door and the butler went to answer it.  She was in the presidential suite and had brought several of her personal staff. Including security.  The minister wanted to install two of his men, but they were pushed outside the front door.

A moment after the butler came in from the anteroom.  “It’s Sir Hugh Drysdale from the British Foreign Office, Miss Pental.”

Read one of the secret service representatives who had been at the briefing in London, and for the local briefing in this very room 72 hours before this fiasco unfolded.

“Show him in.”

He was alone, which surprised me.  He nodded towards her and gave me a curious look.  “Nearly a day in the infamous dungeons, Hugh, and they let you walk out.”

“They had a choice between the deal or nothing.  I was part of the deal, apparently.”

Alexandra shrugged.  “I’ll ask the difficult questions, then.  What went wrong?”

“They knew I was coming.  Someone told them, though I don’t think it was the person who unlocked the door.  If they knew, then they would not want the person who told them known which is why they didn’t press me for answers or go straight into a full-blown interrogation.  If they did, they must have thought I’d guess who it was.”

“Can you?”

“An educated guess, maybe, but it is a person who they can talk to at will, and here, so it’s someone in the Embassy.  Get a list of those who knew about what we were going to do and narrow it down.  As for the mission, I just got in the door when they pounced so my reason for being there was quite legitimate.  I was surprised, once you postponed the signing, they didn’t come sooner.”

“The Minister confessed he was shocked that you had disappeared from the Davies residence.  No one had seen you leave, and they traced your movements up to the passage where Davies study is, but there was no other coverage.  You simply stepped into a dead spot and disappeared.”

“Or the surveillance footage was wiped.”

“Anything is possible,” Drysdale said, “It was your opinion that we would not succeed.  Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?”

Did I blow my own mission?  No.  “I have a source here, one close to Davies, who knows quite a bit of what’s going on with him and his involvement with the government, and with the government itself, and sometimes shares information that can be traced back, so there are caveats.  Davies has three houses, one here, one in a resort by the Black Sea, and a Dascha not far from Moscow.  No one but Davies goes to the Dascha.”

“You could have shared that precious piece of information earlier.”

I could, perhaps, if I had it earlier but it was not forthcoming until I received a coded message under my door the day we arrived.  To anyone else, it was suggested tourist destinations.  But more importantly, it said that Davies was aware I was a journalist looking for a story, and they would be watching me.  The problem was I had to let myself be caught or there would be a witch hunt for my source if I didn’t.”

“I suppose it’s not possible to get a name.”

“This place is worse the East Germany and the Stasi.  Some secrets will go with me to the grave.  That is one of them.”

“You know where exactly this Dascha is then?”

“That’s for your people to find out.  My guess is that what you seek will be there.”  I glanced at Alexandra who looked impatient.  “Once I get that interview, we’re gone.  I don’t like this place.”

“Some of us don’t get a choice.”  Drysdale was trying to sound philosophical and failing.  “Pity this country is landlocked.  I used to like the idea of British gunboat diplomacy.  Things have changed and not for the better.”

“It’s a brave new world,” Alexandra said.  “A year ago, I would not be allowed in the country if I wanted to do business.”

Drysdale handed me a folder which he had taken out of his satchel  “The interview questions, pre-vetted by the Minister.  No deviations.  I know what you’d like to ask, but those are questions we don’t need answers to.  Now right now.  Let’s get this done and call it a win.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

I was trying to look like I was not doing what I was doing, and that sometimes was quite difficult.

The thing is, you know what it is you’re doing, and neutrally, you think that everyone else does too.

Especially when people are looking at you, and that look conveys ‘I know what you’re up to’.

All I was doing was sitting on a park bench under a tree next to a small waterfall reading a newspaper.

That was the first giveaway.  No one stopped to read newspapers these days.  It was always about instant news gratification on the cell phone.

The second might well have been me holding the newspaper upside down, or worse, that I had cut two small holes in it so I could see beyond the newspaper without lowering it, much like the cartoons of old.

The third definitely was, that if anyone got close enough, they would see it was yesterday’s paper.  I had been running late and grabbed the wrong edition.

So, why was I sitting on a park bench under a tree beside a small waterfall, trying to look like I was not doing exactly that?

I was expecting company.

It didn’t matter who was sitting on that bench, just that they wore a pinstripe suit and a red rose in the lapel.  The bowler hat and umbrella were optional, but I was feeling whimsical.

After all, in a sense, I was a typical English public servant.

Jacobson, ostensibly the man in charge of a group if us aspiring ‘public servants’ had chosen me to run this errand.  I don’t know why. It was not my turn on the roster, and the person who should be going had been sent elsewhere.

It was unexpected and a much-needed change in what had been a very dull week.

I was five minutes early.  I had taken in the early summer afternoon sunshine, clear sky, and aromas of the outdoor gardens.  There was that freshly watered newly mown grass aroma that hung in the air.

There were quite a few other people also out for the afternoon, some strolling hand in hand, others as families with boisterous noisy children.  There was plenty of distraction and camouflage.

I folded the newspaper neatly, put it on the seat beside me, and sat back, looking towards the lake and thinking I might take a walk down and back before returning to the office.

It’s best not to look like I was scuttling back to the office after making the pickup because that was what it was.  A drop-off and pick-up in plain sight, my first and hopefully not my last.

I looked at my phone, ostensibly to check for incoming messages, but in reality, looking at the time.

One minute past the appointed arrival time.

I gave the scene before me a scan trying to look like I was not scanning the scene before me.  That was difficult.

There were three possible threats that fitted the profile of a possible threat, and I was hoping they were not.

The first, is a man on another park bench under a tree, not beside a small waterfall, reading a newspaper.  It was too far away to tell if it was an older edition.  He was glancing in my direction, able to see me without lowering his paper.

The second was a woman with a pram; standing in front, stopped and ostensibly attending to the child within, if there was a child within.  She had only arrived a minute before the appointed time.

The third was another man on another park bench not reading a paper by rather animatedly talking on his cell phone, at the same time looking in my direction.  Was he on the phone reporting, or was he talking to a friend?

Scan ended, and the target, a woman dressed to be noticed, was strolling towards me along the path in a group of about a dozen others evenly spaced, looking like there’ll were together but they were not together.

So much for anonymity.

The first man noticed the new arrival and was on alert. It could be that she stood out, the sort of woman men would give a second look.  She certainly had my attention.

This was getting to be thirsty work, and I took a drink out of the bottle of water I had brought with me.

The woman with the pram had noticed the first man on his bench stiffen and stopped fussing with the child, and started rocking horse the pram, looking at both him then me, then up and down the path, then repeat.  Was that a look of jealousy after she was the approaching woman?

Was she waiting and looking for my target, or was she waiting for a friend or partner?  She was moving towards me slowly.

The third man’s phone call ended when a woman came and sat next to him and greeted him effusively.  Distraction.

The woman with the pram was suddenly met by another woman, older, most likely a mother carrying a large fluffy toy.  Another Distraction.

First man, no longer on his seat, no longer in sight, where the hell was he?  Damn.

Target arrives, and sits, there’s not supposed to be any interaction, but the first man just hovers into sight and is now looking directly at us.

“Long time no see,” the girl said and slid over towards me, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me.  It was a fluid movement from sitting, sliding, and gathering me up in her web of deceit.

I kissed her back. I was happy to play the part asked of me.

Then she leaned back and smiled.  It was like we had known each other forever.  “My God, you have changed, Daniel, and I have to say I love it.”

She had all but taken my breath away, but not so much that the man who had been watching had moved on, assuming as anyone would that two old friends had just reunited.

All I could say was, “Wow.”

She took my hand in hers and said, “Walk with me.”

She didn’t need to ask twice.  Once up, she didn’t let go.  It was a smooth and fluid operation, and it felt natural and not forced.  I had to remind myself that j was playing a role, it was an operation, and that we were improvising.

Over my shoulder, I could see the first man had stopped a short distance away, now intrigued, perhaps to see how this played out.  If he was expecting a drop, he was not expecting two old lovers to reunite.

I leaned towards her, whispering, “Over my shoulder red handkerchief.”

“Saw him on approach.  Amateur.”  Then out loud, ” You got that dull as ditchwater desk job, where was it, treasury or no let me guess, revenue and customs?”

“That was the old me, you know, the one you said you wouldn’t be caught dead with.  No, I’m in a far more interesting home, science innovation, and technology.”

“You failed science at school, come to think of it you all but failed everything except how to wear that old-school tie.  My, and you thought you’d end up on a fishing trawler cleaning the bilges.”

“And therefore totally qualified to work for the government in something I know absolutely nothing about.  Did you get that modelling contact?”

“And a screen test.  I was going to be in the movies until I realised what the screen test entailed.  Now I just model clothes.”

The banter, the manner in which we were walking, the carefree air of two people who had nothing better to do, we were heading for the nearest cafe.  Coffee, cake, more outlandish conversation, the drop would be made, my life would have fifteen minutes of what I’d always wanted but would never get, and the job would be done.

Our new friend was already losing interest.

When I finally returned to the office, I tried to act like nothing happened and completely failed.  The thing is, I was supposed to be able to handle any situation, act in any role it took to get the job done, then go home and come back the next day ready for the next role.

What happened before happened and was forgotten.  Our lives were quite literally clean slates every morning.  There was no time to dwell on what happened or what might happen.

Except…

“You’re not the first,” Lenny, another of the team, said.  “The fact is, we all want to spend a few minutes with her.  I’m told her name is Harriet. They call her Harry for short.

Jay, listening to the conversation, said, “Larry’s furious because he had been slated for this operation, and has now missed out.  “He’s been assigned to work with her before.”

That might be the reason why he was passed over.  She might not want to work with him again.  I remembered him from training, and he particularly was prone not to follow orders or ‘ad lib’.

“Perhaps she wanted someone new, who knows how this works.  No one understands what it is we’re really doing that involved her,” Larry muttered, “but the scuttlebutt is that we’re still being tested.  How did it go?”

“Mission accomplished, potential threats taken care of, and I’ve been debriefed.  I’m sure if there was anything wrong, they’ll tell me.”

Sixteen of us had gotten through the first round of training, out of an intake of about a hundred.  That had been whittled down to six, and I was not sure if I was pleased or sad that my tenure would be determined by a situation, I had no control over.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that whatever they’d been giving us to do, we were still being tested; only these were far more life-like than training.  The question was if I ended up being in the final few, whether or not I would take it.

At the end of the day, I went home.

We had been told from the outset that this was not going to be a nine-to-five job, that we could go anywhere, at any time of the day or night, to do almost anything.  We had to be able to drop everything and simply go.  As per instructions, I had an away bag packed at ready to go.

And more important was that we should have no attachments, and one of the questions, and the main reason why the people recruited us, was because we had no families or friends of consequence.  The reason it was stressed; they could be used as leverage.

On the other hand, if we had those special people we cared about, our minds would not be on the job in hand.

I certainly fit the loner category.  My parents were dead, and I had no brothers or sisters or family of any sort, making me the ideal candidate.  I certainly didn’t want friends; they had constantly let me down in the past.

Of course, if this didn’t work out. I was going to leave the country and become a ski instructor in New Zealand, a place I doubted anyone I knew knew existed.

But until then, my small place in Brooklyn was where I could hide from the rest of the world.

Or so I thought.

I walked up the stairs to the third level, where I shared the floor with another apartment.  I ran into the other occupant the day I moved in, and he had referred to as the penthouse if only to feel better about the small space.

It was enough for me, as a temporary space to call home if and when I would be in London.  I wasn’t planning on being there long or often.

A glance at the other door, the occupant was away.  I unlocked my door and went in.  It was unusually dark, and I did not remember pulling the curtains, I usually left them open to get some natural light in the main room

I stopped inside the door and leaned against it.  There was a very familiar aroma in the room, a particular brand of perfume I had recently become acquainted with.

“Checking to see if I can notice a break and enter,” I said, at that moment to no one in particular.

If I was right, it was the woman I had met in the park who shared a fifteen-minute adventure.

The chair beside my desk swung around, and she was sitting cross-legged on it.  She fit into it like it had been made for her.  It also demonstrated a certain flexibility.

“What gave me away?”

“Perfume?”

“I will have to deal with that, something less potent.”

“Unless you want to intoxicate your target.”

“Does that mean I have you under my spell?”

She uncurled herself from the chair and sashayed over to me.  I could not take my eyes off her, as I suspect was the point.

“If I deemed you a threat, we would be in a very different position right now.”

She smiled.

“Your training officer said you were more dangerous than a cage of riled rattlesnakes.”

“My compatriots would give their right arms to go on a mission with you.”

“And you?”

“I need my right arm, so no.”

“That’s a pity.  You’ve reached the end of your training, and you’re ready.  Would you like to stay? It’s not mandatory.  Long hours, bad pay, and definitely no thanks.  I don’t know why anyone would want to.”

“Today, you almost gave me a heart attack.  It’s the most alive I’ve ever been.  How could I refuse?”

“You will be working with me then.  Undercover.  It’s going to be long and arduous, and the people who were cosying up to are very, very dangerous.  I’ve got your legend, and you’ll have a day to study it, remember every detail, and then live it.  In or out?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.  We leave tomorrow night.  There is no time to think about it.”

I shrugged.  “I’m in.”

“Good.  Everything you’ll need is in your bedroom.  Until tomorrow then.”

She took a step closer and was so close I could feel the temperature rise.  It was like that moment on the park bench.  I leaned forward slightly and kissed her on the lips briefly, eyes closed for just a second before opening them to look at her.

Whimsical.  My heart did double somersaults, and I don’t think it was meant to.

“Perhaps not then.  I think in a very small space of time, I’ve developed feelings for you.”

“I feel it too.  That’s why I want you for the job.  We’re going undercover as husband and wife, and it has to look real.  I knew from that moment on the park bench you were the one.  And you are going to have to compartmentalise those feelings.  Think you can?”

“Of course.  It’s the nature of the job.  I’ll be ready.”

“Excellent.  Change of plans.  I want to know everything about you so I’m staying.  And I’ll tell you everything about me.  Let’s see where this goes.”

I would tell you how that went, but that’s another story!

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

This wasn’t the 1920s or 1930s in Egypt where the Howard Carters of this world were making famous discoveries.  It might have felt like that as we sat in the hotel room and she introduced me to the real world of archaeology, that one where time and effort often brought discouraging results and lack of progress, and then how she came to conclude that this unknown pirate that everyone and no one knew about, actually existed.

She was the only one to believe she actually existed and proceeded to explain why she thought differently to all the rest.  The pirate, of course, was female, by the name of Charlotte de Barry.  Born in 1624, she was of an age just as the golden age of pirates began.   Reputed to have taken up with a pirate, she followed him back to his ship, disguised as a man, and learned the trade until her aspirations of captaining her own ship were realised.  Pity then it was via a later Captain who had kidnapped and forced her to marry him, that harbouring a deep down hate for what he had done to her, she bided her time, and working with the crew finally killed him and took over his ship.

Was it a female crew?  It was a question I wasn’t going to ask, but I suspect it was not.  All the references were circumstantial, but there was a journal, not belonging to the captain, but the mate, chronicling their adventures, but the captain referred to in that journal was Captain Rodolph.  Certainly, the story matched that of Charlotte. 

Then there was an account of her in ‘A History of Pirates’, and again, it could be construed it was Charlotte.  I wanted to believe it was true for her sake.  The journal had one particular entry, rather long that detailed the burial of treasure to be collected later, in Jamaica, not far from Port Antonio in a place named, now, Frenchman’s Cove.

The thing is, as a work of fiction, it was entirely believable.  I could write it, and it would be, as she said, a best seller because everyone wants to believe there’s treasure out there, somewhere.

When I asked her about the journal, she said it was a handwritten translation from a number of writing books that dated back to the late 1800s.  She had considered the entries might be the work of a fertile imagination, but there were too many entries that had a ring of authenticity to them, that the writer had to be aboard a pirate ship. 

Others had dismissed them as just that, fictional entries, but she had cross-referenced the dates with other known documents.  A lot depended on their authenticity, and it begged the question of why someone else hadn’t taken the information.  The person she’d bought them off had found them in an old chest up in the attic of her grandparent’s house in England, thought them to be just a work of fiction and put them out for sale in a garage sale.  A lucky find, perhaps.

That didn’t mean I didn’t believe she made a tangible discovery. All it needed was some artifacts, and it would take on a whole new life, and that was where time and money played a huge factor.  Like Howard Carter, those two items were running out.

This, by her own admission, was going to be her final attempt, and I was hoping it would be successful.

After making arrangements to be away for a few weeks and channelling the funds into an account accessible to both of us, we hopped on a plane and headed for Kingston, Jamaica, on the first leg of the trip.

We were planning to head off to the site near Port Antonio, a small Cove where they had to stop and make repairs after a battle at sea with a British frigate, and where the decision was made to offload the treasure into five chests and bury it.

The precise location was not exactly described in the journal, but there were references to landmarks that bore similarities.  It was enough to go ahead and get the government documents required to explore.  She had deliberately made it obscure by outlining a thousand more acres than was necessary.

Imagine then our surprise to find the Jamiesons, father and son, at the check-in counter having arrived the same time as us. It was the best hotel in Kingston, so perhaps not so much a surprise.

Jackson noticed us first.  “Elizabeth, fancy meeting you here.  Or not.  This is your stomping ground.  Found any pirate treasure yet.  What’s it been, seven years?  Did you break a mirror?”

I could see the expression on her face and the anger about to boil over.  I stepped between them.

“I think that was a bit uncalled for, Jackson.”

“Why am I not surprised to see her with a trashy novelist.  Couldn’t be an archaeologist, so you just invent stuff.  I’m not surprised her university funds were cancelled.  It’s going to real archaeology.”

It wasn’t hard to read between the lines.  “Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you been reading the papers?  We’ve found the location of the treasure.  It took a week.  Not seven years.  I guess you’re as big a failure as your boyfriend here.”

She was going to remonstrate, but it wasn’t the place or the time.  We needed facts if he had stolen her dig.  I turned to her and said, “There’s no point discussing this while you’re angry, and we don’t know what’s happened, or if it’s the same dig.  We’ll check in and then find out what’s going on.”  I certainly didn’t want to argue with him here, now.

I could see the anger blazing in her eyes, and if I let her, I was sure that the police would end up being called.  Instead, I hustled her away to a safe distance.  Right then, I didn’t think her opinion of me went anywhere but down.

I saw Jackson say something to the father, and he looked over at us with an odd expression.  Whether or not he had heard his son belittling us, he definitely looked uncomfortable, which to me was odd.

“Why did you do that.  You know what this is about.  He is not content to create his own miracle find.  Now he’s trying to steal mine.”

“You don’t know that for sure.  He might have found something else entirely.  This place has more than one dig right now, and Pirates are in the news.  Let’s check-in, go to the room, and then I’ll make a call.  When my first book was published, I got a call from an editor of the paper here.  I’ll call him and see what he has to say.  Jackson said that it was in the news.”

I could see she was still angry but saving her from making a scene in the hotel lobby was better than the alternative and might play into their hands.  I had to sigh in relief when she did as I asked.

“Do you have someone local you can call and see what’s happening at your site?  I assume you shut it down before coming back?”

“Yes.  I left Jimmie there.  He lives nearby.  Oddly, he hadn’t called to tell me anything.”

“Then perhaps it’s not your site Jackson was referring to.  They could be somewhere else.”

I was hoping it was.

A half-hour later, a local newspaper in hand, and seeing a small story about the famous Egypt archaeologist who was in Kingston to make an announcement about his next exciting project, I arrived back in my room. I could see she was trying to phone her local assistant, just as I tracked down the editor.

He was delighted to hear I was in Kingston and asked if it was for a book signing.

“No.  I’m not sure why my agent doesn’t schedule signings all over the world, it would certainly make a difference to the dark attic I seem to be continually stuck in, writing.”

“Really?”  He seemed to believe me.

“No, not really, but some days I feel like it.  Actually, I’m here because a friend of mine has been working on a dig of her own, investigating one of the few female pirates one Charlotte de Berry, and the myth of buried treasure.”

“A story no doubt you will be writing about.”

“Something like that.  There is another archaeologist in town, we just ran into the Jamiesons downstairs, and I read in the paper there’s going to be a big announcement.  Do you know what it is?”

“As it happens it’s about the same pirate.  But no one believes it’s possible.  One of our experts and believe me she knows everything about Pirates and Jamaica, says that whatever he turns up, it will have nothing to do with Charlotte de Barry, or anyone else.  Any treasure buried or otherwise will not be found. “

“You say that with a lot of scepticism”.

“I read your story on the Jamieson Egypt dig and it dripped with scepticism.  My impression is that you have proof, you just never played that card.  They tried to stop the publication of your first book. Not the wisest of moves because it turned it into a best seller.  It might have just disappeared into the ether had he not.”

A blunt but true assessment.  I had thought it would not get any interest and end up on the remainder tables.  Then came the lawsuit, and the reluctant publisher that had delayed the release, suddenly published and glad they did.

So was I with the three-book deal that followed.

“They simply saw that there was no merit to their case.  But still, it could as you say disappear into the ether.  When is the press conference?”

“Three days.  They’re going to the site, do a preliminary investigation, and then tell the world.  I fear this may be a gigantic hoax and it’s not what we want or need.”

“Then I shall put on my investigative journalist hat and see what it’s about.  And you can have the story whichever way it turns out.”

“Thank you.  We shall speak again.”

I disconnected the call and looked over at Elizabeth.  She did not look happy.  “What did you find out?”

“Jimmie has gone missing.  I spoke to Fred, another chap I was working with, and he said that a large team of people arrived a week ago and set up about a mile away from my site, closer to the Cove.  He says that the man in charge is Jackson Jamieson.  I sent him a photo and he ID’ed him.  I think Jimmie has sold me out.  I told him I would be back with his money but apparently, he called the Jamiesons and said if the price was right, he’d tell them everything.”

“Including the place where you think the treasure is?”

“No.  Only I know where that is.  But if he rips up the site, then might just bulldoze over the top of it.”

“Can they do that?”

“How much money can they throw at it?”

A lot.

“Then we need to get there and see what’s happening for ourselves.  They’ll probably go by helicopter.  We’re going to have to drive there.”

“If we go tonight?”

“We could do that.”

“I’m sorry but this is just too much.  I should have guessed something like this would happen.  It’s all become a very cut-throat business, and I’m just not up for that end of it.”

“Well let’s wait and see.  It all might be a storm in a teacup.”

An hour later, while Elizabeth was showering and changing her clothes, I said I was going down to tell the front desk we would be away for a few days.  In reality, I told her a small lie.

There was one stop along the way.  The presidential suite, where I knew the intrepid father and son archaeologists were staying.  I didn’t have to ask the front desk.

Standing outside, I rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a man came to the door, what looked to me like a butler. 

I’ve come to see Aristotle Jamieson. I don’t have an appointment but tell him it’s Leo Brightman, and it’s in his best interests to see me.”

“Very good.  Please wait.” Then he shut the door again, leaving me out in the passage.

Five minutes passed before he returned.  “Mr Jamieson will see you now.  Follow me.”

It was like some of the very large apartments I had seen in New York when I was contemplating living there. A large living area, a passage to two bedrooms, and a study or meeting room that would double as a dining room.

He was sitting at one end of the table in the meeting room, documents, folders, a computer, and a phone set out neatly in front of him.  The son was not in the room, thankfully.  The butler closed the door behind me, and we were alone.

“If you’ve come to plead her case to withdraw, it won’t work.  Her claim expired two weeks ago, and she should have renewed it.”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here, but not the only.  To be clear, I was, and still am in fact, an investigative journalist.  You will know this because a lot of my first book was based on my investigation into your Egyptian find.  You tried to stop publication and force a few changes, but ultimately, I have you to thank for making me far wealthier than I would have been digging around looking for stuff that’s increasingly rare to find.  So thank you.”

“And yet, I sense a but.”

“The but is a man named Antoine Gascon.”

I could see the flicker of recognition and the attempt to hide that tell.

“He died five years ago.  A grubby little man who forged Egyptian trinkets to sell on the black market for extortionate sums to gullible fools.”

“He was murdered, you know.  I investigated his death because I didn’t believe he had died accidentally.  Turns out the toxicology report the police received wasn’t the real report.”

“Not my concern.”

“Not right now, but it will be.  Six years ago, a week before his untimely death, he and I sat down and had an extensive interview.  He showed me his workshop and the trial-and-error artifacts he created for you.  Just so you know, there are numerous copies of this interview in the hands of various people who will make that information public under certain circumstances.”

“No one would believe it, because, as I said, he has been proved to be a liar and a cheat.”

“That may be, but when he told you he destroyed all the prototypes and moulds, and I know you or your son, he didn’t specifically say, was there when he did, the fact is he kept two, both of which you generously donated to the museum.  When he made those, he made two identical artifacts, which experts will discover when they do a thorough examination.  The location of them is in the recorded interview.  Now you can keep up the charade, or we can do a deal. I’m not interested in making a mockery out of archaeology, but I do want something that will be very easy for you to grant.  If that happens, then you won’t be reading about a certain scurrilous archaeologist.”

I could see he was wrestling with the idea of just bluffing me and sticking to his original story so that no one would believe Antoine.  Had he not shown me the two artifacts, I would have done the same in his place.  I would have liked to be able to read his mind.

After a small sign, whether of defeat, or pragmatism, he said, “And what guarantee do I get in return.”

“If you leave Elizabeth and her dig alone, the interview never sees the light of day.  I don’t care what you do, just don’t destroy her one chance.  You can join her, but it is her dig and her glory.  You have yours and you can keep it.  As I said, it’s in the best interests of everyone that the status quo remains.  It’s up to you.  We’re leaving for her dig site in a few hours.  If she chooses to go where you set up your circus, they should be informed that it is her project and that they are working for her.  Your collaboration will be appreciated.  Your son, just keep him under control, he wasn’t particularly nice earlier.”  I stood.

“Is that all?  I assume you will not be destroying those tapes?”

“No.  Just in case you change your mind in the future, or, if anything happens to you, your son decides to go off the reservation.  What I’m asking for is no skin off your nose.  We don’t have to be friends, but it would help if you simply played nice.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I shrugged.  “Don’t think too long.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

I was happy where I ended up, far, far away from the madding crowd, a misquote from the title of one of my favourite books.

One of six siblings, I had three brothers and two sisters, and being the youngest of the six, I was the one the other five gave the hardest time

It might have been because my parents spoiled me rotten, being the surprise, they never expected.  That and much later, when our parents died travelling in a far away and relatively dangerous place, on their way home from visiting me.

That was the day I basically never saw or spoke to them.  In a sense, it was easy.  They were in England, too wrapped up in a squabble over the spoils of an undocumented inheritance, and I was happy being the forgotten son in Africa.

I had never wanted anything to do with family life in England, not living in the large house, the servants, the other properties in Europe, managing the farms, and later as grew older, watching the responsibility of it all slowly crush my father, trying to keep it all afloat while the other five siblings tried to squander the fortune in ways that beggared belief.

He knew what was happening, it was one of the reasons why he came to visit me. I wondered why he had come alone, but it turned out that the day they were both coming, she had got very ill.

It was then he told me that when they returned, the debt collectors would move in, and everything was lost.  He knew it wouldn’t bother me, I had never had any interest in the family fortune or now lack thereof as it turned out.

He had wanted me to return home and sort out the mess, but I declined.  Instead, we spent a few days together reliving old and better times l, then took him back to Nairobi and spent a day with my mother.  It was clear he hadn’t told her.  It would be a shock when they returned, but they would survive.

Except they didn’t return, at least not alive, killed in a freak accident on the way to the airport.  When I sent word home of their deaths, there was not one response from any of the children.

In the end, I made arrangements with the estate manager at their home to send them home to be buried in the family plot.  In a last-minute change of heart, I accompanied them back to England, and then to the Manor House which, when greeted by the Estate Manager, told me that the house had been repossessed by the bank and that everyone had been evicted.

In a final act of kindness, we were allowed to bury them in the family cemetery, in a service run by a priest I’d never seen before, attended by people I could not remember as family friends.  Perhaps the only relevant attendee was a man I recognised, my father’s legal friend, Dobbins.

He only asked one question: Did I have a copy of the last will and testament.  Apparently, my father had come out to discuss it.  I told him he did not, and I did not have anything.  We just talked about the old days, and he left.  He just shook his head and left.

Not one of my brothers or sisters turned up to the service.  Why would they? There was nothing in it for them.  That would come with the reading of the will…oops, there was no will.

You never get what you wish for, and apparently, Lamu Island, about ten hours’ drive from Nairobi in Kenya, was not far enough away.

It was no coincidence that I ended up in Kenya, the brother of my great, great, great grandfather had served in the British army and then retired, and instead of going home, bought a small plot of land on Lamu Island and built a place to spend the rest of his days.

Successive generations made improvements until the line died out, the place came up for sale, and knowing its heritage and connection to the family, I bought it.

It was why, on a bright autumn morning, I was sitting on the front porch staring out across the landscape, paying attention on a car heading along the road that rarely had vehicular traffic.

It could only be heading for one of three places, two further up the road, if it could be called that, to my neighbours, or to my place.  Neither of my neighbours was currently at home, and I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it was either trouble or an unexpected visitor.

I took a few minutes to prepare for any eventuality and then went back to my seat.  The car slowed as it approached my driveway, then stopped.  I could see there was only one person in the car, but it was hard to tell who it might be.

My cell phone rang.

Was it the person in the car?  If so, how did they get my cell number?

There was a phone number but not a name.  It was an English-based cell number, but no name, therefore not someone I knew.

I shrugged and pressed the green button.

“Jeremy?”

It sounded like my sister, Felicity, one year older and the one whom I had the most angst with.  I hadn’t missed her after leaving and deliberately avoided contact since.  I’d be very annoyed if my father had told the others where I was.

I could pretend to be someone else, but it would seem churlish.  I had no doubt it was her.

“Turn around and go home.”

“Can’t.  I flew in with a friend and they won’t be back for two days.  I figure you would at the very least put me up for that time.  We have things to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss.  You and the rest of the vultures might, but it has nothing to do with me.  I told Dad I wanted nothing to do with him, his assets, not that he has any, or you lot.”

“That might be what you think is the situation, but exactly the opposite is true.  He didn’t die intestate, nor did he die penniless like he told everyone, and despite your protestations, he left you the lot.  And I’m here to help head off the angry mob.”

As much as I wanted to believe it, this seemed a con to get in the door.  I’d hear her out and then get Adolf, a friend who lived nearby to take her back to the airport.

“Whatever.  You’ve got an hour to prove your case, and then you’re gone.  I know for a fact he had nothing. He proved it when he was here, so whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

“I don’t have any choice.” 

The line went dead, so I guess I would have to wait and see what the three of them had concocted.

I watched the car, and after the phone call, it surprised me that she did not drive in but sat outside and made another call.

I suspect she was calling the siblings to tell them she had found me and was about to plead their case.

It was stupid to think or believe that our father had left anything behind other than massive debts.  There was no way that our mother had left anything because her fortune or lack thereof was tied up in our father’s financial mess.

He had told me quite plainly there was nothing left and that the receivers were moving in the moment he arrived home.

And if her information came from our father’s lawyer, then he had not mentioned anything when I spoke to him.  He has asked if I had a copy of the will, and that I didn’t mean the last will stood which apportioned the estate to the other siblings, excluding me, because he and I had a falling out at the time.

Nothing she said made sense.

Ten minutes passed before the car continued from the front gate to the house.  I remained on the deck, and watched her park the car next to mine, get out, smooth out the wrinkles, and walk up the stairs.

That last meeting, however long ago it was, and it still rankled, and I was angry.  There were not going to be hugs nor apologies for distancing myself from all of them.  I had nothing in common with any of them, and I’d made my views quite plain the last time I saw them all together and didn’t pull any punches.

It was odd that she was here now.

“Don’t get settled,”  I noted she had left her bag in the car.  “State your case.”

I didn’t move, and there was no way she was setting foot inside.

She held out a piece of paper, neatly folded.

“A copy of the will.”

I glared at her and then at it.  “Where did you get it?”

“It was under one of the drawers in his study.”

“Who found it?”

“Jacob.  You know what he’s like?”

“I do.  His most notable trait, forging his father’s signature so he could escape school.  If that’s your evidence, then it’s not.”

I took it, unfolded it, and glanced at the contents.  It was worded like a six-year-old would, and had about ten lines that simply left all his worldly possessions to me.  The writing was scrawled, as were the witnesses’ names I didn’t recognise.

“It’s a forgery.  And he had no worldly possessions.  Who are these witnesses?”

“Dobkins partners.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that when I saw him at the funeral?  Moreover, why did he ask me if I had a copy of the will?”

OK, I could see what might be happening here. The angry mob were throwing a fake, hoping I would proffer the one they believed her left with me that was to their benefit.

This was Andrew’s doing.  He was the most devious of the lot.

I had my cell phone, and I’d put Dobkin’s phone number on it when my father visited.  He had said I would have to talk to him when things got bad.  When they had, I’d expected a call.  He did not.

Was he in league with the siblings thinking there were a few pounds to be made?

I called the number, and he answered.

“It’s Jeremy.  I’ve got Felicity here with some cock and bull story about me being the only beneficiary of a non-existent fortune my father didn’t leave behind, in a will that was obviously forged by Jacob.  I’ll be happy to prove it.”

His response was predictable. “You have a new will then?”

They were all in it together.

“We had this conversation.  There is no other will, and this one I’d rubbish, and you know it.  He died intestate.  If there’s spoilt to be had, the vultures split it between them.  If not, don’t bother me again.”

I hung up.

I glared at her. “Whatever this is, whatever you lot have conspired between you, forget about including me in it. There’s nothing to be bad.  I don’t have a copy of my father’s will.  That’s not why he came here.  While he was here, he told me between Mother and you lot, you have bled the estate dry, and there was nothing left.  Since I was the only one who wasn’t a bloodsucking leech, he thought I might have some idea of how to save the family home.  Short of a miracle, I did not.”

“Then how do you account for this?”

She pulled another neatly folded piece of paper and held it out.

“What is it?”

“A list of assets.”

I took it more out of curiosity than anything else and looked at it.  It had the title ‘Investments’ and was a list of stocks and bonds with the purchase date, and another date, about a month before he came to see me.  Under the latter date was a value.

It was written in the same spidery handwriting that was almost the same in the will but with key differences.  This was his writing. The will wasn’t.

It was the same documents he had shown me when he visited, and he had said when he cadged it all in to pay the debts, it had fallen short by nearly three million pounds.

He’d also shown me the bank documents, including the one that advised that he had a specified period to find that remaining sum or risk foreclosure.

They were still in the satchel the police had delivered along with what belongings he and our mother had at the time of their deaths.  It was all upstairs in the attic, none of which I could find the desire to look at or send home.

I could see now why the vultures thought there were spoils to be had.  That asset list was worth nearly twenty million pounds.

“I bet you and your fellow vultures eyes lit up when you saw this?”

“Only the fact he left it to you, not us.  We all need that money, and as you say, you don’t.”

I shrugged.  “You have spoken to his investment bankers before you came, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head.  None of them had any common sense, not where money was concerned, and not while there was an endless well to draw from.  They wouldn’t because none of them considered investing or even saving for a rainy day.

“You’ve come a long way for nothing.  You can stay until your ride returns.  I gave her the two sheets of paper back.  “The will is fake.  The list of investments, he cashed in trying to save the family home.  He fell short by three million.  Is any one of you still living in the house, or did the bank take it?”

She didn’t have to answer.

“Andrew and Jacob set you up, Felicity.  If they came, I’d shoot them without hesitation.  You, I would think twice.  And I think you know that Will was a fake, and that because the bank took the house, there was nothing left.  If you don’t, then perhaps I should shoot you.”

She was sullen over dinner after I showed her around the house.  It wasn’t much, but I never had the same expensive tastes as the others.

They had all worn the mantle of the Lord’s in waiting, pushing that life of privilege to the limit.  It was never a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. They were the Joneses.

Until the well went dry, and it was interesting reading their comeuppance one by one as they found themselves explaining what happened.  Or not being able to, because none of them understood the nature of their problems.  They had spent all their time relying on our father to do it for them.

I knew that Felicity was smarter than the rest of them, she had been the only one who was academically gifted and had aspirations of being, of all things, a jet fighter pilot in the RAF.  Neatly succeeded if there hadn’t been an accident that, in the end, saw her discharged from the service.

From there, she became an airline pilot, an envious job, and how she managed to get to my place. 

It didn’t make sense to me why she would buy into Andrew and Jacob’s scheme, and I tried to draw it out of her.  Perhaps giving her the facts had made her realise what a waste of time the exercise was.

Whatever the reason, she went to bed a very sad woman.

Assuming that she was not going to believe what I had told her, I made that trip to the attic and found my father’s satchel.  I took it down to my study and laid the papers out on the desk.

Then I went to bed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

It was a bad day when Mac appeared.

Mac was the supervisor of everyone on the floor, and he only came down for one of two reasons, to tell us that we had not met the performance statistics for the month, or he was here to retire someone.

It was an in-joke that when they spoke about retiring an employee, what it really meant was they were being fired.

We knew the performance statistics for our section were spot on, so someone was getting fired. 

All eyes followed him from the moment he stepped out of the elevator, and then as he walked slowly across the floor, sometimes stopping just to see the expression on that person’s face before moving on.

Today, he stopped twice until he reached my station.  Then he stopped and looked at me

My first thought.  I’d done nothing wrong.  I’d been there the longest and knew how to do the work blindfolded, so why?

“Clear your station, collect your stuff, and follow me.”

Had he not said ‘collect your stuff’, I would not be worried.  Now I was, trying to think of what it was that had caused my demise.  The only thing I could think of was the anonymous suggestion I’d dropped in the box, one that would improve production and make life easier for us.

It only took a few minutes to stow the materials and take the machine out of service for the night.  Another team would come later to check or repair it for the next day, if required.  Machine downtime was practically non-existent.

Five minutes after he arrived, we were crossing the floor back to the elevator lobby.  From there, we would ascent three floors to the administration level where HR was and where the paperwork would be waiting.

It was pointless asking him why.  He would only say they never confided in him; he was simply doing what he was told.  Nor would he say anything more. He was literally a man of few words.

The elevator doors closed, and the old car slowly crawled up the shaft.  It was the original elevator from the early 1900s and a relic from the past, much like everything in the factory.

The owner did not like change, nor did he like the new trend in furniture making, stuff that came out of cardboard boxes.  Stuff, he raged at one staff meeting that would fall over in a breeze.

They would never make that stuff, not even over his dead body.

Well, perhaps everything was relative.  The old man had died, and the son was looking to sell, never interested in furniture, making or selling it.  Nobody would be making or selling anything over his dead body.

The elevator made it, and the doors creaked open.

We marched up the corridor to the office at the end, the one that said ‘Production Manager’ and below that, practically faded away, George Bendon, the man who held that position 65 years ago.

He opened the door and motioned for me to pass.  He was obviously not waiting around to hear the news.  Would he miss me, I doubt it.

A man was looking out the window with his back to me, and the form looked familiar.  When the door closed, he turned around.

The boss’s son, William.  His second, perhaps third, visit to the factory.

We were friends once when his father all but adopted me when my parents died.  He grew up and shunned all ties with people not in his class, I grew up resenting everyone and everything to do with his world.

“James.”

“Mr. Reynolds.”

“You can call me William.  I’ve got over being a ponce.”  He smiled wanly.  “I’ve managed to burn more bridges than you’ve crossed, I dare say, James.”

He sat, I sat.  The office hadn’t been used in a while, and there was a thin film of dust on the desk.  It smelled musty from lack of use or more because the whole place had been around for about 120 years.  It had always belonged to a Renolds.

“Am I being discharged?”  Might as well get to the point.

“Is that what you think?”

“Why else would you send the hangman?”

“Is that what you lot call Mac.”  He looked thoughtful for a moment.  “Of course, you do.  I bet that was you’re doing.”

Guilty.

“I said to my father a long time ago that giving you a university education was a mistake.  He said, and I’ll remember this to my dying day James, said, “he’ll make far better use of it, even if he doesn’t, than you ever will and do.  The bastard was right, of course.  I spent my time chasing girls rather than learning anything useful.  I thought the old man would live forever.  Nearly did.

“So, when a suggestion turned up in the box, the first in 31 years, by the way, it was easy to guess who wrote it.  Perfect English and technically sound.  No one else in this place could, not even if I included what is laughingly known as management.”

I should have guessed.  People knew how to do their bit, but not much else.  They were never interested in teaching multi-tasking.  The old man believes that if a man stuck to the one task, he would be perfect every time.

It didn’t help when that one man went missing, or worse, died.

“You always were the one to make a long speech about nothing.  It’s why you were the perfect politician.”

He spent 15 years in parliament, but a change in government saw him tossed out in the last election. Now he was looking for something to do.

“Still got the flair for being direct, James.”

I shook my head.  He’d grown fat and lazy and never really had to work a day in his life.

“Life’s too short to spend it waffling William.”

“Direct.  OK.  My sister wants to keep this place afloat.  I want to sell it and head for the hills.  She’s more annoying than you are.” He took an envelope out of his coat pocket and put it on the table.  “A return first class to Singapore, and a week’s stay in a posh hotel.  There’s spending money, enough to buy some practical clothes.  I would like you to go to the Furniture Manufacturers Symposium or whatever it is and float your idea.  If they think it’ll work, we’ll give it a go.  Myself, I don’t think you’ll get anyone to agree, it’s all stuff in cardboard boxes these days, but there is a hotel chain that likes our stuff and a contract worth tens of millions.  If we can halve our costs.  Up for the challenge?”

“Not being discharged.”

“No.  But if this doesn’t work, it might be the end.”

“Challenge accepted.” At least no one could say I didn’t try.

It was not the first time I’d been out of the country, but it was the first time to be so far from home.

It was hot, really hot, and it was the humidity that hit the hardest.  It was fine inside the hotel, and it was a lot more upmarket than I was used to staying in.

That’s why I looked a little lost looking for the breakfast room.

“It’s like a miniature city in this place, isn’t it?”

I turned to see a woman perhaps my age, dressed for summer, with that summery air about her.

“You look lost,” she added.

“Breakfast room.  I mean, who has a room entirely devoted to one meal.  And how many different types of food could there be?”

She smiled.  “Far too many, I assure you.  Whatever happened to toast and marmalade, rice bubbles with milk and sugar, and a decent cup of Twining’s English breakfast tea?”

She just described my perfect breakfast, the one introduced to me by Williams’ father.

“Too many indeed.”

“Then follow me.  I went exploring last night when I arrived.  They wouldn’t let my elephant come too, so I had to walk.  Dammed inconvenient of them, but I guess I’m going to have to move with the times.”

I gave her the ocne up and down. Eccentric? Yes.  Quite mad?  Perhaps she may have been out in the sun too long.  She was definitely English, and I suspect good fun.  Far too jolly for me. And, although I had no idea why it crossed my mind, she was out of my league.

“I’m sure you have better things to do?”

She looked around.  “No.  I have to eat; you have to eat.” She shrugged.  “This way.”

I followed her into a large room that obviously doubled as a restaurant for the rest of the day.  There were three in the hotel.  Three.

We gave our room numbers to the man in an immaculate white suit at the door, and a waitress magically summoned us to a table, believing we were together. 

She did not abandon me, and for some odd reason, the idea of eating alone was not something I wanted to do.

“Let’s explore the food choices.  Be prepared to have your taste buds tested.”

It was a pleasant half hour, and despite the huge range of breakfast items that might be worth trying another day, we both ended up with rice bubbles with milk and sugar, toast and marmalade and Twining’s English Breakfast tea, no sugar or milk.

She told me her name was Josephine Benoit.  She didn’t say why she was in Singapore, so I thought she was just passing through on the way to another adventure.  With or without elephants.

I gave her my name and said I was an engineer without adding it was relayed to furniture manufacturers.  It sounded lame.  It was probably the first time I felt ashamed of what I did.

Other than that, It was an interesting conversation about everything and nothing, and when we parted outside the entrance, I thought it would be the last time I’d see her.

The convention centre was huge, and there were furniture manufacturers from all over the world, but the biggest exhibits were those who created the self-assembled furniture in a box.

What I disliked about it was the disposability factor.  It was not made to last, and the wood was not wood, just some manufactured board with a veneer coating. And if it was cracked or not assembled correctly, a simple glass of water could ruin it in a matter of days. 

Our furniture was made from real timber, not that there was a lot of it left in the world because a lot of the older trees had been cut down and nearly all the rest were protected in national parks.  It’s why sourcing raw materials was getting harder, why house frames were made out of metal, and why wood chips were in such large demand rather than the effort of cutting planks.

After the boxed furniture came the plastic innovators.  Plastic furniture had come a long way from those awful basic chairs in the beginning, the sort that almost gave Mr Reynolds a heart attack, not only because they were horrendous, it was the reality that people preferred cheap over quality.

I guess somewhere along the line, we failed to realise that while people were earning more, their disposable income was going into holidays and cars and the house itself with very little left for everything else.  It’s why boxed furniture was so well regarded.  It was cheap and expedient.

Reynolds was part of a world that no longer existed.  People liked the idea of beautiful furniture, the sort we made, they just couldn’t afford it.

And the thing was, those same people would spend the same, if not more, on leather-based suites, which was probably the only reason why we were still in business.  Our leather lounge range was the best in the world.  But economic times were hard, sales were down, and recovery of any sort was a long way off.

So, finding people in similar situations, but having their factories in lower-income countries making their furniture a lot less expensive, I spoke to those I thought might be interested.  The idea I had was to get the components made by these overseas factories, using real wood, and assembling the pieces ourselves back home.  It would take a considerable slice off the end price without compromising the quality.

The problem. The overseas manufacturers wanted to do it all, turning it into upmarket box furniture, or charging a fee for piecework and a premium for sourcing real timber.  On top of the shipping, we would be no better off.  And the quality, while reasonably good, was way below our standard.

What I saw on display looked good from a distance but close up, I could see it was built to a price.  Looking good and being good were two entirely different things.

“You look lost.”

A female voice, and when I turned, I saw it was Josephine.

I resisted the urge to ask, ‘What are you doing here’   and instead said, “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

“There’s only so much you can do with an elephant.  Thought I come and look at the latest and greatest furniture.  Someone said there was an exhibition, and I had nothing to do for a few hours.  This is hardly where I’d expect to see an engineer.  Shouldn’t you be building bridges or skyscrapers?”

“I did consider building a car that runs on water.”

“Well, aren’t you the dark horse in the race?  I’ll deduce from that you have an interest in furniture?”

“I help make it.  Good stuff, not this rubbish.”

“Those are fighting words, James.  People here would take issue with that description of their wares.”

“Are you one of them?”  I guessed I’d better see which side of the fence she sat on before I burned a bridge.

“Me?  No, I agree with you, but we have to move with the times.”

“Do we?”

She shrugged.  “Let’s go to the bar. You can ply me with Singapore Slings, and I’ll tell you about my adventures.  You look like you need a distraction.”

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©  Charles Heath  2024

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