Tag: #AtoZChallenge2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — U is for Unintended Consequences

…

My brother always lamented that we did not deserve what happened to our family as a result of a bad decision our great, great grandfather made.

To me, it was just another example of one businessman being smarter than another.  The fact he lost the family fortune was terrible, but he had no one else to blame but himself.  That old saying you have to speculate to accumulate may well have worked, if he had speculated correctly.  He didn’t.

I had no idea why so many of us failed to accept the reality with each new generation, carrying the loss like a badge of honour, and choosing to be bitter, especially towards the family of the so-called villain, Angus McTavish.  From everything I’d read about him, he was ruthless, friendless, the sort of man who would swindle his own mother.  Why would he draw the line at his business partner?

At any rate, it was one of the reasons why I left home and the country, to get away from all of it.

Five years of bliss passed, and it was only the death of my father that brought me back home.  He had carried the grudge from his father, like his father before him, and it had passed to the son, my older brother Ken.  I was sorry to see him go, but not surprised that bitterness had eaten away at his soul, killing him before his time.

It was going to do the same to Ken.  It had destroyed his marriage to what I thought was the most patient woman in the world.  It turned his children against him, tired of him going off looking for evidence of the swindle.  Our father had never found any, there was no reason why he should.

And it was a surprise that he came to the airport to pick me up.  I hadn’t sent a message, only that I was returning for the funeral, and after a 20-hour flight, Ken was the last person I wanted to see.

When I saw him in the area where relatives and others waited for the incoming passengers after going through immigration, I groaned.  He saw me, waved and then waited until I reached the terminal proper.

“You didn’t tell me when you were arriving, which is disappointing.  After five years, Ethan?”

“You know why.  I hope you’ve finally got past it.  With Dad gone, you no longer have to appease him anymore.”

“But that’s just it, he died before he got the good news.  I’ve got the evidence.”

He was almost like a dog with a new toy, and it was disappointing.  I should have realised he was never going to let it go.  “What good is it after all these years?  It isn’t going to get the money back.  What he did was ruin both our families, Ken.  They, at least, managed to get over it.”

“You’re wrong.  They didn’t.  He invested the wealth in bonds and locked them away in a secure location, and pretended he’s lost it all in the stock market crash.  He was a wily, cunning bastard, and those McTavish’s know exactly where it is, and have been living off it for years.”

Last I’d heard, most of the family were all struggling to live, much the same as everyone in the post-pandemic world.  In fact, I’d met up with Adrienne McTavish in Boston only a few weeks ago, quite by accident, and we had talked about the feud, the bitterness and hate on both sides and the utter waste of time and energy being expended.

She had also mentioned the rumour that Old Man McTavish had supposedly invested the funds in bonds, none of which had been found, and her investigation had shown, money came in, and money went out, and when traced to the bank, showed it had gone to an investment company, that subsequently filed bankruptcy soon after the wall street disaster.  The money had simply disappeared.  The idea it was bonds was someone’s fanciful extrapolation of the facts.

“Not the McTavish’s I know, Ken.”

“They’re cunning liars, Ethan.  As I said, I have the evidence, and I’ll show you when we get home.”

I made a mental note to move up my return flight to the day after the funeral.  If this was the state of affairs, I didn’t want to stay a minute longer than I had to.

I made a mistake in agreeing to stay with Ken.  His apartment was a disaster area, much worse than it had been before.

A quick look on the kitchen bench showed every one of his bills was overdue, and he was close to eviction.  The obsession had so overtaken him he had lost sight of reality.

“Sure you in financial trouble?”

He’d seen me looking at the unopened envelopes on the bench and was gathering them up.

“It’s temporary.  The company closed down, and couldn’t recover after the pandemic.  I’ve got an interview next week, but it might not come to that.”

I didn’t ask.  He always spoke in riddles.  “Do you need some money to ride you over?”  He might be a pain, but he was family.

“Might not need it.  I have a plan to make things right.”

He made coffee, I wandered down to the other room where the obsession had come to life.  The wall of shame as he called it had got much bigger, and the files were stacked on the desk, rather neatly instead of the normal mess.

He came in as I was looking at the montage of documents and Post-it notes that covered almost the entire wall, all closing in on one spot in the middle where a piece of paper had

Meeting, Empire State Building, August 7th, 1929

“That meeting was where McTavish executed the con that swindled our great grandfather with promises of untold riches.  It could have Bern true the way the stock market was at the time, but I suspect McTavish knew it couldn’t last, and had lined up a dozen prospective suckers.  Ore great grandfather was the first, trying to see if it worked on him, then use it as bait for the others.”

“There’s more people involved?”

That was news to me.  We had always thought McTavish had only taken advantage of his business partner.

“There’s depth to this man we haven’t even scratched the surface.  Dad got the idea when another name popped up on the documents that were signed.  Yes, we now have copies of the investment documents he signed, and several more people who were involved.  It led to discovering another 22 families who had been destroyed.  They like us thought it was just bad luck when the stock market crashed on the 28th of October 1929, but no.  He swindled them too.”

“But that doesn’t mean he put all of the money into bonds, or that those bonds didn’t lose all of their value in the crash unless they’re government bonds.”

Ken rifled through the files and found the one he was looking for.  It appeared empty but when he opened it there were two sheets of paper in it.

He handed them to me.  US Treasury bonds, one dated 1929 and the other 1960.  Neither had a name on them.

“What am I looking at other than a photocopy of two treasury bonds.”

“Proof McTavish invested all of the swindled money in bonds, then one of his relatives converted them into new bonds which means they all knew where the money went “

Two random copies of conveniently dated bonds were not proof in my mind’, nor a court of law either which would be the only place he could get any sort of redress.  If the statute of limitations didn’t make it impossible anyway.

“Hardly what I would call proof.  Where did they come from?”

“A spy in the McTavish’s camp.”  He said like it was the answer to all the world’s problems.  “That’s what I’ve been working on for years, and finally it’s paid off.”

“Who?”

“Need to know Ethan and you don’t.  I can’t trust you.”

No surprises there.  I could understand why he wouldn’t tell me, I’d never been sympathetic to the cause, but spies.  How far was he willing to go?

“All you do need to know is that tomorrow it’s all going to be sorted.”

“How?”

“Again, need to know.  You’ll just have to wait and see.”

To say that I was worried about his frame of mind was an understatement. 

After being borderline manic depressive, this sudden onset of euphoria was concerning.  I was hoping something hadn’t snapped.

At dinner with other members of the family, all equally invested on the search for retribution, the only subject up for discussion was my absence and everything that had happened while I was away.

Aside from people aging five years, life for them was the same.

Life for me was different, but no I had not found a wife, had children, had no one special, and had no ambitions other than to just live as comfortably as I could.  I didn’t tell them I was now a journalist in a rural city, that was facing redundancy as the internet was more popular than print.

That was something I would have to face when I returned.

It was an interesting, if uneventful evening.

The next morning, I woke up early and went to look at the wall.  I was looking for clues about what he was going to do today that was going to make a difference. 

There was, on a side wall the McTavish family tree from the old man down, and I traced Adrienne’s lineage back.

I looked at the dates filled in from birth to death.  The bloodline had been secured in 1928 when the last of his children were born, that being the direct descendent, her father.

Something I hadn’t realised was the date old man McTavish had died, and that was three days after the stock market crash, 31st October.  I thought it had been years after that.

Beside the dates was a newspaper article, about the death and apparently, he had been hit by a car after stumbling on the sidewalk and killed instantly.

My mind then jumped to a conclusion, had he told anyone about reinvesting the swindled funds before he was accidentally killed.  If he transferred the funds to bonds.  And if he did, who would he have told, if anyone.  In his place, given what had just happened at the time you’d be reluctant to tell anyone about what amounted to treasure.

No.  Now I was getting wrapped up in Ken’s conspiracy.  If there was a spy, perhaps they were simply feeding his fantasy.

Then my eye caught another item, tucked way down the bottom, at the end of a red piece of string coming from the meeting date of when Ken assumed the swindle took place.

A closer look at the card showed the words, “Do you wish you could go back and change the past?”  That was all it said, with a phone number.

I could feel rather than hear Ken come into the room.

I turned.  “This is some montage.  How long has it taken?”

“It’s not all mine.  Dad had most of this already, but he hadn’t connected all the dots.”

“And you have?”

“Enough to know precisely when the damage was done.”

I had only a few moments to decide whether to bring up what I’d read on the card.  If I was not mistaken, it was suggesting time travel was possible, and if my brother thought it was, then I had a lot more to worry about.

“I followed the red line, Ken.  That doesn’t mean what I think it does?”

“I don’t believe it either, Ethan, but a friend I’d mine said he tried it, and he was given the opportunity to change one mistake, and now his life is so much better.”

Of course, that could have happened for any number of reasons, most of all, the human mind can be tricked into believing something happened, even if it didn’t, or that it was simply the power of positive thought.

“Perhaps they simply suggested very powerfully that he change his ways.”

“Or something else.  I’m going there at 10:00.  I need a fellow sceptic, just so I know it’s not possible, because if it is …”

“You can change the course of history.  You know that.  If it was possible, which we both know it’s not, it’s possible you might erase us from existence.  One innocuous and seemingly innocent interaction could have catastrophic unintended consequences.”

“Which is moot since it is impossible.  Up for the challenge?”

If only to put the myth to bed and stop the people running this hoax from convincing him otherwise.

I nodded.

Ken had already made the call and had the address to go to.  It was, when we arrived, a rather dilapidated warehouse on an industrial estate that was no longer in use.

At least that was my first impression.  The building looked like it was about to fall down.  Outside, a dozen cars were parked sporadically in an overgrown car park, giving an impression they had been dumped there.

It was a very elaborate illusion.  When we got closer to the front entrance the doors looked rustic but solid and when we were close, slid silently open.

Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world.  A woman in a white lab coat appeared from the side.

“Mr O’Reilly?”

We both were, but it was Ken she was referring to.

“Guilty.”

“Everything is ready.  You have the documents we discussed to sign and then everything is ready to go.”

“You aren’t seriously suggesting that you can send people back in time,” I said.

“That’s precisely what we are doing.  You are?”

“The sceptical brother.”

“Well, sceptical brother, let me assure you this has been tested and used successfully.  However, we can only send one person back.  You will be required to wait in the anteroom for the duration.”

OK, she certainly sounded serious, and as though she believed that time travel was possible, so I had to wonder just what happened.  I had been hoping to see the process.

Perhaps I should just play along.  “You are aware of the consequences of meddling in the past.  One subtle change can have drastic consequences.”

“We are very careful in selecting candidates.  And yes, we are very mindful of consequences which is why we can abort the process at any point.  Now, if you don’t mind…”

Another woman in a lab coat came out to usher me to the anteroom room, much the same as a frequent flyer lounge with comfortable chairs, a buffet and both TV, playing Quantum Leap episodes, not without irony, and dated newspapers.

Ken was taken away and I only got a glimpse of the room he was taken, a curious deep blue light within.

“How long will this take,” I asked her.

“As long as it takes.  Make yourself comfortable.”

When I woke, I was on unfamiliar surroundings, and only vaguely aware of what had happened.

It involved Ken, that much was clear, but not why, where or when.

I remembered being in a departure lounge.

A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me. 

“Wake up sleepy head.  It’s time to go.”

It wasn’t Ken shaking me, but a woman.  I blinked a few times trying to bring objects into focus and then recognised the face.

Adrienne McTavish.

“Adrienne.  What are you doing here?”

She smiled.  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

I had no idea if I had forgotten anything, except why I was here and why she was with me.

“I have a bad habit of doing that, don’t I?”  It was one of my faults, absent-mindedness.  I remembered that much.

“You do.  We’re going to stay at your grandfather’s so you can convalesce.  The boys have been looking forward to exploring the mausoleum as you call it.  Come,” she held out her hand and I took it.

Standing nearby was a girl, almost as tall as her mother and the spitting image of her, just along from me with two boys, twins.  On her finger was a wedding ring which I assumed was the one I gave her.

What the hell had Ken done?

“Oh, and happy anniversary Ethan.  Thank you for this.”  She must have noticed my puzzled expression.  “Are you alright?  The doctors did say they didn’t expect any further loss of memory or hallucinations, but the great news is they got all of the tumours.  You’re going to be fine.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — U is for Unintended Consequences

…

My brother always lamented that we did not deserve what happened to our family as a result of a bad decision our great, great grandfather made.

To me, it was just another example of one businessman being smarter than another.  The fact he lost the family fortune was terrible, but he had no one else to blame but himself.  That old saying you have to speculate to accumulate may well have worked, if he had speculated correctly.  He didn’t.

I had no idea why so many of us failed to accept the reality with each new generation, carrying the loss like a badge of honour, and choosing to be bitter, especially towards the family of the so-called villain, Angus McTavish.  From everything I’d read about him, he was ruthless, friendless, the sort of man who would swindle his own mother.  Why would he draw the line at his business partner?

At any rate, it was one of the reasons why I left home and the country, to get away from all of it.

Five years of bliss passed, and it was only the death of my father that brought me back home.  He had carried the grudge from his father, like his father before him, and it had passed to the son, my older brother Ken.  I was sorry to see him go, but not surprised that bitterness had eaten away at his soul, killing him before his time.

It was going to do the same to Ken.  It had destroyed his marriage to what I thought was the most patient woman in the world.  It turned his children against him, tired of him going off looking for evidence of the swindle.  Our father had never found any, there was no reason why he should.

And it was a surprise that he came to the airport to pick me up.  I hadn’t sent a message, only that I was returning for the funeral, and after a 20-hour flight, Ken was the last person I wanted to see.

When I saw him in the area where relatives and others waited for the incoming passengers after going through immigration, I groaned.  He saw me, waved and then waited until I reached the terminal proper.

“You didn’t tell me when you were arriving, which is disappointing.  After five years, Ethan?”

“You know why.  I hope you’ve finally got past it.  With Dad gone, you no longer have to appease him anymore.”

“But that’s just it, he died before he got the good news.  I’ve got the evidence.”

He was almost like a dog with a new toy, and it was disappointing.  I should have realised he was never going to let it go.  “What good is it after all these years?  It isn’t going to get the money back.  What he did was ruin both our families, Ken.  They, at least, managed to get over it.”

“You’re wrong.  They didn’t.  He invested the wealth in bonds and locked them away in a secure location, and pretended he’s lost it all in the stock market crash.  He was a wily, cunning bastard, and those McTavish’s know exactly where it is, and have been living off it for years.”

Last I’d heard, most of the family were all struggling to live, much the same as everyone in the post-pandemic world.  In fact, I’d met up with Adrienne McTavish in Boston only a few weeks ago, quite by accident, and we had talked about the feud, the bitterness and hate on both sides and the utter waste of time and energy being expended.

She had also mentioned the rumour that Old Man McTavish had supposedly invested the funds in bonds, none of which had been found, and her investigation had shown, money came in, and money went out, and when traced to the bank, showed it had gone to an investment company, that subsequently filed bankruptcy soon after the wall street disaster.  The money had simply disappeared.  The idea it was bonds was someone’s fanciful extrapolation of the facts.

“Not the McTavish’s I know, Ken.”

“They’re cunning liars, Ethan.  As I said, I have the evidence, and I’ll show you when we get home.”

I made a mental note to move up my return flight to the day after the funeral.  If this was the state of affairs, I didn’t want to stay a minute longer than I had to.

I made a mistake in agreeing to stay with Ken.  His apartment was a disaster area, much worse than it had been before.

A quick look on the kitchen bench showed every one of his bills was overdue, and he was close to eviction.  The obsession had so overtaken him he had lost sight of reality.

“Sure you in financial trouble?”

He’d seen me looking at the unopened envelopes on the bench and was gathering them up.

“It’s temporary.  The company closed down, and couldn’t recover after the pandemic.  I’ve got an interview next week, but it might not come to that.”

I didn’t ask.  He always spoke in riddles.  “Do you need some money to ride you over?”  He might be a pain, but he was family.

“Might not need it.  I have a plan to make things right.”

He made coffee, I wandered down to the other room where the obsession had come to life.  The wall of shame as he called it had got much bigger, and the files were stacked on the desk, rather neatly instead of the normal mess.

He came in as I was looking at the montage of documents and Post-it notes that covered almost the entire wall, all closing in on one spot in the middle where a piece of paper had

Meeting, Empire State Building, August 7th, 1929

“That meeting was where McTavish executed the con that swindled our great grandfather with promises of untold riches.  It could have Bern true the way the stock market was at the time, but I suspect McTavish knew it couldn’t last, and had lined up a dozen prospective suckers.  Ore great grandfather was the first, trying to see if it worked on him, then use it as bait for the others.”

“There’s more people involved?”

That was news to me.  We had always thought McTavish had only taken advantage of his business partner.

“There’s depth to this man we haven’t even scratched the surface.  Dad got the idea when another name popped up on the documents that were signed.  Yes, we now have copies of the investment documents he signed, and several more people who were involved.  It led to discovering another 22 families who had been destroyed.  They like us thought it was just bad luck when the stock market crashed on the 28th of October 1929, but no.  He swindled them too.”

“But that doesn’t mean he put all of the money into bonds, or that those bonds didn’t lose all of their value in the crash unless they’re government bonds.”

Ken rifled through the files and found the one he was looking for.  It appeared empty but when he opened it there were two sheets of paper in it.

He handed them to me.  US Treasury bonds, one dated 1929 and the other 1960.  Neither had a name on them.

“What am I looking at other than a photocopy of two treasury bonds.”

“Proof McTavish invested all of the swindled money in bonds, then one of his relatives converted them into new bonds which means they all knew where the money went “

Two random copies of conveniently dated bonds were not proof in my mind’, nor a court of law either which would be the only place he could get any sort of redress.  If the statute of limitations didn’t make it impossible anyway.

“Hardly what I would call proof.  Where did they come from?”

“A spy in the McTavish’s camp.”  He said like it was the answer to all the world’s problems.  “That’s what I’ve been working on for years, and finally it’s paid off.”

“Who?”

“Need to know Ethan and you don’t.  I can’t trust you.”

No surprises there.  I could understand why he wouldn’t tell me, I’d never been sympathetic to the cause, but spies.  How far was he willing to go?

“All you do need to know is that tomorrow it’s all going to be sorted.”

“How?”

“Again, need to know.  You’ll just have to wait and see.”

To say that I was worried about his frame of mind was an understatement. 

After being borderline manic depressive, this sudden onset of euphoria was concerning.  I was hoping something hadn’t snapped.

At dinner with other members of the family, all equally invested on the search for retribution, the only subject up for discussion was my absence and everything that had happened while I was away.

Aside from people aging five years, life for them was the same.

Life for me was different, but no I had not found a wife, had children, had no one special, and had no ambitions other than to just live as comfortably as I could.  I didn’t tell them I was now a journalist in a rural city, that was facing redundancy as the internet was more popular than print.

That was something I would have to face when I returned.

It was an interesting, if uneventful evening.

The next morning, I woke up early and went to look at the wall.  I was looking for clues about what he was going to do today that was going to make a difference. 

There was, on a side wall the McTavish family tree from the old man down, and I traced Adrienne’s lineage back.

I looked at the dates filled in from birth to death.  The bloodline had been secured in 1928 when the last of his children were born, that being the direct descendent, her father.

Something I hadn’t realised was the date old man McTavish had died, and that was three days after the stock market crash, 31st October.  I thought it had been years after that.

Beside the dates was a newspaper article, about the death and apparently, he had been hit by a car after stumbling on the sidewalk and killed instantly.

My mind then jumped to a conclusion, had he told anyone about reinvesting the swindled funds before he was accidentally killed.  If he transferred the funds to bonds.  And if he did, who would he have told, if anyone.  In his place, given what had just happened at the time you’d be reluctant to tell anyone about what amounted to treasure.

No.  Now I was getting wrapped up in Ken’s conspiracy.  If there was a spy, perhaps they were simply feeding his fantasy.

Then my eye caught another item, tucked way down the bottom, at the end of a red piece of string coming from the meeting date of when Ken assumed the swindle took place.

A closer look at the card showed the words, “Do you wish you could go back and change the past?”  That was all it said, with a phone number.

I could feel rather than hear Ken come into the room.

I turned.  “This is some montage.  How long has it taken?”

“It’s not all mine.  Dad had most of this already, but he hadn’t connected all the dots.”

“And you have?”

“Enough to know precisely when the damage was done.”

I had only a few moments to decide whether to bring up what I’d read on the card.  If I was not mistaken, it was suggesting time travel was possible, and if my brother thought it was, then I had a lot more to worry about.

“I followed the red line, Ken.  That doesn’t mean what I think it does?”

“I don’t believe it either, Ethan, but a friend I’d mine said he tried it, and he was given the opportunity to change one mistake, and now his life is so much better.”

Of course, that could have happened for any number of reasons, most of all, the human mind can be tricked into believing something happened, even if it didn’t, or that it was simply the power of positive thought.

“Perhaps they simply suggested very powerfully that he change his ways.”

“Or something else.  I’m going there at 10:00.  I need a fellow sceptic, just so I know it’s not possible, because if it is …”

“You can change the course of history.  You know that.  If it was possible, which we both know it’s not, it’s possible you might erase us from existence.  One innocuous and seemingly innocent interaction could have catastrophic unintended consequences.”

“Which is moot since it is impossible.  Up for the challenge?”

If only to put the myth to bed and stop the people running this hoax from convincing him otherwise.

I nodded.

Ken had already made the call and had the address to go to.  It was, when we arrived, a rather dilapidated warehouse on an industrial estate that was no longer in use.

At least that was my first impression.  The building looked like it was about to fall down.  Outside, a dozen cars were parked sporadically in an overgrown car park, giving an impression they had been dumped there.

It was a very elaborate illusion.  When we got closer to the front entrance the doors looked rustic but solid and when we were close, slid silently open.

Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world.  A woman in a white lab coat appeared from the side.

“Mr O’Reilly?”

We both were, but it was Ken she was referring to.

“Guilty.”

“Everything is ready.  You have the documents we discussed to sign and then everything is ready to go.”

“You aren’t seriously suggesting that you can send people back in time,” I said.

“That’s precisely what we are doing.  You are?”

“The sceptical brother.”

“Well, sceptical brother, let me assure you this has been tested and used successfully.  However, we can only send one person back.  You will be required to wait in the anteroom for the duration.”

OK, she certainly sounded serious, and as though she believed that time travel was possible, so I had to wonder just what happened.  I had been hoping to see the process.

Perhaps I should just play along.  “You are aware of the consequences of meddling in the past.  One subtle change can have drastic consequences.”

“We are very careful in selecting candidates.  And yes, we are very mindful of consequences which is why we can abort the process at any point.  Now, if you don’t mind…”

Another woman in a lab coat came out to usher me to the anteroom room, much the same as a frequent flyer lounge with comfortable chairs, a buffet and both TV, playing Quantum Leap episodes, not without irony, and dated newspapers.

Ken was taken away and I only got a glimpse of the room he was taken, a curious deep blue light within.

“How long will this take,” I asked her.

“As long as it takes.  Make yourself comfortable.”

When I woke, I was on unfamiliar surroundings, and only vaguely aware of what had happened.

It involved Ken, that much was clear, but not why, where or when.

I remembered being in a departure lounge.

A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me. 

“Wake up sleepy head.  It’s time to go.”

It wasn’t Ken shaking me, but a woman.  I blinked a few times trying to bring objects into focus and then recognised the face.

Adrienne McTavish.

“Adrienne.  What are you doing here?”

She smiled.  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

I had no idea if I had forgotten anything, except why I was here and why she was with me.

“I have a bad habit of doing that, don’t I?”  It was one of my faults, absent-mindedness.  I remembered that much.

“You do.  We’re going to stay at your grandfather’s so you can convalesce.  The boys have been looking forward to exploring the mausoleum as you call it.  Come,” she held out her hand and I took it.

Standing nearby was a girl, almost as tall as her mother and the spitting image of her, just along from me with two boys, twins.  On her finger was a wedding ring which I assumed was the one I gave her.

What the hell had Ken done?

“Oh, and happy anniversary Ethan.  Thank you for this.”  She must have noticed my puzzled expression.  “Are you alright?  The doctors did say they didn’t expect any further loss of memory or hallucinations, but the great news is they got all of the tumours.  You’re going to be fine.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — T is for This is Getting Interesting

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 sometimes likeminded 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 joined 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 across open, choppy, stretches of water, then 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, by one of the concierge staff delivering an envelope with my name on it.

The note said,

“Take the hotel Vaporetto to St Mark’s Square and go to the first restaurant on the left as you walk away from the Doges Palace.  Your reservation is for table 38, at 20:30 hours..”

All meals were included, each dinner at a notable restaurant in the town or city you spent the night or nights.  I had already taken the time to wander around St Mark’s and look at the shops, mostly high-end, except for one, a confectionary store, next to a souvenir store.

That was a pleasant few hours working out what I would take home for various family members.

I also noted the many little alleyways that led away from the square, and if I had time the next morning I might explore.  A gondola ride was also on the bucket list.

When I arrived and announced myself, I was taken to table 38.  I was not the first, another traveller, a woman about my age, mid-thirties was sitting, with a drink in front of her.

She observed my arrival and approach, and it was a little strange.  It looked like this was going to be not a solo expedition.  “Ace Adventurer?” she asked.

“Not so sure about Ace, but adventurous, maybe.”

“I know how you feel.  I was not sure what to expect?”

“Beautiful scenery, great Italian food, hopefully, and good company to share it with.”

The waiter asked if I would like a drink, and I selected an Italian beer.  This was going to be a beer, and wine odyssey.  I was one of those when in Rome, types.

“You like to travel?”  There was a brief, awkward silence, so she opened the conversation with what was a safe question.

“Yes.  Though I didn’t get many opportunities before this, because of work, and my wife’s illness.  She passed recently, and I figured it was time to get out of the house and do something positive.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

To me, the moment I said it, I sounded like a lame duck, and had to wonder why I did.”

After fifteen minutes the waiter returned with menus.  It appears we were going to be the only two.  Interesting concept.

Selecting items off the menu, we learnt about each other, that we could both read, and speak, after a fashion, Italian.  Immediately it became a thing to only speak Italian from that point.

We liked the same food, and almost ordered the same items.  We liked the same wine, but she did not drink beer.

She liked photography, but more professionally than me, and her camera was worth more than my car.  Me, I was happy with my cell phone.  We drove the same type of car, liked to go to the same places, and she too had suffered a recent bereavement.

It was as if the tour company had found me a perfect match.

We were staying in different hotels and parted company at the restaurant.  I was not going to suggest we wander along the canal front, she seemed tired.  We were both staying, having not received the next instructions, so we left it with a perhaps we might see each other again in the morning.

If it was meant to be. 

It wasn’t one of those I could have danced all night moments, but it was different, and I was glad not to be wallowing like I would have if I had not made an effort to get away.  It certainly made the visit to Venice a highlight.

The next morning there was an envelope under the door, I was thinking it was a note from the hotel about checking out, but instead, it was a questionnaire, short and to the point.

“Would you prefer, a) continue alone,  b) continue with Ms Bainford, or c) someone else?”

I selected b) but added a provision, only if she wished to continue with me, and then took it back to reception.

After a leisurely breakfast, I caught the Vaporetto to the other side of the canal, near a church, and then wandered back towards St Marks, had pizza for lunch in a quaint little restaurant outside yet another church, before exploring one of the alleyways going off the square, reportedly leading to the train station.

It was not far from the station I came across Lesley sitting at a café having coffee and watching the world go past.  She smiled when she saw me.

“Lost?” she asked when I sat down.

‘No, well, at least I don’t think I am.  You see a railway station around here?”

She pointed further along the lane.  “That way.  I think.  I have been lost, but fortunately, I found a nice resident who knew the way.  Divine coffee, you should get a cup.”

I did.

We both watched the world go by in companionable silence, until she asked, “Do you know where you’re going next?”

“No.  I was surprised I was not moving on today.”

“Perhaps they thought we needed to soak in the aesthetic beauty Venice has to offer.  Pity it’s not when the Carnival of Venice is on, dressing up and wearing a mask.  It sounds like fun.”

“You could always come back.  When is it?”

“February.  I might just do that, it’s not as if I have anything or anyone that prevents me from doing anything.”

She stood and held out her hand.  “Shall we roam aimlessly and soak in the aesthetic beauty?  Let the alleys take us where they may.”

I took her hand in mine and stood.  “Why not?”

The afternoon was a blur, dinner sublime, parting sad.

We both know instinctively that this could and probably would end, and the spell was broken when we parted, again at the restaurant.  There were words to be said, but it was too soon, and enough ambiguity to part almost content, but with that little longing that it might continue.

I found an envelope on the desk in my room when I returned.

“Your next stop will be Florence, a city that is waiting for you to explore.  Take the Italo Treno from Venice station to Florence, the ticket, with a seat assignment, is enclosed.  You are booked at the Hotel Brunelleschi.  Enjoy!”

It made no mention of travelling companions or anything else, but then, it was just my travel arrangements.

I checked out the flowing morning and took a water taxi to the railway station.  I was glad I was travelling light, the station was crowded and it took a few minutes to find the train.

It was one of my hobbies, the methods of travel, whether it was trains, planes, trams, ships, ferries, or boats, all were fascinating in their own way.

This was a bullet train, similar to those in France, Japan, and China.

It was a relief to have a booked seat and business class.  I expected no less.

I found the carriage and then the compartment.  And then a surprise.

Lesley.

“Florence?” she asked.

“Florence.  Did you …”

“Tick a certain box.  I did.  Please, sit.  We have much to talk about.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — T is for This is Getting Interesting

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 sometimes likeminded 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 joined 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 across open, choppy, stretches of water, then 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, by one of the concierge staff delivering an envelope with my name on it.

The note said,

“Take the hotel Vaporetto to St Mark’s Square and go to the first restaurant on the left as you walk away from the Doges Palace.  Your reservation is for table 38, at 20:30 hours..”

All meals were included, each dinner at a notable restaurant in the town or city you spent the night or nights.  I had already taken the time to wander around St Mark’s and look at the shops, mostly high-end, except for one, a confectionary store, next to a souvenir store.

That was a pleasant few hours working out what I would take home for various family members.

I also noted the many little alleyways that led away from the square, and if I had time the next morning I might explore.  A gondola ride was also on the bucket list.

When I arrived and announced myself, I was taken to table 38.  I was not the first, another traveller, a woman about my age, mid-thirties was sitting, with a drink in front of her.

She observed my arrival and approach, and it was a little strange.  It looked like this was going to be not a solo expedition.  “Ace Adventurer?” she asked.

“Not so sure about Ace, but adventurous, maybe.”

“I know how you feel.  I was not sure what to expect?”

“Beautiful scenery, great Italian food, hopefully, and good company to share it with.”

The waiter asked if I would like a drink, and I selected an Italian beer.  This was going to be a beer, and wine odyssey.  I was one of those when in Rome, types.

“You like to travel?”  There was a brief, awkward silence, so she opened the conversation with what was a safe question.

“Yes.  Though I didn’t get many opportunities before this, because of work, and my wife’s illness.  She passed recently, and I figured it was time to get out of the house and do something positive.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

To me, the moment I said it, I sounded like a lame duck, and had to wonder why I did.”

After fifteen minutes the waiter returned with menus.  It appears we were going to be the only two.  Interesting concept.

Selecting items off the menu, we learnt about each other, that we could both read, and speak, after a fashion, Italian.  Immediately it became a thing to only speak Italian from that point.

We liked the same food, and almost ordered the same items.  We liked the same wine, but she did not drink beer.

She liked photography, but more professionally than me, and her camera was worth more than my car.  Me, I was happy with my cell phone.  We drove the same type of car, liked to go to the same places, and she too had suffered a recent bereavement.

It was as if the tour company had found me a perfect match.

We were staying in different hotels and parted company at the restaurant.  I was not going to suggest we wander along the canal front, she seemed tired.  We were both staying, having not received the next instructions, so we left it with a perhaps we might see each other again in the morning.

If it was meant to be. 

It wasn’t one of those I could have danced all night moments, but it was different, and I was glad not to be wallowing like I would have if I had not made an effort to get away.  It certainly made the visit to Venice a highlight.

The next morning there was an envelope under the door, I was thinking it was a note from the hotel about checking out, but instead, it was a questionnaire, short and to the point.

“Would you prefer, a) continue alone,  b) continue with Ms Bainford, or c) someone else?”

I selected b) but added a provision, only if she wished to continue with me, and then took it back to reception.

After a leisurely breakfast, I caught the Vaporetto to the other side of the canal, near a church, and then wandered back towards St Marks, had pizza for lunch in a quaint little restaurant outside yet another church, before exploring one of the alleyways going off the square, reportedly leading to the train station.

It was not far from the station I came across Lesley sitting at a café having coffee and watching the world go past.  She smiled when she saw me.

“Lost?” she asked when I sat down.

‘No, well, at least I don’t think I am.  You see a railway station around here?”

She pointed further along the lane.  “That way.  I think.  I have been lost, but fortunately, I found a nice resident who knew the way.  Divine coffee, you should get a cup.”

I did.

We both watched the world go by in companionable silence, until she asked, “Do you know where you’re going next?”

“No.  I was surprised I was not moving on today.”

“Perhaps they thought we needed to soak in the aesthetic beauty Venice has to offer.  Pity it’s not when the Carnival of Venice is on, dressing up and wearing a mask.  It sounds like fun.”

“You could always come back.  When is it?”

“February.  I might just do that, it’s not as if I have anything or anyone that prevents me from doing anything.”

She stood and held out her hand.  “Shall we roam aimlessly and soak in the aesthetic beauty?  Let the alleys take us where they may.”

I took her hand in mine and stood.  “Why not?”

The afternoon was a blur, dinner sublime, parting sad.

We both know instinctively that this could and probably would end, and the spell was broken when we parted, again at the restaurant.  There were words to be said, but it was too soon, and enough ambiguity to part almost content, but with that little longing that it might continue.

I found an envelope on the desk in my room when I returned.

“Your next stop will be Florence, a city that is waiting for you to explore.  Take the Italo Treno from Venice station to Florence, the ticket, with a seat assignment, is enclosed.  You are booked at the Hotel Brunelleschi.  Enjoy!”

It made no mention of travelling companions or anything else, but then, it was just my travel arrangements.

I checked out the flowing morning and took a water taxi to the railway station.  I was glad I was travelling light, the station was crowded and it took a few minutes to find the train.

It was one of my hobbies, the methods of travel, whether it was trains, planes, trams, ships, ferries, or boats, all were fascinating in their own way.

This was a bullet train, similar to those in France, Japan, and China.

It was a relief to have a booked seat and business class.  I expected no less.

I found the carriage and then the compartment.  And then a surprise.

Lesley.

“Florence?” she asked.

“Florence.  Did you …”

“Tick a certain box.  I did.  Please, sit.  We have much to talk about.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — S is for “Surviving”

…

It was a wild and stormy morning half-light half dark with roiling seas around us.

If anyone had seen us from the shore, they’d say we were stark staring mad.

We were.

Trying to come ashore in the sort of weather that had wrecked many a ship along this stretch of coast.  What would be one more boat among many at the bottom of the sea?

We were too busy trying to stay alive to be sick, and I felt very, very ill.

At the wheel Christina was looking very resolute, fighting the ocean trying to turn the rudder against her ministrations.

I was keeping the sails at the bare minimum, and at least the wind was taking us ashore and not out into the ocean and where the huge waves were waiting.  Not that going ashore was any more attractive given the rocks alternately submerged and exposed.

I’d just repaired a snapped rope and got the sail back into position after nearly being decapitated when it broke free.

“There it is.”  I could just barely hear her before the wind snatched the words away.

I followed her outstretched arm to see a break in the white water crashing on the rocks, a narrow passage that led to calmer water and a remote landing place.

This we had been told was good weather.  I’d hate to see what was ‘the bad’.

We rose up and slid down the waves hoping when we came up again, we’d be heading in the right direction.

Luckily, we were.

Christina had sold the voyage as a sailor’s dream, to cross the Atlantic at what was supposed to be the calmest time of the year.

The fact that no time of the year was calm was carefully omitted from the sales pitch, but I had to admit I’d had worse weather heading north from New York to Nantucket.

The real selling point was the fact we would not advertise our departure nor our arrival, a definite plus in remaining anonymous when anonymity was a must.

She had been right to suggest we leave, with two more attempts on our lives, a car bomb, and a long-range sniper.  Someone seriously wanted us dead, or if not the two of us, me.

Now it was a matter of hoping the sea didn’t finish was someone else started.

On the other side of the reef the weather hadn’t changed, the skies were still very dark and the rain was sheeting down, but the movement of the boat had settled, and we were gliding across almost still waters.

I’d heard about Scotland’s bleak weather, and this was everything one could expect.  It could only get better.

I leaned against the stern rail just behind her, now more relaxed, watching the rain pouring off the wet weather gear she was wearing.  On top of the endless layers to keep out the intense cold, she looked more like Santa than the woman who, barely a week before, had turned every head in the room at her father’s birthday bash.

It made me wonder why she was willing to go through what we had to get here.  It was no secret she detested what her father represented, and there was no doubt he wasn’t happy about her living with a policeman, yet willing to accept his help when trouble came knocking.

There was no doubting that bond between them, despite the circumstances.

The coastline stretched before us, as did the Cove, and somewhere there a sea cave, a place to hide the boat.  It was the stuff of legends, that Cove, reputedly to have been a lair for pirates, whiskey smugglers, and Scottish patriots hiding from the British back in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“Are you feeling like the Vikings?”  I said the first time I could hear my own voice above the weather.

“Who?”

“The Vikings?  They were reputed to come ashore, do some pillaging, then go.”

“We’re not here to pillage, as you call it.”

“No, but you can just imagine it.  I doubt this shoreline has changed much in a thousand or so years.”

“Except for the plastic washed ashore.”

I didn’t have to see her face to register the disdain, it was in her tone.  She was a loud and passionate advocate for the environment, sometimes the lone voice in the crowd.

Whereas once I just threw the empty plastic bottles overboard, she insisted we collect them and dispose of them properly.

I shrugged.  Our minuscule efforts were not going to change the world.

I moved to stand next to her, putting my hand on hers on the wheel.  I changed the subject.  “That was some pretty good navigation.”

She turned to look at me.  She was tired, if not exhausted.  “Where else would you want to be?”

I hadn’t realised she loved being in a boat, sailing.  It was her other world; one I hadn’t known about.  The boat we were on was hers, one of three.

It was just one of several revelations that I learned in the last week.

That she owned and ran a very successful legitimate internet business.

That she owned properties in five different countries, including the one we were heading to now.

That she collected vintage cars and had a museum.

That she shunned the limelight and preferred to blend in as just another ordinary person.  I’d only seen her once in elegant clothes, her usual garb rarely changed from workout gear or simply jeans and polo shirts.

It made it all that more difficult for me to understand why she would be interested in me, and more so the potential harm I could do on the other side of the law.

Her father was certainly icy about the relationship, and a few of the others at the birthday bash had intimated that my ongoing relationship with her would cause an early demise.

Until her father put an end to it.

“Do you really own all this?”  I waved my hand across the shoreline.

“Yes.  As you say, it’s one of the few places on this earth that has not changed in the last thousand years.”

We had reached the edge of the Cove and as she rounded the point we could see the cave, actually one of six or seven though most were relatively shallow.

But that was not only what could be seen.

There were two people waiting by the cave, and when I looked at them through the binoculars, I could see they were not a welcoming committee.

“Are you expecting anyone to greet us on arrival?”

“No.  I didn’t tell anyone but you we would be coming here.”

“Then make a detour, out of the sight line, and drop me off.  Anchor there if you can, and I’ll go ask them.  Politely, of course.”

Ten minutes later I was about to go over the side, and wade ashore.  She handed me a gun, with a suppressor.  “Just in case they don’t understand the word polite.”

So much for a new start in what we thought was going to be obscurity.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — S is for “Surviving”

…

It was a wild and stormy morning half-light half dark with roiling seas around us.

If anyone had seen us from the shore, they’d say we were stark staring mad.

We were.

Trying to come ashore in the sort of weather that had wrecked many a ship along this stretch of coast.  What would be one more boat among many at the bottom of the sea?

We were too busy trying to stay alive to be sick, and I felt very, very ill.

At the wheel Christina was looking very resolute, fighting the ocean trying to turn the rudder against her ministrations.

I was keeping the sails at the bare minimum, and at least the wind was taking us ashore and not out into the ocean and where the huge waves were waiting.  Not that going ashore was any more attractive given the rocks alternately submerged and exposed.

I’d just repaired a snapped rope and got the sail back into position after nearly being decapitated when it broke free.

“There it is.”  I could just barely hear her before the wind snatched the words away.

I followed her outstretched arm to see a break in the white water crashing on the rocks, a narrow passage that led to calmer water and a remote landing place.

This we had been told was good weather.  I’d hate to see what was ‘the bad’.

We rose up and slid down the waves hoping when we came up again, we’d be heading in the right direction.

Luckily, we were.

Christina had sold the voyage as a sailor’s dream, to cross the Atlantic at what was supposed to be the calmest time of the year.

The fact that no time of the year was calm was carefully omitted from the sales pitch, but I had to admit I’d had worse weather heading north from New York to Nantucket.

The real selling point was the fact we would not advertise our departure nor our arrival, a definite plus in remaining anonymous when anonymity was a must.

She had been right to suggest we leave, with two more attempts on our lives, a car bomb, and a long-range sniper.  Someone seriously wanted us dead, or if not the two of us, me.

Now it was a matter of hoping the sea didn’t finish was someone else started.

On the other side of the reef the weather hadn’t changed, the skies were still very dark and the rain was sheeting down, but the movement of the boat had settled, and we were gliding across almost still waters.

I’d heard about Scotland’s bleak weather, and this was everything one could expect.  It could only get better.

I leaned against the stern rail just behind her, now more relaxed, watching the rain pouring off the wet weather gear she was wearing.  On top of the endless layers to keep out the intense cold, she looked more like Santa than the woman who, barely a week before, had turned every head in the room at her father’s birthday bash.

It made me wonder why she was willing to go through what we had to get here.  It was no secret she detested what her father represented, and there was no doubt he wasn’t happy about her living with a policeman, yet willing to accept his help when trouble came knocking.

There was no doubting that bond between them, despite the circumstances.

The coastline stretched before us, as did the Cove, and somewhere there a sea cave, a place to hide the boat.  It was the stuff of legends, that Cove, reputedly to have been a lair for pirates, whiskey smugglers, and Scottish patriots hiding from the British back in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“Are you feeling like the Vikings?”  I said the first time I could hear my own voice above the weather.

“Who?”

“The Vikings?  They were reputed to come ashore, do some pillaging, then go.”

“We’re not here to pillage, as you call it.”

“No, but you can just imagine it.  I doubt this shoreline has changed much in a thousand or so years.”

“Except for the plastic washed ashore.”

I didn’t have to see her face to register the disdain, it was in her tone.  She was a loud and passionate advocate for the environment, sometimes the lone voice in the crowd.

Whereas once I just threw the empty plastic bottles overboard, she insisted we collect them and dispose of them properly.

I shrugged.  Our minuscule efforts were not going to change the world.

I moved to stand next to her, putting my hand on hers on the wheel.  I changed the subject.  “That was some pretty good navigation.”

She turned to look at me.  She was tired, if not exhausted.  “Where else would you want to be?”

I hadn’t realised she loved being in a boat, sailing.  It was her other world; one I hadn’t known about.  The boat we were on was hers, one of three.

It was just one of several revelations that I learned in the last week.

That she owned and ran a very successful legitimate internet business.

That she owned properties in five different countries, including the one we were heading to now.

That she collected vintage cars and had a museum.

That she shunned the limelight and preferred to blend in as just another ordinary person.  I’d only seen her once in elegant clothes, her usual garb rarely changed from workout gear or simply jeans and polo shirts.

It made it all that more difficult for me to understand why she would be interested in me, and more so the potential harm I could do on the other side of the law.

Her father was certainly icy about the relationship, and a few of the others at the birthday bash had intimated that my ongoing relationship with her would cause an early demise.

Until her father put an end to it.

“Do you really own all this?”  I waved my hand across the shoreline.

“Yes.  As you say, it’s one of the few places on this earth that has not changed in the last thousand years.”

We had reached the edge of the Cove and as she rounded the point we could see the cave, actually one of six or seven though most were relatively shallow.

But that was not only what could be seen.

There were two people waiting by the cave, and when I looked at them through the binoculars, I could see they were not a welcoming committee.

“Are you expecting anyone to greet us on arrival?”

“No.  I didn’t tell anyone but you we would be coming here.”

“Then make a detour, out of the sight line, and drop me off.  Anchor there if you can, and I’ll go ask them.  Politely, of course.”

Ten minutes later I was about to go over the side, and wade ashore.  She handed me a gun, with a suppressor.  “Just in case they don’t understand the word polite.”

So much for a new start in what we thought was going to be obscurity.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — R is for Reporter

…

“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

I remember Angela quoting that to me when we were doing a tutorial for the Journalism part of my degree.  It was only one part of many for me, whereas, for her, it was to become her bread and butter.

She had taken up the role of a reporter on the campus newspaper, and she was inclined to write sharp pieces that would later point to how she would approach the job at the local newspaper, a job assured there for her based on her department head’s glowing recommendation.

Her vendetta against Emily had begun from day one at university and only grew more acrimonious each year.  Emily had hardly helped her situation by joining her equally entitled friends and behaving badly.

She knew my secret feelings about Emily and had often mocked me for it, especially after we didn’t find mutual ground.  It was probably the one relationship on campus I regretted.

It seemed inevitable that I was about to get entangled with her again, after trying so hard to keep out of her sight.  I had scored a piece, the smartest kid in college, but it was hard to tell if it was a character assassination or just a bio that might land me a useful job.

I didn’t bother calling up and asking her.

Xavier had just spent the last half hour roasting me for going to the ball and then demanding to know when and where I had fallen for the meanest girl on campus.

“I hardly think fallen is the word I’d use.  I like her, surely that’s obvious because she’s a reasonably likeable girl.”  It was difficult to find the words that dodged the bullet that was coming straight at me.

Xavier was a friend, but this would stretch it.  She was, categorically, the enemy.

“Perhaps,” I added, “with my new special status, I can put in a good word for you.  I know she knows Amy, and I know you like her, and that’s no different to my situation.”

He shrugged.  Like me, I don’t think he would ever confess his undying love to a girl who would have no hesitation in humiliating him.  “Don’t.  I prefer the wistful looking for a great distance and using my imagination.  What was she like to dance with?  I heard it was a Viennese waltz.”

“It wasn’t anything special.  You did the Arthur Murray lessons like I did.  And you would have fitted in.  The people were just people, Xavier.”

We both looked up at the same time to see Angela chugging her way across the cafeteria towards us.

“That’s my cue to leave.  You think I’m pissed; just wait till she gets here.”

And he was gone in the blink of an eye.  He hated Angela more than I did.  I thought of running, but what was the point.  She would just chase me down until I surrendered.  Better now than never.

She sat down, no tasking if it was alright, and pulled out her recorder and notebook.  She was nothing if not thorough.

“I’m assuming you’ve come here for an interview, though I’m not quite sure why.”

She shook her head, the trademark scowl getting a little deeper.  “I hope you’re not going to try and act dumb.”

“Who said it was an act.  I believe you told me, once, that I was the dumbest boy on the planet.  You’re being an authority on the subject, I accepted my lot.”

The scowl deepened.  “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

I shrugged.  “You reap what you sow, Angela.”

She switched off the recorder and softened her expression.  “Off the record, for the time being.  What were you thinking, going to that ball?”

“It was a perfect opportunity to put my Waltzing skills to the test.  You don’t get that kind of dancing opportunity every day.”

“With Emily, though?”

“She’s just a girl, Angela.”

“One I might add you are so obviously enamoured with.”

“How could one not be, at the moment.  I have had a crush on her for quite some time, yes, but up close and personal, it was not something I was going to pursue on or off the floor.  Not the time or the place.”

“How did you get an invite?”

“How did you?”

She shook her head.  “Try answering some of the questions, or I’ll just have to imagine what the right answer is.”

“OK.  Let me ask you a question.  Were you appraised of my brain out a week or so ago in this very cafeteria where I chewed out both the girl herself and that idiot boyfriend of hers?”

“It was mentioned.  People were surprised, but not shocked.  You and she have a very rocky sub-history.”

“Exactly.  Her father wanted to meet someone who doesn’t try sucking up to her because of who she is.  He invited me for that reason only.  You can ask him if you like.”

“I have.  You impressed him, and that is very difficult to do.  Are you thinking of working for him?  He seems to think you would make an excellent fit given your academic history.”

“You mean, marry the boss’s daughter?  That’s so 1950s cliché Angela.  If anything were to happen between us, and that’s very unlikely, I wouldn’t want to work for him, and things go south.  No, not considering it.  I have offers from New York, Washington, and Philadelphia.  Or I might just stay here and compete with you for a job on the paper.”

Another shake of the head.  “You’re very good at ducking and weaving.  Perhaps you should consider becoming a politician.”

“I couldn’t, I’m too honest.”

She snorted.  “You haven’t told me the truth yet, William.  She likes you, that was plain to see when you were together.  Her official line is no comment to any of the questions I asked her, and your obfuscating, which smacks of collusion.  I’m going to keep my eye on the two of you because there’s a story here.”

“You’re talking about a fairy tale, Angela, and they are just that, tales.  You know I like her, and I have for a long time, unrequited love I believe it’s called.  I had an argument with her, and it amused her father to invite me to an event that normally I’d never get an invite to because of who I am, and I’m sure all the toffs had a lot of laughs over it at my expense.  Emily was there, we danced the waltz, it was fun, and I surprised her in that a slum boy could actually wear a tuxedo and look good, and actually dance in time to the music.  That’s the story.

“As for the job, you know as well as I do, Rothstein invited the top 10 college students to an orientation day where they get to see how the company works, and then get a job offer.  I’m in the top ten so that’s a no-brainer, even for you.  There are no special attachments to it.  Knowing or not knowing Emily is not a precursor to getting an offer.

“And as for an ongoing relationship, do you see us together, here, now?  No.  I am as distant from her horizon now as I was yesterday and all the t=yesterdays before that.  I am not going to treat her differently now I’ve been to a ball and danced with her, she is still the same pain in the ass girl she always was, only at the end of this year I will be put out of my misery, and she will move on to the next shiny toy in the toy box.”

“So, you’re not expecting anything to happen?”

“Me?  No.  They’re the Rothstein’s.  Rothstein’s do not mix with people like me.  People like me are put on this earth for their amusement.  We all are.”

She shrugged.  “You make it so black and white, but I don’t think it is.  This isn’t over, William.”  She picked up the recorder and the notepad and put both into her backpack.  “Next time.”

I was hoping there wouldn’t be one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — R is for Reporter

…

“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

I remember Angela quoting that to me when we were doing a tutorial for the Journalism part of my degree.  It was only one part of many for me, whereas, for her, it was to become her bread and butter.

She had taken up the role of a reporter on the campus newspaper, and she was inclined to write sharp pieces that would later point to how she would approach the job at the local newspaper, a job assured there for her based on her department head’s glowing recommendation.

Her vendetta against Emily had begun from day one at university and only grew more acrimonious each year.  Emily had hardly helped her situation by joining her equally entitled friends and behaving badly.

She knew my secret feelings about Emily and had often mocked me for it, especially after we didn’t find mutual ground.  It was probably the one relationship on campus I regretted.

It seemed inevitable that I was about to get entangled with her again, after trying so hard to keep out of her sight.  I had scored a piece, the smartest kid in college, but it was hard to tell if it was a character assassination or just a bio that might land me a useful job.

I didn’t bother calling up and asking her.

Xavier had just spent the last half hour roasting me for going to the ball and then demanding to know when and where I had fallen for the meanest girl on campus.

“I hardly think fallen is the word I’d use.  I like her, surely that’s obvious because she’s a reasonably likeable girl.”  It was difficult to find the words that dodged the bullet that was coming straight at me.

Xavier was a friend, but this would stretch it.  She was, categorically, the enemy.

“Perhaps,” I added, “with my new special status, I can put in a good word for you.  I know she knows Amy, and I know you like her, and that’s no different to my situation.”

He shrugged.  Like me, I don’t think he would ever confess his undying love to a girl who would have no hesitation in humiliating him.  “Don’t.  I prefer the wistful looking for a great distance and using my imagination.  What was she like to dance with?  I heard it was a Viennese waltz.”

“It wasn’t anything special.  You did the Arthur Murray lessons like I did.  And you would have fitted in.  The people were just people, Xavier.”

We both looked up at the same time to see Angela chugging her way across the cafeteria towards us.

“That’s my cue to leave.  You think I’m pissed; just wait till she gets here.”

And he was gone in the blink of an eye.  He hated Angela more than I did.  I thought of running, but what was the point.  She would just chase me down until I surrendered.  Better now than never.

She sat down, no tasking if it was alright, and pulled out her recorder and notebook.  She was nothing if not thorough.

“I’m assuming you’ve come here for an interview, though I’m not quite sure why.”

She shook her head, the trademark scowl getting a little deeper.  “I hope you’re not going to try and act dumb.”

“Who said it was an act.  I believe you told me, once, that I was the dumbest boy on the planet.  You’re being an authority on the subject, I accepted my lot.”

The scowl deepened.  “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

I shrugged.  “You reap what you sow, Angela.”

She switched off the recorder and softened her expression.  “Off the record, for the time being.  What were you thinking, going to that ball?”

“It was a perfect opportunity to put my Waltzing skills to the test.  You don’t get that kind of dancing opportunity every day.”

“With Emily, though?”

“She’s just a girl, Angela.”

“One I might add you are so obviously enamoured with.”

“How could one not be, at the moment.  I have had a crush on her for quite some time, yes, but up close and personal, it was not something I was going to pursue on or off the floor.  Not the time or the place.”

“How did you get an invite?”

“How did you?”

She shook her head.  “Try answering some of the questions, or I’ll just have to imagine what the right answer is.”

“OK.  Let me ask you a question.  Were you appraised of my brain out a week or so ago in this very cafeteria where I chewed out both the girl herself and that idiot boyfriend of hers?”

“It was mentioned.  People were surprised, but not shocked.  You and she have a very rocky sub-history.”

“Exactly.  Her father wanted to meet someone who doesn’t try sucking up to her because of who she is.  He invited me for that reason only.  You can ask him if you like.”

“I have.  You impressed him, and that is very difficult to do.  Are you thinking of working for him?  He seems to think you would make an excellent fit given your academic history.”

“You mean, marry the boss’s daughter?  That’s so 1950s cliché Angela.  If anything were to happen between us, and that’s very unlikely, I wouldn’t want to work for him, and things go south.  No, not considering it.  I have offers from New York, Washington, and Philadelphia.  Or I might just stay here and compete with you for a job on the paper.”

Another shake of the head.  “You’re very good at ducking and weaving.  Perhaps you should consider becoming a politician.”

“I couldn’t, I’m too honest.”

She snorted.  “You haven’t told me the truth yet, William.  She likes you, that was plain to see when you were together.  Her official line is no comment to any of the questions I asked her, and your obfuscating, which smacks of collusion.  I’m going to keep my eye on the two of you because there’s a story here.”

“You’re talking about a fairy tale, Angela, and they are just that, tales.  You know I like her, and I have for a long time, unrequited love I believe it’s called.  I had an argument with her, and it amused her father to invite me to an event that normally I’d never get an invite to because of who I am, and I’m sure all the toffs had a lot of laughs over it at my expense.  Emily was there, we danced the waltz, it was fun, and I surprised her in that a slum boy could actually wear a tuxedo and look good, and actually dance in time to the music.  That’s the story.

“As for the job, you know as well as I do, Rothstein invited the top 10 college students to an orientation day where they get to see how the company works, and then get a job offer.  I’m in the top ten so that’s a no-brainer, even for you.  There are no special attachments to it.  Knowing or not knowing Emily is not a precursor to getting an offer.

“And as for an ongoing relationship, do you see us together, here, now?  No.  I am as distant from her horizon now as I was yesterday and all the t=yesterdays before that.  I am not going to treat her differently now I’ve been to a ball and danced with her, she is still the same pain in the ass girl she always was, only at the end of this year I will be put out of my misery, and she will move on to the next shiny toy in the toy box.”

“So, you’re not expecting anything to happen?”

“Me?  No.  They’re the Rothstein’s.  Rothstein’s do not mix with people like me.  People like me are put on this earth for their amusement.  We all are.”

She shrugged.  “You make it so black and white, but I don’t think it is.  This isn’t over, William.”  She picked up the recorder and the notepad and put both into her backpack.  “Next time.”

I was hoping there wouldn’t be one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Q is for quadrangle

…

I could not remember even the dreams started, it seemed it had been almost forever, but lately, they had taken on a new intensity.

They always started the same, I was standing at the bottom of a hill looking across a lawn, bordered by rose bushes, looking towards a very large manor house, three stories tall, with wings.

It was larger than anything I’d ever seen before, a house that was fit for a king or queen, or perhaps a lord.

For someone who lived in a village, son of the flour miller, and among the lower classes, it was a place I could never expect to see inside, nor walk about the grounds, only to look upon and wonder.

At first, the dreams had me looking at the house, whether in awe or dread, I could not say.  I didn’t venture forth, just stood there. 

In some dreams it was a bright sunny day, others overcast and cold, then others again, in pouring rain.  Always the same place, and likely the same time.

Then, after a while, the dreams changed slightly.  I was looking at the manor house at night.  The windows had lights, and shadowy forms moved back and forth in those windows.  Once a carriage arrived, but I couldn’t see who it was in it.  At night the house looked more majestic, but also it had an air of foreboding. 

But underlying every vision I had, I felt there was something familiar about it; that I had been inside, that I knew who the people were who lived there, and that for no particular reason, something awful had happened there.

After the first few dreams, I made a concerted effort to try and locate the place, venturing as far from my village as I could in a day, and could not find it.  It was not within the limits of my world.

When older, and was able to learn about manor houses, and the Lords and Gentry that lived in them, I ventured further afield but always with the same result.  It was as if it existed only in my imagination.

Then, when my mother died suddenly, the dreams stopped and it all faded from my memory.

It was then I learned from my father, that he was not my father.  He told me that my mother had been a lady in waiting for a wealthy family in one of the counties near the Scottish border when her family lived and that he was sending me to live with them.  There was more to that story, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.  He packed my few possessions and put me on the coach.

That trip took many days, and when I finally reached the village where my mother’s sister lived, her eldest son Jacob came to get me and take me to my new home.  It didn’t take long to realize in a small house with six other children, I was just adding to my aunt’s problems.

That first night, banished to an outhouse with two of the other boys, the dreams came back, only different.

I was still looking at the manor house, but it was from a rotunda in the middle of a newly planted rose garden, only a short distance from the house.  I was sitting, waiting.  At first, I was just waiting, and no one came.  I had no idea how old I was or what I looked like, but it seemed I was dressed in child’s clothes.  Was it an early memory of mine?

That didn’t explain why I was sitting in the rotunda.  I could not be a child belonging to the manor house, so I had to wonder if I was the child of a servant.  Several days after arriving, I overheard an argument between my Aunt and her husband, who was angry about me being sent to live with them, his point, there were too many of them to support as it was.  He then said that if my mother hadn’t been so stupid to take their little bastard as her own and they looked after their own problems, this wouldn’t be his.

I had no idea what that meant.  My mother had been my mother, not someone else.  She had always been my mother for as long as I could remember.  But it did make sense why my father, who was not my father, had sent me away.  But they never mentioned it again.

This lasted for a week, and then a new element was introduced.

A young woman.  She was not a servant, but smartly dressed, and appeared to belong to the family who lived in the house.  She was accompanied by a woman I assumed to be her mother or a guardian.  They arrived in a carriage, and I wondered if it was the same carriage I’d seen previously in another dream.  I was close enough to I could see her face, and she was very beautiful but looked very sad.  It was the same each night, reaching to point of her arrival, and no more.

Being old enough to work, I was sent to work in the fields surrounding a manor house some distance from the village.  There were about a dozen boys of my age in the group, supervised by one of the manor houses stewards.  It was hard and physical work, much more than helping my father in the mill.

It took several weeks before we reached a field that was close to the manor house, in fact, just over a hill, and on a break I climbed the hill to have a look.

It was the manor house in my dream.  A different aspect, but the exact house, the lawns, the roses, and the Rotunda.

How could it be possible I knew this place?

One afternoon the steward picked me to deliver a message to the manor house housekeeper, telling me I had to go to the back of the house and avoid being seen.  There was an arch, and passageway that led to a quadrangle where I would find her. 

Up close the manor house was huge.  I remained in the gardens skirting the rose gardens to the rear of the house where there were stables and outhouses.  I found the arch, and then a passageway, wide enough for a wagon to make deliveries.  For some odd reason, I knew exactly where to go.

It led to a quadrangle inside the manor, at least I think that was what it was called but I was not sure how I knew.  Once there you could see inside.  At one end a door was open, but no one was about.  As soon as I stepped into the open, a vision came to me. 

It was at night, but the quadrangle was lit by many torches.  A carriage and four black horses were waiting, and then I came out with a woman, my mother.  There were two other ladies, one old and the other the housekeeper, Mrs Giles.  The old lady referred to her as that.  After the old lady spoke to my mother, we got in the carriage, and then I looked out to see the woman in white, looking out the window, looking very forlorn.  I could never forget that look of utter despair on her face.

The quadrangle was different now, in daylight.  An empty wagon was sitting not far from the door having no doubt just been unloaded with the weeks’ supplies from the surrounding farms.

I could hear voices, so I put my head in the door and said, “Is there anyone here?”

I waited until a lady came up the passage and saw me.  It was Mrs Giles.  How did I know that?

“Are you the housekeeper?”

“I am.”  She came out the door into the square. And stopped suddenly, looking at me curiously.  “Why are you here?”

“The steward sent me with a message.”  I took the piece of paper out of my pocket and held it out.

She took it but didn’t read it.  “Where are you from?”

“The village.  I live with the Halls.”  I realised after I said it she probably had no idea who they were.

“Her sister was Josephine, your aunt?”

I remembered my father called her Jo, rather than Josephine.  “Jo, yes.  She was my mother.  She died a while back and I was sent here.”

“My.  That’s a story, isn’t it?  Well, off with you.  Message delivered.”

A shake of the head and she went back inside.

That day the dreams stopped.  Perhaps now that they all made sense, there was no need for me to see them again.

There was no doubt the manor house was a place I had been to before, my mother had come from these parts and might have worked there at one time before she came down to marry my father, which meant now I was old enough to understand, my father was not my real father.  The only part I didn’t understand was what the lady in white represented.

I continued to work in the fields for another month, when I came home, as I always did, at sundown.  It had been a long, hot day.

When I turned onto the lane that led to our house, I saw there was a carriage parked out front.  It looked familiar with the livery of the two men sitting up front, and the four black horses.  It looked a lot different in daylight.

The men paid no heed to me as I looked at the horses, patted one, and then went on to the house.

Inside, the housekeeper, Mrs Giles, was there with another lady, not in white, but pale blue.  She looked a lot happier than I’d seen her before in my dreams, but it was the woman in white.

She gasped when she saw me.

My aunt looked from her to me, then to Mrs Giles.  “This was not supposed to happen.  My sister up and died, and her no-good-for-nothing husband sent the boy here.”

The woman in white spoke, “That is irrelevant now.  He is here, and he will come to live with his family.”

“Who might they be Miss,” I asked.  This conversation was a little hard to follow or understand.

My aunt looked at the housekeeper, “If I may explain to the boy.  It might be better coming from me.”

The housekeeper nodded.

“My sister, Jo, whom you knew only to be your mother, was, but she was not your real mother.  A few years after you were born it was necessary to take you away and be raised.  It was never intended that you were to return here, but you have.  Your real mother is that lady in blue, the Lady Westmoreland, now the owner of the manor.  Since the circumstances that required your departure no longer exist, you are free to return.  If you want to.  I know it’s a lot to understand Leonard, but in my opinion, you would be better off going to live in the manor.”

I looked at the lady in blue.  “I know you, but I don’t know how or why.  I have seen you in my dreams.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to you.  You were sent away without anyone telling me where or who or with who.  That you have come back to me is a miracle, an answer to many prayers.”  She held out her hand and I went over to her and took it in mine.  I looked up into her eyes and knew instantly that she was my real mother.

I turned to look at my aunt.  “I will go with them if you don’t mind.  I can always come back and see you.”  Another glance at my mother, “Can’t I?”

“Yes, you can.”

The housekeeper said, “WE will complete the arrangements we agreed to earlier.  Does the boy have any possessions?”

“None that would be of use to him.”

“Then you should keep them.  We should be on our way.”

Once in the carriage, on the way to the manor, my mother said, “Your name isn’t Leonard, by the way.”

“I know,” said.  “It’s James.  And your name is Harriet Montague, is it not?”

“How do you know that?”

“My other mother, Jo, told me one day but said never to tell anyone else.  Ever.  Unless Harriet came for me.  She knew you would, one day.  Either that or I would find you.  Now, it no longer matters.”

I was back where I belonged.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Q is for quadrangle

…

I could not remember even the dreams started, it seemed it had been almost forever, but lately, they had taken on a new intensity.

They always started the same, I was standing at the bottom of a hill looking across a lawn, bordered by rose bushes, looking towards a very large manor house, three stories tall, with wings.

It was larger than anything I’d ever seen before, a house that was fit for a king or queen, or perhaps a lord.

For someone who lived in a village, son of the flour miller, and among the lower classes, it was a place I could never expect to see inside, nor walk about the grounds, only to look upon and wonder.

At first, the dreams had me looking at the house, whether in awe or dread, I could not say.  I didn’t venture forth, just stood there. 

In some dreams it was a bright sunny day, others overcast and cold, then others again, in pouring rain.  Always the same place, and likely the same time.

Then, after a while, the dreams changed slightly.  I was looking at the manor house at night.  The windows had lights, and shadowy forms moved back and forth in those windows.  Once a carriage arrived, but I couldn’t see who it was in it.  At night the house looked more majestic, but also it had an air of foreboding. 

But underlying every vision I had, I felt there was something familiar about it; that I had been inside, that I knew who the people were who lived there, and that for no particular reason, something awful had happened there.

After the first few dreams, I made a concerted effort to try and locate the place, venturing as far from my village as I could in a day, and could not find it.  It was not within the limits of my world.

When older, and was able to learn about manor houses, and the Lords and Gentry that lived in them, I ventured further afield but always with the same result.  It was as if it existed only in my imagination.

Then, when my mother died suddenly, the dreams stopped and it all faded from my memory.

It was then I learned from my father, that he was not my father.  He told me that my mother had been a lady in waiting for a wealthy family in one of the counties near the Scottish border when her family lived and that he was sending me to live with them.  There was more to that story, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.  He packed my few possessions and put me on the coach.

That trip took many days, and when I finally reached the village where my mother’s sister lived, her eldest son Jacob came to get me and take me to my new home.  It didn’t take long to realize in a small house with six other children, I was just adding to my aunt’s problems.

That first night, banished to an outhouse with two of the other boys, the dreams came back, only different.

I was still looking at the manor house, but it was from a rotunda in the middle of a newly planted rose garden, only a short distance from the house.  I was sitting, waiting.  At first, I was just waiting, and no one came.  I had no idea how old I was or what I looked like, but it seemed I was dressed in child’s clothes.  Was it an early memory of mine?

That didn’t explain why I was sitting in the rotunda.  I could not be a child belonging to the manor house, so I had to wonder if I was the child of a servant.  Several days after arriving, I overheard an argument between my Aunt and her husband, who was angry about me being sent to live with them, his point, there were too many of them to support as it was.  He then said that if my mother hadn’t been so stupid to take their little bastard as her own and they looked after their own problems, this wouldn’t be his.

I had no idea what that meant.  My mother had been my mother, not someone else.  She had always been my mother for as long as I could remember.  But it did make sense why my father, who was not my father, had sent me away.  But they never mentioned it again.

This lasted for a week, and then a new element was introduced.

A young woman.  She was not a servant, but smartly dressed, and appeared to belong to the family who lived in the house.  She was accompanied by a woman I assumed to be her mother or a guardian.  They arrived in a carriage, and I wondered if it was the same carriage I’d seen previously in another dream.  I was close enough to I could see her face, and she was very beautiful but looked very sad.  It was the same each night, reaching to point of her arrival, and no more.

Being old enough to work, I was sent to work in the fields surrounding a manor house some distance from the village.  There were about a dozen boys of my age in the group, supervised by one of the manor houses stewards.  It was hard and physical work, much more than helping my father in the mill.

It took several weeks before we reached a field that was close to the manor house, in fact, just over a hill, and on a break I climbed the hill to have a look.

It was the manor house in my dream.  A different aspect, but the exact house, the lawns, the roses, and the Rotunda.

How could it be possible I knew this place?

One afternoon the steward picked me to deliver a message to the manor house housekeeper, telling me I had to go to the back of the house and avoid being seen.  There was an arch, and passageway that led to a quadrangle where I would find her. 

Up close the manor house was huge.  I remained in the gardens skirting the rose gardens to the rear of the house where there were stables and outhouses.  I found the arch, and then a passageway, wide enough for a wagon to make deliveries.  For some odd reason, I knew exactly where to go.

It led to a quadrangle inside the manor, at least I think that was what it was called but I was not sure how I knew.  Once there you could see inside.  At one end a door was open, but no one was about.  As soon as I stepped into the open, a vision came to me. 

It was at night, but the quadrangle was lit by many torches.  A carriage and four black horses were waiting, and then I came out with a woman, my mother.  There were two other ladies, one old and the other the housekeeper, Mrs Giles.  The old lady referred to her as that.  After the old lady spoke to my mother, we got in the carriage, and then I looked out to see the woman in white, looking out the window, looking very forlorn.  I could never forget that look of utter despair on her face.

The quadrangle was different now, in daylight.  An empty wagon was sitting not far from the door having no doubt just been unloaded with the weeks’ supplies from the surrounding farms.

I could hear voices, so I put my head in the door and said, “Is there anyone here?”

I waited until a lady came up the passage and saw me.  It was Mrs Giles.  How did I know that?

“Are you the housekeeper?”

“I am.”  She came out the door into the square. And stopped suddenly, looking at me curiously.  “Why are you here?”

“The steward sent me with a message.”  I took the piece of paper out of my pocket and held it out.

She took it but didn’t read it.  “Where are you from?”

“The village.  I live with the Halls.”  I realised after I said it she probably had no idea who they were.

“Her sister was Josephine, your aunt?”

I remembered my father called her Jo, rather than Josephine.  “Jo, yes.  She was my mother.  She died a while back and I was sent here.”

“My.  That’s a story, isn’t it?  Well, off with you.  Message delivered.”

A shake of the head and she went back inside.

That day the dreams stopped.  Perhaps now that they all made sense, there was no need for me to see them again.

There was no doubt the manor house was a place I had been to before, my mother had come from these parts and might have worked there at one time before she came down to marry my father, which meant now I was old enough to understand, my father was not my real father.  The only part I didn’t understand was what the lady in white represented.

I continued to work in the fields for another month, when I came home, as I always did, at sundown.  It had been a long, hot day.

When I turned onto the lane that led to our house, I saw there was a carriage parked out front.  It looked familiar with the livery of the two men sitting up front, and the four black horses.  It looked a lot different in daylight.

The men paid no heed to me as I looked at the horses, patted one, and then went on to the house.

Inside, the housekeeper, Mrs Giles, was there with another lady, not in white, but pale blue.  She looked a lot happier than I’d seen her before in my dreams, but it was the woman in white.

She gasped when she saw me.

My aunt looked from her to me, then to Mrs Giles.  “This was not supposed to happen.  My sister up and died, and her no-good-for-nothing husband sent the boy here.”

The woman in white spoke, “That is irrelevant now.  He is here, and he will come to live with his family.”

“Who might they be Miss,” I asked.  This conversation was a little hard to follow or understand.

My aunt looked at the housekeeper, “If I may explain to the boy.  It might be better coming from me.”

The housekeeper nodded.

“My sister, Jo, whom you knew only to be your mother, was, but she was not your real mother.  A few years after you were born it was necessary to take you away and be raised.  It was never intended that you were to return here, but you have.  Your real mother is that lady in blue, the Lady Westmoreland, now the owner of the manor.  Since the circumstances that required your departure no longer exist, you are free to return.  If you want to.  I know it’s a lot to understand Leonard, but in my opinion, you would be better off going to live in the manor.”

I looked at the lady in blue.  “I know you, but I don’t know how or why.  I have seen you in my dreams.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to you.  You were sent away without anyone telling me where or who or with who.  That you have come back to me is a miracle, an answer to many prayers.”  She held out her hand and I went over to her and took it in mine.  I looked up into her eyes and knew instantly that she was my real mother.

I turned to look at my aunt.  “I will go with them if you don’t mind.  I can always come back and see you.”  Another glance at my mother, “Can’t I?”

“Yes, you can.”

The housekeeper said, “WE will complete the arrangements we agreed to earlier.  Does the boy have any possessions?”

“None that would be of use to him.”

“Then you should keep them.  We should be on our way.”

Once in the carriage, on the way to the manor, my mother said, “Your name isn’t Leonard, by the way.”

“I know,” said.  “It’s James.  And your name is Harriet Montague, is it not?”

“How do you know that?”

“My other mother, Jo, told me one day but said never to tell anyone else.  Ever.  Unless Harriet came for me.  She knew you would, one day.  Either that or I would find you.  Now, it no longer matters.”

I was back where I belonged.

…

©  Charles Heath  2023