Day 217

Writing exercise

“Everything that happened in that house was a catastrophe”

…

Sitting around the table in the lawyers’ conference room were seven very eager faces, and, at the other end, opposite Blanding, my parents’ lawyer.

It was time for the reading of the will.

The seven seated at the other end were, in age order, eldest to youngest: Jacob, John, Jesse, Julian, Judy, Jessica, and Jennifer.

I was named Ferdinand.  Yes, that apparently was a name, but I usually used my middle name of Aloysius, or more often than not, the short form, Al.

There was a reason why I was sitting away from the others.  Technically, I was not a brother, but the only child of my stepfather’s brother, adopted by him after my parents died a year after I was born.

It had remained a well-kept secret until the day my stepmother, who died a few hours earlier than my stepfather, was conscious long enough to tell the eldest son of my adoption.

From that moment, I became persona non grata with nearly all the other siblings. It went from thirty-five years of harmonious sibling rivalry to me instantly becoming an outcast.  I don’t think it was what the mother had intended, but then she hadn’t realised just how greedy and insecure her children were.

I had, though it had taken time.  The two eldest boys thought I was different, not just the fact that my name didn’t start with a j, but the fact that I had red hair and that I had slightly different characteristics.

While the parents were alive, no one really questioned it.  After they died and there was a fortune at stake, it came down to being one less to divvy up the pot of gold.

But here’s the thing.  None but one, Jennifer and I stayed to look after them in their home when neither could look after each other or themselves.  The others left home as soon as they could and only came back for handouts to save them from their stupidity.

For them, the memories of what happened in that house were a stark reminder of everything they should have become.  They had been given every opportunity, but none seemed to like the idea of having to work for it.

Jennifer and I both got the intended message and understood.  I remember the number of times the father had said, if only the others had been like Al.  He made a point of it.  The others blamed me when the father started rejecting their demands for assistance, saying that I had made their lives impossible.  Nothing in that house, as far as they were concerned, had led anywhere for any of them except to catastrophe.

In turn, I never understood them.  From a very young age, they all believed they would be looked after, that why they should not work or try to make their mark when, in the end, there would be a fortune waiting for each of them.

Or perhaps I did.  Their parents spoiled and indulged all of them.  Not me.  Perhaps that was the indication I should have seen that I was not really one of them.  The father never gave me anything, often telling me that he expected me to make something of myself, as his brother had.

I never understood what he had meant by that until the mother’s revelation.  Then everything made sense.

More than one he had said, privately to me, that I was not one of them, that I did not have to be like them, that they, meaning the eldest two boys, would never amount to anything.

He was right.

But it was his fault they turned out that way.  His and their mother.

Now, a greater catastrophe was likely to befall them if the father had carried out his threat to cut them all off.

I was there when he told them they had six months to turn their lives around, during which time they would not be getting their usual allowances.

As far as he was concerned, it was time for all of them to sort themselves out.  His ultimatum had been met with stunned silence and disbelief.  I don’t think any of them had considered the well might run dry.

The fact the parents died in an accident did raise a few questions in my mind, so soon after the ultimatum, and the thought, however unbelievable or insidious, was whether one of them, or all of them together, had ‘arranged’ for their deaths.

Jennifer was more inclined to believe they had.  None had a story that would stand deeper probing. Each was vouching for the others, alibis were shaky, and as far as she was concerned, the police had closed the case too quickly.  As far as they were concerned, it was an accident.

I looked at Blanding and caught his eye.  He had his inscrutable face on.  It was time to begin

…

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat.  “Shall we start?”

He looked around the table at all the expectant faces.  No one could tell whether he was about to deliver good news or bad.  Even I didn’t know.

All I had was a phone call from the lawyer’s office, a request to be there. The others tried to have me excluded, but Blanding would have none of it.  He simply told them that the reading could only progress if all eight of us attended, an explicit condition stipulated by both parents.

The room went silent.

“Now that the investigation into the untimely deaths of your parents has been concluded and a result of death by misadventure recorded, the will can now be read.  It doesn’t necessarily mean that any benefits will automatically be payable after this reading.  There are formalities, and these will take time.”

Eldest son:  “How much time?”

“As long as it takes.”  That was it.  No more.  Blanding took the will document out of the folder in front of him and removed the first page.  The good stuff presumably started on the next.

The eldest son was going to ask another question but then decided against it.  I got the impression he was kicked in the shin under the table.

Blanding continued.  “Your mother’s will has been read and wishes executed.  She died before your father, and her wish was for everything to go to her husband and several annuities for friends.  She never thought of her domestics as servants but friends.”

Eldest son:  “But she didn’t leave anything directly to any of us, not even the girls.”

“No.  Her intention was always to leave it to your father.  Had she, in fact, survived him, there was a small lump sum payment of approximately a thousand pounds each and the annuities.”

“What about the estate, the holiday houses, the apartments overseas?”

Yes, the eldest son had been doing his homework, listing all the places we went to, not realising that the property portfolio was largely smoke and mirrors.  I discovered the true nature of what they owned and what they rented, and it didn’t surprise me.

The father had been very clever to hide the fact that they were not as wealthy as most people believed, and having ready cash to give the children meant a gradual depletion of assets over time.

Being who they were didn’t mean they were filthy rich. The trick their father had told me once is to appear rich without anyone guessing what your true financial situation is.

Blanding put down the document and took off his glasses.  I thought he was going to massage his forehead like a person trying the assuage the pain of an oncoming headache.

Maybe he had one already.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. Maybe the glasses were new and weren’t sitting right.

Then he looked at Jacob.  “I’m sure you’ve been compiling a list of everything you believe should be in the estate.  Did you think to also compile a list of the sums of money you borrowed from your father?”

“Borrow?” Jacob’s expression changed.  “We did nothing of the sort.  He gave us…”

He stopped abruptly when he heard, rather than watched, a thick folder land on the desk with a thud, perhaps more for effect than emphasis.

“Every time your father loaned each of you money, you had to sign a document to say that at the end of a specific period, you would either repay the loan in full or start paying the interest.  I daresay you didn’t read the fine print or look at or listen to anything but simply thought your father would never expect anything in return.  So, back to my original question, did you compile a list of all your borrowings?”

“Of course, we didn’t.  Are you stupid?  The man is dead. There’s no one to pay it back to.”  John had the logic all worked out.

“Well, there’s the thing.  It became repayable when he died.  It’s stated very clearly in the documents, very legal documents, I might add.  But just for the sake of clarity, the aggregate sums borrowed by each child are: Jacob, 18 million, John, 9 million, Jesse, 6 million, Julian, 4 million, Judy, 15 million, Jessica, 7 million, Jennifer, zero, and Al, zero.  That’s close to 60 million pounds.  Where do you think that lot came from?”

The siblings were looking at each other but mistake at Jacob and Judy.  I thought I heard a muttered “What the hell did you do with 18 million, Jacob?”  If they asked me, if would tell them.  Gambling.

“The old man was loaded.  Inherited wealth, he said.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things to which you chose not to hear.  Giving you all you asked for over the years cost a lot, so much so, he was forced to sell all of the properties, including, in the end, the manor house.  There wasn’t much in the rest, the paintings of forebears were worthless, the furniture and fittings all very old but not worth a fortune old. The manor house has been given to the new owner, who was gracious enough to allow your parents to remain in it, rented free, until they decided to move on.  It was always going to revert back to him.  So, scratch any property off your list of assets.”

“Cash, shares, bonds?”  The confidence in the tone before had gone as the realisation of what had happened sank in.

It would be long before the others turned on Jacob and Judy, even though all of them together caused the problem.

“You know the answer to that question, Jacob,” I said

He turned to me.  I could feel the hostility.  “How come you didn’t get anything.  Bet he knew you weren’t one of us and was never going to give you a penny.”

Jennifer rounded on him.  “Like me, he didn’t seek to burden your father because staying home and looking after him, we knew exactly what the financial situation was.  You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jacob jumped to his feet.  “If that’s all?”

“There is the matter of repayment of the loans.”

Jacob laughed.  “Good luck with that old man.”  Then he left.  The others quickly followed him out the door.

Blanding sighed.  “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

“Were you serious about the loans?” I asked.

“Your father was. We could take them all to court, but they don’t have anything, so it would be a meaningless exercise.  But at least they have no more opportunity to get anything more.  They have to make their own way now.  But, now for the rest of the will.”

“I thought all that was left was the three thousand odd pounds,” Jennifer said.

“After the sales of a few bongs we found in the bottom drawer of your father’s desk.  No, that’s what your father left you two.  He was very glad you stayed to help.  Both of them were.  It was always his intention to leave the manor house to you, and the proceeds from the sale of a half dozen paintings that used to hang in the Paris apartment, about 40 million pounds.  He set up trust funds for the two of you, so you have somewhere to live, and enough to keep you going.”

“And if the others find out?”

“They can contest it, even get a slice of the proceeds, but the estate has first lien on the money in repayment of their debts, and the proceeds would barely cover the repayments.  No.  There’s no point, and no legal firm would take the case.  Now go and enjoy it.” 

He put two sets of keys to the manor house on the table, the same two we’d given him when we arrived.

We shook his hand, and he left the room.  I may have been mistaken, but I think he had a smile on his face.  Jennifer was looking down the street, and I joined her.  Both of us saw the six other siblings exit onto the street, just as the heavens opened and dumped a heavy shower of rain on them.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “Mum and dad just got the last laugh.”

…

©   Charles Heath  2025

Day 216

Rejection – everyone is on the end of it – but it doesn’t have to be the end, or a negative

…

Here’s the good news – getting a rejection letter from a publisher declining to publish the book you thought was about to launch your writing career into the stratosphere, or on a lesser scale, a rejection of an article you wrote for your favourite magazine, is one of those things that goes with the territory.

It happens to everyone, and even those writers who are now No. 1 bestselling authors. The most notable rejection story I ever read was that of J K Rowling and her Harry Potter.

The trick is, don’t let it get the better of you. Never send away a piece of writing without keeping a little section of your hopes on hold so that if the improbable happens, it is not as devastating.

Then, before the soul searching, or wondering what was wrong, if the letter has reasons why they didn’t publish, and please let it not be as simple as sending a fishing story to a wedding magazine, look at the information as constructive criticism, and make changes.

If they don’t give any feedback, then try to take the editor’s seat, read the story and see if you can spot the problems from that editor’s point of view. You will be surprised at how easy it can be to see the error, and even easier to fix it.

You are always going to get ‘constructive’ criticism.

I never used to handle it well, but now, I talk on the advice of others. Sometimes I ignore it, but I am always willing to read what others think of my work, even if it is sometimes disparaging.

I cannot please all of the people all of the time.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

Day 216

Rejection – everyone is on the end of it – but it doesn’t have to be the end, or a negative

…

Here’s the good news – getting a rejection letter from a publisher declining to publish the book you thought was about to launch your writing career into the stratosphere, or on a lesser scale, a rejection of an article you wrote for your favourite magazine, is one of those things that goes with the territory.

It happens to everyone, and even those writers who are now No. 1 bestselling authors. The most notable rejection story I ever read was that of J K Rowling and her Harry Potter.

The trick is, don’t let it get the better of you. Never send away a piece of writing without keeping a little section of your hopes on hold so that if the improbable happens, it is not as devastating.

Then, before the soul searching, or wondering what was wrong, if the letter has reasons why they didn’t publish, and please let it not be as simple as sending a fishing story to a wedding magazine, look at the information as constructive criticism, and make changes.

If they don’t give any feedback, then try to take the editor’s seat, read the story and see if you can spot the problems from that editor’s point of view. You will be surprised at how easy it can be to see the error, and even easier to fix it.

You are always going to get ‘constructive’ criticism.

I never used to handle it well, but now, I talk on the advice of others. Sometimes I ignore it, but I am always willing to read what others think of my work, even if it is sometimes disparaging.

I cannot please all of the people all of the time.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

Days 214 and 215

Taking an old story that has never been used and re-editing it

…

All of the thirteen passengers and crew, when the plane lifted off the runway on what had always been a routine hour-and-a-half flight, never thought they’d find themselves in what was, literally, a life and death situation.

Now, the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, for nearly all smoked (and some for the first time).  Tension thickened the atmosphere to a point where it could almost be cut with a knife.

In the deathly quiet, all had time to reflect on the fate that had befallen them, and the resume of events read like the script of an archetypal disaster movie.

The first hint of trouble came when they’d lost one engine.  The pilot had been quite nonchalant about it because, he said, they had three others.  Only Harry thought he could detect a note of apprehension in his tone, a revelation he chose wisely to keep to himself.

Then, after a short time, they lost another engine.

Exactly twenty-five minutes later, they crashed.

Of the thirteen, in those precious seconds before impact, none believed they would survive, and all were shocked that only the pilot and co-pilot perished.  All admitted it had been a spectacular piece of flying on the pilot’s part, all, that is, except Rawlings.

Rawlings had been, from the departure lounge to moments before the plane crashed, the passenger from hell. Now, having recovered, he reverted to type. “A fine mess this blasted pilot has got us into,” Rawlings said for the umpteenth time.  No one had taken much notice before, and it was debatable whether anyone was taking notice now, for Rawlings had hardly endeared himself to the other passengers.

As the only person travelling first class, he made sure he received the best service (and the only one to receive any service for that matter) from the moment he came on board.  The fact that the airline had allocated only two stewardesses for the flight was the airline’s (and his fellow passengers’) problem, not his.

“After telling us how clever you are, Rawlings, why don’t you do something about it?”  An indistinguishable voice came from the rear of the plane.  It was an indication of the undercurrent of hate simmering beneath the icy calm.

Rawlings, still in the forward section of the plane, glared at the group, trying to put a face to the voice.  “To whom am I speaking?”

No one replied.

“No matter.”  He shrugged it off.  “Had the pilot managed to get the plane down in one piece, I could.  Since he didn’t, you can be assured I’ll think of something, which is more than I can say for some.”  It was, to him, a simple statement based on his assessment of the situation, but it served only to further alienate him from the others.

He was neither an aeronautical engineer nor apparently a problem solver.

Harry had known better days, and, not for the first time, he wished this had been one of them.  He’d had a premonition the previous night when he’d woken, bathed in sweat, an unconscious warning of an impending disaster.

Not that the threat of death was significant to him, for he knew it would come eventually, despite the doctor’s optimism, but not yet, not here, in the middle of nowhere, atop a mountain range in the freezing cold.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, a most curious mixture of travellers.

Rawlings was the egotistical, bombastic, thorough son-of-a-bitch.  He had gone out of his way to make the trip as miserable as possible for the others.  Status, to him, was all-important, even after the crash.

Harkness, Rawlings’ assistant (and relegated to Economy class because he was a servant), was the sort who said little and suffered a lot.  His defence of the pilot had caused Rawlings to ‘vent his spleen’ on him, after which, to Harkness, the silence must have been golden.

Daphne and her mother, Mrs Gaunt, two of the three women passengers on board, were congenial, cheerful people who bore up well considering they were terrified out of their wits.  Daphne, in fact, had taken over stewardess duties for the Economy passengers, along with a transferring airline employee, Winnie, a job much appreciated by them.

The remaining three passengers, geologists, were odd sorts who arrived late and almost drunk.  After take off, they’d fallen asleep and, in fact, had slept through the crash.  They were, Harry thought, in for one hell of a shock when they finally woke.

Of all on board, the stewardess named Bella had fared the worst, having, after the discovery of the death of the pilots, become hysterical.  It was an interesting development because she had kept a tight, calm grip on the situation all through the calamity.

Harry huddled closer under his blanket, only to remember his sore arm.  He didn’t think it was dislocated, but it certainly felt like it.  And the hell of it was, he couldn’t remember how it happened.  He shuddered as a gust of icy wind came through the rent in the fuselage near his seat.  But it was not only the cold which left him with almost uncontrollable shakes – it was also the onset of shock. 

In the back of his mind, he relived those cataclysmic minutes after successive engines failed.  It was then he wished he hadn’t been so insistent on having a window seat.

As the plane lurched sickeningly, the pilot calmly said they’d have to land immediately.  Of course, he added equally as calm, it would be difficult in mountainous country.  However, they were fortunate that it had been snowing recently.  All except Rawlings took the news with equanimity.  It was odd, someone said later, that with all his knowledge and self-praise, Rawlings didn’t take over the plane and fly them to safety.

The plane was barely in the air when the order came to brace themselves, and all were prepared when the plane hit the ground moments later.

The plane came to rest abruptly in a snow-covered valley; the silence, after the cacophony of tearing metal and involuntary screams, was almost maddening.  The first realisation each had was that they were still alive – the second, the icy wind coming in through the large cracks in the fuselage.

Harry was the first to move himself into action, and to make an appraisal of the situation.  The other passengers were more or less unharmed, except for the other stewardess, Alice, who was slightly dazed.  Then, Harkness joining him, they followed Bella forward to the flight deck.  When they managed to wrench the door open, they were greeted by a scene of total destruction.  Both pilots were dead, unrecognisable in the mass of twisted wreckage.  Bella screamed, then fainted. Harry quickly reclosed the door before he was physically ill.

At least it explained why the plane had stopped so abruptly:  they’d crashed into a rock in the last stages of the slide.  It was miraculous that the plane hadn’t caught fire.

Harry had no intention of taking charge; it just happened.  He told the others what the situation was briefly and in a calm and down to earth, then suggested they search for food and other items such as blankets.  Everyone noted Rawlings’ lack of enthusiasm to help, and if it had not been for Daphne, he would not have received blankets or food.  Most ignored him, wondering at the fact that he could still be so aloof in such tragic circumstances.

Because of the cold, they quickly organised themselves closer together for extra warmth, so they could wait for their rescue.  It wouldn’t, they reasoned relatively cheerfully, be long. We all expected the pilot to have radioed the flight path check point, the calamity details and an SOS.

Whilst the others may have considered Rawlings little more than a pain in the neck, it would have surprised them to learn that he despaired for them.  He couldn’t understand their attitude towards him, for all he wanted to do was make them feel better, and, if he could, help. At least that was what he was thinking.

But there was little chance of that occurring, and, in fact, as much chance as him receiving the treatment he considered he deserved.  It was clear in his own mind that there were two types of people in the world: the leaders and the led.  By his station in life, he was one of the leaders.  Why, he asked himself rhetorically, didn’t they realise that?  He glared at them, all studiously ignoring his presence.  There was, he thought bitterly, little prospect of getting any assistance from those people.

…

Conditions were unbearable during the first night.  Darkness had fallen quickly, and with no hot food to ward off even a fraction of the coldness that had settled on them, their relatively good spirits quickly dissipating. 

To Harry (and the others), the night seemed interminable, and he found it impossible to sleep for any length of time.  He was shaking almost uncontrollably, despite the warm clothing and number of blankets, and, as dawn broke, he wasted no time getting up and about to get his circulation going again, urging the others to do likewise.  It was something he remembered having seen in a film once: if the cold was allowed to take over, a person quickly succumbed and died.

His first venture outside was something of an experience.  In the first instance, it was colder outside than in, if that was possible, and in the second, the landscape was as bleak, in his opinion, as their prospects of rescue. Another thought he should keep to himself.

After trekking some distance through the rather solid snow and up a rise, he found he had a good view of the plane, and the fact that there were, strangely, no trees from one end of the valley to the other.  The same could not be said for the surrounding country.  It seemed an impossibility that the pilot had been able to find such a place, and, desperately unlucky, he should hit the only rock Harry could see in the line of the plane’s path.

The plane was half covered in snow.  It was apparent it had been snowing during the night, and by the look of the sky, more was on the way.  Low clouds continually swept through the valley, obscuring everything from view, and that, he considered, would make discovery from the air nigh on impossible.

What it really meant was that they would have to come up with their own plan of action rather than wait for hypothermia to take its toll.  It was something he had been thinking about most of the night, but he had been unable to progress to any sort of workable alternatives.

During a clear period, Harry saw Harkness coming towards him slowly.  He was rapidly gaining respect for Harkness, as he was not only surprisingly resilient(despite being blunted by the more dominant Rawlings), but he was also resourceful.

By the time he reached Harry, he was out of breath and needed a few minutes to recover.  Harry noted he looked a good deal older than he had first estimated.

“What a hike, but it sure beats the hell out of waiting down there,” Harkness said when he’d recovered sufficiently, nodding towards the wreckage.  “And, God knows how, I feel warm.”

“So do I.  It was one of the reasons I came here.”

“Those three geologists, or whatever they are, are finally awake.  Boy, you should have seen their faces.  One swore he’d give up drink forever.”

“He may get his wish sooner than he thinks.”

“You don’t rate our chances of discovery high, eh?”

“Take a look.”  Harry beckoned to the mist, which was back and swirling through the valley, obliterating everything in their view.  Harry, in fact, could hardly see the plane.

“Yes.  I see what you mean.  What do you think we should do?”

“God knows.  But one thing is for sure, I don’t think we can afford to sit and wait for someone to come and find us.  Not under the current circumstances, with more snow imminent.   It’ll take only another fall to completely hide us from any viewpoint.”

Harkness looked at the sky, then at the surroundings, and nodded in agreement, adding, after a minute, “It seems odd this is the only part of the country that’s clear of trees.  Do you think there’s any significance in that?”

“Exactly, would you believe, what I was thinking?”

“Do you think we might be near help?”

“Who knows.  But, because of the urgency of the situation, I think we should find out.  The question is, who is the ideal person?”  There was, however, no doubt in his mind.

“You’re mad, stark, staring mad,” Rawlings said when Harry told the others of the plan he and Harkness had formulated on their way back to the plane.

“I agree there is an element of risk….”

“Risk?” Rawlings exploded.  “Risk?  It’s bloody suicide.  My own view is that we should sit tight.  We have enough to eat, and we’re relatively warm.  It won’t be long before the search parties are out now we are overdue.”

“You haven’t been outside.  Circumstances dictate that we must seek help.  It’s been explained in detail.  If you cannot understand the situation, then don’t interfere.”  Harkness glared at his old chief, for the first time feeling more than a match for him.  Rawlings would never again dominate him.

“Then you’re fools, as are all the rest of you if you condone this idiocy.  I wash my hands of it.”  And he ignored them, going back to his book.  If that Davidson character wanted to kill himself, that was his business.

There were no other objections.  The others understood the realities of the situation, both Harkness and Harry had explained at length.  Harry would seek assistance.  Harkness would do his best to keep the others alive.

Then, after a good meal (in the circumstances) and taking enough food for two days, Harry left.  At the top of the rise, he stopped, briefly, looking at the scene.  It was, he thought, exactly as it had been in the dream.

…

For two days, it had snowed continuously.  The sub-zero temperatures had virtually sapped them all of whatever energy they had left, and, on the morning of the third day, they were all barely alive

At the end of the second day, Harkness had requested everybody to huddle together, including the standoffish Rawlings, who finally agreed, despite inner misgivings.  It was probably this single action that saved them.

Harkness, though he said nothing, had given up hope that Harry would still be alive.  No one could have survived the intensity of the blizzard.

Harkness had woken to inky darkness and a death-like silence, the storm having abated.  His first thought was that he had died, but that passed as the cold slowly made itself felt.  Soon after, finding his torch still worked, he roused everyone and cajoled or browbeat them into doing their exercises to ward off frostbite.

It was then that they heard the strange throbbing sound, and Harkness instinctively tried to get outside and found they’d been snowed in.  As the throbbing sound passed over them again, Harkness didn’t need to ask for assistance to make an opening through the snow.  They frantically dug their way out; luckily, the snow wall was only of powder-like consistency. 

Not long after daylight showed through, and then Harkness was out.  But the plane, or what he assumed to be a plane, had gone.

Instead, he was alone, by the snow mountain that covered the plane, greeted by a perfectly blue sky and the sun’s rays.  It was, he thought wryly, perfect skiing weather, but awfully lonely if no one could see where you were.

In a minute, he was joined by Daphne, and the disappointment was written on her face.  They waited, wordless, by the plane for an hour, glad to be out of the confined space of the fuselage, and were, at various times, joined by the others, escaping what Mrs Gaunt had said (now, after the rescue plane had gone) would probably be their grave.  The disbelief and joy of having survived the crash had now worn off, and Harkness knew that if they had to try to survive another night, some might not make it.

He was alone, striking out for the rise when the throbbing sound returned, coming from behind him.  And judging by the sound, it could not be a plane.  It was too low and too slow.  Thus, he was not surprised when a helicopter hovered over the rise and slowed as the occupants sighted him waving frantically, and yelling, quickly being joined by the others.

They all couldn’t believe they’d been rescued, all, that is, except Rawlings.  In every instance, Rawlings had been the exception, and it was not to his credit.  He was the only one who had suffered severely from frostbite.  He was, however, the one to say, when they finally reached what he called civilisation, that he’d been right:  that all they had to do was sit tight and wait.  They’d be rescued sooner or later.

That was when the leader of the rescue operation shattered his illusion – and shocked everyone else.  “That’s not necessarily so, Mr Rawlings.  You would have been discovered, but late in spring, after the thaw.  The plane was terribly off course, and, to be honest, after the second day, we’d given up any real hope of finding you.  The country around here is very rugged.  No, you owe a great deal to a fellow called Davidson.”

“Davidson, you say?” Harkness muttered.  “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately, no.  He died soon after he told us about the plane and where it had crashed.  If he hadn’t, you’d still be there.”

“My God.”  Harkness slumped into a chair, only barely able to hear Rawlings say, quietly, “I told him it was suicide, but no one listened to me.  Suicide, I said.  And, as for that damn pilot…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 214 and 215

Taking an old story that has never been used and re-editing it

…

All of the thirteen passengers and crew, when the plane lifted off the runway on what had always been a routine hour-and-a-half flight, never thought they’d find themselves in what was, literally, a life and death situation.

Now, the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, for nearly all smoked (and some for the first time).  Tension thickened the atmosphere to a point where it could almost be cut with a knife.

In the deathly quiet, all had time to reflect on the fate that had befallen them, and the resume of events read like the script of an archetypal disaster movie.

The first hint of trouble came when they’d lost one engine.  The pilot had been quite nonchalant about it because, he said, they had three others.  Only Harry thought he could detect a note of apprehension in his tone, a revelation he chose wisely to keep to himself.

Then, after a short time, they lost another engine.

Exactly twenty-five minutes later, they crashed.

Of the thirteen, in those precious seconds before impact, none believed they would survive, and all were shocked that only the pilot and co-pilot perished.  All admitted it had been a spectacular piece of flying on the pilot’s part, all, that is, except Rawlings.

Rawlings had been, from the departure lounge to moments before the plane crashed, the passenger from hell. Now, having recovered, he reverted to type. “A fine mess this blasted pilot has got us into,” Rawlings said for the umpteenth time.  No one had taken much notice before, and it was debatable whether anyone was taking notice now, for Rawlings had hardly endeared himself to the other passengers.

As the only person travelling first class, he made sure he received the best service (and the only one to receive any service for that matter) from the moment he came on board.  The fact that the airline had allocated only two stewardesses for the flight was the airline’s (and his fellow passengers’) problem, not his.

“After telling us how clever you are, Rawlings, why don’t you do something about it?”  An indistinguishable voice came from the rear of the plane.  It was an indication of the undercurrent of hate simmering beneath the icy calm.

Rawlings, still in the forward section of the plane, glared at the group, trying to put a face to the voice.  “To whom am I speaking?”

No one replied.

“No matter.”  He shrugged it off.  “Had the pilot managed to get the plane down in one piece, I could.  Since he didn’t, you can be assured I’ll think of something, which is more than I can say for some.”  It was, to him, a simple statement based on his assessment of the situation, but it served only to further alienate him from the others.

He was neither an aeronautical engineer nor apparently a problem solver.

Harry had known better days, and, not for the first time, he wished this had been one of them.  He’d had a premonition the previous night when he’d woken, bathed in sweat, an unconscious warning of an impending disaster.

Not that the threat of death was significant to him, for he knew it would come eventually, despite the doctor’s optimism, but not yet, not here, in the middle of nowhere, atop a mountain range in the freezing cold.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, a most curious mixture of travellers.

Rawlings was the egotistical, bombastic, thorough son-of-a-bitch.  He had gone out of his way to make the trip as miserable as possible for the others.  Status, to him, was all-important, even after the crash.

Harkness, Rawlings’ assistant (and relegated to Economy class because he was a servant), was the sort who said little and suffered a lot.  His defence of the pilot had caused Rawlings to ‘vent his spleen’ on him, after which, to Harkness, the silence must have been golden.

Daphne and her mother, Mrs Gaunt, two of the three women passengers on board, were congenial, cheerful people who bore up well considering they were terrified out of their wits.  Daphne, in fact, had taken over stewardess duties for the Economy passengers, along with a transferring airline employee, Winnie, a job much appreciated by them.

The remaining three passengers, geologists, were odd sorts who arrived late and almost drunk.  After take off, they’d fallen asleep and, in fact, had slept through the crash.  They were, Harry thought, in for one hell of a shock when they finally woke.

Of all on board, the stewardess named Bella had fared the worst, having, after the discovery of the death of the pilots, become hysterical.  It was an interesting development because she had kept a tight, calm grip on the situation all through the calamity.

Harry huddled closer under his blanket, only to remember his sore arm.  He didn’t think it was dislocated, but it certainly felt like it.  And the hell of it was, he couldn’t remember how it happened.  He shuddered as a gust of icy wind came through the rent in the fuselage near his seat.  But it was not only the cold which left him with almost uncontrollable shakes – it was also the onset of shock. 

In the back of his mind, he relived those cataclysmic minutes after successive engines failed.  It was then he wished he hadn’t been so insistent on having a window seat.

As the plane lurched sickeningly, the pilot calmly said they’d have to land immediately.  Of course, he added equally as calm, it would be difficult in mountainous country.  However, they were fortunate that it had been snowing recently.  All except Rawlings took the news with equanimity.  It was odd, someone said later, that with all his knowledge and self-praise, Rawlings didn’t take over the plane and fly them to safety.

The plane was barely in the air when the order came to brace themselves, and all were prepared when the plane hit the ground moments later.

The plane came to rest abruptly in a snow-covered valley; the silence, after the cacophony of tearing metal and involuntary screams, was almost maddening.  The first realisation each had was that they were still alive – the second, the icy wind coming in through the large cracks in the fuselage.

Harry was the first to move himself into action, and to make an appraisal of the situation.  The other passengers were more or less unharmed, except for the other stewardess, Alice, who was slightly dazed.  Then, Harkness joining him, they followed Bella forward to the flight deck.  When they managed to wrench the door open, they were greeted by a scene of total destruction.  Both pilots were dead, unrecognisable in the mass of twisted wreckage.  Bella screamed, then fainted. Harry quickly reclosed the door before he was physically ill.

At least it explained why the plane had stopped so abruptly:  they’d crashed into a rock in the last stages of the slide.  It was miraculous that the plane hadn’t caught fire.

Harry had no intention of taking charge; it just happened.  He told the others what the situation was briefly and in a calm and down to earth, then suggested they search for food and other items such as blankets.  Everyone noted Rawlings’ lack of enthusiasm to help, and if it had not been for Daphne, he would not have received blankets or food.  Most ignored him, wondering at the fact that he could still be so aloof in such tragic circumstances.

Because of the cold, they quickly organised themselves closer together for extra warmth, so they could wait for their rescue.  It wouldn’t, they reasoned relatively cheerfully, be long. We all expected the pilot to have radioed the flight path check point, the calamity details and an SOS.

Whilst the others may have considered Rawlings little more than a pain in the neck, it would have surprised them to learn that he despaired for them.  He couldn’t understand their attitude towards him, for all he wanted to do was make them feel better, and, if he could, help. At least that was what he was thinking.

But there was little chance of that occurring, and, in fact, as much chance as him receiving the treatment he considered he deserved.  It was clear in his own mind that there were two types of people in the world: the leaders and the led.  By his station in life, he was one of the leaders.  Why, he asked himself rhetorically, didn’t they realise that?  He glared at them, all studiously ignoring his presence.  There was, he thought bitterly, little prospect of getting any assistance from those people.

…

Conditions were unbearable during the first night.  Darkness had fallen quickly, and with no hot food to ward off even a fraction of the coldness that had settled on them, their relatively good spirits quickly dissipating. 

To Harry (and the others), the night seemed interminable, and he found it impossible to sleep for any length of time.  He was shaking almost uncontrollably, despite the warm clothing and number of blankets, and, as dawn broke, he wasted no time getting up and about to get his circulation going again, urging the others to do likewise.  It was something he remembered having seen in a film once: if the cold was allowed to take over, a person quickly succumbed and died.

His first venture outside was something of an experience.  In the first instance, it was colder outside than in, if that was possible, and in the second, the landscape was as bleak, in his opinion, as their prospects of rescue. Another thought he should keep to himself.

After trekking some distance through the rather solid snow and up a rise, he found he had a good view of the plane, and the fact that there were, strangely, no trees from one end of the valley to the other.  The same could not be said for the surrounding country.  It seemed an impossibility that the pilot had been able to find such a place, and, desperately unlucky, he should hit the only rock Harry could see in the line of the plane’s path.

The plane was half covered in snow.  It was apparent it had been snowing during the night, and by the look of the sky, more was on the way.  Low clouds continually swept through the valley, obscuring everything from view, and that, he considered, would make discovery from the air nigh on impossible.

What it really meant was that they would have to come up with their own plan of action rather than wait for hypothermia to take its toll.  It was something he had been thinking about most of the night, but he had been unable to progress to any sort of workable alternatives.

During a clear period, Harry saw Harkness coming towards him slowly.  He was rapidly gaining respect for Harkness, as he was not only surprisingly resilient(despite being blunted by the more dominant Rawlings), but he was also resourceful.

By the time he reached Harry, he was out of breath and needed a few minutes to recover.  Harry noted he looked a good deal older than he had first estimated.

“What a hike, but it sure beats the hell out of waiting down there,” Harkness said when he’d recovered sufficiently, nodding towards the wreckage.  “And, God knows how, I feel warm.”

“So do I.  It was one of the reasons I came here.”

“Those three geologists, or whatever they are, are finally awake.  Boy, you should have seen their faces.  One swore he’d give up drink forever.”

“He may get his wish sooner than he thinks.”

“You don’t rate our chances of discovery high, eh?”

“Take a look.”  Harry beckoned to the mist, which was back and swirling through the valley, obliterating everything in their view.  Harry, in fact, could hardly see the plane.

“Yes.  I see what you mean.  What do you think we should do?”

“God knows.  But one thing is for sure, I don’t think we can afford to sit and wait for someone to come and find us.  Not under the current circumstances, with more snow imminent.   It’ll take only another fall to completely hide us from any viewpoint.”

Harkness looked at the sky, then at the surroundings, and nodded in agreement, adding, after a minute, “It seems odd this is the only part of the country that’s clear of trees.  Do you think there’s any significance in that?”

“Exactly, would you believe, what I was thinking?”

“Do you think we might be near help?”

“Who knows.  But, because of the urgency of the situation, I think we should find out.  The question is, who is the ideal person?”  There was, however, no doubt in his mind.

“You’re mad, stark, staring mad,” Rawlings said when Harry told the others of the plan he and Harkness had formulated on their way back to the plane.

“I agree there is an element of risk….”

“Risk?” Rawlings exploded.  “Risk?  It’s bloody suicide.  My own view is that we should sit tight.  We have enough to eat, and we’re relatively warm.  It won’t be long before the search parties are out now we are overdue.”

“You haven’t been outside.  Circumstances dictate that we must seek help.  It’s been explained in detail.  If you cannot understand the situation, then don’t interfere.”  Harkness glared at his old chief, for the first time feeling more than a match for him.  Rawlings would never again dominate him.

“Then you’re fools, as are all the rest of you if you condone this idiocy.  I wash my hands of it.”  And he ignored them, going back to his book.  If that Davidson character wanted to kill himself, that was his business.

There were no other objections.  The others understood the realities of the situation, both Harkness and Harry had explained at length.  Harry would seek assistance.  Harkness would do his best to keep the others alive.

Then, after a good meal (in the circumstances) and taking enough food for two days, Harry left.  At the top of the rise, he stopped, briefly, looking at the scene.  It was, he thought, exactly as it had been in the dream.

…

For two days, it had snowed continuously.  The sub-zero temperatures had virtually sapped them all of whatever energy they had left, and, on the morning of the third day, they were all barely alive

At the end of the second day, Harkness had requested everybody to huddle together, including the standoffish Rawlings, who finally agreed, despite inner misgivings.  It was probably this single action that saved them.

Harkness, though he said nothing, had given up hope that Harry would still be alive.  No one could have survived the intensity of the blizzard.

Harkness had woken to inky darkness and a death-like silence, the storm having abated.  His first thought was that he had died, but that passed as the cold slowly made itself felt.  Soon after, finding his torch still worked, he roused everyone and cajoled or browbeat them into doing their exercises to ward off frostbite.

It was then that they heard the strange throbbing sound, and Harkness instinctively tried to get outside and found they’d been snowed in.  As the throbbing sound passed over them again, Harkness didn’t need to ask for assistance to make an opening through the snow.  They frantically dug their way out; luckily, the snow wall was only of powder-like consistency. 

Not long after daylight showed through, and then Harkness was out.  But the plane, or what he assumed to be a plane, had gone.

Instead, he was alone, by the snow mountain that covered the plane, greeted by a perfectly blue sky and the sun’s rays.  It was, he thought wryly, perfect skiing weather, but awfully lonely if no one could see where you were.

In a minute, he was joined by Daphne, and the disappointment was written on her face.  They waited, wordless, by the plane for an hour, glad to be out of the confined space of the fuselage, and were, at various times, joined by the others, escaping what Mrs Gaunt had said (now, after the rescue plane had gone) would probably be their grave.  The disbelief and joy of having survived the crash had now worn off, and Harkness knew that if they had to try to survive another night, some might not make it.

He was alone, striking out for the rise when the throbbing sound returned, coming from behind him.  And judging by the sound, it could not be a plane.  It was too low and too slow.  Thus, he was not surprised when a helicopter hovered over the rise and slowed as the occupants sighted him waving frantically, and yelling, quickly being joined by the others.

They all couldn’t believe they’d been rescued, all, that is, except Rawlings.  In every instance, Rawlings had been the exception, and it was not to his credit.  He was the only one who had suffered severely from frostbite.  He was, however, the one to say, when they finally reached what he called civilisation, that he’d been right:  that all they had to do was sit tight and wait.  They’d be rescued sooner or later.

That was when the leader of the rescue operation shattered his illusion – and shocked everyone else.  “That’s not necessarily so, Mr Rawlings.  You would have been discovered, but late in spring, after the thaw.  The plane was terribly off course, and, to be honest, after the second day, we’d given up any real hope of finding you.  The country around here is very rugged.  No, you owe a great deal to a fellow called Davidson.”

“Davidson, you say?” Harkness muttered.  “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately, no.  He died soon after he told us about the plane and where it had crashed.  If he hadn’t, you’d still be there.”

“My God.”  Harkness slumped into a chair, only barely able to hear Rawlings say, quietly, “I told him it was suicide, but no one listened to me.  Suicide, I said.  And, as for that damn pilot…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025