Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event
…
I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.
It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.
Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67
“What did you see?” was the first question.
“Not a lot. But…”
She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.
“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”
I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.
“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”
“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”
“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”
“The victim was distracted?”
“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”
“From where?”
“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”
“Can you describe the thief?”
“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”
“Any identifying marks?”
“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”
…
That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.
“What did you see?”
“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”
My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.
“Then…”
“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”
I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”
“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”
“Can you describe the thief?”
“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”
At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”
…
I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.
And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.
Breakfast is supposed to be that first meal of the day, the one that sets you up for at least the morning.
If you can, get to sit down and relax.
If you don’t have a thousand thoughts running through your head, and none of them are good.
He is surprised to find that no one thought it a good idea to have the two brothers and the king autopsied.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but if there’s something, anything, the least of it would be for it to blow up in his face.
There were rumours, rumours he’d rather not hear, that his father had been acting strangely and making life difficult for everyone, which to a certain degree was how he generally was.
But….
Is it possible he may have recovered from dual heart attacks, or had he been sedated with an overdose of morphine? Was it mercy that he died? It was not what he wanted to think. In fact, it was the last thing he needed.
Those reports he received when he was back in America over that last year as his health declined and the old king was getting more and more despaired at the idea of Edward succeeding him, causing him to hang on longer than he should, were hard to read but not hard to understand.
It was the reason the new king believed, why the old king insisted on his return.
It would be good to discover what the old King’s motivation was, but now he was dead, perhaps they would never find out.
Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event
…
I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.
It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.
Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67
“What did you see?” was the first question.
“Not a lot. But…”
She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.
“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”
I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.
“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”
“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”
“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”
“The victim was distracted?”
“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”
“From where?”
“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”
“Can you describe the thief?”
“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”
“Any identifying marks?”
“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”
…
That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.
“What did you see?”
“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”
My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.
“Then…”
“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”
I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”
“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”
“Can you describe the thief?”
“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”
At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”
…
I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.
And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.
O is for — Or else. It all depends on who actually says it
…
When my older brother used to say ‘or else’, it usually meant that if I didn’t do what he asked, I would find myself on the end of my father’s idea or corporal punishment.
I hated my brother for all of my teenage years and then some.
What I learned from it was that everything I did had consequences, mostly those I didn’t like, even if what I did wasn’t bad. Someone could always put a spin on them so that it sounded a lot worse than the actual outcome
It was the reason why, in the end, I did nothing of consequence, and it meant that by the time I reached the pivotal age of forty, I had done nothing with my life.
No special girl, no marriage and divorce, a run-down car, a rented rubbish pile that could be called an apartment, and nothing of any consequence.
I was always with one foot out the door. No attachments to people or possessions, and to a certain degree, free as a bird.
And I might have stayed that way if I had not answered a phone call and stayed in one place long enough to receive a letter and an invitation.
To a high school reunion.
Josie Brixton, another name for the nemesis Josephine, was the one girl i hated more than my brother. It might have been because they were boyfriend and girlfriend all through high school, and she tormented me as much, if not worse, than he did.
They had their prom moment; I wished them well and then promptly packed a small bag and ran away from home. They had driven me to it, and with no support or relief from my parents, I no longer wanted to be part of that family.
I had a plan, as good a plan as a seventeen-year-old could come up with. I was going to find a jog on a ship and sail the seven seas until I could forget about the people who made my life impossible.
Of course, if it had been the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, that plan would have worked well, but in the twenty-first century. Instead I hopped on a train until a ticket inspector threw me off, in a small rural town in a place I’d never hear of, and when I asked at the nearest hotel where I could find a room, he directed me to a farm about six miles put of town, a farm always looking for workers.
The farmer, an old and lonely man, wife recently deceased and children gone, couldn’t pay much but offered a room, one his son had lived in until he left, and a job doing chores he couldn’t do himself, for the prove of a room and food. And a slice of the profits, if there were any.
I stayed for ten years.
No one asked where I came from. No one was really interested in who I was, and that suited me fine. I stayed until he died. Then, the children returned and fought over the inheritance. Five greedy, horrible children whom I left to sort themselves out. I read later that one shot the other four and then went to prison for the rest of his life.
Clearly, he had more problems than I did.
Twenty-three years later, I was on the other side of the country, a cleaner in an old hospital, working the night shift.
I made the mistake of never getting rid of my old phone number, and that was how Josephine found me. It was a number that seemed familiar but not a family one. I never spoke to any of them again.
“Hello?”
“I’m looking for a man named Christopher Blunt.” The voice sounded familiar, too.
“Speaking.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath, then, ” My God, you are alive?”
“Last I looked.” Then I recognised the voice and its little tonal inflections. Josephine, the kitchen from hell.
I disconnected the call. I never wanted to speak to her again, either. More than likely, she was married to my brother, and he was definitely on my “I don’t want to see” list.
The phone rang again, the same number. I ignored it and then switched off the phone. No one ever rang me, but that was more likely because I never gave anyone my number.
But over the next seven days, I mulled over why she would be calling me. When I told Wally, my daytime counterpart, at the shift change, he said in his usual philosophical way, “Things happen for a reason.”
He was probably right.
My brother was missing, making my life miserable.
In a moment of weakness, I answered the phone again.
Before I could get a word in, she said, “Don’t hang up.”
I said, in my best taciturn manner, “Then don’t call me. The fact I haven’t called you or anyone for twenty-three years should be a clear enough reason.”
“You caused a great deal of concern. No one knew what happened to you. We all believed you had been kidnapped and killed. Or worse. We had the sheriff, the county police, the state troopers, and then the FBI. Your parents were suspects for years, and your brother spent time in jail until he could prove his innocence. I guess, in a sense, they all deserved it. Even I was terrible to you.”
I shrugged. No apology would ever make up for what they did to me.
“Who are you calling?”
“A reunion at the high school. They’re bulldozing it and putting up a shopping mall. Last chance to relive those happy school memories.”
It was probably the line she used on all the ex-students. None of my memories were happy. “If that’s the selling point, you lost me. The only reason I’d come back is to drive the bulldozer. With the whole class inside. Do you really want someone like me there?”
“Everyone’s changed, you know.”
“My brother would never change.”
“Your brother is dead. Heart attack. You leaving destroyed everything I’d planned, so maybe I’m just as angry at you as you are with us.”
Well, if I’d planned to piss her off, it worked. “Then it’s the last I’ll hear about this reunion. Goodbye Josephine.”
I disconnected the call and then lamented the fact I had managed not to think about any pf them for years and how easily it was to get riled up at just the thought of them. Right then, I didn’t think I could ever get past that horrible part of life and the people who had made it so.
Of course, life would be simple if we could forget the sins of the past. I dated a psychiatrist a long time ago, and she attempted to analyse me. Practise for when she took up practise.
She eventually decided I was a hopeless case and that I needed yo confront those sins of the past. I just ignored her, but over the years, I had considered going home and then decided I wouldn’t.
Now, perhaps after twenty-three years, it was time.
In the end, it wasn’t a hard decision. The hospital management told me I could no longer accumulate my leave and told me I had to take it. All three months of it.
I got in the beat-up car and headed for my hometown, halfway across the country, not knowing if the car would make it.
It did, as far as the city limits, my town now a lot larger than it used to be. Passing the city limits sign, I picked up a sheriff’s car, and it followed me with lights flashing until I pulled over.
Just what I needed: a speeding ticket. Only I wasn’t speeding. I was meticulously careful not to show interest. Actions always had consequences.
Then I watched the deputy get out of the car, adjust his gun, put his hat on, check his reflection in the side window, and then walk towards the driver’s side of my car.
I watched him in the side mirror until, within a few feet, I recognised the face. Older now, still the same. “Bucky Winchester.” Bucky because he gut bucked off the artificial rodeo bull at the hotel not far from the same city limits I’d just passed.
There was a lot more to that story.
The man’s expression changed, and I knew it was him. “My God, you’re Christopher Blunt. You’re dead.”
“Then I can drive off with no charge to answer.”
“Clearly, you’re not dead. Where have you been?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Why?”
“Fuck, Bucky, maybe you and the rest of the football teams made my life hell.”
“You were not the only one. Hell, your brother wouldn’t let us treat you as badly as the others. Get out of the car.”
“Why?” Bucky was mean back then. Maybe he was still just as mean.
“Because it’s easier for you to shown me your licence and registration.”
“What was I doing wrong?”
“Nothing, but I still gave to check.”
I shrugged and then got out. I showed him the documents.
“You been in Maine?”
It was there on licence.
“Among other places.”
“Never thought of coming home?”
“Nope. Didn’t want to see you lot again.”
“And yet you’re here? Why?”
“Reunion.”
“There’s going to be a lot of familiar faces, not all of them happy to see you.”
“Then you might have to earn your salary.”
He looked up and down, then stood defensively, hand on gun but still holstered.
“Perhaps it would be for the best that you get back in your vehicle, turn around, and go back to where you came from. Or else.”
Sound advice from his point of view. “Or else what, Bucky?”
“I’ll arrest you and put you in jail for the duration.”
The squared soldier look, the very ugly, angry expression he had on his face, and the degree of belligerence I knew he had within him made him look formidable.
Except I knew his weakness.
“Then come and do it, Bucky.”
Boy to man, there was no change in what essentially the definitive schoolyard bully was.
Writing Exercise – Write about a place you’ve never been, with an out-of-sorts traveller, and a misunderstanding
…
Have you ever just decided on the spur of the moment to get away?
Anywhere but home, or whatever you think home is, but really it’s just four walls slowly closing in on you because it turns out it had become nothing like what you were hoping for.
A bit like life, really.
I ran away from home, not literally, but practically, because everything back home reminded me of the miserable life I had, no respect, no friends to speak of, and parents who couldn’t;t see past the asperations they had for me, my fathers to take over the hardware store, and my mother, to marry that nice girl Cindy, just up the road.
Cindy had no aspirations. The hardware store was a dinosaur from the past and would soon be superseded by the online suppliers who were cheaper and always in stock.
No one was listening, so I left.
Now, the same was happening. No one was listening, and I was getting stuck in a rut.
Time, I told myself, for a change.
New York Penn Station, the place to go anywhere other than New York.
I fired up my computer and found the first trip it showed me, from Penn Station on West 34th Street to Kansas City the next morning at 10:45, Via Chicago. I’d never been to Chicago, but I’d just watched a rather bad musical movie called Calamity Jane, and it was a place in it.
I think they called that serendipity.
…
I packed my trusty backpack for a two-day travelling experience after booking a business class seat. I would, at the very least, travel in a little comfort, and was no stranger to sleeping in seats, given the number of red-eye specials I took travelling for the company.
I found the train, and my seat, shown to me by a conductor, which was a surprise.
Then it was simply a matter of picking up my book, and reading until it was time to sleep.
Except…
Just before the train departed a young woman, about 30ish if I was to guess, came up the aisle, looking at seat numbers and then sitting next to me.
First reaction, she smelled of moth balls. An odd thought, had she been living in a clothes closit? Nothing would surprise me in New York.
Second creation, surprise she travelled with so little. Perhaps that was why she had so many clothes on: jeans, flannel shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf, gloves, sturdy boots.
She looked me up and down but said nothing. I tried not to look at her, but there was something about her. Had I seen her before, or was she ill? She looked very pale, and her eyes were watery. Did she have a cold or worse, a variant of COVID? I really didn’t want to get sick before I got started on this odyssey.
For a few minutes, before the train started rolling out of the station, I seriously considered getting off the train.
I didn’t and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.
…
Six hours out, she looked like death warmed up. There was definitely something wrong with her, and I was considering going to the conductor to see if there was a doctor on board.
Then she woke up.
I had to ask, “Are you alright?”
“Why?”
“You look very ill.”
“I just feel out of sorts. Time of the year, between seasons. Hot one minute, cold the next.”
I’m surprised she told me, after the instant dagger look she gave me before I asked.
“Why take the train when you can fly?”
“Going to see my parents in Kansas City.”
“You live there?”
“No.”
Didn’t answer the question. Like everyone else I spoke to it was impossible to get a straight answer to a clear question.
“But your parents live there?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“They moved to Kansas City?”
“No. Lived there all their lives.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to fly?”
“Not enough time.”
OK. Another strange answer that begged a hundred questions.
“For what?”
She gave me a seriously dangerous look, and I think if she had either a gun or a knife, I’d be dead now. “Do you always ask daft questions?”
“Mostly, it seems, but I’ll bite. Not enough time for what?”
“To think about what I will say to them?”
“About what?”
OK. That was not a question to ask, but she definitely piqued my interest.
“A guy I knew in Kansas City.”
“But you don;t live there?”
“He followed me to New York. Thought I was the one. Seems he thought that about three, so he had three ‘the one’s’. If you know what I mean.”
I seriously considered going back to sleep. Or reading the Gideon version of the bible I stole from a hotel room.
“But you didn’t live in Kansas City?”
“Not now. No.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
“To what?”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“The not ‘one’.”
She looked at me strangely. “Are you sure you’re not an axe murderer? I mean, it would be just my luck…”
First on the list was his sister, the one hoping that when all else failed, she would become Queen.
Of course, being a surviving male, he had usurped her hopes, and it wasn’t going to be an easy reunion once they were alone.
And seeing Isobel, her counterpart in the next principality and fierce rival, and sometimes enemy at the gate over the last 800 years, nothing is going to be simple.
At least she hasn’t tried to assassinate him yet.
Then, there is the fiancé of Edward, the man who would have been king, and whose body had still not been recovered and probably might not.
She’s genuinely upset and appears to know nothing about any plot to disappear and meet up later in Paris, or that she was on her way to Paris for any other reason than just leaving like it was normal.
The new king insists she stay for the King’s funeral.
Then there’s the fiancé of Gregory, the princess that had Bern selected for our new king, as much a match could be made when they were younger.
They had never hit it off, but she stayed and found her way with the King’s immediate older brother.
She, too, seems upset, but not as much as she could be. She wants to stay and honour his memory in some way, and that is fine with the king.
She had met his choice of bride and, being a non-royal, offers to guide her through the process, though admitting Rush is not going to be a shrinking violet.
Writing Exercise – Write about a place you’ve never been, with an out-of-sorts traveller, and a misunderstanding
…
Have you ever just decided on the spur of the moment to get away?
Anywhere but home, or whatever you think home is, but really it’s just four walls slowly closing in on you because it turns out it had become nothing like what you were hoping for.
A bit like life, really.
I ran away from home, not literally, but practically, because everything back home reminded me of the miserable life I had, no respect, no friends to speak of, and parents who couldn’t;t see past the asperations they had for me, my fathers to take over the hardware store, and my mother, to marry that nice girl Cindy, just up the road.
Cindy had no aspirations. The hardware store was a dinosaur from the past and would soon be superseded by the online suppliers who were cheaper and always in stock.
No one was listening, so I left.
Now, the same was happening. No one was listening, and I was getting stuck in a rut.
Time, I told myself, for a change.
New York Penn Station, the place to go anywhere other than New York.
I fired up my computer and found the first trip it showed me, from Penn Station on West 34th Street to Kansas City the next morning at 10:45, Via Chicago. I’d never been to Chicago, but I’d just watched a rather bad musical movie called Calamity Jane, and it was a place in it.
I think they called that serendipity.
…
I packed my trusty backpack for a two-day travelling experience after booking a business class seat. I would, at the very least, travel in a little comfort, and was no stranger to sleeping in seats, given the number of red-eye specials I took travelling for the company.
I found the train, and my seat, shown to me by a conductor, which was a surprise.
Then it was simply a matter of picking up my book, and reading until it was time to sleep.
Except…
Just before the train departed a young woman, about 30ish if I was to guess, came up the aisle, looking at seat numbers and then sitting next to me.
First reaction, she smelled of moth balls. An odd thought, had she been living in a clothes closit? Nothing would surprise me in New York.
Second creation, surprise she travelled with so little. Perhaps that was why she had so many clothes on: jeans, flannel shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf, gloves, sturdy boots.
She looked me up and down but said nothing. I tried not to look at her, but there was something about her. Had I seen her before, or was she ill? She looked very pale, and her eyes were watery. Did she have a cold or worse, a variant of COVID? I really didn’t want to get sick before I got started on this odyssey.
For a few minutes, before the train started rolling out of the station, I seriously considered getting off the train.
I didn’t and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.
…
Six hours out, she looked like death warmed up. There was definitely something wrong with her, and I was considering going to the conductor to see if there was a doctor on board.
Then she woke up.
I had to ask, “Are you alright?”
“Why?”
“You look very ill.”
“I just feel out of sorts. Time of the year, between seasons. Hot one minute, cold the next.”
I’m surprised she told me, after the instant dagger look she gave me before I asked.
“Why take the train when you can fly?”
“Going to see my parents in Kansas City.”
“You live there?”
“No.”
Didn’t answer the question. Like everyone else I spoke to it was impossible to get a straight answer to a clear question.
“But your parents live there?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“They moved to Kansas City?”
“No. Lived there all their lives.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to fly?”
“Not enough time.”
OK. Another strange answer that begged a hundred questions.
“For what?”
She gave me a seriously dangerous look, and I think if she had either a gun or a knife, I’d be dead now. “Do you always ask daft questions?”
“Mostly, it seems, but I’ll bite. Not enough time for what?”
“To think about what I will say to them?”
“About what?”
OK. That was not a question to ask, but she definitely piqued my interest.
“A guy I knew in Kansas City.”
“But you don;t live there?”
“He followed me to New York. Thought I was the one. Seems he thought that about three, so he had three ‘the one’s’. If you know what I mean.”
I seriously considered going back to sleep. Or reading the Gideon version of the bible I stole from a hotel room.
“But you didn’t live in Kansas City?”
“Not now. No.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
“To what?”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“The not ‘one’.”
She looked at me strangely. “Are you sure you’re not an axe murderer? I mean, it would be just my luck…”
N is for — Nostalgia. Be careful what you wish for
…
I was woken by Chester, who had jumped up in the bed and was making himself comfortable.
At first, I was disoriented, and it took a few moments to reassure me I was not back in 1928 but home in bed, and a glance at the clock showed it to be 3:25 am.
I cursed Chester.
I didn’t want to be woken right then because I was about to meet James’s girl of his dreams, Matilda, and perhaps be granted a brief entry into a world very few knew existed, and as a bonusa about to experience a first-class sleeper on the Royal Scotsman, and later, dinner in the first class restaurant car.
Now…
Chester raised his head to glare at me, then let out a grumpy meow before putting his head back down and snuggling up close. At least he hadn’t crawled under the sheets. Yet.
I tried going back to sleep, hoping it would take me back, but I couldn’t.
After a few minutes, I got up and put on a thick dressing gown, went back to the sitting room, and picked up the manuscript. Just in case I went back, perhaps I could study up on Matilda and James and their families.
I realised that I didn’t quite know who I was looking for or how I would recognise her, which would be quite odd if he and she were boyfriend and girlfriend.
I flicked forward through the pages to find how they met on the train and found a distinct detail: that she would be wearing a coat lined with fur and a sable fur hat. In those days, fur wasn’t frowned upon, but of course, only the wealthy could afford it.
Matilda was also fashion-conscious and wore only the latest clothing trends, one such comment saying that she loved her white evening gown that fit perfectly. I doubted she would be wearing it on the train, but something more appropriate for travel.
I also did a deep dive into the Royal Scotsman, the train that ran from Euston Station at 7:20 pm. and arrived in Inverness mid-morning and was not an express like the Flying Scotsman. Surprisingly, it was two trains separating at Crewe, one half going to Inverness, the other to Aberdeen.
My ticket would put me on the right part of the train, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
I leaned back and could see the first shards of light trying to get past the curtains. A new day dawning, another day of fact-checking.
Chester poked his head out the door to my room. Of course, meal time.
I sighed.
“…James…James, are you alright?”
A girls voice caught my attention, then the name. I opened my eyes and felt a sudden jerk in the seat, and I realised I was moving.
The train.
My dream, or whatever was driving the sojourn, had brought me back to Matilda.
We were seated opposite each other, and the train was moving, not quite at speed, but it was getting there.
The clock on the wall said it was 8:03 pm. Less than two hours before we reached Crewe.
Again, she asked, “Are you alright?” She had a concerned expression.
I blinked several times, then said. “Of course. I just got lost in the moment, on this train, with you and the anticipation.”
Of at least three events that would happen in the next 12 hours.
“It’s just a train.”
To a girl like her, it would be. For me, well, it was momentous.
“Yes,” I smiled. “It is just a train, something to get from one point to another, but it is quintessentially the best England can offer. As you can now see, I am a little in awe of it, and perhaps The Flying Scotsman.”
She made a face. “Perhaps we should take a rise on the Orient Express. That’s a train.”
The waiter came to our table and waited for Matilda to cast a glance in his direction before asking, “A bottle of wine perhaps with dinner?”
She nodded. “Champagne. Mumm, I believe is available?”
“It is.” Order in hand, he left.
“You do drink Champagne, James. I forgot to ask?”
“Of course.” And then gave silent thanks to my aunt, who had slipped me a decent amount of cash in case I needed it . It would be improper to expect Matilda to pay for this dinner, and it wasn’t going to be cheap.
It was a four-course dinner starting with fish, soup, mutton, or other meat with roasted vegetables and a dessert. It looked very elegant on the printed menu. I’d seen something similar at the Savoy.
I took a moment to take in the vision that was Matilda. The description in the book did not do her credit, and for James, there was an expression I heard my father use once: punching above his weight’.
She was too good for him, but that would not be a hurdle for them. Her parents, though, of family, might be.
“Who exactly will I be meeting this weekend? You did say it was going to be an outing for the hounds?”
“Yes, unfortunately. It’s very beastly for the poor fox.”
“They can be pests, though.”
“Have you been on one?”
“Once.” Dressing up and going out on horseback over hill and dale on what could be called a wild goose chase. “We didn’t find a fox that day; it was cold, at times wet, and tiring.”
“This is in Scotland. Cold, possible snow, and possibly no fox. I would prefer not to go, but it’s mandatory. I try to be elsewhere.”
Good to know. Those riding lessons my mother made us all take would come in handy. It was going to be fascinating seeing Matilda at home.
“Then it will be something to look forward to.”
The waitresses returned with the bottle and showed it to me, but I directed him to Matilda, who glared at him, then nodded and waited until he poured a small quantity into her glass.
She tasted it and nodded, and he filled our glasses.
As he left, the first course was served, and I waited until she picked up her cutlery, a fish knife and fork.
Haddock, perhaps, was a species hard to find these days, but back then… whatever it was, it was exquisite.
Soon after finishing that course, the next arrived, the soup, and then the next, delivered by a now surly looking waiter, without broaching any controversial subjects and maintaining a companionable silence when required.
She had a way of making people, especially James, feel at ease in her company, and I could feel it, too. But there was once where she gave me a curious glance, and I had to wonder if she didn’t quite know who it was sitting opposite her.
Mutton and blackberry jelly with vegetables. It was a good thing I was hungry. I tried to imagine what the fare would be like back in this period, and if I came back out, I would have to study up.
That, and the foxhound, and the hunt. To be honest, for me to be in this dream, it had to be my imagination that was driving it, and I was trying to remember the pages of the book.
Yes, they had dinner, but not before a slight mix-up in their meeting before getting on the train and then going to their compartments. In the book, he had met the travelling maid and companion, Bernice, and not for the first time.
She accompanied Matilda everywhere in London and sometimes at her lodgings in Oxford. The notion she has a chaperone at all times was observed and respected, and ensured propriety.
Dinner was moments of small talk, firstly of the hunt, which had been ‘sprung’ on her at the last minute, followed by a banquet in honor of her return, with ‘friend’ though that term wasn’t qualified or explained. Yet.
Somewhere in that would be a session with her father, she said, where I would get the opportunity to state my intentions and prospects. It was not a meeting he or I in his place was looking forward to.
I’d read the first page of that chapter, and it didn’t bode well. How did a son of a Knight address a Lord of the Realm?
“You are unusually quiet, James.”
It was that curious glance again.
“It might be because I’m going into uncharted territory. I have to admit it scares me a little meeting your family for the first time.”
I tried to keep the trepidation out of my tone and almost failed.
“You’ll be fine. They’re just normal people.”
She had said her father was like a cuddly teddy bear, but then she was his favourite and spoiled her, which only made life more difficult for prospective suitors. He would not brook just anyone to take his daughter’s hand in marriage, not that this weekend was about that.
We kicked that subject around for a few more minutes as the clock ticked over to 9 pm. And then it was time to leave.
An almost platonic kiss at the door to her berth, and the evening was over. On my way up the passage, a final wave as we disappeared into our sleepers, I was sure there was going to be no sleeping tonight.
It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.
In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.
But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.
I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.
Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.
But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.
I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.
Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.
Then there’s the so-called widow of the eldest son, the man who would have been king,
If they knew where he was.
And there’s a story to go with that; now he’s starting to shake the trees, just to see what falls out.
Our protagonist visits Edward’s fiancé, Arabella.
She was detained, in not so many words, when she was trying to leave the castle.
A preliminary investigation reveals that Edward had changed his will to leave Arabella the Paris apartment he owned and a sizable annuity several days before he disappeared.
There’s some dispute about his friendship with the skier he was supposed to be helping.
Does she know why he did that?
Are the tears and sadness real?
Was she trying to escape so that if they were meeting, they would have somewhere to live and money to live on?
She is expected to stay for the King’s funeral, and the others too.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 