Days 192 and 194

Early childhood memories

…

From Mordialloc, we moved to Dandenong, a new house, 1 Bess Court.  It must have been around the time I started school, because the early memories of living there were going to Dandenong State School No. 1403.  Amazingly, the school number sticks in my mind all this time.

I remember thinking at the time that it was like a castle.  That might have been in 1958 or 1959 when I was 5 or 6 years old, and in pre-school. 

Where we lived was quite new, just up from the Dandenong Creek, and those fields from the bottom of our street were our playground.  We made friends and we all played together.

My father, at the time, worked at General Motors in the Dandenong factory, where they built cars.  For our holidays, he used to get a truck to deliver big wooden box sides, which we, in turn, with the other kids, built a large cubby house.  One caught the eye of the council building inspector, and we had to pull it down.  Why?  It was nearly three stories high!

That was some holiday project.

It also became what might be called a house of horrors.  We were always poor, my mother did not work, and we survived on what my father earned.  There were not enough bedrooms, and to make ends meet, we took in boarders. I know, for a while, I had to live outside in a tent until a bungalow was built onto the back of the house, when the outside toilet was moved inside.  I remember coming home from school one day and one of the male boarders was drunk after losing his job, and when my father came home, he sent him packing.  Another boarder we had, a lady named May, was with us for a while and once went on holiday with us.  For some reason, I always remember her being in a dressing gown.

My father, at one point, suffered a mental breakdown, but I had always believed it was a resurgence of malaria he caught when he was serving in New Guinea during the war.  There were also the memories of being sexually assaulted by my uncle for a period while living here.  It is a memory I have tried hard to forget.

There was also a period of domestic violence where my father would direct his anger at my older brother, and my mother tried to get between them and received some harsh treatment at his hands. And I remember hiding under my bed to get away from it.  We had no idea why he was like this, not then, but after his breakdown, things got better.

Oh, and every year, at Easter, we would paint the whole outside of the house.  As a six- or seven-year-old, I don’t think I was much of a help.

Other times we would go on holidays, packing the tent and ourselves into the car and taking off at short notice to places like Queenscliff, Adelaide, Lakes Entrance, and Wilson’s Promontory.

At some point, things must have got better.  I got to live in the bungalow, school proceeded to grade six, where I remember the teacher distinctly, Mr McPhee, a hard taskmaster, but he taught us well.

We got a bottle of milk every morning, I got lunches made by my mother that were inedible, and several classes and fellow students stuck in my mind, but curiously were forgotten for many years until now.  One, a boy named Andrew Stroud, who was English, I remember because he talked funny, and a girl, Elizabeth Llewellen, because she was nice to me.  I also remember skipping a grade, but I don’t know why.

But that didn’t last long. We moved, and it was a whole new, but not necessarily better world.

…

Those memories will always be hazy. I was told once that what I remembered would not be the same as anyone else in the same house, and it is true. My brother’s memories of the same period are completely different. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

Days 192 and 194

Early childhood memories

…

From Mordialloc, we moved to Dandenong, a new house, 1 Bess Court.  It must have been around the time I started school, because the early memories of living there were going to Dandenong State School No. 1403.  Amazingly, the school number sticks in my mind all this time.

I remember thinking at the time that it was like a castle.  That might have been in 1958 or 1959 when I was 5 or 6 years old, and in pre-school. 

Where we lived was quite new, just up from the Dandenong Creek, and those fields from the bottom of our street were our playground.  We made friends and we all played together.

My father, at the time, worked at General Motors in the Dandenong factory, where they built cars.  For our holidays, he used to get a truck to deliver big wooden box sides, which we, in turn, with the other kids, built a large cubby house.  One caught the eye of the council building inspector, and we had to pull it down.  Why?  It was nearly three stories high!

That was some holiday project.

It also became what might be called a house of horrors.  We were always poor, my mother did not work, and we survived on what my father earned.  There were not enough bedrooms, and to make ends meet, we took in boarders. I know, for a while, I had to live outside in a tent until a bungalow was built onto the back of the house, when the outside toilet was moved inside.  I remember coming home from school one day and one of the male boarders was drunk after losing his job, and when my father came home, he sent him packing.  Another boarder we had, a lady named May, was with us for a while and once went on holiday with us.  For some reason, I always remember her being in a dressing gown.

My father, at one point, suffered a mental breakdown, but I had always believed it was a resurgence of malaria he caught when he was serving in New Guinea during the war.  There were also the memories of being sexually assaulted by my uncle for a period while living here.  It is a memory I have tried hard to forget.

There was also a period of domestic violence where my father would direct his anger at my older brother, and my mother tried to get between them and received some harsh treatment at his hands. And I remember hiding under my bed to get away from it.  We had no idea why he was like this, not then, but after his breakdown, things got better.

Oh, and every year, at Easter, we would paint the whole outside of the house.  As a six- or seven-year-old, I don’t think I was much of a help.

Other times we would go on holidays, packing the tent and ourselves into the car and taking off at short notice to places like Queenscliff, Adelaide, Lakes Entrance, and Wilson’s Promontory.

At some point, things must have got better.  I got to live in the bungalow, school proceeded to grade six, where I remember the teacher distinctly, Mr McPhee, a hard taskmaster, but he taught us well.

We got a bottle of milk every morning, I got lunches made by my mother that were inedible, and several classes and fellow students stuck in my mind, but curiously were forgotten for many years until now.  One, a boy named Andrew Stroud, who was English, I remember because he talked funny, and a girl, Elizabeth Llewellen, because she was nice to me.  I also remember skipping a grade, but I don’t know why.

But that didn’t last long. We moved, and it was a whole new, but not necessarily better world.

…

Those memories will always be hazy. I was told once that what I remembered would not be the same as anyone else in the same house, and it is true. My brother’s memories of the same period are completely different. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

More about my story – The story within the story

…

Scattered throughout the main story are the threads that are picked up at the end and cover betrayal.

Betrayal is always a possibility, and sometimes an inevitability in being a spy.  This story is no exception, and the betrayal comes from within.

There are many types of betrayal, that someone knows your secret and tells the people whom you are spying on.

That someone is informed beforehand that you are coming to them and why, and your cover is blown before you get started, and/or

You are the victim of an internecine war between heads of intelligence services that are in competition with each other for results and, therefore, funding.

Or, perhaps, it’s just two old men, one jealous and the other trying to get work done while the jealous one goes about sabotaging his best efforts.

That wouldn’t be so bad except it’s not the bosses who pay the ultimate price.  It’s the agents on the ground.

The question then has to be why?

Politics?

It has a good deal of say in most matters because governments are run by political parties and politicians.  First rule: politicians generally have no idea how to run the departments they are responsible for.  Spies do not get to run intelligence agencies, by and large. 

Perhaps the spies might be the administrators, or private sector heads of departments, but they generally have to do as they are told.

Except what if they defy the minister?

And would the minister know, and if he did, would he tell anyone fo fear of losing that portfolio?

Tricky question.

And for our agent in the field?

He has absolutely no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, just that some of the chess pieces have been rearranged, and he only knows this when a group of bad agents come to kill him.

Well, sabotage the mission and nearly kill him.

Damn!

More about my story – The story within the story

…

Scattered throughout the main story are the threads that are picked up at the end and cover betrayal.

Betrayal is always a possibility, and sometimes an inevitability in being a spy.  This story is no exception, and the betrayal comes from within.

There are many types of betrayal, that someone knows your secret and tells the people whom you are spying on.

That someone is informed beforehand that you are coming to them and why, and your cover is blown before you get started, and/or

You are the victim of an internecine war between heads of intelligence services that are in competition with each other for results and, therefore, funding.

Or, perhaps, it’s just two old men, one jealous and the other trying to get work done while the jealous one goes about sabotaging his best efforts.

That wouldn’t be so bad except it’s not the bosses who pay the ultimate price.  It’s the agents on the ground.

The question then has to be why?

Politics?

It has a good deal of say in most matters because governments are run by political parties and politicians.  First rule: politicians generally have no idea how to run the departments they are responsible for.  Spies do not get to run intelligence agencies, by and large. 

Perhaps the spies might be the administrators, or private sector heads of departments, but they generally have to do as they are told.

Except what if they defy the minister?

And would the minister know, and if he did, would he tell anyone fo fear of losing that portfolio?

Tricky question.

And for our agent in the field?

He has absolutely no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, just that some of the chess pieces have been rearranged, and he only knows this when a group of bad agents come to kill him.

Well, sabotage the mission and nearly kill him.

Damn!

Day 192

Writing exercise – All that glitters…

…

Perhaps if I’d thought about it long enough, I might have seen it coming, but it was taking that light at the end of the tunnel as a good thing, not the double-headed train pounding towards me at breakneck speed while tied to the tracks.

It would be easy to blame my mother.  She was the one who taught us to take everyone at face value, to see the good in the world, and, of course, eight times out of ten, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I was on the balcony overlooking the bay, the house that my grandfather had first built as a getaway shack, expanded into a holiday home, and then into my retreat, the place I could hide away from the world.

It was the same for my sister, who was still recovering from a bad relationship, one that she blamed herself for, but the truth was, she was not at fault, not for any of it.

But the scars ran deep, deep enough that in the pit of despair, she did the unforgivable, and it was a sixth sense that sent me to her in her in her time of need.

Now, she was well on the road to recovery, older and very much wiser.

For both of us.

“Did you see the report Jenkins sent?”

She was stretched out on the deckchair, taking in the sunshine that came with early spring.  It was warm but not hot, a gentle breeze rustling through the surrounding trees.

There were white caps out to sea, and there was a ship slowly plying its way past the bay.  It was a busy shipping lane, and it was the perfect distraction to watch the ships go by.

“I did.”

Jenkins was the company’s head of security, and I had asked him to investigate the man who had deceived and nearly destroyed my twin sister.  In an attempt to get justice, he had gotten off on a technicality and walked free.

It wasn’t justice, but justice sometimes could be blinded.

“Did you have any idea?”

I had to say I didn’t.  Who would, when the woman of your dreams, a woman who ticked all of the boxes, comes into your life when you least expect it.

At first, I believed it was too good to be true.  Jenkins checked her out, and everything was irreproachable.  It was not that I was the one who didn’t trust her. It was the people around me.

Once the investigation was over, I decided it was time.  We had been dating off and on for over a year, and it had been a slow burn.

Then Alisha discovered just who and what her boyfriend was, just in time to prevent a travesty.  She was worth a small fortune, and Jackson Pearce had very nearly stolen it all.

He only made one mistake.  He told, no, bragged, that he was about to take down the Bernadine’s, one of the wealthier and blue ribbon families.

He very neatly got away with it.  He was free, but he was penniless, but oddly not concerned or angry.

I asked Jenkins to find out why.

It was in the report sitting on the coffee table beside Alisha’s deckchair.

The woman I was about to marry in the wedding of the year, after letting her take control of the preparations and ceremony and spending close to three million dollars.

A lot of that money was channelled back to her brother Jackson Pearce.  Her real name was Milly Pearce.  She’d stuck to the Milly but was using her father’s mother’s birth surname, making it difficult to trace in a first scan of a family tree.

Or lack of one, which matched her assertion, she was an orphan, from an orphanage that no longer existed, and all records of her had been destroyed in a fire.

Only Jenkins thought it was suspicious, but we were all prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“No. She is such a lovely person.”

“So was Jack, until…”  It was still painful for her, but not so that it hurt that much.  “What are you going to do?”

“Play.  Do you think you’re strong enough to join me?”

“Can I shoot her?”

I gave her a curious expression.  As much as I understood how she felt about that family, it was not worth the jail sentence.

“No.”

“Spoil sport.”

She sighed.  I took her attitude and the determination in her voice as good signs she was all but over her calamity.

Up to the unmasking of Jack, she had been almost like a sister to Milly.  I had thought it was the sort of bonding one would expect between the women.  Milly had been suitably disparaging towards the dastardly boyfriend, but whatever had been between them had been broken.

Knowing what she did now, it was difficult to imagine how she could be nice to her.

But it would be settled the next day.  I had promised to take Milly to a special lunch with just our family, mother, who was kept oblivious of the details of Alishas breakup and subsequent events, my older brother, Wally, who was the current CEO of the company, the one I would eventually take over, and myself, basically to talk about where she would fit into the echelons.

We had talked about it, and she had suggested a role suited to her standing.  She had also considered, to feel like she was part of the family and parcel of shares.

That alone should have set off alarm bells, but since Mother and Wally had suggested it, who was I to disagree?

“Are you going to tell Mother and Walter?”

It was like she was reading my mind.

“No.  Let’s play her game out and see where it goes.”

“Are you prepared for it?”

I don’t think I would ever be.  I had been hesitant to make our budding romance public, and on our eight-month anniversary, we were ambushed by the media.  She swore she had not told anyone, but she and I were the only two who knew.

It was the catalyst needed to push us to the next level.  Even then, I was not suspicious, accepting her explanation.  It was not impossible that I was being followed by a photographer looking for a scoop.

“What would be the upside for her?”

“Without sounding catty, Henry, if she is cut from the same cloth as her brother, there’s always a reason.”

“Fair enough.  We shall see.”

…

© Charles Heath  2025

Day 192

Writing exercise – All that glitters…

…

Perhaps if I’d thought about it long enough, I might have seen it coming, but it was taking that light at the end of the tunnel as a good thing, not the double-headed train pounding towards me at breakneck speed while tied to the tracks.

It would be easy to blame my mother.  She was the one who taught us to take everyone at face value, to see the good in the world, and, of course, eight times out of ten, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I was on the balcony overlooking the bay, the house that my grandfather had first built as a getaway shack, expanded into a holiday home, and then into my retreat, the place I could hide away from the world.

It was the same for my sister, who was still recovering from a bad relationship, one that she blamed herself for, but the truth was, she was not at fault, not for any of it.

But the scars ran deep, deep enough that in the pit of despair, she did the unforgivable, and it was a sixth sense that sent me to her in her in her time of need.

Now, she was well on the road to recovery, older and very much wiser.

For both of us.

“Did you see the report Jenkins sent?”

She was stretched out on the deckchair, taking in the sunshine that came with early spring.  It was warm but not hot, a gentle breeze rustling through the surrounding trees.

There were white caps out to sea, and there was a ship slowly plying its way past the bay.  It was a busy shipping lane, and it was the perfect distraction to watch the ships go by.

“I did.”

Jenkins was the company’s head of security, and I had asked him to investigate the man who had deceived and nearly destroyed my twin sister.  In an attempt to get justice, he had gotten off on a technicality and walked free.

It wasn’t justice, but justice sometimes could be blinded.

“Did you have any idea?”

I had to say I didn’t.  Who would, when the woman of your dreams, a woman who ticked all of the boxes, comes into your life when you least expect it.

At first, I believed it was too good to be true.  Jenkins checked her out, and everything was irreproachable.  It was not that I was the one who didn’t trust her. It was the people around me.

Once the investigation was over, I decided it was time.  We had been dating off and on for over a year, and it had been a slow burn.

Then Alisha discovered just who and what her boyfriend was, just in time to prevent a travesty.  She was worth a small fortune, and Jackson Pearce had very nearly stolen it all.

He only made one mistake.  He told, no, bragged, that he was about to take down the Bernadine’s, one of the wealthier and blue ribbon families.

He very neatly got away with it.  He was free, but he was penniless, but oddly not concerned or angry.

I asked Jenkins to find out why.

It was in the report sitting on the coffee table beside Alisha’s deckchair.

The woman I was about to marry in the wedding of the year, after letting her take control of the preparations and ceremony and spending close to three million dollars.

A lot of that money was channelled back to her brother Jackson Pearce.  Her real name was Milly Pearce.  She’d stuck to the Milly but was using her father’s mother’s birth surname, making it difficult to trace in a first scan of a family tree.

Or lack of one, which matched her assertion, she was an orphan, from an orphanage that no longer existed, and all records of her had been destroyed in a fire.

Only Jenkins thought it was suspicious, but we were all prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“No. She is such a lovely person.”

“So was Jack, until…”  It was still painful for her, but not so that it hurt that much.  “What are you going to do?”

“Play.  Do you think you’re strong enough to join me?”

“Can I shoot her?”

I gave her a curious expression.  As much as I understood how she felt about that family, it was not worth the jail sentence.

“No.”

“Spoil sport.”

She sighed.  I took her attitude and the determination in her voice as good signs she was all but over her calamity.

Up to the unmasking of Jack, she had been almost like a sister to Milly.  I had thought it was the sort of bonding one would expect between the women.  Milly had been suitably disparaging towards the dastardly boyfriend, but whatever had been between them had been broken.

Knowing what she did now, it was difficult to imagine how she could be nice to her.

But it would be settled the next day.  I had promised to take Milly to a special lunch with just our family, mother, who was kept oblivious of the details of Alishas breakup and subsequent events, my older brother, Wally, who was the current CEO of the company, the one I would eventually take over, and myself, basically to talk about where she would fit into the echelons.

We had talked about it, and she had suggested a role suited to her standing.  She had also considered, to feel like she was part of the family and parcel of shares.

That alone should have set off alarm bells, but since Mother and Wally had suggested it, who was I to disagree?

“Are you going to tell Mother and Walter?”

It was like she was reading my mind.

“No.  Let’s play her game out and see where it goes.”

“Are you prepared for it?”

I don’t think I would ever be.  I had been hesitant to make our budding romance public, and on our eight-month anniversary, we were ambushed by the media.  She swore she had not told anyone, but she and I were the only two who knew.

It was the catalyst needed to push us to the next level.  Even then, I was not suspicious, accepting her explanation.  It was not impossible that I was being followed by a photographer looking for a scoop.

“What would be the upside for her?”

“Without sounding catty, Henry, if she is cut from the same cloth as her brother, there’s always a reason.”

“Fair enough.  We shall see.”

…

© Charles Heath  2025

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

Day 189

Writing exercise – Everybody called him Einstein, but long before he had made his last big mistake, people had forgotten why.

…

Some legends are spoken at gatherings around night fires, times when folks liked to talk about olden times, times when life was different.

There were signs of a different civilisation, almost lost in the vegetation, of people who had lived very different lives from what we have now.

Our settlements were near these ruins, taking advantage of facilities that had been created or repurposed, and our progress was based on what we found.

But there was one legend of a person known as Buck, or perhaps his name could have been longer. The relic we found was only a small part of something larger.

One of the elders of our clan said he had heard, when he was young, of a relic called a book, where there was writing in a language that was once spoken by those who lived long ago.

It was still our language, taught down through the generations, as a mark of respect to the people we believed were our ancestors.

This Buck, he said, was also compared to another, a man called Einstein, a great man who lived many centuries before, one of many who contributed to creating the means of destroying the world, and nearly everyone on the planet.

That legend had faded because no one wanted to remember the people who had made our world the way it was, scarred, with often warring clans, fighting over the little resources we had. 

It seemed silly that we had to spend more time and effort defending what we had rather than living our lives in peace, but that was something else we learned: not to be greedy and to covet other people’s property.  It was a pity that other clans did not.

My question had been, if this man Buck was so clever, why were we not more advanced?  The thing was, no one really knew why this Buck was so clever, why he was compared to that man called Einstein specifically, and no one really cared.

The day dawned, a fine day without winds or storms, and warm.  It had been progressively getting warmer, and now, in my twentieth year, the cold only lasted for four months of the year. 

It was my turn to go to the well and get the water.  It was a morning chore that had its advantages.  I got to meet up with the other younger people in the clan, and one in particular, a girl of my age, Anna.

If I did everything right, our families would eventually meet, and the bargaining for the marriage between us would commence.  Everything had a value in trade. There was no money, a strange concept from long ago, only what we had to trade.  Furs, food, timber, mud bricks, tools, weapons.

We did not fight each other, only the other clans, if we were attacked.  Such a thing as crime and an ancient concept was not tolerated, and if committed, the perpetrator was expelled into the wastelands.

I joined the line and waited for my turn.  There was a water monitor whose job was to make sure everyone got their fair share.  I collected our water and then waited to see if Anna came.

She did, collected her water, and then came over time where I was waiting.

“Guy, how are you?”

“Anna.  I am well.  How are you?”

“I am also well.  I trust your family is well.”

“They are.  Yours?”

“They are also well.  It looks like we will have more warm days this year.  My father says it will extend the crops so we will have more food to store for the cold times.”

“That is good.  We are hoping to have more cattle and sheep for meat and milk.”

“There are more people.  My father says we will have to start exploring again.”

“We he be leading the expedition?  I would like to go with him this time, if i can get permission.”

“I will ask.  Now I must go.  It was nice talking to you, Guy.”

“It was nice talking to you, Anna.”

My trips to the well were not only to meet Anna, but also the thrill of getting another clue to how we came to be.

Her father was one of the few elders trusted with the history of our clan, who organised expeditions beyond the boundary of our village, sometimes put into the expanse.
.
No one ever ventured there. It was uninhabitable with no water, no vegetation, and only ruins of a much older and advanced civilisation.  The people, he said, had destroyed themselves through greed and paranoia.

It was said he had seen things no man should ever want to see or should.

He did not share these revelations with his family, but sometimes Anna acquired an artefact and would tell me, in hushed tones, or other times slip me a piece of paper she had written on, with the note to burn it when read.

It was all very secretive.

I checked my pocket, and there was a piece of much-folded paper.  When I was alone and not to be interrupted, I carefully unfolded it.  It was not handwriting.  It was very neat letters, what she had called printing, where all the writing was elegant and easily readable.

We didn’t have books, and I don’t think any of us had ever seen one.  We knew about paper, though our paper wasn’t the same as the relics we were told existed.  This page I had could get me into trouble because it was a relic.

It was about a man named Albert Einstein, who lived many centuries ago, a man who developed the theory of relativity and contributed to the photoelectric effect, which is a phenomenon related to the interaction between light and matter. 

It was obvious to me that to be classed as brilliant, you had to use words no one else could understand.  I folded the page up and his it.  I would give it back next time I saw her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 190

Writing exercise – go back to an old story and rework it

…

When You Least Expect It

Life on the edge, in the corporate world I had immersed myself in, could be exciting, enthralling, or exhausting.  People say accountants were boring creatures of habit, with all the charisma of a monotone bingo caller with no sense of alliteration.  Pretty much an apt description of me.

My definition of life on the edge?  Thinking that I would ever work up the courage to ask Anne Menzies out on a date.  Hell would freeze over first.

Besides, who had the time to think about such trivialities when there was a pending merger, and the numbers had to be perfect.  Which is why my morning started badly and just got gradually worse.

Why?

The numbers didn’t add up.

I tossed the pile of printouts and colourful charts that were supposed to say business was booming, now and into the future, but the flat line said otherwise.  It was different to the result I ran the day before, and I had the afternoon to find out why before the big meeting the next morning.

We were going to dazzle the prospective merger partner.

Or not.

I sighed and threw myself into the chair and rubbed my eyes and then temples, as if that would ease the headache that was starting to get worse.

Somehow, Gallagher, the senior partne,r would see this as my fault.

“Anyone for lunch?” I yelled.  Asking in a normal voice would certainly be ignored.  So much I remembered from the day before.

Jack, my best friend and the complete antithesis of me, had been right.  Anyone with an office was in the firing line.  Anyone who preferred to be a general dogsbody, well, no one looked at them twice.

I heard the gong that signified noon, and for some time to take a break.  Company-provided lunchtime activities included working off those extra pounds in the games room, or putting them back on in the dining room, where, for a modest cost, one could overindulge to one’s hearts content.

Said Jack, as he did every Tuesday and Thursday, put his head in the door and shook his head.  My desk was a mess, unlike his, which was always clear.  Jack was a good friend, well-meaning, but not promotional material.  He was good at taking orders, not giving them, but he was the all-around nice guy who could hit it off with all the girls, and I discovered, a useful acquaintance.

He waited until I looked up, then said, “Ship sinking?” he asked, then came in and sat in the office’s most comfortable chair.

“Will all hands, when it should just be the Captain.”

“The numbers don’t add up?”

Sometimes he said stuff that was spot on accurate, but he would have no idea that it was actually the case.  Or he was cleverer than I gave him credit.

I gave him one of my ‘I don’t believe you said that’ looks.  “You know accountancy.  You either fudge the numbers, or you fudge the numbers.”

“Like that is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Fancy a few tranquillising drinks to help straighten out your perspective on life?  Helps numbers to add up the way they always should have.”

“Not today.  Food only, and I haven’t got a lot of time.”

He sighed.  “Be careful, Rick, or you might turn into a real accountant.”

“Har bloody har.”

He stood and frowned.  “Coming?”

Why not?  I needed a break from, and maybe a change of scenery might change the perspective.  Food, then a stroll downtown.  I need time to think.”

He shrugged.  “I’ll catch up with you downstairs.”

Whenever I decided to go out for lunch, someone always found a way to mess with the plan.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be grumpy this time because it was Anne.  Anne was one of the more important personal assistants in the building and dropped by my office on her way to the staff dining room.

She had only done that once before, to deliver a message from her manager, who just happened to be Gallagher.  I knew she wasn’t here to see me for any other reason.

“Ah, Rick.  Caught you just in time.”  The tone said everything I needed to know.  Another impossible deadline.

“Mr Gallagher is after the forward sales and revenue charts?”

“They’re coming.”

“When?”

“Christmas.”  It was wrong to be flippant, but that was the sort of day it was.

Her expression clouded over, the smile turning to a frown.

“The numbers don’t add up.”

“He provided you with access to the system, and I know he’s spent the last two days putting the numbers together.”

“He needs the charts by the close of business tonight.”

“Then you can tell him it will be sorted by then.”

“You don’t sound confident?  He told me you were the best man for the job, that you haven’t let him down yet.”

No pressure then.  Sent the one girl I liked down to put me on the spot.  If I failed him, I failed her; chances gone.

“I’m sure he won’t deny me sustenance.  I work better after I’ve had something to eat.”

“Going up to lunch?”

“Not today.” I ushered her to the door, grabbing my coat as we went out.

“And miss your favourite dish?”

How did she know it was my favourite dish?  Curious.

“It certainly looks that way.”

“Going out with the boys?”

“Only one.”

“Jack?”

I nodded.

She sighed.  “You could do so much better.”

I left her at the lift foyer; she was going up, I was going down.  In my lift, I had only one thought: what was it about Jack she didn’t like?

…

©  Charles Heath  2025