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Tag: Reading
“The End of the Road”, a short story
From the days of wandering the remote country towns of New South Wales in Australia.
The End of the Road
The man who had said that we would never make the distance was right.
It had been my idea to go ‘troppo’, forsake everything, hop on a motorbike and go around Australia. I was, at that stage fed up with everything and, catching Harry in one of his low spots, he decided there and then he would join me.
For the first few days, we believed we were stark staring mad and talked about calling it quits, but perseverance made all the difference. After two months we were glad we had the resolve to keep going, and in that time we had managed to see more of the Australian countryside than we’d seen all our lives.
That was until this particular morning when we arrived in Berrigum, what could have been called a one-horse town. It consisted of one hotel, one general store (that sold everything from toothpicks to petrol) and an agricultural machinery depot. It also had a station and some wheat silos, and this appeared to be the only reason for a town in this particular spot in the middle of nowhere.
And it was the railway station that interested Harry, who was, by this time, getting a little homesick and fed up with his motorbike.
After coughing and spluttering for the last week it had finally died, and the five-mile walk to Berrigum had not helped either his temper, or his disposition, and had only served to firm his resolve to return home.
It was hot but not unbearably so, unlike a hot summer’s day in the city, and even worse still in public transport. For miles around as we tramped those five miles all we could see was acres and acres of wheat, but no sign of life. It was the same when we reached the town. It appeared all the people were either hiding or had left. Harry suspected the latter given the state of the road, and the buildings, more or less the epitome of a ghost town.
Standing at the end of what could have been called the main street with only our own dust for company, one look took in the whole town. In a car, one wouldn’t have given it a second look, if one had time to give it a first. I didn’t remember seeing neither any speed restriction signs nor signpost advertising a town ahead.
And since no amount of argument could sway him from his resolve, the first objective was to get a train timetable, if such a thing existed, and make arrangements for Harry’s return.
The station was as deserted as the town itself, and a quick glance in the stationmaster’s office showed no sign of life.
Leaving the bikes on the platform outside the office, we headed for the hotel for both a drink and make enquiries about rail services. Being a hot day and the morning’s tramp somewhat hot and dusty, we were looking forward to a cold glass (or two) of beer.
The hotel looked as though it was a hundred years old though there was no doubting a few relentless summers would reduce it to the same state. It was as bad inside as out, though the temperature was several degrees lower, and we could sit down in what appeared to be the main bar. We were the only occupants and still to find any sign of life. Overhead, two fans were struggling to move the hot air around.
More than once Harry reckoned it was a ghost town and I was beginning to believe him when, after five minutes, no one arrived.
After ten, we stood, ready to leave, only to stop halfway out of our chairs when a voice behind us said, “Surely you’re not going back out there without refreshment?”
“I was beginning to think the town was deserted,” I said.
“It is during the day, but when the sun goes down…”
I didn’t ask. We followed him to the bar where he had stationed himself behind the counter. “The name is Jack.” He stretched out his hand towards us. “We don’t bother with last names here.”
“Bill,” I said, shaking it, and nodding to Harry, “Harry.”
Harry nodded and shook his hand too.
“The first one’s on the house.” He poured three glasses and put ours in front of us. “Cheers.”
In all cases, it went down without touching the sides (as they say) and he poured a second, at the same time asking, “What brings you to our little corner of the earth?”
“Just passing through,” I said, “Or at least for me.”
“And you?” Jack looked at Harry.
“I can’t hack the pace. I can truthfully say I have thoroughly enjoyed the trip so far, except for a few mishaps, but for me, it’s time to get back to the big smoke. My ‘do your own thing’ has run out of momentum. Do you know if there is a train that goes anywhere important?”
The publican looked at him almost pityingly. “Important, eh?” He rubbed his chin feigning thought. “You make it sound like you are in purgatory.”
“Aren’t we?”
I suppose one could hardly blame Harry for his attitude. After all, at the beginning, he had numerous accidents, caught a virus that stayed with him (and a couple of torrential downpours had done little to help it), and now his motorbike had finally died. No wonder his humour was at an all-time low.
For a moment I thought the publican was going to tell Harry what he thought of him, but then he smiled and the tension passed. “Perhaps to a city fellow like you it might be,” he said. “The mail train which has a passenger carriage comes through once a week, and, my good man, you’re in luck. Today’s the day.”
“Good. How do I get a ticket?”
“You’d have to see the Station Master.”
“And where might he be at the moment? We were at the station a while back and there was no sign of life.”
“Nor will there be until the train comes. Meanwhile, there’s time enough for lunch. I’m sure you will stay?” He looked questioningly at us.
I looked at Harry, who nodded.
“Why not.”
Over lunch, we talked.
I remember not so long ago when I had to attend a large number of lunches where the talk was of business, or, if anything, mostly about subjects that I had no interest in. It was always some posh restaurant, time seemed important, the atmosphere never really relaxed, and to get into a relaxed state it took a large amount of alcohol to deaden the despair and distaste of that one had to fete in order to secure their business.
How different it was here.
We talked about the country, and, after seeing as much of it, and worked on it as we had to fund our odyssey, we could talk about it authoritatively. And, most of all, it was interesting.
The atmosphere too was entirely different than it had been in the city. Out here the people were always friendly, people always willing to stop and talk, particularly farmers; share a drink or some food.
There was none of this carefree purposefulness in the city, and more than once I’d thought of the fact one could travel in the same train with the same people for year after year and still not know any of them. It was the same at work. Even after five years I still hadn’t known three-quarters of the office staff, and most of them probably didn’t want to know me. Harry was virtually the only real friend I’d had at work.
But here, in ‘the middle of nowhere’ as Harry had called it, I felt as though I’d known the publican all of my life instead of the few short hours.
Some hours later and after much argument, where Jack and I tried to talk Harry into staying (Jack said he knew someone who could fix anything including Harry’s bike), Harry remained unconvinced and resolute. Jack, to round off the occasion (we were the first real guests from outside he had had in a week) provided another on-the-house ale and then saw us to the station. “After all”, he had said, “I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.”
By that time the station was showing a little more life than it had before. A station assistant, moving several parcels with a hand trolley, slowly ambled towards the end of the platform.
And whether it could be called a platform was a debatable point. It was a gravel and grass affair that looked more like part of cutting through a hill than a station.
At the station, Jack portentously announced he was also the stationmaster and would be only too happy to take care of Harry’s requirements. It would be, he added, “the first passenger ticket sold for several months.” Certainly, the ticket he handed Harry bore witness to that. It had yellowed with age.
One would have thought with the imminent arrival of the train there would be more people, but no. The only event had been the station assistant’s stroll to the end of the platform and back. Now both he and Jack had disappeared into the office and we were left alone on the platform. Very little in the whole town stirred, nor had it the whole time we’d been there.
“Well,” I said to break the silence. “I’m sorry to see you going through with it. I thought I might have been able to talk you out of it…” I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“I’m sorry to be going too, but a body can take only so much bad luck, and God knows that’s all I’ve had.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t think of much else to say. “But it’s been good to have your company these last few months.”
“And you. When do you think you’ll get back?”
“When I get sick of it I suppose.”
“Look us up then when you get back.”
“I will.”
Thankfully the appearance of the train in the distance broke off the conversation. I had begun to think of what it was going to be like out on the road with no one to talk to but myself. The thought was a little depressing and I tried not to let it show.
We said little else until the train pulled in, three flat cars, seven enclosed wagons, a passenger carriage and the guard’s van. The train stopped with only part of the passenger carriage and the guard’s van at the station.
The guard took aboard the parcels the station assistant had left for him earlier, and then put those that were for Berrigum on the trolley.
I shook Harry’s hand and said I’d see him around. Then he, the motorbike, and the guard were aboard and the train was off, disappearing slowly into the afternoon haze.
The station assistant then repeated his amble to the end of the platform to collect the hand trolley.
“Staying or moving on.” Jack had come up behind me and gave me a bit of a start.
“Staying I guess, until tomorrow or maybe later.”
“I had heard one of the farm hands is leaving tomorrow heading back to Sydney. There could be a vacancy.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
“I could put in a word for you.”
“Thanks.”
Jack just grinned and we headed for the hotel.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
Conversations with my cat – 83
This is Chester. He has reminded me that it’s Groundhog Day.
So I had to ask, where on earth did you get that from?
Everybody knows it’s Groundhog Day. He sits there with this knowing look in his face, and it dawns on me, he’s been looking up stuff on the computer again.
I am going to have to remember to turn it off.
In Canada and America maybe, but we don’t have it here because we don’t have the cold and snow like they do.
We have cold because you light the fire. I’m sure there’s been snow.
Now I know he’s finally losing it.
It’s 35 degrees Celcius outside, and even when it is cold it’s still 16 degrees Celcius, not Fahrenheit.
Look, get with the program here. We need something to celebrate.
Why? And a second later realizing I should not ask.
It’s been a bit dull, no mice, no treats, all bad news on the internet. Oh and by the way, since cats only get cat flu, you want to be careful not to get that new coronavirus going around.
I shake my head.
Now I’m definitely turning off the computer at night.
Cat flu indeed!
In a word: Not
You will not go outside, you will not go to the movies.
The word not, when used by your parents when you are a child is the key in the lock keeping you from having fun.
It is the very definition of everything negative, and much harsher than just a plain no.
That you will ‘not…’ has been the gateway for many an exploit or adventure, because anything you have done contrary to the ‘not’ is all that much sweeter.
Until you get into trouble, but, then, isn’t that how you learn life’s lessons?
But if you are a programmer like me, not takes on a whole new meaning in a language like,
‘If not like …. then’
meaning in layman’s terms if something isn’t like a specific value then do something else.
Hang on, isn’t that a bit like reality?
This is not to be confused with the work Knot which is,
A blemish in a piece of wood
The speed of a ship, winds, and sometimes a plane
But basically,
Something you tie to keep your shoes on, or around your finger to remind you to tie your shoes before getting on the 36-knot high-speed ferry made of knotty wood.
It is also something you find in tangled hair and is very painful trying to remove it.
It is also an unpleasant tightness in body muscles and you need a masseuse to get rid of them.
“Second Thoughts”, a short story
Get me to the church on time.
It was a tune out of My Fair Lady, and it was in my head the moment I woke up that morning. And this day was, to quote some immortal’s line, was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
But, somehow, it didn’t feel like that and lying under the warm covers of my bed, perhaps for the last time at my parent’s home, the last place I thought I’d find myself, I began to consider how it was I had ended up in this situation.
It was not a question of who the bride was, we had been friends from an early age and used to joke about getting married, but at the age of six or seven, that was a concept rather than something we might act on in the future.
Except that was how it panned out, and, not for the reasons one might think would lead to such an eventuality.
Yes, we were close friends till the early teens, then my family went in one direction, New York, and her family went in another, San Francisco, and in each place both families built successful businesses.
Josephine, the intended bride, and I met off and on over the next fifteen years, some of that mutually when we were at university together, and, I might add, living together. Even then, there had been no suggestion of permanency because we each had to go home to eventually work in the family business.
In those few years, it had been easy because there had been no expectations by either of us. We simply came together, stayed together, and parted at the end both happy to have enjoyed the experience.
Then, several events changed the course of our lives.
My father died unexpectedly at a crucial point in the company’s expansion, and without his direction, it began to flounder. Then, Josephine arrived in New York to open a branch of her family’s business, and just happened to arrive on the day of my father’s funeral.
I thought it a coincidence and was grateful for her support at a time when I needed it.
A month after that, one of the lead investors in the new expansion plan pulled out, as was his right because the loan had been contingent on my father overseeing the project. It was the end of a very bad week, and instead of being the last to leave the office, I left early, called up an old friend, Rollo, who had followed us to New York, and we went to his favourite bar.
He suggested a night on the town was called for and I agreed with him. I think by that time I’d had enough of the problems for a few days. But with Rollo, I learned no invitation was without its twists and turns, so when he said his sister was bringing a friend, I had to act happy even if I didn’t feel like it. Her friends could be a little strange.
Another coincidence, the friend was Josephine. Hearing from her once maybe, but twice in the same week, I didn’t think so, so I let it pass. Yet despite my reservations, in the end, I had to admit I was glad to see her because the last thing I wanted to do was entertain a quirky woman I didn’t know.
Long story short, Josephine’s family business came aboard as the replacement investor, but not without some rather stringent requirements, and though no one on either side would admit it, it was suggested that perhaps Josephine and I would make an excellent match. After all, we were childhood friends, had lived together without the problems that sometimes came with it, and we would be working very closely together.
I proposed, she accepted, and everyone was happy.
Well, not everyone.
I was down in the dining room getting breakfast, before the wedding, when Rollo arrived. It went without saying Rollo was going to be the best man.
Curiously, he was neither surprised nor shocked to learn of my proposal, but it was a surprise to learn, in a roundabout way, he wasn’t exactly happy for me. It was not anything I could put my finger on, but more of a feeling I had. And, to be honest, before I had proposed to her, I was sure that Rollo had feelings for her, and at times I thought how much more sense it would make if they were together.
I’d even asked him once or twice if he liked her, and he just said they were friends.
The other side of that equation was his sister, Adrienne, who was, I thought, charming, funny, and sometimes a little offbeat, which is why I was drawn to her. Over time, I think I may have developed feelings for her, but by the time those feelings were rising to the surface, I was advised that a woman of Josephine’s standing was more my type.
My mother could be very annoying at times, and whilst she might be looking after her son’s best interests, she was also looking after the company’s interests as best she could. I suspect Josephine’s parents were the same, hoping their daughter would marry advantageously.
Rollo, being on the outside, had summed it up perfectly, ‘if this had been the eighteenth century there’s no doubt you two would be the perfect match’.
“You look as happy as I feel,” I said when I saw him.
“It’s going to be a big day, church wedding, in Latin of all languages, then the society event of the year. What’s not to be happy about?”
Put like that, I shrugged. “A registry office, burger and chips at the local diner, then a few days in the Catskills would have sufficed.”
“And on what planet do you think you are right now?”
I didn’t answer. I simply poured another cup of black coffee and sat down. It was a large room, with seats for a dozen, and I was the only one up. I had expected a room full of family members, of which at least twenty were upstairs right now recovering from last night’s festivities.
Rollo poured some tea into a cup and sat opposite. “OK. What’s wrong? Wedding day jitters?”
Could he read my mind?
“It just doesn’t seem right. I mean, it seems we have been on this track forever, but you know, there’s something missing.”
“Love?”
Exactly. It was another of those thoughts I had just before I got out of bed. I liked her, maybe I loved her once, when I didn’t really know what love was, but now? I don’t know what it was I felt about her. I had been expecting those mythical thunderbolts to strike, but as the days, weeks, and months wore on, it just didn’t happen.
It was almost if we were going through the motions.
“It feels like it’s going to be a marriage of convenience.” There, I said it.
And I expected Rollo to start having a fit. Instead, he concentrated on putting three spoonful’s of sugar into his tea and stirring. And stirring. And stirring.
“Say something,” I said. “Anything. Tell me I’m being stupid, tell me to get out of my funk and screw my courage to the sticking place, or whatever it is you say in times like this.”
“It’s not like you to drop a bomb like this at a time like this…”
I felt he had more to say, the good part where he’d call me an ass, and then tell me to get my shit together. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“But…”
“But I rather get the impression this wedding might not be going ahead.”
“It has to. God knows how many people have put themselves out to be here. It was, my mother said, a logistical nightmare.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened.”
“You’re supposed to be arguing for the wedding, not against it.”
“I would if I knew your heart was in it. But it isn’t, is it? I think you’ve spent so much time trying to please everyone else, that you have forgotten about yourself. I know you’re not happy. I also happen to know that Jo isn’t either.”
“You’ve spoken to her?”
“Just before I got here. Call her. You two need to talk. In the meantime, you’re going to have to repay a huge debt after I somehow manage to sort this mess out. My car’s outside. Leave now, and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to return.”
“Where will I go?”
He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll know by the time you get in the car.”
It was reckless and would cause a lot of pain and anguish for my mother, but I considered how much more pain it would cause to Josephine if I didn’t call it off.
I made the call on the way upstairs to finish dressing.
“I’m assuming you’ve spoken to Rollo?” She didn’t wait for me to speak.
“You feel the same way?”
“It started out with the best of intentions, but I can’t help thinking if we were right for each other we would have married after university. We are best friends, Alan, and I don’t think it’s ever going to progress from there. I know you feel that too, it’s just the pressure from our families has managed to mask our true feelings.”
“Do you have any idea what sort of storm is about to erupt?”
“Everyone will get over it. There’s too much at stake on both sides for there to be any real or lasting consequences. I guess Rollo is going to have his work cut out for him. I’ll see you one the other side.”
She didn’t say what other side, but I suspect it meant when the dust had settled.
I literally ran downstairs, mainly because I heard movement and didn’t want to run into anyone, and out the door towards Rollo’s car.
Once again I had to admire the fact he had exquisite taste in cars, and the one he’d brought was no exception, a Lamborghini, yellow, fast, and he knew I wanted to drive it.
What I didn’t expect. His sister, Phoebe, sitting in the passenger seat.
© Charles Heath 2019
“Echoes From The Past”, buried, but not deep enough
On special, now only $0.99 for the next few weeks.
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
Searching for locations: The Paris Opera House, Paris, France
This was one of the more interesting experiences for the grandchildren as they were, as all young girls are, interested in ballet.
We thoroughly enjoyed our visit which included some time watching ballet practice.
I could not convince anyone to take the elevator back down to the ground floor as it was suspected we might be ‘attacked’ by the ‘phantom’. Certainly, the elevator was very old and I think at the time it was being repaired.
Part of the Grand Staircase in Palais Garnier Opera de Paris
The ceiling above the main staircase. The ceiling above the staircase was painted by Isidore Pils to depict The Triumph of Apollo, The Enchantment of Music Deploying its Charms, Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus, and The City of Paris Receiving the Plan of the New Opéra.
The ceiling of Chagall at the Palais Garnier
On 23 September 1964, the new ceiling of the Opéra Garnier was inaugurated with great pomp. It was painted by Marc Chagall at the request of André Malraux
Amphitheatre and Orchestra Pit entrance
Interior, and doorways to boxes
Box seats in the auditorium
Ornate ceilings and columns
Seating inside the auditorium
The day we were leaving Paris, was the first night of the Bolshoi Ballet. My two granddaughters were greatly disappointed at missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Paris Opera House.
But we did get to see the principals practicing.
“The Price of Fame”, A Short Story
I looked at the invitation, a feeling of dread coming over me. It was not entirely unexpected but like a great many things that had suddenly come into my life, it caused equal measures of fear and excitement.
The gold edging and the perfect script displaying my name in the exact centre of the envelope made it almost unique. Very few people ever received such an invitation.
I held it in my hand for a longer than necessary, then put it down on the desk carefully, as if it would explode if I dropped it.
My first instinct, driven by fear, was not to accept.
But, fear or not, there was no question of me not attending. Circumstances had painted me into a corner; I’d agreed to go a long time ago when I thought there was no chance it would come to pass.
Way back then, I had been compared to the aspiring painter in an attic having to die before I made any sort of impression. In those days people thought it amusing. I thought it was amusing. Kirsty, in particular, had thought it was as impossible as I had.
Now it was not amusing. Not even remotely.
My life was once quiet, peaceful, sedate, even boring. That didn’t mean I lacked imagination, it was just not out on display for everyone to see. Inspired by reading endless books, I had the capacity to transport myself into another world, divorced from reality, where my boring existence became whatever I wanted it to be.
It was also instrumental in bringing Kirsty into my life. In reality, I thought she’d never take a second look at me, let alone a first. So I pretended to be someone else. Original, witty, charming, underneath more scared than I’d ever known.
And yet she knew, she’d always known and didn’t care.
As we spent more time together, she discovered I liked to write, not finish anything, just start, write a hundred pages, then lose interest. Like everything I did. Start, and never finish.
Why not? It would never be published. It would never succeed.
So she bribed me. If I didn’t finish my first book and send it away, I couldn’t marry her. It didn’t matter if it was rejected, all I had to do was finish a book, and send it.
The thought of marrying her had not entered my mind, because I hadn’t thought she would. Incentive enough, I picked out one of the unfinished manuscripts and humoured her. She read bits of it, not saying a word. Sometimes she’d put a note or two on the manuscript, her equivalent to sweet nothings, and with it I gained inner confidence in my own ability, not only to write but in many other aspects of my life.
When it was finished, it was Kirsty who sent it off. She read it, packaged it, addressed it, and sent it before I had a chance to change her mind. Once gone, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was done. That was, as far as I was concerned, the end of it.
It was not possible that one letter could change a person’s life so dramatically. I came home to the all-knowing smile, and mischievous whimsicality that had always suggested trouble.
Trouble indeed!
My book was accepted. With a cheque called an advance. For more money than I knew what to do with.
This was followed not long after by publication. And a dramatic change to my life, one I didn’t want. To become a public person, to face an enormous number of people, people I didn’t know.
I went back to being scared.
Kirsty smiled at me and told me how wonderful I looked in my monkey suit. Why couldn’t I go in jeans and a dress shirt? All the best actors in Hollywood did it.
“This is not Hollywood. You’re not an actor.” It was a simple, practical, answer.
The hell I wasn’t. I could act sick, dying, fake a heart attack, anything. “What am I going to say?”
“You could talk about books.” Quiet, efficient, oozing the confidence I didn’t feel.
She didn’t fuss. She took it in her stride. She dressed in her usual simple elegance, in a manner that made me love to be seen with her. I couldn’t tie my tie, so she did it for me. She straightened my jacket because I couldn’t do that either. Nerves. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Or was that a reference to wives, or mistresses, or something else?
The palms of my hands were sweating. Meatball hands, I thought, the sort of palms that betrayed the pretenders. Me, I was the pretender. My neck felt too large for the shirt. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. Where was a sponge when you needed one?
“I can’t do this.”
“You can.”
We hadn’t even left the hotel yet.
“How long before the execution.”
She looked at me with her whimsical smile. “Long enough for me to give you a hard time.”
I lost count of the number of times I had to go to the bathroom, for one thing, or another. Nerves I said. Perhaps a dozen Valium or something similar. Did I have any? Had she hidden them? Why did she keep smiling?
In the car, I looked at my watch at least a dozen times. I couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too cold. She held my hand, and it served best to stop the trembling that had set in. Why did I agree to this? Why?
We were greeted by the Events Manager, who was polite and genuinely interested. He took us inside where he introduced the interviewer, another woman who oozed confidence and charm, who went over the format and generally tried to set me at ease.
I didn’t let Kirsty’s hand go. Not yet. She was my lifeline, the umbilical cord. When it was severed, I knew I was going to die.
Bathroom? Where was the bathroom? Hell, five minutes to go, and I felt like passing out. No, Kirsty couldn’t come in. Comb my hair. Straighten my tie, no it was straight. Maybe I could hide in here? I looked around. No, maybe not.
Time.
The cue man was standing beside me, hand gently on my back. He knew the score. He knew I would turn and run the first chance I got. Kirsty was on the other side, smiling. Did she know too?
Then the announcement, my cue to walk on.
The gentle shove, the bright lights, the deafening applause, the seemingly endless walk to the chair, dear God, would I make it without tripping over?
How many times had I made this trip? I stood, facing the audience, waved, then sat. It was the fifteenth. You’d think I’d learned by now.
There was nothing to it.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems
A single event can have enormous consequences.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
Writing about writing a book – Day 24
Time to put the team back together, well, sort of.
We’ve been given the introduction to who Barry McDougall is, or the man otherwise known as ‘Brainless’, and after three days of trying to get it straight, this is the first rough draft of his start in the story.
Barry, whose daring selfless deeds earned him the nickname Brainless because that was the only way to describe the motivation behind them, was one of the regular soldiers, and, for a long time, had been my only true friend. His was a reputation both friends and foes alike considered awesome. He’d been in Vietnam, and later just turned up at Davenport’s camp, reporting for duty.
Davenport was more surprised than I was at his arrival, but obviously, after checking his credentials, was impressed because he let him stay. And it would be true to say, if he had not, I would not be here now.
So Barry was just the sort of person I needed to help me.
That was the good news.
The bad news was Barry, at the best of times, either on one of his ‘benders’ using drugs or alcohol, whatever was easier to get at the time, lost to everyone, or locked up in a mental institution, having admitted himself. He had no interest in participating in life, hadn’t worked in years, and often said, in moments when he was at his lowest, that he did not care if he lived or died. It had not always been that way, but his demons had all but taken him over, and despite the help, I tried to give him, nothing could shake him out of this lethargy. He said once he envied me that I could not remember the dark days, and, now those memories had returned, I knew what he meant.
For a long time, I could not understand why he didn’t try harder to help himself, and I guess he humored me by accepting the jobs I’d found him, and the help I offered. I owed him a great deal, but that was probably the one honorable thing about him, he never expected, nor wanted, anything in return.
He tried to make a go of being a police officer and lasted several years before he resigned over an incident that didn’t reach the papers. There was, he said, no place for heroics in modern society. I hadn’t got to the bottom of it, but I heard he shot some thieves at a time when the police were trying to promote a pacifist image.
He tried a few other occupations with an equal lack of success, so now he survived on whatever money I gave him. He lived on the street, and when he was not there, I knew he could be found in a bar, in one of the more seedier parts of the city, a ubiquitous underground bar called Jackson’s, named after a man who had a salubrious reputation that hovered between load shark and saint, and who was reputed to be buried under the storeroom floor. The present owner, or what I assumed to be the owner, was a large, gruff, ex-prizefighter, who had the proverbial heart of gold, most of the time, and who took my money and looked after Barry without making it look like he was.
I’d called the bartender in advance, and he said he was in his usual spot, and that it was at the start of the next cycle, having just discharged himself from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia. It was, he said, getting worse, and taking longer to recover.
It was probably only a matter of time before it took him, so perhaps this time I would have to try harder to convince him to give up his nomadic lifestyle.
When I walked in, the aroma of spilled beer, stale sweat, and vomit, mingled with the industrial-strength carbolic cleaner almost took my breath away. In the corner, two construction workers were sitting, quietly smoking and drinking large glasses of beer. In the other, Barry was being held up by the table, an untouched double scotch sitting in front of him. Sitting at the bar was a woman of indeterminate age, badly made up, and thin to the point of emaciation. I was not sure what she was drinking, or what it was she was smoking, but I could smell it from the front doorway.
The bartender, Ogilvy, no first name given, was pretending to polish glasses, standing at the end of the bar, looking at the television, playing some daytime soap. He didn’t look over when I came in, but I knew he didn’t miss anything. I saw him flick a glance at Barry, and then shake his head. I think he cared as much about Barry as I did, but could recognize the sadness within him. As much as Ogilvy said, which wasn’t much, he too had seen service in Vietnam, and it had affected him too.
I ordered an orange juice, caught the glances from the construction workers, and a steely look from the woman then went over to Barry’s table and sat down. Despite the loud scraping noise when I moved the chair, or the creaking as I sat in it, Barry didn’t move.
Whilst the bar had that seedy aroma, Barry was showing the signs of having spent the time on the street. It was one of the disadvantages of having no permanent residence and though there was a shower at the bar which Ogilvy let Barry use from time to time, he obviously hadn’t for a few days.
A groan emanated from the table, and Barry moved his head slightly.
I shifted the drink in front of him, and then a hand went out and moved it back. He lifted his head to look at me, and then lowered it again.
“I thought it was you.”
© Charles Heath 2016-2018
