Tag: Serial

Surely there’s a better way… – a short story

Surely there’s a better way…

When you have secrets, sometimes it’s very hard to hide them from others.

It was something Henry had to do since the day he could speak. The fact that his parents had been murdered because of their profession, something his grandfather told him was akin to ‘working for the government’. The fact that he was from a very wealthy and influential family. The fact he was heir to a fortune. The fact he was anything other than just another boy, who grew up to be just another man.

His whole life, to this point, had been ‘managed’ so that no one, other than a selected few chosen by his grandfather, knew who he was, or what he represented. And more to the point, he had been told to just live his life like any other of his age.

Yes, he went to a private school, but it wasn’t an exclusive one, yes he went to university, but he had got into Oxford on his own merit, and, yes, he was smart, smart enough to create his own business, and make a handsome income from it. And no, he never drew upon the stipend he had been granted by his parents will, so it just gathered dust in the bank.

Henry was an only child, and to a certain extent, introverted. It was a shyness that his grandfather knew existed in his son, Henry’s father. It could be an asset or it could be a liability. With Henry’s father, it had been an asset, a means by which many had misunderstood him. It might even serve him well for the next phase of his life.

Today, Henry was meeting his grandfather at Speaker’s Corner at Hyde Park, and an unusual meeting place because in the past it had always been at his grandfather’s club. At his grandfather’s request, he had undertaken a three-year program, one that his father had, and his father before him, and a pre-requisite for a profession that would be explained to him.

And it was all because Henry said he was bored. The business he’d built could run without him, his attempts at relationships with various girls and women hadn’t quite achieved what he was looking for, even though he had no idea what he was looking for, and, quite frankly, he told his grandfather, he needed something more exciting.

It was, he’d been told, the way of the MacCallisters. Ever since the British tried to put down the Scots.

Henry was listening to a rather animated man preaching the word of the Lord, but he was not sure what Lord that was. Anything he quoted from the bible resembled nothing he had read and remembered. Perhaps the man was on drugs.

Two or three people stopped, listened for a minute or two, shook their heads, some even laughed, and moved on.

“It’s the last bastion of freedom of speech, though I can say this man is not about to gather an army of insurrectionists any time soon. Let’s walk.”

His grandfather was getting old, and walking was getting more and more difficult. More scotch was needed, he had told Henry, to ward of the evils of arthritis. And, he added, ‘I should have had a less devil may care attitude when he was younger.’

It was a slow amble to the serpentine, which, being a bright sunny day, if not a little chilly, was alive with people.

He waited until his grandfather spoke. One lesson he had learned, speak when you’re spoken to, and if you’ve got nothing to say, best to remain silent.

“I have found a job you might like to have a go at. Nothing difficult, mind you, but a perhaps, at times, hard work. I think you’d be good at it.”

“Is that meant to be a hint, and I have to guess?”

“I think you’re smart enough to know what it might be yourself, young Henry.”

I think I did too. Everything I’d been doing over the last three years led me to believe I’d been training to walk in my father’s footsteps. It was with the Army, and I had imagined my father had been a soldier, though I’d never seen him in a uniform. But my Grandfather had said he worked for the government, so I wondered if that might be some sort of policeman, or some sort of internal agent, like MI6. It had not been boring, and the exercises had been ‘interesting’, but no one had said what the end result of this training might be; in fact no one had said who they were.

“Something hush, hush as the saying goes.”

We had gone about fifty yards and reached a cross path. As we did, a youngish woman dressed in leather appeared and walked towards us.

“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Henry. Her name is Marion, though I suggest you don’t call her that.”

She smiled. “Call me Mary. There’s only one person in the whole world that would dare call me that, and he’s standing here. Your grandfather has spoken a lot about you.”

Henry’s first impression; she had been to the training school he had. He could see it in her manner, and in the way she scanned the area, even though it didn’t look like she was. He’d been doing it himself, and he had seen her earlier. What made her stand out, she didn’t have a bag like all the other women.

“I hope it was good, not bad.”

“You have no bad traits?”

“Everyone had bad traits. You’ll just have to get to know me if you want to know what they are.”

“Well,” my grandfather said, “enough chit chat. Mary has a task, and she needs a little help. I thought you might want to join her.”

“Doing what?”

“She’ll explain it on the way. When it’s done, come and see me.” With that, a hug from Mary, and a handshake from his grandson, he turned and walked back the way they had come earlier.
“So,” Henry asked, “What’s the job?”

“I have to pick up a computer.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you would need help with.” In fact, if he was right in his assessment of her, he was the last person she needed, if at all. She looked to him as if she could handle anything.

“It’s one of those just in case situations.”

They walked a circuitous route back to Park Lane and crossed both roads, up Deanery Street, left where Tilney Street veered off, and then a short distance to Deanery Mews. Henry noted this was an area with a lot of expensive real estate, and scattered Embassies. If he was not mistaken, the Dorchester Hotel wasn’t far away.

Walking down the mews seemed to Henry to be walking into a trap. When he looked back towards Deanery Street he thought he saw two men position themselves, not quick enough to prevent him from getting a glimpse of them.

“You do realize that getting back out of here could be a problem.”

“It’s why I asked for help. Just in case.”

No visible sign of fear, or of what the consequences might be if this went south. Perhaps his grandfather had considered this a test. But what sort of test?

They reached the end, and, just around the corner, a van was parked with what Henry assumed was the driver, standing by the open driver’s door, smoking a cigarette.

Mary stopped about ten feet away from him. “Have you got the package?”

He reached inside the car and lifted up a computer case. There didn’t necessarily have to be a computer in it. I looked up and around. It was a good place for a meeting. No witnesses. But there were CCTV cameras. I wondered if they were working.

The man tossed the bag back in the car. “Have you got the money?”

She held up her phone. “Just need the bank account details.”

“OK. Just step over here and let’s get this done.”

She moved closer, and in a flash, he had grabbed her, holding her by the neck with a gun to her head. The two men Henry thought he’d seen at the top of the mews were now within sight, and both had guns trained on him. A trap, indeed.

“What do you want?” Henry asked.

“Tell your boss the price just doubled. Two million. You’ve got five minutes.”

I shook my head, not to clear the cobwebs, but to calm down and think rationally.

Talk first. “Surely there’s a better way to do this. You don’t need to hold a gun to her head.”

I held my hands out just to show I wasn’t a threat.

“No, probably not.” He released his grip and lowered the gun.

A very, very bad mistake.

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

In a word: Brevity

Now, brevity is something that I have not been able to fully wrap my head around.

The dictionary explains Brevity as

‘concise and exact use of words in writing and speech’

So…

I remember working with a writer a long time ago who explained certain authors styles, and for James A Michener of Hawaii fame, he said Michener wrote sentences instead of words, paragraphs instead of sentences, pages instead of paragraphs and chapters instead of pages.

It was a little harsh considering I’d just read the book and had liked it, despite its length and the time it took.

But some time later I realized he was not criticizing Michener, but trying to tell me, in his, what I came to discover, interesting way, that I should strive to write more compactly.

I then came across a book by Brian Callison which was exactly that, the concise version, a story that fitted into about 200 pages.

That too was a good book and it took me a day to read it, and by his use of that economy of words, it read quickly.

Of course, I have tried over the years to emulate both styles, and to a certain degree, failing, because I think I have created my own style which is somewhere in between.

Still, when editing, it is always in the back of my mind that I should be

Using words instead of sentences

Using sentences instead of paragraphs

Using paragraphs instead of pages, and

Using pages instead of chapters.

The chapters, he said, with an air of amusement, will always take care of themselves.

 

Searching for locations: New York from a different perspective

It is an amazing coincidence that both times we have flown into New York, it is the day after the worst snow storms.

The first time, we were delayed out of Los Angeles and waited for hours before the plane left.  We had a free lunch and our first introduction to American hamburgers and chips.  Wow!

I had thought we had left enough time with connections to make it in time for New Year’s Eve, like four to five hours before.  As it turned out, we arrived in New York at 10:30, and thanks to continual updating with our limousine service, he was there to take us to the hotel.

The landing was rough, the plane swaying all over the place and many of the passengers were sick.  Blankets were in short supply!

We made it to the hotel, despite snow, traffic, and the inevitable problems associated with NYE in New York, with enough time to throw our baggage in the room, put on our anti cold clothes, and get out onto the streets.

We could not go to Times Square but finished up at Central Park with thousands of others, in time to see the ball drop on a big screen, exchange new year’s greetings, and see the fireworks.

Then, as luck would have it, we were able to get an authentic New York hotdog, just before the police moved the vendor on, and our night was complete.

The second time we were the last plane out of Los Angeles to New York.  After waiting and waiting, we boarded, and then started circling the airport waiting for takeoff permission.  We stopped once to refuel, and then the pilot decided we were leaving.

This time we took our eldest granddaughter, who was 9 at the time, and she thought it was an adventure.  It was.

When we landed, we were directed to an older part of the airport, a disused terminal.  We were not the only plane to land, at about one in the morning, but one of about four.  The terminal building filled very quickly, and we were all waiting for baggage.  The baggage belts broke so there were a lot of porters bring the baggage in by hand.

One part of the terminal was just a sea of bags.  To find ours our granddaughter, who, while waiting, sat on top of the cabin baggage playing her DSI until the announcement our bags were available, walked across the top of the bags till she found them.  Thankfully no one was really looking in her direction.

Once again we kept our limousine service updated, and, once we knew what terminal we were at, he came to pick us up.  This time we arrived some days before NYE, so there was not so much of a rush.  We got to the hotel about 3:30 in the morning, checked in, and then went over the road to an all-night diner where we ordered hamburgers and chips.

And a Dr. Pepper.

Searching for locations: New York from a different perspective

It is an amazing coincidence that both times we have flown into New York, it is the day after the worst snow storms.

The first time, we were delayed out of Los Angeles and waited for hours before the plane left.  We had a free lunch and our first introduction to American hamburgers and chips.  Wow!

I had thought we had left enough time with connections to make it in time for New Year’s Eve, like four to five hours before.  As it turned out, we arrived in New York at 10:30, and thanks to continual updating with our limousine service, he was there to take us to the hotel.

The landing was rough, the plane swaying all over the place and many of the passengers were sick.  Blankets were in short supply!

We made it to the hotel, despite snow, traffic, and the inevitable problems associated with NYE in New York, with enough time to throw our baggage in the room, put on our anti cold clothes, and get out onto the streets.

We could not go to Times Square but finished up at Central Park with thousands of others, in time to see the ball drop on a big screen, exchange new year’s greetings, and see the fireworks.

Then, as luck would have it, we were able to get an authentic New York hotdog, just before the police moved the vendor on, and our night was complete.

The second time we were the last plane out of Los Angeles to New York.  After waiting and waiting, we boarded, and then started circling the airport waiting for takeoff permission.  We stopped once to refuel, and then the pilot decided we were leaving.

This time we took our eldest granddaughter, who was 9 at the time, and she thought it was an adventure.  It was.

When we landed, we were directed to an older part of the airport, a disused terminal.  We were not the only plane to land, at about one in the morning, but one of about four.  The terminal building filled very quickly, and we were all waiting for baggage.  The baggage belts broke so there were a lot of porters bring the baggage in by hand.

One part of the terminal was just a sea of bags.  To find ours our granddaughter, who, while waiting, sat on top of the cabin baggage playing her DSI until the announcement our bags were available, walked across the top of the bags till she found them.  Thankfully no one was really looking in her direction.

Once again we kept our limousine service updated, and, once we knew what terminal we were at, he came to pick us up.  This time we arrived some days before NYE, so there was not so much of a rush.  We got to the hotel about 3:30 in the morning, checked in, and then went over the road to an all-night diner where we ordered hamburgers and chips.

And a Dr. Pepper.

In a word: Clip

It was in the news, and seemed odd to me, that a word such as clip would have any significance beyond that of having a haircut, but apparently, it does.

Maybe they’re referring to the clip of ammunition for a gun?

But for us, a clip can be part of a haircut, letting the scissors loose.

And for those children who had a father who was a hard taskmaster, you would be familiar with a clip around the ears.  It can just as easily be used, say when a car clips another car when the driver loses control.

There’s a horse that runs at a fast clip, and can be anything for that matter that moves quickly.

It can be a spring-loaded device that holds all your papers together.  Or just about anything else for that matter.

You can clip an item from a newspaper, aptly known as a news clipping.

it can be a portion of a larger film or television programme, but to me, sometimes, when a series has a clip show, an episode where someone reminisces and we see clips from previous episodes.

And last but not least, clip the wings of those so-called high flyers at the office.

Once Upon a Time… – A short story

Everyone knows someone who has a child that will not go to sleep.

You can set the bedtime at whatever early hour you like, but by the time they actually fall asleep, there have been two or three hours of up and down, in and out of bed, and at least one episode of a scary master lurking under the bed, or, worse, outside the window.

After exhausting every method of achieving a result and failing, I thought I’d try reading.

The first book I picked up was, yes, you guessed it, about monsters. In fact, nearly every book for kids was about monsters, witches, ogres, dragons, and vampires.

I put them back and sighed. I would have to come up with a story of my own.

It started with, “Once upon a time…”

“But that,” May said, “only applies to fairy tales.”

“Well, this is going to be a fairy tale of sorts. Minus the fire breathing dragons, and nasty trolls under drawbridges.”

“It’s not going to be much of a story, then. In fairy tales, there’s always a knight who slays the dragon and rides off with the princess.”

This was going to be a tough ask. I thought of going back to the book pile, but, then, I could do this.

“So,” I began again, “Once upon a time there was a princess, who lived in a castle with her father, the king, her mother, the queen, and her brother, the steadfast and trusty knight in shining armor.”

“Why is their armor always shining?”

I was going to tell her to save the questions until after the story, by which time I had hoped I’d bored her enough to choose sleep over criticism. I was wrong.

“Because a knight always has to have shiny armor, otherwise the king would be disappointed.”

“Does the knight spend all night shining his armor?”

“No. He has an apprentice who cleans the armor, and attends to anything else the knight needs.”

“And then he becomes a knight?”

“In good time. The apprentice is usually a boy of about 11 or 12 years old. First, he learns what it means to be a knight, then he has to do years of training until he comes of age.” I saw the question coming, and got in first, “When he is about 21 years old.”

She looked at me, and that meant I had to continue the story.

“The princess was very lucky and lived a very different life than her subjects, except she wished she had their freedom to play, and do ordinary things like cooking, or collecting food from the markets. Because she was a princess, she had to stay in the castle, and spend most of her time learning how to be a princess, and a queen, because when it was time, she would marry a prince who would become a king.”

“Doesn’t sound too lucky to me, being stuck as home. I like the idea of getting somebody to do everything for me though. She does have maids, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. And, you’re right, she has everything done for her, including getting dressed. A maid to clean, a maid to dress her, a maid to bring her snacks. And it was these maids she envied.”

Maybe I should not make the story too interesting, or she’ll never go to sleep.

“Well, one day, she decided to change places with one of her maids. They were almost identical and when they exchanged clothes, the other maids could not tell they had changed places. At the end of the day, when the maids went home, the princess headed to the house where the maid she had taken the place of.

It was very different from the castle, and the room she had in the castle. The mother was at him, cooking the food for the evening meal, and it was nothing like what she usually had. A sort of soup with scraps of meat in it. There was a loaf of bread on the table. The father came home after working all day in the fields, very tired. They ate and then went to bed. Her bed was straw and a piece of cloth that hardly covered her. At least, by the fire, it was warm. It didn’t do anything for the pangs of hunger because there had barely been enough for all of them.

The next morning she returned to the castle and changed places back again. When the maid she changed places with asked about her experience of how it was like in their life, the princess said she was surprised. She had never been told about how the people who served the king lived, and she had assumed that they were well looked after. Now she had experienced what it was like to be a subject, she was going to investigate it further.

After all, she told the maid, I have to have all the facts if I’m going to approach the king.

And she thought to herself, a lot more courage than she had.

But, instead of lessons today, she was going to demand to be taken on a tour outside the castle and to see the people.

“This sounds like it’s not going to have a happy ending.”

No, I thought. Maybe I’ll get the dragon that her brother failed to slay to eat her.

“It will. Patience. But that’s enough for tonight. If you want to know what happens, you’ll have to go to sleep and then, tomorrow night, the story continues.”

I tucked her in, turned down the night light so it was only a glow, just enough to see where I was going, and left.

If I was lucky she would go to sleep. The only problem was, I had to come up with more of the story.

Outside the door, her mother, Christine, was smiling. “Since when did you become an expert on Princesses?”

“When I married one.”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

In a word: Blind

I’m sure we’ve all been blinded by the light!

Oncoming headlights, a bright light flashed in our eyes or walking into a dark room and a halogen light suddenly snaps on.

You’re still seeing red flashes for hours afterwards.

Literally, blind means you’re not able to see anything, i.e. you are visually impaired.  That’s the first meaning of the word people will think of.

But…

It’s another of those words with a few other meanings, such as,

A blind is a window covering; usually it goes up and down, and some you can see through slats.  Very good for nosey parkers, and subplots in stories.

Being blind to the truth means that you refuse to accept it for specific reasons, generally brought on by a belief or a prejudice

It can be a hidden enclosure from which to observe or shoot animals

And for the more interesting uses

Blind drunk, I think a lot of people have been there

Flying blind, pilots do it at night, but some of us have figuratively done it a few times, but not in a plane

And lastly, a blind tasting, where you’re not sure what you’re going to get, but usually it’s for a wine tasting, to see if you can tell what’s good and what’s swill.

Sadly I can never tell the difference, which is why I usually stick to beer.

 

 

 

Once Upon a Time… – A short story

Everyone knows someone who has a child that will not go to sleep.

You can set the bedtime at whatever early hour you like, but by the time they actually fall asleep, there have been two or three hours of up and down, in and out of bed, and at least one episode of a scary master lurking under the bed, or, worse, outside the window.

After exhausting every method of achieving a result and failing, I thought I’d try reading.

The first book I picked up was, yes, you guessed it, about monsters. In fact, nearly every book for kids was about monsters, witches, ogres, dragons, and vampires.

I put them back and sighed. I would have to come up with a story of my own.

It started with, “Once upon a time…”

“But that,” May said, “only applies to fairy tales.”

“Well, this is going to be a fairy tale of sorts. Minus the fire breathing dragons, and nasty trolls under drawbridges.”

“It’s not going to be much of a story, then. In fairy tales, there’s always a knight who slays the dragon and rides off with the princess.”

This was going to be a tough ask. I thought of going back to the book pile, but, then, I could do this.

“So,” I began again, “Once upon a time there was a princess, who lived in a castle with her father, the king, her mother, the queen, and her brother, the steadfast and trusty knight in shining armor.”

“Why is their armor always shining?”

I was going to tell her to save the questions until after the story, by which time I had hoped I’d bored her enough to choose sleep over criticism. I was wrong.

“Because a knight always has to have shiny armor, otherwise the king would be disappointed.”

“Does the knight spend all night shining his armor?”

“No. He has an apprentice who cleans the armor, and attends to anything else the knight needs.”

“And then he becomes a knight?”

“In good time. The apprentice is usually a boy of about 11 or 12 years old. First, he learns what it means to be a knight, then he has to do years of training until he comes of age.” I saw the question coming, and got in first, “When he is about 21 years old.”

She looked at me, and that meant I had to continue the story.

“The princess was very lucky and lived a very different life than her subjects, except she wished she had their freedom to play, and do ordinary things like cooking, or collecting food from the markets. Because she was a princess, she had to stay in the castle, and spend most of her time learning how to be a princess, and a queen, because when it was time, she would marry a prince who would become a king.”

“Doesn’t sound too lucky to me, being stuck as home. I like the idea of getting somebody to do everything for me though. She does have maids, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. And, you’re right, she has everything done for her, including getting dressed. A maid to clean, a maid to dress her, a maid to bring her snacks. And it was these maids she envied.”

Maybe I should not make the story too interesting, or she’ll never go to sleep.

“Well, one day, she decided to change places with one of her maids. They were almost identical and when they exchanged clothes, the other maids could not tell they had changed places. At the end of the day, when the maids went home, the princess headed to the house where the maid she had taken the place of.

It was very different from the castle, and the room she had in the castle. The mother was at him, cooking the food for the evening meal, and it was nothing like what she usually had. A sort of soup with scraps of meat in it. There was a loaf of bread on the table. The father came home after working all day in the fields, very tired. They ate and then went to bed. Her bed was straw and a piece of cloth that hardly covered her. At least, by the fire, it was warm. It didn’t do anything for the pangs of hunger because there had barely been enough for all of them.

The next morning she returned to the castle and changed places back again. When the maid she changed places with asked about her experience of how it was like in their life, the princess said she was surprised. She had never been told about how the people who served the king lived, and she had assumed that they were well looked after. Now she had experienced what it was like to be a subject, she was going to investigate it further.

After all, she told the maid, I have to have all the facts if I’m going to approach the king.

And she thought to herself, a lot more courage than she had.

But, instead of lessons today, she was going to demand to be taken on a tour outside the castle and to see the people.

“This sounds like it’s not going to have a happy ending.”

No, I thought. Maybe I’ll get the dragon that her brother failed to slay to eat her.

“It will. Patience. But that’s enough for tonight. If you want to know what happens, you’ll have to go to sleep and then, tomorrow night, the story continues.”

I tucked her in, turned down the night light so it was only a glow, just enough to see where I was going, and left.

If I was lucky she would go to sleep. The only problem was, I had to come up with more of the story.

Outside the door, her mother, Christine, was smiling. “Since when did you become an expert on Princesses?”

“When I married one.”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume Two

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me,  you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

More or less… – A short story

It was meant to be time to reacquaint as brothers.

Louis and I had not seen each other for decades, and when he returned, about a week before, I got the impression there was more than just ‘missing his brother’ going on.

But that was Louis. He was never one to say what or how he felt about anything, preferring to be the strong silent type, and it had not fared well for him transitioning from teenager to adult.

As for me, when our parents split up, Louis went with our father, and I stayed with our mother, and, given the amount of acrimony there was attached to the split, it was no surprise to anyone that Louis and I had effectively become estranged.

In fact, when I had tried to find them, about two years after the split and our mother had died suddenly, all I found were loose ends. They had effectively vanished.

With that part of my life effectively over, I had married, had children and watched 30 years disappear before Louis suddenly popped up. He simply knocked on the front door one afternoon, Helen answered it, and within minutes they were the best of friends. I’d had that rapport, once, many years before, but life and circumstances had all but ruined that.

Or perhaps that was just me, worn down by that same life and circumstances we were all supposed to take on the chin.

His arrival was a welcome distraction, and when, after a week, he suggested that he and I go on a hike, the sort our father used to take us on when we were a family, I agreed. Helen was happy to be rid of me, and I guess a week without our arguing would suit everyone.

It was probably fortuitous timing. Helen and I had finally got to the point where divorce lawyers were about to be called in. The children had all moved on and had children and problems of their own, and we, as parents just didn’t gel anymore.

Besides, I said, just before I joined Louis in the truck, ready to embark for the wilderness, it would be time to clear my head.

And by day two, my head was clear, and Louis, taking the lead, led us along the ridgeline, a trek he said, that would take us about seven hours. We’d stopped the previous night in a base camp and then headed out the next morning. We were the only two, it being early in the season with snow still on the ground.

Above was the clear cloudless blue sky and in front of us, trees and mountains. There was snow on the ground but it was not solid and showed no signs of human footsteps, only animals. The air was fresh, and it was good to be away from the city and its pressures.

Approaching noon, I’d asked him if we were about halfway. I knew he was holding back, being the fitter of us.

“More or less.”

“More or less what, more closer or less close than we should be.”

I watched him do a 360-degree turn, scoping out our position. It was a maneuver I was familiar with from my time with the National Guard. I’d used my backcountry experience that I’d learned from my father, as a skill I thought they might be able to, and eventually did, use. I got the feeling Louis was looking for something.

“You get the impression we’re not alone?” I asked. I had that nagging feeling something was not right, not from about two miles back in the forest. It was like my sixth sense being switched on.

“Doesn’t seem so, though there have been a few animals lurking behind us, probably surprised anyone’s about this time of the year. It’s been a while, so I’m just getting a feel for the trail. This is, for now, our mountain.”

There was a time, from a time when we were kids, that I could tell when he was lying. He was better at covering it, but it was still there.

Where we’d stopped was a small clearing, a staging point that would be used by other trekkers, still overgrown because of lack of trekkers. Ahead there were the signs of a trail, and after six months, it would become clear again. In places, as we had made our way from the base camp, sections of the distinctive trail had all but disappeared, but Louis seemed to know where he was going, and it was not long before we had picked up the trail again. This spot was a lookout, giving a spectacular view of the valley below, and a fast running river through it.

I walked to the edge and looked up and down the valley, and at the trail that ran along the cliff for a short distance. I looked down, not the wisest of things to do, but it was long enough to catch sight of several charred pieces of wood. On top of the snow. The thing is, someone had been along this trail before us, and recently, something I thought wise to keep to myself.

Back at the log, I sat for a moment and drank some water, while Louis stood patiently, but impatiently, for me to join him.

“You look like you’ve got somewhere to be.” Probably not the wisest thing to say but it was out before I could stop it.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then it was gone. “If we stop too long, joints will freeze up, especially when it gets colder.”

“Sorry.” I put the container back in the pack and joined him. “Let’s go. The cold and I don’t get along very well, and it’s been a long time since the last time I ventured into the great unknown.”

“Helen said you gave up trekking when you married her.”

“She wasn’t a trekker, Robbie. We all have to give up something, sooner or later.”

Another hour, feeling rather weary, we’d come to another small clearing and a place where I could sit down.

“You always were the weak link, Robbie. Admittedly you were younger, but you never seemed to grasp the concept of exercise and fitness.”

I looked up at him and could see my father, the exact stance, the exact words, the exact same sneer in his voice. It all came rushing back as if it was yesterday, the reasons why I chose to go with our mother, that another day with his bullying would be one too many. And he was a bully. And, in an instant, I could see the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Out of shape after languishing in an office, perhaps,” I said, “but I was never the disappointment our father always considered me.”

“You didn’t join the army, follow in his footsteps, as he wanted us to do. I did. Proudly served, too.”

I could see it. Like father, like son. No surprise Robbie had followed in his father’s footsteps. And it was a clue as to what Robbie had been doing since I saw him last.

“So, tell me about it.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t. Let’s push on.”

I’d also thought, along the way, he might ask questions, delve further into the problems that Helen and I were having, but I knew she had told him all he needed to know. I’d been held up at the office, and had rung to ask her to take him to dinner, get to know him, she might get to learn something of my life before I met her, details of which I hadn’t told her other than that my mother was dead, my father had left and taken Robbie with him. My past, I’d told her from the outset, was not something I would talk about.

I didn’t ask what they talked about, but I could see a change in both of them. Perhaps she had succumbed to Robbie’s charm, back in school all the girls did, but they all soon learned he was not a nice person, not once you got to know him. I didn’t warn her, and perhaps that was regrettable on my part, but it reflected the state in which our relationship had reached.

I’d also tried, once or twice, to find out if our father was still alive, but he deflected it, changing the subject. That meant he was still alive, somewhere, perhaps annoyed at Robbie for coming to see me. If I was a betting man, I’d bet our father would have denied permission for
Robbie to do so, even if he was a grown man and capable of making his own decisions.

Odd, but not surprising. Even now I could remember my father had secrets, and those secrets had fed into the breakup of our parents.

“So, you’ve been dodging it for days now, but you still haven’t told me if dad is alive or dead. He’d be about seventy-odd now.”

He stopped and turned to face me. “Would it matter if he was alive? I doubt you’d want to see him after what mother must have said about him.”

Interesting that he would think so. “She never had a bad word for him, and wouldn’t hear of one spoken, by me or anyone. And I have wondered what became of him, and you. At least now I know you spent time in the Army. If I was to guess what happened, that would be high on my list.”

“No surprise then you became an office wanker.”

Blunt, but, to him, it was a fact. I’d used that expression when telling Helen one time after a very bad day.

“We can’t all be heroes, Robbie.”

I put my hand up. Alarm bells were going off in my head. “You can come out now,” I yelled.

Robbie looked puzzled.

“I know you’re there. You’ve been behind us for about a half-mile now.”

A few seconds passed before the cracking of a twig, and then a person in a camouflage kit came towards us.

He’d aged, hair and beard grey in places but almost white now, but the face was familiar.

“What brings you to this part of the woods, Dad. Or is it just an unlucky coincidence?”

—–

© Charles Heath 2020-2021