Day 170

Pet Subjects, or, in other words, writing about what you know.

…

You will often read in the advice people tend to give budding writers, a section called ‘write about what you know’. It generally follows a rather ambiguous statement that says ‘everyone has one book in them’ and there’s an audience out there if you write about your pet subject.

That assumes we all have a pet subject, you know, something we know all this stuff about, stuff that no one else would care about. Except for other people like us.

But…

Here’s the problem, you have to write it in a way that it is interesting, and if your pet subject is ‘the erosion of sandstone over 20,000 years’ I think you are not going to find a large audience, and your book, though interesting to you, will not necessarily become an instant bestseller.

Not unless you turn it into a thriller where it’s just a passing reference, or a means of escape from the bad guys just before you blow them to smithereens.

Except…

There is a market for every type of book; you just have to do the research and find out exactly what part of your specialist knowledge the intended audience wants.

I could write about mining phosphate on the Pacific Islands at the beginning of the 1900s, which to me was fascinating, but it only appealed to those who were familiar with it. What I was told, however, was that if I wrote a sweeping Gone With The Wind type saga written around the Islands, the minung, the people and the events spanning sixty odd years, I would have a best seller on my hands.

I took their advice, and figured in the end it was going to take three volumes, much like R F Delderfield’s “A Horseman Riding By”, and got as far as almost finishing the first volume, coming in at about 1,300 pages.

That was forty years ago, and I haven’t written a word since.

It will eventually be finished, but there is always something else to do, like my latest pet project, the family history.

Day 169

The cliff hanger, and the idea behind writing episodes…

…

Back in the good old days…

Yes, we have to go way back in time to the days when Charles Dickens and other classic English writers wrote their stories in episodes, and yes, they had to have a cliff-hanger ending for each so the readers would be back to read the next instalment.

It was a novel way to get people to buy newspapers.

It was also a chance for the writers to get income by publishing a weekly instalment in either the newspapers or magazines.

Of course, at that time, a lot of people couldn’t read or write, so there was a large percentage of the population missing out.

Imagine my dismay when I decided to write my stories in episodes and publish them in my blog, thinking it was a really great idea, and then discovering the idea had been around for hundreds of years.

Mine were, and are, a little more erratic, sometimes each day, but other a week apart. Sometimes it’s difficult to write continuously like that, and three or four different stories. If you want to read some, they are the stories I called ‘The Cinema of my Dreams’, and there’s one about an interlude in WW2, one about a rescue in Africa, one about a Treasure Hunt, one about an aspiring spy, one that starts in venice, and one in outer space

Imagine what Charles Dickens would have thought of having the internet to publish his stories. He’d get more readers than for all of his novels, whether published in book form or episodes, in his lifetime.

And, of course, when the books were published, it wasn’t just one copy for the whole story; it was published in three, four or more volumes.

Of course, the movie moguls couldn’t let a good idea get past them either, and started making serials in episodes, each with a cliff-hanger ending to run before the main feature, thinking they would get the fans hooked into coming every week.

Notable heroes who turned up in Hollywood serials were Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, Zorro, and the Green Hornet, nearly all of comic book fame.

Day 169

The cliff hanger, and the idea behind writing episodes…

…

Back in the good old days…

Yes, we have to go way back in time to the days when Charles Dickens and other classic English writers wrote their stories in episodes, and yes, they had to have a cliff-hanger ending for each so the readers would be back to read the next instalment.

It was a novel way to get people to buy newspapers.

It was also a chance for the writers to get income by publishing a weekly instalment in either the newspapers or magazines.

Of course, at that time, a lot of people couldn’t read or write, so there was a large percentage of the population missing out.

Imagine my dismay when I decided to write my stories in episodes and publish them in my blog, thinking it was a really great idea, and then discovering the idea had been around for hundreds of years.

Mine were, and are, a little more erratic, sometimes each day, but other a week apart. Sometimes it’s difficult to write continuously like that, and three or four different stories. If you want to read some, they are the stories I called ‘The Cinema of my Dreams’, and there’s one about an interlude in WW2, one about a rescue in Africa, one about a Treasure Hunt, one about an aspiring spy, one that starts in venice, and one in outer space

Imagine what Charles Dickens would have thought of having the internet to publish his stories. He’d get more readers than for all of his novels, whether published in book form or episodes, in his lifetime.

And, of course, when the books were published, it wasn’t just one copy for the whole story; it was published in three, four or more volumes.

Of course, the movie moguls couldn’t let a good idea get past them either, and started making serials in episodes, each with a cliff-hanger ending to run before the main feature, thinking they would get the fans hooked into coming every week.

Notable heroes who turned up in Hollywood serials were Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, Zorro, and the Green Hornet, nearly all of comic book fame.

Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 167

Where banks store money in vaults, writers store snippets in journals

The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.

…

Quite often the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.

A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.

I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.

When I found that I did not have an hour to spare in the day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.

But..

The journal.

Yes, I have one, or perhaps I should say I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they quite often get an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.

If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.

Day 167

Where banks store money in vaults, writers store snippets in journals

The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.

…

Quite often the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.

A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.

I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.

When I found that I did not have an hour to spare in the day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.

But..

The journal.

Yes, I have one, or perhaps I should say I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they quite often get an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.

If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.

Days 155 and 156

Writing exercise – find new ways of using the words, late, silent, ugly, traditional, and extra and incorporate them all in a novel way…

….

I could have said I was late.  I could, but I didn’t.  I could have said I forgot, and that would have been the truth, but what was the point of telling them what they already knew?

I said I was held up by traffic, which, as everyone knew for that time of day at Trafalgar Square, was a given

They asked why I chose that time of day when I knew what the traffic was like, and I said it suited my mother, which it did, and no one was going to argue with that.

She was the one at the head of the table and looked very severe.  Come to think of it, she was always looking very severe.

The only time I’d seen her smile was the day my father died.  He left everything to her.  I’d smile to if it happened to me.

“Now that we,” with an especially withering glare in my direction, fortunately at the other end of a long boardroom table, “are all here, shall we begin?”

Depending on her mood, it could last five minutes or five hours.  Judging by the phone call I got at seven minutes past five this morning, it might last a week.

It was only three words long.  “The game’s afoot.”

I tracked down the meaning, one of several other reasons I was so tardy, to Sherlock Holmes, an expression he used when a new case presented itself.

I didn’t get the inference. My mother thought I would be better off learning Latin than English Literature.

“How is the lavender case?”  Her eyes roamed around the table and stopped on the rather fearful Alex, an intern who had finally got her first case.

I convinced Mother she was ready.  I might have made a mistake.

“There has been no communication with the proprietors of the lavender factory, so I went down to Dorchester to get a first-hand response.  The factory is closed, and a ‘For Sale’ sign is on the door.”

This was relayed in a somewhat halting a week voice, brought on by my mother’s intimidating glare.

What she meant to say but wouldn’t was, there was a collective silence from everyone from the top to the bottom.

Silence would not have done in this case.  My mother doesn’t like any form of silence.

“There were a hundred and fifty people in that factory.  Are you saying an alien spaceship beamed them up and took them away?”

My mother could be scathing using what little humour she had.

And Alex could have said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened’, but she didn’t.  She did say, “I found an open door at the rear of the premises, went up to the offices, and got a recent staff listing.  Interviews begin tomorrow.”

“Very good, Alex.  Just try to he a bit more assertive.”

Exactly what I told her.

“Next.”  Her eyes went around the table and stopped at William.  “How is the Ferg case proceeding?”

The Ferg case was one where an employer’s representative had maligned an employee on the grounds of their appearance.

It could be said they had called her ugly, and because beauty was a necessity in the promotion of their product, the fact that our client had suffered disfigurement in an accident, caused by employer negligence, we were suing said employer.

“They are willing to pay out 450,000 pounds in compensation.  The papers will be signed next week.”

“Excellent work.”

It was indeed our fee would be big, very big.  At least the client will be getting more than the original offer of 20,000 pounds.

“Next,” the eyes travelled the circumference of the table and landed on Wendy. 

Wendy was my favourite, the one who least noticed me and who was more focused on a career than anything else. 

She said so the first day we were introduced, and I decided to forget about her.  I think I realised soon enough that because I was the boss’s son, I was not someone to get involved with, and to be honest, I agreed with them.

“As I understand it, you need more resources.”

I saw the memo.  She wanted one extra investigator, but when approaching someone like my mother, who was against ‘throwing a pile of people into a project just to fall over each other’, asking for help was the same as admitting defeat.

Hence, the verbosity around using the word resources.  It was clever.

“Sam can help you if and when he’s free.”

Sam was me.  She never offered my services to anyone, so what was she up to?

Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I got the distinct impression my body was going to be found washed up in the lower reaches of the Thames, if not tomorrow, the next day.

“Any other business?”

Everyone knew better than to say there was.

“I have just one item.  This business was built on a solid foundation of hard work and getting results.  My husband, the late Mr Forster, his father, and his father before him set the standards, the methodology, and the systems that drive us towards the objective of being the best of the best.  Please remember that as you all go about your business.”

She stood, took a last look around the faces of the company, then left.

What she failed to say was that we had traditions, that we were a traditional company.  She, like my father, hated change, but only change was going to save us.

The trouble was, I did not dare tell her.

Then I realised the room was empty and Wendy was standing next to me.

“Sam.”

I said nothing.  She had that ability to turn me into a gibbering idiot.

“Can you drop by my office in an hour.  I have a job I would like you to do.”

“Sure.  In an hour.”

“Yes.  See you then.”

After she left the room, I sighed.  I think I knew what my mother meant with her enigmatic three words.  She knew I liked Wendy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Days 155 and 156

Writing exercise – find new ways of using the words, late, silent, ugly, traditional, and extra and incorporate them all in a novel way…

….

I could have said I was late.  I could, but I didn’t.  I could have said I forgot, and that would have been the truth, but what was the point of telling them what they already knew?

I said I was held up by traffic, which, as everyone knew for that time of day at Trafalgar Square, was a given

They asked why I chose that time of day when I knew what the traffic was like, and I said it suited my mother, which it did, and no one was going to argue with that.

She was the one at the head of the table and looked very severe.  Come to think of it, she was always looking very severe.

The only time I’d seen her smile was the day my father died.  He left everything to her.  I’d smile to if it happened to me.

“Now that we,” with an especially withering glare in my direction, fortunately at the other end of a long boardroom table, “are all here, shall we begin?”

Depending on her mood, it could last five minutes or five hours.  Judging by the phone call I got at seven minutes past five this morning, it might last a week.

It was only three words long.  “The game’s afoot.”

I tracked down the meaning, one of several other reasons I was so tardy, to Sherlock Holmes, an expression he used when a new case presented itself.

I didn’t get the inference. My mother thought I would be better off learning Latin than English Literature.

“How is the lavender case?”  Her eyes roamed around the table and stopped on the rather fearful Alex, an intern who had finally got her first case.

I convinced Mother she was ready.  I might have made a mistake.

“There has been no communication with the proprietors of the lavender factory, so I went down to Dorchester to get a first-hand response.  The factory is closed, and a ‘For Sale’ sign is on the door.”

This was relayed in a somewhat halting a week voice, brought on by my mother’s intimidating glare.

What she meant to say but wouldn’t was, there was a collective silence from everyone from the top to the bottom.

Silence would not have done in this case.  My mother doesn’t like any form of silence.

“There were a hundred and fifty people in that factory.  Are you saying an alien spaceship beamed them up and took them away?”

My mother could be scathing using what little humour she had.

And Alex could have said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened’, but she didn’t.  She did say, “I found an open door at the rear of the premises, went up to the offices, and got a recent staff listing.  Interviews begin tomorrow.”

“Very good, Alex.  Just try to he a bit more assertive.”

Exactly what I told her.

“Next.”  Her eyes went around the table and stopped at William.  “How is the Ferg case proceeding?”

The Ferg case was one where an employer’s representative had maligned an employee on the grounds of their appearance.

It could be said they had called her ugly, and because beauty was a necessity in the promotion of their product, the fact that our client had suffered disfigurement in an accident, caused by employer negligence, we were suing said employer.

“They are willing to pay out 450,000 pounds in compensation.  The papers will be signed next week.”

“Excellent work.”

It was indeed our fee would be big, very big.  At least the client will be getting more than the original offer of 20,000 pounds.

“Next,” the eyes travelled the circumference of the table and landed on Wendy. 

Wendy was my favourite, the one who least noticed me and who was more focused on a career than anything else. 

She said so the first day we were introduced, and I decided to forget about her.  I think I realised soon enough that because I was the boss’s son, I was not someone to get involved with, and to be honest, I agreed with them.

“As I understand it, you need more resources.”

I saw the memo.  She wanted one extra investigator, but when approaching someone like my mother, who was against ‘throwing a pile of people into a project just to fall over each other’, asking for help was the same as admitting defeat.

Hence, the verbosity around using the word resources.  It was clever.

“Sam can help you if and when he’s free.”

Sam was me.  She never offered my services to anyone, so what was she up to?

Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I got the distinct impression my body was going to be found washed up in the lower reaches of the Thames, if not tomorrow, the next day.

“Any other business?”

Everyone knew better than to say there was.

“I have just one item.  This business was built on a solid foundation of hard work and getting results.  My husband, the late Mr Forster, his father, and his father before him set the standards, the methodology, and the systems that drive us towards the objective of being the best of the best.  Please remember that as you all go about your business.”

She stood, took a last look around the faces of the company, then left.

What she failed to say was that we had traditions, that we were a traditional company.  She, like my father, hated change, but only change was going to save us.

The trouble was, I did not dare tell her.

Then I realised the room was empty and Wendy was standing next to me.

“Sam.”

I said nothing.  She had that ability to turn me into a gibbering idiot.

“Can you drop by my office in an hour.  I have a job I would like you to do.”

“Sure.  In an hour.”

“Yes.  See you then.”

After she left the room, I sighed.  I think I knew what my mother meant with her enigmatic three words.  She knew I liked Wendy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025