Day 157

Populism or dedication?

…

So, who wants to be a New York Times No. 1 best-selling author?

Me!

Who wants to be compared to the likes of Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy, or any of the classic authors and write a story that is a literary treasure?

Me, too!

Shall the twain ever meet?

Here’s the rub.  If you want to make a living out of writing, you need to write at least one or two books a year, have them become ‘must reads’ like those of James Patterson or Clive Cussler.

That’s writing to a formula and taking the populist path.  It is much easier, to a certain degree, to write a novel like a romance, a war story, a spy story, or a period piece like the Regency romances.

It is a lot more difficult to write a definitive literary novel.  I keep thinking that one day I will, and I even started one about forty years ago.

I happened to read several novels by the author R.F. Delderfield, and one in particular, A Horseman Riding By.  To me, at the time, it was the modern era equivalent of those classics by Dickens or Eliot.

It was a three-volume life history, and it captivated my imagination.  At the time, I was working for a company whose history went back to the late 1800s and had a great many old records of how things were done, particularly mining on a remote island in the Pacific and a shipping line that carried the ore and passengers and stores and supplies.

That first volume ran from the 1930s to the start of the Second World War, and I spent a lot of time studying the people and processes of the time itself.  It was as far as I got, but I still harbour the notion I will get it written.

One day.

Until then, populism rules! 

Day 157

Populism or dedication?

…

So, who wants to be a New York Times No. 1 best-selling author?

Me!

Who wants to be compared to the likes of Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy, or any of the classic authors and write a story that is a literary treasure?

Me, too!

Shall the twain ever meet?

Here’s the rub.  If you want to make a living out of writing, you need to write at least one or two books a year, have them become ‘must reads’ like those of James Patterson or Clive Cussler.

That’s writing to a formula and taking the populist path.  It is much easier, to a certain degree, to write a novel like a romance, a war story, a spy story, or a period piece like the Regency romances.

It is a lot more difficult to write a definitive literary novel.  I keep thinking that one day I will, and I even started one about forty years ago.

I happened to read several novels by the author R.F. Delderfield, and one in particular, A Horseman Riding By.  To me, at the time, it was the modern era equivalent of those classics by Dickens or Eliot.

It was a three-volume life history, and it captivated my imagination.  At the time, I was working for a company whose history went back to the late 1800s and had a great many old records of how things were done, particularly mining on a remote island in the Pacific and a shipping line that carried the ore and passengers and stores and supplies.

That first volume ran from the 1930s to the start of the Second World War, and I spent a lot of time studying the people and processes of the time itself.  It was as far as I got, but I still harbour the notion I will get it written.

One day.

Until then, populism rules! 

Day 156

How has writing affected your life?

…

When I was much younger and life was very difficult, my imagination needed to take my mind off that dark world around me, and fired up and fueled a great many stories.

The pre-teen years were not those that I wrote anything beyond those school assignments, but i remember the desire to read and, in doing so, imagine it could inhabit those idyllic worlds.

When I was old enough and in the first years of secondary school, the subjects we learned helped expand that imagination, some wanting to be someone different, to be somewhere else, anywhere but home.

I remember reading books about boarding school in England and somehow thought that would be better than what I had here.  That notion of self-sufficiency and navigating those younger years in such an environment would be fun.

Of course, later on, I realised the reality of that sort of life, and it was just as horrible as I had already.

It didn’t stop me from wanting to be in a rich family living in a large house and having a whole estate to play in.  It didn’t matter that it might not be the truth, just that it was different.

As I transitioned out of school, now having discovered I could write and translate those dreams into stories, I embarked on a university degree that majored in Narrative, which was writing, and journalism, which, in combining the two, provided three years of writing experience.

In other words, from an early age, I used writing as a means of survival and later as a channel for my creative whim.  I never expected that I would write a book, not in those early years, just that the scribbles on paper would eventually become something.

Yes, I wanted to have a perfect relationship, but I soon realised that there really isn’t one. Writing about it and trying to create perfection, I discovered a lot of interesting lessons and everything that can go wrong, as usual.

Yes, I wanted to be a spy, and watched, ready and studied as much as I could, and discovered that Spies don’t live a charmed life, they are always teetering on the edge of life and death.

Yes, I wanted to be a billionaire and live a charmed and successful life, but it mostly doesn’t happen, and the newspaper pages are littered with the death and ruination of a great many privileged souls.

Others struggle.  My father always said life wasn’t meant to be easy.  I soon learned that in my imagination and my stories, it could. 

Day 156

How has writing affected your life?

…

When I was much younger and life was very difficult, my imagination needed to take my mind off that dark world around me, and fired up and fueled a great many stories.

The pre-teen years were not those that I wrote anything beyond those school assignments, but i remember the desire to read and, in doing so, imagine it could inhabit those idyllic worlds.

When I was old enough and in the first years of secondary school, the subjects we learned helped expand that imagination, some wanting to be someone different, to be somewhere else, anywhere but home.

I remember reading books about boarding school in England and somehow thought that would be better than what I had here.  That notion of self-sufficiency and navigating those younger years in such an environment would be fun.

Of course, later on, I realised the reality of that sort of life, and it was just as horrible as I had already.

It didn’t stop me from wanting to be in a rich family living in a large house and having a whole estate to play in.  It didn’t matter that it might not be the truth, just that it was different.

As I transitioned out of school, now having discovered I could write and translate those dreams into stories, I embarked on a university degree that majored in Narrative, which was writing, and journalism, which, in combining the two, provided three years of writing experience.

In other words, from an early age, I used writing as a means of survival and later as a channel for my creative whim.  I never expected that I would write a book, not in those early years, just that the scribbles on paper would eventually become something.

Yes, I wanted to have a perfect relationship, but I soon realised that there really isn’t one. Writing about it and trying to create perfection, I discovered a lot of interesting lessons and everything that can go wrong, as usual.

Yes, I wanted to be a spy, and watched, ready and studied as much as I could, and discovered that Spies don’t live a charmed life, they are always teetering on the edge of life and death.

Yes, I wanted to be a billionaire and live a charmed and successful life, but it mostly doesn’t happen, and the newspaper pages are littered with the death and ruination of a great many privileged souls.

Others struggle.  My father always said life wasn’t meant to be easy.  I soon learned that in my imagination and my stories, it could. 

Day 155

Writing routine

…

The question is, do you have one?

I suspect all of the professional authors have one.

Wake up at six, go for a run on the beach, through the garden, somewhere private and exotic with views to die for, then coffee and croissants on the balcony overlooking the ocean, go up to that spacious, airy writing room where inspiration pours from every corner or crevice.

Two hours of wordsmithing, a leisurely lunch, two more hours in the afternoon, then a night out with friends at the theatre, followed by supper in an exclusive restaurant.

So, not being a professional author, I certainly don’t start the morning with a run.  I struggle to wake up and get out of bed.

No breakfast.  Not because I don’t want to, I just can’t be bothered.

Then it’s the chores.  Washing, dishwasher, digging out what’s going to be for dinner, rummaging in the freezer and agonising over what’s going to be easiest, then hit the bathroom.

Sometimes, an idea hits me in the shower, or the answer to that elusive next part of the story, after writing myself into the proverbial corner.

Then a mad dash to get said idea down on paper.

By that time, its lunch, not leisurely, and I scan social media and my blog for responses and activity.  This is followed by a scan of the news headlines to see if anything is happening, other than Trump and the likelihood of World War three.

Satisfied it won’t be raining nuclear missiles, I go out to the writing room, yes, at least I have one of those and sit down in front of the computer.

Good thought, but it’s back to the washing and dinner.  Rose comes home.  No words written, so social media work is completed, but essentially nothing really happens now until about 11 pm

That’s when the writing gets done.

2 a.m. bed.  Dream of what might be tomorrow’s writing, but dead tired, no dreams.

Wake, repeat, sleep…

Perhaps if I planned my days … 

Day 155

Writing routine

…

The question is, do you have one?

I suspect all of the professional authors have one.

Wake up at six, go for a run on the beach, through the garden, somewhere private and exotic with views to die for, then coffee and croissants on the balcony overlooking the ocean, go up to that spacious, airy writing room where inspiration pours from every corner or crevice.

Two hours of wordsmithing, a leisurely lunch, two more hours in the afternoon, then a night out with friends at the theatre, followed by supper in an exclusive restaurant.

So, not being a professional author, I certainly don’t start the morning with a run.  I struggle to wake up and get out of bed.

No breakfast.  Not because I don’t want to, I just can’t be bothered.

Then it’s the chores.  Washing, dishwasher, digging out what’s going to be for dinner, rummaging in the freezer and agonising over what’s going to be easiest, then hit the bathroom.

Sometimes, an idea hits me in the shower, or the answer to that elusive next part of the story, after writing myself into the proverbial corner.

Then a mad dash to get said idea down on paper.

By that time, its lunch, not leisurely, and I scan social media and my blog for responses and activity.  This is followed by a scan of the news headlines to see if anything is happening, other than Trump and the likelihood of World War three.

Satisfied it won’t be raining nuclear missiles, I go out to the writing room, yes, at least I have one of those and sit down in front of the computer.

Good thought, but it’s back to the washing and dinner.  Rose comes home.  No words written, so social media work is completed, but essentially nothing really happens now until about 11 pm

That’s when the writing gets done.

2 a.m. bed.  Dream of what might be tomorrow’s writing, but dead tired, no dreams.

Wake, repeat, sleep…

Perhaps if I planned my days … 

Day 154

The grass is browner on the other side…

…

The way I saw it, the grass was always browner on the other side.

Josh was not particularly interested in my assessment of having affairs, as I had told him long ago that all they would cause was unnecessary grief.

And for what?

That aspect he had never explained in a manner that would convince me that the grass was not brown but green.

It was yet another Friday night in a bar renowned for what Josh called hook-ups, his description of married men and women looking for something on the side.

His specialty was one-night stands.

I went along only for the beer and to watch the machinations of people who were not satisfied with what they had.

Over and over again.  The only thing that didn’t surprise me was the jaded expressions.

“When you’re finally married, Robert, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”

He never got tired of telling how much he adored his wife, that he would never leave her, and that his Friday night was just to remove the boredom.

If I were married to Lucy, his wife, there would be no boredom or straying.

“I could not imagine being unsatisfied with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Of course, the opportunity to find the one hadn’t yet presented itself, and I sure as hell didn’t want to partake in what was on offer in this bar.

Not that I hadn’t been propositioned on numerous occasions.  I had found their reactions amusing when I declined.

“That might just about sum you up, Robert.  No sense of adventure.”

Be that as it may, it never stopped Josh from trying to hook me up with a double date.  Some had been interesting, but I had a rule not to date married women.  Being accosted by an angry husband was not on my wish list.

And a pity Josh had not got the memo.

“Well, that lack of adventure is about to be tested.”

He looked in the same direction as I was, to the end of the bar where two women were sitting, sipping drinks and surveying what was on offer.  I’d caught them looking at us more than once.  Well, Josh, maybe.  I doubted I’d raise an eyebrow.

“I’d go and introduce myself.  They keep looking in your direction.”

Since I was there to provide an opinion on the participants, act as a wingman when necessary, and generally help his case, he knew I was not giving him a bum steer.

“Which one?’

“Redhead, though I doubt it’s her natural colour.  She’s more your type, sassy.”

That was his go-to type, brazen or sassy, the exact opposite of Lucy.

The other, younger, like a sister, cousin, or office junior, did not look like she was a willing participant, but then, what would I know?

“She is.”  He drank the rest of the Scotch and soda for the courage, slipped off his seat, and sauntered down to their end of the bar.

I didn’t watch after he reached them.  I didn’t want to know. 

The bartender came over, and I ordered another bottle of beer. A voice next to me said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

A glance sideways told me it was the redhead’s friend.  Brunette, short, with a fringe.  There were, now she was closer, blue tinges through her hair.

Not sassy, but rebellious.  In other words, trouble.

I looked down at the end of the bar, and the red head and Josh were gone.

“What happened to your friend?”

“Went with Josh, possibly to a hotel.  He said you would take me home, but you don’t have to.”

“If Josh said I would, I will.  Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.  The night is young, and I’m glad I don’t have to help Erica in her quest.  Please tell me you don’t either?”

So, either happily married, in a steady relationship, or like me, still looking, or not.

“No.  I come here just for the amusement of guessing who will end up with whom.”

The bartender put the bottles in front of us and moved on.

She looked at the label, took a sip, and then made a face that changed her whole demeanour. “How’s that going?”

“Like my own ability to pick who might be the woman of my dreams?  It seems I don’t understand the randomness.”

“Desperation, Robert, it’s called desperation.  And if you ask me, there’s an element of sex addiction.”

She knew my name.  Josh probably told her all about me, according to Josh, which was about as far from the truth as anyone could get.

“I’ve not yet reached the point of desperation.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to meet the one.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  And I don’t understand women at all because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

“Odd.  I feel the same way.  Erica has no problem finding guys to do her bidding.”

“Is she married?”

“She says she is in an open relationship, whatever that means, but I know she’s unhappy with her husband.  He’s not adventurous at all.”

There was that word again.  Perhaps that was a prerequisite to visiting a place like this; you needed a sense of adventure.

“Why does that matter?”

“You should ask Josh.  Apparently, Erica thinks I need to find one or I’ll be left on the shelf.”

More beer, more interesting changes in expression.  I don’t think she drank beer, which raised the question, why did she ask for one?

Then she added, almost randomly, “I do weekend rock climbing.  That’s all the adventure I need.”  Then the sudden switch in topics.  “So, tell me your criteria for what you think would be the one.”

OK.  I didn’t see that coming.  Usually, by now, the girl had moved on. 

“As I said…”

“You don’t know.  My belief is that you do, so hypothetically, what’s on the list?”

Surprisingly, she ordered more beer.  I wondered for a moment if she was one of those women who could drink a lot and not show any signs of it.

Unlike me, I could survive perhaps four bottles, if I drank them slowly.

I had a feeling that whatever I might guess about this woman, chances were high I was completely wrong.  Except that she was the polar opposite of the red head she had been with.

Or she was a very good actress.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“No.  But humour me.  The evening has not turned out the way I expected it would.”

What was she expecting?

“OK.  One.  She must be footloose and fancy free.”

“Not married or straying?  This, then, would hardly be the place to find such a partner?”

“Not my first choice, but I’m beginning to see that I should stop spending Friday nights with Josh.”

She smiled, and facets of her personality shone through.  “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, now I think about it.  Two.  She must like to try different cuisines at least once.  I try to, at least once a week.

“That should be on my list, you know, mothers’ old sayings, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Does anyone cook these days.  I have an apartment with a kitchen but nothing in the pantry, and beer and juice in the refrigerator.”

“No wilting celery or mouldy cheese?”

“No.  It happened at the start when I had the best of intentions, then I started working twenty-hour days.”

“No rest for the wicked, then.”

“Except Friday night, and sometimes the odd weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“As it happens.  But, to continue…”

She liked driving conversations sideways.  I would have to pay more attention.  “Three.  She should not be afraid to travel second or third class, where the real adventure is.  I’m not necessarily cheap, just careful so I can do and see more.”

“Well, aren’t you the party pooper.  I couldn’t bear to travel in anything less than first class, or better still, the private jet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, such was her serious expression.  Then she burst out laughing, perhaps in response to my probably bewildered expression.

Then, inexplicably, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  “You had me at one, Robert.  If you so desire, I would like you to take me to a new dining experience, one you haven’t been to before, and then, depending on your list and my list, maybe we could talk about this affinity you think you have with travelling third class.  What do you think?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth.  Liz, for short.  Call me Lizzy, and I’ll turn into the axe murderer you’re thinking I might be.”

“If I call you Elizabeth?”

“You would be confusing me with my mother.  So, sweep me off my feet.”

Challenge accepted.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 154

The grass is browner on the other side…

…

The way I saw it, the grass was always browner on the other side.

Josh was not particularly interested in my assessment of having affairs, as I had told him long ago that all they would cause was unnecessary grief.

And for what?

That aspect he had never explained in a manner that would convince me that the grass was not brown but green.

It was yet another Friday night in a bar renowned for what Josh called hook-ups, his description of married men and women looking for something on the side.

His specialty was one-night stands.

I went along only for the beer and to watch the machinations of people who were not satisfied with what they had.

Over and over again.  The only thing that didn’t surprise me was the jaded expressions.

“When you’re finally married, Robert, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”

He never got tired of telling how much he adored his wife, that he would never leave her, and that his Friday night was just to remove the boredom.

If I were married to Lucy, his wife, there would be no boredom or straying.

“I could not imagine being unsatisfied with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Of course, the opportunity to find the one hadn’t yet presented itself, and I sure as hell didn’t want to partake in what was on offer in this bar.

Not that I hadn’t been propositioned on numerous occasions.  I had found their reactions amusing when I declined.

“That might just about sum you up, Robert.  No sense of adventure.”

Be that as it may, it never stopped Josh from trying to hook me up with a double date.  Some had been interesting, but I had a rule not to date married women.  Being accosted by an angry husband was not on my wish list.

And a pity Josh had not got the memo.

“Well, that lack of adventure is about to be tested.”

He looked in the same direction as I was, to the end of the bar where two women were sitting, sipping drinks and surveying what was on offer.  I’d caught them looking at us more than once.  Well, Josh, maybe.  I doubted I’d raise an eyebrow.

“I’d go and introduce myself.  They keep looking in your direction.”

Since I was there to provide an opinion on the participants, act as a wingman when necessary, and generally help his case, he knew I was not giving him a bum steer.

“Which one?’

“Redhead, though I doubt it’s her natural colour.  She’s more your type, sassy.”

That was his go-to type, brazen or sassy, the exact opposite of Lucy.

The other, younger, like a sister, cousin, or office junior, did not look like she was a willing participant, but then, what would I know?

“She is.”  He drank the rest of the Scotch and soda for the courage, slipped off his seat, and sauntered down to their end of the bar.

I didn’t watch after he reached them.  I didn’t want to know. 

The bartender came over, and I ordered another bottle of beer. A voice next to me said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

A glance sideways told me it was the redhead’s friend.  Brunette, short, with a fringe.  There were, now she was closer, blue tinges through her hair.

Not sassy, but rebellious.  In other words, trouble.

I looked down at the end of the bar, and the red head and Josh were gone.

“What happened to your friend?”

“Went with Josh, possibly to a hotel.  He said you would take me home, but you don’t have to.”

“If Josh said I would, I will.  Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.  The night is young, and I’m glad I don’t have to help Erica in her quest.  Please tell me you don’t either?”

So, either happily married, in a steady relationship, or like me, still looking, or not.

“No.  I come here just for the amusement of guessing who will end up with whom.”

The bartender put the bottles in front of us and moved on.

She looked at the label, took a sip, and then made a face that changed her whole demeanour. “How’s that going?”

“Like my own ability to pick who might be the woman of my dreams?  It seems I don’t understand the randomness.”

“Desperation, Robert, it’s called desperation.  And if you ask me, there’s an element of sex addiction.”

She knew my name.  Josh probably told her all about me, according to Josh, which was about as far from the truth as anyone could get.

“I’ve not yet reached the point of desperation.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to meet the one.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  And I don’t understand women at all because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

“Odd.  I feel the same way.  Erica has no problem finding guys to do her bidding.”

“Is she married?”

“She says she is in an open relationship, whatever that means, but I know she’s unhappy with her husband.  He’s not adventurous at all.”

There was that word again.  Perhaps that was a prerequisite to visiting a place like this; you needed a sense of adventure.

“Why does that matter?”

“You should ask Josh.  Apparently, Erica thinks I need to find one or I’ll be left on the shelf.”

More beer, more interesting changes in expression.  I don’t think she drank beer, which raised the question, why did she ask for one?

Then she added, almost randomly, “I do weekend rock climbing.  That’s all the adventure I need.”  Then the sudden switch in topics.  “So, tell me your criteria for what you think would be the one.”

OK.  I didn’t see that coming.  Usually, by now, the girl had moved on. 

“As I said…”

“You don’t know.  My belief is that you do, so hypothetically, what’s on the list?”

Surprisingly, she ordered more beer.  I wondered for a moment if she was one of those women who could drink a lot and not show any signs of it.

Unlike me, I could survive perhaps four bottles, if I drank them slowly.

I had a feeling that whatever I might guess about this woman, chances were high I was completely wrong.  Except that she was the polar opposite of the red head she had been with.

Or she was a very good actress.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“No.  But humour me.  The evening has not turned out the way I expected it would.”

What was she expecting?

“OK.  One.  She must be footloose and fancy free.”

“Not married or straying?  This, then, would hardly be the place to find such a partner?”

“Not my first choice, but I’m beginning to see that I should stop spending Friday nights with Josh.”

She smiled, and facets of her personality shone through.  “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, now I think about it.  Two.  She must like to try different cuisines at least once.  I try to, at least once a week.

“That should be on my list, you know, mothers’ old sayings, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Does anyone cook these days.  I have an apartment with a kitchen but nothing in the pantry, and beer and juice in the refrigerator.”

“No wilting celery or mouldy cheese?”

“No.  It happened at the start when I had the best of intentions, then I started working twenty-hour days.”

“No rest for the wicked, then.”

“Except Friday night, and sometimes the odd weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“As it happens.  But, to continue…”

She liked driving conversations sideways.  I would have to pay more attention.  “Three.  She should not be afraid to travel second or third class, where the real adventure is.  I’m not necessarily cheap, just careful so I can do and see more.”

“Well, aren’t you the party pooper.  I couldn’t bear to travel in anything less than first class, or better still, the private jet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, such was her serious expression.  Then she burst out laughing, perhaps in response to my probably bewildered expression.

Then, inexplicably, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  “You had me at one, Robert.  If you so desire, I would like you to take me to a new dining experience, one you haven’t been to before, and then, depending on your list and my list, maybe we could talk about this affinity you think you have with travelling third class.  What do you think?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth.  Liz, for short.  Call me Lizzy, and I’ll turn into the axe murderer you’re thinking I might be.”

“If I call you Elizabeth?”

“You would be confusing me with my mother.  So, sweep me off my feet.”

Challenge accepted.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 153

Writing exercise – a dream perhaps

…

Tiredness and bad days were never a good mix, and I’d had the worst day.  I had been planning to read the latest draft of a novel I’d been handed for assessment, and maybe the job of editing it.

At worst, I’d probably end up having to fact-check the parts that needed it because so many first-time writers seemed to think writing in the past didn’t mean that they had to know about it.

And why did I end up with the manuscript?

I liked trains and was a bit of a fan of trains of the past.  I also had a thing about the British aristocracy, and this had it in spades.

However, since nothing ever worked out the way I wanted, I ended up getting home late and having promised I’d get a first impression together for the meeting the following morning, it meant reading it in bed.

If it were boring, I’d be asleep in a few minutes.

As it turned out, it wasn’t.  Oh, the writing style was non-existent and the English awful, but the story was … interesting.

Two ends of the aristocracy, the boy, the son of a gentleman, the girl, the daughter of a Lord in a castle, in the 1920s had somehow found themselves in an unlikely romance, to the point where the boy was off the meet her parents.  She was first class, he was all about being sensible with money, so it probably wasn’t going to work.

Then, just as I got to the part about getting into the car at the station to drive to her house, I fell asleep.

…

Matilda and I were going to her parents’ residence in Scotland, and I’d promised to take the train with her.

It took another moment for the feeling that everyone was dressed rather oddly, and then remembered why I was taking this weekend away.

I’d been working long hours with little respite, and it was wearing me down.  Matilda’s answer, come with her and enjoy the fresh air.

And meet her family, not for the first time, but back home in a less stressful situation.

Less stressful for whom?

Normally, I would not travel first class by choice, but since it was Matilda, I didn’t hesitate.  Marriage to her, if I could get the approval of everyone, would mean making changes.

Not for her, but me.

The first, travelling in the Night Scotsman. She had suggested leaving in the morning on the Flying Scotsman, but I couldn’t get away.

This was better, we could have a leisurely dinner and then retire to a double sleeper, separate beds, of course.

I shrugged, just as a few drops of rain started to fall, and I heard a clock chime half past nine.  I was on time, which was something else that would have to change.  I was perpetually late for everything.

I showed the railway staff my ticket several times as I was guided to the correct Carriage, and then boarded.  It was a longish walk because our carriage wasn’t far from the front of the train and not far from the restaurant car.

I found the cabin, not quite as lavish as I might have expected, but no Matilda.  If I knew her, she would be exploring.  Her case was in her bed, so I put mine on the other.  a surprise discovery, or two perhaps, she travelled light and had an insatiable curiosity, well beyond that of a normal girl of her station.

There was no sign of her personal maid, but she would not be far away; Matilda never went anywhere without her, being both her chaperone and protector.  It had been disconcerting at first, and it took a while to realise Matilda could do very much whatever she wanted to.

Within reason.

She would be in a nearby cabin.

I looked out the windows, on one side, the platform with people walking further along to their carriages.  On the other hand, another train heading somewhere else.

I had got a brief glimpse of the locomotive under the bright lights, a huge beast of a machine almost lost in shrouds of steam.  One other thing I noticed, the carriages were highly polished and gleaming in the harsh lights in the station proper.

“There you are?”  Matilda had returned and looked radiant, as always.  She had one of those dispositions that would brighten even the dullest room and the most boring of parties.

I smiled in return.  “I was doing my best not to succumb to the child  in me who wanted to see the locomotive close up.”

“It’s just a train, James.”

“It’s not just any train.”  We hugged, and I held on for a little longer than I should.

I was never quite sure if she loved me as much as I loved her, but I guessed that would sort itself out in time.

I had spoken to my mother about it, and she simply said if it was meant to be, all will be well.  She never did explain what to do if it was not meant to be, and I didn’t press it.

“You made it, that’s the important thing.  I’ve reserved a table for dinner, and I’ll table you through the dreaded relations list.  l’m afraid Mummy has invited a few more than I expected, but you know what prospective in-laws are like.”

I didn’t, because it was all new for me.  Matilda had been through the betrothal process, having been matched with a particular young man, who, had he survived the war, they would be married now.

She had taken a few years to recover from that and had not been looking for a new man until, as she described it, I popped up out of nowhere.

Nowhere was simply a matter of bumping into her when I was hurrying to get back to the office late yet again from lunch with a friend.

I was hardly pleasant about it because she was drifting aimlessly on the footpath, and I told her so very forcefully.  Of course, I failed to realise I’d dropped my work folder and then had her turn up at my office.

That’s when I learned she was a distant relative of my father’s business partner, one Lady Matilda, thank you very much and mind your manners, young man.

After that bollicking, I hated her more.

Which made our second meeting very awkward, after I reluctantly turned up at a party for a friend of a friend, and someone my father told me would be useful to make the acquaintance of.

When she saw me, she decided to be condescendingly sweet, which only made me more incensed at her trading on her station.

I simply shrugged and left.  I didn’t want to be there, and it was a good excuse to leave.

Which I would have made a silent getaway except she was waiting outside, leaning against the getaway car, the chauffeur looking menacing.

I had two choices: to be forever shunned in society, or have dinner with her.  Being shunned didn’t bother me.  Having dinner did.  It meant I had to try and get over my shyness around girls, something I’d assiduously avoided up until now.

Rather foolishly, I chose the dinner, an awkward drive to the Savoy and to dine in the restaurant.  She used her father’s permanent table, further proving her desire to trade on her name and station.

Champagne was served after we sat and were both handed menus.  It seemed odd to me that the restaurant was full.

After a few minutes, she said, “You don’t like me, do you?”

“I’m sure you have the ability to grow on people.”

“Just not you?”

“No.”

“I cannot help the family I was born into, or the fact that they have wealth, and since they do have it, why can’t I use it?”

…

That moment Chester, the wretched cat who I was sure loved tormenting me, plumped himself down at the top of my head on the pillow and woke me.

At a most interesting part…

I had to check where I was, because the dream had been so real, I felt as though I’d been there.  In 1928, that was when the Flying Scotsman started the Night Scotsman service.

Or perhaps it was the other train… There were two nightly trains from London to Edinburgh.

And Matilda, she had taken on the persona of someone in my subconscious, though I couldn’t tell, then, who.

I growled at Chester for waking me, and climbed out, fetched the manuscript, and was going to have to read it again.  I needed more information if I was going to try and go back.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025