…

“What the hell?” Amelia asked her grandmother, somewhat exasperatedly, after suddenly waking, and finding her missing.

Despite any misgivings that briefly passed through her mind, Amelia threw on some clothes and went looking for her. If this was home, she would not be caught dead outside without the proper preparation, a half-hour system at the very least for makeup application and clothes selection.

Her instructions from her parents were quite clear.  Don’t let her grandmother out of her sight.  It was not that she couldn’t be trusted. It was just that she didn’t see the evil in people, and Italy was a whole different world than she was used to.

“Breakfast.  I did give you a shake, then tell you where I was going?”

“You should have tried harder.”

Her grandmother gave her one of those looks, one that bordered on disdain with a tinge of incomprehension, one she was getting used to because of the generation gap, and things were getting lost in translation

“Who was he?  Some rando imposing on you?”

There was that look again.  “What is a rando?”

“Some guy who comes up and tries it on.”

“In the restaurant over coffee?  I should be that lucky a guy would be interested in me that way.  I think your imagination is a little too fertile, young lady.  He’s just another tourist, and I imposed on him, not the other way around.”  She looked her granddaughter up and down.  “You look a mess.”

“Well, I was worried you might have gotten into trouble.”

“Your father has so little faith in me, I see.  This isn’t going to work if you’re going to stress out every time I go for breakfast and you’re still asleep.  You need to change your habits and be ready when I am.  I’ll wait here until you get yourself together. And now you’ve enlightened me about randos; I’ll try to avoid them if possible.”

Amelia simply shook her head.  She was between that proverbial rock and a hard place and regretted volunteering to chaperone her grandmother.  Of course, the alternative was equally impossible.

She needed to get away from her so-called friends and that weasel of an ex-boyfriend.  The idea of enduring the summer holidays with any of them was painful enough, but this gig was probably going to be worse.

She compromised on her morning routine, going with the minimal makeup look and a summery dress that she wouldn’t wear back home.  It was not likely she was going to run into anyone she knew.

Back down in the foyer almost fifteen minutes after she left her grandmother in one of the lounges, she spilled out of the elevator and quickly strode into the foyer where … no one was sitting in any of the chairs.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath.  “Now, where is she?”

Her grandmother was going to be a nightmare to supervise.  Her father said as much, not exactly denigrating a woman for being independent and also having a mind of her own, but he seemed to be bordering on a man who had definite ideas about a woman’s place.  She was surprised her mother put up with it.

The one conversation she had with her grandmother on serious stuff like her life, was about how she had spent more of her time trying to fight against the strict social norms of her day, that she be a dutiful wife and mother, and not entertain any of those nonsensical ideas of going to work or going places, and worse still doing it on her own.

It was everything that Amelia had now without questioning how it came to pass; just that it was a right she had.  Like most girls her age, she knew nothing about how hard it had been just to get some of those rights.

She went over to the door and looked out.  Out by the dock where the Vaporetto came to collect and drop them off, she saw her talking to that same man and an Italian woman in a very smart suit.

She dashed out and almost ran into several people who made an unpredictable turn outside the entrance.

…

“Ah,” her grandmother said, “just in time.  Jay, this is one of my four granddaughters, Amelia.  She was the one I was telling you about.”

I looked at her, making out the similarities between the generations.  Same eyes, same amusement lurking there.  “I’ve never been called a rando before, but in any case, it has a slightly different meaning in my generation, which I was just telling your grandmother about.”

Amelia glared at her grandmother.  “Did you have to mention that?  Really?”  Scratch that idea she was not going to suffer embarrassment.

The grandmother added, “She generally speaks in riddles, and I can never understand a word of it.  This new teen language…”

“Oddly enough, I know what you mean.  I have a few teens and a few older grandchildren who, as you say, talk in riddles if they talk at all.”

“Gran, we should be getting on the boat.  We have places to see.”

The Vaporetto was just pulling into the dock.

“About that, Jay here has a private guide, and it seems to him overkill for just one person to benefit. He thinks we might benefit from Conchetta’s experience and knowledge.  I’m inclined to agree, just for today, until we get our bearings.  Unless, of course, you want to do battle with the guidebook and impress me with your Italian language skills?”

Put that way, how could Amelia refuse.  Her Italian was awful, and the last thing she wanted was to take charge of going to see old buildings and boring museums.  And don’t get her started in the number of churches…

“Just for today then, as you say.”

Rather than take the hotel’s vaporetto, Conchetta had arranged for a private water taxi that also had catering.  It was going to be a warm day, and we would need water.

I was right when I suggested that having such a knowledgeable guide all to myself was almost criminal, and when I’d ascertained from Millie that she had no other plans than getting the Vaporetto to St Mark’s Square and wandering around, it seemed simple.

To me, anyway.  I hadn’t factored in the possibility of a somewhat truculent granddaughter, but then I got the impression she had been sent against her will.  It was a surprise she was not at home with her friends.

It seemed there was a little tension between the two, which made me think that the granddaughter might have been co-opted as a nursemaid, and this trip was punishment.

Or perhaps she was a little suspicious of me and whatever my motives were.  There were none, but given time to think about it, it did seem like a pickup line, though given my age, that would be almost ridiculous.

But that notion of being called a rando did bring the matter back to a level of reality.  A foreign country and a foreign tourist, was anyone really safe?

I assured them both that I had no other intentions other than to share my good fortune, and she seemed to accept it.  After all, it was never my intention to seek out a female company or anything like that.  I was quite content to be on my own.

We took a roundabout route and covered a few canals and sightseeing points, which Conchetta was quite happy to mark on the map, along with a chart of the route we were taking.

She also gave us a history lesson, because nearly everything was as old as the hills, as my mother used to describe old stuff.  Of course, my idea of questions, when prompted, was more relatable to the topic.

Amelia had a more fertile imagination, like I’d expect of a teen, and asked about how many bodies were fished out of the canals and did the mafia run everything in Venice.  I was sure they didn’t, but it was not a question Conchetta was going to answer definitively.  In fact, she seemed amused at how Americans and the English thought.

She was very patient without being condescending.  In her place, I might have been more so.  It was just another painful reminder of how our children had abandoned their responsibility to bring their children up properly.

After the canal exploration, the morning was spent in St Mark’s Square, and then the Palace of the Doges.  My highlight was the Whispering Bridge and the story behind it.  Along with a lot of very old paintings.  Amelia, predictably, was bored witless.

When it came to lunch, I politely suggested they might like to join me, though, at the time, I was not sure what Concetta had organised.

To Amelia, it signified the end of a morning of looking at boring stuff and asked if we could have lunch at a real Italian restaurant, and I could see Conchetta roll her eyes, slightly before her grandmother did, so in a quiet moment I asked Conchetta if such a venue existed given the touristy nature of the island, and melting pot of cuisines and visitors tastes.

Fortunately, she did, and I paid her extra to be our culinary host.

It was a divine lunch for many reasons, to have the authentic food, completely dissected and described with the history behind it, the authentic wine to match the food, and the company despite the youthful brashness.

At the end of the day, when the taxi was taking them back to the hotel,  Millie was sitting in the cabin looking like she was having a nap, not very far away from Amelia, who seemed lost in thought.

“A penny for those thoughts, Am.”

The girl turned and smiled.  “It was not as bad as I thought, even if I had to endure all that old stuff.”

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, dear.  Tomorrow, we’re going to visit churches.”

“Really?”

“You might not be interested, but I am.  And the food and wine.  It certainly pays to have someone like Conchetta along for the ride.”

“We could never afford that.  This guy must be very wealthy.”

Millie looked back into the cabin.  Not in the normal sense perhaps, she thought, because not once did he make mention of anything that gave an indication he was rich, unlike so many of his compatriots. Big, loud, brash, and demanding.

There was more to that story, but this was a one-day thing.  She had been reluctant at first to agree to his proposal, perhaps a little suspicious of his motives, but as the day progressed, it was clear to her there were none.

“Perhaps, but it is none of our business.”

The girl came back to sit next to her grandmother.  “Perhaps,” she said in almost a whisper, “you could cosy up to him, and we could ride his coattails around Europe.”

Millie put on her most shocked expression.  “I thought you said he was a rando trying it on.”

“I might have been a little hasty.  I don’t mean, you know, just if he offers, I’m sure it would be better than us two trying to muddle through.”

“I won’t ask you to explain ‘you know’, but I don’t think we can impose on him.  If he suggests it, I’ll think about it, but this is about you and I going on what your father described as the trip of a lifetime.”

“Yeah.  Dad says a lot of stuff, but none of it belonging to this century.  As you wish.”

I woke when the boat gently bumped against the dock, and Conchetta gently shook my shoulder.

“We are here,” she said.

“My goodness.  What did I miss?”

“Nothing of any consequence.  It has been a long day, even for me.”

“Perhaps less formal clothes tomorrow?”

“If only I could.”

At the front of the boat, Millie and Amelia were about to get off.  I looked over time the pontoon and gasped.

A surprise.  Jasper, second son to my daughter Samanthan was waiting, that usual lopsided grin and shock of red hair making him stand out.

That and the fact he was wearing a suit and looked every bit the formal figure like his father.

I could see that Amelia had seen him too and had that effect he had on women of any age.

I came up behind them.  “I see you’ve seen my grandson, Jasper, though why he’s here is a surprise, and hopefully not because something has gone wrong.”

“You have to be kidding, he’s your grandson?  He’s like in every magazine on the planet.  He is that guy that does those ads isn’t he?”

The red hair sometimes gave it away, but yes, his mother was one of those stage mothers.  The movie world shunned him, but the advertisers didn’t.

“Sometimes.  He has better things to do with his time.”

We were helped off the boat, and he came over and gave me a hug.  I then introduced him to the two women.  Amelia all of a sudden couldn’t speak.

“Dumb question,” I said to Jasper to break the moment, ” but why are you here?”

“I had to get away from mom.  She was making all these plans, none of which included my input, so I got on a plane and came here.  Boring churches seemed so much better than modelling gigs.”

“Then just in time.  That’s our tomorrow.  Oh, sorry, Millie, if you want to that is.”

“We’d love to, “Amelia said before her grandmother could take a breath.

I looked at her, and she smiled.  “Of course, we’d love to.”

In that moment both Jasper and Amelia were heading towards the hotel looking almost like they’d been together forever.

Millie watched them with an amused expression, then headed up the ramp towards the hotel.  “This morning, Amelia was telling me this was going to be the most boring month of her life.”

“That might also be the case for Jasper.  I wasn’t expecting to see anyone, but my daughter pretends to worry about me.  You’ll be glad to know Jasper is the sanest of the seven.  Perhaps I am glad he’s here.  And I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position.  If you have other plans for tomorrow…”

“I have not, and today was a good day.  One day at a time, I’ve been saying for a while.   I’m sure it’s a philosophy you can understand.”

She smiled, and I held out a hand to assist her in going up the ramp.  “Very much so.  Now, any particular churches you want to see?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

I had no idea which way Jamieson would go. 

I had damning evidence, and he would ponder why I didn’t play that card back when he was trying to stop the publication of that first story, which was essentially a parody of his discovery.

It was true that Antoine had been totally discredited, not in small part by Aristotle Jamieson himself, and when he had died in the so-called accident, any controversy that had been lingering died with him.

It was almost too convenient, and I didn’t want to think that my investigation of the Jamiesons had anything to do with his death, but I guess it had, and it wasn’t hard to guess who did it.  Jamieson may not have personally killed him, but he was not above paying someone else to do it for him.

What had precipitated that critical interview was Antoine himself, having read an article I’d written about the Jamieson find, and thought I would be interested in what he had to say.  I knew before that interview his reputation was tarnished, but to me, it seemed he would be exactly the sort of person Jamieson would go to if he wanted to fabricate artifacts.

What Antoine had to say and show me was a revelation.  He was doing the interview because Jamieson had short-paid him quite a considerable sum of money, and it was the old story, thieves fall out.  He said that he would have one more attempt at getting his money before giving me the OK to publish, and it was the last time I saw or heard from him.

It wasn’t a surprise to read about his death in the papers some days later.  The fact it was believed to be an accident got my interest and set my investigative journalist persona into overdrive.  I didn’t relax until I found the evidence it was not an accident, but convincing the police became an uphill battle because they were more interested in closing the case.

It would keep.  One day, his death would be avenged.  Just not today.

Elizabeth asked me why I’d been so long, and I think she may have suspected I’d gone to see Jamieson.

 She didn’t press the matter as she was in a hurry to leave for her dig site and was ready to depart the moment I walked in the door.  I was also ready. The quicker we got away from the hotel, the less chance of Jamieson, or his odious son, coming to see me.

I hadn’t taken the time to consider the consequences of confronting Jamieson and should have realised just how unpredictable they could be, particularly Jackson.  He would be very annoyed that I had any sway over their activities.  It made me wonder whether Aristotle had told his son exactly what was going on, and if he hadn’t, I could understand why.

I looked over at Elizabeth from time to time and could see the confrontation earlier had shaken her.  I found it difficult to understand why the Jamiesons would be interested in a minor investigation like Elizabeth’s.  Pirates were never high on the glamourous archelogy list.

Perhaps it held that certain amount of exotic appeal and that in moving from the Egyptian discovery, now losing its shine due to the way they were marketing it, it would be good to have something new to divert the archaeological world’s attention.

Then there was the revelation from Jamieson that she had let the permits for her dig expire.  The Elizabeth I knew was a stickler for details and would never let it happen.  Perhaps the loss of funding had something to do with it, but she had not said anything about it.  Why?

This whole episode was beginning to take on elements that would, in other circumstances, become the makings of one of my novels.  In fact, I found my mind starting to write the outline, starting with the mysterious appearance of a renowned archaeologist suddenly coming back to an old flame, looking to renew their relationship, with the plan to convince him to fund one of her projects, one that if it played out the way she hoped, it would be the next big archaeological event.

Step in the evil Dr Blob, a notorious villain who made a handsome living out of stealing sites and plundering their treasures for personal gain and glory.  Who will win the battle?

Was it fiction or was it fact.

It seemed to me the catalyst for the real saga was the loss of funding from the university.  Jamieson might have had some influence on the decision, after all, he provided a grant to the university archaeology department and enabled graduates to gain some practical experience at his dig site.  That would enable him to swoop in.

It would not be the first time I’d based the evil archaeologist on him, and Jackson made a perfect belligerent henchman.

And what if they had, and expected the Dean to pass on the news in the hope it would drag her away long enough for them to step in and take over, perhaps hoping she might not return until after they had found what she had been looking for.  After all, ad hoc funding for speculative projects like hers was not easy to arrange.

There were just too many questions that I should have asked before embarking on this odyssey, and perhaps I should not have allowed my feelings for her to get in the way of making the proper decision.

We’d been driving for nearly two hours when she suddenly said, “You went to see Jamieson, didn’t you?”

I glanced sideways at her, and I could see she had been thinking about it.  It was a logical conclusion.

“What makes you think that?”  I’d try to deflect it if possible.  I was not quite sure how she would react, which was why I didn’t say anything.

“Your haste to leave.  You’ve never been that enthusiastic about anything in your life.”

“I could see the distress this whole affair was causing you.  You needed to see if he really has stepped in.  Yes, I did drop in and we had words.  I basically told him to leave your site alone.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He would think about it.  The problem was, he told me you had let the permits expire.  Did you?”

Another glance told me it was true.

“I was going to renew them but the fact my funding had been cut made that a little difficult.  I was hoping I could find replacement funds and sort that out.  He renewed the permits, didn’t he?”

“You made it easy for him to swoop in.”

“How could he possibly know any of this?”

“Jackson.  You know he was obsessed with you.  He would have been watching your progress with a keen interest, especially if it meant he could use any trip on your part against you.  And the fact your ex-assistant called him, or perhaps the other way around…”

I’d been looking for a way and forgot about Jackson.  He was not the sort to forgive and forget.  Especially when she preferred another struggling archaeologist instead of one who was rich and famous, well, handing onto the coattails of one who was rich and famous.

“Well, if nothing else, you’ve got the makings of a very good story here.”

“We have the makings of a very good story here.  I’m not averse to collaborating with a real archaeologist.”

I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.  I could see a tear or two escape and felt the enormity of the loss.  Seven years of hard work was about to disappear, and someone else would take the kudos.  It wasn’t fair, but it wouldn’t be for the first time.

Ten miles out from our destination, according to the latitude and longitude coordinates she had given me, we passed a convoy of trucks going in the opposite direction.  Earth moving equipment, generators, portable huts.  It might have been from Jamieson’s dig, it might not.  I wasn’t getting my hopes up.

She had noticed it but said nothing.

Then, we were upon the very edge of the area she had set as the exploration site.  There was a portable wire fence set up with a gate, and in front a car with a man sitting in it.

“What do you think he’s waiting for?” she asked.

“Us.  Wait here, and I’ll see what’s going on.  This is part of the area you based your permit on isn’t it?”

“We’re on about the middle.  It’s where I would set up camp.  We had two years ago while we branched out in both directions.  Our camp was about to be moved to the new site.”

“OK.”

I got out of the car and went over to the SUV.  He watched me come over and when I got there, he would down the window.

“You Alan?”

“I am.”

“I was asked by Mr Jamieson to tell you the site is yours.  For what it’s worth, we did an extensive radar search and found nothing.  We covered the whole site.  The pirate didn’t exist, and the treasure doesn’t exist.  I’d leave while I had the chance.”  He handed me an envelope.  “The permits, his gift to you.  He still expects you to keep your end of the arrangement.”

“I will.  He has my word.”

“Good.  My work is done.  Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

With that, he wound the window back up and drove off.

It didn’t surprise me Jamieson would do a radar survey.  If there was any treasure it would not be buried too deeply and would be found quite easily.  Of course, radar searches were very expensive and would never get funding from the university, and Elizabeth could never afford it.

I watched the car until it disappeared, shrugged, and went back to my car.

“What was that about?”

“Jamieson has given you the dig site back.”  I held up the envelope.  “The permits, pain in full.”

“Ehat else did he say?”

“That Jamieson ordered a radar survey on the whole area, and they found nothing.  They were here long enough to do that.  They found nothing, which is why they have gone.”

“Or they did and have already taken it with them.  Take me to the coordinates and we’ll soon see.”

Indeed, we would.

It was about a half mile, after turning off the main track to a lesser one defined by two distinct tracks where cars had been before.  It was overgrown and the trees brushed the side of the car continuously. 

At the end of the track, or what seemed to be the end, we stopped at a wall, just ragged enough to look like it was natural, but on closer inspection under the headlights of the car, showed it had been man-made.

I turned off the engine and we got out.

“This the site?”

“No.  This way.”  She had a flashlight and switched it on.

The beam was quite powerful and cut through the night like a beacon.  In the distance I could hear the ocean, waves crashing on shore.  Had the pirates tramped up here, set up camp, and buried their treasure?

With my own flashlight, I checked the ground.  There had been a second set of tyre marks on the ground, and there were footsteps, recent, everywhere.  They had definitely been here.

I followed her as she made her way along the wall, then down a track that looked hazardous.  Luckily it was dark, or I might have suspected it was on the side of a cliff.  There was nothing but inky darkness surrounding us.

All the time we were getting closer to the sound of the waves.

Then we stopped.  It was a small clearing, and to one side the rocky outcrop of the cliff face behind one very dense underbrush, the other, a view of the ocean at night.  It was not that far down, the beam of her light showing the water below.

“How did you find this place?”

“I actually got lost going around in circles.  This is where I believe they made camp.  Below the lagoon is reasonably deep and it’s where I think they repaired their ship after a battle with one of the King’s navy ships.  I’ve found a variety of objects here.”

“But no treasure.”

“Not in the clearing, no.  But here’s the surprise.”  She went over to the underbrush and did a quick search until she found a spot where the undergrowth was not as thick, then beckoned me over.”

She held a branch back and shined her torch.  Just discernible in the light was an opening, and not much further back from that, a doorway.”

The veritable entrance to Aladdin’s cave.

“How could they have missed it?”

“Easy.  If you’re not looking for it.  It wasn’t until I heard noises coming from within the trees.  Imagine my surprise when I found it.”

“Have you investigated it yet?”

“No.  For a long time sitting there, it’s still very strong.  The hinges are rusted, but intact, and the door is made of oak, and not rotted as you would expect.  It was another reason why I needed to go home.  I needed more sophisticated tools.  I was hoping no one would find it while I was gone, but this is a very remote part of the coastline.  The cove has changed a lot in 400 years, and I doubt anyone could see it from the ocean now.  Ideal to hide in.  So, let’s set up camp, and tomorrow, see what we’ve got.”

It was a find in a million, I thought. 

I also wondered if Jamieson would have given up so easily had he not done the radar survey.  It was a moot point.  He was gone, we were here, and time would tell.

She came over to me and took my hand in hers.

“Thank you for being my guardian angel.  If it is what I think it is, then the find will be as much yours as it is mine.”

“My pleasure.”

With that, and for the first time in my life, I felt that thrill of being on a real dig, hoping that we would make a discovery.  Even if we didn’t, nothing was going to take that feeling away, that sense that finally, all that study was going to pay off.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Christmas was a time of surprises, some of them not always pleasant.  In fact, I don’t think I could remember one that was what I expected, and I had a very low level of expectation.

And, being that magical time of the year, once again, I had received my gilt-edged invitation to come visit my parents.  What filled me with trepidation was the address.

They had this knack of finding places, anywhere in the world, that were, well, different. 

Last year, it was a haunted Scottish castle.  The year before, they had found a dilapidated mansion in Louisiana that was once a slave owner’s residence and hadn’t been lived in for years.

This year?

A recently refurbished three-story mansion that once belonged to a railway magnate, had been a boarding school, then a bed and breakfast, and now was a billionaire’s retreat.

It was also rented out for those times the billionaire wasn’t there, which apparently was most of the time, a fact my parents seized on and most likely the reason why they took the place for Christmas.

It was going to be fun; snow, Santa and his sled, and the quaint celebrations of the small town nearby, a town which I don’t think would be quite ready for the eccentrics that made up the family members.

Good thing, then, I only had to see them once a year.

Eleanor had her bags packed, and we were waiting for the driver to pick her up and take her to the airport.  She, too, was going home for Christmas, only she had sane parents who lived in a normal town in a normal house and did normal things.

We had been together for a few months, and it was still a work in progress, getting used to a life living with someone else.  After so long on my own, it was a big adjustment.  She had just come off a bad breakup, and we were taking it slow.

I knew the last thing needed was her to meet my parents, and although the subject of family came up, more than once, I told her she was better off not knowing them. I told her, when she asked, to think of the Addams Family and then multiply it by a hundred.

As I said, early days.  This girl was big on the sanctity of family.

Just before the arrival time of her driver, there was a phone call.  If it was me, I would not have answered it because it had ‘ominous’ written all over it.

She answered, listened for a minute, said a few words, and then hung up.

“They’re snowed in, worst blizzards in a century.  No one in or out for a week, maybe more.  Change of plans.  I’ll be coming with you.”

I considered objecting but inevitably knew two things were going to happen, no matter what I said.  The first, that snippet in the paper’s star sign forecast, “unsettling news will cause a deep rift in a relationship” was as true as it was going to get, and the second, come New Year’s Day, I would be single again, though that was an optimistic assessment.

I just shook my head.  By the calendar, there were, at best, twelve days left, and I had better make the most of them.

On the plane, I tried to give her a rundown of the family members.  They were, to outsiders, very different to those who didn’t know them and those who did wisely kept their distance.

It’s why I worked and lived on the other side of the country, and overseas whenever there was an opportunity.  But, sometimes, I had to go and see them.  This was one of those occasions.  It was a matter of getting in and getting out as fast as possible.  By myself, it would be easy, with Eleanor, it would be impossible.

Only once before had I taken a girlfriend with me, the first time, and I vowed after that, never again.

I started with my father.  Inherited a fortune and kept it, unlike a lot of people who inherited fortunes and lost them.  He was brilliant but completely crazy.  He wears crazy coloured suits, dressed as a clown because he once wanted to be a circus clown, even running away as a child.

He was always interested in what I was doing with my life, and endlessly disappointed I was not married like my two brothers and sister.  His over-enthusiastic ministrations on that occasion were enough to never bring another.

Eleanor didn’t seem fazed.

Next was my mother, who once worked briefly at a circus as a trapeze artist.  I never quite got the story of how my parents met, only that she was over the top with everything she did.  That was makeup, clothes, speech, and flamboyance.  She made entrances and then commandeered the floor, extinguishing every other light in the room.

She regularly was in a story about her or something she was doing, so I was always up to date.  The latest project was a cancer wing at a hospital somewhere in Africa.

Leo, brother number one, the heir apparent, was a lazy indolent ass if ever there was one, who treated me very badly as a child and got away with it.  He was the chosen one who could do no wrong.

His wife, Maisie, was a mouse, and sought as little time with him as possible, making it what I would have called a marriage of convenience.  He often forgot he was married and featured with some socialite or starlet in the news or in what we called the ‘scandal sheets’.

I asked her once why she stayed, and the non-answer told me.  Some people could sacrifice a lot for a life that could hardly be imagined.  It was not every day you could mingle with royalty.

A word of warning, Leo would try his darnedest to take her off me.  He always had, and another reason why I didn’t bring anyone.

Younger brother Tom didn’t care about anything and just did his own thing.  He was an amazing painter, and one of his murals graced my lounge room wall.

The youngest sister, Francine, aspired to be a trapeze artist like her mother and actually got an audition at a circus but fell.  There was a safety net, but somehow, it collapsed on one side when she landed, spilling her onto the ground and ending any aspirations.  Now she had a slight limp, and a chip on her shoulder, but was my closest ally.

That relationship was forged over the six months I stayed with her in the hospital while the doctors put her back together.  I gave her the nickname Humpy Dumpty, which in hindsight was in very poor taste, but she loved it.

There were eccentric aunts and uncles, some of whom were egregious, some innocuous, others not so much, but I just avoided them.  By the time we touched down at the airport, if you could call it that, she knew as much about my family as I wanted to.

It was no surprise that Francine was at the airport with a card that said World’s Best Brother in that calligraphy hand that looked amazing.

So was the smile, and her general demeanour that for a long time had been sad.

Eleanor recognised her before I did.

Then I got the biggest hug, and right after that, Eleanor got one almost as big.  What she whispered in Eleanor’s ear I couldn’t hear, but the smile said it was probably about me.

“Just when I was beginning to think all of his family were crazies,” Eleanor said.

“We are.  Just some less so.  Did he tell you about the last time he brought a friend?”

“Only that it went badly.”

“‘And then some.  Just keep away from Leo.  He’s a serial pest.  The rest, well, I’ll make sure I’m with you at all times, and everything should be fine.”

Eleanor looked at me with a face that I recognised as ‘what have you got me into’.  I shrugged.  “Maybe being stuck in a blizzard had its advantages.”

“No.  It had to be done.  If we are going to spend the rest of our lives together, it is best to get it over and done with.”

Francine gave me the look.  “Who is this girl, and where did you find her?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Good.  Log fires and hot chocolate will never be the same.”

Of course, it was 20 questions plus another 200 during the drive to the mansion, another of those reputed to have a lot of paranormal activity, also famous for being used as a film set.

How my father discovered this little-known fact outside the film and paranormal investigators’ world was beyond me, but not unexpected.

“You’re going to love it.  Footsteps on the creaky stairs, noises from the attic, we’ve had a couple of blood-curdling screams.”

Turning off the road and onto the driveway, the arch formed by overhanging trees made it darker than usual, and with a noticeable change in atmosphere.

I shivered, half expecting to see a couple of headless ghosts crossing in front of us.  Then we came out into a clearing and the house before us bathed in sunshine.

“Well, there’s something I haven’t seen before.  Usually, it’s dark and dismal with snow falling.  Today was one of the few days we’ve been able to get up the driveway.  The gods must know you were coming, Alex.”

She stopped just short of the portico, and we got out.  It was freezing cold, sun out or not.

“Is it going to be the usual circus?” I asked. 

That circus, it was tradition that the visitors already there would line up to greet the new arrivals.  No one was spared the meet and greet session, which was why I’d left it as late as possible to arrive.

I had warned her of what to expect, and again, I was surprised it didn’t seem to faze her.

“Leave the bags.  We’ve got house staff to help.  Dad took the all-inclusive package.”

“Including the fright night show?”  Eleanor chose that moment to show she had a sense of humour.

“Especially the fright night show.”  Francine laughed.  Perhaps it was a joke of sorts passed in whispers earlier.

I braced myself.  This was going to get ugly very quickly.

Just past the hallway and where the building opened out into a very large entertaining area, perhaps the size of a ballroom, the family were spread out in a line, parents first, children and their children, uncles, aunts, and finally special guests.  There were about thirty in all, and I could see we were the last to arrive.  Francine stayed with Eleanor.

My father decided to play it reasonably straight, having a matching Christmas jumper with my mother, the sort no sane person would wear.

It was one of those traditions, and I was sure there was one waiting for me in our room. Francine didn’t wear one, but Leo and Tom would have to.

He ignored me and looked straight at Eleanor.  “I’m glad to see my son has finally decided to bring one of his friends.  How are you?”

“Why do you ask? Do you think I’m ill?”

It was not a response he expected, nor I.

“No.  It’s just a normal response when you greet someone.”

“Your son told me you and everyone else are anything but normal.  I hope you haven’t changed just to please me.”

He looked confused.  Finally, some who was not afraid to speak their mind.  And to me, it was a surprise that she would be what I would have said, annoyed.

“We are normal people, I assure you,” he said.

I shook my head.  “This isn’t going to be a very long visit, Dad, so don’t spare the horses.”

“Why, are you not staying for Christmas day?”  My mother decided to chime in.

“After the last time, what do you expect.  I doubt much has changed in ten years.  I expect that by the time I get to Leo and punch his lights out, you’ll be asking me to leave.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Perhaps, then I suggest you talk to your favourite son.  The one I really feel sorry for is Tom.  He has to endure the bastard all year round.”

I could see Tom skulking in line, but there was no sign of Leo.  Probably he forgot I was arriving and was trying to make out with one of the staff.  Maisie was there, waiting, anxiously looking for her miscreant husband.

“Well, even if you are not pleased to see us, we are pleased to see you.  We would like it to be more than once a year though, now you have a friend.”

“It remains to be seen if she still is at the end of this circus.”

I felt an elbow in the ribs and looked to see that it was Eleanor, not Francine.  “Play nice, Alex.  I can stick up for myself.”

As we stepped sideways to greet Maisie, Leo came dashing in looking dishevelled, then slowed and smoothed out the wrinkles before stopping in front of Eleanor.

Leo at his best worst self.  Maisie groaned.

“Well, what have we here, Alex?” he gushed.

All smiles, he reached out to give her a hug.  She stepped back slightly and said, “You would be well advised not to invade my private space, Leo.”

He stopped almost crashing into her.  “I’m sorry.”  The urbane affable mantle slipped slightly at the rejection, but if I knew anything about him, it was just a minor setback, a challenge to be overcome.  “You are Alex’s friend?”

“Girlfriend, yes.  Alex’s girlfriend, are you that stupid that I need to spell it out slowly for you so you can understand me.” She said the last words very slowly like she was talking to the village idiot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Francine grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The whole group had stopped what they were doing, and all eyes were now focused on Leo.  He was used to being the centre of attention, but not like this.

“I am not stupid.”

“Fine.  Let’s run with that.  Who am I?”

“You are Alex’s girlfriend.”  He said it quietly.

“Louder, much Louder, Leo.  Who am I?”

“You are Alex’s girlfriend.”

“I am.”  She looked up and down the line.  “Everyone get that?”

She had their unfettered attention.  It was a side of her I’d not seen, but it was one I liked.  I was hoping to punch Leo’s lights out, but this had kyboshed my moment.  She had them all in the palm of her hand.

Everyone nodded.

Then it was back to Leo.  “Whoever you were schmoozing before you arrived late, late, I might add to greet your brother, was just simply rude.  It’s not the sort of behaviour I would expect from a brother-in-law, so from today, it stops.  You can now tell everyone and, particularly, your wife that you will no longer be sleeping with other women.”

“I was…”

“Are you going to add liar to the list of your misdemeanours, Leo?”

She had that look of a woman who didn’t like men who lied or slept around, and I’m guessing that had something to do with her last breakup.

“No.”

“Then…”

He made his apology and promise. It was the biggest humiliation I’d seen him take.  I doubted whether it would have any impact on his behaviour, but it was a highlight, nonetheless.

She came back to where I was standing next to my mother, who had been astonished more than anything else.

She looked my hand in hers and I looked at both my father and mother.

“Despite what either of you might think, Alex is not a failure.  If you’re looking for utter failures, try Leo.  You have spent far too much time pandering to a complete idiot, and in the process, you have ignored the three other children in your lives.  I expect this will be the year you address that issue.  Yes?”

They got a disapproving glare in their direction, so they agreed.  Loud enough that everyone could hear.

“Excellent.  Now let’s get on with this meet and greet.”

I saw the meaningful look between Francine and Eleanor and just put two and two together.  Eleanor knew far too much about my family for her to pick that up from my briefing, so there was only one other explanation.

“When did you and Francine first meet?”

She smiled.  “What gave it away?”

“I belatedly realised the hug at the airport was a little more effusive than a first meeting?”

“It was the first time we met in person, not the first time we talked.  She called, I answered your phone, and we clicked.  You’re her hero, you know, and would do anything for you.  She wanted to shoot Leo, and I had to talk her out of it.”

“I want to kill him too.”

“I know.  Now you won’t have to go needlessly to jail over a worthless piece of shit.”

“He won’t change you know.”

“He will.  There’s a clause in the will that drives the inheritance.  Maisie has filed for divorce, and if it goes through, he’s no longer the heir.”

“Who is?”

“You.  But it won’t come to that.  Unless he really is that stupid.  So let’s not dwell on that loathsome creature.  There are so many eccentrics and so little time.  Who is that guy that looks like Uncle Fester?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Some things happen randomly.  Some things are unexplainable.  Some things happen for a reason.

What happened to us didn’t happen for a reason, nor was it random or unexplainable.

Well, not at first.

…

I remember that day as if it were yesterday.  I came home from school and there were seven police cars in the street.

I was not sure what I thought from the top of the street, but it wasn’t that the police were in our house.

They were.

I had to plead my case that I actually lived in what they were calling a crime scene.  No one would tell me what happened until a woman about the same age as my mother came out to see what the shouting was about.

I was trying to tell people who wouldn’t listen that it was my house.

I’ll never forget the way she looked down on me like I was dirt beneath her feet.  A person who would want to reach me would have come down to my level.  She did not.

“Who are you making all this noise?”

“I live here.  This is my house.  My father and mother and my sister live here.  Is my mother here?”

“Wait here.”

She went back inside and came back with my mother.  My mother’s face was expressionless, and I only saw that look once before in my life, when she was told her brother had died.

I remembered that day too, and what she said.  ‘Do not trust these English people, they lie, they twist your words.  They say they do not hold grudges, but they never forget.  Never.’

I had no idea what she meant at the time, but seeing the woman and the fact a man was standing close to her as if she were a criminal, was enough.

“Your father is dead.”  It was a simple and succinct statement.  She would say no more until the police left.

The only question in my mind then was who that woman was because she certainly wasn’t the police.  Not the normal police that is.

They said my father committed suicide.  I didn’t get to see the crime scene but was taken to a friends place where my sister was, and we were not allowed to return home for a few days.

My mother had been questioned for three days by both the police and other people, people she thought were security agents, though she had no idea why my father would interest them.

Except, of course, he was German.

We were never asked any questions and allowed back after the house had been cleaned and restored to normalcy.  A day later, when looking for the first time ever, since we were never allowed in his study, I found a small smudge of blood.

It didn’t seem significant.

My mother, our mother, outwardly was the same as she had been, except now, without her husband, she seemed different, not so frightened.  I could see the fear in her eyes every time he came home.  In her eyes and my sisters.  I didn’t know why and didn’t ask.

Not then.

A week passed, and I came home to the same scenario.  Five police cars, flashing lights, and they were at my house.

Again.

I didn’t have to go through the same identification. The policeman at the door knew who I was.

He asked me to wait, and a few minutes later, the same woman came out.

“This is getting to be a regular event,” I said.

“It won’t happen again.  Come inside.”

From the front door, I could see the tail of destruction.  Someone had searched the place and looked everywhere.

And I mean everywhere, down to ripping the plaster off the walks and ripping up floorboards.

“Who would do something like this,” I asked.

“Exactly the question we would ask.  It seems someone thought your father had something worth stealing.  It’s equally obvious by the damage they didn’t find it.”

“That’s because he didn’t have anything.”

She gave me that grown-up, I don’t believe you looked and then took me to my mother.  Equally resolute and angry as the time before.

“You might want to consider moving.  These people might come back.  They did not find what they were looking for.  I suggest you think long and hard about what it might be these people want.”

“I do not know anything about my husband’s business. I did not want to know, and he didn’t tell me.  I never went into his office. None of us did.  We are not being chased out of my home.  My husband did nothing wrong, I have done nothing wrong, and we are not moving anywhere.”

We were forced to stay with a friend while the house was put back together, and life returned to a semblance of normalcy.  An elaborate alarm system provided security so we could sleep at night, but odd noises kept me awake for a long time after.

But they did not come back.  Whoever they were.  At times, I used to think there was a similar car sitting down the street watching us.

In time, it all passed.  In sccprdabc3 with my father’s wishes, I studied engineering and eventually graduated.  My sister eventually married the boy she started dating at university and then moved to France for his work, leaving my mother and me alone.

My mother found a job, something she had not been allowed to do while my father was alive and kept mostly to herself.  We kept the house, and my father’s study exactly as it had been before he died, and life went on.

Then, instead of taking up an appointment at my father’s old engineering company, I changed my mind and decided to do journalism instead.  My mother wasn’t pleased but didn’t try to change my mind.  She just stopped talking to me.

Then, almost to the day, ten years later, it all started again.

This time, the person who broke in hardly left a trace, and everything had been put back, all except one piece of paper.

Whoever it was, they were interrupted because I thought I heard a mouse from downstairs, and instinctively, I knew it was in the study.

At first, I thought it was my mother. She sometimes went down there to read a book. All of the novels on two of the shelves were written in German.

It was not her, but I did see a shadow, and by the time I reached the back door, that shadow had disappeared.  That door had been opened with a key because I had stuffed the lock with a putty substance and fragments if it were on the inside floor under the lock.

Back in the study, I checked the papers in the top drawer, and one was out of place.  In the middle, as if it had been hastily replaced.

I looked at it.  A letter from his father to his son, very short, reminding him to send the book he had recently mentioned.  That was all.

Except…

It could not possibly be from my father’s father he had died many years before the date on the letter.  Or could it?  A fragment of a conversation I overheard a long time ago when my grandparents had visited, came back, a name, and if I was not mistaken, a very familiar name.

I put it back neatly and went back to bed.

I will check everything else that was in the drawers tomorrow.  And I would send a letter to the German Government in charge of Stasi files.  If I was not mistaken, my father’s parents had been stranded in East Germany when the wall went up, and that made my father East German too.

And if that were the case, it would explain everything.

…

If you were to ask any child what their first scary memory was, it would more than likely involve a relative.  I think I was unlucky.  I had two, relatives that is, and both were scary.

It might be that they were from a different country, across the sea, and for a child what was a long, long way away.  We were not rich so unless they visited, which as far as I was aware, was once when I was about very young, we never saw them at all.

My only memory of them was that they were tall, dressed in dark clothes, and spoke differently to us, though it surprised me that my mother could speak that way too.  Later I learned a different way was a language called German, and my mother decided to teach me it.  My father wasn’t pleased, especially when she and I spoke in German, because he never bothered to learn it himself.

It should not have come as a surprise that I was told not to annoy them.  Perhaps someone forgot to tell my parents I was a child, and invariably inquisitive, and that we rarely did as we were told.  Pity then that first encounter was fleeting and decidedly unmemorable, and being too young to care, erased the almost from my mind.  I don’t think I endeared myself to them.

Move forward 20 years, and although there were some references to these strange people that my mother referred to as distant and unforgiving members of an intransigent and disinterested family, we had not seen them again, but my mother had travelled to where they lived several times, always returning very upset and angry.

Until one dark and gloomy morning when a letter arrived, delivered to the door by the postman.

That morning she had been putting away some of my father’s stuff in the study, and, being nearest to the front door, went to see who it was.   When I called out to ask her who it was, there was silence, except for the ticking sound of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.  Yes, it was that loud and, at night, sometimes annoying.

I slowly came down the stairs, unconscious trying to avoid the creaking steps, and stopped at the bottom.

 “Mother.” 

I knew she had been in the study, so I went up the passage and stopped in the doorway.  She was sitting in my father’s chair, something that would have been forbidden, for any of us, when he was alive.

She looked as though she had seen a ghost.

“Is everything alright?”  I could clearly see that it wasn’t.

In her hand was a piece of paper and what I assumed was the envelope it came in on the floor.

She looked up at me.   “Your grandfather is dead.  My mother wants us to go to the funeral.”

Was it significant that she called her father my grandfather, and did not refer to her mother as my grandmother?  But what was more significant was the look on her face was the same as it had been when she had been attacked.

It wasn’t hard to put two and two together; the breaking had something to do with my grandfather, and she had been dreading this day.

“Where?”  It was a question I knew the answer.

“Germany.”

We had in recent times started to have conversations about where she came from and how she arrived in England.  We’d got as far as her mother’s grandparents leaving before the second world war to escape the Nazi regime, how she had returned to Germany as a child and met and married a German engineer, my father, a boy from a good German family approved by her father.  It felt, she said, as if it had all been arranged in her absence, but he had been attentive, polite and generous in those first years before and after marriage.  It was only later he changed.

She said after she married him and they returned to England where he had transferred for his work, that he became a vain and possessive husband who had virtually cut her off from all her friends and relations until his death.  My father’s parents had passed away at the time of the pandemic, much to my mother’s relief, and as for her father, it seemed that he and her mother were more supportive of her husband than her daughter.

Since my father’s death she had been a lot more at ease if not wary of people she didn’t know, although she still tended to prefer her own company.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to simply ignore the letter, pretend you didn’t get it.”

“I had to sign for it.  They are nothing if not thorough in dealing with matters such as this.  It would have been far worse if Gerhardt had been alive.”

“Do you have to go?”

“You know the answer to that question as well as I do.   It might have been better if I had returned to Germany after Gerhardt had died, but I refused, and it resulted in being excommunicated.  I can’t for the life of me understand why I’m being summoned now.  I told them then, when I was leaving, I never wanted to see or speak to them again.  When his parents died and we had to return for the funeral, he wanted to stay there, telling me only after we got there that he was going to transfer back to Germany, and we could live near my parents.  Gerhardt was always their favourite, and when my parents insisted, I obeyed my husband’s wishes I told them my life was in England and I had no intention of moving back to Germany especially anywhere near them.  Gerhard admonished me, taking their side, and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he still wanted to have a wife when he returned to England, he should not speak of the matter again.”

This I was learning for the first time, and it explained the frosty relations on their return, though that had been when I was younger and didn’t understand why grown-ups were always so cranky.

“What would have happened if we had gone back?”

“You would have been taken away from me.”

It was a simple response, but one if I let my imagination run wild could have had any number of connotations.  My father had always told me I was going to be an engineer like him and his father before him.  It was not a request or a suggestion.

It was not what I wanted, but I was terrified of him.

It was only after he died that I was able to switch to a less intense field of study, a journalist, and one day, to become a best-selling author.  It was hardly the occupation of a Schroder would be what he would say in barely restrained anger, his usual mode of addressing me.

“Then we have much to be thankful for.  I guess it means we have to go, but this time I’m old enough to look after you.”

“It may not be that simple.  My family are not noted for being what one might subjectively call normal.”

“Then let’s be unpredictable.”

I remember a few weeks before my father died, he had dragged me into the study and proceeded to give me a dressing down, not for the first time, but that time I had deliberately pushed him. It was the lecture on what the Schroeders stood for, and that was not flippancy.  Then when I back chatted with him, for the first time, he completely lost it.

And wittingly or unwittingly he let slip that family honour went back centuries that generations of his family had served their country proudly in many wars and that if his great-grandfather was alive, I would be shot.  German soldiers, given the wealth and standing of his family, were the chances…

At the time I just didn’t want to think about it.

When she didn’t respond, I said “I think it might be time to let you into a secret.  I have been seeing a girl who works with me at the newspaper.  I didn’t think she liked me but apparently, she does.  And surprise, surprise, she speaks German, as well as French, Spanish, and Russian.  I’ll ask her if she would like to come with us.  They won’t know what hit them.”

For the first time, in the wake of what was the worst news, there was a glimmer of a smile.

“I knew there was something.  Perhaps you are right.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…