Tag: Thoughts

The A to Z Challenge – L is for “Last boat to nowhere”

I had, literally, just witnessed the end of the world on the large screen TV.

Live and on CNN.

There had been skirmishes, Russia looking to take back its satellite countries and restore the USSR, and NATO posturing when the leaders of the countries asked for help and received none.  Everyone knew what would happen if they did.  War.

But, the playing field changed when Russia set it sights on Poland.

Rollback 83 years, the last time a country rolled into Poland.  What happened?  War.

This time, threats, empty it seemed for a month, and then, yes, we were plunged back into War.

This time, however, everything was different.  Yes, wars were once predominantly waged with men and machines.  That type of warfare changed when Germany introduced the VI Rocket bombs, a means of remotely bombing selective targets.  Hit and miss maybe, but it worked.  Last time we had an atomic bomb, or two as it happened.

This time, we had guided missiles, with nuclear warheads, not a hundred, but thousands, deployed all around the world, aimed at selected targets, not necessarily military targets, but civilians.

There were some who thought they could negotiate a peace settlement.

And, in the middle of that, someone pressed the button.  You know that infamous button that sends a nuclear weapon on its way.

We all saw it launch, live.

We all saw it land, dodging every defence system in its path, with devastating effect, as the camera melted, and everything just went black.  Not one, but all over the world.

It was estimated that the whole world lost a third of its population in four hours, vaporised by missile strikes, and another third would be dead within a month from proximity radiation.  The remaining third, when the dust settled, and those who were not in the direct line of fire, well, the weather would soon decimate them.

Us.

We all thought nuclear weapons were just a deterrent.

Now, well, it was too late to think about anything.  We were, as I just heard on the TV, all going to die from the fallout.  It was only a matter of time before it reached us.  Then, according to the expert, we would all end up with radiation poisoning and die.

I was fortunate enough to live on one of the most southern parts of Australia, a small town by the name of Cockle Creek, Tasmania.  Even though I had never heard of it until overwhelmed by the loss of my wife, I wanted to hide from the world, and Cockle Creek was just the place.

Now, for a while, it was going to be a haven.

Before the storm clouds arrived.

I switched off the TV, and most likely wouldn’t be turning it back on.  There wasn’t going to be any good news, and I really didn’t want to know how long we had left.  I put several bottles of red wine, some cheese, bread, and meat into a bag, and headed down to the beach.

It was part of a secluded part of the shore that backed onto a half dozen houses, and on rare occasions, the neighbours appeared, spoke briefly and went about their business.  People in my street were at best recluses, at worst hermits, all of us running away from something.

It wasn’t long before Angie appeared, at the end of her evening run.  I’d met her several times, and knew a little of her history, once married to a cheating bastard, once had a good job but because of him had to leave, now no longer interested in anything.

I understood her.

She stopped.  I expected a wave as she passed by.

“Max.”

“Angie.  How are you?”

“Usual.  See the news?”

“Hard to miss it.”

“Not a lot to look forward to?”

“I came here to spend my last days in peace, there’s just fewer of them, I guess.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Realistic.

She came over and sat beside me.  For some odd reason, I’d packed two glasses.  Had I a premonition she would drop by?

“Red?”

“Why not?”

We sat there and drank wine, first from one bottle, then starting on the next.  We didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say.

“Would you believe me if I said I was once a scientist?  There’s a more specific name, but the scientist will do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“M\y dad refused to believe a woman could be that smart.  My husband was a bit like that, never liked the idea that I might be smarter than him.”

“Some men feel threatened.”

“Would you?”

“My wife was far smarter than I was, but I loved her because she was her, not the smart part.  That was just a small part of who she was.  And she didn’t care if I was a dustman.”

“Were you?”

“No.  I owned a bookshop, served coffee, and talked to strange people all day.”

“Lots of dusty books then?”

I had no idea if she was joking or just commenting, but it didn’t matter.  It was amusing to think of it like that.

“Lots.  So, what branch of science was it?”

“Snow science.”

OK, so my poker face wasn’t quite working, and it wasn’t hard to guess what I was thinking.

“Look it up, it’s real.”

“No internet anymore.  Kind of got nuked along with a lot of other stuff.  But, despite the scepticism I suspect there is such a thing, and, if I remember right, is that something to do with the study of snow and ice movement, possible for the prediction of similar events?”

“It had a lot to do with predicting storms, and how snow affected water supplies.  There’s a whole lot more, but it’s rather irrelevant now.  Like me.”

“Like all of us, I think, though if you’re feeling irrelevant, come and see me and I’ll try to think of a way to change that.”

“Could you?”

“Probably not.  But I know how you feel.  That’s why I’m here.”

Another few glasses of wine, enough time to consider what she said, and how to make sense of it, before she said, “My last job was for an eccentric billionaire.  I never told anyone because it was the craziest two years of my life.”

“Why bring it up?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.  Turns out he wasn’t batshit crazy after all.

”OK, I’ll bite.  Why was he crazy?”

“Because he built a huge city like complex under the ice in Antarctica.  He said that man would destroy the earth sooner rather than later, and he wasn’t going to hang around and watch them do it.  Space travel was too difficult, so he did the next best thing.  A haven for 5,000 specially selected people.  I was his snow and ice expert.”

“It’s all melting.”

“Deep in the ice.  There are a few thousand years before it all dissipates, and even then, it’s below ground.  We anticipated every scenario.”

“Bet you didn’t think of aliens with excavators.”

“Now you’re mocking me.”

I shook my head.  “No.  Ivan Rostov, an oligarch.  Strange man, stranger idea, bet rich enough not to care what the world thought of him.  You knew Ivan?”

“Slept with him once.  Bit of a disappointment.”

“Sorry to hear that.  Before or after your husband strayed.”

“After.  I have principles.”

“You should be there, with him.”

“Wasn’t open for business.  When I left, just before I came here, it was in the last stages of being shut up until when it would be needed.  I guess that’s about now.  But I don’t work for him, and he doesn’t need me, and I don’t think I could stay there anyway.  How long do you think people would have to stay there?”

“From what I’ve been reading, between 5,000 and 25,000 years, but that’s very extreme and assumes plutonium has been used.  A substantial amount of the northern hemisphere has been rendered radioactive, and if Chernobyl is anything to go by, a long time.  People wouldn’t see daylight in this lifetime.”

“Sounds like fun then.  You up for a home-cooked meal.  Long time since I’ve entertained, seems like there might not be many more opportunities.”

“Why not?”

Sitting opposite a woman who I had probably seen a dozen times in a year, and spoke to here, albeit briefly, on three of those occasions, I felt remarkably at ease in her company.

Perhaps it was the fact we were all living on borrowed time, perhaps in those circumstances, we had let a lot of our guard down.  Whatever it was, sitting there, enjoying the moment, I felt as though I’d known her all my life.

An odd ringing sound broke the silence that had settled on us.

She got up.  “Excuse me for a moment.”

She went into another room, the ringing stopped and I could hear her muffled voice.  A minute later she returned with a device that looked like a satellite phone in her hand.

She put it on the table and sat down.  “You’re on speakerphone.  Now, tell me what you just said again.”

A male voice, relatively old if I was to guess, and authoritative.

“We are just packing, and tomorrow we will be going to nowhere.  I’m sorry I haven’t been as communicative in recent times, so much to do, so little time, but, as you are aware, the world has finally gone to hell in a handbasket, and we’re getting everything ready.  I’d like you to come.  After all, it’s as much your pet as it was mine.”

“Tempting offer, but I don’t think we’ll ever see daylight again.”

“That maybe so, or maybe not.  We have no idea how mother nature is going to handle this swipe, but that’s in the future.  Staying outside is simply a death sentence, and you’re too good for that.”

I looked at her, the look conveying the unspoken quester, ‘Is that your former boss?”

She nodded, a sign to me at least, that she could read minds.  Perhaps then not a good thing.

“I have a friend here, if he wanted to, could I bring him as my plus one?”

“Certainly.”

“I need time to think about it.  Can I call you back?”

“Any time.  As I say we leave tomorrow and will be there in a week.  I’ll be dropping in anyway, whatever you decide.”

“Ok.  Thanks.”

She disconnected the call.

“Nowhere?”

We gave New Eden and name that people would never quite understand.  We used to say, we’re going nowhere, when we were going to the building site.  It was how we kept it secret.”

”You should go.  Life is precious and you should hang on to it for as long as possible.”

“What about you?”

“I’m sure there are other more important people you could take.”

“There are none that I care about.  Not anymore.  Why do you think I’m here, alone, and never leave?”

I shrugged.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.  There’s no obligation on your part to be anything but a friend.  If I go, I need to have at least one person there I know.”

“Won’t all the people who built it be there?”

“I never got to know any of them.  Didn’t want to.  But with you, after one afternoon, I feel as though I want, I need to know more about you.  You are perhaps what some would call a kindred spirit.  I know it doesn’t make any sense, but these are strange times, are they not?”

I smiled.  They were.  And oddly enough, I felt the same about her.

“Perhaps if we both take the week to think about it?”

She nodded.  “Dinner at yours tomorrow?”

“Afternoon wine, same time, same place?”

A nod and a nod.

I saw the superyacht arrive and drop anchor about a mile offshore, and then, after a half-hour of activity on the rear deck, the launching of a tender, which then headed slowly towards our section of the beach.

It was a no brainer, in the end, we got along so well, why would I want it to end?  So we had to live in a bunker for 50,000 years.  It would be with her, and that’s all I cared about.

She took my hand in hers.  “So, are you ready to catch the last boat to nowhere?”

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 14

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

We’re still in Bratislava with Zoe making a few repairs, having been injured in the getaway from the hotel, where bullets were flying around indiscriminately.

In a nondescript hotel near a railway station, the favorite accommodation for assassins, maybe, there’s enough time for John to get the message Zoe is not happy with him bringing along a hit squad.

And, they’re on the news, that is to say they know who it is that’s on the news, the blurry figures are too indistinct for anyone else to identify them. It was disconcerting to be called criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.

Back in London, Sebastian is about to have a set to with Worthington, who has decided Sebastian is too close and might compromise his black op, so he’s sending him to Paris.

It’s here we learn that Sebastian has both Isobel and Rupert locked up in the cells in the basement, awaiting interrogation, and Worthington orders him to send them home.

Of course, Sebastian is not going to so anything of the sort.

He knows they know where John is, and by implication, where Zoe is, and wants to know.

In the first edit, I suspect I will have to mention Sebastian ‘arresting’ Rupert and Isobel just to keep continuity, and no unfathomable surprises later on.

…

Today’s writing, with Worthington getting his ducks in a row, 1,445 words, for a total of 41,162.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.

In a word: Dog

Yes, it’s that little or big furry thing that’s also known as man’s best friend, a dog.

But the word has a number of other meanings, like a lot of three-letter words.

It can also mean to follow someone closely.

If you are going to the greyhound racing, you could say you’re going to the dogs, or it could mean something entirely different, like deteriorating in manner and ethics.

Then there are those employers who make their workers work very hard, and therefore could be described as making them work like a dog.

Some might even say that it is a dog of a thing, i.e. of poor quality.

There’s a dogleg, which could aptly name some of those monstrous golf course holes that sometimes present the challenge of going through the wood rather than around it.

Tried that and failed many times!

A dog man used to ride the crane load from the ground to the top, an occupation that would not stand the test of occupational health and safety anymore.

And of course, in a battle to the death, it’s really dog eat dog, isn’t it?

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 34

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

I had hoped we’d land in daylight, but I could see the benefits of arriving at the landing strip after darkness had fallen, and a more primitive form of landing lights had been used.

Less interest from the local people and no bright lights lighting up the runway.

The only lights I could see from the air were the primitive landing lights, fires burning in used fuel drums, and a glimmer of light emanating from two of the buildings set back from the airstrip.

It did worry me, probably more than it should, that the pilots would be landing a plane of this size in virtually a paddock, flying by the seat of their pants, and all credit to them if they got the plane on the ground.  I guessed they’d flown into more than one hot spot around the world, and at least at this one, they were not being shot at.

Their turn around would be quick, just enough time to take on a small amount of fuel and then leave.  No one had said if it would be a fuel tanker or by drums and hand pumps.

The plane had a short distance to go from the end of the runway to what might be called terminal buildings.  The moment the engines were cut, there was a flurry of movement, and after the fuselage door was quickly opened by the co-pilot, then the rear access ramp lowered and standing at the end, once it hit the ground, I could see a tanker and a Land Rover heading towards the rear of the plane, with only small headlamps on.

Monroe had joined me.  Behind me was a hive of activity as the team moved the crates of camera equipment to the end of the ramp, and then the individual packs.  Jacobi was escorted down on the ground by his two-man guard.

“Is this necessary,” he asked as he passed by me

I ignored him.

The Range Rover stopped just by the bottom of the ramp, and two men got out, one I assumed was Colonel Chiswick, former British Army, came over to train the local soldiers, and didn’t go home, and the other a Ugandan soldier with Sergeant stripes.  Perhaps this was one of their airfields feeding supplies and troops for border patrol duties.

Monroe went down first, and I followed.

Chiswick came up to me, holding out a hand.  “James, I presume?”  I shook it.

I nodded towards Jill, “And Monroe.”

“Welcome to nowhere in particular.”

In the distance, another three Range Rovers were heading towards the plane and then stopped within easy distance of the ramp to easily facilitate the moving of the camera equipment into the rear.  Drivers of the cars ushered them, taking their packs and putting them in the back.

I saw a meaningful look pass between Jacobi and Chiswick.  They knew each other.  No surprises there.  If Chiswick was running this base, then he’d have to know about Jacobi whom we knew had friends in all the high places on every side of the fence.

Another car pulled up, a jeep.  “For your man to get to the base.  I gather he has his instructions?”

Mobley nodded, threw his pack in the back, and the jeep drove off.

“Nice night,” Chiswick said, finally, “Glad it’s not raining, or it would have been a rather sticky landing.”

“How long before the plane leave?”

“About an hour.  Don’t worry.  Planes come and go here all the time, so no one really cares much.”

The crates, packs and other men were loaded and taken away.  Monroe had a final word to the pilot, now down on the ground and supervising the fuel loading, then joined me in the Colonel’s car.

“You’ll be leaving just before first light.  Best to get away before the villagers stir.  There will be one or two curious souls, but they’re harmless.  The soldiers here have been informed that you are here for a training exercise, nothing unusual as we get squads from all over from time to time.  As I said, your arrival will have caused little interest.”

From the locals.  It was anyone else other than the locals I was worried about. 

“Excellent.”


There was not much else to talk about in the few minutes it took to get to the compound at the back of the so-called terminal buildings.  It consisted of about ten large barracks, an administration building, and what looked to be a mess.

Pale lights were showing from one of the barracks, and seeing the cars parked out the front, I assumed this was where we would stay until we departed.

The Colonel didn’t get out of the car.  “We’ll be leaving at 04:00 tomorrow morning.  Make sure you’re ready to go.”

“You’re coming too?”

“Bamfield asked me.  Wants to make sure you had someone who knows the lie of the land.”

“I thought you’d delegate that to a few of the soldiers.”

“No.  Can’t have them involved in an incursion or there will be trouble.  This is an off the book’s operation.  Looking forward to it, actually.  There are a few people over there I’d like to have a talk to if we get the time.”

I shrugged.  Just one more problem to deal with.  The Colonel didn’t strike me as being a talker, but a man who let actions define who he was.  And just because Bamfield vouched for him didn’t mean he might be not be working on his own retirement fund.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 47

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

When the room was empty and only Richards and I remained, he cut the ties that bound my hands and legs.

“Bad business,” he said.

I sat again, and flexed the muscles that had begun to stiffen up whilst tightly bound.

“I’m assuming you know a woman by the name of Jan?” I said. “She told me she was working for MI6 so I’m assuming you’re her handler.”

“When she chooses to be handled, yes.  Jan is just one of her names.  She’s currently missing, and I think we now know why?”

“Her work,” I nodded towards the body.

“God no.  She’s charged with chasing down leads and then calling the cavalry.  We had a tracker on this chap, found him, and had him in a safe facility awaiting interrogation, what we thought was safe at any rate, and Jan and another agent watching over him until the interrogation team arrived.  When the interrogation team got there everyone was gone, but with enough blood on the floor to paint a pretty clear picture.  Maury had been interrogated and killed there, dumped here, with no indication of the whereabouts of our agents.  She told me this guy and another trained you, and others, in rather strange circumstances.  A bogus operation. To what end?”

“From what I could tell, a single surveillance operation.  Me and a dozen others.  Cut loose after it failed, those of us that survived, that is.”

“A lot of effort to achieve nothing.”

“Pity we can’t ask him what it was about?”  I looked over at the body.  Maury was hardly recognizable.  Whoever carried out the interrogation had been either in a hurry or in a bad mood.

“Indeed.  She told me this chap called O’Connell was involved.  Now so?”

Another rule that popped into my head from the training: never share information with other agencies unless you absolutely had to.  I had no doubt if Dobbin was here, he would agree, but he wasn’t.

I wondered if I should tell him she had allegiance to another branch of the secret services, or mention Dobbin.

“He was the surveillance target.  We were charged with observing him, but not what he was suspected of.  I followed him as far as the exploding shop, got temporarily disorientated after the blast,, but managed to reacquire the target, following him to an alley where I spoke briefly to him before Maury and Severin arrived, and he was shot, apparently killed.”

“Either he was or he wasn’t.”

“The body disappeared.  My view is he is still alive, somewhere.”

“That explosion was supposed to be caused by a gas leak.”

“Standard operational doubletalk.  A journalist was killed, apparently in the shop waiting for the target.  It went up after the target passed, I’m assuming his tradecraft was to check first then go back.  Never got a chance.  I think now given the circumstances, the journalist was going to hand something off.  I’ve been asked a number of times by various people about a USB drive.  You know anything about it?”

“This is the first I’m hearing about anything about a USB drive.  You know what was on it?”

“Above my pay grade, I was told.”

“OK.  What about this Severin character?:

“All I have is a phone number, and that, I think we can both agree, will be a burner.”

“Agreed, but it might be useful.”

I gave it to him and he put it on his phone.

A new team of men in white suits arrived at the door, no doubt MI5 forensic specialists, and two more agents, bigger and tougher, what I would call the muscle.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come back to the office to answer a few more questions.  It’s not custody, but mandatory co-operation.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It might make their day if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged.  One I might be able to take, but not the both of them.  And they both looked like they would be happy to teach me the error of my ways if I tried to escape/

“That won’t be necessary.  I’m taking him with me.”

“Dobbin just came to the door, flashing an MI6 warrant card.

“I’ve been charged with cleaning this mess up.”

“And so you shall, but not including this agent.  Orders from above, reasons why, as they say, are above your pay grade.

I suspect the warrant card said Dobbin outranked him.  Did our people have fake MI6 IDs?

“This is highly irregular.”

“Call your boss, if you don’t like it.  I can wait.”

I could see the reluctance in his face.

He glared at me.  “Go, but don’t go too far.  I still might get clearance to have another chat.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 13

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Today we are in Bratislava in Slovakia.

John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.

Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to getaway.

Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.

With Worthington’s hit team hot on their train, a diversion in the main railway station helps aid their departure.

By now, two things are certain:

Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and

John had to decide whether or not he wants a life always looking over his shoulder.

No prizes for guessing his choice!

…

Today’s writing, with John throwing his lot in with Zoe, 2,905 words, for a total of 39,717.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 24

When I first saw it I thought it was an old country estate, converted and expanded into a golf clubhouse.

It wasn’t.  It is a purpose-built clubhouse and function center for corporate seminars and wedding receptions, as well as catering to the golfer, and golf tournaments.

20200215_100153

It also has a very good outlook over the golf course.

But, in my writer’s mind, this will provide inspiration for a story that could be set in a large country house,  with the central tower and lookout featuring in what might be a grisly death, and a group of guests who have gathered together to enact a mock murder that turns out to be very real.

Yes, the idea has been done to death over many many years, but I have a few new twists in mind.

Stay tuned.

How could that possibly happen… – A short story

I had hoped by the time I was promoted to assistant manager it might mean something other than long hours and an increase in pay.

It didn’t.

But unlike others who had taken the job, and eventually become jaded and left, I stayed. Something I realized that others seemed to either ignore or just didn’t understand, this was a company that rewarded loyalty.

It was why there were quite a few who had served 30 years or more. They might not reach the top job, but they certainly well looked after.

I had a long way to go, having been there only 8 years, and according to some, on a fast track. I was not sure how I would describe this so-called ‘fast track’ other than being in the right place at the right time and making a judicial selection.

When it was my turn to be promoted, I had a choice of a plum department, or one most of my contemporaries had passed over. At the time, the words of my previous manager sprang to mind, that being a manager for the most sought after department or the least sought after, came with exactly the same privileges.

And, he was right. I took the least sought after, much to their disdain and disapproval. One year on, that disapproval had turned almost to envy; that was when the Assistant Managers were granted a new privilege, tea, and lunch in the executive dining room.

“So, what’s it like?” John asked, when our group met on a Friday night, this the first after the privilege was granted.

He had been one of the three, including me, who had the opportunity to take the role. Both he and Alistair had both declined, prepared to wait for a more prestigious department. It hadn’t happened to them yet.

“The same as the staff dining room, only smaller. Except, I guess, the waitstaff and butler. They come and serve you when you have to go to them in the staff room. They’re the same staff, by the way, except for the butler.”

I could see the awe, or was it envy, in their eyes. “but it’s not that great. The Assistant Managers all sit at one end of the table, and we’re not part of the main group, so no sharing of information I’m afraid. And the meals are the same, just served on fancier crockery.”

“Then nothing to write home about?” Will was one of those who they also thought to be on a ‘fast track’. I was still trying to see how my ‘fast track’ was actually that fast.

“Put it this way, the extra pay doesn’t offset the long hours because you get overtime, I don’t, so on a good week, you’d all be earning more than me. Without responsibility, if anything goes wrong. I think that’s why Assistant Managers were created, to take the blame when anything goes wrong.”

That had been the hardest pill to swallow. Until I got the role, I hadn’t realized what it really involved. Nor had the others, and it was not something we could whinge about. My first-day introductory speech from Tomkins, my Manager, was all about taking responsibility, and how I was there to make his life easier. It was a speech he made a few times because he’d been Manager for the last 16 years, much the same as the others, and promotion if ever, would come when they died.

And Manager’s rarely died, because of their Assistant Managers.

“How old is Tomkins now?” Bert, a relative newcomer to our group, asked. He was still in the ‘in awe’ phase.

“About the same as Father Time,” I said. “But the reality is, no one knows, except perhaps for the personnel manager.” O looked over at Wally, the Personnel Department’s Assistant Manager. “Any chance of you telling us?”

“No. You know I can’t.”

“But you know?” I asked.

“Of course, but you know the rules. That’s confidential information. Not like what you are the custodian of, information everyone needs.”

Which, of course, was true. Communication and Secretarial Services had no secrets, except for twice a year when the company Bord of Directors met, and we were responsible for all the documents used at their meetings. Then, and only then, was I privy to all the secrets, including promotions. And be asked ‘What’s happening?’.

“Just be content to know that he’s as old as the hills, as most of them. It seems to me that one of the pre-requisites for managership is that you have been employed here for 30 years.”

Not all, though, I’d noticed, but there wasn’t one under the age of fifty.

And so it would go, the Friday night lament, those ‘in’ the executive, and those who were not quite there yet.
It seemed prophetic, in a sense, that we had been talking about Mangers and their ages. By a quirk of fate, some weeks before, that I learned of Tomkins’s currents state of health via a call on his office phone. At the time he was out, where, he had not told me, but by his the I believed it was something serious, so serious he didn’t want me, or anyone else, to know about it.

That phone call was from his wife, Eleanor, whom I’d met on a number of occasions when she came to take him home from work. I liked her, and couldn’t help but notice she was his exact opposite, Tomkins, silent and at times morose, and Eleanor, the life of the party. I could imagine her being a handful in her younger days, and it was a stark reminder of that old saying ‘opposites attract’.

She was concerned and asked me if he had returned from the specialist. I simply said he had but was elsewhere, and promised to get him to call her when he returned. Then I made a quick call around to see where he was and found that he was in Personnel. I left an innocuous message on his desk, and then let my imagination run wild.

At least for a day or so, the time it took for me to realize that it was probably nothing, the lethargy he’d been showing, gone.

I’d put it out of my mind until my cell phone rang, and it was from the Personnel Manager. On a Sunday, no less. In the few seconds before I answered it, I’d made the assumption that Tomkins’s secretive visits to the specialist meant he needed time off for a routine operation.

Greetings over, O’Reilly, the Personnel Manager, cut straight to the chase, “For your personal information, and not to be repeated, Tomkins will be out of action for about two months, and as that is longer than the standard period, you will become Acting Manager. We’ll talk more about this Tuesday morning.” Monday was a holiday.

All Assistant Managers knew the rules. Any absence of a manager for longer than a month, promotion to Acting Manager. Anything less, you sat in the office, but no change in title. There was one more rule, that in the event of the death of a manager, the assistant manager was immediately promoted to Manager. This had only happened once before. 70 years ago. If a manager retired, then the position of Manager was thrown open to anyone in the organization.

It was an intriguing moment in time.

Tuesday came, and as usual, I went into the office, with only one thought in mind, let the staff in the department know what was happening, of course, the moment I was given the approval to do so by Personnel.

Not a minute after I sat down, the phone rang. I picked it up, gave my name and greeting. It was met with a rather excitable voice of the Assistant Manager, Personnel, “I just got word from on high, you’ve been promoted to manager. How could that possibly happen…”

Then a moment later, as realization set in, “Unless…”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 30

I’m having fun with chapter one.

Can you reach a point where you are never satisfied with what you’ve written?

What more can I say?

Looking at the mess constituting my room and my life, slob may have been an appropriate description.  I considered myself old, overweight though not necessarily fat, hair graying at the edges, and few wrinkles around the eyes, there were no real pluses in my description.

Some said I had a kindly face, but perhaps I had the look of a paternalistic grandfather.  There were several men in the office who were the same age and had grandchildren.  And some who had children at a time when they should be planning for retirement, not parenthood.

World-weary and perpetually tired, I’d passed the mid-life crisis, wondering what it was that affected other men my age.  Twenty-odd years later, I was still wondering.

I used to think I’d missed a lot in half a lifetime.

Now, I didn’t know what to think.

Did I deserve pity?  No.

Did I deserve sympathy?  No!

The only person who could get me out of the rut was myself.  For years I’d traded on Ellen’s good nature.  She deserved better, left me, and was now happier in the arms of a man who I wanted to believe treated her far better than I.  She had told me so herself, and judging by her manner, it had to be true.  Only recently had she got her smile back, the one that lit her face up, one that infectiously spread happiness to anyone near her.

There were reasons why I became the person I was now.  Some might say they were valid.  In the cold, hard light of dawn, I could see it was time I stopped using my past as a crutch and got on with the business of living.

Perhaps today would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I took the bus rather than drove.  At that hour of the morning, the traffic would be bad, and there would be no parking spaces left.  And I was using public transport more and more, have become accustomed to the convenience.  Time to read the paper, or a good book, or just dream about a different life.

This morning I thought about Ellen.  I hadn’t for a while, but that might have been fueled by the arrival of the divorce papers she wanted me to sign.  I’d had my time to be angry, and disappointed, she’d said, and she was right.  It was time to move on.

And she had stuck by me through thick and thin, coming back from overseas service a basket case after nine months in a POW camp, after a war that was more horrible than anyone could imagine.  Two mental breakdowns, periods of indolence and lassitude, leaving her to bring up the girls on her own.  I had not been a great father, and much less a husband.

I remembered that argument word for word.

I could see the looks of pain in the girl’s faces.

I remembered the hug, the kiss on the cheek, the tears.  It had not been out of hate, but a necessity.  For her and the children.  Until I found some lasting peace, they were better off at arm’s length.  Away from the arguing, the silences, the absences.

And disappointment.

After she left I tried to get my life in order.  Drugs, professional help, alcohol, meditation, then work.

Over ten years ago, it took a year, perhaps a little more before sanity returned.

She did not.

By then I knew she had found someone else, a mystery man, whom neither she would tell me who, and the girls honestly didn’t know.  She’d promised that much, any new man in her life would not get to meet the girls.  And she would tell me, and then when she was ready.

Then, suddenly, the children were no longer children but young adults and out in the world on their own, and I had become more a banker than a father, an observer rather than a participant, and it was as if we were more like ships passing in the night.  And overnight, the ships had sailed to the other side of the world.

My own fault, of course, and a bit late now to change history.  I could see Ellen’s influence over them, her prejudices and dislikes, and their contempt, like their mother, for me, simmering beneath the surface, but in fairness to them, I really hadn’t been much of a help as a parent should be.

And now I was getting my life back in order, perhaps I could try and make it up to them, and that first meeting, with them and Ellen, nearly a month ago, had been a step in the right direction.  They’d agreed to see me again, without her, during the holidays, which had now arrived.  All I had to do was make the call, and get on a plane.

This mess I was heading into, it would not take long.  I pulled out my phone and after searching for a travel agent near where I worked, I made an appointment to see about going overseas.

She had spoken to me about the divorce papers several days ago, alternately pleading with, and then abusing, me.  There had been some very strong language in the conversation, words I’d thought her incapable of using, but I confess, finally, I didn’t really know her all that well anymore.

Since then I had been calling her to arrange a meeting.  She had not yet replied.  With some distance to go before I reached the office, I tried calling her again.  I was almost glad when she didn’t answer.

I never realized just how hard it was to revise and re-write, and how much time it takes.

Perhaps that’s why first novels take so long to write!

© Charles Heath 2016-2021