The long shadow

THE

O

L

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SHADOW Sheila Fields

The long Shadow

prologue

The long Shadow 1 Rosy future 2 Scarlet threads 3 Blood red

epilogue

3

To my dear friend Lies, who unfortunatuly plays a far too great a role in this following world of destruction and love.

Acknowledgements: My gratitude to the text writer Gerard Hill (www.much-better-text.com), whose endless patience helped to guide The Marshall family to its well predicted end.

4

Prologue It was getting late – streetlamps lit, the shops closing. Very soon even the Christmas lights would be switched off. Roads were starting to clog up with traffic jams. Everyone was in a hurry to get away for the holiday.

Ben was too tired, mentally and physically, to chase anywhere. He had been on a flight from Singapore for the last fourteen hours. Common sense warned him not to drive home all in one stretch.

Stay the night in your old village: your friend Jack runs the Red Cow Inn. Treat yourself to some beer, pork pie and pickles, then a mug of steaming hot chocolate and off to bed: an early start next morning and home for breakfast with the family.

The landlord of the Red Cow still didn’t quite know what Ben did for a living. He knew that Ben spent many hours on planes, but where he went and why they never discussed. In any case, Ben – being a family man – never stayed at the bar long enough for their chat to get beyond snails, toads and greenfly, or the slippery green moss on the paving in the front garden. Ben and Jack could talk about gardening as if nothing else mattered.

The two of them had been to the same elementary school. They had played in the garden while their parents played bridge together. Yet the two boys, who had much in common, kept each other at a distance. It was as if they were held hostage by their own emotions – they were human shields for their own secret thoughts.

Neither boy ever discovered the other’s hopes and plans. Would he be a hero of the future, Mr Big? Or would he be steady, sensible Mr Average who inherited his sense of duty and followed family tradition? In reality, one look at their families would have shown them the answers.

Jack, a year older, had married his schoolgirl crush, and life had been plain sailing in the early years. Jack was domestic: he had inherited the inn 5

from his father, and the only time he went anywhere was on holiday.

They had kept in touch – at least, Ben dropped in when he was passing – but Jack had never been to Ben’s house or met his wife and family. They remained private, like whatever it was he did in the financial markets – slightly hush-hush, but respectable.

Grandma would say, “My grandson is doing well for himself.” Did she base her judgement on his expensive suits, or the cream leather seating in his Merc?

To Jack, they certainly spelt success. So he was surprised when Ben entered the cosy parlour of the inn that evening with the air of a tired and distant man.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, “Something on your mind? There’s not much Christmas spirit about you. Couldn’t you sleep on the plane? Or were you sitting next to some glamour doll who couldn’t stop talking?”

Ben’s reaction was enigmatic laughter. “Jack, I’m in another world, far away. My mind is still on the plane from Singapore, re-living that unbelievable experience. I’m so full of that miraculous journey, I hardly remember my name, let alone the teachings of Christmas or its trimmings. I tell you, this time of year will never be the same again for me.”

“Sure you want to go home tonight, Ben? You know there’s always a room for you; there’s space aplenty since the children left. I’ll even make you supper last thing. You can snore to your heart’s content, leave when you like tomorrow. They’re forecasting good weather and there shouldn’t be much traffic on the A27 – with luck, you should be home within the hour.”

“Thanks, Jack. Actually, I might as well admit it, I did sit next to a woman on the plane – can’t describe her in detail. In fact, I haven’t a clue what she looked like, but forget ‘glamour’.

“It was the middle of the night when we left Singapore, so the lights were low; I could hardly see to read my newspaper. If I close my eyes and use my imagination, I am practically certain she was a small, eccentric lady.

She had a voice as soft as velvet, a voice you would not easily forget.

“It was like listening to a serial on the radio. I can’t for the life of me remember whether I had anything to eat, or even a drink. I know it sounds ridiculous, Jack, but I can’t even remember seeing a stewardess in the 6

gangway. I expect there was the usual clatter of empty plates, trolley going back and forth, polite airline chatter. She had small hands, that I’m certain of. Her ring had a massive diamond that shone in the dark, but don’t ask me which finger it was on.”

“How come you recall those details?” Jack asked, succumbing to the sin of curiosity.

“I’m certain because I can still feel the thrill in my left hand. She touched my hand when she felt my tears.”

Now I’ve heard it all, Jack thought. Brace yourself, man, there’s more drama to come here.

Yet there was a pause. Somehow the atmosphere was awkward.

Ben was so full of his story, it was spilling out of him; but he hesitated.

Would Jack believe it? Would he take this strange experience seriously?

It was all so insubstantial, except that the smell of jasmine was still in his nostrils. This was her perfume – strong, undoubtedly American. Well, it was either tell Jack or take the road home, now or never. Like the accounts of the first Christmas Eve it was a surreal story, a life-changing story – this was the night for it. Ben made up his mind. *** “We began talking when I asked if she would like my champagne.

Bubbly was never my favourite: old-fashioned beer does me. The lighting was poor, so I couldn’t see whether her drink was bubbly or just sparkling spa water. The richness of her voice said bubbly, but I could be wrong.

She began by telling me that, if you put spa water into a champagne glass, 60% of drinkers will never realise it isn’t alcohol. They take it for granted that a champagne glass contains champagne. She said people in general actually want to be crooked. ‘You can tell them anything you want them to believe. They will always find an excuse to use the brains of others rather than the grey cells they inherited.’

Her voice was so impressive, Jack. You couldn’t help but listen. She was talking about life itself, and we’re all greedy for life, aren’t we? But she was driven by an urge to get to the bottom of life, to understand it. She didn’t 7

need the bubbly. In less than a minute, I was gripped by her kind of greed.

I wanted to know more, know everything, understand what drives us – the secret of life. And she knew.

‘The eternal search for another existence drives us all, but we don’t want to admit that our brains, our bodies, what makes us tick, the way we function, our likes and dislikes and funny little ways, all the things that make us individuals, even our very existence – it’s all inherited.’

I recall stretching my legs, pushing my shoulders to the back of the seat, so I could concentrate on listening. Should I make a fool of myself and jot down some notes? I was so distracted, my mind askew, I just couldn’t decide. I threw a piece of gum into my mouth and then forgot all about it. It was still there when we landed.

Somewhere, between clouds and darkness, this unknown woman was the unexpected evidence, the positive proof, that what I’d begun to realise about life – especially the most turbulent period in my life – made sense. I can still hear her words, her voice, almost next to my ear. We were so close.

Now I can hardly distinguish her thoughts from mine.

It seemed incredible, the way everything she said was just what I had begun to see: in life, you make choices. You take the road to the left or the right. But take it or leave it, believe it or not, you will end up at a place that was fixed for you long ago – at least four generations back.

‘We enjoy creating our own destiny, making our dreams come true, but we don’t realise that we’re still dreaming. All our future, poverty or riches, love or scorn, health or infirmity, career or plain work, it’s all influenced from the past. If you search deep enough, you will find that you inherited your future.’

I remember asking her if she had any anecdotes, tales of real people, that showed what she meant. She didn’t say anything, and I began to think she had fallen asleep. Then she spoke.

‘The Marshall gang, Nellie’s beer babies, they are still my favourite piece of evidence. Most of them didn’t try to fight it, but even when they did, it always ended in doom and gloom. Take Nellie’s sister Pearl: they bundled her off to some convent. No one ever knew who the baby’s father was.

Now you might think everyone would learn a lesson from that. No. 8

Pearl’s little girl grew up, met a young man and made exactly the same mistake as her mother. The result was another baby girl … her name is on the tip of my tongue. It was a colour, I think. Violet, was it? Rose? No, not that – something reddish. Same kettle of fish, no father, no feeling, nothing solid or secure in her life, nothing good to offer. Where is she today? I have no idea.’

She was obviously enjoying talking to herself, Jack. She didn’t give me a chance to butt in and ask a question. Among Nellie’s ‘beer babies’, my storyteller felt there were two worth remembering.

‘One got himself knighted; the other had a son who thought he could swindle the Bank of England. At least they tried; but the sun never shone on them. This whole family, from one generation to the next, in the end brought misery and disaster to all around them.

It took three generations to wash out all the beer and ignorance. They were just one big, dysfunctional Catholic family, all living under their own shadow. Now and then a stranger would turn up – all good Christian souls, no doubt – but none made much difference to the Marshall mob.’

Ben emptied his glass. He wanted to tell Jack all the tales she had told him over those fourteen hours, tales that had moved him to tears.

“She wasn’t making it up, Jack. Her stories were too true to life.”

Jack was firm. “You’re coming up to my place, Ben. I can’t remember the last time we had supper together. You’ll enjoy an old-fashioned fry-up.

Lovely grub, stuff you don’t get in Singapore! Here’s the phone – tell the family you’re staying here tonight.”

Jack’s wife had died a few years ago. He knew how to look after people; he was a kind-hearted man and a good listener.

“I know you’re dying to tell me all these stories your new lady friend told you. The light from the garden and the Christmas tree is all we need.

There’s only the wind and rain outside and you won’t sleep tonight, so how about it?

“At midnight it will be Christmas, Ben, and it sounds to me as though you’ve been following a star. Now that you’re a wiser man, do me the honour of telling this Christmas story of birth, of life, the future and the past.

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“You’re clearly inspired tonight, Ben, and I’d like to hear your tale. The first Christmas story was pretty strange, and that had a message in it – maybe this one is the same. Maybe we can both learn from the successes and disasters of this family your friend talked about. I’m interested in her, and her journey through life. It might even give us some clue who she is.

For tonight we’ll call her the spirit of inheritance.”

10

1 Rosy dawn Her voice was so absorbing: deep and rich. ‘I am an old lady now. I saw four generations of the Marshall family rise, shine and sink back into misery or shame. Their lives always dawned full of promise, yet they each carried their own storms and rainclouds along with them. The more I learnt of their secret sorrows and private obsessions, the more I saw they could not help themselves. Even Keith, the most successful of them …’

The supper He was fascinated. Was it them he could hear talking? That man in the middle, what was his voice like? What were they sitting on? A wooden bench, like Keith? Why couldn’t he see their feet, their shoes? Smell what they were eating? Food always had a smell. They all looked so well-fed, so chummy, nothing like the gang in his street, so polished.

Even their clothes blended. He loved that rich, bright red – he hated the grey clothes he wore to school. Why did it have to be the last supper? Why couldn’t they have supper like that every night, always? It was that man on the left, with his elbow on the table and his face in shadow, wasn’t it? He was grabbing a bread bun, just out for himself. He would spoil everything.

And, at the end, who was going to pay?

Distraction in the classroom was never caused by the weather, baking hot or wild and bitter. It was always emotion that distracted Keith, either upset by a playmate being punished, sobbing his heart out after being marked with the repulsive class ruler, or excited by the picture of mystery hanging above the teacher’s desk. Unfortunately the woman was so large that he could never see the whole supper table in one peep.

One could of course wriggle from left to right on the bench, but this gave the impression that he needed to do a pee, which was entirely out of the question. One only did one’s pee-pee at set times; the thrill of holding one’s penis during unauthorized hours was unheard of, the height of silly behaviour.

Keith was only ten years old at the time of this obsession. This was 11

no placid daydream. He felt fierce joy, driven by greed, at the prospect of becoming part of that wonderful world in the picture on the wall. He gave each of the men a name. Most of the names came from uncles and elderly cousins. Not names from his immediate family: his father and brothers were not part of his world. They drank too much, used foul language and lived for the day; they had no future.

His Uncle Henry was his best friend. Keith wasn’t quite sure what Henry did at the bank, but it had to be something important. Why? To Keith, a shirt, tie and polished shoes indicated wealth and importance. He wanted to be like his Uncle Henry, he wanted polished shoes, his hair parted in the middle, a tiny moustache under his nose. “If I do my best in gym class,” he told himself, “I will be just as tall and well muscled as my Uncle Henry.”

Now most children have a long list of secrets – except that, to them, a secret is a story you can’t wait to tell. Keith kept his secret entirely to himself. No teacher spied on his thoughts, no brother or sister, mum or dad, who would only laugh at him.

He was sure his uncle would understand, though. Uncle Henry always patted him on the head and rewarded him with extra pocket money when his school report was way above average. Our ten-year-old would lie in bed, revising again and again how he would explain to his dear, generous Uncle the exact contours of his precious, wonderful secret.

He, Keith Marshall, wanted to be part of that picture! He wanted to be sitting at that table, eating the food prepared for all men. He wanted to wear coloured robes like the men in the picture. He wanted desperately to live their life, share their wisdom, sing their songs. There were no women or children in the picture, but they wouldn’t be far away. His mother would be dreaming of her beloved son, well pleased that his future now looked secure.

In his imagination he could escape from all the greyness and meanness of school. Escape from the harsh punishments and the fear of staying stuck at the bottom of the ladder. No more unpleasantness around him, no more crying in bed. Instead a new world, full of beautiful and magical moments.

That dining table would be his one day and no-one – no king or queen, no oversized teacher and definitely no scowling father – would stand in his 12

way.

She paused to sip from her glass and refresh her memory. She felt the warmth of his arm, his shoulder. This young man was a good listener – and sympathique. Perhaps he recognised a bit of the Marshall family in himself – it would be no surprise. Every day you saw people who started out full of youthful ardour, dreaming dreams, only to make mistakes that they then had to live with, right to the bitter end.

Nellie’s mistake Keith’s parents were devout Catholics, like most of the community, who went to church without fail every Sunday morning. Mother always wore her Sunday hat, the kind that needed a hatpin, and her black gloves that had been in the family for years. Their financial status seated them in the fifth pew from the back, but she carried her little black purse over her arm as if to show that her heritage would have put them far nearer the front of the church than the cold and dismal area allocated to her family.

Their house was sober, the front step always gleaming from the weekly polishing. Two open fires heated the entire house, and hot water came from an immense immersion heater. Their chairs did anything but rock one to sleep. They all had wooden arms and seats of dark brown corduroy. The lino struck cold through the thin soles of their shoes. Nellie, Keith’s mother, loved to knit anything she could persuade her family to wear.

Even if the men drank too much she, Nellie Marshall, got them all, all ten of them, into God’s church every Sunday. She had done her best to please the Priest. She couldn’t remember a year when she had not worn her maternity skirt. Little Keith being the last soul to come into the fold.

No church or priest could wipe away the immense sadness which always remained in her heart when she gazed at the photo of her two beloved daughters who had died before reaching the age of twelve months.

Nellie had made a mistake many years ago when she had fallen for the charms of Jack Marshall. His boots had shone in those days. He was a carpenter’s apprentice. No-one could get the nails into the woodwork with such speed as Jack Marshall. During the courting season poor old Jack had 13

a mouthful of nails. Now he always had a mouthful of beer, his face ruddy, veins sticking out like undeveloped worms. He was a complete specimen of ill health. He could have sold his body to any medical lab. What a welcome feast it would have been for all of them. Her bible told her to love him. The smell of him outraged her. It made her want to vomit.

Her one divine hope in her life was her Keith. She loved him with every fibre of her body. She knew he was special. His eagerness to learn and the quietness that surrounded him. His passion for creatures he loved was pure. Nellie thanked God every day in her prayers for giving her such a gift of holiness. A gift, she promised herself, she would treasure, whatever the future held in store. Keith loved going to church every Sunday.

His Mother had given him a bible which she had inherited from her Grandmother. In reality it was far too big for him to carry. An exquisite silver clip adorned the black leather frame. The pages were beginning to discolour with age; nevertheless, to Keith it was a magical treasure hunt.

A book full of wonders, unbelievable stories, great characters, prophecies that echoed down the years, dreams dreamt, visions pursued. A world so divided from his, how could anyone even try to believe and understand its content? Every Sunday Keith would listen to all the holy messages lectured to the parish flock. He never doubted their contents, he never questioned the knowledge of the Priest, but he always wanted to know more.

Sundays were always a day of rest and family gatherings. Uncle Henry often came for the roast lunch with his wife, a dull spinster-like woman with a voice that made the eaters think of runny custard. Goodness knows why poor Violet fell into that category, it was just her misfortune. No one likes runny custard and no one was particularly fond of poor aunty Violet.

However, it must be said she could bake a lovely cake, fig cake, that’s it!

Fig cake it was. They never missed a Sunday without her speciality, strong tea to wash it down, plus the knowledge that figs are an excellent remedy for purifying alcohol contaminated blood, a cure much required in the Marshall family.

After lunch, the gents would imitate the Chinese and break wind. For a few it was a matter of no choice, for the remaining louts their humble sense of humor escaped into poor Nellie’s confrontation. Their behaviour 14

never failed to disgust her. How could children from her womb enjoy such repulsive, unmannered conduct? It never dawned on the gracious soul that fewer children could have resulted in making life more pleasant.

For so many years she had been producing them. Thinking up names for them. Moving cupboards in order to create space for them to sleep in.

Knitting and re-knitting. Anything to keep the church happy. Breaking wind had become a way of life and all Nellie could do was shake her head in protest and pray to the unknown that such vulgarity would be spared if not in her house then god forbid in his!

A secret dream When Nellie was down, tired of life, desperate for rest, she would dream of her little boy, the love of her life, reaching the top of the theological ladder. In her dreams she would dress him up in all the colours of the rainbow.

When an inappropriate colour was added to her imagination she would use the middle finger of her right hand in order to make her cross and ask the almighty for forgiveness. Once the feeling of redemption had fulfilled her veins, she would continue with her designs and inspirations for the ultimate achievement for her darling little Keith. He was going to be a Pope, not any old Pope. No, he was going to be the Pope of the World. Rules of her mind, her entire existence.

His hair style would have to change, that wretched sweaty fringe that always caused pimples on his forehead would have to go. The present Pope’s parting was that on the left hand side, or the right. She must remember to ask Violet, next time she came to lunch. If Henry was listening in he would certainly ask around. Take a good look next time he saw a photo of the Pope in the newspaper.

Nellie even questioned the authenticity of the Pope’s pillow, and the current design headwear. When her little boy became the Pope, she would redesign the entire millinery line. Not only for the Pope but also his gentlemen in waiting.

Their robes would be shortened by one and a half centimetres. Her Keith might reach the one metre seventy, however dear Nellie wanted no 15

risk to be taken with a view to tripping over. She had seen pictures of the palace. Palaces have loads of dirty steps, she told herself. No dirty hems, no cleaning the cold marble stairs with her Keithie’s underwear. At this point she presented the heavens with a quick tiny cross. She knew the word underwear was most inappropriate for his holiness, but surely her boy would be wearing a petticoat under his robe? Satin knickerbockers perhaps? Cream ones, with small little buttons down the outer side.

She blushed at the thought of the daily toiletries. “I know” she screamed – “I know – I’ll redesign the front of the skirt bit – cut the front open from the waist to the heel. Four deep pleats, starting from the hips to the centre.

Behind the pleats from the waist to the heel 24 buttons, all covered in the same material “Great”, Nellie convinced herself. That’s got rid of that problem.

If he makes sure to go on time, no haste with getting the buttons open, then his entire clothing will remain spic and span. Nellie forgot at this stage to make her cross. Every Pope had to do his pee-pee, one didn’t have to ask forgiveness for the gifts of nature.

Keith would give his Mother many years of theatrical bliss. She could hear the rustle of his robes, the special scents, their ingredients: Herbs – honeysuckle – lavender. The softness in his voice, when addressing his flock. His favourite organ music. And finally his special diet, prepared by a crew of no less than 10 cooks.

All multilingual and all obsessed with one objective, his holiness Keith, must live long, be clean of all earthly commodities and finally they had to make sure there was no sign of water retention. My parents had it, Nellie told Violet. I don’t want Keith getting swollen ankles. With the right food, he’ll be able to stand for hours on his feet.

The family, with the exception of Violet, had absolutely no knowledge of Nellie’s future worldly designs for Rome. *** Keith was still fascinated by his adopted last supper gang. He enjoyed every stolen moment in lessons when he could take his place in the Upper 16

Room and play one of their parts. He still had not discovered whether the bill was ever paid.

He did enjoy holding the odd girls hand, but she had to have blond hair and a nice fat little bum that he could squeeze now and then. As young as he was, he knew that squeezing of bums was not allowed by the teachers, but no one would dare to tell on him.

What he wouldn’t give to grab that extremely annoying great big bum and give it a squeeze? Preferable with both hands, anything, just anything to get her out of the way of his fabulous picture. Wretched woman had no respect for biblical pictures, or the stories they told. Why they made her a teacher I’ll never know, Keith thought a thousand times.

At the age of 11, Keith joined the local church choir. His treble voice was a gift of God and, along with his good looks and serious smile, a key that opened every mother’s heart. Once they knew he was destined for the priesthood – missionary work – Keith became the property of the entire congregation.

He distracted everyone from their devotions, and soon they all found a place for him in their spiritual imagination.

He was the secret talk of the poor and the rich. The poor wanted him to accomplish their unspoken dreams. The rich wanted him in Rome, he should be where the rules are made, not wasting his time trying to civilize the world. Costs too much money and our sort can never profit from educating the world too much. We don’t want the needy telling us what to do. We’re in the front pews and that’s where we want to stay. The heat’s at the front, not at the back.

Keith could only guess how the rich lived. He saw the fineness of their clothes the tone of their skin. He saw that their nails were shaped and the little girls in the front pews had beautiful brushed hair. Most of them wore a necklace and velvet ribbons in their locks.

He never saw them shiver from cold and damp air in the church.

Sneezing only took place at the back quarters, mostly behind the pillars. He loved the colours and smell of the front ladies – ‘front’ was his word for the rich and elegant.

17

As young as he was, he had one very prominent desire – his darling mum should be sitting in the front pew, with the front ladies. After all his mum could knit; it wasn’t her fault the wool was always black or grey.

He’d seen some lovely pink balls at the market. Tom his eldest brother could easily slip a couple into his pocket. His hands were big enough to hide them in. It wouldn’t be the first time Tom had stolen something.

That his precious mum wouldn’t dream of using stolen goods didn’t come into his gay and creative little mind. His mum should be part of the front row, and if a simple ball of wool stolen from the market could achieve and complete his little scheme, then so be it.

Tom, being Tom, stole not one pink ball, but the whole case load – accompanied by yellow – green – purple and red. The knitting pins took off in full speed. Nellie … was to wear for the first time in her life a coloured, front-pew garment. Do you really like it mum? Keith asked. Do you feel as much a toff as all those toffee apples who sit in the front pews? I think you look so beautiful mum, please wear it every time you go to church.

His satchel on his back, a little red apple in his hand, Keith skipped to his first school for the very last time. He dreaded saying goodbye to his classmates, but the thought of never seeing Leonardo’s ‘Last Supper’ again made him want to cry. He would miss the faces, remember the expressions – the magical colours would always be with him.

Another world How he found himself at the seminary, at the age of 13, he never knew.

Who paid for all his posh robes and tassels, his books and shoes without holes in the soles? He had beautiful pens, a swanky hairbrush and comb, cotton handkerchiefs with his initials embroidered on them. For the first time in his life, new underwear, no hand-me-downs from his brothers, not forgetting the darned holes which would always make him scratch his bum.

Home visits were restricted to two days at Christmas, Easter four days, One week in the summer. What was awaiting him, what was expected of him, was a strict regime of secrecy and monastery drill. A fascinating 18

world for those who wish to devote their lives, their whole being to a divine purpose, a test to prescribe one’s eventual destination. Heaven or Hell.

He had been uncertain about his vocation, but his brothers, so thoroughly repulsive, had hardened his resolve to sacrifice himself to the teachings of the church. He was glad to get rid of them, but still he yearned for the warmth of his mother’s comfort, the silence in her movements, the kitchen smell of Sunday Roast.

He missed colour too. Everyone wore black or grey, every wall was white or cream, everything was drained of colour. But he loved the architecture: spaces wide or narrow, high vaults or low ceilings, the fine stonework, the cloister arcades, the grandeur of the chapel.

The first shock was when he heard the novice master sending a boy to solitary confinement as punishment. Whispered questions elicited brief, scared answers from an older pupil. What it meant was a day and a night in a bare cell – they meant a monk’s cell, but in reality it was a prison cell – with no bed, no blankets, no chair, no food, nothing but a mug of water and a bucket.

Keith told himself the boy must have done something very bad. He concentrated on his studies. The weekly itineraries were a challenge; he was desperate to discuss the scriptures with pals – friends – but there were no friends.

Friendship seemed somehow suspect, at least friendship between two boys. In contrast, some of the reverend teachers were very friendly; some even had favourites among the boys. Keith noticed these boys tended to be the quietest, most obedient ones. He was surprised to discover there was a general fear of being promoted to teacher’s pet. No one would say why.

For a long time Keith was puzzled. Even at the age of 14, he understood that the life of a priest meant one had to be disciplined. He was strict in his devotions and his studies, did what he was told and yet he remained anxious. It made no sense.

Gradually he learnt a little more. Soon after Keith turned 15, a very serious little boy came to occupy the next bed to his. At first the new boy was just rather quiet; after a while he didn’t talk at all. Sometimes the boy in the next bed was made to get up in the night, but not to go to the 19

bathroom. Keith was usually asleep when he came back, but one night he was woken by the boy sniffing. He was sobbing silently, trying to get back into bed, but in pain.

This boy had been inspired to become a priest by a seminarian from his parish. The older pupil had befriended him and got into trouble for it.

After that the older boy was always in trouble, until he got three days in the punishment cell and didn’t return. They were told he had been expelled as being unsuitable for the priesthood, but on the younger boy’s next visit home his friend was nowhere to be seen in their home parish. Tense silence greeted his enquiries.

Keith learnt to keep quiet. Silence was the only imaginative sound – one spoke into silence, one chanted into space. Even though for a long time he never heard any tell-tale sound, nonetheless he learnt by painful experience that it was not always possible to keep silent.

From time to time a scream told him that pain was being applied to a youth too scared to fight back. A pattern of behaviour that he would be free to repeat and enjoy once he was old enough to join the sadistic, twisted lecturers. Everything seemed to be the opposite of the gospel of love that was preached here.

No matter which way he turned, spending hours awake between damp and clammy sheets, Keith’s generous and highly sensitive mind found the uncivilized methods, the complex religious traditions, the rigidity, the sheer number of rules, not only in contradiction to the spirit of his Bible but unacceptable to society as a whole.

He would glare at the ceiling, shudder at the dampness on the walls and recite the following rules which he would bring in once he was Pope.

No more cruelty. How can we preach love if we do not experience it? His brothers had taught him the meaning of Satan. Thus all satanizers were to be expelled from the theological communion, and dictatorship expressing cruelty would be non – existent.

No more poor and rich, once he was head of the Church. No more chilblains for those sitting at the back of the church. The world would experience the exact teaching of the bible.

No more telling my darling mum to help overcrowd the world; there’re 20

too many starving at this very moment.

He wasn’t quite sure whether he would change the fashion of Rome and if the colours should match the colours of its spiritual army in countries abroad.

Whatever, one law would be adorned with his signature, namely: All Priests regardless of their rank and intellect would, if caught preaching and practising acts of cruelty to the young or anyone, be banned and sent to Siberia. Thus mannerisms in contradiction to the teaching of the holy bible.

And no more of that bargaining nonsense, our young student tells himself. If some loving dad gives a large contribution to a greedy old holiness in order to spare his little lad from kitchen and garden chores, then off goes the holy money-taker to Siberia. I’ll make sure they all receive extra gloves and handmade woollen underwear, and that’s their lot! It was Siberia and its new found economic purpose that kept Keith’s sanity on track.

Love equals love. Love can never justify all the discrepancies between belief in the Bible and the evil mankind does. Keith was satisfied with his poesy of survival. It gave him the emotional stability to keep his two feet firmly on the cold bare floor. When he heard the sobbing of a class mate crying in a room with a locked door he would make a fist and murmur ‘Siberia’.

When the crying reached the level of screaming, our future Pope, lover of colours, would place his hands against the nearest wall, think of the language his brothers regularly used and lash out in a provocative style.

“Pope or no Pope. I’ll personally take you to Siberia myself, leave you a shovel in your mitt and you can dig your own way back! I will, you know, I hate the whole bunch of you, there’s not a true gram of love in any of you.”

Tears could never be restrained. Keith often longed too for a glimpse of his schoolroom painting, its colours and the excitement it exercised in his spare moments. There were still times when he found himself talking to the figures on the canvas. There were even moments when he wanted to relieve his overcrowded mind by squeezing Marjory’s little bum, just once, not 21

twice!

Marjory was an old classmate, one of the toffee-apple gang in church, but it was to the father’s credit that he at least sent his daughter to a roughand-ready school, and not the la-di-dah building at the top of the hill.

Marjory, blond hair, blue eyes, was three years older than Keith, but their eyes would always meet in the play ground. When she and her parents were the first to leave the church, he always made sure that just at that moment he was standing on the wooden kneeler. Marjory was 5 inches taller than Mr. Romeo, and our future Pope had to act fast if he was to manage a brief ‘I love you’ wink.

She never understood until years later how the future parish priest, as handsome as he was, could by some miracle extend his legs to the height of hers. She didn’t dare ask her father for fear of appearing ignorant. She knew her looks compensated for her dullness, but with Keith near her she in her dreams could be the envy of the entire female community.

He was always in her prayers – Please come back to us, you always choose the right colours for my party clothes…. He’s so clever and so handsome, bring him back to us, before he forgets us.

Christmas message Two more weeks to go and Christmas leave was at the door.

Then only two days, two nights. A short period to listen, watch and describe each other’s daily tasks.

Mother Nellie wanted to suffocate her son with her questions, her special food. She saved every coin possible in order to give her pride and joy every luxury she could possibly afford.

The congregation was as inquisitive as Nellie – would he have changed?

Would his voice show his progress to manhood? – would he be restrained or was he still one of them? – would he still sing in the choir? – read a message from the bible?

Nellie was proud of the immense interest in her son. She wanted to scream to the entire community “My son is going to be the Pope, wait 22

and see: no fried fish and chips for him, no local priesthood.” Nellie in her loneliness, in her simple but genuine belief in the ability of her son, was convinced he would be Pope one day. His house would be in Rome.

She would work in the kitchen. No fancy foods, it would give him indigestion. His wardrobe was complete – length – buttons – colours.

She managed not to call him Pope John in public. On the first page of her own bible however she did call him Pope John. Her father was named John after his father. Hence Pope John. How proud her father would have been.

She could cry from pride that her son had flown high above those around him. She had always believed his life would be different, and her dream was coming true.

Keith now at the age of seventeen read for the first time, in the pulpit of the family church, his favourite Christmas Message. Was he saying goodbye? Was he asking the congregation to swallow and digest the words of the verse he had chosen?

Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven, to earth come down; Fix in us thy humble dwelling; all thy faithful mercies crown!

Jesus thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art; Visit us with thy salvation; enter every trembling heart.

None of them knew how worldly the words were, inspired by the “Song of Venus” from John Dryden’s play King Arthur. But they could see he had sophistication – biblical glamour, appearance: a unique handsome star. A young man who had long decided which path he would take, which gear he would put into action.

He needed no further tuition how to manipulate them to achieve his purpose in life. He spoke softly, articulated as a trained public speaker.

The priests had formed an idol, but this young man wanted to leave the theological nest.

This young man who wanted desperately to express his interpretation of the holy scriptures in his own design world. A world created by Sir 23

Christopher Wren and his St Paul’s Cathedral, the Gothic architect George Gilbert Scott, not forgetting another of England’s greatest architects, Nicholas Hawksmoor.

He was familiar with the famous buildings of the world, and knew most of their designers’ names, from the beautiful illustrated books that Uncle Henry had given him over the years. Just think, Keith told himself, if Henry VIII had been satisfied with one woman, all these buildings would belong to Rome.

His creativeness was as colourful as his mother’s. He saw churches built like skyscrapers. Hospitals were to be like St. Paul’s. No damp walls, but at all times someone to hold your hand when you wanted to have a weenie sob.

His designs would convey unity and compassion, a rod and staff to comfort men and not to punish them.

The rose that left a thorn He decided to wait until the following year before announcing his decision to turn his back on the priesthood. He had no idea as to how his mother would respond. It didn’t bother him. She never scolded him. She never contradicted him. She knew he would never disgrace her.

He was young. She had always told him to follow his heart.

Unfortunately the poor woman thought she knew which way his heart would take him, or she just forgot to tell him which path to take. For her there was only one direction and one direction only. The idea of her son designing the use of bricks and cement for unknown faiths was utter blasphemy. *** After Christmas, Keith decided to discuss his future with good old Uncle Henry. Could he, Uncle Henry, apologize to the Holy Reverends, could he ask them to recommend him to a university next year? He was always top of the class, “if they really are lovers of mankind, Uncle Henry, then they will help us.”

24

Henry was speechless – he saw that Keith really believed what he said.

After scratching his chin for some six minutes, checking the time of his watch with the grandfather clock on the wall, after lighting his pipe three times, not forgetting the red blushing cheeks, which are almost bursting, he replied – “Keith, this will kill your mother. It will ruin her – I cannot stand in for her actions.”

“Mother will understand,” her son replied – “I know she will, she always does. She wouldn’t want me to be unhappy. I cannot teach what I truly do not believe. Please Uncle Henry, let me be a coward for once. You are the only male in the family who ever gave me inspiration, I beg you, be my worldly mentor. If I’m granted a full life time, I promise you our name will be respected in the entire architectural world.”

As a kid, he always spoke like that, like an old man, Henry remembered, but however he puts it, this will ruin my sister in law, send her out of her mind. This was all she had left to look forward to. The boy has no idea what agony and illness he is creating.

At last he took one decisive look at the handsome unworldly future student of theology, placed both hands on his shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes and said “Son, you are on the verge of killing your loved ones. The future is in your hands! I will negotiate for you, pay whatever debts there are, but never – and I repeat never – say I did not warn you of the tragedies that will come. The sadness and the heartbreak are entirely your decision. May you find the strength to live with the agony you will impose on the people you love.”

Poor Henry dreaded the task of clearing up what he knew would be a family drama. If only the boy wasn’t so damn clever – the simple ones never want to run off, he told himself. They know when they’re onto a good thing. Not my Nellie’s boy, oh no: he’s got to ruin his whole family and I’ll bet on any horse, he’ll ruin his own, if not now then later.

I’ll give my savings to the church now, instead of later, that should buy him out – after all, the rich give handsome donations to buy them in, the 25

least they can do is get our Keith on the road of his choice, they’ve got more connections in the educational circle than I have.”

He couldn’t wait to get home. It was a stinking night. Mist was rolling in from the sea. A black cat was lying dead in the middle of the road.

“That’s all I need – a black cat with no life in it – please Violet have the supper ready, your old man has had it for today.”

Those final months for Keith passed by with unexpected speed. The daily atmosphere was positive, charitable, all was engineered towards pleasant memories of his stay. Requests to return, inform them of his progress, one step further and he might change his mind.

Now he could dream with confidence. Everything looked so much brighter. He would see his mother more often, Marjory on Sundays and at morning mass when he was on holiday. He would be the best student ever, his success would be handsomely rewarded. A house for his mother, one designed specifically for her. She would be rewarded for all the love and attention given to him.

She, Henry and Violet would visit him at least twice a year. Keith had no idea how the world outside rotated, he had no awareness of the sleepless nights poor Henry was enduring. Nellie Marshall was still unaware of her son’s worldly plans for the future.

Every morning Henry would look in the mirror and repeat ‘somebody give me strength’. Every day he put it off, and it extended by one more day of tension, until Violet, who knew nothing about the situation, invited her sister to tea.

The conversation was dreary. Both ladies could detect that Henry was not at his best. Violet said, “Henry dear, do you have something to tell us? are we on the verge of some kind of trouble? we have no secrets from Nellie, so spit it out; then we can enjoy the new cake recipe.”

Henry couldn’t take his eyes off Nellie. This sweet kind woman had given herself, her entire love, devotion and every penny that she could save from her meagre housekeeping to the glory of her son, his study, his future leadership of the church.

Henry cleared his throat, placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate, 26

moved his eyes in the direction of Nellie and said “Keith is leaving the seminary, he has decided not to proceed to holy orders. He is planning to go next year to Manchester University School of Architecture. He wants to be an architect. Rebuild the world and all that.” Poor Henry had practised repeatedly the exact wording of his announcement and here he was, cake crumbs in his moustache, blundering down at poor Nellie like a perfect fool.

There was utter silence in the room. No one looked at each other, no one moved, only the clock chimed four, a time Henry will never forget.

He expected Nellie to cry, sob her heart out, scream, throw a cup or plate at his head, but she remained as silent as a mute. She rose and walked into the garden, where the petals, the lovely pink rose petals, caught her attention. She tried to break off branches from the rose with her bare hands, the thorns scratching open her skin. She whipped the red drops of blood from her hands with the skirt of her Sunday dress.

“Leave her Violet,” Henry called. “I can’t imagine what this shock is doing to her, but she’ll say something soon.”

Henry’s belief was as deluded as Keith’s – and indeed Nellie’s – had been. Nellie Marshall never, from that day onwards, spoke another word to anyone. If she cried, no one saw the tears. In church she gave no response to the music. Her lips remained sealed.

Her punishment to her son and those around him was simply the fact, they never knew, during their entire lifetime what Nellie Marshall thought of her son’s worldly plans. Could she forgive him for leaving the church?

Rejecting all his promises to her and to her God. Her dreams of his destiny in Rome ruined?

The housekeeping chores were ignored. She no longer cooked. Her other sons and their father lived and ate in the pubs. She walked the streets frequently, alone, untidy, uncared for. She spoke to no one. When crossing the road, she never looked to see whether a car was on its way in her direction. The time came when the sons had to walk the streets looking for her. she had in a few weeks become a sad, isolated, old lady.

The world around her was denied all contact. Nellie Marshall longed for 27

one incident, a release from her unbearable sadness. She wanted to die – to leave all her losses and failures behind her. She was ready for her next life; she had nothing left to live for. Her heart was broken.

The final stage of her fantasy had seemed so close, now her possessive love of a son she had given to her God, had been rejected. He had chosen a world outside hers. Her last thought was ‘may God always be with him.’

It was Good Friday, two months after she heard of her son’s decision.

It was raining hard and the place was deserted. No one ever found out what she was doing on those rocks, slippery with spray and seaweed. The coroner pointed to her shoes’ lack of grip, her unrepaired soles, the tear in her long skirt where perhaps she caught her heel.

All anyone knew was that she fell, either from the top of the cliff or from the rocks below, into the cruel, killing waves of the sea. Her battered body was washed up on the beach by the next tide.

‘You might think this would have unhinged Keith, his mother’s most devoted son – but it did not. For all that he was so sensitive, that was only in the here and now; he didn’t think ahead how other people might feel.

His mind was fixed on his plans and his career; yet it seems he never stopped to wonder how this future was being arranged for him. That is the trouble with the future, isn’t it? We never see it coming.’

University Just the thought of a student in the house, the aftershave, the naïve carelessness, the loneliness and permanent curiosity! So many aspects bundled together and all hers for the taking.

Belinda was the daughter of Bessie Pringle, who had inherited a Tudor style house from her father. The house was well built, the furniture well made, the garden well kept; there was however one item missing – money.

Bessie had insufficient cash to maintain her lovely home.

Bessie had a reputation, she was a bit of a lark with the men. One wouldn’t call her a prostitute; her services were geared more to the field of 28

female company for the twilight hours. Bessie was the ultimate delight for representatives far from home – an excellent listener, they could shower her with their problems, cry on her shoulder, and she would give them all the comfort they needed.

Most of them had never been in such a luxury house. Most of them had a wife who went to bed in hair curlers. A woman such as Bessie, who would let you fall asleep on her bosom, was the equivalent to a film star rage that one queued hours to see, even on a rainy miserable night.

The cinema was cheaper. Bessie would ask the price of 8 cinema seats.

Alcohol was not included. Her commodities were unique, the assortment men never spoke of. Her diary was at all times completely full. The same applied to her rooms. Bessie had no financial problems. All was solved, until the years slipped away, the bosom and shoulders could no longer hold greasy heads, and the creams no longer deleted the lines in her face.

The solution to her problems was her daughter. she could take over the gymnastics. After all, as Bessie would quote, there’s nothing like a young apple to get the old boys stuttering.

A little extra bonus for the coals, a small donation for the whisky.

There was no doom and gloom in her house. It was a sanctuary, a heaven for all the lost souls who thought they had already purchased a paradise and then found themselves stuck with the same ambiguity and domestic lies that their parents lived with.

Belinda, had heard from the domestic, that a young student was coming to stay. If all went well, and to everyone’s satisfaction, then he would probably be a resident for at least five years. He had no parents and the gentleman who was forking out the money for his keep, was a regular guest of Mrs Pringle’s.

“They’ve known each other for years, the char woman informed her, proper gentlemen he is dear, if I don’t know, then no one does, loves his pint of bitter and a chat before he leaves.

29

The information was packed and closed with a wink of char knowledge.

“Men” the woman murmured, “They’re all the same rich and poor, long and short, thin and tubby, none of ’em is ever satisfied with home cooking.

They all get tired of what they’ve got. A new colour dress, a new perfume, does wonders for their motivation.”

Belinda took one look, at the young student, just one simple glance, her high heels went out of balance, her mouth fell open, and she was for the very first time truly and utterly speechless. What a gift, what caviar, and all this for five years, blimey, I won’t know where to start first. Take it slowly Belinda, take it very – no, extremely – slowly. Savour this at your ease.

Friendship Belinda and Keith became great friends. Things didn’t turn out the way Belinda anticipated. For once she was confronted by a young man who obviously knew nothing about the world, yet possessed the charms and manners of a world traveller.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself” she told herself. “This is a chap that could teach you the manners and lifestyle of the upper class. His table manners are immaculate. He never spits when he talks. He is so polite; he makes me feel like someone I’m not.”

The priests may not have impressed Keith with the way they taught, the way they were quite unaware of a young boy’s fears and emotions. Yet one cannot deny that the standard of education they gave was way above that in the outside world ….. Keith’s vision and insight on various subjects were outstanding in comparison to his fellow students.

His knowledge of present and past architects was particularly extensive.

His memory was an architectural encyclopaedia. If someone mentioned Hawksmoor, he would soon be linking him with Wren and Vanbrugh. He knew where all three were born and when, the background to their designs and completed works, their technical abilities, their ideas and their legacy.

The lecturers, professors, the deacon, all knew that an unusual talent had entered their walls. He was aloof, kept himself very much to himself, 30

never missed a lecture. Was aware that all his fellow students came from different backgrounds. They all had substantial monthly allowances which gave them access to trips abroad, additional tuition, their wish was father’s desire, there were no poor jerks among them.

Keith wrote to Uncle Henry after the first three months – “They’re company partners before they begin. If I am to succeed, which I promise you I will, then my success will derive from my knowledge and not the status of my background. Life is for me now an opening to a new world. In this short period, I am convinced that the decision I took was the right one.

I still do not know who is funding this incredible adventure in my life. I can only say, dear Uncle Henry, that I am proud to be the benefactor’s choice.

Time goes quickly and I look forward to seeing you and Aunty Violet at Christmas.

My landlady Bessie and her daughter Belinda are most generous and kind. I need for nothing. Every time I look at Belinda I think of the sister I never had. Perhaps I can help her to become a useful tool helping to build society.

Please give my regards to Marjory and her parents. Does she still have those beautiful blond locks? Perhaps one day, there will be no warm and cold areas in your church. No more soft cushions for the rich, Uncle Henry, no more separate pews for the rich and the poor.”

“If only his mother were here, if only we could have foreseen what was to happen. Her son at University, how proud she could have been of him, poor, poor, woman,” Henry continued to say to himself. “What a cruel, despicable world we live in. Pews for the poor, my foot. By the time this young lad is finished he’ll won’t be thinking of pews for the poor any more.

He’ll pass us all by with a career holding immense wealth and fame.”

He bent forward, his intention being to fold Keith’s letter and return it to its envelope. With the letter in his hand, he felt a sudden desire to make a toast. A toast with a letter, a few notes in the air, no glass, no wine. Just a short letter embracing a young boy’s secret dreams. “Dear Keith,” Henry 31

chanted, “May all your dreams come true. May your life be filled with the happiness you deserve. Treat success as a gift. Let others share in your knowledge. Our world is no longer yours. I embrace you, dear boy, may strength and willpower always be at your side.”

Henry watched over Keith during his entire study. Neither mentioned the past. Both were obsessed with the promise of the future. A future, they must hope, with no inheritance from dark days not long gone. Keith had left his past behind, forgotten what had happened before university, but the past had not forgotten him.

A willing tool Sunday was reserved for Belinda. Keith knew she loved to go along on his walking tours to all the churches and historical buildings in the area.

Streets sheltering houses going back at least two centuries.

She loved making the necessary drawings and giving adequate attention to remarks she couldn’t for the life of her understand. Occasionally, Keith would put his arm around her shoulders, lend her his jacket when she was cold. Buy her chocolate from the Sunday newspaper shop. When they felt like having a joke they would buy a small packet of cigarettes and choke themselves practically to kingdom come.

The act of indecency took place mostly on a park bench fortunately hidden away by the branches of a willow tree. A bench mostly used by lovers and not amateur fag players. Keith rather enjoyed Belinda’s obvious admiration, her lipstick, reminded him of the Japanese ladies on his aunt’s teacups.

He noticed her peeps into his books. Could she read? He was too polite to venture into the subject. All remained unresolved until Belinda suddenly showed interest in his favourite Cathedral book. The crowning of Kings, the music flooding the space and the emotions of the visiting crowds. It was then finally evident poor Belinda couldn’t read! Even worse she couldn’t write.

She could draw, she could paint, she could design and sew her own clothes. She could knit Keith socks for his birthday. But the basic needs to enjoy a life of independence had never been hers.

32

“Belinda,” Keith asks, “would you like to write? Would you like to read the Sunday newspaper? Become a valuable member of society? If you say yes I will find some time to help you. You are a kind young lady and have much to give the community around you.”

Belinda couldn’t believe her ears. A university lodger helping her become someone that the street would acknowledge and have respect for.

Should she tell her mother? It didn’t seem to worry Bessie that her daughter was restricted to kitchen chores – she had a beautiful face, a gorgeous figure – what more did the girl need. She could take over her mother’s appreciative commodities. The house was worth a small fortune.

As long she could cook a good meal, could choose an excellent wine by just tasting it, what on earth was all the fuss about?

Belinda couldn’t wait for her first lesson – the weather was excellent, the cushions fitted the seat of the old bench perfectly, Keith’s leg was only three inches away from hers. Every time he spoke, gave her instructions, she grabbed the opportunity to look sideways at him. He was so handsome.

“Stop daydreaming Belinda, and repeat what I am saying. I want to hear it back all in the same tone, and stop when I tell you to. You have exactly six months in which to learn everything.

I’ve just heard I’ve been chosen to go to Germany, beginning of next year, for six months of sheer hard practical work, not that my vote or suggestions will count, but at least I can poke my nose in and mildly interfere with what they’re planning.

A new shipyard is being build, and they want to pick a young brain before they decide on the design for the studios and offices. Just think, Belinda, after only two years of study I’m being granted the chance to put my mark on a real commission.”

“Can I come with you Keith? You will need someone to wash and iron your clothes.”

Keith gave her a hug. “If you promise to learn to read in the six months 33

that I’m still here, and write in the six months that I’m away, perhaps I’ll make you my chief of staff when I’m rich and famous. Now shut up and read the next sentence. I want to hear an R that is an R – and if you dare to say ‘you know’ once more, I’ll push you off this bench and say goodbye for ever.”

Belinda not only learnt to read, she loved the wisdom it gave her. The letters she wrote to Keith while he was away were childish but touching.

Should he help her extend her knowledge or should he leave her in the circle from which she came? In Germany, he was learning all the time.

Surprising Uncle Henry One always dreams of leaving home, desperate for new scenery, but it never takes long to get homesick. Keith had a sudden desire to visit his Uncle Henry. Surprise him.

He hadn’t seen Henry and Violet since Christmas. He had a longing to see barley fields, breathe clean fresh air, taste healthy home cooking. The greens would be looking lovely, the fruit trees a joy to look at.

Keith longed to tell his old Uncle all he had been doing in Hamburg. His special overalls, his tin hat, his remarks that without doubt no German took the trouble to listen to, but it made him at least feel good.

He also could not resist telling Uncle Henry of his other experiences.

Henry placed his hands over his ears. “Say no more please my boy, say no more. My whole body, my veins are bursting with shame. This is terrible, what would the priests say, how would they react if they heard your catalogue of sin and destruction? Keith, please, I’ve digested enough.”

“Henry believe me, it was an experience I’ll never forget. There were times when I thought it was beautiful. There were moments when I thought I was in heaven and wished the priests were with me. It’s not fair really, Henry, that priests can never have such a period of total relaxation and enjoy the fruits that only females can offer. Just think of those adult males, starved of all the joys bestowed upon me in the last two months. That boils down to eight weeks and fifty-six nights.

Mind you, Henry, in Germany church services on TV are available every Sunday morning.

34

I’m not saying that we looked, but it was there for us all to see. The starved men came from everywhere, Henry. A couple from China, Russia, everywhere. The girls targeted all nations. But, to be fair, my guess is their clients were 80% German and 20% other seagoing nations.

And there was little old me – a half-pint student, no money, just the gift of the gab – dancing, jiving, drinking and accepting the ‘thousand-and-onenights’ sex acts from the most experienced and gorgeous prostitutes in the universe. Henry, they were dashing.

I paid for nothing not even my breakfast the next morning. Being a gentleman as I truly am, I did make tea, and on three occasions I did treat a very pretty little Japanese to a cream bun and a sausage roll. Apart from that, all I had to do was teach them English – vocabulary, idiom, conversation – then make myself scarce when necessary, enjoy the scene and learn from it.”

“Are you actually telling me you had sex with a prostitute, Keith? You, your mother’s son, the hope and trust of the parish congregation? A future creator of beauty and renewal? Tell me you’re joking. Tell me it’s something you read in a book on the train, a yarn you heard from a seaman. Tell me it’s not true.”

Silence is always deadly when there’s conflict in the air. Still waters run deep, so one never knows which way the stream is going to move.

“Henry, this is the truth, I did sleep with a prostitute; in fact, I slept with a whole bunch of ’em. Sometimes three in one bed. Have you ever had three in a bed, Henry? Have you?”

Henry was speechless.

Keith placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “There’s a bench in the garden, let’s both sit on it and get some healthy fresh air.

I’ve waited a long time to say this to you, Uncle Henry, and now is my opportunity. No one knows the rules, the things that go on in the schools and seminaries, the ancient institutions that you old folk put us youngsters into. No one asks, no one is interested. It’s the same when you grow up: it’s all one big emotional secret. No one talks about the really important things.

I promised myself every day, every night, that life would never keep any secrets from me. I would discover all its joys and griefs, its poverty and its 35

richness.

Before I left for Hamburg, I met a young girl who could neither write nor read, and now I have discovered young women with hearts of gold. Women who would give me their last coin, women who would share their meal with you, a meal earned from the oldest requirement in the universe – the most ancient profession – yes, Henry, a word you never say, but an act you often think of: SEX. I love you Henry, you’re a good man. Don’t be angry with me.”

Henry had reached the stage where he was beginning to see the humour of it all. Keith was no longer a child, better this, he thought, than getting some young bird in the family way. Henry got up from the bench, took his pipe and tobacco out of his pocket. One hand in his blazer pocket, the other holding his Sunday pipe, he began to blow his immaculate smoke circles.

Keith could see that Henry’s sense of humour had returned.

Smoke circles indicated enjoyment. He’s going to give me a sermon, any minute now, Keith decided. He’s probably going to chuck me back on the train, say goodbye forever with a smile, and laugh at it all at the same time!

Through a corridor in the trees Henry could see the dear old swing that he had built many years ago for the boy’s pleasure – “Keith I’ve always thought of you as my own son, so I’ll not beat about the bush, the next time you go to Hamburg, take you’re old Uncle with you.

There’s life in the old dog yet, you can’t keep all those secrets to yourself.”

There are things in life we men must share!

The two men marched off to the pub, each with their own thoughts. One with a feeling of maturity the other knowing that life had no more secrets in store. *** Marjory’s parents had asked Keith over to dinner on his last night in 36

the village. The subject was, needless to say, life at the university. Keith had plenty to say for himself. His lecturers gave too much attention to the buildings and insufficient attention to the people working and living in them.

Architecture is also bound to time, the period that one lives in. Not only buildings are immortal. It is also a reflection of the development of communities. Architects can make the citizens proud of their neighbourhood; renovation is good for a town and the people who live in it.

He must remember to place the accent on the community, not only the fort to be build around them.

They all promised to visit him during the next short vacation.

They would probably make a week-end of it. Stay in that lovely old Coach house, near the university. Bring their tennis rackets, pray for the sun and drink the fresh air. Marjory was as lovely as ever. Keith had no doubt in his mind he was going to marry her.

She wouldn’t give him the laughter and the giggles experienced in Hamburg; however, the knowledge gained in that ‘under world’ would according to Keith’s strategy enrich their marital blessing for many years to come.

Keith was always pleased to be returning to his eccentric lodgings. The silence in the train gave him time to think. He was proud of Belinda, he knew she would do anything to impress him.

A couple more years and he would be gone. No need for panic, much could be achieved in such a period of time.

Belinda in his fantasy was one of the city’s unattended inhabitants.

Accomplish something with her, before you leave this city, Keith instructed himself.

Let her teach others to read and write. The house is big enough, I’ll design a meeting room. The kitchen is far too big. The two sheds can be knocked into one. Path extended round to the back of the house, what more do we need for a nice spacious classroom designed to give nervous and frightened people the chance to enjoy and understand their lives.

37

Keith Marshall was by now brimming with self confidence. The Reeperbahn had set alight every fibre and hidden fear in his beautiful lean body.

He was convinced work and money would automatically flow in his direction. He would marry Marjory, they would in his dreams start their married life in the City. Once his name was established they would move back to the country and he would design the most fabulous thatched cottage ever. A combination of cottage and cattle range. An eye opener for miles.

“There’s nothing stopping me from designing it now,” he told himself.

“Submit it, during my final year.”

“Must remember,” the train was beginning to slow down, “to pay back my debt to the man who’s been funding all these years.” Henry surely must know who he is!

My mother must have a new burial spot. I’m not interested how she died, she’s going to rest with the gentry and not the poor slobs.

The train pulled into the station. The newspaper was thrown into the dustbin, the crowds, tired, miserable looking, all chasing to the exit.

Keith was glad to feel the ground under his feet. He said goodnight to the railway porter, the weight of his luggage practically dislocating his shoulder. It all happened so suddenly, he the young student, the would be sex idol of the planet, had no control over his reactions, there she was, her arms round his neck, her lips touching his cheeks, his nose and finally his lips. The night porter looked in the other direction, “how often have I not seen this?” he asked himself. His ancient grey head began to nod.

“There’s nothing more rewarding than observing absence resolve into joy, uncontrollable love, and nature showing once more its strength and ability to conquer…. I’ll pick his luggage up for him, before the pair of them fall over it.”

The train rolled out of the station. The miserable station lights were as dull as ever. The dampness in the air was typical of the location. Two young people so united, the train, the passengers were both non existent. They 38

were back together. Two pals, two future lovers? A future for a day, a year, a life time? Who knows what the future could bring.

Belinda did learn to read and write. Keith redesigned the entire house.

Belinda taught infants to read, write and sing.

Keith Marshall and Belinda remained lovers for many years. She never married, he did. No one knew of their friendship, or if they did, no one spoke of it. Keith always saw that she wanted for nothing, gossip said she spent the last part of her life in Scotland, living in a beautiful bungalow, undoubtedly designed by the love of her life, a man who gave her the will and freedom to live.

She stopped talking for a moment, and the young man spoke.

‘It is an extraordinary story – but hardly a tragedy. Everyone seems to have liked this Keith; he seems to have taken charge of his life, married his dream girl and made a dream career. He was even good-looking.’

‘You’re right. He looked like an angel; no one saw the demons inside.

Well, perhaps one person saw, but she was powerless to change anything.’

Family Marjory’s mother, Anne, was adamant. On no condition would she agree to her husband giving Keith Marshall and her daughter a piece of ground on which to build a house.

“Anne, will you please for one moment think where your refusal puts me? We have the most acres of anyone around here for miles. We’re not going to miss one building plot, especially for our own children.”

“Our own children? He’s not one of us, Rupert,” Anne replied, “He is trouble, you mark my words. And what do you think he will put up? If you give him sufficient space, we’ll find ourselves looking at some monster of a building. Holidaymakers will come from far and wide to catch a glimpse of some space-age building, probably with its own ‘Big Ben’ clock striking each wretched hour of every restless day. Strangers will think that Parliament has been moved to its final place of rest.”

“Anne darling, what’s got into you? Do you dislike the fellow so much?

39

Any mother – in – law would be thrilled to have such an intellect in the family. Marjory is happy. Two wonderful children, and a third on its way.

I for one hope it will be a boy who will grow up to design with yarns and fabrics, not steel and concrete. After all, you never objected to my financing Keith’s student years or paying Nellie Marshall, way back, to buy him clothes.

Can I pour you a drink, Anne dear? You look pale. Or shall I take you out to dinner? Somewhere nice – how about that old castle at Wixworth?

You only have to say the word and I’ll call Harold immediately; he always has a table free for us.”

“It’s twenty years today,” Anne replied.

“Twenty what years?” Rupert enquired. He was becoming slightly agitated. Rupert was very much a man of decision, not discussion. No messing. His wife and daughter first, then the rest were meant to follow!

Anne saw this conversation was taking too long, and Rupert’s sudden blowing of his nose told his spouse that she’d better get on with it, otherwise he would drop all and vanish to his den.

“It’s twenty years today since the mother died: I’ve never forgotten it, Rupert. I went to school with her. She was always different from the rest.

Very quiet, very devout, but never a weakling. Does he really not know that she took her life? And why she did it? This tragedy hasn’t ended yet, Rupert. Every time I look at Keith, there’s a feeling of anticipation: when will the law of disaster spring down on us? It’s happened before.

“Remember Nellie Marshall’s sister? What happened to her, Rupert? She was called Pearl. The truth never got out, but I can still hear my mother telling grandmother, that someone had got the poor girl in the family way.

I think the baby was put in an orphanage. All I know is Pearl was carted off to a nunnery and no one heard from her or spoke of her again.”

Rupert placed her coat around her shoulders “It’s time for supper, my darling. I’m ready for a leg of lamb, some Malta spuds, green peas from Harold’s garden and gravy prepared by the best cook in the whole vicinity.”

40

*** With a glass of beer in one hand, his wife’s hand in the other, he repeated to her for the very last time what he knew about Nellie Marshall’s death.

“Anne, we can only guess. Violet told Henry her secret thoughts, her assumptions. Henry – because Keith is family– told me. We all three made a unanimous vow, many years ago, never to tell anyone what we thought, and I still keep that vow to this day. Let sleeping dogs lie, Anne. Keith’s mother would be proud of him today, and when he goes to Buckingham Palace for his knighthood, I’ll make sure Henry takes a photo of her in his pocket.

Now don’t talk, just eat. Keith is going to get the piece of ground – then your daughter will be near you. The grandchildren can come to tea, no mucking about, mind you, in my den–” “–where you and Keith can talk business until the cows come home,” Anne replied. “I can see through you, Rupert. Ever since we invited him to Marjory’s 18th birthday, you’ve followed his steps like a hawk. There are times when I think you are prouder of him than of your own daughter.

Let’s not talk about it any more. Pass me those potatoes, please Rupert, can’t beat a crop from Malta. As peculiar as it sounds, talk of past death and future uncertainty go very well with good food. You’ll see, they can even end in sheer human laughter.”

As Keith would say, every supper is a joy. For Rupert and his wife Anne this was the last supper at which Nellie Marshall was mentioned. It would seal their memory of that family’s past.

So little time Keith had now been for many years a partner at an International Architect Company specialising in monumental buildings, universities, Cathedrals, and working for big-name clients like the City of London and New York banks. He was always a much requested speaker at conferences, 41

both in England and abroad. He spoke with passion, style, an intelligent man, who had the world of monumental beauty at his feet.

He was always in a hurry, never wore a clock, for fear it might slow him down. Had so many goals, so little time he would say, can’t finish it all in one life time.

Didn’t drink, reminded him too much of the menfolk in his youth, his older brothers especially. He never saw them – didn’t want to see them – he had no idea if his father was still alive. The subject was taboo. The fear that his children would ever find themselves mingling in such an environment pushed him to the verge of paranoia.

If he gave financial donations it was always for the restoration of a building, never for the poor who found their way through its doors.

He had two vices, one was a secret from the family, namely a quiet bet on the dogs and the horses. This retreat was a silent day for himself at the horse track. No one around him, only the energy of the animals to excite him.

Women never interested him, he was polite, never inquisitive. The only woman he ever complimented was his wife. He loved her with all his heart.

She was still the girl with the blond locks. She was now only one inch taller, and they still managed to give each other a wink when the discussions reached the red hot subject of his second vice namely smoking. Keith was a chain smoker. He had a cigar permanently in his mouth.

It will kill you one day, his wife would yell. It makes you cough. They smell repulsive, and there’s ash everywhere. Not that Keith ever listened. A good cigar gave him inspiration, confidence. He didn’t drink, so why deny him one small pleasure. It’s not going to kill me he would mutter, you can’t get rid of me that easy.

Dream home …

The front door key was gold plated, it has been made specially for the celebrations announcing the completion of the new family home.

Any one who was someone was invited. The local press invited 42

themselves, they couldn’t miss an incident which would give their readers the opportunity to visit the house of one of the countries most prominent architects.

No one really knew him well in the county, and this was a chance to interview him.

The design of the house was indescribable. One room led into the next.

With the exception of the sleeping quarters and kitchen, there were no doors.

The remaining space was interrupted by a few glass walls. In principle one could roller skate from the entrance to the exit. The colours were blinding white, exotic green and black. The furnishings a combination of antique – many items had been given to Marjory by her mother – who in her turn had received them from hers. Keith wanted the foreign designers around him.

The kitchen originated from the Japanese culture. One could relax in the style from Sweden. The leather sofas from Belgium. The three bathroom units originated from France. The lighting from Italy. Even the dogs had their own special room, glass roof and an automatic door that opened when the dogs barked or scratched to go out. Keith was a true lover of Red Setters.

As a child there was never money for a dog. He shared his love for dogs with the next door neighbour whose dog he walked for many miles, on a boring Sunday afternoon. He would talk to the animal as if it were a true friend.

In those days it was probably only the dog who could understand him.

Now he talked to his beautiful Red Setters. They were frequently used as an audience when he wanted personal attention. … or crooked house “Heaven knows,” said Anne, “what the press will say Rupert. If they ask me what I think, I’ll just have to lie. I’d like to say hideous, has nothing in common with the area. Has no emotional ties with any of our traditions.

43

I can’t believe our daughter had any influence in the preparations.

I wouldn’t mind if he’d gifted the entire space with a thatched roof, but even that’s a roof as flat as a pancake.

If you promise, Rupert, to tell no one I’ll admit it reminds me of the crooked man story… There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence, against the crooked stile, he bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together, in a little crooked house.”

Anne gave a heavy sigh to complete the explosion. – I’ll shut up if you promise me Rupert, with your hand on your heart – our gardener will slowly but surely redesign those hideous gardens and bind them somehow to our tradition. What a nonsense, bamboo here and ducks there. A special pool for the frogs, and copper bird cages designed in Germany. Someone must have been out of their mind when all this lot was put together. “Sir my foot – they’ll be dishing out titles next for tin openers – and shut up laughing at me Rupert, – he’s throwing money away, this is only the start.”

Is our daughter happy Anne?” Rupert enquires. “Is she?” “She dotes on him Rupert, you know she does – just make sure you’re around when the grey clouds roll in our direction, you brought him into the family, let’s hope you’re still around when the clouds roll in again and take him out.”

They called their new estate Springfields. To the modern generation, it was a dream. A design for the future. The press loved it. Keith’s business crowd came with their gifts and speeches. That he was about to become a Sir, an intelligent handsome Sir was an asset to the new countryside adventure. Marjory was at all times the perfect hostess, and even though she was seven months pregnant she still gave all the ladies present the firm conviction that hubby dear was hers and hers alone.

Keith always made a P.R joke of his wife’s cooking abilities. In London she had acquired a reputation for cooking. In particular all products which one should find in restaurants serving high tea.

44

Instead of asking clients to dinner, it was an invitation to a late high tea, in all its variations. It kept Marjory busy, on her toes, as Keith would put it.

He teased her daily – lady or no lady, you’re still the head cook and bottle washer.

The children became aware of the art of being a charming little hostess.

His staff and clients relished in the colourful art and pleasure of taking tea. “Write a book on it Margie; I’ve got enough contacts to make a great success of it.

Your beautiful face on the front cover, a tea bag on the back, you my darling can’t possibly go wrong.”

She knew he was joking, but still she always hated his jokes when he especially ended with – “remember I won’t always be here for you. We come and we go, a woman should be independent, she never knows what awaits her.”

“Stop being so morbid Keith, she would reply. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

The kitchen, although Japanese orientated, was large enough, and as Anne would have said – ugly enough to contain the traditional ovens for baking the lovely old fashion cakes. Their taste and flavour that all English mothers, in a previous generation baked for their family. Smells and colours, lovely extra portions that would always remain in ones memory.

The unforgettable wintry fireside tradition.

Keith loved the seed cake. The scones. The Madeira cake, mostly preferred by the men. Grandma always wanted a slice of coconut cake. She loved the coconut flavour.

Marjory had a list of home and foreign cakes. When the French came they were always surprised with the frivolous French meringues, Shortbread and Dundee cake always represented Scotland. The children had their own little bakery, and sufficient little fingers to exercise the preliminary tasting.

45

The guests had all left, goodbye parcels under their arms. Wishes of hope to see each other soon, arm in arm the two owners of Springfield walk back to their kitchen. The one place where they both enjoyed being.

“I love you Keith Marshall, Marjory whispers in his ear. I love you so much. When you were in the monastery, I used to pray that you would come back to us. The thought of never seeing you again was unbearable.

As young and silly as I was I always knew you were the only boy I ever wanted.

I know you never go to church or say a prayer of gratitude, but I still, after all these years thank someone, something, for giving me such happiness.”

“Off you go Miss Sloppy, off you go, I’ll be up soon.”

For the first time in many years Keith Marshall broke down and cried.

The past rushed into his mind, the cruelty experienced as a boy, the love and the loss of his mother, his father loud, drunk and dishevelled.

Was his father still alive? The smell of poverty, its dampness, always wanted to make him vomit. He brushed away the remains of the tears.

In 6 weeks time he would be going to Buckingham Palace, he could hear his mother singing the nursery rhyme, by A.A. Milne.

They’re changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. Christopher Robin went down with Alice. Alice is marrying one of the guards. “A soldier’s life is terrible hard,” says Alice. They’re changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. Christopher Robin went down with Alice. “Does the King know all about me?” “He’s sure to, dear, but it’s time for tea,” says Alice.

Their third child was a healthy boy. A brother for their two daughters.

Even Keith attended the communion service. Nothing could interfere with his life now; he had everything one could wish for. A paradise on earth. His son was christened Christopher – there had to be some reference to his youth idol, Christopher Wren.

The children’s nanny came from France, the cleaners from Ireland and 46

the gardener from his mother – in – law. Sir Keith and Lady Marshall were the dream couple for miles around. When his photo was in the newspaper, he couldn’t help but wonder if any family from the past would recognize his name. Would any of his relatives try and get in touch?

‘He was afraid, wasn’t he?’ said the young man, ‘But afraid of what?

What could they do to him?’

‘He tried to escape from his family, but he couldn’t. You can’t divorce your family, you can’t move on. Even if you keep them out of sight, they are still there to remind you. They are like alternative versions of you.’

‘So you should have had their successes, could still copy their failures?’

‘Just so. And you will come to see why.’

Plans for Christopher It was a Saturday afternoon, Keith was taking his son to a little friend’s birthday party. They both loved stroking and walking the animals at Springfields.

The two boys went to the same school together. Same colour bikes. Both excellent little drawers, they often came home with their own little plans, their architectural designs.

It was cold, the winter was closing in. Keith felt tired, uneasy, “must take a holiday,” he told himself. “Must stop smoking, I cough too much.”

“I’m not old enough to lose my energy.” He realized that he had constantly been cancelling his regular weekly game of tennis. He no longer went cycling with his family. There was always an excuse to say no. He was tired.

He needed a rest. He was too young to retire. He had so many plans.

Christopher would grow up and come into the company. He and his sisters would build on Springfields. Perhaps they could set up a fund for the needy.

“I’ll ask Paul, my driver to fetch Christopher this evening, he won’t mind, I’m sure. I know its Saturday, he should be at home with his family, but it won’t take long,” he told himself. “I’ll phone to say the drivers on his 47

way.”

Christopher stood ready waiting for the car to arrive. Said his goodbyes, and thanked his friend’s parents for having him.

It was dark, no stars, no moon, the sky was black. Christopher sat in the front of the car chatting to the driver, telling him about the games and prizes, at the party.

“I never win a prize,” the young boy said, “not that it matters, my two sisters always let me win, so you see I’m not complaining.” “Look out,” he screamed “it’s a wild boar. We’ll hit it.”

The clash of the animal and the car was heard for miles around. The police, could not define the exact details. Evidence showed that the car had turned over twice, and ended in a long forgotten deep trench. The traffic police, ambulances, fire engines filled the lane with their blinding search lights.

No one knew who was in car, whose car it was. Could they still be alive, or was all hope gone?

The trench was deep. With a rope and immense experience two men from the fire brigade make their way down to the wreck. “We’ll never get them out of here mate, a crane will have to bring this load up, try and remember the number plate, the police can check whose car it is.

I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes tonight. By the look of the car, what’s left of it, we’re not dealing with some poor bugger. This is the rich, this is cameras and press work.”

The police warned the families and drove them to the lugubrious scene.

They were all stiff from fear. No one knowing what to expect. Were their loved ones still alive? Could there still be hope?

It took the fire brigade with help from a crane, rushed in from a nearby village, forty minutes to get the wreck up and on to the side of the road.

48

The officer, in charge, told his corporal to keep the family back, “keep them in the cars” he said, “until we’ve got what’s left of them in the ambulances.

There is a young boy, we’ve got to saw him out. Don’t like the look of it. The father might still be breathing. God, what a night. Why does this always happen when there’s not a star in sky and by jove it’s always on a Saturday night.”

The ambulances were standing, roof light swirling, engines still running both ready to rush, two more victims of an unforeseen disaster to the nearest hospital.

The officer himself approached the families, informed them in a few correct unemotional words. – That their loved ones were now in the ambulance, if they would now take their seats, there was room for two in each vehicle.

The officer looked straight at Keith – “I’m sorry Sir, I feel I should warn you it doesn’t look good.” “A doctor has just arrived, Sir, he’ll accompany you all to the hospital, Christopher never reached the hospital, the driver, the man everyone thought was his father regained life.” He couldn’t work any more but the earth still remained his place of dwelling.

Marjory Marshall took over the fold. She organized the funeral, she kept her family together, she moved and spoke in a fashion unknown to her parents and friends. She was obliged to.

Her husband had disappeared, literally vanished from the earth. He walked out of the family as if he had never known its name, never seen them, never touched or spoken to them. No one could find him. The newspapers loved it – Sir Keith missing – police checked the airports – two detectives were hired – there were signs of him being seen in Scotland – London Bridge – on a bench outside St. Paul’s.

Keith Marshall became not only an Icon in the world of architecture, 49

but also to the man on the street. Two months passed – three – five – Anne longed to have her invective showdown with Rupert. To accuse him again for bringing this intellect into the family, causing the sorrow and heartbreaking sadness, circling around her loved ones. How could any sane man disappear from the face of the earth and leave so much sadness, youth, beauty and love behind him?

Easter Eggs were already on display, Marjory did her best to teach the girls how to make them. She made every attempt possible to hide her sadness. Christopher’s room was open to anyone who wanted to poke around.

There were a few photos of him in the lounge, next to one of Keith behind his desk at work. She always went alone to her son’s grave. She would talk to him and leave pretty flowers behind, often a collection she had picked from her mother’s garden. Keith’s office phoned regularly. She knew their concern was genuine.

They too had constructed innumerable plans, to attract Keith’s attention.

No one believed that he was dead.

Rupert was the one with the doubts. He remembered the death of the mother. I’ll believe it when I see him he told Henry, both gentlemen were now too old for this sort of emotional drama.

Breakfast on Good Friday was traditional. Hot Cross buns. Lots of currents, all sliced and spread with butter. This was the day of tragedy, but it was also meant to be the beginning of new hope. Marjory and her two daughters tried to concentrate their minds on the Easter story, but the girls found it hard to be happy. If Christopher was no longer with them, why did their father have to desert them?

The dogs began to bark. they were scratching the door that was still locked, to get out. “Girls” Marjory called, “we’ve forgotten the dogs this morning, quick open the latch, the poor dears must be desperate.”

The dogs were indeed frantic. Far in the distance they had smelt the presence of someone they knew, someone who made them feel special, 50

someone they had been longing for. There was no calling them back.

It was a fresh spring day, with fluffy clouds in a pale blue sky. The ground was soft and springy, the grass was very green and the slight breeze brought the scents of moist earth and growing things. But the dogs could smell something else too: the smell of his clothes.

They chased across the field, through the gate and over the meadow beyond, down to the lake, all the while barking the song that dogs love to sing when they are exhilarated, when they find what they have been looking for. They knocked him down. Licked his dirty face clean. Rushed backwards and forwards, bursting with excitement.

The man was so thin, his clothes were hanging off him. He patted them, fondled them, looking shabby, neglected, tired and older than his years – until at last he smiled and started to follow the dogs back home.

“Mother,” the girls screamed, “there’s a man with the dogs.”

“Mummy,” the youngest yelled, “it’s my Daddy – it is, I know it is.”

Six legs, of different lengths and ages, rushed yelling and screaming towards the group. Marjory had to stop running, she was choking, all she could think of was the return of Joseph, he of the coat of many colours. This was her love, her belief in destiny, stumbling towards her, he was a child longing for safety, and protection.

Tears and sadness, tears and pleasure – the remaining Marshall’s were reunited. There was not much explanation that a very sick Keith could give them.

“My darlings, I travelled everywhere trying to find him, I was so desperate to find my son. I couldn’t believe that someone had taken him from me. I couldn’t believe I would never see him, or hear his beautiful voice again.

In the end I could not go on without you. The absence of you all led me back to our home. Please forgive me, I had no control over my emotions. I promise you all, for as long as it takes, I’ll make this period in your lives disappear. Forgive me, for I knew not what I did.”

Keith Marshall never returned to his company, he never designed 51

another block of cement and concrete. The rest of his life was spent out of the public eye, helping the poor, the youth, and the aged. An allowance was placed in trust for Paul his driver. He visited the family regularly. They wanted for nothing.

His wealth went to institutions of which he and Marjory were active members. He was approached by committees of the great and the good, chancellors of universities, organizers of international conferences to participate in their programmes. The answer was always no. Society had seen the last of Sir Keith Marshall, his final goal was to help humanity and to follow the teachings he had so long denied.

52

The shadow of the Marshalls ‘I knew Keith,’ said the little lady. ‘He didn’t inherit some of the Marshall family’s worst weaknesses: he didn’t drink alcohol, he wasn’t dishonest and he had too much self-respect to indulge himself in vulgarity or excess. Even his weaknesses – sex, cigars, an occasional bet on the dogs or the horses – were enjoyed in moderation. His vices were even less obvious. He was driven by his emotions, obsessed in fact. What looked like self-discipline was in reality a determination to control every aspect of his life.

‘After Christopher’s death he was a changed man, devoted to the good of humanity – but for him humanity did not include the Marshall family.

For a while he emerged from their shadow, but it wasn’t easy to stay in the sunlight. In the evening of his life, the shadow lengthened and swallowed him up. He made sure he never saw or heard from his father again, and he didn’t reply to the one brother who wrote a card to express condolences on the death of Christopher.

‘This was Luke, the most ambitious of the brothers. You might think that would give him and Keith something in common, but Luke lost all interest in him when Keith went to the seminary. The more the parish admired the priest-to-be, the less Luke wanted to know. When his younger brother went to university, Luke saw this as one more sign that Keith thought himself a cut above the rest of them. When his brother became a successful architect, Luke wanted nothing to do with this lah-di-dah. He considered Keith had turned his back on the family.

‘Luke set up a garage restoring old Ford rally cars. The business went well, even better than the cars for a while. He picked up a lot of customers in pubs, where he also developed a taste for strong drink and fast women.

Luke was a younger version of his father, so naturally he married his mother. His wife became more and more devout, but she put up with his nasty habits until the abuse became too much, and the housekeeping money too little, to bear.

‘She left him, taking her young son with her. Luke’s customers began to complain about slapdash work and missed deadlines; within two years, the business went the same way as his marriage. His wife had to live with the 53

scandal and poverty, but she accepted it as the cross she had to bear. She was devoted to her charming, wayward, successful son, Martin, and went out to work as a cleaner to keep him in clothes and pocket money.

‘Sister Pearl was strongly advised by her father confessor to cut her family ties. She lost touch with Nellie and never saw her daughter Beth again. Her mother superior made sure Pearl never forgot why she was in the convent. That one night of pleasure overshadowed the rest of her life.

‘Bettie grew up in an orphanage, learning to fend for herself but yearning for some colour and excitement. She found it one night, in just the same way as her mother, and she too spent her life regretting it. Her daughter in turn, never having known family life either, did not miss it; but her family was part of her all the same.

‘Bettie’s daughter inherited several of the Marshall traits. She was a chancer, she believed in enjoying the good things in life, she took what she could get and she wasn’t going to be content for long to work at the mill like the other girls. She didn’t care for routine or restraint or responsibility. She liked men, she liked fun, she liked excitement. Above all, she loved colour – especially bright colours. Her whole life was colourful.’

54

2 Scarlet threads Red light The lights exploded. It was poor Scarlet’s usual daily luck. It seemed her car never approached a traffic light without it suddenly flashing to red, but often she did not react to it. She was used to seeing red, in the reflection of her own glamorous red lipstick and nail varnish, in her clothes and the paintwork of her car.

She had lost count of the times she had been utterly disgusted to receive a fine for driving through a red light. To her, red didn’t signify danger. It meant fun, living life to the full. Red was her colour, so why couldn’t they all leave her alone? No-one was in danger. She was just in a hurry – nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong at all.

Scarlet loved cars. As a child she had spent hours on the bumper cars.

She loved the excitement, the uncertainty, the challenge of pitting herself against everyone else. Their bright colours, the lights, the eccentric designs decorating the local fairgrounds were a mixture of magic and inspiration throughout her childhood.

The complete opposite to the repulsive car park which had sheltered her car for the past two years. There is nothing, but nothing, more depressing than an underground car park. What a dump, she told herself. What a way to start one’s day.

Its damp walls were desperate for a coat of paint. Its pedestrian walkway signs had a history of indecision, so you never quite knew whether to turn right or left for the exit. When you met another, unknown parker, the lighting made you wonder if they (and presumably you) were heading for leukaemia. Finally, the stench of urine pervading the air, the mist of human vulgarity, was the only inspiring thing in the place, inspiring her to escape as fast as her legs or her wheels could take her.

Why couldn’t someone place a bomb in it? Just a tiny, weenie one?

Nothing big or monstrous. An alarm clock full of fireworks. Punish all the arrogant males who park their cars on my pre-paid spot. Hang a device on the back of each car. If it didn’t mean spoiling my shiny red fingernails, I 55

would reward them with a puncture in all four tyres.

No, Scarlet decided that prize war had ended years ago. Something original must happen. An incident that could change her life and the lives of all the folks around her. An operation, well planned, meaningful, something with a beginning and an end, following a line – however crooked – from poverty to riches. Something beautiful must originate from this space of fear and darkness.

Although she was greedy for it, nothing exciting or beautiful had ever come out of Scarlet’s life so far. She could recognize good taste – indeed, she could recognize artistry: her knowledge of art was considerable. The odd paintbrush and their minor collection of oils were her favourite hobby tools and yet the accomplishment of reuniting her ability to care and protect, never seemed to present itself.

‘Take no thought for the morrow’ Perhaps it was the last few lines in the book she was reading, lines that had settled themselves in her mind before falling asleep, alone in her bed, lines that would inspire any lonely young woman.

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is …” – but for the life of her she couldn’t remember that last word, so she decided to invent the word she liked the most – “… a gift, of course! It’s a gift, that’s it,” she whispered, “That’s it, that’s why it’s called a present.”

She wanted presents; she lived in the present. Like the lily of the field, though a lot more colourful, she took no thought for the morrow. She simply seized what was within reach.

Scarlet had no father, and she had her doubts whether she had a grandfather. Contact with the mother was scarce. Only twice a year, Christmas and her Birthday. The mother had caused her, as a child, too much pain.

The kids, at the Catholic school she attended, knew she had no father.

Her clothes were a mockery: outworn, outgrown, out of fashion. School was grey and unwelcoming. So she went where she could create a world that suited her better. Police would find her in the woods.

56

She didn’t want them to find her. She wanted to fly to the land of make believe, where she could paint and draw her red houses for days on end.

Squirrels were fun to talk to, and berries were lovely to eat. Forbidden fruit was best.

She was a typical ‘bull’ – she loved starting and preparing little projects, but she never got round to finishing them. Half a painting here, half a romance there, then she would lose interest.

As a teenager she enjoyed playing with the male, she loved teasing him, but she wasn’t interested in boys. They were single, available – where was the fun in that? Only when she saw the wedding ring on his finger would her hormones start to boil and flirtation get into gear.

Family life never entered her mind. Why should it? She had never sat with her family by a cosy fireside, never watched the flames, never grown to love the ornaments on the mantelpiece. But then if she had had a family, they would probably have been arguing themselves sick. Even when their mouths were filled with grub, they would be asking themselves where the next coin and the next meal would come from.

She left the local school and went to work in the woollen mill. She loved the wonderful colours of the yarns. She regularly pushed herself forward.

Regardless of whether they wanted to hear what she had to say or not, she gave her comments on the mill’s seasonal collections. At first no one listened. “Don’t poke your nose in” was the usual irritated response, but after a year or two they all began to sit up.

Everyone working in the mill received an end-of-year wool ‘bonus’.

Each year Scarlet used hers for knitting patch squares. She used these for what she called wool paintings. She could produce a horse or a house made entirely from patchwork. Her first unexpected commission came from old Nic’s secretary. Nic Flack had been the owner of the mill for the last thirty years.

Madame secretary asked Scarlet to produce a wool painting for the entrance, the reception area. It was the talk of the mill. No one had ever 57

dared to ask old Nic for a favour, but Scarlet did – except she didn’t see it as a favour at all.

“How much?” she asked, “I ain’t doing it for nothing – money on the table and not before.”

Scarlet and her wool painting developed the charitable hormones in old Nic. He liked to feel he was going about doing good. He also felt a little bit of fluff on the side wouldn’t hurt. No one had to know. Maggie, his secretary, his right hand, had lost interest and wouldn’t last for ever. Sex was becoming a thing of the past.

Visitors to the mill wanted to meet the artist who had produced the wool painting. Big Bugs, as Scarlet would call them. They think they know it all, all of ’em too big for their boots. Not one of ’em knows anything. They wouldn’t know even how to start a weaving machine, let alone mend it.

Tricks of the trade The very evening after one of these big bugs had commissioned a wool painting from her, Scarlet and her friend Tipsy decided they would go into business with the wool paintings as the sole commodity.

The mill could supply the wool, all free of charge. The mill’s name would be mentioned on the board. Scarlet would be the creative side and Tipsy would run the sales side.

“If old Nic doesn’t help me,” said Scarlet, “then all I’ll have to do is give him a little tickle where he needs it and – mark my words, Tip – he’ll be tapdancing round the work floor like a young boy in training. We’ll remain working full time for the first 6 months; in the evenings we’ll work on our collection. Then we’ll tell old Nic we’re going to work for 20 hours a week, leaving us sufficient time to research the market.”

“To what the market?” Tip asked, “No swanky words in my sales book please, Scarlet. I’ve promised to help you, but remember: we’re still two mill girls, not big bugs from upstairs.”

Two in a company can be a successful choice. If one of the two remains slightly dumb, then progress has a chance. Three is always a disaster! The Scarlet–Tip coalition was perfect. Scarlet did the thinking, Tip was the 58

chaser. She didn’t know what it was to walk, she always had to chase. Did she think before she chased? – No! This immensely weak habit of Tip’s gave Scarlet the opportunity to always be in the front line. A chance to apologize for Tip’s mistakes. An opportunity to reveal her intelligence and manipulate the customer.

Regularly she would leave the meeting with an additional order. So often someone in the family was dying, marrying or giving birth.

Scarlet always managed, with her indescribable personality, to crack people’s resistance and get extra work. The way she described her intended designs brought tears to the customer’s eyes. She could have sold designer coffins as if they were powder boxes. Red outside and pink in. She was a gorgeous, brilliant female clown, who loved everyone – on condition they didn’t get too far into her system, money was available and her talent acknowledged. Scarlet had to be in the foreground constantly.

She was also a nasty, angry little loser who demanded the utmost, not only from herself, but from all around her. She was quick to adopt the ‘buy low, sell high’ hype formula. You didn’t trick her, she tricked you!

Her first visit to art galleries in the capital, ending with a flying visit to a gift exhibition, gave her a feeling of being in business. If colours and packaging could reach such levels, then the future could only be gifted with adoration for her talents.

Patchwork was only a beginning – how many companies could use advice on colour schemes, pilot stores, demo houses. Fashion houses? – NO – too many women around. Scarlet wanted men, not females! She knew how to sell herself to men.

Together with Tip she compiled a couple of colour scheme books. Both books most original, but neither was gifted with professional presentation.

“We should call on construction companies, Tip, old-fashioned companies who have no idea how to use or combine colours, have no idea of the colour fashion around them. There’s a market there, Tip. I haven’t the foggiest idea how to tackle it, but I know damn well I can convince some ignorant jerk, whose tie looks like a gift inherited from his grandfather, that his company will grow if they take my advice and use the right colouring.”

59

Walls, lighting, tiles – Scarlet fell over her own words. She was breathless with enthusiasm.

“We’ve found it Tip. There’s no going back. Say something for heaven’s sake! What’s the matter, woman, don’t you want to be rich?”

Tip wanted to go home. Scarlet and her daydreams! They were worse than the cats living in her home. Like Scarlet, they dreamed every night of a new adventure, and they too disappeared until the morning rise.

Scarlet was still a mill girl, though she was becoming a wool expert. But she knew nothing about construction companies. What their goals were, their influence in the world of design or indeed anything else.

“You’ve got to try everything once,” she told herself, “A silly hat always gives you confidence, red nails, red shoes, then you can’t go wrong.”

Her first meeting was her last. The hat never left her head. Her red shoes were the biggest eye-catcher ever. The company’s naïve young advertising employee hadn’t a clue what Scarlet was rattling on about. It was non-stop humbug for at least thirty-five minutes.

“Now I do realize” said Scarlet, “you do not use wool in this business: your knowledge is restricted to paints. But my guess is you have no idea how to mix them, and of course you would never think of experimenting with them.”

The poor fellow didn’t dare to say Yes or No. He literally sat there with his mouth open, desperate for someone to walk in and take over.

His boss, thank God, made his daily ‘good morning’ entrance, a mug of coffee still in his hand. “Everything okay here, Peter? I’m off for the whole day, so you can tell me what you’re up to tomorrow before I leave.”

Harry introduced himself to the beautiful Scarlet. “I’ll hear from Peter, tomorrow, why you’re here. Have no fear: if you have something truly good to offer, we’ll get in touch, if not this week, then the next.”

Harry Benson falls for it Although he had been for years a successful business man, Harry Benson had never forgotten what it was like to be at the bottom of the ladder. In his mind the creation in the red shoes and red hat accompanied 60

him to his car. It travelled down beautiful lanes with him, shared sips of beer at lunch. The wretched hat in fact refused to leave his mind for one second. He felt like buying a hat himself, putting it on his head in the hope that he could think of something more constructive, slightly more masculine and less time consuming.

“What was that all about, Peter?” Harry asked the following morning.

“Have we got ourselves into the fashion business? Confectionery, jelly babies? Or are we being manipulated to purchase Christmas cards for countries that have no idea of the meaning of the festival? With an elaborate hat like that, nothing would surprise me.”

A good sport would have mentioned that the eccentric hat had been at the top of his mind his entire previous day – but not Harry. Men like Harry Benson never showed their true emotions. Wife, son, church, business: these were his total world. He couldn’t allow a fluffy piece of material perched on a pretty head to interfere with his emotions.

It took three months before Harry Benson allowed Scarlet to return with her primitive, yet exciting presentation. She took Tip along with her. “Let them see I’ve got my own staff,” she told herself. “Let them observe that we, Tip and I, mean business.” Not once during the meeting did she mention what she could do; she kept solely to her version of all the things they couldn’t do. Her words were precise, well practised. But her eyes told them that she would take their clothes off … not they hers!

Harry B. fell for it. “They’ve both got guts,” he told himself. The company could do with a bit of colour. The mill girls needed no further calls to potential customers. Perhaps Harry felt more at ease, a little safer in his mind now that he was confronted by two madams and not just one sexy enough to turn his entire male staff off their heads. All the staff – including Harry’s son, Ivor – wanted them around. Scarlet and Tip would brighten up the place. Take the darkness of the stones away.

The idea thrown around was to give them both the chance to produce their own magazine. Scarlet could be the adviser for domestic channels. Tip could be in charge of photography. Basically, it was a load of utter nonsense.

A construction company employing two mill girls to produce a company 61

magazine and colour advice?

At least one person at the mill could see that the girls’ initial ignorance on various subjects would cost the company a fortune, but if Harry B. wanted to make a fool of himself for once in his life, so be it.

Was Scarlet a social misfit? No one could place her. She was an enchanting mystery. Wasn’t she just a jumped-up mill girl? But how come she had such style, such confidence, such amazing clothes? How did she know so much about art? Where did she get her ideas? Was she from a good family fallen on hard times? Her true background remained a secret.

Meanwhile, she exhausted colleagues, constantly asking for their help, but her eccentric dress style was always the winning card. As for Tip, she just plodded along behind. The more Tip plodded, the popular Scarlet became.

They stole their ideas from out of date home style magazines. Trendy photos. Scarlet knew how to rearrange the layouts. She was sufficiently creative to launch new ideas, interesting nonsense that no “right in his mind soul” would ever think of, and Tip would spend all night stealing texts which were or could be relevant to the subjects chosen.

One could say they were colourful design thieves, who played on the ignorance and human kindness of the company bods around them. Two little darlings, who had access to most of the company’s departments.

Two little crooks who charmed themselves into the achievement of four magazines per year.

They were allowed to maintain their little wool-picture company. Their argument was that it gave them inspiration, that it was a source for future expansion – though how they got away with the sheer nonsense remained a question in the minds of more than one employee of Harry B. Harry secretly admired their drive, and in Scarlet he thought he saw someone who had the makings of a leader, someone who could take decisions at executive level. At this point Harry would have a laugh and add to his thoughts a final note: ‘But not in finance!’

After three years Tip left Harry Benson’s company and at the same time she gave Scarlet her half of their little wool company. She no longer appreciated the talents of Scarlet. Her friend was no longer the young mill 62

pal she had laughed and sung with for so many hours. One day it came to Tip with a shock that Scarlet had all along been a schemer, sly, amoral and destructive.

Tip wanted a life of modest comfort, with a husband whose eyes she could look straight into, not the chance of wealth or nothing, with a friend she could never be sure of. Still less did she want a day-and-night act of deceit, time filled with lies to cover the truth. In fact Scarlet didn’t know what the truth was any more.

She enjoyed her whisky and her well-stocked bank accounts. “Sod the home fires, Tip!” Scarlet would shout. “You go off, Tip, and marry some idiot with smelly socks – and one day I’ll meet my special Mr Crooked. The time will come when I’ll help someone break the law. It’s excitement, Tip, that keeps me alive. I have no family to love me,” Scarlet continued. “This is my family. Mr. B and his merry circus, they all inspire my will to live.”

Scarlet lowered her voice “Promise me Tip we’ll always stay friends.

I’ll always take care of you should misfortune come your way. I may have gambled with our ignorant lives, Tip, but at least we both know now what life is made of, we know there are paths to choose from, hats to be worn and colours to play with.”

Scarlet with her dainty old-fashioned handkerchiefs, always in her handbag. They had the initials ‘N.M’ embroidered on them, though she never knew exactly where they came from. She suspected ‘N.M’ was a great-aunt called Nellie, a sister of her grandmother who used to knit and embroider for everyone. Both ladies were way above the clouds long before Scarlet’s feet touched the ground – in other words, long dead before she was born.

She did suspect that the ‘M’ family had frequently caused commotion, but they were the only family she had – at least, the only family she knew of. When she was old and retired, she promised herself she would spend time looking into the history of the family and of the dainty needlework that accompanied her, perhaps not ostentatiously but at the least constantly.

Scarlet had never found true happiness, but how could she? There had never been anyone who had shown her any real depth of love and loyalty.

63

In any case, she was looking for excitement, thrills and pleasure. The nearest she got to happiness was when she was fooling people, making them dance to her tune.

Just then the wise old lady broke off to cough and sip her drink. She gave me a knowing look.

‘To quote the bard, “Oh what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive” – but if you think this is getting tangled, just wait and see how much worse it gets. If you’re bright enough, young man, you’ll catch on to the links in all this’.

I remember being amused when she called me ‘young man’. It’s been a while since anyone called me that. I suppose it’s all relative. She would say ‘No, it’s all relatives’.

Once a prat, always a prat Now son Martin should have been a producer of beds. Beds with excellent springs. Beds furnished with hot chocolate and pints of milk. One couldn’t call Martin a drinker. He wasn’t going to make that mistake. He’d heard too many stories from the past about his relatives.

Prats - all of them prats. Once a prat, always a prat, was Martin’s saying.

No way was any domestic vice, an alcoholic gene, a poverty life style originating from his family, going to creep its way into his system.

Our Martin wanted only the best – clothes, shoes, flashy cars, women too as long as they were not too bright. Those who automatically responded to male compliments. He’d always choose the one’s who shed their clothes long before he had any chance to admire their intelligence.

His ultimate goal was a bank account in Switzerland. Jersey had its charm, but no: Switzerland definitely took the cake. His family had never been outside the country.

Someones Gran had a cuckoo clock hanging on the wall in the parlour and the story goes, her second husband, poor sod, thought he could yodel, 64

the first note came out after 10 pints or was it 6 and his feet began to explode once the vocal chords had reached the applause from the bunch of prats munching chips with a flavour of cheese. Bacon never went down with a yodel; it had to be cheese.

God almighty, where did they get the nonsense from? None of them had any brains or self esteem. It must have been the happiest day of the poor woman’s life when her second bundle of ignorance left the planet.

Poor bunch of buggers, the lot of ‘em, Martin used to whisper to himself.

A1l boils down to the church and the way it used to enjoy strangling anyone who would fall for the nonsense. Kept ‘em in line it did. A breeding machine was my poor old Gran. Poor old dear, she died long before anyone even thought of me. *** No man or institution is ever going to dictate to my conscience. This handsome prat is going to conquer society. You and I, Mr. Mirror, are soul mates for ever. There’s just you and me old pal, and that’s the way it’s going to stay!

Martin loved talking to himself in the mirror. He was extremely handsome to look at. Dark hair, almost black brown-green eyes. Eyelashes stolen from a movie star. Skin? The cosmetic world would scramble up a nickname, somewhere in the regions of olive brown.

An immensely interesting packet, was our Martin. Who was he?

Where did he originate from? A slight smell of a rich background, perhaps three or four generations ago. In a nutshell, Martin had all the ingredients necessary to camouflage his prattish background, and that was what he aimed to do.

The mirror in the bathroom and the one hanging on the wall in his Mums bedroom were his partners in crime. They never objected to his 65

facial circus performances.

He exercised his means of expression; eyes up; eyes down. He had read somewhere that one should talk with their lips and not from the throat.

One should look at one when conversing and not at their personal jewellery.

Martin knew what he didn’t want: he didn’t want to be a prat. The word prat was so demeaning and no way was he going to retain the social prat passport. He compiled a list of life style rules. A personal education note book. A reminder of what to do and what not. *** For example you can’t be in two places at the same time. Why the mirror had to listen constantly to his created rules and regulations one will never know. All somewhat bizarre.

No drinking. Look at all times where the cars are shining, well polished.

Watch who’s the easy customer at the grocers. The gent who never asks the price at the butchers?

No distraction from women. Just use ’em, they love it. Remember, old chap, at all times: one idea, one emotion. Emotions cost energy.

There was nothing in his self made rules that would have impressed any normal citizen.

Poor Uncle Keith was always on his mind; the only intellect of the family had died too young. His profession was never crystal clear to Martin. He was a good man, wealthy as well as successful, yet his life had been a disaster. Why? Martin asked himself so often. Why so much unpredictable sadness?

He wanted his famous Uncle out of his mind. He told himself he owed the World nothing. No one is born a prat. Our surroundings, the world and everyone in it, drag us down to this god-forsaken level. Martin wanted to 66

start afresh, create his own world and have complete control over his own emotions. If someone refused to like him, then they had a problem, not him.

The mirror kept quiet. Response was nil. It didn’t shake, it didn’t glow.

The speaker’s breath left a circle of pale blue mist precisely in the centre of the cheap, tired old glass.

Martin felt a certain ownership towards his glass tool. He could rub it, clean it with his dirty hanky, thus deleting his future wishes, but let’s be reasonable, why not leave his fierce and passionate dreams in the care of his own reflection? No contradiction. No one to tell him he was a self-righteous prick.

Life was going to be great. He gave himself one of his favourite winks.

He showed the mirror for the last time the smile the world could expect, and saluted goodnight to himself. With a feeling of divine satisfaction he made his way to the kitchen. “Mum have you got a mug of warm chocolate for me? You know me – me old darling – can’t sleep without me chocolate – not too hot – and no skin on the top”. *** If it meant working all hours of the day, he and his mirror would reach the ultimate height of human desire. The community would look up to him.

His Uncle Keith was no prat.

His Uncle Keith knew what he wanted. He always wanted to eat a good lamb chop, even if from a wooden bench, like the last supper described in the bible, so why not he? The family had always found Keith’s obsession with Leonardo’s creation stupid and mentally misinformed. It didn’t bring him much luck or, if it did, it certainly didn’t last very long.

Now if there had been a half naked woman floating around, a crate of beer secretly tucked away under the table - not forgetting a sign post announcing the breweries’ opening and closing times - then that last 67

supper for 12 would have remained God’s personal gift to mankind, if not to mankind then at least to the Marshalls’ neighbourhood.

The mirror gave Martin self-confidence – that was essential. Ideas he could find anywhere – TV stars (his idols) showed him how to wear a tie. when and where to keep the shirt buttoned, how to match colours.

His knowledge of women was extracted from the odd journal, usually found lying around in the doctor’s surgery, or from repulsive chalk marks left to read on the walls of the men’s public lavs.

What applied to his longing, remained glued in his memory, his favourite quote being – ‘the great ambition of women is to inspire love!’

He didn’t feel at ease with the word “inspire” it made him think of Mum’s Sunday roast. Love?

He loved his Mum. It was she after all, who washed and starched his collars. She who made sure he got up on time. She was always there for him. Listening to his dreams and never letting on the times she had seen him chatting to the mirror.

The girlfriends, the ones oh so willing to let him explore their anatomy, was that love? ‘Can’t be’, he told himself – impossible. ‘l wouldn’t give any of ‘em even a toffee apple’, maybe not even a toffee - they can have the toffee papers - I suck the toffees, savour their sweetness in my mouth, until it’s all gone - end of story. In any case, I’ve got Mum. I don’t need another woman.

She stopped and turned to look at me. Her eyes were bright, but they were also very piercing.

‘Well, young man, that’s what he thought, but he was fooling himself.

He told himself what he wanted to hear. I expect you’ve done it too, haven’t you? A wife? Fine. A bit on the side? Fine. An equal, a partner? Forget it. No room for anyone else.

‘But we all need people. You need people. What would you be without your wife and children? Half a man. I need people. What would I be without you? A mad old woman talking to herself!’

68

She laughed a deep, melodious laugh, but I felt she had seen right through me already. On the surface I look pretty good – successful, smooth, even glossy I like to think – but she wasn’t interested in surface. She was interested in me because, I suppose, she saw I wanted to go deeper than that. I got worried then, because the spotlight was suddenly on me, but for the time being she went back to her story. *** Martin’s path to the top was obstructed by several junior managers – sleek, smooth, expensively dressed. Harry Benson aimed to recruit the highest of high fliers for his international construction company. Icarus might have got a job there. Martin liked to think he had his feet on the ground – the moral low ground. He could sneer better from there.

It was more difficult to look down on the senior staff, but he repeatedly wanted to murmur ‘what a bunch of prats’. However, the fact that they all came from an upper class background, allowed them to approach society and their employer’s trust in a fashion that was way above his comprehension.

In actual fact the distance between the two levels of prats were extremely marginal, almost non existent - it’s the surroundings, Martin assured himself –it has nothing to do with their brains - Inferior prats are wrapped in cheap cloths and damp shuddering accommodation - the posh prats purchase deodorants and walk on floor heating.

Nonetheless, his assurance and confidence increased by the week. He taught himself to listen, observe and digest every trade manual available.

Never Say No, he would frequently whisper to himself in the corridors.

Long huge tunnels that made any corridor look like a war bunker.

Just say “yes” before they even think of asking. He longed to hear that someone had passed on, funeral news. Passing on meant a step forward for someone to gain.

69

Martin was his own personal trainer. The mirror and its reflection spent many enjoyable hours reorganizing the company. Every department from the canteen upwards was turned inside out. Every square metre was evaluated.

There was only one chap in that entire company who he refused not to label as being a prat and that was dear Martin himself.

He was the future President of the International concern. I’m going to be the governor. No fat belly for me - no prats who forget that sickness is a sin. *** 1’ll pay ‘em all well - they’ll have nothing to complain about - I’ll hang ‘em if they steal and God help ‘em if they pile their plates up with food in the canteen and then decide to throw half of it away. If mirrors could chuckle and respond after digesting a dialogue - in this case the colourful fantasy of junior Martin, then one would inevitably hear the noise of a guttural raspberry and pigs singing - oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. Close the door dear Martin - fortune aint coming your way!

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the finest of them all? There was only ever one answer from Martin’s mirror. Day by day, month by month, his confidence grew - he enjoyed cheating the mirror - he loved having pity on himself, enjoyed cuddling his childhood and living at night in a new world of sheer fantasy.

Uncle Keith had almost reached the top of the ladder. Uncle Keith was a well educated someone. Everyone looked up to him. Confided in him.

Accepted his rules of life. Everyone in the family prayed to God but in reality everyone spoke in their prayers to Uncle Keith.

Nowhere could Martin read or converse with someone on this family disaster. How could a man of the cloth fall for the charms of some woman, 70

however seductive, and what’s more give her children? He could have, Martin repeated over and over again to himself, had any of ’em for the taking.

He could only guess what had happened. The church and sex were both right up his street, so his self made version was dramatic – melodramatic, even. The actual truth was of less importance.

There were times when he almost vomited at the mere thought of giving up ones dream just to be able to share a bed, giving up ones goal in life for the world of two foot five. Sex was a habit, an addiction. The world of two foot five, was in Martin’s encyclopedia, a circus open to every breathing soul.

Love was different. Love was a pedestal, an image, comfort in surroundings and expressing safety. Love was what he craved. A being that would survive through all walks of life and disasters.

Did he believe his thoughts or had he read such nonsense in a collection of Chinese cookie wrappings?

Whatever, the two aspects of life have no unity. Martin wanted a safe architectural journey - one goal - one emotion. *** Friends – Martin never had any. The only male friend Martin ever had, was a young chappie called Ivor. So what did he see in him? Appearance and culture? Unquestionably! From the outside, Ivor had it all. Certainly he had the things that Martin lacked – and Martin knew it.

In his turn, Ivor admired Martin – though mostly from afar. From Martin, his flamboyant friend, he longed to gain an undivided trust and respect. Martin could at all times call upon him for help and spiritual guidance, regardless of the time and place.

Handsome to the core, Ivor wanted for two things only in his life – acceptance in society and a solid family life – but he was aware that Martin thought him lacking in another department as well. Regardless of the romance oozing from his name, from the worlds of art and music, Ivor knew he could never have the unearned success Martin always achieved 71

with the females.

Ivor had inherited good breeding and a deep affection for the family around him. Not too ostentatious – no reason for rivalry or domestic disturbances. A life that created respect and modesty for generations to come.

He was aware of the chip on the shoulder of his close friend. He could never persuade Martin to talk about it. His modesty warned him how far his inquisitive searching should intrude. Ivor knew that, patience being a virtue, he would some day discover the skeletons hidden deep in Martin’s daily lifestyle.

He had never been allowed to visit Martin’s lodgings. He knew that a Mother existed; he knew that somewhere in the background one could smell the catholic faith. But his friend’s lodgings were taboo for one and all.

Martin’s Mum must love him, he told himself. She must do, how otherwise would his friend’s shirts look so grand and his shoes an eye catcher. Both looking as if they had just left the shop window!

Martin was now a junior buyer in the International Construction Company belonging to Ivor’s father. Martin never looked at a clock, never wanted to know if it was time to clock off. If he had brought his bed with him, no one would have found it strange or ridiculous.

From day one he was smart, and eager to learn. He never approached his seniors with disrespect. It was at all times, shall we, and never shall I. It never enters the minds of the upper class that one could say ‘we’ and actually mean ‘I’. Martin didn’t miss a trick, not one single item in the book.

He loved every minute of the time spent learning and absorbing every angle open to his greed for success – upgrading, and finally a firm release from his poverty stricken background.

Our dream boy had acquired a temporary new focus on life. Young people so often sense and show their dissatisfaction with the old selling techniques, the old fashion style. They are always searching for something new. A need to shock.

Martin collected every trade journal available. He shocked himself 72

and all those around him by following a course in French. He had a sudden urge to be bilingual. No one around him could speak a second or third language. The thought of being in advance of the rest was simply spectacular.

His greatest thrill was to walk into the office and converse in this divine foreign language. No one understood what on earth he was talking about, but it sounded remarkably managerial. “Would you like to join me on the course?” He asked Ivor – “do you think your talent lies in this direction?”

Ivor was far too polite to mention that he spoke fluent French, most of the time, with his mother. She had taught him the language at a very early age. Not that he had profited from the immense popularity available to such learned young men. You never know, his mother would laugh and say – the day may come when you’re glad you can speak it.

Martin thought the same: you never know when it may come in useful.

Speaking French was also a new way to annoy the competition … make them jealous. What else? A computer… he had to acquire a computer… a computer never denied his thoughts; it guided him down every chapter that came into his mind.

As junior buyer he was in charge of the small tools, Uninteresting items listed on the stock lists as nails, hammers…

He was desperate to steal a few stock sheets… his thoughts were really quite simple. He just wanted to see for himself with the amounts purchased over a period of 3 months. The actual costs. The frequency of purchase, to what extent the material could be stolen. The items which required the highest frequency rate of purchase and lastly the competitive prices.

Naturally there had to be something in this for Martin. Why were the senior buyers always purchasing from the same suppliers, year in year out?

The thought of learning from the shady deals, the wheeling and dealing so attached to the building trade – became a gorgeous miraculous adventure.

In his fantasy he saw himself, all dressed up, leather chair, shining shoes, one leg crossing the other, denial of coffee for fear he should spill the 73

wretched stuff, a cigarette, request for an ashtray.

Heaven it would be! He could of course rehearse his speech, the evaluation sheets would have one purpose and one purpose only, thus the speech should be short and precise.

My computer and I are going to get those bastards out. My task will be to expose ‘em… force them to relinquish their cars…bring ‘em down a peg or two, kids no longer at fancy schools, let’m all go to schools like mine.

As for the women, let’m all work like my poor Mum has done all her life. No more of this never ending whisky and Port. Hot chocolate suits its purpose.

It’s never done me any harm. The thought of skin on the top brought him back to reality. He’d ask Mum about it that very evening. She would know if he had put aside enough to purchase a computer.

He couldn’t wait for his life to speed on… I’m going to make them all trip up, he told the mirror two minutes before getting into bed, a bed divinely warmed thanks to Gran’s old water bottle. If the worst comes to the worst, I can always get my best pal to help me. He was too tired to even remember his name.

Christmas at the door…

Christmas comes but once a year and when it comes it brings good cheer. Martin was never aware of the meaning of cheer. Cheer was an accomplishment, a new item to annoy one’s pal… make them jealous. A mystical world around him that would give him all his desires…

Cheers Martin, he whispered… lots and lots of cheers… we’re going to make it, we’re going to show them what we’re worth.

Every year Christmas meant Company Balls, in every sense, and company balls meant drink, well presented food and loads of unhappy drunken women.

74

Men who thought they were God’s gift to all mankind - talk slurred, but loud and opinionated - ridiculous articulations on subjects containing no meaning – smart dress costumes, parading around. The older the chap, the more hideous the belts and buckles, the older the woman, the more repulsive the bosoms one was forced to admire.

Martin couldn’t wait for this new adventure in his life. As junior buyer he was not only invited, he was expected to take care of some of the preparations. Invitation list - Car parking – cutlery and finally the most important aspect and dear to the heart of us all - the cloakroom and its lav’s.

One could of course remark ‘bit gloomy for my liking’, but for Martin it was a path, a channel, leading him into the private lives of so many employees.

“Blimey”, he said to the mirror - by the time Christmas has gone, I’ll have a private library under my bed. I’ll have enough know-how to take over the whole blooming works. I’ll bet you anything not one of those morons on the guest list is without a history, a sordid past, let alone a cheeky bank account.

Martin was in his seventh heaven. What a future was in store for him.

University, my foot! This was life! This was what all the crap was about.

To watch these little birdies fly around in their secret cages, smell their inner esteem, their hopes and fears, their urge to excel themselves, this in itself was life’s education.

No book or its author could ever reveal life’s inner secrets the way these loudmouths were going to reveal them, without even knowing – caught by loose data, not loose tongues. He could hardly wait for his first glimpse of their horror when they found that their inner secrets had fallen into the wrong hands. Even worse when it had fallen on the surface of a sick mind, tucked away in a package of male charm and sexy wrappings.

75

*** The Christmas penguin time was indeed back. Men looking like Pot Bellies, all overweight in their black and white evening suits. As for Martin’s appearance, one could search endlessly in any Encyclopedia for a correct description. Take it from me, no available words could ever describe Martin’s introduction into the Company’s Society.

We’ll settle for dynamic – young girls giggling – knowing he was completely out of their range. The men, aloof – do I happen to know you Charlie attitude – The women…one night with you darling, is worth a month’s brawl and next Christmas in the doghouse.

An ostentatious message that was oozing from their silly little heads to their toes. He could have asked any female for a check, a loan, cash, and every starved penguin’s wife would have willingly thrown her last coin into a fountain of his choice.

To our Martin it was just too good to be true. At long last he was in the same room as the boss’s wife. He would have to feel his way here.

The book keeper Tommy, who usually looked at him as if he was the Tom Cat from next door, was only two yard’s away. His missus, a woman of sickly attraction – head and shoulders taller and feet that would promote International grass mowers. The idea undoubtedly originated from her hideous green shoes and obscene large feet. Perhaps she was smelling a little grassy? Some woman do have the ambition to bring nature back into their groins, they can’t all be chocolate boxes waiting for the ribbons to be untied. Martin concluded that she must either come from a rich background or better still have the entire estate in her bank accounts.

Martin was quick to spot how the penguins switched their dancing partners. A soft hazy – May I? – was all that was required. He starts with the Boss’s lovely wife … who smelt slightly of garlic and ends with his attractive assistant who had one thing in mind, and that was not to steal his wallet. Neither was it the brand of his after shave.

Scarlet had been watching Martin from day one. She had acquired a specific interest in him.

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The first chair, the first desk, the first evaluation paper, all items had captivated her system.

His posture, the tone in his voice, and finally the obvious love he had for himself. One of these days, Scarlet told herself, I’m going to crack that bastard, bring him down a peg or two. Let him know he’s not God’s gift to women.

On a night when everyone was thinking of social climbing, networking and being seen, Scarlet was sweeping her glamorous outfit over the dance floor. She winked at Martin, but no response. She blew him a kiss, brushed by him and against him.

Finally her patience was exhausted. She didn’t ask, she didn’t beg, she literally walked over to him, put her left hand in his and murmured “you see that door over there? Good, open it, walk through and wait for me.

Don’t say a word, just do it.”

The lady in question prepared Martin’s first sexual experience in utter dignity – all the young pupil had to do was watch and perform. He was a lamb at the slaughter.

The mirror that night had to hear about the catering – the penguins and their attitude to the ranks – and finally his memory stored with sexual movements and noises which would remind anyone of screaming infants when playing rounders. Toffee papers which are always thrown away to the wind once the toffee has got stuck either in ones front tooth, or by accident the tooth his Mum called wisdom.

What the hell was she up to he asked himself in the mirror. I could have the silly cow crucified tomorrow. And to think she actually used the Boss’s desk.

One could accept the rug the dog lies on, but to get the Boss involved, by using his property, this surely was an incident worth recording.

What a night to remember and all he had to repeat was ‘May I’?

77

Sleep deserted him. His mind was saturated with the smell of female perfume, cigars, upmarket meaningless debates and above all highly polished green leather and the oh so willing object gliding around like a French bonbon waiting for it’s wrapping to be disposed of.

Must check on her name, he promised himself, I’m sure her name is Scarlet. He had recently seen the announcement of Scarlet written in extremely tiny letters on a wall in the Gent’s lav. Someone obviously fancied her, and for the time being, was satisfied with just reading her name.

Only she’s not for sale, not now I’ve put in an offer. He chuckled. Never heard it called that before. We’ll take out a mortgage on her – buy her bit by bit. Only the first ride was free. Martin’s thorny sense of humour gave the final impulse to fall asleep – I’ll wash her name off that wall tomorrow – he told himself.

Ivor had seen the success of his friend at the Ball. Scarlet’s magnetic power and their sudden disappearance. He loved Scarlet. She possessed everything he desired in a woman. Her red nails bewitched him. He wanted nothing more than to paint them every morning. In his mind he would choose a new colour, her nails were her identity.

Her hair a web stretching from branch to trunk, a web of silver and gold.

Ivor’s creative inspirations were countless when Scarlet was floating around in his mind.

He couldn’t decide where she purchased her clothes. He didn’t have the nerve to ask her. What he wouldn’t give to sketch a dress for the next ball, shoes, gloves, evening bag and finally a perfume containing the ingredients violets and lilac. While thinking, he could smell the pure moisture on her skin.

The colour of her dress would be Red. Bold, ostentatious, a colour women in general would never dare to purchase. A colour only his Scarlet could and would wear.

Ivor remembered the first day he had met her. His father had brought 78

her home for dinner; he remembered at the time how strange it was for father to bring home an employee.

Company staff never entered their private palace. Pa’s home was his castle, only his dogs were allowed access to every corner of his domain.

Strangers remained strangers starting from the entrance to the exit.

Harry’s world was full of self esteem, based on loyalty to his family and friends, and above all success based on simple hard work and honesty.

A regular church goer and donator when required, Harry felt that life had been good to him. He was aware that poverty would always be a miserable part of life, but why? It cast such a shadow over people’s lives, so why didn’t they get out into the sunshine? There were times when he longed to discuss the subject of poverty with the poor. “Who would choose it as a way of life?” he asked himself, “Waiting for pay day before they can eat: that’s not much of a lifestyle choice. Why do they accept it? Does it make them feel safe?” *** Junior staff never attended International exhibitions. It was always the old bods who had their contacts dating back to many years in the past.

They had their regular customers who were too lazy to go elsewhere – enjoyed the financial and entertainment privileges automatically granted – most of them looked forward to the midnight tours of the city – the senior reps knew how to manipulate the foreign buyers and like every company, principles vanish into thin air when it comes to currency and pleasing the share holders.

Martin was in his seventh heaven, but why him? He was still very junior, and anyway he was in the buying department: in reality he had nothing to do with sales. He always liked the gift of the gab so evidently associated with sales folks, but he could never feel confident in a crowd of smoking sales people.

They’ve all got huge cars, he told the mirror, the same evening that he knew he would be going with Ivor to Paris. I’m sure they earn more than 79

the buyers, have more freedom and undoubtedly get away with murder, when it comes down to clocking in and out! He was so obsessed with the profile of a sales rep and the opportunities now opening up, that it just didn’t dawn on him why he was going to Paris in the first place. It was too much trouble to analyse the reason.

And Ivor was going with him, not vice versa. If only it was Christmas then Mum could mention his foreign adventure on all her cheap Christmas cards. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the smartest of us all now?

The telephone broke the miraculous news. It was Ivor, telling his only friend the time and place of departure.

Did he need to ask for additional out of pocket expenses for Martin and, if so, how much would he like to receive?

The expression out of pocket meant nothing to our young traveller.

He wanted something to come into his pocket, not out. He had no intention of prancing around spending the boss’s dosh… he was determined to return with a contract in his pocket, not a slip of paper summing up his expenditure.

What he had to offer should be paid for… and pay they will… he told himself time and time again.

“Leave it up to you, Ivor, you’re the boss. Let’s not make a meal out of it… we’ll take t as it comes … thanks for thinking of me.”

He walked through the hall and gave the mirror its goodnight wink … the borders were opening their gates for the man of the future.

The question is, did he know how to keep them open … *** Harry’s story Never knew what his name was. They called him Pa; some called him Boss, some called him governor. He had no nickname that I am sure of.

Let’s call him Harry. Most Harry chaps are wholesome, serious and respectful to others.

Harry was always well groomed, regardless of the nature of the 80

company he was in. He was married to a delightful young woman whose home town was Jakarta… in Indonesia. Exquisite face, petite, she had all the charms which make us European women look like elephants.

Her cooking was cuisine originating from many cultures.

Harry could at all times ask associates to his house. The reception was never dowdy, chops, chips and burgers were unknown to the hostess, however we can catch her out on one small cooking item. The garlic was too much of a good thing.

Harry and Ivor were used to it. Visitors, how shall we say, remembered it! Harry knew his son was more in love with nature than the cement in his constructions. He tried his utmost to associate Ivor with the internal management, accountancy, a subject which did not require dirty fingernails, rubber boots and foul language. He knew only too well that Ivor wanted to travel the World. Forests, tropical gardens, all the sites still not occupied and groomed for man.

Although Martin had never visited the house, Harry was well aware of his son’s relationship with this up-and-coming young man. He had watched Martin doing all the right things to get on, clearly intent on reaching the top.

Harry could smell such types from a mile away. He didn’t trust Martin, he didn’t even like him, but he did admire his guts. If only his son had just a few drops of the fuel that drove this would-be young president.

“I’ll take him to Paris,” Harry told himself, “The next time we go to an exhibition. Ivor and his friend can show us what they really are worth.”

Martin’s Visit to Paris.

Martin and Ivor shared the same room. If only Martin could think of a different name to explain the room, but he could think of only one – this must be heaven – it certainly wasn’t earth – what he wouldn’t give to treat his dear old Mum to such luxury – I will one day Mum – he promised himself. One day, I’ll give you the luxury you deserve.

There had been a great crush of people when they arrived in the 81

exhibition hall. Stand builders, everyone shouting their heads off, most of the men using their favourite four letter word. Everything had to be completed by midnight.

Martin’s mind was occupied solely with the visitor list – who they were – where they came from.

What had been their purchase – item and quantity – the year previous?

Name of rep who had completed the order.

He had, at the time, no idea why he wanted to digest and store in his mind the detailed list of past sales, let alone the names of the men coded under sale and purchase. But he knew names, numbers and knowledge formed the key. Martin could never resist creating his own titles for the nobs he was desperate to remember.

There was a Billy Bobbins – some chap from Saudi Arabia.

Billy B was undoubtedly no I on the list.

He’d given out enough dollars to have his roads covered in sheets of gold, and the dust to go with it!

Second on the list was Ploughman Jones – an African descendant – who had purchased in value sufficient material to repair the entire infra structure in West Africa. No wonder they give all these chaps codes, Martin told himself, there can’t be a single employee who could pronounce their names.

Third on the list – a reluctant buyer – price sick – requires at all times an extremely wholesome deal – someone who observes every rule in the book.

A dealer and a wheeler. Interesting, Martin told himself – the chap doesn’t have a code!

Now this could be a right sizzler! Thus without further delay or hesitation Mr. anonymous was christened Sizzler, Park Avenue, Tel Aviv.

Number four on his list was an English customer, who he knew purchased regularly from a home address – Day away from the missus 82

Martin asks himself - a night out with the reps…, clubbing himself sick, plus the odd dinky.

Lovely jubbly, our young friend giggles, what a dream. I could have ‘em all jailed – they could all end up in the dustbin and little old Martin would lift the Bin up and close it.

Number five remained a secret. Martin was suspicious that someone was acting as a go between - interim stuff, and all that. It doesn’t mean to say, Martin informed himself, that the interim buyer is a man. Could easily be a woman. At this point Martin commenced to chat to himself.

“The code name is Flint” – that could mean anything, – “I’ll not change the code, at this stage. There’s only one woman who comes into my mind, and her name aint pretty Polly.

I’ll remember to send all these bods a Xmas Card. If they don’t celebrate the Nativity, then I’ll mail a card of the Tower, something for scoundrels, an item not too intimidating. Make a note of them all for future reference.

There’s enough money between them to feed the entire world. A few crumbs for me will harm no one.”

In life, it was people that mattered; he knew that. People were contacts, customers, clients – and they all had their secrets. Shadowy bits of their life that they hoped would never be seen. That was where his interest lay.

Martin never wanted to like people; he was obsessed with catching them out.

Ivor was different. Ivor was his friend. He was soft, gentle; Martin had no urge to bully him. One could conclude that he enjoyed protecting him.

His only wish was that Ivor wouldn’t go dancing and prancing around in the stream of the Amazone. Millions or no millions, if the tiger wanted him, the humble beast could have him. He loved him dearly, but tigers and canoes were well out of his region.

Three days of Paris, was a thrill for both young trainee executives.

The took their customers’ coats, directed them to the correct cabin – made sure the exact refreshment was at hand - no alcohol on the wrong 83

table – sausage rolls only for the English, Caviar for the Russians – Beer and chips for the Irish – each nation to it’s liking.

Ivor followed Martin the way a lamb follows the mother sheep – even though there was no parental eye watching and he was free to move and circulate in areas most attractive to him. Pa knew his son would never embarrass a member of the staff; it was the friend Pa kept an eye on.

Get him into sales, when we get back, he told himself, watch him like a hawk.

He’s good – he’s a natural! – Did Pa see that his son’s friend had a pocket bursting with customer business cards? –You bet he did.

Harry not only detected the stock of future contracts – he enjoyed watching the blasphemy of a boy so young feathering his nest. This young blaggard has the making of a company president. Such infamous brutality is worth a medal.

“I’ll make a note,” said Harry, “to ask Scarlet to make sure he follows all the company courses this coming year. We’ll send him for six months around the country, let him think he’s someone and finally make him put a business profile of himself on my desk. Let the little bastard chew his guts out.”

Harry had to laugh: if only I could like the fellow. What is it that pulls me back, every time I see him? Ivor is mentally glued to him. It’s as if he plays a string, and Ivor is second string, trembling in sympathy. Could they have a future of some kind together? Or will Ivor grow out of this hero worship?

Harry wrapped his cashmere scarf around his neck, the night air was nippy.

He glanced in the beautiful Jewellers windows.

He wanted desperately to purchase something special for his wife.

A designer’s brooch, a Lalique vase, a Chanel suit, handbag to match.

What in heaven’s name was stopping him?

He had all the money in the World, but he lacked the simple confidence 84

to make a decision for the love of his life. A woman he adored.

“I know why I can’t stand the little beggar, he moaned. I’m a jealous old man. I’m standing here mumbling over a present, while this young rascal would have purchased the entire collection by now.”

Harry, dear Harry, was at last satisfied with himself. The early night air, his cheque book and the inviting lights twinkling in the Hermes gallery.

His wife deserved the best and the best she would get. Preferably an item that no one had in their home area.

He walks, into the store, ask for the manager, shakes hands with him, takes his coat off, squats himself down in the nearest chair and finally instructs Monsieur Paul to show him the collection of his choice.

A collection which would suit a lady fit to be a queen.

Money is no object. The favourite colour is blue.

That indestructible confidence trickling through every vein in Martin’s frame, returns during the absence of manager Paul, into Harry’s mind.

He could envisage the young rascal instructing him what to do – “Show the chap her photo, dummy. Tell the world how beautiful your wife is.

Show him Ivor’s photo –tell him Ivor will be a famous biologist by the time he’s finished – go on man, let them see what you’re worth!

Only been married once! – Blimey man, you’re antique – they should put you in the Versailles.”

Pa returns by plane to the family home the next morning. He drives through his beautiful village at a speed equivalent to a tortoise.

Must get the church roof mended before the winter sets in. Poor old Jones lost his wife last month, mustn’t forget to check if he needs some help with the bills.

The local community hall could do with some paint. Must tell Scarlet to send them funds, must find time to sit down and have a good chat with Ivor. Try and discover what my son expects from life?

85

The smell of breakfast and the bark of his dog welcomed him back to his home. The geraniums were still blooming and rose petals were still fighting for their stay on this earth. *** Ivor knew the day would come when his father would ask him what he saw as his future. What was his true goal in life?

A son bearing the imprint of two cultures is never going to find it easy to be accepted and understood by the society around him, or even by his parents. Ivor was an immense lover of nature. A fabulous cook, an eager scholar and lastly a delightful, unselfish young man who knew how to carry himself in any social circle.

He had his weaknesses. He was curious, but too polite to ask. In fact he was too shy to speak up for himself. He had never heard or seen a domestic argument, and he wouldn’t know how to handle one. As for a career, Ivor had no idea what to do. He was clueless about life. Luckily, life had given him a head start.

He was madly in love with his father’s employee, the beautiful Scarlet, and envious, to a normal degree, of his rival and close friend Martin. Try as he did, his interest in his father’s company was minimal – loyalty played a role, but was insufficient for a breakthrough into following in his father’s foot steps.

Ivor is curious He was inquisitive about his mother Riane. Where had she come from?

How had his father had met her? The university bit, he never believed.

Mother was without doubt beautiful, but definitely not the school bench type, there was no evident passion for learning.

She could play the piano, when alone in the house. She would correspond with her friends and family only when she was alone in the house. She would never allow anyone to post her letters but herself.

As a child, Ivor accepted Riane’s pattern of life. He loved the ring of 86

mystery around her. There were times when he asked himself if his mother truly had parents and friends? Or was she making them up as she went along?

As he grew up, Ivor asked himself why be so inquisitive about someone you love? If she wanted you to know, she’d tell you. Leave the family fold, go to her country of origin, mystic and beautiful. You can be certain to find a mountain of interesting plants there.

Her country is the dream of every worshiper of nature. Go you ignorant git, before it’s too late. Father will understand, maybe he’ll let Martin come with me.

On second thoughts he didn’t want Martin with him. Martin could be insulting, tactless and self-centred. Martin would want another canoe to push his canoe. No, this should be a mission solely for him.

He would discuss the inn’s and out’s with Scarlet: she was his friend.

Madame Scarlet always knew how to influence the right people at the right moment.

Scarlet, a drink in her hand, cherry in her mouth, eyes quivering with suspense and excitement, listened to Ivor’s dreams of the East.

Sounds a bit like Gulliver’s Travels, to me, she thought. Slightly idiotic. A sloppy plan only a rich man’s boy can think up. An absolute nutcase. What he needs is a good old fashion kick up the backside, and six months in a salt mine.

Scarlet nearly choked herself with her emotional silent reactions towards her boss’s son and his bonkers plan.

This kid’s a twit, he’s off his nut. I always had my doubts, but now I’m sure. His fathers got a Merc and his son wants to be pulled or pushed in some wooden box, balancing on two wheels, by some poor sod who can’t afford to buy himself a pair of jeans and a straw hat to keep the sun off his head. Before day one, someone will rob him, take him for a ride, and his return ticket will end up in some back alley.

Try as she did, Scarlet could not grasp the ‘mother’s background’ episode. She knew there was a dark secret somewhere. Somewhere she had 87

read ‘let sleeping dogs sleep’ – or, if not those exact words, then something similar.

“Who says your mother wants you, of all people,” Scarlet inquires, “To poke your long nose in her family history? Maybe she has had a secret tucked away for years, something dark and sinister, a period in her life she wants to hide from us all. One has to be careful, Ivor, my friend, things are never what they seem. Perhaps your father met mummy in a brothel.”

Scarlet couldn’t stop laughing.

The thought of Harry in a brothel was so unbelievable. He, the old dear, wouldn’t have the nerve to drop his pants.

“I can just see him,” Scarlet giggles, “Tripping over them, knocking his head on the bed’s head board and waking up two hours later. Or maybe some poor farmer sold her to him.”

Scarlet was enjoying herself. Ivor’s reaction was explicit. He remained silent and undisturbed. Scarlet’s humour was misplaced.

“Where do you get these ludicrous ideas from, Scarlet?” Ivor continued, “I find them distasteful, obscene and unthinkable. Apologize now. If not, our friendship is over.”

There was no doubt, the expression on Ivor’s face revealed he meant every word he said. No one, not even Scarlet, was going to insult and degrade his parents.

The more Scarlet tried to give his plans an impression of comedy, the greater was Ivor’s determination to sacrifice his life of luxury for mucking it out miles away from anywhere, in some mud hut, at the very least a bamboo contraction – it just had to be primitive. Soap and water were excluded from daily sanitary expectations.

Ivor had no rush. Far better, he told himself, to wait until the weather permitted a family visit to the zoo area of his father’s estate. His father would then be in a more relaxed, informal mood. One could discuss the joy of nature. Harry had collected over a period of many years the most 88

fascinating collection of animals – donkeys – horses – monkeys – special pools for fish.

The main attraction being parrots. Harry could never understand how people could put such beautiful creatures in small cages. The parrot area was designed to give the exquisite birds the space and freedom they needed. Families from villages for miles around regarded the entire collection as being theirs. They were all free to visit whenever the entrance gates were open.

Scarlet, being Scarlet, had warned Harry – long before any future visit to the family zoo – of his son’s plans. She was now on easy terms with her boss.

“Let him go Harry, make a man of him, dangling behind Martin’s apron strings won’t get him anywhere. He wants to search for his mother’s roots, work on farms, is prepared to eat lizards and mice. It’s an excellent idea, Harry. The more poverty he sees,” Scarlet continues, “the more he’ll appreciate what he’s got.”

To her it was all obvious, and she had no doubt that Harry would see it the same way.

Here again, as when Ivor revealed his plans to Scarlet, both of them met an unpredictable reaction, not at all what they expected. Under no conditions, no promises, no exaggerated predictions, would Ivor’s father agree to mud huts, eating rice out of one’s hands, a primitive journey, just to quench a young boy’s curiosity. Mud huts, my foot, Harry was heard to say, “my son is just being inquisitive. End of story!”

The subject was taboo. If someone had the urge or desire to dig up roots, there were enough in his back yard to last them for six generations.

Harry’s wife, was holy, in his eyes, a gift from the gods. The thought of her reputation, her presence, being damaged was unthinkable. Her past belonged to his memory, it was locked away, forgotten. Her world would collapse if she knew that her son was trying to detect, dig and record the past. Too often one jokes about the prediction of truth. Harry wanted the 89

entire subject to be ignored, buried and left to rot in the dust that we walk on.

Riana had experienced sufficient mental cruelty at the hands of her family. The only excuse one could create for them was poverty. The father had sold her for a few roubles to a circle of gangsters, gamblers, all enjoying the revenue derived from gambling, prostitution and coke lovers.

She worked as a child in the kitchens.

Her family was soon forgotten. She had no idea of the true criminal environment around her. The food was new to her.

The taste was special. She had only been fed with the bare necessities.

She had experienced hunger. She knew what it was to hear her brothers and sisters cry themselves to sleep, for an empty stomach causes pain, it influences one’s life and actions for too long a period. It remains ones enemy and not ones friend.

She had taught herself to suck her thumb, and think of colourful crowds far, far away. Crowds of lovely people, who would help her to survive, buy her dresses, give her food to eat.

As young and ignorant as she was, she knew there must be another life, a place of shelter waiting somewhere for her. Someone to cuddle her when it was dark, if not in this life then the next.

The daily hard work in the kitchen, with its long hours and routine, was an occupation which for Riana never became a burden. As long as she behaved herself – no stealing, no careless risks of danger which could result in fire – she could be warm and well fed. When abiding by the rules of the house, she could throughout the day drink clean water, and eat food she’d never seen before.

She was regularly allowed to help in the bar, listen and talk to the animé girls, run their errands and brush their hair. As ugly as prostitution is, Riana knew the day would come when she too would be one of the slaves.

She wasn’t thrown into prostitution; rather, it was always there and it just became part of her daily life. Empty tummies leave their mark; the pain is always in one’s mind.

90

This lifestyle gave her a minimal amount of time for herself, but she was determined when she could to try and find her long forgotten mother, give her family money for food and a decent roof over their head.

She worked everywhere, rooms above the bars – ships docked for a couple of days – hotel rooms.

Their customers never found their way into the daily female conversation. The only aspect that was worth mentioning was the money, the latest perfumes – which were part of the ritual – and the tip that the customers left behind. Their sadistic, repulsive demands were never discussed.

They weren’t there to love the guy. They were there for his pleasure, nothing more, but nothing less either.

Years back, Harry had been in Jakarta on business, not for the first time.

He was a good friend of the embassy staff. He always managed to entice them into preparing his visits. Any reward was naturally against the embassy rules, but the odd holiday, a jewel for the wife, any item that didn’t smell of corruption was accepted with the utmost dignity.

One evening, Harry found himself walking along the corridor in one of Jakarta’s five-star hotels. He could hear what sounded like sobbing. A woman crying her heart out. Like an animal sobbing and searching for its lost cubs. There was something inhuman about the noise.

It was so penetrating, so excruciating, the noise guided Harry automatically, past his room number to an open door at the end of the corridor. Never, to this day, will Harry forget the beauty and ugliness sitting on the corner of the bed. There was blood everywhere.

Never in his life, had Harry seen any woman’s body trembling with such fear and shock. The lady’s exquisite face had been damaged.

Blood was still oozing from under her right eye.

Her left arm showed signs of burns, undoubtedly a result of an 91

extinguished cigarette.

Harry forgot who he was, where he was; he sat himself down on the bed stinking of blood, put his arms around the thin, yet imposing young girl, took his handkerchief out of his top pocket and with the air of medical science, he commenced to stroke, clean and comfort a stranger, a beautiful young woman whose destiny it was to become his life companion.

Gentry and old boy’s ties never need to beg, they only have to command.

He phoned the embassy, he dictated three instructions – hospital – passport – my home town, and leave the police out of it. I’ll phone you every day.

Ivor was born into a family of love, trust and respect. No one became aware of Harry’s secret, and no risky adventure on the part of his son was going to disrupt the calm, self-respect and faith of his family.

The week after the zoo meeting, Harry called Ivor into his office, threw an envelope containing two tickets at him, and gave him the following verbal instruction.

“For the next two months, we will not be seeing or hearing from each other. You leave next week for Jakarta. You will be met by someone engaged by the embassy, who will show you all the wonders of the country.

Whatever miracles they feel are educational and influential for a young man’s future.

Make sure you have sensible clothing – two months is a long time – and remember I do not want to see you back home before the return flight.

There are sufficient funds in your account. However, if you need extra cash, you have my permission to contact the embassy.

Ask for Matthew, accounts department. A bright young chap. He’ll know exactly what to do. Don’t drown yourself, just try and decide if this country could capture your affections and be home in the coming years.”

Ivor was ready to leave the room.

“Not yet, my boy,” Harry instructed cheerfully, “Sit down, because there’s one final instruction. Never let me discover that you have been 92

trying to dig up your darling mother’s roots – do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father” was the mild and softly spoken answer. “May I go now?”

Ivor wanted to somersault out of his father’s building – the door knob in one hand, his eyes were already focused on the green hall carpet – but he managed at the last minute to hear his father shout “Every adventure in life requires a happy start and a safe ending. Scarlet is coming with you. Enjoy your trip, dear boy, we’ll be talking to you in our thoughts, every day.”

Ivor’s story A journey to the moon, the stars, the end of the World. Ivor was in his sixth heaven. Fourteen hours in a plane, sitting almost in Scarlet’s lap.

Heaven! Paradise. The Milky Way, what else could he think of?

The Gods were with him, she must have a seat in the aisle and he and his thin legs deposited in the middle. When Scarlet would speak to him it would mean she would have to turn her head.

In order to understand and hear her clearly he too would have to readjust his shoulders and look into her beautiful eyes. If they landed in rough weather, he could find an excuse to touch or hold her hand. Squeeze it slightly, reassure her that nothing would happen.

First class passengers never get lost during a flight. Where Ivor obtained the nonsense from, is to this day a complete mystery.

Maybe he had ruffled up the many mystical documents from China, and lost track of his own heritage. Whatever, Ivor’s wishful thinking was a bowl full of magical fruits.

There is nothing spectacular any more about a first class ticket on a plane. One knows exactly what to expect – champagne, caviar, milk from Green Cows, food that one can find in any star restaurant.

Why, Ivor, thought, can’t they give us a well cooked hamburger, piled up with onion rings, a little hot chutney, a large size plate which would catch the lovely grease oozing out of the corners of my mouth. A glass of old fashion brown Belgian beer and a plate of healthy light brown chips as dessert?

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All the disgusting pleasures we rich nincompoops are too snobby to eat.

Give the champagne to economy and the fast bits and bobs to us.

That would be the start of one neighbour getting to know the other.

The poor scratching the back of the rich and boredom transforming into a subject of discussion.

Ivor, in his imagination, couldn’t decide whether he would break wind once the last morsel of the soft hamburger bread was finally lying on the walls of his stomach? He’d heard such repulsive noises frequently being released from the throats of his father’s ground workers, and the thought of being in such an eventful act was more entertaining than the prospect of the entire journey. I’ll ask the purser what he thinks, he told himself, no, better still I’ll ask Scarlet to approach him. One look from her and no one would dare to say no.

Ivor, unfortunately had no reason to hold darling Scarlet’s hand. Instead, she held his.

Was it the roar of the engines starting, the perfume his Scarlet was wearing, the imaginary labourer’s food, divine taste of grease in his mouth plus the wet soft bread sticking to his teeth, the knife which kept falling onto the floor, or the prospect of attempting to drink the labourer’s beer which was impossible for any amateur because of the sudden appearance of froth on the top. Did he need a spoon to resolve the secret of such an alcoholic gadget? He certainly couldn’t envisage his thin lips protruding through a cloud of bubbly froth.

The seatbelts were still fastened, the head lights back on, the staff had just commenced to deliver their daily sermon, each of them looking at their passengers with an air of disrespect – one could hear them thinking – I’m only going to say this once, you ignorant bunch, and if you believe this trollop, then you truly are not worth saving.

His eyes closed, his hands clasped together as if he was asking his dear God to make sure to save both himself and his beloved Scarlet should the plane crash. The man who wanted to create history in a plane by expressing his devoted passion to the love of his life, politely passed out.

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A disturbing noise began to flow from his throat.

A somewhat unromantic, irritating tone, not exactly the type of background music one would wish to listen to on a 14 hour nonstop flight.

Ivor had dramatically manipulated, and exhausted his mind and energy, to the level of a temporary time out. His snoring was repulsive to listen to.

An economy passenger would receive a wake-up nudge. The clowns surrounding Ivor, adjusted their head phones, sipped their bubbly and pretended that his seat was empty.

The plane’s immense explosive wake-up signs, the fire sparks released from the rubber wheels when landing, a moment when we find ourselves saying hallo to our long anticipated arrival, brought Ivor back into the world of the living. A new world. A race he had longed to meet, he felt reborn. A voice said welcome home.

“Why the silence Ivor?” Scarlet inquired, “Why do you still look so green?”

The taxi taking them to the Hilton was furnished with springs which would keep anyone awake. The windows surprisingly misty, one’s view to the world outside was dim and breathless. Ivor was scared, was the driver taking the right turning?

Did he know the way to the hotel? The smell of smoke and stains on the back leather seat stimulated Ivor to think of the ghastly dreams he had experienced in the plane. His mother had repeatedly told him that dreams always came true.

“Heaven help us” Ivor murmurs – “if my mother is correct with her assumptions, then I shall be returning with two hands but no fingers.”

The hotel was a blaze of lights. More staff than guests. Ivor on the top floor. Scarlet on number two. Telegrams were sent to the company back home, announcing their arrival. A well prepared programme beautifully presented by the hotel’s tourist department was awaiting their approval.

The waiters knew who they were, to them they were rich, filthy rich, “a disgrace to someone’s background” one of the employees was heard to 95

have said. “You only have to look at him and you can see he is one of us. He should be here, helping us to qualify for a decent level in life. I’ll bet you a day’s wage his history goes back to a cup of rice and poverty. His fingers are too short, the hair too thin.

The woman next to him, what do you think, he asked his pal. Is she his aunt, his guide – if either, then he is the son of a poverty stricken female, we’ll leave her occupation undecided, who had the sheer luck to marry a filthy rich European.

It’s taken me three days, the waiter continued, to work that prediction out, actually there’s nothing to it, the clue lies in the speed required to eat.

She, slowly, slightly uninterested. He, without doubt, eats as if there may be no tomorrow. Roots of poverty, undisputable poorness.

The waiter continued, “history, man – it’s nestled in the genes and that is where it will stay for many years to come.”

Extremely satisfied with himself the waiter commences to clear the table, of the poor rich guest, slowly, precisely, was there perhaps an early morning tip under a plate?

Banks were never an establishment that opened their doors to the poor and needy. Credit cards, payment facilities relevant to such institutions were completely out of the young waiter’s repertoire.

Our hero, who happened to be called Billy, would undoubtedly take his shoes off before entering such a spacious and elaborate building.

So the card lying next to the crumbs and soiled napkin, could have been a poker membership, a free card to the zoo. It could have been a plane ticket to Timbuktu as far as brother Billy was concerned. Nevertheless both his honesty and fear of losing his job directed him and his found item in the direction of the luxury reception desk.

Lights blazing in the hall, day and night, four or five languages floating from the left counter to the right. Porters chasing to and from taxis, what should he do amongst this turmoil with the card, leave it to rest in his pocket until silence had returned in the entrance hall?

If he gave it to a stranger behind the counter, how would he be sure 96

that the card would be returned to its owner? He had heard so often in the kitchen that the entire bunch behind the reception desk was a packet of crooks, truly, Billy, his mates would say, not one but all of them put together.

“Swindlers, they are, crooked. They sting people right and left. How do you think they manage to buy their cars and silk ties?”

Billy rather enjoyed the make believe importance of walking around with such a dignified possession in his pocket.

Perhaps he might see the gentleman tomorrow at breakfast, time enough he decided. There’s no rush. The man can’t possibly need it, otherwise he wouldn’t leave it lying around on a table.

The waiter’s assumption was rewarded with unpredictable accuracy.

“Did you by any chance discover a bank card, lying here or under the table, yesterday morning? Only this morning did I discover its disappearance.”

The voice of yesterday’s breakfast guest contained neither aloofness nor anger. He was polite and cheerful. He sounded like a young man looking for a toothpick to clean his teeth with. The card started to burn in Billy’s pocket. Its owner was smiling at him, not only was he looking friendly, he actually started to converse with him.

Poor Billy started to tremble; like a conjurer, he pulls the card out of his pocket. “Is this what you are looking for?” The waiter had no idea how to address the man. Should he say ‘Sir’- ‘Mr.’? He wanted desperately to take the gentleman’s hand, and place the lost card in his palm.

He fought for words, he felt so embarrassed. The hotel guest was looking him straight in his eyes, a questionable focus, an impression which refers to the past.

Ivor thought: this is ridiculous, utterly mad, I know one says if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, but this is me, I’m looking at my twin image, he could fly back to my home and no one would know it’s not me.

“Where did you find it?” Ivor enquires, “I can afford to lose my shoes, my teeth, anything, but not my bank card, I’m so grateful to you.”

Ivor knew he would embarrass the waiter if he suddenly plunged 100 97

dollars in his hand, and hence settled for a gift of 50 -.

A courteous waiter would nod his head, mumble an expression of joy.

He might even extend his hand. This waiter was so overwhelmed, so taken back by the young man standing opposite him, he was incapable of showing any form of gratitude whatsoever. He was lost for words.

A voice told him to listen, don’t interrupt. Do what you’re told.

Give only answers.

“Do you live far away from the hotel?” Ivor enquired, the urge to communicate was sheer desperation. “I need a guide to show me the sights in the evening. Bring me to a good game of poker.

In the country I come from, poker is unheard of. I learned to play it at the university, I’d give anything to play a few games while I’m in your country. No criminals, please! I want to go back with the same 10 fingers that I came with.”

Placing a plate on a table, warning the guest of the plate’s heat, making life more comfortable by making the crumbs vanish, such actions can hardly be acknowledged as being the evidence of speed and academic knowledge. But for young Billy these simple daily exercises gave him the chance to forget his family’s poverty, their appalling accommodation and their daily recurring diet. In order to support the family, and master his love of music, he introduced the odd hotel customer to various city clubs.

Ivor was flabbergasted, was the waiter imitating him? The chap had the habit of stroking, or rather rubbing, the left side of his nose. This was a habit Ivor had adopted, starting from the age of ten. His mother would regularly ask: does it itch? if so scratch. But leave your nose alone!

Ivor would have enjoyed asking the young man if his nose was burdened with the same irritating nonsense, but way in the distance he could hear his Mother’s soft loving voice instructing him to be polite.

Telling him to be kind to the waiter, leave a good impression behind, not 98

one of snobbery and impoliteness. Thus the nose was put on camera for his Mother’s eyes only.

With fifty dollars warm in his hand, Billy could have been manipulated to tour the whole country and back. For fifty dollars he would have polished Ivor’s shoes daily. Little did he know Ivor’s thoughts were nestled in three categories? Two nights of gambling, a visit to Billy’s house and an introduction to the entire family, young and old.

He almost pleaded with the young waiter to take him under his wing for the coming days.

What am I doing? Ivor asked himself. He recognized his own voice, but certainly not the words. The conversation was too direct.

This was friend Martin’s style. He knew he was taking a risk, he was well aware that a 10 dollar tip was more than sufficient. What time do you finish this evening? Ivor inquired, still trying to retain the bravo of a man of the world.

He continued “I’ll be waiting by the taxis, you can take me to a club of your choice, and as we say back home, we’ll take it from there.”

At that very moment he remembered he had travelled along with Scarlet.

But then, who was Scarlet? She didn’t need him. Scarlet was a good sport.

She wouldn’t tell the world what he was up to. Not that he knew what his real intentions were.

At that moment in his life he, Ivor, wanted to know the boy’s full name.

Then his date of birth. His schooling and qualifications, all of which were predictably dismal. He wanted to move into the spirit, the mind, the world surrounding this utter stranger.

A stranger who had captured his entire attention with a lost credit card, and identical features.

He decided that he would give the young boy the benefit of the doubt and believe all the answers he received. Was there a policeman, a farmer, a serviceman, a criminal in the background? How large was the family? Why 99

did the two of them resemble each other? It was ludicrous.

Ivor had come to Indonesia to smell, taste, feel and enjoy the beauty the country had to offer its visitors.

Visit the temples, secretly enter the many places of worship.

Absorb the breathtaking scenery, rice fields, mountains – and here he was, preoccupied with a waiter whose identity would change once his clean hotel uniform was changed for his cheap casual clothing. Why do we concentrate on what scares us? Unknown situations. This was ludicrous.

How could he mail his father that he was more interested in the shopping list of a waiter who could be his twin brother, than the courtesy of one of the most beautiful countries in the world?

For a moment he did think of phoning Martin, but the thought of hearing Martin’s sarcasm stopped him from what he anticipated hearing, namely ‘your making an idiotic fool of yourself.’

He overlooked one aspect of this moment. Martin, with his ambition for the daredevil standards, would have told his little friend “forget the bloody mountains and streams, you can get them anywhere. Do what you can’t do when you get back home. If you can find a gorgeous bed mate, female or male, go for it. You only live once, grab what life can give you. Keep things simple.”

Two late nights in a gambling tent was far from being the scene shown to millions of cinema goers all over the world.

No one spoke, silence was everywhere. As hard as he tried, he saw no one who was short of a finger, no one who looked as though they would enjoy cutting off his fingers. But then there was so much smoking going on, one doubts if anyone could have seen his fingers.

The interest was exclusive dollars in large amounts. Billy didn’t play. The players obviously knew him.

Ivor could only guess why his friend was allowed the freedom to move unescorted in all areas of the building.

Ivor was without doubt one of the many hotel customers introduced by Billy to the gambling syndicate. Did Ivor win on his first evening?

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Was he lucky on his second? He lost ten thousand dollars, and he didn’t bat an eyelid.

In fact he enjoyed every single minute. What an experience, to play poker with the most devious poker players in the world and not feel scared for one single minute. “Heaven,” Ivor told himself, “what an accomplishment. Two years ago I would have wet my pants at the mere thought of it and if my father had found out, not only would I have wet them, but would also have lost them for at least a week.”

Curiosity, when it comes to human nature, never confides itself exclusively with the discovery of one or two elements. Everyone on Planet Earth is a social being, which means we need other human beings to survive. We always want to know more. Where is the secret lying? There must be a secret somewhere.

A waiter given freedom in a gambling den of all places. If we use our grey cells, we discover that the answer is invariably looking at us.

Billy was just a nice kind sensible young man who had two passions in life: one was to look after his family his mother, grandmother, one sister, three brothers still at school and finally a fourth brother who was studying himself sick to become a doctor.

His second passion was music. He could play the drums as no other.

Both he and the drums became intoxicated. There were five of them in the group. All young and all yearning to express their love for music. Billy on the drums, Mike trumpet, Nick guitar, Bimbo piano and Sleepy on the bass.

Their true names were known to no one. They wanted to play like their favourite American musicians.

These young boys could play non stop jazz for five hours, sessions which would have brought tears to any jazz fanatic.

Ivor was impulsive and greedy to absorb every single item surrounding Billy and his family. He no longer asked if he could go along, he just went.

The only difference was Billy no longer cycled in the sweating heat. Ivor stepped into a taxi and his new friend followed most graciously. They looked alike, their hobbies were identical, they could understand each 101

other; if the worst should come to the worst, they could use the same passport.

No longer did Ivor have to be polite, there was no more asking, no need for requests, he was completely free to announce his temporary inclination to be one of the family. He loved the Mother, her rounded shoulders told him of the years, her body had craved for a civil human existence.

The sound of everyones voices, the sparkle in their eyes, taught him that richness was not the total key to spiritual joy and satisfaction.

How often had he not heard his mother say, “every day we are given the gifts of time and energy, but what we don’t use today can’t be reserved for tomorrow. I encourage you to enjoy these gifts with wisdom.”

He was desperate to help them, send them all off to the dentist, send them all to a five star hotel for a birthday treat. Feed them on the diets of royalty, create a reason for a change in their lives, a move which would give him the freedom and space to keep in touch with them permanently.

He had come to this country in order to understand and appreciate his Mother’s culture. Could anyone predict the obvious? A conclusion that was long predicted by the stars and the secret longings of a young man with two cultures. A serious young person who spoke to no one relevant to a choice, as to which side of the wall he truly felt he belonged. He respected his father, but his emotions of love and admiration always found their way in his conversations with his Mother.

Ivor played the xylophone – actually he played it extremely well, but he had never got any further than accompanying the music flowing from the radio or one of Martin’s Lionel Hampton CD’s. His mother tried her utmost to promote the piano. Now and then to please her, he would play a few lullabies from Schubert, but his dreams always went out to the sadness and history expressed so often in jazz.

He visited Billy’s home every evening, he ate with them and when Billy was free he accompanied him to their jazz club. Had he hired a xylophone?

No! He went out and bought one. He wanted to purchase instruments for 102

the entire band, but knew he would embarrass them.

Billy’s sister, since the arrival of Ivor, always cooked up some fairy story to explain her presence in the group. Someone had to pour in the drinks.

Someone had to sweep the floor afterwards.

Her brother never learned to use an ashtray and Ivor was of course a very good looking young man, coming from a country she had never heard of, and the way he spoke English, well that would give any young girl butterflies in their tum tums.

He reminded her of a model in a glamour magazine, a copy of which she had found lying in the railway station and which for some unknown reason had found its way into her cheep cotton bag. The whole family had read it, from page one to the very end.

And here was she, little miss nosy parker, trying to count the number of hairs on his head, trembling at the sound of his voice, whispering to grandma to pray to the Gods that he would stay forever playing his xylophone. That she would when prosperity allowed, give him at least five children. She had it all beautifully organized in her mind. Her schooling was sufficient to train for a nurse and when the time was right, Ivor would come back into her life and sweep her off her feet. There was no room for contradiction in her thoughts, Ivor was going to be hers.

Her future husband would help society, play the xylophone every day, her mother would come and live with them and life would be the way she had always dreamed of.

A life pattern she had drawn so many times with the crayons she had stolen from the little supermarket, at the corner of the street. She had a positive and beautiful imagination.

The question is how would Ivor had reacted if he had known that a frail beautiful young girl was for the first time in her life head over heels, way over the top in love with him – he was her morning, noon, and night.

She dreaded the moment that he would announce his inevitable departure.

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Scarlet knew something was going on. She didn’t ask, she didn’t want to know. “Let him grow up,” she told herself. “Let’s take a man back home, someone who can make his own decision. There was no one to look after me, and I haven’t done too bad for myself. His father deserves a good family line; he’s always been there to help, he has a right to only the best.”

Ivor said goodbye to no one. There was no goodbye. He knew he would come back. This was his culture. He had made his choice.

He had met his people. He looked like them, he felt like them.

When they laughed, he wanted to laugh. When they cried, he wanted to cry. He felt their fear, and their longing for security. They were musical and poetical. The country was so spacious, he could move without mingling with criminality. This was a life he would choose and no one could change his mind.

The plane landed at Heathrow on time. The joke is, Scarlet held his hand throughout the flight. Did she suspect that Ivor’s family were going to miss him? You never know how much someone can mean to you, until you feel they are ready to leave. Scarlet knew she would miss him.

He was a lovable person. Happiness, love and a beautiful imagination come hand in hand with hard work. Life will respond positively to him.

This she was certain of.

The two of them rushed to the baggage hall, piled the luggage on to the trolleys and made their way to the exit.

Harry had been waiting hand in hand with Ivor’s beautiful mother for at least an hour, “you never know,” the mother said, “that plane might be early, we don’t want him to miss us.”

“There they are,” Harry shouted, “I can see them, they both look all right to me, no good waving, they can’t see us.” Ivor was the first to arrive.

He was beaming from ear to ear, his whole being expressed confidence, he walked like a military officer.

Harry knew already in those few seconds of meeting his son that he had lost him to the culture of his wife. He embraced his son, his mother kissed 104

him. “Father,” Ivor said, “I have something to tell you.”

“Can’t it wait until we get home?” Harry inquired. “Your Mother is longing to hear all the details. We’ve both missed you so much and that dog of yours has lost 4 kilos.”

There was a separate car waiting for Scarlet, and she gave Ivor a huge hug before driving off. “Don’t let them talk you out of it, my friend,” was her final whisper in his ear. “You’ve found your mission in life. I’ll always be here for you.”

Dinner that evening was truly special. Harry’s elderly mother sat at the table. Even the dog was allowed to cuddle up to Ivor’s feet.

Everyone, not forgetting the domestic, were impatient to hear about the bloodthirsty adventures of son Ivor. In his absence they had all imagined him running to and fro from tigers, monkeys, not forgetting the crocodiles.

His skin would be smothered in deep infected cuts.

Where the cuts came from, no one actually knew, but Gran had long prepared a potion which would heal the dear boy’s infection and help to withdraw the evil spirits, which according to Gran’s information had entered her grandson’s mind and spirit. Gran refused to accept that anything good could derive from such countries. there was however one exception: her daughter – in – law, whom she absolutely loved and adored.

When Mother – in – law came to dinner, there was always a special treat, and this evening, a menu had been composed to make everyone happy.

The first course completed, all impatient eyes were focused on Ivor.

Smoke of Harry’s cigar in the dining room air. Even the dog became restless.

Everyone sitting around, pal dog under the table, all wanted to hear of Ivor’s impressions, his vast experience of travelling for miles and miles through a country so dense with history and colours. Colours of nature and populations. Mud huts and rainbows.

Harry gave his usual cough, indication for commencement. “Let Ivor take his time Harry,” Gran insisted, “he must be tired. Give the boy a chance to recapture all his news.”

Ivor committed for the first time in years a dining room sin.

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He plucked up courage and placed, not one, but two elbows onto the dinning table, looked at the family crowd and said, “I’m going back.”

“Back where, dear?” Gran inquired.

“Be quiet mother, no I mean it,” was her son’s reaction, “I want to hear Ivor’s story and no interference.”

Ivor focused his attention on his father. He preferred to avoid any reactions from his mother, he knew her emotions could influence his goal.

She was so sacred, so protected by father. Ivor had no idea in his mind as to how everyone would react.

“Father, I’m not a man that will ever feel at home in your construction company. I’m not at ease when trying to copy my pal Martin.

I have found a world that has captured my entire existence. Let me tell you father what I truly experienced during my stay in Jakarta, the wonderful people I met and how I want to be part of their world.

How I want to be like you father, charitable, human, but in a world that belongs to mother, a continent that I felt I had never left.”

Ivor told his audience all the amusing, sad, hopeful aspects of his stay.

He had no desire to create an emotional gathering. He placed the accent on the poverty and the longing to learn. Was it coincidence that brought him together with a group of musicians? A family who’s luxury was less than his dog’s.

Ivor continued, “what I admired the most, father, was everyone’s refusal to act poor, they all had that inner spiritual cloud around them. Please help me to set up an academy for the arts, please father, together with the young people I met and their astonishing knowledge of music, I know I can create a future for so many talented young people who, without financial help will never reach their dream goal in life. Surely father, you started with a dream, help me to move their dreams into reality. You enjoy building houses, I want to help the ones who live in them.”

Silence doesn’t always mean that people are horror-struck, or even that someone is ready to let off steam. In Ivor’s case, all were so taken back, no 106

one knew what to say. The Friesian clock struck ten, Gran was the first to comment.

“Harry, it’s late, I’m tired, let the boy have his own way, you started with a dream, now put your coat on and take me home.”

Ivor and his mother knew that Gran wanted her son to herself.

She wanted to express her true thoughts on her Grandson’s proposal.

In many ways father and his mother were identical, no nonsense, if yes then get on with it.

Riana was silently choking, how could this happen, her only child going back to her roots. Life was always so unpredictable, or was it? Why hadn’t she guessed this was where it would lead?

While listening to her son’s story, she immediately chose to back him.

She knew there was no stopping. He was a victim of two cultures.

If a wise choice is not made then she knew her son would always feel a stranger, a temporary citizen in a world where he had insufficient affinitive ties and emotions. She would miss their chats on learning to see how contradictory the world is. There is beauty in both sunshine and rain.

Being positive about our own powers. She would write to him regularly she promised herself. She knew that Harry would never desert him.

Harry was back home, he sat alone in his car. Gran would be snoring by now he thought.

He had made sure her curtains were slightly open. She had to see the moon or at least part of it before she closed her eyes and God forbid her glass of water was not next to the telephone.

She was a wise old owl. Her last words that evening were, “no one in the family had ever let us down, mark my words, his head’s on all right, let him go Harry, he’ll come to no harm.”

He suddenly noticed that all the lights in his house were out. All the curtains were drawn. “Well I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, “and there’s me chasing back to finish discussing my son’s new wonder of the world.”

The audacity of it, even the dog was snoring on the forbidden settee.

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He decided to retire, join the rest of the sleepy heads when quite unexpectedly he saw an envelope learning against a candlestick, very carefully positioned in the middle of the kitchen table. At first he thought tomorrow’s another day. It can wait.

He reached the top of the stair case, but he could for the life of him not remember if had locked the back door, rushed back down the stairs and before we can bat an eyelid the envelope was open and the following goodnight wish was being summarized.

Dear Father, Mother says I can go. Gran says I can go. Thank you Dad. I knew you would say yes. Always remember you are my idol.

I love you Dad, forever!

A simple note, a message of understanding, a message of pride. A tiny weenie piece of paper that found its way into Harry’s wallet and remained there until many years later.

Gran died 7 months later, one week before Ivor’s departure to Jakarta.

Gran’s interpretation of death was: I’m going from one room to the other.

Ivor settled in a serene village outside Jakarta. He married a beautiful local girl, who gave birth to three children.

In the city he established his Academy for the arts. Those who could pay for tuition were given the same programme as the poor. The actual foundation was sponsored by many of Harry’s international business associates.

Harry always remained the faithful adviser, in the background.

His reward was the knowledge that he gave so much self respect, esteem to people he would never know, never speak to, but would always be planted in his memory.

It’s here where we leave the story of Harry, Riana and Ivor, family traits handed down from generation to generation. A privileged and powerful family who were guided to success, who looked to the future and the rewards it had to offer others.

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One last supper ‘It’s Christmas Eve, young man, you’re going home to celebrate with your family and here am I telling you about other people’s lives. But we’ve been thinking of others, and that’s what Christmas is about, isn’t it?’

I took it, Jack, as a rhetorical question, but she was waiting for an answer.

I mean, thinking about people doesn’t do anything for them, does it?

And, if I were to answer honestly, I’d have said Christmas is for the kids – meaning my children – with lashings of self-indulgence and showing-off for the adults. I’d never taken it that seriously.

‘I suppose it is, for some people. For me it’s a time to look back at the year and feel good about what I’ve achieved. I’m not very religious.’

‘Are you sure? I saw you religiously checking the stock prices as soon as the steward brought your newspaper.’

I was amused at this trick of metaphor, and said so.

‘It is no trick, young man. Religion is a shared devotion, and you are one of those devoted to making money.’

‘I’ve worked hard for my family, if that’s what you mean.’ I was defensive.

‘You’ve made money for them. Have you made anything else for them?

Space, time?’

I knew the answer, Jack, but it hurt. They’ve given up asking me to spend more time at home.

‘You’ve listened to me for hours, because you’re stuck with me. Would you listen this long to your children? Your wife? Or don’t you need people that much?’

This sounded like a let-out; I took it. ‘No, I don’t need people much.’

‘You’re a fool if you think so.’

That really stung, because I knew I’d only been fooling myself. I need my beautiful wife and talented kids and lovely home – but I only need them for work. They give me status, show I’m straight, make me seem human. I’ve just been looking after my assets; beyond that I’ve never cared.

That was when my eyes began to water, and I couldn’t stop them, Jack.

She put her hand on mine, and I was so glad of that little comfort. I felt 110

there would be forgiveness for me if I genuinely repented. She went on, her voice soft and low, but her words were as sharp as razor blades.

‘You remind me of Martin at the company’s annual dinner–dance. He saw Christmas as a time to watch other people make fools of themselves – and then proceeded to make a even bigger fool of himself. I thought you might have more sense.’

I struggled to answer, struggled to face what I knew to be true. ‘I’ve always been scared of not having enough – enough to buy good clothes, a new car, a bigger house, another holiday, private schooling – there is never enough. That fear of poverty has loomed over my whole life; I’ve sacrificed everything to it.’

‘Then it’s time you changed. What if you had only weeks to live? Then how much time would you have for your family? One last supper with them tonight and into hospital in the morning?’

‘That’s horrible. I’m young – well, 39 – I’m looking forward to Christmas and you’re casting a shadow over it.’

‘It’s your background that’s casting the shadow, and I bet it shaped your parents’ lives and their parents’ too.’

‘You’re right: it did. I’m not sure I want to look back this Christmas.’

‘Because you might look back and feel regret, bitterness even? That’s what happened to the most successful of the Marshalls. And it cast the most terrible shadow over their last Christmas. Learn from them, if you can, but don’t leave it too late. Let me tell you how their story ended.’

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3 Blood red Elizabeth There wasn’t a month that went by, that the star of this story forgot to purchase a new sexy bra. Why? One will never know, Liz probably didn’t know herself. Subconsciously, she probably knew that, hard as it was to admit it, she lacked that last gasp of sexiness.

She was actually very attractive, but she wanted every man to gasp for breath when he saw her. She was somewhat childish, naïve. No one had ever advised her to reprogram the way she allowed her thoughts to run.

Vice versa – she too wanted to swallow three times the moment she saw him. His appearance had to be perfection: good looks, clothes immaculate, five Star hotels, sports car, her hair dancing in the wind. Rain or snow, weather distortions were never included in her naïve world of perfect romance and security.

Papa had always been there. As solid as a rock. A partner in an International Accountant’s Company. Her youth was free of all disasters.

Grandma had died; she still missed her at Christmas, but what could one do, life and death were the undertone of her church communion. An enchanting act performed at the age of 12.

The path of righteousness. Her spiritual medicine, a myth to follow, safety and godly protection would always surround her. How our little Madame arrived at this sheer nonsense, I will never know.

She loved creating her own Christmas Greetings.

Christmas was the only time in the year, that Elizabeth’s mind was rescued from ostentation, spending money and showing it off in the perfection of her own little world.

In order to support his darling daughter, Papa would acknowledge her annual hobby, by using her seasonal poetry for the Company’s end of year cards.

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The text was never over rated, simple but emotional. Christmas, was without doubt the only period in Liz’s life when she could allow herself to stop thinking of the superficial circle knotted around her.

Not that spiritual essence of this annual event stopped her from buying the appropriate wardrobe. October was always reserved for purchasing the colourful wardrobe emotionally connected to the Turkey, Hare, Goose, not forgetting the red sweet port, crystal glassware, chestnuts and mother’s homemade candy.

If only Liz had accepted herself, her pure natural qualities, her natural blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes which were never devious or shy, her figure, which a gym mistress would describe as being all in the correct proportions. She was a good looking woman, someone’s true friend, with a seat in society.

But that wasn’t enough. There was no male gasp, no desperate shortage of breath. Poor Liz never got any further than idealizing the morons showing their bits and blobs on a page in some over priced glossy.

Little did she know that no star in a glossy could ever compete with her future. Even a successful novelist could never have warned or guided her through the unforeseen wilderness that she found herself in. Liz was destined to learn about life’s surprises the hard way. The cruel, dramatic, sensational style. A scenario every glossy would love to get its hands on.

A love story of the kind we all long to read, with an ending no one would have predicted, or even believed.

Time to look back It was the night of the 24th of December. Liz was sitting near the blazing fire, the snow flakes were gliding down to greet the universe on the most important day in Liz’s annual activities.

She looked into the flames, she felt tired. Her instinct told her to retire, go to bed, and sleep through to the arrival of Christmas morning.

Meet the family at breakfast, laughter, scrumptious food.

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The church congregation was no longer in or on her mind.

Father who could never wait until the tree’s evening ritual for his present. Mother, who always gave in and upset the day’s programme by giving father his annual tie, slippers, scarf and Bond Street Cigars.

She wanted desperately to get herself out of the fireside chair.

Her legs were as disobedient as her thoughts. She was tired. Her daughter Charlie, already a student at Cambridge, was preparing herself, together with her parents, for the Midnight Mass. Liz wanted to stay put.

She had no desire to face the cold winds and dampness in the church.

The joy and love breezing from the organ. The red cheeks revealing the Christmas sincerity in so many believers.

Should she place one or two more coal bricks on the fire? Evidence that she wanted to avoid the cold winter’s night – Liz knew it would upset her family if she didn’t go, after all it’s only once a year, she murmured, if we can’t be together in the church, then we are coming to a complete loss.

At that very moment the silver clip, which held her Mother’s antique bible together, caught Liz’s eye.

Someone had obviously polished it. The shine aroused her curiosity.

She knew, her mother, a devout catholic and still active in her parish, would read passages regularly from her holy bible.

How often had Liz not heard in the past family jokes originating from her father’s family or friends? One was a priest, a great uncle, who left the church. Wooden benches – unpaid suppers – these biblical anecdotes had been passed on from one generation to the other.

If the priest had lived today, he would undoubtedly have been reinstated in the church – one could envisage him with his worldly knowledge becoming one of the secretary’s to the Pope, or a spiritual counsellor to some President in the States.

Liz felt the desire to hold her Mother’s precious book.

Touch the shining clip. Smell the old ancient Sheets.

Sheets of wisdom, guiding and controlling so many lives.

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The book felt cold, distant, and heavy. Liz placed it on her lap.

Her fingers stroking the brown leather cover.

Poor Liz was tired of evaluating her life. Tired of searching for the purpose of life. Tired of longing for an answer to the mystery so deeply anchored in a period in her life which should have been heaven on earth, a constant taste of the future. A supper so enchanting – the number of relevant guests would be of no significance.

Weight on one’s lap always causes sleep. Be it the cat, the dog, or the holy bible. The flames were angry with each other. Undoubtedly the wind, the night air creeping down the chimney.

Liz could hear a sucking noise around her, the first draw of a cigarette.

The burning of paper – was she pressing herself to sleep – she was confused. Her eyelids closed. The book as heavy as it was, was still lying on her lap. It was no longer cold. It was warm. It expressed comfort. Liz placed her arms around her mother’s book of guidance, cuddling it as if she was holding a child and in a fraction of a second she felt herself floating into space and history.

The voice of her mother requesting that a quilt be fetched from her bed, the fire to be fed with two bricks, was heard by all, with the exception of Liz. “Leave her to have a good rest, poor child, she is exhausted after everything that’s happened, and Tuesday will be a horrifying experience.

Cremations always have such a horrifying impact on us.

There’s nothing we can do to help, it’s her choice to attend and her’s alone.”

Her mother’s speech was sealed with a kiss on Liz’s cheek.

“Sleep tight my darling” she whispered “a new life is waiting for you, here on this earth.”

In SPACE “Liz, stay with me, I’m scared, terrified, I should still be alive, but I’m not – there’s nothing recognizable here. It was all a devastating mistake. I loved 115

you from day one. Take my pain away, convert the darkness into light. You are the only one who can do it.

Life was expanding, and then it all collapsed without you. Why, Liz, didn’t you try to evaluate my actions – my infidelity – my expressions, my actions of hate - ? I did hate you Liz – I hated you to the extent that I crucified myself – and dragged those around me to disruption. I promise I’ll never cheat on you again. Anything I ask will be with pure intention.

I miss my mirror to look through. It doesn’t matter if it’s cracked. I’m desperate for a frame that wants adjusting. A man’s good habits are often the reason behind his success. My corruption killed me. I’m lost Liz. Come to me. We’ll start again – we’ll glide through space like we used to.

You wearing your head scarf, me my tweed and my old cap.

Come on Liz they were great times. Times to be relived, times to answer to, recolour and dance to, but above all Liz, times to separate the wrong doings from the right – the pure from the poison.

How often, my darling Liz, have I not told you in life it’s never what you think it is – doors are never closed, there is always a gap, small or large.

Humans, Liz, can never be truthful. Why? They are all terrified of the consequences.

All scared of the shock, the personal impression truth can create.

It can reach such depths, Liz; one can no longer call it or signify it as truth.

I beg you Liz, on my knees I beg you, travel with me. The book you’re cuddling is strong – it’s mighty – it’s a code for the living – it can never be destroyed or broken. My destiny with you was greater than any living philosophy, greater than the strength of the mountains.

All I wanted was to give you more than life itself; must I be punished permanently for failing to follow the ancient codes?

Times have changed Liz. I was just one of the many crooks, who were willing to try every path, every code, tag onto any human life that would lead my family to a higher level of society; I was so desperate for them to

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move in such circles. I had no scruples, Liz; none whatsoever, all I had was a family background of losers, no matter what their intimate codes were.

Regardless of the authors, they were undeniable misfits. With the exception of Keith of course.

That book you’re cuddling, Liz, says we can walk on the sea; we can float above the clouds, disappear and return. You believe its contents, you’ve never doubted the authenticity of its spiritual meanings. So do it, Liz, come to me now – with you at my side, who knows whose rod and staff may comfort me.

I’m still waiting to bump into my old uncle Keith, who has undoubtedly got himself friendly with a rabbi up here, and is still discussing his unsolved mystery around the four star supper, its menu, and the guy who paid the bill.

I want to be where he is, but God forbid we join forces. He’s not my kind of angel. Still, I’m sure the old rogue will signal through a good word for me. If he can’t get you a residence permit for this place, who can? How often, Lizzie me old darling, have I told you that? Use your contacts, take advantage of those you know. Round here I worship with them and pray with them.

Come on, Liz! If you don’t like it, you can always go back. We all have return tickets here. We can come and go as we please. I haven’t made the acquaintance of an internet Provider, as yet, but I met a chap last night, couldn’t read or write for the life of him, I’ll bet my left wing he was in the computer business when he was on earth. He needs something to do; I’ll suggest he sets up a search engine. There’s plenty to search for up here.

Remember our first date Liz? You behind the wheel – hair blowing in all directions – we can relive those days. I’ll find an MG for you here, there must be one hidden somewhere, maybe behind a willow tree.

Come with me Liz. Every war comes to an end. We’ve both gone through the dirtiness of human destruction; before it’s too late, let’s declare peace – if not for us, then those around us.

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How did we get to this point?

The quilt and fire were having their effect. Liz began to perspire, but then she felt clammy and cold. What has no meaning has no effect on our lives.

Did she want to start again, recapture the essence of an institution called marriage? She remembered thinking that marriage should be a wonderful experience. Nowadays we just go though the motions.

Young people feel it and show it in their dissatisfaction with the old ways. They, like her daughter, are searching for new foundations.

How could she have been so naïve? Why did she always sit around and nod like a dummy and resolutely refuse every marble offered by her husband that might have led to an argument. The times her worry instantly converted to dark anger.

The smell of smoke had partially vanished, the fire was settling down, it was quiet: even the window panes had ceased their constant creaking in the late night hours.

Liz took a sip of the red port still shining in its glass. Her brief journey, her short flight into space, was over. She could still hear her ex-husband’s voice, but her mind felt like a recharged battery – she could think, she was desperate to evaluate the last 20 years of her life.

She felt an urge to find, discover the truth – make sense of the insane pattern of behaviour of a man who had once treated her as if she was the most wonderful human being in the entire world.

His soul, his energy, was in space. His frame was still waiting for the ovens to take him away for ever. Two more days and then the destructive fire in the ovens would roar. Liz had Forty Eight hours to think, to search – then all the evidence would crumble.

Search, she told herself, in a direction that has up till now never presented itself. Look again at everyone. All those friends who were honest and compassionate – or so you thought – who profited from your belief in their words. See them for what they could be, see them for what they, 118

according to Mother, undeniably are.

Try and get yourself out of the loving wife pattern – forgiving – blind eye – caring at all times – a domestic environment of perfection – a status that every entrepreneur dreams of, an achievement accomplished by oh so few.

Why did he do it? Was it the ultimate degree of hate, or was he simply a child who couldn’t get his own way? Was it his background of poverty that made him relish taking a rod of punishment to those who were not like him, who could not recognize his life’s yearnings?

Could the clue be buried under the statement of her ignorance – not aware of the obvious, and thus judging everything in an emotional and far too intimate circle?

Was she ever in his thoughts? Did he ever need her? Did he ever know the true meaning of love… for richer and for poorer?

Wealth? Liz murmured, an abundance of riches? I’ve never had to search for that in this jungle of a world; he gave me everything I wanted.

I must ask Mother when it was that he first came to our house.

He needed some fiscal advice from Father. I remember Mother saying “That man is too good looking, no woman will ever own him.” I thought he was beautiful, not that a man is ever called beautiful, but in this case he was truly the cat’s whiskers. I remember trying to entice Father to tell me about him, would he be coming back, what was his profession.

His blue M.G. was parked where it was prohibited, yet no one bothered to correct the situation. Mother asked him into the lounge for tea. To this day I can see Father dribbling into the room behind him. A stranger would have thought it was his house and Father was his client.

It was the total combination: Italian shoes, Savile Row Suit, Jermyn Street shirt and tie, and finally the haircut at Blimco in Regent Street. The only mistake he made was to hold his cup as if it was a mug. He was an easy 119

performer – charmed Mother into telling him the origin and value of her silver. Did he look at me while talking? No, decidedly not.

Father walked him to his car; Mother and I were satisfied with a sly peep behind the net curtains.

I remember his M.G. car: the colour registered in my mind – it was purple and black. I was convinced it would be one month before he returned to Father’s sanctuary and Mother’s silver. My mental predictions were far out. Even then he was one step ahead of us all.

An unexpected dinner is always the best way to enjoy one’s food.

A sexy male knee which touches yours constantly under the table, and two red cheeks flushing from the table wine, or was it the unexpected electric tics experienced when two bones (both the ownership of the opposite sex) say hello to each other, more frequently than the number of chews one needs to dissolve one’s meal.

Our host had phoned Mother the following day to express his gratitude for her hospitality, and could he invite the family out for dinner?

The coming Wednesday would suit him fine; he would book a table at the Blackborn Inn. He knew we would not be disappointed with the service. His charm, his wit, his obvious knowledge of the world’s economy, won him a permanent seat on the family sofa. The hospitality included stew pot, lamb, or beef before the eight o’clock news, every Wednesday and Saturday. The manipulator, the charmer of the year, how was I so blind?

Use your brains, Liz! Could you have saved the empire?

Women craved his attention. Mother doted on the flowers he delivered and Liz kept trying a new make-up to camouflage the blushing of excitement. “We were a generation of simple nitwits,” Liz told herself, “snobs, know-alls, arrogant, inexperienced, toffee-nosed women!”

Our understanding of men, their anatomy and their inability to resolve 120

a family drama, is equal to our understanding of the resolution to love and obey the horrors – and whoever put that load of trollop on paper should be jailed for life, for where do we ever read that the man should love and obey the woman?

Elizabeth could never mention her ex husband’s name – it was always ‘he’ or ‘that monster’.

The last years of Elizabeth’s life had been an emotional search to discover the marital missing link.

To believe in the colours black and white, one has to see them, associate them with designs, and tolerate their purpose.

The flood of psychopathic substances, his vicious and cruel games, were completely detached from every civilized degree of living.

Take it step by step, Liz advised herself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Forget you are Liz. You’re just a little nobody, and he was a gold digger who couldn’t keep his pants on, both of you living under the roof of a thatched cottage. A small cottage? Heavens, no! Liz – you and he are living under the roof of a king size cottage: three bathrooms – five bedrooms – lounge, spectacular kitchen. Swimming pool, underwater music. We mustn’t forget the spectacular view, looking out on to one of the most famous rivers in Europe.

Then there was the tiny little boat with its four sleeping cabins and shower. Everything a millionaire could dream of was installed in the boat.

Her monthly allowance for clothes, and entertainment was three times the total amount most women have at their disposal for two months. But it was there, Liz murmured, why should I have ever doubted the authenticity of it all? Then or now?

He worked hard. He enjoyed his status of wealth. He travelled, but then most business men are away more than they are at home.

He could be mean, cautious, to the point of embarrassment. If only I could have been acquainted with his background, his home as a child.

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Instead of listening to anecdotes which could have applied to any Tom, Dick or Harry, especially those who went regularly to Mass every Sunday.

Her thoughts were racing. The bridal dress, the bridegroom a junior director. Everyone who was anyone attended. His friend Ivor.

Ivor’s parents. Ivor’s father gave a speech. A speech full of praise. He joked that the young boy who spent his school holidays in the mail room could now sign on behalf of the company.

Scarlet was dancing and prancing, looking absolutely stunning in a red velvet suit. Her black hair styled a la Japanese. I remember her shoes; Liz grinned; after so many years I can still remember her shoes. Common as dirt, as Mother would say. Those thin high heels, which could almost reach her bum and sledge soles thick enough to light the fire with.

A honeymoon in Switzerland. We saw more white sheets than white snow. A beautiful bungalow to start married life in. Every weekend guests.

Catering from the local traders. We must have been their best customer ever. If he had financial dips, they were never brought to the surface.

He had that an air of self confidence around him – one never doubted his motives, his inspirations, what he said, where he was going. He travelled constantly, met high-powered clients, arranged meetings, pulled off deals. Even at home he took long international calls. Work was his whole life. He worked hard, but he seemed to make money almost magically.

People spoke of him with respect. * * * ‘Very like you, young man. When I saw you boarding the aircraft, at the last minute yet not in a rush, handsome, confident, beautifully dressed, I straightaway thought of Martin. Always one step ahead. Now that I’ve seen a bit more of you, I’m beginning to wonder how far the parallels stretch.

Even at the start of their married life, Martin’s business was doing very well. Within a few years he had all the trophies he needed: a spacious house 122

full of expensive furniture and gadgets, two new luxury cars on the drive, a gardener and a cook, a model wife in designer clothes and a pretty, talented daughter.

All he lacked was a handsome, streetwise son who would be on the make even before he left private school. But then Martin was always in control, so he probably decided to have a daughter so he wouldn’t have competition. He had to win, and be seen to have won. There was none of this nonsense about doing good by stealth and giving to charity. In Martin’s view, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

His only real mistake was his wife. She knew how many beans make five. She was confident, well-connected and stunningly beautiful; she was also intelligent, though she didn’t bother to use her brains much. And if she had, would she have stayed away from him?

But he thought she understood him. He assumed she could see which side her bread was buttered on – if she ever ate bread and butter, that is. If she did, it would be delivered still warm from the oven, and served with jam and clotted cream. She was good at spending money.’ * * * Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the weekly pattern of absence. It went on too long – I was lazy. I should have shown interest in his behaviour. Asked around. He pampered me to the level of suffocation. I loved it. There was no female around who had such uncontrolled freedom and pleasure. Why should I worry about two days a week? It meant I had one hundred and four nights a year alone, a luxury most wives can only dream of.

A husband who idolizes you can surely never be doubted. Is he not the ultimate dream of every woman? Forget the emotional side, Liz – she rather enjoyed talking to herself – you’ve gone down all those paths. Try and creep behind the scenes – hate can derive from jealousy or envy, success or failure. It can spring up anywhere – it’s a seed that can destroy innocent and loving environments.

Who can say, perhaps it all had nothing to do with me? Was he the 123

victim? Financial pressure deriving from contacts unknown to my small and protected society. Men are known to have more than.

Charlie is my darling The arrival of Charlie was like a book in itself. We had given up hoping.

We never thought that time would grant us a child. I remember the joy and excitement which could be felt in every room. He was completely out of his mind.

I remember hearing him on the phone to all his associates – whether they wanted to hear it or not – shouting, as if the recipient was deaf – I’ve been blessed with a daughter, she has my wife’s blue eyes and my good looks.

He adored Charlie. I remember the night he spent adjusting the layout of the house. Charlie must have her own bathroom, her own stable, her own playroom, what ever makes her happy Liz, she must have it. Pink and white, Liz. When it suits you, call in the painters.

I’ll see to the rest. I lost count, Liz murmured into space, of the amount of times he said “My Charlie shall have everything, never any cracked mirrors in this house.” I realize (too late now) I should have asked what the hell cracked mirrors had to do with my daughter.

There was enough glass in the bathrooms to furnish three families.

I understand now there were many signs which I should have taken seriously.

Mother can still talk about the tears in his eyes, his emotions of sheer happiness. The proud father, when holding Charlie in his arms during her first visit to our local church.

He took her everywhere. He would phone to see if all was well – With me? No, with his daughter – he postponed most of his hunting week-ends to be with her. One tradition which never changed was the two nights per week from home.

I always had his suitcase ready packed – shirts, underwear, tie, toiletries, 124

not forgetting the handkerchiefs. Tel. nos. of friends where he might find us, should he become restless when unable to hear his daughter’s voice.

We could always leave a message at his friend’s house. A school friend for many years.

The preparations were part of my domestic duties. Perhaps I should have said “sod off, do it yourself”, but there again he was a godfather to us all. Why? Liz asked herself, am I spontaneously using the title godfather.

Okay, she replied, sex was diminishing. He stayed in his den until late hours.

Did I disturb him? No. I went to bed and left him to fiddle with his own thoughts. He was computer mad – stock market results, company prognoses – and when I look back I can only conclude that I must have been at the top of the list containing names of stupid ignorant cows.

Here was a man, my husband, who made no secret of his addictions: “I don’t know which is worse, my smoking or my sex life”, he would say.

And here was me, the nincompoop, packing his bag, playing hostess to his world of wealth, and not once did it dawn on me that I was preparing the ground for a war so cruel, so destructive, so life damaging. Finally the battlefield became a pathway to be trampled by innumerable psychological interpreters.

From the start I didn’t like Scarlet. Why he ever invited her into our house, I will never know. He seemed to think there was something special about her. Well, I couldn’t see it.

She had too much influence on him. He would attempt to articulate his words in the same ridiculous fashion as her. I noticed the same brand of cigarettes on his private desk – the two of them smoked like steam trains.

The only time the smoke disappeared was when food was being absorbed.

When Charlie was five, I remember it well: all the children had left, my parents and neighbours had retired. Charlie was sitting on his lap, all ready for bed; I was in the kitchen clearing up.

“Liz,” he called.

“I’ve got something to tell you. It’s good news. I’ve waited a long time 125

to make this decision. I’ve made it and I’m not going back. You and Charlie will see more of me. Everything which has been neglected in the past can be reunited with the coming future.”

At that very moment I was sure that his opening text was written by some scriptwriter, by a stranger, because he had never considered, with the exception of Charlie, anyone’s wishes or longings, but his own.

“I’m leaving the company, Liz; I’m going to start a new life for myself. Be my own boss. A consultant. Harry is still too young to die, Ivor is a pain in the arse – still can’t make up his mind what to do. I’m not convinced he’ll stay in that God-forsaken, overpopulated corner of this planet. Even if he does, the board will still be around for too many years for my liking.

I want to make big money Liz, I know more about that construction company than the whole bunch of them put together. I’ve made a deal with Harry. A consultancy based on my terms. They can take it or leave it.

I’ve got a book full of contacts – been saving them from day one, always sent them Christmas cards, even if they had no God to praise and nothing to celebrate.

I can’t go wrong Liz. You know how to host a party for business contacts, I’ll double your personal budget, we’ll advertise for a young nanny for Charlie, and then you can travel the world with me.

I’ll bring Harry in more contracts than his company has seen lying on any chap’s desk. They won’t know what’s hit them.

All I need is a good secretary, the latest technique, and you at my side.”

To think that I fell for it all. The overgrown schoolboy. A confidence to the extent of absurdity and finally the childlike innocence to think that the entire universe would wish him well and that he, the business man of the year, could get away with fraud.

I’ve lost count of so many incidents. I’ve long forgotten the nature of them all, let alone the description of goods which arrived from countries I’d never heard of.

The surprise birthdays on the river boats, the unexpected entertainment 126

and guests. His arm always around my shoulder. Photos of Charlie and me in his car, inside his wallet. His new luxury yacht was christened Char-Liz, to show the world the true meaning of Family Bliss.

It must be the Christmas message; I can find no other reason why at this stage a line from one of my grandfather’s sermons springs into my thoughts Truth never has to defend itself. Truth doesn’t have to be proved.

Truth is truth.

Time rushed by, I remember Mother commenting on his appearance “He’s looking tired Liz, tired and worried. Pay attention to him, stop spending so much time with Charlie – she’s ten now, you can leave her alone with nanny for a few days – If you’re worried I’ll come and stay over for a few nights.

I’ll clear up some of your cupboards. Have my meals with nanny.

Give your father a rest.

Poor dear, I do nag him. He worries about you Liz, he still can’t fathom out where all the money comes from. He doesn’t trust it, but keeps quiet for your sake.”

Annie knows the truth Thinking back, Liz tried to clear her grey cells – I know it was Rome – he had meetings the whole day, long telephone calls the whole evening. I fell for the beauty of Rome, but I realized after my return home that without Charlie we had very little to connect us.

I remember now: it was five days after Charlie’s birthday, her father arrived back home after his trip to Poland. Something to do with roads and schools. I can still hear him telling Charlie how lucky she was to have such a wonderful classroom and surroundings.

I automatically packed his suitcase – Annie, who had been with us since day one, always cleared it out. We used the word ‘clear’ because her 127

thoroughness produced hilarity. She didn’t miss a single matchstick or an unused toothpick.

She would rage at him for spilling his talcum powder all over the clothes and if he forgot her box of chocolates, her tongue would give him a good dressing down. He loved it. She probably reminded him of his deceased mother. She was never allowed to eat alone. She was part of the family and to this day I still believe he confided in her.

She made his favourite snacks, stayed until late to bring him his late night drinks. Never threw the news papers away unless she knew he had read them. Everyone had their own domestic programme.

I saw them standing on the landing. I could see Annie shaking her left fist at him. She had something white screwed up like a ball in her right hand. He was laughing and, the more he laughed, the nearer she got to him.

I was too scared to run up the stairs. This was their war.

Any minute now, I thought she’ll punch him one. Types like Annie, give what they get and on this particular, very damp morning, our Annie obviously didn’t appreciate the surprise the Lord and Master had given her.

A laugh from him, a shaking of her fist. Suddenly it came to me, the last thing he had done before the return journey. My gaudy imagination supplied me with sexy underwear, satin night wear, a glamorous pair of flimsy panties, blue and white garters, and two prostitutes – one of whom had tucked her underwear neatly under her customer’s soiled shirt. In this case my husband’s.

They took his money and rushed.

One can hear them singing “Serve him right. I saw the bastard’s photo of his wife, too good for the likes of him. I bet he knocks any woman who looks at him twice. ’ll bet you all the money in China – he’s had more women then we’ve had hot meals. Fancy being married to a creep like him, and what’s more he is the type who would try to get two for the price of one. The rotter, I’d give anything to see his face when the suitcase springs 128

open.”

Now Liz was rather enjoying her thoughts. She could see it all taking place. Martin being taken for a ride by two cheap floozies.

Mobiles give us the freedom to talk and laugh on almost any square metre of the world’s surface. There are a hundred and one reasons for taking a call outside. It doesn’t have to be the mistress.

On this particular day Mother and I saw a figure standing in the middle of his recently sewn grass, giggling, grinning, his hand in his left pocket, obviously enjoying the feeling of his well trained discovery.

Lord and Master of his empire, an attitude of deviance which managed to penetrate though the walls of his home and settle majestically in the inner environment around us.

During that display of self confidence on his part, it was that precise moment when I secretly acknowledged that, if I wanted to retain my life of pleasure and love with my husband and child, then under no circumstances could I continue to turn a blind eye, or feel I was being ungrateful when trying to trick the truth out of him.

Our life style had to change. If not for me then for Charlie.

Over the next 2 years I went through the pain of seeing him time after time leave our house, get into his latest-model jeep and set off, to return home after two nights.

“Contacts, Liz” he would say, “business, I’m staying with an old school friend. Saves me mileage and driving has become tiring.”

He always grinned when he left the house and he was still grinning when he returned.

Financially I noticed no change whatsoever – I could still buy what I pleased, but I surmised that the business contacts were diminishing.

Christmas cards still arrived. The crates of brandy must have got lost on the way. Envelopes from Gibraltar – Jersey – Lichtenstein were delivered – had he been there? Not to my knowledge. This was the problem, one I had created: I never did know what was happening around me.

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I let him suffocate me with a superficial lifestyle. Was this the power of love, or had I underestimated the power of denial?

My tears appeared whenever I was alone, in the garden, alone in my car, waiting alone in the queue at the butchers. Week in, week out. Unknown as she was, I could smell her skin, feel his hands gliding over her body, their laughter. The smell of their cigarettes. The hotel room permanently at their disposal.

Did he buy her presents? Liz asked herself, but immediately she reassured herself with a firm denial – you know perfectly well, woman, he’s far too mean to pay for strangers; it’s just not his style. One could imagine the Floozy paying him. And by Jove he would take it!

All good things come to an end Do I believe at this final stage all the details I’ve gathered?

I still gasp for breath when recollecting. I’m still so indecisive – Am I secretly gasping for the past, or desperate for the future? The hours I spent alone trying to construct a plan of destruction. His shotguns, perhaps – the brakes in his car, the bread knife, right down to the crochet needle. The gun would blow his brains out, the car brakes would put him in a wheel chair, the bread knife would pierce through the heart and the ribs, and the crochet needles would slide beautifully through his over-active balls.

I remember hearing the car engine come to a halt. The slamming of a car door. The desperate silence while the kitchen door was opening.

It was late. He stood with the same grin on his face as when he left.

The weekend case still in his hand.

It was all so easy. All I had to say was “one word from you, and I’ll fire at those lungs and heart of yours with such accuracy, they’ll be using ‘em for next week’s transplant.

Now get your God almighty carcass out of this house and don’t come back until we can straighten out this macabre situation.”

He turned his back on me. He stood looking at the kitchen door.

I remember I was terrified. It was the silence, it was mortifying.

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No sudden telephone, no unexpected door bell, just a statue completely motionless. Maybe after three minutes, perhaps even four, he turned himself round and moved as a spear towards me.

“I’ll kill you; I’ll get you down into the gutter even if it takes my last breath. You ungrateful cow. To think my dear old mum used to wash rich folks clothes, why? So she could buy me a second hand school blazer; you, you clean the toilet wearing a Chanel perfume or a Versace.”

His face was blue, his eyes frightening.

His speech was difficult to follow. “I’ve fought the establishment my whole f--- life. I’ve been close, yes extremely close to Queenie’s prison, and every time it was worth it just to see you and my daughter living in what I never had, a paradise.”

“And the woman?” Liz shouted – “What f--- woman? Do you really think your old man has never cocked his leg over. Women are assets to society nothing more, nothing less. Now get out of my way.

I’ll give you no more than 24 hours to get out of my house, or did you forget to reed the deeds, before trying to wreck me of my life’s work.

Charlie will stay here with me.

If it wasn’t for her. I’d squeeze every drop of breath out of you’re f--body.”

The car moved slowly down the drive. His daughter was taking part in a junior tennis tournament. He knew she would win. Got our blood in her, he told himself. Sod all the rest of em we’ll get on without ‘em.

He felt sick. His eyesight was failing. He drove though the red light. The noise of car horns was unrecognizable.

He was sweating, his hands trembling. He drew the car alongside the kerb. For the first time in his life he was scared. He could hear his heart beating. He grabbed his phone from the dash board pressed the emergency sign. The lights went out for the driver and swirling blue lights dominated the route to the local hospital.

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“Your name Sir please, let’s see how far we can get with this form, next of kin would be a great help. You could have caused a serious accident.

Sugar diabetes should not be ignored. Your blood pressure is frightening.

Did you rush off this morning; you have no papers on you – no wallet. Let’s start first with you’re name. Could you repeat that? We’re not very clear yet with the memory. Take you’re time.”

Martin, “Surname please?” “Monk” he muttered, where exactly am I nurse? I was on my way to watch my daughter play tennis.

I remember not feeling well. Sugar, what sugar? The only sugar I digest is in my tea. His charm started to develop. If there’s sugar in milk, note I drink at least 3 liters per day. Now can I get a taxi back home?

My car must be somewhere and there’s no one at home to sort out this palaver.

I’m the only one who knows where all the paperwork can be found. The thought of someone having the freedom to dig around and rummage in what he called his dustbin files, caused not only a new outbreak of sweat, but also a lapse of speech.

I’ve thrown her out – there’s no one there – anyone can mooch around – where would Charlie be now? His mind was circulating like a whirlpool.

“Nurse get me out of here, just mention your price he whispered.

A week in Dubai? – it’s lovely there in December – anything you’ve ever wanted – but get me out. I’ll settle for one night and that’s you’re lot.”

What the nurse was promised, we’ll never know. A taxi was ordered for the following morning, and a sealed letter for his local g.p. was ostentatiously lying at the foot end of his bed, long before the night nurse battle axed her way down the ward.

His mind still a jungle, he couldn’t for the life of him think straight.

“Didn’t I throw that woman out of my house – wait a minute, relax, I’m not all that bonkers – she wanted my heart for some other poor sod, and my lungs were being sold to pay for the latest jeweler’s bill.”

Use you’re old nut Martin, the time isn’t ripe yet to throw her out.

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You see what can happen when you lose your referee’s whistle.

For one minute you’re out of control. You’ve lost your memory.

What do they call it? Short term, that’s it. I’ll give her lungs.

By the time I’ve finished with the dustbin files she’ll be begging for air.

She’ll need a brace to cover her teeth. In his imagination he was closing every minute gap available for the flow of oxygen.

He was alone, the lights were dimmed, the night nurse was practically finished with her first round.

Martin was still trying to negotiate with himself the unpredictable bombshells of the last forty eight hours. I’ll hire Bob Hughes at the end of the street to handle the divorce proceedings. He’s a regular church goer, never been divorced, knows what a woman’s place should be in the house.

He’ll be on my side. Wouldn’t surprise me if he gets me off, free of alimony.

Cousin Mark, I shall consider if necessary.

At this stage he pulls the white bleach smelling sheet up to his chin and rubs his nose in it. Mark’s been divorced twice. He started married bliss in a Bentley, drives off to the office now in a Volks Wagon, on second thoughts, he’s not much cop. Getting someone off me back shouldn’t make me…, the statement of prediction never finished.

The night nurse had made sure that her patient was not going to keep the ward awake and his obvious vanity would thus be reduced to heavy snoring only!

I could have had a heart attack; it was time for Martin to pamper himself.

Attempted Suicide. Men have been known to make fools of themselves.

I’ll describe it as a simple blackout and a motor that stopped running.

His face became thoughtful and his thumbs drummed a soft military march on his desk. No discipline in that hospital, they use first names indiscriminately. I should worry if some doc is called Tom, Archiebold, or Charley, a load of artificial mumbo jumbo, no more no less.

A plain undecorated coffin and the telephone number of the insurance broker must have been in the minds of my beloved and her nearest.

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I bet the old lady had phoned Locks for a new black hat and a panama for the Caribbean.

Martin enjoyed being active, he reveled in having a race with time.

This divorce was going to be sensational; he reflected it would be a work of ingenuity, not the usual monkey business most male species are acknowledged for. Did Liz mention divorce to me? God knows, she wanted to kill me, so what’s the difference?

I’ll let her stay around. We’ll chuck her out when the time is appropriate.

My soul is still under my feet; I’m free to act and subject to marital rights whenever I please. Superb suspense – that’s it, everyone on their toes, all hesitant on what they should admit or agree upon.

My lungs to the philistines – give me a break – this brew will have so much air, so much suspense plus all the shameless deceptions that go into the molding of a divorce.

I’ll tell her to retain a lawyer. A good one, preferably a female – he fancied a good fight – he’d need one hour to charm the silly nitwit…?

With Liz still in the vicinity, he could remain one step ahead. Predict her thoughts and decisions previous to announcements in her own naive and domestic system.

He knew that Liz was not the type to degrade people. She rarely saw or felt the evil around her. She’s a target for punishment. Martin was near to licking his lips and finger tips. Never had he been a prisoner to torture, but now there was one in the same house, the same street, according to law, the same family. It was right in front of him, waiting to be picked up, tossed in the air, and chucked out.

Lungs he whispered are air, my heart, – his lips started to tremble, – passion – forgiveness and hate.

He swiveled his chair around, he thought he saw Charlie cycling down the drive. Did she know of her mother’s theatrical decision?

Must make a firm decision on the cemetery plot. We don’t want her up and me down. No family bits and pieces that yours truly can pay for.

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Each to his own, I say.

Martin was so used to finding out all he could and evaluating future prospects for his business, that he thought it the most normal and practical procedure to compile a domestic c.v. exposing Liz in all her glory – morning – noon and night.

It was adamant that the dull, righteous lawyer swallow and digest Liz in her current life style. Her financial personal obligations towards retail, fashion, vacations, her social presence relevant to the business – What she cost the company, her monthly allowance – who and what she was draining.

Her charities. He wanted every financial detail relevant to her existence on paper. I’ll put droopy drawers onto it. She’ll be in her element.

Probably scream her ugly head off, throw a book or two at my head.

Declare war and deny me my weekly sex bonus – I should worry – my heart’s gone, my lungs have found a new home, we’ll put me John Willie out to dry, some idiot will find an objective for purchasing it.

He thought back to the many hours, he and his mirror had enjoyed smooching. His dreams for the future and now this load of stinking palaver.

A phony war The atmosphere in the house was one up, one down – she went out – he came in. Charlie walked around as if nothing was taking place.

Let ‘em get on with wasting their lives – as long as I have my horse, and Dad can take me everywhere, why should I be affected by their childish games of monopoly. If she wants to send him to prison, let her! If he wants to chuck her off at Charing Cross, so be it. Only one of the two will win.

I’ll put my savings on Dad. Mum’s a loser, a nice loving loser, but she could never conquer my Dad and his circus.

Liz talked too much, this was always one of her weak spots, couldn’t keep her trap shut. Always anticipated that human nature was there to help 135

you. The idiot never dreamed that females in particular are their own worst enemies.

Liz was feeling mentally exhausted. There’s nothing worse she told her mother than to be living in a house with an unpredictable man.

The fear of not knowing what he’s up to. A secretary who acts as if she’s on my side, but needs him to pay her salary every month.

He still takes me everywhere with him when it comes to social events with our friends. I’m worried sick that he’ll ignore my allowance at the end of each month, that’s what so contradictory my account is credited like clock work.

Who signs for all of the domestic payments, the mother asked?

Martin’s not always around at the end of every month. Liz hesitated before giving an answer. It’s an advertising company called Simso, the bank statement indicates: Services rendered in the month…. But Liz didn’t you ever ask where and why – did you just spend it all?

For all we know Martin may have overseen the automatic payments.

Was everything always paid through the books or cash? Liz had to think twice, was there a pattern. You’ve got to get you’re whit’s together.

Why she never asked where the money came from, we’ll never know.

It arrived, she spent it on house keeping, money for the cleaner, hairdresser odds ands bods and when insufficient, off she went to the bank and withdrew any necessary cash from their joint account.

Did the man never look at his statements? Or was there a reason for allowing Liz to have such utter freedom. If he ever went shopping with her, she always ends up with the cheaper of two identical items. When he could compare a price relevant to a piece of clothing it was always the cheaper item which found its way into the family wardrobe. When Liz purchased a designer’s piece alone he never asked the price it was all so contradictory.

A gorgeous piece of jewelry for the annual wedding day party was Liz’s for the asking. A mean, tight man who so obviously wanted to keep on the good side of a women whom he had long taken for granted. Why?

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The right woman for the job Have we found the right lawyer yet? Her mother continued, ask Paula Swalobski, she went through a hell during her divorce. If I’m not mistaken a very intelligent young female lawyer was recommended. Not the glamorous, Dolce&Gabanna, type – comes from a good nest.

Is crazy about men. Married to a young general practitioner called Molly.

Liz dear, I’ll find her address my gut feeling says she is just what we need.

Start using your brain Liz bring a halt to the daily crying, lets give him what he could never anticipate and certainly not from you.

Paula Swalobski, was in her element. Another poor female being sent to the Philistines – another barstard who thinks he can tread on we women as if he is kneading bread. She needs Maria Potter, she’ll rip him of every stitch he has. I’ll help the woman; I know what it is to think one’s world is going to vanish. The doctor’s waiting room, not knowing what to say once you’re sitting opposite him. Realizing what a ignorant fool you are when you ask for the tablets to keep you going and not daring to tell him of the poison pens and legal devils surrounding you.

I’ll phone Maria myself, ask her to phone Liz, tell her to put the desperate woman at ease.

I’ll tell Maria there’s money in the family, this always does the trick with the legal race, regardless as to which nature of human society it represents.

Maria Potter, was every man’s dream of salvation. He didn’t have to be nice to her; he didn’t have to buy her presents, he could forget his aftershave. All he had to remember was – be on your guard – perhaps it was the Indian tint – the dark, almost black eyes – the black hair, slightly grey at the temples that made one shiver. A history of scalping the whites remained in one’s thoughts, if not after the first meeting then rest assured after the second. Maria Potter was the first page of luck that entered that evening in to the life of Liz Monk. Maria always so beautifully composed, relished from a long and enduring legal game of chess. It was her favourite magical past time, nine out of the ten times she forgot she was playing with 137

humans, let alone their emotions.

Maria had never failed to win a game. She indoctrinated her clients, mostly females in how to compile and execute their homework, Maria’s slogan was at all times – if you can’t be bothered to investigate your own damage – then I can never win. Liz was slightly evasive during round one.

She felt ignorant, so lazy lizzie grizzie. Maria was so professional; one could imagine her shoelaces knotting themselves.

Grey flannel suit, black tea shirt, as Liz’s grandfather would have said – there’s no flies on this young lady – Maria had the flyswatter, she was in full control, if a fly was going to leave this earth, then Maria would be the swatter.

Liz, I’m going to cost you money, we’re going to get on each other’s nerves. There are times when I know you are going to exasperate me, however as from this moment onwards no more tissues in your hand.

You want to cry, do it in the bathroom, in the toilet, never again in my presence. Why? He’s not worth it. You’ve given him your youth – you knew he couldn’t keep his hands off the women – so what’s new?

There was silence; Liz knew that Maria was right in her assumption. Her mother had told her that tears would get her nowhere.

I’ll do the thinking Liz, I’ll win the battle for you, all you have to do is – act as if you have no understanding of the conceptions of fear, stress, collaboration and finally misconduct. You can’t tolerate his lifestyle any longer, it’s cruel. You want out.

Thank God that’s over and done with, “Maria had the amusing habit of talking to herself,” there’s no fear of her inventing any sparks which could upset my strategy. I’m going to enjoy this, I’m going to love every minute of it, a lovely juicy bone for the accountants, they’ll have a whale of a time.

Must phone Liz early tomorrow, she’s got to have a duplicate key made of every door which is automatically locked.

Security numbers of the safe – computer…..keys to everything which 138

could contain any item of secrecy. He must have known that the bomb would explode, if not this year then the next. I’ll bet, my entire fortune, his company has the biggest load of life wires ever. She knew he had long learned the supreme lesson of salesmanship and this doctrine would be to his benefit throughout the entire tug of war.

One of them would get the best of the bargain. “How often,” she asked herself, “have I not gone through this procedure?” The lies, the anger, the fear that one might profit from the other. Let’s get it over quickly for everyone’s sake. Maria left her office, walked towards her car – merger, she thought – take over – he’ll engineer goods from one company to the other.

The man’s a crook, a repulsive individual.

Has taken his background with him. I’ve forgotten the word they use for them, by second thoughts I don’t want to know.

The leather steering wheel was at all times a magnet for Maria’s suspense.

She would sit in her car, forget to turn the engine on and polish the wheel with her middle finger. Only when her mind was clear, would the noise of the engine bring her back to her daily routine.

He’s not alone in his tea party. He’s too sure of himself. There’s backgrounds music somewhere.

You’re up against a string of ‘em. Forget it for one night, close the curtains, and prepare the lamb for the love in your life. God knows most people have little respect for the most precious gift in our lives – love.

She could hear the phone ringing – she was too late. She recognized the number.

Tomorrow’s another day Liz. I’ve promised myself a taste of heaven tonight. Rest assured I’ll be back tomorrow.

Lawyers That’s not the way it goes Mr. Monk, no more first names, this is business – invoices, payments for my time – cup of coffee to break the ice and we start the game of spec and bone. The professional behaviour is always associated with the emotional burial of two people once craving for the smell and ownership of each other. I must know exactly what your wife 139

brought into the marriage. How much she contributed to the company. Your house, all assets, inventory, life savings, insurance.

The latest tax papers are really what we need. Once you have declared the latest annual report to the tax authorities send me a copy plus a copy of the last four years. Martin’s colouring began to fade. Now listen mate, I’m trying to get rid of a wife before she, or her old lady strip me of my last pair of pants. I’m not checking the tax people, to see if they’re contemplating having pity on me. They’re the last bunch of hooligans I want around me.

I want her out – Martin began to get a little hot under the collar. He had always smirked at others who found themselves in the claws of divorce plunders. Serve them right, he would preach, it’s their own stupid fault.

Who in this day and age swaps a home, one’s castle for a woman? No woman could ever get me out of my domain.

If she doesn’t like it she can lump it.

For the first time in her life Liz felt completely in control of what she was doing. Her faith in Maria was absolute. As ridiculous as it seems, if her lawyer had said eat porridge every morning, bacon and chips in the evening she would have followed the instructions without the slightest hesitation.

Her task was to acquire evidence, which would destroy the porkies and misleading theatrical drama undoubtedly being prepared by her future ex and his legal team. All mighty male wonders, highly respectful morals, crucifying fees methodically budgeted for unavoidable court sessions.

The pitiful incident, at this moment of the case is, it never dawned on our arrogant moron, that regardless of their facial camouflage, stiff and starchy clothing, not all lawyers were as crooked as a winkle pin.

He realized too late that he had chosen the wrong bunch. They were disgustingly honest, and correct. He was jealous of their royal decorations.

Martin convinced himself that some ‘charter what not’ should have been bestowed upon his achievements, years ago. After all he did come from nothing, and most of the legal ribbons found their way automatically into families of tradition. He’d done his best to make the world go round. What 140

do they do most of the time, he asked himself. Nothing more than follow rules put together by someone else. Nothing to do with hard work and labour.

“Now the ribbons hanging on a pin and attached to a good quality suit, could naturally impress his highness the judge, that is,” Martin told himself, “if the ignorant prat is not far sighted, and his specs are still lying on the kitchen table.”

Two games of chess The strategy Martin adopted was titled D R A G – According to his mental dictionary DRAG meant… she could be dead and gone by the time they have all the paperwork they think they need from me.

Put everything aside, antagonize one and all. I didn’t ask for this mess.

We’ll create a game of chess. Chess is a game, played by two players.

One player plays with the white pieces, and the other player plays with the black pieces.

I’ll take the black. Liz can take the white. Chess always demands time.

Excellent brain stimulation. I know I’m going to win. We’ll move a few assets plus a weenie liability from one king to the other.

No one can deny or contradict. No one would dare, they need me to pay their bills.

There’s a chess board in my cellar. I’ll display it on the corner of my desk. I’ll move the pieces, one for one every day.

Let’s make this period in my life exciting and sinister, let’s win a game of chess. If a king falls down whose worried, I’m certainly not leaving the house. They’ll always be someone around to pick him up, dust his little head and put him back on his royal square.

Martin was divinely satisfied with himself, the only weak spot was Scarlet, madam grumpy drawers, what the hell, we’ll cross those bridges when we get to it.

The coffee cup was empty. Why is it he asked himself that no one today 141

can make a good cup of coffee any more – is it the coffee or am I living too much in the past.

There were times when Maria felt like a school teacher. She was for ever influencing her clients thoughts. She always anticipated that her clients would be slightly more intelligent.

“Has the time not come,” Maria inquired, “for you to start calling him by his name, do I have to remind you how to pronounce, articulate, throw it out and then spit? Really Liz, we’ve got to act in a normal unobtrusive fashion.

Let the neighbors think they’ve got it all wrong.” Maria continued, “they’ve got the wrong house, it’s the woman next door who went off with the plumber, he had an attractive pipeline, something to that effect. Call Mr. Ex by his name, act as if you have been reborn, no one influences your emotional system. Believe me there’s nothing worse than having someone around you who is capable of giving no valid response. It’s punishment.

It drives the opposition completely out of his or her nut. Meals on time, clothes washed and ironed, if he enjoys fruit cake on a Friday, then we will give him his fruit cake on the Friday. Under no circumstances will we throw it at him. We will grind our teeth, cut a large portion and secretly hope he chokes himself with it. Try constantly to think of the visitors who in the past visited you with all their private lunacy, they left you with all their rubbish, what happened? You got used to it; you listened and observered with one eye and a deaf ear. That dear Liz is going to be your permanent life style until I say move. He can’t throw you out. Every day a little more salt in the emotional wound.

Last but not least starting from today, you are going to keep a daily shopping list which will register what is going on. A shopping list, Liz inquires; I never went shopping with him. I know Liz dear, I truly know.

In our imagination we are going to turn your house into a retail project.

Goods come, goods disappear. Strangers come, strangers go. Check your cash everyday. Every minute of the day we are going to be alert. The owner of a shop can’t afford to trust his nearest and dearest.

You dear Liz are going to be that owner and my gut tells me your shop 142

is going to stay open for extremely long hours. Now have a nibble of cheese then you can disappear into the world of speed, commonly known as traffic.

Liz walked slowly to her car. She was so intoxicated with the sermon preached by her lawyer; it took her at least five minutes before she could find her car key. Once in the car, seat belt adjusted, her tears started to flow as if they had been waiting for weeks to be exercised.

She grabbed the gorgeous looking steering wheel with both hands.

Any minute now I’m going to choke, I can hardly breathe.

It’s alright for her to preach, she never loved the man. She never walked down the church’s Isle in a fabulous long white dress.

She’s never believed in fairy stories, the handsome prince, the envy of all one’s friends.

I can’t hate him, I want to but I can’t.

She turned the radio on in the hope that a voice would settle her nerves; bring her back to her senses.

The jackpot for Liz that day was; The Rev. Mc Donald. He was preaching, to his sheep, the art of loving one’s enemy. His voice was relaxing, his Scottish accent so frustrating it made Liz want to scream. She hated any form of accents, especially ones that reminded her of bag pipes.

What a world, Liz murmured; one human preaches revenge the other love. The lipstick popped out of the handbag. The powder compact repaired the facial damage. The car key found its home of action, the driver advanced into the last period of her married life.

Children are so often classified as marriage savers – they’re not, they increase the competition between two sexes. Liz didn’t need a calculator to define that Martin was playing around throughout Charlie’s existence.

He loved his daughter, with all intensity, but no way did the child delete her father’s fear of death, death and fear being frequently the hidden male secret to infidelity.

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It took brother Martin, regardless of his intelligence his capacity to adjust to situations around him two solid years before he could change all the locks, in the house and refuse Liz entrance into what used to be their house.

It took two unbelievable years to get their house cleaned from webs of mental and emotional disasters. Both players received an award; both won a prize of ill health.

One undoubtedly more destructive and killing than the other.

One more ignorant and uncontrollable than the other. Liz made quite clear under no circumstances would she allow him to throw her out of the house before the divorce was official and that both parties had agreed to the final financial settlement in court.

To claim and to give are both actions of immense fascination, especially when they concern the next door neighbor. Martin loved nothing more than to tell someone else how to live, family unity, respect for the past.

Martin had now his own war to win, and like all war lovers, they do not feel the illness and wounds which creep into their and the bodies of their enemy.

The respect for the past diminishes. It has no existence. Their thoughts are focused on winning; their earthly possessions must remain in tact. The promise to cherish in sickness and in health disappears relentlessly into thin air. Blood Pressure and Diabetics are two of the many creepy crawly enemies which enjoy paving at all times their aggression into our body.

There’s nothing nicer or more welcoming for them both than a body that’s killing itself for one reason only – it’s got to win.

The Chess Board and all its pieces gave comfort. Reminded Martin of the mirrors back home. If only he could find an accountant that he could confide in. Discuss with him a few last minute tactics before finalizing last year’s: Tax Report. Why on earth he asked himself couldn’t the woman have buggered off three years ago? Why now when things are going in my favour. Who have I done a favour for, in the past, pushed a new account their way? Martin racked his brains, but as usual he always came back to 144

his initial judgmental conclusion.

In comparison to him they were all loonies, none of ‘em had reached his status, none of ‘em had his problems.

He sat for hours looking at the chess board. With a few pawns around me, we’ll suffocate the ungrateful cow. He was about to say, send Liz off on a bike, dump her in a council flat and let them look after her, when his darling droopy drawers danced into his mind. The fact that Scarlet had been extremely non communicative the last few weeks was more the reason to focus his charm in that direction.

Companions in adversity The clock struck midnight. If I have to put it in writing, my future ex. can take that bloody clock with her. Its chimes would drive anyone barmy.

He actually giggled. You stupid sod he squeaked. The answer’s looking at you. That nincompoop company of Scarlet’s is going down the drain.

She’s the type who only relates when she’s booked success. It’s been too quiet lately. Fishy, something rare is going on.

I’ll tell her to get her arse out of her candle light bed and make sure the hot chocolate is ready in exactly one hour from now. There was a feeling about the woman that made him feel that his generation and background was worth acknowledging. He would always remain a success in Scarlet’s eyesight. She spoke the Queen’s English with such perfection, she didn’t have to learn how to hold the teacup and the soup spoon, and yet they had something totally in common, bondage, hereditary, even their fears were identical. She always reminded him of women belonging to the past. The strong ones, the survivors.

The ones he used to love to read about in the Tales of Dickens.

But then what did an oriental countenance have to do with Dickens?

Who knows perhaps her grandmother lived in the same street as his.

They were hard times. There so much identical know how between the two of them, bread and butter pudding that one could slice, the Rag man, the drunks in the pub, cotton handkerchiefs. When I’ve got nothing else to do, 145

I’ll hire someone to sort it all out. There must be a link somewhere.

That she drank too much didn’t bother him. Her grandfather was a heavy drinker and her mother a teetotaler. The father had died young, a complicated background. Martin never believed the father bit.

He anticipated the existence of a father.

He sat behind the steering wheel, ready to go, he closed his eyes, for a moment he was afraid to start the engine, he could smell his own sweat, his hands were trembling. When this nonsense is all over I’ll have myself checked and restyled. He opened his eyes and even managed a smile. I’m not a suicide; I’m just a guy who wants what he deserves. I’m a practical man, and I’m up against a practical matter.

Scarlet knew he called her all the nicknames under the Sun, she knew he was a man who never released the past from his system.

The piping hot chocolate was waiting for him in the kitchen.

She heard his key in the latch; he threw his case like always, down in the hall and made his way to the kitchen. He looked grey, ageing.

He loved the smell of Detol that filled his nostrils, as soon as he reached the kitchen table. The white grain top. The uncomfortable chairs which had cost a fortune. The set was a replica of fifty years ago.

It always reminded him of his mum’s kitchen and the many tales of the past. Tales full of humor and tears.

With an old white mug in his hand, his nose for the want of being blown, the left hand grasping the back of Scarlet’s head, tightly, a collapsing act being prevented, by the thought of truth and security being at arms length.

You’re all I’ve got Scarlie, don’t run away, think with me. We’ve always been a pair of schemers. It’s now or never.

We’re up against a wall of mud. We’ve got away with murder in the past; a few more lies won’t kill us.

As sick as he was, he knew an introduction which smelt of deceit, would always arouse Scarlet’s attention.

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She’d been to his office a few times, when she knew that Liz was abroad.

She’d seen the luxury that surrounded the entire family.

The exquisite cutlery, the silver lamps – The kitchen floor paved with marble tiles. The beautiful antique evening bags, which always reminded her of her Mother’s needle work. The exceptional silver ash tray and matching lighter on the coffee table, a few of the many items which Liz’s Mother had bestowed to Liz and her husband.

“They look better in your house than mine” she would say “and I can always see and enjoy them when I visit.”

“Your tin pot alley company, Scarlie, I’m going to lend it a small 200.000 giving you the chance to expand, buy additional material from India, purchase a few more sewing machines from Italy.

I’ve been negotiating with you for the last 12 months now, as to whether I should buy you out completely.

Make a worthwhile company of it; turn it into an international Eco company for kiddies.”

Scarlet stood looking up to the ceiling, anything to avoid looking into his eyes. “Martin” she whispered “are you going off your rocker – I don’t need your damn money, your inferior nonsense originating from India, and out of date machines from Italy. Now tell me what’s it all about?” “Scarlie, I beg you help me. I’ve got to get rid of any positive results. As of today I’ve got to have debts, outstanding loans, any valuable assets no longer in my name, you already have a signature on the offshore accounts; they’re the least of all my worries.

I’ll put the Alvis cars in your name. I’ve got a month to change last year’s results. I’ve paid the accountant enough over the last 10 years, now he can show me what his worth. The current figures will ruin me. Crucify me. I’m not going to pay this woman alimony.

Let the state look after her. I’ve paid enough taxes, more than sufficient to keep her until her old age pension.” Scarlet closed her eyes “your not playing chess, you nut case, do you really think a judge would fall for this 147

infantile game, the awareness of such dealings would give the poor chap a blackout. Great news for the newspapers, but hardly the type of promotion you’re looking for.”

She walked into the hall as if to signify she had finished. There was still a bottle of gin in the unpacked shopping bag. She drank when there was something bothering her. That’s why people drink, she would tell herself.

I’ll try to comfort him – make him feel I’ll always be there and will understand.

We’ve always been good for each other, she said emphatically to herself.

He is the only man who has ever cared for me with no strings attached.

“You’ll find yourself in jail Martin, if you’re not careful. Don’t say I haven’t warned you,” Scarlet mumbled.

Scarlet knew she didn’t have to pour any alcohol in for him.

He was tired, but desperate to talk. “Do you really think the judges will interfere with my statements? I’m not doing the talking Scarlet; I’ve got a lawyer who can make a fool of himself. If he’s too sloppy to check what I give him then more the fool him.

I’ll bet you a fur coat and hat Scarlet, all the judges we come across are divorced, remarried twice and have each in total 6 children – you don’t really think that half their income goes to some flossy they met 25 years ago, got her pregnant at the time, and left her for mistress number two after ten years of marriage?

None of ‘em are any good, Scarlie, none of ‘em. Their theatrical clothing gives them the freedom to all angles of society. Have you ever spotted one who doesn’t have hair dangling out of his nose?”

There was always a moment in their conversation when words turned to screams of hilarity.

Scarlet knew, there was little in life, her dear friend and lover was ignorant of. He’d worked himself to the bone, had adopted the smart Alex tricks relevant to the various cultures which dominated his past working 148

environment and his hidden bank accounts of today.

He had learned something from all of them. Harry’s company had earned millions on the contracts which Martin had closed, if only this man of fire and passion had had the same background as the judges he now wanted to mislead. He could have ended as a international Star in the world of finance. He’s not going to make it, Scarlet told herself, as she took her first sip of gin from a tea mug! Someone who’s more alert, someone on the ball is going to run him over, kick him mentally to death. She shuddered at her own thoughts – “Go to bed Martin, tomorrow we’ll have a good old fashion fry-up.

Bacon, the whole lot steaming coffee and cream, fried bread the way you like it, and if you promise not to snore I’ll open the last tin of baked beans.”

“One day woman” – he hesitated – “one day – I’ll give you –” Martin never completed his intention. He went out like a light. He snored like a pig.

His breakfast the next morning was scrumptious, fit for a King.

A diet to kill, but who cares as Scarlet would say, we’re all going to die, if not today perhaps tomorrow.

Scarlet turned her head away, it always turned her off her meal, reduced her appetite to see Martin wipe his plate with a piece of dried bread, eat it, as if the lump was the caviar for all men and then wash it down with a last gulp of steaming hot tea.

I’ve told Liz to get a lawyer. I’ve retained one nearby. Bit prim and proper for a man, but at least he knows that men are superior at all times.

Overcharge me? I’m prepared for it! For the first time in my life I’m not going to complain. As long as he gets it into his thick scull, that the word alimentation has long gone out of fashion, and that none of his office staff dares to leak what’s going on, then I should worry what he charges.

Scarlet didn’t answer, she found herself in a maze of threads, each knotting, the one failure to other. He’s filling the coming events, she told herself, with fascinating characters and clothes them with observations from the Roman law in … He’s so misguided, unpredictable, its almost as if 149

he is aiming to print a new page in history.

Stop dreaming Scarlie and get your mind back to the current nitty gritty.

I want a positive response from you to my proposal – there are no shares, no shareholders, no mergers, thus no rumours, that can affect my silent adjustment of everyday priorities!

Basically I’m going to sign as much as possible over to your name.

I’ve always had one dream Scarlie, and that’s to crook the establishment.

Now’s my chance. Say something woman, don’t sit there looking at me. If I drop dead with in 12 months you’ll be stinking rich, you can give biological bird food to the entire bird nation. Just promise me you won’t give it to the street beggars, try and retain a little respect and passion in that lovely head of yours for me. If you must play the role of the charity box give it to restorations of monasteries, and then I’ll be sure of a place in the front pew of the church in heaven.

Scarlet put the television on, world news please I know it’s early morning, I want for once to see all the misfits in the universe, such a programme gives me a feeling of joy, a reminder of the poverty I left behind and how bloody hard I’ve worked to get where I am today.

No woman, Scarlet, no dement judge is going to take one particle away from me even if it kills me, I’ll not let them win. As intelligent as they all may be, their tactics could never beat mine.

Those life annuities, I’ll have them drawn up in our names, have her name deleted. I’ll make a complete inventory on what’s in my house.

Nothing is her’s, and I’ll see to it that she takes nothing with her.

I’ve got some good contacts with the police, gun licensees and all that.

My generosity was – The regular hare or pheasant for the family. The odd train set for the kids. All, as we say, in the line of duty!

Deep down you’re enjoying all this, Scarlet suggested, you want to make a new start, disappear with all your wealth to the land of no man.

Announce yourself king of the nomads. Have a harem of 10 women, who 150

will be satisfied with a daily diet of rice and water. What on earth Martin are you up to?

You’ve pulled the wool over the tax man’s eyes often enough.

You’ve studied every fiscal statement any tax inspector could use, by looking them all up in some encyclopedia, before the raid began.

Okay, you’re a smart Alec, but do we have to have revenge on everyone who’s ever pulled you down a peg or two? Your wife’s had it with you, whether you like it or not. She’s sick of some other woman seeing your clean underpants. Let someone else buy the Omo! Martin leaned forward, for once he was genuinely serious, “Look after Charlie for me, Scarlie, if any thing should happen to me, make sure she has the best of everything.”

He placed his favourite mug, the one which read – you’re the best – down on the kitchen table – took Scarlet by the shoulders – she anticipated that he would shake the life out of her, to the contrary, he kissed her as if his last second of breath was anticipating leaving him for ever. I’ll always love you Scarlie, whatever happens the ties we have will never dissolve. We’ve always been soul mates even in the years that we never met.

The endgame Liz had long controlled the tear drops. She knew there was no going back and if she wanted to remain receiving constructive advice from Maria then she was obliged to explore and execute the escapades submitted by her lawyer and not express her own emotional feelings on the case.

A difficult assignment for Liz, she of all people liked to hear her own voice. But for once in her life she knew that the true saviour of a boat that could sink was Madame Maria herself. If she had to play the role of poi rot, she would make it an experience never to be forgotten.

Striped clothing was the rage and she was prepared to dress for the occasion.

“Liz do you know where his administration can be found?” – do you know where to find the bank statements? The end of year reports from the accountants? I can always get my hand on them from the chamber of commerce but I want you to draw up your own composition, do your own homework.

We’re going to nail him Liz – your husband is such an arrogant bastard; 151

he couldn’t possibly envisage that someone would look into his financial administration. Without even searching I can predict the ‘prize’ sheets are sleeping oh so cosily next to each other, and you dear lady are going to make a photo copy of them all! “All of them,” Liz shouted, “every single one of ‘em.” “On the dot my dear,” you’re an excellent listener, now we’re going to be the doooo-er.

The two predictable days that our hubby is away you will spend every possible moment, for my part in the silence of the night to make a duplicate of everything you can find. Plane tickets. Restaurant Bills. Hotel Bills.

Car Bills – large amounts of cash withdrawn from the company’s account. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. You’ll love it.

I repeat, Liz, he truly won’t know what’s hit him, and if he gets up to any further multiple tricks which the law permits, have no fear we’ll always have a last golden bullet to remind him who’s crucifying who!

I can’t promise you the house. It’s in his name. He decided what’s mine is mine long before he married you, however, you’ve been married to him for 22 years, he can’t retain all the furnishings.

Be cautions at all times, there’s always a crown above your head that is willing to keep your hair in place and a dear friend who loves to listen to morbid and sad stories in particular the infidelity bits. They’ll cry together with you, hold your hand and tell you how sorry they are, but dear Liz, always remember never tell the little darlings too much.

One moment they’re holding your hand and the next moment a glass of sherry with hubby dear. They thrive on it, gloat on it and finally fill their bodies with energy from it. Life is cruel, Liz. Not only in war do we kill, the human race never stops excommunicating itself.

If not today, they’ll find a reason for tomorrow.

Liz was now the unpredictable pawn in the whole charade.

She didn’t attempt to leave the marriage bed. Meals were prepared, she attended social functions. Her life rotated around Maria’s version of sanctimonious humbug.

She played it beautifully, so perfect that Martin almost forgot he was 152

in the middle of a life restyling period. No longer he in, she out she even discussed Charlie’s wish to go to boarding school. An adventure that had received negative and fearful reactions from Liz at the time.

The Mother, the dear sweet lady knew what Liz was up to.

Everyday Liz related her detective ambitions to her Mother.

“Liz,” she would say “it’s all so sad, but I can’t help laughing – I can see you creeping around, feeling somewhat guilty for prying and secondly wanting to raise the roof when you’ve spotted something ugly. Those letters you found from a young girl, in America, have you discovered who she is and what’s she doing?”

I’ve found so many papers – letters – childish notes – reminders – that make no sense. I’m not interested mother in his double life and all his women. I’m selecting every piece of mathematical evidence that I can find and one thing is certain, Mother, he may have been a genius when it came to sales, but he certainly is every accountant’s nightmare.

He never opened a bank statement, he obviously didn’t have time.

I’m sure, Mother he had no idea, to the extent of amounts I was drawing from our joint bank account. I only wish I had drawn more.

He’s only interested in everything that relates to large amounts.

The number of contracts keeps him alive, as long as he feels he’s making money, the details are of no interest. They say every genius has his imbecile fears. Sealed data must have been one of his, fear of negative contents, fear of control. Always gliding on the edge of corruption. After 22 years I feel I am getting to know him for the first time.

The legal games which ended twenty two years of marriage was in it’s self a novel, an unbelievable script for a film. Five times Martin’s pin striped lawyer presented their marital history book, Martin’s sanctuary, his financial source of debt and misery. It was pathetic to watch and degrading to listen to.

Three times his sophisticated, charming wife made an utter fool of him.

It was a sight for soar eyes; a group of choir boys could not have achieved the rhythm of accomplishment in the air.

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He wanted to prove he was poor – she exposed his wealth.

He rushed home, he hoped to God that Scarlie could be found.

He needed someone to talk to. Someone to distract his urge to murder the two cows, where was all the evidence coming from.

Had the accountant played a false game? I know he likes Liz, but I can not see him doing the dirty on me. Blimey he’s been around too long too suddenly choose the path of righteousness. These women are ruining me Scarlie, they know you are living in a council house, they know you have monthly benefit from the state. They made an utter fool of me. They’re killing both of us.

I must be insane, this can’t be me talking – especially when I said the antique state rolls, we purchased last June was paid at a later date and owned by you. Now be quiet, I’m thinking. I’ve still got one more trick up my sleeve, Scarlie, me old darling, that monthly payment into Liz’s bank account, remember? The one I opened 5 years ago in her name. Was easy to use when I wanted to diversify. Lovely expression that word diversify, still don’t know what it really means, Liz’s lonely uncomplicated little account could, if we’re not too late, save my skin. He started to drink his daily glass of milk.

It was of no importance that Scarlet was no where to be found in the vicinity. Martin was so disrupted; he could have been talking to the Queen. There was no one around, no one to shout at, Bruno the dog came running up to him, gave him his usual lick on the left cheek.

Well at least I can talk to you, while I peddle my sore feet in my own pool. With one arm over the dog’s back, two well manicured feet in lovely cool water, Louis Armstrong’s trumpet telling him what a wonderful world it was. The music coming from the depth of the pool’s construction.

His ship which had accommodated countless quests, not forgetting the one stand flossies, all who dreamed of achieving ownership of the estate and its owner.

The grounds and the atmosphere of peace were all around him.

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He would miss the rabbits, the stray cats. The little boy on the other side of the river who would always wave to him from his wheelchair.

The postman who made the odd crack, the latest joke whenever they met. A mutual feeling, revealing their knowledge of identical backgrounds.

One delivered the letter. The other dismantled it!

He felt tired, sick, lack of energy, I’ll be like all ‘em, Mums, Aunts, uncles, I tried like all of em. Where did we all go wrong? No chance of me making old bones.

The dear old dog turned his head, as if his owner was talking to him personally. One could envisage him thinking, wake your ideas up old man, if I can still wiggle my tail, so can you.

What I wouldn’t give Bruno, my friend, for a good old fashion suet pud, plenty of meat and lots of dark gravy. Not forgetting the mashed spuds.

Knife, fork and a spoon to shovel it all in with. Bruno’s tongue appeared, both dog and man could, in their imagination smell and taste the steaming ingredients.

Both wanted to lick the plate, both were fed up with the everyday colourless health food which one hopes will stimulate one’s feeling of health and domestic bliss. Go on Bruno, get yourself in to the truck.

We’ll both have a big juicy steak. Grilled the way we like them, not the way we’re told to like them.

The dog squatted himself next to the driver, the view was free of all animals, no reason for any alarm barking. Off the two Pals went.

One with his tongue hanging out, the other with his mind on how to use his tongue in the future. It was obvious the house was his for the week-end.

Two days to think, contemplate on how devilish tricks had creeped into the picture. He, after all was honesty itself. He was the victim and the root of all this corruption used against him had to be destroyed.

He had used health as an excuse to drag and delay the sittings.

He called on everyone who owed him a favour to dig in and help, and as smart and intelligent as they all were, none of them could extend one single 155

hint which could lead to the obvious leak.

The majority, who felt obliged to throw some idea into the air, announced that the leak, without doubt, was to be found in the accountant’s company. “I’ve known the boss for 18 years,” he told himself, “I’ve said innumerable times, he wouldn’t do the dirty on me.

He wouldn’t dare. He satisfied himself by quoting – the prat wouldn’t know how!”

He got up late the next morning, it was Saturday. Had he taken his tablets? Sod the tablets, there’s not much hope left for me, I’ll eat less, get this profit loosing nightmare behind me, have a face lift, teeth straightened, pay a few visits to Harry, haven’t seen him for ages, try and steer myself back into the past. The old man will understand my relationship with Scarlet. Wasn’t he the man who repeatedly said-people look far too far in to the distance in order to solve or find correct answers? “Believe me” he would say the answer is always looking at them. They either never see it or won’t see it.

Martin, slice of toast in his hand, walked through the hall onto his den.

I do wish they would keep these drawers closed when they dust the furniture. Why do cleaners in the first place have to open drawers? Ignorant bunch he told himself. He was about to close the drawer when his eyes spotted a batch of open envelopes, the contents of which had obviously been screened. He never had time or the desire to open bank statements.

The envelopes automatically rested in total peace and security, the entire batch waiting to be delivered to the accountants, all sealed and ready for their monthly inspection. Who the hell has opened them? Martin looked at himself in the mirror hanging above the antique hall desk. He could feel his heart beating. His anger arising, he dragged his feet and all in the direction of the office. Out the way Bruno, not now boy I’ve got work to do.

His speech was slurred. He kicked the office door open, wiped his face with his hand, his face was covered with dampness excruciating from fear and the will to destroy who ever had been playing games with the 156

ownership of his company.

He stood nailed to the ground for at least five long minutes.

Every organ in his body was trembling. His eyes fixed on some twenty files, all standing brotherly and sisterly next to each other.

They’ve copied the whole lot, the bastards. They know more about my company than I do. The shock was so immense, the solution, the answer, the leak, and then to discover just one drawer from his desk. Bloody hell he cried, the bastards didn’t need a ladder to reach what they needed, all they had to do was to whistle and the king, the queen, two rooks, two bishops, two knights and eight pawns would have placed every piece of company pie into their hands. I’ll kill ‘em, whoever they are. This isn’t a game of chess, this is down right dirty.

‘Upper ten’ styles, methodical, no space for a fight. It’s so simple, it almost frightening.

He had no desire to search any further. The story was complete.

All those months and the answer, the solution, had been looking at him.

My dog’s got more brains than I have, he at least can smell destruction and me, I need someone to hit me with a hammer before I can smell in which, direction the clue is hiding. Bruno, who was never allowed in the house, took spontaneous advantage of the situation. His Lord and Master needed comfort. He never really liked the female partner; she always kicked him out of the house, even when the weather was bad. He is a dog she would say, and dogs should not be allowed in living quarters.

By the look on his masters face, and the hand strokes he kept receiving.

Bruno estimated that life was going to change. This he felt was genuine affection. No more messing around. Good clear water. His food on time, and rightly so.

It was pitch dark before Martin could bring himself to move from his chair. In his anger he had cried and choked himself to sleep.

His blue white dotted tie was still lying on the desk, cigarette buds and ash, literally all over the place.

He thought he saw blue car lights flashing their way up the drive.

She wouldn’t dare he groaned.

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I’ll strangle her, I’ll hang her, electrocute her. She’ll wish to God she’d never seen the light of day.

The unopened mail still lying on his desk signified to him that the driver would visit his office first. There was total darkness, even the lights in the garden were out, the entire surroundings indicated that no one was in the building.

Liz had become a “daily mail alcoholic”. A late night visit to the office would save time. Quench her curiosity. An excellent recipe for a good nights sleep!

There might be a last minute fax, an e-mail a scribbled note.

Scarlet had been sending too many faxes lately, telling him to change his attitude, their coming vacation to Turkey, there was nothing standing in their way, she could help him rebuild his empire.

Harry would always welcome him into the fold. He was a good Christian man, who could never begrudge or grudge his fellowman.

You were always his pupil, his pride. He has an answer to everything.

Stop trying to solve everything yourself. We all love you – “So did I,” Liz murmured, “but that was a long, long time ago.”

An intruder never puts all the lights on, to the contrary, their searching in the dark, their knowledge of space and location, is as clean, sharp, as a mouse focused on his supper of favourite cheese.

Liz never nosed around under a full blaze of lights. She knew exactly where the desk lamp could be found. Two minutes was all she needed. She was so up to date with the latest rigmarole, she could practically recite the up to date versions before they arrived. There was also something exciting about peeping into one’s husband’s business affairs. She always slipped her shoes off. Always made sure her bracelet couldn’t scratch his desk.

On this particular night she didn’t like the smell in the room.

She hated the smell of perspiration at all times, but this evening it was 158

overpowering, I’ll make sure to open the window, before I leave.

The lamp’s switch was now at hand reach. She was amazed to see what to her, in the darkness looked like a huge parcel on the desk.

Parcels aren’t my concern, Liz murmured, push it aside and select what you need.

He reached out and grabbed her arm. A scream? He didn’t give her time to create vocal aspirations. He pushed her back, grabbed her by the throat, and pinned her down with his knee to the desk top.

Draw a deep deep breath, you traitor, I’m going to squeeze the last drop of moisture out of your body. I’m going to watch your eyes pop out of you’re head – watch you change colour – Blue? Forget it, I promise you you’ll be your favourite colour: PURPLE! Those nipples I was never allowed to touch.

I’m going to squeeze ‘em so bloody tight you’re going to beg me to cut ‘em off. The salty drops of perspiration were pouring off his head onto her face. His hands began to tighten – Liz tried to scream she couldn’t move, she started to choke – her legs were fighting him, legs without shoes have little effect, but if the legs and the noises of destruction, killing, murder, penetrate through to the ‘rest period’ of a dog who has been trained to hunt and kill, then regardless as to who the victim is, the dog will show his teeth and bite, preferably through to the bone. Such a leg needs no shoe for at least eight weeks. There was blood everywhere, screams that no one could hear, the dog, the barking, the bite, the length of the teeth in the flesh, the blood, horrifying. It was lightening, in all its unpredictable targets. Martin forgot what the hell he was doing. For one second, he even forgot what it was all about!

The female victim was rolling over the floor screaming with pain, begging Martin to help her, and the dog was licking his lips after enjoying his first taste of human blood.

Murder and mutiny deleted, Martin crabbed his wife by the coat collar dragged her over the floor, the path and pushed her into his Jeep.

“For God sake woman shut up screaming,” Martin shouted, “you’re waking the neighbors.

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I’ll rush you to the hospital on one condition; you keep your mouth shut about my dog. You’ve got ten minutes to think up a cock and bull story, you fell down a rabbit hole, bar wire, a saw lying in the garden.

My dog saved your life – never forget I would have killed you and if you ever tell the truth, I still will.”

Out of court The entrance to the hospital was badly lit, and an abundance of staff were not exactly promoting their presence.

“Get out, and take a taxi back to wherever you want to go to.

Here’s the key to the caravan, use that.” Martin pulled out his wallet, and gave her a bundle of notes. “Don’t forget your bag,” he shouted.

“I hope to God I never see you again. You miserable, devious bitch.”

For the first time in her life Liz wanted to evade talking to anyone.

She was ashamed of the incident. Explanations were always one-sided.

This wasn’t newspaper chat, or incidents occurring next door.

This was a true life story, and she had the leading role. Listeners could take either his side or hers.

The final curtains have still to close, keep your self to your self, Liz, not many modern women of today can tell their friends later, my ex tried to murder me and Bruno his dog saved me. See it through, if you’ve got yourself through this horror incident then you can fight what’s still to come!

Sermon to herself completed, she throws open the windows in his caravan.

The night air, as damp as it was gave her a feeling of being on the road to recovery.

The leg was neatly stitched. Injections a thing of the past. She exercised the little red lies to one and all, she even managed to stay free of blushing and dribbling.

Her eyes closed – don’t cry Liz – don’t even think about it – dream of life 160

ahead – he won’t try to kill you a second time – he wouldn’t dare. He’ll now be asking himself, if I will keep my mouth shut who I have told. We haven’t finished with you yet hubby dear – your hands are now covered in blood – I’m still wearing gloves, diplomatic velvet ones. I don’t need to kill you, any fool can see you are killing yourself.

The visits to the court were coming to an end. Maria was convinced that even Martin would now stop playing the role of the financial lunatic and accept the fact that legal teams are encountered regularly with wise guys, who false their financial situation in order to release themselves of maintenance and all it’s trimmings: His last attempt might have reached the famous book of records, if only he had acquired the patience to present all the in’s and out’s in an acceptable life style fashion. He had everything at that moment on his side.

Liz, regardless of all the know-how she had stolen, was still not aware for 100% as to how all the paths entwined, who was who and was an accountant who had worked for them for so many years ignorant of her husband’s dealings? Martin was completely unaware of his wife’s knowledge on how to evaluate bank statements, she experiencing utter delight in steeling, but was incapable of understanding the true depth of the world around the torn corners, the damage incurred by paperclips and the perforation holes which always seem to delete the necessary dots or commas on company bank statements.

Martin declared that Liz had a monthly income. Not any income but an excellent monthly income. This monthly income should be taken into account for the future. For years the genius of the twentieth century had manipulated his printer to send him an invoice for printing material 4 times the amount of the actual costs.

Let’s be honest Martin would say, who in heaven’s name could even think to check on the amount of promotional material I need, or don’t need.

Its rubbish, it’s an item that eventually always finds its way into some one’s container.

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The printer was allowed to send an invoice for the actual costs plus an extra mark up of 50%. Martin would invoice him for 50% of the additional mark up. The printer would credit this amount to Liz’s account number plus the text ‘for services rendered.’ The account number of Liz’s account was credited every month with an amount of no less than 10.000… Thus 10.000 for the family living on one side of the river and an extra 10.000 tip for an occupant living on the other side of the stream, who’s occupation was printing. In reality all the printer ever did was to produce black and white retail material. Today one would call it ‘progressive manipulation.’ Martin had worked it out beautifully, he would simply say who in this modern age pays for one’s housekeeping, the domestic staff, your wives luxuries, when you’ve got suppliers who are hungry and need you desperately.

I didn’t render anyone any services Liz informed them – I received the money for the entire housekeeping. Perhaps it was naïve not to inquire why and exactly where it came from. It was one of those habits that starts and never ends.

A child of 12 could smell that such a procedure had nothing to do with services rendered by Liz. The nonsense was scrapped and Martin was ordered to pay his ex wife 10.000 per month and 3.000 for his daughter.

Rightfully mine From the caravan, Liz went to a delightful small farm, which she rented.

The time had now came when she was obliged to structure her own life and that of her daughter’s.

The first official assignment – her personal goods, clothes, furniture and items belonging to her parents. All had to be fetched from the ex family house.

She was scared, since the last court meeting, the fatal moonlight attack, Liz had had no contact what so ever with her ex. The payments came – always a week or a month too late, but at least they came.

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Liz phoned his secretary “Tell Martin I’ll be in the yard at 10.a.m on Wednesday. I want to collect some of my belongings, perhaps he can have some of the glass ware packed, not forgetting my Faberge – egg and my mother’s silver.

Tell him, he doesn’t have to rush, I’ll take what I can get in the car now.”

Liz couldn’t sleep that night, the thought of seeing Martin, her ex lover, her vicious attacker, she was terrified of him.

She had experienced what every woman reads about but could never envisage it could happen to her.

She spoke to her mother on the Tuesday evening. “Keep your thoughts to yourself Liz” Make sure the car is empty, while walking around his house, try and observe what is yours – try and detect if anything is missing. Has it ever dawned on you that he might have sold everything? Do you want me to come with you, Liz? I’m not frightened of him.

It’s no good phoning the police, so long as your alive and kicking, there’s no way you can rely on their support. Make sure you look well dressed, in complete control, nothing to put his nose up I never knew his own mother, praise the Lord she’s not around to experience these months and days” Liz’s final journey began. There was no rain in attendance, just a slight breeze, nothing distracting, all is well nothing can go wrong – my heart is about to explode, my ankles are getting more and more swollen, I’ve cleaned my teeth three times, I didn’t turn the gas on for fear of forgetting to turn it off, but here I am with two more streets to go, in two seconds I shall be driving up that drive for the last time.

What I can’t get into the car now, I’ll have it sent on.

Her first impression was, there’s no one here. She saw Martin’s car but staff cars were nowhere to be seen. No little mini belonging to the gardener.

Still in possession of her old keys, she automatically walks to her favourite entrance – her favourite room – the kitchen, but to her utter astonishment the key didn’t fit. In a flash, in just one split second she knew what the bastard had done. She could hear him barking to the gardener “Jake get those locks changed and when I say locks I mean all of ‘em.” She tip toed to the outer door of the office. No high heel clicks, announcing her arrival, she 163

wanted to surprise him, undoubtedly he had anticipated her return home, thus the disaster with the keys.

No one, with any human dignity could anticipate the clowns representing the arrival committee.

Mr. Ex was sitting in his chair grinning as usual from ear to ear.

On his left policeman no I and on his right policeman no II.

Liz walked slowly up to the desk, stretched herself over it’s top, reaching as near as possible to his face and with a voice clear and passionate she recited her final wish and greetings to him – May you rest in hell – may others be spared of your sickly wickedness.

She turned to the two policemen – her immediate thoughts were – you have no respect for me, I’ll handle you both as I wish – “now both of you get your backsides off those chairs, unlock the doors and let me in.

I’ve got an empty car out there and we’re all going to make sure it’s full to the roof by the time I leave.” The blond chap looked embarrassed – he obviously didn’t know what was expected of him. The dark greasy looking animal was fidgeting on his chair, twirling the coffee cup around, wanting to say something, but didn’t know how to start.

“Come on,” Liz shouted “get a move on, I haven’t got all day.”

I would like to come with you Mrs. Monk, but I’m afraid we cannot allow you to enter the house alone. You must first state what you think you are going to take, or what you think you need. Mr. Monk here will decide if it may leave his house and its possessions, we, my colleague and I, have been instructed to stay next to you while you are in the house and accompany you off the estate. I suggest you take any personal caring products, and or necessary clothes for the season.

If you give us a forwarding address Mr. Monk had agreed to forward items which he feels are solely yours. Items which were the property of you both will remain in his house.

“Now if you would like to make your way to the various rooms, - get out 164

of my way” Liz screamed, “one more word from you and I’ll kick you in the groin, there’s a first time for everything, I’ll put the water hose on you, give me the key and get out of my way.”

The two trained men grabbed her each by the arm, led her to the front door opened it and said with boyish tones in their voices – after you Mam – after you!

Liz left the house with a bag full of clothes, shoes – cosmetic pots out of the bathroom. Items which her ex obviously could not prove belonged to him. All were in the personal female category.

The police car – escorted her off the estate. She was broken, mentally, emotionally broken. To this day, she has never grasped where the power came from, that led her back to her new dwelling. A rented house and rented furniture. Mugs and plates from a cheap retail store.

A letter was forwarded to Maria, asking her to supervise the forwarding of her entire inventory to her tentative current address.

What had she ever done, in her life that could possibly earn her such a degrading position in society? The so-called friends, the ones she had helped in the past, cared for them when they were sick, listened for hours to their dooms and glooms. Where were they now?

They were no where to be seen. Their interest and genuine concern had long churned itself into dust.

It can’t get worse, she wrote, that evening in her dairy. Why me?

He’ll find a way not to pay his monthly allowance. He’ll go broke, leave the country, and drop dead. Liz shuddered at her own ugly statement.

What a way to live, what a way to think, her final notes that day in her dairy were, I’ve done nothing wrong. I defended myself, against an evil that no man should be allowed to impose upon his family and those around him.

For 22 years, I never cheated on him, I always hoped he would grow up 165

and enjoy the results of his hard earning with his family.

We both love Charlie unconditionally. There are no rules for her, she is free to visit and stay with the parent of her choice. Maria was reasonably satisfied with the first round and anything but shocked with the inventory disaster.

Maria had intended to go straight home after leaving the office, but once outside and behind the wheel of her car, she found herself driving towards the park. It was still light, cool air, she needed the space for further evaluation of Liz’s future.

I’d give anything to determine his true culture. Does he have any feelings of guilt? She couldn’t remember being so deeply involved in a divorce case, or any case for that matter. She needed more control of her mind, a grip on herself. Her attachment to Liz was too personal, too intense. When Liz cried, she felt sorrow, compassion, forbidden aspirations in her profession. “I’ve got to see this though”, she promised herself, can’t disappoint Liz in the last chapter.

Saturday mail is always disastrous. Mail on the 6th day always ruins ones weekend. It’s either a gas bill, a letter from some unknown lawyer, a row with the family, or a friend’s wedding that’s going to cost you a bomb.

Tax return is never on the 6th day. Martin disliked weekend mail. He always refused to open it.

On this particular Saturday Martin receives a summons informing him to forward his ex wife’s personal inventory to her current address.

He knew it would arrive sometime, he was looking forward to its arrival.

He opened the envelope humming like a bumble bee - the king was now ready to attack the queen.

Without further hesitation, and in complete compliance with the lawyer’s request Martin instructs a transport company to deliver one container full with Liz’s out of date clothes, shoes, bags – tennis rackets – garden chairs – drapes, Charlie’s infant toys – old set of golf clubs – typewriter, twenty years old – a set of old cooking pans – in total a collection of goods that had 166

been hustled for the last two years in the cellar, all of which were destined for Poland. This set was his, what he wouldn’t give to see Liz’s reaction. I’d love to see her old lady’s gob when the truck arrives. Got what they asked for, both of ‘em.

Liz returned from a visit to her mother to find the contraption dumped in front of the house, Angry? How could one be even slightly annoyed with such childish in fictive behaviour? She knew immediately that the rubbish in the cellar had been sent to her instead of to Poland.

He’s insane, on the verge of mental anguish, this idiot wants only to destroy himself, death on the battlefield, he’s making a mockery of himself.

He refused to release any single item in the house. What was there was to remain. From a teaspoon to an umbrella. The description as to who gave it, when it was given, pronounced no evidence or label relevant to a specific owner. Everything that was in his house, was his, she left with nothing, complete emptiness. Martin’s personal creation of emptiness was equivalent to the details they had all stolen from years of his hard labor.

Regardless as to how the money had been accumulated, the whole bunch of them had all profited at some time or other.

Let her eat with her hands. Thieves should be punished. Compassion is no one’s friend. The pair of ‘em she and her stuck up cow of a lawyer had no party gifts for me.

They both had one goal in mind – total destruction.

He felt like a cantor chanting and twisting in a key he couldn’t find.

He knew his friends were deserting him. Neighbors who would drop in for the Whiskey and Gin remained out of sight. Admiration towards him was fading. Business associates were quick to spot the disappearance of his wife, many speculated who would be the beneficiary, most of them had gone through the same process, and few had come out as a crowned loser!

Maria was still not at ease with the initial maintenance results.

Martin was continually causing a delay in the payments. He was 167

unpredictable. He always made the payments himself, in other words he made them when he felt like it. Emotional tension was killing him.

Thanks to them, he told himself the tax boys are sneaking around in my books, so why shouldn’t they have sleepless nights? Charlie’s allowance always came in on the dot. It’s not the custom to pay on time, Martin informed himself. They’ll start causing trouble anyway before the years is out.

They’ll hire some investigator to control what I’m up to.

Make sure I haven’t left the country, found myself a place of burial in some new fancy cemetery. Perhaps I should have that estate agent bloke Benji send her a few brochures on attractive property, give her something sensible to do with my money. Perhaps he could be party to a plan, a practical solution to a practical problem, for too many months he had been angry and baffled.

He knew he was on the verge of ill health. Two heart attacks, one brain hemorrhage. Few decisions and deals were being closed by him. His energy belonged to the aged, he knew he was beaten by his own unpolished greed and disrespect for his past love ones, if only he could slowly go back and restart his life.

Looking back He spent many hours thinking of the past – his family – their epistles – tensions, life’s endurance originating from two, three generations past.

All of us losers God damn it, down the line there were enough of us clowns to make history, why were we all never capable of completing our desire, giving society a hand to help discover new territories.

Must have been a devil’s spell floating around somewhere.

Even my beloved saint and Hero with all his knowledge on theology left his loved ones in a financial disaster.

Maria paid a final visit to Martin accountant. She knew the accountant could sway Martin’s decisions in various directions. She never trusted Martin. He’s the type, she told herself who would kick the bucket and leave 168

a right old mess behind. The proposal was the excess value of house to be divided into two, the life insurances to be sold, and divided.

Monthly allowance could stop.

Liz could buy herself with the insurance at hand a reasonable house. The accountant, would advise her on mortgage terms and check her tax papers annually. With a good part-time job Liz could run her life in the style that she deserved. Charlie would inherit the remaining value of the estate.

What he eventually agreed upon relevant to the remains of the business and Scarlet’s portion was no ones concern.

The losers The pain in his chest increased by the second. He was sweating, his breathing was irregular. He was terrified, the hospital bed no. 26 was to accommodate one more in the line of men who have crucified every cell in their body in the name of success and finally failure.

Liz and Charlie visited the hospital unexpectedly. Martin was in a coma, we will never know if he recognized their silence, their perfumes, the coldness of their hands. The whispers to each other both expressing their hope that he would comeback to this earth. The coming journey of death never arouses hate and deviance in those swallowed in its circle. Hate and fear, if we give them space, disappears and the positive, humoristic occasions of the past take over our thoughts.

We try to arouse anger, we become baffled. Serenity, security, our love of the joyous past is all that is left, during the last moment, the last second that one feels the heart beat of a man once loved and adored in a period never to be forgotten.

Liz returned to her newly furnished home. There was nothing to remind her of the domestic war, nor the chess board that constantly gloated at her from its master’s desk. In every sq. inch there was peace. Photo’s only of Charlie.

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It’s over Liz, she too was now speaking to herself in the mirror, it’s over and done with. It was twenty two years of joy, cruelty, and utter ignorance on my part. I thought the world was made of Ivory, flowers, mist, fashion.

Respect for the teachings of the church. I was blind, had no understandings of cultures and male lifestyle. I should never have married him. He gave himself. He gave the man that he was.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The telephone rang, it was Charlie – “Mum, did you get home in one piece – the weather here is terrible – oh Mum, by the way, I’ve got a favour to ask – didn’t want to say anything at Grandma’s – can I bring Michael home next week – oh Mum you’ll love him, he’s absolutely divine. Actually Mum he reminds me of Dad. Handsome, all the girls love him. He’s studying law, wants his own company. I’m sure Dad would have liked him. I’m sure Dad would have taught him a lesson or two. In the positive sense of the word of course.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me Charlie? Where does he come from perhaps, anywhere interesting? Africa – India – Ceylon or Tottenham.”

“Good question Mum, I haven’t got around to asking him, and before I forget, I’m leaving chip with you. Someone to talk to, exercise your legs. He snores, but you’re get used to it.”

There was one second of silence. “Mum, I do love you, I may forget to tell you, but you’re always in my heart.” “I know darling, I know, was the reply – now go to bed early, we’ve all had a busy and stressful time – Good night.”

Liz gazed out of the kitchen window. Thought of the birds she would see the next morning. Charlie, and her new adventure – “Guide over her Martin,” Liz whispered, “let her come to no harm. Goodbye my friend, I’ll try to forgive you, rest assured I will never forget you.”

The chess game was over. Liz never married again. She never stopped loving Martin. Time heals all wounds, so they say, the question remains did 170

Martin ever stop loving Liz, your guess is as good as mine.

Six months after Martin’s death Liz wrote in her dairy – When someone has done something wrong and has hurt you, try to use that to find the strength within yourself. Was she writing on his behalf or hers, or was it you writing it all down for your next generation?

Mate The crematorium phoned at least ten times. Someone had to come along and pick up the ashes. The urn had been standing there all alone on a shelf for three months. Who knows it’s probably still standing there.

Charlie had no time, or just couldn’t make the effort to collect, or even have respect for her father for the last time. “Ask my mother to come and pick them up,” was her response to the undertaker’s request.

The only issue that was receiving sole attention was poor Martin’s will, and what a mess it was.

As far as Charlie was concerned, she would become the sole benefactor on her 25th birthday.

The hate and jealousy towards his ex-wife, was after nine years of divorce still in his mind when he had the will drawn up.

The solicitor found it disgusting and pathetic having to read out the provisions that Liz, regardless of the fact, that she was the mother of the benefactor was not allowed to take part in any discussion, she was not allowed on the estate and not one single item in the house was to be given to her, not even by her daughter.

Liz’s brother and the executor executed the majority of the wheeling and dealing, questions extended by Charlie were ignored.

What remained of the company was sold. The huge luxury boat was soled to a friend of the solicitor. The argument was, they needed quick cash to pay off the creditors.

There was also a huge loan on the estate, it was a mess.

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Scarlet had obviously disappeared with as much cash as possible from the offshore accounts, one in Luxemburg and one in Gibraltar.

Martin had not only made himself a prisoner in his own body, the state of his mind had slowly but surely ruined his company, his estate and future security, which should have gone to his daughter Charlie.

When Charlie reached the age of 25, she received an amount of money that paid for her study and the deposit on a Medical Practice in the South of Whales.

The little rich girl was back in the true world of the living, free of all the greed and hate of the family around her. She kept the drive and insight that her parents had given her, and junked the rest. She had to make her own way now, and she did, going on to live a happy and rewarding life.

Had the Marshalls finally lost their talent for disaster? Or had they at last made the effort to shake off their burden of inherited failure? That never seemed likely, so perhaps it was the kind spirit of Nellie Marshall who returned to make it so. Or you could see it as a bleak family saga, a tragedy over many generations that finally played itself out. One day we may find out.

They say travel broadens the mind, and the future is another place. You can start exploring it tomorrow. You don’t need to pack: all you need to take is the belief that, wherever you start from, you can make it. You will make friends along the way and, wherever the journey of life takes you, it will all be worth it when you get there in the end.

Epilogue

“When the plane landed, Jack, my mind was full. I was still digesting all those fantastic life stories that my new friend had told me. I was sure this wasn’t a one time meeting. I wanted to reach for her luggage, ask her for her personal card, telephone number.

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Give her a kiss of friendship on both cheeks, arrange to meet again.

Walk with her to the passport control. She was staying overnight at a hotel in the Strand and off the next day to Tel Aviv. Was I so occupied with her abundance of energy, so spellbound that I didn’t see or feel her disappear?

Jack, I looked everywhere, baggage hall, exit, information desk, door of the ladies toilet. I couldn’t find her anywhere, she had disappeared. I was frantic, I felt desperate.”

Jack saw that his friend was having difficulty with his words. He was upset, he looked lost.

“Sure you’re not dreaming Ben?” Jack stopped himself just in time from adding ‘making it all up as you go along?’ It was late, it was hardly worth going to bed.

Ben was mentally exhausted, he didn’t need a mattress. Our storyteller had already fallen into a deep sleep in the old fashioned comfy chair once owned by Jack’s grandmother.

The following morning was swathed in mist. Jack was still snoring in his bed. Ben decided not to disturb him, he left a note in the kitchen, thanking him for his hospitality. Next time they met, he would be sure to tell him if he had seen or heard from the airline mystery woman again.

The car doors were open. Luckily the luggage was still in the boot.

Ben was always easy going when it came to cars, there was always something open that should have been closed.

Seatbelt locked, radio on, mirrors adjusted, all ready to go.

In his thoughts the immense joy of preparing breakfast for his loved ones. The dog’s excitement which never changed. He loved them all so deeply. Somehow he had always been too busy to realize how much he needed them. And they needed him.

A present in his suitcase for each and everyone of them. This was going to be the best Christmas ever. ‘Damn’ he said ‘that bloody phone.’

He turned the radio off and looked at the screen. He could not catch 173

the numbers flashing before his eyes. He didn’t recognize them, but he recognized the voice.

His hands began to shake. The rest of his body was frozen, he couldn’t move. He was ordered to listen to a voice he had come to love.

“Ben, enjoy the coming days with your family. The sad periods in your life are long behind you. Broken hearts are what give us strength, understanding and compassion. Waste no time dreaming of what could have been, or worrying about what will be.

All is now complete. You and your children will experience wonderful moments. You are a serious, intelligent man, now do your utmost to keep yourself on the path chosen for you. Give your children the space and guidance, always near to your heart, you will then my dear friend establish breath taking futures for three generations to come.

It was only a voice whispering in his ear, there was no mention of a name. He searched for his handkerchief in the pocket of his blazer.

He was desperate to wipe his lips. Not only did he find his hanky but his passenger seat ticket had also found its way to the cool silk pocket lining.

The ticket was numbered 12C. He started to memorize the seat numbering and try as he did to shuffle the numbers, C was a gang way ticket. His friend had sat on his left, she had touched his left hand. Was this her ticket?

In a flash he saw her sitting there. But where?

He could still smell her perfume, a voice he knew he would never forget.

She is probably in Tel Aviv by now, he told himself. Would she allow him to see her again?

Would she enrich him with more of her life memories?

How many more years would destiny give her. He yearned for more of her, he wanted to feel her presence near him.

He drove back home, excited at the thought of seeing his family again.

He felt blessed with the knowledge that his family was safe in his hands.

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The lights in the house glowed with welcome. All was well, fire blazing, food, loads of crumbs and parcel packings everywhere.

It was a day of utter glory. The noise of the television was blaring in the children’s room upstairs. Ben thought he too would catch up on the news with his portable TV hidden away in a kitchen cupboard and two minutes for himself. One minute to recapture the impressions and thoughts he had experienced in the last two days.

The latest news interrupted his thoughts. At 10am that morning, a plane travelling from Heathrow to Tel Aviv had made an emergency landing at Berlin airport. Fire was reported in one of the engines.

Ben could see fire engines, ambulances, passengers moving towards busses. He knew she was there, could he spot her amongst the crowd?

He wanted to wave, he was desperate to hear her voice. He knew she would say “This is not the last chapter, my friend, because now we have time on our side. We have eternity.”

His friend Jack had christened her the ghost of heredity. Ben wasn’t sure about the ‘ghost’ bit, but she had been an angel to him – and we all need a guardian angel. We just have to leave room for them.

The unknown passenger was the long shadow that had allowed him to venture out in the heat of the sun, a long shadow protecting him from the heat of strong, conflicting emotions. She had the strength, the wisdom, the endurance to cope.

She had helped him see how our lives are overshadowed by people and events long before we were born – and can be overshadowed not just by living on the bread line, but by poverty of emotion and imagination.

She knew his past and his future. She had given him confidence, real esteem and finally affection – all this from a voice he could never forget.

He still didn’t know her name – it didn’t matter. They were far beyond firstname terms. He never did find out who had sat in seat C11 that Christmas Eve. But from then on he believed, for the rest of his life, the long long shadow would always be there to support and guide him. Her name, her looks, her tender voice, her knowledge, was no longer a question to be 175

answered. She lived in his mind and in his soul, and every new day would be a joy to experience.

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Principal characters in this dysfunctional Catholic family

Nellie marries and has ten sons, two of whom are …

Keith: he marries Marjor y – they have a so n who dies young and two daughters

Pear l a sister of Ne llie is banished to a convent after having an affair and a daughter …

Luke: he marries ‘Mum’ – they have a so n …

Betty, who also has a daughter out of wed lock …

Mart in

Scar let

Martin knows that Keith is his uncle, yet Scarlet and Martin never learn that they are in reality cousins.

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