Hero on a Honda

I read in Writers Magazine that to write a novel may take up to a year to complete and 2 further years to edit. I'm learning the hard way that the editing is harder in some respects than the writing. The little book about my experience in India is a tiny book compared with a novel, yet to get all the bits lined up, the facets cleanly cut and the whole thing polished smooth like a gem, takes an inordinate length of time.
I'm happy to be able to report that the editing is complete in all respects.
Content, acknowledgements, title pages and text are now ready to go to print.
The next stage is to design the front cover, hopefully based on the photo I took of 3 colourful Hindu dandies at a fruit stall in Dwarka.

I'm no less excited about this protracted birth than I was when I last posted.
When finally the front page is set I will truely believe my little book will be ready to launch on an expectant public (!)

This week I took a leap into the unknown and I can be followed on Twitter at TonyFarmer88.
I am hoping to use twitter to market Hero on a Honda.

You can imagine my surprise and delight when I received a LETTER from Chapter One Promotions of London, England with the news that my story had been chosen as 'runner-up' in a Romantic Fiction Competition for 2012 and to be published sometime next year.

I wrote this love-story a few years ago after spending a couple weeks doing some restoration work to the monastery at Deia,  high in the mountains of Mallorca; an ancient monastery visited by the Knights of the Crusades. The memory of the place will remain in my heart forever.

A attach the story
It's a bit long........

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Ruthless

 ‘Stay and we can make it work,’ Theo pleaded with Ruth. ‘We‘ve so much to share, our lives have only just begun, we’ve time on our side, we’re young and brilliant together. Don’t you see that?’ He could see the anguish on her face, almost follow the lines of thoughts criss-crossing her mind. He hoped she would agree to embrace the future together.

Throughout most of the morning in the warming Mallorcan sunshine Theo’s thoughts returned again and again to that garden in England he considered his finest achievement. He recalled with fondness the summer evenings when long shadows streaked across the newly cut grass and the late rich golden sun washed over the phlox in the herbaceous border. He remembered the glorious Rosa fillies ‘kiftsgate’, the ultimate rambler, cascading down the old red-brick wall; the golden blooms baking in the sun. He remembered Ruth; memories of Ruth weighed heavily in his heart.

‘I’ve just got to get away Theo, get some air, a different perspective.’ Ruth took his hand and drew him towards her, reaching up to press her cheek to his, feeling warmth through the roughness of his chin. She pulled away and looked into his smoky-blue eyes.

    ‘My career is at a crossroads. This is not the time for me to settle down. We both have much yet to do. In time, my darling, you will see I’m right, for both of us,’ she pleaded.

 The break-up took its toll. Friends remarked to each other how the burden of disappointment began to wear him down. He was still a handsome man, sharp featured, tall and well built. His manner was gentle and his voice soft and resonant, his blue eyes bright and alert. Now he stooped a little and he’d lost some self confidence; more and more he wanted to be alone. His broken heart had never healed, not properly.

 He moved from the shade of the ancient olive tree to take the newly potted plants to the beds in the poly-tunnel. The tunnel was stuffy. He threw open the flap to let in some air and stood for a moment in the entrance to the tunnel to appreciate his surroundings. To the west the vast expanse of the Mediterranean Sea glistened in the sun. High above to the right of him, clinging to a rock outcrop, nestled the 12^th century monastery Son Rollan, visited by Knights Templar and the Crusaders, now being lovingly restored and open to tour groups inquisitive about Son Rollan’s past and future. All around him ancient olive trees were scattered over the dusty rock-strewn terraced landscape. Nearby, in a pond that was once used for bathing, frogs croaked incessantly until the heat of the day silenced them. Overhead, a black vulture soared lazily in the up-draught heading towards the little town of Deia. Ruth returned to his thoughts. He remembered Kew Gardens and his work with passifloras and in particular the hybrid passiflora caerulea ruth; a cultivar created by him and named after Ruth. Vivid memories of the new garden they had worked on at Bognor flooded in.

The water from the hose was warm from the sun as he washed the roots of an Echinacea he was re-potting, one of several dozen he hoped to have transplanted before lunch. He teased the roots with his slender fingers, separating the tangled fibres with delicate caresses. His work was a meditation; he respected each plant as a living being, dependent upon his nurture, his knowledge and his love. Plants were his life and his passion. He knew of no plant that didn’t have some value to humans or animals. From the monastery he heard the ringing of the lunch bell.

The walk up to the monastery was steep and dusty. At a tap outside the kitchen, he washed his hands before stooping to enter the cool shade where the lunch table was set out for the four workers. A mountainous Nigerian carpenter, called ‘Everesto’ for his height, had dumped his huge frame into his chair and was already spooning helpings of rice onto his plate. Henar, the housekeeper was busy as usual; a diminutive energetic woman, striking, dark and sensuous with a voice like gravel. Theo took his seat by the door and took his turn to serve himself rice and a rich vegetarian sauce, heavy and aromatic with fresh basil and thyme. A hot crusty loaf and salad, colourful with mixed greens and the bright orange of nasturtiums made up the meal. The new cook hovered in the background, attentive to her task. Jorge, the Argentinean arrived, slid into his seat with a mumbled greeting and with him came the sweet and sour smell of sawdust.

    The workers ate in silence, tired from the heat and soon replete from the excellent lunch. Everesto leafed absentmindedly through an outdated catalogue for garden furniture. Henar retreated outside to answer a telephone call. Jorge ate on in silence while Theo was uncomfortable with the new cook fussing, about clearing the table.

    ‘Have you had enough Theo?’ She asked. ‘The pumpkin you brought was so sweet, and the young zucchini... excuse me while I reach over...’

Theo didn’t answer. He leant back to allow her room to gather the plates. It seemed to him that she lingered too long clearing the table; she was too attentive, too close. He felt the warmth of her body and a feint scent of gardenia. Suddenly his emotions were thrown into turmoil. He felt claustrophobic, trapped, wanting both to stay and to get away. His chair scraped on the ancient flagstone floor as he pushed it back. He stood gathering his composure. He selected a couple of ripe figs and slivers of goat’s cheese from the sideboard and slipped them into his pocket. He spoke briefly to Jorge, in improving Spanish, about some cold frames he was making as Henar returned to the kitchen.

    ‘Theo!’ she exclaimed, ‘Your Spanish is improving, good, but you must talk with more passion, like a Mallorcan, no? You must use your hands!’ She added with laughter, made a dramatic gesture with her arms and engulfed Theo in an embrace squeezing out the panic he felt a few seconds ago.

    Theo, eager to leave his moment of awkwardness to the ghosts of monks, Moors and Knights Templar, took his leave. As he ambled down the steep path feeling the sun on his back, his movement flushing out crickets and butterflies from the parched scrub he began to feel better. He grabbed at a clump of thyme which grew wild all over the olive groves. He thrust his nose into the herb; ‘el tomillo’ he spoke aloud in Spanish, savouring the sound of the language in his mouth, raising his arms to the sky. A gentle breeze played with his hair, ruffled his loosened shirt and wafted through banks of spurge, Euphorbia characias. His mind raced back to the time as a boy when he retrieved an old food processor from the bin and used it to experiment with making various composts to grow his radishes.  He knew he would become a gardener, a ‘jardinero’.

    As he strolled towards his garden for some reason he thought about lunch and the new cook. Theo had made no attempt to welcome her. He knew his determination not to engage her in conversation was having the opposite effect. Although they had not been formally introduced, he knew she came from England and her name was Grace. She had come to relieve Henar of the cooking. He had been surprised to hear her chatting in Spanish to Jorge at his workshop the other morning as he arrived for work. She was good cook. Her style was instinctive. She cooked with bold flavours and had no patience with ‘Nouvelle Cuisine’, with its prettiness and its miserly portions. As he neared his ‘garden’, he sensed he was being watched and turned to look back up to the house. On the front terrace he saw clothes on a line billowing in the breeze. Otherwise the house was still, guarded by the pencil-thin Cypress trees. He turned away without seeing the figure watching him from a darkened room through an open window.

    Theo worked methodically until the rim of the sun touched the sea and the temperature began to fall. Once he had watered all the plants, his daily tasks were complete. He sat on a wine box at the pink plastic table in the poly-tunnel and spread out his plan, carefully drawn and annotated; his blue print of the future! This life-plan contained only plants. It was a vision of structure and form without colour or elaboration. A vision in monochrome: a technical drawing of lines, of vistas and enclosures, of balance and sequence. The scruffy plan was a familiar old coat he wore every day. He had grown into it. He was immersed in it and into it he poured all his emotion and energy. It meant everything to him now. He heard the cicadas begin their ritual chanting, he heard the dogs at the gatehouse barking as Everesto left for home.

    The gathering darkness dragged him away from his indulgence. He went outside, dug up some new potatoes and several squashes from the vegetable plot and added a handful of beetroot as an afterthought. The moon was full as the last glow from the sun sank below the horizon. He looked up at the monastery bathed now in silvery moonlight against the cobalt blue star-studded sky; frogs and cicadas began their carousing.

   ‘Ruth would have liked it here,’ he said aloud to himself. Suddenly he was engulfed in a wave of emotion. His legs gave way and he dropped to the ground in a heap, sobbing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, he ran his hands back and forth through his hair, as if trying to get a hold on the perturbation raging through him. Sobs became convulsions. He managed somehow to turn and kneel on all fours. His lungs now had room to gasp huge quantities air and gradually he began to gain control. As the convulsions subsided, breathing became more regular and he swivelled so to sit cross legged on the dusty cooling earth. He heard again the frogs and cicadas. Within minutes he rose and walked uneasily to the standpipe. Bent at the waist, with the hose he drenched his head with the lukewarm water. He took off his shirt and used it as a towel. The dusk had disappeared. Standing in the moonlight with his hands on his hips, he sensed his eyes were swollen and his chest bruised; his heart beat with renewed purpose. For a while he stood not daring yet to acknowledge the restoration complete. When he next moved he felt changed; clean and fresh, taller and moving with an unfamiliar looseness. As he walked among plant pots at the base of the giant olive tree he knew a weight had been lifted. Not only was he restored, he was changed, given permission to begin again.

    As Theo approached the house carrying vegetables, he drew out his pocket knife and cut an armful of Strelitzia reginae, enough Chinese anemones to fill a decent vase. As he stepped through the kitchen door he paused to listen for any sound of occupation; all was deathly quiet besides the din of croaking frogs and chattering cicadas. He recalled as a child how he loved to be alone in his house. He laid the basket of vegetables on the kitchen table. The flowers, he stood upright in the corner of the porcelain sink. They looked luminous, like mother-or-pearl in the light of the moon peeping through the little open window.  As Theo turned to leave he heard soft slippered footsteps on the stone landing on the first floor. He slid silently through the open back door and around to where he parked his old Peugeot.

    Grace stepped out on to the terrace and watched the ghostly cloud of moonlit dust pass down the hill, the car headlights splashing amber on the grotesque contorted olive trees and the rutted drive; like some erratic tumbling fireball, tyres crunching and spitting out the loose gravel. Once out of sight, she waited to hear the barking of the dogs at the gate and the car accelerating away on the smooth tarmac road. The land settled to sleep under the blanket of moonlight.

  

 In his little flat in the village, Theo had a sleepless night, drifting in and out of dreams and awoke late. It had rained heavily, now it was hot and humid. At breakfast at Son Rollan, Henar too complained of not enough sleep; she had woken early with a severe tooth ache. She sat at the table clasping a plastic bag of ice-cubes to her jaw.

    ‘God’s way of telling you to sit down, rest a while.’ Offered Everesto, between mouthfuls of porridge. Henar groaned an angry response. Theo could tell she had been crying. Without comment he rose and left the room.

    ‘Theo, thank you for the flowers and for the vegetables.’ said Grace at the sink as he passed behind her. ‘The anemones look heavenly in my room, thank you.’ She turned to look at Theo but he was already past her and out of the door.

    Behind the shamble of a stone shed used for nothing in particular, he knew where a clump of Echinacea purpurea had self-seeded and was enjoying the south-facing slope. He pulled out the root of one sturdy plant and with his knife, he separated a root rhizome. He returned to the kitchen. Henar was moaning gently with her head on the table cradled in her arms. Grace moved back from the sink anticipating Theo’s intention. He quickly washed the root and cut it into strips.

    ‘Henar, Henar, listen to me. Take these roots and place a strip inside your cheek, alongside your aching tooth. The root will draw out the pain. You will be OK in about fifteen minutes. You must drink water, as much as you can.’

    Grace appeared next to Theo. ‘Here Henar, here’s some cool water.’ She placed a jug of water and a glass on the table.

   ‘Thanks, Grace’ said Theo, surprised that he used her name. He looked up at her and she smiled and he felt his emotions somersault. Quickly, he took a piece of tortilla de chorizo and two oranges from the breakfast table and departed with a ‘ciao!’ He rested his hand on Henar’s shoulder as he passed.

    With the events of yesterday evening on his mind Theo began to focus his thoughts on the day’s work and almost ran down the terraced slope. He stopped suddenly to consider: Grace thought the flowers were a gift from him to her! Looking back at the house the realisation took hold. He could see how easily Grace would think this, but it wasn’t his intention, or was it?  As he arrived at the garden he was eager to get started. He took a moment to gaze at the marks on the ground where his struggle had taken place. He picked up a twig of olive and gently smoothed away the marks in the dry soil. He picked up a handful of the soil and rubbed it between his fingers. Good fertile soil; a foundation upon which he was building a future full of promise.

    Up at the house, Henar was revived. The pain of tooth ache had subsided and she felt better. She jumped into her dusty dented Renault 4 and sped into town. Grace was alone in her room; the bright sun shafted through the open windows and poured on to the wooden floor. The sea shimmered and sparkled in the distance. She felt pleasure course through her body and she smiled openly as she ran her hands through the petals of the Chinese anemones. In the kitchen she cleared the debris of breakfast and stooped to see her reflection in the tiny window pane above the sink. She untied the chintz band and let her thick auburn hair fall. The weight of it pulled her head back as she shook it. With a wicker basket on her arm she set off down the hill following a sheep path through the olives.

    As she approached the Theo’s garden Grace saw him sitting under a tree surrounded by pots and plants. She watched him. She saw a gentle man who moved with a graceful ease and rhythm picking up and putting down as if playing a solitary board game. His silver hair occasionally ruffled in the warm breeze. She could see his hands were wet and muddied from his work. The faded blue of his denims seemed a natural part of the dusty greens, silvers and greys of the olive grove. She wished she could paint; the scene was perfect.

    Theo was startled momentarily as he looked up to see Grace approach. Immediately he felt exposed, disarmed, discovered, as if found in a hiding place. He was immediately defensive. Only seldom did anyone visit his garden. He was not used to company. He recalled an occasion when some hikers had lost their way and stumbled into the garden. He shouted at them with such unexpected anger that he frightened them away. Grace posed no threat except for her unexpected arrival. Her face was radiant with a broad smile framed by the mass of her auburn hair; her body swayed with the motion of her descent. He stood up slowly and as she came closer, mistrust and irritation gave way to a sweet, pleasing sensation deep within him. He thought Grace was a perfect name for her; he thought she looked lovely.

    ‘Hello Theo, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. I came to tell you that Henar is better. Her toothache has subsided, as you said. What was it you gave her?

    ‘Oh nothing really, just some Echinatia root. Please, please come and sit, here’ he gestured to the root of the giant olive tree, wrestling with his own awkwardness. ‘There’s plenty of shade. I have nothing to offer you, but warm water from the hose pipe!’

    ‘I’m fine thank you,’ Grace replied as she looked for a suitable seat among the mass of sinuous roots.

    ‘No wait, wait, wait, I have a chair’ He dashed away and returned with the small plastic chair from the poly-tunnel, aware of his excitement.

    ‘Thank you, I won’t stay long. I’ve come to collect some thyme and marjoram from down there.’ She pointed to a place just beyond the garden. Theo found a perch on the root of the old olive tree, happier, perhaps, knowing Grace would not be staying long.

     Grace looked around the productive scene. ‘So this is where you hide away during the day. There’s so much going on. I’d love to know what you’re doing,’ she remarked with genuine interest.

    ‘Um, yes, well, this is my garden, er, in the process of becoming a Physic Garden. I have been encouraged by the Mallorcan Medical Board, and by two local doctors who know about herbs, and an enlightened restaurateur in the village anxious to use locally sourced vegetables and herbs. The conditions here are perfect and the garden has much potential. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do’. Theo realised his enthusiasm had got the better of him but was reluctant to stop.

   ‘Let me show you my plan, it’s only rough but it’s all I need.’ He went to the poly-tunnel and returned with his scruffy sheet of paper. He spread it out over the uneven roots.

    Pointing with his index finger he described the plan. ‘Here’s where we are now, and on this terrace there’ll be most of the medicinal cultivars. The vegetables are confined to the lower of the three terraces to make use of the run-off of rainwater and general watering. You see the soil is rich yet friable, so water conservation is an important consideration. There will be need for shaded areas since many plants, like the Euphorbia, need cool growing conditions so they will be grown here where the terraces sweep with the counters giving deep shade during much of the day.’ He beamed with pride.

   ‘Wow that’s amazing. You’ve done so much already,’ Grace responded with enthusiasm.

‘How long have you been here?

   ‘I’ve been here nearly two years now,’ he replied eager to continue with his plan. ‘There’ll be six tunnels in all when it’s finally under way sometime next year. There’s a small car park and delivery bay off the road just above the gate house; I really don’t want any unnecessary intrusion into the garden itself.

    As they talked he began to share himself and he could feel his reserve melting away. As she listened, she began recognising his knowledge, enthusiasm and dedication. She watched his tanned face, sensuous lips and his bright smoky blue eyes searching her as he spoke. She nodded slowly as he sketched out his plan, she, sitting like a large child on the tiny chair, arms out straight and her hands on her knees.

     As he talked he noticed scars on her forearms. He got up and went to cut a fleshy leaf from a nearby wild Aloe plant. He took her hand and applied the cool gel from the leaf to the scars he knew were from hot ovens. He smelled her scent of gardenia and mint and felt gentle warmth radiate from her skin.

    ‘This is aloe; it’s sometimes called the ‘burns’ plant’. He paused and looked into her green eyes as she raised her face to him, her full mouth and the cascade of auburn hair reminded him of paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Edward Byrne Jones; He was mesmerised.

    The noise of a car accelerating up the drive broke the spell. A boundary had been crossed. Theo stepped back.

    Grace rose from the chair. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ she said smoothing down her skirt with her hands. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’ She stepped closer to Theo and on tip-toes reached to brush his cheek with her lips and whisper his name. He heard it like a warm breeze laden with a heady scent. She stepped back to look deep into his eyes, she smiled, turned and walked away.

    Speechless Theo watched her go. He saw her look back and raise her hand to him and was gone.  He watching her pick her way through the olive groves as a wave a self-pity washed over him, reminding him how desperately lonely he was. In spite of his passion for his work he was not truly happy without Ruth.  Dare he fall in love again? He closed his eyes and recalled the pleasure of sharing, the thrill of intimacy, the warmth of touch and the scent of gardenia.

    Theo turned, shrugged his shoulders and went back to his plants. All that afternoon he wrestled with conflicting emotions. Should he surrender himself to the passion he felt or should he dismiss it and resume his work at Son Rollan? Would both emotions sit comfortably side by side? Pros and cons stacked up in opposition. He worked on, ignoring the lunch bell, until dusk began gathering up the light. He tidied up as usual then cut some fresh Padron Peppers. He dug new potatoes and plucked some ripe tomatoes. On his way back to the house he picked a posy of wild flowers, including wild gladiolas, honeysuckle and sea lavender; the combined scent in the evening air was intoxicating. He left the vegetables on the kitchen table, found a jar, filled it with water and left the posy on the small wicker-topped table at the foot of the stair to Grace’s rooms. He felt happier than he had for a long, long time.

    Grace heard Theo go into the kitchen and presumed he was leaving vegetables. She heard his car start and watched from her window as the car tumbled down the winding steep stony track to the gate.  She thought she saw a hand wave from the car window and raised her arm in instant response. The dogs started barking as the car stopped. She heard the chain on the gate rattle both to open and after a second or so, to close the gate before the car accelerated on to the tarmac road to town. The dogs ceased their protestations and a feint mist gathered over the still landscape.

At his flat after a supper Theo sat down and wrote a letter to Ruth:

My Dear Ruth

Today I had a strange experience that left me in no doubt that continuing to   grieve over our lost love is not good for my health. I must wipe the slate clean and give myself the chance to begin my life again without you.

I shall never forget you but I will from now remember you with affection only                   and not for the lost opportunity of working together. That is the past and there it must remain. I am in a place now where I can be happy together with good people as companions. I’m excited about a new garden I am bringing into being, with all the encouragement I could ever expect.

All my love

Theo

He folded the letter, put it in an envelope, sealed it and wrote ‘Ruth’ on the cover. He stood looking at the letter in his hands for a while, then slid it into his sock drawer and went to bed.

Do It Yourself

A Short Story about taking control of your life.
By Anthony Farmer

Do it Yourself

‘Well I can’t stop you from coming can I? You’re going to come anyway. We want to stay here on the farm. It’s where we’ve been all the years since we got married and that’s final!’.’

     The old man stares out of the window at the windswept yard and the neglected field beyond where dock and thistle sway in squalling showers. He listens to his son on the other end of the line, shakes his head to and fro as if trying to prevent the words getting to him.

He opens the window and throws the phone out into the yard. He watches it skid across the grey shiny flag stones and slam into the brick wall of the outhouse. It rebounds and comes to a stop, spinning slowly inches from the grid with the collapsed cast-iron cover.

    ‘I got to get going before he arrives,’ he mumbles to himself. I owes it My Sweet’.

He shuts the window at the second attempt; the wood frame has swollen with the rain through lack of paint and won’t fit the casement without some persuasion. He pulls himself through the room as if in slow motion, each hand alternately steadying himself on the sink, then counter, then table, a chair back and eventually to the doorway, through to the narrow gloomy hall. The house is silent and smells musty. The wind provides background noise, ruffling, gusting and somewhere squeezing itself through a crack in the glass of an upper story window producing a high pitched plaintive whistling. He opens the front door and slams it behind him.

    He makes his way round to the back of the house, leaning into the unforgiving wind, passing a rusting bath, a tangle of two push-me-pull-pull-me mowers and bits of an iron gate overgrown with nettle and willow herb. At the back of the house he doesn’t notice the litter of discarded machinery, chimney pots, lumps of stone, an ancient bicycle and much that’s unrecognisable; the flotsam and jetsam thrown in by a tide of years; never properly getting rid of anything.

     He enters a wooden shed through a creaking door. It’s full to the rafters with all manner of junk, jars full of washers, screws, nails, nuts and bolts, cup hooks, old keys and clock parts. Boxes balance precariously upon one another to reach the roof.  Rolls of carpet, cardboard tubes, wicker baskets, several bird cages, folds of bitumen felt, pieces of chicken wire and flattened cardboard boxes are stuffed into gaps. On almost every surface, politely bowing columns of yoghurt pots and margarine tubs and all manner of containers, rest precariously,

Like the stalagmites in the nearby caves. The benches on either side of the central isle, where once he’d worked with wood, have been engulfed by the tide of ‘stuff’ too precious to get rid of. Here he once made a kidney shaped dressing table for his Sweet on their Golden Wedding Anniversary, still in use until recently in the freezing front bedroom. Generations of spiders have constructed a net-like web that holds the whole frozen stage-set in a moment of time. He grabs a dusty drawer knob and yanks open a draw. His bony fingers rifle through bits of plumbing ware and seizes upon a bright blue plastic ‘threaded stop end’. He holds it up to the light, blows off the dust. ‘Hmmm, it’ll do the job quite nicely. Just as well I saved that, init? He shoves the drawer shut with his knee, turns and walks out of the shed, slamming the door.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The old man feels better for finding the blue plastic ‘threaded stop end’. ‘If you want something done, do it yourself,’ he mutters.

    Behind an open barn, he walks to a recently excavated hole. He bends to pick up the end of a length of the blue water pipe that leads back through a hole in the timber cladding of the open barn to a tap on a standpipe. He holds the end of the pipe and forces on the stop end. He examines his handiwork. ‘Good job,’ he says to himself. He drops the pipe down the side of the rough excavation, so that it comes to rest at the bottom.

    He turns and walks back to the open barn. There, he shuffles sideways to the rear of his old grey Massy Ferguson which has lain idle for more years than he can remember. Behind the tractor he heaves out two scaffolding planks, one at a time. He’d nicked these two planks from the roofers who came to make safe the brick chimneys on the house. He reckoned they wouldn’t miss two planks and he was proved right. ‘I didn’t pay ‘em neither!’ he confesses aloud, and chuckles. One at a time he drags each plank and places them so they make a ramp down into the whole he dug.

    Hands on hips, breathing hard, he looks about him. The valley curves gently upward, then steeply to the rim of hills. The trees in the valley bottom are in full summer leaf, teased by the wind. He glimpses the wriggling strip of the stream reflecting the silver of the sky as it splashes over rocks on its way to the sea. Hedges, like a sewer’s seams, divide the grass green valley bottom into manageable lots. The wind carries to him the urgent ring tones of his mobile phone on the flagstones of the backyard. ‘They’ll be ‘ere soon enough,’ he says to himself and sets off with renewed effort to find the wheelbarrow.

    He parks the wheelbarrow outside the front door and steps into the house. He remains inside for some time before emerging, staggering under the weight of his recently deceased wife wrapped in a dark blue blanket. She bends over his left shoulder like a sagging roll of carpet.  Gently he lowers her into the wheelbarrow. He stands upright gulping lungs full of the damp air, hand on his hips. When he’s sufficiently recovered he wheels the barrow down the path to the hole he has dug. At the lip of the hole he rests again before tilting the wheelbarrow high enough for the bundle of blue blanket to slide down the ramp of two planks into the hole.

    ‘Sorry me old dear, but that’s the end of the journey,’ he mumbles and wipes the end of his nose with the sleeve of his jacket,’ like I said, it’ll be better for us both in the long run. We’re not ones to be waited on. we’ve always done things for ourselves.’

    He throws the wheelbarrow aside where it topples over and comes to rest in a clump of willow herb and nettle. The old man looks around him at the green valley and the stream. His watery eyes follow the steep sides of the valley up to the ridge where several large crows, teeter and slide on the updraft of the wind. He turns and slowly tramps to the barn.

     At the standpipe he turns the tap clockwise several times until it jams. The pressure is strong enough to force tiny jets of ice cold water out of the connection with the blue pipe. The old man jumps back to avoid being drenched. He walks quickly, almost at a trot back to the hole. On the way he picks up two common house bricks he sees in the grass and thrusts one brick in each pocket of his jacket. He drags out the planks, tossing them aside. That done he sits on the edge of the hole and lowers himself down, with only his head visible over the rim of the excavation. He drags his wife closer to the centre and with some effort lowers himself down to lie beside her on the cold wet earth.

    The two shapes lay motionless. Suddenly the old man thrusts out his left hand and takes hold of the end of the blue pipe and draws it to him. With his right hand he unscrews the blue ‘threaded stop end’ and a jet of water busts forth from the pipe, strong enough to snatch it from his grasp. The pipe stands up and waves momentarily in the air before coming to rest beyond his reach, the clear glistening water hurriedly flooding the grave.

    The old man closes his eyes and sees in his mind himself and his beloved wife lying at the bottom of the valley among the trees and the green pastures, surrounded by the rim of the hills. He hears clearly the babbling of water which he thinks is the stream and he’s content. Later, there’s no-one to hear the approach of a white van driven by the old man’s son with his young family winding its way up the twisting pot-holed drive to the isolated farmhouse. The water in the hole has already covered the two bodies and overflows onto the road as the van splashes through it and comes to a stop.

The End

story success

WritersBillboard.net have for the second time selected a short story of mine as a winner. This time, Do It Yourself (DIY), a dark tale about taking matters into your own hands.

Previously WritersBillboard.net selected 'Rough Justice' as winner in March. Some of you will remember the story about the killing of the evil Captain Clive.

Three winning stories this year so far

I have been busy with preparing my manuscript, 'Hero on a Honda - Reflections of India'. I will today send it to the publishers in the US for their scrutiny.

All very exciting, not to mention the London Olympics!

Who Did Kill Captain Clive?

Please note:

Readers of Rough Justice have asked me who killed Captain Clive. Several readers enquired following web publication of the story on WRITERSBILLBOARD in April 2012

Though the story is based on a true recollection of my Aunt who was a born and grew up in India, the murder is  a fiction; even I don't know who killed the vile captain.

 

Please read the story, read  it again if necessary and tell me who you think might have killed Captain Clive? There are several obvious contenders who have alibis but........

 

You can leave a comment at the end of the blog page; you may have to sign-up to follow the blog.

I'd be fascinated to hear your suggestions. I'll consider expanding the story into a full length text, a novel maybe and I'd be happy to give you an acknowledgement.

 

Rough Justice

Two young Hindi boys ambled along the dusty path towards the river. Each carried a galvanised steel bucket swinging with the rhythm of their stride. They chatted and laughed about a boy at school who was afraid of ghosts and rarely ventured outside after dark. As they approached the river the path widened and they saw a man with a peaked cap on horse-back leaning forward encouraging his horse to drink from the river. The boys knew the man, everyone knew the camp commander known without affection as Captain Clive. They and the villagers and workers at the camp knew of his mistreatment of local people and his violence towards women. Instinctively they hung back, crouched down, speechless in the grass beside the path hoping not to be discovered.

 

The horse paused from drinking, turned its head and looked in the direction of the boys, its ears alerted by their approach. The Captain shifted in his saddle and followed the horse’s gaze. It was a big horse. It shook its head back and forth, jingling the bridle. The day was hotting up; the air was perfectly still, only the sound from the horse’s bridle and the chattering sparkle of the water in the river disturbed the tableau.

 

Just then the boys heard a crack like a twig snapping, only much louder; a rifle shot. The Captain heard it too. As he swung round in the direction where the boys were hiding, he suddenly stopped, swung back the other way and tumbled, spiralling out of the saddle. He didn’t fall off because the heel of his shiny black boot jammed in the stirrup so he half hung, without falling to the ground. His peaked cap landed in the water and began to drift down stream. The horse made a whinnying sound and took a few steps sideways dragging the Captain with him, then stopped turned and looked straight at the boys as if seeking for explanation or assistance. The boys could see the wound in the captain’s head just above his ear; blood flowed freely and mingled with the water and sand, the sleeve of his khaki shirt turned black as it soaked up the river water.

 

The two boys were transfixed by the scene. They knew something terrible had happened but they had no idea what to do; they sat on their haunches, eyes wide open, staring at the scene ahead of them. They knew there would be trouble.

 

‘Should we see if he’s alive?’ whispered one boy, his hand searching for his friend in the space between them, his eyes fixed on the horse.

 

‘No, we should get away as fast as we can. People will be coming. We shouldn’t be seen here!’ replied the other. A dog barked somewhere close and broke the silence.

 

‘C’mon, let’s go, quick!’

 

The two boys upped and ran back the way they had come, arms flailing, legs pumping, their threadbare shirts flapping; the two empty buckets remained in the dry grass.

 

At the parade ground Captain Clive walked beside Champion holding the bridle, occasionally looking up at young Mary Ann. She looked down at him, at his polished bald head, at the new crowns in his epaulettes glistening in the warming sun and his shadow marching beside him. She was content to sit holding the pommel swaying from side to side with the slow gait of the horse. Mary Ann liked riding high up on Champion. She could see over the trees to the low hills in the distance. Above her, vultures patrolled the skies in the clear morning air. She could hear voices from the camp, the trundle of carts, the rattle of harness, the plaintive neighing of an ass and the barking of a dog. The smell of smoke was in the air from many wood fires and soldiers would be gathered for breakfast at the tented barracks. Mary Ann began to think about school.

 

‘Had enough now have you?’ Captain Clive asked as if speaking to a subordinate. He turned the horse towards the stable and increased the pace a little. ‘I expect you’ll want to get school, eh?’

 

‘Yes. I think so, thank you,’ Mary Ann replied. ‘I want to go to school now.’

 

‘Very well, I’ll see you again tomorrow morning.’ The horse came to a standstill. Captain Clive secured the bridle to a post and reached up to Mary Ann allowing his hand to brush her thigh where her skirt had folded back. He clasped both his hands around Mary Ann’s waist.

 

‘Ready now, one, two, and three!’ Mary Ann was lifted clear of the saddle, swung through the air in a wide arc and lowered to the hard dusty ground. Captain Clive bent and straightened the hem of her skirt, brushed dust from her black patent leather shoes. He rose a little breathless, placed both hands on her shoulders. He could feel her collar bone then the heat from her body through the thin cotton of her white blouse.

 

‘We like our morning walks don’t we, you me and Champion, eh?’ He removed his hands from her shoulders and stroked her hair. ‘Did you enjoy your ride, your Royal Highness?’ he jested.

 

‘Yes thank you. One day I’ll have my own horse,’ she replied.

 

He smiled. ‘I’m certain you will, maybe sooner than you think! Don’t forget your satchel.’ He thought how pretty she looked. ‘Off you go then, see you tomorrow, same time, eh?’

 

‘Bye and thank you,’ she called back, already skipping, swinging her satchel as she went, her black hair bobbing up and down. Small puffs of dust splashed with the tread of her shoes on the parched dusty parade ground.

 

Captain Clive continued to watch until she’d disappeared from sight. He stood for a moment remembering her bright face, her freckled cheeks, her clear blue eyes and the warmth of her body through her blouse when he held her. His thoughts lingered before he turned his attention to his horse, adjusting the stirrups, feeling for the habitual point on the straps, worn and light-coloured from habit; each buckle slotted effortlessly into its natural place. He gave his horse a pat on its rump.

 

‘There’s a fine fellow. I expect you’d like a drink from the river, eh?’ The horse turned and looked at him as he reached for his cap, blew off the thin film of dust and dropped it on his head. He took the peak in his right hand and adjusted the fit, centred it, tapped the brim. The new bright crowns on his shoulders reminded him of his recent promotion as he put on his black leather gloves. He walked Champion to the mounting block, mounted, settled his arse in the saddle and rode off at a light canter in the direction of the river, leaving behind the dusty deserted parade ground. He heard the chime of the school bell. He smiled a smile of someone pleased that pieces of a secret plan were falling into place. He stroked his moustaches with the back of his gloved free hand and continued his ride down to the river.

 

Captain Clive, a seasoned India-wallah, commanded the battalion of horse artillery at Shimla and had been promoted recently to Major. He’d always been called ‘Captain Clive’ and among his soldiers he was happy for it to remain so; it showed the softer side of his nature in contrast to his dedication to discipline and order. He was first and always a soldier, proud to serve his country in a foreign field.

 

The Captain considered himself to be a friend of the family. Mary Ann’s father, Sergeant-major Collins had been with the battalion for many years having served throughout North West India. He was a fine soldier but to his commanding officer, he was a man without ambition. Mary Ann walked Champion every morning with the implicit consent of her father. She’ll be fourteen soon and for her birthday the Captain had a big surprise for her. As the day approached he felt mounting excitement, sure that she will be pleased with her present.

 

Sergeant-Major Collins leaned on the gatepost of the picket fence watching his daughter skip off to school. ‘Be a good girl,’ he called after her. She turned and waved. The gesture was received with a mixture of pain and pleasure. Her father knew she was going to the parade ground as she did every morning before school. He knew she would ride that horse. His heart was full of anger and loathing for his superior officer and the hold he had on his daughter, and on him. He felt powerless; no matter which way he thought to intervene, he was unable find a satisfactory approach. Grinding his teeth was the outward manifestation of the dark rage that festered inside him. He turned from the gate, wrestling to suppress the demons he was unable to quell this day, no different from any other day.

 

Alone in the empty house he prepared to go to work. He heard the school bell chime and knew his daughter would be released. Minutes later as he stepped out of the house, he heard the crack of a rifle shot close by, perhaps from the vicinity of the river; a single shot from a rifle. Silence dropped like a lead weighted curtain; only the vultures seemed unaffected as they continued to soar high above the river. He stood for a moment, enveloped by the eerie hush, attempting to place the sound of the shot in a logical place in his mind. He went back into the house to the wardrobe in the bedroom to find his rifle safely locked away. He decided it must have been some accidental firing; the reason would emerge sometime during the course of the day.

 

The investigations that followed the death of Captain Clive proved inconclusive and the event declared ‘misadventure’.

 

 There were people with motives. Sergeant-major Collins was found not guilty: inspection concluded that his rifle had not been fired for several months. Mohan Singh, whose wife had been seduced by the Captain against her will, presented a water-tight alibi. Two Sowars who had made separate complaint against the captain had already left the district and had not been seen since. Soldiers, who had been placed on charge sheets by Captain Clive over the past months, were interviewed and found to be innocent. The commander was buried in the military cemetery with a brief ceremony, attended only by high ranking military and police representatives. The police authorities had done what they could in the circumstances and no-one was charged with the murder.

 

It transpired that Captain Clive left money in his will to Mary Ann who would inherit the sum held in trust until she was twenty-one years of age. Her father however, refused to allow her to receive the money; legal arrangements were made to donate the money when released, to a local charity caring for orphaned children.

 

Careful what you eat between meals.

I got a bout of ‘the munchies’ late yesterday afternoon. You know, the kind of gnawing that only a certain food can assuage. It must have been four-ish; an afternoon-tea kind of hunger.

The morning and noon had been spent slaving over a keyboard; I needed to get over a certain hill, metaphorically speaking. As is often the case, I missed lunch.

Upon completion of my goal but before the habitual editing, I got up from my chair, stretched, walked over to the French windows and threw them wide open. I was pleasantly surprised to find warm sunshine and the hum of flying insects in the garden.

On the way upstairs to the kitchen of my up-side-down house I considered the available gastronomic alternatives: hot buttered toast and damson jam, an apple and a chunk of Comte, a sour cherry and apricot flapjack, blueberries and a large dollop of crème-fraize, apple pie and vanilla ice-cream. Mmmmm.

I decided on dark chocolate digestive biscuits; yes, that kind of hunger!

While rummaging in the pantry I spied a packet of Californian raisins and attacked the ‘keep fresh re-seal’ strip like someone possessed. Big and juicy, the dark soft fruits hit the button. I popped one in my mouth and thrilled at the sweet smoky sensation. While searching for a bowl, my eye was caught by an unopened packet of KP salted peanuts. (No other brands available) The perfect accompaniment; salty and dry with the sweet and soft of the raisins. I found a bowl, poured in sufficient nuts and raisins and hurried down the stairs to begin editing my piece.

I stumbled on the final turn of the stair and spilled some of my precious cargo.

Annoyed for the delay, I picked up the fallen fruits and eventually settled at my desk to read my work, while licking sticky fingers.

With the editing incomplete, the saltiness had worked up a thirst. I knew I had to make a cup of green tea; fresh and cleansing. As I mounted the bottom step of the stair I saw a raisin that I had not picked up earlier. Without thinking I picked it up in forefinger and thumb, popped it into my mouth and continued up stairs. Anyone would have done the same I imagine.

As I bit repeatedly into the raisin I knew there was something very wrong. I chewed once more then spat the now masticated thing into the palm of my hand. To my horror I was looking at the remains of a recently expired blue-bottle fly; legs and bits of wings and the pussey remains of its blue-black body were clearly visible.

Somehow I managed to get to the kitchen sink before vomiting and afterwards swigged down several litres of water.

Once I had composed myself, I binned the California raisins and vowed  half-heartedly, never to snack between meals again.

A new Short Story

A new short Story.....

A Shirt from Paradise Blue

The sun began to change from a searing white globe to take on yellow and orange as it dipped towards the horizon. Two figures appeared in the distance walking along the wide, sandy beach without apparent purpose, occasionally stopping to examine something on the sand or to touch hands, to walk close together and then apart; a man and a woman. He, tall and dark, she shorter and blond, her hair cut short like a boy’s. They dressed alike in white shirts, khaki shorts and pale blue soft summer hats, shoes in hand. Chatting and laughing they approached. Suddenly the woman stopped, pointed and spoke urgently to her partner. She reached out and took his hand.

‘It is, look. It’s a pile of clothes and things,’ she said cautiously stepped forward, pulling him with her.

They stopped close enough to cast a shadow over the belongings.

‘So it is,’ he replied. They both looked around expecting to see someone on the beach or swimming in the surf. ‘There’re footprints in the sand, look,’ he said unclasping his hand and bending to examine the bare-foot prints.

‘Yes, leading away, along the beach. How curious?’ she said walking around the pile of clothes searching for some clue. ‘They haven’t been here long, look, there’s barely any wind-blown sand on them. Perhaps just a few hours.’

‘Well, there were no cars in the dunes car park when we arrived. I don’t remember seeing any prints in the sand as we walked. Why, you remarked that the beach was totally deserted’. He added, his voice revealing growing doubt. Tom liked things to be in the right place; he was a stickler for detail. ‘Look, here are some more footprints leading up from the sea.’

‘How very strange,’ she answered, looking over to Tom. ‘Should we look and see if there’s any identification, a wallet or something? I don’t suppose it’s the scene of a crime.’

‘We can’t very well not look,’ Tom replied and reached out to lift the hat, revealing black sunglasses, hiding in the shade. He picked them up. ‘Oakleys’. He put the hat on the sand and the glasses in the hat. He lifted the bright beach towel, shook it out and placed it on the sand next to the hat. He looked up along the beach and towards the surf for something, anything that might explain this collection of someone’s things.

Maria bent and picked up the shirt. ‘The shirt has a label From Paradise Blue. I’m sure it’s a man’s shirt.’ She held it up to flap in the wind, then thrust her nose into the garment. ‘Smells, clean.’

Tom picked up the khaki shorts and began to examine the pockets. ‘What have we here?’ he said withdrew his hand. ‘It’s a mobile phone, look.’ He held it up for her to see.

‘That’ll be helpful,’ she added.

He pressed the keypad several times but was unable to open the phone. ‘It’s out of juice!’
She moved closer to him. ‘Yes, but it’s a Nokia and it’ll have a serial number. I’m sure it’d be possible to trace the owner, don’t you think?’

‘Probably.’ He pocketed the phone and thrust his hand into the shorts again; he drew out a handful of loose change and some large denomination notes of local currency,. ‘Not much else here to give us any clues, just some change and hundreds of rupees. Curious that there’s no car keys.’

‘Look, there’s a pair of sandals, expensive.’ She stood with hands on hips. ‘What shall we do?’ Her voice had a tone of despair.

‘We could just leave; take the money and run,’ he suggested. ‘Whatever it is, it’s none of our business, besides the tide will be rising now and by the look of the tide marks, the sea will claim the stuff within the next few hours anyway’.

‘Are you serious? We can’t just walk away.’ She spoke, surprised at his response; her sense of fairness and justice coming to the fore. ‘If there’s anything we can do we must do it now. We’ll take all the stuff and give it to the police, let them sort it out.’

He looked at her, expecting her to see how complicated this could get. She stared back at him. He spoke carefully to make sure she understood his thoughts. ‘Do you realise how complicated this could turn out to be Maria. We could be implicated; accessories after the fact and all that. It’s best we turn and walk away.’

‘No. We can’t do that Tom. I’d never forgive myself if it turned out that some crime or tragedy took place. No, we should gather all this up and give it to the police. Tell them exactly what we found,’ her lips pursed and her eyes bright with determination.

For a moment they stood looking down at the abandoned possessions. The wind found the gap between them.

Maria began gathering the possessions with anxious glances at the advancing waves. Tom scoured the beach again in both directions shielding his eyes from the lowering sun. They set off the way they had come but with an ungainly haste, treading awkwardly in the soft hot sand, Maria clutching the abandoned clothes under her left arm, Tom a few paces behind.

At the hotel door, pairs of shoes lay scattered as if abandoned on the steps, like boats adrift at sea. Maria plonked the folded clothes on the reception desk, breathless from the exertion, pleased to release them from her grasp. The clerk appeared from the back office.

‘Namaste,’ she greeted the clerk. ‘We must speak to the police. Can you show us how to find the police station, or can you phone for a policeman to come to the hotel, urgently’, she asked tapping the sun-hat on the top of the pile of possessions.

‘Namaste,’ the clerk replied. ‘Sorry Madam, I no understand. You want talk to police?’

‘Yes, can you telephone the police and ask them to come?’ Maria’s anxiety was enough for the clerk to realise there was a problem.

‘One moment madam.’ The clerk excused himself and disappeared into the back room. Maria turned and looked at Tom who shrugged his shoulders. ‘You should know by now that you can’t hurry anything in this country’, he cautioned.

Maria turned back to the reception desk as the clerk returned wringing his hands nervously.

‘Madam, I call police. Wait, please sit,’ the clerk gestured to the bright red sofa behind her. ‘Please sit. You want chai?’

Maria waved her hand to dismiss the offer and gathered up the possessions.

They both sat awkwardly on the long sofa, hands on knees like naughty school children. Neither spoke. Tom took the mobile phone from his pocket, examined it then clutched it in both hands between his knees. He checked the wall clock above the stair against his wristwatch. The ceiling fan struggled to have an effect on the heavy heat in the room. They waited.

In the back room the excited commentary of a cricket match on TV interfered with the silence. Maria suddenly felt they should have taken off their shoes at the door.

A short round moustachioed man in khaki uniform approached the door, stopped, slid off his polished black shoes and entered the foyer. He took a white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. The reception clerk gestured toward the couple on the sofa.

Maria stood up and offered her hand. ‘Namaste, thank you for coming. Can we go somewhere private?’ The policemen offered a limp hand without acknowledging the greeting or making eye-contact. Perhaps he wasn’t happy to be summoned in the heat of the afternoon.

A brief exchange between clerk and policeman concluded that the sofa was the only place to conduct business. Unless they went to their room, there was nowhere private to talk.

Keeping a respectful distance, the policemen lowered himself slowly on to the sofa. Maria turned to him and carefully related how they came upon the abandoned possessions on the beach. The policemen showed little interest until the Nokia phone was mentioned. Tom held up the phone. The policemen took it, examined it and put it in his breast pocket. He did the same with the money when Tom, with much fumbling, withdrew the cash from the pocket of his shorts.

The policeman stood up, spoke briefly in dialect to the clerk, turned and spoke with unexpected eloquence, to Tom. ‘This is a serious matter and I must act quickly. Time and tide seem to be against us, so to speak.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You have done the right thing calling the police. I will take the possessions and begin a formal enquiry. How long are you expecting to stay in our town?’

Tom looked at Maria then answered. ‘We have to leave in two days, we have made travel arrangements.’

‘Until then I know where to find you if there are questions.’ The policeman concluded and nodded at Tom. He bent to receive the abandoned items from Maria, lingering just long enough to make her conscious of her revealing open neck shirt. Tom stood up abruptly, his fists clenched; Maria immediately sensed his tension.

The policeman thanked them without offering his hand. He spoke gruffly to answer  a question from the clerk and left. The policemen located his black shoes from those others abandoned on the step, slipped them on and marched briskly up the street. Maria and Tom hurried away up the stairs to their room.

Once out of sight the policemen slowed. He slid into a narrow alley, stopped and drew a folded plastic shopping bag from his back trouser pocket. He quickly removed his khaki shirt, stuffed it in the bag with all the abandoned belongings, smiled to himself and stepped out. After some minutes, he turned into another alley and came to a small courtyard. He entered a narrow doorway and disappeared from sight.

In their hotel room, the ceiling fan whirred impatiently. They lay twisted and exhausted on the bed like bodies washed up on a beach.  

Maria expressed doubt about the outcome. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll hear anything from the police, do you? We’ll be gone by the time they make any progress, or I suppose until a body turns up. We did what we could after-all.’ She turned to Tom stretched out on the bed. She knew he was angry about something. ‘What else could we have done?’

‘You’re right. But we could have just walked away and left the stuff where we found it, like I said,’ he paused. ‘At least we got the lion’s share of the money, and the Oakleys.’

Maria gasped. ‘Tom, no. You didn’t!’

‘Oh yes I did. You didn’t think that was a policemen we spoke to, did you?’

If you have any comments, please let me know.