Silent Sunday, 24 Sept 2017

Sunday serialisation – Knight & Deigh, 12.1

Posted on by September 23, 2017

Knight & Deigh started life as a retelling of The Orphans, from the point of view of the second lead character, Hannice Knight. It begins in Tanzania as I remember it from the early 1980s, but some of the technologies used are much more recent. To that extent, it is anachronistic. Don’t forget, though; it is fictional, made up, lies. All of it.

Hannice Knight had run the African operation of his father’s global business for many years, when a freak accident at home left him unable to walk. Together with physiotherapist Sophie Deigh, he tries to bring into his life the excitement and adventure he missed in his formative years, due to the need to be tied to the business.

A number of adventures and activities follow including scuba-diving, sky-diving, power-boating and camping, and a half-brother he never knew about; but even these can’t lift Hannice’s spirits.

What, or who can? Will the developing closeness between Hannice and Sophie come to anything, and what of the rumoured advances in medical technology?

Beginning on 12 February 2017, I am publishing Knight & Deigh here as a serial; one scene each Sunday.

The full list of scenes so far published is here

Knight & Deigh. Chapter twelve, scene one: Back to London.

When we arrived back in Knight Towers, at around nine in the evening, the first thing I noticed was a large crate in the middle of the conservatory. This must have been the thing that Sophie had bought, and I assumed Mrs Cooper had given the delivery person access to the conservatory, as it was properly locked and alarmed on our arrival.

“Can I see what it is now, Sophie, or do I have to wait until after breakfast tomorrow, like Mama and Papa made me wait for my Christmas presents when I was a child?” I asked.

“Your choice, Hannice. I’m going in to freshen up.”

The crate was too high for me to reach to take the top off, so I would have to wait for Sophie to come back. Drat these legs!

When she came back out, I handed Sophie the crowbar that I kept in the conservatory (I knew I’d find a use for it one day), and she lifted the top of the crate. She then removed the side closest to me and pulled out all the packing material, revealing the contents, an ebony bench-cum-sofa, ornately carved in the Bantu style and sumptuously upholstered in a deep red leather that wouldn’t look out of place in the chamber of the House of Lords.

“Sophie, that’s terrific,” I enthused.

“I thought it would go well in the lounge,” she suggested.

“I’ll say. I’ll have the gardener take it through in the morning.”

“I’m sure we can manage it between us,” she said, “it’s a straight run through. If you can take the weight of one end, I’ll lift the other end and push you slowly backwards.”

“If I can take the weight on my legs, I’ll be able to steer, too.”

That’s what we did, and it took pride of place in what, as a child, I always called the posh corner of the lounge. There was enough room beside it for me to park my wheelchair and haul myself into it.

The next morning, I went into the offices of the firm’s solicitors, Green, Green and Smithson, and saw Mr Joe Green, who was the administrator of Papa’s will.

“What’s this about me having a half-brother?” I asked.

“So the gentleman claims, Mr Knight, so he claims,” he said.

“Did Papa ever say anything about a bastard son?” I asked.

“No, Sir,” he replied, “but you, of all people, know how closely Mr Maurice guarded his personal life. His history is, speaking poetically, a mystery. To me, at least.”

“Two questions, Mr Green. One: is this true? And two: what happens if it is?”

“The veracity or otherwise of the claims of this Mr Parker can be established to a fair degree of certainty by means of a simple DNA test, Sir. We would need to extract a sample of the gentleman’s DNA and a sample of yours. The two will then be compared and the likelihood of a filial relationship determined. I have already looked into your second question and am seeking advice from a family law specialist. My immediate reaction is that as your father left a very clear statement of his wishes in his will, and that will has been properly executed, the matter should drop there. However, I would recommend waiting until I receive the opinion I have sought.”

“Very well, Mr Green, I’ll go along with your counsel. How do we go about having the DNA test done?”

“Here’s the address of the lab I’d like to use,” he said, stretching across his desk and handing me an envelope addressed to a medical laboratory in the City. “Take this note to them; they are expecting you, and they will take a cheek swab. Meanwhile, I have asked Mr Parker to provide, within fifteen days, a verified DNA sample for comparison. I’ll be in touch again once the tests have been completed.”

The lab was expecting me. The receptionist called a white-coated operative, who came out, took a sample by swabbing the inside of my cheek, said thank-you and went off again. Very efficient; took seconds.

Saturday souvenir — Dominica

As some of you know, my wife and I were fortunate enough to visit Dominica for a couple of weeks from Christmas 2004.

Following the dreadful effects of Hurricane Maria that recently overtook this most beautiful island nation, I have been trying to find one photograph that encapsulates my impression of Dominica as I recall it. I have failed. Miserably.

If you drill down from ‘Photography’ on the site menu, there is a link to everything I have posted so far about the island, including a good number of photographs of Dominica’s flora and fauna.

In the meantime, please keep the island and its people in your thoughts.

Looking west from above Portsmouth in the north-west of the island

 

The Dreamer — part 32

Posted on by September 21, 2017

a tale in weekly parts

The story so far

Bernice Reed, a thirty-something African-American woman from Arizona, appeared in the street of a small Canadian town some two hundred years in her future in the body of a white male. Now known as Bernie, he settled into a high-tech life. But it didn't end there! Not by any means. Any change to the 'past' after her/his translation would (and did) rewrite the future - his present.

Episode 32

Bernie had been waiting to see the danjang for more than an hour, when the man whose desk plaque described him as executive assistant grade 3 stood up from his seat and walked towards the door between his and his boss’s office, announcing, “This way, honoured worker. His Excellency will see you now.”

When Bernie entered the danjang’s office, he felt as though he had been transported to another timeline. Covering an area that could easily accommodate the bunk-beds of a couple of dozen men, it displayed a level of luxury that he hadn’t seen since arriving in the PDRC. The room was floored with what felt like the rubberised playground flooring he knew from his (her?) original time and place, while the walls and ceiling were covered with what he assumed to be textured wallpaper. When the assistant closed the door behind him, however, the room fell so silent that he was again aware of his mild tinnitus. Disoriented by the sudden absolute silence and the opulence of his surroundings, he hadn’t yet focussed on the office’s sole occupant, seated behind a mind-bogglingly large mahogany desk at the end of the office.

“Come,” a voice boomed from, it seemed, all directions simultaneously. Bernie looked around some more and spotted speakers at regular intervals around the walls and in the ceiling. He approached the desk.

“Thommo?” he asked, instantly recognising the danjang as none other than the desk sergeant at St Catharines Central police station; the man who had processed his arrest when he turned up naked in Port Dalhousie.

“What does Thommo mean?” the danjang asked, his voice at a more comfortable level – he was not, this time, using the speaker system, “Is this a form of respectful greeting I haven’t heard yet?”

“Yes and no, Your Excellency. I meant it respectfully, of course, but it is not a customary greeting among my people. It is the designation of a man I knew before, and you look exactly like him. I apologise.”

“Accepted. Please take a seat, Rev.” Without the speaker system, the danjang‘s voice was disarmingly, even menacingly soft. Bernie pictured him in a James Bond movie, stroking a white Persian cat.

“With respect, Your Excellency, I am not the Rev. I’m afraid he died yesterday. I am merely 3358-4791.”

“It was the Rev’s wish that you assume his status, with all its rights and responsibilities; that you be designated Rev and that you take his place at our regular meetings.”

“But, Your Excellency, I am not worthy of such honour and I do not believe I am equipped for this much responsibility.”

“It has been written in the camp logs. You are the new Rev and it would be in your best interests to discharge the responsibilities of that office in an effective and efficient manner. Now. How would you have me call you? 4791? Rev? Or would you prefer your other designation?”

“Your Excellency knows that we are not permitted designations beyond our serial numbers.”

“I didn’t ask what you are permitted. I know what you are permitted. This is my camp and my rules. However, I am aware that certain things happen in the camp, things that are not permitted, but that I require my men to turn a blind eye to because it suits me not to punish every minor offence. Personal designations is one of these things. So. In this room, and only in this room, I wish to address you by your designation. What is it?”

“I am known as Bernie, Your Excellency.”

“I shall call you thus. By convention, our regular meetings are less than formal, and you may refer to me as danjang or, in your language, Guardian. Now, Bernie, why did you ask for this meeting?”

“My aim, Your Excellency—”

“Danjang or Guardian!”

“My aim, Guardian, was to tell you that I don’t want to be the Rev. These men need a leader, but I’m not it.”

“Denied. You are the new Rev, Bernie. Our next meeting is due in three days and I expect you to be ready. Dismissed.”

“But…”

“Dismissed!”

Bernie stood, turned and left the danjang’s office. Thoroughly dissatisfied with the outcome of the meeting, he went in search of Jonas.

 

Throwback Thursday — Life in the fast lane? Not we!

Posted on by September 20, 2017
This week's throwback Thursday takes us back six years, with a post from 19 September 2011.

It all started because we had bought a nice tent last year, which we didn’t have the opportunity to use. Clare used it very successfully on her week in the northwest of France, and we decided to give it a go later this year (weather permitting). The only snag is the dogs. They would, obviously, come with us, but I had serious concerns about camping in the company of other people, with two dogs – one of whom will go wild if anyone has the nerve to move within half a parsec of where he is sleeping, and one who will follow whatever the other does – held in at night by a piece of man-made material.

Having given it a lot of thought, we decided that the children’s inheritance hadn’t been raided for a while, so we started looking for inexpensive campers. There are, of course, a number of considerations to these things, not least of which is size. With the kind of sum we had in mind, we had a good choice of vehicles ranging from six meter coachbuilts down to vans the size of VW, Hiace etc with professional or home-made conversions and, of course, everything in between. Budget being one of the determining factors, we were restricted to vans between about twenty-five and almost forty years old.

I am a great believer in compromise. We would both have loved a substantial van, and there were many on offer within our price range, but we saw potential problems with parking, running costs and so on. We also looked at smaller vans, VW conversions mostly, but they seemed a little cramped inside. We finally settled on the van pictured below.

It is an Autostar on a Renault Trafic chassis. Although twenty-eight years old, its mileage appears genuine at a little under 110,000 Kms (68,500 miles). According to the registration papers, it was bought new in 1983, used by the same person for eighteen years, when it was sold to a specialist dealer – possibly in part-exchange for a newer model. The man from whom we bought it acquired it from that dealer in 2001. Two owners in twenty-eight years is not bad.

It is, though, still twenty-eight years old, with a 1.6l petrol engine. It is, therefore, not a racer. We drove the 150 odd kilometres to collect it this afternoon (Monday 19th) and, after going through the formalities – this is France, so lots of forms, some in triplicate, on which to put information that can be read from the registration document, which has to be submitted with the forms – Clare followed me home. We did it that way, rather than have Clare come home first, because it was a bit of an unknown quantity, and we haven’t yet learned to trust it implicitly.

We used the autoroute as much as possible, and batted along quite nicely at a sedate 90-100kph.

Until, that is, we reached a positive gradient, when I was forced to switch straight to the crawler lane. Fortunately, I have been driving a 1.2l low emissions Twingo for a couple of years, so I no longer die of embarrassment when a 60 foot tanker truck passes me uphill!

We got her home in one piece, then decided to take a couple of external and internal shots, so that our loyal reader (we know who you are, but we promise not to tell anyone) can have an idea of what we have just spent our money on.

This is a combined camping vehicle and renovation project. Clare has said (publicly, silly girl) that she would like to refresh the inside to bring it a little more up to date.

Fortunately, it ended up coming in at exactly half our budget. That leaves some cash for any necessary repairs – new exhaust is first priority, followed by an engine tune to ensure we are getting the best from it – as well as a little for beautification.

By the way – the dogs went mad when we arrived. It was an unknown vehicle, and so a suitable object for much noise. As soon as they were allowed inside, they seemed very happy with it and, as you can see, Trevor is quite content to see it as an extension of home.

It was a bit tight getting into the front of the house, so it is looking increasingly as though some of the surplus funds will be commandeered to effect option four from last week.

I think replacing that eyesore with a hard standing of the same footprint will be much more visually appealing as well as affording extra parking and turning room.