Part VII

Christmas Eve. Carol singers from the village arrived at the door. Not very tuneful, in my estimation.

When mother discovered they didn't do VISA she asked me for some spare change.

I had no spare change so I gave them a £5 note, warning them that this covered next Christmas as well.

When mother had had a couple of gins I pressed her about father. She gave me a knowing look, at the same time tapping the side of her nose. What can this mean?

Realising I would get no further with mother in her present state, I repaired to the music room intending to collect my thoughts whilst playing a few swift arpeggios upon my cello. It was there I  encountered our housekeeper, Mrs Browning, tuning the piano. And it was she who furnished me with another piece of the jigsaw.
'Georgie,' she said, 'I'm afraid I told you a little fib earlier on.'
'Good heavens, Mrs B,' I riposted  'I never took you to be one for the old fibberoony'
'Ah well, I was sworn to secrecy, you see. But now it's all in the open I can tell you.'
'Tell me what?' I asked.
'You remember that peasant we observed through the drawing room window, gathering winter fuel? Well, that was no peasant, George - it was your father!'
'What!' I ejaculated.
'But he was gathering fuel - that part was true - to make a fire in the old boathouse. That's where he's been holed-up these past three days'.
'"Holed-up! 'I think you've been reading too many American detective novels, Mrs B.' I joshed.
'Shut up, you precocious little person, (she didn't actually use the word 'person') and go and see if your mother's sobered-up.'
'Mother is never drunk!' I retorted, 'And I'll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mrs Brownlow, and remember your position.'
'Whatever.' snorted the old harridan. 'Tell her I'd like a few words with her about that so-called Borris.'

And she waved her hand, as if dismissing me. Whatever is this country coming to, when servants think they can behave in this fashion.
'You haven't heard the last of this.' I called out over my shoulder, as I left the room.

Mother was sleeping peacefully on the chaise longue when I returned to the drawing room; I did not have the heart to wake her. Instead, I returned to my room to reflect upon this latest piece of news. I resolved to text father to demand some answers. Then I remembered mother had thrown my SIM card, with all my contacts, down the lavatory.

There was nothing for it. I would have to go down to the old boathouse and confront father, face to face.

I pulled on a cricket sweater over my thermal shirt and donned my parka. For footwear I chose a stout pair of boots that I found in the bottom of the wardrobe. I hadn't worn them for a couple of years, and they were a bit tight I was amazed how much I had grown - well, my feet had grown, anyway.

I slipped quietly out of the kitchen door - there was no sign of cook. It was bitterly cold, and I realised I had forgotten my gloves. No time to go back for them now. As I was creeping round the side of the vegetable garden, I thought I could hear voices. I stopped, Yes - they were coming from the old tool shed. Suddenly the door opened. I crouched behind a wheelbarrow. A figure emerged. It was Borris. But when I saw who followed him out, I gave an involuntary gasp.

(to be continued)

Popular Myths Exploded... No. 173

Marie Antoinette never said: Play it agen, Sam

Food fact for the day

Did you know, there is more fibre in one banana than in five ping-pong balls?

Today I sail on

If you keep going, after you should have stopped long ago, you won't fall off the edge of the world - you will discover new lands.

For many days the only entry in the Santa Maria's  log was: Today we sailed on.

Well, if was good enough for Columbus...

So, Today I sail on.

Part VI

Father is a whistle-blower!

That's what mother told me. That's why Badger and Quinn are so anxious to find him.

They work for the Security Services - and, so it appears, does father! Imagine: father, a James Bond! I wonder if he has a licence to kill?

When mother opened the cloakroom door in response to Quinn's knocking, she was very cool.
'If you were bursting for a pee, love, there's another lavatory on the other side of the hall; we don't stint on bogs in this house.'

'No, Mrs Turner. I just want to tell you we are leaving now, and I am taking this with me.'
And, horror of horrors, he had father's laptop under his arm. The one father had text me to throw in the lake. I was aghast - for the second time that evening. 'But you can't take father's laptop,' I protestested, 'It's his private property!'

'Oh, Badger... err Mr Fothergill... will give you a receipt.' Quinn smiled - more like a horrible grin, really.
'Well, we'll be off. I've telephoned for another car - ours slid into a snowdrift. You certainly have bloody awful weather out here in the sticks.'

There was a knock at the front door. 'That will be our driver' said Badger, 'Sorry about all this Georgina - a bloody mess, eh. Never mind, we'll sort it out. But you must ring us immediately if you hear from Cyril.'

And they were gone.

'But mother,' I wailed, 'Father had wanted me to throw his laptop into the lake - now it's too late. That horrible personage, Quinn has it.'

'No, George - Quinn thinks he has father's laptop - actually he has mine. Father's is already at the bottom of the lake.'

'But it was on his desk...' I began.

'I switched them earlier.' smiled my resourceful mother. 'I hope he enjoys viewing all those porn sites.'

I wasn't sure what a whistle-blower was so I looked it up on Google, I found links to You tube and  a woman name Annie Machon. She was a whistle-blower some years ago, along with her colleague David Shayler. She said that Britain has become a Police State. I could hardly believe it: that this green and pleasant land, with its village pubs and church fetes had become like Russia or some other communist country. But she was very persuasive. Apparently there are laws already in force which, although not yet used, could restrict our liberty to a degree previously unheard of. And this made me think that the  government wanting to censor the internet - supposedly to 'crack down on paedophile rings' - could be just the toe of the fascist jackboot. And that unless we stand up to these people we will soon experience the full weight of that jackboot on the neck of our once free society.

I resolved to join in the struggle for freedom, although I was not quite sure how I might do this.

My opportunity came sooner than I expected.


(to be continued)

Not the story

Some unrelated comments (or are they?)

I woke up thinking about Eartha Kitt.

I used to be a big fan of hers. What happened to her? Oh, I know she is what we call 'dead' - but that's no answer.

Where is that entity, being, person I experienced (and am still experiencing) as Eartha Kitt?

Is the answer to that question to be found in Particle Physics? Or Philosophy?


-------------------------------------------------------------

Keep taking the tablets

Nowadays, everything is to do with the destination, rather than the journey.  The journey has become a fag - something to be got over as quickly as possible. But if you think about it, you can never reach your destination. Because in getting there it becomes something else. It is no longer your destination. Wheras the journey... is always alive... happening.

And, of course, I'm not just talking about physical destinations. Take computers:Everything must be quicker and easier... and as a result often becomes more complicated. And the trend is for one device to do everything: a sort of Swiss Penknife approach. I think we are being led by the nose by the technocrats.  I am not knocking technology. But perhaps we could be a little more selective in which bits of technology we accept - and which we reject. To paraphrase a great teacher: Technology is made for man - not man for technology.

Home for Christmas - Part V

"My husband and I have an open marriage. And it works. For us. I'm not saying it would work for everyone - but it works for us."

My mother was speaking to our two visitors when I entered father's study. Badger was eating a mince-pie; his companion was re-filling his sherry glass from the decanter on father's desk - next to the laptop!

Mother gave a start as I entered the room. "George, I thought you were having a nap.'
"Could I have a word, mother - in private." I requested, politely.
"If it's about Elsie, you can speak freely in front of these gentlemen, George - they are men of the world." She laughed, mischievously.
"It's not about Elsie, mother, but it is imperitive I speak with you."

Badger's companion (whose name I later learnt was Quinn) turned to me. "It wouldn't be about your father, George, would it?"
I felt my face going red. "No, it's... err... about the seating arrangements for dinner." Quinn stood up. My, he was such a tall man. "George, your father seems to have gone missing and we are concerned for his safety. You see, he hasn't taken his medication with him, and so the quicker we find him..."

My heart was beating fast. "He's in Thailand... on a fact finding mission. I thought Mr Badger would have known that." My words came out all in a rush - it's always the same when I'm nervous. Quinn sighed (unnecessessarily melodramatic, I thought). "All right son, go and speak with your mother. But think carefully about what I said."

Mother and I left the room. Outside the door she put a finger to her lips, and led me to the downstairs cloakroom. Once inside she turned on both washbasin taps. "Mother, what are you doing? You know there are people in Africa dying for lack of water. " I admonished.

"George, I think the house is bugged." Mother looked a little worried.
I was horrified. "What do you mean?"
"That man Quinn is a policeman - well a sort of a policeman. He's looking for your father."
"But I've just had a text from father, I -"
"Give me your phone!"
"But mother -"
"Give me the bloody phone!"
I handed it over. She took out the SIM card, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the lavatory. I was aghast." But mother, all my contacts were on that" I protested.
"Oh shut up, George," she replied, "I've got more to think about than your bloody contacts."

I felt this was an unreasonable attitude and - not for the first time - began to question whether parents were the best people to bring up children. Father was always distant (I don't mean in Thailand - which he wasn't, by the way) and mother was erractic in her relationship to me. To say she was unpredictable would be to understate her behaviour - Upon reflection, I think neurotic would be a better term. She  certainly suffered from mood swings - a condition I think I might have inherited.

But before I could remonstrate further with my mother, there came a knocking on the cloakroom door, and a voice called, "Open the door please". It was Quinn.

Happy Christmas one and all.

My laptop seems a bit better.

I will post Part V of 'Home for Christmas' within the next 24 hours.

Home for Christmas - Part IV

But I couldn't sleep.

I got up and looked on top of the wardrobe. Yes it was still there; mother had kept dear old Olive.

I took her down and placed her gently upon my bedside table. There's nothing like an old manual typewriter for 'telling it like it is'. So - sheet of paper under the roller, and here goes: