Intelligent Design

Intelligent Design

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited.

The copyright remains the property of the author

Hyphialta surfaced a long way out to sea, and taking a moment to relax and catch her breath, scanned the familiar outline of her private harbour. Alrik was there as usual, sitting in the deckchair by the slipway, beneath the arm of her personal hoist. A family of sea lions sunned themselves on the jetty by his side, while a few lazy marine iguanas slid into the sea one by one from the rocks at his feet. Behind him the wind turbine turned slowly above the angular arrays of solar panels and the enormous mesh satellite dish – human intrusions gleaming in the morning sunshine. He seemed to be reading a book, or perhaps making notes. She swam back slowly, wondering if he would notice her approach. He spotted her and waved when she was about fifty metres from the landing stage.

"Welcome back, Alta. That was a long dive."

"Was it? It's beautiful out there. Dolphins, rays, turtles, hundreds of sea lions… why don't you join me? You haven't dived yet and this is one of the best locations in the whole world."

"Maybe later. I don't do much diving these days, and I can't stay here very much longer you know. I really wanted to talk to you."

"Okay. I'll come on land."

"Can I help you with the winch?"

"No need. I'm used to it."

She manoeuvred herself carefully into the fabric sling, rolled over on to her back, and pressed the waterproof switch on its dangling cable. At once the motor began to whirr and she felt herself lifted gently out of the water and into the air. Alrik watched, fascinated as ever, while the device automatically swung her into position above her wheelchair and then lowered her into it. It didn't seem to occur to him that she might be sensitive about it, that his intense interest might make her feel like an exhibit in a freak show. No, that was unfair, she decided. Alrik didn't see her in that way. He was a scientist. Close observation of the unusual was second nature to him. He meant well.

"Can we go inside?" she asked when she had secured her seat belt, "I haven't had breakfast yet." He nodded and reached towards the chair. "It's okay, Alrik, I can do it. If I need help I'll ask for it."

"Sorry..."

"Don't be. Sorry, I mean. You're always saying you're sorry about everything. There's nothing to be sorry about."

She regretted having spoken sharply as she effortlessly propelled the wheelchair up the gentle slope to the house. She wanted to like Alrik – no, she did like him, a lot – but some things about him she found slightly annoying. He never seemed to adapt to her, to learn her needs and preferences. He seemed to repeat the same behaviour patterns no matter how often she explained that she would prefer something else. Maybe it was a cultural difference. He had to walk uncomfortably fast to keep by her side, her faithful puppy, anxious to remain close. When they reached the door he opened it for her and stood to one side, no doubt responding to some deep imperative of his upbringing. She accepted the courtesy without comment.

The building was little more than a two-room shack: a room for work and a room for sleep. The sound and vision monitoring area took up most of one wall, with an equipment-laden desk and four large flatpanel viewing screens for the outputs of the underwater cameras. A fifth smaller one was the computer monitor, and to either side were arranged the consoles that monitored and recorded from the underwater microphones and fed the sound transducers that allowed her to talk back. On the same desk was a satellite telephone and a standard keyboard and mouse. The free space all around the walls was lined with sagging shelves of her books and notes and CDs of her scientific data, all at a convenient height for the chair, and above these, large panoramic windows gave views of the sea lion colonies along both sides of the bay, the diving frigate birds and the rocks that seemed to ripple with the movements of tens of thousands of marine iguanas, entering and leaving the water in their endless cycle of foraging.

As soon as they came into the room they could hear through the monitoring equipment the clicking of the dolphins and the deeper, more distant wailing of a school of migrating blue whales. Hyphialta went to the console and selected the output of the camera just beneath the jetty. A large male dolphin was staring straight into it. She made a shrill clicking sound from the back of her throat. The dolphin dipped its head in acknowledgement, responded with a similar clicking sound of its own, and swam away.

"You always do that when you get back from a dive, don't you?" Alrik commented.

"He likes me to let him know that I'm okay when I get back."

"Is that Roc?"

"Yes. Why don't you come down with me and I'll introduce you. He's keen to meet you."

"I think I might be jealous." They exchanged a smile.

"If you want to do something, you could make us a cup of coffee. And take a look what we've got in the fridge. I've worked up an appetite." She could tell that it pleased him when she used the inclusive "we". It was part of the harmless flirtation that they had been engaged in over the couple of weeks that he had been there. She hoped he realised that it couldn't go any further.

He dutifully put the kettle on and started to rummage for food. "Eggs. Eggs on toast with beans. Will that be all right?"

"Anything, Alrik. Whatever's there." Alrik busied himself with the pots and pans. He had to sit to cope with the height of the specially adapted cooker and work surfaces. Hyphialta responded to another series of clicks from one of the underwater microphones.

"Who was that?"

"A female of Roc's pod. I call her Messelina – you know, the wife of Claudius who slept with all the men. She's an outrageous little nymphomaniac."

"Lucky old Roc." He paused and turned to her, looking rather anxious. "Alta, I suppose everybody says this, but there's something quite magic about you. I don't think I can bear to leave tomorrow. I... I've become incredibly... attached to you..."

Oh dear! Here we go, she thought. "It's mutual," she assured him, "I've become very attached to you too. You're a good friend."

"Look, I know I'm not very good at this kind of thing..."

"You're right. Those eggs are going to burn!"

He turned down the gas. "Alta, please don't laugh at me. I'm very serious. I don't want to leave here tomorrow – or ever. You've done something to me. You've got under my skin. I don't know what it is, it's not just that you're beautiful, which goes without saying. There's something just plain magic about you."

"It's the place, Alrik. This place was magic long before I came."

"No, I'm serious. It isn't just the place. It's you. I think it's the way you enjoy your life so much. The way you're happy and cheerful all the time. The way you love the water. These have been the happiest two weeks of my life..."

He paused so long that Hyphialta took the fish-slice from his hand and attended to the eggs herself. "That's sweet of you, Alrik. But don't you have a wife and family to go to somewhere?"

"No. Well, yes, I did have a wife, and I have a daughter..."

"Don't let's spoil it, Alrik. Let's not be silly. What on earth would you want with a setup like this? Hundreds of miles from civilization – unless you count Puerto Ayora – me in this chair..."

"We're both marine biologists. I'm the world's biggest admirer of your work. I can help you with it." He hesitated, "I'm the world's biggest admirer... of you. I know I'm quite a bit older..."

She took his hand and kissed it. She could feel the electricity shoot through his body. "It's not that. You're very sweet. And very silly. I really don't know what to say. What do you expect me to say?" He remained motionless, staring into her eyes. "I think I'd better do the eggs. Why don't you sit over there?" Alrik did as he was told. Hyphialta got on with the breakfast. She had seen this coming, but it still made her acutely uncomfortable. Living as she did, the sole inhabitant of a rocky outcrop that was the tip of an extinct underwater volcano, fifty miles from the nearest inhabited island of the Galapagos Archipelago, her social skills were, to say the least, underdeveloped. She loaded up the tray and took it to him at the wooden wheelchair-height table.

"Alrik, I'm no good at this kind of thing either. I don't know how to play the courtship game, or whatever it is. All I can do is tell you the straight truth. Okay?"

"Okay." He was still staring into her eyes.

"I have... normal human feelings like anybody else, and I do find you attractive... at least some of the time. But I'm not normal... physically. And – physically – there isn't any kind of intimate relationship that we could have. You do understand that, don't you? It would have to be plain companionship. That's all I could ever offer. You would always want more and I would never be able to give it. We would irritate the hell out of one another."

"No, no, that wouldn't happen. Look, I've done a lot of research into your physical condition. I haven't told you about it, but before I came here I talked to Dr. Katz at the Charles Darwin Field Station, and Merle Baxter, the man who wrote the book about you. He had access to all your medical records and body scans, and he's done research of his own..."

"What are you talking about, Alrik? Where is all this leading?"

"The fact is," he put down his coffee and started to toy with the cup, "the fact is, Alta, there are things that can be done for you."

"Things that can be done for me? What kind of things?"

"You could walk, Alta. There are procedures available that would enable you to become..."

"Normal? Say, it. It's alright. I know I'm not normal."

"I don't mean it to sound like that."

"No. Of course you don't. Nobody ever does. You don't think you're the first person to suggest this, do you?" She could hear the coldness entering her voice, and no doubt Alrik could too. She paused to let her emotions settle down. "Alrik," she began very slowly, choosing her words with care, "my father was a brilliant man. One of the greatest scientists of his generation. He contributed more to genetics than anybody else since Mendel. And he spent the last ten years of his life, which was all of my life, trying to keep himself out of prisons and mental institutions. I was the reason he ended up like that. I was his great life's work. Everything he knew, everything he believed, everything he felt, went into me. I'm the way he made me. I don't want to be any different. This is who I am. What I am. Can you understand that?" Outside a male sea lion honked, and Hyphialta had to suppress an impulse to reply.

Alrik watched the spilled yoke of his egg begin to congeal on the toast. "I'm going to speak frankly too. You may hate me for it, I don't know, but I need you to understand the way I see things. What your father did was a terrible thing. The entire scientific community condemned him for it, and rightfully so. A scientist is not a god, Alta. The power that science gives is not there to let us... live out our private fantasies. You don't play with the building blocks of human life as if they were toys. That was inexcusable. I'm sorry but it was."

Hyphialta began to eat. What Alrik had said had made things easier for her. "I'm a bit disappointed in you," she said quietly, cutting up her toast. "I hadn't expected all the same old prejudices that I've heard so many times before. Let me tell you about my father." She took a sip of coffee before continuing. "He understood more about the world he lived in than anybody else of his time. He saw where his own field was leading. He knew that no laws or ethical committees or anything else could stop it going there, and he was right. Daddy had a serious point to make when he created me. I think you know what that point was. He wanted to show people that the end of Darwinian evolution had arrived for the human race. That it had been replaced by something else. And the world would only listen if they could see it with their own eyes. Put their fingers in the wounds. That was why he created me."

"Well, there! You've said it yourself. He created you to make a point. How can that be ethical – or moral? People aren't things you create to make a point. That's monstrous!"

"People once said it was monstrous to transplant the heart of one person into another. Ethical ideas have to change with the passage of time, and the arrival of new science. My father needed people to understand that the switch over to this new kind of evolution, deliberate planned change, didn't have to be a nightmare. It could be glorious. We could make ourselves into anything that we could imagine."

Alrik had lost interest in his breakfast. "How can making human beings to your own recipe be right? There's a line being crossed there. I'm not a moral philosopher, I can't put it into fancy words, but I can see it. It's obvious..."

"My father wasn't a moral philosopher either. He just saw that it was coming, and it could be dealt with well or it could be dealt with badly. He mapped out the connections between the genome and the physical body, but it isn't going to end there. The time will come when we'll understand how the genome controls the mental realm as well. When we do we'll be able to turn humanity into a race of demi-gods. Near immortal, physically perfect, and at the same time moral, artistic and intellectual giants. Every individual human could be a Mozart, an Einstein, a Mahatma Gandhi, a Shakespeare and a Rembrandt all rolled into one. Once you've cracked the genome, once you understand how it works, there's nothing that you can't do. So he made me. The first transgenic individual. The first citizen of the new world. He wanted somebody that the world would see as beautiful, and not too different from themselves. I'm proud of who I am, and I'm proud of how I came to be who I am. I don't want to change anything. I'm not sick, Alrik I don't need a cure."

"I didn't mean it that way at all. I know that without your special abilities we would understand practically nothing about marine mammals. We would still be hunting them for meat and fur, and killing whales for their oil, and clubbing baby seals to death... and God knows what else."

"Yes, that's right, you would. Thank my father for that. The seals and the dolphins do, every time I talk to them, just about. And it doesn't even end there. My father's work has made the human race redefine itself. It's almost the ultimate question for science, isn't it? The question of who we are."

"You mean you can really get across an abstract concept like that... to marine mammals? The notion of the good of a whole species?"

"Alrik, I can get anything across if you give me enough time. Imagine trying to explain television to an Amazonian tribesman who's never seen a flashlight or a photograph or even a wind-up toy. It might take you a long time to get the idea across, because everything you wanted to communicate would be outside his experience. But take him to a big American city and set him up in an apartment for a couple of years with all the usual mod cons, get him a job where he can talk to people and pick up the language, and by the end of those two years he'll be criticising the bad acting in Miami Vice. Marine mammals like Roc are no dumber than us. They just have different life experiences. They think about different things. But not all that different. They can put their heads above the water and look up at the stars and wonder what they are, just like you and me. What they haven't got is a technology. Maybe to create that you need an opposing thumb, I don't know. Maybe you need an impulse to dominate nature and take control. The dolphins don't have that. If that's what it takes there'll never be a dolphin Holocaust or a dolphin hydrogen bomb."

Alrik paused to consider her words. "Your work on the language of marine mammals is absolutely staggering. You know that I'm on the Nobel committee, the most junior member they've got maybe, but I'm on it. And you know that's why I'm here. Well, I want to tell you, off the record, they wouldn't dare give it to anybody else. Your father was perfectly right. You've won over the whole world, charmed the whole world, just like you've charmed me."

"No, that wouldn't be right, Alrik. What I do here isn't real science. I just talk to the dolphins and the sea lions and make friends and enjoy myself. I'm the Amazonian tribesman in the Miami apartment. Give it to Pedro Lindsay at the Charles Darwin Research Station. His work is in a whole different league to mine. Anyway, it doesn't matter which of us gets it, the prize money goes straight to the Charles Darwin Foundation. You may as well send them the cheque now. It goes to the upkeep of the marine park. To Roc and all his friends. Pedro and I already have everything we want." She paused before she went on, wondering if she had said enough. She decided to come clean. "But I'll tell you this. I'll be up front with you too. If the Committee decides to give me the Nobel, they may not like the acceptance speech that I'm going to make"

Alrik became alert. "Why is that?"

"Because I won't accept it on my own behalf. I'll accept it on behalf of my father – about thirty years too late – or I won't accept it at all. Your choice."

Alrik looked thoughtful but said nothing. She pulled him over for a little hug. He was obviously pleased, but almost at once an expression that she hadn't seen before began to spread across his face. It seemed like a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "What are you thinking, Alrik? What do you want to say?"

"It just suddenly hit me. I'm sitting here talking about evolution and marine biology – with a mermaid!"

She couldn't hold back a laugh. She released him from the hug and took his two hands instead. "And the prize?"

He shrugged. "I make it a rule never to argue with mythical creatures." She kissed him demurely on the back of his right hand. She could feel that electricity again, stronger than ever. "You haven't answered my question, Alta? May I stay here? On any terms you like to name?"

She let go of his hands. "You flatter me all the time, Alrik, and I admit that's nice. But I shouldn't be doing this. Whatever people call it. Leading you on, is that it?"

"You don't want me here, do you?"

She paused. There was a shrill clicking from one of the loudspeakers and she answered with a similar call of her own. Alrik's eyes narrowed. "They're listening, aren't they? They can understand."

Hyphialta didn't reply. Instead she asked a question of her own. "Have you seen the little mermaid statue in Copenhagen?"

"Of course I have. It's just across the Oresund Bridge from Malmö, where the Nobel Committee meets. Your father modelled you on that statue, didn't he?"

She nodded. "There is one big difference between us though. The expression on our faces. The way we feel about things. She's looking out to sea with a face full of doubt and regret and sadness, because she's given up something wonderful for something absolutely ordinary. If you look closely you can see that her tail is just on the point of turning into legs. And those legs aren't going to work very well either. In the fairytale it says that every step she takes is like walking on knives. Is that what you have in mind for me too? Some kind of prosthetic legs that would never work quite right? Pain with every step?" He didn't reply. "I've heard it all before, Alrik. I know about it. You don't have to tell me the details: I'd still be able to hold my breath for half an hour, because that's the way my father designed me. I'd still be able to swim, after a fashion, and see clearly underwater, and carry on with my research, I suppose. I'd still be able to talk to the other marine mammals. Because that's what I am, Alrik, I'm a marine mammal. No better, no smarter, no more sensitive or special than any one of them. Do you know what Roc thinks when he sees someone like you, down there diving with a big metal tank on your back?" Alrik shook his head. "He's sorry for you. I can't translate his exact words, but he sees you as a creature trapped in some kind of an iron lung because there's something wrong with your body. If the dolphins had a technology they'd be offering to remove your legs and give you a prosthetic tail. But they don't want to change me. They accept me as I am. They like me as I am. No, damn it I'll say it: love me as I am. Roc loves me, Alrik. I'm not going to say any more. You can take it any way you like."

Alrik stared at her He seemed to search for words and find none. Hyphialta merely smiled and lowered her head. "You come here talking about prosthetic legs and you don't even want to dive. You want me to leave my world and become part of yours. You're a good man, Alrik, but you've got to face up to it. We aren't right for each other. This is the one place on earth where different doesn't mean 'enemy' or 'monster'. You can walk up to any animal on Galapagos and it won't run away. You're not offering me the one thing I need most. It's what I get from the dolphins and the other marine mammals here. It's the heartbeat of Galapagos, the spirit of the archipelago. Acceptance. It's the most important thing of all – for a freak like me." Alrik remained silent. "Don't be hurt. I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with you. Just that we're very different."

"And Roc? Isn't he different?"

"Not in any way that matters." She paused and they looked into each other's eyes. "I'll tell you what would be nice," she said very quietly, "would you like to comb my hair again?"

From the loudspeakers a great jumbled surge of clicking erupted, reached a crescendo and slowly died away.

ooOOoo

The next morning, when the cabin cruiser from the Charles Darwin Research Station arrived to take Alrik back to Puerto Ayora and the airport, Roc and Hyphialta followed behind, playing in its wake. Beyond the two frolicking creatures hundreds of others, dark and graceful, leaped into the air in perfect synchronisation in groups of three or four. Hyphialta leaped out of the water too at frequent intervals and did forward and backward flips, partly because she knew that it gave Alrik an enormous thrill every time that he saw her do it, but mostly because it was fun. 

A Walk in the Park

A Walk in the Park

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited.

The copyright remains the property of the author

Louis Pasteur, who discovered both vaccination and how to ‘pasteurise’ milk, said that both had been largely chance discoveries, but he added the very important rider that “Chance favours the prepared mind.” In fact I would want to take that idea further and suggest that every insight, every experience and life-event that moves us forward and lets us grow as human beings, favours the prepared mind.
        We can’t lift ourselves out of bad situations or change anything until we have opened our minds to the possibility. We take charge of our lives when we are ready to take charge of them. We move on when we are ready to move on. We fall in love when we are ready to fall in love.
        Sometimes we are perfectly aware that our mind is in this prepared state.
        In the closing months of the 1960s, when I stepped from the Belfast Boat Express onto the platform of Euston station, having spent the night fighting off seasickness amid the prone bodies of beer-and-piss-smelling football supporters on the floor of the second class lounge of the Ulster Monarch, I was fully aware of this sense of readiness. This was going to be the first great turning point in my young life. I wasn’t a schoolboy any more. I was free to make my own life choices. The world, or more precisely England, was my playground. I could live in a squat. I could grow my hair long like the Beatles. I could stop going to Mass on a Sunday. I could get a motorbike. I could get a girlfriend.
        Although I was no older than my former friends at the Belfast Sixth Form College whose faces were already beginning to fade from my memory, I felt myself considerably wiser. I knew something that they didn’t, or that they were unwilling to accept. People don’t ‘find themselves’, in India or anywhere else. People make themselves, and they can do it wherever they happen to be. Creating a life is not a question of geography, it’s a question of making choices and acting on them. Of being open to change, deciding to do things and letting nothing stand in your way. Life, I had decided, was an unending series of opportunities there for the taking.
        This was still my frame of mind the following morning, after my first night in the boarding house that I’d seen advertised in the Irish News. The landlady, a Southern Irish widow with a helmet of lacquered white hair around her swollen red face, had warned me of the terrible moral and physical dangers the big city posed for a naïve boy like me. She had recited a list, of which my mother would have been proud, of the many things that I was not allowed to do. Prominent on that list was ‘taking girls back to my room’. I decided that my first day in London would be devoted to the task of finding somewhere else to live.
        To a boy used to the few dozen back streets of West Belfast, the scale of London was simply incomprehensible. The streets went on forever and in every direction, big ones and little ones, some of them choked with angry traffic, some littered with broken cars up on bricks, loud with the cries of dirty-faced children on roller skates or displaying their skills with hula hoops, or jigging around to the distorted sounds of Cliff Richard and the Shadows from some over-driven transistor radio. Mean-looking stray cats watched me from under cars or searched through the rubbish that overflowed the galvanised iron dustbins. Were these the streets that were paved with gold? No, I decided they must be elsewhere. I had a whole lifetime in which to find them.
        My morning was spent writing down addresses from newsagents’ notice boards and plodding hopefully from one prospect to the next under the guidance of the minute print of my A-Z Pocket Atlas of London, only to be told in each case that the room was either ‘taken’ or ‘not suitable’ for a person like me. With the noon sun high in a clear sky, sweating uncomfortably despite my rolled-up shirt sleeves and loose-fitting flared jeans, I decided the time had come to take a break and review my room-hunting strategy. According to the A-Z there was a large park with a series of lakes nearby, an enticing island of green and blue amid the fine grey and yellow spider-web of roads I had been navigating all morning. I took my bearings from the nearest road signs and headed towards it.
        I was not disappointed. Beyond the blue iron railings and the broad open gates a wide dusty pathway curved out of sight into a vista of low tree-lined hills and immaculate mown meadows where people sat or lay around, either singly or in couples or little groups, sunbathing, reading books or newspapers or tucking-in to the food and drink that they had brought with them in various boxes and baskets. To one side was the shore of a substantial lake, its perimeter, like the central pathway, disappearing amongst the low wooded hills that hid the distant houses that the A-Z assured me lay beyond. There was a paved path around the visible lakeshore with benches at intervals where people sat and socialised. Two large fountains thrust their jets skywards from man-made islands a hundred yards or so from the shore. Dogs on leads pulled their owners here and there, and a group of young children laughed and yelled at one another as they played with a Frisbee on a nearby lawn. This was bigger, better maintained and more beautiful than any park I had seen in Ireland, yet it was barely a smudge on the big front page map of Greater London. The delicious smell of new-mown grass filled my lungs. This was paradise. A mighty city pausing to take its rest.
        The natural beauty on display extended noticeably into the human realm as well. Considerable numbers of what we were then allowed to call ‘young girls’, office workers on their lunch break I guessed, had come equipped with large towels on which to lie in various states of undress, up to and including the skimpiest of bikinis, their working clothes carefully folded beside them. Passing young men glanced appreciatively in their direction, but social convention dictated that eye-contact was never maintained for more than about a second. I noticed that my sweating problem had grown worse. I ventured to smile at some of the girls but they instantly turned away. I was nevertheless rather proud of myself. In Belfast I would never have had the courage to do even that.
        As I drew up to a girl in a long blue floral dress sitting alone on a bench I noticed that she was flouting the convention on eye contact. More than that, she was smiling at me.
        I slowed down. What are the rules here? I really didn’t know. She was around my own age but there was something very young about the way she sat swinging her legs, her white plimsolls just clear of the ground, her auburn hair held in an Alice band spilling carelessly over her shoulders, her dark eyes wide and welcoming. She made me think of hippies and flower power – the Woodstock Festival that had been on TV a few days before I left Belfast. I returned the smile. I was suddenly aware of the beating of my own heart. I stopped walking, and for a moment felt my lips tremble as I tried to think of something to say. She was really very pretty. And still smiling at me. How could I open a conversation? Did I have enough self-confidence even to try?
        Before I had time to do anything, the moment was gone. She sprang to her feet, gave a little giggle, and turning her back to me started to walk quite quickly, almost to skip down the path ahead of me.
        I was utterly smitten. She seemed so happy, so full of the joys of being alive, so totally self assured. As I followed, trying not to be too obvious about it, I began to create a fantasy in my head about how the days ahead would pan out. We would pause at another bench and talk first, tell each other our life stories, she would kiss me on the cheek as we parted; then we would meet again and again, sometimes in the park, sometimes in the cheap coffee bar where she worked. She was an artist, I decided, waiting to be discovered, selling a painting every now and again at a street market – a musician too, one who wrote her own songs and sang them to her own guitar accompaniment, and collected money outside busy tube stations. She had been living alone since her boyfriend went off to do the Indian thing. He hadn’t written and she was lonely now, and ready for a new relationship.
        She stopped for a moment, turned around and flashed another devastating smile in my direction. Yes! It was real. I hadn’t been mistaken.
        We would start with one blissful night of passion; in the morning she would cling to me and beg me not to leave. We would find a place to live together, maybe in a squat or a communal house, and I would get a healthy outdoor job on a building site to support her so that she could devote her time to her art and her music. We would write poetry together – she would introduce me to all her Bohemian friends. When we were both ready we would leave to go around the world together, working to support ourselves as we went, picking grapes in the South of France, teaching English to African village children, digging wells in India. She would write songs about the life we shared, and one day a big impresario like Brian Epstein would hear her singing them…
        I lost my train of thought. There was a woman up ahead – small, middle-aged, round-faced – bulging out of her tight beige three-quarter length summer dress. She was smiling at the girl, who seemed to be hurrying to meet her.
        The woman opened her arms and the girl ran to her with an enthusiasm that I found quite disconcerting. I was close to them now, the woman was looking straight at me, and I could think of no respectable excuse for having followed the girl who was evidently her daughter. She confirmed the fact in a jovial Cockney accent that I strained to understand. ‘Awright? How’re ye going?’
        ‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you. Grand…’
        ‘This ‘ere’s my daughter, Lucy. She’s a real beaut, ain’t she?’
        ‘Yes. Absolutely. Very beautiful indeed.’
        The conversation seemed rather weird. The girl was still smiling at me, holding her mother’s hand.
        ‘Don’t worry about ‘er. She’s a right little flirt. Likes all the young men, don’t ye Lucy? You’re Irish, ain’t you?’
        ‘Yes. That’s right. From Belfast.’
        ‘She really likes you. I can tell. She ‘ad a young Irishman who used to take her out a while back. She likes the park and the swings. Loves to get out for a walk, our Lucy. You can meet us ‘ere most days if you want to get to know ‘er.’
        ‘Really? Can I?’ I was wondering what on earth was going on, what kind of person this mother was.
        ‘She’s right fond of the young men. Sometimes she’ll be with one and still trying to pick up others. It’s all completely innocent, of course. We’d be chuffed if you wanted to meet her from time to time. She’s no trouble at all, very independent, ain’t you Lucy?’
        Lucy didn’t acknowledge the remark but continued to smile at me.
        ‘She can dress herself, and feed herself and keep herself clean, and she hasn’t had a toilet accident for months. Of course we put her in a pad when she’s out just in case. She doesn’t speak, but she understands every word you say – don’t you Lucy?’
        Lucy continued to smile, her expression completely unchanging, while I felt the blood drain from my face and my elaborate fantasy world fade away like the dissolve-to-white at the end of a Walt Disney film.
        I struggled to think of something to say. My embarrassment mounted and all I could come up with was: ‘I’m afraid my life is very busy at the moment. Maybe another time.’
        I walked quickly on, feeling Lucy’s smile on the back of my neck, never once turning round. ‘Goodbye,’ the woman shouted after me. ‘Lucy says goodbye. Don’t you Lucy?’ 

A New Beginning

A New Beginning

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that

authorship is acknowledged and credited. The copyright remains the property of the author

“Who goes there?” the lookout demanded mechanically, his hand wandering half-heartedly to the grip of his sword, as the lone female figure came into view, dimly lit by the feeble moon and the glow of the campfire.
       “Good evening to you, Tessarius,” she said quietly.
       He seemed taken aback. “You speak Latin? You know my rank?”
       “I have been a friend to the Roman army for many years. Since long before you were born, I should think. May I sit by your fire for a little while?”
       “There are rebels in these parts, Ma’am. I have orders not to let anybody enter without the password.”
       “Do I seem to you like a rebel? Do I have a sword or a dagger? Do I even have a decent robe to wear, or sandals for my feet?”
       “I am sorry, Ma’am. I don’t have the authority to let you through without the password.” He hesitated, looking her up and down. She lowered her eyes, ashamed of how she must appear. “Have you come far?” he asked more gently.
       “I’ve walked from the village of Magdala. It’s behind that furthest olive grove,” she pointed to the dark hills behind her, “I had a fine house there once, and shared food and wine with centuriae and tribuni. More of them than I can remember – more than I can name.”
       The sentry seemed to relax. He gave her a look of what she was fairly certain was comprehension. “I’ll ask my commanding officer,” he relented, “but I can’t leave my post.”
       He turned and shouted to a small group of soldiers seated outside their tent: “Novanus! Will you ask Ordinatus Lucillus if he can spare a moment, if he is not too busy?” There was a grunted acknowledgement. After a minute or two spent in silence a tall middle-aged officer with a magnificent scarlet cape over his tunic strolled up to them. The sentry stood to attention. “At ease, Tessarius. I see we have a guest.”
       “From the village of Magdala, Sir. She would like to sit by our camp fire for a while.”
       “Would she, indeed?” He came close and studied her face. “By Jupiter! It’s Mary, isn’t it? Mary who joined that cult in Judea, back in Pilate’s time.” He flung his arms around her.
       “Don’t you remember me? Menius Lucillus? I was an ordinary legionary then. An immunis. I had to borrow money to pay your fees!”
       She smiled and returned his hug. “I hope you had value for your borrowed money,” she whispered in his ear.
       “Value and to spare!” He released her and looked her straight in the eye. “Tonight we have an honoured guest, Tessarius. I will send you wine to keep out the cold. You have done well to send for me.”
       “Thank you, Sir.”
       He led her into the camp, towards the glowing fire and the largest tent. Before he got there he noticed that she was crying. He stopped and took both her hands. “Mary?”
       “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It’s a long time since anybody has offered me kindness.”
       He hugged her again. “Here. Sit by the fire.” He guided her to a space between the seated legionaries, waving them not to get up, and sat by her side. The babble of conversation ceased as they joined the circle of enlisted men. “Novanus!” The young soldier hurried over. “Our best wine for yourself and your friend the sentry. And for us. And see if you can find us something to eat.” The young man nodded and hurried off.
       “I know that you don’t remember me,” he said softly, “and that’s perfectly all right. Time melts all our memories, the bad as well as the good. There is little in my own past that I care to think about now. Battles and killing, long hard campaigns and sneak attacks by rebels. Braving the hatred of the primitive races that Rome requires us to render governable. But the nights I spent with you will always be in my thoughts, and my dreams.” He reached over and put his arm around her shoulder.
       "What is it that you dream about now, Mary?”
       She found it difficult to speak. The younger soldiers were watching the two of them, their faces curious and amused. “My own people no longer want me, Menius. I was once the lover of Jesus, a man that many thought to be the Messiah, a wrongly executed innocent man, whose blood is on their hands. I stir up memories for them too, memories they would rather forget.”
       “But weren’t you the lover of…almost everyone?” A faint murmur of laughter went through their audience. Menius silenced it with a stern glance.
       “No…it was different with Jesus. And now nothing can ever be the same.”
       “But that’s decades ago. Nobody even remembers that little cult now. There have been half a dozen other Messiahs since that one.”
       “It wasn’t the cult, it was the man. There’s never been another man like him. I…don’t know how to explain it…”
       “Are you saying you fell in love with him? You!”
       She wiped the tears from her eyes. “He wasn’t just an ordinary man, Menius. I know he wasn’t. I know men. You will grant me that, won’t you?”
       A titter of laughter went through the seated ranks and Menius laughed too. “Yes, I will grant you that. Here, our wine is coming.” He reached up and took the two cups. “Have we bread and meat?”
       “On the way, Sir,” the soldier assured him. Menius handed her one of the cups. “What shall we drink to?” He glanced at her face. Before he went on he lowered his voice to a level that only she would hear. “Please don’t cry again. What is it that troubles you so much?” The nearby soldiers seemed to understand and resumed the low buzz of conversation that their arrival had interrupted. They could speak with a measure of privacy now.
       “I hate people to see me like this. In rags, begging for food and wine. People who knew me back then…”
       “I understand the people in the Jesus cult gave everything to the poor. Their houses and garments even.”
       “Yes. And now I have nothing, and the poor are still poor. All I’ve done is join them. I think I’ve lived too long, Menius.”
       “You must never say such things. It tempts the gods.”
       "I changed for Jesus, Menius. Changed my life and changed my self. I believed it all – the salvation to come, the everlasting life, the meek inheriting the earth. But he's gone now and everything has changed back. Everything except me. I can't pretend any longer. I can't live the way he wanted me to live – hold on to this idea that there's going to be a good world, full of love, without poor, and armies and battles and hatred.”
       “You're right of course. I’ve met his type before. The Romans used to believe that kind of thing once. Back in the days of the Republic, before we had an emperor – or an empire. It’s a fantasy. The rich and powerful will never let it happen. Mark my words, there’ll still be poor people and armies and wars a hundred years from now. Maybe even a thousand. Human nature, Mary. You can’t fight it.”
       “I know. I used to think that too. But Jesus was human. And he didn’t hate anybody. Even the ones who hated him. And he wanted people to share all they had – so that nobody would ever have to go without – and it feels good to live that way. You feel really good about yourself. If people just understood, maybe that’s the way they would want to live. I can still feel myself pulled in both directions. I don't want to believe that I've wasted so much time chasing a hopeless dream... ”
       “I’m afraid I’m a realist. I’ve seen too much of the way people really treat one another to believe in children’s stories like that. Take away rulers, take away Roman laws and Roman armies to keep the peace and what have you got? Chaos. Murder and mayhem. Naked savagery, weakest to the wall. The Roman Empire is the only hope that the world has to become civilized and orderly, to offer security to everyone – the weak as well as the strong. That is Nero's sacred promise to his subjects, and I think he is going to succeed. Nero is a good man. His subjects love him.”
       “You know, the people who were with Jesus loved him so much they couldn’t accept that he was dead. Even when they saw him taken down from the cross. Me included. We imagined we saw him everywhere, that he was still alive…”
       “What did I tell you? Delusions. Wishful thinking... Ah, some food…” He reached up again and took the two pewter plates. “Eat. Enjoy. Life is still worth living, Mary. It can still be good!”
       She took the plate and tucked in eagerly. “Thank you,” she said, her mouth full of food. “Thank you so much, Menius.”
       “You know, you’re right about one thing. It makes me feel good to give a meal to somebody who needs it.” He paused and watched her eat, sipping once from his cup of wine. She glanced towards him and a faint smile flickered across her face. Then her attention returned to the food.
       He allowed her to finish and take a mouthful of wine before he spoke. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Mary,” he said with slow deliberation. “I’ve been in the army all my life. I only get back to Rome a few weeks of each year. I have no wife in Rome…just lovers like you. In twenty days my term of duty here is over. It’s my last one. After that I’m retiring. I’ll have a good army pension, and I’ve got a fine house, right in the middle of Rome. It’s big – and it’s empty. Now I’m not going to talk about romance and falling in love. We’re both a bit past that kind of thing. But if you want to come to Rome with me and share that house, you’ll be more than welcome. You won’t be a prisoner, if it doesn’t work out for the two of us you can move on again – and you won’t be penniless, I’ll look after you financially, whether you stay or whether you go. Or even if I should die. I give you my word as a Roman.”
       She noticed that the soldiers had gone silent again. They watched him with what she took to be comradely affection, no doubt intrigued at this insight into the private life of their commander.
       He held out his hand and she put down her spoon and took it. “Is it a nice house?” she whispered. “Like the one I had in Magdala?”
       “As fine as any in the city. Built from imported cedar, with two stories and its own deep well. Even a small garden. You’re still a businesswoman, I notice.”
       “No, not really. I would accept your offer if it was a tent outside the walls of the Forum. But I do want to live... decently again.”
       “You will come with me then?” He put down his plate, leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. “You have made me a very happy man tonight. Until this moment, I had nothing to go back to. Now, I begin a new life. Thank you, Mary. I may not be Jesus but I do know how to treat a woman.”
       “It’s I who should thank you. What is there for me here? Who among my own people has offered me anything but hostility and suspicion? And you think Nero will treat us well?”
       “Nero will be our friend and guardian in our fine timber house in Rome. The future can hold nothing but happiness. I thank the gods for my good fortune!” 

Memories

Memories

By David Gardiner

This story is based on Rick Hayter's original song Memories of You. It tells of a man who walked out on his first love to go to the big city and make his fortune, and has always wondered if he made the right decision.

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited.

The copyright remains the property of the author

Just seeing the name of the little town on the motorway sign brings on a wave of maudlin self-pity. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be passing right by it on this route. My concentration lost, I allow the car to slow down. A van blasts its horn and passes me angrily on the inside. I return my attention to my driving and pull back into the middle lane and then the slow inner lane, and, without ever having made a conscious decision, join the slip road to leave the motorway. I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s only six-twenty. There should be plenty of time.

My first impression is that it’s much smaller than I remember it and incredibly run-down. It wasn’t much when I lived here, but Christ! It wasn’t this bad. Big sheets of plywood are nailed across the windows of half the shops in the High Road, the wood almost hidden by tattered layers of fly-posted advertisements; shells of abandoned vehicles clutter-up the car park of what we used to call the ‘new flats’. Not much new about them now. Crude graffiti daubed on the concrete walls, grey washing slumped along improvised lines on the balconies and walkways, a few mean looking youths leaning on their motorcycles at the opening to the underpass, a stray cat rummaging for food around an overturned wheelie-bin by the line of plundered and doorless garages. I roll down my window and am assaulted by the smell of decay, and the acrid fumes left over from a recent bonfire.

I turn left into an old familiar network of narrow back streets and slow to a walking pace for a good look. It’s no better. Row upon row of two up, two down terraced workers’ houses from the turn of the twentieth century. Flaking paint, rubbish piled in most of the front yards, rusting cars held up on bricks, litter drifting gently along the pavements on the evening breeze. The chip shop is closed and shuttered, the sign over the front crudely painted out. Passing close to the toilets at the rear of the local pub I catch a whiff of urine and wind up my window. It’s hard to tell if the pub is still in business – at a glance it seems derelict. Did it ever look any better? It’s difficult to remember. I slow to a halt directly outside its door. This is where Laura and I used to meet. We considered it quite sophisticated, sipping lager in the dimly-lit snug of the Duke, listening to David Bowie and Gilbert O’Sullivan on the piped music system. Why does it make my heart ache just to think about it? Where is the contempt I used to feel for these dingy streets and that shabby inept teenager that was me, back then? Haven’t I risen above all this? What’s wrong with me? I seem to be feeling emotions that I don’t understand. I’m turning into the kind of person that I used to despise.

I move off gently and turn one more corner before parking-up in a big space across the street from Laura’s house. It’s silly to call it that, she must have left here decades ago. The house is still here of course, and looks much the same. I doubt if the woodwork has even been painted since I was last here. I carefully lock the car and make my way across to the building. The gate is missing from the front and the little yard is overgrown and choked with litter. There is no sound, light or movement from inside. I find it hard to believe that anybody still lives here. After a brief pause I gather sufficient courage to push my way through the weeds and rubbish to the window of the sitting room.

I wipe the dust from the pane with the side of my hand and stare in. It’s Laura’s old room. The net curtains make it difficult but I can see the shape of the scruffy sofa where we so often embraced, or one much the same, just where it used to be in front of the gas fire. I lost my virginity on that sofa, the very first time that Laura invited me back. I’ve never known anybody else who enjoyed sex so much, who was so relaxed about it. My heart seems to be racing, I don’t know why. I’m not that tensed-up teenager with his raging hormones any more, damn it! I remember all the times we sat there, listening to the rain, or the trains passing on the line behind the house. I remember her face, and her body. I feel a dull longing – for Laura, I suppose, and for my youth. I acknowledge how many times I’ve dreamed about that room, those days and nights, her face, her body, this town…

‘Can I help you, Mister?’ The voice is mild, but I am startled and embarrassed as I turn to the middle-aged woman standing by the front door.

‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t think anybody lived here. I was just passing through and I… well, I used to live in this town and I knew somebody who lived in this house. I just wondered if it had changed…’

‘You don’t sound like somebody from around here, Mister.’

I am doubly embarrassed. The years spent carefully cultivating a middle class Southern accent flash before me. I open my mouth to launch into some kind of explanation but abandon the idea. ‘I live in London now,’ I offer feebly.

‘That’s a right posh car you’ve got there, Mister. You want to be careful parking something like that around here.’

‘Oh well, I’m only stopping for a moment. I’d best be on my way.’ I move towards the door and the woman.

‘This friend who lived here,’ she enquires, ‘what was his name?’

‘It was a girl, actually. A woman I suppose I should say. She didn’t own the place, she just rented a room here.’

‘It must have been Laura then.’

I smile. ‘Yes. Do you remember her?’

‘Not really. I moved out when I was sixteen. It was Mum who took in the lodgers. I remember the name though. And Mum only ever had the one female lodger. The others were all men’

‘Oh. So… you moved out, and then you must have moved back again.’

‘That’s right. Mum needs me now. She’s not well.’

‘I’m truly sorry to hear that. I don’t remember her when Laura lived here. We always seemed to have the place to ourselves.’

She nods. ‘Mum went out a lot. She’s making up for it now.’ She pauses. ‘Look, Mister, I can tell you want to know about this Laura. I know a little bit, not very much. Would you like to come in and talk about it? If Mum was a bit better you could talk to her, but she’s too far gone now. It ain’t a nice thing to say but it’s the truth. She don’t see nobody no more.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother you, or your mother…’

‘Ain’t no bother.’ She steps aside and I find myself guided firmly through to the hallway. ‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ she tells me, vanishing into the kitchen. The door of the living room is open and I stand in the entrance looking in at the sofa. I’m certain now that it’s the same one. I try to estimate its age. Even back then it was old. ‘Sit down,’ she shouts from the kitchen, ‘I'll be with you in a minute. Do you take sugar?’

‘No thank you.’ Soon we are sitting together on the ancient sofa with tea and biscuits on a tray between us.

‘Mum stays upstairs,’ she explains. ‘Makes it easier for the toilet.’ I nod. For a moment we sip our drinks and nibble our biscuits. ‘It looks like you did pretty good for yourself down in London,’ she ventures.

‘You’re right. My father worked on the railway. Our family was nothing special. I lived the cliché, I was the first one in my family to get into University. Then I went into politics.’

She seems excited. ‘Politics. Are you famous then?’

I smile. ‘Evidently not as famous as all that. No, I had quite a good career at the beginning. I was a junior minister in my early thirties. Then… I made a mistake. I was famous for a little while then.’ She doesn’t respond and I suspect that I’m being too indirect. ‘I… was accused of impropriety. Corruption. Brown envelopes changing hands. You know the kind of thing. I had to resign my seat. I was bloody lucky to keep out of jail. It was… a ten minute wonder at the time. That’s the way it is in public life.’

‘But you were innocent, right?’

‘Why do you think that? No, I wasn’t innocent. I haven’t been innocent for a long time. Not since the last time I sat on this sofa, I should say.’

She seems genuinely shocked. Most people when they hear about my past see it as incurring a penalty in a sort of game. Everybody does it – I just happened to be doing it when the referee was looking. But this woman actually cares. I had forgotten that people like that existed. I feel the need to justify myself. ‘I meant it when I said we were just an ordinary family,' I plead. 'In fact we were a lot worse than ordinary. My mother drank and my father worked like a madman to keep everything together. They fought about money all the time. When I got into University I saw a different kind of world, one where people had nice houses and holidays abroad and sent their children to private schools and talked seriously about art and science and ideas. I wanted that world. I was determined I would never turn into my father. Life would never get like that for me. I would be a success, somebody important, somebody with money and power. And for a long time that was all that mattered. The brown envelopes were just part of it. An easy way to get there, I thought. Maybe the only way. Whatever it took, that was my attitude. So don’t mistake me for a nice man. I’m not a nice man. I’m an appalling man. I saw the higher path and chose the lower. That’s who I am. I wasn’t always like this but it’s what I became. I’m not going to lie about it?’

She shakes her head. ‘I can tell, Mister, and you’re not a bad man. I’ve been with bad men. I know them when I see them. What’s wrong with you is something different. What’s wrong with you I think is that you don’t like yourself very much. ‘Least that’s how it seems to me.’

I shrug. ‘You ain’t old,’ she adds, ‘you can start again. Some other line. Anyway, you ain’t done so bad, have you? That’s no old banger you’ve got out there. That’s no C & A off-the-peg suit you’ve got on either.’

‘No, you’re right. I was able to find ways to make money. I had contacts. All I really lost… was my self respect, I suppose. And my wife. But that’s a different story. And maybe one or two other things. Like my direction in life.’

‘Bloody hell, most folk around here would give their right arm to have what you’ve got. Bet you got a nice house, and maids to do your cleaning, and money to go to fancy restaurants, and abroad, and a big plasma TV set…’

I nod. ‘Yes. You’re right. That was exactly the kind of thing I wanted when I left here. And it’s true, I’ve got them now. I’ve also got an ex-wife who won’t speak to me and a teenage daughter that I meet in some public place twice a month. And a father buried about half a mile from here whose funeral I was too busy to attend. And a few posh-sounding hard up friends who’ll tag along with me so long as I’m paying the bills. It’s a wonderful life. Rich and fulfilling. So what am I doing back here, I wonder. That’s what I ask myself.’

She smiles. ‘I like it. It’s romantic. You’ve come back to find the girl you left behind.’

I smile and chuckle for a moment. ‘No, nothing like that. I know the difference between fantasy and reality. The road forked back then, and I’ve walked much too far down this one. Probably the wrong one for me. It would be good to see her again though. Just once maybe. I could tell her that I’m sorry for disappearing with my stuck-up University friends, and for not writing when I said I would; and for being a shit, basically. She was a lot better off without me then and she still is now. I would just like to see her once, and ask her if she ever thinks about those days. Because I do, more and more it seems as they get further away. I think walking out on Laura was my first big mistake, bigger even than the brown envelopes. I’d like to be able to tell her that. Not give her a load of excuses because there aren’t any. I think I owe it to her. That’s all I want.’ I realise that I’m letting self pity get control of me again and pause to compose myself. ‘You said that you know a little bit about her. May I ask you what that is?’

She puts down her cup and looks me in the eye. ‘Hardly nothing really. She was hurt when you disappeared down to London. Took it bad. Then she moved out. Mum said she went to a town in Wales. I can’t remember the name of it, but there was something famous about it. Some kind of disaster.’

‘Aberfan?’

‘Yes. That’s right. I couldn’t remember what it was called. Did she have relations there?’

‘Not that I know of. Is that all you can remember?’

‘That’s about it. But it’s only a small place. You could ask around.’

‘I think I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not doing some kind of detective work to track her down. I only stopped here because I saw the name on the sign on the motorway.’

She is quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t know you very well. I can only judge by what I see, right?’ I nod. ‘Well, seems to me, Mister, that you’ve got unfinished business with that Laura and you won’t be content until you meet up with her again and get her forgiveness. That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it?’

‘Forgiveness? Is it?’ I begin to feel extremely foolish. Why am I spouting all this personal stuff to a complete stranger? I look down at my watch, making sure she sees me do it. ‘Good heavens! Look at the time. I won’t be back in London till midnight. You’ve been incredibly kind but I really must get going… ‘

‘Are you going to take my advice, Mister? Tell me the truth.’

I hesitate. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t think so. It would probably turn out to be a terrible mistake.’ 

Promises

Promises

by

David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited.

The copyright remains the property of the author

“Excuse me sir. I saw you park your rig.”

He looked me straight in the eye. It wasn’t a friendly look. He paused in his chewing and lowered the mug of coffee in his huge right hand onto the battered table-top before he replied. “Can’t give rides. Company rules.”

“Please don’t say that sir. I’ve been here since noon and made two coffees last three hours and I still haven’t been able to get a ride.”

He chewed on his bite of hamburger for a moment before answering.

“Folks don’t give rides much no more. Too many oddballs about. Get yourself knifed or shot or hijacked easy as falling off a log.” He gave his attention to the task of cutting his French-fries into bite size pieces with the side of his fork.

“Sir, you can see plain as day I’m not packing a knife or a gun. Most dangerous thing I’ve got is a guitar but it’ll only hurt your ears if you let me play it.”

His lips curled up in an unwilling smile. “Where you tryin’ to get to anyhow kid?”

“Silverbridge. Silverbridge Vermont. You know it?”

“Sure I know it. You planning on getting there tonight?”

“Yes. Definitely... if I can.”

“Forget it. It’s three hundred miles away. What ya want to go to Silverbridge for anyhow?”

He shifted his massive bulk in the wooden chair and it creaked arthritically.

“I’ve got family there. You know. Somewhere to stay.”

He put down his fork and looked me over, starting with my scruffy baseball cap and over-stuffed rucksack with the guitar case strapped to the back, and travelling right down to my frayed Levis and dusty hiking boots.

“You don’t look like no down-and-out, son. And you don’t sound like somebody that’s got family in Silverbridge Vermont neither. That some kind of English accent you’ve got?”

“Yes sir. My branch of the family lives in England. The people in Silverbridge are my uncle’s family. Father’s brother’s wife’s people. It’s a bit complicated.”

“You want my advice son? Take a walk into town, find some place to stay and take the bus in the morning.”

“Can’t do that. I haven’t got the cash. If I had the price of a meal I wouldn’t be here drinking coffee. I’m stony broke, that’s the truth. Well, I have two dollars and sixty-eight cents. I don’t think that’s going to get me to Silverbridge, do you?”

He hesitated and continued to look at me. I noticed that his chewing had slowed down. “Molly,” he said to the bored blonde in the grease-spotted apron behind the counter, “hamburger and fries for my young friend here. And another coffee for the both of us.” He waved down my thanks. “I’ve got a son about your age. Known some hard times myself as well. Don’t like to see a young kid go hungry. How did you get yourself into this position, boy?”

I put down my rucksack and guitar and sat opposite him. “You want the long version or the short version?” He didn’t reply. “I came over as a volunteer at a children’s summer camp in New York State. It didn’t work out. I’ve got a return air ticket but I can’t use it for another three weeks. I got a little bit of money while I was at the camp but I’ve spent it, and there won’t be any more because I left before I was supposed to.”

“Is that the long version or the short version?” I shrugged. “Let me shorten it down a bit for you, son. You fucked-up.”

“Yeah. That’s about it.”

He looked me straight in the eye. “What ya call yourself, son?”

“Simon.”

“Name’s Harry.” He gripped my hand with a force that made my knuckle bones click ominously and shook it in slow motion.

The waitress arrived with the burger and fries, and after checking the hand for damage I began to eat. “Okay, Simon,” he said ponderously, “here’s the deal. I can get you within twenty miles of where you’re going. If I’m in a good mood I might even make a detour and take you all the way. But it’s gonna’ cost you a favour in return.” Since my mouth was full I nodded to indicate that I was listening. “Ain’t nothing illegal. Just want you to call in on my daughter where she works, find out if everything’s okay and come back and tell me. If I ask her myself I’m not sure I get the truth. Think you can handle that?”

ooOOoo

The sun was touching the cornfields over to our left when Harry parked his big silver and orange rig alongside a line of three others, switched off the engine and pointed down the road, past the gas station and the Walmart parking lot, to a long, low timber-framed bar and eating house that was set back from the road and had a few scruffy family saloons parked outside it. “That’s where she works,” he told me. “I’ve parked back here so she won’t see the truck. Now don’t keep me waiting too long.” He leaned across me and opened my door, revealing the perilous eight foot drop to the concrete below. I turned around and carefully found the first step. “I’ll try not to.” I assured him.

I heard the door slam as my feet touched the ground. Relieved of the weight of the rucksack for the first time that day, I set out briskly towards the business, which a flickering neon sign proclaimed to be the “One-Eyed Jack”. In my right hand I clutched the twenty dollar bill that Harry had provided as expenses for the operation. I knew that I was on my own and that my ride depended on my ability to carry this off to his satisfaction.

I saw Harry’s daughter as soon as I entered the building. She was a year or two younger than me, dyed blonde hair tied back in a bunch, hangdog expression as though life wasn’t treating her all that well, and she wore a white blouse and knee-length blue skirt that were intended for somebody twice her age. Nevertheless, they couldn’t hide her trim little figure. If she cheered up and put on a nice top, I said to myself, she could be really attractive. She was carrying a tray of drinks to a group of three male customers at a table near the back where they smoked and talked in low voices about something they seemed to find distasteful. Apart from the men at the rear the only other occupied table had a middle aged couple with a fat teenage son who morosely sucked a pink milkshake through a straw. I took a small table by the long front window and waited for her to come over.

She stood above me, note pad at the ready and said “Yes?” without looking down.

“Do you have a menu, Miss?” I asked in my best Sloane Square accent. It did the trick. She looked down.

“Sure. I’ll get it. You ain’t from around here, are you?”

“No, Miss. I’m on holiday from London, England.”

“From England?”

“You seem surprised.”

“No. Just don’t get many people from Europe in here. You on your way somewhere?”

I smiled. “Isn’t this somewhere?”

She returned the smile. “No sir. This is nowhere.”

“You shouldn’t say that. It’s where you live, isn’t it? That makes it somewhere.”

She seemed a little embarrassed. “I’ll get that menu.”

I shook my head, “No, forget it. All I want is a burger and fries. Don’t need a menu for that do I? Unless there’s something better you can recommend?” I was careful to maintain eye contact as I spoke.

She paused. “Ribs are good. If you like ribs.”

“Ribs will be fine. And a beer. Am I allowed to buy you one?”

She lowered her voice. “I ain’t supposed to drink on the job. I finish in about twenty minutes though. Maybe... maybe you could wait on a bit.”

ooOOoo

Marlene in her civilian clothes looked a lot better. Tight black jeans, hair around her shoulders now and a dark red V-neck jumper that showed a bit of cleavage. In fact she didn’t look like the same girl. Everything was perfect now, I thought to myself, except maybe the eyes. You could still see the sadness there. I found myself wondering what it would take to get the sadness out of those eyes.

I could tell straight off that Marlene liked me. She hadn’t travelled a great deal and hadn’t met many foreigners either. That made me a bit of a celebrity. She wanted to know all about me and where I came from so I told her my story, at least as much of it as I wanted her to know, and asked her for hers.

“Ain’t nothing to tell, Simon. Not a thing.”

“I’ll bet there’s a lot to tell. Do you live with your folks?”

“Not any more. I flunked High School and had a row with the old man. Moved out and got a job here and found a rooming house. It ain’t much but it’s independence. That was about six months ago.”

“Did you move out on your own?”

She raised her eyebrows. “No. How did you know that?”

“Didn’t think a girl’s dad would ask her to leave just because she’d flunked school. Thought there might be more to it.”

She nodded. “You’re right. There was a guy. Played the guitar, didn’t have a job. He’s left now.”

“Is your dad still sore about it?”

“If my dad finds him I think he might kill him.” She paused. “He walked out on me when I was expecting a kid, you see.”

“So you’ve got a kid?”

“Nope. My dad and my brother sorted that out. Took me to a clinic in Albany.”

I felt a bit embarrassed but she seemed to want to talk about herself so I didn’t stop her. “My dad’s a good man,” she added after a thoughtful pause, “he cares about me, but he likes to play this tough guy part and throw his weight about. I mean, everything he does he does for the right reasons, but sometimes it ain’t the best thing to do. You know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean. What about your mum?”

She shrugged. “Mom went into an alcoholics’ home when I was about twelve and we lost track of her. Paired up with a guy she met there, used car salesman from Minnesota. Dad wanted to kill him too for a while. My dad’s an emotional man.”

“In touch with his feelings. That’s a good thing. Get it all out in the open. This guy who played the guitar, do you want to tell me about him?”

“He was a bastard, only I didn’t know it at the time. Good guitarist though. He used to write tunes to go with my songs.”

“Your songs? You’re a song writer?”

“Just a hobby. Got to do something to keep from going crazy around here. I used to write country and western songs. Even used to try to sing them if there was nobody around.”

“But that’s brilliant! I write songs too. Even play the guitar, but I’m not very good. Can I hear one of your songs?”

“No sir, that you most definitely can not.”

“Hey! This might be your big chance! Maybe I’m a scout for the Grand Ol’ Opry, or a big record company. This could be your big break, Marlene. Who knows?”

She laughed. “Tell you what then, big scout, I’ll show you the words of one written down...” She fished around in her shoulder bag. “This was one I wrote after Clem left. Ain’t got no tune.” She handed me a folded page torn from a school exercise book. I opened it out and read:

Promises

You swore you’d never leave me and you said you would be true
But a pile of broken promises is all that’s left of you
All the promises you gave me underneath the silver moon
Who’d have thought forever came so soon.
Who’d have thought forever came so soon.

Your promises came easy and you handed them around
‘Cause you knew what they were made of and you never would be bound
I know I’m not the only one who’s given you her trust
Given love when all you had to trade was lust
Given love when all you had to trade was lust.

Weasel-words and broken promises are lying on the floor
That was all you left me when you walked right out the door
I know you’re with another now, don’t wish her any ill
Tasting sugar on a very bitter pill
Tasting sugar on a very bitter pill

I’m older and I’m stronger now, I’ve learned to take things slow
Not setting out on journeys ‘til I’ve got a place to go
I’m not in any hurry now to give my love away
And I’m gonna’ live to love another day
Yes I’m gonna’ live to love another day.

“Brilliant! Really. Great words. I can write a tune to these. Let me have a go...” I started to hum a few tunes, but nothing that came was very inspired. I could tell by Marlene’s smile that she wasn’t too impressed.

“Takes time, Marlene, “ I pleaded, “things like this take time. You’ve got to let me think on it a bit. But those are terrific words. Great feeling.” I meant it and she could sense my admiration. “You know in London where I live we have clubs where song writers come and try out their songs and get feedback and make friends with other song writers. There are dozens of them. They’d love this stuff. You mightn’t get rich but you’d get appreciated and you’d make friends. You’d be someone there Marlene. You’d love it. And they’d love you. And... well, maybe I could write the tunes for you...”

I paused. For a few seconds I thought the sadness had gone out of her eyes but then it came right back. “Sorry, I’ve no right to make assumptions like that. Maybe you’re all sorted out now. Maybe you’ve got a new boyfriend?”

She paused. “Well, there are a couple guys I hang out with a bit...”

“I know what you mean. What is there to do around here?”

“Oh, there’s a couple clubs if you’ve got a car. Or there’s bowling. Mostly we just go to a bar, hang out, play a bit of pool...”

“Do I detect that you aren’t exactly thrilled to bits with your life here?”

She didn’t need to answer. “Truth is, I left a place just the same forty miles down the road. Thought it would be different here. Look at it. Would you want to live here?”

“Let me ask you a theoretical question.” She smiled and I returned the smile as brightly as I could. “If you could have anything you wanted in the whole world, what would it be?”

“In the fairytale you get three wishes.”

“Okay. I’m a generous person. Three it is.”

“Right. Here we go. First I want to live in a big city with shops and clubs like the ones you said, and fancy restaurants and... I don’t know. Bright lights.”

“Okay. That’s number one. What’s the next one?”

“I want a job that doesn’t bore me silly, that earns me enough money so I can have a nice place and a nice car... and holidays every once in a while.”

“And the last one?” Marlene hesitated and I gave her an encouraging smile. “Come on Marlene. What’s the last one?”

“Not sure I want to say.”

I placed my hand over hers and squeezed gently. “How can the genie grant your three wishes if you won’t say what they are?”

“You know the last one. Same as everybody wants.”

“A man who loves you and looks after you properly. Maybe a family one day.”

She nodded. “Can the genie handle all that?”

I considered the question. “Not an ordinary run-of-the mill genie maybe. But this one is special.”

She laughed. “My wishes are granted then, are they?”

“So long as you believe in magic.”

Her face fell. “I guess that’s the problem. Never been able to believe in magic.”

“The thing about magic is, it doesn’t work straight away. You have to give it time.” I reached down to the floor and picked up a used sheet from her note pad and hunted in my pocket for a pen. “I’m going to give you a number. It’s an English number. You’ve got to leave it for a month, because that’s how long it takes the magic to work, and then call this number. Ask to speak to the genie. Will you do that for me?”

She looked at it and put it carefully in her back pocket. “Thought all you had to do was rub a lamp.”

“This genie works by phone. Have you got a passport?”

She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. “Hey, you’re serious, ain’t you?”

“Get one. You might need it for the magic carpet.” I stood up.

“Hey! You’re not going already are you?”

“Important business, genie stuff. Don’t forget, wait four weeks. Then call.”

She stood and watched me walk to the door. When I got to it I turned and waved goodbye. “You’re one crazy guy!” she shouted after me.

Outside it was almost dark. I hurried back to the truck and Harry opened the door to greet me. “You were in there a long time son. What did you find out?”

I pulled myself up the steps and got in before I answered. “She’s fine. Got lots of friends, settled in well in the job, likes where she’s living.”

“She got a boyfriend?”

“Not... what you’d call a boyfriend, I think. But there’s lots of local boys she likes. I don’t think you need to worry about her. She’s a nice girl, Harry. A really nice girl. You must be very proud of her”

His face twisted into an incredulous grin. “Ain’t nobody ever said that before.”

He started the engine as I put on my seat belt. “A bit late to get to Silverbridge tonight, son. There’s a place we can get a bed for the night about ten miles down the road. You can pay with what’s left of that twenty dollars.”

“Oh. Yeah. Fine. Thanks.”

As we slowly pulled out into the traffic I froze. Marlene was standing outside the One-Eyed Jack and looking straight at the truck and at me. As we passed, only twenty feet from where she was standing, I saw her reach into the back pocket of her jeans, pull out a folded sheet of her note pad and throw it on the ground. I opened my mouth to speak and croaked incoherently.

“Yeah, I saw her too son. Looks like she didn’t fall for it after all. Too smart for the likes of us. Well, I guess you tried.”

I turned and watched her small figure fade from view. “Harry,” I pleaded in a voice that didn’t seem to be my own, “would you stop the truck please? I want to go back there.”

“You gone crazy, boy? What would you want to go back there for?”

“I... I don’t feel good about the way I tricked her. I want to apologise...”

“Crazy people the English. Always wanting to apologise. I’ll apologise for you next time I see her. She knows I check up on her every once in a while. Ain’t no big thing.”

“No... no, please. It’s got to come from me. I’m going to feel really bad if you don’t let me go back. Please.”

I felt the truck slow down. “Do you think I can hang around all night waiting for you? If you get out now, you’re on your own kid. Think you can get to Silverbridge on what’s left of my twenty dollars?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stay here for a while. Get a job...”

“You’re plumb crazy boy. No wonder they kicked your butt out of that summer camp.” He pulled in to the side and stopped and I grabbed my rucksack and guitar and almost jumped down on to the road.

I looked up at him and tried to think of something to say. “You’re right. I am a bit crazy. Thanks for the ride... and the twenty dollars.”

“Crazy kids,” he said by way of dismissal and slammed the door shut.

I checked that the guitar was properly attached, pulled the rucksack over my shoulders and started to run back towards Marlene and the One-Eyed-Jack. Maybe I’d spoiled it with her already, she had every right to refuse to talk to me ever again. But I knew I couldn’t leave it like this. She was right of course, there was no such thing as magic. But maybe there were other ways to make wishes come true. 

Life's Work

Life's Work

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited.

The copyright remains the property of the author

"I can only give you ten minutes, darling," she warned the serious-looking young man, pointing to the chair beside her own. She watched with obvious interest as he sat down and produced some items from his scuffed leather holdall. "You're younger than I expected. Are you their arts columnist?"

He smiled sheepishly. "No, Dame Laura. I'm just a reporter. We don't have columnists. We all have to turn our hand to whatever we're asked to do." He switched on his hand-held recorder as he spoke.

"Oh, less of the 'Dame' please. It makes me feel ancient and venerable. 'Laura' will be quite sufficient." She flashed one of her most charming smiles but found it hard to gauge his reaction. His expression retained its slightly unnerving intensity.

"Laura. Thank you. Laura it is then."

"You seem a bit nervous, dear. I hope you aren't scared of me. I don't bite, you know! Have you been a reporter for very long?" As she spoke she produced a wad of cotton wool and dipped it into a clear liquid in a jar. "I hope you don't mind if I take off my make-up while we talk."

"Please do. I've been on the staff of the Clarion for a bit over two years now."

"Really. You have a good face, you know. A strong chin. What did you say your name was?"

"Peter. Peter Morrissey."

"Peter? No, it doesn't suit you. It's a weak name. You need something short and strong and masculine. Nick or Rex. Something like that. Have you done any acting?"

"No... well, only at school..."

"You should think about it. You have the looks. And you're tall. That's very important, casting directors always want tall leading men and there aren't that many around. Did you enjoy acting at school?"

"No Maam. I mean Laura. I hated it. I forgot my lines and felt like a complete idiot."

She smiled and made a few tentative dabs at her face, following her progress in the mirror as she did so. "It's a good thing we don't get the sack every time we forget a line or miss a cue. I fluffed my lines tonight. Right at the beginning of the second act. Did you notice?"

"No, I can't say I did..."

"That's part of being a professional, dear. Part of knowing your trade. You learn how to cover up when things go wrong." She put down her wad of cotton wool. "Would you like a little drink, Peter?" He shook his head. "Very wise. I never drink before a performance. I make that an absolute rule..." she opened a cabinet door and produced a quarter-full bottle of vodka, an orange mixer and a tumbler, "but I like a single glass to unwind afterwards. Are you sure you won't join me?"

"No, thank you Dame... I mean Laura. I'm driving. Is it okay if I start my questions? Since our time is so limited."

"Oh, I told a little fib there. I always tell people I can only give them ten minutes, then if they start to bore me I can get away from them without hurting their feelings. But you aren't boring me. In fact, I rather like you." She reached out and lifted his hand, turned it over unselfconsciously and inspected the palm. "You've got nice hands too. Long fingers. Did you know there are people who make a living out of just modelling their hands? Holding bottles on TV adverts and things like that. And look at your lifeline! It goes on forever, doesn't it?" She looked him straight in the eye and tried to pick up a reaction but couldn't. "You've got to learn to relax, Peter. You're very tense. Did you know that?" He gave her an awkward smile and withdrew his hand. She poured a generous measure of the vodka and added a dash of orange. "To youth, Peter," she declared cheerfully, and downed half of it in one, "the only thing that can be sold but not bought!" He smiled at last and she returned the smile with obvious satisfaction. She dabbed at her face a few more times. "Why did you become a reporter, Peter? Was it something you always wanted to do?"

"Well, English was the only subject I was any good at at school, and there aren't that many things you can do with just 'A' level English..."

"You aren't going to stay a reporter on a local newspaper forever, are you?"

"I hope not."

"So then! What are you going to be? Where are you headed?"

He hesitated. "I suppose I would like to get into TV journalism if I could. Maybe something like a war correspondent some day..."

"You would be perfect for TV, with your looks. And I can help you. I'm not kidding. I've got friends in TV journalism. Important people." She turned and looked him straight in the eye. "You must leave me a phone number. A way to get in touch." He looked uncomfortable again, slightly unnerved. She turned back to the mirror and released him from her gaze. "Or if you prefer I could contact you through the newspaper," she added casually.

"I'm sure that would be... fine..."

"Right. That's settled then. You said you had some questions?" she continued to dab as she spoke, carefully keeping her eyes on the mirror.

"Yes. The first thing I want to ask you is, how does it feel to be performing in the town where you were brought up?"

"A performance is a performance. I try to give my best wherever the venue happens to be. This town of course has a special soft spot in my affections."

"While you've been here, have you taken the opportunity to visit any of the places connected with your childhood? Your old school, for example, or your parents' house?"

"I'm afraid both my parents are dead. My father died shortly after my career started on the West End stage, and my mother passed away seven years ago. At least she lived long enough to see me enjoy a little career success."

"So you haven't been to see your old house?"

"Well, a house is just bricks and mortar, isn't it, dear? It's the people in your life, and your feelings for them that matter." She gave him a glance that contained a hint of guilt.

He looked down at his notes. "Where was your first stage appearance, and what part did you play?"

"Well, the very first time I stood on a stage would have been at school, but leaving that to one side..."

"Why do you want to leave that to one side?"

Her brow became a little furrowed. "Well, everybody gets a part in the school play, don't they? It doesn't mean a great deal."

"No, I suppose not," he agreed, and turned over a page of his notes. "So, your first professional stage appearance. Was that local?"

"Just down the road, at the Sun Port Empire. I played the title role in a summer production of 'Annie'."

"And how old would you have been then?"

"I think I was about thirteen. The part was for someone slightly younger, of course, but I was small for my age. I've always been quite petite."

"So you were still at school when you got that break?"

"Oh yes. There were all kinds of rules that we had to stick to about chaperones and numbers of hours per day and the like. But I loved it. It convinced me that I had to be an actress, nothing else would do." She paused and turned to face him again. "How old were you, Peter, when you forgot your lines in the school play?"

"Oh? About the same, I suppose. Twelve or thirteen. Something like that."

"Have you heard of the seven ages of man?"

"I think so. It's from Shakespeare, isn't it?"

She nodded. "What about the seven ages of woman? Ever heard of those?" He shook his head. "You're right. They don't exist. Women don't have seven ages. They only have three. The maiden, the mother and the crone. This is a very cruel profession for a woman, Peter. They love you when you're the maiden. That lasts until you're about thirty if you're lucky. Are you familiar with the theatre?"

"Not really."

"What about films?"

He nodded. "Film studies was part of my course..."

"The maiden is the young beautiful flawless girl. Nothing to do with virginity, it's an idea, a fantasy. That's what cinema sells, Peter. Theatre as well. I don't mean the little Arts Council things that lose money, I mean mainstream commercial cinema. It sells fantasy. It invites you to buy into the idea of a world of young and beautiful people having big adventures and fantastic sex. Di Caprio and Winslet in 'Titanic' would be a perfect example. The maiden is the dream lover, the one every male punter wants to fuck, if you'll pardon my plain English. That's where the parts are. Where the money is. But the clock keeps ticking. The years fly by. You can't play that role for very long. What comes next? The mother. The dowdy middle-aged wife that the leading man comes back to after screwing his mistress, maybe. Or the stern super-efficient secretary that holds the business together while he's doing it. It's not a centre-stage role any more. You're not the one that they've come to the cinema to see. But at least there's some work there if you can get it." She took another sip of her drink. "Then you reach the third age of woman. The crone. How many parts are there for crones? Can you think of any?" He shook his head. "One or two in a decade. Bette Davis in 'Baby Jane' maybe. Gloria Swanson in 'Sunset Boulevard'. Monsters. Hate figures. She-demons. Do you think women want to play parts like that? They may say they do but it isn't true. Women want to be young and beautiful and seductive. They want to stay that way forever. They want their slice of the fantasy too."

"But, you're not old, Laura, he whispered. "You look... wonderful..."

"Wonderful? No, I haven't any illusions Peter. Still, it's nice of you to say that. Do you think I would have taken this part, here in this town, ten years ago? Even five? Not bloody likely, I would say! It's something every actress has to come to terms with. Nobody escapes. It's all that any woman in my profession has to look forward to, no mater how big she is, no matter how good she is. The rules are universal. They apply to everybody." She added more vodka to her drink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. "God, I look a sight. Stage makeup gone, everyday stuff not on yet. The real me. And you can still say I look wonderful? You're a good liar, Peter." She opened a jar of foundation and started to rub it in with her fingers. For a few moments neither of them spoke. "How old are you, Peter?" she asked at last.

"Twenty seven."

"Have you got a girlfriend?"

He hesitated. "No. It's not that I'm gay or anything. Just nobody special at the moment."

"Nobody special is good. As soon as there's somebody special you start losing control of your own life. Somebody special is somebody you have to please, have to make compromises for. If you want to get somewhere, be somebody, you can only do it on your own. You can take a little... comfort... here and there when you need it. We're all human. But at the end of the day it's one thing or the other. Living for yourself or living for other people. I learned that when I was very young." She started to produce mysterious powders and perform incomprehensible operations on her cheeks and forehead. When she looked around again she seemed to have shed several years. "Better?" she enquired brightly, looking into his eyes. He smiled and nodded. He seemed to waver for a moment, then slip back into reporter mode.

"How did they get to know about you at the Sun Port Empire?"

"That's an odd kind of question. There was an audition for the part, naturally."

"Which you attended on your own initiative?"

She looked puzzled. "I don't really know what you're getting at. My parents had to write a letter giving their permission, and my mother came along with me to the audition. You don't just do things like that on your own initiative when you're thirteen."

"Of course not. Pardon my ignorance. When you left school you were awarded a scholarship to RADA in London. The first and only person from this town to go there, I think I'm right in saying?"

"RADA is a very special place. It was a great honour to be accepted as a student there."

"And of course the rest is history. But do you mind if I ask you a bit more about those very early years, while you were still living in this town with your parents? I understand you had a boyfriend back then, somebody named Morris Quigley. I believe he acted as a kind of informal manager and set up some of those early auditions."

She put down her drink and looked at him with considerable unease. "Your research has been very thorough, Peter."

"Thank you. It wasn't all that difficult, Mr. Quigley was a local man and... well, I'm local too."

"Quite. I suppose you're going to quiz me about him now, aren't you? Could I ask you for a favour? You see, that wasn't a very happy part of my childhood. That's all we were really, children. It's a very long time ago and I don't think it would be fair on... a large number of people, to drag it up again. It's water under the bridge, as they say. You understand?"

He remained silent but kept his gaze on her face. So much composure now, so businesslike again. It was positively unnerving. He probably didn't know anything, she told herself calmly, just a junior reporter who's picked up an ancient rumour, fishing around to see what he can get.

"What did you do in your gap-year, Laura?" She felt her chin begin to tremble and wondered if he had noticed.

"I travelled," she said flatly, "the same as teenagers do now. I went to Europe, and on to the Middle East."

There was an uncomfortable silence. When Peter broke it he spoke very quietly. "Not to a maternity home for unmarried mothers called Aldebaran House in Somerset?"

Laura felt numb. Her mouth had become so dry she found it difficult to speak. "What do you want from me? Money? Do you think anybody's going to care after all these years? Scandal is the life blood of my profession. Love children are two a penny. It wouldn't rate page ten in the tabloids."

"No, I don't suppose it would. And I don't want your money, so you needn't worry about that."

"What do you want then? Why have you been leading me along like this?" She looked him straight in the eye.

His shoulders slumped slightly. "I just want to talk, that's all. Let's switch this thing off, shall we?" He slipped the tape recorder back into the holdall. "I got the background from Mr. Quigley, as you've probably guessed. He died quite recently. Did you know that?"

"No."

"He never forgot you. You should be flattered. I don't know how many years it was, almost thirty I should think, and not a day went by that he didn't think about you. Have you ever thought about him?"

She shrugged. "No, not really. Why should I? We were children, like I said."

"Like you said. But children that gave birth to a child."

"Don't be so damned melodramatic. Do you think we invented pregnancy? It's an embarrassing, pathetic little episode. That's why I don't want to drag it up again. One more stupid teenager who left it too late to have an abortion. Big deal. I don't want people feeling sorry for me about something like that. I want my life story to be made up of big things, good things, things I have achieved... every woman on the West End stage has one or two stupid mistakes in her past. Every woman in the world, probably. It's crap. It's not worth talking about."

He was silent for a long time. "Meet your stupid mistake, Mother," he said at last.

Her features drained of blood. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. "That isn't true. It isn't possible... God, you must think I'm revolting..."

"I wasn't supposed to do it like this. I promised the counsellor I wouldn't. I was supposed to protect your feelings. Sorry."

She gulped down the remainder of her drink. Her hand trembled and the tumbler rattled against the table-top as she put it down. "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you do it like this?"

"I was pretty certain that you wouldn't agree to see me if you had the choice. Was I right?"

"Probably." She paused and let her arms fall to her sides. "I suppose you hate me for giving you away. Children that are put up for adoption always hate their natural mothers, don't they?"

He shrugged. "Who's being melodramatic now? The truth is, I was scared about this meeting. I was afraid I wasn't going to like you, because of what my Dad said about you. Funny to call him that, my Dad."

"What did he say about me?"

"He thought you were the most wonderful person who ever walked the earth. He told me about your first day at Primary School. Do you remember that day?" She shook her head. "He did. He said you were this lovely vivacious super-confident little girl with long blonde hair. You stood in front of the class and talked about yourself for ten minutes non-stop, and then you gave a little bow, as if you'd just finished a dramatic recitation or something. He said every boy in the class fell in love with you that day. He was just one of the crowd. Then he told me about how he tried to befriend you, do things for you. It went on for years, didn't it? All through Primary School and Secondary School. He was always at your side, propping-up your ego, writing letters to get you auditions, phoning the local papers to get you noticed, bullying teachers into supporting your RADA application... he gave over his whole life to getting your career launched. It was his obsession. He admitted it. Even in your later teens, when you strayed a bit, he pretended that he didn't know. But he knew all right. Old dependable Morris. Always there to fall back on in times of crisis. That was the way you saw him. Or so he told me."

"I never asked your father for a thing. Everything he did for me he did willingly... more than willingly. He wanted that role. He enjoyed... well, it may sound cruel but it's true, he liked basking in reflected glory. He got as much of a kick out of my success as I did myself. That was the way we related to one another. It was sweet at the beginning, but... well... it became a bit creepy. I stopped liking it. It was way too easy to... exploit his good nature. I hated myself for doing it. I couldn't... respect your father. When I discovered I was pregnant it gave me a way to break off the relationship. I left to have the baby and I didn't come back. It's nothing unusual. Relationships come to an end. Usually they end for one person before the other. This one ended for me before it ended for your father. That's all there was to it."

"You say you left to have the baby. That wasn't what my Dad understood. He understood that you were leaving to have an abortion. That was what you told him, wasn't it? He said that was what broke his heart."

She shrugged. "He was all gooey-eyed about the two of us having a child. And that was after I'd had my RADA audition and my letter of acceptance. My career would have stopped right there. I could get away with one year's deferral but can you imagine doing a course as intensive as that as a single mother? Not possible. Not real."

"You had a big row about the baby, didn't you?"

"It was the first time he ever tried to break my will. To force me to do something that I didn't want to do. He had more spirit than I thought. The only way I could get him off my back was to tell him... No, I'm not telling you these things. These things are private, between your father and me."

"You don't have to tell me. I know what you told him. You told him I might not be his child. Was that true?"

"No, of course not. Well, very very unlikely..."

"And it worked. It got him off your back. It confused him enough that by the time he had decided it was all right and he would put up with it and forgive you like he always did, the whole thing was over and done with. As far as he knew I was a bundle of blood and cells in a clinical waste bag somewhere in Somerset. Can you imagine what it was like for him when I knocked on his door one morning out of the blue? But he still wouldn't hate you. Not even then. Stubborn, wasn't he?"

Laura said nothing.

"So. I think you've made it pretty clear how much we meant to you. By 'we' I mean my father and me. You're not a hoarder, are you? You don't keep things after they've outlived their usefulness. It's sad, isn't it? Right up to the moment my Dad died he was still under your spell. You were still that little blonde-haired girl standing up at the front of the class making his heart race. He still wanted to be liked by you, still wanted your approval, wanted you to be happy. He gave up on the reality of course but he never let go of the dream. It never came to an end for him. Isn't that strange? He had all your cuttings. Every time you got Oscar nominated for some Hollywood thing, or opened in something on Broadway or the West End, or if you were a guest on Parkinson or some American chat show - he'd have all the press comment pasted into his book. All the pictures and the programmes. He saw you on stage many times, did you know that? Your biggest fan, Laura. You never noticed him, beyond the footlights, did you? They say people on the stage can't see past the footlights. I don't know whether it's an actual fact or a kind of metaphor. Maybe it's both."

Laura remained silent but he noticed that she wasn't meeting his eyes any more and seemed to have distanced herself from everything that was going on.

"I wasn't there for that ten minute speech in front of the class. Maybe you could give me another one. Tell me about yourself, Mother. Has it been a good life? Did you get the things you wanted?"

She looked at him blankly. "It's been okay," she said at last. "I got the career I wanted... It didn't last forever but then what lasts forever? I've done well financially... What is it you want to know?"

"What is it I want to know? It's a fair question I suppose." He paused. "It's a funny kind of career, acting, isn't it? You spend a whole lifetime pretending to be other people. I suppose you get very good at it. Do you ever sit down on your own and wonder who you really are? Who's underneath when you take off all these layers?" He lifted a jar of make-up and replaced it gently. "Is there anybody in this whole world that you care about? You made your decision back then, didn't you, when the baby came along. Live for yourself or live for other people. Black and white, nothing in between. Do you think you got it right? I'd really like to know."

They looked at one another and there was a very long silence. Eventually, he began to put away his notes and pack up in preparation for leaving.

"Are you... going?" she asked uneasily.

"I think so. Is there anything to stay for?"

She didn't answer.

"Goodbye, Mother." As he rose to go she turned back to her reflection in the mirror and became fixated on the image, staring into her own face as though it might speak to her if she gave it enough time.

Peter didn't look back. He closed the door gently and made his way down the back stairs, out of the stage door and into the darkened street behind the theatre where the low dark shape of an expensive car was waiting for him. The courtesy light came on and the door swung open to admit him. Comfortable on the soft leather he lifted the tape recorder out of the holdall, removed the cassette and handed it to the distinguished-looking grey-haired driver.

"Was I right?" the driver asked quietly as he put it in the glove compartment.

"You were right. Completely right. It was a lot harder than I expected though. It's all on the tape. I had to put it in the bag at one point but it picks up perfectly well from in there. Everything was just as you thought. You could have saved your money." He breathed out heavily and put the holdall on the floor. "I think I should warn you though. Some of the stuff on that tape could hurt."

"Not any more. But thanks for the warning."

There was a pause. "I know I've no right to ask, but why did you need to do this? Why now, after all these years? Was it revenge?"

"Of course not. I don't hate Laura." He paused, as though he needed to compose himself. "The fact is I think I love her. I know that makes me a fool, but there's nothing I can do about it. I had to do something to make her face up to things, Peter. I had to try to shock her enough to make her take stock of her life and do something about it. If she won't, or she can't, then she's washed-up. She doesn't seem to understand that and I had to find a way to get the message across. That's all." He handed Peter a large brown envelope. "You've done well. You've earned this. I know it wasn't easy."

"So you're still trying to help her?"

"Of course I am. She's my life's work."

There was a pause.

"It'll be a long time before I earn this much above Equity rates again. I'm not sure that I even want to go into the acting profession any more. It tastes sour right now. It's as if... it's something that eats up your soul until there isn't anything left."

"Only if you let it. I'm sure it doesn't have to be like that." He started the engine. "Can I drop you off anywhere?"

"This is fine, Mr. Quigley. The train station is just down the road. A walk in the fresh air is exactly what I need."