A NEW WRITING TALENT …

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http://www.amazon.com/Veronicas-Dreaming-Pauline-Howard-ebook/dp/B00GWWCL5C

MISCHIEF….

Right in the heart of the city, where the streets are narrow and the buildings seem to reach for the sky, there was a textile wholesale business on the third floor of such an older style business centre and it was run by a managing director, a foreigner, who spent most of the day in his sumptuous office. In an adjacent room were two ladies working away on large ledger sheets and making constantly telephone calls. The whole room looked definitely busy, with office files strewn everywhere, stacks of printouts placed precariously everywhere, mainly over the edge of shelves, seemingly losing balance any moment.

There is in the centre of the room an intercom, apparently the most important part of the whole display. And out of it is constantly coming the managing directors barked words: ‘Where is such-and-such?’ and ‘When is Mr. Smith coming?’ So much so, that he is being referred to by the ladies as ‘Mr. Whereis-Whenis’.

Outside the two offices are the store rooms with rolls and rolls of fabric stored in tall shelves and long cutting tables with wrapping material, strings and enormous large scissors hanging by a string from the wall, looking almost as if requiring a weapon licence!

One side of the offices and store rooms has a row of large windows, reaching from floor to ceiling, like any of the windows of the other buildings in that street. The only difference is that they can be actually opened and by swivelling on a centre pivot, their outside can be turned to face inside, facilitating better cleaning from the inside only. But that was only theoretically as nobody has ever done that. Besides, in front of the windows in the store rooms were long tables placed with displays of ties, handkerchiefs and scarves, putting the actual windows practically out of reach.

And whilst downstairs the busy traffic of the street ebbed and flowed, with pedestrians rushing about and cars tooting their horns, there is always a tranquil atmosphere at this third floor, carefully nursed by three lazy apprentices. They have been employed by the managing director, Mr. Goldberger, because they were cheaper than hiring adults and with a bit of luck and coercion, adult performances may be gained from them. However, this has been only his theory so far.

The three apprentices, Jackie, Peter and Nigel, knew that, work-performance-wise they were expected to function as adults, but were also aware that, as apprentices, they cannot be legally responsible for any mistakes they may make.

And whenever they could, between cutting fabric and wrapping up orders, they thought up many a mischief to while away their time.

Peter, for example turned out to be puberty-wise somewhat confused and tended to stand at the office door, listening to the two women’s idle chatter. And sometimes he picks up a real gem: Minnie said to Elly: ‘ My husband says I have the body of a seventeen year old…..’, giving him the instant illusion of Minnie without clothes!

It was lunchtime right now, when Jackie produced a large plastic bag, placing it with triumph on one of the long cutting tables. ‘Here’, he said in with the voice of a winner, ‘this is for all of us. I got it from my grandfather who makes a strong brandy from this!’

Nigel’s greedy hand dived into the large sack and pulled out an enormous pear. ‘Eeh,’ he sounded disgusted, ‘it is dripping wet – and sticky!’

‘They are supposed to be’ Jackie explained. ‘In fact they are so over-ripe that the fruit juice just runs off them by their own weight! It’s a special kind of pear, like I said, very watery and with a high sugar content, for brandy-making. Of course, we can eat them as well but they dribble a lot.’

Now, Peter, too, was holding something mushy in his hand ‘Look, it’s practically cascading like a water fall – the rest is just puree…’ He suddenly had a piece of cloth in the other hand, wiping the counter top off its sticky wetness.

‘It’s like a water bomb….Jackie mused. ‘I bet, if you drop it on somebody, it’d burst like one – plus it leaves that sugary mush as an added bonus!’

‘Why don’t we try one out?’ Nigel sounded like a scientist, his chin motioning to one of the large windows.

‘We can‘t’ Peter was more timid and, yet,  equally eager. ‘The window has never been opened and we’d need a special handle to stick into its frame to unlock its mechanism.’

‘I think I know where it is’, Jackie’s brain produces results. Going to the table in front of the window, he pulled open a draw and reached inside. He seems to fumble around inside the collection of scarves and handkerchiefs for quite a while, indicating his strenuous effort with his tongue firmly wedged between his teeth.

‘Here it is!’ in triumph he produced a wrought iron handle with a square, long shaft, black with age and slightly rusty. ‘That should do it’

Nobody has ever seen this instrument before and therefore a moment of staring at it was in order.

‘And where do you use it?’ Nigel said slowly.

‘’There, of course!’ two hands pointed at an unobtrusive round hole in the metal frame, with the square inlet, hardly visible.

The apparatus turned slowly and the window creaked a few times before pivoting on its axis and allowing three urchin’s heads poking out and observing the hectic traffic of pedestrians right below them.

‘Look how they rush about!’ Peter articulated ‘Some walk really funny…’ He pointed at a lady in particularly high stiletto heels, walking almost mechanically as if wound up. And that large poodle she’s leading – almost a designer dog - hey, what are you doing?’ The latter was a callout directed at Jackie.

‘Bombs awaaaay’ Jackie, seeing himself in a military position, aimed and let go of a pear.

They quickly observed an explosion on the poodle, a frightened yelping, followed by a shrill voice emanating from the fashion model. She did not recognise her price dog at all. Covered in pear puree and dripping wet and trembling, that creature was simply unrecognisable!

More could not be observed as the ‘three musketeers’ quickly pulled back and slammed the window shut. There was more noise welling up from the street and after a while it seemed to die down, obviously people got accustomed to the new situation.

That’s when the window was carefully opened again and the state of traffic was reconnoitred by the three.

Among the milling crowd was a business executive, walking busily in his tailor-made suit and carrying a grey attaché case, probably hand-stitched leather which he kept protectively close to his person. And that was his fault as the next pear plummeted down and, as it did so, its mushy body expanded into a pale watery cloud, nearly missing his main body but making contact with his hand, holding the satchel!

His surprised ‘Whaaat’ was heard up and down the busy street, with the stream of pedestrians coming momentarily to a standstill. Again, the window was quickly slammed shut and the many people now looking up the high building could not make out anything.

Three rascals sat on the floor hidden from the hostile world outside aided by the fact that the windows sheer continuous curtains closed out any view into their work place. Faces were red with excitement, apprehension and, yes, pride because this caper was really something!

The noise from downstairs receded to regular street level, with everybody continuing as normal. Everybody seems to be pre-occupied with one’s own self. What does it matter if there are two strange looking creatures standing in an office doorway – actually, they were three, counting the dog.

A middle aged lady, overweight and overdone, makeup-wise, was proudly and domineeringly stepping along. Her hair was carefully coiffured into a beehive style, but much more intricate – a work of art! Her fleshy face heavily powdered and enhanced with a red lipstick, indicating kissable lips where there were none, a bosom jutting far ahead of her with an extensive cleavage pointing out her goodies, a double chin like a concertina, a blue dress with lots and lots of lace edgings, obviously hand- knotted and sturdy legs to hold everything upright.

‘Her legs are like concrete crushers!’ Peter nastily observed.

‘Like Miss Piggy’s’ Nigel remembered.

‘Don’t be so vulgar! A bit more respect, please!’ Jackie reprimanded and let go of an especially watery, dripping and sticky pear. He looked like a fighter pilot from WW I, in his bi-plane, hand-dropping the bomb at a carefully selected enemy.

The falling pear bomb was somewhat cushioned by the high hairdo but not for long. A loud ‘Eeeeeeeeeeh ‘ was heard and the startled passers-by stared disapprovingly at the bedraggled figure, wet and dripping. She stood there motionless due to her unaccustomed wetness, hair sticking closely to her head and on her upper body. With her cleavage chastely covered in pear mush, she stood there brainless and with her stiletto shoes pointing inwards – a picture of disgust for most of the passing pedestrians.

She, too, eventually joined the others in the doorway in commiserating their loss of appearance!

Youthful exuberance prevailed and the three puberty-stricken adolescents forgot time and place in relishing their fun-filled moments. Forgotten were their normally hard work of handling heavy bails and their sometimes swollen wrists for which they wore leather straps like wrestlers.

More people joined the ranks of victims in the main entrance of the building without seeing the funny side of their respective situation.

Another big pear was trundling downwards when Peter noticed something:’Hey look! Following his pointed finger, they all noticed the bank on the opposite side of the street with their office staff crowding at the windows and faces distorted with hilarity. They, too, were enjoying the action of the three ‘stooges’ and their caper. With the added bonus that they could observe the crowd in the main entrance swelling in ranks – a clear sign of success.

They observed these desperate people looking around for clues whilst scraping this unknown substance from their bodies and belongings, sniffing their finger tips and looking around themselves with eyes that showed a wild light.

Now, they noticed the bank across the road, in fact they discovered each other at the same time. The faces of the bank employees resumed their usual sternness, however, strenuously achieved and now they are pointing upwards in a helpful way, obviously having changed side.

‘Hell’, Nigel exclaimed, ‘You cannot trust them!’ and dived away from the window.

‘Banks can never be trusted!’ added Jackie as he, too, hit the floor.

Peter slammed the window shut, locked it frenetically, hid the handle back where it was found, deep in a draw, far behind lots and lots of scarves and handkerchiefs.

Then all three pushed the long and heavy table with the counter display stands for ties, handkerchiefs and more fashion paraphernalia right back to the window. The bag with the remaining projectiles, er..pears, was stuffed into the cleaning lady’s vacuum cleaner and her little storeroom was firmly shut and two bails of heavy tweed,  herring-boned and winter-weight, were placed before it like boulders.

The three half-grown prankster sat on the parquetry floor with bated breath and listened to any signs of activity from outside. Sure enough a low background noise quickly swelled to clearly recognisable tramping sound of many feet coming upstairs and closer.

The doorbell rang storm and just to stop its unpleasantness, Peter unwillingly rushed to the door and opened it. He was pushed aside by a large group of strange looking people with hate-contorted faces of crimson colour. Rushing past him they stormed to the window side of the warehouse and were stopped by the long tables before them. As if driven by some automatic force, they bent over the long tables with their counter display stands and their outstretched arms tried to reach towards the windows and for a handle to open them. Of course, there was none. One fellow, a doctor-type with a pureed wig and pads of pear mousse on his shoulders, like epaulets, span around and hissed at Peter:‘How do you open this window?’

As if in a dream, Peter slowly replied: ’They can’t be opened, they have never been opened.’ He was not believed but since there was no handle or anything like that visible, it seemed to be the truth.

The whole group of fuming characters looked at each other, and that included the four-legged ones. ‘Now what?’ Their revenge-contorted faces seem to say.

Since they cannot let themselves be seen in public, they decided to stay in the building a bit longer and find the culprit.

‘What’s upstairs?’ The ex-matron-like lady barked but with a pitch in her voice that betrayed desperation.

‘What is this about?’ Nigel had himself under firm control and like a tourist guide he proudly announced: ‘Here are the offices…’ and his outstretched arm encompassed the relevant doors. ‘..and this is a textile warehouse!’ he added with a helpless shrug.

Peter, ever helpful, pushed a rag across the wide counter to a mousse-creature but carefully avoided showing his hand which was still covered in pear puree’.

A growling emanated from the group and it sounded menacing and murderous.

‘What’s upstairs, one floor up?’ That hissing emanated from a broken-nose character, almost as broad as tall and in a tight suit, currently very soaked with liquid vitamin, repeating the question.

‘There is a dentist upstairs with lots of people in his waiting room. But you will have to make an appointment…..’

As if by command, the whole group turned towards the door and, growling threats, they stomped out the door and the trampling of their furious steps could be heard for a while.

As Peter firmly closed the door, he exhaled deeply and with relief. The other boys, too, had suddenly a darker colour as they became aware of the danger they have just escaped.

As Peter locked the front door firmly and switched-off the door bell for good measure, an office door opened and the managing director, Mr. Miklos Goldberger, poked his head out, enquiring with amazement: ‘What is happening here?’

EMBARRASSMENT….

For most of my life I have been a sales representative for floor covering companies and as such I have travelled the Australian countryside far and wide, calling mainly on retail shops, architects and government departments.

When faxes came into use, they were welcomed by me and my hard-working colleagues as a real boon as they obviate rushing to post offices with urgent communications.

Whilst I still got my fair share of phone calls from architects, builders, and government offices, I could now back-up my verbal information by offering them a fax, confirming our conversations, for legal reason.

This kind of instant service started to endear me to my business contacts and assisted me establishing an instant trust and therefore a good working relationship.

Today, I have been in the company office most of the morning, trying to get out and onto the road, where I was – theoretically – free to call on important clients. However, the phone calls came in thick and fast and I just couldn’t get away.

‘Are you not going out today, calling on customers?’ my boss Mervin called impatiently from his office.

I snatched my fat satchel and extra folders and was just about to leave the office when the telephone on my desk emitted again its annoying sound.

‘Shall I get that call?’ I called to Mervin

‘Of course!’ he yelled back and with great relieve I rushed to the phone.

It was an architect’s firm, located in the city, near the top of a high-rise office building, and their boss, Mr. John Albert, has this unforgettable, craggy, face, so very lived-in, that never showed any emotion and one could never tell whether he was in a good mood or not. Plus, he spoke with matching voice: terse, halting and in a -what musicians would describe as ‘staccato’.

Now, he wanted something from me, which was impossible!

‘I am sorry, John, but there will never be such thing as a maintenance-free flooring, no matter how much your client is insisting on one.’

‘Hmm, that’s disappointing,’ came his rasping reply. Not quite sure whether he meant me or the flooring, I felt having to come up with something positive!

‘There is a new type of flooring coming onto the market next month, that requires only sweeping or mopping. And scuff marks on the floor are being walked-off during the day. Your client’s maintenance costs will be an absolute minimum….

A slightly drawn-out ‘yes’ revealed his interest and I kept on with my sales conversation: ‘The new product is Easifloor and, so far, I only have a glossy leaflet which I received from overseas, showing basically two pictures of a large room, the first one shows a standard PVC flooring, with a small light reflection and below is this new flooring, Easifloor, looking much cleaner and with a larger light reflection. On the reverse side, are the technical details and minimum maintenance instructions……’

‘I need that for my client…’ In his eagerness, he started to breath heavier.

‘I’ve only got one for myself…..but I shall try to fax it to you. The photos will not come out very well but the technical data on the reverse side will tell your client what a great low-maintenance flooring this is.’

In those early days of faxing, fine grey shades were almost non-existent and I expected no enthusiasm from looking at them, however, technical details on the other side may be enough to convey its low maintenance features.

Having faxed John Albert this leaflet, I managed to run out of the office before the next phone call and drove to the first of my many business contacts.

Leaving a building with great satisfaction, after having called on a happy client who fortified me with a strong cup of coffee, my mobile phone started to vibrate.

‘Peter, do you know what you sent me?’ It was the voice of John Albert the architect from the office.

‘Yes, John, I’ve sent you a fax with the illustrations and other details about our new flooring…’ But he interrupted me:

‘Do you really know what you’ve sent me?’

‘What’s the problem, John? My boss was standing next to me and saw me doing it….I’ve sent you the leaflet of our ‘Easiflor’

‘I want you to come here and have a look at your fax. You can’t send me things like that!’ He sounded disgusted but was there a trace of mockery somewhere? This is hard to say when coming from such a stony-faced person.

‘I am in the city right now and shall drop everything and see you right away, if you wish!’ It would be nice if he had said ‘no hurry, come whenever you can fit it into your busy schedule’ but no such consideration can be expected from this architect.

‘I see you in my office!’ That kind of terseness could be a joke….but was it?

Arriving at his airy offices – thank God for the invention of lifts - the staff seems to be expecting me too. Jenny, the receptionist was a stunning blonde who could easily be taken for a film star.

‘Hello, Mr. Frederick, she welcomed me. Was her face flushed or did she apply too much make-up in the morning? Hard to say, but her eyes were shiny and brimming with joie de vivre. Or was she laughing on the inside?

And now, Mrs. Leadbetter, came out of the inner sanctum. She was an elderly woman, tall and willowy. Her rimless glasses glistened at me in a kind of reprimand but she seemed to have more colour in her expressionless face and there were less wrinkles than usual and the ones I could see, were less deep.

My professional antennae were telling me something is not right here and that I need to be on guard. Mrs. Leadbetter walked ahead of me, past rows of rooms with architects who seem to glance at me only to bury their heads down deep into their files and blue prints in front of them.

‘You can’t send me faxes like that!’ We had arrived at John Albert’s office and he stood up from his desk handing me the two copies of my fax.

His face was in a state of mourning like always, only his eyes were glistening.

‘Hello John, I greeted him routinely, ‘nice to see you! Taking from his outstretched hand the two copies. He and Mrs. Leadbetter stood there studying my face intensely.

‘Sorry, John, the photos did not come out very well, why, they are only two black rectangular prints with a white streak in each one, which should be the reflection of the light in the flooring. But I have my original leaflet here and can lend it to you for a few days.

Snatching the glossy leaflet from my attaché case and holding it up in triumph, I felt assured of victory. ‘Here, I’ll put it in a plastic pocket for you!’

Placing it demonstratively on his desk, I stepped back with great satisfaction.

‘Another happy client,’ were my thoughts.

But John and his scrawny assistant were not interested. Unmoved, they stared at me with piercing eyes out of wrinkly faces.

‘Have another look at what you sent me!’ He commanded.

Pretending to be un-effected, I had a look at the first page of the fax.

‘Why, it shows two pictures, both black and with a white streak each.’

‘Look at it, have a good look!’ He bored into my soul.

Thinking this to be a new type of nonsense to annoy a hard-working representatives, I perused the page again, this time with inquiring intensity.

The headline spelled in large letters the word EASI, the name of that particular flooring. Then I concentrated on the two black rectangles showing each a white streak, indicating a light reflection.

There must be something unusual about the light reflection – but what?

‘Look at it!’ John bellowed.

Suddenly, the white area seemed to be in the shape of a specific part of the male body but I had training in suppressing such thought and kept surging.

‘Look at it!’ The architect repeated his command.

Staring at the white area, my indecent thoughts returned. It really looked like a male – you know what! But, my brain signalled that it cannot be so, that it is only my filthy mind.

‘Keep your mind on the job!’ I keep telling myself, glancing at the overall impression of this leaflet.

There is nowhere indicated that we are dealing with a PVC floor cover, only the word Easy is being spelled out at the top.

Beneath the top picture is the bold-lettered punch line: ‘Why put up with this?’

Whereas the below the lower picture proudly spells it out: ‘When you can have that?’

Holding that leaflet was suddenly difficult for me and to save myself from unsteadiness, I placed it on the desk.

John must have sensed that the message got through this strictly business-like salesman.

‘You can’t send me a fax like that!’ His voice commanded, but was there a mocking undertone? An intelligent person like he surely understands that I’ve been the victim of imperfect technology and was only trying to give instant service!

This was hard to say because his face and that of his assistant betrayed nothing. Stony-faced, with red, watery eyes and their lips firmly pressed together, John and Mrs. Leadbetter stared at me unnervingly.

‘Anyway, I’ve brought you the original leaflet and leave it with you. Plus, as soon as I receive some sample swatches or larger pieces of the real thing, I bring them to you – for your client. The price will be the same……..’ I prattled on to hide my embarrassment and bid my farewell, in elegant politeness.

Trying to walk past the reception and out the door unnoticed, proved to be impossible. As a final slap of shame, Jenny the film star, called out with a carefully controlled voice: ‘See you next time, Peter!’ Hoping that she had no idea of anything, I slunk out the door and heard her parting words: ‘And don’t send us any faxes!’

THE LONG WAIT…..

As usual, Megan visited Grandma Brown in her well cared-for garden with a bunch of flowers. This may seem to be a contradiction in itself as the garden was in full bloom with bees busily collecting the pollen and the birds in the trees twittering a welcome. For Megan, this gesture was an expression that went beyond the actual handing over some creations of nature. It was the sign of their intensive love for each other, a certain understanding and caring, that went beyond ordinary relationships.

After all, Grandma Brown has a large family with lots of grandchildren who visited her regularly at her mountainside blossoming and perfumed paradise. Especially the lilac bushes, when heavily in blossom, exude their heavy and intoxicating aroma like incense in a religious celebration.

At Granny’s wrought-iron garden door, sometimes a sign was affixed with a message for the postman not to put any mail in the letterbox as it is occupied – again – by a loving family of birds that, too, wishes to pursue their tranquil family life undisturbed.

Many was the time when Megan and her family of one brother and three sisters had sat on garden benches outside the wooden home, where thick green bushes formed an alcove, secluded and in happiness! Sometimes other members of the family visited Granny, as she was very popular, and joined the cheery gathering. Percolated coffee was then enjoyed by the grown-ups and lemonade for the children was served in long cool glasses. Worries of daily life were discussed and in doing so, they seem to diminish.

Children, too, spoke freely of their school days and problems with their friends, especially Megan, who tended to sit right beside Grandma, slightly leaning against her in closeness and unison.

Megan grew into a tall and beautiful young lady with a wide smile and flashing eyes. Especially, when she visited her Grandma, who never seemed to change in appearance, except perhaps for a few more wrinkles in her friendly face. Megan always sat beside her, in unison and protection.

One day, Megan’s visit to Grandma was different. She had her usual flowers, and the same loving smile but when they sat down, she placed herself opposite her and reaching out to hold Grandma’s hands, she said these cataclysmic worlds that would change the live for both of them. 

‘Nana, I have to tell you something..,…I am going overseas, to Europe, only for two years.’ Nana’s loving face betrayed nothing, so Megan continued: ‘I just want to see the world, Nana, I shall always write to you and, as I said, two years will quickly go by, Nana and I will be back with you again.’ Saying that with confidence, she pressed her grandma’s hands with extra firmness – it sounded like a solemn vow!

Grandma felt an icy grip on her heart and she felt Megan’s hands shaking despite keeping her pretty face bravely under control. Was there moisture welling up in her big brown eyes and forming a tear in a corner?

Grandma thin lips became thinner as she tried to assure Megan and, perhaps herself, ‘I’ll wait for you!’

Megan did not stay for a while, not as usual, but bid her adieu to Grandma with a warm and intensive kiss on her careworn cheek, for the last time.

‘May God protect you!’ Granny whispered.

The leaving was very difficult for Megan and this time she walked without her usual spring in her steps and swaying hips. Rather than a condemned person she dragged herself away – as if to her own execution. Why did she feel no relief for having got it ‘over with’ as she intended? She felt her heart heavy and hurting.

For her family and relations, Megan’s departure was quick – she was gone far too suddenly and an icy, empty, void seemed to be present at home and at family meetings. At the latter, there was always the inevitable question ‘How is Megan?’ or ‘Have you heard from Megan?’

It was mostly Grandma who raised the question first, but she did not betray any further emotions about her favourite grandchild. Megan’s parents shook their head dejectedly and looked downwards with a worrying frowning. But soon the subject of their conversation changed to everyday occurrences and the children in the family circles were too young to understand this situation.

Finally, a postcard arrived, by airmail and from a far- away place in Europe, in Megan’s familiar writing. She was all right was her assurance and that there was no reason to worry. Her promise was to write again very soon.

Grandma held this postcard in her hands for a long time, and with a loving look took in the hand writing of a person so dear to her. If she only could see once more the hand that wrote these lines! Despite Megan’s promise to write again soon, it took a long time before the next postcard arrived, too long and painful for everybody.

But Megan was far away and caught up in different worlds and situations. She worked hard in casual jobs, whatever she could find. Her natural friendliness and smile made her popular wherever she went.

Naturally, she was caught up in love affairs and met a family that took her in like her own daughter. Going out with new-found friends, having parties and fun, fun, fun, her young heart did not seem to notice that time was flying as it did not mean anything to her young heart.

Only sometimes, when moments stood still, her mind wandered ‘back home’. And in these moments her soul mate, her beloved Grandma appeared and her warm eyes looked into hers and her lips moved ‘I wait for you!’

Is she all right? What was she doing right now? Was she missing her?

And then in her thoughts her parents appeared, her brother and sisters, and the other members of the family who used to meet so regularly at Grandma’s. The warm feeling of cosy comfort then welled over her and she could almost feel the love they felt for each other. And the laughter and singing when uncle Paul played his guitar. They were cheerful songs she has not heard since and thinking of all this a painful longing awoke and began to tuck her heart.

Naturally, everyday worries and struggle to make ends meet became too familiar to her but her proud and determined personality did not allow her to confide to anybody.

‘How is Megan, have you heard from her?’ Back at Granny’s place these questions kept being asked, any scant information was eagerly shared and wistful sigh’s were heard.

Years were going by………..

Megan sometimes looked up at the sky – the sky in her part of the world – and noticed that it was not as blue as at home. There were more clouds, many more formations, and very little sunshine. How would it be, she thought, to be ‘back home’ sitting again in the warm circle of her family and if she could only hold her grandma’s hands once more and look into her loving face and tell her what she had been through! It would be so wonderful to let her know how much she missed her.

She did not have the money to fly back home and she was too proud to ask her parents for help. In this stalemate of suffering, she managed a brave face and tried to live an everyday life.

One day, her Grandma was no more. On her death bed, she had asked for Megan and how she was and she seemed to be praying for her.

Twenty years had gone past when Megan returned. This time with her family, a handsome husband and two lovely daughters and her first questions were for details about her Grandma. She visited her grave, cried bitterly into her cupped hands and had a long, mental, conversation to her Nana. Weeping uncontrollably, she also prayed, seemingly forever.

If she only could turn back the clock - vainly did she try to will this. And, kneeling by the graveside, she suddenly heard Nana’s familiar voice: ‘I wait for you!’

FICKLE TRAVELLERS

The large assembly of travellers gathered outside the London railway station seemed to be stunned: they had just heard the announcement of a strike at British railways and that they will be taken to Dover coast by bus, to be ferried across the channel and there, at Oostend, their connecting train will be waiting for them.

The whole replacement schedule seemed a bit ad hoc to them and while they are still shocked about the news of the strike, everybody doubted that it will be possible to reach the connecting train on the continent on schedule. The dreary thought sunk into their brain: What if we miss this connecting train on the continent? How will we get across Europe to our distant point of destination?

The mass of desperate people got bigger all the time as new fellow travellers kept arriving.

Despair started to sink-in and spread. People from all parts of the world started to find each other by their mother tongue or the nearest common language they could speak. Together they chatted in highly alarmed voices and exchanged their thoughts about British Railways, England in general and the cheek of having a strike at the travellers’ most inconvenient time.

What if the busses had a strike as well? There is no such transport in sight and it’s already time to depart for the coast. Rumours had it that one such bus was already on the way, that it had left very early with the first batch of tourists. Do they have only one bus working? That would be nowhere enough to solve the travellers’ needs.

The international crowd is still growing with new arriving tourists being informed of the strike whilst their faces dropped.

It was a misery day, there was fog in the morning and it had barely lifted when it started to drizzle. The crowd huddled together under a shelter of a large bus station, muttering to each other and some to themselves. The few railway workers that still had the nerve to show themselves, seem to sense the people’s desperation and tried to cheer them up.

Somebody with a heavy Welsh accent called out: ’Come out in the rain – I will sing for you!’

This attempt at humour failed miserably and something like a dog-like growl emanated from the mass of desperados and words like ‘bloody jokes’ in various accents could be heard.

Now, a new sound emerged: that of travellers who were freezing by now and with their feet scraping the concrete floor of the large bus depot where they huddled together.

Suddenly their mood changed: A bus was arriving and pulling up into the depot. It was very dirty and really looked like having done a long trip in inclement weather. Grime and dirt was thickly around the wheels and the tyres were covered thickly with mud.

Whilst everybody grabbed their luggage in order to storm into this bus – nothing happened. That behemoth of a vehicle stood silent for a seemingly long while. Then it slowly opened and the driver stepped out with some paperwork and disappeared into an office.

All this went on far too slowly for the masses and loud protest could be heard from the irate masses. Especially a women with a heavy German accent – very Prussian, actually – became increasingly vociferous. Probably being unaccustomed to train strikes in her native Berlin, people could only agree with her loud exclamation about the prevailing situation: ‘Zis iss impossiple!’

After a perceived eternity, the office door opened and the bus driver came out, carefully carrying a cup of tea in this hands. Leasurely, he went to his bus and luxuriously eased himself into his drivers seat.

Now, the passengers had their tickets checked – with unnerving calmness - by a mate of the driver – same uniform and detached attitude - and there was a quick storming of the bus. Some lucky ones seated themselves and held expectantly their breath, however, nothing happened as the driver appeared to be oblivious to the necessity of speeding off to the coast.

Slowly, he took his sips of tea, luxuriously enjoying it’s flavour before swallowing.

Enraged cries could now be heard: first the strike and now the bus is not moving! Especially the German woman could not control herself any longer. Rushing through the bus to the driver, she bent towards him and hissed menacingly at him: ’Vat iss dis? First zer iss a strike and ve vere told zat ze busses vill take us to ze coast but zer vas no bus anyvere. Finally you come mit ze bus, but now, you are not moving but go zip zip zip…….’

It was suddenly very quiet in the bus and the prevalent atmosphere was that of complete solidarity with the German woman. They nodded to each other in agreement and their expression seem to say: ’Trust the Germans to put things succinctly. Bless her for speaking up for all of us!’

The bus driver pulled in his neck slightly at hearing his mother tongue spoken in such a fashion. However, he took another ‘zip’ from his cup after which he slowly and placidly addressed her: ’Madam! I have just been to the coast and back, a two-hour-trip each way. Which means that I have been four hours on the road. Now, I have another four hour trip in front of me – I am surely entitled to a cup of tea!’

Whilst this was spoken with a calm conviction, with a Cockney accent and reaffirmed with a nod, it had a devastating effect on the passengers. Suddenly, as the woman made her way back to her seat everybody backed away from her, seemingly not wanting to have anything to do with her. Again, they nodded to each other and their expression seem to betray their thoughts:  ‘Bloddy Germans! Nothing but trouble makers. Let the poor man have his well earned cuppa – he is hard working!

Finally, the bus moved out of the depot and started its long journey through London city and towards the coast. The German woman faced a very isolated trip as nobody wanted to speak with her……..

HEALTH PROBLEMS ON THE ROAD

Whenever I felt the need to eat, I made a habit of stopping where the big interstate trucks parked because there, for sure, would be the best food and best comfort! In summer, their air conditioning would be working well and in winter, there would be, for sure, a warm log fire to relax by. On this day, I found myself looking for a place to have a mid-afternoon snack. The nearby large roadhouse looked inviting, and there had been a group of semi-trailers congregated in the vast car park, waiting for their owners.

‘Good afternoon’ a friendly greeting made me relax right away.

Sitting down in a cosy nook, I had asked for a chicken salad and a pot of coffee in accordance with the weight-watching program I was undergoing at the time.

‘Very well.’ The young lass had made notes and disappeared into the kitchen.

The background music was all ‘country’ and I had glanced into a newspaper for the latest news on the economic front, what so-and-so said in Parliament and the reply from the opposition, the news from the footy teams and how they dealt with unruly players.

Boring, boring, I thought - always the same. But it helped me to relax, so much so that I felt like dozing off.

‘Here you are luv,’ a friendly-voiced waitress put down some cutlery, pepper and salt and then ‘bang!’ an enormous bowl of something appeared in front of me. My sleepy eyes  snapped wide open and I gasped in shock. It was a large mound of salad, piled high above the rim of the bowl, and on top of it, carefully balanced, was a half a grilled chicken!

I can’t eat all that, I thought. What a portion! Looking around helplessly I had seen on each table one or two tall, burly men in singlets or T-shirts, tucking with gusto into similar mountains of food. They all seemed to take the size of the portions for granted! Trying to fit in with the other ‘road people’, I had pretended to tuck in with great appetite. But I still had to furtively wrap most of the chicken into a paper napkin to take ‘home’ to my motel room.

Later, back in my car and driving off, I had made a mental note to check the size of the meals in future before ordering.

Upon approaching the town of Darebin, I had remembered some friends in Melbourne asking me what I did if I fell sick or something similar whilst on a country trip.

Well, on my last trip to Darebin, I had lifted a heavy case of samples out of my car. Grabbing it wrongly, or misjudging my ability, my back had given out and the pain which shot up and down my spine was excruciating. I had managed to drag myself into a motel room, close the door and fall on top of the bed. The pain got worse because the bed had suddenly become so unbearably soft. Carefully, I had managed to slide off it and slowly lower myself onto the thickly carpeted floor. The relief was instant - no pain, no aches. I managed to pull down from the bed a pillow and a blanket.

Never had I thought a floor could be so comfortable to lie on. I slept through the evening and the night, but before I dozed off I had wondered what the staff would say if they came in the morning to make the bed and found me on the floor, unable to move. Would there be a doctor in the town that could come and help me? How long would I have to lie on the floor before I could move again? I was a long way from home . . .

However, when I woke up in the morning, I had felt extremely well and had no more problems with my back! As I slept deeply, nature had taken over and healed, like the utilities programs in my computer, I thought.

Another time, I had caught a bad flu virus. I must have shaken hands with a real germ carrier of an architect! Arriving at a motel, I had checked in with a croaky voice and running nose, shivering and obviously with a slight temperature. Once holed up in my room, I had helped myself from the courtesy bar to a tea bag and a small bottle of Bundaberg rum. After a cup of hot tea laced with rum and when ensconced in a warm bed, I had started to glow like a stop sign. But again, when I woke up the next morning, although my pyjamas were wet with sweat and my hair was sticking to my scalp and forehead, I felt fine, even on top of the world I had thought,

Another time things were a bit trickier for me. Again, on a country trip, I had parked my car in front of a hospital engineer’s office. The ground was so uneven that I had twisted and sprained my ankle. First I took no notice of the pain and completed my business with the engineer before driving off. As soon as I was on the road, I had noticed that my left ankle was swollen and extremely painful. Putting my car in ‘cruise control’, I had experienced immediate relief. But every time I had to slow down and use the brake, the pain that shot up my leg was indescribable. I never noticed before how often one has to brake, even on a clear freeway! Finally I arrived at the next town and, jumping on one leg, with gritted teeth and bated breath, I checked myself in at my motel,

The next day I went to the local hospital by taxi, where a doctor x-rayed my ankle and put bandages on it. I hired a pair of crutches from the nearest chemist and spent the next two days in my room, conducting my business as well as I could, from my telephone. Other illnesses have, thankfully, never happened to me whilst on a business trip.

AN AUSTRALIAN BUSH NURSING HOSPITAL.

‘Morning Glory’ was a bush nursing hospital in a remote country town and surrounded by shady eucalyptus trees, giving it a picturesque appearance. During recent renovations, it had just installed new PVC floorings throughout. It was my company’s product and it was selected because it needed only the occasional quick buffing with a floor polisher. Yet despite this ease of maintenance, I had received a phone call requesting my visit to sort out a ‘faulty vinyl’. Sure, sure, I thought grimly.
Sister Theresa, who was running the hospital, smiled when she saw me. It was a trusting smile which made me determined to get to the bottom of her problem.
‘Mal, our cleaner tried to buff the floor with his floor polisher but said your vinyl was too soft!’
Despite the nonsense I’d just heard, I smiled back at her reassuringly. ‘Is Mal here?’
‘No, he starts work at six o’clock in the afternoon’, she stated.
‘But, sister, if I can come all the way from Melbourne to impart some knowledge and help him solve a problem, don’t you think that this merits his being present in his own time?’
‘I’ll phone him now because he does not live very far from here.’ Sister Theresa liked to get on top of problems.
While she retreated into her small office, I walked around the building, head bowed and studying the flooring. It was very well installed and looked bright and friendly. Suddenly, I came across the complaint mentioned and knew instantly what had happened to the flooring. The cleaner had switched on his floor polishing machine without having a buffing pad on the rotating disk with gripping spikes and he had routed into the PVC flooring. Of course, he had not admitted to having made a mistake and damaging the flooring himself, but complained instead about ‘the appearance of the floor after having buffed it’.
Within half an hour Nigel Firty had arrived. He looked annoyed for having been called from his home, in his own time, and, showing no embarrassment, pointed to the spot of approximately 70 cm of damaged vinyl. He took the buffing machine out of the cleaner’s room and polished an area of passageway without any problems. Obviously, he had learned his lesson in the meantime!
‘Unfortunately, I was not here, Sister, when this happened but I am confident that it will not happen again. If I send you a large piece of the same PVC flooring free-of-charge, could you ask the flooring contractor to cut out the damaged part and insert the new piece?’
Sister Theresa nodded ‘That will be fine.’ She, too, realised that this was not the time to point the finger at anybody but to ensure a friendly working relationship all round.
‘Thank you for coming, Peter,’ Sister Theresa spoke again. ‘If you could help us with that piece of vinyl that would be great.’

ME AND THE KGB / NKVD ……..

Dear Visitor,

Today, I have the pleasure of introducing a guest author, my good friend Michael Muschamp, and am confident that you will enjoy his amusing reminiscing as much as I do. PETER FREDERICK

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Yes, I know the heading should be “The NKVD and I”. Whatever, at least it rhymes.

1962 found me in London where I had worked for three years or so as manager of a New Zealand firm’s UK office. Not the world’s biggest office; self plus secretary and the occasional visiting fireman.

For the past three years, I had been sharing an office in the posh environs of Mayfair with another Kiwi, Alex Marks, who was the London end of a large NZ construction company. His boss and mine were good friends and the arrangement worked very well until the summer of ’62 when, for reasons unknown either to me or Alex, the bosses fell out and I was told to find an alternative home. Which I did, just round the corner from the ‘old’ one. Mind you, to get to my small office on the first floor, you had to fight your way past he rubbish bins of the ground floor caff.

Alex was about fifteen years my senior, a chap of medium height, greyish hair, bright eyes behind large rimmed glasses. Annually, he attended his good friend, a Jewish tailor, and bought two suits; by the month’s end they looked as if he’d slept in them. He probably had, for his success with the opposite sex was, not to put too fine a point on it, extraordinary. Given that he was usually emitting a good deal of garlic, I could only remain somewhat staggered

An example of his success in this important aspect of heterosexual life occurred in the spring of 1962. We met, by arrangement, in Geneva, both en route to the Hannover Fair, the biggest of its kind in Europe. It was chilly for the end of April but we put up with the temperature and had a coffee in a lakeside café. There was hardly a soul there, save for, a few tables away, an attractive woman in, I guessed, her early thirties.

We left to do our own bits of business, arranging to meet at Alex’s hotel three hours hence, i.e. at 7.30. A stickler for punctuality (a defect which has haunted me ever since my naval days), I knocked on Alex’s door at precisely 1930, local time. The door was opened. But not by Alex but the “lady by the lake”.

She joined us for dinner and left immediately after, explaining that her husband was due home early next morning. She spoke English with a decided Russian accent, but, at the time, I thought no more of that, knowing Alex’s love of his native country and its language.

He had arrived in New Zealand in 1920, the youngest of three children whose parents had undertaken the perilous journey to escape the Bolshevists, via Siberia and Kamkatcha for, as I was to discover a little later, they were , in the words of another émigré, “upper-middle class intellectuals, a bit like the Huxleys”. The language at home in Wellington, where they eventually settled, was Russian. Indeed, his father who was one of the founders of New Zealand’s radio manufacturing business, only spoke a very few words of English to his dying day and, whatever their family name was, it certainly wasn’t Markov or even Marx, the anglicised version of which had become Alex’s patronymic.

A few months later, in early October, it was cold, grey in England and, when it wasn’t raining, looked as if it would do so at any tick of the clock.

The newspapers, the BBC and ITV (thank God, only two channels then) were full of dire warnings. World War Three was just a-round the corner. Or, so they said. The United States and the USSR were playing a deadly game of ‘chicken’. Who was going to crack first as the Russian ships bearing missiles for Mr Castro were approaching Cuba?

My previous employment as a naval officer meant that I was subject to recall to the forces of the Crown whenever a state of emergency was declared or such seemed likely. Thus, I was not completely bewildered when my phone rang and an unmistakably military voice said, “Muschamp?”

“Michael Muschamp,” I replied, hoping, in vain, as it transpired, that the disembodied one might be a little less peremptory.

“You’re on the Emergency List of the RN, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I was transferred from the RNZN when I came to live in England.” I purposely omitted ‘sir’ as I had no idea who was interrogating me. I didn’t have long to wait.

“I’m Colonel Allen, War Office,” quoth the ill-mannered one, “come to my office in Curzon Street tomorrow at eleven.”

Not so much as ‘by your leave’ or ‘hope you haven’t another appointment.’

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Room 35 on the third floor. Don’t be late.”

Having established that the fellow was three ranks senior to me (maybe only two as Lieutenant-Colonels are usually referred to without the first word), I thought I had better throw in the ‘sir’ in aid of good and friendly British Commonwealth relations. And ‘Curzon Street’ meant ‘MI5’, a fact of which I had become quite aware. for, before she was lucky enough to marry me, my wife had worked there though, of course, her post was a good deal junior to that of the peremptory “Brown Job” (the navy’s epithet for army personnel).

This exchange had left me aghast. I was fully aware that, some seven years since I had ‘been at sea’, I would be about as much use to one of Her Majesty’s Ships as a rope entangled in a propeller (‘screw’ in naval parlance). Nevertheless, I fronted the apparently anonymous Curzon Street building, told the guard who I was and where I was going. He checked, made a phone call to which he contributed,

“He’s in a suit, sir. Quite smart, actually.”

Some compliment.

I took a creaky lift to the third floor, found Room 35 and knocked.

“Come in, damn you.”

So I came in.

To face an angry-looking fifty-ish man, regimental tie, rather creased suit. He motioned me to a chair opposite him.

“Siddown.”

If that’s the way to win friends and influence people, I went to the wrong school, I mused.

I sat.

“This feller Alex Marks, you know him?”

“Yes, sir. We shared an office until about six months ago.”

“Why did you leave?

“Our respective bosses in Auckland had a bit of a falling-out.”

“But you still see Marks?”

“Yes, he’s a very good friend.”

“Funny sort of friend. You know he’s a Russian?” 

“ I know he was born in Moscow about 1916 and fled eastward with his family a bit later.. They finished up in New Zealand after a hair-raising trip. Not that he remembers it, but I’ve met his sister who told me about it.”

“You know he’s been seeing some Russians from their embassy here?”

“Yes, sir. I went with him once to the Moscow Arms where he introduced me to several Russians.” (The pub’s name had nothing to do with matters Russian except for the odd coincidence that it was in Moscow Road. In West Kensington) “But they all wanted to speak Russian so I didn’t go again. Of course he knows plenty of Russians who live here. He enjoys speaking Russian and, as someone once said, ‘You can take the man out of Russia but you can’t take Russia out of the man’”

“Well, I don’t want you to see him any more.”

“Might I enquire, sir, what right you have to tell me this? I may well be on the Emergency List of the Navy, but I am yet to be called up and I was unaware that a State of Emergency had been declared.”

“You are a cheeky young colonial. Get out.” 

So I got out.

I didn’t tell Alex.

(to be continued…..)

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NOTE: 

Would you like to leave a message for  Michael, right below? Many thanks!

A MICE PLAGUE

The radio announcer warned drivers to be very careful when driving in the area of the mice plague, however, I just had to drive to the town of Hurtley. Again, as was my wont, I drove to this location on a warm summer evening in order to be able to meet my client there first thing in the morning.

Hurtley is a small farming town with great grain silos, which are visible from far away. Also, there are huge mounds of grain simply covered by large tarpaulins. The people there are particularly friendly to anybody who calls on them. Unfortunately, they lose their young folk to the city and those who stay, try very hard to make a living and to stop the population drain. I thought of my contact there, a hospital engineer with a craggy face and deep sunburn, which told me that he was also running a small farm in his spare time.

Darkness had set in but in my headlights the roads were clear and there was no traffic at all. I had the feeling that I was the only person in the world driving on that road. The gentle music in my car and the soft glow of the dashboard gave the interior a pleasant ambience. Suddenly, I saw something - a strange vision. Slowing down to almost walking pace, I gazed at what seemed like a gigantic grey carpet on the road - a carpet stretching from one field, covering the road, and continuing on the other side. It was so large that I could not see where it started or where it ended. It covered the ground and billowed as if there were a draft underneath it. Incredible! As I got closer, dread came over me - ‘the grey carpet’ was a plague of mice, migrating across the road and spilling into the field on the other side. They moved in such tight formation covering the left side of the road and spilling onto the middle that they really looked like one gigantic grey carpet. When I wound down my window, I heard them emitting a high-pitched squeaking that continued on and on. It was a clear moonlit night and I could see quite a distance into the land on both sides of the road - and what I saw was wall-to-wall mice. There was no end to them.

I quickly had to make a decision: I had to continue my journey, come what may, as I had people waiting for me: the motel where I had booked a room and my client early the next morning. Driving slowly and gritting my teeth I kept going, into the mass of living flesh. My car slithered and slid and my hair stood on end because I could not see where the road ended and where the fields started. Unlike in floodwater, I could not see the middle line on the road to guide me, yet every now and then a traffic sign indicated to me that I had managed to somehow stay on the road. After about an hour of this gruesome experience I had reached the outskirts of the town and the mice had started to thin out.

I staggered into the reception room of the motel and the manager looked with alarm at my white face, trembling body and wet shirt, clinging to me. I stammered a bit when I told him what I had just been through. He nodded understandingly and his face hardened. It was like a punishment from God and there was little the suffering population could do about it.

Digging trenches with poisonous liquid, trapping them, shooting them; nothing seemed to have had any effect on this plaque. And as for the cats, they were nowhere to be seen. Jim, the motel manager, spoke very slowly: ‘And when this plague is over we can expect a plague of snakes. They normally follow mice.’

‘That is terrible, Jim. How do you cope with all this?’

He managed a forced smile. ‘You city people have no idea what we go through at times. As if the drought was not enough for us!’

I had walked into my motel room in a very depressed state. The next morning, upon seeing my blood spattered car, my stomach churned again. After completing my business with Alan Frosby, the maintenance engineer, I had driven off to the next town and found the roads clear and the land eaten bare, devoid of any plant life. Only occasionally did I encounter mice and the ones on the road were as flat as pancakes. This eerie experience will be with me for a long time, taking its place in my memory, next to some other catastrophes I have encountered in my long years as company representative.

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