tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87972434087343664182023-06-20T05:37:42.623-07:00Alex Willis the Author of the DCI Buchanan series and other literary works.Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-41035609316892199072022-02-01T07:57:00.002-08:002022-02-01T07:57:52.362-08:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi88_P3_aHyiuqPcb2o-1tcgga68XrHhmqomUMleElxhJ3JwmdvbTC1CAhtSuRcUKktD6k-n7WoUd0Ec9GxIgM-XeQFcBW6KUHU-Gw846w5PjD3Q4Jwa7iinO33dvJliS__zblCQJzEDYT4pl4H6mWJlDodGxeiFlgeXwoIXJfJoBp3T6PfdczmPD8o=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi88_P3_aHyiuqPcb2o-1tcgga68XrHhmqomUMleElxhJ3JwmdvbTC1CAhtSuRcUKktD6k-n7WoUd0Ec9GxIgM-XeQFcBW6KUHU-Gw846w5PjD3Q4Jwa7iinO33dvJliS__zblCQJzEDYT4pl4H6mWJlDodGxeiFlgeXwoIXJfJoBp3T6PfdczmPD8o=w524-h393" width="524" /></a></div><br /> I'm finally back at my desk.😃<p></p>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-29751234143121909292022-02-01T07:46:00.004-08:002022-02-01T07:54:56.613-08:00Name that Bear.<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSG6jblsv2gEJcQqOw6J9oY1ewigJ_BerYK6mPheIbZr_1nsG3FbTOCaDxVrkNyYSNMWpJk1CtOnztBHRgEF_MsJj4SMIIpBo4qT-sADVFqmP-oDmp_h2Q0bQLqEwX1Zq3yI0BB5N2hdihr9CluaXf0wwWrqWfBkXxKioajnvHD3g8g9c2AM2msUYN=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSG6jblsv2gEJcQqOw6J9oY1ewigJ_BerYK6mPheIbZr_1nsG3FbTOCaDxVrkNyYSNMWpJk1CtOnztBHRgEF_MsJj4SMIIpBo4qT-sADVFqmP-oDmp_h2Q0bQLqEwX1Zq3yI0BB5N2hdihr9CluaXf0wwWrqWfBkXxKioajnvHD3g8g9c2AM2msUYN=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">This little cuddly fella keeps me company through the many hours that I sit here being creative. Up till now I've been calling him/her "Lonely Bear". </span><div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">I think it is time he/she had a real name, one that reflects his/her real character. </span><div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">To this end, starting today, I am running a competition to name said bear. </span></div><div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">The winner of the competition will receive a signed copy of the latest book in the DCI Buchanan series titled, The Jockey's Wife. To enter, simply post your name suggestion in the comments section of this blog. </span></div><div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">The name I find to be the most appropriate will be the winner. Competition ends on my birthday 18th March.</span></div><div><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15.3333px;">No offers of bottles of wine, whisky, bars of Cadbury's chocolate ,will sway my final decision.</span></div></div>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-24744351875564444372022-01-20T12:56:00.000-08:002022-01-20T12:56:40.097-08:00Times are a changing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN34J6lT6bNRDNhhKhhUP4N3RNqwwoq17dXkP8RjvQb3SKl6fxs2ynhtzv6BflZ_yoVO4eYR2_Kc3c72f45v1JfkNUJDwAyMVtcHJKQHhh3CCwJaMmO23NC2uFnmuzNrsMNRDgL0SASxQiL199uv4WzUjGX-ROeXcOHZpC-IuzHeDyIhwhapxl9E5S=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN34J6lT6bNRDNhhKhhUP4N3RNqwwoq17dXkP8RjvQb3SKl6fxs2ynhtzv6BflZ_yoVO4eYR2_Kc3c72f45v1JfkNUJDwAyMVtcHJKQHhh3CCwJaMmO23NC2uFnmuzNrsMNRDgL0SASxQiL199uv4WzUjGX-ROeXcOHZpC-IuzHeDyIhwhapxl9E5S=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">The office is getting a complete makeover. This view is of where the desk will sit when I am done. The back of the office is in a mess with shelving and boxes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">I normally don't mind doing a bit of re-decorating, but since I have been without my place of creativity for a week, I am about to pull out whatever hair I have.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglrWBKRB5rzq1XHkVaZ_-C_s99zBcnv87T_B676FbTWRaN83oCp6EAQreHLfOV9nZye1R5eNj098iNIcQWIM-ID0zmuH9878dE9QhR_Y27QvmW8JKIGMK4vwajuc1I2nmwtvhZtar0E96paF7WpsH8g5PIh5gBWl70WQ_zqPVO1hArWLFYDkO5Z6gW=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-88127147265989693262022-01-13T12:05:00.000-08:002022-01-13T12:05:37.855-08:00The Road Home, chapter one.<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="WordSection1">
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZDZLNJ7628m6niTDbvUEG1tjB34olu7rwH8VEr3dw5irFo7WPW3X23LBjV4HlprAyvhF8Hh_Ep4kUQ0t-H59pzpXX2gS08zNOqUyb_04Lzm1qLq9OBRxvMzzZE3o3LjcFXNocZ5ekfDFQLAtNP4UMEDMVwyVmSJU7i0XFHcjeYm4RMEw-O0In9JWV=s300" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="201" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZDZLNJ7628m6niTDbvUEG1tjB34olu7rwH8VEr3dw5irFo7WPW3X23LBjV4HlprAyvhF8Hh_Ep4kUQ0t-H59pzpXX2gS08zNOqUyb_04Lzm1qLq9OBRxvMzzZE3o3LjcFXNocZ5ekfDFQLAtNP4UMEDMVwyVmSJU7i0XFHcjeYm4RMEw-O0In9JWV" width="201" /></a></div><p></p><div class="WordSection1">
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%;">1<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Castles,
kilts, and gravestones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%;">W</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">e’d travelled half-way
round the world, my suitcase and me, and now we were at the end of the
beginning of a journey I never realised I’d one day take. I was home, and this
time, come Hell or high water, I was here for good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I took
in a deep breath and rolled my shoulders as the flight attendant announced that
we would soon be landing at Inverness airport. I put my seatback up, removed my
unread magazine from my seat tray and duly locked it in the stowed position. A passing
attendant nodded to the window blind and smiled as I reached to slide it up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wasn’t
prepared for what I saw below. For most of my adult life, when flying, I was
used to taking off or landing at West Coast airports, such as John Wayne, or
Orange County in Southern California or Oakland or San Francisco in the North. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’d
slept most of the way across the Atlantic with no thanks to my doctor who’d
refused to write a prescription for Zolpidem for fear I would decide to go to
sleep and not wake up this side of eternity. Thankfully I was able to resume my
friendship with Jack Daniels who kept me entertained till well past the
Rockies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It
wasn’t till we were on the final approach to Heathrow, and my connecting flight
north, that my friendly flight attendant who’d kept delivering messages from
Jack, nudged me awake to say that we would be shortly landing at Heathrow and
would I sit up and fasten my seatbelt. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Now as
we approached Inverness I was transfixed by the visual banquet below me. There
was none of the endless miles of human habitation or sun scorched hills of the
California city environs. Below me was an endless patchwork of various shades
of greenery, interspersed by occasional slender dark grey ribbons of winding
tarmac and off to my right, the shimmering expanse of the Moray Firth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I undid
my seatbelt and stepped out into the aisle. My backpack dropped into my arms as
I opened the overhead locker. I threw it over my shoulder, grabbed my jacket
from the empty seat and walked down the aisle past the now vacant seats. I was
desperate to fill my lungs with the sweet fragrance of the highland air.
Pillows, blankets, newspapers and magazines lay on the seats, all
discarded like debris on a riverbank after a summer deluge. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
smell of stale coffee and sweaty bodies assailed my senses as I followed the
stragglers down the aisle past the deserted galley and on to the exit. As I
stepped over the threshold and onto the stairs down to the tarmac of Inverness
airport, the warmth of the September sun caressed my face. The refreshing
breeze brought me the long-forgotten smell of drying kelp on a distant shore. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I
walked down the stairs I felt for my passport and luggage tag in the breast
pocket of my shirt, all present, I was ready. I held on to the handrail and
descended to the tarmac. I momentarily looked up and back at the A320 that had
brought me here. I looked at its exhausted engines hanging from the wings, its
tail sticking up in the air, the rudder cocked to one side. I glanced at the
nose and cockpit windows. I imagined the plane was smiling at me, I grinned and
waved it goodbye. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I turned
away from my friend who’d carried me here to my destination and looked at the
terminal building. I was used to the sprawling monolith that is San Francisco
International airport, the size of a small town, while here in front of me,
shimmering in the afternoon sun, was Inverness airport terminal, a building not
much bigger than my local Walmart back home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> One of the apron crew wearing a bright
yellow tabard waved me to hurry over to the arrivals hall. I followed the
straggling line of fellow passengers into the terminal and over to the lone
luggage carousel to wait the arrival of my case. I looked at the compactness of
the terminal, down to the empty carousel and wondered if I’d made the biggest
mistake of my life. I sighed and looked to see if there was somewhere to get a
drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As usual
my case was one of the last to appear on the carousel, and at least, it looked
like it had survived the five-thousand-mile journey without mishap. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There
wasn’t anyone to greet me, no excited faces, no smart looking chauffeur with a
board displaying my name, it was just me and my suitcase. I collected my case
and walked through the arrival hall and out into the September sunshine. The
taxi rank was on my right. At least I had the choice of one of two taxis, I
took the second one on account the first taxi had no driver. Suitcase safely
ensconced in the boot we set off on my next leg of my journey to my
inheritance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Seated
in the back of the taxi, I read again the letter from the solicitor and
wondered why fate had chosen me for this dubious honour. According to the
letter I was now the owner of Finnart, a sixteenth century manor on a remote
Scottish island, complete with eighteen bedrooms. I looked out the window at
the passing scenery and wondered what I was going to do with eighteen bedrooms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
memories of the house stretched way back into my childhood; I was eleven. The
family had come for a week’s holiday and had managed to pick one of the hottest
on record, and of course I got heat stroke and spent several days in bed while
the rest of the family enjoyed themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Turn it
into a hotel was my first thought, then wondered who’d travel all the way to a
remote Scottish island for a holiday. Especially one that, according to my
aunt, was a <i>barren empty spirit of a
place.</i> I’d momentarily toyed with the idea of turning it into a retreat, a
place for lonely souls like me to escape to. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Family
records detailed the construction of the manor had been begun sometime in the
1750’s. This was to replace an earlier house that had been raised to the ground
by the Royalists who, after putting down the rebellion, were doing their best
to eradicate all traces of the Jacobite followers of Charles Stuart, the young
pretender.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
building had seen many uses over the years. It had once been the seat of a
highland clan, visited by travelling dignitaries, and the country retreat for
at least one industrial baron. During WW2, it was used as a hospital for wounded
servicemen and as late as the 1950’s, it had been a sanatorium for those
suffering from tuberculosis. My father, the younger of two brothers, inherited
the estate from his brother, who in turn had inherited it from a distant
cousin. Now, according to the description in the letter, it was all but a ruin
and in need of complete restoration. There was a footnote, an alarm bell had
rung in my head the first time I read it. A cash offer to purchase the manor
had been received. The recommendation made by the solicitor was to accept. I
wasn’t sure who needed restoration the more, me or the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The road
out of the airport ran close to the Moray Firth, quite a contrast to that of
driving down highway 101 past the San Francisco Bay from the airport and of course,
a great deal colder. A chill went down my spine as the taxi drove past a road
sign directing visitors to the scene of the last battle of the Jacobite
rebellion, Culloden.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The taxi
put me down at the front of the station and once again it was me, my suitcase
and the letter. I texted my aunt and told her which train I was taking, then
walked through the doors to the station and looked for the ticket office. I had
an hour to wait for my train so decided to try the bar, the local brew and
something to eat. As I wolfed down the second scots pie with the remains of my
second pint of McEwan’s best, I started to wonder if my decision to relocate to
Scotland had been such a wise decision after all. I’d given up an excellent
position as senior director and major share-holder with a tech start-up company
in Silicon Valley. Said goodbye to Amanda, the on and off again love of my
life, and hardest of all, I’d left my two ancient cats with my next-door
neighbour, hers had been run over the previous week. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My only
experience of hotels had been when travelling on business, how the hell was I
to run one, let alone oversee the restoration of a dilapidated eighteen-bedroom
manor and turn it into a five-star retreat for the rich and famous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Finally,
after downing a third pint, I boarded the train for the two-and-a-half-hour
trip across the Scottish Highlands to a new form of transport, a bus to the
ferry terminal. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’d
imagined the train climbing steep gradients, winding in and out of mountain
passes, and rushing down steep hills. I was instead, provided with scenes of
rivers, lochs, glens, and mountains. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see much of
the beauty that inspired Hamish MacCunn to write his symphony, Land of Mountain
and the Flood. Three pints of McEwan’s best and the gentle rumble of the train
soon had me dreaming of castles, kilts and gravestones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I was
rudely wakened by the sound of the squeal of brakes as the train came to a
halt, my mouth tasted of something akin to rotten eggs, I needed a drink. I
peered out the window and saw we had come to a halt at the town of Dingwall.
There was a crowd standing on the platform dressed in what could only be
described as their Sunday best, they looked like they had been partying. I
hoped they would get on the next carriage and leave me to my peace and dreams.
But it wasn’t to be, no sooner had the train accelerated out of the station I
was invaded and surrounded by the crowd I’d seen standing on the platform. At
least I had the pleasure of being surrounded by three lovely ladies who were
only to pleased to explain to me that they had all been to a friend’s wedding
and were now on their way home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
asked where I was going, I explained that I had spent the best part of a day
flying from California to come see a house my dad had left me in his will. That
lead to questions about where was the house and was I alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m not
sure what it is about travelling, but before long I had learned that dark
haired, blue eyed Janette, who was sitting by the window directly across from
me was married, husband a fisherman and they had two boys. Hamish fourteen
years old and Andrew twelve. They were both keen fishermen who helped their dad
when they could. Fair haired, blue eyed Jean, seated beside Janette was also
married, husband Hector, a primary school teacher. They had been married five
years and had twin girls, Agnes and Senga. I turned to look at the one seated
beside me, hoping my breath smelled more of whisky than rotten eggs and smiled,
she had copper red hair and green eyes. She introduced herself as Fiona, and
was a widow. Her husband James had died in a North Sea oilrig accident two
years previous. They’d been married eighteen years and had a daughter, Sandra.
She said pointing to a young girl seated across the isle reading to, I presumed,
the twins. At the mention of her name, Sandra looked up and smiled at her
mother and waved; I waved back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I tried
to sleep, but it wasn’t to be, within ten minutes of leaving Dingwall one of
the young men in the group began to sing. The tune was so catchy I gave up
trying to sleep, and by the time the song had been sung a few times, my hearing
began to catch on to the lyrics. I instinctively found myself joining in the
revelry singing heartily to <i>Step we
gaily, on we go.</i> I didn’t have to worry about my thirst, by the time we’d
sung, <i>A far croonin’ is pullin me away,</i>
for the fifth time the second bottle of scotch was nearly empty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">At some
point in the journey most of the revellers had got off the train, leaving me
mumbling along singing songs with my companions, who by now had heard all my
plans of renovating my inheritance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I woke
as the train slowed on it’s approach to the station and looked across at the
seat where Janette and Jean were both grinning at me. It took a few minutes for
me to see why, Fiona, like me, had fallen asleep and her head was now resting
on my shoulder, her hair cascading down my chest. I smiled back at Janette and
Jean, enjoying the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
train shuddered to a halt, Fiona sat up, shook her head, turned and looked at
me, her face turning crimson with embarrassment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Oh -
I’m so sorry, please excuse me - I was tired.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I shook
my head, ‘don’t worry about it,’ and wished there was at least one more station
to go on the journey. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was a
fleeting moment, one for me to reflect on. I was now becoming travel weary,
forty-five minutes still to go in the bus with a ferry ride to follow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
doors opened, and I followed my fellow travellers out onto the platform. I
wasn’t supposed to notice Janette nodding at Fiona and her response of a demure
head shake, so I ignored it wondering what was going on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Was Janette matchmaking? Who knows, I was
tired, to tired to follow the innuendo. I said goodbye and watched from the end
of the platform as they departed for their homes and I to a short walk towards
to the bus terminal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I walked
up the ferry ramp and on to the shore, the setting sun shone gold across the
landscape. Ahead in the distance stood Finnart, my destiny.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There
were no taxis waiting, so I set off pulling my roll-around case behind me, backpack
over my shoulder. There was a weathered note on the front door, <i>All deliveries to the back</i>. I wasn’t
sure if I was included in that, but my curiosity was now piqued. I wandered
round to the back door slowly being engulfed in the late afternoon shadows. In
doing so I got a preliminary view of the decay and dilapidation to the fabric
of the building. Most of the ground floor windows were boarded up, presumably
to keep out the hordes of homeless people I joked with myself. Upon close
inspection, and in spite of the neglect, the paint was in reasonably good
condition.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lower
sections of downpipes were missing, the walls turned green with moss where the
rain water had escaped and run down the stonework. I reached the rear of the
building and saw that at least some of the windows were intact, the kitchen
area I presumed as I peered in. I walked over to the only door I could see,
pined to it was another note, <i>Alasdair,
if you’re reading this, call in at Rossmoor, it’s the first cottage on your left
as you head up the island. I’ll have your dinner ready, Rachael. </i>She had
obviously got my text and realised I’d be late, did that mean she spent her
days in the old house?<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I retraced
my steps to the front, dragging my case through the weed infested gravel path.
The air had grown measurably cooler, a damp chill descended upon my shoulders.
Although the sun still rode high in the western sky, one of the niceties of
being so far north in September.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As I
returned to the main road, or track I told myself, I wondered if the wheels on
my case would last the journey. A further fifteen minutes of pulling the case
with first my right hand, then switching to the left, had me wondering if I was
doing my shoulders an injury. I arrived at the cottage on the left, the only
cottage for miles as far as I could determine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I didn’t
have to knock on the door as it opened as I reached out my hand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had an
image in my mind of the last time I’d seen my aunt, all of twenty-two years
prior. It was the last time I’d been back to the homeland. My father had been in
hospital for heart surgery and had come home to recover only to be hit with a
bout of depression. My step-mother couldn’t understand why he just couldn’t get
over it and instead of looking after him made matters worse by going into one
of her moods and not speaking to anyone for days. Hence the arrival of my aunt,
my dad’s youngest sister to take care of them both.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
parents had divorced when I was six. My American mother had won full custody
and had returned with me to her family in San Francisco, California. My
childhood memories of Glasgow were scant and often mixed with those of my
parents arguments.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I grew
up in the city of Palo Alto and attended the local high school. With Stanford
University near-by an inspiration, I set my sights on attending. I didn’t quite
make Stanford as Uncle Sam had other ideas and I was drafted into the US Navy.
At least I missed the misery of Viet Nam, unlike many of my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My aunt
had aged, obviously, but the warmth of her smile hadn’t abated one degree. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Alasdair,
how lovely to see you after all these years, come in, your dinners keeping warm
in the oven. The fire’s on and I’ve made you a bed in the spare room, follow me
and I’ll show you through.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
followed her into the cottage, pulled the door closed behind me and entered a
whole new world. A well-worn flagstone floor partially covered with an ancient
looking runner, led towards the back of the house and presumably the kitchen
and bathroom. On the left was the door to the sitting room, a fire crackling in
the hearth As I followed her down the corridor dragging my suitcase, I had a
peak though the door on the right at the one and only bedroom, my aunt’s. If
that was the case where was I to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘This
way,’ she said beckoning me to follow her through the tiny kitchen, and out through
a door at the end between the freezer and a cupboard. I was amazed, she’d led
me out into what once would have been some sort of storage shed. It was now a
fully self-contained bedroom, complete with a walk-in wet room and toilet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘You
have your own front door,’ she said pulling back a curtain on the far wall, ‘no
need to wake me if you are home late. Why don’t you freshen-up and I’ll get the
dinner out of the oven? Just come through when you are ready.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I pulled
my case into the room, dropped my backpack on the bed and surveyed what could
be my domain for who knew how long. Of course, the how long depended on the
time and money required to restore Finnart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
compactness of my room intrigued me, I was used to my California ranch-style house
with its four double bedrooms, two of which had en-suites. The expanse of the
open-plan living area and the kitchen which, if located in a restaurant, would
be the envy of many a professional chef. Back home this room would have been
considered just large enough to be a walk-in closet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I voted
for dinner first, then a shower, followed by bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I
expect you’ll be hungry after traveling all that way,’ said My aunt as she dished
out a huge plate of lamb stew and dumplings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Although
the flight from San Francisco had been pleasant, the choice of chicken or pasta
for a meal left me wishing I had brought a cheese and pickle sandwich along for
the flight to Heathrow. At Heathrow I had zipped right through immigration and
straight on to my connecting flight to Inverness, so yes, I indeed was hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘A we
dram to finish off your dinner,’ asked my aunt with a glint in her eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She
smiled as I with my mouth full, nodded yes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘The
doctor said I shouldn’t drink alone,’ she said pouring two huge shots of a ten-year-old
single malt whisky into two glasses. ‘Water?’ she asked putting the stopper
back in the bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I nodded
yes as I swallowed the last mouthful of the stew.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘More
stew?’ she asked as I put down my fork.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘That
was wonderful, but no thanks I couldn’t eat another mouthful,’ I replied eyeing
the glass of whisky in her hand, now half empty. She nodded and smiled at my
untouched glass sitting on the table in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
grinned, poured a touch of water into my glass, and lifted it in a toast. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘May the
memories we have of the past, not hinder the memories yet to come,’ said my
Aunt winking at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></p></div></div><p></p><p></p>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com0Rattle Rd, Westham, Pevensey BN24 5DH, UK50.817909699999987 0.315613322.507675863821142 -34.8406367 79.12814353617884 35.4718633tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-48576635926340098922021-12-27T08:23:00.001-08:002021-12-29T07:33:59.282-08:00Where was I in 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9QhIKmYRjBgsvDifq-G0y78cFfja175wAI_l7_hj-746G-iR8bykIs5RPdcj_sMq9IvRUL3-AKTjxpWDiMosniWARiucWPLJ6hchnbY5md3AQrHCM82or9CyOmGy9pTfaeS0hZ2e_-O4e3LWXYlQaz1bVjVx-s79hPb5eADqz02WcRZztbcu09BJy=s1080" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1080" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9QhIKmYRjBgsvDifq-G0y78cFfja175wAI_l7_hj-746G-iR8bykIs5RPdcj_sMq9IvRUL3-AKTjxpWDiMosniWARiucWPLJ6hchnbY5md3AQrHCM82or9CyOmGy9pTfaeS0hZ2e_-O4e3LWXYlQaz1bVjVx-s79hPb5eADqz02WcRZztbcu09BJy=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"> In 2021 I attended many craft fairs to sell my books.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The above photo was taken when outdoor at the Manor Barn craft fair in Bexhill. I attended several of these well presented outdoor events. A fantastic event put on by New Style Events<span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"> and Manor Barn<b>, </b>thanks Jo for such a great show.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><br /></span></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtpZ5ZtfuEBOSse71gpNdaH9MNT4L755CZtA1tFNJ2aXgXxqBa1a6majvi4xbqNaojhyhCsjGpb6kc014mk7_8NvkquI8WTOyJuhWowwdhfrvShMdCsB9ElkPPRPPyoYlZcV-kcm5N0cCkK0ugDjmzRFP3B8Kpecfzds5cH9Bc3JeOIddnYUZRXLoE=s4032" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtpZ5ZtfuEBOSse71gpNdaH9MNT4L755CZtA1tFNJ2aXgXxqBa1a6majvi4xbqNaojhyhCsjGpb6kc014mk7_8NvkquI8WTOyJuhWowwdhfrvShMdCsB9ElkPPRPPyoYlZcV-kcm5N0cCkK0ugDjmzRFP3B8Kpecfzds5cH9Bc3JeOIddnYUZRXLoE=s320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;">This venue was the Friends Meeting room in Brighton. A really excellent venue for a craft fair. It was organised and promoted by Chris Lau of Brighton Craft</span></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtsFeJCK-zn0X4rbO61-OI9Q0LX1tZkbKUI9-edCMmeMvztb937gpOfrNxZ3rVzemkvcP1wRjVpL4v0poLCpIO0E4fLhG7pD47JAE8MsDbra-KkPzz-GjhWq1CR3BwMnlNrrg8PGYT55O8AFT1GXDt7K8s-X0poN-y13w2jHWvrbxe_WOYaUzWDLDc=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtsFeJCK-zn0X4rbO61-OI9Q0LX1tZkbKUI9-edCMmeMvztb937gpOfrNxZ3rVzemkvcP1wRjVpL4v0poLCpIO0E4fLhG7pD47JAE8MsDbra-KkPzz-GjhWq1CR3BwMnlNrrg8PGYT55O8AFT1GXDt7K8s-X0poN-y13w2jHWvrbxe_WOYaUzWDLDc=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><div style="color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><br /></span></span></div><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;">This event was held at Bexhill college at their talent show, such talented performers at the college.</span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYCqT0P354TuyIsPUH7K-V0lwmFqkkB3_BkgRbXrn3l5GbP26sstkeHOvP5x6k_9-8LfBa6NVOdRYCDJNsnRfg5O75oMlq_hbtXicLnY_E4EImIajRhsXD0CtcIa7f_JtBxMwwDwt3H2sQWrXJYjcTjnRutLOP6qTcINZWQu-Mnv1cfcI4fqXUN3yi=s4032" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYCqT0P354TuyIsPUH7K-V0lwmFqkkB3_BkgRbXrn3l5GbP26sstkeHOvP5x6k_9-8LfBa6NVOdRYCDJNsnRfg5O75oMlq_hbtXicLnY_E4EImIajRhsXD0CtcIa7f_JtBxMwwDwt3H2sQWrXJYjcTjnRutLOP6qTcINZWQu-Mnv1cfcI4fqXUN3yi=s320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">This was the Christmas craft fair held inside at Manor Barn.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1qxhfve58g2DjNs9ehSmUbgWoqWK4AapS5TUTluv3hK7TywlUb6V_UN7nF807hn3Q5CACdy-RrtZgA2dSDNIwk3OHfNqUl0-apnb2g4MRnQrMHyO7qrCT6TI9F9vht-OicTRgJVLDbJ0NvqTbuGEXLwzRlJtold2NAxBZmXTvd5xeY6QoHjwHMFXQ=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1qxhfve58g2DjNs9ehSmUbgWoqWK4AapS5TUTluv3hK7TywlUb6V_UN7nF807hn3Q5CACdy-RrtZgA2dSDNIwk3OHfNqUl0-apnb2g4MRnQrMHyO7qrCT6TI9F9vht-OicTRgJVLDbJ0NvqTbuGEXLwzRlJtold2NAxBZmXTvd5xeY6QoHjwHMFXQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><span style="background-color: white;">And after much anticipation, I was back at Michelham Priory for their annual Christmas Craft fair.</span></span></span><p></p>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797243408734366418.post-78423706773134994772021-12-27T07:24:00.002-08:002021-12-27T07:24:43.776-08:00Death on the Cart. Chapter 6.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><b style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Council of war</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgxqYef2eBaUvMe-YvendNfTIFKNSU2s2MDXBn1V3VAjFyw9Qqxmn5mvNXVMP3FKgULpHY29Ap9-K9batZz5wUdRCUB6CO_mkqAV_rm8CnSPD5Lc6nFtkyd4G8HNcamo6XaiBwMRF2DLFnP3GTU1o3J_aTt-bsuqLe-cWFQfcN3vfhLpuKP_EKffPu=s300" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="197" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgxqYef2eBaUvMe-YvendNfTIFKNSU2s2MDXBn1V3VAjFyw9Qqxmn5mvNXVMP3FKgULpHY29Ap9-K9batZz5wUdRCUB6CO_mkqAV_rm8CnSPD5Lc6nFtkyd4G8HNcamo6XaiBwMRF2DLFnP3GTU1o3J_aTt-bsuqLe-cWFQfcN3vfhLpuKP_EKffPu" width="197" /></a><b style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">All well, Jack,’ asked Greyspear.</b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><b>‘Yes, all is well.’<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">‘Did you say yes?’ asked Markham.’</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>‘Yes indeed,
but with provisos.’<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Dare I ask,’ said Markham. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 14.2pt;">‘When will
you go?’</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>‘That depends
on who will watch the shop while I’m gone.’<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>‘Who do you
suggest, DI Hanbury?’<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>‘No, while
I’m gone, I’d like DS Street to stand in for me – as acting Detective Inspector
Street.’</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Alex the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08779230961777349811noreply@blogger.com0