Satan’s Rock

Part Three: Honored Guests

For Arthur, the hour before luncheon had been a restless one.  Even though his encounter with the wild rider on Mountsel Park’s west terrace could not be said to have entirely unnerved him, the powerful odour of the horse, the heat of its breath on his face and the rider’s words haunted him:  ‘The Woman is ours’ had locked in his mind.  Who so wanted to hunt Francine DeLisle down?  Was it even she to whom they referred?  It had to be, yet how quickly had they trailed her to his door?  A morning?  Less?

In his library the master of Mountsel Park resorted to a volume that anonymously recounted the suffering of common soldiers in the Napoleonic Wars:  ‘The Journal of a Soldier of the seventy-first Glasgow Regiment’, seeking to refresh his compassion for the thousands of crippled veterans who were still spilling, years after Waterloo, from the hospitals onto the nation’s streets.  Something in the desperate bearing of the violent emissary spoke to Arthur of the military, while everything about Francine suggested, no matter how she accounted for her absence of a past, that she had been either a widow or victim of those wars.

Edkins had apparently educated Francine concerning the geography of Mountsel, for when he reached the Breakfast Room, he found she awaited him there.

She had pinned her hair back, primly.  He remarked upon it, because to his mind it drained what pallor remained from her cheeks, so she seemed at once vulnerable, and a little severe.  No longer clad in her heavy, travelling clothes she had donned a simple powder blue dress that draped to her ankles in what had come to be known as the Empire Line.   Little Samuel stood at her left hand, looking more confident (or defiant) than his mother.

She patted her hair uncomfortably, in response to his comment.   “It is too long.  Access to care of such personal trifles has been…difficult.”

“I’ll see to it that a maid is placed at your disposal.”

“Oh, there is no need…”

“Nonetheless…”

“It is a woman’s matter.  I should not trouble you…”

“It is,”  he assured her with great gentleness,  “Not the least trouble.”

Francine lifted her gaze to meet his and they laughed mutually, sharing their self-consciousness.  He saw all he wanted in her eyes. 

At table they sampled from a platter of meats; cold tongue, beef and ham with artichoke and Spring leaf.  Samuel ignored his mother’s warnings to  taste his first horseradish and complained loudly about it.  Little was said, although every brain that gathered there blazed with questions.  Only when they had eaten, only when Samuel had been released to return to some toys the Housekeeper had provided in the Withdrawing Room, were the barriers breached.

Arthur’s opening gambit; “I feel I have to discover more about you,”  sounded too eager.

“I wish I had more to tell you,”  Francine rejoined.  “Indeed, I wish I knew myself!”

“Yet you know your name.”

“Nay, sir, not even that.  My guardian, who is one of those who are unstinting in their admiration of the First Republic, insisted I should answer to a name –  in the Gallic mode, he said, and thus I am Francine.  His lettering of ‘DeLisle is a little quaint, but notwithstanding his education on the matter I believe he thought me a casualty of Monsieur Bonapat’s campaigns.”

Arthur acknowledged this ratification of his own theory,  “You have doubts?”

Francine’s hands were laid upon the table before her.  She studied her fingers, taking care with her reply;  “The casualties of war are everywhere, most certainly, as much now as when he discovered me, yet – you will think me foolish – I cannot count myself  among them.  

I have no wounds, no scars, I am not alarmed by sudden noise, as I am told affects so many poor souls;  and I have no nightmares, save only one.”

Arthur smiled,  “And you are not French.”

She shot him an embarrassed smile of her own.  “It seems not.  Pray do not test me with the language, for I cannot understand a word!   I speak only English, I cannot play the Pianoforte, and although I sense that I have some virtuosity on an instrument,  I have no idea what that is!   My guardian’s musical accomplishments were not such that he could aid me in these matters.”

“Needlecrafts?”  Arthur suggested,  She pulled a face.

He shrugged helplessly,  “Knitting?”

“Please!!”

 He laughed, because the disgust in her voice at this last suggestion was another step, as she became more animated, more relaxed in his company, despite his interrogation of her.  He decided to advance further.  “When we first met,”  he said,  “You expressed your enjoyment of the storm with words I found curious.  Do you remember them?”

Francine blushed prettily,  “You embarrass me Arthur.  I do.  My understanding of them is no greater than yours.”

“You said you found the experience ‘perfect’.  You described it as ‘real’, which I thought both original and luminous, although I had never heard them so used before.  Could there be some dialect in your past that eludes us both?”   When she made no reply, but just stared at the table before her, he quickly stepped back in:  “I must introduce you to the Music Room, Francine.  Our array of instruments is somewhat limited, I fear, but you may find something there to detain you.  I have a meeting with my manager this afternoon, but you will be are well protected.  If you wish to allow young Samuel out into the grounds, I will see to it the ostlers are nearby.”

“Sir, you treat me too kindly.  I must not stay…”

Reaching forward to cover her fingers with his hand, he cut in,  “You are my guests; my very honoured guests.  You are welcomed here.”

#

At around the time that Peter, released from his seafront reverie by the departure of the companionable seagull was making his way home, a very special plane inched into its allotted space on an English airfield, and its V.I.P. (Very Important  Passenger – or Person, if you like) prepared for his first public moment on British soil.  In the aircraft’s aisle a group of six figures in grey overcoats were being marshaled into order by a grim-faced wedge of humanity who snapped out instructions with the brisk percussion of a snare drum.  This was Hal.  

Although Hal undoubtedly had more names than that, the Very Important Person they were duty-bound to protect did not know them, or, for that matter, much care.  He had long learned that it was necessary to know only a very little about a person in order to find that special wavelength, that personal level of concerned inquiry that had made him Very Important.  The security chief’s name was Hal and he had a sick wife in Portland.  That was sufficient for one man.

“Hal, my God!  So good to see you, boy!   It’s been too long, for heaven’s sake!  And tell me, Hal, how is your dear  wife?   I so hope she is better?”

And Hal, who had trouble sometimes remembering that his second name was Bronski, would wait the eight seconds he knew the greeting was timed to take – all the Very Important Person’s greetings took exactly eight seconds – meet that deep, sincere gaze, those eyes almost moist with sorrow, before responding in a voice like a chainsaw ticking over.

“An honour to see you too, sir.   She is much better, thank you.”   He would refrain from adding:   “And living with an Airforce pilot in Kansas.”   It was simpler not to tell the Very Important Person things that were unnecessary, like how his ex-wife had gotten over the flu several years ago.

This evening, Hal was perturbed.   He mistrusted British security and he did not like the publicity surrounding the Very Important Person’s visit, or the political sensitivities it would arouse.

“Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes, fine, Hal.  Go ahead now.”

Shuddering in anticipation of the cold, the Very Important Person followed his protectors as they moved down the aisle which was his last little bit of the United States for a while.

Below on the tarmac, in England, Jeremy Piggott cut a slight, rather pallid figure as he stepped forward, black shoes squelching dismally beside a soggy red carpet in the rain.  When the aircraft door de-pressurised Jeremy had reluctantly lowered a black brolly to expose wispy red hair.   He hated being wet; but this was a great ceremonial moment, or would have been, had this not been a military airfield from which public and press had been excluded; and anyway, his exposed head was expected as a mark of respect.  Jeremy felt he was going to sneeze.

At the foot of the stairway Jeremy’s own Very Important Person stepped forward to greet the visitors.  Two Very Important Hands clasped warmly, while some very unimportant pleasantries were exchanged:

“Senator Goodridge.  Welcome, sir.”   For the Very Important Person was he.

 “Bob Cranforth my God!  So good to see you, boy!   It’s been too long, for heaven’s sake!  And tell me, Bob, how is your dear wife?   I so hope she is better?”

Secretary of State to the Foreign Office Cranforth was one of a very few members of the present government who openly declared his homosexuality.  He smiled distantly, allowed the jnquiry to pass.

Jeremy heard a quiet voice, flint-like, scraping in his left ear.

“Who the hell are you?”  Demanded Hal Bronski.

“Erm….Piggott.  British security.”

Hal looked down at Jeremy as if he were something which had got stuck on his boot.  “My God!”

Jeremy sneezed.

“Stay out of my way, yes?”  Hal grated:   “Peggit?  You got me?”

“Well, yes….it’s Piggott, actually.  And I believe we are supposed to assist each other?”

“Assist my ass.   I have a job to do, Pluggit, and you are not part of it.  Understand?”

“But I have my orders too, if you don’t mind.  I’ll watch my man, you watch yours.”   Jeremy mopped at his nose, urgently stifling a repeat sneeze as he stepped delicately out from beneath the shade of the talking tree which towered above him.   “Sorry.”  He added diffidently.

“Fine.”   Hal said, waving towards a distant corner of the airfield.  “Go watch him from over there someplace.”

And upon this promising foundation, the co-operative effort of the two nations’ security for the Senator grew.   They all followed as their Very Important People headed for a dismally small airfield terminal and shelter, finally, from the interminable English rain.

#

The arrival in Britain of Salaiman Yahedi on the morning of the very Important Person’s visit was an altogether more subdued affair; but then, Yahedi would have wanted it no other way.   The private yacht which took him aboard ten miles off the Sussex coast had set out from Folkestone the previous afternoon: a family party who often sailed that stretch of coast between Kent and Southampton, living the high life on a boat bought from the profits of their travel company.   They were well known in yachting circles and their presence unremarkable. So when they brought Salaiman to their mooring on the RiverTest he was merely one more for lunch, a business contact perhaps, because they had frequent guests on these trips.  No-one could have known that he had recently been an invitee to quite another party, a French one, which had met with them overnight in mid-channel.  And when he left the restaurant by the moorings after a pleasant lunch with no more than an canvas bag and a briefcase – those who were curious assumed he had to return to work – was not the young man in the lounge suit who picked him up in a BMW the stereotypical personal assistant?     Had they seen the BMW being exchanged for another, smaller car twenty miles up the road, they might have assumed differently.

For Yahedi, such methods of travel were normal – his life consisted of switches between small boats in the dark, private planes on airstrips which were always a little too short.   His worldly goods could only just fill the bag he always carried.  Home was the next back bedroom, the space in a sympathiser’s loft, a futon in an unmarked van.   He didn’t mind:  for his simple business baggage was dangerous. All the luggage he required was fitted delicately but precisely into the briefcase which he kept on his lap – the tool of his trade, the proof of his expertise in a very specialised skill.   When assembled in his experienced hands, the sights were accurate to nearly three hundred and fifty metres.   Yahedi was an exponent of a very rare and valued craft.  He was an assassin.   

  © Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Picture Credits:

Featured Image Dominique Devroy on Pixabay

Yacht at Sea Roman Grac on Pixabay

Don’t Tell me What to Think…

I intended to put up a different post here, but circumstances alter plans…

There is a stream of thought nibbling away at the foundations of my country’s society, and like a termite infestation, it is perfectly capable of bringing down the whole building.

I AM NOT – AND I SHARE THIS WITH MOST PEOPLE IN MY COUNTRY – A RACIST.

When I meet, talk to, relate to someone it is with them, as a person.  The colour of their skin will not alter my relationship with them, or how I perceive them.  And I believe, no, I KNOW, that for most people in the UK this is the case.  If I do not like someone, I consider myself free to tell them.  I certainly won’t tell them my dislike is founded upon the color of their skin, that wouldn’t be true.

I am not denying some racism exists in the UK.  It exists everywhere, but in the UK it is (or was?) a relatively minor issue, rating lower, I suggest, than sexism, ageism, or class division.  Generally speaking, the way to acceptance and material success in the United Kingdom is more liable to be barred by any of these, than by nationality or skin colour.

But we are making skin colour an issue!

We are destroying, eating away at the natural tolerance and diversity of the British People by raising some sort of false standard solely dedicated to the advancement of certain career activists who have no regard for the things they wreck.   This is dangerous.  I believe they know it is dangerous.

There may be racist faults with the Royal ‘Firm’.  I am not a Royalist, because I believe it nourishes the ‘Class Ceiling’ but I acknowledge it is a very old institution, and there will be a hell of a lot more issues fermenting behind those ridiculously oversized doors than just race.

There are certainly faults with our Universities, which are the spawning ponds for ‘Woke’ politics, gender identification and a neo-communist resurgence.  A lot of negatives.  A lot that is wrong, yet remains controllable if some sense of balance is kept.

The case may be different in the USA.   I am sure that it is.  With due respect to my many wonderful fellow-bloggers in America, I have to say there are an upsettingly large number of American accents among the camp of UK activists, and they’re leading all of us into their (into your?)  race war.   Not content, it seems, with tearing their own country apart, they appear to be intent upon destroying ours.

The mud that glues the nest of totalitarianism is suppression.  It is everything that drowns the freedom to speak without inhibition, to think without fear.   Zealots everywhere know this.  Weaknesses are best exploited from within.  It is part of their code.  Successful civilisations, historic democracies that thrive upon stability, upon argument in an open forum, also thrive upon strength to resist those deleterious self-interests which prefer the darkness of the basement, the secret places within the floors and the walls.   

Once the presence of their corruption is evident, it is often too late.  Please, people – open your eyes.  You are being taught to hate!

Please, if you have time, give me your thoughts below.  Let’s start a discussion!   (If you can only make your point by using personal insults, BTW, don’t bother.  Trolling is SO last decade!).  

Siobhan

A short story that got lost somewhere…

Ade’s walk was furtive, feet scratching at the pavement, eyes downcast.  Sometimes when he walked this pavement he would direct his gaze to shop windows, watching himself go by – but not today.  Sometimes people stared at him, their faces masked in suspicion at the Asian youth with his imperfect skin and his hangdog stride.  Was he rabid?  Whatever he had, could it spread to them?

No!  No man, not that.  You don’t catch my disease:  what ails is inside me, internalized; and I have no doubt who gave this thing to me – it was you.  All of you!

You made her hate me!  You made her turn me down!   You did it by hammering her with that connection – bad; Asian.  Asian, bad.

I saw the look he gave me, man!  Her father, yeah?  What am I doing soiling the air next to his daughter?  What right have I, like, to walk beside her, or dream of loving her, yeah?   I’m just a guy, you know?  A guy in the wrong skin.

Since that first sweet exchange of smiles a year ago Siobhan’s remembered image was never far from Ade’s mind.  He had printed her name on his heart.  Each morning he wakened to the memory of her pale skin, the almond of her eyes, her feline grace, her gentle voice.  The way her cheeks flushed when he told her how he felt, the little shake of her head when she laughed.  Siobhan, always there.  

He increased his pace, skulking  through the gauntlet of High Street commerce, glaring.  Its garish displays glared back, windows drooling with blatant western fat.  The dresses that were made by people, his people, working in conditions unfit for dogs and wages that barely kept them alive: the mannequin waiting to be dressed. 

 Just left like that – disgusting, man!  

Western wealth, everywhere, oozing down the greasy streets, exuding from the fat pores of the godless whiteys who rushed by him in their pursuit of more – money, more gratification, more, more, more.

Her father had ended it.  Ade, trying to do the honest thing, the honourable thing:  “Sir, I love your daughter.  I love Siobhan.”  

He had seen the man’s face close up as he said it, knew it was over, even then.  Siobhan had cried when he tried to look at her, shook her head, hopelessly.  That was a week ago.  He had seen her since, accidentally, on the street, like their first meeting.  Just once.  No smile then.  Not even a glance.  She had passed him by as if he did not exist.  Her old man had been getting at her.  He’d turned her against any thought of loving an Asian.

So that was why – why he was here.  And it wasn’t just about her father, about Siobhan.  It was about all the years of being different because his speech and his color made him so.  It was about a kind of hatred that was soul-deep, a burning need to right something that was horrible and wrong.  

His footsteps had led him from the High Street to the park, through its grand, pretentious gates into the green solace beyond.  A favourite place this, balm for his troubled soul, somewhere he could rest on a favourite seat, watching the foraging of the city birds and playing his music.  

He was tired now.  He had worked late into the night, preparing everything, making absolutely sure he had done it right.   And now he had five minutes to himself, when he could relax on the wooden bench he always used, and breathe the air he so needed.  He checked his smartphone.   Exactly five minutes.  

One for the brothers, man.  For the ones who died for the fight.  

“Ade?”

A voice that brought all the sweetness of white magic to his ear: Siobhan’s voice.  He was dreaming again.  “Siobhan?”

“Yes.  How are you, Ade?  I’ve been thinking so much about you.”

He was dreaming, wasn’t he?  But no, she was real.  Siobhan, leaning on bare forearms over the back of his seat with her cheek so close he could catch the scent and the sound of her breath.    

“I been okay, yeah?” He stammered.  She brought the wanting back; yet for a minute he could not believe it – believe her.   “What, you talking to me now?  You’re dad won’t like it, will he?”

“Look, Ade, I’m so, so sorry.  My dad, he’s a prejudiced old man, and he just doesn’t understand, you know?”

“Yeah well, he got my number, didn’t he?  He got you so you don’t speak, Siobhan.  You walk right by me, girl.”

“I know, I know.  I had to do some hard thinking.  But I couldn’t imagine, like, seeing you every day,  after he hurt you so bad.  And this morning I made up my mind, because I miss you so, and I just want to be with you, Ade.  With you.”

“But he’s your dad, isn’t he?  He rules.  I got no chance, Siobhan—no chance!”

“What, I should, like, spend the rest of my life with my dad?  I told him this morning:  if he doesn’t accept you he can go boil himself, right?  Hey, you crying, or something?”

“It’s because, yeah?  Like this is so… ”

Siobhan pressed her finger to his lips to quieten him.  “It’s alright, Ade; it’s all right.  I was going to come and see you tonight, but then I saw you in the Mall sitting by that planter thing and it was like:  shall I – shan’t I?  And I followed you here.  I couldn’t wait to be with you again, Ade.  I love you so much!”

One minute.  It had all gone so wrong, Ade thought.   But he was happy beyond measure because Siobhan was with him, and he loved her at least as much in return. As for the rest…

She asked: “Anyway, Ade, what were you doing in the Mall?  You don’t usually go there in the mornings.”

And he said lamely:  “Oh, nothing.  Just hanging.”

“Shall we walk to college together?”  Siobhan squeezed his arm, easing him gently to his feet.  “I tell you, you’re lucky I’m here to look after you, Ade, you’re that absent-minded sometimes.  Guess what I’ve got here?  I picked up your bag, mate.   You left it behind under the planter – in the Mall.”

© Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content

Image Credits:

Featured Image by Free-fotos from Pixabay

Mannequins by s. Herman and P. Richter from Pixabay