Viewpoint

At some point most ask the questions, why am I here; what is the purpose of my life and where if anywhere will it lead. Putting faith or belief aside, be it Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, agnostic or atheist, no one will be able to come up with a provable answer. So what follows is simply a personal opinion, a solution that after considerable thought makes sense to me.

First it is important to put things in perspective by considering size. Most of us are so wrapped up in our lives we seldom find time to look beyond our own little worlds, so perhaps our own planet Earth might be a good place to start. We know the earth takes a year to orbit the sun and twenty-four hours to rotate on its axis giving us our seasons, months, weeks, days, hours etc, and though not conscious of the speed that it rotates at 1000 mph and orbits the sun at 64,000 mph. Things start to get bigger when we leave the Solar System behind and look further into outer space where the distances from one object to another are so huge we have to use the speed of light calibrated in light years to measure them.( one light-year being equal to 9500000000000 kilometres) Using this speed as measurement the sun is only eight and a half days away, but the nearest star to the sun, Proxima Centauri, is 4.3 light years away. A party trick way to bring home this difference is to take the length of a bent thumb from knuckle to nail as the eight and a half day distance between the earth and sun, then go outside and pace out one mile to represent the 4.3 light years to Proxima Centuri. Mind boggling perhaps, but in Universe terms this sort of distance is kids stuff.

The sun is one of several hundred billion stars that exist in our galaxy, the Milky Way. The Milky Way is a typical spiral galaxy with a central bulge and an extended disk of stars 100,000 light years across and around 4000 light years deep at the centre. Our Sun is located in the disk of stars about 30,000 light years from the centre and orbits the galaxy core with its attendant solar system at a speed of 486,000 miles per hour. Even so, each orbit takes some 225 million years to complete. Our galaxy belongs to a local group of some thirty galaxies, but the estimated number of galaxies in the universe is around 50 billion with more being found as science and telescopes improve. The latest detected galaxy is 13.2 billion light years away, which gives us an indication of the size of the universe as we know it, without taking into account the possibility of many more universes that may exist beyond our own.

The immensity and the distances involved are beyond comprehension. But what if this universe, vast as it is, forms only a part of creation and a small part at that? From the moment we open our eyes we live and see everything from our immediate surroundings to the distant stars in three dimensions. But what if there are four, ten, or a thousand further dimensions, all existing in the same space yet all finely tuned to vibrate at different speeds and levels making each oblivious to the others existence. Then even the immensity of the universe we know would be reduced to a pinprick in comparison to this greater greatness.

Then we should consider time. When formulating one’s own philosophy some comparisons are inevitable and one of the foremost is time. To us time could be described as a great river flowing from past to future with a fleeting nano second of the present sandwiched in-between, though of course it is this instant of present where everything truly happens. Yet even the fleeting moment of present appears fluid to us, dependent on whether we are engaged in something interesting or enjoyable when it appears to pass in an instant, or something boring or repetitive when it seems to drag forever. But it is the physical act of growing old and dying that really ties us to time. After all, if it is happening to us then it has to be true and many faiths would have us believe that it is in this micro-second of universal time which we call a lifespan where whatever we may have said or done will form the basis on which we shall be judged for eternity. Which in turn presents another conundrum, for what is this thing eternity? Einstein turned our ideas on time upside down with his theory of relativity, saying amongst other things that if a man travelled out into space and back at the speed of light for five years, by the time he returned to Earth fifteen thousand years would have passed. Which suggests that time may be more perceptual than factual. Even so, when time proves inconvenient many religions are apt to fall back on eternity. But if such a thing exists, how is it possible to suddenly appear in it at the moment of birth? Eternity is not some fairground roundabout to get on and off at will, if it exists at all then it must have been and will be forever; which in turn has to apply to everything within it.

But then what if this physical three-dimensional world we inhabit where everything ages and dies with the passage of time is not our true home. What if our true selves exist in another higher dimension, divorced from physical limitations where time, as we know it plays no part. What if this timeless being which some call soul or spirit frequently returns to earth and other lower planes of existence to refine itself through trial and experience? Most in the West now dismiss even the possibility of reincarnation. Yet it was referred to by Socrates as an “ancient doctrine” as far back as 399BC and remains part of many Eastern beliefs to this day. Christ explained the dimensions of life in the brief sentence “In the Father’s house there are many mansions”, and Christianity only rejected reincarnation at the demand of the Roman Emperor Justinian at the Ecumenical Council of Constantinople in 553AD. At the time two earlier popes had been murdered after they had denounced the dropping of the belief of reincarnation in the Bible, so only two bishops had the courage to travel from Rome to Constantinople take part in the vote and Justinian position prevailed. Reincarnation was judged heresy and all Bibles throughout the empire were confiscated, burned and rewritten.

But to me reincarnation makes sense. It makes death as acceptable as birth and gives the answer to the many horrific things that have occurred throughout history which caused many good people to believe creation has to be accidental, as no loving God could ever allow such things to happen. Nor can I see any conflict with Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, as a soul/spirit would only incarnate in a body fit for its purpose.
So there it is, a brief précis of what I have come to accept. A timeless creation where present, past and future are one and the higher self lives many lives on a path to perfection. I’m not alone, many have shared the same view and I quote a few of the more recent and well known below.

Jack London

“I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“As long as you are not aware of the continual law of Die and Be Again, you are merely a vague guest on a dark Earth.”

Mark Twain

“I have been born more times than anybody except Krishna.”

Henry Ford

“I adopted the theory of reincarnation when I was 26. Genius is experience. Some think that it is a gift or talent, but it is the fruit of long experience in many lives. It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection.”

Paul Gauguin

“When the physical organism breaks up, the soul survives. It then takes on another body.”

Mahatma Ghandi

“I cannot think of permanent enmity between man and man, and believing as I do in the theory of reincarnation, I live in the hope that if not in this birth, in some other birth I shall be able to hug all of humanity in friendly embrace.”

The final words I leave to the eloquence of Gibran.

"For what is it to die
But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind
And when the Earth has claimed our limbs
Then we shall truly dance"

The Short Story

The short story went into decline when so many of the magazines that supported them died. That is not to say there are not short story magazines around from the prestigious New Yorker and possibly Harper’s to the leading newcomer Amazon for online stories. But in the main the rest of them now cater for science fiction and horror which narrows the horizons for most aspiring short story writers. That said there are a number of online publishers of short stories but few of them pay and for those that do the remuneration is hardly worthwhile.

Many dismiss the short story in favour of the novel which is understandable for in comparative terms one is a full blown dinner while the other is just a snack. That said the creation of a good short story requires just as much skill as a novel, possibly even more, as there is less room for mistakes. A novel can survive a sloppy passage or run the risk of boring the reader provided his interest can be recaptured in the next chapter. While the short story can afford no such luxury, for it must grab the readers attention at the very start, hold it through the middle and satisfy it with a solid conclusion, often within the confines of two to three thousand words. The novel is a mansion in comparison with many rooms some magnificent and some more mundane, whereas the short story though a humble cottage must be spic and span throughout with great pictures and highly polished copperware.

Masters of the short story include Poe, Fitzgerald, Flannery, O'Connor, Hemingway, Carver, Cheever and O’Henry. But every writer should give it a try, if nothing else it will enhance their writing discipline and probably improve their paragraphs. I have tried to emulate these great writers in my own humble way with a published ebook called A Case of Black Rock and other stories on Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056NU8YY where readers can sample it for free. Hopefully some will like what they read and go on to buy the book, which of course is the reason for this blog.

Have We Lived Before

Previous lives or reincarnation is the underlying theme of my new book Private Lives.

Have we lived before, do we all have other life experiences we no longer remember. It is certainly a compelling possibility and one that I have chosen as the theme in my new book Private Lives.

The concept of reincarnation, that of an individual dying and then being reborn into another body, has existed in various religions for at least 3,000 years. It has now spread to the point that there are probably more people alive who believe in reincarnation than do not. Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism are all believers. As was Christianity until Emperor Constantine converted to that religion with far reaching consequences, culminating in 2nd Council of Constantinople in 553 A. D. at which point reincarnation was declared a heresy and the doctrine of reincarnation was officially banished by the Christian Church.

But despite their heavenly aspirations religions are apt to restrict themselves to dogma and an earthly view, while the real enigma confronting us has to be the mysteries of the Cosmos and the prospect of possible universes beyond. Mankind as an early specie has been around for a maximum of five million years, less than a hundredth of a second in universal terms. But then does time really exist? It is said we can’t see time only experience it. We can’t measure time, only define it. According to Einstein if an object travelling at the speed of light leaves and returns to Earth five years later, fifteen thousand years would have passed in the interim period. Similarly though we live in a three dimensional world why should that preclude the possibility of four, ten or a hundred further dimensions, all existing in the same space but vibrating at different speeds and levels to be invisible to one another. When confronted by such tantalizing possibilities together with an ocean of the unknown stretching to an horizon too distant to be seen is the prospect of previous lives so hard to accept.

Caesar, Napoleon and General Patton believed in reincarnation. As did Goethe, Mark Twain, Wordsworth and Tolstoy. Not forgetting Benjamin Franklin, Albert Schweitzer, Carl Jung, Voltaire, Henry Ford, Ghandi and many more. I am certainly tempted in that direction hence the book. I hope you enjoy it.

Available from www.pneumasprings.co.uk http://tinyurl.com/6fzawk4 and several online stores.

Stuff of Nightmares

Spiders have been around for 130 million years. We must all be thankful none of them evolved to the size of a dog.

Of all the creepy crawlies that give people the willies, spiders, those eight legged twin fanged arthropods with their six to eight pairs of eyes would have to be in the top league of nightmares had nature allowed them to grow to the size of a large dog. Fortunately for us nature limited their size to range from that of a pinhead to the 12-inch dinner plate spread of the Goliath Tarantula. As a result few are dangerous to man and the chances of being bitten by one of these is remote. That said if you travel a lot here are five it would be wise to avoid.

The Funnel Web Spider Australia’s most poisonous
The Redback Spider of Australia
The Brown Recluse Spider of the USA
The Black Widow Spider of the USA
The Wandering Spider of Brazil often fatal to children

There is the case of paraplegic David Blancarte who was bitten by a Brown Recluse Spider that brought the nerves of his legs back to life some months later allowing him to walk again. But this is the only recorded case of a beneficial spider bite.

As a rule spider’s prey is restricted to insects though some of the larger varieties are known to feed on frogs, lizards, snails and occasionally small birds. But it is their methods of devouring their meals that comes close to horrific. Being unable to eat solids, spiders predigest their food by injecting digestive fluids from their stomachs directly into the body of their prey to liquefy the inner tissues and organs to a thin soup before sucking them out, reducing the body of the victim to an empty husk in the process. Worse, if not hungry at the time of capture the spider will enmesh its victim in web, paralyse it with venom then leave it fresh and alive until hunger returns.

Mating is a problem for male spiders. Spiders have voracious appetites and the male being much smaller than the female has to approach his love with extreme caution, spending some time stroking her legs until she is sufficiently pliable for him to do his duty. But once sex is completed she usually awakes from her torpor, binds him in web and eats him. But though not around to see it he often has his revenge. After laying around 40 eggs, the Australian female social spider cannot reproduce again. During the summer she collects large insects for her young to feast on while she fattens on the leftovers. But as the young spiders get hungrier, they suck the blood from their unresisting mother's leg joints and when she becomes too weak to move, her young attack her, injecting her with venom and digestive juices before eating her alive.

But like them of hate them the spider has survived for 130 million years and has learnt some pretty nifty tricks along the way. The tensile silk they spin is stronger than steel and so light in weight that a strand to encircle the earth would weigh only 16 ounces and is sufficiently ductile to stretch 40% of its length without breaking. Using their web they are capable of flying or ballooning for hundreds of miles on the wind, controlling their altitude by releasing or reeling in the silk. They have highly tuned sensory hairs on their legs, so sensitive to air currents or low frequency air vibrations they can sense a flying insect and catch it in mid air. In fact we owe them a debt of gratitude for their prodigious taste for insects, as it has been calculated that in the United Kingdom alone the weight of insects eaten by spiders every year exceeds the weight of the population.

Cunning creatures with the mathematical ability to construct an intricate yet perfect web within an hour make them all the more formidable. If they were ever to achieve the size of a dog our worst nightmare would surely have come to pass.

A Different View of War

I was about four and a half at the start of the Battle of Britain and though it may sound disgracefully callous I have to admit I thoroughly enjoyed it. But then at an age when concepts, even of war, are niether acknowledged nor understood and life revolves largely around picture impressions that is not really surprising. It was a wonderful summer in 1940 with the deep blue skies a perfect backdrop to the white vapour trails of fighter aircraft as they twisted and turned in daily combat, with the occasional white parachute that to me seemed to hang in the air forever. There were lots of spent machine gun bullets lying around the garden and I remember putting one in my mouth to suck then accidentally swallowing it. After admitting my crime to nanny I was promptly dosed with cod liver oil then sat on a tin pot until a rewarding ping announced I was ammunition free. I remember a German bomber in flames flying low over the house before crashing in the next door field and being taken to have a look at the remains the next day.

But the highlight of my memories was an afternoon walk to Burnt Mill. Nanny seemed to have set walks and judging from how often we went on this one it must have been her favourite, that is until that fateful afternoon. Presumably because it was a hot summer day she was dressed in white, spotless and starched. Which might sound strange by today’s standards when she would more likely be wearing short shorts and a loose shirt, but this was 1940 and things were different then. It was a long way to the old burnt out mill, well to me it was, down a narrow road across the fens with ditches on either side. I used to walk most of the way though Nanny always brought a push chair along in case my legs gave out. Anyway we had gone about half way when we heard the plane which sounded much louder and lower than usual. I remember hearing some cracking noises, then Nanny scooped me up and leapt into one of the ditches. The plane never returned and looking back I can only assume the pilot decided to use up the last of his ammunition by shooting up the road and us. But it was Nanny who made my day, emerging from the ditch her face speckled with dirt, hair all over the place, her spotless white now dripping with black mud and her buckled shoes squelching with every step. I didn’t dare laugh, but I think it made my war.

Private Promotion

All authors know that with eight hundred books or so being published each day the art of promotion has probably overtaken the art of writing. Those who command large advances from major publishers are relatively few and can rely on the publisher, who needs a handsome return on investment to stay in business, to concentrate on the promotion of book and author in an attempt to guarantee it. Proven successful authors and leading politicians with memoirs lead this group, followed by famous actors, sports people, pop singers, cooks, gardeners and anyone who has been in the media spotlight long enough to be named by the general public. Publishers have good reason to be selective of the books they choose, as promotion is an expensive business. The list below refers to one large UK bookshop chain and is taken from an article in the Times of 2007 so prices may have escalated since. But as there are two further major chains in the country it gives an indication of the costs facing a publisher.

What it costs
£45,000 For one book to appear in window and front-of-store displays, and in the chain’s national press and TV advertisement campaign
£25,000 To feature in a bay at front of store as a ‘gift book’ in its genre and be displayed at the till
£17,000 To be one of two titles promoted as the ‘offer of the week’ for one week in the run-up to Christmas
£7,000 To be displayed at front of store as a ‘paperback of the year’ and be mentioned in newspaper adverts.
£500 Price of an entry in the chain’s Christmas gift guide, complete with a bookseller review

Making the promotion of one book in one chain cost £94,500 in the UK alone, to which on occasion must be added further costs for press and TV coverage. Assuming other book chains in other countries work in a similar vein, publishers are faced with a considerable investment when selecting a book, making their many rejections understandable. Which is also why the rest of us are on our own when it comes to promoting our own books.

At our disposal are press releases, reviews, interviews, book signing and sometimes the help of friendly radio and TV stations. But by far the most valuable conduit to the reading public at our disposal is the Internet, which gives us access to a hitherto unimaginable worldwide audience though here too we are up against commensurate competition. Thousands of books from fiction to needlework go online every day, not to mention the ever growing multitude of ebooks. The Internet is a promotional world where knowledge and technique are king. Web content, photoshop and HTML are vital, with CSS for the advanced, plus a helpful familiarity with wordpress and blogger. Most young people take all this as the norm having been brought up from school with computers, but for Old Codgers it’s a definite problem. We must either learn or find help; we might like to hark back to the days when the writing was all important. But like King Canute it won’t do us any good. He got his feet wet and without Internet savvy our books will sink without trace.

The Anniversary

Lydia stared across at the slumped form of her snoring husband, sprawled across a double seat in the empty third class compartment. Chins spilling over his collar, food stains blurring the patterns of his spotted tie, mouth half open with a driblet of spittle coursing down the left gutter he painted an ugly picture. Her eyes passed from the wispy balding head down to the swelling paunch and thickening thighs obliterating his trouser creases and her lips twitched with distaste. How on earth could he have let himself slide like that, more to the point how could she have allowed it? Indifference she supposed, plain lack of interest. She had ceased to care about Julian two years after their marriage. He had gone his way she had gone hers. They continued to share the same shell, but that was all. How quickly time passed. They had lived that way for eight years now, for they had been married ten today. Hence the obligatory celebration lunch in the city. Filled with boozy bonhomie Julian had insisted on the idea and in a weak moment of now much regretted emotional nostalgia she had agreed. And how she had paid for her rashness, the whole thing had been one endless excruciating unmitigated disaster.

It was her own fault; she had seen it coming from the very start so there was no excuse. Julian had insisted on making breakfast. ‘ No, no, just sit where you are my little dove, I shall take care of the cooking this morning. Never let it be said your you were allowed to sully those delicate hands on this your special day.’ Eyes already glassy, he beamed through the smoke of burning butter and singing eggs. Vodka? Lydia hazarded a guess, it was too early for the scotch or bourbon and anyway he hadn’t started chewing peppermints yet. Though at times it was hard to be sure, there were so many bottles stashed about the place, sometimes she found herself hoping he might trip over one and break his neck. She had given up looking for them long ago, told him to cut the shit, come out of the closet, drink in public. She didn’t give a dam any more. But he had gone all alky on her, innocent eyes wide with hurt, swearing he had no idea what she meant. ‘ Go tell it to the squirrels,’ she had snapped and flounced out of the room. She should have called the whole thing off right then, but somehow for some perverse reason she really wanted to celebrate her tenth wedding anniversary. If nothing else she deserved it for staying the course.

By ten thirty they were waiting in the hall for the station taxi and Julian seemed no worse for wear. Lydia was beginning to think everything might work out after all, when he declared he had to check an oil leek in the lawn mower. To describe Julian’s knowledge of mechanics as limited was an understatement. Even punching the right dishwasher button was beyond him, and the only time he noticed grass was when he fell flat on his face on the lawn, Lydia felt her momentary optimism evaporate. He wasn’t gone long, but long enough. By the time he re-emerged from the garden shed, Old Squirrel Nutkin’s complexion had assumed a fresh rosy tint and his legs found difficulty in navigating the taxi door. Even so, apart from calling the driver, ‘a very fine fellow,’ which fortunately amused the man, and smiling benignly at the countryside in general, the journey to the station was completed without incident. It was only when Julian unsteadily approached the ticket counter that Lydia felt the first stirrings of alarm. She had seen that jovial regal expression too often.

‘Good day, my good fellow, a good day indeed, though perhaps a trifle on the chilly side, don’t you think? What do you say to two tickets to Bangkok, eh? Warm the cockles for a while and all that.’ He beamed genially at the booking clerk.

‘Mr, if you need places like Bangkok for your kicks, you’re a sad, sad man,’ the booking clerk viewed Julian with distaste. ‘But I’m not here to judge sexual preference, just to sell tickets. Now, tell me where you want to go or get the hell out of my line.’

And that had set the tone for the rest of the day Lydia reflected. The one-hour journey had required three trips to the men’s room to empty his bladder, Julian’s euphemism for a quick nip from his hip flask, and by the time the train arrived at the city his complexion had turned to a bad case of sunburn. Sheer will power drove him to the restaurant table, where he sank gratefully into a chair, ordered a double dry martini, and ignoring the menu buried his nose in the wine list. Julian had never had much interest in food, so Lydia was touched when he ordered Whitebait followed by Tournedos Rossini from memory, insisting on real foie gras and none of that damned parfait stuff. They were the dishes she had chosen the very first time he had taken her out for dinner, and she assumed he would have forgotten such details long ago. Naturally the wine was superb, though Julian drank most of it. Halfway through the second bottle he excused himself again, this time for a legitimate trip to the men’s room. Lydia had a clear view of the passageway leading to the restaurant door and watched his return with hypnotic fascination as he cannoned like a hard hit billiard ball from wall to wall before being neatly intercepted by the headwaiter, who discreetly supported him to the waiting chair held thoughtfully out to catch him by a junior colleague. Lunch had finally ended with two strapping waiters almost carrying him out to the waiting taxi, the disgust in their eyes showing through their over tipped smiles. With the aid of a kindly porter Lydia had heaved him onto the train where he had collapsed in a dishevelled heap.

Observing the wreck of the man across the carriage she was filled with an unexpected sadness. The beginning had been so bright, so happy, so filled with promise. It was a second marriage for both of them, each having experienced the hurt, anger, emptiness and devastation of divorce. Neither had been in a hurry, taking time to sound out each other’s weaknesses and strengths. Treading with suspicious caution to ensure this was no rebound, no act of loneliness. Refusing to allow themselves to be swayed by mutually satisfying sex, determined to make certain this time everything was as right as it could possibly be before making a final commitment. And they had truly believed it was, Lydia shook her head.

Julian had been forty-three when they met, not that it showed. Over six feet three in his socks, lean, without an ounce of fat on an athletic frame he stood out as an example of health and vitality in any crowd. Handsome, well dressed with blue-black hair dusted a distinguished grey at the temples, he looked every inch the successful executive he was. They had been introduced at a book launch. She had been a senior editor with the publishing company, he the managing director of the company responsible for the book’s promotion. It was an instant mutual attraction and the moment they could politely take their leave he had taken her to dine on whitebait and tournedos Rossini. Two years later they married. Everything had gone so well, all hopes fulfilled, the only blot on the horizon being Julian’s infatuation with fishing. There had been times when she wondered if she played second fiddle to salmon, and on one occasion at the fishing lodge they frequented had felt certain that even at the moment of climax, in his mind Julian was into a fish rather than her. But it was only a momentary twinge; most husbands were prone to irritating hobbies. Then a year later their happiness was crowned by the news Lydia was pregnant. She was over forty by then, so although never giving up hope, motherhood came as a double blessing. Julian was delirious with joy, busy arranging the transformation of the spare room to nursery, putting his son’s name down for every worthwhile potential school he could think of, while at the same time planning the best ways to spoil a daughter.

Then in the twelfth week she miscarriaged and their world fell to pieces. Lydia retreated into a shell, a private womb of loss and mourning, closed to everyone including Julian. He had tried his best to reach her, devoting endless hours to thankless support, taking her to far flung places for exotic holidays, filling their stilted lunches and dinners with quiet patient monologues in place of conversation. She knew he was trying to help and for a while did her best to meet him halfway but there was nothing there anymore. It wasn’t only she had ceased to love him, it went deeper than that. The doctors had explained the miscarriage was due to chromosomal abnormalities associated with Down’s syndrome adding that in the circumstance it would be unwise to attempt a further pregnancy at her age. However irrational she blamed Julian for ruining her only chance of motherhood, and worse for indirectly killing her child. She found it increasingly hard to tolerate his presence and any attempt he made to touch her physically repulsive. She had insisted on separate bedrooms and though the passing years had brought a measure of amiability, their physical life together had remained that way ever since. She had embraced a new love, filling her life with endless committees devoted to local charities and good works.

Peering secretly through semi closed eyelashes; Julian viewed his wife with equal distaste. How could she have let herself go like that? When they first met she had been a sexy attractive woman with an inquiring mind and lilting infectious laugh. A beautiful woman whose overly possessive nature was more than compensated but a rich and fabulous personality making her one to savour and to love. God how he had loved her. But this dumpy dreary tweed clad figure bore no relation to the woman he remembered. From the sensible brogues to the rimless chained spectacles dangling round her neck, this woman seemed almost an impostor, some alien life form from hell that had taken the place of his wonderful Lydia, bringing a nightmare world of nagging torment along with her. She was even growing a moustache, to be fair not a full blown growth, even so those long black hairs sprouting at the corners of her mouth hadn’t grown there by accident. There had to be a considerable quantity of testosterone lurking somewhere in that matronly frame adding further fuel to his alien theory. Sometimes when he looked back over the past he wondered if memory was playing tricks. Could life have ever been that wonderful? Could anyone really have loved that much?

When Lydia had miscarried he had been devastated with grief, both for her and the their child, expecting to share his sorrow and draw strength from their love. But to his horror his shattered world became a place of nightmare. She struggled fiercely to free herself from any embrace, turning to glare at him eyes filled with naked hatred. A white-hot knife had pierced his heart and even now he moaned softly at the memory.
Time, he had told himself she needs time. And the doctors agreed. He had retreated into the background, leaving her undisturbed, taking over the household chores, shopping and cooking. But Lydia seemed unaware, spending her days staring blankly out of the window until he feared for her sanity. Try taking her somewhere new; take her out of herself the doctors suggested. So they had gone to a quiet little island in the Caribbean and when that failed moved on to a noisy one. In growing desperation he tried Miami followed by New York before finally admitting defeat and returning home. But he had neglected his work and there was a downturn in the economy. Julian knew they were in for a shock and would have to tighten their belts. But when it came he was rocked to the core. He had stayed away from the rat race a too long, taken his ear from the ground and the knives had gone in. The letter from the parent organisation was sympathetic but ruthless. He had been made redundant.

To avoid ruffling the waters they offered a golden handshake of a sort, aware he had no alternative but to accept. He had been too busy on the way up with no time to spare on unlikely issues like redundancy, so had never bothered to consider possible fall back positions. He went through the motions of looking for a job, knowing he hadn’t a chance in hell. He was forty-seven with a pack of hungry youngsters snapping at his heels. Another couple of years and he would have made it to the top and once there would have been safely secure. Free to choose from a veritable smorgasbord of boardrooms with the attached salaries and expenses such advisory positions commanded. But in his world a miss was as good as a mile and past achievements held no sway. He had struggled on for a year or so, picking up the odd freelance job, keeping up outward appearances, but his relationship with Lydia remained unchanged and his heart wasn’t in it. Slowly at first he began to drink. Alcohol soothed the pain, eased the hurt, dimmed his fear of the future. It was a warm and cosy haven free from dread and grief, a place where hope could be reborn in befuddled daydreams, sirens calling sweetly from the rocks of addiction. And when later they claimed him he was not unwilling. Lydia didn’t seem to care or notice, secure in her good works and dumpy clothes. Providing he stayed out of the way and caused minimum embarrassment she was content. At least his drinking ensured she never brought any of her equally boring dumpy pals home, which was some consolation.

The train tannoy announced their local station. Lydia rose from her seat, smoothed her crumpled skirt and leaned over to prod Julian in the chest with a bony finger.
‘Wakey-wakey, upsy-daisy,’ she cried loudly in an attempt to bring the slumbering form to consciousness.
‘For God’s sake woman, there’s no need to shout,’ his eyes glared with angry resentment. ‘I was only dozing and well aware of our arrival without being prodded about like a performing animal in a circus.’
‘Well, pardon me for trying! But after the way you behaved all day, how was I to know you had surfaced from your drunken stupor. And as for performing animals, only an elephant could put away the quantities of booze that disappeared down your gullet today. So if the cap fits, bloody well wear it.’ She put on her headscarf, jerking the knot sharply under her chin to emphasise the point.

Julian stood up and fastened his top trouser buttons, why did all his clothes seem to shrink nowadays? He allowed himself the luxury of a heavy sigh, but there was no point in arguing, Lydia always won. Anyway, she was right, of course, she usually was. Wiser to stay mum and hurry home, he could do with a good stiffener. The train eased to a halt and together they stepped on to the platform. The air was damp, heavy with a scent of rain. A single taxi waited at the rank, he waved his umbrella and headlights flashed acknowledgment. Looking up at the sky he searched for stars, but the falling dusk showed only dark scudding clouds
‘It will be good to be home,’ Julian said aloud, they always said that.

Lydia dragged her thoughts from the coming lunch in aid of the Pensioners Holiday Fund. Why did he always have to say the same thing, like a record stuck in a groove? Masking a sigh she swallowed her irritation.
‘Yes,’ she echoed, voice flat, devoid of interest. ‘It will be good to be home.’

Sunrise Paving

The pavement was hot. I could feel the heat burning through the soles of my sandals making me pick up each foot in turn to cool, like the Sahara ants Mrs Bloomfield had told us about in natural history class. Not that I minded, it was fun being a Sahara ant and helped me forget the awful baseball cap Aunt Delia made me wear to keep the un off my head. I was so busy being a Sahara ant I forgot to look where I was going until it was too late because I was deep into the colours by then.
‘Watch out there, boy, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Take those clumsy great feet of yours out of my meadow!’
An old man with scraggy long yellow hair, an unlit roll up cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, glared at me with angry eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,” I looked down, ‘I’m afraid didn’t see it there.’ I was standing in the middle of a bright green field with a herd of white cows grazing on rich grass beneath a clear blue sky.
‘Of course you didn’t see it, boy. You didn’t look! Hasn’t anyone told you to watch where you’re going instead of blundering about the place like a blind elephant? You’ve already walked slap through my Storm at Sea, the Desert Oasis, not to mention A Shropshire Sunset. If you keep on trundling carelessly about like that you’ll smash up the bridge of my QE 2 next. Open your eyes boy, see what’s going on in the world around you, instead of playing silly games of hopscotch.’
‘I wasn’t playing silly games of hopscotch,’ I said indignantly, ‘ I was being a Saharan ant to protect my feet and forget my baseball cap. Aunt Delia won’t let me out of the house if I don’t promise to keep something on my head. And it’s either this, or an awful floppy hat like the one Uncle Ben wears when he goes to the beach. But I am sorry if I’ve spoiled your pictures.’ I held out the pound coin Aunt Delia had given me to buy an ice cream, ‘will this pay for the damage? It’s all I have I’m afraid.’
Piercing grey eyes continued to glare at me with disapproval, then suddenly softened as a hint of a smile began to play around the corners of his mouth. Leaning forward he rummaged amongst the loose coins lying in the upturned hat beside him and came up with a matching pound.

‘That baseball cap of yours doesn’t look so bad you know, and it certainly is a hot one. Dare say even a Saharan ant could do with a cooling vanilla or strawberry ice. I’d go myself but I’m stuck with the shop,’ he waved expansively at the pictures. ‘But if you went for both of us, I promise I’ll draw you for posterity when you get back.’ He laughed, ‘mind you, that’s if posterity doesn’t walk over it in the next hour or so. But then as you know, my work isn’t exactly permanent. He smiled to take the sting out of the words.

When I got back with the ice creams he was on his knees, putting the finishing touches to the repairs of A Shropshire Sunset. Catching sight of me he climbed to his feet, put the brightly coloured crayons carefully in a green felt wrap around holdall, wiped the chalk from his fingers on an old rag, then gestured to the wall behind the drawings. ‘Come and join me on one of these mat things, if you rest your back against the wall you’ll find it comfortable enough.’ I did as I was told and for a while we sat companionably, silently enjoying the sun, lost in the pleasures of cold ice cream.

‘Comfy things these cushion,’ he broke the silence, ‘gift from God you might say, well a loan anyway.’ He grinned, nodding across the square towards the Abbey. ‘Has to be at least a thousand or more in there, so I don’t suppose He will miss a couple, not for a day at least, and I’ll put them back before I go.’
‘Go, go when?’ I had only arrived a day ago and he was the first friend I had made.
Tomorrow I think. I’ve been working my way down to the coast for the past six weeks, and though I’m glad to say business has been pretty good on the whole,’ he jerked a thumb at the hat, ‘with September looming it’s time for me to head south. Doesn’t do to be caught in the cold in my line of work. Liable to wind up in hospital, and once there you’ll get sick for sure.’
‘But you can’t go any further south than this!’ My geography marks were not the greatest, but even I knew when you reached the South Coast that was it, and the sea was only a few hundred yards away.
‘Well, yes, in a way you are right, boy. But even the South Coast can turn a bitter cold come November, and sometimes it stays that way right through to May if you’re unlucky. So I always makes a point of heading a long way further south than here. Work my way down through France to the Mediterranean, cross the Pyrenees into Spain, then try to make it down to Andalusia by autumn. That’s about the southern most tip of Spain. You can’t go further south than that. Mind you, even Andalusia can get more than nippy at times in winter, but if it gets really cold I take a job for a while, live indoors. Nowhere else to go, unless Africa takes your fancy.’
‘Africa! Have you really been to Africa?’ I had seen some programmes and pictures on the news, but never actually met anyone who had been there. ‘What’s it like in a war zone?’ There was always a war or something exciting going on in Africa, at least on the news there was.’
‘Yes, I’ve been there. Not that any war was going on, at least not where I was, but then I only stuck my toe in so to speak. Took the ferry across from Algeciras to Tangiers, and came back again the next day. Twenty-four hours in a place like that was more than enough for me, and I’ve never been back. Didn’t take to the place you see, that and the way people kept spitting on my pictures.’ For a moment he looked quite fierce again, then crunched the last if his ice cream cone before grinning like a friend again.
‘Nasty habits they have over there, boy, dead nasty. But what about you, staying at your aunt’s for the holidays are you, with your Mum and Dad?’
‘No, only me. I usually come here for the second half of the summer holidays.’
‘Well, there’s nothing like a bit of independence I always say, makes a man of you. Where did you spend the first half?’
‘Nowhere really, I stay on at school as a rule,’ I tried not to sound defiant for I really hated this bit, but people always asked you to explain. ‘ It’s not too bad and not at all like term time. You can even go into town in the afternoon, if you ask first.’
‘Your dad in the army or something then, always on the move?’
‘Not exactly, but my parents are always on the move, going off somewhere or other, which is why they don’t have time to come back for the holidays. But wherever they are I always fly out to join them for Christmas, Dad said Mum insists on that.’ I stared hard at a shop across the street, bracing myself for the questions that always followed. But he just nodded and lit his cigarette.
‘Know what you mean, spent more time than I care to think in school myself, though being a little older than you I was teaching. Leastways that’s what I thought I was doing, at one of those fancy Art Colleges. Not quite the kind of school you go to I know, but once you take away the flowery bits they all boil down to the same thing, and the terms still seem to go on for ever.’
‘Is that why you left? Because of the terms I mean. God, I wish I could!’ I didn’t usually bring God into things, but it was the first time I had had a real conversation with a grown up and it seemed an adult sort thing to say.
‘That was part of it,’ he blew a cloud of evil smelling smoke into the still air with evident pleasure. ‘ But mainly because I found out I was a fraud, well admitted it anyway, I must have known for years of course. But then we all tend to avoid the obvious…. if it’s disagreeable.’
‘I’m not sure I understand…’
‘Of course you don’t, boy,” he interrupted, ‘ and why should you. Pay no attention to me, I was just rambling. Comes from spending too much time on my own, makes you start talking to yourself. Anyway, you have your own problems to face, like those endless school terms stretching out like a life sentence before you, wondering how on earth you’re ever going to get through them all. But look at those people,’ he waved an arm, embracing the street, ‘most of them went through school as well, and I bet a lot of them hated every damned minute. But they survived the experience and I don’t suppose many of them give their school days a second thought now. Not that it helps much when you’re still going through it.’ He smiled as an idea occurred to him. ‘Tell you what, before I go I’ll to let you in on a little secret of mine. Doesn’t work for everybody, but if you’re prepared to practice a little, you might find it a help with your school problems and a few more you haven’t encountered yet.’

A couple of pretty girls with long tanned legs who had been admiring the pictures bent down to put some coins in the hat. ‘Thank you ladies,’ he gave them a beaming smile. The ice cream must have gone down a treat, for he had ignored most other people who had added coins to his hat. As if knowing what I was thinking and was somehow embarrassed about it, he rummaged in the hat and came up with a handful of coins.
‘Here, boy, take these and get us another round, same as before for me, and don’t pocket the change mind!’ He winked to show he was joking.
The morning was wearing on and there was quite a queue at the ice cream van, so it was a while before I got back. He was kneeling over a paving stone working busily with his chalks, and for a moment or so ignored me, though I sensed he knew I was there. Then he leapt to his feet, flung his arms wide and cried. ‘Behold Posterity, de da!’

It was a perfect portrait of me in vibrant living colours and the best present I had ever had. He had even drawn an oval frame to make the setting more real. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. I wanted so much to thank him but suddenly my throat ached and I couldn’t speak. So I hugged him fiercely instead. It was the only way I could express the way I felt.
‘Hey there,’ he disentangled himself gently, ‘it’s only a picture you know, and I doubt it will last the day. Come on now,’ he smiled, ‘let’s have our ice cream; see what goes into the hat, and whatever it is we’ll split. How does that grab you?’

I shook my head. ‘Thanks, it’s a great idea, but I can’t stay. As it is I’m going to be late for lunch, even if I run the whole way, and Aunt Delia does her top if anyone’s late for lunch, even including Uncle Ben. But would you mind telling me your name before I go?’ I asked shyly, ‘I would like to know, even if we never meet again, because of the picture and that.’
‘Why bless you, boy,’ he turned a little pink, ‘what a nice thought, there’s not many who bother to ask. But since you have, most call me the Painter Man, and I would be right pleased for you to do the same.’
‘Painter Man,’ I rolled the name round my tongue. ‘I like that, it suits you somehow.’
‘Descriptive anyway,’ he grinned. ‘And if you have to go I had better tell you about that other matter before I forget. Mind you, as I said before you have to put your heart in it, and even then it’s not for everyone.’ He paused, rolling another evil smelling cigarette, then changing his mind stuck the scraggy tube behind his ear.
‘Everyone needs a secret place to escape to when the going gets tough, somewhere really wonderful and beautiful, specially for you.’ Painter Man leaned forward and tapped me gently on the chest with his finger to emphasise the point.

I wasn’t sure if he expected a reply, but I couldn’t think of anything to say so I kept quiet and waited. It was the right move, for a moment later he continued.
‘But we have to create that place, boy, paint a picture of in our minds. Brush the canvass with bold sweeping strokes of imagination showing where it is you would like to be. The fine detail and artwork of things that mean the most to you. Memories, feelings and such can always be added later as you go along. Though you have to forget the bad ones, because they don’t belong there. This is your own private place, where everything is happy and free. As life moves on new features and new experiences will be added to the treasure without losing any of your familiar favourites. And the picture will remain with you always, a living haven of peace and happiness, waiting to welcome whenever you have need of it.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do that Painter Man. I don’t have much imagination; in fact Aunt Delia says I haven’t any at all. So I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Rubbish boy, doubtless your aunt has many aptitudes, but character assessment is obviously not one of them.’ He was looking fierce again, though whether at Aunt Delia or me I wasn’t sure. ‘Of course you have imagination, boy, everyone has. Just picture a scene where you felt really happy. It can be anywhere, a landscape, a garden, an orchard, a house, or even a particular room. Just close your eyes and let it come to you.’
I tried, I truly did. I would have done anything to please the Painter Man, but I couldn’t come up with a single idea. In the end I just opened them again and stared at him in dumb apology.
‘You can’t recall being happy anywhere?’ He shook his head slowly, some dust or a fly must have flown into his eyes for he blinked rapidly and rubbed them with the heel of his hand.
‘Well now, lets see,’ he blew his nose loudly on the bit of rag. ‘Is there any place you’ve enjoyed looking at, perhaps at a certain time of day maybe?’ He paused, head cocked on one side like a suspicious chicken.
I thought for a moment then smiled happily, at least I could answer him with something. ‘I can see the sea from my bedroom window, and if I’m awake in time I love to watch the sun come up from the horizon first thing in the morning.’

His face broke a broad smile and he danced a little jig right there in front of me. ‘You see boy, you see, I knew we would find it if we tried hard enough, just knew it.’ He grabbed my hand and we jigged wildly together for a moment, uncaring of the curious crowd. Then holding me at arms length he looked deep in my eyes. ‘ Now boy, you had better be off or your aunt will kipper you for sure. We probably won’t meet again, you and me as my ferry sails soon after five-tomorrow morning. But I want you to promise me you will come back here by seven, no matter how difficult it might be. I can see you’re a determined boy, so I want your promise you’ll be here no later than seven. Will you give me your word on it?’

I nodded dumbly, not trusting myself to speak. Yet I had to know one last thing about him before he went. Taking a deep breath to steady myself I said. “Before you go Painter Man will you tell me why you were unhappy at that school?’
‘Why bless you boy, of course I will.’ He smiled to show he understood how important the matter was to me. ‘I had been teaching art to students for more years than I care to remember, until one day I finally had to admit to myself I couldn’t paint. No matter how hard I tried I was a fraud you see; a teacher who had pressed his counterfeit knowledge on countless talented students, while my own was restricted to drawing picture post cards,’ he pointed at the paving stones. It hurt like hell at the time, but then moments of truth often do. But I got over it, and over that bloody school as well, not that it was the schools fault. But instead of being the end of everything, it turned out to be the beginning. I won’t say there haven’t been ups and downs; of course there have, and the world would be a dull place without them. But it was my admission that day that gave me my freedom. The chance to do what I do well, and to do it when I like and anywhere I please. And mark my words, boy; such freedom represents riches most people can only dream about. So always remember, whatever you think you want may turn out to be not what you really need or want at all.’ He winked and smiled at me head askew to satisfy himself I would remember what he had said, then satisfied dropped to his knees and began work on a new picture.

I never saw Picture Man again, though I kept my promise, climbing out of the kitchen window in time to get to his pitch by seven the following morning. Fifteen minutes before the street cleaning truck came by to wash the pavements, but just in time to commit my secret place to memory before it was brushed from human eyes forever.

All the pictures had been scuffed beyond recognition by passing pedestrians overnight. All that is bar one, which he must have drawn in the first light of day, long after the last reveller had retired to bed. It was a magic scene looking out from the dunes. The tide was out and beyond the sweep of clean wet sand a gleaming silver sea stretched out to meet the breaking dawn. Bright shafts of sunbeams reached up like searchlights to bathe the morning clouds in gentle hues of pink and gold against a background of growing azure blue. Standing on a sand dune in one corner of the picture, a young boy stood, gazing with hope at the magnificent panorama unfolding before him. A baseball cap on his head and an ice cream cornet in one hand.

Over the years the composition has changed in harmony with events just as he said it would, but the basic picture remains the same. I couldn’t count the number of times I have visited that beach in times of stress or trouble and watched the breaking dawn from my favourite sand dune. And thanks to Painter Man, I still do.