8. Man’s Best Friend, 1967 - Never Judge A Book By It's Cover

As usual, this is presented entirely unedited, so please forgive the typos and lack of sense that may occur!

The day after Andeline and Harold returned from honeymoon, the sense of love, marriage and romance was still there, as much as it ever could be between the unlikely paring and life quickly swang back into normality. They went to stay with Paul and Nayla while they had time off work. Andeline had just swept up after making lunch for Nayla’s children, when Nayla came staggering through the door carrying the body of a dead dog.

“Ugh! What is that?” Exclaimed Andeline, inspecting the carcass of the dog that appeared to have no injury. Were it not for it’s complete stillness, Andeline would not have known that the dog was without spirit and she would have thought that it were simply sleeping in Nayla’s arms. But there is something about death that speaks to you with it’s unmoving silence and unspoken deafening peacefulness.

“It’s our dog, sister. Our beloved dog Sarah.” Nayla sobbed quietly, the dog’s body resting on the bump which housed her and Paul’s latest marvel of procreation.

“Since when did you get emotional over a dog? It is dead, why did you bring it inside?” Asked Andeline. As fun as dogs were to play with, the Bidayuh did not get sentimental over their pets in the way that Westerners do. They lived and survived alongside the tribe. They were given titbits and rice leftovers, no special treatment. No cans of Chum, no walkies, no cuddles, no treats, no sleeping on the bed and no being in the main part of the house, dead or alive. Dogs were not by any means “man’s best friend” in Borneo. Andeline walked over to Nayla and took the dog’s body off her and placed it on the table, curious to know why Nayla had brought this particular dog inside. “Tell me what has happened.”

Andeline sat her sister down on the black PVC back seat of a car, which served as a sofa in the main room of their house.

Two of Nayla’s toddlers one of which was baby Harold came wandering up to the table and peered curiously at the dog’s body. It was still soft, having not had time to welcome rigamortis in to it’s flesh and sinews. As if to sense the seriousness of the atmosphere, they did not say a word and kept their hands to themselves despite the burning intrigue of a young child’s mind.

“I was going to the other side of the river,” Nayla sniffed. She looked down to her ever distended stomach and stroked it soothingly. Remembering that she was incubating another life helped her to snap back together and stop the crying. She took a deep breath. “Poor doggy.”

Another one of Nayla’s children Albert, who was seven years old came in, .he was brandishing a stick that he had been playing with outside . “What is this Samah?” He asked his mother. He poked the dog lightly on the tail to see if it would rise up and begin yapping.

“It is our dead dog, son.” She drew air through her teeth to let him know she was not happy that he had come in and interrupted her and Andeline. “I had to cross the log bridge to go and pick tapioca from the other side of the river.”

“The little bridge? That is so dangerous Nayla, you could have fallen and drowned is that what happened to the dog?!” Andeline vexed, thinking that the dog must have fallen into the river and drowned. The bridge was simply made up of some bamboo poles, not as study as some of the other bridges in the area which had the addition of ropes to hold on to, making it rather precarious.

“It is not dangerous!” Nayla rolled her eyes showing the cloudy whiteness to her sister and her aggravating conclusions. “The dog is not wet, see.” She pointed to the dogs warm dry body.

Albert gave the smooth brown fur a stroke to check that the dog was dry. He looked at his mother to hear the rest of the story.

“Well, if you will let me continue. I was about to walk across, the bridge. And I would have been just fine.” She added. “I have very good balance for someone who looks like a bloated coconut.” Nayla stood on one leg and held her arms out. “Look, see. Perfect.”

The two little children giggled at their mother. Albert leant in close and sniffed the dead dog, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Bidayuh people like to sniff everything as well as each other. They really are quite primitive in more ways than one.

Andeline lightly smacked the back of his head and gave him a stern loook.

“I was about to cross the bridge, but this stupid dog would not let me. Raff, raff. She barked at men. Raff, raff. ‘Get out of the way stupid dog’ - I said to her and gave her a little kick. But she would not move. The dog turned mad. Barking and snarling at me. I thought maybe she must be having the rabies. She is not a big dog, so I began to walk onto the bridge anyway. But of course with a crazy bitch dog barking and a snarling, it was a bit dangerous when your belly is the size of a Malay mosque. As I tried to get on the bridge. She bit me on the ankle. Look.” Nayla pulled up her sarong and showed tiny red teeth marks on her leg. “It was not a big bite. So I went to fetch a stick to hit her with. Crazy. I thought. I got the stick and held it to the dog, she didn’t cower, just carried on barking. Raff, raff, raff, rafff, raff!” She snapped at the two little ones, making them giggle.

Albert sat on the floor picking his nose and listening to his mother. Andeline hit him on the back of the head again. Slightly harder this time.

“So, why was she acting so crazy? Did she bark herself to death? Did you beat her with your stick? Why were you so sad, if she was a crazy bitch dog anyway?” Asked Andeline, completely puzzled.

“Well, I just thought I would try and walk passed her, I gave her a kick before she had a chance to bite me again. Next thing, she ran half way up the bridge and…. Raaaargh…” Nayla screamed, causing her four spectators to jump. “A great black cobra rose up from the grasses at the end of the bridge. The dog barked at it as fiercely as she could manage, she was clearly trying to protect me. But the evil snake just spat it’s venom, right into poor Sarah’s eyes. She was about a metre away too. Didn’t have a chance. It didn‘t seem too interested in eating Sarah, it just slithered away. Poor Sarah. Poor poor Sarah, she snivelled some more.”

“Oh, Nayla. That could have been you. What a wonderful dog, putting her own life before yours.” Andeline shook her head in amazement.

Albert stroked the dog, to let it know what a good little dog it had been. “Oh, Samah, she is a special doggy.” He said.

They all sat still, staring at the dog’s body on the table in contemplation.
A whirring of motorcycle from outside, lifted the silence. Paul came in and listened to the story in wonder.

“Wallow!” He looked at the dogs body too. Poking it lightly and sniffing it, just as Albert had done.

Albert, still smarting from the blow he had received to the back of his head looked to see if anyone would smack the back of Paul’s head but of course no one did.

Andeline lit a fire and put a pot of water on to boil to start cooking rice. “What shall we do with the dog?” She asked.

“We cannot cook her.” Said Nayla.

“No, I guess not.” Said Andeline.

“She is quite meaty though.” Said Paul.

“Bad semangat from the evil snake venom though,” said Nayla.

Hmm. They all nodded in agreement.

“Should we say a prayer?” Asked Albert. “Do dogs go to heaven?”

“This one will,” Nayla confirmed.

They all sat silently again, staring at the body on the table.

Harold arrived back from a walk up the mountain. Everyone gabbled to tell him the story. He half listened as he took his camera off from around his neck.

“You mean you are allowing a dead dog to lay on the table?” He exclaimed incredulously. “How revoltingly unhygienic.” He took the stick that Albert was still holding off him and poked the dog’s stiffening body onto the floor where it landed with a thwack.

“Harold, where is your respect? That dog saved Nayla’s life!” Andeline shouted at him.

“But dogs and tables do not mix, Andeline. Besides that dog is dead. It could make us all sick. Nayla prepares food on that table.” he explained, surprised that everyone was annoyed with him. He thought that he was doing them all a favour.

“What if the dog was going to be our dinner?” Paul teased.

“You people, really do not know an awful lot about hygiene do you?” Harold continued. “It is my job to teach you.”

“No it is not!” Shouuted Andeline. “Your job here right now is to be my husband. When you are working in the clinic with the fieldworkers, then it is your job to teach them how to be clean.” She picked the dog up and put it back on the table.

“Andeline, you shouldn’t pick it up without gloves on!” Harold chastised her.

Andeline growled at Harold. “Don’t talk to me like a child.” She picked up the pestle and mortar and flung them both at him in temper. The pestle missed but the mortar caught him on the shoulder.

“Ouch, you hit me!” Harold exclaimed. He didn’t quite know how to react.

“I was aiming for your stupid face!” Andeline spat. Then she picked up the pan of now boiling water up from the fire, her hand trembling with the weight of the water. She held it up to throw it at Harold, but Paul grabbed her arm with his strong hands and stopped her from losing complete control.

Harold was flabbergasted by this outburst. All the time he had known Andeline, he had known a sweet girl that everyone was bowled over by and here she was now acting schizophrenically as if she had been taken over by another person. He began to worry that marrying a wild woman of Borneo was perhaps the wrong thing to do. Oh, how his parents would be angry with him. He thought to himself. All they will do is say “I told you so.” Except they hadn’t even so much as done that. How could they have not even sent a telegram of good wishes. Or a letter of warning? It’s not as if Harold was trying to test them by marrying Andeline or rebelling against them by going against their wishes. But some word, any word, cross or delighted would do.

Harold had been preaching up at the high church and had been hob nobbing with the Bishop and other travelling missionaries. Despite the fact that that the colonial ruling had ended back in 1963, there were still ex-pats living in Sarawak, enjoying the weather and the low cost of living. They had big ex-pat chips on their shoulders though, as they still acted as if they were great white rajahs. In their minds they were kings and queens simply by believing that they were far more superior than the very people who owned the land. This had lead to a rather unfortunate and unnecessary conversation between Harold and the Very Reverend Stubbs.

“Harold, I am sorry to have to discuss such a delicate matter with you, but it is something that has come up amongst the ex-pat community and all those involved in the local parish that is operating in Kuching.” The Very Reverend Stubbs breathily told Harold as he joined him for tea one afternoon. How The Very Reverend Stubbs managed to maintain his obese figure in a country where there was nothing to eat but rice and vegetables was beyond Harold. But still, there he was, rotund and larger than life.

Harold stirred sugar into his black tea and waited for The Very Reverend Stubbs to carry on. This did not sound like it was going to be a pleasant conversation and Harold did not like conflict. He wondered what he had done wrong. His father was never so tactful when he was angry with him. He would always strike out first and then explain why afterwards. Quite often, Harold would receive a beating for something that he had no notion of, which goes some way to show why Harold was living a life of constant bewilderment, as he was constantly caught in that childhood purgatory of confusion.

Bang went the cane on his eleven year old hand. “You took a slice of bread without asking. There are crumbs all over the kitchen floor.”

“But it wasn’t…” bang went the cane on his hand again.

“Don’t answer back.”

And so Harold rarely answered back. In fact he never answered back. He wasn’t sure how to hold a conversation, or how to defend himself, or how to speak out when he felt that something was wrong. He had spent his life listening and observing, with a million thoughts and words in his head all fighting to come out, but never reaching the exit of his mouth. When the Very Reverend Stubbs slurped at his tea and told Harold quite carefully that the rest of the ex-pats and the Overseas Mission’s team were not too impressed by Harold’s choice of wife, Harold just nodded and agreed not to bring her to the forthcoming dinner.

“It’s not that I don’t like her, Harold old chap, she’s a lovely girl, lovely lovely girl, he said, almost slobbering, she’s just too… well, she’s just one of them… and you’re one of us, aren’t you? The other wives find her pretty little dresses a little. A little offensive. It‘s not very British is it? Maybe if she cut her hair and dressed a little more conservatively - made a little effort to fit in… I know she‘s a teacher and highly respected in her own circles, but still. You understand what I’m saying don‘t you Harold?”

“Um.” Harold looked at the floor. He didn’t understand. He was supposed to ask his wife to cut her hair? He loved her hair, it was beautiful and long and swishy and he liked to smooth his hands down it when she wore it in a ponytail and admire it’s glossiness. He liked the dresses that she wore, but then he did not mind what she wore as she looked perfectly wonderful in everything she wore to him. What he did know is that she would not take too kindly to being told to change. She was her own person and very strong headed. He did not realise just how strong headed she was until the pan of water incident though. Rather than actually tell Andeline what the Very Reverend Stubbs had said, he simply did not say anything and on the day of the dinner he did not turn up - nor did he tell Andeline that it was even taking place. That made everything a lot easier for both of them.

Children - The Gallery Week 43 - My First Holiday

This week's theme for Sticky Finger's Blog The Gallery is "children."  So I am posting a picture of my sister and I when we were children enjoying out first proper holiday in Filey with my big cousin Joni and my Mum and Dad.

It was very difficult for us to go away as a family because of my sister's special needs, but the chalet bungalows seemed like the perfect place for us all.  We didn't go away all together again after that, I think it was easier for my parents to wait until my sister was in respite.  So after that, only the three of us went away on holiday together.

I think it was 1981 and I was six years old, I'm the one in the ballet pose, my sister was seven.  It's hard to see from the photo but my sister is sporting a rather fetching red poncho and I am wearing a Prisoner Cell Block H beige boiler suit.  I have no idea why, it wasn't fashionable even back then, in fact I think they had bell bottoms, so it was just all kinds of wrong.  If you look closely you can see my cousin Joni is wearing a Pierrot tearful clown on her sweatshirt.  They were all the rage back in the early 80s. Pierrots that is, sweatshirts have always been around, but those Pierrot clowns seemed to be everywhere.  

My Mum as always is looking cool in a timeless jeans and plaid shirt combo, while my Dad was in his Christmas jumper, which he wore all year round for many years.  It was a brilliant holiday as it was the first time I was allowed to just wander about wherever I pleased without any supervision.  I remember being quite thrilled by the freedom.  I shared a bunk bed with my cousin who is eight years older than me which is nothing now, but it seemed like a huge gap back then.  It was so lovely to have someone to talk to at night, I wanted her to stay with us forever.

My parents and how they met are the inspiration for my novel Never Judge A Book by It's Cover as my Dad was a missionary in the 1960s and my Mum is from the Bidayuh tribe in Borneo.  But that's where it ends.  The characters that develop in the story are nothing like my parents!

If you click on the photo of the camera lens coffee mug above, it will take you to the Sticky Fingers blog where you can learn all about The Gallery, where hundreds of bloggers take part in sharing a themed photo from their collection.



Enjoy everyone else's photos, comment and follow new blogs.  If you like my blog - then please follow mine too, then let me know and I'll follow you back if I am not already doing so.  Have fun!

Chapter 7. Busman’s Holiday - Never Judge A Book By It's Cover

Andeline sat on the beach, her sarong draped loosely over her chest and stared wistfully out to the sea where Harold was swimming.  They were honey mooning on Bako National Park where the golden sandy beaches were derelict and idyllic.  Palm trees swayed and the clear water of the sea was as warm as a bath.  It truly was like paradise.  Every new bride’s desire.  But not for Andeline, she had had access to palm trees and golden sands all her life whenever she felt like it.  The Bidayuh are not great lovers of the sea.  They tended to stay away from the beach areas, hence the name Land dayaks.  Andeline sighed.  She was finding it all rather boring.  She dreamt of the West.  She didn’t have Western dreams.

Harold splashed around the blue ocean of the South China Sea diving under and popping back up with huge shells which he waved excitedly at Andeline.  She gave a weak smile and waved back.  All this sitting about on the beach was turning her skin browner.  Hardly  a good look for a school teacher.  Humph.  She wrote her name in the sand and scribbled it out again.  She wouldn’t go in the water herself because she was afraid after hearing one too many folk tales about the sea coupled with a near drowning childhood accident by their local village watering hole.  Marooned like a dying swan she watched her new husband bob up and down.

“I love you!”  Harold called and waved again.  He flipped over doing an underwater handstand.  His white feet pointing skyward. It was enough to break her despondency and made Andeline laugh.

Their entire honeymoon had consisted of exploring and photographing the jungle.  Yawn.  Looking for orang-utans.  Double yawn.  Searching for the rafflesia plant which looks like a giant two foot flower, but it’s actually a parasite.  Yawn, yawn, yawn. And listening to Harold as he practiced his Greek, which was all Greek to Andeline.  The trouble was, that monkeys and wildlife are just not so fascinating when you have grown up with it all around you as Andeline had.  She wanted to go to England for their honeymoon to meet the Beatles, see The Queen and admire Big Ben.  The most English affair that she was participating in, was Scrabble by candlelight on the veranda of their beach shack each evening.  Double word scores were the order of the day.

Harold came wading out of the sea to show Andeline the shell he had just found.  “This is the life, eh?”  He said to Andeline as he plonked his wet body onto the sand next to her.

Andeline looked at Harold’s deathly white feet that had grown a deeper shade of white from being hidden from the sun beneath his socks for several years now.

He kissed her on the cheek.

Andeline took in his face.  He looked funny without his glasses on.  Like he was a different person, all squinty and strange.  White marks encircled his eyes where his glasses had been and his jaw looked extra white where his thick beard had been a week earlier.  Andeline had married a bearded Harold and as she went off to get changed for the reception, she returned to find a clean shaven man, the man that she had initially fallen for when they first met, but the shock was still huge none the less. He had sported that beard for several years and it was a part of him, like Endal‘s black beetle nut stained teeth, John Lennon’s little round spectacles, Hitler‘s funny little moustache orMarilyn Monroe’s blonde barnet.

Their wedding had been a strange affair.  There appeared to be a great divide between Harold’s posh British ex-pat fellow missionary worker friends and Andeline’s family who did not want Andeline to marry Harold.  Edward and Annabel Churcher, sat at the table with Harold, Andeline, Endal and Nayla, because Edward was Harold’s best friend in Sarawak.  He and Annabel spent the entire time mocking Andeline’s family, despite the fact they were supposed to be good Christians, they were casting aspersions on the very people they were there to share Christianity with.  Harold’s parents had not shown up, which did not surprise Harold as he knew the dim view Ernst had on Asians and mixed marriage in general.  He figured that they had simply chosen to shun him.  He had hoped for maybe a telegram from his mother, something, anything, but he realised that his father had probably forbidden her from contacting him.  He missed his mother and her warm chuckle.  But he did not care.  He was in love and that love was reciprocated.  It was the finest feeling in the world and Harold wanted to shout it from the roof tops.  He wanted to scream through the jungle like Tarzan on a rope twine telling every creature within earshot that he had a wife.  A wife!

Endal had sulked his way through the whole wedding day in yet another borrowed polyester suit.  He was deeply saddened by his favourite daughter’s choice to marry this foreign man and not some respectable Bidayuh warrior like himself or Paul.    He did not know where England was, but he knew it was far away and if she went there, he might never see her again. He had welcomed Harold into his home, but he did not expect him to steal his daughter away.  The prospect of losing Andeline was like losing Namari, his own wife all over again.  He refused to talk to Andeline and ignored Harold which wasn’t difficult due to his lack of English.

Paul and Nayla more than made up for everyone else.  They were both strong warm people who sprinkled lightness and love everywhere they were.

“Marry Harold and escape this good for nothing land.”  Nayla would tell Andeline.  “Don’t be like me, belly full of child every year.  I will end up like our mother.  Dead before my uterus has had time to shrink.”  She told it like it was.

“Come hunting with me Mr Dr Harold,”  Paul would tell Harold.  “We will make you a warrior Bidayuh, then Endal will be happy for you to marry his daughter.”  Harold would go into the jungle with Paul, but due to his dyspraxic nature would inevitably scare the animals away with his galumphing feet, which was fortunate for Harold as he really didn’t want to kill anything.  Paul found him hilarious and loved to gee him  on and freak him out.  “Spider!”  Watch out!

“Aaagh, where?”

“Not really scaredy white man, come on.”

Nayla and Paul, had moved out of the Longhouse building and had their own little house a whole ten metres away.  Paul had built it with the help of his brothers, on land given to him by Endal.  They had six children by now that all needed feeding.  Even though Paul stuck with Bidayuh traditions, he found that there was more money to be earned in the city.  So he headed into Kuching everyday on his motorcycle and worked in a bank.  First thing in the morning, every evening and at the weekends, he would help with Endal’s farming and yet still somehow managed to be around for his children when they needed him.  He was full of cheerful stories and if a child was upset, he would be the first one to sing a song to cheer them up.  “Gooodness gray juss grate ball so fire!”  Then he would pick up the children one by one and run round the house with them,  telling them he would throw them off the porch if they did not stop crying.  A risky choice, but it always worked.  Bidayuh children were easily pleased.  They weren’t spoilt by the excesses of civilisation.  Back in those days, there was no television, no computer games, no mobile phones, no internet, no dolls and not many books.  They didn’t have shops and radios and things that they "must-have" - no bikes, no fancy clothes and no mass produced plastic. They played with simple sticks, stones, maybe a ball, but their greatest occupier was story telling.

The Bidayuh Tale of Two Lovers - A Bedtime Story as told by Paul

Semangat spirit is everywhere children, spirits occupy mountain tops, rocks, holes in the ground, some rivers and certain trees.  If you listen carefully you can hear them. If you look hard enough you can almost see them they are dancing they are whispering in the wind.

So children, beware of what you say, be careful about remarks and be respectful as you do not want to upset these spirits, for they too can hear you and see you as you may hear and see them.

A holy man lived at the foot of Mount. Santubong in Kuching. Unknown to him, he was being watched from afar by the spirit daughter of the Moon who lived at the very  top of the mountain. She was dutifully bound to live high up so that she could be near the moon but one day she was granted a wish to leave the top of the mountain and  appear in human form to go wherever she pleased for the day. She visited him at his house where he was spellbound by her beauty and they fell in love.  Because they fell in love, she was allowed to remain in human form as long as they were together. They became husband and wife and he went to live with her at the top of Mount Santabong. For a few years they were very happy at the top of the mountain until one evening he saw the twinkling lights of the village below and his brothers and sisters in Kuching. He began to feel homesick and asked his spirit wife if he could go to visit them. She agreed but told him he must come back after two months.

When he got back to his family, he was so pleased to be with everyone again.  He partied and at and drank and celebrated every night. He was having such a great time that he didn’t realise, he had been there for more than two months. One evening he saw a dark cloud over Mt. Santubong then he remembered his spirit wife he had left behind. He hurried back to his wife only to find she was not there. An old man told him that his wife had been seen at the top of Gunong Serapi another mountain in a village called Lundu by the sea, he hurried there but she was not there.  He searched and searched, but her being had disappeared, torn apart by grief and destined never to see him again. It was only his love that was keeping her visible to him and in being away for more than two months she was not able to appear in human form again.  In the end he too died of a broken heart.  That is why when you look across from Bako you can see the islands form the silhouette of a man lying down in the sea. On moonlit nights you can hear the sad wailing and crying of a woman or a man. To this day they are still searching for each other.

Like Mother, Like Son - Silent Sunday, 32rd January 2011

If you would like to take part in Silent Sunday, one picture, no words.  Then click on the button below to see Mocha Beanie Mummy's blog.  Here you can also take a look at all the other brilliant pictures without words, leave comments and follow new blogs.  Ssssh.

Check out one of my other blog entries here: http://www.headhuntressinhampshire.com/2011/01/stir-crazy-silent-sunday-23rd-january.html

Chapter 6. Mr Arnold Parkinson and Miss Betty Heap - Never Judge A Book By It's Cover

I have no idea how it has come about, I can only presume that there are not many literature blogs around because my blog has risen through the Wikio ranks faster than you can say Wikileaks from number 213 to 87 this month.  That means I have a blog in the top 100!  I am sure it must be a pure fluke as I have been working away on my Headhuntress in Hampshire blog for two years and I'm still floundering at number 246 in the parenting section.  So even though, it is probably nothing to shout about, I am going to shout about it anyway as it makes me feel all nice and fluttery inside. In order to celebrate I present to you an unedited chapter six.  Enjoy and get in touch to let me know what you think as usual my dears.  Thanks for all the amazing support so far it is incredibly motivating.


6. Mr Arnold Parkinson and Miss Betty Heap

Barbara Harpington-Smythe stamped the soil from the soles of her boots and carefully removed them before placing them inside the back door of her grey stone house in The Lake District that she shared with her husband Ernst. She had been tending to her garden by pulling up the weeds as she did most mornings before the sun got too warm for her pale skin. She was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and one of the scones she had baking in the oven. As she poured water into the kettle using the tap on the butler sink, she took her sun hat off and teased her grey curls back into shape. She took a brief glance into the mirror which captured her pretty face, Max Factor powder smoothing out the age spots and adding definition to each fine downy hair that was growing like a miniature meadow over her clear wrinkled cheeks, highlighted with pink cream blush and finished off with her signature red lipstick. Which looked even more fabulous on her since she had swapped her own crooked slightly discoloured teeth for a great pair of gleaming white falsies a few months ago. She smiled to herself and used her little finger to wick away a blob of the pillar box Chanel Rouge lippie that had seeped into the corner of her mouth since she had applied it this morning.

The kettle began to bubble in to action on the stove and she realised that her feet were becoming chilly from the cold flagstone floor so she scuttled into the hallway where she had left her slippers. Scuttling being the motion of the moment as Barbara had found that somewhere in her late fifties – the litheness she had always enjoyed was beginning to wane. She kept herself supple and active since she had retired in her sixties through regular walks round The Lakes with Ernst and by gardening in their small estate. They had a gardener to tend to the larger jobs like grass cutting and fruit orchards so that Barbara and Ernst could do what suited them.

“Ernst!” She called up the stairs to where her husband was busy painting. “Tea?”

Ernst was only semi-retired and made money from selling oil paintings that he took immense pleasure from creating using the fabulous vistas that his home had from it's prominent point in the much lauded village of Ambleside. He was living the geriatric dream, seeing as he was earning from his craft which in turn kept the old grey matter all fired up and tick tocking along.

Ernst was adding the colour to his latest creation. He believed the key to being a great artist was to recreate exactly what you could see. To paint like a photograph was the greatest way to show talent. To paint like a toddler like some of the modern artists that were emerging in these acid addled times was making a mockery of art and was a case of the Emperor's New Clothes thought Ernst. He appreciated Picasso and his constant reinvention even though some of his figures were quite childish in nature because Picasso was also very talented and was also able to paint in a classic way. Besides, some of his cubist pieces were beyond genius to Ernst. Ernst was of course a terrificly talented artist himself, his ability to paint mirror images of anything he saw meant that he was able to recreate anything. Which included perfect counterfeits of valuable masterpieces, something he had done to great effect. One particular swindle involving the much despised by Ernst reproduction of a squared Mondrian ironically, had left Ernst and Barbara so rich they were able to buy their Lake District Cottage outright. Of course it was Ernst's background and ability that had helped him to paint and recreate the image perfectly, but it wasn't where Ernst's passions lay.

Barbara huffed and puffed her way up the stairs, cups and saucers clinking on the tray as she carried the precious nectar up towards her husband with scones fresh from the range cooker with a generous serving of their latest batch of strawberry jam.

“Angel eyes,” she sang her favourite Ella Fitzgerald song to herself, her own

voice as rich and Earthy, despite the strain of the stair climbing on her old

limbs and lungs, as if she was from black heritage too. “That old devil

sent…　They glow unbearably bright.”　

She entered the studio room full of easels with half finished work piled up in the corners and trays of dried oil paint blended from primaries into new hues. Ghostly faces peered through the canvases’ confines, on portraits that Ernst had abandoned halfway through. Captured in finery for a moment but lost and left without vital elements such as ears or eyes or floating heads fully formed with physical features, or whispy apparitions of sketches that had received no colour because Ernst had maybe decided that the neck was too fat or the shoulders were the wrong angle, so, ever the perfectionist had left them to fester trapped in a Dorian Gray moment for all eternity.

Barbara plonked the tray down on the little oak table and bent over to plump up the velvet feather filled cushion on the chaise longue.

Ernst stopped what he was doing to peer fondly at his wife's wonderful bottom. She was his life long love and his very own muse. She didn't like the way her posterior had spread so widely, that it was twice the width it had been when they first met. But Ernst looked on Barbara's derrière adoringly. He loved it when she was whippet thin at the beginning of their relationship and he loved the way it had grown just a little bit meatier every year that they had been married. Each child that she had carried had left another layer on her hips and bottom and transformed her body into the classic English pear that she was destined to be. Barbara had laid on that chaise longue in many various positions over the years and Ernst had captured every angle of her peachy skin as she transformed from bony limbed into the curvy soft figure that she had today along with every shade of her hair from it's original reddy chestnut brown through to the shades of grey of recent years. He had painted each angle of her face and chronicled the development and intensification of her facial lines as she aged. Damn the deep crevices of time. Etched upon the face of the young and lovely till they no longer young and lovely be, left crumpled and wizened like the apple that had been stored in the fruit bowl too long. Some elderly rot into the ground from which Mother Nature sprung. But not our Barbara. She blossomed with each new age, the extra weight and the wiseness of life’s eras etched upon her face suited her. Ernst’s work reflected this in turn, maturing like a fine vintage wine, from the object of men’s carnal desires into a valuable antique for all to enjoy.

Barbara turned around and caught Ernst eyeing her up. “Now, now, Ernst my love. We are not as lively as we once were!” She chuckled. A warm and deep chuckle that made her ample bosom wobble from side to side.

She plonked herself down onto the chaise longue and began generously lavishing the fresh scones with jam and cream, they in turn lending testimony to the reason for Barbara’s physical expansion.

Ernst peered over the top of his silver rimmed spectacles. He watched the arrangement of the cream and jam and felt a tiny prickle of annoyance as Barbara clumsily allowed a little jam to escape onto the plate. Ernst liked to be in control of everything. From the running of the house to the spreading of the jam. He was a perfectionist. But he knew not to expect it from his fair wife, so he held his tongue, as he knew the problem was his and not hers. He was the control freak, she was merely exacerbating his feelings. He took the plate and made an exaggerated point of wiping up the offending strawberry jam with his finger without saying a word. But just so she knew. She had dared to slop a little jam messily onto his scone. She had god forsakenly allowed a little jam to splop off the scone. The fact that she had gone to all the trouble of lovingly making the jam, shopped for the cream, baked the scones and made the tea, before heaving them all up to Ernst’s studio, didn’t register with hi, Just that little bit of jam. A teeny weeny bit of jam that caused the irritation, like the straw that broke the camel’s back. But Ernst’s back was not to be broken that day, he was delighted with the way the world was currently spinning and one look at his wife, his life long muse reminded him of the deep love he felt for her.

Their life had taken them on an incredible journey. They were the only ones who knew of this, the secrets that were hidden from the world, a lifetime of hiding and changing jobs , altering personas, being hush hush. That was the way in which their world had turned. That was the way in which Ernst’s world spun. And yet, somehow along the way, their life had ended up relatively normal. They had three children and Ernst had a great job in his retirement years. So, what crime had Ernst committed that they had to keep running from? Was it murder? No. Robbery? No. Had one of his counterfeit painting swindles gone pear shaped? No. Not quite, but our Ernst hadn’t always been an artist.

Way back, back in 1930. Back when The Times crossword first appeared, back when Pluto was officially confirmed as a planet, but later denied it’s planetary status, back when Barbara was gifted her first piece of Bakelite jewellery from a rich American customer - a black shiny wrist cuff and some glossy black art deco beads, back when she flapped about in a knee length dress and danced to jazz, back, back, back when Harold was just a glint in his father’s sperm. Back half a century, a whole five decades back; Ernst was a promising young scientist who specialised in Eugenics. Despite only being twenty seven years old, he was a force to be reckoned with in the Eugenics world. Dashingly handsome and already in love with an - emancipated by the First World War - Barbara who was earning a fine living as a professional singer and dancer in a London nightclub, they had the world at their feet as they say. He also went by the name of Arnold Parkinson back then, not Ernst Harpington-Smythe. Back then in 1930. He was not an artist, but a scientist. And Barbara’s name was Betty Heap.

They were both caught up in the wild scene of a 1930s London. Swept along and thrown together by their good looks, talent and the fact that they had both grown up in orphanages. Against all odds, Arnold had won an educational scholarship and began mixing with the “well to do.” While Betty, found herself in a career that was almost destiny for a girl with no family, but she had a shameless audacity and she had gone from a back street dancer to the star of the stage. She got to keep her clothes on when she danced and sang what she wanted to sing, not what she was told to. She feigned class and was rewarded with respect in return.

Passionate about the way in which life itself had sprung and mutated, Arnold lectured globally on the development of species through Darwin’s original theories of natural selection for years but this had transmogrified into the weird science of eugenics that Ernst or should we say Arnold was preaching by the time the calendar landed on 1930. Arnold spread the word of eugenics with his team to governments around the world using the good name of the long deceased Darwin to back up the movement’s notions with more clout.

“We can create the perfect human race!” Arnold’s lectures began. There was nothing sinister to this sentence in a pre-world war II era. It was lapped up by the people. Who wanted to live in a society so full of flawed humans? A perfect society could be created and Arnold Parkinson’s word was held in high regard, supported by the “well born” movers and shakers themselves. “Let’s create a pedigree land, intelligence and beauty breeds intelligence and beauty!”

Keen to create an idyllic world in which undesirable human traits were ironed out, the implementation of sterilisation of those who were engaged in criminality or a crazy mind was indulged in with gusto.

“Look to our psychiatric hospitals,” Arnold sermoned, “ See how many people in these places are related to each other.”

This served testimony that the people who were a bit different were probably all related. The naïve public and medical professionals were keen to reduce the cost of running psychiatric hospitals by preventing them from breeding and further producing anymore bad spawn. So, Arnold’s ideas were implemented. America began a mass sterilisation programme, making it law to be for sterilised in countless states across their nation.

“Do not breed with the lesser races!” He raged.

And so America responded with a campaign that outlawed the immigration of undesirable nations to their land. The Asians were banned altogether as Arnold described them as, “Undeveloped ape cousins.” Who should not be mated with.

Arnold was not completely racist. He did not shun every race he could think of. He had time for the blacks as he and Betty Heap would mix with the jazz musicians who were touring the clubs and circles that she was dancing and singing with. As long as they kept to themselves. Interracial relationships were a big no no. Sharing a bar, fine. Singing a song, fine. Dancing a dance, just about acceptable, they were young and reckless after all, but sharing a bed like a chess set, was just too much.

As Arnold’s work increased he became a victim of his own fame. He was brilliant at coming up with new ideas but he was eagerly shouting them out and not following through with any research, until he was not so much a scientist as a spin pawn. He became the face of eugenics, the voice of reason, he was the Great I Am, he was playing God and he thought hewas God.

STOP PRESS! HEADLINE ON A BRITISH NATIONAL

STERILISATION OF THE IDIOTS PROGRAMME COULD BE PLANNED FOR THE GREAT BRITISH PUBLIC!

Arnold lost sight of what humanity was, they were very dark times. The more outrageous his suggestions were, the more the governments were lapping it up. It must be true. It’s science.We can rework the human race. Let’s get rid of vagrants and bums. The depressive rocking types cuckooing in the corner could be ironed out, no more epilepsy, no more murdering, no more cheating, stealing, lying wrongness. Let us live in a utopian society. We can have Utopia. We will have Utopia. So thousands upon thousands of people who had done no wrong were sterilised at the taxpayers expense and thousands and thousands of people whohad done wrong were sterilised at the tax payers expense. And a sprinkling of those who were flying over the cuckoo’s nest, caught up in the system were sterilised at their own expense. The reproduction of life taken away from them, when all they were looking for was an easy ride and a nice warm bed at night.

Arnold had just finished a presentation to Stanley Baldwin at Downing Street, a prime minister so terrible that Winston Churchill turned down an invitation to his funeral by saying, “It would have been better if he had not been born!”

Arnold did not spend a lot of time in Britain, but he was hopeful that the prime minister was going to take on some of his suggestions for implementing sterilisation in Britain. He was feeling rather pleased with himself as he walked down Whitehall, heading for The Ritz to meet his lover Betty Heap. He had the US, Canada, Germany and Denmark under his belt. If all the great nations around the world joined in, then the world would indeed be a perfect place. He thought to himself.

He hadn’t seen Betty for a few weeks, he was looking forward to kissing her Chanel rouge lips and admiring her long legs and slender thighs in the flesh and not just on one of his pocket paintings of her. He was going to ask her to marry him. It would make the headlines and their wedding photos would make the newspapers for sure. His face was not well known like a film star or a politician yet, but he hoped that it would be. He was looking forward to spending a few days wining and dining with Betty before he headed off to Germany to meet their new chancellor Adolf Hitler.

He swung his cane happily and enjoyed the satisfying clunk that his leather soled brogues made on the pavement. His bespoke suit was fine Italian wool, in the darkest charcoal grey, it hung light and breathable on that sunny February afternoon. As Arnold entered St James’ Park, a man seated on a bench reading a copy of The Guardian turned his page and caught sight of Arnold.

“Arnold Parkinson, dear fellow.” Spoke out his old college pal and fellow scientist Arthur Ransfield. They had worked closely together for two years, studying Darwin‘s work and recording new findings before Arnold had branched off into the eugenics sector.

“Arthur,” said Arnold, astonished to see his old friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on some banal project at Scotland Yard. Are you busy, please sit with me for a moment, I am on my break and I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you for some while.” Arthur clumsily folded the newspaper so that it was now in an unreadable order. He was a little older than Arnold, and not so fashionable dressed. His tired grey suit matched the tired grey expression that he wore. He was clearly agitated and flustered to be speaking to Arnold.

Arnold put it down to nerves from being in the presence of someone with such a high profile, a government advisor, an international jet setter, the great Arnold Parkinson. His name would be on everyone’s lips before too long. He took a seat on the bench next to his old friend. He had been very fond of Arthur, but they had drifted apart and lost touch as their work took them in opposite directions. “What would you like to talk about then old friend?”

“Arnold!” exclaimed Arthur. “Arnold!” I fear your teachings have lost the plot. They have deviated from what we know! Your new theories about mixed race children being unfit is completely wrong.”

“Nonsense, Arthur.” Arnold believed he was untouchable. He was always on the defensive. He knew that there was no real back up to what he believed, but he was confident that time would tell all. “If what we are teaching is not true, then why is it being taken up by our world leaders?”

“But Arnold, Charles Darwin was concerned for his own children’s health after he married his own cousin. Yes, she was also from a well to do family, but if we separate all the wheat from the chaff and we only have wheat left, then we only be left with the wheat and then it will wither without it’s protective coating.” Arnold attempted to analogise the removal of large chunks of people but it did not come across well, he was good at . He knew that the world relied and survived with everyone in it and that far from reproducing with similar types, it was more beneficial to gather together people who’s gene pools were very different. “Cousin’s should not marry any more than brothers and sisters should. Their DNA is genetically too close to the mark dear fellow. It does not do well to “keep it in the family.”

“Nonsense, great genes produce great genes. What are you talking about? Arthur, do not bother me again. I haven’t got the time or the inclination.” Arnold tapped at the grass with his cane, incensed at Arthur‘s approach.

”But Arnold, we have made new discoveries. Have you heard of heterozygosity?”

“Hetero..zy.. What? No, no I haven’t. Arthur, I am not in the country for long. Please get in touch with my agent if you wish to speak to me further, I haven’t got the time right now. Good day.” And with that Arnold stood up and cocked his hat towards his old friend.

Some friend he was suggesting that all the greater good he was creating was out of control. That was the very essence of it of course. Controlling the masses.

It is about control. How can it be out of control? I have bigger fish to fry. What does some old tin pot colleague of mine know about anything anyway? What is he doing with his life? Getting old and doing some piddly little forensic job for Scotland Yard probably. He’s not an International Darling like me.

Arthur did know what he was talking about. He had stuck with the science and his work was not piddly in the least. He and his team had not been poncing around in smart suits shouting to the world about sterilising the masses. He had been quietly working away and studying the need for diversity. How two different genes made for a healthier person. The more extreme the better. Look how brother and sisters who mate can cause the traits of a lopsided face and a low immune system. Arthur knew that “natural selection” had quietly been working away since time began and if humans continued on the mass scale that Arnold was trying to promote, then it could be placing the Western World in very bad steed or even the end of mankind.

Arthur watched as his old friend disappeared into the distance across St James’ Park. He was tired though and he was a nobody. So, Arthur being the none driven, none committal, none outspoken grey suited type of man that he was, simply shrugged his shoulders and tried to make sense of what the Guardian had to say for itself that day.

Arnold looked over his shoulder to see if perhaps Arthur was following him. He did not like what he had to say, moreover because he knew that what he was saying made sense.

Ah well, to The Ritz, a fine hotel to see his fine lady.

He pushed his hand into his pocket and felt the smooth juxtaposition of the small cubed box against it’s red velvet exterior that housed a two carat solitaire diamond and platinum ring. It was on a one way journey to Betty’s ring finger and he was going to propose the instant he entered the hotel room. Or maybe just a “hello” kiss first.

As he entered the grand foyer of The Ritz, Arnold ran over in his head, the words that would soon be falling out of his mouth into the ears of Betty. “Betty darling, will you do me the honour?” No, no, too formal.

“Betty my sweet, please would you….” Uh, nope.

He could simply drop to his knees and hold the open box up to her and dazzle her with the diamond. Mm. That was a good idea he thought. Or he could tell her he wanted to sketch her. Yes, that would do it. Kiss her. Throw her on the bed. Say that he was going to sketch her and on the notepad simply scribble. Will you marry me? Then show it to her, saying, “What do you think?”

I am a genius! Arnold did actually believe that he was a genius. Conceited wasn’t the word.

As it happened, Arnold walked up to the grand marbled reception desk where he was greeted or rather not greeted by a snooty male receptionist. Who took it upon himself to not even look at Arnold. He id not have time for the likes of Arnold with his flashy suit and empty wallet, they were the type to never leave tips. “How can I help you sir?” He asked in his cut glass accent.

“Err,” began Arnold nonplussed by the receptionist’s haughty ignorance. He did not understand how people with such upper class mannerisms came to be in such low profile employment. “I am here to meet Betty Heap. What room is she in please?” Arnold removed his hat and dabbed his brow with his handkerchief, the rapid walk was causing little pearls of perspiration to spring up on his forehead as the minute workings of his sweat glands came into play.

“You mean Miss Betty Heap?” Said the receptionist emphasising the Miss. Still not looking up at Arnold he began to flick through the hotel diary. He really was bored to the back teeth by this job, but he persisted.

Arnold decided that he was not going to let this jumped up little twerp ruin his day. “She won’t be Miss for much longer,” he said gaily. And opened up the ring case to show the receptionist the solitaire that he had bought from Tiffany’s a month earlier. Thus forcing the rude receptionist to finally look up.

“Would you like me to put that in the hotel safe?” He asked. He was not in the slightest bit impressed, his mother had a huge collection of diamonds which he would inherit before too long, then he wouldn‘t have to work in The Ritz day after day like some performing monkey anymore.

“No thank you.” Said Arnold with a stern tone seeping into his voice. “I am just about to propose and your demeanour is seriously dampening my mood. Good. Fellow.” He said the last two words with staccato to reiterate his annoyance whilst sounding insincerely polite.

The receptionist could not give a damn and delighted to be winding up the already jumped up young Arnold or should we say - Ernst - ignored his comment and simply said. “I will telephoneMiss Heap now sir.”

“What room is she in? Can you just tell me please, I want to surprise her.” Arnold leaned over the marble desk to see if he could see her name on the hand written book. Had he not been in such a hurry to actually see his wonderful Betty, he would be requesting to see the manager right away.

The receptionist picked the diary up and snapped it shut. “Hotel policy sir. I must telephone her to check she is expecting you. Your name please sir?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. This is ridiculous. Do you not understand what I am trying to do?” Arnold rummaged in his pocket. “Look. Here. I have a portrait of Betty. Do you recognise her. I painted this. Do you think I would have such an intimate picture if I did not even know her?” Arnold waved the portrait under the receptionist’s nose. “I painted this.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow at the small pocket sized painting beautifully detailed in water colour depicting Betty looking over her bare shoulder, swathed in blue satin that cascaded over her naked back like a waterfall with her left buttock exposed. “This does not prove anything sir.”

“Well, could you dial and then let me speak to her please?” Asked Arnold, losing the desire to fight any longer.

The receptionist softened a little. He was a great lover of art and maybe Arnold was an artist and not some nouveax riche upstart in a flashy Savile Row suit. “In these circumstances, I will allow you to. Although it is not normally acceptable.”

“Thank you.” Arnold made a mental note to deal with this chap later.

*

Betty flung the door open of her sumptuous suite. She was wearing a cream and silk lace panelled bias cut sleeveless dress, ever elegant, her short brown hair was coiffed into gleaming waves that accentuated her pretty neck and facial features. The balcony doors were open letting the nip of the February air drift into the upholstered room from Green Park. The air mingled with the smell of a lit cigarette that smouldered in an ash tray on a long bone cigarette holder. “Arny poos!” She exclaimed and flung her arms around his neck. He inhaled the scent of her Cologne 4711 and the woody tang of the smoke. “Oh, my darling I have missed you so much!” She pulled him inside the suite, showering his face with kisses. Not giving him a chance to even speak.

“I’ve missed you too!” Arnold said, between kisses.

They sat on the huge bed together. Arnold’s heart was thumping from nerves and excitement. He knew that Betty would say yes to his proposal, but there was always that glimmer of panic. He was being unusually quiet.

“Where is your luggage?” Betty asked Arnold as she playfully ran her stockinged toe up the side of his trousers.

“I haven’t brought any. I am heading off to Berlin, I’ve bought you a ticket. Have you got time to come too. Go on be a devil Bets.”

“Gosh, can’t you have just one night here? I’ve been dreaming about sharing this bed with you!”

“Well, no it’s rather urgent, I’m meeting the German chancellor, I need you with me my sweet as I‘ve missed you so so much.” Arnold stopped and Looked at Betty. Seriousness in his eyes.

Go on Arnold son! Propose to the girl then whisk her off to Berlin. It would be so romantic.

“What’s the matter Arn?” Betty looked at Arnold confused. What was the matter indeed? Was this to be it. Was their wonderful relationship about to be over? He knew she was committed to her work. “It will be hard to get away, but I suppose I can sneak of. Big Eric has a new girl in and she is wowing the crowds better than I currently can - he’s be pleased to swap her for me - I’m sure.” Betty was determined to please her lover. As he was away so much, she found him a little peculiar and distant at times. But he did have a very stressful career. But they really ought to get married, she thought. It had been three years now.

“Well, that’s just perfect.” Exclaimed Arnold perking up. Taking his opportunity, he traced his fore finger down the front of Betty’s leg.

Betty leaned back with her eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of Arnold‘s hands through the silk of her stocking. So, that she didn’t notice that Arnold was now on the floor. “You know this new girl has fabulous blonde hair. She has legs that go on for miles and she can sing like a skylark.” Murmured Betty. “Everyone loves her, lots of the other girls are jealous, but I’m just happy for her.

Arnold sat on the floor caressing Betty’s foot, he had the ring held out with the other hand, he’d opened it with his teeth as Betty gabbled away.

“She’s from somewhere up North, terrible dress sense, looked like she was living in the dark ages, so I took her shopping with her first pay packet, helped her out a bit and now she’s cooking up a storm!” Betty wriggled her toes. “I’m

Thinking about maybe going blonde. I think I’d suit blonde. What do you think? Do you like blondes? Do you think I’d make a good blonde? Would you like it Arnold?”

Arnold didn’t respond.

“Arnold?” Betty sat up, to see Arnold on one knee on the floor holding aloft the sparkler destined for Betty’s finger.

“Aaaaaaggghhhhhhhh!” Betty screamed. “What is that?! Is that for me? Arnie? Arnie?!”

Arnold nodded.

“I do! I mean I will.” Gabbled Betty. “I mean, oh, sorry, you haven’t even asked me yet have you? Oh, I’m sorry I’ve ruined it.” Betty kneeled on the bed and bounced up and down like an excited teenager.

“No, my darling you have made it a whole lot easier.” Smiled Arnold. “Here try it on.”

He held his breath and slipped the ring onto Betty’s finger, it fitted perfectly as he had made some good guestimations in the run up to the purchase of the ring. “Betty, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Dazzled by the perfection of the solitaire.

*

Betty and Arnold travelled to Germany and rubbed shoulders with Adolf Hitler and his National Socialist German Workers' Party in Berlin. Arnold was there to advise Adolf on eugenics. But he became a close advisor to Adolf, he enjoyed his rallies and was impressed by Adolf’s ability to whir up a crowd into a great frenzy. Adolf was keen to know who else would benefit from being added to the sterilisation programme. They were already sterilising people on the grounds of “feeblemindedness” but he wanted to add to the list: the offspring of mixed races, Jewish people, Gypsies, homosexuals. Arnold knew it went against the theories of eugenics to sterilise people on grounds of religion and sexual tendencies as they were not genetic traits. He also felt it unnecessary to sterilise homosexuals as they were unlikely to reproduce. But he was so caught up in his own self importance now, he encouraged the German’s to go ahead with their plans. Nazi’s began their campaign to win over and dazzle the German people, which eventually succeeded.

On further trips for Arnold back to Germany, Adolf began enquiring how they could make sterilising cheaper. Vasectomy and ligation of ovarian tubes

was becoming expensive. Adolf admitted to Arnold that thousands of women were dying due to complications from having their tubes tied and that this pleased him. It meant that they would have the “clean” race that he was looking for much sooner.

“Ve are sinking zat zee lives of many of zees ill people are useless and simply an economic burden. Vhat ve vill be doing is carrying out euthanasia, bringing in a new law, so zat ve can present “mercy killings. I am growing impatient and I vant to see ze perfect land that you are always promising right now!” Adolf told Arnold one afternoon in the late 1930s as they sat in his office in The Reich Chancellery. Adolf drummed the stumpy fingers of his right hand on the marble desk and smoothed the side sweep of his fringe down with his left hand.

Arnold had become tired of his work. The fame and notoriety he had been hoping for had never materialised, instead he had become a henchman for this peculiar moustachioed man from Germany. Betty was pregnant and had given up her singing and dancing to travel with Arnold and he just wanted to settle down back in England and not be flying back and forth across Europe all the time living out of a suitcase.

“Dear Adolf, I am not sure that your country will be so keen on “mercy killing.” Arnold tried to put things tactfully, as Adolf had a tendency to erupt when he wasn’t agreed with. Arnold shifted uncomfortably. “People do not want to see their relatives and family dying.”

“Not even if it for zere own good? Ve are doing a great favour. Zay can stop vorrying about zem all ze time.” Adolf nodded at Arnold as he spoke so that Arnold would nod back in agreement.

“I am not sure that I agree with you.” Arnold looked uncomfortably around the room. He had long lost his admiration for this man as his ideas were becoming more and more tyrannical. He was quite sure that Adolf needed locking up and sterilising as he was quite clearly barmy. Arnold stared at the black and white swastika flag hung proudly on the wall, deep in thought, so that when he looked away, the image stayed imprinted on his retinas, the more he tried to blink it away, the more it seemed to flash and torment him.

“You do not agree viz me? Hmm.” Adolf looked thoughtfully at Arnold as though he was planning what to do with him. “Maybe ve vill carry out ze exterminations in secret.”

Exterminations? Thought Arnold. Oh boy. What was happening? “Adolf please.”

“Adolf, please!” mocked Adolf, the swastika still tormenting his vision as if to try and hypnotise him.. “Forget your English politeness viz your please and thank yous. You are one of us now.” Adolf thumped his fist hard on the marble desk, which must have hurt quite a lot.

Arnold thought he saw a little tear of pain in his eye.

But Adolf quickly blinked it away. “Ya, forget zis, zis Englishness, forget your dancing whore vife and join vis us. Permanently. I know you share ze same values as me. You vant a perfect land, together ve can have it.”

“I do not advocate the killing of innocent people though.” Mumbled Arnold.

Adolf sucked the air through his teeth, his harsh thin lips curled up into a snarl topped off by his comedy Charlie Chaplin moustache, he narrowed his eyes. “Vell, I have somesing to show you. Come.” Adolf stood up and indicated to Arnold to follow him.

Arnold picked his coat, hat and cane up and dutifully followed. They headed down the great gallery of the Reich Chancellery which despite still being under construction presented a breath taking walkway. Adolf was flanked by two of his brown shirts carrying guns. Despite having no audience other than Arnold they walked down the hallway as thought they were performing for the ministry of silly walks. Arnold wondered how he would fend for himself with only the use of his cane if they were marching him to his death. For the first time, he did not feel like the Great-I-Am and genuinely feared for his life. Maybe it was the fact that he had created life with Betty that made him feel and empathy towards his fellow humans for once, but the growing absurdity of the Nazi Party and his deep involvement with them rested heavily on his shoulders.

“So, vas your father a rich professional?” Adolf asked Arnold. It was the first time he had asked him anything personal about his life.

That was it. Thought Arnold. He was doomed. He had already had his wife insulted and now when Adolf found out that Arnold was an orphan since a baby and did not know who his parents even were, he would have him exterminated with all the other imperfect civilians that came his way.

“No, my father was a teacher.” Arnold lied.

“Really?” Said Adolf looking him in the eye as if he could sense the fabrication in his voice. ”I am sure he vas a great man like you.” Adolf said kindly, changing his discourse.

He took Arnold in to a large room, where men were seated at tables pouring over papers.

“You see zees?” He picked one of the papers up and showed it to Arnold. “Zey are questionnaires, my doctors ‘ere ‘ave been checking through and we have evidence that many people will be mercifully given injections of death.” He said death with a pleased glint in his eye as though he had just mentioned something thoroughly delicious like cake. Mmm, death.

Arnold looked around the room where life or death decisions were quite literally being made. He looked at the paper held in his hand. “Klaus Schwartzkopf,” he read. “Geburtstag, 22.6.1929. Geistige und koperliche behindert.” Arnold could not read the rest of the questionnaire because it was written in German and he found it difficult to translate. But he understood that it was referring to a child as his birthday date made him nine years old. Next to his name was a simple red cross “+” written in pencil. He knew that Geistige und koperliche behindert meant mentally and physically disabled from the work he had already carried out with the German‘s over the years. “What does the red cross signify?” He asked, although he didn’t really need to ask, as he feared he already knew it‘s macabre significance.

“It is a life of no hope. It is to be exterminated. A mercy death.” Adolf exclaimed wildly, grinning happily at his divulgement. He clapped his hands in glee.

“Excellent!” Said Arnold conveying a false and impressed interest. He had no choice but to go along with this mad man’s notions. His own neck was on the line here. A cold chill ran up his spine and the lunch he had previously enjoyed, consisting of wiener schnitzel, green beans and potatoes lovingly prepared by the staff at the Adlon hotel where Betty was waiting for him, made it’s way back up his oesophagus and into the back of his throat. He pretended to cough and swallowed the offending mixture back down. He simply could not allow his alarm to be detected. “How do you propose to carry out so many acts of euthanasia?” He looked at the ever growing piles of paper with their solemn red crosses blinking out, red eyes of death, the very opposite to how The Red Cross were known to Arnold in his own country. His own country. Britain. That was where he belonged. That was where he should be.

“Are you pleazed Arnold? You must be. Ve are so much closer to the perfect vorld in vhich you speak of. Ve are so close.” Adolf was delighted with himself ande delighted with Arnold. “Ve couldn’t have done zees without you.” Vhat I vould like to do is experiment on tvins. See vhat ve can find out from their genetic similarities. Vhat do you sink? Zees must be right up your street Arnold, vould you head this campaign for me?”

Twins? Thought Arnold? Where were they planning to get twins from? “Erm, yes.” Said Arnold, that sounds very interesting. “What sort of experiments did you have in mind? Social experiments, nurture over nature type of thing?”

“Nein, nein, nein.” Said Adolf softly. “Dr Brandt.” He spoke to one of the doctors who was busily adding red crosses to the questionnaires.

“Ja?” Spoke Dr Brandt, he put down his red pencil down on the table and turned to Arnold his face thin lipped and serious, he was more of a Great-I-Am than Arnold could ever be with his stumpy red pencil, marking a red cross like a birthday card kiss. The kiss of death.

“Wo sind die experiment fotos?” Adolf asked.

Dr Brandt rose silently from his chair and went to the other side of a room and began rummaging through a filing cabinet. He pulled out a file marked “T-4” and passed it to Adolf. “Hier sind sie.” He said - here they are. And walked back to his chair before once more picking up his pencil which was indeed mightier than any sword and began picking up papers and marking crosses by the side of each name.

“Here, you vill see ve are making plans to look at vays to improve medicine for our people.” He showed Arnold some black and white shots of the mutilated bodies of people that had been dissected. “It is science ja? Zees bodies already dead before ve start zee vork. Vhat ve vant to do is test on live people. Zen ve vill give people who are good for nothing, some good for something, ja?”

Arnold nodded meekly, the bile growing in his stomach. “I really must get back now. Betty is waiting for me to dine with her. She is no longer a dancing whore,” he laughed as though the insult was merely a joke. “We are having a baby.” As soon as he told Adolf that, he wished he hadn’t - what if they wanted to take her and experiment on her body. Alive?

*

Betty rubbed her growing tummy. “Look how round I am Arn.” She peered at herself in the full length mirror of their suite at The Adlon Hotel opposite The Brandenburg Gate. “Don’t I look funny?” She laughed at herself. “We still have another three months to go as well.”

Arnold did not look at her stomach, he was not hearing what she had said. He did not even know how he had got back from The Reich Chancellory, the last few hours had turned into a blurry nightmare as the realisation of what he had been saying all these years and the monster he had become hit him like a foot wide meteor falling out of the sky and smashing him in the face.

“I am famished darling. Absolutely starving. I simply cannot stop eating. Thank God for room service.” Continued Betty, talking away ten to the dozen as always. “ I could murder a nice British roast dinner.” She held her hand up as high as she could reach. “I’ve had it up to hear with Schnitzel crumbs.” She laughed at her own joke. “I’m going to order a sandwich. It’ll have to be ham and cheese though. I absolutely have to have both.” Betty looked down and rubbed her tummy once more. “We absolutely have to have both.” She corrected herself. Betty was positively glowing. She had had enough of the cliquey London scene and her dancing peers who were becoming increasingly bitchy. New girls were joining who were younger and younger and well, she was married now, so she wasn’t really supposed to be working under current legislation. She took on her new role of Arnold’s travelling ever growing side-kick with gusto.

Arnold was becoming progressively more paranoid. He looked out of the window not knowing what he was expecting to see, but life looked pretty normal out there, the great fountain continued to gush and spew water high into the air and folk seemed to be going about their everyday business as usual. The Nazi Party were an unpleasant bunch and he needed to get himself and Betty out of there quick sharp. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. But he needed to make a disappearing act of sorts. He knew that Adolf wouldn’t take kindly to his absence.

“Hello,” said Betty talking into the telephone. “This is Betty Heap I would like to order some room service please… yes please, it’s Suite number….”

Betty did not get to place her order. Arnold had put the receiver down. For the first time since Arnold had arrived back to their suite, Betty noticed the grave look of concern in her husband’s eyes. Immediately she knew that something very serious was afoot. The blood drained from her face, the baby in her belly gave a violent kick from within her womb in response to the flood of adrenaline that rushed into her placenta.

“We have to leave darling. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Arnold broke down. “What have I done?” Sadness for the poor children who were systematically being put to their death filled Arnold’s once unwavering conscience.

“There there darling.” Betty soothed, she was always calm in a crisis. She may have been rattled on the inside like a road drill on a pavement, but her exterior was calm for Arnold. As she held onto Arnold who was now sobbing like a child in despair, she deftly picked up the phone with her other hand. “British Airways please.”

*

Ernst took a bite of his cream tea. Oh, the indulgence. The sweet sensation of the jam and the creaminess of Devon’s finest filled his mouth with the tasty cakey scone freshy baked by Barbara that was still warm from the oven. He was such a lucky man. His wife Barbara was the most wonderful person to walk the planet and he had her to thank for his escape from Berlin back in 1939. Just a month later, after Hitler had been going crazy in Poland, Britain declared war on Germany and there would have been no way that they could have boarded a flight out of there so easily by then. Had it not been that Arnold was married to Betty and she was carrying their first child, Arnold would more than likely have become heavily embroiled in the atrocities that The Nazis were carrying out. As they got back to the United Kingdom, Arnold went straight to his links that were in the know and had death certificates issued for him and Betty. That is when they took on new personas and became the recently deceased Mr Ernst Smythe and Miss Betty Harpington. They had to remarry as the people they were taking the place of were obviously not a couple, so off they headed to Gretna Green, where they became Mr and Mrs Harpington-Smythe as a nod to both the people who had given their lives for them. They moved to a quiet village in the North of England just outside Durham where nobody would recognise them or have a clue who they were and began a normal and somewhat mundane life in comparison to their previous existence, bringing up their two children Martha and Harold and getting by. Ernst did not want to be associated with his previous life, because he was hugely ashamed of the work he had done with the Nazis but he still held on to his beliefs that eugenics and sterilisation was the way forward, especially when he had his day ruined by some nincompoop that was invading his time, further fuelling his misanthropic outlook on life. He had initially feigned their deaths because he was afraid that somewhere along the line he would be either wanted by The Nazis or accused of espionage against his own beloved country. Nobody came looking for them, because nobody missed them, they had no close family. Those that had been involved with them professionally, thought that they were dead. Adolf Hitler became occupied with the war and later committed suicide in a bunker within the Reich Chancellery where Ernst had last seen him. They made a point of switching off the radio when any news of Nazi Germany came on and they became rather adept at avoiding stories in the papers referring to the holocaust.

Luckily Ernst had his talent of painting and sculpting to fall back on. He began making enough to get by as an artist, teaching at local centres. And together, despite Britain being at war once more, they managed to produce three children. Martha, Wendy and Harold. With eugenics swaying softly at the back of his mind, he expected perfection from his children. He believed himself to be of a particularly fine mind and he saw Barbara as near perfect, so Martha, Wendy and Harold were brought up not being able to put a foot wrong. To say that their upbringing was tyrannical would not be over exaggerating at all. The two girls got on well, but all the expectations were heavily placed on Harold seeing as he was the only boy and when he appeared to be weak in spirit and a “bit slow” when it came to academia, he was shipped off to boarding school. What they didn’t realise at the time, was the fact that Harold was dyslexic and against all odds, Harold was a high achiever and became a doctor of medicine and a man of the cloth. Which is quite something considering Ernst got by on scams and contrivance his entire life.

“Ooh, did I tell you that Mrs Daily from the village bakery would like you to paint her shop.” Asked Barbara suddenly remembering. She slopped a spoon full of sugar into her tea and stirred noisily.

“Really? What colour would she like it painting?” Teased Ernst. He looked at his wife adoringly. He loved the way that she always had such a cheerful disposition despite the life she had lead.

“Oh, Ern.” Barbara chuckled. “ I say, shall we take a walk over there later and you can have a chat with her?” Barbara took a big slurp of her tea.

“I suppose so,” said Ernst slightly irked by Barbara’s noisy habits. “I need to get more of this done today though.” He looked at the easel where his current creation was half formed, a portrait of a man in a bowler hat, Magritte style, minus the apple and with a recognisable face. He had been commissioned to create it by a young musician from Liverpool. His neighbour had told him the musician was famous, but Ernst was still avoiding the media at all costs and really didn’t have a clue who he was.

The doorbell rang. Barbara stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. “I wonder who that could be? We’re not expecting anyone, postman’s already been. Brought nothing but bills,“ she muttered to herself as she walked carefully back downstairs. “We shouldn’t be getting bills, not at our advanced age.” She chuckled her warm bosomy chuckle.

Still chuckling, she opened the door to be greeted by a spotty adolescent looking young man dressed in a green courier uniform, his hat slipping over his eyes so that he looked even more absurd and unprofessional.

“Telegram.“ He said holding a brown envelope out to Barbara and pushing his hat back up his nose which immediately slipped back down and covered his eyes again.

You are sixteen going on seventeen. She thought to herself and chuckled some more as she thought of the courier in her favourite film The Sound of Music. “Thank you, very much.” She said smiling.

The courier continued to stand at the doorway not moving as if he was expecting something.

“Oh, do need to pay you?” Barbara asked. Was she supposed to pay him? She wasn’t sure how the telegram system worked, she hadn’t received one before. Why was she receiving a telegram? Harold always wrote letters. Unless it was something urgent. Oh, no, maybe something terrible had happened to Harold. She looked at the envelope, it wasn’t from the Queen informing her that he had been killed in action. No. That would be silly especially as he was not even away fighting at war. The envelope simply said :

INTERNATIONAL TELEGRAM SERVICES

MR AND MRS HARPINGTON-Smythe

“No, you don’t need to pay me.” Said the courier looking disappointed and began to walk away back down their stepping stone path across the lawn to their garden gate.

“Oh, wait. Hang on.” Said Barbara feeling sorry for him, which is exactly what he was hoping for. “She took a red leather purse from her old brown handbag in the hallway and got some coins out for him. There you go - she handed him two silver ten bob bits and shut the door behind him, eager to know what news the telegram contained.

She read the words and clasped the telegram to her chest. They were words that she had never expected to see or hear.

Ernst sensing the unusual silence from his wife came scuttling out of his study and stood at the top of the stairs, crumbs still clinging to his un-wiped whiskers. “Whatever’s happened dear girl?” He peered hard through his spectacles trying to see what Barbara was holding.

Barbara remained silent and rubbed her head.

Ernst dragged himself down stairs as quickly as he could manage and took the now screwed up telegram from the panic of Barbara’s tight grip. He straightened out the paper and held it up so that he could see it. “Oh no dear girl. Oh no. Not our only son.”

What terrible thing had happened to Harold? What terrible news had they just been delivered at the cost of four shillings?

TELEGRAM

MR AND MRS ERNST HARPINGTON Smythe = ANDELINE AND I TO BE MARRIED ON 25^THSEPT 1967 PLEASE JOIN US = HAROLD HARPINGTON-Smythe BUNUK DISPENSARY SARAWAK

Harold's imminent wedding to Andeline should of course been good news. But not to Ernst. He may have been known to everyone as Ernst Harpington-Smythe the artist nowadays, but he was still Arnold Parkinson the eugenicist inside. How could his only son be considering marrying an Asian woman? Not just an Asian woman, but a wild woman of Borneo. From some bizarre headhunting tribe.

“The wedding is in less than six weeks time!” Gasped Barbara finally getting her voice back. “Why do you think they are in such a hurry? You don’t suppose she might be…” Barbara did not want to say the words.

Ernst’s face was like thunder. The skin on his cheeks was bright red as the blood bubbled to the surface, it looked as though every capillary were about to burst. Ernst and Barbara had both feared that their son was not interested in women due to his inability to even so much as find a girlfriend. But this was much worse. They could not have children.

Ernst dashed up to the attic room where his passport was kept. He was determined that he was going to stop his fool of a son once and for all. He would not let him marry a foreign woman – particularly an Asian one. It was bad enough that he had been lusting after that French Picasso hussy Monique as far as he was concerned. She was too bohemian in attitude despite her wealthy background. And now this?

“Ernst, you can't just travel out there – it's too risky.” Called Barbara as she followed as fast as she could behind him. “You can’t leave the country, someone might find out who you really are!”

“Hush now woman! You are not to mention another word,” hissed Ernst who was hurriedly rifling through a cardboard box stuffed with papers.

“Our passports must be out of date. We have never even used them!” Said Barbara. “Oh dear. Oh dear. I have a bad feeling about all of this. I say we should just stay put. If he wants to marry a savage, then fine. I say we leave them to it and cut them out of our lives.”

“I will not have a half caste bastard child inheriting our home one day. No way.” Fumed Ernst. Picking up boxes and emptying papers onto the floor.

“We can write Harold and his offspring out of our will.” Cried Barbara. “Ernst, we have survived with our secret for over thirty years. I am finally at a stage where I don’t feel paranoid walking to the shops.

“He’s our only son.” Said Ernst calmly. Crouching on the floor while his hands were still manically sifting through a third box of old bumph. He stopped and pulled out an A4 envelope marked I.D. documents. He looked inside and saw that their birth certificates, well, the birth certificates of the real Ernst Harpington and Barbara Smythe were there. He poked them back in the envelope and rose stiffly, knees creaking. He pulled off his smoking jacket as he rushed to the bedroom to get his blazer.

“Oh Ernst,” said Barbara fearfully as she hurriedly kicked her slippers off and slipped her feet into court shoes. “Oh dear. Oh dear.” She kept repeating as she threw her apron on the bed and pulled a cream cardigan on over her dress. “Oh dear, oh dear.” As she followed Ernst out of the back door onto the driveway where their green Ford Anglia was parked. “Oh dear, oh dear.” As they sped off onto the road at top speed, their tea still on the tray going colder in the pot with two half eaten scones on their plates in the study.

Ernst put his foot down on the accelerator and sped round the narrow Lake District Roads, over, through and around rolling countryside and onto the motorway. He was heading for London to get a new passport, then he intended to fly straight to Borneo to sort his good for nothing son out. Barbara clung onto her seat for dear life. She had seen Ernst lose his temper many a time before, but she had not known his behaviour to be as extreme as this. They hadn’t even packed any luggage. “Ernst, we haven’t even got any luggage.”

“We can buy suitcases and clothes in London while we are waiting for them to process our passports.” Ernst told Barbara. As he weaved dangerously in and out of the traffic. “Blast you! Get out of the bloody way!” He cursed as other cars who unfortunately happened to be using the M6 motorway as well that day were driving too slowly for Ernst. Ernst had never even taken his driving test, he simply acquired his driving licence the day he became Ernst Harpington.

“Hoooonk,” came the sound of car horns as Ernst swerved and over took and undercut and drove up the backside of all and sundry. “Hoooonk.” The poor Ford Anglia was doing it’s best to keep up with Ernst’s demands.

Bash. He clipped the passenger side wing mirror off he drove to close to another car while overtaking. “Hooonk!”

“Ernst!” Slow down. “We’ll be killed before we even make it to London.” Screamed Barbara.

But Ernst was too far gone to even listen he was caught up in the adrenaline and the chase of his mission. He was not going to be held up by other drivers and he did not care. “Hold on my love.” he rallied. “I’ll have us there in no time.”

“Oh dear,” said Barbara for the last time as the inevitable violent collision sounded out. The brakes of the Ford Anglia locked. Metal clunked and crunched as they span and banged into traffic in front, gravel spat from spinning wheels as the traffic from behind came crashing into the now concertinaed car. Horns blared. Curdled voices of despair screamed out into the thick dusty air only to go unheard amidst the cacophony of sound. Then. Silence.