Name Change - Hue Am I?

I've been really busy with my business and it's new venture Southsea Boutique Market.

Southsea Boutique Market

Which obviously is a good reason to be too busy to write.  But I have another dilemma.  My name.  As well as expanding my business, more drama has been in my chaotic life in the form of the fact that my now ex- husband and I have gone our separate ways. I initially wanted to keep his surname.  But as it has become more apparent that I will not be a part of that family anymore, I have decided that it is best to go back to my maiden name, Pallant-Sidaway.

Facepalm

It's been a few months now and we are over the worst of it, so I have changed my name by the simplicity of online deed poll.  It's not the first time I've gone back to my maiden name, but the problem I have is that I started this blog last year and it's called Abigail Mansell.  Sigh.  My youngest child has that surname so it is not such a bad thing.  But do I keep the blog going as Abigail Mansell when that is not even who I am anymore?  I could start a new blog, Abigail Pallant-Sidaway, but then I would lose all the SEO that I have built up with this one.  And of course, it's confusing for you my faithful readers...

Oh well, whatever happens, I am still me.  A name is just a name and as I am barely able to write at the moment it is hardly something that should be concerning anyone. Hue am I again?

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.

Never Judge A Book By It's Cover - novel - Chapter two and three

Oh boy.  As I have been unable to write due to a huge load of work on the shop needing doing.  I do not have much to report.  so I may as well throw my soul on the line and allow my self esteem to be crushed into a thousand more pieces due to lack of response.  But here goes.  Here are chapters two and three for you.  I have another sixteen chapters written.  So if you would like to read more, then please comment and I will post more.


It is unedited, so I apologise for the bad grammar, spelling mistakes and things that might not really make sense.

These are the two main things that are taking up my writing time, my youngest and my Anne-Claire Petit pouffes

So far, the main feedback I have had is that there is a lack of description from the outset.  But I am skipping back and forth on purpose. I also wanted to leave it up to the reader's imagination, but somewhere as far away and unimaginable as the rainforest deserves a good description , so I have added some new paragraphs and I will be detailing it much more in my continuation.


 Some of the sentences are very long, because I am trying to write rhythmically, the way that Salman Rushdie does for example, and I stress example so hopefully it is more simplified than his elegant writing style as I am no way any where near as stylish as he is in prose.


Oh and the chapters are very long. You may need a coffee to go with them to keep you awake. if you are new to this blog you can read chapter one here: http://www.abigailmansell.com/2010/10/chapter-one-delivery-womb-extract-from.html




2. Jackie O, Sarawak 1965


Meanwhile a pretty young Andeline the second daughter of village elder Endal and his deceased wife Namari and younger sister of Nayla mother of the purple headed one, swung her legs off a high wall overlooking Sarawak  River in the capital city of Kuching.  She sucked on a  frozen red drink shrouded in plastic  that she had bought from a street seller by the hawker stalls and giggled with her friend Stephanie as two tanned and rather buff American army guys walked by and winked at them.


“Hee hee, Amercan G.I.!” whispered Stephanie.  “They so handsome I would love to marry one.”


“Handsome yes, but they will break your heart,” said the ever sensible Andeline. ”American men all have wives and many children all over the World, they tell you they love you, then they leave you with only ten American dollars and a growing belly. Then no man will love you because you are a jezebel with a bastard baby!”  Although this was not necessarily true, Andeline had been told this by one of the nuns at the Catholic School that she and Stephanie attended so she firmly believed it to be set in stone.


Naïve Stephanie who’s parents were Chinese rubbed her flat little stomach.  “How can you have a baby without being married?!”


“That is how bastard babies are made!”  Said Andeline, who at nineteen years old, still hadn’t fully got to grips with the world of procreation either. ”They pretend to marry you even though they already have a wife.”


“Oh dear.”  Stephanie looked sad.  “American soldiers are not very nice are they?  I don‘t like the name Jezebel.”


“Look at the soldier on the left,” said Andeline indicating to the two soldiers over her shoulder who were now purchasing tepid cans of cola from the hawker stall behind them.  “He is so handsome I am sure he has never had to fight in a war to keep his face so pretty!”


Stephanie laughed out loud but looked away blushing as she caught the eye of one of the handsome men in uniform.


They carried on swinging their legs over the high wall where the swirling swollen river below played host to fishermen’s boats and huge hungry crocodiles, some of which were in turn playing host to the bones of once hungry fishermen.  Along the way were the majestic English and Dutch colonial buildings built by  the great white Rajah’s over the past 100 years.  Directly opposite them were the water shacks of the Kampong villages, spewing out over the river on raised wooden platforms like mini bamboo pier homes - typical of the Sarawak indigenous style.  The midday sun beat down on them ferociously, so the girls held a newspaper over their heads to avoid the rays from turning their skin any darker.  Dark skin was a sure sign of poverty in this country.  The fairer the skin the more beautiful a girl and the darker the skin the more outdoor work must have been performed, making her look poor and unattractive in their eyes.  Unlike their English and American female counterparts who were busy abusing  their skin in a cancerous free era across the continent.


Hank Glassman one of the two American soldiers,  picked up a flutter of enthusiasm from Stephanie with his finely tuned girl radar and gave a nod to his friend Billy Henstrom.  They began walking over to the two girls.  Life was easy for these two men as Kuching City was a laid back place.   There were some problems with Chinese Communists that meant that the area of Siburan just outside Kuching was controlled by a strict curfew that ran from 6am till 7pm. This was where Harold was based and unbeknown to him, there was actually a bus and a road that lead to the outskirts of the village he had just undergone his ordeal at.  But for some reason,  the overseas mission had decided to smuggle him in to do his work in secret to avoid having to log his presence with the soldiers manning the gates of the boundaries which they hoped in turn would not alert his activity with the Chinese Communists. The people of Sarawak were highly obliging good honest people and no trouble as far as soldiers like Hank and Billy could see, so they spent most of their days wandering around Kuching enjoying it’s laid back lifestyle and indulging in some of it‘s more laid back inhabitants.


“Hello!”  Said Hank brightly.


“Herro,” replied Stephanie, eagerly leaning forward because she could not  believe her luck that these two handsome men were talking to her.


Andeline gave a half smile and turned back towards the river to show that she wasn’t interested.


“My name is Hank,” said Hank.


“And I’m Billy,” continued Billy.


The two men held their hands out and shook hands with Stephanie, who was beaming away.


She looks like a nincompoop.  Andeline thought to herself.  She knew what these men were after and they weren‘t going to be getting anything from her.  But then, an American boyfriend would be kind of cool.  She held her hand out and blushed when she was greeted by the firm grip and unfaltering gaze of Billy.


“Billy Helstrom,” he stated and gave a little smile that lead to well formed creases at the corner of his mouth, little creases that enhanced his smile and which were irresistible to Andeline.  “We are American soldiers.”  He pointed to the badge on his chest.


The twang in his voice reminded Andeline of Elvis.  Andeline, Billy Helstrom’s gal.  Andeline considered.  But then she gathered herself.  “Of course we know you are American soldiers!” scoffed Andeline.  “We are not stupid girls.  We are college girls!”  Because everyone knows that indigenous tribe college girls are not at all stupid as they are away from the jungle for the first time without any parental guidance.  And of course - their parents had taught them everything about the big bad world of city living. Well, actually, no, they hadn’t but Andleine did know how to differentiate between soldiers uniforms.  As Endal had taught all his many children using a few grainy black and white photographs that had been left with him by previous Western visitors.  Which of course is about as useful in life as a cat-flap on a submarine.  But on this day - it gave Andeline the huffy superiority she wanted to convey.


“Hey, hey, sorry!”  Said Hank who had a great way of defusing situations with his smooth talking.  “We weren’t sure if you could speak English.”  That was of course a bit of a lie as there was a great deal to be said for social dialogue and there weren’t many young people who couldn’t speak English sitting on walls sucking frozen flavoured ice on walls in Kuching.  The uneducated ones were still back deep within the deepest darkest confines of the jungle.  But he was a charmer and charmers will say anything to swing the situation their way.  Not only was Hank a charmer but an excellent one at that, his very words were often enough to excite and entice the ladies, young and not so young, into removing all their clothes back home in California.  Maybe it was the wavelet of his chest, the sun-kissed blondeness of his hair or the lure of his blue (of course)  all American double lidded eyes.  Because somehow, all these attributes rendered girls useless. Hank was the antithesis of the ‘girl in every port’ kind of man.  The exact kind of man that Sister Geraldine the nun had warned Andeline about.  But sister Geraldine needn’t have worried because it was young Billy that was causing sweet Andeline to swoon.


“So, do you ladies live in Kuching?”  Asked Billy opening his can of cola.


“Yes, we do while we are at college,” answered Stephanie who hadn’t been referred to as a lady before thus causing her to have her ego thoroughly stoked.  She had by now swung both of her legs back over the wall to face the two men, with one flip flop dangling off her big toe.  The top of her long black hair had been teased into a semi-beehive in an attempt to mimic the Western fashion.  In the newspapers they had seen pictures of Priscilla, the girlfriend of Elvis looking chic with her smokey black eyeliner and gravity defying hair.  Trend following girls across the world wanted to look like her and Stephanie was no exception.


“Ugh!”  Billy exclaimed as he took his first slurp of warm tingly cola.  “This drink is almost hot.”  He spat the contents of his mouth onto the pavement and all four of them watched as the sugary cola sizzled in the sun before laying motionless and all out of fizz.


The two girls couldn’t help but giggle.  Sarawakians find humour in most everything and Sarawakians of the teenage variety were no exception.


“Warm cola again Billy?”  Enquired Hank.


Billy nodded.


“Say, I don’t suppose you two lovely ladies know of anywhere that we can get a nice cold drink do you?” Asked Hank in his Southern drawl.  “This stuff sure tastes nasty all warm.”


“Yes, there is Chan’s Café,” said Stephanie helpfully.  “He has ice for drinks and good pau.”  Paus being mouth watering Chinese dumplings filled with char siu pork.


“Or you can buy red frozen drink from that hawker stall,” said Andeline.  Pointing to where she had bought hers from.  “Only two cents, nice and cold.”  She sarcastically attempted to mimic Hanks Southern drawl.


“How about somewhere where we can get a nice cold beer - you know - somewhere where we could take two beautiful and sophisticated ladies such as yourselves?”  Asked Billy giving Andeline a cheeky wink.  He patted his slicked up hair reminding Andeline once again of Elvis.  Secretly she was very pleased to be referred to as beautiful and  sophisticated.  Those two words alone, two words that are rarely bestowed to a mild woman of Borneo such as Andeline were like the Oscars of compliments, the Nobel Peace Prize of flattery, the Knighthood of adulation, regardless of whether or not the presenter was earnest in his speech.


The two girls looked at each other.  Stephanie was grinning and nodding and swinging her legs in excitement.


Andeline screwed up the wrapper of her frozen drink and rolled her eyes.  “Okay, kay.  We can go to Aurora Hotel.  Near Sarawak Museum.  They have bar with beer.  I have seen soldiers go in there with sophisticated ladies.”  She spoke the word sophisticated slowly.  She liked the way it sounded.  The way it conjured up images of British princesses and American first ladies, noble and stylish.  That was who she most wanted to be in her heart and dreams as she fell asleep at night, the last few warming thoughts on her mind before the rapture of sleep gently tugged her through the boundaries of consciousness into islumber’s magical world.


“Sounds just perfect - hey Hank?”  Said Billy.  “Shall we?”  He bowed slightly and offered his arm out to Andeline who now smiling at last skipped off the wall and threaded her slim arm through his solid elbow limb which was pumped to the max from hours of voluntary press-ups and enforced military training.


The perfect set up had been cannily orchestrated for an easy pick up scenario.  Hank and Billy were more than acquainted with the Aurora Hotel having been there a number of times since arriving in Kuching a month ago, why it was probably one of them that Andeline had seen visiting there before with a sophisticated lady as she walked passed there from church back to the college dormitories every Sunday lunchtime.
*


Three beers each had passed the lips of the two soldiers, Stephanie was rosie cheeked and giggling continuously on her second vodka martini, even though each sip burned her throat and made her eyes water.  Andeline had been talked into a Jackie K, the cocktail de jour which thankfully was tall, syrupy and creamy.  She sensibly - as ever - made sure she savoured every sip, partly because it was such an expensive drink but most importantly because she did not want to get drunk and lose herself or her carefully guarded virginity.  The quartet were talking freely and Andeline so that she felt like she had known these two strangers her whole life  The initial wariness had faded fast with the first few trickles of the alcoholic nectar and she knew that she would be saying “yes” were she offered another Jackie K.


Billy and Hank were both particularly taken by Andeline.  She had a pretty face with even small features and an air of dignity about her which made her stand out from the seas of wide nosed mono-lidded Asians they were used to meeting.  Back in the village kampong she had always been mocked for being so aloof.  But she had held her own and today her actions were paying off.  Because it doesn’t get more cool to a nineteen year old girl who grew up in a tribe of headhunters immersed in the jungle of Borneo, than sitting in a marble clad hotel drinking a Jackie Kennedy cocktail and talking to two good looking American men about whether Paul McCartney  is the best Beatle, if Cher should stay with Sonny and reciting their favourite lines from Audrey Hepburn films.   They could easily have been companions for years thought Andeline.


“You are Dayak aren’t you?”  stated Hank, taking his chance to try and win Andeline over from Billy’s enchantment.


“Yes,  I am - Bidayuh,” said Andeline surprised.  “How can you tell?”  Westerners couldn’t usually tell the difference between Chinese and Malaysian never mind accurately be able to tell when someone was from an indigenous tribe.  “You say, you only been here four weeks.”


“Yes Mam, that is true, we only been here one month.” Explained Hank trying to connect his gaze with Andeline’s.  Her face reddened as if to mimic the grenadine laced liquid she was slurping.


“Could we get more drinks please?”  Called Billy indicating to the bar tender.  “Thirsty ha, Andeline?”  He winked that winning wink once more.


Flustered, Andeline looked down and noticed her glass was empty.


“Well, ya see, a’m from a small town outside Texas, an we don’t have any Asian people there.  But I seen pictures of your tribe.”  Hank took the new tray of drinks from the bar tender and waved him away with his hand.  “My father was out here back in 1945.  Nearly a gonna so he was…”


“Was he a missionary?”  Asked Andeline.  In addition to the British missionaries like Harold, there had been Dutch and American missionaries before him spreading the good word of the bible to the headhunting tribes of Sarawak.  They were very highly regarded by the indigenous tribes as they had brought much kindness along with their new teachings.


“No mam, my father was a soldier and so was his father before him.  His name was John an’ he was serving our country fighting the Japanese who were trying to take over Sarawak.”   He leaned back in his chair, chest puffed up proudly thinking of his heroic father.


“Nasty folk those Japanese,” interjected Billy. “We heard stories from surviving prisoners of the Japanese telling us how they would torture and mutilate.  They tie people down over sharpened growing bamboo shoots if they catch you and let the sharp shoots, which grow real fast, pierce into their bodies, guaranteeing a slow and painful death!”


“Uh!” Cried Stephanie.  “That is the work of evil men!”  She shifted uncomfortably on her rattan chair painfully aware that it was made from bamboo.  Bamboo was a gift of nature used for almost everything from food to clothing to building houses.  She couldn’t believe that it also lead to such a grizzly sinister  death.


“Some unlucky folk had their private parts cut right off and shoved into their mouths, then their mouths were sewn up and they were sent back to their camps as an example,” Hank acted out the slow sawing off of his own genitals, then he pretended to put them in his mouth and sewed his lips up.  “This was the Japanese’ way of instilling fear and terror in to their enemies, but it backfired as the Allies only became more determined when they learned of this behaviour.”


Stephanie’s head began spinning from her third vodka Martini and the gruesome thought of the poor men who had had to endure the abomination of having their genetalia hacked off and then being sewn back inside their mouths.  She retched and jumped up to run for the toilets before anyone had the chance to wear the contents of her stomach.


Andeline was morbidly fascinated with the story and was eager to hear more, so that rather than aiding her poorly friend, she chose to stay and listen on.


“Well my father he was shot down with his crew from their US Army aeroplane by the Japanese when he was only 19 years old, he was lucky he had a parachute and I think three of his crew died and seven of them survived when they landed in the jungle.  They were of course terrified.  They knew they were in Borneo  and they were either gonna get their heads chopped off by Japanese or by the terrifying head hunting tribes they had heard about living in the jungle.”  Hank shook his head in wonder.  “My father landed on some awkward branches and a branch stuck neatly in his right butt cheek, but he considered himself to be a lucky one to still have his life.  Their burning aeroplane was a big giveaway as to their whereabouts so they had to get a move on before the Japanese found ’em.”


Stephanie staggered back from the bathroom sniffing but unperturbed.  Fuelled by vodka martini she snuggled in to Hank’s chest and he reciprocated by putting his arm around her.


Andeline smiled at her friend and looked at Hank to continue.


“Well, they spent the night in the jungle - they were army men, but they didn’t know jack about where they were.  They found a river with fresh water in it and were just taking a welcome drink when they were approached by these  wild men wearing loin cloths and carrying spears.  Can you imagine how scared they were?  My Pa thought he was gonna be dinner!”


“What did they say?” asked Stephanie.


“My Pa and his friends put their hands up and stood very still.  The Dayak hunters just stood there at the other side of the river.  They were just as scared.  They’d seen the burning aeroplane you see, and then they’d followed the tracks left by the airmen.  Then the bravest one came across and had a proper look.  You’ll never guess what the Dayak hunter said next.”  Said Hank grinning and scratching his neck.


“How do you do?” joked Andeline in her best cut glass impersonation of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.


“How do you do?” said Billy, changing the inflection and taking the opportunity to squeeze Andeline’s skinny knee.


“Nope,” said Hank.  “But that’s a pretty good guess.  He looked at their uniforms and shouted “American!” back to his fellow tribes men.  He only went and recognised their uniforms and knew that they were American. It was the last thing my father was expecting him to do. Those Dayak hunters had had American missionaries living in their village but the nasty Japanese had taken them away and executed them, men, women and their children as a warning to the allies.  Then they took  Pa and his crew deep into the jungle to hide from the Japanese.”


“Amazing ha? I love this story,” said Billy.  “Your tribe saved their lives!”


“It sure is neat!” said Stephanie picking up the American colloquialism after spending the afternoon with Hank and Billy.


Hank gave a quizzical look to Billy and raised one eyebrow before giving her a little hug.  He realised that he was going to be the one with Stephanie tonight and not Andeline.  He could feel it in his army trousers.  


 “Well, the Dayaks hated the  Japanese for what they had done to their missionary friends and they wanted revenge.  So, to cut a long story short, they hatched a plan  which involved luring the Japanese men in to the river with beautiful naked ladies.  Beautiful ladies like you.“  He looked at both Stephanie and Andeline in turn.


Andeline’s face reddened once more and Stephanie beamed wildly gazing up at her big tall American companion.


“The Japanese fell for it and went into the water to get their wicked way.  But when they got down there, the Dayak men pounced on them and murdered them in cold blood.  Then, they did something that had been outlawed for many years in Sarawak.”


“They took their heads didn’t they.” Affirmed Andeline.


“Yes mam they did.  They scraped the meat clean off their faces and smoked them in the longhouse to release their spirits,” Hank pointed upwards as if a rack of heads were tied up high in the rafters.


Stephanie shuddered.  She had heard tales about the headhunters, but as it was not her culture, she did not fully understand what it was they did and why.


“There was a big celebration after that and the families in the longhouse partied and celebrated.  But my Pa soon got bored with life.  He was getting real thin and where the other men were happy spending time with the Dayak girls - he just wanted to get back home to my Ma.  I was growing in her stomach and he thought he might never get to meet me.”


“Oh, your Mummy must have been lonely,” said Stephanie drunkenly staring off into the distance and taking the opportunity to stroke Hanks impressive forearm.


“She sure was,” said Hank.  Running his hand down the smooth lengths of Stephanie’s long black  hair. “They didn’t have to wait too long though, because some British troops turned up and got them out of their on their aeroplanes.  So, what are you studying?”  He said changing the subject back on the girls.


“We are both training to be teachers.”  Said Stephanie.  “But Andeline is the clever one.  I am very stoopid!”


“No you are not!”  Replied Andeline.  “No, she is not!”  She said looking to both men in turn. “Uh, talking of college - it is getting late.  We should go back to our dormitories now.”  Andeline jumped up, clearly flustered.  She hated to be late for anything, she was as organised as the Oxford dictionary and if it wasn’t for her - Stephanie would have been completely behind on her training course.


Billy stood up politely when Andeline jumped up.  Stephanie stayed slumped in Hank’s arms.  Hanks was whispering sweet unmentionables into her ear.


“Let’s go Stephanie!” said Andeline.


“No, I’m so happy here!” replied Stephanie.  Who was indeed very happy.  Probably the happiest she’d ever been aided by her three martini’s and the company of a hot American soldier.


The bar tender raised his eyes from where he stood polishing glasses.  Because he had witnessed Hank and Billy doing their thing all month.  Most of the girls they had brought in there looked like street rats - easy pickings, a definite score, some of the girls were even questionable as girls, the lady-boys, the Pondans, the he-shes, the she-males,  the  chicks with dicks, the chaps with baps, he liked that term and chuckled to himself as he thought of it.  He had even seen Hank and Billy courting a smart American lady on her own and listened as they had an interesting conversation about the government and American politics.  Only to have the shock of his life when he dropped a napkin while clearing the tables and bent over to pick it up only to notice that she wasn’t wearing her shoes and was gamely massaging both their crotches with her feet as she chatted and drank. He was shocked, but couldn’t help but thinking that they would all be excellent at poker, his favourite pass time.  This was the first time though that the bartender had seen Hank and Billy come in with anyone so young.  He wondered for a moment whether to intervene, but then he remembered the generous tips they always left.  Partly because the cost of living was so low to Hank and Billy and partly because they knew to keep him sweet.  The sentiment of a crisp American bill meant nothing to them and everything to the bartender.  He  was the all seeing eyes - an unspoken middle man, a bridge between Hank and Billy’s activities and their conscience.  Besides, it looked to him as if Andeline could take care of herself.


Hank caught the bartender staring and almost in response he took a ten dollar note from his breast pocket, straightened it out and placed it under his empty glass smiling. “Come on sweet cheeks, “ he said to Stephanie, pulling her up.  “Let’s take you for a walk.”


Stephanie obligingly stood up with both her arms wrapped round Hank’s waist still, the top of her head only coming up to level with his extraordinary chest.  She snuggled in tightly, losing all sense of shame.


Andeline was very much interested in Billy, but she also had a rational head on her.  She knew she had to get back before the nuns became suspicious as to their whereabouts, but if they set off now, there would be time for some kissing and cuddling she hoped.  Andeline’s urgency was Machiavellian in tactic as she planned to have a romantic encounter with Billy while still remaining dignified on the surface.


Stephanie’s feet barely touched the floor as Hank heroically held her in one arm
as she allowed herself to be dragged like a Chinese raggy doll along the street.  The air was warm as darkness had already taken over Kuching, giving the world a new ambience that replaced the day time hussle of the city.  The street hawkers were still going strong as they walked back along the path by the river. Selling noodles and dim sum, their enticing smells of al fresco flavours tantalising the senses for anyone who might be a little hungry or for those without any will-power, but not registering a dot on the nostrils and bellies of anyone with canoodling on their mind.  The night was clear and Andeline looked up at the thousands of stars in the sky.


Billy took her hand as they walked.  “Stars are romantic aren’t they?”


“Yes, I like to try and count them!”  Said Andeline.


“You try to count them?”  Laughed Billy.  “That must get very difficult.”  He began to tickle the back of Andeline’s hand with his fingers as they walked to raise the energy between them  It was certainly working as Andeline felt her synapses kicking in and the hairs on her arms began to raise along with her heartbeat.


“I like to look up at the sky knowing that it’s the same sky that my family back home can see.  We don’t get darkness at the same time everyday back where I’m from, it’s very different from being so near the equator like we are here.  The stars seem closer too.”  Billy told Andeline.


 “They are closer - we are closer to everything in the sky here near the equator.” Andeline looked over her shoulder and noticed that Hank and Stephanie were far behind and fervently necking as the Americans called it.  “Closer to God too.”  She added.


“Are you religious?”  Asked Billy realising that his luck might not be so in with this one.  The religious girls always had their morals especially the Christian ones, they were harder to spot, the Muslim girls were easy to identify with their hair covered in scarves and morals and good up-bringing made Billy’s job as a carnal hunter much harder.  Still, he enjoyed the chase.  He’d even got the scarf off a Muslim girl when he was stationed on mainland Malaysia.  He just needed to do a little more sweet talking with Andeline.


“Yes, I am a Christian” Said Andeline proudly.  “Are you?”  Andeline hoped that he was.  Her destiny in life was to marry a good Christian, she could hear the wedding bells ringing for her and Billy already.


Billy hesitated for a minute, he knew that his answer here would determine which way this situation was going to take him.  If he said “Yes, I’m a Christian,” then Andeline would probably fall in love with him there and then.  If he said, “No, I am not,” then the chances were that he would not even get so much as a brush of her lips.  He began with a compliment.  “You have beautiful eyes…”


They stopped walking.  Billy held her face with his hands, ready to kiss her.


Andeline looked up to him, heart pounding, her mind in total disbelief that she was here in the evening about to be kissed by a handsome American soldier that was actually interested in her.  Andeline a Bidayuh girl who grew up in the jungle.  They could get married and he could come and live in the village with her and her family and they would have lots of babies and he could help run her father’s farm and they would dance and sing and be happy every day… They kissed and Andeline’s head was so full of crazy ideas about the future that she forgot to even enjoy the kissing.  She had kissed a boy back in the kampong once but it was nothing like this.  It went on and on and…”Uh!”  Andeline pulled back in surprise.  Billy’s tongue had fallen right inside her mouth.  She wasn’t expecting that and she didn‘t like it much.  It was about as welcome as the time she’d found a long hair in her mouth when she was eating her favourite noodles at a café.


“Are you okay?” Asked Billy also surprised as the moment between them was interrupted.  “That’s how people kiss you know.”  He held her again and introduced his tongue more softly in demonstration.  “See?”


“Ooh,” said Andeline.  “Your tongue tastes like beer.  I don’t like beer.”  She looked to the floor, realising that she seemed quite childish and that there was probably a lot more that she didn’t know about apart from not knowing how to kiss properly.  Still, she could live with that strange way of kissing if she was going to be Billy‘s wife.  She wasn’t sure that she would be telling their children about it though.  “So,” changing the subject.  “Are you a Christian?”  She asked again.


“Billy resigned himself to the fact that he was not likely to get what he wanted this evening. “No, sweet cheeks.  I am not.  I don’t believe in God or any other God.”


“Oh,” said Andeline looking down at the ground.  This was not good.  She couldn’t marry a none Christian.  What would God think?  Where would they get married?  Maybe this is how American men left bastard children everywhere.  His kissing is quite horrible anyway, she thought.  This American GI, Billy Helstrom was not to be Andeline’s man.


Billy looked at Andeline, trying to work out what she was thinking.  He had no idea how insulted she was to hear that someone did not believe in God, who wasn’t a Christian and… please no…. she had just kissed him.  With tongues even though it wan‘t entirely intentional on her part.


“It’s getting late,” she finally said.  “Stephanie!”  She called and looked up to see Stephanie and Hank coming up for air.  They began walking slowly back to Andeline and Billy.  Andeline was feeling really cross.  As if she had somehow been duped, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.  Her mouth felt dry as the rancid aftermath of alcohol began and she didn’t have that nice warm fuzzy feeling that the cocktails had given her earlier - only the beginnings of a headache.  “Stephanie! It’s late!”  She ran back to the couple and began dragging Stephanie along by the arm.


“Hey, don’t take my new baby away from me.” Protested Hank.


“She’s not your baby.”  Hissed Andeline as the anger’s rage began to bubble to the surface of her usual good nature.


Andeline began marching Stephanie back to their college.


“I want your baby!”  Exclaimed Stephanie, stumbling in a zigzag, ricocheting between  Hank and Andeline.


“Shut up and act sober, we are nearly back to school,” said Andeline slightly out of breath as they rapidly approached the gates of the college.  “The nuns will be on the look out, it’s the weekend and it’s been dark for hours.”


“Aww, come on girls.  Don’t be like this.”  Said Billy.


“You should leave us now.” Warned Andeline.


“No!  Don’t leave me Hank.  I love you!”  Stephanie yelled protesting.


“Ssssh!”  Andeline put her hand over Stephanie’s mouth.  “Stop being such a drunken floozy!”


“Come on girls!”  Tried Hank.  Who was walking along side them thoroughly amused by the debacle.


“Leave us alone!”  Shouted Andeline a bit too loud.  “Now!”


They came level to the college walls.  The whiteness of the colonial building with it’s great railed walls glowed eerily in the light of the moon’s lunar radiance.


“So, do you wanna go on another date with us?”  Jested Billy.


“No, we do not.”


“We could go see a movie.”


“No we will not!”


“I will, I love you Hank!”  Called Stephanie into the night.


“Shut up!”  Andeline clasped her hand over Stephanie’s mouth once more and gave her head a little shake in frustration.


“What are you doing?”  Came a voice from the shadows.  Andeline jumped out of her skin.  But she didn’t have to worry for long because it was  a man’s voice and not one of the nuns. It was her brother Tok.  Andeline was the second eldest of thirteen.  We have already been introduced to her eldest sister, Nayla who had the new baby.  One year after Nayla was born came Andeline, then eleven months after Andeline was born came Tok, thirteen months after his birth came Jonah, eleven months after Jonah came Sessy.  There was a little respite after Sessy because it was another fifteen months before another girl came along who was named Kisha, eleven months after Kisha came their brother Sobah, then thirteen months after Sobah, Nepcha, a girl was born, then once more their mother Namari had a little respite because it was a massive sixteen months before, Deekoh came along, but a much shorter gap came between her and Reta, after Reta came Fanboh, a boy one year later followed by Toola a girl only eleven months later and finally Boyboy was born.  Boyboy was Namari’s last baby.  Sadly she passed away when he was only six months old.  Already pregnant with yet another child.  The rest of the family were left to bring each other up all by themselves.  Deep in mourning, Endal threw himself into hunting and making money for his family without his beautiful wife.  And Nayla and Andeline the two oldest became Mummies to their siblings.


Fortunately tribal life was intimate and all the other families most of whom were related one way or another to Namari and Endal and everyone chipped in.  The younger brothers and sisters may have grown up without their mother, but they still had all the love and good nurturing that any child could want.  The longhouses were not just a dwelling place but a great community with their days structured  and each one was filled with a sense of belonging.  When girls married - their husbands would move in with their wife’s family.  Before then, all the boys and young men would live in the Barok which is the main ceremonial room , also where the trophy heads were kept.  Tok had been spared of this fate, because of the unusual circumstances of being brought up without his mother.  He would scream and had nightmares about the decapitated heads, so after only lasting a fortnight living in the Barok, he was allowed to move back in with Endal and the rest of the family.  Tok was exceptionally close to Andeline, but unlike her he did not have a head for learning and preferred to follow in his father’s footsteps to hunt and farm on their cocoa and rubber plantations.


“Tok?” Exclaimed Andeline in surprise.  “What are you doing out passed the curfew?”


But before Tok had a chance to answer, Stephanie  began to cry.


“Don’t leave me Hank.  I need you.”  She ran up to Hank and wrapped her stringy arms round his solid waist.


“Do you want to come back to our place little girl?”  Asked Hank softly patting her ridiculous beehive.


“No Stephanie!”  Said Tok in concern.  “You cannot go with the American GI.  He will tell you he loves you then leave you with a growing belly and a bastard baby!”


Billy stood laughing at Tok.  “Is that what you think we are like Kampong boy?” Billy considered whether to start an argument, he had just enough beer to take any insult personally and to the next level, but seeing as there was just a little truth in Tok’s comments - for  all he knew - he could have knocked up a dozen girls by now.  He made a decision to stick to the lady boys, they were certainly just as hysterical when they’d had a few drinks, but they were not likely to get pregnant.  Not in this day and age anyway.  “Aw, come on Hank.  Let’s get back to the bar.  It‘s still early.”  He peeled Stephanie’s arms off Hank.


“See you around sugar lips.”  Hank said to Stephanie and off they sauntered back into the night.
“What’s going on Tok?”  Asked Andeline.  She hugged Stephanie into her who was sobbing like a small child.


“You have to come back to the longhouse, Lin,” he said shortening her name to use the last syllable as the Dayak’s always did.  “La has had her baby.“


“Nayla has had her baby!  Aaaaaghh!”  Screamed Andeline.  Even though it was Nayla’s fourth baby,  they never tired of new arrivals.  Each new life was just as precious and exciting as the one before.  “Aaaaghh!”  She screamed again.  Have they started the party yet?”


“They are just getting ready now. Sama is going to kill his best pig!”  Sama, means father in Bidayuh.


“Your father is going to kill his best pig and I have lost my American husband!”  Wailed Stephanie.


Andeline hugged her closer and leaned against the lip of the college wall with her.  “How can we get back?  How did you get here?”  She asked Tok.


“Oh, I just waited until the soldier went to take his piss and then I went under the border gate.”  Smiled Tok at his own cunning.  “He took a very long piss.”


“I will get my bag and tell the nuns I have to go back to the village.  First you must stop being a drunken Jezebel Miss Stephanie.”  She turned to look at her friend.  Black eyeliner trickled down her face like hot melted tar on a newly built road.


“Has she been drinking  tuak?”  Tuak is fermented rice wine that the Dayak’s make and drink.


“No, martini.”  Andeline gave Stephanie’s face a wipe with her thums, causing her make-up to smear laterally as well as the path it was already following to her jaw line.


“Martini?”  Repeated Tok.  “Ah, shaken, but not shtirred!”  He said imitating Sean Connery as best a young man from Borneo who had only seen the film once could manage.


“Hee, hee!”  Andeline laughed.  “Shaken but not shtirred!”  She managed to pull it off a trillion times better as she had a keen ear  for language and had been to see the film a number of times.  


“I am shaken, but not shtirred!” Sniffed Stephanie finally snapping out of her hystrionics.


“Heh, heh.  I like you Stephanie little Chinese girl,” laughed Tok.  “You are very funny!”  It was true enough.  Tok did like Stephanie a lot.  He had met her a few times as she had been to visit the Kampong with Andeline and he certainly found her attractive as he was a young red blooded male.  But he was also proud and had listened hard to the Bidayuh stories told to him every evening as they were children growing up.  He wanted to continue the Bidayuh tradition and was not going to be the one who had relations with a Chinese girl.  No, no, no.  That would never do.


Stephanie began to smile.  She rubbed her dirty face on the underneath of her skirt.  “Do I look better?”
“Now you look like a baboon’s bottom!”  Teased Andeline.






3 Heads Will Roll, Sarawak 1965


A cluster of energetic elderly Bidayuh women had escorted and dragged Harold through the jungle from the confines of his new make shift clinic and out into a clearing where he was met by the majestic appearance of three great bamboo longhouses, surrounded by more smaller houses and shockingly to Harold, a lumpy potholed road with a couple of trucks parked on it.  Harold was more than confused by this as he thought he was somewhere quite remote after his two day trek into the jungle.  He looked for Topa and Kasan but they were nowhere to be seen amongst the crowd of people.


The women were man-handling Harold who was hot and bothered and completely unaccustomed to such close contact with other humans.  Particularly these peculiar creatures with their wrinkled skin and black teeth and bright red gums, dyed this unflattering colour from years of chewing beetle nut.  A custom in Borneo, that involves mixing a paste of white powder from the lime plant, wrapped in leaves from the betel nut plant, along with a piece of the said betel nut.  This is all chewed together which releases the alkaloids leading to euphoria and in larger doses - sedation.  Harold thought that they could probably do with introducing some missionary dentists to these regions never mind doctors.   The blackened teeth look was not the most attractive of visions.


The longhouse however was an amazing sight to behold and Harold tried to get his camera out from his rucksack, not knowing if he was going to be staying here long.  


“We celebrate. Doctor Harold.”  Said one of the women who looked to be middle aged as she was not as grey as some of the mad women that were rushing him along.  It was Lennie, one of Andeline, Tok and Nayla’s aunties.    “Come, come.”  She took hold of his hand and lead him towards the steps which were cut from a single large piece of bamboo the width of an elephants trunk.


As they got to the stop of the steps, Harold only just managed it without falling, guided mainly by the agile little old women, they began to pull at his shoes and socks.


“What the devil are you doing?”  Exclaimed Harold.  “No, please don’t….Oh, heh, heh, that tickles!”  He exclaimed and before he knew it his socks and shoes were off and his feet were being roughly washed with cold water.


There was a tussle as the women seemed to be fighting over who was to take away the dirty bowl. They each wanted the water because they believed that they had taken some of Harold’s good spirit and the water was now blessed.


“Come, come, give him some space,”  came a familiar voice.  It was Topa.  “Doctor Harold.  Please meet Endal.”  Topa elbowed his way through the gaggle of women bringing with him a small aloof looking man.  


Endal was most welcoming to all who came his way, but he was embarrassed to not be able to speak English the way that all his children and most of his fellow villagers could.  By way of inheritance, he was a wealthy man, owning large parts of the land surrounding their village.  He was greatly respected, but he was not sure how to interact with Harold, this great red and white ghost of a man who had the spirit of a frightened baby toucan.  He smiled widely displaying a row of betel nut blackened teeth just like his female counterparts.  He touched Harold on the hand and then pulled at it gently.




“He wants you to follow him,” said Topa.


“But my socks, my shoes…”  Began Harold.


“We don’t wear shoes in longhouse Doctor Harold.”  Topa told him.  “We don’t wear shoes in homes.”  he added helpfully.


The women moved out of the way from Endal.  Endal took the bowl containing the dirty water that Harold had had his feet washed with from one of the women.


“You know, I always have very clean feet.”  Said Harold embarrassed by the blackness of the water.  “They are just very dirty because I have been walking through the jungle for two days without the chance for a bath.”


Endal looked at the water, he gave it a sniff and then held it to his lips and took a sip.


“Yay!”  He cheered.


“Yay, yay!” Everyone else cheered in response as Endal held the water up above his head in victory.  He carefully passed the bowl back to the women who scurried away with it.


Harold was nothing short of disgusted.  Disgusted and dismayed.


“They believe in “Semangat” the life spirit of all living things, they have your good spirit in that water now.”  Explained Topa.


“Oh,” said Harold.  Still puzzled.


“You are very special man Doctor Harold.”  Topa told him. “Now he has had a drink of your water, he is more special too.  They will use that water like it is holy.  They will sprinkle it on their rice fields, they will use it to bless their children in honour of the semangat spirit that you have given them.”


Harold couldn’t help but feeling that he had a lot of work to do if they were practising such  pagan type rituals.  But he was rather impressed by himself for being so important so early on his arrival.


Harold was lead into the Barok, the head house, the main ceremony room.  Where the fire was lit ready for the celebration beneath the hundreds of skulls, black from smoke of all shapes and sizes, hanging there macabrely watching over the room’s daily comings and goings.


They all sat down and a tray was passed to Endal.  It contained the leaves and lime and betel nut ready for preparation.  Endal adeptly rolled the correct pieces into a wrap and gave it too Harold.


“Chew.”  Said Topa.


“Ah, choo,”  Repeated Endal and gave Harold a double thumbs up.  “Kana, kana?”  He said.


“He say, ‘kana?’” Said Topa, he wants to know if you think it is good.”


“Good?” Repeated Harold with a mouthful of the rancid mixture.  “Um, kana!”  He lied to Endal.  He chewed and chewed and began to feel quite hot with a racing heart.  Not particularly pleasant.  He wasn’t fond of alcohol at the best of times and now he seemed to be eating some peculiar pagan drug.  He hoped to God he wouldn’t begin to hallucinate.  There was only one thing for it - he was going to have to swallow it all down as quickly as possible.


A young girl came along with a tray of drinks.  She passed one to Harold, he took it and swigged it quickly to wash down the unpleasant betel nut concoction.


Endal began to laugh.  He pointed at Harold and said something that Harold didn’t understand.  Everyone began to laugh.


“Oh, no Doctor Harold,  you are to spit it all out.  Now you will be very stweng.”  Topa thought hard for the right word to use.  “Very, er, very drunk.”


Endal picked up an old powder tin and held it to his mouth.  He spat into it, the red juice of the betel nut trickling down his chin.  He grinned at Harold, his lips and teeth extra juicy as though he had been chewing raw meat from a fresh carcass.


Harold clasped his hand to his head.  Suddennly, he found it all very funny too.  He laughed and laughed and laughed a bit more.  For some reason he was ridiculously elated, he could not stop himself from chuckling.  He looked at everyone else and howled out loud.  They all laughed too. This was hilarious, the most fun he‘d ever had!


More trays appeared with lidded bowls on them.  Endal lifted the lid off a bowl it was cooked rice with something brown on top.  Harold was feeling pretty hungry by now.  It had been a good while since he’d had anything to eat and all that jungle trekking was hard work. Endal brushed at the top of the rice.  Harold look closer to see what they had in stall for him. He was looking forward to trying the local cooking. The brown topping was not something delicious but hundreds of tiny brown ants.  Endal swept them aside, although, there were still a few left meandering in the amongst the white grains to be fair.  Then he took a scoop in his hand and offered it to Harold.
“Man,”  He said.  “Man, tobi.”


“He say, eat.  Eat rice.”  Said Topa.


Endal popped the contents of his hand into his mouth.


Harold rubbed his eyes.  There was no way that a man would eat rice that had just been infested with ants. Maybe he was hallucinating, he made a mental note never to eat betel nut washed down with tuak wine ever again.  But until then he was going to enjoy this pleasantness for now.  A lifetime of pole up the bum up-tightness seemed to melt away, for Harold probably for the first time ever in his existence allowed himself to relax.  Every muscle in his face that gave him that unique grimace and every tendon and sinew that snatched his buttocks up high and taut gave way to gravity.  His always short, sharp breaths, gave way to slow deep inhalations ans even controlled exhalations, which in turn took Harold unknowingly into a meditative transience of deep deep relaxation.  Perfect for taking in the festivities to welcome Endal’s new granddaughter into the Kampong.


The dull rhythmic banging of the Bidayuh gongs began their discordant yet pleasing tunes and the Bidayuh ladies who had now changed into their traditional costumes of black with yellow and red trimmings, began to dance around the fire.  Platters of food began to appear, prepared by the people of the village, each bringing a gift to both Endal for his new arrival and Harold for brining her into the world.  Whole fishes dressed with greens and onions, sweet sticky cakes and piles of tapioca; prepared in every which way possible, fried tapioca, steamed tapioca, boiled tapioca, mashed tapioca, tapioca with veggies, tapioca leaves.  Every time Harold saw something new to try - he asked what it was and was told each time that it was tapioca.  If he ever wanted to take a trip to tapioca heaven, well, he could just take himself right there to where he was.  He was already in tapioca city on the tapioca express.  
“Tapioca is good.   Um, kana, good.”  Said Harold giving Endal the thumbs up.


Endal grinned back at Harold with his sooty black mouth and offered Harold the fish.


“Oh, um, no thank you.”  Said Harold, not sure how he was supposed to take any without any serving silver.  He was just about managing to eat the tapioca as it was in pieces and thanks to his inebriated betel nut and tuak state, his inhibitions were very much down.


“Yes, man!” Said Endal telling Harold to eat as he waved the fish two inches from Harold’s face.


“Oh, really, really, no.  Not thank you.”  Harold politely repeated again.


Endal rolled his eyes at Harold.  He wasn’t really offended but he did find him quite peculiar.  Realising that Harold did not understand him, he held the plate up two inches away from his own face and plucked out the fishes eyeball then put it into his mouth, allowing the juicy goodness to explode as he bit into it.  If Harold wasn’t going to eat it, then he was.




“Mmm, raruh kana!”  Said Endal, meaning, very good.  With added accentuation on the ‘very.’   Fish eyeballs are a real delicacy in South East Asia and he was offering one to Harold as that is the kind of giving people that the Dayaks are.  What does a Westerner think of eating fish eyeballs or any kind of eyeball?  Surely there is nothing delectable in the chomping of a ball of sclera and retina.   Western man is all about aesthetics when it comes to food.  The butcher slaughters the meat and away goes all the bits and pieces the English do not want to see on the table.  There’ll be no, eyeball eating, claw crunching, trotter chowing, penis munching, going on for them.  Oh, no.  Long gone are the eating habits of  the medieval days of good old Henry VII and their ability to strip and devour every scrap and morsel from a carcass.  Somewhere along the line it became easier to not view the meat as a creature and to enjoy the meat between the cow’s rib bones as ’fillet steak,’ the nasty bits all neatly stripped and arbitrarily squished into sausages or ground down to make mince or reformed and packed with breadcrumbs to make rather bland tasting fish fingers. Yes, it’s okay to eat fishes fingers.  Somewhere along the line, the English chose not to eat cats and dogs or frogs or snails or birds any smaller than a wood pigeon. Bum holes  and teeth only became palatable when they no longer look like bum holes and teeth, who can resist a fine juicy hamburger, which isn’t actually made of ham.  They’re beef.  Or bits of beef, the bits of beef nobody wants to eat. Delicious.  Young Harold had enjoyed tripe stew and tongue sandwiches, but balked when he discovered their true  origins and refused to entertain them based on the British cuisine culture of probably over analysing everything.  He had of course been forced to eat every last gag inducing  scrap with a stick held high ready to rap his shaking knuckles as he clung to his cutlery for dear life, which in turn lay the foundations for  his compulsive and excessively emotional patterns of behaviour.


Harold couldn’t hide his disgust at the sight, his bottom lip curled right inside his top lip.  In spite of his intoxicated state he began to silently pray to The Lord for strength to cope with this bizarre and foreign land.  How was he going to cope?  All he wanted was a hot shower and a large bar of soap.  It was not too too much for Harold to ask, but it wasn’t going to be materialising in a hurry either.


Endal deftly wrapped up some new betel nut for he and Harold to chew.  He gave to Harold who obligingly took it.


“This time you spit  - no swallow,” Topa reminded him.


Nayla shuffled into the great room with her husband Paul.  Paul was proudly carrying his latest addition Baby Harold with her purple gentian violet ointment halo.  He joined in with the dancing girls for a few bars mimicking their movements to the dull clunk clunking of the gongs.  They giggled but carried on, taking their roles as dancers and entertainers seriously.  Shuffle to the right, straighten and bend the arms, then shuffle to the left, straighten and flick the wrists ad infinitum.


“Ah, it is the great Mr Doctor Harold!”  Exclaimed Paul as he sat down on the floor with his wife to join the party.  


“I am not really very great,”  said Harold pretending to be humble.  He had to exude that great-I-am and keep up the air of importance, even though, he had not actually had to do anything to with the safe delivery of the baby in the end.  His only mark on the delivery, was the babies’ blueberry-esque scalp and the rather unfortunate new name.


Harold looked up and saw the macabre skulls hanging above the open fire for the first time.  He gulped.  These people seemed so primitive to him, not only do they munch on the eyeballs of fish like a child on a penny sweet, but they hang skulls up on display for everyone to see,  the dead are not even buried in peace he thought.




Paul noticed him looking and said to Harold, “Don’t worry, they are very old.  Long time since we took man’s head.  Long, long time.”


“Yes,” said Topa.  “One week already!”


“W- w- w- One week?” Stammered Harold.


Paul sniffed his new baby’s skin. The Dayaks had a sweet way of showing affection, by inhaling the skin causing a suction on each other’s faces with their flat noses.  A few sniffs in and out.   Sniff sniff.  Ah.  Very satisfying for the flat of nose, completely unobtainable for the pointy nosed Westerners.  “No, no, he is pulling your heart strings.  He is making you a scaredy man.  Are you a gullible fool  Mr Doctor Harold?”


“Ha, ha!”  Laughed Harold.  “Me sc-sc-scared?”  He pretended to stammer?  Scared.  Harold? I AM the great I am.  He chewed away at his betel nut, his mouth growing dryer yet excessively full of the grotesque reddy/black liquid by-product.


“Some English people very gullible Mr Doctor Harold.  You not gullible are you?  You are a very clever man.  I can tell.  You have big Semengat.”


“Semengat,”  piped up Endal reminded of the great age old belief of good spirit living in everything.  He held the tin up for Harold to spit his betel nut remnants into.


Harold spat obediently.


Endal dipped his finger into the mix of spittle and betel nut leftovers.  He rubbed the red mixture onto Baby Harold’s forehead.  “Amen.”  He said looking to Harold for recognition.
“Oh, er, amen.”  Affirmed Harold slightly puzzled that the age old tradition of spiritual superstitious semanget was getting mixed up with the age old spiritual not so superstitious religion of Christianity.


Kasan who had just returned from a cold swim in the river, leant over and whispered to Topa, “Doctor Harold, he has the face of a thousand frightening thoughts.”


“And a million nasty smells,” Topa whispered back.


Baby Harold blinked just as surprised, but completely unperturbed to be sporting a nice slobbery red streak on her forehead to go with the violet cap she already had.  All this on her first day in the world too.


Endal stood up and rubbed his flat little tummy.


“He is going to kill his best pig,” said Paul.  “In honour of Baby Harold and you Mr Doctor Harold.”


Endal disappeared out of the main room and back down the rickety carved step.


Harold remembered the cars and the road outside.  “Topa, why are there cars outside.  I thought we were in deepest darkest.”


“Ha, ha.”  Laughed Topa.  “Initiation test.”  he lied.  He couldn’t be bothered to give an explanation, besides, he didn’t really know all the ins and outs of why and what for.  He just did as he was told.  That was his strong point, obedience, that and not to ask too many questions.  Too much knowledge brings too much trouble, Topa had learned that from a  young age.


“We are here!  I found her!”  Came an excited voice from the other side of the room.


“Tok!” Nayla and Paul called out together in recognition.


“She’s here,” shouted Tok as he clambered his way over the sea of seated revellers.


“I am here!”  called out Andeline.  She tip-toed over the eating guests stopping, stooping and sniffing little children on the cheeks as she stepped through the crowd, meeting and greeting like a celebrity till finally she bent down to hug Nayla.  “Oh, I missed you.  I am sorry I wasn’t here when she arrived.”  She said in Bidayuh to Nayla.


Andeline took on a different persona when she was back in the comfort of her own tribe, back in amongst her precious family.  Here she was important.  Here she was special.  Revered for her intellect and respected for her beauty and status as Endal’s daughter.  Here she exuded confidence and an enigmatic charm and seemed like a wise lady rather than the silly school girl she came across as in the city. She was a bit like the Bidayuh equivalent of Grace Kelly.  “Who is our guest?”  She asked in English and nodded graciously towards Harold in acknowledgement.


Harold had noticed her entrance.  The flurry of excitement amongst everyone upon her entering the room.  The way she held herself in a poised manner, chin up, shoulders back with her face friendly and welcoming.  Her Western outfit of pale pink mini-dress, a copy of a Mary Quant that she and Stephanie had seen in an English newspaper  stood out from the rest of the females who were either wearing traditional costumes or a simple batik sarong and emphasised her petite figure.  Her make-up enhanced brown eyes were flicked into feline perfection with heavy black eyeliner on the top lids.  She was fresh and composed, no-one would have guessed that she had just travelled twenty-five miles on the back of a truck with Tok as they escaped the Nun lead college and the memories of her brief but wretched rendezvous with Hank and Billy.


“This is Mr Doctor Harold!” Said Paul.  “He our guest of honour!  He brought Baby Harold safely into the world!”  He snuggled and sniffed his newest daughter as though she were the most wonderful precious thing in the world.  She as just as special to him even though she was baby number four.  There was no tiring of babies to this man, which was just as well seeing as there was a distinct lack of birth control available to the Dayaks in 1965.


“Baby Harold?”  Questioned Andeline.  “I thought you had a baby girl.  Tok - you say they had baby girl.”  She said to Tok presuming he had got his information wrong.  It was understandable seeing as he was sent off to get Andelline the very moment everyone had become aware of the baby’s safe arrival.


“Oh, no.  She yes a girl.”  Said Paul sniffing her cheek delicately for the umpteenth time that day.


“But Harold is a man’s name!”  Exclaimed Andeline looking at Nayla in horror, then apologetically at Harold senior.  “It is a very nice man’s name though.”  She gave a half curtsey as the nuns had taught her to.”


“It is a beautiful name.”  Said Nayla.  “Ramus raruh,”  she said, meaning very beautiful in Bidayuh  as if to double affirm it.  Nayla took her baby from her husband.  “Look she beautiful.”


Andeline couldn’t help but being amused.  She knew the name Harold.  “Have you not heard of the Great British Prime Minister Harold Wilson?  Or the famous Harold Lloyd?”


Paul and Nayla looked blank.


Harold nodded in agreement.  “I have heard of them.”  He added helpfully.    


“Hurray for Harold Lloyd,” sang Andeline, smiling.  There was something about this Mr Doctor Harold who was sitting in her family’s long-house all pasty and pink with thick rimmed spectacles that reminded her of the real Harold Lloyd.


“Yes, der, der, der, der, der, derrr, derrr.”  Sang Harold.


Andeline laughed.  “You are very nice man.”  She told him.  “Now let me see my new niece.”  She took Baby Harold from Nayla.  “Uh!”  She cried out.  “Uh!  She has purple hair!”   Andeline rubbed the nasty spittle of betel nut juice from the baby’s forehead.  “semangat is so disgusting.”  She said to Harold.


“Actually, the purple hair is my fault.  Gentian violet.”  Harold fiddled with his shirt buttons and looked apologetically at the floor.


“Is it forever?”  Asked Andeline rubbing at the purpleness on baby’s head with the sarong she was wrapped in.


“I hope so,”  said Nayla.  “She will make a great leader with bright hair.”


“Actually,” said Harold.  “One interpretation of the name Harold is ’leader.’  But no, the stain will only last a few weeks.”


“Wallow!”  Paul exclaimed, which was a variation on the word ‘wow!’ in Bidayuh.”


“Wallow indeed,”  Andeline said to herself.  “Don’t worry,” she whispered in the baby’s ear as she sniffed in the super soft sweetness of her newborn cheek.  “Your Aunty Andeline is here now.  I will take care of you.  I will protect you from this crazy family.”


Harold gazed at Andeline, he wanted to feel her soft little nose pressed up against his cheek in that maternal loving manner.  When Paul had sniffed Baby Harold’s cheek it seemed bizarre and overly familiar even for a father to his child, but when Andeline did it, sniff, sniff.  It made Harold want to feel the gentle inhalation too.   He couldn’t believe that someone so - dare he think it - normal .  Was in this madly ludicrous place where they think it normal to ingest.  Yuk.  Someone else’s spit.  Double yuk.  Yet strangely (for he had always been an outcast in his family back in England, he was never quite good enough for his parents and he was always a bit of an oddball amongst his fellow school pals and college peers) yes indeed, strangely, he felt a sense of belonging.  He liked his new revered state of deity.  He liked the funny little Endal.  He liked the shiny bamboo floors.  He liked the tuak.  He liked the betel nut.  He liked the bang bongy gong music.  He liked Topa and Kasan and Nayla and Baby Harold. He even liked the ghoulish smoked out skulls hanging above the fire.  And he loved this beautiful young maiden they called Andeline.  Swit swoo, his woozy boozy mind sang out in his head.  Swit swoo.  Monique, with her scarlet hair and her cultivated continental mannerisms?  Pah, ancient history.  There was a new lady filling Harold’s mind.


Harold sighed.  There was no way that Andeline would be interested in him.  No woman had ever been interested in him.  The fact that he had made it all the way to thirty three years old with a theology degree and a doctorate in medicine under his belt and yet still not even a sniff of a girlfriend sang testimony to that.


He watched as Paul rolled up a betel nut wrap and offered it to Andeline.  She screwed her nose up and shook her head.  Oh, wallow, thought Harold.  He loved the way she screwed her little nose up till it wrinkled and she looked like a funny little shrew.  Oh wallow.