And.... We're Back..... (Plus Chapter 11. Hue Am I?)

Something amazing happened yesterday.  Completely out of the blue...

I was rummaging through my old receipts trying to find some information for tax credits and I stumbled upon my lost novel notes! They have been missing for five years... Five years!

This blog has been on hold for the last four years due to work commitments, a traumatic investigation and court case that spanned over three years that I had to help the criminal prosecution service with and still ended with the victim, (someone very very close to me) not receiving the justice they deserved, the making of Solitary the movie and a debilitating illness that saw me whacked out by brain fog and in a wheelchair for six months last year.

So forgive me if I appeared to be achieving so little, but when I am distressed, I simply cannot be creative.  I can still write, but it is usually tomes and tomes of utter misery...  That's why I published the poetry book "Hue Am I?" in 2007.   It is very much a cathartic anthology to dust away the cobwebs that had been festering on my shoulders Miss Havisham stylee for many years.

Its a strong look

I've been working on the novel in fits and starts, but I was lost without those notes.  I had the entire novel structure planned out with content for each chapter, right up to the very last page of the book.  I really thought they had been thrown away, never to be seen again.

So, anyway, imagine my joy and wonderment to discover those pieces of paper of such great importance.  This year will be my year.  Each word written will bring me every closer to the finishing line.

Let me introduce you to Chapter 11 of Never Judge a Book By It's Cover, which is also called "Hue Am I?"  Here we look at how Andeline is faced with the harsh reality of life in Britain in the 1970s for someone who has just arrived from a far away land.  I very much hope that this isn't how everyone immigrant experienced their arrival into the UK, but this is loosely based on how my I see it through what my own mother described. Enjoy.

11. Hue Am I?

Andeline lay shivering on the floor of a house in Middlesbrough, England. She couldn’t pronounce Middlesbrough properly, so aptly enough, she was referring to it as “miserable.” She pulled the blanket over her body, trying to get warm. Her bones felt as though they had been dipped in ice and placed back inside her skin. She had never experienced a chilliness such as this before. Even the darkest recesses of the spectacular Mulu caves in Sarawak, the coldest place Andeline had ever been, were infinitely warmer than this. This was her first night in England and here she lay, lonely and confused. There was no welcome or family feast for Andeline as there would be for any new arrival to the Kampong from the Bidayuh tribe. She tried to make sense of the events of the last few days. But all she could think of and all she could see was Endal, her fathers’ face. The look of sadness which he tried to disguise with disgust as she told him she was going to England. He refused to speak to her as soon as she told him the news and he refused to even so much as go to the airport to see her off.

Endal was heartbroken. His favourite daughter. His cleverest daughter. His sweetest most intelligent daughter, had wasted her life by not marrying another Bidayuh Warrior. Not only had she married a white man, but she had left the country to go and live in a land of whiteness far away to be with the pop stars and rock stars that his children were always talking about. “Elvish and wok and woll. The Beetle nuts and Loopy Lou… Pah.”

Andeline missed Nayla and little Harold and Paul and all the children she taught. She had had to leave so suddenly without a proper goodbye, without a Bidayuh send off. And now, here she was laying on Martha’s cold dining room floor with a thin mattress and just a blanket. Martha had decided that she did not want Andeline and Harold to sleep together in the same room when they were under her roof, even though they were of course married.

“I will not have that behaviour in my house.” She had told Harold.

“What behaviour Martha?” Harold had asked.

“Sleeping together out of wedlock.”

“But we are married.”

“But you shouldn’t be. It’s disgusting.” Martha sneered.

“I am his wife.” Offered Andeline.

“What is she saying? I cannot understand her. You are lucky I am letting her stay under my roof at all.” Said Martha.

“At the very least, I should sleep downstairs on the floor and Andeline should have the bed,” attempted Harold.

Martha stopped him from saying any more, “Hush now, enough. You must have missed having a proper bed with upholstery, I am sure the foreign woman is used to sleeping on the floor.“ She chucked the camping mat and the blanket down for Andeline as if she were a stray dog she had taken pity on.

“She is used to it, but…” Martha grabbed Harold’s arm and took him upstairs to show him the lavish double bed she had made up for him. Harold reverted back to the scared obedient man that he had always been prior to his emancipation in Borneo. He didn’t stick up for his wife as he should have. Instead he got in to the big warm bed, that would have easily housed them both and rather than feeling guilty about his poor wife trying to sleep downstairs on her first night in England, he quickly fell asleep, enveloped by the snuggly throw and the well stuffed mattress like a soothing hug from a well endowed plump woman..

Andeline’s tears pricked at her eyes, then burst forth, soaking the pillow her head lay on. She sobbed silently, devastated to be so alone. She had never slept on her own in her life. There had always been an abundance of bothers and sisters surrounding her or other girls in her dormitory. Or lately, just Harold. The loneliness gripped her like a boa with it’s prey. The mattress was hard and she just felt completely bewildered. She stroked her stomach, which sported a tiny bump. A bump that contained her and Harold’s child. She tried to pull herself together taking comfort that she wasn’t quite so alone after all.

Harold had been recovering from his gunshot wound when he had received the telegram informing of his mother’s death. He couldn’t cope with the news. 

And the only place he wanted to be was back in the United Kingdom. He wanted to see his father and attend the funeral. He convinced Andeline that England would be the best place for Andeline to give birth as the NHS and their hospitals were so much more advanced. There had been a manic ten days in which they frantically gathered all the legal documents needed in order to leave. She hadn’t taken a lot of convincing though as she was excited to go to England and experience the Western world. She was looking forward to being away from the hot sun everyday, she thought her skin would turn paler and she would become more beautiful as a result of the cooler weather. She was looking forward to seeing where the Queen lived and meeting Prince Charles. She wanted to hear The Beatles or the Beetle Nuts as her father and Paul playfully liked to call them. 

“Love love me do, you know I love you,” she sang to her baby as she tried to sleep on the floor. She always had someone to whisper to back at home in the Kampong, there was always someone that needed comfort from Andeline and now that she needed comforting, not even her own husband was there to hold her as he should be. Harold was upstairs directly above her, she could hear the vibrating dronings of his unmistakable snore. She contemplated her view of England so far. She had expected people to be walking around in bright outfits singing and smiling like they did in Cliff Richard’s Summer holiday and she thought all the men would be walking around looking debonair in smart city suits and bowler hats with elegant women at their sides, but no, this was not London, this was not Hollywood, this was not the movies, this was Middlesbrough, Teeside, Cleveland. 

The sixties were not swinging here, they were trudging along amidst the industrial works of ICI, British Steel and coal mining and the seventies were possibly several beats even further behind still. There were no neat little country cottages or grand stately homes like the England that Andeline had seen in pictures, instead there had been row upon row of terraced houses on her arrival. Slums gave way to the once majestic Victorian buildings that had been destroyed partly by the Luftwafe and partly by the pollution kicked out by the very industry that kept the North East of England alive. Martha lived in an eerie old Edwardian house on Cambridge Road on the “nice” side of Middlesbrough. The stripped wooden floors were choc full of blustery gaps through the vents that lead directly outside, so that Andeline was sharing her sleeping arrangements with creatures of the night, most of which were slugs who were taking a chance on the indoor pot plants and little tiny spiders. None of which really bothered Andeline naturally, as she was used to snakes and great huge spiders, scuttling across her legs in her sleep.  This was England in a way that not even many English people would get to see it.

　

Andeline was also used to faces lighting up when they saw her, she was one of the prettiest women in the Kampong and just as so in the city of Kuching, here they gave her curious surreptitious side glances or disgusted sneers. Martha talked about Andeline as if she were not even in the room and Harold was just as guilty of doing the same thing. He seemed to have a total personality transplant, he was nervous and worried and afraid to show Andeline any affection. Andeline placed herself in Harold’s shoes. He was no longer in socks and sandals as he was back in Blighty now, there wasn’t a call for the exposing of feet. But back to where we were. Andeline placed herself inside Harold’s shoes, size nine leather brogues to be exact and considered how he must be feeling. “What must he be going through?” She thought to herself. She knew how it felt to lose your mother. It wasn’t that long ago she had lost hers. Then she quickly realised that not only did Harold feel sad, but Martha must be feeling sad too. People can be quite thoughtless when they are experiencing stress. Yes, that must be it. They weren’t being rude or horrible or unkind. They had just fallen victim to one of life’s abominations. Andeline decided to forgive them both and instead said a prayer for them.

That night she fell into a deep sleep and dreamt that she gave birth to an angel. There were no trumpet announcements or a voice spoken to her from God, she just looked down and noticed that she had given birth in the ominous way that only takes place in dreamland, the baby arrived with a perfect halo and little gold wings like a Boticelli cherub, complete with golden curls on it‘s head, soft fleshy round cheeks like sweet yellow apricots and a far away look of dreaminess that the Boticelli babes always wear. She picked up her baby and held it close to her enjoying the warmth of it’s chubby velvety skin and the rush of love that came with it. Andeline woke in the morning with the dream heavy on her mind, the encounter felt fresh and rejuvenating. The experience filled her with excitement because she believed that her dreams were prophetic, Andeline believed that she was more than just a mortal, she felt special. She felt like a living breathing, modern day Old Testamental reincarnation of someone great and amazing like Noah with his boat or Moses with his stone tablets or Daniel with his lion or David with his humble stones waiting to take on Goliath. She didn’t believe that she was perfect or without sin, but she felt that there was some greatness awaiting her. An expectation, a gift. So she took her dreams and interpreted them into something applicable and relevant. Because of this, she very often got things right.

Her mother had first noticed her gift, when she was a child, eyes heavy with sleepy dust, a young Andeline climbed down from the longhouse steps one morning to find her mother checking the cocoa beans where they were drying out in the sun on the raised platform of the tanju.

“Oh, Sindu.” Young Andeline held her arms up to where her mother was standing high up on the raised platform, the sweet sticky smell of cocoa catching in the back of her throat making her feel slightly nauseated from the perfumed air.

“What?” Namari looked down to her second eldest standing below in a greying old t-shirt and pants, looking up to her with big round brown eyes. “You’ve had the night terrors.” Her face softened, remembering that Andeline had been screaming in the night. But when she’d climbed over the bodies of her other children to look at her daughter, she’d discovered Andeline was sleeping peacefully, bottom in the air, face against the bamboo matting, head resting on her little brother Tok‘s thigh.

“Oh, Sindu,” Andeline climbed up onto the tanju to be nearer her mother. “I dreamt that Tok was drowning in the ocean. His face was going up and down in the water, but I could not swim to reach him. I was so afraid. I had a stick but it was not long enough - I was calling for help - but no sound would come out of my mouth and I was waving my arms but they would not move.” Andeline picked up one of the cocoa beans deftly between her toes and examined it in her hand.

“It is okay, Lin, we do not live near the ocean. Tok will not drown.”

“No, he did not drown in my dream. A big fish came along and let Tok ride on his back to safety.”

“Well, all will be well I am sure then. It was just a dream, do not be so upset.”

“But the dream was so strong I can see it so bright in my vision.” Andeline had marvelled.

And would you know it, that very day Tok had fallen into the village watering hole, just out of his depth, screaming and kicking - he flailed his arms and kicked his legs in panic, unable to swim. So Andeline had jumped into the water, but the bottom was smooth and covered in algae and moss so that Andeline slipped and slid all over unable to get a grip on Tok to hold him above the water. Before too long, Namari who was washing their clothes by the noisy waterfall noticed what was going on. She ran to where they were, leaned over the side of the bank, wrapping a root round her wrist and grabbed first Tok, then Andeline by the hair and pulling them out of the water.

Call it a coinci-mental coincidence, call it a miracle, call it prophecy, call it a prediction of the future, call it luck, call it what you will, but Namari began telling everyone that Andeline was special. Her dreams came true. She was magical, a prophet, she had powers that would serve her well. And so, from then on, every morning when Andeline awoke, she would ask her what she had dreamt about. Then she would untangle the meanings to suit her as the days events panned out.

*

Martha drove the three of them in her BMW 2002 TII in silence, except for the occasional chuckle to herself. Harold and Andeline presumed that she was reliving memories and as she was being calm for once, they both chose not to question her. They were heading to the Lake District to meet Ernst for Barbara’s funeral.

Harold watched as landmarks and places of interest whizzed by through the car windows like a silent movie. But rather than point them out to Andeline who was experiencing the country for the first time, he chose to remain silent too. Partly out of respect for his mother, partly out of respect for Martha and partly because he just didn’t feel like talking. 

The true horror of his mother’s death kept playing like a show-reel on a permanent newsflash though his head stuck on repeat. Ernst had taken the force of the damage to his legs, leaving them crushed and bound and a bang to the head which caused the concussion that sent him into his eight week coma. 

Barbara however,  Barbara, his beloved mother, who he hadn’t seen since he set off to Malaysia all those years ago had had her neck completely severed. Decapitated by the truck in front as it’s rear came clean though the windscreen causing an instant but inescapable death for the passenger. 

It was this visual imprint that was gauged into all three of their minds that created the bitter torment, the way in which the world could be so cruel which left everyone shocked and reeling, questioning their beliefs in God and wondering what the point of it all was, making every waking moment a tragedy.

Chapter 10. Who Am I?

Going back over these old chapters, all written in 2010, I can see that some of the unedited work has a bit of a cross over.  A great big cross over of confusion.  There are some characters who haven't had a chance to fully develop.  There are some characters who I have given children to and further down the line, I have made them alone.  

There is one story line about the shooting in the rainforest that I am not sure of yet.   But as it is one storyline really taken from my family's life, I am afraid to use it.  Would it be too upsetting if the book very really got published?  Should I just ask?  I am afraid to.  

So, I have softened it for the time being until I ask those who it may effect, if they are comfortable with me recreating a real and devastating scene which to the reader will merely be as dramatic as any other fictional storyline within the novel.  But to those who lived it for real, it could mean so much more.  I don't believe in opening up cans of worms.  I prefer to leave the can opener in the cutlery drawer.  As bizarre and interesting as my history is, it has not been without more than our fair share of tragedy.  Some tales will lay buried but some tales might become exhumed.  Because, although I not like to open cans of worms, I never said anything about caskets.

As usual, the work below is largely unedited and will contain typos and non-sensical sentences.

10. Who Am I?

A hospital, sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air, fluorescent lights flickered perilously above as a strip bulb was losing it’s battle to stay lit. The unmistakable electronic beep of life support equipment played out intermittently into the cold corridors. While in a private room the Darth Vader hiss and suck of oxygen played into the mouth of the patient on his life support machine. 

Motionless, kept alive by the machine so that it’s artificial intelligence leant breath and a heart beat to it’s anthropomorphic host which in turn was the only thing that kept the machine on. On with it’s electricity, a current flowing, unbroken pulse of a mechanical heartbeat. Wooshing and swooshing in, woosh swoosh out, mimicking the blood flowing and ebbing away through the veins and arteries of the man. A man who had laid imprisoned in his own skin and bones with no semengok to speak of. The only movement that wasn’t provided by the life support machine was when the nurses came in to turn him onto his side and wash his cold lifeless body, which, despite the movement, was growing sore and ulcerated where he lay. Muscles shrinking as the atrophy of idleness set in, shrinking the meat away from his bones like a chicken slowly being cooked, the plastic sheets and metal bars of his bed acting like a giant rotisserie.

Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep went the machine. The room was cold. The bedside table hosted a wilting bunch of carnations in a pint glass and a fresh jug of water remained untouched despite being refilled by the nurses daily for the passed eight weeks. Eight weeks had gone by. The patient had remained asleep, lost in an unconscious land occasionally caught by a lucid dream when was able to hear, see and move around the hospital room, but he lay trapped in his body unable to communicate with the nurses. His legs were wrapped in casts to fuse his broken fibulas and tibulas, his shoulder pinned together with screws and a metal plate.

A nurse entered the room to tick off the observations on her checklist. Her hair scraped back into a bun and enclosed with a net.

“Where are we?” He asks. But the nurse ignores him. "Where are...?" He starts again, but the realisation hits him once more, he is not awake, she cannot hear him and he is trapped in his own body. He screams and screams with all his might, terrified, not paralysed by fear, but frightened by paralysis. He is exhausted by the effort from trying to make a sound. He tries making a high pitched sound. He tries to just whisper. He can feel adrenaline flowing though his body, but his body won’t move. He attempts to wriggle his toes. He is sure he is wriggling his toes... 

Arnold wasn’t wriggling his toes. He began to relax and realised that relaxing was less frightening than struggling against wakelessness.

A doctor entered the room. “Any change today Nurse Fletcher?”

“No. Ernst is exactly the same Doctor. Hello Ernst. How are you today?” She said more loudly and clearly.

Ernst? Who is Ernst? Wondered Arnold. He did not like not being able to move. But he realised that he was in a hospital. A hospital in England judging by their voices.

He concentrated on relaxing and willed his finger tip to move. Maybe he could open his eyes if he tried. Ouch. His head hurt. His legs really hurt. Maybe he had been in some kind of accident. He couldn’t wait to tell Betty. Boy would she laugh.

Betty. Betty? “Betty,” he managed to minutely splutter. The word trickled out of his mouth even though the back of his throat was sticky and filled with congealed phlegm and the oxygen mask was covering his whole face.

“He is muttering to himself again.” Said the nurse.

“Betty.” He managed to speak a little more clearly. He hoped that she wasn’t far away.

“That’s funny. I wonder who Betty is. It says here that his wife’s name was Barbara.” Said the nurse, she adjusted her paper cap and lifted his eyelid up, shining a torch onto his pupil. “It’s still dilated.” She confirmed.

“Hey, hey I can see you. You’re pretty....” Spoke Arnold. But the intense light drowned out his vision and thoughts. Barbara? Who is Barbara?!

Arnold gave up. They must have been talking about someone else. But wait. They heard him say Betty. He felt even more confused. He knew there was some sense to be made. But he couldn’t get his mind in order. He drifted back into the torment of his more surreal dreams, dragons and giant paint brushes began to chase him naked across a frosty ice cream mountain top once more in echo of the intense coldness his body was encountering.

“How is the old fool?” Came a woman’s voice.

Old fool, fruit fool, raspberry fool, mmm. The mountain top turned pink and Arnold found himself trudging through thick gelatinous raspberry fool. Wait, wait. He was not on a mountain naked. He was a in a room. On a, a bed. He knew he was in hospital. Hospital, that’s right. A doctor and a nurse. Who was the old fool? Maybe he was sharing a room with someone else. Oh, of course. There was probably a ward full of other men. Oh crikey. What if he was in a mental hospital. Oh hell. He certainly felt mad as could be, what with all the lucid dreaming and the hallucinations and the parylisation. But but. What if he’d been sterilised? Frick! A victim of his own campaign?

“He has been talking out loud at times, but I’m afraid the pupils are unresponsive still.” Came the sound of the doctors voice.

“He deserves to rot anyway.” said the woman.

Shit. Maybe they are talking about me, someone knows that I am working with the Nazis. “Betty!” Arnold moaned out louder.

“There he goes again.” Said the nurse.

“Betty?” Asked Arnold.

“He says that a lot.” Said the nurse.

“Hmm, oh well.” The other woman leaned in. Arnold felt her breath on his face, he could smell her perfume. Something floral. “If you wake up - I will put you back in a coma.” She whispered in his ear, leaving a hot wetness that tickled in his sensitive ear drums. It must have been loud enough for all to hear, because the doctor and the nurse both laughed nervously at the inappropriate joke.

Who is it? Arnold wondered.

The three left Arnold in peace once more with only his own conjurings for company.

Who was that?

The fear set in again. He could hear the beating of blood though his ear drums like a timpani in an orchestra bringing in the final waves of a symphony through a cacophony of sound, boom, boom, boom and even though he wasn’t moving, the in and out of breath was causing the hairs on his head to rustle in an intensely magnified manner against the starch crisp pillows that he lay on, so that each breath sounded like a truck being dragged along a road.

A road. A truck. A car. A motorway. Something came to Arnold and then as quickly as the glimmer of memory came to him. It disappeared back to the depths of his unconsciousness once more.

He had to get moving, he had to. This wasn’t the place for a great scientist such as he. Okay. Think Arnold think. 

He had been able to see the nurse when she opened his eye, but she said that he was unresponsive. Okay. So, maybe he could move his eyes if he tried hard enough. Blink. Try and blink. Blink, blink. What can I actually see? Arnold concentrated on what he could see, a swirling orange redness. The inside of his eyelids. Come on. Open u again p. Open your eyes. Eyes open. Open. Blink. Come on. Aaaagh. 

Light flooded into Arnold’s eyes. Forcing them shut again. Were they open? He tried. Aaaaaagh. Yes, yes, yes. They are open. I’ve done it. 

Arnold tried to focus around the room. Good Lord how long have I been asleep for? The room looked strange. The window frames looked futuristic. Sci-fi even. He focussed on the outside world.  The sky looked the same. He wondered if they were still at war. Where is Betty? Betty? 

The vision of his beautiful Miss Betty Heap appeared before him, long show girl legs, naughtily lifting up her skirt showing off the tops of her stockings as she so loved to...  Smooth skin, dark hair in a razor sharp bob, eyes smiling... But then somehow, as he lay motionless enjoying the image of the most beautiful, talented, intelligent young woman he had ever met, the love of his life, she began to change before him.  Her eyes grew tired, wrinkles etched their way across her face like water flowing it's way back into cracks as the tide turned, her upright dancer's figure began to stoop, the smooth skin above her stockings gave way to varicose veins down one thigh while her lithe legs grew thicker.  The gleaming black bob turned grey before his eyes and curled upwards into a set and blow dry.  She was still smiling but Arnold inwardly shuddered for there was nothing else that he could do. He had experienced some bizarre visions over the last eight weeks, but this metamorphosis was too much. What cruel imaginings were his mind flinging at him? Why had she turned old before him?

Why, why, why.  Betty.... Then the notion of reality came oozing back, like sap seeping from a wounded tree. Oh, oh..... OH!.... Of course. We are not Betty and Arnold anymore... We are, we are, we are now known as... Who am I?

Arnold racked his brains. We flew back to England and we became Betty and…. Betty and…. What did that nurse say? B, B, B, Barbara. Gosh. Barbara. That’s right.

Arnold tried to sit up. There was still no connections between his brain and his body. Okay. I can move my eyes perhaps I could move my mouth. After all I have been talking. They heard me say Betty. Oh hell, what if I’ve been found out. Why can’t I remember anything?

Arnold concentrated hard and tried talking again, only he didn't have the mask over his mouth. And oh to have some saliva on his tongue and running through his throat. His mouth was so parched and dry, it felt like he had been eating a thousand bitter gourds washed down with raw sheep’s wool. There was no moisture to his tongue in the slightest. “Nurse!” Good grief. How feeble does that sound? It did the trick though. The words came out loud and clear. Arnold heard footsteps coming back down the corridor as the nurse returned once more.

She greeted him with a smile on her face as Arnold was focussing on her and looking directly. Arnold licked his lips, but there wasn’t any lickiness. He may as well as rubbed a dry finger over his mouth.

“Hello, Ernst. Would you like some water?”

“Yes please.” Arnold managed. Well, Ernst. Ernst. That’s right. Ernst. Ernst looked at the nurse, her uniform looked strange. Alarmingly short. He knew how a nurses uniform looked in Britain, he had been to enough hospitals to instruct doctors there. Maybe this was some kind of private hospice. Come on Ernst. Think.

“You were in a car crash, Ernst.” Said the nurse, holding the glass to his lips. “Your mouth will be very dry. I have been swabbing it with a sponge. “You have been in a coma for eight weeks.”

“A car crash? I don’t drive.”

“Oh, yes you do. We used your driving licence to identify you when you arrived.”

Oh, yes. I got that licence when I became Ernst. No wonder I bloody crashed I’ve never even had a lesson…

“Where is Bet…” Ernst started.

“Barbara?” Interjected the nurse. She paused for a long few seconds. “Oh, um. Let me just get the doctor.”

“Is she okay?”

The nurse left the room without giving Ernst an answer.

*

Meanwhile over six and a half thousand miles away, another patient lay in another hospital bed. As Harold had let go of the fern, Paul had fired his gun blindly into the distance. He didn’t shoot a wild boar or even a small monkey. His prey had come firing back. His prey was Bevis his own brother who had shot back in shock as he was aiming for a creature making tracks in the distance. But that creature turned out to be Harold. Harold had been shot in the side. 

Bevis came running back, shortly followed by Endal who deftly packed Harold’s wound with leaves. The three men carried Harold all the way back though the jungle to the village and bundled him into the back of Paul’s cousin’s car where they were greeted by a sobbing Andeline. Harold had not been in a good way. He lost a lot of blood and the journey had not been a swift one. 

They drove to the general hospital where Harold was admitted and then operated on quickly enough. That’s where he came to be laying. On a bed on a ward with other men moaning and groaning around him. The hospital was small though, and only housed around five hundred patients. They were well staffed and the nurses were caring individuals who couldn’t do enough for their patients. They were full of empathy and sympathy unlike the British nurses who had become jobs worthy and almost uncaring due to the nature of National Health's bureaucracy.

*

Martha let herself in to the familiar old flagstone cottage on Ambleside with the spare keys she owned. She sighed. The welcoming spirit had left the once cosy cottage along with it's occupant, leaving behind an eerie emptiness. She stroked her mother’s faux fur coat where it hung in the entrance hall and she allowed her fingers to trail the keys on the open piano in the sitting room. She sat at the stool, looking at the music open on a page. “Debussey’s Arabesque.” She studied the music for a moment - checked her hand position and began to play. For the first time she felt grateful that her mother had taught her to play the piano and she had a chance to connect with her once more. She could hear her mother’s voice, telling her. “Right hand relaxed, sit up tall.” Treating the whole playing part as though it were a dance. Her fingers moved nimbly over the keys. She was a good player for someone who hadn’t bothered to play since she was a child. To Martha, getting back on the piano stool was like getting back on a bicycle. Somehow the genes of piano playing were flowing though her DNA. The DNA that she shared with Barbara and Ernst. Betty and Arnold.

Martha thought of her mother and how wonderful she was. How she used to play the piano and how she would make Martha play over and over again until she got it right.

Tinkle, tinkle., went her fingers over the piano keys. Tinkle, tinkle, SLAM!

Martha lost her temper and slammed the piano lid shut in fury at the thought of a wonderful life that had been cut so short. She hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Barbara Harpington-Smythe killed in a car crash. Barbara Harpington-Smythe no longer with us. “Aaaargh!” Martha screamed out in anger. 

She hated her father so much right now. He was driving - he should have died. He always drove like a complete lunatic and now this had happened. She was left to pick up the pieces and her mother couldn’t even have her funeral yet because her bloody father was laying in a coma. She meant what she had whispered to him. She would kill him if he woke up from the coma.

Martha was not a patient woman. Neither was she particularly pleasant. She was sharp, intelligent and very capable just like Harold, but she had an element of the “touched” about her. Her mannerisms were peculiar. Her thoughts were über obsessive and people whispered about her behind her back.

“That Martha -she looks normal - rather beautiful and together - but she’s mad. Mad as a box of frogs.”

“I hear she’s a witch.”

“A witch, no I heard she has three small children but they’re all locked in the attic.”

“Nonsense, I see her at church every Sunday and she’s perfectly pleasant.”

“No no she is not. She refused to put any money in the collection bowl the other day. Then I heard her demanding the vicar donate some money to her as she had supplied the flowers on more occasions than everyone else.”

“That’s shocking."

“There’s more, I met her for tea last year and we had a good time talking about art and fashion, then the very next day I bumped into her at the corner shop and she acted as if she had never seen me in her life.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, “Hello Martha, how are you today? Would like to meet for tea gain next week?” And she said, "Who are you? I’ve never seen you before in my life and I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Golly gosh! That is mad.”

“Then a week later I saw her and crossed the road so I didn’t have to embarrass myself again and she came chasing after me - “Susan, she said, let’s meet for tea again - I had a wonderful time.”

“What?”

“Yes, she’s stark raving bonkers! Crazy in the coconut.”

“Does she have a twin? Or a doppelganger?”

“I don’t think so, exactly the same rain coat and handbag every time I met her.”

So that was Martha. Touched by madness. Dancing to her own tune, one day affable, the next day acrimonious. But really she was schizophrenic, undiagnosed, so unexcused. 

Unfortunate behaviour is always forgiven if there’s a condition attached to it. 

Swearing like a foul mouthed beast? Not acceptable. Tourrete’s Syndrome? Forgiven. 

Children throwing unwarranted spoilt brat tantrums? Not acceptable. Autistic Spectrum Disorder? Forgiven. 

Stink like an unwashed rotting rancid fish market? Not acceptable. Trimethylaminuria? What’s that? Oh, it’s a metabolic disorder that makes you stink like an unwashed rancid rotting fish market. Nasty. But forgiven. 

Slightly unhinged, rather rude, self seeking centre of attention? A troubled childhood? Forgiven.

And that is the very point. Nobody knows straight away that people inflicted with undesirable traits behave in this odd way and everyone is so quick to judge. So Martha is beautifully swathed by the cover of a tall attractive intelligent scientist, but inside she is shrouded by multi-personalities.

　

The locals saw Martha as a smart intelligent middle class woman. She was a scientist like her father had been. Ernst had given her lots of pokes in the right direction, but without ever disclosing his formal self to her. Poor Martha and Harold never knew their parents true identity. In much the same way - that their parent’s never really knew their true identity as their heritage had been hidden in some lost paperwork at an orphanage bombed in the second world war. 

She did not look like a typical clichéd unkempt mad person, with wild hair flailing arms and gnashing teeth. She didn’t witter to herself or do obviously crazy things but there was no doubt she was a funny one. It was almost as if Martha’s personality could be turned off and on like a light switch. But she had no control over it. She didn’t know who or what was flicking the switch. Flick. Once moment nice as pie, flick, the next moment rude and ignorant. Flick, bright and shiny, flick, mean and dark. One thing was for certain though, her parents hadn’t noticed her madness as a child. Where had she been? Off at boarding school like Harold, Getting a first class education leaving her bereft of the warm loving that she so craved from her mother and father.

Martha stood up from the piano stool and entered the kitchen. Baking things still left out on the side unwashed. That wasn’t like her mother. Where had they been going in such a hurry? Without thinking, Martha filled the butler sink up with hot water to soak the pans that the scones had been baked on. She put the pans in to soak, took a knife from the wooden block and then wandered up the stairs to the study. 

She was greeted by Ernst’s paintings. Go on Martha, do it - stop them from looking at us. One by one she began to cut the eyes out from the portraits so they couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t bare the thought of these paintings being allowed to live on and see the world still when her mother couldn’t. As she carved at and mutated the canvases that were dotted around the room. She found the destructive act dulcified her anger. 

As she reached her father's desk she noticed a piece of paper on the table. She looked at it. It was a telegram. The telegram Harold had sent his parents. Written just over eight weeks ago. She read the words, then recoiled in horror. 

Harold was getting married? Married to a native? No wonder they had left in such a hurry. She understood now. She completely understood why such pandemonium was laid before her. She knew how her father felt about mixed marriages and most foreigners in general. But... Oh, no. Harold might not have been informed about what had happened to their mother. She hadn’t even thought about him. Well, maybe she had fleetingly wondered why he hadn’t called. She had been too caught up in her own feelings to realise that Harold was in the dark with this whole sorry mess. How could she get hold of him when he was at the other side of the world? Then she realised. Simple. The same way. A telegram.

Chapter 9. Mighty Warriors

It has been may months since I published a new chapter.  There are still only fourteen chapters written for this novel.  I will publish more before too long.

Since I last wrote on here, I have been busy running the markets and being a single Mummy, the writing of my poor novel has taken even more of a back seat.  But hey.  That's life isn't it?  Always getting in the way!

Picture taken from latest photo shoot with Hamilton Studios

If this is the first time that you have started reading this blog - I suggest you go back to the beginning and start reading from  chapter one. You can find the first chapter by clicking here.

Chapter 9. Mighty Warriors

“Quiet now Mr Doctor Man. The wild beasts are not your patients. They have no respect for you here.” Paul crept through the thick of the undergrowth, his rifle held over his shoulder. He knew that the chances of catching or shooting anything on the hunt that day was highly unlikely with his clumsy English companion on the team.

Harold’s hands trembled as he tried to keep up with Paul and his brothers. His palms were slimy from perspiration so that the rifle he was carrying kept slipping from his grip. Everywhere that Harold normally trod, people parted and looked at him in wonder as if he were Jesus on a mountain, robed and ready to spread goodness and healing to anyone who even so much as looked at him. Here Harold was The Great-I-Am more so than he had ever been back in Blighty. He was treated with the same respect that the “Great White Rajah’s” the white Christians who had trodden before him on the path of virtuousness and enlightenment for the people of Borneo had been treated.

Endal was hunting with them too, but in true Endal style, he was carrying a spear and a blow pipe to hunt with. He used his gun round his farmland whenever it took his fancy, so for this expedition to be a challenge, he needed to do things the traditional way. His spear was sharper than the wittiest of minds and his blow pipe was packed with paralysing poison collected from the Upas Tree. The Bidayuh do not traditionally use blow pipes, but Endal had traded with a member of the Penan tribe who had shown him how to make and use his own blow pipe.

 Endal was carefully dressed in an unassuming brown t-shirt and his favourite loin cloth. He nimbly ran through the trees and vegetation in his bare feet with all the excitement of a young child set free in an amusement park.

Bevis, Paul’s youngest brother patted Harold on the shoulder as he walked passed him to join Endal. He was much taller than Paul and almost as tall as Harold. Standing at around five foot seven, he looked quite unusual for a Bidayuh. “Don’t be scared Mr Doctor Harold,” he said. Trying to calm Harold down. “The animals will sense your fear and you will be come their dinner instead!”

Paul chuckled out loud and patted Harold on the shoulder too.

“I only teasing you, Hairy old Mr Doctor man!” Bevis laughed and gave Harold the same twinkly eyed warm hearted look that Paul had. Bevis, unlike his older brother, had not found himself a wife yet. He was intelligent but uneducated and preferred to work out in the fields. His skin was as brown as the mesocarp of a coconut from spending long days in the padi fields. He was a good looking young man with smooth skin and even features but girls were turned off by his darkness. No modern Bidayuh girl wanted to date a field worker they were keen to find their way out of the Kampong and live like a rock and roll star. In direct contrast to Bevis like to opposing teams in a game of chess, the women were quite literally throwing themselves at Harold.

“Doctor Harold,” tee hee hee… “Would you check my heartbeat?” Tee hee hee…

But fortunately for he and Andeline, he was much too honourable and in love to act upon it and Andline had strong enough self esteem to not be phased by the behaviour of other women to her husband.

Harold could certainly tell that Paul and Bevis brothers were brothers. He smiled at their family mannerism resemblance. He wished that he had a brother. He had nothing in common with his sisters. And so much for his own parents - they had clearly disowned him. It had been six weeks since he wrote to them inviting them to his wedding. He knew it was short notice - but that was what he wanted to do. Plus, he felt he ought to marry Andeline before she changed her sweet mind. And now he and Andeline had been married for three weeks and still not so much as a, “Don‘t bother coming back son!”

Harold had already made up his mind that he would not do any shooting and would simply stick to keeping up with everyone else. Paul’s brothers ran on ahead with Endal. Harold trudged along. He loved Paul dearly - he was like the brother he never had - but this was not his idea of fun. In fact Harold was not sure what his idea of fun actually was. But anything was better than staying in the village for yet another weekend as Andeline sat doing very little but chat chat chatting with her sisters, which was truly boring for Harold. He was quite good at understanding the language, but every time he attempted to talk back in Bidayuh, everyone dissolved into fits of giggles which rocked his confidence and left him practically mute. He sighed as he dodged in and out of the tree roots, he remembered his first entrance into Sarawak with Topa and Kasan. It was not unlike this jungle trek, only he felt a bit more comfortable this time. He knew where he was going, well kind of and who he was with, well sort of. He wondered how his sisters were and his Mother and Father. He could well imagine his father striding proudly through the trees, gun held high, ready to bang the brains out of the first moving thing that came his way.

Even though the other three men had disappeared, Paul kindly hung back with Harold. He had a heart of gold, and he loved his English brother-in-law as though he were his own brother too. Paul held onto Harold, who was ungainly unsteady on his feet.

The jungle seemed to be closing in on Harold. The fact that they were having to be silent added to the eeriness. Even though Harold had been in the rainforest many times now, the sheer magnitude of the oxygen rich air never ceased to amaze and take him over. There were creatures, plants and trees living and multiplying all around him. Plants within trees, insects in plants, flowers and animals living and passing on by so rapidly that the forest was in a constant state of birth, death and rebirth. The sheer buzz of the intensity of the being inside the rain forest was filling Harold with both excitement and fear at the same time. While the other men who were fully adept to the realms of the rainforest by the very genetics that were flowing through their own living chemistry were simply energised and excited by being there.

Their purpose that day was not for food but for sport. The land they were treading on was so unique that there were species surrounding them who faced extinction were they hunted much more, but they did not know that. They were given that land and so they made use of it.

A rotting smell of putrid flesh began to waft under the noses of the two men.

“Ugh,” Harold covered his nose up with his handkerchief. “Something must have died nearby.”

“Oh, wallow.” Whispered Paul. Pausing. “Look here, a Rafflesia.”

“A rafflesia where?” Gasped Harold. He had waited years to see a rafflesia plant. The rafflesia also known as the corpse plant because of it’s vile smell was the cause of the nauseating stink.

Sure enough Harold looked on the ground a few metres away to where Paul was pointing and saw the splendid red flower with white speckles, one metre in diameter large as life looking bizarre and hugely out of place in amongst the other greenery in the area with it‘s three dimensional cartoon like proportions.

“Oh my goodness.” Said Harold snapping away with his camera with glee.

“Sssh, you will scare all the beasties away. Endal will get mad if he sees you flashing away, my doctor brother.”

“Ah, but I simply have to,” said Harold. “I hunted the whole of Bako National Park for this sight and found nothing. And here it is a whopping great huge one. Just sitting there waiting for me on this journey. Would you take my picture with it?” Harold handed Paul the camera.

Harold took a couple of pictures of Paul. “Aw, you take picture of me?” Asked Paul, changing his mind about the stealthy silence he had been trying to promote. Paul lay on his side, resting his head on his hand - posing like a Roman god. “This will only flower for a short while and then it will be long long time before you see it again. Very good ha? Borneo special place.”

“Indeed it is Paul. A very special place.” Harold stroked the rafflesia and discovered it had tough old petals and was more like a flower shaped fungus. He imagined it would make a perfect home for fairies. “Paul, thank you for stopping Andeline from throwing that pan of water over me the other day.”

Paul looked surprised. “I was not protecting you. My children were in the room. Very dangerous to be picking up and throwing hot water pan. I am good at catching them.” He winked. “Nayla is just the same. You will learn. You will see it coming next time. The words they become louder and the eyes become more angry and just when they are rolling so you can only see the milky whites - then that is when they are ready to throw. That is when you must be leaving or saying how sorry you are. Mr Doctor Harold my brother in law friend. ”

You will learn? You will see it coming next time? Next time? Harold didn’t want there to be a next time. Before long, he could be a black smoked out skull hanging over the fire in the great ceremony room. Harold shuddered. He could just see Andeline cackling like a wild old witchy woman wailing kronchong at the top of her voice and rubbing her hands in happiness at the sight of his disembodied head. 

Oh dear. Oh dear. He loved his little Andeline with her sweet pretty face. But he was not sure that he could cope with a fiery temper for the rest of his married days. He wondered if his father was right. He had written to Ernst about how he was getting on and all the wonderful people he had met. He had written about Andeline and how beautiful and intelligent she was. How he had fallen in love. How she was from the Dayak tribe, but she was Westernised as she had become a teacher. And how for the first time in his life he had found someone who truly loved him back. He knew he was treading on dangerous territories as he had always suspected his father to be something of a racist. But the response he got knocked him for six. Actually, no. Double that.  It knocked him for twelve and then twenty-four, followed by a whopping forty-eight, a slap in the face and a veritable kick in the teeth.

Heap Cottage

Rydal Road
Ambleside
Cumbria
LA22 9BA
England
United Kingdom

12th February 1967

Dearest Harold,

I am so pleased to hear that you are continuing to do well on your mission. I hope that the good run may continue. I am especially pleased that you are preaching with the bishop and making good contacts with the other ex-pats.

Your mother and I are very well. She has been busy planting seeds in the green house, ready for our summer vegetables. I am looking forward to the runner beans. There is nothing quite like their sweet tastiness before they overgrow and become tough and stringy. Much like myself.

Joking aside. Harold. I am most concerned for your state of mind. I know you are not the brightest shilling in the pile dear son. But what are you thinking? I cannot believe that you have become involved with a native girl. A native girl from the jungle! It is just not a good thing. She is not one of us. From what I can gather, these people are easily lead. No offence my dear boy, but the missionaries have been heading over to the Far East for years attempting to convert savage tribes to Christianity and they lap it up. Particularly the tribes in Borneo. They lap it up like a cat with a saucer of cream. They have weak minds. I do not mean to make light of the work you are doing, but you are actually only preying on their feeble mindedness as far as I can see, which is why they are so easy to convert from their spirit world beliefs into Christianity.

Your mother and I hope that it is merely a holiday romance. You really should not be dabbling around with silly flings at your age dear Harold. You should be settling down and having children, Heaven knows your sister never will, but I have more faith in you. The jungles of Borneo are not the place to be finding yourself a respectable wife. You need to find a strong beautiful intelligent woman yes. But she must carry the right genes to make excellent children with, like your mother.

 I am sure you understand. I dearly hope you take heed of my words son. You are our only son and we need you to carry the good name of our family onwards into another generation. Heaven forbid if you do have a child with this savage woman. It could be very wrong indeed, it could be disabled or even more weak minded than you are. I jest now. I am sorry.

Your mother sends her love.

Write soon.

Best Wishes,

Father

　

　

He had known he was going to marry Andeline for a long time. But he was afraid to tell his parents, which is why he had left it so last minute to tell them and to make matters worse he had chosen to use the cowardly “telegram” option as opposed to the brave and direct “telephone” call option. Oh dear, oh dear.

“You look sad Harold. Don’t be sad. Andeline is a fine woman. The finest of the fine. Every man would like to have her for a wife.” Paul stood up from his spot on the ground next to the rafflesia. He brushed his trousers down, put his fingers to his lips and pulled Harold in close to him. He cocked his head as deftly as a lioness listening to it’s prey in the wind.

Harold tried hard to hear what Paul was hearing. He cocked his head in the same manner as Paul to see if he could hear better - but it appeared to make very little difference. “What is it?” He whispered as quietly as he could but his letter  tees came out over pronounced and shot into the air like a misfire.

Paul pointed into the trees which looked the same in every direction. He got his rifle ready and ducked behind a large fern. He motioned to Harold to pull the leaves back for him so he could see better.

“What can you see?” Asked Harold as he duly obliged with the holding of the fern leaf duties.

“It’s not what can I see, it’s what can I hear.” Paul un-clicked the safety latch on his rifle. “There is something coming towards us. It is moving quite slowly. It could be wild boar.”

A wild bore indeed thought Harold. He could be at home playing chess with himself, or listening to Andeline chat to Nayla - then on the other hand. “Are you going to make sure before your shoot?”

“No,” laughed Paul. “Shoot first - or not at all, Mr Doctor novice man.”

Harold didn’t like the sound the guns made when they fired - they were just so loud, they went through him as though they had the found their way into his own torso, whether they were the guns that had been fired for the start of a race or guns that were aiming for a clay pigeon on a firing range, sometimes even the guns on a Western at the pictures would leave him  gasping for air, Harold just couldn’t handle them. The echo of the bang would ricochet through his chest pinging around his head so that he felt his brain was going to explode. 

He was so easily overwhelmed, but that was Harold. That was how the world treated him. A sensitive man with a sensitive soul. Cotton sheets were too scratchy if they weren‘t of the finest thread count, to Harold they felt like he was lying on sheets made of tough old horse hair. Modern rock and roll music - too loud, the bass would thump against his chest like an axe murderer trying to break his door down. Ladies perfume would get into his nostrils and leave him feeling nauseous as he became overwhelmed by the smell. Poor Harold. The twentieth century world of Europe and all that it had to offer was not the right time for a man like Harold, while the laid back colonial lifestyle that smacked of a bygone era suited him to a tee. Anything was fair game for the rich ex-pats who would go hunting for wild lions tigers and rhinos within the gaming reserves in India and Africa. Fortunately the rain forests and their oxygen rich diversity was left to the tribes of Amazonians and Borneans to treat it with the respect it deserved.

Harold put his fingers in his ears in anticipation of the loud bang that was coming, letting go of the fern which pinged back into Paul’s face. Paul fired the gun as he jumped at the pinging fern and his finger automatically squeezed the trigger. BANG!

　

　

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?

First Haircut Silent Sunday - 13th February 2011

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

To see the Silent Sunday post for my other blog, look here: http://www.headhuntressinhampshire.com/2011/02/silent-sunday-13th-february-2011.html

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We cannot cook her.” Said Nayla.

“No, I guess not.” Said Andeline.

“She is quite meaty though.” Said Paul.

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

Hmm. They all nodded in agreement.

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

“This one will,” Nayla confirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t answer back.”

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

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

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