Family Life

CONTENTS (Click on the title to go to the story)

Lucy and The Other Woman - Be careful what you wish for, it might come true.

All His Works - Greatness. So hard to define, yet so easy to recognise.

Cry Freedom - Our lives become so entangled, but is freedom really so desirable.

Phantom - Human relationships are paradoxically, so complex yet so simple.

Journey - Like life, every journey must end.

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Lucy and The Other Woman

Lucy was obviously upset when she called me. As usual we arranged meet in a little café just off the High street for lunch She looked her normal, elegant self, but I knew it was going to be the same old story. In company, Lucy was so self-assured, but when she was in one of these moods, she was hell. We had our usual light lunch and made the usual small talk. Then it started.

"Of course I've never actually met the woman." She said. "But I feel as if I know her."

"I don't know how you can be so sure." It was the same old routine; I must have heard it a dozen times before.

"He covers his tracks well. Never a clue, nothing obvious. No lipstick on his collar. He's much too clever for that."

"But how do you know, Lucy. There must be something."

"It's a feeling. Don't ask me how, but I do know."

"But what exactly? What is it he's doing?" I was exasperated but this time I also felt concerned. There was a new and serious intensity in her conversation. Looking closer I could see a tension that I had not seen before. Could Thomas really be having a passionate affair? It did not seem at all likely.

"It's the small things you notice." Said Lucy. The intensity had suddenly gone, to be replaced by a vacuity just as disturbing. She stared into the distance, almost as if she were unaware of my presence.

"The odd late evening at the office, wrong numbers on the phone. . ." At first I tried to defend Tom.

"He wouldn't be unfaithful to you Lucy, he loves you!" But she was quite unconvinced. She wanted an ally to sympathise with her predicament, not a detached observer to examine the evidence. Her anger flared quickly when she felt she was not receiving the support she deserved.

"What do you know about Thomas?" She demanded. The question was rhetorical and she soon supplied the answer. "You don't know about his nasty sneaky little ways, his obsession with sex, his violent temper. And you obviously don't care." Tears welled in her eyes and she dabbed at them with a pretty lace handkerchief.

I found it hard to imagine the mild and gentle Tom that I knew as a violent sex maniac, but this was clearly not the time to say so. I made understanding noises and we agreed to meet again later that week. I worried all the way home. Lucy was so upset, it was a story I had heard before, but this time it was somehow different. She looked tense and strained, her hands wrenching that tiny, pretty handkerchief. But I still felt sure she was wrong. She was never the most stable of people. You were either for Lucy or against her, no neutrals were tolerated. We had been friends for many years and although the theme was the same, there was definitely a new and disturbing intensity.

That evening, for the first time, I talked it over with Freddie, my husband. He confirmed my feelings.

"Tom! Never in a million years!" He was incredulous. "Old Tom with a bimbo, it's laughable! Woman's off her head." He was dismissive of the whole silly business, but I was still worried. I felt sure the thing was getting out of hand.

I had known Tom for years. We used to work together at the Montrose Corporation. I left when I had Jennifer, but Tom was still there.

The following day I took the bull by the horns and called him at the office. He was pretty surprised to hear from me. I don't actually know what Tom there now, but I think he's quite important. They put me through to his secretary and I am sure he did not recognise my name at first. The secretary said,

"I'll see if he's available." She was gone for a long time before I finally got through to Tom. He must have wondered what on earth I wanted, but he was very polite. When I finally got round to explaining that it was about Lucy, and I did not want to talk about it on the phone; there was a long silence at the other end. I had obviously touched a nerve. Yes, he said, there had been a few problems lately. He suggested we met to talk about it. I could hear the rustle of his diary as he turned the pages. We arranged to meet Friday lunch¬time at the Kings Arms, just outside town.

Freddie disapproved.

"Don't get involved between husband and wife, Mary. Cause more harm than good." He said.

"But I've known Lucy such a long time." I replied. "I'm sure there's something wrong. I feel I must at least try to help."

"If you must, you must, I suppose. But do take care old Girl. Fools rush in, and all that."

When we met on Friday, Tom was far more direct than Lucy had been.

"She driving me mad." He said. "I really don't know which way to turn, She is completely convinced that I've got another woman and nothing I say seems to make any difference." Tom looked tired. This business was clearly wearing him down. There was, of course, The Obvious Question and I had to ask it. I looked him straight in the eye.

"Tom. Please tell me truthfully is there another woman."

"Good God Mary! Of course there isn't. If there were, at least I could understand all this."

"I had to ask."

"I suppose so. But I promise you there is no other woman in my life. This whole thing is a figment of Lucy's imagination."

"Have you spoken to anybody about it?"

"No you're the first. Who could I tell?"

"Perhaps you should get her to see a doctor?"

"A doctor? Perhaps I should, I've never thought of it as a medical problem, but maybe you're right. Thanks Mary. It's been a real help just having someone to talk to."

Tom and I met several times after that to discuss Lucy. He was so lonely, poor man. It must be terribly difficult living with a neurotic and suspicious wife. He tried to keep it from the children, but there were terrible rows and they must have noticed something was wrong. For a long time I was the only confidant he had. but I eventually convinced him that he must get proper help. He consulted his local doctor who was wonderful.

Lucy was referred to some kind of specialist, and although she never discussed the details of the treatment the improvement was very rapid. We still met regularly. It was always lunch in the same little cafe, just off the High Street.

The change was really quite amazing. At first she was unnaturally calm, and although this was an improvement over all the previous high drama, it was also a bit disturbing, somehow unsettling after all of that fierce passion. But slowly, as the weeks passed she became more like her old self. In a month or so she was again the Lucy that I once knew. Not perfect of course, she never was, just a normal suburban housewife again. It was as if a long nightmare had ended. It was good to have her back.

I stopped the lunch time meetings when Tom and I started sleeping together, it didn't seem right somehow.


All His Works

When Old Joe was taken ill they called me. Silly really, after all I hardly knew him. But then again, nobody really knew him. At least nobody ever visited that run down old bungalow. And I found out afterwards that they couldn't trace any relatives. So, as chairman of the local Residents Association, they called me.

"What can I do?" I said to Wendy, my wife. "I can't just say no, can I? I mean, he's ill; maybe it's serious."

"But it's none of our business," she said. "We don't know him. It's not an Association matter."

She was right of course. In fact old Joe and I had had words on several occasions about the state of his garden. What a mess! Weeds as tall as your shoulder, no wonder the other residents of the Close complained.

But it was no use complaining to Joe. Several times I hacked my way up the overgrown path to that green front door. I suppose once it was a nice glossy green but now it was blistered and dull. Such a shame I thought, to let it go to rack and ruin that way. Of course the bell did not work, so each time I had to hammer and bash on the door until Joe finally responded.

Nobody knew how old Joe really was, but he looked about eighty to me. He was short with a great mop of silver hair. I never saw him without a little black beret on his head, and he always wore the same baggy corduroy jacket. Our conversations never really got very far. Sometimes old Joe would be a Great Sculptor, sometimes a Great Engineer, sometimes a Great opera Singer. At least he was consistent in one thing; they were always Great. Joe had no truck with the second rate.

It's difficult to have a serious discussion with a Great Fighter Pilot about the state of his garden. I suppose it all seems a bit trivial to him, what with the fate of whole nations depending on the success of his next mission. In some ways I could see his point of view, but it didn't cut much ice with the Residents Association. At times the meetings got quite heated. As I said to Simpson at one of our recent gatherings;

"If you feel that way about it, why don't you say something yourself. You see him walking by often enough." And do you know what Simpson said?

"Every time I try to speak to him, he just goes on about his latest painting or statue or mission or something else damn silly." Well, of course, I replied:

"Well there you are then! It's just the same for me. What do you expect me to do?"

Although I got the support of the meeting to move onto the next item on the agenda, it was a bit grudging I felt. The discussion on the new street light for the corner was a little strained.

"It's all very well Mr bloody Simpson getting all hot and bothered about the weeds blowing into to his garden," I said to Wendy afterwards, "but it's not him who has to go and represent the Association."

"You encourage him" she said.
This was too much. I was frankly annoyed.

"Simpson is a pompous overbearing ninny, how could I possibly encourage him."

"Not Simpson; Old Joe!" She said, rather scathingly I thought. "Something really ought to be done about him. That old bungalow must be a public health hazard. And as for all his silly talk about that Great Novel he's writing, I don't believe a word of it."

I suppose I did have a secret soft spot for the old boy. After all it's not often that you get the chance to meet a Great General and Great Author in the same day, let alone the same man. And not every suburban street can claim to have a Great Painter in residence.

So I went to see him at the hospital. As always, the hospital was a foreign country. The long windy walk from the car park to the usual antiseptic maze of corridors with incomprehensible signs and closed doors to worrying rooms. And of course, that Smell. I suppose people who work there get used to it, but to the casual visitor it's the trademark of sickness. That special blend of boiled cabbage and antiseptic, accept no substitute.

I finally found the ward where Joe was supposed to be. By the time I got there it was late and very few visitors remained. The trouble with modern hospitals is they don't have fixed visiting hours, so you have to invent some important appointment, or pretend that you are overtaxing the patient in order to get away.

Fortunately the patient is usually as bored as you, so it works out all right, but some of these visitors, poor devils, looked trapped. They stared at me as I walked down the ward, willing me to announce the end of visiting for today. I peered embarrassingly up and down the rows of beds trying to recognise him. He was right at the end. So, feeling conspicuously vertical in this horizontal world, I walked to his bedside. Lying in those totally alien stiff white sheets poor old Joe was smaller, diminished. He also looked very, very, ill.

"Hello Joe." I said, "How are you feeling." I think he recognised me, but it was hard to be sure. He turned his head to me,

"It's my greatest work, you know."

"I'm sure it is, but how are you. What happened?"

"Not too good. It's my heart they say. But what do they know. Young kids most of 'em. Now when I had my practice. . ." He stopped and drew a long, laboured breath.

"All the residents back in the Close wondered what had happened to you" I quickly lied.

"Those bastards, they wouldn't recognise great art if it bit their bum. All they care about is their bloody front lawns." He gasped, getting a bit red in the cheeks. "Fascists all of 'em, we fought a war to keep England free of Simpson and his kind. He relaxed back onto his pillow.

"Little shit." He said more quietly. A Nurse arrived she looked about thirteen.

"Is everything O.K. Mr Greenslade?" She said briskly. Joe grunted something.

"Please take care not to over tire him. He needs lots of rest." She said to me in a rather pointed manner, and bustled off.

I sat by the bed not quite knowing what to say. I certainly did not want to provoke another outburst. But I could not think of a damn thing to talk about. Soon Joe came to the rescue.

"It's my greatest work you know" he said again. "Not that the other stuff was bad. Oh no. It's just that this is my, er, whatchamacallit. . . you know."

"Masterpiece?"

"Yes, that's it. Masterpiece. Now they'll have to take notice. It's a conspiracy you know. They're all against me. But I'll show 'em, you mark my words." Once more the colour was starting to rise in old Joe's cheeks.

"Yes, a conspiracy" he said, starting to warm to his subject. "They want to keep me down, you know. I know things. But they won't do it you know. You can't suppress Great Art. . ."

"Don't tire yourself Joe." I said hastily, but his breathing had become very laboured and I started to panic. I pressed the bell push by his bed and then started to walk down the ward to get the nurse. She arrived quite soon and looked accusingly at me. Before I could properly explain she drew the curtain around the bed and went inside, a few seconds later she emerged and swept rapidly off down the ward.

She soon returned with a young male Doctor and the two of them disappeared into the tented city. After a very long five minutes he came out and said he had something rather serious to tell me, and would I follow him. As it was pretty obvious that poor old Joe had finally departed this world, I started to get very nervous. Was he going to tell me Joe had some dreadful infectious disease and I was going to have to spend weeks in isolation while they carried out tests to see if I would live?

We went into a tatty waiting room filled with those steel tube and Rexene chairs that must be specially designed for National Health hospital waiting rooms. You never seem to see them anywhere else. But then who else would buy the awful things? The doctor put on a special sincere look.

"Were you and your Father very close?" He said. I was momentarily confused. Then I realised this was the new sympathetic 'bedside manner' programme recently introduced to the Health Service. I read about it in the local paper. I quickly explained that Joe was really just an acquaintance. The Doctor looked a bit put out. I suppose he wanted the practice.

I felt a bit guilty; after all he was only trying to help, so I tried to look deeply moved. The trouble was, all this play¬acting somehow rather got in the way of the real sadness I felt about poor old Joe finally ending his days in this place. It was not exactly a fitting end to a Great Artist. I had the vague feeling he should have died in a hut on a south sea island, or in a plane crash or even a motorbike accident, something with a bit of glamour. I tried to explain to the doctor, but it was a mistake. I could tell by the way he looked at me, that he thought I was as barmy as old Joe. Eventually I made a few sheepish excuses and left the hospital feeling a bit of a fraud.

When I got home and told Wendy that old Joe had gone, we both went through the familiar and comforting routine. Had a good innings, did not suffer, best way to go, and many other hackneyed and true clichés were aired as they must be. I went to bed suitably depressed.

The next morning was a Saturday and I woke feeling in oddly good spirits considering the events of yesterday evening. It seemed in rather poor taste to appear too jolly so I tried to look a bit subdued. But I could feel Wendy's disapproval, so I don't think I made a very good job of it.

"Poor old Joe."  She said pointedly. "We shall miss him you know."

"Look, I'm sorry he's gone," I said, "but we didn't really know him that well, and with the best will in the world I can't help feeling a tiny bit relieved that I won't have to go through all that nonsense at the Residents Association again."

I could tell Wendy was shocked. She pursed her lips.

"You must get the Association to buy a nice wreath. I wonder when the funeral will be?" Wendy seemed to like Old Joe a lot more now he was dead, I thought. No doubt many others would feel the same. Still most great artists had to wait until after they were dead to get the recognition they deserved.

We had just finished breakfast when the doorbell rang.

"It's the Milkman," shouted Wendy from the kitchen, "I didn't pay him last week and I haven't got any cash, will you deal with it? I'll settle up with you later."
I quietly grumbled my way to the door but when I opened it, it was not the Milkman. A young man in a tweed jacket stood there and announced he was from Social Services or some such, and he had come about Mr Greenslade. It took me a moment or two to realise that he was talking about Old Joe.

I invited him in and introduced him to Wendy. I must say I got a certain smug satisfaction in seeing Wendy going through the deeply moved act that I had performed for the doctor yesterday. This time I felt no obligation to perform.

The young man explained that he wanted to go to Joe's bungalow and go through his papers to see if he could identify any next of kin. And for some reason he wanted me to go with him. Perhaps he thought it would take two of us to fight off the bacteria. More likely, he thought I might have a key. I didn't. He said we should probably call a policeman to help us get into old Joe's place, but that seemed a bit excessive to me.

"You don't really need the police to get into Joe's old Bungalow," I said. "You could break into that place with a penknife and a piece of string. I'll come with you if you think you should have a witness."

"I'd be very grateful if you would" said the young man.

I popped out to the garden shed to get a screwdriver so we had something to prise open a window and off we strode down the Close to old Joe's place. Word had already got round about Joe's death, and several residents asked about him as we passed. I felt quite important for a while, escorting this young chap to the bungalow, it was like approaching the tomb of some long dead Egyptian Pharaoh, passing all the natives aghast at the great archaeologist about to defy the curse of the overgrown garden and enter. But when we got there it was just poor old Joe's tatty old home with its green front door and peeling paint. I pushed at the door and it opened easily. It wasn't even on a latch; Joe did not have much worth stealing. There were two rusty bikes in the hall and a significant collection of old milk bottles.

"We had better take a look in the front room first, and then work our way round the house." Said the young man. I actually hated the idea of rummaging through this sad house, now like its owner, lifeless and still. But I could not think of a better plan, so I agreed.

The front room door was ajar, and as well as his masterful collection of milk bottles I could see Joe was also something of a connoisseur of old newspapers.

Perhaps, I thought idly, he was a Great Collector too. The young man interrupted my reverie.

"Bit of a DIY man was he? Your friend?"

I never really thought of Joe as much of a do it yourself enthusiast, what with the state of his bungalow. Not to mention that garden!

"Er, not exactly. More of a don't do anything man I would have said."

"What's all this then?" he said, pointing to a large pile of cans in the corner of the room. I walked over and peered at dozens and dozens of empty paint tins. There were gloss and emulsion, even some of that thick stuff you put on the ceiling to cover those horrible little cracks. And every colour you could think of.

"He must have had a very unusual colour scheme in mind." I said.

"It looks like he's already done it," said the young man, "most of these are empty."

We looked in the bureau in the corner of the room and in all the cupboards. It was just the usual sad detritus of a life now over. There were papers galore. Joe obviously did not believe in throwing anything away. There were gas bills going back twenty years, but certainly not in chronological order. The young man from the Council looked a bit glum.

"It's going to take weeks to sort through this lot," he said. "To be honest it looks more like a job for the refuse department than for my lot."

He picked up a pile of papers and peered at them with a sort of forlorn look.

"I mean," he said "how am I supposed to find anything about his next of kin from this lot? Look at this! It's a petrol coupon! Must be fifty years old."

"There might be some more up to date stuff elsewhere." I really just said it to make him feel a bit better. Knowing Joe, it was more likely that the rest of the house was also full of interesting curios from the distant past.

We went into the back room. I suppose it was once the sitting room. But it was hard to recognise it as anything very much now. The carpet was strewn with some of Joe's comprehensive newspaper collection and the furniture, floor and just about every other available surface had something on it. There were buckets, cups, vases, an old teapot and of course plenty of milk bottles. The curtains were drawn and it was very gloomy

"What on earth has he been doing in here?" Asked the young man.

"Search me." I said. "Open those curtains; I can hardly see a thing." He stumbled noisily across the floor to the window. The curtains dragged jerkily open and light flooded into the room.

"That's better," he said. "Now let's see what's been going. . .on. . ."

His voice trailed away as he stared over my shoulder into the room. I turned to see and there on the far wall was a large piece of hardboard about eight feet square, and on it was a painting.

I was quite astounded. I am not an artistic person; I don't visit art galleries and that sort of thing. But even I could see that this was indeed Old Joe's masterpiece. There was a forest, dappled with a hundred shades of green. It seemed to glow where the sunlight touched the leaves. And yet other parts were dark and seemed almost threatening. The forest ran almost down to the seashore, and the sea and the rocks sparkled in the sunshine. It was so beautiful I admit a tear came to my eyes. I moved a step closer and now I could see clearly the figures in the foreground.

They were lying on the beach naked. A man and a girl in an embrace. It was not openly explicit, but it was clearly sensual and certainly erotic. They were obviously lovers in this paradise, this English Eden.

Smiling gently from the painting I could now recognise Joe in his youth, strong and beautiful. But the naked girl in his arms, strange how memory can play tricks, it could almost have been Wendy, twenty years ago.

Cry Freedom

Driving along the M40 to Oxford, Toby Wright came to the conclusion that he had lost his soul.

It was nothing dramatic.

He had not sold it to the devil, or even performed some act of terrible wickedness. It had not disappeared in a clap of thunder. As far as he could tell it had not happened suddenly at all. it had just slowly seeped away. Drifting out of his life, he fancied, like a thin mist over autumn moors.

He was not a man given to introspection. Activity filled his life, his work, the golf club, friends, the demands of a young family, and of course, Betty his wife. All in all it did not leave much time for quiet observation. But today was different. The fog was thick and as he crawled along peering into that dense, bright, white, wall time passed very slowly. He had turned off the radio. It helped him concentrate on the small patch of visible road ahead.

There was little other traffic. The fog blanketed out any sound and the car was warm against the chill of that external reality. It was a small world. No more than twenty feet in all directions. Womb like, it moved with him, shutting out all distraction; filling the mind.

The car, a womb within a womb, soothed him. The thousand distractions of his life were somehow outside, beyond that moving wall. He had time to look beneath the tangle of thought that formed his everyday world. So much of it, he realised had no independent existence.

It was pure reaction, a mere pavlovian response to stimuli.

A businessman in this situation will react thus. The correct response of a parent is so. A husband, lover, friend will in this situation, behave in this manner. And beneath this cause and effect he could discern ... nothing.

Had it always been this way? He did not think so. But maybe the vivacity of youth had disguised that empty heartland. Had filled it with a hunger for life, a joy that seemed like substance. When did he last feel joy? Too long ago to recall. He felt no ache inside. No void. Nothing so dramatic, just quiet and unremarkable sameness stretching into an uneventful future.

His foot pressed gently onto the accelerator pedal and the car moved languidly forward. It slowly gathered momentum, the expensive padded interior as quiet as a church. Within his small world there was little to indicate increased speed. The wall of white ahead did not move. It kept pace with the car as the speedometer crept round the dial, ticking slowly forward like the second hand of a watch. only a small change in the pitch of the rushing wind as it flowed round the computer designed curves of pressed steel, hinted that he was moving across the earth at over one hundred miles an hour.

An end to existence, what did that mean? For a man without a soul...not much. He did not exist now as an independent entity. He was just a network of obligations. If their epicentre ceased to exist they would, after a time, reform. Other, different lines would be drawn. New ties would be made. Other commitments created. Like a stone dropped into a pond, the ripples would be turbulent but brief. The smooth order of life would soon reassert itself.

And as for himself…life without joy, world without end. Not really much of a loss. As the speedometer reached one hundred and thirty miles per hour there was a small change in the engine's quiet hum. The small moving world was still calm, with little to indicate that desperate speed. It was simply that the road was rising. A gentle hill, but even those sinuous six cylinders slowed slightly as the onward rush touched one hundred and thirty miles an hour.

A golden fireball burst in the sky. Sudden and stunning the sun was there. The fog was gone. The countryside, green and brilliant screamed by. A bridge flashed into sight as was gone. A lorry lumbered up the rise. It was gone in seconds, tumbling away in his rear view mirror. The car, a missile barely guided, flew to its final tryst.

But with the sudden visibility, clarity struck. Across the bright, lustrous landscape his fealties flew. Fatherless children accused him, a weeping widow rebuked him. Numberless responsibilities lashed him. He released the accelerator pedal and the car slowed. The bonds tightened and he touched the brake. At sixty-five he allowed the car to cruise. White fog loomed again in front of him as the motorway dipped from the peak. He lifted his foot from the throttle and slowed to a cautious thirty miles an hour. The moment was past; the bid for freedom over. Toby Wright was once again, in the manner of his kind, safe.

Phantom

I was sitting in the car, just a little way down the road from Number 35 Weston Avenue. I could see my father working in his front garden, a slightly stooped old man with his breath, white in the chill autumn air.

'Father'. For a man there is a strange resonance to the word.

It does not carry the soft warmth and limitless security of Mother. It is a more stern and judgemental love, a love to be won and to cherish, a proud example to set, and to emulate.

My first father was a kindly man. He was my mother's husband and our home was, in a quite ordinary way, a place of happiness. He loved me, I felt, without reservation. As a child I remember his presence, masculine and reassuring.

When I was first told of my unconventional conception, the news made little impact upon me. At sixteen years old, the statutory age for disclosure, the biological details of one's mother's pre natal experiences are embarrassing and discomforting. My father was my father; my mother's artificial insemination by an anonymous donor was distant and irrelevant.

For my rushing youth and into those frenetic days of young man hood it remained so.
Even when I married and settled down, the knowledge lay dormant.

Then one day, I too became a father, and as I held my infant son some strange alchemy stirred in me. I knew then I must see my real sire.

So many months of checking, and the endless forms. The humiliation of interviews with the Official Counsellors with their questions and more questions. And all the while an unpleasant sensation of guilt. Was I betraying Dad? The man who had read me those stories, sung me the songs that I remembered so well. The songs that I now sang to my son as he lay like a small warm animal in his nesty bed.

Now there he was. Raking leaves in his front garden in a chill morning in November. As I watched I felt - nothing. This man was not my father. There was no magic thread that held us, no spirit force between us. I had built my search into a quest, something heroic. Now it was over, and here before me was an ordinary man. An anonymous stranger, as he always had been. And must always remain.

I was empty. The quest was over. I had found the dragon's lair, but he had long since left. There was nothing to face, but also nothing to fear. An ache that had become a part of me was slowly easing.

I started the car and began the long journey home. On the way I would stop and see Dad.

Journey

"What time do we reach Bristol?" Asked Anne offering her ticket to the Inspector.

"I'm sorry Madam, but this train doesn't stop at Bristol." He replied.
Anne fought down a strange, sudden, rising, hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her. She made a conscious effort to relax. She was a modern self contained woman. Quite capable of meeting any situation.

Hysteria, from the Greek 'husterikos'   of the womb. A complaint of weak and silly females. Anne Thomas was not, and would not be, an hysteric. She had now quite collected herself, but the Inspector had gone. Now what to do?

She was, after all, well used to rail travel. Before the accident she had spent many, many hours on trains as she visited clients spread through out the country. This was not, of course, the first time she had made a wrong connection.

Anne Thomas was well respected in ZDA plc. As chief consultant for the Xeres range of computers. she was a key figure in the organisation. Her drive and ability had taken her to the top in a profession still dominated by men. Her calmness under pressure, in a field where the pressure could be intense, was legendary.

But since the accident that calm, always more a studied surface than a true reflection of her feelings, had started to crack.

Anne gazed through the window at the country side passing by and thought, not for the first time, about the uncomplicated lives passing peacefully by in the tiny cottages that dotted the landscape. She knew it was a vanity, of course. In reality their lives were no less difficult than her own. She knew from long experience that there is a part of the soul reserved for fear. It is always full. If no large fears are available to fill the space, then small ones grow until they occupy it completely. But it was pleasant to dream of a carefree world set in the beautiful English countryside where people unburdened by care lived out their daily idyll.

As she stared through the window she thought hard about what she should do next. First, there was no hurry. She was inevitably going wherever the train was going. Second, she should contact her mother in Bristol. It would now be late before she arrived. She reached down for her briefcase and mobile phone. It was not there. She had not brought it, why should she on a visit to her mother?

All the same she felt isolated without it, an uncomfortable, lonely sensation. Once more she had to pause to calm her jangled nerves. She also remembered she had not told David about this impromptu trip. If he could not contact her he would be desperately worried.

Thoughts of David calmed her. The perfect husband. No - That was silly, he had his faults, they had had their quarrels. But over fifteen years of married life he had been supportive and loving; and had fathered two fine children. Mark and Susan were both away at school, although they had come home after the accident for a while. She regretted not seeing more of them, but what with David's work, and her career, it was difficult.

The time had come for action. First she must find where and when the train made its first stop. She looked around the compartment. Two old men and an old lady were her travelling companions and, as is usual on an English train a distant and polite silence had been observed. In fact the two old men were asleep and the old lady had the dreamy faraway look of imminent sleep.

"Excuse me." Said Anne. "where does this train stop next?" The old lady looked surprised.

"I don't really know dear." She said in a calm, concerned voice. "Where is it you want to then?"

"I'm visiting my mother in Bristol, but I seem to have got on the wrong train. I need to get it sorted out somehow. Silly thing to do really."

The old lady leaned forward slightly.

"Lovely place, Bristol. I once had an aunt who lived there. Used to visit her in the summer. Long time ago now. I expect it's all changed now. Places do seem to change so these days."

Anne could quickly see that this was not going to be a very productive conversation, so making her excuses she left the compartment to search for the Inspector. In the corridor it was suddenly noisier, less stable. She walked a little unsteadily towards the rear of the train. She thought of asking in another compartment, but they seemed so secure, private and shut tight against intrusion, that she decided to persevere in her search for the Inspector.

The train was a long one and by the time Anne reached the buffet car, she was feeling tired. The swaying and the constant rushing noise of the corridor had quite exhausted her. An unusually solicitous steward took her arm and led her to a seat in the deserted carriage.

"You look fair worn out Love." He said, helping her into the chair.

"Thank you." Anne replied. "Thank you very much. I've been a bit unwell recently."

"Let me bring you something. What's it to be? Tea, coffee, something cold?"

"I'd love a cup of coffee please."

The steward disappeared into the back of the carriage. He was a plump man, shiny and scrubbed in a stiff white jacket. His pleasant smiling face had quite cheered Anne. What with feeling so tired and the silly old lady in the compartment, well it was just nice to see a sensible, friendly face.

The smiling steward soon returned with a pot of steaming coffee on a tray. He placed the cup before her and poured. The tantalising aroma seemed to fill the dining car and coffee, thought Anne, had never tasted so good. She spoke to the steward.

"That's wonderful! Thank you."

"Glad you like it." He turned to go.

"Listen," Said Anne. "Before you go, I seem to have done rather a stupid thing. I wanted to go to Bristol, and I have somehow managed to get on the wrong train!"

The steward looked concerned. His smile now dimmed a little but he put a gentle hand on Anne's shoulder, and she knew at last she had found help.

"Well don't worry, love, I'm sure it will all work out all right." He said kindly. "Why were you going to Bristol?"

"I wanted to see my mother. Funny really, it was a spur of the moment thing. I haven't been there for a while and I suddenly felt I just had to see her."

Suddenly, embarrassingly, Anne's throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh God. I'm sorry." She said sniffling and fumbling in her handbag for a hanky. "Don't know what came over me."

The steward reached into his pocket an handed her a large, spotless white handkerchief. His pleasant features clouded with concern.

"You really don't need to get upset, love." He said softly. Then suddenly triumphant, "I tell you what we can do! We'll go and see the driver!"

"The driver!" Anne was astonished. "You mean the Train driver?"

"Of course. who else?" The steward was beaming.

"Do you think he can help?"

"Well we shan't find out until we ask him, shall we!"

"I suppose not." Said Anne. She was unconvinced, but had nothing better to propose. In any case she had never seen the driver's compartment of a train; it would certainly be something to tell the children. Somewhat bemused still, she followed the white jacket of the steward back along the noisy rattling corridor towards the engine.

They stopped at a large and heavy bulkhead door. The roar of the diesel motors beyond was already making it difficult to hear the steward speak.

"Are you all right love?" He shouted. The journey along the awkward corridor had again tired her. But she shouted back.

"Yes. I'm O.K. now."

"It's a bit noisy in here, so watch out!" He opened the door and the roar became tangible, battering her body. A clattering, overwhelming, breathtaking force. They plunged into the heat and noise thundering through rattling louvred panels that lined the walls, behind which the mighty engines that drove the train were enchained. Through the bulkhead door at the other end and they were in the driver's cabin, in an atmosphere singing with quiet.

"This is Mrs Thomas.l' Said the steward. The driver had a handsome face, Anne thought. Kindly like the steward but reserved and grave. He was concentrating hard on the track, which Anne could see reeling out before them like a thread of silver across the landscape. From here she could sense the speed of this monster.

"Hello Mrs Thomas." Said the driver. Before she could make any response the train plunged into a long tunnel and once again a blanket of rushing sound enveloped them as they stood blind in the darkness. As she stared into the blackness for an end to the tunnel, Anne's thoughts returned to the accident.

What she remembered chiefly was the abrupt and dreadful transformation. The smooth quiet power of the car suddenly releasing its incipient violence in a terrible rending of metal; of impossible angles, solid objects ripped and buckled to meaningless scrap; of noise and flame and soft bodies ruined.

As she watched, a tiny bright spot appeared in the darkness. It slowly grew in size, and as it drew closer, its brilliance seemed to outshine the sun. Anne felt her heart rising to meet this new dawn. Somehow. something wonderful was waiting.

The soft hum of the life support system was interrupted by the urgent continuous beep of the Alpha wave alarm. A white coated doctor reached across and automatically switched it off.

"We've lost her." He said to the attendant nurse.

"Shall I call the re suss team." She said.

"No point." He looked at the broken body lying in its web of tubes and wires, and felt the familiar depression of a battle lost; even though the cause was hopeless. "No point." He repeated softly, and braced himself for the task of telling David Thomas that he would never see his wife again.