The guard, today it is the young one who looks as if he should still be in college, checks the security of my window. They do this everyday to check that I am secure, that there is no risk of the window being opened more than allowed amount, even though beyond it is a ten-metre drop to the courtyard where, on fine days, I am allowed to walk in the fresh air for an hour’s exercise.
Around the yard, throwing it into deep shadow except at high sun, is a high, spike topped security wall. A wall none might cross, as automatic guns open fire on anything that attempts to cross it. Even so, I am often informed that my solitary hour of exercise is cancelled as there are insufficient staff available to ensure security. Today there will be no exercise, even though the air is ice-dry and the thin winter sun shines bright. No exercise today, for it is my family’s Christmas visit.
Satisfied that all is secure, the guard turns to leave. For a moment he looks directly at me. I smile; he starts to return the smile. A suppressed cough from the older guard at the door draws his attention. The young man recalls his position; the half formed smile fades away. Any familiarity between the staff, especially the guards, and myself is discouraged. He exits, the moment of brightness lost.
After he has passed through the doorway, the older guard closes the door firmly, a look of satisfaction crossing his face, the sound of the door’s closure confirming my isolation. I move over to the window and look out. It is chilly outside with the first hints of true winter, that black time of frost and darkness that follows Yule. Somewhere, from across an outer wall, arises the sound of children’s voices singing festive hymns. There would be a pleasure in standing here all day and listening to the distant sounds of free celebration.
For me that is not possible. I must get ready for the visit. Soon the guards will come to collect me and I must be dressed in the proper form. There must be no danger that I will be mistaken for somebody else. All must know by my dress who and what I am. On the table at the side of my bed is the notification of the visit. The impersonal listing of name and title, three visitors, my family, far travelled for this brief meeting. Beneath the names a formal notice of what I am required to wear in case I should forget.
There are times when I wish they would not come, especially my mother. She wears her age well and since I came to this place has insisted on visiting me three times each year. I see the tiredness and strain of each visit in her eyes. I could refuse to see them but that would be cruel. They have made the journey to see me, suffered the agonies of our congested travel system, spent nights in hotel beds away from the familiarity of home. By their coming, their acceptance of this meeting under the eyes of strangers, they place me under an obligation.
I dress as prescribed, clothes that whilst not so different from normal wear, mark me out for what I am. As I comb my hair, I hear them approaching, my escort, their boots sounding on the corridors, their keys jangling at their sides. With care I position myself where I am outside their direct line of sight when the door opens. A small point for me, I know, but I do enjoy the hint of worry on their faces before their eyes catch me in the corner. You would think they would catch on but they do not. I do not do it often and the guards rotate their duties, so that there is no chance of them becoming too familiar with me.
From outside the walls, through the still-open barred window comes the sound of a barrel organ playing festive tunes. The ice-cold air carries scents of warmed spices and rich simple foods. The clanging of the security gate announces that my escort has arrived. They will pause outside my door making their final checks. I strain my hearing to pick up distant sounds from across the wall. They suggest a market. No doubt my mother had been out there purchasing Christmas gifts for me. She did not need to but insists on doing so. No doubt security will be checking them to see if they are safe for me to have.
The door opens and one of the guards comes in. For a moment he is perplexed that I am not where he expects me to be, then sights me in the corner by the open window. He is annoyed but the strict protocols for handling any interaction with my person prevent even the mildest show of displeasure. Though it is displeasure he shows, curtly indicating that I should take my place in the centre of the escort.
The corridors are empty; they always are when I am moved through them. It is a question of security. All are cleared before the movement starts. I move alone, isolated, within my escort through vacant spaces sealed off by locked security gates. There are signs that they are not always empty. A distant sound from a closed off space, the smell of food such as I have not tasted in many a year, lingers in the air. At one junction, I look down, through locked gates to distant rooms, decorated for the festivities. Rooms I will never enter.

Europe, for George, had been a disappointment this time, in more ways than one. The boys had been disappointing. Something, which George had to admit was quite unusual for Europe. Worse still even the art had been a disappointment.  In fact, he almost admitted to himself, he might have been better occupied at his select gallery in New York or even at his more select establishment in Boston, which was not a gallery.
Now, however, everything had changed, apparently for the better. Not that the party he was at was any good. It was a ghastly affair. One of those pseudo-intellectual soirees which he normally took pains to avoid.  He was though quite pleased that he had not avoided coming to this one. Here, in a small dingy flat, the only good thing about which was that it had a 'good' address, what the picture which now fascinated him.
Amid a pile of Victorian rubbish which hung around the wall was a sketch of a woman's face. The background might be different from that which one associated with the finished work, but for George, there was no mistaking that face.
George pondered for a few moments. Could it really be what it appeared to be? The only answer with which he could come up was yes, it could. From the lines of the sketch, he would say it was the real thing, not some quick copy made by an art student. This was the work of a true draughtsman. Anyway, any art student would have copied the actual background shown in the painting. That though was not shown in the sketch, the background was totally different.
Slowly he moved away from the picture, not quite certain what to do. One thing he was certain of though was that he had to find out where the picture had come from. He looked around the room for Peter, the hustler he had picked up a couple of nights before and who had brought him to this poor apology for a party.
The boy was there if you could call him a boy? He had told George that he was eighteen. More like twenty-eight, well preserved and slightly pickled. Peter was slouched across the chaise lounge, plying his trade for all to see. Though in all likelihood, thought George, most of the guests at this do would know his trade only too well. Those who were not his co-workers would be his clients.
"Peter," he called, indicating that the boy should come across to him. The boy did. Trolling over like a carefully clipped French Poodle. The boy knew who was his meal ticket and was careful to see that the provider was well satisfied.
"Peter, my dear boy," George said, intending to make the boy feel secure or he might start to think for himself. "Do you happen to know where," for a moment George found that he had forgotten the name of the host, they had been briefly introduced on arrival but had not spoken since. He thought for a moment, then recalled the name. "Keith obtained that?" George indicated the picture.
"No, I've not got the foggiest. Though I s'pose the old queen picked it up somewhere. He's always rummaging around old junk shops and visiting auctions, though it could be part of his inheritance."
"Inheritance?" George asked.
"Oh yes," Peter replied. "He comes from quite a family; they go back yonks. I'm sure they have passed a lot of junk down. You should see the stuff his cousin the Duke's got in their place in the Peaks."
"I'm sure you are right, it is probably inherited," George commented. "I was just interested where it had come from."
"Why don't you ask him?" inquired Peter.
"I really don't like to," George replied. "It seems a bit intrusive."
"Look, darling, we are talking about Keith," Peter stated. "There is nothing better that the old queen likes to talk about than his art collection. She'll be delighted to prattle on about her finds. I'll fetch her for you, that is provided he's not ensconced with some young titbit, in which case Armageddon won't budge him."
"Peter set off into the mass of people who made up the event, swinging himself in a highly sensual manner, indicating a promise of the delightful expertise he would provide George with that night. George did not notice. He was busy thinking about the picture. How could it be what he thought it was? If it was, what in the name of all creation was it doing here?
Peter was soon back with Keith.
"Well darling," Peter stated, "here is the old queen for you. Though I can't see what you can do with it." If he had not been too preoccupied with the picture, George would have told him. After two nights with Peter, George was starting to find the boy was beginning to pale as an interesting sex companion.  Even from his brief encounter with Keith on arrival at the party he had come to an understanding that intellectually at least he was the more interesting of the two. Also, Keith was not on the game. George had gathered that he had some sort of private income.
Dismissing Peter, George turned his attention to Keith.
"I've been admiring your collection," he lied. The fact was that most of it he considered to be absolute rubbish in the worst possible taste. The type of thing he would not give space to in the city's waste dump. "I was wondering where you got that?" George indicated the picture hanging on the wall in the alcove.
"Oh, that old thing," replied Keith, appearing to be a bit put out. George guessed he had hoped that he was interested in something more than the pictures. "Well, I didn't collect it actually. It's been in the family for years. I suppose one of my forefathers or mothers must have done it whilst on the Grand Tour. I know a couple of them were art students or whatever the equivalent was at that time. One of them probably did it."
"Yes," replied George. "You could be right." He made the statement knowing full well that it was incorrect. Nobody in the second half of the seventeenth century or during the eighteenth century would have used paper like that. In fact, no one in the last four centuries would have. However, if Keith's ancestors had been going on the Grand Tour, there was the chance that one of them could have picked the drawing up along the way. He paused in thought for a moment then continued. "I'm rather fond of studies like that."
That, if anything, was the understatement of the century. If the study was what George thought it was fond was the wrong word. He was passionately in love with the idea of getting his hands on it.
"Oh, are you?" responded Keith. "Now somewhere around I've some sketches done in Florence by my Great Aunt Bertha." George smiled, moaning inwardly at the idea of the torture which was now going to be imposed upon him.
* * * * *
As far as George was concerned nothing was going right for him on this trip. Absolutely nothing. There he was in bed with what could only be described as a definitely second-class whore. There was no chance that he could see of him getting the one thing which would make this year's annual stock buying trip to Europe worthwhile. In fact, after much consideration, he decided that there was only one way in which he could get his hands on what he wanted. The problem was he could not get it that way. It was not that George had any scruples. Anybody born where he had been born had no scruples. That was why so many of them got to the top of their profession or industry.
The only way that George could see of getting the picture was to steal it. The problem was he had no idea how to go about doing that in England. If he had been in Italy, then everything would have been fine. The right word with the right person and it could all be arranged for a consideration. In England though, it was not so easy. George just did not have the connections here, where the world of art dealing seemed to be run by minor members of the aristocracy, rather than respectable members of the Mafia.
"What is it, George?" Peter asked, putting his arms around his bedmate. "You don't seem yourself tonight."
"Oh, it's nothing," George responded.
"Come off it. Something has been wrong ever since we left Keith's. What is it?"
"If you must know, it's a picture that Keith has, I wanted to buy it."
Peter laughed.
"And what," demanded George, "is so damned funny you little whore?"
"You don't stand a chance of getting one of Keith's pictures, even if you offered a grand."
"I offered ten," George informed Peter.
"You what!" exclaimed Peter, sitting up in bed.
"I offered him ten thousand."
"Bloody hell George! You offered ten thousand dollars for a measly picture. You must be mad offering that much, and Keith must be mad for refusing. Then we all know he's a bloody eccentric."
"I would agree with you about Keith, but you see that picture," George paused. For a moment he had been about to say what he thought it was, then he realised that if he did Peter would learn its true value. He thought quickly and lied. "Would just about complete a rather small and very special collection I've been putting together for a very special client."
"Oh," Peter responded.
"Incidentally," George informed him. "I may be American, but I offered pounds."
"Good God, you must be made of money."
"Not quite Peter, and don't get any ideas. I may waste money on art, never on boys."
"Pity. It's unfortunate that Keith won't sell. He would waste some on me."
"He might sell yet if I raised the offer," George stated.
"George, I've known Keith since I was fourteen. One thing which everybody knows about Keith is that he will never part with anything. It's indecent the way he hordes things, even lovers, when he can."
"If I offered more, he might make an exception," George observed.
"How much more?" Peter asked.
"Another five thousand," George said.
"You want it that badly?" Peter enquired.
"Yes," responded George.
* * * * *

Rashi let off a string of invectives in Hindustani, casting some serious doubts on both my parentage and humanity. I chose to ignore them. To react would have been to let the household staff know that I understood Hindustani, whereas I have always found it most useful to allow them to assume the opposite.
As to my acquisition of that language, the truth is that I had, in my younger days as a footman, become attached to the person of his Lordship’s Amah— An Indian woman who had come with him to England when his parents sent him to live with his grandfather, for whom I worked at that time. Looking back on it the whole thing was a most unsuitable relationship, and I must thank Mr Graham, the then butler to his Lordship’s grandfather, for pointing it out to me. However, before that event took place I had managed to acquire a reasonable understanding of the language, something which I have found most useful since coming out to India with his Lordship.
It must also be admitted that I felt some sympathy for Rashi. To be told, on what everybody had expected to be a quiet day, that one had to prepare a dinner for 12 for that evening would always be a bit disconcerting. To be told less than three hours before the meal was due to be served would be most upsetting for any cook of any professional competence. Although Rashi and myself have long had our differences, one thing on which I cannot fault him is his professional standing as a cook. He is, without doubt, one of the best in India.
The situation had arisen as a result of illness. His Lordship and Lady Ann had that morning departed in the Rolls to spend the weekend at the Matby plantation— this being a long standing arrangement for the first weekend of the season in Simla. There they would join the house party, which, according to all accounts, was a fairly free and easy affair. In keeping with the new tradition at such informal house parties only personal body servants were taken along. His Lordship, as usual, elected to take his Tamil servant, Gungi, who had also accompanied him back to England when he was a child. Lady Ann, of course, had taken her French maid with her.
The routine of his Lordship and Lady Ann going off to the Matby plantation was, from my point of view, very useful. It gave me the chance to really check the estate house over before the season got into full swing. That is one of the problems of coming up country during the heat of the summer. Things are never quite as they should be. Do not get me wrong. I give here no criticism of the native servants. They are all very good and do a very good job. In fact, given the conditions and the fact that, to be honest, the house is frankly undermanned, they do a remarkable job. It is simply a fact that there are always those little things that need to be sorted out before a house starts to run really smoothly. The real professionals of the household — those who can deal with such little things — all arrive with his Lordship.
This is, of course, very different from the situation back in England, where the housekeeper and myself will go to the country house a day or so ahead of his Lordship to ensure that all is ready for his arrival. He, of course, would take the opportunity to call in on a couple of friends en route. Here in India, one day we are down in Delhi, the next all embarked on the same train for the hill country and Simla. With a bit of luck his Lordship may decide to call at the Club before coming out to the estate, or Lady Ann might want to do some shopping. That will give me a couple of hours to spot any calamitous problem. It would also give Mamaga, the housekeeper, time to check all the beds were correctly aired and ready, but as she would say, “Mr Edmunstone, how can I be expected to check the household in such a time?”
She always did, though, and by the time Lady Ann and his Lordship arrived everything would be ready for them. Not perfect, but ready. After serving them afternoon tea on the terrace Mamaga and myself would retire to her parlour and discuss what needed to be done when we got to the Weekend. For we knew they would be at the Matby plantation and we could go around the house and put right all those little things that prevented it being perfect. Little things that, no doubt, Lady Ann and his Lordship failed to notice, but which both of us knew if left could spell disaster for the smooth running of the house, especially with the parties of the Simla season ahead of us. By time the weekend had come, we had worked out between ourselves a list of jobs to be undertaken and had agreed with Ali Sayed, the Mussulman steward of the estate, who was to be responsible for what.
Ali Sayed had come with the estate as a houseboy when his Lordship’s father had purchased it forty years earlier. He had been steward for the past twenty, with responsibility for not only the house, but the tea plantation and hunting paradise as well. I doubt if any bailiff in England had half as much responsibility as Ali Sayed, or for that matter could have done the job half as well. However, he was steward of the estate, not of the house, so it was only natural that the house did not get quite the level of detailed attention that either Mamaga or myself would give it. Naturally, we were very careful to present our list of jobs to Ali Sayed as suggestions, which he graciously approved as ‘overlooked trivia that need attention’, and to which he assigned estate staff for the weekend.
The three of us, Ali Sayed, Mamaga and myself, were sitting on the veranda, partaking of lemon sherbets that Rashi had made, when Tumil, the gatekeeper’s boy rode into courtyard with the news that his Lordship’s Rolls was on the Valley Road coming towards the estate. He also imparted the information that four other cars were following, two of them flying pennants! While Ali Sayed fled through the house gathering estate workers and removing signs of activity, Mamaga and myself collected the household staff and bustled them into formal uniform. We just managed to get everybody ready and lined up to receive the cars as his Lordship’s Rolls drew into the courtyard.
“Ah Edmunstone,” his Lordship commented as he descended from the Rolls, “fever at the Matby’s, Dr Graham has put the whole plantation under quarantine. Nobody could get through. Found this lot stuck on the Jumla Road, so suggested we move the whole shebang back here for the weekend. Fix us a light lunch and then we will get off playing tennis.”
A quick message to Ali Sayed got the courts swept and netted whilst the party were having lunch. At the same time Rashi sent runners down to the village to get supplies for dinner, and I reviewed arrangements.
The estate had never really been intended for entertaining on a large scale. His Lordship’s father had acquired it mostly for hunting, so there were usually no more than two or three guests. Ten, plus their appropriate household staff, was well beyond the capacity of the house. We would have to make use of the guest bungalows, and even then these would have to be shared. All of this presented problems.
By time his Lordship and his guests had finished their lunch, the courts were ready and the party went out for some games. This gave us time to move staff around and get rooms ready. We were short of staff, having given most of the Delhi staff the weekend off to go into Simla for the shopping, another tradition of the first weekend on the estate. To cover, Mamaga and I both had to draw upon the estate staff and the services of Ali Sayed. We did, however, manage to get everything into some semblance of acceptability by time I took a flagon of lemonade down to the courts.
His Lordship was playing doubles: he and the Maharani of Madrapour against Lady Ann and the Maharaja of Madrapour. Sir George, who it appeared had forgotten his spectacles, was trying to umpire. Lady Mitchell, his wife, was flirting in a most unacceptable manner with Jodpour, which made me suspect that Sir George’s lack of spectacles might be more diplomatic than absentminded. As usual the Maharani of Jodpour was absent from the gathering, maintaining Purdha in the Indian tradition. Though word amongst the staff was that the Maharani’s confinement in Purdha had less to do with the Maharaja’s traditional outlook (he had been educated at Winchester and Oxford) and more to do with her total social incompetence, which he found totally embarrassing. Anyway he always had an eye for the women, and having the Maharani in tow would no doubt cramp his style a bit.
Lady Ann requested that tea be served in the drawing room at four. I had anticipated such a request and had already sent staff to ensure that the room was up to the required standard. I enquired of her Ladyship as to when the party would like dinner, timings being a bit more flexible up in the hills. His Lordship indicated that they were considering a night hunt, so an early dinner would be required. Her Ladyship suggested seven, and commented that a light dinner would be sufficient but a good supper would be needed for the men when they returned from the hunt. I made my way back up to the house to impart the news to Rashi, certain that it would upset him even more.
Mamaga took on responsibility for the serving of afternoon tea and I made arrangements for dinner — specifically, sorting out the dining room. It had not been used for some months, so whilst the household staff got busy polishing the table, I opened its wide doors onto the veranda to let in some fresh air. Since the afternoon rains were expected shortly, I hoped to also cool the room down a bit. Having mollified Rashi to an extent, I agreed with him that a simple four course meal would be appropriate for the situation. That would be light enough for the Gentlemen to go out on their night hunt, but sufficient to allow the ladies to enjoy the evening until supper was served, which no doubt would be quite late. Given that such a meal could only be classed as informal, I set the table accordingly, and then departed to cover my duties in the rest of the house.
As so often happens when his Lordship is playing tennis, he and the guests were somewhat overdue by the time they returned to the house for tea. As a result they were still in the drawing room when the flowers arrived for the table decoration. Although one did not have to pass through the drawing room to get to the dining room from the scullery, there was a need to go down the corridor that passed the drawing room. Normally the task of taking the flowers to the dining room would have been undertaken by one of the footmen. I would have had no qualms whatsoever giving such a duty to any of my staff of footmen, for even if they overheard conversation from the drawing room (a highly likely scenario given that the walls in this house are relatively thin, being built for the summer heat) I could be certain that they would not repeat such words outside of my pantry, which is a totally respectable place for such repetition. However, all my footmen were down in Simla, so I only had estate staff to call upon, and they could not be assumed to have the discretion that comes from being a member of the household staff. Therefore, I decided to take the flowers to the dining room myself.
I set the arrangement down on the sideboard outside the dining room in order to open the door, and realised immediately that arrangements were not as they should be. There, lying in repose under the dining table was an animal. Now, let me make it quite clear that his Lordship is not like some of his ancestors who happily allowed dogs to roam around the house. In fact his Lordship was not particularly keen on dogs, or any other pets, and only kept the minimum required for his hunting. In any case the animal under the dining room table was not a dog.
I shut the dining room door quietly, then made my way to the drawing room. The party there was in animated conversation about the activities of Mr Ghandi. Jodpour expressed the opinion that a unified independent India would not be possible: the only future for India was as a federation of independent states under the protection of the British Empire. I was not sure that his Lordship was in agreement with this position; I had noticed that in the previous couple of years his Lordship had disposed of quite a few of his Indian interests, preferring to invest his funds in Australia and Canada. The conversation was, however, something in which he was highly interested. Thus, it happened that when I was able to attract his attention and advise him that a situation had developed, he told me to deal with it as I felt fit.
This put me in a slightly difficult position and I thought I had best draw his Lordship’s attention to the details of the situation — something which proved to be somewhat difficult. I did manage to inform him that the situation was such that I would require access to the gun cupboard, a piece of information that I thought would cause his enquiry as to the nature of the situation. However, at that point Sir George raised the issue of the King’s proposed visit, leading to His Lordship’s dismissing me with a comment of ‘whatever’. I, therefore, proceeded to deal with matters in my own way.
Ali Sayed quickly arranged for a couple of the estate’s gun bearers to be called up from the barracks and advised me on what measures to take. It should be realised that I am not a natural shot, though I have been privileged to be invited on a couple of private shoots on his Lordship’s Yorkshire moors. His Lordship, when in England, has a couple of shoots each year for his senior staff, a custom begun by his grandfather. It was, therefore, only natural that I was far more at home with a shotgun than with a rifle.

The tock, tock, tock, of the longcase clock was louder than she had realised. It echoed down the whole length of the brown-painted hallway. Looking up at it, Elsie realised just how drab and depressing the hallway paintwork was: not at all welcoming. She made a mental note to have a word with the odd-job man and get it repainted. Thinking about it she realised that, like so much in the Hall, it had not been touched since before Richard, her husband, died.
Martin, her son, had been four then; now it was difficult to remember if he was forty-seven or forty-eight. Maybe she would glean something from the letter he always sent prior to his birthday — to make sure she didn’t forget the date — or his present.
It was the expectation of a letter from him that had brought her into the hall in the first place to wait for the second post. But there had been nothing so far. She had expected something today because it was Tuesday. Martin was a very good letter writer and always wrote to her over the weekend, posting the result Monday morning on his way to work. So the letter, with its normal list of excuses as to why he could not come up to visit, should arrive today. Not that she expected him to visit nowadays. Martin’s days for visiting his mother were long over. They had been over the day he had meet that trollop. Except for the times that her spending had exceeded even his earning capacity and he needed a non-returnable loan (which seemed to be more and more often in recent years) visits were avoided. Despite, or maybe because of this, Elsie looked forward to his letters and their stories of her grandson’s adventures and his little sister’s early steps. She would have liked him to visit her more often though, even if he did bring the silly souvenir cushions that really looked awfully out of place in the Hall. She was glad of them now, though. With the aid of a stick she had reached a couple of them from the hall bench. Now they were helping her get a bit more comfortable.
She looked up at the hallway table where she had earlier put the pile of envelopes that came in the first post. Not that she received piles of mail these days. In the old days there would have been twenty or thirty invitations, letters of thanks, correspondence and jottings from friends all over the country and the Empire. Today there had been just three. A brown official letter, probably Inland Revenue. Then one of those advertising things which no doubt informed her that she had been selected for a prize draw. And finally a letter from her daughter, easily identifiable by the utterly revolting shade of violet envelope; together with the brightly coloured stamps from the overseas postings on which her work took her, leaving her husband and sons behind. Elsie had intended to read them all in the evening, once Martin’s had arrived.
She might not be in contact with her family on a physical level — she saw more of her son-in-law than her daughter, and that was not all that much — but the letters kept her in contact emotionally. She needed that contact, to continue to feel part of their lives. She prayed that Martin had written the letter Sunday night and posted it yesterday morning. There must be a letter from her son in the second post.
The longcase clock, a wedding present some fifty-two years ago, chimed the quarter. She mentally tracked Patrick the postman’s route. He would make his way up the hill, stopping to empty the box in the churchyard wall, before delivering to the Doctor’s. She still thought of him as the Doctor even though he was now long retired. Then Patrick would make a delivery to Mr. Small whose gardening magazine always came on the first Tuesday of the month, by second post. Then, hopefully, she would hear the squeak of the iron gate on its hinges. Someday she must put some oil on it. Then there would be a letter from her son. There had to be! She needed his letter to come by second post.
Further back in the house a telephone rang. She made no effort to get to it and answer it. That would have been a waste of time. Nobody in this computer age let it ring more than a few times before they hung up. The thought that there might be some who lived at a slower pace did not occur to them. As she had expected, it stopped on the fourth ring.
If she had still had a phone in the hallway, she could have reached out for it and phoned her son, even though he hated being disturbed at work. But her daughter had talked her into having the phone moved: now there was one in the lounge with extensions in the bedroom and kitchen. So there was no longer a phone in the hallway. Anyway, there always seemed to be so much more detail and information in the letters. Far more than you could ever say over the phone.
When it came to talking to each other both mother and son were tongue-tied. Neither could ever find the exact words to tell each other what they truly meant. Often they unwittingly hurt one another simply by the avoidance of communication. It was so much easier when they wrote. Then they could consider their words and establish that their meaning was clear before committing themselves to the communication. If they had made an error they could recant the words before they were sent and the other party would never know of the mistake nearly made.
In a way she preferred it when stuff came by second post. There was something different about it, something that set it apart from the normal mail. You could imagine the sender running to the postbox to get it posted before the last collection of the day. Too late to make the first delivery, it would get there by second. Somebody had thought that the letter was important enough to get it in the post that day, at least they did if it had a first class stamp — a second class showed they did not care.
Was Martin’s letter important enough for him to have got it into the post with a first class stamp? She hoped so. With an effort she craned her neck to look up through the lower banisters to glimpse the face of the clock on the half-landing. As she did so, it chimed the half-hour, sparing her the extra effort she would have had to make to see the time. Anyway, without her glasses she would probably not have been able to read its face. But it had been something to do — something to take her mind off things as they were. She hated feeling this useless. That was why she had refused to move into the Granny Flat that her daughter had built. Now that was inevitable — that or something else. Finally passing herself into the hands of strangers. The children would both insist. Then they could semi-forget about her with clear consciences. No doubt that was once again the core of her daughter’s letter that sat on the table. Elsie wondered what else her daughter would have to say; she doubted that there would be any news of her grandchildren.
The chiming of the half-hour meant the post was late. Usually it arrived about twenty to twenty-five past. Had he not written this week? Had he been too busy? A feeling of panic started to rise within her. How would she get through the rest of the day? There would be no more post till the morning and no one was due to call.

Jethro Lambert was happy and content. He was happy that, as he turned fifty, life had worked out very much as he had expected. He was content in knowing that he was doing the Lord’s work, and doing it well. Few, he understood, were ever happy in their chosen occupation, but Jethro certainly was. Ever since that day he dropped out of college it seemed that the Lord had had work for him to do and had put him on the path to do it.
First, the Lord guided him to the used auto lot where he had learnt how to sell: after six months of living on a pittance of a retainer one either learned to sell or one got another job. Jethro was on that car lot for over six years and made good money. In fact, so good was his income that Brother Malcolm had targeted him as a potential donor for the church, a move which showed a profound failure of character assessment on the part of Brother Malcolm.
The moment Brother Malcolm sat down with Jethro and explained the church’s need for regular income from donations, Jethro fully appreciated the situation and the potential that arose from it. In fact he appreciated it far better than Brother Malcolm—who, it must be said, suffered from the disadvantage of truly believing the teachings of Christ—had ever envisioned. The good Brother was overjoyed when Jethro not only decided that he should join the church management but also offered his services to manage the fundraising on behalf of that somewhat impoverished establishment. Brother Malcolm was less happy about the situation when, some eighteen months later, the congregation decided to remove him as pastor and put Jethro in his place.
Don’t misunderstand things here, Jethro was not an opportunist walking in and taking over what he could see was a money-making opportunity. Jethro believed in the Lord. He had been brought up to believe in the Lord, that belief having been impressed upon his person by either his father’s strap or his mother’s hair brush, whenever his actions as a child had put him at odds with his parents’ understanding of the Lord’s words.
Yes, Jethro fully believed in the Lord, and he knew the temptations that Satan could set before man—especially a man such as himself. That was why he dropped out of college and ended up selling used cars. Satan had looked upon him and seen one who was devoted to the Lord, so had set out to entice him. Of course, Satan had also seen his weakness: that aspect of his nature which tormented Jethro; the evil within himself which was so unspeakable.
Jethro fully understood that his feelings and desires were a weakness given him by the Lord so that Satan could test him and Jethro could show his true commitment to the Lord by rejecting Satan’s temptations.
Oh, he had lusted after boys before. All the way through high school he had looked on their bodies and lusted for them, but he had known that this was lust and, as his father’s belt and mother’s brush had taught him, lust could be denied and controlled. It could be stamped down and hammered into the ground by the power of chastity and the determination to be true to the words of the Lord.
Satan, though, had been very clever. He had come to Jethro, not with the temptation of lust, but with something stronger and far more dangerous. Satan had tempted Jethro with the promise of love—a love that Jethro knew was unnatural and against the teachings of the Lord—but a love nonetheless that promised to embrace and consume him with emotions that he had never felt before, and he prayed he would never feel again.
It was the start of his second year at college. He was sitting in the cafeteria trying to get some enthusiasm together for the sandwich he was eating, swilled down by what he thought must be some of the worst coffee in the state, when he became aware of a presence by his table.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Jethro had indicated that it wasn’t.
The presence sat himself at the table. “It’s a bit crowded in here today.”
At that Jethro looked up from the textbook he was reading in preparation for his next class, and looked round the cafeteria. Usually it was fairly empty, especially at that time, but that day it was crowded.
He turned to the presence that had seated himself at the table. That was when Satan sprang his trap. Before him was one of the most beautiful people that Jethro had ever seen. Hair as black as a raven’s wing cascaded down the man’s back. Jethro had always despised long hair; it was so totally un-American, but on that guy it just seemed right. The dark frame of hair highlighted a strong tanned face from which shone a pair of strikingly green eyes.
“Hi, I’m David, David Cains,” the presence spoke, holding out a hand.
Jethro took the hand and shook it, not so much from a desire to be polite, but because it gave him an excuse to touch the person who was now sitting across the table from him. “Jethro, Jethro Lambert.”
For the next quarter of an hour the two of them chatted away over their sandwiches and coffee until it was time to go to their respective classes. During that time Jethro learned that David was a second year pre-med student, though it was his first year at Jethro’s college as he had transferred at the end of his first year. That explained why Jethro had never seen David around before. He was certain that he would have remembered somebody with such outstanding good looks.
Jethro also learned that David was of Swedish and Native American descent, his grandmother having been a full blood Crow from Montana, which explained his complexion and his eyes. The most important thing to Jethro, though, was the fact that he arranged to meet up with David after classes that afternoon to ‘show him round the place’.
Jethro did show David the place, ending with the two of them in a downtown diner having burgers and fries.
On the face of it there was little in common between the two young men. Jethro was way into sports, a subject David knew little about and had little interest in. David, on the other hand, was heavily into classic English Rock—in particular a band called Queen, whose existence had completely passed Jethro by. The differences between the two were even more apparent when it came to religion, with Jethro deeply committed to the Baptist tradition and Christian view, whilst David, if pushed, might just about admit to being Buddhist, an atheist Buddhist at that.
Despite these differences the two became firm friends and in the weeks and months that followed that initial meeting could be found in each other’s company whenever they were not in class or studying. The fact that they had very different backgrounds made no difference to them. It was clear from the start that David came from a wealthy background and, although Jethro’s parents were not poor, they were by no means favoured with spare funds. As a result Jethro had to limit his expenditure as much as possible and was highly dependent on the small scholarship that he had manage to obtain, whilst David seem to have unlimited funds.
Jethro’s need to be frugal had resulted in his moving off campus to a single room apartment way across town. The accommodation was not ideal and the travel to and from campus was taking up time which he resented, so when David suggested that he should move into his apartment, which was just off campus, Jethro jumped at the chance.
David’s apartment had been bought by his parents, initially for David to use, but with the intent that his younger brother would join him when he arrived at the university. As David’s father said, it was a good long-term investment; there would always be students needing somewhere to live, and once David had finished with it a place this close to the campus would be easy to let. The apartment had two decent sized bedrooms, one having been intended for David and one for his brother. Unfortunately—or from Jethro’s perspective, fortunately—parental foresight had not taken into account the fact that David’s brother’s passion was music, a discipline he was quite good at. Good enough, in fact, for him to be offered a place and a scholarship at the Paris Conservatoire, an offer he had promptly accepted. So there would be no demand for the second bedroom.
Life for the two young men seemed ideal, at least till it all fell apart early in February.
It had been snowing constantly for two—nearly three—days and there was a substantial build-up of snow everywhere. Even in town the snow crews were having difficulty keeping the roads open; out of town it was almost impossible to move around. The advice was ‘stay where you are’, which is exactly what Jethro did. Unfortunately David was not there when the snow started, having gone home for the weekend to attend a family function
Having been stuck in the apartment all weekend Jethro braved the conditions outside to go to the supermarket a short distance down the road. Normally it would have taken him about five minutes to walk. On this occasion it took him nearly half an hour to get to there, only to find the store was closed. Fortunately, the small Italian bakery a few doors away was open—one advantage of the family living on the premises—and it had fresh bread.
Jethro took another half hour to get back to the apartment, where he found the answering machine light flashing. The message was from David to tell him that he was on his way back and should be there in about six hours. Jethro immediately phoned David’s parents, hoping that he would catch David, only to be informed that David had already left.
Throughout the rest of the morning Jethro kept hoping that David would stop somewhere and phone him so that he could warn him about the weather conditions. But no call came, and as it got later and later in the day Jethro became more and more concerned for David. By mid-afternoon Jethro started to experience real worry, which turned to panic as darkness fell. He kept telling himself that David would be sensible and find shelter at a motel or somewhere, even as something inside told him that David would try to get back to be with him.
It was just after eight in the evening when Jethro heard a scraping noise at the door. He ran to it and jerked it open. A forlorn-looking David, who had been trying to get his key into the lock, fell forward to be caught by Jethro. “Good God, man, what’s happened?”
“Had to abandon the car just after I left the interstate. Walked here.”
“That’s ten miles!” Jethro pulled David into the hall and pushed the door shut.
“I know. It’s taken me three hours.”
“You’re frozen. Let’s get you out of these things, and warmed up; a warm shower first.” Jethro guided David through the apartment to his room and sat him on the bed. “Get out of those clothes , while I go and run the shower.”
He left David there and went across the hall to the bathroom. When he returned he found David struggling with the buttons of his parka.
“Here, let me.” Jethro undid the buttons for him, then pulled the parka off David. As he did he noticed that the fine windblown snow had penetrated inside the parker and soaked David’s sweater and shirt. Slowly and carefully he helped David disrobe.
There was no shame or embarrassment about nudity between the two men. They both slept in the nude and often saw each other nude in the morning as they went to the bathroom for their morning ablutions. That night was different, though. Jethro suddenly became very aware of David’s body as he undressed him. It was an awareness that awoke feelings within Jethro that he could not remember having before.
With care, Jethro assisted the naked David across the hall and into the bathroom, guiding him under the warm water of the shower. Once he was certain that David was starting to recover, Jethro left him and went to the kitchen to warm up some soup in the microwave. He had just poured the soup into a mug when he heard shower stop. Thinking David would need something to wear, Jethro went to his room and grabbed his bathrobe, which he seldom wore, and took it through to the bathroom. David was drying himself, or at least trying to; he still looked pretty much whacked, and half asleep on his feet.
Jethro took the towel from him and gave David a good rub down with it, then put the bathrobe on him and guided him back into the lounge, putting him on the sofa before handing him the mug of hot soup.
Jethro sat next to him. “What possessed you to drive through this weather?”
“I wanted to get home.”
“You were at home.”
“No I wasn’t,” David mumbled.
“What do you mean, you weren’t? You went home to your parents’ for a family function.”
“Yes, I went to my parents’, but that is not home, it’s just some place I lived. This is home now. This is where I feel I belong, where I want to be.”
“Why?” Jethro asked, although in many ways it was a pointless question. The apartment was where he felt he belonged; where he wanted to be. His parents, when they wrote or phoned, usually complained that he had not been home lately, even though it was only a couple of hours away. Jethro always cited the fact that he had to work to pay his way through college, so had little or no time available to make trips back to visit his parents. The couple of times he had thought of going up to see them the idea of leaving David alone in the apartment had changed his mind. Somehow he felt he really needed to be there when David was there.
David looked at Jethro. “Because you’re here.”
The answer hit Jethro with a power that smashed the walls that he had built about himself. He knew how he felt about David, but he had kept those thoughts at bay by insisting that David had no such feelings for him. Now David had let him know that he felt the same. That was something that Jethro had not been prepared for.
At that moment David leaned back and rested against Jethro, exhaustion having got the better of him. Jethro put his arm around David. “Come on, we’d better get you to bed.” He helped David stand, and guided him to his room. Jethro pulled back the covers and placed David into the bed, before tucking him in.
David looked up at him. “Thanks Jethro, it’s good to be home with you.”
“It’s nice to have you here. I missed you while you were away.”
“I know, I missed you too. That’s why I was so determined to get back. I didn’t want to be away from you longer than I had to.”
Jethro sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at David, whose green eyes seemed to sparkle more than ever. It was as if they were calling him, pulling him in. Jethro leaned slightly forward and David rose slightly in his bed, putting his hand up and around Jethro’s neck, drawing him down. The two men kissed.
Once they separated, Jethro stood and once more tucked David into bed. “You need sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”
With that he turned and left the room, making his way to his own bedroom, where he threw himself down upon his bed, confused and not knowing what to do. He realised that he loved David; that he not only loved him, but wanted him—wanted him in ways which were unnatural, forbidden and against the teachings of the Lord. Jethro was lost in a world of his own anguish. He knew he was being tempted by Satan… not with lust, which he could have fought against, but with love, and he knew he had already lost, for no matter what, he loved David.
Some three hours later, after a lot of prayer and anguish, Jethro rose and dressed in the warmest clothing he could find. He sat briefly at the breakfast bar in the kitchen to write a note to David:
Dear David
Last night I found that I loved you, loved you more than I could have imagined it was possible to love anyone. This is a temptation I must resist and one I do not think I could resist if I stayed here with you or even stayed at college, where we would no doubt meet.
The very love I have for you would lead me into temptations of the flesh and I am certain we would both seek carnal pleasure in each other’s bodies. Such pleasures are unnatural and an abomination before the Lord. To give way to such desire would be condemning not just me to the torments of Hell but would also condemn you to that fate. This I cannot cause to be.
Goodbye David, one day you will be a great doctor, I pray that the Lord will be with you and will guide you.
All my love
Jet.
By time he left the building the warm front that had been promised had arrived; the snow had turned to a fine drizzle and the wind had dropped. Jethro made his way downtown to a Baptist Mission which he knew, that ran a night mission for the lost and lonely in the city. He sheltered there for a couple of hours until it was light, when he moved on to the bus station and got a ticket for the first Greyhound Bus out. He had decided against going home to his family as he knew that would be the first place David would look for him.
It was sheer chance that, having got off the bus for a rest break—the driver had said they would be there for half an hour—Jethro had taken a short walk to stretch his legs.
Next to the bus stop was a car lot, and the owner was just putting up a ‘staff wanted’ notice.
Jethro stopped and spoke to him. Ten minutes later he had got the job, got his bag off the bus, and started to look for accommodation in the small town he did not even know the name of.
Jethro found a single room apartment not far from the car lot, at a rent he could just afford. He settled down and started to rebuild his life. The first step was to find a way to finish college, which he did via online study with a nearby community college. He also threw himself into the study of the Bible and did a distance learning course in theology.
He, of course, joined the local church, and it was there that he met Martha. A small quiet woman a year older than himself, an active member of the congregation, she took it on herself to introduce this newcomer to the town and its ways. Ten months later he asked her to marry him. She accepted.
In many ways Martha and Jethro suited each other. Neither made demands but each was considerate of the other. They did their duty to the Lord and had two sons, after which they decided that the pleasures of the body were not worth the hassle of having to share a bed, and Martha moved into her own room.
When Jethro became the minister of the church Martha was in her element. As wife to the minister she was here, there and everywhere: organizing, visiting and doing all the things the wife of the minister was expected to do. On the whole the pair of them had a good twenty five years together, even with their disappointment in their sons, both of whom rejected the truth of the Lord and went off on their own way to damnation.
There were one or two in town who commented on the waywardness of their sons, but on the whole the town was sympathetic to the Lamberts. As Mrs Hadley the shopkeeper stated, ‘they done right by their sons, it was their sons who done wrong by them.’ Those around Mrs Hadley nodded in sympathy for had not her own son done wrong by her, flaunting his deprived ways and going off with an older man as soon as he was eighteen? They also knew well, for Mrs Hadley had informed them, that the Lord had shown his anger and struck down her son with the plague he had sent to the homosexuals.
The minister and his wife made a fine pair and they were valued in the community. It was appreciated that Brother Jethro could give a fine sermon and would preach against the abominations and sins that could drive man from the way of the Lord. It was also appreciated that, even when confronted by those who were such abominations and had fallen into sin, Brother Jethro would seek to bring them back to the way of the Lord—and where they refused to accept such redemption, he would, as a good minister, seek to protect his flock by driving those abominations from their midst. In the eyes of the church the minister and his wife were a godly pair. It was, therefore, a shock when they were told that Martha had cancer and that it was terminal.
The community gave the minister and his wife all the support they could during the time that followed; the women arranging a rota to clean and cook. During those months they saw the minister’s devotion to his wife. When he was not out on his parish duties he would either be praying, reading from the bible or at his wife’s bedside, giving her comfort.
It was during one of these bedside sessions that Martha spoke to her husband. “Jethro, I know you have always treated me with love and respect, and you have been the best husband I could have wished for, but I have also known—known since the start—that you did not love me.”
Jethro went to speak, but Martha used her little strength to raise her hand to his lips. “No, listen. You had love for me, and you gave me love, but you were never in love with me, as I was never in love with you. I pray that when I am gone you may find someone to be in love with.
“Will you take my ashes and scatter them at Whitetop? My grandparents had a place near there and I grew up in the country round there. I would like to go back.”
Jethro nodded in assent. He had been to Whitetop with Martha when they were first courting, and had met her grandparents.
So it was that some six weeks later he was driving through falling, a casket of ashes on the seat beside him. Although the snowfall was light and not causing any major problems on the road, it was slowing down the traffic. Jethro was some four hours behind the schedule he had set himself and now faced having to complete the final part of his journey in the dark.
The satnav announced that he should turn off the interstate onto the eleven and then onto the fifty eight. He did so, his headlights catching a sign informing him he was now on the Jeb Stuart Highway. The snow was coming down quite a bit heavier and driving conditions were not the best. Jethro decided to keep a lookout for a motel where he could stop for the night. There would be no problem if he delayed completing his journey until the following morning.
Suddenly, a pair of headlights appeared around a bend, their beams dazzling Jethro. A scream of “Oh Jesus” escaped him as the oncoming truck smashed into his car. Then there was blackness.
The darkness was complete and totally enveloping, yet Jethro sensed there was somebody or something present within it. He wondered if this was the afterlife.
“No it’s not,” came the response to the unspoken question.
“So, I’m not dead?” Jethro asked.
“That is an issue yet to be decided.”
“What do you mean? I’m either dead or I’m not dead.”
“Well,” the voice said, “haven’t you heard the term hovering between life and death?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where you are.”
“So,” Jethro asked, “why are you here?”