"No," he assured the young presenter, "it was not a family heirloom." It had come from his husband. Technically that statement was correct. An heirloom was something that has belonged to a family for generations. He was perfectly able to assure the young lady that this had not been in his family, or his husband’s, for anything like that amount of time. Nothing like that had come down to him, daddy had sold everything off to pay the debts. Mostly his gambling debts but also the bills for the flat he kept for his trollop. Not that James Luiderweg nee Danvers held that against him. In fact he had been quite happy when his father had set up an establishment for their ex-nanny in a flat just off Seymour Street. It had meant that they really saw him, which was a great relief to James, his mother and his sister.
It had been quite amusing to watch the faces of first the expert then the presenter as they first looked upon it. Inside the roped off area where the experts sat he had been glad merely to have a seat at last. The queue of people bringing their valuables to show to the programs experts for valuation had been far longer than he had expected. As a result he had been standing for nearly three hours when he had almost whispered the nature of the item in the box to the assistant, who had shepherded him through the barriers to the experts table.
Three hours the expert had been sitting there, looking with feigned interest at the debris of mediocre lives and trying to say something nice about them. The elderly ladies, whose pensions did not meet their needs, who had, in expectation, carted heavy framed pictures, which they assured him had hung over Grandmother's fireplace and were signed Constable, across the town for him to view. He had to tell them that they were Oil Prints, worth forty to one hundred pounds for the frames. Less now than thirty years ago, when they had been fashionable for decorating fake Victorian bars. He had seen James as another in the ongoing stream of banality that was the lifeblood of a lunch-time T.V., antique shows. James of course had recognised him, the great Simon Charles Seymoure, doyen of the art world, master of the quick quip. Simon, of course had not recognised James, James doubted if he would even recall an exhibition that took place over fifty years ago.
There had been no interest on Simon's part in the flat cardboard box James had placed on the table, just a hope that it was not another hand coloured photograph in cheap Edwardian frame that the owner was convinced was a Georgian miniature. He really needed something that would give him that line, spontaneously produced, after hours of careful rehearsal, to cut to the core some housewife with her most treasured possession, or that exclamation that would show just how stupid they had been not to know the value of what they had.
The first hint that this was something different had been when he had taken the box to draw it to his side of the table. It was heavy, far heavier than any painting that could fit into a twelve inch by eighteen inch battered cardboard box should be. Then he had removed the lid expecting to see the normal packing of newspaper or at best tissue. There had been silk, deep blue heavy silk. Not the fine silk of China or the Far East, nor the thick silk of Italy or France. This was the silk of Asiatic Russia, the silk of the Imperial Household that had robed the Czars. In sixty years in the business only once had he seen such a material used to wrap an object. With fearful anticipation he started to turn back the layers and as he did so got the first hint of what lay below. Through the last layers of silk he could see the hint of gold.
It was gold, gleaming strong gold. Not the washy gold of leaf burnished over gesso but the strong red tones of Siberian gold hammered millimetre thin and filled with ges. He sat there silent, not daring to pick it up, just looking, taking in the colours. The red of the gold alloyed ten parts gold to three parts copper. The bright blue of lapis lazuli ground fine by Turkmenistan maidens to form a paint of unmatched hue. Then there were the gems like coloured pebbles dancing with the light as if there were ten thousand candles. The presenter, alerted that there was something wrong by an ambitious production assistant, darted over.
"Simon!" she exclaimed in that annoyed tone she always used to the experts when they were not playing it her way. Then she saw it and was silent. They cut that piece out when it came to the broadcast, Peggy Ann could never be lost for words, neither could the expert. To make sure they had some they re-filmed the whole scene the next day with a carefully rehearsed script. James had been quite happy to play his part and to answer their questions. He had only had to lie a little, really not at all.
It had been in his husband's stuff. No his husband had not been English, he came from one of the Baltic states, escaping the advancing German when he was seventeen, but never spoke of it and James was not sure exactly where Ivan came from. James had met him during the war they had been working in the same War Office department. Oh, his job, he had been in communications. He told them that his husband had worked in documentation. James, with a German grandmother and Polish Grandfather had been fluent in both languages and was much sort after for his skills in that War Office department. As had Ivan, whose ability to reproduce any German document was regarded as almost magical. After the war Ivan had worked for a time as an artist, but that had not worked out, so they had bought a small hotel in the South West.
They had had no choice. Not after that first exhibition. Up to then Ivan has sold his work on a steady basis. There had been an interest in paintings that used the traditional approach but as he had said they were not a true display of his skill, he did not have the old materials. Then had come the exhibition and a young critic fresh out of Oxford, who needed to make a name for himself, and knew more about English than the subject he wrote about. 'A pallid imitation of Faded Masters', he had called Ivan's work. Then gone on to write, 'he claims to use the techniques of the Icon painters of history but it is clear from his work that he has no understanding of their methods or approach to their quality'. After that who would want Ivan's work?
Oh yes James confirmed, he was quite happy to sell it. To be honest he really had no choice, times were not that good. He had a small government pension but it was hardly enough to get by on. James failed to mention that in fifty years they had turned what was little more than a boarding house into a respected Hotel. It had now been sold and the proceeds would keep him going for many a year.
"Look ol' chap," Ivan had said when they knew that they had exhausted all the avenues for treatment on a tumour that was malignant and inoperable, "make sure you get a good price for it, the more they pay the less questions they will ask." The next day they were married, the first day when they legally could, all right it was not called a marriage, a civil partnership was the term used. To Ivan and James though it was one and the same. Not that it made much difference they had been together over sixty years.
“Oh no,” James confirmed, “they had never had it on show”. In fact they only got it in 1992. James told them that Ivan had gone back home for a trip after the Baltic States got their independence. One of Ivan’s cousins had got in touch as there were some family matters that needed to be sorted out. No James had not gone with Ivan, somebody had to run the hotel. Ivan’s father and the rest of the family were long dead but a cousin had given him a suitcase that Ivan’s father had left for him if he ever returned. Then James had broken down in tears with the memory of Ivan, he had read long ago that a crying women was difficult to question and hoped it was the same for a crying elderly man.
It had taken time of course to sort all the details out. Without a clear provenance it had to be authenticated and that took time. A Russian university established that the board was Siberian Pine and dated it to the late l6th or early 17th century. As it should, when Ivan had offered his help to restore the fresco in one of the ancient palaces, nobody had questioned him when he asked for some of the old floor boards that were being replaced. The metallurgical department of a Black Country college analysed the gold and reported it was six parts copper to twenty parts gold. An expert in New York confirmed that this was consistent with Imperial work from the time of Ivan the Terrible to Peter the Great, the latter introducing the European standard of six parts base metal to eighteen parts of gold. In Cambridge X-Ray Spectrography confirmed that the blue was indeed lapis lazuli, though scientific investigation could not confirm the role played in its preparation by Turkmenistan maidens.
The production company had of course wanted to make the most of it. It was a find and could be exploited to the full. Rather than being one out of ten or twelve items that went to auction during the last thirty minutes of an hour long program, this deserved a program all on its own. Every bit of the story from the initial discovery and identification by their expert, an event they filmed seven times, through all the tests and examinations was recorded and assembled into a two hour special. Now the last part was ready to be filmed. Not though in some small provincial auction house, for this item only Bond Street would do.
James had of course protested that really he did not want to go to the sale. At his age the trip from Weston to London would be too much for him. At no time did he let on that a division of solders could not have stopped him attending. With an eye on the production needs the production company had arranged a car to collect him and take him to a comfortable hotel, just round the corner from the auction house. Yesterday he had been wined and dined; today he sat in the auction room and glanced at the catalogue open on his lap.

‘It really shouldn’t be this difficult,’ Barry thought as he made his way from the tube station to his parents’ house, in one of the more fashionable areas of London. Not that his parents were rich, they were just lucky. Back in the 1970s his grandparents had begged, borrowed, and if truth be known probably stolen to raise the deposit on a run down wreck of a Georgian house in Islington. At that time Islington was a dump, an area of disrepute occupied by whores, con men and petty thugs, just as the house was a dump. The house was also too big for the modern family and to make matters worse it was listed.
All in all the entire house was exactly the type of property that nobody in their right minds would buy. As Barry’s grandmother had pointed out she had never known his grandfather to be in his right mind. So they had bought it and had managed, within the restrictions of the meagre income they both got as teachers, to make it at least inhabitable. Unfortunately, or as it had turned out fortunately, they had never been in a position to get all the work that needed to be done to turn the house from inhabitable to liveable. As a result on the couple of occasions that they had tried to sell it, there had been no buyers so, they had given up trying to sell it and settled into a few rooms on the lower floors that they had occupied in a modicum of comfort.
Over the years of course the area had changed from one of disrepute to a fashionable abode for city bankers, lawyers and politicians, not much had changed. One thing that had changed was the value of the property, Barry’s grandparents’ house was now worth just over six million, which his parents could not touch. His grandmother had left it in trust, to his parents during their lifetime then to Barry. Really it was Barry’s house.
Even though the area was affluent and rich, his parents were not. They, like his grandparents were teachers. Not only were they teachers they were teachers who felt they had a social responsibility, so taught in some of the more deprived areas of inner London, and there are some deprived areas in inner London. They had managed to afford the upkeep of the house by taking in a couple of lodgers. Actually that was not strictly correct, the lodgers had arrived during his grandparents’ time, his parents had simply inherited them along with the house, but they did help to cover the cost of the place. It also had an advantage that they had provided a couple of live in babysitters for Barry when he was younger, and now filled the position of surrogate Aunts replacing the extended family that Barry did not have.
Barry was strongly hoping that both his Aunts and specifically Aunt Jenny would be home when he got there. They had always been able to mediate on his behalf when he was in trouble with his parents. Especially Aunt Jenny, who fitted to perfection the description of ‘a spinster of this parish’, that Barry was so used to coming across when doing genealogical research.
Turning the corner he walked down an apparent side street to come into the Georgian square, one of the many hidden squares of London. It was not a large square, just four houses on each side, it was also not well known, which was one of the reasons it was popular with those who had enough wealth to ensure their privacy. That was why the house his grandparents had bought in the 1960s for ten thousand pounds was now worth six hundred times what they had paid for it, which was fortunate. Some years ago they had transferred the house to Barry’s parents, who were able to get a hundred thousand pound mortgage on it without trouble when, ten years ago his grandparents retired and wanted to get out of London. Not to the country but a small mining town in Leicestershire, albeit one whose pits had closed long ago.
He had half hoped that his grandparents might have been down in town. It would have made life easier. He could have told the whole family in one go, having to go through it twice was something he wished he could avoid. Then again, did his grandparents need to know?
On entering the square he looked across at the house. It was not difficult to spot. Whilst all the other houses in the square shone with pristine white stonework, his parent’s house was still showing the after effects of two centuries exposure to the smoke of London coal fires. Of course, from time to time, neighbours, local community associations, council officers and preservation societies had mentioned to his parents, and his grandparents for that matter, that the façade of the house could do with a jolly good clean up. The response from both his father and grandfather had been the same every time. “You’re paying for it?” So far nobody had taken them up on that, though Barry suspected that sooner of later one of the neighbours probably would, just before they sold their house.
Rather than going up to the front door, Barry slipped the catch on the cast iron gate in the railings and took the steps down into the well between the pavement and the front of the house. There used his key to enter the basement kitchen. This was once the tradesman entrance but now it was the main entrance used by family, as it led to the one room in the house you could be sure was warm.
“Barry!” A welcoming voice exclaimed as he entered the room. Aunt Jenny was seated at the table with his mother, the two of them holding mugs of tea with a selection of cakes on the table before them. His mother turned and looked.
“Wasn’t expecting you up for a couple of weeks,” she commented, “sit down I’ll make you some tea.” Barry seated himself at the table and explained that he needed to do some work in the British Library so thought he would make a weekend of it. His mother nodded. It was not that unusual, he frequently had to research in the British Library and when he did he tried to schedule it for early in the week, that way he could come up from Exeter on the Friday afternoon. He could do the Friday morning lecture and still get to the station in time to get the twelve thirty to London, which got him in just before four so he avoided the start of the rush hour at Paddington.
“So, how’s the PhD going?” Aunt Jenny asked.
“OK, think I’ve made a breakthrough on the genealogical side of things. Found some indications that three of the four family groups which I have identified might well all descend from a common ancestor. Fortunately they have all been in trade since the late Tudor period so records for them are fairly good. It is the fourth group of families in which the condition has appeared that are the real problem. So far as I can see there is no connection between them and the other groups. That means it is difficult to show that the condition came to the UK from Siberia during the Tudor period.”
“Why is that so important?”
“Ellington and Schmidt use the existence of the syndrome in the British Isles and Russian populations but not in the mainland Europe population as proof that the genetic mutation spontaneously developed in two different populations. They also claim that the distribution in both the British Isles and Russia shows that the same genetic mutation spontaneously developed a number of time in each population. They use this as the basis of their argument that the human genome is basically unstable.
“If I can show that there is a genealogical connection between the family groups in the British Isles, then it raises a question on Ellington and Schmidt’s view of things.” Aunt Jenny nodded.
“Your dad is going to be late this evening, he’s supervising an A level candidate taking a late exam. So dinner will not be till eight,” his mother informed in. Barry winced mentally, he had been hoping he could get this over and done with quickly and then maybe go out and get pissed. It was clear that was not to be. “Do you want some tea and cake to keep you going?”
“Yes please mum, I’ll just go and drop my stuff in my room.” She nodded and put the kettle on to make a fresh pot. Barry went up the kitchen stairs to the ground floor, then made his way through to the hall and took front stairs up to the first floor. Once in his room he sat down on the bed and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.
He had everything planned out, just how it would be done. The moment he came home he would sit at the kitchen table with his parents, preferably with Aunt Jenny or Aunt Beth in attendance, and he would come out with it. He would tell them the truth and see how things went from there. Now that was not on. He had to wait till dad got home; there was no way he could face having to tell his mum then his dad. It had to be a done and over in a single announcement.
Could he wangle it so that Aunt Jenny stayed for dinner. She was usually down in the kitchen chatting with his parents over a cup of tea when they got back from work, if she was in the house. It was, however, unusual for either of the Aunts to join them for dinner. They had the use of their own kitchen in the mews block at the back of the house and either cooked there or went out for a meal.
He really did want one of the Aunts to be there when he broke the news. They would be sympathetic and understanding. What he had to say would not bother them, they would just tell him to get on with his life. The problem was his parents; they expected him to succeed, to be the perfect son. So far he had managed it, he had aced his A levels, then gone on to get a first class degree in biology, and then a Masters with Distinction. Now he was well on his way to a doctorate. All perfect and all according to plan.
The problem was that he was not perfect and he knew that. He had known since he was thirteen that he was not perfect, that some things were not as his parents expected them to be. Well they would just have to get used to it and live with it. He had to so why could not they?
He threw his bag down on the bed, took off his coat and hung it in the cupboard then grabbed a cardigan from the cupboard and put it on. Another problem of living in a house that was really beyond ones means was heating. It was really too expensive to heat the whole house, so heating was restricted. During the day about the only room that had any heat in it was the kitchen.
So it was to the kitchen that he returned. Aunt Jenny was talking to his mother about the latest exhibition at the Tate Modern, she turned as Barry entered the room. “If you are in town over the weekend you really ought to try and see it,” she stated.
“See what?” Barry asked. He had heard enough to know they were talking about an exhibition but did not know which one.
“The Nature of Common Life,” his mother responded, “It’s a series of drawings of 19th century life, gives a new insight into the history of that period.”
“I am sure,” Barry replied, “that you both found it interesting.” He had no doubt about that, his mother taught history at the local comprehensive whilst Aunt Jenny was Senior Tutor is modern history at the university. They would both have found it interesting. “However, the 19th century is not something I have a particular interest in.”
“Bloody scientist, you’re turning out to be as bad as your father,” his mother snorted. There was an ongoing dispute between the sciences and the humanities in the house, with his mother and Aunt Jenny on the one side and his father and Aunt Beth, who was a professor of chemistry, on the other. Barry had the distinct feeling that his mother had never quite forgiven him for selecting to read Biology at Exeter rather than Humanities at Oxford. With his A levels he could have gone for either but there was something about Oxford that he found off putting, probably the fact that both his parents had gone there and always seemed to be reminiscing about how great there time there was. Barry knew perfectly well that there could not have been that many warm sunny days during term time to go boating on the Isis, this was England after all.
He sniggered to himself remembering the statement by one of his parents’ friends, who was not quite so enchanted with Oxford student life, that it was dryer in the river than out of it most of the time. His mother gave him the look. Taking the hint he turned his mind to other matters and seated himself at the table. His mother plonked a mug of tea in front of him, followed by a plate with a slice of walnut cake. “That should keep you going till dinner, though why I should bother to feed a couple of scientists I don’t know. Maybe your Aunt Jenny and me could go to that new Italian place and leave you and your father to fend for yourselves.”
“You can if you want to but then you would miss what I want to tell you,” Barry responded.
“So what do you have to tell us?”
“You’ll have to wait till dinner to find out, I am not going to repeat myself telling each of you individually.” His mother nodded, trying not to look frustrated at being put off.
Aunt Jenny took a sip of her tea, and then commented. “Very sensible of you Barry, there is no point in going over the same thing time and time again. I suppose it’s a good job that your mother has asked me to join her for dinner. That way you will not have to repeat it all to me.”
“When did I ask you to join us?” his mother asked.
“When you suggested we should go to that new Italian place, I don’t mind either way, Italian or here, with Beth away I was not planning on cooking anyway.”
“Aunt Beth’s away?” Barry asked.
“Yes, she’s in Sweden collecting some prize or other.”
“What prize?”
“Christ, I don’t know, I know it’s not the Nobel. It’s hardly worth the cost of the airfare to go and collect it. By time she has paid for a couple of nights in a hotel and her bar bill she’ll be out of pocket.” Aunt Jenny responded.
The three of them spent the next half hour chatting about Aunt Beth. Barry learnt that she had been awarded a prize for her scientific writing, specifically her communication of scientific ideas to teenagers. “I would never have thought of Aunt Beth as being a good communicator, she always had problems explaining things to me so I could understand them,” Barry stated.
“Which,” responded Aunt Jenny, “is exactly why she became good at communicating scientific ideas to teenagers. She had so many problems getting you to grasp simple ideas; she had to find a way to explain them so you could understand them. Once she had done that, it was easy to explain them to others.”
“So I’m the reason she’s getting the prize.”
“In a way yes, but don’t try to claim any of it.”
At that point Barry’s mother kicked them both out of the kitchen, stating that if she was cooking a meal for four she needed to get started. Barry stated that he was going to his room to get online and check his emails. “More likely checking out some smutty sites,” Aunt Jenny commented.
“As if I would,” Barry retorted.
“Well I would, in fact I think I will.” With that comment she swept past him and up the stairs to the hall. Barry and his mother exchanged looks.
* * * * *
The four of them were sitting round the kitchen table eating vegetarian lasagne, or at least Barry’s mother and father were eating it. Aunt Jenny seemed to be shovelling it in without benefit of mastication. As for Barry, he was moving the food around his plate wondering just how to broach the subject he needed to tell them about.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve moved that piece of lasagne across your plate, wouldn’t it be better just to come out with it and let us know what it is that you have to tell us,” Barry’s father commented.
“How did you …”

Look, I knew I wasn’t the most popular person around but the looks I had been getting for the last few days were enough to make any seventeen-year-old feel positively paranoid. OK, I was a bit of the oddball on the estate but what of it? It wasn’t as if I was around enough to cause problems for anyone. My relationship with Wednesbury was quite simple: I didn’t like Wednesbury, and it was quite clear from the looks I was getting that Wednesbury did not like me.
Not that I can blame them. I was not what a Black Country town expects of its youth. Worse still, I had really upset the apple cart. Brought the town’s proudest institution into disrepute and smashed it across the headlines around the world. The majority of the inhabitants of the town might have been to the left end of the socialist spectrum but one thing they did not like was revolution; I was the revolutionary.
Well, if you are different, be different, that’s my motto — and I am different.
Flower power had not arrived in England in nineteen sixty-six. The idea of a hippy had only just begun to be grasped — hell, Ginsberg had only just invented the term a year before. I’m not sure it had fully arrived in California, but I had adopted it. No matter that I had certainly adopted it without knowing what it was. My hair was long, tied back in a pony tail, in an age when anything other than short back and sides was considered risky. My shirts were bright when white or workman’s blue were the only acceptable colours. My coat was a full length Afghan, and it was the genuine article, a gift from an extremely grateful Afghan diplomat I was very friendly with down in London.
That was the other thing. After being thrown out of college and bringing the college down, or at least the highly respected principal thereof, no local firm would employ me. So I had to find work away from home, which I must admit was not a hardship. Unfortunately, I did not have the qualifications for a decent job that would allow me to work away from home. Therefore, I had done the only thing possible and taken an indecent job. Well, one has to make a living.
Oh, if anyone checked, I was a freelance editorial assistant at a discreet publishing house just off St Martin’s Lane. I often assisted some of the editors there when they needed a bit of release. In fact, I had assisted a number of men in the two years that I had been down in London.
Technically I was not a common whore when down in London. Besides the question of gender, there was also the matter that I was not paid for the provision of my sexual services. This was a somewhat moot point as I must admit the gifts that came my way were more than enough to give me the lifestyle that I enjoyed. Alright, I could only afford a small bedsit in Finsbury Park but it was not as if I was there that often.
Unfortunately, there was a downside to my way of life. Every now and then some do-gooder would raise a stink about rent boys. Whenever this happened there would be a police clampdown, which meant that from time to time it was best not to be in London. Fortunately, a rather nice chief superintendent at the Yard was kind enough to advise me and my friends, all who had similar lifestyles, when it might be advisable to make ourselves scarce for a few weeks. For a lucky few of my friends this meant a sojourn at the country estate of whichever lord they were fucking or being fucked by at the time. Sometimes they and their benefactor found the stay so pleasant that they would make it permanent.
I, like most of my fellow exponents of the relaxed lifestyle, had no such work benefit. For us it was a case of going home, wherever home might be. For me that meant Wednesbury. So it was that I had turned up in the last few days of a rather cold March at my parents’ house and informed them that I would be around for a few weeks. Dad, I must say, did not looked too pleased.
Later that Wednesday evening, after he had gone off to his club for his nightly couple of pints and chat with his mates, Mum explained why. It seemed that in the past few months elements from the left wing of the Labour party had set out to take control of the club. In theory, the club had always been non-political, though given the demographic profile of most of its members it was, if anything, essentially Labour. The fact that the local Labour MP was a member, as were all the local Labour councillors, gave some indications of its leanings.
Not that being Labour had any real influence on the club or how it was run. There was in fact a small clique of men who ran the place, changing roles on the committee from time to time, but in general it was the same ten men — there were of course no women on the committee — year after year. Oh, there was the odd person who came on for a year or two but then left when he found that his presence on the committee was not appreciated by the other committee members. New blood was only welcome when the committee put them up for election. If one looked at it more closely one found that most of the committee were in fact related to one another, my father being one of only two on the committee who was not related to any other member. He was from Yorkshire and had moved here for his work. The other nonrelated committeeman was Mr Bernard, from Surrey, who was always elected chairman. He was a local solicitor and Conservative councillor — probably the only Conservative in the Club. By general agreement it was found useful to have somebody from that party on the committee. That way, the Conservatives would never vote against the club’s interest in the Council. There was no way Labour would. They had once done so, apparently by mistake, back in nineteen fifty-five and found that they lost all three local seats at the next Council election. Both parties had taken note.
My father, due to his job, was regarded as quite an important local figure. He was the male district nurse and also Senior Nursing Officer for the St John’s Ambulance brigade, in which capacity he provided training in First Aid for active members of the club who actually took part in the club’s purpose of Civil Defence training.
Because of such importance, he was always on the committee, either as secretary or entertainment secretary. These roles were swapped around every couple of years with his best friend, Bert. This year he was due for election as secretary, for which he should have been a shoe in, except for the unexpected. For once, somebody had been put up for the committee who was not from the ‘select few’. Not only had someone been put up — that was not totally unknown, it had happened from time to time — but somebody had been put up for every committee post, including the officers. That was unheard of. So far as anybody could remember, the last time anyone had been put up for an officer’s post other than a person already on the committee was when Terry the Treasurer had been caught with his hand in the till. That had been six years ago. Even then the person proposed had been a relation of a committee member and thoroughly approved by the committee. He had also been acting as Treasurer since the day the police had taken Terry off for a chat.
Now everybody on the committee was being challenged for their post and challenged by a group of members who were friendly with Big George.
I suspect that readers of today may find it difficult to understand the concept of Red Labour in the 1960s, though they may know of the Militant Tendency, who existed in the 1970s. Like Militant Tendency, Red Labour was effectively a political party inside a political party. It was left of left and believed that the left needed to run everything. Not only because that would be good for the people, which was questionable, but because if they ran it they could use it to further their cause and that of the left, once they had filled their pockets.
From about 1960 onwards they had made moves to take over the crucial roles in the local union organisation. Big George was a key part in that. He was the senior shop steward at the local steel mill. How he had become senior shop steward was something of a mystery as he was a very unpopular man. He had, though, become senior shop steward, and since his appointment as such had increased the numbers of days in the year from two to three to seventeen plus that the works was closed due to strikes. This was an outcome which neither the local mill owners nor a large part of the workforce was very happy with.
Although neither side was happy with Big George as the senior shop steward, neither seemed able to get rid of him. Not that they had not tried. On the two occasions when motions for his dismissal as a shop steward had actually got onto the agenda of a general meeting of the union, no doubt due to some error somewhere, the records show he was always supported by an overwhelming show of hands. Sometimes more hands than there were union members present.
Basically George and his mates set out to win and keep control. They were not too particular about how they went about it. I could understand why Dad was worried. He was right to be — so was everyone else on the committee. However, it was not my concern. I had to make a living, even if I was living at home. Well, I still had to pay my rent on my bedsit in London. Fortunately, my landlord was very understanding, providing I was obliging, which I was.
Well, being five minutes from the tube and only twenty to Piccadilly, overlooking the park and having its own side entrance, it was worth being obliging for. Anyway, the dear really needed some release since his wife had taken up religion. So I helped him and he helped me. Unfortunately, he could only help me so far as it was his wife who kept the books. So I might be able to miss a couple of weeks; he would say I was away on holiday or working or something. Any more time than that and there would be problems. As it was, she was always complaining about how little he was charging me.
So it was off to work for me. Let’s be honest, up in the Black Country I was definitely a whore, though I would claim not common. I would attract some chap’s attention, he would tell me what he wanted and I would name my price. Let me tell you, even in the Black Country I was not cheap. Well, somebody had to pay for the Sobranie Black Russians, not to mention the clothes.
To be honest, I was rather surprised just how much work I was able to pick up. By Saturday night, I had enough to keep me in a style I wanted to be accustomed to for a few days so decided to take the Sunday off. In fact, I did not have much choice about the matter. Sunday bus services are non-existent, especially late at night, and I did not drive. Well, I lived in London and only an idiot drives in London. If you want to get anywhere in the centre, you use the tube or a taxi. Unfortunately trying to hail a taxi in Handsworth or Great Barr at two in the morning is not likely to be very productive.
Now back in Wednesbury for the day and having endured Sunday lunch with my parents, I set off to meet up with one of my old school friends. It was just before eight when I got back home to find the house empty. I guessed my parents had gone round to the club. There was though a message by the phone telling me that someone called Peter had phoned and could I call him back. So I did.
When I got through to Peter he informed me that his friend was looking for some boys to help crew his yacht for a month long cruise round the Med. I pointed out that I did not have the slightest idea how to sail. Peter informed me that neither did he, but that they had professionals for that and needed some professionals for the other. Apparently there were to be some important business guests who would need to be entertained.
After about ten minutes of negotiation it was agreed I would be on the morning eight-thirty train from Birmingham to Derby. Peter assured me that he would meet me at the Derby station and we could take a taxi to his friend’s place in the country, which turned out to be a gate lodge on his father’s estate.
All that being agreed did leave me with one small problem. I had to get myself and my luggage across town to the local station to get the seven twenty into Birmingham to be certain of catching the eight thirty from Birmingham to Derby. That meant either a taxi or a lift. I opted for a lift from Dad as being probably the better option though I decided I better check with him first. So I went round to the club.
As I walked up to the club, Bernard, one of my dad’s friends, was standing by the door. He was probably waiting for his wife to come and pick him up and drop him off at the steel mill for the night shift which would be starting in a just over an hour. I greeted him as I approached.
“Oh Paul, look, I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”
“What’s up?” I asked.

By the time that the heli-cruiser had completed the short hop from the landing field to the Count’s residence, His Excellency Niam Jadipur, Duke of Artandies, Imperial Governor of the forty-third sector, was sweating. It was not the heat that was affecting him. The ambient temperature was quite low, in fact it was almost unpleasantly low and quite unusual for this time of year on Algronian. Nor was it any effect from flying in the heli-cruiser. He was fully aware that many people found such experiences unpleasant but His Excellency was grateful that he was not one of those, anyway Imperial heli-cruisers were very well equipped and quite spacious.
The thing was he was worried, very worried to be precise. What was the formal etiquette for meeting the Count. He had of course looked up the etiquette details in Burk’s and found that there was a wealth of information to be had in that source. Unfortunately it all referred to counts, not the Count. Anybody who thought that the Count De Rais had anything in common, or was remotely connected with any of the hundred million other counts in the Imperium was totally missing the point of the last two thousand years of Imperial policy or at least the policy of the Imperial Civil Servants.
There had of course been times when the Emperor, due to some oversight on the part of his immediate Civil Servants had actually tried to run the Empire. At such times their policy to the Counts De Rais might move from the long established policy of the Empire. Such deviations though were usually short lived. With predictable ruthlessness those Emperors who had tried to change the due order of things had been removed. Mostly by their Civil Servants, who naturally felt that a few hundred thousand military men under the nominal control of the Count, rampaging through the Imperial Household, was not good for their peace of mind. However, when, due to some unforeseen oversight, they had failed to undertake such removals, the Count of the time had inevitably ensured that the removal took place. Unfortunately such later removal were not often conducted with the finesse that the Civil Servants thought such events warranted, so as a matter of principle they preferred to deal with such situations themselves before the Count got involved.
Thus was the basic policy of the Imperial Civil Service established. That was to keep the affairs of the Emperor and those of the Count as separated as possible. It was, therefore, an unwritten rule in the Civil Service that any officer of the Imperium should, if at all possible, avoid any contact with the Count de Rais. Not, let it be understood that they had anything against the Counts. By comparison with most of the Emperors they were quite civilized and well behaved. No Count had annihilated a solar system without reasonable, or a least comparatively reasonable, grounds.
Therefore, being summoned, by way of an invitation to dinner, to meet with the current Count De Rais presented the Duke of Antandies with two problems. First, what to do about the invitation, the best course of action would have been to avoid it, but the wording of the invitation made it quite clear that this was not the a viable option. A normal printed invitation might be mislaid, a hand written one could not be ignored, especially when it was hand written by the Count and delivered by a brigade of storm troopers, such a presentation of an invitation intimated at the fact that it could not be refused.
The second was, as indicated above, was the question of etiquette. According to Burk’s a count should kneel to a Duke and kiss the Duke’s hand if proffered. Anybody who expected the Count De Rais to kneel to anyone was in for a very persuasive re-education. A re-education that in all probability would be quite short, sharp and discommodious, therefore, an experience best avoided.
Nain Jadpur almost collapsed as he stepped out of the heli-cuiser. The sweat that had been pouring off him was instantly replaced by a cold dread. He had expected a member of the household to be waiting for him on the helipad, given his rank and position in the Imperial Civil Service, it should have been a senior member of the Count’s household. Anything less would have been a major insult and one which it would have been difficult to ignore. Civil Servants of the Empire had for the last couple of millennium developed a great propensity for ignoring insults from the Count. It was simply a matter of survival. There were, however, bounds beyond which one could not go. As Nain Jadpur surveyed the heli-pad it was clear that there was no member of the household present to greet him.
For a moment he considered the possibility of returning into the heli-cruiser and instructing the auto-pilot to return him to the space base. That though he knew would not be feasible. He stepped off the steps onto the heli-pad. As he did so the steps retracted back into the heli-cruiser, leaving him marooned, then things got worse. Striding out across the expanse of the heli-pad a tall, dark haired, white skinned, individual approached the Duke. He wore a simple gray coverall, of the type that would be used by a simple robot’s assistant, except these were made from Ishamary silk, the finest spider silk in the known universe. The coverall was devoid of any sign of rank or insignia. The terror of the moment engulfed Nain Jadpur, he was being greeted by the Count in person. He threw himself forward to the ground and started the formal protestations that are given upon ones approach to the throne.
“Nein, nein, my dear Duke”, the Count sounded out, “this is an informal private meeting, we do not have dwell on etiquette. Get up and let us descend to the warmer terraces.” The Duke rose from the ground, his sense of foreboding rising within him at the mention of the words informal and private. The very last thing any Civil Servant wanted was an informal and private meeting with anyone, much less the Count. Any such meeting was always liable to be misinterpreted by those above one, below one and around one. Far better for anything to be formal and public, as such it would be fully recorded and commented upon.
An informal and private meeting on behalf of one of the leading Imperial Civil Servants with the person of the Count could be interpreted in all sorts of ways, none of them good for the Emperor. If word of this got out, even the slightest hint of the meeting was to reach any ears that it should not, and that meant any at all, the impact could be enormous. The Duke made a mental note to call his broker and place an order to buy shares in armaments. The very hint that a senior Civil Servant had met with the Count would be enough to indicate a possible coup, every warlord within the five Galaxies would be wanting to rearm, as would all the regional governors. He quickly did a mental review of his own forces and considered which of the possible candidates for Emperor would be the best bet.
The Count extended a solicitous hand to assist the Duke in ascending from his prostrate position. Then lead him down from the heli-pad to a turbo lift, which descended to an entertainment terrace many thousand of metres below. Only when they were approaching a dinner table, which the Duke observed was set for two, did the Count re-instigate a conversation.
“I am grateful that your grace was able to respond to my invitation.” Nain noted the skill with which the Count could at one and the same time observe the strict form of address due to a Duke and by removing all verbal capitalization from the words reduce them to total insignificance. He was not about to do the same.
“My dear COUNT, it was an honour I could not refuse.” Though of course they both knew that he had tried his hardest to find a way of doing so. He would have preferred to have spent the day in the boudoir of a Hasanian Snake Women, than having dinner with the Count, and although the Snake Women of Hasan are famed for the height of sexual arousal they can induce in a man, it has to be remembered that they have a tendency to consume their partners after consummation.
“No my friend, it is you who are honouring me.” Things were getting worse. The Count indicated a chair and took his place at the table opposite. As he was seated five youths clad in Ishamary silk appeared and placed a selection of dishes upon the table. Nain could not help but be drawn to the youths. Given the golden colour of their skin the Duke cold not help wondering if they like the silk they wore were from the planet Isham. The Count observed his looks.
“Yes my friend, they are Ishamites. Very rare and exquisitely trained. You may have a pair, I have not doubt that you will have use for them.” Nain blanched, as much as his ebony skin would allow. A pair of Ishamites slaves, and personal slaves at that, how was he a sector governor going to account for such possessions? What did the Count want that he would part with such wealth? Noting the Duke’s discomfort the Count continued. “Oh, do not be concerned by such a gift. I own the planet.” That was one piece of news the Duke had not been acquainted with. The last thing the Duke had been aware of was that Ishama was the property of the Grand Duke Hassain, first cousin to the Emperor. The Count observed Nain for a moment, perceiving the questioning look in his eyes. Then he continued to enlighten the Duke. “Our beloved Emperor felt that the Grand Duke was somewhat too near the throne. Upon becoming aware of that the Emperor was of this opinion the Grand Duke felt he had a sudden urge for the quite life, well beyond the bounds of the Empire. As you have no doubt observed, in such circumstances, living a simple frugal existence is very expensive.”
The Duke nodded. He remembered the time his own family had decided to seek the quite life, during the final years of the Great Empress. She, of course had been the Count’s Great Aunt, and a major disaster in Imperial politics. The whole of the operation of the Empire was based on the principle that one should keep the Count De Rais and the Emperor as far apart as possible. That had been a political strategy that had worked quite successfully for nearly two thousand years, until the unexpected happened, an Emperor actually had something that one of the Counts wanted. Or rather something which would enable the Count to get rid of something he did not want, namely his sister, Isabella. So the Count had arrived at the Imperial Court with half his battle fleet, which meant he had ten times the force of the Emperor, and a proposal of marriage for his sister and the Emperor, who, at twelve years of age, was somewhat young and had only recently ascended the throne.
Given the way that the petition was presented and the inducement that went with it, some fifty star systems, the Emperor had naturally agreed. Somewhat to the annoyance of the Lady Isabella who it appeared had not been consulted on the matter. However, that annoyance was somewhat moderated on her wedding day when, after a very well aimed shot with a lead weighted bouquet thrown from the departing wedding heli-cruiser, she found herself reigning Countess. A couple of Civil Servants had pointed out that strictly the De Rais title could not pass to the female line. The Lady Isabella had quickly pointed out that such petty restrictions had not prevented three of her noble ancestors becoming reigning Countess. It was also pointed out that (a) she was now wife of the Emperor and (b) the Civil Servants in question were late for the Space Braque that would take them to their new posts in a more unpleasant part of the Empire. Anyway the whole question of her right to sit as reigning Countess became totally irrelevant when the Emperor, whilst undertaking his duties and trying to father a son upon the Countess, had a fatal, pillow induced, seizure. The Grand Vizier had pointed out to the Empress that technically the late Emperor’s third cousin was now technically the Emperor, being the nearest direct male relative in the line. A piece of news that appeared to relieve the Empress so much she offered the Grand Vizier a glass of Naumbian wine. It was only in the final moments of his death troughs that Grand Vizier remembered why his predecessors had made it a strict rule never to drink in the presence of a member of the Imperial Family. The late Emperor’s third cousin upon hearing of this decided he preferred the quite life in a galaxy far far away.
Nain returned his attention to the meal before him. In customary manner, as the host, the Count leaned forward and picked up a delicacy with his chopsticks and offered it to his guest. The Duke, mindful of their respective ranks and influence, raised his chopsticks and removed the proffered morsel, which he delivered to his mouth without checking to see what it was. There was no point. There was no way that he would not eat it and if it was something that disagreed with him, then it would just have to disagree. A disagreement from his stomach was much preferable to the disagreement that could arise from upsetting the Count.
He flinched, as his palate was assailed by an intense sourness, then relaxed as sweetness beyond description filled his mouth. The experience was indescribably. Smiling he looked at the Count. The man was smiling with satisfaction.
“Tharssean Golden Fruit!” he confirmed.
“I thought it was impossible to transport them?”
“It is, once picked from the tree they have to be served within two hours. No means of preservation has been found and all attempts to grow them away from the soil of Thars has failed.”
“Then how?”
“My orchards on Thars grow a number of trees in large pots. As they come into fruit, they are loaded on a faster than light transport and shipped to me. Oh the trees will die, but they live long enough for the fruit to delivered fresh to my table. It is all about care for the quality of things, which I why I had to ask you to join me for dinner.”
The Duke tried to look complacent as he picked up a morsel from the table. Again he did not take any notice of what it was. This time though it was because he was preoccupied in trying to think what it was that the Count wanted?
“My life, as you are no doubt aware, is dedicated to quality. Everything around me is of the best quality. I deplore anything that undermines the quality of what is available.” The Duke nodded in acknowledgement of what the Count was saying. A quick glance around him illustrated the point beyond anything that the Count could say.
“You, my dear Duke, are governor of a sector which has specialized in child farming.” The Duke acknowledged the fact with a nod. None of the star systems in his sector had any great worth and the planets were resource wise quite poor. The system as a whole was too far out from the main centres of the galactic population to make the transportation of grain or cereal products economic. Given these facts there was not much else in his sector that would earn foreign exchange and the raising of children for the export market was a profitable line of business which had a constant demand for its products. “Have you ever visited any of the planets involved in the industry?”
“Erhm ..”, responded the Duke.
“No matter, I suspect you have more important things to consider. I have, however, made a point of visiting a number.” The Count looked directly at the Duke, who finding himself under the gaze of that person suddenly found the meal, despite all its delicacy had suddenly become somewhat bland. “Don’t worry, I am not one of those campaigners who wish to see such a lucrative industry stopped. Indeed I very much encourage it, it provides such a vital contribution to our way of life in the Empire. No, I am not one who wishes to extend the rights of the intellectual to all and sundry. One might as well be asking me to give up my slaves.” As if to emphasis the point, or merely because he had partaken sufficient of the tidbits that had been laid upon the table and observed that his guest was no longer eating, he clapped his hands twice. The Ishamarian youths who had been motionless around the perimeter of the dining zone sprang to life clearing the table and laying it for another serving. The Duke observed that it was set for fish and wondered what exotic specialty the Count had imported?
“As I was saying,” continued the Count, “I have made it my business to enquire into the conditions in which the children are reared. In recent months I have visited Perius, Dalangan, Vinus and Martomique, and looked into the farming methods on each of those planets.” The Duke made a mental note to have somebody’s head served up on a silver platter. The most powerful man in the Galaxy had been wondering around his sector for months and nobody had mentioned it to him. There again, he thought, would he have mentioned it in their position? Probably not, there was always the possibility that such an event might pass unnoticed. It was not as if there would be any paperwork. The Count De Rais did not normally make application for a visa or landing rights. So provided nothing happened you could be reasonably certain that nobody would ever find out. This time though something had happened, he had been invited for dinner, so he had found out, definitely good justification for head serving, and probably justification for serving other parts of the offending official’s anatomy first, rather slowly.
“I found the practice of child farming rather interesting. There is just so much one assumes about things is there not?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know Niam, oh you don’t mind my use of the familiar do you?” The Duke shook his head, indicating acquiescence. The Count could call him what he liked so long as he was able to get away in one piece and was able to square things with the Emperor later.
“Oh, good. I do get so tired of all these minor titles.”
“Most understandable.” The Count scowled momentarily at the Duke, who taking the hint added, “your Excellency.”
“Quite, there are so many titles around these days and so few that have any meaning. Most seem to have been purchased.”
The Duke nodded in agreement. Most titles were purchased. His had cost his father slightly over two thousand million Thalers, an amount that the family had considered a good investment. The sale of titles was a profitable industry for the Empire, though had become somewhat more restricted in recent centuries due to the lack of ongoing expansion. However, the rampage of the Empress Isabelle through the aristocratic families of the Imperium had result in a number of vacant titles and a subsequent flow of cash into the Imperial coffers. It had also resulted in a situation where few families could show a grant of title that went back more than two or maybe three generations. There were of course some exceptions, old families whose title went back to before the founding of the Empire. They generally were now without wealth and so did not come to the attention of the late Empress. Then there were the De Rais.
It was not a case of them having an historic grant of title. To be precise, so far as anyone had established, they had never had a grant of title. It seemed that the family were just a bunch of space pirates who were somewhat better about their business than the competition. While the majority of the Galaxy was occupied with the War of the Republics, they were occupied in grabbing anything that was lying around. By time the War of the Republics came to an end and the Empire was established they had some two thousand star systems, albeit all in the periphery, a war fleet bigger than that of the Emperor and the title Count De Rais. The first Emperor, having assessed the situation, had decided not to question the use of the title. An act which seemed very responsible, especially given the fact that the then Count De Rais had responded with a magnificent coronation gift. He had crashed a Star Cruiser onto the Senate House during the coronation, thereby removing all of the first Emperor’s potential rivals.
“Yes, I had always presumed that the farms must have vast stables of brood females to give birth to the children. It’s not the case.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, they remove the ovaries from any female children they are selling, it prevents them from being matured into breeding lines. Those ovaries are then matured and the generated eggs fertilized and raised in culture. There is a short period of implantation in a surrogate womb, just long enough to establish the foetus, after which it can all be done in the vats and incubators.”
The table re-laid one of the Ishamarian servants approached carrying a single silver dish which he laid upon the centre of the table. The Duke looked at it, a sense of disbelief filling him. The most powerful man in the Galaxy, a man famed for his taste in fine food and wine was serving him salmon. It was not even served in a strange or exotic sauce, it was plain and simple, the most basic of preparation and laid on a dish. A simple salmon, the fish grown on mass in breeding tanks throughout the Galaxy to feed the drudges. The Duke could not believe that he was being offered such food, food he would not give to his slaves. More importantly the Duke could not work out how he should react. What was the Count trying to prove?
For a couple of minutes there was a stillness at the table, a pregnant pause in which each was waiting for an action from the other. This they both understood was a test. The Duke sensed things could not be as they appeared. He took his chopsticks and broke of a piece of the flesh, which he transferred to his dish. It was red, a deep red, far deeper that the pink flesh of the salmon he saw in the drudges markets. He observed that the Count was also helping himself to some of the flesh. Not wishing to be seen hesitant to partake of the fish, he moved some of the flesh to his mouth. There was a subtlety of flavour so intense that it was beyond description. In his whole life the Duke had only partaken of salmon on three or four occasions, when it had been necessary to taste the food of the drudges. What he had tasted then was nothing like this. The Count, observing the expression on the Duke’s face spoke.
“Wild salmon from an obscure planet called Terra. There are some who claim that it is the ancient home of humanity and that this fish originated there. I doubt such claims but what I do know is that the wild fish from its rivers have nothing in common with the farmed fish of the tanks.
“That, brings me to the point I want to make. The conditions in which an animal grows affects it. This salmon grew in the open sea of a world that may well have been its original home. It was caught, not so many hours ago, on a line and fought for its life. It is a wild and free creature. So different from what we grow in our tanks.

Trevor was not sure that he could go through with what had to be done, but as he looked back at the figure coming through the door behind him he knew that somehow or other he had to do it, if not for his sake then for Pip’s. He had brought Pip into this and he had to get both of them out of it. Anyway, if they did not face up to things what chance did they have of making any sort of life together?
As the door closed the last rays of the setting sun caught upon Pip’s shoulder-length blond hair, causing it to glow like fire, reminding Trevor of their first meeting—that first moment of attraction, before they realised the immensity of what they were becoming involved in. How could they have known? How could they have understood? Neither of them had even known of the other’s existence until that day, some six months earlier, and by time they knew the truth about each other it was far too late; they were helplessly in love with each other.
It was, no doubt, the curse of Carr Dulm. Trevor tried to remember what his father had told him about it: each generation of the family was cursed with a love they could never have, a love that would destroy those involved. And it came close to destroying Pip and himself—siblings with the same father but different mothers.
They first became acquainted at the Intercontinental Hotel, both having flown in to hear the reading of their father’s will. In accordance with his instructions neither was told of his death until he had been well and truly disposed of; his body cremated and the ashes scattered at sea. That left only the will to be read, which the family lawyers were to do the Friday two weeks following the funeral, allowing everyone involved time to arrive for the reading. So it was that Pip and Trevor arrived at the Hotel on the Thursday night. They met in the bar.
All right, they were siblings but it was not as if they had known each other—or even about each other, really. Trevor did know that his father had carried on relationships with a number of women outside his marriage. He was even aware, from what his mother had told him, that at least one child had come from those relationships. That he might meet that child, however, had never occurred to him, nor did it cross his mind as he chatted to Pip at the bar or later over the dinner they had together. By the time they made their way by unspoken consent to Pip’s room, where Trevor had spent the night, it was already too late to raise such thoughts; they knew that they were in love and that they wanted to be together. It was only in the early hours of the morning, after sessions of love making, that they realised the truth, when they talked about what had brought them to Manchester.
Pip—understandably—had been upset at what they had done. Trevor had tried to comfort his sibling, saying that, as they did not know of their relationship, they could not be held to blame. He knew the argument was weak… it was not what they had done that was the problem, it was what they wanted to do. The desire was manifest in both of them and they both sensed there would be no denying it.
Pip asked Trevor to leave, which he did. In the morning each avoided the other, both taking breakfast in their rooms via room service.
At ten thirty of the clock, however, they met again—in the offices of Moraine, Shankline and Websters, Solicitors. When they saw each other they both knew that, no matter what, they wanted one another.
“What shall we do?” asked Pip.
“Find a way,” Trevor answered, trying to find a confidence that he did not have.
The bulk of the estate was within an entailed trust which went to Trevor, along with a useless title and a lump of obligations. There was a hunk of money that was outside the trust, and their father had split this equally between the two of them, together with such properties as were outside the trust. Then there was Carr Dulm, an ancient stone tower on its own desolate island, whipped by Atlantic winds; this their father had left to them jointly, to hold together, as if he had known. Maybe he had. Trevor cursed the old man, but thanked him as well for putting Pip on this earth for him.
All that was six months ago. Now they had come to Carr Dulm, a place of dread and fascination; the place that was at the centre of the curse upon the family.
Standing in the hallway of Carr Dulm brought back to Trevor all the stories he had heard about this place. The reading of six months earlier was no longer a dry academic exercise but something that came alive in this place.
Pip came and stood next to him, taking his hand. “You sure you want to go through with this?”
“No, but I don’t want it messing us up, either.” Trevor looked at Pip. “There is no reason for you to stay though… you can go.”
“Like hell lover boy! If you think that I am letting you out of my sight with a demon around you have another think coming.”
They stood looking into each other’s eyes; smiling, knowing.
Then Pip reached up, pulled Trevor’s head down and kissed him. “Gawd, I love you too much. Let’s get this thing over with and go and find some nice comfortable bed and fuck the night away.”
They walked across the hallway, their footsteps on the ancient flags resounding off the high stone walls. In front of them were the double doors into the Great Hall. Trevor released Pip’s hand and pushed the doors open, then together they entered.
Everything was just how Trevor had instructed. He had phoned ahead the day before and given Duncan—the manservant who with his wife maintained the old pile for the family—instructions on what had to be done, and then told him that he and his wife would not be needed that night. The couple lived in the coach house on the far side of the courtyard, so any noise from the night’s events would not disturb them. As requested, a fire was burning in the grate.
Trevor released Pip’s hand and strode over to the fireplace. He picked up a couple of logs from the log box and threw them on. “Might as well have a good fire for what is coming.”
“It’s turning dark already, aren’t we a bit late?”
Trevor turned and looked at the worried expression on Pip’s face. “No, we still have a good hour till moonrise, and that’s when it will make its appearance… if it does.”
“You doubt it.”
“No, our dad told me all about it. It ruined his marriage to my mother, and your mother was the victim of his rebound.”
“Tell me about it, Trevor? I never really knew him so I never heard the story.”
“Right, sit yourself in the inglenook whilst I prepare the room.” He indicated the seat by the side of the fire.
Pip sat.
Trevor started to remove items from the shoulder bag he had brought with him. “According to Dad the story starts with one of our ancestors doing something fairly irresponsible with a local girl. Trouble was, she was also the daughter of the local witch, who, it is reported, was a woman of great beauty and great power. When our ancestor dumped the girl she killed herself. The witch cursed the family and pronounced that each generation would find great love, and then lose it.
Since then, that has really happened in each generation. Whenever one of our ancestors found somebody they really loved, something would happen and that love would be destroyed.”
“And you love me so much that you think it would destroy our love?”
“Yes, Pip, I do, and that’s why I intend to fight it.” He placed five wooden blocks on a small table near the fire. Each of the blocks bore a symbol. Pip recognised them as being similar to runes, though not the normal sort you saw in books on rune casting.
Trevor saw that Pip was looking at them. “Bind runes, luv. They are a combination of two or more runes brought together to form a sigil that has power. These are ward blocks. They are used to protect or contain an area.” He took a knife from the bag and pointed it at the arrangements of blocks.
“Bij te moeder and te dochter,
Bij ard, aer, vuur und vater,
Bij dis tenken I charge te,
Var jij art letten kien evil be.”
The words spoken sounded vaguely German or Dutch, but being familiar with both, Pip knew it was neither. “What was that?”
“It’s the charge, it sets the potential for the wards to work when needed.”