Last week, at the fortnightly meeting of our writing group, Chris gave me a copy of the book, Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell … well, actually, I snatched it off the table before anyone else could have it ... mere details!
It’s a World Night Book 2011 book (WBN), something I’d never heard of. When I got it home, I read the instructions – something I’m not built for doing, generally – and it said … not, it didn’t say anything at all. So, on the back of the book it was written: “The book you’re holding is one of 40,000 copies printed of each of the 25 brilliant titles selected for World Book Night 2011. That’s 1,000,000 books to be read and enjoyed and then shared.”
So, this WBN organisation (www.worldbooknight.org), whoever they are, printed 1,000,000 books and gave them away just so you and I could have a jolly good read. Now, each of those books has to cost at least £2.50 to print and then someone has to pay distribution and a whole lot of other bills like wages, electricity, phones and so the whole account’s going to be something over £3,000,000 … just so you and I can enjoy ourselves.
Now, if that’s not generosity, I’m a badger masquerading as a human.
This second creaky slam and lock-sliding confirmed to the sweating security guards that they should investigate quickly. As one, their legs took them across the lawn to the source of the sound, their fine paunches wobbling gracefully ahead of them while, in some remote corner of their brains, arose the possibility that they were too late and would be in trouble. Footprints - many footprints - scarred the mossy floor of the alcove and the door would not budge.
Of course, as we all know, there is nothing in this world to fear except that which passes through our minds, kindly termed imagination. Had the guards known what a motley crew (and the small number of said motley crew) they were pursuing, they would have felt quite confident in themselves. However, since said motley crew existed only in their minds, they were very scared and very uncertain. Conjuring up a large group of savage killers, the guards then had to guess whether the consequences of confronting these viscious foes would be worse than the consequences would be from their guv'nor (as they called him) if he discovered their dereliction of duty and let intruders slip through their tight security … not that big words like dereliction and consequences actually entered the frantic minds of these two men with growing fear and shrieking brains. Their thought processes probably went more along the lines of, "Oh bugger, do we scarper, save getting' our heads busted or do we tell the guv'nor we bin rumbled and then git our heads busted?"
A further thought may well have been that three weeks in the security industry was quite enough for two long-time supporters of the bar of South Norwood's Hogs Head pub. They weren't men of action but they needed to do something … anything. So, like homing pigeons in a quandary, they headed home to the front of the building, considerably slower than they had left said building frontage. They were, of course, possessed of mobile phones but were loathe to use them till they had fully weighed up the pros and cons of getting their heads busted as against scarpering to the nearest pub and then looking for a job with more certainty and safety. They finally plumped for sticking to their current job and, after a brief conversation in human terms (but long in Cro-Magnon terms) they decided to continue walking backwards and forwards in front of the big house as if they had not stopped doing it - flying stones and creaking doors had never happened and when (or if) the intruders were found inside, they'd fake surprise with such style they'd be forgiven … or even promoted. Hope is a wonderful thing.
Meanwhile, in the green, carpeted hall, with an intricately carved, plaster ceiling eighteen feet above, seven uncertain individuals took stock and wondered, in unison, just what drew them to be in such a position. With some different decisions made (or not made) only hours before, they could all be comfortably and safely doing what they'd always done, whatever that was. But, as we know, life turns on a tuppenny piece (or a dime if you're American, which none of them were) and here they were, about to attempt the saving of someone none of them knew well (some not at all) for a cause uncertain in a situation unimaginable from people with unknown intentions, abilities and armaments. The guards were probably outside the door and, by now, their employers inside would presumably know of the seven's presence. Going back was out of the question and, considering what their imaginations were creating about the events inside the mansion, going forward was also out … but probably less out then going back. They could rely on Dominik for knowing his way round the corridors but none of them knew which one led to the captive (they all presumed) Lord and Lady Atkinson.
All was silent; eerily silent for a house that employed a dozen serving people.
Arthur found himself the centre of attention as they huddled round him, obviously expecting an answer to their uncertainty.
"I guess the most obvious thought is that, whatever they're after, they'll imagine it's in the Lord's office," whispered Arthur as everyone nodded at his sage assessment of the situation though he wondered why a wild guess should be interpreted as a sage assessment.
"I know way to office," said Dominik, quietly. "But we must go past main drawing room and foyer at front. We be seen."
"We could be seen here, too," whispered Amanda urgently. "Where can we hide for a mo while we decide?"
"Ah yes, this way," whispered Dominik, moving off and waving them on with him. He slipped around the corner to the left and motioned them into a small room filled with shelves of gardening equipment, wall hooks groaning with coats and umbrellas and a floor littered with muddy boots of all kinds. "Dis the coat room. For servants," said Dominik, ducking his head under the low doorway. "Shut the door so no one hear us."
In their cone of silence, amid the smell of rubber, mud and wet leather, they looked at one another.
"So, the only way from here to the office is through the most public part of the house?" asked Amanda.
"Yes, that only way," said Dominik, emphatically.
"But these old places have all sorts of secret alleyways and hidden doors," said Martin. "Are you sure there's no secret way to get there?"
"Secret way … secret way," said Dominik as if savouring the words. Arthur was sure he could see the marbles moving round in the machinery of Dominik's mind as it churned over the idea. "Yes, I hear of secret way. I forgot."
"And it will take us to the office?" asked Martin hopefully.
"Not sure, maybe," said Dominik as another marble dropped into place. "I thinking what they say."
"So there might be a way in?" asked Toby, struggling to keep his strapped-up arm from touching people or the room, with little success, considering their confinement. "Perhaps it's into the back of the office."
"Ah yes, back office," said Dominik frowning and Arthur was sure the next marble could be seen, teetering on the edge, ready to drop.
"So what room backs onto the back of the office?" asked Toby, logically.
"Ah, let me think," said Dominik, drawing an imaginary picture with one finger on the other palm, as the marble hovered closer to the edge. Suddenly his face lit up. "Ah yes! It through kitchen so Lord can have affair with servant girls!"
"Good lord, not Lord Atkinson!" exclaimed Arthur, appalled.
"No, no, old Lords, hundreds years ago," said Dominik, laughing quietly. "We go out to passage, turn left then left again and we in kitchen."
"So, how about you go first, alert the kitchen staff and make sure we're safe," suggested Joan, trying to be logical in a dangerous situation. Arthur could sense her discomfort and admired the way she was dealing with it all.
"It's okay Joan, I'll go with Dominik and clear the way," said Amanda, apparently relishing the danger more than Joan was. "You all wait one minute and then follow us."
The two left and the rest waited.
"Well, that's sixty seconds and no explosive or disturbing noises," said Arthur, unable to move as fear gripped him as never before.
"Come on Arthur," said Joan in her fascinatingly decisive way. "Let's go!"
"Oh, ah, yes, I suppose we should," said Arthur, still unable to move his leaden feet and churning stomach. He felt bile rising and wiped his sweaty forehead.
"It's okay Dad," said Martin, obviously noticing his father's discomfort. "We have an old man, two old women, a cripple and me. Perhaps I go first!" Arthur sensed Martin's bravado covered a deep fear, like his, and he was thankful to be led by his son, in this instance.
"Are you alright, Dottie?" asked Arthur, realising she had said nothing for a long time.
"Oh yes Arthur, it's just like going on night duty," said Dottie, matter-of-factly. "You never know what to expect and, whatever it is, you're on your own and you have to deal with it. Only, this time, there's seven of us. 'It's a doddle, Doctor,' as we used to say."
Everyone smiled and Arthur felt a little better, somehow.
They followed Martin, thankful to be out of the small, stuffy room but not thankful for where they might be heading to.
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