Asharif

A story from the book, The Royal Bank of Stories, available from Amazon.

In the boat with Asharif are three very wealthy and elegantly dressed people. The man has a grand hat and many layers of flowing robes, while the women are dressed in much lace and silk, with delicately embroidered parasols.

As Asharif rows, he doesn't think about the disparity between these sophisticated people, with their fine talk and smooth skin, and his own blunt manner and blistered hands. These people of high standing may be comparing their impeccably buckled shoes with his bare feet, their flowing garments with his tattered shirt and shorts, the large jewels on their fingers with his broken and dirty fingernails. Asharif could have looked at these outer differences if he'd chosen, but his interest was in that which lay beneath the human veneer. This is why these people chose his above all the other water taxis.

Some of the other water taxis were very beautiful craft, with brightly coloured paint in intricate patterns and scrolling words. Some gleamed in the bright sunlight and were decorated with streamers, bells and garlands of flowers. Many of the taxi-men wore what we might call uniforms - smart clothing of particular colours and patterns that matched their boats. Most of them were well groomed and, despite the hard physical work, kept themselves very clean. Many of them practised speeches and phrases and were able, after some time, to imitate the language, tone and gestures of their educated customers.

There was, it seemed, a common idea that the cleaner, smarter and more clever you were, the more customers you could get, enabling you to make enough money to sell your boat and live in a manner that more closely resembled your customers. It was not possible, of course, for taxi-men to ever become society-men, for the brand of their birth could never be erased or exchanged. However, a taxi-man could always, with foresight, perseverance and ingenuity, become a manservant or horseman - positions which meant less physical work and more contact with the "people of society". Somehow, the unspoken belief was that the more contact one had with people of society, the more likely one could become one - almost as if their wealth, silks, jewels and powders would rub off. It never did but all lived in hope.

For the society people, there was an unspoken belief that the less contact one had with the "lower elements of society", the less chance one had of becoming (at least fractionally) like them. Most society people, then, chose the more colourful craft and the most "cultured" taxi-men.

So why did this unkempt Asharif prosper so much? In a tidy-but-unpainted boat, in purely functional and slightly tattered clothes and with an accent and manner quite unchanged from birth, he should have been the poorest of the taxi-men. But he wasn't. Further, instead of actively engaging his customers in bright and enthusiastic conversation, he assiduously avoided saying anything unless asked to do so. Yes, he was polite, but it was as if he didn't care. And yet, through the layers of cosmetics, jewellery and clothing that surrounded and protected these society people, some particular ones among them felt that he actually cared more than anyone else they knew. While Asharif's outer appearance and behaviour belied his caring, it was plainly evident to a small number of them.

Obviously, most society people would choose not to travel with Asharif, the plain and sullen one and, initially, he sat at the wharf for hours while the more splendid craft plied their trade with vigour. This seemed not to bother Asharif, who simply sat and waited, as if knowing of some divine event on its way. Then, once in a while, a society-person or group, feeling a little adventurous, would deliberately choose the taxi that no one else would, perhaps hoping to have more to boast about than others of a more conservative nature.

Most of these adventurous passengers had a need of noise, hustle and bustle. Asharif's silence would unnerve them and they'd have to fill the space with chatter. Eventually they'd have to risk the taboo of talking to the lower people - they'd comment on the weather or some other irrelevancy and he would nod and, maybe, smile. If nothing needed to be said, he said nothing. In desperation they would (in their need to fill the silence with noise) ask a question which he would have to answer.

So, after deep thought (as deep as they were capable) they might ask a question about marriage and Asharif would tell them that the man they were about to marry was actually in love with another particular lady (who he'd name) and that their impending marriage would last 3½ years and end in bankruptcy and misery. Or they might ask something about politics and he'd tell them who the next Shamir (or Governor) would be, what he would do and what effect that would have in their businesses. Or they'd ask about health and he'd reassure them that their father's terrible illness would soon be gone and that full health would be restored in seven weeks, if they administered a particular herbal concoction to him.

Whatever subject they alluded to, he would know, somehow, of their personal concerns and future and, without discrimination, he'd simply give the facts. As time went by, they realised that he was never wrong. In time he came to be respected, though many first thought of him as a charlatan and felt bound to test him. He never faltered and his answers were equally caring, dispassionate and accurate for all questioners, no matter how cynical, aggrieved or wide-eyed they were.

Without looking, it was as if he could see into their hearts and know the real questions they were afraid to ask. Then, in the same way, he seemed able to look into their souls and their futures and give answers from the heart of one who was incapable of judgement. He seemed unable to judge people by their dress or behaviour, and unable to judge the impact of that which he told. As a messenger, he dispassionately delivered his messages with no thought of softening or "adjusting" them to the sensitivity of the listener.

And yet there came with these (sometimes) harsh messages, an overwhelming sense of caring and compassion. Even the most difficult-to-swallow pills were rendered sweetly edible. Though he volunteered no advice, if a wise questioner asked for advice around his or her future, the counsel was ever wise and reassuring.

By attraction rather than advertising, then, Asharif became a very busy man. Though he might have rowed all day, he always had time for another customer - his energy was boundless. Sometimes he would be spared that hard work as a customer, trying to get to the bottom of a major problem, would ask him to stop rowing and to simply advise. Often this plain craft could be seen quietly drifting with the tide while the more garish and noisy taxi-men ploughed through the water with great gusto and a little envy.

And, in the middle of the harbour, bobbing in the wake of other water traffic, large amounts of gold and jewels would be proffered in grateful thanks for the knotty problem solved. Asharif never refused these gifts, accepting them with the same simple "thank you" that accompanied the compliments for him. He did, however, turn down other offers. Sometimes he would be offered a position as an advisor for a nobleman and, always, he'd decline. It was as if he wanted to remain available to all, without discrimination - to be the exclusive property of one (no matter how wealthy) was not his way.

At times, an astute observer might see a thankful customer alight from the humble craft and know that changes were afoot. Within a week the people would be astounded at the brilliance of some political or business initiative, and all their lives would be enhanced a little. While the masses would shower this ingenious politician or businessman with their approval, two or three people would smile and nod to each other, knowing where the seed of the progressive changes really started. Asharif was never acknowledged for his part in any of the happenings and one suspects that's how he would have wanted it.

He plied his trade untiringly, provided his truth when asked, accepted that which his customers offered, offended no one and remained in the simple integrity of who he really was. A more innocuous man could not be imagined and all who knew him well, grew to love him.

For some reason, though, some were not happy with him. Many speculated on whether it was a jealous taxi-man, a jilted lover, a dishonest politician or a greedy businessman, but we'll never know the real culprit. An uproar ensued after his boat was found floating in the middle of the harbour. On closer inspection, his body was found face-up, with his arms and legs nailed to the wooden seats, while his craggy and serene face smiled at the peaceful sky above. Several official inquiries were instigated but no offenders were discovered, though two taxi-men and three politicians were found to have left the city abruptly.

There was a mass wailing for the loss of this simple man and different groups began to frantically create books from the words that had been remembered from his boat trips. There was, of course, bickering between these groups of Asharifts (as they called themselves) as to who was the authentic group and who had the most accurate accounts of his life. That bickering continues today and while they may focus on proving themselves the most righteous and the chosen ones, they forget that whatever version of the Asharif story is believed, it provides a profound understanding of life and it enables many confused, pained and anxious people to realize the power and beauty they have within.

Strangely, his death meant that he now lives eternally, forever carrying people across the harbour of their doubt and fear, to the safe harbour of their peace, joy and acceptance.

Being Dog-matic, Human and Walking Our Talk

I recently applied for a job as editor for a magazine based round The Secret. Like most things, The Secret is not the whole answer on how to achieve our full potential with peace and joy. Nevertheless I felt that, through the medium of the magazine, I could help to inspire many, many people to realise and live the greatness that they are.

Then, two days before the interview, I discovered that the magazine’s owner, my potential employer, had been less than honest with many, many people. Living in a luxury home with a luxury car and a luxury lifestyle, he had taken other peoples’ money to invest on their behalf. That money seems to have disappeared without trace or explanation. Wages have remained unpaid for many years, as have a number of creditors.

We’re talking about large sums of money, very large sums, but the amounts, to my mind are irrelevant. Even the non-payment of wages and promises is not so bad, in the scale of things – we all make mistakes and, sometimes, people find themselves out of money for all sorts of reasons.

The difficulty I have with this person’s actions (and not with him) is that he denied that he had lost huge sums of money – despite the clear evidence – and there was no apology or contrition. Promises he made on national television were not kept and he would not take responsibility for making or breaking those promises.

This man is a devout Christian – something he boasts about on his website, his FaceBook and LinkedIn profiles and other public places. He’s very proud of his Christianity. I’m sure, however, that if Christ ever made a mistake – intentional or otherwise – he’d fess up, take responsibility and do his best to make amends.

Not so this Christian. This, of course, does not make Christianity wrong. It simply tells us that some Christians are not walking their talk.

While I was discovering these “interesting” facts about this man, this potential employer, I also discovered that one of the presenters in The Secret DVD had been arrested for manslaughter. Again, this does not make The Secret wrong – it just means that one of The Secret’s adherents, one of its faithful, was not walking his talk.

The lesson I take from this is – a lesson we all know but need reminding of, from time to time – is that no philosophy can save us or give us enlightenment, success, peace or whatever else we’re looking for. Whether it’s Christianity, The Secret, Buddhism, Hinduism or any other philosophy, they are all only part of the story.

“So, what’s the other part?” you may ask.

“The other part is us.”

When you point at something, a dog will look at your finger and a human will look at what you’re pointing at. If you want to be dog-matic, you’ll make your philosophy or religion your answer. If you want to grow as a human, you will look at what your religion is pointing at – God.

And, verily I say unto thee, God makes no demands and has no rules – he simply welcomes us back as prodigal sons. God does not force his/her prodigal sons to return home – we have to be willing to return. We have to be willing to practice being the Christ within us and walk the daily human walk – stumbling, forgiving, making amends and trying again.

Using the principle that’s common to The Secret and to Christianity, I know that if I want an employer who tries to walk his talk, then I must first do that.

And so, today, I’m walking. 

And now, how is Mary Collins walking? Her story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Maybe it's a ruse by Sam to put someone off his scent …" said Ahmed, interrupting.

"You mean he sent those people after you to save his skin?" asked John, incredulously. "He wouldn't do that, would he?"

"No, no, I've got a feeling … just a feeling, mind," said Angus as he lifted out paper after paper. "There's something here we missed last night. I'm sure of it."

"I wish you were right …" said Mary.

"Hey! I bloody am, Mary girl!" exclaimed Angus, holding a sheet up towards the window as the March sun tried faintly to shine through. "Look, look what's written …"

"But we've read all that stuff … well, skimmed through it, anyway," said Mary, interrupting him while peering at the upheld sheet and munching her last sausage.

"Nah, yah silly bird!" said Angus, chuckling. He shuffled closer to her, being careful not to spill the remaining breakfast from his lap. Everyone else moved closer. "Don't look at the words, the typed ones. Look at the … aah, I don't know what you call it … like a watermark or something."

"Yes, yes, I can see it, Angus," said Belinda. "It's faint but there's definitely words sort-of inside the paper. She grabbed more sheets from the briefcase and handed them round. "See if there's any more like it."
They all held sheets up to the light while carefully balancing plates of food and cups of tea and coffee on their knees. Then the phone screamed through their fervour and, immediately, everyone dashed into the fray, tossing breakfast remains and paper aside to plunder pockets and bags in search of mobile phones … all except Angus who reached over and picked up the hotel phone.

"Hello? Ah, I'm Angus. Who is this? Sam, Sam who? Sam …"

"Oh Sam, Sam!" said Mary, snatching the phone from Angus. "Where are you? I waited for your call …"

"Yes, yes my dear, I'm sorry I wasn't able to call as promised," said Sam, interrupting her. "But here I am! Would you mind awfully if I popped in now? I'm at your apartment so where are you from there?"

"Oh Sam, it's so nice to hear your voice," chirped Mary. "And you're out, you're free …"

"Mary, Mary, please tell me where you are. I may not have much time," said Sam quickly.

"Right, yes, sorry," said Mary who then gave him the name and whereabouts of the hotel, along with their room number. Sam hung up immediately while Mary held the phone to her ear still, cherishing the sound and though of him being free and near. Then the fears moved in - would he be interested in her, would he be a changed man, would he …
"Where's Sam, Mary?" asked Angus, interrupting her thoughts. "When will he be here?"

"Soon …" said Mary with the silent phone in her hand while her mind floated off in some other-worldly reverie.

"Soon? God, you bloody English are hopeless, aren't you!" said John, playfully punching Mary's arm. "Ask an Englishman 'how long' and he'll tell you 'not long'. Ask an Englishman 'how big?' and he'll tell you 'quite big'. Ask an Englishman 'when?' and he'll tell you 'soon'. Getting facts out of an Englishman is like extracting teeth from a beggar's bum!"

"John, you forget you're married to an English person," said Belinda, laughing. Awkward laughter from the others.

"I can't forget that love!" said John, putting his arm around Belinda. "Charm, politeness, culture, history - you've got it all. But looking for a fact in an Englishman … or English woman … is like looking for courtesy in a French driver." Abandoned laughter from the others.

John's tirade was interrupted by a knock at the door. The laughter stopped while everyone looked at each other. The chances of very good news and very bad news were equal and no one was prepared to open the Pandora's Box the door represented.

"Can I come in?" asked Sam and Mary flashed to the door with unaccustomed rapidity. She opened it to a haggard, slightly untidy and thinner Sam than she'd known before. She faltered, seeing the same Sam she saw last night, now in the clear light of morning.

"Yes, Mary, my dear, the full light of morning reveals all," said Sam, smiling lopsidedly while apparently reading her mind.

"Oh, Sam, do come in," said Mary, recovering but unsure whether to give into her urge to hug him or to behave a little more correctly in front of her Regional Director and other assorted people.

Sam wrapped himself around her but her body wouldn't move. Was this really happening, she wondered, after all this time? Was this the real Sam Lord, the friendly, affable, sophisticated, off-hand Sam Lord she'd known, wanted, desired?

"Am I being too forward, Mary?" asked Sam, releasing his hold a little. The loosening of his hold activated her arms, somehow, and she grabbed him with a ferocity she'd not known before.

"Not too forward, Mr Sam Lord, just too bloody backwards for words!" said Mary into his grimy shirt, smiling through her tears.

"I don't know why it takes a crisis for us to realise we don't live forever," said Sam, relaxing gently back into her. "There just may not be a tomorrow to do and say all those things we've always planned to … oh, Mary, I've been through a tiny bit of hell and I'm not going through anything else, hell or heaven, without telling you how much I … aah …" He stood back with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Okay, here it is, my dear, I need to say …"

"Watch out!" yelled Angus and John together as they dashed across the room with Ahmed in close pursuit. With a perfect All Black tackle, John felled Mary and Sam as Angus fell over the three and Ahmed's pistol boomed in the plush suite. A yell came from the corridor and a white man dropped and a tattooed, brown one, eyes wide and mouth open, faltered in indecision.

46 - Dissolving Demons of the Soul

Dark Night of the Soul - I'd heard about it and read about it and wondered if were real … was it just the feverish imaginings of weak-minded cretins wanting attention? I didn't know.

Well, I've been and gone and done it and I know just how real it is though, sitting here in my sun-drenched bed, enjoying breakfast next to my lovely wife while I write this, two days later, it all seems a distant dream.

Anna and I came to England declaring, first and foremost, this would be an experience of God; an experience of coming closer to God. As we knew, through Jesus' A Course in Miracles (ACIM), we cannot look for and find love (God); we can only look for and release the blocks to love. As we do, the love we are is revealed in all its glory. The spiritual journey is not, then, a jolly skipping through the sun-dappled woods with happy fairies and smiling trees to wave us on. No, it's hard work - the hardest work I've ever done. ACIM says it takes just a little willingness but Ken Wapnick, an ACIM teacher of 40+ years, suggests that Jesus was understating things a little. Ken's been doing it, daily, for over 40 years and Anna and I have been doing it daily for nearly six years. It has not been jolly skipping at all. In every moment we show a little willingness but every moment for six years adds up to a great willingness … and it's worth it!

As we journey into ourselves the blocks to love (peace, joy, freedom, abundance and everything else we desire deeply) reveal themselves. As I do this, my anger and addictions rear their ugly heads in monstrous form and I have no choice but to face them, acknowledge them and ask for help to release them. Sometimes this help seems a long time coming and, while it does, I realise just how much I enjoy being angry and judgemental and I don't like myself for that. So, then, I don't have just anger as a block, but it's joined by the blocks of love of anger and then the judgement of myself for the enjoyment of something dysfunctional. If the help had come any sooner, the last two blocks might not have been revealed.

When we started on this overseas trip we knew all this (mainly in theory) but actually thought it would be a jolly skipping around Europe and it hasn't been that at all. At times it's been sheer bloody hell. We've had an amazing time seeing things, meeting people and doing things we could never have done in New Zealand. But I cannot find a job, we've used all our money and we're living on credit cards and hope. With no government hand-outs available to us, we've been brought to our knees, financially, and the demons - guilt (past), sin (present) and fear (future) - have been growing steadily more grotesque and frightening by the day … well, at night, mainly.

Then, two nights ago, they threatened to devour me and I was lost in their dark thrashing madness, blaming myself for our past, dreading our future and perceiving the worst of myself in every moment of my life. I was an abject failure with nothing to redeem myself and my only possible future was one of deep shame and a beggarly existence.

These screaming, screeching demons tore at my ears with their viscious condemnation and played gruesome pictures of the unremitting poverty that was to be my lot. I tried to blot them out but the more I did, the louder they shrieked and the more lurid was the spectre of my future shown. I was exhausted but they wouldn't let up. And nor would I. I fought back with every fearful fibre of my soul but they persisted. For two nights we battled one another - little me against the hungry army of discontent.

Eventually, I could fight no more and collapsed back into the pillow and gave up … and smiled. As I gave up, gave in, they softened. I warily looked up, in my mind's eye, and their ferocity abated as little. I took in a breath of courage and faced them, open-eyed and defenceless. They melted a little more.

I acknowledged them, listen to them and agreed with them. I admitted I had a deep loathing of my self - of my dreaded shame, guilt and fear. I'm not sure why I did this but it came to me to ask each one to show itself. I chose each silly financial decision I'd ever made and asked each demon guardian to step forth. I went through each decision, each money-wasting event and, as the guilt for each was called forth, I waited. Suddenly nothing happened. It did happen suddenly and it was nothing that happened. As I faced each of my ever-so-real guilts and fears (past and future) they dissolved as phantoms in the morning light.

ACIM tells us this is what we must do - look for the blocks to love, face them, acknowledge them and ask for help to release them. I had tried it before but it had seemed theoretical - a good idea but not very real.

Well, the news of the day, ladies and gentlemen, is that it's as real as it gets and the more I resist looking inside, the worse it seems. Eventually it becomes so bad I've just got to face that screeching ugliness and, when I do, it quietly vanishes to leave me with an exhausted body and an empty, light-filled mind. From the cowering, terrified creature I was two days ago, I have been helped to become a defenceless and invulnerable wee happy chappie … and so light I could fly … aaahhh!

And now to Atrhur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog ...

And so Arthur spent the next half hour explaining that as they seem to have been followed and as the Atkinson case was actually about the Immigration Minister, Mary had tried to arrange Arthur's interview with the Lord and Lady with the utmost secrecy.

"Oh my gosh, Arthur, I didn't realise it was that Atkinson," said Joan, clapping her hands gleefully. "You certainly do move in exalted circles." Any previous apprehension seemed to have been dissolved by immersion in excitement and intrigue. Arthur went upstairs and assembled all his papers - again and again - while Joan spoke to Dottie on the phone.

""Come on, Arthur!" called Joan from downstairs, "I've made you a nice cup of tea to calm your nerves."

"OK, OK," said Arthur, who felt he had done so well concealing his nerves.

As they were drinking their tea, with Joan assuring him he would be fine and safe, there was a knock at the door. Toby, in very efficient and assertive manner, had their clothes changed, Arthur's papers in his tool box and Arthur out the door and on the street before Arthur could draw breath. There was nothing else to do but get into the van so he strode over and opened the door … well, he tried but it was locked. Confused, he looked back at his house and saw Josh's hand, in front of the net curtain, waving frantically at him, pointing up the street. The penny dropped. Wrong van. He wandered nonchalantly up the street, in the direction of Josh's finger and tentatively tried the door of the next van. There was an older man, with a black woollen hat pulled low and overalls, in the passenger seat.

"Welcome Arthur, and I'm terribly sorry I can't help you with your bag - this arm's a bit useless at the moment," said the man, chuckling. Arthur noticed his right arm was in a sling. "Bit embarrassing but you're in the right van now!"

"Uh, yes," said Arthur, feeling quite stupid and knowing full well James Bond would never make such an error. Maybe he was not cut out for this kind of stuff. Though he didn't believe in omens, if he did he would have recognised it as a bad one.

"Right, my man, let's get this show on the road, as they say," said the man. "Dashed exciting, really, isn't it, my man. I've never done this sort of thing before - usually have my chauffeur drive me around. However, we should be able to find ourselves out of this place, eh what! Belt up and let's get moving, shall we?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Arthur, thankful for some direction, since his brain had none at that moment. He belted up, started up and indicated that he was pulling out … except that the wipers went instead of the indicators.

"Oh!" said Arthur, his brain unable to formulate any more coherent words. However, they were soon underway with the man directing from a map on his lap. They did manage to find themselves at the same point on the Croydon overpass three times and they chuckled together, a brotherhood of errors. Eventually, they were soon headed south to Kings Wood.

"Right, Arthur Bayly, I should introduce myself properly, now we've negotiated the tricky part," said the man, taking off his hat. "I'm Lord Atkinson. Pleased to meet you, old chap and we'll have to dispense with the hand-shaking, obviously. Let's just take it that we've shaken, shall we?" He raised his plastered arm a little and Arthur nodded and smiled. Arthur had vaguely suspected it was the Lord but was afraid to confirm by asking. Arthur noted that he had been promoted from my good man to old chap.

"Now, old chap, our estate is just round the corner here," said Lord Atkinson. They turned left off the main road and were suddenly passing beneath a massive stone archway as the gates opened for them. The hundred-yard, gravel driveway wandered through manicured gardens and curved in front of a three-storey Georgian mansion. Arthur noticed two gardeners working away. A butler opened the door for Lord Atkinson and then came around to Arthur's side to suggest that he could park the vehicle for him, if he preferred.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Arthur, as if this happened every day of his life.

A second butler ushered them through ten-foot, oak doors, through a marble and oak reception area at the bottom of a curved stairway that led, it seemed to Arthur, to heaven. He had little chance for further inspection as he was then whisked into a cavernous drawing room that, despite its size, had been filled to overflowing with furniture, statues, ornaments, paintings, books and all manner of collectible things, leaving little room for the lady who was sitting on one of several circles around the stone fireplace. The fire crackled happily and she stood and smiled warmly as Lord Atkinson introduced Lady Atkinson to Arthur. She came up to him and he suddenly realised he was supposed to kiss her on both cheeks, something he'd seen on television. He managed it adequately.

The Lord suggested a cup of tea, to which Arthur assented, despite the three he had already had that morning. He really wanted to a toilet stop but was hesitant to ask. The Lord then excused himself to change his clothes and asked Arthur if he would like to refresh himself. With a flood of relief, Arthur was led by the butler into a bathroom the size of Arthur's dining room, all tiles and gold and with plumbing worse than he'd experienced. He did manage to get the toilet to flush, after much pumping, but was unsure if he did an adequate job of it.

25 - Being Arrogant or Grand?

Jesus tells us not to call ourselves sinners - it's not humility but arrogance to say that we judge God's creations as imperfect. Who are we to judge God? Rather, Jesus suggests, we should assume that God is perfect and so are his creations.

So, in the interests of the grandness in which I find myself - as yet another perfect creation of God - I came upon an interesting thing. Of course, I have no idea whether I'm right or wrong but, I assume I'm always right as God, my creator, is.

Years ago I had choices and I took all of them. I had many, many different jobs as a qualified accountant had no trouble finding work. I had many interests, including yachting, photography, public speaking, motor bikes, rugby, snow skiing, water skiing, drinking, smoking, partying, tramping, horse riding, riding in rodeos, renovating houses, writing and playing my saxophone or guitar. The things I chose to do were endless and, at times, endlessly dysfunctional. None do I regret.

Now we find ourselves in the situation where there are few … actually, one … choice left to us. We need to move very soon and I only have one job opportunity and I feel weird about that - I always used to have lots of opportunities to choose from. So, what does that tell me?

What I chose that it tell me is that I'm realising my dream of becoming closer to God every day. Though my ego might rebel at the thought of having less choices, my spirit rejoices that there is one choice -my soul's choice. When I am disconnected from God, I can wander in the jungles of "the world" endlessly, going nowhere. However, when I'm listening to the voice for God, there is one direction to take and that is the only direction there is … all others are an illusion of direction.

So, this freedom-lover is finally free to take the only path that exists, the path I have always been on but just forgot. The endlessly dysfunctional paths exist no more and simplicity has snuck up on me … at last!

So now Arthur Bayly has some choices to make ... continued from yesterday's blog.

"Good, then call me back on this number - that's my direct dial number. Save you going through the reception. Much quicker," said Mary, quickly.

"Right, yes, I'll do that," said Arthur, surprised that direct numbers existed in his old firm.

"You'll ring me right back, yeah?" asked Mary, begging.

"Yes, yes, I will Mary," said Arthur, still trying to absorb the rising sense of urgency coming at him. As he put the phone down and pondered, the children rushed past him to the lounge.

"So what was that all about?" asked Joan, coming up to him. "You look a little shaky."

"Do I? Yes, well, it seems they want me back at work," he said, more to himself than to her, shaking his head.

"You look like you need a hug, too," she said, throwing her arms around him.

"That's the only thing that's normal or understandable, isn't it?" he said with a sheepish smile.

"What is?"

"Well, hugs and you and our family," he said into her shoulder.

"Nothing else makes any sense any more."

"Mmm."

"I don't know, life used to be regular, stable, predictable," Arthur said as tears filled his eyes. "I keep doing what I've always done and it suddenly isn't good enough any more … and then it is and they want to pay me treble for it! I sit on a park bench, minding my own business and become a hero. Your mother dies and we're supposed to be bereft but it's brought us closer together. And then there's Martin's situation … and there's all these Australians and New Zealanders popping up ..."

"Well, dear, you have to admit that every insane thing you've mentioned has brought us closer," she said, standing back a little and looking into his eyes. "Not just my mother's death but everything has reconnected us. Maybe that's what it's all about, do you think?"

"Actually, my love, I just don't know what to think!"

As they returned to the lounge, Arthur explained to Martin what the call had been about.

"So, Dad, what's so important about this job that they want you back onto it?" asked Martin.

"The Atkinson case?" said Arthur.

"Huh, it's not the Lord Atkinson case, is it?" asked Martin, laughing.
"Well, he is a lord, actually ..." said Arthur, looking quizzical and feeling a chill in his bones.

"Oh my God!" said Martin, the laugh quickly falling from his face. "Not the one with the hunting lodge in Ludlow, the apartment in Kensington and the resort in Jamaica? The one with the race horses?"

"Exactly the one," said Arthur, incredulously. "How did you know?"

"Oh, one of my partners has been working for one of Lord Atkinson's larger claimants, the Colonial Agents Bank, the CAB. You know, the development bank that used to be a crown agent - an agent for the crown, supplying everything from railways to cutlery for the ambassadors."

"Yes, yes, I know the bank," said Arthur quickly. "They're claiming money for some project in Nigeria ..."

"Absolutely, that's the one," said Martin, excitedly. "After the bank was privatised in 1998, it really got into funding in developing countries, using aid money from, mainly, the English, Japanese and Swedish governments."

"So what's the project in Nigeria?" asked Joan.

"I'm not sure but what I do know is that the CAB has been having a few slip-ups, lately," said Martin. "You see, it's over 150 years old and, for most of that time, was a government department, dispensing help to colonial governments around the world."

"What sort of slip-ups? Large ones?" asked Arthur.

"All sorts, really - big and small," said Martin, warming to his favourite subject, commercial intrigue. "Since the British colonies have dwindled over the last 100 years, they needed to diversify to keep all the jobs for the boys and girls there. So, they privatised the bank, sort-of, and became an agent for many governments, beside the British one … and the United Nations aid programme."

"Sounds like a good cause to me," said Joan.

"Yes, and that's the problem," said Martin. "When people are dealing with what seems like benevolent work, others are loathe to question or audit that work. For example, the British government's aid department, Department for International Development, or DfID, runs no aid programmes but just gives CAB money to dispense as per its requirements."

"But the DfID must audit or check that spending," suggested Arthur.

"Well, yes it does, but only superficially, not wanting to take away any jobs from people in the government 'club' and afraid of interrupting 'benevolent' acts of helping people in developing countries," said Martin. "So, the two-yearly audit is simply a matter of visiting friends at the CAB's London head office, enjoying drinkies and food and listening to two or three inspiring talks on the great works of CAB and watching a CAB video of their amazing success."

"But they must be doing a lot of good helping these poorer nations, surely?" asked Joan.

"Oh, absolutely," said Martin, "much of the money does go in the right direction but no one knows how much … not even CAB! No one in government - or from anywhere else, for that matter - traces each pound … or even a million pounds. They pay the money to CAB, see a result and assume they're linked!"

"So where does our Lord Atkinson come into this," asked Arthur.

"A good question and no one's quite sure, yet," said Martin. "But Simon Cruickshank, the partner I mentioned, knows that Atkinson is great friends with many in the current government and he has, over the years, provided large sums of money to both Labour and Conservative administrations."

"You're talking about bribery! Surely not!" said Joan, astounded.

"Not sure. However, what we're very sure about is that the privatisation and the change in direction has created some holes in the organisation," said Martin. "Instead of employing experts in international development, they've favoured existing staff and moving them sideways, some to their levels of incompetence, one might say. So, when they're able to admit that they can't do something, they do the quick-fix thing by bringing in a short-term consultant … who never remains short-term. Because they know little of the function they're hiring the consultant for, they don't know whether they're getting valuable consultants or charlatans - it's a bit of a lottery, really."

14 - Don't Know What To Say

Sometimes I just don't know what to say so I'll just say nothing ... and write down the next part of Arthur Bayly's story ... continued from yesterday's blog ...

"No, no, no, Dad. A man," said Martin, smiling through the tears that had started down his cheeks. He wiped his hand on over his face quickly. "It's a man, a bloody man."

"Oh, Martin, there's no need to swear…"

"I'm sorry Dad, but she says she's fallen in love with him. She wants to leave me," said Martin quickly. "There, I've said it. I was too scared to think it, now I've said it!"

"Oh, Martin, golly …" said Arthur, feeling out of his depth. "Oh, son, oh, gosh."

"Yes, gosh and bugger and damn!" said Martin. "It's all a bit … bloody much. Sorry Dad, I just want to use every swear word I know. What else can I say?"

"Yes, yes I suppose these times are what swear words are for," said Arthur, seeing the pain on his son's face and the need for comic relief. He felt he should comfort Martin, somehow, but wasn't sure what to do. "Can I help?"

"Well, actually Dad, right now, I'd like a great big hug!" Arthur nodded dumbly and both men stood and hugged each other for the first time in twenty years. Arthur could feel Martin's sobs shaking his body. He patted Martin's back, feeling decidedly awkward but not wanting to pull away.

"Oh, hell Dad, this is such a mess," said Martin through is tears, "and I'm supposed to be here to support you two."

"Look, Martin," said Arthur standing back with his hands on Martin's shoulders. "We've had four deaths here in the last day ..."

"Four deaths?"

"Yes, four. I've lost my job. I think I ended someone's criminal career. Your grandmother has died and now your, ah, situation," said Arthur, finding clarity through the confusion. "None of us quite knows what to do about any of it. And, as they say, if you're at the crossroads and don't know what to do, do nothing," he said wondering who they were and where he'd heard that before … maybe he just made it up.

"You've lost your job, Dad?" asked Martin, picking up on one piece of Arthur's speech. "Ah, yes, you said something last night."

"Yes, well, they put it down to the credit crunch and having to cut back," said Arthur. "Coincidentally I want me out too. Of course, I'm worried about the money but I just don't want to go back, not ever again."

"Hell, gosh, Dad, I thought you'd never leave that place," said Martin, probably relieved to be talking about someone else's problem.

"Mmm, nor did I!" said Arthur, dropping his hands and wiping his tear-streaked cheeks. "I don't know quite what to do, actually. But, being the wise old man that I am, I'm doing nothing. Just cogitating on it at the moment."

"Hmm, maybe that's what I probably need to do right now," said Martin, plumping himself down on the sofa. "Just stop trying to fix everything, just get through the day."

"Very wise," said Arthur, stepping aside as cups of tea and a plate of biscuits were brought in.

"Thank you children, now you can bring your glasses of juice in, if you like," said Joan, sitting beside Martin.

"But they might spill juice on the carpet, we can't have that," said Martin, reverting to his more usual control-self.

"Darling, with what's happened, do you think spilled juice is a big concern right now?" asked Joan handing him his cup of tea.

"No, I don't suppose so," Martin said, smiling.

"Now, dear, weren't you off to a conference somewhere?" asked Joan.

"Oh, yes I was, a conference in Geneva for four days but I'm not going now, I've cancelled out," said Martin. "Seems like there's enough going on here at the moment!"

"And do the children know?" asked Arthur, quietly, as they left to get their drinks.

"Oh, sort of. They think Mummy wants a holiday for a while," said Martin, sighing. "I just can't bring myself to tell them … or even what to say. I don't think I'm dealing with it very well."

"What did Mary tell the children?" asked Joan. "She must have said something to them."

"I don't think she said anything," said Martin. "She just turned up in the evening, a bit late, acted normal with them, put them to bed, told me her news, stayed the night and left in the morning. I don't even know when she's coming back to get her stuff or what's going on. All I know is that he's an Australian and she met him through work, somehow."
"Oh, Martin, you poor thing, you must be feeling so confused," said Joan, putting her arm around his shoulder.

Uncharacteristically, Martin leaned into her as the children returned. "Are you crying, Daddy," asked Timothy.

"Oh, no, not really," said Martin, wiping his face quickly. "Just feeling a bit tired, Timmy. Now, did you know that Grandad is a hero - he caught a criminal for the police yesterday."

"Grandad did?" asked Kate, wide-eyed.

"You did?" asked Timothy, wide-eyed.

"Well, it wasn't quite like that," said Arthur, embarrassed. "I just happened to be there and he sort of stumbled over me." Martin picked up his paper and read the article out - an article that was remarkably accurate considering no reporters were there, thought Arthur. And it did, he thought, make him sound very heroic. As Martin showed everyone the photo, Arthur wondered who took it - it showed him talking to the mother and child on the park seat and identified them as the people he had saved from this dangerous and wanted criminal.

----------------------------

The telephone cut across their conversation with its electronic insistence and the three adults looked at each other in mute surprise, as if insulted that the outside world should interrupt them … surprised, even, to be reminded that another world existed outside their several dramas. Children react quicker, in the moment, having less history to drag along with them and so Timothy found himself bounding, like a gazelle, out the door and into the dining room, to answer the phone.

"Hello, Timothy here," he said as he had been taught. He was soon back in the lounge, sipping on his drink.

"Timothy, who was that on the phone?" asked Martin, the first to arouse himself.

"Oh, it was a wrong number," said Timothy, importantly, "they wanted Arthur Bayly and so I said he didn't live here."

"Ah, Timothy," said Arthur, "I'm Arthur Bayly."

"But you're Grandad," said Timothy, confused.

"Timothy!" said Martin, in irritation, "you don't answer other peoples' phones. Haven't I told you that before! It's not your property so leave well alone."

Timothy began to sob and Joan picked him up and held him on her knee. "Would you like another piece of cake, dear? And Kate?" Timothy hopped down and he and his sister leaped upon the sponge cake with enthusiasm.

"Hey, you two!" said Martin, his voice steadily rising, "put that down, now, you know better than to scoff it down like yobbos!"

The children stopped, stunned, with cake and cream on their faces and hands, looking guilty and confused.

"Put it down, now!" yelled Martin, going quite red. "Now go and wash yourselves up. You know better than that, don't you!"

"Come on, dears," said Joan cheerfully, "let's get your faces sparkling clean, shall we?" The children followed meekly, furtively looking back at their father.

As they walked out the phone sounded again and Timothy leaped forward, unable to resist his instinctive fight or flight reaction to the phone.
"Timothy! Stop!" yelled Martin, leaping up. "I told you to leave the phone!"

"It's alright Martin," said Arthur, getting up and striding across the room and out to the phone. He patted Timothy on the head as he passed. "You'll make someone a grand secretary one day, won't you?" he said, smiling down at the boy.

Timothy went red and smiled, embarrassment mixed with gratitude all over his face, as Arthur picked up the phone.

"Good morning, Arthur speaking."

"Ah, Arthur, I thought I might have a wrong number," came the unmistakable voice of Mary Collins. AIL Insurance seemed such a long way off, now, almost off the new map his life was drawing.

"No, it was my grandson, Timothy ..."

"Yes, well, good to talk to you, Arthur," said Mary. "I heard you've had a bereavement. Are you OK?"

"Oh, yes, well, we've had a few things happen and ..."

"Yes, yes, OK, I'm sure it's been a particularly trying time, then," said Mary, bulldozing through the conversation as usual. "Now, Arthur, there has been … ah, a new development with that Atkinson case you were working on and we'd like, ah, we wondered if you'd like to give us a little more help with clearing up the loose ends. You've got such a lot of experience in that area."

"Oh, well, I thought I was off the case," said Arthur, tentatively, unsure of his position now.

12 - Who's In Your Club?

Once upon a time there was a Great White Hunter, in pith hat and safari suit, exploring the jungles of Africa. Ahead of him were his jungle boys, slashing a path with their machetes and, behind were his porters, carrying all his necessary supplies. He had been exploring thus for many months - no white man had ever been so deep into the jungle - when, suddenly, they came upon a clearing. In the middle of this clearing was a massive bull elephant, lying on its side, recently killed. Beside it was a little native man, arms akimbo, one foot on the elephant, obviously proud of his kill.

"My gosh, did you kill this elephant?" asked the Great White Hunter, astonished.

"Yep," said the little native man, smiling hugely.

"But how did you do it?" asked the Great White Hunter, no less astonished.

"With my club," said the little native man.

"Might I see this club?" asked the Great White Hunter, intrigued.

"Oh, there's about twelve of us," said the little native man.

Nothing we ever achieve is done alone. No statesman, no Olympic athlete, no successful businessman, no great artist ever did it alone.

Most of us are waiting for that "moment", that flash of enlightenment that transforms our being, as occurred with Jesus after 40 days in the desert and with Buddha after 49 days under the Bodhi tree. However, that moment of enlightenment, that abiding peace of God, eludes us, no matter what we do - we become vegetarian, give up smoking and alcohol, meditate, think happy thoughts, do nice deeds, say positive affirmations and become as "good" as we can ever be. That moment still eludes us and we feel disappointed, let down, by an uncaring (spiteful, even) God.

However, as Jesus says, "I trust my brothers who are one with me."

It is not done, he would suggest, by being good but by being one … by realising our oneness and that none of us becomes enlightened alone. Only when we see the peace of God shining in every person we encounter, will we realise it in ourselves. Only when we see the peace (not spite) of God shining in God, will we realise it in ourselves. As Jesus says, every encounter with another is a holy encounter with ourselves.

So, as an exercise, perhaps we could start with seeing the Christ in Raoul Moat, the "Northumberland killer", and also seeing it in his parents, his victims, their families, the police and everyone else involved. When we see the holiness in everyone - perpetrator, victim, bystander, fixer - equally, we may just begin to realise it in ourselves.

Then we can make the exercise more difficult, more personal. We can attempt to see the Christ in everyone we meet - our lover, the postman, the boss who fires us, the hairdresser who makes us glamorous, the neighbour who runs over our cat, the other neighbour who saves our cat. We don't actually do anything - we just see them differently.

What we often forget is that none of it is about us (our smallness) but it's all about Us (our grandness) which is so because of our oneness, our connection with all that is. When we see our path to enlightenment (however we define enlightenment) as a path along which we help our fellow humans find their enlightenment (however they define theirs), we might just … unexpectedly, accidentally … have the moment we've been waiting for … seeing in others that which we wish to experience for ourselves.

And now Arthur Bayly's story continues from previous blogs ...

Arthur thought he was unfazed by the Australian incident, as he called it, but when the busyness stopped, that queezy, hollow feeling returned to his stomach. It just sat there mocking him while he worried about who might be watching them. He went over to the drawn curtains and peered out at the deepening gloom. 'Deepening gloom,' he thought to himself, 'it's everywhere - outside and right here inside.'

"Are you OK, Arthur?" asked Joan. "You look nervous."

"Oh, ah, yes, I'm fine dear," he said, unable to look her in the eye.

"Well, stop pacing - you look like you're being stalked," she said.

"Well, if you must know, that Australian chappie has me quite rattled," Arthur said. "I just can't shake the feeling of … of …"

"Of being followed," said Joan, finishing off.

"Yes, yes, of being followed," he said, not really wanting to say it but feeling fractionally better now that he had. "I don't know why and I don't know what it might mean for us. I mean, what is it, exactly, that we're not to do? I just don't understand," he said as a shudder coursed up his spine.

"Oh, Arthur, my dear," said Joan embracing him in a bear hug. "I'm worried too … no, I'm frightened, I'm frightened. Let's be honest about it. We're both frightened and we don't know what to do about it."

"Oh Joan," said Arthur, feeling the warmth of her body and lost for any more words. He didn't want to let her go, it felt so safe and comforting … like a little boy needing his mother's hugs. Quite pathetic, really, he surmised. He went to pull away.

"Don't go now, Arthur," said Joan quietly. "I feel like a little girl needing a really big hug from Daddy. Bit pathetic, really, but there you are."

Arthur smiled and relaxed into her again. Then an idea struck him. "You know, Joan, I daresay the more we stay in here, the more we'll feel trapped. You know, not seeing or facing the enemy," he said, pulling back a little and looking into her tear-stained face. "Why don't we go for a walk, face the rotten sods … I don't know, maybe just prove to ourselves we're safe and we can do normal things."

"Brilliant, Arthur, brilliant!" said Joan, brightening. "Let's do it now!" She strode off and returned with coats and keys.

-------------------

After the deepest sleep he could remember, his body woke him up with a jolt at his habitual time of 6.30 am. He struggled out of bed, feeling his usual oppression and sense of futility at a life less lived. As he opened his wardrobe to pick out one of his several grey suits, he stopped, embarrassed. Uncertainly. Smiling childishly to himself. A hazy glow of light began to penetrate his usual cloud of foreboding, evaporating it with a lightness he was unused to. His overwhelming sense of duty to march off to work, grim and stolid, evaporated with that shaft of gentle light. He plumped down on the edge of the bed.

If today had been any previous day, he would have obeyed the soldier's call, reluctantly. He would have wearily saluted that insanely barking sergeant-major - red-faced and veins swelling - in his head, and gone to war against an enemy that was not his own. His overriding sense of duty to that crazy and fearful man in the parade ground of his mind, bellowing at him to shoulder arms and march off to vanquish an invisible enemy for the sake of work and family.

Only now, work didn't care, he'd discovered, and family expected no pound of flesh at all … never had and never will. That monstrous and grotesque parade ground screamer slowly shrank before his mind's eye and became a silly little man, mouthing senseless nothings. Arthur realised that the soldiers of war and work killed no one but themselves as they pompously strutted their loyalty to a country or a company that cared not a jot. Afraid of being seen as weak, they bowed in mute compliance to the insane rantings of a stamping, storming authority that was more afraid of them … than him.

Such strange thoughts had never entered his mind before and he wondered where his inner poet had turned up from.

As he pondered a lifetime of obedience and fear, to such insane demands - illusory demands, even - he saw the silly side of his own drivenness, his own blindness and his plodding forever onward on a mission that could never be accomplished. He saw the whole futility of generations of dumb cattle being herded to the milking shed every day, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do us part. And, in these dark economic times, the death was usually of the employer rather than the employed, as in previous centuries. Chewing on their meagre cud, the doe-eyed cows knew that no amount of milk would ever be enough to satisfy the appetites of those who had more than they needed. As these bizarre thoughts zipped round his mind, he realised - without knowing how he knew this as he'd never tasted power or affluence - that the more he had, the more he had to fear … and that fear fuelled the desperate need for more power, money and toys. With surprising clarity he realised just how lucky he was, never having risen to the exalted position of fear of those beneath him - those who had nothing to lose but the odd night's sleep … those beneath him who he would have constantly pretended to be all-knowing while hiding the shame of his all-consuming fear and sense of separation.
He had become reunited with Joan, a person and a reason that felt more real than anything else he had known. As he felt himself plugging back into his marriage, that huge welded plug into his work began to melt and drop away.

He sat on the corner of their bed, not sure whether to laugh or cry and he found himself humming an old tune:
Ringa ringa rosy, a pocketful of posy
Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down ...

"Darling, you're singing!" said Joan, smiling from under the bedclothes.

"Oh, I didn't know you were awake!" he said swinging around, startled out of his reverie.

"Oh, I've been watching you for some time," she said. "What's going through that busy head of yours?"

"Mmm," he said, not quite knowing where to start. "We just seem to go round and round and have nothing more to show for it than a pocketful of posies … then we all fall down … whatever that means!" He smiled at her and at his own nonsense.

"Gosh, that's a bit deep for this early!" Joan said. "You're not going to work are you?"

"No, no, I was just realising that I don't have to today and feeling a trifle odd about that," he said, "and I know I don't have to but I seem to be a bit guilty about it all. My duty, you know."

"Your duty?"

"Well, yes, I was just thinking that there are so many duties one is raised to honour," Arthur said hesitantly, "and I realised, for the first time, you are my first duty … my first concern and work just doesn't have the hold it had before. I'm not sure what's happened."

"So what is your momentous decision, dear?" she asked, "to flee or not to flee?"

"Not to flee it is," he said smiling, "although, if it wasn't today, the decision would have been different - I'd be off to work, unquestionably but, somehow, I've been unplugged from that ... not sure what's happened."

"Well, why don't you plug yourself back into bed, here, and I'll bring the master up some breakfast," said Joan, throwing back the bedclothes on his side.

"But, I ... I ... should, we should ..."

"We should be getting ready for the funeral on Thursday and doing all sorts of other things but it's not even seven o'clock," said Joan firmly, "so get into this maiden's bed and we could perhaps plug into each other, somehow ..."

"Oh, ah," said Arthur, feeling a tingle rising within. "Gosh yes, well, if you insist!" He gingerly crept back into bed feeling as if he was slightly to the side of himself, watching a strange little play he didn't know the script for ... yet he was also the writer, happily unsure of what to write next. As they snuggled together he had a deep and warm feeling of coming home.

"This, my dear ... why didn't we do this more often?" he asked, brushing a stray hair back from her face. "It's ... it's just, well, so comfortable."

"Comfortable? Comfortable!" said Joan in mock horror. "So you think I'm fat?"

"No, no dear, not at all," said Arthur trying to recover lost ground. "I didn't mean physical comfortable. It just feels, well, comfortable like, oh, I don't know. All I can say is it's like coming home. It just feels right, so right."

"Yes darling, I know what you mean," said Joan quietly as her free hand moved down his body.

10 - I Cannot Be Upset By A Fact

As Jesus said, we cannot be upset by a fact.

We are currently living in a rent free cottage, on a 2½- acre property, surrounded by trees (woods) which are surrounded by two golf courses in one of the most expensive parts of Britain - none of the houses here are valued at less than £2 million pounds. To many people, that sounds idyllic. Well, two days ago we were told that we had to move on as the owner has financial problems and she needs to rent the cottage out to generate some income.

The fact is that we must move and the other fact is that we had decided to move anyway - to Oxford, hopefully. Anyway, to the first fact - the part that could sound scary is the fear of what next … Where will we live? Can I find a job? Can I find a job that's both enjoyable and pays enough to keep us in the style we'd like to become accustomed to? It's a credit crunch and I'm a foreigner so will I get a job? On and on my monkey mind would chatter if I let it.

Interestingly, at the exact moment that we were being told that we must move on, I received an email from a university in Oxford, asking me to come up for a job interview!

So, again, there is a fact - tomorrow I am having a job interview. But just imagine what my monkey mind does with that fact. Yee hah! Back to teaching which I love. It's an international university so I'll probably be able to travel. It's good money and long holidays so we'll see lots of Europe … and on and on the crazy man inside chatters on, weaving beautiful fantasies of what could be … if I let him.

There is nothing to be afraid of except that which we weave within our tiny scull-spaces. There is nothing to be excited about except that which we weave within our tiny scull-spaces. In fact, there would be no arguments, war or pain if all we dealt with were facts … The Truth. If we simply sat with the facts of our lives, rather than flying off on the wondrous fantasies we weave, we would have nothing but the abiding and unconquerable peace of God. After all, isn't that what we're all looking for?

So, what are the facts of Arthur Bayly's story - continued from previous blogs ...

Amanda was around at their place in fifteen minutes, in civilian clothes. Arthur and Joan had another cup of tea and Amanda cradled an instant coffee, without enthusiasm. She listened to their story.

"Have your coffee before it gets cold," said Joan.

"Oh, ah, yes, I don't usually drink instant," said Amanda, looking embarrassed. She sipped at her coffee with little obvious relish.

There was a thump at the front door and Arthur leapt up and returned with the evening paper. At the bottom of the front page was a photo of the woman and her child. He read the story out and it was mainly the woman's point of view. He was surprised that she considered him a hero and wanted to thank him, if she could contact him to do so. Arthur felt quite uncomfortable. Joan leapt up and took the paper from him.

"Who's that behind her in the photo, Arthur?" asked Joan.

"No one ... oh, gosh, it's blurry but it could be that young man, the one who gave me my keys," said Arthur, wondering if it was really such fun being 007.

"Who took your keys from you in the first place," said Joan firmly.

"Yes, maybe he did ..." said Arthur.

"Look, it's not a good photo but it's something to go on," said Amanda, standing to leave. "I'll get another paper and start some inquiries."

"But we've got you from your home - why don't you stay for tea?" asked Joan.

"What, and deprive me of my reheated, malnourished, microwaved chicken and spud?" said Amanda, laughing as she ran her hands through her golden curls. "That would be lovely, thanks."

As they sat down to dinner, some time later, Joan insisted on saying grace.

"OK, help yourself to this," said Joan, pushing bowls of steaming food towards Amanda. "We don't usually say grace but I just wanted to thank my mother for her help. Maybe she can help us more from where she is now."

"Probably not yet," suggested Amanda. "Wait three days."

"Three days?" asked Joan.

"Well, most indigenous people think that it takes three days after death for spirit to assert itself," said Amanda.

"Assert itself?" asked Arthur, wondering how a perfectly ordinary English supper had so quickly turned into a ... a, um, talk on death and all that odd stuff.

"Yes, sort of get itself together," said Amanda. "Most of them believe that when we die, our spirit is given three days to decide whether it wants to stay in spirit or to return to earth. What a study in America found was that twenty five percent of bodies in morgues actually came back to life within three days."

"Oh my God, do they really?" asked Arthur, unable to continue spooning out peas from the bowl.

"Yes, it seems there's a sort of waiting period while we're given a choice about coming back or not and we can do so within those three days, even defying medical science," said Amanda.

"What a lovely subject for supper," said Joan, chuckling.

"Oh sorry," said Amanda, blushing.

"Oh, no, go on, this is fascinating," said Joan. "I want to know what happens."

"Well, I don't know that. I don't think anybody really does," said Amanda, warming to her subject. "But this three day wake up thing is why most traditions wait at least three days and why they have the body at home in an open casket - it allows the body to wake up and get up. Hiding a body in a drawer in a mortuary goes against all that."

"Oh, my gosh, I hadn't thought of that!" said Joan, gravy jug poised in mid-air. "Do you think we should have my mother at home with us, Arthur?"

"Oomph," said Arthur, surprised at such a question while his mouth was full of mashed potato.

"Look, I wasn't actually suggesting anything like that," said Amanda, smiling at Joan and probably wondering how long the gravy jug would remain suspended above Joan's food. "Did you want some gravy?"

"Oh, yes, sorry!" said Joan, pouring her gravy and passing it to Amanda.

"All I was suggesting, based on the indigenous people I've worked with, is that you may not get any help from your mother for at least three days."

"Looks like we're on our own, dear," said Arthur, relieved at the turn of conversation.

"On our own ... I don't think we're ever on our own, Arthur" said Joan, smiling. A worrying little spider began crawling about in Arthur's tummy - the conversation seemed to have turned itself back to the dark and shadowy places he did not want to venture into.

"You're right," said Amanda and Arthur studied his steak rather intently, hoping not to be noticed ... hoping it would all go away if he pretended he couldn't hear. "Even in my darkest of times, there was always help when I asked. I just had to want to listen."

"You mean you've had spirit speak to you, do things for you?" asked Joan with peas and steak on fork, aloft.

"I don't know if I'd call it spirit as I don't know what it was," said Amanda, trying to explain the unexplainable. "But I do know that when I've been in an impossible position, when I've needed help or answers, when I've stopped to listen, the impossible seemed to happen."

"What, like miracles?" asked Joan who realised her fork had not yet reached her mouth, then swallowed said peas and steak.

"Like I said, I can't put labels to these things - like spirit or miracle - but things just seem to happen, people seem to turn up unexpectedly, and you're set back on the path again," said Amanda. "Hey, this is the best meal I've had for ages, thanks, and these squishy peas are yummy!" She tucked in enthusiastically.

"Squishy peas? Oh you mean the mushy peas!" said Arthur, chuckling and relieved to be on solid ground again. "That's an English delicacy. We're very proud of our mushy peas. Without them we wouldn't have conquered the world, created the Empire or won the war ..."

"Arthur, you're being quite silly. I don't know what's got into you!" said Joan, smiling while shaking more salt over her potatoes and brussell sprouts. "But I want to know about all this help Amanda's talking about. Go on."

Arthur settled back to his dinner a little mollified to think that things like spirits and miracles had not been dispensed with yet. Like a gazelle at the water hole, he remained alert.

"Well, after my really dark time, when I started to come out of it ... did Arthur tell you?" asked Amanda.

"Yes, he told me a little of it," said Joan.

"So, I decided I needed a job but not one that was too taxing - my mind was a bit, you know, fragile," said Amanda. "So I ended up going for an interview at a government department, doing office work."

"And, by a miracle, you ended up here!" said Joan laughing.

"Well, sort of, but it took several interventions, shall we say," said Amanda. "I went to the interview and the office at that address was shut and so I went next door to the police station to ask where they'd moved to, met up with a friend I hadn't seen for ten years, had lunch with her and ended up joining the police!"

"So you ended up working for a government department!" said Arthur, deciding it was safe to join in again.

"Huh! I'd never thought of that!" said Amanda, helping herself to more boiled potatoes from the bowl. "Then, two years later ... I suppose you want to hear the end of this boring story?"

"It's not boring at all, Amanda," said Joan. "Go on!"

"I usually do - go on that is!" said Amanda. "So, after two years I found out about this exchange programme with Britain and I had always wanted to travel and, well, because I'd helped in a case in the Coromandel - a relatively remote part of New Zealand - where there'd been smuggling of drugs and other things going on and there'd seemed to be links with England, Scotland and America and it had seemed to have something to do with insurance scams - I'd worked in insurance before ..."

"You worked in insurance?" asked Arthur. "That's where I've always worked!"

"Who do you work for?" asked Amanda, about to spear a potato and stopping suddenly.

"I work for AIL," said Arthur, "up in London"
"AIL? Oh my God!" exclaimed Amanda, going quite red.

"Well, as I told you earlier, I don't work there any more, as of today," said Arthur, hoping to stop that creeping spider in his stomach from starting up again. Amanda's reaction did not help.

"Of course, of course, you're not there any more, are you," said Amanda in a vain attempt to act flippant.

"Is AIL involved in any of this?" asked Joan, asking the question Arthur wanted to but couldn't.