23 - Looking For The End, Finding The Start

I'm writing a novel and have no idea how it's going to end. In fact, I don't know what's going to happen each day as I write. However, I feel I'm getting near the end and really need to know how it's going to end - then I'll be able to taper all the current activities and dramas into a grand finale. But I've got writer's block, something I've never had before. I just need to know how it's going to end and I can't think what that could be or what to write next.

So, in desperation, I asked God and the following words popped out of my pen onto the page … it's the introduction! They say that if you want to give God a good laugh, tell him your plans! Boy, what a sense of humour he has - I want the end and he gives me the beginning! So, at a loss for what to do next, I'll plonk it down here and, hopefully, the rest of the story will unfold as it should … as I think it should … which may not be as God thinks it should!

As a New Zealander I know when an earthquake is approaching. The two main islands of New Zealand - about the size of Britain, together - are long and narrow and lie along (and are formed by) the Pacific Fault Line. Being on a fault line, we get more earthquakes than most other countries. How, then, do we know of an approaching earthquake? Simply that nothing happens … well, less than the normal happens - cats and dogs disappear (if they can) and go quiet, birds disappear and there's no bird-song, cows and sheep stop eating and go quiet, chooks stop pecking and go quiet, the wind stops, rain stops and the weather becomes still and warm. In a way, the world stops and waits. Nothing happens before an earthquake. And then the earthquake happens.

It's like our lives. We set ourselves all sorts of goals, targets and plans and, when we achieve them - get the relationship, car, house, job, business, income, fame, holiday or whatever we want - it's a breakthrough. But what happens just before a breakthrough? Nothing. Something less than normal. Sometimes, when we think everything's going wrong or our world seems to have gone quiet, that's the time our earthquake, our breakthrough, is about to happen … like seeds pushing their way through the earth and we think nothing's happening, till we see them pop above the surface.

And where is the safest place to be in an earthquake? Forget the strong, brittle things like brick buildings - they crumble first. The best place to be is on a flexible, wire fence. Wherever the earthquake hits - and we won't know where till it hits - there will be deep-rooted posts on either side of the chasm to hold our wire. Like the flexible palm tree that survives the hurricane, while the strong hard-wood trees resist and break.

It's like our lives. When we hit an earthquake, just after the nothing happening, we need deep foundations and flexibility - not weight and resistance - to weather the storm, the earthquake or the breakthrough.

I'm not sure why I'm saying this. Perhaps it relates to this story. Perhaps not …

22 – Laughter And The Illusion Of Pain

Along with the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, I'm writing a very different story - a fairy tale - and these words were in my head, this morning, and just flowed down my arm, through my pen and here they are. I have no idea where they come from ...

As that sweet giggle, that contagious chortle, started out on its merry way, it released Happiness - long held prisoner in the dank, grey walls - to spread among the people and upon the land I lightened the air, Happiness did, It lightened peoples' hearts and the sky seemed vaguely less grey, slightly less foreboding.

Just as Adam, Son of God, forgot to laugh and then learned of pain and loneliness, so this gentle ripple being happiness and release from loneliness. People began to look up from the sharp stones of their daily walk to the freshness of the trees, the hills and the sky. As their eyes rose from the depths of their worries, they saw the eyes of others, shining and inviting connection. As glorious little giggles raised eyes to loving eyes, the illusion of separation began to draw aside to reveal that there was nothing to compete for, to fight over. In unity, in connection, there was - quite strangely - enough for everyone. Neighbours, long silent and distant from each other, began to smile then talk then understand. Few knew what they were understanding but a dawning in connected minds simply knew something else, something long forgotten. This understanding was simple and right and complete and it needed no words. Some did try to explain the expansion occurring in their brains but found words got in the way. Words complicated this simple truth, this ancient knowing of brotherhood, sisterhood and personhood.

The illusion of pain, the pretence of isolation they had all kept up for so long did not need to be and the fires of hatred quietly died to the warm embers of comfort in one another's presence.

And so back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

"And where is it etched in stone that life should be fair? It jolly well isn't," said Sam. "Once we recognise that life is unfair, we can look it in the eye, as it really is, and make a better world from the unfairness."

"I don't know what to say," said Mary.

"You can take heart, Mary, that you're in good hands," said Sam, leaning forward. "I may do things that seem devious but I do them to help people. There's lots of chumps doing good works for all the wrong reasons. Look at the activities of our Colonial Agents Bank - lovely government servants giving our money to dictators and swindlers, calling it foreign aid and all feeling mighty pleased with themselves."

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

And so it was that Mary tripped up a step and stumbled into a room of finery and grace, nods and winks, favours and effortless action. The room she'd emerged from - the lower room of her life and that of her parents and everyone she knew - was one of toil and obedience to laws imposed from above; of watching the rich and famous as though through a window, unreachable and slightly unreal. Now, however, she'd found herself on the other side of the window, in this upper room, where laws didn't restrict but provided opportunities. Here there were no application forms, uncertainty or queues - just discrete chats, snap decisions and instant action.

Mary was appalled, initially, and argued with the implacable Sam, who took on the role of a patient and wise teacher with a reluctant but quick student. Unapologetic and defenceless, he simply explained the ways if life in this upper room and allowed her objections and protestations of injustice to float past him, knowing she would eventually come to acceptance, which she did, haltingly, defiantly.

She came to realise that Sam was not a bad man. From what she saw, he wasn't involved in drugs or arms dealing or anything else unwholesome. He was simply helping those who had been dealt savage blows by life. What he got in return for his interventions she could not discern - perhaps he got his lawn mown for nothing or something - but it certainly didn't seem to be for fame or riches. Many of the people he helped had neither money nor influence (though some obviously had much of both) and she wondered if he got perverse satisfaction in finding interesting ways through the ass of the law, as he called it. She didn't have the courage to ask what he got for his efforts or how he'd come to acquire his influence and chumhood. She though that, one day, she'd find out. As she observed carefully, she learned nothing of this but the mantle of indignation and injustice slowly fell from her shoulders and she grew to respect this man in her life.

She also came to realise that the people in this upper room, who seemed to glide through life with such grace and ease, also left it for the lower room, at times, to their dismay. They, like other people, had arguments with spouses, fears with health, problems with children and all the stresses of those who inhabited the lower room permanently. These people, however, were able to pop back up to their natural abode, the quieter and more plush room; for their money and influence would get them the best lawyers for their divorces, doctors for their illnesses and holidays and toys for their diversions.

Sam split his time between the central office and her branch office with frustrating irregularity. He was right - she was effectively in charge of the two hundred people on seven floors and, initially, leaned on Stephen Lawrence, the Finance Director, and Ahmed Shayan, Chief Assessor, an African with an Oxford accent and Oxford suits. Both were men of numbers and were refreshingly free of emotional interest. They gave her the facts and stayed above the office politics she knew were brewing below her.

Without Sam to rely on for guidance, when she needed it, she was forced to dive in, learn things she'd never learned about insurance before and to make decisions with minimal information. It frightened and thrilled her. With Stephen's and Ahmed's help, she drew up a plan of education for herself. Chunking down the branch office functions into logical pieces, she systematically spent time with every section (every person, in fact), learning exactly what they did, why they did it and how each piece fitted into the whole. This, of course, enamoured her to the people she commanded and they came to her, more and more, for advice. This she welcomed for, as she got to know them, she was able to formulate succession and promotion plans - some were clearly unsuited to the work they were doing and some had ambitions and talents beyond their current roles. She stared shuffling and sifting and, as productivity grew, less people were needed and branch profits rose.

Sam was impressed and thanked Mary with many lunches and dinners, not always at the Executors Club but always at equally plush establishments. Out of the office she got to know him a little better.

In the office, they dealt with matters as they arose - she told him what had happened, he gave her advice … well, approval, really … and passed on directives from head office. Out of the office they still talked work but she did start to penetrate the wall he kept round his private life. She discovered he'd had a wife but didn't have one now and that he had a daughter and granddaughter he doted over. He visited them every Thursday evening. He enjoyed folk music and that was a great surprise as she expected his tastes to be in classical music. He didn't explain but Mary surmised that part of the attraction was the raw, amateurish feel of it - a welcome change from his other polished and perfect life.

21 - My Proofing Shero - Anna

The unsung heroes of writing and publishing are the proof-readers and my shero is Anna - AWBERP* - with whom I could not be with out ... for more reasons than that she proof-reads my work before you see it. I'm also married to her and so she's my shero in many, many more ways than just for editing my writings. Let's stick with writing for now and in this I give a Great Big Thanks to Anna Bradbury ... the writer's shero!

* Anna With Big Editing Red Pen ... of course!

And now, to continue with the perfectly-proofed story of Mary Collins, continued from yesterday ...

"No, no, not at all," said Sam, smiling and patting her hand. "No need for secrets here." As he said this she realised that the red velvet curtains were drawing themselves quietly together. As the alcove darkened, a light came on and, suddenly, between them, a small door opened and a solid barrel of a man squeezed himself through. Mary recognised him as Andrej the doorman, who, with his crewcut, could have passed as a bouncer at any London club. He closed the door and sat on the bench between them.

"So, Andrej, your brother is in trouble and wants to come here and start again? Like you did?" asked Sam quietly.

"Yes sir, he is good man and was in wrong place at wrong time," said Andrej in his thick Eastern European accent. "A bad man in Kutna Hora, near Prague, want to cover his tracks and so he accuse my brother of his deeds."

"And your brother - does he have some qualifications, some trade, some expertise that would recommend him to the British authorities?" asked Sam.

"Oh, yes, Dalek be champion wrestler like me and he be good, very good plumber, too," said Andrej, his eyes beseeching Sam's.

"Dalek? A plumber? Yes, we certainly need good plumbers here! You know we have the worst plumbing the world and we don't need any more English plumbers to make it worse. A shot of new plumbing blood is just what we need, Andrej, more hard-working, reliable Polish plumbers are just what we need. I will have a chat with a friend in the immigration business."

"Oh thank you, thank you, Mr Lord!" said Andrej.

"Shhh Andrej, please keep it quiet," said Sam evenly. "Now, do I have your number?"

"Ah yes, I have it written on paper here, Mr Lord," said Andrej, passing a piece of paper which Sam placed in his shirt pocket.
"Thank you Andrej. You need to get back to the door before you're missed," said Sam. "And you will hear from me very soon."

"Yes, it OK, Mr Henri look after door for me, but I go," said Andrej, standing. "Thank you from bottom of my heart, Mr Lord. Thank you so much." He disappeared back through the small door. Sam smiled uncertainly at Mary in the dim light of the alcove.

"So you're going to bypass the government system to ship this man to England … this Czech man who's in trouble with the law there …" said Mary, indignantly trying to put it all together.

"Yes I am, Mary, yes I am," said Sam firmly. "Andrej's had a chequered and abusive past and since he's been here he's been a model citizen and an asset to us all … in ways you don't yet understand."

"But it's illegal …" said Mary, still trying to get the information arranged neatly in her brain.

"Yes, it may well be but when the law's an ass, you've got to kick the ass in the ass and use other means to serve justice," said Sam as the curtain began to quietly slide back.

"But what do you know of this brother, this alleged innocent in trouble with the Czech law?" asked Mary, still aghast. "You might be getting yourself into great trouble too and …"

"Yes, I might be getting myself in trouble, Mary," said Sam, interrupting quietly. "But I'm taking a chance on behalf of a good and honest friend - something no immigration bureaucrat is ever going to do. Just don't judge too soon and I'm happy to tell you all when we have a little more time."

"But Sam, you can't just go …"

"Look Mary, do you remember before the last month's election, Michael Caine's latest movie came out?" asked Sam patiently.

"No," said Mary, puzzled by the change in direction.

"It was called Is Anybody There?," said Sam. "Anyway, floating round the hustings with our most probable prime-minister-to-be, David Cameron, was the normally apolitical Michael Caine."

"Ah, yes, I remember that. He was promoting Cameron's Youth Citizen Service Plan," said Mary.

"And did you hear what Mr Caine said about the Youth Citizen Service Plan?" asked Sam.

"No, I didn't, actually," said Mary.

"And nor did most people, actually," said Sam with a smile. "He just wandered round in front of the cameras, looking dastardly handsome and, when asked for a comment, talked mostly about his new movie. And you know what? That movie was the highest grossing British movie at that time."

"Oh," said Mary, putting the pieces together.

"Now, it was probably a very good movie and maybe our Mr Caine did, indeed, have a heart for the youth of this fair land," said Sam. "And no one's done anything illegal or immoral - we're all just trying to help ourselves and help those we respect and like."
"But that's not the same," said Mary, defiantly. "You're trying to break the law."

"No I'm not, Mary," said Sam patiently. "A chap I know in immigration will sift through things and find where the law supports our case and Andrej's brother will be free to enter England openly and legally."

"But he should apply like everybody else," said Mary, determined to be right.

"Well, maybe he should," said Sam. "But I know Andrej and I know he wouldn't pester me if the situation wasn't both real and urgent."

"But what if everyone tried to slide round the law for their friends?"

"They always have and they always will, Mary," said Sam, leaning back with his second whisky in hand. "Cardinal Wolsey was only able to afford his massive digs at Hampton Court because he got things done for Henry VIII, 500 years ago. And then he lost it because he couldn't get the Roman Catholic church to agree to Henry marrying Anne Boleyn. We've been doing each other favours, big and small, ever since time began and we'll continue to do them."

"But it seems so unfair to some people," said Mary.

21 – Passion Means “Pass I On”

Yesterday the fear of homelessness was in my head. Overnight it seemed to filter down into my body and, this morning, I felt like swearing at God, yelling, crying and getting all those fearful emotions out of my body. I was not just thinking about it, I was impassioned. I was also angry that I had got myself in this mess and that God didn’t seem to care – either I’m doing things right and so I should be “rewarded”, or I’m not and he’s not telling me what I need to change.

The change was me – I stopped sweetly sitting in the lotus position, being spiritual and pretending everything was alright. I stopped that and told God I’d had enough, e-bluddy-nough, mate!

And then it started. Firstly, I got an amazing and uplifting email from a friend in New Zealand. Then a friend in Australia suggested it was time to go back to Australia – nice invitation, thanks! Then two friends in NZ suggested I come back to NZ – another nice invitation, thanks. Then a recruitment agent rang me with a (VERY well paid) job I’d love to do – still have to have interviews and all the drama to go but that filled me with hope. And, lastly, I get an international award for a story I wrote – More Bloody Words! You can read it here.

In martial arts, you don’t block your opponent; you use their energy and deflect it against them. Similarly, you cannot steer a boat unless it’s moving. Maybe God’s a bit like that – he needs our energy, our passion and, whatever direction we’re flailing about in, he can then get steerage on us and get things moving for us … perhaps!

Your thoughts?

And now, the story of Mary Colling continues from yesterday ...

"So Mary, the position you're looking at is Assistant Manager but, really, you'll be the manager here," said Sam Lord as he settled back into one of the three deep leather chairs around the coffee table in a corner of his office, "because I've recently become Director of Government Liaison which means that I'm actually part of a head office team and I'm not here all the time." Sam had obviously chosen the chairs to fit his large frame but, for Mary, a foot shorter, it felt like being engulfed in a leather cloud - very comfortably - but she wondered how she's lever herself out again. She was relieved that she'd remembered to wear a long skirt today, given the awkward chair and Sam's frequent, flitting looks at her legs during their previous interview, before she'd left for bonny Scotland … bonny Scotland, it seemed a whole world away now and she'd only just returned from there two days ago.

"So that's partly why the great salary," said Sam as Mary smiled. She'd never imagined such a large income this soon in her career. "We're going to have to be gentle with each other." Sam smiled impishly.

"We are?" asked Mary, wondering what direction this conversation was taking as her knees squeezed themselves together in automatic reflex.

"In a manner of speaking!" said Sam, laughing at her coy reaction. "I'll need to show you the ropes as best I can, when I'm here and you're going to have to learn them when I'm not. You won't always be able to get hold of me so we're going to have to trust each other and you'll need to be making some decisions without me. This is all new for both of us - both with new jobs and it being a bit tenuous at times - but I know you are very capable of thinking independently. That's what you got fired for from your last job, wasn't it!"

"Yes it was," said Mary, ruefully. "So I'm being promoted here for what I was sacked for at Commonwealth Insurance?"

"Absolutely!" said Sam, laughing as he flicked back his blonde cowlick with his hand. "I … we need someone who is not afraid to take a stand but we also need someone who understands the framework. You'll be at a higher level than you've been before and different rules apply now." Sam's smile had vanished.

"Oh, what sort of rules?" asked Mary as an uneasy lump formed in her stomach. She leaned forward, knowing she must not miss anything he was going to say now.

"Look, let's go through them as they arise," he said, leaning back with an uncertain smile. "Let me introduce you to a few of the chaps across town at head office, this afternoon, and, in the meantime, we'll get your office set up how you like it, make sure you have lists of who's who and how to access the system and then I'll introduce you to some of the team downstairs."

"Right, OK," said Mary, with so many questions needing answers. The foreboding lump in her stomach hadn't moved.

"Then I'll shout you to lunch so you can grill me on what you've learned this morning and I can update you on some of the head office team before you meet them," said Sam. "Does that sound like a grand plan?"

"Oh, gosh, that would be nice," said Mary, settling back while feeling a lightness enter the room. Her lump dissolved a little.

Sam really didn't seem to know his junior staff very well, or much of what they did. "Oh, they get on with what they need to do. I sign their assignments off and stay out of their way. Justin Talbot always saw to the details," he said at one point. He did, however, know the senior staff well and had left her with Stephen Lawrence, the Finance Director, a round, florid man with a fluffy, ginger moustache and little hair above it. Stephen took her round and stiffly introduced her to the staff on his, the sixth, floor. He suggested they have a guided tour of one floor a day. Very logical and systematic … just like an accountant, she thought.

Justin Talbot, Mary assumed, was her predecessor and she determined to find out more about him and why he left.

"Ah, the silly sod," said Sam, as if reading her thoughts, after he had returned as she was rearranging her office, "had his hand in the till, so to speak … taking backhanders from claims. Quite unsavoury."

'Unsavoury? Unsavoury!' thought Mary, 'it's illegal and bloody immoral!'

"That's why I need someone I can trust," said Sam evenly. "Been quite shaken by the twerp's underhand tactics and why I've had the research done on you."

"Oh," said Mary, knowing it was a compliment that she passed his close scrutiny but, all the same, felt queasy at the thought of an undercover team filtering through the life she held so privately.

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

As they entered the Executors Club for lunch, it was quite a different story. Sam asked Andrej, the doorman, how his son was getting on with his rugby (something he was obviously proud of) and asked Henri, the Maître d', how his wife was recovering and, it turned out, she had the plaster taken off her leg yesterday.

Mary felt quite special, escorted in by the two men - the swarthy, dapper Henri in front and the blonde, pink Sam behind, in pinstripe suit, pink shirt and florid, multi-coloured tie. She tried to take it all in, walking as gracefully as she could across the thick, green carpet, feeling cossetted by the old oak panelling, several chandeliers and the expensive shine of silverware and glassware. Sam's hand touched her shoulder lightly, several times, giving her assurance as he exchanged restrained greetings with diners already there - mainly, it seemed, men in pinstriped suits with shirts and ties that clashed absurdly.

'Perhaps their parents had had servants to dress them,' Mary thought, knowing how estate duties had lost many of the landed gentry their mansions and lifestyles, 'and now that their children, acting so very grown up, have to do it themselves, never having learned how to dress themselves and how to coordinate their clothes properly.'

Their table was in an alcove in a distant corner of the dining room and, she noticed, it had a thick, red curtain to the side - able to be pulled across for very private chats and trysts. Mary declined alcohol, determined to keep a clear head for the day, while Sam was served whisky and water. Obviously his 'usual'. She enjoyed the entrée of caviar - the first time she'd tried it - and Sam recommended the grouse, which was in season.

Mary didn't watch television much but, as she looked around discretely, she fancied she saw some faces she'd seen on the small screen.

"Yes, you might recognise a few faces here," said Sam, as he tucked into his grouse enthusiastically.

Mary looked at him and smiled uncertainly. The blasted man just seemed to know what she was thinking!

"Let me know if there's anyone you'd like me to introduce you to," said Sam. "In their own environment, with their chums, they're generally quite friendly."

So Sam was chums with these movers and shakers - it fitted with his role as Director of Government Liaison.

"But I've put the flag up so we won't be disturbed," said Sam, obviously enjoying his meal. "So what do you want to know from this morning?"

"Put the flag up?" asked Mary, becoming aware of a whole new set of behaviours and customs in this new world.

"Ah, yes, the candle's on the front of the table," explained Sam, smiling. "If we put it back here, we're bound to have some visitors wanting to inquire about my new guest! Now, what questions do you have?"

Mary was interrupted by a waiter taking their dishes away. As he left, Henri materialised to ask how their meal was. Mary noticed a small piece of paper pass to Sam. He unfolded it on the table to read while Henri inquired of Mary's first impressions of the club.

"Yes, that's fine, Henri," said Sam, folding the paper and putting it in his coat pocket. Henri smiled, bowed subtly and moved away. "Now, Mary, if you will indulge me a moment, I would like to help a fellow traveller on his way."

"Oh," said Mary, mystified. "Should I leave you for a moment?"

20 – Praying To Change Me, Not To Change God

Eek, our employer has run out of money and so the job's finished and so has the free house that goes with it. So, we could be jobless and homeless by 3rd September. This is definitely a time for TRUST!!

And so I pray for many things – job, house, money, security, certainty, trust and for God to be here with me. I don’t pray to change God – I pray as it changes me.

And here’s the next instalment of Mary’s story, continued from yesterday …

"The self same lesson, lassie," said James, patting her hand. "You can't force folks to accept your way o' things. If they're not ready for change, you've got to be the one to change. Fair or not, that's just how the world works."

"So you think I should be nice and sweet and agreeable all the time, just to suit them?" asked Mary grimly.

James opened his mouth to speak when Isobel put her hand gently on Mary's and asked, "How many buns have you sold since you've been up here this time?"

"How many buns?" asked Mary.

"Yes dear, how many buns have you sold?" asked Isobel, smiling. "How many moments of true peace and happiness? How many moments of what you might call a breakthrough, a success, have you had?"

"Uh, none!" said Mary, grinning sheepishly. "I don't suppose I've sold a single bun!"

"And how many buns would you like to sell on this trip?" asked Isobel.
"Well, even one sale would be an improvement!" said Mary, sighing. "But why do I have to do all the work, all the bending and compromise?"

"Because you can, lass," said James. "Because you can. You're blessed with a little willingness to make a difference; they're not. They're happy in their misery and may never change. That's how my customers were ... still are. That's how your customers - family and everyone else you meet - are. Some will change , some will be as you'd like them to be but most are happy in their misery."

"But it's still unfair!" said Mary sitting back running her fingers through her hair.

"You sound just like a young baker I once had a chat with!" said Isobel. "Would you rather be them - happy in their misery, unwilling and unable to communicate effectively, frightened."

"Frightened" asked Mary.

"Yes, frightened. I was," said James. "Anger comes from unmet expectations - the world owes me this and I'm not getting it - and then there's fear in not being able to control the world. Yes, anyone who is angry is frightened."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about it like that," said Mary, sitting forward again. She looked at her watch. "Gosh, it's late and I'm keeping you from your dinner, aren't I?"

"Aye and you're welcome to join us," said Isobel. "But I suspect ye'll be wantin' to go home and sell a few buns."

Outside her parent's house she stopped and listened. The only sound was the television. She wondered if they ever really talked with each other and realised, sadly, that it may never change and that it wasn't her job to try and change it. She immediately felt lighter and skipped up the steps and into the kitchen for a glass of cordial.

"Why're ye looking so happy with yeself, lass?" asked he mother, without turning as she mashed potatoes.

"Not sure really," said Mary. "I guess I'm just happy to be home."

"You wouldn't be so happy if you had to do the work to feed another mouth, would ye!" said her mother gruffly.

"Would you like some help there, ma?" asked Mary.

"Aye no, I've done it on my own for all these years and I suppose I'll be doin' it this way till I die," said her mother, spooning mashed potato into a bowl.

Mary went through and watched television with the men, in silence, watching the thoughts going through her mind. Actually, there weren't many at all where, before, her mind would have been a whirl of anxiety, trying to anticipate problems and solve them before they happened.

Dinner was held in silence, upon laps in front of television. Mary actually enjoyed the silence and the company - she needed nothing of anyone. They continued their silent dance while they each got themselves dessert and then cups of tea and Mary began to see the comedy of it all - three people in one house, doing practical things around each other and actually living in their own separate worlds. She had as much companionship living on her own!

Eventually, the television was turned off and her father, getting up from his chair, said, "Aye, Mary, this London may be a wondrous place but I ken you're needing to come back home, time to time, for a dose of sanity!"

Mary detected a wee smile and appreciated that she had, at last, been acknowledged. And, maybe, in his own way, he was seeing the insanity of his household but had not the skills to make it sane. Maybe.

Angus, who now felt he had permission to address his sister, said, "Aye Mary, it is grand to see ye lass. Will ye be stayin' a few days?"

"Yes, a few days," said Mary. "Do you want me to bring your lunch down to your work, tomorrow?"

"Och aye ... ah ... I suppose," said Angus, caught between gratitude and embarrassment of having his sister at work. "Aye, I suppose you could if you wanted to."

'Whoopee!' thought Mary. 'I've passed the first test - being allowed into the men's domain. I think I've sold two buns tonight ... well, one and a half anyway.' As the men left she stood up and bumped into her mother and then realised her mother had come over to hug her. 'This is a first,' thought Mary, uncertainly. But she wasn't going to miss the moment. She hugged her mother back, easing into it gently, softly. It felt so warm and good. Then she heard her mother sniffing over her shoulder. Her mother pulled back and retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"Aye it's a chill place, this. I have a wee sniffle," her mother said. "Aye lass, I ... ah ... you used to push us away all the time but yer ... ah ... nicer this time." Her mother fled and Mary dabbed at her own tears and smiled dreamily.

'Whew!' she thought. 'Maybe I've sold three buns tonight. A world record in the Collins household!'

She sat back down while the others shuffled around upstairs, going to bed, and wondered if everyone was so lonely, so separate, as those in her family ... as so many people she'd met. As she pondered while the upstairs became quiet, a deep peace overcame her and she had the strong impression, somehow, of everyone in the world, desperate to feel connected, desperate not to feel alone but not knowing how to ... in fact, most not believing that they could ever feel connected and at one with anyone else. A sadness came to her and she realised that's how she'd felt all her life - alone, separate and yet yearning for the opposite - to be connected with someone, something, anything ... but knowing that it was never possible. And, as that thought of separation became more personal, more about her, she realised that she could feel connected - did feel connected, even just a little, to her family when she'd stopped grasping for it. The years of isolation, feeling like she was different, didn't belong ... all of it washed past her as debris in a swollen river. She watched the dirty water and broken logs of her discontentment flood past and the raging river eventually slowed to become a gentle brook - clear, sparkling and alive. Yes, so alive and content with itself. She had a clear sense, somehow, of being enveloped in loving arms - warm and caring - and they stayed around her as she climbed the stairs to her bed and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

The rest of the week passed rather amicably. More amicably than she'd ever known. Mary didn't learn anything - no hidden secrets, no unfulfilled dreams, no deep wisdom - but she did feel something ... a fullness in her heart.

Of course she did pop back into her old behaviour from time to time - whining, demanding, asking questions - and, eventually, she'd catch herself asking, "Will I sell any buns doing what I'm doing now?" That question would bring her back to surrendering to the moment, to giving up, giving in and feeling that now-familiar peace envelop her. Even when she stuffed up, they seemed happy that she'd apologise - something she'd not really done before.

Staying out of her mother's kitchen, that sacred space, she bought food and took it round to the Fordyces, several times. Amid their protests that she shouldn't, they enjoyed convivial chats and they reminded her, often, what a quick learner she was - even quicker than James had been! This pleased her immensely.

Her brother, Angus, promised to visit her sometime in "that London town". She knew he wouldn't but his attempt at connection was touching.

Her father had obviously spent some time ferreting around in the attic and gave her three photos of her childhood and two of him as a child. He'd explained the photos with obvious and badly concealed emotion. On the last evening her mother had asked Mary if she'd help with the dinner and, though much of what she did was the wrong way 'o doin' it, she knew it was an honour never bestowed on anyone else before.

She left for London with an empty head and a full heart, quite oblivious that the universe had hatched plans to test her new-found sense of deep peace.

20 - Non Thinking Day

Today seems to be a non-thinking day - I just cannot hink of anything with which to preface this next part of Mary Collins' story, continued from testerday's blog ...

As she sat there on those wet stones with tears drying on her cheeks, she wished with all her heart to have Mr Fordyce's quiet strength with her now.

"You're not only wise, young lass, but you're very strong ... very strong indeed," he'd have said, or words to that effect, and then given her a choice of delicious, doughy, sweet treats ... 'Oh my God!' she thought, 'maybe that's the reason for my weight problems!' She'd been inoculating herself against the pain with delicious, doughy, sweet treats. Then she laughed, realising that stressed spelt backwards was desserts - one was the antidote for the other! As she chuckled to herself, she heard a scuffle behind her.

"So, Mary lass, your sadness comes again. What's it feeling like, young lady?" asked Mr Fordyce.

Before she knew it she was in his arms, hugging him with a lifetime's deep gratitude.

"Och aye, lass, not so hard on an old man," he said, chuckling.

"Oh, oh, sorry!" said Mary, loosening her grip on him but unable to let go completely.

"So you've come back to the old shop for another doughnut, then?" he asked, standing back with his hands on her shoulders.

"Oh I know it's silly, really," she said. "I know the old shop's shut up and no one's here but it just seems so safe here. So calming."

"Well, we weren't here till a month ago when the house next door came up for rent and so we've moved back," he said, looking into her eyes steadily. "I do miss the shop and I do miss our chats. But life goes on, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it does," said Mary with a smile. "But why do the good things change and the bad things stay the same?"

"Do you think it's time for a doughnut, Mary lass?" he asked, wiping his hand over his bald head.

"Oh, Mr Fordyce, no doughnuts but a cup of tea would be lovely!" she said, hugging his broad frame again.

"What! No doughnuts?" he said, chuckling. "But they fix everything!"

"No they don't," said Mary. "You do."

"Och aye lass, you're too kind," he said. "let's get you inside and have a chat about that big London town and everything else - see if we can fix the world tonight!"

As she entered the small cottage, the smell of wet wool and home baking welcomed her with its familiar homeliness. The worn patterned carpet, the ugly china ornaments, the traditional embroidery and doyleys all smiled back at her with the welcome of an old friend. In the kitchen, where all good chats and cups of tea were held, she smiled to see Mrs Fordyce had not changed - this short, round, bright-eyed lady with the white curly hair, the red and white checked apron and the soft smile.

The quiet, warm love of these two people eked out of the walls and the furniture and filled Mary to overflowing. Her tears started again.

"Och lass, come here," said Mrs Fordyce, taking her hand and looking into her eyes. "It's all a bit bloomin' much, sometimes, isn't it?"

"Oh Mrs Fordyce ..." said Mary, "why couldn't you have been my parents? It's all so unfair."

"Yes, it seems to be an upside down world and, for all we know, it probably is," said Mrs Fordyce smiling while her husband put cups, teapot, milk and cakes on the table. "Take a seat and tell of your upside down world, lass."

Mary sat, wiped her tears with the back of her hand and smiled. "Actually, I feel like a lost zygote ..."

"Lost what?" asked Mr Fordyce.

"Lost zygote," said Mary. "You know, it's like God or one of his angels was flying over with the seed of me to plant in this household, your family, and they got the wrong address or got bumped or confused or lost or something and that seed ended up in the wrong family. I got the wrong parents!"

The Fordyces laughed at the picture she had painted and Mr Fordyce patted her hand. "Yes, it all seems so wrong at times but there's nothing we can't learn from everyone, lass."

Mary chuckled at his confusing double negative, trying to unravel it.
"Oh, Mr Fordyce, I don't want to learn anything. I just want nice people I can love," she said. "Just some simplicity, some compassion. It shouldn't be so hard ..."

"Now, Mary lass, you're a grown woman so there'll be nae more Mr Fordyce and Mrs Fordyce - it's James and Isobel, ye ken?"

"Uh, yes," said Mary, pleased to be welcomed into the world of adults, while a little saddened to have left her childhood somewhere.

"And, t'other thing I ken is that, aye, the world does seem so unfair at times," said James. "But I ken this to be true and I dinna' ken how I know - it's that God does not make an unfair world, we do. The unfairness, as we see it, is because we choose to look at it that way."
Mary was silenced by the longest speech she had ever heard from Mr Fordyce ... oh, James. Something resounded in her heart and she knew it was a truth she should savour for a long time.

"You see, Mary lass, it's ower likely yer parents, who you struggle with so much, are your special teachers," he said.

"What?" exclaimed Mary.

"Hear me out, lass," said James, holding his hand up. "It's a possibility that yer learning a grand lesson from yer family - that ye can't win the battle by fighting back."

Mary smiled at the irony of his words and just knew, somehow, that there certainly was something in what he said.

"Well, whatever I'm learning," said Mary with a wry smile, "it's gotta' be about fighting, so you may well be right! But it's all so unfair. Why won't they talk to me, listen to me ... just be reasonable?"

"Ye sound just like a young baker I once knew," said Isobel, patting her hand. Her gentle smile was calming. "Ye see, he was so enthusiastic and wanted to make a splash in the village. Ye ken, do something special, like. So he rushed into making all sorts of fancy delicacies, delicacies that hadn't been seen in these parts before. He was so proud of himself for his original creations and, day after day, there be another batch of something wondrous displayed in his window."

"And the people flocked to see them?" asked Mary.

"Aye lass, they did!" said Isobel smiling at her husband. "But they only came to look. They weren't buying and of this 'foreign muck' as some called it."

"That's ... that's just silly. What's wrong with people! Didn't they want to try the new things?" asked Mary.

"Aye, many did want to try them but they were afraid of what their neighbours would think, buying all this fancy new stuff," said Isobel. "Those in fear or uncertainty are always the noisy ones, the ones others have to listen to."

"So, what happened to the baker?" asked Mary. "Did he have to close his shop?"

"Aye lass, it nearly came to that," said James, smiling at Isobel. "But for the intervention of a sweet young thing who came into his shop one day and insisted on taking him out the back for a chat."

"A chat?" asked Mary.

"Aye lass, a chat about baking, business and the affairs of the world!" said James, chuckling. "I was furious with the world for not buying my wonderful baking ..."

"Aha, so you were the young baker!" said Mary, suddenly getting it.

"Yes, twas I!" said James. "And this young lass sat me down and asked if I wanted to make a success of this bakery and of my life. Silly question! So, between outbursts of indignation from me, she explained that I could only make a living by making what people wanted - not what I wanted to force on them."

"And so that's how you made such a success of your bakery ..." said Mary.

"Ooo, not too fast there lassie!" said Isobel. "Just as James had to give people the opportunity to buy what they wanted, I had to give young James here the opportunity to buy my ideas. It took a little time, I can tell you!"

"Och aye, I wasn't very open to logic in those days as I thought I knew it all. Ye ken, like most young people," said James. "And so it took a little time for me to accept her wisdom and the shortage of money is a great thing to change a person's mind! I did catch on quite quickly, I thought."

"So, that's how you two met?" asked Mary.

"Aye, so it was," said Isobel, smiling at the memory.

"And why are we telling you this?" asked James.

"Oh, I don't know," said Mary.

19 - The Land of the Long Grey Cloud

New Zealand is called, in Maori, Aotearoa - The Land of the Long White Cloud.

England should be called The Land of the Long Grey Cloud, though I'm not referring to the weather, surprisingly!

In NZ you cannot walk on farmland - it's private property. It's simple. It's black and white.

In UK, if there's a narrow track through farmland, the public has a right to walk along it. These tracks are usually marked with Public Footpath signs but not always. So, one is expected to know which is a public footpath and which is a private farm track. It's not simple. It's grey.

In both NZ and UK the law says that you are not allowed to park on the right-hand side of the road. In NZ no one does - it's black and white. In UK everyone does - law breaking is allowed in this instance. It's grey.

In NZ and UK there are yellow No Parking lines painted on the roads. In NZ it's illegal to park on them. In UK it varies - in some places you can never park on them, in other places you can park on them on Sundays and yet other places you can park on them on Saturdays and Sundays. Nowhere are there helpful instructions on which alternative applies to each area and if you ask a local, the answer is usually: "Well, I think it's …. but I'm not entirely sure." More grey.

In UK you're (sort-of) legally allowed to drive 10% faster than the stated speed limit. This is not written anywhere - it's just sort-of understood … by people but not by machines. If, say, the sign says it's a 50mph area, a traffic officer will not stop you unless you're going more than 55mph, while a speed camera will clock (and fine) you if you do over 50 mph. More grey.

Last night we were told off for walking along a road that the public drive along. Apparently it's a public road for vehicles (and the people in those vehicles) but if those same people got out and walked, they'd suddenly be walking on private property … illegally!

With so much grey in their legal system and in their psyches, is it any wonder there is so much grey in their outer world? I'm not even sure what the lesson is for me - it's certainly not black and white!

And more confusion for Mary Collins, continued from yesterday's blog ...

"Look, Mary, I have to be honest," said Sam, sitting forward again. "I really do want you to work with me ... with us ... and if you accepted now, we can start paying you from tomorrow. Take whatever time you need and you can slip right in when you're ready." He stood up and extended his hand. The interview was obviously over and Mary found herself heading for his door with his guiding arm round her shoulders. "Just give me the phone number where you'll be and we can stay in contact."

Mary gave him her parents' number and walked off down the corridor wondering why she had done that. Through the fog of her bewilderment, she fancied she had seen the suited man with the slicked-back, black hair, who exited the lift as she alighted, somewhere before. She wasn't sure. She took little notice, though, as she had enough to think about right at this moment.

She looked at the man quickly, with a glint of recognition that was quickly spun from her mind by the other swirling thoughts there. They looked at each other, smiled, and were gone in their separate directions in an instant.

As she walked away from the interview and reviewed it from the nearby café, she was left with the strong impression that he could be interested in her for more than her professional ability. She felt all tingly inside, anticipating the possibilities. Her desire to go to Scotland waned but she knew she had to make the trip - to reconnect, to restore and to refocus on what she wanted her life to look like. Her parents were pleased, in their dour Scottish way, to hear she was coming home and she felt like a princess all over again.

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

Out of the office, out of her work clothes, out of London and on the train to her Scottish home, she felt the excitement rising, unexpectedly. Her mind conjured up all sorts of warm family things - cosy chats, funny moments and happy tears - and she was feeling childlike anticipation as she stepped off the train onto the familiar, grimy station. The weather was surprisingly warm and she just knew that this was going to be an especially happy time of her life ... till she saw her mother, hunched shoulders, waiting unsmilingly at the far end of the platform. Of course! She forgot that the child must run to the parent. No great shows of enthusiasm or affection.

"Hmph! Hello lass," said her mother, stepping back from Mary's impending embrace. "So, you be liking that English food, then?" she asked. Her mother stepped back and eyed Mary's girth with obvious distaste and Mary immediately regretted her trip home.

At a loss for an effective reply, Mary muttered something incoherent and they walked in silence to the bus stop. Neither was inclined to utter more words on the ten-minute bus trip and Mary followed her mother into the house feeling both familiar and strange. Nothing had changed - the frayed rug, the stained and peeling ceiling, the chipped table - and every memory of her childhood flooded back at once. Her mother reacted to her tears by throwing a tea towel at her while telling her to go and clean herself up. Mary escaped, thankfully, to the bathroom, sat on the shaky toilet and gave vent to the mixture of feelings that all rose together. Despite her mother's grim proximity - or perhaps because of it - she howled as she'd never done before. Poignant and happy memories mixed themselves with frustration about resistance to her youthful ideas, anger at her father's abuse and her remembered dreams of freedom. The brick in her stomach made her feel physically sick.

She just did not belong in this place and she wondered if she had ever loved her parents. Feelings of love and affection certainly did not make their appearance as she rocked and sobbed on that ancient toilet - a good place to let it all go, really. Eventually she regained some sense of composure and she steeled herself to the old kitchen for the customary cup of tea and a piece of shortbread.

Mary tried to give her mother enthusiastic and colourful glimpses her life "way down" in London but she knew she was describing something too alien for her mother to comprehend, had her mother wanted to comprehend it. Mary then listened to her mother's dour description of all the people who had died - and the gossip surrounding those deaths - over the past five years. Gosh, had it only been five years? Something drastic had obviously changed in that time and it hadn't been here in Dunfermline. She realised how badly she fitted into this landscape and that she never would, any more. She wondered if she ever had, really. She listened intently and looked fascinated by her mother's sordid tales of change, while her mind plotted an early escape.

While the smells of the one dinner she ever remembered here filled the kitchen, her father and brother sauntered in, dropped their lunch boxes on the bench and wandered into the lounge with a beer each to watch television. They'd each mumbled their "hellos" and "how yer been, Mary?" as they passed and were gone from the room before she could reply. She wondered if they realised she was back or if she'd even been away at all. She felt small and then the anger exploded. She strode into the room, turned off the TV and stood in front of it, defiantly. You could have heard the carpet sneeze.

"Aw, come on Da, Angus. I come all the way up here to see ya and ye can't even give me the time of day," she said, glaring at them.

"Ouch, Mary, I'm sorry. I just ..." Angus started saying.

"Turn that damned television on!" roared her father, butting in.

"No!" said Mary, starting to regret her outburst and wondering what to do next.

"I said turn that damned television on, woman," shouted her father, sitting forward, ready to pounce. "Or I'll clock you one."

"I'm not your wife, Da. I'm your daughter," said Mary, her anger rising above her indecision.

"Turn that bloody television on, you stroppy wench!" Never being one to back down, especially when she knew she was right, Mary was tempted to stand her ground. But the memories returned, memories of her mother beaten and sobbing and nothing ever being resolved and the simmering hatred and the inability to be honest and and and ... the whole frustrating futility of it, the powerlessness and the inability to be heard, to be acknowledged, all came flooding back and she was a scared little girl again. She ran as she always had from this home - not to her mother's embrace for that could be cold or threatening too - outside, down the street to sit under the street lamp beside the old bakery.

Fergus Fordyce was the kindest person she had ever known and many a time he'd wiped a tear, listened to her story and given her a healing doughnut. The simplest things touch the deepest and this spot was a magnet when the world threatened - a still and quiet spot where listening always happened. The bakery had closed long ago and Mr and Mrs Fordyce had moved somewhere else. This Mary knew but the sacredness of this listening spot drew her in with safe and loving arms. Under that old street lamp her sobs subsided and she found a little peace, a little quietness, a little acknowledgement. No one was there to listen but the image of Mr Fordyce, those many years ago, reached out with safe arms, enfolding her and dissolving the wretched pain.

She sat with her back to the street lamp, hugging her knees, looking into what was that old bakery shop and wished with all her aching heart that Mr Fordyce would come out the door, slowly smile and invite her in through that leadlight door, over the wide and uneven floorboards and he'd lift her onto a stool and ask, "So, Mary lass, your sadness comes again. What's it feeling like, young lady?" And she'd tell him. And he'd listen. She'd just talk and it would feel like she couldn't stop as the thousands of words crowding in her head were crazily pushing at each other to get out of her mouth and into Mr Fordyce's ears. He'd continue to listen and nod and listen and, eventually, all the words were out and her head was empty of them. She'd feel lighter because the words had been heavy in her brain and she'd smile a little at the relief.

"So what can we do about all that, then?" he'd ask.

By then all thoughts of running away, of burning her house down, of killing her father, of beating her mother were gone and all she wanted to do was to hug her parents and pray for peace.