December Fiction 2

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Today’s post sees the conclusion of a short story. You can read the first part in last week’s Anecdotage. Lena has a puzzling encounter, Imogen learns some home truths from a surprising source and Richard astonishes his wife with some revelations she does not expect.

A Neighbourly Manner [Part 2]

We saw nothing of our new neighbours in the ensuing two weeks, but before we’d left that afternoon I’d elicited permission from Jackson to walk our dog, Molly, in the grounds of the manor and for Richard and me to continue to walk across them as a short cut to the pub.

‘Do as you like, my dear!’ he’d roared, throwing a gangly arm around my shoulders, ‘It’s Liberty Hall!’

And so it was the next weekend, while walking with Molly down the driveway, pausing to admire the view of the house with infinite swathes of daffodils surrounding it that I spotted a figure striding along ahead of me, dressed in a voluminous raincoat, wellington boots and a sou’wester hat; a vigorous, purposeful gait, head erect, hands in pockets.

‘Not Jackson Agnew’, I surmised, since he was taller and I’d the distinct impression that it was a woman; yet the figure lacked Imogen’s neat style, from the rear at least.

Our gregarious Jack Russell terrier had rushed ahead to greet the walker, who stopped and bent to the little dog. I could see from the profile it was indeed female and not Imogen. As I drew close the woman grinned as she made a fuss of Molly.

‘Good Morning! Friendly dog! I am Kristina and I guess you must be our neighbour-Lena, perhaps?’

I may have looked as confused as I felt, for she waited for my response, continuing to grin in an abstract, good natured way. Since she appeared older than Imogen I assumed she must be a relative, possibly a sister of Jackson’s, except that she spoke in a heavy enough accent to demonstrate that she was not of British origin, perhaps Scandinavian. She had a flamboyant, Bohemian look; red curls escaping from the sou’wester, bare legs between the Mac and the boots.

We strolled on together. A scud of spring rain began to sprinkle us. ‘Are you here for long?’ I asked her. She tilted her head to the sky, allowing drops of rain to fall on to her face and into her open mouth.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ she laughed. ‘I love English weather! We are just here for the weekend. My daughter must not be left alone for too long. She is supposed to study for her exams but without supervision, well I guess you know what teenagers are like. But these builders, they must also be supervised.’

We were almost at the house, which was encased in the cage of scaffolding that had arrived and been erected during the week in readiness for the replacement of the roof, a renovation that had prompted Richard to describe Jackson Agnew as having money to burn.

I remained silent, absorbing the ‘we’. Imogen had also used ‘we’. Was she here at the manor too? Who was Kristina? She was surely too old to be the stepdaughter Imogen had mentioned.

            We parted company with a ‘see you again’ from Kristina as I made my way around to the rear of the manor, where Jackson’s BMW was parked, though not Imogen’s Fiesta. ‘She could be out’, I thought, ‘she could be shopping or running an errand’ but I felt this couldn’t be true. The most likely thing was that she was working.

            Richard, when I described the events of my walk declared that he was neither surprised nor interested in ‘that man’s affairs’, but I was disappointed not to have seen Imogen, who I’d hoped to involve in village life. I’d saved some literature for her about parish activities and was hoping to have a conversation with her about the village History Society. I couldn’t help wondering if she knew Kristina was there, or even if she knew of the other woman’s existence.

            We left Chiddlehampton and the UK a few days later to spend April in Marbella with our son, who works there as an architect. We prefer to visit in spring or autumn when the Spanish temperatures are less sweltering than in summer.

            On the day following our return I collected Molly from some friends in the village who look after her when we are away and decided from her disgruntled expression and affronted manner that I should offer a brisk walk as a placatory gesture, so I combined this with a route through the estate. I was keen to learn what changes had occurred and who might be in residence.

            In our absence the mature trees in the grounds had taken advantage of the balmy May sunshine to burst into blossom so that intermittent drifts of white or pink petals showered across in a light breeze. Scaffolding was still in place around the creamy walls, although the roof replacement looked to be almost complete.

            Around the back in the car park area I noticed that an unsightly, corrugated pergola had been removed to reveal a semi-circle of elegant columns, a stunning feature. Jackson then had not been idle. His car was parked next to one of the sets of French windows facing the lawns. I loitered for a few minutes in hopes of spotting him or Imogen, or even Kristina, but with no obvious signs of human activity I continued through to the meadows with Molly.

            That evening, when Richard suggested we stroll down to the pub and catch up with some village news, I needed no persuasion. Since the evenings had drawn out and drawn the locals out, the garden of the Cuckoo was as busy as the two bars, making it tricky work getting to buy a drink. I noticed that most of the tables were occupied with diners, too.

             We’d just managed to gain access to the counter and the attention of the bar staff when I felt a rangy arm clamp around my neck and winced as a deafening voice boomed in my ear.

            ‘Well, well! The wanderers have returned! Welcome back you two. Did you have a good time? You must come down and see all the changes we’ve made. You won’t recognise the place! We have a table over in the alcove. Come and join us. You will let me get those, won’t you, old chap?’

            This was addressed to Richard, who’d not turned his head during the greeting, but responded while taking a note from his wallet and handing it across the counter.

            ‘We only came in for a quick one.’

            I could have predicted my husband’s reply, however I was not about to allow an opportunity to talk with one of the two women pass me by.

            ‘But we’ll come and say Hello. Where are you sitting?’ A quick scan of the tables revealed no one resembling either of them.

            We picked up our drinks and followed Jackson through the throng to the alcove. A woman was seated there, not Imogen, not Kristina; a young woman with a mane of dark curls and a heavy pasting of make-up, dark, sooty eyelids and a scarlet gash of lips. Jackson introduced us. When she stood she revealed a swell of cleavage above the line of her blouse.

            ‘This is my friend Liliana. She is an architect and has come to help with the interior design plans.’

            The woman placed her hands on Richard’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, one side followed by the other, continental style. Her fingers, resting on my husband’s upper arms were long and tapered, nails topped with the same livid red as her mouth; as she leaned to offer the same treatment to me I caught a whiff of sweet, pungent perfume.

            ‘I am happy to meet you’ she breathed; her speech coloured with a strong Latin accent which was confirmed by Jackson’s adjunct.

            ‘Liliana is Italian.’

            Beside me on the bench, Richard was silent, concentrating his attention on his pint of Best as Jackson continued.

            ‘She is also a terrific artist. We’ve brought some of her canvases down to see where they’ll hang. You must come and take a look.’

            As he spoke the woman’s lips smiled in their red slash, her eyes narrowing until I thought she might purr like a pampered cat stretched on a hearthrug. To fill the conversational void I murmured something non-committal and took a sip of my wine.       Richard lifted his glass and tipped it back it in uncharacteristic gulps before turning to me.

            ‘We can’t be too long, Lena. Don’t forget Bob is coming round this evening.’

As we walked back along the lane I asked him, ‘Who on Earth is Bob?’

            ‘No one. Anyone. What does it matter?’ he replied, ‘I just couldn’t spend any more of my time with that insufferable man.’

            The May weather turned unsettled as some gusty showers blew over in the middle of the next week and it was during a heavy downpour on Wednesday evening that the bell rang. I’d been clearing up the kitchen and Richard was upstairs in the study editing his latest batch of Spanish photographs. I hadn’t heard a car pull up so I assumed it was someone from the village as I opened the door.

            It was Imogen, though barely recognisable as the radiant girl of six weeks ago. With her hair plastered to her head and her thin shirt stuck to her, soaking, she looked bedraggled. She also appeared to be in some distress, from her red-rimmed eyes and stricken expression. I reached out and all but tugged her inside the hallway, where she stood dripping, her thin shoulders shuddering. I wasted no time.

            ‘Whatever has happened?’ I asked her. ‘Come into the lounge. I’ll put the fire on!’

             Her mouth opened to speak and produced only a shivering sob as she allowed me to tow her into the living room.

            ‘Wait here,’ I told her, ‘I’ll get you something dry to wear.’

            I went upstairs and hissed at Richard’s enquiring face as I grabbed a towelling robe then I dashed back and pulled it around her before sitting her down in an armchair like a child. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ I said, and by the time I’d returned my husband had seated himself in the chair next to her. He glanced at me.

            ‘Let’s all have a cup of tea,’ he suggested.

            As I left the room she began to mumble in halting sentences dotted with ‘sorrys’ and ‘thank yous’ until Richard leaned forward, put his fingers together and asked her, ‘Can you tell us what is wrong?’

            By the time I’d set the tray down she was into her dismal story, which was no less depressing for being predictable; a whirlwind, fairy tale romance rising from a chance meeting with a charming, wealthy, practised, older suitor who’d promised the world before exposing her fully to the circles in which he moved. Circles which included a whole host of other women; ex-wives, of which Kristina was one, ex-partners, ex-girlfriends, ‘friends’ who would like to be girlfriends, ‘friends’ who were ‘helping with the designs’ like Liliana, married women, single women and all with one purpose-to be Jackson’s wife.

            Having swapped a ward shift and wangled a couple of days off Imogen had planned to turn up without warning and give her intended a surprise, but when she left the car and approached the house she looked in at the un-curtained window and saw him with Liliana; the two of them dancing in the stark emptiness of the drawing room, one of his long arms around her waist, another with a glass of wine in hand. She’d stood in the rain and watched them, watched as they laughed together at the intimacies he whispered in the woman’s ears making her throw her head back in delight. She didn’t know how long she stood in the rain watching. She’d felt panic rising, welling up, threatening to overflow into a scream and then she’d run, back along the curving drive and through the gateway up the lane to our front door. The girl’s breathless narrative ground to a halt as she sniffed; taking another tissue from the box I’d placed beside her.

            Richard sat back in his chair, crossing one of his legs over the other and turning his head a little in Imogen’s direction without looking at her face. He began to speak in a quiet monotone. He told her that she may feel distraught now, but that she would recover. He reminded her that she was a strong, independent woman and had proved it by raising a child on her own and following a responsible, highly valued career. He said she must remember that she’d led a good, happy life before Jackson and would do so again; that she must never allow any man to control and manipulate her feelings or treat her as an object to be owned and cast aside like a painting or a house; that a relationship should be based on mutual love and respect and she should look at me, Lena for an example of a resilient, capable woman; that our marriage might not look glamorous but he’d never been in any doubt that he’d chosen the right person. Throughout this monologue she sat motionless, her shuddering sobs subsiding, her narrow shoulders lowering, her eyes fixed hard upon Richard as if he were dragging her from a swamp.

‘Right,’ he concluded, ‘it’s far too late for you to be driving back tonight. You can stay in our guest room, which is always ready’. He looked up at me. ‘My wife can lend you anything you need. Shall we open that bottle of brandy we brought back with us? This would seem to be a suitable occasion to try it.’ He winked. I have a feeling my mouth was hanging open.

He asked Imogen for her car keys, declaring that he would fetch her car from the Manor.

Later on, I ran a hot bath for our guest, after which she was subdued enough to submit to being tucked up in bed.

I extracted a promise from Imogen as she left next morning that she would under no circumstances email, ring or visit Jackson Agnew, neither should she respond to invitations from him, all of which she agreed to with a solemn nod. Her puffy face and red eyes showed that she’d wept the night away, but as she drove off Richard assured me it would pass.

‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ he said and I knew the subject was closed.

            Some unspoken agreement kept us from cutting through Chiddlehampton Manor’s grounds for a couple of weeks and we were relieved to see no sign of Jackson or any of his paramours in the pub, or anywhere else in the vicinity.

            It was June when we returned from a week in Torquay and saw the sign on the gate at the end of their drive. ‘For Sale- Grade Two listed Manor House with OPP for eight apartments’, it read. It was to be sold by the agent ‘Knight and Rutter’ who are known for their upmarket properties.

            Doctor Jackson Agnew and his entourage, it seemed, had moved on.

Wishing all regular readers and visitors a very happy and peaceful New Year

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

December Fiction

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Regular readers of Anecdotage may have noticed that November’s Fiction Month was missing this year, replaced by the last few episodes of Australia 2011. In recognition of this, December’s posts will feature short fiction. Here, then, is the first part of a story about a larger-than-life character who is not all he seems at the beginning. The story concludes in next weeks post:

A Neighbourly Manner [part 1]

‘I wonder what she sees in him?’ I kept saying.

            ‘Leave it alone, can’t you?’ Richard grumbled, or he would shake out a new page of his newspaper in a crackling signal of finality. But one month on the events following that afternoon dogged me as I weeded the border or strolled along the lane to the farm for eggs.

After we’d received the invitation I’d been full of excited zeal, wanting to make a reciprocal gesture before we’d even taken a step along the wide sweep of their driveway, but Richard had curbed my ambitions by frowning,

‘Let’s wait and see how it goes. We haven’t met them yet. We are only neighbours, nothing more. By all accounts they are society people so I don’t suppose we will be of any interest to them except as a kind of ‘country bumpkin’ story for their London friends.’

Despite my husband’s dashing of cold water, I continued to harbour fanciful thoughts of what might transpire. I knew that the manor house next door received a constant flow of visitors despite the seedy state of its accommodation. Some were well known figures in publishing, the media or the arts, invoking thrilling fantasies of meeting someone famous. Who knew what might transpire? This could be the beginning of a series of gatherings to which we were part. I began to run a mental inventory of the contents of my wardrobe and concluded it was lacking in some areas.

The previous occupant’s attempt to run Chiddlehampton Manor as a hotel had failed in a gurgling whirlpool of bankruptcy, depression and alcohol dependency. Villagers who had worked there told of stained carpets and mouldy en suites in the twenty three bedrooms; slimy, brown grease covering kitchen surfaces, dwindling bottles in the wine cellar, failed initiatives such as ‘poker breaks’ or ‘murder mystery weekends’ attracting a desultory handful of revellers and resulting in increasing event cancellations.     

            The parlous nature of the building lent even more urgency to my desire to see it and to meet the latest occupants, who wanted it for a country retreat, no less. A country retreat! Twenty three bedrooms and bathrooms, a ballroom, eight acres of grounds containing stables and seven cottages for staff plus a vast, walled garden with endless greenhouses-all now fallen into disrepair; disintegrating into the chalky, Dorset soil from which it had risen.

            There was a blustery March wind gusting across the fields as we walked through the open gate into the driveway; gaps in the two rows of elegant beeches that bordered the sweeping drive, and fallen branches. Weeds punctuated the centre of the crumbling tarmac as it curled around to reveal the yellow stone manor house nestling in a dip below.

            I stopped for a moment to admire it, tucking the box of homemade shortbread under my arm. Richard had scoffed.

‘They won’t want that. Their sort is used to posh nosh; Fortnum and Mason, Harrods, all that sort of thing’. I’d ignored him of course, as only one who is shackled to a curmudgeon for thirty two years can.

            Even in a decadent state the manor is beautiful. A graceful old house whose romantic symmetry complements the rustic setting of rolling Dorset countryside. As we approached the columns of the grand portico I shivered, hanging back as Richard strode up to the vast, oak door and pressed the bell in his no-nonsense way.

            In the ensuing hiatus my misgivings expanded. ‘Do you think they’ve forgotten?’

            Richard snorted. ‘Let’s hope so! Then we can go home and have a cup of tea.’ But steps could be heard echoing inside.

            I’d heard plenty about him from villagers, in the pub or at the community shop but I was still unprepared for the experience of meeting Jackson Agnew. That he was ‘upper class’, ‘stinking rich’and ‘ponsy’ was circulating the public bar of The Cuckoo, with ‘a bleeding, towny nob’ thrown in by Noah Barnes, Bendick Farm’s cowman, who was not known for holding back on his opinions. Little had been expressed about Dr Agnew’s companion; whether she was partner or wife or daughter no one knew, only that she was ‘posh totty’ [Noah Barnes again] and thought by some to be a model or an actress.

            The door was not so much opened as flung wide and filled with him; with Jackson Agnew. His frame crammed the doorway, everything broad, everything extended, from his lengthy arm and thin fingers reaching out to shake Richard’s to his gaping grin and booming ‘Hello hello-Welcome to my humble abode!’

            Once I’d followed my husband into the hallway my own hand was enveloped and squeezed. ‘We meet at last!’ he said and his voice was like a deep, mellow gong echoing around the cavern of a hall with its bare walls and floorboards. After I’d glanced around the barren space I noticed he was scrutinising our faces, hungry for our reactions.

            ‘I expect you’ve been in here hundreds of times, haven’t you?’

            Richard was peering up at the ceiling, eager for a sign of damp, death watch or woodworm. He avoided Jackson’s gaze as he replied.

            ‘We haven’t lived in the village all that long ourselves; retired here from Bristol eighteen months ago. We had no cause to come to the hotel. If we want a drink we go to the pub.’

            ‘We met the Judds, of course, out and about, you know, when walking the dog,’ I added.

            Jackson grinned. ‘Yes. Pour souls. What a state they got into. Shall we move into the lounge and we can rustle up a cup of tea, or something stronger if you like?’ He looked beyond us to an open doorway, calling, ‘Darling, our neighbours are here.’

            We walked through into what had been the hotel bar but was now being used as a makeshift kitchen and dining room. Here, overhead the ceiling was adorned in an ornate series of murals decorated in gold leaf portraying rotund cherubs cavorting with plump maidens in diaphanous robes. Jackson caught me scrutinising it and barked in noisy mirth.

‘What do you think of that? Someone went to town, didn’t they? Are you familiar with the Baroque style at all? Ah, there she is! Darling! These are our nearest neighbours, Richard and er…’

I broke in. ‘Lena’

‘Lena, of course. Richard and Lena.’

She was standing behind the bar, motionless, an almost smile on her lips; eyes that had been fixed upon him moving in a slow turn towards Richard and myself. In that moment I understood why all of the descriptions of her had been correct and at the same time wrong, because while she was young and undeniably beautiful there was no element of Hollywood style; no trappings that could be considered cosmetic enhancement. And one thing was clear. She could not in any way be mistaken for his daughter, since no daughter in the world would ever look at her father like that.

She moved around to join us, extending a hand, first to me.

‘Imogen.’

Her voice was soft and low and her neat features dominated by intense, deep blue eyes that held mine; her short, glossy cap of black hair a stark contrast with the near translucent pallor of her skin. She took my proffered shortbread, murmuring ‘how kind’ before placing the plastic box on the bar.

While Richard’s responses are never obvious I noticed from the widening of his eyes and a slight flare of his nostrils when she took his hand that he was impressed.

‘Now’

We swung towards the master of the estate. He had a look of Christopher Plummer as Captain Von Trapp mustering his numerous children as he addressed us.

‘Shall I take you for a tour before we have tea?’

I nodded before catching my husband’s expression, which was set into ‘I don’t want to be here much longer’ mode. He glanced at his watch.

‘Perhaps just a short tour’ I suggested, and we followed Jackson through the connecting doors at the end of the bar into the adjoining drawing room; another vast, empty space with tall windows facing on to the grounds and adorned with only a huge, stone fireplace.

As we wandered through the network of rooms I hung back to allow Richard and Jackson to get beyond earshot and Imogen to draw level with me as I pretended to examine a carved mantel.

‘It’s all so big,’ I began, gesturing at the room. ‘Whatever will you do with it all? Do you have a large family to fill it up?’

‘Oh no,’ she shrugged. ‘I have one son and Jackson has a stepdaughter. But he loves large rooms and he wants a project now that he is semi retired.’

‘And how about you?’ I asked her.

‘I won’t be retiring any time soon.’ She gave that enigmatic half smile, yet I was undeterred.

‘And do you work in the same field, in art dealing?’

            She smiled a little wider then, as if enjoying a private joke. ‘Oh no, no-nothing so glamorous; I am a nurse.’ Though my surprise must have registered on my face she was disinclined to elaborate. I pressed on. ‘It will be difficult for you to spend so much time here then.’

She began to walk in the direction of the men’s voices, speaking swiftly, clandestine-voiced, over her shoulder.

‘We don’t live together, Jackson and I. He lives in Kensington and I am not so far from here, in Dorchester. We meet at weekends.’

            I caught her up, wanting to know more but she was intent on reuniting our group.

Jackson was explaining his plans to Richard, his long arms waving about and his cultured vowels bouncing around the bare walls. When we approached my husband gave me a meaningful stare, which I chose to disregard.

‘We thought we’d make this our kitchen as it’s so sunny. Imo would like to turn it into a monument to Monet-all yellow walls and blue tiles, but I like a bit of sexy steel and glass myself.’ He beamed at us, ruffling Imogen’s glossy hair and she closed her eyes, liquefying under his touch. Throughout the remainder of the tour she stayed close to her man as if every moment without him was wasted.

All attempts to engage Richard in feedback regarding the visit were quashed, his only remark being ‘bought himself a trophy wife.’ I knew better than to argue, but it was obvious to me that beautiful Imogen was infatuated with her distinguished, older lover, wealthy or not. 

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Hong Kong- Out and About

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If in Adelaide and Melbourne you couldn’t fail to notice that Christmas was imminent, despite the blistering weather, in Hong Kong the festive season was underway with a vengeance, displays on speed. In the smoggy, humid atmosphere, enormous, glittering decorations hung eveyrwhere, vast Christmas trees constructed from lurid toy figures, a full sized, glitzy, Cinderella-style coach.

I often like to pick up a small Christmas tree decoration from places we travel. They are a welcome reminder, in the depths of a UK winter, of our trips and travels and take up very little space in the luggage. In the night markets of Hong Kong there there was no shortage of knick-knacks along the rows of stalls lining the streets in a blaze of light, colour and sound. It was a simple matter to find gift items like beautiful silk scarves in jewel-like colours.

A must-do tourist activity is going up Victoria Peak, from where there can be stunning views. We got our funicular tickets and duly rode up to the top, which was entirely shrouded in thick cloud. All there was to look at was a tawdry collection of stalls selling trinkets.

Friends who’d been following the same trail [from New Zealand and the Rugby World Cup, to Australia and now to Hong Kong] were staying in a hotel on Hong Kong Island and we’d decided to meet up for an evening meal. Wanting to sample something authentic, we spent some time selecting a restaurant, eventually choosing one with a first floor dining room that looked comfortable and smart. It was quiet, only a couple of other tables occupied. When the waiter came and gave us menus we couldn’t make head nor tail of them, but looking at the other diners, it seemed as if we were to cook the food at our table! Who knew? We were baffled, the staff knowing neglible English [this was before the advent of Google translate, you understand]. Our friend, D, peered at the waiter and asked if we could ‘just have a stir fry’ which, I have to admit, struck me as so amusing at the time that I became quite helpless with laughter.

Eventually we ordered something or other and it was edible. But I’d so have liked to have had a gourmet guide on our trip to Hong Kong because I’m certain we missed out on a wonderful gastronomic experience.

Another day we got the gondola ride up and over to Ngong Ping village to look at the big Buddha, a statue which looks out over the mountains and green landscape. Again, the humidity had prompted thick mist to descend, resulting in low visibilty for the ride, although once we’d gained the top it was sunny and clear, the Buddha impressive in its inscrutability. And there, in another surprise, were our friends again! We wandered around the inevitable tourist stalls then climbed into a gondola car together for the descent.

For our last evening in Hong Kong we joined the spectators at the harbourside for Victoria Harbour’s nightly sound and light show, which was impressive.

By now Christmas was very close. It was, at last, time to turn towards home. We’d been away for three months, the longest trip we’ve ever taken, before or since.

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Hong Kong- and an Explosion of Experiences

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We left Australia, flying out of Melbourne and knowing that this elongated excursion had little more time to run.

But there was one more set of thrills to be had before we turned our noses towards home. Australia, as we all know, is a long way from the UK and anyone with a brain cell realises that the civilized way to do it is to have a stopover. And if you aren’t time-poor, it’s even better to stretch the stopover into a few days.

This means, of course that you need to choose somewhere you want to see, somewhere worth the time. We’d opted for Hong Kong, the nearest thing to China but with a westernised twist. These days I’d be uneasy about visiting this commercial outpost of China, fearful of unrest or draconian laws since it was hauled, kicking and screaming under Chinese government rule. But this was before the protests and the unrest and all was calm.

Our hotel was in Kowloon, which is across Victoria Harbour from Hong Kong Island. Our immediate area was teeming with commerce, especially street food stalls selling a plethora of foods- some recognisable but many not. Plucked fowl were hung by their feet from the tops of stalls as were other, unidentifiable body parts. We needed to eat, of course and were keen to sample street food, but didn’t know where to start. Eventually we found a stall selling pork balls and settled for those; unadventurous but safe!

In order to see Hong Kong Island we had to get across Victoria Harbour. There are ferries but we opted to go via the metro, which runs underneath. Navigating and understanding the vagaries of ticketing and where to go was not easy- it never is in a foreign city- but we managed it. On the crowded train I was struck by the fashion sense of the beautiful young women passengers, most of whom were dressed wonderfully and with immensely vertiginous footwear.

On the Hong Kong Island side there were more bustling alleys full of food stalls and I wondered how it was possible to sell such an abundance of meals and snacks. But then, the entire place is packed solid with people, notoriously so, as is evident in the forest of skyscrapers soaring up to dizzying heights. New blocks were being constructed everywhere despite the fact that there didn’t seem to be any more room for them. The scaffolding for these constructions was all of bamboo poles, which was an eye-opener!

The trams that ran along the main streets had a character of their own. Unlike the long, sleek, snaking trams of European cities they were individual vehicles, quaintly old-fashioned and colourful, begging to be ridden!

Next week; Night markets, the misty peak, the restaurant conundrum and a foray to the mainland via unusual transport.

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

Australia 2011: Melbourne and Around

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My cousin and her partner went above and beyond to make us welcome. As well as accommodating us they took us around Victoria, showing us the sights and being wonderful tour guides. We met up with my aunt for meals, coffees and plenty of ‘catching up’.

We visited areas that had been devastated by catastrophic fires some years before- and further fires have ravaged huge swathes of Australia since we were there. We visited ‘Hanging Rock’, famous for its true tale of missing girls which was made into a feature film in 1975.

One odd anomaly about our travels in Australia until then was that we’d seen almost no kangaroos- animals I’d expected to have seen almost daily. But here, at last, we were treated to sightings of dozens of the creatures, lounging about casually or standing brazenly to gaze around them.

Our hosts live on the outskirts of Melbourne, so following my cousin’s instructions regarding transport we set off unaccompanied to explore the city. Melbourne has a character of its own, quite different from Sydney, Adelaide or Cairns- other metropoli we’d looked at. It felt more like a modern, cosmopolitan European city. It bustled with life and commerce, its streets busy with shoppers, traders and the occasional busker. We stopped to listen to a couple performing their songs on the pavement- he playing an unusual, stringed instrument and she the singer. While we were taken enough with it to buy one of their CDs, I have to admit to not really having listened to it since we returned. Like those unusual bottles of spirits you become passionate about in a foreign land, it was destined to languish in the back of a cupboard until the next de-cluttering session.

Melbourne has its own iconic, tall skyscraper- the Eureka Tower.https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eureka_Tower

We had fun in the lift up to the top of the tower, then enjoyed some time looking at the views over Melbourne and beyond. When the time came for us to return to the suburbs, and to my cousin’s house, we got into a bit of a pickle. We’d forgotten our instructions and needed to let her know when we’d be back, but had no clue as to her email. This trip pre-dated smartphones, of course. But one thing I was sure of- if I could find and internet cafe I’d have my aunt’s email address saved and I’d be able to ask her for my cousin’s address. Phew! How things have changed in the entervening years since 2011! Anybody would think it was all a long time ago!

In the event it was all fine, and we got back ok. There was precious little time left. My kindly cousin took us to the airport to drop off our van, in advance of our flight. We had a last supper together at the airport before saying our final goodbyes and I felt emotional at leaving my cousin and her partner- strangers at first, shy at meeting, then we’d bonded over memories and family knowledge shared.

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

Australia. On to Melbourne

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Having collected our third and final van at Adelaide we set off for the next chapter of our Antipodean Odyssey, The Great Ocean Road, which would take us to Victoria and to Melbourne. While the weather continued to be very warm, the landscape morphed into a contrasting character to the arid surroundings of The Outback, becoming more familiar and more in common with many parts of coastlines in Europe and in our own UK.

The wildlife, however was vastly different and we were treated to a multitude of wonderful encounters, such as arrays of brightly coloured parrots and the time we needed to pull up and allow an echidna to meander across the road in front of us.

The Great Ocean Road is famous for ‘The Twelve Apostles’, tall stacks of rock which protrude from the waves like a watery hall of columns, but they are fewer now- eight left, according to Wikipedia. Altogether it is a stunning coast line, although many such rock formations exist around the world.

Once we were into Victoria there was also a more familiar, homely atmosphere, the communities less foreign with their coffee shops, bookshops and so on.

One thing that struck us with both New Zealand and Australia was that other than in large cities such as Sydney, bars and restaurants, where they existed, shut up shop early in the evenings. The vast majority of them existed only for betting purposes and housed screens and machines purely for this purpose. If we were lucky enough to find a bar or a pub open we could sometimes get a drink, only to be told the place would be closing at around 9pm, once the gambling was finished. We’ve visited quite a few countries and have found many areas away from large cities to be lacking in any sort of evening opening, notably the USA and the more rural areas of Europe. This leaves me with an impression that the UK is unique in having pubs and restaurants throughout its shires, although in recent times pubs have been disappearing from many of our villages.

When I was about ten years old I was a bridesmaid at the wedding of my uncle and aunt. I don’t remember much about it but I do remember seeing a photo of myself plus my two cousins, decked out in stiff, knee-length frocks and carrying little posies. A few years [and two babies] later the couple emigrated, like so many, to Australia where my uncle set up a business that was to become very successful, settled into Australian life and had a third child. In the years that followed there was scant contact between our families. We cousins all grew up. My uncle, sadly, passed away. But before we left the UK to embark on this long trip I knew I couldn’t go so far and not meet up with my long, lost aunt and perhaps my cousins.

It was a little tricky getting in touch but we managed it and arranged to meet. My aunt had moved and downsized from their large family home but still lived in Victoria in a small community, whereas the cousin I’d never met, who’d been born in Australia, lived in Melbourne. In a spontaneous gesture of hospitality, she and her partner offered to accommodate us for the remainder of our time, which is a huge step to take for those you’ve never met!

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Australia 2011: Alice Springs and Adelaide

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We’d arrived to Alice Springs and the end of our exploration of this enormous country’s red heart. True, we’d only scratched the surface, only had time for a brief flavour of the extraordinary landscapes, but we’d still a lot more to see and do. We had time for a peremptory examination of Alice Springs, a town I’d hitherto mainly associated with the Nevil Shute novel, ‘A Town Like Alice’ and film of the same.

Modern Alice is a pleasing place with a hint of wild west about it and enough shops, bars and restaurants to satisfy passing tourists. I still have [and wear] the rust coloured safari shirt patterned with Australian wildlife that I bought there. By now we’d passed a substantial part of the UK autumn in the southern hemisphere- their spring, and Christmas was not too far ahead, would be upon us once we got back home. But there was little in Alice to herald the event, and it was hot, although by this time we were well acclimatised.

We had a domestic flight arranged for Adelaide, where we were to spend a couple of nights before picking up the next [and final] van for our trip along the south coast. Our hotel in central Adelaide was swanky indeed, the room uber modern with one of those glass bathrooms in the centre that leaves you exposed to your room-mate whatever activity you may be engaged in. Hmmm…

Unlike Alice, Adelaide had moved into full Christmas mode, our hotel foyer bedecked with decorations and Christmas trees and across the street, a department store entrance bore a sleigh complete with reindeer and Santa Claus. And all of this in sweltering heat, the tinsel glinting in sunshine as the air wobbled above the pavements. I suppose anyone who has grown up in what to us is a topsy-turvy climate is accustomed to snowy scenes in stifling temperatures, but it felt incongruous to me.

Adelaide itself I considered to be an elegant, beautifully laid out town with attractive parks and wide avenues. It also seemed to be a bit of a party central, the restaurants and bars not short of revellers of various kinds.

All too soon it was time to leave and to collect our third van of the trip, which was to take us along the famous South Coast Highway and a spectacular coastline, if the guide books were to be believed. There were to be more sights and experiences before our arrival to Melbourne, but best of all, if all went well I’d get to meet up with someone I hadn’t seen since childhood!

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Australia: The Long, Hot Road South

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We were on the next leg of our Australian Odyssey, travelling by bus, a seven hour road trip. In the previous post I described how our driver made what could have been a tedious and tiring journey a fascinating and enlightening seven hours by sharing stories and radio clips as well as entertaining facts. The beginning of our drive was early- and dark, meaning that visibilty was limited and as the driver explained, roadkill was inevitable along the road, even though traffic was sparse. Enormous ‘land trains’ are not designed to make emergency stops.

There were breaks along the way at lonely cafes where we could buy meals and drinks as well as art and craft work by indigenous Australians, who were sometimes around, seated outside. The sun’s heat was as unrelenting as the red, dusty road was straight.

We arrived to our stop at King’s Canyon National Park, where we were to undertake a guided walk. As we descended from the cool of the bus the heat assaulted us. Our guide explained that we must choose between a shorter, less taxing walk or a longer, more arduous one. We needed to make this choice on the basis of how fit we were, as if we chose the longer route we’d have to carry at least 2 litres of water. We judged that we could manage the longer hike, a smaller group. Before we got going we were advised not to gulp down large amounts of water but to sip, swigging leading to the necessity for bladder emptying- not a convenient situation out here in the bush. I must point out here, however, that those of us who are used to camping are also used to dealing with peeing outdoors. I’d say the guide was more concerned with leaving the landscape unsullied than our sensibilities.

It was hot. The walk was, at times, hard. Sometimes we had to clamber up and down. There was a point when, on the way down some rocks, I inadvertently trod on a snake. We’d been specifically warned to avoid them, but whilst negotiating a steep descent I hadn’t seen the small, black, wriggling creature and it fell foul of my boot. Horrors! I watched aghast as it threw itself out of the path. At least I hadn’t murdered it- although Husband issued a stern admonishment!

There were some wonderful views, including a pristine pool- astonishing in the desert environment- the reflections beautiful. There were also beautiful birds and flowering plants, eking out a living in this parched, unforgiving environment. The rock stacks and ravines towered or plunged, the colours changing through a varying palette of russet, ochre and deep red. It was worth the effort- the climbs and the seering heat, to see such an astonishing place.

We returned to the bus, filthy from sweat and dust but jubilant from having completed the hike. Then it was on to our next destination, Alice Springs, for a stopover and I was looking forward to seeing such an iconic town…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Australia 2011: The Red Centre

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We’d enjoyed our time in Cairns and especially our trip to the Great Barrier Reef, which it was a privelege to see and one that may be denied to subsequent generations if the warming oceans prompt its destruction.

Now it was time to surrender the current van and take to the sky again- this time a flight to another of Australia’s renowned sites: Ayers Rock, otherwise known as Uluru. The excursion had been booked here in the UK as part of the whole trip, rather than left to us to organise on the hoof. We needed to clear the van, our home for the previous 2 weeks and were faced with the problem of shedding some belongings in order to get our luggage [one bag each] down to the requisite weight for the small plane. Remember, we’d begun our trip weeks ago in New Zealand and had been in the snow-clad south of the south, where we’d worn multiple, thick layers of clothes. Now we were in the sweltering tropics and due to travel to the arid interior. The woolly layers had to go.

But where? We’d have to discard clothing, but were reluctant, even in this former, less-aware-of-sustainability time. Having sorted the items we decided that a charity shop- a thrift store- would be the answer and duly toured Cairns in search of one…in vain. In the end we just had to leave our discarded items by the recycling bins in the hope that someone would make use of them.

We arrived to our desert hotel, a building cunningly situated and camouflaged to make as little visual impact on the barren landscape as possible. I rather liked the hotel for its boho vibe, unlike one or two of the others which were catering for the luxury end of the market. We had a kind of cabin room and the dining area consisted of long trestle tables we could share with other travellers. The food involved lots of BBQ- including crocodile, kangaroo etc, a naturalist’s nightmare!

We were to rise early to go out to see sunrise at Uluru. In the event, we didn’t get to see so much as a single ray of sun since the weather was stuck in stubborn, overcast mode, but the company at the dawn party was convivial and fun and we got to see the rock close up.

There was another day at Uluru so despite the heat we walked a bit, looking at a camel farm and taking in the amazing vistas. There was also a modest mall of shops and even a salon, where I took advantage and went for a much-needed haircut.

The next leg of our trip was to be by coach. Normally I’d avoid coach tours, but this was no ordinary bus excursion. We were to travel from Uluru down through the Red Centre to Alice Springs, via Kings Canyon National Park. We’d stop at King’s Canyon to do a guided hike. While I knew little about the area it was to turn out to be a proper highlight for a number of reasons.

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Australia 2011: Cairns

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We came to Cairns and to an enormous, well-appointed, established site on the edge of town. All was good, other than that a small bird, which I believed to be an Australian robin took a dislike to my sunhat and descended from its tree by the gate to attack it whenever I went that way.

The town is unremarkable and pleasant enough, with a variety of bars and restaurants. The seafront promenade is glorious, though, sparkling ocean combined with clusters of pelicans and other wildlife.

We were outside a bar having a beer when an uncomfortable incident occurred. There had been a group of indiginous Australians in the shade of the trees opposite the bar who’d been drinking. A woman approached the nearest table inside the barrier of the bar and accosted another woman sitting at the table, demanding to know what she was staring at. While it was unpleasant for the woman who was the target of this verbal attack,this was our first experience of the anger that native Australians clearly feel and I still reflect on it today, although I have no idea of the answer. Inequality exists in every country in the world, with some countries dealing better with it than others.

The main purpose of visiting Cairns was to visit the Great Barrier Reef and we soon got ourselves booked on a trip there, lunch included. I had no idea how I would cope with a sightseeing tour of an underwater wonder of the world, since I am barely a swimmer and have an innate horror of being underwater. The times when I’ve been submerged I’ve found to be unpleasant, painful [to the sinuses] and terrifying. I’ve written about my experiences with swimming in a previous post https://gracelessageing.com/2013/09/05/when-you-know-you-are-out-of-your-depth/. But now I knew that the only way I would see the Great Barrier Reef properly would be to overcome my horrors and get under the water.

Once underway on the boat we were given a comprehensive talk by an enthusiastic guide which came some way to allaying my fears. They were not only used to those of us who are not water-babies but evangelistic about everyone seeing the reef and its inhabitants, determining that nobody would return having not experienced the marvels of this phenomenon. We’d be coached, cajoled and cared for. I relaxed…a bit.

On arrival to the spot wwhere we were to explore we got changed and kitted out with snorkels, life vests and flippers. Husband, though not himself a water refusenik, is no more a fan of water leisure than I. Nevertheless he was perfectly confident to get down under, having been a regular body-boarder at home. We nerve-wracked, weedy ones went to get our tutorial on snorkelling and a short practice and I was heartened to not be alone in my paranoia.

In the event we got to cling on to a rubber ring and dip our heads in enough for a proper underwater experience. I’d like to say that from that point on I never looked back- that I became a virtual mermaid and devotee of wild swimming- but I’d be lying. I’m still not a fan of swimming and unless I’m too hot I’ll do nothing more than paddle. But I was thrilled to be able to see the colourful fish and corals at the reef and especially the enormous, tame, blue fish that joined us for some of the time, fed and groomed by the boat crews to be fearless among the spluttering tourists.

I didn’t stay in for hours. Twenty minutes or so was about my limit. I wasn’t so good at snorkelling and had ingested more salty seawater than was comfortable. Husband stayed in longer. We enjoyed a buffet lunch- much appreciated, and returned to Cairns, but while I’d only spent a very short period looking at the wondrous reef I felt a sense of triumph that I’d managed it!

Then it was time to move on to the next Australian adventure…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.