Times and Places Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

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  Copyright © 2018 Keith Anthony

  The right of Keith Anthony to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with theCopyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  ISBN 978 1912575 152

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  For Mum, Dad and Sally

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1Southampton – Saturday 19th November 2016

  2London – Late June 2006

  3English Channel – Sunday 20th November 2016

  4London – Late June 2006

  5North East Atlantic – Monday 21st and Tuesday 22nd November 2016

  6Ljubljana – August 2004

  7The Azores – Wednesday 23rd and Thursday 24th November 2016

  8London – Late June 2006

  9Eastern Atlantic – Friday 25th to Sunday 27th November 2016

  10The Chilterns – September 2004

  11Mindelo – Monday 28th November 2016

  12Cornwall bound – May 1993

  13Praia – Tuesday 29th November 2016

  14Lancashire – May 2013

  15Eastern Atlantic – Wednesday 30th November 2016 AM

  16London and the Chilterns – early April 2010

  17Eastern Atlantic – Wednesday 30th November 2016 PM

  18London – Wednesday 23rd June 2010

  19Eastern Atlantic – Thursday 1st December 2016

  20The Chilterns and beyond – September 2004 to June 2006

  21The Canaries – Friday 2nd to Sunday 4th December 2016

  22The Isles of Scilly – May 1993

  23Madeira – Monday 5th to Tuesday 6th December 2016

  24Ljubljana – December 2013

  25North East Atlantic – Wednesday 7th December 2016

  26Lancashire – May 2013 and Galilee – AD31

  27North East Atlantic – Thursday 8th December 2016

  28London – Monday 12th December 2016

  29Bay of Biscay – Friday 9th December 2016

  30Norfolk – Late September 2015

  31Southampton – Saturday 10th December 2016

  32Post Script – Hertfordshire – early September 2017

  Acknowledgements

  I am very grateful to my mother for her enthusiasm and painstaking work, editing earlier versions of this my first book, and to my father, who had his own poignant, humour-full flair for writing. Both your influences permeate my story. Thank you for having been my loving, inspiring, fun, hardworking parents.

  Thank you as well to Georgina, who first read my manuscript through the night (and still went to work the next day!) and then re-read it more slowly, providing many thoughtful suggestions.

  While my main character, Fergus, goes on retreat in Lancashire, I went to St Beuno’s in North Wales and the seeds for “Times and Places” were sown there, over four years ago. He and I were lucky to find such special locations. Similarly, I don’t know what meditation app Fergus uses, but thank you to “Headspace” which has served me well.

  Finally, I took a cruise and it inspired the setting for my book, but the Magdalena is not that ship and the bizarre goings on I describe on board did not happen in real life! I hope, therefore, nobody misrecognises themselves or is hurt by anything I have written: it is fiction. Thank you to the officers, entertainers and entire crew of that real ship for their hard work, often a very long way from home, giving others holidays to remember.

  Keith Anthony

  Autumn 2017

  He himself fixed beforehand the exact times and the limits of the places they would live. He did this so they would look for him, and perhaps find him…

  Good News Bible, Acts 17 26–27

  Prologue

  London – August 2001

  “Excuse me…”

  The woman who had rushed up to the police officer must have been about eighteen years old – just a year in the job and it was already automatic for the newly recruited constable to make assessments of those she encountered on her busy central London beat – yes, about eighteen, around five foot six, white, brunette, pretty rather than beautiful, bright rather than academic… middle class, fit, arty maybe.

  “… I think the gentleman over there is in some sort of trouble, he says he’s lost something, or someone, he seems to be very upset.”

  The officer, only six or so years older herself, followed the pointing finger and saw an elderly man, sitting on the kerb and crying uncontrollably, while passers-by stared, mocked or gave him a wide berth.

  For a moment, she turned back from the distressed man and looked the young woman straight in the face. In the Metropolitan Police you quickly learned that urban life could be grim, but also that goodness was out there, sometimes hidden, sometimes shining conspicuously against the sprawling cityscape. Such felt the case today: the young face appeared to belong to someone naive and caring; though not yet confident enough to intervene personally herself. It was the face of someone in town for the day before retreating back somewhere less harsh. It was the face of someone lucky.

  “Thank you miss, that’s kind of you. Leave him to me, I’ll make sure he’s OK.”

  And with that the police officer headed across to the sobbing gentleman, while the young woman disappeared back into the crowds.

  1

  Southampton – Saturday 19th November 2016

  It all ended with Fergus in his pyjamas being escorted off the ship in Southampton, with a port security official either side, but how had it begun?

  It seemed both an age and but the blinking of an eye since he and his wife, Sylvie, had left their Chiltern home, a seventeenth century house set like an island on a sea of green lawns, which sloped up to woodland on three sides and to a hedge and the road on the fourth. This was their idyll, where they had lived for approaching forty years, where between them they had accumulated almost two lifetimes of memories and where a third entire life had played out, that of their daughter Justine.

  It was hard for them to leave, even for a three week holiday, but now the car was packed, weighed heavily with suitcases and bags. Fergus checked his small holdall one final time for wallet, tickets, passports – yes, all still there. As they set off down the drive, it was as if the house were clinging to them, until finally, once they pulled out into the lane, it was forced to let go and watch them disappear, wondering how long it would have to wait, once so full of life but now entirely empty, for their return.

  Sylvie drove through the village and on towards the main road, feeling relieved that all the preparations were finally complete. Next to her, however, she sensed a certain restlessness increasing in her husband until, at the roundabo
ut where they were to join the motorway, he suddenly confessed:

  “It’s no good… I can’t remember switching off the boiler!”

  Sylvie had grown used to this sort of thing and, knowing he would otherwise spend their entire holiday worrying about returning to the smouldering, blackened shell of their beloved home, she was keen to set his mind at rest.

  “Don’t worry, we’re in good time, I’ll turn round.”

  Ten minutes later, it seemed a little surreal to arrive back at the house when they should already have been twenty miles away. They were seeing it as they had not been meant to see it, looking a little abandoned and rather sad, though unsurprised by their premature homecoming – there had almost bound to be a false start. Fergus disappeared inside.

  “So?” she gently enquired as he got back into the car.

  “Yes, it was off.” He wondered whether this was a good or bad answer in the circumstances, but then another thought came to mind.

  “Just a moment…”

  He suddenly climbed out again, leaving Sylvie bemused as to what was going on. She watched him hurry back up to the house, fiddle around with his keys and then give the front door a good final push, just to be sure.

  “Sorry, I thought I might have forgotten to double lock it as I came out.”

  “And had you?”

  “No.”

  “And, while you were in there, you didn’t turn any lights back on, fire up the wood burner, leave the freezer door open, start running a bath perhaps?”

  It was meant as a kindly tease and he wasn’t in the least bit worried about the latter three possibilities, though he did fleetingly wonder about the lights. However, even for him, enough was finally enough. He plugged his seat-belt in with a decisive click:

  “Everything is definitely off, everything is definitely locked!”

  She released the handbrake and they headed back down the drive, the house again receding behind them in the rear view mirror, eventually disappearing for good behind a hedge as she turned back into the lane.

  They travelled mostly in silence. The traffic was light and, despite the thirty minutes their return home had added to the journey, they made good progress. Fergus hypnotically watched the motorway unveil itself in front of him, relaxing before what he suspected might be fairly chaotic scenes of handing over luggage and car keys; not to mention all the queuing he feared would be involved with check-in. Still, the cruise had been booked months previously and now they were finally on their way. The fact that the weather had turned cold was perversely satisfying: they were heading south to the sun!

  This was a proper holiday and one that was long overdue, a treatment prescribed by his wife to counter the anxiety she had seen creep up on him since… well, since their world had dramatically changed. Somehow, it had not felt right to go before now, or he at least had not felt ready. He struggled to remember the last time they had actually gone away. There had been his eight day silent retreat in Lancashire three and a half years earlier, but that had been on his own and hardly a holiday. And there had been their week together in Slovenia six months after that, to celebrate his sixtieth – yes, that should definitely count. Otherwise though, he had to go all the way back to when the three of them had visited the Lake District in the autumn of 2005, striking lucky with sunshine in that beautiful but notoriously rainy corner of England. Yet, more than the fine weather, he remembered how fortunate they had felt that their twenty-three year old daughter had still wanted to come away with her parents. Things had looked so good for her then, none of them could have guessed her own luck was about to run out.

  Fergus sighed involuntarily.

  “Nearly there!” Sylvie said, resting her hand a moment on his thigh.

  With only twenty miles to go, they still had over an hour to reach the docks. This should have been plenty of time, but just a few minutes later they saw an ominous motorway sign, shimmering amber in the distance: ‘Slow Down – Carriageway Blocked’. Fergus felt his stomach tighten: this didn’t look good.

  The warning was unnecessary, the traffic had no choice but to reduce speed and, all too soon, it came to a complete standstill. Feeling a familiar panic begin to surge within him, Fergus sought to remember the calming mindfulness techniques he had been learning – another Sylvie prescription for his nerves – but somehow he couldn’t focus. He cursed his constant need to check things. He had known he had switched the boiler off, why had he not trusted himself? In going back to the house, they had thrown away the advantage of leaving early, thereby allowing misfortune a foot in the door. Fergus feared they were going to ‘miss the boat’, or at least be involved in a ‘will we or won’t we make it?’ cliff-hanger all the way to the port: the prospect exhausted him. It did not escape him, either, that he had slipped from a relative calm into this intense anxiety in a matter of minutes: his inability to control his own mind annoyed him every bit as much as the congestion which now held them captive – all they could do was wait.

  Looking ahead about half a mile, he could see flashing blue lights: someone was clearly having a worse day than him. Nevertheless, it was with relief that, after a short while, he noticed the vehicles far in front seemed to be inching forward and, slowly but surely, this ripple of movement drew ever closer, until before long they too began to move. A few minutes later, they drove past the scene of the accident, which was on the other side of the carriageway and involved a burnt-out car.

  Fergus couldn’t help but wonder whether unknown lives had come to an abrupt end, certainly there must have been injuries. He pictured how, later in the day, relatives would be reeling with shock as they learned of the tragedy, even as he and Sylvie were perhaps sitting down to their first ship board dinner. He was familiar with that sensation of horror and disbelief and how, over time, it gave way to grief, an uninvited companion to whom you eventually grew so accustomed that you actually became scared it might go away, though it never really did. With the accident behind them, they picked up speed again, continuing south down the motorway, while the northbound traffic queued stationary for several miles as (Fergus imagined) paramedics fought to save those precious but unknown lives.

  The respite was brief as Southampton itself was completely snarled up with what the radio described as ‘football traffic’. They crawled through the city’s suburbs, growing ever more concerned that, not having seen a sign to the docks for several miles, they may have taken a wrong turn. Suddenly, Fergus saw one, an image of a ship on an arrow, directing them left:

  “There!”

  He pointed it out to Sylvie just in time for her to swerve across two lanes of furiously hooting traffic, escaping the worst of the congestion as they dived down an anonymous side road towards the port. So close and yet, even then, the journey still felt interminable, with painfully slow progress through road works and repeated traffic lights, all conspiring to turn red as they approached.

  By the time they finally arrived shipside they were late, but the well-practised machinery of the cruise line swung into action, reassuringly indifferent to the fact that they should have been there thirty minutes earlier. Before they knew it, Fergus and Sylvie’s luggage had been whisked away, they had handed over their car and they were in a long but steadily moving line of passengers zigzagging across the departure hall.

  Looking around, it was clear that this was not a cruise for the younger generations. The predominant hair colour was grey and the accessories of choice appeared to be walking sticks, zimmer frames and wheelchairs, with a handful of mobility scooters into the bargain. None of this worried either Fergus or Sylvie. They were both retired themselves and, if they were to be below the average passenger age, then they would enjoy being the youngsters again. Anyway, they knew what they wanted from this cruise and it did not involve nightlife and parties, but rather relaxing in warmer weather and experiencing the wonder of being out on the ocean, the beauty and vastness of which Fergus ho
ped would re-invigorate his spirits, and perhaps even his faith.

  They passed through security and checked-in. Painless. Furthermore, because they were late, they were able to board straightaway, clanging their way across the gangway onto the ship and receiving a warm:

  “Welcome aboard the Magdalena Mr and Mrs Fredricks!”

  The smiling steward directed them to their cabin two decks below and Fergus tried his key card in the lock, hearing a soft click as he did so and seeing a little light flash green. He pushed down on the handle and opened the door. They were on deck four, the second lowest on which passengers could reside, the areas beneath deck three being reserved for crew quarters and the working parts of the Magdalena which were out of bounds. They had wondered whether, being so far down in the ship, they would find themselves in some sort of modern steerage, but in fact what greeted them, as they tentatively peered inside, was a very pleasant surprise. Two single bunks, with plump green quilts, stretched invitingly lengthways against either side wall. Above the bed heads a big picture window looked out onto the docks, while between them was a table, with a softly glowing lamp reachable from both sides. Although their accommodation was small, it was very homely, and big enough if they were organised with their storage strategy. They were on the port side and well towards the bow. Fergus hoped this meant they would feel the pitching and rolling of the ship as they roamed the Atlantic. Sylvie was more cautious and checked her handbag for the seasickness tablets she had purchased, just as a precaution, though she did wonder, should they hit bad weather, how long Fergus’ seafaring enthusiasm would last.

  They entered the cabin and found their luggage already waiting for them inside. Fergus finally relaxed again. His wife, well attuned to him after thirty-eight years of marriage, kissed him. She also felt relieved the journey was over.