Tag: Dart

Red Jewel: Excerpt

Almost finished my latest and 4th book. It is called: Red Jewel. Here is an excerpt, in draft:

The very next Saturday Ruth did show up with Mr. Sommers…her father. Shyly, we both said hello to one another but lacking any exuberance in the exchange. She was sizing me yup I would guess as I was with her, as only ten year old’s can do. Perhaps she was not happy with my intrusion into her own world and that with her father. Like me she had no mother. At least we had that in common. She was the same age as it turned out. Almost eleven and in the same form… or year five. She was the same height and size as I was.

Ruth was tall for a girl her age – or I was small for a boy. She had a sinewy posture in her legs and arms that insinuated a physical prepubescent immaturity. Her face was oval with almond shaped eyes that were multicolored it seemed, the shades of which appeared to alter ever so discreetly in the light of the day or the lack thereof. Violet, some green hues and a tint of bluish grey, which came to the fore of visual predominance and acuity depending on the brightness of the day’s light. Her eyes were mesmerizing, hypnotic, and magnetic as if drawing one into her persona like someone caught up in a spider’s web. Even to an ignorant, inexperienced lad such as myself, I could tell that they were special. Her hair was fairly short, almost boyish like, blond with a reddish brown tinge. Strawberry blond I would guess. She also possessed that common British trait in a girl of having the blemish free purity of a complexion that was made all the more complimentary with her natural rose colored cheeks.

“I can sail all the way up to the western arm you know.” She boasted. “Almost as far as Old Mill Creek and the boatyard.” She bragged some more. All by myself…well not really by myself.” her voice lowering. “With my father…” raised again in volume and tone…”but I was in control of “Lilly.” Is that not correct father?”

Mr Sommers laughed… “yes, yes, yes you were Ruthie. That you did.”

“Come now let’s get some lunch before we go.”

Fish and chips for all of us. I hardly got a word in edge-wise during lunch. It was all Ruth. She went on and on and on in that west county accent of hers. Not a harsh guttural strong English slang that was prevalent in London and the north of England for the day. No, her voice was of a more refined nature and if one did not know any better you would think that Ruth was an American – soft spoken, refined diction with every sentence uttered ending in an Irish or Scottish lilt. Me? I was as harsh as they come. I would have felt right at home in East London. What made the difference? Ruth went to a public school while mine was state.

Before long we were out on the Dart. Mr. Sommers took control while Ruth and I sat together on the high, windward side of “Lilly”. It was fun. The wind was fresh but not disconcertingly so. Besides, Mr. Sommers knew what he was doing. After a short spell Mr. Sommers let Ruth take the helm. She did so confidently, but under the watchful eye of her father. As she did so she eyed me menacingly, as if to stick out her tongue at me to say…na na na na na, as only a ten year old can.

The weeks and months went by. Soon I was out of primary school and into secondary. My father wanted me out in the workforce as soon as possible.

“Earn your keep boy.” He would say. School is for pussies. You are not a pussy are you lad?” He would taunt me relentlessly. “Go down to the shipyard and get a real job, pussy, eh pussy, pussy, pussy…you useless fucking turd. Fuck off now before I get really mad at ya and kick yer sorry ass goodbye.” With that he would lunge at me but always missed partially because of the booze but also because of my dexterity to avoid his boots. At that point I would head to my room and hide, only coming out to get a bit of food, if we had any.

Secondary school was a bit of a godsend for me because they did offer school lunches. Not great nutritionally but it kept the pangs at bay. But Saturdays? Oh my god Saturdays, were that a special day to look forward to each week, as I always had lunch with the Sommers’: Mr. and Ruth, most Saturdays anyway. Ruth and I were improving each and every week. By now I could confidently take control of “Lilly” while Ruth and her father sat together on the high side and admired the beauty of the Dart Estuary.

“Helms to lee I would say. Helms to my wee wee…lee lee lass.” Ruth would laugh at me as her father grinned and grimaced to this adolescent gibberish.

“Never say that unless you mean it lad.” He would scold me. “Never, ever take “Lilly” or any other sailboat for granted because in the blink of an eye her vengeance can be frightful, nightmarish, wrought down on you like with the wrath of Neptune.” He was serious.

“Sorry Sir.” Never again.” He looked at me sternly for a few seconds, then laughed aloud. Ruth followed suit but I dared not crack a smile.

I was thirteen years on now – in the secondary stream at school. About half way through. I had no idea what I was going to do at sixteen years. My father wanted me out now. I did have a part time job at Noss’ shipyard as I desperately needed some money to survive. My home life was a hell life. Except for my weekly respite with the Sommers I never thought I would ever reach my sixteenth birthday. My father was ruthless and was getting worse. School was no better as I was teased mercilessly. I had hoped to escape.

“Are you poor?” Ruth asked me one Saturday, alone.

I did not know how to respond to Ruth’s question for as a child I did not really understand that term – poverty. It was a relative term to me. Perhaps I was poor but I did not know how to measure it for I had clothes on my back and food in my belly, for the most part. I was neglected by my father, sure, but in relation to what? What does that mean, neglect? Yes, I was teased at school for the way I dressed and looked but to correlate the way I dressed or the manner in which my clothes wore on me to that of being neglected just was not in the thought process of a thirteen year old boy. And before I met Mr. Sommers and Ruth I had no idea what a loving relationship was. That I did not know. I just knew that they were fun to be around, were kind and friendly, whereas all I had known of a home-life to date was the coldness and harshness of abject terror. How I missed my mum but even that thought was becoming so distant as to be rendered a fantasy in my young boy’s mind.

“I do not think so.” I answered. “I do not feel it if that is what you mean.”

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SJ…Out

A New Story

This is but a draft.  This is part of the next book I am currently working on. Hope you like it.

The water of the Dart had a slight chop to it. It was the colour of a rich indigo. Its contrast to the sky’s blueness was striking especially when measured against the rich green textures and hues of the surrounding deep foliage of trees and flowers. God’s natural palette. Thousands it seemed of trees and flora, of many colours and descriptions. They graced the hills above the harbour from the beaches, rocks and crevices of the shoreline. Very lush. Looking north up the river this landscape of trees and foliage that hugged the shoreline and hung over parts of the Dart presented an aura of peace, tranquility and contentment. It was heaven, sleepingly so. To the south you could see how the Dart narrowed at the mouth of the estuary before spilling out and into the English sea or channel, with its entranceway guarded on both sides by rocky crags and cliffs as well as the artillery forts of Dartmouth Castle on the west bank with Kingswear Tower on the east side. Both of these castles were built hundreds of years ago as protection from foreign invasion, primarily from the French.

We sailed south and then altered slightly to the southeast following the contour and lines of the course of the Dart. It was interesting for me to look out to the east at Kingswear. I could even make out my house on Church Hill just to the right of and up from the lower ferry slipway that connected Kingswear to Dartmouth. I could just detect the small window of my bedroom where I spent many an hour looking out at the very scene from which I now enjoyed this view-scape. There, looking out of my bedroom window, idling my time and dreaming of a better life from the cruel existence of living with my father.

Before long we were abreast of Warfleet Creek Road. We altered to starboard and made our way to a small landing on the south side of the little bay that was fed by Warfleet Creek. With our help Mr. Sommers had Lilly secured along a small wharf. We disembarked, secured our belongings and made our way up to Castle Road. From there it would be a short half mile walk to Dartmouth Castle.

Ruth was excited and beside herself as she ran up the shallow slope to Castle Road. Looking east and then south she became enamoured by the sight of a long dark tree tunnel that was formed by a canopy of leaves and deciduous bushes and hedges that lined both sides of the road, as if they were, according to Ruth, ancient guardians and sentinels of the medieval castle itself. A broad imagination Ruth had.

“Oh daddy, daddy look. Look at this.” she said. “A wondrous tree tunnel that goes on and on forever and ever. To our magical castle estate. “Oh King Sommers.” lowering her voice. “Come your highness, King of Wessex itself. And I am Queen Matilda, or Empress Maud, a woman who would be King of all of England.”

“Yes you are my darling Ruth.” Mr. Sommers said, laughingly, looking at me with a high browed grin.

“But who am I your Highness?” I mocked at her.

“Oh, oh” she paused, unsure of herself for the moment. “Well never mind you…you…you are just my servant boy, my peon of east Meon. You shall do as I say…as I order you or you shall curse the day that you were born. To the chopping block and off with your head if you refuse my bidding” She laughed then giggled and then ran down the shadowing laneway. Happy and excited, exuberant. I followed suit while Mr. Sommers walked slowly behind us, enjoying this moment with his daughter.

You could see the shadows dissipate as the tree tunnel ended with a burst of brightness of the mid afternoon sun. There we were, at the entranceway to the castle. In the gathering area just outside of the main gateway…or drawbridge as Ruth would refer. We were the only ones there. She ran ahead as we followed her into a narrow passageway that was lined with ancient stone walls, ramparts and buttresses. It was almost 600 years old and along with a castle on the Kingswear side Dartmouth Castle protected the entrance to the Dart estuary from French invasion. It held an array of cannon in its tower as well as a mechanism to use a cable that was used in conjunction with Kingswear on the opposite bank to halt the ingress of enemy shipping.

The castle was imbued with many passageways and lookouts that were focused on the entrance to the Dart and approaches to the estuary from the channel beyond. There were gunrooms and powder-rooms, storerooms, quarters, cooking houses and various laneways. Many of the rooms were connected by narrow, dark passageways with low hanging stone ceilings. It was very cool, almost cold in these dark and damp rooms that were only lit by the natural light that came in from the outside through cracks and doorway openings. In one spot Ruth became frightened and held on to my arm. As her anxiety lessoned with my presence beside her she moved her arm down until she could feel the warmth of my hands. There, she entwined her fingers through mine. We were holding hands. I felt a slight tinge and weird sensation through my entire upper being. It felt strange but wonderful.

We held hands and felt our way back up a flight of stone steps and then out and into a small open square that was surrounded on all sides by old stone walls. They were only about four feet high except on the southern side where the wall formed part of the gun tower. We walked over to the east side of the square where we could look out at the expanse of the English Channel. It was so bright and clear that you could almost see across to France or Guernsey. But not really. We looked around and back up where we could see Mr. Sommers above us on a stone rampart. We waved.

“Let’s eat.” He yelled down at us. “Meet me outside the gate.”

Ruth and I left the square to make our way back up through the various rooms and passageways to the outlying path that led to the entranceway to the castle. On our way, Ruth abruptly stopped and turned toward me then gave me a peck on my cheek, and then another. She smiled at me and said. “You may be a poor peon from East Meon Nigel but you are my peon and I like you very much. You may be my knight Mr. Filtness. Rise Sir Nigel.” as she tapped me on my shoulder. And with that she ran off ahead of me giggling and excitable like the young schoolgirl that she was to meet with up with her father.

We spent the next hour or so having a picnic of mutton chops, some salad, chips butty, tea sandwiches and some tea. I could not remember how that went or if the food was good for my mind was racing with that short memory and sweet innocent embrace from Ruth. I may have only been thirteen years old but it did not feel as yucky to me in the least. I was smitten.

As we sat down to our late lunch on a grassy embankment close to the outer western wall of the castle, Mr. Sommers told us about the history of the place and the role it played during the many wars with France including our most recent past of World Wars I and II against Germany. It was a fascinating account of adventure, bravery, fools, pirates, kings and queens, smugglers and rogues. He also touched on the varied history of Dartmouth and Kingswear as well as the advent of the Royal Naval College and Britannia. Ruth would look at me from time to time during this discourse to steal a glance from me and to share a smile. I was beginning to see Ruth in a different light. It was wonderful to know her and Mr. Sommers. Indeed it was wonderful be alive I thought if even for a short respite on this perfect, sunny August afternoon in Dartmouth. For soon reality will bite me squarely in the ass as I make my way home. I tried not to think about it.

We sailed back hardly saying a word. We were exhausted. The wind had come up somewhat but ours was a run before the wind, so it felt as if it was a nice comfortable leisurely sail. A few times Mr. Sommers had to grasp the tiller firmly in this wind and following sea so as not to lose control. Nevertheless the strength of the wind never became apparent to me until we altered directly into it as we came to the mooring buoy on the Kingswear side. It was brisk. Finally, safe and secured to our buoy, Mr. Sommers guided the punt to take us ashore one by one. Saying goodbye to Ruth and thanking Mr. Sommers for everything I made my way home.

1953 was a seminal year for me. I was fourteen years old. My father had come down with a serious disease from the booze. Cirrhosis they called it. I thought something may be amiss for his tendency to hit me or strike me was beginning to wane. He seemed to be tired all the time. Even the verbal abuse and taunts lessened somewhat. He was sick. His skin had a yellowish hue to it all the time. He hardly ate. A putrid sickly smell permeated throughout the house. At times his gut seemed to expand in size, round and very hard to the touch. But he kept drinking.

I do not know how he did it but he would go to the clinic on his own accord from time to time for help. They must have done something for his gut, drained it of fluids perhaps, for it was a normal size when he returned home. But that cure was only temporary for the size of his gut would grow again. Expand to a large ugly mass of skin and putrid flesh marked with red sores. You could almost watch it grow on its own.

One time he did not return home. Concerned, I made it up to the sanatorium to check on his whereabouts. A nurse met me at reception and took me up to his room, or dorm, as there were at least ten men in beds clustered in that one room. My father was down at one end by a window that looked out and over at the hills above Kingswear. I walked down the middle of the corridor that separated the rows of beds and stood at the end of his bed. There was a pan at his right side that was overflowing with a sickly, stinking yellow fluid. I could hardly stand the smell or look of it. I went over to his left side and pulled a sheet over that separated his bed from his neighbour who was also unconscious.

I did not know what to say. I didn’t know why I was even there. I had only known cruelty and neglect from this man. No love. He was not deserving of any love or attention on my part, yet here I was looking down on a decaying, repulsive corpse, barely alive. Yet whatever his failings as a man, as a human being, as a father, he was my father. I felt pity for him. I felt sorrow for what might have been. I also felt self pity and grief for a man who was my lot in life. He was my gift from God. And I for him. Ours was a gift that was considerably flawed but a gift nonetheless.

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SJ…Out