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Historyland 2. Activation

13 Friday Feb 2015

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I had been slipping in and out of a clammy semi-consciousness for some time when the sound of a streaming morning news show brought a finality to this semi-sentience; I realized my new situation had given me a new problem: an excessively warm room. The bedroom I shared in Armitage with Seb, my brother, had no heating and frequently, no electrical power either. Thucydides, our ancient family cat, was an occasional welcome alternative, but only to the former.

My mind had by now fully rebooted and had switched back to the news report.

“The ceasefire in the Crimea is continuing to hold and the Praesidium has allowed water supplies to flow once more into the Ukraine. Meanwhile Princess Diana and Prince Alexey have returned from their vacation in Shanghai and will host a garden party for lucky VIP guests here in Historyland.’

‘How exciting. Lucky VIPs.’ I muttered and tried to find another content stream.

‘Can I help you with something, Robert Lyttelton?’

It was that female voice again, the ethereal one I had heard late last night when I had finally found my room having click-signed a million forms in exchange for a key. Despite feeling exhausted, I was startled by what seemed to be a woman in my bedsit telling me she was my Digital Assistant and Technology Valet -whatever that was. I said I was tired and asked politely if we could do this another time.

‘Sure. No problem, Rob Lyttleton,’ she said, ‘we can finish set-up later.’

And now this morning, she was telling me this was later.

‘So can I help you with something now, Robert Lyttelton?’ Somehow hearing my full name spoken like that seemed just a bit alien.

‘Perhaps I can stream to the vistel to your left?’

I looked at the wall and saw a full-sized female avatar who (or which?) seemed to be in her mid-20s, about the same age as me.

‘May I give you a simple advice? Just ask me something and I will do what I can to assist you.’

‘Well you could start with your name,’ I said.

‘My name is Alicia Zachery and I’m configured by default to be friendly, straightforward and submissive. Is that to your liking? Other genders and personality types are available to download.’

‘I see,’ I said, playing for time and began to perform a number of body lunges – the standard stretching routine for pike men in Bagot’s Regiment of Foote.

‘Can we talk about this later? For now, I have to get ready for my induction. Do you happen to know what’s in store with the weather today?’

‘If by “store” you mean what the weather outside will be like today, then absolutely, Robert Lyttelton. It is currently a dry, sunny and in fact typical January day. But please note: a frost alert! The minimum temperature will be -4°, and out of the sun you will need a warm coat, scarf and handware. Would you like me to propose a place for a warmful breakfast pause?”

‘Thank you, but no,’ I told her, ‘I am sure I can find my own place for breakfast,’ and smiling to myself I considered just for a moment the idea of ‘warmful handware’.

My next few minutes were spent considering the luxury of an ensuite shower complete with apparently unlimited hot water. A quarter of an hour later, scarfed up and wearing my Bagot Montero cap, I made my way towards the induction meeting. It was indeed a marvellous, crisp and sunny morning as I walked through the Big Cast Zone, the area of Historyland’s campus dedicated to employees and associates. There was already plenty of evidence that I was in a theme park dedicated to history. Just ahead of me, I saw two Native Americans in war paint eating sushi next to a gladiator, complete with trident and net, the latter thrown nonchalantly over his shoulder. To my right there was a larger group of what looked like Middle Kingdom Egyptian Warriors who were working out with a blue track-suited personal trainer whose T-shirt featured a bold letter H in blue.

I followed signs and walked along a dark connecting corridor out of the Cast Zone and into the Grand Piazza, a square lined with arcaded porticos where guests were seated in the sunshine taking breakfast or studying their Tabs. I was looking for Tudor Way. All the main routes in Historyland were named after the world’s great ruling dynasties and had distinctive colours. Tudor Way was the red path and it would take me directly to the Citadel, Historyland’s directorate and management centre. Soon I had found the red path and was walking through a shopping arcade which seemed to have mixed up historical eras in a very curious way, and there at the end of it, I saw the chimneys and gables of the Citadel: Hampton Court on the outside, and vibrant technology hub on the inside with café bar, box office, travel centre and guest waiting area. I noticed a sign to a Cast Zone space that had its own reception area. Here, sitting at a desk looking formidable was a woman called Prudence Piéton. I edged nervously towards her.

‘Good morning. My name is Rob Lyttelton… a new cast member.’ I was hesitating. ‘I arrived yesterday. I am here for my induction.’

Prudence looked at me, consulted her Tab and smiled.

‘Welcome Dr. Lyttelton. I see you arrived from the Pale yesterday and you are here to be our new Historian-in-Residence’

I nodded, which was an unnecessary gesture, because Prudence Pieton was not asking me a question.

‘I am sure you will find everything in Historyland will be very different to the Pale and most interesting for a keen student of history like you. Please take a seat,’ and pointed to a small waiting area. I sat nervously and regretted that I hadn’t taken Alicia’s advice about breakfast, as I was now feeling hungry and a little lightheaded. Then, as if taken in surprise by some bold ambuscade, I saw her for the first time and was completely captivated. It was her short copper hair, the cobalt eyes and that scarf poised so elegantly around her neck. I didn’t know anything then about scarves, but this one looked expensive and was also a proper Roundhead orange. Fortunately, I am glad to say that that the rest of her dress seemed definitely more Cavalier: she wore a corn linen jacket and carried a Tab cased in bronze. Then I noticed her delicate ivory hands and the lime green of her nails. The elevator doors closed and she was gone.

Speed Awareness

06 Sunday Jul 2014

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The confirmation had arrived. The authorities were allowing him to avoid points on his licence in return for his attendance at a speed awareness course at Wroxton Airfield.

 

Ed was to report at 8am and be available for a minimum of six hours. The paperwork told him to bring food and drink if needed. It also made it quite clear that he was to concentrate fully on the course. Any lapses such as surreptitious texting would result in immediate expulsion.

 

The day arrived dismal, dark and freezing cold. Wroxton consisted of decaying Nissens, fractured concrete and tumbleweed. The car park was already full of boy-racer brands to which he added his Subaru.

 

He found the waiting room reeking of sweat and damp and glanced at his bung- eyed mean looking co-students.

 

Suddenly a neatly turned out gentleman appeared with a clipboard:

‘You are all here because you have broken the law and society has seen fit to extract its penalty by your spending time here with me. I’m Mr Lightber, the facilitator; and remember, keep your mobiles switched off.’

 

They took their seats and so began hours of listening to lectures and answering questions.

 

First, the course became restive because of the relentless barrage of Highway Code Trivial Pursuit and then aggressive when Mr Lightber announced he wanted to start the next module.

 

‘Now listen, you lot, you’ve not only broken the law but have killed and injured other people. Some of you have even managed to kill yourselves. That’s right….you’re dead.

 

And for those who thought hell was all cauldrons and boiling oil, you are now discovering that we are more sophisticated with our guests

 

You may as well calm down now, because you’re going to be doing this course for, ahem, eternity!’

Ed looked at the Subaru through the window and closed his eyes.

 

Close to Cold

08 Thursday May 2014

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Close to Cold

We were at the base of the staircase and walked the corridor gloom into the sepulchre. Glints of frost flickered in the stones, our eyes scanning. This was the moment the Professor had warned us about, when our resolve would be tested. Without question we had the knowledge, and thanks to him we had the kit. Even so, I looked down into my canvas bag, our eyes were still shifting between the darkness and each other, the cumulus of our breath emanating like ectoplasm. There it was. We had found it: a monolith, horizontal and menacing. We walked towards it. We felt its chill that threatened a cold that bites and burns. Behind us, a voice, understated but taunting:

‘Gentlemen, thank you for joining us.’

Then light filled the room with faces we knew. The Coors Stag weekend had begun.

The Buttery

31 Monday Mar 2014

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IMG_4734Buttery: A room in a college, especially at the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, from which articles of food and drink are sold or dispensed to students.

 

The evening had started with the predictable mix of glamour and showing-off. Black, white and sparkling gold provided the backdrop for discreet but earnest comparisons about waist size, amount of hair, and relationship status. Dinner made for even more intimate conversation, provoked by the space limitations of the bulging benches. A green, white and red theme emerged as staff brought us plates of asparagus, turbot and summer fruits fool. The college chardonnay, honeyed and very acceptable, seemed plentiful, and there was a contented buzz in Hall when the speeches began.

I remember a good friend, who’d officiated at more than his fair share of these dinners, told me his top tip was get the speeches over early in the programme and delivered quickly. Sadly not tonight, and when finally we were released to make our way to the Buttery, we were in need of a morale-boosting sharpener or two, and to finally commune with the people we’d actually come to see again.

There is nothing like a reunion to demonstrate proof of the old law of physics that states that nothing changes very often. Here we all were again with or without hair, money or whipped waistlines, head to head, drinking and playing table football as if it were yesterday. It seems on evenings like this, you enter a time slip where one can automatically resume old threads of conversation, feel similar emotional affects and even commit the same social errors. I was with a small group of very good and old friends and relishing every minute, unlike Pip.

Pip was yawning and said it was far too late for her to be up drinking. With a blown kiss to the rest of us, she made her way towards the door,

‘It’s late, and I’m going to bed. See you all at breakfast!’

Her departure created something of a lull, and looking about us we saw that we were now the last men standing or, more precisely, sitting. The Buttery was quiet now, apart from the departing click-clack of Pip’s heels on the stairs up to the Quad.

It was Ed, my best friend from the very beginning of our time at college, and Pip’s husband, who called for one last beer and a good story before bed.

Sitting with a brand new pint of Shotover Scholar in front of me, I said I had an interesting story to tell that was perfect for a Gaudy night. What’s more, it was actually a true story – and not only that, it had taken place place the first time I had come into this very room. The others murmured an intrigued assent; and so encouraged, this was the story I told.

The first time I saw Oxford, I came by train, and even though Birmingham was not that far away, it seemed to take forever. It was also my first time away from home by myself, without Mum or Dad, teachers or other school friends, and I was to be interviewed at Foxe College for a place to read law. It was a cold, Welsh slate of an afternoon in December.

After walking from the station in the freezing rain, my toes were tingling and I felt tired, anxious and frankly miserable. I found my way to Turl Street and arrived at Foxe around six o’clock, noticing for the first time the sad orange glow of the gaslights that seemed to hang in mid-air above the square next to the Radcliffe Camera. At the lodge, all cosy and pigeonholed, a smart and efficient-looking porter with a pocket watch and half-moon spectacles gave me directions to my room, which after a number of frustrating wrong turns, I finally managed to locate. It was on the top floor of staircase XVI. There was a smell of beeswax and muskiness in the air and at the end of a dim, lino-ed corridor I saw my room. Unlocking the door, I found myself in a dark, cold closet of a room. I switched on the light to reveal only basic amenities: a desk, a single bed and a small cloth-backed armchair. The walls were solid and bare and through the window I could see the drizzle and the stained glass of a chapel illuminated by the lamp below. Feeling the chill, I noticed a gas fire attached to the wall, but couldn’t see any means of lighting it.

I emptied the contents of my bag on the bed – that didn’t take long – and was grateful to find the extra jumper my mum had encouraged me to pack, and I decided I would go in search of a box of matches and something to eat. It had been a long time since the bacon sandwich my mum had cooked me that morning.

On my way back to the lodge, I spotted a young man wrapped up against the cold carrying some books and a briefcase; he was a few years older than me, and I assumed he was probably a postgrad or a young don. I asked him if there was anywhere in college I might get some matches and a something to eat.

He looked at me at first as if I spoke a foreign language but after a second, he seemed to have understood what I said.

‘The Buttery may still be open,’ he said. His voice definitely had a touch of gentry about it. ‘You’ll probably get some pilchards on toast and a cup of tea, or similar. Good luck.’

Now, I wasn’t actually sure then what pilchards were, or for that matter what a Buttery was, but a few minutes later I was in what we all know as Pater Quad, looking down into the white wattled gloom of a stairwell which lead to the basement of Staircase IX.

I trod cautiously down the stairs, pressed the iron latch and opened the door. There was light and warmth but the Buttery was quiet and deserted. Quite hungry and definitely cold now, I felt brave enough to mooch around the bar for a box of matches. I was rummaging in a drawer when I heard a voice. It was gravelly, warm and friendly, with an accent I faintly recognised.

‘Hello, sir, can I help you?’

I turned and saw a well-built man of about forty, with a reddish face and smartly brushed, short black hair. He was wearing the sort of short white coat I had seen waiters wear. His black trousers were well pressed and his shoes were immaculately polished Oxfords.

‘Do you know what you’re looking for, sir?’

‘I’m here for an entrance interview tomorrow,’ I said.

He could see I was nervous and hesitant. ‘I’ve just arrived in college and my room was cold and there were no matches to light the fire. Actually, I’m really hungry – do you think I could get anything to eat here?’

‘Sorry to say the the pantry is closed now, sir, but I can probably rustle up a lump of cheddar, a chunk of bread and a glass of beer for you. And somewhere here I think we’ll find a book of matches. Come and sit yourself down here, lad. I’m Arnold, by the way, Senior College Porter and Buttery Steward.’ He called me over and sat me at a table over there, near the table football. My Gaudy friends looked, nodded and took another sip of their beer and I continued…

From behind the bar, Arnold called to me: ‘So you’re up for an interview, sir? What subject?’

‘Law.’

‘That’ll be with Dr Harding then. Lovely man! Likes a nice glass of wine does the doctor, but make sure you’ve read the papers as he does seem to like students who know what’s going on.’

He brought over a tray on which were two glasses, two bottles of beer, a chunk of cheddar and doorstep of bread. He plonked two beer mats on the table, carefully poured our beer into the waiting glasses and sat down beside me. He carried on talking while I got stuck into the cheese and drank my beer. He told me a little bit about the history of the college and the famous alumni who studied here, and we talked about football and cricket; I remember him telling me that he supported Wolverhampton Wanderers because his dad originally came from Worcester. Arnold was a keen cricketer and kept wicket for the College Staff against the First XI.

I think we chatted for about twenty minutes and I thanked him for the beer, cheese and his company. As I got up to go, he handed me a Shotover beer mat as a small memento, and a book of matches that bore the Foxe College crest. He wished me good luck with Dr Harding and said he hoped we’d meet again. Thanks to Arnold, I went back to my room to prepare for my interview feeling warmer and more cheerful.

At this, I paused for a moment and took a good quaff of Scholar.

Ed said, ‘Is that it then?’

I shook my head and with a smile, resumed the story.

It was ten months before I returned to Oxford and to Foxe College. I had won a place to read law, and arrived in October with all my kit in that huge trunk.   You’ll recall the effort it took to lug it up to the fifth floor of my staircase, Ed?

Anyway, with all the spurious confidence of a newly-minted undergraduate, one of my priorities on that first night was to visit the Buttery, and to present myself to Arnold and return the compliment by buying my round.

You all know of course how busy the Buttery got during Freshers’ Week? When I finally managed to push myself to the front of the bar, I looked around eagerly. But there was a different steward working there. I asked him when Arnold would be working his shift. Because of the noise, I had to repeat the question. He looked puzzled.

‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know who you mean.’

‘But I met him when I was up for interview in December last year.’

The steward shook his head, ‘We don’t have an Arnold at Foxe College.’

‘Is there someone else who might know Arnold?’ I asked.

‘Well, it’s not very likely, but you could try with Bert Mulley. He’s been here forever and he knows most of the college servants in Oxford.’

I tracked down Bert later that week – still very spritely for his age, he’d been in charge of serving High Table – and I asked him if he knew Arnold, the Senior College Porter and Buttery Steward.

Bert’s eyebrows met, as he thought hard.

‘Now sir, there’s no Arnold at Foxe right now, to be sure,’ he said. ‘But I do remember an Arnold working here when I started; actually, he was one of the most popular porters and Buttery barmen we’ve ever had at Foxe. Lovely man, and a proper war hero too.’

‘War hero?’

‘Yes, during the second war, he was one of the first Foxe men to volunteer and join up ― I think he served with the Oxford and Buckinghamshire light infantry. He was in the gliders that landed at Pegasus Bridge on D-Day. He was killed in Normandy not long after. At Caen, I think. Terrible.’

Nonplussed, I somehow managed to thank Bert, and went straight back to my rooms and the, as yet, half unpacked trunk. I rummaged through my kit for the beer mat Arnold had given me. I found it inside a book. On one side, it had a picture of Shotover’s range of Bottled Ales and on the other, under a shot of a bottle and a glass of beer was a short Latin motto.

The Latin was simple and easy for me to translate and I whispered it to myself:

Beer is living proof that God loves us, and wants us to be happy.

At this point, I stopped speaking and smiled; there was a short electric silence, finally broken by Ed’s voice

‘Wow. That was quite a story! You know what? I think we should all drink to Arnold!’

And so, nodding at Ed and the rest of my friends and then glancing back to the spot where I’d met Arnold, I lifted my glass and we saluted him with our last pints of Scholar.

Historyland: 1. Arrival

25 Tuesday Mar 2014

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historyland logoArrival

‘Have a care!’

The cry came from the big sergeant in the Roundhead line, and immediately the cannonade began. Guns were pounding the Royalist position in front of the bridge, and through the smoke I caught the glint of spearheads, as pike blocks advanced like troops of giant hedgehogs,  drums manically beating the attack. The Royalist centre began to waiver from the first impacts of the shot. To my left, I noticed something that didn’t seem quite right: a group of dismounted dragoons were scurrying across the field wearing what looked like desert boots, and stalking Royalist officers with flintlock pistols!  As I considered these blatant anachronistic dress and firearms errors, the action froze, everything went black, and after a short, pulsating electronic sting, a cheesy voice filled my ears.

‘So ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, as we go into the last quarter of the show, things are not looking too promising for the Cavaliers. Those god-fearing Roundheads have got the upper hand and are about to win control of the highway to Oxford and with it, the war. But it’s what you think that counts here, and after a short food, drink and comfort break, we’ll be back to you for the final vote of the evening.’

 

I sat in silence. This was Historyland, my new home and The Consortium’s flagship resort, where to my dad’s surprise and mum’s delight I had won a trial contract as junior historian in-residence. Jonathan, my re-enactment colleague was less positive and what I was witnessing now was exactly what he warned me about.

I was sitting in a small VIP box high above the north end of the arena with Rona Lusk, the Talent Manager’s executive assistant. Rona had just met me off the train from the Pale.

‘Welcome to Historyland, Dr Lyttleton. I think you prefer Rob?’ and without pausing for my answer, took off with fixed clipboard and started pointing to the huge transparent vistel on the concourse wall. It bore the slogan, ‘The world’s biggest and best historical entertainment resort.’ She was walking at what Jonathan and I would consider a very decent light infantry pace, and I soon found myself quick-marching towards the lights, explosions and applause of the arena.

‘Now I remember from our chats on the assessment day, Rob, that you have a specialty in The English Civil War?’ she said, and without waiting for my answer or even pausing for oxygen, told me that I had a real treat in-store. ‘You’ve arrived just in time to catch the second half of A Kingdom at Stake. Our Cavaliers v. Roundheads show. I love it, and so will you.’

So here I was, on my first night in Historyland watching the tactically implausible battle of Wheatley Bridge, surrounded by a phalanx of screaming children and their parents, being offered three ridiculously un-military options by a talent show compère.

‘As usual, we have three options for you’, he said and as he spoke these were simultaneously translated into Mandarin, Hindi and Russian and projected on giant vistels around the walls and roof of the arena.

The first option was a patently implausible Cavalier stand and victory against the odds. The second was a Cavalier rout leaving Cromwell’s men with an open road to Oxford. The third option, and perhaps only for the hard-of-thinking, was to watch this historical travesty all over again. Around me, families were typing into Tabs or pinching bio-patches to register their votes.

‘What are you going to vote for, Dr Rob? Or need we ask.’ Rona seemed to have a bit of a nudging habit.

I thought back to Rugeley station. The express was running late as usual, and my mother was shivering in the wind. She was clinging to the new suit she’d bought for me from the Gozoan Basement Webmall, but it was finally time to entrust it to me.

‘We are so proud of all you have achieved, Robert, and as sure as God made little apples, your dad and me know you’ll pass your probationary period with flying colours.’ She gave me one final kiss and reminded me to always go the extra mile for The Consortium just like dad always did. Back in the arena, I gave a neutral smile to Rona and reached for my bright and shiny Tab and selected Option One. I would vote for the Royalist army to stand its ground, and despite this unpromising start to my career in Historyland, so would I.

 

 

Paul Christopher Walton

 

 

Côte Mystère – Extract

18 Saturday Jan 2014

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An Eventful Saturday Morning for Roger 

Springing up the stairs from the rez- de- jardin with a surprising enthusiasm, given the wine and whisky overload from the night before, Roger Scott was reassured.  The warm sun blasting the entrance of the residence meant that he had made the right call on what to wear for his Saturday morning run.

‘Bonjour Monsieur Scott. Bon footing!’ Giselle Vermersch, the gardienne was hunched over her mop as usual, cigarette in mouth, watching the world go by, or at least early birds like him. Giselle was as intimate with the lives of her residents as she was fierce in defending their privacy against hawkers and what she called ‘colporters’, which Roger thought sounded vaguely musical.

With a ‘Bonjour Giselle’ and something incomprehensible in either French or English, his words trailed off into a faltering low groan.  The French loved to end their conversations with ‘bon this’ or ‘bon that’ but somehow ‘bon mopping’ didn’t sound quite right.

He did a half-hearted stretch and clumsily configured the running App on his iPhone. ‘You’re all set, Roger, let’s hit the trail’ said the jaunty female in his ears. Probably from California, he thought, and set off. Passing the queue at the boulangerie, he turned a corner and ran into the sun, along the beach to the Pointe de la Croisette. It was going to be a good day. The sky was a vivid blue, the sea was restful and sparkling and a few gentle waves rinsed the sand.

Nodding at fellow joggers and dog walkers and sometimes jogging dog walkers, he ran around the tip of the peninsula, past the Casino and all the way into town along the Boulevard de la Croisette till he reached the concrete bunker known by the locals as the Palais des Congrès.

‘Good work out there, today Roger. That record never stood a chance,’ said the Californian, as he caught his breath and stretched out.   He must remember to work out how to switch off motivational messages next time. ‘Do you want to share this run?’ said the Californian, which was clearly a logical impossibility and in a satisfying display of user-power,  Roger summarily closed her down.

Five minutes later he reached the Marché Forville, and passed the Rotisserie Christophe. Its owner had caused quite a stir in the previous couple of weeks and a goodly amount of raised eyebrows amongst the town’s foodies. Christophe advertised himself as the best maître rotisseur in Cannes and prided himself on his very special free-range birds. Unfortunately, he had been caught out roasting chickens of more humble origin  –more swizzle than sizzle apparently– and had paid a whacking fine.  But whatever their origin, Christophe did know how to cook chicken; and sausages; and pork ribs; and shoulders of lamb that would tempt the resolve of all but the most committed vegetarians; and for them Christophe proposed wicked baby golden roast potatoes and red peppers dripping in olive oil.

Unfortunately for Christophe, Roger had other things on his shopping list today. Soon his day sack was brimming with muscular beef tomatoes, a tub of burrata, peaches and pears with little red wax stalks, a sheet of thinly sliced ham and a pouch of ravioli with truffle oil. Did he really have to wait till this evening to eat this lot? Oh yes, he remembered: he’d got supper with Mary and Jane, the women of the Wardrobe Department or ‘Gowns’ as his theatre chums like to be called.

He had now earned a spuntino, a mid-morning alcoholic energizer that to his opinion was one of the best Italian habits to have made it over the border–unlike the knock-off Louis Vuitton bags and the camper vans that in high summer blocked up the beach roads and were full of little suntanned kids packed like sardines. He took a seat in his usual spot in the shade at the Cafe de L’Horloge. The Café was run by Charles and Virginie a chic couple in their early thirties and central casting French all right. Charles came from a well-heeled family and had thown up his posh business school education and investment banker career to serve cafés express and bières pression at the zinc counter. When officiating, Charles wore his signature scarlet braces with denim jeans, and with his short-cropped hair, he looked a bit like a skinhead.

Virginie was gorgeous and a walking health and safety risk. Tottering in her bootee heels and micro skirt and balancing a tray of glasses, nibbles and other essential bar paraphenalia, she was arguably as much a threat to herself as to the blood pressure of her older male regulars. Virginie had family in Marylebone and she had worked in a bar in Clerkenwell before joining up with Charles the year before last. Virginie had that wonderfully French customer service ability to disable– at least when it suited her– the capacity to understand English or indeed to speak it.

‘Ciao, monsieur Roger.  You’ve been running again by the looks of things, so now you can sin a little? What can I get you today?’

He ordered, and she returned with a small glass of rosé –where did they find glasses this microscopic from? — and a small bowl of what looked wood shavings but smelled of cheese and was delicious. Virginie gave him a smile and went off for a cigarette and a flirt with one of the waiters from the oyster bar across the square.

Roger opened the copy of Nice Matin on the table next to him and started scanning for any news about Valeria’s murder. He couldn’t see anything. He took a sip of wine and thought about Mike. He’d been pretty upset last night  —quite understandably and had drunk probably too much. Frankly, Mike’s theory about Russian gangsters being involved seemed a million miles from ‘The Comedy of Errors’, which was this year’s summer production and which they had spent the last few weeks preparing for.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across his newspaper and a man speaking to him in English.

‘Sir, excuse me for disturbing, but you are Monsieur Roger Scott?’

Roger nodded.

‘I am Jimmi Roustan, Bureau des Etrangers in Cannes. Madame Vermersch at your Residence told me I would probably find you here. Will you permit me to sit?’ The policeman was in his mid twenties and wore a lightweight blue  business suit. He held out his ID with its badge which said ‘Gardien de la Paix.’

‘Of course Monsieur’, Roger indicated the chair opposite. ‘Would you like to drink something?’

‘Non, merci.’ Monsieur Scott, can I ask you where you were last night?’

‘I was in La Bocca drinking with a friend at his apartment’

‘The friend?’

‘Monsieur Mike Green, he’s a teacher of English. We are both members of a drama group in Antibes.’

‘What time did you leave his apartment last night?’

‘About 11.30 or so We had dinner at a pizzeria on the Plage du Midi and then went back to his flat.’

The policeman nodded and made a note.

“Would you mind if  I ask you what this is all about, Monsieur Roustan? Is it anything to do with Valeria, the Russian estate agent, sorry, immobilière?’

‘It is strange, perhaps,  you should ask that, Monsieur Scott. No, it’s about your friend, Monsieur Green.  I’m sorry to say we found his body this morning and we are now investigating his death as murder.’

Historyland: a short extract

17 Friday Jan 2014

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It is 2051 – and a very different England.

Following a cataclysmic financial meltdown in the early 2020s, the country has disintegrated into The Pale – poor wastelands where the only jobs are in soul-less Gozoan1 fulfillment sheds – and the mega-city of London, dominated by Historyland, a giant theme park built to entertain swarms of affluent Chinese and Indian tourists.

This is where Rob Lyttleton, a geeky young history PhD from the provinces, has just arrived for his first ever job as Historian-in-Residence. With a somewhat over-enthusiastic interest in the English Civil War, his authenticity obsession soon brings him into conflict with the park’s Disney-Las Vegas way of staging historical spectacles.

Things will go a bit awry, but he does get to meet some interesting women and in this extract, he meets the one who will change his life.

 

 

 

Orientation

Rob had been dozing for hours when his messager alarm sounded at 7.30 a.m. His room had been so warm that he’d thrown off the duvet after waking up in a horrible sweat. At home in Armitage, once famous for its lavatory porcelain, the room he shared with his brother Seb had no heating apart from that provided by Thucydides, the family cat, and the electricity was intermittent and unreliable.

He jumped out of bed and started to perform a number of pike-man lunges as specified in the Bagot’s Regiment of Foote training manual. Rob had learned the hard way that handling an ash pole eighteen feet long required stamina and fitness. Stretching enthusiastically, he tapped the messager screen and mirrored it to the huge vistel display on the wall of his room. A Consortium news briefing was being streamed.

‘A truce has been called today by Russia and the Ukraine in their conflict over water supply. Meanwhile Princess Diana and her husband Alexey have returned from a working holiday in Shanghai and will be hosting a royal garden party later today for Historyland competition winners.’

He had seen enough and tried to switch channel.

‘Can I help you with something, Rob Lyttleton?’ said a female voice that took him by surprise. ‘Rob, I’m here, on the display. May I give you a simple advice? Just ask me something and I will do what I can to assist you.’

The voice belonged to a near-full-size avatar of a woman whom Rob estimated was supposed to be aged about twenty-five.

‘Well, you could start with your name, I suppose.’

‘My name is Alicia Zachary. I am your in-room assistant and IT valet. I am configured by default to be friendly, straightforward and submissive. Is that to your liking? Other personality archetypes are available to download.’

‘I see. Okay, we shall talk about this later, Alicia, but for now can you give me an idea of the weather outside, please?’

‘Absolutely, Rob Lyttleton. We are blessed with a dry, sunny day but it will be very cold, and out of the sun you may need a scarf and  hand-wear. May I also recommend for your short walk to Historyland HQ a place to stop off for a breakfast pause?’

‘No thank you, Alicia; I’m sure I’ll find my own way to breakfast!’, and muttered to himself: ‘Breakfast pause and  hand-wear indeed!’ as he headed towards the bathroom.

Moments later, Rob was revelling in the heat of the shower and, afterwards, feeling terrific, was even beginning to think that the shoddy Puritans–in-Prada extravaganza he’d witnessed the previous night perhaps wasn’t all that bad.

Exactly as Alicia suggested, it was a marvellously crisp and sunny November morning. Walking first through the Cast Zone, there were American Indians eating sushi with Roman gladiators. Egyptian New Kingdom medjay warriors were limbering up with a Historyland fitness trainer. In the Grand Piazza, with its arcaded forums, guest families were taking breakfast and checking Tabs. All routes in Historyland were named after the great ruling families of England, and Rob followed the Plantagenet red route to the HQ building where he was to receive his Historyland 101 induction. From the exterior Rob thought Historyland HQ, with its chimneys, turrets, and crenellations, was like Hampton Court. Inside, was a vibrant lobby with cafe bar,  ticket office and waiting area. He walked over to the reception desk to check in. The receptionist was a friendly but formidable woman in her late forties. Her holobadge bore the name Prudence Pieton.

‘Good morning. My name is Rob Lyttleton,’ he told her. ‘I’m a new Cast member. I’ve come for my orientation session.’

‘Thank you, Dr Lyttleton. I see from today’s blogdate that you are our new Historian-in-Residence?’

Rob nodded.

‘Welcome. I’m sure you will find it very interesting to work here. Please take a seat over there; your group will be called very soon.’

Rob waited nervously, and was beginning to regret his decision to ignore Alicia’s breakfast suggestions. Then, as if taken in some bold ambuscade, his attention was captured – no, stormed and overwhelmed completely – by the young woman he saw walking towards the elevator.

It was the copper hair and cobalt eyes, then the freckles, and that scarf poised so elegantly. He didn’t know about scarves but it looked expensive and was a proper Roundhead orange; happily, he thought, the rest of her uniform said Cavalier. Under her arm she carried a messager cased in bronze. He also noticed her delicate ivory hands with nails the colour of fresh lime. Then the elevator door closed and she was gone.

He was still thinking about her when a lobby announcement told him to make his way to the Livingston room on the first floor. It was time to be inducted.

1 The monolithic company formed by the merger of Google and Amazon

The Elevator Pitch

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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We had finished the workshop early. A combination of physical and intellectual exhaustion and the mind focussing anxiety of a long haul flight back to various cities in Europe had at last achieved, amongst our dysfunctional clients, a calm consensus tinged with just a little smugness.

As flip charts were being numbered, folded and placed in art bags and the flotsam and jetsam of the product stimulus stored in captains’ bags, the mood of my colleagues was lifted by the prospect of a weekend in Manhattan, shopping halls bedecked and dressed as only Manhattan at Christmas knows how

Thanking my colleagues for their efforts and great enthusiasm in the face of some highly uninspiring clients and some chippy agency folk, I let them know that it was now officially the weekend and the real fun could commence. I suggested cocktails at the Pen Top Bar at seven o’clock, giving my colleagues three of hours of free time – but not necessarily cheap given the exchange rate!

I left the Agency where our 3 – day workshop had been held, and headed up Madison. I was immediately hit by the full multi-sensory package of a Friday afternoon in Midtown on a holiday afternoon in December.

The last splodge of blue sky was fading now; the air was cold and smelled of the usual mix of pretzel salt, roasted chestnuts and automobile exhaust fumes. The soundscape was dominated by the noise of gridlocked cars, the whistles of NYPD traffic wardens, charity bell ringers and the claptrap of pedestrians walking in that focussed way to wherever it was that they were going. I was making for 5th Avenue and St Thomas’, where I was hoping to catch one of the services.

I knew the calming quiet of the stone and the beauty of the canticles would transform my spirits and restore my energies for what lay ahead when I would be meeting the team intent upon some serious R&R.

I was walking westwards along 45th, when temptation suddenly presented itself in the shape of Saks Fifth Avenue. Since we creative types in marketing don’t wear ties anymore, finding interesting ways to differentiate ourselves and reveal character is an important business task and not just a matter of personal vanity. I knew that Saks had an excellent range of stripy socks.

The side entrance took me to a small treasure house display of leather and jewels, and from there I found myself in the fragrant bling of the ground floor, a shrine to the industry of beauty. I took the elevator to the men’s designer gallery on 7th, and as its doors opened, I started scanning the scene with a strategic shopper’s eye.

No more than 10 minutes later, I had handed over my credit card and paid and was now carrying a seasonal Saks shopping bag containing numerous pairs of socks, a silk handkerchief and a woollen hat and scarf. The sugar rush from shopping had revitalised me.  But I also needed to visit the toilet.  Moments later, I was back at the elevator just to the right of what Saks called the Men’s Lounge. The door opened and I walked in

The car was empty apart from a random Father Christmas figure who looked straight out of central casting

‘Hello Santa’ I said, emboldened by my impulse purchasing success.

He turned and smiled and said:

‘And you are an advertising man, are you not?’

Well, I was carrying a small art bag, so I suppose this was an easy guess to make; and I was indeed an ex –adman. But I had long since given up trying to explain the difference between an adman and the tricky concept of a brand consultant.

Before I could answer he said,

‘Do you handle charity accounts, what I believe you call, not for profit- services which have a social value?’

I nodded slowly as if he were a Santa of limited intelligence

‘Well please take a look at this and see if your Agency would like to work with me….’

He handed me a small carefully wrapped, Christmas gift with a rather formal envelope…

‘People don’t seem to believe in Father Christmas anymore and maybe, your group could help change that…’

The elevator door opened at the second floor, and looking at me fervently, he said,

‘Take a look and if you are interested, come and talk some more tomorrow- you’ll find me in my workshop on the eleventh floor’ and then he was gone.

The doors closed, and seconds later I was walking up 5th Avenue towards St Thomas’ and Choral Evensong.

Later, much later that evening in the banter of post workshop cocktails, I told my colleagues about my meeting with Santa, and we started to come up with all sorts of ideas about how we could reposition Santa, and as Martini followed Martini, the ideas naturally became sillier.

The following morning, after a couple of false starts, I got up and found the small parcel. I opened it to find it was a small book entitled The Gift. I flicked through about a hundred pages of fairly dense text and then opened the envelope. Inside was an elegant Carte de visite, bearing the name Nicholas Myra with a 5th Avenue address. There was also a small piece of text on it, which looked like a Latin quotation:

‘Quas dederis solas semper habebis opes’

A rapid search on my IPhone showed this to be one of the epigrams written by Martial the Latin author, and a very liberal translation of the line would be:

‘You only truly own what you give away’

So not a bad motto for this Santa with a penchant for Latin tags, I thought, but let’s find out exactly what he was offering me.

After coffee, and a re-invigorating walk in the park, I walked down 5th back to Saks.

The Christmas multitude was already gathering and I had to push my way through the crowd at St Patricks back into the ground floor hall. I made for the bank of elevators and was able to slide into the last place in a car. I turned and looked at the floor plan and noticed there was no 11th floor. I’ll take the 10th I thought to myself and find a staircase.

The door opened and I appeared to be in the administrative area where I was met by the gaze of a friendly but rather formal senior Associate

‘Can I help you, Sir?’

‘I’ve been invited to a meeting with one of your colleagues on the 11th floor’

‘We have no 11th floor, sir…’

‘But I met your Santa yesterday and he invited me a meeting at his workshop on the 11th floor- here’s his card…’

She looked at the card, there was pause and then she said slowly and earnestly

‘We have no 11th floor; we have no Santa Associate. This is Saks Fifth Avenue, sir, perhaps you have us confused with Macy’s?’

‘But I met him yesterday- please look at the card…’

‘Sir, can I get you a glass of water?’

I demurred and retreated back to the elevator…I looked down at the card, there was no name, no address, and there was no longer any Latin words to be seen…but there was a short sentence in English:

‘What you give of yourself shall alone remain as your permanent riches. Good will to all men, Happy Christmas!’

I stood there for a few moments and then I began to smile.

I was still smiling as I walked out of Saks and into the fast flowing sea of festive people on 5th, and in the distance, I could hear a carillon playing Santa Claus is coming into town.

Automatic Handwriting*

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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So, you want me to tell you what my hidden talent is. In a story, just like at school? Oh, blimey, I’ve not had not had a job interview like this before! Well OK then. My name is Dianna, but my friends call me Di, and I was born twenty four years ago in Buenos Aires to a German father and an English mother. Dad travelled a lot for work and I went to a boarding school in England: a bit jolly hockey-sticks, like Mallory Towers really. As I had no brothers and sisters, my school friends like Lottie and George became my family. Lottie is now my flat-mate and all meet three of us meet up every week. At the moment I’m working as a secretary in another advertising agency in Soho called Spark. It’s always pretty crazy and sometimes quite hard work, but full of such lovely peeps.  Now, I ‘d better get back to your question: my greatest hidden talent, and by the way I promise you I am not playing for time waiting for inspiration – really! But I’d like to show rather than just tell you about it. It’s just that sometimes, you can’t display psychic ability on demand. Yeah, that’s right. I have a gift – don’t laugh please- I’m serious. Actually I am not sure that gift is the right word for it. I first discovered I could do it it at school one evening, larking about with the girls. I was about fourteen and we all were writing letters home to our parents in our study. It wasn’t anything like a séance, and there wasn’t a Ouija board in sight but all of sudden I just started to write down what other people were saying to me in my head. Lottie and George freaked out a bit and looking back I suppose it was a bit scary at first but I’ve got used to it- well mostly. The strange bit is how my handwriting just changes as different people talk to me.  When it happens, I don’t know I’m doing it or what I’m writing. Sometimes I need to, need to, need …Queen, queen, queen and two jacks a-shagging. What did he have? Aces? That’s absolute shit, and he knew it, the Toe-rag! A prial of dames and a couple of jacks always beats three aces, so I told him to just leave that pot to me. I said to him, ‘Sunshine, are you going to find some more money or do you want call it a day? He shook his head and it told me he wanted to settle, which was just as well because the artillery fire was getting closer. ‘Well, that’s ok with me, Tosh,’ I told him ‘there’s not much time for us to get away before one of Nasser’s tanks puts a very large one up our rear end, eh Sarge?’ Shit, that was bloody close, c’mon my lovely ladies, it’s time for you to get back into your little box and we need to, need to …So Mr. Adman, you’re probably thinking my friend Dianna is either a fraud taking the piss or raving bonkers. Now, isn’t that right? But all is never what it quite seems in this world, is it? Take you, Mr Adman Interviewer. All your friends marvel at your marriage, they think that you and Caroline, the domestic Goddess of Notting Hill, are brilliantly matched; you’re so happy and so lucky to have met the love of your life. Whilst you might – like most men, of course – admit to looking around occasionally, and we both know how much you like looking, you’d never touch, would you? Isn’t that right, Mr Huckster-Fuckster? Or is that just another load of the wishful thinking bollocks you sell to your dickhead clients? Well, as it’s a kind of party, it’s now time for me to show you my little magic trick – and do watch out for the modest little coup de théâtre that’s coming very soon. So Mr. Adman and HR Big Cheese, I bring good news and bad news. The good news, Liebling is that the love of your life’s name does indeed begin with the letter ‘C’. Phew, that’s good you’re thinking, whether or not you actually believe it. But the bad news, my friend, is that the love of your life is not the C for Caroline whose arse you’ve been banging for years but someone you haven’t even met, well not quite yet.  Incroyable, monsieur, ne c’est pas? But I can see that I do have your full attention now, because deep down in that lightweight mind of yours in the perfectly formed strong-room where your darkest secrets are kept, there’s a note to self you wrote which says ‘she’s not the answer’. So who is, you want to know. Let’s make this a little interactive now, shall we? Here’s a question for you. Have you read any Shakespeare or was that not available as an option on your polytechnic marketing course? Thought so. Well – and cue cheesy fanfare! – from today set your security alerts to watch for a lady whose name consists of three vowels, AEI, and two consonants, CL. Oh, you’re very quick,  you’re very good! That’s right, the voice in your head is correct; the answer is ‘Celia’- A lady called Celia is going to suddenly appear and turn your life upside down.  So we do need to talk about Celia, chum, except that is, to Caroline, your charming little hausfrau of a wife. But only if you believe the scribblings of my posh totty friend and associate, Dianna, who I can always rely on to be my mouthpiece or should I say wrist? So how did she do, Mr. Adman, has she got the job? It is quite a talent isn’t it? You need to, need to…

* Automatic writing or psychography is writing which the writer claims to be produced from a subconscious, and/or external and/or spiritual source without conscious awareness of the content.  Lewis Spence An Encyclopaedia of Occultism Dover Edition, 2003, p. 56

Death By Email

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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Yes, it was my finger on the trigger, and of course I was prepared to take full responsibility for what I did. But it would be naive to think that I acted completely alone. There was no shortage of advice coming in my direction, some of it quite expensive too. Yes, I am thinking about yours, Mark, my silver tongued bosom buddy and designated arm candy for those networking dinners that I have to do as one of the UK’s marketing A list.

Mark has been dropping in and out of my life ever since we did the same management-training course after university. I liked his smile and the way he could think around corners. I still do. So there we were, years later, having dinner at Le Caprice to celebrate my new job, and over the Martinis we chatted about the big question now facing me and what I thought was the likely end-game; I told him a radical solution was no longer just an option, it was inevitable. In the shimmering light, I brought the ice-cold glass to my lips and I remember feeling exhilarated and just a little scared. Later, as we walked along Piccadilly to his club, Mark stopped, took me by the arm and said,

‘You’re really quite sure you want to do this, Steph?’

Mark rarely called me by my Christian name in, so his question had a particular force. I recoiled.

‘What are you saying, Mark? Please don’t confuse me.’

Mark backed off,

‘Just call it due diligence on my part; anyway, I know you’ll do what you want to do! You always do’, he laughed and we went into his club for a nightcap.

A couple of days later, I was having the weekly catch up with my boss, Thomas, and after reviewing my innovation pipeline, he asked me how the H1 re-launch plans were coming on. After the obligatory Harvard MBA, Thomas went to Bain and then worked in private equity before taking over as CEO.  Thomas has a processing chip that is more powerful than the Large Hadron Collider and if anyone could find elusive particles of profit, it would be him. I told him I was pursuing a variety of options that we hoped to workshop later that week. He nodded and then, giving me a concerned smile, asked how I was getting on with Fred, in a way that said ‘this- is- a -key issue-for-you-isn’t-it, Stephanie?’ As he waited for a response, I knew it was time to get on with it.

‘I think we have a view, Thomas.’

That evening, I arrived back at the appartment poured myself a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc and sat at my desk. I re-read Katy’s research notes and watched the old films on the Mac. Some were actually quite good. Then I found myself wasting time opening up useless emails that I would have normally dispatched straight to the bin.

It’s hard to kill someone you’ve grown up with, someone who’s actually quite sweet and who was once a real inspiration to you. ‘Sorry, old chap,’ I murmured, ‘I think we’ve all outgrown you. You just don’t fit the zeitgeist. And all good things must come to an end.’

I opened the email that I had been drafting earlier in which I made my intention clear.  I did one final sense check, and then I pressed send, and off through the ether went the electronic death warrant that was to be executed the following morning by my brand and agency teams.

I sat back and took a decent mouthful of wine, sent the Mac back to sleep and went to the kitchen to prepare some pasta, smiling to myself as I made the arrabaiata sauce.

In the days that followed, I discovered that aging stars have a remarkable talent for dodging bullets. In the Twitter storm that followed the news that we were killing off Fred, all the latent consumer love for this harmless fifty year old flour-grader in the black suit and bowler hat, surged and coalesced to create a deadly wave of energy that I completely misjudged. After I made a couple of stupid PR calls, the farrago started to overwhelm me and then, a merciful whack from Thomas brought my glittering  marketing career to a very sudden end.  Murder in the marketing department did I hear you joke, Mark? Yes, but it was Fred, in the Homepride kitchen with the bloody graded grains, that did for me.

 

 

 Homepride Cook-In-Sauces was a founder client of The Value Engineers in 1986. Fred, the Homepride Flour Grader, will be 50 in 2014