Arthur's Return

By Duncan Wallace

Ever wondered what it would be like to finish school early and head off into the wider world in search of adventure? Well, this is exactly what Arthur decides to do.
Though happy and content in the stillness and quiet of his home surroundings, Arthur knows he must explore.
Arthur’s Return charts the outward egress and inward ingress of a young man on a mission to find himself and discover new things. He sets off almost without thinking and once he is on his way, he continues and each step forward makes for an increase in pace and drama. He packs in relationships and interaction with others wherever the road takes him. He is also involved with what is going on around him. There is a sort of otherworldliness that impinges on day to day practicality in the form of the people he sees or meets which he hears in a semi visionary way - then the adventure really starts and it seems like his voyage round half of Europe will last forever before returning to the apparent tranquility of a residency in a boatyard. Everything does not go to plan and soon Arthur is called into action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tenth Street Press
• Release date: Feb 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992386122

Duncan Wallace

Duncan Wallace is from Linlithgow, Scotland who has travelled somewhat across Europe and Britain over his 38 years. He is a law graduate, his mother was an artist and his father is the published author Gordon Wallace. He is currently at Stirling University reading Ecology.

Book preview

ARTHUR’S RETURN

DUNCAN WALLACE

TENTH STREET PRESS

THIS EDITION

© Copyright 2013 Duncan Wallace

Published by Tenth Street Press 2014

Original cover design by Tenth Street Press

ISBN10: 0-9923861-2-8

ISBN13: 978-0-9923861-2-2

Formatted for and distributed by Smashwords Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Events and characters mentioned are both of actuality and of the author’s invention. Any similarity to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold on the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold or circulated by any traditional or electronic means or have any original content contained herein reproduced in any form without prior written consent from the copyright holder.

TENTH STREET PRESS Ltd.

MELBOURNE LONDON

www.tenthstreetpress.com

Email:[e-mail]

CONTENTS

Part One ‘Arthur’s Egress’

Chapter One The Old North

Chapter Two Tendez Le Gazon!

Chapter Three A Darling Seat

Chapter Four ‘Down South’

Chapter Five The Hellenic Republic I (Crete)

Chapter Six The Hellenic Republic II (Athens)

Chapter Seven ‘Growing Up’

Part Two ‘Arthur’s Return’

Chapter Eight Paris

Chapter Nine ‘Visca Barca, Mucha Marcha!’

Chapter Ten The Way of St. James

Chapter Eleven Another Kingdom

Chapter Twelve The Monkey’s Rock

Chapter Thirteen The Barbary Coast

Chapter Fourteen ‘Triaceria’

Chapter Fifteen Boatyard

Afterword

for Mum, Dad, Eric and Dorothy.

Thanks to George and Jean for encouraging me to work on this again

Part One

‘Arthur’s Egress’

Chapter One

The Old North

Arthur sat in the front passenger seat as the car gradually descended, inasmuch as a car can move in a gradual fashion, following the meandering of the road towards the lakeside. The rattling Triumph smelt both of warm leather and stale tobacco.

Arthur’s nostrils had grown used to the tobacco smell after years of being within inhaling distance of his father’s pipe, but its mixture with the aroma coming from the leather seats was a novelty for him. Despite this distraction, the clear air and bright sunshine allowed for the opportunity of clear thoughts and clear thinking. These were occupied primarily with how on earth his father was going to get back before darkness came down. The length and complexity of the route they had followed defied analysis and had taken up some amount of time.

The days were not so long at this time of year as to provide the luxury of leisurely detached travel, and the artificial, planned, evergreen forest that ran along both sides of the road seemed to resist the passage of the sun and the light it produced. He turned his head to look out of the window just as the steep mountain-side dropping towards the lake came into view.

His father was lecturing him in his usual style and had been in this mode for some time. His style was forceful but allowed the listener, in this case his son, to benefit as a welcome recipient of the knowledge rather than making him feel obligated. Arthur didn’t know if it was the pipe or the surroundings that were inspiring his father into such verbal density but he was certainly being elaborate.

‘To achieve something, in fact, to do anything that is really worthwhile, you have to involve yourself in an element of invention and create the vital spark of originality that leads to innovation. This should be the basis for leadership, and not the given measures of status and class. Leadership is conceived and driven by new ideas and not by background, organisation, routine and convention.’

Arthur followed all this to a point, but didn’t exercise the effort required to understand what his father was getting at. He did, however, feel secure in the surroundings of the deep green fir trees and the steep hills that surrounded the lake. Outcrops of rocks, waterfalls and some remaining indigenous forest were all visible as his gaze fell upon the warm colours of the heather. He wondered what lurked in the undergrowth.

‘More than that–’ his father continued, ‘this has been shown beyond doubt by the big movers in history. Cromwell must have realised this when his army went from victory to victory, and he himself reached the personal pinnacle having consistently defeated his enemies. He must have known that it was wrong – or at least had grave doubts – over simply passing on his position and title to his son. Let me tell you, people like him got on in the world on the basis of the principle of the spark, and their individual approach. People like him led the United States to freedom. Quakers proved this principle through their suffering and persecution that was caused by their rejection of all authority. They must have known this, but people forget, you see, people forget...’

Arthur liked the way his father spoke and the way he felt respected by his choice of words. He felt like a person privileged with a measure of responsibility, as if being put in possession of a secret and feeling a ’worthy’ as a result.

‘Even these days’ his father went on ‘people in the creative industries work on this principle and instinctively keep to it. Actors, poets and playwrights are worthy of our admiration and respect for being brave enough to embark on a path that leads them in the direction of the new and the uncertain. Even if you look at the animal world, a chameleon uses this technique as a device within a kingdom where the principles of evolution dominate. Even in these inhuman environments innovation is still a useful tool. That’s why academics and the like shouldn’t base a theory of human relations around Charles Darwin. That’s why people have never, ultimately, been able to prevent the free expression and the recognition of viewpoints and opinions.’ He paused as if allowing the weight and force of his opinion to register with Arthur. ‘That’s why democracy and man’s spirit cannot be defeated by the restriction of rules, permissions and the artificial structures of heredity and hierarchy.’

Arthur now realised that his father was indulging him in an exercise in the infusion of hope. His father was trying to inspire him, to inculcate him with an outlook that would not let him down in later years. He was imbuing him with the spirit of freedom. He meant it.

A surge of excitement spiked through Arthur as they got out of the car and into the refreshing air of early summer. He had been to his uncle’s before but never for more than a few days and never to work for him. He felt mature and self-possessed as he looked around. He was sixteen and had been out of school for a year, and the past few years had been both enjoyable and reassuring. They had been full of all of the old certainties of home and family, but injected somewhat with a sense of fun and some involving experiences.

He thought back to his schooldays in the city, and some of the friends he made and the things they had done together. He remembered the charms and embraces of Emilia, his first real girlfriend, and how she had introduced him to lovemaking one night when they had escaped the confines of their boarding house.

His friends had included a farmer’s son from the central fields of the country, a junior gun enthusiast and a polish immigrant called Steinitski. They had been rebellious but accepting of the fate the school dealt out to them, and had erred on the side of polite reform and intelligent analysis as an appropriate ethos, as opposed to the sporting and violent dogma adopted by some of the boys and accepted by the majority. They had questioned authority but not really done anything too much to irk the staff seriously. They had participated in the occasional rumpus such as when a best friend had broken into the medicine cabinet of the pharmacy and stolen some bottles of medication intended for the younger children, but all in all they had been well behaved.

Having done just enough to make sure they enjoyed themselves without falling foul of the authorities, they had all enjoyed some drinking and smoking on the side, and had escaped with the girls on ad-hoc adventures around the streets of the city. Sometimes they had ventured to the nearby off-licence to obtain some alcohol, and then on to a park to consume their purchases with the others attracted by the questionable glory of this. This result had only really occurred occasionally when there was some excuse for rolling out of the school and into town. Their main goal had been the pursuit of the company of females, and this had filled the time between their studies. Arthur recalled with some happiness the comfort of those days spent in the glow of the people of he knew, and although he had only left school a couple of months ago, it seemed a world away from the rural surroundings he was now experiencing.

‘Here it is’ said his father triumphantly as he found the beginning of the path that led along the banks of the lake.

‘I wonder how long it will take us to get there.’ said Arthur.

‘It always seems to take longer to come back from a place than it does to go there.’ his father replied, as if that were sufficient to decide the matter. There was a familiar tone of authority in his voice, and Arthur felt slightly irritated by it, as though someone was trying to force an opinion on him. The path wound its way along, undulating between the thick trunks of the oaks that occupied the sloping sides of the banks. The trees obscured the view of the mountainside and sheltered Arthur and his father. He was enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet and the gradually changing scenery obscured by the ferns and low lying branches near the forest floor.

They hiked for what seemed like hours before taking a well-earned pause at a point away from the side of the lake and up the crest of a hill behind a rock face, falling steeply away into the deeper recesses of the lake. They rested, leaning on their rucksacks, both of them sitting with their legs extending upwards sharply. It was a good place from which to observe. A squirrel ran across their path and up a nearby tree.

‘Nature has a way redressing things’ his father said, ‘just look around you.’ He spent the majority of the time deep in thought.

Arthur hesitated to offer him a bite of his sandwich. He was enjoying a particularly good ham and mustard effort his mother had prepared as usual, and he wondered why she hadn’t come with them to see him off. It was an adventure for him after all, and he didn’t know what to expect at the house of his uncle and aunt.

Arthur was pretty sure that he and his mother had a special bond existing between them. She has been the only person he had talked to during some of the difficult times he had had at school. He had found it difficult to adjust to the prevailing morals and customs of the place after an early liberal outlook that had been precariously instilled in him by his American mother, who had doted on her only son and probably spoiled him to an extent. He didn’t know what to think when the rigid discipline and outward looking ethos of the school took hold and seemed to punish him for his earlier experience of an all-embracing, sympathetic process at the hands of his mother and her warm brown eyes and clear soft skin.

His father worked in the diplomatic service and although he had aspirations he could not properly be a termed a diplomat. He was more a man with a career that involved working for the foreign office, which at least was work for a government department allowing them to sustain a reasonable lifestyle in their small house in the provinces. There were regular overseas postings and while these had not served to split the family up they had put some strain on his mother, who was not adjusted to the ethos of a departmental office, and struggled to make sense of the workings of the place.

His father was a different matter. He relished the overseas postings as a welcome break from the boredom and monotony of domestic administration where routine dominated substance and creativity. ‘Thank God for my annual leave’ his father would always say as the summer season approached.

When the chance of being an administrator in Borneo came up, he had jumped at the chance. Arthur’s sister was to go with his parents, while Arthur was to stay behind and help his aunt and uncle out at their boating business. He had been opted out of school early with his parents’ and the school’s approval, and now the plan was to go to work with them at their business gaining some experience along the way; growing up a little and perhaps even earning some money.

In addition he was actually involved in wild anticipation and this betrayed a hint of the immaturity remaining within him.

Later, the warm buzz of summer surrounded them as they made their temporary camp on the grass beside the path. It felt good to be free with life and have these invigorating surroundings as a prospect. The path was soft and gentle and the curves reassuring, plying their way beneath the steep rocky mountainsides that slid ferociously into the lake, giving the impression of strength and decisiveness that shunned any natural feelings of insecurity.

‘We’d better get on’, said his father, who had stood up and was smiling down at him with an intense look in his deep blue eyes, ‘It’s not as smooth as this further along, and remember, I’ve got to get back along this way.’

They trekked for another two hours before the mast of the ferry signal came into view opposite the hotel on the other side of the water and at the head of the lake. The mast had been his uncle’s invention. People who needed the ferry would raise a white buoy up the old ship’s mast, that had been sunk into a bed of concrete, using a simple system of ropes similar to the one used for raising or lowering sails or opening blinds. The tired walkers would welcome the sight of the small light blue ferryboat making its way across the loch.

A boat had navigated this route across the loch for a long time. Its purpose had originally been to ferry school-children from remote farms on the largely uninhabited side of the loch to the more civilised side, where they could then go on to the local school. In those days a strong oarsman would power and guide the boat over the sometimes choppy waters, forging a path through fairly deep channels and swells near the surface.

On a clear day like the one Arthur and his father now experiencing, when the sun shone brightly in an empty sky, it wasn’t long before it came into sight. They were the only ones waiting and Arthur could make out the grin on his uncle’s face as he approached and set course to make ground on a soft, sandy section of shore.

He tilted the outboard up and let the boat drift in. It seemed as if all things had been perfected according to a higher law of nature as the boat glided inwards. Harmony seemed accomplished, just as his uncle made his acknowledgement of them with a gesture that was half wave and half salute.

‘How are ya?’ he said forcefully, as if making a point of not shouting. His voice carried clearly over the water and there was something in the manner in which he projected it that carried the suggestion of institutional manners of a sort.

Soon they had hauled their feet over the side like long-legged penguins and they were off, on their way to the opposite side. Arthur looked around him as his mind drifted to his early childhood in Kingsbase. His recollection was of long summers spent with friends in the park, kicking a ball around, occasionally going to the main street to buy the essentials like fizzy juice and penny sweets.

He remembered with the constant invention of those days spent in his home town where challenges had presented themselves as huts to be constructed and bicycle routes to be formed and nothing more. It had been a world of semi fantasy and happy conclusions. The challenges of his later life at school had assumed a far more real, although not a menacing form where it had been requested simply of him that he play by the rules and do the work required. He had been rewarded for his obedience with a measure of freedom and access to the shared common room where he could mingle with the girls. In some ways he was reluctant to move on from such a restricted and supportive environment but obedience to his father’s wishes ensured his compliance. He was sure his father cared for his welfare and he had amply demonstrated his compassion on many occasions.

‘Arthur!’ His father was prodding him in his side ‘Your uncle is asking you something’.

‘I just wonder’d how you liked the trip along the loch from the hotel’. ‘Fine, thank you’ said Arthur, remembering his manners. ‘Any further and we’d a needed a stretcher!’ When the boat landed at the jetty on the other side, no one was there to meet them.

The scene that presented itself was a mixture of the chaotic and the tranquil. There were the bright colours of the boats with their shining undersides reflecting the sunlight back towards the water and the rickety jetty that had been his uncle’s own construction. The weather must have been dry for some time because the timbers of the jetty were clean and solid underfoot.

‘It’s not always like this’ warned his uncle Thomas. ‘Sometimes it’s slippy between these planks and you have to be very careful. Mind that gap’. They clambered up the short incline towards a large wood panelled houseboat that had been hauled from the water and perched on a flat piece of land at the top of the hill.

Soon they were inside, having negotiated the fragile wooden step and the door that was without a handle for some reason. The windows that opened outwards on all sides of the houseboat overlooked a log cabin, a small campsite and what looked like a large garden shed. There were also a couple of medium sized yachts hauled up on a slipway. A band of thick old trees separated them from the water.

‘Aye’, said Thomas ‘time for a brew’.

They sat round drinking tea for a while and had a bite to eat before it was time for his father to make his way back home. His eyes glistened as he hugged Arthur warmly and wished him all the best for the future reminding him of his promise to stay in touch. His uncle dropped him off on a beach further down the loch and turned the boat back out over the smooth waters. They both looked back and watched as the figure of his father grew smaller and disappeared into the copse of trees that diverted the rays of the setting sun.

When they got back uncle Thomas showed Arthur where his living quarters were to be, making his way over to the old shed Arthur had seen earlier and asking him to follow. They had to clamber over old engine parts to get to a flimsy looking wooden bed covered in old lifejackets.

‘That stove should keep you warm’, said his uncle, ‘and when your auntie Clare gets back she’ll sort things out properly’ Uncle Thomas had a very definite way of speaking that impressed Arthur and he imagined that his uncle must be an important, vital person. It was the decisiveness in the manner of his speech that grabbed him. It let the listener know that he was to be dealt with in a clear manner without the complication of subterfuge. His uncle seemed very important in this light, and it softened the seeming harshness of the surroundings he was to inhabit, making it less ominous. Perhaps they were even healthy and welcoming he thought. Later, they had dinner in relative silence and Arthur was enjoyed the simple company of his uncle, basking in the warm glow that he seemed to give off.

At around ten o’clock he dimmed the gas lamps and hinted to Arthur that he should be off to bed. Arthur made his way, key in hand, over to the engine shed he had been shown earlier. He fumbled around in the dark for a while, searching for the keyhole and trying to navigate his way between the engine parts that appeared in dim outline on both sides of him, before reaching the partition and the door to his room. The door needed to be pushed hard to make it open, and the far edge dragged along the ground causing it to stick while only one third open. He squeezed through the gap and rammed the door back into its frame in the somewhat flimsy construction and reached for the matches on the low iron table that was, by now, quite cold to the touch.

The smell of pine needles filled the air that found its way into the shed through the numerous cracks and gaps in the thin wooden planking that made up the walls and he took it in with sharp deep breaths of the healthy rural air. He lit the small paraffin wick lamp by his bedside and crawled under the three layers of blankets that were heavy to the touch and smelt a little of damp. The thickest one was a duvet covered with partly waterproof fabric that was shiny and waxy to the touch. On top of this was a thick wool covering which made him feel relieved. He crawled into bed and blew into the top of the oil lamp to extinguish the flame.

As he breathed in the cool air, surrounded by the absolute quiet that the country provides, he fell asleep quickly, having made a quick effort at pulling both blankets high up almost over his head and pushed some life jackets carelessly onto the floor.

The next morning, he was awake early, the light piercing small gaps in the slatted edges of the planks of the wooden shed. The smell of creosote permeated him as he shivered into his clothes. This was nothing like the promises they had made to him at school, he thought as he gingerly made his way out onto the lawn in front of the shed. He noticed that the curtains of the houseboat were still closed proving his uncle’s continued slumber and he decided to take a look around before knocking on the back door at the proper time just as he had been told to do. He was aware of the element of formality implied in his actions and felt like a commoner demanding entry into the lodgings of his lord. It was as if the interior of the houseboat fulfilled an important democratic function and that procedures must be adhered to as matter of ceremony and respect.

His uncle came to the door and asked him to look around the campsite before coming in for breakfast. ‘You’ll be needing to do that before you can get fed’ he said. ‘Get the number of tents over there and report back to me. We don’t want any of the late arrivals doing a runner, do we?’ He hadn’t wondered about long before he found the small patch of land that made up the campsite. A few bright tents were pitched there shining with the moisture of early morning that prevailed and it didn’t take long for him to assimilate their number and stature. The ground was bumpy and covered with yellowed, thin grass. All around were thick clumps of deep green ferns and some well-established trees.

A man was rattling about, moving posts and pans to one side over a small camping stove and speaking softly to his family, he presumed, who must have been inside the tent. He waved over at Arthur and bid him good morning. Arthur welcomed this evidence of human compassion and moved over to where the man was arranging things.

‘Looks like you’ve got a lot to do there’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s all part of the fun’ came the reply. ‘I’m Arthur’ he ventured as the man made to shake his hand, scratching at his beard at the same time. Arthur noted his distinctive appearance, his bald scalp and beard and the way he gazed over his glasses that gave him an intellectual aspect.

‘If you’re wondering what I do and why I’m here, well, I’m an inventor you see’ he said. ‘My inventions are patented and displayed all over the world. When I was not much older than you are now I constructed a code map for the whole country. I also made trials of the first adjustable computer monitor and a mouse mat with a wrist support. You know those nets you see, the ones that you put over your head to stop these damned insects biting, well, that was me too. Well, more me and my father combined. Yes, we’re great innovators us lot you know. Look at the game of golf, now there’s a sport.’

Arthur grinned, he was enjoying the randomness of this encounter and the man appeared to be developing a momentum of his own that added to his amusement. He had allowed the pans he was holding to drop loosely to his side as he got more involved in what he was saying.

‘To deny the invention of another and to claim it as one’s own in callous self-interest or perhaps national interest, to claim something nationally that is not yours to begin with amounts to a declaration of war. That’s the trouble with this world. Theft you see, theft. That lot down south have been at it for centuries but how can we prove it short of wrapping a golf club round their heads!’ Arthur saw nothing more in these words than mere amusement. He was even enjoying the way the man’s face was reddening as he got more worked up and Arthur observed him a likeable fellow. He had been brought up without a