Dance of the Cranes

By Frank Edwards

Selected for the task of researching a story with political overtones, fasttrack, up-and-coming Inspector Tim Medway has fears for his future promotion, added to when, as a result, he is seconded to a County Force to help investigate a murder that may be linked. His new assignment, along with the local officer in charge of the case, takes him into the world of a Wildlife Safari Park where the victim had been working. As the investigation proceeds, Medway has to balance helping to find the killer with a need to test the death’s relevance to the political aspects, not all of which is he free to reveal to his colleague. The situation develops on two levels. While the locally based Inspector Mills deals with the ‘routine work’, as he calls it, Medway has to handle the high-flying associates of an MEP who are increasingly involved in the unfolding events. As dead-ends are reached in the search for the truth, the policeman finds inspiration from his love of the theatre and, more surprisingly, guidance from some of the animals that inhabit the Park – among them the flamboyant dancing of the East African Crowned Crane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helion and Company
• Release date: Sep 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781908916723

Frank Edwards

Frank Allyn Edwards (August 4, 1908 - June 23, 1967) was an American writer and broadcaster, and one of the pioneers in radio. He hosted a radio show broadcast across the United States in the 1940s and 1950s. Late in his life, he became additionally well known for a series of popular books about UFOs and other paranormal phenomena. Born in Mattoon, Illinois, Edwards broadcast on pioneering radio station KDKA AM in the 1920s, making him one of the earliest professional radio broadcasters. After WWII, the Mutual Broadcasting System hired Edwards to host a nationwide news and opinion program sponsored by the American Federation of Labor. Edwards’ program was a success, and became nationally popular. During the 1930s, Edwards continued his career in radio, but also worked a variety of other jobs, including a stint as a professional golfer. He was hired by the US Treasury Department during World War II to promote war bond sales. In 1948, Edwards received an advance copy of “Flying Saucers Are Real,” a magazine article written by retired U.S. Marine Corps Major Donald E. Keyhoe. Though already interested in the UFO reports that had earned widespread publicity since 1947, Edwards was captivated by Keyhoe’s claims that the U.S. military knew the saucers were actually extraterrestrial spaceships. He wrote several books on the subject. After Mutual, Edwards continued working in radio, mostly at smaller local stations. He created and hosted a syndicated radio program, Stranger Than Science, which discussed UFOs and other Forteana. In 1959, he published a book with the same title, largely a collection of his radio broadcasts. From 1955-1959 and 1961-1962, Edwards served as a commentator for WTTV television in Indianapolis. He was on radio station WXLW, also in Indianapolis, in 1964 and returned to television on WLWI in 1965. He died in 1967 at the age of 58.

Book preview

Two Covenants

These things he said in words. But in his heart much remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

1

t rampled by an elephant."

Stung by a snake.

Bitten by a spider.

Mauled by a lion.

"Rammed by a rhino – ooooh!"

"That‘s it! That’s It!! THAT’S IT!!!"

The group rose as one and, holding hands, circled around the table.

Shut up, you kids!

Stuff it.

Sit down and get on with your coffee.

Pierre sighed a glance. An accommodating glance. They were all customers. Likely to be so for years to come. He said nothing. He did not wish to. He didn’t need to. The chanters would, in their turn, become regulars. Their vocal critics, the gods they aspired to follow, were in their third year, soon gone. The kids, he hoped, they hoped, would be his next generation. They quietened, in apparent subservience, knowing that their time would come. Not long. Not long.

You’re suggesting all are killed off, then? Right?

By elephant or spider.

By lion or by snake. (Omnes) "Or rammed by a rhino. Whooooo!"

Wait and see. And hear me, oh my little ones. All will be revealed.

But will you recommend euthanasia? At thirty?

You’ll find out. Keep your powder dry, as my Uncle Toby would say.

Did he!

And what of you? Going to play mummies’ and daddies’ and teachers’ little pets? Show yourselves reliable, trustworthy, true prefect material? Are you? Be kind to the wrinklies day?

Jane didn’t like it when Mike went into what she termed his ‘sneer’ mood. Arrogant, was her interpretation. Just because he was good. And he was. And well read. Good at everything. Big head! David, quiet, listening, admiring, knew it. Mike was very, very good. The leader of the pack. In every first team, rugby and chess. Did no work, so he said. Impossible! Liar! But convincing with it. Tom, dear old, steady old, Tom, sensed the rising feelings. He knew them as well as they all knew each other. They termed him, he knew, the safe old plodder. Tom moved to calm.

So it’s settled then?

You are Chairman. The Head won’t have ‘Chair’. This from Babs, she who liked to be in control as opposed to Mike’s command. How we plan the rest is up to us. Mr Browning has said so. So has Miss Green. Babs gave not a fig for Stuffy Green’s views but she was a useful quote. Miss Green was, Babs moaned on other occasions, as boring as a teacher can be. Banging on and on about things when all you had to do was Google and find out for yourself. Never had an original idea in her head, old Stuffy. Took everything from a book of yellowing notes. Stale opinions of long-dead writers. Not like Google, of the here and now. But, play along! Babs well knew she had to. Uni had to be scored and entered, Stuffy contributing. Heaven help the world! This was not how to teach. To teach well was, oh well, it was …

If Tom’s Chair and Mike opposes, who puts the case?

Why you, of course, sweet Jane. I thought that was all agreed. Jane liked Mike even less at that moment, but knew he was still leading the dance. He had drive and looks, but he was not for her.

If no one else will.

Good. Authoritative Mike. David can second you and Babs can polish up my argument-winning epigrams.

They were speaking in lowered tones. The students should not be antagonised again, in this place of all places, where they gathered to correct the world and solve the squaring of its circles. One was doing just that. On a table top. Pierre scowled but slightly. They were more than his bread and butter. They were ever-replaced jewels in his cash register. The succession of generations must be ensured. The money would come with them, and the more for him the less for the student bar. As grants and loans had boomed with numbers over the years, so had his income. Students, whatever their education and however virulent their expressions of revolution, had no considered care for repayments in the blue far-yonder yet to come. He had thought of expansion, of rivalling that bar with other attractions, but hadn’t. He kept things much as his father had set them up all those years ago when he had come over from Italy and started this café.

Why not a French name, poppa? he had asked.

For you? That you have.

For the café.

French names sell food better in England; birds they like also. Pelican has a big beak to fill. All is in the psychology, he was told. It was not his place to argue with his father. His father taught as had Stuffy Green’s predecessors, with a strap, giving an edge to any boring lesson. Pierre had learned, stayed, and profited, in the same way as had many of Miss Green’s pupils, Babs included. Stuffy knew her to be a cert for the Uni and a likely scholarship winner.

Mike had decided he was. What he aimed for he got. He was success and glamour on eighteen year old legs. The world? Oyster. His turn to rule would come. In this café, surrounded by undergrads of which he would soon be one, he looked upon his rule of the little group as a pre-taster of what was to come that day. Soon they would all be part of the master class. Membership would be theirs of right not as now, looking at the academic gods with unavoidable awe as through a toy shop window when young.

How would you kill them? All of them. So many?

With elephants.

Where would you get enough elephants?

"Breed them for the job. No morals, elephants, only memories. Show them what to do once and there’s no stopping them. We can rely on immigration to provide the sabus to ride them.

Racist!

Snake bites would be easier, and easier to control.

Now you’re being silly. How control? Better still by lethal injection.

Tell that to the Texans. I’m off. Seconding you, then, Mike. Must get together. Only got a week.

My place or yours?

The library, Casanova.

Your loss.

My gain, and Babs left.

There were glowers in their chattering direction. What had kids like them to offer? What were they, why, doing there? Going? Good. Now, what about China?"

A hesitation, an exchange of looks.

Now look what you’ve done.

Me? Done what?

Upset her.

Her! She loves it. Keep women in their place.

Jane loved that! And where is this place?

No reply. Politics has its reasons. Racism was one thing; in this company misogyny was another. Mike ventured divinity as safer ground.

Matthew 13. ‘She’s the salt of the earth’.

He was finding the usefulness of the biblical quotation. Latin, he knew, impressed more but was not so easy to look up in a hurry. God provided many a handy peg for an argument, bless those translators Tyndale and the King James committee. Anyone could cotton on to the dear old bible. Nothing pretentious. He watched the back of Babs as she made a positive exit. Her bottom didn’t move as he thought a girl’s should. ‘Sure to become a schoolmarm’. He turned to his companions.

The group had formed in primary school, and had been shackled ever since. Mike knew he must, would, break away. In time. Not just now. For a start, dear old Tom would be upset. Probably have a snivel. There they were, born within weeks of each other, always in the same class, bound as one all these years. Crikey!

So, when shall we four meet again?

Five.

Five then. Four plus one. Me.

Equals five.

Not five equals, not even in base ten.

Why meet?

What for?

To frame the debate of course.

Frame? Plan! You plan a debate.

Daring to contradict Mike.

Frame. We can’t go in not knowing what the others are going to say. Where’s the fun in that? We are entertainment, my friends. The crowd will love us, as an act. We need a pre-scripted exchange. I’ll give you a good joke if you give me one. Allow me one. I’ll write the rest myself.

Big head!

The better we’re organised the better the show. That way we won’t let the team down. Won’t let the old school down. He jumped to his feet and ran up a salute with a ‘TARATARTAR!’

That did it.

Shut up you lot!

Shove off!

Belt up we said.

Pierre sidled across and clatteringly cleared away their long-empty coffee cups. He gave them a look and returned to behind his steaming counter.

Capitalist! This quietly, behind his back.

Entrepreneur.

Not the way to get our trade for the next three years, grinding down the faces of the poor.

From his throne, Pierre spoke.

You want more coffee? I’ve got more coffee. You got more money?

Roll on the red revolution..

The gang broke, edging its way past the cup-laden tables of the subsidised intellectual class. Pierre knew they’d be back. Where else to solve the world? But for now he was glad to see the little bastards buggering off. Pierre’s English was better than his pa’s.

Outside they regrouped.

I’ve got English two this aft’.

See you later, then. We can talk tomorrow.

Why not tonight?

Phys tomorrow morning. Good enough reason? Go away all of you and work on your stunning jokes.

Mike intended no less. To polish his words to a dazzle. Win the day with laughs. Arguments are not for the thickies. The general public. The voters, ye lord of hosts! What a world to be taking over and having to correct. First, a debate to win. An impression to make. A reputation to secure. The Staff would be there. Had to be. Then, in only three or four days, A-levels completed, off! The beach? Spain? Caravan – oh no! Not the family caravan. Fine for kiddies. But.

Jane went her way with a ‘See yer’. The boys sauntered, slopingly, hands deep in pockets, down the main street to the square. Tom peeled off. David watched Mike. Mike would decide.

I’ll be on my way. He stood. When do we get together? We do, don’t we? To plan? Frame. Different sides united?

Let you know.

Right, then. On my way it is. Still he stood.

You get on.

Yeah! OK. I will. He half turned. Mike teased out an invitation.

Got time to come back to my place now? Run a few ideas for the debate up the flagpole? Jane will be looking for a lead from you.

David, in an agony of thought, looked.

There’ll be no one home. My father’s in London. Mum’s at some committee lunch. As always. I can fix a sandwich.

Heart beating with nervous joy, David eye-worshipped his acceptance. He’d been a slave since Year Five.

sign_01

The School Hall was full, and who doesn’t remember their school hall? It was as expected. Knowing his parents, old Frosty, as any good Head would wishing to guarantee an audience, had the younger classes presenting an ‘entertainment’ – not one in Mike’s definition – as a prelude to the Sixth Form debate. He still termed it ‘The Sixth’. Year Thirteen had no glamour, no status about it. His school had a Sixth. A good one, one that had to be retained, whatever the total pupil numbers and whatever the latest planning fad from on high indicated. The Hall was, therefore, pleasingly packed as in had come the dutiful parents of those younger, eager to hear their offspring perform. By so doing, Frosty judged, they would provide the right backdrop for the seniors. Most of the teaching staff were there. The usual absentees. Dead grannies didn’t rate as excuses for teachers. They would provide others. What was with them today! He, as a young teacher, never missed a school event. Not a match, home or away. Couldn’t dictate these days, more was the pity. A loss to pupils.

The Head swept into his round of greetings, thanks for attending, pleasures awaiting. No interval. The audience had to be held. Coffee and cakes at the end. Lovely. Lovely. So glad you could make it. Yes. Oh yes. Doing well. Really. Quite a change? Takes after his father. No doubt. Ah! Silly me! His mother. Laughs all round. On.

The applause for the starlets had scarcely died before he was into his introductory role. Timing is all. Look up. Wet your lips. Take a deep breath. Off to go.

The motion before this house is that ‘Life Begins At Thirty.’ I’ll hand you over to the capable hands of our chairman for the evening, Albert Sawyer. There was, as his nuanced tone invited, applause.

The scattered clapping put Tom off his stride. He had memorised his opening remarks. Being the person he was, he also had them written down and laid in front of him. He dropped his head and began to read. Too fast! He knew it was too fast. Like readings at the carol service, OK in rehearsal but too fast on the day. Steady! Mustn’t let the team down. Frosty-like, he too licked his lips, took a deep breath and, changing the word order enough to make them sound a continuation of whatever they thought he had just said, began again. Only Frosty, who was giving the proceedings his full attention, noticed the change of gear. ‘Can’t blame the boy, but not good enough. A note to be made. Why was the Head of English, inexplicably, not here?’

… and so, to propose the motion, I call upon Jane Balltyre.

Jane was well in control. A model of clear-voiced well-paced argument. Of course, she was some way off thirty (due titters) and, yes, she was enjoying life in this fine school (a better quality of laughter; a smile of acknowledgement from the Head), but that did not mean that her life was yet fulfilled. There was some growing up to do. Rites of passage to go through. (Nods, reactively, of the older heads in the audience.) The distinction she wished to draw was between an apprenticeship and a fully- qualified craftsman. Or woman, naturally. (Readier titters. The audience liked her. Could hear and understand her. Not like so many teenagers these days! The Head nodded in concerted approval as she went on.)

The studious voice made the point that there was a need to define the word ‘life’ for the purposes of this debate. What of those who died young? Tragically young? Well before thirty. Our brave soldiers. The tiniest of babies. How, then, could such shortened existences be called ‘lives’?

The adult members of the audience were with her. Their exhausted performers had long since switched off. The most generous interpretation was that they were thinking of the cakes to come. Jane proceeded. She expanded her list of non-lives. Someone who dived into a river to save another, and died. Save a dog, even. Surely, all such would arrive in Heaven having fulfilled their life’s purpose though we couldn’t see what that was.

As she went on, Mike took notes. Ostentatiously. Sighing, evidently but silently, to emphasise his despair at the more bizarre elements of the farrago of nonsense she was spouting. In fact, he wrote nothing, but his apparent scribbling was good theatre. David was impressed and decided that he, too, would make a record when the responses began. Mike also watched the faces in front of him. There had been a good response, but Jane was the first to speak. She had a fresh field to plough. He sensed she was beginning to lose her way, what with suicide bombers and kamikaze pilots, and that the parents were starting to add up that there were three more to come. He would bring them back to life.

Sitting down to correct applause, Jane was satisfied with her speech. The simple answer to the conundrum, began Mike, is to put down, in a most kind and humane way, all those over thirty. The audience stirred. Some new life! Mike pressed on. Maybe not quite all. There would be need for a superior class to prevail. To lead to that higher life of which mankind is capable, and here he made mention of the Guardians of Plato, adding, to which select group anyone fortunate enough to have benefited from a sixth form education at this school must surely qualify. (Decided audience laughter. Encouraging. Old Frosty was more guarded in his acceptance of this brave new world to come.) Mike warmed to his theme. The great composers, the great artists, the most innovative of scientists, nearly all manual workers, all natural leaders, all had reached their prime by the time they were thirty. Their days of peak production behind them. What lay ahead were years of decay, mental and physical. So, off with their heads! (The laughter was less sure. No need to encourage this wild youth too far.)

Mike went on, ignoring his notes. Trusting his genius. Enjoying himself. He waxed, but waned not. Examples, gathered from the library, flowed. If an assault of words could win the day, he would win. David sat as at the knee of Cicero, spellbound, his pencil shaking slightly in his hand. He was next. To follow this?

Mike ended on a high rhetorical note and, deservedly, gathered claps for his bravado performance. He scribbled a note to Babs as he sat down. ‘Make the point that they applauded, from their own experience of life, the thesis that most are best gone at thirty.’ He added five exclamation marks. He hoped she could say it with some humour in her voice, as he had tried to teach her. What more could he do?

David envied Babs. What wouldn’t he give to be Mike’s number two! But this was an equal-opportunities school, and boy/girl teams they had to be.

2

t old you! No guts. Not able to face the truth. The older generation! Pah!"

They were in the Den. They had two large bottles of cider. These were, Mike insisted, properly called flagons. That was the word. The correct word. Flagons. They were not into vodka. Or drugs, by choice. The choice of the superior. Babs sipped rather than supped. Plastic cups! She hid her distaste. Mike should have managed glasses, decent glasses, for their Den, the private place honed and evolved these many years since their first days together in this junior school hide-away.

The cup of coffee and cakes charade was over. Old Frosty had melted, in so far as he ever could commensurate with his standing, in the reflected warmth of the comments from those who had stayed on for the ritual refreshments. Ones who were duty bound by custom and by role, trained in what to say on such occasions. Hadn’t the childr…. Young people, done well! A good example to fellow pupils. Fine examples for the school. Pity more of the Sixth weren’t there. Exam pressure no doubt. Yes, yes indeed.

Mike had directed that the group attended and stayed the course, collecting the while their due polite accolades.

Must go through the social motions. For the nonce they are the ones with power. Along we shall go and smooth the oldies up.

Now they were gathered where they were one, in their own history.

They couldn’t do it, could they?

Turkeys and Christmas, you mean.

Indeed I do, David old son. Exactly so. Chickens, not turkeys. Couldn’t bring themselves to vote for their own extinction. The acceptance of their own uselessness. Just want to live on and on, happily getting old. The cider was a good cider, if the cups were not good cups. They were relaxed.

Of course, this from Jane, it could be that the best case won. Carried the day as it should.

No way! Just wouldn’t agree to their own destruction, having served their lives’ purposes by thirty.

Is that surprising? Would you? David went as far in support of his debate partner as he dare. Mike responded, cider-warmed in defeat.

Doesn’t apply. I, we, are the Guardians. It will be our role to guide the world to a higher plane.

Why us? This from Tom. Why us? Who chooses us? God?

To be gods.

A review of the situation began in earnest. Babs agreed that Jane had won the day by force of argument. Mike thought less of Babs for that than before but, though distilled-fruit mellowed, allowed no sign of it to show. He smiled his amused, superior amused, smile of condescension as the others rambled on their verbal ways. Power needed one’s own inner recognition. Unless one had a secure, assured inward conviction of one’s power, it would not fully develop, never materialise!. All this he knew. He who failed not. Nor had this evening. Turkeys and Christmas was as far as recognition went.

Free thinking was not confined to the café. Here they could talk as nowhere else. Mike was aching for pastures new. Wider and newer. The group had run its course. Here he was the monarch. He recognised that bigger waters meant bigger fish, but to be a big fish in a small pond was not for him. Big jungles called for lion kings. His imagery soared. He reached into his rucksack for the third flagon. Babs saw him.

No more for me. I’ll be tiddly.

Only a case of mind over matter.

Boys have bigger livers or something.

You didn’t learn that at our school. Must never concede any differences. There was not a voice bold enough to pursue this line. Mike, ever bold, tried to extend it.

Here we are, together now for forty years. Or so it seems. Always the same And then what? We all go to the same college! Where’s the progress in that?

Different courses, different ways. We’ll train to be guardians by different routes. Was there a hint of sarcasm in Jane’s voice? Mike expanded further.

We can shake them. We can lead. We know the ground. We have local knowledge and inner strength. What say you to that?

No student politics for me, if that’s what you mean.

Mike made no reply, but no one objected when he passed around the new flagon. Babs poured steadily into her despised plastic. What was he, what were they, all on about?

Tom, by nature the realist, the pragmatist, tried to move the trend of the fanciful away from the hypothetical. He was enjoying his cider more than the talk.

We can make a covenant. Like the knights of old. You all talk as though we are about to venture on a campaign into the jungle of the grown-up world, so let’s make this night our pre-battle vigil. To what shall we dedicate ourselves? What can we contribute to society now, right now, to display what you seem sure is to be our god-given status? He beamed at them, swaying slightly, pointing a gently wavering finger as he strove to enforce his view upon them. The oath once taken, as a symbol of our renaissance we’ll torch the den. Our outward sign of our crusading forth. Forth on our own feet.

This out-of-character outburst from the bedrock-one brought a touch of delirium to the proceedings. Each looked at each. On what altar was this temple of their childhood to be offered as a burnt sacrifice?

Not sure how steady our feet are. Jane tried a humour steer. We might set off the wrong sort of conflagration. I feel far from mediaeval.

I like it. Babs was the more literary. But dedicate ourselves to what?

To lives of chastity and Christian meditation.

pg18_01

That stopped the flow. Not all were sure either was a practical way forward.

Muscular Christianity, surely, for a warrior race? Tom burbled. David looked at Mike.

I like it. At least the girls will be safe from us rampaging soldier braves. David smiled his relief at Mike for that. Tom took it as an endorsement.

I suggested it, now I propose it. Be upstanding! They remained unmoving. He went on unabashed. Let us take a vow of chastity among us, and link with the toast the life-long friendship that only such a vow can ensure."

Plastic cups wobbled. Hilarity was on the verge of breaking through.

Life till thirty!

And then? Babs, still organising despite the growing cramp of the shrinking den, the rising heat of the Hereford apple orchards. She wanted to end this conversation. It would be better ended. In any event, it would all be gone in the morning, vanished the moment they broke free from the ties of kindergarten. And then what? What happens if we all stagger on to the old age of thirty, eight whole years or thereabouts after we graduate?

Mike, ablaze with inner zeal got to his feet. Tom sank back, yielding, as ever, the floor.

We decide on that day. Let us solemnly swear to chastity among ourselves until after we graduate. Then, on the day the last of us reaches thirty, we will meet again and elect which of us are to become guardians and who, for it won’t be more than one, does not.

Now you are being silly. We certainly won’t meet here again if we’re burning it down.

Here! We five shall meet again in gilded hall or foreign plain. In castle or palace, so great shall be our advances.

We’ll meet often enough at college.

Don’t be pedantic, Tom. You were the one who started this pre-Raphaelite thinking. On to our own destiny! Who is with me? A toast! A toast!

Glad to get up as young legs get locked if stuck too long in spaces outgrown, they all did. As so often, they followed their leader. Each raised a cup, and waved it about in the manner of champagne flutes destined for the fiery hearth. In their different ways they supped to the covenant of which they knew little and the outcome of which they could foretell less. Somewhere within it lay a cloud, unseen, unsuspected.

Are we to follow this up by the pricking of thumbs and the signing in blood?

How boy-scoutish! Anyone here been a boy scout? Unheeded, unnecessary question.

Scouts or not, we are prepared. We can shake on it. Scorn was in four faces.

So long as we don’t kiss and tell.

No kissing. Not with us.

Giggles were taking over. The third flagon was dry. So were the eyes. Sentiment was not part of their deal. They would have dismissed any soothsayer who arose from the clouds of their emotions to pronounce on mysteries ahead. No one moved. Nothing happened. Still they stood. Jane made the gesture of break up. Babs took her arm.

Together we go into the night. Onwards and homewards!

Oh god! My parents will be waiting.

Didn’t see them in the hall.

No. Not them. They’re good sometimes.

So how do they know when you finished?

Or if Frosty kept you back for a sherry in the hope of having his evil way!

That they would not believe. Babs had the answer.

Come home with me. Ring from there. My mum will clear it. Babs’ mother, like her renowned artistic sister, were free-thinkers.

Home, then, James, and long live the summer.

See you on results day. Sobering Tom.

They would.

sign_01

Three long years with the span of three long summers. Three summers in which the five went and wended their ways through a growing awareness of self-knowledge to a perception of individuality. Three summers:

in which Jane spent one fruitlessly trying to polish her French with a family in north Belgium; the visit was not returned. The next at a language school in the Dordogne, and a month on a luxury art course, all old masters and red wine, paid for by her godfather who had shares in both. The third helping Oxfam in Malawi;

• in which Babs spent one part in Cornwall with her free-roaming parents and part with the free-thinking aunt in the Lake District. The next two she was part of a group first in Thailand, cycling for charity, and then in Australia learning about surf and sun;

• in which David spent the first weeks of the first of them lost without Mike and then, as he was to for the next two long hols, thanks to a delightful introduction by Mike in absentia, behind stage in one of the smaller London theatres off Shaftesbury Avenue, there to be embraced in the most delightful ambience he could imagine, lacking only his mentor’s hand for perfection. Here he grew with like souls, touching, and occasionally speaking to, some of the great and coming-great in this world of marvels:

• in which Mike’s father arranged an attachment to a law firm for the first, an accountancy firm for the second, and, despite parliament not sitting, an attachment for a month in the third to