A Place by the Sea

By Simon Clayton

Carter Talbot has served Her Majesty's Government for all his adult life. He needs a rest. Nearly forty years in the Army and the FCO have taken him around the World's trouble spots, and into loads of trouble. His character and training have seen him through the worst of times. Now, it's time to share his stories. He takes a pen name and hides away in the Outer Hebrides to write his memoirs.

His well-deserved retirement is shattered when an unexpected element of the past catches up with him, leading into a whirlpool of long dormant emotions. A personal history of war, lost love and regret, looms large as he tries to come to terms with the different demands aimed in his direction, and in defending his place by the sea.

In Simon Clayton's second novel, he weaves together themes including genocide, heartbreak, family conflict, soldiering and revenge, through the looking glass of Talbot's experience and the people in his life.

This book will shock you, make you laugh, and make you cry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Dec 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785075834

Book preview

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Part One

Chapter One

Lydia Hockley-Roberts turned on her laptop, then leaned back in her plush revolving chair and lifted a huge cardboard coffee mug to her lips. She sipped at the foam and watched the big screen come to life. After a few more sips and the dab of a napkin on her full lips, she put the mug to one side and clicked to open her Outlook program. She displayed no surprise when, scrolling down the list of submissions in her inbox, she saw the email she was looking for and selected it.

Hello Lids,

As per your relentless nagging over the last three weekends, here is the first draft of Chapter 1! No doubt you'll give it some treatment and get back to me. In the meantime I'll just bash on with the next bit, Ok?

Cheers,

RDC.

Lydia smiled, then opened the Word attachment and settled back, finishing her coffee before looking closely at the screen. She smiled again as she saw the title they had agreed and scrolled down to the first page of text:

I was born in the back of a Land Rover and delivered by the muddy hands of a gamekeeper in the middle of a grouse shoot, on a wet autumn day in 1958. By the time they got my mother and me to Darlington hospital, apparently I had stopped crying and was asleep in a big tartan blanket. Although two weeks premature, I weighed in at seven pounds, so pretty respectable. I was also greedy and couldn't get enough of the milk my mother provided, so went onto a bottle after a few days.

My father was hundreds of miles away at the time, taking on Icelandic gunboats in the first Cod War. He'd just been given his virgin command, a brand new frigate called HMS Zephyr and, in between bullying the Icelanders, he sent a quick radio message in reply to my mother's news. I still have the transcript of it, framed behind my desk, to this day. It reads;

Well done old girl, glad you banged the sprog out with no fuss. Must have made a mess of the Landy. Should be a good start for the little bugger, toughen him up from day one. Just off now to take a few pot shots at Johnny Viking, chin up!

The next few pages continued in a similarly brisk fashion and Lydia leaned closer, reading eagerly and making a few notes on her iPad while doing so. After a short while she reached for the phone to her right and pressed a button.

Morning Francis, she said breezily into the mouthpiece, Good Weekend?

Why is it that you are the only member of the entire London publishing industry who won't call me Frank? And, no, I had a crap weekend, thanks for asking. Jen had to have her mother round for some reason.

Well, I think this will cheer you up. You remember your old friend from the club, the one with the chequered history?

Of course, my pet project. What of him?

I've had his first chapter and, so far, it's looking quite lively.

I told you he had potential, and at no cost so far.

Do you want to have a look... Frank?

Good God no, that's what I pay you for. But keep me informed and polish it as you go.

Ok, no problem.

Oh, and Lydia?

Yes.

You do know that it's not compulsory for literary agents to sleep with their writers... Don't you?

After the slightest hesitation, Lydia replied, I'm sure I don't know what you mean... Francis, then put the phone gently down.

She decided that she would read the chapter again later before replying. Far from the only question in her mind was, email or phone?

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Chapter Two

The man pulled his bulky waterproof around him tighter as he came around the corner from the shelter of a rocky crag that came almost down to the shore, and was hit by the sharp westerly wind and the cold rain it carried. He continued on the snaking path towards a looming, smooth grey building. A blue and white saltire cracked out from a dirty flagpole jutting diagonally from where the second floor came under the protection of a sharply pitched tile roof. The building looked cold and uninviting, the large windows shuttered with no lights breaking the early evening gloom. The man barely gave it a glance as he walked straight past the front door then angled to his right and walked around the side.

His face lifted and he could see smoke being blown horizontally from a squat chimney stack on top of a low rugged stone structure, tucked at the rear of the building he'd just passed. He noticed orange light flickering out from two small, deep set windows on either side of a black painted entrance. Above it he could make out a small sign with hand painted letters declaring 'Dion'. Higher up, on the front of the slate roof, was perched a big timber board, on a simple frame, with the word 'YES' in metre high letters.

The door was stiff to the man's push, as if it wanted to keep the elements at bay, but he was soon inside and removing his coat as he looked around. His eyes were drawn first to the warm, fluttering glow of the peat fire at the centre of the back wall. He approached it with palms outstretched and glanced to his right. The only other person there was an unshaven, burly man sitting behind a basic bar which filled that side of the building.

Good evening Finn, said the newcomer, All well with you?

The barman got up and his head almost touched the low ceiling, Aye, fine. What will you have? he replied in a deep, gruff, accent.

Half and half please.

Right you are.

Weather's on the turn?

It always is, on Harris, said Finn with what sounded like animosity, And you've not had your first winter here yet, have you... Englishman?

Finn put the half pint of heavy and the single whisky on the bar, then returned to his stool behind it. The Englishman turned from the fire and hopped up onto a bar stool in front of his drinks.

Come on Finn, you're not still brooding about your countrymen voting No to independence, surely? And, by the way, isn't it time you took that board off the roof now? The vote was about three weeks ago.

Well, maybe I will, maybe I won't.

Additional political debate was curtailed by the sound of the door opening and both men turned to see a bald headed man, in a thick, dark blue, heavy knit jumper, with jeans tucked into Wellington boots, entering the bar. His old, weather-beaten, face smiled as he got near the fire and he asked Finn for a large Talisker.

Evening Neil, said the barman as he reached for the bottle of single malt, I saw your boat coming in, and if you're drinking Skye's finest, I'm guessing you've had a good catch?

It could have been worse, aye, the lobster god was with me today I'm thinking.

The fisherman took in the stranger on the bar stool and saw a man of medium height, with very short black and grey hair. His face was tanned and shaved, with wrinkles around his grey eyes that deepened from the cheery expression around his mouth. He looked, if not fighting fit, then in good condition for his age, which Neil guessed was around 50. He stepped to the bar and held out his right hand, as he reached out with his left to pick up his drink, Neil Mackenzie, pleased to meet you.

Likewise Neil, my name's Rob, glad you had a good day out there today.

You must be the Englishman who's moved into Uisge Bothan?

Water Cottage, yeah that's me, got here about a month ago, keep myself to myself most of the time, only my third time in here tonight... Wanted to celebrate.

So what are we drinking to, Rob?

Well, I've come here to write a book, and I sent off the first chapter last night to my agent in London.

What did he say?

He's a she, and I don't know yet... It was just good to get it done.

A toast then, to 'getting it done' and, proposed Neil, Finn, have one on me so you can join in.

The evening continued in good spirits, even though Rob refused to tell Neil, Finn, and the couple of other locals who joined them later, what his book was about. He said they would have to wait, and buy it one day.

Rob walked, somewhat dizzily, from the pub to his cottage, late that night. After fumbling to put his key in the lock, he remembered he hadn't locked it, and opened the fresh pine door. The stone cottage was ancient - a converted Blackhouse - but, in the words of the estate agent he'd got it through, 'beautifully and tastefully renovated, to retain the essential character of the location'. This didn't stop it being cold at that time on a windy night, but he was too drunk to do any more than tug off his clothes, climb into his big oak framed bed and snore the night away.

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Chapter Three

Early lunch Carla, Lydia called to the girl sitting behind the curved reception desk, who glanced at the retro clock face on the opposite wall and nodded in acknowledgement.

Shall I say when you'll be back, Ms Hockley-Roberts?

Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours? And with that, she pushed through the smoked glass double doors, and strolled down the one flight of stairs to the street. Glad of her scarf against the wind whistling through Kings Mews, she walked quickly to the junction with Grays Inn Road and walked towards the sun that was piercing the scudding cloud cover intermittently.

Within a few minutes she had reached The Printers Devil and went inside, then upstairs where she squeezed into a small table for one that just fitted into what was a turret-like corner of the old building. She got herself organised with iPad and phone and waved to the barman. He turned to a colleague, Do you know that nice bit of mature in the corner?

Calls herself LHR, starting to bulk out a bit, but I still would. Comes in, couple of times a week. Likes to get in early so she can camp out in the hobbit-hole, and drink Pouilly Fuisse while watching the world go by. Tips well if you don't mess up.

The new barman busied himself and then appeared through the hatch with a frosted glass half full of the wine he now knew she liked. As he approached the table he could appreciate her thick auburn hair, cut roughly to the shoulder with curls that looked natural. She turned her round face to him and her blue eyes reflected the sunlight at him, Thanks, well done, but I think you'd better bring the whole bottle today. Could be intense. Don't forget the ice bucket.

The barman stole a quick look down her blouse as he backed away to get the necessary. As he got a chiller sleeve out of the freezer and the bottle out of the cooler, he told his colleague that he agreed with him, She might be a full size 12, and probably in her forties but still a great body. The older barman grunted his assent then said, By the way, when she says ice bucket, she means exactly that, prefers it to the sleeve. You want to make a good impression, I assume?

She had started her third glass when she finished rereading his first chapter again, and looking through her notes. It was already more than 24 hours since she'd first seen the work and so, with one more swig of wine she reached for her phone. She found his name then, after the barest hesitation, pressed it.

Ms Hockley-Roberts, said a welcoming but mildly croaky voice.

Rob?

Yeah, it's me, still a bit fragile from last night.

Celebrating getting some work done at last?

Kind of... you Ok?

Lydia hesitated, then with a deep breath and in a softer voice said, I miss you Cat.

Rob's end of the phone went quiet, before he coughed and replied, You said no strings attached Lids, that you could handle it.

I can, and I will, but I can't help my feelings sometimes, especially after three glasses of Pouilly. She laughed, and it seemed to work. The tension went out of Rob's voice and he sounded brighter, So, you're in the Devil then?

Am I that predictable?

Maybe... What do you think? About chapter one, I mean.

Right, yes, it's good, really good. A bit like a runaway train in terms of pace. You've crammed about seven years into the first chapter.

But, like anyone, I can't really remember most of being a kid, and there's no-one left to ask.

I know, it's not a problem, really Cat, just keep it going. We'll worry about editing later.

I thought we were sticking to the 'nom-de-plume'...less of the Cat?

Sorry, yes, you're right... Rob.

You'll be pleased to hear that, in spite of serious queasiness this morning, I've already made a start on chapter two, in my head. Once it's underway, it's really satisfying keeping the momentum going.

A bit like relationships?

Lydia, let me repeat what I told you before. Those two weeks we spent in and out of the Savoy in the summer, were fantastic. I've never enjoyed myself, or London, as much. We had a great time but, whatever your feelings are for me, it would be wrong to tell you that I felt anything more. I couldn't have had a better date, or better...well, you know.

Sex? Is that all it was to you?

Of course not... But it really was good, wasn't it?

Lydia went quiet for a few moments, then went on, Look, I don't take it back, I've never had a better lover than you, but to me it was a lot more. I know it's one way and the main thing is, we need to work well together on the book. Frank will entirely blame me if we fuck it up. He idolises you, for some reason, and I'm sure he knows about us.

He's not said anything to me.

Well, you boys don't talk about specifics do you? You just assume that it's part of life's game to shag anyone you fancy.

Change of subject please Lids? So, we're agreed? Let's be mates? And you must tell me everything I do wrong, in the book I mean... I trust you Darling, really.

Ok, as my best girlfriend tells me, 'At least you know where you are with a bastard'.

A brutal stab Lydia, but a fair one, chuckled Rob.

Right then, I'll email you with some detailed points to help with the next few chapters and we'll talk at the end of each one?

Or earlier, if I get stuck?

Indeed.

Thanks, Lydia. I wouldn't have started this without you.

I know. Now bugger off, so that I can finish my bottle in peace.

Ok, see you soon.

You never know, I might surprise you. Bye.

Lydia didn't wait for acknowledgement, just clicked the 'end call' box on her touch screen. She shrugged, drained the last of her wine then waved the same waiter back over. As he leaned in to collect the glass, bottle, and bucket, Lydia said quietly to him, I'll have the bill please...and stop looking at my tits.

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Chapter Four

After Lydia's phone call had roused him, Rob decided that a shower was just the thing to bring him round completely. He luxuriated for some time as the power shower (installed as part of the 'tasteful renovation') gently pummelled his head, shoulders, and chest. Suitably rejuvenated, he threw on a tee shirt and track suit bottoms then brewed some coffee in his galley kitchen. He made and buttered some toast and took it with a mug of black coffee into the study. This had originally been a second bedroom and, although there was still a bed settee against the inside wall next to the door, this was now most clearly a room celebrating things other than sleep.

Rob walked over to a large, solid looking, antique pine desk, and put down his very late breakfast. He pulled back the leather 'swivel and tilt' chair and sat in it, before pulling it up to the desk front. The view he faced, through the large double-glazed picture window, was impressive. To the far left and going down the sloping hillside was a gravel track, just wide enough for one vehicle, that joined a larger rough road which was mainly hidden by the central part of the slope. To the far right was a small burn, bubbling down the slope through a narrow channel that it had clearly carved for itself out of the bare, rocky hillside. The road reappeared here and the burn went under it through a culvert. In the centre the slope had some sparse tufted grass and heather, interspersed with bare rock. Beyond the end of the slope, where the road ran unseen in the lee of its base, the view went straight out to sea. To the left, was a small island, about a mile offshore, breaking the vista. Apart from that, and dominating the whole scene, was the North Atlantic and the grey sky above it, merging on a hazy horizon.

The wind had dropped since the previous night and such waves as could be seen were small and with little foam on top reflecting the cloudy sky. Most of the waves broke onto bare rocks, some being huge from being dumped there in the last ice age, some worn small and round forming a partly pebbled beach. Rob knew that along the bay, nearer the pub, was a sandy beach but this couldn't be seen from Water Cottage.

He munched some toast and drank his coffee as he took in the view. Lydia had been right, this was perfect. He glanced around the room and it gave him a contented feeling. There were lots of books in two tall and deep pine bookcases, many of them with military titles. Also, plenty of biographies featuring famous adventurers, explorers, soldiers, sailors and airmen. On top of both bookcases, were about forty different bottles of single malt whisky, with varying content levels. Resting on an antique blotter in the middle of the desk, was a new looking laptop connected to a printer on a small side table. Sharing the table was a wireless router for internet connection and a battered looking pair of naval binoculars. Apart from this there was a locked filing cabinet, and a wide shelf fixed to the wall, with a chess set on it, the pieces of which looked like Napoleonic soldiers. Most of the wall space was taken up with dozens of framed photographs. The common feature about them was that they all featured people, mostly in uniform but some in suits or casual clothing. Rob appeared in some but from most of them, he was an absentee.

He turned on the laptop and rummaged in one of the desk drawers, withdrawing an A4 size, distressed leather covered, notebook. He undid the leather bootlace style fastener and flicked through some pages, stopping to scribble here and there with a biro. Turning back to the screen and keyboard, Rob slid his finger over the touchpad and opened the Word icon, then the 'AONAG.docx' file he needed.

He glanced through chapter one, in the light of LHR's comments, and grinned to himself, then started typing. With occasional looks out to sea, and glances into his notebook, Rob's fingers moved speedily over the keyboard. There were plenty of touches on the backspace key but after around an hour and a half, he leaned back in the chair, stretched his fingers in turn until they clicked, and gave a satisfied sigh. He scrolled the screen up until he saw 'Chapter Two', then read his words:

So, after a disruptive early life, moving to and from various homes in naval bases around Britain, and usually brief, disappointing stints in local infant schools, I reached the ripe old age of eight. By this time I knew that my mother came from something called a 'good family' that had apparently fallen on hard times. I often heard my father going on about the 'Bloody skinflint Admiralty' and this all seemed to lead to my parents often being short of money. From the noisy arguments at whatever home we were in at the time, this seemed to be something that always provoked rages in my father. I remember over the breakfast table once, when my father was home on leave, I asked if I was ever going to have a brother or sister. My father turned to me and with the coldest eyes I could remember, shouted at me, Don't you think that you're enough of a burden already, without adding another bloody mouth to feed? I kept quiet on the subject after that.

Actually, getting to eight was a bit of an achievement for me. My father almost drowned me before I got to that age. I don't think he meant to do it, his need for economy probably didn't drive him to measures that extreme. On a rare bit of Navy leave, he declared that we were going to go to the west coast of Scotland for a holiday. A fellow officer had a small sailing cruiser and he had said my father could use it for a fortnight. We lived in Devonport then, so the drive north, in our Morris Minor (the 'birthing' Land Rover had long since given up the ghost), took over two days.

We arrived in a tiny bay near Oban, tired and irritable from sleeping in the car, and it was raining. We found where the boat was moored and got a local to row us out to it, with our luggage. My mother put the kettle on the tiny stove for tea, and my father got our wet cases stowed away. It was late morning before we were organised and then it was time for the holiday to begin in earnest. My father went around the deck sorting out ropes (or 'sheets' as he insisted on calling them) and soon announced that we were ready to 'cast off'. My mother and I sat in the cockpit, her hand on the tiller, while my father disengaged us from the mooring buoy and looked up at the mainsail starting to fill. The rain had faded to a sort of drizzle by then and we slowly edged our way to the end of the bay, heading north-west for the Inner Hebrides.

After about half an hour on the open sea, pitching gently over the small waves as we continued our course, I started to feel very ill. The motion made my insides churn and I groaned helplessly. This was my first time on open water and it was completely different to the odd motor boat trip around a naval dockyard. I clung closer to my mother and continued groaning. My father, having grabbed the tiller from my mother and corrected our course with a look at the centrally mounted compass, looked at me with disdain and barked, What's wrong with you boy? It can't be seasickness, this is like a bloody millpond!

Don't John, said my mother as she held me tighter.

What do you mean, 'Don't John', he's being pathetic. How will he ever become a naval officer if he can't cope with the slightest swell?

Perhaps he might not want to?

Don't be ridiculous, of course he will. If Nelson could beat the entire Frog Navy while being seasick, there's no way a boy of mine can't take it in his stride. All he needs is something to take his mind off it. Right Margaret, you go below for a while, get another brew on, I'll get laddie here, busy.

With that, my father pushed my mother out of the cockpit towards the cabin and took her seat at the helm. He then told me to go forward and bring the mainsail in a few notches on the starboard winch, as the south-westerly wind was getting a bit stronger and we could speed up. I didn't really understand it all and just sat there, still moaning.

Get your useless lump to that handle there, he shouted at me, pointing to a round metal thing on the right of the deck, And turn it, quickly.

I still sat, rooted to the cockpit bench, trying to keep swallowing back the pressure that had built up in my stomach and throat. After a few seconds more, it was too much and I turned my head to the left, throwing up straight into the freshening breeze. Much of it was thrown back by the wind, over me and my father, sitting behind me to the right of the tiller. His face was splattered by my vomit and he lunged out an arm, grabbing me by the slack of my anorak and hurling me forward. Turn the fucking handle boy, he screamed as he wiped his eyes with his hand. I stumbled forward and, just before I bent down to the winch, the slack sail suddenly filled with wind and the boom flew across from the top of the cabin catching me on the left shoulder, pushing me easily over the rail. The water in those parts is never warm and, being Easter, no long days of sunshine had yet been of effect. The piercing cold went through my clothes instantly and the thought I remember most clearly was, ‘It's not my fault’.

The screams of my mother, my father lifting me out with a boat hook caught in my anorak, and having hot chocolate after the rescue, were all a bit of a blur. More vivid was the comment afterwards that, 'If he'd got the sail in when I told him to, the whole debacle would never have happened.' My mother's protestations, mainly pointing out that I was only seven years old, cut no ice. 'I could sail before I could walk, no bloody excuse', and suchlike.

Anyway, that was the first day of two weeks of hell for me. My father was determined to toughen me up and, as events many years later would tend to show, he may have been partly successful. One thing that I never got to cope with however, was seasickness. It was ten times worse when, later on our cruise, we crossed the Minch to the Outer Hebrides. My mother always recounted that my face actually went green for that whole day, as we struggled to make headway in seriously strong winds.

The most positive aspect of that holiday for me, was that I developed a love of the islands. The whole west coast of Scotland is, to me, a wonderful place. The scenery, the people and the whole environment, are sensational. Quite simply, I started then to grow up as a man who loves the sea, but would rather not be on it, if alternatives are possible.

Anyway, part of growing up is going to school and that takes me back to my eighth birthday. Father's ship was on the Hong Kong station and my mother made a small cake onto which she had placed eight candles. We'd just moved to Rosyth and didn't yet know the other naval families on the base. We sat at our small dinner table eating the cake and drinking lemonade, after I had blown the candles out and made a wish. I wished that my mother's smile could come back. She seemed sad most of the time but, curiously, this got worse when she knew my father was due on leave.

I've got some news for you, she said to me after she finished her lemonade, Now you're eight, you can go to a proper school.

But, Mum, I've been to lots of schools.

This is different, my son. I've had your name down for Bainbridge, since not long after you were born. I put aside the last of my inheritance to pay the fees, and your father never knew.

Where's Bainbridge?

It's in North Yorkshire, not that far from where you were born, near Uncle Hugo's house.

My mother was obviously pressing the right buttons as she knew I enjoyed the adventures we had when we visited the Pennines, and the way Uncle Hugo would spoil me when we stayed at his sprawling Manor House. However, one thing concerned me, How will I get there every day when you are here?

Look at this Darling, she said as she passed me a shiny leaflet, It's got everything you could want.

I looked at the front of the leaflet and the words 'Bainbridge Boarding School for Boys' took up most of it. Inside there were pictures of gothic buildings and school playing grounds, with bright young schoolboys and juvenile rugby players smiling out from them. The words, 'clean and comfortable boarding accommodation with traditional British catering', seemed to crystallise my thinking and I looked into my mother's face.

Will I have to stay there?

It's for the best sweetheart, all this hopping from school to school can't be good for you.

But what about you? Where will you be?

I'll be just down the road at your uncle's house. I'm going to stay with him for a while, at least until your father comes back from the Far East.

So that was that, I became a Bainbridge boy, and went walking through their doors a week after my birthday. I was nervous but also strangely excited.

Rob clicked on 'save' with a flourish. He then opened Outlook and penned a quick email to LHR, explaining that chapter two was well in hand, and that he hoped to finish it in a couple of days.

His memory was stretched now and, in need of a break, he put on his walking boots and a Gortex jacket, snatched a silver hip flask from the array of whisky bottles on one of his bookcases, and set off for a walk in the hills behind the cottage.

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Chapter Five

Francis Rafferty sat back in a big leather armchair and cradled his gin and tonic before looking at his watch. The Dragoon Club, just off Piccadilly, was always a good place to meet his contemporaries. It was discreet, quiet, and the service was exemplary. Originally set up for returning cavalry officers from the Crimea, licking their wounds after Sevastopol and other disasters, the club embraced people from across the services nowadays. As long as they had once held a commission, they could apply for membership.

He saw the familiar figure of Sir Archibald Findlayson lumbering across the smoking room, his portly girth stretching the holding powers of his dark blue waistcoat, and making his jacket flap outwards like two untrimmed, pinstriped sails. He plonked himself in the matching armchair at right angles to Rafferty's, with a grunt and a Frank. He got the reply Archie, from his old friend, who proceeded to hold up two fingers in the direction of the bar.

Two gin and tonics were promptly delivered to the small table between the men and, now suitably equipped for conversation, they enquired about each other's health and made other small talk about the publishing world and life at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. After a suitable refill, Frank leaned forward and said, Cat's book project is up and running. Early signs are promising.

Good show, replied Archie, Discretion assured old boy?

Oh yes, pen name sorted and got him tucked out of the way where the journo's can't get at him.

What is it?

Sorry Archie?

What's his bloody nom-de-plume?

Frank shuffled a little on the chair, It's Chancellor... Robin D. Chancellor.

Sorry, 'Robin D. Chancellor', you must be joking?

Cat chose it, always was an irreverent fucker.

Oh well, it will be fun if a copy ever turns up at number 11 Downing Street! And this will be promoted as purely a work of fiction, yes?

Absolutely Archie, we will use Cat's... Robin's stories but not identify anyone that could cause problems for HMG.

Ok Frank, how about going through for lunch now and talking bollocks about the good old days in the regiment.

Sounds perfect.

After a long and liquid lunch, Frank got a cab back to Riveting Read LLP and beamed his flushed face at Carla as he went in. Having established from her that LHR was there, he let himself into Lydia's office and sat down opposite her desk, without an invitation.

Good lunch Francis? she asked.

Splendid... the tournedos were sublime.

As was the wine, by the look of it.

Never mind that, how's our boy doing.

If you mean Cat...or rather, RDC, he's promised me the next chapter by first thing, Friday.

That's tomorrow. Good work Lydia, sounds like you're getting him into a productive groove. The good news from my chum at the FCO is that if we do it the way we said we would, there'll be no repercussions from them. Update before the weekend please?

Sure thing... Boss.

After Frank left, it was getting on for 5pm and Lydia was just about to turn off the screen when a new email popped up in the bottom right of her screen. It was from Rob and had an attachment headed: AONAG - C2. The email reminded Lydia that this was now the second chapter to be delivered in less than a week, and it also declared that this was 'not bad for a beginner'.

Lydia opened up the attachment and she appreciated the story of Rob's sailing experiences as a young boy and how he had ended up having to go to boarding school. As she read on, it became clear that the seeming vulnerability of those infant years started to drop off the youngster, as he came to grips with his new environment and tackled it head on.

His descriptions of the school and how it worked were insightful, especially the sub-culture surrounding the way the senior boys treated the new juniors. Bullying seemed to be part of the fabric of Bainbridge School society, but what came from Cat's words was not self-pity, but the sense that this was not going to be tolerated by him and that he would find a way to oppose it.

One passage, that followed pages outlining some ferocious bullying by one of the senior boys on the youngster in his second year, caught Lydia's eye in particular:

Fletcher laughed again, while swinging his boot at me on the opposite side of the scrum to the referee. I laughed back at him to show that I didn't care. And, in fact, I really didn't care, as I had already put in place the measures that were going to finish Fletcher off for good. His love of pies was legendary and would be his downfall.

The day prior to the rugby match, I had made myself throw up in assembly with copious sweets after breakfast and a finger down my throat. I had been sent to matron and