The Wild Geese and the North East Wind

By Dorian van Braam (the Elder)

The story begins in Cuba when Julian Hamilton, aged eighty and after a life as a famous writer, is confronted with Victoria, his daughter, whose existence he was unaware of. Julian has been spending his retirement and final days of a life that began with the conflicting dilemma he experienced as a young student after leaving Princeton University, USAa conflict that people have between their belief in themselves and their emotional lives. For the writer and painter, it is a greater burden and more onerous than the many people who have to decide whether to sacrifice ambition for a sense of responsibility toward love and family life.

After Princeton, Julian gets married but soon finds that following lifes normal format impairs the necessary dedication to evolve as a writer. Fearful of the emotional restrictions that come with full commitment, he leaves his wife to follow the romantic dream of coup de foudre or love at first sight. He meets Rebecca serendipitously, who gives him the necessary inspiration, and they go traveling on an ancient Triumph Speed Twin motorbike, heading towards Morocco with no sense of responsibility. Things go wrong, which fractures their passionate relationship, leaving them in a state of despair. Rebecca is raped and becomes pregnant, and Julian goes into a monastery to make a clean break in order to establish a balanced perspective of the situation. They separate, and Rebecca is left facing a lifetime of unhappiness.

The book contains romance, suspense, tragedy, travel, and some thriller action of rape, murder, and sex. The doomed lovers final curtain falls in Barcelona when Julian chooses his art over lovesomething he lives to regret.

The novel will present some readers with the unsolvable question as to which path should be taken!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524632625

Dorian van Braam (the Elder)

The author is English with van Braam ancestors who were aristocrats and were titled. His great-grandfather (Jacob van Braam, son of Aeidguis van Braam) married Emma Wood, the granddaughter of Sir Mathew Wood, who was the mayor of the city of London and also the Whig MP. His father’s mother was Anglo-Irish and born in Wicklow, Southern Ireland. Dorian’s father was a Sussex farmer who brought Dorian up to be a farmer. Dorian had other ideas. He lived in several European countries—France, Ireland, and Spain for twelve years. He was educated in England and studied law and economics at Brighton Sussex. Afterward, he studied Spanish at Barcelona. Years later, as a mature student, he won a place at Oxford University and studied contemporary literature. He broke horses, is a qualified pilot, and drives a 1,000 cc motorbike. For twelve years, he was an entrepreneur for bottled water (De Braam Mineral Water company near Rathmolyon, County Meath, Ireland). After leaving the family farm and finishing his original studies, Dorian became an actor. He married twice and is hoping for number three before he becomes too old! When Napolean took over Holland in the late eighteenth century, two ancestors—Jacob van Braam and Andreaus Everadus van Braam Houckgeest—became American citizens. Both returned to the continent once Napolean was put out of action. Jacob was a friend of George Washington and became an officer in the American army. Andreaus was the ambassador in the Chinese court.

Book preview

About the Author

Dorian van Braam has written more than 40 books with a total of approximately fifty million words in long hand. Approximately ten unedited novels including the Wild Geese & the North East Wind which is the only one transposed onto a computer file, edited and proofed. He explains that he writes because he cannot live without writing. His work includes essays, poetry, plays and film scripts. (all covered with mildew) His grist to the writer’s mill is now so full that he believes that he must publish to justify his existence. He says that he is fed up with being an anonymous writer and poet known only to friends and acquaintances. This is his first step taken towards what he considers to be his destiny.

I am a retired NUJ photojournalist and having put editing on the back burner for 40 years, had two wives and three children, I am back with no chains, with a passion for literature, flying airplanes, driving my 1000 cc Suzuki motor bike, riding beautiful horses, listening to classical music, extemporising on my full size Steinway Concert Grand and relaxing over a chess board making bad moves with the help of a few glasses of wine. I love every aspect of life and adore social activities, especially those associated with dinner parties attended by interesting people; I am determined not to die until I am recognised for what I believe I am and have received the monarch’s telegram!!

Dorian van Braam has a convoluted ancestry relating to 15th century English titled aristocracy (the Woods of Hareston Manor, Brixton Devon). Sir Mathew Wood, Lord Mayor and Whig MP for the City of London, was his great great great Grandfather. His Dutch ancestors were ancient nobility, tracing back to the 7th century. (Wichman, Count of Hameland) who became, (18th in descent) the Lord of Ghent. His descendants became the Counts of Ghent (whose sons were known as Bramator) who had to flee to England to escape the Spanish inquisition. On the continent one’s enemies simply had to cross a border with enough soldiers and what belonged to someone else became theirs. Continental families had no way of fighting and protecting their rights and Dorian’s ancestors had to move on to survive, losing castles and estates to medieval Teddy Boy thugs. When Dorian’s ancestors fled to England in the 16th century, they changed their name to de Braem and remained in situ at the Court of Queen Elizabeth. They were granted an English knighthood and Sir Arnold de Braem even married the daughter of Sir Dudley Diggs, Master of the Rolls.

When things finally settled down on the continent the de Braems reinvented themselves and moved to the Netherlands adopting the name van Braam, another variation of the original 12th century name Bramator. (details Burkes peerage 1904)

When Napoleon cut up Europe, two great, great, great van Braams moved to America until Napoleon was defeated. Jacob van Braam was a friend of George Washington and they both belonged to same Masonic lodge No 4 of Fredericksburg. He became an officer in the American Army and was given 9000 acres in Kentucky in recognition of his help and assistance to the emerging America. (a gift which he left behind!) Another van Braam, Andreas Everadus van Braam was the Ambassador at the Court of the Emperor Qianlong in the 18th century. He became obsessed with everything Chinese and even built China Hall, a vast mansion in Philadelphia.

From late seventeenth century, the van Braams took a major role in running the Dutch East India and several became significant as Vice Admirals of the Dutch Fleet.

Dorian’s great grandfather, Vice Admiral, Jacob van Braam, son of Agedius van Braam, met Emma Wood in New York. They had two sons who were brought up by their single mother while Jacob, influenced by English xenophobia, did a runner.

Dorian’s grandfather was a wealthy, eccentric Victorian dilettante artist who worked as an architect in London but Dorian’s father was a farmer who farmed at Plumpton before WW2. After being invalided out of the war in 1942 he spent eight years as a civil servant working for the Ministry of Agriculture before acquiring the family farm at Horsted Keynes / Ardingly, Sussex. The family fortunes were effected by injuries received in France and the fiscal influence of the two world wars and dishonest lawyers. This resulted in Dorian being taken out of the public school system and finishing his secondary schooling at a state school until the family finances improved. Unfortunately, they didn’t and the indignity of having to forgo the planned schooling at Winchester Public School had a lifelong influence on his personal perspectives and was the anvil upon which his life was fashioned. Brought up to be a farmer but with the obligatory farm labouring of dawn to dusk school holidays, (unpaid) he soon developed other interests beyond rural boundaries. He started writing poetry in his late teens and wrote his first play at nineteen. His first novel was penned at twenty which Collins contemplated publishing on the condition that it was revamped. He didn’t rewrite it but decided to learn his craft by writing approx. 500- 1000 words every day; a task he still maintains today. He also took up acting but stupidly decided it would clash with writing, so he didn’t pursue his thespian activities although he still keeps his equity card just in case. At twenty-nine he played the lead in a 90-minute feature film which collapsed when finances were withdrawn, and in his last performance in the live theatre, he portrayed General Haig in Oh what a lovely war

Dorian studied Company Law, Economics and Business, at Brighton Sussex, Spanish at Barcelona University, and qualified as a pilot at a Spanish military flying school. He also graduated with honours from the Brands Hatch motor racing school; neither flying nor formula racing were pursued professionally.

In his early twenties Dorian operated in London as a low key Deb’s Delight but exchanged London life for a cell in a monastery because of the destructive quality of life as an active member of an exclusive social environment. Sometimes he regretted this although he acknowledges that it was the best thing for a wannabe novelist and poet. He also regretted not taking up an offered place at Cambridge where some of his ancestors had studied. Much later he rectified this when as mature student, he won a place at an Oxford college studying Contemporary Literature. Before Oxford, he had studied for a law degree with the Open University. Dorian says that he is obsessed with academia and intends to continue learning until death pulls the final curtains. He admits making stupid decisions in his life due to the arrogance of youth and the fact that he did not have a mentor who would have put him right. He considered that life experiences were essential for a nascent writer and undertook numerous activities to gain experience. These include a navvy helping to dig the Victoria line, a mortuary attendant, preparing bodies for viewing, selling skis at Lilywhites, a hospital porter, a school sports teacher, lecturing first year Law students, teaching English, breaking and training horses, fashion/portrait photographer in Madrid and Dublin, aerial photographer and a foreman in a French Wine Coop. For two years he worked as a guide in London and Spain before being promoted to the overseas director and contract manager for a London travel company. He also spent a season, dressed in Elizabethan gear as the MC at medieval banquets at an Irish Castle. He even stood for UK parliament twice as an independent but lost his deposit both times. For three years worked for MIND helping individuals reconnect with society after suffering a mental breakdown.

For a more communal experience, he drove a Hackney carriage taxi for several years before setting up as an entrepreneur, the de Braam Mineral Water Company, at Rathmolyn, County Meath, where he bottled Irish Champagne. However, after twelve years, working 140 hours a week that damaged health and literary pursuits, he moved on, intending to dedicate his time to writing and helping his wife (nappies etc.) bring up their three children. Unfortunately, a disaster occurred that damaged his family unit and destroyed the most significant years for an unknown, albeit mature writer. Just after take off, he crashed a sports aircraft into a helicopter because someone had sabotaged his plane. This resulted in a litigation that lasted almost ten years during which he studied the relevant law and court procedures in order to defend himself against a fraudulent claim. Representing himself as document/ bundle preparing solicitor and performing barrister at Dublin’s Four Courts, he refused to give up. Against all odds, he finally triumphed against a dishonest litigation brought by the owner of the helicopter, who was a top Irish Revenue commissioner. Dorian made some thirty-five appearances in the High and Supreme Courts of Dublin and finally achieved victory when the Commissioner was arrested for stealing three million pounds from his employers!

Dorian has been married twice. First to a Spanish aristocrat (no children) and second to an English dancer who is the mother of his three children. Dorian is now living the life of an elderly bachelor; a typical Capricorn, he lives alone making up for lost time. Every two years he enters a Spanish monastery for a few weeks to reconnect with his soul and unearth the buried spirit of a poet who often loses his way among the detritus of an establishment that has little empathy for the sensitive artist.

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The Wild Geese and the North East Wind

DORIAN VAN BRAAM SR.

The Elder

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2016 Dorian van Braam (The Elder). All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

The characters in this book are the creation of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real people is fortuitous and coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/18/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3261-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6440-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3262-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

About The Author

Dedications And Thanks

Preface

Prologue Cuba 1925

Chapter 1 Princeton University New Jersey Usa

Chapter 2 Ireland, Disillusionment And Rebirth

Chapter 3 Mutual Seduction

Chapter 4 Irish Departure

Chapter 5 Moonlight Through England

Chapter 6 En Route To Paris

Chapter 7 Introspection In Paris.

Chapter 8 Ralph’s Dilemma

Chapter 9 An American Diversion

Chapter 10 Love Hurts But Forgives

Chapter 11 Parting Of The Ways

Chapter 12 Lausanne At Last

Chapter 13 The Magic Of Lausanne

Chapter 14 Preparing For Departure

Chapter 15 Adieu Ou A Bientot

Chapter 16 En Route To Barcelona

Chapter 17 Barcelona, City Of Dreams

Chapter 18 Destiny Well Met

Chapter 19 Brief Encounter In Madrid

Chapter 20 Adios Madrid

Chapter 21 Rendezvous In Granada

Chapter 22 Second Honeymoon

Chapter 23 The Straits Of Gibraltar

Chapter 24 The Long Dusty Road

Chapter 25 The Nightmare Begins

Chapter 26 Murphy Encore

Chapter 27 United In Fez

Chapter 28 The Fiscality Of Sex

Chapter 29 A Wrong Turning

Chapter 30 A Dinner Too Far

Chapter 31 Ambassadorial Seduction

Chapter 32 Nemesis Passes Judgement

Chapter 33 Flight From A Damaged Soul

Chapter 34 Open Road To Casablanca

Chapter 35 Return To Rabat

Chapter 36 Planning An Escape Route

Chapter 37 Kidnapped In Morocco

Chapter 38 Escape Route

Chapter 39 The Nightmare Returns

Chapter 40 Imprisoned For Murder.

Chapter 41 A Dangerous Meal

Chapter 42 Daddy To The Rescue

Chapter 43 The Deal Is Done

Chapter 44 The Springing Of Rebecca

Chapter 45 Dark Reflections

Chapter 46 Take-Off To Freedom

Chapter 47 Dicing With Death

Chapter 48 Rebecca Takes Stock

Chapter 49 Barcelona At Last

Chapter 50 A Surprise Reunion

Chapter 51 Decisions At The Dinner Table

Chapter 52 A Night Of Love

Chapter 53 Return To Ireland

Chapter 54 Alone In Barcelona

Chapter 55 El Barrio Gotico

Chapter 56 The Bullfight (La Corrida)

Chapter 57 El Monasterio De Montserrat

Chapter 58 Rebecca’s Epistle

Chapter 59 Disaster

Chapter 60 Letter From Ireland

Chapter 61 From Ireland With Love

Chapter 62 For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 63 The Plaited Strands Of Destiny

Chapter 64 Rendezvous At Fuente De Canaletas

Chapter 65 Emerging Doubts

Chapter 66 Emotional Shadows

Chapter 67 The Approaching Darkness

Chapter 68 A Dispatch Of Joy

Chapter 69 Las Ramblas, One Last Time

DEDICATIONS AND THANKS

This book is dedicated to Adele Crothers, who was my inspiration for many years and still remains my spiritual muse..

I also remember: -

Helen Piesse, who persuaded me as a teenager to follow my literary passions and ambitions.

Gogi Harmsworth, who made a deep impression on me.

Jacky Lester of Monkey Island, Bray. (1960)

Tania Soskin, my pin up of the years of raw youth.

Veronica Agnew, whose personality inspired me.

Jenni, who still comes up on my screen saver.

Casilda Orbea Muguiro, (Basque Spanish) my first wife and astrological soul mate, (Virgo) whose forgiveness I supplicate.

&

I also thank my children: the van de Braams, Dorian the younger, Merlin and Portia, whose existence motivated me and decided me to pull my finger out, edit, proof and publish.

Also, thanks to my Canadian cousin Sue Baird, nee Coffee, who spent time assisiting me with the first serious edit and made some valuable suggestions, some of which I used.

&

Finally, Marion, a love that should have developed but didn’t!

PREFACE

I have always had a horror of the academics who want to prove their potential value as novelists by writing a long preface of approximately twenty pages, analysing both the book and its author. Sometimes, I skim one or two pages but rarely do I bother to read the full text because the reason why I acquire a new novel is to read fiction and make my own opinion on what it contains and the possible importance of its contents. Of course, there are significant exceptions.

Well, this preface will be short. I want to explain the inspiration behind the imbedded philosophy which is experienced by every class of people, every race and every country in the world. The people I refer to are those with covert talents who lack the ruthless ambition to push their way forward and are unable to tread on the lives of people, like the literary celebrity seekers who have scant sympathy for the sensitivity of the creative person. Those who feel genuine empathy of others, often sacrifice personal ambitions because of their emotional responsibilities towards the people they love or for whom they have a duty of care. It is only too easy for the creative succubus or incubus (depending on one’s gender!) to drain the strength and confidence from their souls as emotional responsibility takes precedence over their belief in their art and their creativity. This artistic strangulation is analogous to the danger that Canadian geese encounter when, having summered in the north of Canada, they must fly south to avoid the north east wind’s freezing air. If they leave their departure too late, they will drop out of the sky, frozen solid. This mortality has a parallel situation to certain aspects of talented people who are brilliant but sacrifice their brilliance because of their relationship with family and loved ones. Their sacrifice is the equivalent of the cold wind for the geese; it is the strangulation and ultimately, an artistic death that denies the world of their talents. Although mostly relevant to writers, poets and painters, it is also effects other talents and professions which need a full dedication by people whose lack of the selfish ego will often deny them their destiny.

This is the philosophical undercurrent of the novel but hopefully does not detract from its portrayal of a typical life style of a true writer who sometimes lives in control but often has to deal with an imbalance that the writer, poet or painter has to contend with. The statement my day job puts the creative occupation in a valid perspective, and it has to be understood that luck is a very important part of embracing success as is having a partner of quality who believes in their creativity. A true artist may not be a gambler but reaching for the dream of being recognised for what he or she believes in, is the biggest gamble of all; the gamble of life. As in the past, the present, and will be in their future, success often needs the assistance of nepotism which is controlled by the appropriate department of the establishment.

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PROLOGUE

Cuba 1925

The co-pilot looked out from the flight deck to check the progress of the embarkation.

‘Passengers are all seated and hostesses in take off positions Captain.’

‘Anyone interesting on today’s flight, Second Officer?’

‘Just a bunch of usual tourists sir, except for a very stylish woman right at the back. I checked the passenger list and found that she is the Countess of Lodéve no less, and goes under the name of Victoria Gregory. For someone from the Pyrenees of Languedoc she has a very elegant image, more typical of Parisian chic than the agricultural style of the provincial plough.’

‘Interesting. Look, let’s get this machine moving. I have a date back here tonight and I’ll need a siesta to put the zap back into me. She is an actress and expects only the best. You take-off; I will take control for the landing. Once we are settled at cruise level, I’ll take a stroll and talk with a few passengers, with a special interest in your countess from Paris. I suppose she has read that if an aircraft crashes, the person sitting right at the back often survives, while those in front perish with the pilots!

Twenty minutes later, with the aircraft settled at fifteen thousand feet, Captain Stuyvesant got up from the left hand seat and put his head out through the cockpit curtains. Several blue rinse women clapped and called out, entreating him to join them for a chat. Charming, as a Captain was expected to be, he maintained a general smile but made only a few perfunctory salutations to several passengers as he strolled nonchalantly down towards the countess who sat alone, occupying a double seat. Stuyvesant was considered by many women divine, a quality which he was in complete agreement with and took every opportunity to exhibit its characteristics. The Countess would be just another temporary in flight conquest.

‘Good evening Madame. Captain Peter Stuyvesant, at your service. I trust everything is alright or is there something I can get for you?’

‘Good afternoon Captain,’ she said politely, shaking his proffered hand. ‘Thank you. I would love a glass of champagne. This aircraft is a lovely antique. Are you sure it is quite safe, and what’s more important, will you be landing it? I always prefer the captain to land any aircraft in which I am a passenger.’

‘I give you my word Madame,’ he said unctuously, ‘my hands will be at the controls to give you the most perfect landing. First time in Cuba or are you a frequent visitor?’

‘First time. I have some important business to attend to, but I’m not sure how long I will be staying.’

Captain Stuyvesant gave instructions for a glass of champagne, which was promptly served to his special passenger who made no claim to VIP treatment but demanded it implicitly simply by her presence. Stuyvesant tried hard to break through her mask of inscrutability but soon realised that her personality, although polite, was impervious to his attempts to engage. With a complexion that could have launched a thousand anti-wrinkle creams and her classically sculptured features, she evinced a self-possession that made people nervous of approaching her. Her hands were white, fine and delicately elegant although her grasp was strong enough to cause the captain to flinch. Two rings adorned her left hand. A diamond engagement ring of at least two carats, and a flat gold wedding ring, which seemed to fold into her finger as if it were an extension of her skin. Everything about her was sophisticated and beautiful and reminded the captain of an exquisite nineteenth century painting. He remained with her for several minutes while she chatted distractively until, admitting defeat, he stood up, doffed his cap, and returned to the cockpit with a sense of failure and a smile that hid a bruised ego.

An hour later, the exotic Caribbean island of Cuba appeared on the horizon beneath a blazing sun that had baked San Marti, Cuba’s international airport, into inactivity. On the ground, the loudest sounds came from crickets hidden in grass-covered areas that separated taxi tracks from the main runways.

Inside Captain Stuyvesant’s aircraft, gasps of apprehension were heard as the aircraft entered a cloud, leaving the passengers in the dark for a few seconds before emerging into a passionate sky, ablaze with a dramatic sunset. As the aircraft approached the airport, its two Pratt and Whitney engines shattered the silence. The DC3, Dakota, affectionately known as a DAK, lined up with runway 24 and slotted into short finals. On the ground, those interested in aviation, looked skywards and observed a dark silhouette, framed by fiery colours as the sun sank towards the horizon. Their interest was alerted by the absence of the usual jet whine and its replacement by the rumble of two piston engines propelling the revered icon forward. In the mid twentieth century, the Dakota had been a trusted transport aircraft with hundreds delivering either a cargo of freight packages or twenty-eight passengers to almost every airport in the world. Now, after nearly six decades, it had almost disappeared, except for air shows and routes where distance and speed were not important. The aircraft was one of a fleet of six Miami based Dakotas, which provided the most popular method of transport for crossing the two hundred and thirty miles from Miami to Cuba. Tourists loved to travel on antique classics which were so popular, one had to book a seat several weeks ahead.

Slowly, the Dakota lost its two-dimensional silhouette, shifting imperceptibly into a three-dimensional image, as it cut its engines and glided in on minimum revs. With consummate skill, Captain Stuyvesant crossed the airport perimeter, remained a few feet above and parallel to the runway for fifty metres, then gently lowered the DAK down with a flawless seat- of- pants technique. The tyres hissed as the main wheels kissed the runway, and two seconds later, the tail wheel made contact with the tarmac establishing a perfect landing. Inside, the passengers clapped with nervous appreciation as the aircraft taxied to the apron and parked beside the control tower.

As soon as the engines were cut, two porters appeared from a hanger, pushing gangway steps towards the cabin door and once in position, a blond stewardess, dressed in a snappy blue, twentieth century style uniform, opened the door and threw a winsome smile at each passenger as they descended the steps and headed for the terminal. The hostess was joined by Captain Stuyvesant, who sported a handlebar moustache and wore a Second World War RAF uniform for maximum photographic value. Seconds later, the final passenger appeared. The Countess, who did not agree with queuing, presented herself dramatically at the door, paused and looked out across the airfield like a pioneer surveying her latest conquest. She had an air of innate breeding, matched by clothes of simple good taste. Her shoulder length hair was dark brown, with blond streaks adding colour and dignity to an overall powerful presence. For a second she remained motionless, then slowly, with effortless grace, she descended the steps, crossed the airport apron at a brisk walk and disappeared into the customs shed.

Ten minutes later, she emerged in front of the building with two small elegant suitcases and stopped by the airport taxi rank. Within a few minutes, a 1950’s Buick appeared, reinforcing the time warp created by the Dakota. It shuddered to a halt with a squealing of brakes as the driver jumped out, even before the car had stopped, dashed round to the passenger side and opened the door with a courtier’s bow. He had recognised three things: beauty, quality, and wealth. Rich, she obviously was, but her beauty and quality were more important to him. As he threw her luggage into the boot, he noted that the cases were by Louis Vuitton of Paris. The Cubans might have had several decades of communism but they knew quality when they saw it. Without speaking, the woman smiled and climbed into the back seat of the car. The driver closed her door, returned to his seat, slamed his door, and made eye contact via the mirror.

‘My name is Juan Pablo, Senora, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to Cuba.’

The woman thanked him and observed that although he had European features, his African background was obvious. During the years when slavery was the mainstay of the colonial workforce, many white settlers had children with black women. Some administrators even married the slaves who worked on their sugar plantations because of the shortage of potential wives from their own background. Slowly, with each generation, the ethnic Cuban had evolved, and refined by natural eugenics, eventually developed into a mixed race of beautiful people who burned with a fiery passion.

‘English, madam?’

‘Irish,’ replied the woman.

‘You wish to go to Havana in Juan Pablo’s lovely Buick?’

‘Yes please. How much?’

‘Sixty American dollars,’ he lied, adding twenty dollars to the normal price. ‘If you have Cuban money it cost one thousand pesos.’

Luckily, she had done her homework before travelling and responded firmly.

‘I will give you forty dollars.’

Anxious to keep face, he replied, ‘Senora, for someone beautiful and elegant as you, I would take you for twenty dollars, but I sure you not like my children go hungry so, as special favour, I take you for forty dollars,’

The woman acknowledged that they had a deal and made herself comfortable in the luxury of the nineteen-fifties. It was eighteen kilometres to the ancient city of "La Habana Vieja" (Old Havana) where her journey would finally end after a search that had lasted many years.

‘Por donde, Señora, where to?’ he added, proud of his bilingual status.

‘Al Hotel Conde de Villanueva en Calle Mercaderes’

‘On my way,’ he shouted, stamping on the accelerator; the car jerked forward with a squeal of rubber.

Pablo made no further attempt to make conversation. Normally, he drove and chatted with his passengers non stop, but this client was different. Something prevented him from trying to communicate with her. It wasn’t that she was stand-offish, but he sensed that she was preoccupied with important private thoughts. He was well known for the respect he had for his clients and drove the remainder of the journey with no further attempt to engage in conversation.

As they drove into the outskirts of Havana, Victoria Gregory’s mind was working overtime. Half was thinking about what she was actually doing in Cuba while the other half was operating on a tourist level. She had read up on the Cuban factor and probably knew more about Cuba and Havana than many of the indigenous natives who were more interested in the Havana night life; Cuban cigars, drinking the world’s best rum, and the famous cocktail "mojito" which had seen the notorious novelist, Ernest Hemingway, under the table on many a riotous evening. Subconsciously, she recorded everything, although her conscious thoughts dwelt on the reason for her presence in Cuba.

She could hardly believe the incredible sense of the past that Havana emanated, albeit well into the twenty first century. The time warp had been created by the American embargoes after Castro’s successful revolution in 1959 when America legally banned all contact with the island. These time suspending embargoes continued for more than sixty years, until the demise of the Castro regime finally released Cuba from its Sleeping Beauty spell and the incarcerating restraints of American pride and the hubristic arrogance of its politicians. After the death of the two Castro brothers, Fidel and Raul, everything changed; Cuba turned its back on the thorns of revolution and rediscovered the colonial splendour of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. During the bleak Castro years, the elegance of colonialism had been totally ignored and the classical architecture fell into disrepair. However, when the embargoes were finally lifted, the wealth produce by the emerging tourism, created a renaissance mentality and the pre-revolution style began to erode the ascetic lifestyle of communism. Early in 21st century, Barack Obama, the first Black President of the USA and later Donald Trump, extended Cuba’s liberation from American restraint. America’s rigid travel embargo was finally rescinded after sixty years and visitors started to pour in They were fascinated by the retrospective nostalgia that Cuba represented, especially with the American cars which retained their domination of the streets. Many appeared as new as the day they first rolled off the assembly line in the nineteen fifties. The Cubans quickly caught on that there was wealth in the past and resolved to stay with the retro image of the mid twentieth century. Tourism became the most important aspect of the Cuban economy with the nineteen fifties cars and colonial buildings taking pride of place. There were even special workshops set up that were capable of tooling any part, which needed repairing, or replacing. Then, in 2022, an Indian entrepreneur set up a factory where he assembled four different models from the nineteen fifties. Handmade, they were expensive, but since the change from dictatorship to nascent democracy, multi-millionaire Cubans emerged in the same way as billionaires appeared after the collapse of Russian communism. Cuba became known as, The Democratic Republic of Cuba and its politicians proudly took their places at the tables of United Nation’s conferences. In 1982, Havana had been designated a World Heritage site which triggered an enthusiasm for a refurbishment program to restore the colonial architecture to its former glory; within two decades of pouring state taxes into the project, the exquisite symmetry and design took pride of place and once again provided elegant homes for the privileged few.

It took about half an hour to arrive at the Hotel Conde de Villanueva. Juan Pablo leapt out of the Buick, opened the door for his passenger and instructed the porter to take in her luggage.

‘Can you meet me here in exactly four hour’s time?’ she asked Pablo.

‘Yes, I here on dot as they say in England. What is the name?’

‘La Senora Victoria Gregory.’ she said very clearly, which he repeated carefully, and, after giving a military salute, departed in his ancient car which rattled alarmingly as it disappeared down the street.

‘Not one of the better maintained,’ mused Victoria, smiling to herself as she entered reception.

Having signed the visitor’s book, she went straight to her room, unpacked, showered, pulled on a thin cotton dress, then laid down on the bed; exhausted from all the travelling and emotional turmoil, she fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

The Hotel Conde de Villanueva had been recommended to her by a friend. It was relatively small, having only twelve rooms. It was named after the last of the Villanueva Counts who had used it as a town house. It had the atmosphere of an exclusive nineteenth century gentleman’s club in St James’s, London, and once inside, its clients felt more the security of a private residence than the formality of a tourist hotel.

Three and a half hours later, Victoria’s travel alarm clock vibrated violently, cutting through her brain with a high pitched bleep. It was eight o’clock. Within thirty minutes, Juan Pablo would be returning to take her to "La Bodeguita del Medio", which had been a popular haunt of Cuba’s most celebrated writer in residence, Ernest Hemingway. There, she hoped to meet the man for whom she had been searching for years. The private detective she employed had told her that almost every evening he had at least one evening drink at La Bodeguita and often stayed there to eat dinner before returning home. Victoria knew where he lived, but decided she would be better prepared for their meeting if she were to first observe him anonymously.

Greatly refreshed from her siesta and another quick shower, she was ready to confront anything. She dressed in summer slacks, a matching light beige sleeveless blouse and a pair of Greek-style leather sandals. A jewel encrusted watch gave the outfit a perfect finishing touch.

Her bedroom connected with the ground floor along a short corridor which led to a magnificent cantilevered stairway that descended down to the ground floor, turning through one hundred and eighty degrees via a gentle artisan’s curve of exquisite perfection. As she walked down the final steps, the guests, sitting in the lobby, looked up at the stunning woman who resembled a nineteenth century painting of an aristocrat.

Juan Pablo arrived with his Buick at the precise moment Victoria passed through the hotel entrance. She checked her watch. Three hours, fifty-eight and a half minutes exactly. He pulled up with a hand-brake skid, and once again leapt out of the driver’s door before the car came to a halt.

‘Señor Pablo’s word is his bond,’ he said smiling, displaying several gold teeth.

‘Very impressive, Señor Pablo, but you are one and a half minutes early,’ she said, laughing as she climbed into the back seat. Pablo grinned, saluted, slammed the door and took his place at the wheel.

‘Where to Señora?’

‘La Bodeguita de Medio, Señor Pablo, y de prisa. Queiro llegar dentro diez minutos.’

‘Ten minutes! No Señora. We be there in eight,’ he shouted excidedly as he stamped on the accelerator, kidding on full throttle which produced a breath taking tail slide.

The Buick pulled up after exactly eleven minutes, having encountered a slow asinine vehicle with four legs, two long ears and pulling a cart with a section missing from the rim of one of its wheels. This gave it an uneven movement and played havoc with the flow of traffic.

Just before they arrived, Victoria pulled out a photograph of the man she hoped to meet. Since she had acquired the photo, she had done this many times; she knew every line, wrinkle and blemish on his face. The photo was probably at least forty years old so the face might have deteriorated with the years, although she felt sure that if some people become unrecognisable, as they grow older, others change little except for acquiring the inevitable facial lines of age. Julian Hamilton had a bone structure that reflected the shadowed image of his youth.

Having paid Juan Pablo, she entered the bar and selected a table tucked away in a quiet corner that gave her a good overall view of the whole restaurant. Immediately, a waiter approached and she ordered a mojito. Feeling relatively relaxed and slightly more confident, she pushed back her chair, searching the room for the man in the photograph. He was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, she wondered if something had happened, and after all the effort she had put in, she was going to be denied the final stage of what had become an obsession. Her private detective had assured her, that if she were to arrive at 8.30 pm he would be there ordering his first drink of the evening. Checking her watch, eight thirty came and went but still there was no sign of him. Victoria felt anxious; stress developed into panic.

Where on earth has he got to. Surely, he hasn’t changed his daily routine on the very day I arrive? It’s inconceivable that today of all days, he decides to arrive half an hour late. Something must have happened.

She glanced up at the clock behind the bar and laughed with relief. She hadn’t reset her wrist watch for Cuba’s time zone. The clock on the wall behind the bar indicated that there was another twenty minutes before Julian Hamilton would arrive. Relieved, she finished her mojito, ordered another and relaxed.

At 8.26 pm, he entered the bar. Victoria involuntarily drew in her breath, feeling faint.

A customer greeted him, ‘Hola Señor Julian, Que tal estas?’

He answered in Spanish ‘Hola Ignacio, que tal el pescador?’

The barman waved and called out, ‘Señor Hamilton, bien venido. Hoy, tenemos tu plato mas favorito. Pollo Americano.’

Just hearing his name, made Victoria feel very strange even though she had experienced the moment many times in her imagination. She felt faint with emotion and a cold fear rippled through her body. Julian Hamilton had hardly changed from her photo except that his hair was totally grey, and instead of a smooth complexion, a network of grid lines covered his face. He still looked alert and powerful as he searched the restaurant, sweeping his eyes round the bar like psychic searchlights. Momentarily, he paused as his eyes fell upon Victoria. Never having seen her before, it was natural for him to examine a stranger in an establishment which he probably considered to be his private domain. He crossed over to the other side of the room and sat down at a tables laid for dinner. Victoria examined him discreetly, feeling a tension build up into an unbearable intensity. He seemed to be looking straight at her which, together with the exhaustion of the long journey and intensified by two mojitos, brought her close to tears. Having confidently planned everything down to the last detail, she realised that she had lost her nerve. She wouldn’t be able to approach him in the restaurant; she would have to wait until he returned to his house.

Luckily, he decided to eat in La Bodeguita which meant that it would give her a chance to study him. The detective had explained to her that when he ate there, he rarely went anywhere afterwards but always returned directly to his house. That would make things easier for her.

Julian Hamilton called out his order for an American style roast chicken and a bottle of house red. Hearing the words roast chicken made Victoria conscious of her own hunger, so she ordered a rare steak and a half bottle of the most expensive Cuban red. He ate quickly and within forty minutes, having devoured roast chicken and chips, pudding, coffee and two brandies, he stood up, paid the waiter and shuffled towards the door, stopping for a few moments as he passed Victoria’s table.

‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

‘I’m Anglo Irish,’ she just managed to stammer, feeling completely disorientated.

‘I thought you looked Irish. You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago. At eighty plus, it’s a wonder I can recall someone I haven’t seen for more than fifty years.’

Victoria opened her mouth, intending to explain what she had travelled thousands of miles to say, but her voice box had stopped working. Her larynx was so tense that her lips moved without delivering the words, and before she could regain control, he was moving away, his interest extinguished. Without looking back, he stepped out into the street. Victoria felt as if she were falling into a vast abyss. Shaking with a mixture of alien emotions, she broke into tears, but within seconds, she recovered her composure and planned her next move. She would give him a fifteen-minute start, and then follow him to his house.

Twenty minutes later and another mojito for courage, she paid her bill and left the restaurant. repeating the detective’s directions in her mind as she walked.

"Come out of the front exit of La Bodeguita, right along Calle Empedrado, first left into Calle San Ignacio and then, almost immediately, left again into Calle Tejadillo. Julian Hamilton’s house is the twelfth one on the right. It has dark blue shutters on the windows and for some reason, there is no number on the door but there are three words, Casa de Julian. He lives on the top two floors in a maisonette, which he converted from the original house. The ground floor is occupied by an old friend called Ralph who is also a writer who wrote a novel based on his student life at his American Alma Mater, and later, his European experiences at the Sorbonne in Paris. They weren’t best sellers and consequently he didn’t manage a second book.

Victoria walked briskly and within a few minutes arrived at the house. She paused, staring up at the windows of the maisonette. Behind some blinds, a shadow moved and she wondered if her nerve was going to fail her again. It almost did, but then a powerful emotion surged through her mind, renewing her determination. With no more delay, she opened the door in the centre of the house and began to ascend the stairs; twenty-steps brought her to the front door, panting and breathing heavily, although more from emotional overload than physical exertion. She took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. There was no answer; she knocked a second time, this time hitting the door with considerable force. Inside, someone moved; she heard footsteps, then the door handle turned and the door opened. Julian Hamilton stood before her, shielding his eyes to get a better view of his visitor.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘Oh, you’re the Irish girl from La Bodeguita, aren’t you? What do you want?’ he sounded gruff and intolerant.

Victoria had imagined this meeting many times and was determined to remain cool. Instead, her words gushed out like an unsophisticated teenager.

‘I want to talk with you. My name is Victoria Gregory and I live in Paris and Languedoc. I was married to the Count of Lodéve. Before I was married, my maiden name was Victoria O’ Neil. I was widowed several years ago and my two children, having left home to do their own thing, gave me the freedom to do what I wanted. Hence my presence here today. My mother’s name is Rebecca O’Neil whom you loved as she loved you. I am the daughter that came from that love. My mother never told you of my existence and she wouldn’t tell me who my father was, although she said that he was someone who had a dream of becoming a famous writer which was the real reason why they parted. My mother sacrificed her happiness so that you could become what you believed you were. A few years ago, she had a heart attack and was in hospital for ten days. I took advantage of this and searched among her papers. I found a collection of press cuttings and several letters that you wrote to her after you separated in Barcelona. There were also photographs with comments that confirmed that you were my father. From what I read, it was obvious that she was very hurt when you separated; it left her with deep emotional scars which never healed. When she came out of hospital I didn’t tell her what I had found out.’

Victoria stopped talking; her throat dried making it difficult for her to continue. Julian Hamilton didn’t move. He seemed frozen and stared at Victoria, his face deathly white.

‘Rebecca was your mother. How old are you?’

‘Approaching fifty.’ replied Victoria.

‘Then you were conceived in the seventies when we made our trip to Morocco.’

‘Yes, that was the only thing my mother told me. On my birth certificate, she put Father unknown.’

‘But why didn’t she tell me?’

‘She explained that you were a young American writer and that having a family would have destroyed your chances of achieving success. I have searched years to find you. There were scores of American wannabe writers from that epoch. Any one of them could have been you but Mum would not talk about you or give me any information. I even read your novels at university without knowing who you were. I have yearned to have a father so much and dreamt of this moment a thousand times.’

For several seconds they stared at each other without speaking. Victoria’s eyes filled with tears as she held out her hands to embrace him. Julian Hamilton’s face broke into a smile as he moved forward to embrace her, but before he could place his arms round her, his smile changed into a grimace of pain. Clutching his chest, he began to fold, falling in slow motion. Victoria caught him before he hit the floor and pulled him into a room where she laid him on a sofa. Then she got down on her knees, put her arms round him and hugged him.

‘Dad, Dad, I love you. Oh God, please don’t die. For years I have tried to find out who my father was and now I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you. I want to get to know you. I want to know everything about you. I can’t believe that when I was a student of English literature, I even studied your books as part of my course not knowing that the author was my father. Oh God, please, please don’t die; you can’t die now.’

Victoria groaned, feeling a despair that she had never experienced before. She kissed his face and hugged him, frightened that his skin would exchange its warmth for the cold stiffness of death. Desperate, that her newly found relationship might end after only a few minutes, she embraced him, rocking to and fro, weeping silently, expressing the bitterness which had built up over several decades. Finally, she pulled herself together and alerted the emergency services with her mobile.

Several hours later, Victoria was holding her father’s hand as he lay in a bed at an exclusive private clinic. Unconscious, from the moment he had collapsed, the ambulance had arrived in good time and as soon as the paramedics ascertained it was an insurance job, they acted with great speed. Half an hour later he was in bed, unconscious, but alive, with a large screen interpreting the numerous tubes attached to various parts of his body and banks of dials giving the medical staff, accurate indications of his condition. She stayed in his room praying that he would regain consciousness and finally, after several hours, she was rewarded; her father opened his eyes and smiled

‘Victoria,’ he called out weakly. ‘I can’t believe you existed all those years without my knowing. When I leave here, we must catch up with the past. I must establish the relationship that we should have had during all those lost years. Had I known of your existence, my life would have been completely different. I will go back into the past and relive the memories which I have put aside for so long. For years, I’ve been wondering what justified my continued existence to reach such an old age. There seemed little to live for, but today you have given me a reason.’

Suddenly, his expression clouded with confusion. He reached out, grasped her hand, pulled her towards him and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Is your mother still alive?’

‘Yes, she fully recovered and now lives in Dublin.’

At this information, Julian Hamilton smiled and said quietly, ‘Rebecca, please forgive me.’

Then, exhausted after his enormous effort, he closed his eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness, unaware that it was Victoria, his daughter, who held his hand, not Rebecca, the only woman he had ever loved.

CHAPTER 1

Princeton University New Jersey USA

The dry months of 1973 had airbrushed the green foliage of summer leaving numerous shades of soft yellows and browns; the darker colours pre-empted autumn as they floated down, oscillating from side to side in the late evening breeze. Several weeks had passed since the undergraduates had taken their finals and today the exam results were scheduled to be posted. A large crowd of animated students were hanging round a notice board chattering nervously like sparrows. Standing apart from the crowd, four students were talking quietly, with no desire to be part of the seething mass. Their names were Julian, Ralph, Paul and Linda whose inseparable friendship had created a muted resentment with some of their contemporaries. It was rumoured that they belonged to a brotherhood called the Order of Dalgetty, a secret society founded in Scotland where Paul’s eighteenth century ancestors originated from. The friends neither confirmed nor upheld the Dalgetty connection although they did approve of the nickname, The Four Musketeers by which they were referred to by tutors and fellow students.

JULIAN

Julian lived in the exclusive Martha’s Vineyard, populated mostly by the rich, who worked in New York but preferred to live on a paradisical island where it was de rigueur to own an executive jet, conveniently parked at the airport, or an ocean going yacht, anchored in the harbour; the super rich even had both. Julian was the oldest of the group, having spent two years training as a pilot in the United States Air Force. His parents had divorced when he was sixteen, which hadn’t caused him any problems, although during his final year at high school and for his university years, he had changed his residential allegiance to his mother’s home. Before that, he lived in England with his father who, as an independent entrepreneur and publisher, combined his business interests with several years in the Diplomatic Corps. With a father, who was the Commercial Attaché at the Grosvenor Square Embassy London, Julian underwent a unique integration with English Society. He attended two different public schools, Ampleforth and Harrow, and although he didn’t adopt their cultivated polished attitudes, they gave him a mid-Atlantic accent and a style that few Americans acquire. Julian’s life had followed a strict routine, which changed abruptly when his paternal grandfather died. His father packed in his English activities and returned to take up the reins of the family publishing and printing firm, Hamilton & Co. of New York. He also lectured law, part time, at Cornell University, where he embarked on a risqué affair with a student. This triggered the final act of a moribund marriage that precipitated the inevitable divorce. Afterwards, it was decided that Julian’s life would be more stable if he were to live with his mother for the duration of his academic years and his transfer from student to a mature member of society.

It was generally accepted, that when Julian finished university, he would join his father in the family business based on Manhattan Island. However, Julian had other ideas which he kept secret. He nursed a passionate desire to be a writer and had no interest in becoming a publisher. He was a well balanced teenager, unaffected by his parent’s divorce, although he would have preferred to live with his father who had a greater sense of "joie de vivre" than his mother. Luckily, there were no acrimonious feelings between his parents, who, simply drifted into a roommate existence and fell out of love because their brains transmitted on different wavelengths. This, together with the absence of a lively sexual relationship, finally negated the driving force needed to continue with a reciprocal relationship. After the divorce, Julian’s mother switched off her romantic instincts and happily continued with inane social activities that filled her life to capacity and accelerated the onset of age.

Ralph

Ralph was a neighbour of Julian’s at Martha’s Vineyard. He also lived with his mother. His father, having survived the Second World War killed in a motorway pile up when Ralph was six. Hardly able to recall his father’s existence, Ralph grew up, emotionally confused by the several uncles whom his mother took on as surrogate fathers. Memories of his real father became very vague as the years passed, until they ceased to have any significance other than one of several photographs displayed on the lid of the Grand Piano that remained permanently shut.

After several replacements, his mother married Jack who appeared to have the qualities of a potential father figure. They married in the local registry office and for almost a year everything was fine until Jacks began to suffer from periods of depression. These effected Ralph’s developing years and slowly destroyed his mother’s last chance of happiness. Jack was a partner in his father’s law firm. Unhappily married, he sought Ralph’s mother as his emotional confessor and amateur analyst. Their marriage was merely a mutual expression of sexual gratification and once Jack moved into the family home, he became her in house weekly orgasm. Ralph disliked this new arrangement, and anxious to escape the unpleasant atmosphere, he joined the army. After a couple of years, things began to deteriorate even more. It seemed that Jack was simply passing through, en route to better pastures, and having been delegated to a spare bedroom once too often, he ran off with an heiress whose husband had been killed in a hurricane. As he was both her lawyer and lover, Jack got into trouble with the Law Society and was banned from practicing; he took early retirement and financed with a very generous pension supplied by his ex client.

Jack’s departure left Ralph’s mother distraught, which did not help Ralph’s progress as his personality shifted from teenager to young man. It was made even worse by the continual supply of new stop gap uncles, none of whom provided him with an acceptable role model. Denied a balanced family unit with two parents, Ralph experienced conflicting emotions that scarred him psychologically and prevented him from maturing naturally. To get away from the unpleasant atmosphere he joined the army. He didn’t actually miss his biological father because he was too young to remember anything other than a vague relationship; however, what he did miss, was a united family and the love and affection from two parents. Before the war, his father had been a very successful lawyer who supplied his mother with the essentials of a privileged lifestyle; fortunately, when he died, he left funds and insurance policies that enabled Ralph and his mother to continue with style. She was one of those middle age women who needed both money and regular sexuality as supplements to her existence, and in the search for satisfaction she turned to drink. Each new applicant tried hard to buy Ralph’s affection by giving him everything he wanted. Toys and gadgets that were currently fashionable and the best that money could buy, were given to Ralph, who sensed that their generosity was really a bribe to obtain full favours from his beautiful, but increasingly neurotic mother who suffered from guilt. In reality, Ralph’s mother resented his father’s death and even though the accident wasn’t his fault, she never forgave him for leaving them alone. This strange attitude assisted her gradual decline into alcoholism, which began to dominate too many evenings as the individual failure of the prevailing uncle became established. With each new relationship, the atmosphere worsened. Coming home on leave, Ralph would often find her drunk, even unconscious on the floor of the sitting room or at the base of the stairs, having failed to reach the bedroom. This alienated Ralph even more, until eventually, his ability to empathise with the sham family unit switched off. As for arriving home and finding a new stepfather installed, he didn’t even bother to remember their names but referred to each one as Uncle X followed by a number. Sometimes, when he had a few days leave, he would arrive home, eat dinner without speaking to his mother or her boyfriend, then immediately retire to his bedroom and return to barracks the next morning. Each visit worsened his relationship with his mother. Eventually, her alcoholism frightened suitors and the supply of uncles began to dry up. This improved Ralph’s existence but not his mother’s. Alcohol began to print itself on her face; her once firm dancer’s legs took on images of cellulite flesh and the cruel perpendicular lines on the upper lip indicated the accelerated passing of the years. When her middle age stomach extended out further than her breasts and her bottom developed broad flat angles, she finally entered the graceful state of enforced widowhood. Notwithstanding, several of her men friends kept in touch and continued to offer friendship and assistance when needed. One uncle pulled strings so that Ralph was able to avoid the nightmare of Vietnam. Normally, Ralph would have been automatically drafted, but because of nepotistic influence, he was able to swap action for a job at army headquarters as the Aid-de-Camp to a Five Star General.

Before the army, Ralph had fallen in love with a girl called Linda from Nebraska who spent her summer vacations at Martha’s Vineyard. She always stayed with her godfather, who maintained a summer residence at the island. She worked in a restaurant which was notorious for its clientele of bored husbands and politicians, many of whom suffered from variations of the seven-year itch. In this exclusive establishment, Linda discovered how easy it was to manipulate men’s vanity. She quickly learned how subtle flirtation was an easy way to improve her social status and ingratiate herself with the in crowd. This made Ralph even more unhappy and jealous. Even though Ralph was several years older than Linda, he was no match for her complex, ambitious, middle-class personality. As early as fourteen, Linda had developed a pre- puberty obsession with Ralph, and during the forbidden summers of under age, their friendship survived a semi innocent incubation until age gave sex the green light of legality. Miraculously, their relationship survived the fraught pubescent years, although Linda often found the conflict between chemical puberty and socially expected fidelity, increasingly difficult. Matters improved when Ralph obtained a place at Princeton University and Linda won a much-coveted Princeton scholarship. During their fresher year, their teenage crush developed into a full passion; they became lovers and often disappeared for long weekends in order to express the exploding sexuality as their relationship developed from sexual curiosity, to a serious, wildly romantic affair. In her new environment Linda adopted the attributes of a serial flirt which caused explosive arguments although, by sharing the same student environment, Ralph was able to maintain their relationship on a relatively smooth level whilst remaining blissfully unaware of Linda’s, short lived, extracurricular, clandestine activities.

PAUL

Paul was a relative outsider from Pennsylvania. He studied law, although he did not intend to use the qualification professionally. His life was controlled by a trust which gave him an inordinate amount of money to play with. Paul’s father had been killed in the Korean War, leaving his mother so distraught that she committed suicide at twenty-three. Paul was only four years old and too young to comprehend the significance of this or understand the happiness which he was deprived of by not having two loving parents He was brought up by a professional nanny employed by his father’s brother who, although his legal guardian, was almost as distant as the memory of his father. Paul’s ancestors had been powerful steel magnates who controlled more than sixty per cent of the American steel industry which left Pault incredibly rich, but