Life in Print

By Robert Colin Hill

A dark, gritty, and inspiring fiction novel from new author Robert Colin Hill. The story is based around the main character of Tom Jackson and how he deals with the turmoils of life, growing up in the 1920s and 1930s and going off to war. Later in life, he meets Jim Moran who is a local reporter who wants to document Tom’s story. Jim quickly realizes that Tom has had a very interesting life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497663

Robert Colin Hill

The author was born in 1970 in Northern Ireland, moved to New Zealand in 2007 with his wife and two sons.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Robert Colin Hill.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/09/2021

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Monday

Chapter 2   Tuesday

Chapter 3   Wednesday

Chapter 4   Thursday

Chapter 5   Friday

Chapter 6   Monday

Author Bio

CHAPTER 1

Monday

It was a bright summer’s morning as the car sped along the bumpy tree-lined country lane. Behind the wheel is Jim Moran. Jim is a freelance writer who has been commissioned by a local publishing company to do some research for a book, a book about local people’s lives, their issues and memories from having lived through the twentieth century. He is on his way to the Service Veterans Hospital for a meeting with one of its residents, but as the lane gets narrower, he stops to check his map, thinking that maybe he has taken a wrong turn. While concentrating on the directions that he had hastily written down on a scrap of paper the night before and looking at the map and going over the journey in his mind, he didn’t notice the tractor coming up behind him. Suddenly, the quiet ambience of his car was replaced by the sound of twin air horns being blasted with rage, causing him to throw the map in the air and bang his knee on the steering wheel as he jumped. A startled Jim turns around to see an angry farmer gesturing at him with his hands and mouth to move on and get out of his way. Jim looked about, but there was nowhere for him to pull over to let him pass, so he had no other choice but to wave and smile politely then drive on, rubbing his knee and questioning the farmer’s parentage.

As the hedgerows zipped past in a blur of different shades of green, Jim’s thoughts drifted. He thinks about where he is in life and what he has achieved. He is not far of forty years old and feels that it is beginning to pass him by. He looks at his reflection in the rearview mirror, and all he sees are grey hairs, wrinkles, and tired bloodshot eyes. As he tuts and shakes his head in disgust, he begins to wonder if this is the start of some sort of a midlife crisis, but his thoughts are interrupted as he notices a sign at the side of the road pointing towards the entrance to the hospital.

At last, Jim says as he turns left through the large iron gates and proceeds up the drive that meandered its way through the forest.

As the gravel crunched under the tyres of the car, Jim’s thoughts drifted again. He thinks about his wife and two daughters. He knows that he loves them, even though he treats them as an inconvenience, something that he has to go home for rather than wants to go home to. He knows that he spends too much time at work and that his marriage is probably falling apart, although, for whatever reason, he doesn’t feel the urge to do anything about it.

Eventually, Jim gets through the trees, and as he comes to the end of the drive, he follows the signs for the visitors car park. He finds a space close to the reception entrance, and once parked, he turns off the ignition and gets out. As he walks towards the old red bricked building, he notices how flawless it is.

It resembled an old stately home and was probably hundreds of years old but looked like it was built yesterday, sitting in beautiful, landscaped gardens with perfectly-manicured rose bushes, lush green lawns that seemed to go on forever, and impeccable square hedging with right angles that would suggest it was built rather than grown. The smell of freshly-mown grass and the sounds of the birds singing in the trees filled the air. After pausing for a second to appreciate his surroundings, Jim turned and made his way towards the entrance.

He walks in through a stone archway and pushes open the big heavy wooden doors. Once inside, he pauses again to take in this new environment. This place was as immaculate on the inside as it was on the outside, he thought. The walls and high ceilings painted gloss white and the highly-polished floors that you could actually see your reflection in. The sunlight streaming in through the large windows was reflecting all the shiny surfaces, causing Jim to squint in the glare. Once his eyes had recovered, he could see the nurses walking from room to room, pushing little metal trolleys laden with tablets and medicine. Their crisply-pressed and starched white uniforms with razor-sharp creases would probably cut you if you were to get too close. This place was faultless. The only downside was the smell, that smell that all hospitals seem to have. It’s a mixture of disinfectant, bleach, and urine that assaults your nasal passages for the first few minutes until you become accustomed to it. The whole experience was like watching television with the volume turned down. There was lots of movement but no noise, then suddenly, Jim was brought back to reality.

Can I help you, sir? the receptionist asked.

Yes, replied Jim as he walked forward to her desk. My name is Jim Moran, and I’m here to see a Mr Tom Jackson.

Yes, Mr Moran, said the receptionist, ticking Jim’s name of her list. Tom is expecting you. He is in room 20 just down the hall.

Jim thanked the receptionist, and as he walked in the direction that she had pointed, the only sound that was breaking the silence was the soles of his shoes squeaking with every step he took on the shiny floor. Every door he passed, he had a quick glance in. The rooms where all the same, with hardly any furniture and a bed in the middle. Each bed had an old person lying on it or else sitting in a chair beside it, staring at the walls or the floor in various states of consciousness.

What a way to spend the final days of your life, Jim muttered to himself as he squeaked along.

When he got to the end of the corridor, he found room 20 with the door closed. Not knowing what to expect on the other side, he took a deep breath, then he knocked and waited for a response.

Come in, a voice said after a few seconds.

Jim pressed down on the handle and pushed open the door. As he walked in, he was relieved to see a fully-conscious elderly man sitting up on top of the bed. He looked very dignified in a red dressing gown, with blue pajamas underneath, and comfy looking slippers. He had slicked-back silver hair and a little moustache that complimented his well-lived-in face with deep age lines and a complexion like an old piece of leather that had been left out in the sun for too long.

Hello. You must be Jim? the patient asked.

Yes, and you must be Tom. It’s good to meet you at last, replied Jim as he walked forward, and the two men shook hands.

You got my letter then? asked Jim.

Yes, I got your letter, replied Tom.

Thanks for agreeing to meet with me today, said Jim.

That’s quite all right, replied Tom as he stared at Jim, intently taking in everything and making him feel uncomfortable.

Why are you staring at me? asked Jim, feeling a bit uneasy.

Oh sorry, replied Tom. I didn’t realise I was doing it. It’s an old habit I have picked up over the years so as I never forget a face.

Why, have you got a bad memory? asked Jim.

No, it’s just that I have been in situations before where I have had to remember every little detail, people’s faces and what they were wearing and what they talked about. If I was to forget anything, then it could have been the difference between life and death for me or someone else, replied Tom.

Okay, said Jim sarcastically. Well, you have known me now for 2 minutes, so what have you observed about me? he asked.

You are about forty, married, overweight, overworked, and drive a little red car, answered Tom.

I am not overweight! said Jim, looking down at his convex gut. And how do you know I drive a little red car? he asked.

I saw you parking it earlier, replied Tom as he smiled and pointed at the window. So you are doing some research for a book? How did you come up with my name? asked Tom, changing the subject.

Well, replied Jim as he sat down in the chair. When I was first commissioned to do this book, I thought to myself, where could I go to meet people who had lived through the turmoils of the twentieth century? A colleague told me about this place, so here I am.

Oh, is that what we call it now, turmoils? asked Tom.

You know what I mean, replied Jim, shrugging his shoulders. Anyway, I rang the hospital and asked, was there anybody here that would have an interesting story to tell, and your name came up in the conversation. The nurses speak very highly about you and say that you’re a bit of a character.

Well, I should think so, replied Tom. I have been here for long enough, and I don’t even pinch their bums when they are changing the sheets like the other inmates.

How long have you been here? asked Jim.

Tom paused as he counted up the years before answering. I’ve been coming here for treatment on and off for about ten years and have been basically living here for the last two, he replied.

As the two men stared at each other, Jim found Tom to be a very intriguing character. Even though they had only just met, he could tell from the from the glint in his eyes that he had lived a full life and there would be a story there to tell.

So do you mind telling me about your life then? asked Jim.

No, not at all, as long as you don’t get too bored, replied Tom.

Well, if you don’t mind then, I suppose we should make a start. I will set this voice recorder over here, and if you just speak in your normal tone, it will pick it up, said Jim as he turned the recorder on and placed it on the bedside cabinet.

Were do you want me to start? asked Tom.

Well, it’s your life, so why not just start at the beginning? said Jim. I just need you to talk about your experiences, where you’ve been and what you’ve done, that sort of thing. I can edit it down later and get it all typed up.

Okay then, I’ll just take it from the beginning, said Tom.

*       *       *

I was born on a farm not far from here on the 24 July 1925. Life was very tough back then for my parents because our farm wasn’t very big, a small cottage with one shed set on about three acres of land with poor-quality soil. We struggled to pay the rent and get by on what we could produce. I only met the landlord once, but I don’t think my father liked him, judging by the names he would call him when he thought I wasn’t listening. He had some fancy title and lived in a big house a few miles away. His family owned all the land and had subdivided it into small holdings. I’m sure that all the tenants would have had difficulties paying the extortionate rent, but he didn’t care. If they fell behind with the payments, he would just evict them.

On our farm, we had a couple of cows for milk, pigs that would be slaughtered for meat, a horse to pull the cart, and some chickens for eggs. When I was old enough, that was my first chore—to get the eggs every morning. Mum would wake me up at dawn, and off I would go down to the chicken coop with my little basket and fill it full of eggs. When I returned, she would give me a big hug and thank me for doing it. I loved it, it was my job, and I liked the fact that I was helping out.

In the fields, Dad toiled to grow potatoes, turnips, and carrots, but he was wasting his time because the land just wasn’t suitable. He worked hard every day, but we never got a good crop.

At the back of the house, Mum had managed to clear and cultivate a little vegetable garden where she grew tomatoes, radishes, lettuces, and some herbs. We also had some raspberry and blackberry bushes growing wild in the hedges and a few apple trees at the back of the shed. That’s one of my first memories of home, Mum standing at the stove with the smell of raspberry jam cooking on the hotplate and apple tarts baking in