Forever Dawns: The Complete Series

By Ken Normanton

Arriving here at the first of their six creations, ready for colonisation, these planet builders encounter the unprecedented; their new home is already flourishing with alien life, and it's not of their doing. Before deliberations begin and shortly after separating with the mothership's propulsion units, disaster strikes; the colossal ship,

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Universal Breakthrough
• Release date: Oct 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956094497

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Forever Dawns: The Complete Series

Ken Normanton

Copyright © 2021 Ken Normanton.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without a prior written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by the copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-956094-46-6 (PB)

ISBN: 978-1-956094-50-3 (HB)

ISBN: 978-1-956094-49-7 (E-book)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

The Universal Breakthrough

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www.theuniversalbreakthrough.com

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Forever Dawns

Chapter 2: Journey’s Beginning

Chapter 3: Mary

Chapter 4: Assimilation

Chapter 5: Taking Command

Chapter 6: The Car

Chapter 7: Help Needed

Chapter 8: Rising

Chapter 9: Nature’s Fury

Chapter 10: The Gathering

Chapter 11: True Love

Chapter 12: Time To Leave

Chapter 13: Deluge

Chapter 14: Normality

Chapter 15: Epilogue

About The Author

Introduction

All members of the outboard vessels bar a skeleton crew were now making their way to temporary quarters on the mothership and waiting for the festivities, once the ships completed refuelling to begin. At that very moment, Marc’s host mood suddenly changed from joy to panic as the ship’s orbit began to decay dangerously, his host brain registering total and utter disbelief that this just couldn’t ha ppen.

1

Forever Dawns

July 4 th 1964, arrives in the breaking dawn of light, slowly compelling to yield the once dominance of night. To half the world, just another day but for Marc, the beginning of something more to come his way.

Restless with excited anticipation of his eighth birthday, hoping the pending event would distract the recurring dreams that dominated his semi-consciousness only to find tonight something else kept him awake.

Since the start of his third year, he recalled a different life in perfect clarity that wasn’t his own.

From the time memories first formed into intelligent, recoverable, thoughts these dreams unfolded.

His character portrayed a teenager attending an academy of science learning technical data with no roots in his world and no basis for comparing it, which frustratedly dissipated when he awoke.

On other nights countless faces of people, some he recognized but most he didn’t but felt connected with as they pressed forward in an endless trail deep from within his mind. His deceased Grandma appeared amongst them, and what must have been his grandfather seeing as they looked and acted like a married couple.

He only remembered her from pictures as she resembled his mum; his grandfather had died before he was born.

Family ties kept this family healthy, and although the images would fade when awake, the feelings relating to them didn’t.

A new group of people dominated these last few nights, all wearing happy, smiling faces, friendly and welcoming like old friends reacquainting.

He puzzled somewhat about how, as he hadn’t made that many friends in his short life as few there were to connect with him or understand the unique way he saw things in a world of ignorance.

Tonight, however, anxiety and unrest from people not so friendly, presenting a different picture not pleasant at all but unfriendly opposites pushing, beating violently through the darkness to get to him, carrying torches, the beams of which shined into his eyes, obscuring his vision.

He awoke abruptly, and for a moment, the bright lights of the dream were still present, although as before, the content dissolved, and the beam’s source switched to sunlight through a crack in his curtains. Only then did his racing heart slow, his breathing ease and his clenched fist open and relax into a calmer disposition.

Suddenly, throwing his blanket and sheet excitedly off his body, landing over the chair in the corner; today was his birthday already.

Exiting the bedroom across the short landing, tiptoeing passed where his mother slept and recommenced his descent down the stairs taking as many steps at a time as possible without causing too much noise.

Still propelling forward through the kitchen door, he almost glided across the lino floor. Nevertheless, momentum pushed him into the lounge only to crashland into six neatly stacked, glittering parcels scuttling them in various directions like a bowling ball hitting skittles.

A creak from floorboards above turned his head toward the direction his mum slept, freezing where he stood, holding his breath correctly, silently waiting. She turned over in bed, not stirring deep rattle heard distantly…... safe now to continue he quietly gathered his presents restacking them to their former construction.

One of the presents stood out, different, out of place, not wrapped in the same way as the others in the colourful paper; this package, bare but not unassuming in white and quite striking in a form with a sort of luminosity.

Curiosity would have compelled him to open it first, but something, not sure what, a feeling really, persuaded him, indirectly, to leave plain-box until the end.

He heard his mum stir again, so he waited, parting the curtains slightly, looking out the window and up at the still present moon in the blue morning sky, thinking one day he’d like to go there, like in the space toy Fireball XL5 adventures.

Satisfied his mum had resettled, he diverted his attention to the parcels selecting first the most prominent present.

Marc’s fascination with anything military, almost an obsession, meant easy choices for his loved ones.

Today’s birthday excitement reached new heights as he exposed beneath the wrapping a concise British MT section arrayed neatly in its box with a colourful battle fronted lid.

Across the top Chinese symbols with English interpretations below indicating to him, ‘it must be from Singapore,’ he thought, Uncle Ted’s last and most recent destination.

As a treasured possession, for sure playing with such a valued item would disturb their neatness; he got far more pleasure just owning them.

His mum’s present, neatly arrayed, moistened his eyes while examining it. Marc known as a thoughtful, sensitive child, could imagine the meticulous care taken, the attention to detail to make the package almost a work of art complete with ribbons, bows even glitter sprinkles. Deep down, she might have desired the receiver would be as careful undoing it as she was making it. Such thoughts, though, would never find them metamorphosing into audible words. Nevertheless, her boy tore through excitedly to the watch he always wanted, momentarily stopping, gently placing it on his wrist, manoeuvring the timepiece to his ear to listen for ticking, then shaking it, as he once experienced his dad do.

Puzzled on hearing nothing, realizing it was one of those new battery-powered ones he’d heard about and admired it even more.

In a plush brown envelope, Parcel number five contained another share certificate valued appropriately with his year since birth, this from Uncle Larry, dad’s rich doctor brother. He now accumulated a tidy sum. Marc wished he could cash them in to help out mum; Mary just hoped her brother-in-law would buy him something playful, collectables if toys unappealing, although the shares were more practical to her son. His father’s sibling accordingly stated that only becoming of age would the lad benefit greatly.

Finally, his attention turned wholly onto the remaining gift, this curious package, a strange object ten inches long by five, less than an inch thick. The neatest, smoothest thing he’d ever imagined or handled. Its covering to his eyes registered plain white paper but to the touch warmed metal. Though difficult to be sure, the assumed anterior was etched the words, ‘To Marc’ in simple type.

Opening the package required an amount of thinking.

The warmth radiating from it held the only peculiarity, although no clues to a way in until…...…. suddenly, with no provocation, the package glowed, becoming hot ending in a momentary bright photo flash.

Blinking vigorously to dispel the after glare, he’d let go by now; the box hit the carpet, sending white powered ash puffing into a temporary milky cloud; amidst the dispersing dust, pewter coloured, oblong object minus its wrapping remained. Further examination discerned how to open it now. Simply tilting the whole thing 47.3 degrees facing east than by sliding side panels in opposite directions (with 6oz per square inch of pressure), the lid flipped open. He smiled, pride flowing through him along with a degree of amazement at how he knew that.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with feelings of the spirit as he was taught about this in primary at church.

Now that he was eight, he would shortly be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.

In his mind, he considered this spiritual friend as perhaps someone to understand his quirky ways.

Maybe these feelings were from the third member of the Godhead, but whether they were or not, he now had an open box and a mystery unfolding. Inside, covered by a kind of cloudy membrane, a medallion attached to a transparent chain displayed. Attempting to peel back the lipid, it crumbled at the slightest touch like sugar ice; he removed the very desirous to feel, warmly pulsating medal, scrutinized it along with each link akin to a jeweller when checking the purity plus authenticity of diamonds. Every linkage meticulously checked in this manner turned out, except some faint markings on the edge of the coin indecipherable, to be pure without blemish or flaw.

Noticeable to the rhythm of his heartbeat, the pendant pulsated, radiating brighter as it did, prompting him to place the rondure around his neck. The pulsation intensified, perfectly matched with every increased beat as his excitement and curiosity synchronized.

The glow exceeded the brightness of the daylight emanating through the lounge window, bright enough to hurt human eyes except not Marc’s. The more the brilliance surpassed tolerated levels, the clearer his vision became.

Though hazy, his surroundings were no longer in his living room, melting as if in slow motion from one scene to another, merged into one continuous stream.

Amazing, he whispered with excited awe.

Fear associates itself with darkness; light counters the effect. This intense illumination, along with something, somebody, perhaps directing the experience, calming, inspired the best of feelings for him.

He was spinning, pulsating behind a veil of mist, indiscernible from view now travelling for sure as familiar rumblings in his tummy, a feeling always associated with propelled motion bubbled up.

Despite being visually obscured, the gesticulation propelling him forward helped his senses remained astute.

Pressures built up, gravity, maybe; muscles tightening, holding them tensely in response, relaxing every few seconds to breathe easier. Marc’s cheeks sucked in against his teeth, and loose skin fluttered as if in the wind, negative emotions, if any, dissipated replaced, if possible, with wisdom associated primarily with experience.

The duration seemed longer, lasting under a minute; the pressure eased, light-headedness followed, ears popped conclusion almost within grasp. No loss of consciousness despite the buffeting, swimming head prevented entire focus, although the journey he sensed neared its destination.

His father’s death gave him his first real emotion, something his condition normally robbed him from experiencing. Observers would see it as unfeeling, but on learning his father was never coming home, he burst into uncontrollable tears and hadn’t truly fully recovered from the loss of him.

Learning to be ‘more mature, really brave’ as grownups often said, was the only way to take back control of this emotion, and it worked.

Childish tendencies still existed, so not free of his adolescents completely but without an array of emotions common to ordinary people handicapped him to the nuances of social interactions isolating him from forming friendships from all but the few. It also made him a target for those who singled him out for their brand of special treatment, and in his logical mind, created frustration where fear should have been. He had a gentle demeanour by nature, like his ministering father, which most people mistook for weakness, even cowardice when confronted.

Such experiences prepared him for this moment. With that same logic, each occurrence, happening faster than the average person could process them, only increased his curiosity, stimulating this adventure beyond excitement.

The misty light surrounding him obscured whatever activity it concealed, but as it began to clear, he saw he was spinning, albeit slowing down.

Those familiar rumblings, dreaded travel sickness, caused him to convulse and want to throw up only for something to gently stroke his neck, turning his head sharply to look for someone behind him. Still, nobody was there. Nonetheless, Marc smiled in response to the unseen carer looking out for him as almost instantly any nausea dissipated.

Time lost its calculation caught up in the anticipation, although, indeed, only seconds had passed. As the spinning slowed to a halt, Marc’s eyes beheld the blackness of space on a gigantic viewer filling the entire wall.

Embedded monitors, on either side of the screen, spanned in a curved console. Each with a uniformed operative seated in a wheeled low backed chair spread out evenly, a dozen each side, men to the right and women to the left all operating and responding to something on their monitors.

More workers, possibly supervisors, of both genders moved about between the two groups. One of them headed directly toward him, carrying something and handing over a transparent glass tablet containing information.

The supervisor assumed Marc knew what the data referred to, and he was right. As if observing someone else’s thoughts conflicting with his own, instinctively, a learned understanding had him imputing a code of approval and handing the pad back to the supervisor, who smiled and returned to continue his duties.

A new perspective made clearer now of his surroundings being the bridge of some great spaceship. These were human beings wearing crisps white uniforms, and all exceeded six feet tall. But then he was seeing them from an unfamiliar viewpoint, thinking he was standing on a pedestal until he looked down to check to see this wasn’t his body at all but an adult male in his mid-twenties wearing the same uniform everybody here. This surreal sensation froze him to the spot turning only his head if needed.

He felt in control of whatever this vessel was.

A change captured his attention as all eyes turned to face the screen, still depicting space. Before he could take it all in, the image changed, moved and banked to the left with two orbs painting into view firstly at a distance proliferating to almost fill half the screen. One a planet, the smaller one a moon, he thought. The latter grey, the larger brown dominated by a bluish area washed out with white. Anticipation increased in everyone, in his head registered the expected, the plan reaching the correct stage as if practised many times. The ship decelerated rapidly, coming to a halt above the planet. Onscreen shortly after a sound of something metallic, separating, four massive rectangular objects crossed the viewing area as they propelled away toward the grey moon in a uniformed, precise military-like in manoeuver.

Everybody congratulated themselves, shaking hands, patting backs or hugging amongst some.

Marc, or rather the host, was delighted to feel like it was a job well done.

Chatter focused on the upcoming celebration and much-deserved rest and recreation that would follow.

All members of the outboard vessels bar a skeleton crew were now making their way to temporary quarters on the mothership and waiting for the festivities, once the ships completed refuelling to begin. At that very moment, Marc’s host mood suddenly changed from joy to panic as the ship’s orbit began to decay dangerously, his host brain registering total and utter disbelief that this just couldn’t happen.

He stood on a central island of some sort as Marc spun around to sounds attracting his attention. Here more personal were frantically trying to correct the free fall of the ship.

Marc or the host brain focused on giant letters on the floor, space between him and those behind registering some importance. Although striking in light blue and yellow with gold braiding, he couldn’t quite make out the letters they represented, he only knew from a recalled memory, and he had to get to the centre of the letters.

The short distance moving forward was so weird it almost sent him flying unaccustomed to this new height and weight.

Subconsciously confident, and not from the host, steadying himself, he reached where the prompting suggested and pressing down hard on the floor and twisting, he activated a column raising it to waist height. A black cover once slid across revealed a similar transparent glass tablet attached by a rope to an interface long enough for him to stand holding it but not remove it from the vicinity.

Still kneeling, he removed the tablet from its housing and began typing in a long code sequence. The viewer’s image had switched to a simulation with broken yellow lines on a course around the blue planet’s curvature, stopping at a point in the middle of what had to be an ocean or sea.

Panic destroyed any hope of a manual resolution, and the closer the planet’s curvature, displayed onscreen, the more resigned to their imminent demise they became.

In unison, Marc and the host were trying to connect through his command inputs to a greater power until he too had to give up when every code he used failed.

Fear in the host brain caused him to question the young lad’s resolve challenging his composure, his caution.

Something dreadful was happening here, and who or what brought him to this vessel had a reason, but he just couldn’t fathom it.

His host was appealing verbally to that higher authority he’d tried to reach with his command codes; it was only then Marc experienced his fear as the fleeting duel emotions registered horror that spilt out into an ugly expression. In real-time, he felt the sheer countenance of unbelief his host had that he could no more gain access to what or who controlled the ship that it no longer resided there. Marc’s host raced away to another console, ripped off its cover situated beneath. From his left breast pocket, he removed an apparatus. He made adjustments to display with this tool giving him access to an intricate schismatic of a program he couldn’t begin to understand even with the host’s help and just observed him.

Utilising the apparatus’s keypad, he frantically keyed in a sequence of commands. Marc felt his host complete despair that emanated into hopelessness.

Where are you, the host screamed into his head, then utter resignation.

We’re doomed!!!

Marc lost all consciousness for how long he wasn’t sure, perhaps hours. He awoke to the spinning sensation with the intense light surrounding him earlier. His journey quickly ended, materialising stood in a foot of water—no recollection of why the last memory fuzzy running from the room. The duality was now gone, just him alone in this adult body.

He was somewhat bewildered and still a little shaky. He rooted himself to the spot taking a panoramic view using only his head, his body rigid from the fear of the unknown.

Surely more of his crewmates made it out, but nothing but water to every compass point is all that beset him. He scooped up some in his palm to sample and sucked in enough into his mouth to register it as fresh-tasting, slightly warmer than he would expect.

This huge waterscape meeting each horizon above blue skies with smears of white clouds washing its colour beautified the scene.

He drew in a deep breath, new air, lighter, slightly sweeter than the normal oxygen breathed; the warm sun mid-high indicated about noon and its angle late June early July. A cooling wind fluttered his lapel. His uniform again, he thought, examining it more closely discovering a one-piece outfit with breast pockets. Over the left flap laid an ensign in a rectangle design with four smaller rectangles’ two per side. Across this, the letters U.T.S.T. displayed in colours pleasing to the eye, same as those on the bridge floor.

Flashes of his experience on the bridge, running to escape pods, the shock wave from the impact just missing him alas little else. Water reached up to his calves with Something tangible beneath him, perhaps the very vehicle he recently commanded. Trying to recollect anything further became impossible without great difficulty.

He touched his chin, his fingers feeling the unfamiliar sensation of beard growth as it rasped into his ears from several hours of stubble growth.

Being alone, he began a panorama of the area, hoping to see at least one person other than himself. But nothing. Every shadow he scrutinised every but on a calm glass-like surface, not even a ripple to ease the guilt, he felt nothing to ward off the despair starting to build Something behind him, a noise, turned his whole body sharply; swirls scurried in increasing circles. Nothing was visible, only heard until far away on the horizon. The sky darkened as if the setting sun came early, eclipsing the light faster than would naturally occur.

How big, he said, speaking aloud, a storm brewing perhaps? With a leading-edge razor-sharp, straight as an arrow, this isn’t a weather front, this is a vessel," mouthing the words out loud.

As it grew larger, consuming more of the sky, he recognised it from memory as a long, smooth craft heading to the grey moon.

By now, the spacecraft filled the overhead, blocking out all-natural light.

Rapid movement in the darkness above held his gaze.

Magnetic currents grabbed hold of him, wrenched him off the hard surface and lifting him a few feet before letting him go to fall back into the bottomless sea. Great arcs of electricity pylons zigzagged their way, hitting the water hissing in anger as they connected. Marc expected electrocution or boiling alive any second.

The blackness that engulfed him threatened even his spirit, adding to his despair, yearning now only for the sun. However, Speedily, ahead of him, the craft’s rear cracked the blackness slicing it across the width illuminated by bright, intense sunbursts. The dusk of a crimson sky followed, painting the horizon orange magnificently. Streaming vapours drifted thinning into blue streaks, releasing more soul-enriching daylight. The craft soon passed, the dominating sun warming everything.

In less time than Marc could commit to memory, the danger vanished along with the ship northern hemisphere bound. In its wake came the shock wave.

At first, swirling airstreams crashed seaward, in turn, swelling with rage angrily. Quickly white clouds turned grey, great arcs formed, and a horizontal funnel of air whipped up water, heading Marc’s way directly.

Battered and tossed insignificantly like a lollypop stick in a waterfall, he somehow, by divine intervention, he thought, and despite the battering, endless buffeting and breathless engorging’s into the depths, he endured it until it cleared.

The many times the rampant ocean swallowed him whole only to regurgitate him back to the surface. However, this constant dunking lifted his spirits because he began to realise that not only hadn’t he perished, but a superior power saved him for something greater than he could know.

The physical surface beneath him, a place to feel relief, like a distance swimmer finding a rest bite on a barnacle-covered rock, he stood upright as before albeit soaked to his bones. Every unsealed opening in his uniform had channelled water to every part of his body. Shivering with cold the uniform heated and along with the ever-increasing warmth of the sun and its calming, soothing effects.

His amazement increased as he recalled his outfit acting as a buoyancy aid lifting his exhausted body out of the sea’s depth, the very same garment now drying him out.

Marc happen-glanced his watch for no reason. Instantly his mind began to spin once more.

Marc, Marc, His mums face focussed into view, shaking him gently, calling his name, his ears trailing behind his eyes, reacting to but only able attempting to lip read.

Son, she shouted louder, her words stinging into his ears as they finally caught up.

For a moment, he gazed at her still as the man as if still occupying his body. Her words penetrating beacon to the realities of his world, stark veracity spurring the young lad to fling his arms around her neck, burying his head there becoming once again her little boy not mature, not brave, weeping ‘mummy.’

It’s okay, sugar plum pie, she comforted, just another one of your bad dreams?

He lay back on his pillow, staring into her eyes, waiting for the right time to explain what he’d experienced or thought he’d experienced.

No, not dreams, mummy, he answered confidently, this did happen, reverting to the grownup. This huge ship, no spaceship, this big telly, screen thing, round thingy with -------.

She cut him short. My word, Sonny Jim, spaceships, and televisions sounds to me son watching too much TV last night is the culprit here, poking a finger in his ribs with playful grin incognito.

He giggled until she stopped.

He loved his mum, knowing all her faces like the one she now wore, the one not adorning her face for some time the same way she would disguise her true feelings.

Mummy, what’s Stan Point Tunnel? He asked solemnly, not knowing why he’d said it.

Stanpoint Tunnel love pots? preoccupied with grooming him, not sure I know sweat pea, continuing reaching his lower legs, finding them soaked through the bed covers too.

Puzzling, the wetness didn’t reach beyond his knees, ruling out bedwetting.

Marc, have you been playing with water?

No mummy,

Your pyjama bottoms! Marc, they’re soaking, you sure? a hot flush inflaming her cheeks.

The big pond mummy, he quipped unconcerned, mum, you know the shiny coin?

Shiny Coin, what shiny coin? holding back her worries, though not totally.

Was this a relapse?

She placed a palm on his forehead possible, hoping for some degree in temperature perhaps there lay the solution to why his leggings became wet or an understanding of his question.

Marc, in a therapist tone, this big pond, shiny coin?

He took umbrage; she thought he’d imagined it, refusing to answer.

Marc! she said more sternly.

I don’t know, he conceded, mouth open pear-shaped, grinning lightly, the one the shiny coin brought me to.

Coin, darling, mummy doesn’t understand. Maybe you dreamt it like the other times.

Toys, my watch the money thing, he replied, showing her his wrist, timepiece still on.

In a millisecond, a torrent of emotions raced through her body to the point she wanted to cry, quickly suppressing it before it reached any physical manifestation in her face.

Angry with him didn’t come close anyway; she wouldn’t let such negative feelings known to Marc, especially while recovering from the trauma.

You peeping little tom, she responded amusingly, countering the anger.

You’ve been down those stairs, haven’t you? she laughed, poking her slender index finger into his ribs, making him chuckled heartily.

Marc, we share these sorts of things, right? disguising her disappointment with humour.

No, mummy, it tickles, he giggled, twisting his legs, wrapping his pelvis around her arm.

No, no mummy, he contorted as fingers turned to hand.

Three months since Marc’s last nightmare, a year next week, his father died tragically; six weeks later, Doctor Mylne, an eminent psychiatrist, gave him a clean bill of health.

The idea of relapse increased her fretting.

Well, my lad, I’m going to make breakfast. I want you washed, dressed, sitting tableside, in five minutes, trying to cover the returning emotions torturing her and remembering the first six months after John died.

Losing her beloved husband tore the core right out of her, almost losing Marc through his chronic grief depression, too, countered her heartache, focusing every bit of the love in her onto him.

Please, mummy, he pleaded, still wanting to play.

250 seconds, 249, 248, leaving the room.

Mary prepared scrambled eggs on toast in between washing last night’s supper dishes plus tidying away his gifts, screwing the wrappings into a ball; ‘only five presents’ fleeted across her mind, ‘I wanted more for him.’ She paused at the empty watch box, smiling; most of the year it took to save up for ‘the clock,’ as he put it, insisting big boys always wear clocks. She remembered the very second how he raved on and knew which hand went where rehearsing the time in ten-minute intervals, keeping her focused for hours. THUD!

Her attention diverted back to the toaster, the elephant steps of his lordship bounding down the staircase, forcing a smile.

Haven’t I told you not to hurdle those stairs, young man? You could hurt yourself. She said sternly.

Yes, mummy, sorry!! Mummy, what’s Stan Point Tunnel, who bought me the shiny coin? determined to get an answer.

There is no coin, she quipped, holding back an urge to scream.

What’s this Stan Tunnel thingamajig son because I don’t know. her eyes welling up.

Stan Point Tunnel, he corrected.

Say, sweetheart, how’d you fancy a trip to the beach and birthday treats? trying to contain her accelerating concerns towards Marc indeed having a relapse.

Yea! he answered, jumping off his seat.

Take Jonathan if you like?

Jonny-the-thon, no wa.... he didn’t get on with his neighbour despite sharing the same birth year and only a month apart in age, Marc being the younger.

But something changed his mind, …OK, that’ll be great, can I take some toys?

"There will be enough for you to play on, rides and arcades.

Why not take your bucket and spade? You always enjoy building sandcastles," she persuaded.

Sandcastles! insulted, don’t make sandcastles at nearly nine.

A broad grin reigned over her concerned features, Of cause forgive me, sir, I mean only 365 days left, how silly of me; go on! skimming the top of his head with her hand,

Get yourself ready old man, quick about it, chuckling to herself.

Busy dressing himself, Mary decided to enlist some support.

Sweetpea, I’m just nipping next door won’t be more than five minutes. Keep getting dressed, please, she called upstairs to him, half out the door.

Mum, shall I bring my swimming trunks, Mum, Mum. ----.

Knocking lightly, Mary entered Glenda’s home calling out her name, Glenda, woo oho, Glen.

Hi, Maze, answered Glenda entering the room from the kitchen, fancy a cuppa?

"I would love one Glen no time, though.

Wondering if you would have Marc for me for a couple of hours while I visit Larry, in her, ‘you must say yes’ tone.

Larry, Doctor Fairburn, social or business? Not Marc again? replied Glenda, curious and concerned.

Social kind of, I need to ask him something that’s all before we go to the beach, foxing her way around the awkward question.

Oh, Marc’s birthday, I have his present here, smiled Glenda presenting Mary with a red, wrapped package the size of a shoebox.

Would you mind us tagging along? Jonathan hoped to get me to take him there soon. I will buy lunch, my treat. almost pleading.

Yes, I loved to have you only if we share the lunch cost. I’m not destitute yet, Mary keeping a smile on her face to cover her honest thoughts.

Frank still away then? she added, containing the situation.

While insurance claims take their time, Mary lived on benefits, coping adequately.

Because of her frugal husband, she supplemented her income from savings.

"He’s due back at the weekend; I miss him.

Never guess what happened to Frankie the other day, well...," continued Glenda unperturbed.

Glen, Mary interrupted, let’s catch up later. I have got to dash.

Oh, OK, a couple of hours, right? we’ll be ready.

Lovely, she shouted from the gate, I’ll send him around.

Driving the ten miles to Larry’s house, first visiting the florist’s diverting to the cemetery to place them on her husband’s grave, thoughts about this morning spurred her on.

The compassion, personality even empathy in John’s older brother left her cold, especially after the accident.

Only his devotion to his nephew, not being a father himself, did he show his caring side.

On reaching the doctor’s mansion, she pulled into the drive parking next to the Jaguar.

Angela observed Mary’s car from the window obscured behind her curtains, tracking her sister-in-law up to the front door.

A short, stout woman who loved any news or gossip greeted her caller by the entrance.

Mary, such a pleasure, politely hugging her, kissing the air by her cheek, It has been over three weeks, Marc not here?

Likewise, looking as discreetly as possible for her brother-in-law, Marc’s doing-.

Larrrrrry, she yelled, cutting her off, you have a visitor. He must be in his study or the garden, maybe upstairs. Oh, sorry, come in, sweetie, how silly of me keeping you waiting outside like some tradesperson, you’re looking well, how’s Marc? Bet he’s running you ragged, Larrrrrry, She called again, almost blowing him away, oh, there you are honey, Mary’s visiting dear,

Hello Mary, said Doctor Fairburn, always the professional.

I’ll make a drink, Angie said, hot or cold sweetie, hot of cause how silly of me, disappearing into the kitchen.

Marc, isn’t it?

Yes!!! frowned, expression presenting a surprised, cautious face.

Model cars, pointing to the stairway with his eyes, my vintage toy car collection, he’d be there admiring them. You would not have come without him if there wasn’t a problem.

Oh, Larry, letting her emotions go, almost sobbing. I think he’s having a relapse.

Really, he said, arrogantly nearly tersely.

Since I woke him this morning, he’s been going on about some shiny coin, spaceships, Sta---.

Please! cutting through her sentence, pausing, practised smile working. Come into my study, and we can’t discuss these things in the hallway. leading her by the elbow.

Larry’s study, more the surgery, represented best his seat of power. From here, the majority of his work, consultations, even meetings with colleagues took place.

Trying to relax into the deep-sided, green leather chair he’d settled her in failed more intimidated by it; nevertheless, she continued to impart the rest of her story while the physician, seated behind his desk favouring the barrier, listened.

Mary, he slid in when she paused, softer, more family, less professional, there’s probably a plausible, even logical explanation for all this, you know.

Yes, but ---.

Mary, interrupting her yet again skilfully, let me try to help you first before understanding the why, his well-worn, experienced frown compelling her to yield.

All the more intimidated, she shuffled uneasily, caressing the left arm of the chair, her palm arched, backbone straightened, legs closed, vertical from the knees, sending out a clear understanding to her trained observer.

Larry knew well the intricacies of body language deliberately positioned his own to relay the patient the message he wanted her to read subconsciously.

Mary, he began, placing his hands spread-eagle on the desk. I’ll talk honestly if I may. he paused. I think you’re overreacting to this, leaning into his seat, swivelling the chair just enough to give her a half profile. When John died, killed tragically in that dreadful car crash, all of us took it hard, my nephew the most, his sentiment not warm at all. Professionally speaking, his grief exceeded expectations in my opinion, then John’s.... recalling a private thought; at times I remember thinking we’d never get him back, psychiatrists mode, bending forward, fixing positive eye contact with her. "You know the rest, my dear.

Mary concurred in her thoughts feeling somewhat coerced but agreeing with a barely visible nod.

Doctor Mylee, Eddy, if I may be informal, commented on a more than satisfactory outcome with the lad’s recovery.

Larry stood, walked around the front of his desk, leaned against its edge, considering his words. This dream last night, a relapse, no!! On the contrary, it shows me, no confirms, he’s doing fine. He’s even showing a normal healthy, active imagination, one I encourage you to nurture.

Angela, standing in the doorway, tray in hand, coughed politely, entering. Could not help overhearing sweetie, I never interfere with Larry’s work, you know, but he’s right; otherwise, he’d say.

Larry was a gifted doctor in his field and admired by many but lacking the people skills, and it wasn’t the first time his mannerisms had failed to satisfy any concerns she might have.

However, where Marc was concerned, he had her most sincere gratitude, not just for his devotion to him, especially during the last few months, but for his very existence so yielded to his council.

She took a warm drink from the tray Angela held, sipping and savouring its flavour, smiling.

"You’re both right. It’s clearer; I’m still puzzled about those