Some Day Days

By C. Litka

Be careful what you wish for.
Wishes sometimes come true.

University student Hugh Gallagher discovers this when the girl of his dreams, the "incomparable" Selina Beri shows up at his door seeking his geeky expertise for her last final exam. Can Hugh, the classic shy geek, avoid making a fool of himself with the girl he has loved from afar?

Some Day Days is a rather experimental memoir of the first few months of a long romance. It is set in Oxford, London, and Cambridge and explores, in a set of twelve pieces; short stories, novelettes, and an essay, the joys and sorrows of a dream come true. However, Some Day Days chronicles only the beginning of this long romance, the remainder of which will remain unrecorded, so that readers who wonder how it all turns out will want to read, rather closely, A Summer in Amber, a novel set many years in the future that offers a clue as to how Hugh and Selina's romance turned out.

C. Litka writes old-fashioned novels with modern sensibilities, humor, and romance. His lighthearted novels of adventure, mystery, and travel are set in richly imagined worlds and feature a colorful cast of well drawn characters. If you seek to escape, for a few hours, your everyday life, you will not find better company, nor more wonderful worlds to travel and explore, than in the novels of C. Litka.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Litka
• Release date: Aug 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201859398

Book preview

Chapter  01 – Piece One – Kiss of the White Witch

Yesterday

The scent of grass and warm stone laced with fleeting wisps of chatter and laughter drifted through the open window, moving the curtains ever so slightly, without shattering the stillness of my room. I was meditating on the end of a summer’s day and the end of my second trinity term – labs completed, problems solved, papers written. Nothing left to do but to go down for the long vacation.

‘Gallagher?’

My name. Knew the voice too. Mostly in dreams.

‘Are you awake, Gallagher?’ This with a rap on the door frame.

Was I?

I swung my stocking feet off the window sill, twisting to stand facing the open doorway. My heart gave a lurch, staggering me, taking my breath. How could the mere sight of her do that?

Selina Beri – remote, unreachable, almost mythical, stood in the open doorway. A quantum event on a Newtonian scale.

‘May I come in?’ She asked with cool innocence. 

‘Yes, yes, of course. Please. I’m just...’ well, stunned.

She stepped into my room and casually considered it – tattered, in an end of term way, neglected for more pressing concerns, semi-broken up for going away. She looked at me, and considered it too. I may do her an injustice with that line, but it’s close enough.

‘Sorry to drop by out of the blue. I was studying in the library and decided to take the chance you were in. My last exam is tomorrow and wouldn't you know, I ran into an issue I’d overlooked. I hoped, perhaps,’ she hesitated, found a word and continued, ‘on the basis of our nodding relationship you might be willing to help me.’

Our nodding relationship was just that – I’d managed, on several occasions, to contrive to be in position to wish her a good morning before or after Manaham’s Q & A session. She may've nodded in reply.

‘I feel foolish... Gallagher. But I’ll only take an hour of your time, that is, if you’re willing and not otherwise engaged.’ This with, perhaps, a ghost of a condescending smile.

‘No, not at all,’ I said, and should have left it there, but half my ancestors are Irish and they were having none of that, ‘I was merely airing my socks, but that can certainly wait.’

She was not amused.

‘Sorry. Of course, I’d be glad to help. I’m finished with term and have nothing at all planned this evening...’

She nodded slightly. Obviously. ‘The issue is, well...’ she shrugged, watching me. ‘Remember, several weeks ago, the Manaham’s Q &A session when you and Professor Manaham had a rather extensive exchange of ideas on the impact of dyaries, those dynamic diary recorders?’

Beri was referring to Manaham’s The Philosophical and Policy Implications of Technology lecture that somehow we both ended up taking this term. A gift of the gods as far as I was concerned. Since lectures are recorded online videos, live interactions with lecturers are called Question and Answer sessions, though who questions and who answers is open to interpretation. Some professors use this time to update their recorded lectures and answer questions, others believe in finding out who actually viewed their recorded lecture by asking the questions.

‘Er, yes,’ I said, likely blushing. 

‘You seemed to know quite a bit about the subject.’

‘A hobby of mine. I use a dyary myself... And I spent my gap year, and spent my vacations working for an anti-surveillance firm, so, you see, I’m familiar with the technology and some of its implications. But he did go on and on about it,’ I added, apologetically.

She waved that aside, ‘You impressed him. The thing is that he merely mentions dyaries in passing during the actual lecture so I dismissed the whole thing as Manaham off on a tangent and based my study program on his lecture material.

‘But today, as I was doing a quick sampling of past Q & A sessions, I was dismayed, and I’m putting that very mildly, to discover that for the past several years he’d spent the better part of that particular Q & A session also on dyaries. And without a Gallagher to spur him on,’ she paused and then with a sigh, ‘Finals have no doubt driven me around the bend, but I can’t help but feel that the implications of dyaries on public policy is exactly the type of question I’ll find on my final tomorrow – important enough to spend almost a whole Q & A session on, but missing in the recorded lectures...

‘I’m a mathematician, not some sort of policy maven. The philosophy part of my major was just something to keep my parents happy. They have civil servant ambitions for me, you see. I’ve put off and neglected that aspect of my degree, so when I discovered an issue I know nothing about – I’m quite the luddite – on the last day, it sent me into a panic. I’m certain some paranoia and panic are common around finals, but I can’t afford to overlook anything...’

Shinge strolled through the door, buttoning his shirt. ‘Care to step out... Oh my,’ he stopped. ‘You’ve company...’

‘Omar V Shinge, Selina Beri,’ I said, introducing them.

Omar was not one to be staggered for long. He beamed, ‘Ah, the incomparable Selina Beri, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Beri. Hugh has often spoken of you.’

That was a lie. I mentioned her once before I’d learned to keep my mouth shut about such things. I glared at him. He smiled back.

She gave him a faint icy smile, ‘Nice to meet you. I’ve called on Gallagher for his expertise in dynamic diaries.’ On the off chance anyone would imagine this to be a social call.

‘Then you’ve come to the right shop,’ Omar replied merrily, never deterred. ‘What Hugh Gallagher doesn’t know about gadgetry isn’t worth knowing. I'm only sorry I can’t stay to learn more myself, but I’ve promised to meet the gang for a night out, to dull the pain of parting and all that. Why don’t you kids join us – I’m sure the whiz and bang of dyaries can be put off an hour or two. The evening is still young.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve that final tomorrow and still have work to do.’

Omar shrugged. ‘You worry needlessly, Miss Beri. But once Hugh sets you right, join us. He knows where to find us.’

He bowed slightly and humming ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’ left, closing the door softly behind him with a Cheshire cat grin.

Beri removed her hat and glanced at my desk. Taking the hint, I pushed my stuff to one side clearing a space and offered her the chair. I pulled the other one closer. I hardly dared look at her. I knew this was plain on my face. Nothing I could do about it. If Selina Beri was the queen of the Seelie Court come a'calling, the world would not have seemed more fey. I was not at ease.

She pulled her watson out of her bag and placed it on the desk, turned to me. ‘I glanced over Manaham’s suggested readings but they seemed rather thin on policy. I’ve looked in on some dynamic diary sites, which have, no doubt, lots of useful information, but most of it’s buried deep in discussion threads. These can be mined, but not in the time I have at my disposal. To save time, I’ve jotted down a series of questions.’

‘Okay... fire away,’ I said.

In expanding my written diary I've no intention of expanding its readership, which is to say, me. However, in trying to make this piece a story it seems to need a brief explanation of dyaries. So...

Dynamic diary devices, known simply as ‘dyaries’ have been around for several decades. However, only in the last few years, have they become a growing fad in the twentysomething set, especially among students where they can be quite useful in recording discussions, labs and such for later review. Beri was an exception in this regard. Dyaries consist of a constantly recording micro-sized video-camera and mic which is connected wirelessly to a storage device, usually one’s mobile communicator, that is to say, one’s watson. The micro-cam can be unobtrusively mounted as jewellery, though the most useful ones are hidden in the frames of glasses or on hats where they follow the movement of the wearer’s eyes. Hardware and software smooth the jerkiness of the camera and tailor the audio to deliver a complete day-long record of what the wearer sees and hears.

Being able to record all that goes on in a discussion with your tutor or in the lab for later review can be a valuable resource, so dyaries are commonly used by many Oxford students. But there are other reasons people use dyaries as well. As I’m a person who is into gadgets, and an early user of dyaries – in a rather shallow, thoughtless way I'm quite familiar with them. Arriving at Oxford and exposed to a far wider intellectual horizon, I’ve become increasingly thoughtful about their implications. If dyaries ever should become more than a fad, it will mean that everything you do while you're wearing a dyary, or do with anyone who uses one, will be preserved, not only in memory, but in a manner that can be viewed by anyone, potentially everyone, at any time and for as long as the record exists – a life time or longer. Your whole life will trail along behind you for as long as those records exist – and many of them will be outside of your keeping. And then, when you consider that those records have the potential not only to be stolen, but to be altered or false ones created out of whole cloth, you can see just how potentially disruptive this technology is to the way we live our lives today. But I’d best stop here. I tend to get carried away on the subject.

Beri began by asking questions concerning the technology of the device. I could, and did answer her questions authoritatively. I’m a geek. So I told her how effective the device was and how effective it was likely to become and how soon, how easily its records could be used, archived and preserved, and then how hard, or easily, those records could be hacked, altered, or fabricated – in great depth and detail. Old hat...

Selina Beri is not old hat. She is, you’ve gathered, the flame and I, a moth. She’s also a brilliant mathematical student, with an impressive first in her Honour Mods and two well received papers published in a first rate journal of applied mathematics to her credit. As a brilliant, posh, and very attractive science major, she’s been the subject of a fair amount of gossip within our college, which formed the sum of what I knew about her before yesterday.

She’s two years ahead of me at the uni and completely out of my league, perhaps even above Omar’s orbit. She’s cool, even cold, posh, and outside a small group of mostly post grad friends, unapproachable. I gather attempts by bolder souls outside of this group to get to know her have not ended well. Until this term, I’ve contented myself with admiring her from a safe distance on the rare instances when she dines in college or seen out and about Oxford. This term, finding myself in the same lecture with her, I’ve been able to stare at her for two hours a week and wish her an occasional good morning with no discernible effect, until now.

Now sitting next to me at the desk, or pacing the room or finally settling into the club chair, she was all mine to talk to and watch for the fleeting hour. She was very much the mathematician, coolly approaching dyaries in great detail and depth, building her understanding point by point, line by line – I, a mere source to be mined. Luckily I’d spent years thinking about dyary issues so I kept pace with her once we drifted from technology to the broader social and policy issues of dyaries. Not only had I read those threads she hadn’t time to read, but contributed to them.

She was writing notes with a stylus on her watson and I said something which I can’t recall clearly enough to record when she said sharply, ‘Don’t flirt.’

‘I’m flirting?’ I asked, startled. ‘I’m sure I don’t know how.’

‘I was being charitable. Don’t do whatever it was you were doing, if you’d be my friend.’

Friend. Did she actually mean that or was she just speaking absently? I didn’t dare reply. I just watched her scribble on her watson.

A minute later she gave me a quick, unreadable glance. Had she just realized what she had said or was she wondering how I took it? In any event, she said nothing more and went on writing.

More and more now, our discussion often tapered off into silence as she mulled the implications of what we had talked about. During these silences, I was content just to watch her discreetly – just to feel my heart lurch. As I said, dyaries were old hat to me, but Selina Beri...

In the ruddy light of the setting sun I watched her work – stylus flying over the watson's screen on her lap. ‘What are you writing in? Sanskrit?’ I ventured.

‘Shorthand.’

‘I’ve not seen that used before.’

‘I can write as fast as I think. The watson reliably converts it into searchable text.’ she answered without looking up. ‘The reason you’ve not seen it is that it takes time and effort to learn shorthand – more than most are willing to make. Now leave me to work.’

Five minutes could go by in silence now – she was writing outlines for test answers. We had been going about this for almost two hours. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘I’d like that,’ she said without looking up.

I filled and plugged in the electric kettle, found an unopened packet of biscuits in the cupboard and set them out on the rickety end table next to her. I poured the boiling water into two big mugs, the tea in a yellow submarine infuser for her cup, and gave it time to brew.

‘Milk or sugar?’ I asked. ‘It’s a China Keemun.’

‘Plain would be fine,’ she said.

I carried them over to the table, their steam trailing golden in the sunlight, now slanting deep into the sitting room.  She looked up and thanked me, absently.

She slipped her watson into her courier bag, took off her glasses, set them on the table and brushed her fringe out of her eyes, she said quietly, ‘I still don’t see a way to manage all the implications of dyaries. Your suggestion that dyary records should be held to be intrinsically unreliable and unverifiable may indeed be the only way. However, I doubt I could sell that as an exam answer. Somehow, it does not sound like an answer that would win me many points...’

‘We’ve been able to tear down every other alternative we’ve come up with. The examiners can do the same. Even so, it might be safer writing a more conventional answer.’

‘I’m tempted to do just that. I doubt that I’d have the time to develop an answer to justify the idea that evidence cannot be used – even in criminal cases – because of a broad general rule that dyary records are unreliable. Once people see a video record, they’ll believe it, even if the law says they shouldn’t.’

‘If these devices ever come into wide use, people will come around to understanding that they can be used to direct an investigation, but not to convict, because in the end, their authenticity can never be guaranteed. And I’m certain they’ll grow to appreciate that many things we do in life are best unseen, forgotten, or at least unprovable. The inauthenticity of these records will be seen as a virtue, though in the long term, we may have to become comfortable living our lives naked.’

‘Some would like that.’

‘Depends on the climate, I’d imagine.’

She glanced at me, unsure of my intent. But I was just keeping the conversation from ending, so I looked innocent enough.

She closed her eyes again and we sat in silence. She looked very tired. Perhaps, like Sherlock Holmes, she was feeling the reaction to the rush of events since her discovery of the slightest chink in her study program. I cast about for things to say, but around her I couldn’t trust myself not to say something stupid. So I said nothing. We sipped our tea in a rather surprisingly companionable silence.

‘I appreciate all your help, Gallagher. I may well end up using none of it. Still, the peace of mind is worth it. I don’t like being unprepared... And I really need to earn a first...’ she said without opening her eyes. Then with a little shake of her head she added, ‘Everything should’ve been well in hand. So when I found an issue I’d overlooked – on the afternoon of my last day – it hit me at my most vulnerable point and sent me running to a perfect stranger.’

‘We’ve a nodding relationship,’ I ventured. ‘Hardly a perfect stranger.’

She smiled slightly without opening her eyes.

‘I also appreciate your ability to keep still. I do need silence to think things through.’

I said nothing. She opened an eye and glanced at me. I smiled and she laughed quietly.

‘You’re good at it.’

‘Thank you.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose I’d best be going – this wasn’t on my precisely crafted schedule. I’ve still have things to accomplish.’

She still frightened me, a bit, especially now that I’d have to entertain her on a purely social basis, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if I just let her go away. ‘Please stay for a while longer. Do you a world of good. You’re more than prepared and you know that. Relax. Take a breath or two, finish your tea, have a few more biscuits, sit and soak in that sunlight. Do nothing at all. That’s what’s called for now. You needn’t say anything. You know how good I’m at that.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose, perhaps, for a little while. I certainly don’t feel like getting out of this chair at the moment. Not even sure I can...’

‘It does sag rather deeply. Very cosy.’

‘I may be as prepared as I’ll ever be, but that doesn’t make me feel comfortable. Finals do that to you. I feel like I should be doing something. Still, you’ve given me several hours of your time, your expertise, tea and biscuits – I’m obliged to you,’ she added, rather obliquely.

‘You saw what I’d planned for this evening, so you don’t have to worry on my account. I’ve enjoyed... our discussions...’ I finished lamely.

She considered me briefly, giving nothing of her thoughts away. Of course she was aware of my, well, admiration for her, even before she’d come around. Still, as long as I said nothing, I hoped she’d overlooked it.

She took a sip of tea and closed her eyes again. ‘It’s been a demanding year. So much work. My senior project took up ever so much time and effort, and now these last hectic weeks spent catching up on the philosophical side. I haven’t had time to relax all term. Still, I don’t suppose it’s any different for everyone else in their last term. When do you finish up – next year?’

‘No. I've two more years in my program.’ I replied, thought of adding more, but that might well break the spell, telling her nothing she cared about.

‘Enjoy them while you can,’ she said, pausing before continuing, ‘I think this year has been harder for me, emptier, and far less enjoyable than it should've been. My best friend and a good many other friends have either moved on or were wrapped up in their own demanding work. Looking back now, I’d never have guessed how much I'd miss them, how much I needed their company and council. They’d not have let me work so relentlessly. Still, it’s almost done. I just want it over. Sorry to be so gloomy.’

‘Oh, I was feeling rather blue myself, before you came. Hate to leave, even for the long vacation.’

‘For me it’s more of feeling blue that I’m not sad about leaving. Oh, my first two years were quite wonderful, but the last two... This past year I could’ve done my research and work anywhere, given how little time I spent in college life. Can’t help feeling I’ve wasted, well, things I can’t quite put my finger on...’

‘Still there’s next fall with the long vacation to put all that behind you,’ I said hopefully.

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I start my plum, a plum position with the Treasury Office on the first of July as a Level B Research Clerk in the Office of Budgetary Statistical Analysis,’ she replied listlessly.

‘Oh... You’re going down for good?’ I said, suddenly a whole lot bluer. I tried to rally, ‘I hope this plum is more interesting than its title.’

‘Ha,’ mirthlessly. ‘I doubt it. Only on my best days can I work up any optimism at all. Mostly it’s just dread.’

‘Then why be a Level B Research Clerk? Why such a hurry to leave Oxford at all? You’ve certainly a brilliant post grad and academic career ahead of you – if you go that route. Or have you grown that tired of our feckless student life? I’m sure that with the hard lessons learned this last year, you could find the joy again in student life.’

‘Don’t make me more maudlin than I am. Of course I don’t want to go down with only an undergrad degree. But, you see, my parents have arranged this plum for me... But you really don’t want to hear all this do you? And really, I don’t want to sit around whining about my petty problems...’ she sighed.

‘I believe it’s called venting, a method of unwinding, and unwinding is exactly what you need to do. You know I’m a sympathetic audience...’

She gave me a sharp, warning glance.

‘...based on our nodding relationship,’ I added warily.  ‘You needn’t fear I’ll be indiscreet. I’m not clueless. We're ships passing in the night.’

She considered that in silence for a while. And then with a sigh, ‘I’m rather like a runner at the end of a marathon – too tired to be myself. Even just sitting with you is out of character these days. My present mellowness has everything to do with exhaustion and nothing to do... Well I really don’t want this mellowness to mislead you. I am the person I’m reputed to be.’

‘Actually, since I hardly know you at all, I don’t think I could know the difference...’

‘Pull the other one, Gallagher,’ she said. ‘I’ve earned a reputation for being cold, unsocial, high handed, a right posh. And it’s well deserved. You’ve now had your official warning.’

‘Fair enough. But you needn’t be so guarded. I’ve no expectations or illusions. You’re here on account of my knowledge of dyaries. As a consulting geek, I often do this for people. I hope I've put you at ease, or as at ease as anyone can be during finals. And as part of my professional service, I’m offering you a further opportunity to relax and unwind by taking an hour of your time just to kickback with, well, a friend of the flying hour – professional, discreet, no illusions.’

She shrugged. ‘All right Gallagher. I rather doubt I've the energy to climb