The brief for Day 18 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge:
“…They say you can't judge a book by its cover. But some book covers attract and fascinate. Browse Amazon, or look on your bookshelves and choose a book you haven't read that has a cover you really like. Now, you're going to steal that cover for your own story. Okay, not really ‘steal’ -- just borrow. Write a story of your own that would go with that cover...”
I think that I’ve previously indicated various excuses for not completing assignments in this particular forum/medium, being a personal blog page. If I were to write a complete “story,” my readers would soon be tuning out…
This task, which I call Saddleback, is no different: I will only write the introductory section and leave the rest either (1) for posting to a different forum, (2) for another day, or (3) to your imagination…
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My name is Bartholomew Jenkins, and I live in Maida Avenue London, a one-way running alongside the Canal. Our place is a little way north of the Paddington Green Primary School. You may know it. Well, that’s where I started my education many years ago.
The Paddington area is a great place to be. Wherever you may find yourself, there’s always a tube station or a bus stop within a short distance. There’re tons of eating houses, plenty of entertainment. A canal barge comes past on a regular basis as well, peaceful and touristy. On the downside, the traffic is crap, but I don’t have a car, so its no real bother.
I have been working at a publishing house for the past eighteen months, but I remain on the lookout for something more challenging. I am not driven by the lure of money, I want something interesting, something challenging, as my dream is to become a successful writer – although the definition of “successful” in that realm is rather doubtful, unless you’re one of those everyday names like JK Rowling, Tom Clancy or Stephen King.
Last Monday I was trawling the Internet, as you do, looking for what I like to call “opportunities” – I’m not sure where they are, what form or shape they may take, but I know that I’ll recognise one when I see it – at least, I hope I will.
I encountered a strange entry on a travel site. The heading caught my eye “Opportunity in peaceful Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand. Live-in carer required, start immediately, send CV including telephone number by email.”
In reply I’ve had a call from one Peter Phillips, acting on behalf of Mary Cashew of The Saddleback Lodge. He spoke in a deep educated voice, “Miss Cashew has been impressed by your attitude and aims in life rather than by your education or past experience. The remuneration is minimal, but all your expenses will be prepaid, with a return trip to England for a fortnight at the end of every three months. You may be required to assist with minor chores, but Miss Cashew employs a daily help for the cleaning and maintenance at the lodge. Your sailing and motor-boat licence is one feature which is of particular interest, as access to the Lodge is only by water taxi – there are no roads to the property…”
I called Mr Phillips back a day later, and now, first class air ticket in hand, I’m off to Paddington station down the road to the Heathrow Express to make my flight the town of Wellington almost exactly halfway around the earth in New Zealand. I’ve never flown anything other than economy class, and I’ve never flown as far as New Zealand. In fact, I really know absolutely nothing about the place, save that they have a really great rugby football tradition.
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Whew! What a trip, but what a pleasure it was, because of the first class seat on the Virgin Australia plane. I’m sure I will enjoy the trips for my quarterly sojourns as well. All those unbelievable number of hours of it, including stopovers in Abu Dhabi and Sydney. From Wellington, a pre-arranged taxi collected me and took me to the hotel last night and this morning delivered me to the Inter Islander ferry. Three hours later, I’m here at the water taxi terminal in the quaint ferry station town called Picton. Brilliant sunshine, almost a tropical atmosphere, and I’m happy and excited.
“You Bart? I’m Jake,” a well-tanned bearded fellow walks up to me. “I’m here to take you to the Saddleback. This all your gear?” He picks up a couple of bags at a time, as if they weigh nothing. The fellow was covered in intricately patterned tattoos, especially his bulgy muscular arms and sinewy neck. He speaks no more, as he fires up the twin engines and we roar away from the jetty.
There is hardly any breeze, and the trip in Jake’s water taxi along fantastic smooth blue water and a snowy wake behind us is like a Caribbean holiday picture. Later, I learn that it is, in fact, the same sort of scene they use as promotion for the Queen Charlotte holiday brochures.
* * * *
Now, I am walking along the stretch of warm sunny beach which is the private frontage of Saddleback Lodge. If you look at my picture above, you can just make out Miss Cashew and me in the middle of the photo at the turquoise water edge.That’s the sort of caring I get paid to do…
“Bart, I want everything sorted and understood before you start,” she had said when I first arrived at the Lodge. “The advert which I placed was a bit of a mis-statement, but I had to use the word ‘carer’ not because I need looking after like someone with a terminal illness or like someone with a disability, as you can see. I need someone who cares about others, and I believe that you are such a young man.”
I could see. Miss Cashew was forty-ish, fifty-ish, I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. She appeared perfectly fit and healthy and had been married to a multi-millionaire of some sort – I’ve never asked about him and she’s never offered information, either. Anyway, he died some years ago in a helicopter mishap, and she has remained at Saddleback.
“I’m not a recluse or a hermit, mark you. It’s just that I prefer the quiet nature and this place which holds so many joyous memories of my dear Bob. I’m what I call a naturalist. I do limited shopping in Picton and then you will take me there in our boat, and sometimes I go to Wellington by ferry for a full day-trip. You will keep me company on such trips.”
“This is my maid,” putting her arm around the cleaning lady, “She is called Akina, which means ‘pretty flower’ and she is that, too. Akina arrives in the mornings with the first taxi and leaves late afternoon by the same means. She prepares all our meals and generally looks after my needs.”
Turning to Akina, she confides, “Akina, this gentleman is Bart. He is from London in England. Will you please see that he is comfortable in the suite above the boathouse?”
* * * *
You must please excuse me now. As soon as we get back from our stroll along the beach, I need to take the boat to meet the two o’clock ferry to collect Miss Cashew’s nephew and niece from Australia. They will be spending a week of their school holidays with Aunty Mary. After that, I’m free (again) to continue writing the draft of my second book.
Oh! Did I mention that I will also speak to my publishers about arranging a re-print of my first novel?
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The brief for Day 19: “ Write a story that includes: a gingerbread house, a stolen key, and a surprising phone message…
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