The Turning Of The Tide

The Turning Of The Tide

Les Broad

Published by Les Broad at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Les Broad

Discover other titles by Les Broad at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

THE TURNING OF THE TIDE

A Chronicle of Modern Family Life

I hope it isn't really necessary, but I suppose that for the avoidance of any doubt I should make it clear that 'The Turning Of The Tide' is a work of fiction and that any resemblance between characters in this book and anyone in the real world, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Many of the events depicted, though, have been drawn from real life but since they happened to the author and not to anyone in the least bit important it probably doesn't matter that they are repeated here.

Also for the avoidance of doubt, there are a few points that should be made absolutely clear. In no particular order these are:

The British Police are a fine, professional, upstanding and by and large incorruptible body of men and women in which homophobia and racism have been stamped out.

Taxicabs in Britain are maintained to high standards, the drivers are professional and the industry is well regulated.

Hoteliers operate in a fiercely competitive industry and those who don't treat their guests well are soon looking for alternative employment.

Law is a complex and technically demanding profession; it may be so that some practitioners survive more by good luck than professional competence but they are, quite literally, a dying breed.

Ownership of a Ferrari motor car that isn't red isn't always prima facie evidence of poor taste.

The author freely accepts that it is possible to be a worthwhile member of the human race whilst being neither British nor heterosexual.

The British telephone system isn’t the exclusive preserve of ill-mannered halfwits.

‘Dago’ is an offensive term for certain persons not born to Anglo-Saxon parents, but the uneducated still use it - that’s the only reason it appears.

Professional photographers are just ordinary people doing their job to the best of their ability. ? It is generally accepted that dogs' intellects are not on a par with homo sapiens.

The town of Graham, Texas, appears because of circumstances; it almost certainly lacks the amenity it's been given so I hope I'll be forgiven by any of the townspeople who might read this book.

Les Broad

North Wales

2011

Chapter 1 - The Implosion

Jenny Simkins stood in front of her bedroom mirror, enjoying a moment of peace. She had already sent Graham, her husband of twenty years, off to work and despatched Simon her son to school; for the next hour or so she would have the house to herself unless Laura, her daughter, chose to drag herself out of bed early for once. She worried about that girl, she really did.

'You don't look at all bad,' she thought as she studied her reflection, adding a little reluctantly, 'for your age.' She was happy with her thirty nine year old body all the way up from her feet through her toned-looking legs encased in jeans - fake-designer, of course - and trim waist. She admitted to herself that her bust was less self-supporting than it appeared, but appearance was what mattered, wasn't it? Laura said so, all the time.

Laura. What had she done to deserve Laura? The girl was seventeen and had stopped answering to her name a good couple of years earlier: now, if any sort of response was required she had to be called 'Krystal', which she claimed suited her personality better.

Jenny supposed that seventeen year old girls needed some sort of fantasy life, but Laura seemed determined to live her fantasy. She rarely rose before ten and was often still in bed at midday, trying to live her life like her role models. It was, Jenny thought, rather sad that she didn't have the same level of income as those role models.

With a final look at her reflection - with which she was, on the whole, quite pleased - Jenny left the bedroom intent on enjoying a quiet coffee. It would be just instant, there was no room in the family budget for any of those fancy coffees people seemed to want nowadays. No, the Simkins family lived modestly and really quite conventionally on Graham's modest salary from his conventional job as a purchase ledger clerk for a modestly sized company in the centre of town and their lives were conducted from a modest and conventional suburban semi-detached house. The fact that it was mock-Tudor was, she admitted to herself as she had done so often before, a little daring, but then there had to be some excitement in life, didn't there?

As she walked into the kitchen the family dog, a scruffy, terrier-like creature called to its eternal shame Scruffs, opened one eye. 'Oh ho,' Scruffs thought to himself, 'you look too smug by half, we dogs can see things, you know, and before too long that smugness is going to be wiped right off your face.' He closed his eye, sighed - smugly - and drifted back to sleep.

Sitting contentedly, perhaps even smugly, at the kitchen table with her second cup of coffee of the morning, Jenny's thoughts turned to Graham, her husband. He wasn't so bad, she thought. OK, he could never be called exciting, but he went off every day to do a job he didn't really enjoy to bring home a salary that wasn't quite enough for the family's wants and barely adequate to meet their needs. He was an undemanding husband, however she chose to define 'undemanding', and that, she reckoned, suited her. Perhaps she even believed it now that she had told herself so often over such a long period. He was handy around the house though, having his own pinny for his kitchen duties, knowing how to hang wallpaper and seeming to know which end of a screwdriver to hold. He had always been good with the children, even if he really didn't get on that well with Laura - there was no sign of the special bond that was supposed to exist between fathers and daughters - and Simon just confused him.

Jenny's thoughts turned to Simon. At fifteen he was doing well at school and recognised the importance of a good education. He had always been a conscientious worker, had always done his homework well, and seemed popular with his teachers. Perhaps at his age he should be permitted some apparent contradictions, though, as he always claimed that his schoolfriends were among the rougher elements, those always in trouble in school and, sometimes, outside too. His clothes had changed recently too; instead of the sober, sensible attire that Jenny had always bought him he now wore strange garb. Thick padded jackets with hoods seemed to be multiplying in his bedroom, as did trousers which not only didn't fit his admittedly skinny frame but also had capacious pockets in the usual places plus on the legs. Jenny didn't understand, but trusted that, eventually, both her children would grow out of their current phases and become more or less normal, like their parents.

It was nearly two o'clock when Laura eventually got up. Jenny was surprised, as indeed she was every day, when her daughter appeared as if she was ready to go out to a night club, or wherever young people went. Her long blond hair was immaculate, as was her make-up. She wore long black boots with high heels like the bayonets of Hell, a short skirt which looked like leather but Jenny knew was just PVC, and a skimpy top with 'BOGOF!' written large upon it. Her mother decided that the legend was ambiguous, so asked Laura exactly what it meant.

It means, mother, 'go away'. I thought even someone as old as you would know that.

Yes dear, but the spelling isn't right. As it is, it's one of those supermarket slogans, you know, 'buy one get one free'.

Laura smiled. Who cares about spelling? Anyway, the shop thing, I like it. Sounds fun.

Jenny didn't smile back. Any further enquiry might elicit answers she wouldn't want to hear.

Still pretending to be asleep, Scruffs listened to the exchange. 'I know what she gets up to, you know. Like a bitch on heat, that one.' The thought made him tremble slightly.

Nobody noticed.

While Jenny was contentedly sipping her coffee things were happening elsewhere.

Simon was at school, trying his best to be a disruptive influence yet still managing to provide answers to his teachers' questions that were not only correct but insightful too. Yet his attempts to be accepted by the increasingly thuggish element at school hadn't gone unnoticed; those same teachers were trying, subtly, to steer him on a studious course and felt that they were succeeding. On the other hand, Simon's 'friends' had recognised the potential benefits of having an articulate kid, who they regarded as something of a teachers' favourite, in their midst. After all, Simon had already shown his willingness to speak up for more than one of them and his efforts had led to the avoidance, or at least a substantial mitigation, of punishment. As well as that useful skill, he had also been able to point out some avoidable risks in their mayhem-causing plans which made him just that bit more popular among those he revered. Anyway, even without his useful abilities he was still a boy whose looks and behaviour could provide hours of mickey-taking fun.

Simon didn't really mind that. He was happy that he was among a group whose activities he admired and who listened when he spoke. Sometimes, just sometimes, he even got an admiring glance from some of the girls in the group and that always made him tongue-tied and weak-kneed. The fact that these were girls of such a build that even an experienced silverback gorilla would think twice about taking them on didn't bother Simon in the slightest simply because they were girls - well, they bulged in places where boys didn't and didn't in places where boys did so he could only surmise their gender - and having a girl to call his own was an as yet unfulfilled ambition. Of course he had no idea what a boy was supposed to do with a girl, but his subconscious had already addressed this problem and arrived at a hazy, unformed conclusion that the girl, whoever she finally turned out to be, would come armed with sufficient knowledge to see to his initiation into the whole boy/girl thing.

On this particular day, though, Simon was going to being stretched academically. He had studied his timetable for the day on the bus in the morning and could see no free time at all. His morning was to be spent exploring the subtler nuances of grammar, first in English, then German, and finally French. His afternoon would be divided equally between a study of the causes of the English Civil War - to which he was prepared to admit only to himself he was quite looking forward - and an analysis of the present-day economic relationship between North and Central America under the tutilage of one of the more eccentric teachers of geography employed by his school. He would happily confess to anyone that he was most definitely not looking forward to that, and only partly because that teacher seemed unable to understand a clock and always overran his allotted time by a substantial margin. There would be no time to see his friends, who would have left the school by the time that Simon was liberated from his studies. He would have no alternative to going straight home. He usually did that anyway, but on other days there was always the option of going into town and running wild with the others; he always told himself he chose not to join them.

Simon's father wasn't enjoying his day either. Well, it had started out like any other day and therefore he hadn't expected to enjoy it because he had nothing in common with his work colleagues and the duties of his employment were dull, routine and untaxing on the intellect. Only during his lunch hour could Graham express his individuality, but that didn't extend to where he ate. If it was dry and mild enough he went to a specific bench in the park, some three minutes' walk away; if not he ate in the staff kitchen. Either way, every day he spent his time trying to complete the crossword in his daily newspaper; every day he failed. He did, though, have variety in his choice of meal. Sometimes he had pickle with his cheese sandwich and sometimes he enjoyed the unsullied purity of a cheese filling on its own.

Today was Tuesday, not that it mattered as any working day was indistinguishable from any other. But Graham's mind went back to the previous Tuesday - well, he thought it had been Tuesday. That was the day that She had spoken to him. He'd seen Her once or twice before, but on that day She had actually addressed him, personally. 'I've seen you here before,' she'd said. 'Yes', he'd said, 'I come here most days at this time. Unless it's raining, or too cold.' She'd smiled at that. He'd liked her smile. 'And if it's raining?' she'd asked. 'Oh, I stay in my office. We have a small kitchen. Nobody uses it,' he'd replied. 'Gotta go,' she'd said, 'maybe I'll see you here again.' Then she'd gone, before Graham could think of anything to say.

He was sure it was last Tuesday. But it might have been Wednesday. Or Monday. He rather hoped it hadn't been Monday.

She was tall, probably taller than him in her heels, slim, blond, and, he suspected, probably American. Or Australian. Something exotic, anyway. And she knew his routine.

That meant she'd been watching him, although why remained a mystery.

He left his office exactly at one o'clock, as he always did. At three minutes past one he sat on his bench and opened his sandwich: today purity had won and there was no pickle. He extracted the first half of the sandwich from its carefully constructed wrapping, examined it for faults, as he always did, and then bit into it. Words like salmonella and e-coli flashed through his mind and were dismissed, as they always were. Then he heard a voice, neither familiar nor unfamiliar, saying 'Hi' very close to his left ear. He almost dropped the sandwich, managed to catch it, chewing furiously so as to be able to respond. His eyes had caught an expanse of thigh, nylon-clad, next to his own.

Hello, he managed to say at last. He turned his head. There was that tumble of blond hair, framing a smiling face. Below the face there was a body that Graham could think of only as lissom. Thighs poked out of a short skirt. He was lost for words.

We meet again, she said. I thought we might.

Yes, he said. It didn't seem adequate.

Do you have a name? she asked. "Mine's Maddy, Maddy Larssen. My dad was

Norwegian."

Exotic, he said. She laughed.

Third generation American, Norwegian origins. I'm from Texas, place called Graham, ever heard of it? It isn't exotic.

No, he replied truthfully, but that's my name. Graham, not Texas.

Got another name?

Simkins.

I see. She smiled. Simkins. Graham Simkins. I see, she said again. Well, that's pretty, I don't know, English.

I am. English, I mean. What, he wondered briefly, was he doing talking to a blond American lady from Texas? Jenny wouldn't understand.

English is good. Graham didn't understand what she meant by that and waited for elaboration. He saw that Maddy - Ms Larssen - was gazing into the distance.

Good? he said.

Good, yes. I like Englishmen. Some Englishmen.

He took another bite of his sandwich. Almost as an afterthought he offered the untouched half to Maddy Larssen. She shook her head. Her hair did interesting things.

Englishmen have nice manners, she said. I like that. What are your plans for the rest of the day?

I shall go back to work, then I shall go home. What are yours? Instantly he wondered why he'd asked. He didn't know if he regretted asking though.

I'm going back to my hotel, take a long shower and then I shall lie on my bed and relax. Want to join me?

I couldn't, my work.... anyway I'm a married man.

So?

So I have a wife.

"You could leave her. If you left