In the Bleak Midwinter

coincidental.

Chapter One

On the morning of the tenth of June 1784, Mr. James Maddern and his co-adventurers, a group of eighteenth century businessmen, took control of the Botallack tin mine at St. Just near Land’s End in Cornwall. The land, known as Roscommon Clift Bounds on the cliff and wastelands between Botallack and Wheal Cock cost fifteen dues to the lord and a tenth to the bounders. Fifty-one years later, in 1835, Stephen Harvey James rescued the derelict mine in the strong belief it would make him a fortune... a matter that was highly debatable at the time! On the sixteenth of May, 1964, almost one hundred-and-eighty years on , Ivan Obsiovitch, a highly intelligent fifth year engineering student, walked out of Minsk University for the last time in his bid for freedom although he had a further year of study before he could achieve his qualifications. He was destitute, hungry for adventure bored with totalitarian doctrine, and eager to find a means by which he could make his fortune. These incidents and desires, despite the span of time and the geographical distance, were closely linked with the Botallack mine.

It was not 1984... twenty more years had passed since Ivan visited the mine on a geographical survey relating to the rise and fall of tin. To all intents and purposes it had become a memory of the past. However the new information he had received opened a door to the future. It overtook his thoughts like a raging avalanche forcing his memory to recall past events which ostensibly were long forgotten The very essence of Botallack coursed through his veins as well as weighing heavily on his conscience. It had invaded his mind, possessed his thoughts, haunted his dreams, and plagued his life remorselessly until his subconscious mind suppressed the past. Now it had surfaced again. He walked to the window of his well-furnished office reflecting then past two decades with a sorrowful expression on his face, He was quite affluent now... a resident in the capital city... far from the poverty and viciously cold winters he had experienced in Minsk. Botallack was also hundreds of miles away... cold, wet, stark, partly resting innocuously under the Atlantic Oceans with strong waves battering it at its western edge.

The door opened and Baker entered, snapping his fingers at his reminiscent colleague. ‘Constantine!’ he barked harshly almost in the form of an order. ‘Try to focus your mind on priorities Ivan!’

The Russian turned slowly as though in a daydream, ‘What?’ he uttered laconically before offering the other man his full attention,

‘Constantine!’ came the rapid reply. ‘It’s going to take us five or six hours to get there in the dark. If we don’t start soon,’

‘You don’t have to remind me,!’ retorted Ivan sharply, interrupting the other man. ‘I’m ready... I’m ready!’

Baker stared at him directly for a few moments, ‘Look,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you just forget it and let sleeping dogs lie?’

‘Because he’s my son, dammit,’ came the quick response. ‘;I owe it to him to let him know the identity of his father.’, He’s your son all right,’ stated Baker flatly. ‘But he’s eighteen years old and you’ve never seen him. He’s grown up. You missed all the fun years. What’s the point of meeting him now?’

The Russian inhaled deeply. ‘He’s still my son... my flesh and blood,’ he responded calmly. ‘It wasn’t possi le to do this before but now she’s dead... ‘ He tailed off, allowing the sentence to vanish into obscurity.

‘I suppose you want to visit Botallack at the same time.

‘What do you think?

Baker regretted having mentioned the tin mine but there was nothing that he could do to retract the words. ‘I’ll get the car,’ he said as he left the room. From his point of view, the quicker they started the journey, the faster it would be over. It couldn’t end swiftly enough!

***

It was an icy winter evening as the large black saloon car turned off the main road, affected by severe engine trouble., stopping g at the forecourt of an old garage in Cornwall. The two men inside the car eased themselves back in the comfortable seats to relax their aching muscles, Baker closed his eyes tightly before running a hand over his face and yawning tiredly,

‘Let’s see if there’s anyone about,’ he muttered. He started to open the door when he noticed that the other man was about to do the same. ‘No Ivan!’ he urged, pushing his companion back into the well-sprung leather. ‘ ‘You stay here in the warm,’

The Russian shrugged off the gesture stubbornly, and opened the car door. ‘I may as well stretch my legs,’ he responded tiredly. ‘Five hours in the dark is a long time,’

Baker smiled, his eyes half closing with fatigue. ‘The trouble with you, moi droog, is that you’re so used to sitting on your fat derriere in the office you’ve lost the art of travelling long distances,’

They alighted from the car, slamming the doors loudly behind them.

‘You’re right,’ admitted Obsiovitch. ‘I’m not used to travelling any more. There was a time when... ‘

He was interrupted as his companion pointed to a light in an office at the rear of the garage.

‘Maybe we’re in luck,’ suggested Baker hopefully. ‘Come on!’ He walked towards the light as Ivan pulled up the collar of his overcoat and clapped his hands together to keep warm,

‘You go on ahead,’ he told Baker tiredly. ‘I’ll wait here. But be quick about it, It’s cold... damned cold!

He watched Baker reach . office and then started to shadow boxing in the forecourt, weaving and ducking as if fighting an imaginary opponent. After a short while he grew weary and stamped his fee on the ground. His tired fat body move mechanically in an attempt to keep his blood circulating faster, however his obesity denied him the physical activity required so that his efforts were in vain. This was an awful place to suffer car engine problems. It was miles from the nearest town... miles from anywhere! His colleague was right! He had become too accustomed to a plush executive chair in his esteemed corporate office.

A shaft of light was cast before him as the door opened and Baker consorted with a man who continually rubbed his greasy hands on the thighs of his dirty blue denims, They walked over to the car where the mechanic opened the bonnet and shone a torch inside. Then he slid into the driving seat and tried to start the engine, tilting his head to one side as he sought to find the core to the problem,

‘I’ll need more time to do a proper job,’ he told them with a distinct Cornish accent. ‘E’d better come back to the office and ‘ave some tea while us works on a repair.’

There was a vestige of light as the winter moon showed itself between patches of clouds. The three men hurried to the office where the mechanic filled up the kettle with water and placed it on lighted gas ring.

‘Service and inscrutability,’ laughed Baker. ‘It’s nice to know that these people aren’t on the make. Not like most town people.’

Ivan pulled off his gloves to warm his hands on the old oil heater burning in a corner of the room, ‘How much further now.?’

‘About twenty miles or so,’ replied Baker. ‘I’m not really sure.’ Baker stared out of the window at the shroud of darkness. ‘I hope he can fix it quickly. I don’t want to spend the night in this misbegotten place. Not if I can help it!’

The Russian rubbed his hands together vigorously beginning to feel the circulation returning, ‘They’re usually good mechanics in these remote places. They’ve got to be.’

‘There’s still time to let sleeping dogs lie,’ countered Baker hardly of the impact of his words as his tired brain churned out thought which had nagged him all day. ‘We could go back... even now.’

Ivan fumbled in his pocket to produce a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and tossed the dead match carelessly on the fl.oor. There was silence before Baker continued.

‘You never ever told me what she was like.’

The Russian glared at him sullenly, ‘What’s any woman like?’ he returned acutely,

The cynical response forced his colleague to drop the matter. Funny how you can smell the countryside,’ he continued changing the subject. ‘There’s a sweet odour in the air... a kind of freshness,’ He emptied the dregs of his mug into the tiny sink in the3 corner of the room before glancing out of the window to observe the mechanic working under the large portable electric light. ‘I don’t like the look of those clouds,’ he grumbled as the moon disappeared behind them. ‘Looks like a storm’s brewing. That’s the last thing we want.’

The Russian finished his drink and held his gloves towards the oil heater. ‘We should have driven on regardless,’ he complained bitterly,

‘You can’t drive twenty miles with an engine making that kind of noise... ‘

He was interrupted rudely by an impatient wave of a hand. ‘All right, all right... I’m not in a mood for a lecture.’

They remained silent until the mechanic returned. ‘I can probably do it by tomorrow afternoon at the earliest if I can get the parts, You can borrow one of my cars in the meantime to get on your way.’

They followed him outside shuffling about to keep warm and the mechanic began to crank the engine of a very old vehicle. Baker shook his head in disbelief as he sat in the driving seat of the pre-1939 model,. This should have been sent to the scrap heap years ago,’ he said, realising that he had no control over the matter.

‘It’s the only spare I have, related the mechanic. ‘Take it or leave it!’

Baker gave him a wry look and drove off struggling with the controls. He fought with the gear stick and the clutch for a while, haaving to keep tight control of the steering wheel, and even longer to become accustomed to the noisy tone of the engine and the constant ratle of the bodywork., Pressing himself into the small bucket seat as hard as possible, he squinted at the road ahead lit only by the dim headlights which cast their lights in a pool in front of the vehicle.

Ivan sat quite still, his legs drawn up tightly towards his chin in the small space allocated to the passenger. His eyes opened and closed spasmodically as fatigued began to overcome him. Perhaps Baker had been right. Maybe he should have let sleeping dogs lie. He began to think back about his life in Russia in the past. To his credit, he had been the boy chosen to have his photograph depicted on a Soviet postage stamp, waving the flag of his nation patriotically with both hands. At that time he believed that the State reigned supreme and his initial aim was to dedicate himself to the totalitarian cause until world revolution which would inevitably free all those who were in imperialistic captivity. Howwever, his alert mind, and its unquenchable curiosity altered into one of extreme selfishness as he grew older, In due course, it dawned on him that, with the best will in the world, his mother country with its ideology would never reward him adequately and he would be far better off to spread his wings to achieve something better in life. The first task then was to divorce himself from the Soviet ideology. As far as he was concerned, he had to escape to that corrupt, fastidious, imperialistic world in the West in which he might achieve his ambition and make his fortune. He recalled a book once smuggled by another boy into the school which told of the streets of London being paved with gold. He considered it to be a capitalistic trick by a Western author and he disbelieved it to be true, However there was no harm in checking out the boast to see whether there was an element of truth in it, Of one thing he was certain, If he simply sat back and failed to act, his youth, enthusiasm and his prospects would inexorably fade away to infinity,

***

It was some months later before the opportunity arose whereby he could act positively. A number of on the students had been selected to attend an engineering trade fair in Leipzig and Ivan discussed his plan with those whom he knew were sympathetic to his cause. He hoped desperately that he could rely on their trust as Russia was infested with informers dedicated to Communist idealism. On the appointed day, they piled into the coach, some of them knowing that they would never return to their homeland. With this knowledge, they bade farewell to their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers for ever. If they successes in their aim they would live in the West... far away from all those whom they loved. If they failed and survived, their fate would be long-term I I internment in a labour camp... ,probably in Siberia.,

The vehicle continued on its way until it almost reached a small town some fifteen miles from Leipzig. At that point, Ivan stood up and turned to the driver with a revolver in his hand. At the point of the gun, he forced the man to stop the coach before pitching him out on a lonely country road. The next part of the plan was much more difficult to achieve,. He offered his fellow passengers the choice of defecting to the West or being left by the wayside to return to their homes in Russia, Twelve of the forty students alighted; the rest remained in their seats. After closing the door, Ivan sat in the driver’s seat and took the steering wheel himself..

‘Awchen choroshaw!’ he shouted at the top of his voice and drove westward. Eventually they arrived at a place where the only obstacles to their defection were sone distant border guards and two rows of barbed-wire fencing, In between the fencing there existed scrub land some tree hundred metres wide. Large markers had been fixed at regular intervals bearing the warning sign ‘MEINEN!’ embellished with the design of a skull and crossbones. Ivan became very tense at the set-back, The plan now relied more on luck than judgement. He had no idea where the mines wee buried. If he turned off at the wrong point, even by half a metre, they might all end up dead or very seriously injured, Now he had come to the watershed, He could see the border guards walking u p and down along the highway. He had to make a decision what to do without delay. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and relied on his instincts Swerving the coach sharply across fifty metres of uneven terrain, he pressed his foot on the accelerator firmly and tore through the first line of barbed wire. They had entered the minefield! The vehicle lurched from sided to side over the bumpy ground throwing the students and their luggage all over the place. As soon as the coach left the road, there came the sound of machine-gun fire, Ivan fixed his eyes straight ahead, gritting his teeth as he hung on to the steering wheel like grim death amid a hail of bullet that rained into the coachwork. About a hundred metres from the second row of barbed-wire fencing, the engine roared and howled its disapproval as the wheels spun ove the rough terrain. Ivan prayed silently for his mission not to fail at this precise moment. Window began to crash under machine-gun fire and he felt a stinging warm sensation in his left arm, however he managed to keep going until the coach burst through the final fence with a horrendous wrenching sound. There was a long silence after it had stopped with no movement inside from anyone at all except for the tiny slivers of glass which fell at random to the floor,. Shortly, a head popped up to peer cautiously outside.

‘We’re through!’ yelled a voice. ‘We’re through!’

Excitement began to swell as they realised that the firing had stopped and more heads popped up to look outside. Then their eyes turned towards the driver who lay inert, slumped over the steering wheel with blood seeping from a flesh wound in his left arm

After lifting him from the coach, they set him down beside one of the wheels and brought him round, slapping him on the shoulder for his brave effort. The cheers rang out over the German countryside until a loud hissing sound caused them to halt their jubilation as they froze with fear.

‘The tyres!’ yelled one of the students pointing to the front wheels.

The tyres, tested by the barbed wire fencing, chose at that moment to puncture, and the group roared with laughter as the vehicle settled gently on its nose. They had made it... from East to West Germany!

It had all happened a long time ago... in the distant past... an incident retained subconsciously in memory and dreams

‘We’re through! We’re through!’ shouted Ivan at the top of his voice, causing Baker to swerve dangerously across the road.

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ reacted the driver angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you? You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ The Russian shrugged his shoulders careless and began to doze off again. ‘Stay awake, overarch!’ Baker’s voice penetrated his thoughts before he could start to dream again. ‘It can’t be far now!’

Ivan opened his eyes to peer at the road ahead and he yeaned loudly, ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t remember it in the dark.’ He tried to wiggle his toes but they were too numb to offer any feeling, He started suddenly and moved his body forward, ‘Hold on!’ he spat, causing the other man to switch his foot to the brake pedal in alarm, ‘I remember that strange house over there. Go on for another mile and take the left fork.’

Baker cursed as he changed gear incorrectly and the engine lurched and growled angrily at his clumsiness. They passed two long fields bordered with hedges and came to a halt in front of a ramshackle building that was begging for repair. The driver blinked twice to check that he wasn’t dreaming. ‘Are you sure this is an hotel?’ he asked rhetorically, implying that he was clearly unimpressed.

‘Business must be bad,’ commented Ivan, shivering as though something cold had trickled down his spine. ‘It always is in Cornwall in the winter,’ The Russian levered himself out of the bucket seat and slammed the car door behind him,

The two men entered the building and rang the reception bell which was lit by a single candle on the desk. For a while nothing happened until an old man appeared in a moth-eaten candlewick dressing-gown, his head covered by a little pointed hat made of the same material. He held a lighted candle resting in a saucer in one of his hands and stared at the two visitors in the flickering light before retreating behind the hotel desk.

Baker leaned forward eager to rest his weary body in a comfortable bed, ‘Reservations made in the name of Baker,’ he declared.

‘I know who you are!’ snapped the old man, motioning them to the stairs. ‘Power lines are down so there’s no electric.’ He raised the candle to stare closely at the face of the Russian, ‘You’re the one who was at Botallack, aren’t ‘e?’ he commented. The Russian. Saw your picture in the papers.’

Ivan did not bother to reply. They followed the old many up the stairs to be shown into their rooms, then they hastily undressed, each to snuggle under the blankets of his own bed, Ivan gave a low moan as he fell asleep and started to mumble incoherently, ‘Twenty years ago... he began tailing off to lapse into silence, In his mind’s eye it was all starting to happen again!

Chapter Two

Richard Sadler sat in the cosy environment pf his plush office at the Plymouth branch of the Bank of Commerce, It had taken him six years of hard work and study to reach his position... six years of kow-towing and utter frustration, Most other career-minded members of the bank would have given their eye-teeth and thanked their lucky stars to have made so much progress... to have been promoted to the rank of manager of a city branch of a national bank however Sadler recognised that he was a failed businessman and that made all the difference. The fall in grace that had happened in the past tormented his mind and savaged his life... but not enough to impair his judgement or temper his ambition. However the fact that he had achieved such success in the banking profession did little to stimulate his enthusiasm, Banking was far too routine... far too dull to raise his morale or give him any element of satisfaction, He stared glumly at the in-tray piled high with files with total disinterest showing in his face. The affairs of the day were going to be as boring as those of yesterday,... as tiresome as the day before that... As wearisome as the week prior to that... and as soul-destroying as those of the last month, He was merely a tiny cog in a giant emotionless money machine in which the wheel revolved incessantly. In a few day’s time, he would receive notification of his monthly pay, resent the deductions and shrug his shoulders aimlessly at the net total with abject futility, After the golden days, when he controlled his own business, with thousands of pounds rolling in and out of his accounts at the same time, he felt on top of the world. His colleagues took an entirely different view, They were quite content to accept a subservient professional view. Most of them were married and had families, living in three-bed roomed houses in suburbia, blessing their employers for providing them with a regular salary and an element of job satisfaction and security. In Sadler’s opinion, conformity was an outright bore yet despite his remarkable achievements, he was probably the most disgruntled bank employee in the branch. He was quite firm in his opinions believing that such devoted loyalty and dedication to a business owned by someone else was fundamentally inane. It was not in his nature for him to enslave himself for the benefit of other unknown shareholders who became richer by the sweat of his brow, while to follow the rest of the crowd like lemmings at their culling season went very much against the grain.

A communication device on his desk buzzed noisily and a voice crackled from the speaker.

‘Mr. Sadler, sir, There’s a person out here asking for an interview. He hasn’t made an appointment.’

‘Is he a customer of the bank?’

‘No, sir, He’s a Wesley Morris who currently banks with our competitor across the road.’

‘All right, Brown. Send him in!’

It was clearly going to be one of those long dull days. Not only did he have to deal with the whims and demands of his own customers but now he was going to have to contend with dissatisfied customers from competitors. He paused for a few moments and then stood up walking stiffly to the door, brushing off imaginary dandruff from the lapels of his very expensive suit. His face wrinkled into a fixed smile as he opened the door and strode out to meet the man with ostensible cheerfulness.

‘Good morning, Mr. Morris. Come inside and sit down,’

However the expression on his face changed as they met. Reluctantly he shook the visitor’s hand, guiding him into the office and pointing towards a chair, The banker eyed him carefully as a matter of habit to analyse some obvious characteristics swiftly but the effort was unnecessary. The image presented was sufficient for that purpose. Morris sported a five-day growth of beard, He wore a battered trilby hat and a moth-eaten light-brown tattered fur coat which ope ed slightly at the front to reveal a grey threadbare jersey and a grimy frayed blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, which had not been visited by a tie since it was first worn, His old grey trousers were torn with cotton threads dangling at the bottom of each leg and he wore exceptionally well-worn boots with metal studs tapped into the soles to prevent them from becoming worn, Mr. Morris had the appearance of a tramp. Most remarkably, dressed in that fashion, he seemed quite innocuous of his incongruity in the office of the bank manager, and completely oblivious to any concept that his deplorable state of dress might affect his financial application adversely. One reason for this carelessness was that Morris took the view that customers only visited their banks for finance when they needed it, in the same way that people only went to their doctors when they were sick. It mattered little how the customer or the patient was dressed,

‘How can I help you?’ asked Sadler trying to invoke some degree of interest in his voice, although he could see little point in starting the interview, He had already determined that it would end briefly adding little to