Gurney Leafmould E-Book

Paul Gait

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 455

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Caught in a traffic jam or delayed at an airport and never found out the cause? Then you might have been a victim of the 'Ministry of Disruption'. Gurney Leafmould has been banned from undertaking anymore DIY and tries his hand at journalism instead. As an investigative journalist, he stumbles on to a state secret and soon finds that a vast secretive organisation manipulates a significant part of our daily lives. But dare he expose his findings to get a scoop? Gurney's quest starts off well before eventually his cloud of chaos soon overtakes him. This is the second humorous Gurney Leafmould adventure.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Glossary

Also by the Same Author

The Godsons Legacy

The Godsons Inheritance

Unexploded Love

Gurney Leafmould - the Pied Piper of Calamity

Copyright

Dedicated

ToStuart

(Former HGV driver and friend - ‘black dog’ advisor.)

And

The Consultants and Staff of the Urology Department

Cheltenham General Hospital

Thanks

To my wife Helen, for allowing me to spend countless hours to develop yet another story;

To family and friends for continued support and encouragement.

To Janet for again spending many hours proof reading my manuscript.

Note:Like any large organisation, especially the civil service, the ‘Ministry of Disruption’ use codes in its everyday business jargon; for clarity at any time, see the glossary at the end of the story.

Foreword

During the Second World War the Ministry of Defence set up a guerrilla force who, in the case of an invasion, would go underground and harass any army of occupation.

The imperative for quickly setting up the force, was the mass evacuation of British forces from Dunkirk, and an anticipated follow up invasion by the German army.

Although occupation was an unthinkable outcome for Churchill, Auxiliary Units were nevertheless secretly established across the country just in case.

Large quantities of weapons and explosives were secreted in hidden bunkers throughout the British Isles to support this clandestine army.

Many of the secret regiment’s soldiers were recruited from ‘Dad’s Army’ volunteers. Elderly doctors, farmers and drivers were included as well as young men from ‘reserved’ occupations.

The order ‘that there will be no withdrawal’ meant that the volunteers were ordered to fight guerrilla warfare to the last man i.e. suicide missions.

At the end of WW2 all units were disbanded.

However, the following story, is based on a fictional assumption that the ‘Auxiliary Units’ still exist and continue to undertake training exercises manipulating our daily lives, but in a non-combative role.

So, if you’ve been held up in a traffic jam; been stuck at an airport, delayed on a rail journey, the cause of which you could never establish…then it’s likely you have been an unwitting ‘casualty’ of a Ministry of Disruption (MOD) exercise.

CHAPTER1

‘Hotel Alpha, Hotel Alpha calling Whisky November five one. New immediate over.’

The radio interrupted their night shift nap. Groggily the patrol man reached for the microphone button.

‘Whisky November five one go ahead over,’ he said, clearing his soporific throat.

‘Whisky November five one, we have reports of an rtc, lorry turn over between junction 1 and 2 on the m50 alpha. Can I show you making? Over’

‘Whisky November five one show me stat 5.’

The driver started the Shogun and rammed it into gear.

‘Another Black Dog incident?’ he suggested cynically.

‘You might be right at this time of the morning,’ his shift partner chuckled, switching on the vehicles flashing lights.

‘I told you not to use the Q word earlier.’

Gurney Leafmould gazed out of the window at the crisp winter morning. The frozen grasses stiffened by Jack Frost’s nocturnal visit were thick with rime, the waking sun creating a heavenly diadem in the ice crystals.

He had to admit that at last he felt better. He had now rallied from the dark place where he’d been thrust.

The previous year had been a disastrous twelve months that he was keen to forget, although the list of his misadventures would be difficult to erase.

As an avid DIYer, he had to admit he’d been overconfident in his abilities, and consequently, failure had become his constant bedfellow.

Amongst the many ‘cock-ups’ he’d engineered, was the demolition of his own house that had to feature as his worst and most monumental DIY catastrophe.

Media misreporting and paparazzi intrusion had made his angst worse as they exaggerated stories about him whilst digging in to his personal cloud of chaos.

Although it was the consequences of his unintentional vandalising of his Mother-In-Law’s house that had actually been the tipping point which sent him over the edge.

He was an emotional butterfly and had become depressed by his inability to break the cycle of failure, with the prospect of losing his wife as well, he made a terrible decision…to end it all.

Fortunately, his inability to execute anything successfully saved his life. His poor car maintenance, his chosen method to end his days, let him down and the attempt failed.

Following his abortive suicide attempt he had been pitched into a ‘strange’ adventure which started with a brief period of incarceration by an irate ‘lady’ farmer.

Eventually his short detention ended when he persuaded her that he was no threat but could help her modernise the farm.

So with her help, he exorcised his DIY ‘demons’ by the successful creation of an ensuite bathroom in the old Devon farmhouse.

It was a pity then, that the farm was subsequently gutted by a fire, arguably not initially of his making, although his poor electrical design was the cause behind the electrical overload.

However, the near death experience of his Mother- in-law drowning in slurry, was attributable to him, because he’d forgotten to replace the cesspit manhole cover.

Unfortunately, the Devon episode had left him with a health problem; for having being tied hand and foot to an old farmhouse bed for several days, he’d developed a condition that had weakened his bladder, necessitating frequent visits to the loo.

His recovery had been a long, emotionally taxing journey, but he’d slowly regained his self-confidence and, with his wife Iris’s help, he had restored his self-esteem.

Now he was showing signs of ‘normality’, Iris’s sympathy had come to an end and she decided that in this new year, that they needed to move on with their lives.

‘Right Gurney. If you want to stay married to me, your DIY days have now come to an end,’ she said firmly.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Gurney said, in shock.

‘Yes I am. I’ve had enough. I’ve already forgiven you for demolishing our home and nearly killing my mother. Now it’s up to you.’

‘What do you mean, up to me?’

‘I will support you in whatever you want to do, so long as it doesn’t involve DIY.’

‘But DIY is my ‘passion’,’ Gurney argued.

‘Well then, you’ll have to choose your mistress. It’s either DIY or me.’

‘But…’ Gurney racked his brains to think of a compromise.

‘Yourside of the bargain,’ Iris told him firmly, ‘is to get rid of all of your DIY tools.’

‘No. That’s going too far,’ Gurney retorted, ‘What if I promise not to use them again? Is that good enough?’

‘No. I know you. As soon as my back is turned, you’ll be working on another special project.’

‘No I won’t. Honest,’ he pleaded.

‘Take it, or… leave ME,’ Iris threw down the ultimatum.

‘You can’t be serious, Iris? I’ve built up my tool collection over a long period of time. I’m emotionally attached to all of them,’ Gurney’s eyes filled, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘What’s the point of keeping them, if you’re not going to be using them again?’ Iris argued.

‘Well…I…I,’ Gurney searched for a feasible reply. ‘Sentimental value,’ he said finally.

‘Sentimental value? How can you get sentimental over a set of tools?’

‘They and I have created great things together,’ Gurney announced proudly.

‘Yes. Great chaos,’ Iris added witheringly.

‘No, that’s not fair. When I use them…why it’s like…it’s like an artist creating a DIY masterpiece,’ he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

‘Yes, a masterpiece of mayhem,’ Iris countered.

‘Please Iris, I beg you.’

‘OK. I’ll agree not to throw them out, so long as they’re under lock and key. And I hold the key,’ sheproposed.

‘Well…I suppose…that’s better than nothing,’ he reluctantly acceded.

‘Besides which, legally you can’t use them anyway,’ she reminded him.

‘What’s the law got to do with it?’ he quizzed.

‘You have a convenient memory haven’t you?’ Irissuggested.

‘What?’ Gurney puzzled.

‘The court injunction, granted to the utility companies?’

‘Oh that nonsense,’ he said dismissively.

‘Nonsense or not, the court banned you from using your tools anyway,’ she reminded him.

‘They’re just using corporate might, to bully me,’ Gurney whinged.

‘Isn’t it more about the repetitive damage that you caused to their equipment and underground plant? Iris pointed out.

‘Well I guess I did have a few minor accidents involving their services, I suppose,’ he agreed, reluctantly.

‘Minor! You call repeated damage to gas, water, telephone and broadband infrastructure, costing thousands of pounds, some minor damage?‘

Mrs Eyes, Gurney’s Mother-In-Law arrived with a tray of teacups and clearly had been eavesdropping for she joined in the conversation, much to Iris’s dismay.

‘Yes. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re the first person ever, to be given an Anti-Social Behaviour Order for doing DIY.’

‘Mother, please. This is a discussion between Gurney and I.’

But the old woman ignored her daughter’s plea.

‘Just remember, that you’re a guest in my house and I’ll jolly well say what I want.’

‘Yes, whatever,’ Iris acknowledged.

‘I mean, they’ve even sent his mugshot to DIY stores, to install in their face recognition software,’ the old woman continued.

‘Mother, please.’

‘Yes and the courts have even ordered them to refuse to serve him,’ she added. ‘With special dispensation to eject him from their premises, too.’

‘That’s enough Mother, now please leave us.’

‘I was only stating the facts. But, if you want to ignore them, then carry on. You’ll soon regret it, my girl.’

The old lady shuffled her way out of the room, muttering.

‘Thank heavens she’s gone,’ Gurney said

‘Just ignore her.’

‘Ignore who?’ Gurney said, disparagingly. ‘If you’re banning me from doing DIY, can we talk about my other plans?’ Gurney asked.

‘What other plans? Iris asked suspiciously.

‘You know! Journalism,’ he reminded her.

‘I thought that was just a passing whim.’

‘No. I’m deadly serious,’ Gurney affirmed.

‘You’ll never cope with it. It’s hard work and long hours,’ Iris said, seeking to bring him back to earth.

‘You’re the one who keeps moaning about me getting under your feet,’ he reminded her.

‘So what are you suggesting?’ Iris asked, reluctantly.

‘There are some journalist classes being run at the local College,’ Gurney informed her.

‘Go on,’ she encouraged, wondering where his next fad would take them.

‘It’ll cost to join the course,’ he admitted.

‘So how do you propose we fund it?’ Iris quizzed.

‘Mother-In-Law?’ Gurney said doubtfully.

‘You’ve got to be joking. After what you’ve done to her?’ Iris reminded him.

‘What then? I’m not working,’ Gurney threw his hands up.

‘I suppose we could use money left from the insurance claim on the old house,’ Iris suggested.

‘Great, thanks. And there’s a BA in Journalism and the news industry too that I could undertake,’ he added enthusiastically.

‘Don’t push your luck. Let’s see how you do first with this local course. Knowing you, it will be just a passing fad,’ she forecast.

‘Thanks,’ he said, attempting to give her a hug and a kiss.’ I’m keen to start.’

‘I’m sure I’ll regret it,’ Iris said, moving away from his attempted embrace. ‘So now that I’ve agreed to that, you can now forget DIY, right?’ she proposed.

‘If I’m doing the course, I won’t have time to do it anyway,’ Gurney accepted.

‘Exactly,’ Iris smiled, smugly.

And there’s no lock that will keep me away from my precious tools,’ he thought.

CHAPTER2

Gurney was bubbling over with excitement as he made his way to room M18 at the technical college to start his journalist’s course.

He had hardly slept the previous night because of his childlike anticipation of the day to come, which also meant several nocturnal trips to the loo.

Suitably equipped with a reporter’s notepad, and with several pens and pencils in an over- the- shoulder bag, he felt really up for the next chapter of his life.

He followed several others entering an unloved, shabby room and sat on one of the wooden chairs laid out in a semicircle.

At the front of the class a white board still showed half rubbed out formulas where permanent marker pens rather than wipeable ones had been used.

Shortly after Gurney had taken his seat, the lecturer arrived and stood in front of the five students.

‘Welcome to this 12 week intensive course on Journalism here at the Brunswick college. I hope everyone is in the right room for this course?’

The students all nodded.

‘Good, well that’s a great start. I apologise for the environment, but this building was due to be knocked down when the new University was opened.

Unfortunately, the university project is running twoyears behind and is a million pound over budget,’ the course tutor advised.’ That’s a scandalous story, I’ve yet to write.’

The lecturer looked most odd Gurney thought, he was shiny bold on top of his head but with a thick black bushy beard; it was almost as if his hair had slipped from his head to his chin, Gurney concluded.

‘As a result, you might have an occasional visit by a rat or two. But just ignore them, unless they start nibbling your feet,‘ he joked.

Several people unconsciously lifted their feet and looked nervously around.

‘In the journalism world, you will encounter some horrible things. So just use this environment as an acclimatisation exercise.

In fact this will be a walk in the park, compared to some of the real life situations that you will encounter.’

Gurney swallowed hard. His dreamy vision of journalism was being despoiled by an unwelcome reality check.

‘Nice to see it’s a small course, for that means I can spend more time with each of you.

Let’s start by introducing ourselves. My name is Peter Watts. I shall be your lecturer for the duration of the course. I am a former journalist, from a now ‘closed down’ newspaper.

I want you to write your name and aspirations on the whiteboard. And at the end of the course we’ll see how close you’ve got.’

At the tutor’s invitation an immature looking adolescent stood up and slouched his way to the board,.

‘John Cloud - Sports Journalist;

‘Hello John. Do you play sport yourself?’ the tutor asked, as John returned to his place.

‘No. Only table football.’

‘Do you support a team or go to sporting events?’

‘No. I don’t like crowds.’

‘OK. Well, I think you might have a challenge meeting your aim then,’ the lecturer said, thinking he’s going to be a waste of space. ‘And the next.’

A grey haired lady, in tweeds, made her way to the board and wrote:-

‘Sarah Cliff - Writing in the local church magazine’;

‘Sarah, why do you think this course will help you?’

‘I will be writing for the parishioners, and some of them are former teachers. Most of them are very critical about anything and everything. So I’m hoping that you can teach me how to rise above their criticism and become a ‘hard bitten’ reporter.’

‘You’ll get a lot of criticism as a journalist for sure. Just spell their names correctly and that will be a good start. And the next.’

A studious looking, twenty something year old, minced his way to the board and wrote:

‘Sheldon Sands - Drama Critic Broodsheet journalist.’

‘Sheldon nice to see that you have great expectations of the course. Unfortunately, you will have to start as a ‘cub reporter’ on a local paper doing Am Dram and Scout Shows and the like, before the broadsheets will take you on.’

‘Not so. I have been educated privately and my father is well connected,’ he advised, in an ‘upper crust’ voice. ‘I have already been promised a place at a well known newspaper, as soon as I complete this course.’

‘Well best of luck with your network. ‘

‘Do you have a pen I could borrow sir?’ Sheldon asked.

‘How are you going to be a journalist, if you don’t carry a pen, for heaven’s sake?’

‘I usually use a tablet or record something on my mobile.’

‘So why not today?’

‘’My batteries are flat.’

‘In both of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘So if you were reporting something today, how would you get your copy printed?’

‘My father’s PA. She normally types it up for me.’

‘Heaven help us,’ the lecturer seethed, handing him a pen. ‘Let me have it back at the end of the lecture.’

‘Do you have some paper too?’ the student asked.

Reluctantly he gave the ex-public schoolboy some paper, already classifying him as a lost cause.

‘Incidentally you might like to check the spelling of broadsheet,’ the tutor pointed out. ‘And the next.’

A large middle aged man, waddled his rounded frame to the board, wheezing as if he’d just run a marathon and wrote:

‘Reuben Fence - Another qualification to add to my CV’.

‘Reuben. Another qualification?’ the lecturer wondered.

‘Yes, that’s right. I don’t apply for jobs. I’m a professional course taker.’

‘So what’s the point of choosing Journalism, if you aren’t going to use it?’

‘I’m always looking for ways to expand my knowledge,’ Reuben replied.

‘OK, that’s novel.’

‘Anyway, I’m surprised you haven’t said you’ve seen me on television. I’m a serial quiz show contestant too.’

‘Well everyone to their own,’ the lecturer muttered under his breath. ‘I’m still learning about students, that’s for sure.’

And finally, he gestured to Gurney, who wrote;

Gurney Leafmould - Investigative Journalist.Crusading journalism to help change the world for the better’

‘That’s a tough one to go for Gurney. You realise that in order to get an investigative scoop, you might have to put your life on the line.’

‘Really?’ Gurney ‘buttock clenched’ in fear.

‘You also have to consider the Public right to know over the privacy of the individual.’

‘Oh!’

‘You have to decide if it’s your own personal sense of right, i.e. are you expressing a personal view or grievance? Or, is it really the ‘public’s right to know?’

‘Well I…’

‘Are you expecting that the lawyers will sort it, if you get it wrong?’

‘I ummm…It’s a bit grown up,’ Gurney thought, ‘getting lawyers involved because of something that I’d written.’

‘Do you realise that people will get angry if you expose their ‘dodgy’ activities,’ the tutor counselled.

‘Will they? I hadn’t thought of that,’ Gurney confessed. ‘But I’ll be helping to get rid of corruption and evil,’ he suggested. ‘It might even make me rich and famous too,’ Gurney thought, dreamily. Hoping sometime to secure a scoop.

CHAPTER3

‘Now we know who we all are, and what we’re aiming for,’ the Journalism Course lecturer continued. ‘I want you to show me and to each other, your current ability.

This first exercise will take, about fifteen minutes and I want you to write a newspaper article about the legendary Gloucestershire tradition of rolling a Cheese down a steep hill in your own style,’ the lecturer explained.

‘When you have completed the exercise, I’ll get you to read your version out to the class.’

After the allotted fifteen minutes, the lecture asked for a volunteer to be first to read their article to the class.

Sarah Cliff was the first to read out her story.

‘It was love at first sight, her heart beat madly as she tended to his injuries. She leaned close to him, her breath coming in short pants. I think I’ve got something in my eye he said. I can’t see anything she said. You’ll need to come even closer he implored as their lips touched and…’

‘Well very good Sarah, but not that I was expecting a bodice ripper from rolling a cheese downhill,’ the lecturer admitted.

‘John, I think you’re next.’

‘I haven’t done much but here it is.They donned their 3D glasses and waited for the signal. The hill looked steep, but at least they knew that they’d not suffer broken bones like the real competitors on a real hill…that’s all I had time for.’

‘Well at least that’s another perspective I wouldn’t have thought of. Sheldon, your article please.’

‘Lord Severn graciously allowed the peasants access to his land to pursue their ancient ritual of cheese pursuit. This primal activity was reputed to appease the hill gods. However poor direction and hapless performances disappointed the near capacity audiences.‘

‘A critique of the ‘staged’ show, unusual but OK. And the next, Reuben please.’

‘The eight pound double Gloucester cheese is rolled down a 1 in 2 hill. Since 1988, the cheeses have been hand-made by Mrs. Diana Smart of Churcham, using milk from her herd of Brown Swiss, Holstein and Gloucester cows.’

‘OK, a very factual account. And finally last but not least, Gurney.’

Gurney cleared his throat and read his article.’Competitors come from all over the world to take part in the downhill race chasing a local Double Gloucester cheese. The legendary annual event, held each spring bank holiday on Coopers Hill Gloucester, attracts entrants and visitors from far and wide. Rugby players from the local area help to catch the competitors before they collide with fences at the bottom.’…sorry that’s all I had time for.’ Gurney apologised.

‘No need to apologise. You’ve all done very well. Can you see how your story is biased to your own viewpoint whereas in my view, Gurney has produced an easy to read article without overdoing any one aspect, but has successfully got behind the facts and produced a good story.

‘Gurney, you seem to have a flair for this,’ the lecturer encouraged. ‘You’ve got a good feel for the story.’

‘I think it’s because I’m sensitive. I can empathise with the people and their situation.’

‘Well don’t get carried away. You need to work on your grammar. At the moment it’s letting you down.’

‘My wife is helping me to sort that out.’

‘Good. Well so long as she’s not also writing the stories for you?’

‘No, I assure you that all the ideas and words are my own. But not necessarily in the right order.’

The class looked at each and smirked.

‘I would encourage you all, to engage with your local newspapers. Get some practical experiences doing low level reporting such as fetes and kids events. Just observe and write.’

‘You will hear me say this many, many times. Writers write; Reporters report. The more you write, the better you’ll become.’

The Tutor listed types of articles that they would be considering over the period of the course:

• News headlines

• International News

• Politics

• Crime and court reporting

• Health

• Investigative Journalism

• Humorous Articles

• Sports

• Animal, domestic and wild life

• Celebrity interview

• TV and Film reviews

• Specialist projects e.g. DIY

Gurney relished the idea of working on the last category, although he felt guilty about even considering it, having promised Iris his commitment to DIY celibacy.

‘Right, let’s start off with a look at headline writing. Here’s some bad headlines. Remember that a poor headline will render your article invisible. Here’s a few examples:

• ‘Students, cook and serve Grandparents’;

• ‘City unsure why sewer smells’;

• ’Girls school still offering something special’;

• Planes forced to land at airports’;

• ‘Cop makes arrest in bathroom after smelling crack’ ;

• ‘Viagra Con man hit with stiff sentence’;

• ‘Slowdown continues to accelerate’;

• ‘New study of obesity looks for larger test group.’

‘Behind the headlines, someone would have spent hours investigating and writing their articles. And to what avail? To lose the reader with an incompetent headline.

Clearly some headlines are deliberately funny, but others are just pathetic and wouldn’t invite readers to even look at the article. So make sure you get your headlines right.

Over the next 12 weeks Gurney consistently came ‘top of the class’. And particularly found the talk by a well-known crusading Investigative Journalist fascinating.

The Journalist had gone ‘undercover’ on a sheep farm, at shearing time and had ‘blown the whistle’ on an animal welfare issue.

The reporter had written an article entitled ‘Sheep Shiver Scandal’,

A gang of contract shearers had been scheduled to shear a flock of sheep, but unseasonable weather caused the temperatures to suddenly plummet. However, as the shearers were working to a tight schedule with other farmers, no allowance could be made for the cold weather and the sheep were duly, ‘robbed’ of their woollen coats in spite of the conditions.

And, shock horror, the farmer had rejected the undercover journalists suggestion of temporarily refixing their fleeces with cable ties until the temperature had improved.

Thanks to his public exposure, an animal welfare organisation became involved and took the sheep away to be…slaughtered!

On the final day of a very intensive course, Peter Watts sat in the staff room to review the students’ progress against their original course aims.

‘John - Sports Reporter, - Too immature. Better suited for the virtual world, rather than the real one,’ he decided. ‘However, he has the possibility of a job reviewing computer games for the local paper,’ he conceded.

‘Sarah - Parish magazine, sacked from editing the Parish magazine for the racy articles that she’d written about ladies of the parish. But threw off her tweeds and had become a novelist writing about shocking goings on in her ‘fictional’ village. Good for her,’ he thought.

‘Sheldon -failed the course because he never submitted anything, as expected,’ the tutor recalled. ‘Glad I refused to award him a ‘special’ certificate in spite of the college principal’s insistence. Sand’s father’s promise of financial ‘sponsorship’ failed to move me; However, in spite of his incompetence, he still became a theatrical critic for a broadsheet. The old boys network. Huh!’

‘Reuben - CV person;was average on the course and able to get by with his ability to ‘bullshit’, Consequently, he never did proper research and his articles were factual but weak,’ Watts recollected. ‘I’m glad he was caught cheating on that quiz show though. It turned out that his ‘so called’ hearing aid was found to be a radio receiver linked to an accomplice. And he was charged and is facing jail for fraud. Serves him right,’ the lecturer smiled.

‘Gurney - investigative journalist- The surprise of the course. Excelled in his final article which won him the best course article accolade. Keeping to the ‘KISS principle --i.e. keep it simple stupid’.’ Peter recalled. ‘Based on his investigations of a ‘scandal’ involving a village fete cake competition. Genius. Now what was it?’ he checked his notes and found the article.

‘That’s right, one of the members of the women’s guild had been accused of entering a cake that she had bought rather than one she’d made herself.’ He read the article again.

‘Best baker award fraud.’

‘Villagers in Nether Upton are divided over the accusation that an elderly member of the women’s guild, had won a coveted ‘Best Baker’ award with a cake that she is alleged to have purchased rather than making it.

This journalist has obtained a slice of the cake and sent it away for analysis.

It has been proven that the chemical makeup of the flour used in the cake, is the same type used in the baking industry.

This type of flour is not available at local supermarkets.

The woman, Mary Raspberry (83), former school cook, when confronted by the results, confessed to bribing a bakery employee to sell her flour from the bakery, but insisted that she made the cake herself. The jury is still out.’

Finally, he re-joined his reduced class of students, who were sitting in the dingy classroom.

‘Well, that’s it folks. The course is over. For those of you who have passed, you have been awarded a diploma in Journalism. The presentation will be a ‘cap and gown’ session at Swansea University.

Best of luck with writing the next ‘column inches’ of your life.’

Gurney was beside himself with joy. His self-confidence shot off the scale. The course had ‘flushed out’ his natural ability to write. His life of creating mayhem was over, forever.

He was a ‘born again’ human being. No more guilt about things he’d cocked up.

He hugged the tutor and sobbed with joy, all over the other’s shoulder.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ he wept. ‘I feel enabled to crusade for justice and the downtrodden.’

‘Best of luck Gurney,’ the tutor replied, equally emotional. ‘You’ll need it.’

CHAPTER4

The lorry driver was starting to feel tired. The five hour motorway journey had been boring and uneventful. The constant, even sound of the engine was like a lullaby which even the music from the radio failed to counter.

Although he enjoyed night driving, staring into the darkness for several hours caused him eye strain and now the wispy banks of localised fog were making him feel sleepy.

‘I’ll stop at the next services,’ he said to himself. ‘I could do with a coffee.’

He yawned and rubbed his heavy eyes with the back of his hand.

As he returned his focus back to the road, he suddenly saw them. Right in the middle of the motorway.

He stamped on his brakes, the wheels immediately locking, smoke erupting from the skidding tyres.

Frantically he turned the wheel to avoid running them over.

Then the lorry driver’s nightmare occurred. He felt the trailer starting to jack-knife.

In a cacophony of noise, he was a passenger on the way to an accident. He had lost control of his vehicle and the crash was inevitable.

Forced along by the errant trailer, the cab crashed backwards off the motorway, tipped over and everything went black.

When he regained consciousness, the huge articulated vehicle was lying on its side in a ditch.

Although shocked by the accident, his only injury was a small bump on his head.

‘Are they alright? Did I hit them?’ he wondered.

Kicking away the crumpled windscreen, he climbed out through hole he’d created. As he stood on the edge of the motorway another lorry stopped by him and put on its hazard lights.

The driver quickly jumped down from the cab and rushed over to the other.

‘Are they dead?’ he asked the new arrival.

‘Who?’

‘On the motorway. Back up there,’ he said, pointing. ‘A child and a …black dog.’

‘A child? A black dog? You must be dreaming. There’s nothing up there.’

As they spoke, a small convoy of vehicles squeezed past the lorry without stopping.

Undaunted by the other’s explanation, the lorry driver wandered along the empty motorway looking for the child and dog.

Within a few moments of starting his frantic search, a police car and fast response paramedic arrived, their blue lights punctuating the night sky. Quickly they were at his side.

‘Alright ‘drive’? the paramedic asked. ‘What you doing in the middle of the motorway?’

‘I’m trying to find them. To see if I hit them,’ he said frantically

‘Hit who?’ the first responder asked.

‘A child and a black dog.’

‘Oh! Black dog eh? Come and take a seat in my car. Did you bang your head?’ the paramedic probed.

‘Yes,’ the lorry driver admitted, rubbing the lump on his forehead.

‘Sounds like you might be suffering from a bit of concussion,’ the first aider suggested.

‘No, I swear. They were there,’ the lorry driver insisted.

But the subsequent sweep of the area, by the emergency services found no-one.

CHAPTER5

They had been in the hot car for three long hours, returning from the award ceremony.

Gurney was in good spirits, but Iris, his wife, and Delores Eyes, his Mother-In-Law were far from happy. They had been forced to stand at the back of the hall during the two hour long presentation and didn’t even get to see Gurney receiving his award.

After the ceremony Gurney had taken them for a celebratory meal at a nearby garden centre café, but at the checkout, found that his wallet was missing from his back pocket.

‘Damn,’ he cursed. ‘Sorry Iris, but I appear to have left my wallet at home. You wouldn’t mind paying for the meal would you?’

‘This is getting to be an expensive day out,’ his wife moaned. ‘I’ve already bought the petrol for the trip.’ Reluctantly she paid the bill and they made their way to a wooden topped table with a cast iron base.

‘This would be nice on our patio,’ Gurney observed stroking the table.

‘If we had one,’ Iris said tersely.

‘I could always…’ Gurney stared to say.

‘Oh no. You’re not going to make one either. Remember you’re banned from DIY.

‘Quite right too,’ Mrs Eyes chipped in. ’The man’s a danger with any tool in his hand.

Consequently because of the obvious tension, they ate their meal in stony silence.

As they left the café, Mrs Eyes spotted a cost saving deal on bags of potting compost.

‘Oh that’s a good price. I could do with a bag of that,’ she said.

‘How are we going to get it home?’ Gurney questioned. ‘It’s a hundred litres. It’s much too big for the metro’s boot.‘

‘You’ve got a roof rack haven’t you?’ the old woman pointed out.

‘Well, yeah, but it’s very heavy stuff. Anyway, I can’t lift that up on to the roof rack, he protested.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Iris said. ‘We could do with a bag of that as well.’

‘But the weight,’ Gurney protested.

‘Stop making excuses. The weight will keep it on the roof.’

After a struggle, they managed to put the heavy bags of potting compost on the roof rack and tied them firmly on.

‘That’s going nowhere,’ Iris said, completing the final knot. ‘Thank goodness for my knot tying badge at Guides.’

Finally they left Swansea for the homeward journey. But within a few miles Mrs Eyes started complaining about the unseasonal heat.

‘Can’t we have some fresh air in here, she moaned.

‘I’ll open a window if you like,’ Gurney said, trying to be dutiful.

‘Don’t you dare. We’ll all be sent mad from the traffic noise and fumes.’

‘Just concentrate on your driving, Gurney,’ Iris said, quietly. ‘She’ll doze off in a minute.’

After another five minutes, Iris’s prediction came true.

‘Thank goodness for that! She’s gone to sleep,’ Gurney said, looking at the reflection of the comatose woman in the rear view mirror.

The old lady’s head lolled on her chest as she snored loudly and dribbled onto her thin, sweat soaked, floral frock.

‘Oh, it’s so hot in here,’ Iris complained, flapping her hand in front of her face. ‘These temperatures are more like summer than spring.’

‘This is the result of global warming. And you can’t blame me for that,’ Gurney added, quickly.

‘Yes but you haven’t helped with providing air conditioning in here.’

‘Air conditioning.?’ There isn’t any.’

‘Well the cooling fan or whatever it is. Stop splitting hairs,’ Iris fumed. ’Instead of messing with it yourself, why didn’t you get the garage to repair it?’ she whined. ‘You know how useless you are at…’ she stopped in midsentence. ‘Well, you know…I mean it is complicated isn’t it?’ she back-tracked, recalling her promise not to undermine his newly restored confidence. ‘

Gurney ignored her dig and carried on driving.

’I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee though,’ he jiggled.

‘I told you. But you knew better didn’t you?’ Iris berated.

‘I was celebrating my success,’ he pointed out.

‘Anyway, you’re driving too fast,’ she criticised.

‘I’m not. I’m keeping to the speed limit.’

Gurney’s concentration wavered as he switched off from Iris’s prattling and started dreaming about his future journalistic career now he’d got his diploma.

But as they topped the brow of a hill, he was jerked back to reality, for in front of them was a line of stationary traffic.

‘Oh shit!’ Gurney said, flooring the foot brake.

‘We’re going to crash,’ Iris screamed, stamping on an imaginary pedal, on the passenger floor pan.

Anticipating the impact of a collision, she thrust out her arms and braced herself against the hot, sun baked, plastic glove compartment.

‘Swerve around it,’ she instructed. ‘Go right. Not that way! The other right!’ she ranted.

Her screams of command added to Gurney’s confusion as he ‘sawed’ at the wheel. His mouth dried, surely the crash was inevitable.

The Metro was not fitted with cadence braking and the locked wheels and smoking tyres wrote a black signature on the hot tarmac.

The back of the stationary Daimler loomed larger in front.

CHAPTER6

Mrs Eyes, wokenby the sound of her daughter’s screams and the squealing tyres, joined in the ear-piercing noise that filled Gurney’s head.

The silver haired barrister in the Daimler, looked in horror as his rear view mirror filled with the image of the skidding metro.

Although Gurney had scrubbed 65mph off his speed, the impact of 5 mph into the back of a stationary Daimler, was enough to demolish the front end of the overloaded Metro.

The Daimler’s pneumatic rear bumpers lessened the impact and the Metro bounced off the bumper like a tennis ball off a racquet.

The barrister’s smug satisfaction of his investment in the special bumpers, was quickly replaced with anger, when the over-burdened metro roof rack broke free and smashed through the Daimler’s rear window, filling his back seats with 200 litres of potting compost.

A geyser of steam shot up from the Metro’s split radiator and immediately enveloped the front of the car.

The front two airbags, that Gurney had fitted himself, had miraculously worked, but with a slight snag. Collateral damage.

‘Oh my face stings,’ Iris said, looking in the mirror attached to the back of the sun visor. ‘Oh my god! What have you done to me? I look like a chimney sweep.’

‘It’s only soot from the explosive cartridges,’ Gurney said, looking at his own blackened face in the rear view mirror. ‘I think I bought the wrong sort off eBay. These are obviously high power ones. We’ve got mild flash burns,’ he confessed.

‘I’ll give you flash burns, you idiot,’ she ranted.

He was now close to breaking point himself. ‘Next time, I’ll replace the front passenger airbag with a plastic carrier bag. That’ll stop your whining,’ he thought.

In the back of the car, Mrs Eyes had been hit by a plastic cover from one the airbags and was sporting an egg shaped lump on her forehead.

Fortunately for Gurney, the usually verbose lady had been silenced by the shock of the crash.

‘Quick, quick get out, get out,’ Iris screamed, spotting the steam from the broken radiator. ‘The cars on fire! The cars on fire!’ Forcefully she threw open the door and grabbed her mother’s arm.

As the trio scrambled out of the car, the owner of the Daimler emerged rubbing the back of his neck.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? You bloody maniac. You could have killed somebody. ‘

As he strode purposefully towards Gurney, to confront him, Mrs Eyes stepped forward and her stare cut him dead.

The other driver paused in mid expletive, mouthed wordlessly and slid back into the Daimler, quickly locking the doors.

Gurney helped his Mother-in - Law up the embankment and out of harm’s way as other cars skidded and crashed into the stationary queue.

‘You bleedin maniac,’ Mrs Eyes, shouted. ‘First you try to kill me in a cesspit and now you deliberately crash the car when I’m asleep.’

Gurney walked away from the pair.

‘Now where’s he going Iris?’

‘I think he needs to commune with nature,’ she informed her mother.

‘I’ll give him communing with nature. He’s a menace on the roads.’

‘It wasn’t his fault Mother,’ Iris said, coming to his defence. ’He wasn’t to blame.’

‘I knew I should have stayed at home,’ the old woman moaned.

‘Come on it’s been a nice day seeing Gurney collecting his Diploma, hasn’t it?’

‘If we’d been able to see what was going on, it might have been.

Now he’s got it, what’s he going to do with it? It’s a waste of money if you ask me,’ her mother complained.

‘Well now he’s got that qualification, he can start applying for newspaper jobs.’

‘What, delivering them?’ the old woman said sarcastically.

Gurney re-joined them feeling ‘relieved.’

‘Hello, I am actually here, when you two have finished ‘slagging me off’,’ Gurney exclaimed. ‘Anyway, the award ceremony was nearly cancelled.’

‘Why was that? Had they heard about your reputation?’ Delores Eyes jibed.

‘Don’t be so awful to him Mother.’

Gurney ignored the comment and continued, ‘No, the college had run out of money.’

‘Somebody probably had their hand in the til,’ the old lady said, cynically.

‘Mother, you can’t say things like that,’ Iris admonished.

‘Course I can. Nobody can hear me up here. So why wasn’t it cancelled?’

‘I told them that they were in breach of contract and a scathing press article would damage their finances even more, if they didn’t sort it,’ Gurney advised.

‘You didn’t? I didn’t know you had it in you,’ the old woman admitted.’

‘It sent the university into a financial rebalancing act. And the ceremony was reinstated,’ Gurney proudly informed them.

Behind them the M50 was growing into a scrap yard as more and more vehicles ploughed into the tangled mass of shunted cars.

Within minutes of them evacuating the damaged Metro, several fire engines and a convoy of recovery trucks arrived on scene.

In a white Range Rover on the opposite carriageway, the driver was making a hands free call.

‘Cabbage, who’s calling?’

‘Hello Eunice. This is CJ.

‘CJ?’

‘Yes, it’s Carrington. Just a quick call. I’m on my way to my office, from your meeting at Elmley. I’m just now going through one of your roadwork schemes. Wonderful job. Long tailbacks. Lots of chaos. Congratulations to you and your team. Another brilliant job. Well done.’

‘Thank you,’ she beamed.

CHAPTER7

‘Well, do you like it Mother?’ Iris asked, waiting for her Mother’s approval of her new home. For up until now, Mrs Eyes had always found an excuse not to visit them.

‘Well if you like two bedroom bungalows, I suppose it’s alright. But I wouldn’t have bought it myself. Wrong part of the city for me,’ she said, critically.

Iris didn’t rise to the bait.

Following the multivehicle crash on the motorway, they had been brought home on the back of a breakdown truck as the metro was undriveable.

‘Would you like another cup of tea? It’s good for the shock.’

‘Yes please. I must say the lounge is…is different,’ the old lady said, looking around.

‘We’ve been able to completely furnish it with new furniture and goods from the house insurance pay-out.’

‘I’m amazed they paid up. Especially as your husband was the cause of its destruction. Undermining the foundations! I mean, what was the idiot thinking of?’

‘We were lucky that a developer bought the old plot of land from us,’ Iris volunteered.

‘Whatever is he going to do with that ‘bomb site’?’ the old woman asked.

‘I believe he intends to build a block of flats on it.’

‘Tut. Further lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. If your useless husband hadn’t demolished your home, none of this would be necessary. Has he got a job yet?’ Delores Eyes probed.

‘No. But it’s not from want of trying. He’s written off for lots of newspaper jobs, Sent off his CV, but got no replies yet.’

‘Iris, how many times have I got to tell you, the expression is, he hasn’t received any replies’ Anyone would think you were dragged up, not sent to the best Public school I could afford.’

‘Sorry Mother.’

‘I should think so too.’

‘Apparently that additional online Diploma Course that he passed, is not recognised by the industry anyway.’

‘Well, that was a waste of money then wasn’t it? her mother retorted.

‘Yes but it kept him out of mischief for a while. And writing those DIY articles for the Parish magazine attracted some good comments.’

‘They were all probably pleased that his pen was the only thing in use. The community is safe, so long as that’s all he does with DIY… just write about it.’

‘His tools are safely locked away now,’ Iris informed her.

‘You mean his tools of mass destruction.’

‘Mother! You make him sound like Rambo.’

‘Dumbo, more like.’

‘Mother!’

‘Well at least you’re not living with me anymore. I’ve got my home back at last.’

Iris, too, was thankful for moving out. Living again with her house-proud Mother had been like walking on egg shells. Whenever she attempted to do anything to help, it was ‘not done properly’.

‘He’s driving me mad hanging around the house though. Can you think of anything that we can do?’

‘Let me think now. How about getting him sectioned?’

‘Oh Mother, be serious.’

‘I am. The man was clearly born with cranial deficiencies.’

‘Do you know anyone in the newspaper industry?’ Iris asked.

‘I used to know someone who worked at the local paper. I don’t read it, do you?’

‘Yes. Gurney gets it to criticise the articles. He reckons he could do better than any of their reporters.’

Iris foraged around the tidy lounge and found a copy of the previous day’s edition. She handed it to her Mother.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Seeing if I could spot his name amidst all these articles. But I don’t know if he’s still there or even if he’s still alive,’ Mrs Eyes said leafing through the paper.

After checking the names of the reporters against each article, she closed the paper.

‘No he’s not there.’

Iris took the paper from her. ‘Let me check. You might have missed it.’

‘Are you suggesting I’m too blind to spot a name, young lady?’

‘No mother. Sometimes two heads are better than one. I suppose I mean four eyes are better than two, that’s all.’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself my girl. I might be old but I’m not stupid.’

Iris ignored the opportunity to remind her Mother that she was the one who had fallen down a manhole, into a cesspit in the dark and that her driving was the cause of major traffic disruption.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Who?’

‘The man you were looking for in the paper.’

‘Gordon…or was it Graham. No, it was definitely Gordon. Yes that’s it. Gordon Moss.’

‘Oh well. No need to look any further. He’s the editor of the paper.’

‘My! He’s done well for himself. I would have thought he was nearing retirement age.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘In the sixties, when I was a nurse.’

‘Oh yes,’ Iris winked, knowingly.

‘Now I come to think of it. I might well have a bargaining chip that could help get your husband out from under your feet.’

‘Great!’

‘I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not promising anything. In the meantime, is your kettle broken?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Well there’s a shortage of tea in the teapot.’

CHAPTER8

The Security guard escorted Delores Eyes to the Editors ‘office’, irreverently called the ‘pigpen’ by his staff.

At the entrance of the corral formed by temporary office partitions, the security guard cleared his throat and announced. ‘Mr Moss, I have your visitor, sir.’

No reaction.

‘Mr Moss …. ‘

The old woman barely recognised the bald, ‘rotund’ man sitting behind the cluttered desk. It was three decades since she’d last seen him and clearly his unhealthy habit of snacking at his desk had not been kind to him.

‘Sit,’ the editor directed, without looking up and gestured to a chair the other side of his desk.

‘Gordon Moss, I am not a dog to be ordered around at your command. Is this how you greet all your visitors?’ the old lady demanded, without moving.

‘I’ll leave you then sir…with your visitor. You’ll see her out won’t you?’ the Security guard asked, relieved to be leaving the cranky old woman.

‘Is this your office?’ Delores said, looking disparagingly around. ‘Well I don’t think much of it. I was expecting an executive office with a large mahogany conference table beholden to your status as an editor,’ she commented, disdainfully.

‘It’s a coral. Open plan offices is what we do these days,’ the editor said without looking at her. ‘Now what can I do for you? I can spare you two minutes. I have a deadline to meet,’ he said, scribbling over sentences on a printed piece of paper.

‘Will you stop that infernal writing and pay me the courtesy of at least looking at me,’ she demanded.

The editor dropped his pen, annoyed at the interruption and looked at her. He was clearly uncomfortable with the sight of the old woman with the red gash of lipstick on her pale, wrinkled face.

‘Delores. How nice to see you. I see the years have been kind to you,’ he lied. ’What brings you here today?’

‘I’m sure you don’t want to know which bus I came on. You’re obviously a busy man so I’ll cut to the chase.’

‘I appreciate that, as you can see I’m…’

‘A busy man! Yes, we’ve already established that. But not too busy to remember those raucous nights in the nurses home?’

A broad smile burst across his stress filled face. ‘Do I ever,’ he beamed. ‘They were fantastic weren’t they? The best days of my life. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’

‘Some people really enjoyed their share of free love, didn’t you?’

‘The swinging sixties. Making love on the sheepskin rug, in front of the roaring coal fire. Brilliant parties you used to host. Excellent memories.’

The years dropped off him as he took a step back into his joyful memories.

‘Then you’ll probably also remember an unfortunate encounter in a mini?’

The smile turned to a grimace.

‘Where they had to cut the roof off the car? The woman’s husband’s car? Where they had to take you on one stretcher to the hospital?’, stacked one on top of the other?

‘Yes, well best forgotten,’ he said, slumping back in his chair.

‘And so you should. The newspaper owner never did find out that it was one of his own cub reporters who was servicing his wife that day, did he?’

‘It was a youthful adventure. There was nothing in it.’

‘That’s not the rumour I heard. I believe there was plenty in it, and that was the main cause of the problem. Big boy.’

‘That was a long time ago and he never found out, so let’s let sleeping dogs lie, shall we?’

‘No. He obviously didn’t find out, otherwise you’d be talking several octaves higher now, wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s all water under the bridge. We all did things then that we regretted later.’

‘Well, the frenzy of confessions about things that happened decades ago are coming back to bite people. As you newspaper people are only too keen to expose. What do the headlines say? No time limit. No hiding place?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘It’s perhaps not too late for the owner to find out about certain things?’

‘What are you suggesting? Are you blackmailing me?’

‘How dare you suggest that I would do such a dreadful thing?’

‘So what’s the purpose of you raking all this up, then?’

‘However, I could ensure that if I wrote my memoirs, the part involving the owner’s wife and car could be excluded.’

‘In exchange for what? he asked cautiously. ‘What are you after? Money?’

‘Don’t be so vulgar. Money! Blackmail! I think the other papers might be interested in my memoirs after all,’ she said, starting to get up off her chair.

‘OK. You’ve made your point. What do you want?’

‘Well it pains me to do this. My son-in…My daughter’s husband, has just completed a journalism course and is looking for a job.’

‘Oh is that all?’

‘Yes. I hate to use this trump card on such a trivial matter, but he needs to be kept busy, otherwise he gets into all manner of mischief.’

‘Such as?’

‘Doing DIY.’

‘DIY!’ The editor looked at her in disbelief.

‘Yes. In his case it stands for Demolish it yourself,’ the old woman explained.

‘He’s not the one who demolished his house is he?’

Yes. ‘That’s the idiot.’

‘And you want me to take him on as a reporter? You must be joking. I have enough stress as it is with my current workforce, without taking on more ulcer causing hassle.’

‘When he’s away from tools he’s…I’d like to say fine, but the reality is, that he only becomes a danger to himself and not others.’

‘I suppose I’ve got no choice?’ the editor said, submissively.

‘If you don’t want to sing falsetto, probably not,’ Delores Eyes smiled.

The editor thought for a moment, assessing his options. ‘The only job I can give him is as a reporter at the Magistrates court. There’s a lot of hanging around there.’

‘That’s sounds just the job for him. You won’t regret it. Your past is safe with me.’

‘What always puzzled me was, how come the owner didn’t track me down at the time,’ the editor observed.

‘You have me to thank for that.’ Delores said smugly.

‘Why?’

‘As you know, I worked in the hospital and I amended the records of the incident. I changed your name to someone else’s. I never did find out what happened to Mr Dobbyrash.’