Sunday 22 March 2015

The FWC – Who are you? Blog Hop




The FWC – Who Are You? Blog Hop is a chance to visit the online homes of many of the talented members of the Collective and learn a little more about who we are. The Collective, has brought together the huge wealth of literary talent that resides in and around Frome, with the idea of pooling our knowledge and resources for the common good. So if you are a writer, poet, illustrator, editor or publisher your experience and guidance can be used to help other members reach their full potential.

I was kindly nominated by fellow member of The Nameless Writing Group, Piotr Swietlik. His brilliant entry can be found here: https://piotrkswietlik.wordpress.com/2015/03/15/the-fwc-who-are-you-blog-hop/

Frome Writers’ Collective is home to a range of writers, poets, illustrators, editors, and publishers. Which one best describes you?

Writer and Technical Illustrator. I have always enjoyed writing but started taking it seriously after writing a children’s story for my niece when she was very young. I have written countless short stories and six novels. The art of writing good poetry has always eluded me but I love writing humorous verse. My first novel was never intended for publication, just an excuse for me to prove that I could do it. I have since written 5 more each of which have been published through Feedaread.com. They are also available on Kindle and just about every other electronic format via Smashwords.com. For some reason, I seem to be drawn towards writing murder mysteries. I doubt if I will never make it into the Best Sellers list but I write for my own enjoyment and if other people get pleasure from reading it them that’s the icing on the cake.

What are you working on at the moment?
I have several projects on the go at the moment. My latest novel is a departure from my usual murder mystery and is also my first attempt at science fiction. As I am not used to this particular genre, it is set in the not too distant future so I don’t have to stretch my imagination too far. I am also working on a book of short stories which all have a common link. The link in that all of the stories are set on the overnight train from London to Edinburgh. The stories are about the people on the train and their reasons for making the journey. Some of the stories are light and cheerful and some are dark and thought provoking.

Jack London said that “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.” Would you agree?
I have to admit that I have never had a problem getting inspiration. In fact the opposite is occasionally a problem for me as I have a particular notebook that is crammed with ideas for future projects. I have a notepad within easy reach most of the time and jot down thoughts and ideas as and when they materialise. Although I am currently working my Sci-Fi novel I am also plotting out the idea for another murder mystery. I love quotations and two of my novels, Splendour in the Grass and Glory in the Flower, were inspired by a poem written by William Wordsworth. My last book The Three Gates is a collection of three stories inspired by a quotation from the Bhagavad Gita or Hindu Book of the Dead which states that “Hell has three gates: Lust, Anger and Greed”. As long as there are fantastic quotes like these I will never find myself short of material and inspiration.
           
Staring at a blank page can be daunting. How do you get from brain to page?
A blank page is a rarity for me. Whenever I have an idea for a novel, the first thing I do is to write down a plan of how the story is going to pan out from start to finish. This is purely a guide as the story always changes as it unfolds and more often than not the finished article bears no resemblance to the original plan. The next step is to make a list of all the main characters in the novel. I then write a short biography of each character so that I can get to know them intimately. I want to know how they think, how they act and how they speak. I find this a great help later as it makes for a more believable characterisation and dialogue. By the time I get to this stage I can’t wait to get started.

You’ve finally stopped procrastinating and you’re ready to get creative or tackle that manuscript. Have you a particular place where you like to work?
In bed, on the settee, on a train or even on a beach, it doesn’t matter. If I have peace and quiet and a notepad and pencil I can write anywhere, at any time. Having said that, most of my writing is done sitting in front of my computer screen in the back bedroom that has been converted into the study. The greatest benefit of the PC is that I can use the internet for research, something that is not as easy from a sun lounger on the beach. I also have an arsenal of reference books close to hand, ranging from medical jurisprudence and toxicology to forensic science techniques and criminal profiling. Having a little bolthole where I can shut myself away and just get on with it is great, but the biggest problem I have is losing track of time. Not such a good thing when you finish writing at 2am and have work the next day. Roll in retirement!

Thank you for taking the time to read this blog interview. Next Sunday you can enjoy an interview with the very talented Nikki Copleston. To whet your appetite, here is a short biography that Nikki has compiled for us:

Born in Yeovil and brought up in Salisbury, I lived and worked in London for many years before moving ‘back home’ to the West Country in 2012, settling in Wells. A qualified librarian, I worked in public libraries in North London throughout my career. I got involved with the Frome Writers’ Collective through Alison Clink, whose writing classes I attended in Wells and Frome. 

My great grandfather and my grandfather were both policemen in Somerset – and my grandmother was one of the county’s first policewomen – so I’ve always been interested in crime and police procedure.   

My first crime novel, The Price of Silence, is set in Wiltshire and London, and features Detective Inspector Jeff Lincoln. It’s available from Amazon as an eBook.
As well as writing, I’m a keen photographer. 
I’m currently working on a follow- up to The Price of Silence - The Shame of Innocence.  
My blog is at www.nikkicopleston.com

Don’t forget to check out The FWB - Who Are You? Blog Hop interview on Sunday 29 March 2015.

Saturday 14 March 2015

A Brief Encounter



This humourous verse was inspired by the late, great Stanley Holloway, the master of the comic monologue. Hope you like it :o)

A Brief Encounter


It started at four in the morning
On August the seventh last year
The noise was enough to awaken the dead,
It was more than a body could bear.

I awoke with a start to a musical row
That enveloped my room like a cloud.
Now I’m not averse to a nice tune or two
But not at that hour or that loud.

It seemed to be coming from just down the hall
From the next-door apartment in fact.
I decided I’d better go there and have words
But the key thing was exercise tact.

I threw back the duvet and climbed out of bed
And reached out to turn on the light.
I was steeling myself for what was to come
As I tied up my dressing-gown tight.

With much trepidation I opened the door
And raised myself up to look tall.
I took a deep breathe to steady my nerves
And purposefully strode down the hall.

As I drew near to the neighbouring flat
I detected a change in the beat
The musical tempo slowed down quite a bit
As a woman’s voice sang out so sweet.

“Hang on a mo!” came a voice from behind
As my hand raised to pound on the door.
I was frozen in situ, unable to move
Like my feet had been stuck to the floor.

Turning my head to the sound of the voice
I was stunned by the sight that I saw
As her hair rollers sparkled and shone down the hall
By the light from her half opened door.

Her pink fluffy slippers and white cotton socks,
The nightie that covered her knees.
This glamourous creature that melted my heart
Caused my immobile core to unfreeze.

With mouth opened wide, I lifted my gaze
And gasped as our eyes finally met.
It was Mabel McLaren from flat number two
A vision in pink winceyette.

“That’s Ella Fitzgerald,” she said with a smile
In a voice that was husky and gay.
The kind of a voice that you don’t have a choice
When you smoke forty Rothmans a day.

“It’s my favourite,” she added. “A beautiful song.”
And then to the beat she did sway.
And as this vision of loveliness rocked back and forth
I felt the cares of my world drift away.

I knew that our meeting out there in the hall
Was more than a matter of Chance.
So I hastily swallowed the lump in my throat
And said, “Mabel, would you care to dance?”

“My goodness,” she laughed as she took my embrace
And a trembling affected my knees
As I breathed in her perfume, a strong heady mix
Of pork scratching, stale fags and Fabreeze.

With my heart a flutter we waltzed down the hall
Swaying this way and that cross the floor
But as Ella stopped singing I looked at her face
And could see she was begging for more.

A Tango, a Foxtrot, American Smooth
Were all on the menu that night.
Even Craig from off Strictly would have been impressed
If he’d witnessed that wonderful sight.

She was light in my arms and her obvious charms
Were cushioned up tight to my chest.
As my fingers that lay in the small of her back
Traced the line down the seam of her vest.

For over an hour we jived and we swung
In time to that musical feast.
But in the cold light of morning, without any warning
Our orchestral accompaniment ceased.

We stood in the silence afraid to let go
Clinging so hard to each other.
I knew that this beauty had captured my heart
She reminds me so much of my mother.

I looked at this beautiful girl in my arms
All sweaty with rollers askew.
This was fate of a kind that had played to my hand
And I knew then what I had to do.

They say time and tide wait for no man although
Impulsiveness isn’t my life.
But I knew in that instant that she was the one
And said, “Mabel, will you be my wife?”

Well the look on her face made my heart skip a beat
And that second I have to confess
With the heave of her bosom and flush of her cheeks
I was sure that her answer was “Yes.”

Her kiss on my cheek was so soft and so sweet
She said, “Cyril, you flatter me so.
Though I’ve had a good time and you dance so divine.
I’m afraid that my answer is No.”

She said, “I admit though you dance like a God,
Married bliss for us both cannot be.
For you see my Dear Cyril, I can marry no man
Cos it’s women what do it for me.”

I was cut to the quick and feeling quite sick
As I staggered on back to my flat.
I confess that I wept as I lay on my bed
And snuggled up close to the cat.

These twelve months have gone by in the blink of an eye
But I vividly still can recall.
How I held in my arms the girl of my dreams
On that night that we danced down the hall.

Mr Sun Goes Home



Mr Sun Goes Home

By

Doug Hilditch


 
The station was quite crowded when Mr Sun arrived. He paid the taxi driver and wheeled the large, Samsonite suitcase across the concourse until he was in front of the huge Arrivals and Departures Information Board. He lowered the end of the suitcase and placed his small overnight bag beside it on the floor.
    Gazing up, he marvelled at the letters and numbers flashing before him as the board announced the departure of one train and the arrival of another.
    The train he intended to catch was displayed on the board but there was no platform number shown. He stood patiently, gazing around and smiling to himself. He was in a good mood. He had one last job to do and then he was going home.
    Despite the fact that he had lived in London for twenty-seven years, home to Woo Lee Sun was Kowloon, the seaport and peninsula of Hong Kong, adjoining the Kwangtung province of South China.
    He had tired of working long hours selling silk cloth and thread to the many clothing manufacturers throughout kowloon and so, in 1969, he and his wife and son had come to England and started a Chinese Restaurant.
    Situated not a mile from King’s Cross station, Mr Sun’s Chinese Restaurant had been a modest affair but was a novelty in the less-fashionable part of London’s Pentonville district. Seating only thirty people it had been full most nights and, within three years, Mr Sun’s had moved to bigger and better premises nearer the West End.
    The family still worked hard but now it was for their own benefit, not some employer’s. And the benefits were good. So good, in fact, that soon Mr Sun had been able to purchase a Morris 1000 van. The van enabled him to collect fresh meat and vegetables direct from the markets instead of buying from a supplier, thereby saving money and maximising profits.
For a few years they were a happy and contented family but, in 1974, at the tender age of thirteen, their son Lee Ho was tragically killed whilst riding his bicycle home from school.
Mr Sun closed the restaurant for a week and comforted his poor distraught wife. He also felt a great loss but, seeing so many relatives and friends die at the hands of the Japanese during the war, he found it hard to grieve.
His wife, Wei-Wei, had spent several months in a very withdrawn state. She would not eat properly, could not sleep properly and would not speak to him. It was almost as if she blamed him for the loss of her precious Lee Ho.
When she did finally finish grieving she was not the same woman he had married.
Gazing now at the large, black Information Board he thought about the beautiful, tiny, sixteen-year-old virgin, ten years his junior, that he had married in 1948. Her family had arranged, with his family, for the couple to meet, as was customary. They were both very shy and embarrassed but were given every encouragement to take tea together, but only at her Aunt Ming’s house, and walk together, but only in Aunt Ming’s garden, until he plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him.
It later transpired that Wei-Wei’s Aunt Ming was a great friend of Dr Lo’s wife who lived next door to his grandmother. They had conspired to bring the couple together and were very pleased with themselves at the success of their matchmaking.
Snapping back to the present, Mr Sun suddenly realised that many of the people around him were moving forward. Looking up at the board he noticed that a large 7 had appeared beneath the word Platform on the section listing the stations, between London and Edinburgh, to be visited by the train he was to catch, he also saw that it was to depart in twenty minutes.
Picking up his overnight bag, he hoisted the corner strap of the suitcase and wheeled it towards Platform 7. As he trundled along the platform he passed two uniformed men talking. One, who had been watching Mr Sun’s progress along the platform, spoke to him as he approached.
“You can stick yer case in the Guard’s Van if yer like, Mate. It’ll be okay there an’ yer won’t ’ave to lug it around the train will yer?”
“Oh, fank you verr much,” replied Mr Sun, smiling and bowing gratefully.
The Guard stepped forward and lifted the case into the open doorway of the Guard’s Van.
“Cor blimey! What yer got in ’ere, ’arf a ton of ’ouse bricks?”
Mr Sun laughed and nodded.
A little further along the platform, Mr Sun boarded the train. He walked along the carriages until he found an unoccupied compartment, which he entered, closing the door silently behind him. Placing his overnight bag on the luggage rack, he took off his coat and folded it over the bag. On top of this he placed his hat. Taking the window seat, with his back to the engine, he sat down and watched the other would-be passengers milling about on the platform.
He had never been to Edinburgh before but it was far enough away from London for what he had to do.
As a family they had always been too busy with the restaurant to venture too far from London. In the early years they had not had too many holidays and after Lee Ho had died Mr Sum found that he could not stand to be in the sole company of his wife for very long.
He thought again of the young girl he had married back in the summer of 1958. She had been happy and carefree and every time he looked into her small, beautiful, smiling face his heart almost stopped. When she told him she was to have a child he was the happiest man in Kowloon. Their first child, Ming-Wei, a beautiful baby daughter with her mother’s heart-shaped face, was born on 10 October 1959 and died on 15 November 1960 of pneumonia.
They were both heart-broken, of course, but by March 1961, Wei-Wei learned that she was expecting again and things looked happier. Lee Ho’s birth was not without its problems though. Wei-Wei was advised by the doctors not to try for any more babies, as it would be too dangerous for her.
Lee Ho grew into a very strong, healthy child who was adored by both his parents.
Since his sad demise Wei-Wei had changed beyond recognition. She was no longer the dutiful wife. She nagged Mr Sun incessantly and he could do nothing right, in her eyes. For twenty-two years she moaned and dominated him and told him how unhappy she was and how he had failed her.
Mr Sun had put up with it, after all she was his wife and she grieved for their son, he had to make allowances.
Last May, on his sixty-third birthday, he had spent a particularly miserable evening, in the company of his wife and a few friends, and it suddenly occurred to him how few real friends he actually had. Apart from David Chang and the Choi family they didn’t have that many close friends, they were always too busy with the restaurant.
He was getting too old for all that work. A man in his position should be thinking of retirement, not working fifteen hours of every day. The trouble was, apart from Wei-Wei, he had no family in England and very few friends. He started to think more of his family and friends in Kowloon and before long decided he wanted to return home. If he sold the restaurant as a going concern, and he’d had one or two good offers from some of the other Chinese businessmen in London already, he and Wei-Wei could return to Hong Kong and live the rest of their days in comfort. Or better still, move over onto the Chinese mainland to the outskirts of Kwangchow, where it was cheaper, and they could live in luxury.
Unfortunately, his biggest mistake was to mention his thoughts to Wei-Wei. He had begun to wonder if she would ever calm down. How could he think of throwing away all they had built up? How could he contemplate going back to China, with its communist regime and its narrow-minded attitudes towards civil liberties? And, worst of all, how could he even think about moving away from the country where his poor son, Lee Ho, was buried? No, she was adamant, she would never leave her son.
Suddenly, the door of the compartment opened, startling Mr Sun from his reverie. He looked up to see a huge woman, wearing a voluminous red dress, blocking the doorway. She turned sideways to get through the door and as she turned towards him she smiled.
“Scusi, canna you ’elpa me?” She held forth a battered green suitcase.
Mr Sun leapt to his feet, bowed and, taking the proffered suitcase, lifted it up onto the luggage rack next to his own belongings.
“Tanka you, I amma oblige,” she smiled as she eased her considerable bulk onto the bench opposite. Mr Sun bowed again and returned to his seat. As he did so the train gave a lurch and began to slowly move along the platform.
“Is good we leava London, I don’ta lika London.”
Mr Sun regarded his travelling companion through his gold-rimmed spectacles. She was a formidable-looking figure. Large, round face, black curly hair, bright red lipstick, which looked like she had been slashed across the face, and her extremely fat stature. She was a match for any man.
He smiled and nodded agreement. He didn’t mind London; he just thought it wise to avoid disagreeing with her.
“You go to Ediburra? Is beautiful, is better than London.”
“Yes,” he smiled enthusiastically.
“You go thera before?”
“No.”
“My son, he liva dere. I leava Italy two year ago an com liva wid hima. He has beautiful restaurante, bella. Is verr beatiful, Ediburra, buta blooda cold ina winter.”
Mr Sun beamed across at the woman.
“I too have restaurant. In London, Chinese restaurant.”
“Eh, una coincidenza. Maria Francesca Ruffini,” she thrust out her right hand by way of introduction.
“Woo Lee Sun,” he grinned and bowed his head as her huge fat hand engulfed his own small delicate fingers.
Where she had sat down her dress had ridden up over her knees and as Mr Sun bowed his head he could not help noticing how slim her legs were. It was a very strange phenomenon that extremely obese women often had slender andsometimes, shapely legs. Mr Sun permitted himself a small giggle at the thought. Maria Francesca Ruffini took this as an invitation and laughed heartily with him. The thought that she did not know what he was laughing at made it all the more funny so he allowed himself another small giggle.
“Why you go Ediburra den?” suddenly she was serious again.
“I go on business.”
“You go start restaurante in Ediburra?”
“No,” he laughed, “I have sold restaurant in London. I go back home to Kowloon, Hong Kong.”
“Whya you go backa China?”
“I retire. I am too old to run a restaurant. I want to go home to family and friends and live quietly.”
“Huh, Mena! Alla you mena wanta to do isa retire. Women, we don retire. We still hava to cookina, washa da clothes, fixa da housa. We donna geta no retire. You marry? Chillren?”
“No,” his smile faded and he gazed out of the window.
Signora Ruffini realised she had hit on a touchy subject so brought the conversation to a close.
“Oh well, I sleepa now. Is a longa way, Ediburra,” and with that she laid down, as best she could, across the seat.
The train sped on past allotments, sewerage works, all through the seedier parts of towns and villages seen only by rail passengers, and on out into the Hertfordshire countryside. Mr Sun looked at it all without taking any of it in.
He was thinking about home, Kowloon. How he longed to get back amongst his own people, speaking his own language. Wei-Wei and he had always spoken to each other in Cantonese but, apart from the two older members of the Choi family, they had had to speak in English to everyone else. Even David Chang was second-generation English-Chinese and could only speak English and that with a north London accent.
He looked across at the sleeping woman opposite and wondered if she wished she could return to Italy.
Wei-Wei had been adamant that she would not leave England. He tried to reason with her but to no avail. He painted a wonderful picture to show how, with all their money, they could live like royalty, but she would not listen and when he told her he intended putting the restaurant up for sale she told him she would do everything she could to stop him.
The restaurant had been sold a week ago and yesterday all the appropriate forms had been signed and witnessed. He did not need Wei-Wei’s signature as the property was solely in his name, which was right and proper. After the formal exchange of contracts and keys Mr Sun had gone around to bid his farewells to the Choi family. They had enquired after Wei-Wei and he had explained that she had departed some days earlier while he stayed behind to tidy up his business affairs. He had apologised for the fact that she had not said goodbye as she was upset about leaving and did not want to make it harder. They understood and told him that Wei-Wei and he would be sorely missed.
Mr Sun looked at his watch, a present from his employees on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday. He was booked on to the 19:27 hours flight from Heathrow to Kai Tak International Airport, on the northern shore of Kowloon Bay, the following evening. He had just enough time to do what he needed to do and return to London in time to check in.
Signora Ruffini snored gently as her great bulk spilled across the bench seat like a partly deflated hot-air balloon. Her immense bosom making her face play peek-a-boo as she breathed.
Before he knew it Mr Sun too had fallen asleep, dreaming of his childhood in Hong Kong.
The family was originally from Kwangchow but, in the late ’30s, his father, an ex-mineworker for a mineral company in Kwangtung province, moved his family to Hong Kong, in the belief that things would be more prosperous in the British colony.
He had died a few years later at the hands of the Japanese, but the family had stayed and prospered. They had rented a large apartment in Kowloon where Woo Lee, his mother and two sisters had lived happily for many years.
After he had married, Mr Sun moved, with his new bride, to a smaller apartment of their own. It was more customary for newly-weds to live with, either the groom’s or bride’s, parents, at least for the first few years, but Mr Sun decided he wanted to start his new life with just his beautiful Wei-Wei, at least for the time being.
Life had been good but they had worked very hard and, at the first opportunity, they had come to England to start a business venture of their own.
And now, he was going home.
Mr Sun was unaware of how long he slept on that train journey. All he knew was that when he awoke the train had already crossed the border into Scotland and that Signora Ruffini was no longer in the carriage. Her suitcase was still on the luggage rack though, which meant she could not be far away.
He looked out of the window but saw only the reflection of the interior of the compartment. Outside it was pitch dark and all intelligent beings had long since taken to their beds.
In the reflection he saw a large, red shape materialise behind him and turned to see Signora Ruffini easing her way, sideways, into the compartment, her stomach and backside touching the doorframe on either side as she did so. In each hand she carried a small, brown carrierbag with the word Buffet emblazoned across the sides.
With a huge expulsion of air she flopped onto the seat opposite him.
“I not know you is awaking, or I geta somthin’ for you too,” she smiled.
“No matter,” Mr Sun returned her smile.
Despite owning a restaurant, Mr Sun was not a big eater, as was evident by his small frame, but he could not help thinking that he would have retired, a multi-millionaire, years ago if all his customers had been blessed with Signora Ruffini’s capacity for food.
He watched in sheer admiration as she munched her way through three packs of sandwiches, an apple turnover and a slice of fruit cake, all helped down with a large, cardboard cup of hot, black coffee.
“Thas better,” she sighed, taking a Mars bar from one of the bags and tearing the end off the wrapper with her teeth.
Taking an enormous bite and wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, to remove a strand of caramel that dangled from her bottom lip, she looked up at Mr Sun.
“Scusi, I nota think. Woulda you lika. I hava another chocolate in ’era.” She reached again for the little carrierbag.
“No, no. It is all right. I am not hungry. Thank you,” Mr Sun protested.
“When you in Ediburra you musta come to my son’sa restaurante. Is call Paolo’s, is ina Rosa Street. Is verra good fooda. You lika verra much.”
“Yes, thankyou. I will try to do that.”
“How longa you hava restaurante ina London.”
“Twenty-seven years,” he replied.
“Blooda hell. Thas long time. My Paolo, he have restaurante only six year.”
She looked seriously at the little Chinaman in front of her.
“If you liva so longa ina London, how come you wanna go backa China?”
“I miss my family and friends, my culture, my language. I miss my own people.”
Signora Ruffini looked at the wall above his head and nodded slowly.
“I know whata you saya. Is verra difficul for a me hera. I coma because I ama neara my Paolo. He’sa my onaly boy an a boy needsa his mama. He coma hera for a the university buta, he wanna stay. I missa my peoples too. I no lika speaka this Ingliss. Is too blooda difficul.”
They sat in silence for a while, each in their own thoughts.
The compartment door slid open with a bang, making them both jump. The Guard stood in the doorway looking down at them both.
“We’ll be arrivin’ in Edinburgh in firty-five minutes folks,” he announced cheerily. “Don’t fergit to collect yer case Mate.”
“Yes, thank you,” Mr Sun smiled up at him.
The Guard made his exit, closing the door behind him.
Half an hour later, as predicted, the train started to slow down for it’s approach to Waverley Station. Mr Sun took this as his cue and rose to his feet.
“I must go and retrieve my luggage,” he smiled, lifting down his coat and overnight bag. He also lifted down Signora Ruffini’s case, placing it on the seat he had just vacated. Putting on his coat, he picked up his bag and held out his hand to Signora Ruffini.
“I have very much enjoyed our meeting,” he said affably, as she grasped his hand firmly, “I hope it will not be long before you too can return to be with your own people again.”
Signora Ruffini looked into his eyes and the scarlet gash across her face widened as she sensed his sincerity.
“Yes, thanka you. Is nice. Don forget. You coma visit Paolo’s restaurante.”
“Yes, I will try.” Of course, Mr Sun had no intention of visiting Paolo’s and, deep down, Signora Ruffini knew he wouldn’t. She watched as he turned and left the compartment. There was an air of sadness about the little man.
Mr Sun reached the Guard’s Van just as the train came to a halt. The Guard had already opened the doors to the carriage and was sliding Mr Sun’s suitcase towards the opening when he looked up and saw the Chinaman.
“There yer go Mate, one case of bricks.”
“Sorry?” Mr Sun looked puzzled and then remembered the man’s joke earlier.
“Oh, yes. Very good,” he laughed.
The Guard lifted the case down onto the platform and Mr Sun climbed down after it. He thanked the man once more and wheeled his luggage towards the ticket office.
Further along the train he looked up to see Signora Ruffini, who had struggled down the steps with her suitcase, rudely pushed to one side by a young man who ran off up the platform, in pursuit of a beautiful blonde girl, dressed in black.
Signora Ruffini sent the young man on his way with a stream of Italian which, even though he could not speak a word of the language, Mr Sun knew would not be complimentary. He smiled to himself.
Slowing down, he allowed Signora Ruffini to compose herself and followed at a discrete distance as she waddled up the platform.
He emerged from the station foyer in time to see Signora Ruffini vigarously embracing a slim effeminate-looking young man, whom Mr Sun took to be her beloved Paolo. He watched as she squeezed her bulk into the back of an ageing Ford Escort, her son taking his place behind the wheel. Only after they had turned the corner and disappeared from view did he look around.
The young man who had pushed Signora Ruffini was standing a few yards away from him, looking rather forlorn. Mr Sun thought that pushing the woman was out of character, he seemed quite a presentable chap. He supposed that the young woman had been his girlfriend and that they had had a disagreement, which would account for his sadness.
At last, three taxis arrived at the same time and pulled to a halt in front of the station. The young man climbed into the first and Mr Sun approached the second. The driver got out to put his customer’s suitcase in the boot.
“Christ,” he exclaimed, “wa’ ya got in here?”
Mr Sun said nothing as he climbed into the back of the cab.
“Where to?” asked the driver as he got in.
“The airport please.”
It took twenty minutes to reach the airport and the driver spent the whole trip telling his passenger about the sights and pleasures of Edinburgh. Mr Sun said nothing for the duration of the journey, he had other things on his mind.
At the airport terminal Mr Sun paid the driver and wheeled his heavy suitcase through the automatic entrance doors. Once inside, he walked purposefully to the information desk.
The pretty redhead smiled as he approached.
“Can I help you?” she asked brightly.
Mr Sun was surprised that anyone could be so sparkly at this time of the morning. He smiled back.
“Can you tell me where the lockers are, please?” he enquired.
“Just down there, to your right,” she had a soft-spoken Scottish accent that complimented her looks.
Thanking her, he set off in the direction she had indicated.
He found the rank of left-luggage lockers, just as she had said, and walked along to the farthest row. Choosing one of the big lockers on the bottom row, he opened the metal door.
It took him a little while to manoeuvre the large Samsonite suitcase into the locker, but it fitted with hardly any room to spare. He read the instructions, on the inside of the door, carefully before inserting a pound coin, closing the door and withdrawing the key. He rattled the door twice, just to make sure it was locked, and put the key into his pocket.
With a big sigh, he picked up his overnight bag and headed for the Gents cloakroom.
At this time of the day he had the room to himself so, hanging his coat on a peg just inside one of the cubicles, he went to the nearest sink and ran the taps.
After a wash and shave he felt refreshed so, gathering up his belongings once more, went in search of somewhere where he could get a cup of tea.
The cardboard cup of vending-machine tea did not taste much like tea to him but at least it was drinkable. He looked at his watch, he had another four hours to wait and was beginning to wish he had booked a room in an hotel.
The time passed slowly but Mr Sun did not mind, he was a patient man. When three hours were up he put his coat back on, picked up his bag and walked briskly to the check-in desk. He took his ticket out of his coat pocket and handed it to the check-in girl. She tapped the keys on her computer and printed out some sticky labels that she stuck to his ticket and a boarding card. She handed both cards back to him.
“Have a pleasant fight, Sir,” she smiled.
Mr Sun smiled and nodded and picking up his bag walked into the departure lounge.
Forty-five minutes late he looking down over the Scottish countryside on his way to London’s City Airport.
Back at his house, in London, he collected together what other belongings he planned to take with him and called for a taxi. He had already taken two suitcases of old clothes, mostly Wei-Wei’s, and one or two other bits and pieces, to the local charity shop. This meant he only had his briefcase, overnight bag, a small flight bag and two suitcases.

The taxi took him first to his landlord’s house, where he handed over the keys and thanked the man profusely, for allowing him to rent the house. The landlord assured him that the Suns had been his best tenants and hoped they would have a long and happy retirement.
His next stop was at his solicitor’s office to sign one or two last documents, regarding the sale of the restaurant and stock. The new owners had even bought the rights to keep the name Mr Sun’s as it was so well known. He then went on to David Chang’s.
He spent an hour with his oldest friend and was very sorry that he would probably never see him again. He felt he had to say goodbye properly, so they spent the time reminiscing as they walked around the park. Then, returning to Chang’s house, where he had left his luggage, he ordered another taxi.
A short distance from Chang’s, Mr Sun asked the driver to stop for a moment outside the florist’s, where he bought a large bunch of Lilies. They then continued on to the cemetery.
Kneeling beside the grave of his son, Mr Sun gently laid the flowers on the chippings beneath the headstone. Sitting back on his heels, he took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes.
“Goodbye my son. I shall never forget you. Even though I shall be many miles away, you will be forever in my heart.”
Kneeling in silence for a minute, he then got up and returned to his waiting taxi.
“Heathrow,” he said as he climbed into the cab.
As usual the airport was busy and Mr Sun had to wait before he could check in his luggage. At last his bags were sent on their way and he returned to the lounge to continue waiting. An hour later he was summoned to the departure lounge and, after twenty minutes, his flight was called.
“Flight BA417, the 19:27 service to Kai Tak International is now boarding at Gate number three. Passengers are requested to have their boarding cards ready.” The mysterious girl on the intercom system sounded as bored out of her brains as most of the waiting passengers were, which was in sharp contrast to the excitement Mr Sun was presently experiencing.
His heart pounded hard as he walked along the corridor which projected over the tarmac and took him right to the door of the aircraft.
“Good evening, Sir,” a pretty young stewardess beamed at him, “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” he beamed back, giving her a little bow.
Checking the number on his ticket, he made his way down the gangway until he found his seat. He stowed his coat, briefcase and flight bag in the overhead locker and took his seat next to the window.
It was already dark and he could see people, lining the windows of the terminal building, watching the arrivals and departures of the aeroplanes.
Within a short time they were taxiing along the tarmac and, whilst the stewardesses demonstrated the oxygen masks and emergency procedures, the flight crew manoeuvred the plane into its place at the head of the runway awaiting clearance from Air Traffic Control.
The high-pitched whine of the four enormous jet engines increased in volume as the pilots prepared for take-off.
At last, permission was granted and the huge jet leaped forward, gathering speed as it raced down the runway. After, what seemed like, only seconds, the nose of the aircraft lifted and the noise level dropped slightly, they were airborne.
At an alarming angle, the plane banked slowly to the left until it took up its allotted course, where it straightened up but continued to climb.
Mr Sun took the locker key from his pocket and looked at it for a moment before turning his gaze to the window where he saw, for the last time, London, spread out below him.
“Goodbye, Wei-Wei,” he whispered, “I am so sorry. Please take care of our son.”
And as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, a tear rolled slowly down his cheek.