“Help me write a song of freedom
Stand up for all that’s fair.
Help me build a righteous kingdom
Fit home for all that’s there.”
Steve Dixie 1967 “The Bruiser” album.
CHAPTER 74 THE BOW OF BURNING GOLD
Mary Browner looked out of the big glass doors and said “Come on Jim, it's getting too hot out there. You'd best come along inside for now.”
“Right you are love.” Jim Browner's knees were beginning to hurt anyway. and his fingers were getting sore from ramming mortar in between the cracked patio paving. “What time's the launching on?”
“It's another hour or two yet. Here, have yourself a squash.” she passed him a large glass with ice and a slice.
“You know I always thought I'd be retiring to Somerset, not Spain. Seems daft really. I can afford this place here, but I can't afford even a small cottage back home.”
“So you keep saying love.”
“Well, I wonder what they're doing back in England.”
“Looking out on the rain I shouldn't wonder.”
John Gilchrist put a red ink enclosure stamp on the top right hand corner, (his hand felt funny again) and punched a hole in the top left hand corner of the letter. he pulled up the purple treasury tag from the preceding enclosure, number 19 and fed it through the new hole. The he wrote 20 in the new enclosure stamp. On the computer booking in data base he types the file number, the letters date and title and reference and author and 20 for the enclosure number. His hand was tingling. definitely tingling.
It was just possible that this file would not be binned for the next tidy up, or reorganisation or move, and maybe someone would want to look it up on the computer, and find it, and actually read it.
Maybe.
But on the other hand it could be a complete waste. Total waste. There was no way of knowing how good or useful his work was. There was no end product. He hadn't painted a picture. He hadn't grown flowers. He hadn't made a car go again. He couldn't point to the car and say it was OK, and even if the garage foreman hated him, there was no denying that the car was OK. In an office he had no proof he had done something. He only knew if his work was OK if his boss said so. And how did his boss know? Why had he come back? What was he doing here? Surely he was .......what had the councillor said? He was worth more than, more than, he had to believe he was worthy of self respect.
They always said next time it would be a paperless office, but it never was.
He reached across his desk to the pile of paper and took the next letter.
Could he go back to music? Did he really need the pension? If he stayed here he'd be off with stress again. He knew he would. The drugs were helping. Of course they were. But if you could only come to work because you were drugged up to the eyeballs. Then was it worth it?
Colonel (Retired) Roger Moriarty stood under the metal lattice tower. There were rags wrapped round the piece of metal to make it easier to hold. He pushed at it and the lever up to the windmill creaked and clunked. The brake came off. The warm wind from the Bay of Bengal began to rotate the sails, Pumping sea water from the beach into a header tank for the solar powered desalination still. With this many guests their hotel was using more water than ever.
“Roger. It's been on the news.” called Ramani through the window. “That ship you used to work on. They say they are going to test the track or something this ewening.”
“This evening here or in England?”
“This ewening here and they are say it is in Scotland.”
Roger walked up the steps into the office. “They're really doing it then.”
“I shall mind the bar if you are want to watch it.”
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