Should anyone read this, please remember the intro to the blog.
Notes and draft.
Three Stories of Distance.
Far too close
Bringing back the dog
Time and distance.
It was Sheila Long who first heard and then found Sally Berrington-Farr curled up in one of the high backed rattan chairs on her hotel room balcony; her legs drawn up beneath her, hands clasped beneath her knees, head bent forward, her long brown hair - not yet flecked with grey - covering her face. And she was sobbing. The loud uncontrolled gasping sobs of a small child: in between sobs she hissed out the barely audible words, 'I hate this place! I fucking hate it! I want to go home! Go home now!'
Sheila could not help but feel a little shocked, she had known Sally since high school and she could not remember her ever having sworn like this. Swearing was was one of the things Sally Berrington-Farr never did. Not to say that she did not have a very sharp and destructive tongue when she wanted to use it.
Soon several others from the tour group had gathered around the chair to offer sympathy and support and to discover what had shattered that seeming implacable facade of cool self sufficiency they all admired so much. No one had summoned them, but they were a close knit group within a group, and they knew by instinct when one of their number was threatened.
Only Mr Wright held back. The only man in this little group and older than the rest by several years, and having traveled widely in the East, he saw himself as having some unspecified authority and responsibility over them. If they had been a herd of buffalo Mr Wright would have been the old bull, still tolerated for the little protection it could still give but soon to be ousted by any younger, stronger challenger that might appear. Among the group where everyone used their first names Mr Wright had somehow remained Mr Wright, and he had made no attempt to change this. No call me Jim, or call me Joe.
If Mr Wright was a father figure to group Mary Rhodes was a mother; though she was by no means the eldest of of the women. Mary was less than average height and comfortably plump, she made no attempt to colour her shoulder length grey hair and always dressed without any pretence at fashion, or taste. Though she did show a predilection to bright cotton prints, which she claimed were perfect in a hot climate.
It was naturally Mary that put her arm around the still sobbing Sheila and asked, 'What is wrong dear? Sheila, you must tell us what has happened, we are all terribly concerned.'
Notes and draft.
Three Stories of Distance.
Far too close
Bringing back the dog
Time and distance.
It was Sheila Long who first heard and then found Sally Berrington-Farr curled up in one of the high backed rattan chairs on her hotel room balcony; her legs drawn up beneath her, hands clasped beneath her knees, head bent forward, her long brown hair - not yet flecked with grey - covering her face. And she was sobbing. The loud uncontrolled gasping sobs of a small child: in between sobs she hissed out the barely audible words, 'I hate this place! I fucking hate it! I want to go home! Go home now!'
Sheila could not help but feel a little shocked, she had known Sally since high school and she could not remember her ever having sworn like this. Swearing was was one of the things Sally Berrington-Farr never did. Not to say that she did not have a very sharp and destructive tongue when she wanted to use it.
Soon several others from the tour group had gathered around the chair to offer sympathy and support and to discover what had shattered that seeming implacable facade of cool self sufficiency they all admired so much. No one had summoned them, but they were a close knit group within a group, and they knew by instinct when one of their number was threatened.
Only Mr Wright held back. The only man in this little group and older than the rest by several years, and having traveled widely in the East, he saw himself as having some unspecified authority and responsibility over them. If they had been a herd of buffalo Mr Wright would have been the old bull, still tolerated for the little protection it could still give but soon to be ousted by any younger, stronger challenger that might appear. Among the group where everyone used their first names Mr Wright had somehow remained Mr Wright, and he had made no attempt to change this. No call me Jim, or call me Joe.
If Mr Wright was a father figure to group Mary Rhodes was a mother; though she was by no means the eldest of of the women. Mary was less than average height and comfortably plump, she made no attempt to colour her shoulder length grey hair and always dressed without any pretence at fashion, or taste. Though she did show a predilection to bright cotton prints, which she claimed were perfect in a hot climate.
It was naturally Mary that put her arm around the still sobbing Sheila and asked, 'What is wrong dear? Sheila, you must tell us what has happened, we are all terribly concerned.'