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Loved your story, @stnylan and the others too. Stirred a chord.
My Mother’ side:
‘Pappy‘ (her father) served in WW1 from August 1914 to the end on the Western Front - Somme, Ypres, etc, with the British Army. Went back to be a small shopkeeper in Portsmouth - a bit old for WW2.
Mum born 1933. ‘Pompey‘ copped it badly as a naval base, of course. They got bombed out, she had cousins and school friends killed - once in a shelter (direct hit) her friends tried to get her to go to when a raid started on the way home from school but she pushed on a bit further to get to her home one. Was 10 when D-Day launched - she remembers how the port was suddenly so empty that morning when they had all set off.
My Father was a 2 year old in Warsaw when WW2 started. In Warsaw during the Uprising in 1944. Family survived, got to Paris after the war when the Soviets took over. Then Australia, where they both eventually met. He passed two and a bit years ago.
The rest is my history
So VE Day is pretty special for me. As are Armistice/Remembrance Day and also ANZAC Day.
My Mother’ side:
‘Pappy‘ (her father) served in WW1 from August 1914 to the end on the Western Front - Somme, Ypres, etc, with the British Army. Went back to be a small shopkeeper in Portsmouth - a bit old for WW2.
Mum born 1933. ‘Pompey‘ copped it badly as a naval base, of course. They got bombed out, she had cousins and school friends killed - once in a shelter (direct hit) her friends tried to get her to go to when a raid started on the way home from school but she pushed on a bit further to get to her home one. Was 10 when D-Day launched - she remembers how the port was suddenly so empty that morning when they had all set off.
My Father was a 2 year old in Warsaw when WW2 started. In Warsaw during the Uprising in 1944. Family survived, got to Paris after the war when the Soviets took over. Then Australia, where they both eventually met. He passed two and a bit years ago.
The rest is my history
So VE Day is pretty special for me. As are Armistice/Remembrance Day and also ANZAC Day.- 1
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These stories are absolutely inspiring to read.
As for my own great-grandfather, he was part of the Belgian resistance. He was a policeman before the war, and retained his position. Because of that, he was able to have some relative freedom of movement, which allowed him to observe the trains coming in and out of our town. He would then pass on that information to the British.
I recently interviewed some Belgian Canadians for my master thesis as well and I must say a lot of them mentioned smuggling. One of them smuggled sigarets into an Allied POW camp as a kid and someone else's dad smuggled things across the border with the Netherlands. For a lot of them WWII was the main reason why they left Belgium and settled in Canada.
The war has definitely left a mark on society even to this day and I hope that as the years pass by, the memories and stories will not dissapear into the shadows of time.
As for my own great-grandfather, he was part of the Belgian resistance. He was a policeman before the war, and retained his position. Because of that, he was able to have some relative freedom of movement, which allowed him to observe the trains coming in and out of our town. He would then pass on that information to the British.
I recently interviewed some Belgian Canadians for my master thesis as well and I must say a lot of them mentioned smuggling. One of them smuggled sigarets into an Allied POW camp as a kid and someone else's dad smuggled things across the border with the Netherlands. For a lot of them WWII was the main reason why they left Belgium and settled in Canada.
The war has definitely left a mark on society even to this day and I hope that as the years pass by, the memories and stories will not dissapear into the shadows of time.
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Firstly, thank you all for the family stories. It has been great to share, and read.
Replying to some other comments:
(anyone else finding the new smileys just not very good-looking?)
Replying to some other comments:
Glitterhoof?PLOT TWIST!!!
THE MYSTERIOUS NARRATOR IS...
Good questionsEorhic - who, or what, is he ...?
*whistles*
(anyone else finding the new smileys just not very good-looking?)
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Chapter 1.1 - Albert II
Chapter 1 - Arrival
Albert - A Present
London. I suppose I am glad to be back, given this great pile of stone and timber (and iron and steel) is my home. I always miss it when I am away, but there is always a tinge of regret when I return. I feel it now as the cab drives me to the club.
The drive takes but a few minutes. I thank the driver and off he goes, perhaps a trifle quickly. Discreetly to the side, in a purposeful nook, huddles a beggar. I grasp a coin and throw the unfortunate a sixpence as I walk up the steps. The person gabbles thanks, and then stops when he sees my face. I smile, as friendly as I can, and continue to the door which opens as I approach. “Master Albert,” the doorwarden states as he holds the portal open, subservient yet not obsequious. He is well trained. “Do you require anything?”
“Thank you, no,” I reply. “Are many members here tonight?”
The man considers the question. “A few, Master Albert.”
“Thank you,” I say again, and proceed further in, leaving the doorwarden to his work.
The Inner Hallway, so called, is the first of the truly private areas. The doorwarden here admits me without fuss. The hallway leads from its nondescript opening towards the rear of the building to the Atrium, off which there are a number of other doors and passageways. A small fountain bubbles and gurgles in the middle, and sitting by it I see - damned the name escapes me. A young scion of the Family.
“Sir Albert,” he greets me, standing from the table where he had been reading. “I have a message for you.”
I think the name begins with D - Dominic, Daniel, Damien - something like that. A favoured scion, trusted with such little tasks.
“You do?” I ask, to stay polite. Or was it Darren?
From his pocket he takes out an envelope, “I was told it was not certain when you would return, so I have been waiting.”
I take the plain white envelope, sealed with old-fashioned wax. “How long?” I ask, mildly curious. Does it actually even begin with D?
“Three days,” he says, “and it is my pleasure.”
I turn my head a little to the side, “You play the servant very well, - Darius.” It better bloody be Darius.
The young thing smiles slightly. “I take that as a compliment. Do you require anything?”
Young, favoured - and ambitious.
“Wait a moment,” I say, holding up the envelope, “let us see what this reveals.” The seal bears an unsurprising mark. I touch it and concentrate a moment, but it seems undisturbed. I break it, and pull forth the simple hand-written note. It takes but a moment to read.
“It seems I do not need your aid Darius. I leave you to what other duties you have.” He nods at the dismissal, and resumes his place. I walk on, exiting the Atrium by one of the side passages. They installed a lift about ten years ago, but I still prefer to take the stairs. Three sets of stairs, nothing too easy and not unusual given the history of the building, and the first and final set lead downward, and the last is several hundred steps.
The servitor that waits down here does not speak. He beckons to one of the seats and then leaves me. I stand. He returns a few moments later, and opens the main door formally, waving me in.
It is a simple room - far simpler than many might suppose. There is barely any ornamentation, and no ostentation. It is also empty, but I notice a new painting on one wall, a colourful riot of figures and places - India, or somewhere similar. I walk over to it, but as ever it remains just pigments on canvas, and a mystery.
“Albert,” says a voice behind me, and I know He has entered the room. I turn, as He closes the door behind Him. He smiles, and though through long years I have become accustomed to the palpable nature of His presence, I still feel drawn to this man dressed as simply as this room is furnished. “You like it?”
“It is wasted on me,” I say.
“You have never been one for the visual arts,” He agrees. “Everything resolved?”
Business. “Yes. I was fortunate. In the end it proved easy to locate.”
“Origin?”
“I cannot entirely be certain, but I believe it was a distant relation of yours, my Lord. Do you remember Bartholomew Millies?”
He thought a moment. “Ranulf’s boy?”
“We lost track of him during the war. Well, he turned up again, and awoke more than a little mad - and then went madder. In the end, there was no other way.”
My Lord pauses a moment. “We thought him dead all those years ago. Now he is. In a sense nothing has changed.” It is, as far as the memory of the late Bartholemew is concerned, a dismissal.
I let the silence linger for over a minute before I speak again. “My Lord, you sent me a message.”
“Yes. I have received a request for your services.” He pauses. “To be more precise, an invitation for you to visit the New World as my representative, to Philadelphia first and other cities as seems sensible.”
“Me?”
He laughs at my confusion. “If you agree I am minded to accept.”
“My Lord?”
“They are playing a game. I think to indulge them this time. If you agree.” I glance at Him. “Albert,” He says, and He does not have to say anymore. I know the speech, about service and freedom bought, of obligations discharged. It is one of our oldest discussions, and I know I will never be able to make Him understand.
“I would be happy to go,” I say, “but I should see to a handful of matters here as I might be away some time.”
“It will take some time for arrangements to be put in place.”
A thought occurs. “Would you like anyone to accompany me?”
“Like who?”
“Like young Darius upstairs. It would … broaden his horizons.”
There is an almost hissing sound in His chest that erupts in a full-throated laugh. “Oh Albert, you would want to wring his neck within a week. And I have hopes for him yet. Leave earnest initiates behind, take what help you need.”
The audience is at an end. I could describe it as a feeling, only it is more of a certainty. My Lord walks away, and then turns. “Albert - I will see you again before you go.”
I nod, and He leaves through His own door. I knock on the door I entered, and the servitor opens it. I depart my head full of questions that will take months to answer.
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Albert sounds deceptively polite and urbane. But there is something a little off about him. More so about his ‘Lord’, of course. This Bartholemew woke up after going missing during the war - what, about 15 -16 years before? A little mad? Sounds like a most unnatural kip to me. And yes, the emojis are too large and a bit meh.
And yes, the emojis are too large and a bit meh.
They aren't exactly the greatest in the world, but I imagine I'll get used to them. Honestly I wasn't too thrilled about the ones from the 2015 update, either; I think the old old ones gave the forum a lot more character.
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Apparently Albert is a man used to having his mail tampered with, even by people within his own organization. That alone speaks volumes as to the nature of his work and the people he is working for, none of it exactly encouraging -- though the fact that Albert himself has lasted as long as he has, and genuinely seems to be well regarded by his own superior and is loyal to him in turn, would hint that there's something of value in this whole enterprise after all.
Hmmm. Most cults have a long serving inner circle who are treated well and are loyal to the leader, it's also a common feature of the more elaborate company frauds and scandals. Of course those things are also found in many good places so they aren't bad, far from it, I'm just not willing to draw any particular conclusions from it.
The fact Albert and the Lord can have a long running disagreement about things as fundamental as freedom, service and obligation does suggest the Lord doesn't demand sycophancy from his underlings and allows them to speak their mind (though I'm sure there are limits on that). This makes him a great deal more dangerous than the typical standard issue villain.
I am glad you think there is something "off" about Albert. Because, of course, there isAlbert sounds deceptively polite and urbane. But there is something a little off about him. More so about his ‘Lord’, of course. This Bartholemew woke up after going missing during the war - what, about 15 -16 years before? A little mad? Sounds like a most unnatural kip to me.
After a fashion, anyway. I am trying, with the first-person present (which I like as a challenge and a perspective) is to get a bit under the skin.
As per Thenardier's line in Les Miserables "It's doesn't cost me to be nice" (as he fleeces his guests)So this Dracula or whatever is a man who expects and requests. How surprising.
Ah, another devotee of the forum of yesteryear
If "they" are out to get you, or even if only a "few" are out to get you, but truly out ot get you - are you paranoid or just sensibly cautious? Perspective ... changes.
On that note, when I was little my "normal" for a time was my Dad having to use one of those mirrors on a stick to check under the car each day in case the IRA or similar had planted a bomb. Of course, I was six. I thought it was a great toy. Only later did I put 2 + two together. And today it has been eight weeks since I have seen any of my colleagues - it is truly amazing what can become "normal".
Value is a personal judgement, of course
A few close confidants can keep you honest, if you have the wit to listen to them.
All
In related research for this AAR I have now learned about Dömitz Fortress. This will likely never get worked into the AAR itself (I stumbled across it down a rabbit-hole, as it were), but I must say if I ever get the money to go to Germany one year as I hope I may have to make time to go and see. At some point. Actually there are so many places I want to go and visit in Germany. Far more interesting historically than France
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Chapter 1.2 - Martin - November 1934 - A few nights later
Chapter 1.2 - Martin - November 1934 - A few nights later
Martin waited.
As he had for several nights he sat in his appointed place, and waited. He sat with his hands in his lap, feet placed lightly, yet flat, on the floor. The wooden chair had no cushion, and he waited.
“I don’t know what you’ve done,” Caroline had said to him earlier, “He usually has you on a new job practically before the old one’s done.” Or granted him leave.
Was this punishment? It could be punishment, but the Master had not seemed angry to Martin’s practised eye. He had picked apart every detail of Sir Henry’s death, of course, but that was to be expected. He said he approved of Martin’s actions, and had then asked Martin to make himself ready each night until needed.
Martin waited.
Opposite him was a clock. He watched the pendulum swing in its eternal beat, observed the hour hand make its graceful arc. He tried his best not to think. Better to stare at the clock, he reminded himself, than let the mind go idle. The pendulum provided a point of reference.
Martin waited.
The door opened, and he was summoned.
In the study the Master waited, standing. Martin approached and knelt. He felt the Master’s hand on his hand, and turned his face upward to receive his blessing, and he knew he had not been punished. He had not been forgotten. His Master had known he would be needed, just not when, and wanted to keep him close. It all made sense.
Blessing and benediction completed the Master spoke. “I have a task for you.”
Martin smiled in fulfilment. “How might I serve?” he asked.
“The folder on the desk contains the details. Someone has gone missing in The Island. Someone in our service, though he knew it not. Perhaps this disappearance is not a concern. Perhaps it is. Find out.”
“As you wish,” Martin said, and scooped up the documents, intoxicated with purpose.
“Martin,” his Master said again. “Alacrity can be a virtue, but in this matter I require accuracy.”
“I understand,” Martin said, his soul singing.
“I trust that you do,” the Master said, and then turned, dismissing Martin with his change of posture. Martin made a final obeisance, and withdrew from the room.
Outside Caroline waited. “All good?” she asked after he closed the door. He smiled at his fellow thrall. “All good. Good service to you,” he said
“And Good service to you,” she replied, as he hurried up to his small room.
The documents proved somewhat useful. The missing man - Robert Willams - had that most enviable of things at the Docks that straddled the Isle of Dogs - a permanent job. No casual docker, he was employed as a guard. Evidently one of the Master’s informants, though the man himself apparently thought he was being slipped a few extra shillings by someone in the Port Authority who wished to have an ear close to the ground. He had a routine, every day at around five o’clock he made a telephone call to report which ships were berthed. A security measure - certain phrases were codes - which had been but twice used in the last six years. Yesterday he failed to make that phone call, and again this evening. The man was also married and had a predictable gaggle of children, mostly older now, the youngest being twelve. He’d been in the navy in the Great War.
Martin paused, and heard the bells toll three o’clock in the morning. Time for a little sleep, and then he would rouse the gang.
Martin waited.
As he had for several nights he sat in his appointed place, and waited. He sat with his hands in his lap, feet placed lightly, yet flat, on the floor. The wooden chair had no cushion, and he waited.
“I don’t know what you’ve done,” Caroline had said to him earlier, “He usually has you on a new job practically before the old one’s done.” Or granted him leave.
Was this punishment? It could be punishment, but the Master had not seemed angry to Martin’s practised eye. He had picked apart every detail of Sir Henry’s death, of course, but that was to be expected. He said he approved of Martin’s actions, and had then asked Martin to make himself ready each night until needed.
Martin waited.
Opposite him was a clock. He watched the pendulum swing in its eternal beat, observed the hour hand make its graceful arc. He tried his best not to think. Better to stare at the clock, he reminded himself, than let the mind go idle. The pendulum provided a point of reference.
Martin waited.
The door opened, and he was summoned.
In the study the Master waited, standing. Martin approached and knelt. He felt the Master’s hand on his hand, and turned his face upward to receive his blessing, and he knew he had not been punished. He had not been forgotten. His Master had known he would be needed, just not when, and wanted to keep him close. It all made sense.
Blessing and benediction completed the Master spoke. “I have a task for you.”
Martin smiled in fulfilment. “How might I serve?” he asked.
“The folder on the desk contains the details. Someone has gone missing in The Island. Someone in our service, though he knew it not. Perhaps this disappearance is not a concern. Perhaps it is. Find out.”
“As you wish,” Martin said, and scooped up the documents, intoxicated with purpose.
“Martin,” his Master said again. “Alacrity can be a virtue, but in this matter I require accuracy.”
“I understand,” Martin said, his soul singing.
“I trust that you do,” the Master said, and then turned, dismissing Martin with his change of posture. Martin made a final obeisance, and withdrew from the room.
Outside Caroline waited. “All good?” she asked after he closed the door. He smiled at his fellow thrall. “All good. Good service to you,” he said
“And Good service to you,” she replied, as he hurried up to his small room.
The documents proved somewhat useful. The missing man - Robert Willams - had that most enviable of things at the Docks that straddled the Isle of Dogs - a permanent job. No casual docker, he was employed as a guard. Evidently one of the Master’s informants, though the man himself apparently thought he was being slipped a few extra shillings by someone in the Port Authority who wished to have an ear close to the ground. He had a routine, every day at around five o’clock he made a telephone call to report which ships were berthed. A security measure - certain phrases were codes - which had been but twice used in the last six years. Yesterday he failed to make that phone call, and again this evening. The man was also married and had a predictable gaggle of children, mostly older now, the youngest being twelve. He’d been in the navy in the Great War.
Martin paused, and heard the bells toll three o’clock in the morning. Time for a little sleep, and then he would rouse the gang.
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All
I have begun to setup a Dramatis Personae on the first post, that I hope to keep broadly up to date. I have also worked out to my satisfaction a proper naming/numbering system for updates, which I hope is self-explanatory. Most relevant for Threadmarks, of course.
I have begun to setup a Dramatis Personae on the first post, that I hope to keep broadly up to date. I have also worked out to my satisfaction a proper naming/numbering system for updates, which I hope is self-explanatory. Most relevant for Threadmarks, of course.
Again, a lot that you could unpack from a little detail like this. The informant's contact was able to pass himself as a Port Authority man, which can imply one of two things:
- The contact was able to pose as a Port Authority man because he has some familiarity with how they operate, possibly because he has been thoroughly coached on the role by someone with inside information.
- The contact is a Port Authority man (at least ostensibly), while also being in the employ of our mysterious organization / criminal syndicate / spy ring / possible cult.
I read this last update, was considering the name of this story and just happened to be listening to some Concrete Blonde ... The Master, the Isle of Dogs, bells tolling ... and couldn't help but reference this (Martin isn't heading to New Orleans is he? ).
(I chose the live version which says is from 1987 but probably actually 1990, as it is a bit grittier and the 'axework' is great )
You've left us with a lot to think about!
).)You've left us with a lot to think about!
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As an aside to this comment, the history of the London docks is fascinating in and of itself, and I have barely scratched the surface in my own research. However, one very interesting datum is that they were nationalised into the Port of London Authority in by the Port of London Act of 1908, legislation guided through the House of Commons by none other than a certain up-and-coming politician called Winston Churchill - the legislation coming into effect in 1909. The Port of London Authority still exists, today, but it's remit has changed somewhat.
Well, got to have a tentacle or two to keep up the whole Cthulu-esque atmosphere
Hehe, no, not to New Orleans. After all, as someone once said if a man is tired of London...I read this last update, was considering the name of this story and just happened to be listening to some Concrete Blonde ... The Master, the Isle of Dogs, bells tolling ... and couldn't help but reference this (Martin isn't heading to New Orleans is he?
(I chose the live version which says is from 1987 but probably actually 1990, as it is a bit grittier and the 'axework' is great
You've left us with a lot to think about!
Good song
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Fascinating stuff, as ever; the Master and his agents up to no good, I'll wager.
On London, the traditions and (frankly) oddities of the City of London (rather than London, a different beast altogether) are what I find fascinating. Through my profession I have occasionally dabbled, enjoying a brief acquaintance before legging it back to sanity. The Worshipful Companies, for one, are hilarious...
On London, the traditions and (frankly) oddities of the City of London (rather than London, a different beast altogether) are what I find fascinating. Through my profession I have occasionally dabbled, enjoying a brief acquaintance before legging it back to sanity. The Worshipful Companies, for one, are hilarious...
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But no good from whose perspective?
And yes, London is ..., well London just London. I admire her from afar