An Eye for Clarity

Chapter 1

Weak Autumnal sunlight filtered through the yellowing leaves of huge decadent Maple trees that stretched their broken mossy limbs to the sky as if beseeching  the Almighty for one more year. Not if the council arbourist had his way: too old, they had to go. Newer safer more exotic trees would be planted these majestic old giants had had their time. There were rules about old unsafe trees in public places. A few illeducted romantics  would complain but there were guidlines that had to be followed! The evening was cooling down and soon a fog would roll in from the sea blurring the outlines of a mock Tudor building in the middle of the wind break of ancient trees. Originally built as a place for sailors R and R the small upstairs rooms were empty. Too small for modern tourists who didn't want to share a toilet and bathroom; modern tastes were more for ensuite. The landlord of the Inn had little incentive to upgrade the building as Victoria's planners were proposing  a new hotel for the area" more in keeping with the 21st century not a 19th century brothel!" A consortium of developers had already put a plan together and made the landlord a reasonable offer for the old shack. He would probably accept. He himself had worked in the building for nigh on 30 years and still had to make the mortgage payments that had been extended to help with the cashflow problems. His big ideas of a thriving emporium never seemed to come to fruition. The previous land lord had made the place a gold mine with pub food and entertainment. The Fire Safety Codes had stopped the music as the doors were too narrow to allow for sufficient escape of the pub patrons during a conflagration. Significant changes would have to be made. The Food Health and Safety Officer had shut the kitchen down on his first visit. Too much old wood and just a sink for washing plates. "For Pete's sake. A food preparation area should be made of sterile Formica and an Industrial dishwasher would ensure the public could eat off clean plates." The landlord had    intended to upgrade but then the patrons had become fewer and he could barely make the old mortgage payments without renegotiating with the bank. The redevelopment plan seemed like the answer to his retirement plans; he'd hold out for a little more money then accept and move into an apartment in Downtown Vancouver. Not his original plan but the old place was going to provide for him in his twilight years anyway. 

Only one man sat in the bar. He was drinking bottled beer as he knew the beer in the taps would be sour as the landlord never flushed them as it was a" waste of good beer." It wasn't. It was cheap and short sighted. The man drank the bottled beer from a glass so he could enjoy the hoppy aroma of the brew. Swigging from a bottle limited the sensational experience of drinking. He also allowed his beer to warm slightly so all the fragrances and tastes would be released from the icy grip of the freezer. He had to choose carefully though as many of the mass produced beers relied upon being a frozen fizzy froth and could not be allowed to warm as this revealed their true putrid taste. Still, if a few new customers came in the rancid swill would be gone from the pipes and he could have a fresh pint drawn from the keg in the cellar. He breathed deeply as he finished his last dregs of the beer.

"You want a pint yet Charles? Or you staying with the bottles?"

"I'll have another bottle thanks Randy."

The landlord raised his eyebrows slightly and shook his head; he  wondered what made this English guy tick. He was never sure when he'd switch from bottles to pints. It was something to do with other people in the pub he reasoned as Charles only drank bottles alone. Probably some weird English custom.  And why did Charles insist on his full name, why not Charlie. He knew some perfectly good Charlies infact he always insisted on being called Randy not Randolph  which the English guy always said with a hint of humour in his voice. "Hi how you feeling Randy?" But he said it in a strange way so it seemed to mean something else.  Who could really understand these people? He'd given that up years ago. You meet all sorts in this line of work that's for sure. 

Charles Stewart was not a native of Canada. He'd been born in the post industrial North of England. When asked, he'd reply: "A sunny little hamlet called Manchester." Those who were unfamiliar with the city just smiled and pictured something like Constable's Haywian and he left it at that. The truth of growing up in Thatcherite Britain 1980's was a little further from the idyllic scene. Especially,  in those places that did not return a Conservative Member of Parliament. Margaret's spite for such working class scum was boundless and her policies soon introduced a sub working class: the hopelessly unemployed. The stalwart  industries of the North: coal mining, iron and steel making, heavy industry  were shut down or sold off and the workers joined the lengthening dole queues. " Keep them desperate and poor; take away their jobs and pride. Break the unions and buy off the police and army." This was the Britain that Charles grew up in. He knew early in life that being born in deprived part of a beaten city was probably a good place to be FROM  but not to be IN. Fortunately, Margaret's class conscious avarice had not focussed on university grants at that time and Charles took advantage of this as it enabled him to attend university. Not that he could claim a full grant and benefits : the only students he'd met that could do that were the ones who spoke of "Daddy's clever accountant". Still, the grant and part time jobs had got him his degree, his ticket! A few months after graduation Thatcher announced changes to the grant system: he'd caught the tail end of a noble effort to educate everyone. No doubt "Daddy's Accountant" would find loop holes conveniently left for those who could to employ one. But for people like him, who needed the grant to start, university education had just got one step further away. Many of his fellow students were the cosseted offspring of an indulged class that faired well under Thatcher's  ideology of making choices... for those that could afford to choose. For example, those that could afford it could take part in the stripping of the profitable nationalised industries like British Telecom. If you couldn't then the choice had already been made for you; what had been bought and developed with the tax payers' money was now being sold and resold to become the property of a wealthy elite. That was choice. The same choices that could be exercised when sending your children to a state school or a grant aided "private" school.

The courses were not difficult the problem was to keep attending for four years without any steady income to supplement the grant. Many students left with massive debts that could be wiped out by Daddy's cheque book. Charles left with a small overdraft due to a combination of two jobs and living in the worst slums imaginable: the Crescents of Hulme. His overdraft was paid off six months after graduating. Not what the loan sharks at the banks wanted to hear. 

Charles and his girlfriend from college had moved to the North of Manchester and taught in Socially Deprived area until one fateful day. The headmaster of Charles's  They sat I n the  quiet smokeless. School was gazing out of the window one morning break time. "Look at all those bastards." He said. "I'm not being funny but most of them don't have a legal father. What are your plans then you going to settle down and have kids?"

"We've not decided yet. We thought we might travel before we do that."

"Oh yeh? I thought that. You'll soon get over it. Stick with me and in few years you'll be where I am."

His heart sank. The Foreign Office had a few affiliated teaching organisations throughout the Commonwealth; one was in Brunei. It was a long shot but Charles and Angela both applied.

"Brunei! That's in Saudi Arabia isn't it? It was then Charles knew he had to get out.

Customer ate the peathen The nuts that sat in a bowl where in previous years an ashtray had stood. Government wisdom had decreed that pubs were no longer places where 'harmful' acts should take place. Smoking was unhealthy and people needed to be protected from the evils of tobacco. But what about the alcohol? The barman had seen what happens when people drank too much. No smoke breaks between beers now just glass after glass.  The older man and the youth. Just turned 19 and eager to enter this previously forbidden world.