The Prodigal Housekeeper

The Prodigal Housekeeper is now available from www.authorsonline.co.uk

bookshops and Amazon as a paperback and Kindle ebook.

ISBN 978 0 7552 1443 3

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Caroline is a gorgeous product of our ‘greed is good’ times. She has no sense of moral responsibility and unashamedly enjoys exploiting the frailties of rich men to feed her insatiable desires. She acts spontaneously and is not controlled by any social norms.

The besotted Oswald, one of her suitors, describes her as ‘the freest person he has ever met’. His baffling entanglement leads to adventures in the South Seas and encounters with a Shaman.

Is Oswald acting out of the iron necessity of natural law, or are there deeper explanations for his inexplicable attraction?

This is both a frivolous read and one that supplies plenty of food for thought.

A fast moving and humorous page turner to take on vacation or read on a winters evening - one you will keep to read again and talk about with friends and family.


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Review by Scorchio.co posted on Amazon UK, December 2012

Michael takes the reader through a witty, ironic and poignant journey-ette through the lives of an attractive woman and a mature man of means. Mostly through dialogue, the narrative weaves through time and place with a healthy dose of sardonic humour. This book offers more than a contemporary tale, there are mischievous nudges toward larger ontological questions and the values that we hold.
This book must certainly not be judged by its cover, which could do with a publishers of some repute's touch - the content is well worth a read.

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Part of review by Sam Merry posted at Amazon UK, November 2012


Clearly written, well-structured and enlivened by entertaining witticisms and observations on life, this is primarily a warm, entertaining, but gripping story for those who like happy endings. A lovely book.


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5.0 out of 5 stars Metaphysical New Novel Has a Heroine Full of Surprises, 6 Jun 2012

By Tyler R. Tichelaar "Superior Book Promotions ... - Published on Amazon.com

This review is from: The Prodigal Housekeeper (Paperback)

Article first published at BlogCritics.org on June 5, 2012

The Prodigal Housekeeper is perhaps the most surprising book I've read in a long time. It's not a suspense novel, adventure story, or crime thriller, but don't let the title fool you--neither is it about a servant. It's about a "prodigal" woman, Caroline, and she's a prodigal in every sense of the word. She does not abide by a moral code but simply uses men by marrying them and then divorcing them to get what she wants. Nor does she see anything wrong with her behavior. She is simply amoral, and I found her a fascinating character who experiences fascinating repercussions for her behavior because they are not at all what the reader would expect.

The novel begins in England with Caroline's marriage to the well-off Oswald, a man some twenty-plus years older than her who drives expensive cars and has a beautiful house. On their wedding day, Caroline informs Oswald of her reasons for marrying him and what she wants from him--even the most hardened reader will be surprised by her words--and Oswald's words in response. Oswald already knows that he always falls for the wrong kind of woman, stating, "I always fall for the same type of woman, usually one who gets me into trouble. I am not attracted to the sensible type who wake up at six o'clock and then start to bake bread." So this time, Oswald has decided to be wiser; he has been attuned to Caroline's tricks for a while and is prepared for her demands. The interesting battle of wills and Caroline's amoral tendencies soon take the characters on a journey neither could ever predict that includes a trip to Indonesia, mystical experiences, and an unexpected secret from the past.

One aspect of the novel that might make a few readers quibble is that the supernatural or mystical events are not fully explained, but I found how they were presented to be realistic and the author, Don Michael, intentionally left them as mysterious. Michael realizes that not everything needs to be explained, and some aspects of our lives are better left unexplained. At the same time, the characters come to realize that many of their actions, which even they do not understand, have reasons and meaning behind them--and on some metaphysical level, they are searching for something they do not even realize they seek. In addition, the book makes passing references to reincarnation, the power of the mind, and soul groups without ever going overboard; it simply leaves the mystery of life as just that--a mystery--while still bringing the novel to a very satisfying conclusion.

Don Michael writes in a simple, smooth style that I found to be relaxing and soothing. It is simple in the sense that Michael's efforts to be concise make his writing style look easy, although as an author myself, I know it is not simple. Furthermore, he has the distance not to be overly emotionally involved in his characters, although he is obviously fond of them; he steps back and always sees the bigger picture his characters are grasping to see.

The peacefulness that permeates this book is rare to find in modern literature, and it is difficult to describe. It is like reading Evelyn Waugh, with his twists and irony in A Handful of Dust, but without the angst and still a touch of his humor. It also reminds me of the metaphysical grace of Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his very best book Zanoni. And while the story lacks the outlandishness of Voltaire's Candide, it retains that sense that we live in the best of all possible worlds. As one of the characters says toward the end of The Prodigal Housekeeper, "I don't think any of us have really achieved goodness; we are learning to be who we really are, and we all have some past actions that were bad. Life involves taking a few risks and making a few mistakes now and again; it is a struggle and we must keep struggling. You are doing just fine." Despite what the characters endure, in the end, all is right with the world.

I have found, now a couple of weeks after first reading The Prodigal Housekeeper, that the book's characters and its message have remained with me, giving me much to mull over since I finished it. Don Michael is a British novelist, but his themes are of universal interest. Books like this one can make their readers more thoughtful and in tune with themselves. I would like to read more of this author's work.

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THE PRODIGAL HOUSEKEEPER

Chapter 1

   The thirty year old white Mercedes convertible had the roof down. It was the only new car Oswald had ever bought, and despite its age, was the one he most enjoyed driving. June sun shone as he drove the car slowly along the narrow high-hedged lanes criss­crossing the Hampshire countryside. It was prudent to drive slowly because people were taking advantage of the fine weather to be out riding their horses and ponies.

   Beside Oswald sat a much younger blonde who had removed her hat and was allowing the breeze to flutter through her long curly hair. From time to time, she nonchalantly flicked away a ­­­­few strands that fell across her eyes. Removing such dropping curls was a gesture Caroline enjoyed making and this she did with such frequency that over time it became part of her identity. Her hairdresser deliberately styled her hair so a lock would occasionally and ‘inadvertently’ tumble, even indoors.

   They drove in silence for some while before Oswald spoke.

   "What would you like to do now, Caroline? It’s such a lovely day and perfect for a little drive before going home.”

   Caroline had said only two words all morning, and on hearing Oswald’s question, she made no reply.

   “Are you happy, darling?” he asked, confident her silence was a sign of contentment.

   There was still no reply. Oswald wasn’t in a talkative mood either so he continued driving carefully through the country lanes.

   Oswald’s life had changed drastically and his thoughts rummaged through his biography, beginning with the first summer when he bought the Mercedes. It was a lucky meeting in a pub that resulted in a business deal almost too good to be true. All his life he had been lucky in money but not in love.

   “Let’s drive to the Mill House Inn and have some coffee by the river on our way home. We went there once before with William and his wife, you’ll remember when you see it,” he said, without expecting an answer.

   A twenty-minute drive brought them to the pub’s car park from where they walked to a table in the garden and were the only customers. They sat beside each other near the turning mill wheel and ordered one pot of coffee and one iced lemon. It was a delightful flowery garden, perfect for sitting together and watching brown trout swimming in the slow flowing chalk river. Nobody was present to watch the middle-aged man and a much younger blond woman holding hands. Nobody was present to see the two shining new gold wedding rings.

   After coffee, the newlyweds drove to their home. Oswald stopped first at the steps of the house to let Caroline out, and then he took the car to his garage. These days he did not drive much himself; he preferred to be chauffeur-driven. He parked the car in the garage alongside a small collection of vintage cars and the newish Bentley he mostly used.

   The chauffeur came over as he parked, and after inspecting the car, said,

   "I see you managed to pick up a lot of mud on the wheels, did everything go alright?"

   “Yes, Peter. It all went smoothly. Just a quiet affair in the Registry Office, and then we stopped at the Mill House for drinks.”

   “May I be the first to congratulate you? You've a beautiful wife. Best wishes for a long and happy marriage.”

   “Time will tell. I suppose we’d better try to find a car for her, something she can drive herself, and something you can drive her around in. Have a think and give me your suggestions.”

   Oswald walked unhurriedly along the gravel drive back to the house, looking at the gardens as he did so. He stopped twice by a long bed of orange, yellow and white roses, once to carefully dead-head a few, and once to take in the aroma of blooming flowers. It was a charming, old brick Hampshire farmhouse with large bay windows and the sloping red tiled roof had several honey-suckle clad dormer windows.

   Elizabeth, the chauffeur’s wife, who looked after the house with a part time maid-cum-cook waited at the flagstone steps of the front entrance. She lived with her husband in accommodations above the garage which left much of the house unoccupied. Oswald had been a lifelong bachelor and didn't care much for entertaining and used caterers for his rare parties. It had been Caroline’s wish for a quiet wedding, and the groom had been happy about this, thinking a large garden party later in the summer would be better.

   “Congratulations on your marriage. You've chosen a wonderful wife,” she said grasping both Oswald’s hands and shaking them heartily as soon as he had arrived at the entrance.

   “Thank you, I'm a lucky man.” He thought about adding, ‘This is the happiest day of my life’ but resisted since it wasn’t true and would have sounded hollow.

   “Do you think we'll need any extra staff in the house now I have a wife?”

   “Oh no, I don’t think we should bother, it won't be necessary at all. I should hope everything runs like clockwork after twenty years. Too many hands tend to spoil the broth. I don’t think Caroline’s the type to want her own maid.”

   “We haven’t had a chance to talk about that. I'll have to ask her. I'm not sure what she’s got in mind.”

   “Well, at the moment she’s in the guest room as usual. Your rooms haven’t been changed, and the master bedroom has been made ready.”

   “Thanks a lot, could you bring some tea in the garden and invite my wife to join me?” he asked, although he still felt awkward using the word “wife”. The idea he was married hadn’t sunk in.

   “Yes, of course, I will. Cook has baked a lovely wedding cake, and we've got fresh strawberries from the greenhouse.”

   Oswald was waiting in the summer garden, sitting at a table in the shade of an old apple tree, when Caroline and the afternoon tea arrived. Her taciturn mood had changed and the young bride started to speak in an almost businesslike manner as she carefully poured out tea and milk for her husband.

   “Oswald, I really want to have a talk with you after dinner. I've something important to say.”

   “Oh, I had some other ideas for our wedding night. These strawberries are delicious, and the cake is splendid. Here let me cut you a slice. I thought we could go off on our honeymoon straight after the wedding, but you didn’t think it a good idea. I still fancy somewhere in the Caribbean. It would suit us fine. We could do some sailing together and you'd have a chance to go diving...  I could try some big-game fishing.”

   “You know I’ve got appointments in London next week and I'll have to stay up there for several days. Afterwards we can go wherever we like. But do let’s talk after dinner, and then things will become clearer. Yes, the cake is very tasty, one of the best I’ve ever had, and the strawberries are scrumptious. I do think it would have been nice if you'd carried me over the threshold. That’s what grooms generally do.”

   "Sorry, I’ve no previous experience. I'll try harder next time." were words he thought of adding, but decided they would be inappropriate, aloud he said simply,

   “Sorry dear.”

   "Never mind, though it would have made for a bit of fun. It's one of my favourite parts of the wedding day." She half-finished a mouthful of cake before saying, "Now I know how happy a man can make a woman. I'm going to be gloriously happy living here.”

   “So after nearly two hours of marriage you’ve only one complaint.” Oswald said with a smile.

   “Two. The old black and white jacket you wore wasn’t the most suitable of choices. Something a bit more Elton Johnish to go with my green hat would have been nice. The main thing is we’re married. Right now, I must shower, change, and make a couple of phone calls. See you at dinner, ta-ra.”

   “Hold on a minute dear, Peter’s just coming with the camera and wants to take a few pictures.”

   After Peter had photographed them holding hands at the table Oswald’s eyes followed Caroline’s slim body as she walked across the lawn back to the house. He then drank a second cup of tea and was going back into the house when Peter stopped him.

   “I cleaned the car and put the roof back up. Do you still want to go ahead with this?”

   “Yes,” said Oswald and nodded.

   “I’ve got everything ready so just give a call when you need me. I still think you could be digging up trouble.”

   Oswald had a self-contained apartment of three rooms on the ground floor. Here he spent a good part of his time and was able to do most of his cooking. The part-time cook of the house actually didn’t have much to do except prepare a full Monty breakfast every morning exactly as Oswald liked it, complete with mushrooms, fried bread, toast, tomatoes, baked beans, scrambled eggs, bacon and black sausage.

   This evening the cook had prepared a special meal in the dining room for the newlyweds, and after serving each course, went back into the kitchen, discreetly leaving the couple to their privacy. They had eaten here often during their courtship. and had generally preferred to spend their time at Oswald’s house but had also taken several trips away, around England or on the Continent. These had been happy times for both of them. They had laughed and joked together, sometimes dancing, playing backgammon or watching a movie. They both enjoyed using the indoor swimming pool, and regularly spent an hour or two on the tennis court playing singles or mixed doubles with friends.

   After they had eaten, Caroline suggested to Oswald they move to the conservatory. This was her favourite spot in the house with an expansive view across fields to woods of tall beech trees. They sat on easy chairs and looked out through the open French windows to watch the large crimson sun set against a veil of blue sky. Soon the cook brought in a steaming pot of hot chocolate. Neither of them were great drinkers, though Oswald sometimes enjoyed a pint of Guinness or a glass of port.

   “I've something important to say,” Caroline said once the drinks had arrived.

   “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like some champagne, dear? A little celebration?”

   “Quite sure,” she replied rather curtly.

   “That was a funny thing at the Registry Office. They put your first name down as Cara. Why was that?”

   “Well, because it’s my name. You know my mother is Welsh?”

   “You told me several times.”

   “She called me Cara because I was born in a caravan, see,” she said, using her Welsh accent.

   "You never mentioned it before. Have you got any more little secrets?"

   “Mum thought it would sound good, and when I was older, I could call myself Cara van Christie if ever I became an actress, a politician or a fashion designer or something. When I was a teenager, I changed it to Carol and later to Caroline. But I have something important to say.”

   “Cara van Christie is quite catchy. It was thoughtful of your mother. And you never knew your father?” he asked, not thinking he was interrupting.

   “No, I didn’t. Not at all. My mother didn’t know him either, or hardly. It was something she seldom mentioned. I was the result of an accident, a sort of passing of ships in the night. She can’t even remember the man’s name. In those days, there were no morning-after pills. Mum told me she thought of having an abortion, but decided not to and got a job in a sardine factory instead. We lived together in the caravan, and Mum was able to bring home tins of sardines for free, we ate them ten times a week. I've had enough sardines to last a lifetime. Perhaps it’s why I can swim so well. Are you glad I wasn’t aborted?”

   “I've never been asked such a question before! Of course I'm very glad that you were born. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Elizabeth asked if you'd like to have your own maid now we’re married?”

   “You keep distracting me. Please allow me to say everything I have to say and then things will become much clearer.”

   “Caroline, dear, this is our wedding night. We should be cuddling up in the big double bed by now. That’s the general idea of getting married.”

   “There can be other reasons too.”

   “Like what?”

   “Well, like getting a foreign passport for one thing. There are loads of reasons. Some people even get married on religious grounds. It’s exactly what I want to talk about… my reason for getting married to you. I want you to think of me as your housekeeper.”

   “But I don’t want a housekeeper! Why should I think of you as my housekeeper? The house runs perfectly smoothly with Elizabeth and her husband. I want a wife. That’s why I married you. Of course, we can get more staff if you think it necessary.”

   “Yes, dear, you're quite right, I'm your wife. This morning we married, signed all the papers and now you've got a housekeeper."

   “I don’t understand. We fell in love, engaged and now we’re man and wife. It's all been a dream, like the working out of a wonderful plan.”

   “Yes, darling, perfectly true. You put things so well. It’ll probably take a time for you to understand, but I'm doing my best to make things clear and simple. I didn’t fall in love with you… you fell in love with me. I fell in love with the house.”

   “This is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t believe what I'm hearing.”

   “Quite the usual reaction. Let me say it once again, very slowly. I married you so this house would become mine.”

   “Are you really asking for some sort of separation on our wedding night?" The normally softly spoken Oswald raised his voice and added, "This cannot be true!”

   “Oh yes, it's true. Divorce actually. It happens all the time, there’s something about it in the newspapers almost every day. Usually people stay married for a few years, have a miserable time with loads of horrible arguments and divorce,” Caroline explained with a little fluttering of her eyelashes. “It lasts absolutely ages, and is an awfully long time to wait. By doing it this way, things are kept nice and simple for both of us.”

   “What makes you think you can marry me for a few hours and take my house?”

   “Because I’ve a solicitor in London, Mr. Chambers, of Chambers, Crawley and Boyle, who specializes in divorce law. You can have a chat with him if you like. He’ll explain all the ins and outs, or what he likes to call the ‘pros and cons.’ This way I get the house and you keep everything else—all your businesses and investments, properties, cars, pensions, absolutely everything.”

   “But why, might I ask, didn't you mention this before?” Oswald stuttered.

   “You might ask, but if you have a teeny, teeny think about the question, you'll not need to ask it again.”

   “Is this one of your jokes?”

   “No, it's definitely not a joke. I'm your housekeeper. I keep your house.”

   “Do you expect me to get angry and scream and shout?” asked Oswald, lifting both his hands.

   “There’s no point really. I suggest you go to bed, have a good sleep, and in the morning, you can check out the position with your solicitor.”

   “Do you really think I'll be able to sleep a wink tonight? What about the garden party? I wanted to have a marquee with a band and hundreds of guests—all our friends and family. I'll be a laughingstock.”

   “Oswald, you don’t have to tell anyone. Far better not to, otherwise you’ll have the press here, and with such a beautiful house, it would probably be on television. My suggestion is neither of us says a dickey bird to anyone apart from our solicitors. It can be our little secret.”

   “Some men would kill their wife for doing such a thing.”

   “You’re bound to have a few horrid thoughts like that, but the sooner they go away, the better. You can waste weeks and weeks plotting out different ways of killing me. Your life would be a misery in prison. Grey high walls and porridge for breakfast wouldn’t suit you. Much better to grasp the nettle, take it all in your stride and don’t whisper a word to anyone.”

   “Caroline, you're not normal.”

   “Normal? People say normal is just a setting on washing machines.”

   “And what do you say normal means?”

   “To be unlike anyone else on earth is normal.” replied Caroline without a smile. Though her words held no malice, her voice contained an intensity and power Oswald had never witnessed. She took a sip of chocolate and reverted to her usual persona as if nothing untoward had occurred.

   “Let me put it more bluntly. You’re completely mad.”

   “No, I'm not mad, and with time you'll think yourself lucky. Be careful in the future and get a prenuptial agreement. That’s the way to go about marriage these days. You could have met a gold digger who would have taken at least half of everything you have, plus the horrific legal expenses. I suggest we don’t talk about it anymore at the moment. You're beginning to see what's happened and need time for it to sink in. I'll go to London for a few days and you can chat with your lawyer. You'll be amazed how quickly Chambers can do the conveyancing, next week I'll move in properly."

   “Yes, I'll be really amazed!" he said as his anger mounted. "And you'll be amazed when I become violent!"

   “I'm sure you must be cross and angry, but to hit your wife on your wedding night would be a sad thing to do. I had to tell you like this, face to face, the solicitor said I mustn’t put anything in writing or use the phone or emails. The best thing is not to talk any more now. Otherwise, we'll be up all night.”

   “I still can't believe you're doing this. You must have been scheming and plotting from the day we met.”

   “Actually, from a bit before we met,” she said calmly. “It started the day I saw the house. I fell in love with it instantly. I didn’t have any interest in you. You just happened to be the owner and I wanted it. If you want something in this world, you take it - that’s the trouble with wishes and desires.”

   “Astonishing,” said Oswald, and then, pronouncing every syllable slowly. “You are absolutely as-ton-ish-ing. You don’t have a moral bone in your body. I think you have a sickness,” he added in a louder voice.

   “That’s actually the best way. I’ve a mania for houses. Each time I get one, it acts like a sauce for wanting another. If I had a whole street of houses it still wouldn’t be enough. I would want to have the whole town. Do you remember the woman in the Philippines with a massive shoe collection? She had rooms and rooms full of them.”

   “Mrs. Marcos?” suggested Oswald.

   “Yes, Mrs. Marcos. That’s just what I'm like with houses. It’s something in my genes, probably on my father’s side. That’s what scientists say. I'm not bothered about clothes, cars, and holidays, and money and things. Just houses. Oh, and I do have a passion for scuba diving.”

   “Genes are always a good explanation. It pushes the blame away neatly. Stealing is stealing, whatever you steal.”

   “Oswald really! Now I don’t understand you! For the last six months you've been telling me how much you love me. How you'll do anything for me. You've been phoning up in the middle of the night, writing love letters, writing poems, sending chocolates and flowers. Suddenly you start talking about hitting me and calling me a thief. What happened to all the unconditional love?”

   “Suddenly I learn you tricked me so you could take my house. How did you think I would react?”

   “Exactly the way you have. I thought the best thing was simply to tell you and go back to London, but here we are still talking. It wasn't easy for me. We've had some wonderful times. I've really grown fond of you and enjoyed your company tremendously over these months. You made me feel like a real princess. I've never met a better, gentler or more good-spirited man. We can still be friends. This isn’t something we need to fall out over. You can always come and visit... stay in the guest room. Time will pass and we can have a good laugh about it, you've got such a wonderful sense of humour.”

   “You’re naive. Such things just don't happen. What you're doing is dishonest, and despicable. You live in another world, a world without morals! You're mad or sick. You really need to see some kind of a doctor or a psychiatrist urgently. The world isn't as you see it.”

   “I went to see a psychologist once. She told me there are loads of people like me who want lots of houses. She said it was quite usual and I was in perfect health.”

   “And you paid her for saying exactly what you wanted to hear,” said Oswald.

   “Yes, of course, it’s how she makes her living. Certainly several people have told me I'm naïve, but I'm never sure what it means. You're just trying to find the bad side of me. If you look for positives, you'll find them. You know I can be insecure because I spent most of my life being poor. Besides, it’s not really fair to blame someone because they turn out differently from how you expected or hoped. A little minx could have left you with a couple of children and loads of patrimony to pay.”

   “I think you mean alimony,” he suggested, trying to speak calmly and remain in control of himself.

   “Typical. You're such a poly moth. It drags on and on for years and years. All I want is one house and no fuss with lawyers and courts and the press. It couldn’t be simpler. It leaves you completely free to carry on with your life. You can easily go out and buy another house, you've got more money than you can spend. It’s nothing to make a fuss over and not too bad in the great scheme of things. Just think of it as though you've had a little accident, a bout of flu, or an unexpected tax bill or something.”

   “I think you're right. We're talking and getting absolutely nowhere,” Oswald said after some deep breaths and calming down a little. “I've been married for less than a day, and I can already say that my wife doesn't understand me. That must be a record. I've been straight with you all the time, I don’t see how I did anything wrong.”

    “Perhaps you’ve been a little naïve?” she suggested and after a pause, added with a smile, “I really don’t know what it means.”

   “In my case, it almost certainly means stupid. I do need time to think and discuss it with my solicitor. Look, I'll call Peter now and he can drive you back to London tonight. Unless, of course, you'd like to tell me the whole evening has been one enormous joke?”

   “No. It definitely hasn’t. Don’t forget we’ve spent a lot of time together and I know an awful lot about you… it’s almost like being man and wife. I must say you’re being decent and gentlemanly. Sometimes it brings out a dark and angry side in people. You've behaved philosophically, almost as if you were prepared for some bad news coming.”

   Caroline opened her handbag before saying with a smile, “Look, I've brought along a bottle of arnica tablets. They’re good for mental shock. You should take three or four tablets now, and three more at two-hour intervals. They are sure to calm you down and will help you sleep.”

   “Oh, I see. You give me a little bottle of arnica tablets, and I give you a large house! Amazing! Let me get this straight, you've done the same thing to other men?”

   “Yes, a few times. It’s my job,” she said without any sign of remorse.

   “A few times... it’s my job! You're reprehensible! And you sit there cool as a cucumber telling me this. I suppose there’s no way you could ever be found out?”

   “Not really. My solicitor is very professional—a real bulldog, and he knows every trick in the book. Of course, he’s the basest of swindlers, and I have to pay him a huge percentage, but it’s in his interests to be discreet. It’s mostly the new divorce laws and women’s rights that have made things so much easier for us. Thirty years ago it was seedy hotels, blackmail and private detectives jumping out from behind curtains with flash cameras, but those times have mostly gone."

   “I can just about remember those times from Sunday newspapers."

   "Unfortunately, there’re lots of amateurs about these days who give the business a bad name, and mail order girls coming from Eastern Europe. You really must watch out. They’re swarming all over the Internet. They say they’re looking for real love, romance and men with a sense of humour, but often it’s not true. Anyway, the most important thing seems to be not to put anything in writing until a proper agreement is drawn up between us. I just sign a letter saying I'll take the house and nothing more. Then the divorce goes through QQA, quickly, quietly and amicably.”

   “Don’t some of the men actually hit you or take some sort of revenge?” asked Oswald.

   “It's a real danger, an occupational hazard. Touch wood, I've always been fortunate and never experienced any domestic violence. I've heard some dreadful stories, and not just in novels, the good thing is men don’t want to tell anyone about what the women have done. Too much pride and fear of losing face. Soon it becomes something they want to forget. Mentioning it on the wedding night is by far the best way.”

   “What sort of percentage does your Mr. Chambers take, if I may ask?”

   “You shouldn’t really ask such questions! It's a professional trade secret between him and me, but around fifteen percent of the house value. I have to pay it as fees, though he likes most in cash. Expensive, but I couldn’t do without him. It’s far too much really, considering he’s got two or three other girls working. With some he even takes a finder’s fee through his housekeeper’s agency. I like to pick my own clients because it keeps things more personal.”

   “Do you manage to keep the houses, or have to sell them?” Oswald asked.

   “I'm definitely going to keep this one. I absolutely adore it. Hopefully, it will be my last job. I should be able to manage financially, but will still need a couple of staff because the garden is so big. I could always start a little donkey sanctuary business… quite a good money spinner. The old retainers will have to go of course, so I can have a fresh start. If I keep my expenses down, I should be able to manage. I do hope you'll come and visit to see all the little changes I make. I want to put a large heated aquarium here in the conservatory. There'll be plenty of space when your dusty old books have gone. I love tropical fish and water. When I was a teenager, I did a lot of long distance swimming… that’s how I got my big shoulders.”

   Caroline reached over and placed one of her hands on her husband's knee. “Who knows, darling, one day we might really fall in love and get married again. None of this pretending stuff and I've grown to like you very, very much. That would be a dream come true.”

   “Who knows? Life is certainly full of surprises! I might actually enjoy coming to visit you from time to time to see how you are settling in. Look, it is getting quite late and time for you to go. Peter has been waiting in the next room and is ready to drive you to London. I asked him to make a video of our entire conversation. Look carefully and you can see the teeny, teeny cameras in the wall. There's a microphone hidden under the table too.”

   Caroline shuddered and gave Oswald a piercing look. The room went deathly quiet and after a considerable pause, Oswald said, “Are you there, Peter? Can you come in now?”

                                                                               +++

WHO IS LIKE GOD?

WHO IS LIKE GOD?

It was an hostel in Indonesia but could have been almost anywhere. Thousands of hostels like this one have sprung up around the world for those who refer to themselves as backpackers or travellers. To call them tourists is something of an insult.

A series of travel books has been written for just about every country in the world giving maps, bus times, and places to visit which include accommodation. Some of the low budget guides even tell you where to park your four wheel drive and discuss the merits of five star hotels. Part of their mission appears to be to take the travail out of travel.

I am staying in one of these hostels although I am three times the age of most of the other people here and all too often I forget that they are young and have different interests. When I began traipsing around the world it was quite usual for people to call us hippies. Sometimes I have really good chats with these young men and women from the affluent Western world who are privileged to able to live well in poor countries. Many of them are exceptionally bright, articulate and full of interest in every thing and everybody around them and after spending time in their company I feel truly uplifted and think that the new generation will make wonderful improvements to the world.

Some other young people are completely different and want only to watch violent videos, football on TV, listen to their Ipods and show off their wealth in front of the locals.

It is a generation that has grown up with easy and immediate access to everything material that they wanted. They have no idea what poverty and hunger are and look upon it as some sort of crime or the result of stupidity. If this is so in India and Africa they will see many guilty people. Perhaps they have no idea that only a generation ago their family were standing on American street corners saying “Buddy, can you spare a dime?” or wandering bare footed through the bomb devastation of Dresden or Hiroshima. Something has been dreadfully lacking in their education which definitely includes a sense of history, they seldom know that a world existed before they were born and that everything moves in cycles, there are times of abundance and times of famine. Prosperity is not a permanent state as the financial crises of the new millennium is showing.

Last night I met Dennis from Holland, Hank from Michigan and Pierre from Paris. They all spoke English together and talked about visas, cheap airline tickets and places they had visited and were going to visit. Hank struggled more than the others with his English usage managing sentences such as; “I mean everything was sort of like, you know, O.K., kind of thing”

By chance, or the law of averages, they were all studying or had finished Business Studies at University and none of them was particularly interested in the subject. They had all ended up with debts and parental loans, they had all enjoyed the social life at college and none of them knew what was coming next or what they really wanted to do.

I woke up early, took a little walk and was sitting down with my first cup of coffee when Dennis came and sat down beside me and we started to talk. He was the sort of guy who will always be popular because he enjoyed talking, listening, asking questions and was generally full of life. In many respects he was much brighter than the others and certainly showed more interest in life about him and life within him.

“What were you doing at my age?” he asked with genuine interest.

“Oh, I had finished business studies.”

“Where did you do that?”

“New York.”

“How long did study for?” he said sipping from a mug of thick black Sumatran coffee.

“About five minutes.” I said with a smile on my face and he had a smile on his.

“I will tell you a little of what happened. In England in the late 1950s not long after the 2nd World War, we didn’t have television, computers, Cds, DVds, Ipods or any thing like that. My elder brother used to listen to radio Caroline on a crystal set that he put together himself, it was transmitted from a Pirate ship off the coast of Holland. The music was too wild for the BBC. Bill Halley was causing riots with Rock around the Clock, The Stones and Beatles were getting arrested for having drugs and Mariane Faithful had an incident with a Mars Bar. Our parents had been fighting a war for years, the worlds biggest, Empire was coming to an end, bomb sites were everywhere and the housing was in Nissan type army huts. Teddy Boys roamed the streets with smart clothes and flick knives, policemen could be very nasty if you were a Beatnik and had hair as long as the Beatles. Something new was happening, rationing was ending, contraception was begining and freedom meant we could do just about anything we liked - so we did.”


For the first time in my life I felt as if I was part of history and was enjoying myself. It was an exciting time, the music lives on and there is I fancy some jealousy among the present young for this ground breaking time.

“One day my father came home with a gramophone player which was electric and played 78 inch vinyl records using a metal needle. The sound was poor by today’s standards because of this system and because recording studies dangled one microphone in the middle of the bands who didn’t have mixing facilities.

My father had also brought some classical records and it was, apart from the radio, the first music that had ever come into our house. We listened as a family to the Planet Suit, Brahms, and Handel, I can remember them vividly. At the weekend my elder brother came home with three records that he had bought second hand from a friend at school.

The two of us spent all of Sunday listening to these three records which had A and B sides, my favourite was Blueberry Hill. The Stones and the Beetles band members were also listening to imported records and learning 12 bar Blues. Black music. When Bob Dylan sang “If you ain’t got nothing you ain’t got nothing to lose” we took it seriously - he sounded as if he was serious too. A generation of British white trash had discovered a music that they really loved.

The records came from America which was a long way away and there were hardly any planes, certainly no jets. A few weeks later one Friday after school I hitched to London and walked up and down the Thames river and came to Tilbury docks where there were ships loading and unloading their cargoes. I walked up gang planks of what to me were huge ships and asked if they were going to America. The first week I didn’t find any, the second week I didn’t find any either but a sailor told me that to get a job I must go to the Pool which is an office for merchant seaman looking for ships.

Three days later I was seeing Liverpool docks from the railings of a ship and I was on my way to New York. I had lied about my age by one year as I was only fifteen, been given a rail pass to Liverpool and signed on to a rusting cargo ship that had been registered in Panama and could just about float. Most of the crew came from the Caribbean and for the first time in my life I saw black people.

The crossing was incredibly rough, I was sea sick and had diarrhea for a week and then one foggy morning I saw the Statue of Liberty and shortly afterwards Manhattan. We tied up with the help of tugs to one of the piers and I was able to help with massive ropes and capstans having added fore, aft, starboard, larboard, and belay to my treasure of words. I saw the Empire State building which was taller than I had dreamed.

During this uncomfortable week on the Atlantic I had discovered that I was not destined to become a sailor and never wanted to be on rough sea again. I walked ashore with all my belongings which amounted to absolutely nothing. In my pocket was twelve dollars that had been given to me as an advance against my wages despite not being able to do even an hours work for the entire Atlantic crossing.

My one advantage was that I could speak English which wasn’t much of an advantage because no body else could. I heard Italian, Russian, and lots of Spanish because I was on the West Side where people from Puerto Rico lived.

I saw ice men. These were men who dragged massive chunks of ice along the streets and used ice picks to break pieces off and sell to people from their ice boxes. I saw massive red and green water melons, fire hydrants and no spitting signs.”

Dennis didn’t interrupt me once as I was telling my story. He had ordered a western breakfast and had a good appetite so I continued as he ate.

“The August day grew very hot and the tarmac stuck to my shoes as I crossed the road to buy fresh orange juice from market stalls. I found a shady spot outside a tenement building and sat on the steps completely mystified by everything going on around me. People of all shapes and colours, Cossacks, black women, Chinese children; everybody appeared to be poor and newly arrived.

I was too bemused to realize that I was in any sort of predicament but I had jumped ship, had no passport, no money, should have been at school, my parents didn’t know where I was, and was an illegal immigrant. These sorts of things are trivialities when you are young and naïve. I think naïve is a polite way of saying stupid.

During the course of the day hundreds, thousands of people walked past me sitting as I sat on the steps and none of them took the slightest interest. I only spoke to buy an orange juice, a donut and a slice of melon from gruff people.

Even as the grey shadows from the tall buildings fell across the street I didn’t think of finding a place to sleep, I was open mouthed with amazement as if I was at the cinema, everything was new, foreign and amazing.

It must have been at about 7.00 pm that a man walked by noticed me, turned back and came to speak. I later learnt that he was a Hassidic Jew, he wore a well worn black frock coat, black trousers, black shoes and had pieces of string dangling from his belt. He had probably never cut his hair but had trained it to curl around his ears in long loops, clipped onto the top of his mass of black hair was a skull cap. I had never seen one of these before.

“What are you doing here?” he asked
“I have come from England by working on a ship but I was sea sick and left.” I replied quite honestly.
“And what is you name?”
“Michael.” I replied and left of the Sir that I usually was expected to use for all teachers and older people.
“Who is like God?” He asked and I thought it a very strange question.
“Perhaps everyone, perhaps no one.” I said after a baffled pause.
“And why have you come to New York?” he asked half kindly.
“Perhaps because I like Blues Music.” Was the best answer I could find.
“Maybe so Michael. But you have also come to meet me. Now we will go to my house, you will stay with my family for a while, you can wash and we will eat together and my wife will make you a bed.”

Somehow I took all this in my stride and while he didn’t take me physically by the hand he had certainly taken me under his wing. I walked alongside him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I washed my face and hands then sat down at a table with his family which consisted of about seven people. The three children were all younger than me. Everyone spoke Hebrew or Yiddish and there was singing, prayers and candles. It was the first meal I had eaten for a week, the bread was fresh and I probably ate more than my share. When I was shown my bed which was a mattress squeezed in alongside the children I lay down and fell asleep thinking I was in a tent. There were several suitcases on top of a make shift wardrobe which gave the impression that the family would be able to leave the apartment instantly if there was a knock on the door.

At that time I was capable of sometimes sleeping for fourteen hours. My much needed sleep was interrupted and next morning I had breakfast with Mr Abe before it was light. He told me that he was going to work and that I should come with him, adding that perhaps his boss would be able to give me a job.

We took a dark smelly subway ride to Brooklyn Heights and then walked through a labyrinth of alleys where people were sleeping on newspapers and cardboard. I realized that I could have been one of them and said so to Mr Abe.

“Many things could be, but what is, is. When you have a job you will have some money. From zero to one is a million. You have found a home and are welcome to stay with us, we can always put more water in the soup.”

We continued up hundreds of subway steps and emerged by the law courts and walked quite quickly past. Nearby there were shops that sold stationery for the lawyers, we went inside one and then down into a large basement with no windows but rows of electric lights with bare bulbs and half a dozen men in skull caps were working by a long table. Neon lights weren’t common then.

After half an hour the boss, whose name was Joseph came over to say good morning.

“Do you think that you can find a job for this young man Joseph? His name is Michael and is part of my family.”

“Who is like God?” Joseph said to me.

“Perhaps everyone, perhaps no one.” I replied quite quickly and easily as it had seemed to go down well the day before.

“Come and meet Moses, he will show you what to do, its easy work and if you keep your eyes and ears open you will soon learn the printing and stationery business.”

Moses was busily and methodically working and I stood alongside him and watched. After using a guillotine to cut large sheets of paper to size he began a binding process, making covers, placing the papers into a hand press and then applying glue to the edges. I stood and watched for half an hour as he continually repeated this process. What amazed me was the meticulous manner in which he worked and the enormous care that he took at every stage of his work. It was a simple and repetitive task but he never lost concentration for a moment.

During a pause I said to him

“You are taking enormous care with your work.”

He looked up for the first time from is work and opening his hands wide at waist height said.

“If it’s for the customer it has got to be good.”

Denis was a quick and astute young man with sense of curiosity who had taken the trouble to listen attentively.

“And that was your five minutes of Business Studies?”

“Yes, it’s all you need to know. But I learnt other valuable lessons too.”

“Like what?”

That the world will only become a better place when people practice “random acts of loving kindness”.

Anything else?

“That 'Michael' means “Who is like God?” in Hebrew.”

Anything else?

“That somehow people are able to find a life even after they have had a number tattooed on their forearm.”


                                                                 +++++