Pianist Storyteller MA14

MARTIN ASHWORTH FOURTEEN

Published by Pianist Storyteller Novels 2008
26 Holmwood Avenue, Shenfield, Brentwood Essex CM15 8QS
ISBN 978-0-9559080-1-9
And now published in Kindle, the electronic reading device and also as a paperback novel in September 2014 See Amazin books.
John G Acton as the author asserts his right to copyright of the novel and the frontispiece in Martin Ashworth Fourteen and the other novels and their illustrations in this series:-
Martin Ashworth Fourteen Plus (also in Kindle)
Jack Banks Discovery,
Jack Banks on Trial,
The King’s Son
Ben Bugden Thirteen
Full details can be found on the Internet by going to.-
http://pianist-storyteller.blogspot.com/
The Kindle version can be found by clicking on MARTIN-ASHWORTH-FOURTEEN-

Martin Ashworth Fourteen
A novel of some 27,000 words intended for youngsters of 11/12 upwards with an original musical slant and also an underlying Christian ethos. No musical knowledge is required to enjoy this adventure story, but there would be an added interest for music students. It would make a good birthday or Christmas present for the latter..
Comments are welcome to me on Email johngacton@googlemail.com
Four younger children's novels can be reached through < http://pianist-storyteller.blogspot.com/>

John G Acton

MARTIN ASHWORTH : FOURTEEN
Summary for outside cover or flyleaf
Why was Martin’s father so worried and nervous when he dragged Martin away from the Chopin Festival competition? Why was the gas inspector humming a tune from a Beethoven Sonata? What was in the sealed envelope hidden under the floorboards? What made Martin change his mind about plain Jane Sweeting with her mousey brown hair and glasses?
Martin Ashworth is 14 and a keen piano student who suffers a car accident in which he breaks a leg and is temporarily blinded. His father is even more seriously injured and his mother was already in hospital awaiting an operation. This results in the mother of a girl in Martin’s form, Jane Sweeting, offering to give Martin temporary shelter in her home when Martin is released from hospital.
Martin, an only child, is embarrassed by the business of sharing a home with Jane and her young brother David, as well as trying to cope with his blindness and a broken leg. After a shaky start and some semi-comic episodes, he gradually finds that life in the Sweeting’s home can be good. He begins to appreciate the help he gets from all the family including Jane.
A visit to his father dangerously ill in hospital reveals the need for Martin, although still blind, to try and recover some secret documents hidden in his home, and to get them to his father’s colleague in Customs and Excise Investigation Branch. Martin is warned that a criminal gang would do anything to get hold of these documents. A considerable amount of action ensues, leading to a nail-biting conclusion on a trawler off the Normandy coast of France.
A novel attempt has been made by the pianist author to cast the chapters in various musical forms explained in a brief appendix: this should preferably NOT be consulted before reading the story, to avoid spoiling the plot. It should be emphasised, however, that no musical knowledge is required to enjoy this story of a 14 year old boy finding wider interests in his life than his music.
MARTIN ASHWORTH : FOURTEEN
PREFACE
For those not musically inclined, I can assure them that this story can be read straightforwardly and enjoyed without need of special knowledge. However, for those who may be interested, I have added at the back of this book an Appendix containing some brief notes on the musical forms used as chapter headings. I would warn students that I have not attempted slavishly to follow the indicated musical forms, when weaving the story themes together - the main flow of the story obviously had to have precedence. I would also remind students that composers frequently altered the musical forms to suit their artistic inclinations. The brief notes on ‘form’ are very short and should not be used in lieu of a proper text book.
I strongly advise readers to just enjoy the story and ONLY THEN , if interested, to read the brief notes on musical form in the Appendix (completely optional). If you do otherwise you are in danger of spoiling the plot for yourselves.
You can order from Kindle or buy a loose-leaf A4 folder 'hard copy' from myself - see main Pianist Stroyteller blog detailed above..
John G Acton, “Limpsfield, 26 Holmwood Avenue,
Shenfield, Brentwood, Essex CM15 8QS



CONTENTS
Chapters :-
1 Prelude
2 Fugue
3 Sonata 1st Movement - Exposition, 1st Subject
4 .. .. Transition
5 .. .. 2nd Subject
6 .. .. - Development (1)
7 .. .. .. (2)
8 .. .. - Recapitulation
9 .. 2nd Movement - Scherzo
10 .. 3rd Movement - Adagio
11 .. 4th Movement - Allegro con brio (1)
12 .. .. .. (2)
Appendix - Brief notes on musical form

Acknowledgements and Dedication
I would thank my wife for her wise advice and help throughout. I am also grateful to my piano students (including Nicky and Sacha Gaughan and Adam Gulley) who read earlier versions of this novel for their comments and encouragement. I am particularly indebted to my eldest son Thomas for his trenchant academic criticism, which enabled me to make some late positive improvements. My cover design (also copyright) has a background of music from my Golden Wedding March.
The novel is dedicated to all my piano students.
John Acton

Sample chaperts:-

       CHAPTER  1  -  PRELUDE

“Look alive and clean the windscreen, boy,” growled my Dad as he drove our ancient Ford madly at its top speed through the stormy night.  Passing headlights showed heavy rain sheeting across the windscreen. The tatty wipers scarcely made a clear space for more than a second and the inside glass was misting up. He kept on glancing anxiously in the mirror as if he feared that he was being followed.
   “Right-o Dad,” I replied as I fumbled under the seat to find the piece of rag kept for this purpose.
   “Quickly, Martin,” shouted my Dad above the noise of the storm and the engine, holding out his left hand for the rag.
   I hated it when he shouted, but I passed the rag over meekly, thinking how good it would be to have a reasonably decent car such as that belonging to my friend Colin’s father.
   Yet neither the storm nor my Dad’s irritability could disturb the inner joy still fresh in my mind from what had happened earlier that evening. It was the local Boxford Music Festival and I had entered the under 15 Chopin class. There was a good entry of other competitors including plain Jane Sweeting from my school and also taught by my teacher, Miss Jones. Jane had quite a reputation and played at school concerts. But the unimaginable happened! Even now I could scarcely believe that I had come top, playing the Chopin Waltz in A flat with Jane in second place. How glad I was that I had worked hard to memorise my piece, so as to avoid the turnover problems and keep relaxed as I approached the fast chromatic runs. I am only very average (‘ordinary’ my Dad would  say) in achievement in school studies or sport, so getting the Chopin medal was really something for little old me. But how I would have liked my Mum and Dad to have been there to hear me play.
   “Wake up!  Do your side also,” shouted my Dad rudely interrupting my thoughts. He thrust the damp rag at me and glanced anxiously again in the mirror.
   “Right - er -sorry,” I said, rubbing the cloth up and down in graceful curves in time with the waltz tune still running through my head. Looking back I could only see blackness behind us.
   I almost felt sorry for Jane Sweeting. She had played a Mazurka quite well from the music but I don’t think it was as difficult as my piece. Much to my surprise she had said to me afterwards, “That was really good, Martin. I enjoyed your Waltz.” I didn’t know what to say but Mrs Sweeting came to my rescue by saying that she was going to ‘phone the result through to Miss Jones , our piano teacher. Clearly it was also a triumph for her to have us come 1st and 2nd.
   Then my Dad arrived not having heard anything, but in a tearing hurry to pick me up. “Oh, good,” he had said when I told him I had won. “I am glad you have had some reward for all the time you spend on your hobby. But come along now. We must get back quickly to the real world.”
   “Why the hurry?” I asked.
   “Your mother had her operation to-day so we must get in to the hospital to see her. I have been delayed by a load of  problems at the office.”
   He appeared unusually worried and kept looking nervously around, just as if he was scared of being seen by somebody. So I had no option but to miss listening to the splendid pieces  to be offered in the senior open Chopin class that followed. It was frustrating to be dragged away just as the dramatic opening chords of the last movement of the B minor sonata sounded through the hall. I had heard Miss Jones playing this fast moving music only a week ago.
   The car drove wildly on through the storm. It was unlike my Dad to take risks in driving. Surely he was not driving so furiously just to get that faster to Mum’s hospital?  The drumming of the rain on the roof and the throb of the engine turned in my mind into the dotted rhythm and relentless galloping pace of the Chopin B minor finale. My thoughts were interrupted by a blinding flash of lightning with a crash of thunder so immediately following that I knew it had struck close by. A minute later another flash came showing the glistening trunks of forest trees either side. This time I feared the bolt would come straight through the roof of the car.
   “Look out, Dad!” I shouted.
   “It’s all right, son,” he replied. “Lightning cannot penetrate a metal box. Didn’t they teach you that in Physics?”
   “YES - BUT LOOK!” I screamed, pointing urgently at the road ahead.
   “D……….!” said Dad, jamming the brake pedal for an emergency stop. But the road was wet: the car shuddered, slowed a little and then skidded at speed straight into the branches of a great tree fallen across the road.
   When I came to, all was still and black. I could hear nothing but the rain still savagely beating on the roof and the occasional crack of thunder now receding in the distance.
   I immediately called out to my Dad, alarmed by the stillness beside me. I became aware at the same time as I tried to move, that I couldn’t. My head was pressed back by a tangled mass of branches and twigs. As I tried vainly to claw the branches away from my face, I felt sharp pains in my  eyes and one of my legs. I was trapped! It was very dark. I couldn’t see a thing and there was no response from my Dad. I was trying not to panic but it was difficult. I kept on calling to my Dad with no result. Was he dead?
   Then I heard a car coming in the distance. Was this the pursuer Dad feared? It eventually drew up and I had no option but to call out as loudly as I could, “Help, help! I’m trapped - my Dad …..”
   “Steady on. We’ll soon get you out of there,” a young man’s voice sounded nervously out of the darkness.
   I was waiting for the light from his headlamps to show up but I saw only a hazy blur of light. “Haven’t you a torch or a light of some sort?  I can’t see you……or anything properly ,” I whispered anxiously.
   I am not clear what happened next. I must have lost consciousness shortly after I heard the wailing of a police car or was it an ambulance?

CHAPTER 7 - SONATA 1st MOVEMENT
    DEVELOPMENT (2)
“I enjoyed that no end, but I had better go off and do some homework now. I think you have a friend come to see you,” said Jane jumping off the piano stool.
   I heard David say somewhat cheekily, “I have brought Titch to see you, Martin.”
   I heard quite a commotion then as the two boys wrestled. I knew my friend Colin objected vigorously to being called Titch, especially by younger boys.
   “Boys, boys!” sounded Mrs Sweeting’s voice from the hall. The commotion stopped.
   “Is that you Colin?” I asked.
   “Did you hear that, David? Mind you take a good note of my proper name - or else!” threatened Colin.
   “Okay, Colin or ELSie or Titch,” said David, laughing and running at the same time quickly out of the room.
   “Hiya Martin. You seem to be having a real ball here with your girl friend. I never thought you had it in you,” said Colin.
   “Oh, give over, Colin. Wait until you break a leg AND have to wear a blindfold night and day.”
   “Sorry Martin,” said Colin. “Is there anything I can get for you?  I shall be going past the Parade on the way home.”
   “Thanks for asking, but I don’t think there is really. Mrs Sweeting is jolly good at providing things I might need. David has lent me his radio. I am not much of a one for sweets unless  ……”
   “Go on,” said Colin helpfully.
   “Maybe a cheap tube of peppermints would be useful,” I said, remembering the adverts., for rather more expensive tablets designed to stop bad breath. “But I don’t seem to have any money handy.”
   “I’ll get a tube on the way home. Don’t worry about payment. It’ll be a little present - maybe a secret between friends,” said Colin. “I’ll give them to David to bring home to you to-morrow - or would you rather I gave them to Jane?” he asked cunningly.
   “David will do fine,” I answered quickly.
   “Okay, I’ll be off then,” said Colin.
   “Thanks a lot for coming,” I shouted after the retreating footsteps.
   “Your friend didn’t stop long,” said Mrs Sweeting coming into the room.
   “Colin’s always in a hurry,” I said, “but he is quite a good friend. Talking of friends,   er…  I don’t know how to say this - you have all been so good to me. I am most grateful….”
   Mrs Sweeting was across to me in a flash. I felt her arm round my shoulder as she said, “That’s fine, Martin. Don’t say anymore. We are really pleased to have you. You are helping us as well, you know. Jane and David don’t always see eye to eye on things. But they have been behaving a lot better lately and I am sure that’s something connected with you. When I see your Mum, I shall tell her that she has a delightful and a brave son.”
   ‘Oh cut it out,’ I thought. I had already endured so many awkward moments at Limpsfield, that I reckoned I had become immune to colouring up. But to my dismay, I felt again the burning sensation in my cheeks.
   Mrs Sweeting hurriedly went on to say, “Now I propose a quick cup of tea and a bun, and then I’ll take you over to your home with David or Jane as I promised. I’ll leave you there while I do my shopping.”
   She told David and Jane of her plan over tea. To my astonishment, they both pleaded to come. Half an hour later, Jane, David and I were dropped outside 8 Sycamore Road, as there was no driveway to our semi-detached ‘Villa’. Mrs Sweeting had given me the front door key, but David took charge of this. He opened the door while Jane carefully guided me along the path. I was using both crutches as I didn’t think it possible to manoeuvre the wheel-chair in our narrow hall.
   It smelt musty inside, but it was good to be back home and able to feel familiar things like light switches and door handles. There was also the special job my Dad had given me. How was I going to get the secret papers from under the floorboard in the spare bed-room, without confiding in Jane and David?
   We naturally went first into our front room, where our old Barnes upright piano was kept. I made for the piano stool without help. Inside was most of my current music. I said, “Jane, could you please help me sort out some of my music to take back. I’d like the Chopin books and especially my mother’s Augener edition of the Beethoven Sonatas in two volumes. When I was at the hospital, I discovered that I might well get some sight back soon, even if it’s only one eye.”
   “Oh Martin, I am SO glad!” said Jane giving me a quick hug.
   I just heard David say, “Wowee!” whatever that meant, when there was a loud knocking on the front door. Whoever could it be?
   David rushed to open the door and reported, “There’s a gas man wants to come in.”
   “I am glad someone is in at last,” a deep male voice boomed. “I have orders to read your meter and check for possible gas leaks.”
   I heard heavy steps coming into the hall. I was about to ask Jane to check the man’s credentials, when he said, “This is my official identity card complete with photo. Can you show me where the gas meter is please? Under the stairs, I’ll warrant.”
   “Yes, that’s right,” I said airily enough, but actually beginning to feel uneasy. It was strange that the man should have come so soon after we had entered the house. What had Dad said about the house might be under watch?  I moved over to the doorway. There was a stale tobacco smell. The man was humming a tune to himself, as he worked in what I knew was our congested cupboard under the stairs. Strangely I recognised the tune as being the theme from the slow movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. This seemed to be an unusual favourite for a gas man. I was just about to make a comment, when a sixth sense made me stop - I bit my tongue in the process.
   “It looks as if you have got a bit of a leak,” said the gas inspector. “I shall have to track through the pipes. Maybe lift the occasional floor-board.”
   I was thoroughly alarmed now. I had smelt no gas leak on coming into the house and I reckoned my enforced blindness had sharpened my other senses. “I don’t think my parents would agree to that,” I said. “I can’t smell any trace of  a gas leak.”
   “Ah, but this natural gas isn’t easy to spot. I have to go by my instruments and the readings we have already taken outside. You wouldn’t want a sudden explosion to happen, would you now? Still you are right to question my credentials.  I have shown you my card. Now ring up HQ on this number and ask for Mr Smith, my Chief Inspector. He’ll confirm that Mr A J English is entitled by law to investigate your house for a suspected gas leak.”
   “Shall I ring up the number he has shown me?” asked Jane.
   “All right,” I said, wondering what to do next.
   “As I anticipated, Jane passed the ‘phone to me. A very well spoken Mr Smith spoke reassuringly about the integrity of Mr English, the powers of inspection under the Gas Acts and the need for urgency in the detection of any leaks. I could do nothing but agree to Mr English carrying on with his work. It was very odd though. For some strange reason, I heard in my mind the menacing opening of the first movement of the Pathetique Sonata, rather than the peaceful slow movement theme which had receded now into the kitchen with the gas man.
   “Quick Jane,” I whispered. “Look up the Gas Board in the ‘phone directory. There’s bound to be a full page spread. Check whether you can find the number this Mr English gave as being his HQ.”
   After a minute or so, she said, “I can’t see his number anywhere!”
   There was only me and Jane in the room. David had gone off to watch the gas man. I needed to make a swift decision. “Dial 999 right away and give me the ‘phone,” I whispered to Jane.
   “I could hear the number ringing as she handed me the receiver. “Give me the police, “I said as softly as I could. “This is No.8 Sycamore Road, Oakwood. We have a fake gas inspector in our house. He ……”  I dimly heard Jane’s shriek and cowered too late to avoid a blow that sent vivid streaks of light through the blackness of my head.
   I must have fainted, for the next thing I heard was Jane vainly trying to dial 999 again to get an ambulance for me.
   “Has he gone?” I asked.
   “Yes, the dirty swine,” said David. “He knocked me aside and Jane got punched as well.”
   I felt awful. I was probably responsible for their injuries. Despite what my Dad said about keeping it to myself, I ought to have warned them that we might encounter villains.
   As if reading my worried expression, Jane said, “It’s all right, Martin. We’re not badly hurt, but we are concerned about you and your eyesight. We must get you to the hospital as soon as possible. Why won’t this wretched ‘phone work?”
   “He may have cut the wires,” I said. “Now both of you listen carefully. We may only have a few minutes before the police arrive and there is something terribly important we must do.” Then I told them under an oath of secrecy all that my Dad had told me. They were to go upstairs to the spare bed-room,  recover the secret papers in an envelope marked ‘Knitting Patterns’ and then bring them to me. I explained about the floor-board and lent David my pen-knife.
   I would have loved to see their wide open faces as I told them, but had to be content to hear David’s ‘Gosh and Wowees’ and Jane’s feminine squeaks. They rushed off upstairs to the room I indicated, and I soon heard noises of a bed being pulled back and the levering up of a portion of floor-board. Then I heard “Eureka” in David’s voice and footsteps pounding down the stairs. A smallish envelope was thrust into my hands. I felt much relieved.
   “Thanks, David,” I said scrabbling with one hand to find one of the Beethoven Sonata volumes. I hid the vital envelope in the middle of the music and urged David to go back upstairs and help Jane put the bed-room to rights.
   They had just both come downstairs when there was a mighty knocking at the front door. As David went to open the front door I passed the Beethoven volume to Jane and whispered, “It’s in here. Put it with some other music in my case. Make sure it goes back to your house and hide it safely until I can do something with it.”
   “Trust me. I’ll look after it, Martin,” responded Jane softly.
   I could hear the clump of feet and urgent voices. We told the police about the gas man supposedly called Mr English and our worry about his identity, which was intensified  when he mentioned going all over the house and lifting floor-boards. But I said nothing about his humming a bit of Beethoven’s Pathetique or the secret mission I had been given, remembering my Dad particularly warned me NOT to tell the local police.
   The police seemed most impressed and complimented us. They wanted to know if anything had been stolen, but of course I couldn’t help them. One of the two men, a Sergeant Camberwell, then said he would make a quick survey of our rooms. He also said he would need to come back with a fingerprint expert. I agreed, explaining that both my parents were too ill in hospital to be disturbed.
   Shortly after that Mrs Sweeting arrived back from her shopping expedition and was most alarmed to find out what had happened. She insisted on taking me at once back to the hospital as the back of my head was apparently bleeding. She also wanted Jane and David to be examined because of their injuries.
   I felt very giddy, but using my crutches and a bit of help, I managed to get out to the car, leaving the police back at the house with the front door key. As Jane guided me along the path, she deliberately let me feel the music case she was carrying with its precious contents.
   As the car started and went dizzily round a corner, I slumped into blissful oblivion.
   When I next woke up, I heard Bill’s voice saying, “There’s a good lad. Easy does it. You have another conk on your head to bother with, but don’t worry: you’ll live.”
   I knew then that I was back in hospital. “How are Jane and David?” I enquired.
   “Your two friends are fine. The young lady specially asked me to give you her good wishes, and to tell you that she’ll look after your music for you until you are better.”
   “That’s brill,” I said.
   However, I had a troubled night. I dreamt the gas man was playing Beethoven atrociously on our upright piano at home. I was imploring him to keep quiet so I could try and pray for my Dad and Mum. Jane and David were pushing me along a narrow passage and trying to get me to hurry. There was a smell of stale tobacco in the air or was it a gas leak?  In a wakeful moment I had the eerie sensation that that the gas man might be watching me. I stealthily felt for the bedside alarm bell and hurriedly pressed it. Vaguely remembered firm footsteps of Nurse Sparrow came to mind. I felt her hand on my brow and I went back to an uneasy sleep.

CHAPTER 11 - SONATA  4th MOVEMENT

 ALLEGRO CON BRIO (1)

I woke early next morning to the barking of a dog. At the same time I became aware that I was uncomfortably stiff. I could hear sharp voices raised in argument downstairs. One sounded like that of a woman. Soon there were urgent steps coming up the stairs. The door was unlocked and in burst a middle-aged woman dressed in something like a grey track suit and a beret. She had a pale oval face which suggested she might have been quite good-looking in her younger days, but she was frowning as she came into the room.  She was closely followed by Mansfield, or whoever he was, whom she called Brian. He was looking upset.

   Upon seeing me, she gave a sweet smile and said in a peculiar French accent, “I am so sorry you have got into this mess. Mr Mansfield tells me that you have been withholding important information from him - that is to say from the British Customs. That is very naughty of you. You must let him know immediately where the secret papers of your father have been hidden. Then he will arrange for your safe return to your home.”

   What should I say? I prayed quickly for help and then said, “I cannot really believe that a Customs officer would use a gun to kidnap me and Jane in this way. We have already told him all we know.”

   “We have already told him all we know,” she mimicked me in her fluty French voice. Then still smiling she came across to where I was still half sitting up on the old mattress and suddenly kicked me hard in the ribs with her pointed shoe. It hurt badly and I couldn’t help yelling with the pain.

   “Colette, please. I don’t think that is wise,” said  Mansfield.

   “You mean you don’t think he will talk?” queried Colette.

   “Listen here sonny,” she bent down and pushed her face horribly close to mine as she spoke. “Don’t think I can’t make you squeal for mercy, if I choose. I could rip your eye bandage off or try breaking your other leg. However, there is probably a less messy way.” She turned her head towards the door and called, “Giles. Bring the girl in here and make it snappy.”

   I went cold inside and felt sick as Jane was brought in. I guessed the cruel woman’s intention. I tried to pray for help.

   Jane was forced to sit down on the one chair in the room. She was white but tried to give me a smile.

   “So this is your little girl friend, is it?” said Colette with a grin.

   “Leave her alone. She knows nothing,” I said hastily.

   “That’s probably right,” said Colette, “but unless you talk sonny, she will soon wish that she had never heard of you.” She suddenly gave Jane a hard slap which left a flaming red mark on her cheek,

   I tried to get up but was pushed flat by Giles and given another kick by the woman. I was desperate to save Jane, secrets or no secrets.

   “Stop it. I’ll tell you all I know,” I said.

   “See Brian? You could have done that yesterday, if you had had a little backbone,” said Colette contemptuously.

   “Well. Spit it out and no fairy tales - or I’ll give you both a hiding,” said Colette to me,

   So I stammered out how I had followed my Dad’s instructions to find an envelope hidden in our house at 8 Sycamore Road. I gave all the detail about the floor-board in the spare bed-room and hiding the envelope in my Beethoven music. I made it clear that I had no idea what was in the envelope. I also told Colette how I had ‘phoned S.I.O.Mansfield and spoken to someone else as he was out. Because Mr Mansfield had arrived so quickly at Limpsfield, I was suspicious and did not pass anything over. However, I had made arrangements for the envelope to be sent on by Mr Sweeting to Customs and Excise. I had also noted Mr Mansfield’s car number and make and left details for the Sweetings. I thought this was so nearly the truth that it would save Jane and me from further injury.

   I could see Colette’s face twisted in thought. Mansfield looked really scared as if I had dropped him right in it. Then a phone rang downstairs and Giles was sent to answer it. He came running back and said, “Camberwell was on -   the police have been alerted nationally to look for two missing kids, believed kidnapped in a white Ford Estate with our registration number!”

   “YOU STUPID COW-FACED  X!X!X!” screamed Colette at Mansfield. “Get Giles to change the number plates immediately.”

   “That’s not a lot of use as we only have the original plates, which must by now be on the police register of stolen cars,” said  Mansfield.

   “Do it FOOL!” commanded Colette. “We can’t afford to leave that number as a clue to our whereabouts. As soon as Giles has done that, he had better hide our fake number plates and then drive the Ford quite a few miles away and ditch it. I’ll follow in my car and bring him back. Now we’ll lock these kids in here for the moment and I’ll take the key just in case you get too soft. Meanwhile get on to Lacoste and tell him we may have to seek shelter in about an hour’s time.”

   We were locked in and left in an uneasy peace together. Jane came over immediately to where I was still lying on my mattress on the floor. She squatted down beside me, murmuring, “Poor Martin”, as she stroked my hand.

   “Lucky Martin,” I whispered, reaching out my hand to her. We clung quietly together for ages , saying nothing. It was ridiculous but, despite my sore side where I had been kicked and my bad leg, I was strangely happy. I think Jane felt the same.  .........................................................................................................
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