Protect & Survive - The Visitors

I'm for the less optimistic views, as of the long-term consequences of a full nuclear exchange. It would have been an apocalypse for civilization as we knew it, the best that could sort out of it would be a slow lingering "stabilization" going on for centuries, with the partial loss of literacy among the survivors, and an almost complete one of democracy and higher education. The most horribile catastrophe would be the psychological reaction to what happened, in the days, weeks months and years to follow. Many of the survivors would simply refuse to produce children to live in such a world, unless very substantial help comes from less stricken areas of the world (South America, Oceania, India etc.).
 
Yes, but Europe did not lose hundreds of millions of people all at once. Neither did it suffer the kind of damage to infrastructure and the economy that it's suffered here. One cannot compare recovery from WWII (a conventional war) to recovery from a global thermonuclear war. If it was only one or two countries, yes, then recovery would be simpler. But most of the continent has been affected, with lightly affected areas few and far between. And this is compounded with the devastation in the wider world.

Post WWII Europe is still the nearest approximation to the state of post attack WWIII. That and post Black Plague Europe.

Lightly affected areas are not few and far between if we look at where the detonations took place on a map actually. We will have large regions relatively unharmed and undestroyed, chiefly in France, Britain, Spain, Italy, Portugal and Ireland.

Don't get started on fallout. It will be a problem, but not a long term one since decay from nuclear explosions is rather fast compared to a nuclear meltdown.


Not to the Asians and Africans (and Latin Americans, for that matter) it isn't. Try saying that to their faces. And they weren't just a drain on resources, they supplied resources as well (like oil, first and foremost). The end of international trade will be a further hindrance to recovery.

Talking about recovery from a nuclear war as if it were the same as recovery from a conventional war is veering into Pollyanna territory, IMVHO.

In what way is Asia a drain?


Back in 1984 Africa was a black hole for Western treasury, resources and such. The raw materials imports like oils are not needed anymore because of the dramatic fall in consumption. It is also quite possible that oil producing countries like Gabon may actually survive the war intact or almost intact.

Asia was far more of a drain then than it is now, since China did not had the importance it now occupies in international trade. Everything Japan produced can ultimately be produced in Europe and "relocalised" so to speak, especially since complexity levels for products will go down for a time.



At the end of the day the mathematics of post attack Britain and Westen Europe are very simple. Production of industrial goods will decrease hugely. But so will demand and so will the demand of fuels and energetical products.

I am going to be slightly rude now, but instead of coming up with emotional arguments like "people will stop having kids in such a world", "people with start killing each others". Could more contributors in the Protect & Survive threads come up with hard facts and statistics?

By this I mean how much oil is consumed by agriculture every year in Britain/France/whatever. How many tons of potatoes per acre you can produce with manure/human waste instead of chemical fertilizers. Where the major industrial facilities are in western Europe and if they have been destroyed by the attacks or not. Which native oilfields Europe has and how much can be extracted from them. How easy it is to produce things like strippen down lorries, radios, looms and so on.

Assumptions like "The Ruskies will blow up all the power plants with their nukes" are just that, assumptions, until they have been backed up with evidence or failing that by reasonnable extrapolations like how many nukes can be used to destroy things.
 
Hi stodge, what's the status of the thread? Any new chapters coming up?

As you can see from previous posts, there are those who share your opinion about thermonuclear war and how long it would take to recover from it (like me). Then there are those who think everything would be fine and dandy just 25 years later.

There is only one way to find our which viewpoint is right, and I'm sure nobody would want that. Bar that, any speculation about what the world would be like after a nuclear war is just that, speculation. Everybody has their own ideas based on their opinions and biases. My own opinion, based on what I've read and my own gut, is that recovering from WWIII would be a process that would take a couple of generations, at least. I freely admit that I may be wrong, but that's my opinion and I stand behind it.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, is that you should just continue the TL the way you meant it to. I certainly like it (bleak as though the subject is) and I'm sure others do too.
 
New Update...

“At gunpoint?” interrupted Adara. This time, there was no rebuke from Paul. They both stared intently, in a sense of near-captivation which Michael thought strange.

“Yes,” replied Michael, “there was very little food and the village decided it could only feed a certain number of people. The man who ran the village decided we had to go.

We weren’t left defenceless – the pistol had three bullets in it. I didn’t need much sense to work out why.”

“One for each of you,” said Paul, “the option was for you all to commit suicide.”

“Indeed. That may have been an option for him but not for us,” replied Michael firmly.

“Where did you go?” asked Paul.

Michael remembered the plan he and Ann had hatched as they left Trink. Ann remembered her grandfather’s cottage at St Just but that was a good fifteen miles on foot across difficult country. They had made slow progress keeping clear of settlements and wary of the occasional corpses they saw in the fields and on the roads.

It had rained that first night – they had found a barn and taken shelter. It had only been the following morning when Ann discovered they had not been alone in the barn – the woman had been young, not much older than a schoolgirl. She had been dead for some time, perhaps from hunger, perhaps from radiation, they couldn’t tell. Though they had all seen enough of death, this single death had shaken them more than anything else.

They cried individually and together – for their own loss, for her loss, for the world’s loss.

On the second afternoon, they reached Botallack and good fortune smiled on them as they were greeted by a friendly man working on repairing a house.

“My father?” said Paul.

“Yes, your father, Paul,” replied Michael. “He was working on repairing a house when he saw us. He smiled and said hello. He invited us all to stay with him and your Mother.”

“My Mother,” said Paul quietly, “I never really knew her, you know,” he added quietly.

Michael knew that only too well. He had met Paul’s parents before his birth, a difficult birth from which Paul’s Mother had never recovered. He understood why Mary had chosen Paul to hear his Testament – it can’t be easy for him but it gives him some sort of link to his own heritage.

Paul’s parents, Ray and Carole, had come to Botallack just before the Exchange – Carole’s family had originated from Botallack and she still had a sister and parents living in the area. They had survived the Exchange in Botallack but her parents had died in the following year. Ray had befriended Michael almost from the start – Michael had never understood why. He soon grew to admire and respect Ray.

Botallack had provided a haven, a shelter for some months after the departure from Trink. They had lived with Ray and Carole in one of two cottages on the outskirts of town. Botallack had been, in contrast with Trink, well-run and well-organised. The community had tried to plant vegetables and raise other crops.

Ray also said they had seen some evidence of authority returning – the Police had put in an appearance as had a small Army group. The Army had brought supplies from an international relief convoy – not much, not nearly enough, but pre-Exchange supplies from Australia and New Zealand.

Unlike the soldiers Michael had seen at Trink, these seemed more disciplined and organised. They were, he discovered, “regular” forces, sent from the Government at Portsmouth to “check” on isolated communities. Michael had got to know the young Lieutenant in charge – the things he had seen and done in the previous year, well, Michael hadn’t asked and he hadn’t volunteered. His family were dead – they had lived near Bovington Camp but he had met a young woman in Portsmouth – there were plenty of young girls, orphans or bereaved, who had come to see a soldier as a meal ticket at worst and security at best.

“How long did you stay with my father?” asked Paul quietly but insistently.

“Oh, just a few weeks,” replied Michael, “we found a cottage nearby which had been abandoned and made that our home. I worked with your father but with others as well, in the fields and elsewhere. We stayed in Botallack perhaps a year, then decided to head for Ann’s grandfather’s place at St Just.”

“Why?” asked Adara, “you had everything at Botallack.”

“Up to a point, perhaps, but it was just time to move on. Ann had family at St Just and we thought we could make a home there. Botallack had just been a place to stay but we stayed much longer than I had expected.”

“My father told me that – you said you wanted to move on. He never understood why but he was busy with my Mother,” said Paul. “Sorry, sir, please continue your story.”

Michael continued – they had embarked on the long journey to St Just in the spring time. The day was bright and sunny and they had arrived without drama. Ann’s Grandfather’s cottage had unfortunately not been empty when they arrived. They had found his frail broken body at the bottom of the stairs – Michael surmised he had fallen and simply died there. It had taken time, a long time, to get the small of his death out of the house.

St Just had been disorganised and almost anarchic when they arrived but Michael, old Crowther and others had slowly turned things round though it had taken many months. Michael had managed to contact the Lieutenant from Botallack and he had provided a couple of patrols and had apprehended a couple of small gangs who had been attacking travellers and settlements over Madron and Sancreed way. Justice had been swift and brutal - in that moment, Michael had resolved things had to be better.

Michael and Ann had settled into St Just life and had made new friends. Bob and old Crowther had been the first and it had been Bob’s idea that the locals get together and form a local “Council” to organise the administration of law and the distribution of food.

“You formed the Council?” asked Adara in open-eyed astonishment.

“Hardly,” replied Michael, “I was one of those who got things organised in a small way in one town.”

“That’s not what my Father says,” replied Paul. “He says you started it all – first in St Just, then in Botallack, then elsewhere.”

“Your Father’s a good friend and is very kind,” said Michael quietly, “but it wasn’t quite like that. Look, let’s pick this up in the morning if you don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Paul respectfully, “have I spoken out of turn? I meant no disrespect.”

“No, no, that’s fine, “replied Michael, “It’s getting late and we’ve got a lot still to cover in the morning.”

After saying goodnight to both Paul and Adara and ensuring they were settled upstairs, Michael went to his own room and lay in what was and had been all too often a lonely bed. Rachel had kept him company on occasions as had Susan – if he was to take another woman, it would be Susan, but he hadn’t out of respect for Ann and all they had accomplished together.

As he lay in the bed, Michael’s mind wandered back to those manic early days, two or three years after the Exchange. He had travelled to Botallack, Pendeen, Madron, and Sancreed and even down to St Buryan and had spoken to people in all those communities. He had tried to get people to organise themselves, to form small local groupings, to get organised but not to become too insular.

He had been away from home too much though Ann was always welcoming. He had fought brigands and killed to stay alive but over time the various communities had come to trust and respect him. He had even started to get the communities back into contact with each other – a postal service, a limited carriage service.

The Army had been helpful at first though their priorities lay elsewhere – the plans to rebuild the shattered cities – too much, too soon, too ambitious, Michael had realised, and so it had proved. The impoverished workers had risen against the thin line of Authority and all had dissolved in a paroxysm of violence out of which had come the Faithmongers, the Anti-Lifers, the Manics and others.

In the far West of Cornwall, far from Portsmouth, London and elsewhere, all this had passed almost unnoticed except that the Army had gone – the Lieutenant came with his woman to Michael and told him his Unit had deserted and gone with the Anti-Lifers. He had been broken and desolate but in that moment, Michael had come up with the idea of the Peacekeepers. The Lieutenant had brightened noticeably – he had started to train individuals like Bob to watch the communities.

It had taken a few years but in time Michael had got representatives of the communities together – the first Council – they had met in the repaired dining room of the old Land’s End Hotel. Michael remembered the first meeting – anarchic, disorganised with lots of shouting and argument. As one, they had asked him to be Chairman and he had reluctantly agreed.

Someone had found a Bible and Michael had sworn an oath of sorts – he remembered Ann’s smiling face and the other inquisitive face looking over at him wondering what it all meant, what it would all mean and it was in that moment that Michael had planned for the future.

The day dawned bright and clear. Michael had woken after a peaceful sleep to hear movement down below. For a moment, he imagined Ann would be there, preparing breakfast, but the sound was wrong. He remembered Paul and Adara. It sounded as though they were preparing breakfast – the smell was good, eggs, mushrooms and was that bread?

Michael dressed quickly and took down the pot. He quickly disposed of that in the street before greeting his guests. Paul looked tired – the guest bed wasn’t that comfortable – but Adara looked bright and gleaming. She was in the kitchen, just as another had been once so many years ago.

“Good Morning, Sir,” she said eagerly, “I hope you don’t mind me preparing some breakfast. Mary provided some supplies. She said you would be happy.”

“Mary is rarely wrong about these things,” said Michael earning an approving smile from Paul. Michael was concerned the young wardens were more acolytes than free thinkers. He had impressed on Mary the need for the wardens to be free to think and act but she had been scared of the Faithmongers and had resolved to resist their doctrine.

The three ate a hearty breakfast, one of the best Michael had eaten for many months. Adara cooked well – she would make a good woman for someone one day.
 
Back...

OOC: Just a short update.

He wondered from where she had come – she didn’t know her parents, she had said. Michael found this puzzling – the huge fall in birth rate in the years after the war had meant there weren’t so many orphans left. Most had either perished of disease or starvation and the survivors had been found new families. It was one of the things for which Michael had argued in Council in the early days. The gangs of feral children had been brought in and, over the months and years, re-integrated into society.

Yet she had no parents, or claimed not to have. It was a slight mystery. Even stranger was the fact she had been taken in as a Warden by Mary. Every Warden was personally selected and she didn’t seem to have the confidence and self-belief that Paul and other Wardens had shown.

They talked about more recent times after breakfast. The records of Council had been well-kept and Michael did little more than confirm much of what Paul could recount itself. He had been Chairman of Council twice but Mary had denounced him and taken over. It had been a difficult time with Ann visibly ailing. The cancer had been brutal and swift and there was little or nothing Michael could do except to try and keep her comfortable.

In the end, when the pain had become unbearable, he had helped her one last time out of love and compassion and buried her on the hillside above Sancreed, the place where they had spent many happy hours, sometimes alone, sometimes not. He would occasionally place flowers up there and there would be others, beautiful plants and he knew from where they came.

Now, he was alone though Susan and Rachel provided companionship when he needed it and others would call seeking his advice and guidance.

At midday, Paul and Adara announced it was time for them to leave. They thanked Michael profusely for his time and his contribution to the Testament. Paul went upstairs but Adara hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up and then turned to Michael - "Sir, if you don't mind, whatever happened to the Goddard girl?" Michael thought for a moment. This was the question he had feared and for Adara of all people to ask it. He looked closely at her and the truth began to dawn - could it be true? If so, it was her greatest lie though he had taught her well. His mind went back to that terrible time when they had been driven apart for those years.

Michael became aware that Adara was staring at her. He looked closely at her - yes, this must be the child. No wonder she had no recollection of her parents. Her mother would have made sure she wanted for nothing and as for her father - Michael shuddered. It had been the single worst thing he had ever done - an act of anger which had haunted him all these years.

He said quietly "she died not long after we got here. I don't really want to talk about it. You see, Ann couldn't have any children. It was nothing to do with the Exchange - she was damaged from before that. When she told me I was pleased but now I regret having no one to follow me but perhaps in time you will start a new line with the right man."

Adara blushed. Michael added quickly, "you'd better go up and pack. Bob will be here soon to escort you out of town and I'm sure Mary will want to read my Testament along with all the others."

After a light lunch and a final round of goodbyes, Bob knocked to summon the youngsters and escort them out on to the open road.

Three days later, in the late afternoon, there came the knock on the door he had expected, her knock, unlike any other. He opened the door and saw her standing there, elegant, beautiful yet with an inner strength he knew so well.
Michael looked round furtively to ensure they were not being observed as she entered the cottage quickly.

“Hello Mary,” he said quietly.

“Hello Father,” she replied.
 
Last edited:
Thanks...

Thank you, John.

There are more surprises to come. To be honest, it's become more a human interest story than a story about missiles, radiation and fallout.

Another update on Friday.
 
"To be honest, it's become more a human interest story than a story about missiles, radiation and fallout.

Looking forward to the update.

What I like about this TL, is that this community has their answer to the critical question in regards to survival. "If we wish to live on, what kind of place do we wish to live on to?"
 
Update Time...

OOC: Thanks for the kind words once again. Not long to go now so enjoy this update.

She stepped quickly in to the cottage as he closed the door. They embraced with a combination of distance and warmth, close yet apart. Their two lives had been so intertwined and Michael felt as though the air were being sucked out of the room.

“No entourage, no guards for the Chairwoman of the Council?” he asked her with a slightly disapproving look.

“I told them I was going to Sennen for a couple of days, to retreat with my Aunt and that I wasn’t to be disturbed, the usual. I rode into town round the back track as always. No one saw me or knows I’m here but I had to come after I read your Testament. I cried, Father, I cried when I read your words, your story of what happened and why and how it all ended.”

“I know, “replied Michael. “You must be tired. Come, let’s eat. It’s been too long since we shared a meal together.”

Michael quickly prepared some vegetables to add to the stew. Had he known she would be coming, he would have got a rabbit of some good fish from Crowther but they had to make do with what he had. It was strange to see her sitting in the front room, a woman now, not the girl she had been when she had first come here and had been scared by the dead old man at the bottom of the stairs.

Michael looked at her – she looked so alone, he thought, as though the weight of the world were on her shoulders. If only Ann were still here, he thought, she would be able to comfort her so much better than he could, she always had.

They ate in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, she looked up, “thank you for saying what needed to be said, the story needed to be told even though there’s no one at Trink who would remember it now.”

“She asked, you know, the girl, Adara,” Michael said.

“I hoped she would,” replied Mary, “it must have been difficult for you, Father. I never mean it to be this way but it always seems to be how it must be for us.”

“Your Mother would have some comforting words right about now but all I have are questions,” Michael replied, “why those two, Mary? You have any number of Wardens, why them?”

“I don’t know, Father. I just wanted you to meet him and know him.”

“I can’t acknowledge him, Mary, you know that. It would hurt too many people.”

“But he’s your son, Father,” said Mary raising her voice slightly, “he has a right to know.”

Michael stared back at her angrily for a second. He knew there was no malice or malevolence in her actions but he knew that he could not, would not; tell the world that Paul was his son. The affair with Carole had been brief but the damage had been done. He had never admitted his infidelity to Ann but had told Mary after Ann had died.

Ray had never known or, to Michael’s knowledge, suspected. Carole had written to Michael just once to tell him the child she was carrying was his and it was that letter that had forced Michael to take his family away from Botallack. Ray had been placated by platitudes and words about needing to move on but Mary had always suspected there had been more to it and a couple of years ago Michael had told her the truth.

Mary had sought out Paul and made him a Warden much to Ray’s delight. He had written to Michael thanking him for his support once again as he had after Carole’s passing. As Michael always reasoned, the lie had made everyone happy; the truth would destroy them all. The nearest he had ever come to acknowledging Paul had been the offer to Ray to be Paul’s guardian if anything ever happened to Ray, an offer which had been accepted.

“Paul is a fine man but he is and always has been Ray’s son, you know that. You aren’t really my daughter, your real Father died in the Exchange. Yet I think of you as my daughter and always have done even when we were apart.

If anything happens to Ray, I will be Paul’s guardian and protector if he needs me. Maybe one day, when Ray and I are gone and I'm up on the hillside with your Mother, the truth can come out but until then, it’s best to let things be, Mary.”

“I meant no harm, Father. I just wanted you to see what kind of man he was becoming.”

“Let him think for himself and find his own way, Mary. The Wardens need to have their own minds if they are to confront the Faithmongers. I know you want to protect them but treating them like machines isn’t the way.”

They sat and talked for a while about the village, about Susan, Rachel, Bob and old Crowther. Michael realised Bob would soon be here to do his rounds so Mary quickly moved upstairs and Michael cleared the table. Bob might think Susan or Rachel had called by for lunch but it was not a risk he was prepared to take. Their deception had endured too long to be ruined by a careless moment now.

The knock on the door and the entry without invitation still irked Michael but he did not let it show.

“Afternoon, Michael. Life getting back to normal for now, old chap?”

“Yes, Bob. I’m glad for the peace and quiet. I might go up to Rachel’s this evening so if you call and there’s no answer, you’ll find me there in all probability.”

“Good enough, Michael. Have a good day,” said Bob and left.

Mary appeared a few minutes later and before Michael could speak, said, “He’s only doing his job, Father.”

“Yes, he does it a little too well sometimes for my liking,” replied Michael.

Mary had found one of Ann’s grandfather’s old books and started to read by the fire. Michael left her in peace; he thought it was probably one of the few moments of solitude and reflection she could enjoy. He had always wanted the best for her but life had not always allowed that.

He went into the kitchen and busied himself with the housework and with his own book and craft. He thought about his own parents, his brother and what they would make of the life he had fashioned for himself. It was certainly not what he had intended or wanted but the bombs had changed all that – for a moment, he was back in that cellar on that fateful February afternoon watching and listening as civilisation was destroyed around them.

No, not destroyed, he reasoned. Damaged, certainly, but they had survived and endured and were building something new. Was it something better?

Sometimes, he wondered if they were simply building the same old lies and the same old secrets and that someday in a far distant future, the missiles would fly again.

“Father?”

Michael realised Mary was standing by the door. She looked worried – her elegance and your beauty were tarnished by stress and the onset of age. Her once sleek auburn hair now betrayed flecks of grey and he noticed she ate sparingly. Ann would be shocked.

“Are you all right, Father?” She asked, “You seemed to be out of it there.”

“I find I lose myself in my thoughts easily these days, Mary. I hope it’s nothing more than reverie. There is an illness when the mind goes wrong. I pray I don't have that. If I do, you know what you have to do, please, I beg you.”

“Father, I'll take care of you, you know that but we need to talk about something else. I know it’s bothering you and I think we need to resolve it.”

“I know, this won’t be easy for either of us, Mary. We may keep secrets from the world but never from each other, at least not until now.”

“That Adara girl,” Michael said pointedly, “she’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

Mary looked down, abashed, embarrassed. For a moment, she was not the proud confident leader, Chair of the Council of Penwith & the Isles but a humble little girl seeking her father’s forgiveness.

“Yes, and you killed her father.”
 
Time for Answers..

She started to cry and Michael led her back into the sitting room and put her in the armchair with a cloth. It was as though a dam had broken and the release of emotion came as a flood, a torrent.

Michael went to the cupboard in the kitchen and fetched a bottle. Old Crowther’s still had helped at times especially the night of Ann’s passing but it had helped at other times and would help now. Michael poured a beaker of the clear liquid for them both and gave it to Mary.

She coughed and spluttered as the warm liquid went down – she looked up, her tear-filled eyes demanding something which Michael knew that even in a thousand lifetimes he could not provide.

As he watched her, Michael’s mind went back to that day which seemed like only yesterday but was perhaps sixteen or seventeen years past. He had not long been re-elected as Chairman of the Council and had made the difficult journey by boat across to the Scillies where he had found a much-reduced community eking out an existence on the various islands and by fishing. They had only recently formed their own group but he had met Josiah Maddock, a man who even after the years of privation had retained a vigour which Michael rarely saw.
Maddock had told him of a community which had been isolated by the bombs.

They had seen a single naval vessel limp into port, badly damaged, its crew dying of radiation sickness. They had seen the flash of the blue burst south of Penzance and Maddock claimed to have seen flashes from the far west – a nuclear naval battle he had reasoned though Michael had been privately sceptical.

All contact with the outside world had been lost but the Isles were dependent for so much on the ships from the mainland. The food had soon run out and while there was land to cultivate, there was nowhere near enough for everyone. Some had gone to the smaller unpopulated islands to try and survive there but most had perished. Maddock believed that of those on the islands at the start of the conflict, barely a quarter were still alive five years later.

He and others had slowly re-built the communities around Hugh Town and had re-established contacts with the outer and inner islands and they had warmly welcomed Michael and old Crowther from the mainland. Maddock had returned to Land’s End and had addressed the Council and there had been much celebration though neither Michael nor Maddock thought there had been much to celebrate. Michael had brought Maddock round to dinner at the cottage and they had talked long into the night about ideas and plans for the future.

During that time, Michael realised, he had neglected his own family. Ann had been understanding, Mary less so. She had been used to her father’s undivided attention and now he had other priorities. She had grown up fast, perhaps too fast and had already seen too much.

On that day, Michael had resolved to seek her out, talk to her and try to explain why he had been so absent but what he found had been quite different. He had heard her scream first – instinctively, he knew it was her. It was like the scream the day she had seen the dead old man at the cottage.

He had run out to the top field and found her with a young gaunt man who he recognised as being from Crows-an-Wra. Why he was there he did not know but he was astride her forcing himself on her. After finishing, he had grabbed her by the throat and Michael could see he was throttling the life out of her.

Without thinking, he ran up, pulled him off Mary and plunged his hunting knife into the man’s chest. He fell without a sound and died within moments. Mary was semi-conscious, crying, dishevelled and shocked. Michael picked her up quickly and carried her home back to the cottage where he placed her with a stunned uncomprehending Ann. Michael had rushed back up to the distant top field and buried the boy in a grave in the deep wood before returning home.

As Mary slept, he told Ann what had happened and what he had done. She had understood Mary had not. After a few weeks, the evidence had begun to show – morning sickness and a growing lump in her belly. It had torn the family apart – Mary became petulant and then hostile blaming Michael for everything. One night, she had left abruptly without note or explanation.

Michael and Ann were desolate – Michael hunted the countryside for weeks looking for her fearing she would not survive but it had been old Crowther who had reluctantly told him. She had gone to his sister’s at Porthgwarra having pleaded for help and claiming that Michael had disowned her which had been untrue and asking him not to tell her where she had gone.

He had not told Ann though she had guessed he had known something and then there had been no contact for eight years until an elegant woman arrived at Council as the new representative for St Buryan. Her hair was different – she looked different, stronger but it was her. Michael had known it from the start but it had been a long time before a painful reconciliation. Mary claimed the child had been stillborn. By then, she had moved on from Porthgwarra round the coast to near St Buryan at the edge of the zone damaged by the blue burst where she had lived quietly until getting involved in local matters and finding herself elected on to Council.

It was only when he saw Adara at his door that Michael had even begun to suspect – she had hidden her well just as they had hidden their own relationship from the Council.

He was aware of her standing at the kitchen door. He had left her to cry and finish her drink.

“Well, Father,” she said with a hint of challenge, “what do you think of your son and granddaughter?”

Michael looked at her sharply. She had always had a keen tongue and keener mind. They had played card games on the darkest of winter evenings and he had taught her the art of cunning. Perhaps,. He thought, too well.

“Oh what a tangled web we’ve weaved for ourselves, Mary,” Michael said slowly, unconvincingly.

“A quote, Father, just like always when you’ve run out of arguments,” Mary said with more than a hint of anger, “I loved him, you know, and he loved me.”

“He was trying to kill you, Mary,” replied Michael as almost by rote. They had begun so many conversations this way and none had ended well.

“Look,” said Michael quickly, “I don’t want to argue with you, Mary. I never have. You know, I love you as though you were my own and as Adara is your daughter, I love her as well. I’m happy to have a role in her life if you want me to but she’s already a Warden. I presume you’ve not told her our little secret?”

“Of course not, Father,” replied Mary, “no one else knows. It was our secret then, you told me I could never be known as your daughter. You made me denounce you at Council. That was one of the worst days of my life.”

“I know, “replied Michael, “but it was necessary then. It still is. Once I’m on the hillside with your mother, well, you can do what you like. The question is whether Adara needs to know the truth. I won’t tell her but if you choose to, she will have to keep our secret.”

Michael stared at Mary as they spoke. That night, all those years ago, when they had met again and reconciled in this very cottage, it had been an insane dream. Michael knew his time as Chairman of the Council was ending and as he saw the Faithmongers and the Manics closing in, he had suddenly realised that Mary wasn’t just his future but all their futures as well. He had made sure she could advance in standing, she had won the respect of many but he had been the final obstacle. He had orchestrated it all, the final confrontation and her denunciation of him in Council. It had finished him but had ensured her accession as Chair.

For ten years, she had organised Council and it was stronger than it had ever been with ambitious plans for the future.

Michael had returned to nurse an ailing Ann and the only time he had seen an adult Mary cry before this day was the day after her death. She had come to him and they had cried together.

Now, she cried for a lost love and a new life.

“I think she should know where she came from,” said Mary quietly, “I think she should know her grandfather.”
 
Update

“Family is important,” said Michael slowly, “I’ve always told you that.”

Mary looked down at the old faded picture on the table – the picture of James, Michael’s brother, lost these long years, “I’d like to have known Uncle James,” she said with an almost distant look.

“I know,” said Michael, “Adara is our continuation. While she lives, neither of us and what we have achieved and all the good and bad things we’ve done will be forgotten. If I’ve told you nothing else, please remember that.”

She moved closer to him and kissed him on the cheek – “I will, Father, I love you very much,” she whispered quietly.

“And I love you, too, Mary,” replied Michael softly.

They talked long into the night as they so often did before she tired and went upstairs.

In the morning, he could hear her moving around downstairs and for a moment he imagined Ann was there, making breakfast and singing as she used to. When he came down, he found a beautiful breakfast with fresh flowers on the table and her bags packed.

As was often the case, she couldn’t tarry and wanted to be long gone before Bob’s morning knock on the door. Within the hour, she had left to find the horse she left with old Crowther and just minutes before Bob began his rounds of the village.

The encounter with Adara had left Michael troubled and for a few days, he had been uncertain as to what to do. He could not speak about it to everyone though both Susan and Rachel detected there was something amiss. Not since that terrible flight to the ruins of London had Michael felt so troubled.

The military men who had tried to assert their rule once the old Government had fallen had come to the Council promising all sorts of help but Michael had been unimpressed.

He had been “invited” to the military headquarters in Portsmouth when the helicopter had spectacularly landed near Land’s End. Michael had quickly left explicit instructions to his Deputies as to what to do if he did not return. The military people had been polite and correct; they had fed him well and treated him with respect. They had arranged the flight to London – Michael’s home, once, long ago.

They had flown over the city and Michael had been shocked by the ruins – ten bombs had exploded most airbursts but not all. One large crater remained and the helicopter didn’t, Michael noted, venture too close. Most of London was deserted but vegetation was already in the process of reclaiming the city. Twenty years after the bombs, the final victor in the war was time itself and Michael assumed that in a century or two, there would be very little trace of the original human presence.

It had been the shattered bridges, the ruined dome of St Paul’s and the pile of rubble which was once the Tower which had affected him most. He had asked to see his parents’ old street in the south of the city – there was nothing left. An airburst barely three miles away had left rubble into which weeds were already encroaching. He had no desire to land though that had been offered by the courteous pilot – the ghosts should be left in peace.

Back at Portsmouth, he had found himself at a dinner with four officers – the Junta as the former Argentinean rules had been called before their demise just a couple of years before the much bigger war. Michael vaguely remembered a report about the Falklands garrison being withdrawn before the fighting started – he wondered absently if anyone still lived in Stanley.

The officers had praised Michael’s work and courage but made it clear they saw him as an ally, a subject, as they called it, of “His Majesty’s Government”. Michael had said all the right things without committing himself to anything. However, he had quickly discovered the Junta was far from secure - he had heard in the background reports of fighting in the north and a woman called “Telfer” who was leading a second “Government” from the Lake District, much of which, it appeared, had survived the Exchange.

Sitting with those so-called officers – they wore the uniform and held the rank but none of them seemed to have what Michael considered the bearing of officers. They were more like bar-room thugs who had made good. Michael had been desperate to leave and the next morning he had been flown home.

The undercurrent of menace was obvious and the first thing Michael had done on getting back was to double the number of Peacekeepers and start patrolling the eastern edge of his territory.

There had been no attack and no other contact with the Junta – Michael had asked old Frank to scan the radio frequencies and it seemed that the Junta had finally turned in on itself and dissolved. This was confirmed by a few refugees who had made it down to Penwith in the weeks following. As for “Telfer”, Frank had one day received a transmission from what he said was “Free Britain".

Michael had convened a special message of Council and had spoken to Georgina Telfer, President of the North, or that’s what she called herself. The conversation had been amicable – she had described her area as a “free commune of souls”, which Michael didn’t really understand. They had established a limited contact – a boat from the north eventually came to Penwith with news and supplies and had continued to do so ever since. After Michael ceased to be Chairman, Mary had maintained the contact and had sent a representative who had reported on the curious society Georgina and her acolytes were building.

A few days later, Michael went up to the hillside to visit Ann – he would often come up here and simply stand by her grave and tell her his thoughts or just stand in contemplation. As he approached the hillside, he saw a figure by the grave – it was female, could it be Mary in broad daylight? It seemed a reckless action, unprecedented. Yet, as he grew closer, he saw it was someone different, familiar, yes, but not his daughter.

He walked up to the grave and said “Hello, can I help you?” The woman turned – it was Adara.

“Hello Grandfather,” she said.
 
Top