In the Bleak Midwinter Read online

  Title Page

  IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

  by

  Stan Mason

  Publisher Information

  Published in 2014 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  The right of Stan Mason to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  Copyright © 2014 Stan Mason

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  On the morning of the tenth of June 1784, Mr. James Maddern and his co-adventurers, a group of eighteenth century businessmen, took control of the Botallack tin mine at St. Just near Land’s End in Cornwall. The land, known as Roscommon Clift Bounds on the cliff and wastelands between Botallack and Wheal Cock cost fifteen dues to the lord and a tenth to the bounders. Fifty-one years later, in 1835, Stephen Harvey James rescued the derelict mine in the strong belief it would make him a fortune... a matter that was highly debatable at the time! On the sixteenth of May, 1964, almost one hundred-and-eighty years on , Ivan Obsiovitch, a highly intelligent fifth year engineering student, walked out of Minsk University for the last time in his bid for freedom although he had a further year of study before he could achieve his qualifications. He was destitute, hungry for adventure bored with totalitarian doctrine, and eager to find a means by which he could make his fortune. These incidents and desires, despite the span of time and the geographical distance, were closely linked with the Botallack mine.

  It was not 1984... twenty more years had passed since Ivan visited the mine on a geographical survey relating to the rise and fall of tin. To all intents and purposes it had become a memory of the past. However the new information he had received opened a door to the future. It overtook his thoughts like a raging avalanche forcing his memory to recall past events which ostensibly were long forgotten The very essence of Botallack coursed through his veins as well as weighing heavily on his conscience. It had invaded his mind, possessed his thoughts, haunted his dreams, and plagued his life remorselessly until his subconscious mind suppressed the past. Now it had surfaced again. He walked to the window of his well-furnished office reflecting then past two decades with a sorrowful expression on his face, He was quite affluent now... a resident in the capital city... far from the poverty and viciously cold winters he had experienced in Minsk. Botallack was also hundreds of miles away... cold, wet, stark, partly resting innocuously under the Atlantic Oceans with strong waves battering it at its western edge.

  The door opened and Baker entered, snapping his fingers at his reminiscent colleague. ‘Constantine!’ he barked harshly almost in the form of an order. ‘Try to focus your mind on priorities Ivan!’

  The Russian turned slowly as though in a daydream, ‘What?’ he uttered laconically before offering the other man his full attention,

  ‘Constantine!’ came the rapid reply. ‘It’s going to take us five or six hours to get there in the dark. If we don’t start soon,’

  ‘You don’t have to remind me,!’ retorted Ivan sharply, interrupting the other man. ‘I’m ready... I’m ready!’

  Baker stared at him directly for a few moments, ‘Look,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you just forget it and let sleeping dogs lie?’

  ‘Because he’s my son, dammit,’ came the quick response. ‘;I owe it to him to let him know the identity of his father.’, He’s your son all right,’ stated Baker flatly. ‘But he’s eighteen years old and you’ve never seen him. He’s grown up. You missed all the fun years. What’s the point of meeting him now?’

  The Russian inhaled deeply. ‘He’s still my son... my flesh and blood,’ he responded calmly. ‘It wasn’t possi le to do this before but now she’s dead... ‘ He tailed off, allowing the sentence to vanish into obscurity.

  ‘I suppose you want to visit Botallack at the same time.

  ‘What do you think?

  Baker regretted having mentioned the tin mine but there was nothing that he could do to retract the words. ‘I’ll get the car,’ he said as he left the room. From his point of view, the quicker they started the journey, the faster it would be over. It couldn’t end swiftly enough!

  ***

  It was an icy winter evening as the large black saloon car turned off the main road, affected by severe engine trouble., stopping g at the forecourt of an old garage in Cornwall. The two men inside the car eased themselves back in the comfortable seats to relax their aching muscles, Baker closed his eyes tightly before running a hand over his face and yawning tiredly,

  ‘Let’s see if there’s anyone about,’ he muttered. He started to open the door when he noticed that the other man was about to do the same. ‘No Ivan!’ he urged, pushing his companion back into the well-sprung leather. ‘ ‘You stay here in the warm,’

  The Russian shrugged off the gesture stubbornly, and opened the car door. ‘I may as well stretch my legs,’ he responded tiredly. ‘Five hours in the dark is a long time,’

  Baker smiled, his eyes half closing with fatigue. ‘The trouble with you, moi droog, is that you’re so used to sitting on your fat derriere in the office you’ve lost the art of travelling long distances,’

  They alighted from the car, slamming the doors loudly behind them.

  ‘You’re right,’ admitted Obsiovitch. ‘I’m not used to travelling any more. There was a time when... ‘

  He was interrupted as his companion pointed to a light in an office at the rear of the garage.

  ‘Maybe we’re in luck,’ suggested Baker hopefully. ‘Come on!’ He walked towards the light as Ivan pulled up the collar of his overcoat and clapped his hands together to keep warm,

  ‘You go on ahead,’ he told Baker tiredly. ‘I’ll wait here. But be quick about it, It’s cold... damned cold!

  He watched Baker reach . office and then started to shadow boxing in the forecourt, weaving and ducking as if fighting an imaginary opponent. After a short while he grew weary and stamped his fee on the ground. His tired fat body move mechanically in an attempt to keep his blood circulating faster, however his obesity denied him the physical activity required so that his efforts were in vain. This was an awful place to suffer car engine problems. It was miles from the nearest town... miles from anywhere! His colleague was right! He had become too accustomed to a plush executive chair in his esteemed corporate office.

  A shaft of light was cast before him as the door opened and Baker consorted with a man who continually rubbed his greasy hands on the thighs of his dirty blue denims, They walked over to the car where the mechanic opened the bonnet and shone a torch inside. Then he slid into the driving seat and tried to start the engine, tilting his head to one side as he sought to find the core to the problem,

  ‘I’ll need more time to do a proper job,’ he told them with a distinct Cornish accent. ‘E’d better come back to the office and ‘ave some tea while us works on a repair.’

  There was a vestige of light as the winter moon showed itself between patches of clouds. The three men hurried to the office where the mechanic filled up the kettle with water
and placed it on lighted gas ring.

  ‘Service and inscrutability,’ laughed Baker. ‘It’s nice to know that these people aren’t on the make. Not like most town people.’

  Ivan pulled off his gloves to warm his hands on the old oil heater burning in a corner of the room, ‘How much further now.?’

  ‘About twenty miles or so,’ replied Baker. ‘I’m not really sure.’ Baker stared out of the window at the shroud of darkness. ‘I hope he can fix it quickly. I don’t want to spend the night in this misbegotten place. Not if I can help it!’

  The Russian rubbed his hands together vigorously beginning to feel the circulation returning, ‘They’re usually good mechanics in these remote places. They’ve got to be.’

  ‘There’s still time to let sleeping dogs lie,’ countered Baker hardly of the impact of his words as his tired brain churned out thought which had nagged him all day. ‘We could go back... even now.’

  Ivan fumbled in his pocket to produce a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and tossed the dead match carelessly on the fl.oor. There was silence before Baker continued.

  ‘You never ever told me what she was like.’

  The Russian glared at him sullenly, ‘What’s any woman like?’ he returned acutely,

  The cynical response forced his colleague to drop the matter. Funny how you can smell the countryside,’ he continued changing the subject. ‘There’s a sweet odour in the air... a kind of freshness,’ He emptied the dregs of his mug into the tiny sink in the3 corner of the room before glancing out of the window to observe the mechanic working under the large portable electric light. ‘I don’t like the look of those clouds,’ he grumbled as the moon disappeared behind them. ‘Looks like a storm’s brewing. That’s the last thing we want.’

  The Russian finished his drink and held his gloves towards the oil heater. ‘We should have driven on regardless,’ he complained bitterly,

  ‘You can’t drive twenty miles with an engine making that kind of noise... ‘

  He was interrupted rudely by an impatient wave of a hand. ‘All right, all right... I’m not in a mood for a lecture.’

  They remained silent until the mechanic returned. ‘I can probably do it by tomorrow afternoon at the earliest if I can get the parts, You can borrow one of my cars in the meantime to get on your way.’

  They followed him outside shuffling about to keep warm and the mechanic began to crank the engine of a very old vehicle. Baker shook his head in disbelief as he sat in the driving seat of the pre-1939 model,. This should have been sent to the scrap heap years ago,’ he said, realising that he had no control over the matter.

  ‘It’s the only spare I have, related the mechanic. ‘Take it or leave it!’

  Baker gave him a wry look and drove off struggling with the controls. He fought with the gear stick and the clutch for a while, haaving to keep tight control of the steering wheel, and even longer to become accustomed to the noisy tone of the engine and the constant ratle of the bodywork., Pressing himself into the small bucket seat as hard as possible, he squinted at the road ahead lit only by the dim headlights which cast their lights in a pool in front of the vehicle.

  Ivan sat quite still, his legs drawn up tightly towards his chin in the small space allocated to the passenger. His eyes opened and closed spasmodically as fatigued began to overcome him. Perhaps Baker had been right. Maybe he should have let sleeping dogs lie. He began to think back about his life in Russia in the past. To his credit, he had been the boy chosen to have his photograph depicted on a Soviet postage stamp, waving the flag of his nation patriotically with both hands. At that time he believed that the State reigned supreme and his initial aim was to dedicate himself to the totalitarian cause until world revolution which would inevitably free all those who were in imperialistic captivity. Howwever, his alert mind, and its unquenchable curiosity altered into one of extreme selfishness as he grew older, In due course, it dawned on him that, with the best will in the world, his mother country with its ideology would never reward him adequately and he would be far better off to spread his wings to achieve something better in life. The first task then was to divorce himself from the Soviet ideology. As far as he was concerned, he had to escape to that corrupt, fastidious, imperialistic world in the West in which he might achieve his ambition and make his fortune. He recalled a book once smuggled by another boy into the school which told of the streets of London being paved with gold. He considered it to be a capitalistic trick by a Western author and he disbelieved it to be true, However there was no harm in checking out the boast to see whether there was an element of truth in it, Of one thing he was certain, If he simply sat back and failed to act, his youth, enthusiasm and his prospects would inexorably fade away to infinity,

  ***

  It was some months later before the opportunity arose whereby he could act positively. A number of on the students had been selected to attend an engineering trade fair in Leipzig and Ivan discussed his plan with those whom he knew were sympathetic to his cause. He hoped desperately that he could rely on their trust as Russia was infested with informers dedicated to Communist idealism. On the appointed day, they piled into the coach, some of them knowing that they would never return to their homeland. With this knowledge, they bade farewell to their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers for ever. If they successes in their aim they would live in the West... far away from all those whom they loved. If they failed and survived, their fate would be long-term I I internment in a labour camp... ,probably in Siberia.,

  The vehicle continued on its way until it almost reached a small town some fifteen miles from Leipzig. At that point, Ivan stood up and turned to the driver with a revolver in his hand. At the point of the gun, he forced the man to stop the coach before pitching him out on a lonely country road. The next part of the plan was much more difficult to achieve,. He offered his fellow passengers the choice of defecting to the West or being left by the wayside to return to their homes in Russia, Twelve of the forty students alighted; the rest remained in their seats. After closing the door, Ivan sat in the driver’s seat and took the steering wheel himself..

  ‘Awchen choroshaw!’ he shouted at the top of his voice and drove westward. Eventually they arrived at a place where the only obstacles to their defection were sone distant border guards and two rows of barbed-wire fencing, In between the fencing there existed scrub land some tree hundred metres wide. Large markers had been fixed at regular intervals bearing the warning sign ‘MEINEN!’ embellished with the design of a skull and crossbones. Ivan became very tense at the set-back, The plan now relied more on luck than judgement. He had no idea where the mines wee buried. If he turned off at the wrong point, even by half a metre, they might all end up dead or very seriously injured, Now he had come to the watershed, He could see the border guards walking u p and down along the highway. He had to make a decision what to do without delay. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and relied on his instincts Swerving the coach sharply across fifty metres of uneven terrain, he pressed his foot on the accelerator firmly and tore through the first line of barbed wire. They had entered the minefield! The vehicle lurched from sided to side over the bumpy ground throwing the students and their luggage all over the place. As soon as the coach left the road, there came the sound of machine-gun fire, Ivan fixed his eyes straight ahead, gritting his teeth as he hung on to the steering wheel like grim death amid a hail of bullet that rained into the coachwork. About a hundred metres from the second row of barbed-wire fencing, the engine roared and howled its disapproval as the wheels spun ove the rough terrain. Ivan prayed silently for his mission not to fail at this precise moment. Window began to crash under machine-gun fire and he felt a stinging warm sensation in his left arm, however he managed to keep going until the coach burst through the final fence with a horrendous wrenching sound. There was a long silence after it had stopped with no movement inside from anyone at all except for the ti
ny slivers of glass which fell at random to the floor,. Shortly, a head popped up to peer cautiously outside.

  ‘We’re through!’ yelled a voice. ‘We’re through!’

  Excitement began to swell as they realised that the firing had stopped and more heads popped up to look outside. Then their eyes turned towards the driver who lay inert, slumped over the steering wheel with blood seeping from a flesh wound in his left arm

  After lifting him from the coach, they set him down beside one of the wheels and brought him round, slapping him on the shoulder for his brave effort. The cheers rang out over the German countryside until a loud hissing sound caused them to halt their jubilation as they froze with fear.

  ‘The tyres!’ yelled one of the students pointing to the front wheels.

  The tyres, tested by the barbed wire fencing, chose at that moment to puncture, and the group roared with laughter as the vehicle settled gently on its nose. They had made it... from East to West Germany!

  It had all happened a long time ago... in the distant past... an incident retained subconsciously in memory and dreams

  ‘We’re through! We’re through!’ shouted Ivan at the top of his voice, causing Baker to swerve dangerously across the road.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake!’ reacted the driver angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you? You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ The Russian shrugged his shoulders careless and began to doze off again. ‘Stay awake, overarch!’ Baker’s voice penetrated his thoughts before he could start to dream again. ‘It can’t be far now!’

  Ivan opened his eyes to peer at the road ahead and he yeaned loudly, ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t remember it in the dark.’ He tried to wiggle his toes but they were too numb to offer any feeling, He started suddenly and moved his body forward, ‘Hold on!’ he spat, causing the other man to switch his foot to the brake pedal in alarm, ‘I remember that strange house over there. Go on for another mile and take the left fork.’