Mr. Planemaker’s
Flying Machine
Shelagh Watkins
MP
Mandinam Press
~~~~
Copyright © Shelagh Watkins 2009
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Also by Shelagh Watkins,
Published at Smashwords:
Literature & Fiction Interviews Volume I
Literature & Fiction Interviews Volume II
All rights reserved; no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Shelagh Watkins of Mandinam Press
ISBN: 1-4137-7136-X
Published by Mandinam Press
www.mandinampress.co.uk
Dedication:
To Philip
,
CHAPTER 0NE
Mr. Planemaker’s Project
“What is the use of a book,” thought Alice, “without pictures or
conversations?”
– Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Emmelisa Planemaker was sitting silently on the floor with a sketchbook on her lap, surrounded by coloured crayons and felt tip pens. Drawing pictures, colouring and painting were Emmelisa’s favourite activities. She’d started to draw a picture of her mummy, her daddy, her brother and their house at number one, Fern Bank Road, Leftington, near Pierton, Lancashire.
Outside, it was pouring with rain.
On wet Sunday afternoons, Emmelisa’s brother would normally watch the cartoon channel on the wide screen television, but that afternoon, he was upstairs in his bedroom playing a computer game that he’d downloaded from the web. He’d agreed to stay in his room until teatime because his father was resting on the sofa downstairs in the same room as the television.
Before his big operation, two years ago, Mr. Planemaker had been a very handsome man of medium height with broad shoulders. He had a fine head of thick, brown, curly hair, but his most outstanding features were his dark blue eyes, surrounded by long, dark eyelashes.
As a baby, his hair was a mass of blond, not brown, curls. His almost black eyelashes that nearly touched his cheek when he was asleep in his cot were frequently admired and envied by his mother’s natural blonde friends, who had to rely on mascara to achieve the same effect.
Often, they would remark, “It’s so unfair. Boys with blond hair shouldn’t be allowed such naturally long, dark eyelashes!”
Mr. Planemaker’s eyes had not changed and he was still handsome but his face was much thinner and had a more angular appearance. Also, his arms and legs were leaner and less strong than they had been before the operation and, because he’d lost weight and his body was slimmer, his clothes did not fit as snugly as they used to.
As well as the changes in his physical appearance and his loss of strength, he often felt tired because he had much less energy than before the operation and he needed to rest during the day.
Since he was no longer able to go out to work, he spent most of his time at home, where he frequently rested in the afternoons. On the rare occasions that he did venture outside, he either went to see his doctor or he visited the hospital for a check-up.
When their daddy was at home, Emmelisa and her brother were no longer allowed to run around and shout a great deal. This proved to be quite a problem for Emmelisa, who was too young to show the same consideration as her older brother.
That Sunday afternoon, she had been permitted to stay in the living room with her daddy, on the strict basis that she must play quietly. Although she tried to be good, because she knew that her daddy was very poorly, she didn’t always succeed. Sometimes she would forget to be quiet, provoking a thoughtful reminder from her mummy.
Keep the noise down. Try not to disturb Daddy.”
Mr. Planemaker appreciated that, for an eight-year-old boy and an almost seven-year-old girl, it was quite a burden to ask them to hush up all the time. This thought was on his mind as he fell asleep and began to dream.
In his dream, two small children, a boy and a girl, were trying to find a house at the end of a long garden path that was bordered on both sides by a sea of pale blue and violet flowers. As the two children reached the front door, they were startled because the whole house became invisible. They immediately turned around and ran back to the gate at the end of the path leading to the house, but before they opened the gate, they heard a loud THUD! as the house reappeared.
The first time this happened, the two children laughed and ran back along the path towards the front door but the house disappeared again.
When they reached the gate a second time, they heard another THUD! as the house reappeared.
Whenever the children approached the house, it disappeared. They were no longer amused by the time the house had vanished three times, and they began to look a little anxious and lost.
Suddenly, a man appeared in the dream with a key in his hand. As the man beckoned to the children, the small girl called out, “The house keeps disappearing.”
At the same time, Mr. Planemaker could hear someone calling gently. He recognised the voice―it was his little daughter saying, “Daddy, are you asleep?”
“No poppet,” her father said as he awoke from his short nap. “No, I’m awake, did you want me?”
“I can’t find my picture,” his little girl said sadly.
“Which picture?” her daddy asked.
“The one with the new house. The new, red brick house I drew yesterday. I can’t find it.”
“Draw another one, I’ll watch you,” he suggested.
“No, I want you to draw one,” whined Emmelisa, as she held out a pencil and a piece of paper.
Before he could reach for the pencil, Mrs. Planemaker appeared in the doorway and spoke to Emmelisa, “Teatime, sweetheart. You can leave your crayons. We’ll tidy them away later.”
Emmelisa knew better than to argue with her mummy, although she was clearly displeased. She pulled herself up off the floor and slowly walked towards the lounge door, gently kicking one of her crayons in the process.
“Okay,” she murmured with a screwed up face.
“It’s your favourite,” her mother hinted with a smile.
Emmelisa whooped and, with an enormous grin, skipped out of the room.
That night, Mr. Planemaker tiptoed into the bedrooms of his two children, who were in bed fast asleep, and was captivated by the angelic faces of his innocent son and daughter. Holding back a tear, not of sadness but of joy at such a lovely sight, his heart filled with love as he gazed at each child.
Minutes later he was lying in bed, drifting into a deep sleep with a picture of the two sleeping babes in his mind. He began to dream about the vanishing house from his afternoon nap.
The man with the key was looking for the two children who had wandered off through the garden gate, away from the house. Unable to find the youngsters, he’d decided to approach the front door to see if the key would fit the lock.
Before he reached the door, a smartly dressed, very well-groomed lady suddenly appeared on the doorstep. She had sleek, chin-length, dark brown hair, and she was wearing a charcoal grey, pin-stripped, designer trouser suit with an open-necked white blouse. Her make-up, which was immaculate, neither too little nor too much, accentuated her dark eyes and high cheekbones.
The man was wondering if he should say something when the smart young woman said, “Hello.”
As she extended her right hand towards the man with the key, he could see that she was holding a gold-edged business card, which the man took and held in his left hand. At the top of the card, the company’s address:
Dream Homes Incorporated,
Heaven’s Gate, Land of Angels,
Principality of Just Rewards
was printed in gold letters. The name in the centre, Ann R. Keytect, was printed in embossed black type with the words “Member of the Angel’s Guild of Chartered Surveyors and Architects” printed immediately below in the same gold lettering as the address. She obviously belonged to a very well-respected, professional organization.
While he was still looking at the card, Ms. Keytect added, “Welcome to the Dream House. I hope you like it. I designed it especially for you.”
“You designed this house for me?” the man asked as he looked firstly towards Ms. Keytect then towards the house and finally to the key in his hand.
“Is this the key to the house?” he enquired.
“Yes,” she replied. “But it will only fit the lock if you know the secret number of the house.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything at all about the house. I found the key in my toolbox. I hadn’t seen it before and I’d no idea where it came from. As I touched the key, this house suddenly appeared. Two children were trying to open the door but the house kept disappearing and they’ve disappeared, too.”
“Don’t worry about the children, they’ll come back again. Children usually do reappear, even when they run off for a short while.”
“Yes, they do. They’re like boomerangs. They run off in one direction and return from another!” the man said in agreement.
Holding up the key, he added, “This is of no use to me. I don’t know the number of this house.”
“Do you remember the number of the house in which you were born?”
“Yes,” replied the man.
Ms. Keytect stood aside to allow the man to step forward as she invited him to try the key, saying, “Insert the key in the lock and whisper the number of the house of your birth.”
Even though the man was a little unsure, his natural curiosity urged him towards the door. He put the key in the lock and turned it as he whispered a number. His face was crestfallen. Nothing happened. Although the house didn’t disappear, the door didn’t open either.
When he tried to remove the key, which remained stubbornly in the lock, he wasn’t strong enough to pull it out.
“I can’t budge the key. It’s stuck in the lock,” he said, adding, “should I just leave it for someone else who knows the secret number?”
“Ah, this is a very special key. Try again. The number you whispered is correct. Except, this time, turn the key anti-clockwise and repeat the number,” suggested Ms. Keytect.
The man grasped the key with his right hand, turned it anticlockwise and whispered the number again.
Immediately, the door didn’t just open―it disappeared completely.
He heard Ms. Keytect ask, “Do you remember my name?”
The man replied, “Yes, you’re Ann R. Keytect.”
However, when he turned towards her, she was gone―completely invisible.
Mr. Planemaker was still half asleep when he eventually woke and heard the bubbling sound of two young children laughing, inter-mingled with an adult’s voice issuing orders about school bags, woollen hats, mittens and all the paraphernalia associated with a Monday morning.
He realised that soon the children would pile into their mother’s car and then be ferried safely to the local school, Leafy Lea Primary. A few minutes later he heard his wife calling, “We’re about to leave. I’ve some shopping to do. I’ll see you later.”
Her two exuberant, chanting children drowned out her words, as they sang, “Bye, Daddy. Bye.”
When Mr. Planemaker tried to recall last night’s dream, it seemed far away. He scratched his chin, which was badly in need of a shave, before he stopped thinking and started the slow process of showering, shaving and dressing. These days everything seemed to take twice as long as usual.
He glanced at the kitchen clock as he made his way down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Although he knew that the clock was ten minutes fast to allow Mrs. Planemaker extra time to make sure that the children were never late for school, it was still nearly an hour since he’d first opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock.
But the morning pattern was becoming familiar to Mr. Planemaker, who had formed a routine that suited him. He was a builder by trade and he’d created quite a successful business over twenty-odd years. When he was a working man, he’d been too busy to spend much time preparing breakfast, but his dear wife always made sure he ate a healthy cooked meal every morning before he left the house for work.
Mr. Planemaker knew that he would need all the energy the early morning breakfast provided, because building site work was very hard work and he would burn off all that energy by midday.
There were benefits in the hard, physical work. Men in the building trade were fit, healthy and well-muscled. Consequently, Mr. Planemaker’s illness, two years ago, came as a big surprise to everyone because he was permanently tanned from working outdoors and, physically, he was very strong from all the heavy lifting that was necessary to do the job.
He was very surprised when he first became aware of pains in his chest, that he thought were mild and nothing to worry about, because he was normally so fit and strong. However, after visiting the doctor and seeing a specialist in the nearby hospital, it became evident that the problem was much more serious than he could have imagined.
The consultant at the hospital told him that he would need to undergo a lengthy operation and, if it went well, he would be able to return to full employment.
After the operation, because he slowly made a complete recovery, he returned to work and he hadn’t experienced any more chest pains until recently.
The first suggestion that he should no longer work full time came from the doctor, who explained that the illness ran in the Planemaker family. Although not all the males in his family would suffer from this illness, Mr. Planemaker was one of the unfortunate few who did.
The medical explanation was long and detailed but the advice from the doctor was quite simply, “You need more rest and less work. I think you should consider retiring.”
To which he responded, “Retire. You think I should retire. I’m only forty-three.”
The doctor agreed that this was very young to be taking such an important step and yet, by continuing to work, Mr. Planemaker would be putting himself at great risk of becoming gravely ill in the very near future.
After speaking with the doctor, Mr. Planemaker discussed the problem with his wife. Together they sat down to work out whether or not Mr. Planemaker could afford to retire.
The initial shock of the illness was beginning to wear off and the whole situation didn’t look quite as bad as it first seemed to be. However, even with a certain amount of cutting back on their spending and selling part of the business in order to invest the money from the sale, they would still need to be careful.
After everything had been taken into account, they concluded that it would be possible to manage on less without becoming very poor, so the decision to retire was made.
Once the decision was made, as with all decisions, Mr. Planemaker started the process of fulfilling the plans for their future. He spoke to the partners in his company and they agreed to buy out his share of the business.
Within a matter of weeks, Mr. Planemaker had completely retired from full-time employment in a thriving business. Had he not been feeling so permanently tired, he would’ve regretted the decision. As it was, he accepted, without argument, that life would be much easier in the future.
Nowadays, time did sometimes stretch out and seemed to last much longer than it did when he was working. This extra time to reflect led to thoughts about involving himself in some kind of project.
Everything that came to mind seemed to require too much effort, and even just thinking about some of the things tired him out.
Today, during his light breakfast of cereal and fruit juice, he was giving some more thought to how he should set up something worthwhile.
For the rest of the day, he considered any number of projects that might be within his ability. Eventually he gave up because none of them was exactly what he was searching for. By the time he went to bed he was completely worn out.
When he started to think about a plan he hadn’t previously considered, he was so tired he immediately fell asleep and began to dream.
The same man he’d dreamed about previously was standing in front of the Dream House wondering whether he should walk inside, because there was no longer a front door to the house, only an opening into the dimly lit hallway.
This dark entry wasn’t very inviting and the man was unsure if he should make his way into the house when, before he could move, a tall, thick set man, dressed in workman’s clothes appeared in front of the doorway and said, “Hello, I’m A. W. Dare. I don’t use my first name. My second name is William but everyone calls me Bill. Bill Dare. How do you do?” he enquired as he held out his hand and shook the man’s right hand firmly. “I see you managed to open the door.”
“The door disappeared,” the man replied.
“Oh the door is still there even though you can’t see it.”
“If I tried to walk through the door, would I feel it?” asked the man.
“No,” grinned Mr. Dare. “But it’s a good question. Walking into a solid door would be pretty painful!” he laughed.
“Why did the door disappear if it’s still there?”
“Well,” said Bill Dare as he scratched his balding head, “You can’t see the door, so you’ll be able to walk straight into the house. The folk, who can see the door, won’t be able to walk through a solid door, will they…makes sense doesn’t it?” he laughed again.
Although this seemed like a riddle, it did make some kind of sense.
Even so, not enough sense to satisfy the man, who asked, “Do the people who live here leave the door open permanently then?”
“No one lives here,” was the quick reply.
“No one has ever lived here,” confirmed Mr. Dare.
The man was mulling this over, when he suddenly remembered Ann R. Keytect saying that she’d designed the house for him, which prompted the next question, “Have you met Ms. Keytect? Ann R. Keytect?”
“Sure I have,” replied Mr. Dare. “She designed the house for you and I built it.”
“Oh you’re a builder!” the man exclaimed.
“I am indeed. I’m Bill Dare the builder!” Mr. Dare exclaimed and then added, “Well now. Would you like to see inside the house?”
From where the man was standing he could just about see through the open doorway and not much further. The poorly lit hallway looked very eerie and uninviting―enough to send a shiver down the man’s spine.
“I’m not sure,” he said nervously.
“What are you afraid of?” Mr. Dare asked.
“I don’t know. Something seems to be holding me back. I’m not sure that I’m ready to step inside this house,” the man tried to explain.
“Well maybe today isn’t the right time for you. One day soon, I dare
say it will be. But then again I would dare to say so. I’m Bill Dare,” he said, full of laughter.
Mr. Planemaker could hear the laughter although he was no longer dreaming. The sound of laughter came from his two children, Emmelisa and Dylan, who were busily putting together all their school stuff ready for the car journey to Leafy Lea Primary.
The noise from downstairs didn’t abate until the front door opened as the children chorused, “Bye, bye, Daddy!” and somewhere amongst their singsong voices their mummy was saying, “I’ll see you later.”
As the door closed behind them, Mr. Planemaker knew that it was officially time to make his way to the bathroom and go through the same routine as yesterday.
In the kitchen, he made a pot of tea, poured some cereal into a bowl and added some cold, semi-skimmed milk, while at the same time he started to think about the future.
As he poured himself a second cup of very weak tea, he was still thinking about how he was going to spend his time over the following weeks, in order to produce something meaningful. None of yesterday’s ideas had improved with age, so they didn’t need any further consideration.
Instead, he decided to do a thorough search through all the magazines he’d collected over the years, which he kept stored for his retirement, without realising how soon that would be.
He set about the task with enthusiasm but, by lunchtime, he was losing interest rapidly. After lunch, he rekindled his interest and made another attempt at looking through the pile of magazines that remained but he had no more success than in the morning. In the middle of the afternoon, because he was so disillusioned, he fell asleep on the sofa and very soon, he was dreaming.
Although the Dream House and the same man were in the dream, Mr. Dare wasn’t. The man walked forward and was standing in the doorway, when he was made to take a step back. A wiry young man with black hair and a black moustache, dressed in a white overall had suddenly appeared in the doorway and, for a moment, their noses were almost touching.
The fright of seeing someone so close up had startled the man into taking a step backward. The young man noticed the alarm he’d caused and spoke out immediately in a light-hearted way to put the man at his ease. “Hi there,” he said, smiling. “You seem surprised to see me!”
“Well, I was a little startled. You suddenly appeared from nowhere!” the man exclaimed.
“No need to worry. Sorry if I made yer jump. I’m A. D. Orator. Don’t use my first name. My second name’s Derek but everyone calls me Dek. Dek Orator. “How yer doin’?”
The words, although in a different accent, sounded very familiar. Then the man remembered Bill Dare and asked, “Do you work with Mr. Dare, Bill Dare?”
“Yep,” Mr. Orator replied. “Mr. Dare built this house for yer and I did all the painting an’ decorating.”
“So you’re the decorator?” the man asked.
“That’s what I said, I’m A. Dek Orator,” answered Mr. Orator, roaring with laughter.
“Mr. Dare didn’t use his first name either and it began with A. like yours…”
Before he could say anything else Mr. Orator interrupted and said laughingly, “Oh, there’s lots of us!”
“Lots of you?” the man enquired.
“Yeah. All me mates. All the men, who helped to build the house, have names beginning with A.”
As he spoke, a group of men and one woman suddenly appeared on either side of Mr. Orator. They wore a mixture of blue denim jeans with chequered, open-necked shirts, T-shirts, blue overalls, heavy boots, trainers, hard hats, bobble caps, jackets with reinforced shoulders and elbow pads, single gold earrings and a gold neck chain.
After Mr. Orator had introduced them all, they chorused a welcome in complete harmony to the man for whom they had spent many, many hours constructing a home.
“Hello” they said with warm smiles.
The man, who was so pleased with such a friendly greeting, said, “Hello, It’s really good to meet you!”
“Well, ye’ve met the team,” Mr. Orator said. “I suppose ye’d like to check out their workmanship?”
The man was suddenly jolted out of his present, pleasant frame of mind because the question baffled him totally. When Mr. Dare had offered to show him inside the house, he’d felt a little afraid at the suggestion. He was just as apprehensive about commenting on the appearance of the house standing before him because it was the most ordinary building he’d ever seen.
For a start, the house was built of grey bricks and had only four small glazed windows at the front with wooden window frames that had been painted with grey paint.
The fact that the front door was no longer there didn’t help―it made the place look a little bit derelict and, if the roof had been covered with orange or red tiles, at least they would’ve added a bit of colour.
Alas, no, the house had a grey slate roof and a grey brick chimney.
The expectant looks on the faces of the happy crowd of people facing him, filled him with trepidation as he said slowly, “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say? Don’t know what to say! Goodness me. There’s a thing…a man who doesn’t know what to say. Bless me. I always have something to say. My, oh my yes. Never lost for words…words tripping over themselves to get out and be spoken. But then, I’m an orator. That’s me. Dek Orator.”
Throughout this outburst the only thing in the man’s mind that he felt he could say about the house was, “It’s grey.”
The words echoed in Mr. Planemaker’s head as he slowly came out of his dreamlike state. He eventually opened his eyes and looked across the room, where he could hear his wife, who was standing by the large picture window in the lounge, saying these very same words.
On a sunny day, because the room faced south, the sunshine would stream through the window adding warmth and brightness. Today, however, the sun was completely hidden by a thick blanket of clouds, giving a very bleak and dull outlook.
“It’s grey and dull,” repeated Mrs. Planemaker as she turned to look at the pile of magazines strewn around the sofa, where her husband was
resting.
“Any luck with the project?” she asked.
Mr. Planemaker was about to say no, no luck, instead he said, “What was that you said about the weather?”
“I said it’s grey. The sky…it’s grey.”
Yes the sky is grey, Mr. Planemaker thought as he began to think more clearly.
Things that fly in the sky are often grey too. Immediately, as if he’d always known, he knew exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to build an aeroplane.
CHAPTER TW0
Computer Whiz-Kid
“Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice.
– Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
During the night, a strong westerly breeze had blown away the blanket of clouds and, by the following day, the early morning sun was already dazzling brightly in a clear blue sky.
That morning, Mr. Planemaker was up early. As he carefully descended the stairs, he noticed the slanting rays of sunshine that lit up the lower staircase and the front hallway. When he turned on the half landing, the strong light streaming through the stained glass window made him look away.
As he averted his eyes, he glimpsed a ray of twinkling light catching the edge of the hallway mirror like a prism and bouncing back onto the white walls in a spectrum of rainbow colours.
Emmelisa, who heard her daddy’s footsteps on the stairs, ran from the kitchen into the hallway. When she came into view, Mr. Planemaker said, “Look how the sunlight has split into all these coloured speckles on the wall. Watch.”
He held out his hand between the mirror and the ray of light, blocking the light ray and stopping it from landing on the mirror’s edge so that the coloured fragments disappeared.
Emmelisa, who loved colours, called out, “Bring them back!”
Mr. Planemaker removed his hand and the refracted kaleidoscope of dappled light reappeared.
“Let me do it,” Emmelisa demanded, climbing the stairs and holding out her arms towards her daddy, who scooped her up and gave her a kiss on the top of her soft, light brown hair.
“Good morning!” Mrs. Planemaker exclaimed, as she appeared from the kitchen. “There’s tea in the pot. Would you like me to pour you a cup?”
“Thanks. Yes please,” her husband replied as he carried his precious daughter down the stairs.
Mrs. Planemaker did not say anything more although she knew the reason her husband was up earlier than usual—Mr. Planemaker simply couldn’t wait to start his new project.
In the kitchen, she said, “I’ll take you,” as she lifted her small daughter from her daddy’s arms. “Time for school.”
On school mornings everything was such a rush; making sure the children had some kind of breakfast, even if it was only toast and marmalade; finding all the school things they needed and checking that their shoelaces were tied properly. There was no time for any idle chatter that might hold up things and make them late for school.
Mr. Planemaker knew better than to try to distract his wife’s attention away from her usual routine. He busied himself preparing breakfast, as the rest of the family were donning outdoor clothing and filling schoolbags. Eventually, they were ready to leave and chorused their usual morning farewells.
After they left, Mr. Planemaker was deep in thought as he sipped a second cup of tea. He started to think about how difficult it might be to build a scale model aeroplane that was capable of flying.
He had been a builder for more than half his life. By the time he’d completed his builder’s trade apprenticeship, to become a fully qualified builder, he knew everything he needed to know about how to build a house.
His limited understanding of how to build a model from a kit was based on the little experience he’d gained as a young boy.
At the age of eleven, he’d received a kit from his father for Christmas—not for an aeroplane but for a model boat. When the boat was finally assembled, his father had felt extremely proud of his son and, after careful examination, he’d said that the boat was very well made and was ready to be tested on water.
His father had helped him through some of the difficult stages, without being too intrusive; knowing how important it was for his son to feel that he’d succeeded mainly due to his own efforts.
As a boy, he’d been willing to take his time and be very patient. He never tried to rush to finish any of the jobs that needed to be done because he grasped the importance of allowing all the glued items time to set to ensure that the boat would be watertight.
His mother, for fun, had often teased her son by asking, “Is that boat not finished yet?”
Her son’s only reaction was simply to shrug his shoulders, as if to say to his father, “Women. What do they know about building model boats?”
His father would respond with a knowing smile without saying a word.
As soon as the boat was finished, however, his mother could not hide her admiration—the boat was a masterpiece of patience rewarded.
On the Saturday of the boat’s first launch, father and son walked to Pierton Park in expectation of seeing this tiny boat floating and bobbing about on the pond inside the park. It was difficult to say who was the proudest when the boat touched the water and gracefully stayed above the surface. Very few words passed between father and son, but it was a memorable day.
The memory still lingered and was partly the reason for Mr. Planemaker’s interest in model aircraft. He had not failed on water, now he wanted to see if he could succeed in the air.
He knew that, in order to ensure success, he would need to find a specialist supplier, who could provide him with easy to follow instruction manuals which left nothing to chance for the type of model aircraft he had in mind.
He didn’t have any specialist tools, so the kits would have to provide precisely interlocking parts that would need no adjustments.
After he had given considerable thought to the problem of acquiring the type of model aircraft kit he was looking for, he realised that, before he did anything else, he would have to learn how to use his son’s computer. Then he could search the World Wide Web on the Internet—to find out everything that he needed to know about model aircraft kits.
By the time he finished breakfast, he had a plan, in his mind, of all
the things he was going to do that morning. After washing up the breakfast dishes and tidying the kitchen, he walked through the hallway, up the stairs and into his son’s bedroom.
The room was reasonably tidy with just a few scattered toys and a Manchester United football shirt lying at the foot of the bed. There were posters of the Manchester United football team on one wall and two posters of Ferrari formula one sports cars on another. Although Dylan was a keen football fan, his greatest passion was formula one racing.
Dylan’s computer was under the bedroom window, on top of a small computer workstation. Mr. Planemaker sat in front of the screen and turned on the computer.
Nothing happened.
He checked the socket switch by the plug to see if it was in the on position. The socket was switched on but the computer was lifeless.
He decided to unplug the computer so that he could remove and check the size of the fuse.
Downstairs, in the garage, he found a packet of fuses and a screwdriver.
Back upstairs, after changing the fuse, he tried the computer again but it still did not work. He searched around to find the computer manual and instructions that gave advice about things to test if the computer didn’t work properly. He tried several of the suggestions in one of the instruction booklets but the computer refused to come to life.
When there was nothing else he could try to make the computer work, he looked for a list of repair shops in all the computer booklets. He was about to abandon his search when he noticed a small label on the side of the monitor with the following words printed in gold lettering:
Whiz Kid Computer Maintenance,
Virtual Realty,
Cyberspace Road,
Pierton WH1 IZZ
Telephone: 0100 000 000
Mr. Planemaker decided to give Whiz Kid Computer Maintenance a call to ask if they could repair the computer. He dialled the number and, after just one ring, he heard a young man say, “Hello, Whiz Kid Computer Maintenance. Can I help you?”
After Mr. Planemaker had explained the problem he was having with his son’s computer, the young man said, “Bring it in so that I can take a look at it.”
Mr. Planemaker had lived in Pierton all his life but he had never heard of Cyberspace Road, so he asked, “Could you give me directions from Fern Bank Road, please?”
“Sure, no problem,” the young man replied obligingly, giving very clear instructions.
To Mr. Planemaker’s amazement, he knew the directions very well, but he could not picture Cyberspace Road in his mind.
He assumed it must be a new road leading to the small Industrial Estate on the outskirts of Pierton.
It was several weeks since Mr. Planemaker had been out and, although he was feeling much better, he was unsure if he would be well enough to drive. Ever since he became ill, his brother had made regular visits so that he could do all the odd jobs that needed to be done around the house.
He was considering whether he should wait to ask his brother to drop the computer off for him or take it himself, when he heard his wife downstairs.
Mrs. Planemaker had completed the school run and returned straight home.
“I’m back,” she called out.
As Mr. Planemaker made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, he started to explain that Dylan’s computer was out of order, but instead of using Dylan’s given name, he used the name his daughter had coined when she was a baby. Emmelisa had shortened the two names of her brother, Dylan Elliot, to Dell, and the name had stuck.
“Dell’s computer isn’t working. I’ve already phoned someone. They should be able to fix it…thought I might have a ride out.”
“Do you feel up to it?” his wife asked, showing concern.
“Maybe a change would do me good.”
“Would you like me to go with you?” Mrs. Planemaker offered.
“No…but thanks anyway. Unless you want to?” her husband replied.
“You go. Do you good. Change of scene and all that,” she said encouragingly.
By the time Mr. Planemaker was sitting at the wheel of his car, he wasn’t sure if he had enough energy to complete the journey.
Even with the help of his wife, packing the computer into the boot of the car had been very tiring. He wondered if he should’ve decided to wait for his brother but when he looked towards his wife, who was waiting patiently to wave goodbye, he felt that it would be more difficult to change his mind than to make the journey.
As he turned the key in the ignition to start the engine, he felt a little better as he backed his car slowly out of the garage and onto Fern Bank Road.
Twenty minutes later, he approached the small roundabout close to the new Industrial Estate. The young man on the telephone had said to take the left exit onto the freeway. A mile along this road he would meet another, bigger roundabout, where he should take the left exit onto Cable Drive, then first left onto Optical Fibre Drive and Cyberspace road was first left.
Mr. Planemaker was unaware that there was a road immediately on the left and, if there was, he thought, Wouldn’t I be coming back on myself? All these left turns seem to form a complete circle.
This thought was only fleeting because the last two left turnings came so suddenly that there was little time to think about anything but driving.
There was only one building in Cyberspace road—it was built of grey bricks with a grey slate roof, a grey brick chimney, a doorway without a door and four small windows with grey painted window frames.
Over the doorway, there was a square, grey stone with the words:
Virtual
Realty
2002
chiselled out of the stone. The sign looked real, but it was really a digital display screen, which was embedded flush with the wall, so that the surface of the screen was exactly level with the surface of the wall.
As he locked his parked car and walked towards the building, he looked up at the sign and saw the image change with his approach as the angle from which he viewed the sign changed.
By the time he reached the open entrance, the sign looked like a row of bricks exactly in pattern with the surrounding wall and completely matching the rest of the building.
A young man, who appeared in the doorway, saw Mr. Planemaker looking up at the sign and said, “Hi there, I’m Mr. Kidd. Can I help you?”
“Interesting sign,” Mr. Planemaker replied. “Very clever, but shouldn’t it be virtual reality?”
“Oh!” laughed Mr. Kidd. “It’s the name of the building. We decided to keep the name when we rigged up the sign.”
Being a businessman, Mr. Planemaker knew that catching the public’s attention was a big part of advertising. He smiled and said, “Don’t tell me. Everyone mentions it, so it must be working.”
The young man nodded and winked.
“I’m Mr. Planemaker, I spoke to someone on the phone about my son’s computer.”
“I remember…I spoke to you. Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Kidd smiled and held out his hand.
The two men shook hands before Mr. Kidd offered to help to lift the computer from the boot of the car—an offer that was gratefully accepted. As they passed through the front entrance, Mr. Kidd, who was carrying the computer, said, “Sorry about the front door. All this recent rain caused the wood to swell. The door kept sticking. Should be fixed by the end of this afternoon.”
The doorway led to a small open area with a counter in the middle and a side door on the left. Mr. Kidd placed the computer on the counter before saying, “Sorry about the mess. Got the decorators in. Should be finished in a couple of weeks.”
The mess he referred to was a jumble of dust sheets, step ladders, toolboxes, bottles of turpentine, paint brushes, paint rollers and tins of paint, which were scattered around a much bigger area on the other side of the counter.
It was clear that Mr. Kidd had left all the work to the professional decorators because there was not a spot of paint on him. His rugby shirt, which seemed at least one size too big, baggy blue denim jeans and thick-soled, black shoes were all care-worn but paint-free.
He even went so far as to say that he had considered doing the decorating himself but he was too busy because recently they’d taken on quite a large amount of repair work.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll have a quick look. See if I can find the fault.”
After he’d checked over the outside of the computer he said, “I see it’s one of ours. Shouldn’t be a problem. Could probably fix this while you wait.”
“Do you make computers, then?” asked Mr. Planemaker, puzzled.
“Oh, we’re not manufacturers. More your bespoke computers, if you understand what I mean. We make them to order. I can see from your face that you didn’t order this one. Customers often wonder how personal computers designed just for them end up in their possession. Especially if they didn’t order them.”
“Are you saying that this computer was designed just for me?”
“Without a doubt. See, look here. These initials T.H.P. on the back of the computer. They’re yours, aren’t they?”
“Well yes, they are.”
“And the number of this computer is 321. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does. It’s the number of the house I was born in.”
“The serial number is 25 06 58. Is that connected to you?”
“It’s my date of birth,” Mr. Planemaker said with astonishment.
“I would definitely say that this computer has been tailored especially for you,” responded Mr. Kidd, who didn’t seem in the least bit surprised. “We should have spare parts for the 25 06 58. I’ll just check.”
Then he walked through the side door on the left, into what appeared to be a stock room. A moment later he returned, saying, “Got the parts. If you care to wait in the car, I’ll have this fixed in no time.”
The way he said he would fix the computer in no time suggested that he already knew the exact problem, without doing anything more than examine it from the outside.
“Do you know what’s wrong with it?” Mr. Planemaker asked.
“Oh, I think I’ve a very good idea. No problem. Leave it with me,” the young man replied.
He seemed so confident, there seemed little point in arguing, so Mr. Planemaker agreed to wait in the car.
He had only just seated himself inside his car when he saw Mr. Kidd carrying the computer across the car park.
“I’ll pop this in the boot for you,” the young man said.
He put the computer in the car boot, slammed it shut and walked round to say goodbye to Mr. Planemaker, who wound down the car door window on the driver’s side.
“All done. You shouldn’t have any more problems. No charge. Special order computers are repaired free. Any problems; give me a call.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Kidd. I didn’t expect that, but thanks again, anyway.”
“My pleasure. I’m Wizard, by the way…but call me Wiz. Safe journey,” Mr. Kidd said as he waved goodbye and walked towards the open doorway.
Mr. Planemaker could hardly believe the computer would actually work once he connected it up at home because everything had happened so quickly, but he was so pleased the problem had been solved with such little fuss, that he decided not to worry about it too much. He simply wanted to drive home and take a rest.
When he turned into the driveway of number one Fern Bank Road, twenty-five minutes later, he was very relieved. He decided to leave the computer in the car until after lunch because he was feeling tired.
Inside the house, Mrs. Planemaker was in the kitchen making homemade soup. As soon as she heard her husband open the front door, she called out, “Everything go all right? Computer fixed?”
“Yes. It was amazing. A young man repaired it in about ten seconds flat,” he replied. “And guess what? You won’t believe this but his name is Wiz Kidd!”
Then he added, “Curious, isn’t it? Even more curious…he said the computer had been custom-made for me.”
“Custom-made for you? Why did he say that?” his wife asked, perplexed.
“Three things. On the back of the computer, there are the initials T. H. P. The number of the computer is 321, and the serial number is 25 06 58. That’s my initials, the number of the house I was born in and my date of birth,” explained her husband. “I’ll show you later.”
“It’s just a coincidence,” Mrs. Planemaker stated, assuredly.
“Knew you would say that,” he replied, putting an end to the conversation.
Mr. Planemaker was looking forward to telling his son about meeting Mr. Kidd. He knew Dell would not be able to resist saying, “You’re kidding!”
Mr. Planemaker would then play dumb and pretend that he did not see the pun, to provoke the predictable next question, “Don’t you get it? Wiz Kidd…kidding. Get it?”
To which he would respond, “Oh yes, very good!”
Then father and son would enjoy laughing together—just for the fun of it.
CHAPTER THREE
Puss in Boot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE different names.
– T S Eliot, The Naming of Cats
Mr. Planemaker was feeling much better after a delicious lunch of pea and ham soup with crusty, wholemeal bread. He was about to take a short nap when an unprovoked thought came into his mind, suggesting that he should collect the computer from the boot of the car.
He tried to push the thought away, but it refused to budge; like a phrase in a song repeated over and over again on a damaged compact disc. The quickest way to remove the thought would be to give in to it; so he did.
As he walked towards the car on the driveway, he heard a tiny noise that seemed to be coming from the back of the car.
He pressed the button, with the boot symbol, on the remote control, which responded with a high pitched bleep, before he heard the thudding sound of the boot door unlocking. This was followed by another tiny sound, similar to the first one. It seemed to be coming from either inside the boot or under the car. So, instead of opening the boot, he checked the underside of the car to see whether there was anything underneath.
He was careful to look behind the back wheels, as well as under the car. He didn’t see anything, although he did hear the same sound again, and it was definitely coming from the boot of the car.
That’s strange, he thought as he lifted the door at the back of the car and peered inside the boot.
Although the computer was sitting undisturbed and undamaged, something next to it was stirring and making tiny mewing sounds.
The sound came from a round basket with a fastened down lid. He carefully undid the fastening and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, an extremely small, black kitten with fluffy, white paws nestled among the purple silk lining of the basket. The curled-up, soft bundle of fur, with tightly closed eyes, seemed to be only a few hours old.
Goodness me! Mr. Planemaker thought. Where did you come from?
He closed and fastened the lid, then moved the basket slightly so that he could lift and carry the computer into the house, without disturbing the snoozing cat.
“Need any help?” his wife called from the kitchen.
She was standing in the kitchen doorway by the time he replied, “No, thanks. That’s okay. I’ll take this upstairs. Then I’ll bring in the rest.”
As he climbed the stairs, he wondered what he was going to do with this sudden and unexpected arrival in the boot of the car.
After he’d deposited the computer in Dell’s bedroom, he remained deep in thought as he returned to the car. His mind asked questions and tried to answer them all at the same time—to such an extent that he didn’t have a clue what he was going to do next.
His mind was still in turmoil when he descended the stairs after the second trip upstairs with all the extra things belonging to the computer. His wife reappeared at the kitchen door and was about to say, “That it, then?” but instead said, “Everything okay?” because she noticed the perplexed look on her husband’s face.
“Better step outside and see,” he replied, as he reached the hallway.
Mrs. Planemaker’s first thought was that the car might have been involved in an accident and her husband was building up the strength to tell her. She looked in his direction for a sign or more information, but when none came, she followed him out of the house.
By the time she reached the car on the driveway, she’d steeled herself for the worst. She was too busy checking the car for bumps and scratches to notice her husband bending, and lifting a small basket into his arms, at the back of the car.
Finally, she turned and saw, under the raised lid of the basket, a tiny ball of velvety black fur with four minute, snowy paws in a cloud of purple silk taffeta.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with all thoughts of car crashes gone. “What a tiny kitten!”
Immediately, this cute, cuddly, captivating kitten enchanted her and held her spellbound as a slight smile spread across her face.
Mr. Planemaker saw the smile and warned, “No!”
“No?” his wife responded. “But I didn’t say anything!”
“You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.”
“Did you not buy the kitten for us?” she asked, crestfallen.
“I didn’t buy the kitten!”
“The children would love a kitten!” she pleaded, before he continued, “Shouldn’t you be asking me how this kitten arrived here?”
“Oh! Where did you find the basket? Does the kitten belong to someone else?”
“No! I don’t know! When I opened the boot, this was inside,” he replied, holding the basket in his wife’s direction.
As he spoke, they both looked at the helpless kitten and seemed to think as one. If the basket had been in the boot of the car for over an hour, then instead of standing arguing, they should find out if this tiny creature needed feeding.
Mr. Planemaker handed the basket to his wife saying, “Here. You’d better see if the kitten will take a little milk.”
In the living room, two hours later, Mr. Planemaker awoke from a dreamless nap. He glanced at the kitchen clock, as he wandered into the kitchen looking for his wife, and realised that she must be on her way to collect the children from school.
The cat basket was in the corner of the room, on the floor, close to the central heating boiler and away from any cold draughts. The kitten was fast asleep.
He made a pot of tea, poured himself a cup and sat at the kitchen table. He was undecided about keeping the kitten, although seeing the basket again did remind him of the peculiar circumstances in which he found this surprising gift—if it was a gift.
By the time he’d finished his tea, because he was still unsure about the kitten, he thought he should telephone Mr. Kidd to ask whether he knew anything about the basket and its contents.
He made his way to the phone on the breakfast bar and pressed the buttons on the number pad from memory. The number, 0100 000 000, was easy to remember and needed no checking.
Immediately after he entered the number, he heard a continuous buzzing sound suggesting a disconnected line. He replaced the receiver and went to Dell’s bedroom to check the number on the side of the computer, but the label was missing.
He returned to the phone so that he could contact directory enquiries.
When a young man answered, the following conversation took place:
“Directory enquiries. Which town, please?”
“Pierton,”
“What name, please?”
“Whiz Kid Computer Maintenance.”
“Do you have an address, please?”
“Virtual Realty, Cyberspace Road.”
“Sorry. I don’t have anything listed under that name and address. Do you have a different address?”
“No,” Mr. Planemaker said, feeling a little uneasy. “No, sorry. I don’t.”
After he replaced the receiver, he started to feel slightly foolish. He was no closer to finding out about the kitten and he was beginning to wonder if the computer would work at all.
He would’ve preferred the opportunity to return upstairs to test the computer before Dell arrived home from school but he was too late. He could already hear the sounds of bubbling laughter from his two young children and car doors slamming shut in the driveway.
“Hi Dad!” Dell declared as he entered the house and saw his father, before he threw down his schoolbag, just missing the cat basket, without even seeing it.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Emmelisa sang out as she ran into the kitchen waving a brightly coloured picture. “Look what I have painted for you.”
The picture showed a big blue sky with white, puffy clouds and a pink aeroplane with a man, wearing goggles, perched on top.
“That’s you in your aeroplane,” she explained.
“It’s the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen,” her daddy said softly, as he took the token of love from his little daughter.
There wasn’t a chance to say anything more because the two children were running out of the kitchen, through the hallway and up the stairs to their rooms.
Mr. Planemaker sat and waited for his son to call down, “Dad, why is my computer in pieces?”
Long explanations seemed unnecessary, as father and son went about the process of setting up the computer. By the time the computer was eventually switched on, everything had been checked and rechecked. It worked! What a relief!
By then, Mr. Planemaker’s idea of joking about Wizard Kidd had long gone stale although he was feeling more generous about him. At least he’d fixed the computer, even if he’d disappeared without trace and, maybe, deposited an unwanted kitten.
The moment of alleviation was short though, as Dell tried to make a connection onto the Internet.
When his Uncle Hugh upgraded to a more expensive computer system, he gave Dell this computer with the Internet software already installed.
Uncle Hugh had entered all the details to set up a new account and email address for his nephew, and the computer’s internal modem allowed a direct connection with the telephone line. Normally, if Dell clicked on the electronic mail icon or the Internet icon, the server number was dialled automatically to make a connection.
Dell had already tried several times to connect onto the Internet, but each time a dialogue box appeared on the screen with the message: “The modem could not detect a dial tone. Make sure your telephone line is working and is connected to the modem.”
Although the telephone extension wire was correctly plugged in to the computer and the telephone point, the same message kept showing on the screen.
Mr. Planemaker was rapidly losing interest in computers! He told Dell he would telephone Uncle Hugh later that evening to seek his advice.
After speaking with his brother, Hugh, he wondered how anyone had the patience to persist with the Internet—apparently, this type of problem happened all the time and yet people did persevere until their Internet connections were up and running without any hitches.
Hugh said not to worry and suggested contacting the server provider on a free-phone number, which Mr. Planemaker wrote down with the intention of telephoning the following day.
Before he’d spoken with his brother, Mr. Planemaker had been relieved to hear his wife announce from the hallway that tea was ready and waiting, which now gave him the opportunity to abandon Dell’s computer.
As father and son descended the stairs and walked through the kitchen door, they could hear squeals from Emmelisa, who had already responded to her mummy’s call to come downstairs for tea.
“Can I stroke it?” she was asking, as she crouched by the side of the cat basket.
Dell walked over and peered into the basket over his sister’s shoulder.
“Wow!” he said. “A kitten. Is it ours?”
Mr. Planemaker felt three sets of pleading eyes landing on him in great anticipation. He looked completely undecided as he replied, “We don’t know anything about the kitten. It just turned up out of the blue. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Oh! Please, please, please! We can keep the kitten, can’t we? We can, we can, we can,” coaxed Emmelisa.
Dell had learned that “wait and see” from his father was probably as close to a yes as you could be; but Emmelisa had yet to learn.
Their mother also knew that her husband’s reply was as good as a yes, so she silenced her little daughter and ushered her to join her brother, who was already sitting at the table.
After tea, both children were allowed to help their mummy tempt the newly found pet with a little milk. The process took a great deal of time, as the children fought each other for their individual turn to stroke the kitten gently.
By the time the children were tucked up in bed, Dell had forgotten all about the computer. His mind was busily working on a name for the kitten.
“Can we call the kitten Spartacus?” he asked his mummy, as she kissed him lightly on his forehead.
“Go to sleep now. We will discuss it tomorrow. Sleep tight,” she ordered, but Dell replied, “Read to me, please.”
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