| Subject: Empty Reflections Part Two |
Author:
Karen
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Date Posted: 17:01:04 08/11/08 Mon
In reply to:
Karen
's message, "Empty Reflections-Prologue" on 14:52:42 08/05/08 Tue
A/N: Hi everyone, this chapter slips back in time again for a little more info on our adversaries. I know this isn’t Harm and Mac stuff, but it’s the only way to include where these people are coming from and why they are the way they are. I think everyone is influenced by where they’ve been, and the things they’ve done, and personal character is created by how you take your experiences into the future.
All psychologists please forgive me, as well as profilers, for the conclusions I’ve drawn, as well as anyone with a British background, for my attempt at speech patterns. Everything I’ve done here is all the product of observation and extrapolation.
It’s ultimately meant for no other purpose than to entertain.
Thank you all for your comments. I appreciate them and I love to know you are enjoying the story.
For those who love Ben as I do, he is based about seventy-five percent on a boss I had several years back.
Empty Reflections
Part Two
East Clifton
England
Oct 1985
10:40 pm
For over five years, from the time Michael was twelve, he and Polly had worked and saved, hiding away whatever small bits of coin they could earn. He’d had to share the meager income from his odd jobs with his mother, because if his father ever found out he kept all the money, he would have beaten Michael. His mother never revealed that he didn’t give her everything, for she would surely have been thrashed as well.
In the end, he and Polly gave up two years to subservient labor at Heatherly House while they added to their savings and finished school. They planned their adventure with as much detail as they could obtain, until the time came when they decided they had enough money hidden away.
One night on a dark moon, they made their escape.
The door moved silently under his hand, and he blessed the notion that prompted him to oil all the hinges the previous week. There was little light except from the stars, but he was familiar with the way. He could get to the chicken house with his eyes closed. Inside the small shed, a few of the hens clucked and fluffed their feathers. But whatever sense chickens use to warn them of danger didn’t engage.
He had cared for the fowl since he was eight years old. They knew him and were not disturbed by his presence. They were a source of income for the family when the mutton and wool money ran out, as it always did. To his father’s great ire, Michael had refused to be part of butchering the birds when they stopped laying, but in all other areas of their care he was the only human they were familiar with. It was for this reason he had chosen their shelter as the hiding place for their money.
He carefully moved to the back of the small structure and reached behind a nesting box for the tin container. A nearby chicken rustled and squawked as the coins in the can rattled. The sound was deafening in the absolute silence of the moors and Michael froze. Outside he heard his father’s voice.
“Who’s there?”
The chickens quieted and Michael nearly passed out from fear. If he were discovered, they would never escape. His father would beat him to near death and take their hard-earned savings. If he ever prayed in his life, he prayed hardest in that moment.
His mother’s voice whined, “No one’s there, John. Close the window, it’s cold.”
“Be quiet, wife,” his father shushed her, then added, “Guess t’was nothing, likely jus’ fightin’ over roost. They’ve settled now.” He slammed the window shut.
Michael moved as cautiously as he dared, clearing the hen house without disturbing another bird. Walking softly, he hurried around the side of the cottage, pausing only once to assure himself the lights were out and pursuit wasn’t eminent. When he reached the garden gate, he cursed silently. He hadn’t remembered to oil this set of hinges. He knew they were rusty and would squeak if he moved the gate.
In desperation, he lifted one leg over the short entrance and discovered that his sudden growth the last few years afforded him the necessary height to clear it. Carefully lifting the other leg, he hesitated no longer. He was already late due to another argument between his Mum and Pa. It had kept them up later than usual, but had not resulted in violence. He was finally able to sneak out when they retired.
He ran across the road and hid in a copse of trees for one last reassurance that he hadn’t been discovered. It briefly occurred to him that he’d sort of miss the chickens. It was during the time spent with them that he’d been able to dream and formulate his plans. He loved his mother and he knew in her way she had helped them, but he never fully understood why she stayed with his father, allowing him to abuse her.
There was little time to ponder the relationship further; he had fifteen minutes to reach the bus stop in the village. It was the last bus tonight for the city 50 km away, where they could catch the fast train to London. His grandfather’s WWI leather rucksack was his only luggage. He lowered it to the ground, and opened the flap of the front pocket, preparing to dump their precious supply of money from the can. His hands shook with nerves and the cold damp air had made the tin slippery. As he fumbled with the lid, the contents of the tin spilled in the dirt at his feet.
Instantly he was on his knees scrambling to gather the coins and notes. They had barely enough to make the trip and sustain them for a few weeks. He couldn’t afford to leave a single coin behind. Using a small torch he’d purchased at the hardware store, he swept the ground looking for any sign of the money. He found a few more coins stuck in a small hummock of grass, plus two one pound notes beneath a small branch. Shoving the last of it into his trouser pocket he closed the flap on the knapsack and took off at a dead run. He ran until he thought his lungs would burst, then he ran some more. He couldn’t fail Polly. He had promised.
As he rounded the corner into the village, he saw the bus parked by its normal stop and voices raised.
“Please,” Polly begged. “He’ll be here in a minute. I know he will. We have to get to the train.”
“Sorry miss, ye’ll have to ge’ off. I canna’ delay.”
“Just one more minute. You’re early,” she wheedled.
“And I intend to stay tha’ way. These people wan’ ta catch train ‘s’well. Sometimes it runs early now ge’ off wi’ ye, or I’ll put y’ off,” the driver threatened.
“I’m here,” Michael skidded to a stop behind Polly. She half turned with question and relief in her eyes. “Sorry, I dropped my books,” he held up the old rucksack. “Hop aboard,” he urged her, and dug in his pocket for the two one-pound notes.
“Two fares to the station in York, and keep the change,” he instructed the driver airily, using the American accent he’d picked up in the village teashop during the summer tourist season. The tip was twenty precious pence out of their small savings, but worth it to distract the driver. The man would report only a pair of American students if asked about their disappearance.
He and Polly had worked for years on this particular accent and ultimately he knew it would be their best chance of eluding detection. By posing as students touring the country, he knew there would be few questions in the event anyone bothered to look for them. They each carried a small bag, packed only with a limited amount of personal items and a meager collection of useful clothing. Since it was cold, they had dressed in several layers, adding to their wardrobe without having to carry extra baggage.
Aside from clothing, the only items that Michael carried in his grandfather’s leather bag were a bar of soap, and three books that his mother had treasured. They’d been passed down from her grandmother. When her husband instructed her to throw them out, she had instead given them to Michael, cautioning him that no one must ever see them.
For years, he had entertained himself with the swashbuckling antics of the Three Musketeers or the dashing presence of Mr. Darcy, imagining what street horrors must have faced a young Oliver. These stories and a few others had fed an appetite he wouldn’t completely understand for several more weeks.
The train was boarding passengers when their bus arrived. They hurried to the ticket window to secure passage to London. It was another extra expense, but the local train would take quite a bit longer than the express, and require several stops for food. With the fast train, they could be in London before breakfast and perhaps even nap along the way. They had only ten minutes to wait before the train pulled out of the station.
“What happened?” she hissed urgently, when the sound of the moving train could cover their whispers.
“Mum and Pa had a fight. They didn’t go to bed on time. Then Pa heard me in the chicken house. I was nearly a goner for sure,” Michael told her.
“Did he see you?”
“No, the hens settled around me, and he went back to bed. But then I got into the trees across the lane and dropped the money.” Polly groaned, she knew how spare their funds were.
“It’s okay. I’m sure I got it all, but I had to run all the way into town.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, wide-eyed. His athleticism never failed to gain her admiration.
“Yeah, I’m fine now’t I’ve caught my breath,” he bragged a bit, then comforted, “I told you it would all be okay.”
“What will we do when we get to London?” she asked.
“I’ll take care of you, never fear, Polly.”
Reassured, she yawned and sank against him. He felt her relax almost immediately. Now if he could just keep all his promises to her. He’d never treat her the way his father treated his mother. Of that, she could rest assured.
While Polly napped, Michael made a lucky discovery. A budget travel guide had slipped down beside the seat. It was several years old, but gave him information he didn’t have before on where to find lodging, cheap food, and even a few inexpensive hostels. He secured the precious book in his bag, and used it to support his back as he leaned against the wall of the car. Polly was sleeping soundly now, curled in the bend of his arm. Michael dozed until daybreak when they pulled into the station.
Once they had moved through the crowds and out into the dank foggy air of the city, Michael looked around. One simple fact he’d gleaned from glancing at the book was that street vendors cost less than even the least expensive restaurants.
They bought a meager breakfast from a nearby cart, and a map that cost him fifteen pence at a newsstand then walked to a nearby park. Spreading the map and consulting the travel-guide he soon found a youth hostel only two km away.
It wasn’t much of an accommodation, but it offered three things; a clean bed in a barracks-style room, simple but hot food, and a bulletin board with job offerings in the lobby. For less than the cost of their fare from East Clifton, they had secured shelter for three nights.
That afternoon they found jobs cleaning and working backstage at a small fringe theater in the neighborhood. As the weeks turned to months and they proved their worth, they took on tasks vacated by the ever-changing crew. The small company struggled to survive and many of the members held more than one job. Little by little, their income increased as they did the work of two, three, or four people. Soon they found themselves present for rehearsals which segued into helping during the semi-amateur plays. After that, it took very few nights of watching the performance before Michael knew in his heart what his life would be. The wonderful world of make believe that was the theater had seduced his mind and soul.
They’d been in London only six months when he was offered his first very small role in a newly written presentation. Though little more than a walk-on with a single line, he rehearsed and practiced religiously, watching the other more accomplished actors, mimicking this style and that delivery as he struggled for his own techniques.
The part was small and he had to keep his job working backstage to pay for food and lodging, but his head spun with excitement over this minor success. Two weeks later, their best performer was offered a part in a government subsidized classic theater and the director offered Michael a slightly bigger role in the next presentation.
Time passed for them, and success came in small but increasing increments. Nearing adulthood at twenty, Michael soon realized he would never see a day when he would want to be without his lifelong friend and constant companion. Excited by his accomplishments, when he was tapped by a regional theater group, he had proposed marriage to Polly. Still in the first flush of their adventure, she had agreed.
It was two more years and long hours of study, before his career with the regional theater started to blossom. His astounding natural talents and growing skill reaped ever more important roles. At the same time, Polly was only offered very small parts, hired for backstage work, or sometimes offered no part at all.
She finally and painfully grasped the difference between them. She simply wasn’t pretty enough to be the onstage equal of a man who looked like him. Sometimes left behind has the group toured nearby towns, her mood turned dismal. She extrapolated her physical shortcomings into their private life. Her bags were packed, ready to take the bus back to Yorkshire, when he came home from a weekend performance and found her.
“What’s all this?” he demanded.
“I can’t stay, Michael. I’m going home.”
“What do you mean going home? You are home. You’re with me.”
“I’m going back to East Clifton. You need someone better, Michael.”
“Better? Better than what? You’re my best friend, my wife, the best person I’ve ever known.”
“Michael, look at me. I’m plain. My hair is a mess. I don’t have a figure like the actresses you work with. My nose is too long…”
“Are you bloody insane?” He rounded on her, his frustration almost overcoming his hatred for his father’s behavior.
Taking a deep breath, he made himself calm down. He reached gently and took her arms in his large hands. “Polly, I don’t know why you feel this way or what made you think these things, but I don’t want the others, I want you. Don’t ever doubt how I feel about you.”
“But Michael,” she protested, “People look at us when we’re together. You’re so beautiful. You’re tall and graceful. Your hair is wonderful, and your eyes, and smile…”
“Enough,” he barked. “I’ll hear no more. How I look has nothing to do with how I feel about you. If you won’t stay, I’ll come with you.”
“No, you can’t. You were meant for this. You’re so perfect up there on the stage.”
“No! Absolutely out of the question! I won’t stay here alone. If you won’t stay, I’m going where you go. I can’t do this alone. I need you.”
“You mean that?” It was almost a statement.
“With all my heart. If you stay, I’ll stay. If you go, I’ll go.”
“You can’t go back. Even if there was work, you’d be miserable. That life would kill you.”
“I’ll be more miserable without you. Stay, Polly. Please, stay.”
She nodded uncertainly.
“Promise me,” he insisted, holding her arms just a trifle more harshly than he intended
She looked down at his grip, then back at him. He released her, but not completely. The touch of his hand turned into a caress. “Please, Pol, please stay with me.”
“Right, then, I’ll stay.” She tried to retain the disconnect she was feeling.
Michael took a breath to thank her, but she continued, “On one condition. No one is to know we’re married.”
“What?”
“I mean it, Michael.”
“I’m not sure anyone knows anyway,” he puzzled out loud. Their personal life had always been kept quiet and private.
“Good. We’ll keep it that way.”
“But, why, in gods name? Where did you get these ideas?”
“Michael I’ve watched what’s happening for you, especially the last few months. You have so much talent. You can be a big star.”
“I don’t want to be a big star, and I especially don’t want to if it’s without you,” he insisted.
“But if I stay and you stay, you will be a big star. And famous actors always have beautiful wives. Women they can show off in public. I see them in mags and on the telly.”
“That’s just silly nonsense, Polly. It has nothing to do with us. We aren’t that kind of people. I’m sure I’ll never get that big, but if I do then I can do as I please.”
“No, Michael, it’s something the fans expect.”
“What fans? I don’t have any fans.”
“Of course you do. I’ve watched often from the back of the theater. A lot of the women come just to see you already. There will be more in the future.”
“Polly, I’m only a small player with a regional group.”
“You won’t be forever. I think you’re already bigger than you know. I’ll only promise to stay if you promise me when you want to be free you will tell me honestly.”
“I’ll never want you to go, Polly, never,” he told her vehemently.
“Fine, then. I’ll stay if you agree.”
He sighed heavily. This had to be a passing fancy, perhaps one of those mysterious woman things he’d heard about. No one understood it, least of all him.
“Agreed,” he bargained. “But what about when we go out together?” he challenged. “You can’t stay tucked away in this apartment forever you know.”
“I know. I’ll look for another job. Something where no one knows me, or you. If we go out, I’ll dress like a man since I look like one anyway. We can simply be two friends.”
“That’s outrageous…you don’t look like a man. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen and I love your hair. Granted you don’t have all the artificial curves those actresses have, but most of them are phony anyway. You certainly aren’t fat. I think you are lovely,” he insisted
“Michael, it’s the only way.”
“Will this really make you feel better?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, it’s the only way I can do this. I don’t want people looking at me and poking fun at both of us.” She was weeping now and he gathered her into his arms. Having secured his promise, she knew he would keep it, and she relaxed into his embrace.
Nuzzling at her neck, he finally found his way to her lips. Moments later, he murmured a promise to show her she was definitely not anything like a man in his mind. He spent a considerable amount of time that night proving to her how much he loved her.
They played their little charade for over a year, though he did try from time to time to dissuade her. Finally, her cold refusals to discuss the issue broke his determination. If this made her feel better, then so be it. It was hardly an issue. They were seldom recognized in public in any case. Many of his roles were played in a disguise of either costume, makeup, or both.
He saved little bits of money here and there, and finally had enough to take her on a short holiday, a delayed honeymoon, to Cornwall. They found a small hotel in Mousehole, on the Cornish coast, and stayed for four days exploring the town, local ruins and the nearby artist colony at St. Ives. In this environment, where no one knew them, they were able to play at being nothing more than tourists. With the cloak of anonymity, she was able to let go of the pretense and her discomfort, but the minute they returned to London she returned to the alter ego she’d assumed.
Soon after their return, Michael won an audition at a first tier theater in the West End district. To further hide their true identities he changed his name, taking the former last name of his beloved wife. The name change had been her idea, she felt that Michael Morgan had a better ring for a soon to be famous actor. Soon after, the concept of Paul Stanley, Michael’s personal assistant, was born.
His parts increased in size, and eventually he was given the privilege of a starring role. As his fame and talent improved, his salary had increased. Living modestly, their savings had grown as well, and finally he proposed investing in a country house. Polly agreed. This would give them a quiet place away from the crowds in town. A place to raise the baby that would soon arrive.
Four more years of hard work and study, perfecting the many roles that showcased his talent, won for Michael the attention of the world of television. He spent the following three years playing a recurring role in popular detective show, and was invited to join the lineup of stars offered guest roles in the classics presented by BBC.
When the first series ended, he signed to play a fictional version of the prime minister in a political drama that lasted threel more years. Broadcast in America, his fame grew among the increasing cable audience that received the imported shows. He was just famous enough now to attract attention in London, but not so well known that reporters dogged his footsteps digging into every aspect of his life. There was no one who gave a thought or care to what had become of Michael and Polly Stanley, nor anyone who made the connection to Michel Morgan the international star and Paul Stanley his personal assistant.
Except for his mother, no one in the small Northern village gave a thought to the pair after the night they disappeared. She had feigned ignorance of their whereabouts much to her peril. She had found scraps of paper in Michael’s room listing bus times from the village, and trains to London from York. Three years after they disappeared, she succumbed to the repeated beatings from Michael’s father. It wasn’t until much later, when Michael could afford to hire a solicitor to contact his mother and bring her to their estate in Kent, that they discovered the woman’s fate. Once again, in his anguish, he’d renewed his vow to always protect the woman he loved, no matter what he had to do.
End part two
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