by Albert Able
One of the Trusts Max Harris established was for the benefit of Stan and Hester. In all the years Stan had been with Max he had always refused to draw any thing but a modest salary, enough to cover his simple life style.
Max on the other hand had never been a man to take advantage of such a situation and had accumulated in special account, the appropriate salary Stan’s position warranted; by the time Stan retired that fund was quite significant and as soon as Max received the funds from the sale of his catering business, he made another large donation to the fund. “Just a little bonus’” he explained to the protesting Stan and Hester as they tearfully realised that now it would be possible to buy that little cottage overlooking the Thames that they had dreamed and talked about so often.
All that was ten years ago and Stan and Hester did in fact buy that cottage and spent their lives pottering in the garden of their dream home providing a host of fruit and vegetables which they had great pleasure in giving away to neighbours and friends. They also spent a lot of their time working with a local charity caring for the less fortunate ‘Senior Members’ of our society.
‘Meals on Wheels’ was a regular duty and with Hester driving their ageing estate wagon they would deliver weekly meals to those in need.
Stan by now was beginning to find that climbing up two or three flights of stairs carrying heavy trays of food was becoming more difficult.
“I think it’s time you considered giving up the meals on wheels service.” One of the helpers at the Charity‘s kitchens politely suggested when Stan made an unusual mention of the pain in his back.
“Not for as long as I can manage the stairs” he protested “anyway the old dears really appreciate their weekly meal”
Amazingly the ‘Old Dears’ as he called them, were almost all much younger than Stan’s eighty-eight years but the pain in his back became worse and he was reluctantly obliged to retire from the Meals on Wheels service.
Hester tried in vain to get him to go to see a doctor but Stan hated to make a fuss. The pains however became unbearable and he finally agreed to see the young Doctor who conveniently lived quite close by.
Stan telephone me one morning. “Can you meet me please; I have a little problem I need to discuss with you.”
I agreed to meet up later that day when Stan was taking his afternoon stroll into the village to collect the newspaper. I had that terrible feeling of foreboding as I approached but he hugged me as usual and then holding my hand thanked me for taking the time.
“I’m sorry to have to burden you with my problems but I needed to tell you Connie,” his cherubic smile as bright as ever “because I know I can rely on you to take care of Hester, you see I have prostate cancer and it’s terminal.”
We sat on a bench overlooking the little canal and still holding my hand went on to explain that apparently the cancer had been the cause of the back pain he had been suffering over the last year or so and that by the time it was diagnosed had already spread into his spine and it was now beyond treatment.
Stan had made the Doctor promise not to tell Hester the true reason for his pain or the terminal status of the condition.
“It’s just old age my dear” he told Hester casually when he returned from the Doctor and learned the devastating results “and I’ve got some pills for the pain,” he consoled her “It’s the bones in my spine, it seems they’re wearing out so I’ll just have to take it a little easier won’t I?” Stan hugged her and held her for a long time; he didn’t want to ever let her go.
A few months later Stan called us both to the cottage; he must have realised that his time was near. “Hester is out shopping so we don’t have a lot of time. Now you’ve always laughed about my old pram but I always kept it as a reminder of those bad times on the road and to keep me from not forgetting true values, once I was back in the run of things,” his smile was withered but still conveyed that special warmth and affection “you will remember old Bill, Bill Strasser whose ashes we cast into the Thames, well this was his pram and in the panel in the bottom, you will find the documents he left to me.”
Stan waved at Marcus urging him to look into the pram; after a few seconds rummaging around Marcus found the loose panel and the bundle of documents.
“Good now if you look closely you will see that the top page is the Deed for a piece of property quite close to the Riverside Hotel in London. You will notice that I have completed and signed the transfer of the property to a Trust and named you and Connie as the Trustees.”
Marcus looked up in astonishment.
“In fact,” Stan raised his hand preventing Marcus from interrupting and continued “those are only copies because I filed the originals with our lawyer. The land is freehold but there is still about four years of a one hundred year lease to run. What I want you to do is as soon, as the lease lapses, is to develop the site and on a part of it create a sanctuary for vagrant people of all ages and sexes. Oh and the other thing is I don’t want it to have an institutional name like Hostel or Refuge. I want it to have a name and an entrance that is discreet and not to intimidating. I rather fancied a name like ‘The Residence’ myself but the final decision must be yours. Is that all okay with you two?”
We naturally agreed.
“Good now don’t think it is going to be easy because there are people out there trying to get their clutches into that piece of land, which would of course make a very nice property development and a considerable profit for them.”
“But if the land is in Trust how can they think it could be developed in that way?” I asked innocently.
“My dear you must remember the power of money. Smart lawyers Councillors and the rest, have the hunters drive and will go to any lengths legal or otherwise, to get what they want if there’s enough money in it!” Stan sat back out of breath; he was clearly exhausted.
“Stan my dear friend” Marcus leaned forward and held his thin pale hand. “we will do everything you wish and do it hopefully with the same passion as you would have.”
I nodded and placed my hand with theirs but I was too emotional to speak so I kneeled down and nuzzled his beard as I had always done over he years.
“Connie my dear you have been the daughter I lost and I’m so proud of you” he patted and stroked my hair “and that big hulk.” He changed his tone nodding towards Marcus.
We talked for a few minutes more and then left him sitting in his favourite basket chair waiting for Hester to come home with the shopping.
It was less than three weeks later when Mother Nature’s will was fulfilled and Hester was left alone and bewildered.
Chapter 41 - Connie
Stan’s funeral, as I am sure he would have preferred, was going to be a quiet low profile occasion. In the event members of staff from hotels around the country where Stan had been revered as ‘Uncle Stan’ appeared standing ten deep in the street unable to get into the crowded crematorium.
The service was simple with the vicar reading ‘The Lord is My Sheppard’ followed by the Hymn ‘While Sheppard’s Watch Their Flock by Night’
‘Hard man’ Max Harris followed and almost broke down in tears as he quietly read an emotional eulogy of Stan’s life.
Later as Marcus solemnly cast the tiny casket of ashes out into the swirling current, over two hundred mourners the majority in ragged old clothing stood reverently on the riverbank close to the bridge where I use to meet and talk with Stan.
“Good bye old friend,” Marcus whispered unable to hold back the emotion “a true Gentleman of The Road.”
Chapter 42 - Marcus
This was the beginning of a rather sad period in our lives; having lost Stan, who had been more like a father to us all, Hester’s heart was literally broken with the loss and resisted all attempts at consolation.
I have always been convinced that she willed herself to death to join her beloved Stan only six months later.
Our dear friend and mentor Max Harris enjoyed his retirement with gusto playing golf and trav
elling around the world with his faithful Naomi.
Concord to New York, the tourist tour of Manhattan, the best hotel and restaurant in town; a game of golf with an old pal in nearby New Jersey the following day and back home to England on the QE2 was a trip he had always promised her.
“Work hard, play hard” Max justified his whirlwind lifestyle but on the way home in his luxury suite on the QE2 he suffered a massive heart attack and was pronounced dead by the Ship’s Surgeon.
It was a terrible shock to us all and seemed such a waste with Max having spent a life working so hard only to be struck down the moment he set out to reap the benefit.
Connie and I felt so lost when our dear friend Max parted this life and after the highly emotional funeral we found our own lives had suddenly become so empty; fortunately Naomi sought and found consolation with Connie and me which helped us to adjust to the loss of our only true friends.
Three years later, with the long lease on Stan’s property close to termination, we applied to the planning department to create the sanctuary for ‘less fortunate’ people that Stan had envisaged.
The battle which ensued, soon focused our minds away from moping and self-pity, as we struggled against devious lawyers, corrupt councillors and developers, all of them trying to block our own plans in lieu of their own.
Exactly as Stan had warned they tried every trick in the book; challenging the Trust’s authenticity, the former and current ownership and aggressively opposing any proposals for the development of a safe house to shelter some of London’s hundreds of less fortunate.
Politicians and Councillors also became involved offering us all sorts of alternatives and inducements to abandon the cause. One prominent MP stated in the press that ‘a refuge was simply not the kind of establishment anyone wanted in the area.’
We were amazed by the hypocrisy of such people when so many homeless souls had traditionally sheltered in the area for years.
Alternative locations, some of which did not actually exist, were offered but we persisted, eventually even our own lawyers implied that ‘perhaps we should look at some of the alternate options on offer?’
The pressure to concede was immense and we were beginning to loose heart until suddenly we found an ally in the form Antonio Harris one of Max and Naomi’s sons.
Antonio was one of the two young boys rescued from the clutches of the dreaded Ahmed and was now a young lawyer practicing with several charities in the City.
Although Antonio had trained and only recently obtained his lawyer’s degree; I’m convinced that it was a lifetime in Max’s care that had given him the kind of street sense that eventually won the day for the Trust, against the almost overwhelming power of the competing developers.
Even when the developers finally withdrew it took another four years of expensive litigation to overcome a mountain of prejudicial bureaucracy before final consent was obtained and we were able to start building ‘The Residence’ as Stan had wished it to be called.
Carefully designed as Stan had advised, not to intimidate the people we were trying to help, the main entrance was sited at the rear of the building where someone seeking help could enter and discreetly speak to one of the friendly assistants available at the twenty-four hour manned desk.
The project was an outstanding success and Antonio is now the main Trustee to the organisation, which brings succour and hope to hundreds of people forced into circumstances they cannot always control by themselves.
Chapter 43 - Marcus & Connie
It was at that period when we decided that the time had come to enjoy our own lives and take advantage of some of the wealth we had created before it was too late, and so the offer to sell our remaining interest in Highway Express plc came therefore at a very opportune moment in our lives.
There were over two hundred and fifty hotels operating in the group at the time and so when a large international consortium made us ‘an offer we couldn’t refuse’ we jumped at the chance to retire.
The consortium concerned eventually merged with two other groups and sadly ‘Highway Express’s’ identity eventually disappeared when its hotels became part of one of the largest hotel chains on the planet.
In recent years we have reflected on our lives and often wondered why we battled so hard to create such a huge hotel group, when in reality we were ‘hands on’ hoteliers at heart. The fact is that we are not really sure; we certainly both had this insatiable hunger to create something of note and we were both originally possessed with a deep rooted passion to get away from the poverty of our youth and ensure that our own families would never have to face such challenges.
We realise of course that the great fortune we now enjoy could not have been achieved without the total commitment and dedication to the task of some very special people many of whom subsequently became friends way and whilst today we still have many acquaintances there are only a few real friends and most of those like Naomi, Conchita and the amiable Louis are from those old days.
We desperately miss Max, Stan, Hester and several of the team who shared our lives for all those years.
Our real pleasure when we first retired was to be able to travel and see the rest of the world but increasingly we felt the need for something more fulfilling for the rest our lives.
It was Max Harris’s son Antonio who suggested that we become involved in the project to find more suitable properties to convert into ‘Residences’ for that host of people still in desperate need of human care.
We casually looked at the idea and we have to say that it took no time at all to discover that we had finally found something, close to our hearts and genuinely fulfilling and is precisely what we do with much of our time now.
So far we have acquired, renovated and set up two more ‘Residences’, which have been handed over to Antonio’s team of volunteers to mange. We are currently battling yet another tunnel-visioned council to obtain change of use for a perfectly located property to convert. The ongoing battle we know will require the patience of ‘Jobe’ but we will persevere and are confident that we will win and in so doing continue to assist many of those less fortunate souls that our dear old friend Stan understood so well.
Special thanks also for the help of best selling thriller writer Albert Able who did all the hard work by dramatising and writing this for us, enabling our little story to be published in the book we always promised we would create and which we hope you will have found both interesting and amusing.
There are of course dozens of other characters whose indiscretions in the corridors and bedrooms of our hotels we still have recorded in our diaries, doubtless they would raise an eyebrow of the dourest of readers
There are also Lawyers, Accountants and Property valuers who should be exposed but in the end, we chose to let the past remain buried. Each and every one of us must learn, in our own individual way, how to navigate the difficult and complex highway of life and who knows what any of may have to resort to in order to survive?
There is much much more we could tell and so many outrageous incidents we could relate, but sometimes it is better to finish a party whilst it is still in full swing rather than just let it fizzle out and so now my friends we have decided to end our story here.
To those of you who have just read this book and don’t think they are a part of it, good for you; but for those who think they may have been included and are able to identify their rôle in it, fear not. ‘We Promise Not To Tell’
Marcus & Connie
Also by Albert Able.
The Alex Scott series:-
Gold Fever
Goldsharks
Diamonds Best Friend or Foe?
A Deal to Die For© 2011
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‘We Promise Not to Tell’
Albert Able
The intellectual property of this publication is the sole property of R-Books a trading name registered in Jersey, Channel Islands
The book and its content may not be copied or reproduced
without the express agreement of R-Books.
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All the characters and events in this book are fictions; any resemblance to actual characters or events is purely coincidental.
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Cover & eBook conversion by David Stockman
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