The Island of Dreams
Gregory James Clark
This book is dedicated to my late father Wilfred Neville Clark and his good late friend in Australia, Aub Roberts, after whom two of the characters have been named. My late father’s contribution, the character Kathleen, has also been retained in the story.
About the Author
Gregory James Clark was born in Lancashire, England, in 1962. Educated at the Reading Blue Coat School he gained a BSc Honours in Maritime Studies (International Transport) from the University of Wales (Cardiff) in 1988 and an MBA from Manchester Metropolitan University in 2008. He was Editor of the Quality Matters Newsletter from 1989 to 2000, which was later compiled into the book ‘Quality Matters: The Decade of Quality 1989 - 2000’. He has recently worked as a teacher/trainer in Quality Management for the Chartered Quality Institute Certificate and Diploma in Quality Management, and helped to design and present The Programme for Global Quality Promotion (PGQP) in Russia and the African nations from 2005 to 2010. He also assisted in the publication of ‘Deming and Juran: Gift to the World’ at Bradford University in 2007. He is currently Editor of The Electron Newsletter for the Institution of Electronics. Recreations have included ice dancing, ballroom dancing, golf, chess and snooker. Languages spoken include Dutch, German, Portuguese and Swedish.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
About the Author
Chapter 1:Rejection
Chapter 2:Home From Home
Chapter 3:Departure
Chapter 4:Lunch with Connie
Chapter 5:The Wax House
Chapter 6:The Great Dome
Chapter 7:Ice Dance
Chapter 8:A Question of Quality
Chapter 9:By Royal Command
Chapter 10:The Non-Olympic Stadium
Chapter 11:The Self-policing State
Chapter 12:All the King’s Men
Chapter 13:Sabfelt
Chapter 14:Searching for Sawicki
Chapter 15:One Party Democracy
Chapter 16:Christmas Lights
Chapter 17:Games without Frontiers
Chapter 18:Carnival on Ice
Chapter 19:Prince Regent
Chapter 20:Going Underground
Chapter 21:Into Orbit
Copyright
Chapter One
Rejection
It was 10.30 p.m. on the last Friday in March, 2107, and Singles Night once more at Reading’s prestigious riverside venue, the Caversham International. At the far corner of the ballroom Gary Loman, twenty-four, sat at a small table sipping a half litre of stout and gazing out of the window over the moonlit Thames toward Rivermead.
He paid little attention to the half-familiar faces that leered at him from a distance, save but to perceive the falseness that lurked behind the half-grins and pretentious swaggering that drew a fine line between arrogance and confidence. The expressions conveyed all to him, making it be known that he existed in a climate of tension, excessive competition and fear.
A few of the attendees smiled and greeted each other politely, including Gary, and with each person supposedly present with the objective of discovering the perfect soulmate, it could only be expected that one should be entitled to request dances from the ladies, and to make efforts to generate friendships that would lead to further things. To Gary this appeared to be obvious.
After some minutes, during which he contemplated the results of his latest job interview at Longroads Haulage in Witney, the youthful Victoria greeted him and presently sat down opposite. She had circulated freely and was characteristically bubbly and effervescent, seeking neither to harbour grudges nor to ignore those who might appear to have ended up sidelined and peripheral to the various cliques that had assembled themselves week by week. Smartly dressed, she remained aloof to the subtle pecking orders that permeated the chattering groups and formed the basis for the numerous unwritten rules that dictated the way in which interactions were to be permitted.
“Hello again,” she remarked. “How did the interview go?”
“I don’t know,” Gary replied. “I just can’t seem to impress the interviewers though. They always seem to be these personnel types, asking questions that rarely appear to have relevance to the job.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if the vacancy is for a storekeeper, why ask questions about whether you can thrive on stress or enjoy team sports? Surely a better question would be ‘what’s a buffer stock?’ or ‘what does Pareto Analysis mean?’ This would at least be relevant to stock control.”
“I can understand you might see it that way,” said Victoria. “but I have worked in human resources and that is not the way recruitment officers are trained to select their candidates. Recruitment is conducted according to a formula, and the first thing an interviewer wants to determine is whether you are confident, and sharp, so as to be responsive to training. Knowledge such as you have described would be acquired during training. Also you need good body language and dress sense, and you need to learn to be less hesitant. It is a competitive world out there and you really do have to learn to compete”.
“What about being methodical and thorough, and being able to contribute ideas? Don’t these things count any more?”
“They probably do, but those attributes are not those that the interviewers are trained to seek out. Unfortunately they are neither instantly visible nor simple to assess. Poor body language and hesitating incessantly are dead easy to see and assess.”
“Just like those bloody exams at school,” said Gary. “Working hard for a long time and acquiring knowledge counts for nothing if you can’t pass an exam at speed. Don’t you ever feel that quality and reliability are unnecessarily and wrongly compromised for speed?”
“Yes,” replied Victoria. “But it’s the way things are. You have to learn to adapt to the society of which you are a part, not the one that you may prefer to be in. Anyway, where’s your next interview?” “ Meridian Circuits in Slough next Tuesday.”
“Well, I hope it goes good. But remember, look cheerful not forlorn. See you later.”
As she rose the music began.
“Take your partners for the Carousel Waltz,” the D.J. announced.
As Gary had invested a considerable amount of his time and money over the years in perfecting the steps, style and technique of dancing, it was only natural that he should seek to make use of such an investment in an appropriate environment. Unfortunately, the task of requesting a dance from a willing partner was somewhat more onerous than the mere learning of steps by rote. It required more than just a little tact, and the threat of rejection was ever-present. Hardly, if ever, could he expect to enjoy the luxury of being asked for a dance. That was a privilege reserved solely for the ladies. Also, in addition, once he had been refused once, and been seen to have been refused, experience had shown that it was subsequently more likely that the refusals would continue, and hence provide a strong disincentive to make further requests.
The intense strains of the Argentine Tango presently resonated through the hall. Gary knew that it was time to tout, but by not being in a clique it was a fact that the odds of him being successful at the first attempt would be slim. However, he was willing to try, even if it meant dancing the first few chords without a partner. Then, if after a couple of minutes he had not been joined on the floor, he would retire. This often happened, but not on this occasion.
Victoria for once was not taken. He had danced this dance with her before and, unlike many of the other women, she was prepared to disregard the long accepted custom that men must ask the ladies first – the very aspect of social etiquette that had given rise to the multiple rejections that Gary had gr
own to hate.
The dance went well, in fact possibly too well. As it was not the simplest of dances, it afforded Gary the opportunity to practise with the accomplished Victoria unopposed by other suitors, and with space on the floor to fully utilise the talents which he had mastered.
“I see you have had more lessons,” Victoria said quietly. “Where did you learn all those steps?”
“The Forbury School of Dance,” replied Gary. “And you?”
“Bulmershe”.
“Maybe we could get together sometime?” he suggested. “Learn together as a couple.”
“I’d like to, but I don’t think my boyfriend would approve.”
They danced on, Gary fully aware that he had to make the most of his opportunity because when it came to the somewhat more casual smooch it would be a different matter entirely. Now the emphasis changed from being a test in performance of a routine to one of social intimacy, the type of intimacy that Gary all too openly craved.
In the hope of attracting at least one loose person, Gary had, the previous week, taken to the unorthodox practice of floating between couples during the smooches and the slow waltzes, staring from time to time at the stroking hands from which closer relationships latterly had the chance to blossom. There was the occasional whisper of filthy talk, together with a half-look of sympathy from Victoria. From others there were a range of expressions, from the red look of outrage to the quiet snicker of mockery, the occasional shake of the head and the aloofness of those who pretended not to notice him. To all but Gary there was a general acknowledgment that this type of behaviour infringed just about every unwritten rule in the book. It simply was not done.
“Excuse me sir,” the club secretary remarked to him. “But must you dance solo to these slow dances? I have noticed you a few times doing this and feel it is time that I asked you to refrain. These are couple only dances.”
“Then why doesn’t someone help me to become a couple?” Gary replied.
“You have to go and ask the ladies,” said the official.
“And if I get turned down? I come here to dance not to stare at the riverbank.”
“That’s your problem, sir. As far as I’m concerned if you persist with this ridiculous conduct I shall have to ask you to leave the club permanently.”
Gary heeded the message and returned to his former place, for a moment turning his back on the throng and gazing at the swans that congregated on the towpath outside. Then he turned around and began to contemplate his options. One was to try to pre-book the next smooch with Victoria and at least make certain of having that dance with her once. It was worth a try, he thought.
“Victoria, may I dance the next smooch with you? I would so much like to do it,” he asked when she had returned to her table, careful to wait until her boyfriend was off-guard at the bar.
“Alright, I suppose once wont hurt. I’ll have to ask Ivan first though”.
The plan might have worked were it not for three unfortunate facts. The first was that Ivan was not the most tolerant of boyfriends when it came to the issue of other men, as he saw it, muscling in on his relationship with Victoria. The second was the fact that it was invariably Victoria with whom Gary was seen to be dancing to the exclusion of all the others, and the third unfortunate fact was the manner in which Gary set out to exploit the dance.
Ivan reluctantly agreed to allow Gary to dance the second smooch with Victoria. Unfortunately, however, the way in which Gary had decided to dance with her tested Ivan’s patience to its limit. For three whole months, since joining the club, Gary had wanted to smooch, and this longing was very evident. As he took to the floor his hands clasped hers and Gary began to dance closely and intimately, as if he were an equal to the other couples on the floor, which of course he wasn’t. Kissing and intimate stroking in the rear quarters were not within Ivan’s scope of permission.
The dance lasted all of six minutes, but it was sufficient for the alienation to show. As the dance ended Ivan seized Victoria abruptly, pushing Gary aside with obvious disapproval. This may have been the end of the matter were it not for Gary’s unfortunate propensity to stare, albeit subconsciously, at Victoria.
At the end of the evening, as the crowd began to disperse, and Gary made his way toward the towpath, Ivan and one of his associates intercepted him.
“Look mate,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil your fun, but I must insist that you stop making advances towards Victoria.”
“And you look,” said Gary. “This is a single persons club and we all have the right to ask for dances and look for partners”.
“Perhaps. But she’s with me, okay? Now you just keep your distance do you understand? I saw you there on the dancefloor pressing yourself against her and slipping your hand somewhere where you shouldn’t. Now you just lay off her, otherwise you will be ending up in that deep water over there”.
Gary sloped home, crossing Caversham Bridge, then through St. Peters churchyard and on up St. Peters Avenue until he reached Upper Warren Avenue, with its dip and incline, which led to his residence where he lived with his mother and father.
As he walked Gary recollected the advertisement which had attracted him to The Caversham International in the first place. ‘There’s someone for everyone’, the advertisement had said, inviting people to join for a subscription of 4,000 euros. What nonsense, he thought as he rounded the drive which led to the house. Then he recalled what his father had said to him about looking to the day ahead rather than the one that had passed. So, Friday had been none too good, but just maybe Saturday at the ice dance club would be better?
*
The club met at the newly rebuilt Ice Stadium in central Oxford and Gary was fortunate enough to have use of his father’s former company car, an ageing Ford, in order to complete the half-hour drive north through the undulating Oxfordshire countryside. At noon he arrived at the rink, and the dancers were already warming up, some singly, some as couples, waiting for the two resident coaches, Timothy Browne and Patricia Sandwell, to summon them to the centre.
Gary quickly put on his kit and warmed up with two laps of the rink before joining the others. Then the group lesson began, as usual, with a recap of the basic technique for forward and backward skating.
“Try to gain momentum not so much from the initial push as from the rise which follows,” Timothy advised. “Imagine that you are being drawn upwards by an invisible string that connects your head with the roof.”
Presently Gary caught sight of Deirdre Atherton, a forty-five year old manageress at The Defence Research Establishment, as her head was carefully adjusted by Patricia so as to provide her with a more upright posture. Talented youth passed her with speed and precision, dodging the ageing hobbyists, who distinguished themselves with their scratching and scrapings of worn toe-picks upon the smooth glassy surface.
Deirdre was a godsend to Gary, freeing him, in some respects the same as Victoria, from the monotony of being forced to dance solo for practically the whole of the two or three dance intervals that served to bring ice dancing as a social pastime back to life. The forward and backward chasses and the change of hold, which Deirdre practised with him, provided the essential ingredients of the Fairyhouse Waltz, which was today’s subject of study.
“What do you think about entering for club competitions?” Deirdre asked him.
“Rather pointless,” replied Gary.
“I agree,” said Deirdre, slightly to Gary’s astonishment. “All that judging and ranking of individuals is quite unnecessary.”
“I still strive for excellence in everything I do though,” Gary added. “I’m not into giving up simply because the going gets tough. I love skating for what it is, not for the medals or the competition.”
“You also told me a while back that you did ballroom dancing.”
“I do.”
“At what level?”
“Level Six, the old Third Gold Bar”.
“Don’t tell me, you haven’t got a partner
for that either?”
“Afraid not,” said Gary.
“I can see we will need to do something about that,” Deirdre responded slowly, in her Anglo-Russian accent.
They continued to practise the remainder of the dance, the continuous three turns around the end of the rink and the synchronisation of the change of edge which followed the intervening chasses. The dance interval followed and for most of it Gary stood on the sidelines, past the point of rushing to break the protocol that dictated who should dance with who. The Tango Alcantara provided one exception as, with its higher degree of difficulty, it tended to receive fewer takers than the other less complex dances, affording Gary the opportunity to attempt a solo dance without having to continually give way to couples ad infinitum. The Fairyhouse Waltz, danced with Deirdre, provided the other exception.
“How many times a week do you skate?” Deirdre asked.
“About five,” said Gary
“Quite good really. Then again to tackle the Tango Alcantara must take at least that. Tell me, am I right in understanding that you are now twenty-four, have no brothers and sisters and have never had a full-time job?”
“I’m afraid that is true, yes. But I am doing something about it. I am going to see a psychiatrist next week to find out what’s wrong with me.”
“That won’t do much good,” Deirdre suggested. “When a system lets a person down the only cure is usually a change of environment”.
As the dance session progressed Gary thought for a moment about this comment, but quickly forgot about it as the dance club disbanded and the public streamed in, screaming, pushing and shoving, with scant regard for anyone or anything that might happen to be in their path. The heavy beat started and the mob took to the ice, racing, turning, swerving and spraying each other with ice. The odd ice ball was thrown and, as for skating the time for dedication had well and truly gone for another week, save for the handful of new beginners who crept round, hugging the barrier, and one lone girl, who sought, with difficulty, to master a spin somewhere toward the centre of the rink.
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