Author: SubEditor

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“Small, nimble fingers you see,” says Mme. Troyes, “just like you Dave.”

“Not so nimble now,” he says, “I’m getting too old for leather work. Dave, Kristal was telling me you make model aircraft? So you’re a bit of a craftsman too?”

“Balsawood gliders mainly. I find it strangely satisfying. Small propellers are tricky to make though. And the only way to control powered models is to circle them on the end of a piece of string. I’d love to do radio control like the old days, but that’s impossible now. Clockwork motors are my next step to get increased flight times. But then it gets expensive, so I stick to gliders, mainly.”

“There are several watchmakers in town you know? You should get in touch with one of them. Maybe they have Saturday jobs?”

“One of my friends is apprenticed to Harrison Time Pieces. He left school a couple of years ago, he loves it there!”

“When we have more time, you’ll have to introduce me to your hobby. Leatherware is tough and heavy. Balsawood’s soft and light, it could satisfy my need to tinker, and keep my brain active.”

KristalClear smiles at NutJob, and knowing that her parents are not demi-psychic she tries reaching out on the wavelength again.

« You’ve done it Dash, you’ve struck the right chord, this could not have gone better. »

He has no idea what the message is, but he can pretty much guess.

M. & Mme. Troyes have no idea what the message is either. Nor do they have any idea where their daughter picked up her demi-psychic powers.

Some people are born with a sixth sense. Some are not.

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So he was released after just six weeks. And there was no proper resettlement program. Not like there is now.”

“But he was good with horses, and by 2200 everybody was using horses. More stables were being set up across London and he found lots of casual work. He learnt English properly, and he was aiming to settle in London. But sea levels kept rising though! Everything was becoming intolerable, and when fresh drinking water became really scarce, he left London, and headed towards Oxford.”

Mme. Troyes finishes the family history.

“He didn’t keep a diary though. It was roughly five years before he started writing down his memoirs. He was in Oxford by then, recording some notes on paper, but it still wasn’t a proper diary. We know that before he left Oxford in 2225 he was married and had two children. The family moved further north. And that’s how Henry’s ancestors finally found their way to Lancaster. Now you have to skip a few generations! And that’s how I met my future husband. The charming French descendant with a Lancashire accent!”

Astonished, NutJob says, “he was actually a pirate at one time?”

“Maybe he was,” says KristalClear, “but he was a reluctant pirate. He was a stable hand. And the horse tradition has remained in the family ever since. That’s how Maman and Papa met!”

“I’m a teacher at Willowdene Primary School,” explains Mme. Troyes.

“One day, many years ago, one of the mums had me go with her to Henry’s shop. She was getting a saddle made for her son. The little boy was beyond joy in the shop. And something clicked. And I was beyond joy when I met Henry.”

“Maman became the homemaker when I was a baby, because Papa had to keep the momentum going with his new shop. He had only just made the switch from craftsman to retailer. And as we said, he still can’t stop being a craftsman. That’s what makes his shop unique.”

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“OK, not very far then!”

Having been listening to the conversation from the kitchen, Mme. Troyes picks up the story.

“Paris was awful then. Everywhere was awful. Without enough food, people killed their animals and ate them. One day when he was walking on the far side of the paddock, Monsieur Troyes saw the mobs arrive, the rich family fled immediately, two of them managed to mount their horses, and the rest fled on foot. The mob killed the remaining horses and dragged off the carcasses. By now, Monsieur Troyes was hiding in the woods, he had seen enough, and he knew that it wasn’t safe to stay a moment longer. He fled with nothing more than the clothes he was wearing.”

Henri Troyes continues, “Monsieur Troyes was a young, single man, fit and healthy, and he ran. He went north. I don’t know how many days it took him to reach Dieppe, but when he reached the coast he worked as a fisherman for about three years. And then he was press ganged. Forced to join the pirates. Or the Navy. Or the pirates. Or something! We’re not sure what it was by then. Maybe the military had been infiltrated by pirates, or the pirates had recruited a lot of ex servicemen.”

“So he became a pirate?” asks NutJob.

KristalClear feels able to join in again, now that the conversation has moved on to ships rather than horses, “he was a pirate, but he wasn’t a pirate. He just ended up working as a sailor trying to steal anything he could from the ships along the coast of Sussex. There was still a Royal Navy back then. Better trained and better equipped than the French pirates. So his capture was inevitable really.”

“Escaped death three times,” says M. Troyes “wasn’t caught up in the rebellion in Paris, didn’t die in the famine, and miraculously he wasn’t killed in the Second Battle of Hastings. He ended up in a military prison in Woolwich.”

“Oui Papa, je l’ai déjà dit.” says KristalClear, before turning her attention to NutJob once more, “the government didn’t have any money for prisons, or food for the prisoners.

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really happy there. Then it all went wrong. No petrol for cars. Trucks couldn’t deliver goods to the shops. People couldn’t buy food. The black market took over … and … and …”

KristalClear’s eyes are beginning to well up with tears. Not because of what happened to M. Troyes, but because of what happened to the family’s horses.

“Oh Maman! Tea! Lovely!”

Mme. Troyes had been rifling through the kitchen cupboards, “sorry about the noise my lovelies! I had to go to the back of the top shelf, to reach the nice tea cups.”

She sets a tray down on the coffee table. The teapot is a bulbous, old fashioned, white one, decorated with intricate swirls and patterns in Royal blue. It’s surrounded by four ornate tea cups with elaborate curved handles. The pattern on the cups matches the tea pot, and inside the rim the cups have a neoclassical meander.

If there was a broken cup or a broken saucer back in the kitchen, then it wasn’t one of these fancy ones!

“Milk and sugar?” asks Mme. Troyes, looking directly at NutJob.

“Ooh! Milk! We hardly ever have milk in our house!

“No, nor do we!” says Mme. Troyes, with a knowing smile. If the youngsters didn’t realise that this was an extra special occasion, they do now!

“Black please, no milk, no sugar.”

“This is a lovely Darjeeling from Mannin,” says Mme. Troyes. She places a pretty, delicate metal tea strainer on NutJob’s cup and begins to pour some tea from the pot, “they say that Manx tea is just as good, if not better than the tea that we used to get from India.”

M. Troyes can be heard coming down the stairs, light footed, but clearly audible. He enters the front room, now dressed in lightweight khaki chinos and a short sleeved, buttoned, white cotton shirt. He’s wearing nothing on his feet, and he cheerfully says, “how far did we get?”

With a light tremble in her voice KristalClear says, “horses, Paris.”

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he’s been forced to meet her parents before he was mentally prepared for it!

A bit displeased, but not raging, he uses his demi stern voice with his teeth clenched together.

“I can’t do the wavelength you know! I look at your face and your hands, and I can only guess what’s going on!”

“You’re doing fine,” she says, “they like you!”

Relaxing the tenseness of his teeth, he muses, “and they call you Mademoiselle?”

“Usually they only do that when they’re upset with me! They start by saying Mademoiselle Troyes, if you … something, something, something. This time I think Maman was doing it just for emphasis, to show that we have French heritage. She’s actually 100% Wolfie. Papa’s the one who’s 2% French. Or something like that.”

“So you’re 1% French?”

“It doesn’t feel like that! I’m just the same as everybody else here. In our case, you have to go back 300 years to trace the original Monsieur Troyes.”

“Why did he leave France?”

“The Great Famine!”

At that precise moment a minor crashing noise is heard from the kitchen. As if somebody has dropped a plate on the floor, breaking it into four or five pieces.

“The Great Famine? In 2162?”

“2162 was the year of The Decimation. The famine came a little bit later. Anyway, he was trying to find a better life, away from Paris, and he ended up in the Navy. He was captured in the Second Battle of Hastings, imprisoned in Woolwich, and on his release he chose to go into London rather than go back to France.”

“Why did he join the Navy, why didn’t he stay in Paris?”

KristalClear knows the story well, but has never had to lead a discussion like this before.

“Originally, he had a good job, with a good family, working as a groom in their stables. Papa says they had lots of horses, and Monsieur Troyes was part of a big team. He was

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KristalClear’s father runs a store in town “Troyes & Co Chandler of Equestrian Wares”. Henri Troyes started work as an apprentice saddle maker, became a GuildMaster, and did that for several years.

It was heavy duty work.

In order to ease the discomfort in his hands he then moved into retail, selling saddlery, tack, boots and clothing. However, he can’t stop himself from fiddling with bits of hardware, making little repairs to things, and tidying up some of the secondhand goods which find their way into his shop.

Henri Troyes has a reputation for always being able to supply tack for all sizes of horse, especially smaller ponies. That makes him particularly popular with people who want a tiny saddle to suit an infant. He will either adapt something, or he’ll tailor make one. Beyond the counter, beyond the displays, he’s arranged his workbench so that it faces into the shop. That way, he can fidget with things to his heart’s content whilst still being instantly attentive to any customers in the shop.

NutJob is aware that Henri Troyes still upholds some French traditions. He’s not sure if he should call him Henry, as suggested, or according to French etiquette address him as Monsieur Troyes. Side stepping the direct approach, NutJob chooses a topic which he knows the family likes.

“Kristal was going to tell me how your family came to settle in Wolfland.”

“Yes, fascinating history. Weird history actually! We were pirates, but we weren’t pirates. I need to change out of my work clothes, Kristal will tell you more.”

“Yes Mademoiselle,” says Mme. Troyes, “you tell, Dave, the story of the French connection, and I’ll get that tea sorted.”

With dad upstairs, getting washed and changed, and with mum in the kitchen making a disproportionate racket with cups and saucers and things, NutJob and KristalClear are alone and have some breathing space.

NutJob looks a bit exasperated and he hasn’t even been in the house five minutes! He looks at KristalClear, she smiles at him in such a way that he can’t be angry with her. Even though

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In order to stress his name, KristalClear quickly decides to walk to the kitchen, and says, “Maman, I’ll put the kettle on. You sit down and chat with Dave and I’ll be back in a moment.”

She reaches the kitchen door, looks back, tries tuning in on the wavelength again, and seems to detect something faint, or perhaps she’s imagining it?

NutJob is pleading, something like, « don’t leave me alone with her. »

Calmly KristalClear says, “is Papa home yet? I’ll make a pot of tea for all of us,” and she vanishes from sight!

“She thinks you’re rather sweet you know!” says Mme. Troyes, “and she says they call you NutJob at school! Do you really carry everything in your pencil case?”

Trying to sound nonchalant, NutJob surprises himself with a half decent response.

“Everything? Well, lots of handy things anyway!”

“And tweezers? Kristal told me about the tweezers and the day she got a splinter from the desk.”

Enthusiastically, Mme. Troyes continues to tell NutJob the story he already knows.

“And how you gave them to her, and she couldn’t get the splinter out by herself. And then how you held her hand still, so gently and calmly and …”

“Oh Maman!” exclaims KristalClear, stepping back into the front room.

“… and you drew out the tiny wooden splinter, effortlessly, first time.” Mme. Troyes pauses. “She said your hands were so calm. That you have craftsman’s hands. Small, perfectly formed just like …”

“Maman!”

The door opens.

“Darling, I’m home. Oh hello! You must be Dave? Henri Troyes. Call me Henry. Makes life easier for everyone!”

“How do you do?” says NutJob, remembering his best manners.

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Chapter 14
The French Pirate

“Mme. Troyes welcomes NutJob as she guides him and KristalClear into the front room, “David! Do come in! Have a seat. Kristal has told me so much about you!”

After no more than two seconds of conversation, KristalClear is already embarrassed! Not only do her parents style themselves the French way, her mother already seems to be fawning over David the new boyfriend.

NutJob is thinking to himself, “nobody calls me David anymore. They did when I was little. Then, they started calling me Dave, but nowadays all my friends and even the teachers call me NutJob. And until she renamed me Dash, Kristal always called me NutJob.”

He looks at KristalClear as his silent thought pattern continues, “mum and dad call me Dave. Kristal usually calls me Dash, or NutJob sometimes, or Dave on rare occasions. But absolutely nobody calls me David!”

KristalClear senses what’s going on, and she responds on the wavelength.

Caught up in the emotion of the moment, with mum meeting NutJob for the first time, KristalClear forgets that she hasn’t yet mastered the human wavelength. And she overlooks the fact that NutJob wouldn’t be able to receive a message anyway. Still, she persists!

At the same time she’s doing some minimal, discreet hand gestures, all trying to say the same thing.

« At some stage, I had to tell Maman about you. That was weeks ago. Maybe I said your name was David. But since then I always say Dave whenever I mention you. I don’t know why she said David just now! »

NutJob doesn’t even know there’s a message and he can see only her eyes darting about, and some novel hand gestures. Both palms opening, fingers splayed wide, thumbs pointing to the ceiling.

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“The biggest headache is the one the Chancellor has every year. Commerce means money, and money means more commerce, which means more money. Sales tax is a tax on purchases, so the Chancellor wants you to make stuff that people want to buy. That’s why she’s so keen to emphasise the importance of going out and doing some good in the world. The Chancellor doesn’t want any freeloaders in Wolfland.”

“Using charts and tables, she has to second guess the employment needs of the Garrison and the Highways Agency, along with the Chamber itself. These public sector bodies are employers, so they pay Work Impost too.

That means that some of the general taxes which are collected by the civil service actually go into the civil service budget and back out into the education pot. And that pot is divided up among all the schools according to how big they are. The Purser at each school then has to work out how to budget for teachers’ wages, and everything else that a school needs.”

“What do you want out of life?”

“What do you want, do you really, really want?”

Mr Rafone knows the answer already. The class doesn’t disappoint. Without responding to him directly there’s a distinct, collective and audible, “I dunno”.

“I dunno is the most common answer,” he says, “at heart, we’re all still cavemen. We want to protect the tribe, and we want to survive. And simple survival at a basic, existential level is not particularly satisfying. We want a bit more to life than that.”

“What do you want, do you really, really want?”

“A decent standard of living, and complete peace of mind.”

“Am I wrong?”

“In any case,” Mr Rafone concludes, “you want a job.”

“You either work or die!”

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The back row boys are now sitting up and paying careful attention to every word that Mr Rafone says. He elaborates.

“Schools are funded exclusively by employers through the Work Impost. Because employers want employees. And if you want something you have to pay for it. This is over simplified but let’s consider it this way. Open up your book, page 87 of The Penrith Moral Compass.”

The Chamber collects the Work Impost on behalf of schools. It’s ring fenced, so it all comes in and all goes out again. It’s not a tax, and it’s not part of the government budget. However, the Chamber oversees the annual committee which determines the banding.

The bigger and better the employer, the more likely they are to want the best school leavers. It’s in their interests to contribute the most to schools, because that way, they’re more likely to get the best choice of graduates.

The big employers like the Medical Service and Lancastrian Lines employ lots of staff, so they pay band A. Places like Wolfland Wind & Water Power have lesser manpower needs, and they pay band B. The Ulverston Farming Collective pays band C.

The reality is a bit more complex, because some people will follow their instincts. Many carpenters for example are the sons and daughters of carpenters. Hence a freelance carpenter usually has to pay only band D Work Impost.

Career progression is not always clearly defined. Some of the best students might not want to be lawyers, or doctors, or engineers. There’s a two tier system in those fields, and to reach the top, newcomers need to join an employer who has a Research Institute. Less than 5% of the population end up in the top tier, and secure a Diplôme Supérieur. Some of the best students would rather just follow their passions. It’s all as much an art as it is a science!

Students who leave school with nothing, really have little choice, and they try to pick up any work they can, no matter how menial. That’s what happened to MaxChaos when he left school aged thirteen.

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