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KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

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Chapter Eight
Jay, War and the Grey Years

'Once or twice a year a mighty wind in the Out-There blows up a sand-fog which lasts several days, and then I peer trance-like into the swirling depths and imagine. I imagine that when it falls still there will be green pastures and fields with sheep and cows, and hedges and trees as far as the eye can see. And perhaps a river with stepping stones. Or else I imagine there will be a mountain scene with a hamlet in the foreground and a forest of pine trees in the background. These are pictures from the story books of the Long-Ago. It's hard to accept that once such scenes were common in our world, before the greyness in the sky, before the great and terrible drought, and before the Domes. But when the sand-fog settles, there is only sand in the Out-There, sand and more sand.'
'Beyond' by Lucretia Quant (2018)

My decision to return to England and purchase Taunton House seemed a good place to end the previous chapter, even though, in consequence, it covers fewer years chronologically than other chapters. Despite a self-imposed deadline of completing this book by the year's end, I stopped writing for a week in order to read over material stored on Neil, to refresh my memory on the traumatic events of the late 60s and early 70s, and to talk with Jay. He does remember being aware of the Second Jihad War through his primary school years, but has no clear recollections of it. By contrast, he has vivid memories of images, taken by aerohover cameras and imaging satellites, of the eruption of Toba. And he has no difficulty in identifying the Grey Years as coinciding with his early years at the Witley Academy of Excellence (my old school Witley Academic, long since renamed) ­ the classroom never quite warm, the swimming pool unheated, and his hands and feet often frozen during sports or while waiting for the school bus on winter mornings.

Now that Jay has entered the story, so to speak, he is more self-interested than before so we talk at length about his childhood, his mother, his friends, his activities. Unfortunately, this means that his advice about what to include and what not to include in these Reflections is not as objective as it has been.

But it is thanks to Jay that I have decided to elaborate on my reasons for resigning from the IFSD. When I explained about my fear of the onset of war, and my remembered conversation with Lizette, he quizzed me.

'I don't understand why you didn't want to be there when the war arrived? I don't feel you've explained this well enough. From what you've said, Ma thought the same.' I closed my eyes, and thought about how to answer him. I could have said: I was tired, I'd had enough, and I had no stomach to fight to keep my job, when the job itself, already a nightmare, was going to get worse; and besides, as I have already explained, I would certainly have been pushed out if I'd not resigned. But I didn't. There was more to it. There was more to the reason why I would have been ousted, and consequently why I resigned before that could happen. And so, despite Jay's sudden protestations that I was looking weary and should sleep, I told him. Perhaps, while composing the previous chapter I forgot (the pills may not have been working as effectively as before) or perhaps I deliberately skimmed over the truth. In either case, I've decided I should correct the error. The end of these Reflections is in sight, so if I were now to bypass verity ­ when I've endeavoured to stick to it as carefully and objectively as one person can ­ I would undermine much of what I've already written.

The messier truth is not that difficult to uncover. I had, throughout my years at the IFSD, consistently tried to ensure that the conditions under which aid was provided were as loose as possible. I am not exactly certain when or why I developed the conviction that this was necessary. Alan influenced me in a general way when I was a schoolboy, but it was Pravit Krishnamurty who probably affected me more directly. I was also much affected by the many ideas and proposals we came across during my early IFSD years in Enterprise 35. Although I had friendly arguments about and around this subject over the years ­ in the office, meeting halls and zini bars ­ there was no recognition by my peers or political masters of my disposition on the issue (I doubt I could have defined it myself), not even when my position as environment director came under threat. As I hope I made clear earlier, my power as an administrator over policy was never significant, and, at most, my influence to change or direct it was never more than marginal. Nevertheless, as I said, I do believe I had some (as opposed to no) influence. At the policy level, this might have come through the way my team drafted proposals or put forward suggestions for negotiating compromises, or through the informal advice we gave occasionally to representatives of smaller recipient states when we thought they were being outmanoeuvred by the heavyweight donor countries. And, at the programme and project level, we sometimes tried to derestrict (very slightly) the conditionality on contract terms to allow the money to be committed or released more quickly and/or to be used more flexibly.

One of the arguments put forward by those who considered it necessary to shackle all aid with the tightest of conditions and contracts was to ensure that the donated funds were not willfully misused to support, in any way, the ability of recipient countries to develop police state or military capabilities. Six months before I resigned, the US administration had published a report demonstrating how, in the run-up to the First Jihad War, several IIBP member countries had misappropriated large amounts of UN aid and used it to build up their military structures. The aid may not have been employed directly to buy arms, yet it had helped with the costs of apparently benign but, in fact, military-related training, supplies and infrastructure. In a final section, the report suggested that since the end of the war this trend had begun again in earnest. Indeed, it warned, certain countries were exchanging experience on how best to exploit the UN and others. No fingers were pointed at any individual, but the report was highly influential, especially with those reluctant about the Singapore Peace Treaty.

It is certainly possible that this same report undermined my confidence at the time, and thus led me, subconsciously, to give more weight to other reasons for resigning. I certainly took due account of it more consciously when, some years later, I began preparing an important theoretical exercise on the future of the UN about which I will have more to say later. But, even in retrospect, how can we really know the truth of things. Maybe, in some slight way, I did assist those countries which wanted to abuse the aid mechanisms; but then how could this fault in the system be gauged against the benefits a more open/flexible approach brought other countries whose ability to implement development programmes was significantly improved by not having to follow Western strictures on scrutiny, deadlines and other red tape.

The first unmistakable sign that Al Zahir had only paused for breath, as it were, in order to allow the IIBP countries to regroup, rearm and reconsider objectives, came when a Brazilian journalist, Se Lobo, was captured in Mozambique, and then escaped. His scoop made headlines around the world. A conflict between Muslims and Christians had been under way in the country for decades. It began as a guerrilla operation by a marginal group of Muslim fanatics, but escalated when they won hold of a northern corner of the country bordering on Lake Malawi. Prior to the First Jihad War, the IIBP had funded the Muslim group modestly and secretly, then, during the war, it had stepped up its backing with air support and troops. When the group had occupied nearly half the country, NATO moved in to help defend the secular (but Christian dominated) government. The dispute should have been settled by the terms of the Singapore Peace Treaty, which gave both the IIBP and the NATO countries six months to withdraw troops, military advisers and use of their hi-tech satellite eye equipment. Moreover, the Mozambique government had promised to amend the country's constitution to provide more autonomy for Muslim-dominated regions in the north. However, with ongoing guerrilla activity, the government had dragged its feet. This was one of the left-over wars. It was a fundamental part of the Singapore Treaty that neither the IIBP or NATO affiliates should interfere militarily in such conflicts. The journalist Se Lobo discovered that there were hundreds of Syrian and Algerian personnel directing, organising and supplying the Mozambique guerrillas. The government had claimed as much but its claims had fallen on deaf (or closed) ears.

Soon after, in 66, other left-over wars flared up, as if Se Lobo's article had been a starting gun. Each one was brought to the United Nations. The most interested Western countries and groupings protested vehemently at violations of UN resolutions (those which had implemented the Singapore Treaty) but without much consequence. In a rare interview granted to the Western media, carried by GlobeOne, Al Zahir called the violations 'minor infringements', and said they would be dealt with. 'Peace is our aim,' he declared, 'and peace is our destiny.' Al Zahir's position as leader of Iran, the IIBP and Muslims across the globe had strengthened considerably since the First Jihad War. GlobeOne's front cover portrait made him appear elderly, thoughtful, benign, and the article itself served to provide, for want of a better description, the Al Zahir appeasers with much fuel. Fortunately, I was never in a position where I had to make any decision which would lead our armed forces into a battle and to our sons and daughters dying, but if I had of been, I'm sure I too would have opted for appeasement rather than give any excuse to restart the Jihad War. And, if we had not appeased ­ by allowing Syrian and Algerian troops to multiply in Mozambique without reply, for example ­ would it have made any difference. I doubt it, not in the long run.

In 67, things only got worse. The Second Jihad War, the history books say, began in May 68 and came to an end in 71, but this is only half the truth. There was already much turmoil under way long before May 68: the Islamic terrorism and riots in Europe; the rapid escalation of left-over wars where agreements on paper meant nothing in practice; and the emergence of armed Islamic groups in previously peaceful countries and regions, especially in West Africa. And, at the end, there was a cease-fire in 71 but no settlement until the following April, and this only dealt with very major issues. The fear, poverty and hunger of the Grey Years may have helped bring the war to an end, but it did nothing to assist the peace. Today, three decades later, the Christian-dominated rich nations continue to live in fear that a new Al Zahir will appear one day, unify Muslims everywhere, and set light to the fragile truce now guarded by a stronger, but still very flawed, United Nations.

***

In Tilford, a quiet corner of sunny Surrey, Lizette, Jay and I were well insulated from the terrors of war. There was a mosque nearby, but the local Muslim population was surprisingly well integrated. Most of the mosque members were loyal British subjects and opposed Al Zahir's Jihad. One of our near neighbours, Dr Sami Abd al-Jabbaar claimed Pakistani heritage. He was a consultant at Guildford hospital, an official at the local mosque, and regularly featured in the Surrey News because of his prize-winning vegetables. Jay played with one of his two boys; and I saw him occasionally whenever we were leaving from, or returning to, our homes on foot at the same time. He never lost an opportunity to condemn the latest terrorist outrage in a European city or IIBP military exercise.

Lizette was fortunate to find a well-paid teaching post at the Farnborough Science University. Jay settled in easily to the middle-sized primary school across the other side of the village. As for me, premature retirement did not suit. For all my adult life I had been faced with busy-ness: people, meetings, papers, deadlines. Now I was spending much of the day alone, in the small office we had had built at the back of Taunton House. For the first and frustrating year in Tilford I attempted to write a book called The IFSD Years of Expansion for the same publisher that had handled Alan's work. But I had no will to do the necessary research nor could I find a coherent view or analytical framework to give the book meaning. I had taken no advance, nor signed any contract so, bit by bit, I let the project evaporate. I took up bowls, which I played once or twice a week, weather permitting. It was refreshing to join in the petty squabbles and friendly (and not-so friendly!) sparring, to swap inane remarks about the terrors of the war or the conflicts on the parish council as if they were of equal importance, and to mull over, for hours afterwards, shots made, both good and bad. I spent much time in the garden, usually under instruction from Lizette. And, for Lizette, I read countless books on the art of bridge, in all its variants. I managed to better my technique and learn the conventions, but not my ability to memorise and mentally sort cards, which was more important. Thus, I never improved to the point where Lizette wanted to partner me in competitions (did I ever really want to?). In frustration, and because being a mother didn't leave her that much free time, she eventually stopped badgering me and decided to put her hobby aside for a while. For my own pleasure, I would tune in live whenever there was an important auction of 19th century photographs, and watch it through from beginning to end, drooling over the old images on the screen.

Whatever my daily activity, I looked forward to mid-afternoon when I would stroll through the village to the school to collect Jay, and then, on the return, dawdle slowly back across the green, stopping perhaps at the local shop to buy Jay an ice-jet in summer or a sherbet-dinger in winter. There are dozens of episodes I could recall from Jay's early school days, but this one stands out as well as any other; it was the first time I realised Jay had his own life, his own secret world. During the walk home, I would quiz Jay about his day. He was never very attentive to my questions or responsive, and I was lucky if I caught a snippet of information, about the lunch menu, a special lesson, or another child being told off. On occasions we would walk back from the school with other children and their parents. If the weather was clement we would stop at the playground by the river. One time, when Jay's buds had left, and I was pushing him round on the roundabout, I asked who he played with at school. He told me he was a bit sad. A bit sad? I asked him to explain several times but without result. I reported the conversation to Lizette who suggested he himself might not know why he was sad. Then, later, when I was reading him a story in bed, in his attic room, I asked again about being sad at school. This time he was more forthcoming.

'She makes me sit down, and takes off my shoe. And she doesn't give it back. Until later.' With further gentle questioning I discovered that a girl called Lindsay had taken Jay's shoe several times and each time this had resulted in Jay crying. Lizette and I had assumed Jay was happy and untroubled at school, and so this news ­ extracted with difficulty ­ came as a shock. Lizette wanted to approach the school, but I argued we should help Jay deal with the situation on his own. Lizette cautiously gave way and delegated the problem to me. I explained to Jay that Lindsay's actions were definitely wrong, and that, if she took his shoe again, he should seek the assistance of an older child, one who would help. If Lindsay threatened or hurt him, he should report her to a teacher. I have no idea if the advice worked or not, for Jay never talked about being sad again, at least not in relation to life at school.

Jay has pointed out (!) that this is a dismal anecdote, and that I should balance it with 'a nice one' from his early school years. I am happy to oblige. On his seventh birthday, in late September 67, Jay was sent a box of simple magic tricks by Lizette's brother Samuel and his family. One weekday soon after, when the school was closed to pupils for some reason, and Lizette was away all day at work, Jay kept pestering me to show off the tricks. I suggested he save them and put on a show for Lizette and me that evening. For the rest of the day, he beavered away in his attic room, interrupting me in my office only rarely. Once he came to give me a ticket, complete with seat number, code and tear-off section. When he heard the front door, he raced down the stairs to give Lizette a ticket too. At the appointed time, we went together to the top of house. On the door to his room he had pinned a sign saying 'Jay's Marvellous Magic Show'; and inside he had arranged two chairs with seat numbers. Jay himself was hiding in the toy cupboard. A mock deep voice said 'take your seats', and then he appeared, cutely dressed wearing a bow tie and a plastic make-it-yourself top hat which had come with the magic tricks box. This was no static magic show, for the magician needed a member of the audience for each trick, which meant we were both up and down every few minutes choosing a card, closing our eyes, or waving a wand that went limp if we didn't hold it right. We laughed and laughed (except when he lost his props or made a mistake, in which case we pretended not to notice). After each trick we clapped and Jay bowed. When, at the end, we demanded an encore, and explained what we meant, he looked crestfallen at not having any more magic to give us, until we explained it was perfectly acceptable to do his best trick a second time. We applauded enthusiastically again, signalled for Jay to retire from the stage to his toy cupboard, and then departed the attic-theatre. Ten minutes later, Jay came downstairs looking very miserable.

'I feel very sad. I've worked all day and now it's all over.' Sweet, sweet boy. Lizette cuddled him. She wanted to explain about how enjoyment should be sought from the work itself not the result, and how the best cure for sadness was to start work again on the next thing, but he wouldn't listen.

For a couple of years, our lives were complicated by Clint Tuohy, Lizette's former husband and Jay's genetic father. While Lizette had been in Brussels, Clint had considered Jay out of reach, and had abdicated interest and responsibility. This had suited Lizette and me, and had allowed or encouraged us to form the Jay co-op without him. Once back in England, though, we went on a visit north to see Pete, Clarity and Rhoda, and, during that trip, Lizette took the trouble to call on Clint. Thereafter, her ex-husband began transferring funds to Lizette's bank account for Jay's maintenance and, at the same time, demanding access. Lizette returned the monies, and tried, via camphone, to persuade Clint that, after six years of minimal contact between him and Jay, during which time I had effectively taken over as Jay's father, contact with him would only confuse the child. Lizette thought she would be able to reason him round, but she was wrong. His interest in Jay grew to the point of a fixation. He turned up in Tilford, one Saturday lunch-time, uninvited. We treated him hospitably. But after showing him round the village, and taking him for a walk along the river with Jay, we expected him to go. He didn't. He wheedled and whined, and begged to stay the night. Lizette wanted to kick him out, but I couldn't agree. In the morning, Lizette found him playing pick-a-stick with Jay in the lounge. Later, after breakfast and after we had finally got him out of the house, Jay told us that Clint had asked to be called 'Dad'. Lizette was so outraged by Clint's behaviour that she called him immediately, and screamed abuse down the phone while he was driving north. After that he turned up regularly, every few months, always uninvited, always unwelcome and always apologetic. He was never allowed to stay the night again, but, if it was possible, we did let him spend a couple of hours with Jay. Between these visits, there were arguments, threats and counter-threats. Clint demanded more regular access, and indicated he would take legal action. Unfortunately, the Dutch co-op laws, which might have given us some protection in the Netherlands, were not valid in Britain. Lizette counter-attacked by suggesting she might send anonymous letters to the local Stoke media about the unacceptable behaviour of one of its upright citizens and councillors. From Clint's side, I should add, we also received streams of apologies, promises and presents. The whole situation was horribly messy. Lizette and I spent far too much time discussing it between ourselves, and Lizette spent yet more time moaning about Clint on the phone or by email to her friends Rhoda and Clarity.

In autumn 67, Clint vanished from our lives. We learned, from Rhoda, he had formed a new relationship. We assumed it had become convenient for him to forget about Jay. Some years later, when that relationship broke down, Clint again tried to impose himself on us and Jay. He started with phone calls and emails, but when he turned up on our doorstep, we would not let him enter the house or see Jay. Lizette warned him to stay away or she would seek legal advice. Jay can tell his own story about Clint, in his own time, if he can be bothered ­ I've given him too much space already.

Lizette was a demanding mother, expecting much of her son. This was partly because of her insecurity about the paternal side of Jay's upbringing, in particular Clint's intrusions. But her own background also played a part. From what she told me of 'Pa' and 'Ma' they had been committed parents, never prepared to accept second best. Clearly, the approach had worked with Lizette, and with her elder brother Samuel who had become very successful as an engineer (tidal turbines), but not with the younger brother Mercurio, who, for whatever reason, had opted out of mainstream society. Perhaps, also, the escalating war exaggerated Lizette's disposition in some way. Whatever the reason, she tended to push Jay academically, providing only occasional effusive praise when he produced excellent work, and criticising him regularly for modest or poor work. At times, when she was being overly harsh or pressing him too far, I tried to intervene, but in this aspect of Jay's upbringing, his education, she would not be swayed by my opinions. Certainly, there was little in my track record to inspire any confidence in me as a parent: during the first year of our time in Tilford, I was still making occasional trips to visit another of my sons in prison.

Instead of intervening I observed quietly how Jay learned tricks ­ not magic ones ­ to avoid being assigned harder and harder tasks, or being the target of higher and higher expectations: how to pretend he didn't understand what was being asked of him, how to ask sweetly for help over and over again, and how to underplay his own knowledge or ability. As he grew older, so Lizette became partially wise to these games, which caused plenty of strife during Jay's teenage years. I sincerely believe this had no long-term negative effect on Jay's intelligence (I'm on dangerous ground here), but I suspect it did divert him away from Lizette's beloved science subjects, towards less academic ones such as drawing cartoon characters and designing impossible worlds on the computer (and then giving us virtual tours), although this was already later on.

***

I say my interest in writing a book on the IFSD petered out, but this was partly because, after about a year in Tilford, I let myself became involved in other, more engaging projects. I agreed to join a team of retired WWF campaigners to take a close analytical look at ten large recent programmes conducted for or with one of the UN agencies, to see if any lessons could be learned, not on the policies themselves, but on the procedures for winning project funds, for collaboration and for implementation. In addition, I took on two non-executive directorships, one for a large environmental consultancy, Greenwell-Plasset, and the other for a subsidiary of Euroil which made and marketed a synthetic aviation fuel, a competitor to Vivido. Greenwell-Plasset paid me only a modest wage which I balanced against the idea that I might have some beneficial influence over their activities. Euroil, though, rewarded me very well and demanded little in return. I had no doubt I was being paid because my name and former position enhanced the company's international credibility, but as long I was not asked to do anything unethical, or vaguely unethical, I didn't mind. In fact, during a preliminary lunch with Euroil people, at the Greensand Retreat (which had been completely refurbished in the Romaine Riche style, and looked and felt more luxurious than ever), I drew such a collection of smug smiles of self-satisfaction when I told them I had once worked for Euroil in Brussels as a young man (but without any details!), that I decided there and then to give them a rough ride. I spoke frankly, controversially even, at the meetings I attended, and soon became more trouble than I was worth. When my three year contract expired, no-one offered to renew it, and I had no time to ask why.

In April 68, Guido and Mireille came to stay at Taunton House for a week. They brought presents for Jay and expensive chocolates for Lizette. I joined them on various explorations, to the South Coast to see the old docks in Portsmouth and to promenade in Brighton; and to London to see some of the best shows I had seen in a very long time. This was at the same time as the IIBP's unexpected missile attack on Rhodes, the one which wiped out a European Army base, and led to the formal start of the Second Jihad War. On one day, we took Jay out of school and went to Alexandra Palace, which had 15-20 years earlier been the greatest museum on interactive broadcasting history and technology in Europe. Jay and I watched the same 30 minute holographic movie Jungle Journey that I'd first seen with Diana and Guido on a trip to London in the late 40s. Guido, who had oversold the place to Mireille, spent most of the day criticising the lack of investment and innovation. On our return, I received a message from Tommy, who was still at the IFSD (and with whom I corresponded occasionally), informing me that MarySue's son, Conrad, had been killed in Rhodes. She and I sent each other new year cards, but otherwise had not communicated for ages. I had known Conrad slightly, and MarySue had talked about him often. Once, Guido and I had met MarySue and her son while shopping in Leiden. Conrad was a young teenager at the time, and Guido only seven or eight, but, for a few minutes while MarySue and I chatted, the two boys joined forces to admire the ultra-cycles and cycle paraphernalia in a shop window.

I was under the impression that Guido and Mireille had come for a break, but Guido's mood was not as light as usual, and both of them prevaricated whenever I asked about their plans and projects. After supper one night, Guido took me for a drink and a manly chat in the village pub, the Barley Mow. We bought a bottle of English rosé wine (why do I remember this?). As soon as we had settled down at a corner table, he told me the news he'd been holding back all week, the news he'd come to Tilford to deliver.

'We've decided to go and live in Ecuador, in Quito. There's a theatre there waiting for us. Teatro Sucre. Our names are already etched into the crumbling facade.' He paused, waiting for my reaction, but I didn't say anything. 'We met a man, an entrepreneur, called Felix Rico Montechristo. He was in Paris, he came to our show. Some people call him Felix, others Rico. He's Ecuadorian but his mother was American. His main business is managing celebrities ...' and here Guido listed half a dozen names of footballers and singers who he thought I might recognise but didn't. Then, still trying to build a credibility bridge between Felix and me, he mentioned that he managed the Ecuadorian volleyball team, and in particular, its captain Carlos Mallastro. I did know of Mallastro because he had led the Ecuadorian team to a place in the quarter-finals at the 63 world cup in Munich, and, only last year, to a semi-final place at the world cup in São Paulo.

'Felix has bought a dilapidated theatre in central Quito, and wants to refurbish it, make it glorious again. He wants us to manage the artistic side. We've accepted. We're leaving at the end of May.'

I knew they had been to Quito some months earlier, but I had no idea it was more than a holiday. Mireille had studied European literature and literary traditions at the Sorbonne, but then demeaned herself (this is the assessment of her father, Didier, long before the wedding) by becoming a stage manager. Guido, after completing his degree in Amsterdam, went to Paris, partly to study mime, and partly to be near Mireille. After realising the limits of his acting ability, he reluctantly gravitated towards the same occupation as his mother, theatre design, for which he had a real talent. A year or so after the wedding, the two of them discovered, to their own surprise, how much they enjoyed working in tandem on the same productions. Subsequently, in-between separate regular paid assignments, they teamed up together to direct and design small-scale adventurous plays with low production costs and in which actors would perform more for love than money.

'How long are you planning to stay?' I asked. Guido drank swiftly, looked away and then back at me.

'Two, three years. We have no fixed plans. But we'll come back, to see you and Mum, of course, and Mireille's parents.'

'It's so far away,' I said. Confusion and sadness must have shown on my face, for Guido went on quickly, wanting to explain.

'And far away from the coming war. It's not that we're afraid, but that we want no part of it. We feel it has nothing to do with us, with our lives.'

'I'm sure many people feel that way in France and in England and all over Europe, but they're not emigrating to another continent. France, Holland, Britain, they remain among the most safe, cultured and sophisticated places on earth.'

'I know. We know. It's not the only reason. It's a great opportunity too. We could never hope to run a whole theatre in Paris, not for years and years, and certainly not without the help of Didier. And to be honest, Mireille is sick of him trying to help her. She falls for his offer of money sometimes, and then is too ashamed to tell me. That's not all, he talks secretly to friends and colleagues in the business, and encourages them somehow to give her work. Then halfway towards a production she finds out, and it's too late to extricate herself. He's suffocating her, us. And Helene is becoming impossible too. She keeps discovering new distant relations, holding dinner parties for each one, and insisting ­ really insisting ­ on us being there so she can introduce us. She's uncovered dozens of relations in her own family, Chastrain, and twice as many Rocards, all within a train ride of Paris. Family is so important, she says. She's become obsessed.'

'I didn't know things had got that bad. I haven't had any contact with them, Does your mother see them?'

'Not much, I don't think Karl has time for them any more. They used to get on when they were younger. Now, they're too rich for him. He despises anyone with money. I don't see Mum either.' Guido didn't need to tell me. Several times over the years he had confided that he positively loathed Karl, mostly I think because of his influence over Diana. 'And Karl and Mireille have a mutual aversion to each other.'

'I can't imagine anyone not liking Mireille. She's so pretty and thoughtful. Lizette was delighted with the chocolates ...'

'She won't accept Karl's brusqueness or arrogance without a challenge. He hates her telling him off. I watch Mum put up with the behaviour, but Mireille won't.'

'So you're running away from family as much as from war, I hope that doesn't include me.'

'Mireille adores you, you know that,' he said, pointedly, jokingly, leaving himself out of the response.

'What did your mother say?'

'We haven't told her; she's next.'

'And Mireille's parents?'

'They're last.'

'So I'm the dress rehearsal.'

'It was Mireille's idea. We thought it would give us more confidence if we had your blessing.'

'And was it Mireille's idea that you should talk to me alone, man to man, down the pub?' I didn't wait for him to answer. 'This Felix character worries me. Won't you be completely dependant on him once you're out there? And neither of you speak much Spanish.'

'We've been studying night and day. And Felix is cool, we've discussed this a lot. He's a true patron. He paid for our trip, he's offered us good long-term contracts, and he's shown us a delightful villa we can rent cheaply. He loves our ideas for the theatre. We're going to make it the most important playhouse in the country. If we stay in Paris we could work for 20 years and not be noticed and, even if we were, we'd never stop worrying that Didier was pulling strings behind the scenes.'

I gave him my blessing, which is not to say I wasn't sorry about them moving to another continent or concerned about the risky enterprise. To my shame, I suspected Guido and his wife, having been introduced to famous actors and writers during their brief lives, were seeking a short cut to eminence. I underestimated them both.

***

A few months after Mireille and Guido had departed for South America, I became involved in a project ­ thanks to Horace, or so he claims ­ which was to preoccupy me for several years. Horace was one of our most regular visitors, rarely a month went by when he didn't stay over on a Thursday or Friday night; now and then he came on Sundays too. He had found a route through from London to Southampton, passing nearby us, which took him only half an hour longer than on the toll roads, and saved him from paying the high charges. Horace was not a poor man, despite devoting his life to the House of Commons, because he and his brother Tim had successfully developed a smallish property business. Yet he had a compulsive hatred of road tolls. Horace did not oppose them publicly for that would have been no different from opposing taxes in general, but he was often the first critic to appear on the media whenever a hike in tolls was announced, whoever was in government.

I was always happy to see Horace. Lizette tired of him at times. If he was droning on about a topic of the day, usually the war and the policy of the British government towards the latest developments, she promptly told him to change the record or to shut up and let someone else get a word in edgeways. He never took offense. When she was annoyed by him, though, she would suddenly disappear, to the garden or the bedroom. Then Horace, often glossy after too many drinks, would drift into airing a grievance or rehearsing an argument or statement he was hoping to make in the House, and I would drift too ­ but into sleep. I should say that Horace was a polite guest, ever considerate, and always ready to take us out to eat. He regularly sent us invitations for events in London (which we rarely accepted). Jay called him Uncle Talk-a-lot, although there's was nothing remotely uncle-ish about him. He had no idea how to converse with Jay.

Sometimes, though, he would bring Tim, his younger brother, who did communicate well with our son. Tim had divorced years ago, and his three children had long since gone their separate ways. He missed seeing them regularly. Tim and Horace were similar in appearance with their medium-height, spectacles, and wispy regenerated hair. But Tim was fatter all round, with a large paunch, puffy cheeks and a second chin. Strangely, it was Tim who was the more active of the two, having played golf and done some sailing in his time. Horace kept surprisingly lean, without ever taking up a sport or controlling his diet. Whenever Tim drew attention to this difference between them, which he did regularly (why, I never understood), Horace claimed, one way or another, that it was mental activity that had kept him thin, thereby implying the opposite was true for his brother. This enraged Tim, who had spent his life far removed from Horace's intellectual world, mostly using his accountancy skills to market country estates, and also to run their joint property business.

During one of his stay overs (before I lose the thread of this narrative entirely), Horace mentioned that he had lunched with Matt Fortune during the week. The two politicians had remained friendly since I introduced them to each other in 57. Matt had retired from Parliament and gone to work part-time for the London branch of the European Institute of Politics and Diplomacy (EIPD), which was one of the most important and respected cross-border think-tanks in Europe. Matt had told Horace about an ambitious study on the future of the United Nations, and that the EIPD was still considering who should administer the project. At this point in the conversation, Horace claimed, he had proposed me. Later, though, Matt said my name was already on a draft short list.

Without knowing it, this was the work I had been waiting for. The EIPD's illustrious 50 year reputation had not been won by shadow boxing with governments or other institutions over issues of the day, or by responding to requests from the European Union (which had provided its funding for many years) to investigate a particular topic, both of which it did regularly, but by involving the highest calibre politicians and diplomats to launch debates on big questions, on the controversial subjects of tomorrow. Ten days after Horace's visit, I received a call from Matt himself inviting me to the Institute in Cavendish Square. A week later, when I was ensconced in his office, he explained in detail about a major study on the role of the UN after the war. It would investigate whether there was a case to start again, with a fresh model. The working hypothesis would be that the UN had served well for 100 years, but that its failure to avoid the First and Second Jihad Wars was a sign of terminal failure. Would it be possible, the EIPD wanted to know, to combine the experience of the UN with that of the European Union (undoubtedly the most successful regional integration model in history) and find a new way forward for the world in the 22nd century. The study was to be called World Union ­ thinkable or unthinkable?. He briefed me on how it was to be planned and implemented. I listened intently. My role would be that of administrator, organising and overseeing a group of 30 prominent political characters, 'wise men', through from beginning to end (three years in all) and liaising with the EIPD. Yes. I said yes. Matt, genial as ever and with sideburns so bushy and white he could have materialised from a Dickens novel, thanked me profusely.

Initially, during the early stages of the project in autumn 68, I was obliged to travel to a large number of meetings in Brussels and other European capitals (and to arrange ad hoc Jay-care for the first time since being in Tilford), which was a pain because journeys, whether by train or plane, took two or three times longer than in normal circumstances due to the heightened security arrangements, and security alerts. Once the study proper was under way, I was able to manage it partly from home and partly from the EIPD office in London which provided the necessary secretariat and cam-conferencing facilities. I organised for our wise men to be provided with a library of background documents. These included the two important, but much over-looked, analyses carried out decades earlier by management consultancies; several documents from my term in the IFSD's future policy division; numerous papers and reports that various UN agencies had produced on their own future; and whatever papers/books we could track down that had already been written on the subject of world government.

The wise men elected Dr Luigi Costa, by dint of his seniority, as their chairman. He had been a prime minister of Italy, and there were only two other ex-prime ministers on the panel, both from countries smaller than Italy. In my opinion, he was not the best man for the job. He had been a pedantic leader, safely honest and bureaucratic, but short on charisma and inspiration. His main claim to posterity came during his first stint as Italian prime minister, in the 40s, when he had been one of the loudest voices in Europe advocating the Next Step and propelling a strong European input towards what became known as the Djakarta Settlement. Certainly, he was one of the most internationally-aware leaders Italy had produced in the 21st century.

More than half of the wise men approached their task with determined objectivity, while the others let politics dictate their opinions. Most of this latter group had held high office, and, although retired from the political front line, retained constituencies (if not with voters then among colleagues within their own parties) which needed servicing to one degree or another. A few of this group, which included Costa, could see no further internationally than the politics of the ongoing war, so every idea they offered, every opinion they put forward, every bit of text they drafted was tainted in some way by their positions on the war. Fortunately, these individuals did not all pull in the same direction; moreover, Costa's position as chairman gave him no extra weight, so long as the others were vigilant enough not to let him exert undue control over their opinions. It was my job to ensure they were vigilant, and to keep the wise men's thoughts firmly focused on the long term and not on the present or short term. Thus, I often found myself in conflict with Costa. He would ring me up at all times of day and night, demanding to know why I'd distributed this or that document or why I'd drawn conclusions from a meeting or a round-robin of opinions which ignored his position. Other times he called to discuss the most minor of changes to a draft agenda simply to tailor it to his preferred shape. I dealt with him firmly and fairly. When necessary, I reminded him of our respective roles: his was to be a wise man, to think forward, strategically, imaginatively; and mine was to implement a framework in which he and his colleagues could do this to the best of their ability.

For the best part of three years, this job kept me lively. It diverted my attention from ruminating too long on daily reports which told of an ever increasing number of military campaigns, bombing raids, destruction, death. I was again in contact with important and interesting characters, many of whom I'd met, or heard of or read about in the media. It felt like a useful task and, therefore by extension, I felt useful. Prior to the EIPD study, Lizette had begun to worry about my lack of employment and so, when I started, she was content to see me busy again, even though it meant I had to travel and be away from home more often. She relished me confiding in her about the clashes between the wise men, whether because of character or policy; and she took my occasional requests for her opinion so seriously that she would think about them for days.

What did we achieve? World Union ­ thinkable or unthinkable? is available on the net, and through any good library, so there's no purpose in my reiterating it in any detail here. Also, as is evident, there is no World Union today, and the United Nations is extant, with much the same basic underlying structure as it has always had. Nevertheless, the aim of the report was to launch a debate, and this it definitely achieved. The European Union, for example, having largely bailed out of the UN in the 70s as a consequence of the Jihad War, deliberated carefully over the ideas in our report. It set up an analysis group and produced several major policy documents. Eventually, though, it lost its nerve (or saw sense, depending on where you stand) and decided to re-support the UN model.

Now, as I dictate ­ with next century optimism filling the corridors of power ­ very serious consideration is again being given to major changes in the UN system: a more powerful General Assembly; a complete overhaul of the structure of the agencies to provide greater coherence; better coordination, and clearer lines of accountability towards the General Assembly; and, as we proposed 30 years earlier in the EIPD report, a virtual parliament to provide a degree of democratic control over the General Assembly. We calculated that a world parliament would need no fewer than 4,000 members, with only one physical plenary session a year hosted by countries in rotation. Otherwise plenary debates and votes could, with the right technology and safeguards, be adequately conducted on the net (we produced a supplementary report on how this could be done). To prepare for virtual plenary sessions, 50-60 special committees could function in a virtual way but with more frequent physical meetings at permanent bases in selected locations. Crucially, the report suggested, each member of this visionary parliament would be made responsible not only for representing his/her constituency to the parliament, but for representing the objectives and achievements of the parliament to his/her constituency. Any voter who did not know what the world parliament did, the report proposed, should be advised by the UN itself through the media against voting for the incumbent member. I only mention this last point because it was the single good idea (to my mind) that Costa brought to the report. He had suffered during his political career, he told me repeatedly, because he had been unable to transfer his enthusiasm for the objectives of the UN or the European Union to his public, and consequently he had never reaped sufficient applause at home for his achievements internationally. He had always wondered why this was, and how individual citizens could be made more aware of their responsibilities beyond municipal and national boundaries.

***

Flora died yesterday. Chintz told me. She came last night when her shift was over. I asked the standard question: was there any suffering, any pain? The answer was no, it's always no. Pain is what I personally fear most. If the doctors and the plumbing and the pills cannot keep the pain away, I'll not be able to sustain the will to hold on and finish this book. Flora's going makes me feel especially vulnerable since, coincidentally, we had both planned to die on the same day. I too could expire at any time. I might not wake up tomorrow. Conversely, if I feel as well on 31 January as I do today, there'll be pressure ­ in my head and from Jay ­ to postpone my deathday. But so long as I have completed these Reflections, I am determined not to falter, not to change my mind. The euthanasia forms I signed require two doctors to agree that my condition is one of 'rapid deterioration'. I only need to stop popping the pills for that to happen. It's what people do, people like me who wish to move deliberately and considerately to their end, people like me who insist on keeping control of the inner light switch until the last.

To cheer ourselves up Chintz and I watched Amy Mistral's classic 60s thriller Zola's Loop. Over the years I've experienced all the possible plot sequences, so I let Chintz decide on Zola's timeslip factor at the three choice junctions. She opted for a route which led Zola through a very early film called The Third Man (references to which appeared in many Mistral movies). Afterwards, knowing how much Chintz enjoys my gossip, I bragged about having met Mistral and been present at her infamous Third Man centenary party. And then I rambled on about Babashkin's remake of The Third Man. Vadim Babashkin, unknown in the early 80s when he made the film, substituted war-torn Karaganda in the final months of the Jihad conflict for Vienna in the aftermath of the 20th century's Second World War. Some thought the film was the arrogant conceit of a young man and overly stylised, others (including myself) that it was a worthy homage.

Kazakhstan was indeed torn apart by the Second Jihad War. At the outset, it was generally thought, Encyclopaedia Universal explains, that the IIBP's aims in the Europe/Central Asia region were only to install an Islamic Republic in Kazakhstan, and to support Azerbaijan's territorial claims to part of Armenia. The occasional missile attacks from Turkey, Algeria and Libya on military bases in Greece, Spain and Italy respectively were judged to be no more than an attempt to keep the European nations focused on their own territory, and to ensure minimal support for Russia in helping to defend Kazakhstan and Armenia. The US, having been chastened by its unprofitable and costly involvement in the First Jihad War (not to mention the political lessons of Tarbuck's Gamble), and under the leadership of the mealy-mouthed President Paul Kidderminster, declined to involve itself in any of the main IIBP-led conflicts in Europe, Asia or Africa. Kidderminster and most of the US administration believed (or wished to believe) the IIBP's statements of support for the long-standing (but fragile) Palestine-Israel peace treaty, and did not want to pull any trigger that might switch Al Zahir's attention towards Israel. NATO, which had been through more formations during the 21st century than a zylovex, required its members to help each other under clearly defined and varied conditions. Only in late 69, when Turkey and the IIBP, after weeks of sustained bombing, invaded Cyprus, then Rhodes, both of which fell easily, and then Crete, did the North Americans (US, Canada and Mexico) finally agree such conditions were met. Their military strength was employed to reinforce the Mediterranean coastal frontiers of Portugal, Spain, Italy, France and Greece. But, while this was happening, Turkish troops moved into eastern Bulgaria, as ever with IIBP campaigns, 'to liberate repressed Muslims' and to bring 'peace for all peoples'.

We had no idea at this point where Al Zahir and the IIBP would stop, or where they could made to stop. Every day our screens brought frightening images: the extraordinarily flamboyant displays by IIBP nations of their weaponry; hundreds of thousands of Muslim troops, all in disciplined formations (reminiscent of Russia and China during the 20th century Cold War, historians said) across North Africa, in north and west Turkey, in Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, all ready and willing to die for the Jihad cause, for Allah; and scenes of chaos where IIBP missiles had found their way through the NATO defenses, missed their military targets and killed dozens, or in some cases, hundreds of Spanish or Greek citizens. But we heard nothing of other major conflicts in Africa (civil war in Nigeria for example) and in the Far East (including a massive uprising in the Muslim Xinjing province of China). Al Zahir, himself, could be seen day after day repeating the same ideas: 'Peace is our aim, peace is our destiny. Christian nations must share wealth with their Muslim brothers;' and (a particular favourite of mine), 'The IFSD is but a petty bribe, a dummy to our mouths ­ now we demand what is rightfully ours.' Some commentators began speculating that if Bulgaria and Greece were to fall, the 'IIBP hoards' could trample through the Balkans; and this might give them the confidence to take the Moorish route through Southern Spain; Sicily could fall too, and Sardinia. Many of these same analysts urged, once again as they had done a decade earlier, for NATO to use its superior nuclear and 'ultimate weapon' capability. Yet no single leader across the Christian world came out in favour of such a strategy. The simple, awful truth was that all European airspace could not be guaranteed all of the time, despite NATO's technological superiority, and the IIBP would, one way or the other, be able to deliver nuclear and/or biochemical weapons. If he chose to, most Europeans believed, Al Zahir could kill 100,000 if not half a million civilians somewhere ­ whether in Spain, Portugal, Latvia, Ukraine or Finland ­ in one strike.

With Europe becoming the focus of the war itself, so political and social strife multiplied across the continent. The media was full of stories about families torn apart by bereavement or injury, or because one sibling had chosen to fight while another campaigned for demilitarisation, or because some members had fled to Australia or Canada and been branded cowards. Violent clashes between peace protesters and those willing to fight for freedom became commonplace, in the workplace, in pubs, in suburban streets, and during weekend protest marches. Worst of all, though, was the breakdown caused between Christians and Muslims. Distrust spread like a plague, and wherever ignorance and fear took hold, so racism and victimisation followed in its wake. The vast majority of Muslims in Europe, as with the vast majority of Christians, agnostics and atheists were fair minded people who did not want this war or support the actions of the IIBP. But there were a few Muslims that did. Either they felt oppressed or unfairly treated, or else they agreed with Al Zahir's philosophy. The most fanatical ones worked secretly, as terrorists, helping to promote fear and panic in the most unexpected of places; others worked to encourage and finance the peace movements. European governments, depending on their politics and their national situations, reacted differently; but all of them went further than they had in the First Jihad War to monitor Muslim individuals and communities.

***

Our neighbour Sami was a very reasonable man. His paternal grandparents had emigrated from Pakistan to England in the last century. His father had won a scholarship to a good medical university, married a mixed race girl (half English, half Indian) and become a successful geriatrician. Sami himself was an orthopaedist, working with the national health service, and had married an English woman, Iona, with no trace of foreign blood. Despite this history, and despite the fact that he practised, with Iona who had converted, a popular Westernised form of Islam, he was obliged to register at a regional centre set up for the purpose. He had to sign a form affirming his support for the British government and denouncing any connection with Muslim terrorism or illegal propaganda. It was degrading, he told me. Moreover, as he and all Muslims knew, this registration process was an empty gesture, a sop to warmongers and fear-spreaders, since only signed-up members of mosques or other Muslim organisations had to register, and no terrorist or political agitator would let him or herself appear on such lists. Fortunately, for Great Britain, which recovered relatively quickly from the war and the Grey Years, we had more Muslims of Sami's ilk, willing to keep their resentments low key, and ready to work patiently for the good of the community as a whole, than many other countries.

I was fond of Sami, but not of Iona. Lizette had no time for either of them. She judged them smarmy, socially competitive and materialistic. As a consequence, Lizette tried to dampen down Jay's friendship with their son, David (who went to a different school), because she thought he was a bad influence. For about a year they were forever scampering around together, but then it was Jay who dropped David, under pressure, I suspected, from his non-Muslim buds at school. In the late summer of 69, though, two incidents led us to give our neighbours more consideration.

One weekend at the village playground, Lizette witnessed a vicious assault on David by Lindsay, who, by then had moved on from primary school bully to teenage terror. Jay had not come home in time for supper, so Lizette went to find him at the playground down by the river. David was lying on the ground and Lindsay was screaming verbal abuse and lightly kicking him at the same time. Jay and a friend of his were calling ­ not very urgently ­ for Lindsay to stop. Two other children were laughing. Lizette intervened immediately, established that David was not hurt, and attempted to censure Lindsay. She ambled away laughing.

Ten days later, Sami came to see me very early on a Saturday morning. He appeared distraught, face unshaven and grim, hair uncombed and shirt sleeves loose. His vegetable and fruit garden had been vandalised in the night. I was still in jamas, but he insisted I come immediately to inspect the damage. Elaborate cane frames for beans and raspberries had been crushed to the ground; various green vegetables had been kicked apart and trampled on; and marrows, pumpkins, aubergines and melons had all been sliced into pieces. He was hoping I might have heard or seen something in the night, but I had not, nor had Lizette or Jay, or any of our other neighbours. Later the same day, Sami came over to discuss if we thought he should go to the police and/or to the local newspaper. Lizette was adamant that he should certainly go to the police. She argued that if nothing was done, the hooligan would continue with impunity. Sami, though, was cautious. Whether the attack was racist or personal, he did not want it to lead ­ deliberately or by accident ­ to any escalation of racial tension in the village. I tended to agree with his approach, and he went away having decided to take no action, other than to spend the rest of the weekend trying to rehabilitate his garden. When Sami had gone, Lizette let the full extent of her anger show, not only against Sami, who she suspected of cowardice, driven by his or Iona's determination not to lose face in public, but against me for giving him moral support.

There would be no more to these two anecdotes were it not for a conversation I had with Jay a few days ago.

'Did Sami Abdi ever find out who did it?' Jay asked.

'Dr Abdi. Is that what you called him? Sami Abdi? No, I don't think so. Although the same thing happened again the next year, didn't it. And then, when we lost the sun, he gave up. It was Allah's will.'

'I knew.'

'You knew what?'

'I knew who it was, who messed up Abdi's garden.'

'How? Who was it?'

'She told us herself. It was Lindsay Durring, the primary school bully. She's the one who stole my shoes. She also knifed open my bag once, stole other kid's lunch money, and started a cannabis cabal in the bicycle shed. She wrecked the bowls green once ...'

'I don't remember. Was I away?'

'She used a mechanical device to churn up holes in the grass. We laughed when she boasted about it at school, partly because she was a good entertainer, and it didn't sound that serious ­ sorry Pa ­ but most of all because we weren't the victims in this instance. She calmed down a lot for a period, during one school year, the year before the incidents with David and Sami's garden. We had a teacher, I forget his name, who had a lot of time for Lindsay, encouraged her comic side, and listened to her long after others had got tired of her lies and exaggerations. He only stayed a year at Tilford. After that Lindsay went from bad to worse. Later, while at secondary school and during the Grey Years, she burnt down the village hall. It was the night before the Ramadan play. You must remember that.'

'Why didn't you tell us any of this at the time? Especially about Sami's garden?'

'I don't know. I might have been afraid, or I didn't think it was important. She was caught for the village hall arson, and went to a junior prison. The mother and a younger sister moved away. I don't think I ever heard of them again.'

'You should have told us.'

'We thought the whole village knew. Poor old Sami Abdi, I think he loved his vegetables more than his children. David used to tell me he wished he had a father the same as you ...'

'Me?'

'Yes, collecting me from school, reading me bedtime stories, defending me against Ma.' He said it casually, as though he were referring to a third person. I closed my eyes to savour the idea that Jay had thought of me so well, even back then when he was a child.

'I didn't know you set me up as a role model for your friends.'

'I had to as it goes. When you came to collect me from school, they all called you my grandad: "Look Jay, there's your grandad." '

Surely, this was sufficient punishment for relishing a false pleasure, but Jay hadn't finished ruining the moment.

'Lindsay nicknamed you Wrinkle Man.'

'She should see me now.'

***

Lizette did lose her temper at times, not only with Jay when he refused to understand a simple precept from science or maths, or when he dodged out of working, but with me. She and I rarely argued over practical arrangements, as Diana and I had, but over points of principle, politics or morality. The argument over Sami's garden was such a case. More often than not, it was my laid-back, laissez-faire attitude rather than my actual position that infuriated her, to the point of shouting. I'm not sure I can explain this properly, since it sounds bizarre. I used to say to her that a lifetime of public service meetings was enough to trim the passion off any individual, but this alone could incense her. I think she felt that if she got angry with me, I would get angry back; but, when I didn't, she got angrier still as if any lesser reaction might undermine the justification for her original exasperation. Then I would compromise on the point we had been discussing, and this infuriated her further. During these (short-lived and, I must stress, infrequent) episodes, I was often to be found ­ apparently ­ without a backbone.

After we had been in Tilford a few years, there was a period when Lizette's temper shortened significantly and became more personal. I thought the war might be to blame. It had recently veered towards Europe and was thus the subject of daily debate. Yet, Lizette's anger seemed to stem more directly from Jay's less-than-perfect performance at school or my continuing involvement in the EIPD study, which meant I was away and busy far more often than I had been hitherto. I did not say anything or draw attention to the problem; I hoped it would go away. And it did, almost overnight.

I was aware that Lizette was bored with her job, and longed to return to research. I had said we should move if she could find a good position somewhere else in the home counties. She was reluctant, not only because she was happy with our plan to send Jay to the Witley school when he reached 11 and did not want to disrupt our lives, but because she loved Taunton House. I did not, though, make the connection between her job dissatisfaction and her erratic moods. One day in February 70 Lizette returned from work, radiantly happy. She had been to the hairdressers in the morning, which invariably lifted her spirits, and she had a bag full of shopping with knick-knacks for Jay and me. She also had an announcement. There was a research/lecturer position falling vacant at Surrey University in Guildford. She would apply for it, she predicted, and she would get it. Our lives improved appreciably from that moment, apart from a tense month when, because of the draconian government cutbacks in public spending, there appeared to be a doubt over funds for the position. Notwithstanding her excitement, it was an awkward move for Lizette, involving a loss of seniority, a cut in pay, and a return to research in an area for which she had no particular expertise.

I cannot claim to understand in detail what she did at Guildford, but it was linked to the efficiency of collecting electricity from plastic glass. Lizette's boss, Professor Sidney Jensen, who had spent his entire career devoted to photovoltaics, saw no reason why every window on earth shouldn't produce electricity. It was only a question of cost and efficiency. I knew from my experience at the IFSD that photovoltaic windows were near standard in buildings above a certain size in cities with plenty of sun where electricity supply was expensive. I also knew that, with time and effort, they had become cheaper, more efficient, more reliable and easier to install. But this was a long way from Jensen's dream. Lizette's role, as I understood it, was to work on the molecular mechanisms by which the photovoltaic film-covered plastic glass created and transmitted electricity in low light conditions. This entailed creating new forms of the photovoltaic film, through micro-biomolecular manipulation, and then testing each one for a range of properties. Promising variants ­ I usually heard about them ­ were then given more substantial tests. It sounded laborious, but Lizette enthused about her work, and she soon became very fond of Jensen and her other colleagues. Then, of course, after the Toba explosion, the research became much more important. Jensen's team never made any substantial scientific breakthrough, not while Lizette was there, but it surely contributed to the sum total of knowledge, which itself led (not during the Grey Years alas) to a rapid expansion in the use of, the now generically-named, z-glass.

We ­ Lizette and I and the people we talked to ­ took only cursory notice of Toba when it first began to splutter. Not only had there been dire warnings about the volcano for years, but the first big eruption had to compete, news-wise, with the following: NATO's withdrawal from western Crete; a NATO air-raid on Istanbul which resulted in nine aircraft shot down; a mosque explosion in Marseilles killing a group of 35 Muslim schoolchildren; and an Intent missile deliberately aimed at Cathedral Sainte-Marie Majeure in Toulon, on a Sunday morning, killing 200. There is no doubt that, at this time, in September 70, the IIBP was still on the attack, winning the war, and Europe was very much on the defensive. The Turks with the help of Iranian, Syrian and Iraqi forces had won substantial territory in eastern Bulgaria and eastern Greece. Constanta, Bucharest, Sofia, Thessaloniki, Malta were all subject to regular attack. Several Greek islands were already under Turkish and/or Egyptian occupation. Russia was finding it equally difficult to help Kazakhstan defend its large land mass, and had all but given up on Armenia. It was also considering a major strategic retreat behind the Caucasus leaving troublesome Georgia to be divided between Turkey and Azerbaijan, or so the media reported. The US had finally entered the war a year earlier and inflicted substantial damage on the aggressive states in several arenas; mostly, though, it had helped stall, but not necessarily prevent, assaults by the North African nations across the Mediterranean.

Most historians thus agree that the Toba eruption saved parts of Europe from a Muslim future. They are divided as to how much territory they believe the IIBP forces could have conquered, and as to how far the ambitions of Al Zahir and the IIBP went (depending on the extent to which they believe the writings and retrospective claims of various Islamic leaders at the time). There is no dispute among them, however, that Al Zahir intended from his earliest days in power to win Israel back for the Palestine people, and that his strategy of duping NATO (not Israel itself, which never trusted him) into believing otherwise was all too successful.

Only when it became clear a few days later that upwards of 100,000 people had died immediately and many more were still dying as a result of the initial explosions in the Toba caldera, did we all begin to pay much closer attention to the media reports. The images were terrifying: the isle of Samosir disappearing into the sky as gigantic plumes of rock and rubble and ash (a 30 kilometres high mushroom cloud); the waters of Lake Toba flooding out across thousands of square kilometres of Sumatra, wiping out hundreds of villages and those inhabitants that hadn't managed to escape; and the airfalls destroying property and crops across Sumatra itself and the peninsula of Malaya, and killing unfortunates in cars hit by falling boulders, or caught in collapsing buildings. And that ­ as is common knowledge ­ was only the start.

The modern world knew about war, had coped with it throughout its history; nations, societies, and cultures had survived and grown stronger as a result of its terrors and horrors and tragedies. But it knew nothing about a catastrophe on the scale of Toba, a volcanic eruption more powerful than 1,000 class A nuclear bombs, the media said. Humankind had no experience, no relevant history, no cultural memory to draw on. The five months of permanent night in most of Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent led to a minimum of 100 million deaths mostly from hunger and disease, but also because of the violence that came with an epidemic of robbing, looting and marauding. Some countries managed better than others, depending on the strength of their economic and political alliances with the richer nations. China, which had made no friends during the First or Second Jihad Wars, and which, because of the prevailing winds, caught the worst of the short-term full darkness, suffered very badly.

Before the full extent of the disaster became apparent, Al Zahir was able to maintain his war in Europe and surrounding areas. But the volcanic aerosols having settled dark night on a fifth of the world's population for several months spread out through the troposphere worldwide, reducing daylight, initially with a haze, then with the equivalent of cloud cover. When signs of determined protest against the costs of the war began to surface in the Muslim countries, the IIBP decided, once again as it had during the first war, to focus all its forces on Israel. It consolidated gains in Europe, and eight of the Brotherhood's nations turned their full air and missile power on the Jews. Because of the nuclear winter already descending on the world and because it was ready to fight to the death, Israel used three nuclear bombs (two class C and one class B) on Lebanon, Syria and Iraq. Syria responded in kind, destroying Haifa. Muslim troops stormed in from Egypt, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. The US made a token effort to help Israel, but would not employ its nuclear weapons. In any case, it was heavily occupied in Europe, and becoming preoccupied with its own domestic situation in response to the loss of sunlight.

Opposition to Al Zahir's war continued to grow with massive domestic protests from Rabat to Islamabad: Muslims everywhere were scared, and they wanted their governments to attack problems of crop failure, water contamination and disease, not Christians or Jews any longer. In December 71, some 14 months after the Toba eruption, the IIBP finally agreed to a cease-fire and to begin peace negotiations. Four months later, on 15 April 72 in Colombo, NATO and the IIBP signed a territorial treaty which is no less controversial today than it was then. More than half of Israel (which had already lost land in the First Jihad War) was divided up between Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and Egypt. Turkey took small bites out of southern Bulgarian and eastern Greece. It also retained Cyprus and Rhodes (and other sundry islands). Crete became a divided island administered by NATO and the IIBP (and, evidently, has remained divided between independent Crete and Turkish Crete, mirroring what happened to Cyprus in the 20th century). Georgia and Armenia held on to their independence, while Russia, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan all accrued territory in Kazakhstan, and an Islamic Republic was installed in what was left of the country.

The future of the United Nations took more than another ten years to resolve (as did sundry other NATO/IIBP-provoked disputes around the world).

Although these tumultuous events of history are common knowledge, it is difficult to make sense of our own lives without some reference to them. On the other hand, given their impact on our world (international and local) and the suffering they caused, it feels wrong to skim over them so lightly. But I continue to try and hold fast to my own Reflections.

***

Apart from the comfort and joy of having each other, Lizette and I were fortunate in so many ways. We benefited from being in Europe, which was relatively rich and technologically capable of dealing with the worst of the Grey Years. Further, we were fortunate for being in Great Britain, which was even better equipped than much of Europe to cope with adversity. In line with most countries, we had food rationing for many products, price controls, specific laws against greed (what strife they caused), and strict regulations on vehicle use. But, as a nation of gardeners, we the British (but not Sami) took on the challenge of finding edible plant species and varieties that would grow in chronic low levels of light (and with lightly acidic rainfall). Almost nothing green and edible grew without artificial light, but the effort helped with morale. As a nation of hobbyists and enthusiasts, we also found it easier than our European neighbours to re-adapt to traditional do-it-yourself house maintenance (Notek books were never so popular) and to the barter mentality of car boot sales. Even more significantly, our country relied less on solar energy than many others, having invested heavily in tidal and wind energy which maintained a good level of electricity production throughout the Grey Years.

In addition, Lizette and I were both lucky for being employed, meaning we were well paid (enabling us to maintain a reasonable lifestyle) and we had work to keep us occupied. While the relatively modern Farnborough Science University closed down altogether because it was starved of funds, and most of the research programmes at Surrey University were also frozen, Professor Jensen's department, in which Lizette worked, survived. I too was busy. In spring 71, I had taken on a new task, overlapping the EIPD study slightly. London was chosen by the European Union to host a new and swiftly-established agency to administer Rapid Emergency Aid for Countries seriously Hurt by climatic disturbance (REACH), and I had been asked to manage it. I presumed my experience and reputation at the IFSD was ample qualification, and my work on the EIPD study had kept me visible. The job sounds more important than it was, otherwise I doubt it would have been offered me.

I should explain what REACH did (though Jay found my explanation convoluted and warned me not to bother). Soon after the start of the Second Jihad War, the United Nations, which had only partially recovered from the aftermath of the first war, imploded again. By the end of 68, the European nations had withdrawn a large proportion of their development aid contributions to UN agencies such as the IFSD. Thereafter, and during the war years, these same funds gravitated towards military and defence uses. However, with the darkening of the skies and the consequent humanitarian crises around the world, most rich countries began to restart modest national aid programmes. The European Union, though, wished to make a more obvious and visible contribution, at least until such a time as new agreements re-legitimised the UN agencies. Thus it was decided to set up REACH: a temporarily-constituted agency to use funds which might otherwise have been apportioned through the UN, 'for rapid assistance where urgently required in order to save lives'. Initially, and until the cease-fire was agreed, the funds were only to be allocated to projects in areas not affected by the military conflict.

But REACH was given a very tight mandate and an inconsequential budget. The British government donated office space near London Bridge, in Pickle Herring House. My main tasks were administrative, to get the agency functioning, to install procedures quickly and efficiently, to find the necessary staff (80 at its peak), and to ensure the available money was spent, and spent wisely. In a few cases, it was possible to employ people I respected and who had been made redundant by the IFSD. Furthermore, I enquired to see if there was any chance MarySue wanted to go back to work, but the war, the greyness and especially the death of Conrad had drained all the life out of her. I made the mistake of calling by camphone and was shocked to find her looking shrunken, and 20 years older than when I had last seen her.

Mostly, though, I needed to employ experts with experience of managing emergency aid, since I had so little myself. For my deputy, I took on Jean-Michele Olivier, a Belgian recommended by experts in Brussels. He proved to be a wiry, tense and surprisingly vain man. His mother, I learned over time, had been posted to the Belgian embassy in Tunis, where she had been seduced by the owner of her rented apartment. She thought the relationship would last, but, when it didn't, she returned with baby Jean-Michele to Brussels and married a civil servant colleague. When I first met him, Jean-Michele was about 40. He had spent most of his career working with various agencies, in every link of the aid chain, and most recently with Water Aid in Milan. He had divorced an Italian wife and was willing to return to Northern Europe. Being somewhat temperamental, he was easily upset and only worked well (and tirelessly) when he felt he was being appreciated. Some colleagues found him amusing, others intently irritating. Initially ­ I confess this freely ­ I wondered if I had made a huge mistake by accepting him on my staff. But the reverse was true: REACH never achieved a great deal, but what it did achieve was largely thanks to his know-how and ingenuity.

Jean-Michele had a real talent for being able to assess potential aid allocations, their realistic value in terms of human lives (both senses of the word), their viability, and potential problems. And, for the important challenges, the ones we believed in, he could imagine and conceive an efficient, often imaginative, pathway through from idea to implementation. When other staff, government liaison officials or enactor agency chiefs occasionally complained to me about his manner, I would sympathise lightly and expound on his abilities, as if he were an artist of some kind, to whom one needed to show tolerance. I recall my uncle Alan complaining in his letters about prima donna colleagues, and wishing they would all grow up. I don't mind, he used to admit, if they've got something real and tangible to give. Despite his waxed moustache, Jean-Michele had a lot to give, and his heart was in the right place. So long as his vanity was in tact, he would spend 24 hours a day if necessary on the shop floor, so to speak, tying up every last loose end to ensure a consignment of water, food, fuel, medicine or tents would make it through to the planned destination.

Lack of sufficient money aside, prioritising was our biggest headache. Each day we received informal and formal requests for funds. We had adequate procedures but this did not stop European governments trying to bypass the rules, or desperate developing countries pleading for more scraps from Europe's table, or members of our own staff being moved to tears by media reports of disasters-in-the-making and preparing own-initiative plans. I found it easiest, morally and practically, to stick rigorously to the selection rules we had established. Where this left equal choices ­ which often happened ­ I relied on Jean-Michele to advise and influence the selection committees.

Jean-Michele became a regular visitor to Taunton House, and would stay over from Saturday to Sunday (although never if Horace was expected ­ they only met once which was enough for them to establish an instant antipathy). Initially, Lizette had disliked his pompous demeanour, and, after his first visit, asked me not to invite him again. But I talked about him and his invaluable assistance so often that she grew curious enough to want to give him a second chance. As she warmed to the man, so he became more comfortable in our house and more interested in us and our lives, which in turn led us to appreciate his idiosyncratic company. He was a very handy man to have around the place, as comfortable with electrics and basic electronics as he was with carpentry. He often went out walking on his own, usually across the greensand heaths which remained attractively covered in heathers and bracken during the Grey Years. Jay, by then well and truly into teenagerhood, found him patronising and comical; but he too changed his opinion in time.

During the last of the lost summers, in 73, when he was 13, Jay suffered a severe bout of depression. We did not know whether this was a genuine SDD/CDD (seasonal/climate disorder depression) or not. He endured various tests, including those for melatonin and serotonin deficiencies, but the results were inconclusive. The medical establishment had not fully accepted SDD, with critics citing the ability of an individual to affect his or her own neurochemical levels by eating a good meal, sex, sport or watching a movie. In the media, sceptics called it 'scarce-dollar depression'. Lizette was a sceptic, believing that effort and work and activity was the way out of any depression, especially during the Grey Years when the whole population was chronically depressed. It's my belief, though, that she pressed him too hard on his school work, and then, when the doctor proposed he might have SDD, she became yet more demanding, driving him further into his own personal greyness. She may have been able to browbeat him to working more when he was younger, but as a teenager her efforts were counter-productive.

It was Jean-Michele who rescued Jay. He had heard Lizette moan about Jay's lethargy more than once, and he had remembered Jay talk idly of redecorating his bedroom. One weekend morning, he asked Jay to show him the attic room and to explain what he might wish to do with it. Then they sat down for several hours with paper and pencils and a ruler. By lunch-time, Jay was excitedly showing us a plan to refurbish the room with a custom-made stilted bed and desk space, a larger screen on one wall and Live wallpaper on another. Lizette was stunned by Jay's apparent change in mood, and when Jean-Michele promised that he and Jay would undertake the whole project together without any outside help she offered up no objection. For the next few months, Jean-Michele came once a month and worked busily with Jay the whole time he was here. In-between visits, Jay regularly emailed his new friend seeking advice on an interim task or putting forward new suggestions. Once the room was finished, Jay claimed it was the most stylish in the house, and possessed real 'Jay-space'. He went so far as to organise an opening ceremony, with a ribbon across the door frame, a bottle of wine, and a short speech thanking Jean-Michele for all his help. The Belgian, beaming from one edge of his moustache to the other, took a slight bow, and magically produced a party-sized Harkness Cylinder. When Jay flicked the coloured crystal apart with a finger, it released a spray of glitter, and a dazzle balloon playing one of Jay's favourite pop songs. Jean-Michele. There was a touch of the Harkness Cylinder about the man himself.

Jay's imagined or real SDD never returned. Unintentionally, the way events transpired, we were able to return the good deed. Despite his visits to Taunton House, we knew very little about Jean-Michele. I had never been to his apartment near Clapham Common, nor had he talked much about his private life. It was as if he did not have one. But there was a moment when his guard dropped. We were in the office, both tired and downhearted after failing to secure an increase in our budget allocation from the European Parliament. The other staff had left for the day, and Jean-Michele was moaning about the world in general, and REACH's impoverished budget in particular. Then suddenly, as if struck by a lightning existential crisis, he said it would all be easier to bear if he wasn't so lonely. I asked him what he meant, but he dismissed his own remark and my question as irrelevant. I relayed the comment to Lizette, and she suggested we invite Jean-Michele when other friends were visiting rather than when they were not. Of her friends, though, only Rhoda was single, and Lizette would not have wished Rhoda on her worst enemy.

In October 73, around the time of Lizette's 55th birthday, Pete and Clarity came to stay for a few days. Pete had retired by this time, and was keeping busy by writing course material. Clarity too had left the university and was working, mostly from home, as a researcher and presenter for the BBC's Kurdistan news network. Their visit was timed to follow on from a conference meeting Clarity was attending in London. At that conference, Clarity befriended a Russian woman called Raisa who worked as a translator for the BBC and others. At Clarity's request, we invited Raisa to join us all ­ including Jean-Michele ­ for lunch on the Sunday. By late afternoon, our two single guests appeared to have bonded, and it was no surprise when they then made the necessary calls to alter their pre-arranged rotor transport so as to travel back to London together. Thereafter, we saw far less of Jean-Michele. When I asked if we would see him at the weekend, he replied saying he was busy. When I asked if he was busy with Raisa, he made a flamboyant hand gesture as if to wave away my question. I could never pin him down, and he continued to keep mum about his personal affairs. It is only because Raisa stayed in touch with Clarity for a few months that we knew the two of them had fallen in love. That Christmas, and at Lizette's insistence, I urged Jean-Michele to bring Raisa to Taunton House but he declined politely.

If I am now focusing too much on the personal, it is because the only way any of us could cope with the mayhem across the world and all around us, was by turning inward, to our own families and friends, for solace.

***

Over 800 million people died between 70 and 75, from drought, starvation and disease mostly. It is estimated that a further billion died later, prematurely as a direct a consequence of the Toba eruption (many from lung cancers and other respiratory diseases caused by the polluted air). The gross national product of the world fell by one third, with much of it reverting to economic standards prevailing one hundred years earlier. Europe and North America suffered proportionately less than most other regions, at least in terms of physical human death and suffering, which is all that really mattered. Not to Gregory, though. He wrote about the psychological trauma of the rich Christian nations. He suggested there was 'a correctional downshift in expectations of seismic proportions'. Such downshifts are as inevitable as hills on a hike, he said ­ if I recall the oddly-reversed metaphor correctly ­ but it is better for an economy (or more accurately for the individuals within that economy) to walk up a steep hill for a short time (short-lived but very deep depression as with war and the Grey Years) and walk down a shallow hill over a long period (sustained growth) than the reverse (a long period of recession with a short boom).

As I say, Lizette and I coped reasonably well with the Grey Years. The same cannot be said for those afflicted with real or imagined acute SDD, Gregory's psychological downshift, or CDCB (circumstance-driven criminal behaviour) many of whom had to be to locked up for the safety of the rest of us. The British police force nearly doubled in size during the early 70s, absorbing men and women from the armed forces. The prisons, correctional institutions and cloisters for those with brain dysfunctions were all overcrowded; new ones were created in a hurry, often in unsuitable premises. Harriet, the mother of our two dead children, was sent to one of these temporary cloisters, and died there. I'm not sure why or how. She had married a second time. Her husband, from whom she had recently separated, tracked me down, and asked if I wanted to go to the funeral. I expressed my sorrow, and apologised for not being available.

If I shed no tears over Harriet, I did over Alfred. One day, in November 72, I received a warm and informative email from him. A few days later, before I had had a chance to reply, I received another email from his son, Fela, informing me that Alfred had died in a road accident in Zanzibar where he was living by then. A drugged-up gang of youths had stolen a service vehicle and taken a joy-ride; they killed seven pedestrians, including Alfred, before crashing. Since one of them had a gun, the police shot them all. I phoned Fela. This kind of thing is happening all the time, he said, especially on the east coast islands of Zanzibar, Pemba and Mafia where rich Africans like to retire. It was bad enough during the war years, he added, now it's anarchy. I told him what a great man Alfred was and how much I had loved him. I could hear Fela's voice, on the other end of the line, full of emotion, trying to tell me he wished he had not been such a stubborn child and listened to his father more when he was young. Fela had disappointed Alfred initially, that was true. He had rejected public service and sought material happiness; but, eventually, he had turned his early banking career to good use by going to work for the West African Development Bank, a benevolent institution set up during the Ojoru years. I told him each man has to find his own way, and that Alfred's pride in him had shone through in all the recent letters to me.

There was no question of me flying to Zanzibar for the funeral, given the cost of, and restrictions on, international movements, but I promised Fela I would take part by camphone if he opted to allow a private broadcast. He didn't; but the service was recorded and I did receive a camclip a few days later. There were only a dozen Zanzibar friends in attendance. It was a sad end which I do not wish to dwell on.

Instead, I prefer to see Alfred on the volleyball court, taking three long elegant strides towards the net, rising high into the air (so high that his fingertips could touch the gym roof cross-beams, so my imagination sees him) and swinging his arm to hit the ball gracefully yet so forcefully and accurately that the opposing team has no chance of a return. Or else, if I must see him as an older man, I recall the time in Munich when I handed him the trophy, his vigorous black face for a moment serious and then bursting into a smile full of humility and pride and warmth and friendship.

I said goodbye to other friends during the Grey Years. Matt Fortune died of a broken heart (in both senses) not long after his wife succumbed to a cancer. He left one son, Oliver, who has followed Matt's path into politics. MarySue, who like me had returned to England to retire, never fully recovered after the loss of her son. It is likely she was one of the victims of the government's policy on rationing of medical care for the aged. (Incidentally, my increasingly eccentric friend Horace was campaigning against his own party on the issue. He did this despite the fact that most sensible people across the political spectrum recognised the need for public service cutbacks in all but a few areas, such as law and order.) In distant St Petersburg, the cold dark weather sunk into Anna Mastepanov lungs, but not before she had written asking if I would carry on the regular donations to Alan's health clinic in Bangladesh. She made me promise I would go there once. I never did. But Jay has already taken over the responsibility from me. He will, I'm certain, make the trip there next year. (He has also promised me, I should add, to seek out a real or email address for Karel, Alan's adopted but estranged son, so as to send him a copy of this book.) And I lost the Turnbulls too, although in a different sense. They cashed in all their chips and emigrated to Australia, from where they sent me a couple of letters. Then we lost contact.

During the Grey Years, efforts to rehabilitate the United Nations and its constituent parts were doomed to fail. The world and all its nations were in double shock, recovering from the Second Jihad War and the mega global disaster caused by sustained low temperatures and light levels. Even the European Union, which despite more than a century of unsteady progress had remained the world's most successful example of regional integration, became unstable and threatened to fall apart at the seams. It may well have done if the skies had not begun to clear in 74.

The first time we saw the sun in nearly three years, Lizette's brother, Mercurio, was staying with us in Tilford. Once a year, he would leave his Notek community in Pembrokeshire and do a cycle tour of the south of England, passing by various family and friends. Jay adored his strange, long-haired scruffy-looking uncle, and anticipated his visits with mounting excitement. Lizette was more cautious, she looked forward to seeing him, but anticipated arguments, many of them stemming ­ this is my personal assessment ­ from her inability to accept his Notek way of life.

The Notek movement emerged during the 40s in North America then spread to northern Europe. Pop culture histories say the 30s was the decade in which individuals exploded with anger protesting for change, and the 40s was the decade when they began searching inward trying to cope with the hatred and violence they had seen in the 30s and with economic and technological stagnation. The world had appeared on the edge of a dangerous precipice in the mid-30s with the universal excesses of the First Tuesday Movement protests and riots; but it was in the 40s that the deeper and more consequential problems began to evolve, particularly with the intensity of religious activity, both alternative and mainstream, and cults of one form or another (the worst of which, of course, was the Pearly Way). But there were also many benign cults, including the Noteks, which flourished during the introspective 40s. The not very original name 'Notek' was coined by a Canadian news organisation to describe a group of art students at Vancouver University who were expelled because they refused to work with computer technology and submit their work electronically. They had been inspired by a Californian writer called Chuck Harris who argued that the insidious spread of electronics into every part of our lives had led individuals to feel they were no longer in control. If our cars, our plumbing, our lamps, our toys went wrong, he said, we used to be able to mend them, now we can't ­ there's a chip in everything, and who knows how to mend a chip. He railed against all aspects of life which involved electronics, but was particularly angry about, and opposed to, the way the electronification of the media and communications had created vacuous virtual communities at the expense of physical ones and 'human human relationships'.

Over three decades, many different types of Notek communities sprang up all over the world, not only inspired by Chuck Harris, but drawing on naturalist philosophies stemming back to Lovelock and Vernadsky in the 20th century. Many of them were small and relatively private, and most were benign. Those that tried to impose their alternative standards on others, did not last long. For some reason, perhaps because the British had a tendency towards cultism, Great Britain had ­ and obviously still does have ­ a flourishing Notek population. During the 60s and 70s, amid much anguish at local level, Noteks managed to buy into whole hamlets and then villages, and turn them into Notek communities. Old churches were converted into book libraries and meeting rooms, around which the communities revolved. In time, and not before a national election had been won and lost over the issue, the law found a way of dealing with these communities, allowing them to pay reduced taxes in return for reduced services. As the communities became more widely accepted, so they attracted some important intellectuals; and, there seems no doubt, the laudable Church of Moral Atheism originated within the Notek movement. More prosaically, among a basket of social innovations, we must thank Noteks for the Mildew ­ not that I can personally recommend the sinuously wild dance, having never tried it myself. Nowadays, it is not considered an easy life in one of these Notek villages, and some of them only survive through tourism, which is frowned on by the hardliners.

At this time, immediately after the Grey Years, in the mid-70s, there might have been half a million Noteks in Britain, but not all of them lived in communities, and the figures were inflated by those claiming support for Notek ideas but unwilling to give up their phones or screens. It was ironic that many people turned to the Notek philosophy during the Grey Years: while electronics had helped the world become far more resource-efficient than it had been in the 20th century, the sun ­ an icon of the power of nature for the Noteks ­ had disappeared. Although I argued at length with Mercurio about this, I was prepared to acknowledge the Noteks had some beneficial influence on our society. When Lizette joined in these friendly disputes, however she became exasperated at the childish way Mercurio refuted my arguments. He was able to rile her, in a way that her equally lightweight students at Guildford could not (or so she told me). As his older sister, she felt responsible for him in some way. Moreover, she was angry that he had two children, aged ten and four at this time, who she had not met in person. He had never invited us to Pembrokeshire, and he had certainly never cycled with them to Tilford. On top of these frustrations, she also worried ­ rightly and ultimately wrongly as it turned out ­ about his influence on Jay.

As the nearest being to a sun worshipper we knew, Mercurio was the right person for the occasion. Although we had no specific information about when the sun might break through, we'd been told the day was not far off. For months, there had been media reports of celebrations across the globe, and in recent weeks there had been a few in northern Europe. That particular morning there was a cold and very blustery wind, but it was breaking up the cloud cover and giving brief glimpses of clear sky. Mercurio wanted us to bike to nearby Waverley Abbey, a 12th century ruin and beauty spot. I protested against the venture, claiming my arthritic ankle was too painful to cycle, but both Lizette and Jay were so enthused by the idea and refused to go without me, that I finally agreed. It was only about three kilometres and the pain in my ankle was not that great, especially if I pilled-up and we rode slowly. I expected the place to be deserted, as it always was during winter and cold weather. But there were hundreds of families there, some with picnics, some with flexiscreen camphones and many with what appeared to be umbra-lighters. Jay, who was our only link with the day-to-day fashion and trends of the young, explained they were not umbra-lighters (which no-one would need in daylight), but new-fangled umbra-viewers, with transparent filter material specifically for looking safely at the sky and enhancing the cloud shapes and light densities. Jay managed to borrow one from a school-friend for a few minutes, so we all got a chance to see the essence of the sun behind the clouds. It was two hours, during which time the crowd numbers trebled, before the shy sun finally gave us a glint. It may have been shrouded in a heavy veil of haze but it was, most definitely, sunshine. We were all on our feet, some standing on the ruined Abbey walls, waving umbra-viewers and hats and scarves and shouting whoops of joy. Mercurio fell to his knees and gave thanks.

With the sunlight, hope returned. People everywhere began to rebuild their lives, their communities, their nations, and their international institutions. Evidently, I was most interested in the last of these. No-one doubted that the world needed a United Nations system, but what kind of system. Most citizens in the richer developed countries opposed the idea of sharing too much of their wealth through a bigger stronger United Nations (as they always had done), but their leaders recognised that a new world order could not go backwards from the best of what it had been before the First and Second Jihad Wars, and that it would have to compensate for the alarmingly uneven death toll of the previous five years. In 74, when the Islamic countries joined the preliminary conference on the future of the UN, they were still dominated by Al Zahir. His position had been weakened during the Grey Years, yet he had retained sufficient power to hold the IIBP together, and to present aggressive demands. That conference and subsequent ones disintegrated amid chaotic claims and confused counter-claims. The truth was plain to see: a quarter of the world insisted on doing business through Al Zahir, and the rest of the world, but especially the American and European allies, would not trust any commitment or offer he might make about the future. After all, he had started two world wars and annihilated half of Israel. In Russia and Europe, there were deep resentments over Kazakhstan and the Greek islands respectively. The Catholic world had been told by Pope Maria that Al Zahir was the third modern incarnation of the devil, after Stalin and Hitler.

How strange it is that the Israeli policeman, Noam Livnat, is as notorious as Al Zahir himself. The former killing only three men and himself, and the latter responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands (without calculating how many fewer people might have died in the Grey Years if five trillion euros and incalculable other resources had not gone up in smoke during the two wars). Historians agree that Al Zahir would eventually have been displaced within the IIBP, but that Livnat's revengeful deed accelerated the UN's rehabilitation by three or possibly five years. In the year after the assassination, the IIBP splintered into factions and this allowed less tainted, more acceptable Islamic leaders to present themselves at the international negotiating tables.

***

Yesterday, Chintz and I watched Flora's funeral on my screen. It didn't take place here, as mine will, but 250 kilometres away at a crematorium in Liverpool. There's a garden there with a family memorial containing the ashes of, among others, her mother, father and one son, the one that played cricket for England. Months ago, she showed me a picture of the stone vault, and expressed impish impatience at the time it was taking her to get there. The chapel room was full, and the traditional Christian service mercifully short. Flora was described as a woman who had lived a very full life, who carried joy around with her wherever she went, and who would be greatly missed by many grandchildren and great grandchildren.

'And by us,' Chintz added sadly. 'She was the life and soul of this place,' and then, thinking this might offend me, continued 'but you're the life and brains of this place ... and my movie master.'

I was far away, trying to imagine the scene at my own funeral a few months hence.

And this morning, as if telepathically understanding that I needed cheering up after yesterday, Tina arrived. She came alone, not wanting to wait until the late afternoon when Jay would be free. Previously I had only seen her in the flesh twice. Once in the 80s, when Lizette and I did a mini-tour of South America, and once about ten years ago when she spent a northern hemisphere summer travelling around Europe. Tall, sultry and sexy, Tina had inherited the looks of her grandmother Conceição and the charm of her father Arturo. I had warmed to her as a teenager and a young lady, but now I'm disappointed to find her copying too many of her father's superficial characteristics: swathes of make-up, gaudy clothing and an excess of jewellery. Her black hair, once shoulder-length and free, was tightly pinned together with a woven double chignon, and decorated with silver clasps. Also, I found her allure had become more deliberate with age, more sticky if that makes any sense ­ but maybe this is me being paranoid. It is impossible not to suspect that Jay's endeavours to encourage these doubly-distant relatives are succeeding only because they hope I might favour them in my will. (Jay knows most of what remains after my excess medical and hospice bills are paid will be his, although Tina, Inti and Maria will receive token endowments.)

Tina's English is adequate, nevertheless talking with her was tiring. She told me about life as a hairdresser in Belo Horizonte, where she lives with a boyfriend she met on a holiday in Rio, and about her aim to become a fully-qualified child nutritionist. She has been studying in night classes for three years and is about to take an exam which will, if she passes, qualify her to work in a health practice. She had little news she wanted to share about her brothers, or her mother Fatima. She became most animated when talking about samba. I knew she was a good dancer, and that this took up a lot of her spare time. But I did not know, until she told me, that she belongs to one of the premier samba groups in Belo Horizonte and is responsible for coordinating the headwear and hair design for the carnival parades. As with all samba groups, Tina said, hers is already preparing for the February 2100 carnival.

'I send you how to watch carnival here on the screen. I will wave for you.'

'How will I know it is you?'

'OK, I will send you picture first, of me, in costume, then you know it is me waving. I wave like this.' She waved, and giggled, and for a moment I saw Conceição.

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE

Guido Oostlander-Fenn to Kip Fenn
(freely translated from the Dutch original)

March 2069

After six months, it is still a struggle. We've had to put back the schedule for opening Teatro Sucre until September. Everything, and I mean everything, takes twice as long as expected. This week, finally, I've been able to meet with the upholsterers to finalise the material for the seating. This should have been done before Christmas, but Felix insisted we use a particular company, and for weeks they were too busy, and then Felix wanted to look over the samples but he was away, and then Felix ...

What I actually want to tell you, but I find it so embarrassing is that for three months ­ sorry if I haven't written since your birthday ­ Felix has been trying to seduce Mireille. Felix doesn't only adore the theatre, he wants drama around him, everywhere. He started quietly flirting with her and ­ well you know what she's like ­ she didn't take it seriously, just rebuffing him tactfully. Then he became more overt, which upset her, because she had to be more obviously resistant. At this point she told me, and said she could deal with it. But he carried on with direct invitations for a quiet dinner, or a weekend at his Salinas villa; and then, when she continued to refuse, he began applying pressure, saying we might have to move out of the house soon, or that the money for the theatre might run out. We needed to be flexible, he kept saying. I got so angry I wanted to return to France. But Mireille viewed it as no more than a difficulty, one of many we would have to face. I went to confront him, to tell him to leave Mireille alone ­ I felt so stupid. He laughed at me, and said he only wanted her once, to taste her once. And he asked me why it was such a problem. Didn't we trust each other? Hadn't we had sex with anyone else before? And then Mireille and I discussed it. We discussed her sleeping with him, one time. I mean it happens. You know it happens. You must know how it feels. (Sorry to be so direct. It makes it a lot easier knowing how happy you are with Lizette. I hope you don't mind.) But it was different with Mum, I suppose, because she wanted Karl. And then we (Mireille too) thought that, with half the world engaged in war, we were being so stupid, childish. We should have known from the beginning there would be a cost, that fairy godfathers don't exist. I bet you knew, I bet you thought Felix Montechristo sounded too good to be true. We did too, we just didn't want to acknowledge as much to each other.

I doubt I would be telling you this if Mireille had paid the price, or if we had decided to come back. But we made up our minds to fight, to let him evict us from our home, and to let him completely starve the project of funds before we gave in. He did neither. As soon as he realised Mireille would prefer to let the theatre fail than give in to his demands ­ not in the end for emotional reasons, but because she didn't appreciate being toyed with ­ he stopped his bullying. He laughed it all off as a game.

So, what I'm trying to say is that we've grown up a bit, but we're no less determined. If anything, we're as excited by the whole thing as before we came. We love the language, the country, the city and the people (I'll tell you about some of them another time).

Love to Lizette and Jay.

PS: Didier and Helene are coming for two weeks. They say they'll be visiting twice a year until we return! And Mireille's sister, Veronique ­ did I tell you she works now for a Swiss media firm making documentaries ­ has persuaded the company to let her make a low-budget info-flick about the Teatro Sucre project. She's coming soon too, and then again in September. If the film ever transpires, I'll send you a copy. In the meantime, here's two camclips, one of Mireille dealing with the carpenters, and another of me on our terrace thinking of less stressful days (evenings spent making cardboard cut outs for drama club, or Sundays aboard Ginquin).

August 2070

Back safely. Thanks for taking us to the airport yesterday. It was good to see you and Lizette and that scamp Jay, even if for such a short time. Didier's death was such a great shock to Mireille, I think the only way she can cope is to be extra busy again (shades of Helene), and we have so much to do here. Will write more in a few days. Take care.

May 2071

We've had to close the theatre. It was inevitable. There's no audience. Felix ­ bless him, apart from the odd flaw, we still love him ­ has run out of charity. And the government is passing emergency laws which would have shut us down anyway. I thought we might return to France or even England (from what you say), but Mireille wants to stay. The money from Didier's will has finally come through. After his death last year, two women with no connection to each other ­ I find this shocking ­ made a legal claim against the estate. One had a 15 year old girl, and the other a nine year old girl who they claimed were Didier's natural daughters. They both said Didier had been funding the girls' education. Helene hired the most expensive lawyers, and a couple of private detectives. In the end, though, once the DNA tests were forced through, the claims were dismissed. Half the money has gone to Helene, and a quarter each to Mireille and Veronique. I think the idea is that Helene will make provisions for Veronique's children and ours if we have any (!?!). Mireille wants to use the money (and the money from our flat in Paris which we've sold) to form a theatre group and go on the road, to travel round the country performing for free in villages and towns; and in Peru and Bolivia as well. If we live frugally and only employ a maximum of six players, we think we can do this for four or five years before the money runs out. Will the darkness last that long? We'll be dead by then, from exhaustion. Mireille believes it's our mission to take a 'rainbow of entertainment' wherever we can.

I hope all is well with you and Lizette, take care.

September 2074

Mireille is pregnant. I am allowed to tell you now. Five months. Inti, a boy, should be born in January, all being well. I wonder how many others around the world celebrated their first sight of the sun as we did!

Thanks so much for your letter, and your news.

We have stopped travelling ­ at last ­ and, while we're waiting for Quito to want its grand Teatro Sucre up and running again, we've started a community theatre to work with the psychological victims and the schools and the unemployed. We're hoping that within a year we can find a way of covering our costs. Helene's given up arguing for us to come back, and will be visiting as soon as she can. She may stay for a while and help with the finances.

When will you and Lizette come, and my little brother? He can't be so little any more. We would so love to see you. It has been a miserable time, and now it is possible to imagine the future again.

Take care.

April 2075

First we had Helene here for weeks and weeks and weeks, now we've got Mum worshipping at Inti's altar ­ and he's only three months old. I've attached several new camclips, more tomorrow.

Lots of love.

Take care.

Doug Turnbull to Kip Fenn

January 2070

We are here in Sydney. After some months of renting, we bought this place (see pics). We can scoot to the beach in ten minutes (Miriam is there now doing group exercises), or be at the grand old opera house in 50. The skies are blue, and the sun shines as if there were no tomorrow (I won't mention the flies). The views across the harbour are breathtaking.

Lucy may come and live out here too. She's split up with her man (a cellist ­ a tosspot) after ten years, and the doctors have lost control of the rheumatism in her shoulder. She can play well enough, in short spurts, for teaching purposes, but not for performance any more. Susannah is expecting again, her third. She and her husband are staying in New York. He's climbing up some media empire hierarchy. I don't suppose Miriam would have wanted to emigrate if they had remained in blighty. We see them once a year. Funny isn't it how you get lots of grandkids from one daughter and none from the other? How's your crew, Lizette and Jay, and Guido, and that strange man Arturo?

As soon as this damn war is over, we shall expect you for dinner ­ as usual!

PS: I heard from Jude Singleton the other day. Would you believe it? She's still working ­ must be in her 80s ­ acting as an advisor to a think tank on war damage and environmental recovery. Rather her than me.

October 2071

Glad to hear you're back in the saddle. Rather you than me. Wasn't the pet licensing authority in Pickle Herring House, or has it moved? Can't be many people taking on pets these days.

Miriam wants to go 'home', but we can't. It's all too complicated and expensive. Back home the cold and damp was normal most of the time, but here it's worse, it feels sharper for being so unnatural. The Aussies aren't coping very well. You'd think in such a big country with so few people we'd be able to avoid the food and energy rationing ... once they did battle with surfboards and cricket bats, now they fight in queues.

Nor are we coping well. Lucy's moved in, but she blames us for coming here in the first place. Miriam blames me for the same. Although it was her idea (seriously she thought the sun would make her young again).

I go out to the glasshouse to do battle with the aphids which multiply as fast as humans are dying across Asia.

Alfred Ajose to Kip Fenn

November 2072

The beaches on the east coast here in Zanzibar have seen turbulent times, but at low tide they are wide and white and flat. You can watch the old women collecting seaweed, but there are no tourists floating around in scuba gear, any more, no kids building castles, no glamourpusses, no urchins selling fizzes and wiches at extortionate prices. It is a melancholy place, like your beach resorts in winter ­ like all beaches everywhere now.

I was walking along the sands today thinking about many things, but much about you my old friend. Is it acceptable to call you 'old friend'? I feel old. Do you? All that volleyball has prematurely aged my bones, my joints ­ and for this I blame you. It would be unfair, though, to blame you for the cold, heavy weather which seems to make all aches, including the ones in the head, worse. How can anyone not feel old in these days.

What do you think when you hear the news? I listen (for I cannot watch) for hours on end, and then I go to the beach to feel the sand between my toes, which is the only thing that takes me out of the present and back to a time before there was a weight on my shoulders. What do you feel?

What do I feel, you ask? I am too impatient to wait for you to ask. There is pity and sorrow and anguish. But these are feelings I've had for most of my life. I've suffered with my fellow Nigerians, whether they've been suffering from disease, from crime, from famine or civil war. I've never stopped crying. Can I feel more now that millions are dying?

But I do feel more. Something different. Something terrible. And there is no-one to whom I can tell this but you.

I am filled with anger and resentment. I am bursting with it. Are you not?

You and I both have struggled our whole lives long, in different ways but with one aim, to combat inequality and make the world a fairer place. We have had two enemies, always two enemies, man himself and nature. But it felt like we were holding our own, if not making progress, and mitigating the worst of what man and nature could do to us.

And now this all. First man finds a way to wipe out every advance we ever made; and then nature spits in our face as if to remind us how petty our efforts have been, how pathetic they have always been.

But where is my anger to go? To whom shall I address my resentment? Should I turn towards Sango (the Yoruba god of thunder and lightning) before I die?

Meanwhile, I go to the beach and feel the cool sand beneath my toes ...

Fela is coming soon, for two weeks. He has business in Dar es Salaam and will travel here after. I was too harsh a father. I see it only now. And he repays me with a love and respect I do not deserve. He has become a good man, and kind. I wish him many sons, many sons and many daughters.

And to you old friend, I send my warmest greetings, wishing you and your family a peaceful and safe way through these dark years.

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Paul K. Lyons

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