By Ray Wilson
A bunch of white roses arrive.
The order was placed by an unknown person in America.
Each year there is one rose less—at that rate, the last white rose will arrive in the year 2020.
Dad parks the Panther combination up in a lay-by on the A31. It’s a blowy day in August, and there is heat in the air—the heat of a Sirocco saharan wind—and gritty particles cloud the windscreen.
“Let’s go, boys,” dad says, opening the sidecar door.
“You go with dad, boys. And have a look at the Rufus Stone. I am going to stretch my legs.” Mum hops off of the pillion seat.
We go galavanting off into the undergrowth , excited to explore the area around the Rufus Stone. Rich is Illya Kuryakin, and Steve is Napoleon Solo.
“Get him Napoleon,” cries Rich, playing Kuryakin. Don’t mind me,I will call bomber command before it’s too late. My brother Steve emerges from the bushes like a bat out of hell, plunging his head into my stomach and knocking me to the ground.”
“Well done, Napoleon.”
“Yeap, well done,” I said, brushing the dirt off my trousers.
“How far is Bridport from here, dad?”
“Not far to go, Ray. We are calling in at Clouds Hill on the way, so it should only take about an hour or so to get there, and then a bit further and we are there.” Dad revs the engine-mum is on the back, and us boys excitedly climb into the sidecar.
“Wilson redface,” Rich says, poking my brother Steve in the face. Steve had guessed that the word Rufus had something to do with having a red face.
There is a film that slips over my mind, eye-superimposing the events of 60 odd years ago. It’s currently April 2024, and these are just phantom images of what has been flitting across the present. The hound is sleeping in the sidecar as I change gear. My missus taps me on the shoulder, which invariably means that we need a pit stop. The memories of that day flood back as I navigate the winding roads, feeling the weight of time passing. The hound stirs in her sleep, a reminder of the present moment blending with the past.
The sun warms our skins; our normal roadside eatery was shut, so we continued on, stopping outside West Bay for a bite to eat.
We watch the world go by; our antennae twitch, and me and the hound listen intently. The missus is looking around the garden centre.
“There are too many of them around here—I love it here..but,” she drops her voice to a hoarse whisper, “conspiracy theorists.”
The other lady nods in agreement. Trump says that climate change doesn’t exist. I just can’t fathom what is going on in his head, can you?”
“Not much, I suspect,” she replies.
“Fair point,” she replies, laughing, “but Biden is too old and his second in command—whats her name?” Anyway, she is no good.”
“The climate has changed; it’s so different here in Bridport; it should be warmer this time of year; it’s too cold for those baby lambs.” The other lady shakes her head in dismay. “It’s worrying how some people in power can deny the reality right in front of them,” she says. “It’s not just the politicians; it’s everyone who needs to take action to protect our environment,” she adds, looking conspiratorial.
“Storm Nelson, wasn’t it causing all the chaos last week? That isn’t normal weather, is it?” They wander off towards the restaurant.
The government’s gaslighting projects are money well invested; they dim our skies and our minds. It has more to do with industrial geoengineering than with farting and belching animals, including humans. In the mid-1960s, a severe storm rolled into West Bay, and back then, as today, it wrought devastation. The Bridport News, April 4th 2024, reports a “shocking collapse captured” as tonnes of rock fell at West Bay on Good Friday. Climate change is a hot topic, but why is our government’s use of weather geoengineering not part of the conversation? Can they use the weather to control you, force you to obey, create a storm here and there, and destroy property, crops, and livestock? Chemicals sprayed into the clouds effecting our earth, food, our animals and us.
Operation Popeye, the now declassified and downplayed weather manipulation programme used as a weapon of war in Vietnam during the 1960s—I wonder what is possible now.
Weather manipulation has a long history, and its potential implications are concerning. The use of such technology for military purposes raises ethical questions that need to be addressed in the current climate change debate.
Another flickering film is running. A meeting at the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. AKA, the room in the Ship Inn above a noisy bar room. Mum and dad have popped down for a quick drink; my brothers and I are still enacting “scenes from the Man from UNCLE.”
“They intend to dominate the earth, degree by degree, mind by mind, country by country—doctors and scientists baffled as to the cause. Was it a sudden epidemic or an unknown virus?
“A blood catalyst that causes men to lose their minds and all sense of mental coordination.”
The door to the room opens.
“I thought I had better see how you boys are doing.”
Dad is smiling. “Do you know who England’s master spy is?”
We look at each other. Rich is about to blurt out some names.
“If I say Clouds Hill?” Dad suggests
“Lawrence of Arabia?” Rich pipes up.
“That’s him, T. E. Lawrence, aka T. E. Shaw.”
“He was a brilliant motorcyclist, wasn’t he, dad?” I ask. “But something happened, and he crashed.”
“The Brough Superior was a marvel of motorcycling engineering—up to 30 mph in first gear, 60 mph in second, and over 100 mph in third.”
“Some think Lawrence was murdered—there was a mysterious black car in the area—there is a colourful cast of suspects—the Germans because they feared that he was taking over the reorganisation of British defences.”
“The French, because of his anti French activities—Russian Bolsheviks fearing him as an arch spy of the world—the Arabs because of various British betrayals—and most likely of all his own government.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” we said in unison.
“Boys, the British Secret Service was worried that he might become a ‘blackshirt,’ but the government will do anything to avoid being seen for what they are—he had already embarrassed them once over faulty equipment and with Nancy Astor’s help brought it to the attention of the world. He had plans to build a printing press at Clouds Hill and publish his exposé, “The Mint.” ” “The British government would not hesitate to eliminate any threat to their reputation, especially from within their own ranks.”
“Did he really die, though, dad?” Steve asks.
“Maybe he’s still alive, living out his final days in Morocco—who knows—they shut down the newspapers, stopped the doctors and nurses talking, and Lawrence was apparently alive in the base hospital for several days. George Brough, the manufacturer, said that “he was unwilling to perjure himself.” He said that the motorcycle had traces of paint on it consistent with an impact with a black object.”
The room door opens. Warm air mixed with the smell of beer wafts into the room from the bar below. We fall silent as mum entered, glancing around the room with a knowing smile.
“It’s blowing a hooley out there. I got us a bag of chips for us all to share.”
“Come on, spill the beans. What are you lot up to?”
“If it’s about Moreton cemetery, I said that I didn’t want to waste my holiday going to visit cemeteries. That’s it, isn’t it?’
“No, I didn’t mention Lawrence’s grave, did I, boys?”
“He didn’t, mum,” Rich says.
“If you want to count how many white roses are placed on his grave, you can go on your own; me and the boys will be on the beach.”
It’s hot in the sun. I am soaking up the heat. The hound stirs, tugging excitedly on her lead.
“I got a small rose bush—it should fit on the sidecar rack. I thought your dad might like it; it’s a white one.” The Missus sits down beside me.
“Nancy Astor had an affinity with white roses—I am sure I read that somewhere.”
“Do you fancy something to eat?” she asks.
“You know what—how about a bag of chips for us to share?” I reply.
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