Lost and Found

Michael Tyquin

Description

"A war scarred veteran finds himself and saves another lost soul in the process."
Lost and Found is a story about the experiences of a traumatised Afghanistan army veteran Greg and an unexpected mentor in an older man, a former officer, the recently widowed Frank. Between them they come to grips with their own personal demons and together emerge if not unscarred then at peace with themselves and the world. The novel shows their developing, sometimes stormy relationship over 12 months. Thought helping the other to understand their trauma and grief Greg is restored and able to deal with his nightmares; while Frank has found a new friend and meaning in life.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris AU
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798369490303
• Langue: English

Extrait

Lost and Found
 
 
 
 
 
 
Michael Tyquin
 
 
Copyright © 2023 by Michael Tyquin.
 
ISBN:
Softcover
979-8-3694-9031-0

eBook
979-8-3694-9030-3
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 03/08/2023
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
AU TFN: 1 800 844 927 (Toll Free inside Australia)
AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)
www.Xlibris.com.au
851491
CONTENTS
Chapter 1     A Lone Wolf
Chapter 2     A Chance Meeting
Chapter 3     Home Again
Chapter 4     Three Steps Back
Chapter 5     New Challenges
Chapter 6     Truce
Chapter 7     Personal Space
Chapter 8     A Ghost from the Past
Postscript
Chapter 1
A Lone Wolf
The man was of middle height and slim build. He had married young but just as the couple was expecting their first child his wife was killed in a motor car accident. Despite the intervening time he still struggled with the loss. For he was a man of passion and no little romance, not that anyone meeting him for the first time would guess. His loss was deep and the search for distractions drove him into a military career. There he could forget and immerse himself in the often humdrum routine which went with such a calling.
Closer to seventy than he cared to admit Frank Garner was still an active man, although in shorts he sported baggy knees and a small paunch. A medical professional would perhaps detect a slight stoop but Frank held himself erect and when seated would constantly shift his meagre buttocks right into the angle of the chair to keep his posture. His was one of those faces that immediately struck one at first glance: swarthy dark eyes and a crop of thick closely cut grey hair above a stubby nose. Depending on his mood he was either clean shaven or sported a short beard. Few noticed the pale scar behind his left ear, the legacy of a bullet that almost claimed his life in the Middle East. This experience, together with the deaths of maters and appalling scenes of war crimes had left their mark − a deep and angry scar in his psyche.
He enjoyed wine and spirits and liked a good ‘booze-up’ but never drank to excess. However, there were nights when he had to wrestle with his demons − not always successfully. Consequently he could be moody. There would be times when struggling with his nightmares that he would sit bolt upright in bed breathing heavily. But more often than not his days were regulated by routine. Although he never shied away from novelty Frank didn’t need new things and, like his cat, he was pretty much a creature of habit. There were set days for mowing the lawn, chopping wood, shopping and for longer trips into the city. Every Friday night as if to mark the week’s passing he treated himself to a new concoction as he worked his way through an ancient cocktail book given to him last Christmas. He would toast himself, raise a glass to his cat then smack his lips or grimace, depending on the potion.
It was a dull overcast day as Frank walked briskly along the grey deserted beach. The wind and the heavy roll of the sea competed for his thoughts. Still a kilometre from his beachfront home, he rebuked himself for heading out on such a foul day − and with the black dog on him too. Frank was no longer young and no longer a dreamer. He had been an army officer in a world that seemed to be of a different time. He was too much of the loner now and the wanderer in him had long since withered. That said he had seen much of the world hitching around the less accessible parts of the globe in his youth and later, to other countries on army deployment. He had also seen some horrific sights during his army service. Some these continued to haunt him and it was not unusual for him to wake in a lather of sweat after some ghastly nightmare. Frank’s GP had prescribed several drugs for him and while Frank occasionally tossed a few down with a drink he had no faith in their efficacy.
He stooped to pick up a coloured pebble polished to a high sheen by the action of waves pounding the beach. As he did so the sky suddenly came alive as streaks of white lightning speared into the horizon. Frank decided to turn for home and quickened his stride. A soft rain began to fall just as he reached the house. Kicking off his sandy boots he padded along the veranda. Inside his only companion, Felix, a sleek raven black cat, remained coiled before the open fireplace, the slightest flicker of an eyelid registering his master’s return. The flames gave off a comforting glow as Frank made himself a pot of tea. Then, pulling up his arm chair he sat down, stroked the cat and sipped his tea. He was unsettled. He looked at the pile of unread books on the table then at a box of watercolours on the easel set up in the corner of the room. Neither pursuit held any attraction for him today. He put the mug to his lips and gazed outside at the foaming seascape while the fire crackled and the grey light faded into evening.
He woke with a start. Felix gave him a fixed stare before taking up his customary position near his food dish. The fire had burned down to a pile of glowing embers so he threw on a few logs and stood up. His limbs felt heavy, his mind dull. He wondered what meagre offerings the television might have in store for this evening. Felix meowed.
‘Yes alright, cat food. I know.’
And so it was that another day passed for this old soldier. His was a world of routine and simple pleasures and, but not today, delighting in the simple joys of nature.
The morning was a picture postcard one: a clear sky, a sun full of promise and a soft breeze. Through the tea trees a calm, sparkling sea of azure blue met his gaze. After feeding the cat he took his customary hour’s walk along the beach before pottering in the garden until lunch. If it was a Monday or Friday he would walk or drive into town to collect the mail and buy groceries. Most afternoons were spent reading or replying to emails. He had kept contact with serving and retired army mates and these, together with his neighbours, his siblings and a few schoolmates formed the rest of his social world. But for the most part he led the life of a semi-recluse, one that was self-contained and largely self sufficient
It was late morning on a Monday when Frank went to buy groceries. He nodded to a few acquaintances and ran his eye over the community noticeboard outside the milk bar. Before driving home he treated himself to a coffee and a Danish slice at one of the two cafes in the village. It was his favourite haunt although he avoided it during the tourist season as it fairly throbbed with crowds wanting to test its reputation for fine pastries. But he particularly liked to chat with Odette, a young French woman who worked there. She was one of a dozen or so of her countrymen who found regular work locally, grape picking and so on which kept them busy for a few months each year before they moved on or returned to la belle France.
Odette had occasionally taken it upon herself to dropping in unannounced at Frank’s house as it sat beside a track which led from the beach to the main road. The path separated his house from an isolated bnb shack set into a hill that rose up sharply from the beach in a mass of emerald and turquoise eucalypts and banksias. Below, the cottage was surrounded by Hakkea which in the spring burst out in a show of brilliant vermillion spikes. While the place received its fair share of holiday makers in season, the smoke of their barbeques and party music wafting over to Frank’s place; but now it sat still and lonely.
The first time she ‘dropped in’ she had knocked on the back door when Frank was in the shower. He called out ‘Wait!’ and appeared clad in a towel a minute later. Disguising his embarrassment at this unexpected event he simply said ‘Bonjour’ before making excuses while she smiled benignly from behind a huge pair a sunglasses, her breasts moving easily under a stylish if some garish swimsuit. A few short minutes more saw them seated on the veranda sipping coffee. They chatted and then as suddenly as she had arrived she thanked him and left, turning once to wave extravagantly.
In the summer months they had sat over their coffee on the Jasmine-scented veranda from where they could look out over the stretch of cerulean water within bowling distance of the house. Odette hailed from the village of Malesherbois in verdant Normandy − or at least that’s what she claimed and he had no reason to disbelieve her. Frank was content to let her talk, nodded at her previous occupations; smiled through her accounts of love, real, unrequited or whatever took her fancy. He eyed her delicate, perfectly formed fingers which she wrapped around one of Frank’s more presentable coffee mugs.
Occasionally the Daphne-scented breeze caught a wisp of auburn hair and settled it on her brow. With the habit of a lifetime she would absent-mindedly brush