Seumas McKinnon has just retired from an advertising job in Melbourne. He would be free to leave Australia, as a widower with no attachments-except for his son, Alasdair, a successful lawyer. Although they're grown men, Seumas and Alasdair share a stro

The Knights Came Riding

By Jim Nicolson

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Jim Nicolson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3802-9

Chapter One

Boredom and dissatisfaction with his job and lifestyle had been steadily building for months. And the moment that this particular client rejected the advertising agency's proposed advertising campaign was the moment that Seumas McKinnon's unrest and dissatisfaction peaked. It was also the moment when he decided, unequivocally, to give up copywriting and the whole business of advertising; though momentarily, he wondered if, yet again, he was running away.

He and his art director and business partner, Libby Byrne, had worked frantically for two months to prepare the entire creative package. Included were TV and radio scripts, copy for magazine advertisements, and, of course, storyboards and visuals. Not to mention carefully written creative strategies as well as detailed quotes for all creative work, plus production.

"I'm sorry, but I can't buy it," the client's product manager had emphasized with a shake of his head while carefully avoiding their eyes.

Seumas quickly looked at the other faces seated around the agency's matte-varnished, Tasmanian oak boardroom table. Libby's blue eyes, framed by her unruly mass of ginger hair, couldn't hide their mixture of annoyance and disappointment, while the three agency suits, namely account manager, media director, and account director, were all looking suitably concerned.

Seumas returned his attention to John Smith, the late-twenties, pinstripe-suited product manager. Clearly, it was inexperience that had prevented the young man from giving himself room to move. Therefore, it made sense, Seumas decided, to try to save as much of the campaign as was possible, rather than enthusiastically run through its merits once more.

"It would be helpful, John," he suggested easily, "if you could identify those parts that you don't like. Then we can rework them before making the final presentation to you and your marketing manager."

"There's nothing I can put my finger on, Seumas," John Smith defensively said. "It's just that this campaign doesn't grab me."

"But it does meet all your advertising objectives, doesn't it?" Libby pointed out quite sharply.

"Of course. But like I said, the campaign doesn't grab me."

Seumas smiled warmly at the young man. "It would help us," he said, "if you could verbalize just why the campaign doesn't grab you."

Seumas immediately saw that John Smith was feeling trapped when he looked helplessly at his account manager for support, who, in turn, looked at his account director.

"I tell you what," the account director quickly suggested, "why don't we all take a day or so to think things over? Then we'll get together again and decide where we go from there. Okay?"

"Suits me," John Smith said, looking relieved. He quickly rose from his chair.

After he'd left the room, Seumas addressed the three seated suits. "Look," he said, "it's up to you guys to save as much of this creative as you can, because we all know there's nothing wrong with it. In the meantime, maybe you should get another creative team to come up with a different approach?" He turned to Tim Jones, the account director. "That's unless you can have a quiet word in the marketing manager's ear, Tim? You know, sort of tell him, over lunch, his clueless product manager is hell-bent on torpedoing a creative platform that's got bloody years of mileage in it and could win this product another 4 or 5 per cent of market share."

"Are you sure about that, Seu?"

"Isn't that what the research suggests?"

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Seumas turned to Libby with a grin. She couldn't work out why he was looking so happy and regarded him questioningly.

"Let's go, Lib," he said. "And if you're interested, I'm offering to buy you lunch at The Olive Tree."

"God," she groaned, "it'll be more wake than lunch, the way all our stuff lead ballooned."

"Nonsense," he cheerfully said. "It didn't go over like a lead balloon. It just went right over the silly young prick's head. That's what really happened."

"Yeah?"

"Besides, I have great faith in Tim's powers of subtle persuasion."

"Is that so?" Tim rejoined with raised eyebrows. "Okay, see you guys later."

"See you, fellers," Seumas said. "And see you at The Olive Tree, Lib."

* * *

Seumas thought about his relationship with Libby while driving to The Olive Tree. It'd been a successful, working relationship and had lasted some twenty-eight years. He grinned to himself. Anyway, he rationalized, occasionally tumbling into bed with Libby hardly constituted an affair. Besides, it'd mostly occurred following the very long and ecstatic celebratory lunches, in which they'd indulged after having won yet another large and very financially rewarding creative pitch.

He was very aware that Libby was comfortably married to solid, easygoing Darren and that she appreciated that he was a devoted single parent. But what he'd never told her was that he still couldn't come to terms with the fact that he'd lost both of his wives while both were still in their twenties.

Now as he navigated his immaculately restored, dark-green 1967 E-Type Jaguar through lunchtime traffic, he couldn't help wondering if those afternoons that he and Libby had spent in bed were her way of binding him closer to her. But he'd never told her that, long ago, he'd come to the conclusion that he had to be cursed as far as marriage was concerned. He grimaced involuntarily. Yes, he angrily remembered, first that sod of a grim reaper had engineered the clot on her lung that had claimed his beloved Narelle, and on the day that she'd given birth too. Then that same rotten bastard had heartlessly returned to grab his second wife. Of course, it had to be that stinking reaper who'd forced lovely, sweet-faced Kath to swerve wildly, at speed, in order to avoid the cow, which had been standing in the middle of a dirt road. She'd lost control and had slammed into a roadside tree.

After all these years, he still felt emotional as he recalled that Kath, his fiercely loyal, mixed-descent lady, had been killed instantly, as had his stepson, little Winston, as well as Paul and James, the twins that he and Narelle had adopted. And the only reason that Alasdair hadn't been in the car was that Kath had sensibly left him at home because he'd contracted a nasty dose of croup. And for the umpteenth time, Seumas cursed the fact that Australia's tropical and sparsely populated Northern Territory had always been a land without fences.

Then just as he'd fled Sydney, after Narelle's death, so too he'd fled the Northern Territory with Alasdair, following the funeral for Kath, young Winston, and James and Paul. It'd been raining that day, and he'd thought, whilst shaking with grief, that even the sky couldn't stop crying.

Of course, he reminded himself, there was no way that he could've returned to Sydney. It contained too many ghosts. Instead, he had taken his six-year-old son to Melbourne and had settled down to being a single parent.

He'd felt comfortable in Melbourne, well-nigh upon arrival. And he'd soon discovered that Melbourne's most desirable dwellings were those that'd been built along the eastern and western shorelines of its massive Port Phillip Bay, which had a surface area of some 745 square miles. Accordingly, he'd promptly bought a three-bedroom flat that overlooked the beach at bay side St Kilda. And he'd soon discovered that Port Phillip Bay was a magnet for all manner of boating enthusiasts—recreational as well as professional fishermen, beachgoers and swimmers—particularly little children, because being a bay with a narrow entrance, it meant that only harmless wavelets washed up against its pristine, sandy beaches.

He and Libby, he now recalled, had met after he'd answered her advertisement in the advertising industry's fortnightly broadsheet. She was seeking a compatible copywriter with whom she could form a freelance creative team. And Seumas, who'd been a successful marketing manager before fleeing to the Northern Territory had always fancied himself as a copywriter. Besides, being freelance would mean having flexible working hours, which is exactly what a sole parent needed.

Right from the start, they'd hit it off. She'd soon realized that he was very good at selling their services to agency creative directors, and before long, overflow work from a number of advertising agencies had started to come their way. And that had quickly developed into ongoing work, which had included retail as well as a range of brands, from food to financial services.

* * *

As luck would have it, a car ahead of Seumas pulled out of a two-hour parking meter just as he arrived. He breathed a sigh of relief and quickly parked the Jaguar. And as he walked towards The Olive Tree, he couldn't help hoping that some warped lowlife wouldn't jump on his E-Type's highly visible, upward-curving, twin tail pipes and rip them from their fittings, as had happened on the last occasion that he and Libby had lunched at The Olive Tree.

Libby was already seated with an open bottle of red wine before her at a table for two. She started to smile triumphantly as he made his way towards her, past tables that were crowded with business-suited diners.

"I always knew that decrepit, old Jag of yours wasn't a match for my Alfa," she chortled.

"God, you're a competitive female," he replied with a grin. "And I trust you've left plenty of wine in that bottle, which just happens to contain one of my favourite reds."

"Heavens, why do you think I ordered it?"

"Because you're a very thoughtful lady. But I don't think you're going to be thrilled with what I'm about to tell you."

"No?"

They stopped talking and looked up when one of the dark-haired, young, Italian-origin waiters stopped at their table, pad and pen poised, to take their order. They both ordered the Chicken Parmigiana plus a side salad with Italian dressing.

"Now what is it you want to tell me?" she asked when their waiter had left.

"Lib, my love." He sighed. "I've decided I need a permanent break from all product and marketing managers who don't know what the hell they're talking about."

"You're talking about retiring, aren't you?" she said with a small frown.

"Yes, I am."

She frowned again. "I think I saw it coming." Then she reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. "But we'll still see each other, won't we, dear?"

"Of course." He grinned. "Heavens, I don't have anyone else to deflate me when I'm being pompous, do I?"

"Come to think of it, I've always been quite good at deflating you, haven't I?"

"Like I always say, women have much smuttier minds than men."

She reached for her wine, took a decent mouthful, and then started to grin. "God," she exclaimed, "haven't we made some money over the years?"

"Yes. And I reckon 99 per cent of damn clients just don't have the slightest clue that creative and production costs can be loaded by up to 40-plus per cent." He shook his head. "Not bad when the actual cost of a reasonable thirty-second TV commercial, from go to whoa, can easily be 180 grand."

"Well, it's meant that neither of us will retire poor."

"Definitely."

Their waiter arrived, placed their Chicken Parmigiana in front of them, smiled, and said, "Enjoy."

"Um, looks delicious," Seumas remarked.

"And tell me," Libby said, her fork of Parmigiana temporarily held in midair. "What does Alasdair think about his father retiring?"

"I'm not looking forward to telling him."

She shook her head, apparently perplexed. "How you ever managed to sire such a striking-looking young man is totally beyond me."

"It's the blond hair and green eyes. And God alone knows where they came from."

"He really has the most amazing eyes."

"Mm."

"I've never asked you before, but Alasdair is quite an unusual way to spell Alistair, isn't it?"

"It was my maternal grandfather's name. It's Scottish Gaelic for Alexander."

"Oh."

"His mother thought about calling him Seumas." He made a face. "But I thought, no way. Hell, that's one cross he'll never have to bear because every time anyone sees my name, in writing, they always pronounce it `Suemas' instead of `Shaymus.'"

"Well, that's what I did when we first met," she said with a grin. "And I'll never know why I bothered to team up with you, when you had no experience."

"It's because you're a nice lady."

"Actually," she said with a despairing sniff, "you were the only person who answered my ad."

"You've never told me that before. In fact, at the time, you said you'd had a heap of replies."

"God, I must've been a lying bitch in those days. Anyway you haven't told me what you're going to do in your retirement."

He couldn't admit that a very important reason for going overseas was to put distance between himself and his son so that, emotionally, both of them would be forced to stand on their own two feet. And it had to be real distance. Otherwise, it'd be too easy for one or the other to regress. And it was more than likely that he could be the one who regressed. Hell, he loved his son so very much. But for chrissake, he thought, it just isn't natural for a thirty-four-year-old son, who has his own flat, to have dinner at his father's place three times a week and then always sleep over in his unchanged boyhood bedroom.

Or to hear him say that he'd had enough of female chitchat and wanted to spend a few days riding the High Plains with his dad, because his dad was the only person who truly understood him.

Also, for a long time he'd been determined to trace his roots, which meant that he'd be killing two birds with one stone.

"Well?" he heard Libby say.

"Sorry, Lib. I was daydreaming." He offered a slow smile. "I'm going to trace my roots. That's important to me."

"Yes?"

"My mother came from Scotland's legendary and bilingual Isle of Skye, so I'm going to have a good look at that."

"And your father?"

"He's not worth talking about."

"I see. And what'll you do when you come back here?" she said, quickly changing the subject.

"I think I'll buy a small farm in Gippsland that's about an hour's drive from Melbourne and grow beef cattle for a hobby."

"You'll be bored stiff," she said and laughed. "Cattle are woeful conversationalists."

"Maybe so. But at least they don't go around mugging old ladies or injecting shit into their veins."

"Anyway the bush wouldn't work for me because I'm scared of cattle," she admitted brightly. "Horses too, come to think of it."

"Well, come and visit me when I'm settled, Lib. I'll find you a cute little calf to stroke."

She looked at him questioningly. "But calves don't bite, do they?"

"Damn, city female."

"What do you mean?"

"Cattle aren't like horses, which crop grass with their top and bottom incisors. Cattle use their strong tongues to break off grass because they haven't got top incisors. So a calf'd probably just suck your hand to death."

"Ooh, I might like that."

"For chrissake."

"Should we order another bottle of wine?"

"Now that could be a dangerous thing to do."

"That's why I think we should do it."

* * *

At around ten that night, the intercom in Seumas's flat unexpectedly buzzed. He took his time answering it. It was Alasdair.

"Just passing, Dad. You still up?"

"Of course. I'm not that old!"

"Are you going to invite me in for a coffee, or are we just going to keep chatting on the intercom?"

"Well, don't just stand there," Seumas said as he pressed his intercom button to open the downstairs security door and then opened his front door. He waited for Alasdair to run up the stairs and greeted him with a warm hug. "Good to see you, Son. It's thoughtful of you to drop in."

"Just thought I'd check on how the old man is, seeing as you're the only father I've got."

Seumas held his son at arms' length and considered him. Libby's right, he thought, Alasdair is impossibly good-looking. And not only is he good-looking but he's also highly intelligent and at thirty-four, so I've been told, he's already regarded by Melbourne's legal fraternity as one of its luminaries. No wonder I'm so damn proud of him.

"And how's the fifth biggest law firm in the whole world?" Seumas asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

"It's now the fourth biggest multinational, Dad. And I'm being kept more than busy."

"Is that so? Well, come and sit down. The coffee won't be a minute."

Seumas quickly brewed a couple of mugs of coffee. Alasdair had drawn the lounge room curtains, opened the door leading onto the balcony, and was taking in the night view offered by a well-lit St Kilda pier and, also, all the moonlit boats and yachts that were gently rocking, at anchor, behind the solid breakwater. The fresh salt smell wafting in from the incoming tide was managing to cancel out the stinking exhaust fumes of the passing traffic beneath them.

And that's another reason, Seumas thought, why I need to escape from the city. Because, more and more, I'm missing all those fresh bush smells that I used to know, as well as its sounds, like the raucous cackling of kookaburras, the melodious tolling of bellbirds, and those damn wailing screeches made by Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos. Not to mention watching wombats, possums, or a little Sugar Glider whilst it's in midair and gliding some eighty yards from tree to tree.

He glanced at his son, now seated in one of the balcony's deck chairs, and he couldn't help wondering why he still showed no signs of wanting to get married and settle down. Then for a moment he worried, again, about whether the role model that he'd provided as a single parent, who'd never had an ongoing relationship, could be one reason why Alasdair only had short-term relationships.

Now Alasdair's voice intruded upon his thoughts. "You're very quiet, Dad."

"I've been thinking about how to tell you I'm now officially retired."

"Jesus! You'll be bloody bored!" exclaimed a shocked Alasdair.

"No, I won't. I have plans."

"Oh, yes?"

"First up, I thought I'd spend time on the Scottish Inner Hebridean Island where your grandmother was born. You see, I'd really like to trace my roots and also find out what her people are like."

"And what about me?"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Knights Came Ridingby Jim Nicolson Copyright © 2012 by Jim Nicolson. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.