I
was introduced to the Thatcham Writers Group as a new member on 24 March
2003. I met five members of
the group in the pub that evening.
The writing task set for ‘homework’ was to write a
“profile” of a member of the group, picked at random.
I got Phil. I
wasn’t sure what was meant by “profile” and, as I knew nothing
about Phil other than what I gleaned that evening, I decided to write a
fantasy piece inspired by him.
Inspired
by Phil:
I
should have committed Phil to paper there and then.
But I didn’t. As I
sit down now to write about him, all that is left are some notes and a
vague memory of liquid eyes.
So
now I have to reconstruct a “character” from those faint whiffs of
comprehension, already three weeks old – and beginning to smell that
way.
This
sounds like a two-bit American detective story.
You know the type. Framed
ex-federal agent turns private dick, beats the rap and gets the broad.
But
maybe that’s the way Phil came over to me.
The bitten fingernails, the denim outfit, the moustache, the
cigar behind the ear, the deep and compelling voice.
These subtle pointers – especially now, as I recapture them in
this Dashiel Hammet (as it has turned out) moment – have begun to
assume a life of their own.
In
my mind now, Phil is a gumshoe in one of those downtown dingy 1940s Los
Angeles offices (definitely black and white) where the telephone rings
with that long, insistent tone ….
brinng … and again
…. brinng ….
“Hi!
Phil Smith here, Social Services, Thatcham.”
Inspired
by Anita:
That
morning, Anita made their king sized bed as usual.
She fluffed up the pink-covered duvet, patted the heart-shaped
scatter cushions into their accustomed positions and, against the
headboard, arranged the orderly row of teddy bears.
She addressed a few stern words to them, as she often did when
she was alone in the house, and closed the door with a hint of a smile
playing at the corners of her little pink mouth.
Anita’s wholesome appearance sometimes belied the mischievous
thoughts in her head.
She
liked it when the house was in apple pie order.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the breakfast dishes rattled gently in
the dishwasher and a load of laundry churned comfortingly in the washing
machine. The bay wasn’t
due to be fed for at least an hour.
She had some precious time to herself.
She
sat down at her computer in the dining room and called up the folder
labeled “ Teddy Bears’ Adventure”.
Flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair back from her face and
pushing her glasses further up her diminutive nose, she debated, not for
the first time where, exactly, to put that apostrophe.
As she reviewed the last few pages she had written, she heard a
dull thud from upstairs. She
pulled her pink cardigan a little tighter around her.
There had been some unaccustomed noises in the house lately.
She’d better investigate.
She knew the baby was safe asleep in his cot, but all the same
…
All
was as it should be in the baby’s room.
The mobiles twirled gently above her sleeping child’s head.
A shaft of early morning sun shone on the nursery mural on the
side wall.
She
went into their bedroom. At
first glance, everything was just as she had left it.
But as she looked closer at the teddies, she realized that they
had somehow rearranged themselves.
The boy teddies were lying at rakish angles on top of the girl
teddies and their little shiny glass-button eyes seemed to be leering
sideways at her. A girl
teddy who was lying on the floor – no doubt the cause of the thud –
gave her a suggestive wink.
“OK,
you lot, just cool it”, she hissed, giving them a steely glare.
Just because I’m writing a book about adventuresome teddies,
don’t think you can muscle in on the act.
You just stay where I bloody well put you each day, and like
it!”
I
then decided to try to write a fantasy about each of the other four
members of the group.
Inspired
by Geoff:
“Geoff!
Geoff! For goodness
sake leave whatever you’re faffing about with up there and come down
and join us”, called Marjorie up the stair well.
Geoff
sighed and, having saved everything under the code name “Household
Accounts”, where fluffy Marjorie would never in a million years be
tempted to look, reluctantly closed down the computer.
He was pleased with the way his latest detective novel was going,
particularly the rewarding research he had done into the twisted and
unpredictable psychology of “outsider”.
Downstairs,
the “drinkie-poos” party, as Marjorie called it, was in full swing.
Through the half-open door he could see the local GP and their
prospective female Lib Dem candidate jiving to Buddy Holly and
“That’ll Be The Day”. Their
friend Roddy, the bibulous antique dealer, was deep in conversation
about Indian erotica, as ever, with Rosie, who specialized in colourful
batiks. A group of four or
five people whom he vaguely recognized were playing some kind of drunken
“truth” game, while Marjorie bustled among them all, offering olives
stuffed with anchovies and Parma ham wrapped around fresh, young
asparagus spears. It was
all so middle class, so grindingly familiar, so … predictable.
He much preferred the disturbing events of that other, darker
world he inhabited when he was immersed in his writing.
Geoff
prepared himself for the transition.
He ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair, meticulously
adjusted the precise length of the turn-back of his cuff and lit up a
small, expensive cheroot. Adopting the relaxed and urbane manner that he normally
presented to the world, he stepped into the room.
“About
bloody time too”, brayed Arnie, the doctor, red in the face from his
exertions. “Where have
you been all evening, old boy, missing all the fun?
“Oh,
you know. Busy with my book. It’s
set in the 1930s. In fact,
I’ve just been doing some fascinating research in to cocktails. You wouldn’t believe some of the recipes and some of the
names.”
“Go
on, then”, challenged Roddy. “Make
us up a little number to keep us in party mode. You must have all the
stuff you need in Marjorie’s well-stocked kitchen.
And then, there’s the herb garden.”
From
the kitchen, Geoff walked out through the open door into the delicious
damp stillness of the kitchen garden.
It had rained recently and looked with faint disgust at the slugs
silently stuffing themselves on the luxuriant vegetation.
He felt a spiteful little wave of gratuitous rebellion rise
within him.
Selecting
with care bottles from the dresser, he put into the electric liquidizer
generous measure of brandy, vodka and grenadine to which he added an egg
yolk, a couple of green olives and a slurry of half-melted ice-cubes.
He poured the cocktails into individual frosted glasses, added a
sprig of mint, and placed them on a rather imposing silver tray. As a final touch, he flung a tea towel theatrically over his
arm.
“Hey,
that tastes great!”, “That’s
certainly got a kick”, “It’s a bit different”, were the comments
as the guests drained their glasses.
“Yeah”,
smiled Geoff, It’s an American cocktail called “Have a Slug, Pal.”
That
evening of the 28 April, fortified by several glasses of wine, I carried
on with my mission to write a fantasy about each member of the group.
Oh dear.
Inspired
by Di:
So.
Di is the driving force behind this writing group. She’s
outrageous. She challenges. She
dares to speak what we might only quietly write.
What
story can I weave about Di? Di … Di … Never say die.
Die laughing. Die-hard.
Strange, how many of these expressions seem appropriate for Di.
Hmmm. Straight (?)
as a die. The die is cast
… in a play perhaps. Here’s
a starting point!
In
the following excerpt from a fantasy playlet, inspired by the bard
himself, Di is cast as the rather petulant female lead, dressed up as a
man.
“For
sooth, my Lord. How much
fuckin’ longer must I wear these itchy yellow tights and go lumbering
round like a bloke?”
Di
was addressing Crispin, the avant-garde director their Amateur Dramatics
group had recruited from the Edinburgh fringe festival for this one-off
production.
“Just
go with the part, lovey. Remember,
you are Violata, (now disguised as an Athenian youth), once beloved of
Colander, who was turned into an armadillo by the wicked Marziban in
order to avenge the death of Preposterous.”
“OK.
OK. But can I get
the fuckin’ tights off now?”
“Um.
The yellow woolly tights are an integral part of authentic
Shakespeare. You can only
take them off when you become transmogrified in to a full-skirted
happy-ever-after ending with triumphal wedding feast.”
“But
what if the armadillo were to get lucky in love instead of me?”
“Um.
That would certainly change things – and I certainly don’t
discount the idea. Um. We could have the armadillo nuptials as an alternative, I
suppose. Of course, we’d
need a few geckos in embroidered waistcoats as attendants at the wedding
feast. But I would still insist upon the yellow woolly tights. Um. How many
legs do armadillos and geckos have?”
Di
woke up from her bizarre dream (wot a cop out!) and was relieved to find
that her nose rings were in place and her legs free of itchy yellow
tights. She felt the need
for a deep drag on a Benson and Hedges. She pondered aloud on her dream for a moment.
“Actually, I can see that that bony Crispin does look a bit
like an armadillo with that long nose of his.
But wherever did the yellow tights come from?
Anyway, I’m never going to that fuckin’ stupid Am Dram group
again.
Inspired
by Mark:
Mark
knew that he was tiring now. The
last mile or so had been punishing – a long, hard uphill drag which
had seemed to go on forever, and now an ever steepening final incline
with a hairpin bend every few hundred yards.
He was pushing 45 and this was probably the last time he would
enter the Veterans Tour de France. His weight counted against him and though he had all the
stamina in the world, it was not always enough, these days, to see him
through.
He
was grateful for the gentle breeze that had just sprung up and for the
light drizzle which accompanied it.
It cooled his sweat and dust-stained face, fixed for so long now
into a grimace of pain in this, the last leg of his last race.
“Just
let me get into the final ten at least”, he prayed silently.
He needed some kind of mantra, something to occupy his mind,
something that would isolate him mentally from the other riders, yet not
distract him from his purpose.
“Phil,
Nita, Geoff, Di” were the words that formed in his head.
These were the names of his friends in the writing group with
whom he met up once a month in the pub.
They would have a few beers and a laugh and share whatever
stories and ideas they had produced recently.
Occasionally they would set one another a writing task as
“homework”, “to get those creative juices flowing”, as they
said. Well, he certainly
needed some juice right now!
“Nita
… Phil … Di … Geoff” , said the words in his head again, the
“Geoff” coming out as an explosive exhalation of air.
Yes! That was it! “Nita
… neater.” He must be neater in his movements to ride more gracefully
and thus conserve energy. “Phil
… Fill.” Fill his lungs
to bursting with this cool air to send oxygen racing through his
muscles. “Di … Do or
fucking die!” That was
what Di would say if she were with him now.
“Geoff … jephphph.” Geoff’s
name as a means to remind him to expel all the stale air with every
down-thrust on the pedal, so allowing a greater lungful when he got to
“Fill” again.
*Nita
… Phil … Di … Geoff. Nita
… Phil … Di … Geoff.” Yes.
It was definitely helping. His
rhythm was better now, his breathing easier.
A few more yards to the crest of the hill and then it was plain
sailing. So absorbed had he
been in his mantra, he had barely been aware of overtaking other riders,
but as he breasted the summit, he realized he was out in front.
His greater weight sped him down the short slope to the finishing
line. He crossed it, raised
an imaginary glass in the air and gasped,
“Cheers to the writers group!”
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