Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  'Do you always sit there?' she asked. 'I've seen you there before.'

  'Oh, yes it's ... um ... it's good for reading,' I said. She nodded but I felt it needed more of an explanation. 'The light's better this side, it's not so glary, and people tend to congregate up the other end so it's quieter. Plus I can see who's coming and going. If it's someone I don't want to talk to — like my boss — I can pretend to be really absorbed and not notice them.'

  'That sounds useful. You'd better look after that seat, you might have some competition for it.' She had a nice smile.

  I was about to mention the smoothy from last week when she said, 'So what's your boss like? It's Coutts, isn't it?'

  There was something about the way she said 'Coutts' that left me in no doubt about what she thought of him. I wasn't about to disagree. We discussed work and I wanted to mention last week but somehow couldn't bring myself to do it. I still felt guilty for not saying anything and wanted to distance myself from Fletcher's mob. We agreed on what a schemer and ambitious creep Tom is and how he'd wangle his way out of any situation, but we didn't touch on the other incident. It was nice in the end, each knowing what was foremost in the other's mind and both agreeing to skirt the subject for now. It was something unspoken between us.

  'What's the book?' she said, changing the subject and casually leaning across the table to look at the front cover. 'I've read some of his earlier stuff but not that one. Is it any good?'

  I sighed with relief it wasn't the trashy little pot-boiler I gave to Fletcher. We'd just started talking about books when she glanced at her watch and muttered, 'Shit, I'm late!' She got up quickly, apologising and looking round for the nearest trolley to dump her cup on. I said I'd take it back for her and she smiled again.

  'Thanks. Normally it wouldn't bother me about being late back, but I have to watch my p's and q's at the moment.' We exchanged a look. We both knew what she meant.

  I watched her go, thinking what a nice person she was and how much of a disservice she'd been done last week. I decided that I'd make that up to her at some stage, that I wouldn't let her down again.

  And that was all there was to it. Just a pleasant meeting and a chat in the staff canteen. Of course it was a good job none of my lot saw us. That would have been a different story.

  Stories

  Stories, stories, stories. That's all you bastards ever want. But life doesn't tell neat, complete, all-loose-ends-tied-up stories. And they all lived happily ever after. Rubbish. And the world was safe forever from the scourge of ______________ (fill in your own scourge here). Rot!

  You want to know about stories? You want to know about life? Try deus ex machina. The Greeks had it sussed two thousand years ago. The unexpected event that resolves a difficult situation, Life is the latter; death, the former. Suddenly he was struck by lightning and died. Situation resolved, end of story: end of life. That's more real than bloody stories. People you know, people you love, are breathing one minute and dead the next and you never see them again. End of story. So you start to make up stories out of the bits you know about them. You force pieces together like a badly made jigsaw until, in your own misshapen way, you form your own misshapen picture. Neat, complete, encapsulated — a tale that rolls off the tongue. You tell it like a raconteur at parties and weddings and the funerals of others, summing them up in a few words. Time passes and you even start to wonder if they existed at all. All the memories are muddled in with the height of Everest, the nursery rhymes of your childhood and yesterday's TV shows. Life is not clear cut, there's no structure, characters wander in and out at random and things never reach a climax before a tidy end. Little wonder I’ve cried more over fictions than lever have in life.

  Some writers want fiction to mirror life, but fiction isn't a reflection, it's an escape. Stories make us feel there's a point to it all; that somehow, somewhere, someone is writing the plot and though we might not see where it's going at the moment, it'll all finally fit together and at the end and, with our final breath, as the credits start to roll, we'll let out a sigh and say, 'That was wonderful ...'

  You want to know about life? Life is like a bad movie; with one possible exception. You might just get a refund if you complain about a bad movie.

  1. EXT. DAY. Barchester Towers.

  The camera zooms from a very long shot of the open side of the ninth floor and its line of multicoloured doors to a medium close—up, timing its arrival with the ping from the lift and the somewhat shuddery and tremulous opening of the much-abused doors. Eric Dombey bursts from the lift and onto the landing, gasping in great gulps of air. He's obviously been holding his breath for some time. He's carrying four laden supermarket bags and pauses on the landing long enough to recover his breath. Something in his movements tells us he is not his usual ebullient self.

  2. INT/EXT. DAY. Ninth floor of Barchester Towers.

  Medium long shot. Dombey turns from his gasping and the view and starts up the zigzag staircase at the end of the building. We track behind him for the first half-flight, his bulk and the plastic bags nearly filling the width of the stairwell, his breath rasping in background voice-over. He pauses when he reaches the first landing.

  3. INT/EXT. DAY. Landing between the ninth and tenth floors.

  Dombey has paused, breathing heavily. In close-up we see his nose wrinkle. He sniffs at the air like a bloodhound. He's detected something disagreeable. He scowls and mutters to himself before proceeding up the next flight.

  4. EXTERIOR. DAY. Landing between tenth and eleventh floors.

  Long shot from the side of the building as Dombey lumbers into view on the next landing and continues on without pausing. His breathing continues in voice-over. On the landing above we just make out a slumped figure.

  5. INT/EXT. DAY. Landing between floors eleven and twelve.

  A wide shot of Harry Purvis, building drunk, lay preacher and malaprop of this parish, slumped against the railings of the landing. He is dishevelled, unkempt and obviously unwashed. An old man in his sixties, his legs sprawl across the concrete and a dark patch stains the crotch of his trousers, pooling on the floor beneath. In one hand he holds a paper-wrapped bottle which he waves as he sings. At one point his other hand knocks a similarly wrapped and obviously discarded bottle and it rolls away from him across the landing until it stops against Dombey's first footfall on the landing.

  Purvis

  (singing)

  Poor ol' Gladly, Gladly the cross-eyed bear...

  Dombey enters from the ascending staircase. His face is now screwed up against the apparent pong and his mood is not improved.

  Dombey

  Get out of my way, you drunken bum.

  Purvis doesn't react and continues his song, which, it seems, consists of just the one line.

  Dombey

  I said, get out of my way, you bastard. You're always getting in my bloody way.

  (kicks at Purvis's leg)

  Move, dammit! Bugger off!

  Purvis stops singing and squints up at Dombey before slowly pulling his legs in.

  Dombey

  (moving past)

  Filthy, drunken bastard always getting in my way...

  6. INT/EXT. DAY. Landing between floors eleven and twelve.

  Medium close-up of Dombey's face, still muttering, as he glances down and sees ...

  7. INT/EXT. DAY. Landing between floors eleven and twelve.

  (In close-up) ... Harry Purvis's foot.

  8. INT/EXT. DAY. Landing between floors eleven and twelve.

  Wide shot as Dombey 'accidentally' steps heavily on the foot. Purvis cries out and Dombey continues in voice-over as we cut to ...

  9. Exterior. DAY. Landing between floors eleven and twelve.

  Long shot of the landing from outside the building, zooming out to very long shot of the entire building. As we move out and away Dombey continues his ascent.

  Dombey

  (muttering, voice-over)

  Bloody fucking drunken fucking bastard. Stop ge
tting in my way. You're always in my bloody way, you bastard. Bugger off. Bugger off and bloody kill yourself. Go on, drink yourself to death if you want to. Who cares? Who bloody cares? You don't, you prick. What about the others though, eh? What about them? You don't care, you bloody bum. You'll just destroy them too. Keep out of my way, you drunken sod. Go on, you selfish drunken bastard. You're always, always getting in my bloody way...

  Slow dissolve to ...

  10. INTERIOR. NIGHT. Bedroom of a State house

  This is the first of the family's 'new' houses after the loss of the dairy. Time: the late 1970s. We pan from the face of Stuart, aged fifteen, sleeping soundly, to the tossing form of the younger boy. His bed is beneath the Venetian-blinded window and, in a precursor to adult life, he already has trouble sleeping. His insomnia isn't helped by the prospect of a tenth birthday tomorrow; double figures, growing up at last. We see the outlines of one or two cards from far-away relatives on the dresser by his bed. As the camera stops a pair of headlights swing across the Venetian blinds as a car U-turns and stops outside the house. The boy sits up in bed, glances across at his sleeping brother, then lifts a slat and peers out.

  11. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. Bedroom window of the house.

  Close-up of Venetian-blinded window. One slat is raised and we see two eyes peering at us.

  12. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. The street outside.

  A silent suburban street in middle New Zealand. Very long shot from the boy's POV — perhaps even framed by Venetian blinds — of a police car. Its lights are extinguished and two figures, Roger and Bill emerge. One checks the number on the letterbox and they come together halfway up the drive which ends right outside the boy's window.

  Roger

  (checking letterbox)

  Yeah, this is it.

  13. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. Bedroom window of the house.

  Close-up of two eyes through a Venetian blind, widening.

  14. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. The house from across the road.

  Very long shot as two policemen walk slowly up the drive. Roger is a uniformed constable and raw recruit. Bill, older, an inspector, is dressed in civvies, overcoat and hat. He's smoking. They pause at the top of the drive, right outside the bedroom window.

  15. INTERIOR. NIGHT. The bedroom.

  Medium shot as the boy lets the slat of the blind fall and sits back quickly. Two silhouettes, illuminated by the street lamp outside, loom large above him on the blind. We hear their voices, hushed and slightly distant.

  Bill

  D'you want to do it?

  Roger

  Er ... no thanks, sir.

  Bill

  (teasing)

  Sure?

  Roger

  Yeah.

  16. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. The house from across the road.

  Long shot. The two policemen framed by the boy's window.

  Bill

  This your first one, then?

  Roger

  Er ... yeah.

  Bill

  Don't worry, you'll get used to it. The trick is not to let it spoil your evening.

  Bill draws on the last of his cigarette, drops it and stamps it out on the path and they walk out of shot. A second or two later we hear the ringing of the front doorbell.

  17. INTERIOR. NIGHT. The bedroom from another angle.

  Wide angle. The bedroom door is slightly ajar and, as the doorbell is rung a second time, we see a light snapped on behind it. A figure shuffles past and indistinct voices are heard. The boy hesitates, then tiptoes to the door to listen. As he, and we, listen, the camera zooms very slowly towards the patch of yellow light, the figures in the doorway at the end of the hall and their eavesdropper. As we zoom the sound rises to audibility.

  Mother

  ... Accident? What sort of accident?

  Bill

  I'm afraid he's dead, madam.

  Mother

  What?

  Bill

  He was knocked down crossing the street.

  Mother

  No!

  Bill

  He ... died at the scene.

  Mother

  (sobs)

  Bill

  Is there anyone we can call, Mrs Spalding. A friend? A relative perhaps?

  Mother

  (regaining composure)

  No. No, I’ll be all right.

  Bill

  We will need you for formal identification. But that can wait till the morning.

  Mother

  I see.

  (Sniffs)

  Thank you.

  Bill

  I'm very sorry, madam. Goodnight.

  The yellow light is suddenly snapped out by the slamming of the bedroom door and the shot ends as a close-up of the boy's face now turned towards us. He has shut the door himself and is leaning with his back against it, face set, as though trying to shut out what he has heard, trying to put something solid between himself and the world.

  18. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. The house from across the road.

  Long shot, the same as 16, but slightly wider. The porch is now in shot and the porch light is on. The door closes. The two policemen turn away, walk down the steps and along the path. They pause outside the boy's window and Bill extracts and lights another cigarette as they talk.

  Bill

  See? Piece of cake.

  Roger

  Yes, sir.

  Bill

  Mind you ...

  Roger

  Mmm?

  Bill

  I wouldn't mind giving a bit of comfort to that widow, eh?

  Roger

  No sir!

  Bill

  See the way that dressing gown kept coming open at the top?

  Roger

  Jesus, did I ever!

  Bill

  Thought we'd cop the lot, 'specially when she started crying.

  They start to walk down the drive and as they do so their voices slowly fade.

  Bill

  There is one thing though ...

  Roger

  What's that?

  Bill

  I was wondering who gets to show her the stiff tomorrow?

  Schoolboy laughter as we dissolve to ...

  19. INTERIOR. NIGHT. The bedroom.

  Medium shot. The boy is kneeling at the window again, peering through a lifted slat in the blinds. His back is suddenly illuminated by yellow light from the opening of the bedroom door, but he doesn't react. His mother rushes to him and clings to his back as he remains resolutely staring through the blind.

  Mother

  Oh, Steven! Steven, Steven, Steven, Steven, Steven ...

  Fade out

  Sunday, April 12

  The ringing in my ears seemed worse today and I kept thinking of jumbo jets. God, I hope not. When I woke up there was a kind of low-level buzz in my left ear that counterpointed the original background tone — though it sounded more like a clapped-out top-dresser than a jumbo — and I wondered briefly if my sonancies were becoming symphonies.

  Actually, it seems to have gone now. It's probably just the weekend. I've had these variations before but you get busy on something and pretty soon you forget about them, then when you think back they're almost always gone. I spent the day trying to keep myself busy: tidying up my patch of garden, vacuuming, even doing some writing. But I kept thinking of jumbo jets.

  As I said, perhaps it's just the weekend. I hate weekends the most. Everyone says things like 'Thank God it's Friday' and 'Hooray, the weekend at last' — I even say them myself — but sitting here thinking about it I'd almost rather be at work. It's not the work itself, that's not something I particularly like or dislike, and it's not that I treasure the company of most of my workmates, but strangely enough I do miss the company and distraction of it all. I once thought I'd like to live like a hermit and lock myself away from the world and just write stories, but not now. I seem to have spent too long on my own already.

  Perhaps it's just that the time is unstructured. During the week you have to be at work at a c
ertain time, you get an hour for lunch, you finish at five. There are all kinds of requirements and deadlines you have to meet and since it's so limiting it gives a sharper focus to your own time. But the weekends are empty. You can do what you like, when you like. Time unbound is hard to handle.

  Actually, though, there was something of a distraction yesterday ...

  It was a nice, clear, warm afternoon so I got out my deck chair and book and had a sit in the sun. My patch of garden is enclosed by a line of trellis so even if there was nothing in it it would still be quite private. As it is, the late roses are running rampant and it's even more secluded. There were tangy, plangent, exotic smells wafting from the Hamidullahs' kitchen, the humming of distant lawnmowers and the occasional bird chirp or snatch of conversation from an open window upstairs. The tall girl said hello on her way to collect her washing and a neighbour's cat came and rubbed around my legs. Then that oik Donny went and spoilt it all with his bloody motorbike.

  There's an unsealed driveway at the side of the house that goes almost to the end of the section. In the corner is a very basic carport — just six metal poles and a roof — that no one really uses. The drive's a bit hard to navigate and there's a sprung metal gate on the front that has to be wedged open so everyone just parks on the road. Everyone except the oik. He uses the carport for his precious motorbike.

  It's one of those big old British things that sounds like a beating heart when it's idling. It has a faulty muffler so that when her revs it up the vibration seems to lodge in your chest. There must have been something wrong with it because first he staggered down the drive with an enormous tool chest, then he started revving the bike like crazy. Mr Hamidullah slammed their kitchen window shut, then stuck his head out the door and yelled something, but the oik couldn't hear him over the noise. Neither could I because I had my fingers in my ears. It has to be illegal to make so much racket and I wondered how Dr Wrangler would have rated it.