by Liam Livings
I was still waiting for Mr Farnham to let me know about the foundation studies classes. Deep down - not that deep actually now I thought of it - I knew I'd never hear from him about them. He wasn't bothered about all those fripperies of lessons, all the fannying about with cookery classes or foundation studies philosophy, because none of those lessons were counted by the Local Education Authority, so they might as well not happen. All he cared about was the exam results getting better year on year. And my approach of getting them to read alone wouldn't really support that, so he'd jumped on me like a gentle ton of bricks.
So after that day of solid gold twattery - a day where I felt I'd been surrounded by a rich tapestry of twats - I slumped on my sofa, eating a ready meal out of the plastic container, glugging a large glass of red wine, and found myself dialling Clara-Bell's number. Somehow I knew she'd put me right once again.
And I was not wrong.
'Darling, Simon I'm so glad you finally called me. I've been sat here next to the telephone, awaiting your call. I'm lying of course. Now what can I do for you? You sound particularly crestfallen, my dear.'
I told her about my day of being surrounded by a rich tapestry of twats.
'It's quite comforting to know that schools don't really change after all. I was at the school for thirty years, and I've heard similar stories from teachers I worked with. So nothing's new, it's all just recycled and updated with better technology.'
'I just don't think I can go on.'
'You're not thinking of ending it all are you, darling? It can't be all that bad surely. It's not worth offing yourself, surely. If only for me not ever being able to read any of your wonderful words, darling.'
'No, not that. I mean teaching. I don't know how much more I can carry on.'
'Goodness me, man. Have you no backbone. If you'd been born thirty years before you'd have fought in a war, lived on rations. None of this flim flam about self actualisation and having a career. You'd have been grateful for a job, man. A job, do you hear.' She took a deep breath, and I heard paper rustling. 'Come round for supper tomorrow evening. It is Friday tomorrow isn't it, it's so easy to lose track of the days, when one's all alone all day with my made up people and my computer. Is it Friday tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
'That's settled. Bring yourself and a bottle around, I'll cook you a warming supper. I'd wager the last proper cooked meal you had which wasn't preceded by a ping of a microwave was months ago. Am I right, or am I right?'
'You're right. You can't count that slop they serve at school.'
'Certainly you cannot count that. Six thirty p.m. for G&Ts, or whatever it is you youngsters drink nowadays at gin o'clock. Food on the table for seven. Don't be late. Clara-Bell doesn't forgive unpunctuality. I'll forgive an awful lot you know, but manners cost nothing, and they're what separates us from the apes, you know. Pip pip, tomorrow at six thirty.'
'I don't know your address, what's your postcode?'
'Are you still there. I thought we were done. Postcode you say. Oh no, there's no need to bother with all that stuff and nonsense. Do you know the village, Starry Chimneys?'
'Yes.'
'Head for the village centre, I'm the house with a big green Land Rover in the drive. Just follow the sound of dogs barking. Postcodes, for finding a house; I've never heard of such nonsense. Postcodes are for the Post Office. These bloody satellite navigation systems, they'll be the death of us.' And she was gone.
Chapter 10
We were sat on opposite sides of a six foot long dark stained wooden table. A wood burner was behind me, and the kitchen surfaces, Aga and sink were behind Clara-Bell, sat with three dogs of various colours and sizes at her feet. I mopped up the last bits of sauce from a particularly rib-sticking beef casserole and dumplings which I'd been reliably informed by my host included pickled walnuts, black treacle, and an awful lot of beef and celery.
'Congratulations, I've not eaten celery since I was a boy.' I rubbed my stomach and leant back on the wooden chair with a battered, stained cushion on it.
Over supper she'd told me how she'd got into writing. 'I was a very late starter, you know. I retired after working in a school, darling, so don't think I don't know what you're going through.' Her retirement present had been a fountain pen and box of coloured paper, and a few books on writing. She had been looking forward to a lovely retirement with her husband, The Colonel, but a few months after she retired, he'd had a massive heart attack. 'I came back from walking the dogs and there he was, sat on the sofa over there.' She looked at the green sagging sofa next to the wood burner, behind my chair. 'Clutching his chest, eyes all sticking out. Of course, I tried my best to do first aid, but it was far, far too late. He'd been smoking and drinking like it was an Olympic sport for years. But it was the stress that finished him off they said.'
'What did he work as?' I was keen to avoid a repeat if possible.
'He was the head at the school. That's how we met. Used to be in the army, so he went from shouting at grown men, to shouting at boys. Suited him really. That school was run like an army academy, I can tell you. Punctual, organised. No flim flam, not like today. He was a sight to behold.' She stared out the window for a moment then stood to collect our plates. 'Tea, coffee, something stronger?'
'Coffee would be lovely, thanks.'
'He's scattered in the woods behind the house. He didn't want any of this plaque, headstone nonsense. He always said when he was gone he was gone.' She took a breath and began making the coffee. 'So I just got on with it. Didn't have any choice really. At first I was sat around this place, in my nightie, all day long some days. People would come round to see how I was, and I didn't have any cakes or biscuits to give them. They knew something was wrong. I knew something was wrong, but I felt stuck, somehow. Like I was waiting for The Colonel to tell me it was all right to be happy again, all right to get on with things around here.'
'And that's when you really started writing?'
'My neighbour came round, Caroline, one lunchtime. I was still in my nightie. She shouted at me to dress. Told me to throw on some gumboots, and we took the dogs for a walk in the forest. Poor dogs, I'd neglected them a bit. And during that wonderful dog walk, when I stood in some horse shit, slipped up and landed on my bum in a puddle, I realised that was the first time I'd noticed anything around me since he'd gone. Caroline said I must find something for myself. For me, and only me. What did I have?'
'And that's when you started writing?' I asked hopefully, enjoying the story, but hoping we'd reach the point soonish, because it was getting late and I was feeling tired.
'I got back from the walk, took off my gumboots, and sat in the conservatory, the light streaming through the glass and with the fountain pen and cream coloured paper, I wrote thirty-odd pages. I didn't even notice Caroline leaving. I only stopped because the dogs walked in for their dinner and another walk and I was still there, hunched over the papers, using a new cartridge in my new swishy fountain pen. I did the same for the next three weeks I think it was, every day. After walking the dogs, I went back to the conservatory with a big pot of coffee and I wrote and wrote and wrote, until my hands hurt. It felt like only an hour or so, but I sat there seven or eight hours most days, until I couldn't write any more.' She sipped her coffee and nodded for me to do the same.
'How did you get involved in the Romantic Writers Guild?'
She waved her hand. 'I'm coming onto that, don't you worry. Ready for dessert yet, or do you want to wait a bit first?'
I could hardly move, but also smelt the plum crumble in the Aga, and could see the ingredients for home-made custard on the side, winking at me. 'Maybe wait a bit?'
'You youngsters, you've no stamina.' She smiled and checked her long red nails. 'Caroline, darling Caroline. I showed her what I'd written. She did suggest I type it, because I'd given myself a callous on my finger from all the writing. I explained to her, like Olive at the group, that typing was work, and I wanted this to be for me, and somehow the words f
lowed better when I used my special fountain pen.'
'Do you still use the fountain pen?' I loved the romanticism of the fountain pen and coloured paper story. I mentally noted it for use in a story, at some point ...
'Do I bog roll? Of course I don't. My books are big nine hundred page sagas, covering twenty, thirty years, with lists of characters in the front. If you think I can keep track of all that with a pile of note paper, and a fountain pen, you obviously think I've a much better memory than you. Most days I can barely remember what to feed the dogs. No, it's all mapped out on the wall of the study, and I use my lovely shiny laptop to write it. Do you want to see?'
She led me to a small room round the back of the house, with a tiny, low window and the wall thick as it was an original wattle and daub part of the cottage, she explained. On the far wall was a cork board with a series of yellow notes, each having a scene for the book. On the desk were a few pieces of paper with names - these were the character biographies, she explained. She sat at the grey swivel chair 'The council were throwing it out, so I rescued it from a skip, waste not want not,' she revealed as she sat in it. In the middle of the desk stood a white laptop, less than a quarter of an inch thick. Next to it a white printer was covered with printed pages of her manuscript. On the wall was an egg timer.
'What's that for?' I pointed at the timer.
'To remember when I need to take a cake out the oven.' She smiled, then slapped my hand. 'No, I'm joking. It's for my word sprints. I time myself for an hour and aim to get two thousand words down. I look at the cork board for where the story's going, check the characters are all playing in the way I want them to, and I'm off. I dive into the story. Once I've done my word sprint, I bustle into the kitchen, make myself another cafétière of coffee, stroked the dog, chew on some toast for a bit, then come back here, door closed for another sprint. It's so exhilarating.'
'So, the Romantic Writers Guild ... ' I tried, still taking in her little writing den.
'Ah yes, I was getting to that. Caroline said she'd found them online. She's better with that sort of thing than me. Still is. I just have my e-mails and that's enough for me. She told me they had this thing where you could send your story into them, and they'd give you professional feedback. 'A Scheme for New Writers', it's called. Of course I had to type it all up first - they wouldn't take my hand written notes. So it wasn't that romantic, you see. Caroline helped me type it, on her computer - this was before I bought this.' She stroked the sleek white laptop. 'Best bit was, while I was reading it to her, we'd have a bit of a chat about it first, and so in the end she agreed to read it for me, let me know which bits were boring, which bits she loved, that sort of thing. I was sure it was all complete tosh, utter rubbish, but she insisted. She wouldn't let it lie until she'd typed it all up and sent it in. Wonderful friend, is Caroline. She's the first one to read them even now. So she sent it off to them, with her email thingy - I didn't have one of those then - I gave her a cheque, she said she'd had to pay through the internet or something, and we waited.' She stood. 'Let's see how that plum crumble's getting on shall we?'
She whisked up some home-made egg custard and pulled the crumble from the Aga. We sat on the saggy sofa next to the wood burner, eating the pudding without trays. It felt so comfortable, informal, normal, like I spent every evening there with her. I listened as she explained that the feedback was painful, but necessary, and she'd gone back and changed the story, and Caroline had read it, and she'd changed it again, until she sent it back to the scheme when this time the feedback was that it was ready for submission to a publisher. 'Course, that's where Caroline came in handy again. She gave me a list of the publishers who accepted this sort of long, sweeping saga books. That's what they're called it seems, sagas. I didn't know I was writing sagas, I just wrote what came to me, what I thought I'd like to write. Turns out they're sagas. And, long story short I got the call and I've been with the same publisher since. They know they can rely on me to write one a year, and that's about right for me. My editor asked me to do a short story once, and it ended up a quarter the length of my normal story, which is as long as a normal novel which isn't a saga. It seems I'm meant for sagas, and that's how it is.' She explained she'd wanted to write her whole life, but there were always things in the way - too tired, too busy, too much to do at work - but that The Colonel's death had somehow given her the kick she needed to just start writing.
I told her how I felt about teaching, how I sometimes despaired of it, and how I was looking for something more creative.
She showed me her website and blog and said even if I wasn't published for years yet, I should at least do those. She explained that many other members of the writers group did other sorts of writing, like magazine articles, short stories or copy writing, which I could look into.
I put the empty bowl on the floor and wished I'd taken notes. All the ideas and advice were swirling around my head.
I started to fall asleep on the sofa, my contact lenses sticking to my eyes. I felt someone shaking me awake.
'Simon. I've made up the spare room for you. Much more comfortable than this old sofa.'
I stood and rubbed my eyes. 'My lenses, I need to take them out, but I've not brought my things.' I wasn't sure why I hadn't bought them, it was probably due to not wanting to be late, and incur the wrath of Clara-Bell
'You go to the spare room, I'll bring you something for your blasted lenses. What's wrong with glasses, that's what I want to know?'
Tucked up in the bed and starting to drift to sleep, Clara-Bell arrived in my room with two egg cups. 'Eye wash solution. It'll be fine. Come on, pop them out, spit spot.'
Unconvinced, but not able to resist, I popped them out and put them in the egg cups. I lay back on the soft cool pillow and noticed a blurry shape still in the room.
Clara-Bell was waving, or something was moving, because it had all become a blur now. 'Remember, I had retired. I had The Colonel's money. Don't do anything rash, don't hand in your notice at the school, will you? I don't want to be responsible for any stupid decisions like that, okay?'
And then there was darkness, and sleep.
I woke to the smell of bacon and a shout from the kitchen that it would be ready soon.
I followed the smell, tracing my way back along the walls, like Hansel and Gretel in the fairytale. The kitchen's warmth from the Aga and wood burner was a welcome change from my cold spare room.
'Sit. Coffee?' A large colourful blurry shape moved around the room.
I nodded and sat on the chair. 'My lenses?' I squinted at the moving blur next to the large blur which I thought must be the Aga.
'Oh, my dear, you should have said. They're in the bathroom. Can you find it, or should I?'
I stood and knocked the table.
'Wait here, I'll be back.'
Very quicky, she reappeared with two small colourful things in her hands. 'They're in these. Do you want to wash your hands?' She held my hands and led me to the kitchen sink.
Clean and dry, I sat at the table, leaning towards the small colourful things, which were egg cups. I remembered that from last night. One at a time, I put my lenses back in, and the room became clear, sharp again. I blinked a few times and now saw Clara-Bell had a voluminous red Chinese-style dressing gown, covered in dragons and pagodas. As she flapped in front of the Aga, I feared for her safety as the long sleeves narrowly missed the hot pan.
She handed me a plate of fried eggs, bacon and black pudding. I picked at the food until Clara-Bell put her hand, covered in rings, on mine, not covered with any jewellery. 'What's wrong, darling? No appetite? I'm glad you're not a vegetarian, but please don't tell me you have something against black pudding, please do not tell me that. After we were getting on so well. I just don't think I could bear it.' She smiled, squeezing my hand. One of the jewels on her ring glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window.
'I'm thinking about all the stuff you told me last night. I've got so much to do. I'm not even at the s
tart line. I'm back in the changing room, with no boots, that's where I am.' I tried a bit of black pudding, and it was surprisingly okay.
'Darling, you've got thirty years ahead of me. I waited until I retired before I started, you've got years and years ahead of you. So what's the rush. And you might not have any boots, but you've got people who'll help you buy your own boots, and witch hazel if you get bruised, and knocked. Everyone needs a Caroline in their lives, and I'm going to be yours.'
I nodded, chewing a mouthful of fried egg, trying for the life of me to remember who the hell this Caroline was she was going on about. 'Caroline, yeah, of course.'
'You have no idea what I'm talking about do you?' She smiled and shook her head.
'Just give me a clue, a tiny little clue. I'm sure I'll catch up. You did tell me an awful lot of stuff last night, and I didn't write any of it down.' I smiled weakly and shrugged.