My Desk

With any luck, this blog will not have to languish so long. This may be the new opening chapter of VL or I may put it somewhere else.

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There is odd, and then there is suspect. Whether a thing is one or another often depends on knowing one more thing. Jon got back to the house around four. He took off his coat and hung it on the rail in the hall. As he was bending to remove his visiting shoes his head came level with the telephone table, and that's when he saw the opened letter.
Junk mail. And while dealing with the knots in his laces he spoke to the piece of paper.
“May I ask just what you think you're doing there? You know, you're very, very lucky to be there at all, if you don't mind my saying.”
Junk mail, to Linda, was anathema. She borrowed the word and copied the intonation Jon used in sermons. Its occult sound carried more clout than 'forbidden'. Junk mail was a favourite topic in his wife's sermons, which she gave standing in the hall most mornings and for the benefit of nobody. He'd hear them if he went to the kitchen.
“Waste of paper,” she'd rail. “A presumption, mostly frauds and an intrusion of privacy.” All true. The fate of anything unsolicited was sealed from the time it reached their letter box. Linda tossed it all in the wicker basket under the telephone table. If she could guess the contents from the envelope she wouldn't open it. Those were the days before identity fraud. She must use a shredder now.
On his way back to standing he lifted the paper for a closer look, for the novelty. It had been folded in thirds to fit a D5 envelope, which was missing. Across the top section the senders thought it better to withhold words. Instead, a panoramic photograph of pastel homes with terracotta roof tiles, landscaped grounds, blue sky and a Mediterranean glare not supplied by sun, because it didn't appear, but by the white space in the upper right hand corner with the company name: PARADISIO.
Paradisio – not subtle. But some people weren't hypocrites about wealth. They ogled the theatre of the rich and famous, and made theatre with their own money. They'd be shallow types, never dismayed so long as the weather was sunny, their clothes stylish and a drink handy. In the photograph, a couple stepped out from their glass patio doors. She wore a red bathing suit and sarong; he was dressed for golf and you could see the clubs packed in the boot of the car parked nearby. Maybe the woman would go shopping; she had a big straw bag to match her big straw hat. Or maybe she would sunbathe. You could see the pool was a only a short walk along a palm shaded path.
The middle section of the letter carried the bold-faced pitch-- “Imagine Living A Dream”. The homes were for sale in Mallorca, some on a timeshare basis with a separate community called Cielo Gloria, surrounded by the quiet golf course for those thinking of retirement abroad.
He sniffed, derisive and puzzled, and put the letter back where he found it. He loosened his tie and climbed the stairs slowly, for even if this meant nothing it was worth the entertainment to imagine Linda out of character. What if he walked in the bedroom and she sprang it on him?
“Jon, please could we not take the caravan to Fishguard next year?”
Or later at bible study, when she poured cups of tea and conversations about Christmas were bound to start, what if she let out, “I've been thinking a bit of sunshine would make a nice change.” She'd be centre of attention then, all the women clamouring to know how long and where and having to advise her about shops in Nottingham for clothes and shoes, because for the first time she'd need pretty things to wear on holiday. Having reached the landing, he gave another sniff and that was the end of that idea.
She was in the ensuite when he entered the bedroom, taking a shower. He opened the wardrobe, put his tie on a hook. The sound of water beat on wall behind him and drilled at the back of his head, as if to make the point that this too was not what he'd expected. He reminded himself of her plans, which she told him over breakfast. First, she'd wanted to go for a run. After that she would get cleaned up and ready to welcome the mother and toddler group. Then lunch, a trip to the library and the bank. She'd thought she might catch the bus and see David between classes, and if that made her too late to bake she'd pick up biscuits from the Co-op.
Evidently she'd changed the sequence, postponed the run. That happened. Maybe the phone rang, though calls were usually for him. Between his leaving and the mothers' group was a ninety minute gap that was hard to fill with much else, being so early. He unbuttoned his shirt. He decided to knock on the bathroom door so he could put it in the hamper and let her know he was home. Chances were she'd go straight into whatever had diverted her, though he either had to look attentive through fogged glasses or she had to shout over the spray. “You'll never believe this...,”
But all she said was 'hello'. He might have asked more questions. But to be honest it was always a relief to know that there was no surprise crisis requiring a pastor's help and anyway, it only seemed a little odd and no more. He did the talking.
“Guess who I've met,” he called, but not loudly enough.
“Sorry?”
“Guess who I've met, just now.”
“Who?”
“Trev.”
“Trev Bazlewycke?”
Now what a daft thing to say. What other Trev was there?
“He came round the corner while I was shutting the garage.”
“Right.”
“When was the last time we saw him?”
A thinking silence. “I'm not sure,” she answered.
“It's been a year.”
“You think so?”
“I laughed,” and Jon did, for effect. “I said, 'Well, you old mucker, I wonder where you've been?' And he kind of stepped back, you know, as if I'd slapped him. He said, 'Reverend, did you just swear at me?' And I said, 'Of course not. What are you on about?'” Jon laughed more.
“I don't get it,” Linda said. She turned off the water.
“He thought I'd used the f-word.”
Another pause, while the water gurgled down the plug hole. “Oh,” she added.
“He never did tell me where he's been hiding all this time. You know, I thought he'd have grown out of his wanderlust by now.”
The shower curtain was scraped aside. “Well,” said Linda's misty silhouette, “you know Trevor. Pass me a towel, please?”
“Apparently he's managed to get World Cup tickets – England versus Zimbabwe on May 25th. He wants me to come.”
She stepped out of the bath with her head bowed, wrapped the towel around her and left the bathroom. “Well,” she said when she stopped by the bed.
“Well exactly,” he followed her. “I don't expect it to be much of a contest, but World Cup...he must have paid a bit for those tickets.”
“He knows lots of people. He might have got them for nothing.”
“Might have.” Jon went back to the wardrobe for a new shirt. He had a dress code; it created a uniform to which people grew accustomed and eliminated the need for decisions when changing or shopping. On Sundays he wore a dark wool suit, long sleeved white shirt with cuff links and tie. When visiting parishoners or attending social functions, he wore short sleeved chambray or poplin with chinos and the swede shoes he'd taken off downstairs. To bible studies, retreats or other teaching situations, he wore whatever jacket had become too old for Sundays with an open neck shirt in a coordinating colour.
Last birthday his son gave him a purple shirt, iridescent and Jon didn't think it was suitable for anything. He wore it to a workshop, just so he could say he had, and received so many compliments he changed his mind. It became his favourite. He took it out, buttoned it, tucked it into his trousers, zipped his fly and checked for his jacket before he began to wonder whether he'd have to make all the conversation that evening.
“Did you see David?”
“No,” Linda said. “No,...I didn't. How was Mrs. Hoffman?”
“As ever.”
“And what about Fleuretta?”
He couldn't truthfully say she put stress on the name. He heard stress. Stress was a mental filter through which that name had to pass from now on. For the umpteenth time, Jon felt that sharp impulse to go over and touch his wife, kiss her forehead or say he loved her. At the same time he was terrified to do any such thing. Could there be a more obvious admission? In spite the fact the shirt was clean, he sniffed his armpits. Then he put on the jacket, thinking, if it's this bad when only imagination gets involved, what happens when --
Not when, Reverend, if. Philippians chapter four, verse thirteen: I can do all things through Christ.
-- if the body follows.
But he needn't have troubled himself. Firstly, because Linda would have accepted any affectionate gesture submissively and blandly. She got dressed, went downstairs and baked banana bread for the refreshments after bible study. She made sandwiches which they ate at the kitchen table. She took a phone call while he was in the ensuite brushing his teeth. Then they changed places; she went up to brush hers and he came down to read the message she'd written.
He noticed the letter had gone in the bin. But by then it was too late. She had forgotten, or maybe never realised that the missing envelope had somehow got behind the toilet. Jon picked it up, read PARADISIO on the flap and turned it over. It was addressed to T. Bazlewycke.

Now, you might think it's strange to be happy about a rejection. Thing is, I had convinced myself that I'd forgotten to send an SASE with this manuscript. I thought I'd broken the unbreakable rule of submitting writer's etiquette and blown my chances. I imagined my story crumpled up and lying in some admin girl's bin.

By contrast, a rejection letter is wonderful. It means I didn't waste all those hours in front of the PC. And I could surmise, because the rejection took nearly three months to arrive, that I was in a short list (I've been in one before). On the other hand, Val McDermid was the guest editor, and being a sought after author she might have struggled to fulfill her task and it all took a bit longer. Who knows?

I think I might go looking for other, suitable magazines that might offer "Precocious" a home.

Thank goodness this blog did not exist a year ago. The memory of the last Oundle Festival no longer hurts the way it did, but I have to be honest and say it tore the guts out of me at the time. Given that, I probably would have used the blog to rant and in hindsight the outburst would just sound pathetic. I didn't die.

This year they've sought me out, literally begged me to come back. I will oblige. I note that the participants will not be judged against each other this time. Each person gets seven minutes to read, so what I thought I'd do is pull out the section of Vitae Lampada, Chapter One where Jon goes to the cricket with Mrs Hoffman. We'll edit it a little, because some sentences that can be read on a page can't so easily be understood aloud. And that should be a good character portrait, and story.

continuing on from the extract printed on the 22nd Jan:

If asked, he said he was doing his family history. There might not be a name for what he was hoping to find. At first he just clicked on advertisements or links beside news stories--“Why Women Fall for 'Mr. Average'” or “Do Detox Diets Really Work?” The emptiest of the empty. Gradually he discovered information clusters like About.com and MySpace, Yahoo Groups and Wikipedia. They hinted, skimmed the surface of curiousities: the I Ching, Ice Age Antarctica, biorhythms. He could have ordered the recommended books from Amazon, but that really would make Jenny worry, if he started reading.

And there was such a lot of religion, written firing squad lines of exclamation marks and LONG PHRASES IN CAPITAL LETTERS, in plain language but it never made sense. Thank god he never met one of those in person. He connected with no one; he rode search engines like trains to the ends of dozens of lines of enquiry. It only got more complex, academic dissertations and that sort of thing. Existentialism, where did that go? Metaphysics, applied ethics. They were tiring visits and he was usually glad to get back to his home page.

Valentines Day, Eddie Fleming's wife dropped dead ironing his shirts. They were no match made in heaven, but a shock is still a shock. Front room carpet had to be replaced to get rid of a haunting scorch mark. He went across the road to help with that and then there was the will and the insurances and her things to be packed up and given away. A Wednesday night routine started. Tea and sympathy, though Eddie wouldn't dwell long on his wife. He went back, back to days of short trousers, trainspotting, and favourite penny sweets.

“Now your family history,” Eddie said, because he'd been fed the line, “I bet that'll turn up interesting things, with a name like Bazlewicke. What'd your dad do, then?”

A kick in the teeth would have been kinder.

Story idea: Mary Chesterton's typical Sunday morning at church with her family. Her son Michael, now in his forties, is obssessed with odd numbers, particularly five, which was the number of people in the Chesterton household until it all went wrong. Even numbers upset him, like ten, his father's favourite number of judgement and failure. And two, because it speaks of fundamental divisions: good against evil, God against Satan, the outside world against home, his father against everyone.

Mary relies on her daughters, the more resilient children, to help her bear the burdens in her life. It's not really religion that puts them in the fifth pew of St. Albin's once a week. It's to hold together something that would otherwise fracture, symbolised by the long, diagonal crack in the rear view mirror of Mary's car.

This is, dear reader, the short version. The longer one has filled five pages of notebook. Something new is brewing, and so with relief I forget poetry. Not my style. Stay tuned for further episodes.

He didn't decide to drink less. Beer lasted longer, or kicked in sooner, and with a different effect. Instead of that melting satisfaction blending him into everyone else, he would find himself at a distance. It was the other faces that melted. Stripped of their meaningful layer, it left him with nothing to watch but the disgusting locomotion of fat and skin and hair. And what the faces said! Of course he returned the same throw away talk, whether he remembered it the next morning or not wouldn't matter. He began to wonder if it was only alcohol that made his friends friends.
And when it came time to leave the outside air would make him giddy--with relief. He'd relish the quiet, stare out the cab window. Jenny was the one who pointed out the change, and commended him. She thought he was slimming. But socialising outside the happy bounds of intoxication dragged. At his works' Christmas do he tried to drink his way back to that place, and spent a night in hospital. “You'll have to watch it now,” Jenny warned, “it goes to your head.” But it didn't. That was the problem.
During the holiday break he gave up, went dry. Jenny's mum arrived, no dragon but no remedy either. And her boys, good lads, brought home two friends to stage an Xbox tournament. The only way to cope was to invent some decent activity that needed doing upstairs. So he tried the internet. He, who hated replying to recorded messages, who could hardly sit through a film. But now it had a strange attraction, because it gave the suggestion of people without the substance. And anyone who didn't satisfy could be literally switched off.
If asked, he said he was tracing family history. There might not be a name for what he really hoped to find.

The muse of verse made a very short visit; I haven't finished my sonnet. To be honest I don't like it. It's trite. I hadn't wanted to be trite, but poeming after years of prose is like trying to speak the French I learned in high school. I want to say something profound, and all I can manage is "Ou est la salle de bain?"

I may continue the effort. On the other hand, Mslexia goes back to short stories for their June deadline, and the theme is "Mirror, Mirror". It's got me thinking. At our local Tesco there are the reflective windows you can see from the tills, the room with one way glass where the staff keep an eye out for shoplifters. I saw a suspect being taken inside there once; a lot of kids roam the aisles of that Tesco on weekday nights. I'm also thinking of rear view mirrors, blind spot mirrors, powder compact mirrors, still ponds, puddles, the TV screen (when the TV is switched off). And people.

People, because I was thinking about the recent hoo-haw over Celebrity Big Brother. Was Shilpa Shetty a mirror to Jade Goody; did she remind Jade how, unlike Shilpa, she was not famous for her natural beauty, for being well-spoken or well-educated, but purely for an astounding ignorance? Is Shilpa what Jade wishes she was?

Yes, I'm going to try writing some. After (blank) number of years, I might add. But Mslexia are holding their Poetry Competition; it goaded me in a nice way. So what follows below is the beginning of a sonnet based on an incident that happened at work.

ACTAEON

Their grove is desk partitions, charcoal grey
Their men (they've checked) are all out counting stock
Their Artemis, who's twenty-one on Saturday
Needs uplift for her strapless, backless frock

The rest is what we'll be trying to come up with today. I'd like to write at least two more (you can submit up to five poems for only £5 -- such a bargain). And I might put forward "Pink and Grey" in the selection.

I'll still be saying that after the 49th rewrite!

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“Afternoon, duck.”
She said nothing. Her bike sped past, though as she came level with the gate she glanced at him. He tried to argue that the look was easy to explain; it was her confusion, because she wasn’t sure she’d heard him. But then he reasoned no, she must have done. Coming along the road she’d have seen him a long way off. His size was hard to hide. And if she saw him she knew he would say something because that's what he always did, without fail. He liked to be neighbourly.
He folded the chamois as if it were a dinner napkin, lined up the corners and then shook it out, surprised at himself. It was her look he couldn’t leave alone. He had backed the Audi out of the garage to give it a clean, and as she passed he was stretched across the windscreen, balanced on one foot. Her eyes met his and he could hardly shift his head or anything else. He got the full impact of the gaze but not the message. For whatever reason, his mind went scrabbling about for a word, one of those beginning with ’A’ and invented by religious types to describe the end of the world. He managed ‘anarchy’, which wasn’t what he meant at all. It was the sort of thing the Reverend would know.
There, that face popped into his head as well, to add to the problem. Did she object to being called 'duck'? He sometimes said 'hen' or 'love' or 'chook'. Political correctness was such bollocks; it took away the options you had to say something friendly and didn't leave you with you anything new. He called every female 'duck', whether she was nine or ninety. He'd been calling her that for months now; if she didn't like it she ought to say.
Or maybe (once or twice he wondered, when she did stop to chat) she felt miffed because he never used her name. Truth was he couldn't remember. It was a coloured woman's name (not every coloured woman, in case the PC brigade tried to nail him for that as well. Just West Indians sometimes, like the woman in Commercial Contracts was called Chauncey). He started to fold the chamois again, then threw it on the bonnet. It sounded like Florence, but much prettier. Or Loretta or Laura or Lindy Loo...see, if he'd got that kind of conversation going they'd both have had a laugh and she wouldn't have looked at him that way. She might be a bit straight laced but so was Eddie Fleming across the road and he could name all Eddie's grandchildren. It just proved he was slipping.
There was no use trying to deny it any more: he had dropped a gear. He heard the change of engine noise, so to speak, last summer. But what are first signs by themselves? Off days, a bug or indigestion, and once he'd excused them they were as good as hadn't happened. He even forgot last August, when he turned fifty, because it was so daft. Jenny put a marquee in the garden, hired a band, filled the house with people. It would never have occurred to her, or anyone who knew him, to ask if he wanted a party. A six foot six bloke mingles with his guests, wears a green afro wig and a t-shirt with “Golden Oldie “ printed on the back. He's enjoying himself, right? Yet, jabbering away, he was counting off their names: spoke with Carol and Wayne, remembered to ask Maggie about the baby, seen everyone from the office but Chris Miller--his 'drop by later' had better get sooner. It was as if, once he'd checked everyone off his mental list, he'd have the right to go upstairs and lock himself in the bathroom.

“Afternoon, duck.”
She said nothing, flew past and didn't so much as turn her head. Maybe she hadn't heard him. No, she must have. She'd see him as she came along the road; he was in plain view and not standing still. And if she saw him she'd expect to be greeted, because that's what he did, without fail, to be neighbourly. “Morning, duck,” it was mostly. She was out on that bike early some days. Or did she object to being called 'duck', or 'love'--not used as often? How was a person meant to check these things? It wasn't that it meant anything; he called every female 'duck', whether she was nine or ninety. It was just friendly. He'd been calling her duck for months now; if she didn't like it she ought to say.
Or maybe (once or twice he wondered, even when she smiled and returned his greeting) she felt miffed because he never used her name. It was a coloured woman's sort of name (not every coloured woman, obviously, just West Indians sometimes, like the woman who worked in Barclays was Chauncey). If he tried he always seemed to come up with Florence, which it definitely was not. He hated the name Florence; hers, on the other hand, had sounded pretty.
Just proved he was slipping. No use beating round the bush; he'd dropped a gear. It was part of a cycle: uproot, then accelerate to new circumstances. Voraciously encounter and befriend, make promises, join groups and go like the clappers. Keep it up until that inaudible breaking point, after which he'd lag behind, lag behind and be tempted to ask himself if it wasn't time--
But it wasn't. Or it wasn't going to be.

I ought to be able to predict it now. It immediately follows achievement, or the satisfaction that comes from achievement. I'm not saying it's without merit. We were book shopping in Peterborough yesterday; as I read back cover blurbs of the volumes privileged to be in the "3 for the price of 2" offer, it seemed that what sells is anything but English middle class ordinariness. Which is ironic, or maybe not, considering the majority of book buyers, or at least the people I observed in the shop.

But I'm not discovering anything new there, am I? One reason people read is to escape, not confront or contemplate situations like their own. Vitae Lampada is a book about English middle class characters, not solving a murder, or thrust into exotic locales, or time travelling. They're just dealing with their own lives, answering the existential questions (well, making suggestions).

My comfort is David Galenson's book "Old Masters and Young Geniuses" which suggests two creative processes: one whose ideas affect the style of the work, and one whose ideas work with existing styles to present something new. Since Galenson reckons that artists of the latter persuasion experience more self-doubt, and produce their better work later in their lives, I am hoping like you wouldn't believe that this explains me.

In fact, I'll e-mail it to Jayne along with a write up about my WI day in November. I also need a web site blurb for the novel. What can I say?

"Everybody a cricketer, you understand? Everybody. You don't get to choose; you must play what you can play."
If sport mirrors life, what can you take from one to help with the other? Rev. Jon Knipe must find out. He comes to his old ground, Trent Bridge, not just to watch a match, but to get answers about the past, to repair ties he broke when his marriage and profession were destroyed by scandal. It's a critical event. Outwardly it looks relaxed, but beneath the appearances is struggle. There must be advice to offer young Todd, the next generation, and new fire must be found to ignite the depths of two old men, so they don't get out with overs to spare.

It is no time for shirking. What lies ahead does not look good--'a bumping pitch and a blinding light' as the old poem would say. All the more important to know what game you play, and how to play it well.

Howzat?

Because it's been eight years, and I didn't think my last entry fully documented his reaction.

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When it went wrong, when he could no longer be the pastor, the one face he prayed not to see was Mrs. Hoffman's. Every familiar thing caused him some pain, even driving down the shops. He thought he couldn't manage the daily jabs so he moved away; as much as possible he avoided entering or crossing the county. He gave up his oldest passion. For eight years, and it worked. He had regained his old faculties. He saw sunshine now, enjoyed the sharp outlines and envigorated colour that came with it. And when he caught a glimpse of his destination, a slice of the old stone wall, his nerves also were miraculously cured.
He couldn't help but smile. He walked faster, then jogged. Reaching the intersection at Hounds Road he had to stop, and grab the collar of every emotion that would charge into the street unsupervised. The rapture of recognition--the pavilion's turrets, the white stands, the Dixon Gate. This was Trent Bridge. The name alone evoked, but to see the painted faces of Larwood and Voce gazine down from their pub sign.... He blinked his eyes, and when he couldn't keep back tears he pretended to have an itch. He hid his wet hand in a pocket. This was more reaction than he'd expected. How did a place go beyond being location and materials? How did it put the plug in the socket, if that wasn't the clumsiest metaphor for a jolt of reconnection with a fundamental?
But something had changed. He crossed the street to study the white building that plugged the gap where the old wall ended, a ticket office with a cashier's window. The pavement outside had been resurfaced and hedges planted to make queuing orderly. He sniffed at it. He felt sure the basic structure had always been there, but couldn't bring to mind its original size, if that differed. A small dent in his joy was noted. Had he not gone away, he'd have been on hand to observe the renovation, memorise details. This lump sum impression excluded him, reminded him there would be work to do before he could say, 'I know this place'.
He bought his admission. He positioned himself in front of the gates, took a deep breath and checked the roads and pavements for anyone approaching. He heard two stewards behind him talking.
“I were at the Oval in '64.”
“When he took his three hundred?”

But there—Belinda had had the same small shoulders and wispy, tea coloured hair that frazzled when the weather was damp. They both got wind from hardboiled eggs, had a weakness for TV adaptations of Agatha Christie, and turned at the same instant to kiss each other during the chorus of “Nights in White Satin”. It didn't necessarily mean anything.
At the time, of course, he thought it qualified him. Whether Mrs. Hoffman did...well, the problem was it used to bother him, how frequently she wanted counsel. Not for the time it took; the part of his job that might be called teasing out tangles in people's lives was central, the really motivating bit. Every six weeks or so Grace would come sit in his conservatory and speak her question like a memory verse but prefaced by the end of her teather. “I don't know, Dr. Knipe, how I am supposed to deal with this,” or somesuch. He had to coax for more. Only when he'd assured her there was nothing she must tell him and nothing she couldn't, would she drip feed him details in her sonorous voice. She'd halt mid sentence if Belinda came in with tea.
Throughout her telling she looked out at the garden, never at him. When finished she would sigh, and the creased, concentrated expression would relax. Her hands would make a final gesture before they folded themselves over the crest of her stomach; he came to understand this was his signal, that it was his turn to speak. She always nodded at his suggestions. Was it agreement? You see, it was the pose she struck with her ankles and knees together, her back and neck straight, her face serene and her gaze fixed. Like she engaged in some private discipline--like a buddha. It didn't occur to him that the impression might constitute any intuitive leap. He was the pastor and thus he did the helping.
All this happened in the two years leading up to the end. And when it came, the face he prayed not to see was Mrs. Hoffman's.
He reached the corner of Hounds Road and Bridgford Road. He had to stop there, just grab the collar on every emotion that wanted to charge out in the street unsupervised. This was home, heart, heaven—the words just stepped forward like volunteers. This was Trent Bridge: the old stone wall, the Dixon Gates, the faces of Larwood and Voce gazing down from the pub sign. He was surprised, how long he had to remain still to contain himself. The drivers going by gave him annoyed looks; they expected him to cross. He wished he could. How did a place go beyond itself, so that when taken away, and brought back after a long time, you knew you had reconnected with a fundamental?
He advanced on the entrance slowly. He felt his heel touch the ground first and roll his shoe along to his toes. He ignored a car that honked. He crept to the window of the new ticket office and grinned at the woman inside. Then he tipped back his head to follow the outline of the structure, how it attached itself to the ground, instead of listening for the request to enter his PIN number. He paused near the entrance, tidying his wallet, so he could listen to the stewards' talk on the other side.
“I were at the Oval in '64.”
“When he took his three hundred?”
“Umm.”
“Must have been tremendous, that.”
The day he met Mrs. Hoffman here was not to be forgotten either. In 1997 the professor lost his tenure. The allegations were never proved, but Grace went through a needy spell where her usual sessions weren't enough. There was a week where the only time he had free was the first day of a round fifteen match between Nottinghamshire and Somerset, and he hadn't seen a live game all summer. But she sounded so anguished on the phone he told her to meet him at the gates and bought her a ticket.
The woman who came wasn't anyone he knew. She wore a hat; not that Grace had any concept of casual dress, but her millenry came in shapes and shades to suit every occasion. Why then did she chose broad brimmed watermelon straw trimmed with a blousy silk flower? And this talk, which started when she shook his hand and didn't finish until they found seats: Fleuretta was going to spend Christmas with her aunt Sophie and cousins in Basseterre. She would see moko-jumbies in the masquerade and taste the best cook up the world ever knew, maybe learn to dive. He had questions, but didn't need to ask. She anticipated every one, and he couldn't get a word in.
The wicker basket she brought was stuffed with cold chicken, potato salad, patties, dill pickles, a black, spongy fruit cake and macaroons. She offered it with an ebullience to undermine the worst appetite. Mouth full, mind full – he looked for his rightful indignance, because she seized and held the initiative when he ought to be in charge.

"like a Buddha"
;he didn't think he'd made an intuitive leap. He was the pastor and he did the helping. Though he grew weary of it, month after month much the same. He wondered, was she not getting it or was he just the best source of attention she could find? Then came a week when the only time he could spare....etc.

As a draft these extracts should be viewed as rough, the coarsest grade.

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For the expression she wore at the end of talking to him. They wrestled the problem until spent, and suddenly her face would go slack and she would stare unblinking and remind him distinctly of a buddha. Then they'd say their goodbyes, and she would go home with whatever (if anything) she had taken to be good advice.
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Grace came monthly, with a set question prefaced by a sigh. "I don't know, Dr. Knipe, how to go on with it anymore." He had to prod for more detail. Only when he assured her there was nothing she must tell him and nothing she couldn't, would she drip feed him details in that sonorous voice. She'd halt mid sentence if Belinda put her head through the door to offer tea.

She agreed with all his suggestions. She looked at him infrequently, preferring to stare out at the garden and nod as he spoke.

But there—Belinda had the same small shoulders and wispy, tea coloured hair that frazzled in damp. They both got wind from hardboiled eggs, had a weakness for TV adaptations of Agatha Christie, and turned at the same instant to kiss each other during the chorus of “Nights in White Satin”. It didn't necessarily mean anything.
And he recalled that, when it stopped meaning, the face he prayed not to see was Mrs. Hoffman's. Mind's eye was bad enough, playing back how she sighed her sentences, how worry lines threaded beads with the freckles on her cheeks. She took too much blame for what didn't work in her marriage, Jon believed. Her desire to make things good made things worse, but there seemed no way to explain the contradiction that wouldn't upset her. Then the professor lost his tenure in '97. The allegations were never proved, but she went through a very needy spell, and not just her; the tape on his answer phone warped with messages. The only time he had managed to keep free from pastoral business was the first day of a round fifteen match between Nottinghamshire and Somerset. He hadn't seen a game all summer, but she sounded so anguished he bought her a ticket.
The woman he met wasn't from the same world. She wore a hat--not that Grace ever went out casually dressed. But she had millenry in every shape and shade, to suit every occasion, so what made her choose broad brimmed watermelon straw with an orange band? Oh, and Fleuretta was going to spend Christmas with her aunt Sophie and cousins in Basseterre—this talk started and didn't finish until they found seats. She would see the moko-jumbies in the masquerade, and taste the best cook up the world ever knew, maybe go diving. She anticipated his questions; he didn't get a word in.

************************************************

Not 100% happy with this. The phrases "she sighed her sentences, how worry lines threaded beads with the freckles on her cheeks" annoys me more each time I read it. I feel I have to elaborate on Jon's reluctance to see her after his marriage break-up. Because he's worked so hard to save hers and then his goes belly up. So I don't think describing Grace's appearance...well, it seems clichéed. To Jon she is a symbol of a woman who tried to preserve a marriage that was probably a mistake from the start. Jon, conversely, thought his marriage was solid and probably failed to notice the signs of its deterioration.

I do like the bit about the hat. We'll have another bash at this.

Ninety minutes before start of play, Jon parked in his usual place. The first thing he noticed, getting out the car, was stillness. And the angst of stillness, as if the world were guest at some cosmic party, and suddenly realised it was talking louder than anyone else in the room. He used to know a council employee, who told him noise reduction in Nottingham was thirty-two percent by the second day of an average weekend. However they measured it, this was more. It weighed in momentous and pending like the pause before a starting pistol, with a gravity of commemorative silence. There was no traffic. No one walked in the park or along Central Avenue or went in the Co-op. It lasted maybe fifteen seconds.
Jon observed it with his door open and his hand rested on his floppy hat on the bonnet. He felt responsible. Under the nail, his right pinkie was bruised and the cuticle ragged. The skin had been between his teeth all the way down Trevor Road, though that was no worry. The street hadn't changed in eight years. Then he got to Tudor Square, where the shopfronts were new brick and double glazed, the pavements curvier. He tore his finger away to take the steering wheel in both hands, negotiate a convolution of mini roundabouts that diverted him past the police station, all the time wondering if this really, really was a good idea. But the meeting was set. So he, like the silence, was nervous but resolved. It fit his situation so perfectly he moved his lips to shape the word ‘yes’.
A cyclist appeared from the Park Avenue direction and whizzed through the car park. She braked at the bottle banks, wrestled a bag of glass from her pannier and started to smash each piece. Jon put on his hat and sunglasses and went round to open the boot. Inside, his binoculars had escaped the backpack and slid into a corner. He put them back, and checked the bag again for his pen and spare pen, Playfair annual and scorebook. He pulled out his jacket, then looked up at the sky. Chubby clouds with clean white tops, a few of which travelled nose to tail like bumper cars: these the weatherman said would be as bad as it got. It wouldn't rain, but the wind might get up. Trent Bridge was a draughty ground but even given that, it was very warm.
“Morning.”
Jon dropped his head and found himself face to face with the cyclist.
“Sorry, afternoon! Listen to me, I always get my times mixed up.”
For two reasons he didn't answer. Firstly, she was smiling that kind of smile.
“I couldn't help notice how you were looking up to heaven.”
His accumulated experience of facial expressions led him to a theory that true joy created the beginnings of a laugh, a grin that exposed all top teeth and often a ridge of bottom ones. Contentment would turn up the mouth at both sides, might or might not open it. The person who was not happy, but needed to convince him or herself that they were, would smile with top teeth well forward of a defensively curled lower lip. And they would open their eyes too wide, as if pleading.
The second reason he held his tongue was that he was sure he knew her.
“Maybe you'd like to join our celebration,” she suggested. Reaching into her pannier again she pulled out a sheet of A5, painfully red, and held it up. His fingers caught the corner to keep it steady and a name, Fleuretta Hoffman, transmitted with the touch. Did any signal pass to her?
“We meet every third Sunday at 6:30pm. It's different. We're full of the Spirit; we just pray and sing and hopefully bring a little heaven down.”
He pretended to read the leaflet. Her face, part of the unfocussed background, still had not registered his identity.
“No preaching,” she added, “no long, boring sermons.”
He couldn't help it. He gave her a hard stare and got a reaction; her eyebrows twitched.
“But if you like sermons, you can always go to our morning service. That's at 10:30 in the same place. It's not far—do you know this area?”
Jon nodded.
“It's the junction of Musters and Patrick Road,” she pointed. “Honestly, I think you'd like it. You look like a very spiritually minded man.”
“I'm going to the cricket,” he finally said.
There, she made the connection, not by sight but by hearing. She blinked; she blinked a lot. She took back her leaflet and crushed the paper round her handlebar. Now he felt sorry for bringing back the past and embarassing her, but at least he knew all those long, boring sermons hadn't been entirely wasted.
“Well,” a frog got her throat, “maybe next time.” She mounted the bike, turned, and rode away fast. No memories would catch her going that speed. They were left with him, as he took his pack and locked the car and set off in the same direction.
Then it came again, the quiet, white padding over the city. Or perhaps it only fell on him, because he didn't register his own footsteps until he was almost at the ground. It put the encounter with Fleuretta between parentheses of soundlessness, framed, so it was difficult not to ask what purposes had combined to create the perception.
For that matter, what had combined to make Fleuretta? He remembered her father drank grappa. On each of the three times they met the professor wanted it stated early on that the species most closely related to humans was not the chimpanzee but the bonobo, a smaller chimpanzee. Had it been genetic research, then, that made him holiday in St. Kitts and inject his dry rationalism into a vivacious local named Grace? And as if that weren't contrast enough, he stood six foot six and she five foot one. He went grey early and never filled his clothes, while his wife grew round.
But there—Belinda had the same small shoulders and wispy, tea coloured hair that frazzled in damp. Maybe they both had a weakness for TV adaptations of Agatha Christie, and did turn at the same time to kiss each other during the chorus of “Nights in White Satin”. It didn't necessarily mean anything.

Ninety minutes before start of play, Jon parked in his usual place. The first thing he noticed, getting out the car, was stillness. And the angst of stillness, as if the world were guest at some cosmic party, and suddenly realised it was talking louder than anyone else in the room. He used to know a council employee, who told him noise reduction in Nottingham was thirty-two percent by the second day of an average weekend. However they measured it, this was more. It weighed in momentous and pending like the pause before a starting pistol, with a gravity of commemorative silence. There was no traffic. No one walked in the park or along Central Avenue or went in the Co-op. It lasted maybe fifteen seconds.
Jon observed it with his door open and his hand rested on his floppy hat on the bonnet. He felt vaguely responsible. Under the nail, his right pinkie was bruised and the cuticle ragged. The skin had been between his teeth all the way down Trevor Road, though that was no worry. The street hadn't changed in eight years. Then he got to Tudor Square, where the shopfronts were new brick and double glazed, the pavements curvier. He tore his finger away to take the steering wheel in both hands, negotiate a convolution of mini roundabouts that diverted him past the police station, all the time wondering if this really, really was a good idea. But the meeting had been set. So he, like the silence, was nervous but resolved. It fit his situation so perfectly he moved his lips to shape the word ‘yes’.
***********************************

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

That last opening sucks. I am getting ahead of myself again; there is time for that scene somewhere else. We will keep the opening paragraph in the car park with Jon getting out of the car. We may add a sentence or two, but not an entire flashback.

Now the point of the book is to look critically at the poem 'Vitae Lampada' by Henry Newbolt. It implies that life is like competitive sport, so the point is to blindly follow the game structure. On one hand this can have dangers, and yet who can avoid them? Almost every aspect of life is a game, with rules, and opponents, and challenges, and leaders, and limits, and rewards. But unlike in games (or stories), lives rarely have a single, consistent structure. And the rules change--quietly--so that if one weren't careful they might fail to notice.

Therefore, if you try to live your life as though it were based on a single, consistent game with unchanging structure and rules you would have episodes of disorientation. When a close family member commits suicide, or is caught up in a fatal accident they didn't cause, or a child dies before its parents -- these are situations where you see people lose the ability to cope. And this is because they were living life with certain expectations; they thought the game was meant to be played thus and such. But there is no game, or perhaps, no single one.

This is how I understand the post-modern rejection of meta-narratives (life defining stories). To me, the terms 'meta-narrative' and 'game' could be interchanged. Both terms describe an expectation of conformity to a meaningful pattern. And while I believe there are meaningful patterns, I don't believe they are static, or that one ever comprehends their entirety.

Going back to the book, I have the present action of 'Vitae Lampada' take place during a single, 40 over game of cricket. On top of that will be the layers of self-revelation from the characters -- Jon, Trevor, Todd, Grace, Fleuretta and David. The characters will try to make their experiences meaningful by finding comparisons with cricket, among other things. The attempts will fail as often as succeed. The key will be this: the characters will learn that whenever they find meaning, they use it to move forward as much as they can, until that meaning fails. And when it fails, they just look somewhere else.

So in an ironic way I end up agreeing with Henry Newbolt when he says, "Play up, lads, play up! And play the game". Life is like children playing. You try this for a while, as long as it works. When it stops working, you don't despair. You know life isn't a single, unchanging game, so you accept new circumstances, and look for a new way to play. The game of life is many games; you play as many as you find yourself in, for as long as you can. I think this will be the theme of "Vitae Lampada" the novel.