Nanowrimo Winner

[Total word count: 18,056]

“I’m really sorry if I seemed a bit combative about this. I do appreciate the way you’ve taken on this challenge. I should have been more sympathetic. Let’s face it, it’s not about competition. It’s about two old friends, striving together towards the summit of a mountain. Oh. And the other thing it’s about. What is it now? That I’m a winner, and you’re a loser. Nearly forgot! Where’s the loser? There’s the loser! Where’s the loser? There’s the loser!”

This, gentle reader, is not me speaking. It’s Geoff, speaking to me, while Julie is at the bar.

“Geoff,” I respond, thoughtfully, “You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity.”

“Alright, book boy” he said, in a low voice, “If you think you’re hard enough, let’s put money on it. First to 50,000, OK? A bottle of Cristal on it from the first to give up. Are you up for it? Do you fancy your chances? Or are you going to concede now?”

“I don’t want to bet on it.”

“Where’s the lo-ser?”

“Oh, fuck you. Alright. Cristal it is.”

In case you don’t know, gentle reader, Cristal is a kind of champagne that goes for at least £150 a bottle. Vastly overpriced: in fact, it was a bit of girly bet, in my opinion, but I wasn’t in the mood to start haggling.

I don’t know what brought on this sudden aggression from Geoff. It wasn’t as if I’d provoked him or anything. I had asked him politely how the heaving bosoms were coming on, and left it at that. No mention of wimples, no jeering.

Julie came back to the table with a pint of London Pride for me and cooking lager for Geoff. He has no taste where beer is concerned..

“I hope you two are being nice about this stupid writing.” said Julie.

“Oh yes,” said Geoff, “I’m passing on a couple of tips.”

“He wants to have a bet on it.” I said..

“Oh, do you have to?” said Julie, pressing her lips together. “What does Maureen think about all this, Geoff?”

“She’s not very happy with me at the moment, to be honest.” admitted Geoff, “But I’ve explained that it will help my CV. You know how it is. You need to put something down about interests and hobbies. Everybody puts reading and walking, and stupid stuff like that; this will be something a bit more eye-catching.”

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey,” I said, in my Voice From The Tomb voice, “Think again, Geoffrey.”

“I know you don’t care about your career,” he said, “But a good CV is really important. When I’ve retired at forty-five and bought a mansion in the Bahamas, you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. I mean Nanowrimo is poison in a CV, Almost as bad as fell walking.”

“What’s wrong with fell walking?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Geoff,” said Julie, “You see, an employer is usually looking for people who are good team players, who muck in and work hard, and basically believe what they’re told and do what they’re told. Now fell walking is a sign that you enjoy being on your own a lot, spend a lot of time in solitary thought, and have peculiar ideas of your own. A weirdo, if you like.”

“And Nanowrimo is pretty bad, too, “ I explained, “All writing is solitary and thoughtful and original, which is bad enough. But it’s also an inherently weird way of writing, involving the Internet, which is also a deadly sign that you’re a bit nerdy if not an actual psychopath. If you want to enhance your CV, you should start organising community singing at the local church, or team games, possibly for charity since that will eliminate any idea that you might harbour individual motives of your own.”

“Well, I can tell you it’s gone down pretty well at my firm,” said Geoffrey obstinately, but his face had taken on that collapsed look which undisguisably betrays sudden despair.

“Of course, you don’t have to put it in your CV, if you don’t want to.” suggested Julie, comfortingly.

“Go through all this for something that’s not going in my CV?” demanded Geoff, “Thanks.”

“She’s right,” I said, “You needn’t tell anyone about it, if you don’t want to.

“It’s too late for that,” said Geoffrey, lugubriously, “There’s a feature about me in this month’s staff magazine. People keep offering to sponsor me.”

“I suppose if you took sponsorship and did it for charity, that could look quite good,” suggested Julie. Geoff brightened slightly, but then his eyes narrowed.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “You’re just trying to psych me, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” I said, and drained my pint rapidly, much to Julie’s evident incredulity and disapproval.

“I’ve got to get in another thousand words,” I explained.

“Oh come on. You’re not really going, now?”

“If it’s going to be a bet…” I said.

She sighed irritably.

In fact, faithful reader, I was not going home to work on my work. I was off to meet up with some of my fellow ‘wrimos again. But I saw no need to mention that.

I did intend to get a bit of writing in. At the chosen rendezvous, I got myself a half, fired up the old laptop and dived straight in.

“Mr Green?”

Charlie looked up in surprise. Fenella Fidgett had a large briefcase in one hand, and was smiling affably. She stepped forward and took his arm in her hand confidentially.

“Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” she began, “But I’m really grateful. I know my family isn’t exactly popular around here any more, but it seems a bit hard that I should be blamed for everything. It’s not exactly pleasant, you know, standing by while your family is gradually wiped out. They all seem to think I did it. You’re the only one decent enough to even give me the benefit of the doubt. I just wanted to say… well, it makes a difference. Thank you.”

“That’s alright,” said Charlie, “It, well… that’s alright.”

“God, you’re not waiting for the bus, are you? I thought you were a chauffeur?”

“Yes, well Lady Sarah has taken the car herself today. She said she didn’t want me to have to hang around all day while she was talking to her cousin’s friend. So I thought I’d get the bus into town for once.”

“Oh, you can’t do that. You’ll wait all day. I’ll give you a lift. Come on!”

“Oh, no, that’s very kind but I don’t really think…”

“No, come on, I insist. The car’s just over there. I was going in to town to see the lawyers – see this bag? So many papers to work through.”

“I suppose there are,” said Charlie, letting himself be led away to where Fenella’s small blue car was parked by the green.

Charlie’s large frame did not fit very comfortably inside the little car, even when he cautiously let the seat back as far as it would go.

“Alright, now you mustn’t watch me driving,” said Fenella, promptly stalling, “Having a professional in the car makes me nervous”

“I haven’t been a professional very long,” said Charlie, wincing involuntarily as the gears clashed. “I’d never thought of being a driver until Lady Sarah asked me if I’d do it, you know.”

“So you’ll be leaving us when Lady Sarah goes back to London?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Perhaps. I’m sort of on trial, you know.”

“You’ve lived in Wenham a long time, haven’t you? I’m sure I remember you being a big boy down in the village before I went off to prep school.”

“Perhaps you do,” said Charlie. He could almost believe that he remembered a golden-haired little girl staring intently at him as he tinkered with his first motorbike, though if you had asked him half an hour earlier, he would have said that he had never seen the Fidgett children in Wenham until they were all teenagers.

“You won’t mind moving, though?”

“No. I don’t think so. Of course, I shall miss the place. And the people.” Charlie’s attention suddenly shifted to the road. “You might want to take this a bit slow,” he advised, hesitantly, “That’s a sharp turn onto the old bridge. It’s got no wall to speak of, and it’s a steep drop down Wenham Dyke.”

Fenella’s face went stiff.

“No brakes.” she exclaimed, pumping her foot on the brake pedal.

“Change down!” shouted Charlie, but it was already too late as they hit the low side wall of the old bridge and bounced over it to the long drop beyond.

How the hell am I going to get him out of that one? I can’t just say she dies and he survives – too much a matter of pure chance. Is there time for him to throw himself out at the last moment? Not very plausible. Unless…

As the open-topped car tipped over the brink, Charlie’s cramped legs straightened, propelling him up and back. His feet came clear of the dashboard, and as the car slipped over the edge, he jumped back in a desperate flop and landed heavily on his back on the roadway. The back of his head hit the ground, and for a moment he was stunned.

“Ay y’alright, boy?” a bearded old man was bending over him.

“I’ll be alright,” muttered Charlie. Struggling to his knees, he stood up and looked over the edge. The car had turned fully upside down before slamming into the edge of the towpath below.

“Thas the last o’ that.” observed the old man, tranquilly.

“Hi there. Need a drink?” It was Tom, inevitably.

“No, thanks.” I said, “I’m OK. ”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I’m concentrating on the writing here – I’m not going to make a big drinking session of it.”

I noticed for the first time that the Mouse was sitting opposite me, and looking pretty unhappy.

“Hello!” I said, wondering how quickly I could get back to Wenham without being rude. “Didn’t recognise you at first. You’ve got a new hairstyle. Nice.”

“You like this better then?” she asked. “I could see what you meant.”

I couldn’t altogether follow this for a moment. My brain, moving with the speed and fluidity of frozen treacle, worked out that she had told me she read the blog, and that in all probability she had therefore read what I said about her hair style (What else did I say about her? Something about not crawling over her to get to you, gentle reader? I can’t remember, but I really hope I haven’t done a Woss ‘n’ Brand here). She knew I didn’t like her hair. She knew I didn’t know her name. What’s more, trickily, she will probably read this at some future date, or as far as you are concerned, oh reader of posterity, probably has already read it. Unless you are her, of course. But you’re not, are you?

No, I’m sure I couldn’t have said anything bad about Miss Mouse. I like her. Really.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said, “It does look good down like that though. And shorter, isn’t it? I’m sorry. You obviously know I never really got your name. What is it?”

“I don’t mind being called Miss Mousy.” she said, and smiled.

“I’m really embarrassed,” I said, with an ingratiating grin. “How’s the word count?”

“Three hundred.”

“Three hundred?” I was genuinely shocked, and all thought of Wenham left my mind for the time being.

“You think you’ve got problems.” she said morosely.

“I remember your story,” I said, “Lady Muck. It sounded good to me. What’s the problem?”

“I just can’t work out how the story goes. I’ve got three hundred words describing the town of Skeggerthwaite where she is supposed to grow up, and I can’t work out what actually happens there.”

“Can I help? I sort of don’t like to suggest anything- it seems like stealing your idea.”

“Oh no, if you’ve got any ideas. It’s OK to accept ideas: it’s just other people’s words you can’t take.”

“Well, let’s see. Just thoughts, you know, probably rubbish. So she’s this aspirational eight year old. Every year on Trafalgar Day, Alderman Sidebotham has a children’s party at the town hall, but she hasn’t been allowed to go because she’s never got a nice dress, right? So this year, she works on all these odd jobs, mowing lawns, cleaning windows, and so on, and she scrapes together enough money to go to Morden and Merton the big department store and buy this fantastic thing all full of ribbons and lace, and I don’t know, organdie.”

“Go on.” said the Mouse.

“Right, so she puts on the big dress and sets off. Now when she’s not being aspirational, she’s a bit of a tomboy, right, so some of the boys sort of jeer at her as she’s going, but she just sticks her nose in the air. Then Jimmy, the ringleader, jumps on top of her and they have a wrestling match. She wins and beats the daylights out of him, but she’s all completely covered in mud and the dress is ruined.”

“This is good,” says the Mouse, admiringly, “It’s just right for my character.”

“OK, obviously she’s furious and there’s a big row. Her mother tells her she can’t go now. Anyway, half an hour later Alderman Sidebotham is at the Town Hall and he hears this little voice addressing him. He looks down and there’s this mud-covered urchin, but she insists on talking to him as if she were a smart lady making small talk. The old fellow has a heart of gold and is charmed: he gets her to sit next to him, servants tut-tutting and all that, and gets the story out of her. So he has a maid wash her up as much as possible, and then at the end of the party he gives her a ride home. He’s got this, oh six-cylinder Hispano-Suiza, and as it sweeps past the goggle-eyed boys it sort of sprays the puddle all over them. You can put in some stuff earlier about how all the boys admire this Hispano-Suiza and dream of being able to ride in it, you know.”

“That’s really good”, she say, her eyes shining, “Just what I need. Is a Hispano-Suiza a kind of car?”