Nanowrimo Winner

[Total Word Count: 49,479]

“Good morning!” said Julie, “Sleep alright?”

I gradually resumed consciousness and pieced together the essential memories I needed for a coherent answer,

“Yeah, not too bad, considering,” I answered, levering myself up off the couch.

“There’s coffee if you want it. I’m off in about ten minutes. OK?” she glanced sideways “What’s that?” she asked, staring at the table.

The wine bottle still stood there, gentle reader, but in it was a single red rose.

“It’s just a rose.” I said, “Well, I say ‘just’, but I had to ransack about twelve gardens last night to find it. Your neighbours are probably going to think the Yeti’s moved into the neighbourhood.”

She clicked her tongue, shook her head, and left.

I felt pretty good that day, in spite of a relative lack of sleep. I was back in control. But there was an unwelcome task ahead of me, and as the evening approached my spirits began to droop again.

It was only as I picked up the phone that I realised there was another difficulty. I still had no idea what Mouse’s actual name was. But I wanted to speak to her. I didn’t want just to avoid answering the phone for the next month. Never mind, with any luck, she’d answer the phone herself.

“Hello?” said a voice, uninformatively. I wasn’t even completely sure it wasn’t her, but I didn’t think so.

“Hi!” I said. What now? “Er, this is John…”

“Hello! Did you want to speak to Phillipa?”

Phillipa! Aha! My strategy was succeeding.

“Yes please.”

“She’s not here any more, I’m afraid.”

“Not there?”

“No, she moved out.”

“She moved out? Surely not? When was this?”

“Oh, last February, She went back to Shropshire. Haven’t got a phone number, but I think we’ve got an address if that’s any use.”

“No, no thanks, that’s…OK.”

“Sorry. Bye!”

So much for that. I replaced the phone in confusion. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Luckily Mouse took matters into her own hands and rang me about ten minutes later.

“Was that you speaking to Anna just now?” she asked, “Why did you ask for Phillipa?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t. Don’t forget… I still don’t actually know your name.”

“It’s Cecilia.”

“Thanks. Hello, Cecilia.”

“Hello. How are you?”

“I was wondering… Could we meet in the pub again, tonight?”

“Oh, I should think so! Same one, about seven?”

“Yes, that’s great.” I said, wondering immediately why I thought so.

After that conversation, I sat in front of the laptop for forty minutes, but it was no good. I actually began to revise the last section I’d written, which is a bad sign. You don’t revise. Don’t revise. Don’t.

As I approached the pub, I felt really sick, and it was worse when I saw Mouse sitting there, happy, waving at me. I liked her. She was nice. I wanted to be friendly. I didn’t want to upset her. Or was it vanity to think she’d be upset?

I got drinks and sat down.

“I just… I wanted to say…” I began.

She understood instantly, without a coherent sentence being spoken. She went stiff: I could see whole structures of assumptions and hopes turn instantly to choking dust inside her. A look came over her face, a look of fury, a look I hadn’t seen since I had suggested her story was like one of Catherine Cookson’s.

“You don’t want to see me.” she said, coldly.

“I feel like a total bastard…”

“You are a total bastard.”

“Uh, yeah. Well. I’m sorry. You’re great, but you know, I’m sort of in a relationship.”

“Oh yes. Like it says on your stupid blog. Good luck to you. You do realise she’s just about to dump you?”

“Oh, look… Don’t let’s do this. Don’t…”

“I felt sorry for you, but it’ll serve you right. Oh, what’s the point?” she stood up.

“Mouse,” I said, “Don’t…”

“Cecilia!” she hissed, and left. I sat back and sipped sadly at my pint. I didn’t really know how I could have handled things any better. Apart from not sleeping with her in the first place, obviously.

And then she was back again, angrier than ever.

“And you know what?” she said, “You know what? Your story is crap. It’s crap. It’s full of clichés, the characters are corny and flat, the plot doesn’t make sense; there are no clues… it’s full of irrelevant digressions, all the characters sound like you – you pompous git – it’s all dialogue with no description, the motives don’t ring true, the chronology is contradictory, and the names of characters change half-way through…the names are all stupid as well… your MC is a boring male fantasy…”

The spirit of Nanowrimo rose strongly in me.

“Yes,” I said, conclusively, “All of that is true. But none of it matters, because you know what? It is fifty thousand words long.”

“To think I said I liked it!” she hissed, “To think I actually listened to your ideas!”

“Look,” I said, “Let’s not do it like this. I understand why you’re angry, but let’s not make a meal of it. I tell you what. Just hit me, OK? Get it over with.” I held out my cheek as if for a slap, but much to my surprise she punched me, and gentle reader, she got some surprising force behind it for such a slightly-built person.

“Ow, shit!” I said, involuntarily. It hurt like hell, really, far worse than I’d bargained for. But I think it did relieve her feelings for a moment. She sort of pursed her lips in a job-well-done sort of way.

Everyone in the pub was looking at us now, and the landlord was putting down the glass he had been polishing as if he might just come over.

“Sorry,” she said, insincerely, “But you deserved it.” She stalked out quickly.

“Sorry!” I said to the bar at large, “Sorry! You know… sorry!”

You know, gentle reader, I’m a reasonable sort of bloke. I’m ready to accept the karmic harvest of my personal turpitude. But really, you know? I take up a friendly offer, I politely decline anything more: in this day and age, gentle reader, is that grounds for outrage? Just asking.

Anyway, I stayed where I was for a while, under the landlord’s beady eye, just finishing my drink, giving Cecilia plenty of time, if she were so inclined, to pop back and point out that my poetic imagery was rubbish, or my use of metaphor and simile was weak.

It was fairly clear to me that I wouldn’t be served another drink in this establishment this evening, and that in fact I had probably overstayed my welcome already. I had the strong impression that the landlord thought it was better to let me leave quietly than throw me out, but that if it came to it, he was by no means averse in principle to the latter alternative. But I rather felt the need of one more drink. I went outside and phoned Geoff on the off-chance. He was slow to answer.

“Fancy a pint?” I asked, when he did, “I’ve had a difficult session here.”

“Difficult session?” he answered angrily, “Oh, you’re having difficult sessions, are you?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing. Sorry. I can’t come out. Er… she’s here.”

For a moment my confused brain conjured an image of Cecilia giving Geoff a thorough briefing on my failure to exploit to the full the resources offered by litotes and zeugma.

“Who, Mercedes?” Even in my depressed state, my interest in Geoff’s obliging girlfriend was soon reawakened.

Geoff grunted irritably.

“She’s been here for two hours already. She wants me to listen. She says she wants advice, but I’m not allowed to say a word. Between you and me, I think the only way through, the only way my ears can cope, is for me to get totally rat-arsed again, the way I was the first time.”

“The first time?”

“The first time she unloaded all her damn issues about… oh you know. Oh fuck, look John, I really can’t talk like this, with her upstairs. It’s just mad. I’m sorry. Really. I’ve got to go. Sorry, mate. Really. Bye.”

O, the mutability of human fate, gentle reader. One minute a man is enjoying an uncomplicated regime of sex and cooked breakfasts, the next his happiness is dashed and he finds himself being required to spend his evenings listening sympathetically to a range of female relationship problems. I mean, isn’t God supposed to be a man? I couldn’t help feeling though, that in a limited way Geoff was getting what he deserved for falsely representing himself as a good listener, a reckless step which is all too easily taken in the early stages of a relationship.

I walked home contemplatively and plonked myself in front of the laptop. I really need to press on here – there’s a definite possibility that I can finish ahead of schedule, before the actual last day of the month – and wouldn’t that be great? But in spite of myself, I can’t help thinking about what Mouse said.

Are the names of my characters stupid? OK, Fidgett is a fairly whimsical name for the Earl’s family. But what Mouse, OK Cecilia, probably doesn’t realise is that I stole the name from Osbert Lancaster. It’s the name of the aristocratic family in Drayneflete. Surely no-one – no-one who’s read James Knox’s book, at any rate – is going to tell me they think Osbert Lancaster is stupid?

OK, the clues are a bit deficient. They don’t really amount to a knock-down case. Mind you, Agatha Christie’s clues weren’t all that good. She was a devil for the late revelation which solves the case and which the reader hadn’t been given a hint about. So I understand. To be honest, I’ve never actually read any Agatha Christie.

Wenham makes sense to you, doesn’t it, gentle reader? Oh, I forgot. You haven’t actually read it. Only the bits I’ve quoted. You know there’s lots of other stuff in it, all good stuff? And you’ve read enough to know it makes sense, haven’t you?

“What you have to remember, you see,“ said Lady Jane as they sped towards London, “Is that we’re not in a detective story. In those things, it always happens that the case produced by the detective is enough to secure a conviction; or the guilty parties confess, faced with the overwhelming evidence, or they kill themselves. So everything is wrapped up neatly; they never end up knowing who it is but unable to get a guilty verdict.”

“In real life, it’s not like that. Poirot would never have secured a single conviction in the real world. People don’t confess, and they don’t obligingly kill themselves just because you happen to have correctly accused them. It’s not as easy as that.”

Charlie digested this for a few moments.

“Still, though” he said, slowly, “ the Wenham murders. It so happened that they actually did kill each other off, leaving no-one to be tried. So that is a real world case where things were wrapped up neatly, isn’t it?”

“Charlie,” said Lady Jane, “Come on now. It may be neatly wrapped up, but do you really think they killed each other?”

The car lurched just perceptibly sideways as Charlie absorbed this.

“You mean they didn’t? But that was what you said – you convinced everyone that that was what happened. And then if they didn’t, you mean there is a single murderer after all? Is it…?”

“It was a complex case, granted. If this is a story we’re living in,” said Lady Jane, darkly, “there’s been more than one person who thought they were the author. More than one who thought they could dictate the course of events. But they miscalculated. You know, Charlie, I’m not a big believer in traditional resolutions, and I don’t always see a need for the actual killer to be brought to book…”

Oh no, look, this is somehow drifting away again. The story’s over, complete. We’re not looking for another twist. We’re just bulking out the word count. Is that OK with you, Lady Jane? You know, gentle reader, I was a bit worried when Charlie started getting into my dreams, but at least it wasn’t her. Maybe it serves me right for imagining a character who is more clear-sighted and intelligent than I am. I’ve got Sherlock Holmes syndrome – you know how Holmes was basically sharper and more resourceful than Conan Doyle his creator, and hence wouldn’t allow himself to be killed off, even when Doyle, in desperation, threw him over the Reichenbach falls. That’s not happening here, Lady Jane – sorry. I know she’s trying to mess me up. She doesn’t like the happy ending – that sort of thing is not to her taste. Tough luck.

No: I am master here, and I decree that there will be no more negative reflections. It’s still partly a superstitious thing I admit – I half-believe that what I’m writing is influencing my real life somehow. If things are bad in Wenham, they turn bad with me, and vice versa. I know that’s a bit mad. Put it down to a month of continual creative and emotional stress, gentle reader. But that’s only half of it. The other half is a new kind of ethical commitment. An author has a kind of responsibility to his characters, don’t you think? Or am I just losing it?