Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1998

		Bob Thomson This is my second year with Newham Writers Workshop. I have continued to write short stories, and have a preference for those which have an ending that surprises the reader. The one that I included in the last anthology seems to have done so quite successfully: I hope this one does too. Eric Gilda had made her plan. It wasn't a very good one, but she thought it might work. The plan was to entrap William. William, she reminded herself, not Bill. He looked like a William, and not like a Bill, she thought; the name had resonances for her of Richmal Crompton's delightful little urchin - ingenious, but with a sublime innocence. But this William was thirty-five years old, not eleven, and no man of thirty-five should look as innocent as he did. She was twenty-eight, and had been divorced three years previously, and something was missing from her life, to wit: a man. It was five years into the Swinging Sixties, and everybody seemed to be swinging except her; and William of course. She had worked for the Company for five years, and he for fifteen. He had qualified as an accountant while he was working for the Company and had, very unusually for an accountant, stayed with them after qualifying. It was partly fortuitous. Just as William was about to sit his final examinations his boss had decided to leave, and William was offered the job provided he passed his finals. Even so, most accountants prefer to move around a bit after qualifying, to gain experience of different trades, which is an advantage where salary is concerned. His decision to stay with the Company added to the reputation he already had: his colleagues thought him unimaginative and unambitious. The women thought he was downright dull. That was partly because he never showed the slightest interest in any of them. As the years went by, the man in his early twenties grew into the man in his middle thirties, and in all that time no-one had ever heard him refer to a female friend. The possibility of homosexuality had been discussed, but the women had decided that he was not that way inclined. You can always tell by the way a man looks at you, they said. So what was wrong with him? At lunch-time William always sat at the same table in the canteen with the same three male colleagues. Agnes McWilliam was a happily married woman of fifty or so who had returned to work after twenty years bringing up four children. She usually sat alone at lunch because she was on volume three of Proust's vast novel, and people were polite enough to leave her in peace. Apart from her feminine preoccupation with her weight, she made no attempt to make herself particularly attractive to men. Her lunch, which she brought from home, was always one small carton of yoghurt and two slices of that dark Swedish bread which looks like cardboard, and tastes like it as well. Gilda had worked out that Agnes would take about eight years to finish with M. Proust, as she did not take the book home, and she never spent more than twenty minutes at lunch. At twenty minutes past one she always hurried upstairs to the photo-copier and, while nobody was about, made wholesale quantities of copies of knitting patterns which she sold at half retail price to members of her branch of the Women's Institute. Gilda did not want to lure William to an unoccupied table, as this might look too blatant, and perhaps give rise to skittish comments from the other women. William might possibly refuse to be so lured, as he seemed to be frightened of women, but Agnes was safe - the ideal chaperone. Gilda hoped that William had never noticed that Agnes stayed only until twenty past one. She was loitering just inside the canteen when William appeared, and she marched towards the end of the queue and managed to arrive there at the same time as he did. Being a gentleman, he stepped back and allowed her to precede him. She gave him a bright smile and remarked that the little chipolata sausages looked delicious, and helped herself to six. William agreed that they looked delicious, and also took some. She hesitated between chips and mashed potatoes, and then said that mashed potatoes were healthier, and lovely with the fried onions. William also took mashed potatoes and fried onions. He followed her example with the peas and carrots, and then again with the apricot tart and custard. He seems very suggestible, thought Gilda. Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult as she had thought. As they waited to pay for their lunches she said, "I've been looking for someone to ask about stocks and shares. You must know something about them, being an accountant. How does one go about buying small quantities? I have heard that those snooty stockbrokers aren't interested in deals of less than œ50,000: I haven't got that sort of money." Before he had a chance to reply she opened her handbag and gave a feminine shriek of dismay, and said that she had left her purse in her desk upstairs. "I can't go all the way back upstairs," she said. "Have you got a couple of pounds you can lend me until we get back?" Being a gentleman, what could he do? She thanked him nicely, paid her bill, and carried her tray away from the counter. He felt obliged to follow her, as he had not answered her question about buying shares. She looked around the canteen as though trying to decide where to sit, then said, "Let's go and sit with Agnes, she always looks a bit lonely." They joined Agnes, and, to allay suspicion, Gilda asked about the book she was reading. This nearly turned out to be a disaster, as Agnes leaned back in her chair and started to relate the happenings in the first two volumes, and looked capable of continuing her exposition indefinitely. Gilda had to stop her by saying, "Don't tell me too much about it, Agnes, I'm going to start reading it myself, soon. And I want to ask William about buying company shares." Agnes was not a bit interested in the stock market, and she hastily masticated the rest of her roughage and departed. "I don't suppose I know any more than you do about share dealing," said William. "Your bank manager will know more about it than I do. Why don't you ask him?" "I will," said Gilda. There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. William looked agitated, he looked as though he knew he was expected to say something, but couldn't think of anything to say. A man alone with a woman was expected to be amusing and witty, wasn't he? He didn't feel either amusing or witty. Finally he said, "The sausages are nice, aren't they?" Gilda looked at him narrowly; there were signs of panic. She had better go on the attack. She had only just over half an hour, and, if she wasn't careful, about five minutes if William golloped down the rest of his food and cleared off. "You live on your own, don't you?" she said. "How do you know that?" asked William. Did he look like the archetypal scruffy bachelor? "Well I don't know for sure, it's obvious you don't have a regular lady friend," Gilda said. "Is it? How?" said William, mystified. "You have been wearing the same tie for five years. Five years at least, that is - I have only worked here for five years." "What has that got to do with having a girlfriend?" asked William. My God, thought Gilda, surely no man could know so little about women? "That remark proves it," she said. "You know, you are a mystery to the women here. What are you - mid-thirties? Heterosexual, quite attractive to women if you took the trouble, but you don't. Now you and I don't have much contact as far as work goes, but we have spoken to one another occasionally, and we have chatted quite a lot at the Christmas Eve booze-ups, and you don't even remember my name, do you?" "Er. there are a lot of women here," William said lamely. "Very flattering," said Gilda sarcastically. "My name is Gilda." "Unusual name," William said. "My mother was an opera fanatic," said Gilda. William laughed, which surprised Gilda - she had never seen him laugh before. "An odd choice," he said. "She finished up dead in a sack." Now that remark really did surprise Gilda. There was no reason why William shouldn't know about opera, but he looked the type who might be a chess fanatic, or something like that. "Do you go to the opera?" she asked. "Sometimes. I used to, but." "When was the last time?" "About five years ago." "Me too," Gilda said. "There's not much fun going on your own, is there?" William made no reply to this, and she added, "I've been living on my own for the last three years. Got married too early, like a lot of silly girls, and it didn't. oh well, I won't bore you with my troubles. Do you go out much at all?" "Not a lot," said William. "I go to the chess club on Thursday nights." "Well, it's Friday today," said Gilda. "I don't feel like going home to an empty flat straight after work, and I don't suppose you find the prospect exactly thrilling, do you? Why don't we go and have a drink first?" William thought for a moment, and she added, "We could go to the Belvedere. You know, it's the only old-fashioned pub around here; still got several bars. There's a quiet little back bar hardly anybody goes in early in the evening - we might even have the place to ourselves." William was aghast at this idea. Supposing Eric turned up? To avoid this terrible prospect he said hastily, "Yes, I'd love to go for a drink, but not there. Let's go somewhere a bit more lively - there's usually a jolly crowd in the King's Arms on Fridays." "Oh yes, I've been there," said Gilda. "All those little office girls in their mini-skirts!" William blushed, and Gilda laughed. "You don't have to look embarrassed. You'd be a funny sort of chap if you didn't like girls in mini-skirts." William smiled. "It does get crowded very early," he said. "I'll leave work a bit early and get in there at opening time and get a table. I hate standing up drinking." "Right," said Gilda. "I'll be in there about twenty to six. I might have a surprise for you." And she did surprise him. Before leaving work she had changed into a very mini mini-skirt. She was the obligatory ten minutes late, and she noticed that William had drunk half of his first pint already. Trying for Dutch courage? She wondered, correctly. He was drinking Young's Special, a drink to be wary of for those who are not habitual drinkers. She asked for a half of cider. Their talk at lunch-time of the reason for her name gave them a subject of conversation to start off with, and they went on from opera to theatre generally. They discovered that they were both keen theatre-goers, or, rather, that they would be if they had someone to go with. She tried to emphasise this point, but her one attempt to probe the mystery of his woman-less existence met with a rebuff, and she didn't try a second time. As the beer went down, the conversation flowed more freely, and William began to look more relaxed, except that every now and then he looked right around the bar at every customer, as though looking for someone. She wondered if he had some dark secret - a wife he had abandoned, perhaps, whom he was afraid of meeting. She insisted on paying round for round, which, as she knew quite well, would make him feel a little uncomfortable, as she was drinking halves and he was drinking pints. When he suggested a fifth drink, she said that it was a long time since lunch, how about having something to eat? She had meant something from behind the bar, and was surprised, and delighted, when he said that he didn't want another lot of canteen food; how about a Chinese restaurant? There was a good restaurant within walking distance of the pub, and they went there and nibbled their way through the succession of tasty snacks which constitute a Chinese dinner, and drank a bottle of wine. She offered to pay her share, and when he refused, said that she would let him pay the bill provided they had another bottle of wine which she would pay for. He agreed to this, and she ordered a bottle of champagne. "I'm celebrating," she said. "Celebrating what?" he asked. "I'll tell you later," she said. After they had drunk one glass each, she said, " Now you are supposed to say this, but as you obviously aren't going to, I will. Your place or mine?" William's smile vanished and he looked at her with a helpless expression. "Well?" she demanded. "Look," said William desperately, "We have had a lovely evening, I have not enjoyed myself so much for years, if ever, can't we just leave it at that?" "No, we can't," said Gilda angrily. "Don't you find me attractive?" "Of course I do," said William. "You're not married, are you?" William shook his head. Gilda paused to try to think of a way of putting the matter delicately, but there didn't seem to be one. "You are capable, are you?" "Capable?" "You know what I mean - sexually, for God's sake!" "Yes," mumbled William, going scarlet. "At least, I think so." "You think so? Have you ever been to bed with a woman?" After a short pause, William said, "No." "Haven't you ever wanted to?" Gilda demanded. "Of course I have," said William irritably. "Then why haven't you?" There was another pause, and then William said, "There is a reason, but I can't tell you what it is." "Why not?" Gilda demanded. William just shrugged. Gilda was exasperated. "You haven't murdered someone, have you?" she asked. "No, no - it's nothing like that." "Well then, why can't you tell me?" William drank the rest of the champagne in his glass, and refilled it. He looked at the glass, and then drank its contents down in one swallow. "Because if I do you will get straight up from the table and walk straight out of the restaurant." "Why would I do that?" "Because you would think that I am mad." "Try me," persisted Gilda. "I daren't," said William, desperately. Gilda looked at him for a minute, then pushed her handbag across the table towards him. "Hang on to that," she said. "Sit on it if you like." "Why?" William asked, astonished. "No woman ever goes anywhere without her handbag, so I won't be able to walk out, will I?" William sighed. "It's a long story," he said. "We have plenty of time," said Gilda. "When I was a boy I was very lonely," said William. "My father travelled a lot in his job, and when I was very small I hardly ever saw him. Even when I got a bit older he was very distant. He was never unkind, but the nearest he ever got to showing any sort of feeling for me was to pat me on the shoulder and ask me how I was getting on with my algebra. There was no kicking footballs around with him. As soon as I was old enough to go to nursery school my mother got a job. An old lady who lived in our street used to take me to school in the morning and bring me home to her house in the afternoon. She lived alone, and hardly ever spoke a word and my mother would collect me when she got home from work, which could often be eight or nine at night." "Lots of children have lonely childhoods," said Gilda. "It doesn't make them lifelong celibates." "I haven't got to the point yet," William said. "Sorry," said Gilda. "So you were lonely." "I invented a friend. Eric his name was. We used to have long conversations." "I have heard about children doing that," said Gilda. "What age does that happen, usually?" "In my case when I was about six." "How long did it last?" "How long did it last? Now we come to the point. It has lasted till now, so far." Gilda looked at William, not comprehending. William looked at her sadly. "These imaginary companions usually disappear when the child gets to nine or ten. Mine didn't. Eric is still around." Gilda stared at William in utter astonishment. "I said that you would think I was mad," said William. "What do you mean, he is still around?" Gilda asked. Although she knew she was being ridiculous, she could not stop herself from looking around the restaurant. "He's not here now, is he?" she said. William had watched her looking around. "No, he is not here now," he said. "And if he was, you would not be able to see him." Gilda was wondering if this was some sort of elaborate joke. If it was, she didn't think much of it. But William certainly did not look as though he was joking - he had a desperate, hunted look on his face. "I don't understand what you mean," she said. "First you say this Eric is still around, then you say he isn't." "He is not with me every minute of the day," William said. "But he'll be there waiting for me when I get home tonight." "Let's go to my place then," said Gilda, with an uncertain little laugh. God, this was weird. William looked at her. "You don't understand," he said hopelessly, "If we go to your place he will turn up there." "But he doesn't know where I live," Gilda said, wondering if she was being wise in persisting with this loony conversation. "You don't understand," said William again. "A few years ago I went to Spain on holiday, and I hadn't been talking to a Spanish girl I met for more than a few minutes before Eric turned up making his sarcastic remarks." "But he is not here now?" "No. He doesn't often appear when there are a lot of people about. He sometimes appears on the scene when I am with a small group of people - two, or three, or four, perhaps, particularly if we are getting very friendly. He always appears if I am with just one person. He is jealous of any friends I make, or try to make." Gilda thought about all this for a few minutes, and then another idea occurred to her. "When you first invented Eric." "I am not sure that invented is the right word," interrupted William. "He sort of just appeared. I don't remember the first time." "What I was going to say was when you first saw him was he a little boy, the same age as you?" "Yes, of course he was." "And now?" "Oh," said William, with a grimace of distaste. "We have grown up together. We have always been the same age." It suddenly occurred to Gilda what the cause of William's trouble might be. We all know all about psychology, nowadays, don't we? Or we think we do. "When we have drunk this," she said. "Let's go back to your flat and have some coffee. Eric won't mind that, will he?" William knew that he was being humoured, but he was too weary to argue, so he allowed Gilda to telephone for a cab, and they went to his flat. When they arrived she marched straight through into the living room and inspected it. "Those curtains!" she exclaimed. "I've never seen khaki curtains before. Where on earth did you get them?" "They were going cheap at a sale," said William. "I bet they were," she said. "It is a wonder they weren't giving them away!" She put her hand to her hair, and looked round the room. "No mirror?" she said. "Is that the bedroom in there?" Without waiting for an answer she pushed the door open and switched on the light. "Same horrible curtains in here," she said. "Did you buy them wholesale? And there's no mirror here, either." "There's one in the bathroom," said William. When she came out of the bedroom William went in, and she heard him say, "Hello, Eric." She dashed back into the bedroom and looked wildly around. "You can't see him," William said. "Only I can." She wandered around the flat and found the bathroom, where she could titivate herself, and then went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While she was doing this she could hear William talking to himself. Well, that was what it amounted to, wasn't it? She took two mugs of coffee into the living room, and called William in from the bedroom, where he was still saying something, sounding angry. They sat on the sofa, and she said, "I think I know the cause of your problem. You were an over-sensitive little boy, and your parents made you frustrated for lack of the company of children your own age. As you grew older your unnatural mode of life made you inhibited and you found it difficult to communicate with real people, and your imaginary friend turned into some sort of hallucination. That has lead to your celibacy, which is damned unhealthy for a man of your age, and has just reinforced this hallucinatory being. I think some nice, normal sexual activity is what you need. I reckon that would make Eric disappear. Drink up your coffee and let's go to the bedroom." William followed her meekly. "Sit down on the bed, there," she commanded. He did, and she stood four feet away from him, saying nothing, but his eyes kept glancing to the corner behind her. "Eric's there, is he?" she asked. "Yes," said William. "He always is." "Well I don't normally do this sort of thing," said Gilda. "In fact I have never done this sort of thing. You are the man, you are supposed to make the first move, then I act all reluctant, then you say nice things about me, then I am flattered by your endearments, and finally I succumb and let you have your way. It's worked that way for thousands of years quite satisfactorily. However." She started to take off her clothes, not slowly and lasciviously like a strip-teaser, nor in any particular hurry; just, in fact, as though she were alone and getting ready for bed. When she had finally disrobed, she asked, "What do you think?" "What do I think about what?" asked William. "Oh for crying out loud," shrieked Gilda. "I am standing here naked, or hadn't you noticed. Many men have told me that I have a beautiful body." "Oh, you have," William said earnestly. "Well then, doesn't is give you any ideas? Some sort of urge?" "Of course it does," said William. "But I have explained." "Just forget bloody Eric, will you. Pretend he isn't there." William looked towards the corner, and said violently, "Oh shut up for Christ's sake!" "Eh?" shrieked Gilda. "Not you," said William. "I was talking to Eric." Gilda moaned, and put her hands over her face. "I can't help it." William said pitifully. There was a long silence, and finally Gilda took her hands away from her face. She looked at William, at a loss to know how to, or whether to, continue. William looked at her strangely, then said, diffidently, "If you don't mind me asking, but you don't seem the sort of woman who goes in for tattoos." "Tattoos?" Gilda was mystified. "That red heart shape on your." "Bottom," said Gilda. "This is the 1960s. You are allowed to say bottom, even in the presence of a lady. And it isn't a tattoo, it is a birthmark. It is not in any way disfiguring, so I have never had it removed. In fact," Gilda added archly, "Some of my gentlemen friends have found it rather fetching. Do you." Gilda stopped abruptly, looking disconcerted and a little scared, then she stepped two paces backward and said in a bewildered tone, "But I have never turned round. How do you know that I have a birthmark there?" "Eric just described it to me," said William.