Writer's Notebook

Stevie woke with a start. It took him several minutes to figure what he was doing lying on a bed next to a nearly empty bottle of brandy, a half naked girl smiling at him from the foot of the same bed. He looked at her and decided his one remaining wish was to go back home. He had been told umpteen times that coming up to university would make a huge difference in his life. Difference! He'd wanted that. He'd looked the word up in the dictionary. Its arresting letters beckoned to him from the page, their rhythmic beat drawing him in. He knew, he had to go.

"Wicked!" was the only commentary his brother offered. It was enough. He packed his bags and left Lower Water Backwood for London.

It had all begun well enough. His brother was there to meet him as promised and the first thing they did was to share a drink at the local pub. Stevie was, however, surprised to find himself having to pay for both the drinks and the taxi back to his brother's digs, as he insisted on calling them, despite the fact that the word had gone out of fashion years ago. Stevie soon wished he'd decided to take up the offer of a studend flat withing easy reach of the campus. He couldn't care less about the dirt. It was the noise which would surely drive him crazy. Not that there was anything rhytmic about the dog's barking. It was more like perpetual. But Stevie put a brave face on things, thought about cleaning up the bathroom but decided to leave that until sometime after his shower. But still not feeling up to such an act of extreme human courage he descended to the street just in time to see a police officer handcuffing his brother before arresting him. The young girl who had been sitting at the table with Mick sidled up to him, took him by the arm and led him to a downstairs flat next to the bar.

"You must be Stevie. Mick told us all that you were coming. I guess, we're yours now."

Stevie looked puzzled.

"Yours, us girls, who worked for your brother. Your wicked dreams made real in one fell - she winked as she slowly pronounced - b l o w."

Stevie turned a shade of green before passing out.

Gina felt like she wanted to throw up. She wished she had never come. This was supposed to be a safe date. A nice easy barbecue together with some good friends. Things started to go wrong when some newcomers arrived and a guitar was unpacked. Within minutes her husband had ingratiated themselves with the newcomers and they were promising a sing-song after dinner. And now there they were, her husband and her son making fools of themselves in front of the crowd. It was not as if they were drunk. Indeed, when her husband was driving, he didn't touch a drop. But he didn't need alcohol to start singing. There they were, the two of them singing their hearts out and seemingly enjoying it. Did they have no sense of shame? Gina wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

The journey back was silent - not the happy silence brought on by tiredness after an evening well spent. This was a foreboding silence. Gina knew exactly what would happen once they reached home. Her misgivings, his recriminations, the tone rising with each sentence. They'd been through it all so often before.

Unexpectedly, Silvio broke the silence. Why did you marry an Italian? The question took her aback. She thought awhile but silence was the only answer she could find. How absurd it seemed to him now that she had once found his eccentricities romantic.

Well, if you haven't got an answer, then I've got news for you. Some people appreciate me. They appreciate me far more than you ever will. That's why I'm leaving. Jessica has not only agreed to publish a volume of my verse, she's also agreed to set up home with me. She'll be waiting at the lodge for me and we'll be leaving tonight. I admit to having regrets. I think, I'll miss you. But one thing I'll never be sorry about is not seeing that eternal scowl on your face again.

"So was she playing the accordion or the piano?"

The tone in Inspector Grant's voice was beginning to reveal his frustration.

"Well..." But no answer was forthcoming.

"Well," encouraged the inspector.

"Well, he was carrying the instrument, so at first I thought it was an accordion. But then I saw the keyboard and I realised that it was, in fact, a piano."

"A piano! You're su..." Too late.

"No inspector. That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last thirty minutes. I'm not sure of anything. At least, not concerning the instrument. But he did definitely slump forward. Of that I am sure."

"You mean, you actually saw him."

"Or no inspector. I only saw him lying on his back. That's what made me realise he must have slumped forward."

"But had he slumped forward, he would most likely have ended up lying face down."

"No Inspector. Joey never went to sleep lying face downwards. He was far too afraid of the dark to do that. He always lay on his back so he could see the first rays of sunlight streaming in through the window."

Margaret tore the page out of the typewriter. It joined the others in the waste-paper basket sitting beside his desk. Yet, she was not downcast. With each attempt she was getting closer to the perfection. Surely, it would now be only a matter of time, before she came up with something people would spend the rest of their lives reading.

Slowly threading another piece of paper into her typewriter, inspiration struck her. She had to let her readers know that Joey was an unreliable witness, if not people would in fact take her testimony for gospel and never be able to follow her trail from crime to solution. All that was missing was that one, perfect opening sentence without which nothing would make sense, but with which no one could refuse her the crime writer of the year accolade. She began to type:

"Now inspector, let me make it quite clear from the very start, that I am absolutely sure about everything that happened and even if I wasn't in the room at the time I saw in my mind's eye the exact moment the piano accordion player slumped forward."

Ivor worked his way slowly through the museum. Nothing much had changed. There were a few new exhibits and some of those he remembered from younger days were no longer there. Couldn't really expect much else from an ordinary, little local museum. Still, he had been proud to have been a founder member of the Triallyn Museum Assocation and of his work in helping set up the library.

Occasionally, his children came up to him with a question.

"Dad what's this...? What did they use that for?"

They were what made Ivor so excited and proud: his children. Never during the hours he used to spend inside these walls had he contemplated the idea of one day coming back with his children. Today, 20 years after leaving Triallyn, he was fulfilling a dream.

Ivor wandered slowly into the back room. The familiar Penny Farthing was still there and soon his children were looking on with wonderous eyes, not only at the muti-storeyed contraption itself but also at the photos depicting the folly of those who actually dared attempt to ride the thing.

Turning round Ivor let out a little yap much like that a small dog would have made on having to defend his bone against a hostile fellow canine.

"David, Wendy, Christopher, come here, quickly! Look, this is one of the first ever record players ever made."

The children stared at the object before them. The winding cylinder on top that looked somewhat like a foghorn; the thick arm at the side with a long, pointed needle sticking out at the bottom - it reminded them of the photo of granny at her sewing desk they had seen so often when they visited her - and the black shining disk placed in the middle of the contraption.

It was Wendy who turned the children's bewilderment into words.

"Daddy, what's a record player?"

Unsent letters. The idea intrigued me. At the same time a certain dread cast its shadow over my mind. An unsent letter: the perfect way to express my feelings; to say what I really felt about her without having to expose myself. Yet, it could be risky. After all, I was still married; in public we were even still together, even if the truth belied any such interpretation of the word together. How on earth could I be expected to trace the trajectory of such forbidden feelings for another. What if she should find out? What if such feelings were reciprocated? But there was something liberating in that word unsent. Knowing Janice would never read it, knowing no one would ever read it gave me courage, despite the nervous start I made. Once I got going, it flowed. Every little seed of affection that ever flourished in my heart oozed out of my pen and embellished the paper I would ever hide away in the deepest confines of my heart shaped desk. Never had I expressed myself so freely, so beautifully; never had such truth been forced to hide its face from the light of day.

And yet, it cost - such frankness: 10 lines - 3 hours and totally debilitated. I had to get out, away, anywhere, anything... just not think any more. A walk, but even that cost. Simone wanted to walk with me, didn't understand I wanted to be alone. But then how could she? At her age, impossible to understand what was going on between her mother and myself. I put an end to the bickering by walking out. Then my luck changed.

Janet, Dorian, Philip... The three of them together enjoying some afternoon refreshment. I needed something stronger. The wine flowed, my mood cheered. Gone, the lethargy, the doubts, all thoughts of what if... I went back home and spoke the unspeakable. The letter was sent. And now...

Dear Friends,

This morning I feel duty bound to try and provide some explanation, however slight it may seem, as to why you will not be getting anything to read from my know well-worn pen, today. Indeed, not just today but also for the weeks months and years to come.

The fact is, I am now precisely 50 years and 363 days old. In two days time... stop, the last thing you want to hear is me reminiscing on the past and speculating on what the future might hold. So, I'm 50. And as 50 is meant to be a landmark in one's life, an inventor friend gave me a very special present. He gave me a piece of software which, once installed would enable me to relive any three days in my life I might chose.

"Exactly as it happened, love..." Those were his very words. "And as often as you want. And once you've got that far, I'll send you the special code which will enable to you to enter any one of those three days you chose and make one, single change. But be careful; any change will not be virtual. It will actually affect the life you're living right now. So there you are my dear, that's my present for you. And you have precisely one year to enjoy it. After that it becomes obsolete."

At first, I didn't know what to think of this. I knew Geraldo pretty well. He wasn't one of those crank inventor types. Indeed, he had succeeded in patenting and selling several of his ideas to well-known companies. To say the least, I was intrigued. And couldn't wait to try out his present.

It was only now I realised how difficult it was going to be. If you can imagine all the agonising that went into some of your past decisions, you may be able to get an inkling how difficult it was to decide which of these to revisit. For the moment, I wasn't even thinking about what I might want to change. And what if I didn't want to change anything!

My first though was to revisit the very day my parents first met. If I could go back that far, I might be able to step in and prevent then from meeting. And then... a whole new horizon; a completely different life. Don't get me wrong, I not one of those guys who go through life whining at what happened and wishing it were all so different. On the contrary, I'm reasonably satisfied with my lot. But the prospect of recreating my life, having two cracks at the whip, so to speak was too tempting to resist.

Unfortunately, the command December 31 1955 only brought up the following error message:

Access denied. Date beyond authorised scope. Enter new date.

And what's more, it actually counted as one of my three days. I'd have to be more careful next time. I had little room to manoeuvre. Days and weeks went by and still I wasn't sure what to do. The school holidays provided me with a welcome break and the chance to concentrate exclusively on this one matter. The first evening of the holidays, I dug out my old journals and started pouring over them. That's how I got to thinking about Charles, once again. What if I'd said yes, that evening on the beach when he... I played and replayed the scene over the next few days, always stopping at the same spot and always wondering what if... He was awfully cute, Charles, and most of the girls would have given all they could to be there with him on the beach. What if I changed my "no" to... I wondered if the software would let me replay the scene and visualise what would happen, had I said yes, without actually committing myself to the change. But I figured, it probably wouldn't and not wanting to cause any more damage to my chances, I decided to abstain.

Time moved on, the holidays came to an end and winter set in. Still, I couldn't decide which day I wanted to revisit. The pressure was rising. I had just a few more months before my chance was over and I still didn't know what to do. It wasn't the potential for triggering some sort of personal disaster that worried me. I've been in a pretty few scrapes in my life and always managed to get out of them somehow. But the thought that I might be in front of an open door and fail to see it, filled me with foreboding. Finally, winter gave way to spring and with the arrival of April I realised, it was now or never. After much soul searching, my mind finally settled on the last big decision I had had to make. After several years teaching, I had taken the plunge and applied for Director of Studies jobs at a number of language schools in different parts of the country. Several calls and three interviews later I was left with the decision to go up north to Carlisle or down south to Hastings. I knew very little of either place but liked the look of both. There was also little to chose between either school. Eventually, I plumped for Carlisle, and have never regretted it. But what if...

The thought just wouldn't go away. What if I'd moved to Hastings? I just had to know. I picked up the phone and called Geraldo.

"Are you sure? This step is completely irreversible."

Sure? Of course, I was sure. What was there to lose? I had few worries that I might not like it. Whether or not it would be a success was up to me, not the particular locality I was in. I had always been able to forge out my own existence. Why should it be any different now?

With no further thoughts I typed in the code and pressed the enter key. By the time I realised what I'd done, it was too late. You see, arriving in Carlisle some five years ago, I'd decided to enrol in a creative writing group, just to get to know other people. It was the best thing I could have done. The people were great and I soon developed a real passion for writing. But since I never do the same thing twice, then I'm no longer a writer. So now I've an exciting new story to tell, but no way of telling it. Sorry! Maybe your best bet is to try getting hold of Geraldo.

I am proud to confess to be being a lover of life and all that life has to offer. True, it's not all the proverbial bed of roses. Indeed, right now and for various reasons we are going through some pretty tough times. But they all make life itself that much more interesting.

Greater still, I confess to being a lover of the giver of life, who has given me so much, including some of those things, referred to above, I'd rather do without. But he doesn't just dole them out, he also carries us through.

I also confess to being a lover of light. I guess I am just drawn to anything that exudes light. Which is why this time of year is my favourite. I love getting up early and watch the sun creeping over the horizon, bathing everything coming into sight with its soothing, stimulating rays. I am also fascinated by kaleidoscopes, and the way they turn light into a thousand and one things of beauty.

I guess after this fairly unscientific definition of what a kaleidoscope does, it comes as no surprise if I confess that the vast domain of science remains a mystery to me: one that friends are slowly and patiently trying to open up to me. Their's may be a lost cause but I have great admiration for their staying power as well as gratitude for the little I've been able to learn from them.

An embarrassing confession is that I can't sit still whenever I go to a music concert. Music to me is the language of the soul and I react via another language - movement, or dance as people often call it. Whenever I hear music that touches me, then I have to express what I feel in an appropriate way: more often that not by giving voice to my body. My daughter often has to chide me about it. She's still naïve enough to think that chiding might bring about change; my wife has given up long ago. But, I always react, pointing to the stiff, statuesque assortments of matter sitting around me, how can anyone just calmly sit in a seat when your soul is being lifted up to heaven. Well, at least, I don't break out into song... at least not in public; at home it's a different matter.

Last and fortunately least, a puzzled confession. I have great difficulty understanding why confession for so many is such a negative thing. Of course, accepting my faults and weaknesses is an part of everyday life, mine included; you just have to ask my wife and children about that. But with so many beautiful and wonderful things around us to confess to, I am saddened that we somehow seem to have got the balance wrong.