Oh look, Anna... browsing with a melancholic eye over some past writings I came across this first chapter of a novel I expected great things for - oops... ended sentence with a preposition (is that a preposition or is is something else? Who knows... who cares). It got quite a bit further than this but eventually I ran out of steam.
Anyway, here is the first chapter.
(By the way, I should like to preface this by noting that I have always been fascinated by the western philosophic approach that says that for ever effect there must be a cause. But an effect can be a cause - as we shall see)
Chapter one
The throb of a low-revving diesel engine, and the big heavy gates swing open; a steel narrow-boat emerges from the darkness of the lock into the sunlight. A shadow flits across the brown water, and I squint upwards just in time to see a big black crow take off on lazy flapping wings. I turn away and pick up my coffee cup. Suddenly I am aware of the buzz of conversation from the tables around me. I look up. The closing gates have stopped before the end of their travel; they appear to have jammed. Up on the lock, black figures silhouetted against the bright light, are running about, shouting and pointing down into the shadow of the lock. Pushing back my chair, I run up the slope. When I reach the top my heart is beating more than it needs to, after the short climb. No need to ask what's going on. There is a drop on thirteen feet to the muddy brown water, but I can easily see what's stopping the gates from closing: What looks like a bundle of old clothes is gripped in the mighty jaws of the gates. Suddenly there is a sound like plastic cracking, and the gates come together in one swift movement. The small knot of people standing on top of the lock fall suddenly quiet. The crow has returned and is circling, curious, above a widening reddish stain on the brown water. The thick silence is pierced by the sudden shriek of a police-car's siren.
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The Chief Inspector has a cold, and I didn't catch his name. There is a box of man-sized tissues on the table and I find my mind worrying over the question of whether these are police issue or if he has to buy his own. Silly, I know. It's nerves.
'Tell me again, why you invited these five people down here this particular weekend? To stay on your boat?'
The inspector manages to get the question out between sneezes.
I'm getting a bit worried now; worried about catching this man's cold. He's not too fussy when he sneezes. He doesn't always manage to get a tissue out of the box in time, and I am only three feet away, across the desk from him.
'It seemed like a good idea at the time'. I hear a voice say, lamely. Is that really me speaking?
'It seemed like a good idea at the time?' The inspector parrots me, in a slightly sarcastic tone, his voice rising at the end of the sentence, to indicate a question. I can feel the wind in my gut building up. It seems hours since I've had something to eat, and the tension is making it worse. Suddenly it escapes in a loud sigh.
'Am I boring you?' The sarcasm has now got a dangerous edge to it.
'No,' I reply, hastily, anxious not to upset him. 'I suffer from IBS.'
'Stress makes it worse, does it?'
'Yes,' I reply, - too quickly. I realise he has tricked me. 'Well, no... I mean -'
'Look sir,' Or did he say son? 'Just start again from the beginning.'
So I do.
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I've noticed that I'm pretty good at starting novels. Well pretty good at starting anything, really - including relationships. What I'm not so good at is carrying them on.
Perhaps I am a starter. Other people are continuers . And yet others are finishers.
But so what? Is there really time to worry about such things?
Is there really time to worry about anything?
Answers on a postcard, sealed in a plain brown envelope, to the usual address.
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