Other writing
Fiction
My short stories have been published in magazines, included in anthologies and read on BBC Radio 4. The latest to be published was ‘Terrible Trousers’, in the Sunday Express S Magazine on 20 January 2008. In June 2008, 'Bad Luck for a Bride' was runner-up for the Royal Society of Literature's V.S.Pritchett Memorial Prize.
The story below, ‘Called to Account’, appeared in You Magazine in 2003.
Called to Account
You have 1 unread messages in your in-box
Thank God. Perhaps …
maxtel.com 0773291SV Re: billing
Bloody phone company. Billing? Isn't that what love-birds used to do, along with cooing?
Isn't that what Peter would be doing, possibly at this very minute, with his new squeeze? Amanda. You can't say you weren't warned with a name like that.
Come on, come on. No need for cheap sarcasm, not after all these weeks, months. Get a grip.A grip? Was that like a squeeze?
Terry – was he a grip? The thought of Terry was calming, or perhaps just anaesthetic. The thought of Terry made it possible to shut the computer down and get on with something useful. Terry in his carefully chosen, nicely ironed clothes; Terry with a smile always ready in the wings, so patient with moods and tears, so obligingly adaptable. Happy Terry, one person who was unequivocally pleased with the way things were turning out.
He's very fond of you and he's very reliable, she said to herself as she took another set of exam scripts out of their envelope. You are sounding like your mother. But he really is fond of you, and actually rather sweet, and – admit it – a godsend.
* * * * *
‘Question 11: Alan, Betty and Clive are going to have a picnic. Alan takes the midday train from Darley to Edendale (64 km apart) travelling at an average speed of 105 kilometres per hour while Betty gets on the 11.45 from Edendale travelling in the other direction at an average of 82 kilometres per hour. If their friend Clive catches the bus from Edendale at 12.05 and travels for six stops at an average speed of 50 kilometres per hour with a 1.5 minute pause at each stop, how far along the line do they meet and at what time?’
The answer was 26 kilometres from Edendale, or 38 from Darley, at 13.15. Many of the candidates had struggled through and got it right, several had doodled trains and buses in their workings. Her eyes were glazing over again, her mind drifting. What were Alan and Clive up to, asking one girl out on a picnic, anyway? Did Betty know they were both coming, or had she reckoned on a more intimate occasion? Who was in the driving seat here? Alan certainly seemed to have the upper hand, with his fast train and top-of-the-alphabet initial. Why didn't Clive get a motor bike? Were they gay? Was Betty a Patsy?
The doorbell rang, and made her jump. A quick look in the mirror. God, how awful. But no one ever called during work hours except the postman, she reasoned. Not these days. Please, please let it be only the postman and not anyone one would want to impress.
Not Peter, in other words.
And yet, of course, she would give her eye teeth for it to be Peter.
Ah. Through the glass of the door she could tell it wasn't the right height, width or darkness for Peter. A feeling of grateful relief flowed through her, followed immediately, almost inseparably, by a huge wave of disappointment. The usual lurch in the stomach.
‘Good Morning! Savage? Good. Interflora.’
Interflora? Oh God. Who's it from? Is there a message? What does it say on the card. Peter? Surely not? It's not at all the sort of thing he would do. But then leaving her wasn't the sort of thing he would do either. People change so much. Was he having second thoughts? Oh God.
But it was from Terry, of course. ‘Happy Un-Birthday. Love you. T.’
She plonked the flowers in the sink alongside the soaking breakfast dishes. She would see to them later. After Clive's bus had crashed into the side of the Edendale to Darley express.
* * * * *
You have 1 unread messages in your in-box
It won't be from him. It won't be from him.
maxtel.com 0773291SV Re: your best friend
Dear Max-Tel user, Have you thought of up-dating your Max-Friends numbers? Our records show that you made 0 calls to your chosen Best Friend [0207 863 2753] during the past billing period, earning a discount of £000.00. You may wish to replace this number to take full advantage of the scheme. For instance, choosing 0208 422 1798 as your Best Friend during the latest billing period would have earned you a discount of £002.875!
Click here to reply: I would like to replace my Best Friend.
No I would not.
My new Best Friend is …
Very patient. Nice looking, in a friendly way. Would laugh at all my jokes – if I made jokes. Is attentive, but not a pest. Trims his nose hairs regularly.
How likely was it that someone else had tried to phone her while she was on line reading this letter? OK, OK, how likely was it that he had tried to phone? You could find out. That was another thing she ought to do, de-subscribe to Call Minder. It was addictive and made her feel abject.
I mean, be sensible; in all this time it's never once said he's phoned.
Yet.
* * * * *
‘Question 15: Adrian is filling a bath at the rate of 2.7 gallons per minute while Betty empties it with a 1.5 gallon bucket. If the capacity of the bath is 55 gallons, how long after Adrian will Betty finish?’
Aha, Betty again. The examiner's oversight. Or perhaps the name was significant to him – her?
But Betty, sure enough, and back in a new, vindictive mood. Out to spite Adrian, the sap, filling his bath so blithely, not noticing the fury with the bucket behind him.
What did she do with all the water? Down the loo? Not likely. Not in that mood. Chucked it about, I expect, the whole 55 gallons. All over Adrian, all over Adrian's chrome fittings and his vinyl floor tiles, 400mm square, that he probably installed himself at a rate of one per 2.43 minutes. Good on you, Betty.
What are you doing, Peter? At this very minute? How can you bear not to get in touch with me? How can you live with yourself?
* * * * *
You were called – yesterday – at – sixteen – fifteen – hours. The caller withheld their number.
Just checking. In case she'd missed something last time she checked. In case the phone rang during those seconds while she was fetching the duvet cover in. Sixteen fifteen yesterday, Wednesday: just the sort of time Peter was likely to have phoned. Between the office closing officially and closing in fact. Presumably he still went to work. Despite Amanda.
But she knew who it had been:
‘Hello, my name's Karen and I'm calling from Customer Liaison. If you'll bear with me, I'll only take a few minutes of your time. I understand that you've opted to go to a new supplier for your electricity, is that correct?’
‘Yes. Don't worry, it's all sorted now.’
‘Well, this is a follow-up call as part of our customer satisfaction pledge, and we'd be very grateful to know if there was anything in our service that fell short of your expectations?’ It was a rising intonation, bright and optimistic.
‘No, no.’
‘So do you mind me asking, Miss Savage, what made you decide to leave us?’
‘Leave you?’ Just think of it as a temporary separation, Sarah. I need to think.
‘Perhaps you didn't realise that we also supply gas, at very competitive rates for customers on dual schemes. We may be able to offer you a highly advantageous rate. Have you considered –’
‘It's all right. Please don't worry. Change of circumstances, that's all.’ Look, this isn't to do with you, really it isn't. ‘It was nothing personal.’
‘Perhaps we could send you some leaflets?’ Karen sounded crestfallen.
‘No thank you, really.’
‘Well, if you change your mind … It's not too late.’
Are you saying it's too late?
‘If you don't mind, I have to go.’
‘Would you like me to call back later?’
You're not making this easy for me, you know.
‘Miss Savage?’
‘NO!’
* * * * *
Hm, chrysanthemums. Long-lasting, long-smelling, funereal chrysanthemums. Yellow ones, to boot. Un-birthday and un-favourite. Not that she'd let on to Terry. It's the thought that counts. Thank you, Mother.
Would she ever get round to having those conversations with Terry? The ones about chrysanthemums, preferences? You can't share everything with everyone, and she'd done her sharing with Peter.
And anyway, the older you get, she thought, the more it begins to sound like a warning, or something quite the opposite of a confidence, at any rate: Here's something else you didn't know about me. Don't mention the war! is what Peter used to say in a comical warbling voice whenever they tripped over some old intimacy from before her time.
She snipped the ends off the stalks and let them fall into the waste disposal unit that Peter always avoided using on the theory that it polluted the water supply. How pained he'd have been to have seen the bonfires she had after he went, the dozens of bin liners she used, the thoughtless expenditure of petrol on those trips to the tip and her careless refusal to sort out the recyclable materials. All that would have probably pained him more than the actual leaving of her, which, after all, he had wanted, planned for and made as easy as possible on himself. Trying to persuade her that it was only temporary!
It seemed extraordinary, now, to think of that weekend of fury. The energy with which she went from room to room, the fearsome efficiency of the purge, the glint in her eye reflected in the bonfire flames. Brandishing her hoe over the smouldering ruins in the back yard like some sated Visigoth.
But it added up to nothing. That clear-headed rage subsided even quicker than the fire itself, leaving fug and confusion. Her righteous anger had been replaced almost immediately by regrets: regrets at having been so decisive, regrets at having said and done so many final things.
Then there was the beginning of horrible hopes forming, like spots of black mould in a corner. How poisonous, how insidious hopes are, she thought, looking guiltily at the phone. Lord, protect me from any more hoping. Let me soon reach a nice numb plateau where I can lie completely inert and defeated. With Terry, the ideal companion for inertia and defeat.
Oh, why had she burned everything? His clothes, his gifts, everything! The dear little hat, the limerick album, the crumpled sweet-smelling odd-job shirt?
* * * * *
Question: Amanda has a bedroom which measures 3.2m x 2.5m x 2m. If Peter's car can accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in 9 seconds, how long will it take Sarah to get over it?
* * * * *
At half past two the doorbell rang again and this time it really was the postman, or rather the parcel service. More exam scripts, lolloping around in an oversize jiffy-bag that was coming open slightly at the bottom. And something else, a parcel for Peter. His name on the label in neat black ink sent a shock through her fingers as if it were full of static.
‘Sign here please, miss.’
‘Oh … well … this person doesn't live here any more. Can you take it straight back, if I put the forwarding address on? It would save me a trip to the post office.’
‘Sure.’
She took the parcel to the hall table. It was about the size of a shirt box, only heavier and had a Northampton postmark: obviously a birthday present from Peter's aunt Nell, super-early as ever, just to be on the safe side.
She crossed through her own address and wrote the new one next to it with deliberate neatness.
The postman coughed politely but she was still staring at the package. She felt along the edges of it with both hands. Look, it's me, Peter. My handwriting on your parcel. My mark. I'm still here and I'm not forgetting anything.
He'll be the next person to run his fingers along this seal. He'll have to handle this, she thought, and handed it back to the postman smiling.
* * * * *
