Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FIFTEEN: February 2015 – Will
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FIFTEEN: February 2015 – Will
Jenny used to laugh at me when I had one of my ‘prompts’, but I believed in them then and I still do, to this day. Maybe it’s my imagination, who knows? Used to believe it was God Himself, of course, giving me directions from above, but I’ve long since stopped thinking myself important enough to receive directions from the Man Upstairs, even if He does have a plan.
And of course, even if one were to believe that God not only existed but had a plan for the world, including my little bit of it… there’s the old, old conflict with the notion of free will. And, indeed, with determinism – the inescapable (it appears) fact that the universe has been set on course since the Big Bang, and if we had all the necessary equations we could predict it all. (Except for quantum mechanics, I’m told, which messes things up a bit, though possibly not in the right way for God to get His hands in there…)
But still. I got one of my prompts half an hour ago. It was pleasantly sunny at the time (though it’s clouded over since), so I got my outdoor togs on and set off for a stroll into town. Heading for Katy’s shop, wondering whether Katy was in trouble of some kind, even more than usual, then telling myself off for being a silly, self-important sod.
It’s beginning to seem a long way to the shops. Pathetic really, especially when I look at old Davie, nearly twenty years older than me, still striding out boldly all over town. I do my best to ignore my arthritis, or to suffer it in silence, at least, but at times it gets a bit too much.
‘Get out there and breathe some fresh air into your lungs.’ I can hear Jenny saying it to me now. Poor Jenny – she was always the one to take care of both of us and then she had the bad luck to get cancer. Didn’t deserve it – not that anyone ever does.
So I set out for the shops, telling myself I could at least stock up on Bournville before Katy’s shop closes. And have a chat, of course, if she wasn’t too busy.
Didn’t get very far. Bumped into that frail little French girl on the way. Woman, I’m told I have to call all females now, if they’re older than about nine. Frail little French woman, then. Doesn’t have the same ring about it. ‘French woman’ has a kind of weight, a dignity, a bearing, that this tiny wisp of a thing lacks. Never mind. The point is, I called ‘Hello’ and she didn’t even answer. Didn’t look up. Maybe, I thought, she hadn’t heard, so I called again, but nothing. Probably deep in thought – planning her experimental novel. That would take some planning, the kind of thing she writes.
But being a nosy so-and-so I couldn’t resist a look back, only to discover that she’s stopped and is looking back at me too - and I noticed for the first time that her face was – well, I’m not sure of the word. Bloated? That sounds so unfeminine… Jenny would never have let me call her that. Blotchy sounds even worse. I can’t deny it, though. Even an insensitive old codger like me could see she’d been crying, poor little lass. So, of course, in my tactless way I had to say something ridiculous… something like ‘My dear? Is there anything I can do?’ – which is about as patronising, I suppose, as anyone can get. Jenny would not have been amused.
She shook her head. By now I’d remembered her name – Miri, so I said it – such a lovely name, a pleasure to pronounce.
She looked at me properly and I noticed that her eyes were indeed filled with tears. Poor girl. I like to think I would have made a good father, though I was never given the chance. We had one or two false starts, Jenny and I… the cause of many tears on her part. I was disappointed too, of course, though it never hit me as hard as it did poor Jenny. Perhaps I was sufficiently afraid of babies to experience a certain counter-balancing – a degree of relief mixed with the grief, though I would never have said so to dear Jenny, of course.
We tried our hardest, but it was not to be. We found other outlets for our desire to care for others. I had my work and Jenny – well, she was a vicar’s wife of the old-fashioned, hands-on kind. No wife, of course, should be expected to be married to her husband’s job, and if Jenny hadn’t wanted to help, I would have understood, but right from the start she was my right-hand woman, my helpmeet… an absolute blessing in every way. There was so much going on in the parish that would have passed me by, without her. And no, I don’t mean she was a nosy parker, just that she had her ear to the ground and was always early at the scene at any crisis or…
I’m supposed to be relating what happened on the High Street, outside Boots, where I tried to be a father figure to young Miri. And cocked up, I fear, double time. If only Jenny had been there.
‘Can I help at all, my dear?’
‘Oh! No, no. I have the… hay fever… that’s all. But thank you so much.’
Hay fever in early February on the north-east coast of England? I cleared my throat.
She must have realised she had failed to convince me. ‘Or… something,’ she added lamely. ‘Perhaps a cold. Nothing to be worried about.’
This is where Jenny would have managed to say exactly the right thing, to encourage Miri to confide in me whatever was troubling her. I, sadly, singularly failed. I merely said, ‘Are you sure?’
The wan little thing gave a feeble smile. ‘Please do not worry about me. I am just a little bit under the weather today. Life is a little difficult, but it can soon be fixed.’
‘Are you… are you sure I can’t help? Even a cup of tea? I’m just on my way home now.’ (The latter a fib, of course, as I had not yet reached Katy’s shop. But my Bournville could wait.)
‘No, no – you are very kind but I have some errands to do.’
God? Jenny? Neither was available, it seemed, to inspire or direct me.
I gave a little shrug. ‘Well, do take care. There’s a bitter wind today.’
As if my weather report was any news to her. I despair of myself sometimes. Still, I know that young women tend to cry easily, and all I can do is to hope it was nothing too serious. I said a prayer for her, of course, as I walked home without my chocolate, but have no idea whether it did any good.
And of course, even if one were to believe that God not only existed but had a plan for the world, including my little bit of it… there’s the old, old conflict with the notion of free will. And, indeed, with determinism – the inescapable (it appears) fact that the universe has been set on course since the Big Bang, and if we had all the necessary equations we could predict it all. (Except for quantum mechanics, I’m told, which messes things up a bit, though possibly not in the right way for God to get His hands in there…)
But still. I got one of my prompts half an hour ago. It was pleasantly sunny at the time (though it’s clouded over since), so I got my outdoor togs on and set off for a stroll into town. Heading for Katy’s shop, wondering whether Katy was in trouble of some kind, even more than usual, then telling myself off for being a silly, self-important sod.
It’s beginning to seem a long way to the shops. Pathetic really, especially when I look at old Davie, nearly twenty years older than me, still striding out boldly all over town. I do my best to ignore my arthritis, or to suffer it in silence, at least, but at times it gets a bit too much.
‘Get out there and breathe some fresh air into your lungs.’ I can hear Jenny saying it to me now. Poor Jenny – she was always the one to take care of both of us and then she had the bad luck to get cancer. Didn’t deserve it – not that anyone ever does.
So I set out for the shops, telling myself I could at least stock up on Bournville before Katy’s shop closes. And have a chat, of course, if she wasn’t too busy.
Didn’t get very far. Bumped into that frail little French girl on the way. Woman, I’m told I have to call all females now, if they’re older than about nine. Frail little French woman, then. Doesn’t have the same ring about it. ‘French woman’ has a kind of weight, a dignity, a bearing, that this tiny wisp of a thing lacks. Never mind. The point is, I called ‘Hello’ and she didn’t even answer. Didn’t look up. Maybe, I thought, she hadn’t heard, so I called again, but nothing. Probably deep in thought – planning her experimental novel. That would take some planning, the kind of thing she writes.
But being a nosy so-and-so I couldn’t resist a look back, only to discover that she’s stopped and is looking back at me too - and I noticed for the first time that her face was – well, I’m not sure of the word. Bloated? That sounds so unfeminine… Jenny would never have let me call her that. Blotchy sounds even worse. I can’t deny it, though. Even an insensitive old codger like me could see she’d been crying, poor little lass. So, of course, in my tactless way I had to say something ridiculous… something like ‘My dear? Is there anything I can do?’ – which is about as patronising, I suppose, as anyone can get. Jenny would not have been amused.
She shook her head. By now I’d remembered her name – Miri, so I said it – such a lovely name, a pleasure to pronounce.
She looked at me properly and I noticed that her eyes were indeed filled with tears. Poor girl. I like to think I would have made a good father, though I was never given the chance. We had one or two false starts, Jenny and I… the cause of many tears on her part. I was disappointed too, of course, though it never hit me as hard as it did poor Jenny. Perhaps I was sufficiently afraid of babies to experience a certain counter-balancing – a degree of relief mixed with the grief, though I would never have said so to dear Jenny, of course.
We tried our hardest, but it was not to be. We found other outlets for our desire to care for others. I had my work and Jenny – well, she was a vicar’s wife of the old-fashioned, hands-on kind. No wife, of course, should be expected to be married to her husband’s job, and if Jenny hadn’t wanted to help, I would have understood, but right from the start she was my right-hand woman, my helpmeet… an absolute blessing in every way. There was so much going on in the parish that would have passed me by, without her. And no, I don’t mean she was a nosy parker, just that she had her ear to the ground and was always early at the scene at any crisis or…
I’m supposed to be relating what happened on the High Street, outside Boots, where I tried to be a father figure to young Miri. And cocked up, I fear, double time. If only Jenny had been there.
‘Can I help at all, my dear?’
‘Oh! No, no. I have the… hay fever… that’s all. But thank you so much.’
Hay fever in early February on the north-east coast of England? I cleared my throat.
She must have realised she had failed to convince me. ‘Or… something,’ she added lamely. ‘Perhaps a cold. Nothing to be worried about.’
This is where Jenny would have managed to say exactly the right thing, to encourage Miri to confide in me whatever was troubling her. I, sadly, singularly failed. I merely said, ‘Are you sure?’
The wan little thing gave a feeble smile. ‘Please do not worry about me. I am just a little bit under the weather today. Life is a little difficult, but it can soon be fixed.’
‘Are you… are you sure I can’t help? Even a cup of tea? I’m just on my way home now.’ (The latter a fib, of course, as I had not yet reached Katy’s shop. But my Bournville could wait.)
‘No, no – you are very kind but I have some errands to do.’
God? Jenny? Neither was available, it seemed, to inspire or direct me.
I gave a little shrug. ‘Well, do take care. There’s a bitter wind today.’
As if my weather report was any news to her. I despair of myself sometimes. Still, I know that young women tend to cry easily, and all I can do is to hope it was nothing too serious. I said a prayer for her, of course, as I walked home without my chocolate, but have no idea whether it did any good.
About the Author
Rosalie Warren was once a university lecturer, specialising in Artificial Intelligence and Natural Language Processing. But her earliest love was books and stories, and since taking early retirement ten years ago she has been following her dream of writing and publishing. For details of her publications for adults and children, including science fiction and romantic suspense, see http://srg521.wix.com/mybooks and https://www.facebook.com/RosalieWarrenAuthor/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/