WIP: AWKWARD - Part One

They were standing in his flat, or more precisely, his kitchen. He had one of those disgusting modern kitchens, you know, all black and silver, with stainless steel contraptions hanging from every available spot. It could’ve been a dentist’s inner sanctum, or the torture chamber of a psycho. Regardless, it screamed to the world that whoever designed this kitchen was a man who was hurtling towards death. A desperate, sad little man who was closer to forty than he’d care to admit, desperately clinging onto the very last strands of youth. A man who was currently trying to break up with his twenty-one year old girlfriend, wearing one of those cheap-looking political T-shirts from Camden Market, bleached hair reflected in the metal jungle that he had mistakenly thought was hip. In other words, a douche bag. 

The relationship with the foetus was getting serious and he needed an escape route. It wasn’t like he could take her home to his mother. The old bat almost had a coronary every time a box was opened on Deal or No Deal; imagine introducing her to a girl who barely remembered Noel’s House Party. “Listen, I know this relationship means a lot to you, but I can’t...I can’t do this anymore.” As expected, he was reeling off tired old clichés, the biggest being himself. His sagging lips trembled as he noticed a flash of anger in his girlfriend’s eyes...or was that just light reflecting off his sautéing pan? “The staring, the whispering...I just can’t deal with the attention from having a younger girlfriend right now...it would be best just to call things off.  I’m...I’m really sorry.” There was silence for a couple of minutes. Tony tried to be a good guy, he really did, but he couldn’t help his mind drifting off to thoughts of that juicer he saw last week in Debenhams.  He instantly regretted not purchasing it at the time, but he’d just bought some new Converse and a Quentin Tarantino DVD Box Set, and he didn’t want to have to carry it all home. The funny thing was, he couldn’t even cook. Not a sausage. The material objects he coveted were just an extension of his horribly inadequate penis.

Crystal (I know it’s an awful name, I didn’t choose it) opened her mouth then instantly closed it. She looked like a male goldfish in drag. Not that I think women should look natural, god no – but there are limits to the amount of makeup you should cake on your face. Why don’t you try seeing a doctor about your acne instead of adding to the problem with cheap makeup? Just a thought. Anyway, Crystal was standing there, her over painted face mirrored a hundred times by various shiny kitchen utensils, considering her next words very carefully. She didn’t want to lose this one. He was getting on a bit, sure, but he owned a car and had connections that got them into all the best clubs. Still, he did seem to have aged a little recently. Maybe it was the harsh halogen lighting. “Do you have a problem with people staring at us? Who cares what they think.” Crystal’s tone was nonchalant, but she, like Tony, gave a huge shit about what people thought of her. That was the problem.

“It just makes me feel awkward, just a bit...You know I don’t really like...” Tony trailed off miserably. He’d never been good with words, always leaving the listener to fill in the expansive gaps in his conversation. It didn’t stop him writing appallingly bad poetry about world injustices and how his ex-girlfriends were all sadistic bitches who left him to pine away late at night for months on end, while he listened to My Chemical Romance and watched his last bit of dignity slip out of the window, although it did stop him posting his poetic works on MySpace. Oh, except for that one time where he got really drunk on red wine, and woke up the next morning to various comments from both male friends (“You fag, stop writing emo poetry n get a fookin life!”) and female friends (“If it was really that bad, you knew where the door was! Fuck you Tony!”) on one of his less articulate sonnets.

            Crystal was torn. On the one hand, she kind of liked hanging out with Tony. She didn’t really get his jokes, but his self-deprecating laugh was really cute. He also had a great DVD Collection (he really did, if you discount the horrifying hentai he kept in a box under his bed). On the other hand – she loved drama. And she was a bit creeped out that he resembled her Year Twelve English teacher. Fuck it, her period was due and she fancied a fight. “Awkward? Awkward? You know what’s awkward? When your boyfriend dumps you wearing a T-shirt with a fucking mass murderer on it.  You know what’s awkward? Fucking someone who has wrinkles and uses the same brand of hair dye as my father.  You know what else is awkward? Having to tell everyone that I was dumped by you! You old aged pensioner!” If there was one thing she was good at, it was making something out of nothing.

Tony was normally a bit meek, but this tirade really pissed him off. Also, the bitch had spilled Blue WKD on his tiger print rug last week and he still hadn’t quite forgiven her. He decided to go for the jugular. “Well we can’t all be perfect...you’re certainly not as thin as when I first met you...” Ok, not that cutting. But it did the trick. “Not as thin? Not as thin? So basically you’re saying I’m a whale?” She screeched so loud, the poor guy next door had to turn up the volume of Top Gear. His downtrodden wife, in mid-rant to her sister over the phone about how much of a dick her husband was, came to resent him that tiny bit more. God, women. He would listen to her whining later, but right now Top Gear was on. Top Gear! Who doesn’t love that show? Even people who hate cars love that show. They don’t have a whole channel dedicated to it for nothing.

Back in the kitchen, Tony was back peddling wildly. “No, I didn’t say...I was just angry and said something out of spite. I’m sorry.”  Despite his apology Crystal was not in a forgiving mood, even though she had the most to apologise for. Insignificant facts like that didn’t really concern her. Not when she was really angry. Actually, not ever. Lowering her voice menacingly, she snarled, “How dare you tell me I’m fat? Get out.” This was accompanied by an emphatic pointing somewhere in the direction of the door. Tony was taken aback. What? “What?” he replied, utterly confused. “Oh I’m sorry, couldn’t you hear me? Why don’t you turn up your hearing aid?” was her reply. Seriously, I love these guys’ repartee. Tony had to spell out the obvious to his beloved, the dumb leading the retarded. “This is my flat! Besides, there’s no need to be so fucking immature about this.” Crystal was lightening quick with her defence. “I guess everybody must seem so immature to you, since you’re so fucking old!”

On that bombshell, Tony’s resolve hardened. Not only had she ruined his carpet and insulted his fashion choices, she also had the audacity to goad him about his one weak spot: his age. God damn it, the man had some pride. (Oh, who am I kidding?)  Tony looked at the wooden floor, breathed in then look back at Crystal. He really thought he might have loved her at one point, back when they were happier; but one day as he was cleaning out his closet of Doctor Who memorabilia he realised that she could never compare to the happiness he felt possessing material items, and since then it had never been the same. The rush of feelings to his chest when he thought of that never-opened figurine of Sarah Jane Smith gave him the courage to finally say what he really wanted to. “I just hope you’re gone when I get back.”

It was only after he left the house that he realised he’d missed Top Gear.

Cliched Victorian Story - Chapter 2

2:

It was Monday morning, and barely any snow remained. Only the narrow patches of ice on the roadside left any indication that there had previously been a blizzard. The ladies　 complained that their petticoats were getting damp in between bouts of intense chatter, as they lined the edge of the road. They were idle, those middle-class girls. Drawn to any glimmer of knowledge (or indeed conjecture) about yesterday’s events, groups of three or four stationary ladies rapidly grew to eight or more. Labourers and market-men bustled by, irritated by the human road blocks yet curious for any information on the recent occurrences.

“I just can’t believe it, they came here, what? Twelve months ago?”

“Oh Helena, I believe it was at least a year and a half.”

“Still, to leave the town like that without a trace…Makes you think there must be more to what Lucy saw.”

“Oh definitely, one can be in no doubt that the two things are related.”

This was played out again and again throughout the town. Even the busy workmen found time to stop and deliberate on how wealthy the Ghest patriarch had been, as though he had passed away.

“’E weren’t all that rich, so I ‘ear.”

“But ‘e ‘ad that fancy terrace ‘ouse on White Road.”

“Maybe he’d spent all ‘is money on the races.”

“It was probably cos ‘e were always buying a new ‘ouse. My missus ‘eard from one o’ the maids that they were constantly on the move. They’d gotta be ‘iding sommat.”

It all came back to the same thing. These events had to be explained away despite anyone having any hard evidence to support their theorising. Humans really were predictable sometimes.

The buzz from the gossip had grown intolerable, yet like anything it eventually died down to be replaced by something newer and more exciting. An unknown (and very dashing) young gentleman had come to the village to look at the empty house, and with his arrival came a new wave of speculation. More forceful, less secretive: the tones were completely different. Some of the ladies found that the level of information floating about was too little to bear, so they turned detective, even going as far as to watch the young man as he went about his business. Despite the curious stares, the hair-raising feeling of being scrutinised from afar, (not to mention the giggling – it was like they’d never seen a human male before, I mean honestly) he took the house almost immediately. “After all, it’s a stunning residence and a fair price on top o’ that” was how someone had put it. He moved in soon after.

The gentleman had been living in the village for barely a week, but by then most of the villagers already knew the man’s name, occupation, past residence and his reason for coming to the area (or so they supposed). To them he was James Henry, a lawyer from London who desired a nice country residence. To James, he was a failure to his father and a disappointment to his masters. About 3 months previously he had decided, upon reflection, that a life spent locking up the poor for crimes against poverty was something he could no longer do - having gained a strong conscience in the last year or so - so he decided to flee to the countryside to become a clergyman. Among the haystacks and cowpats he could practise what he preached, helping the poor and uniting the social classes with understanding and compassion. Only problem being that after having arrived at the Shires a week ago he had come to be educated on what it was actually like to live among the country folk. Of course James had read books about the subject, and some exquisite rural poetry; but what good were long green fields when abject poverty abounded? Misguided by ‘friends’ in London who gave strong opinions on subjects they knew little about, James had found himself, a week previously, surrounded by fields, shivering outside the only building for miles around. “Thank goodness it’s a pub”, he thought to himself, “because I need a drink.”

The coachman left. “Good luck young man,” were his parting words. “You’ll certainly need it.” Night had fallen and with it an intolerable chill that spread through the young man’s bones. Surely it couldn’t be this cold? London was never this cold, was it? James saw the reflection of the moon in the pub window and looked skywards. It was only a half-crescent but it still dominated the sky, its luminescence the only light save for a few lamps in the public house. He looked back at the pub. It was a decrepit old place. Although hard to make out details in the dark, James noticed that most of the windows had been boarded up, and there were at least a dozen tiles missing from the roof. Gingerly pushing the shabby door open he stepped inside, and was immediately confronted with five stern faces staring right at him. If he thought the temperature outside was chilling, it was nothing compared to what was waiting within.

James cleared his throat and began to speak, only softly at first, but gaining confidence as the publican’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he began, which seems a strange thing to say upon entering a public house, yet somehow appropriate under the circumstances, “but I wondered if you had any spare rooms for the night. I’m new to the area you see, and -”

“If it’s a bed you’re after, you’ve come to the right place. D’ya wanna nightcap, or…”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’m awfully tired, you see, so -”

“Right y’are sir, jus’ follow me.”

James sighed inwardly and followed the owner up the narrow staircase. Relief swept over him at escaping the gaze of the four surly patrons sitting about the place. He hadn’t looked very closely out of fear, but he was almost certain that the old man sitting in the far corner had a scar on his cheek. This was quite surprising. James had been let to believe that the countryside was filled with simpler, more gentle folk, so he didn’t quite know what to think. What was this place? Lost in thought, he hadn’t fully taken in the countenance of his host; now, outside his bedroom door he could clearly see that the man was a drunkard, after observing his reddened nose and cheeks, his bloodshot eyes, and the stench of whisky about his person. James avoided small talk and almost immediately slipped into the bed. At least the sheets are clean, he thought to himself. Tomorrow I must found a house; anything will do – as long as I don’t have to spend another night in this pit. Before he could make out whether the dark mark on the ceiling was some kind of insect or just a stain, he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Cliched Victorian Story - Chapter One

One had to be careful of gossip.  The thin wisps of idle chatter that quickly diffused throughout the neighbourhood were enticing indeed; but one never knew when those wisps would turn on them.  When you are the victim of gossip, the tempting fronds of idle talk appear as poisonous vines, snaking salacious speculating lies around your reputation for years to come.

It took a good nine months before the Wright family could finally persuade the throngs of feverous gossipmongers that their unwed daughter was not with child, just a little rounder from good food and a lack of country walks.  To this day she remains unmarried, though whether this is the fault of cruel rumours or merely a lack of willpower at afternoon tea remains to be seen.  On another occasion, the rumour was that the elderly Vicar had passed away on the evening before service, and that a younger, much more becoming chap was coming in from town to replace him.  When the octogenarian stepped up on the pulpit the next day, murmurs spread across the communion faster than the old man could clear his throat, and the sea of faces were mixed, to say the least; the more heartless of the ladies had disappointment etched right across their over-painted faces.

Gossip, however indecorous, remained the staple diet of the townsfolk, as entertainment in this part of the world was thin on the ground.  Even the most God-fearing Victorian gentlemen and ladies succumbed to the most shocking piece of news yet to befall the town, which started to spread at approximately the moment the first person entered the church, and finished just as the elderly Vicar requested the congregation stand for the hymn, ‘Jerusalem’.  The Ghest family felt out of sorts, owing to the fact that the low whispering had by-passed them completely.  Edward Ghest, the patriarch of the family, leaned forward and tied his shoes in an attempt to hear the conversation from Betty Smythe in the pew in front, but her expertise in clandestine whispering meant that he could gather nothing from her flurried exchanges.  Was the rumour about him?  His family?  Something to do with the-  No, it couldn’t be, he was certain of it. Although...The niggling doubts could not be fought against for very long.  Edward sunk back into the pew and sighed deeply, knowing that the Vicar’s sermon on the Paraclete could not distract him from his own muddled thoughts.  It would be a long morning.

             After the service, the churchgoers filed out into the street, the dirty watered-down sludge slippery underfoot.  That morning, the village had been completely carpeted in a stunning layer of bright white snow; now, however, patches of road could be seen through the icy mush.  Some of the children tried rolling a snowball, which just resulted in them getting their hands cold, wet and dirty: they grumbled quietly that the pure snow had been ruined by the adults’ clobbering feet. Other children yawned, gulping great lungfuls of crisp, wintry air, earning them a slap from their overbearing guardians.  Unlike some of the more unrulier and - dare one say it? – less well-bred children, the Ghest offspring floated down the road in perfect unison, their perfect hats at a perfect angle, their perfectly spotless shoes touching only the cleanest patches of pavement, their perfectly innocent minds unaware of the bubbling gossip and following eyes.  Mrs Ghest, a tall beauty, watched her son and daughter obediently follow their Nanny.  Ordinarily she would be filled with a smug pride to see her wonderful children outshining the others, but this morning was different.  She snuck a peak at her husband and caught the look of sheer panic in his eyes.  So they knew.  Her stomach constricted tightly with years of brain-gnawing anxiety and shame.  She couldn’t breathe.  They knew.  It was all over, they knew.  Everybody knew.