TMA02

The Party Lines

Marlene wasn’t enthused with the idea of hosting Rick’s Office 2002 Christmas Party, but Howard Andrews, a director at Rick’s company, thought it a great idea, so on the agreed date their house was transformed from cosy home to roomy venue in preparation for the invited guests from Andrews Carlton Insurances Services Ltd.

It started as most do: a fuss of self conscious embracing, coat shrugging and bottle offering. The kitchen quickly resembled a public bar and the sitting room gradually transformed from a place of sublime private silences and comfortable routine living into a rumpus of handshakes, chaste kisses and loud weak jokes

In their lounge the 38 “ TV and its shelf of twinkling boxes sat cold and ignored in the corner, given a rare night off. The cream leather sofa where they normally slumped watching television, transformed into a couch for half a dozen tensed behinds. All other seats in the room were taken, including upright chairs recruited from the dining room. Every doorway and wall space was occupied. Filled wine glasses and beer bottles were balanced precariously on furniture or on the floor, teetering on the brink of spilling onto the flawless pale green carpet.

Flashing smiles to all arrivals, Marlene Sudbury age 45, hostess for the night. Her school girl ginger frizz-helmet she wore as Marlene Carter was now transformed by modern products into a luxuriant loose sandy curl, the perfect accompaniment to her sunlit grass green eyes. She looked vivacious and more confident than she was and as a bookmaker’s clerk hated having to rebuff punters’ advances and endure their amorous attentions and vacuous proposals of marriage.

Still ‘well made’ according to Rick, and once called ‘a sexy unit’ by an old boss. She knew all the euphemisms for women with generous curves, all of them she thought, disgustingly sexist. She was a mixture of loyalty, pride and quiet strength and the engine behind Rick’s ambitions.

Amid the mingling conversations, Marlene’s thoughts strayed. Soon the immaculate bathroom loo would begin to resemble a public bog with the assorted drips and stains normally tidied along the way, left to build up. The toilet paper roll would look like it had been completely unravelled and re-rolled by someone wearing gardening gloves. The air in the downstairs loo would hang heavy with the scents of air freshener, cologne and bleach, and the dining table buffet would look like it had been ravaged by a flock of starlings. And once the alcohol had taken effect, ‘her dreaded moment’ would begin, where anything from quizzes to confessions could be suggested.

Her thoughts were soon interrupted as the anticipated turn-taking ‘how did you meet’ game was about to start. At this point Rick would usually draw up his short 5’ 7” frame, once described by a family GP as ‘spare’, remove his spectacles and scratch his short grey stubbly hair, and suggest a different game. She caught his eye. He looked nervous. She was nervous.

‘I’ll start,’ said Rick, as his eyes swept the gallery of faces like a search light, no doubt testing his nerve thought Marlene. She knew his face would cool once he got started, his pulse would slow and his thoughts and breathing would stabilise to allow his timing to settle. His type of confidence was one born out of effort and will.

As a toddler he was nicknamed little Cato on account of his height and volubility, and it stuck all the way up to Westland Grammar. But this trait abated with the passing years as if some of his natural exuberance had somehow been sucked from him. Now when called upon to be decisive at work, he would often flounder. He sometimes felt ill and unfocussed when he chaired meetings, and when giving presentations he usually felt that his whole head boiled. But he always knew about toiling deep, and was still competitive. On the squash court he could still spring surprises, and was ambitious enough to want the senior manager’s job at Carson Andrews over the more qualified and younger Giles.

‘The first time I ever set eyes on Marlene we were both at infant’s school,’ Rick began. He glanced at her and she recognised the expression he used when he was controlling his apprehension.

‘Get away!’ said Giles, shaking his head incredulously whilst smirking at his partner.

‘It’s true,’ said Rick, who straightened up. ‘Let me take you back to where we began: It started on a summer’s day. It was so warm we were taken outside to sit under the willow tree for story time. I always loved Miss Fielding’s voice when she read. I would become completely transfixed. Once she started I was under her spell; which is why on this day I failed to report the uncomfortable urgent stirrings in my stomach. Soon a sense of panicky pain took over and I felt a warm, moist oozing fill my pants, a sublime guilt-filled relief. Gradually a terrible smell wafted through the circle of children who started to fuss and whine and pinch their noses. My heart punched and my eyes tightened as I visualised the vapour trail snaking towards Miss Fielding’s nostrils, who seconds later grimaced and closed the book with a thud.

‘I was extracted from the group by the headmistress who marched me to the place considered the sole domain of Mr Dickson the caretaker. I remember seeing his brown coat draped over one of the chairs and noted the frayed collar and the little row of screw drivers and pens sticking out of the top pocket and a copy of the Racing Post rolled up and poking though a lower one. His glasses were sat on his chair as if placed there to reserve the seat. There was a smell of disinfectant from a tin bucket with a mop planted in it like a stake, the head looking like a dead sea creature, partly concealed by fizzing grubby water. On the drainer there were two tins ofAjax, a slab of soap, a nail brush, a yellow glove that looked like a dismembered hand, a bunched up cloth and a silvery bloom of wire wool all placed out like a janitor-themed Kim’s Game.

‘A nurse in a blue coverall and plimsolls silently appeared. She nodded at the headmistress who clacked quickly away along the corridor. The nurse then blasted steamy water into this large Belfast sink which bubbled and foamed. My punishment was to be publically washed in a sink normally used by Mr Dickson for only the dirtiest jobs. I was stripped and dunked by the nurse who proceeded to wash me clear of this foul smelling stuff. The water turned frothily brown. The air was full of steamy soap-scented excrement and the distant shrill sound of children’s voices. I felt sad, confused and worried.

‘The nurse said, ‘Stop moving, there’s no one around who can see you.’ I was turning my head like an owl, checking desperately. No one was around. But it didn’t help.

‘‘Right, you’re done’ she said, and lifted me from the sink. ‘Dry yourself and put these on.’ She showed me a set of clothes that looked like they’d been retrieved from a nearby orphanage, like the ones I’d seen my father wearing in the creased black and white photograph he kept in his drawer. I looked like one of those evacuees you see clambering on and off trains in those wartime news reels.

‘As I tidied myself I saw a lone girl peeping from behind the duffle bag pegging area. She’d watched the whole thing in complete silence. She had ginger hair shaped like a wasp’s nest, and I liked her. But she’d seen me undressed, scrubbed and sluiced like a dog so I hated her instead. I never wanted to see her again, but a bond was already quietly forming. Later, sports day brought us back together again.

‘On the day the boys wore capacious shorts. Those tight-squeezers that made footballers in the Eighties look like they were wearing swimming trunks hadn’t yet caught on. The girls were even more unfortunate, forced to strip down into what appeared to be heavy-duty, navy-blue knickers which made even the slim girls look horrid. I suppose this was intended to thwart the stirrings we boys tended to get and the old navy blues were a good defence against any surprise twitches or unscheduled bulges appearing on sports day.

‘Looking at the group of girls mustering I noticed the ginger frizzy-haired girl sat with a teacher. She was fully dressed, quite plump.

‘I was also going through an unpopular phase as that toilet business hadn’t been forgotten and I’d started to wear glasses to correct a squint recently spotted at the clinic. But at least I was involved, as soon as the pairs were settled.

‘Once the ramshackle of minor events involving sacks, buckets and plastic objects were over, the wheelbarrow race was announced. Girls must choose boys to push. Boy’s legs to be tucked under girl’s arms and pushed along, wheelbarrow style.

‘Boys with their strong taut little arms would crawl, whilst their bitty legs were tucked under the arms of the girls who would then push them along like a wheelbarrow, as fast as possible towards the winning line.

‘As the pairing off neared completion, feelings of dejection began to come over me as the selection process neared the end. The final girl made her move and selected the boy next to me. The balance was wrong and I was left out. There was to be no wheelbarrow race for me. No more pushers were left.

‘Suddenly there was a commotion, a swirl of mums and teachers, all permanent waves and flouncy dresses, fussing over someone reluctantly being pulled into the open. It was the ginger girl sprung from the safety and anonymity of the spectator’s seating. She was ordered to strip down to her knickers and fill the gap. I was going to be barrowed after all, by this little ginger tank. My secret ginger girl.

‘The starting whistle was blown shrilly and, before its pea stopped rattling, the navy blues and their hand crawlers began. Pretty soon boy's legs were being dropped by slim pig tailed girls, their ribbons flicking in the wind. Tears and pouting accusations soon followed. But I was still going, pushed by a pile driver, my bony legs clamped tight by pudgy arms and the pent up emotions of this strong girl.

‘My twiggy arms and hands were a blur of desperate skittering. They had to be. If I hadn't kept them going I’d have fallen face first into a wreck of bloody nose, grass-stained teeth and comically twisted specs. She kept pushing. My weedy chest heaved; fear of worse pain drove me on and on. My lungs felt hot and sore and I could taste sweet acidy fluid in my mouth. But then, other feelings deeper inside me changed. I felt angry and proud and I wanted to win. I could tell that she wanted it too, the frizzy ginger girl, as determined, intent and as full of desire as I was. ‘

‘And?’ said Giles.

‘Oh, we won,’ said Rick as he sat down. ‘Best friends after that.’

Marlene watched him turn round. Some of the guests were nodding. Most look stunned. No one wanted to follow. Then unexpectedly, an air clopping sound, deep and regular, broke the silence. Howard Andrews was clapping. Gradually everyone else joined in.

‘That my dear Rick was brilliant’ said Andrews. ‘You were a gutsy little thing I reckon. Great stories, bloody honest too. Don’t you think so, Giles?’

Giles was about to say something snippy about the toilet accident, but left the sentiment unsaid.

‘Are you up next Giles, can you top that?’

Giles muttered something about things having moved on.

Rick signalled Marlene towards the kitchen

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘I was really nervous for you,’ said Marlene. ‘And I thought you’d accidentally blow our little secret but you didn’t. Instead you just called me a ginger tank.’

They kissed.

‘I know that bit slipped out, but that and my little toilet accident made him roar. I stuck that in because one thing Andrews respects above all else is honesty and who’s going to make that up. And he now knows I can turn it on when I’m on my feet; he loves the whole make ‘em laugh, make ‘em like you stuff, though it’s normally impossible at work with Giles constantly poking his nose in.’ ‘

He looked at her, ‘When I’m made senior manager over Giles we can decide when we tell everyone we really found each other properly on ‘SecondChanceDate.com’ if it comes up again, which I doubt.’

Marlene smiled. She actually never wanted that information out. She still felt sensitive towards her first husband’s memory whom she cared for until he died, and the sting of guilt she still felt putting herself first even after so long could only worsen if that was made known. She knew Rick had related those memories to deflect everyone, as well as grabbing the chance to show his mettle. And that he’d taken a risk, telling the sink wash story in front of that weasel Giles. That part they hadn’t discussed. He was being protective of her, digging deep as he always did. She knew his loyalty was to her and that his struggle for recognition at work was a quiet one. He deserved to win, she thought, and with her behind him again, she knew he would.

TMA02 Commentary

This is my commentary for TMA02. It wont make a lot of sense without having read the story first - but it is a commentary that received a full twenty marks so might be of interest as reference for those struggling with this element of the A215 TMAs.

I wrote TMA02 based on ideas in the Workbook chapters ‘Raiding your past’ and ‘Writing what you know.’(Neale, D. 2011) which allowed me to concentrate on my own original writing. I revisited the activities in the Workbook to do with memory and referred to my writer’s notebook of recorded memories. I also spent extra time looking at the techniques of point of view, structuring, character, setting, and show and tell as I believed that for the story I had in mind involving a retelling of memories those techniques would feature heavily. Away from the Workbook I also considered feedback and exercises from the online tutorials and the various OU forums.
I had two memories listed under ‘School Days:’ ‘I Forgot to Ask’ and ‘The Odd Winners’ (Ragan, M. 2011 p.20-26). I thought both provided good opportunities to practise the ‘show and tell’ techniques described in the Workbook (Neale, D. 2011. p.127) which I was keen to demonstrate. Also a number of workplace settings in my notebook including a carpenter’s workshop and a work’s canteen (Ragan, M. 2011 p.46-67) from Workbook Activity (6.6) and drew inspiration from these when I described the Sudbury’s home and the Janitor’s working area. I tried for a good balance of show and tell through sensory descriptions I practised in Workbook Activities (9.1/2/3) and improved from feedback from the OU Tutorial.
My ambition was to describe these fairly normal settings through defamiliarising the known techniques discussed in Chapter 9 (Anderson, L. 2011) to invigorate these settings. I had in mind Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie in describing minute sensory details and Raymond Carver’s idea that mundane activities can be written about in interesting ways. (Workbook, p.57 and p.20)
The plot of rivalry and ambition was the supporting framework, but Giles/Andrews characters remained flat and did just enough. Rick and Marlene needed to be more rounded and complex: Rick, insecure/confident with his own motivation behind recounting the stories, Marlene, seeming confident but insecure, supportive of Rick but anxious about the game. I felt that they needed to be sympathetic characters and following feedback from TMA01 I aimed at the right amount of humour/sadness in the tone.
As Marlene was reluctant about the party I thought it more effective to have access to her thoughts with her p/o/v using third person limited as discussed in the A215 Tutorial and the Workbook. (Anderson, L. 2011. p.113) I wanted Rick’s lines to be in first person dramatic present to provide the tension associated with whether he could finally impress his boss with his public speaking whilst not revealing the secret of how he and Marlene, as a couple, really met up. I hoped this structuring would generate tension for the reader in whether Rick’s monologue would be successfully delivered whilst also feeling some empathy with Marlene’s concerns for Rick and her discomfort. I thought about Nellie’s third person narration in Wuthering Heights, (Bronte, E. 1847) but thought direct character experience better here. This story involves many strands which I hope connect into a successful whole, though I think I may have been a bit ambitious with the sketchy subplots of ambition.

I thought I might try to write a blog on the first day of the New Year, although I would never be so foolish as to make any daft New Year Resolutions about a blog a day or anything like that. A quick update as to where I am with the course is probably the best I can do at the moment.

I submitted TMA02 ages ago, although the cut off date is still a few days away. I thought would get loads done over Christmas with the stressful requirement of 02 nicely tucked away, but neglected to remember in my excitement about the course just how time draining the whole Christmas thing is in our house. Too many visitors, too many meals to prepare and tidy up, too much noise and festive mayhem for me to get any real quiet time to look at my books, do any reading, or thinking or revision. Only yesterday and a bit of today has allowed me some quality time to dip into the Workbook and read some of the early chapters and sub headings and get something of a feel for this part of A215. So I feel a little more buoyed up about writing a blog too, since I have done a little work at last.

At the time of writing this blog entry I have had a go at the first few exercises, looking at the photographs and trying to write something creative and interesting about the lady with the pram and the young child who is hanging onto the side as it's been wheeled along. I can't remember what I wrote now, but I seem to recall I assumed that the photographer was the ladies husband and that this was essentially a family snap, albeit that the father was advanced enough in the field to be something of a professional given that cameras were probably quite rare at that time. For the piece I entered his subsequent internalized thoughts about his wife and his two children - taking time to give all the characters including the baby in the pram, something of a story. I should add that the father's account was from twenty plus years later.

I didn't work particularly hard on this exercise, but produced a short piece of work, which was handy since I had to refer to it a few times again afterwards as the exercises progressed. (Door bell and car doors, bugger, to be continued...)

Back sooner than I thought. Lost my thread a bit so I shall free write the rest of this blog for now. Going through the Drafting section I like the idea of the term 'first inkling'. This might seem unimportant given that it's mentioned only in passing - but for me it has provided a starting point because believe me I know nothing of writing poetry. Why would you write a poem? How would you start? How would it be constructed? I'm really at the beginning like most on this course, so the notion of 'first inkling' suggests to me that before you even begin to sit down and write a poem you must first get a metaphorical jab in the ribs that provides that first inkling. And that inkling probably comes courtesy of something that has kicked off an emotion in you, sadness, interest, glee something like that, which could be described as your first inkling, your first unexpected desire to write something down in a sad, witty or profound way.

The other day I was in London visiting the Museum of London's Dickens exhibition. The exhibition wasn't all that great but the museum was. One thing I remember above all else there was the court reports from the 1800s about public executions. One particular report concerned the trial of one Margaret Waters a 34 year old spinster who became known as one of several baby farmers predominantly women, who on payment promised to make unwanted babies disappear. The system typically was that these baby farmers would promise new lives for these unwanted children finding them good homes and better prospects. In reality, these baby farmers were just killing them off and pocketing the money. The consequence being that dead babies were being found all over the place, in sewers, down wells, in ditches etc. Some of these women were caught and tried for murder and Margaret Waters was one of them. The court report is quite detailed and includes her specific crimes, her attitude when caught, the things she said in gaol, her performance on the gallows and the hanging itself. Perversely she didn't plead guilty except to say that both she and the babies were innocent before fainting as she approached the rope and having to be revived before it was slung around her neck. And a 'first inkling' for a poem from this total amateur was born.

Without a 'first inkling' I would never write a poem and I haven't written one yet, but I'm beginning to see how the motivation and inspiration thing might work, why a poet would sit down and say to himself or herself, I think I might write a poem about this or that because today something made me think.

Unlike the fiction section which felt a little more natural I think I'm going to have to blog quite a lot to help chivvy myself along. When blogs were first talked about at the beginning of this course I strained to write anything and only did it because it felt right to have a go as this was after all 'a writing course.' But I think throughout this poetry section I will much more blog prolific as I believe to write down my thoughts here might just help me rub along.