1995 - 1997
In 1996 while working part-time in a second-hand bookshop I was planing and writing a novel with the working title ‘Old Man Story’. This is a story I expect I shall return to. It is an account of a rather odd old man who takes up residence in a small English village. When we meet him he has already wormed his way into some of the villager’s lives, sometimes by dubious means. A few of the villagers have come to rely on him and even love him. But as the novel proceeds the reader comes to realise that he is not there by chance. He has come with a purpose.
My intention was to write the novel in the present tense, I enjoyed the immediacy and the air of suspense it created. But my ambitions far stripped my capacity and I realised I was unequal to the task.
Old Man Story
In a steady breeze and wearing a wet-through overcoat, the figure of a man treads heavily along the edge of the road near the grey green hedge. Puddles splash and twigs crack under foot, a deep, hoarse cough, loud enough to be heard from a distance, stops his progress momentarily, then a gob of phlegm is spat out towards the small dog at the lead. The road straightening, and beginning to rise to a crest, is in disrepair, reddish mud being revealed as the tar breaks up leaving stones which are kicked by his worn out boots. He reaches up and takes off his cap, pushes back his dirty orange grey hair, so wet that it sticks against his neck.
Fuck it, he says as he clumsily tries to arrange it so as the hair sits over the collar stopping the drips getting under his shirt. That done he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out his cigarettes. He has reached the crest. The packet seems wet, but he lights one and stops to take in a lung full. Turning around to view the village from which he has just come, seeing also the rain, which as he turns again, seems to darken the whole of the district, though where he stands he is enjoying a moment of respite. Up ahead he can see a valley dotted with farmhouses, the land divided by stone fences and hedges, some harbouring sheep others cows, some empty and the road which runs dead straight rising on the next small hill and disappearing. Rain falls over all and as he begins walking again it hits him in the face.
Go on, he says and the dog takes his leave ambling ahead down the slight slope. The man pulls down his cap, throws away the last of the cigarette and turns sharply off the road through a gap in the hedge. On the other side of the hedge is a grassy field, sodden and uneven. On the far side of the field can be seen a clump of trees, dreary in the rain. His feet sink into the ground as he marches across. Half way he stops, bends down and stares at a pile of cow dung. He pushes his hand into it, steam rises from within and a grimace shows across his face. With his left hand he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out a small clear plastic bag which he begins to fill with his right. The bag is half full of manure when he stands and starts back from where he came. As he walks he ties a knot in the top of the bag and places it back in his pocket. His head then gives one look around as he passes through the gap and back on to the road. With a sharp whistle he calls back his dog which appears from the hedge twenty metres up the road and comes bolting down to heel.
Good boy, he says under his breath. The rain falls hard being pushed by the wind, whipping him in the face. The dog lowers his head while the man wipes his face with his left hand only then does he seem to realise that he has neglected to wipe clean his right. Before him is a pot hole and he bends down and washes his hand in the muddy water, as he does this a cyclist riding dangerously fast down the slope whizzes past, making the man jump with fright toppling him over off his haunches onto his backside landing in a muddy patch. The wind had silenced his approach and even as the man rises obviously intending to yell something, the rain growing steadily heavier seems to make the cyclist vanish into the distance. Looking reluctant to rise the man balances on his haunches while the dog sits facing him panting, its tongue loosely hanging from his mouth.
What do you think of that? he asks the dog which looks at him dumbly. A smile stretches across the man’s face, showing him to have straight dull white teeth and a youthful aspect in his eyes, eyes which are set amidst a maze of wrinkles declaring he is sitting on a great many years, many more than that twinkle in them suggests. A look of determination comes over his face replacing that of the smile and he slowly rises to his feet.
Come on, he says and he and the dog continue their slow march.
My intention was to write the novel in the present tense, I enjoyed the immediacy and the air of suspense it created. But my ambitions far stripped my capacity and I realised I was unequal to the task.
Old Man Story
In a steady breeze and wearing a wet-through overcoat, the figure of a man treads heavily along the edge of the road near the grey green hedge. Puddles splash and twigs crack under foot, a deep, hoarse cough, loud enough to be heard from a distance, stops his progress momentarily, then a gob of phlegm is spat out towards the small dog at the lead. The road straightening, and beginning to rise to a crest, is in disrepair, reddish mud being revealed as the tar breaks up leaving stones which are kicked by his worn out boots. He reaches up and takes off his cap, pushes back his dirty orange grey hair, so wet that it sticks against his neck.
Fuck it, he says as he clumsily tries to arrange it so as the hair sits over the collar stopping the drips getting under his shirt. That done he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out his cigarettes. He has reached the crest. The packet seems wet, but he lights one and stops to take in a lung full. Turning around to view the village from which he has just come, seeing also the rain, which as he turns again, seems to darken the whole of the district, though where he stands he is enjoying a moment of respite. Up ahead he can see a valley dotted with farmhouses, the land divided by stone fences and hedges, some harbouring sheep others cows, some empty and the road which runs dead straight rising on the next small hill and disappearing. Rain falls over all and as he begins walking again it hits him in the face.
Go on, he says and the dog takes his leave ambling ahead down the slight slope. The man pulls down his cap, throws away the last of the cigarette and turns sharply off the road through a gap in the hedge. On the other side of the hedge is a grassy field, sodden and uneven. On the far side of the field can be seen a clump of trees, dreary in the rain. His feet sink into the ground as he marches across. Half way he stops, bends down and stares at a pile of cow dung. He pushes his hand into it, steam rises from within and a grimace shows across his face. With his left hand he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out a small clear plastic bag which he begins to fill with his right. The bag is half full of manure when he stands and starts back from where he came. As he walks he ties a knot in the top of the bag and places it back in his pocket. His head then gives one look around as he passes through the gap and back on to the road. With a sharp whistle he calls back his dog which appears from the hedge twenty metres up the road and comes bolting down to heel.
Good boy, he says under his breath. The rain falls hard being pushed by the wind, whipping him in the face. The dog lowers his head while the man wipes his face with his left hand only then does he seem to realise that he has neglected to wipe clean his right. Before him is a pot hole and he bends down and washes his hand in the muddy water, as he does this a cyclist riding dangerously fast down the slope whizzes past, making the man jump with fright toppling him over off his haunches onto his backside landing in a muddy patch. The wind had silenced his approach and even as the man rises obviously intending to yell something, the rain growing steadily heavier seems to make the cyclist vanish into the distance. Looking reluctant to rise the man balances on his haunches while the dog sits facing him panting, its tongue loosely hanging from his mouth.
What do you think of that? he asks the dog which looks at him dumbly. A smile stretches across the man’s face, showing him to have straight dull white teeth and a youthful aspect in his eyes, eyes which are set amidst a maze of wrinkles declaring he is sitting on a great many years, many more than that twinkle in them suggests. A look of determination comes over his face replacing that of the smile and he slowly rises to his feet.
Come on, he says and he and the dog continue their slow march.