by Matt Drabble
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily woke bright and early; her stomach churned with a mix of nerves and excitement. Monday morning had arrived as promised. She checked the bedside clock; it read 6.15am, and Monday the 23rd. There had been no last minute reprieve. Apparently, the gods of time and space had not seen fit to delay the start of her first day at work.
She swung her feet out of the large wooden bed. Her feet touched the warm wood flooring and she paused on the edge of the bed, bathed in the sunlight.
She considered for a moment “accidently” waking Michael from his lucky sound slumber, but decided to be above such pettiness. The door to the bathroom did somehow mysteriously manage to bang loudly as she closed it.
She cursed the draughty winds that must have blown it shut as she heard Michael grumpily stirring. She showered with a smile, relaxing into her new routine, and beginning to relish the day. She dressed quickly and quietly before heading downstairs, managing to bump the bed with her hips and a grin as she passed.
The day outside was sunny and blue as always. She made tea in the kitchen and took a fresh fruit salad out of the fridge. She carried both through the patio doors and out onto the garden furniture, where she sat enjoying the peace.
“Big day, neighbour.”
She jumped in surprise as Janet walked around the side of the house. “Shit, Janet,” she exclaimed, coughing up chunks of melon.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Janet laughed. “I didn’t mean to scare you; I just didn’t want to make any noise this early.”
“Well congratulations on that,” Emily said. “You were like a damned ninja,” she laughed regaining her composure. “What are you doing here this early?”
“I just wanted to wish you good luck on your first day,” Janet said seriously. “Here.” She offered out her hand with a rosy red apple. “For luck.”
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The tram rattled round the corner and pulled up on time as usual. Emily climbed on board with a skip. She wore a light summer yellow dress, flat open sandals, and she carried an old satchel bag over her shoulder, one that she had used ever since her first day at her first school.
“Morning, teach. Looking forward to the festival?” Eddie greeted her happily.
“And a good morning to you, Edward,” she replied primly in her best teacher's voice. “The festival isn’t for months yet, is it?
“Never too early to plan for the festival,” Eddie winked.
She moved to the back of the tram as always, the many now familiar faces all wishing her luck for her first day.
As the tram rattled its merry way along, Emily watched the pleasant town pass by out of the window.
The houses were pristine and the lawns manicured. The sun bounced its hot rays off of the roofs, and smiling happy faces lined the streets bustling about their business.
Emily noticed that there was a group of several people scrubbing away at green paint on the post office building as they passed by slowly. They had intent expressions on their faces and sweating foreheads as they worked furiously.
“Isn’t it just awful?” a woman said as she leant across her, looking out the window. “The sheriff needs to get a hold of these criminals, lock them up and throw the key away.”
“I’d flog them in the town square, in front of God and everyone,” a man spoke from across the aisle with gusto.
Emily was taken aback by the normally pleasant regular tram faces that were now contorted with murderous venom. “It’s just a little paint,” she offered in a small voice.
“That’s where it starts,” an elderly man said from a few seats down. “It starts with a little paint, then a little stealing and dealing, and the next thing you know it’s Sodom and Gomorrah,” he spat.
By the time the tram had reached the school’s stop, her head was spinning with well wishers, and advice as to the best way with which to deal with minor criminal acts. It had been a relief to stand alone on the sidewalk.
The school building was neither large nor imposing, as many of the British buildings tended to be.
Centuries of history and sternness were often embedded into the very bricks and mortars of the schools that she had previously taught in. Eden Elementary was quite the contrast; the school looked newly built, the walls were low, and the façade was light and welcoming.
A low white picket fence prettily decorated the front lawn that looked designed for aesthetic reasons rather than security. Overall, it looked like a large, friendly house rather than an austere school of disciplined learning.
She crossed the road nervously; so many first days are starting the same all around the world, she told herself. The hands on a clock always moved forward no matter what, and time always passes. She barely managed to open the gate before the front door exploded and about a dozen children barrelled forward and out, leaving a laughing woman behind them. Emily was suddenly engulfed in the throng of squealing voices all chiming at once and a thousand tiny hands all tugging at her dress for attention.
“I’m sorry,” the woman at the back shouted over the high-pitched din, “they couldn’t wait,” she laughed.
Michael prepared himself for the long, arduous wait; the installers were due this morning to fit the house with the high speed DSL line that he required for work.
The broadband connection would be his link to the outside world. He was only thirty eight, but he could still remember having to research everything by hand. He had spent so many lost hours in libraries, suffocating under piles of dusty text books, trawling for obscure references and information.
As a writer, he was always in need of instant and accurate data. He would prepare his requirement lists as best he could, jotting down great swaths of questions to which he required answers to.
The only problem was that when he was writing, things would more often than not occur to him as the prose flowed, making his previous requirements suddenly obsolete.
His story would often make savage turns without notice, taking him down roads as yet untraveled, and his painstaking research would become useless. The internet had been a godsend to him; suddenly he had the entire world at his fingertips. Whether it was common names of the 1700’s, information about dissociative disorders, or just recipes for Yorkshire puddings - everything was in reach.
The operator had promised faithfully that the installers would be with him promptly at 9am, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He was used to a system back in the UK where you were allocated a morning or afternoon slot that consisted of a six hour window, and the van would usually pull up sometime after that.
His ears suddenly pricked as a low diesel engine drew up outside. He stood, puzzled, and walked to the window. Outside was indeed a Nissan e-NV200 panel van with a DSL Direct logo on the side. Michael checked his watch; it was 8.59am, and the doorbell rang its merry tune as the numbers tumbled over to 9.00am.
He opened the door to a pleasant and smiling face. The man standing before him wore dark brown cargo pants and a dark brown canvas, with a short-sleeved shirt with the company logo embroidered on his left chest pocket, and the name Dale on his right.
“Good morning, Mr. Torrance.”
“9am?” Michael answered, surprised.
“Of course, sir.” The installer viewed him nervously. “9am, that was the time, wasn’t it?” His tone had become worried.
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry; I just wasn’t expecting you to be so prompt, I guess.”
“We do everything here on time, sir; I mean, what is the point of giving a customer a time, only for us not to show up? I’m sure that you have got much better things to do than wait around for us all day.”
“Come in, come in,” Michael said remembering his manners and feeling embarrassed. “What do you need from me?”
“Oh, nothing to trouble yourself about, sir,” the installer said, his cheerful demeanour returning with a vengeance. “My name’s Dale and I’ll be out of your hair lickety-split; just point me to where your computer is, and I’ll d
o the rest.”
Michael showed Dale upstairs to his writing room. He steeled himself for the inevitable long and drawn out cheery conversation that seemed to be the staple of his new townsfolk. Dale, however, appeared to notice his quiet demeanour and he was thankful for that. Whenever people discovered his occupation, they all seemed to have a million questions about writing, and they all seemed to be the same ones.
“You just carry on with your day, Mr. Torrance, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Michael left the installer to his business and wandered downstairs, amused that he actually found himself disappointed that Dale was not looking to talk.
The house was still enormous to him, and he feared that he would rattle around in the home, lost and lonely after Emily had left for work. It was only about twenty minutes later when Dale returned back down the stairs. Michael was drifting around the ground floor level aimlessly, unable to settle or commit to any activity.
“All done, Mr. Torrance,” Dale said.
“Already?” Michael asked surprised.
“Yes, sir. You are now back on the grid; the world is your oyster once again.”
With that, Dale was out of the door. Michael watched as the work van fired up and drove away.
The efficiency was mind blowing: in, out and done inside twenty five minutes, without a coffee or an uncomfortable chat. Michael positively ran back up the stairs to his office and switched on the computer.
He scanned the room whilst the system booted up and was pleased to see that Dale had made no mess; you wouldn’t even know that he’d been in this room.
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Six hours later, Emily finally sat in the small teachers’ lounge and drew breath. A steaming cup of coffee was slowly starting to lift her flagging energy.
The day had been a whirlwind, and in the months that she had been off of work she had grown educationally flaccid. Her system had grown fat and lazy to the demands of teaching. A couple of short hours with a class full of seven year old children had worn her to the bone.
“You look exhausted,” a voice startled her from behind.
Sarah-Jane Mears was one of three employees at the school, including herself and the headmistress.
Sarah-Jane was twenty seven, and just about the bubbliest woman that Emily had ever met. Sarah-Jane positively bounced rather than walked; she was a touch on the cuddly side, Rubenesque of build, but with a boundless energy that her frame seemed impossible to contain.
She was an attractive woman, with natural blond hair that Janet would have killed for, and a cute face that beamed innocence.
It was Sarah-Jane that had shown her around the school and introduced her to the other member of staff, the headmistress. Despite the friendly surroundings, Emily was still expecting to meet a more formidable educator.
Mrs. Olivia Thirlby was a widow of around fifty. Her hair was streaked with silver and she was redundant of vanity.
She was a tall, lean woman, healthy and hearty, and she had welcomed Emily in a friendly, if somewhat more formal, manner than her staff and pupils had.
Emily’s head was spinning from the enclosed space and rushed introductions. Everyone, including the staff, was fascinated by her accent, and where she had come from.
Some of the children had viewed her with awe when she had read them a story after lunch, her English accent sparking their imaginations like never before. Her class was small and easily manageable; back in the UK, classes ran to over thirty children, making any sort of intimacy impossible. Her class here numbered exactly eleven children, and she had already memorised all of their names.
She had felt an instant rapport with the class and her new colleagues, who were following in the Eden tradition of smothering her with kindness. Sarah-Jane was a constant buzz at her elbow, always desperate to help in any way, looking terrified that Emily’s first day might not be perfect.
“I said you look exhausted,” Sarah-Jane repeated.
“Does it show?” Emily laughed. “I can’t believe that I’m so out of shape.”
“It’ll all come back soon enough, like riding a bike.”
“I keep falling off bikes,” Emily said, not entirely joking.
“Well I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you here; the children have been so excited like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Oh man, they were just wonderful. I never realised just how much I missed teaching.”
“I must say as well,” Sarah-Jane whispered, leaning in close, “that it’s great for the staff as well. Ever since Jessica left, we’ve been desperate for another teacher. Mrs. Thirlby point blank refused to employ another teacher until she found you.”
“Who was Jessica?”
“She was the teacher here before you. I thought that you knew all about her? Didn’t you just move into her old house?”
“Ms Mears,” a loud voice boomed from behind, startling them both, “I do believe that it’s your turn for crossing duty.”
“Oops, sorry, Mrs. Thirlby.” Sarah-Jane was up and gone with a smile and a wink towards Emily.
“So how was your first day, dear?” Mrs. Thirlby asked officially.
“It was lovely, Mrs. Thirlby. I can’t thank everyone enough.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear, my dear.”
Emily watched as the headmistress turned to leave, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders back and hands clasped in front of her. “Oh, Mrs. Thirlby, what happened to the woman who was here before me?”
“I’m afraid that she left. It turned out that she just wasn’t Eden material after all.”
For just a split second, Emily thought that she saw a crack in the iron mask that Mrs. Thirlby wore; her neutral expression rippled as a flash of desperate sadness flickered through.
Then it and she were gone, leaving Emily to pick up her bag and head for home for a dip in the cool pool and a kiss from her hot man, and not necessarily in that order.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Michael stared out at the view from the window. Not for the first time, he felt that he had made a mistake by putting his office in front of such a distraction.
His right elbow nagged achingly and a steady dull pain radiated throughout his lower arm caused from repetitive strain at the keyboard. He had worked since he was twelve years old, being everything from a butcher’s dogsbody to a graphic designer.
He had never shied away from hard work and thanked his lucky stars every morning for his privileged position of being able to write for a living. He would only rise after Emily had left for work, so as to not get in her way whilst she showered and dressed. He would take a mug of tea out onto the patio, much as Emily did before him.
He would sit for a short while appreciating the weather and his home, before clocking in upstairs.
The new novel was progressing along nicely, but for the first time in his marriage he was lying to his wife.
He had told her that he would not pursue the book idea of writing about their new town, but here he sat, some 15,000 words into the novel.
Normally when he wrote, he would start with a prepared beginning and finish with a prepared ending. In between, everything else evolved organically. He would often be delighted and surprised as he wrote. He would read his own work as a reader would come to, never knowing exactly what was around the corner.
This new novel, however, seemed to be a different animal altogether; his path felt somehow predetermined, and the book was merely passing through him in long and undisturbed sections.
He knew that Emily would not approve, but his agent was into the idea in a big way and this prevented him from turning the tanker around.
He had found over the years that when an idea took hold, he was cursed to finish the book, no matter how it turned out. He had several files containing finished novels that would never see the light of day because they were simply not good enough.
He leant back in his chair and stretched. The clock on the wall told him that it was quitting time if he wanted.
He always tried to discipline himself to at least 2000 words a day and the word count on screen was waving him off.
He saved the day's takings on file and on a backup flash drive; he could not imagine trying to work using typewriters and paper when so much could go wrong.
They had been here now for over two months, and they had almost fully settled in.
Slowly their uniqueness to their fellow townsfolk had faded, and they had become less of a circus attraction.
For the first month at least, everyone had been fascinated by their accents, England, and their pronunciations. Pavement for sidewalk, lift for elevator and so on and so on.
Gradually they had become more and more accepted as just a couple who lived in Eden, and it still felt tremendous. The magical Christmas morning element that had accompanied their arrival had faded back into a mere daily joy.
He turned his face upwards into the streaming sun. The light was warm on his face and he was utterly convinced that the perfect weather more than played its part in his good moods. Dragging himself out of bed on cold rainy days back in the UK - he never referred to the UK as back home anymore - was a depressing grind. The UK summers were spotty and inconsistent, and most times he would find himself depressed at the inability of the sun to find and warm England, even at the height of the season.
The long view from his writing window always fascinated him; the sweep of lush green fields stretched unbroken from the rear of his house out towards the banking forest that rose to the horizon in the distance. The distance looked to be quite a few miles between himself and the forest.
He looked down at the expanding paunch that rolled over his belt in his sitting position. The food in Eden was fantastic, but the portions he had found were massive and he knew that Americans had a worldwide reputation for obesity.
He had though discovered that the food consumed was of a far better quality than back in England. Everything was fresh here, and additives and preservatives were conspicuously absent. The burgers and steaks that he purchased from Morgan at the “Tasty Bite” Deli for barbecuing were wonderfully unsullied, but they were huge. When he had eaten regularly at the “Munchies” diner he had dived too many times head first into their version of the Philly cheese steak.
