The Children's Writer

by Gary Crew

  I drifted in and out of this monologue. Once I was bored with reading Jo’s notes upside down (she evidently found the writer as alchemist very deep, printing the line in capitals), I excused myself, made the goofy ‘I’m going to the toilet’ face, and left the room.

  I found the mother in the garden, all dressed in pink.

  ‘Constance,’ I said, approaching her.

  She was reading her Bible, and looked up.

  ‘Charlie?’ she said. ‘From our dinner?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘Charlie Bloome…’

  ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘Though sometimes I forget,’ and she reached out to pat a bottle of sherry, on a table beside her. It was hardly noon.

  ‘I’m here doing Sebastian’s workshop,’ I said. ‘I was naughty and left.’

  ‘Boys are often naughty,’ she chided. ‘I have two.’

  ‘I doubt that either was ever naughty,’ I said, hoping.

  ‘Here,’ she said, making room on the bench beside her, ‘sit.’

  I did, when had I ever lost the opportunity to sit with an ageing mum?

  ‘But they were naughty,’ she giggled, ‘and still are. They hate each other, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They’re two very different boys. Sebastian always so smart, so particular, Adrian so moody, and…’

  ‘And?’ I said, eager to know.

  She poured herself another shot. ‘So…so, well…Slow, you might say.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, encouraging.

  ‘Although they had the same father.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was a student in those days. Doing my Doctorate on Jane Austen. British country life, you know. But being married was difficult. Being pregnant worse.’

  ‘And their father?’ I needed to know. I needed to make sense of my rival. Knowledge was ammunition.

  ‘Sebastian was always good, of course,’ she said, drifting airily as she sipped. ‘From the very first. Quick to speak, early to read, always happy in the company of books. But Adrian, well…’

  ‘And their father?’ I reminded her.

  ‘Lewis? Died as he lived, you might say. At the lectern. In his robes.’

  ‘He was a man of the cloth?’

  ‘Lewis? Religious?’ She turned to look at me, disbelieving. ‘Heavens no! He hated me taking up the Faith. “Anti-academic,” he said. “Limits the mind.” No, Lewis was a scholar. Oxford, you know. The supervisor of my thesis. Their father, when he found time.’

  ‘And he has passed away?’

  ‘Years ago,’ she said. ‘Dropped dead at the lectern, as I said. Fell down dead during a lecture.’ And she hunched her shoulders with a tipsy giggle.

  ‘Awful,’ I said. ‘Just awful. But you were telling me how different the boys are, being brothers.’

  ‘Different?’ she said. ‘Different? Yes, from the very beginning. Hated each other they did. And still do. Hate each other.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, edging closer. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Books,’ she said. ‘And girls. Later it was girls. First it was books.’

  ‘And who was the one for the girls?’

  ‘You are a silly man,’ she smiled.

  ‘So they say,’ I admitted. ‘But I’m a stayer.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said, refusing to bite. ‘As for the books, perhaps through his father, perhaps through me, Sebastian took to reading like a fish to water, as they say. Like a fish,’ she said, sipping. ‘Do you like fish?’

  ‘Not especially,’ I said.

  ‘The Good Book speaks of the leviathan,’ she said, patting the Bible on her lap. ‘A great fish, wasn’t it? A whale?’

  ‘In the story of Jonah, I believe. Although I might have seen one in a window once.’

  ‘In a window?’ she said, shocked. ‘Of a fish shop?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed. ‘In a stained-glass window. In a chapel. I was raised a Catholic.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ and, having sipped, she looked away into the garden. Absent.

  ‘You don’t approve of Catholics?’ I wondered, afraid that I had offended her. Or worse, that I had lost her. (I have that effect on women.)

  ‘No,’ she said, returning. ‘No. Lewis didn’t like any religion. Catholic least of all, that’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘And he passed away some time ago?’

  ‘Yes. And I always had trouble with Adrian, bringing him up, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Something went wrong. From the beginning. He was always slow. And there was his speech. The stutter, which is good now, by comparison. And the violence…’

  ‘The violence?’ I blurted. That watery-eyed stutterer, violent?—Though I had spotted something. Something fearful. Something subjugated. Something sly. That knowing look when I had imagined murder by Montblanc at the Redmond Barry. Those golden-haired fingers gripping the coffee pot, choking, if they could, though restrained. And I could not dismiss how he had presented, here, in these very camellias the day of the garden party: so fearful, so tenuous, so awkward, stammering. So I said, ‘Adrian? Violent?’ And exercised a certain restraint myself.

  ‘Yes, poor dear,’ she mused. ‘Adrian is subject to terrible rages. Terrible bursts of anger. Surging up out of nowhere it seems. And gone in a minute. Ever since he was a child he needed help, so many specialists, medication. Oh the raging…And me with no money, after Lewis leaving me nothing.’ (She might be my mother, I thought. But no…No two persons were more different. No two mothers. Nor sons. Me and them. Either of them…So the imagination fires up, all of a jumble, all of a rush, out of nowhere, as the mother had said. ‘Surging…’) ‘Thank goodness for my pension,’ she muttered, bringing me back, ‘and the charity of the Hartleys. Thank goodness for the Hartleys. That’s what I always say. And Sebastian.’

  ‘So Sebastian was no trouble?’ I suggested, grappling to settle. To calm myself.

  ‘Sebastian was never any trouble. Always reading, always with his nose in a book. Of course that caused its own problems when Adrian came along. Adrian was always disturbing him, making demands on him, shifting his things, his pencils, his books, breaking things…I was never cut out to be a mother. I was a scholar, that’s what I was. A scholar…’ And she gazed into the camellias.

  I waited, but since she seemed so far away, I stood, prepared to leave. ‘I should go back,’ I said. ‘They might be worried about me. Thinking I’m lost.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, returning. ‘Don’t go. I’m so enjoying our chat. So you are a Catholic?’

  ‘Not really,’ I confessed. ‘I was brought up as one, and went to a Catholic school, bit I never really committed…’

  ‘You’re a Catholic,’ she said.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Once a Catholic…’ she smiled.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, wanting to change the subject. ‘And you’re interest in religion comes from…?’

  ‘The richness of the book,’ she said, tapping the cover of the Bible. ‘I open it and read, and it takes me away. Always has done. Away from screaming children, the responsibilities of life…’

  ‘I understand,’ I said ‘I never knew my father. I was raised by my mother. Life was hard…’

  She was silent, then she reached to take my hand, giving it a squeeze. (My mother, holding me, keeping me close.) ‘My boys,’ she said, turning, informing me. ‘They hate each other, you know.’

  I nodded, not knowing what to say.

  ‘It grew worse as they grew older. When Sebastian found a girlfriend. Jealousy is a terrible thing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Adrian never could win a girl. What with his stutter and his awkward ways. But Sebastian, he was never without one. Three at a time, often. And quite the cad, as goodlooking young men can be. Quite the cad.’ She laughed, remembering.

  ‘And his studies?’ I asked, probing. ‘His career?’

  She looked at me, puzzled. ‘Sebastian?’ she said. ‘A career?’

/>   ‘He couldn’t have been a writer from the beginning,’ I said. ‘Could he?’

  She examined my face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What are you asking me?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, thinking that I had gone too far. ‘Sebastian’s livelihood is none of my business.’

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, slapping the Bible on her knees. ‘Oh, so that’s what you’re getting at? Sebastian’s job? My goodness. That’s easy. Sebastian never did make a living. Never has, never will. Oh, my goodness. I really wasn’t following.’

  ‘Never?’ I repeated, stupidly.

  ‘Sebastian is very clever,’ she said. ‘Very clever. He fooled around with an Arts degree for a decade, as one does, but he never graduated. He was the son of Professor Lewis Chanteleer, you see, and his father’s name opened so many doors. Scholarships, bursaries and such. And there was always the Hartleys…No, Sebastian working? Never!’ And she chuckled away, evidently very amused.

  I sat for a while, glum, thinking that maybe I should return to the workshop. But since I was learning so much about Sebastian Chanteleer, which is what I had come for, and could learn far more from the mother than the son, I said, ‘But there would have been royalties, of course.’

  Constance thought before answering. She took a sip (a slurp?) of sherry, eyeing me off as she did. ‘You really don’t know too much about the world of writing, do you Charlie?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said. ‘Nothing, in fact.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she mused. ‘So…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I should go. I didn’t mean to probe.’

  ‘Oh don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘Never be sorry. You haven’t upset me, you silly boy. No, no. You see, Sebastian has won numerous awards for his work, as you know…’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘But all of those awards were judged by adults. All arty-farty, you understand.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘They knew nothing about children. Much like Sebastian. After all these years.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know, his books have never sold. Never made money. None to speak of. Never.’

  ‘But somebody must have liked them. Some children. My partner liked them.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, growing impatient. ‘Some. A few. Who can account for taste? But they didn’t sell. Not like children’s books today. Not like the Dahl’s and that Rowling person. Not in their millions. In their thousands, maybe. But not enough to live on. To support us. Adrian too, you understand?’

  ‘Ah,’ I murmured. ‘Ah…’

  ‘Sebastian doesn’t even like children,’ she said, out of the blue. ‘I think growing up with his brother was enough. All those problems. All that fuss. Those rages, as I said. Adrian always interrupting him, and Sebastian was so precise. So organised. Then again…’ she bent to flick a leaf from her slipper, ‘then again, kids don’t like him either.’

  ‘He had none of his own?’ I had to know.

  ‘Tush!’ she said. ‘You silly man! Sebastian a father? Tush!’

  ‘But he was one for the girls?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘But never married?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said gaily. ‘Sebastian would never commit.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said again, since that seemed safe.

  Not that Constance cared. ‘Girls have always loved Sebastian,’ she said. ‘Women I mean. Poor Patty…’

  ‘Patty?’

  She shook her head. ‘She was the last. His secretary. Left her in Sussex he did. In tears.’

  ‘So he never married?’ I needed to be sure.

  ‘Married,’ she chortled. ‘Sebastian? Why should he?’

  ‘No reason,’ I said.

  ‘He’s so needy you know,’ she said, pouring herself another glass. ‘So needy.’

  ‘Needy?’

  ‘Desperately,’ she sighed. ‘So desperately sensitive.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ I said. ‘He’s won acclaim. He seems so assured.’

  ‘Seems,’ she said, staring into her sherry. ‘Seems…But he lacks, Charlie. He lacks…’ She struggled to finish, to find the word, but could not, and having drained her glass, defeated, she put her hand over mine.

  Which is when I saw the red hair on the back of her fingers. Adrian had that same hair. And in a moment, I saw him plain. That other Monkey Boy, that other great ape. The orangutan. Not like me, not of the gorilla species (thick and black) but hairy all the same, coppery gold, as suited his class being born one rung up the evolutionary ladder from my own knuckle-dragging breed. Classier, you might say. But an ape nevertheless, and utterly lacking in confidence, as was I.

  Somewhat shaken, I left her. I had pushed far enough. She was the boys’ mother, I reminded myself. Excusing myself (not that she realised), I went back to the house.

  Returning to the workshop, I took my place at the table. I had expected a scolding from the Master, or at least a warning glare, but nothing happened. I looked about. The participants sat silent, twiddling pencils or looking down at their paper. Chanteleer stood to one side, staring up at the windows, his hands crossed over his chest.

  Not daring to ask Morrie, who sat beside me, I childishly scribbled a note to Jo. She looked at me earnestly, then scribbled back, ‘He’s fuming. He had more words with the helper person. That Adrian. Something about opening windows.’ I nodded. We waited.

  After a few minutes, Chanteleer cleared his throat somewhat theatrically and turned to us, saying, ‘Since we have discussed our ideas, let’s take some time to improve on them. To extend our imaginative horizons, so to speak. How might we do that?’

  I kept my mouth shut, remembering those bogus award citations from the British librarians, but another woman offered, hesitantly, ‘Try a different point of view?’

  Chanteleer was delighted. Too delighted, I thought. ‘Wonderful contribution,’ he gushed, clapping his hands. ‘Spot on!’

  The woman looked down.

  ‘And what was your name again?’ he demanded.

  ‘Monica,’ she said, dying.

  ‘Come now, Monica,’ he said, striding towards her, his hands outstretched. ‘Let’s hear some more. Come on…’

  Monica looked up, beseeching. ‘Can’t somebody else?’ she said. ‘I hate speaking…’

  ‘Oh come now…’ Chanteleer all but sneered. ‘Surely…’

  Silence fell. No tittering, no shuffling. Just silence.

  ‘Well,’ I said, because I had to, ‘well, in my idea, about the girl who turned soy sauce to gold, I might…’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Chanteleer interrupted, ‘what was your name again?’

  Was he joking, or was he only pretending that he didn’t know me to save looking like he was playing favourites?

  ‘Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘Well Charlie,’ he replied, ‘I think we might not pursue that idea. I think that idea might be better forgotten. Forever. Anyone else?’

  I wanted the earth to open. I wanted to be swallowed up. And so I sat, contemplating my blank paper for the remainder of the session. He is lacking, I thought. Indeed he is lacking…

  Adrian provided lunch in the sunroom (mercifully without incident) and in the afternoon session, at Chanteleer’s request, I busied myself plotting a story that I would never write. I worked in silence, never raising my head. Later, I walked to the tram stop alone, Charlie Bloome having declined to accompany me.

  ‘How was it?’ Lootie wanted to know when I came in.

  ‘I wrote the plot for a story,’ I said.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘I told you so. Sebastian has brought out the writer in you.’

  Despite my best intentions, and contrary to the reasons that I had attended, I didn’t want to talk about Sebastian.

  Day two of the workshop was better. Having determined to keep my mouth shut, I actually did. I worked on the story that I had plotted the previous day: about a little lame servant who had power over dragons. Chanteleer was delighted. ‘I’ll h
ave to watch out for you, won’t I?’ he whispered none too quietly in my ear. I heard Ailsa snicker.

  That afternoon, once again I walked to the tram alone. Or had Charlie Bloome become so close, so much a part of me, that I could not see him?

  When Lootie demanded to know how I went, I told her.

  ‘I learnt a lot,’ I said, declining to tell her about what. All the same, my answer made her happy. Made her happy, I say, because I don’t think my happiness entered into it. I know this because when she was in the shower I went through the drawer in her dresser where she kept her private stuff: her women’s things, medications and the like, and there was a pile of Chanteleer’s letters. All the same. All written with that Montblanc I didn’t doubt, in that powerful black ink, yet pathetic, bleeding-heart stuff all the same, telling her that his future depended on her, that he didn’t know how he would cope without her, that she alone was responsible for ‘rekindling his flame’.

  I didn’t read them all, I had no time, but then, nor did I need to. When I’d seen enough, I put them back and shut the drawer, my heart full to bursting.

  ‘Do you want takeaway?’ I asked when Lootie finished in the bathroom.

  ‘Only if you’re going to get it,’ she said.

  ‘Ho’s lamb?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘That was a joke,’ I said.

  That night I tossed and turned until finally I got up to sit beneath the elm. I took a cask of red with me, to while away the time.

  In an hour or so, the fiery ladder appeared and, as usual, the crow along with it. It perched on the highest rung, so high and mighty, then split into two and then, in a burst of flame, it split again. And there was Lootie, perched at the top, alone.

  But Charlie Bloome did not want her there, towering over him. Not any more. And reaching up through the flames (the martyrdom of Monkey Boy?), he grabbed her and pulled her down. Despite her protests, her calls for ‘Sebastian, Sebastian’, which had no effect on him.