Big Man & Other Stories

By R.P. McQuillan

With an eclectic mix of 9 Original Stories and topics ranging from Coming of Age to Bizarre Experiences in Las Vegas, from Drunken Nights in Europe to Life-Changing Encounters, from Backpacking & Romance in New Zealand to Extra-Marital Affairs, this superb collection of favourite stories is a real treat!

Stories in this collection: The First Day, The Dead Weight, An Affair, Big Man, One More Hand, Top of the World, The Real Mrs Docherty, A Girl Called Fran, Another Late One.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.P. McQuillan
• Release date: Oct 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301122820

R.P. McQuillan

Having rediscovered my childhood passion for reading whilst working and travelling in Europe in 1997, it wasn’t long before I felt the urge to begin writing.Being an avid reader myself, it is ALL about the writing – the quality of the prose itself – and this is something I try to practice every day. Books shouldn’t just tell a story from start to finish, telling you what happened; a good book should make you feel a certain way too, as well as living with you a long time after you’ve finished reading it. I am passionate about good quality reading and writing.I hope you enjoy my work. Please feel free to leave comments. Thank you!

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What Other Readers say about Big Man & Other Stories:

‘Richard McQuillan has here done a fantastic job of putting you right in the moment’ – Charles Gosling

‘This book is a fantastic entry point for the author into the literary world. Each of the stories were well-written and flowed smoothly’ – Andrew Campbell

Big Man & Other Stories

By R.P.McQuillan

Copyright 2013 R.P.McQuillan

Smashwords Edition

Sally Cinnamon (Brown/Squire) copyright 1989 Imagem Music.

Cover photo courtesy of Mikael Damkier – Fotolia at Photoxpress

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my mum, Patricia McQuillan. May you Rest in Peace Forever.

Contents

The First Day

The Dead Weight

An Affair

Big Man

One More Hand

Top of the World

The Real Mrs Docherty

A Girl Called Fran

Another Late One

The First Day

‘So what do you want out of life?’

It wasn’t the question I was expecting from this scruffy-looking, thirty-something man stood before me, his hair bedraggled and his staring eyes not wavering from my face.

‘I mean – this,’ he gestured to the chunky folder lying next to me on the sunken but comfortable sofa, ‘is this what you want to do?’

I was taken away briefly from my task. This was only the fifth house I had tried, on this the first day of my new job as a door-to-door Salesman and this was the first house I had entered alone (another Salesman had taken me around yesterday); only managing so far an abrupt rejection two doors down the road.

‘Don’t get me wrong my friend,’ he said, still standing, cross-armed now and leaning on the doorframe of his cluttered lounge, ‘I’m not criticising you, I’m just…curious.’

I closed the folder deliberately, knowing that I wouldn’t be continuing my sales pitch just now.

‘To be honest, I hate the whole idea of selling,’ I said, feeling a little uncomfortable suddenly, but not meaning to, ‘I mean, door-to-door selling…it’s just a job, I mean…’

‘So how long have you been doing it?’

I paused, looked up at him. I didn’t want to show my embarrassment, but as I looked at him I noticed a slight smirk eke out of the side of his mouth; I managed one too and relaxed a little.

‘It’s my first day,’ I smiled; ‘first street.’

The man grinned. I reckoned him to be in his late thirties, but his relaxed body language, his cool demeanour…I liked it; it was as though he was nearer to my own age of twenty-two.

‘Sorry, excuse my appearance,’ he said, holding his arms out at his sides. He wore a baggy beige jumper that I could imagine him wearing day and night until he could be bothered to change it.

‘And the house…’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. It was very messy. There were books all over the floor and a map half-open, an old sleeping bag strewn over a large beanbag in the middle of the floor, dirty coffee mugs everywhere.

He looked at his watch, then ran his hands through the tangled thick dark hair on his head; ‘God, I’ve been up since…I mean… I haven’t even been to bed yet,’ he said, yawning. I glanced coolly at my watch – it was almost 1.00pm.

‘I’ve been writing since the early hours,’ he continued, ‘I mean, writing an idea. I want to be a writer,’ he jumbled; ‘I’m not a professional writer – not yet – but that’s my goal, that’s what I want to do.’

‘Wow, so you’re a writer,’ I said, ‘what you working on?’

‘It’s a novel. I mean, I’ve written some stuff before but this is my most ambitious project yet,’ he said enthusiastically. He had stepped inside the room now and was stood behind an armchair opposite me, leaning on the high back of it.

‘I’ve…had a few things published here and there, you know, locally; but this,’ he stared off, looking above and behind me at I don’t know what, ‘I really believe in it; I can’t explain.’

He snapped back to me again, meeting my eyes.

‘I had the idea years ago; I’ve written it, re-written it and now I’m going in a completely different direction with the thing,’ he drummed his fingers on the seat-back for a moment, ‘but it’s…it’s a winner – I know it is – if I can just get it down,’ he said animatedly, but then calmly again, ‘just get it down.’

‘Well, sounds like you’re doing alright,’ I said, not really knowing what to say, ‘so what sort of stuff do you write?’

He puffed out his cheeks and breathed out audibly, standing upright again now.

‘It’s hard to explain. I write whatever I feel. I kind of think that if you don’t write what you want then what’s the point of writing? Sticking to conventions…I tried that, and my writing stank,’ he said smiling again broadly until almost on the brink of laughter.

‘Anyway…sorry, I’m babbling – you want to sell me a new telephone contract?’ He came around the armchair and sat on it.

‘No, I don’t,’ I said, and laughed. I patted the folder and the man laughed too. It was drizzling outside and I didn’t want to go back out there; not now.

‘Sorry, what’s your name?’ he asked, offering me his hand all of a sudden.

‘Barry.’

‘Nice to meet you Barry, I’m Tony,’ we shook hands, he enthusiastically and smiling, ‘let’s have a cuppa.’

‘So what about you?’ He leaned forward now resting his arms on the top of his legs, but I didn’t feel pressured by him at all.

‘What was the direction you wanted your life to go in when you were younger? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Not at all,’ and I didn’t. I was enjoying being inside and I was enjoying the tea.

‘I was always into my art, at school and that; and at college.’ I shook my head as I remembered the wasted afternoons when I hadn’t even been bothered to return to the classroom after lunch; I recalled how my mind always wandered over anything and everything – when I was there – apart from the half-empty, uninspiring canvas in front of me.

‘Okay, so is that what you want to do now?’

‘I guess,’ I shrugged.

‘Hang on a minute.’ He leapt up from the armchair, briskly leaving the room and I heard him climbing the stairs hurriedly. I casually examined a large picture on the wall of a beautiful-looking beach and a board filled with photos and clippings of various places and times. My eyes then came to rest at a large framed photo of my host in a perfect looking sea, snorkel hanging down below his chin, a mask on his head. There was a beautiful island in view behind him and he was waving up to the camera, looking like the happiest person I’d ever seen. Underneath in large, neat letters had been written: FAILURE IS THE OPPORTUNITY TO BEGIN AGAIN, MORE INTELLIGENTLY.

I found myself staring, almost mesmerised by the beauty of the picture, right up until he returned about a minute later clasping a local newspaper. He came over to me and opened it on my lap to a double-page spread inside, and there was a picture of the man in front of me, looking a lot tidier but unmistakably him.

‘TONY AYCLIFFE signing copies of his new book’ said the caption. I looked at it briefly, then looked at him, impressed.

‘You know, the day I did that?’ he looked at me pointing to the newspaper, more animated now, ‘that was the best moment of my life…up there with getting my first story published. I’m not letting you see this so I can show off,’ he laughed, ‘don’t think that please…I mean, I love recognition but,’ he paused and looked around, thinking.

‘People think that I only made strides towards becoming a writer when I started giving it more time, or when I made the decision that that’s what I wanted to do; but you know what the turning point was for me?’

I looked at him as he gave me a chance to say something, but I sat silently, not wanting to interrupt him.

‘It was when my attitude changed. It was when I realised that the things you really want don’t come to you easily – don’t get presented to you on a plate – and I realised that to get the most out of life, you’ve got to give everything your best; I mean, everything.’

After a short pause he laughed loudly all of a sudden.

‘I know, you’re probably thinking: who is this old fart?’ he sniggered again and I was smiling too. ‘He’s living here on his own, in this crummy house…why is he…?’ he looked at me, smiling; I smiled back.

‘I split up from my partner about a year ago,’ he continued, ‘I couldn’t give her the time and attention that she wanted. She didn’t understand my passion for writing or share my passion for travelling and…new experiences. I miss her like crazy sometimes, but then I look at that,’ he indicated to the newspaper article again, ‘and…yea, my dream is more important