LoveorColdPhilosophy

By Jennifer Roslyn Wingate

Fanny is ejected by her boy-friend James due to a misunderstanding; she is furious. After a horrific confrontation with some boys, she gets taken in by the enigmatic Dr. McIntyre and engages in a relationship convenient to them both in divergent ways. The gardener Job, who plays a pivotal role, is very fond of Fanny as well as his little white dog. After many twists, the tale is resolved in a surprising and bizarre way. Each of the characters is observer and observed - subject and object - at the same time, creating a linear and circular quality to the writing. This picaresque narrative, which is Fanny’s story, adds to the novella’s sensuality, humour and humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483478340

Book preview

Love or Cold

Philosophy

JENNIFER ROSLYN WINGATE

Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Roslyn Wingate.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7835-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7834-0 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 01/18/2018

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

STORIES

Unused Language


The Serpent and Other Stories

PLAYS

Entropy

The Playhouse

For my family and friends;

past, present and future.

Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

John Keats - ‘Lamia’

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And to know the place for the first time.

T.S. Eliot - ‘Little Gidding’ from ‘Four Quartets’.

CHAPTER 1

Drop an unfamiliar name once or twice, Simon perhaps, and it is absorbed into the general domestic conversation; drop it again and it will settle on the primed foundation to create a significant heap. Is James mentioned also? Yes, but he has that right, he is the designated cock of the walk; the incumbent who now suspects that his rights are being infringed by the much-mentioned Simon. Repeat the affront and the pile will fester into a noisome mess. And so it was that its stink put James on notice. It promoted suspicion to certainty and finally required Fanny to exit their shared home for the last time.

Fanny had reasoned in her desperation and pleaded at closed doors. She screamed without echo and threw unheeded objects in lonely rooms. Finally she crammed things into a bag; any alternative having been explored to the point of despair. The glory times were past; the man she’d pinned her hopes on firmly believed he had seen the light of truth and that the fiction spun for him was fact. He saw betrayal where there was nothing but an eccentric plea for attention: Simon did not exist.

So out she flounced with a what-the-fuck swagger, looking like someone who deserved what she got; dressed for danger and tempting the worst, little imagining she’d get it. As the door slammed shut, she swung round to gesture obscenely at the empty house, her soft hair swinging and her face set in a scowl streaked with tears.

Angry with herself and the bad advice she had followed – her own – Fanny felt frozen inside and never dreamed that any warmth might come to thaw her. She lugged her bag to the local pub, her little pointy chin defiant and ready to aggress. She stared at all the stupid people drinking there and, out of increasingly unfocused eyes, despised them all, daring anyone to try anything. Just let them try.

Humping the bag up beside her onto the wooden bench Fanny sat, shifting her bodyweight from cheek to cheek, turmoil pulsing off her in waves discernible to anyone with half a memory of anything similar. There were four such in the bar that evening. Three young men with attitude and one along for the ride. There was a certain expressive interchange of experience and expectation passing between several sets of mocking eyes. She thought they admired her, and in her reckless mood she thought she could take them all on, handle it, defuse it and have a laugh, with them, at them. The music blaring out from the speakers thumped in time to her heart beat and syncopated as she calmed.

As vodka did its work the indignation she had brought with her turned to anger. Ignoring her own part in the drama, she convinced herself that, through her forcible ejection, she had undergone the membership ritual to a club which shielded affiliates from future pain. A select band, their iniquity was based, not on misdeeds, but mismanagement driven by insecurity. And they have suffered rejection. So strong was her feeling of being protected against further disaster that Fanny considered her condition recognisable as an aura; protective – and attractive to other initiates.

Each of three boys locked her gaze in turn, mutely contributing their take on life’s experiences as a preliminary offering; like hunter gatherers offering a bloody kill to a prospective mate. The fourth absorbed her look as dark velvet captures light; Fanny thought there was no point in someone sitting in a bar with no story to tell. She laughed quietly showing how good-natured she was and up for fun and didn’t they all recognise the signs. The three boys laughed also and she thought this is good; this will be a hoot. She needed a pee and, passing their table on the way to the loo and then on the way back, she swished her short skirt at them as she walked, in time to the raunchy song coming from the speakers, high heels tapering her strong legs and making her ass swing. She looked ahead, registering the collective intake of breath as she passed three sets of assessing eyes and one pair, longing privately.

After an hour or so of these social pleasantries Fanny tottered outside, feeling she’d netted a catch but too fuddled to assess its nature. There was rebellion inside her: she was like a falsely accused child misbehaving out of frustration. The four lads followed her down the lane at an ambiguous distance, laughing and joking together at first then silent. As the reassuring noises from the pub diminished a morbid silence asserted itself. Glancing back she smiled at them and their shared adventure, but the air was too dank and gloomy to gauge any reaction. She looked at herself through their eyes: a girl teetering on high heels in a country lane, avoiding the puddles, not comfortable with her large bag and umbrella, at the ready for re-opening; short