False Starts

By Philip Cochrane

Aspiring novelist, Martin Gilhooley, struggles to finish his book whilst wondering whose character he might be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781291123586

Book preview

False Starts

False Starts

Copyright © 2012 Philip Cochrane  

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-291-12358-6

In the beginagen

Sleep, murmured Martin Gilhooley as he walked around the room like a middle-aged man looking for something. He was 53 and there was something he’d lost.

What have you lost, asked his wife, Kate, in the world-weary tones of someone sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. She sat at the kitchen table reading the Daily Mirror.

Martin glanced over at her with a look that seemed to say, I’m a man with two nostrils and continued to search.

Yes, said Kate, I know you’ve got two nostrils, but what are you looking for?

They had been married for 33 years and she knew Martin better than he himself did. She knew him inside out having recently assisted at his bypass operation. Not that she’d wanted to, but after the long delay in obtaining the planning permission and the lengthy process of evicting the protesters from their tunnels under the hospital it became apparent that all the qualified surgeons had decamped to the United States in search of grants and tenure. Kate’s CSE in needlework was therefore considered invaluable. At least the long months of protest had left a valuable legacy in that the tunnels that the demonstrators had left behind – once cleared of the poison gas – were pressed into service as Intensive Care Units thus easing the pressure on an increasingly overcrowded hospital.

Martin said nothing and continued his search. Their children hardly dared breathe. Not yet another row surely? Their children was Martin and Kate’s dog who wore a disposable nappy with a strategic hole cut out for his tail. In as much as the dog, which had never been officially named, constituted Martin and Kate’s family then it’s not too great a distortion of the truth to call it their child – although certainly grammatically inaccurate to call it their children. And it was indeed holding its breath as it squatted in the corner of the kitchen straining to fill its nappy.

I’m going to work, announced Martin, moving towards the door.

"You haven’t got a job, replied Kate returning to her newspaper.

Then I’ll look for one.

There aren’t any.

Martin sat down at the kitchen table defeated.

What is it love? asked Kate gently, what have you lost?

My purrpurse, sighed Martin, I’ve lost my purrpurse.

That’s not how you spell it darling. It’s P-U-R-P-O-S-E.

No not my purpose, my purrpurse –that furry cat-shaped purse that purrs when you open it. Remember I bought it on our honeymoon.

How could I remember? I wasn’t there. A tear began to emerge from the corner of Kate’s left eye then, noticing her acne, thought better of it and retreated into the anonymous darkness.

Don’t start that again. We both agreed that separate honeymoons were the right decision at the time. We both know the reason don’t we?

You’re very free with the first person plural all of a sudden aren’t you? shouted Kate violently as if she were about to pick up the kitchen knife and run amok. After all these years of me, me, me suddenly it’s we! She picked up the kitchen knife.

Please don’t run amok again, said Martin wearily.

Don’t you mean warily, snarled Kate through gritted teeth.

Whatever. Adverbs were never my strong point. Kate’s face relaxed. She placed the knife back on the table and then reached over to take Martin’s hand.

I’m sorry love. It’s just that sometimes it gets to me.

I know. Martin caressed her hand and smiled fondly at her.

Can we start again? she asked hopefully.

Of course we can.

Sleep, murmured Martin Gilhooley as he walked around the room like a middle-aged man looking for something. He was 53 and there was something he’d lost.

What have you lost, asked his wife, Kate, in the world-weary tones of someone sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.

That’s not what I meant, said Kate. You know that’s not what I meant. The edge of anger had returned to her voice.

There’s nothing I can do. Martin shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

You could garden! The idea had obviously excited Kate.

Have we got a garden? Martin looked out of the window.

We must have. Everybody has a garden.

Not if they live in a flat.

Well a window box then – a plant pot would do. Anything where you could plant a seed and watch it grow. Wouldn’t that would make things so much better?

Every seed we’ve ever planted failed to germinate, said Martin hopelessly.

But we’ve never planted any seeds before, protested Kate.

And did they germinate? Martin fixed her with a wan smile.

Well no … began Kate.

Need I say more? Martin rested his head in his hands.

There’s always a first time, whispered Kate.

Martin raised his head suddenly. The dog needs changing, he said abruptly. The smell had spread around the room like dog shit.

I did it the last time. Kate thrust her nose into an empty cigarette packet to mask the overpowering odour of fully digested meaty chunks.

Had it been the last time it wouldn’t need doing now. Kate had noticed her husband’s increasing tendency towards pedantry of late but had chosen to ignore it. Chosen seems a strange choice of verb in this context, continued Martin as he rose from the table and went to find a clean nappy for their children. He rifled through several cupboards before finding what he thought were the dog’s nappies. It was only after taking them out of the cupboard that he realised that they were in fact adult incontinence pads. He held them up so that Kate could see the packet.

Are these mine?

Kate glanced up briefly from the newspaper.

Yes.

Why didn’t you tell me I was incontinent?

You never asked. Anyway you never told me I was blind, added Kate not bothering to look up from the newspaper.

But blindness isn’t embarrassing not like pissing yourself!

"Why, are you embarrassed?"

Yes of course I am! said Martin indignantly.

Well it doesn’t bother anyone else. Kate seemed unconcerned at his escalating anger.

What do you mean anyone else! How many people know?

Everyone. It’s not easy concealing one of those things under a pair of swimming trunks.

Martin looked down at his lower half. Why am I wearing swimming trunks?

You said the thermostat had gone on the central heating. Are you changing that dog or not? Kate still held the cigarette packet over her nose.

Let’s get a cat instead. Litter trays can’t be any more unpleasant than this.

You’re allergic to cats.

Am I?

Don’t you remember? Every time you stroke a cat you end up speaking Russian.

HO Я HЄ ΓOBOPЮ PУCCKЙИ ЯЗЫK, protested Martin.

That’s what I thought but it always happens.

Martin caught hold of the dog which whimpered pathetically as he removed the old nappy and replaced it with one of the incontinence pads. Unfortunately the pads did not have the requisite hole so the dog’s tail was pinned against its anus thus preventing it from defecating at all for the foreseeable future. Martin took the soiled nappy, rolled it into a ball and threw it out of the open kitchen window.

The dog meanwhile, barely visible inside the mass of white plastic, curled up in the corner and went to sleep looking for all the world like a dog in an oversized incontinence pad.

Martin wiped his hands on the side of his swimming trunks and resumed his seat at the kitchen table. Kate had finished the newspaper and was gingerly feeling her way over towards the fridge with her hands stretched out in front of her.

By the way, said Martin; the reason I didn’t tell you that you were blind is that you’re not. You can see as well as I can. Kate let her arms fall to her sides and turned to stare at him. Her mouth moved as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t quite think what to say.

I can’t think what to say, she said.

It doesn’t matter what you say, replied Martin. I won’t hear you. I’m deaf.

Well that’s better than being incontinent.

Yes there is that, said Martin removing the pad from beneath his trunks.

Let’s do something! said Kate suddenly.

What? said Martin.

Kate raised her voice. Let’s do something!

WHAT? shouted Martin, cupping his ear.

"LET’S DO SOMETHING!" screamed Kate.

Oh, said Martin looking down at the puddle on the floor where he’d wet himself. Kate took a mop and bucket from the cupboard next to the fridge and began to clean up the mess. The dog, or rather the plastic pad, twitched in its sleep. Martin stood as still as a man who has just wet himself as Kate fussed around him lifting first one foot then the other as she attempted to wipe the floor. When she had finished she cupped his chin lovingly and said:

Why don’t you go and get washed and changed. Then we can go out.

Is there anywhere to go, asked Martin disconsolately.

Well we won’t know that until we try will we? said Kate stroking his cheek.

No I don’t suppose we will. Martin turned towards the door and then stopped. It will be all right won’t it? he said without turning round.

Of course it will love. Of course it will. And this time the tear braved the acne and rolled down her cheek.

While Martin was elsewhere doing the things that people do when they are not here, Kate stared out of the open window. Why here? Why now? Which choices had brought her to this? Had she ever really had a choice? Had she chosen not to choose? Did she fully understand the concept of a rhetorical question? She sat and stared and fantasised about being a different person in a different place. She pictured herself sitting in a kitchen staring out of an open window. Imagination was not one of Kate’s strengths.

Meanwhile the dog continued to sleep. And when dogs sleep they dream in just the same way that when people are hungry they salivate. Mammalian biology being what it is -i.e. the biology of mammals -there is every reason to suppose that the dreams of dogs follow much the same pattern as that of human beings. However as human dreams have no discernible pattern, despite a plethora of published claims to the contrary, the point is largely irrelevant. That morning their children had the strangest dream he could ever recall having which is unsurprising since he had no powers of recall whatsoever. Furthermore as the dog could neither speak nor write nor indeed communicate in any meaningful way the contents of the dream must forever remain a mystery. Suffice it to say that the dog died in its sleep and three weeks later it smelled no worse than it had that morning when it filled its nappy.

In time Martin returned to find his wife still staring out of the window to allow time for a digression on the nocturnal consciousness of dogs. He approached her hesitantly not wishing to disturb her reverie. He tiptoed up behind her, leaned forward and bellowed into her ear:

I am consumed by the fire of the Holy Spirit! And my entrails writhe in expectation!

Is that you, Martin? Kate turned and caught him gazing longingly at her.

Did I disturb you darling? I’m sorry.

No it’s all right. I was just thinking. You see the lighthouse over there on the horizon?

Yes.

Standing there proud, erect, thrusting powerfully into the sky, spearing the fluffy clouds with its hard majestic paleness.

Yes? Martin’s breathing was becoming more laboured.

What does it remind you of?

The sea?

Yes, of course, that’s it, the sea. I couldn’t think of the word. How are your entrails?

Martin thought for a long moment before answering. Finally he said:

They seem to have stopped writhing. At least for the moment. And then he half turned and made a face. Kate seemed to understand but said nothing.

Nothing, said Kate and she too made the same face that Martin had made moments earlier.

This is getting ridiculous, said Martin attempting to kick the kitchen table in frustration. Unfortunately his aim was poor and instead he kicked the chair from underneath his wife. Before he had the chance to catch her she fell heavily against the tiled floor cracking the back of her head. She screamed in pain and then went quiet and began to whimper.

Martin bent over his prostrate wife and asked urgently:

Kate, Kate are you all right?

Oh Martin, wailed Kate, I can’t see. I’m blind.

That’s it! shouted Martin. It’s gone too far! He began to walk towards the edge of the page, an ugly expression on his face.

No Martin, don’t. It’s pointless. This is just the beginning. And there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. Kate subsided into quiet sobbing and Martin simply stared angrily into space saying nothing.

Don’t even think about it, said Martin. And there was menace in his voice.

Kate stirred and squeezed his arm.

It’s OK darling, she whispered, I can see again. The blindness was only temporary. I’ve just got a splitting headache now. She put her fingers to her temples and massaged them gently.

Come on let’s get you to bed. Said Martin firmly but tenderly.

No lighthouse?

No lighthouse. I promise. Martin picked her off the floor carefully cradling her head. She pressed her cheek against his chest and moaned faintly. He squeezed her lightly as he lifted her higher and moved towards the door.

Martin, began Kate nervously as they began to climb the stairs.

Yes love?

Can you consume the follicle of my despair?

Martin hesitated before answering. He was wheezing slightly from the effort of carrying his wife upstairs. I don’t know, he replied at last. To tell you the truth I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.

No neither do I, admitted Kate after a pause. It must be that bang on the head.

Let’s hope so, said Martin. He carried Kate into the bedroom and laid her on the bed pulling the quilt up and tucking her in. Promising to return he made to go downstairs, switching off the light as he left the room and leaving her in darkness. She called after him. Martin? Why is it dark? I thought it was still morning.

So did I, Martin called back. I presume it’s some sort of time distortion effect. It must be that bang on the head.

Let’s hope so, murmured Kate as she slipped into sleep.

Outside the beam of a searchlight swept briefly across the window illuminating the sleeping Kate’s profile and Martin’s collection of waste paper baskets before moving on and leaving the room in darkness once more.

In the kitchen Martin sat at the table wondering how many more false endings this chapter of their life would bring. Had he had a tether its end would long ago have been reached. Having been endowed with a greater degree of imagination than his wife he was able to picture a life other than this. He thought of himself still married to Kate, still living much as he did now but as a collector of novelty lunchboxes rather than waste paper baskets. The effort exhausted him and he dozed briefly before being woken by a knock at the door.

Who could that be at this time of night? Martin was both puzzled and annoyed. No one they knew would call this late unless they were either extremely drunk or there was an emergency. Whichever it was he had to do something quickly, for the knocking was becoming louder and more insistent and he was afraid that it would wake Kate if he did nothing to halt it. Little did he realise that the next few moments would totally alter the course of his future life and make the strange events of earlier in the day seem like a mere prelude to the cataclysm that was about to engulf him.

In that case I’m not answering it, said Martin, his hand poised to turn the lock. He turned on his heel and climbed the stairs towards his sleeping wife trailing a stream of urine behind him, oblivious to the knocking which had, by now, become almost frenzied in its frequency and intensity.

The worm had turned. As indeed had the dog which had, unnoticed, pushed its snout into the incontinence pad and suffocated; thus ensuring that its dream of death would never end.

and the earth was without form

Wensleydale! declared Mrs. Parfitt authoritatively. It’s Wensleydale for me every time. You can keep your Cheddars and Red Leicesters and as for that foreign muck well I’ll tell you something for nothing, the hard skin off me feet tastes a sight better than that bloody Parmywotsit.

Parmesan? suggested Kate helpfully.

I don’t rightly care. Take it from me you’ll not go wrong with a nice slice of Wensleydale.

It’s just that my husband hasn’t been at all well and I want to get him something to whet his appetite, said Kate.

Listen me duck, at this point Mrs. Parfitt leant forward to whisper confidentially  in Kate’s ear. Really darling is it absolutely necessary for me to speak in this frightfully appalling accent? One does have certain standards. Kate merely shrugged apologetically.

Oh very well, she continued resignedly resuming an upright posture. Listen me duck if I ‘ad a pound for every time… her homily was interrupted by Martin who entered carrying a large pack of disposable nappies under one arm and a sack of cat litter under the other.

Hello darling, said Kate moving towards him and relieving him of the nappies. He put the cat litter on the kitchen surface.

Ah so you’re the chap in question are you, said Mrs. Parfitt.

Sorry? said Martin.

I’m afraid my husband is a little hard of hearing, explained Kate.

"YOUR WIFE WERE JUST TELLING ME YOU’VE NOT BEEN WELL," boomed Mrs. Parfitt.

Oh, said Martin as urine seeped out of his trouser leg and formed a large puddle on the floor.

Mrs. Parfitt didn’t know where to look so she stared fascinated at the puddle while Martin shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Pissed yerself then? she said, hoping to break the awkward silence.

As I was saying he’s not been at all well, said Kate a little too quickly. Martin simply stood saying nothing.

Noth… began Martin becoming agitated and physically biting his lip to stop himself from speaking.

I’m no expert, said Mrs. Parfitt, changing the subject, but that dog looks dead to me. Drowned I shouldn’t wonder.

Receiving no response Mrs. Parfitt picked up her handbag and stood up preparing to leave.

Anyway as I was saying Mrs….?

It’s Kate.

Yes well Mrs. Cate I….

No that’s Kate with a K –it’s my first name.

Ah, so not a Christian name then? Never mind, the Vicar and I do not discriminate. Remind me to leave you a copy of our pamphlet: What to do if you thought Jesus was a Jew! It’s quite a catchy title even if I do say so myself. Didn’t go down too well with the Rabbi I’m afraid but you can’t please everyone can you? Our Church is a broad one Mrs. Cate. We welcome all races and creeds. Well all the white ones anyway. You have lived here several… what is it?

Years?

Surely not. We would certainly have seen you in church before now had that been the case. My husband is very particular about these matters. He has an impressively long crook. It’s been commented upon.

Really, is there much work for a shepherd in the middle of a city? asked Kate. We do live in a city don’t we?

No dear, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, so to speak. My husband is a vicar not a shepherd. The crook is metaphorical.

But it is very long?

Oh yes. We’ve had several visits from the Bishop himself. But Aubrey, that’s my husband –the vicar –doesn’t approve of me discussing episcopal matters or perhaps it’s evangelical issues I’m meant to keep to myself? It may well be ecumenical even. One gets so confused with all the E’s" in the Church these days. Anyway, I cannot in all conscience take up any more of your valuable time. I must away. Things to see, people to… that sort of thing. But please do feel free to get in touch at any time. Mornings preferred if possible. And not weekends, of course. And Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays it’s Bridge Club. But any other times do not hesitate. You don’t happen to have a flair for flower arrangement by any chance? No, of course not. Silly question. Dandelions perhaps or is that simply an old wives’ tale? Fact and fiction are so hard to disentangle these days don’t you find? Not that I have a great deal of time for fiction. I’m always far too busy to read the newspapers. Speaking of which you didn’t happen to notice the headline on this morning’s…no of course not. Please forget I mentioned it. My goodness is that the time? I simply must…

We look forward to seeing you at Evensong. Please do come. Goodbye Mr. Cate I hope you soon recover and indeed shower. Goodbye Mrs. Cate it’s been nice meeting you after all these…"

Months? suggested Kate.

Quite. And don’t forget what I said.

I won’t. Wensleydale.

No dear. The aroma of piss and dead dog doesn’t exactly create a welcoming atmosphere, if you know what I mean. Coffee mornings for the Ladies Circle might prove a little problematic. One does come to expect a certain standard.

Mrs. Parfitt was almost fully through the door before she turned to add:

By the by, no one knocked at your door last evening did they?

Evening? said Martin who still stood evaporating slowly in the warm, centrally heated room. It was more like the early hours of the morning.

Oh this time distortion confuses one so, laughed Mrs. Parfitt. It’s worse than the biannual ritual of putting the clocks back and forward don’t you think? Not that we bother at the Vicarage. There are so many clocks it really doesn’t seem to be worth the effort. We simply exist in our own little time zone. My husband refers to it as PMT. That’s Parfitt Mean Time you see? It’s one of his little jokes. At least I think it is. He’s a very clever man you know and to be quite honest much of what he says goes straight over my head. But as regards the knocking I shouldn’t worry about it. It was more than likely my father. The cellar was empty when we returned home from the local public house last evening so we presumed he was on the prowl again. Padlocks these days are simply not the same as they used to be. Nothing seems to meet the highest standards of durability anymore. What’s the phrase? Built-in adolescence is it? It’s a jolly good job the Church doesn’t go in for that sort of thing what? Fear not though, without his medication he’ll be unconscious within 24 hours.

Does your father drink? asked Martin.

Oh of course, Mrs. Parfitt appeared to be quite offended by the question. He has water with every meal. Preferably Evian but he has been known to take Perrier particularly with scallops. And with that she was gone.

Well, said Kate, we’d better get you cleaned up I suppose.

Don’t bother. It won’t make any difference. Martin removed the damp trousers and wrapped a towel around his waist. He picked up the trousers and threw them through the open window to join the dog’s soiled nappy from the day before. He looked in the top pocket of his shirt and found a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He took a cigarette for himself considered offering one to Kate then thought better of it and returned the packet to his shirt pocket. He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it at the third attempt. At this point he should have inhaled deeply but he didn’t. He merely let the smoke roll around his mouth before blowing it out in a thin stream between his pursed lips –actions that revealed him to be a non-smoker. I never realised you didn’t smoke, said Kate.

I’ve always considered it to be a disgusting habit, Martin replied as he lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one. He was an exceptionally fast non-smoker.

Martin?

Yes love? Kate sat at the table, her chin cupped in her hands. Had Martin had the capacity for memories this would certainly have made a fond one. She began to speak, hesitantly, not looking at him but continuing to stare at the bottle of tomato ketchup from which she’d obtained her rudimentary knowledge of French many years before.

We’ve been married 33 years and yet it seems I hardly know you. There’s so much I don’t understand.

I thought you knew me inside out, replied Martin with an indulgent smile.

Internal organs are different somehow. Kate returned his smile.

OK ask away. He put out the second cigarette in the dregs of coffee at the bottom of his mug. Being non-smokers they didn’t possess an ashtray. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

Kate hesitated again. This is going to seem silly but…

Go on, urged Martin.

Well, what’s your name Martin?

It’s Martin.

There you see! And I’ve been calling you Martin all these..

Months?

…years.

It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mind. You can call me whatever you like.

Martin, Martin, Kate said the word slowly, savouring its newness. Martin, it’s a lovely name. I wish you’d told me before.

Well you never asked me. I suppose I’d assumed you knew. We seem to have built a great deal on the basis of a few assumptions. But at least you know now. It’s a first step. God I need a cigarette! Martin took the packet from his shirt pocket and finding it empty screwed it up and threw it onto the table with a snort of frustraation.

What’s frustraation? asked Kate.

It’s a game Afrikaner children play. Either that or a spelling mistake. Take your pick.

That’s a game as well.

So it is, said Martin distractedly.

Kate looked at him fidgeting and biting his lip.

It must be very hard to start smoking, she said. I’m pleased I never stopped in the first place. Would you like to smell this packet? Kate was still holding the packet she had used the day before to mask the odour of the defecating dog.

Thanks, said Martin taking the packet from her. He pushed it over his nose and inhaled deeply. Mmm that’s better. Now what else do you want to know?

Kate raised her head suddenly to look at him. What do you look like?

Martin half-turned, his face reddening and his breath shortening: Has the blindness come back?

No I’m fine, Kate reassured him. I’d just like to know. I feel it’s important somehow.

I can look however you want me to look, be anything you want me to be.

But I want you to look like you. I want you to be yourself.

Well I suppose the short answer at the moment would be ridiculous – wrapped in a urine-soaked towel with an empty cigarette packet on my nose.

At least you’re not deficient in the nostril department.

Yes, we must be thankful for small mercies.

They exchanged another smile.

What did you get for yours? asked Martin excitedly. I got a set of screwdrivers!

Kate ignored him. I need to know the real you, she said earnestly. I want to know everything.

For that to happen darling you’re going to need three very important qualities: patience, silence and cunning… Martin’s flow was interrupted when his groin began to vibrate – the movements clearly visible beneath the towel.

What’s that? asked Kate alarmed.

Martin had the decency to blush slightly as he produced a mobile phone from under the towel. I always set it to vibrate. I find those novelty rings can be really embarrassing in public.

I’m sure they can. What a practical and subtle solution to potential embarrassment Martin.

Yes well obviously I don’t usually keep it in my pants. Anyway can you answer it? I hate talking on these things.

Kate took the phone somewhat reluctantly, pressed the button and held it as far away from her face as was feasible in order to listen and speak.

Hello cock! she said in a voice dripping with ersatz bonhomie. Martin winced and pulled his towel more tightly around his waist.

What? I’m sorry I don’t understand. Would you … Kate pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it as if it were a telecommunications device.

Well who was it? asked Martin.

I don’t know. He didn’t say.

"What did he say?"

He said you missed out exile. He said it should be silence, exile and cunning not patience.

I know that. I was going to say exile if he hadn’t interrupted me. Phone him back. Tell him I was going to say exile. Martin was becoming agitated. He began to vibrate in time with the phone which was, once more, moving of its own accord in Kate’s hand.

Yes, said Kate. Yes.. but… no I don’t think…

Well?

He said if you’d intended to say exile you would have said four very important qualities not three.

Bastard! Who does he think he is? Phone him back!

I don’t know his number.

Well press that 14 whatever number thing. Martin could barely speak coherently. His anger threatened to erupt like a

Volcano! spluttered Martin.

Kate thought it best not to argue with him. She’d seen him in this sort of mood before. The septuagenarian collecting for Age Concern bore the psychological scars to this day. She pressed the buttons, listened for a moment and then placed the phone on the table lest it began its sinuous dance for a third time.

There’s no number. Network services apparently. She smiled placatingly hoping to defuse some of his anger.

Fucking mobiles! What did the bastard sound like?

Well to be honest he sounded.. well.. blind….

Yeah right! Blind! And I suppose he smelled tall did he?

Don’t be silly Martin. You can’t smell over the phone.

Oh Lord cleave this bounded nutshell with the arrows of enlightenment!

I think I was the one who had the bang on the head Martin.

Yes, of course. I forgot. Sorry. His anger had dissipated. Like a

Sea mist burnt away by the summer sun, said Kate.

Martin was impressed. That’s good. It’s very good. We may have a fighting chance after all. On the table the phone jumped and spun like…

Don’t answer it! screamed Martin.

No need, said Kate calmly. It’s not a call. It’s a message.

No don’t tell me. Yes tell me. What does it say?

It says: ‘ that…should…read…bounded…IN…A…nutshell. ‘ That’s it.

Bastard!

Kate clutched his hand impulsively. Martin, I’m frightened. What’s going to happen to us?

Martin squeezed her hand and tried to look reassuring. "I was going to say exile. Honestly."

I believe you darling.

Because after I say what I’m going to say now it’s obvious I was going to say exile. Otherwise none of this will make any sense.

And what are you going to say now?

I didn’t exactly mean now. I meant next.

And what are you going to say next?

Simply that I’m going to have to go away for a while. Hopefully out of sight will be out of mind.

So have you said it now?

No I said it then.

No, no you can’t! I’ll never cope on my own! She buried her face in his hand.

Which is why we’ll have to find you some support. He stroked her hair reassuringly.

Not Mrs. Parfitt?

Good God no. Too shallow by far. There’s no way she could share this burden or take any of the responsibility off you. It’ll have to be someone more substantial than she’s proved to be so far.

She may have hidden depths.

She probably has but I wouldn’t like to go looking for them.

But there is no one else!

Not yet. That’s why I said you’ll have to be patient.

"So there were four important qualities?"

Martin picked up the phone as it started to vibrate and threw it through the open window to join the soiled nappy and trousers. He ran to the window, thrust his head outside and shouted:

"SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI! PUT THAT IN YOUR PHONE …AND…DIAL IT! HA!"

And before Kate could make a move to prevent him the rest of his body followed his head as he leapt through the window and disappeared into the cold night air.

Maarrttiinn! she wailed her voice hanging in the air like a

Broken kite on a rainy day, sobbed Kate preparing to face life on her own for the first time in 33 years.

And there was light

Kate stood in an unfamiliar landscape. She was alone. The scene was imbued with a light that she had never before encountered. Dappled might have described it, had it been dappled, but it wasn’t. It was certainly woodland of a sort but not the sort containing trees with which she was immediately familiar. Although no expert in botany Kate was reasonably certain that no known trees had bright yellow trunks or vibrant purple leaves whatever the season. In addition, the surface on which she stood bore no resemblance to any naturally occurring material. It was hard yet spongy and gave with her weight, yet when she lifted her foot and stamped down with force the ground responded with a resounding clang as if she had hit some huge bell. The small pieces of what she took to be the sky, visible through the purple foliage, were decidedly pink – candy floss pink to be precise.

Owl-like she turned her head slowly, taking in the strange surroundings. Had she thought about it she might well have been frightened but she was so entranced by the novelty of her situation that she felt no fear, only curiosity. And yet there was something strangely familiar about the unfamiliarity of it all. A sense of déjà vu permeated her mind.

Déjà what? said a voice behind her.

Kate turned to find something standing not ten yards from her. It was certainly something but Kate could not find the words to describe what it was nor indeed, what it looked like. So she didn’t. The creature, for want of a better word, stared at her sardonically.

Déjà what? it said again.

Enlightenment flooded through Kate like an incontinent alcoholic.

Alice! she shouted. It’s Alice isn’t it?

Do I look like an Alice? sneered the creature.

Kate had, of course, read the Carroll classic at the precociously early age of six in a rather battered French translation; but as she was only able to understand English at the time she had taken remarkably little of it in.

No, not you, she explained. Here. This place. It’s Wonderland isn’t it? Through the Looking Glass?

Do you generally babble incoherently or am I especially privileged? The creature had not moved since Kate had first caught sight of it. Nor had its expression altered from one of quizzical disgust.

It’s really quite simple, said Kate. I’m obviously undergoing some kind of breakdown and rather than convey the experience realistically, a unilateral decision has been taken to portray it in a more metaphorical, not to say hallucinatory fashion. Clearly in classical Freudian fashion we’re going to begin with my childhood memories.

How can it be a childhood memory, said the creature scornfully. You didn’t understand it. It was in French.

Pardon?

C’était en français.

Oh. Yes well I did see the film later.

The creature mumbled something incomprehensible then looked at Kate expectantly. Kate thought it best not to reply.

I think it’s best if I don’t reply, she replied. And then she said:

I’ve lost my husband you see.

Died, misplaced or absconded? enquired the creature.

He jumped out of the window.

"First floor or higher?

Oh no, it’s on the ground floor.

Absconded then.

Yes I suppose so. He’s on some sort of quest I think.

Aren’t we all? The creature sighed and sat down or at least moved in such a way that it was only half of its previous height.

Kate did sit down. So I suppose the plan is that I find my way through the forest and back to full mental health. Is that the general idea?

How would I know? said the creature moving in such a way that only its head was now visible.

Are you going to just leave your smile? asked Kate.

I don’t smile, hissed the creature angrily. Nor do I chortle.

‘Twas brillig and the slithy…

Shut the fuck up, bitch! Only the very top of the creature’s head was now above ground. Just go. Follow the path.

Kate wasn’t in the slightest offended by the creature’s surly tone. She knew it was all make believe anyway.

Which path? The one paved with the yellow bricks?

Jesus! How stupid are you? The path with the sign that says ‘This Way’. The creature would have sounded ready to explode had he still been there.

In the distance a tree fell. Kate never heard a thing.

Having no one to talk to Kate thought she might as well follow the creature’s advice and see what lay at the end of the path. She rose and walked, accompanied by dull clangs, to the sign which did indeed say ‘This Way’ and underneath in much smaller writing ‘to anywhere. Passengers for Sheffield, Doncaster and Leeds should alight at York. We apologise for the late arrival of this path which is due to unavoidable semantic difficulties at Peterborough.’

Kate took a deep breath, placed the money in the honesty box provided, and set off. She had gone no more than a dozen steps when a rustling in the undergrowth to her left heralded the arrival of a large green lion with a multicoloured mane, which blocked the path in front of her. The lion wore a huge pair of boxer shorts that covered the majority of its hindquarters.

Aslan! squealed Kate.

No. Marks and Spencer’s actually, purred the lion in the George Sanders voice that Kate would have expected. I find their undergarments have that certain combination of comfort and style which is somewhat lacking in most areas of life these days.

It’s all rather Victorian, don’t you think, mused Kate, this obsession with the concealment of private parts? First nappies, now boxer shorts. Could it, perhaps, indicate some sort of deep-seated sexual problem?

I assure you Madam I have no problems in that department, said the lion smoothly.

I didn’t mean you, said Kate. I was talking about… oh my God I’ve gone blind again!

Fear not, Kate heard the lion say as he clanged towards her. I think I can see the problem. There is a thorn protruding from your foot which is undoubtedly pressing on the acupuncture point connected to your optic nerve. Pray hold still whilst I remove it.

Kate felt the lion’s rough tongue rub once, twice across the sole of her foot and then as suddenly as her sight had