Getting it Right, if Ever – Romance Novella

By Lawrence G. Taylor

"Getting It Right, If Ever" is a blend of fantasy and realism. The action takes place in two imaginary countries at the beginning of the seventies.

Benji is a forty-year-old light-skinned gardener, handyman, and aspiring poet who hails from TeeGee Island, an imaginary island in the British Caribbean.

After Sunday service, Benji meets forty-five-year-old Molly, a visitor to TeeGee Island. They become pen pals, and she invites him to Vikland––an imaginary country in Northern Europe.

Benji is beside himself with joy and gets the opportunity to visit another country for the first time.

A few personal grievances plague Benji­. His youthful appearance––hairless face and bright eyes––bothers him, prompting him to sport a full beard and dreadlocks of grey to appear older and hoping it will enhance his self-esteem.

Another grievance is his light complexion. The tropical climate did little to make him darker and was not sufficient to Benji's liking. He is known in his village YoYo as 'reds' because of his complexion, but Benji refers to himself as African––wishing he was jet black.

Benji also treasures the ambition to become a published poet but hasn't had much luck.

Then a year or more later, Benji catches sight of a beautiful, brown-skinned woman in Vikland, becomes spellbound and sets out to win her affection. 

However, Benji's wooing becomes anything but straightforward, as if the woman's beauty casts a spell over him. His approach is courageous though not conventional. 

 

Olga's Review:

5.0 out of 5 stars

Such a deep understanding of human nature on every page!

Reviewed in the United States on August 22, 2019

 

This is the book of life and love, of friendship and loneliness, of hope and despair and a lot more! While reading, I am always trying to imagine what the ending will be: this time I haven't come even close.

 

Lawrence G. Taylor has created his novel in that amazing style, that one simply wonders how writing could have ever been this great! I was impressed that this fascinating read could evoke such warm memories and feelings in me.

 

To develop the story of the relationship of Benji, the 40-year-old Caribbean gardener, and Angelica, whose affection he is desperately trying to win, the author uses simple but so greatly chosen details that speak a lot about characters and events. Benji's love for jazz, the way he compares his beloved woman to actress Dorothy Dandrige, and many more things help to create a picture that is so easy to visualize.

 

I was stunned by Benji's analogy of human beauty when he compared it with "fresh flowers in a vase" – the metaphor was used in an unexpected way. However, my favorite thought from the book is: "It's not the thing itself, but how we understand it that affects us emotionally." So simple, yet so true!

 

The picturesque characters of Benji's friend Monica, Angelica's ex-lover Ram-Paul and numerous flash-backs just add miraculously to the whole narrative, leaving a great after-feeling of reading a true life story. The author managed to convey such a deep understanding of human nature - both man and woman - on every page of his book.

 

I recommend this book to everyone! Reading it was like looking inside of oneself and experiencing different feelings through the masterfully crafted characters and story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LAWRENCE GORDON TAYLOR
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201288105

Lawrence G. Taylor

I was born in Guyana, left there for the UK; worked and studied in London, before taking up residence in Sweden in autumn 1969. In the 70s, I tried my hand at writing fiction, mostly short stories, a four-act closet drama, a novella, and an unfinished novel. I spent two years nurturing the ambition to become an author of some repute. But the going was tough, with no financial security for the future. I shelved the idea of earning a living through writing and got a job as a hospital porter. Later, I got a BA (Eng. & Edu.). After a summer job at a psychiatric hospital, I decided to do a 4-term course for mental-health carers, Following that I completed the first of two stages of psychotherapy education and several short courses in cognitive therapy. After retirement, I did part-time mental health counselling work for several years. In February 2016, my debut book appeared: Strangers In Another Country, a collection of two short stories and two novellas, available in ebook and paperback. On 9th Dec. 2016, I published a novella, The Eternal Struggle: An Amorous Story. In March 2017, Two Girls in a Café, a short story appeared. Making Sense Of Past Time - a Novel available in paperback, and ebook format. Tell Me Who My Enemy Is - a four-act closet drama published this summer (2018). The Ballad of Calle and Maja - a short story published Nov 2018. Getting it Right, if Ever – Romance Novella was published 22nd Aug -19 Four Bittersweet Romances & A Four-Act Closet Drama was published 3rd Nov 2019. In 2020, I published a short story, Darker Than Blue --This Mortal Coil. MY BOOKS ARE UPDATED (Dec 2020). I have a Twitter account @lgt41 and a blog page: lgt41blog.wordpress.com. I’m a hobby photographer, and you can view several of my images at https://www.foap.com/community/profiles/lgt41 I sincerely hope you find my stories enjoyable, and a review of my books would be much appreciated. Lawrence G. Taylor

Book preview

Quotes

God grant me the serenity to accept

the things I cannot change,

courage to change the things I can,

and wisdom to know the difference.

—Stoicism

ATTACHMENT LEADS TO jealousy.

The shadow of greed, that is.

Train yourself to let go of

everything you fear to lose.

— YODA, the Jedi master, a sage, and a wise person

KNOWING YOURSELF IS the

Beginning of all wisdom.

If you don’t have a full

Understanding of who you’re

Then how’re others supposed to

Get to know you?

––Aristotle

1

The wisdom of Yoda and Aristotle once gripped me, but the spell faded. Some saw me as romantic, while others perceived me as an outsider because the mainstream ignored me. Maybe I was just an ordinary fellow, flawed to the bone.

As a young man, I looked for love but never understood what love was. Love has remained a challenge in my life: Getting it right, if ever.

My heart has always let me down. Puppy love remained my nemesis because I never got past the prelude to long-lasting love. It was like a sprinter attempting to run the marathon at his usual pace.

IT WAS EARLY SPRING in the ’70s, and I was a stranger in a country called Vikland. The weather carried an overcast but wasn’t seasonably chilly. As I walked into the woods for a walk, I suddenly felt a drizzle but pretended to ignore it. The weather in Vikland made me fret about its unpredictable behaviour. Lately, I decided not to let the weather dictate my moods, imagining how Yoda would react in my shoes.

I was on my lunch break. I carried a homemade sandwich in my green overall’s left-side pocket with shoulder straps revealing my white singlet. My left hand occasionally reached for a piece to eat or a morsel for blue tits. The woods were in an eastern suburb of Oak-hum, the capital city of Vikland. It carried clusters of aspen, beech, pine, and birch trees for the eyes to see. An enthralling pink-water creek was too far away for me to reach during a lunch break. A peaceful aura pervaded the woods – the pleasant twittering of small birds now and then.

My feet ventured on dangerously frozen ground, where fallen leaves and debris trapped in rigid layers of ice lay. Three weeks ago, I slipped and fell on my butt. The accident happened before I was able to break the fall. My tailbone was sore for days.

I strolled along in my solitude. But a Viklandish woman was on my mind. She was a perfect specimen of beauty: tall, handsome face with pouted lips, hazel eyes, reddish-brown hair to the shoulder, and athletic build. She was of mixed ethnicity, and her complexion was light brown, lighter than mine. She might not have been Viklandish. By chance, I heard her name one day when a woman called out to her. And as an aspiring poet, I associated the name with heavenly servants. Angelica.

I had begun to contemplate how best to befriend Angelica.

I remembered my youthful years, artful in romantic chatting on the island of TeeGee. But at a much older age, in another country called Vikland, where pale complexions prevailed, my flattery skill did not shine – especially at public dances. I was at the mercy of Viklandish discretion.

The reason might’ve been my scanty acquaintance with the Viklandish language, which sounded incomprehensible. They probably underestimated my intelligence. The inability to communicate clearly in Viklandish brought me humiliation and remorse. I unvaryingly felt like an underdog and blamed my English cadence.

The situation improved after I decided to switch to English. Only one or two Viklandish women were puzzled by my Caribbean accent. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t sound British since I was a British subject. I might have explained that it was the exact reason why the Irish, the Scots, and the Welsh cadences were distinctly different, not to mention the cockney (accent or dialect) that working-class Londoners or EastEnders generally spoke.

Back to my obsession with Angelica’s countenance – I admired her from afar. Then, that day in the woods, she was only a couple of metres separated from us, so close as if the gods staged it – as she and I passed each other in opposite directions. I whispered hello and winked an eye. But Angelica’s response was zero.

On several other occasions, when I saw her at close quarters, I restricted myself to a courteous smile and a head nod. After which, I became conscious of the heart’s thumping, which astonished me. Had I gone up that much in age, already subjected to heart trouble? I wondered whether ill health was on the rise. But the concern was in jest, and I smiled at my dream to live a century.

The heart’s thumping seemed like a sign of nervousness, for it had reoccurred. I remained confident about my health and reminded myself that good things seldom appeared without a struggle.

Angelica continued to disregard my gestures to befriend her. But for all she knew of me, I – the cheeky fellow – might be a patient from the nearby mental-health hospital – or why not some crazy bugger with no decency in mind?

Strange enough, her manner of indifference seemed to spur me on. I now smiled at the fantasy of being pursued by a woman as beautiful as Angelica.

Was it a selfish streak? Which wasn’t for me to say, perhaps. I consoled that it was a woman’s prerogative, particularly in the face of an obnoxious male intrusion.

‘Benji, listen to me! Women want to be perceived the same way as men – as human beings.’

Molly had once explained after I wanted to know what was wrong with men admiring women physically. Her attempt was also to enlighten me about certain social customs – ‘unwritten social laws’ as she referred – that prevailed in Vikland. Her pedantic tone didn’t escape my ear.

I told Molly I wholeheartedly agreed but was trying to be honest. One of my ambitions was to be truthful, though being open was no doubt feebleminded.

I continued to view human beings as objects – including myself. Considering mirrors’ role in our lives, I regarded the obsession with appearances as vain.

My final reply to Molly was: ‘It is my belief, right or wrong, that, as strangers, male and female, we remain physical objects to one another.’ The situation was no different from how Viklandish generally views me – not to mention the country of my birth – on the island of TeeGee, in the Caribbean.

Once in the woods, when Angelica and I passed each other, I got the urge to do a right-about turn to steal a view of her. Her leisurely gait evoked ripples in me, though my mask showed a mock agony. But I did not once look back, denying the urge while allowing the imagination to do the rest.

My attention then strayed to a small colony of swans and ducks that loitered or took a midday nap on a partially frozen lake.

Angelica doesn’t know that I lodged in the woman’s apartment who invited me to Vikland to try my luck and spend some time there. My treasured ambition is to become a published poet and the hope of some fame but no fortune in mind. The money I dream of at the end of each month is