Bell's Solace

By Richard Taylor

Bells Solace is the story of William Bell, who decides to stop communicating directly with other people. Instead, he responds with quotes from imaginary characters in his mind. William lives in a small town with his mother and father. Williams mother, Mona Bell, meets Coretta Cortly, a wealthy society woman, at a charity event, where she explains her sons problem. Coretta doesnt think of this as a problem, but as a clever art form. Coretta meets William, after requesting an introduction, and finds the genius companion she has been longing for. She introduces him to all her fashionable and wealthy friends, and under her guidance, becomes a cult celebrity.

Barbara (Babs) Collwood, daughter of famous fashion designer, Charles Collwood, thinks success comes from being seen with all the right people, and William Bell is her new target. After pushing herself on him at one of Corettas parties, she seduces him and an affair begins. William falls in love with disastrous results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469112756

Richard Taylor

Richard Taylor is an experienced and popular watercolourist, who regularly teaches and lectures on all aspects of painting. He is the successful author of several books, including The Watercolourist’s Year, Learn to Paint Buildings in Watercolour and Painting Houses and Gardens in Watercolour and was the Consultant and Contributor to The Art Course partwork. He writes for The Artist, Leisure Painter and Artists & Illustrators magazines and has also made several instructional painting videos.

Book preview

BELL’S

SOLACE

Richard Taylor

Copyright © 2001 by Richard Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

I.     

II.     

III     

IV     

V.     

VI.     

VII     

VIII.     

IX     

X     

XI     

XII     

XIII     

XIV     

XV     

XVI     

XVII     

XVIII     

Thanks to Harry Sarafian

and Craig Barrack for their encouragement.

Special thanks to Christine A. Lutz,

whose generosity and hard work made this book possible.

I.     

‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ said Sir Henry, said William. ‘ The brass chair gives an unclear reflection. I want silver. I want silver,’ said Sir Henry, said William.

Coretta Cortly replied, Oh yes, for sure. Silver. Early morning sun just clings to it.

Sometimes they dig huge holes in the earth, but before they join the club, there’s a finger inspection. They have to have long strong fingers before they join the digger’s club.

Well certainly if they have to dig, the fingers are very important, said Mrs. Cortly. Now I’d love to introduce you. And she did, she took him to meet every one of them; fashionable people all.

This is William Bell.

William Bell?

The quotist.

The quotist! Of course the quotist! So happy to meet you.

William impressed everyone. You see, William was a writer without writing. He talked it, random ideas thrown out everywhere, all the time. As a matter of fact William spoke no other way, never a statement, never a question, never a response, not directly to anybody anyway. He spoke only to people in his mind, just to the situation in his mind. They were all quotes, things his imaginary characters had said. Only in rare cases of necessity, like asking direction, did he ever respond to the problem at hand. And it was oh-so-clever to most.

Sing because it’s time, said William.

I don’t sing in public, said Bethel Merks, not here.

He doesn’t mean you, my dear, said Coretta.

Oh? Who does he mean?

I don’t know. What possible difference can it make?

‘A small snake could curl around his finger’ said Sultan Bullseye, said William.

Later Bethel . . . see you later. Coretta pulled him away; there were so many new people to meet.

Con Ashen smoked a cigar; a recent habit from recent fame. A writer has an image, naturally, and he knew that if he wanted a cigar in his mouth in the photograph on the back of the book jacket, well, he’d better just learn how to smoke. He was wearing a tan suit in mid-winter. It looked great.

Con . . . Con I want you to meet William Bell.

You look like that? said Con.

Oh yes he does.

Who would expect anyone who lived in such a private world to have such a perfect public appearance: tall, slim, blonde, composed, handsome, almost sculpted features, walks a straight path, a half smile when amused, a pleasant laugh when something’s really funny, a tear or two at almost any sentiment. Strange, that a man who never said anything about the moment always looked as though he felt it.

Time and time again, she cracked her knuckles. She was a constant knuckle cracker.

He quotes, so what? He doesn’t quote anybody I know. Con exhaled a great cloud of smoke.

How could you possibly? asked Coretta. He’s the only one who knows them.

Selling from door to door, said William.

That’s a claim to fame? asked Con.

His, Coretta responded.

I’ve been quoted, said Con. There isn’t a day that goes by that there isn’t a line from my ‘Cry Baby’ that doesn’t show up somewhere.

Competition, competition. Isn’t it wonderful, giggled Coretta.

William shouted, Time has it’s fixtures and it’s all to our liking!

Mr. Bell, how would you like . . . ? As a matter of fact I might be able to use you. How’d ya’ like a job?

He’d love it.

I’ve just started my new book, and I thought if you just sat there doing that thing that you’re so famous for, that maybe . . . just maybe, you’d give me some ideas.

You mean divine inspiration. He’d love it, just love it. Later Con, see you later.

Barbara Collwood, who preferred to be called Babs, had her eye on William for quite some time. He was good looking and all the rage right now. It was all the reason she needed. Just a budding actress, she was invited to such privileged occasions because her father designed most of the women’s clothing. Ambition was her game. Why else would she be with these people she considered pompous?

There were a few more introductions before William and Coretta approached Babs.

This lady’s daddy, Charles Collwood, designed my dress.

Question marks, ‘twas actually raining question marks.

Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Daddy’s not here is he?

Oh he isn’t? What a shame.

You haven’t introduced me.

No?

No, you introduced Daddy.

Well, this is daddy’s daughter, Barbara Collwood. This is William Bell.

Barbara stepped forward, practically touching noses with William. ‘The sky never ends and that’s a flaw.’ Do you remember saying that?

We have to remember what he says. He never remembers, said Coretta.

Well, it’s my very favorite.

William noticed how smooth her skin was. Wings flapped and they flapped and they flapped.

I’m a great admirer. Barbara looked into his eyes. He wasn’t blinking. She always did this, went straight to the eyes; secrets were hidden there, and discovering secrets was a tool to success.

This woman’s stare made William dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. He didn’t like it because he considered the rest of the world to be dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. He quickly stepped away, he wasn’t about to become a part of it again. His relationship with the world was perfect since he’d decided not to talk with it. He’d consciously separated himself and could not stray from the discipline of keeping away from anything that might tempt him back.

He walked to the middle of the room and just stood there staring at the crystal chandelier. It’s pieces were individually crafted; such a huge object made of such small dangling pieces. He lifted his head and blew out streams of air, hoping to move it. It didn’t work, but it was certainly an attention getter. The entire room stopped to take a look. William felt it immediately; never had he caused an entire room to stop and take notice. He took advantage of the moment, lowered his head, and started slowly turning in a circle, reciting, Light can be broken through crystal, therefore aim is of the utmost importance, he said as he stared into the prism. Why should the power be wasted on other foolish things when crystal can bring color? Point the electricity in the right direction or place the glass in the stream of the sun.

A huge round of applause followed and people went searching through drawers and opening pocket books and repeating, Light can be broken through crystal, therefore aim is of the utmost importance, until they found a pen or pencil or lipstick to write it all down.

It made William smile. Never had he quoted so much to so many people all at once. He even heard the word genius muttered over his shoulder.

Con ran up and immediately shook his hand, Alright, alright, a talent, undisciplined, not on any single track, but a talent. How about Tuesday? Tuesday at two.

William said, No facility for the soul.

None at all, puffed Con, Straight forward work: character, story, plot, don’t worry about the soul.

Babs, of course, pushed her way to William; the sooner she got to know the famous quotist, the better. Power was important, and there was no doubt his company could move her in that direction. A philosopher of sorts aren’t we Mr. Bell? I always thought that role was a bit more underplayed.

No hail stones, ‘ said the forecaster, said William.

Did I frighten you? Is that why you ran away?

‘We can’t deal with that kind of storm,’ said the forecaster.

I wonder why? But you don’t tell, do you Mr. Bell?

He wanted to answer. It was the first time in years he’d gotten this close to answering directly. The feeling made him dizzy, queasy, trembly. He grabbed hold of Coretta’s arm, pulling her from the room.

Mr. Bell’s leaving, shouted Coretta, I’m sure he feels a good night to you all.

Tuesday, don’t forget Tuesday, shouted Con.

Oh a tough conquest, thought Babs.

Coretta was almost being pulled off her heels, Slow down William, I can’t keep up with you.

He stopped pulling when they entered the foyer. He looked Coretta in the eyes and said, No facility for the soul.

No, no, no, you should never repeat yourself. It’s not good for your reputation. You understand me, don’t you?

Coretta’s maid, Ida Stares, dressed in black (she dressed all her servants in black), brought him his coat.

Tell Shawn to bring the car for Mr. Bell . . . Shawn will drive you home . . . Oh dear, you’re shaking like a leaf.

The earth split open beneath their feet, but most of them didn’t fit.

A small fissure my dear, nothing to worry about. I’ve never seen you quite like this. Well, you’ll have a nice comfortable ride back to relax you.

Pretend, pretend, pretend,’ said the workaholic, said William.

"Oh nonsense, you’re as lazy as they come. You’re upset and

I’m sorry, but it’s certainly not from over-work. You’ve never put a day of your life into real work and I hope you never will . . . I think you should give some thought to Con’s offer. A little extra pocket money would be nice for you. You’ll just have to sit there and do what you do best."

Cringing is the best possible manner.

You won’t cringe, I guarantee it. Just give it a try. I’ll send Shawn for you on Tuesday . . . You know how much I care, don’t you? Don’t you?

‘Use a sling shot,’ said Sir Henry.

Go to Shawn now darling.

He stepped into that big black limousine of Coretta’s, and Shawn, her chauffeur, pulled off before he’d sat down, throwing him across the back seat in a reclining position. He just lay there thinking of that woman Babs, not quite understanding the effect she had on him. The cars passing by quickly flashed their lights across him. Her eyes? Her intention? Her mouth? Her enthusiasm? Her skin? She had fair skin. Her hair? She had blonde hair. Her . . . the lights flashed . . . her . . . flaaashhh . . . her . . . flaaashh . . . her intention? What was it? He sat up, trying to push it out of mind. He thought of the party, of the notoriety his behavior was bringing him.

* * *

It was Coretta’s attraction to his free verse that started it all. She’d met his mother at a charity benefit and drove Mrs. Bell home in the big black limo and stopped in for a snack of tea and Oreo cookies. In the course of their discussion, Mona Bell mentioned her son’s recent strange behavior. She suspected she should probably be sending him to a psychiatrist, however, not only was it expensive, but the idea depressed her terribly. He doesn’t care what anybody else thinks, she had said to Coretta.

Coretta couldn’t think of this as anything but admirable. A free spirit at last. Coretta’s life had been spent, searching, search-ing, searching, for the perfect non-conformist with whom to spend her time. She’d always thought she was getting a little closer, only to find everyone had the same answers as everybody else. It still wasn’t enough reason to stop looking.

I just worry, he keeps talkin’ and talkin’ and talkin’ like he’s quotin’ someone, only he’s not quotin’ anyone, and he makes up the names himself and the words himself and he’s makin’ me crazy. I dunno what ta do, said Mona Bell.

Is your son here? asked Coretta.

No.

How old is he?

Twenty four.

Was he in the war?

War?

Any war?

No.

May I see him tomorrow?

Ya’ wanna see him?

I’ll send my car for him at noon.

* * *

William stood on the