Living a Lie Part 1 of 2

Living  a Lie Part 1 of 2

By Janet Baldey

         The quartet of my novels stood to attention in the bookshelves behind me. Their presence was a reproach. A writer is only as good as their last book and now wraithlike ideas drift through my mind only to disappear as soon as I pick up my pen.

Just a short while ago, I was certain to become a has-been, living out my life in reflected glory while eking out an existence teaching others skills I no longer possessed. 

Then, I met Garry.

 I am a strong believer in destiny. When at your lowest ebb, sometimes you may meet someone who changes the whole course of your life and certainly my fate was sealed when he entered my classroom. I had looked up to see him hesitating in the doorway.  He was late and clearly unsure of his reception, his white lashed eyes blinked and a dribble of sand-coloured hair pasted itself to his forehead.

 ‘E..excuse m..me.’   The words were forced through his lips.

  

Oh, my God a stutterer! I thought, before fixing on a welcoming smile. ‘Hello there.  Are you lost?  This is Creative Writing.  Are you one of us?’

His face flooded with relief and he nodded.  I consulted my register. ‘Then you must be Garry’.  

Even now I can remember being taken back by the sweetness of his smile. I flapped my hand indicating the empty seats dominating the room.  

That first evening passed in a blur of half remembered names and false impressions.    Like most creative writing classes, the students were of mixed ability; some passable, the majority bloody awful.  None was outstanding but what they lacked in talent, they made up for in enthusiasm. All, except Garry. Invariably late, he would slink through the door and creep towards an empty table at the back of the room. There he would hunch over his table, scribbling for the entire two hours without uttering a single word. I could swear he never looked in my direction. After class one evening, doing what I thought was my duty, I made an attempt to engage him in conversation but his stutter made this an ordeal for both of us and after that, I left him alone.

 Despite this, his presence intrigued me and some weeks later, partly in deference to his impediment, I started setting written homework but no matter how many times I flicked through the pile of manuscripts, there was never anything from Garry. It was then that his presence started to annoy and eventually worry me. Why did he come to my class if he wasn’t prepared to contribute? My confidence in my teaching skills, never very high to begin with, sank to a new low. I started to have dreams during which I chased a shadowy figure in an endless game of catch.  Eventually, the figure would turn and Garry’s angelic smile would be the last thing I saw before I was startled awake, disorientated and clutching a damp twist of sheets.

        

 The turning point came a few weeks into the second term. My students’ first glow of enthusiasm was guttering, not helped by the dark nights as the year drifted towards Christmas. Only six of my pupils attended that particular evening, one of whom was Garry. The clock ticked, the minutes crawled and stories were droned in shades of monotone while I hunted for positive comments. The continuous scratching of Garry’s pen irritated me and at last I could bear it no longer.

        

‘Garry!’ I said. He looked up, startled.

        

‘You seem to be working hard.  I’m intrigued. What are you writing?  Won’t you share it with us?’ I smiled brightly and looked around the class, searching for allies. He sat as if stapled to the chair.

        

‘Come.’ I commanded, moving sideways to give him the floor.

        

Head down, he began reading in a nervous mutter that I had to strain my ears to hear.   Then, he gained confidence and forgot to stutter, his voice growing richer and deepening as he lost himself in his story. After he had finished, there was silence. Then,

        

‘Wow!’

        

An inane comment from an inane person I thought. looking at the fat girl gazing at Garry, her shiny complexion accentuated by the fawning glow on her face.  Down a long corridor of memory, a door cracked open. She reminded me of someone.

        

Then, I was distracted by more fatuous praise from another not qualified to judge.

‘That was fantastic!’ 

I ignored the remark and stared at Garry.  He’d obviously never listened to a word I’d said and had flouted all the rules I had been at pains to emphasize but although his story was as rough as an uncut gemstone, its brilliance was unmistakable and I was startled by a rush of envy. Then, I felt angry. His story didn’t deserve to work. Controlling myself with an effort, I delivered my verdict in cool and neutral tones.

‘Well done, Garry, your work shows some promise.’ I waved him back to his seat and turned my face away.

When we broke for tea, Garry was surrounded by his colleagues, for once the centre of attention.   I gritted my teeth and waited.   At the end of the evening, when everyone had gone, I beckoned to him. With delicate cruelty I shredded his story until it hung in tatters, unravelling each sentence until the words were strung out like a line of shoddy fairground lights

A rabbit caught in a lamper’s searchlight, he stared at me. At that moment, I almost felt sorry for him; he was young and vulnerable with no idea of just how much talent he had. It was then that a germ of an idea began to fester. He had the talent, I had the experience; it had been done before. I softened the lines of my face and smiled.

        

‘I’m sorry if I seem harsh, Garry. But if you want to progress, you need to be able to take criticism. Perhaps you’ll show me more of your work and I’ll do my best to help’.

        

I was true to my word.  After class every Wednesday evening, we drew our desks together and worked as the frost silvered the roofs.  His ideas were original and his writing style haunting. That was on the plus side. His grammar was terrible, punctuation almost non-existent and his spelling laughable. This was where I came into my own, and together we beat his stories into shape.     

        

One evening, I looked up and caught him staring at me. With a quick duck of his head, he turned, pretending to stare out of the window but as I watched, crimson mottled the back of his neck. That night I lay staring into the darkness. I had not reckoned on love but I realized it could be turned to my advantage.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey