It was writing group today, and we had set ourselves a different sort of challenge – to write something which conveyed a character. It was as open as that, so it could have been a physical description, or something about their personality, or a story, a poem – anything, but to focus on bringing a person to life through something written. When we met today, once we all had tea or coffee, and a biscuit or two if required we took it in turns to read our work. R. wrote about an ordinary family whose father decided one day to abandon his wife and children and take on an alternative life-style, living off-grid. J wrote a very realistic and believable piece about an unpleasant old woman, M wrote a story about an elderly and wealthy old chap, a trusting soul, who was taken advantage of. A wrote an intriguing tale of a young woman growing up in the beginning of the twentieth century, who manipulated and contrived to take advantage of those closest to her for her own advantage. P wrote a country tale involving rural characters, and F, in true F-style, wrote a story imagining the end of the world as we know it.
I wrote a story about someone coming across a character from their past… unfortunately, the note-book in which it was written was left under my seat at the Forum Theatre Bath last night, when I was at a gig and stood up and rushed to stand in front of the stage to Dance the Night Away (the clue to the artists is inn those last four words.) I had been anxious about catching my train home, and after hugging my friends had rushed out to catch my train,, leaving my bag and notebook under my seat. I found another story which I had shared here in January, which i hoped covered the brief, but promised my friends that I would send them the actual story I had written later. Here is what I read, ‘A Dark and Miserable Evening: https://loiselsden.com/2024/01/06/a-dark-and-miserable-evening/
Here is what I actually wrote to share, about character:
It was her stride – it was as she stepped out across the courtyard that I recognised, I knew her, even though it was two score years and more since I had last had the “pleasure” of seeing her. She had an almost military stride and the effect was heightened by her knee high black leather boots. I couldn’t properly see them from where I was, but I had no doubt that they were polished to a glossy shine. I couldn’t hear her heels on the cobbles but my memory played a soundtrack. She used to stride down the corridors, metal segs on her heels so her steps rang. I was staff and it chilled me, I couldn’t imagine what the students thought.
She was wearing a straight tweed skirt and a long tight-fitting jacket and there was a bunch of cloth at her neck – blouse, collar, scarf, I wasn’t going to go near enough to check. Her hair was white now, but still thick and wavy, pulled back and gathered by a black ribbon at her collar and a black headband – was it an Alice band? – keeping it back from her face. She was fleetingly in profile but then was walking away from me as if on a mission.
Someone bumped into me, apologised and hurried past. I realised I was standing in the middle of the path, and seeing a wrought iron bench, I went and sat down. I was actually shaking, and i took out my phone and pretended to check it.
I thought about her as I’d just seen her, and her as I remembered her. To be honest, apart from the white hair, apart from seeming bigger, she didn’t seem to have changed and I had the classic symptoms of fear, a dry mouth, dizziness, a desire to weep. My hands were trembling and my fingers were cold, so cold. I was revisited by the mental and emotional terror . This was what she had done to me when I was younger – and no doubt to many others.
This was ridiculous. I stood up and moved to sit on a wooden bench in the sun. Moving those few steps helped and I was breathing more easily. I spoke out loud. “This is ridiculous!’ I said out loud and stood up quickly and crossed the cobbled yard to the door she had come out of.
There was an unhelpful plaque, ‘OFFICE’ and below it a glazed notice with pictures of those who worked here. She stared out of the photo. I’d hoped I would never see her face again, but there she was, looking straight at me.
She was tanned, or wearing make-up, I guessed the former. She had been a great tennis player and had always looked like this, even in the winter. Her once dark brows were threaded with silver, her once blue eyes were grey as steel. That mocking smile was still there but her lips had thinned and it was her mouth, beneath her strong nose which might give a clue to her cruel and devious nature. Maybe there was a wrinkle in the paper, but there appeared to be the trace of a scar from the corner of her mouth diagonally across her chin. Her skin had been unblemished when I had known her.
Trying to control the shakes, I went into the office. There were two desks with monitors and keyboards, paperwork spread out beside them as if work had been suddenly abandoned. There were more photos on the walls, larger versions of those on the outside door but I couldn’t quite manage to look at her again.
There were the sound of voices and a man and woman came out from the back room. They stopped speaking when they saw me but the man grabbed a jacket from the back of a chair and i stepped aside to let him pass.
“Ben, no! Don’t go!” the woman called.
“Tell that bitch to – ” but his words were lost as he slammed the door.
“I’m sorry – ” the woman and I spoke at the same time, but I continued. “I was just wondering if you could tell me the name of the person in the poster – I don’t have my glasses with me – ” and i waved at the photo.
“Belinda, she’s Belinda Burt – do you know her?” she was trying not to cry.
“No, sorry, no, I thought she was someone else.”
“Lucky you!”
I apologised, and she apologised, and I left.
I walked slowly across the courtyard, although I wanted to sprint across the cobbles.
I went out through the gate, down the gravel path to the carpark, and then hurried across to the safety of my car.
Lois Elsden 