A while ago I wrote a short story that got a very positive reception at my first St Martin's writing course. On the topic of love it was something I never expected to be good, as the subject is a tough one to balance between sentiment and reality. I read my story aloud, happy with the result but not expecting much. It was greeted with a full room of positive responses, many saying it was their favourite thing I'd written. One asked if it was based on
The Notebook (it wasn't) and if I'd seen it (I hadn't). It was just on Film4 this evening so I checked it out. And, I'll be honest, I cried like a baby. Though I'd like to caveat I've had a stressful week at work, nothing at all to do with the affecting tale of enduring love. Honest.
Anyway, watching this inspired me to revisit the story I wrote back then and I can really see how much improved my writing is now. Quite aside from the technical issues of slipping in and out of tenses and points of view, the content feels loose and flabby. Paragraphs flop around and sentences tie themselves in knots. I might take some time to rewrite, because I like the story and the characters feel very right. And I can totally see the similarities with
The Notebook*, which made the film sadder as I felt I already knew the characters' story but this showed it to me in technicolour detail. The story is below, and I'll post again when I've rewritten.
*(written by Jeremy Leven, also wrote the screenplay for
My Sister's Keeper)
Every Saturday they would watch a film. Not like years ago when they would sit in the darkness of old-fashioned cinemas or novelty Americano drive-ins. Ellen would lay her coat over their knees and Jack would squeeze her hands secretly underneath. One time he traced a prediction in a circle on the fourth finger of her left hand. Now their coats were replaced by a fleece blanket, and on her fourth finger sat a tiny diamond among the folds. Tonight Ellen had chosen an old favourite. She was tired and it slipped on like an old jumper. The first notes of The Sound of Silence filled the room. They had the television a lot louder nowadays, the plucking of a guitar soothed her and she was transported.
For dinner Jack microwaved some lamb, which nestled in a plastic box amongst new potatoes and green beans. Now just the two of them were left they had little enthusiasm for a full roast, but liked a pre-prepared treat from messieurs Marks and Spencer. The meat smelt of thyme and rosemary, filling any empty corners of the house. Once they finished eating they paused the video; she washed, he dried. Another benefit of the little plastic dishes was no pans to wash, but Ellen insisted on eating off a proper china plate, and dressing for dinner. Tonight she wore a blue skirt, accessorised with grey furry slippers. Sitting back down Ellen leant against the arm of the sofa, legs entangled, and laid a blanket over them. Just as they had done for fifty years.
They had met at a party, a mutual friend’s birthday, and Ellen had gone rushing down the steps thinking him someone else. She greeted him like a whirlwind. She kissed him on both cheeks and laughed at her stupidity. That night she was wearing a summer party dress with halter straps snaking up around her neck leaving her shoulders bare and white. The dress was covered in sprigs of yellowy flowers, which Jack told her looked like scary faces when he squinted. She told him to look at the geometric patterns in the curtains, which she thought looked like grizzly bears. Then, later, called him up to the bathroom to show him a damp patch of wall where the paper was peeling. “Look” she had exclaimed “there’s the monkey.” She held his arm out to trace a pattern in the air “its little tail is this peeling bit of paper and its eyes are those two dots of mould.” It wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world but he pushed the bathroom door quietly to and kissed her face, reaching down to hold her hands by his side. It was inevitable really; all evening Jack had followed Ellen around, hand resting on the small of her back as though they were already a couple. If she noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it and let him wait patiently by her side as she carried on greeting friends. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room, he knew that, but she was the one who laughed the most.
Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross sat on the back of the bus, fleeing. At this scene a tear slips down Ellen’s cheek and she smiles at Jack. “Silly” Jack whispers.
They had got married in the spring on 1958, she was in love with the day, with life and with her dress. She wore a tight bodice and sweetheart neckline, with a full skirt reaching her knees. Layers of organza underneath swished when she walked. Ellen wouldn’t keep still for the wedding photographs, and several caught her doubled over and clutching at her new husband. For their first dance they whirled around and around, her skirt catching and flying out and Jack could never remember being happier.
When the film finished they danced up to bed. Ellen liked to sleep early, curled at his side, so Jack read until late and slept until later. When they first moved in together Ellen would wake up early every Saturday and get up without rousing Jack. She would do whatever errands needed doing for the day, cleaning or washing, and often buy breakfast. Once she was done she would go back upstairs and slip into the bed beside Jack. He remembered in summer when they lived in Devon she would sometimes cycle to the shops. Coming home she would have some eggs and bread, or strawberries, in her basket and ring her bell to let him know she was back. He would pretend to be asleep and they would lie close and warm listening to the birds outside. “Just another half an hour” one of them would wheedle, stopping the other who felt guilty that the day was carrying on without them. Some days, right at the beginning, they would stay in bed till two or three, reading the paper or bringing breakfast upstairs. This left pink sweet-smelling trails of strawberry across the pillow and breadcrumbs on the sheets.
On Sunday morning Jack woke up early. Or at least he thought it was early, because the room was still. It took a moment to realise the sun was beaming through a gap in the curtains, like a fat, accusatory finger telling him to get out of bed. Ellen was still lying by his side. He wasn’t surprised she was still there, he had somehow expected it. After a moment he got out of bed quietly and slid open the doors to their wardrobe.
Jack considered the dresses carefully. He was not good at this. Every choice she made was beautiful, and he knew it was a dressing up box of vintage treasures. “This is for Gracie and Rachel” Ellen had always said “when they’re old enough to appreciate a well-made Biba or Mary Quant.” Jack finally selected one in a playful purple, with ruffles at the neck and shiny buttons spilling down the front. It was the same colour she wore when he proposed. He hung it carefully on the outside of the wardrobe before carefully getting quietly back into bed beside Ellen. He lay on his side, stroking her shoulder, exposed over the parapet of the duvet. He reached out for her hand, warming it with his fingers. Just another half an hour, he thought to himself.
