Below are selected pieces I've done for a creative writing class I attend (gosh, this really does sound like some awful personal homepage now) but it may be of interest.

I'll update this section with further material as the course progresses.

SAINT JOSEPH'S

He was awfully quiet in the back seat. Margaret glanced back at her son and was struck by how small he looked. A little boy, staring out of the window, only his eyes moving. Thankfully his Sunday trousers still looked pressed, and his hair remained tidy, yet even this was somehow unsettling, out of keeping.
“George?”
“Yes mummy?”
She didn’t really have anything to say, but she had to get him to look at her, give him a smile.
“Do you need to stop for the bathroom?” she asked, as brightly as possible.
“No thank you.”
He continued looking at her, his blank expression boring through her cheerful mask until she had to turn away.
“I say, Margaret! Would you look at that sky...” her husband indicated a dark bank of cloud far off to the right, “We’ll have a storm later, I shouldn’t wonder.”
She stared at him as he watched the road ahead. Gerald seemed genuinely happy about everything, even the wretched weather. He had no reservations about Saint Joseph’s, no concern about George not fitting in there. It was a good school, after all. She was just being foolish.
“Shall we have the wireless on?” she asked, keen to think about something else.
“Of course.” He leaned over to switch the radio on, then kindly tuned it into some light music for her.
“Thank you darling.” She touched his knee with her gloved hand.
Gerald glanced across at her.
“Chin up,” he smiled, then nodded towards the forbidding sky, “A little rain won’t do us any harm.”

They stopped at a lay-by for lunch. Gerald ate his sandwiches enthusiastically, then took a cup of coffee from the Thermos.
“Want to stretch your legs?” he asked her.
“Yes, I will.” she reached for her bag, “Is it far to Saint Joseph’s?”
“A couple of hours, I should say.”
“Not long now then.” Her smile faded slightly. Not long now.
“Are you getting out, young man?” Gerald asked, craning to see his son in the rear-view mirror.
George rubbed away some of the fog that had formed on the cold glass and peered out through the window at the bleak hillside beyond.
“No thanks, dad.”
“I’ll leave you in charge here then, eh?” Gerald smiled, reaching for the door handle.
“Perhaps I should wait…” Margaret began.
“Nonsense!” scolded Gerald. Getting out, he came round and held the door open for her.

The wind was bitterly cold but Margaret was glad of the chance to move freely after several hours in the car. It was an exposed spot, and Gerald struggled to light their cigarettes until they moved to shelter beside a lonely red telephone box.
“Don’t worry yourself about the boy.” he said as he handed her cigarette to her, “He’s a sturdy chap, and we must give him the best possible start in life…”
“I know that, darling.” she huddled closer to him, looking back towards the car, “He just seems so quiet. It isn’t like him.”

Saint Joseph’s stood pale against the hillside, in a commanding position at the head of the valley. Dark trees marched down to a small village that huddled below the grey spire of an old church. Margaret wished it were more like the photograph they had seen, wished it looked more welcoming for George.
“There it is.” Gerald told them, pointing.
If only he hadn’t said anything. She turned to speak to George but he had already spotted their destination and stared quietly at it as the car wound its way down into the village.

They passed a weathered stone cross outside the church and left the last of the houses behind as the road climbed towards the school. The sudden rattle of a cattle-grid startled Margaret as they approached the white pillars that guarded the entrance to the grounds. Flanked by overhanging trees, the drive curved around a dark pond and they parked on a broad swathe of gravel in the shadow of the main school building. Her heart sank as the engine died.

An older boy wearing a navy blue blazer led them up the marble steps and through the vestibule. They emerged into a vast wood-panelled entrance hall dominated by a broad staircase and lined with decades of framed school photographs.
“The headmaster is expecting you.” the boy explained, knocking on a heavy oak door then inclining his head to listen.
“Come.”
Opening the door, the boy stood aside and ushered them in.
“Ah, Mr and Mrs Pembridge.” The headmaster, a tidy-looking man in his sixties, rose from his desk and came around to meet them, hand outstretched, “I’m Eustace Templeton.”
He shook hands, firmly with Gerald, lightly with Margaret, then turned to gaze down at their son.
“And you must be George…” he said gravely, offering his hand to the boy.
“Yes, sir.” George replied. He reached up, cautiously.
“Capital!” the headmaster shook his hand warmly, then waved them towards three chairs facing the desk, “Do sit down, all of you.”
As they took their seats, the door opened behind them and Eustace rose again as a kindly-looking woman entered with a laden tea-tray.
“Ah, the inestimable Mrs Templeton.” he smiled, “Mr and Mrs Pembridge, may I introduce my wife Edith, who favours us with her famous scones.”

They chatted amiably over tea, with Gerald and Eustace making most of the conversation. Margaret nursed her cup absently with frequent glances at George, who sat quietly eating a scone.
“So,” Eustace was suddenly addressing George, “What do you make of Saint Joseph’s?”
The boy looked up at the headmaster. “I… don’t know sir.” he faltered, looking across at Margaret.
“Come now,” Eustace fixed him with a thoughtful gaze, “A bright fellow like you must have some first impressions.”
George stared up at him for a moment then quietly answered, “I think I shan’t like it here.”
“George!”
“No no, Mrs Pembridge, he was simply being honest. Forthright, I grant you, but honest.” He turned to George, “You might take a look around the place before you make up your mind, though. Perhaps if you went off with one of the other boys for a while, eh?”
Walking to the door, he looked outside and called to someone in the corridor.
Margaret tensed, but Gerald leaned in close and whispered “We can’t do this for him, darling.”
He motioned George to come to him, and spoke in a quiet, reassuring tone, “Listen, old man, I think it would be jolly useful if you looked the place over for us.”
Seeing his son hesitate, Gerald reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small metal Spitfire model.
“Take this.” he smiled, pressing the fighter into George’s hand, “When I received my first squadron posting to Biggin Hill, your mother gave me this for luck.”
He flashed her a quick grin.
“It kept the Luftwaffe off my tail.” he whispered, “I daresay it’ll see you right, eh?”
“Yes, dad.” George gave him a brave smile as he clutched the fighter plane.
“That’s the spirit!” Gerald winked, then nodded towards another young boy who stood in the doorway beside the headmaster, “Run along and you can tell me all about it when you get back.”

“Do you want to see the classrooms?”
“Not much.”
“Good. They’re awfully dull. What’s your name?”
“George.”
“I’m Henry. There’s a rope swing in the woods. Would you like to see?”
“All right.”

The boys made their way towards the wood. The wet grass seemed quiet after crossing the gravel, but as they passed under the trees, George was captivated by the profound stillness, the unfamiliar spring of pine needles underfoot. Neither of them spoke as they climbed a steep rise, weaving their way up through the tall evergreens, the air heavy with the scent of trees.

“Here we are.” Henry pointed, as they emerged into daylight at the top of the rise, “The swing’s just over there.”
He shuffled carefully down a grassy slope to an old oak tree that leaned out over the head of a small gully. A rope hung from one of its great boughs, with a worn branch tied at its end.
“You can have the first go if you like.” Henry offered, scrambling up the sloping trunk to a sit in a familiar nook.
“Thanks.” George took the rope and awkwardly pulled himself up to sit on the branch, “Can you come up here whenever you want to?”
“Well, only in free time.” Henry replied, snapping off a twig, “Not when there’s lessons.”
George nodded thoughtfully. As the rope turned slowly, he gazed down the gully and out over the valley beyond.
“Do you like it here?”
Henry frowned.
“I think so.” he shrugged, “I did hate it at first but then I sort of got used to it.”
The rope creaked quietly and a slight wind rustled the trees.
“And I suppose the puddings are jolly decent.”
George took one hand off the rope and reached into his pocket. The Spitfire felt warm to his fingers. He drew it out and held it at arm’s length, squinting as he tried to imagine it soaring over the valley, climbing up through the clouds to find the sun.
“Can I see?” Henry asked, descending from his perch and approaching.
“All right.” George shrugged. He lowered himself carefully off the swing and held out the model plane.
“Thanks.” said Henry. He took the aircraft and held it up to see it against the sky. “Spitfires are the best.”
“My father flew Spitfires in the war.” George moved over to lean against the tree trunk.
“Really?” Henry asked, clearly impressed. He heaved himself up onto the swing and began to rock back and forth, imagining what it would be like to fly, “Did he have many dogfights?”
“I think so, yes.” His father rarely talked about it but George remembered every detail from each of the stories he had heard.
“Did he ever shoot down a Messerschmitt?” Henry asked, swinging higher, “My Uncle Hugh says they were the fastest–”
There was a crack as the rope gave way and Henry wailed as he pitched in the air. The cry was knocked out of him as he hit the ground and tumbled down to the edge of the gully. His legs flailed out above the sharp drop, but his fingers clutched handfuls of long grass, keeping him from sliding over.
“Don’t let me fall!” Henry cried, but George was already moving down the slope towards him, gripping the exposed roots of the tree to steady himself.
“Hang on,” he called as he inched his way down, feet first, one hand outstretched towards Henry, “I’m almost there.”

The school building looked different as they emerged from the woods, less imposing somehow. Supporting Henry, whose arm was tightly around his shoulder, George walked towards the main entrance.

“…and we have marvellous playing fields down by the village.” Eustace was explaining as they strolled down a long corridor, “The facilities really are first class.”
“Fresh air does boys the world of good.” Gerald nodded.
“We try to put some colour in their cheeks, and er…” The headmaster suddenly tailed off as he spotted one of the masters hurrying towards him.
“Excuse my interruption,” the master spread his hands apologetically, “but I felt it best to find you all right away…”
He turned slightly and Margaret looked past him to a small figure coming towards them.
“George!” she exclaimed, as she made out her son, dishevelled and muddy, “What’s happened? What have you been doing?!”
George’s face fell.
“If I may,” the master interrupted her, “We are indebted to your son, who rescued one of our boys from a dangerous fall. Permit me to explain…”

“Remarkable.” Gerald closed his cigarette case and shook his head in quiet amazement.
“Quite so.” agreed Eustace, leaning against the mantelpiece in his study, while Mrs Templeton hovered anxiously, ready to administer tea and cakes.
Gerald clapped a hand on George’s shoulder.
“Well done, son.” he smiled, “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, dad.” George beamed. “And I didn’t forget the Spitfire…” he rummaged in his pocket for a moment, “Look! I went back and it was right there in the grass near the bottom of the slope.”
Margaret watched them through a haze of conflicting emotions. How could she ever leave her little boy in such a dangerous place as this? How could she leave him anywhere? And yet, as she sat watching him with Gerald, she recognized her son again, for the first time in days – grubby but smiling, talking animatedly with his father. Oh, it was so good to have him back to his old self again, but how could she ever bring herself to let him go now?approached.

TIME TO SAY GOODBYE

Kenneth’s favourite piece of music was Con Te Partirň sung by Andrea Bocelli but he couldn’t listen to it. Not any more.

He could remember it perfectly; the pride and passion of Bocelli’s voice, the careful restraint of the orchestra, the delicate changes of tempo and the wonderful completeness of the whole…

The CD lay on the floor, one of many that had stood neatly stacked for the last six months, purposefully ignored. Now, the hem of his jacket had scattered the pile and he unthinkingly stooped to retrieve the discs. His hand went directly to the Bocelli one and he found that he was cradling it. There was dust on the case. There had never been dust on that case before.

He did not stand up. The cover was familiar as always, despite the long period of separation…

Separation. Ha!

Of course it had always been his favourite. It had been his favourite long before it was ‘their song’. Long before he’d even met her.

He’d first heard it over ten years ago, on a TV show about gangsters. He remembered his initial fascination with the piece, turning to irritation as the dreary characters recited their unimportant dialogue over the beautiful strains of music. He’d watched the credits carefully for clues, and spent hours tracking down what the piece was called before hurrying to his local music store the next day. There was almost a sense of relief as he put the disc into his CD player at home and was reunited with the beautiful sound once more.

This very disc. He turned it over in his hands, remembering.

When he’d met her, it was one of the last things he’d introduced her to. She had similar tastes to him but on this he had held back. It was strange, now he reflected on it, but he must have realized even then that she was the one. He’d played it for other women without a thought, but with her he had hesitated. What had stopped him? Did he need her to accept the piece, like others need new partners to accept their pets or their children?

In any event, she’d liked it. Perhaps at first she’d accepted it for the happiness it brought him, but as he played it to her and encouraged her to listen to it, she’d come to understand the beauty of it, come to love it as he did.

Standing up, he blinked away the tears. So different to those other tears, when he’d finally allowed her to see his eyes misting over at the perfect joy of the music. She’d felt it too, her own eyes bright with emotion, and they’d held each other without words. After that, he’d always thought of it as their song…

But now it was different.

When she left, the emptiness that remained took on a life of its own, touching everything, ruining everything. The first couple of weeks without her were numb, indistinct, and it wasn’t until much later that he realized what else he had lost.

He’d stood then, as now, with the CD in his hand. Here, in front of the stereo, he’d remained for several minutes, unable to put the disc on. Such a gift that he had shared with her, played to her, and she had taken it and stolen away all the beauty and pleasure it afforded him. He remembered now that the phone had rung, and he’d put the disc back into the pile as he wondered if it was her. But it wasn’t her, and he’d not touched the stereo since.

Perhaps one last time. He opened the case and gazed down at his sadness reflected on the silver of the disc.

No.

He tore the CD out, allowing the case to fall to the floor. With the disc in his hands, he began to grip and bend. More and more violently he twisted. It was surprisingly difficult to break, but his pain and anger gave his fingers strength and the disc suddenly shattered.

He stood silently for a moment, startled then perversely pleased to see a trickle of blood dripping down onto the carpet. He had cut his hand on a fragment of the disc but it didn’t upset him – there was something rather fitting about it all.

Satisfied, he turned away to tend his hand, humming to himself… then stopped as he realised what he was humming. For a moment, he felt a pang of despair, then a weary resignation as he surrendered and let the music wash over him, richer in his mind than it had ever been through mere speakers. The staccato rhythm, the soaring vocals, delicate poignancy leading to a triumphant crescendo… such sadness yet such beauty…

Kenneth realised he was smiling.

TRUE STORY

I’m glad I didn’t kill her. It’s important to be clear about that because, right after it happened, my feelings weren’t at all what I would have expected. I was angry, upset… it was almost like being pardoned for a crime that I’d foiled rather than committed.

Everything was bright and warm as I drove across town. It was too nice a day for air-conditioning so I had the windows down and the music turned up. I don’t usually collect my little boy from school, but my wife was working so I’d left the office early. This was one of his afternoons in Homework Club so he wouldn’t be out until 4:30 but I’d allowed plenty of time – I like to be standing there waiting for him when he comes through the doors.

The main road that climbs up towards his school has a junction on it where cars can turn right or go straight on, with separate traffic lights for each direction. As I approached, the lights for turning right went red but for my direction – straight on – they remained green. Cars were waiting to turn but I had nothing in front of me.

The pavement on my side of the road was set back a little and slightly raised on a grassy verge. Driveways cut across it, down through the verge to the road, including one at the junction itself. Waiting to cross was a group of children from another school, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, watching me approach up the hill. It’s reassuring when you know they’ve seen you, but I kept on watching them, just in case.

I wasn’t speeding. I make no apology for not knowing my exact speed because I kept my eye on the children as I came to the junction… and that’s how I came to spot her. I think there’s an alley or a shortcut between two of the houses because she came walking down the driveway, behind her waiting classmates. She was looking at something in her hand but she would stop with her friends and I would go by…

I was passing the cars that were waiting to turn right when she reappeared and stepped out in front of me. I hit the brakes hard but she was in the middle of the road before she looked up from her mobile phone and noticed me. I was so sure I wouldn’t stop in time but suddenly I was gripping the steering wheel, stationary. She was so close she actually put her hand on the bonnet of my car before looking round – embarrassed? – then continuing across the road.

And now the impact happened. In my mind I saw her jolt against my bumper and tumble up the road, while I sat watching through the windscreen…

She was walking off indifferently as I got out of the car shaking. I shouted “You stupid idiot!” at her and she turned and scowled but didn’t stop. I had stopped for her but she didn’t stop. There were a couple of pedestrians standing there but they were looking at me, frowning. Seeing a thirty-something guy in a sports car, windows down with the music turned up. Nobody would care that I’d replaced my front tyres the previous week, that I wasn’t speeding, that I’d been watching all of the children and moved my right foot over the brake pedal just in case. Until it happened to them, I would just be the culpable motorist from the road safety adverts.

But I’m glad I didn’t kill her.