(STORY) Giving Up The Dead (Alaric)
Michael
GIVING UP THE DEAD
Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
It was my last Sunday morning on the cliff. And it was the day the sea
ceased to be my church. Slightly less than a year later, the sea became my
factory floor.
>> Well, you've got the hook there. "Why is he on the cliff? Why was it his
last morning?" All good, skillful stuff. Do you need the line about the
factory floor? Apart from anything else, it sounds a bit clumsy.
The memory starts with Heather calling my name. Before that, there's nothing
of significance. However hard I try, I can't conjure now, as a grown man,
the simple pleasure I found in staring out at pale skies and cobalt water. I
know the pleasure was there, like the joy of Christmas, like the wonder at
the complex junction into adulthood with all its beguiling exits just then
coming into clear sight.
>> Do you mean "exits"? Would have thought "choices/turns/routes" would suit
better, unless you mean to tell us that once you enter adulthood, that's
that. Is the "just then coming" an affectation, or could you simply say
"exits coming into clear sight"?
I know that I stood for an hour or more every
Sunday morning, staring out at a seemingly infinite expanse of smooth blue,
and I remember that in my self-obsession I saw that expanse as me - a place
not fully explored, a place deeper than most observers would acknowledge, a
private place. A repository of the possible.
It's fortunate, perhaps, that such mindless and frivolous woolgathering left
no echo. Only a faded sepia recollection of it remains.
>> Unlikely it was "mindless" if it was some kind of teenage self-obsession.
IIRC, teenage self-obsession pushes the revs on the old grey matter pretty
hard. "Frivolous" is exactly the right phrase for it, though. I don't
think you need "sepia" and "faded" as both hint at the past, which we
already know you're doing, so keep the one you like best and chop the other.
So far, I have this in my head: A sad and weary middle-aged man looking
back upon his teenage years and at the chances and opportunities that he
feels have escaped him, rather than those he took.
Heather calling my name, then.
It begins there.
And I turned.
*****
I turn and see her struggling up the hill towards me. She's propelled by the
will of the two men a few paces behind her - by her father and mine.
>> Did you need "And I turned", then, as you're turning again with the first
part of this, what I presume is a scene of reminiscence?
I knew what's happened without needing to be told.
>> That reads like tense confusion. I knew - past tense. What's happened -
what has happened - present tense. It might well be correct, but it threw
me a wee bump there.
In the last month,
Heather has started to show. Her father, a man with scarlet complexion, a
man on first name terms with every landlord in the village, wouldn't have
had either the interest or the focus to notice, but her mother, a battle
worn whirlwind of homespun wisdom, inverted snobbery and aggressive
Christianity, is not so lax. Heather, clearly, has been harangued into
honesty. Our pact has been broken - the agreement that we, and only we,
would decide what to do.
>> That's a great way to describe both mother and father, well done.
Especially the mother.
We've taken too long. The long spectre of social status is visible, and I
know, as young as I am, that it haunts entire lives. I'd hoped for
understanding from my mother, but she must be out of the shuffle now. My
father, a small sliver of steel tempered by temperance and forged by God,
will have his way. Am I to be Isaac, I wonder, or am I to be Cain? Isaac, I
suppose, because my father's way will be to meet the demands of Heather's
mother. Before a word is spoken, I know that I'm a married man.
>> Can I mention something here, neither as praise nor criticism but as an
open question? Some of your word choices and phrasing, being written first
person, are jarring with my perception of this narrator, a simple if
careworn and troubled man from a small village - possibly in past times;
this has a 1930's feel to me with the temperance and the religious emphasis,
though in some villages it still exists now, of course - so I am making
assumptions here, of course, but some of the words and phrases I've noticed
so far:
"repository"
"complex junction"
"beguiling"
"inverted snobbery"
"social status"
- these word choices don't gel with this narrator I am seeing before me.
These words feel like the hard and concrete terminology of the business
world and the meeting room, not the words of this character whom I picture
atop a cliff staring at the sea. Is that making any sense?
*****
Now, I think of Heather saying, "I'm sorry. Kelvin, I'm so sorry." I see
myself placing an arm protectively around those slight shoulders and, for
the first time in my life, facing consequence.
Something it seems I can no longer do.
Heather's kiss is still moist on my lips as she burrows under the quilt, and
moments later I feel that familiar, though not familiar enough, warmth. In
all the time we've been together, I've never known her do this unprompted,
and in all the time we've been together I've never wanted her to do it less.
It's a disturbance, an interruption. A shout that must, but should not be
heard.
I lie still, but that isn't enough to dissuade either her or the amoral part
of me. She knows what works far too well. Her tongue presses and explores,
enforces the swelling, and once that starts it doesn't stop until it's done.
I know that she's worried about me, and it's probable she sees this
attention as balm for my soul. I know also that she's worried for herself,
that she's pined for comfort and closeness, and perhaps her actions are in
pursuit of the very basest version of that. Her brother is dead. She has
deserved comfort - a comforting arm, comforting words. And I've denied her
by my self-absorption. Knowing that hasn't helped me cure it.
The caress of her mouth is an ambush. Already, I feel the rise. I push up,
hating myself.
"No," I say. "Heather, don't."
I hear footsteps on the landing. Our son Kenneth, wandering sleepily to the
bathroom. I try to remember whether I put the gate up at the top of the
stairs. I decide that I did, but consider using the earlier doubt as a way
to escape.
I don't expect her to stop. It's too much of a risk now for her to forbear.
Too many silent evenings have brought her here. Too many questions cogently
asked by her lie unanswered by me.
And so she doesn't stop. Therefore, mean-spiritedly, I decide that she'll
fail. It's not that I'm short of love for her. It's that only I know what I
deserve and only I know what I don't deserve. I won't sacrifice my penance
for her fulfillment.
I close my eyes, force myself to think of something, another thing, anything
else. Anything but Heather's urgent attention. I use distraction as delay,
manufacture a resentment against a woman who deserves none, fabricate a
comparison.
Heather now.
And Heather then.
Heather when she respected me - that's the construction I assemble, just to
limit her power.
Heather when she respected me. And the one time, before these awful days,
when she didn't.
>> An excellent section. You've still got it, buster. This is one of the
things you do well; you seem to have a knack for describing thought
processes in a believable yet objective manner, such as I don't sympathise
with this person, nor do I revile him - you create a few sparks of empathy,
that "yeah, I know what he means" feeling that is NOT easy to do, believe
me, for I've tried.
>> And now the opening becomes apparent. Less than a year later, he was to
work the boats, hence the factory floor.
*****
It's cold in the chapel. There's a gap under the door wide enough to let a
cat in, and no matter how many fundraisers there are, it never seems to get
fixed. I sense the silence as Heather comes down the aisle. The baby's all
up front, and even if it wasn't gossip would have made sure it couldn't
hide.
>> That last sentence might need repunctuating as it isn't as clear as it
could be: Mind if I have a crack?
The baby's all up front; even if it wasn't, gossip would have made sure it
couldn't
hide.
>> Minor, but it pushes the beat to the "wasn't" and "gossip". Before I
read "even if it wasn't gossip", which was what confused me. Could just be
me.
I turn, knowing I'm not supposed to, but I'm defensive for her.
My worst fears are confirmed. Only thirty people at most have turned up, and
in the main these are village women who've left their fortieth birthdays
behind. Faces are chiseled expressionless, but they confer disapproval
nonetheless.
>>Chiseled expressionless doesn't work for me. You chisel something to
create an expression or a picture or an image, not to blank one out.
"Washed/scrubbed/painted", perhaps. I'm being very picky, aren't I? Sorry.
It's been a while since I've critted anything.
Congratulation is the furthest thing from these people's minds.
My mother and hers sit as far away from one another as the breadth of the
chapel will allow. Their faces are as hard as those of the Christian wives.
It's me and Heather against this tiny world, and I sense there and then that
it will always be so. Because this forsaken place will never fund us to move
from it. Our reckless intercourse will define our lives. Me and Heather,
Heather and me, together forever, as long as we both shall live, amen.
Heather arrives at the altar. She smiles at me nervously.
I take her hand. I'm asked if I'll have her. I say - because I've done all
my thinking in the weeks before - that I will.
She's asked if she'll have me.
Her moment of hesitation births ice in my spine.
But then it's yes, and then it's done, and we leave for the village hall in
a whirl of racing minutes and po-faced congratulation. We leave for a sombre
and meagre buffet. And a honeymoon to be arranged.
>> Another strong sequence. This is improving as it goes.
*****
Heather doesn't wait, or tease. Her agenda is serious, not playful. She
emerges from the quilt, straddling me. Her teeth close with a harmless but
firm grip on my right nipple. Her fingers work briefly between us and as a
result the focus of her attention is enclosed within her. It's a strong and
thoughtless betrayer. I resent it, and as always am helpless to control it.
She adopts a determined rhythm from the start, and the heat and tightness of
her is a customary friendship, contemptuous of hard reality. Contemptuous of
Andrew.
I keep my arms down and straight. Touching her, I convince myself, would be
a traitorous act.
So I find a memory of Andrew, and the crisis passes.
My confidence that I can deny her concession grows.
>> It's funny that, in the beginning, he mentions how he was self-obsessed;
he hasn't really changed, has he?
*****
The memory.
I'm sitting on the wall outside the Boat And Horses. I'm counting my change
to see if I can afford a pint. And Andrew, poor dead the day after his
eighteenth birthday Andrew, stops in front of me, his shadow alerting me to
his presence. I see him in my mind's eye as he was then - ginger hair shaved
almost to the skull; uneven teeth in a boy's grin. He's thirteen, and he's
all that thirteen brings.
It's before the wedding.
"You tubbed my sister," he says.
I look up. I'm in no mood for this. "Business of yours, is it?" I ask.
He's taken aback by my abruptness. He isn't used to it. Normally, we get
along. "She's my sister," he protests.
I relent. "Yes, I did."
"Dad's fuming."
"I know."
"So you're getting married."
"Yes."
"You're a nutter."
"Is that what you think?"
"She's ugly as a bag of spanners."
"All brothers think their sisters are ugly, Andrew."
"You'll be my brother-in-law."
"Yes I will."
"That'll be cool at least. Do you love her?"
>> Again, depending on the time-period which I haven't quite resolved yet,
"cool" seems an odd choice. Love the bag of spanners thing.
It's a question I don't expect - not from Andrew. But I weigh it, and then I
understand it. The barriers are down, and his true feelings for Heather are
naked. He wants me to say yes. He wants me to say yes, of course I love her.
So I do. And it doesn't sound like a lie. Even though it's something I've
never said to Heather, it doesn't sound like a lie.
He grins. "Pillock," he says, back to familiar ground.
I shrug. "I don't think so."
"Dad says you'll be working on the boats."
"Looks that way."
"I thought you wanted to move down south."
I shrug again. "It's like the song, isn't it? Love changes everything."
"We should work on the same boat," he says. "Two brothers, on the same boat.
I want to work on the boats too."
*****
I could have told him then that he didn't want to work on the boats at all.
That he'd been squeezed into believing he had no choice. I could have told
him that he did have a choice, if he was wiser and more careful than me. If
I'd told him, then things might have worked out differently. Andrew might
have been elsewhere. Louise might have been someone I just nodded to on the
street.
And just the thought of Louise is Satan's charm.
I see her the day Andrew first brought her to the house, "the girl I'm going
to marry," vibrant Louise, a tuning fork aimed at the future, everything
that Heather was not. Bottle blonde sly Louise, full of grin and cuss and
innuendo, polished brass, a glint in my dark. Wise Louise, amoral as an
alley cat, recognizing the beast in me that very first night, sashaying past
it with a twist of hip and all the subtlety of a drag queen. And suddenly
the now is the then that I've avoided thinking about so steadfastly these
last three weeks; suddenly our marital bed is my old Ford Sierra; suddenly
Heather's honest work is Louise's casual involvement; suddenly "I love you"
is "Fuck me" and vows are dust.
Control deserts me. Lust is unashamed. I push back, and my hands caress the
Heatherlouise creature wherever they can.
The moment of release is short and unrewarding. It brings no softening of
tension, and it certainly brings no relief.
Heather doesn't move for a few moments, but the new stiffness in her body
tells me that for her too nothing has been achieved.
After those moments she pulls clear and rolls on her back. We lie apart, as
apart as her mother and mine were five years before.
>> Very strong. This, presumably was the pornographic bit. Sorry to
disappoint you, but there wasn't anything porno about this. It's spot-on on
the sordid and the seedy, and his betrayal and the emotional punch it still
carries, but it's a million miles from "Jenny didn't wear panties", or
whatever else might be out there in Pornworld.
I listen to the inexorable ticking of the clock.
My mind is a blank.
Then Heather says, "You have to stop this."
I finesse, just for time. "This?"
"It wasn't your doing. So stop carrying the blame. Stop it. It's. it's.."
"It's what?"
"Selfish."
I'm startled. "Selfish?"
"Yes, selfish."
"Heather, I could have saved him."
"You only want to think you could."
"I could. I really could."
"You believe that. Okay. But it isn't so. Look, I know what happened,
Kelvin. Others have told me what happened."
"I just don't understand how you can forgive me."
"For being on the same boat as my brother when God took him? That's a thing
that calls for forgiveness?"
I find the clarity of my guilt, and as usual I hide it from her. "It's more
than that."
"It isn't more than that."
The impatient note is the last in her repertoire, unless I help. I'm
familiar with it, and I don't. So silence descends. We've talked so much and
so little these last three weeks. I know it's a time when strong talking is
hope, and I'm sure Heather knows that too. That time is the wind and that
love is a balloon. That tThe string needs to be held tight. She knows,
because she tries. I don't.
>> Typo on "tThe string"
It's when I'm convinced she's drifted into sleep that she speaks again. "Are
you thinking of going on the boat tomorrow?" she asks.
I cringe. The question's a whip. "No. Not really."
"Fraser said he'd only pay you for a fortnight. There'll be no money this
week." Her tone is reasonable. How she avoids stridency I can't guess.
"I know that," I tell her. I'm desperate to fend this off, but the cork is
out of the bottle.
"We can survive a week, I suppose," she says. "It'll hit Christmas, though.
We'll have to cut down."
"I might need more than a week."
She sits up. I'm glad of the darkness, glad I can't see her eyes. "You have
to go back, Kelvin," she says, the voice of reason. "I hate to be the one to
say it. I hate to be the one to push."
"There's more to life than fish," I try.
"Not for us. Not for Kenneth. Kelvin, he starts school next year. There'll
be money for a uniform to find. Money for books. And there are no other jobs
but the boats, Kelvin. How are we going to eat?"
I lower myself to the defensive. "Other folk survive."
"They do. They survive on less than we do. But if you walk away from a job,
we won't have anything. You won't be allowed to claim benefit."
"I'll go back eventually, Heather. Let it be."
"I can't let it be. I wish I could. I know how badly you're feeling. Don't
you think I'm the same, Kelvin? Worse, maybe. He was my brother. But we have
to go on. It doesn't all stop because you need it to. Fraser isn't just
going to hold the place open, you know. Not forever. He needs the help. And
if he takes someone else on it'll be summer before you can get on another
boat. And eventhat'll be temporary."
>> Typo on "eventhat'll"
"Just give me the weekend," I appeal.
I feel her studying me. Is she some owl, that she can see so well in
blackness?
I turn away from her.
Eventually, I feel her settle back.
>> Another good section. You're working the jigsaw narrative well.
*****
Another memory.
Andrew leans forward, His pint lies untouched.
"I think she's having an affair," he says.
I'm good at composure. Always have been. The wheels are already turning in
the back of my head as I answer, "Don't be daft."
"I'm not being daft."
"You've only been married six months."
"She's changed. The way she is with me. She's changed."
"All women change. It's what women do. You just haven't been with her long
enough to know it."
"I'm going to ask her."
This seems safe enough ground, I decide. Louise isn't one to risk home and
hearth with a tearful admission. "So do," I say. "But don't just throw an
accusation out. Ask her in a roundabout sort of way. Because, honestly
Andrew, I think you're wrong. And you don't want her storming out on you."
"I suppose that's true."
"It is true."
"I'll ask her Friday. When we've had a bevy or two. It's my birthday,
Friday."
"I know."
"She can't storm out on my birthday, can she?"
"I'm not taking bets. Just be careful."
*****
The memory fades.
We lie separated, the inches a gulf as broad as that between her mother and
mine five years before. I struggle for sleep, but I do sleep, and I wake at
five in the morning, by habit. I get up, taking care not to disturb Heather,
and I go to the window.
The rain is teeming. It's just a couple of degrees friendlier from sleet - I
can tell that by how cold the room is. The slate roofs are black mirrors,
reflecting the dull yellow street lights.
Andrew died three weeks before, on a morning just like this. Dawn was
struggling up.
>> We're back in real-time now, right? If so, you might want to use "three
weeks ago", as "before" carries memory sequence connotations that "ago"
makes more immediate. Lovely description.
The sky was heavy, a dismal grey. No gulls circled. No
teasing voices were raised. Men went about their work, fattened by scarves
and gloves and heavy coats. Arthritis was evil and unrelenting in my
fingers. The deck was icy.
I saw the stray line. That's the point. But I didn't say anything. Andrew
had been a sailor for four years, I told myself. He knew to watch for stray
lines. Of course he did. A warning would be a waste of breath.
But I did waste it, didn't I?
I was in the lee of the cabin as he walked past. "Did you ask her last night
then?" I called. "Was I right?"
He stopped, turned. "Say again, Kel."
"Did you ask her?"
"Oh, about the.."
"About the. Yes."
"Thought better of it."
"Good call."
He nodded. He started to walk forward. But he was slow to turn his head in
that same direction.
Anything could have happened, couldn't it? He still had time to see the
line. And he might have merely tripped over it, tumbled a slapstick comedian
to the deck. There was no reason for the line to whip up then, was there? I
couldn't have expected that. And I hadn't seen the bulked patch of ice that
precipitated him towards the rail.
I had nothing to gain by his death. Louise would never have left him, and in
truth I was pretty sure I didn't want her to. As for risk, well, she'd have
kept her counsel forever. She's wise. I asked the question only because I
was interested in what she'd said if the accusation had been laid. But
interest was as far as it went. I had no fear. And I had no expectations.
The whole thing, in Louise's best interests, would have petered out over
time.
But I didn't warn him about the line.
I distracted him from the line.
And I can't explain either of those things. I just can't.
Louise blames me. Both times I've seen her since Andrew's death, she's
crossed the road to avoid me. And I've looked away. I can't explain that
either.
>> Seems to me that the guilt he's been carrying about shagging his
brother-in-law's wife has been manifested and expanded into a self-absorbed
blame for his death.
*****
Across the street, Colin McCann hunches into the wild weather. As soon as he
's exposed, the hood of his anorak is whipped back by the wind. He steps
back into his house for a moment, emerges with the coat better secured. A
brief glance at my house - no doubt he expects me to be there to walk with
him as of old one of these mornings - then he starts off down the hill
towards the harbour.
Colin, only briefly, and the lights, are all I can see through the dirty
rain. So I leave the window and pick up my clothes from the chair at the
side of the bed. I dress in the bathroom, then I walk along the landing and
look in on Kenneth.
He's fast asleep. Only the top of his head pokes out through the blankets. I
touch his hair, gently. It's cut as short as Andrew's once was.
When Kenneth is old enough, I suspect there'll be nothing for him. Even the
fishing will be gone. There'll be no options, no jobs. I can't imagine what
that world will be like.
I go downstairs, collect my coat from behind the door. For a time, I
consider going back upstairs to Heather, because I think her hair needs
touching too. But I don't do that. I leave the house.
The cold rain hits me, a temporarily solid barrier. I adjust, and push
through it. Outside my front gate, I hesitate again. I realize I haven't a
clue which way I intend to go.
I look down the hill. Colin's out of sight now, and I can't see the harbour,
but I know that the vaguely visible horizon is the sea. I've stood on the
street at this time of the morning so many times, so many thankless,
soulless times. Stood and thought, then turned left. Down to the harbour.
Down to the boat.
"Morning, skipper." "Morning, Kel." "Filthy day." "Filthy it is, but the
fish don't feel it."
And up the hill? What's there for me? Something different, I suppose. Likely
not something better - I'm not a fool. But something different.
I think of Kenneth. Does he have what he needs in a doting mother? And will
a broken father help or hinder?
What of Heather?
She'll wake up thinking I've come to my senses. That I'm out on the boat.
Will she be right? And if she isn't, will it, in the end, be less painful
for her not to be? Will her life hold more joy without me in it?
I remember agan the moment of hesitation in the chapel. Only now do I
realize how much of my life since has been spent gazing at that wound.
Then I remember what she did for me before sleep claimed her, and how unfair
it would be to put that care, and all the moments of love before, down to
self-preservation.
I make my choice.
I've always tried to follow the light. Sometimes I've failed. This time I
don't.
>> You missed your calling, Al. You should have been writing scripts and
making films with Karel Reisz and the British New Wave. I don't want to
call this "kitchen sink", because it isn't, but it is social realism
nonetheless, and as gritty and unglamorous as films of that era suggested.
This isn't a story where the actors wear make-up. Do you like Ken Loach
films? Mike Leigh films? This is in that tradition, but it's less hurtful or
scaborous than either of those two's creations. Which isn't to say that
this is a cheery or uplifting story; it isn't, of course, but it does seem
to offer the possibility of redemption.
I'm undecided about the end; whether he is going to throw himself off the
cliff or head for the boat. A man so self-absorbed would take the suicide's
route, but your last paragraph suggests he will do it with her in mind. If
he is following the lights up the hill...
And now the title makes sense. The sea is said to "give up its dead", I
think - and there's the double meaning, with the narrator unable to give up
the dead, or the past, and perhaps throwing himself into the sea.
It's good to see you got a story out and onto AFO, and it's good to see that
you're still quite a writer. I can imagine how good it must have felt to
get some fiction out after your blocked spell. Don't leave us waiting so
long next time!
I've been quite picky with this story, but I hope it's useful if you decide
to revise it.
Michael
--
Michael
www.uk-fusion.com
'The difficult part of love
Is being selfish enough,
Is having the blind persistence
To upset an existence
Just for your own sake.
What cheek it must take.'
Philip Larkin
Alaric
> >> That's a great way to describe both mother and father, well done.
> Especially the mother.
I know her well.
> >> Can I mention something here, neither as praise nor criticism but as an
> open question? Some of your word choices and phrasing, being written
first
> person, are jarring with my perception of this narrator, a simple if
> careworn and troubled man from a small village - possibly in past times;
> this has a 1930's feel to me with the temperance and the religious
emphasis,
> though in some villages it still exists now, of course - so I am making
> assumptions here, of course, but some of the words and phrases I've
noticed
> so far:
>
> "repository"
> "complex junction"
> "beguiling"
> "inverted snobbery"
> "social status"
>
> - these word choices don't gel with this narrator I am seeing before me.
> These words feel like the hard and concrete terminology of the business
> world and the meeting room, not the words of this character whom I picture
> atop a cliff staring at the sea. Is that making any sense?
Yes. I suppose it's me comin' through a little. Although it is modern.
> >> An excellent section. You've still got it, buster. This is one of the
> things you do well; you seem to have a knack for describing thought
> processes in a believable yet objective manner, such as I don't sympathise
> with this person, nor do I revile him - you create a few sparks of
empathy,
> that "yeah, I know what he means" feeling that is NOT easy to do, believe
> me, for I've tried.
Oh, I just describe myself <g>. Thank you.
>
> >>Chiseled expressionless doesn't work for me. You chisel something to
> create an expression or a picture or an image, not to blank one out.
> "Washed/scrubbed/painted", perhaps. I'm being very picky, aren't I? Sorry.
> It's been a while since I've critted anything.
No. You're being extremely helpful.
> >> It's funny that, in the beginning, he mentions how he was
self-obsessed;
> he hasn't really changed, has he?
He ain't. He's a me me me guy.
> >> Again, depending on the time-period which I haven't quite resolved yet,
> "cool" seems an odd choice. Love the bag of spanners thing.
Northern phrase, coined to describe Victoria Beckham.
>
> >> Very strong. This, presumably was the pornographic bit.
I'm a smut peddler.
> Sorry to
> disappoint you, but there wasn't anything porno about this. It's spot-on
on
> the sordid and the seedy, and his betrayal and the emotional punch it
still
> carries, but it's a million miles from "Jenny didn't wear panties", or
> whatever else might be out there in Pornworld.
Awwww. Dammit.
> >> Seems to me that the guilt he's been carrying about shagging his
> brother-in-law's wife has been manifested and expanded into a
self-absorbed
> blame for his death.
Maybe. Or he might have subconsciously.....
> >> You missed your calling, Al. You should have been writing scripts and
> making films with Karel Reisz and the British New Wave. I don't want to
> call this "kitchen sink", because it isn't, but it is social realism
> nonetheless, and as gritty and unglamorous as films of that era suggested.
> This isn't a story where the actors wear make-up. Do you like Ken Loach
> films? Mike Leigh films? This is in that tradition, but it's less hurtful
or
> scaborous than either of those two's creations. Which isn't to say that
> this is a cheery or uplifting story; it isn't, of course, but it does seem
> to offer the possibility of redemption.
I love the sixties stuff - Room At The Top etc. Loach rather than Leigh.
>
> I'm undecided about the end; whether he is going to throw himself off the
> cliff or head for the boat. A man so self-absorbed would take the
suicide's
> route, but your last paragraph suggests he will do it with her in mind.
If
> he is following the lights up the hill...
I meant to suggest he was going down. On a rainy day, light spreads
downhill. Ham fisted.
>
> And now the title makes sense. The sea is said to "give up its dead", I
> think - and there's the double meaning, with the narrator unable to give
up
> the dead, or the past, and perhaps throwing himself into the sea.
>
> It's good to see you got a story out and onto AFO, and it's good to see
that
> you're still quite a writer. I can imagine how good it must have felt to
> get some fiction out after your blocked spell. Don't leave us waiting so
> long next time!
>
> I've been quite picky with this story, but I hope it's useful if you
decide
> to revise it.
Wonderful crit, Michael. Thank you.
Michael
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:btclnt$2a2$1...@titan.btinternet.com...
> > I've been quite picky with this story, but I hope it's useful if you
> decide
> > to revise it.
>
> Wonderful crit, Michael. Thank you.
Ah, get away with you. It's the least you deserve.
Michael
>
You say "tubbed", but, having checked my Cassell Dictionary of Slang (an
invaluable resource), it confirms what I thought was the case - "tup" is
slang for sexual intercourse. No mention of tub. It could be a regional
dialect, of course ;o)
Alaric
It's northern slang.
Up the tub - pregnant.
Tubbed - to be made pregnant.
Rhyming slang, I think, for in the club, which is also slang, coming from in
the pudding club, which is also... er... I'm getting confused now.
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"Michael" <michae...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
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