Book

All day he had sat reading.

She said she would call in before tea, and he needed to have it finished. He would be able to comment on her work, thus proving that he had actually taken the time to read it. Finally, he put the book down, covering it with his newspaper. He didn’t want her to think it had been a last-minute thing. Thinking back, it was an impressive work, way beyond anything he considered her to be capable of. It would be easy for him to sing her praises; very easy. He sat pondering.

When she arrived, he greeted her warmly and they settled down in comfy armchairs with a little chit chat and cups of coffee before he launched into his praise of her work.

He smiled. “Such admirable declension,” he said slowly.

“Declension?”

“Yes, the way it falls away to the absurd.”

She frowned. “I see.”

“It was less about the movement, the twists and turns of it, and more about the way it was written.”

With raised eyebrows, she said, “Was it?”

“Oh! Yes.” He sat back, folding his arms. “That line about her loneliness; there no longer being any male items of clothing on the washing line. Yes, that was so poignant. However did you come up with that? You clever thing!”

She sat quietly for a moment. Then, and in despite of the way she felt, surprised herself by saying, “Your very kind.”

He laughed. “Not at all. I loved your description of how the woman…, well, how she couldn’t stop what was happening, how she couldn’t do anything about what had happened, and how she had no way of stopping what was about to happen. Simply brilliant!”

Now, so thoroughly confused, she went to speak, she felt she had to, but he went on.

“Her ideals and her grip on the situation.” he said, in a softer voice. “The way she held on to it, giving it value; eradicating all thought of letting it go.”

At this point a sudden vibration was felt throughout the house as a heavy vehicle rattled its way down the street outside. He gasped and gripped the arms of his chair.

“Oh dear!” he blurted. His whole body shook for a moment, then he looked across at his visitor.

“Sorry!” he said with a shudder, “I can’t help it. They worry me, and that’s the long and the short of it. These unstable tectonic plates… grinding and sliding down below, secretly creeping about like some old drunken voyeur skulking to-and-fro, peering into windows…” His eyes had glazed over.

He seemed to return. “Well, now, peering into windows? Such a metaphor! Where was I?” He scratched his jaw. “Ah! That’s right; the hats. Your main character’s avoidance of hats, gloves and scarves. The things that she felt were cumbersome and unnecessary. It was a clever device that enabled the reader to get a sense of her, early in the book.”

He clapped softly and pointed to her. “…and that poor man. He was struggling, looking for some elusive thing sitting deep within himself. Whatever it was, it also occupied the world that surrounded him. Your narrative, it was overwhelming and frighteningly profound. You showed how he felt that it could all be grasped, if only it was not buried in a great jumble of conflicting ideas and incompatible concepts. These things… they all seemed to be railing against so many distorted realities.”

She coughed.

He became aware of the strange face she was pulling.

“What?”

“You read all that in a cook book?”

In a pointless gesture, he lent forward and lifted part of the newspaper and squinted at the book. His eyes began to water. He started to make some sort of reply.

She held up her hand. In the past, she had always managed to avoid the fact that he was as mad as a hatter, and not let it get in the way of their mutual enjoyment of writing, but not this time.

She stood up quickly. “I must be going,” she said, quite sharply.

At first, he could only nod, then after a moment, he said, “Yes of course.”

As she led the way to the front door she muttered, “Mad as a hatter.”

He heard it.

As she made her way out to her car he called out, “I’ll write a poem, dedicated to you… about picking up the wrong book!”

She drove away without looking back.