BEGINNING OR ENDING

‘Missed it! Elaine saw the train moving out just as she reached the station. She was only a few seconds too late, but they were going to be the most important seconds of her life. She knew, now, that things could never be the same’. Roger finished reading and threw the magazine down. “There you are, Miriam, finish the story, and you can buy us all lunch at Guigi’s place if you win”.

The three of them were sat around the kitchen table; Roger and Elaine, the married couple, though for both it was second time round, and Miriam, an old flame of Roger’s who’d come to stay with them. Come by her own invitation and for an indefinite period, one that seemed to Elaine interminable. After four months there was no indication that Miriam was contemplating moving on. Miriam’s claim on the interest of the world was in being a writer, hence Roger’s jokey invitation to her to complete the story, the first words of which he’d just read out. To Elaine, her literary pretensions seemed pompous, dubiously based as they were on a single publication some years previously, of a rather ordinary novel. For Roger, however, there was glamour and romance in sharing his house with a writer, and he pampered Miriam’s ego continually, to Elaine’s hidden disgust.

Although it was to Miriam that Roger had read out the opening paragraph of the story, and addressed his comments afterwards, it was Elaine’s interest that had been secretly stirred. While Miriam started her castigation of entering such competitions, Elaine pulled the magazine over and read the paragraph again, to herself. She waited while Miriam concluded her scornful tirade. “Well, just look at it, dears, it’s an ending, not a beginning. It gives everything away, where can you go from there?”
“I’ll write it, if you can’t”, Elaine’s voice startled even herself.
“You?” said Roger.
“Won’t, not can’t, dear”, came Miriam’s cool response.
“Yes. Me”. Elaine was clearly answering Roger, just as clearly ignoring Miriam. She was surprised again by her own bravery, for she had always been the timid one of the three, hiding her feelings whilst the others spoke theirs. But an idea had formed when she heard Roger reading the paragraph that had given her a direction. Suddenly there was light at the end of the tunnel.
“But you can’t write”, said Roger.
“Of course I can write”, Elaine replied.
“Maybe the word Roger means was compose, not write”, came Miriam’s sensual drawl. “A story is composed, not written, you can’t just sit and bash away, dear”.
“It depends what sort of a story”, said Elaine. “I’m going to write one that’s virtually true, so it won’t need much composing”.
“When have you ever missed a train? You’re far too organized”. Roger seemed to be taking her seriously. Elaine wondered if he was maybe just a little bit worried by the implications.
“Maybe I missed the one last weekend”, said Elaine.
“You couldn’t have. We put you on it”, they both chorused back at her.
“I might have got off at the last minute because I’d left my camera in the car, and come running out to the car to collect it, and then missed the train”. There was a pause this time, and to her the pause confirmed their guilt. She hadn’t got off the train, but as she said, she might have, and she was convinced she would have found them back in the car, embracing each other, celebrating her departure.
“Anyway, I think I’ll write it”, she said.
Roger shrugged his shoulders, Miriam adopted her writer’s ‘woman of the world’ pose, as though to them both, the idea of Elaine writing was difficult to fathom.
“You’ll find out it only works as an ending”, were Miriam’s parting words on the subject, but they were said harshly, almost threateningly. There were no tender words of advice.

There was only a week left until the deadline for the competition, and Elaine set about the process with easily discernible vigour. To boost her confidence she had confided in Julie, whom she met for coffee once a week in town. “I’m going to pretend to write about them, and watch their guilt”, she’d said. “And get rid of that woman”, she’d added with venom.
“Attack the writer with non-existent words. I like it”, Julie had responded with relish, encouraging and emboldening Elaine.

Each day of the week Elaine made sure of borrowing from Miriam at least one item related to writing. There were pencils, and pens, and rubbers, to begin with, then dictionaries and thesaurus, followed in turn by typing paper, carbons, and tippex. More importantly though, there were the words of advice which she sought from Miriam. Advice on how to convey adequately such emotions as feelings of betrayal, and of ingratitude. She asked her help as to whether she thought it was easy to see into a darkened car at night, and more, whether one could hear the conversation taking place. After this particular request, Elaine had the satisfaction of watching Roger and Miriam simulating the act when they thought she had gone to bed. She became more certain of herself, and gradually pressed home her advantage, watching as the other two grew obviously more uncomfortable.

The climax arrived even sooner than she had imagined possible, on the Thursday evening. Earlier in the day, Roger had asked her how the story was going. “Oh, all being well”, she’d replied “I’ll have it finished tomorrow evening”. Now, as they sat at the dinner table, Miriam made her announcement; declared her intentions.
“I’ve decided”, she said, “it’s time I was on the move again. It doesn’t do for the creative mind to stay in one place too long. I’m going to leave tomorrow”.
“But where will you go?” Elaine asked with mock concern.
“Oh, here and there, as the mood takes me. Don’t worry dear, I won’t starve”.
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t starve Miriam”, Elaine smiled. “Not with your talent”. Miriam rode the barbed comment with ease, but Elaine was unbothered, ahead she saw victory, scented triumph.
“Well, I’ve quite decided, tomorrow I shall go”, said Miriam.
Elaine glanced over at Roger. He sat there, staring at his plate, picking at his food, avoiding any searching eyes. He didn’t look surprised, but he’d probably talked to her about it before. When he did speak it was merely to offer her a lift to the station the next evening, which she gladly accepted. They ate the rest of the meal in near silence, each locked deep within their own thoughts. Elaine retired to bed early, delighted with the success of her project and devising the final spring of the plan, the showing of her story to Roger. Her non-existent story.

Throughout Friday she could hardly contain her excitement. It was as though she and Roger would be starting over again – third time lucky. She felt sure of herself, a different person in the relationship now that she’d finally had the guts to show herself. During the day she composed to herself some neat one-liners that she’d throw at Roger on his return from the station. She imagined him walking in and asking if he could read her story. And she would show him the blank lines, the empty pages and mutter her casual aside about the power of unwritten words, In another fantasy, she imagined comparing the unwritten rules of their marriage, to the unwritten words that had saved it. With success came slight benevolence, she almost felt guilty when Miriam came downstairs with her bags, all packed and ready to go. She didn’t go as far as inviting her back, but she gave her a slight peck on the cheek, and wished her luck. Miriam also, seemed in a different mood, still showing no recognition of defeat, but with a kinder smile than she’d showed recently. On the doorstep, she turned and said, “You keep on writing, Elaine, I can see you enjoy it”.
“Oh, I won’t be any challenge to you, those words just set me off on an idea”, said Elaine.
“Credit where credit’s due”, said Miriam. “I had that paragraph scored out as an ending only, believe me, and you made them into your beginning”. And then Roger was helping her into the car, and the two of them drove out of sight towards the station. At last, Miriam was gone.

Elaine turned back into the house. She tiptoed around it, moving ornaments slightly from one position to another, nervously straightening the rugs. She was dying for Roger’s return, which would not be long. She went upstairs to check that everything was tidy in their bedroom, perfect for her evening of bliss. It was immaculate. There was nothing to do but wait. She wondered if it would look too obvious to change, to dress for the candle-lit dinner she planned. She opened the wardrobe and searched through her rack for the perfect outfit, then changed her mind. It was only then, as she started to close it, that she realized something was wrong. It was almost half empty. She jerked it open again. Roger’s suits, and most of his shirts were missing. The suitcase from the top was gone.

She ran. Ran down the stairs, flung open the doors and streamed out into the evening cold. She felt the pavement through her shoes, felt her breath come in short spasmodic jerks. But she no option, no other thought in her head but to reach the station, to reach Roger, to implore with him, to throw herself at Miriam, attack her, push her under the train, kill her. Miriam, who had wined and dined with them and stolen her husband. Miriam, the condescending, patronizing bitch. The mile to the station seemed for ever, her watch told her that she would never make it. As she crossed the bridge she saw the lights of the carriages standing ghostly in the distance. She ran on as heard the slamming doors and the shrill whistle. And then as a final shattering blow, she realized that Miriam had been right. It was an ending, not a beginning.

She heard the movement of the train, saw her empty car in the car park, but she had missed it!
Elaine saw the train moving out just as she reached the station. She was only a few seconds too late, but they were going to be the most important seconds of her life. She knew, now, that things could never be the same.

 

 

 

 

Judges comments
For our ‘Finish the Story’ Competition we wrote the opening paragraph for you – the paragraph about poor Elaine reaching the station too late. Your job was to tell us why things ‘would never be the same’.
This particular Competition attracted a large number of entries, and the standard of writing was consistently high. The problem wasn’t the writing, it was the plotting; so many entrants wrote the obvious story. They all had Elaine’s man either on the train or waiting at its destination, and the fact that she missed the train meant the relationship was over (‘she knew through her tears that she wouldn’t have the chance to say, ”Sorry darling … I love you”). There’s nothing wrong with that storyline except that it simply lacks originality. Because we wanted originality, we rapidly eliminated one group of entries; those which virtually ignored the opening para. Several entrants tacked the para onto the front of a story that had clearly done the rounds and collected its share of rejection slips. We could almost see the tippex on the tea stains! In the end, the winning story took first prize almost entirely on the strength of its originality. Mr Hood’s ‘Beginning or Ending’ takes the opening para and uses it to start a game of cat-and-mouse between his three central characters.
His second paragraph merits study. With an economy of words he establishes his three characters, their roles, relationships and feelings about each other. Scene set and atmosphere created in 150 words.
He then goes on to introduce an intriguing thought; the Elaine para isn’t an opener – it’s an ending! And of course, this thought turns round and bites us at the very end. A neat, tightly written story that holds its interest right through. We happily awarded it first prize.