Julie - Comma Splice

Cassie walked up the path towards the imposing brick house, her heart pounded in her chest.  This was the moment of truth, nothing would ever be the same again.  She felt the piece of paper, deep in the pocket of her coat, she knew the address off by heart – 52 Belmont Gardens, Northwick.  The door was painted bright red, with a shaking hand she reached out and pushed the bell.

Peter--Four Comma Splice Sentences

Old Ted reached for his gun, Rover's big eyes were begging for mercy.

Slowly Ted loaded the rifle, the door blew open.

The ghost of Giles the gamekeeper came into the cabin, Rover shook with fear.

Terrified Ted cried aloud, Rover raced to freedom.

Tony: the end of the Rushton novel

The end of the novel (as envisaged!) involves a transition of mood.  To begin with, Rushton is depressed – death is seen as a threat, the “enemy”.  Then he decides to give up thinking about death and what might (or might not) come after it.  The imminence of some kind of “end” prompts him to give life the final say – he can gather together the things of his life which “endure”.  He contemplates these things as an end in themselves, rather than stages on the way to the end.  So those experiences, places and persons become objects of contemplation, and a source of fulfilment.

[What follows is a rough draft of the end of the novel(!)]

The night was growing upon him, the early March night, with its tantalizing promise of spring.  He would not see the morning.  He would not see the new day.  The night beyond the high hospital windows was dark.  He no longer cared.  He knew, now, the things that were – those things which he had dug up out of the vast treasury of the past.

The windows, the faces, the conversations, the seasons, the landscapes.  An offer accepted, a decision made.  The woman who had loved him ….

His breathing had slowed.  The machines around his failing body would be stirred into life - the depths of the night would be stirred by the sounds and voices of alarm.  They would come, the men and the women, still fit for another day, ready for the touch of the sun and the ticking of the clock.  They would do what they could.  They would goad his weakening heart, bring in machines to rouse his fading body – they would strip him naked as a baby – they would try their best.  For them, it would seem like a failure – he knew that well enough.  They would reject it, then, his useless, failed body - they would register another death.

Against such an ending, he would do what he could.  He would rest, now, in the life he had regained.  To summon up those boundless days and nights!  Yes, he would call upon them now, and feel in his heart, once more, the wonder and the joy ….

Sandra: Ending (with guest appearance of apple).

Sarah turned sharply into the gravel drive of Oakdene residential home and looked for a space to park.  There were several cars parked in the parking area - including two police cars but thank goodness, there were a few empty spaces this afternoon.
She had been in the middle of composing a complicated report when her phone rang.  Sarah glanced at the phone annoyed at the interuption, she had asked her secretary to field off all calls.
"Sorry to intrude Sarah", her secretary Jane said apologetically "But the lady said she needs to speak to you urgently its Claire Dewbery and its regarding your grandmother."
"Put her through, Jane"  Sarah replied.
Claire Dewbery was the manager of Oakdene, where Sarah's grandmother had lived for the last year  after
Sarah had decided that it was no longer safe for May to stay by herself in her cottage. May had become very
forgetful and confused.Though she was still remarkably mobile for her ninety one years, Sarah was worried that she would leave the oven or the taps on and had found a place for May at the prestigous Oakdene.  Sarah wondered what the problem was, May had seemed fine when Sarah saw her at the weekend.
" I am sorry to trouble you Sarah but I am afraid I have to advise you that your Grandmother is missing!"
"Missing", Sarah repeated back to her incredulously. "What do you mean, missing?"
Claire hesitated " Well, she asked for breakfast in her room this morning and seemed well and happy.  The carer went up to her room to collect her breakfast things and her breakfast was untouched.  May was not
in her room but we were not unduly concerned as she often goes for a stroll in the garden in the morning.
It was not till lunchtime that we started to get a bit concerned and it then transpired that no-one  had seen her since early morning.  We searched the house and the grounds but there was no sign of her , so I am afraid I have had to call the police. I have two officers here with me now, who would like to speak to you as soon as possible are you able to come here now?"
"Yes,yes of course. I am on my way". Sarah replied, trying to collate all this information in her head.
Sarah grabbed her coat and picked up the apple she had bought in for her lunch but had been too busy to eat and ran out of the office to her car.
Sarah drove as quicly as she dared and all the while her eyes were scanning the passing landscapes looking
for some sign of her grandmother. 'Where was she? Had she fallen? Was she hurt? God forbid, was she already dead?'
As Sarah ran up to the heavy front door it clicked openn and Claire beckoned her into the office where two police officers were waiting.
"This is May's grandaughter Sarah Hewitt". Claire introduced her.  One of the officers got up from the chair
where he was sitting and offered Sarah his seat.
The officers tried to reassure Sarah that everything possible was being done to find May. A full search had been organized and police dogs would be arriving soon to start tracking the area. "Do you have any idea where she might have gone?. One of them asked< any favourite place where she liked to go?".
Sarah shook her head, she was baffled. May had never wandered off before.  She had seemed happy in the home.  Try as she might Sarah could not think where May might have gone.

========================================================================

May looked at the calender and wondered why she had drawn a circle in red pen around the date 'February 16th'. She shook her head several times trying to shake the fog that clouded her thoughts.
'I know, she thought. It's  my Freds birthday and I haven't got him a present.  May fumbled in her underwear drawer scattering  bras, knickers and stockings over the floor till she found her purse; which she had carefully hidden at the back of the drawer.  She opened the purse £1.52 and a book of six postage stamps.
May thought she should leave anote for Sarah, if she got home from school before May got back she would worry.
With a shaky hand, but perfect copperplate handwriting May wrote on the back of a brown envelope which was all she could find.
'Dear Sarah,
I have gone to buy a birthday present for your Grandad. We will have sauusages for tea, you know how Fred loves his sausages. Be a dear and peel the potatos for me.
Love Gran xx'. 
May then put the envelope in the back of the drawer and piled her underwear back in front of it, picked up her purse and shutting her room door softly walked out through the dining room and conservatory into the back garden.
She shivered as she closed the door behind her. She had forgotten her coat. May walked across the lawn to the yew hedge. The grass was wet and soon soaked through her pink slippers.  May looked with disgust at the wet stain creeping across the top of her slippers. 'I shall have to dry these in front of the fire', she thought.
May pushed her way through the gap in the hedge into the ploughed field. Now the wet clay soil clung to her slippers and each step was harder and harder.
May did not know how she came to be laying on the ground. She made one attempt to get up, but it was futile.Her hands grabbed at the soil and she held it close to her nose. She knew that smell of earth it reminded her of her garden. Full of lupins and roses, clumps of fragrant herbs scattered amongst the flowers.  May could hear the birds singing and then from behind the clouds the wintery February sun shone down on her briefly  and May was truly happy.
But why was she here? She had something important to do but what?
She managed to lift her head and there he was, her Fred, in his best suit smiling at her. 'Happy Birthday, my love' she whispered, 'Sausages for tea, tonight' and then May laid down and slept.

Jacqueline: apple/ending

"Jack, is that you?" All she can hear is static.  She waits.  "Jack?" 

The crackling on the line goes on, and she strains to hear his voice because she knows it's him.  Reluctantly, she presses 'end call'.  She walks back into the studio, phone on hand, wishing she'd brought it in with her when she'd started.  How long did the phone ring before she'd heard it?  If she's got there quicker, the bloody line might have been better.

She looks at the clay form, turns it slowly on its turntable.  It dawns on her that it looks like an enormous apple, which it patently shouldn't.  She picks it up and feels its weight.  She hasn't hollowed it out yet, and it's satisfyingly heavy.  She holds it in her left hand and with the other, feels its dry, carved smoothness.  She places it back carefully on its board, picks up the phone, and carries it back through the kitchen into the hall, and listens to the silence of the house for a few moments.  A photograph hangs above the hall table.  It's a scene of almost impossible beauty: mountains bathed in gentle evening light; a green slope of vegetation, and a familiar figure standing at its edge, above him three small words written in black.  "Peru and me!"  She  looks at the photo and smiles at his disbelief.

She thinks for a moment about going back to the clay apple, but instead, begins the walk upstairs.  The truth is that she doesn't know what she wants to do.  She's waiting, of course.  Halfway up, the phone rings again.

"Jack?"
"Hi Ma.  How's it going?"  She laughs in relief.
"Great!" she says, though of course it isn't true.  "How are you?"
"Good!", he says.  "..can't stop though.  Taken me ages to find a phone that works, then I couldn't get through..."  The line begins an ominous crackle.  "...email you....get to.......tomorrow."
"OK!" she shouts, not really understanding, and the line goes dead.

She sits, phone in hand, on the top stair, and thinks about Jack in Peru until evening gloom envelopes the house.  She hauls herself to her feet, pads into the main bedroom, and flicks on the light switch.  She walks to the oak chest, opens the top drawer, and rummages through the loose photographs until she finds what she wants.  She switches off the light, and goes downstairs into the studio, finds sellotape, and tapes the photo to the wall facing her workbench.

She sits down, and in the near dark, concentrates on the face of the man in front of her.  She remembers taking the photograph.  It had been a conscious act.  She knew that one day, she'd want to remember.  Today was that day.  She picks up the clay form in her hand, and feels its weight again.  She breathes deeply, whispers "Goodbye Robert.", then hurls the clay with such force that it explodes into fragments.  Bullseye.  She allows the laugh to escape, then pulls a new piece of clay towards her, picks up the carving tool, and begins work.

Middle strands and possible ending: Sue

Middle bits and strands

Charlotte and Martin have come to terms with the realisation that their circus life has almost brought them full circle. Skills the circus wants and needs are ones that they excelled at in their old lives – organising, planning, running workshops, teaching, dealing with paperwork, finances and bureaucracy.

They are happy to be accepted and valued in their circus community. They love the freedom of travelling and of living an alternative lifestyle. They no longer take on interim work as they are committed to their “new” life.

Martin is increasingly asked to stand in for the ringmaster and circus owner, Alex who wants to retire. The circus has expanded; bookings and takings are up.

Their real life families, over the years, have accepted that this is what makes Charlotte and Martin happy but communication has been difficult. Contact has recently increased, as Martin’s Mother has heart problems, so they have visited her in hospital and taken time out from the circus to care for her.

Lila, in the sub plot, has run away from the circus and is happily employed as a traveller liaison officer in Somerset, where she has settled and enjoys life in the “real world”; she has sporadic contact with Alex, and with Charlotte who helped her escape from circus life and enabled her to pursue her dreams. Alex misses his (only) daughter and has never come to terms with her decision to leave the circus.

Climax  

Martin’s Mother dies, he was not there at her death, feels guilty that she died alone and that he did not do enough to support her.

Martin and Charlotte think about how their current life will pan out in their old age.

Martin feels that he should provide Charlotte with a more secure and stable future; Charlotte has an opposite reaction, wanting to make the most of life whilst they are fit and able. They go back to old arguments about lifestyles, norms, stability, freedom, expectations and obligations, financial security and agreement to a middle way.

Martin has been bequeathed the family house and has to decide what to do with it.

Alex sets out to persuade Lila to take over from him when he retires, Lila resists.

 Immediate Outcomes

Martin decides to rent the house and keep it as a pension plan and secure asset. Charlotte is angry at Martin’s decision, as she wants him to sell the house and persuade Alex to let them invest in the circus in return for them becoming part owners, or taking a share of the increased profits.

Lila is persuaded, against her initial wishes but in the interests of doing the right thing, to accept her natural inheritance, take over from Alex and keep the circus in the family. Alex signs over the circus to Lila who is welcomed back with open arms and becomes increasingly convinced she has made the “right” choice, despite feeling somewhat unhappy in her new role. 

Alex is concerned at her lack of recent experience and keeps interfering, unable to let go. Both he and Lila increasingly turn to Martin and Charlotte as sources of advice and arbitrators of clashing decisions.

 Denouement

Lila and Alex ask Charlotte and Martin if they would be prepared to buy them out and take over the circus.

Martin and Charlotte agree, but only if they can take over completely and change the circus family name to theirs. They sell the house to invest in the circus.

Alex takes his proceeds from the sale, which fund his retirement and opens up opportunities of a new life beyond the confines of the circus.

Lila happily stays with the circus, taking on educational workshop planning and community liaison roles, working alongside Charlotte and Martin to combine, build upon and share their collective skills and experiences in and outside the ring.

 Wrapping up

Stunning, final end paragraph/sentences yet to be written!

Hilary - Ending - apple based

Ellen had gone. She had left Carrie sitting on a bench at the edge of the park as dusk came. Carrie reflected on her mother's final words to her before she left.

" I thought you were the worst thing that could have happened to me, I know now that you were the best thing in my life"

Absent mindedly, Carrie fingered the tiny gold apple that hung round her neck. It was a promise from Josh that one day she would see the big one with him. New York. He had given it to her the day he left the apartment. He  would, she knew, come back someday. Meanwhile as she watched the shadows creep slowly over the green carpet of grass, enveloping the neat flower beds, the nodding tulips hanging their heads for the night, she realised with a relief that overwhelmed her, that the birds had ceased their relentless chirping.

Julie - The End

Cassie finally gets an address for her natural mother, Christine, and goes to her house.  (I’m considering that the novel may begin with Cassie’s journey to the house and the door starting to open, with mystery surrounding where she is going, why, and who opens the door….)   The surprise is that Cassie’s natural father is there, and it is not who Cassie (and the reader) has been led to think it will be.  Cassie is shocked and angered that she had not been told the truth sooner and walks out.  She goes home to her husband (her first love, Joe, with whom she has become reunited earlier in the book and had a child).  She gets a letter/phone call from Christine begging her to make it up with her father.  Christine says she did not forgive her own father for not letting her keep the baby (Cassie) and he died before she had the chance to make it up to him.  Cassie realises that all that she has now she owes to forgiveness, because when she met up with Joe again he forgave her for splitting up with him over a misunderstanding years before.  The book ends with Cassie reaching out for the phone to ring her father (or him answering the phone and Cassie saying ‘Hello Dad, it’s me…’)

Peter--Ending with an Apple

Midnight and the eve of St. Gelig.  Two forlorn figures, a man and a woman, walk slowly along the deserted promenade.  In the night sky above, occasionally the troubled light of the moon breaks through, casting pale shadows amidst the  swirling cloud.  Across the overcast beach the sea lies lost, impenetrable.. 

Supporting each other, the couple move like grief-stricken mourners following an invisible hearse.  They progress past a row of beach huts and sombre dunes until they reach the formidable iron gates of the pier and their supporting brick alcoves.  Sobbing, the woman bends and, with the aid of her husband, attaches a bouquet to the metal bars.  A card lies in the centre of the deep red roses:

                                         In memory of Ned, our beloved son

                                         Who disappeared here on St. Gelig’s Day 20l0.

                                         You will never vanish from our hearts.

Retreating a few paces, they hold each other close.  Only the murmur of the wind and the sound of the  sea breaking rhythmically on the shore can be heard.

Suddenly, a shadowy movement in the overcast alcove catches their eye.  The woman gasps,  her husband clutches her.  “Good God!  Who is it?  Peering forward in the dark recess of the alcove, they can now make out the crooked shape of an old crone squatting in front of a basket.  Her head slightly bowed, she is lost in a black shawl from which only her two bony hands protrude. The right one is clenched, the palm of the left wide open.

Puzzled, the man disengages from his wife, desperately feeling his pockets. He has nothing, nothing at all  but a small red apple.  He stares at it apologetically and places it  in the open  palm.  Without looking up, the crone, extending her arm, opens the  fingers of the right hand to reveal a key on a red ribbon. Without questioning, the  man takes it and as he does so the woman points to the gate.

Momentarily the couple look at each other; the woman nods.  The gate creaks as they enter the pier.  Not knowing what they are doing or why, slowly they advance like a couple of trespassers, each step making  a dull thud on the bare boards.  A sea mist is growing about  them, drifting like ghosts across the pier, and the boathouse at the far end is soon lost to view. They hesitate.  As they stand, perplexed and indecisive, the moon suddenly breaks through, casting  a bright glow.  Within the fog, shadows seem to be dancing and then a figure slowly emerges and walks towards them.

The woman cranes her head.  The fear and pain on her face gradually dissolving as her eyes  light up and she races forward crying.  “Ned.  NED!   NED!”   

                                        

Tony: The banana

[set in one “house” of a boys’ boarding school – an evening in term-time – “settler” was the lowest position of authority which a senior boy could hold]

“Who drew on this banana?” asked Mason in distress.

The evening “preparation” period should have started, but there was no sign of the settler on duty.  A lively commotion held sway in the junior houseroom - not unusual for this time of day, with the evening meal just consumed, and no great desire to sit around in silence.

The main door of the houseroom opened, and Rawlings, the settler, entered.  A general chorus of giggles from the junior boys accompanied Rawlings wherever he went, and tonight was no exception.  He strolled forwards and set a chair beside the table-tennis table, on which he deposited some books.

“What’s going on here?  Some sort of trouble?” he asked languidly.

“Mason’s banana has been, er… defaced,” said Stewart.  “It’s unacceptable.”

Rawlings examined the banana.

“It portrays part of the human anatomy,” he observed, after turning the object this way and that.

“Ah, but which part?” a voice chimed in.

“That,” answered Rawlings, “should not require much thought.”

“Is it still edible?” asked Mason, wistfully.

“We’ll preserve it,” said Rawlings, emphatically.  “Perhaps the artist responsible will come forward?”

He cradled the banana carefully in his hands, and placed it on the table next to his books.

“Right, to work!” he uttered, dramatically.

A number of sighs were heaved, and with much thumping of books on desks, and clattering of pens, junior prep was begun.  A silence descended at last – too studious a silence to endure very long: a brooding atmosphere of concentration and virtuous thought.

At what point the operation to retrieve the banana was conceived, no-one could establish precisely.  The banana lay there, enticingly uneaten, behind Rawlings’ head, as he sat back in his chair, reading a large colourful book on the Russian ballet, periodically prodding his nose with the knuckle of one finger.

Any great subtlety might not have been expected from boys of this age, but, as things turned out, Rawlings was easy enough prey.

“You’re good at spelling, aren’t you, William?” Peverel enquired very meekly.

“My name is Rawlings during study periods,” was the measured reply.  “What is the word?”

“’Claustrophobia’.  Does this look right to you?”  Peverel took the neatly-written exercise book from his desk, and walked over to Rawlings, who sat casually sprawled on his chair, his eyebrows raised in a look of mild enquiry.

Peverel showed him the book.

“Does it look right?” he asked.

“No.  There are too many ‘o’s.”

"Too many ‘0’s?  O…. dear!” Peverel spoke deliberately slowly.  Another bout of giggles broke out – meanwhile, Mason, creeping on pointed feet, slipped quietly behind Rawlings’ chair, and expertly lifted the banana from the table with one hand.

“How many ‘o’s should there be?” pursued Peverel, mellifluously.

“As many as required,” answered Rawlings obstinately.  “Who’s got a dictionary?”

At this point, the main door of the houseroom opened, and Charlton, the housemaster, appeared.  He was in what was generally known as his “evening mood”, nonchalantly holding a pipe in his hand, and gazing with observant eyes around him.  He suddenly smiled, and walked towards the table where Rawlings was sitting.

“I left the book in your study, William,” he said, mildly.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Rawlings, rubbing his eyes slowly.  “I look forward to reading it.”

“Everything going smoothly here?” Charlton enquired, gazing at the quiet, studious faces.

“I think so, sir.”

Rawlings, remembering the banana, searched the table closely with his eyes.  He stared severely at Peverel, who was still beside him.

Charlton raised his eyebrows.  “Anything wrong?”  he asked.

“Just the question of some spelling, sir,” Rawlings answered wryly.  “The number of ‘n’s in ‘banana’.  I think a dictionary should resolve the matter.”

“Very well.  Keep up the good work.”  Charlton puffed on his pipe for a moment – then, as was his wont, he nodded briefly, and strode off quickly, looking neither to right nor to left.  The rich aroma of fine tobacco rose in a cloud behind him.

Hilary - Who drew on this Banana?

“Who drew on this banana?” . Francine giggled as she picked up a large banana from the pile on the stall.  

“I can see a face on it– It’s you Louis” she screeched  as she whirled round in the middle of the fruit market, twirling the banana between her fingers.

 “ OK,” she giggled again, throwing an accusatory look at a middle aged couple who were walking by  “ It was you two dope heads wasn’t it?” she wiggled the banana in front of the man’s face as she spoke. The pair hurried by, heads down, not wanting to engage in any conversation with the unhinged and unkempt teenager who stood in front of them transferring her weight from one foot to the other in a peculiar little dance. Her eyes were like black pools and her head lolled to one side.

“Francine, stop it” said Louis. “ There is nothing on the banana – it’s just a banana!” Louis tried to grab it back, looking apologetically at the stall holder, who by now was gesturing and shouting in an Eastern European voice” You want that fruit, you pay for it!”

“Come here Francine” Louis grabbed at her wrist and whispered in her ear

 “ You've  not come down yet. Let’s go back to the apartment and relax”

Francine looked at Louis, her eyes filled with tears. Her legs began to buckle as she put her full weight against Louis’ rough jacket. “ I want to go home, I want Maman” She wailed.

Louis knew that both their paths were already drawn out for them. He held her close to him. “Your Maman is not here Francie" he said quietly ." We will go home now Francie. We won’t have to worry about anything anymore”. The stall holder muttered something in Polish as he grabbed the fruit from Francine's limp hand.

Louis swore at him and put a protective arm around Francine's waist as he half carried her down the dirty and stinking alleyway towards the apartment they shared with Jean. The alley was where the stallholders left their stalls when the market closed for the evening. The smell of rotting food was overpowering, yet sometimes, it was the source of a meal to Francine and Louis. He sighed deeply as he recognised the depths to which they had both sunk as a result of their stupidity and greed.

Jean opened the apartment door and Louis deftly lifted Francines inert body over the steep threshold.

" How is she?" asked Jean, taking one of Francine's arms " Mon Dieu! You two are crazy people. Why are you doing this? You were supposed to stock the cargo, not use it " The anger in Jean's voice aroused Francine who was violently sick as they stood in the hallway.

Above her groaning Louis turned to Jean shouting " Tell that to The Canadian!"

Hilary -New character – subplot

Louis Arnaud pulled his coat around his thin frame as he walked past the grey apartment blocks which rose up either side of the walkway. This was a desolate place to visit after dusk.

He looked around him, his eyes darting from one doorway to another. He had hurriedly arranged the meeting with his dealer as he could see Francine losing the plot as she developed the cravings again. The muttering, the ridiculous gurning of the mouth and the shaking were all symptomatic of her need to shoot up. He knew them well. His own needs were even greater and he had lost count of the times he had lifted a purse or a wallet, or done even worse things, things he did not want to think about.

They were sharks, the dealers. They preyed on people like him and Francine. They got you hooked then left you to dangle on the end of their bloody hooks until they saw fit to reel you in for payment and more of the same.

Louis got to the meeting point and tried to ignore the smell of piss in the doorway and the discarded wraps. Some of his friends took their gear with them because they were unable to wait for their next fix until they got back to the safety of their own homes. They would sit amongst the filth and needles and shoot up there -  in the doorway. ‘God, that’s sick’  thought Louis.

“Hey, Louis”. A familiar voice shook him out of his thoughts and back to the present. The Canadian looked straight at him. “ You need some help man?”

************************************************************************

The subplot follows the French connection ( no pun intended!) and Josh’s links with Louis. Which may not be as they first appear.

Peter--The Banana Incident

High in the Arctic, low mist hung over the snow-clad hills of Howlett’s Island in the Davis Strait.  But the earth on the  plain below lay exposed brown, congealed and scattered with blacks rocks that seemed surprised to be without their coat of ice and  exposed  to the light.  A tall derrick stood in the middle of this blighted area,  a wild tongue of flame licking out from the top.  On its platform  miners in hard white hats and vermillion overalls were sending a drill, which roared, deep into the ground.

Leading foreman Ray Dagworthy’s jeep bumped and jumped over the rough terrain as it made its way from the derrick towards the Radex Oil onshore depot,  a collection of fortified Portakabins surrounded by a tall  security fence lying close to the beach.

Gazing through a window of the central cabin, Survey Director Bob Newington was munching a sandwich thoughtfully and watching the progress of the jeep with more than a little concern.  He was half preparing himself for more bad news.  In all the years and all the places he had worked for Radex there’d never been on  a survey so jinxed as this. 

‘That strange kid...  The polar bears ....and those weird  walrus.”   He hadn’t dared tell HQ in Dallas.  He could  hardly believe it himself.  They  would have laughed their heads off.  “Bob’s past it”,  they’d say.... “Having delusions.  Sack him!”

“And the oil…Where was the oil?”  Bob thought.  For months they’d  been drilling for the stuff in the bay and on this damned forsaken island ...and there was nothing, nothing  worth reporting.  With a sigh, he watched the jeep enter the security yard.

Soon a knock on the door.  “Come in Ray.”  Dagworthy was a tall fellow  -  a seasoned rigger, who’d worked all over the world.  A broad-faced, pale,  bespectacled man of few words who spoke in a quiet tone in simple, direct sentences.  Now he was in front of Newington, Ray could hardly find his tongue.  With growing concern the Survey Director studied him questioningly, expecting the worst from his colleague’s hesitancy.

“What is it Ray?”

“Bob it’s...”

“Well…?”

Dagworthy’s  eyes lit up and he beamed, the dam broke and a stream of  words came tumbling out:.  “IT’S  THE  BIGGEST  STRIKE  WE’VE  EVER  MADE!  THIS  WHOLE  ISLAND’S  SITTING  ON A  WELL THE  SIZE  OF WALES!   MILLIONS OF BARRELS OF TOP-GRADE  OIL.  THE  VERY  BEST!!!!!”

For a moment  Bob Newington couldn’t believe his ears.  His face  remained frozen with concern then melted into joy and delight.  He rushed  round the table and the two men embraced like a couple of footballers who’d scored the winning goal in the  European Cup final.

As Ray Dagworthy gave more of the hard details, Bob drew a bottle of whiskey from his desk  “This calls for a celebration.  Here’s to Howlett’s Island!”

“Howlett’s Island!” echoed Dagworthy.  Their glasses clinked loudly and in their excitement they  threw back the shot in one throw.  “I’ll send the good news to  HQ in a coded message immediately,” said Bob Newington  putting down his  glass  and settling down excitedly to his computer.  “Help yourself Ray.” 

It was as he passed the whiskey bottle over that he noticed the fruit in his open lunch box.  Suddenly, he froze.  His face went red  with anger as he stared at the box.  Ray Dagworthy took the bottle and looked at him, puzzled. In a low, furious tone as though he were asking himself the question Newington said, “Who drew on my banana?”

For a moment, Ray struggled to fight down an outburst of laughter.  “Who drew on.....?” –  trying to keep a straight face, till his eye fell on that fearful Inuit symbol of a mask, drawn in black in the middle of the banana.  It was the face that  had haunted them from the very first day they had set foot  on Howlett’s Island.    

Julie - Who Drew On This Banana?

‘Who drew on this banana?’

Mary Fletcher held up the offending fruit, on which the word ‘YUK’ had been clumsily hewn in pencil.  The two boys seated in front of her at the table exchanged glances and giggled nervously.

‘Well, who was it?’

Charles looked at his friend.

‘David doesn’t like bananas.’

‘Are you trying to get your friend into trouble?’ Mary asked her son.

‘I ain’t never had one,’ David retorted defensively.

Charles giggled again.  ‘What, a friend or a banana?’

David smiled, showing a gap where his front tooth had fallen out earlier in the week.  Mary had had a coin sent round to the cottage where he lived, for his older sister to sneak under his pillow from ‘the tooth fairy’.  His mother was ill, and David’s older siblings took care of things as best they could.

Mary sighed, and wandered over to the fireplace.  She looked at the black and white framed photograph of her husband Thomas, resplendent in his Army uniform.  Times were difficult for everyone.  The eight years of marriage she and Thomas had enjoyed on the large country estate of Highfields, where he had been born, had been brought to an abrupt end by the onset of the War.  He was serving with the British Army at El Alamein on the North African front and she hadn’t heard from him for three months.  His last letter to her was tucked behind the photograph.  How she missed him, and how difficult it was for Charles.  Not a day went by without him asking ‘When will Father be home?’  War was difficult enough to understand at any time, but particularly so when you were seven.

Mary felt sorry for the young children.  All they’d ever known was war, rationing and shortages.  The able-bodied men-folk had gone to fight so most of the children in the village had no father at home.  Morale had been low, until the Yanks had come, like a breath of fresh air.  They were stationed at the nearby airbase, and would often stop their jeeps at the local school.  They were popular with the children, who had soon took up the chant ‘Give us some gum, chum’ whenever they saw an American uniform.   As well as sweets, the airmen had brought stockings for the ladies, and occasionally exotic fruit for all.  Bananas had been in short supply for some time now, so Mary had been pleased when GI Jed Laxey had procured her some. 

Despite the gifts, some of the villagers had not been quite so welcoming.  Mary’s widowed mother-in-law, with whom they lived at Highfields, was particularly vocal in condemning the Americans who were living here in relative safety while her son was facing danger abroad.  She did have a point, Mary thought, but it went against the grain to agree with Ruth Fletcher too much.

Mary patted her blond hair, which she had painstakingly pinned up that morning, and wondered if Jed might be able to get her some more peroxide, as she was running short.  He was jokey and fun to be with, and he lightened her often dark moods, as well as her hair.  She turned back towards the table. 

‘This was supposed to be a treat for you from GI Laxey,’ she began.  ‘He thought you’d like to try it.’  As she laid the banana down, she noticed teeth-marks on the opposite side from the writing.  One tooth, at the front, was clearly missing as it had left no mark.  ‘Silly boy,’ she laughed kindly, rubbing David’s dark head.  ‘You’re meant to peel it, look, like this.’

Her demonstration was cut short by a sharp knock on the door and a shout. 

‘Mrs Fletcher!  Telegram!’

Jacqueline: Banana

"Who drew on this banana?"
Oh God, here we go again.
"No-one drew on the banana, Robert."
"Didn't they?"
"No."
She knows someone has.  She knows who it was.
"Bananas draw on themselves, do they?  Clever bananas."
She wills him to stop, and there's an ominous silence, only broken by the scrape of wood against teflon.  She raises the spoon and watches the bolognaise sauce bubble - counts one, two, three, four, five.... and simultaneously sharpens here senses.  She has her back to him and needs to take care.  She need to defuse.
"Bananas just don't behave themselves these days do they?" she says with which she hopes is a laugh in her voice.
"Oh don't try and be funny.  It doesn't suit you.  I want to know who drew on this bloody banana!"
He's louder now, perhaps nearer.  Difficult to tell.  She shouldn't have told him that no-one drew on it, because she knows, and he knows.  Worse, he knows that she knows.  No wonder he gets angry.  Better to tell the truth from the start, whatever the..    She hears the front door slam in the distance, then the quick tread up the stairs.  He betrays nothing.   Jack's home.  She places the spoon carefully across the pan, arranges a smile, and turns her head towards him, reluctantly looking into his eyes.
"Darling, would you put the plates on the table?  The spaghetti's almost done."
He stares at her, and she can see the muscles at the side of his jaw working.  This can't go on.  The banana, without warning, wings its way over her head and smashes into the tiled wall behind her.  She doesn't move, but wonders how she didn't see it coming.
"I will NOT have fucking food messed about with in MY house!" he shouts.
She waits, feeling the corners of her mouth begin a smile at the contradiction, and stops it.
"You're right." she says, probably too quickly, and opens the cupboard door for the plates.  She senses something then, and knows that Jack's standing in the doorway.  She places the plates carefully on the table, glances up, and sees that he's reading the scene accurately.  The tension, as always, is palpable and she watches him as he walks nonchalantly around the table where Robert is still sitting, picks up the banana from where it's landed on the draining board, and examines it closely.
"Don't worry," she says, as lightly as she can, "dinner's practically ready."  She looks hard at the back of her son's head, silently transmitting, pleading.  She watches as he takes the banana to the pedal bin, drops it in, and then slowly draws a chair from under the table, and sits down.  She waits.

Who drew on this banana? Sue

“Who drew on this banana?”  As soon as the words and accusatory tone flew from his mouth, Dan wished he had paused for thought.

A rapid fuse of silent communication ran through his team. He saw raised eyebrows, smiles and smirks, then flashes of trepidation, contempt and sympathy. A few studiously returned to their work, deciding to be deaf to his question.

Dan considered his next move. He wondered who had found out and who had sufficient balls to leave the banana on his desk. Then it occurred to him that none of them knew.

The drawing could have been a celebration of his ongoing success as top banana and their assumption that he was about to be given the new phone. Damn it, he was losing the plot. He became less sure of what he had just seen. 

He had too readily jumped to the conclusion that the offending banana, with the crudely drawn window and keypad along its inner curve, referenced Carter’s recent refusal to upgrade his Blackberry to the latest Apple phone. In the nuanced symbolism of office politics, his expert subject, this was a clear sign that he was no longer considered a key player.

Dan’s life was defined by his key player status.

Tony: A new character/sub-plot (Pamela's mother)

“Please!  Come in!”

It was a well-furnished flat, well-seasoned with the scent of tobacco.  Pamela hung her coat on a hook in the small passageway through which she and Rushton were passing.

The voice they had heard came, presumably, from the kindly-looking woman who was rising, cigarette in hand, from the large armchair in front of a rather art deco style fireplace.

“You must be John,” she now prompted, with a smile which seemed to encompass a number of attitudes, some of which Rushton found easier to deal with than others.  It expressed a certain resignation, together with the suggestion of a burden of responsibility which circumstances had placed upon her.  Rushton was already searching the room for portraits or photographs of Pamela’s lately-departed father.  A man’s sober features were indeed gazing from a framed photograph on the small coffee table beside the armchair.  Rushton studied it discreetly.

“Would you like a cup of tea?  I’ve got some proper cigarettes too – I roll my own, I’m afraid.”

She held up, with a smile, the small device (the like of which had always fascinated Rushton) for rolling cigarettes.  A pack of Rizla papers lay on the coffee-table, near a well-filled glass ashtray.

“Still raining, is it?” she asked, casually but with a genuine concern.  “I’m sorry!” she added, “I haven’t even introduced myself!”

“But, Mummy,” Pamela intervened, in a rather peeved manner, “I haven’t introduced John either!”

The kettle was put on the stove, whilst the guest was given the rocking-chair nearest to the well-stoked fire.

It was obvious from the first that a deep and dynamic relationship held together both Pamela and her mother.  Rushton sat, absent-mindedly rocking the armchair backwards, forwards, in the midst of the to-and-fro exchanges of these two women.

They sat either side of him, the mother considerate, sometimes thoughtfully gazing down at the carpet (which Rushton noticed was in some need of repair) or else emphasizing her point with a flick of her thin cigarette towards the glass ashtray, which twinkled rather in the subdued electric light.

Pamela, on the other hand, seemed more animated than usual.  She sat well back in her chair, her cigarette (in the holder which Rushton had given her) held poised in the air.  She exhaled the smoke with an earnest intensity, her legs crossed, her shoeless feet rubbing slowly together.  She took up a magazine, flicked it through, laid it down again.

For himself, Rushton was so absorbed in listening to both of them that he forgot what the main purpose of his visit had been.  What had it been?  To introduce himself?  To communicate in some way the nature of his relationship with Pamela?  He held out a grateful hand to receive the cup of tea which her mother offered him, and ventured:

“I hope...  to become a doctor.”

She smiled again.  “So I hear...  My husband was more of an office man – he worked in chemicals.”

There was a silence.  Rushton sipped his tea carefully.

Who drew on the banana? - Ros

"Who drew on the banana, my banana?"Mr Chapman yells.  He picks up the offending banana and brandishes it.  He looks ridiculous.  A titter goes around the room.

"What is it?" someone calls out insolently.

"Be quiet," he shouts, and more steadily, "Who did it?"

For once his voice manages to sound authorative.  The room hushes but the sound of the school bell intervenes.  The room erupts.  As one, twenty five desk lids lift, lunch boxes and other possessions are retrieved  and then twenty five desks lids slam shut.

"Nobody leaves until some one owns up.  Sit down."  Dark looks, audible swearing and genral mutterings, including "it's only a banana" run around the room.  Reluctantly lunch boxes are replaced on desks, bags are slung onto the floor and restless legs now stilled, return to their original posiions under their desks. Fingers drum impatiently.  Twenty five pairs of eys turn expectantly onto Mr Chapman.

They all wait.  He senses their collective criticism.  Too late he recognises that he has over reacted.  Self-consciously he fidgets with the board rubber.  He can imagine what they are thinking as they study his ill-chosen clothes; the jacket, rescued from a bag of things discarded by his flatmate, who planned to send it to Oxfam and his only tie, gifted by his Aunt Jane, not known for her sartorial taste.  An errant lock of  troublesome hair flops into his eyes.  Irritated, he sweeps it away with a slender hand .   He turns his back on the class and begins furiously dusting the blackboard, removing the set of equations with which they had all struggled that morning.

A pall of dust now hangs in the air.   Particles of chalk dance in the single shaft of sunlight which pierces the room and illuminates the single picture, a pastoral scene, on the classroom wall.  The only sound now is of an early bee enjoying the nectar cupped in the orchid  residing on the master's desk.

 The mood is broken by the scraping of a chair as a young man with blonde hair stands up.  Mr Chapman recognises the noise and turns round.  He is surprised to see that it is "the new boy"still so titled after nearly a  term.

"I did it."  His voice is quiet but clear.  Twenty five curious heads swivel round to gaze upon him.  Some regard him with gratitude as the cause of their imminent release, others view him with grudging respect but most stare at him with contempt for having broken the unwritten code that no one confesses to any misdemeanour, however trivial to Mr - Chapman.

"You may all leave.  James, step forward."  The room springs to life;  voices are raised, possessions are gathered and eager bodies rush through the open door.  A few glance back at their classmate as he awaits his fate but most are intent on making up for lost time and hurry on with their lives.

Now that he is in the unusual situation of being faced by a self-confessed miscreant, Mr Chapman is at a loss as to what to do.  He picks up the banana and for the first time examines it closely.  Immediately his face blanches, then a flush creeps up his neck to meet his unruly hair.  The thick banana skin has been crudely carved with one word, "LIAR".

James is fifteen years old and Martin Chapman is twenty three.

Who drew on this banana? Sandra

"Who drew on this banana?"  Charlie looked up from his dish of breakfast cereal at his mother, who was standing accusingly in front of him. Waving a banana in her hand that was covered with strange symbols written in red felt pen..
"It wasn't me." Charlie muttered, "it must have been Amy." He glanced over to where his baby sister was
playing with her dolls.  It was not that Charlie wanted to get Amy into trouble but at two years old Amy, it seemed to Charlie could get away with anything even drawing on the walls.
"Charlie," his mother said in an exasperated tone. "Amy can barely hold a pen she could never draw those
patterns. If you cannot tell the truth there will be no computer games tonight after school."
"But Mum," Charlie protested. His mother gave him a hard stare and he knew it was pointless to continue
protesting.  He got up sulkily, kicking his chair back under the table.
"Charlie," his mother shouted.
Charlie put his hands over his ears. he was fed up with always getting the blame for everything in this house.
Every other minute his mother seemed to be shouting at him "Charlie, Charlie, CHARLIE! The worst of it was that Charlie knew very well who was responsible for all the mysterious goings on in the house. The awful thing was if he told his mother she would never believe him.
From inside his hiding place Gollo grinned a toothless grin and bit on his long green fingers to stop himself laughing out loud.  Gollo liked nothing more than causing trouble and mischief and Charlie was an easy target.
As Charlie walked through the hall his nose picked up on a familiar smell.  A strange sour smell a bit like strawberry yogurt that has gone off,  mixed with the smell of his football socks after football practise.  the odd thing was Charlie was the only one who could smell it!
'Gollo' he thought. He must be very close, the smell was very strong.  Charlie tipped out the contents of his school bag, remembering the time that Gollo had hidden in his bag and caused him endless trouble at school. His pencil case, reading book and favourite marbles clattered down on to the floor.
"Charlie." His mother shouted from the kitchen.
Gollo could not stifle a giggle and Charlie looked in the direction the noise had seemed to originate from.  The boot cupboard. One of Charlies wellingtons was shaking on the shelf. 'Got him' Charlie thought. He crept closer, grabbed the boot and putting his hand over the top to stop Gollo escaping, he ran up the stairs to his room.  Banging the door shut behind him. 
Charlie tipped Gollo unceremoniously out onto his bed. Gollo landed face down on Charlie's duvet leaving a large  stain of green snot from his constantly dripping nose.  'Oh no', thought  Charlie, 'Mum will go nuts when she sees that'.
Gollo sat up and blinked up at him with his small red eyes. "Well", Charlie asked, "Why did you draw on the banana?

Julie - Sub-Plot

Mary Fletcher looked out of the window of the large house she shared with her husband and her son.  Charles was due home from school soon, with his end of term report.  She felt nervous although, she supposed, it wasn’t that important.  He was obviously going to inherit the Estate, being the only son, and he had enough wits about him to know how to run it well.  It was the people skills he lacked.

She heard the ringing of bicycle bells before the two boys came into sight at the end of the lane, pedalling frantically as they always did, racing to be the first to reach the large Estate gates.  Both boys had dark, short hair, as was the style of the day; they were of similar height; both dressed identically in their black school blazers and grey shorts.  They looked more like brothers than friends.  She wondered idly whether anyone else in the village noticed their similarity, or remarked, in the pub or, perhaps in the butchers, on how much the Fletcher boy looked like the Mitchell boy.

Mary walked from the lounge through the hall to the kitchen, with its high ceiling and large wooden table in the centre.  The back door was flung open, and the boys spilled in, kicking off their boots onto the brick floor and charging over to the pantry where the fresh milk was kept.  They grabbed mugs from the wooden shelves and poured out the milk, chattering and giggling together.

‘Where is it then?’  Mary asked. 

The boys looked up, suddenly noticing her presence.  Charles frowned, then ran over to where he had thrown his leather satchel.  Undoing the strap, he took out a crumpled brown envelope, addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Fletcher’ and handed it to his mother.  Mary smiled.

‘Thank you, Charles.  Has your mother seen your report yet, David?’

David shook his head.  ‘She’s not very well again, Dad says I’m not to trouble her with it.’

‘Tell your father to let me know if there’s anything I can do.  Well, boys, off you go then, it’s time you went outside and played.’

Once peace had returned to the house, Mary lit an Embassy and took the school report through to the lounge.  Pausing only to make herself a gin and tonic, she settled down on the sofa to read what the teachers of Bentley Primary School thought about her son.

***

Charles Fletcher (aged 8 ½) was apparently a star pupil in History and English lessons, showing flair and imagination in essays, with a good knowledge of recent history.  His skill in Mathematics was adequate and he was showing some ability in geography, correctly identifying many countries and capital cities in the recent test.   Sport was a let-down, but then, Mary reasoned, no-one thought for a moment that they could earn a living from sport.  His class teacher was content with the level of diligence being shown, although it was felt that Charles would benefit from being more tolerant of his classmates and not being quite so eager to judge them.  He apparently held very strong views on all kinds of subjects, which he was only too keen to impart to others.  However, it seemed that, with a bit of pressure from the teachers and slightly more effort on the boy’s part, a career in politics might be beckoning.

Smiling, Mary folded the report and put it back into the envelope.

***

The sub-plot is set some thirty years earlier than the main story and explores the relationship between Cassie’s father, David, and Charles Fletcher, who becomes an MP.

Sub plot - Sue

As they planned the circus workshops, they became aware of a figure loitering in the wings.  Martin passed a scribbled note,” TAT”? Charlotte nodded and they exchanged complicit grins and grimaces, each slightly ashamed of the derogative shorthand reference.

“TAT” was their private name for Lila. It encompassed the way she dressed and the one bit of advice she had given to Charlotte about circus success – show tits and teeth. Of recent times, in growing realisation of her status and influence as star aerial performer and owner’s daughter, they had named their new “Target Areas for Tactics” list, in her honour, the purpose of which was to help them develop a game plan for full acceptance into the circus community.

Whilst complicit, their reactions stemmed from different thoughts. Charlotte was in awe of Lila’s talents, envious of her born to the circus life and surety of place within it. In Lila’s presence, she became aware of her comparative dowdiness and knew that as a defence mechanism, she played upon Lila’s inability to string a sentence together and her lack of knowledge about the “outside world”. Martin saw Lila as a threat and an obstacle to his growing rapport with Max (author note – Max is the circus owner). Of recent times he had become flattered but concerned about Lila’s apparent interest in him.  She kept approaching him in isolated places, on the pretext of asking about his teaching experience. He had not, as yet, told Charlotte about these “chance” conversations.

Lila hung back, hoping to remain invisible, whilst listening and learning how they planned educational workshops. As she sensed that they knew she was there, she tugged down her short skirt, scooped her hair back, took a deep breath, and then strutted confidently into their view.

Sub- plot – Lila is born and bred into circus life and excels in it ..but she has an opposing strong desire to break out, get qualifications, broaden her horizons and be respected and accepted in the “real world”. Lila can thus provide a possible reverse mirror image and contrast of Charlotte and Martin’s desires .. and possible consequences of leaving their accepted outwardly successful “ real worlds” to be accepted into circus life.., or of seeking a compromise that works.

Sub Plot - Sandra

It was PC Dennis Bates first night in the area car. Dennis knew that the sergeant had only put him in the car because the regular man had gone sick, but he felt excited and honoured to be chosen over the other two new rookies at Ledbury station. 
His crew partner and driver for the shift was Arthur Smith.  Arthur had fifteen years behind him in the police force and boasted that there was not a dark alley he did not know. Nor a villains face he couldn't put a name too on their patch.
The night had started quietly enough. They had driven around the outskirts of the town, checking out the regular trouble hotspots. Spoken to a couple of teenage boys and were then thinking about taking a refreshment break at the station when the call came through.
"999 to 26 West Street, female very distressed. Sounds like its just a domestic but check it out please"
"Roger, Sergeant on our way". Dennis replied.
Arthur groaned "Damn domestics, they're a waste of time. Spend two hours taking a statement then the good lady rings in the next day  to say she's changed her mind and does not want to press charges. Still it will be good experience for you Dennis".
Dennis grabbed the dashboard as Arthur took a sharp right at The Swan.
"Ah, Yes - thought I recognized the address I've been here before a couple of times. Once to interview the bloke about some allegations of fraud and once to return a small child I found crying her eyes out on Duggan Street. Told me she was looking for her Grandmother,bless her. Well here we are then, lets see whats up." Dennis grabbed his helmet and jumped out, followed closely by Arthur.
Dennis banged on the door twice, "Police" he shouted, then tried the door. "Its bolted on the inside Arthur" they were about too look for another way in when May opened the door.
"Thank Goodness you are here* she said as the officers walked past her into the living room where Doreen still laid on the floor.
Arthur knelt down beside her and spoke to her "Who did this to you sweetheart?" he asked. Doreen turned her head and seeing the gash on her face Arthur asked \Dennis to call in for an Ambulance.
"Where is he?" Arthur asked. Doreen was silent. May who was standing behind them spoke,
"It was her boyfriend Carl Perkins, he ran off when he heard the police car." .
"Which way did he go?" Dennis asked.
"Out the back" May said. "
"Any idea where he might have gone love" Arthur looked enquiringly at Doreen.
"His shed up on the allotments, he will probably go there". She replied so quietly Arthur could hardly hear her.. Arthur straightened up, "Come on Dennis lets go, this good lady can wait here for the ambulance,." he said pointing at May. May took the officers through the kitchen to the back door. "There's a short cut", she started "I know" said Arthur  " Don't worry love we will find the blighter, Just tell me which allotment is his?"
".If you go up blind alley theres a big gap in the hedge on the left - go through the gap and Carl's shed is the third one you come too".
"Righto, got your torch Dennis, Good lets go".
Dennis and Arthur made their way through the back yard and out the gate into the alley. Both officers loosened their truncheons and wrapped the leather straps tightly around their wrists.
Neither spoke as they walked quickly along, hidden from the allotment by the tall hedge.  Dennis grabbed Arthurs sleeve and pointed out the gap that May had mentioned.  They moved silently one behind the other, above them an owl hooted and Dennis started making Arthur smile to himself.  'These youngsters', he thought,' think they know it all but jump out of their skins when an owl hoots'.
All the sheds were in darkness and as they approached Carl's shed they wondered if Doreen was wrong.
There was no sign that he was there or had been there that night.. Dennis gingerly tried the door which was locked.
"He is not here Dennis." Arthur said."But we might as well have a look in the shed whilst we are here."
"Should we do that Arthur? Isn't that against the regulations?"
"When you have done this job as long as I have you will realize you have to bend the rules a bit or you never get anywhere. Now help me kick this door in". Arthur replied.
Dennis kicked sharply at the latch and the door panel broke open.
He shone the torch around the shed - all the usual garden implements, a pile of mens magazines. he picked one up and put it down again quickly. Arthur picked one up and put it inside his tunic. " Save that for later" he winked at Dennis. 
They were about to leave when Dennis spotted a tarpaulin which had been pulled over some boxes at the back of the shed. he pulled the tarpaulin back. Arthur whistled - "Well lad, what have we got here then?" .
"Looks like its the proceeds from that house break last week" Dennis grinned.
Arthur grinned back, "Well something tells me that Mr Carl Perkins, whereever he is has a few questions to answer".