h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Hi,

When I read about your workload, (10 books!) I felt guilty about imposing on you.

I owe you a large box of chocs, or a pint or two of dark liquid if you prefer. Or if there's anything else i can do for you, excluding ironing, please let me know.

As for size sixteen’s, naw… that’s an exaggeration. But now you come to mention it - don’t they say that big feet mean big… erm… personality…

If I was to wear size 16 shoes, with lots of padding, do you think I might make more of a hit with the ladies? I could always turn the lights when it came time to reveal the truth about my podial limitations!

Anywhichways…

Re the story, as always I've been fluffing in the hope that it will stand up better. So if you can ignore the first version of Joanne’s story and look at this one instead.

==


The second one.

Dryad – Joanne Harris.

Joanne’s teaser.

An unhappy marriage, a lonely woman, and a very unusual love affair – with a tree. But is the woman mad, or misunderstood, and what happens when her husband realises something is wrong?

Quick Précis

Josephine is in love with a tree and spends her days drawing it.
Her husband had just discovered she has a lover… (tree).
She’s telling her story to Laura who is also in an unhappy marriage.


Starts with Laura reiterating what Josephine told her.
That is this is what Josephine said…


==============================
My bit...................



His rage was tangible, it was an insanity that was about to break in an orgasm of violence. His breathing was coming in convulsive gasps; his unblinking stare never left my face. “Who is it?” he snarled again.

Suddenly I realised with absolute certainty he was going to kill me. I edged back towards the door. When I retreated Stan advanced, step by step we moved like synchronised dancers. He stooped to reach into his tool kit and I saw the glint of metal in his hand. I turned and ran, I ran to the only friend and protector I had, I ran to The Beech.

I could sense Stanley getting nearer, and I had one overwhelming thought, that was to reach my tree. Just as my hands touched his reassuring roughness I heard a symphony noises, a collage of sounds, there was a cracking whip, a rusty hinge, the howl of the wind and a gasp from Stan. When I turned round he was lying on his back with the handle of a chisel sticking from his chest. He had tripped and stabbed himself when he fell. You can still see the twist of root which snagged his foot.

The inquest returned a verdict of accidental death. Luckily for us he was well insured - but you would expect that of Stanley wouldn’t you?

Twenty years ago Daniel emigrated to Australia, I think he still blames me for his father’s death, we exchange Christmas and birthday cards but we don’t have much contact. That’s why I arranged to transfer this corner of our garden to the botanical society; I thought it would be safer for The Beech - in case anything should happen to me.

*****

While she had been talking I couldn’t help feeling simultaneously mesmerised and embarrassed, I had a sense of being a voyeur, of spying into her life.

The rain had stopped and she started to pack her things, “So now you know it all my dear”, she said, “But tell me one thing, may I know your name, mine’s Josephine Clark?”

“Laura Walcott”, I told her.

“Laura Walcott, and you live close by?”

“Yes, in the old vicarage.”

“Well it’s been wonderful talking to you Laura.”, and with that she left.

*****

The next time I went to the gardens it was with baby Chloe and I was eager to show her off Josephine, but strangely her bench was empty. Over the following months it remained empty and the memory of that wet afternoon dissolved like last year’s fallen leaves.

Six years passed and I had all but forgotten Josephine, when a solicitor’s letter arrived. I learnt that soon after our meeting she had suffered a massive stroke, and since then she’d been confined to nursing home. I felt my heart rend whenever I imagined her imprisoned mind dreaming of her Beech. To my great surprise I read that she had bequeathed me her drawings. There are ten boxes of them, every one meticulously dated, some with poignant notes such as, “Today he looked happy”. David calls them junk, but to me they are priceless, they’re a pictorial love story lasting fifty years.

The letter arrived too late for me to attend the funeral, but I was in time to see her ashes interred. And life had two more indignities to throw at Josephine – her last request was that her ashes should be spread under her tree - but due to a by-law, invented by some neutered bureaucrat, this was denied her, and as the priest droned his ritual I saw they had chosen a wooden casket.

Six months later, while I was sitting by The Beech, I discovered some fallen twigs and on a whim decided to take them to Josephine’s grave. I knew which niche was hers by the named plaques to either side. It angered me to see Josephine condemned to lay under an anonymous slab with a just a few scattered twigs for company - she ought to rest with her lover.

The cruelty of this injustice just wouldn’t go away; it festered like a bacteria taking over my thoughts until I could stand it no longer. So a week later I returned to the cemetery armed with a trowel and a Tupperware box. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, and my heart raced at a thousand beats a minute. When I was sure no one was around I levered up the slab and took the casket. I emptied the ashes into the box and put everything back in place. That evening I went to The Beech and dug a hole amongst its roots to receive her remains. I would have liked to have marked the spot with a stone, but as that wasn’t possible I arranged for a metal bench to replace the wooden one.

*****

It’s been fifteen years since my Burke and Hare escapade, and it won’t be long before Jodie, my darling second daughter, will be off to university. Soon I’ll have the big question to answer, the one I've postponed since that rainy afternoon. Should I stay in my comfortable marriage, for that’s what it’s become – comfortable, a marriage of convenience - or should I choose freedom? It’s not that David’s been a bad husband; he’s provided and cared for us in his way, but what would freedom mean? Would it mean years of madness then burial under an unmarked slab? Is madness the price of freedom? Or was Josephine’s and The Beech’s love real and might there be a life of passion and purpose waiting for me?

Recently I've taken to visiting The Beech to see if I can read his words as Josephine did. I have always believed she sensed my inner struggle all those years ago; and somehow she tried to help me find an answer. I don’t know what I expected; perhaps branches shaping words, or an ethereal sense of communication. Whatever it was I didn’t find it.

Since I could find no solution in the gardens maybe the answer lay in Josephine’s drawings. I spent a month studying the pictures; they were exquisitely images. Like a master of life drawing, with every loving line Josephine had captured the exterior beauty while revealing the strength beneath. But I had begun to doubt what happened between her and The Beech was genuine, and if it wasn’t, would freedom lead me to the same folly? Then, just as I was about to give up I spotted something.

Nine a.m. the next morning I was outside the library, desperately impatient to unearth copies of our local paper. Eventually I found the article I was searching for in the 2nd of September 1939 edition. The first pages were full of Germany’s invasion of Poland, but in a small note on page five was the report of the tragic death of a local carpenter, who fell and accidentally stabbed himself.

I didn’t need to re-examine the pictures, I already new that date. The evidence was incontrovertible, only on the drawings after Mr Clark’s death was the knot of roots where he tripped visible, on the drawings prior to that - the ground was flat.



- fin -

Any preference… ?

Which do you think is the best?

Mike,

No problem at all. My pleasure to read. Will take a thorough look before weekend and get back to you pronto!

Let you into a wee secret - I only really read the fiction/kid's books and most biogs that I review. Gardening, fishing, travel etc books have great inner jacket descriptions that can be revamped or revised, where possible! Can't love 'em all!

On the 'big feet' thing, big socks help. You gotta size up the prey, and put your best foot forward. Thigh it and see!

Will be in touch again soon!

PenJen

Mike, 7:03am

Just to let you know that I haven't forgotten you and will be back sometime late Thurs or Friday night with comments!
Have a good one!

Hi,

You’re an angel…

I've been repolishing and the version below is the latest one for the Dryad story.

I'm happy with the piece now, (the words I mean), so there’ll be no more changes, other than corrections to speeling, grammar and puncture marks. Unless you spot some glaring error of course.

-----

Thanks again and I hope all is well with you.

Mike.

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




His rage was tangible, it was an insanity that was about to break in an orgasm of violence. His breathing was coming in convulsive gasps; his unblinking glare never left my face. “Who is it?” he snarled again.

Suddenly I realised he was going to kill me. I edged back towards the door. As I retreated Stan advanced, step by step we moved like synchronised dancers. He stooped to reach into his tool kit and I saw the glint of metal in his hand. I turned and ran, I ran to the only friend I had, I ran to The Beech.

I could sense Stanley getting nearer, and I had one overwhelming wish, that was to reach my tree. Just as my hands touched his trunk I heard a symphony noises, a collage of sounds, there was a cracking whip, a rusty hinge, the howl of the wind and a gasp from Stan. When I turned round he was lying on his back with the handle of a chisel sticking from his chest. He had tripped and stabbed himself when he fell. You can still see the twist of root which snagged his foot.

The inquest returned a verdict of accidental death. Fortunately Stan was well insured; but you would expect that of Stanley. And twenty years ago Daniel emigrated to Australia, I think he still blames me for his father’s death. We exchange Christmas and birthday cards but we don’t have much contact. That’s why I arranged to transfer this corner of our garden to the botanical society; I thought it would be safer for The Beech; in case anything happens to me.

*****

While she had been talking I couldn’t help feeling simultaneously embarrassed and mesmerised, I felt like a voyeur who’s been invited to watch a love scene.

The rain had stopped and she started to pack her things, “So now you know my story”, she said, “But tell me one thing, may I know your name, mine’s Josephine Clark?”

“Laura Walcott”, I told her.

“Laura Walcott, and you live near by?”

“Yes, in the old vicarage.”

“Well it’s been wonderful talking to you Laura.”, and with that she left.

*****

The next time I went to the gardens it was with baby Chloe and I was eager to show her off Josephine, but strangely her bench was empty. Over the following months it remained empty and the memory of that wet afternoon dissolved like last year’s fallen leaves.

Six years passed and I had all but forgotten Josephine, when a solicitor’s letter arrived. I learnt that soon after our meeting she had suffered a massive stroke, and since then she’d been confined to nursing home. I felt my heart rend whenever I imagined her imprisoned mind dreaming of her Beech. To my great surprise I read that she had bequeathed me her drawings. There are ten boxes of them, every one meticulously dated, some with poignant notes such as, “Today he looked happy”. David calls them junk, but to me they are priceless, they’re a pictorial love story lasting fifty years.

The letter arrived too late for me to attend the funeral, but I was in time to see her ashes interred. And life had two more cruelties to inflict on Josephine; her last request was that her ashes should be spread under her tree, but due to a by-law, invented by some neutered bureaucrat, this was denied her, and as the priest droned his ritual I saw they had chosen a wooden casket.

Six months later, while I was sitting by The Beech, I noticed some fallen twigs and on a whim decided to take them to Josephine’s grave. I knew which niche was hers by the named plaques to either side. It infuriated me to see Josephine condemned to lay under an anonymous concrete slab, with a just a few scattered twigs for company. There was no cause, other than caprice, for fates to be so vindictive.

The spitefulness of this wrong just wouldn’t go away; it festered like a bacteria taking over my thoughts until I could stand it no longer. So a week later I returned to the cemetery armed with a trowel and a Tupperware box. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, and my heart raced at a thousand beats a minute. When I was sure no one was around I levered up the cover and took the casket. Then I emptied the ashes into the box and put everything back in place. That evening I went to The Beech and dug a hole amongst his roots to receive her remains. I would have liked to have marked the spot with a stone, but as that wasn’t possible I arranged for a metal bench to replace the old wooden one.

It’s been fifteen years since my Burke and Hare escapade, and it won’t be long before Jodie, my darling second daughter, will be off to university. Soon I’ll have the big question to answer, the one I've postponed since that rainy afternoon. Should I stay in my comfortable marriage, for that’s what it’s become; comfortable, a marriage of convenience; or should I choose freedom? It’s not that David’s been a bad husband; he’s provided and cared for us in his way, but what would freedom mean? Would it mean years of madness then oblivion in a forgotten grave? Is madness the price of freedom? Or was Josephine’s and The Beech’s love real and might there be a life of passion and purpose waiting for me?

My memory of Josephine’s words has blurred with time, but the subtext of our meeting remains sharp. I'm convinced that in the unspoken language that fellow sufferers share, she was trying to help me. Recently I've taken to visiting The Beech to see if I can read his words as Josephine did. I don’t know what I expected; perhaps branches shaping words, or an ethereal sense of communication. Whatever it was I didn’t find it.

Since I could find no solution in the gardens maybe the answer lay in Josephine’s drawings. I spent a month studying the pictures; they’re exquisitely images. Like a master class in life drawing, with every loving line Josephine had captured the exterior beauty while revealing the strength beneath. But I’d begun to doubt what happened between her and The Beech was genuine, and if it wasn’t, would freedom lead me to the same folly? Then, just as I was about to give up I spotted something.

Nine a.m. the next morning I was outside the library, impatient to unearth copies of our local paper. Eventually I found the article I was searching for in the 2nd of September 1939 edition. The first pages were full of Germany’s invasion of Poland, but in a paragraph on page five was the report of the tragic death of a local carpenter, who fell and accidentally stabbed himself.

I didn’t need to re-examine the pictures, I already new that date. The evidence was incontrovertible, only on the drawings after Mr Clark’s death was the knot of roots where he tripped visible, on the drawings prior to that, the ground was flat.