Promises of Love and Good Behaviour , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Craig Low Roderick

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

172 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

In a dreamlike setting, this surreal book explores the interaction and emotions of a man, his wife and a young woman caught in a love triangle. In this deeply moving love story, the characters travel back and forth in time, each expressing their experience and singular perception of particular events. Through their encounter, from which they cannot escape, they learn about each other as they convey their most intimate thoughts and feelings, shedding all artifice in the process. The story concerns a modern, self-assured and successful young couple who take personal risks, making promises of love and good behaviour to each other. The game of their life is full of exciting challenges and opportunities but, as in all games, there are rules which, when broken, ensure there are no clear-cut winners or losers.

Sujets

Romance

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	14 mars 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781782344131
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Title Page
PROMISES OF LOVE AND GOOD BEHAVIOUR
by
Roderick Craig Low

Publisher Information
Published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2012 Roderick Craig Low
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The right of Roderick Craig Low to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Dedication
For Chantal.
Thank you for your love and constant encouragement.
For Justin and Sandra
Whose friendship and support are so much appreciated.

One
They stand erect, proud and isolated from one another, resembling as-yet undeveloped chess pieces. Waiting, wary, their demeanour and stance almost sinister, they seem, nevertheless, powerless to proceed without the intervention of some invisible outside force.
Each is in a state of concomitance with the next. Each knows what they do will be determined by whether they follow or lead. Fearful of the consequences of leading, they hold back - clearly more eager to follow than be followed.
The board upon which they stand lacks the certainties of alternating black and white. It is not clear where precisely they should stand, so they fidget and twitch in restless frustration, moving this way and that - half in defiance and false bravado, half in self-conscious foolishness. Their moves, as universally understood as those of chess pieces, are, however, not predestined, not allocated to one or another with any degree of certainty. Despite their form and appearance, it would be foolish to make assumptions about what is expected of them. They might just as well be unpredictable and easily display, by turns, the courageous versatility of the Queen, the craven vulnerability of the King, the skittishness of a Knight or the plodding expendability of a Pawn.
They occupy a Sartrian landscape; a claustrophobic hell beyond illustration, best left to imperfect, apologetic words, for any simpler art form could only ever be but a poor representation of their world, a comforting clumsy false backcloth to an existence that, in real life, defies easement. They are in a maze constructed without plans or a landscape gardener, diabolical in its extent and the height of its impenetrable barriers, terrifying in its lack of identifiable markers. It is a maze with no centre, no guide atop a ladder sensing despair and making everything better, no way out, no ‘I’ve been here before’, no beautiful Scottish Widow with enigmatic backward glance peeling back the green barricade and revealing previously unseen passages to release, to freedom, to an unconstrained future.
They are like the three witches in the Scottish Play, suspicious of others and suffering a sense of separation within uneasy companionship, togetherness with isolation, love, hate or indifference at either extreme. It is as though they take for granted the support of people who know them and their faults, perhaps even forgiving - albeit grudgingly - where they might otherwise condemn. And yet they know, if they were down to their last crust of bread, down to the dying embers of a fire consisting of barely enough sticks to warm a single individual, they would each seek an opportunity to drive the others away. To hunger, to cold, even to death.
His wife sighs with frustration.
‘You speak first!’ she says.
‘Why?’ asks the man.
‘Because.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t give the impression that “because” is, of itself, an answer, a form of universal response requiring no further clarification - and certainly no argument.’
His wife laughs - a hollow, dry, humourless laugh. ‘You? No argument? You are “argument” personified! You never stop arguing. And do you know why you argue all the time? It’s because you are never quite sure about anything. There must be another point of view, that’s your way! It makes you argumentative with the people in your private life and too eager to see the other person’s point of view in public. It may be your downfall in the end, but that’s your problem.’ She laughs again and then shakes her head, irritated by his reticence. ‘Go on!’ she adds.
‘What?’
‘Speak!’
‘If I ask why, will you promise not to say “because”?’
‘Yes! For goodness sake...’
‘Why, then, should I speak?’
‘Because ...’ she waits for the I-told-you-so gleam in his eye, triumphant when it appears, ‘... it is your story!’
‘Not just mine! Yours as well. Hers too.’ He indicates over his shoulder towards the girl; composed, still, content to be silent, her face in shadow.
‘Her story?’ His wife tilts her head provocatively. ‘She doesn’t have a story of her own. She’s part of your story. She’s there because you invented her. You took a perfectly ordinary young girl and transformed her into what she is in your mind. Don’t you see?’ His wife looks at the girl critically and then back at him, eyes flashing.
‘I suppose you think she’s beautiful...’
‘Beautiful? Yes, certainly I do. I think she’s the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. You’ve only got to look...’
‘... Hard-working ...’
‘Of course she worked hard. What’s that got to do with anything?’ He thinks back, his head slightly to one side as he recalls. ‘Yes, she practically sweated blood at work.’
‘...Intelligent...’
‘What do you want me to say? How about, “a girl with a wit as sharp and clearly etched as a Highland landscape against the sky on a sunlit, frosty December morning”?’
His wife is irritated by his romantic declaration, his hesitant responses full of certainty to her direct but imprecise questioning.
‘Oh, cut the crap, will you? If you saw her in a crowd now, years on, would you recognise her? Would you think she was beautiful and intelligent and all those things?’
‘Yes! Of course. Yes, yes.’
‘And ‘yes’ again, I suppose?’
‘Yes! And ‘yes’ again.’
‘You’re deluding yourself! You just couldn’t handle it. That was your problem.’
‘So many problems.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I said nothing worth repeating.’
‘She’s gone out of your life. Went at her best. Not grown old like the rest of us. Taken from you like some prematurely dead celebrity, forever young, forever beautiful. How does it go? “At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them. Not growing old as we grow old”. Is that what you do? Remember her? Remember her ever young?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Look at me!’
He turns to his wife, sadness and confusion flooding his face.
‘Sometimes? You may think of her sometimes but you either remember or you forget. There are no half-measures. And if you remember her sometimes, you remember her always.’ She turns her head towards him, drinks his sad confusion and looks away again. ‘You’re a fool. Do you know that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe? Certainly!’
‘She’s ...’
The girl at last moves forward, the light falling across a devastatingly beautiful young face. His wife pouts and turns away.
‘I’ve got a name, you know,’ the girl says.
The man turns to her. ‘I know,’ he says, gently. ‘I know.’
‘We know !’ his wife says, less gently.
The girl continues, unabashed. ‘This is all wrong. You shouldn’t do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Discuss me like this.’
‘Discuss you?’ His wife snorts. ‘Discuss you? We are not discussing you!’
‘Yes you are! Discussing and distorting. You’re saying I’m a figment of his imagination. Whatever I am, I’m not that.’ She turns to the man. ‘And you’re saying I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, the most intelligent, the most hardworking ...’
The man looks at her tenderly. ‘You are! You are all of those things.’
‘But I’m not! I’m not as beautiful as Linda Evangelista or Claudia Schiffer or Naomi Campbell, or Kate Moss, or Princess Diana...’
His wife interrupts with a shriek of cruel satisfaction. ‘ That’s who all this reminds me of! Diana! The Princess of Wales, a beauty that will never age as we age. A Goddess who will never be compromised by the passing of the years. An angel who appears more angelic the more time fills the space between us and her.’
The girl turns to the man. ‘I’m a lot older now, you know,’ she says, quietly.
He looks at her and sighs. ‘I cannot imagine you other than as you were. That’s how I see you now. Just the same as you were.’
His wife coughs. ‘What a load of crap! How could she be the same! It’s not possible!’
The girl continues, almost in agreement with her adversary. ‘It was so long ago’, she says, gently, so as not to hurt him. She shakes her head and that quizzical look when she is thinking passes over her countenance, melting his heart. ‘It all started thirty-one years ago. I’m fifty-three this year. Fifty-three.’
His wife gains strength from the girl’s words. ‘My point precisely.’ She advances on the man. ‘Why don’t you act your age?’
His eyes never leave the girl’s but his remarks, although still tender, are clearly addressed to his wife. ‘Let her speak, for heaven’s sake. There is still no beginning or end to this thing.’ And then, even more gently in the direction in which he is looking. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Just that I am me! Not the most beautiful. Not an invention. Just me! Neither of you should treat me as a piece of clay in your story, to be kneaded and fisted this way and that just to satisfy fond memory or bitter prejudice. It isn’t fair; this is not a sculpture class. You shouldn’t use a visual art form to distort the truth an