Open Writing

No sorting socks or ironing today. I’m going to write. No excuses.

I make myself a cup of tea and settle on my swivel. Then breathing deeply, I lean forward and switch on the computer. Soothing clicks set up the Word programme and before you know it, an empty format page stares whitely at me. I start tapping.

“Nothing prepared me for that first shot-”

This sentence occurred to me in the middle of the night a week ago, when a gunshot woke me from a deep slumber. I sat up in bed heart racing, hearing sirens howling and seeing spinning red circles on the ceiling. What on earth was happening?

I was clearly not at the farm in Chile where rabbit hunters often prowl the hills during the small hours. Nor was I in Runswick Bay, Yorkshire, where only screeching seagulls interrupt the dull thud of the sea. Logically, I had to be in downtown Toronto, my third base, where streetcars rumble 24/7 (as they say), and where noisy disputes do happen in the night, leaving you wondering in the sunny morning if you dreamt them. I’ve been working on this opener ever since.

“Nothing prepared me for that first shot, nothing-”

I pause as the phone at my elbow rings. I snatch it up. I should have taken it off the hook.

“Are you Mr and Mrs Siddeley?” says a neutral voice.

“Yes, I’m Mr and Mrs Siddeley.” I reply. Nice one. I like the idea of being double headed.

“My name is Natasha and I’m calling from… ” A plane passing overhead drowns out the next bit.

“Sorry.” I say.

“You’re currently incurring a negative balance,” the voice continues.

“A what?”

“A negative balance.”

“I can’t be!” I protest, mind still on drama, plot and family secrets. They’re on to me! But how? My manuscripts are stored on a floppy in a box under my desk. I kick it, just to make sure.

“You’ve got it wrong,” I say, “How can I be? I’ve always done my best. Worked hard, volunteered a lot. Always had supper ready on time. Loved my kids. Sent them to college.''

“I need to know when you’ll fix it.” The voice goes on.

“Fix what? What are you talking about?” I’m angry now, feeling my inspiration slip away. “It’s every man for himself now, Natasha. I’ve done my whack.” I breathe slowly. I must stay calm. I’ve run out of blood pressure tablets.

“Are you married by any chance? Are you a Mum?” I ask.

“Yes, but-”

“You people, whoever you are, calling, pestering. I work too you know. I’m a writer. Look,” I try the old Jerry Seinfeld trick, “give me your home number, and I’ll call you back tonight.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re calling me!”

“Yes, but it’s about you incurring a negative balance on your bill.”

“Our Bill? I don’t have a Bill, I have an Andrew and a …”

“Your gas bill!”

“Gas bill! Why didn’t you say? You mean I owe something. But I paid. I’m sure I paid.”

Sickened, I drop the phone, light dawning. When I recover, the receiver is still swinging on the end of its blackly coiling cord. I could die of shame. Fortunately, the cord won’t reach round my neck, so I untangle it, climb back onto my chair and start again.

“Nothing prepared me for incurring a negative balance, nothing I ever-”