The pages of Malcolm’s notebook were fluttering in the breeze. The beautiful afternoon was turning bad and people were packing up their picnics and collecting children. The park hadn’t been very busy, but there had been enough activity for Malcolm to forget his purpose and give himself over to people watching. But now the temperature had been dropping steadily and the breeze had turned to gusts. When the sun went behind one of the fast-moving clouds, Malcolm felt distinctly uncomfortable. But he did not rise from his bench.
Recently, he’d been writing more and more. He was being compelled to write. He took no enjoyment from the work. In fact, he was feeling deeply unhappy. The book was about loss, and it was affecting him terribly. It was difficult, but the words flowed.
He placed his hands on the fluttering pages of the notebook Daniel had given him. The pencilled words he saw there depressed him. Pages and pages of them. They were all about a writer called Malcolm Taylor who had been married to the writer Helen Owen. Malcolm was having great difficulty coming to terms with Helen’s death, but was having more difficulty because he had decided he needed to write about it. Memoir seemed too close, so he had decided to write a novel. But he couldn’t decide upon a name for his fictional Helen, so he had begun calling her Helen. Having done that, he had begun calling his character Malcolm, because it was easier. Yet it was a novel, and not a memoir. That was decided and unchangeable. But by doing this the lines between fact and fiction were blurred. And the Malcolm in the book was succumbing to depression.
Malcolm closed the notebook. He needed to get out of the wind. His phone rang.
‘Malcolm Taylor.’
‘I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?’
‘No, Trevor, I’m at the park.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a while and wondered if anything was wrong.’
‘No, no. I’ve been writing.’
‘The same thing?’
‘Yes. It’s very dark and complicated. You’ll probably hate it.’
‘You don’t sound too good there, Malcolm. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m just so sad,’ he said, and tears sprang unexpectedly from his eyes. ‘The man in my book has lost his wife and has no one left in the world,’ he said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He felt awful, like his heart was broken. He started to sob and hung up the phone. A woman passing by stopped to ask if he was okay.
‘Sorry, I’m fine. I lost my wife recently. I’m fine. Thank you.’
She touched his shoulder, smiled and walked on.
Malcolm’s phone rang again.
‘Malcolm, we got cut off.’
‘My fault, sorry. Someone was asking directions.’
‘Now, Malcolm, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘No, I’m not all right. I don’t know what I’m doing with this book. It’s drilling a hole right through my heart. It’s killing me.’
‘Then stop writing it!’ demanded Trevor down the line.
‘I can’t. It’s good. Very good.’
‘But if it’s causing you distress . . .’
‘I can tough it out. I have to. I have no choice. It comes to me with such force. It’s so real. So painful.’
‘Can you send me some pages?’
‘No, no. No one is seeing this one. It’s private. I don’t even know if I’ll get it published.’
‘But you said it was good.’
‘Too good for them.’
‘I see.’
The clouds had completely obliterated the sunshine and the park was looking bleak.
‘Malcolm, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll call you when I hear whether it’s true you’ve been shortlisted. I’ll hear later today or tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Trevor. Look after yourself.’
The park was empty and Malcolm sat shivering as the first drops of rain fell. The tears had returned and his shoulders rose and fell with his sobs. Minutes passed before he suddenly shouted, ‘Stop it, man!’, gathered himself and stood up. He tucked the notebook under his arm and, as the rain fell more heavily, hurried out of the park.