There are, according to Mrs. D, good, very very infrequent times and bad very very often times. That morning she reported to Charlie that the rats had eaten the last of their children. There were reasons to be cheerful, of course, reasons to be cheerful included one less mouth to feed and one less or should that be fewer (she could never remember not that it mattered now on account of the child being dead) child to send to school wrapped only in toilet paper, not that Mrs. D had any objection to toilet paper in principle, in fact she thought it was one of mankind’s better ideas, so much better that she was convinced that a woman must have invented it but how the other kiddies had laughed and poked fun at poor little Dorrie and when it rained she did get soggy so perhaps she is better out of it now in a better place where she is a Hangel waiting for them in ’eaven if only she had died on her bed and the rats hadn’t left so much as a kidney except for her hair and they said no fear not the hair cos we gets fur balls and coughs and coughs and it does get very trying what with the tin roof rattling and those rats coughin all night, nothing ruins a good night’s sleep as much as rodents coffin so that was for the best.
Another thing is Charlie, bless him, can let fly with one of his monumental manuscripts as he calls them. Far an away too monumental for modern times I tells him unless its got schoolgirls an wizards an such better still if they got both but drop one of them on a rat and you have got the basis of a nutritious and sustainin stew to last a week and them so fat now they have eaten all the children, god bless ‘em – the children not the rats though I have to point out the essential role they play in maintaining god’s oly eco-system and population control reducing the burden on impoverished literary gentlemen. But he can let fly now without his aim bein affected for fear of crushin our poor little Dorrie our last remainin treasure as was comma not that she would have taken much crushin what with not havin a scrap of meat left on her bones.
“How does the demise of little Dorrie affect our bottom line?”
That’s our Charlie. He asks me because I don’t need to tell you who manages the finances, who is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who is responsible for making ends meet. That’s me as you might have deduced.
“Let me tell you,” says I on one memorable occasion, “Hanual hincome one hundred pounds and 40p, outcome one hundred pounds and 39p and no dependent relatives or children and you and me, Charlie my darling, are laughing all the way to the bank. Income one hundred and 39p and outcome one hundred and 40p, I think I got it the right way round, and...that’s when I broke down. That’s when the tears started to flow at the thought of that scenario of the debtors’ prison and we didn’t even have enough toilet paper left for me to mop up the effusions. But lo and behold there it pops up large as life in one of his literary confections and do I get a mention; does he acknowledge that this idea popped out of the fertile and inventive mind of Mrs. D? Not so much as a contributor mention on his Kindle page. Ocourse I have to admit he did state the case a bit more succinctly than me cos by this time he ad those dichionary of quoterations in mind, is posterity, that sort of thing.
“Oh, Charlie,” I gushes, “If only you could bring your outgoings under control.”
I heard him sigh one of them theatrical sighs that starts somewhere under the tongue of his boot and works its way up. He was thinkin of the good old days when what started him off was him “borrowin” a couple of bottles from the blackin factory and a pen nib. Oh the pain an nagony of creation scratching away on toilet paper with a pen nib when you can’t afford one of them fancy holders that they keeps under lock and key so they don’t get “borrowed” by aspiring literary gentlefolk.
He does his best to explain an I do my best to stay in the loop and there we are thinkin outside the box but Charlie, I says, getting all exacerbated and that which he says I shouldn’t, I bought you a brand new biro an...to tell the truth I “borrowed” his biro and it isn’t new but it was hangin up loose in the bookies and the temptation was more than a literary wife of modest pretentions could withstand.
Obvious o’ course when it’s pointed out, the sort of thing that very man of literary pretentsions should have, but what is a nagent? If I had been willin to reveal my ignorance I did not get the chance cos once my Charlie starts a whale there is no stopping him.
“But first I need a neditor.”
Crikey! I started to wrack my brain cos there must be charities devoted to the provision of nagents and neditors to those subject to the immutable laws of poverty.
“Would,” I asked hopefully and I hoped helpfully, “I little cheap neditor do? A nebay neditor?”
“Not on your nellie,” emphasising the n just to show how he never could lose his sense of humour even in the face of nadversity.
He went on to explain how nowadays anyone can be a genius an write outstandin works of literature but without a nagent you might as well engage in chemical warfare or wife beatin but I told him that if he had that sort o thing in mind he had better get an nagent double quick in case I got my retaliation in first as they used to say in sportin circles but what is a poor fellow of a literary turn of mind to do?
My poor ol’ Charlie didn’t need just a nagent an a neditor but someone for covers!
“Covers,” expostulates I, (again) “what wrong with a nice tasteful bit o rexine? They didn’t ave covers in Boots Lendin Libry, they had two bits of cardbroad stuck together an usually green.”
“Oh not just a cover artiste but a cover designer and not just a neditor but one for copy and one for lines and one for commas and one for foolstops an a specially brainy one who has been to Cambridge Unerversitory for semi-colons.”
“You’ll be tellin me next you need one for spellins and grammer an...”
Mr. D responded in the affirmative but I did not give him time for elaborations.
“Mr. D,” says I, “don’t you let me hear no more of this defeaterist nonsense. Don’t you dare put up with it. What was good enough for Mr. Chaucer all those years ago is good enough for you and me.
He tried to defend his corner but I was too quick for him an ever so much more ferocious.
“Now, old it right there,” I said. You would have been proud and you would have bursted into a round of applause to hear ow sweet ol’ Mrs. D laid it along the line an’ put her foot down firm enough to squash a rat never mind one of his hefty manuscripts, “let us consider the financial implications of this little lot.”
Which is what we did, he shiftin about on his bum (we had nowhere else to sit by this time) and me goin a lot whiter than any sheet that had been in our lean-to accommodation for many a long while.
By the time they was all reckoned up it was like feedin time for the vulchur department at the noverlist writers’ zoo. Peck peck peck, I never felt so queasy since I found all that was left of little Dorrie and the final result?
£2987.41p.and what did we have in the bank, exactly what you would expect - £2987.40p.
There, just like I told my dear old cherry pie all those years ago, if you have got a surplus you don’t need none o those neditors an you can forget all that stuff about needin a nark as well. The last one who needed one o those was that Noah and when you think of all those years he spent shovelling elephant how-dyou-do overboard and pollutin the ocean you should be graceful for small mercies. So there was me an my Charlie face to face with financial disaster and nothing to be found under the sofa cushions cos we didn’t have no sofa nor no cushions and besides I had already checked and used the change to buy one of them big boxes of matches for little Dorrie’s remains so she could ave a decent funeral.
Now we come to the denouement and if you are not one of these literary types (bonkers in my book, bonkers the lot of them) and you can afford a box of tissues prepare to shed them now cos its not so bad for me, what with a simmerin pot au rat for sustenance but for dear ol Charlie - I can hardly bring myself to tell you what happened.
He had worked is way through his bottles from the blackin factory so what was there left for this indominatable spirit but the scrag end of a roll of toilet paper and the blood in his veins? Sobvious, isnit? If he had had a neditor they would have told im, “Cut it out, Charlie, all that c**p about fog this an fog that...too much repititition and the readers won’t stand for it an nobody knows better than us cos we are neditors and if we don’t know what readers want they can’t ave it anyway and those great long interminerable sentences that never seem to come to an end and go on an on for ever n ever amen; you can’t get away with that sort of nonsense not these days. Short. And to the point. Easy on the nadjectives. None of them adverbial clawses. Go easy on the...well, go easy on everything cos it puts people off an they watch telly instead an aneditor would have told you that your pov (point of view to us professnals) went right up the spout not more than two minutes in to this dissertation of yours and as for your psychical distance you didn’t get within a mile of it. Oh anon anon he went.
But that was Charlie’s perennial problem. He jus never ad anyone to tell him enough is enough...time to stop...time to go on one of your long walks, Dickie. He just went on an on creatin while he had blood in his veins but by the time he got to the best of times his blood ad run out and there he was stretched out on the floor where I found him with is pen nib, blunt as a copper’s truncheon stickin out of his wrist surrounded by rats lickin their lips an vultures not sure whether they was comin or goin. I couldn’t even make out the title Great Expectorations it looked like to me but one good thing, he won’t need a neditor, not where my good old Charlie’s gawn. There won’t let neditors in, not up there.
