UWW'05 Prompt 7

UWW Prompt 7:

In a previous lesson, you created a character and got to know him/her pretty well. In this lesson, you are to take that character and put him/her into three different scenes. The first scene will show your character witnessing a crime of some sort. The second will find your character at the beach or public pool, when he/she realises that someone is watching his/her every move. The third will involve your character in the madness and mayhem of planning his/her hometown’s centennial celebration. Have one scene be mysterious, one be comic, and one be romantic.
Be sure to be consistent with your character’s responses to things that develop in each scene.

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Scene 1:

Tom lay awake in bed listening to the hoot of an owl. The hands of his alarm clock showed half past two, but it felt much later than that - it had been a noisy night, one way or another. First to arrive were a group of ten or so teenagers, bored with their usual haunt under the town hall. They had skateboarded and cycled repeatedly past his bedroom window, shouting to each other as they did so. Worse than the sound of their voices had been the infernal racket made by the small wheels of the boards trundling over the uneven surface of the pavement. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, over and over again as they practised the latest manoeuvre repeatedly. The resounding crash that accompanied each leap as the skateboard resumed contact with the ground caused him to shudder involuntarily: Tom hated noise. Eventually, the teenagers had drifted off along the canal path towards the cricket pavilion, at the rear of which they would smoke cigarettes and drink cans of cheap lager to pass the time.

It had been music night at the Butt of Sherry pub that evening, and each opening of the front door had been punctuated by a cacophonous burst of loud music. If you could call it music, that was. The evening was organised by a local musician for local musicians, with everyone given the opportunity to perform three numbers of their choice. The style of music performed varied as much as the talent of each performer, though you would never know it by the rapturous applause that greeted every number. “There is no accounting for taste!” Tom could hear his mother’s words, though when she had said them to Tom, it was the music of Elvis Presley that had attracted her disapproval. Tom had known otherwise, and had been secretly delighted when his hero had been crowned King by the world. At least each act was limited to three songs, Tom thought, not realising that it was the fact that he never heard all of a song that caused him to react negatively, rather than the style of music itself.

Next had been closing time. Drinkers left the pub both on foot and by car and their shouts of farewell as they staggered back to their homes, competed with the slamming of car doors, and the revving of engines that accompanied the motorists amongst them. The High Street, where most of the pubs were located had limited car parking, thus many of the drinkers parked in nearby side streets. South Street, where Beech House was located, was just such a street, and was subject to a constant demand for car parking, day or night. In truth, Tom’s irritation with the drivers was directly attributable to envy: he had but two dreams in life, the first, to marry Mildred, the second, to own a car. The teenagers, the musicians, and the drinkers had long gone however, and the town as a whole seemed to be sleeping. What could have woken Tom at this hour, the hoot of an owl was hardly likely to disturb him?

Rising from his bed, Tom turned to his bedroom window, and peered out into the night sky. The street light beneath his window cast long shadows across the road to the bushes beside the canal making it hard for Tom to see if anyone was around. A slight movement in the bushes caught his eye for a second, but no, it was a fox looking for his supper, nothing else. The owl hooted again, and Tom found himself looking in the direction from which it had come. Sure that it was in the tall oaks next to the cricket club, Tom found himself scrutinising the area for activity. He would not be able to see the owls themselves, he was too far away for that, but he might be able to see who or what was disturbing them. Tom remembered that owls did their hunting at night, and that they were unlikely to make a noise for fear of being detected by their prey. Someone, or something, was also out there, of that Tom was sure.

He could see nothing more from his bedroom window; he would have to go down to the cricket club in person. It was never easy leaving Beech House, but night time was hardest of all. Night staff sat up in the lounge all night, and, because most of the residents were asleep in bed, heard every sound made by those who were awake. Tom took a perverse delight in being able to leave Beech House undetected, and never more so than at night. Tom paused at the foot of the stairs, his shoes in his left hand. The TV was on in the lounge as Tom slipped the latch on the front door, and crept out. Shutting the door silently behind him, Tom hurried across Prospect Road, which was empty of traffic for once, and over the bridge to Ladies Walk. The cricket ground and pavilion was to his left as he crossed the bridge. Suddenly, Tom could smell burning, and, as he ran towards the wooden structure, he saw flames licking the eaves of the veranda overlooking the pitch. As he circled the building, Tom saw a figure running towards the oaks in which the owls were roosting.

Tom froze on the spot, uncertain as to what to do for the best. Sheer instinct told him to raise the alarm before the pavilion burnt to the ground, but that would involve alerting others to his absence from Beech House, and he had come to treasure those times when he made a break for freedom. Curiosity, and an insatiable desire for action quenched only by the exploits of the daredevils in his comic, led him in the direction of the fugitive. Who had set fire to the pavilion, and more importantly, why? It was an impossible choice, yet one that Tom made with little hesitation. He ran silently towards the oaks, his quarry just in sight.




Scene Two:

Tom turned at the end of the pool, and started another length. He had come to cherish these Wednesday morning visits to the pool. It was as if he had entered an oasis of tranquillity, and the calmness that descended upon him sustained him throughout the week. Jamie Corcoran, owner of Beech House where Tom lived, had come to an arrangement with the local council whereby Tom, and five other residents from Beech House, could have the pool to themselves apart from the four care staff who accompanied them, for two hours each Wednesday morning. It was something to do with care in the community they had been told. Tom was not bothered what it was to do with; it was more than enough to know that the pool was his for two hours. Well, his and nine other peoples, plus the pool staff. The care staff did not trouble him; they had their hands full with the less able, like Mildred, whose difficulty in walking made her more likely to slip. No, it was idiots like that Peter who took forever in the bathroom who annoyed him. Fortunately, Peter took ages to get changed at the pool as well, which meant that Tom had a good twenty minutes of the pool to himself. Tom turned again at the end of the pool, and started another length. He had already done fifteen lengths that morning, and the others were only just joining him.

Mildred, Julie, and Norman all used the hoist to get into the pool, whereas Colin, Peter, and Tom himself were able to climb the steps. There was a diving board at the deep end of the pool, but none of them had ever used it. Tom’s parents had taught him to swim as a boy. “One, two, three, Blow.” Tom could remember his mother’s exhortations as she demonstrated her version of the breaststroke’s movements and breathing. The strange thing was that “Breathe.” had never been included in her list of instructions. Getting her hair wet was also excluded from her repertoire, thus Tom had never learnt to dive. Looking wistfully at the diving board as he neared the deep end, he wished that it had been otherwise, and that he was not overcome by fear at the thought of his head going under water. Tom paused at the end, holding himself steady on the edge of the pool, and turning to see where the others were, and what each of them was doing. Peter and Colin were splashing around at the shallow end, each of them wearing floats around their middles. Mildred was doing exercises to strengthen her limbs with Karen. Her body acquired a gracefulness that it did not possess when on land, as the rigidity of her movements relaxed. Julie was lying on her back, floats around her upper arms ensuring that she did not sink. Norman was just about to enter the water, having been winched in a sitting position from his wheelchair. He too wore floats, and would spend much of his time in the pool doing exercises in the shallow end.

Satisfied that the others posed no threat to his enjoyment if he kept to the deep end, Tom resumed swimming, this time completing width after width in quick succession. Tiring after a while, he chose to float in the middle of the pool, staring upwards at the ceiling fan, which spun languidly above him. Occasional sculling movements of his hands kept him largely in the same position within the pool, leaving his mind free from intervention by the presence of others. Peter and Colin’s splashing faded into the gentle lapping of waves, as Tom was lulled into his reverie. He was on holiday with Mildred, and the hotel at which they were staying was directly on the beach from which Tom swam daily. His fear of his head going underwater was nowhere to be seen as he dived to get a closer look at the fish below. Surfacing again, he saw the leaves of palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze as his eyes scanned the beach for Mildred. She was reclining on a lounger, a glossy magazine in hand, and a large cool drink at her side. Her face was hidden by the large straw hat that was on her head, but Tom knew for sure that she was watching him, and waved.

Gulping frantically as his head dipped beneath the water, Tom struggled to regain his composure. The palm trees had been replaced by shining metal appliances for the purpose of entering and leaving the pool, and the salty taste on his lips turned into chlorine again. Reaching for the edge of the pool, Tom was relieved to see that no one had spotted his momentary lapse. Not sure of how long he had floated in the centre of the pool, Tom checked to see what the others were doing. Peter and Colin were entering the changing rooms; Mildred was sitting on the bench at the far end of the pool, waiting to be taken to dress; and Norman was waiting for Julie to finish with the hoist, before he too, could leave the pool. Mildred, it seemed, was gazing intently in his direction. Following the direction of her stare with his eyes, Tom blushed when he realised that it ended with him. She smiled as she patted the top of her head to let him know that she had seen his submersion, almost as if to reassure him. Suddenly, Tom knew that Mildred had shared his vision; that she had indeed reclined on a lounger with a drink at her side; and that he, Tom, had swum in the open sea, unafraid of the waves.


Scene 3:

The year of 2005 was yet another centenary for the ancient town of Hythe. The earliest parts of the church of St Leonard’s could be traced back to Saxon times, but it was of a predominantly Norman design, as indeed were the shuttered cottages that ran downwards from the church to the sea. As ever, the normally sleepy town had chosen to celebrate in style, and banners streamed across the High Street from each building, advertising events to be held as part of the celebration. Window boxes and flower baskets sprung forth with abundance, and well-worn doors received a new lick of paint. Expectation hung in the air, infusing each inhabitant, regardless of age.

Jamie Corcoran, owner of Beech House, a residential establishment for adults with learning difficulties, put the telephone receiver down, and ran his hands through his hair. The centenary year was becoming an absolute nightmare; just he had known it would. All the promotional material for Beech House boasted client involvement in the community, and for once it was being put to the test. As a concession to the general expectation that there would be a party on centenary night, Jamie had reluctantly agreed, after all, the hiring of a disco could be interpreted as community involvement at a push. His antipathy towards the event however, had resulted in inertia on his part, and he hadn’t even arranged organised the music for the party. Now it seemed that he was too late, that everyone had been booked up for weeks.

Cursing his previous sluggishness, Jamie knew that he would have to take immediate action, or forever be subjected to reproach. He would call a house meeting after tea that evening, and would call in any off-duty members of staff. If he announced the meeting at lunchtime, there would be no excuse for non-attendance by anyone, staff or resident. He needed to get a couple of senior staff onside before the meeting however, if only to diffuse some of the blame that was heading in his direction. You never knew one of them might even have a couple of suggestions to ameliorate the situation. Considerably cheered, Jamie immediately began pressing extension buttons on his phone, he could depend on the cook and the gardener to back him regardless, and even if they weren’t exactly involved in client care, they were certainly senior in age.

Martha Bridges was putting a couple of legs of lamb in the oven when the phone on the kitchen wall rang. She knew by the continuous tone that it was an internal call, and the flashing light to the upper right of the keypad told her it was Mr Corcoran. Well, he was too late if he was ringing to say that he rather fancied fish for lunch that was for sure. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped towards the phone and lifted the receiver “Hello”; she spoke quickly, as if to convey to the caller that she hadn’t time to waste.

“Mrs Bridges, Martha, I wonder if you would find time to come to my office at three this afternoon, there are a couple of things I need to run past you?” Ineffably polite, Jamie spoke to Martha Bridges in his most persuasive tone, knowing that she would cooperate whatever he said. When Jamie had bought Beech House from the previous owner, he had let it be known that he intended to review all existing staff levels, with a view to cutting back. So grateful had they all been to retain their employment that they would do anything he asked of them, desperate to stay in his good books. Dick Fielding was his next target. Dick had been a gardener at Beech House for longer than he could remember, long before it had been converted for multiple occupancy in fact, when all twenty odd rooms had been occupied by one family, and their staff.

“Dick, pop along to my office at three would you, there’s a good chap.” Jamie did not waste long on the phone call to Dick. He would get him to hang some bunting around the place that would make it look a more celebratory. All he needed now was a willing person from the care staff to join forces with him. Sue, Head of Care was out of the question, she had far too much experience of working in what she referred to as ‘superior establishments’. No, someone relatively new would be better, someone who was still eager to please, someone who would not criticise him too harshly for his poor organization. Janine was the newest member of staff, and, at eighteen, was inexperienced enough in the work place to still be impressed by his charm. Jamie wondered what was for lunch. The tension of the past few days had wrecked havoc with his digestion, some fish, perhaps, would be nice.

At seven that evening, Jamie Corcoran paused before entering the dining room His afternoon gathering with Dick, Martha and Janine had gone well, and food and decorations for the party were pretty much taken care of, though the problem of musical entertainment remained. Beech House had buzzed with excitement ever since his lunchtime announcement, with both staff and residents having been bitten by the centenary bug that was epidemic in Hythe itself. Whatever he managed to pull off at this late hour, Jamie knew that disappointment was inevitable, as expectation was so high. There had to be someone amongst them that had a music system that could be used, even if it meant that he had to spend money on CD’s. Tom was keen on music; didn’t he have some tapes that could be used? With that thought in mind, Jamie pushed open the dining room door, a smile fixed firmly on his face.

Tom went to bed euphoric. Jamie Corcoran had asked him if he could organise the music for the centenary event. Tom could not believe that he was to be entrusted with such a huge responsibility, for he knew of at least five live music events that would be taking place in Hythe as part of the celebration, but if Jamie thought he could do it, who was he to argue? That night he dreamt that he escorted Peggy Lee to the stage where she performed; that he had bowed very low in front of an enraptured audience grateful for his musical taste; that he, Tom, had been responsible for the success of the celebration throughout the town. Waking early, Tom went through his music collection, after all, a lot of phone calls would need to be made that morning if he was going to pull off the event of the year.