‘e’

 

e’ by Chris Green

There is not a lot to do in Builth Wells when the weather is wet. Wales is, of course, famous for its damp climate. But this year was exceptional. April had been a washout, and now May looked like breaking all records. Ifan Griffiths was unsettled by it. With all the changes taking place in the country, the birds returning to nest, and the sap rising, Spring should be the best time of year. Ifan yearned to get out into the Cambrian Mountains which were right on his doorstep. They were his patch. But on the few occasions he had set out this year, not even his expensive North Face waterproofs were up to the task of keeping him dry.

Recently divorced, Ifan lived alone in a traditional lime-wash cottage on the edge of the village. It was a particularly wet night and he could not sleep because of the rain pounding on the roof. At 3 a.m. he found himself watching SyFy, one of the many new channels he was able to turn to for relief since signing up for the Sky Entertainment Extra package. As the low budget film, Syfy was showing progressed, Ifan began to feel there was something naggingly familiar about the plot. The main character in the film, Judson Cleary, was living his life in an iPod shuffle. Days were sequenced randomly after one another. And the actor playing the part stumbled about the screen looking puzzled at each turn of events. A dizzying sense of déjà vu consumed Ifan. His heart began to race.

Had he not had a similar experience two weeks previously, Ifan might have thought nothing more about the sense of familiarity. Sky Cinema Drama had shown a film called King of the Jungle, which seemed to have plundered the depths of Ifan’s unconscious for its source material. As the slow-moving kidnap drama unfolded, each scene had been familiar, and the lion appeared out of nowhere to save the day at exactly the time Ifan was expecting it. He had not seen the film before. This was its first outing on television. He checked his DVD rental account to confirm that he had not rented it and forgotten about it. Shuffle was also not on his list. Perhaps he had read the book. Memory could be an unreliable servant, but he felt he had not read the book.

Ifan came to the gradual realisation that the sense of familiarity of the two films owed itself to one simple fact. He had written the stories on which they were based. When he was not wandering the gentle slopes of the Cambrian Mountains with his binoculars and camera trying to get prize-winning shots of harriers and kites, Ifan spent much of his time writing short stories. He had started writing during a childhood bout of jaundice and had been knocking out stories for over thirty years. He had built up quite a collection, all of them, including the two that seemed to form the basis of the two films, unpublished. He had not tried very hard to get his stories published. It is fair to say he had not tried at all. He just enjoyed writing. Writing for him was almost an involuntary process. The wide-open spaces of mid-Wales fired his imagination. When he was out walking, he found himself inundated with ideas, and on returning home needed somewhere to deposit them. He frequently ended up working on several stories at once, cutting and pasting from one document to another. He loved the way words danced on the page, the way the sentences coupled and uncoupled. Hours passed without him realising it.

Ifan’s solitary pastimes were one of the reasons that Cerys had left. She felt that he did not pay her enough attention. She told him he was entirely self-obsessed. He was either up in the hills or away with the fairies. Ifan’s argument that if she didn’t spend so much time quilting and embroidering, then he would not spend so much time rambling and writing, was a weak one. She countered easily with, he never asked about her day or offered to take her out to dinner. They had not been on a proper holiday for three years and, except for a day trip to Oswestry, had never been outside Wales. Last year he had forgotten her birthday This was the final straw. She upped and left. Ifan was heartbroken. They had been together for five years.

From time to time Ifan had shared his stories with friends. They usually put them aside to read at a later date but never seemed to get round to it. Most of those in the village, those he might have a pint with in the local pub for instance, like Dafydd, Iolo and Hywel did not share his literary interests. So Ifan attended a monthly book club in Llandrindod Wells. Here he was sometimes persuaded to read a story to the group. Occasionally he photocopied one to hand out. While they gave him encouragement, Eiffon or Tegwen did not give the impression that they understood what he was writing about. Bryn felt the story about the Owlman was too long, and Nerys wondered if the story about the jungle in Cornwall might have ended differently. Dewi questioned whether drawing attention to postmodern theory was a legitimate device in short fiction.

Ifan revisited the drafts of the two television stories, both of which he had written around ten years ago. He re-read them carefully. He was prepared to admit that he had a tendency towards paranoia. His former therapist, Aura, had told him so. Although the two films had not followed the plots word for word, or scene for scene, there were too many similarities for it to be put down to coincidence. Even supposing that the idea of the days of the year playing out like a music shuffle lacked exclusivity, the explanation that time is not linear being the accidental result of a malfunctioning video installation by a Belgian nu-surrealist, did not seem the kind of idea that would be doing the rounds. This being the case, how would the film-makers have got hold of the stories? He had not sent them to any publishers. His colleagues in the book club would be aware of the penalties for plagiarism. He considered each of the group in turn but concluded they were beyond suspicion. Eiffon and Tegwen were among the last of life’s innocents, Bryn had his own literary ambitions, Nerys and Dewi only came along to the book club for company. He had not had much to do with Huw, Mfanwy or Giancarlo, and Rhodri Llewelyn didn’t speak English at all.

Ifan found out on the Internet that the screenplays for both King of the Jungle and Shuffle had been written by Corrina Herzog. Surely a pseudonym. There was no bio for Corrina on Wikipedia. Her name was notably absent on web searches. There was not even a Corrina Herzog on Facebook. Perhaps whoever it was had written these two screenplays and changed their name again. He tried different spellings for her but still turned up nothing. This brought his research to a shuddering halt.

One night after a few pints of Double Dragon, Ifan confided in Dafydd.

You’re beginning to sound like Jones the Dark Side, mind you, Dafydd said. ‘He thinks they’re tapping his phone and that Jones the Post is following him.’

I’ll give my head for breaking if I’m not right. Those are my stories, see,’ Ifan said. ‘Someone must have hacked into my computer.’

You must have emailed them to somebody. What about that girl you met at university?’

You mean Andrea?’

Yes. Andrea. You were hoping to light a fire in her hearth.’

It was all the dream of a witch according to her will.’

What?,’ said Dafyd.

Despite the leeks growing in your window box, you’re not very Welsh, are you Dafydd?’ Ifan said. ‘Wishful thinking it is. I don’t think I stood a chance.’

Ifan had met Andrea Evans at university in Aberystwyth. He was there as a mature student on a Joint Honours path of Countryside Planning and English. Andrea was on a Media Studies course and they had been on a Modern and Postmodern module together. They seemed to get along and had gone to see The Smashing Pumpkins together in Swansea. For a while, Ifan had thought that given time they might even become an item. They did not, and after University they lost touch but caught up years later on Facebook. Andrea was by then a creative with an up and coming company in London. Ifan asked her if she would like to read some of his stories and Andrea gave him her email address. Ifan sent her pdfs of some of his stories, and later when Andrea said she hadn’t received them, sent them again. Weeks passed and Ifan heard nothing from Andrea. He resigned himself to the possibility that Andrea hadn’t really wanted to read his stories but was just being polite, as so many others had been before her. Short stories were out of favour. They were not the books that you saw advertised on Amazon. Was it possible that Andrea had sold on his stories?

Since a recent bout of paranoia, Ifan’s Facebook privacy level was set to Only Me, the highest level. This meant he was the only one who could see his posts, not that there had been any. He opened up the program and changed the settings and saw that Andrea Evans was still a friend. He posted a private message, asking her how she was, hoping that she would remember him and perhaps comment on the stories he had emailed her.

I’m good,’ she replied. ‘How are you? Never did receive your stories by the way.’

Ifan responded saying that he had sent them to her email address – twice.

At this point, it occurred to Andrea that he had probably sent them to an incorrect email address. She replied saying that they should have been sent to andreaeevans@hotmail.com

Perhaps someone is this very moment getting a big fat royalty cheque from their publication.’ she joked.

Oh bugger!’ thought Ifan. He had missed the central ‘e’. ‘E’ for Elizabeth perhaps.

He remembered thinking at the time that andreaevans@hotmail.com was a very convenient address, unless she had been one of the first to register for email. Ifan’s address was ifangriffiths193@btinternet.com You wouldn’t imagine Ifan was a common name, but there must have been at least 192 other Ifan Griffiths signed up for email with his provider before him.

The email Ifan sent to the original recipient demanding an explanation for the blatant plagiarism of his work was returned undelivered. Andrea Evans’s Hotmail account was closed.

It has however stopped raining in Mid-Wales.

© Chris Green 2020: All rights reserved

It’s Not Unusual

itsnotunusual

It’s Not Unusual by Chris Green

1:

Because of my vertigo, crossing the Severn Bridge has always been a problem for me. On account of my phobia, as I live in the south of England, I don’t tend to visit Wales. I don’t even know any Welsh people. I once worked with a Dewi Davies who came from Merthyr Tydfil. We used to call him Davies the Dark Side on account of his half-empty outlook on life. And at college, I had a friend called Rhys who came from Plwmp. But, this was a long time ago. Admittedly, I used to fancy Catherine Zeta Jones when she was younger and I went to see Manic Street Preachers a couple of years back. But on the whole, Wales is a foreign country to me.

I went to bed last night at ten, read a few pages of my Ian McEwan novel and put out the light, thinking normally in English. It came over me in the night. Everything changed. Wales came flooding in. This morning, I appear to be thinking in Welsh. It’s all leeks and lava bread, St David’s Day and daffodils. I am thinking in familiar terms of Llandindrod Wells and Bets y Coed and places with strange sounding names I’d never heard of. I feel the impulse to greet people with Alright or Wha? I want to address them as bach, start each statement with What it is or I’m only saying and end sentences with look you or see. And raise glasses and say Iechyd Da. We’ll keep a welcome in the hillsides.

It’s disconcerting that I can’t run this past my partner, Lorelei. She is at a psychotherapists’ conference somewhere up north. She specifically said she couldn’t be contacted. Back-to-back meetings and seminars, she said. If I were of a suspicious nature, I might suspect she was having an affair.

I must try to see the whole episode as an overblown dream and move on. There’s no time to dwell on it. No time even for a shower. I need to get to work. I have to pick up my colleague, Barry Sadler on the way. We car-share and it is my turn to drive him in this week. I haven’t noticed it before but I see the road signs at the Scott McKenzie roundabout are now displayed in English and Welsh. The Town Centre sign at the Macmillan Street junction also says Canol y Dref. And how long has that statue of Owen Glendower been outside the entrance to the Churchill Street park, I wonder?

Lorelei probably didn’t mean she couldn’t be contacted at all. After all, it is a little early for her to be in conference. On the basis she’ll probably still be in the breakfast room of the hotel reading The Guardian and sipping her Macchiato, I phone her. It goes straight to voicemail. I leave a garbled message about missing her.

When I arrive at Barry’s, he is waiting by the kerb. He seems agitated. He looks at his watch. Perhaps I am a few minutes late. He goes to get into the car but I step out. He looks at me disapprovingly. I can see he wants to get going but feels something might be wrong.

Are you OK, Dan?’ he says. ‘You look a bit …… dazed.’

Just a strange start to the day, Barry,’ I say ‘Nothing to worry about though, butty bach. I’ll be fine.’

As long as you’re OK. Shall we get going? It’s nearly eight-thirty.’

What it is, mate, have you noticed anything, h’mm …… different on the streets lately?’ I say once we are on our way.

No. Same as it ever was,’ he says.

Nothing, say, more Welsh?’

Ah, I see,’ he says. ‘That’s where the butty bach came from, is it? Well, no I can’t say I have, old buddy. In fact, I was only saying to Sharon just now that nothing ever seems to change around here. It’s so boring. The same old, day in, day out. We’re thinking of a holiday to get us out of the daily grind. A bit of a break. We’re thinking Mexico or somewhere exotic.’

Look you!’ I say. ‘Isn’t that Anthony Hopkins? Over by there. Walking the Welsh Terrier.’

It looks nothing like him,’ Barry says. ‘What’s wrong with you today, man?’

Sorry. Not Anthony Hopkins. I meant the other fellow. Richard Burton.’

Richard Burton’s dead.’

Are you sure, mate? Well, if it’s not him, he’s the spitting image of him.’

He’s been dead for over thirty years. Look. I’m getting worried about you. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

I manage to blag it until we get to the office. I don’t mention Wales being the new favourites to win the Rugby World Cup or draw attention to the billboard we pass advertising the Tom Jones concert at the football ground.

2:

My co-workers seem to be worried about me. My line manager, Harvey Golfer wonders why I have sent him an email about the Ffestiniog railway. I tell him it wasn’t intentional, it must be a glitch in the software. He gives me a strange look and is about to express his disbelief when his phone rings. Back at my desk, Lee Cooper who sits opposite asks me to stop humming Delilah. I tell him I wasn’t aware I was. I find myself humming I’ll Never Fall in Love Again instead. Lee draws my attention to this straight away.

And don’t you dare start on The Green Green Grass of Home,’ he says.

Susie Dee tells me I’ve just printed off twenty four copies of the Welsh flag. I laugh it off and tell her there is nothing to worry about. I had a bad night but I will be OK after a strong cup of coffee. Susie doesn’t want to let it go.

You’ve been acting strangely all week,’ she says. ‘Is there anything I might be able to do to help?’

No really, Susie, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that she is now leaning over my desk in her low-cut plunge top.

It’s all right, Dan,’ she says. ‘You can stop the pretence. I know exactly what’s been bothering you. It’s not unusual, you know. It happens all the time.’

What?’ I say. ‘What’s not unusual?’

Well, a little bird told me Lorelei has left,’ Susie says. ‘She has gone off with an esoteric book publisher from Swansea Bay. People break up with one another every day, Dan. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. My Greg ran off with Twinkle, a glove designer from Saffron Weldon. I know it can be hard at first and can make you crazy ……’

But I …… you ….. what? …..’

I can see you are upset, Dan. It’s only natural. What you need is some female company. So I wondered if you would like to come round for a bite to eat later. Perhaps we can share a glass or two of wine to celebrate, I mean commiserate.’

© Chris Green 2019: All rights reserved