Not just a hobby

Not Just a Hobby
David never talked about being a clerk. He was a writer. At least that
was what he told everyone, and he honestly believed it. He was about to
be published, after all!
"You can't call that being published," his wife Linda said cynically
when he waved the letter accepting his poem triumphantly under her
nose. "They're not paying you a penny - and they want you to fork out
forty quid to buy the anthology!" She shook her head. "Sounds like a
con to me," she said gloomily.
"No it isn't!" protested David. "After thirty years someone at long
last has recognised my talent - and all you can do is belittle me." He
scowled and scuffed the carpet moodily with his toe. Linda's heart
softened. She didn't want to belittle him - it was just that she was
fed up coping with his depression every time a rejection slip arrived
from a publisher. And the slips had been coming steadily for thirty
years. The money he'd spent on postage would have taken them to the
seaside for a week's holiday, she thought exasperatedly. It was about
time he gave up, she decided.
"We could wallpaper the lounge with all these letters," she joked one
day. But David didn't think it was funny.
"We'll be able to put them up for auction once I'm famous," he
insisted. His mouth set into a determined line and Linda knew that he
meant it. Somehow she prevented a scornful 'Hmph!' from escaping and
instead she smiled at him indulgently. Until he said,
"Talking of which - I'm considering resigning from Baker's so that I
can devote more time to my writing. It's the only way I'm ever going to
have the time to produce anything that truly reflects my talent." Linda
froze, the words taking a few minutes to sink in.
"What?" she finally spluttered. "Have you lost your mind? What will we
live on? The only money you've ever earned from writing was that tenner
for getting a letter printed in the local paper! You're just an
amateur! You're not even published yet!"
"Wrong!" David pointed to the letter about the anthology that was
lying on the kitchen table. "That," he said firmly, "is my passport to
higher echelons." Linda stared at him in disbelief, hardly able to
believe what he was saying.
"For Heaven's sake, David - writing is just a hobby. Your real job at
Baker's pays the bills. Can't you see that?"
"I don't know how you can be so callous as to call my talent a
'hobby,'" replied David icily. "Most successful writers have gone
through exactly the same channels of rejection that I have - but they
had the courage to direct all their energy into what they believed was
their true vocation. You don't imagine that Frederick Forsythe could
have written 'The Day of the Jackal' whilst he was holding down a nine
'til five office job, do you?" he finished scornfully. Linda stared
miserably at her feet and wondered how she was going to talk him out of
it. In fifteen years time he would be able to retire - with a generous
pension. And that, together with the bit of cash she was managing to
put in the bank secretly would mean that they'd be quite comfortable.
But not if he threw away their present income&;#8230;&;#8230;At
last she said,
"Well - don't rush into resigning just yet. The cooker's on the blink
- and we're going to need to find money for a new one." She turned back
to the cake that she was mixing and tried to convince herself that
David didn't mean what he had said about resigning. The batter started
to curdle and she automatically added a spoonful of flour. Even now -
five years after the last of their children had left home - Linda still
baked a cake each Saturday morning. And on Thursday evenings she would
throw three quarters of it away. But she didn't mind really - because
she enjoyed having a routine. It was what kept her sane. Now David was
threatening to ruin everything! She wondered how having a book
published could be so important to him that he was prepared to risk
their security. She would never understand him. Never.

"You paid it, didn't you?" she accused David a few weeks later when he
came back from work.
"Paid what?" he asked.
"The forty quid for the anthology." Linda's voice rose hysterically.
David saw that she was holding a package. He also saw that she had
opened it.
"As you see," he replied calmly, knowing instinctively that now
wouldn't be a good time for a display of righteous indignation about
the fact that she had opened his mail. "I have to have evidence that
I've been published if I'm going to make an issue of the fact."
"Evidence!" she was screeching now. "It took me half an hour to find
your poem in this so called anthology!" She shoved the package into his
hand and stormed out. David sat down and carefully took out the chunky
volume. There was an interesting photograph of a sunset on the cover,
and he saw that the anthology was entitled 'The Whispers of Time.' He
thought about that for a moment, trying to work out its significance.
His poem hadn't had anything to do with time. His poem had been about a
cat.
Slowly he turned to the first page and his heart sank as he saw nine
poems crammed together in three columns. Nine different people who had
poured out their heart and soul had to see their work now carelessly
squashed into a tiny space that was hardly adequate for a limerick! The
second page was the same - and the third - and every page after that
until he came to the final section entitled 'More About the Authors.'
Swallowing hard he glanced through the long list for his own name,
noting with irritation that it wasn't even in alphabetical order. Then
he found it. Six short lines telling anyone with super-human eyesight
that he was 50 years old, married with two grown-up children and that
he had been inspired to write the poem whilst watching his cat chase a
butterfly in the garden. David rubbed his forehead. At least Linda
didn't have to know that he'd paid an extra twenty pounds to have those
facts included in the book&;#8230;&;#8230;Now, he wondered, where
exactly would he find his poem?
Twenty minutes later he found it. It was nestling between two sonnets
in the middle column of Page 127. David's eyes widened in horror. There
was a spelling mistake in the tenth line. The misspelled word seemed to
leap off the page.
'&;#8230;.seperate&;#8230;'
David sat there staring at it for a long time and then he got up and
went in search of Linda.
She should have been pleased when he told her that he was giving up
writing. She should have said, 'And about time too!' But one look at
the abject misery that had turned his face pale and caused him to look
suddenly much older than his 50 years almost broke her heart. Silently
she listened as he told her what a fool he'd been to think that he had
any talent. How ridiculous his manuscripts must have seemed to
publishers who specialised in real literature. How conceited he had
been to compare his writing with that of the great
authors&;#8230;&;#8230;On and on he berated his lack of common
sense and his vanity, punishing himself until his voice began to crack
with emotion. Finally he turned away and, his head bent in dejection,
plodded slowly upstairs. When he had gone Linda realised that her
cheeks were wet and she knew what she had to do. Tomorrow morning she
would phone the bank.
It wasn't easy to organise it all without David finding out - but
somehow she managed. She had to ensure that phone calls took place
whilst he was at work, and that no correspondence arrived on Saturdays
when he would be at home. She concealed letters and papers in a box
under the spare bed and even managed to get his signature on a document
that she told him was the cancellation of a Standing Order. He had
always left household paperwork to her and so fortunately he didn't
even bother to read it.
Then finally, three months later everything was ready.

"Come shopping with me David," she ordered one Saturday morning. "I've
a long list today and I can't manage by myself." He grunted, but made
no demur. It wasn't as though he had intended to spend Saturday morning
writing, the way he used to&;#8230;.
The town was crowded with early shoppers and as they moved past him
David had the distinct feeling that they were staring at him as though
they recognised him. Some of them nodded and some even greeted him by
name. He looked at Linda to see whether she'd noticed, but she was
looking straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to his apparent
notoriety.
"This way, David," she announced suddenly, pulling him into the town's
largest bookshop. Inside, David stopped and stared. Suspended from the
ceiling were two enormous posters bearing his name and photograph. The
heading at the top of each was,
"THE VIPER'S NEST by DAVID FREEMAN."
His eyes shone with joy, and Linda knew that it had been worth
spending every penny of her savings to get the book published.
"Wha-what's going on? Linda? My book is on sale!" He turned to her and
saw that she was smiling broadly.
"And about time too," she said.

.