SPIDER'S WEB

I would call this a short account on how to deal with interruptions, when you are engaged in an important assignment like writing your own story.

He stops writing and puts his pen down on the table. His eye is caught by a spider, building its web of entrapment up in the eaves. The small insect moves in ever narrowing circles, until it reaches the epicentre, where it waits, poised for that slight pressure, like the fisherman on the riverbank, equally engaged, with his line sunk into the water.

It seems so inconsequential, when you are thus absorbed, but sometimes thoughts have linked up and been channelled into other scenarios, especially when the writer just has a blank page before him, almost in self-accusation for lack of imagination or style.

Yet words have already been recorded either to remain or for revision at a later stage, but gradually a pattern emerges and memory is awakened in lightning strokes. He has experienced much, but still lacks the understanding, with which to fit all the pieces of life together in order to bring meaning and significance.

He is alone in this task. At times it is as though he is stricken by some frenzy and has to record while the memory is fresh in his mind, in case it should suddenly vanish; at other times he sits in worthless silence, unable to pierce the void of unknowing.

“Are you up there still, sir?” It is a woman’s voice. He remembers. She comes once a week to check up on him. As though he needed this attention! She usually lets herself in. She has her own key. His daughter has suggested this idea, with which he is not allowed to disagree.

Since he does not reply, she calls again: “Yoohoo! Are you alright, Mr Olford? Kate, as you know, asked me to see that you were OK, so I was free today and thought I’d pop round. Hope I did right.”

“Yes, you did, Mrs. Hardiman.” His voice takes on a tired, almost exasperated tone. He dislikes all this interference in his affairs. But he muses it’ll be best to humour both women. He has acquiesced with this arrangement extremely reluctantly, but he has no choice. Again he is subjected to that shrill, rasping voice.

“Anything you would like me to do, while I am here? Shame not to be occupied with doing something useful for you, Mr Olford, isn’t it? You know, cooking you a meal, doing your washing?”

He mutters under his breath: “Please yourself, you old hag!” However he was a commissioned officer in the Guards, served his country with distinction, and then gone into the publishing business. So, being the perfect gentleman that he is, he replies as courteously as he can: “My dear lady, it is entirely up to you. Since it is getting near lunchtime, perhaps you could rustle up something for me to eat. What do you think?”

“Of course, Mr. Olford. Your wish is my command”. The last phrase is uttered in an almost imperceptibly obsequious manner. He winces in pain. Fortunately she is downstairs, and does not see his reaction. Blissful silence follows, as she goes into the kitchen and closes the door behind her.

He then realizes why he has been watching the spider. It reminds him of his present predicament. He is definitely not the little creature which has constructed this complex mechanism, which has the sole purpose of capture, death and consumption of the item of food. He is much more likely to be the victim.

The pen is poised, as he considers his options. Is there a way of avoiding becoming a meal when he certainly does not deserve such a fate? OK, he is no longer in his prime, but his mind is as sharp as steel.

He puts down the pen, and raises himself from the chair. He retrieves his walking-stick and then starts to make his way slowly downstairs to that foreign country called the kitchen, to which he has had to accommodate himself. Once at the door, he opens it with a flourish, causing Mrs. Hardiman to let out a slight mouselike screech.

“Mr. Olford, oh you did give me a turn there. You saucy devil, you!”. Not words he would have used, but it is too bad. Anyway, he brings himself up to his full height, which is still not quite up to hers, and makes his announcement: “Mrs. Hardiman, upon reflection I have decided not to have any lunch nor to avail myself of your services. So bugger off!”

“Mr. Olford. I am shocked, deeply shocked!” Her bottom lip quivers. He thinks she is going to burst into tears, and has no idea how he is going to deal with such an eventuality. She continues: “I came here, wanting to be of help, and you, Mr Olford, have thrown my good intentions back in my face. I will be seeing your daughter, and as of this moment I resign.”

He does not understand why she is resigning, since she only volunteered her services, such as they were. Besides he has previously been inconvenienced by an enemy in battle, but this is the first time the encounter was with some supposedly harassed old woman, who happens almost to be the same age as himself. He has a sneaking suspicion his daughter will cook up some scheme to limit his freedom. In the meantime, he tells himself to remember the spider never gave up, even when its web was cut to shreds by a branch blown by a gust of wind. Is Mrs. Hardiman his branch or the gust of wind?

Anyway, he has some writing to do, so he slowly retreats back upstairs to his den, once the old curmudgeon has left. He sits in his favourite chair, and picks up his pen. He suddenly thinks of that web, which is the spider’s only home. He has lived in this house for about fifty years, and so most of his life has been spent here with a host of  memories. He once said to his daughter the only way he would leave the place would be in a box. He is even more determined now not to be diverted from that decision.

Between now and then or until he can no longer physically hold a pen or until his mind has been scrambled he will continue to record the facts of his life. Nothing will prevent him from doing so.