The Kirby Guest House

A daughter caught in the net of manipulation, battles for sanity and freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Kirby Guest House

by

Malenkov

 

 

Ilford, Essex

Great Britain, 1980’s

 

 

 

Mrs Lilly Kirby was a sensible, hard-working cockney Lady. She preferred plain, honest folk, that stood by their convictions and but for her accent, you might never a known she was a cockney. Even the neighbours said, you couldn't blame Mrs Kirby for her daughter going barmy. What happened could have happened to any mother, they said. No matter how much love you spent on 'em.

Soon after her husband died, she sold the café and converted her four bedroom semi, on the corner of Belgrave Road in Ilford, Essex, to the Kirby Guest House. The lodgers called her The Governor and paid forty seven shillings a week for a bed, a small room with a wash basin, and three square meals a day and as much tea as they could knock back. She liked to please the guests and they said you couldn't find that kind of service anywhere else. Mrs Kirby said she was as tolerant and generous as they come, but that Italian had taught her you could as soon as trust a spick, as throw one. After that, she only took in good sorts. The lodgers were easy enough to get on with--except for Archie, who was so old he couldn't hold his toilet. Then there was Roger: one day he was lying out of it on the garden path, a bottle of Scotch in his flabby arm and his head was bleeding. Though the garden gnome was broken, Mrs Kirby said that: fortunately, she had shifted Roger before the neighbours saw.

Janine's boys lived at the Guest House and Mrs Kirby understood the boys missed a father's hand. Mrs Kirby said a soft upbringing hurt a child, so she let the lodger give a hand to them and she often rolled up her sleeves on those big arms, and put the fear of god in them. Mrs Kirby had bought Janine a baby grand piano for the living room and when there was nothing on the telly for the guests to watch, she got her daughter to play a hit from the music halls for them. Her daughter sometimes sang as she played:

 

Congratulations and celebrations

When I tell everyone that you're in love with me

Congratulations and jubilations

I want the world to know I'm happy as can be

 

Janine Kirby smoked her cigs with a filter. She was a slim girl of twenty one and wore her mousey hair in a bun like them Beatles girls, but didn't wear a mini-skirt like them common cockney lasses. Mrs Kirby said that she loved her daughter the way she was, and had sent her to the Cranbrook Girls Convent School--a school that cost eleven shillings and six pence a month. Mrs Kirby had given Janine all the love and chances that money could buy but Mrs Kirby regretted that Janine had thrown it all away--when Janine had gone to Angola with that Italian. After Janine had three kids, she wrote Mrs Kirby that Paredes was already married. Mrs Kirby wrote back saying it was hard coping on her own in that big house; what with her hip op and so much to do with the guests and cleaning and cooking. Mrs Kirby asked Janine: Perhaps she should come home. . . . 

After Janine returned, she got a job as a typist and became an assistant to the Managing Director of Plesseys. Janine said she was the fastest typist in the pool and could even do short hand. But Mrs Kirby got wind from Mrs Betty next door, who had seen Janine arm-in-arm with a navvy; past closing time outside The Valentine. So Mrs Kirby brought Janine back to work in the Guest House. Of course, Janine complained but Mrs Kirby asked if she really wanted more scandals and to remember who got who out of Africa and who was putting who under a roof and that was to be the end of that bloody back-talk. Things went on like this for a long time, until Mrs Kirby noticed that a lodger, by the name of Mr Peacock, had taken a healthy interest in Janine. Mrs Kirby believed her daughter had squandered the chances she had been given; the time had come to act.

* * *

It was a cold, grey November morning and drizzle pattered against the double paned windows. Mrs Kirby sat down in her favourite armchair, a Pomeranian wheezed gently in her lap, and a cup of tea in a porcelain cup and saucer lay on the arm rest. She was tired. She had only just hobbled into the lounge from the kitchen and settled in the chair; earlier, she had cooked for the guests: wedges of toad in the hole, fatty roast potatoes and a block of bread and butter pudding. A puzzle of the Cutty Sark lay spread out on a little table in front of her. Mrs Kirby kneaded the dog's long beige fur and recollected the interview the night before with Mr Peacock.

Mrs Kirby did not like to beat about the bush: she spoke about good breeding, and Janine's many admirers; and Mr Peacock talked about the ruinously high house prices which made marriage today just unthinkable; Mrs Kirby said, she knew a friend who had bunged in fifty quid on a deposit on a house, when her girl had got married. That was a great way to help out family, she had said; at the end, Mrs Kirby had lightly touched his forearm and called him my son, and he had nodded his head a fraction.

Mrs Kirby sat up and bent forward to study the puzzle before her. Looking over the bifocal rims with her chin down, she turned a piece in the rough-blocks of her fingers. Now, all that remained was to convince Janine. Mrs Kirby lifted the slab of her head as the announcer's voice, on the Twelve O' Clock BBC News, flooded the room. In an arm chair by the telly, Jim nodded to sleep, his forehead nudged the breast of his dinner jacket and saliva drooled down his chin. By the fireplace, in unison with the dog, Roger snored.

She heard the vacuum cleaner, whining on the landing upstairs. She would wait until Janine was finished; then hammer it out with her. There would still be plenty of time in the evening to go next door to Betty's for a game of Whist. Janine had made it crystal clear what she thought of Mr Peacock. Mrs Kirby could not repress a shudder as his greasy balding hair, polyester lumberjack shirts, bean-pole chest and slight hang-dog stoop, swam into her mind's eye. But with Janine's affairs and b******s-in-tow, who would touch her? Let alone marry her? Beggars could not be choosers. He was no Valentino, but he had a steady job as a welder at the Docks and was handy about the house. A useful man. And it was nice too: the way he now and then bought a bouquet of flowers home. Janine must give him that. Nor would he get like Roger; he never touched a drop stronger than milky tea. The corner of her eyes wrinkled. It would not be love, but what had love brought. . . . 

Mrs Kirby considered the last piece she needed. Would Janine go? Of course she would: what mother did not want her own place--for her own good, and for the boys. She must see sense; after all, she was getting on. And if she did not marry? Who would want to live like a scullery maid--and it was not good for the boys either: they needed a father. Of course she must go: that was the sensible thing to do. But, there was nothing in this world that was free; every wish had a price. . . .

Mrs Kirby raised her gun grey eyes as the BBC News theme tune ended. The footsteps of her daughter on the stairs above faded away; she must have finished the cleaning and was going into her bedroom. Just half an hour! Then she would call Janine to the kitchen, for a quiet word in her ear. Mrs Kirby patted the dogs head and sighed deeply as she thought of the peace she would enjoy, with the house to herself. There would be no more scandals to ruin the guest house and no more of Janine's queer moods (and crying) that set her nerves on edge. Tomorrow morning she would ring Betty, about that little Irish lass, to ask about home-help. 

* * *

Janine was worried sick this Wednesday morning. She couldn’t tie up the back of the dress for her trembling hands and spilt the channel No. 5 on the dressing table. Neither had she managed a wink of sleep, for she had stumbled upon the little talk her mother had had with Mr Peacock. She guessed what was coming: The odd gleam in his eye, and that queer smile on his cold thin lips, sent her heart fluttering. Last night, she had gone downstairs to the kitchen to make a black coffee and heard Mr Peacock and her mother speaking softly, her mother’s hand cupped over her mouth. Mrs Kirby had narrowed her eyes and Mr Peacock's nape had reddened; for a moment they had stared out the window, their conversation dropping into silence, and then Mrs Kirby had started to loudly discuss the football. Later as Janine climbed the stairs to bed, her mother had said, she would have a word in her ear tomorrow afternoon.

Now, the thought of that meeting gnawed at the hollow pit of her stomach and sent her mind in a spin. She did not relish her mother asking her to marry that man, and she had lain awake in a sweat, tossing and turning under the covers, wondering what to do.

As her mind ran the scene back, she almost spilt the slops on herself and wretched as the swill spilled on the edge of the toilet, she held her breath as she pulled the chain. That sod, Jim, gone and done it again. Soiled pants, trousers, jackets, shirts, suits and ties lay crumpled in a wicker basket in the laundry room and she bundled armfuls into the washing machine. After the machine began to hum, she lathered the kitchen floor until the tiles gleamed, then vacuumed the landing carpet and the guests rooms; ran soapy water and cleaned and wiped the dirty dishes, pots, pans and trays, dishes, desert bowls, mugs, knifes and forks, stacked in towers on the kitchen sink and on the side board. Now and again, Janine brushed her forearm against her brow; to brush away beads of sweat that ran along the groves of her nose. The salt stung her eyes. Often as she polished the silver, she rolled her shirt sleeves, to ride up the pale upper arms and would pause to stretch her aching back or rest her legs a little. She stooped carefully when she picked up a toy from the floor. Last week, her back had gone and she had to spend two days in bed for which her mother had accused her of skiving off.

The cleaning went slower than usual. For now and again, she burst into tears and would stop in amazement, looking to see if anyone had heard, then hurriedly wiped her eyes with a piece of kitchen towel she had about her pocket. When the work was done, she was bone tired. At half past one, she shuffled upstairs to her bedroom; her arms two pieces of string that hung loose by her side.

A fog of sweat and cigarette hung on the room, which was dark. Through the thin folds of the muslin curtains, two shafts of light cut; like possibilities converged on one final point. Cold eggs and bacon lay on a china plate by the bedside table. She had lain under the covers until ten thirty in the morning; listening to the rain drumming her pane like an angry ghost. She had not wanted to leave the womb of the bed covers: each time she had clenched her abdomen and risen at the waist, her right hand on the mattress, thinking: get up! But again and again, a foggy white cloud fell upon her: sucking the hope from her and she would fall back again. She felt her body to be a suitcase she would have liked to leave at an airport, and float away from. She gazed at the white mask in the dressing table mirror, opposite the bed: smudged mascara ringed the hollowed sockets. She recoiled. How different she looked from the pretty convent school belle.

Now and again she heard a voice, harsh and accusing, that came from a wall or outside. But she never saw who said it. It said things she didn't understand:

--B***h! Look what you gone and done! the voice whispered.

Janine heard the voice even with her hands clamped over her ears. Like the tears, she did not understand why, or from where, it came. It filled her with dread. For a long time, she was lost in reverie, looking at the motes swirling in the shafts of light. Then a shameful consciousness of her own being entered her: as if she was a fly on the ceiling and looked down on herself. Her sons, her affairs, her bondage to her mother forced inescapable choice.

It was a choice that cleft her in two: either the prison of this house; or be given away in marriage, like a pair of unwanted socks. Were she to stay, day-by-day a little piece of her would be ground away and lost and her beaten sons would come to despise her. Were she to marry, each day she would wake to see his sly grin, his presence like a wet puddle in the middle of the bed. Or, she would wake in the night; sweating, and curve in her toes, knees and elbows; for fear of touching his pale skin. Every time he rolled over in bed, or his hairy shoulder or breath brushed her back, she would shiver. He would ask for . . . 'wifely duties'. She recollected clammy hands groping the sheer nylon of her thigh, as he drove her in his van; the other hand held the wheel and he had turned and smiled - a clever secret smile that knew things about her that she did not know. She convulsed. What choice was there, but to go . . . . 

--Sell out then! Kill yourself! the voice said.

--As if I have a choice? she said aloud.

She shook her head from side-to-side, squeezing clumps of hair with her balled fists. If only that voice would go away.

While she was sitting on the edge of the bed--wiping her eyes and staring into space--a soft knock sounded on the door and Mr Peacock entered. He walked in slowly, looking around on the floor.

         --Everything all right, Jane? he said.

He looked down at her face, a curious gleam in his eyes, and had his hand in his pocket. He cleared his throat and said:

--You’re wanted downstairs by your mum, he said in a cold, flat voice.

         She turned her shoulder away. In the silence was accusation. He stood: shoulders sloped and slouched and the boards creaked as he shifted from foot-to-foot. She coughed, sniffed and blew her nose with a piece of kitchen towel.

--Leave me alone! she said.

         The uncomfortable silence grew and he stood a moment. Perhaps he was unsure to sit down on the bed and put his arm around her . . .

--Right ho, he said.

She heard soft breath, the scrape of plates and a creak upon the floorboards, and the door clicked shut.

--Soon you will be his little doll.

--I'll never give him everything. My mind I'll keep, she said softly.

--She will laugh at you and be rid of you and your brats. And those brats, you slave after them for this . . .

--I love my mum and I love my kids!

She rocked side-to-side and cupped her hands over the top of her head.

Alone, her mind drifted to their affair. She had lost her head and been vulnerable after Angola - acting without thought for the consequences. But Mr Peacock had not been entirely innocent. He had always hovered nearby, when she needed to speak or to cry: driving the kids to school; coming with her on long walks in the park, with the dog; buying the kids comics, sweets.

--He just wants your c**t!

--Go away!

--Isn't he so helpful, dear? 

Not that she did not appreciate his efforts: it was just his cowardly ways were loathsome.

--Like a tarantula. Creeping about. He'll eat you, my dear. Oh yes he will. He's waiting. Tapping his hairy, fairy, legs in his web. Tap, tap, tap. Where's his little fly?

She shivered.

--Now, Paredes, he was a man! Knew how to woo a girl. A dozen roses. Chateauneuf du Pape in an ice bucket. Peacock! Ha! Brings cheap daffodils for mum. Would you believe it! Doesn't have the nerve to say who they're really for.

She thought: Perhaps I could learn to tolerate him . . . . 

--You want to be his slave you little s**t!

         The harsh tones of her mother rang up the stairs: 

--Janie . . . , she said, Mr Peacock wants a word.   

She felt her heart palpitate and glanced at the crucifix on the wall. She held her hands together: take me away! Take me out of it!

Mrs Kirby's voice came again:

--Janie? Come down please, Jane.

Two commands warred within: to stay or escape. Her legs obeyed mechanically: she walked forward to the door; her shoulders and arms twisting to face back, to the bed. Onwards, the robot pushed. Numb hands clicked a door knob.

The door opened and a cold draught ravaged her nightgown. Her hands shook, her face was slick, and brambly hair straggled the crown. She looked around as if she were lost. Her knees sagged and to support herself she stretched her left palm open on the cold wall.

--Look what you've gone and done to yourself!

--It's not true! I didn't do it, they did it to me.

--Innocent are we now. Ha! Don't make me laugh.

The instinct of her soul cried: leave it all! Run! Better remain free than debase herself in the cheap prostitution of marriage; and marry that queer bird, with his miserly, mean and sullen ways. But would she be free and happier in this house . . . slopping up s**t after senile men . . .  watching drunkards who beat her sons about. Or, would she be happier stuck on the shelf in this house, she, a woman with three growing kids, stuck with that manipulating witch of a mother. . . . Could she endure the mind numbing torture of the marriage that awaited her?--and who else would marry her? Could she sacrifice her integrity in this house?

She felt crushed between two boulders.

A dark blanket fell upon her. She opened and closed her mouth in quick gulps. Bright spots danced on black and she saw a thin red beam of light that came from the crucifix on the wall and a peace washed over her: she knew, or it seemed to say, it would be all right.

She stood as if she were a statue, frozen out of plastic. She was a child again. Swings. Autumn leaves. I love hide-and-seek! Wind bit through the duffle coat, little brass buttons mummy got me. Quick! Hide! The older girls will beat me if they get me . . . Here! behind the holly bush . . . She crouches and ducks under the red berries and spiky green leaves. Ouch! One pricks her knee. Don't cry! They will find you and bruise you . . . My, how my heart beats! Ba boom, ba boom. Her mummy has a funny smile: if you close yer eyes, dear, no one can see you . . . 

* * *

Mr Peacock looked at Mrs Kirby in the kitchen. He stared at the red roses in the garden outside, caught in sun light and smiled at the future that now lay open before him; a future that shook away the cobwebs of dull and dreaded lonely nights. He looked a long time, weighing and gauging, until Mrs Kirby's voice startled him. Her voice no longer had its hard edge and had grown soft and quiet:

--Really, she doesn't usually disobey like this, she said. I don't know what's gotten into her today.

She glanced at the kitchen clock and looked at the small boy in red shorts playing with a toy car by the kitchen door.

--Nick, she said, do go see what your mum's up to.

--Yes, gran.

* * *

Nick stood in the doorway. He was breathing, lightly; as if he did not wish to disturb something. The room was dark but as his eyes got used to it, the black pools of his eyes widened and his brow knitted.

--Mummy? Mummy? he gasped.  

 

--END--

 

Author's Note

Interconnected stories:

o For Your Own Good
o Under The Ginko Tree
o A Good Mother
o The Kirby Guest House
o Mr. Peacock goes to Sainsbury's
o The Visit

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I don't see the final scenes as being problematic at all in terms of point-of-view or clarity; on the first read, it seemed clear that there was both internal dialogue and confusion/delusion taking place. There isn't a great deal of detail in creating the setting, but I think you explain/justify that sufficiently. I think the level of detail re Angola is fine--it's useful in Janine's character development, and it's not overdone to where it becomes excessive and distracting, plus, while I understand where you're seeking to do incorporate aspects of Joyce's technique here, Joyce has already done Joyce, so I wouldn't let that override what you're seeking to do in your own right. Once you've read through it once or twice and read the notations you've made, it becomes apparent that this is impressive and indicative of significant talent.

[Marie]

This was a really interesting story and I liked it.

[Vanessa Whiteley]

Firstly let me say what a refreshing change I found this story and your serious approach to writing. One of the best stories I've read on site and I shall be back for more. The characterisation was excellent the mother a seeming archetype of Mrs Joe Pip's sister in Great Expectations.

Janine's boys lived at the Guest House and Mrs Kirby understood the boys missed a father's hand. Mrs Kirby said a soft upbringing hurt a child, so she let the lodger give a hand to them and she often rolled up her sleeves on those big arms, and put the fear of god in them.

The irony works well especially on rereading with Janine singing 'I want the world to know I'm happy as can be'. The mother's unselfish act on saving Janine from Africa at a time when she needed a slave to assist around the house following her operation and her desire to sacrifice her daughter once she was no longer needed works well. On the whole I would say you have achieved your objectives but you didn't ask for assistance with those issues.

So in answer to those you did ask. I thought the hallucinations worked very well and in part this scene reminded me of Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 'The Yellow Wallpaper' perhaps because there is a similar form of entrapment or maybe it the ' Now and again she heard a voice, harsh and accusing, that came from a wall or outside'.

The psychological regression to the womb was excellent both disturbing and heart rending. One really felt Janine's pain here and her need to escape the harsh realities of her situation. And yes I think you got the balance right.

I found the notes extremely irritating they (at least for me) made me view the prospect of reading your story as a task rather then as something to be enjoyed. Indeed, to the degree that when I first received the read request from Cdnsurfer I placed it under the to read sometime list. I am so glad that I did get around to reading it but I would either scrap the notes or place them as an appendix maybe footnote. Of course I am English and that may make a difference but at the same time there is always Google if readers don't understand. There have been a number of times on site that I haven't grasped a reference but if I want the answer I just Google it. So I vote to junk them.

Yes it is on the long side and maybe could be trimmed. But where without losing the effect?
I think you could lose the following.

I feel these lines intrude rather than add and Janine's attitude to Mr Peacock is spelt out in plenty of detail.

'There would still be plenty of time in the evening to go next door to Betty's for a game of Whist. Janine had made it crystal clear what she thought of Mr Peacock'.

While I realise that the spilt channel No. 5 references Janine's past life I don't think this is necessary either and you could reference a lack of sleep in a couple of words so:

'Spilt channel No. 5 on the dressing table. Neither had she managed a wink of sleep, for she had stumbled upon the little talk her mother had had with Mr Peacock. She guessed what was coming: The odd gleam in his eye, and that queer smile on his cold thin lips, sent her heart fluttering'.

After all you then go on to describe her hearing the conversation. You have established Janine as a drudge throughout and perhaps you slightly overdo the references to this perhaps you could trim the following a little even through it is a good description. I think you could cut a third.

'As her mind ran the scene back, she almost spilt the slops on herself and wretched as the swill spilled on the edge of the toilet, she held her breath as she pulled the chain. That sod, Jim, gone and done it again. Soiled pants, trousers, jackets, shirts, suits and ties lay crumpled in a wicker basket in the laundry room and she bundled armfuls into the washing machine. After the machine began to hum, she lathered the kitchen floor until the tiles gleamed, then vacuumed the landing carpet and the guests rooms; ran soapy water and cleaned and wiped the dirty dishes, pots, pans and trays, dishes, desert bowls, mugs, knifes and forks, stacked in towers on the kitchen sink and on the side board. Now and again, Janine brushed her forearm against her brow; to brush away beads of sweat that ran along the groves of her nose. The salt stung her eyes. Often as she polished the silver, she rolled her shirt sleeves, to ride up the pale upper arms and would pause to stretch her aching back or rest her legs a little. She stooped carefully when she picked up a toy from the floor. Last week, her back had gone and she had to spend two days in bed for which her mother had accused her of skiving off'.

I found this line border line clich� 'listening to the rain drumming her pane like an angry ghost' and not consistent with the rest of your writing and I think the split personality is laid on too heavily in this line 'It was a choice that cleft her in two: either the prison of this house; or be given away in marriage, like a pair of unwanted socks.'

Minor editing detail but there is a typo here in 'You're'
Your'e wanted downstairs by your mum, he said in a cold, flat voice.

I hoped this helped and I look forward to reading more of your stories.

[J. Marc]

To me, this story could well be the chapter before "The visit". The two stories fit together perfectly.

#1) The Janine scene:
The hallucinations/voices etc in the Janine scene.
This scene reminded me a lot of Blanche Dubois in "Streetcar named Desire". Yes, in that sense, it did work for me. There needs to be an opposition between one's own values and that of the outside world in order to produce a situation of drama. In this case, the drama is hold within Janine herself. However, I did not see a regression into madness, but an escape into madness. Remembering the childhood is a regression only so long as one deplores the loss of innocence. However, it is a powerful psychological anchor to remind people of what they are capable of, of what their "being" can be. So, I read this scene with a completely different set of mind the first time��

I think you have left enough question not answered in order to give enough room to the imagination of the reader. Maybe, you can give even more clues to these not-answered questions to make of them some sort of parallel story in the mind of the readers.

#2) Oh, the notes.
I understood most of the words in the notes without any further explanations. I think you can remove:
Beat about the bush (it is very similar to the international expression: to beat around the bush)
Cockney �
Cutty Sark � (made famous worldwide by the Whiskey of the same name)
Docks �
Ilford, Essex � (I think self explanatory)
Got wind of �
Shillings �
Valentino �
Whist �
The other ones you can easily fit into footnotes without burdening the format of the whole story. But you should check with other readers before making the decision though.


#3) Length
Unlike many people these days, I do not have problem with length so long as the descriptions are not extremely annoying or redundant. It is not the case with your story. But I must concede that other people might find a more-than-one-page story rather lengthy.

[~ Tex]

I'm not sure what I can add, having read the story, your notes, and all the reviews. I thought the story and characters were all fine once things got rolling. I think for some readers, it is a necessity to get beyond the "feel" of another author, such as Joyce, if they dislike that author's works. Once beyond that, then it's really all about you. You're not catering to any one person, but if you're cognizant of that fact, then you're more likely to double check your opening - as I've always said, the same rules for news articles apply to all writing really... if you don't hook your reader with the heading or title, and then set the hook with the first line, two or perhaps as much as the first paragraph when it comes to a story, then they're going to be the one(s) that got away. Some always get away, but you hope to reduce that number by knowing yourself and thus your perceived weaknesses. If you love a style, then the odds are someone else does not - but in knowing that, you can perhaps find ways to entice those readers to find the juiciness of your writing, regardless of the style with which you write.

I can't say that I'm a Joyce fan, nor that I dislike Joyce. I can say that I enjoyed this read and thought it to be well done to be honest. I'll let it sit for a spell and re-read it again later to see if anything useful catches my attention, but at this point, I think your previous reviews cover things nicely - including your talent!

[Cameron Probert]

General Comments: Okay, so I have to preface this review with the fact that I hate Joyce. I've never liked anything I've read of his. So please filter all of the following review through that lense.

Characters: So now that I've got that out of the the way, I have to say I love what you did with Mrs. Kirby. She's great. I love the subtlety with which you use to hint at the audience that she really isn't all that she thinks she is. I think really that is probably one of the best things about the piece. In fact, it's done so well I didn't even notice that there wasn't too much plot in that first scene. So you get tons of kudos from me on that count.

However, I really got some issues with Janine. Some of this comes from writing about depression at all. Honestly one of the things I loved about the Visit was how well you treated the mother character. How she wasn't crazy all of the time. And how there were different sides. And that she could be casually cruel and very kind all that the same time. But here, well she's over the edge. And to be fair, I liked her up until she laid down on the bed. Also if this is schizophrenia, it didn't quite ring with me. I think the best line about schizophrenia came from the movie Proof (it was also a play): "Crazy people don't wonder whether they're crazy or not. They've got better things to do."

And from just the straight reader perspective, it's really hard for me to care for a character that isn't doing anything. I mean the internal fight is fine but I want some real world interaction to go along with it.

Plot: Again, I know that you're trying to do two stories here, or at least one story with two POVs, but one is still stronger than the other one. The Mrs. Kirby plot really has a lot more oopmh (mostly because of the strength of her character.)

And also to address something from your notes - you mentioned that this is a story about perception and communication much like the Visit. However, I think that could be strenghtened if we saw Janine's deteration from outside source (like we see from her son and we see from her mother).

Dialogue: Okay so no real problems here.

Setting and Decription: Honestly, it's great here. I really saw all of the major players. I really liked the description of Mr. Peacock.

Voice: Okay, so I think you can ditch the notes. Personally I found it easy enough to read without them. Although I did grow up watching Doctor Who and reading Agatha Christie novels so you can take that for what you will. (Yes I did watch Doctor Who, and I still watch it.)

As far as your comment on length. To be honest I can't write a good short that's shorter than 3k so I think your fine there. And I don't think that trend necessarily holds from what I've seen of short story magazines.

Anyways all and all, I thought it definitely is excellent in some parts. And as always take what you will and leave the rest.

[Hannah Epstein]

Well well, it's draggish at the beginning, I think, but I like it for it's honestly, and frankly, it's entertainment at the end. I like that you didn't shy away from using slang and I like the way you structure the scenes. It's a good write.

[Emily B]

I liked the notes at the beginning, some terms I knew and some I didn't. They were helpful.

I liked the progression of the story all the way through. I knew what was to come. If she couldn't physically escape, I felt she would get away mentally. I was confused by this: " The room was dark but as his eyes got used to it, they followed the line made by two convergent shafts of light that struck her head." But it made more sense after your author's notes. I'm left to imagine that something is reflecting off the crucifix.

Your story actually puts me in mind of one by Kate Chopin, "The Yellow Wallpaper." It worked. It was psychologically thrilling. I can hear the old woman's voice, I imagine it must sound a lot like my granny's used to. . . probably rattles on about stuff nobody cares about and forgets to listen.

[TL Boehm]

I actually got the descent to madness clearly - and felt it coming in the tone of this piece - although I think one of my favorite moments was the light through the muslin curtains - like 'possibilities' Well crafted story - intense, dark, enveloping.

[R J Askew]

By the way Essex is not a town it is a county to the east of London......and as all Brit's know a state of mind, with David Beckham being the King and Queen.

[Cdnsurfer]

Ok, first thing I have to say is Wow! This was extremely well done and humbled me to the pan of the pie.

The hallucinations scene worked well, although I thought perhaps the first paragraph in scene 2 was a bit heavy and should be broken down for flow. The hallucinations were excellently rendered, and the reality of them moved from perhaps memories to voices to angels, and in that, the multiplicity of meanings, it was an excellent device to deal with the inner turmoil Janine experiences there. Interesting when you talk about the return to childhood, what it does is raise issues about her childhood -- trauma, first instances of dissociation, etc.

Not at all disorienting. The rhythm and motion of this piece flowed beautifully.

I wish I had something more concrete and specific to point out. I do think that in the end you want a bit of mystery but I think you needed to hold that note just a few seconds longer before falling into the final coda. So in the second last segment, before the child goes upstairs, we need to have a dissonant feel from the quiet, restless meeting of Mr. Peacock and the mother, that foreshadows misery. Like the unease calm before the storm. Thematically, which is my forte, that seemed to be missing here. The last stanza was all that was required to make it clear what had preceded.

Cheers! Rob