A Single Man - 2008 winner

2008 Secondary School Winner

Harris Williamson was the Secondary School Division winner with his story 'A Single Man'. Judge David Hill said it was "a clever, ambitious narrative that was always tightly under control. The relationship between James and Margaret was complex, always changing, never predictable. It engaged and emotionally affected the reader. The viewpoint was convincing, and techniques such as dialogue, time changes, different viewpoints were used skilfully. The ending was a risk, but a successful and dramatic one. The characters were always credible and the author made an excellent job of showing the different facets of their personalities.

A Single Man
By Harris Neil Williamson

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man… is a lucky man.”

That’s what Dave told me when I broke up with Margaret. He’s good for a laugh. Neither of us finished Pride and Prejudice; our minds and eyes lost the war against the run – on sentences as they shot us down with clause after clause, led bravely by squadrons of colons and semicolons.

I don’t know if I agree with Dave though. My time with Margaret was as close as I’ve ever been to satisfaction. Indecision roams the hallways of my mind; I cannot decide whether Margaret “filled a void” or was the catalyst for some excitement in my dull and idle life.

Thoughts of this nature hover around without impetus or direction. Every thought is a yellow brick road, but I don’t have so much as a brainless scarecrow to guide me. Dorothy had it good. The closest I have to Glinda the Good Witch of the North is an overbearing mother who visits my flat every second morning to do a ‘routine health check’. Why does she have to be a nurse? Her last visit was two days ago. The conversation soured after the formalities of hugs, kisses, and painstaking small talk.

“Oh, James dear, are you eating enough? What’s your blood pressure like? Let me feel your forehead.”

I was almost hypnotised as her arms spun round in frenzy. I tried to calm her down. “Mum, I’m eating plenty. My immune system is holding up fine. Trust me.”

“You don’t know that for sure, James. Let me take your temperature. You have reason to be upset dear; that nasty Margaret took advantage of you.”

I snapped.

“I do know for sure. Please don’t take my temperature. This parental coddling is getting old. And don’t talk about Margaret like that. For fuck’s sake, I thought you Catholics were meant to forgive.”

My final comment was much too condemning for her taste; she slammed the door in grief and resentment. Soon after this visit, I managed to locate sympathy and guilt in my confused vortex of emotions. In terms of family, I’m all she has. Mum’s religious devotion was what held her together after Dad died five years ago, and my attack on her was more out of sheer frustration than bigotry.

I have experienced many discussions of this nature with my female friends as well; their voices are full of youthful nuance, and a lot less provocative than the heart – broken whining of a middle aged widow. The genuine pattern of conversation is the same; the anti – Margaret propaganda appears along with empathy that I view to be hollow. I respond accordingly. Dave and the rest of the boys encourage me to celebrate my freedom. They bring me magazines and movies. I look at them once and sigh, remembering early teenage years of immoral thrill and intrigue. None of it works. Everyone lays siege to the iron gates that guard me, but they can’t push through. My friends are the munchkins; they sing pleasant ditties and tell me where to start, but that is all the help they can give me.

Margaret, as much as I loved her, is the source of my mental stagnation. Our year - long relationship, sadly enough, is comparable to the first half of a romantic comedy. Reporting all the details would be tedious, so I will relate to you what I can without providing a new cure for insomnia. Meet Margaret Fowler: The Wicked Witch of the West.

*                        *                       *

My romantic record prior to University was hardly overwhelming; the two girlfriends I had at high school were little more than close friends with whom I could enjoy limited physical liberties. Not a bad record for a nerd with a thing for History and Classics. Dave had previously referred to University as a “serene setting for bird watching,” and I was not ruling out the possibility of dating one of my fellow students. The stage was set.

I was seated at a table outside the awfully named ThreeSixty Café after purchasing an overpriced afternoon tea. Dave and the other lads were training for rugby. I was studying. Everything was normal until Margaret walked past.

I choked on my chocolate chip muffin. Aesthetic beauty dominated her striking countenance. Her figure wasn’t petite, but it was healthy and vibrant. Lust rose within my mind. Admiration took me over. They fused together to hand me the attribute I had previously lacked: confidence.

She walked into the café alone, smiling coyly. No boyfriend was present.

I picked up my bottle of lemonade and let passion take me over. Ensuring that I wasn’t conspicuous, I followed her into the café. A line of people guarded her from my sight. The café itself was a claustrophobic nightmare.

My fears were soon allayed. I sighted her examining the soft drinks. Getting to speak to her seemed like it would be a difficult task; she was blockaded by a line of hungry students that, due to their dress sense, appeared to be from the Science faculty. I waited for a gap to appear in the line.

Two minutes later my patience was rewarded. The stocky girl holding up the right flank at the back of the line drifted away to examine the pies. I seized my chance faster than Alexander the Great at the Battle of Gaugamela. After twelve quick steps, I was behind her. Panic ensured. I’d never done this before. My previous relationships had started via non-verbal communication. Shit. I opened my mouth and hoped my vocal chords would form something of aural distinction.

“Uh… can I… ask something?” I stammered. My introduction was feeble, but my voice was audible. At least I managed something.

She turned to face me, one neatly plucked eyebrow raised.

“You just did. But go on.”

“I was wondering how you get this lid-thingy off,” I said, slowly revealing my lemonade bottle as if it were some sort of valuable antique.

Her response was delayed. I sensed her mind ticking over. Taking the time to admire her jet black hair and soft facial features, I feared the worst. She sighed and popped it off effortlessly.

“Thanks,” I said, unable to extend the conversation. I was sure that I’d blown it completely. I turned away.
 
“So what are you studying?” she asked with curiosity that was at least bordering on genuine.

Hallelujah.

“Oh… I…History, Classics, Philosophy. I’m doing a B.A.”

Her smile revealed dimples, and her glassy green eyes studied me long and hard before responding that she didn’t take well to liars. I asked her what she meant.

“Oh nothing,” she said with infectious whimsy, “I’d have expected a Philosophy student to be able to deduce out how to take off an unconventional lid, and you’ve hardly showcased English your skills by using the term ‘lid-thingy’”.

The sardonic touch to her reply deepened my admiration for her. “What are you studying?” I asked.

“Linguistics”, she replied.

“So you’re doing a Bachelor of Attendance too?” I asked.

She laughed at a pleasant high pitch and told me that I may be sharper than she had originally thought. A woman’s laugh (save for Fran Drescher) is music to the ears of any man, and Margaret’s was particularly melodic. We had both forgotten where we were, and had a disgruntled customer not advised us to move, we may have halted the beverage sales all day.

Margaret didn’t end up purchasing anything. She thanked me for saving her some calories and shuffled outside. I followed, asking if she would think it intrusive for me to travel home with her on the bus. She told me not to be silly.

The journey was all too short, but we exchanged phone numbers, names, and e-mail addresses (in that order). Margaret dominated the conversation. Her impassioned rant regarding the state of New Zealand politics held my attention the whole way home. All that was required from me was the occasional interjection.

Margaret invited me to walk her to her flat as we were approaching her departing stop. I happily obliged given that my flat was barely two kilometres away from hers. As we approached her door, she lamented the fact that her e-mail inbox would be full of spam. Grasping my opportunity to hear that sweet music again, I interrupted her complaints.

“Maybe you should take a good look at what they are offering,” I said as we stopped on the steps of her flat.

“Don’t be a dick James,” she retorted, “they’re all useless.”

“What if they offer you a cure for your electoral dysfunction?” My quip was accompanied by a deadpan expression. Her laugh was deep and full-bodied this time; orchestral as well as melodic.

“I don’t think it would be very useful”, she said as her eyebrows rose and fell rhythmically.

I decided to persist as one-liners speedily formed in my brain. “I mean, you have to rise and support your party’s rigid policies.

Shaking her head, Margaret continued to laugh. “I don’t support a party, remember? There’s no good combination of policy at all in New Zealand.”

“Touché,” I said in resignation “suppose you better go delete that spam then. After you’ve done that, give me a call.” I waved goodbye and began walking down her garden path.

“I shall”, she said as she leaned on the door, holding it open. The only problem with her then was that she waved like Thatcher.  

The next ten months were the time of my life (not that I’m keen on quoting Dirty Dancing). Introducing Margaret to my mother was a nervous moment. Mum had taken pleasure in interrogating my former girlfriends. Fortunately, Margaret was able to make concessions for Mum’s vagaries. Margaret’s questions regarding my father were careful and sincere. She was also an extremely good cook, a quality which never goes amiss with any mother.

Dave and the boys were as polite as Dave and the boys could be when Margaret visited the flat. They made no attempt to vilify her and didn’t refer to that abhorrent “bros before hos” slogan in her presence. Margaret only condemned the pervasive smell of deodorant and stacks of two minute noodles. I had to concede that she had fair reason for doing so.

Margaret and I weren’t attached at the hip, but we spent as much time together as possible without being detrimental to each other’s academic careers. We both achieved Grade Point Averages of around 3.6. Our most common dating venues were the cinema and the theatre. We were both interested in the way human relationships developed and unravelled on stage and screen. Perhaps we didn’t pay enough attention to real life.

Around the ten-month mark, the bonds began to break. She started to avoid me. Friendly calls weren’t returned. Dates were avoided with shabby excuses. I got the impression she needed space. I asked if something was wrong. “I’m fine.” All that was left to our relationship was stilted conversation via electronic communication. Dave and the boys started asking if she’d dumped me. This was soon changed to when I planned on dumping her. About a week before Christmas, my frustration with her nonchalance got the better of me. I arranged a meeting with her (via text messages) at the Sugar Shack, a café on a street corner. At 10:15 I arrived and ordered a tan square and lemonade.

Margaret arrived around 10:30. Fifteen minutes late. Her eyes darted around the room as she made her way chair opposite me. She was dressed in black.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” I asked.

She managed a wry smile, but that was the height of her joy. No sweet melody today.

“James, I’ve been keeping this from you too long. I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m seeing someone else.”

This particular revelation was a bit of a shock. God knows how I dealt with it. I didn’t get angry. Numbness overcame me. My soul went into denial.

“Yeah, there are lots of people in this café, aren’t there? Would you like to move somewhere more private? We won’t be able to see anyone else at my house”.

She frowned. Her face was an uncomfortable mix of sympathy and frustration. Her eyes glazed over. Her mouth twitched. She stared at her hands.

“Please try and take something seriously for once,” she said, as tears started to well up in both her eyes and mine.

“As seriously as you’ve taken our relationship for the past couple of months?” I asked with cruel conviction.

Margaret could not take any more of this. She shook her head and left. I was soon overcome with regret. She’d screwed our relationship up. She’d cheated on me. But I had abandoned damage control just so I could throw water on the Wicked Witch.

I picked up my lemonade to drink it. But I couldn’t get the lid off. 

*                         *                       *

My assertion that our relationship was like the first half of a romantic comedy seems to ring more true every time I recall events. I’ve been left to finish the film on my own terms. All that’s left before the viewers depart with dry mouths and popcorn breath is the denouement.

Was Margaret an emotional accessory or a romantic addition? It’s irrelevant. After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided that there’s little chance of Margaret and I getting back together. Turns out she hit it off with this basketballer named Karl at a post-exam party. They were both drunk. Or so I hear.

Just before, I called Mum to apologise for my anti-Catholic outburst. I reassured her I was fine, and she took my word for it. Similar chats with my female friends will follow. I’ve taken The Wizard of Oz out of the VCR and replaced it with one of Dave’s mystery tapes.

Dave walks into the lounge and sees that I’ve dug into his box of goodies.

“Good man, Jimmy,” he smiles at me.

“I’ve decided I can’t live in the past,” I say to him, expecting a smug response. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Well done, Mr. Philosophy. I’ll give you some privacy.” he grins triumphantly as he opens the fridge. He grabs a Heineken, high-fives me and strolls out of the room. He may have been right about that universal truth after all.

I decide to make a snack before I watch the movie. As I’m walking over to the fridge, the phone rings. I answer it.

“Hi,” says Margaret.