Glossary of literary terms used in this course



References and Further Reading

Hemingway, E. M., 1977 The Essential Hemingway, Panther

Mellor, B., Patterson, A. and O’Neill, M., 1991 Reading Fictions, Chalkface Press.

Mellor, B., Patterson, A. and O’Neill, M., 1990 Reading Stories, Chalkface Press.

Mellor, B. and Patterson, A., 1996 Investigating Texts, Chalkface Press.

Moon, B., 1990 Studying Literature, Chalkface Press.

Moon, B., 1992 Literary Terms A Practical Glossary, Chalkface Press.

Glossary of literary terms used in this course

Fiction: Writing which is essentially the creation of its author. While it may be based on fact it is mainly a story which has not actually happened.

Text: Something constructed to provide meaning. In this course the most common type of text used will be the written short story.

Canon: A body of literature believed to be essential reading for all members of a particular cultural group in order to fully understand that culture.

Readings: interpretations of the texts put forward by different readers. This is a better way to think of the ideas in a text than “themes”.

Dominant reading: the reading which is supported by the dominant culture.

Marginalised reading: a reading which foregrounds ideas and values of marginalised or minority groups within the culture.

Resistant reading: a reading which actively resists the dominant reading of a text.

Plot: the events of the story ie the things that happen.

Themes: meanings or ideas available in the text

Symbol: something which is used in a text to represent something else. Using symbols (symbolism) is a common technique used in texts to improve our understanding of meaning.

Image: words used to create a picture in your head. The technique (imagery), like symbolism, is often used to represent other things and enhance our understanding of meaning or description.

Simile: a way of describing something by saying it is like something else eg “tall as a tree” or “hair like an explosion in a mattress factory”.

Metaphor: a way of describing something by comparing it to something else directly eg “the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed on cloudy seas”.

Characters: the participants/actors in a text. The main character is called the “protagonist”.

Techniques: methods used in the text to convey ideas or make meanings eg symbolism and characterisation.

Point of View: the perspective from which the story is told. It represents the nature of the narrative and there are several types. The most common types of p/v are “1st Person” and 3rd Person narrators.

Intertextuality: Using our knowledge of other texts to make meaning in a different text.

Polysemic: having more than one available meaning.

Foregrounding: writing a text so that certain ideas and meanings are given more status and importance (privileged).

Deconstructing a text: examining a text in order to consider the range of available meanings it contains.

Cultural Artefact: something which is a creation of the dominant culture. Texts are cultural artefacts because they reflect not only the ideas of the author but also the values and attitudes of the contemporary culture. This is true even if it purports to criticise those values.

Reading Short Fiction Unit Assessment

“Tea in the Wendy House”

By Adele Geras (1982).

Present your reading of this story. You should take into account the ideas and techniques that we will discuss in the course and use examples from the text to support your arguments.

Things to Consider:

• Think about the scenes in the Wendy House. What purposes do they serve? For example, do they comment on aspects of the main text? Are they metaphorical? Is there a pattern to them? Chronological? Juxtaposition? A story within a story?

• Look at the narrative method. How would your reading be altered if there was a third person narrator or it was written from Graham’s point of view?

• Discuss any aspects of language that you think is important. For example, symbolism, imagery, register etc.

NB: “Wendy House” – A miniature house designed for children to sit in and play at being grown up. Called a “Cubby House” in Australia.

Length: 1000-1500 words.

Part One: Background to Reading Fiction

• The nature of reading

• Changes: from criticism to deconstruction

• Text: “The Test” by Angelica Gibbs

Then and Now!

Then:

• Reading was a passive process

• All available meaning was contained in the text

• All texts had one “correct” meaning (usually determined by scholars at Oxbridge) and it was up to readers to learn it.

• “Literature” was composed of a set of “worthy” texts (canon) which should be read and/or studied by everyone wishing to consider themselves educated or wishing to understand Western culture.

Now:

• Reading is an interactive process where the reader brings ideas and values to the text which react with the ideas and values in the text to create a “reading”.

• Texts may be polysemic and contain a number of possible readings depending on the ideas, values and cultural backgrounds of the readers.

• Literature is incredibly difficult to define and any attempt to do so will contain large numbers of value judgements. It is what is taught in Literature classes and tends to be the texts favoured by the dominant groups in society. It is usually considered to be “of value” for moral, ethical, spiritual or technical reasons. (Moon, B. 1992 p. 72)

“The Test” was first published in 1940 and is told largely through dialogue so the speech of the characters is important to understanding the story. It is a third person narrative but the author never intrudes so the readers are free to make their own decisions about the ideas in the story.

Group Discussion

1. What do we know about each of the three characters? How do we learn about them?

2. Are we positioned by the text to feel sympathy for any particular character? How does this happen?

3. Which issues do you think are being foregrounded in this text?

4. Give three examples of aspects of intertextuality that we need to understand to construct meaning from the story.

The Test

Angelica Gibbs

First published in The New Yorker on 15 June 1940

On the afternoon Marian took her second driving test, Mrs Ericson went with her. 'It's probably better to have someone a little older with you,' Mrs Ericson said as Marian slipped into the driver's seat beside her. 'Perhaps last time your Cousin Bill made you nervous, talking too much on the way.'

'Yes, Ma'am,' Marian said in her soft unaccented voice. 'They probably do like it better if a white person shows up with you.'

'Oh, I don't think it's that,' Mrs Ericson began, and subsided after a glance at the girl's set profile. Marian drove the car slowly through the shady suburban streets. It was one of the first hot days of June, and when they reached the boulevard they found it crowded with cars headed for the beaches.

'Do you want me to drive?' Mrs Ericson asked. 'I'll be glad to if you're feeling jumpy.' Marian shook her head. Mrs Ericson watched her dark, competent hands and wondered for the thousandth time how the house had ever managed to get along without her, or how she had lived through those earlier years when her household had been presided over by a series of slatternly white girls who had considered housework demeaning and the care of children an added insult. 'You drive beautifully, Marian,' she said. 'Now, don't think of the last time. Anybody would slide on a steep hill on a wet day like that.'

'It takes four mistakes to flunk you,' Marian said. 'I don't remember doing all the things the inspector marked down on my blank.'

'People say that they only want you to slip them a little something,' Mrs Ericson said doubtfully.

'No,' Marian said. 'That would only make it worse, Mrs Ericson. I know.'

The car turned right, at a traffic signal, into a side road and slid up to the curb at the rear of a short line of parked cars. The inspectors had not arrived yet.

'You have the papers?' Mrs. Ericson asked. Marian took them out of her bag: her learner's permit; the car registration, and her birth certificate. They settled down to the dreary business of waiting.

'It will be marvellous to have someone dependable to drive the children to school everyday,' Mrs Ericson said.

Marian looked up from the list of driving requirements she had been studying. 'It'll make things simpler at the house, won't it? 'she said.

'Oh, Marian,' Mrs Ericson exclaimed, 'if I could only pay you half of what you're worth!'

'Now, Mrs Ericson,' Marian said firmly. They looked at each other and smiled with affection.

Two cars with official insignia on their doors stopped across the street. The inspectors leaped out, very brisk and military in their neat uniforms. Marian's hands tightened on the wheel. 'There's the one who flunked me last time,' she whispered, pointing to a stocky, self-important man who had begun to shout directions at the driver at the head of the line. 'Oh, Mrs Ericson.'

'Now, Marian,' Mrs Ericson said. They smiled at each other again, rather weakly.

The inspector who finally reached their car was not the stocky one but a genial, middle-aged man who grinned broadly as he thumbed over their papers. Mrs Ericson started to get out of the car.

'Don't you want to come along?' the inspector asked. 'Mandy and I don't mind company.' Mrs Ericson was bewildered for a moment. 'No,' she said, and stepped to the curb. 'I might make Marian self-conscious. She's a fine driver, Inspector.'

'Sure thing,' the inspector said, winking at Mrs Ericson. He slid into the seat beside Marian. 'Turn right at the corner, Mandy-Lou.'

From the curb, Mrs Ericson watched the car move smoothly up the street.

The inspector made notations in a small black book. 'Age?' he inquired presently, as they drove along.

'Twenty-seven.'

He looked at Marian out of the corner of his eye. 'Old enough to have quite a flock of pickaninnies, eh?'

Marian did not answer.

'Left at this corner,' the inspector said, 'and park between that truck and the green Buick.'

The two cars were very close together, but Marian squeezed in between them without too much manoeuvering. 'Driven before, Mandy-Lou?' the inspector asked.

'Yes, sir. I had a license for three years in Pennsylvania.'

'Why do you want to drive a car?'

'My employer needs me to take her children to and from school.'

'Sure you don't really want to sneak out nights to meet some young blood?' the inspector asked. He laughed as Marian shook her head.

'Let's see you take a left at the corner and then turn around in the middle of the next block,' the inspector said. He began to whistle 'Swanee River.' 'Make you homesick?' he asked.

Marian put out her hand, swung around neatly in the street, and headed back in the direction from which they had come. 'No,' she said. 'I was born in Scranton, Pennsylvania.'

The inspector feigned astonishment. 'You-all ain't Southern?' he said. 'Well, dog my cats if I didn't think you-all came from down yondah.'

'No sir,' Marian said.

'Turn onto Main Street here and let's see how you-all does in heavier traffic.'

They followed a line of cars along Main Street for several blocks until they came in sight of a concrete bridge which arched high over the railroad tracks.

'Read that sign at the end of the bridge,' the inspector said.

'"Proceed with caution. Dangerous in slippery weather,"' Marian said.

'You-all sho can read fine,' the inspector exclaimed. 'Where d'you learn to do that, Mandy?'

'I got my college degree last year,' Marian said. Her voice was not quite steady.

As the car crept up the slope of the bridge the inspector burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he could scarcely give his next direction. 'Stop here,' he said, wiping his eyes, 'then start 'er up again. Mandy got her degree, did she? Dog my cats!'

Marian pulled up beside the curb. She put the car in neutral, pulled on the emergency, waited a moment, and then put the car into gear again. Her face was set. As she released the brake her foot slipped off the clutch pedal and the engine stalled.

'Now, Mistress Mandy,' the inspector said, 'remember your degree.'

'Damn you!" Marian cried. She started the car with a jerk.

The inspector lost his joviality in an instant. 'Return to the starting place, please,' he said, and made four very black crosses at random in the squares on Marian's application blank.

Mrs Ericson was waiting at the curb where they had left her.

As Marian stopped the car the inspector jumped out and brushed past her, his face purple. 'What happened?' Mrs Ericson asked, looking after him with alarm.

Marian stared down at the wheel and her lip trembled.

'Oh, Marian, again?' Mrs. Ericson said.

Marian nodded. 'In a sort of different way,' she said, and slid over to the right-hand side of the car.

Part Two: Techniques

• Symbolism

• Intertextuality

• Text: “The End of Something” by Ernest Hemingway

A symbol is something which represents something else. We see symbols everyday in our lives and we are used to reading them. For example, a cigarette surrounded by a red circle tells us that we can’t smoke in this area while a white man and woman on a blue sign tells us that there are toilets nearby.

In texts symbolism is a common technique which is used to emphasise ideas or to enhance our understanding of the meanings in the texts. For example in Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare uses stars to represent fate or destiny. So when Romeo on his way to gatecrash the Capulets’ masked ball worries about “some consequence yet hanging in the stars” that will do him harm, he is talking about a nasty fate which may await him. As readers/audience we recognise this symbol and also recognise that we are being given a hint that something important/nasty/fatal/crucial is about to happen. This is called “foreshadowing” and it is a technique commonly used by Shakespeare in his plays.

In the poem “Beatings” by Roger McGough, the poet talks about domestic violence as a curse which is passed down from father to son as each successive generation continues the evil of the previous one. He describes it using symbolism:

“From generation to generation

A poisoned apple passed along”

The “poisoned apple” refers to the story of Snow White in which the wicked stepmother tries to kill Snow White by giving her a poisoned apple. McGough uses this symbol to foreground the idea that domestic violence is something evil passed down from one generation which destroys the next generation. It is also a good example of the technique of intertextuality because we need to use our knowledge of one text (Snow White) to understand another (“Beatings”).

“The End Of Something” is unusual for a Hemingway story in that it is a gentle, sad story about adolescents. He is generally better known for stories about war, suffering, disillusion, violence and trials of human endurance.

Discussion

1. What is it the end of?

2. What hints are we given that something is wrong between Nick and Marjorie?

3. What do we learn from the arrival of Nick’s friend?

4. What does the last line of dialogue tell us about the way Nick feels about what has just happened?

5. What is the point of the description of Horton’s Bay at the start of the story?

The End of Something

In the old days Hortons Bay was a lumbering town. No one who lived in it was out of sound of the big saws in the mill by the lake. Then one year there were no more logs to make lumber. The lumber schooners came into the bay and were loaded with the cut of the mill that stood stacked in the yard. All the piles of lumber were carried away. The big mill building had all its machinery that was removable taken out and hoisted on board one of the schooners by the men who had worked in the mill. The schooner moved out of the bay toward the open lake, carrying the two great saws, the travelling carriage that hurled the logs against the revolving, circular saws and all the rollers, wheels, belts and iron piled on a hull-deep load of lumber. Its open hold covered with canvas and lashed tight, the sails of the schooner filled and it moved out into the open lake, carrying with it everything that had made the mill a mill and Hortons Bay a town. The one-story bunk houses, the eating-house, the company store, the mill offices, and the big mill itself stood deserted in the acres of sawdust that covered the swampy meadow by the shore of the bay.

Ten years later there was nothing of the mill left except the broken white limestone of its foundations showing through the swampy second growth as Nick and Marjorie rowed along the shore. They were trolling along the edge of the channel-bank where the bottom dropped off suddenly from sandy shallows to twelve feet of dark water. They were trolling on their way to set night lines for rainbow trout. "There's our old ruin, Nick," Marjorie said.

Nick, rowing, looked at the white stone in the green trees. "There it is," he said.

"Can you remember when it was a mill?" Marjorie asked.

"I can just remember," Nick said.

"It seems more like a castle," Marjorie said.

Nick said nothing. They rowed on out of sight of the mill, following the shore line. Then Nick cut across the bay. "They aren't striking," he said.

"No," Marjorie said. She was intent on the rod all the time they trolled, even when she talked. She loved to fish. She loved to fish with Nick.

Close beside the boat a big trout broke the surface of the water. Nick pulled hard on one oar so the boat would turn and the bait, spinning far behind, would pass where the trout was feeding. As the trout's back came up out of the water the minnows jumped wildly. They sprinkled the surface like a handful of shot thrown into the water. Another trout broke water, feeding on the other side of the boat. "They're feeding," Marjorie said.

"But they won't strike," Nick said.

He rowed the boat around to troll past both the feeding fish, then headed it for the point. Marjorie did not reel in until the boat touched the shore. They pulled the boat up the beach and Nick lifted out a pail of live perch. The perch swam in the water pail. Nick caught three of them with his hands and cut heir heads off and skinned them while Marjorie chased with her hands in the bucket, finally caught a perch, cut its head off and skinned it. Nick looked at her fish. "You don't want to take the ventral fin out," he said. "It'll be all right for bait but it's better with the ventral fin in."

He hooked each of the skinned perch through the tail. There were two hooks attached to a leader on each rod. Then Marjorie rowed the boat out over the channel-bank, holding the line in her teeth, and looking toward Nick, who stood on the shore holding the rod and letting the line run out from the reel. "That's about right," he called.

"Should I let it drop?" Marjorie called back, holding the line in her hand.

"Sure. Let it go." Marjorie dropped the line overboard and watched the baits go down through the water.

She came in with the boat and ran the second line out the same way. Each time Nick set a heavy slab of driftwood across the butt of the rod to hold it solid and propped it up at an angle with a small slab. He reeled in the slack line so the line ran taut out to where the bait rested on the sandy floor of the channel and set the click on the reel. When a trout, feeding on the bottom, took the bait it would run with it, taking line out of the reel in a rush and making the reel sing with the click on. Marjorie rowed up the point a little way so she would not disturb the line. She pulled hard on the oars and the boat went up the beach. Little waves came in with it. Marjorie stepped out of the boat and Nick pulled the boat high up the beach.

"What's the matter, Nick?" Marjorie asked.

"I don't know," Nick said, getting wood for a fire.

They made a fire with driftwood. Marjorie went to the boat and brought a blanket. The evening breeze blew the smoke toward the point, so Marjorie spread the blanket out between the fire and the lake. Marjorie sat on the blanket with her back to the fire and waited for Nick. He came over and sat down beside her on the blanket. In back of them was the close second-growth timber of the point and in front was the bay with the mouth of Horton’s Creek. It was not quite dark. The fire-light went as far as the water. They could both see the two steel rods at an angle over the dark water. The fire glinted on the reels. Marjorie unpacked the basket of supper. "I don't feel like eating," said Nick.

"Come on and eat, Nick."

"All right."

They ate without talking, and watched the two rods and the fire-light in the water.

"There's going to be a moon tonight," said Nick. He looked across the bay to the hills that were beginning to sharpen against the sky. Beyond the hills he knew the moon was coming up. "I know it," Marjorie said happily.

"You know everything," Nick said.

"Oh, Nick, please cut it out! Please, please don't be that way!"

"I can't help it," Nick said. "You do. You know everything. That's the trouble. You know you do." Marjorie did not say anything.

"I've taught you everything. You know you do. What don't you know, anyway?"

"Oh, shut up," Marjorie said. "There comes the moon."

They sat on the blanket without touching each other and watched the moon rise.

"You don't have to talk silly," Marjorie said. "What's really the matter?"

"I don't know."

"Of course you know."

"No I don't."

"Go on and say it."

Nick looked on at the moon, coming up over the hills. "It isn't fun any more."

He was afraid to look at Marjorie. Then he looked at her. She sat there with her back toward him. He looked at her back. "It isn't fun any more. Not any of it."

She didn't say anything. He went on. "I feel as though everything was gone to hell inside of me. I don't know, Marge. I don't know what to say." He looked on at her back.

"Isn't love any fun?" Marjorie said.

"No," Nick said. Marjorie stood up. Nick sat there, his head in his hands.

"I'm going to take the boat," Marjorie called to him. "You can walk back around the point."

"All right," Nick said. "I'll push the boat off for you."

"You don't need to," she said. She was afloat in the boat on the water with the moonlight on it. Nick went back and lay down with his face in the blanket by the fire. He could hear Marjorie rowing on the water.

He lay there for a long time. He lay there while he heard Bill come into the clearing walking around through the woods. He felt Bill coming up to the fire. Bill didn't touch him, either.

"Did she go all right?" Bill said.

"Yes," Nick said, lying, his face on the blanket.

"Have a scene?"

"No, there wasn't any scene."

"How do you feel?"

"Oh, go away, Bill! Go away for a while." Bill selected a sandwich from the lunch basket and walked over to have a look at the rods.

Part Three: Narrative Method

• Point of View as technique

• Text: “A Mother’s Fondness” by Marion Rachel Stewart.

Narrative Method basically relates to the way that the story is told to us as readers. It represents the point of view of the storyteller. There are several different types but the two main ones that concern us are:

• First Person Narrative

• Third Person Narrative

Third Person narrators are outside the story and report the events as observers. They are recognisable by the use of pronouns such as “he”, “she” and “they” in the text. Sometimes the narrator simply presents the characters and events without any comment as to purpose or motivation. The readers are left to make all decisions about the text on their own. The narrator appears to know no more about the story than the reader. This type of narrator is called a limited narrator. Sometimes, however, the narrator knows the feelings, thoughts and motivations of all the characters and shares them with the reader. This type of narrator is called an omniscient narrator. Often this type of narrator intrudes into the story to present their own views and opinions on the action. This can colour our reading of the text. This type of narrator is called an intrusive narrator.

In First Person narrative the story is told from the point of view of a character in the story. This is easy to recognise by the use of pronouns such as “I”, “me” and “we” in the narrative. These narrators are generally limited as they are taking part in the action but sometimes they can provide more information because they are telling the story retrospectively i.e. looking back at events from some time in the future so they know what will happen. “Pip” in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations is an example of this type.

Some people say that a first person narrator is better because it allows the reader to feel more involved with and sympathetic towards the character. Others argue that it can sometimes be unrealistic and put too many limitations on the plot. For example it is much more difficult for a first person narrator to die at the end of the story! Sometimes the narrative method has little effect on meaning in the story. At other times it is vital. This is the case in “A Mother’s Fondness”. “A Mother’s Fondness” is unusual because it uses two first person narrators. This technique has a profound effect on the meanings available in the story.

Group Discussion

1. Note any unusual vocabulary you find in the story.

2. Briefly outline the plot of the story.

3. What do you think is the purpose of giving two versions of the same events?

4. Are we positioned to sympathise with one character more than the other?

5. Which character do you sympathise with? Why?

“A Mother’s Fondness”

Marion Rachel Stewart

The mother

I began to worry and fidget by half past five. Two buses had gone by and she had not come home from school. I thought of all the places she could go to and became afraid because there were so many. My husband was working in Glasgow and my father, who stayed with us, was on holiday.

The house was empty. I was afraid. Not of being alone but she would have phoned to tell me if she was going away anywhere. My stomach turned, I felt hungry but could not eat, tired but could not sleep, torment by my imagination.

At six o’clock I phoned her friend but she had no idea where she was and suggested I phone several people who were other school friends. I phoned them all but no one knew and said they would phone back if they found out where she was. I tool the car into town. There was a girl she was friendly with who lived in a house on the to town. She hadn’t a phone so I went to the door.

"Elaine, have you seen Cathie?” It was hard to speak as the cries of pain echoes through my head. I was too embarrassed to stay, I had started to cry and my eyes were red and sore. I went into all the cafes she talked of. It was no use. I went home and myself waiting for the phone to ring. It did several times. Always someone to ask if I had found her. At nine o’clock I answered the phone for the millionth time. It was Mrs. Wilson, Elaine’s mother. She said Cathie was at their house. I felt as though the greatest load had been lifted from my heart. Again I took the car and drove into town. She was very quiet and looked at me coldly. She thanked Elaine and got in the car. We said nothing but I wanted to be angry, I wanted to show how worried I had been. I knew that she would not see my anger as love for her. It seemed as though she hated me and to hurt me, but I could tell as she sat stiffly and unmoved that she had no idea this was possible. I was as pleasant as I could be and she answered all the countless questions in a calm indifferent manner. I had failed. I could not get through to her. She could not see the agony I had gone through because of her. It was my fault she was as she was. I had brought myself pain.

When we got home we watched television and it seemed as though nothing bad happened at all. It was forgotten, pushed away out of sight. That night I prayed it would never happen again.

The Daughter

After school I met Caroline and as she had borrowed some records of mine I decided to go round to her house and collect them. I didn’t really know her all that well but she was very easy to get on with. She didn’t go to the same places as I did but occasionally invited me to her house and things like that. I didn’t usually go, simply because I couldn’t be bothered. I hardly even saw her because we were at different schools but when we met we had a good long chat and told each other all our news.

I didn’t feel like going home anyway – perhaps it was because I was getting annoyed with my mother – well, not annoyed but it had become too tense being with her. We couldn’t have a conversation without it becoming a row. I think she resented me a bit… I don’t know why. It made things easier when I went out; I didn’t have to face up to her. She really annoyed me sometimes because any row was forgotten too quickly, as though it was a routine, as though she wasn’t bothered. Any arguments were never about anything important but she made them seem trivial immediately afterwards. She made me feel foolish and small. It was horrible, I hated it happening. I had begun to keep out of her way as much as possible.

Caroline and I had a good long talk about school and other things that worried us. We listened to records for ages in complete silence, not saying a word. I suddenly realized I had missed both buses and would have to try and get the eight o’clock one.

Caroline decided we should go to the loch until it was time for my bus. Bye the time we had walked across the causeway and back I had missed it.

“Mum’ll go daft,” I said suddenly, beginning to worry.

“Look, she’s going to be anyway so it doesn’t matter how late you are.”

That was fair reasoning but I was hungry and cold I thought I’d like to get home.

“No I’d better go now,” I said. I left and started walking through town. I was passing Elaine’s house so I went in to see her.

“Your mother’s going daft, she’s been phoning everyone. She was here, she was in town twice, she’s even been to the police station.” Elaine stopped and took my arm.

“Oh God,” I said, “Oh no, you’re joking!”

“Come in”

I sat down and buried my face in my hands. She would be furious. What was I going to say to her? This meant another row

“Elaine, I don’t want to go home. Can’t I stay here?”

“You’ll have to face up to her as soon as possible. That’s typical of you Cathie, you run away from everything. You’ll have to face up to it.”

Mrs. Wilson came in. I was scared she would be angry too.

“Cathie I’m going to the phone box to phone your mother now.”

My mother knocked on the door and Elaine answered. She stood quietly at the living room door.

I was angry. There had been so much fuss and now she was acting as it nothing had happened. I thanked Elaine and got into the car. I didn’t see any point in talking about it so I kept very quiet and pretended I wasn’t bothered. She didn’t even ask where I’d been until we were halfway home.

There was no way I could show her how hurt I really was. She simply didn’t care about me and I couldn’t let her see how much that hurts. It was no good: she had already forgotten it – just like everything else.

Part Four: Culture 1

• Point of view as meaning

• Resisting the dominant culture

• Text: “The Wolf” by Hermann Hesse

All texts are cultural artefacts in as much as they are creations of a culture as well as of an author. Texts representing the attitudes and values of the dominant culture are often resisted by readers representing marginalised groups. Such readings are called marginalised or resistant readings.

Sometimes, however, texts are written which actively interrogate (force the reader to question) the values and attitudes of the dominant culture. Many writers, such as Charles Dickens, Joseph Conrad and Ralph Ellison, are considered to be harsh critics of the dominant cultures of their time. “The Test” was a story that interrogated attitudes towards race in the USA in the 1930s. “The Wolf” also challenged long-standing European cultural attitudes about wolves when it was published in 1907.

“Little Red Riding Hood” is the archetypal example of the children’s story using the wolf as the villain. European storytelling has a long tradition of portraying wolves as evil and vicious predators that are anti-civilisation and form a binary opposition* to the brave and noble hunters who saved Red Riding Hood and slaughtered thousands of wolves throughout the continent.

Group Discussion

“Little Red Riding Hood in Hong Kong.”

1. What cultural understandings does the reader need to possess to make meaning from this story?

2. What type of story is this? What is its “purpose”?

“The Wolf”

1. What is the narrative method used in this story?

2. In this story we are positioned to endorse the wolves and reject the hunters. How is this done? What techniques are used? Give examples.

*Two things that are normally considered by the culture to be opposites eg masculine/ feminine, rich/poor, left/right, age/youth etc. These opposites are not given equal status in the culture so binary oppositions are hierarchical as well as opposing.

Little Red Riding Hood in Hong Kong

Little Red Riding Hood looked at herself in the mirror. She looked splendid in her Versace cloak and her Chanel padded handbag. She sighed and remembered hat she had to spend a dull afternoon with her grandmother. As Red Riding Hood picked her way through the Filipinas in Central, someone spoke to her and she turned her head. It was a young “wolf” with grinning jaws and a gold medallion. He was dressed in a violet Versus suit. Just as he was about to speak his pager rang.

“Well, well. What have we here?” he continued. “A pretty lady all alone and a big wolf like me standing in her way!”

Red Riding Hood looked bored. They were all alike.

“Well, where are you going Sweetheart?”

“To visit my Granny if you must know, and I’m late!”

“Why don’t I take you there in my new red Ferrari. It matches your pretty cloak.” The wolf’s grin grew wider.

“You have a Ferrari?” Red’s eyes widened. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

The two set off for Grandma’s house on the Peak. On the way, the wolf said: “Why don’t we go to dinner at “Grissini”s instead. You know, I may be able to get you a part in my new movie.

“Really?” gasped Red Riding Hood.

“Oh yes. Anything for a gorgeous girl like you”, replied the Wolf licking his lips.

From Learning Language Through Literature in Secondary Schools by Peter Kennedy and Peter Falvey (eds.), Hong Kong University Press, 1999.

The Wolf

Hermann Hesse (1907)

Never had there been so cruelly cold and long a winter in the French mountains. For weeks the air had been clear, crisp and cold. By day the great slanting snowfields lay dull-white and endless under the glaring blue sky; by night the moon passed over them, a small, clear, angry frosty moon, and on the snow its yellowish glare turned a dull blue that seemed the very essence of coldness. The roads and trails were deserted, especially the higher ones, and the people sat lazy and grumbling in the village huts. At night the windows glowed smoky red in the blue moonlight, and before long they were dark.

It was a hard time for the animals of the region. Many of the smaller ones, and birds as well, froze to death, and their gaunt corpses fell prey to the hawks and wolves. But they too suffered cruelly from cold and hunger. There were only a few wolf families in the region, and their distress led them to band more closely together. By day they went out singly. Here and there one of them would dart through the snow, lean, hungry, and alert, as soundless and furtive as a ghost, his narrow shadow gliding beside him in the whiteness. He would turn his pointed muzzle into the wind and sniff, and from time to time let out a dry, tortured howl. But at night they would all go out together and the villages would be surrounded by their plaintive howling. Cattle and poultry were carefully shut up, and guns lay in readiness behind sturdy shutters. Only seldom were the wolves able to pounce on a dog or other small prey, and two of the pack had already been shot.

The cold went on and on. Often the wolves huddled together for warmth and lay still and brooding, listening woefully to the dead countryside around them, until one of them, tortured by hunger, suddenly jumped up with a bloodcurdling roar. Then all the others turned their muzzles toward him and trembled; and all together burst into a terrible, menacing, dismal howl.

Finally a small part of the pack decided to move. Early in the morning they left their holes, gathered together, and sniffed anxiously and excitedly at the frosty air. Then they started off at a quick, even trot. Those who were staying behind looked after them with wide glassy eyes, trotted a few steps in their wake, stopped, stood still for a moment in indecision, and went slowly back to their empty dens.

At noon the traveling party split in two. Three of the wolves turned eastward toward the Swiss Jura, the others continued southward. The three were fine strong animals, but dreadfully emaciated. Their indrawn light-colored bellies were as narrow as straps, their ribs stood out pitifully on their chests, their mouths were dry and their eyes distended and desperate. They went deep into the Jura. The second day they killed a sheep, the third a dog and a foal. On all sides the infuriated country people began to hunt them. Fear of the unaccustomed intruders spread through the towns and villages of the region. The mail sleighs went out armed, no one went from one village to another without a gun.

After such good pickings, the three wolves felt at once contented and uncertain in the strange surroundings. Becoming more foolhardy than they had ever been at home, they broke into a cow barn in broad daylight. The warm little building was filled with the bellowing of cows, the crashing of wooden bars, the thudding of hooves, and the hot, hungry breath of the wolves. But this time people stepped in. A price had been set on the wolves, and that redoubled the peasants' courage. They killed one with a gunshot through the neck, the second with an ax. The third escaped and ran until he fell half-dead in the snow. He was the youngest and most beautiful of the wolves, a proud beast, strong and graceful. For a long time he lay panting. Blood-red circles whirled before his eyes, and at times a painful, wheezing moan escaped him. A hurled ax had struck him in the back. But he recovered and managed to stand up. Only then did he see how far he had run. Far and wide there were neither people nor houses. Ahead of him lay an enormous snow-covered mountain, the Chasseral. He decided to go around it. Tortured by thirst, he took a few bites of the frozen hard snow crust.

On the other side of the mountain he spied a village. It was getting on toward nightfall. He waited in a dense clump of fir trees. Then he crept cautiously past the garden fences, following the smell of warm barns. There was no one in the street. Hungrily but fearfully, he peered between the houses. A shot rang out. He threw his head back and was about to run when a second shot came. He was hit. On one side his whitish belly was spotted with blood, which fell steadily in big drops. In spite of his wound he broke into a bounding run and managed to reach the wooded mountain. There he stopped for a moment to listen, and heard voices and steps in the distance. Terror-stricken, he looked up at the mountainside. It was steep, densely wooded, and hard to climb. But he had no choice. Panting, he made his way up the steep wall, while below him a confusion of curses, commands, and lantern lights skirted the mountain. Trembling, the wounded wolf climbed through the woods in the half-light, while slowly the brown blood trickled down his flank.

The cold had let up. The sky in the west was hazy, giving promise of snow.

At last the exhausted beast reached the top. He was at the edge of a large, slightly inclined snowfield not far from Mont Crosin, high above the village from which he had escaped. He felt no hunger, but a dull persistent pain from his wound. A low sick bark came from his drooping jaws, his heart beat heavily and painfully; the hand of death weighed on it like a heavy load. A lone fir tree with spreading branches lured him; there he sat down and stared forlornly into the snow-gray night. Half an hour passed. Then a red, strangely muted light fell on the snow. With a groan the wolf stood up and turned his beautiful head toward the light. It was the moon, which, gigantic and blood-red, had risen in the southeast and was slowly climbing higher in the misty sky. For many weeks it had not been so big and red. Sadly, the dying wolf's eyes clung to the hazy disk, and again a faint howl rattled painfully through the night.

Then came lights and steps. Peasants in thick coats, hunters and boys in fur caps and clumsy leggings came tramping through the snow. A triumphant cry went up. They had sighted the dying wolf, two shots were quickly fired. Both missed. Then they saw that he was already dying and fell upon him with sticks and clubs. He felt nothing more.

Having broken his bones, they dragged him down to Saint-Immer. They laughed, they boasted, they sang, they cursed; they were looking forward to brandy and coffee. None of them saw the beauty of the snow-covered forest, or the radiance of the high plateau, or the red moon which hovered over the Chasseral, and whose faint light shimmered on their rifle barrels, on the crystalline snow, and on the blurred eyes of the dead wolf.

Part Five: Culture 2

• Voices of other cultures

• Cultural relativity

• Text: “Looking for a Rain God” by Bessie Head

For most of its history the canon of Western literature has been dominated by the voices of Christian, European “civilisation”. In fact the term “civilisation” has always referred to the attitudes and values of the dominant culture of Europe and is presented as a binary opposition to the savagery and barbarism of other cultures such as Asian and African.

Even in Joseph Conrad’s famous novella, Heart of Darkness, which is traditionally read as a criticism of Imperialism and the European society driving it, there is great ambivalence about the African people that Marlowe (the first person narrator) comes into contact with.

In recent years more and more writers from non-Western cultures have become part of Literature syllabuses in schools and have allowed readers to hear other voices with ideas that differ from the dominant ideology. These voices often represent marginalised groups in third world countries that suffered the exploitation of colonialism, so vividly described in Heart of Darkness. This type of literature is often referred to as “post-colonial literature.”

The types of problems that can arise when the values of one culture are imposed on another are examined in the story, “Looking for a Rain God”. There is, however, a lot more to this text than just its “post-colonial” genre. It uses description and an understated style to vividly invoke the suffering of the tribal people faced by a sustained drought.

Group Discussion

1. Discuss the role of the narrator in this story. Are we being consistently positioned?

2. In what ways are we invited to view the characters? Is it a consistent and easily defined characterisation?

3. Compare the setting of the scene with the beginning of “The End of Something”. Does it serve the same purpose?

4. Discuss what is meant by the comment about the “use of description and understated style” in the paragraph above.

5. Discuss any unusual language or vocabulary that you come across in the story.

6. What do you make of the comment about ritual murder being punishable by the death penalty?

LOOKING FOR RAIN GOD

By Bessie Head

It is lonely at the lands where the people go to plough. These lands are vast clearings in the bush, and the wild bush is lonely too. Nearly all the lands are within walking distance from the village. In some parts of the bush where the underground water is very near the surface, people made little rest camps for themselves and dug shallow wells to quench their thirst while on their journey to their own lands. They experienced all kinds of things once they left the village. They could rest at shady watering places full of lush tangled trees with delicate pale-gold and purple wild flowers springing up between soft green moss and the children could hunt around for wild figs and any berries that might be in season. But from 1958, a seven-year drought fell upon the land and even the watering places began to look as dismal as the dry open thorn-bush country; the leaves of the trees curled up and withered; the moss became dry and hard and, under the shade of the tangled trees, the ground turned a powdery black and white, because there was no rain. People said rather humorously that if you tried to catch the rain in a cup it would only fill a teaspoon. Towards the beginning of the seventh year of drought, the summer had become an anguish to live through. The air was so dry and moisture-free that it burned the skin. No one knew what to do to escape the heat and tragedy was in the air. At the beginning of that summer, a number of men just went out of their homes and hung themselves to death from trees. The majority of the people had lived off crops, but for two years past they had all returned from the lands with only their rolled-up skin blankets and cooking utensils. Only the charlatans, incanters, and witch-doctors made a pile of money during this time because people were always turning to them in desperation for little talismans and herbs to rub on the plough for the crops to grow and the rain to fall.

The rains were late that year. They came in early November, with a promise of good rain. It wasn't the full, steady downpour of the years of good rain, but thin, scanty, misty rain. It softened the earth and a rich growth of green things sprang up everywhere for the animals to eat. People were called to the village kgotla to hear the proclamation of the beginning of the ploughing season; they stirred themselves and whole families began to move off to the lands to plough.

The family of the old man, Mokgobja, were among those who left early for the lands. They had a donkey cart and piled everything onto it, Mokgobja - who was over seventy years old; two little girls, Neo and Boseyong; their mother Tiro and an unmarried sister, Nesta; and the father and supporter of the family, Ramadi, who drove the donkey cart. In the rush of the first hope of rain, the man, Ramadi, and the two women cleared the land of thorn-bush and then hedged their vast ploughing area with this same thorn-bush to protect the future crop from the goats they had brought along for milk. They cleared out and deepened the old well with its pool of muddy water and still in this light, misty rain, Ramadi inspanned two oxen and turned the earth over with a hand plough.

The land was ready and ploughed, waiting for the crops. At night, the earth was alive with insects singing and rustling about in search of food. But suddenly, by mid-November, the rain fled away; the rain-clouds fled away and left the sky bare. The sun danced dizzily in the sky, with a strange cruelty. Each day the land was covered in a haze of mist as the sun sucked up the last drop of moisture out of the earth. The family sat down in despair, waiting and waiting. Their hopes had run so high; the goats had started producing milk, which they had eagerly poured on their porridge, now they ate plain porridge with no milk. It was impossible to plant the corn, maize, pumpkin and water-melon seeds in the dry earth. They sat the whole day in the shadow of the huts and even stopped thinking, for the rain had fled away. Only the children, Neo and Boseyong, were quite happy in their little girl world. They carried on with their game of making house like their mother and chattered to each other in light, soft tones. They made children from sticks around which they tied rags and scolded them severely in an exact imitation of their own mother. Their voice could he heard scolding the day long: "You stupid thing, when I send you to draw water, why do you spill half of it out of the bucket!" "You stupid thing! Can't you mind the porridge-pot without letting the porridge burn!" And then they would beat the rag-dolls on their bottoms with severe expressions.

The adults paid no attention to this; they did not even hear the funny chatter; they sat waiting for rain; their nerves were stretched to breaking-point willing the rain to fall out of the sky. Nothing was important, beyond that. All their animals had been sold during the bad years to purchase food, and of all their herd only two goats were left. It was the women of the family who finally broke down under the strain of waiting for rain. It was really the two women who caused the death of the little girls. Each night they started a weird, high-pitched wailing that began on a low, mournful note and whipped up to a frenzy. Then they would stamp their feet and shout as though they had lost their heads. The men sat quiet and self-controlled; it was important for men to maintain their self-control at all times but their nerve was breaking too. They knew the women were haunted by the starvation of the coming year.

Finally, an ancient memory stirred in the old man, Mokgobja. When he was very young and the customs of the ancestors still ruled the land, he had been witness to a rain-making ceremony. And he came alive a little struggling to recall the details which had been buried by years and years of prayer in a Christian church. As soon as the mists cleared a little, he began consulting in whispers with his youngest son, Ramadi. There was, he said, a certain rain god who accepted only the sacrifice of the bodies of children. Then the rain would fall, then the crops would grow, he said. He explained the ritual and as lie talked, his memory became a conviction and he began to talk with unshakeable authority. Ramadi's nerves were smashed by the wailing of the women and soon the two men began whispering with the two women. The children continued their game: "You stupid thing! How could you have lost the money on the way to the shop! You must have keen playing again!"

After it was all over and the bodies of the two little girls had been spread across the land, the rain did not fall. Instead, there was a deathly silence at night and the devouring heat of the sun by day. A terror, extreme and deep, overwhelmed the whole family. They packed, rolling up their skin blankets and pots, and fled back to the village.

People in the village soon noted the absence of the two little girls. They had died at the lands and were buried there, the family said. But people noted their ashen, terror- stricken faces and a murmur arose. What had killed the children, they wanted to know? And the family replied that they had just died. And people said amongst themselves that it was strange that the two deaths had occurred at the same time. And there was a feeling of great unease at the unnatural looks of the family. Soon the police came around. The family told them the same story of death and burial at the lands. They did not know what the children had died of. So the police asked to see the graves. At this, the mother of the children broke down and told everything.

Throughout that terrible summer, the story of the children hung like a dark cloud of sorrow over the village and the sorrow was not assuaged when the old man and Ramadi were sentenced to death for ritual murder. All they had on the statute books was that tribal murder was against the law and must be stamped out with the death penalty. The subtle story of strain and starvation and breakdown was inadmissible evidence at court; but all the people who lived off crops knew in their hearts that only a hair's breadth had saved them from sharing a fate similar to that of the Mokgobja family. They could have killed something to make the rain fall.

Listen to the End

by Tony Hunter

A flurry of wind sent the brown leaves tumbling end over end ahead of her along the dark, glistening pavement. Thin, cold drizzle, driven by the wind wrapped a clammy embrace round her hurrying figure and swirls of mist danced beckoningly around the street lamps, transmuting their normally friendly beacons into baleful yellow eyes. The tall Victorian houses frowned down disapprovingly on the small figure in the bright red raincoat as if the bright splash of colour offended their staid and sombre tastes.

She quickened her pace, head bent, dark hair plastered damply across a pale face, heels beating out a staccato rhythm that took off with the promise of an echo only to be swallowed by the all-pervading mist, thickening now as it rolled up from the river.

The paper bag of groceries, dampened by mist and rain, threatened once more to disgorge its contents and she shifted the grip of her arms, clutching it even more tightly to her breast carrying it before her like a shied against the dark.

Not far now, she told herself. Then home, out of the cold and wet into the warmth and familiarity of the flat. First a hot bath and a long soak, then something to eat and after, with the fire going full blast, an evening spent curled up in the old armchair with a book. She shivered violently and the two cans in the bag knocked together, the sound amazingly loud in the cottonwool silence. A pity that her flat mate was away. The other girl’s non-stop chatter and lighthearted approach to everything, annoying at times, would have been a welcome counter to her present mood. The undemanding routine of a typing pool followed by a swaying lurching train journey, packed shoulder to shoulder in a phalanx of blank-faced commuters all exuding an aura of dampness and defeat and finally the lonely walk through damp, swirling greyness, had combined to drown her spirits in a remorseless, confidence-sapping quagmire. At least, she thought, searching for a cheerful note, I can put on some music, turn on the lights and shut out the grim grey world.

The steps of the house loomed out of the mist and she hurried up them digging awkwardly in her handbag for the key to the brass-knockered front door. It swung open onto the dark, lino-smelling hallway. The rain had stopped, the wind had died away and everything inside and out was very, very still. She steeled herself for the part she hated most about coming home at night. The six steps across the lobby to the foot of the stairs and the frantic groping for the light switch, a little plastic knob that when pressed in activated the stairway lights. Its spring-loaded mechanism, set by a money-conscious landlord, then inched its way out giving you enough time to dash to the first floor and press the next button before being plunged into darkness again. Sometimes her hand would miss the button and there would follow a frantic groping lasting probably only a second, but seeming to go on for eternity while the dark crowded in and the panic stirred within her. Maybe the switch had been moved or even removed completely or maybe she had entered the wrong house and when she turned to the door she would find a stranger standing there. Then her frantic fingers would find the switch and the fears would vanish in the blessed light. But her hand would shake as she grasped the bannister rail.

She stepped across the lobby, hand out in front like a blind person and thankfully found the switch at the first attempt. Lights blazed on and she clattered quickly up the stairs to the next switch, repeating the process on each landing before reaching the door of the third floor flat. Clutching the bag high, she got her key into the lock and nudged the door open with her shoulder. Flicking on the hall light she closed the door, kicked off her sodden shoes and padded down the hall to the kitchen.

Dumping the fast collapsing bag on the table, she went back down the hall to the lounge door halfway along. Reaching around the door, her fingers found the light switch and pressed it down. The globe in the ceiling gave off a sharp crack, flooded the room with a photographic flash of light and expired.

`Damn,’ she muttered. No spare globes either. Something she had meant to get but had forgotten during her hurried lunch hour shopping. She was halfway across the room, reaching for the table lamp when the realisation of something half seen in that split second of brilliance caused her heart to lurch sickeningly and her breath to catch in her throat. Something, a suggestion of movement, a fleeting disturbance at the extreme edge of her vision. So tenuous that mind and eye had all but failed to register it and only now picked it up on a re-run of a mental filmstrip. She forced herself to keep walking, anxious now for light again, suppressing a cry of pain as she cracked her shin on the coffee table. Her hand collided with the table lamp nearly dislodging it. She grabbed frantically, fumbled for the switch and as the light came on glanced fearfully across the room. The floor length curtains stirred gently and she saw that the big sash window was fractionally open. She let out a sigh of relief and realised that she had been holding her breath. Crossing quickly she closed the window and pulled the curtains across. As she did so she saw that the fog had thickened to the point where the glow of the street lamp was barely perceptible. She shivered and a droplet of water escaped from her hair and tricked down her neck. Still wearing her raincoat she went back to the kitchen and removing the dripping garment hung it on the back of the door. Down the hall to the bathroom where she set the taps running to fill a steaming hot bath. Then through the lounge to her bedroom where she stripped off her clothes, putting the skirt on a hanger and dropping shirt and underwear into the linen basket. Sitting at the dressing table she began to brush out the tangles in her rain soaked hair. After brushing for a minute or so she became aware of a coolness in the air that had not been there before. Almost, but not quite, as if she could physically feel the temperature dropping. Must be the filthy weather she thought. Laying down the brush she walked into the lounge and switched the electric fire onto its highest setting. As she stood before it a little whisper of cold air, no more than the faintest suggestion of coolness, brushed her back. So unexpected was it that its icy kiss induced a long shudder right through her. Goose bumps sprang up all over and her nipples stiffened and became erect. The old house often produced strange draughts. She was used to them, though this one seemed to have a presence rather more marked than most. In the same way the house had quite a repertoire of noises; creaks, groans, knocking sounds, even strange whisperings if you had a good enough imagination. Tonight though, it was strangely silent almost as though the blanket of fog had deadened everything around it. In fact, she thought, the silence was so intense that you could almost feel everything holding its breath. With a start she realised that she was doing so too and feeling rather foolish let it out with a sigh and turned to re-enter the bedroom.

As she turned, an impression, a feeling so intense that it flashed across her mind with the clarity of a neon sign, of not being alone, stopped her movement. The hairs prickled on the nape of her neck and so certain was the feeling that she was being observed that, in an unconscious gesture of femininity she folded one arm across her breasts while the other hand dropped to her belly. The feeling, which lasted perhaps a millisecond, was so strong that for that moment she knew that if she had turned a fraction quicker, she would have glimpsed the face of her observer. Still she stood for a second more, frozen in naked vulnerability while her heart thudded against her chest. Then the moment passed and with it the feeling. Control took over and the logic of a twentieth century mind asserted itself.

`Hey, come on,’ she told herself in a voice that carried rather less conviction than she would have liked. `This weather and this house is really giving you the creeps. You’ll be hearing rattling chains soon.’

She wished she hadn’t said that. It somehow seemed, in the old house with its high ceilings and faded paintwork, not so improbable.

`And stop talking to yourself,’ smiling at the contradiction in words and actions.

She walked resolutely into the bedroom. Donning a robe she made her way to the kitchen and getting out the casserole, prepared the night before, put it to cook in the oven.

The bath was full to just the right level now and dropping the robe to the floor she slid thankfully into the hot scented water. Humming to herself she luxuriated in the steamy embrace, eyes closed, limbs floating, drifting through a drowsy world of half-formed thoughts.

The touch, icy cold across her breasts, shocked her to full consciousness with a savagery that jerked her upright in the bath, water slopping in waves over the side. Her eyes, wide and staring, saw or thought they saw a flicker of shadow at the slightly open bathroom door. The fleeting impression, like the last, had not form or substance but was none the less vivid for that. Then, as she gulped back the cry that had risen to her lips she heard the sound. Seeming to come from all around, from the fabric of the house itself, soft yet insistent, a long drawn-out sigh, deep noted, fading gradually like the dying breath of a dying man. It was a sound filled with longing, with a sense of something unfulfilled but carrying a promise of realisation. Above all, it carried the taint of evil. As the sound faded, the returning silence pressed in with an almost physical weight.

Rigid with fear, her straining hands gripping the edge of the bath she fought back the rising panic that threatened to engulf her reason. Drawing a long shuddering breath and relaxing her grip she reached for the robe. Moving quickly, anxious now to cover her nakedness, she stood and shrugged into it belting it tightly around her waist. She took a step toward the door and froze again as silently, inexorably, it swung closed and latched with a tiny metallic click. Her control snapped then. With a strangled sob she flung herself at the door and wrenched it open, catapulting herself into the hall so violently that she stumbled against the far wall. Breath coming in great heaving gasps she stared around wildly. Nothing. Cream-coloured walls stretched silently away and the solid bulk of the front door stared unwaveringly back.

Behind her. Movement, sensed, not heard. She spun, pressing up against the wall. Again nothing. No. Not there, the other way, from the lounge. Her head jerked from side to side, seeking, like an animal at bay. Again the sigh, stronger, closer, from all around. That breath of cold air again, caressing her neck and she arched away from it, every nerve at snapping point. With a white-knuckled fist thrust against her mouth she stumbled wildly down the hall, the robe now loosened and flying away from her, her free hand slashing the air in front as if to clear a path through a jungle of unseen horror. And as she ran the walls crowded in and the fingers of ice plucked at her passing figure. She lurched into the lounge and stood, trembling violently, in the middle of the room.

The shattering, strident jangle of the telephone crashed through her whirling brain like a death knell and blood oozed from her knuckles as her teeth clenched in a galvanic reaction. Then the source of the sound registered and with a half cry, half sob she sank to her knees and snatched at the instrument, knocking it from the table. Scrabbling frantically on the floor she grabbed the handset.

‘Hi there, sweetheart. What are you doing? Breaking up all the crockery?’ The well-loved voice, calm, reassuring and confident filled her with such overwhelming relief that she almost passed out. Fighting back the blackness in front of her eyes she forced her lips to form words.

‘P-Please, oh God___thank God,’ She sobbed. ‘Help me___please___for God’s sake___help me.’

‘Darling, what the hell’s going on?’ The voice filled with anxiety now. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Her voice was racked with sobs.

‘I’m scared. There’s something…something odd. Cold. Someone. Something here. Not alone. I can feel it.’ Tears streaming down her face, she blurted out disjointed fragments, almost incoherent with terror. He forced his voice to remain calm.

‘Darling, listen. Get a hold. Breathe deep. Now, tell me quietly. Are you hurt and what’s got you in this state?’

His voice cut through the panic and she fought to control her words. Slowly, in a shaking voice, she pieced the sentences together.

‘It’s just that I’ve got this…this feeling. So strong, that I’m not alone. It’s like, well…like,’ she paused, sniffing away the tears, ‘there’s someone watching me. A presence, someone, is close but I can’t see them. But I know, I can feel it.’ Her voice rose again. ‘When I look…I look and it’s as though they’ve been there just before but I’m always too late to see them. And it’s cold. When it’s there, it’s cold.’

He resisted the impulse to tell her she was imagining things. She undoubtedly was but he sensed the rising flood of hysteria in her voice and knew she wasn’t far from going over the edge into blind panic.

‘OK darling. You sit tight. I’m on my way over. Be with you in…’

‘No, no,’she broke in frantically. ‘Please. I can’t just wait here. I don’t want to be here. Even for a little while, with no one.’

She was close, very close, to breaking now. One little push was all it would take.

‘Right.’ He made his voice clipped, incisive. Something for her to hold fast to. To obey. ‘This is what you do. Grab a bag. Throw in what you need for tonight, I’ll sit here on the phone and you lay your receiver on the table. That way I can hear you moving about and you can call out to me as you get organised. When you’re packed, get out of there and walk down to the main street. The pub on the corner. Go in and order yourself the biggest Scotch they sell. Wait for me. Slam the front door good and hard when you leave. When I hear that door close I’ll get in the car and head over. Meet you in the pub. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. You can come back and stay at my place. OK? You got all that?’

‘Y-yes.’ The precise list of instructions and the knowledge that someone was in control had calmed her. ‘I’ll start right now. I’ll leave the phone on the coffee table. Then I’ll go to the bedroom and get dressed.’

‘Good girl. Don’t forget, I’m right here on the end of the line.’ He heard the receiver go down and her footsteps recede across the room. Her voice floated back, a little uncertain again now.

‘I’m going into the bedroom now. I’m getting dressed.’ Silence for a minute. Then a thump as something heavy fell. His heart lurched. Footsteps approached the phone.

‘I dropped the bag getting it off the top of the wardrobe,’ she called shakily.

He relaxed his vice-like grip on the receiver. Heard her moving around again.

‘Just getting some things from the bathroom.’

Footsteps again.

‘Nearly ready.’

Then her voice, close again.

‘OK,’ She still sounded shaky but in control. ‘I’m leaving now.’

‘Don’t hang up,’ he cautioned. ‘I want to hear that front door slam so I know you’re out of there.’

‘All right. See you soon.’

He listened as her footsteps grew fainter. Some interference on the line, a low sighing sound, intruded for a second or two, then faded as he listened for the slam of the front door. He heard instead a click and then the dial tone as the receiver at the other end was gently replaced.

End Note:

I asked some friends about their favourite short stories. Thought you might find the results interesting.

Take care

Kerry

My Picks:

1. The Wolf - Hermann Hesse

2. Listen to the End - Tony Hunter

3. Conversations with Unicorns - Peter Carey

4. The Necklace - Guy de Maupassant

5. The Accursed House - another French guy

6. All Summer in a Day - Ray Bradbury

7. Poor Ash - Richard Adams

8. Looking for a Rain God - Bessie Head

9. Tea in the Wendy House - Adele Geras

10. The Drover's Wife - Henry Lawson

+ honourable mentions to a science fiction story about a shape changer who hides on a space ship in order to infiltrate Earth only to get fried when the door opens because he disguised himself as the electrical wiring (you had to be there!) and anything by Roald Dahl.

Their Picks:

Gardner, P. and Newmark, N. (eds)(1990) "Classic Short Stories".

Macmillan Education Australia.

Baynton's "Squeaker's Mate"

Chekov's "The Malefactor"

Colette's "The Advice"

Faulkner's "The Liar"

Jacob's "The Monkey's Paw"

Joyce's "Evelyn"

Lawrence's "Her Turn"

Mansfield's "The Doll's House"

Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart"

Thurber's "Secret Life of Walter Mitty"

Tolstoy's "How Much Land Does a Man Need?"

Wells' "The Truth About Pyecraft"

Wilde's "The Happy Prince"

Ursula Leguin’s “Those Ran Away From Omolous “

Joseph Conrad’s “An Outpost of Progress”

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