Novel Beginnings

Here we are then. The opening couple of pages of the novel upon which I am currently working. The novel which I am determined to finish writing this year. I'm braced for feedback, if you would be kind enough to read and comment...

Oh, by the way, I haven't settled on a proper title yet. I call it, for now...

Clive and Min

He's clearly dead, thought Minerva Thing. Even I can see that. She wanted to tell them to stop, the paramedics who were taking turns in pounding valiantly at Clive's chest. She picked up the rhythm of their futile resuscitation, tapping it with her foot –  pump, pump, pump, pump, Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus – as Clive lay there, his head at an odd angle and a trickle of blood greasing its way from his ear and down the side of his face.  A small crowd had gathered on the pavement to enjoy the drama. Something thrilling to talk about over supper, no doubt. Some little excitement to colour a dreary, suburban day. The car driver was shaking, poor woman, well, little more than a girl really. A collection of soft toys were scattered across her car windscreen from the jolt of  her emergency stop. Min's feet were similarly stopped, anchoring her to the pavement.  Feeling chilled, she folded her arms across her chest. It was the beginning of June and an unseasonal nippy wind was dancing up and down the avenue.

            'You okay, love?' A paramedic gently touched her elbow, crew from the second ambulance which had just arrived. Min had been pointed out by one of the gawping neighbours as the victim's next-of-kin, thus warranting her special attention.

            Min nodded. 'Yes,' she said.

            'Bit of a shock, eh?' said the paramedic. 'Come and sit in the ambulance. Let me check you over.'

            'For what?' said Min. 'I told you, I'm all right. Thank you,' she added, as an afterthought because she knew she was brisk of manner, and briskness could often be misconstrued as rudeness.

            The paramedic was persistent, though, so Min allowed herself to be guided into the second ambulance where she was wrapped in a foil blanket, like an oven-ready chicken, before having her temperature, pulse and blood pressure taken.

            'What happened?' said the paramedic gently, satisfied that Min was, as she said, all right.

            Min sighed. She said, 'I told him to give up smoking. I told him it would kill him.'

            The paramedic's forehead creased into a frown. 'I'm sorry? I don't quite...'

            'Him,' said Min, 'Clive. Dropped his tobacco tin in the road. Bent over to retrieve it from the gutter and was hit in the head by that car. What a mess.’ She sighed. ‘How's the driver?' and nodded towards the young woman, whilst at the same time averting her gaze from the front of the Mini, whose headlamps and bumper were sprayed with blood and possibly bits of brain. Not that Clive had much brain. Would have given up smoking, wouldn't he, if he had brains? And that car wasn't a proper Mini either. It was one of those expansive, modern models, built like a tank and nothing like the original model. If it had been a proper Mini it might not have done so much damage. Min’s first car was a proper Mini. She smiled at the memory of Min's Mini.

            'You sure you're okay?' said the paramedic. 'You could be in shock...'

            'I'm fine,' said Min. She stood up and made for the ambulance steps. 'What happens now?'

            'Well, my colleagues are still working on your husband...'

            'Brother,' said Min. 'Clive is my brother. Was my brother. He's dead. Isn't he?'

            From the look on the paramedic's face, Min knew she was correct. It was hardly surprising. It's what happens when one is careless and allows oneself to be hit by a car.

            'Let's just wait and see, shall we?' said the paramedic, but even as she spoke the team working on Clive were rocking back on their heels; one of them checked his watch whilst the other pulled a blanket gently over Clive's face.

            'There,' said Min. 'What did I tell you? Dead.'

            She savoured the satisfaction of being right.

            Min travelled to the hospital with Clive. She knew there would be paperwork to  complete, and if the ambulance was offering a free lift she might as well deal with  the bureaucracy now rather than wasting time returning later. At the hospital, Clive was wheeled towards the morgue, and Min was directed to the bereavement support office. The unfortunate car driver had been taken away by the police to make a statement and the crowd of locals had dispersed, gone to spread the news that Clive Thing of Satis House had suffered death in dramatic circumstances.

            'Have a seat,' said the paramedic when they reached the bereavement support office. 'Someone will be with you soon. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Or coffee?'

            'No,' said Min. 'Thank you.'

            The bereavement support officer arrived almost immediately, speed walking along the corridor with a sense of purpose. He introduced himself as Amar Singh; his turban, Min noticed approvingly, was the same periwinkle blue of the cushions on her kitchen chairs. He was kind, offering tea and tissues (both declined) before moving gently to the matter in hand. The coroner would order a post-mortem, of course, with the death being sudden and unexpected, and there would be a police road traffic collision investigation. Clive’s body would be released for the funeral as soon as possible, but there were 'details' to sort out, and 'processes' to go through, he hoped she understood. Min nodded. She answered questions –  Clive's address, date of birth and domestic circumstances, GP details. She talked of what she had seen which wasn’t much, really, it had all happened so fast.

            ‘I shouted at him to watch out,’ sighed Min. ‘But he never was very good at listening.’

            Amar Singh nodded.  'Thank you for coming in so promptly,' he said, closing the file on his computer to signal the end of proceedings. He paused. 'Miss Thing, would you like to see your brother? I believe the mortuary team will have managed to accommodate the worst of his head injury by now. He’ll be presentable.'

             That'll be a first, thought Min. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Instead - 'What do people usually do?' she said.

            Amar Singh stood. 'Most people find it helps to view the body of their loved one. To start the grieving process, you know. But it’s not for everyone. I can take you to the viewing room if you like. See how you feel when you get there.'

            Loved one. Start the grieving process. Right. Min nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'I'll go and see the body. Clive. Say goodbye.'

            Amar Singh smiled gently and picked up the phone on his desk. 'I'll call ahead and let them know we're on our way,' he said.

            Clive looked even more dead now than he did on the side of the road, if, indeed, degrees of deadness were possible. He often looked miserable in life, but this new demeanour took grimness to another level. The viewing room was small, and Min was taken aback by the close proximity of the body to the door when she was led through by the auxiliary who met her arrival.

            'Oh!' Min said, as the dead Clive loomed unexpectedly near.

            'We've given him a good tidy up,' said the auxiliary, nodding at the bandaging which concealed most of Clive's head and part of his face. 'Take your time. I can stay if you like. Or would you prefer to be left alone?' She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, but it was long enough for Min to realise the woman probably had a million other things to occupy her time than stand and stare at a stranger staring at a cadaver.

            'You go,' Min said. 'I'll be fine.' She nodded at Clive. 'He didn't believe in ghosts, so I doubt he can haunt me, eh?' Her attempt at a joke. Jokes had never been her forté.

            The nurse looked askance for a second, and then her face cracked into a smile. 'No,' she said. 'It would touch on hypocrisy, wouldn't it?'

            'And your name is..?' said Min. Although it wasn't her nature to be curious about strangers there was something about this woman's brisk efficiency that invited introduction.

            'Connie,' said the nurse.

            'I'm Min,' said Min.

            Connie held out her hand. 'Despite the sad circumstances, I am pleased to meet you, Min,' she said. 'Just press that button when you're done and I'll come back. Take your time.'

            The door clicked shut on Connie's retreating back. Min took a deep breath.

            'You are such a moron,' she said, staring directly at Clive. 'Just look at you. Head all stove in and broken. What sort of a way is that to end your life? You know what Mother would say, don't you?'

            Clive remained silent. He lay there, dented and waxy, yet Min was sure she could see minute risings and fallings of his chest. She stepped closer.

            'Are you really dead?' she said. 'Really?'

            When Clive didn't sit up and shout, 'Surprise!' she realised he probably was. It was an odd notion, his goneness. She wasn't upset, really she wasn't, because she and Clive had never much liked each other, and she knew she wouldn't miss him for any reason, emotional, physical or spiritual. But the facts presented to her, that he was no longer moving and walking and talking and would no longer be stinking the house out with his tobacco set her legs trembling.

            She allowed herself to sink onto a wooden chair stationed by the door and padded with some flimsy, floral effort of a cushion. Unsure of what to do with her hands, so she folded them in her lap.

            'And what now?' she said, regaining her composure. 'I am disappointed, Clive. I am not surprised, given the innate selfishness of your character, that you should do something like this. But you could have given me some warning. You've left me a lot to do...'

            She sighed. What was the point? People dumped people in trouble all the time, and the best way to deal with it was to hoist yourself up by your boot straps and move on.

            'Don't expect a fuss at the funeral, is all I am saying,' she said. Aware her voice was growing unnecessarily shrill, Min decided it was time to leave. She rose, rang the bell; Connie reappeared and accompanied Min to the hospital reception.

            'Thank you,' said Min. ‘You’ve been very…kind.’

            Connie nodded. 'What now?' she said. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

            'Go home, I suppose,' said Min, although she didn't really want to. 'Go home and wait.'

            'For what?' said Connie.

            Min didn’t know and said as much. ‘Waiting seems the appropriate thing to do, given the circumstances.’

Connie shrugged. 'It’s up to you, of course, if waiting is your need. Personally, I think it's a futile habit. I always say, don't wait. Do.'

            'Do what?' said Min.

             'It doesn't matter,’ said Connie. ‘Clear out a cupboard. Plant begonias. Start an on-line campaign to save the pygmy shrew. It doesn't matter what you do, as long as you are doing something.'

            'That's very practical advice,' said Min, secretly admiring of this pragmatic person.

            'It's my job to be practical,' said Connie. ‘Good luck, Min.