The Last Days of Margaret Thatcher

[wshaw]

First 1,000 words of a novel. It's finished and currently fighting for its life.

Not sure about the title...

From the double room with superb sea views and balcony on the second floor, Em phoned her best friend Madge.

First time she got it wrong, waking a man in room 512, only three floors above.

“Next time try dialling nine first. You’ll find it works wonders.”

“Sor-ry.”

She cut the man off, annoyed. She had given herself away as someone who’d never once stayed a night in a hotel before. But yes, there it was printed in black letters on a small gold rectangle stuck on the brown hotel telephone. Dial “9” for an outside line.

Next time she did better, waking Madge from her Saturday morning slumber. Madge squealed.

“Ohmygod. What was it like? Can’t you talk? Is he still there with you? He is, isn’t he? Bloody hell Em! You… you… you.. I don’t believe it, you… I don’t fucking believe it. I don’t know what to say.”

When she’d calmed down, Em made Madge swear, cross her heart, to be there to pick her up in ten minutes in her car. Ten minutes, OK?

“Promise?” Em said again.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Madge. “Not for all the tea in Texas.”

-*-

The shiny gold lift door opened and, standing at the back was this small man with an enormous suitcase. Em had never seen one so big. How did he carry that? The luggage came up to his elbow, practically.

“Hello.”

There was a waft of Denim, for the man who doesn’t have to try too hard. Maybe Hai Karate? The small man mumbled something, stared downwards at her boots. Well, they weren’t her boots at all; they were Madge’s. Madge had bought them just yesterday. Madge had not even worn them yet, outside the shop. Em had borrowed them for the night. They were like that, Em and Madge.

“Going down?” Em asked. No answer. The doors behind her closed.
It was like he couldn’t take his eyes off the boots. The man had a thin beard and wore a neat brown raincoat, unbuttoned, with a brown suit on underneath. He put his hands in the raincoat pockets, taking them out again, then putting them back in. He was one of those Englishmen, she guessed, who became fidgety in the company of women.

They waited for the lift to move. It didn’t.

She turned and pessed the button marked “G”.

Nothing happened.

“Excuse me.” The man leaned forward suddenly, pressed the buttons too. Then again and again. Nothing.

“In’t it working?”

“No. It appears not.”

For a second he met her eyes; she tried another little smile, to calm him, to reassure him. He shouldn’t be so anxious; so disconcerted. Inside the luxurious space of this hotel, everything was lovely. Even outside, in the less-lovely dial-nine world beyond, things would soon get better too. It was just a matter of determination. Everything can be different. Possiblilty was everywhere.

So, “Let me try,” she said, and she reached past him started punching the buttons one by one. B. G. 1. 2. And again, in order. But not one of them lit up. “Bugger,” she muttered. “God. Sorry.” A laugh.

“No. That’s ok.” Hands in and out of the pockets a couple more times. Then,
“We could walk?” he suggested. She looked at his gigantic suitcase and wondered if she should offer to help him.

Again he lunged past her and pressed the button that was supposed to open the lift doors. Once. Twice.

“It’s broken too, in’t it?”

“Aye,” he said, then, “It is.”

She looked at him again. In those three words, his English accent had disappeared. Had he been putting it on, all along? Was he Scottish? He wasn’t English that was for sure. He was doing his best to sound proper. Poor man. She always felt sorry for the misfits. He was trying so hard to belong to this place. Here she was, her first ever day in a proper hotel, and she felt a thousand times more at home than he did.

“We’re stuck, aren’t we?” she said.

“Looks that way.”

She stepped forwards and banged on the lift doors with the flat of her hands. “Hello? Anybody there?”

And again, harder until her palms were stinging.

There was no answer.

She sighed, looked at her watch, tapped her boots. Lah di dah. Frankie say relax don’t do it.

“You haven’t got a cigarette have you?”

He pulled out his Bensons, opening the pack for her. There was only one left rattling in the box.

“Keep it. I’m Ok.”

“No. Really. I insist,” he smiled, trying to sound all posh again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

So he put it back in his jacket. Squeezed triangularly in these boots, her feet were killing her. “Well anyway. I’m bloody sitting down,” and she slid downwards to the floor. “Typical, eh?”

“Isn’t it, though?” he said, accent wandering over borders again.

“I mean, isn’t there an alarm or something we can press?” A cream handset hung from the lift wall, next to the door. A red sign read: In Emergencies Only. They both looked at it.

“I suppose.” He sounded hesitant. The sort of small man who didn’t like to make a fuss. “Maybe we should wait a while? It’ll probably be fine.”

She counted the ceiling tiles in the lift; read the dinner menu that was placed in a dark wood frame on the wall. Duo of Smoked Trout and Prawns with Horseradish Mayonnaise. A Prime Cut of Beef Steak with Mushrooms, Grilled Tomatoes, Chips and Mixed Leaves. She was starving. Hadn’t had breakfast yet. She could eat all of it. Pan-fried Fillet of Turbot with a Truffle Butter Sauce.

“You come here often?” he blurted.

She looked at him. “No. This is my first time.”

“It’s OK,” he said, like he’d seen better.

“I think it’s nice,” she said. “I could get used to it.” A thought occurred to her. “You think they did it deliberate?”

“Did what?”

“You know? Maybe it was them what stopped the lift?”

Maybe security were there outside the lift doors now, ready to throw her out? Funnily enough, she could care less. They could throw her out on her arse. If it happened, it happened. It was the little man with the big suitcase who looked anxious now. He fingered his too-tight collar. It was airless in the lift, but not that hot; yet he was starting to shine with sweat. Hands in and out of his pockets. Em was glad she hadn’t smoked his last one; he was going to need it.

-*-

The doors were eventually crowbarred. Em was still there, cross-legged on the floor, ready to be helped up by the pudgy hand of a manager. “So sorry sir, so sorry madam. This is most unusual, I assure you.”

“You took your time,” she said.

The little bloke who’d shared the lift with her didn’t say anything, just stood still in the corner, like he was embarrassed that the lift had broken with him in it.

The lift had stuck about a foot below the floor level. Em stepped out squeezing past the throng of chambermaids, men in overalls, men in suits who were all peering into the lift at them, and waited for the man to follow her. Hands reached down for his suitcase. “No,” he said. “I can manage.”

He lifted the case out and stepped up, but tripped, sending the suitcase flying. It toppled over against Em so fast she couldn’t move, hitting her leg.
She righted it and passed the case back. “There you go,” she said. The little man muttered a polite thank-you and clattered away down the stairs, eyes down on the floor.

Funny thing was, for all its size and immense greyness, the suitcase he had dragged with him had been unexpectedly light. It hadn’t hurt at all when it had hit her. You’d expect it to be packed with suits and shirts, neatly pressed underpants and striped pyjamas. It reminded Em of a visit to the circus on The Level with her second mother when she was getting to know them; the elderly strong man, jeered at by the popcorn-throwing crowd, lifting weights with 1 Ton written on each end.

Em could have lifted the suitcase by inserting her little pinkie under the handle and raising it.

[John Self]

This is really great, wshaw! I like the little comical cultural references, like Denim and weights with 1 Ton written on each end... It's bordering on the cosy side of things, but I say that not as a criticism but to pre-empt others who may criticise that aspect. Personally I like that.

And the title is superb (and frankly probably quite saleable).

[gil]

Yes. More! More! We want more!

[wshaw]

And the title is superb (and frankly probably quite saleable).

Thanks. Though my worry is that she pegs it in about two weeks time and the whole thing becomes tasteless... Pause. Or maybe that's a good thing.

Yes. More! More! We want more!

Thanks, gil.

[NottyImp]

Obviously the little man has no taste: he should have been wearing Brut.

[wshaw]

Originally Posted by NottyImp

Obviously the little man has no taste: he should have been wearing Brut.

Neither has my agent, apparently. He hated it. Sigh. My ex-agent I suspect.

[John Self]

Bollocks to that. It wasn't Peter Sean Wright Straus was it?

When you say he hated it, did he actually hate it, or think it's not marketable, or can't agents tell the difference between the two?

Can we see any more of this piece, wshaw?

[wshaw]

Sadly, I think hated is a fair description; in an unusual display of candour for an agent he actually used that word. I'll post some more when I've stopped licking my wounds.

[Noumenon]

You could always substitute "The Beast" for "Margaret Thatcher" and lure in the reading religious zealot demographic.

I enjoyed this opening too.