Backstabbers - Chapter 1
A Dream of a Life
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
DEDICATION:
For the dreamers; the dreams that came true and those that didn’t.
All I had to do was please the right people. If only I knew what they wanted from me.
Those were the final, futile thoughts of Hartley Rumbelow as his lifeless body lay on the dank cobbled floor, trapped under the weight of his own creations. Mostly regret and unfulfilled dreams.
His frail, ancient body was pinned down by fallen bookshelves in his Georgian cellar. Storage boxes had spilt their contents of tattered books, yellowed manuscripts and loose papers. Things which had once meant everything to him. In the end, none of it was going to save him. It was simply useless knowledge.
A few feet away, eighteen-year-old Stuart Ostridge sat slumped on the floor with his back against the crumbling cellar wall. Petrified wide-eyes stared at the sight of death before him. Useless knowledge would be the undoing of Hartley Rumbelow, but it was the key to the future for a sixth-former named Stuart Ostridge.
WEARDNESS SCHOOLS EXAMINATION BOARD
General Certificate Examination
Advanced Level ENGLISH LANGUAGE
Tuesday, 26 June 1979, 2 hours
Answer all the questions in Section A, and one from Section B.
You should pay careful attention to spelling; punctuations and handriting.
In the main hall of Scholars Hollow Secondary School, rows of casually-clothed Sixth Formers worked through their exam with varying degrees of commitment.
Stuart Ostridge feigned deep thought. Often when faking wisdom, his concentration would melt into a yearning gaze at the dark flowing hair of Harriet Flaxton. Stu spent much of his secondary school life staring dreamily at the back of Harriet’s head.
Harriet was the purpose Stu had stayed on at school while his friends had gone on to become frequently gigging pub-rock stars and tyre fitters. The motive for clinging onto his paper round for so long: A legitimate excuse for a daily visit to Harriet’s house.
Yet Stu remained invisible to her. He had wished invisibility upon himself many times throughout his eighteen years on earth, but now it troubled him. Could you bring about your own curse by simply wishing too hard?
Hiding in plain sight had benefits. Stu once overheard a conversation between Harriet and a confidante, huddled over a My Guy photo story. Harriet spoke of the embarrassment of her Dad, Maynard Flaxton, an obscene stand-up comedian who toured working men’s clubs.
Stu’s parents often dropped reminders into conversations about girls, usually when his older brother, Jeffrey, had brought home another well-matched nightmare. “You’re not gonna do all that, are you?” His parents wouldn’t enquire as much as state.
The exhilaration of dating a local celebrity’s daughter might break the deadlock. Mrs Ostridge often gushed at the television, whenever Liberace, Anthony Perkins or Freddie Mercury appeared. Stu’s Dad’s trademark eye-roll would always be followed by 'It’s a miracle you were ever born.’
Sweaty weeble Maynard Flaxton’s vulgar stand-up routine provoked sympathy in Stu for Harriet. Yet to his parents, Maynard Flaxton was a comedy genius, and more importantly, occasionally on television. Introducing Harriet to his parents would be an easy sell.
Stu was certain if Harriet read one of his stories - and what a collection of aired frustrations by a voice desperate to be heard that was - she would understand him. Maybe even like him.
All Stu knew about girls came from films, the Littlewoods catalogue and Jeffrey, who thrived on feeding his little brother misinformation about life. “The Chat” with his Dad, Godfrey, was brief and to the point. “You know about the bird ‘n the bees, don’t you?” Young Stu nodded, and nothing else was said. He would have stood more of a chance of passing his A-Levels.
Stu kept a carefully managed list in his well-hidden diary, should he ever need it.
‘Remarkable Ladies of Note’ Top Ten:
(Delivered with the sensational dynamic urgency of David ‘Kid’ Jensen or Peter Powell)
10. Wonder Woman
9. The Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny
8. Stevie Nicks
7. Julie Newmar’s Catwoman
6. Pauline from Legs & Co.
5. Princess (from Battle of the Planets)
4. Suzi Quatro
3. Vita Gothard (to be explained)
2. Debbie Harry
Yet none of these compared to number one:
1. Harriet Flaxton
Fate was drawing him to Harriet. In the early days of their non-relationship, Stu had a vivid dream: He was old. Dying. From his deathbed, he saw a woman with dark hair. Her face blurred, except for her eyes, telling a complicated history. Even though he was dying, he knew he was safe. Security he had pined for ever since.
Mr. Hargreaves, a George Roper-moustached teacher posing with one tight-trousered leg perched on a chair, drily declared 'One hour to go', as if none of it mattered anyway. Panic kicked Stu in the guts. Spending an entire hour thinking about Harriet wasn’t the best use of his time.
Section B
Choose one of the following and write from 350-500 words
There were eight options to choose from. One stood head and shoulders above the rest.
2. Useless knowledge
This is where Stuart Ostridge would come into his own.
‘Falking Hill is a market town in Essex. It is also part of the London Borough of Weardness. Working class with aspirations of being Middle-class. White and conservative. A town of tradition. For generations, an old lady has sat in the town centre, forcing people to buy lace and heather or else they will be cursed. She does a roaring trade in the mornings when city commuters in bowler hats pass by on their way to the train station. Some say Falking Hill is going downhill fast, yet it has the latest fashions, public transport to London, two cinemas and a pub on every street corner (and not a fully-functioning toilet between them.)
Other features include a fountain in the shopping centre which bubbles up every Saturday, courtesy of teenagers armed with washing-up liquid. There is always a long line of prams outside the supermarket, and an art display outside the library most days, thanks to Peter the Painter, a local tramp who expresses himself on pieces of cardboard.
Everyone in Falking Hill knows someone who works at the car plant down by the river or at the brewery in the epicentre of town. The market and shopping centre frequently smell strongly of hot milk - a super-intense malty breakfast cereal pong that pleasantly fills the nostrils. Until it hits the lungs. Then it makes you heave. Even though it is known as mashing day (when they boil the grains), the smell constantly hangs over the town. Locally known as The Falking Hill Stink.’
Stu’s clammy writing hand cramped; smudged with ink. The curse of the leftie. In junior school, a teacher once embarked on a witch-hunt, exposing Stu as a "cursed" left-handed child.
The teacher instructed him to write with the right hand or else. Or else what, Stu never discovered. People could be cruel. Stu knew that much. Useless memories were Stuart Ostridge’s other speciality.
Drifting from the main hall on the hazy euphoria of surviving the exam, Stu scoured the rabble of pallid skinhead sixth formers. He caught sight of Harriet’s jet-black hair, striking against her red plastic raincoat. Stu had previously written to a magazine Agony Aunt for advice on how to approach Harriet. He blamed the lack of reply for his current race-against-the-clock.
Harriet turned a corner, disappearing from view. Stu followed as fast as the rules allowed. The crisp ironed-in pleats on his black school trousers flapped like two impressive sails on a mighty galleon. Thankfully the corridor was deserted, so nobody saw him speed-waddling like a camp duck. At a junction were four cavernous, paint-flaked corridors. The door to the girls toilets creaked nearby.
Stu acted casual, faking an interest in the school noticeboard to bide his time. He felt a presence appear beside him. He turned with his best winning smile, only to be greeted by Christopher Gothard.
The pestering spectre of copper curls and octagonal spectacles. The loud cackling laugh. The wide mouth with non-existent lips and staring dead eyes… Stu had heard the conspiracy theories from his Dad: The hidden hierarchy of shape-changing lizard people. Was Christopher Gothard one of their agents of doom? Stu liked to think so.
Guitar case at his feet, Christopher Gothard pinned leaflets of self-promotion to the noticeboard. Christopher left school two years ago and had been rubbing it in ever since.
‘Stewpot!’ jeered Christopher.
Stu searched around Christopher without a flicker of recognition; deliberately evasive in the hope that Christopher would naff off, but he continued speaking. ‘Heard your mate Alan making a right din at The Duck’s Foot the other night. Don’t know how he’s got the nerve to pick up a guitar.’
Aggravated at having to acknowledge him, Stu wearily replied. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Teaching the first years music,’ said Christopher, with an incredulous tone, as if it was common knowledge.
How could he teach music? Stu knew for a fact that Gothard couldn’t even read sheet music because he never missed the opportunity to brag about his God-given talent.
‘Still working on my debut album, of course. Potential number one material,’ said Christopher. Stu shrugged, not giving a monkey’s.
The girls’ toilet door whined as it opened. Harriet reappeared, and Stu’s chest seized up as his breathing ceased, deflating as Harriet playfully nudged Christopher with her elbow. They awkwardly pecked kisses on each other.
It was one thing to harbour impure thoughts for Christopher’s mother Vita - a liberated bohemian and nude life model who held a solid position at number two on Stu’s Remarkable Ladies of Note Top Ten - but… Harriet? She was meant to be the one. Yet there she was, holding hands with Christopher bloody Gothard. Confused explanations swarmed Stu’s mind. Harriet must have been tricked in some way. She couldn’t possibly see anything good or remotely likeable in Christopher Gothard.
All Stu could do was watch like an open-mouthed fool; the love and hate of his life, strolling off into a glorious horizon.
Harriet glanced over her shoulder at Stu, calling out. ‘Good luck with your future, Stuart.’ Stu’s longing stare was jolted back to grim reality as his full name was bellowed from a nearby room.
The second hand stuttered on the clock behind Hargreaves’ desk. Harriet was most likely home by now, embracing a future without Stuart Ostridge. Head of the sixth form, Hargreaves was entering the twilight years of his career and it wasn’t getting any better. If this was his lot then he wasn’t going to spare anyone else. Bushy-lipped Hargreaves clutched Stu’s exam paper, with one foot perched on his desk. Stu struggled to avoid making eye contact with Hargreaves’ groin.
‘I warned you not to do this, didn’t I? Couldn’t help yourself, could you?’ said Hargreaves, eyes fixed on Stu’s paper. Before Stu could offer an innocent plea, Hargreaves raised a finger to silence him, reading on. Exhaling puffs of contempt, Hargreaves’ wire-brush top lip finally ceased flapping. With an expectant scowl on his face, Hargreaves waited for an explanation.
‘I warned you. Repeatedly. Just give them what they want. You were meant to write facts. Quotes. This is meaningless hearsay. Descriptions of pub toilets. Claptrap!’
To prove his point, Hargreaves read from Stu’s paper. “These are not my people”. What, you think you’re better than the grafters of Falking Hill market? Breaking their backs to feed their families? What are you trying to prove? That you’re different? Well, brace yourself: You are the same as the rest of us.’
‘But that's the stuff that means something. To me,’ said Stu.
Hargreaves erupted. ‘But we don't want that, we want this!’ He slammed his hand fiercely on the rest of the exam papers stacked on his desk. The impact echoed for a few uncomfortable seconds.
‘You’re a piss-taker. Ostridge by name, Ostridge by nature. Peck, peck, bloody peck. Your sort will be the first against the wall when the time comes.’
Cheeks flushed pink, Stu struggled to withhold the flood of tears behind his eyeballs. Hargreaves leaned in, close enough for Stu to smell his stale breath. ‘Why don’t you write about it, Stuart.’
The sneering “Stuart” was delivered with such drollery it was practically an insult.
Bursting through the rotting flaky-paint doors, Stu’s angry stomp across the desolate grounds slowed to a standstill. He took a moment to gaze back at his decrepit school, which was unloved by teachers and pupils alike. The patched up classroom windows. The offensive graffiti on the sixth form block wall. Stu took stock of the moment. It was finally all over. He would never step foot in that building again.
Emancipation from the educational system was a day long-fantasised about, but this was not how Stu had imagined it would be. There was no victorious excitement, no randy lads thrusting their fists into the air. Just an anti-climactic silence, dead yellow grass and a long, cracked concrete path.
Selling England by the Pound by Genesis gently positioned onto a turntable. The needle crackled upon touchdown on the vinyl. Dancing with the Moonlit Knight unfolded. Stu sprawled on the dark brown living room carpet, chunky headphones on, attempting to blot out the day’s events, and the revelation of Christopher Gothard and Harriet Flaxton being a “couple”. Stu’s circular thinking dwelt on the times he was forced to play with Gothard, at the insistence of their parents. Of how Christopher had an uncanny knack for breaking Stu’s toys. Never his own, no. And he would always break it with the same blank expression. On the rare occasion when Stu broke something of Christopher’s, at least he had the decency to hide the evidence and deny any culpability.
Stu’s Mum called from the kitchen as Stu bathed in Peter Gabriel’s imagery. A pair of legs in military combats stepped over him. They halted, treading a firm shove into Stu’s arm.
Godfrey and Jemima Ostridge bore a passing resemblance to Englebert Humperdinck and Dusty Springfield respectively: Stu took pride in his parents’ resemblance to a couple of musical legends.
Jeffrey, his shorn-headed older brother by five years, treated every day like a trek through a Vietnamese swamp. He possessed an intense stare, perfect for intimidating younger brothers.
Dinners on laps, the Ostridge family grazed in front of the television, watching I Didn’t Know You Cared. The laughter from the studio audience punctuated the following conversation.
‘How did the exam go, Stuart?’ enquired Jemima before eating a mouthful of dinner. Stu murmured a throwaway ‘yeah’, not wanting to encourage interrogation. But his Dad made sure his son wasn’t going to get away lightly. ‘What exactly are your plans for a career?’ asked Godfrey.
‘I dunno,’ said Stu, pretending to be distracted by the television. His Dad wasn’t letting go of this bone of contention. ‘And how much does that pay an hour?’
Sensing the friction in her husband’s voice, Jemima adopted a friendlier, softer tact. ‘Why don’t you speak to Ray Spake about that junior apprentice job?’
‘I was thinking… I might write… stuff,’ said Stu, finally making eye contact with his Dad to show he was serious, which only troubled his Dad even more.
‘I’ve read those stories of yours. Bloody lucky they haven’t locked you up.’
Internally, Stu screamed a panicked How? He certainly hadn’t offered up his writing for critique from his parents. If anything, Stu had gone out of his way to keep his stories a closely-guarded secret. Stu slumped with dismay, picturing his parents gleefully rifling through his private thoughts. Justified, Godfrey scoffed, as if Stu had no reason for feeling a bond of trust had been violated.
‘Oh, don’t look so wounded, Stuart. We’re your parents.’
A display of boxed plastic silver horseshoes lined the top shelf in Stu’s bedroom. He had recently received them for his 18th birthday 'for good luck', according to his Mum. For hiding things from nosey family members was more accurate. Stashed behind the display was a raggedy toy dog Stu had owned since he was born, which Jeffrey often took hostage to get his own way.
Also concealed was Stu’s diary. He didn’t need his family to know how much Genesis meant to him. Stu’s bedroom walls were a mosaic of film posters and pictures of Christopher Reeve as Superman and Roger Moore as James Bond (the acceptable faces of masculine hero worship) cobbled from Look-In comics. Star Wars figures were poised aboard a cardboard Death Star on top of a small wardrobe. His family judged him as being too old for toys, but Star Wars spoke to him when it came out in ’77: Trapped on a dull planet, longing for adventure. Though Stu suspected his future was more Porkins than Skywalker.
The lower shelves stored broken Action Men, crippled by fatal parachute jumps from Jeffrey’s bedroom. Jeffrey. The only person to ever break a Stretch Armstrong.
Leaning on the windowsill beside his bed, Stu gazed at the oak tree across the road. A bright orange plastic Sportpax P.E. kit bag swung in the breeze, hooked high up in the branches. Stu convinced himself he could still see the cartoon images of a female diver and a manly swimmer, overlaid with Bay City Rollers stickers. Another reason to despise Christopher Gothard.
Having snatched the P.E. bag from Stu, he cackled 'Want it back? Here it is.' YOINK! Christopher launched the bag up through the branches. On its descent, the drawstrings snagged on a branch… and there its legend grew. Stu tried to rescue it over the years, whenever its prominence rose. His name was on the bag. He knew the secret it contained. Damn Gothard. And damn that Rollers phase. He wasn’t even that into them.
What did a girl like Harriet Flaxton see in Christopher bloody Gothard? At least Gothard had taken the risk of asking her out. Gothard didn’t just hope for a better life.
Stu’s fear of feeling exposed stemmed from a fear of making mistakes, of which he made many. He recently broke one of his Mum’s ornaments (whilst struggling to shake a shoe off his foot) and tried to glue it back together. Badly.
As a child, Stu would receive the heel end of a slipper. As an eighteen-year-old, he received a far more painful response from his Dad: 'You’re a coward, Stuart.'
Stu had a deep dislike of facing fears. Of which there were many:
10 The haunting theme tune to Picture Box, and the eerie, unnerving fanfare crescendo which heralded the BBC’s Open University programming.
9. Jaws. It was impossible to go swimming ever again. Even sitting on the toilet became an ordeal, should the shark manage to squeeze itself up the drain pipe and bite him on the bottom.
8. Armchair Thriller (Again, haunting theme tune with a silhouetted man sitting on what, admittedly, looked like a comfy armchair). In particular, a recent episode titled Quiet as a Nun, featuring a faceless nun in an attic.
7. Zoot, the saxophonist from The Muppet Show.
6. Fenella the little green witch from Chorlton and the Wheelies. That face and that voice.
5. The BBC Test Card. The image of the girl and the toy clown. What did it all mean?
4. Public information adverts: Like a distrusting parent warning their reckless children from careering headlong into death, these adverts mirrored Stu’s parents’ method of parenting. Narrated with arrogant whimsy – an early death was only a matter of time - these adverts haunted Stu. Be it the dangers of crossing the road, going too high on the swings or accepting sweets from well-spoken paedophiles, there was an advert designed to scare the living brown out of the viewer. The worst offender featured the Grim Reaper and a creepy Donald Pleasance voiceover: “I am the spirit of dark and lonely water, ready to trap the unwary, the show-off, the fool…"
3. Open doors. Bedroom, wardrobe… always a feeling of being watched.
2. Balok, the starey-eyed/open-mouthed alien in the Star Trek end credits.
1. Things without faces. The silhouetted woman from Tales of the Unexpected credits. The Phantom Flan-Flinger from Tiswas, a silhouette made three-dimensional.
Yet the biggest fear in Stu’s life loomed unnoticed, controlling every decision.
The Unknown.
Thoughts of death plagued Stu. When will it happen? How? Would this be the last time he would ever listen to ‘Wig Wam Bam’? If he thought too deep, his heart would kick-start into a frantic pounding, which struck Stu with ridiculous irony: A self-induced heart attack. Dying due to the fear of dying.
From an early age, he would obsess over the thought of cheating death because he really didn’t like the idea of dying. Of being here one second, then gone in the next. Stu had overheard some of the kids in his class in the playground – kids with duly deserved reputations of being complete liars – explaining how Walt Disney had been frozen before the moment of death, to be reanimated in the future when such a thing would be possible.
And, to Stu, it sounded like a plan. If it was good enough for Walt, it was good enough for him. All Stu needed was to be as successful as Mr. Disney to make such a plan achievable.
He needed to be rich. How did upper-working-class people like Stu get rich? And that was where the dream of immortality would run aground.
He was back at square one. The boy who was scared of adverts. Scared to ask out a girl. Accidents were waiting to happen. Certain death was only a finger in a plug socket away…
Although, in all probability, Stuart Ostridge would suffer death by mortification than from any physical wound.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022