The Doings of David and Peter
IV ON BEING METHODICAL
In one of his books, Beverley Nicholle quotes some advice he once received from Winston Churchill. Writing, the great man maintained was not a matter of waiting for inspiration, but of definite allotment of time to the work every day. Let us suppose the writer has resolved to work from nine to twelve, then let him enter the room, close the door, and work for the allotted time. As far as one can gather, Churchill saw no difficulties in the way of carrying out this programme, and perhaps if one is a man and of independent means, it may not be impossible. Otherwise ~- - ~ but let us take this in proper order.
Fired by enthusiasm, I accepted the words of the great, and decided that in future my work should not be spasmodic, that it should not be taken up at any hour and be as easily deserted. Instead, I would plan my time and, having arranged it, would work steadily. The afternoon seemed the best time, and I allotted myself the hours between 2.30 and 4.30. The house was in order, the children playing in the garden, and I spoke solemnly to my ‘daily help’.
"Those children,” said I, “must not be allowed to interrupt me. I mean to work."
She looked surprised. Had I not "worked" in the proper sense of the word al] the morning? Then understanding dawned in her face. Of course, I meant playing about with a typewriter --- a pleasant enough occupation for a lady, though queer.
I withdrew, shutting the door carefully behind me. Inspiration came, and my heroine began to live. As she clenched her hands in unendurable agony, s tepping distracted me, and I looked up. Through the window there beemed a small face, and an imperative voice announced:
"Want to come in."
"You can't," I said sternly. "Go round to the back and play with David."
The beaming smile faded, and the mouth drooped a little. "Don't want to play with David," said the voice mournfully. “Went to come in.”
I resumed typing --~ and the voice resumed its chant, till at the twentieth repetition I opened the window and, leaning out, swung the chanter inside.
"You may stay," I said, “if you are quiet.”
Peter beamed again. "I can do a puzzle,” he said, and, fetching the box, tipped a three-hundred-piece jig-saw on the floor. As he settled down contentedly in the middle of it, picking out the bright red pisces which he can put together, I returned to my heroine, where agony seemed to have abated. It was difficult to get back to her mood, and I wrote one banal sentence after another, and as promptly crossed it out, till my sheet looked like a novice's attempt at typing. At last a phrase emerged worthy to stand, and as I got into my stride, I felt a soft touch on my arm.
“Made all the little red bits," said Peter proudly. “Now come and make the ovver parts.”
"Presently," said I "You make the flag that waves over the house."
“Can't" said Peter, "Can only make it if you find the bits."
I slid to the floor and rapidly sorted out the pieces that made up the flag; Peter quietly began his work, and there was silence awhile. Then the door gently opened and a face peered in.
"Are you using your tappy?" asked David, in an interested voice. “Can I come and tap too?”
"Not now," said I, typing faster. “Go and help Peter with his puzgle."
He looked, and an ear-piercing shriek rent the air. I turned sharply, my heart thumping, to see David quivering with rage and pointing at the floor.
"Peter’s made the flag,” he shouted. "I always make the flag --- he only does the red bits."
"Can't do it now," said Peter, calmly and tactlessly. "I done it.”
David launched himself at him, and for a moment there was pandemonium; then I descended and, with a warrior under each arm, sought the daily help in the kitchen.
"Were they worrying you?" she asked, in a surprised voice, when we were able to hear ourselves speak. “I'm very sorry. I did think as how they were very quiet outside, but I never dreamt they had come in. I’ll take them out of your way."
She withdrew with them to the sandpile at the bottom of the garden, and I returned to the front of the house As I sat down, the front gate opened and a young man strode up the path. With a sigh, I went to the door.
“We called on you some time ago," he smiled, “with reference to water-softeners ... “
He was pleasant, but persistent, and I closed the door on him with difficulty, before returning to my heroine, who seemed stupider than ever by now. The clock pointed to a quarter past three, and rapidly I tore up my last muddled page, and put in a fresh sheet. My ideas began to flow, and for another ten minutes the words came easily. Then a familiar sound came to my ears, growing louder and louder. Automatically, I jumped up, and flung open the door, to reveal a weeping David in the arms of an agitated girl.
"He's cut his knee," she explained, “and I can't do anything with him. Will you do it up?”
We retired upstairs, where I officiated with boric lint and bandages. Had it been Peter, the matter would have ended there, but David, who is terrified of wounds, needed comfort and reassurance, and a story to drive away the horror, before he could resume normal life. Again my heroine waited, while I told a story of strange adventure to an audience of one, and the clock ticked one. At last the wounded one, in the manner of children, slid off the chesterfield, with a casual:
“I'm going to make a fountain," and departed.
To rid myself of the last set of characters, [ gathered my scattered papers and read them through. A pleasant glow went through Me, for, in spite of interruptions, this held the germ of a good story. If only I could get it drafted out it might, with paring, revision and sundry polishings, make a story to be proud of. I put in another sheet, and again the front gate clicked. Up the front path walked a friend, her small boy in tow. Cheerfully they entered and, at sight of my machine, she smiled tolerantly.
“Been writing something?" she asked casually. “It's marvellous to me how you do it -- I couldn't write a word.”
She dismissed the subject and passed to one more important:
"I wanted to ask you about those knickers we bought for the boys at Herridges. My Bobby's are going already, and if David's are not wearing any better, I think we should write end complain."
I stacked my papers and covered my machine. (The clock stood at four-fifteen. )
"Of course you will stay to tea" I said, forcing to my face a smile of welcome. It must have been a good attempt, for she smiled an acceptance.
“We seem to have been to tea rather frequently,” she answered, “put Bobby did want to see the boys If you are sure you were not busy - "
“Only writing a story," I replied, and she smiled, reassured.
“Oh, that's all right then. We shall love to stay," said she, and took off her coat.
Now, I wonder what Winston Churchill would have done?
