Three Words: By Toikey
This is really a lot of waffle, but it's about a very isolated, paranoid boy and his unusual relationship with his English Professor and how it all goes wrong. Set in the 80s.
Genre: Non-specific, but I suppose romance/tragedy... ?
Word Count: 4,748
Entry Number: 1
A singular brown, weathered looking leaf tumbled to the ground as I turned on the heels of my new shoes to face Wilson Kettle. It took great strength of will for me to raise my head and look him straight in his alert, piercing eyes without averting my own in the second after. It was both fair and unfair; he was too readable. One look and I could tell what he was thinking, even if I didn’t want to. But it wasn’t much of an advantage in social circumstances – his eyes barely needed to reach my face for him to read me like a sodding book. A great expert in body language was Professor Kettle, and I knew he could tell how much that frightened me. I was in no doubt that he was picking up on my mixture of emotions – anxiety, anticipation, fear etc. Knowing my body was the source of the betrayal I attempted to contort it into an utterly foreign form of casual confidence, but it would have been an attempt better accomplished by a prisoner about to be executed painfully, the way I did it.
“What I really wanted to know was… was did you read my script? What… what did you think?” My heart thundered into my chest as I refused my brain the privilege to the process the expression on his face. Lie to me, lie to me, I pleaded silently, but it was no use. No words that came out of his mouth could say more than what his face said. It was pitying, exasperated, with glimpses of sheer loathing unafraid to show themselves. I waited for the blow.
“Greg, Greg, Greg, it was simply gorgeous. I am very, very proud,” he said quietly, in his hushed, smoke-filled voice. I turned away, tears escaping my eyes. Stop trying to lie. It won’t work. I can see through those transparent words of yours. He gripped my shoulder, smiling indulgently and stooping slightly, so that his face barred my vision.
“Darling, you’re being paranoid again. Seeing things that aren’t there. I meant what I said – really, you must stop trying to read me, because, forgive my bluntness, you are rather awful at it,” he said. I blinked hard.
“Sorry, it’s just….” I said, wiping my face. How stupid I was. But I couldn’t help it.
“Oh, not to worry! We’ll continue to work on that self-esteem issue another time. But for now, I want to discuss the script. I mean first impressions: it started out a tad bit slow, but the pace in the second act picked up fantastically. Naturally, my favourite part was the last two scenes. Terribly touching. Especially those last few lines. Three words, three words m’boy. Those were three beautiful words,” he gushed. We carried on walking down the glittering sunlit path, heading back towards the university.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, feeling much better now. “But I was merely taking example from you. Wasn’t it you who said ‘Power in simplicity, not in volume’?”
“True! I’m glad you’re learning. Sometimes it’s so hard to explain this to young writers. It is a literary myth that long, intricately detailed passages are the mark of good literature. A good and truly intelligent writer should have the eloquence to condense what they want to say. Such is the beauty of the English language. Unless, of course, you are a writer of a more poetic disposition. Take example from Oscar Wilde. In Dorian Gray we see sentences filled with words and displayed in a complex structure, yet so fluid they are more of a pleasure to speak out loud than to read in your head, whereas his scripts are filled with short, concise witticisms and, uh, 'zingy' one-liners that echo in one’s head days after reading them. That, m’boy, is pure genius.”
“I agree, sir.”
“Good, then you will enjoy this next assignment. Write me a new script. But this time, all the lines must be exactly three words long. Take care to pick the best three words you can. The length of the script is completely up to you. It can be 3 words or 30,000 words – as long as it means something.”
“Yes, professor. Thank you. I’ll get to work right away,” I said, a smile spreading across my face as ideas began to flood my mind. He smiled again and we continued in silence until we reached the steps up to the main hall.
“I’d like it due before the end of term, please. Judging by the discussions being had with the headmaster at the moment, I may not be returning next year,” he said suddenly. I stood still for a second, digesting this news, then jumped in outrage. He had a habit of doing this – springing terrible news on me at the most random of times.
“Sir, you can’t be serious! You’re the best professor of English here. This school would be nothing without you!” I said incredulously.
“Greg, without being too arrogant, I know that. But I’m-“he stopped to cough violently into his handkerchief, wheezing and spluttering before returning to full height.
“… Well, they (At the University) have gone as far as too categorize my… eccentricity as madness. I’m being advised to go into early retirement,” he finished. I looked him up and down – the tanned, wrinkled face and wispy white hair were too much of a give away.
“Not early, surely,” I said lightly. He laughed an old laugh, grass green eyes creasing at the corners.
“Well,” he scoffed “I am not that old!”
“I’d hazard a guess at 65.”
“Huh! Careful what you say, boy. I’ll only be 52 next month.”
“Ah yes, I remember. 3rd of June. But I must say, you look older than you are.”
“Three words Greg: Pot. Kettle. Black.”
“Haha, very witty sir. Be cautious with your wordplay, however. There are hundreds of things I could say with regard to your name. Though, I can’t quite agree that I’m being hypocritical in the slightest.”
“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots! But why don’t you agree? You look at least 8 years beyond your years.”
“I am 26, sir. I entered University very late.”
“I know, I know. After working for your Dad for a while, no? But you look nearly 30. Perhaps the premature stress of a job at 19 has addled with your appearance.”
“Never, sir. It only gave me strength. But I must say, 52 is fairly old. Not to be rude, but you’re more than middle-aged now.”
“That’s hardly an age at which to be slowing down! I have life left in me yet. I certainly wasn’t planning to go away quite so easily. But we’ll have to see,” he said. I didn’t reply; too busy pondering trying to finish my degree without my mentor. I couldn’t let it happen. It wouldn’t. Besides, this was supposed to be a University that encouraged eccentricity, individuality. That was the reason I’d asked specifically to have Professor Kettle; I’d hoped he’d rub off on me.
Suddenly I heard echoes. We’d entered the main hallway, and my new shoes were making a racket. I opened my mouth to say goodbye, but no words came out. We parted wordlessly at the end of the corridor, and I made my way to my room, as he made his way to his.
*
An eerie silence filled the dorm, as I sat, the blank page in my hand glaring back at me mockingly. 6 hours I had sat there, occasionally twisting the pen around in my hand, only to sigh and knead my forehead with my fists. This wasn’t writer’s block. Quite the contrary, thoughts and feelings were engaged in a furious battle within me, and there was nothing for me to spew out onto the paper for Professor Kettle. Mingled in with the various characters and lines locked in combat, were the worries I had about him. I’d moved on from my old life, through the medium of writing, quite obviously, and Professor Kettle’s help. Perpetually calm, I always felt a close connection to him without ever understanding why.
I remember at the beginning of this year, when I’d made my way to his room after a lecture, to find him lying face down on the floor, scraps of paper flitting around, being bullied by the gentle breeze that came from a window facing west. The sun was setting, creating a colour spectrum of purples, pinks and oranges that were streaming in, bathing the room in their vibrant glory. I stood in the doorway for nearly 10 minutes, fear rooting me to the spot. I was sure, when he looked up, he’d have an angry look on his face. I was positive he’d scold me for entering without knocking. Without thinking, still stiff with fright, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and the floor boards squeaked a deadly squeak. A thousand thoughts raced through my head, most of them involving fleeing, but I couldn’t move. That moment before he took the initiative to look up seemed to stretch on for longer than my already racing heart could manage.
“Good evening, m’boy. What could I do for you?” he said, grinning at me, still sprawled across his bedroom floor.
“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to,” I spurted out. I had again, ignored his words. All I could see was anger and hatred. But then my panic attack subsided, and I saw his smile.
“Didn’t mean to? I hardly think you wandered in here by accident. You were at the English Language lecture, weren’t you? I definitely saw you. Most, uh, attentive one there” he said, and then he winked.
“No, Professor, it wasn’t like that… I didn’t… I don’t...” But I had forgotten what I was trying to say. He chuckled softly, and then staggered to his feet.
“Oh, I know. I was only teasing, boy. Though, I have no doubt this handsome face did have something to do with it!” I couldn’t think of a way to reply to this, so I just stared. Only know I realize what a fool I must have looked. “So, what did you want to talk to me about? Assuming all you wanted to do was talk,” he said. Again, the wryness of his humour startled me.
“Y-yes sir. Talk. Earlier, you mentioned briefly about differences between Irish poets and American poets…” And he was off. He must’ve talked for more than an hour, as the sky went dark during my stay, and I sat there, trying to absorb everything he said, hoping not to let one precious word slip past my keen ear. After that I developed a sort of obsession with the man, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Everyone appreciates genius, it just so happened I was the first to recognize it in Professor Kettle. From then on, he seemed to take a personal interest in me as a student. That’s the crux of it all, you see. We both have a deep love of people, and from there sprouts my ambitions to go far in screen-writing and, of course, Professor Kettle’s secret one to become a playwright. Perhaps I deluded myself into believing I could read people, and delve beyond the surface, but Professor Kettle told me he thinks I have potential, as long as I can get past what he calls my “severe paranoia” and “ severe low self-esteem”, though I should hardly think either of them holds any degree of severity.
I ripped my self away from the fond memories to concentrate on the situation at hand. I had still not settled on a concept. I felt I was making the situation worse by thinking about my Professor. The pressure I had laid upon myself to make this piece my best yet was mounting. If he left, this would be the piece he’d remember me by, the last piece of me he’d ever really see.
I started. No, not started, as in “started to write” – that seemed damn near impossible in the current climate. I started, as in, jumped. I had to speak to the head. I had to convince him to let Professor Kettle stay. Stuffing my pen in my pocket and dropping my notebook on the floor, I hurried my pace as I left the room. For some, unknown reason, I had decided in my head that this was a matter of utmost urgency. Perhaps because I knew I could not rest until I knew for sure the fate of Professor Kettle.
I reached the headmaster’s room and knocked, suddenly very self-conscious in my dressing gown and underwear. I wanted to seem professional, rational and factual. Sub-consciously, my back straightened. The door creaked open.
“What could one possibly want at these late hours?” I heard the headmaster groan, and then he stumbled into view.
“Sir, you can’t lose Professor Kettle, he’s the best thing that ever happened to this school, and me even, I mean he’s the wisest man in the world when it comes to English, and even people come to think of it, even if he is a bit strange in his methods, and in the way that he expresses himself, but didn’t someone once say that madness is the art of true self-expression? So, really you can’t say he’s mad, just a very accomplished artist. Please don’t fire him,” I said. Or rather, sicked up, for my words came out in a breathless blur of pointless piffle.
“Greg, it’s one in the morning,” he sighed, rubbing his face. “And I don’t know whether you’re just drowsy, but I haven’t the faintest c**k of a clue what on earth you’re going on about. Why would I want to sack him?”
“Not sack him, but I know, he told me, you’re trying to make him retire, just because he’s a bit eccentric,” as they came out, I realized that, far from sounding professional, my words sounded childish and aggressive. I changed tack: “He’s a great asset to this University and you would do yourself a favour by forgetting all these silly ideas that he’s.. well, mad.”
“I don’t know what he’s been saying to you, but I promise I haven’t intoned in any way that I think he’s mad. He’s is a great friend of mine, actually. Now, I may have had a conversation with him about his retirement, but that is an issue of physical health, not mental,” he said matter-of-factly. Lies I thought. Don’t try and patronize me, I’m his friend too.
“Don’t try and patronize me!”
“Stop it, Greg, and go back to bed. I’m not patronizing you, I’m telling it like it is.” Oh how my insides burned at that one. I saw the knowing, exasperated look on his face. He was lying. Lying to scare me, lying to get rid of me. He thought I was a pest, a bug that had to be removed.
“YOU STOP IT!” I shouted, the great Fury rearing its head in the pit of my stomach “I KNOW YOU’RE LYING TO ME. I SEE IT IN YOUR FACE, JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE’S. YOU ALL HATE ME. YOU ALL WISH I WOULD LEAVE YOU ALONE. LEAVE YOU ALONE AND DIE,” I screamed, as loud as my voice would go. Before I knew it, I was throwing myself at him, in a flurry of flailing limbs, attacking him with all my might, scrabbling at his skin as though behind it lay the truth. At the first opportunity, the Headmaster gripped me tightly by the shoulders and shook me, his breathing very labored.
“Stop it Greg,” he said again, this time much more quietly. I froze, but left my hands where they were, waiting. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m sorry you had to hear it from me, but I took Wilson to the hospital about 2 hours ago after he had a coughing fit in him room. He was coughing up blood, Greg,” he said, and my hands felt limply to my side, defeated and hurt.
“What- how?” I said, blinking excessively as I calmed down.
“It seems his smoking has got the better of him. There is something wrong with his lungs,”
“I have to go see him, now!” I said, making an effort to move. But the Headmaster gripped me tighter still.
“You can’t, he’s in hospital. And I can’t let you off the school grounds till the weekend. Do you see now? This is why I was advising him to go into retirement, before he makes himself worse. All the walking he does – I know especially with you – it doesn’t help. For a year now he’s been having problems with breathing.” I had a flashback to the coughing fit he’d had earlier.
“He walks for inspiration. He can’t teach, can’t write without inspiration,”
“Exactly the problem. He needs to stop, and find another hobby,”
“You can’t take that away from him!”
“Better than taking his life.”
I paused.
“I’m definitely going to see him on Saturday; can you give me a lift to the hospital?”
“Fine. Now go to bed, please,”
I left, but not to go to bed. I now knew what I had to write. I had to finish it before Saturday, to show to him, to cheer him up. Returning to my bed, furiously I scribbled, pouring my heart and soul into every word. I searched my brain, finding the words lost in neglected corners, even dabbling in foreign languages – French, Latin, German. I wrote like my hand was on fire that night, watching the clock count down from 36 hours… for it was 36 hours till I would see Professor Kettle.
*
After living 34 hours completely and wholly absorbed in my work, skipping other lectures, not eating at all, I washed the ink off my hands at the basin in the men’s toilets. I had picked my smartest coat and my new shoes to wear, and made sure I’d scrubbed all the lack of sleep off my face before meeting the Headmaster outside the school in the muggy summer’s air. We walked in silence to his car, I enjoying the scrunch of the gravel beneath my feet. To me, it sounded like triumph. I clutched my script tightly in my hands.
We drove for 2 hours to the hospital, and an awkward silence lay between us. The headmaster offered no interesting topic of question, though, on one occasion, did pose a rather difficult question.
“So, you and Professor Kettle… good friends?”
To this, I merely shrugged. How to answer that question? One would say perhaps, after watching us for a lengthy period of time, that we were more than friends, (Something that was perceptibly behind the question in the first place) but to say what would be extraordinarily difficult. What to call this connection? It may seem strange that I, an English student, have no concept of love, even though I am constantly surrounded by poetry and novels where love is more often than not the focal point. I can not confidently say I have ever been in love; is it possible to be in love with someone and not know it? What I feel for Professor Kettle can not really be compared to that of any novels or poetry, but it is a whole new experience to me. I could label it as obsession, or adoration. It his mind that most attracts me, not his face or body. But then, how to explain the feeling of hurt and longing I endured every minute since that meeting in the Headmaster’s room? Or the thrill I feel at being able to see him again? I couldn’t linger on the topic too long, as it made me feel queasy. I am happy to leave our relationship unlabelled.
So both the Headmaster and I sat uncomfortably, my mind blank as I watched the familiar setting of the University roll away, and the small nearby town unfold around us. I re-read my script thrice over, hastily editing, though still I wasn’t fully satisfied. I was proud, but a nasty niggle in the back of my mind just wouldn’t leave. However, when the car slowed, reaching the Hospital car park, I stuffed it into my pocket and allowed myself to be led through the shiny corridors, leading to the clinic where Professor Kettle presumably sat. My heart raced as all the possible reactions he could have flashed before my eyes. My greatest fear, at that point in time, was him looking up and giving me that indulgent smile… but then telling me it was awful. I knew he’d be charming about it, but I wanted him to love it. I wanted him to explode with passion, and rave about it for days on end. Little did I know that a worse sight would be awaiting me when I opened the door to the Jerry ward.
The room was clean and white, empty except for a small pot plant on the window sill and a chest of drawers on the left wall. It was very modern, but had an air of hospital loneliness about it, as there was only one bed in the room.
The Headmaster sighed, and walked slowly across the room to where the bed was.
I stood there.
A nurse bustled past me, carrying two chairs and a clipboard.
I stood there.
I felt my mouth hanging open, and my heart stopped. In all my flurry about the script, I’d not realized the gravity of the situation. Professor Kettle was ill. Really very ill. My legs turned to lead as I forced them to move forwards, approaching the old man, entangled in a set of ferocious looking wires, and lying, as if dead, on the bed. His eyes were closed. I began to cry, turning my head away so the Headmaster wouldn’t see.
“Wilson… what have you done?” he said gravely. Professor Kettle’s eyes flickered open, and he scanned the room, smiling. I wiped my face and turned to face him, holding back yet more tears.
“I…. hello,” I muttered. He opened mouth and drew in, taking a deep breath. It sounded horrible. I could hear the pain, felt it tearing at my own throat as his chest swelled, and my entire body tensed. Suddenly, the machine next to him began to make a noise. I recoiled slightly, knowing that a hospital machine beeping loudly could never be a good sign. He began to cough violently, blood and phlegm being splattered all over my clothes. I just stood, crying, not knowing what to do, begging him silently to stop. The Headmaster leapt to his feet (He had sat down on one of the chairs the nurse had brought in earlier) and ran to the door shouting,
“Help! Help! He’s having a fit! He can’t breathe!” I watched in horror as Professor Kettle continued to cough, now sitting up, his face slowly turning paler and paler and his eyes wide. Another nurse came bustling in, yanking open the top drawer and pulling out a needle and a small plastic bag. She was shouting something, rushing to Professor Kettle’s side. But I couldn’t hear anything. I just saw the scene playing in front of me, and I was looking down on myself. It was like an out-of-body experience. She slammed the needle down on his chest, and the coughing subsided. Pressing on the bag connected to the needle, like a pump, she breathed out slowly. Then all was calm. My hearing returned.
“His right lung almost collapsed. I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. In a few more days his other one will too,” she said, looking at her feet. Professor Kettle closed his eyes, looking very resigned. I waited till she left, handing me a tissue to mop myself up with, but I didn’t. I stepped towards Professor Kettle.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, trying to stay calm. He shook his head, breathing deeply, the sound of it driving me insane. “I wrote you the script. But what use will it do now? You’re… you’re dying, aren’t you,” I said. Behind me the Headmaster had sat back down on his seat. I felt his hand on my arm. “No, it’s okay. Now I know,” I said, but I heard my voice tremble. Professor Kettle held out his hand to me, looking me hard in the face. Slowly, I dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled script. Now it seemed like nothing, worth nothing. All this time I had worries about the script, and Professor Kettle was dying. I watched him read it, and twiddled my thumbs, staring intently, watching every small motion his face made. There was no smile. Not even a hint of happiness. He didn’t like it.
He doesn’t like it I thought. He’s dying. He’s going to remember me as a failure. He always knew I was going to be a failure. That’s why he didn’t tell me he was ill. He didn’t consider me worth it. I’m just a nuisance to him now, wasting his last stretch of life by forcing him to read a stupid, childish script. I felt something hot roll down my cheek. I was crying again.
“Stop it! I know you hate it. I know it’s horrible. I’m sorry!” I cried. “I’m sorry for wasting your time! For even bothering to come at all!” I carried on, sitting down on the chair below me, crying into my fists. “You hate it. You hate me! I know you hate me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I don’t,” wheezed a very quiet, smoke-filled voice “Hate you.” He coughed, and I looked up. He was crying. “Stop.” He said, after another agonizing breath.
“Then what?” I said, “You’re not happy!”. He shook his head and smiled.
“I am,” he said.
And that was it. I broke down, crying pitifully into his blue hospital shirt, my head on his lap. I sat there sobbing for at least 10 minutes, feeling his cold hand in my brown hair. After a while, The Headmaster left, mumbling something about getting drinks. I sniffed, and stood up, clasping Professor Kettle’s hand in mine.
“Professor, when you set that essay… do you know what three words popped into my head first? Well, I thought about just giving you that, on its own. But, then, I didn’t know what I meant by it,” I said, rubbing his hand. He shook his head, smiling slightly. It was obvious what I was about to say, and I almost didn’t say it. But I had to.
“Please don’t die,” I whispered. His mouth twitched, but he didn't smile, just looked at me confusedly. I couldn’t resist teasing him, even when he was ill. I was sure he’d do the same. I laughed, choking on my tears a little.
“That’s not all!” I choked, “I love you.” Then his face broke into a large grin, and he reached out to touch my face, which was now dangerously close to him. He coughed and chuckled together.
“But I meant it when I asked you not to die. How will you write your play if you're dead?”
“Oh dear… I hadn’t thought of that,” he said seriously, winking. There it was. But by the way he said it, and the twinkle in his eyes, I knew he was being sarcastic, and that made me a bit happier. He’d always hated clichés, and I was sure this was no exception. He’d keep on cracking jokes through death and the after life, if I knew him. A final tear fell from my chin, onto his chapped lips.
“Professor Wilson Kettle,” I breathed. “I love you.”
After that, no more words were needed. I left around 5 minutes later with the Headmaster, who merely nodded a goodbye, tapping Professor Kettle’s hand gently.
He died the next day.
Of course, I grieved for a while, but after a few months buried myself in my writing. This was the dedication I wrote in my first play script:
“For Wilson Kettle – A mentor, a friend, and ultimately my greatest inspiration. I’ll never forget that first day. That first lecture. You were brilliant. Probably still are. Then again, I must say: Pot. Kettle. Black.
And I owe it all to you.”
I called it “Three words”.
“What I really wanted to know was… was did you read my script? What… what did you think?” My heart thundered into my chest as I refused my brain the privilege to the process the expression on his face. Lie to me, lie to me, I pleaded silently, but it was no use. No words that came out of his mouth could say more than what his face said. It was pitying, exasperated, with glimpses of sheer loathing unafraid to show themselves. I waited for the blow.
“Greg, Greg, Greg, it was simply gorgeous. I am very, very proud,” he said quietly, in his hushed, smoke-filled voice. I turned away, tears escaping my eyes. Stop trying to lie. It won’t work. I can see through those transparent words of yours. He gripped my shoulder, smiling indulgently and stooping slightly, so that his face barred my vision.
“Darling, you’re being paranoid again. Seeing things that aren’t there. I meant what I said – really, you must stop trying to read me, because, forgive my bluntness, you are rather awful at it,” he said. I blinked hard.
“Sorry, it’s just….” I said, wiping my face. How stupid I was. But I couldn’t help it.
“Oh, not to worry! We’ll continue to work on that self-esteem issue another time. But for now, I want to discuss the script. I mean first impressions: it started out a tad bit slow, but the pace in the second act picked up fantastically. Naturally, my favourite part was the last two scenes. Terribly touching. Especially those last few lines. Three words, three words m’boy. Those were three beautiful words,” he gushed. We carried on walking down the glittering sunlit path, heading back towards the university.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, feeling much better now. “But I was merely taking example from you. Wasn’t it you who said ‘Power in simplicity, not in volume’?”
“True! I’m glad you’re learning. Sometimes it’s so hard to explain this to young writers. It is a literary myth that long, intricately detailed passages are the mark of good literature. A good and truly intelligent writer should have the eloquence to condense what they want to say. Such is the beauty of the English language. Unless, of course, you are a writer of a more poetic disposition. Take example from Oscar Wilde. In Dorian Gray we see sentences filled with words and displayed in a complex structure, yet so fluid they are more of a pleasure to speak out loud than to read in your head, whereas his scripts are filled with short, concise witticisms and, uh, 'zingy' one-liners that echo in one’s head days after reading them. That, m’boy, is pure genius.”
“I agree, sir.”
“Good, then you will enjoy this next assignment. Write me a new script. But this time, all the lines must be exactly three words long. Take care to pick the best three words you can. The length of the script is completely up to you. It can be 3 words or 30,000 words – as long as it means something.”
“Yes, professor. Thank you. I’ll get to work right away,” I said, a smile spreading across my face as ideas began to flood my mind. He smiled again and we continued in silence until we reached the steps up to the main hall.
“I’d like it due before the end of term, please. Judging by the discussions being had with the headmaster at the moment, I may not be returning next year,” he said suddenly. I stood still for a second, digesting this news, then jumped in outrage. He had a habit of doing this – springing terrible news on me at the most random of times.
“Sir, you can’t be serious! You’re the best professor of English here. This school would be nothing without you!” I said incredulously.
“Greg, without being too arrogant, I know that. But I’m-“he stopped to cough violently into his handkerchief, wheezing and spluttering before returning to full height.
“… Well, they (At the University) have gone as far as too categorize my… eccentricity as madness. I’m being advised to go into early retirement,” he finished. I looked him up and down – the tanned, wrinkled face and wispy white hair were too much of a give away.
“Not early, surely,” I said lightly. He laughed an old laugh, grass green eyes creasing at the corners.
“Well,” he scoffed “I am not that old!”
“I’d hazard a guess at 65.”
“Huh! Careful what you say, boy. I’ll only be 52 next month.”
“Ah yes, I remember. 3rd of June. But I must say, you look older than you are.”
“Three words Greg: Pot. Kettle. Black.”
“Haha, very witty sir. Be cautious with your wordplay, however. There are hundreds of things I could say with regard to your name. Though, I can’t quite agree that I’m being hypocritical in the slightest.”
“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots! But why don’t you agree? You look at least 8 years beyond your years.”
“I am 26, sir. I entered University very late.”
“I know, I know. After working for your Dad for a while, no? But you look nearly 30. Perhaps the premature stress of a job at 19 has addled with your appearance.”
“Never, sir. It only gave me strength. But I must say, 52 is fairly old. Not to be rude, but you’re more than middle-aged now.”
“That’s hardly an age at which to be slowing down! I have life left in me yet. I certainly wasn’t planning to go away quite so easily. But we’ll have to see,” he said. I didn’t reply; too busy pondering trying to finish my degree without my mentor. I couldn’t let it happen. It wouldn’t. Besides, this was supposed to be a University that encouraged eccentricity, individuality. That was the reason I’d asked specifically to have Professor Kettle; I’d hoped he’d rub off on me.
Suddenly I heard echoes. We’d entered the main hallway, and my new shoes were making a racket. I opened my mouth to say goodbye, but no words came out. We parted wordlessly at the end of the corridor, and I made my way to my room, as he made his way to his.
*
An eerie silence filled the dorm, as I sat, the blank page in my hand glaring back at me mockingly. 6 hours I had sat there, occasionally twisting the pen around in my hand, only to sigh and knead my forehead with my fists. This wasn’t writer’s block. Quite the contrary, thoughts and feelings were engaged in a furious battle within me, and there was nothing for me to spew out onto the paper for Professor Kettle. Mingled in with the various characters and lines locked in combat, were the worries I had about him. I’d moved on from my old life, through the medium of writing, quite obviously, and Professor Kettle’s help. Perpetually calm, I always felt a close connection to him without ever understanding why.
I remember at the beginning of this year, when I’d made my way to his room after a lecture, to find him lying face down on the floor, scraps of paper flitting around, being bullied by the gentle breeze that came from a window facing west. The sun was setting, creating a colour spectrum of purples, pinks and oranges that were streaming in, bathing the room in their vibrant glory. I stood in the doorway for nearly 10 minutes, fear rooting me to the spot. I was sure, when he looked up, he’d have an angry look on his face. I was positive he’d scold me for entering without knocking. Without thinking, still stiff with fright, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and the floor boards squeaked a deadly squeak. A thousand thoughts raced through my head, most of them involving fleeing, but I couldn’t move. That moment before he took the initiative to look up seemed to stretch on for longer than my already racing heart could manage.
“Good evening, m’boy. What could I do for you?” he said, grinning at me, still sprawled across his bedroom floor.
“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to,” I spurted out. I had again, ignored his words. All I could see was anger and hatred. But then my panic attack subsided, and I saw his smile.
“Didn’t mean to? I hardly think you wandered in here by accident. You were at the English Language lecture, weren’t you? I definitely saw you. Most, uh, attentive one there” he said, and then he winked.
“No, Professor, it wasn’t like that… I didn’t… I don’t...” But I had forgotten what I was trying to say. He chuckled softly, and then staggered to his feet.
“Oh, I know. I was only teasing, boy. Though, I have no doubt this handsome face did have something to do with it!” I couldn’t think of a way to reply to this, so I just stared. Only know I realize what a fool I must have looked. “So, what did you want to talk to me about? Assuming all you wanted to do was talk,” he said. Again, the wryness of his humour startled me.
“Y-yes sir. Talk. Earlier, you mentioned briefly about differences between Irish poets and American poets…” And he was off. He must’ve talked for more than an hour, as the sky went dark during my stay, and I sat there, trying to absorb everything he said, hoping not to let one precious word slip past my keen ear. After that I developed a sort of obsession with the man, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Everyone appreciates genius, it just so happened I was the first to recognize it in Professor Kettle. From then on, he seemed to take a personal interest in me as a student. That’s the crux of it all, you see. We both have a deep love of people, and from there sprouts my ambitions to go far in screen-writing and, of course, Professor Kettle’s secret one to become a playwright. Perhaps I deluded myself into believing I could read people, and delve beyond the surface, but Professor Kettle told me he thinks I have potential, as long as I can get past what he calls my “severe paranoia” and “ severe low self-esteem”, though I should hardly think either of them holds any degree of severity.
I ripped my self away from the fond memories to concentrate on the situation at hand. I had still not settled on a concept. I felt I was making the situation worse by thinking about my Professor. The pressure I had laid upon myself to make this piece my best yet was mounting. If he left, this would be the piece he’d remember me by, the last piece of me he’d ever really see.
I started. No, not started, as in “started to write” – that seemed damn near impossible in the current climate. I started, as in, jumped. I had to speak to the head. I had to convince him to let Professor Kettle stay. Stuffing my pen in my pocket and dropping my notebook on the floor, I hurried my pace as I left the room. For some, unknown reason, I had decided in my head that this was a matter of utmost urgency. Perhaps because I knew I could not rest until I knew for sure the fate of Professor Kettle.
I reached the headmaster’s room and knocked, suddenly very self-conscious in my dressing gown and underwear. I wanted to seem professional, rational and factual. Sub-consciously, my back straightened. The door creaked open.
“What could one possibly want at these late hours?” I heard the headmaster groan, and then he stumbled into view.
“Sir, you can’t lose Professor Kettle, he’s the best thing that ever happened to this school, and me even, I mean he’s the wisest man in the world when it comes to English, and even people come to think of it, even if he is a bit strange in his methods, and in the way that he expresses himself, but didn’t someone once say that madness is the art of true self-expression? So, really you can’t say he’s mad, just a very accomplished artist. Please don’t fire him,” I said. Or rather, sicked up, for my words came out in a breathless blur of pointless piffle.
“Greg, it’s one in the morning,” he sighed, rubbing his face. “And I don’t know whether you’re just drowsy, but I haven’t the faintest c**k of a clue what on earth you’re going on about. Why would I want to sack him?”
“Not sack him, but I know, he told me, you’re trying to make him retire, just because he’s a bit eccentric,” as they came out, I realized that, far from sounding professional, my words sounded childish and aggressive. I changed tack: “He’s a great asset to this University and you would do yourself a favour by forgetting all these silly ideas that he’s.. well, mad.”
“I don’t know what he’s been saying to you, but I promise I haven’t intoned in any way that I think he’s mad. He’s is a great friend of mine, actually. Now, I may have had a conversation with him about his retirement, but that is an issue of physical health, not mental,” he said matter-of-factly. Lies I thought. Don’t try and patronize me, I’m his friend too.
“Don’t try and patronize me!”
“Stop it, Greg, and go back to bed. I’m not patronizing you, I’m telling it like it is.” Oh how my insides burned at that one. I saw the knowing, exasperated look on his face. He was lying. Lying to scare me, lying to get rid of me. He thought I was a pest, a bug that had to be removed.
“YOU STOP IT!” I shouted, the great Fury rearing its head in the pit of my stomach “I KNOW YOU’RE LYING TO ME. I SEE IT IN YOUR FACE, JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE’S. YOU ALL HATE ME. YOU ALL WISH I WOULD LEAVE YOU ALONE. LEAVE YOU ALONE AND DIE,” I screamed, as loud as my voice would go. Before I knew it, I was throwing myself at him, in a flurry of flailing limbs, attacking him with all my might, scrabbling at his skin as though behind it lay the truth. At the first opportunity, the Headmaster gripped me tightly by the shoulders and shook me, his breathing very labored.
“Stop it Greg,” he said again, this time much more quietly. I froze, but left my hands where they were, waiting. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m sorry you had to hear it from me, but I took Wilson to the hospital about 2 hours ago after he had a coughing fit in him room. He was coughing up blood, Greg,” he said, and my hands felt limply to my side, defeated and hurt.
“What- how?” I said, blinking excessively as I calmed down.
“It seems his smoking has got the better of him. There is something wrong with his lungs,”
“I have to go see him, now!” I said, making an effort to move. But the Headmaster gripped me tighter still.
“You can’t, he’s in hospital. And I can’t let you off the school grounds till the weekend. Do you see now? This is why I was advising him to go into retirement, before he makes himself worse. All the walking he does – I know especially with you – it doesn’t help. For a year now he’s been having problems with breathing.” I had a flashback to the coughing fit he’d had earlier.
“He walks for inspiration. He can’t teach, can’t write without inspiration,”
“Exactly the problem. He needs to stop, and find another hobby,”
“You can’t take that away from him!”
“Better than taking his life.”
I paused.
“I’m definitely going to see him on Saturday; can you give me a lift to the hospital?”
“Fine. Now go to bed, please,”
I left, but not to go to bed. I now knew what I had to write. I had to finish it before Saturday, to show to him, to cheer him up. Returning to my bed, furiously I scribbled, pouring my heart and soul into every word. I searched my brain, finding the words lost in neglected corners, even dabbling in foreign languages – French, Latin, German. I wrote like my hand was on fire that night, watching the clock count down from 36 hours… for it was 36 hours till I would see Professor Kettle.
*
After living 34 hours completely and wholly absorbed in my work, skipping other lectures, not eating at all, I washed the ink off my hands at the basin in the men’s toilets. I had picked my smartest coat and my new shoes to wear, and made sure I’d scrubbed all the lack of sleep off my face before meeting the Headmaster outside the school in the muggy summer’s air. We walked in silence to his car, I enjoying the scrunch of the gravel beneath my feet. To me, it sounded like triumph. I clutched my script tightly in my hands.
We drove for 2 hours to the hospital, and an awkward silence lay between us. The headmaster offered no interesting topic of question, though, on one occasion, did pose a rather difficult question.
“So, you and Professor Kettle… good friends?”
To this, I merely shrugged. How to answer that question? One would say perhaps, after watching us for a lengthy period of time, that we were more than friends, (Something that was perceptibly behind the question in the first place) but to say what would be extraordinarily difficult. What to call this connection? It may seem strange that I, an English student, have no concept of love, even though I am constantly surrounded by poetry and novels where love is more often than not the focal point. I can not confidently say I have ever been in love; is it possible to be in love with someone and not know it? What I feel for Professor Kettle can not really be compared to that of any novels or poetry, but it is a whole new experience to me. I could label it as obsession, or adoration. It his mind that most attracts me, not his face or body. But then, how to explain the feeling of hurt and longing I endured every minute since that meeting in the Headmaster’s room? Or the thrill I feel at being able to see him again? I couldn’t linger on the topic too long, as it made me feel queasy. I am happy to leave our relationship unlabelled.
So both the Headmaster and I sat uncomfortably, my mind blank as I watched the familiar setting of the University roll away, and the small nearby town unfold around us. I re-read my script thrice over, hastily editing, though still I wasn’t fully satisfied. I was proud, but a nasty niggle in the back of my mind just wouldn’t leave. However, when the car slowed, reaching the Hospital car park, I stuffed it into my pocket and allowed myself to be led through the shiny corridors, leading to the clinic where Professor Kettle presumably sat. My heart raced as all the possible reactions he could have flashed before my eyes. My greatest fear, at that point in time, was him looking up and giving me that indulgent smile… but then telling me it was awful. I knew he’d be charming about it, but I wanted him to love it. I wanted him to explode with passion, and rave about it for days on end. Little did I know that a worse sight would be awaiting me when I opened the door to the Jerry ward.
The room was clean and white, empty except for a small pot plant on the window sill and a chest of drawers on the left wall. It was very modern, but had an air of hospital loneliness about it, as there was only one bed in the room.
The Headmaster sighed, and walked slowly across the room to where the bed was.
I stood there.
A nurse bustled past me, carrying two chairs and a clipboard.
I stood there.
I felt my mouth hanging open, and my heart stopped. In all my flurry about the script, I’d not realized the gravity of the situation. Professor Kettle was ill. Really very ill. My legs turned to lead as I forced them to move forwards, approaching the old man, entangled in a set of ferocious looking wires, and lying, as if dead, on the bed. His eyes were closed. I began to cry, turning my head away so the Headmaster wouldn’t see.
“Wilson… what have you done?” he said gravely. Professor Kettle’s eyes flickered open, and he scanned the room, smiling. I wiped my face and turned to face him, holding back yet more tears.
“I…. hello,” I muttered. He opened mouth and drew in, taking a deep breath. It sounded horrible. I could hear the pain, felt it tearing at my own throat as his chest swelled, and my entire body tensed. Suddenly, the machine next to him began to make a noise. I recoiled slightly, knowing that a hospital machine beeping loudly could never be a good sign. He began to cough violently, blood and phlegm being splattered all over my clothes. I just stood, crying, not knowing what to do, begging him silently to stop. The Headmaster leapt to his feet (He had sat down on one of the chairs the nurse had brought in earlier) and ran to the door shouting,
“Help! Help! He’s having a fit! He can’t breathe!” I watched in horror as Professor Kettle continued to cough, now sitting up, his face slowly turning paler and paler and his eyes wide. Another nurse came bustling in, yanking open the top drawer and pulling out a needle and a small plastic bag. She was shouting something, rushing to Professor Kettle’s side. But I couldn’t hear anything. I just saw the scene playing in front of me, and I was looking down on myself. It was like an out-of-body experience. She slammed the needle down on his chest, and the coughing subsided. Pressing on the bag connected to the needle, like a pump, she breathed out slowly. Then all was calm. My hearing returned.
“His right lung almost collapsed. I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. In a few more days his other one will too,” she said, looking at her feet. Professor Kettle closed his eyes, looking very resigned. I waited till she left, handing me a tissue to mop myself up with, but I didn’t. I stepped towards Professor Kettle.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, trying to stay calm. He shook his head, breathing deeply, the sound of it driving me insane. “I wrote you the script. But what use will it do now? You’re… you’re dying, aren’t you,” I said. Behind me the Headmaster had sat back down on his seat. I felt his hand on my arm. “No, it’s okay. Now I know,” I said, but I heard my voice tremble. Professor Kettle held out his hand to me, looking me hard in the face. Slowly, I dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled script. Now it seemed like nothing, worth nothing. All this time I had worries about the script, and Professor Kettle was dying. I watched him read it, and twiddled my thumbs, staring intently, watching every small motion his face made. There was no smile. Not even a hint of happiness. He didn’t like it.
He doesn’t like it I thought. He’s dying. He’s going to remember me as a failure. He always knew I was going to be a failure. That’s why he didn’t tell me he was ill. He didn’t consider me worth it. I’m just a nuisance to him now, wasting his last stretch of life by forcing him to read a stupid, childish script. I felt something hot roll down my cheek. I was crying again.
“Stop it! I know you hate it. I know it’s horrible. I’m sorry!” I cried. “I’m sorry for wasting your time! For even bothering to come at all!” I carried on, sitting down on the chair below me, crying into my fists. “You hate it. You hate me! I know you hate me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I don’t,” wheezed a very quiet, smoke-filled voice “Hate you.” He coughed, and I looked up. He was crying. “Stop.” He said, after another agonizing breath.
“Then what?” I said, “You’re not happy!”. He shook his head and smiled.
“I am,” he said.
And that was it. I broke down, crying pitifully into his blue hospital shirt, my head on his lap. I sat there sobbing for at least 10 minutes, feeling his cold hand in my brown hair. After a while, The Headmaster left, mumbling something about getting drinks. I sniffed, and stood up, clasping Professor Kettle’s hand in mine.
“Professor, when you set that essay… do you know what three words popped into my head first? Well, I thought about just giving you that, on its own. But, then, I didn’t know what I meant by it,” I said, rubbing his hand. He shook his head, smiling slightly. It was obvious what I was about to say, and I almost didn’t say it. But I had to.
“Please don’t die,” I whispered. His mouth twitched, but he didn't smile, just looked at me confusedly. I couldn’t resist teasing him, even when he was ill. I was sure he’d do the same. I laughed, choking on my tears a little.
“That’s not all!” I choked, “I love you.” Then his face broke into a large grin, and he reached out to touch my face, which was now dangerously close to him. He coughed and chuckled together.
“But I meant it when I asked you not to die. How will you write your play if you're dead?”
“Oh dear… I hadn’t thought of that,” he said seriously, winking. There it was. But by the way he said it, and the twinkle in his eyes, I knew he was being sarcastic, and that made me a bit happier. He’d always hated clichés, and I was sure this was no exception. He’d keep on cracking jokes through death and the after life, if I knew him. A final tear fell from my chin, onto his chapped lips.
“Professor Wilson Kettle,” I breathed. “I love you.”
After that, no more words were needed. I left around 5 minutes later with the Headmaster, who merely nodded a goodbye, tapping Professor Kettle’s hand gently.
He died the next day.
Of course, I grieved for a while, but after a few months buried myself in my writing. This was the dedication I wrote in my first play script:
“For Wilson Kettle – A mentor, a friend, and ultimately my greatest inspiration. I’ll never forget that first day. That first lecture. You were brilliant. Probably still are. Then again, I must say: Pot. Kettle. Black.
And I owe it all to you.”
I called it “Three words”.
I used this for a couple of contests, and am still awaiting the results. This took me about a week to write and triple that to edit. Because I'm an edit-o-maniac. Some bits still don't sound quite right, but I'm happy with the final piece. Scratch that, I'm proud of it! Critiques please!?
