The Blank Page
1.
Gladys Wainwright sat before her typewriter, her aching fingers trembling slightly as she paused them above the worn keys, hovering with a quiver as she decided what she wanted to write. Eventually, with a sigh, she put them down on the sparse desk in front of her. It was no good. The arthritis had become too much for her, and besides, she felt hollow; like she had nothing left in her to pour out onto the page, through this beautiful machine.
The blank page stared at her balefully, accusing her. She defiantly glared back at it, as if by winning this standoff, the words would somehow come onto the page. The words she knew were in her, somewhere. She just needed to get the words out there and onto this blank page. She knew that if she could get one more story onto that blank page, her problems would be temporarily abated and her growing sense of being gone and nearly forgotten would be vanquished.
Somehow, the blank page got blanker and still her brain stubbornly refused to give her the words that were, apparently, locked up tightly inside.
Wistfully, she thought back to her younger days. Using this typewriter, she had caused her adoring readers to laugh and cry, gasp with shock and scream with horror. For decades, she had written stories that had entertained thousands and caused her to rise to the top of society.
Her romances, the much loved “Tom Rowe Stories” had seen women by the hundreds flock to book stores to eagerly grab the latest instalment. Her action and adventure novels, written under the nom de guerre Grant Rockman (for what man would buy an adventure novel with the name Gladys on the front?) that usually featured the dashing protagonist Kit Jenkins had sold well in over 50 different countries.
She had even, at one point, written a successful series of children’s books about two best friends, Kathy Plant and Anna Simpson who got into all sorts of mischief together, much to the chagrin of the adults. Gladys smiled fondly. Those stories had been her favourites to write. She had received many letters of adulation from young fans expressing how much they loved Kathy and Anna.
So long ago now. She still had those letters, somewhere. At least that is what her stiff and pompous lawyer, Mr S. Carr told her. He popped in once a month, usually to tell her that she was running out of money and the home she lived in now was expensive to keep and had she thought about downsizing and did she want to sell any more of her jewels, or indeed the typewriter, he knew some collectors in London who would be willing to pay the price for the typewriter of the legendary Gladys Wainwright?
Nonsense, really. She had bought the house from the sales of her first Tom Rowe novel, back in 1932. It was a lovely house and she was obstinately hanging on to it, as if selling it would be selling a piece of who she was. She didn’t have much left to her name, and this house, the backdrop to the inspiration of so many of her stories, was one of her final objects of pride.
That and the typewriter, of course, currently still hosting the accursed blank page.
“Come on Gladys” she muttered to herself, rubbing her creaky fingers together, as if by warming them up they would spring into life and skilfully pour out a fantastic story onto the page.
That was, after all, how it had used to be. She would take a walk in the garden, or before the house, into a local park. She would let her mind wonder and ideas would come to her. She would rush back inside, her face set in joyous determination and start typing. Once she had the ideas, the words came naturally. The blank pages didn’t last long enough to look at her in any manner, except one of excited expectancy.
They were heady days. Once her first “Tom Rowe” novel took off, and the flood of contracts started arriving, it seemed like she would be on top of the world forever. There was hardly a day when she wasn’t receiving an invitation to some event or other. She even went across the sea to New York. Twice! She had met with the King of England, back when there was a King, and he had expressed a secret admiration for her romance novels. The constant flash of the photographers’ bulb became part of the soundtrack to her life, and it was deemed a great honour to have the renowned novelist Gladys Wainwright at your social gathering.
There was, of course, a darker side to the high life. Gladys wrapped her blanket around her as her life’s regrets started crossing her mind, like some ghastly parade.
She was so prolific that she barely had time for romance. Her first husband, Reginald Olsen, had left her for an American heiress, claiming that she wasn’t “giving him enough” in their marriage. She barely noticed. Her second husband Sir Aaron van der Beest, who she actually loved dearly, went off to war when it broke out in 1939 and was killed in one of the earlier skirmishes. She went through a period of mourning and it was during this time when the ideas for the Kit Jenkins novels came to her.
She chuckled slightly as she recalled the first newspaper reviews of her first such novel. “Gladys Wainwright shows her darker side!” proclaimed one. “Kit Jenkins is a moodier, more violent and, dare we say it, more exciting version of Tom Rowe!” stated another. She had been contemptuous of such things at the time, yet still kept all the reviews every time she released a new story. She must remember to ask Mr S. Carr if she still had those reviews. She decided she would like to read them again.
There had been other men, of course. She had been beautiful as well as talented and rich, and there were always suitors sniffing around. But writing two concurrent series of novels (and later on the children’s books) meant that romance didn’t appeal to her much. There were some fun times, true, and some truly scandalous evenings that would cause her to blush if she wasn’t too old to be embarrassed by such things. But no one stuck, and eventually the suitors faded away.
As did the ideas for new books. She began to realise that her characters Tom Rowe and Kit Jenkins had run their course. The publisher for her children’s books decided not to publish any more either, and she could not bring herself to start on a new venture.
It was as if she awoke one morning and her passion to write had gone. She realised with shock that she now had no family, no new stories and very few friends. She was left with lots of time on her hands, her beloved yet, it must be said, ostentatious house with all the trappings of what she once was contained within. And her typewriter, replete with stacks of blank pages.
This train of thought was not pleasing to Gladys, nor was it helpful in her desire to write something more. Mr S. Carr, in his last visit, had taken some more furniture to sell at auction in order to keep a bit of food in her pantry and a bit of heat in her sitting room, where she spent most of her time. She didn’t want him to, of course, but as always the straight laced and grey faced man laid out the options to her and she was left with not much choice in the matter. She hadn’t sold the house or the typewriter yet though!
She decided that she needed to get up, walk about and clear her head a bit. Maybe make herself a nice cup of tea. That thought brightened her. “There is nothing a nice cup of tea can’t fix,” she said, recalling her mother saying the same thing to her when she was a child. That of course was during the Great War, and the young Gladys Wainwright had thought that maybe the war could have been solved if the Prime Minister, the King of England and Kaiser Wilhelm had all sat down for a cup of tea together. She suggested this to her mother who laughed lightly, and stroked her hair. “Oh Gladys,” she had said somewhat sadly, “that might be the most sensible thing anyone has said about this accursed war!”
2.
Gladys put the kettle on and thought about sitting back down, her mind still awash with nostalgia. A knock at her door startled her awake from her reverie. Gladys hobbled slowly to her hallway and fumbled with the key in the lock. She opened it to a smiling, plump lady in a nurses uniform.
“Hello Gladys!” she said brightly, bustling her way into the house. “Are you alright?” she asked as she took her coat off and hung it up on the ornate coat stand. “It’s a bit chilly out there!” The kettle started to whistle in the kitchen. “Ooh, a brew? Marvellous! Don’t worry, I’ll make it!” And with that she swept into the kitchen, leaving Gladys to fumble once more with the keys to lock the door and shuffle slowly in her wake.
Sometime previously, someone in the local council had decided that Gladys needed a bit of home support once a week, and Simone was the community nurse assigned to her. She was hard working, well meaning, thoughtful and cheery.
Gladys hated her.
It was nothing specific, Simone had never said anything offensive to her (Gladys did wonder if she had an offensive bone in her body) but she was just so… annoying!
Gladys reached the kitchen, feeling weary already, dreading the next hour of non-stop “chit-chat” as Simone called it (and my, how Gladys hated that phrase!) Simone loved to talk and gossip and it seemed she was able to continue talking without ever really needing the other person to respond.
“Did you see on the news last night?” she was currently saying as Gladys sat down with a huff at the kitchen table. “I couldn’t believe that her from that telly show is having an affair with him, you know that bloke from politics, whashisname?” She paused for a split second “Oh I can’t remember but you know the one don’t you, he’s well old! I couldn’t believe it, well he won’t be getting my vote, lemme tell you? You probably knew him once didn’t you?” Another minor pause. Gladys wondered if she had the energy to bother responding, but before too long realised it didn’t matter.
“Yeah you probably did know him once upon a time. I bet he tried it on with you didn’t he, the filthy old beggar! I bet you had all the blokes after you at one time didn’t you!” She snorted a laugh “Course you did, famous old bird like you!” She snorted again and slurped at her tea. She then marched off into the sitting room. “I’ve got your brew Gladys, lets have a chit-chat in here where it’s a bit warmer!”
After Gladys had got settled comfortably, with Simone twittering away the whole time, not realising the lady in her care had yet to utter a word, she finally interrupted. “Simone, I…” the nurse abruptly stopped, her face full of care. “I don’t think I can write any more!” Gladys was shocked that she had spoken. Normally, she didn’t respond much to Simone’s stream of gibberish. For some reason, today she felt like sharing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the blank page sat in the typewriter, still coldly silent and unsympathetic.
“Oh my poor sweet lamb,” Simone said, her voice all concern. “My precious duckling, that must be awful for you!” She knelt down next to Gladys, clasping her hands in her own. “Could I help? What do you want to write? Let me be your hands!” Immediately, Gladys wanted to withdraw from this conversation, regretting ever opening her mouth to this incorrigible woman. She wasn’t looking for someone to just do everything for her, for Pete’s sake! But she was involved now. She took a shuddering breath.
“No, you don’t understand. I… I can’t write! I don’t know what to write! My stories, they… they left me!” A couple of tears rolled down her cheek at that last sentence. “I need to write so I can sell books, so I can afford to heat up this place, I don’t want to sell my typewriter!” She was sobbing now, her words getting muddled.
Simone patted her arm. “You know what I always say? Have a nice brew, get some sleep and some fresh air and you’ll be right in no time!” She smiled brightly. “I’ll pop the kettle on again, shall I?”
3.
A few hours later, and Gladys was still staring at the blank page. After no less than three cups of tea with Simone, she was done with talking. She had promised to go to bed early and Simone had promised to try and speak to Mr S. Carr about “sorting the finances out,” whatever that meant. Gladys had no intention of keeping her end of the promise. She had to get something down before she saw that confounded lawyer again.
The cold autumn climate was becoming more noticeable and after a fairly warm summer, Gladys was sure that a very frigid winter was on its way. She lit a couple of candles and poured a small glass of her secret sherry. She knew Simone wouldn’t approve of her drinking alcohol; especially not at this time of night! “Who cares about you Simone?” Gladys cackled as she quickly knocked it back. The sweet, burning tastes trickled down her throat and warmed her nicely. She suddenly felt awash with confidence, and something inside her told her that she would soon defeat the blank page.
The typewriter glinted in the candlelight, and she closed her eyes thinking back to when she found it in a small shop, in a back street in her native York. It wasn’t cheap, especially not for a teenager in post-Great War Britain. But she had been saving all war, and with the money the government had sent the family for the death of her father at Verdun (he had been a Captain) she was able to afford it, some ink and a ream of blank pages. Her imagination had been set alight when she had spied it in the shop, and knew she had to own it. So, that evening, she had sat down, by candlelight, faced the blank pages and written her first story.
It was a silly, poorly written story, she recalled. A story about a beautiful young girl called Gladys becoming a woman, and meeting a handsome young soldier, freshly returned from a war. She had even started to write a slightly steamy scene when her mother came in to see why she had candles still lit. She had taken the three sheets that Gladys had managed to write and, upon reading with an ever increasing frown of distaste, had screwed the pages up and thrown them onto the fire in the sitting room of their small house.
“He started to untie her bodice!” Gladys exclaimed suddenly. That was the line she had written before her first story was halted by a sudden act of censorship. She smiled at the recollection. After that point she had been careful about when – and what – she wrote. Even when she became famous for her romance novels, she had tried to be subtle instead of obvious with her love scenes.
It was different now, she reflected sourly. There was filth everywhere and no-one seemed to care about it. She was no prude, but did the writers and artists have to be so obvious about it? Maybe she should write another romance story, going back to what she knew best. Maybe “The New Romance Novel from the Legendary Author!” would bring her in enough money to last for a while.
Yes. It was decided. She would revitalise the romance genre, bring a touch of class in a world of dirty sex and smut, while keeping her in pocket and in house. She would also finally get rid of the malevolent blank page that was mocking her more with every passing hour. She was convinced a bodice or two would soon get her more expressive and intelligent words flowing again!
A small gust of wind, and the candles flickered, one of them going out. Gladys’ sudden burst of creative thinking died with it, and she sighed. She was not going to get any work done tonight. Sometimes, she knew when she was defeated. But her idea to start again with the romance novel was a good one. She vowed to start again in the morning.
She made her way slowly to her bedroom, her old legs complaining every step of the way. Simone had offered to get her a wheel chair or some kind of walking stick, but being a “stubborn old bird” (Simone’s words, not hers) she had refused them. It was true that she had trouble getting around these days, but she was damned if she was going to go down without a fight.
Simone had also suggested going to some kind of respite home for people her age. The thought was abhorrent to Gladys, and while she did sometimes admit to herself that having people to talk to regularly did sound pleasant, she saw it as giving in. She had always been a wildly independent woman, able to provide for herself. She had never relied on the money of a man. Had she ever had children, she would have taught them to be the same.
“This stubbornness will kill you, Gladys” she said aloud as she blew out the candle by her bed. She went to sleep almost immediately and dreamed about writing one more bestseller that would allow her to use electricity more frequently.
4.
The next morning, Mr S. Carr, her boring yet supercilious lawyer arrived for his monthly check-in with her. He wore a dull grey suit with matching tie and shoes, and sported a moustache that Gladys always thought looked sad somehow. “Good morning to you, Ms. Wainwright.” He said formally. “I have with me the latest reviews of your estate and assets. It isn’t looking good, I’m afraid.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corners of his mouth.
“Of course it isn’t!” Gladys snapped. “It never is! I have an idea for saving money, I’m going to fire you!”
Mr S. Carr coughed, unconcerned. He pulled out the handkerchief from his sleeve again, lightly dabbed the corners of his mouth and quickly hid it from view again. “As I have explained to you previously, my fee was paid up front by your estate a few years ago.” He smiled slightly, an act that did nothing to improve his drab looks. “You are stuck with me for a few years more I’m afraid.”
Gladys said nothing, knowing she had nothing pleasant to say to him. In the silence, he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the corners of his mouth. This habit irritated Gladys immensely and she was beginning to wonder if he did it deliberately, knowing how much it displeased her.
Eventually, she shifted in her chair and groaned. “What can you tell me then?” She knew what he was going to say.
“Ms. Wainwright,” he started. He quickly dabbed the corners of his mouth with that blasted handkerchief. “I really think it is time you took my suggestion of selling the house seriously. Unfortunately, all those years ago when you signed your book contracts, the publishing house took the lion’s share of the profit and that publishing house now no longer exists. Furthermore, many of your promised future monies and royalties were dependent on you writing further books, which you have not done for some time yet.”
He paused in his discourse to dab the corners of his mouth.
“Last time I was here, you said you would write again. This would indeed help the situation.” He looked over at the typewriter. “All I see is a blank page. Have you written anything?”
“You know I haven’t.” Gladys said quietly. Her earlier anger had subsided, leaving only weary resignation in her voice. In subdued desperation, she said “Please. I don’t want to sell this house. Please.” A tear started to roll down her face and she silently berated herself for showing weakness in front of him.
Mr S. Carr coughed again, awkwardly. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the handkerchief and shuffled his papers a bit. “Don’t, erm… don’t cry, Ms. Wainwright.” His voice cracked slightly. “I, that is, we can…” he hesitated. “I apologise for upsetting you, Ms. Wainwright, but I must be clear here. There will come a point where you will not be able to afford, well, anything any more. When was the last time you had heating on in here? I know that it has been mild until now, but winter is coming, and with it a whole host of problems. If you were to sell it now, with interest rates being what they are-“
Gladys halted him by raising a hand. She was too drained to fight it any longer.
“You win.” She said “Sell the house.”
“Ms. Wainwright” Mr S. Carr said, in a surprisingly soft voice. “It is not a matter of ‘winning’ I just want to do what is best for you.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth. “I know it is upsetting to lose the house you have lived in for most of your life, but you simply cannot continue to live like this with no income. Your state pension does not cover half of what you need to keep such a house running. I may already have a couple of interested buyers lined up. If you’d like I can have someone come round to tidy the place up, and make it look presentable. How does that sound?”
Gladys said nothing for a while. It appeared all choice had been taken out of her hands. She stared around the room, taking everything in. This was the room where a majority of her books had been written. This is the room where her ideas and stories had taken a life of their own, and now this man wanted to take it all away from her.
The blank page looked on with a smug, victorious air about it. It mocked, taunted her, and Gladys hated the vile thing. She had been defeated and in such an ignoble, undignified manner. It was more than she could bear, and she swallowed back a choked sob that threatened to make its way into life.
“Do what you want, Mr Carr” she said, her voice broken. “Just do what you think is best.”
Mr S. Carr brightened at that. “You have made the right decision, Ms. Wainwright! Do you have anyone who could help you sort out moving? I imagine this process will take about two months, and you will need to get somewhere new. Have you thought about moving to a sheltered accommodation for people your age?”
Still not looking at him, Gladys responded “The only people who ever visit me are you and Simone, my community nurse.”
He reddened with embarrassment. “I… I will look into that for you then,” he promised half-heartedly. “Anyway, I really must be going. I have paperwork to sort and I shall be back next week with some things for you to sign. We will sort it all out for you, Ms. Wainwright, this will be as painless as possible for you.” He donned his dull grey coat and stepped out without saying anything else, shutting the door gently behind him.
Gladys stayed where she was, shame and sadness written across her features. “My home…” she whispered.
5.
November arrived and with it, icy winds in the air and frost across the ground. Gladys went everywhere with a blanket wrapped around her, shuffling like one half dead from room to room. She barely slept any more, and didn’t speak at all to Simone, who now came twice a week, trying to help Gladys in the upcoming move. Simone never wavered in her relentless cheeriness, but Gladys continued to treat her sullenly. A persistent cough had settled on Gladys’ chest and while she took the foul tasting medicine that Simone provided, it refused to leave her alone.
The typewriter stood lonely on the otherwise empty desk gathering dust, with the blank page sat enthroned in the roller. Gladys hardly went in the sitting room as she could not bear to see the blank page any more, tears of humiliation stinging her cheeks every time she thought about it. The blank page had taken over her dreams now too. She would have a recurring nightmare where she was always running from something. That something would be closing in on her, and try as she might she could not get away. The blank page, towering 50 feet high, would advance on her, ready to devour her.
She would awaken, sweating and shivering and spend the remainder of the night restlessly twisting and turning in a futile effort to get some rest. The thought that she could just throw the offending piece of paper away had occurred to her, but something held her back from doing so. It was as if by throwing it away, she was conceding the very final battle and admitting ultimate defeat. And while she realised that she being absurd, she still hadn’t thrown the blank page in the waste paper basket.
Mr S. Carr, in his infinite wisdom, had secured a buyer for the property. It was a good amount, he claimed, and would pay for her place at the retirement home for a good number of years. He, of course, had taken a “modest” fee from it, as had those she was referring to as the faceless men; the people hired by Mr S. Carr who were in and out of her house nearly every day, taking inventory and boxing her remaining possessions up in a professional, detached manner.
Mr S. Carr supervised all this, his sad moustache twitching as he watched everything, his handkerchief appearing (it seemed) every thirty seconds to dab the corner of his mouth. He had stopped trying to make conversation with Gladys, who had taken to standing in every room he was in, haunting his peripheral vision, like an unwelcome ghost.
Gladys despised the sight of the man, whose complexion had seemingly got greasier and more grey since she had agreed to sell the place. His gaunt face was practically skeletal, to Gladys’ mind, and she had started likening him to some disturbing personification of death, hanging around until she was gone from here.
She wanted him out of her life, and wanted nothing more to do with him, but felt it was her duty to make sure all her worldly goods were given the treatment and respect they deserved.
She was not taking everything with her to the home. She only needed clothes, a few books and her typewriter. She refused to part with it, and she supposed that she would end up taking the blank pages with her too.
Simone had told her that, now she “didn’t have to worry about anything any more” then perhaps she would suddenly, somehow, find her muse once again and write a best seller.
“You are strong…” she breathed, one afternoon, the cigarette she had smoked earlier coming back to haunt Gladys in a foul gust. “I know you!” Simone was sat very close to Gladys, her eyes sparkling, her pudgy face wobbling with her apparent sincerity.
“Once you get settled, you will bounce right back into it, and get a superb little novel written, and everyone will be talking about it! I just know it, you have some backbone you stubborn old bird! You are soooo strong!”
Simone was practically gushing now. “Ooh! Ooh!” An idea popped into Simone’s head and she jiggled excitedly. “Put me into your book! A lovely princess who charms all the men, that’s me!” She guffawed, spewing further stale cigarette breath into Gladys’ disgusted face.
Kit Jenkins, hero of the day, came across the vile, obese monster of a woman called Simone. He quickly and efficiently unloaded his revolver into the monsters’ ugly face, with a cool disregard-
Tom Rowe, smooth and handsome, loved all women. But Simone was a woman not even a mother could love. With a face that cracked mirrors and sent children fleeing in terror-
As Simone the All-Devourer waddled through the beautiful fields, she turned the flowers black with her breath and gobbled up any living thing she came across-
Gladys smiled. She was sure she could fill a hundred blank pages with creative things to say about Simone if she was to include her in one of her stories. “Maybe!” she said, turning the smile on Simone.
Unaware of the true reason for Gladys’ sudden smile, Simone beamed, and crushed her with a bear hug, and started babbling away about how she would become famous and maybe date a movie star or something. Gladys stopped listening, amusing herself with further stories in which Simone and Mr S. Carr were both killed in ever wild and extravagant ways.
6.
That scene was a week ago, and in a days’ time she would be leaving this house. She had been fastidiously trying not to think about it, but found the thought to be all-consuming, and the more she railed against it in her mind, the more it loomed, casting shadows everywhere.
The blank page sat still, now in a room empty save for the desk, typewriter and a small stool. Everything else was gone, either sold off, taken to her retirement home or just thrown away. One of the faceless men who had been packing things for her had asked if he could also pack the typewriter and all it’s accompanying blank pages, but she hadn’t let him. Mr S. Carr said that he would make sure it was taken on the day they moved her.
Gladys stared at the typewriter as she was going to bed that night. She had been going to lock the door, and caught sight of it from the hallway. She stood for what seemed like an eternity, just looking at it, alone, defiant, resplendent. A sudden impulse took her forward, into the sitting room. Another impulse sat her down. A voice in her head was telling her to go to bed and get warm upstairs. She had even had the electric heater on earlier that day – Simone had moved it into her bedroom for her so she didn’t get too cold at night.
But Gladys wasn’t ready for that yet. It was bitter downstairs, and her creaky bones were in fine voice, complaining loudly. However, she found herself in front of the typewriter and the blank page. It didn’t look threatening all of a sudden. She didn’t know why it was so different now, after her struggles of the past few months, but something had changed. She sat down, still staring at the blank page. The words would come, she knew it. They would come! She stretched her hand out, a victorious smile on her face.
Simone and Mr S. Carr arrived at the same time that morning. While still cold, a weak winter sun was doing its best to bring a bit of warmth to the day. After knocking a few times on the old wooden door, Simone tried the handle, finding it unlocked. She stepped inside, calling for Gladys. Her call was interrupted by a stifled scream.
Gladys was in front of her typewriter, slumped forward with her hands reaching towards the ancient machine, as if in an act of worship or obeisance. She was not moving, and as Mr S. Carr went down to the phone box to call for an ambulance, Simone edged forward trembling. Gladys was freezing to the touch, and there was no pulse that could be felt. Simone went perfectly still, sobbing slightly, not knowing what to do.
The door behind her was still open, and as the wind picked up outside, the only thing that moved in the room was a blank page, rippling slowly.