This a foreword to a new book.
AA: “An unusually handsome and vigorous man looking far younger than his 73 years, strode briskly into the richly-marbled foyer of the luxurious Twilight Retirement Home, Kingston-upon-Thames.
All eyes turned in response to his commanding presence. Every fibre of his lithe, athletic being spoke of a vigorous life of thrilling adventure and extraordinary achievement, while his cool blue eyes sparked with the hypnotic electricity of the master storyteller.”
R: “Hello, good morning, can I help you?” asked the receptionist absorbed in her wordsearch in Take a Break magazine. She looked up and was surprised to see the voice was that of an old man, bent over a walking frame. The old man continued.
AA: “‘Is that by any chance Mr Arthur Atkinson, the Arthur Atkinson, the famed storyteller whose tales have enraptured me and many others of my generation?’ asked the spellbound receptionist, voice wavering with barely contained excitement.”
R: “Is he alright?” the receptionist asked the old lady, who came in with the old man.
AA: “Beside this magnificent specimen of manhood was his wife Emily, who after many years of blissful cohabitation remained enraptured by her husband. Yet, despite her unwavering devotion, she had decided to consign her husband to a retirement home.”
EA: “Yes, sorry about this. Yes, he’s alright,” said the lady quietly to the receptionist. “It’s Mr Atkinson, Arthur. It’s just an Arthur Atkinson, to be clear. His books went out of print years ago. We’re just checking him in.”
AA: “The name Arthur Atkinson resounded round the reception room, a name of historic resonance that captured the attention of all who heard it, like the tolling of a mighty bell.”
R: “Could you spell Atkinson for me?”
EA: “Yes, A, T, K, I, N, S, O, N. He’s my husband.
AA: “Thank you, Mrs Atkinson.”
EA: “He’s a third-person omniscient narrator, you see.”
R: “An omnisent what?” asked the receptionist.
EA: “He was diagnosed with third-person omniscient narrating a few years ago. That was okay. But then it got worse and his narration started to become increasingly unreliable, like it is now. He describes what is happening in his own way, but doesn’t always get it quite right. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It is just a symptom of his condition.”
AA: “‘He’s a magnificent man of unblemished authority,’ his wife Emily told the awestruck receptionist,” Mr Atkinson narrated.
R: “Right, well. We get all sorts here. Now I come to think of it Jim over there in the corner is an omniwatsit natterer too, but I think he’s a reliable one. He listens to every word and writes them all down. He has got incredible hearing. Maybe they will have something in common?”
Jim looked up from his notes and waved. His account forms the basis of this story.
EA: “Oh that would be lovely wouldn’t it, Arthur. That man over there, Jim, has omniscient narration too? Maybe you could be friends?”
AA: “Arthur Atkinson gazed around, but saw nothing new or interesting on the horizon.”
EA: “Yes, let’s see how things go, eh Arthur?”
Emily leant over to the receptionist and whispered.
EA: “I don’t want Jim to hear this but I am bringing Arthur here because I need a bit of peace and quiet for a while. Can you imagine living with someone constantly narrating what is going on like this? It is driving me potty.”
In the corner Jim cupped his hand to his ear and wrote it all down. At the same time Arthur began once again
AA: “‘After many years of happy cohabitation,’ Emily said privately to the receptionist, ‘I now feel it would be selfish of me to monopolise the pleasure of my husband’s company. I will reluctantly end my monopoly to give his public greater access.’”
EA: “Yes, I can see what you mean. You need your own life too, don’t you” said the receptionist. “Could you just sign here and here, to agree to the waiver and monthly payments?”
AA: “Tears welling in her eyes, Emily, signed the forms which would see her beloved husband wrenched from her arms, to share his impromptu tales, drawn from his rich and varied life.”
EA: “I’m very sorry about this… He quietens down in the afternoon, after he’s had his cup of tea and a biscuit,”
R: “Don’t worry, Mrs Atkinson, we have all sorts here,” the receptionist reassured her.
Half an hour later, Emily left her husband Arthur in the Twilight hoe which she would visit several times a week.
EA [to the end]: And this is how I, Emily Atkinson, detached myself from the narrative of my husband, Arthur. It is told largely thanks to Jim, the reliable omniscient narrator who we met along the way.
Jim and Arthur did, as we had hoped, form a firm friendship, chronicling events of the Twilight Home from two distinctly different perspectives. We can now temper my husband’s colourful accounts with Jim’s meticulous reportage.
I am proud to be writing the foreword to their collaboration “Jim and Arthur, Arthur and Jim”, which came from my decision to give Arthur more space for his narration.
As for me, after many years, I now have a chance to narrate my own story in the first person, for a change. But for this rare exception, it is done for an audience of one: me. ■