Eric sighed: he appeared to have written himself into a corner again. Often his characters seemed to take on a life of their own, almost independent of his conscious thought, but after that initial burst, prompted by seeing a film on the Pimpernel theme, Gaston was proving thoroughly uncooperative and had to be pushed every inch of the way. Eric mentally cursed the day he had been landed with providing a short story for Janice’s magazine. After all, he was an engineer, and writing fiction was only a hobby. A technical manual was a different thing altogether; well before the deadline, with no great mental effort, he would produce a clear, concise text that even the apprentices should be able to understand, if they could be bothered to read at all. Half of them apparently couldn’t. Their idea of literature was one of the more lurid tabloids, and their interest in structural mechanics confined to the distribution and elasticity of soft tissue over various examples of the female skeleton, actual or imagined.
That, however, was not the present problem. His immediate difficulty was in devising any sort of credible, coherent and satisfying plot for the story he was committed to write. How had Janice talked him into it? He had told her his ideas had dried up, at least for the time being, and in any case he needed to get on with other tasks, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. She was one of those people who simply don’t hear what they don’t want to know. On this occasion she blithely said, “You’ll think of something,” and had changed the subject before he could get in a suitable rejoinder. He never managed to work back to the topic and insist that he wasn’t going to do it - couldn’t do it - positively refused to do it. She departed expecting it to be done, and that was that: he hadn’t the guts to defy her.
He suddenly realised with alarm that this seemed to have become a pattern. Over the past year or so she had started asking him to do little tasks for her, then some not so little, and in time, for various allegedly good causes, some that were definitely more than he was willing to do, although he found his protests and excuses firmly overridden. Why did he allow it? Feminine wiles? He had to admit that she never descended to that kind of approach. Somehow he couldn’t imagine it of her. Not that she lacked the means had she wished to use them; she was no beauty, but definitely personable, with pleasing features and a good figure that she neither emphasised nor disguised by her style of dress.
She had been widowed young and childless, and found some consolation by involving herself heavily in the activities of the church she attended. From time to time friends had tried match-making, without success: interests were usually compatible, but principles and desires were not. Eric had got to know her (not in the Biblical sense, more the pity) when he needed her help as head of the typing pool with a particularly important manual that he was preparing, since it was to have a layout according to the customer’s specification, very different from the company standard. She had gone well beyond the strict call of duty in not only meeting his requirements but making various useful suggestions, such as pointing out several instances where an extra diagram would greatly clarify the text.
The custom when typists had been especially helpful was to present a box of chocolates. However, Eric felt that in the circumstances something more was needed, so he asked her out to dinner, which proved a mutually pleasurable occasion. He couldn’t resist hinting gently at further possibilities, and although she declined them, it was in a way as sympathetic as it was definite. Neither ever referred to the subject again on subsequent dates, which without becoming routine calendar entries tended to happen every few weeks.
Eric was diffident about mentioning his literary hobby, fearing that it smacked of dilettantism, but it slipped out and Janice was immediately interested in seeing some of his work. She was impressed, assuring him that he had a genuine gift for writing, and looking back he supposed that it must be true; after all, those first three paragraphs had practically written themselves. When last week the editor of her church magazine mentioned wanting an original short story for some purpose, he was the obvious person to ask. Besides any other difficulties, he couldn’t possibly write on a religious theme, but apparently that didn’t matter. So here he was, stuck with it. And stuck, at least for the present, was indeed the word.