The Delusion of Niceness
by Frances Fyfield
Ok, here’s the situation, the kind of situation in which we might all have been, men and women alike. By which I mean the kind of situation in which my reader might have been, as well as me. That’s what I write about. Ordinary situations we can all recognize, in which people of ordinary perceptions forget the instincts we had as children. Where instinct is overtaken by all those other layers that come with adulthood, like nice manners.
I’m not explaining this very well; best explained by example.
In DEEP SLEEP, Kimbery Quinn, single mum with ten year old Tom and long since defected policeman husband, is a determined, hard-working young woman, training to be a Pharmacist. She’s a curvy lady, too fat for her own taste and not attractive in the skinny, glamorous sense. Just big, but she thinks, ugly enough not to notice who looks at her. Here she is in the shop where she works, determined to get her qualifications, do better, get Tom and her outta here.
Love it, you know what? I love it here. I love it, and I specially love the old ladies not just cos they love me, ‘cos they do and I love them back, I love this shop, if you know what I mean, although I can tell you, there’s a lot wrong. The shop’s overstocked, is what, too many lines of stuff, too much merchandise, but hey? There’s seats for the oldies and I know where everything is, even if it’s stacked high or low, I know where to get them therapeutic socks, the plasters and I know how they live, ‘cos they’re my neighbours, and I’m happy and one day I’m gonna have a shop like this, on my own, once I get my qualifications. Next year. Me and Tom. Duncan can go ----.
It’s a lovely shop. A shop on a street where people live.
No problems, then, me and Tom and Uncle Pip who owns the place, where I live next door. Tom won’t call him Uncle Pip; won’t call him anything, silly boy. Because Pip’s a lovely man, everyone loves Pip. He’s the Boss.
Lovely man, with sad eyes on account of the fact of his wife dying only last year, some mysterious illness, dead in her sleep and him not being able to help it, he’s devastated, you can tell. Lovely face with sad, sad eyes, he’s ace with the little old ladies of the street, too, and he isn’t half a good teacher, tells me stuff, an hour every morning in the dispensary, so I know how to pack up pills and prescriptions and I’m right with everything. Although there are some areas round the back he won’t let me see, like his shed in the yard, where he mixes things up, no worries, he’s a sweet, sweet man, ever so kind.
Ever so..ever so…But, you know? But. Slow to say this, for someone so kind, but he does..just..stand a bit close sometimes. Gets me to go up the ladder to the top shelf of this overcrowded shop to find something, even when no one else is in, and watches me while I do it.
Not more than that, until he says, ‘Fancy a drink after work?’ and I say, ‘Got to rush, going out later,’ even though that’s a lie and the Boyfriend, (I wish,) is my invention, and he always says, never mind, another time, Hope you have a really great evening.’
He’s so nice, all my imagination, but he really is..a..bit …Creepy?
Don’t be silly. Not bad looking, but kind of soft and his hand round my ankle when I get down off the ladder, feels damp.
No worries, you got a job to do.
He’s a really, really nice man. All the customers love him.
Is the instinct to admire better than the instinct to Run?
by Frances Fyfield
on Tour Jan 20 - Feb 28, 2014
Book Details:Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Witness Impulse
Publication Date: 1/21/2014
Number of Pages: 276
Synopsis:Pip Carlton is a devoted husband and a highly respected pharmacist, cherished by his loyal customers. When his wife dies in her sleep, with no apparent cause, he is distraught. Comforted by his caring assistant, Pip ignores the rumors about Margaret's death, relieved that the police seem to have moved on.
But Prosecutor Helen West refuses to believe that Margaret simply slipped into her final slumber. As she probes deeper into the affairs of the neighborhood, she uncovers a viper’s nest of twisted passion, jealous rage, and lethal addictions.
As a sudden act of violence erupts, shaking the community, one lone man, armed with strange love potions, prepares to murder again…
Read an excerpt:He checked the window, but the unbearable sobbing continued and suddenly the idea was fully formed, plucked out of cold storage into the stuffy heat. The window was shut. No ventilation, no moving air as he returned to bed and took her stiff little body in his arms.
'Come on, sweetheart, there, there, there.' She clutched him so hard he could feel her long nails digging into his shoulders. His sweating had stopped and his skin to her touch felt as cold as ice.
Author Bio:"I grew up in rural Derbyshire, but my adult life has been spent mostly in London, with long intervals in Norfolk and Deal, all inspiring places. I was educated mostly in convent schools; then studied English and went on to qualify as a solicitor, working for what is now the Crown Prosecution Service, thus learning a bit about murder at second hand. Years later, writing became the real vocation, although the law and its ramifications still haunt me and inform many of my novels.
I’m a novelist, short story writer for magazines and radio, sometime Radio 4 contributor, (Front Row, Quote Unquote, Night Waves,) and presenter of Tales from the Stave. When I’m not working (which is as often as possible), I can be found in the nearest junk/charity shop or auction, looking for the kind of paintings which enhance my life. Otherwise, with a bit of luck, I’m relaxing by the sea with a bottle of wine and a friend or two."-Frances Fyfield
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