Making Sense

By Jim Murdoch

How do you make sense out of life? Some say that you can't and it’s not worth the effort; just take things as they come. Still, most of us do make some effort to find order to our lives. We think up reasons, concoct justifications or invent excuses to give our lives meaning. In this collection of short stories from Scottish writer Jim Murdoch we meet twenty people who have nothing in common apart from this gnawing need to make sense out of their lives.

In one of the stories a murderer describes the thrill of his first kill who sounds like she might be the girl in ‘Objects of Affection and Intention’. She’s just left her boyfriend, David, because he prefers the company of the guy from 4G. David works with the guy from ‘Life’ who, whilst waiting at the bar about to have his first extramarital fling, gets propositioned by the wife of the guy in ‘Tomorrowscape’ who’s also about to meet a sticky end. In the first story we’re introduced to number-obsessed Thomas who lends his pen to the girl from ‘Coping’. He doesn’t realise she’s scribbling a note to put in her baby’s buggy which she’s planning to abandon in the local supermarket. Of course the guy in ‘Stray’ who’s taken over her bedsit stinking of Napisan knows nothing of this just as the woman in ‘Islands’ is completely ignorant of the fact that the woman in ‘Poise’ is having an imaginary conversation with her.

We all imagine that other people are coping much better than we but that is so not the case. In this collection we encounter men, women, parents and children, all doing their best to answer the self-same questions, and where their five senses fall short they have to rely on their other senses: their sense of humour, of justice, of right and wrong, of decency...

Some of the stories are written in dialect—the comedian is a Cockney, the father in ‘Zeitgeist’ is a Glaswegian and the bolshie narrator in the last story, ‘Monsters’ sounds like he might’ve walked straight off the set of The Sopranos—but it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, you still have the problem of how to make sense of things. For some growing old is the problem: Dan in ‘Zeitgeist’ and the comedian in ‘Funny Strange’ struggle to come to terms with a changing world, Katie, in ‘Katherine and Juliet’ struggles to come to terms with the fact she’s adopted and the narrator in ‘Scent’ puts a brave face on but he’s still struggling with an embarrassing sexual predilection.

There are no answers for most of these people just as there are no answers for most of us but it does make life a bit more bearable if we get to moan about things every now and then, to air our grievances and that’s what we get here. Some you won’t be able to relate to but the odds are by the time you’ve reached the end you’ll have found someone whose life rubs shoulders with yours. Maybe they were sitting next to you on the bus having an imaginary conversation with you. Maybe they followed you to see where you vanished to at lunchtime. Maybe they were waiting in the dark to stab you to death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fandango Virtual
• Release date: Aug 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781908815026

Jim Murdoch

From Belfast, Northern Ireland, Jim Murdoch faced a paradigm shift which gave him a new world view. He views everything and everyone being connected. A path of self development studies followed where he delved into many subjects including metaphysics and, yes, dragons. With his wife, Katharina, he co-authored their self-help story Wings of Change. This got him thinking about writing fiction instead of boring self-help books. Taking inspiration from The Alchemist and The Celestine Prophecies he waited for the inspiration. 'Pursuit' is the result. Jim lives with his wife in Switzerland.

Book preview

Making Sense

Jim Murdoch

fandango virtual

smashwords edition

Copyright Jim Murdoch 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient from Smashwords.com.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.

~

For my brother

who seemed genuinely pleased when

he learned I’d written a novel

~

Table of Contents

Introduction

√-1

Poise

Funny Strange

Coping

Stray

Objects of Affection and Intention

Life

Failing

Zeitgeist

Islands

Scent

Sub Rosa

Silence

Disintegration

Tomorrowscape

Katherine and Juliet

First Time

Jewelweed

Monsters

Afterword

Glossary of Scottish Words

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

The idea for this book came to me whilst sitting on the top deck of a No. 44 bus which had drawn to a halt to pick up a passenger at the bus stop directly opposite an upmarket optician’s shop on Renfield Street in Glasgow. It was the summer of 1999. I was on my way home from work so it will’ve been about 6pm. I’ve no idea why that day because as far as I was concerned there was nothing different about it from the day before or the day before that; the bus regularly paused at that bus stop. I must’ve looked in that shop window a couple of hundred times and it’d never been anything more than an optician’s shop. On that particular day, however, at that particular moment, for no good reason that I can come up with, it gave me an idea.

I’d been struggling with my third novel and had been looking for a something else to work on to distract me. Since I’d been a poet long before I’d tried my hand at novel-writing I assumed it would be poetry. It was not. I took out my trusty notepad and made a list: see, smell, hear, taste, touch. Then E.S.P. And then the idea came. It’s rare that one can pinpoint exactly when inspiration, for want of a better word, strikes but that was it.

There are five (arguably six) senses and yet we use the word ‘sense’ to describe many other ways in which we perceive and conceive the world about us, that we use to make sense out of this weird and wonderful place in which we find ourselves: sense of humour, of entitlement, of community, of place, of urgency, of being, of justice…

I went home, kissed my wife, scoffed my dinner and then wrote the first of what would turn out to be about forty stories over the next few weeks—sometimes one a day—which then dried up as mysteriously as they began. I returned to my novel with a clear head and a fresh voice, finished it and then wrote a fourth and a fifth, but apart from the occasional piece of flash fiction I’ve never been tempted back to the short story format since.

People write for lots of different reasons. Top of my list is the need to make sense out of things. Ironically one of the things I have yet to make any sense out of is how this writing malarkey works. I’m only glad it does.

Jim Murdoch

May 2013

√-1

It was not a nervous breakdown. Those were the six words he used but that was not what he meant. Six is one short of perfection. It is one short of the truth. At least that is what some people believe. It is what I once believed and beliefs are hard to shake. Since six equals the sum of its proper divisors—one, two and three—six is, ironically, the smallest perfect number depending, naturally, on what one means by perfection. Often we say things we do not mean or say one thing and mean something else entirely. The native Americans had it so right when they said the white man spoke with a forked tongue.

He said it was not a nervous breakdown and talked instead of emotional sensitivity. As a doctor his words would carry weight. On a scale of one to ten they would come in at about an eight or a nine; it is hard to be precise about some things. They should bear that in mind before they open their mouths. We trust them because we have to trust someone or we would all go crazy. He never mentioned insanity. I did ask but he said if I had to ask then I was not mad. And chuckled. I did not think he ought to have done that. Not like that. That was not the right answer. When he saw I was not smiling he said, Sorry, old joke. I am not mad, not in the strict medical sense; I compared three dictionaries. Three points make a straight line, if you want to be sure.

The sum of two and two is four. I have always believed that. I checked, of course. One cannot be too careful. I may have been young but I had all my marbles. And so I checked.

Four gospels, four humours,

Four Beatles, four suits.

Four seasons, four feathers,

Four virtues, four truths.

When I was thirteen I read Nineteen Eighty-Four and it confused me. Two plus two is four. You have to have faith that it is and that it always will be. If you are unable to trust people then you have to find something else to trust. Mathematics is the language of the universe. Numbers never lie. They never let you down. So many things in this life disappoint.

I did not mean to start off talking about the doctor. He must have been on my mind. I have so many things on my mind but I guess he was at the forefront of my mind; the frontal lobes play an important part in retaining longer term memories which are not task-based. I was there last week. At the doctors. They sent me a card. Not many places send cards these days. My optician does, every two years, like clockwork. I like that. I like opticians. You should take care of your eyesight. I do. Every two years. I have 20/40 vision. I asked. I can see at twenty feet what a person with 20/20 vision can see at forty. I always order an extra pair because one cannot be too careful. One for sorrow, two for joy.

Forgive me. I was supposed to be telling you about the doctor and I ended up going on about the opticians. Maybe it is the white coats they wear. I suppose that is why I got confused. I get mixed-up easily which is why I have to concentrate all the harder these days. The doctor’s office sent me a card asking me to call. It had the date and time of my appointment and the name of a doctor. It was my doctor, so that was good. And it was a good time too, late in the day, allowing me sufficient time to finish up work without having to ask to be let off early. I do not like to have to look for concessions like that. It is unprofessional. And I like to be seen as being professional.

The bus was late. I do not appreciate it when the bus is late. That is not professional. They have timetables so you know when the bus is overdue. I carry an assortment with me at all times because you never know when you might find yourself somewhere unfamiliar and in need of a bus. It was the No. 13 that was behind schedule. I am not superstitious you understand—that would not be scientific—nor do I suffer from triskaidekaphobia but I do so hate the No. 13 bus. Thirteen is the sixth prime number and the smallest emirp which is a prime which is a different prime when reversed and they are special. It is the smallest number with eight letters in its name spelled out in English. It is also the first of the teens. I would not have given this bus that number though. It is fairly common for hotels not to have a thirteenth floor and, occasionally, no fourth. Those in charge should think carefully before they allocate numbers to bus routes. People can get upset over things like that. I know I do.

The journey was uneventful, a fact that helped put me in a suitable frame of mind for my consultation. I reached the doctor’s surgery twelve minutes before my time but waited outside until ten minutes to. It does not look good to turn up too early. I read you should strive to arrive ten minutes before any appointment, especially an interview. This shows that you are eager and punctual. It was an official pamphlet so I took it seriously.

I was not taken on time. The wall clock in the waiting room was wrong but even taking that into account he was still four minutes late and seven minutes late by my watch which I had checked with the BBC only that morning. It would be too much to believe that the BBC had the wrong time. No, I simply refuse to accept that. There are seven dwarfs: Sneezy, Sleepy, Grumpy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful and Doc; seven after Stealthy died that is. My doc did not look happy when I went in. His previous patient had been a grumpy-looking man in a bowler hat; perhaps he had had to pass on bad news. He was writing and did not look up as I took my seat. I knocked before entering as has been my habit all my life—I used my special knock so he would know it was me—but he was clearly lost in thought. I assumed he must have had a great deal on his mind, which is something as I have already said I understand only too well. I like to think I give people the benefit of the doubt.

My test results were back. That was good. Tests are good. I was always good at tests at school. Maths was my top subject, Arithmetic came a close second, History was third; I have an excellent memory for dates: the first double-decker omnibus was manufactured in 1847, February 4th is Create a Vacuum Day and prohibition in the United States lasted from 1919 until 1933. Ever since I worked out the sum of two and two, the symmetry, the magic of numbers, of all kinds of numbers—quantities, volumes, heights, speeds, ratios—has transfixed me. I am speaking figuratively; there is no such thing as magic. There were figures on my medical file but I could not read them and left it to the doctor to explain them to me. The results were negative which sounds bad but sometimes negative can be good too. He said I should be pleased with the outcome. I had to work to grasp the concept of negatives when I was young. But when I did, when I first saw them plotted on a Cartesian graph, I was stunned.

He asked me how I had been. I said I had been fine. I am always fine, I added. He frowned and began tapping his pen on the desk. It was an old Parker 61 fountain pen in burgundy. I expect he was gathering his thoughts. He tapped his pen twenty times, twenty gentle taps; it must have been the first couple of bars of a tune because in Morse code it was nonsense. Twenty can be