In his late thirties, English playwright and screenwriter Timothy Hainault wants to accomplish two things in life: to write well, and make something of himself as a worthwhile human being. Turning to autobiography to gauge his progress, he revisits his childhood and youth, and following the loss of his mother and older brother, his only sibling, also his late-teens break from his father's quietly steadfast Christian faith; and makes connections as well, with a bearing on what he wants for himself, between his work and certain personal and professional relationships of his. And never more so than with Congravino, his latest play-about Restoration playwright William Congreve's constant pursuit of excellence, firstly through his art, then personally in his lasting love affair with Henrietta, the young duchess of Marlborough-a runaway, critically acclaimed success in London, and later at Canada's Stratford Festival. As with two earlier plays of his about writing and loving, Hainault again associates validation as both a writer and a self he can be true to with his finding a soulmate he can love unconditionally-and once more too in the person of a beautiful and talented actress whose romantically-driven stage character is of his own making. Only this time-and potentially even more problematic than before-his Canadian Henrietta has some complicated personal issues of her own to resolve.

Loving and Writing, Writing and Loving

By D. B. Reynolds

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 D. B. Reynolds
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-1468-2

Chapter One

The sudden loss of my mother not long before my eleventh birthday broke in on me and marred my childhood, to say the least of it. And yet, some twenty-eight years later, I find I can look back on and write of my early years in Westcliff-on-Sea on the S.E. Essex coast in a predominantly positive and uncomplaining frame of mind. Despite sorely missing Mum's always giving and comforting presence, I'd managed eventually to just get on with things without feeling too sorry for myself—as I knew she'd have wanted me to. Mum had sometimes called me her 'brave little man,' which I'd gone on trying to be for her whenever she'd come to mind.

In keeping with the archetypal Christian tenets my parents lived by (and my father diligently taught), my brother Paul and I were raised with all due loving care and attention. For our lasting good, they believed, Mum and Dad instructed us patiently in the things of God as evidenced in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ—'The Way, The Truth and The Life'. But not so much pointed out and explained to us as shown them by example in the varied course of life's day-to-day doings and circumstances. Little wonder, then, for my brother and I, that what it meant to love God and please him in thought, word and deed amounted to much the same thing as loving and pleasing our parents.

But childhood ends, and in youth the questions start to form. What one feels and believes isn't quite so clear-cut as sometimes it was just the day before. And so it was for me; and my increasing lack of attention in my teens to matters of Christian faith and practice started to show.

Whether my father has ever blamed himself for not taking me to task for this I'm sure I'll never know; but there's never been any hint of reproach in his dark, pensive eyes for my having failed him at all. (Dad doesn't have a judgmental bone in his body, actually.) Just occasionally, however, there's a glancing expression from him not unlike the one on the face of Jesus in a church vestibule portrait, with that same welcoming 'Come, let's commune together' look about each of them—a picture I'd found difficult to ignore without feeling I'd offhandedly snubbed the Good Lord himself. The elegantly framed, non-reflective glassed print of Jesus Christ was titled 'The Constant Friend'.

Arthur and Daphne Hainault's joint design for living was in all respects a well-ordered one. Each week, from day one, the routine at 66 St. John's Road in Westcliff scarcely ever changed. Our shared lives that day revolved around morning and evening services and afternoon Sunday school at CPM—Cliff Place Methodist—in neighbouring Southend. And it was the same old thing on weekdays, too. Before the rest of us were up, Dad was en route for London on the Fenchurch Street line to his commercial sales job with Aylesworth's, a legal publishing firm located conveniently beside the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand, as it had been for donkey's years. Dad joined Aylesworth's, a family concern in business since 1805, when he was eighteen in 1949. By the time he got home again every evening Paul and I had eaten and made ourselves scarce. The family ate together only on the weekends—for Saturday tea, three meals on Sunday, all squeezed in hurriedly between church activities. On Saturdays, Dad would prepare for Sunday—he was the CPM's long-serving Sunday school Superintendent—attend to some household repairs or improvements, or tinker with the second-hand clocks he collected. In the summer he'd work in the garden or get out into the S.E. Essex countryside for some hiking and birdwatching, sometimes with Paul, who also liked that sort of thing. I, on the other hand, would usually be off somewhere watching or playing cricket (and football in the winter). Other than our summer holidays together, usually in Oxfordshire or on the Norfolk coast near Cromer, we spent only a limited amount of time doing things as a family outside the confines of CPM. But a sense of togetherness stayed with us. Our prayers—perhaps even my own increasingly perfunctory, less frequent ones—may have helped keep the family ties strong and binding. After all, we were the Hainaults—one in Christ, sticking together, the four of us against the world and its many harmful ways. United we stood, presenting a solid, safe and secure front to the world at large—one strong, cohesive family unit; as my parents and Paul too would have reckoned us to be, at any rate.

At home on winter evenings, after dinner (as he always called it) and a good chat with Mum—she always waited to eat with him—Dad would rise from the table and pointedly pass the downstairs middle room where the television was, and head for the bay-windowed front room. There he'd settle in front of the electric fire and listen to the occasional radio concert, talk or documentary; mostly, though, to get his nose into a good book. And there he'd stay until Mum would go in with his nightly cup of Horlicks and a plate of cheese and cream crackers, signalling time for bed as she did so; never a minute before or after ten o'clock.

At least three-quarters of Dad's collection of books in the front room were housed in a floor-to-ceiling, solid mahogany, glass-doored, early Victorian bookcase—his only self-admitted 'worldly possession' for which he'd coughed up, he said, 'much too much in a premeditated act of fiscal irresponsibility.' For the most part, the contents of this 'hard-to-regret extravagance' of his—classic novels, some modern ones, short story, poetry and play collections, history, biographies, natural history, travel books, philosophy, Bible commentary, Christian apologetics and inspirational titles (with a Wesleyan slant)—he'd inherited from Anthony Timson, his second father, as Dad has always seen him as such. As a World War II evacuee from London's East End, Dad had gone to live with Anthony and his wife Agnes in Hook Norton in Oxfordshire. He'd ended up staying with the Timsons, who were childless, for nearly five years.

A considerably smaller, more modest bookcase—an Art Deco-style knock-off—contained new and second-hand volumes Dad had picked up himself including two shelves of titles he'd got for Paul and me, as well as Sunday school attendance prizes we'd been presented with. (Dad had made sure that the CPM's annual prize-giving tradition had carried on; getting a good book into the hands of a kid was important to him, as it had been as well to Anthony Timson, who'd been in charge of the Hook Norton Methodist Chapel Sunday school when Dad was in the large-sized village.)

Our front room library's children's section included many of the usual favourite titles, all of which Paul and I had read with little parental persuasion. We'd both enjoyed Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows a great deal (and later had seen A.A. Milne's dramatic version in London). On the whole, though, I preferred humans to talking animals. King Arthur, Robin Hood and Elizabethan and Napoleonic sea captains and their stout crews were more to my taste. I'd lapped up Scott's Ivanhoe, Kingsley's Westward Ho! and Forester's Hornblower books before I was out of junior school.

Of course, as a reader in a seriously Christian household, one starts early with the Bible. To begin with, with large-print, copiously and colourfully illustrated storybooks meant to catch the young eye and imagination as well as stir one's awakening conscience. Stories peopled by bronze-skinned, grey and raven-maned, fine figures of men and decorous, subtly seductive women in exotic, sun-bleached, palm-treed surroundings. Easy-on-the-eye specimens of man-and-womanhood who'd have looked good on a poster for a passionate, blood-on-the-sand Hollywood epic, every one of them. And despite my northern hemisphere, slate-grey environs, my pale Englishness—all that Anglo-Saxon heritage—these were people and places I seemed to relate to without any trouble whatsoever. These were tales in which hot-blooded, action-oriented men would do both marvellous and also bloody awful and ruinous things to one another, and to themselves; and just as likely too when there was a 'very fair to look upon' woman somewhere in the frame. It was irresistible stuff for a kid like me.

High on my Top Ten list among such books was a somewhat tattered, clothbound, dog-eared volume, Great Short Stories from the Bible for the Older Child—a gift from the Timsons to my father on his twelfth birthday in 1943. The inscription said how such stories help the reader appreciate the way well-written, truthful literature improves you in both mind and spirit. On into my teens, this book ran just about neck and neck in my estimation with a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories by Conan Doyle. In a way, the two books had for me a common overall theme: the discovery of truth and the overcoming of evil by people with their hearts in the right place, and with minds clear and bright enough to see the wrong, the danger, and send it packing. And, I suppose, challenging me, and cautioning me too, to live and strive on the side of the angels, the good guys.

In the 1960s and '70s, when Paul and I were growing up, the whole concept of God in his heaven—like the sun in the western sky—was sinking fast. Huxley's grinning Cheshire cat, fading from sight—that was the image, the idea of God the majority was choosing to see, to adopt, to adapt to as a given. No more of all that 'pie-in-the-sky', metaphysical malarkey to bother with, to be bothered by, then.

Paul and I, of course, could see, hear and read about the things filling the void of godlessness as well as the next chap. At school, even in the juniors, our apartness as believers was starting to show itself in one way or another. And later, in our teens, we felt marginalized—out of the swing of things—among the kids we rubbed shoulders with at school, many of whom couldn't see what the Bible had to do anymore with anything.

My brother, however, coped better than I seemed able to in the face of this everyday reality. In Paul's view—one he shared with just about everybody in the congregation at CPM—there wasn't that much going on the faithful hadn't seen before; the same array of false gods and wolves in sheep's clothing to mess you up, to plague mankind. But also, along with that, the same promises of God firmly in place to aid and protect his every faithful follower. Without being uppity, holier-than-thou about it, Paul knew where he stood as a Christian. No shilly-shallying with him. He was in the world all right—but definitely not of it; and that being so, the other kids at school could take him or leave him. That was about the size of it with Paul.

My brother was so much more his father's son than I will ever be.

The fact is, Paul and I never did have very much in common. He was only two years older than me—a time gap between us, though, we'd let affect our companionship more than most other kids seemed to allow. Paul rarely sought me out to play with him, and I'd not felt any urge to hang onto his coat-tails; even at an early age we'd preferred doing our own thing, playing our own games, pursuing our own interests. Unlike me, he was a dedicated model maker, made complicated Meccano constructions, did large jigsaw puzzles. Physical activities, other than hiking, he could take or leave—mostly the latter. Also, in taking what some might see as a typical, no-nonsense Protestant approach to literary consumption, Paul wasn't much of one for fiction of any sort—my food and drink as a reader. All in all, however, we got on very well together. We respected the other's right to see things in his own way—but not necessarily that much differently from one another, we both thought, I'm sure.

Paul and I assumed, I think—probably he more than I—that the path each of us was taking ran more or less parallel with and in the same general direction as the other's.

A short while after my ninth birthday, while still at West Road Junior, the idea came to me. Reading as much as I was—newspapers (particularly sports) and magazines (my mother's too) as well as novels and short stories—I thought: why not have a go myself and see what I could do as a would-be writer? What to write didn't take much thinking about. I decided on sports journalism—football match reports, specifically. But not something I'd have to leave the house to do, however. The matches, the teams, the league, all of it, I'd dreamed up myself.

Keeping at it, I spent four, five hours a week writing the copy (with my byline) and fastidiously printing it by hand in very small letters, mocking up a newspaper page carrying the report, usually with an accompanying drawing (a goal) purporting to be a match action photo, along with a caption. The matches I reported were fixtures featuring 'St. John's United'—the only club in my version of the English First Division with a make-believe existence—and played Saturday mornings on the large, extra-leafed table in the front room on an always perfect green baize pitch. I played a still popular, table-top football game, using three-dimensional players mounted on rocker-stands, for all of St. John's U.'s home matches. Away match scores and other league results I generated through a combination of another football game, a board game, home-made playing cards and dice, filling an exercise book with weekly league tables and other statistics.

About halfway through the first season, running from August through to May, I tried my hand at a trio of player profiles, making up careers and lives for them. And this led, the next season, to a thirty-page biography of St. John's U.'s Danny Potts, a brilliant striker and an English international by the age of twenty.

That second year too I branched out into storytelling, pure and simple. Dipping into the past—England's, of course—I wrote three short stories about a Round Table knight at King Arthur's court in Camelot called Sir Kelvain the Good. As one might suspect, Sir Kelvain was handsome, honourable, an excellent swordsman and all-star jouster—and womanless; but greatly admired by the Queen and ladies of the court. Sir Kelvain didn't seem to have the time for the ladies, however—not even, at first, for love of a courtly fashion.

None of this, the journalism or the fiction, I showed to anyone—little worlds of my own I chose to keep to myself, hidden away in a cardboard box in the storage space under the stairs. Partly, perhaps, for fear of being looked at sideways by Paul or my parents, but more likely by some of my school, games-playing pals. And also because I thought, knowing myself no better than most kids of my age, that making up things like that was a phase I'd grow out of as I got older and put off childish things.

Then, enter Miss Ozanne—my new home room, English and History teacher at West Road Junior School.

In her mid-twenties, the dark-haired, blue-eyed Miss Ozanne was quite a smasher. King Arthur's Guinevere had nothing on her. She had French Channel Islands connections—and a Gallic name that in our part of the world only amplified her charm and womanly mystique. Her first name was Aimée, which in English meant 'Beloved.' I'd looked it up, and thought it suited her very well. For me, one smile, a look of approval from Miss O. was like being given a large bag of Quality Street sweets. Also—no surprise—my English and History marks shot up to class-leading levels.

In my eleventh year—and also my last at West Road—Miss O. set the class a 750-word essay on how the summer holidays had been spent; the usual thing. She'd said, however, she didn't want a list of one thing after another—I did this, and then that, and so on. If we wanted to, we could write about one particularly interesting thing that had happened. 'What I want you to tell me is what you thought and felt about whatever it was,' she said. Miss O.'s word was my command. My pet teacher would get nothing less than what she wanted from her devoted pupil—and maybe something more beside.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Loving and Writing, Writing and Lovingby D. B. Reynolds Copyright © 2011 by D. B. Reynolds. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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