Authors: Lynne Barrett-Lee
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Mystery & Detective, #Electronic Mail Messages
It is almost a whole week however, before I manage to get hold of Rose. She calls during the five minute pre-straining run up, but sod the vegetables, I decide - this is important.
‘Charlie! There you are! At last!’
‘What do you mean, “at last”?’
‘What I say! You’re so hard to get hold of- ’
‘
I’m
so hard to get hold of- ’
‘Your phone’s always engaged, Charlie.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘It sure is. It always is. I almost sent you a carrier pigeon today. I’ve been trying you non stop since we got back from Majorca.’
‘Majorca?’
‘Half term. One of those last minute pot luck breaks to Pollensa. Anyway, what’s the panic? You filled up the tape.’
‘Your letter.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’m addled about it.’
‘Addled?’
‘Seriously addled. About what’s going on.’
‘Oh? What
is
going on?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know. You know Dan kept on at me about getting a modem and signing up with a server for the internet and so on, so I could email him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I did all that, and ever since then that’s just what I’ve been doing. Sending emails.’
‘And?’
‘Sending emails to
you
.’
‘To me?
Have
you?’
‘Absolutely. And you’ve been sending them back.’
‘I certainly haven’t. Our computer’s been stuffed in a box.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Exactly?’
‘
You
haven’t been getting them. But they didn’t come back. They got sent somewhere else.’
‘Sent to where?’
‘That’s the problem. I haven’t a clue! I only realised it wasn’t you when I got your letter.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. What email address did you use?’
‘Yours!’
‘You can’t have. You would have had them returned.’
‘But I did! I checked. But could there be two?’
‘I don’t think that can happen. The system wouldn’t allow it. Once an address has been registered no one else can have it. Unless it’s with a different server of course. Definitely Cymserve?’
‘Definitely. Griffith-at-cymserve-dot-co-dot-uk. And there’s worse. Obviously, whoever’s been getting my emails has been getting everything you would. Mindless prattling, bitching, ranting, shag lists -’
‘Hang on.
Hang
on.
griffith
@cymserve? That’s not right. Our email address is m-n-r-griffith at cymserve.’
‘MNR?
Is
it?’
‘It is. For Matt ‘n Rose. Not what you put. You just typed
griffith
. Not the same address at all.’
‘Cripes! No wonder! Then who’s address
is
it?’
‘Haven’t a clue. And it’s a very common name. There must be hundreds - even thousands - of Griffiths in Wales. But someone who’s been on the net for some time. Plain Griffith would have been snapped up early on, is my bet.’
‘Which tells me nothing. Other than that it’s not Sheila Rawlins. Anyway, they said ‘sorry, you got me’ or something like that, and I’ve not heard from them since.’
‘So no harm done then,
really.
’
‘But it could be anyone!’
‘So ask them.’
‘I did! They wouldn’t tell me.’
‘ So don’t worry. You don’t know them, so what does it matter?’
‘But I might. There’s at least a one in five hundred thousand chance that I do.’
‘How d’you work that out?’
‘Statistically,
obviously
.Wales isn’t
that
big. Though the odds are shorter now. how many actual Griffiths on-line in Wales, d’you think?’
‘Who cares? So what? So what if some clam digger living in Tenby knows the top five shag icons in Cefn Melin? They don’t know them either, do they? Forget it.’
‘Do clam diggers generally email each other?’
‘Tsh, Charlie! Get a grip. What does it matter,
really
? Besides, it all sounds like it could be rather fun, if you ask me. Like a pen friend, except without the dodgy syntax. Is it a man or a woman, do you think?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. I thought it was you!’
‘So why don’t you email them back again and ask them? You did say your life lacked excitement just lately.’
‘Hmm. By the way. What
is
an 0898 habit?’
‘Charlie, my love? Stay as sweet as you are.’
Friday. Post dinner.
I’ve decided that Rose is absolutely right. That what I have is not a low life but a potential new pen friend. Feeling suddenly imbued with a delightful spirit of adventure. I feign a headache and so despatch Phil home early, then despatch a further email to my new mystery friend.
Hello stranger.
My friend has suggested that you might be a clam digger from Tenby. Please advise.
Charlie.
Answer in ninety seconds! Mystery friend is obviously on the same virtual wavelength.
Hello back!
I wish. But I do not own a bucket. Not sure it would be a prudent career move in any case. When was the last time
you
ate a clam?
griffith.
Fun indeed! Collect pickled shallots and a wine glass from the kitchen.
‘Charlotte?’ my Dad calls. ‘Are you back in that dining room?’
He is concerned, I know, that I have not ‘acclimatised’ sufficiently, (and that I will perhaps become etiolated if I stay here too long).
‘I’m in the
study
,’ I correct him. ‘I’m, er..doing some research.’
Dear griffith,
I honestly cannot remember. Though, thinking about it, aren’t clams what they use in spaghetti vongole? And don’t they go around selling them from baskets, in pubs? Like cockles? And are you male or female, by the way? All this time, I’ve been working on the assumption that you are my friend (Rose, obviously) but now I realise I don’t actually know the first thing about you and I have this niggling anxiety that you are, in fact, a man. And that you’ve been getting off on imagining me imagining what I’d like to do to with the guys on my shag list etc., and that ... There I go! This is the trouble. I just do not who
or what
I’m talking to. Which is unsettling.
Please
tell me you’re a girl, or, if not, that you’re not a stalker/ deeply unattractive person with a penchant for slacks/gay. Actually, gay is fine.
Charlie
PS. You could use the shells to make novelty gift boxes. The trade’s seasonal, obviously, but I’ve heard people are willing to pay as much as £1.50 for a trinket box these days.
Dear Charlie
Definitely male (though not gay or a stalker). Which I know will make you wince, but there’s not a great deal I can (or would want to) do about it, frankly. Does it matter so much? And why should my maleness cause you anxiety? Isn’t the whole essence of this sort of thing that it is a meeting of minds unfettered by prejudice? Isn’t the fact that it doesn’t matter about gender or looks the reason it works?
griffith.
PS I’m not terribly artistic. Perhaps you could give me some pointers trinket box-wise, so that I can assess my potential as a small scale manufacturer.
Hmmm.
Dear griffith,
Suspected as much. Could detect a slight
frisson
. Though, having suspected, I am now a tad uncertain where to take this thing. I suppose the sensible decision would be to simply cease communicating with you - you are undoubtedly a bit of a rascal - but your (very erudite) comments concerning minds meeting and being unfettered and so on lead me to suppose that you’d rather like to press on. But is this a sex thing? How do I know that ‘unfettered’ isn’t simply a euphemism for sex, for example? I wouldn’t want to be the unwitting recipient of any improper suggestions. Besides, I have a face like a pizza, boils and a stoop.
Plus, where do you stand on geology?
Charlie.
Dear Charlie,
Is that a trick question? If so, I’m tempted to say that where I stand is a place rich in geologically fascinating features with mainly igneous sub-strata (though not seismically active these past millenia.). Can you place it?
Unfettered is not a euphemism for sex in any circles I inhabit, though I can’t speak for Cardiff, obviously. However, I’m sure it has the capacity to double up euphemistically, should the occasion merit it. (As, of course, does ‘double up’.)
I’m very glad to have instigated a
frisson
.Would you
like
this to be a sex thing? We can exchange smutty web site addresses, if you like. And it’s of no consequence whatever which foodstuff your face resembles. Mine was once likened to a steak and mushroom cobbler.
Where do
you
stand on Tchaikovsky?
griffith.
Rats. Computer anorak/classical music buff. Might have known.
Dear griffith,
Oh dear. You’re not a dreary cultural whiz, are you? I was just about to suggest frantic cyber-sex in an unusual setting of your choosing, and then you spoilt it all by mentioning a C word. I now have a vision of you sitting in a tank top and cord trousers, thrumming energetically to some concerto or other.
I’m utterly hopeless with classical music. I buy compilations of bits they use in adverts. Sorry, bought. It’s been a while. Though that’s not to say I don’t like any of it. Pathetique (no 6?) is a favourite of my father’s and has, therefore, been subliminally grafted onto my brain. And I like Stravinsky’s the Rite of Spring, which I heard in
Fantasia
when I was little. You know the bit? With the evolution of earth/volcanos/ dinosaurs cartoon? It’s the rocks again, I’m afraid.
Speaking of which, can’t we get back to them?
Charlie.
Dear Charlie,
I have to say rocks would not be my first choice for sex, cyber or otherwise, though I will confess to having wondered if the old earthquake simulator at the Natural History museum might not be an attractive venue for a seismically enhanced event. It also has the benefit of rubber flooring, as I recall.
I have to go now as it is way past my bedtime. Lovely to talk to you. Can we do it some more?
griffithx
PS Stravinsky’s a little unstructured for me. You liking it figures, somehow.
This is more like it. I find I am absurdly pleased to be considered unstructured. And take it as a cue to adopt an unpredictable stance by not responding immediately. Also take as a definite affirmation that Simpson genes are infinitely better suited to the earnest exploration of geologically fascinating corners of the globe/aspects of ancient cultures etc., than to the buying and selling of suburban houses. Fancy too, that I would enjoy Tenby immensely - can picture myself clam digging while developing an ear for Tchaikovsky on my Walkman.
But into each cyber life, a little reality must intrude. Thus, the following week;
Dear griffith,
Apologies for the lengthy delay in responding. Uuurgh! What a start to the week! I’ve had real hassles at work the last couple of days. I have a client called Minnie (did I tell you I worked for an estate agents? Just what
have
I told you, period?). Anyway, she’s elderly and very confused and she’s supposed to be exchanging contracts on her house in a couple of weeks. (She’s moving into a home, but she’s very agitated about it, and thinks the place is run by aliens). Anyway, the survey was supposed to be done at the beginning of the week and she wouldn’t let them in - thought they’d come to beam her away somewhere - and I couldn’t get hold of her social worker, and the buyer’s agents were going ballistic about it, and my boss (who is cranky at the best of times) is in permanent hyperventilation mode about it, and the trouble is they’re all just making it worse. And of course when I finally persuaded Minnie to let me in yesterday, she hadn’t let the cat out for three days - imagine!!! Anyway, it’s all sorted now and the survey’s been re-arranged for next week. I just have some decidedly rank washing with which to occupy whatever pockets of opportunity my frenetic social life will allow.
Charlie
PPS Sorry to rant. So pleased you think the word seismic is sexy. Did you actually say that? Or am I just talking nonsense? Please advise.
Hi,
I don’t remember actually typing it, but, yes, deeply sexy. Though geologists in general less so. And vulcanologists are very often excessively hirsute, I’ve found. Mountaineers, on the other hand, though less academically switched on to tectonics and seismology, often display an engaging enthusiasm for geological features. I have a mountaineer friend who’s climbed K2 and, I believe, Changtse. He knows his stuff. I should put you in touch.
Sorry to hear about your traumatic week. Is your boss giving you a really hard time? Your Minnie sounds rather an unfortunate lady. Does she have no family?
griffith.
Find ‘deeply sexy’ so deeply sexy that I spend Friday lunchtime in the bookshop, poring over large geological tomes and books about Andes/Himalayas. I also purchase a travel book for cool, unstructured people, called
Trekking in Nepal.
On first inspection, it promises to be a rich source of both geographical and anthropological facts with which to impress my new cyber-friend.
‘What’s this?’ asks my father, pausing in his paring to inspect it when I get home from work.
‘A guide for people going trekking in Nepal,’ I reply, fully aware that the question is rhetorical.
He flips through the maps and black and white plates. ‘Hmmm. Hippy book, then. Kale or broad beans?’
‘Wheat grass, ideally.’
Head off into study.
Hello again!
Yes, yes,
yes
please! I have been in touch with every travel agent this side of Kathmandu (well, Swindon, at least) and am encountering a worrisome lack of expertise in the logistics department. Most galling, yesterday, was holding on for about fifteen minutes for the ‘trailbreaking’ expert, only to have her ask me if Everest was in India or Japan!!!! I am considering writing to Chris Bonington for advice. What do you think?