On Telling a Story Without Using any Verbs

A Very Difficult Writing Challenge

I wrote this in June 2003, for Radio 3’s The Verb.

It was the first of a number of very difficult writing challenges that the producers set me — only one of which has been published, and none of which (I think) have been rebroadcast.

I’d like to share them, in the next few days. Mainly as a writing challenge for you.

I don’t know if these funny little forms have gone any further, but I’d like them to. Privately, I call them ‘Verbals’.

If you feel like having a go at any of them, please do share the results — or send them to me directly.

The challenge for this one was simple — Tell a story without using a verb.

Verbless

A slow descent, together.

First, Great Britain, very small, sea-hedged, a long long way down; the dark of a 1944 night; our country, our countries, cloud-haunted, hence smudgy; intermittently moonlit; air beneath us, damp air, rich air – air of pale poets, of red farmers, of iron warriors. Great Britain, a country war-ridden but almost-victorious, almost-great. But hungry, scarred, angry, weary. Churchill, our Prime Minister. Hitler, our enemy. A country with secrets, many secrets, more secrets than ever since.

A faster descent, still together.

England. Then the middle of England, truly Middle England. Then a county – agricultural, wet, smoky, Midfordshire.

And then, in the middle, a small town: Amplewick. Obscure and unimportant, halfway between Oxford and Cambridge. Obscure, unimportant and secretive – a perfect place for secrets. A crossroads. A market square. A village pump. Intermittently moonlit.

A young man. A hat, a long rain-damp overcoat. The smoke from a Woodbine, a long cloud. The whistle of lips, tuneless. Thin face with a deep scar along the left side. A cough, another cough, a shrug or a shiver. A watch. Eleven fifty-five.

Cold, wet night and secret meeting in the open. A bad combination, always. Secret meeting for twelve o’clock, exactly.

One minute. Two minutes.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Quiet, through the wet. Tap-tap. Shoes on the pavement. High-heeled shoes. A woman. Early? Perhaps.

The young man. The thick cigarette smoke. The lips. The scar, the long scar – a different shape, a sign of recognition or a sign of pleasure?

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Not so quiet.

The eyes – Midford Road, Unstable Street, Crutch Street, Noburn Street.

Tap-tap. Now not quiet at all. Near.

Which direction? – the eyes, the narrow eyes. The watch. Eleven fifty five.

Tap.

Silence.

The eyes – and now… and now… There! The corner! Nobourn Street.

The woman, motionless. An umbrella. A wide-brimmed hat, practical. A coat with a belt, tight around a narrow waist. Leather gloves. Her tap-tap heels, noiseless. Her eyes – all four directions, quick, professional, then his direction. A nod. The woman, early but beautiful.

A nod and a turn.

Back up Nobourn Street again – in the direction of…

A cigarette, still alight, on the wide flat paving stones at the foot of the village pump. A red spot. Faint. Fainter.

The young man. Across the road. Around the corner. The woman – tap-tap, tap-tap, in the direction of…

The man. Casual. But quick. Professional. But excited.

His eyes, constant. The umbrella. The woman’s back, her walk – her side-to-side movements; a sweetness there, a swing. The scar, another different shape. Perhaps, an idea.

Her eyes, again – quickly.

Him and her. Noburn Street. Uphill. In the direction of… the Park.

Tall trees and thick undergrowth and night-animals and rustle and obscurity and secrets. No gate, either.

The woman, into the dark. The man, also.

Further. Deeper. Higher trees. Darker shadows.

A whisper. The woman’s voice, high and crisp : ‘Far enough?’

The man’s voice, low and rough: ‘Yes. Far enough.’ In the dark, the scar.

High and crisp: ‘Codeword?’

Low and rough: ‘Mongoose moon. Codeword?’

High: ‘Salmon sun.’

Low: ‘Good.’

A pause. Then –

Rough: ‘The codebook?’

Crisp: ‘No, not yet.’

Just enough moonlight. A glint – a gun.

The man: ‘Why?’

The woman: ‘HQ. Orders.’

The gun barrel, eloquent. Sideways, twice.

Deeper into the darker shadows.

Crisp and high: ‘Any last words?’

Rough and low: ‘Maybe. Later.’

She: ‘Not much time, my friend.’

He: ‘Not your friend.’

A lunge, backwards.

A bright flash. A sharp crack. Another.

A slump. Some blood.

Her eyes – to the left, to the right. Her movement, again deeper into the shadows.

And a few minutes before this. The market square. Twelve o’clock exactly. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Another woman. Down Crutch Street. Twelve o’clock exactly.

Her eyes. The wide flat paving stones. A smell of Woodbine smoke. A not-completely-damp cigarette. Her gloved fingers. Her purse. Her eyes, left, right.

Headlights. A car, black. The scream of brakes – and a scream of a different sort, cut off – muffled.

Two minutes later. No woman. No car.

A slow ascent, together. A village pump. A market square. A crossroads. A small town.

A county, wet, agricultural.

Great Britain, smudgy, cloud-haunted. Great Britain, small, sea-hedged. Our country, our countries, almost-victorious and almost-great. A perfect place for secrets; many secrets, more secrets than ever since.