Loneliness among others
Text 1: The Late Caller, by Doreen Ashworth
An original short story extract.
Every evening at ten past nine, Walter Pym moved the telephone from the hall table to the arm of his chair, unwound the flex until it reached, and switched on the wireless. The programme was called Night Line. People rang in about lost cats, the price of coal, the council’s plans for the promenade. Walter had never yet got through, but he dialled the number every night, listened to the engaged tone, and dialled again.
The house had been quiet since March. Before that there had been Elsie’s cough from upstairs, the clink of her medicine spoon, the bedside bell she rang when she wanted tea. He had hated the bell. Now he would have given the clock, the car and every one of his tram tickets to hear it once more.
At twenty to ten the line clicked and a young woman said, “You’re through to Night Line. What’s your name, caller?”
Walter opened his mouth. Nothing came. He had planned to talk about the shelters on the seafront, how the glass had been smashed and nobody had mended it, how an old man could not sit out of the wind any more. He had written it on the back of an envelope.
“Caller? Are you there?”
“Walter,” he said at last. “It’s Walter. I only wanted to say good evening.”
There was a pause, and he heard her smile. “Good evening, Walter.” Then she was gone, and a man from Cleethorpes was complaining about seagulls.
Walter sat with the receiver against his chest for a long time. The envelope slid off his knee. Outside, the tide was coming in, and he could hear it dragging at the shingle, over and over, as if it too were trying to get through.
Text 2: Refectory, by Priya Halloran
An original contemporary memoir.
On my nineteenth birthday I ate a jacket potato in the main refectory of a university four hundred miles from anyone who knew the date. It was October, and the windows had already gone black by five o’clock. Around me, six hundred students shouted across tables, swapped chips, planned parties, and banged trays down as if noise were a sport.
I had chosen a seat at the end of a long bench, close enough to a group of geographers to look as though I might belong to them. That was the trick I had learned in the first fortnight: sit near people, not with them, and nobody notices you are alone. I cut my potato into very small pieces so that it would last.
My phone lay face up beside the tray. Mum had sent a message at seven that morning, a row of balloons and the words Ring me tonight love. I had not rung. I knew that if I heard her voice in the kitchen at home, with the radio on and the dog whining at the back door, I would not be able to stop crying, and the geographers would see.
Instead, I watched a boy two tables away try to balance a spoon on his nose while his friends counted. He got to eleven. They cheered as if he had won something. I found that I was clapping too, quietly, under the table, where nobody could see my hands.
When the potato was finished I sat on for a while with the empty plate, because leaving felt like admitting something. Then I stacked my tray, put on my coat, and walked back to halls the long way, past the lit windows of other people’s rooms.
‘Both texts show that loneliness is most painful when the characters are surrounded by other people.’
How far do you agree with this statement?
In your answer you should:
- discuss what makes the characters feel lonely
- explain how far other people make their loneliness worse
- compare how the writers present different experiences of loneliness
Support your response with quotations from Text 1 and Text 2.