COMPETITION

A hero of our time

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1522 you were asked for an extract from a romantic novel in which the hero reflects modern conditions.

In The Barren Patch by Sally Burton, a recently published example of the genre, Louise and Kate, having lived through a period of involuntary [sic] chastity, discov- er that their only friends, apart from a cat and a goldfish, are each other. 'I'm at that point,' says Kate, 'when I know that I can have a fulfilled life of my own. A man doesn't have to be part of it.' But Louise weakly sighs, 'It would be nice, though, wouldn't it?' For whom? one wonders. Most of your heroes were all bums and elbows, scrubbing and scouring like de- mented tweenies. T. S. Griffiths had a nice, chilly up-to-date ending: 'Mother had been wrong. Gabriel loved her after all. Real love is saying no.' The winners below take £15 each, and the bonus bottle of White Horse Whisky, presented by United Distillers Group, goes to Susan Vickers.

'I'm nearly finished,' Julian murmured.

Amanda wondered how he could talk at all with his mouth full of pins.

'There, that does it'. His strong arms reached out and lifted her easily from the chair. He carried her effortlessly to the full-length mirror.

'Isn't that better!' It was a statement rather than a question.

'Why, yes,' Amanda replied. 'I didn't know two inches could make such a difference.'

There was a time when Amanda would have known her dress was too long, but since her mother died in that freak nuclear accident she hadn't been sure of anything.

Julian seemed so decisive as he deftly inserted each pin, gently holding the soft silk of her garment. Only one thing troubled Amanda. How many other girls had he held that way as he whispered, 'Now just slip out of it, and I'll have it hemmed in no time'?

(Susan Vickers) When Froline arrived at Roger's beautifully converted abattoir with the eucalyptus, he was knitting a Fair Isle wind-shield. He held the autumnal strip up for her scrutiny. 'Just adore the ochre theme in the weave,' she breathed, 'it's so vegetal.'

'Should cheer up the lower lawn and encour- age the younger trees,' he conceded. She just knew the eucalyptus excited him. 'Got a terrific spot for that . . . south wall . . . beside my cordon peach.' They walked out into the garden. Roger prepared a place in the nut-brown loam. 'Always do a simple meditation before planting,' he explained. Froline understood. Roger was so original. A defrocked Jesuit, he was chairman of a Merchant Bank, raced Formula 1, played jazz sackbut, translated Baudelaire into Swahili, grew prize papayas and was super in bed. He interred the tree, kissed her hand, then let rip in an ear-piercing counter- tenor: 'OM MANE PADME HUM . .

She noticed that the aardvark looked startled. (Russell Lucas) 'Let's be sensible about this . .

His steely blue eyes smouldered with reason- ableness, and she felt a deep thrill of desire. She loved him when he was logical.

'I want you,' he breathed. 'Or rather, I want you to have me. That's to say, I want us to have each other. Look, when I say have, I don't mean to imply possession, I'm talking about some- thing more caring, more mutually suppor- tive . .

The steam hissed from his iron, wreathing his rippling body in a gently swirling mist. The heavy Morphy Richards de luxe — her special, secret birthday gift to him — moved steadily under his dexterous grip, smoothing out the creases. She felt a sudden, absurd longing to stretch out on the ironing board herself and be caressed by those oh-so-capable hands . . .

(Peter Norman)

`I think, basically, why I relate at the deepest levels to Joel,' said Magda, nibbling a carob biscuit, `is that he has absolutely no sense of humour; he never comes that heavy smart-ass Mark Twain stuff. He's always so reassuringly gentle and serious.'

`Don't I know just what you mean,' Velma exclaimed. `Bob's wise-cracking all but put me off males for good. Then Peter came along. The peace of it. None of that non-verbal aggressive- ness under a smirk. If it was a comedian I wanted I wouldn't marry one but watch some clown like Benny Hill or Les Dawson. Having separate razors helps.'

`That too,' Magda agreed, helping herself to another carob biscuit. (George Moor) Horatio's strong but sensitive hands had been toying idly with the keyboard: her eyes caught the movement of his long spatulate fingers as they moved thoughtfully to the mahogany- veneered relay station. He caught her wide-eyed upward glance; her heart leapt and steadied. This colossus of the consol, this five-foot leviathan who operated at the very cutting edge of the sword of technology — what had he found that meant so much to her? He spoke quietly, but with an underlying gravity that belied the sparkle in those blue eyes. She consciously focussed on the immaculate crease of his pearl- grey overalls. 'It's not all bad,' he said gravely, 'It's, it's . . .' The colour returned to her cheeks: he was so meaningful. 'But what was it?' she demanded, a trifle imperiously — after all, she was the Managing Director. He leant forward confidently. 'Fluff he announced. 'and it's extractable.' Thank heavens!' she breathed.

(Michael Crouch)