It was Helena’s first time at the writing group, she hadn’t been sure what to expect and was relieved to have been warmly welcomed. There were seasoned writers and others, like herself, trying to get started. Details of a member’s writing competition were passed around. As she skimmed through the information, a young woman around her own age asked what a propelling pencil was.
“I don’t know, never heard of it,” she murmured. An older woman who had introduced herself as Sarah, explained that it was a mechanical pencil.
“When the lead breaks you push a button on the top and a new lead comes down.”
‘That’s clever, but how are we supposed to get that into a short story? That’s plain weird’ Helena thought, turning her attention back to the group leader.
“You can enter as many categories as you like, so have fun and I’ll see you next time.”
Later that evening Helena read through the competition entry rules, puzzling about how she could include the required propelling pencil in her short story. She jotted down in her ideas notebook ‘research propelling pencils’, throwing away her biro in disgust when it ran out of ink. The pretty, hardback notebook was suffering from being stuffed in her bag and dragged out when she was struck by inspiration for a story or a scene. To tell the truth, it was battered, pages were torn and the ink was smudged. Although the intention was good, the notebook was home to a collection of vignettes which never made it into a complete story. Helena had joined the writer’s group, hoping to finally write her first proper story.
Determined not to be put off by the requirement to include a propelling pencil in her story, Helena opened up her laptop and began to research online. Amazon offered a variety of plastic pencils with both black and coloured leads, but Helena skimmed over these. She was the kind of girl who enjoyed the finer things in life, her notebook and biro were homed in a vintage bag she’d bought on ebay, her favourite website. She often browsed the site, making up back stories for the items on sale. Who had worn the vintage 1930’s cocktail dress or the Art Deco jewellery? What was their story? Their romance? Why was the current owner selling? Helena would weave her own stories letting her imagination fly wherever it chose to take her.
Clicking over to ebay she searched for propelling pencils and was immediately drawn to ‘Collectible Pens and Writing Equipment.’ Scrolling down the list her eyes lit up when she saw a vintage solid silver propelling pencil, engraved on the barrel of the pencil, was the letter H.
She quickly read the description. Superb vintage solid silver Bakers Pointer propelling pencil hallmarked for Birmingham 1933 and bearing the makers mark of Edward Baker, the pencil is engraved with the order of the garter motto and the letter “H” so possibly belonged to a knight of the realm?
It was clearly meant to be, the pencil had to be hers and she set an alarm on her phone to bid when the auction was about to end. Over the next 2 days she returned to the listing again and again. The price had crept up, but it was still just affordable. 30 seconds before the auction ended, she placed her winning bid.
The pencil arrived 3 days later and she unwrapped it reverently. This was a pencil with a history, who was ‘H’? A wonderful back story began to emerge in her mind. She reached for her notebook. But no, that would not do at all. A pencil like this deserved a beautiful notebook. She would not use it until she had one.
A few days later she found the very thing in Petticoat Lane market whilst browsing the vintage stalls. Tooled, leather-bound books for journaling. Excited, she carefully selected her purchase and rushed home to begin her first entry in her Inspiration Book, as she had decided to call it. Two hours later the page was blank. She tried to conjure up an image of the previous owner of the pencil. A Knight of the Realm. Had he been famous? Why had the pencil been sold on ebay? Another two hours later her mind was still blank and she’d given up trying to be inspired and decided to watch Love Island instead. Disappointed, she took the book and pencil to bed with her and left them on her bedside table, in case inspiration struck in the night. It didn’t.
Helena was not going to be put off by this lack of inspiration. She polished the pencil carefully until the silver gleamed and stowed it safely in her vintage bag along with her new notebook. ‘Inspiration will come’ she thought ‘I was meant to have this pencil.’
She held onto that thought for another week until the next writers’ group session. Shyly smiling at the women she’d spoken to last time, they all took out their notebooks and pens. Helena proudly displayed her new, treasured possessions on the table for all to see. At that moment a late arrival burst through the door. “Sorry, is this the writer’s group? Am I in the right place? Have you started”
Helena felt her breath leave her body, her heart began to race as she gazed at the face of the young man who flopped into the vacant seat next to her. He leaned across whispering in her ear, “hi, I’m Alistair.” “Helena” she whispered back, unable to speak more than that one word coherently.
She found it hard to concentrate throughout the meeting, her fingers itching to pick up the pencil and start scribbling thoughts and ideas. Eventually she gave up the pretense of engaging with the group and picking up the pencil she allowed it to write. She couldn’t have told you what she had written, it was as if a stream of consciousness filled the pages of her notebook.
At the end of the session Alistair disappeared as quickly as he arrived. She could remember every detail of his face, the colour of his eyes, hair, the strong jaw, trace of stubble on his chin. Who was he? Why had inspiration decided to strike at the moment he had sat next to her? With a sigh she carefully put the notebook and pencil away in her bag and walked out into the cold, dark night. She was tired, glad to go bed early, dropping the book and pencil on her bedside table. Her sleep was dreamless and uninterrupted by inspiration.
The following day Helena was busy at work. Lunch, as usual, was a snatched 15 minute break. The book and pencil had stayed safely stowed away in her bag all day, but how tempted she had been to read what she’d written the night before. It was not until she returned home, eaten her evening meal and settled comfortably on the sofa that she allowed herself to retrieve the notebook from her bag.
Her eyes began to widen as she read the notes she’d made. Here was a detailed description of the Knight of the Realm, his wife and family. The Knight had made some bad investments, when he died his family had been forced to sell some of his treasured possessions. His great grandson was a writer. She found she’d written a detailed description of Alistair and even sketched him, albeit rather crudely. Her spine tingled with excitement. At last, inspiration was coming through.
Astonished by what she’d written in her notebook, Helena sat at the kitchen table with a coffee and began to write a story on her laptop, every now and then referring to her notes. That night she fell asleep holding the pencil and her dreams were filled with characters, scenes and dialogue. Sleepily, she reached for the notebook and scribbled. The next morning a full page of the notebook was filled with her scribblings.
This pattern was repeated over the next few nights. If she fell asleep holding the pencil inspiration came through until her notebook was nearly half filled. ‘I love this pencil, it’s amazing’ she thought, ‘I’m never going to write with anything else.’
At the next writers group Helena was excited to share her experiences of writing with the propelling pencil. Just as they got started, Alistair rushed in, slipping into the seat next to her. Helena was slightly embarrassed about having described him in her notebook. She tried not to look at him as she used the pencil to make copious notes during the meeting. At the end of the evening he touched her arm gently as she was gathering up her things.
“I hope you don’t mind, but could I look at the pencil you were using?”
Helena reluctantly handed it over, watching him to make sure he wasn’t going to run off with it. “I know I’m being cheeky, but where did you get it?” he asked.
“Ebay,” she replied “why?”
“I think it might have belonged to my great grandfather. It was passed down through the family after he died, sadly my mother had to sell it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Being a Knight of the Realm doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a good business man. I don’t know how much you paid for it, but would you be willing to sell it to me? It would be nice to have it back in the family.”
At that moment the group leader began to usher them out. “See you next time folks. Get your competition story entries in.”
Alistair awkwardly shifted from one foot to the other.
“Look, I don’t know about you, I could do with a drink, all this writing stuff makes me thirsty. Fancy joining me? There’s a good pub near here. I promise I won’t run off with your pencil.” He grinned as he handed the pencil back to her.
Intrigued, Helena accepted the return of the precious silver pencil and together they walked to the pub chatting, getting to know each other a little. Helena shyly told him how she liked to know the history of an item when she bid for it on ebay. When they’d ordered drinks and food and were settled at the table Alistair asked to see the pencil again.
“I’m sure it’s the same one, I remember seeing my grandmother scribbling away in her journal when I was a child. At the time I didn’t realise she was writing children’s stories. She used to read them to us when my sister and I were young. Mum says she used to read the same stories to her. It would be really lovely to have it back in the family.”
“That’s really sweet, but I’ve kind of fallen in love with this pencil.” On impulse Helena showed him what she’d written at the previous session and the notes she’d made in the night. “Wow, that’s incredible, you’ve described so much of my family. And me!” Helena felt her cheeks redden as she met his gaze.
“You know, you kind of remind me of my grandmother. I don’t mean old and wrinkly” he laughed “that came out all wrong! I just feel like I’ve known you forever.”
It was late when they left the pub. Alistair insisted on walking her home, telling her he lived very close to her flat. As Helena reached into her bag for her keys she realized she didn’t have the pencil. “Oh no, I must have left it on the table” she wailed, “I must go back for it.”
“The pub’s closed now, I know the landlord, I’ll get it for you tomorrow.” Alistair smiled, hugged and kissed her quickly before walking off down the street feeling the heavy weight of the silver pencil in his pocket.
Helena’s back story was good. He wondered how much the pencil would fetch on ebay next time.