"The Big Frog Theory"

Who doesn't love a herd of cows singing a cappella...?

The Big Frog Theory is a novel I rarely promote. I wrote the draft of it over three months in early 1994 — though it took me a further eighteen years to get my act together and produce a final version! [I think the cover betrays it as an early work…and given my experience since then, it needs a light edit. I will probably create a slightly revised edition this year.]

As a piece of Magic Realism it proved tremendous fun to write, imagination running riot. I can imagine Terry Gilliam making a film of it, maybe with Michael Palin as Samuel! But it is a genre I never seriously revisited: I started a sequel — Mita’s Shopping — which didn’t get very far; and more recently I have tried again and struggled, The Man Who Bought a Pier also not quite obtaining lift-off.

However The Big Frog Theory was completed — and was my first full-length novel — so it seems churlish not to promote it…

The website blurb:

What do you most need when facing a complete disintegration of the life you have been leading? Where does the loss of your job, the betrayal of your wife, lead you?

Well, in Neville’s case to a small tea shop at the foot of the Malvern hills. But if he has gone there for some peace, some solitude, the chance to assess his situation and get his life back in order, then he is in for a shock. Is it madness that makes his coffee cup keep magically refilling, or the china geese on the wall try and fly away? And how could it be possible that a stale slice of Black Forest Gateaux would suddenly be able to offer him Agony Aunt advice?

Guided by Samuel, an aged coach driver (in his equally aged coach!), follow Neville as his travels take him to Paris, to the Derby at Epsom, dancing on a cruise ship, and into outrageous and dangerous adventures – and towards an unlikely romance that might just save his life…

And here’s the (lightly tweaked) opening:

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In a Malvern tea-shop he sat, watching the steam from his coffee rise unevenly above the rim of a faded white cup. Beneath the porous surface of the filter, he could imagine the liquid dripping slowly - drip, drip, drip - adding to the volume of the dark fluid beneath. Despite his present preoccupation (or perhaps because of it) he allowed the diversion of his coffee to tug at his mind, and he sniffed, searching for that distinctive aroma. One of the women on the next table - a large, well-coiffured, Conservative kind of woman - looked coldly across at him, eyes betraying her reaction to interruption. Perhaps he had sniffed a little too loudly or intrusively - though given the nature of the offence, it was something he did not permit himself to dwell upon. He returned her stare without emotion and, seeming to have failed in her challenge of him, she resumed her conversation.

The tea shop - a tired establishment which, he imagined, owed more to the past than the present - was mostly empty. Apart from the Conservative lady and her companion, there were only two other patrons present: a younger couple in muddied walking boots sitting against the back wall, their bright waterproofs a marked contrast to the plain and drab decor. When they had entered, Neville, drawn to their arrival by the weary "ping" of the door's bell, had watched as the Proprietress - a large lady who looked as if she might have personally sampled every meal ever served there - had stared warningly at their boots, almost as if the intensity of her gaze alone might physically clean them. To the credit of the boots' owners, they had, in consequence, been almost over-zealous in the vigorous attention they bestowed upon the doormat, which seemed momentarily to groan under the pressure of their scrapings and rubbings.

Neville, having relived that recent memory, glanced back down at his coffee. The filter appeared to somehow contain more water than it had a few moments before, as if the drip, drip, drip had ceased and the cup, in some kind of rebellion, had started to force the liquid back from whence it had come. He felt too tired to respond to the evidence of his own eyes, and, ignoring the impossibility of the happenings on the table in front of him, looked out of the window by which he sat as if, in doing so, he might remind himself of his situation, of his relation to the outside world, and of the reason he was there.

'So why are you here?'

The voice had come suddenly to him from nearby; it was a quick, shrill, impatient voice, carrying with it a not insignificant air of menace. He hesitated a fraction then turned, expecting to find himself confronted by either the Conservative lady or the establishment's owner; but the former was still in conversation and the latter nowhere to be seen. The smell from his cup - that which he had been seeking just a few moments earlier - now forced him to look down at his coffee again. The filter was now empty. Lifting it away, he revealed a cup full of dark coffee. Outside an old bus rumbled slowly past the window, coughing from its exhaust like an old man about to expire.

Was it an accident that he now found himself sitting alone in this quiet and somehow forgotten tea-shop? And of all places that it should be here in Malvern! Unable to give up the past, he recalled how he had left his office quietly and without fuss, collecting his briefcase on the way to the lift. His Boss had been as humane as the situation and his own humanity allowed; which meant precious little considering his not undeserved reputation for being a complete bastard.

'Neville, my boy' - he had tried his most wheedling, ingratiating, and "I hate doing this to you, Old Son, please believe me" type voice - 'Neville, this company's going down the toilet, and something's got to be done about it. Something, indeed. No doubt you'll have heard the rumours and seen the stories in the local press - and the national press, come to that. The place is rife with rumours, I know. Scaremongering, I call it! Nothing but scaremongering. Of course, given the present difficulties we do have to look at our costs. The shareholders are concerned: poor dividends, poor exports, poor forecasts. So we do need to make one or two' - he hesitated over the next word - 'economies. You understand?'

Had he understood? Did he understand now? He wondered if he had said anything, but could not recall.

'So - as part of a whole raft of measures, you understand - we've decided to restructure your department; we're going for a leaner, fitter approach. Fighting fit for the future! That's it! We're giving Brian a broader brief, Colin the challenging clients, and David the difficult decisions. So, I'm afraid that makes you redundant. Sorry. Lovely working with you. See Celia on your way out, she's got your cheque.'

And that had been that; with a sudden rush of words his career was in ruins.

'You should have punched him on the nose!'

Again the disembodied voice. Neville, struggling with the thought as to how he should respond - and, if he was honest with himself, whether he had actually heard anything at all - sat and looked out of the window, trying to ignore the unwanted intrusion. Returning to his interrupted recollection, he vaguely remembered standing up - probably without saying anything, though he couldn't be sure - and just leaving. Briefcase, coat, door, lift, car, motorway. It had been as simple as that. From the centre of Birmingham he had been on some form of automatic pilot - which, without any conscious design on his part, had brought him here. It was probably two years since he had last been in Malvern; since he and Mirelle had walked the hills together. With a stab, he remembered happiness.

He picked up his coffee and, in doing so, noticed that the Conservative lady was now alone, the walkers had gone, and there were two waitresses tending the vacant tables. He checked his watch - the watch that one year had been a reward for "exceptional service and loyalty to the company" - and wondered if, despite all external appearances, at 3:21 in the afternoon they might be expecting some kind of rush.

Two years seemed a long way away. Two weeks even further. He had propelled his most recent scenes with Mirelle towards ancient history with such force that they had overtaken more distant events in their headlong rush for oblivion. The sharp tang of the coffee on his palette brought them back. Mirelle's coffee always tasted like that; sharp and bitter. Perhaps because she was half-French. Perhaps because she made fucking awful coffee.

Luckily the last cup he had seen in her hand had been empty - or at least it was empty by the time it flew past his head and crashed into the dining room wall. He had seen it late, and, without time to calculate trajectory, simply ducked. Instinctive self-preservation. When he looked up again she was gone; the door open, the room empty.

'She was a bitch anyway! What did she ever do for you?'

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