A/N- this is pretending that LOTF is really an autobiography and that
William Golding just changed the name of the character. So Ralph, in the
book, is really Golding.
The Telephone Call
William Golding's hands shook slightly as he dialed the number and then held the phone to his ear. As he listened to the rings, he wondered why he was doing this. What would it accomplish? He hadn't spoken to the man for over fifty years, not since the island… No, he thought, better to leave things as they are, not stir up any unwanted memories. Just as he was about to hang up the phone, a man's voice came on the other end,
"Hello?" It was a deep voice, a commanding one. A voice that suggested the owner was quite satisfied with himself and his life. Golding wondered again why he was doing this.
"Yes, ah, may I please speak to… is this Jack?" he stammered. There was a curious pause at the other end, and then the man said,
"Yes, this is he. And who, if I may ask, are you?" His voice carried a bit of a challenge in it, as though he expected a telemarketer on the other end.
"It's me… Will." Golding said a bit hesitantly. There was another pause as Jack digested the other man's words, not understanding.
"Will? Will who?" he asked, a bit demandingly still but with a puzzled note added.
"Will. From… from the island." Golding waited with baited breath. It took a few seconds coming, but then he heard a sharp intake of breath.
"Will?" Jack asked sharply. "Not…not Will Golding? Not from…" he trailed off remembering. "Well," he said, the aggression gone as surprise and awkwardness took over.
"It has been a long time." Golding said. He waited, and after a few moments Jack replied,
"Yes. Yes it has." He stopped again and there followed another uncomfortable pause. Then, as there seemed nothing else to say, he fell back into polite small talk. "How have you been? What have you been doing?" Golding knew Jack was trying to avoid the obvious subject, but he didn't say anything except,
"I've been writing. In fact, I just came out with my first novel, The Lord of the Flies." And now, this was not just idle chit-chat, he really was very proud of it.
"Oh, really? What was it about?" Jack asked politely. At his end, Golding smiled sardonically, saying,
"Well, it's about a group of boys, who are stranded on a deserted island…" He stopped, knowing there was no need to go on. Jack knew the rest.
"Look, Will," he said uncomfortably. "About that…. We were just kids, okay? I mean, kids do all sorts of crazy things—" but Golding suddenly interrupted him, saying,
"Like murder?" He waited for Jack's response. There was none. Finally he said, "You do remember that, don't you? The Hunters—"
"That was nothing but an innocent attempt to survive." Jack said hurriedly. Golding was silent. "Besides," he went on. "Robert was really more horrible than…" he stopped, not willing to finish the sentence.
"Than you?" Golding said, finishing the sentence for him. Again Jack said nothing. "You remember Piggy, don't you?" Golding asked. He heard a snort from the other end.
"He was asking for it, he really was. I mean, any nerd with glasses like that, and his stomach—"
"You think a person deserves to die because of their stomach?" Golding asked incredulously. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You think Piggy deserved to die?" he asked again. Jack didn't answer. After a while, he asked,
"Look, ah, Mr. Golding. Is there any particular reason you called?" Golding was silent. The tension that hung between them was thick and heavy.
"No." Golding said. "No reason. Good-bye." And with that he hung up the phone.
Jack, in his large, comfortable, up-scale home, put the receiver down, and continued sitting at his desk, staring into nothingness.
The Telephone Call
William Golding's hands shook slightly as he dialed the number and then held the phone to his ear. As he listened to the rings, he wondered why he was doing this. What would it accomplish? He hadn't spoken to the man for over fifty years, not since the island… No, he thought, better to leave things as they are, not stir up any unwanted memories. Just as he was about to hang up the phone, a man's voice came on the other end,
"Hello?" It was a deep voice, a commanding one. A voice that suggested the owner was quite satisfied with himself and his life. Golding wondered again why he was doing this.
"Yes, ah, may I please speak to… is this Jack?" he stammered. There was a curious pause at the other end, and then the man said,
"Yes, this is he. And who, if I may ask, are you?" His voice carried a bit of a challenge in it, as though he expected a telemarketer on the other end.
"It's me… Will." Golding said a bit hesitantly. There was another pause as Jack digested the other man's words, not understanding.
"Will? Will who?" he asked, a bit demandingly still but with a puzzled note added.
"Will. From… from the island." Golding waited with baited breath. It took a few seconds coming, but then he heard a sharp intake of breath.
"Will?" Jack asked sharply. "Not…not Will Golding? Not from…" he trailed off remembering. "Well," he said, the aggression gone as surprise and awkwardness took over.
"It has been a long time." Golding said. He waited, and after a few moments Jack replied,
"Yes. Yes it has." He stopped again and there followed another uncomfortable pause. Then, as there seemed nothing else to say, he fell back into polite small talk. "How have you been? What have you been doing?" Golding knew Jack was trying to avoid the obvious subject, but he didn't say anything except,
"I've been writing. In fact, I just came out with my first novel, The Lord of the Flies." And now, this was not just idle chit-chat, he really was very proud of it.
"Oh, really? What was it about?" Jack asked politely. At his end, Golding smiled sardonically, saying,
"Well, it's about a group of boys, who are stranded on a deserted island…" He stopped, knowing there was no need to go on. Jack knew the rest.
"Look, Will," he said uncomfortably. "About that…. We were just kids, okay? I mean, kids do all sorts of crazy things—" but Golding suddenly interrupted him, saying,
"Like murder?" He waited for Jack's response. There was none. Finally he said, "You do remember that, don't you? The Hunters—"
"That was nothing but an innocent attempt to survive." Jack said hurriedly. Golding was silent. "Besides," he went on. "Robert was really more horrible than…" he stopped, not willing to finish the sentence.
"Than you?" Golding said, finishing the sentence for him. Again Jack said nothing. "You remember Piggy, don't you?" Golding asked. He heard a snort from the other end.
"He was asking for it, he really was. I mean, any nerd with glasses like that, and his stomach—"
"You think a person deserves to die because of their stomach?" Golding asked incredulously. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You think Piggy deserved to die?" he asked again. Jack didn't answer. After a while, he asked,
"Look, ah, Mr. Golding. Is there any particular reason you called?" Golding was silent. The tension that hung between them was thick and heavy.
"No." Golding said. "No reason. Good-bye." And with that he hung up the phone.
Jack, in his large, comfortable, up-scale home, put the receiver down, and continued sitting at his desk, staring into nothingness.