A Cache - Bath Spa University MA in Creative Writing - Anthology 2012-13 by Julian Hussey

Edited by Susan Beale and Julian Hussey

Contents 6

Philip Hensher

Foreword

Prose 10 Naomi Alderman Introduction 12 Simon Acland 2012 and All That 18 Seren Adams The Flight of Birds 24 Georgios Andritsos Stop Talking Crazy 32 Heather Ash Leopoldville & London 38 Mina Bancheva Room 44 48 Susan Beale The Good Guy 54 Joanne Billings The Life and Death of Evie Drake 60 Kim Bour Rembrandt’s Mirror 66 Laurie Canciani Dystopianna 72 Nicola Cheung The Distance 80 Christine Clement-Green Blues, Twos and Teddy Bears: A Memoir of Female Policing in the 1980s 88 Wendy Clemson Blood Sample 94 Richard Alan Cole Libations 102 Rommy Collingwood Original Puppy 110 Faye Davies Esperanza 118 Simon Dowlman Tourist 126 Gillian Eve Know Before Whom You Stand 132 Mariana Peña Feeney About Beginnings and Getaways 138 Sam Hayward Black to White 144 Kathryn Hind Hitch 150 Julian Hussey Elephant in the Room 156 Richard Irvine Ad hoc 4

164 Sophie James Gower 172 Sarah Catherine Knights Aphrodite’s Child 180 Victoria Knowles Dropping Rose Petals 186 Ieva Lãkute Seventeen 192 Fiona Longsdon Mother Love 200 Nina MacPherson All the Responsibility – None of the Power 208 Fenella Mallalieu The Chemistry of Longing 216 Lily S. McKee Crestfall 224 Angela Nansera Sin Bin 232 Obi Nwizu This Winter 238 Jemima Owen Being Miss Mannford 246 David Sambrook The Decent Thing 252 Ginny Saunders Various Contrivances 260 Dylan Spicer Teal Skies

Poetry 268 270 276 282 288 294

Tim Liardet Paul Hawkins Lucy Humphreys Liz Penny Sarer Scotthorne Lisa Storm-Olsen

Introduction Claremont Road Offerings Silent River The Blood House River Song

300 Acknowledgements

Foreword by Philip Hensher

he first appearance in print is always a magical experience for a writer. Sometimes, it’s also a magical experience for a reader. There is no more special experience than reading a story by a quite unfamiliar name, and realising after a couple of pages that there might be something here; realising after another few pages that here is what promises to be a lifetime’s favourite author. It doesn’t happen that often. But it happens, and here is where it happens. Very occasionally, that stroke of magic lasts forever. The reader who picked up a first novel called Buddenbrooks and found himself reading, with total absorption, about a girl staying with fisherfolk and sleeping on a mattress stuffed with seaweed – that world is still there to be discovered, over and over again. The scandalised laughter that first burst out in 1836 when subscribers to a new serial called The Pickwick Papers came across a Fat Boy promising that ‘I wants to make your flesh creep’ is as fresh and as raucous as it ever was. The first appearance of a writer in print may be special only to the writer himself, or it may be something new, that is going to stay new. There is no such thing as a beginning writer. These writers, like any writer first appearing in print, are drawing on years of thought, of aspiration, of experience. How these long years are condensed into words for the sake of a reader or two is a process beyond investigation. The success of a writer in rooting a few hundred words in the soil of observation, reflection and imagination is partly a matter of conscious practice, and partly something that can hardly be escaped. Sometimes writers, working on a first project, wonder how, exactly, they can make sure they can sound like themselves. They want to make sure that they find their voice. But the truth is that the writer’s voice is as inescapable, to that writer, as a writer’s gait in the street. The understanding of one’s own voice is only a first step towards mastering a chorus of other voices, through listening. It is a daunting process, and remains daunting. One important function of the creative writing degree, such as the MA at Bath Spa, is to provide a safe

imaginative space in which work can be tried out and aired. The day comes, however, when that work has to leave the cocoon and experience the colder air of the industry’s appraisal – ‘Sorry, just not for me,’ and ‘I just wasn’t interested by any of it’. There is no principle outside the academy that Criticism must be Constructive, and no process of appeal against a verdict, either. The work must experience, too, the well-meaning comments of friends and family, making hay with the tender imagination. ‘I really liked it. It reminded me so much of [random bestseller, recently read].’ At some point, the kindly, detailed and constructive comments of seminar mates and supervisor give way to the single, devastating sentence in an email. The writer toughens up; starts again. Or not. At some points in this collection of student work, magic strikes. The reader is going to find he has not quite been aware of the world, during the few preceding pages. Where is it going to go? Not sure; but here is the real deal. Sometimes, too, there is something apparent, not quite right, but genuine and alive and warm. Those writers are as valuable as the perfected article. They will go somewhere. Even now, the publishing industry likes and values the developing talent; despite the economics, it somehow manages to nurture and cherish the writer who is on the way somewhere, not quite perfected. Writing is the product of learning that never stops; as John Updike once said, a learning more like an un-learning, with every day new blank pages to confront, old epiphanies to un-do. The best writing here is the product of un-learning, having found its way to a new sentence, an old experience in words that could only be this particular writer’s choice. Philip Hensher was awarded the 2013 Ondaatje Prize for his novel Scenes from Early Life. His 2008 novel, The Northern Clemency, was shortlisted for the Man Booker and Commonwealth prizes. Philip is Professor of Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. His ninth novel, The Emperor Waltz, is published in July 2014. 7

Prose

Introduction by Naomi Alderman

ou start from nothing. Something arrives, like a gift, perhaps, if you’re lucky. A few words strung together in a way that intrigues you. Sometimes you write a handful of words and you think, as you see them on the page, as you read them again, you think: oh yes, this is true. This is what I always thought. This is what I meant. That’s when you become intoxicated with the possibilities, when you think ‘oh, maybe I can write’. But then. A few more words accumulate. You push them out thinking all the time ‘this isn’t right, this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel’. It feels lumpen and awkward and stupid and obvious and too sane and pedestrian or too insane and incomprehensible or both, at once. You dig your nails into your own forehead until you make yourself bleed, or feel that you ought to bleed. You’re making something up. You’re forcing it out. You’re making something from nothing. You go into a bookshop, or a library. There, the tidy rectangular blocks of words laugh at you. The contrast between the stop-start, hesitant, desperate, confusing process of your own writing and these clean-lined objects is terrifying. It’s not possible that what you’re doing, that the rancid fermentations you’re making with the grit scraped off the inside of your own skull could turn into one of these crisp, solid books. These writers must have some other kind of process. They probably have an ‘outline’ (if you don’t have one), or they write it all by instinct (if you love to outline). Their tidy, musical sentences betray days spent in quiet contemplation of Shakespeare, not watching TV or looking at Twitter. They probably live blissfully peaceful lives (if you live a busy one), or excitingly bohemian existences with parties starting at midnight (if your life is bounded by the school run or an office job). Whatever it is that makes a writer, it’s whatever you’re not doing. It’s not possible that the highly polished, well-plotted, exquisitely written novels you enjoy could have come out of the kind of confusion in your own mind when you’re writing. You might as well give up, really. You’re doing it wrong. 10

Which is where a Creative Writing MA can come in. Like a twelvestep programme meeting, we all admit that we have a problem. Yes, even we teachers, who’ve been doing it for a while now, still stare at our own words in blank horror quite frequently. Even we don’t know what to do next. Even we start to suspect that we’ve picked the wrong idea for a book. When I was doing my own MA, while writing my first novel, this gentle reassurance that even though it felt all wrong, it wasn’t actually all terrible was invaluable. It takes immense bravery to carry on through this process. To continue, as Keats said of the nature of a poet, ‘in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason’. We stay in this state, sometimes for years. Putting one word after another, hoping that at some point it will start to coalesce, not being at all sure that it will. The first novel is the hardest, from this point of view. Once you’ve seen the miracle happen once, you start to think it might happen again. But the first books – the books which are extracted here – are written more in hope than expectation. Wonderful work has been done this year – the pieces in this collection journey far and wide across the world, and in time, through the places of the imagination and the grittiest of reality. Each of these journeys has been taken in the dark, and each brings back unexpected and unique illumination. Naomi Alderman’s work is included in the most recent Granta collection of the Best of Young British Novelists. She won the Orange Award for New Writers in 2006 and was The Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year in 2007. Her first novel, Disobedience, was published in ten languages. She was appointed Professor in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University in 2012.

Simon Acland

imon Acland has lived in London for over thirty years, for most of that time working as a venture capitalist backing start-up technology businesses. He has had two non-fiction business books published based on this experience. He has also served two terms on Lambeth Council and has been a parliamentary candidate. As a result, Simon has moved in political circles and spent time with both of Londonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mayors. Simonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s novel, 2012 and All That, is set in a dystopian London disfigured by economic catastrophe, environmental decay, xenophobia, social unrest and creeping repression. Over the city looms the figure of Mayor Roger Nash, the most popular politician in the nation, not least for bringing the Olympics to London. He will stop at nothing to maintain his hold on power, including twisting the Games to his own ends. Along the way he crushes his deputy, Ben Weld, who fashions revenge out of his own decline and his familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s destruction. This excerpt is the opening of the novel, a scene set just before the shit hits the fan (or, more precisely, the Mayor). s.acland@btinternet.com / simonacland.com

2012 and All That

n the Whitehall corner of Parliament Square a heavy manhole cover shivered and rose an inch. Such a slight movement would always have been hard to detect. Now it was invisible behind the ring of twelve-foot plywood fencing erected to keep the public away from the contaminated site of the Palace of Westminster. Nevertheless, whoever was raising the manhole cover from below proceeded with caution, fearful perhaps that the inspectors might be paying a visit with their Geiger counters. The cover hovered just high enough to afford a view of the area. Then it heaved open. A man sprang out. With a practised movement he lowered the lid back into place before pressing himself into the dark angle of the fence. From the shadows he checked again that the area was empty. He paid no attention to the Mother of Parliaments, wrapped in her protective white PVC coating. He had seen her dressed like this too many times for her to retain any interest. He did not often trust information issued by the authorities, but he did believe their assurances that there was no threat of radiation leaking from the building. He knew from his own training that dirty bombs spread their poisonous loads over a limited area. He knew that the isotopes of caesium chloride and cobalt-60, whilst longlived, could not have penetrated far beyond the immediate environs of the House of Commons chamber into which they had erupted. Even if they had, the work to encase the heart of the building in concrete rendered the periphery completely safe. The buildingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s PVC wrapping was superfluous. However, it conveyed important symbolic messages to the people. It showed how much the authorities cared for their safety. The white plastic hung there as an appropriate memorial to the Prime Minister, his cabinet colleagues, 13â&#x20AC;&#x192;

SIMON ACLAND

and his shadow cabinet opponents, heroes who had succumbed to the cancerous after-effects of the bomb. Best of all, it provided a non-degradable reminder of the neo-Nazi who had detonated the bomb in belated revenge for the Second World War. It reminded the nation how the terrorist had abused his position as special adviser to the pro-European Foreign Secretary in the previous Labour government, and how right they had been to sweep the Ukip-Tory coalition to power on a wave of anti-German feeling. The man stood in his dark corner, tense, a stag at bay. He cut a strange figure in a tattered grey T-shirt, a hoodie of indeterminate colour, and worn waterproof trousers of an agricultural type tied at the waist with pale rough sisal string. The tops of his boots were hidden by his trousers, but compared to his clothes their toes looked new, in the rubberised and flexible style worn by troops for tropical warfare. He edged along the fence. A few yards down he stopped, pressing against a plywood panel. It was evidently loose, because it gave a little. The man peered through the gap. His exaggerated caution suggested that he thought this was his moment of greatest danger. He glanced up at the CCTV camera mounted above the wall to check that its angle still left a blind spot beneath. Satisfied that his exit went unobserved, he pushed the panel open just far enough to squeeze his body through. The plywood sprang back to close behind him. Again, he stood stag still, scanning the surrounding area with eyes of a pale, milky blue. Now it was clear that the position of the loose panel had been carefully chosen, because the man was screened from view by a disused bus shelter near the base of Westminster Bridge. Blocked at one end by the wall of plywood, the bridge was closed to traffic, but still open to pedestrians. It was presumably for their benefit that the exterior of the wall had been painted with the images of famous patriotic Britons – Churchill, Cromwell, Richard I – those indeed to whose parliamentary statues access was now denied. A few tourists stood on the bridge, marked by their paraphernalia of camera bags and rucksacks, by their baseball caps and sun visors, and by their non-native leisurewear. Some just gawped at the outline of Big Ben, familiar but obscenely phallic in its white PVC condom. Others pointed their cameras at the long ghostly river façade, flat plastic where there once had been richly carved niches of Victorian sandstone. The crowd was not large, but Westminster’s shrouded shrine still attracted more people than the 14

replacement Parliament buildings in Wolverhampton. Foreign visitors did not appear to share the coalition’s enthusiasm for regionalism, and ignored the symbolism of the new site in the Ukip leader’s home town precisely at the heart of England. Nor did the tourists on Westminster Bridge pay any attention to the figure who now shuffled across the river towards the South Bank, let alone notice where he had sprung from. There were so many homeless tramps in London after the economic devastation caused by the financial crisis and the withdrawal from the European Union, and even visitors knew it was really not polite to stare at them. The man halted at the centre of the bridge. He gazed downriver. The tide was low, exposing greasy grey-green mud on either side of the channel. He stared at the opaque brown water in disgust. This was the squalid juice that composed two-thirds of the human body. Once, each molecule in that turbid stream had been part of a living being. That muddy flow contained droplets of water that not long before had circulated in the tired bloodstream of some senile geriatric, or spent time as an integral part of an impatient juvenile’s internal organs. Perhaps some had passed through a placenta from mother to baby. Now it would pass to the sea. Some molecules might escape, and rest deep in the peace of the ocean for a while. But some would be absorbed by a codfish or a haddock, and return under a coating of oily batter to form part of the brain, lungs, or liver of another human being. Others would take a more direct route, by evaporating, joining a cloud, raining into a reservoir, finding their way back into a host via tooth mug or cup of tea. They might dwell inside some specimen of humanity for days, or years even, a vital component of their being, or they might pass through quickly, excreted as urine, faeces, sweat or semen, or other bodily fluids – pus, snot, tears, menstrual blood. Each water molecule was part of an endless chain, connecting every human being and all living things. And that water was filthy, contaminated, used. The man spat into the river. He watched his sputum arc into the broth, and continued on his way. Once over the bridge and farther downstream the man found another familiar place where the path along the bank narrowed before former warehouses. This time he showed no concern for CCTV cameras, and hoisted himself in plain sight over the river wall. His feet found the rungs 15

SIMON ACLAND

of a metal ladder. He climbed down to the foreshore. Here he must have known that he was unobserved, save by a black-backed gull which flapped resentfully away, for he extracted a small clear plastic bag from the pocket of his hoodie. He untied the sisal belt that held up his waterproof trousers and squatted. With deftness born of practice, he defecated accurately into the plastic bag. Effort lined his lean, stubbled face as he squeezed out his bowels. Finished, he found a piece of paper in his hoodie and wiped himself. The paper he also placed in the clear bag. He inspected the contents with apparent satisfaction, for all that they were somewhat runnier and lighter in colour than most doctors would have approved. He rested the bag carefully on the mud. When he had risen and pulled up his trousers, he twisted his bag closed, and secured it with a wire tie. He eased the bag into his hoodie pocket. He noted that the tide had turned and that the river had started to reclaim the slimy foreshore, and continued on his way.

Seren Adams

eren has a first-class honours degree in English with Creative Writing from University College Falmouth. Her third-year collection of poems, Small History, won the dissertation prize and was published by Shearsman in 2012. She has also been published in Osiris and Stride. She lives and works in Bath, where she is completing her first novel, The Flight of Birds. Nineteen-year-old Elen Holland is staying with her grandparents in Gwelfor, a small village on the coast of north Wales. Back in London she was hospitalised after taking ecstasy and her parents have sent her away to recuperate. She is homesick, restless and haunted by memories of her recent relationship with a photographer called Daniel. Dewi Griffith, a ninety-two-year-old war veteran, lives with his dog Dylan in a tall, cluttered house in Gwelfor. The rooms are filled with cardboard boxes, books and family belongings. Dewi has kept them locked for thirty years since his mam’s death. Elen and Dewi strike up a tentative friendship. When Elen begins to sort through Dewi’s house, she finds a suitcase of letters addressed to a man called Arthur Gray – one letter for every year since 1945. Secretly, she begins to read them. Who is Arthur? And why are the letters unsent? Meanwhile, Dewi finds that Elen reminds him of his younger self, and her presence in his house triggers vivid flashbacks and painful regrets. seren.adams17@btinternet.com

The Flight of Birds

harlie was heavy for such a skinny man. They carried him as he had fallen – on his back, facing upwards. Dewi held Charlie’s legs against his hips, a hand under each of his calves; the hair on them protruded, thick and wiry, from between Dewi’s fingers. He watched the boy’s bony ankles and black boots, slick with mud, bobbing in front of him as they moved across the field. Arthur was holding Charlie under his armpits. Dewi didn’t look back, but as they trudged across the field, he realised it was Arthur – not him – who would have to look at Charlie’s open stomach, the dark blood like oil, as they walked; he didn’t say so then, or even later as they shared a cigarette, lighting it in Arthur’s mouth with a shaky match, but he was grateful. Dewi panted. His could taste sick and something metallic on the edge of his tongue. What would he have done on his own, if Arthur hadn’t turned up? Dragged Charlie back or lay down beside him and waited until dawn? He couldn’t even tell where they were; when he tried to think, his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. He ached all over but he kept walking, squelching his boots into the mud and wrenching them out again and again. It was Arthur’s voice that guided him through the darkness and thick smoke; he seemed to know the way back to the others and hissed directions across the length of Charlie’s body between them. Either he really did know, or he was pretending so that Dewi wouldn’t panic. Dewi had noticed since their first weeks of training that Arthur was able to keep his head through anything – and in Normandy, actually doing what they’d been trained for, he could remain calm more than anyone else in the company. After Evans it was Arthur they all looked to for advice, as though he was the unofficial second-in-command. 19

SEREN ADAMS

Dewi felt safer when they were together, as if Arthur was invincible in some way and therefore so was he, protected by a kind of aura Arthur emitted. Dewi followed instructions and kept himself upright; that’s all he’d been doing since they landed. He could smell burning and the sweaty, earthy stench of Charlie’s boots. The mixture of mist and smoke was thinner in places, allowing him for a brief moment to see the ground a little way ahead, but most of the time it was as thick and opaque as cloud, swirling around them as they pushed through it. Sometimes he thought he saw dark figures moving and swaying towards them, but they never became anything more than shadows. Charlie’s legs kept slipping through Dewi’s hands and every now and then he felt a jolt as Arthur adjusted his grip on Charlie. Then the tat-tat-tat-tat of a machine gun broke the air close by. They froze. ‘Dewi, get down!’ Arthur hissed. They dropped to the floor. Dewi thought he heard Charlie let out a groan as they put him down but he couldn’t move or turn around to check. He lay flat on the floor, his face pressed into the dirt and grass, his arms trembling. The urge to close his eyes, to disappear from that night, that field, swept over him and he dug his nails hard into the fleshy underside of one hand to keep his eyelids apart. The skin broke open and started to bleed, but he felt no pain. It was a few minutes before Dewi heard Arthur hiss, ‘Let’s go.’ He realised a small battle was going on close by but they were invisible in the smoke. He took a breath and tried to assemble enough energy in his body to stand. Arthur was already on his feet. Without a word, they took hold of Charlie once again. He was limp and silent as they heaved him into their arms, but Dewi could see his chest moving up and down – his mouth gaped open and his eyes were half-closed, half-white, but he was breathing. He was breathing. As the machine gun chattered away they crept around the edge of the fighting, trying not to make a sound. Dewi’s chest was heaving. Arthur kept whispering directions behind him, and he followed them blindly, not sure himself where the firing was coming from. It sounded as though it was echoing all around, and getting closer, louder. He didn’t know what time it was or how long it had been since they 20

left the trench on the ridge. Why did they have to retreat? Had the village not been captured? Several times he stumbled and nearly dropped Charlie, but he forced himself to straighten up and carry on. The cool night air had dried the water down his leg from his punctured flask; he started to shiver. The urge to cough tickled his throat and he spluttered into his sleeve, almost choking as he tried to stifle the sound. ‘Keep going, Dewi, we’re nearly there.’ Arthur was out of breath, too. ‘We’re nearly there.’ ‘How’s Charlie?’ he gasped over his shoulder. ‘He’s fine, just keep going.’ Evans motioned them closer when he saw them. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Bring him over here.’ Trevor bowed his head as they drew near. ‘Not Charlie, too— ’ Tommo said. ‘What do you mean?’ Dewi looked at their faces, then back at Charlie. They lowered him slowly to the ground and his head lolled backwards, his eyes frozen open. Dewi went round to his face and looked at him upside-down, as if a different angle might change what he could clearly see. ‘He’s dead?’ ‘I’m sorry, Dewi,’ Arthur said quietly, nodding. ‘He can’t be. He was alive when we picked him up and, just now, back there, he was alive!’ Trembling, he looked around at everyone, but they wouldn’t meet his gaze. Some of them stared down at Charlie’s body, others inspected their feet. Nobody said anything about the hole in his stomach. ‘I noticed him stop breathing halfway back.’ Arthur looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’ Dewi’s eyes blurred. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and sore. He stepped back, away from Charlie’s lifeless head, a thin line of blood still wet at the edge of his mouth. ‘We tried, Dewi, we did all we could. We brought him back.’ Dewi nodded slowly. He couldn’t look at Arthur, or anyone, or he wouldn’t be able to hold anything in any longer. He staggered away, feeling as if he was drunk. His breath was coming shallow and fast as he sat down on the ground. 21

SEREN ADAMS

Light began to fill the sky, a pale blue strip across the horizon. Dawn was about to bloom over the fields and in daylight everything would be real. He put his head on his knees and let the tears drip freely from his eyes down to the thin, dry blades of grass between his boots. Behind him, he heard the others deciding the best place to dig a hole. The next day was 17 July 1944; in the haze of Dewi’s confusion and exhaustion, his diary told him so. He tried to think of something he could write about both men on the blank page in front of him, but when he remembered them – Charlie’s shyness, his big eyes when he got frightened and Bird’s tough determination, his playful jokes – his throat tightened and he had to stop. It’s all over for them, he told himself, they don’t know anything about it. He tucked the diary back into the pocket of his jacket, a daze swamping him as if what he’d just written hadn’t really happened, and the night that had just passed was only an awful dream. He drew on his cigarette, gulped a mouthful of smoke and inhaled it deep into his lungs. Arthur had sat a little way away. He was adjusting something on his rifle and kept glancing over. To Dewi, it seemed they gravitated towards each other, but perhaps that was because where Arthur went he always followed. Was it for protection, or to protect, or both? He couldn’t deny how scared he was, especially after what had happened to Charlie, when the blood had all drained from his face and spilled out of his stomach … They hadn’t spoken much since then; he knew Arthur felt bad about Charlie, but he didn’t blame him. If Dewi had known he was carrying a dead body, a lost cause, his knees would have buckled beneath him. The question of who really caused Charlie’s death was a complicated one that hurt his brain to think about – it was certainly none of the lads’ fault. Maybe not even, really, the German soldier who shot him. They were all of them, both sides, caught up in something that had been decided by other people. Still, if he caught the man who did it … The only comfort he could find was that Charlie and Bird were away from the ridge, away from the guns breathing over them. In the daylight, if anyone moved they were shot at or shelled, so he stayed very still and thought of Mam. If this was his last day on earth, what would he say to her? He took 22

out his diary again and wrote on the blank page, in big letters, I’m sorry, Mam. She wouldn’t understand what he meant, why he was apologising, but at least he knew it had been said, even if she couldn’t hear it from his own lips. It was that day – 17 July – that Dewi killed someone. His company were resting in an old German-dug trench, keeping out of sight. The different companies of the whole battalion were spread out across the ridge, in different places, all trapped in their hiding places. Arthur was asleep and so were a couple of the others. Dewi, Tommo and Evans were keeping watch and sharing cigarettes between them. As he stared out over the open fields at the top of the ridge, Dewi thought he noticed something moving in the grass. He froze and his eyes strained in their sockets as he stared at the patch of field where a flash of black had appeared for a split second. He thought about telling Evans and Tommo, but instead he waited. Then the flash of black appeared again. It was moving closer. The third time he saw it he nearly screamed out when he realised what it was: the tip of a gun. Evans had warned them about attacks from the open landscape: ‘They know these fields better than us and they’ll try and creep up by surprise.’ Dewi raised his own rifle, as he’d been trained to, and aimed carefully. Don’t think about it, he told himself: just fire. He aimed at the spot he imagined the soldier would be lying, estimating his head would be only a little way back from the end of the gun, and put his finger on the trigger. He held his breath in his throat. The bullet exploded from the barrel and the force jolted into the bowl of his shoulder. A voice cried out in the grass, once, sharply, then went silent. Evans and Tommo flung themselves on the ground and scrambled for their own rifles. ‘What was that?’ Evans gasped. ‘I think it was a sniper,’ Dewi said. He felt strangely calm. Evans and Tommo stared at him, their mouths open. For the next hour Dewi watched the black tip of the gun in the grass, but it did not move again.

Georgios Andritsos

eorgios Andritsos was born in Greece in 1969. After graduating from high school he worked as a builder, porter, DJ and a barman. In 1991 he moved from Greece and worked as a bartender in a variety of trendy restaurants and bars in Scandinavia, England, Tenerife, France and Spain. In Oslo, in 1997, he set up a company called Essential Bartending and ran bartending courses in the Nordic region. The success of his courses led to TV appearances in Sweden and Denmark as a guest on several bar shows. In 2007 he wrote a cocktail book called A Little More than Just Cocktails or Smoothies, which won the London Book Fair award for the best international drink book and was published in Norway, Sweden, France, Greece and Spain. After taking a creative writing course in 2010 he began to write free verse poetry and short stories. Georgiosâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s short stories explore how people from all walks of life and backgrounds deal with luck, destiny and the harsh situations they end up in, and how they manage, or not, to uphold integrity, honesty, beauty and love. In Stop Talking Crazy he sketches the death throes of a cross-cultural marriage gone bad. Georgios lives in Barcelona where he is working on a collection revolving around the current economic crisis in Greece. g.andritsos09@gmail.com

Stop Talking Crazy

t was a cold night. Gabriela dashed into the backyard and threw an armful of jumpers, shirts, belts and pants into a pile on the snow. She bolted back into the house and scooped up the fallen clothes from the floor. On the patio stairs she slipped and fell. She stood up cursing. With the sleeve of her cardigan, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and reached for the bottle of gasoline. The cold tightened her throat. She struck a match, tossed it on the pile. ‘There … you bastard.’ Her eyes sparked in the flames. Through a bay window her neighbours stared. ‘They thought they had seen everything,’ she said under her breath. The next day she felt worn out and woozy. The past week she’d hardly slept. She reached a hand to her forehead and closed and opened her eyes; tiny light spots danced in front of them. I ought to get off the pills the doctor put me on, she thought. She sighed, bent over the crib and pulled the blanket over her baby’s shoulders. She put the kettle on the burner, buttoned her cardigan, and looked out of the window; the whiteness of the snow made her blink. On the lawn a crow dug its beak into the snow. In a timber house over the road a woman shook a brown blanket; her breath steamed in the air. It was two years since Gabriela had left Granada and moved into a three-storey, timber house overlooking a fjord in Oslo. The house belonged to Carlos, the man she’d fallen in love with while on holiday in Buenos Aires. In accented Spanish he’d asked her if he could join her for a glass of red wine. She thought him handsome. Everything was fine for a few months. Gabriela worked at home on her 25

GEORGIOS ANDRITSOS

poetry. When Carlos wasn’t working for the family’s salmon export business, they went walking in the woods or in Frogner Park, sailing and fishing in the fjords, cooking and going to the movies. At weekends they went to dinners with Carlos’s friends. People liked Gabriela. But after a while Gabriela realised that Carlos’s mother didn’t. She would interrupt Gabriela, make funny remarks about how she dressed, mock her Norwegian, and ignore her poetry. And when she heard that Gabriela was pregnant, she tried to talk her into having an abortion, saying it was too early for them to have a child. Things then got worse. Halfway through her pregnancy Carlos started to drink heavily. Many times he came home with alcohol on his breath and other times he didn’t come home at all. When she asked him where he’d been, he told her that it wasn’t her business. By the time she brought her baby home from the hospital, things were going to the dogs. The phone rang. Gabriela got to her feet and on the fourth ring she picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ She listened to the static on the line. ‘Who is it?’ She heard breathing and pictured her husband. ‘Is that you, Carlos? I know it’s you, you son of a bitch. Don’t you dare come to this house again, you hear me?’ ‘Hey, I want to pick up my clothes.’ The voice was rough. ‘Your clothes?’ She passed the receiver to her other hand. ‘I burned your clothes, you hear me? Ask your floozy to buy you some.’ Two weeks ago Gabriela had arrived from Granada earlier than expected, and she caught Carlos with a woman in the shower. Before she left they had agreed to try to make things work; ‘Let’s give it a genuine chance,’ Carlos had said and gathered the baby and her in his arms. Gabriela had bought him a cashmere scarf and a bottle of cologne. In the house she heard running water. In the living room the lights were dimmed, curtains were drawn and candles burned in crimson holders they’d bought together in Toledo. When Gabriela saw the lipstick on the rim 26

of a wine glass, she put the baby in the crib. Still in her coat and boots, she flung the bathroom door open. Steam hung in the space, and behind the fogged-up shower glass, two bodies moved and moaned. ‘Get out, you whore! Get out!’ she screamed. The woman jumped from the shower, scooped up her clothes and dashed out of the bathroom, wet footsteps trailing after her. ‘You didn’t burn my clothes.’ His voice seemed calm on the other end of the line. ‘I did. I burned the Armani suits, your shirts and woollen cardigans, your scarves and your Prada shoes. I burned your cashmere coats too. The fire was majestic, you son of a bitch!’ She hung up, leaned against the wall and breathed heavily. Gabriela blamed herself for this mess. She needed to get the hell out of this house, out of Oslo. A couple of days before her best friend had called her from Barcelona, ‘Move from that cold place and come and live with me. Forget that bastard. The apartment is near the sea and it will be good for you and the baby.’ With these words turning in her mind and a feeling that Carlos was on his way, she moved to the hallway. She stood still and ran a hand through her hair. Then she locked the front and back doors. Upstairs, she ran in and out of the rooms, locking windows. Downstairs, she put the meat knife on the kitchen table. A car roared into the drive. Through the kitchen window she saw Carlos and his new woman talking together. Her face went stiff. Carlos was now heading towards the house, coat flapping. He began to bang on the door. ‘Stop that, you son of a bitch,’ she said from behind the door. ‘The baby is sleeping.’ ‘Open the goddamn door!’ ‘Go away!’ He banged some more, cursing. Then she heard him scuttle off. Gabriela stood by the balcony door. She watched as Carlos worked his eyes over the burned clothes, clenched his hands and kicked the snow. He hurled a burnt shoe towards her. It landed on the patio. He bolted up the steps and grabbed hold of the doorknob. ‘Open up, you bitch!’ He rocked the door. 27

GEORGIOS ANDRITSOS

‘Go away!’ The baby began to cry. While upstairs calming the baby, Gabriela heard glass breaking. She pictured a broken square of glass by the doorknob. Then she heard him moving downstairs calling out her name and then his steps on the stairs. She held her breath as she rushed into the bedroom. As she stood at the door of the walk-in closet, holding the baby to her chest, Carlos was pushing the remainder of his clothes into a leather black bag, mumbling under his breath. ‘I’m glad this thing happened,’ she said. ‘You son of a bitch, I’m glad, do you hear? You betrayed us.’ She pushed strands of hair out of her face. ‘Hey, shut up!’ he said standing up. He zipped the bag shut and took a step towards them. His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I want to take the baby.’ ‘Take her where?’ she said, her eyes searching for an answer. ‘Take her with me.’ ‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’ She held the baby more tightly. He worked his eyes over them. His breath smelt of alcohol. Gabriela recognised that devilish look in his eyes. She remembered that she had first seen it a year ago. She had suspected it was the alcohol and, even though that night a voice in her dream told her to pull out, it was too late. She was pregnant. Gabriela took a few steps back and, keeping her eyes on him, ran from the room. ‘Hey, where are you going?’ He followed her down the stairs. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the baby in her arms. ‘I want the baby.’ ‘Stop talking crazy!’ He started towards her. She edged back into the kitchen. The baby turned in her arms and began to cry. The canary flapped its wings and chirped inside the cage. ‘I want the baby,’ he said and clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles flexed. Then he reached for the baby’s arm. ‘Keep your dirty hands off her!’ She pushed his hand away. ‘Go back to 28

your whore and leave us alone!’ She pressed the baby as tightly as she dared against her chest. When his arms shot out again, Gabriela tried to move past him but he grabbed hold of her hand anyway. She squirmed but his grip was strong. ‘Let go of my arm!’ She twisted and turned her hand. The baby wailed and the canary flapped its wings. ‘I am not leaving without the baby!’ He pushed her against the table. A cup of coffee spilled over. The canary cage landed on the floor and its gate flipped open. The canary chirped and flapped its wings frantically. The baby’s face was red and filled with tears and snot as she screamed. ‘Look what you’ve done, you bastard!’ She felt her pulse throbbing in her temples. He pulled on the baby’s blanket. She moved away from the table, dragging the blanket and then she put the baby in her seat. Carlos looked at the baby and then at her. As he came closer, she grabbed the knife from the kitchen counter and thought of his pathetic mother, of all the arguments, and of the day she caught him in the shower and her anger swelled larger than her, larger than any word could describe. ‘I swear, if you come any closer, I’ll cut you open!’ ‘Put the knife down.’ He stood still. ‘Take it easy … Put the knife down.’ ‘You take one more step and I’ll cut you open. I swear!’ With this she tightened her grip. Her fingers went white. ‘If you want to have the baby … first you have to kill me, you son of a bitch.’ When Gabriela glanced over her shoulder at the baby, Carlos lurched towards her. Stepping back, she lost her balance, but still managed to swing the knife at him. The tip of the blade caught his cheek. With wide eyes he put a hand on the cut and grunted. Blood dripped onto the white wood floor. ‘You fucking bitch.’ He stared at his bloody hand in disbelief. Gabriela’s face had turned white. Veins stood out on her sweaty temples. Holding his cheek he slumped against the wall, the fight gone out of him. All of a sudden, he looked diminished to her, even harmless. Gabriela opened the front door of the house. A cold wet wind blew in and she shivered. In the kitchen she heard running water. A car whooshed by with headlights on and wipers going. It had begun to snow again. 29

GEORGIOS ANDRITSOS

Carlos moved out to the hallway holding a wet kitchen towel to his wound. ‘I don’t want to see you again,’ she said as he stepped out into the snowy weather. She locked the door behind him, leaned with her back to the door and felt the warmth of her baby. From the kitchen window Gabriela saw the car backing out of the drive, and heard its roar as it drove up the hill. It was quiet in the house now. From the edge of the table, coffee dripped down to the wooden floor forming a pool. The canary stood on the tiny bar inside the cage, looked at the open gate and flew out. It circled near the ceiling and perched on the curtain pole. Gabriela stuffed a pillow into the broken window. Whispering a lullaby, she sat on an armchair and held her baby close to her chest. She felt frail. She draped a thick blanket over them and began to rock the baby to sleep. She then broke into silent tears. Outside the window thick snowflakes fell. Feeling the warmth of her baby, she closed her eyes and she pictured them living in the house near the sea. And, little by little, Gabriela went to sleep.

Heather Ash

he MA course was a return to Corsham Court for Heather Ash, who completed her first degree in art and design at Bath Academy of Art in the 1970s. She filled the intervening years teaching ceramics, writing articles, reviewing plays, teaching singing, writing poetry and making music. Brought up in the Belgian Congo of the 1950s, Heather has drawn on recollections of her childhood to inform her novel, Leopoldville & London. Dorothy Wynn-Jones flies to Leopoldville with daughter, Cathy, to be reunited with Eric, the chief pilot with Sabena Airlines. It is 1954. Having risen from their working-class roots during World War Two, they cling to each other for security. Eric’s absence in Africa adds to Dorothy’s suspicion that she doesn’t really know the man she married, and although she tries to fit in with the expatriate community, being a housewife is not enough for her. Appalled at the treatment of the native workers by the ruling administration, she joins their struggle for independence. She meets Myeko, an African librarian, whilst studying archived documents of tribal atrocities; after much anguish and selfdoubt, they embark on an affair. When the liaison is discovered she is ordered home by her husband and community in shock and disgrace. She is pregnant. She copes alone with Cathy, Eric’s child, and Sisi, who she is determined to enlighten about her Congolese heritage. She encounters Myeko by chance at SOAS in 1960. He has been deported from chaotic, post-independence Kinshasa. They are united, but still battle against prejudice and discrimination as a mixed-race family in London in the 1960s. singing@heatherash.co.uk 32

Leopoldville & London

t’s so cold, November weather, sleet stinging the wide window panes in clusters of tiny iced confetti. Mum is sitting in the departure lounge. She doesn’t want me to go. She’s afraid of riots, of snakes, of the weather. I pull the Fair Isle sweater she knitted for me over my silk dress, elbows poking through the worn threads. She did so want to please Eric when he brought the pattern back from a trip to Shetland. Little hearts dance across the breast in colours those islanders must only see for a few short months – vivid cerulean, azure and indigo. No use for it in the Belgian Congo. I lead Cathy out across the tarmac to the waiting DC-6. It stands silver and stark against the storm-grey sky. Mum bent to hug her as we left, buttoning her little coat and straightening the velvet collar. I hold the thought of kissing Mum and Dad goodbye; I won’t see them for a year. I should be elated at the thought of being with Eric, but I can’t erase the newsreel of the Queen waving goodbye to her father on her trip to Kenya, or the thought that she never saw him again. ‘Good evening, Mrs Wynn-Jones.’ A stewardess I vaguely recognise scoops Cathy up in her arms and carries her aloft. ‘Terrible evening – we could be delayed.’ I mount the steps behind them, watching Cathy reaching for me, distressed. I see the riveted plates of metal that make up the unpainted fuselage of the plane. They look unfinished in their bareness and make me alarmingly aware of its construction. I wish Eric was flying us himself. Prayer for our safety offered up, I step away from English soil. It’s only five o’clock and already dark. 33

HEATHER ASH

Judith has her name badge on the lapel of her tight uniform jacket and she strides out along the aisle still carrying Cathy, who is struggling now. Our seats are at the front of the plane, near the cockpit, and dim yellow cabin lights form two rows of diminishing perspective as I follow her forward. I strap us both in and stare out into the darkness, see the same diminishing perspective echoed in the landing lights along the runway. They stretch into infinity. Cathy is beside me gasping her little sobs into her teddy’s ear. Eric has missed almost a quarter of her four years. Am I crazy to be taking such a small child out to Africa? God, please don’t let her suffer for this decision, and please let this guilt and anxiety pass. We taxi out across the pitted ground, the plane bumping and shaking, until it stops, engines roaring. After a moment of impatient quivering, all restraints are loosed and we tear along the runway, Cathy and I holding hands and holding our breath. Her little eyes are full of wonder. I see the trust she has in me and swallow hard. I don’t have the courage to care for her on my own. We rise like a bird through rain and hail. Fog is fading gradually from black to grey and whisked strands of cloud float by. Finally we burst out through the last layer of gloom and sun shines in at the window. Far above the murky November weather of London Airport we head out on the long trek to Leopoldville. Illuminated by the sun I see the whole cabin. Seats have been lowered back a little and a united sigh of relief at being airborne exhaled. Judith is back – she has her social duties to perform. ‘I’ll take you up to the cockpit later, Mrs Wynn-Jones, and introduce you to Captain Edwards – Simon – do you know him? He is one of our new boys.’ ‘Do call me Dorothy, Judith.’ New boys? Fresh anxiety grips me. My hand finds and strokes the rough wool threads beneath my jacket. ‘It’s a small world for the Congo crew and everyone meets up at the flying club on stopovers, you’ll love it. Are you ready for a drink?’ She slips into the galley and reappears with a glass clinking with ice. I swallow the gin more quickly than is wise and feel it fall, cold, into my stomach. The tingling along my limbs and anaesthetising effect on my brain are welcome. I stare out of the window at the clouds, now pink and 34

pale with the setting sun. Voices float into the distance and the hum of the engines throbs inside my nodding head. When I stir a man is walking up the gangway with a steady stride. I know at once that he is a flyer: he has air legs. He turns towards me, smiles and nods before he disappears into the cockpit. I’m suddenly aware of my strange attire – the new silk dress and matching high-heeled shoes, the smart lightweight jacket draped around my shoulders, and the holey jumper. Manoeuvring under my coat I manage to pull the jumper off, stuffing it into my cabin bag. Stockings straightened, lipstick on, I inhale the faint scent of Arpège on my sleeve and feel better – I am the chief pilot’s wife, for God’s sake, and I’m on my way to a strange continent. Eric seems to have made a big hit with Sabena. He needs to feel accepted and part of the gang, and if he is looked up to, that is even better. His letters from training in Canada were so sad, he didn’t fit in there. He sent so many in the year we were engaged, a long-distance courtship, I hardly knew him, really. And the photos – all of him in sheepskin flying suits with the crew members named on the back and his little postscript, Self – Skipper. I knew he felt out of his depth. He never told me, but I read between the lines. The other pilots were mostly from wealthy families. They had learned to fly before the war and were picked out to train because of it. Eric was selected by aptitude test and was the best amongst them all. He had to be. My heart ached for him whenever the letters arrived – he always tries so hard. My drowsy half-dreams are broken as the plane drops two feet and my stomach hits the roof of my mouth. Cathy is crying and as I lean to comfort her I look out of the window to see lightning trailing off the edge of the wing in white ribbons. Rain rattles the glass with such force that I fear it must shatter, and then we drop again abruptly. She is in my lap now, clinging tightly, and the sign lights up in front of us: ‘Fasten Seat Belts’. I force her back into her own seat and strap her in. God, I’m terrified, but I mustn’t show it. I twist and search the cabin for explanation. Judith is making her way along the aisle, reassuring passengers and checking that they are all strapped in. She is flung from side to side as she goes, grabbing on to the backs of seats for support, but she is still smiling. Before she reaches us the intercom sounds ding-dong – so cheerful and incongruous. 35

HEATHER ASH

‘This is your Captain speaking.’ Simon Edwards’s high tenor. ‘We are passing through a tropical storm and encountering some turbulence. This is quite normal and nothing to worry about. Please remain seated with safety belts fastened until further notice. Our estimated time of arrival at Leopoldville is 6am.’ I won’t get to meet him now. The pockets of air are coming regularly and the noise of people chattering nervously rises. Their voices ring out high and excited. Some joke and others giggle and then we are jolted out of our seats again – we’re on a big dipper. Women scream, then laugh selfconsciously as if caught in an inappropriate act. I hold Cathy as close as I can as we’re rattled from side to side and up and down. Someone has got hold of the plane and is shaking it like a sauce bottle. I pray quietly and think of Eric waiting at the airport. So close and yet I’ll never see him again; I think this is the end. Mum and Dad will be sleeping in their beds in Hounslow; I’ll never see them again, either. A calm acceptance comes over me as I stare out of the window and see the propellers, intermittently illuminated, turn as if in slow motion. Gradually the storm passes and the sound of the engines quietens a little. The thumping of luggage being hurled about in the hold below stops. The rain softens and the first glow of morning seeps in through the window. Maybe we will survive. ‘We will be arriving at Leopoldville Airport in fifteen minutes.’ Simon Edwards – his voice an octave lower now. I didn’t pick up his anxiety before – ironed out by training. The plane drops through space again, but this time at controlled, regular intervals, lowering itself into the African heat. I take the jumper out of my bag and look at it one last time. I roll it up and tuck it behind me. I’m going to leave it on the seat when we go. I’ve made a promise to myself – this is a new life. Sunlight strikes us violently as we step down from the plane and the smell is overwhelming. Not dry in my nose as it was when we refuelled at Tripoli, but damp and humid like lying in a steamy bath, and smelling of old hymn books and vegetation. I love this smell instantly, as I do the pearly apricot light that illuminates everything. I see him by the railings, smiling and waving, striding out towards us in khaki shorts. He holds his arms out and Cathy wriggles her hand free of 36

mine and runs towards him. He scoops her up in his arms and throws her in the air. She shrieks with delight, all the drama of the flight forgotten. I walk towards him as he sets her down and we kiss. It’s my first contact with his body in half a year. I want to dive into him, submerge myself in the essence of his being. Instead, we exchange a light, affectionate embrace. It’s not abandoned, nor is it passionate, but it holds a dark promise. His hand, just a little below the small of my back, burns into my skin hotter than the tropical sun. We walk to the little Fiat, all three of us together. No one checks our passport.

Mina Bancheva

ina Bancheva graduated in English language and literature from Sofia University. Later, she obtained a master’s degree in Psychology from Cardiff University. She taught English to international students before training to become a psychotherapist. In 2012, she was awarded a postgraduate certificate in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes at Middlesex University. Room 44 begins in 1968. Yana, a young Bulgarian girl, wants to go to the UK to study. She applies for an exit visa but gets turned down repeatedly. She requests an interview with Comrade Ivanov, the head of the visa department, to plead her case. He is attracted to her and they sleep together. She is granted permission to travel to Cardiff, where Mary, a friend she met in Sofia a couple of years earlier, lives. There she meets Daniel, a Jewish painter. They start a relationship but Yana’s mother, Mammy, is taken ill and Yana decides to go back to Sofia. In this extract, when Yana is making an application to leave Bulgaria after Mammy’s death, the Bulgarian secret service attempts to recruit her as a spy. Initially, she does not sign the agreement because she finds out she is pregnant with Daniel’s child. Later, she decides to become an informer in order to protect her sister, Katya, who remains in Sofia. This puts a strain on Yana’s marriage to Daniel. She leaves him and their daughter and goes to live in London. They reunite in 1989 after the Berlin Wall falls. minabancheva@gmail.com

Room 44

oom 44 is on the second floor of the Ministry for Internal Affairs, a monolithic building in the centre of Sofia, its spire adorned by the five-pointed star, red like a ruby in the sky. Inside, the building is cool, the granite walls and marble floors keeping the heat out even on the hottest summer day. Heavy oak doors line the wide corridors and there are flags on the walls commemorating her country’s friendship with all the other republics in the socialist bloc. Outside the room there are two benches and a middle-aged woman and two young men are waiting. Yana sits next to the woman, who briefly glances at her then goes back to the handkerchief she’s been twisting in her hands. The men stare into space, alone and contained in the silence of waiting. Minutes trickle away then the door opens and a young fair-haired girl comes out. She is crying and her sobs echo as she runs down the corridor. Fear tightens in Yana’s chest. She wonders what happened behind the closed door and what will happen when her turn comes. The woman stares after the girl, still twisting her handkerchief, her face still, like a carving on a stone wall. A short man wearing round steel-rimmed glasses comes out of the room. He inspects the little group for a second or two then says, ‘Comrade Marinova.’ Her stomach jumps. She can feel sweat on her forehead. Her mouth is so dry she can’t swallow. A wave of nausea rises in her chest but she manages to breathe through it. The man shows her into the room. Another man, older and heavier, is sitting behind a desk by a large open window, smoking. The room is bare, save for the desk and a chair and 39

MINA BANCHEVA

a couple of pictures. The man points to the chair and she sits down. Lenin and Stalin look down on them, side by side on the wall behind the desk. The man with the glasses disappears through another door. She feels sick with fear. ‘So, comrade, you want to leave again? Don’t you like your country, are we not good enough for you?’ ‘I love my country, but I am enrolled at university and would like to complete my studies.’ ‘Or is it that you have fallen in love? With an Englishman? Because you don’t think our men are good enough for you?’ In a flash Yana knows that they have read the letters. Rage takes over the fear. It pounds in her ears and heats up her blood. She clenches her teeth so hard her jaw starts to hurt. ‘Tell you what,’ says the man behind the desk. ‘We’ll let you leave but you must prove you love your country first.’ She holds her breath. ‘These friends of your English boyfriend,’ the man continues, ‘Elka and Vancho Danchevi, we have reasons to believe that they may be engaged in anti-government activities. The British Council is organising an exhibition of their work in London and they will be there for the opening. We want you to keep an eye on them, see who they talk to, where they go, that’s all. Then report to our man in the embassy.’ ‘Daniel is not my boyfriend,’ says Yana, 'and I have only met Elka and Vancho once. And I may not get invited to the exhibition.’ ‘See what you can do,’ says the man with a smile that makes her flesh creep. ‘Come back in a week’s time; we’ll have your passport ready.’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘This Mr Greenberg, is he nice to you?’ Outside it’s hot but Yana is shivering. She wonders if she will ever feel warm again. Then the rage that took hold of her in the room returns. How dare they? She thinks of Daniel and wonders what to do. He hasn’t been in touch, and yet when they parted she’d felt love from him. Had she been wrong? Could she trust herself? And could she betray him, spying on his friends? She wants the visa; she needs to get out. With Mammy gone and Katya 40

living with Vlado, there is nothing here for her. In Wales she can make a new life for herself, she can put the past behind and start again. And Daniel doesn’t need to know about any of this.

* It’s been eight weeks since Daniel left and last week she didn’t bleed again. She had hoped that her body, having missed a month, would catch up with itself, and had put off going to the doctor. But deep down she knew that she must be pregnant and the test confirmed it. In the park now, children are playing and their mothers are watching over them. They are standing around in little groups, or sitting on benches pushed together to accommodate all-comers. Yana fights the urge to join them and listen to their conversation. She is carrying Daniel’s baby and it’s a miracle. If she lets this baby grow, would it look like him? Dark eyes that look at her as if they have always known her, black hair that curls on his forehead? Or might it have her red hair? She doesn’t wish that on the poor mite. Not with all the teasing and name-calling that comes with it. The wind is picking up now. It is swirling a few lonely dried-up leaves round and round, a reminder that winter is not far away. If she lets this baby grow, it will arrive in the summer when the park will be full of flowers and the roses will be blooming. If she lets it grow inside her, by next summer, she will be in one of those groups of women, pushing a pram, proud to belong to the club of motherhood. If she lets it grow. And if she doesn’t? She’ll be free. No commitments, she will live her life as it comes with no plans. Should she tell Daniel and talk it through with him? Part of her resists laying herself open to him but she longs to be taken care of. Could she take care of the baby by herself? Could she take the risk to go it alone? She doesn’t know. She thinks of Mammy and the thought makes her want to cry; she needs her like never before. She decides to speak with Mary and rings her later that evening. ‘Lovely to hear your voice,’ Mary says, ‘what a wonderful surprise.’ But when Yana tells her the news she senses her shock in the sudden silence on the line. Then Mary composes herself. ‘You 41

MINA BANCHEVA

must speak with Daniel,’ she says. ‘It’s too big a thing to do by yourself; either way, it’s a big responsibility.’ For some reason that she can’t understand, the conversation makes Yana feel lonelier. She tries to imagine the life that is growing inside her but she feels nothing, just an empty space inside her chest, so empty she thinks she can hear the wind whistling through it. Two days later she gets a letter from the Home Office inviting her back to Room 44. This time she is the only one waiting outside and after a few minutes she is ushered into the room by the man with the spectacles who hardly looks at her as he shows her in. There is a small, wiry woman with short grey hair behind the big desk in the corner and Yana is surprised; she had expected to see the man who’d interviewed her before. The woman is looking at her passport and doesn’t acknowledge her. Minutes pass before the woman finally looks up. ‘Sit,’ she says, pointing to the chair in front of the desk. ‘We’ve got your visa ready,’ she says, ‘we just need you to sign your agreement to help us protect our country from those who work against it.’ Suddenly, the baby is more important than anything else in the world. Even Daniel. ‘I can’t go,’ Yana hears herself say, ’I am pregnant.’ She’s horrified by the words that have just come out of her mouth, as if they had a life of their own, as if what she’s just said had nothing to do with her. The woman’s face is impassive, not a muscle moves. She reaches for the buzzer and the bespectacled man comes in. ‘Take her to Comrade Jelev,’ the woman orders and he leads her out of the room, up a large winding staircase and right to the top of the building. He takes her to sit outside another room, no number on the door this time. Yana feels as if she is acting in a film. The body that’s sitting outside the numberless, nameless door is not hers, it belongs to a character in a film she is both watching and acting in and she doesn’t know what happens next. She feels nothing, just curiosity as the door opens, as if by itself, the man behind it hidden by its solid frame. ‘Come in,’ says Comrade Jelev and offers her his hand to shake. She is 42

taken aback; they don’t usually make physical contact of any kind. This man is being friendly and she doesn’t know why. It makes her suspicious. Comrade Jelev seems different to the others. For a start, there isn’t an ashtray on his desk and the room smells fresh and clean. He is young, not much older than me, thinks Yana, and wears an expensive-looking suit, obviously not bought in Sofia. On his feet are leather moccasins, the kind men wear in Italian films, and his linen shirt is crisp and white, gold cufflinks on the cuffs. ‘Sit down, comrade,’ he smiles at her, pointing to the chair. She looks around the room and notices a pile of books on psychology and sociology stacked up on shelves behind the desk. He follows her eyes and says, ‘I noticed from your dossier that you have been studying psychology. I myself am a psychology graduate, studying now for my PhD. Fascinating subject, don’t you think?’ Why is he trying to be so friendly? Yana is alarmed now, her suspicions are growing rapidly. She says nothing, just smiles. ‘Motherhood must be such a special, unique experience,’ continues Comrade Jelev. ‘My wife and I have been trying for a baby for a while now; you must be delighted to be pregnant.’ Yana stays silent, her body tense with fear. ‘You’ve had a difficult life, comrade, haven’t you?’ he continues, concern clouding his blue eyes. ‘Growing up without a father; then he comes back and then you lose him again.’ He looks pensive. ‘Tragic.’ Fear seeps into every cell of her body and stops the air coming into her lungs. She feels choked with it and her knees are shaking. He looks at her kindly. ‘Would you like some water? Or perhaps a little brandy?’ I will not let you intimidate me. Yana catches her breath and smiles a polite refusal. ‘I’ll come to the point, Yana,’ he says, familiar with her now as if he’s known her for a long time, but his eyes are hard. ‘We want you to do some work for us in the UK. For the Party and the people. Your people. This baby has come at the wrong time. In more ways than one. Do you want it to grow up without a father like you and Katya did? We can arrange everything for you: the best clinic, the best doctor, no pain.’ 43

MINA BANCHEVA

Yana gasps inside and her body stiffens. Her skin is tingling and she feels dizzy. ‘But of course, you must think about it,’ Comrade Jelev says with a benevolent smile. ‘It is your body after all, your decision. Think about it, but not for too long,’ he continues, his eyes full of kindly concern. ‘Give me a ring in a week.’ He hands her his card and shows her to the door.

Susan Beale

usan Beale grew up on the coast of Massachusetts and has lived in New Hampshire, France, Belgium and the UK. She has worked as a writer and editor on both sides of the Atlantic, covering everything from figure skating to bar codes, junk mail to murder. Her writing has won prizes in the Caravan Press Foreign Affairs Competition and the Mid-Somerset Festival. The Good Guy is the story of a love triangle set in New England just before the sexual revolution. Tyre salesman Ted McDougall is married to Abigail, his childhood sweetheart, when he meets and becomes captivated by singlegirl Penny Goodwin. The more time Ted spends with Penny, the more the lines between fact and fantasy blur. One lie leads to others as, gradually, he weaves himself a new persona. For a golden summer he believes he has discovered the perfect formula for modern living. Then Penny gets pregnant and Tedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s carefully-stitched narrative threatens to unravel. Told from the alternating points of view of its three main characters, The Good Guy is based on a real-life story. srbeale1686@hotmail.com

The Good Guy

ed McDougall stared into the bedroom mirror, smoking a cigarette and practising a smile that said, ‘Why, sure, I entertain clients all the time.’ He sprayed Right Guard under his arms and put on a freshly laundered T-shirt. Sweaty salesmen are suspicious, Ted’s boss Curtis Hale said, and, frankly, when the pressure was on, when getting things right really mattered, Ted was something of a sweater. The unseasonable warmth of the late-September evening concerned him; temperatures had been declining steadily for weeks until today – out of the blue – they spiked over eighty degrees, so hot that Abigail had had to get the fans down from the attic. His dark wool dress pants clung irritatingly to his legs and he’d only had them on five minutes. Spying the seersucker suit hanging in his closet, he wondered whether it was worse to be a sweaty salesman or an oaf who wears a summer suit three weeks after Labor Day. It was silly social convention and he would happily buck it if not for the fear that his dinner companion, Ken Schmidt of the Bedford Trucking Company, might fail to see the wilfulness in his gesture and, God forbid, mistake it for ignorance. A glance at his watch settled it. He would stick with the dark. Perspiration bloomed at his hairline. This heat really was something, way beyond the norm, even for Indian summer. That it should be so, and on today of all days, seemed somehow more than mere coincidence – a test of his mettle, perhaps, or a check on his ambitions; he’d know by evening’s end which it was. He breathed deeply, rolled his shoulders, which were broad without being bulky, and shook out his arms like a boxer preparing for a bout. His head churned with the main points of the deal he’d soon be pitching to the bulldog-faced Ken. It was important to stay focused, to keep 47

SUSAN BEALE

his mind from drifting to how his life would be transformed if he managed to close the deal. Bedford Trucking bought fifteen thousand tyres a year. The commission was equal to half of Ted’s annual salary, like getting a fifty percent raise, even if he sold nothing else all year long – which, of course, he would. Loads more. With that kind of money he could pay the mortgage off early, fill baby Mindy’s college fund, take Abigail on vacation to Europe. All of it could be his; would be his. At twenty-three. So long as he didn’t blow it. He picked up the can of Right Guard and sprayed on a second coat. The soft scuff of slippers on linoleum alerted him to his wife’s approach and he studied the mirror as her reflection appeared. The quiet economy of her movements caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. Her pale blue housecoat billowed like a spinnaker as she passed an oscillating table fan. ‘It’s wonderful news, Ted,’ she said, knitting her fingers together. ‘Really, really wonderful. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.’ She lowered her head and her face disappeared beneath a red paisley kerchief. ‘I wish I’d have known earlier.’ She sat on the corner of the bed and seemed to deflate, as if this little pronouncement had drained her of all strength. He put on a dress shirt and started buttoning. ‘I tried to call this morning, soon as Curtis signed off on it,’ he said. ‘Nobody picked up.’ ‘Today is the third Thursday of the month,’ she said, addressing her hands in her lap before lifting her eyes to him. ‘And tomorrow will be the third Friday,’ he replied with a jaunty smile because he couldn’t think what else to say and, clearly, she expected him to say something. But it was the wrong thing. The air in the room shifted in a way he had come to associate with her crying jags. He called them crying jags, but they weren’t. Not really. His wife was not the dramatic sort. Though her translucent skin and tendrils of auburn hair gave her the appearance of a romantic heroine – a pre-Raphaelite stunner, in the words of Mr Holder, the English teacher cum drama teacher cum elocution teacher cum soccer coach at their tiny high school in New Hampshire – Abigail McDougall (née Hatch) was as solid as granite, a pillar of Yankee practicality and common sense. He had always admired her clarity and sense of purpose, the way she knew not only where she was going but also the shortest, most efficient route to take her there. That’s 48

what made these episodes unsettling: seeing such a formidable girl utterly vanquished. And by what? She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say. The stillness of her grief unnerved him. The way sadness seeped out of her suggested despair beyond anything he could fathom, let alone fix. Even when not preparing to strike life-changing business deals, he couldn’t bear seeing his wife so diminished. He held his breath, watching through the mirror for a tremble of the lip, tears pooling in the lower lids. ‘I made pot roast,’ she said, finally. Relief swept over him and he exhaled in a great rush. It was only her New Englander’s horror of waste. ‘Put it in the fridge,’ he said giving her a wink. ‘We’ll have it tomorrow.’ He lifted his arms and detected a worrisome tightness in the shirt. ‘Of course,’ she replied, nodding. ‘Yes.’ ‘Honestly, honey, there is nothing I’d rather do tonight than enjoy pot roast with you. This is business. We’ve all got to make sacrifices.’ He crossed and uncrossed his arms, certain, now, of a pinch through the shoulders. ‘This deal could be life-changing.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘You’re selling tyres,’ she said, ‘it’s not the lunar mission.’ The comment stung. He had been trying to be nice to her. Okay, tyre sales wasn’t NASA, wasn’t The Law that her daddy practised, but it put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Didn’t she understand how nervous he was, how scared of messing up? He removed the shirt and pulled another from the closet. Her eyes widened. ‘It feels tight,’ he explained. ‘Did I ruin it?’ He knew that he ought to reassure her, but was too miffed to give more than an indifferent shrug. She flinched. From the hall there was a thump, swish, thump, swish as ten-monthold Mindy scooted toward them on her diaper-padded bottom. She moved like a sculler rowing in reverse, thrusting her chest forward until her bottom lifted off the ground and then sliding swiftly to her heels, straightening her legs before pitching her chest forward again. This bizarre form of locomotion had astonished and frightened both parents until Ted’s mother saw it and 49

SUSAN BEALE

laughed. Apparently he’d used a similar technique at that age. Mindy had honed it to its most efficient form and could move effortlessly throughout the house, head erect, hands free to explore. ‘Ba-do,’ she cried, scooting through the bedroom doorway, a halfeaten teething biscuit aloft in her fist like Lady Liberty’s torch. ‘Ba-do.’ It was her favourite thing to say. What she meant by it was a mystery, although neither Ted nor Abigail doubted that it had meaning. Often it made her giggle, sometimes shriek with joy. God, she was cute, he thought, as she reached forward and grabbed a fistful of his trousers. ‘Help, Abigail,’ he cried. ‘She’ll get crumbs all over me.’ Abigail stooped to pick the baby up with a slowness that made it hard to recall that only a few winters ago she was skiing down mountains at breakneck speed. Really, his grandmother was more nimble these days, Ted thought, as he brushed vigorously at a darkened spot left by the tiny clammy hand. ‘When are you going to crawl, Mindy McDee?’ Abigail asked. ‘Why crawl when you can scoot?’ said Ted, slicking back the sides of his hair, giving his tie a final straighten. ‘Because crawling is normal.’ ‘She’s normal.’ Ted slid a finger across his upper lip, checking for moisture. ‘She’s perfect. Look at those curls, those dimples.’ ‘Ba-do,’ said Mindy. ‘Ba-do,’ Ted replied. ‘Today Frannie Gill told me she has a cousin who scooted. He dropped out of school and is now a trash collector.’ ‘He’s a trash collector because he dropped out of school, not because he scooted.’ ‘It’s driving me crazy, Ted.’ He bent down to kiss his daughter’s cheek. ‘Your mother is afraid you’re going to be a blockhead like your old man, instead of smart like she is.’ Mindy smiled, revealing four small white teeth and an abundance of biscuit crumbs sluicing on drool. Such bright and curious eyes, kid’s got to be a genius, he thought, snapping his head back just in time to dodge the slimy Zweiback she pushed towards his mouth. ‘Well,’ Abigail said, smiling grimly. ‘I guess you’d better be off. Don’t want to be late.’ 50

He tucked his thumb under her chin, feeling the tautness of her clenched jaw as he turned her face towards his. ‘Take it easy tonight, hon,’ he said. ‘Put your feet up. Watch TV. Read a book.’ She swallowed. Her eyes began to fill. Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry, he thought. He didn’t have time for tears. Luckily, Mindy shoved the soggy end of the teething biscuit into Abigail’s mouth, breaking the tension and giving Ted a chance to duck out. ‘Ba-do!’ He patted his jacket pocket for his wallet and cigarettes, gave his girls each a kiss, and made for the old Dodge DeSoto that he had inherited from his father. He placed his feet gingerly around the rust spots in the floorboards, contorted his body to avoid the busted seat spring, and began the delicate operation of starting the engine. The key had to be turned at just the right speed, a precise amount of pressure applied to the gas pedal. It was, he liked to joke, the perfect anti-theft device. Abigail stood at the screen door holding Mindy, who was still determined to feed the biscuit to her mother. Abigail gently batted it away each time and yet Mindy kept coming back. She was relentless. Tenderness for his wife and daughter swelled in Ted’s heart. They depended on him and he took care of them. Now he was going off on his first business dinner like an old-time warrior. ‘Shouldn’t be too late, honey,’ he called as he backed out of the drive. Abigail smiled and Ted was struck, suddenly, by her resemblance to Raggedy Ann. The housecoat, the kerchief, even the pigtails: how was it that he had never noticed? Slowly, because children might be playing, he drove through Elm Grove, a two-year-old subdivision of slab foundation ranch houses with names like Charmer, Monterey, Enchantress, and El Dorado. Paul Jenks was out tending to his fledgling rose bushes; Ted lifted his right hand in mock salute, enjoying the sight of unvarnished curiosity washing across Paul’s face as Ted, in a suit no less, drove out just before the dinner hour. Tomorrow Jean would drop by for a cup of sugar or some other manufactured excuse and ask Abigail where he’d been headed. ‘A business dinner, at a steakhouse in Boston,’ she would reply. ‘A really big deal.’ That would give Paul something to chew on, old Paul, who thought living in an El Dorado made him lord of Elm Grove. 51

SUSAN BEALE

Yes, indeed, Ted thought, turning the car east on Route 9, towards the city centre and its promise of steak and martinis, deal-making and manly conversation. Light from the setting sun flooded through the carâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rear window, so bright it was impossible to see where heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just been.

Joanne Billings

oanne Billings has a BA in English with Creative Writing from Nottingham Trent University, completed in 2012. At Bath Spa University she has continued to learn and develop as a writer. Since completing the MA, Joanne has taken up a full-time position at Waterstones in Oxford as lead bookseller and events co-ordinator in the children’s department while she continues to work on her debut novel. A psychological and supernatural thriller, The Life and Death of Evie Drake begins at the end, with her suicide. Then the reader discovers the events that led to her death. The novel shows how, as children, Evie and her best friend, Jake, discover Eldercrest Manor. It is here that Evie is subsequently groomed and later possessed by a spirit called Annabelle, who has taken refuge in a china doll. Annabelle manipulates Evie into killing Jake while they’re playing at the mansion. Consumed with guilt at the loss of her best friend and with Annabelle whispering in her ear, Evie spirals into insanity; she is tortured, sectioned and placed in a medically induced coma. The doll is destroyed in hopes of saving Evie, but Annabelle’s spirit transfers and uses Evie as a host and, in turn, she kills her youngest brother and her parents. After several attempts to stop Annabelle, including burning herself alive, Evie takes one last attempt at freedom and drowns herself. Evie’s body is pulled ashore three days later, but the reader never learns whether Annabelle was consumed by the water or found her next victim. joanne.billings5@googlemail.com

The Life and Death of Evie Drake

woman looks down into the depths of the river below. The moon slides behind thick silver clouds; the only light protruding from passing cars, intermittently lighting up her face as they drive across the bridge. She flexes her toes inside her shoes as she balances on top of the railings, the steel pillar on the bridge providing her slender frame with support as she rocks back on her heels. The cold winter nights are at their peak. A thick fog begins to cloak the top of the bridge; frost tarnishes the grass on the riverbank and encrusts the steel structure with ice. The wind whips her hair up and away from her face. Her grey eyes can see everything now, even in the darkness; the blood, the anger, she can feel it rising in her chest. The pain, the screams, the torture. She tilts her head forwards and looks into the water. The black, liquorice sludge beckons her in. She needs to destroy her. Burning her didn’t work, maybe drowning will. She wasn’t in control when it happened. She could see, even feel, what she was doing, the pain she was causing, but she couldn’t stop the hand from plunging the knife into the chest, cutting the throats and painting the walls red. She wasn’t herself and hadn’t been since the accident. That was the first time it had happened and she has been cursed ever since. The woman raises her foot and lets it hover over the edge. She flexes it again, pointing and straightening it, her shoe flapping clumsily before she finally lets it slip and meld with the darkness. Her foot touches down on the cold steel. She flinches. She kicks off the other shoe and stands motionless, feeling every muscle in her feet contract. The nightgown pins itself to her body as the wind blows harder and colder. Her face goes pale. She tries to 55

JOANNE BILLINGS

savour these feelings as she indulges her senses in the sights, sounds and smells around her. She wishes it could have always been like this. If only she could have always been this free. She moves her back away from the steel pillars. It’s nearly time. Who will mourn for her once she’s gone? Will they even care? She has burned all of her bridges. Annabelle was all that remained. Her chest tightens and her vision blurs; Annabelle is trying to break out. She has been to hospitals and taken their pills. She has been put out like a dog and has had electricity course through her body, but Annabelle always survives. Now she knows what she has to do. It is the only way she can escape, the only way she can finally be set free. Soon it will all be over. Soon she will let the water consume her the same way it did her shoes. She turns and studies the road as another pair of headlights crawls up the hill and disappears. Annabelle’s voice whispers in her ear. Her body stiffens. A ripple of goose bumps appears on her arm. She looks up at the veiled sky; she has to be herself when she falls, she has to drown Annabelle out. Her eyes glaze over as she looks down into the river once more. The current is stronger than it appears. Her grandfather taught her never to take the power of water for granted, those that did, often realised too late. She understood its power. She will not fight it. Instead, she will let it consume her, fill her lungs as it pulls her to the bottom, dragging her limp body across the pebble floor of the riverbed. She can feel Annabelle clawing inside her, desperate to come out. There is nothing else for it. She has to do it now. She can think about it no longer. This is the night, this is the hour where it all ends. She inhales long and hard, the cold biting the inside of her nostrils. She looks at the sky for the last time. The moon’s false light leaves shadows on the clouds. She shuffles her feet towards the edge, spreading her arms out like wings. She tightly closes her eyes. The wind pushes and pulls her, one way and then another. Her balance wavers. Her feet instinctively act as a harness for the rest of her body. Suddenly, she stops trying. She falls. ‘Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies … ’ she sings as her gown flies around her. Her hair shrouds her face. ‘A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down.’ A tear creeps from her eye as she hits the water. 56

Stone’s Throw Bridge is quiet as the sun clips its steel. The morning fog has sifted down to the water’s edge. A woman’s body floats against the rocks close to shore. Her head is submerged and arms are splayed. Her sodden gown clings to her pale frame. Scars cover her body; lash marks splinter her spine. The pale outlines of bruises now begin to appear on her torso as the water laps against it. She knew it was the only way. This is the life and death of Evie Drake. For the first few weeks of Evie’s life she was known as Pebble because she was so small. Her mother, Scarlett, wanted a home birth and the family, along with the midwife, had planned the birth and the arrangements around this. All would have been fine if Evie hadn’t decided to come a full five weeks early. Scarlett was rushed to Gloucester Royal Infirmary where the surgeons performed an emergency C-section. Baby Pebble weighed a perfect palmsized four pounds and six ounces. Scarlett had refused to name the little girl, who was a blessing after three boys, until ‘her face filled out’. Scarlett knew as soon as her little girl gained weight, her features would shine through and ‘a name would be easy as pie to choose’. It took Pebble nearly seven weeks to reach a healthier weight, by then her little cheeks had started to round off like peaches and her button nose had appeared. Once the doctors were happy with the progress the little one had made, they discharged baby Pebble from their care. Peter and Scarlett collected her from the hospital one crisp April morning and brought her back to their small village. They hadn’t managed to step out of the car before they were surrounded by friends and neighbours, all of whom were competing to see baby Pebble first. They gave Peter and Scarlett gifts, good wishes and exclamations of how beautiful their daughter was. Pebble was named Evie one evening when her mother and father were sitting around the fire. Her brothers were on the floor reading comics and playing with Lego. Scarlett sat in the rocking chair, feeding Pebble who was huddled in a pink and white crocheted blanket. ‘Evie!’ The men in the room looked up from their activities. Peter lowered his paper, removed his glasses and looked at Scarlett. ‘Who?’ Peter sounded confused. 57

JOANNE BILLINGS

‘Our daughter, Peter, I think we should call her, Evie.’ Peter leaned forward and sat at the edge of his armchair. He looked at his daughter and smiled softly. The orange glow from the fire, coupled with the sight of Evie, seemed to warm the man to his very core. ‘Yes, I like that. Our little girl, Evie.’ Evie and Jake have known each other for as long as they could both remember. Their parents live on adjacent roads in the village and have always visited each other’s houses. Jake is two years and four months older than Evie, and even though he is a similar age to her brothers, Evie sees him more as a best friend, as dear to her as her favourite cuddly toy, Mr Pickles – but Jake is more of a conversationalist, of course. Ever since Evie could talk, Jake has been there, helping her, guiding her. He cares for her more than her brothers ever have. He was always the first one to pick her up when she fell down. Being more than two years older, Jake thought he knew best about everything, and he never let Evie forget it. One afternoon, Jake overheard his and Evie’s mums talking in the kitchen. His mum referred to him as ‘an old soul’. An old soul? He sat on the stairs just outside the kitchen door. The two women were putting the world to rights over a strong cup of tea and a Chelsea bun. Jake pondered over the phrase he had overheard. How could he be any older than he was? He had grown quite tall over the summer, but Jake didn’t think he looked any older than his actual age: twelve-and-a-quarter. He was an only child. His mother said that going through childbirth once was enough to last her a lifetime. She made it no secret that she didn’t intend to go through it again. Evie was Jake’s best friend, the sister he never had. Jake loved Evie immensely. Jake also loved the fact that he could go home and did not have to put up with her babyish ways or be forced to share all of his toys with her. If he were her brother, he’d be stuck with her 24-7; he would have no choice in the matter. The only real thing Jake knew about love, as an only child, was about the love of possessions: his bike, his toy train and his Sega Mega Drive. But deep down, Jake knew that he loved Evie. He loved her even more than his bike, and he really loved his bike. He would never tell her that. He would never get that chance. 58

Kim Bour

im Bour is an award-winning short film director and has worked as a producer and director on documentaries such as the Emmy Awardwinning Rx for Survival (PBS) and D-Day (BBC). She holds an MA in English Literature and History of Art. Rembrandt’s Mirror explores how we perceive the world, and one another, in those moments when all fear is gone and we see with total clarity. Hendrickje, a girl from a strict Calvinist family, enters Rembrandt’s flourishing workshop as a maid in 1648, six years after the death of Rembrandt’s wife – an event that continues to haunt the master painter. Nothing can be kept secret in a house full of peepholes and thin floors. Hendrickje soon witnesses a sexual encounter between Rembrandt and Geertge, his implacable housekeeper. Is Rembrandt a brute or the refined burgher depicted in his self-portraits? All her life Hendrickje has subdued her senses – as the gates to sin – and yet she is drawn to Rembrandt by the intensity and freshness with which he perceives the world and the special freedom he seems to possess. During a life drawing of an ageing prostitute she hears him tell his students they must draw each and every wrinkle. Only then will they see her true beauty. Hendrickje begins to question whether she too has been constrained by fear and convention. But how can she love and trust Rembrandt when he callously dispatches Geertge to an asylum? And Rembrandt? Can he love again when confronted with his greatest fear – of death? kim@kimbour.com / kimbour.com

Rembrandt�s Mirror

aturday, my first day off. I burst out of the house like the hens when they’d been cooped up for far too long. The houses stood tall in the morning sun. The air was alive with the trundling of cartwheels on cobbles and shouts from bargemen as they hoisted their wares into open-mouthed gables. There was another sound, which went unnoticed, like the silence between words; it was the water that incessantly licked at houses, bridges and the bodies of drowned rats. I, too, had been one of the cogs in the giant mechanism of the city but not today – today I would watch. The thought was delicious. I entered into the narrow passage between the market stalls, enjoying the sight of red chillies, plump foreign fruit and ugly fish. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and there he was! Rembrandt. Brown leather boots, worn breeches, black cloak and a parcel pinned under his arm. His hat flopping up and down as he marched through the circulating shoppers. I was pulled along after him like an angler who’s hooked a fish too big to land, almost running to keep up. I should not be following him – what if he saw me? What would I say? But still I could not stop. I thought of Samuel’s words, a painter must explore and understand all aspects of life. Perhaps he was going somewhere interesting, perhaps I could watch from a distance. He was heading west towards the IJ, a vast body of water with a strong current running at depth. He walked fast, looking neither left nor right. Possessed by such urgency he would never notice me, but where was he going? This was not a wealthy part of town; none of his clients resided here. Despite our difference in size, my steps had fallen in with his. I wondered why neither he nor I were bothered by beggars. He passed a couple of fighting dogs without so much as glancing at them. He’s refusing 61

KIM BOUR

the world admittance and therefore it cannot touch him, I thought. Soon the world was lost to me too, his lone figure my only focus. He and I shared our own separate universe. I checked my imagination: what feverish babble. We reached the river, wide as a lake, just as a ferry was readying to cast off. He boarded it. I followed and paid my fare. It was not a large boat and yet still he did not notice me. His eyes were fixed on something on the other shore. I followed his gaze and saw it: the Volewijk, a hill that rose up a few hundred yards from the northern shore of the IJ. It would have looked like an ordinary pasture had it not been for two-dozen posts and gibbets with bodies strapped to them. They were executed criminals, put on display to deter others. Despite having often passed by that kind of spectacle, which was common in the outskirts of towns, I felt dread. What was his business there? The crowd disembarked on the other side. Most went to a small shoreside settlement. He made straight for the Volewijk, populated only by corpses. Still I followed. I tried to keep my gaze low but tracking him at a distance meant seeing the cages that held the bodies. Some were only skeletons, the bones picked clean by the crows. Others still had flesh on them, poor wretches, their bodies slumped down, limbs protruding between the metal bars. A change in the direction of the wind brought the smell deep into my nostrils. I breathed through the fabric of my sleeve, but it was no use, the stench was acrid and intent on penetrating deep into my lungs. Not just my lungs, I thought, it wants to infest my very soul. I tried to banish the thought by getting closer to Rembrandt and fixing my gaze on his heels, narrowing my view, not caring if he noticed me. He was searching for something, or someone, for he wandered this way and that through the forest of gibbets, until, finally, he stopped. I lifted my head to see what he was looking at. It was a young woman strung up on a post. It was the kind of gibbet where criminals were displayed after they had been executed. The crows were not pecking at her yet and there were no signs of decay at all. She must have been executed that very morning. He sat down and took his sketchbook out of his satchel along with pen, ink and a brush. I found a spot about twenty feet behind him. He looked up at the woman for a long time, propping his elbows on his legs and his head on his knuckles. Then he took the pen and started drawing, hardly taking his eyes off her. His hand drew as if by secret communication with the paper, knowing 62

where to make its marks. Finally, he took his brush and ink to apply some shading and only then did he give sustained attention to the paper, working with fluid, rapid strokes. And then he paused and turned. He looked at me as if he had known all along I was there. Our eyes met. I stumbled to my feet, unsure what to do. He approached, coming right up to me. We were still in a universe of our own, for ordinary custom seemed to be suspended: he did not greet me, but merely regarded me without meeting my eyes. But I could feel the touch of his eyes as they surveyed my temples, forehead and cheeks and then wandered to my mouth; finally they found my own. But he was looking at them not into them, taking in colour and shape. Then he blinked and refocused, looking deeper, beyond my irises. I felt searched on the inside; he was reaching into a place murky even to myself. My stomach contracted at the intrusion. His gaze withdrew. Once his eyes had released me I looked at his mouth; it formed the word, ‘Hendrickje’. Before he had a chance to say more I asked, ‘Master, what brings you here?’ ‘I heard about her trial and the outcome.’ ‘What was her crime?’ I asked. ‘She killed her landlady – somewhat by accident, it seems to me.’ ‘How?’ ‘Elsje,’ he pointed to the body, ‘that’s her name, could not pay the rent. The landlady started hitting her with a broom. Elsje must have got angry and reached for an axe and struck her, sending the landlady tumbling down the steps into the cellar. Unfortunately, she was dead.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. I looked again at the lone figure of the woman, the fringe of her skirts fluttering in the wind. ‘How old?’ I asked. ‘Eighteen. She hailed from Jutland, came here to make a living.’ ‘How did they … ?’ ‘They strangled her on the garrotte and hit her over the head with the axe.’ In what order, I wanted to know. But what did it matter now? Then I was overcome with incomprehension at the world and its dealings. What laws had conspired to create this cruel, desolate place? Bodies strung up all around me, birds pecking at their remains. 63

KIM BOUR

‘Come here, Hendrickje,’ he said softly. ‘Take a seat for a moment. Here on this rock.’ He sat down next to me. We were facing the IJ, still making its steady way to the North Sea. I gazed at it for a while, the vast volume of water pushing onwards to the sea, inexhaustible. The river was untouched by what happened on its banks. It did not care. I felt a loneliness that reminded me of the day I first arrived in Amsterdam. But it was more than that. The entire world was barren. The very mount we were on warped itself in order to be rid of its human interlopers. His face was close before mine. It was filled with a kind of concern. He took the sketchbook out of his satchel and placed it on my lap. It was heavy on my knees. He opened it at the page of the drawing he’d just made. I did not want to see. I already knew that his art could take the essence of a subject and turn it into a vision so potent that reality itself paled in comparison. Still I looked. The drawing showed the woman and the gibbet. Her body was gathered to the vertical post by four or five ropes, one under her arms, the others farther down her body holding her and her skirts tight to the post to prevent any indecent exposure. I kept looking at the lines of his pen: her arms hanging so limply, so helplessly; her feet so unsupported by the ground so far beneath her; her face at such repose, so young, so unmarked by life. And my heart cried out for, even in the sleep of death, she looked tired. She did not look like a murderess but someone to be pitied. His brush had pitied her, drawing her head bare, exposed to the elements, even though I could see, when I looked up, that it was covered with a cap. Still there was more truth in his depiction. There she was as helpless as a babe even now, even in death. I felt tears on my cheeks and looked up at the man who had made the drawing. His eyes were dark and serious. I thought him unmoved but then I saw something: the same thing that had leapt at me from the drawing. Whether it was compassion for me, for Elsje, or for all men, I did not know. I looked out again at the landscape. Amsterdam lay stretched out before us on the other side of the river. I thought of all the suffering and toil unfolding at this very moment. Was there a compassion vast enough to hold it all? Because of a drawing I was no longer certain of the absence of such a compassion. He touched my arm and said, ‘It’s time we went home.’ 64

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘please.’ He took the book gently from my lap and offered me his hand to help me up. It felt soft except for where his skin was calloused from holding the brush. We walked on in silence. I felt unsure about the propriety of walking next to him but was still in too much upheaval to give it any further thought. I allowed myself to be borne along by whatever river I had entered. When we got to the shores of the IJ he approached one of the smaller ferry boats. He helped me in and I sat on the middle seat. He seated himself just behind me. As we set out across the river I noticed strange patterns of ripples. Sometimes they were like a web of tiny hairs being dragged across the water; in other areas they were proper little wavelets. I marvelled at the cause. Was it the wind or some deeper current dragging at the surface from below? His body shielded me from the wind. Every now and then I discerned the smell of oil paint, which still clung to him though he was wearing his outside garb. Mixed in with this I smelled something unique of him. I closed my eyes, the boat rocked gently, the wind tousled my hair and the strange aroma gathered me in its embrace. I wanted to name the feeling that swathed me like a blanket. Ah, it must be what’s called happiness. I softly tried out the word, ‘I am happy … ha-ppy.’ I sucked on it, a lozenge of unfamiliar but captivating flavour. The boat rocked and rocked and I settled into the motion. How swiftly happiness had done its work.

Laurie Canciani

aurie Canciani grew up in Bridgend, South Wales. She holds a firstclass degree in Creative Writing and English Literature from Newport University where, in 2010, she won the Newport University Annual Short Story Competition and spent her summer breaks writing her first novel Sub-City. In 2011 her first novel was featured on the Phil The Shelf Radio Show on BBC Radio Wales, which showcases upcoming novelists. After her MA, Laurie returned home to Bridgend to work on her second novel, Dystopianna. When Anna was four her mother threw her down a refuse chute and since then she has never been outside. She lives with her father, a paranoid graphic novelist who boarded up their home shortly after the incident happened. When her father becomes ill she is forced to take care of him. When her father dies, she steps out into a world she doesn’t understand, with only her father’s stories, a videotape of The Wizard of Oz, and her imagination to guide her. Dystopianna is an urban fairytale set in a tower block in modern Britain. The following extract takes place after Anna has moved in with Lucky, an old friend of her father. Her relationship with Lucky’s son is growing, and when she sees him sneaking out of the flat one night she decides to follow him. laurie.canciani@googlemail.com

Dystopianna

he followed Tik across the concrete bridge and he couldn’t see her because he walked quickly with the hard rain coming down, soaking into his hoodie and turning it a darker shade of black. The bridges lasted forever. The windows were lined against the path and inside were families that she couldn’t see because they weren’t in their living rooms. They were asleep. Gone away. Into their own heads. A digital clock on a windowsill flashed between green and black and for a second she thought about her father and his lopsided, broken-down face. It was one in the morning. The pipes and columns and metal railings were bent and twisted and they held the tower together and upright like strapped bones. In the rain she was transparent like a wave. She wondered what it was, what new game was being played. Tik had let himself out after Lucky and The Princess medicated themselves into sleep with cans of cider and TV, and she followed him because she knew it was all a part of the game. ‘Everything’s a game, Dolly,’ her father said in her head. ‘Everything.’ Rain tinked and tanked off a satellite dish. A curtain closed and so did a door and the sound of sex came from an open window, loud and burning. She felt it. She imagined she was caught between them, the two bodies, rubbing and heaving. Tik sped over a bridge and the lights inside lit the tower into a nest of veins and dark guts and other things, unnoticed things, half-grey spaces and steel railings. At the bottom of the tower in a space between everything was a kids’ park with a slide and two swings and a seesaw that always smelled of piss and eggs. She hid beneath the slide and pushed her feet through the slats in the ladder and watched him between the rusty bars. He stopped next to the wall 67

LAURIE CANCIANI

surrounding the park. Bricks were everywhere. Kids nicked them from the wall all the time to practise their throwing and the bricks always got left in broken chunks wherever they landed. Tik picked one up and held it high in his hand. His foot crunched on a pile of broken glass but he didn’t look down at it. He chucked the brick against the wall and it split into dust and bits. He turned his back to the wall and fell against it. Resting. She waited with him. She played with the tiny hairs on her wrist. The rain was like bells on the slide. On the wall behind Tik was the gigantic face of a dog that had been done in red graffiti. She stared at it and the longer she did the more she saw it. Movement. The dog on the wall woke up. Yawned. It sniffed the air and stood up and stared at her with eyes that didn’t blink and then it looked at Tik and licked the ground. She looked away. Her wrists itched and she had a twist inside her that worked its way from her vagina to her diaphragm. Tik looked towards the break in the wall on the left side of the park and moved away from where he was leaning. Two shadows jumped through the break and walked across the waterfall of bricks that rolled beneath them and made them stagger into the space. They held each other steady. They were children, still in their school uniforms, holding packets of sherbet and bottles of red pop that turned their lips pink when they sucked the necks. One of them was tall and the other was short and the short one had a belly that stuck out from underneath her school shirt like a full moon. The rain was getting heavier and the slide sounded like a war. A discarded freezer that had spilled its guts into the park was filling up with water and drowning. The girls were younger than her by a few years and they looked the same, like sisters. ‘Oi, you,’ the tall sister said. ‘You got somefing, yeah?’ They stopped in front of Tik and finished their sherbet and the tall one collected the packets and pop bottles and chucked them into the wind. ‘I’m talking to you, scuzzy boy.’ The youngest laughed. She scratched her wrist again and slid from the ladder and crawled over to the drowning freezer and she stuck her hand into the pool of water but didn’t know why. The short sister didn’t have a voice, only laughter. She laughed again at something her sister said and tapped her belly like a drum. She moved closer, to the end of the freezer, and imagined something 68

funny and strange. She imagined a little monkey inside the girl’s womb, tapping back. ‘What’s that?’ Tik said, and pointed to the shorter girl’s belly. ‘What do you fink it is?’ the taller sister said. ‘Pregnant, int she?’ Tik pulled something out of his pocket and held it up. ‘Who’s gonna have this then? It ain’t gonna be her.’ The tall sister reached for whatever Tik held in his fist but he stepped away from her so she grabbed nothing but rainwater. She reached again but reached nothing still. Tik was tall, much taller than he used to be. He must have grown when she wasn’t looking. The taller girl stopped trying. ‘We’re gonna share it,’ she said. ‘We’ll share that and we’ll share the baby too when it comes out her fanny.’ The shorter one didn’t laugh this time. She rubbed. Slowly. Tik turned away from the girls and closed his fist over the packet. ‘You’re not having it if you’re gonna give it to her,’ he said. The dog on the wall moved above the girls and it looked down at them directly. The tall sister stared at Tik at first and then when he shouted back, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she screamed like madness, chucking her arms about and running at him with her eyes half-closed and her mouth open all the way. She wanted to move from the patch of sand but she couldn’t because the dog on the wall stilled her with its big open eyes the way her father used to when she did bad things. Her hands and feet itched. All the noises of the city outside the block seemed to come away and land in between the four towers. Sirens. Shouting. Traffic. A car skidded and beeped continuously. A bottle broke on stones. A man shouted about God and he was told to shut up before his teeth got kicked in. A door slammed. In her head, and everywhere. The tall sister pushed Tik to the ground and he landed on his face and held the packet tight to his chest and flattened himself against it. ‘No, no, no, no,’ he said, then ‘hut,’ when they kicked him in his side. ‘Hut. Hut.’ He didn’t move. The tall one pulled Tik’s hoodie while the other sister laughed and came forward and kicked him with little slides of her feet while she hung onto her belly, her baby monkey. The tall sister pulled his hoodie again and stretched it at the side and rolled him onto his back and screamed ‘Give me the thing,’ right into his face. She pried his wet fingers open and snatched the thing away. They stood up and laughed. 69

LAURIE CANCIANI

The dog on the wall howled, licked its balls, and smiled. She stood up. There was something inside her, a feeling, a rage, a black and red growth, something the dog couldn’t see and it made her walk towards them as though it wasn’t her but something else that forced her forwards. ‘Little wanker,’ the tall sister said, but it was the short sister who finished everything. She cradled her monkey and walked to the top of Tik’s head. He stared up at her. She stood above him and hovered over his face with her legs wide apart and her feet next to his ears and lifted up her skirt and slipped her thumb through her knickers and moved the slip of cotton to one side and exposed the pink lips of her vagina. She squatted, checked where his face was, looked at her sister, and then she did it. She pissed. She pissed right on him. ‘Fick as shit int you?’ the tall sister said. ‘Pissy smelling faggot.’ He turned on his side and he brought his hands to his face and pressed them into his eyes. His head and chest jerked and he made sad little noises and breathed heavily a few times and then blew everything out all at once. He was crying. She started to run. They didn’t see or hear her coming. They were walking away, looking at what they had robbed from him when she caught up to them so fast it was like she had been shot out of a gun. The red dog howled on the wall but she didn’t care. She caught the taller sister by her hair and yanked her down to the ground. The short sister screamed but did nothing else. The sister on the floor lifted up the stolen thing and offered it to her. It was a packet, clear, with a paperclip on one end to keep it closed. She pushed her hand onto the taller girl’s face so hard that the girl sank into the ground and mud lifted up over her ears and spilled in. She snatched the packet from her and held it up to the light that radiated from the lamppost over the park. Inside was a few teaspoons of salt. That was all. The short sister ran away with her belly and the drumming monkey inside, stumbled on the bricks and then disappeared through the break in the wall. She kneeled down next to the tall sister and sucked in loads of air and 70

she slapped her, hard and fast and big, right across the face. The noise of it was pulled into the sky and it bounced off the towers and sounded like ten hands slapping ten cheeks all in a row. The girl stopped crying and opened her eyes so wide she thought the lids would slide too far back and get stuck inside her head. Then the girl sucked in a bellyful of air and shut her eyes tight, and howled, and the dog on the wall howled with her. She stood up and the howling sister looked at her and then at the break in the wall. ‘Go on then,’ she said to her, ‘piss off.’ The girl did, crawling first, her hands frantic for the space between the rolling rocks and then she got up and ran through the break and into darkness, her voice a juddering mess of words and swears and unclean dog sounds. The rain stopped and the sky opened and the world was dark but the stars were dotted like a long and silver rash. Tik pulled himself onto his knees. She went to him and took his head down into her lap and she wiped his bitter-smelling face with her wet sleeve. She sang. She had the voice of her mother and she knew this without being told. Tik was almost sixteen and almost a man. He sunk into her because of the shame of it. Not the pissing, that could be washed away and forgotten like most insults, but what had come with it. When the pregnant child stood over him and moved her knickers aside, when she did that foul thing that only dogs and the drunk and the confused do, she saw it rise up in the front of his jeans. Stiffen. Aroused. Prepared. Pushing everything up. She saw it. He held on to her very tight while she sang. The noise of the city died down and the dog on the wall died into stillness with it. He held her tight. It didn’t go back down again until the song had ended.

Nicola Cheung

hirty years writing as a press and public relations consultant for national corporations has given Nicola Cheung a broad and diverse foundation from which to take her first steps in crafting fiction. She has worked for independent schools and chemical plants, cosmetics giants and the financial services industry, and in the midst of her career she completed an English degree at Southampton University. It was here that she discovered a love of modern American poetry and completed her dissertation on Lyn Hejinian, one of the Language poets. Hejinian’s work has been described as demonstrating ‘an endless utopian moment, even as it is full of failures’. It is this idea that informs and inspires Nicola’s approach to storytelling. The Distance begins in Shoreditch in 2005 and follows the life of Carrie, who, at thirty-four, is beginning to lose her mind. After a prolonged period of what is thought to be severe post-natal depression, Carrie moves with Damon, her husband, and their baby girl, Phoebe, back to her childhood home in Newlyn, Cornwall. It is here that she receives medical advice which sets her on a path towards a shock diagnosis. In the second half of the book she discovers that she is suffering from early-onset familial Alzheimer’s disease. In this extract both Carrie and Damon come to the conclusion that something quite formidable and pernicious has affected Carrie’s well-being. It is early morning and their friend, Alice, has come to stay for the weekend. She is still asleep upstairs. nikkicheung292@yahoo.co.uk

The Distance

n the morning there is regret; she can sense it like a drab presence between them, but she believes it is there not for the things said and all the little hurts, but for things yet to be said. Phoebe is bouncing up and down and calling to them from the bottom of their bed. Carrie turns to Damon and scores her fingernail down his bare back. He hasn’t slept, this much she knows. ‘I’ll get her up and then we’ll have a cup of tea downstairs before Alice appears.’ He speaks to the wall he is facing, and doesn’t look at her as he rolls out from under the duvet. She follows him and Phoebe downstairs, wordlessly, wincing for fear of waking Alice as each tread cracks alive under their weight. Limp and glassy-eyed, three fish: two mackerel and what she identifies as a sea bass glint up at her from the draining board. They will need dealing with. She prods them and they slip away from her fingers. ‘They’ll need dealing with before they stink the house out,’ he says. ‘That’s just what I was thinking.’ ‘Hoops-brek-da-da,’ chirps Phoebe from her high chair. The whistle on the kettle sings; tea is made; dry honey hoops are sprinkled on to Phoebe’s high chair tray and they face each other across the table. He is the first to speak. ‘Carrie, I have been thinking— ’ ‘Damon, please let me say what I need to first.’ ‘Okay.’ She steadies her breathing. ‘They have let me go at Hawthorne and Green. The letter is over there.’ She nods towards the kitchen surface behind him. 73

NICOLA CHEUNG

‘What? They don’t want you back?’ ‘That’s right. Something about a sufficient time lapse; impossible for them to hold my position open for me; the need to restructure. Alice came to tell me personally.’ ‘So it wasn’t about splitting with Pedro then?’ ‘Evidently not.’ She can’t sit facing him any longer and goes to the sink. She must deal with the fish. It was good of her dad to bring them over last night – something to do with Patrick harping on about fish pie – but what is she supposed to do with them now? She thinks they look tired from their struggle. Damon doesn’t move; doesn’t say anything. She reaches for the cleaver. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says simply and brings the cleaver swiftly down on to the scaly flesh. ‘Sorry? Why should you be sorry?’ ‘Because it seems I can’t go back, can’t return to work or the life we had in London. I know that’s not what you want.’ She swipes down the cleaver again, splicing through the blood and bone. Damon still makes no attempt to move; they are back-to-back. She needs him to turn around and reach to her. ‘I feel I have let it all slip through my fingers, Damon.’ He sighs heavily and begins to play with Phoebe. The three fish are dismembered and there is blood on her hands. She swings around. ‘I think you are going to have to help me.’ This time he turns to face her. ‘Oh my God, what have you done?’ He leaps up, loudly knocking over his chair in the process. She turns her hands over, calmly examining them. ‘Don’t panic, I haven’t cut myself.’ ‘I can see that, Carrie, but look at the state of those fish.’ She watches his face curl up in disgust. ‘I’m going to make fish pie. Why all the fuss?’ ‘For Christ’s sake, there are innards all over the place. Did you not think to gut them first? Ugh, the smell.’ Phoebe begins to cry. It may have been the noise or the abrupt halt to the game Damon was playing with her, so she moves to pick her up. ‘Carrie, no,’ blasts Damon. ‘She’s upset; you’re upsetting her,’ she says as she releases Phoebe from the high chair and rocks her. ‘Look at the state you’ve made of her pyjamas; just give her to me.’ 74

She sees it now: bloody hand prints all over Phoebe’s white babygro, and there is that withering disappointment in Damon’s voice again. He snatches Phoebe out of her arms and barks at her to wash her hands. At the sink, a drizzle of cold water rinses away the blood. She watches the thin vermillion swill down the plug-hole and she is reminded of cleaning her brushes; how long before she will feel like painting again? There is a hush in the room now. She grips the porcelain edge of the deep basin as if to clench hold of an idea. She wants to say something to Damon; something about what is happening to her. Doubt: that is what is happening to her. Its dark folds drape heavily about her these days, hiding from her the knowledge she thinks she has. It infiltrates the routine of every waking moment and even seeps into her troubled dreams where she revisits a former version of herself – she likes that version: doused in a coruscating light, sure-footed, determined, resolved. But doubt denies her any kind of veracity in that dream vision. Is that her, the woman she dreams about? Can that woman find her way back to a life that was? Never go back, so her mother tells her, what good will it do? This doesn’t seem like the right advice. What is it? What must she say to Damon? She looks at the decimated fish and finds the answer. ‘I can’t remember how to make fish pie. I can’t remember how to get the insides of fish out – gut them – that’s it, gut them. I think that I should know.’ She turns around and the room is empty. He has taken Phoebe upstairs, probably to change her. He will have to help me, she thinks to herself and then, I’ll make tea; I can remember that. Damon comes back downstairs with a spruced-up Phoebe in a clean romper suit and places her on the rug with a handful of random toys. ‘What were you mumbling about?’ He sounds only half interested. She slips a plastic chopping board, all traces of fish guts scraped away, into the foamy water-filled washing-up bowl and reaches for the two steaming mugs of tea on the worktop. ‘What happened to the fish?’ He sits at the table. ‘In the bin,’ she says and hopes he will be happy that the stench of them has disappeared. She puts a mug of tea in front of him and sips from hers. ‘No fish pie tonight, then?’ ‘No,’ she says quietly and sits opposite him. 75

NICOLA CHEUNG

‘Look, Carrie, I must talk to you about something. I heard Alice stirring and so there’s not much time. I’m sorry if all this comes out wrong – but, well, I am really worried about you.’ She cradles her mug and stares past him to the painting on the wall. She makes its lines warp and swell with the intensity of her seeing. ‘The Distance,’ she says under her breath. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Nothing; just remembering the name of that painting.’ She nods her head in its direction. ‘Sorry, I am listening.’ He casts aside any implication in her comment; but she is implying something, he should know that. ‘I think we may need to consider that this depression thing could be masking something else.’ She can’t look at him, doubts it would be right to look at the painting again and so gazes right to the bottom of her mug; to the dregs. She swills them. ‘Do you know what I’m saying? I think we might need to run some tests on you.’ It seems he wants her attention and so she stills the whirlpool in her mug and sets it down. Tests? They had spoken about this back in London hadn’t they? ‘Please look at me, Carrie.’ And so she does. Her eyes wander all over him as he speaks. His curls are glinting jet-black from his shower, but grey flecks on his unshaven jaw flanks remind her that they will dry into chalky fluffs – a Monday evening appointment, the new doctor, talk to him about symptoms. His eyes are bluish today, dense and taciturn, sometimes they are greenish, they tell her not to interrupt – an opportunity to ask questions, discuss treatment options. His body, lean and strong, limbs of a swimmer, he hates the water, but he takes Phoebe to the pool – it’s probably nothing, best to check. His chest heaving to irregular breathing, there is fear in him – how long can we go on like this? She is broken; that’s what he is saying. How long can we go on like this; she repeats his question silently in her head but it stings her eyes and it hurts to keep looking at him. 76

‘I can’t explain it,’ he presses on, ‘except that it came to me in a flash this week – maybe you need some actual medical help.’ ‘Medical help?’ ‘Yes. You know, maybe it’s a viral thing, something like that. It’s been so long since you’ve been well, Carrie. So long since— ’ He holds up his hand for caution as Alice calls down for some shampoo. Carrie yells back with instructions, incredulous that she hasn’t managed to bring her own in that enormous suitcase. ‘What were you saying, Damon? So long since what?’ ‘I just think we should check that there is nothing wrong; see if there is anything else that can be done to help you, that’s all. What do you think?’ Now she can look right at him again and, even amidst Phoebe’s chatter and the banging pipes as the bath is run, she feels they are cloistered in a moment of grave importance. I will follow you, she wants to say; she knows she should say it, but she needs him to see it in her, so they can connect again. ‘I think you are right, Damon.’ ‘Really? About going to the doctor – you don’t mind?’ ‘No, I think you are right; there is something wrong with me.’ It will be months before the sea temperature warms up, but she lets the waves lap at her bare feet. The undertow claims a gulf of shale beneath her heels, tilting her so she might stumble and she claws her toes tightly to keep anchor. Great wet-dark shelves of slate are her backdrop, an expanse of blue indigo her horizon and there, standing alone at the shoreline she screams at the ocean: ‘For I can weather the roughest gale – that ever wind did blow!’ The sound she makes is an instinct, complete within the present moment and without the weight of memory. It is intensely personal and yet cast into the wide sky to be carried to those that might hear her. She feels like she should weep for all the losses; the sea often has that effect on her. She grew up with the idea that it takes as much as it gives and often spied her mother’s tears in the wind as they trekked across the coastal paths together. She feels she should weep for its beauty, which she knows is there, intrinsic in every particle that makes its immensity; but on this day it is too general, too sea-like. She feels she should weep to purge something within her; it is the dread she wants to cast aside, but can’t. 77

NICOLA CHEUNG

In the breeze, her name: they are calling to her and so she must go back to them. She turns away from the spumes of sea spray lashing at the rocky inlet and spots her mother, much farther up the beach, waving a red cloth. It’s not for danger, she tells herself; it’s a tea cloth – that’s right, they are having a picnic.

Christine Clement-Green

hristine Clement-Green joined Thames Valley Police in 1984 and served for sixteen years, rising to the rank of sergeant. She is a past winner of the National Association of Writers’ Groups Best Short Story prize and received a distinction from the Open University in both the creative writing and advanced creative writing modules. Chris is currently working on a PhD proposal. Blues, Twos and Teddy Bears: A Memoir of Female Policing in the 1980s is the true story behind such popular programmes as Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes, told from the unique perspective of a female in uniform. Her personal, often humorous journey charts a decade of mass social and institutional change during which the police moved from an institutionally racist and sexist force to a more inclusive service. It opens at the height of the miners’ strike and ends in 1996, when, as a sergeant, Chris was responsible for all custody arrangements connected with the Newbury bypass demonstrations. Her story touches upon issues specific to the 1980s and 1990s – the miners’ strike, race riots, the Hungerford massacre and the outbreak of Aids – as well as those that are still making headlines today: child abuse, sexism, domestic violence and workplace bullying. chrisclement-green@hotmail.com

Blues, Twos and Teddy Bears: A Memoir of Female Policing in the 1980s

he whiteness of the blank space against my name on the A3 piece of paper sellotaped to the night-kitchen wall hit me every time I was sent to make a cup of tea. This giant open memo recorded each probationer’s progress in fat red marker pen (the old sort that was worth sniffing). Tutor constables would place ticks of satisfaction under one of two columns: ‘Reported’ and ‘Arrests’. My report-for-summons column held fifteen ticks, but my arrest column was blinding in its blankness and I knew this was beginning to reflect poorly on the rest of C shift. Like a heavily pregnant woman carrying her first child, I was receiving sidelong glances of concern – I was definitely overdue. So, on my first Saturday late turn, I set out from the station with Derek, my tutor, in tow. I was determined to bag my first prisoner before the end of the shift at 10 p.m. Bonn Square is situated in the heart of Oxford, opposite the Westgate Shopping Centre. It used to provide a small patch of calming green amidst the hustle and bustle of the dressed-stone façades of the old city and the concrete and glass malls of the new. In 1984 the modest, stepped war memorial was surrounded by a small manicured lawn, which in turn was surrounded by a low stone wall. This wall divided not only the grass from the concrete, but the haves from the have-nots. Oxford supported around ten regular ‘dossers’ at this time – homeless alcoholics who would spend the day begging from tourists and students. Depending on the success of their begging, and the resulting extent of their intoxication, they would sit or lie on the wall, the memorial steps, or the grass. They spent their time fighting, singing and in shouted debates, with 81

CHRISTINE CLEMENT-GREEN

their philosophical ideas and opinions regularly punctuated by use of the F-word. All these activities were carried out with equal frequency and gusto until semiconscious sleep overtook them. At night, after the shoppers, tourists and students had gone home to their own or someone else’s bed, the dossers would sway their way down to the only wet night shelter, situated behind the Court House in Speedwell Street. A wet shelter accepts alcoholics who are still drinking, but my memory of the building’s wetness relates to the pervading smell of incontinence that was rife amongst its many occupants. When the shelter was too full or too violent, its clients would be forced to doss down in shop doorways and stairwells, or under hedges along the canal bank. (We once found one – Richard – frozen to death on Christmas Day.) Dossers, shoplifters, and shoplifting dossers provided the bread and butter arrests for most probationers. Christine was a forty-something woman who looked nearer sixty. She had a strong Scottish accent, the volume of which was incongruous to her five feet four inches of height. Like me, Christine lived and worked in a male-dominated environment. She either stole her booze directly, or shoplifted other necessities and traded them with her fellow dossers for cans of Special Brew. She was to have the distinction of being the first person I ever arrested, despite everyone else’s best efforts to the contrary. It was three in the afternoon when Derek and I reached Bonn Square. He had been making me practise the art of pounding the beat. No longer the impatient, frustrated shopper, I was learning to walk with a slow purpose, allowing myself time to see and be seen. The slow walk was supposed to make us approachable. Christine had been drinking steadily all day and was now dancing along the low wall that bordered the square. She was multi-tasking, singing loudly and out of tune while waving her less-than-spotless knickers in the air. ‘If yer wanna see ma booty, wave your knickers in the air! If yer wanna feel ma boobies, ’ave a lick or ’ave a stare … ’ ‘Christine! Get off the wall and put your knickers back on.’ Derek’s tone was one of stern amusement. ‘Hiya, Derek. How’re they hanging?’ ‘Mine are fine – for God’s sake, cover yours up!’ 82

‘Bollocks!’ Her tone was cheery. Christine’s total lack of self-respect and her lack of respect for Derek’s uniform (combined, I now suspect, with some subconscious embarrassment on my part at our sharing the same name) made something in me snap. I had been brought up in a fairly black and white world and Christine was clearly crossing one of its many behavioural lines. Taking hold of her arm I pulled her off the wall and onto the pavement, declaring, ‘That’s it – you’re nicked!’ ‘What for?’ Christine was indignant. ‘D & D!’ I was triumphant. Once off the wall, Christine was a good six inches shorter than me. She screwed up her eyes, which could once have been blue, but had been diluted by alcohol to a watery grey. Swaying gently, she pulled her matching, bedraggled grey-haired head backwards to inspect the contents of the shiny new uniform rising before her. ‘You’re new, ain’t you? She’s new, ain’t she?’ she repeated to Derek. ‘Yes, Christine.’ ‘She really going to arrest me?’ ‘It would appear so.’ ‘Yer dunna wanna do that … no, yer dunna wanna do that … yer dunna ... ’ Christine continued to chunter away while I radioed control to request transport back to the station. ‘You sure “yer wanna do” this?’ mimicked Derek in a sing-song voice. ‘Yes, I’m sure. What’s the problem?’ Derek just smiled as Christine continued to sing to the passing hordes of afternoon shoppers. ‘Yer dunna wanna be doin’ that, nah, yer dunna wanna be doin’ that.’ Her singing was drawing a small crowd as she tried to dance around me in a tight circle. She was still twirling her knickers above her short head, which meant they were rotating directly under my nose at regular intervals. ‘Derek, mate – a bit of help?’ My request was delivered in an angry whisper. ‘Oh, this one’s all yours, Chris – your decision, your arrest.’ I was considering handcuffing Christine (but that would have meant touching her knickers), when the police transit arrived. The driver got out and started to unlock the back doors. When he caught sight of Christine, he slammed them shut again. 83

CHRISTINE CLEMENT-GREEN

‘You’re not putting her in here.’ ‘But I’ve arrested her!’ ‘Well bloody well de-arrest her.’ ‘She’s my first prisoner. I can’t just de-arrest her,’ I argued. ‘And, anyway, she’s still D & D.’ As if to prove my point, Christine turned the volume on her homemade ditty up to full throttle and threw her knickers at the driver. As he came up from a duck that was pure reflex, he fixed her with a stare. ‘Christine, you do anything in the back of my transit and I’ll hose you down too – clear?’ ‘Quite clear thank you, Brucie!’ I soon learned that Christine knew the names of all the Oxford bobbies. She saw it as her unofficial role to nurture the ‘probbies’, keeping a watchful eye on their progress and training them up in the pecking orders and realities of life. Bruce’s threat didn’t really register with me. I was surrounded by a small cloud of self-satisfaction at the thought of a red tick on that blank piece of paper. My smugness escaped into an unprofessional smile, which I caught reflected in the window of the rear door and immediately wiped from my face. As she climbed slowly into the back of the transit, I noticed that the other Christine was wearing a smile of her own. A knowing one, that remained fixed on her lips as Bruce locked us in. Derek chose to sit in the front of the transit. By the time we reached the station the smell in the rear of the van was toxic. As a meths drinker, Christine sweated alcohol. The smell of this pungent spirit mixed with that of stale urine, to produce an aroma known in custody as ‘Chanel Number Five’. With corrosive efficiency it burnt up the little oxygen available and left a cloying imprint at the back of my nose and throat. As I stumbled through the heavy iron door into the custody office with Christine swaying at my side like a trawler in a force nine gale and smelling much the same, we both heard Sergeant Jarrett sigh. He was a tall, gangly man with dark hair that was thinning and turning grey. His long face with its drawn-in cheeks was intersected by an eagle-beak of a nose that gave him an austere appearance. But by nature, Sergeant J was a mild-mannered man who had drifted into supervision by doing nothing wrong or risky and upsetting no one higher up the food chain. 84

‘Christ, not Christine! Derek, what the fuck? You should know better!’ Derek, who was leaning against the door jamb, just shrugged and smiled. Before I could formally book her in as my first ever prisoner, Christine, who had picked up her knickers before climbing into the back of the transit, was once more waving them above her head as she cried out, ‘Hi-ya, Sarge! Nice to see you too – get us a cuppa.’ And with this warm greeting she once more flung her knickers into the air. They landed with an ominous slap on top of the pristine custody record lying on the desk directly under Sergeant J’s long nose. Turning slightly pale, he used his biro to flick the offending garment off the desk before dropping both the biro and the unused custody record into the bin. ‘Right, Sarge,’ I started, ‘I’ve arrested this woman for D & D.’ ‘Why?’ ‘D & D – she’s drunk and disorderly.’ ‘Christine is permanently drunk. Disorderly, incapable or just plain drunk – but why arrest her?’ ‘Look, Sarge, it’s 3 p.m., she’s swaying along the wall in Bonn Square, singing songs so lewd they’d make a rugby team blush, and waving her knickers at all and sundry. What was I supposed to do? Leave her to fall off and maim some passing shopper?’ I was becoming increasingly frustrated by this total lack of support for my first arrest. ‘Fair enough. Well, Christine, looks like you’re staying with us for a few hours. You know the drill – empty your pockets.’ Christine emptied more than her pockets. Hitching her dirty green skirt up to her ample waist, she squatted in the middle of the custody floor and proceeded to pee – long and loud. As the ever-expanding puddle edged towards me, I jumped out of the way. ‘Shit, Christine!’ ‘No, love,’ she grinned up at me from her crouched position. ‘Just pee … this time.’ Derek, who knew the lie of the land and the slope of the custody floor, watched the stream of urine pass a few inches from his unpolished boots. Standing up, Christine picked her knickers up off the floor and gave herself a perfunctory wipe, before swaying off down the corridor leading to the female cells. She was humming her own satisfaction at a job well done, 85

CHRISTINE CLEMENT-GREEN

‘I warned yer, I warned yer, yer dunna wanna ’ave dun that.’ When Christine got to the first empty cell, she kicked off her smelly plimsolls, went in and pulled the door shut behind her, leaving me standing, open-mouthed, in the custody office. Sergeant J pointed to a cupboard. ‘Mop and bucket in there, WPC Foster. Use plenty of disinfectant.’ ‘I’ll put the kettle on!’ Derek shouted, as he left the office, grinning. ‘Ay – good idea,’ came a voice from the cells. Over tea, Derek explained that Christine had this rather unique method of registering her protest to some types of incarceration. ‘If you’d had the decency to arrest her for a proper crime, like shoplifting or assault, she’d have been quite prepared to postpone her ablutions until she reached the cell.’

Wendy Clemson

endy Clemson has published more than a hundred non-fiction books and articles. She has worked with a range of publishers and written regularly for The Guardian eG. She holds an MA in Public History from the Open University and has worked as a university researcher, freelanced for BBC local radio and taught in all sectors of education. Wendy’s story about her aunt, ‘Looking for Ivy’, was long-listed for the SWWJ Open International Life Writing Competition in 2011. Curious about the fate of relatives, of whom she knew little, Wendy has looked for any record of them, written about her search, and created detailed incident in their lives. Material traces like a walking stick, a Bible, school certificates and letters serve as starting points to help fill out the family and bring them to life. Amongst them is her great grandfather, who jauntily stares out of a sepia photograph, displaying his army sergeant’s chevrons, having fought in the Crimea and been at the Relief of Lucknow. At sixteen, Aunt Ivy walked away from behind a shop counter to marry a man of means and board an ocean liner for Portuguese East Africa. German grandmother Barbara escaped her family to work as a governess in England. This extract is about Wendy’s grandfather, Charles. clemson.w@btinternet.com

Blood Sample 1925 Sitting up to breakfast

t could be daylight outside. It was difficult to tell in the gloom within. As he carefully and quietly drew back the heavy curtains from which a faint mothball smell emanated, Charles tried to peer through the lace nets to see the street beyond. It was still dark. At least it isn’t raining, he thought. In the shaft of streetlight he’d allowed through the curtain, he took his socks and tie from the chair near the window, and pulled on his trousers and shirt. Now for some breakfast. He shuffled slowly and quietly away from the window and around the bed, leaving Barbara sleeping. He resisted touching her recumbent body. If he touched her, he knew she would be immediately awake and become so spirited in her consciousness, so keen to pull him back into bed, that she would be hard to resist. He put one hand on the door jamb and very slowly turned the brass knob of the door admitting him to the middle room, where once again he moved around the furniture as unfalteringly as he could, leaving another sleeping body, that of his little daughter. Through a second doorway he reached what was out the back, the space that served as kitchen and scullery. The stove’s gas lit with two small explosions, bursts of flame which he calmed by rotating the crazed and chipped black knobs on the front of the cooker. He then filled the kettle at the tap, cold to the touch, ignoring the heavy rush and pound of the water as it gushed to the brim, and put it onto one of the hissing rings. When the cast-iron pan was set to cover the other flame, he dropped 89

WENDY CLEMSON

a spoon of dripping into it, allowed it to sizzle, and laid two rashers of the market bacon Barbara had haggled for the previous day into the hot fat. At once there was a popping and fizzling from the pan. The bacon dried and curled and became dark brown at its rind; he judged it done and pushed it to the side of the fat. He took an egg from an earthenware bowl on the windowsill, and a plate from the wooden drainer. A knife with ‘Lyons Corner House’ on its handle, and a fork with bent tines he got from the dresser drawer. The bread crock had an end of loaf in it, a bit stale, but still edible. He cut an inch-thick slice, carved out a circle of bread from its centre, and laid both this and the slice rim in the fat. After giving it a couple of minutes’ browning, he turned the bread and broke the egg into the hole. The kettle started to emit a steam cloud, whereupon he rinsed the metal teapot, put that on a low heat and spooned two caddy spoons of tea leaves into it, topping up with the bubbling water. While it brewed, he cut the remains of the bread into chunks, pressed a knob of butter on each and wrapped them in a creased and torn piece of brown paper. He pushed the bread into a tin with a hinged lid and a picture of a thatched cottage in golden sunshine on it. At that moment a head of blonde hair, with ringlets carefully caught up in strips of rag to keep the curl, pushed itself through the crack in the door. ‘Hello, Daddy,’ the girl said, and squeezed her eyes shut, blinking several times in the light. ‘Morning, my child,’ Charles replied. ‘Can I sit up with you to breakfast, Daddy?’ Charles had little time to spend with his small daughter. More often than not he balanced his breakfast on the side by the copper out the back, and ate it standing up, rather than disturb her. Today he went with her into the middle room, where, beside the couch the child had slept on, there was an empty bed; her sister was staying at a friend’s house that night. Squeezed alongside the bed were two sunken armchairs and a sideboard. A table with a green chenille cover on it was pushed against the wall, three upright chairs tucked under it. He pulled two of the chairs out, disturbing the fringe of the cloth, moved the pile of newspapers, letters and betting slips, and laid a tea towel over one corner. He lifted the child, still in her nightgown, onto one of the 90

upholstered seats, fetched his breakfast and a large mug of tea and placed them on the cloth. He then returned to the kitchen, where he found a small fork and filled a cup with milk for the girl. The child watched him clear his plate with wide eyes. He left the circle of fried bread, the centre of the egg and two snippets of the bacon, and pushed his plate in front of her. ‘Breakfast is served, milady,’ he said, bowing his head. The little girl chuckled and clapped her hands. He put his finger to his lips and went to find his waistcoat, pipe and tobacco, and his work case to carry his sandwich. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed for a little while and read a book?’ he asked the child. He knew that once he left for work, she would almost certainly go and wake her mother. She was such an imp that she was all the more likely to do that if he warned her not to, so he said nothing. He put his waistcoat on and began to feel ready for the day. He loved that garment, for it carried his watch and chain, his tobacco, and sometimes his pipe, though that felt more comfortable in his jacket pocket. With jacket on, and bread and butter in his case, he searched his pocket for the change he’d need for his fare. He had just enough. He’d have to look out some more from somewhere for the rest of the week. He took his trilby from the coat hook, placed it on his head and lifted it to acknowledge his daughter. She put her hand to her mouth to stop the fried bread from escaping as she laughed. He pressed his finger to his lips once more, opened the bolted door with barely a rattle, and was gone.

1945 Rush hour

here was, even after all these years, still something clandestine about leaving the house at that time in the morning. It was not completely light, and the iridescent London pavements glistened as though they were indeed made of gold. No one was about, or next to no one; the few who were crept along, like furtive sleepwalkers, shadowy in form. Charles matched his steady footfall to his breathing in and out, leaving, he imagined, little pockets warm and 91

WENDY CLEMSON

damp, re-formed like the shape of lungs behind him. It was only a mile and a half to the station; if briskly taken, twenty-two minutes went by. He took the quickest route, of course, and barely noticed the closed curtains and closed doors, behind which he knew there were many closed eyes. He would have liked to smoke his pipe, but that was out of the question. He had to keep up the rapid rhythm of tread and breath or it would add precious minutes to his journey. An occasional night bus passed, lit up in the gloom like a fairy carriage, travelling on a quest of deliverance. The milkman rattled bottles in their metal crates, heralding his own coming. He’d reached pretty much the same house every day. Creatures of habit, both of them. The station entrance was lit around its roof, and its name, The Oval, was visible at a distance, alongside the circle with a bar across it, signalling London Transport. He went inside. A face appeared in the ticket office as usual. Charles set down the change for his return to Harrow and Wealdstone, tipped his hat, and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. He went through the turnstile, which always made a clanking sound, and then down the burrow into the tunnel. The escalator was a marvel. Place a foot carefully on a newly set tread, touch a hand on the side rail, and you were swept diagonally to a brightly lit cavern below. What invention. There were two or three people on the platform, mostly the same ones every day, shifting their weight, rubbing their hands, touching the buckles of their canvas bags, or deep in thought, no doubt working out how to address the dilemmas at work. The train wheezed and whistled towards them, a reverberating shudder of a sound, jiggling minutely the platform, walls and lights and pushing hard on the tunnel-filled air mass. You felt rather than heard it, through feet, and ears and face. It came to a slow halt. There was a pause. Doors smoothly slid like sideways portcullis gates, allowing passengers to enter. Though in a mine, these people would not remain there. They worked above ground. Charles was thankful for that. Every day on his way to his work, he thought about it. He pitied the men who hewed the sod, either below or above. He knew the camaraderie in such conditions didn’t make up for the gradual wearing out of the fabric of themselves. Their bodies eventually failed them. His was head work. That didn’t mean his body escaped 92

unscathed. There was the leaning and stretching and bending, and the fine attention to the setting of the print. One mistake and a whole page was scuppered. Yes, your eyes took the brunt of it. His spectacles were his most important possession. That is if he ignored his pocket watch, which had been his father’s; touching it reminded him of the wisdom and cantankerousness of the old fellow. Then there were his fingers. He knew how, through them, he had to manage weight and control. He loved what he did, supplying print to a reading world. He knew it to be liberating to those who had been held in a life from which there was no escape, a life of ignorance, subservience. Not that reading solved everything. But there was that possibility of knowing, of tunnelling out. He was amused at the analogy with the underground. An escalator built of books and papers, up to daylight. Most of what he’d printed, through all his life so far, would not have changed the life of the poor. Well, not directly. His contribution may be to support the inventories kept of government supplies. But its influence was wider, that was the point. It made the work of those who made the goods, carted the goods, sailed the goods and sold the goods that much easier. No, he didn’t feel he was quite so enslaved to the ruling classes as his ancestors. He also helped print his own union leaflets. And where would the men be without those? In his line of work he at least had a union, and that made all the difference. Yes, his father would have felt proud if he’d known about this job, working for His Majesty, spreading the printed word. Charles had to sit on the carpet-covered bench seat, in the cacophonous cylinder of metal for quite a while. There were twenty-four stops in all, just the one change, Northern to Bakerloo at Charing Cross, weaving worm-like under the great city, out to its edges and beyond. The train squeaked to a stop. Up to ground and into the early morning now, another half-mile to the works’ gates. He stood and stepped out onto the platform.

Richard Alan Cole

ichard grew up in Hertfordshire and spent most of his teenage years reading Greek tragedies, writing stories and composing film scores. His fiction has received honourable mention from the international Writers of the Future competition and commendation from the Adventures in Fiction competition. He holds a BA, first class, in Ancient History from the University of Bristol, where he won the Arnaldo Momigliano Prize for top of the year. Recently, he has been offered a PhD place at the University of Bristol, where he hopes to combine his two loves, history and fiction, in a thesis on historical fiction. This passion for the ancient world is an essential part of Libations, the first in a proposed high fantasy series set in a pre-medieval world. Libations is based on the European Iron Age, and set shortly after the fall of a classical empire led by sorcerers known as the Authors. The story follows two lovers, Thryn and Nalani, who lose their home and are forced to travel across a violent and lawless land. While Nalani attempts to unite the tribes of her people â&#x20AC;&#x201C; as they had been during the time of the Authors â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Thryn searches for the gods, believing they can solve everything. He soon learns a startling truth. rich.alan@btopenworld.com

Libations

outine had a certain rhythm to it. Thryn’s hammer chimed against the iron bloom and a piece of slag broke away from the whole, still blush from the fire. Once up, once down, over again, the constant beat of iron on iron as he chipped away at the porous core, the base for any ploughshare, spearhead or torc; that was the rhythm of the forge. Thryn turned the bloom with his tongs and set to work on the other side. He often thought about routine – how people walked the same paths, ate with the same hand or spoke the same greeting – and wondered whether, if those habits changed, even for a moment, society might just collapse. If his feet took him a different way; if the hammer fell and broke his hand … but no, that wouldn’t happen to him. Practise anything enough and you carve a groove too deep to escape. He wiped his brow and set the hammer down on the stone anvil. Stone was rare in Kenelm – where the roundhouses were built from wattle and daub and roofed in thatch – but the forge had its treasures. Gyth owned the largest kiln in town: a conical bloomery made of clay bricks that warmed Thryn’s hands in winter, so tall it stood outside. They also kept a stash of silver to craft jewellery; a locked chest of gemstones from Ilious; iron tools for the coming harvest; bronze coins ready to be stamped with the faces of the gods; and strips of leather for knife hilts, hanging from the rafters. His stepfather even crafted weapons for the chiefs – heavy blades that looked more like iron clubs than swords. When they received such a commission, Thryn would burn wood for charcoal, clean the bloomery (too much slag in an iron blade and it would shatter) and draw water from the well. To forge a sword was a delicate process and Gyth wouldn’t allow him to 95

RICHARD ALAN COLE

leave while they worked. Not that Thryn did much except prepare the raw materials. In fact, he wasn’t even allowed to make torcs for girls and boys who came of age. Those skills were meant to be beyond him. An apprentice should be content to observe his master, to appreciate his work. But Thryn was different. He liked to create. Gyth called him over. Three decades stood between them, and it showed in the lines of Gyth’s face, blackened with grime. A streak of hair ringed Gyth’s rosy scalp and a creased leather apron concealed his red tunic. His right arm was larger than his left, a trait Thryn shared, and he wore the torc of a master smith: an incomplete iron circle that sat at the base of his neck and ended in small hammerheads. They moved when he spoke. ‘Dig us another slag pit.’ Gyth gestured at the bloomery. ‘Over there.’ ‘Why?’ Thryn looked at the one he’d dug before dawn, barely half full. ‘You need work. Work keeps us busy.’ ‘Then I’ll do something useful. We don’t need another pit.’ Gyth turned to his workbench. ‘You can’t build a fort without— ’ ‘First digging a hole. Yes, I know, and I’m the best hole-digger in all Kenelm. I’d sooner work with you.’ A torc rested on Gyth’s workbench. The old smith would either heat the iron so he could twist it into a spiral, or carve a few runes into the surface. Gyth rarely did anything more these days. ‘I’ve been thinking.’ ‘Thinking’s dangerous, boy. It gets us hurt.’ ‘How can thinking hurt?’ ‘People don’t like change.’ Gyth lifted the spade by the workbench. ‘You’ll learn that before I’m done with you or, by Lugus, I’ll hammer it into your skull.’ He tossed the spade over. ‘Dig us a pit. We don’t need your ideas.’ Thryn twirled the spade as he’d seen the chiefs do with their swords. It hadn’t taken him long to realise his stepfather only heard what he wanted; that, or the old smith simply feared a challenge to his authority. ‘Wouldn’t hurt you to try something new,’ he muttered as he left. The forge lay near the edge of town and resembled an open roundhouse, devoid of walls, with only a few wooden posts to support the thatched roof. On cold days the wind howling through the workspace chilled him to the bone. It threatened to extinguish the hearth fire – used to reheat iron – 96

or even the bloomery. Fortunately, the nights were still warm and autumn seemed a long way off. Outside the wood he’d stacked yesterday and covered with turf had burned down to half its original size. The fresh charcoal would have to be stored before dark, carefully, so it remained whole. Gyth didn’t like it broken. Thryn checked the bloomery for fractures as he passed. The kiln belched soot from its apex, a dense piceous cloud that made him choke. If hammering was the heartbeat of the forge, the bloomery was its lungs. Once he confirmed the bricks were unmarred and the vents clear, he stripped his smoke-stained maroon tunic, took the spade and used it to cleave the parched earth. Despite the recent rains, the ground was as hard as fired clay. He supposed he shouldn’t complain. Come autumn his boots would be caked in mud from the streams that sprang up around the forge and it would be impossible to keep the charcoal dry. He soon fell into the pattern of pit digging. Spade in crack, foot on blade, push, scrape, throw, repeat. Dust clung to his trousers and would probably coat his hair before he finished, colouring it a lighter shade of brown. He blinked rapidly and watched Gyth working beneath the shade of the thatch. He couldn’t blame his stepfather. Gyth had taken him in many years ago and was the only parent Thryn had ever known. Orphans didn’t usually have the fortune to find another family, and he should thank the Matres for his luck. ‘Morning, Father.’ Adria looked older than her twenty years and made him feel younger than his sixteen, partly because of her height and partly because of the creases around her eyes, gouged by tiredness. She wore a long dress, dyed woad-blue, with a wide leather belt. A patterned cloth covered her fair hair. Adria worked in the mead hall, and often slept there since the chiefs would whip anyone found on the streets after last bell. Gyth laid his tools on the workbench. The smith didn’t usually stop for anyone, but he always had time for her. ‘What d’you need today?’ ‘Coins,’ said Adria, her hand on Gyth’s. ‘Want a new cloak ’n’ some boots?’ He smiled and handed over a purse. ‘Get us some whisky, too, and some bread. But only after you’re done.’ Adria took the purse and kissed him on the cheek. She was still not spoken for, a rarity at her age, though largely because Gyth treated her like a 97

RICHARD ALAN COLE

goddess. He bought new clothes for her every season, and it didn’t help that he refused to give her to anyone he deemed inferior, which was most of the town. Gyth and Adria often argued about that. She waved at Thryn. ‘Digging again?’ ‘It builds forts, apparently.’ ‘You’re making us one?’ Adria looked around expectantly. Thryn rested on his spade. ‘Foundations are all your father wants.’ Gyth snorted and brandished his hammer. ‘I worked us up from nothing.’ He swept his arm over the forge. ‘We wouldn’t have any of this—’ ‘If you hadn’t sacrificed your nights for us,’ intoned Thryn and Adria in unison. ‘Mm,’ said Gyth. ‘You know the words.’ He bent over his workbench and dismissed them with a flick of his hammer. ‘Let’s hope you’ve listened.’ Adria slipped Thryn a coin. ‘I’ll be back before last bell.’ ‘There’ll be stew in the pot,’ said Thryn as he pocketed the bronze. He lowered his voice to imitate Gyth, ‘Stew I’ve stirred night after night to make tender and tasty.’ If the old smith was listening, he didn’t show it; but Adria left with a smile. Thryn watched her go. His stepsister rarely took the time to discuss what lay below the surface, and it didn’t help that Gyth gave her whatever she wanted. No matter how much she handed him in secret, she always had more. A bronze coin could buy a tankard of mead, but a purse could buy materials. Why did she always receive the purse? She never wanted to create anything. He continued to dig, but his eyes followed Adria as she wandered into town. Kenelm looked like it had grown up the sides of a hill, each roundhouse reaching for the next as if trapped in a child’s game of running-for-thesummit. At the heart of the town, the mead hall vied for space with the six shrines and the houses of the chiefs. A semi-permanent market stood alongside the disorganised cluster of buildings, and once a month the chiefs honoured the gods by bringing merchants from wondrous places to trade glass, pepper and wine for favours, grain and distilled cyser. The rest of the town was split into four districts. Thryn lived with Gyth and Adria in the second largest, a stone’s throw from the mead hall and a terrace higher than where the farmers kept their livestock. The forge was in the fourth 98

and lowest district along with the tannery, pottery and flax retting pits, and beyond that stood the town’s defences. Thryn often helped to deepen the ditch and shore up the rampart, topped by a palisade wall. The earthworks separated the townsfolk from the barbarous tribes of the Yathrym, and any rustler overly fond of Kenelm’s beef. By late morning the sun had reached its peak, so he retreated to the forge for a sip of water and a bite to eat. The shade was also welcome on his scorched back. ‘Here.’ Gyth passed him an apple and a hunk of rye bread. ‘That all?’ ‘Children, eh? Never happy.’ ‘I would be if you didn’t starve me.’ Gyth removed a band of iron from the fire, sanguine along the edges, brilliant orange at the centre, and used his tongs to twist it into a spiral, an exact replica of Thryn’s torc. He left it to cool on the workbench. ‘It’s that thinking again.’ Gyth wiped his hands on his apron. ‘Makes you want more and more until you’re sick with wanting.’ He lifted a square of cloth from a wide-brimmed bowl, filled with boiled pork and pickled parsnips. ‘You give Adria enough.’ ‘She’s older,’ said Gyth, as if that explained it all. Thryn bit into his apple a little harder than he’d intended. He crunched through the white flesh in two mouthfuls, and spat out the core. Cyser apples were small and sweet and juicy; he could eat at least a dozen. He knew better than to ask for more. ‘Shouldn’t rush food like that.’ Thryn tore off a hunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘This isn’t food.’ ‘What’s that you say?’ ‘Nothing.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just happy to eat scraps.’ ‘It’s them that make the difference between living ’n’ starving.’ Gyth selected a wedge of brown, steaming meat. ‘You’ve more ’n I ever had.’ He took a small bite. Thryn poked Gyth’s belly. ‘I don’t think you’ll starve.’ ‘Well, I work.’ ‘And I don’t?’ 99

RICHARD ALAN COLE

Gyth shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ They had this conversation at least four times a week and the rhythm rarely changed, even if the words did. At least discussions with Adria – however dull – never felt rehearsed. He finished the bread, pulled on his tunic and left the forge. ‘Where you going, boy?’ the smith called after him. ‘The latrine pits.’ Gyth harrumphed as he usually did when things were beyond his control, though for once he didn’t complain. Routine had made Gyth what he was, and Thryn supposed he should forgive him. There were worse masters to work for.

100

101

Rommy Collingwood

ommy Collingwood’s artistic explorations range from the dramatic arts to compositions and vocals for the band Turquoise on the CD The Turquoise Trail and include forays into modelling and late-night radio DJing for the bohemians and outlaws of Santa Fe, New Mexico. She has many literary expressions. But whether writing a lyric or poetry or prose, her love of language and her feel for the oral traditions of storytelling are evident. The complex cultural inheritance in the material and spiritual worlds of author Rommy Collingwood are explored via a proxy in the story of Riva Gayle, a London teenager of mixed parentage. It’s a tale of family secrets and of the power of blood and spiritual ties. Buried tensions burst out and tear at the fabric of her life, challenging her identity. Riva’s family falls apart, her world collapses, everything she relies upon crumbles, revealing chasms to bridge, shadows and hurt. Ancestral migrations have created eddies that bring Riva to Ireland, Wales, Jamaica and, lastly, to the West Country. She is drawn to follow a new path that begins to reveal itself, with Gangsta, her dog and spiritual companion, by her side. Driven by forces that are new to her world, Riva encounters new people and energies that shape her future. She finds herself helping her dad to confront his demons and embrace who he is. It’s the birth of a healer. rommy.collingwood@gmail.com

102

Original Puppy

eep, beep … Beep, beep … Beep, beep … Beep … Shit. Shit … Shit. Shit. Shit … shit … shit … Shit. Riva met the arrival of each message with a short sharp expletive as she jammed her belongings deeper into the interior of her rucksack. The bleeping was now nearly constant as her tormentors flamed her mobile and she packed for the family holiday. She could just switch it off but that wasn’t her style: Riva Gayle wasn’t going to disconnect from the world until she was good and ready. She had her plan and she was sticking to it and until then she’d move her mobile from her dresser and bury it in her rucksack side pocket. The trolls were spinning her out but the road trip to Ireland would change all that. She would take control back from … well, she didn’t know who it was, but she would act. And in the darkness of the night her plan would swing into action. It was common enough to get hassle from trolls and Riva knew she could handle it. After all she was a London girl and, like her dad said, she had ‘street smarts’. The noise of her dad getting ready to hit the road broke through her thoughts as Riva heard him doing his usual Dad thing and organising the kitchen. He liked to leave the flat in good order so they wouldn’t come back to a mess. From the sounds of the clatter, his routine was in full swing. He’d start by cleaning out the fridge and dumping all the perishables, a light workout, before the ten-kilogram clean and jerk sorting out the cupboards and the kitchen drawers. Dad liked to joke about weightlifting. Tespa was house-sitting, so he’d leave enough milk for him to have a cup of tea and there was some leftover soup on the stove. Not that Tespa was exactly hurting for food. For a start, he had a gig as a cook and he was pretty good too. But he wasn’t exactly the tidiest and it seemed a bit strange to tidy up so that 103

ROMMY COLLINGWOOD

Tespa could come in and make his usual mess. Still, as Dad’s oldest friend, and being from Jamaica, he trusted him with his life. He’d take care of the flat while they were gone. He already had the flat key and he was coming over later after he’d finished work. Riva finished packing, her thoughts going this way and that as she zipped up her rucksack and got ready to vacuum her room. Nothing like it to drown out the clanking of the tins and the rest. Dad had trained her well. Well, somebody had to, it certainly wasn’t going to be Mum, and mess made him crazy. Dad had done all the dishes and set out a bowl and spoon on the kitchen table, put away the rest of the utensils, arranged according to their size. The tins in the cupboard were all lined up and he’d wiped down the sink. The only job left to do was to unplug all the appliances. Riva had to put out the rubbish and the recyclables, Dad would double-check her work, each room would get inspected and they’d be off. A road trip to see Nana in Ireland and find out more about her mum’s roots, just like Who Do You Think You Are? on the telly, felt like a good way to escape her life for a while. All Mum had to do was get herself together and wait. She’d packed up the car and was out in the front garden waiting for them to come down. As was tradition at the start of every holiday, Dad was taking the family off to Chinatown to have a meal. He was proper obsessed with Chinese cuisine and went all over London in his quest for the authentic experience. Riva thought Dad was just very picky about his food and liked to eat where the Chinese ate, but he fancied himself as a foodie. He’d chosen a place he wanted to try and, unlike him, the extra driving wasn’t an issue. Mum made a face and said it would add some spice to their evening. When she finished vacuuming, the noise in the kitchen had stopped and she could hear Dad’s footsteps coming down the hall, his shoes squeaking on the floor. Nearly there: one, two, three … and there he was, popping his head round the door. She could time his moves. He was so predictable. ‘What’s going on, Babygirl?’ he said. ‘Just finished tidying my room. Dad, how long will it take to get there?’ she said. ‘Well, the sooner we leave, the sooner we get there. We arrive at 6am, so far as I know. Now stop asking stupid questions and get a wiggle on.’ Dad was scanning her room to see what, if anything, had been left out and what was left to do. 104

‘Got your phone?’ he smiled. ‘Yes, Dad.’ ‘Switched off all the plugs?’ ‘Yes, Dad.’ ‘Packed all your bits and pieces?’ ‘Yes, Dad.’ Riva went over the list in her head: T-shirt, Nano, toilet bag, extra socks, sweater, undies, energy drink. Bam! Enough tunes on my MP3 for a year or two. Sound. ‘It’ll be fun, right Dad?’ ‘It’ll be great to get out of town for a while. Your mum is really excited. You should be too. Everyting is irie. If you’re all done here, get your tings, and let’s go.’ Riva smiled and opened her arms to show him the room. ‘It’s not too bad, Dad.’ Her laundry basket was full to overflowing, and there was a scattering of hair accessories on top of her duvet, and she could see a manga comic half-hidden underneath her pillow. Other than that, it looked good. ‘Hmmmm. You call this housekeeping?’ he said, examining a scrunchie and running his fingers down the teeth of a comb before unearthing the manga comic underneath her pillow. ‘What you doing reading manga? I’ll have to have a word with my bwoy Tespa. We don’t want him to be a bad influence on your reading. Let’s go or we’ll be too late for dinner.’ She hoisted her rucksack on her shoulder and followed him down the hall where he picked up his satchel and ushered her out the front door, locking it behind them. They walked down the steps together into the garden. Mum was leaning on her suitcase and gazing up at the moon with a soft, dreamy expression on her face. The night sky was clear except for the odd cloud drifting slowly eastwards. ‘It’s a beautiful night for a drive,’ said Mum. ‘In the mood for an adventure?’ said Dad. ‘Always.’ ‘Can I come?’ said Riva. ‘Like we have a choice,’ said Mum. ‘Babygirl, don’t you know that’s how we got into trouble in the first place,’ said Dad. 105

ROMMY COLLINGWOOD

It was all very weird. She’d been so desperate she couldn’t sleep for worrying. And in less than twenty-four hours it had all changed and she was positively carefree and light-hearted. Apparently, desperation had freed her mind; there was no other answer for it. Yet without it she might never have come up with a plan. Here they were, chatting away, and everything was irie. It had taken Riva ages to figure out what to do. It was the first time she’d been able to think about the future in weeks. Life was strange. The most important thing was she was fighting back, going down swinging. She’d never been to Ireland. Dad told her they’d be there for just over a week. It’d been the longest time since she’d seen either of her grandparents; she couldn’t remember when she’d last Skyped. In fact, it was all a bit of a nightmare. Mum was bound to have a go, she was always on about the importance of family. Still, Riva had had a brilliant idea and asked to borrow Mum’s phone to take a selfie for Nana. ‘Where’s your phone? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it, or I’ll go mental.’ said Mum. Riva smiled. ‘You’ve got Nana’s mobile number, and I don’t. I’ve only got her landline.’ Very reasonable, considering it was such short notice. She took a snap of her sitting in the back of the car next to a pile of luggage and sent it off with a message, ‘From your favourite mix-up, mix-up girl. See you soon. Love, Riva.’ Her rucksack was packed with all the essentials; she was looking forward to visiting Nana. ‘Okay, we’re off,’ said Dad. After parking the car, they walked down Gerrard Street with all the Chinese lanterns shining down on them, and the smells wafting out of the kitchens. Riva was thrilled. Chinatown was thronged with people out on the town. There was a sense of possibility again; it felt good to be anonymous. No one cared who she was and that’s the way she wanted it. Dad had chosen a restaurant with both an upstairs and a downstairs dining room, and they opted to sit upstairs. The room had a huge fish tank against the wall and red flocked wallpaper and it was full of Chinese people eating and drinking and carrying on in Chinese, which pleased Dad. They were given a table by the window with a red candle on it and the waiter left the menus and took their drinks order. They were the only 106

non-Orientals having dinner. Everyone used chopsticks and no morsel was too small to pick up. It was a fantastic place to people watch and fantasise about people’s stories, where they’d been and where they were going. Down on the street, the grocery stores were full of tourists as well as local shoppers; it was a side of London that she never tired of seeing, she was a foreigner in her own country. She feasted on her favourite dish, spare ribs in a spicy sauce with a side dish of crispy noodles, Dad had Singapore noodles and Mum had chicken with black beans and cashews. Dad was really good with chopsticks, she and Mum used forks and spoons and, failing that, their fingers. ‘How was your food? As if I need to ask,’ said Dad. The waiter presented the bill along with a plate of fortune cookies which Dad handed round. He seemed to believe they were written just for him. ‘What’s for you won’t go by you,’ he said. ‘It’s a fortune cookie, Dad. Are all Jamaicans superstitious? Or is it just you?’ she said. ‘It’s not real, Dad.’ ‘Respect. What’s that saying, trust in Allah but tie your camel? What’s the harm in consulting a fortune teller? The Chinese are very superstitious, you know. They don’t do anything without consulting an oracle. So don’t you put the mockers on our journey by joking about fortune cookies. There’s quite a few Chinese in Jamaica,’ he said. ‘Good people.’ Riva and Mum each took a cookie and cracked it open. ‘What’s yours say?’ said Mum. ‘Dinner was lush,’ said Riva. ‘Seriously. What about yours, Barto?’ said Mum. She’d grabbed up Riva’s slip of paper and was busy unfurling the corners. ‘“Rivers need springs”,’ said Dad. ‘Enigmatic,’ said Mum. ‘Something to chew on, pun intended.’ ‘What about yours, Mum?’ said Riva. ‘“Do not follow where the path may lead. Go where there is no path … and leave a trail”,’ said Mum. ‘Actually, that’s yours, Riva. Mine says, “Do not fear what you don’t know”.’ ‘True, dat. That’s deep,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s not get too carried away. It’s not that deep,’ said Mum. ‘Time for us to go.’ said Riva. 107

ROMMY COLLINGWOOD

Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d barely left the Chinatown parking lot when she heard the telltale beep of her mobile. Uh-oh, she thought, as her muscles tightened up. The troll is on the move, and my inbox is defo heaving. Keep it together, Babygirl. Hang tough.

108

109

Faye Davies

aye Davies has spent much of her life in Hispanic countries and travelled extensively around Latin America, including Guatemala, where this novel is set. She studied English at Oxford University and hopes to write a story set in modern times with the scope of some of the classics that have inspired her. Faye was shortlisted for the 2013 Mslexia Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Novel Competition. When Carmen MuĂąoz left Esperanza seven years ago after being raped by Jacobo Ramos, the son of wealthy sugar farmers, she swore she would never return. But her daughter Alegra starts suffering from rare fits, and Carmen decides to go back in the hope of finding the traditional healer who once cured her aunt of a similar disease. Her return to the Pacific backwater of her youth is even harder than Carmen imagined. Her family has become poor and disillusioned, having fallen out of favour with the powerful Ramos clan, while Jacobo Ramos makes it clear that he wants a relationship with his daughter at any cost. The demands of La Buena, the traditional healer, force Carmen to get close to Jacobo, while hiding her real motives from her family. But there are only so many sacrifices Carmen can bear â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and when her brother, misunderstanding her actions, turns against her, Carmen decides to reveal the truth, with tragic consequences. fayedavies@gmail.com

110

Esperanza

armen tells them not to stop the bus. But the conductor, a stout man with a fine machete scar across his cheek, insists. Now every set of eyes is glued to Carmen and her daughter. Whispers mutter up the bus, met by the sound of sucked teeth. Alegra’s rigid body lies across Carmen’s lap. Her fists, pulled up to her chest, are gripped so tightly her knuckles have turned white. But the passengers aren’t looking at her knuckles – they’re looking at her eyeballs shuddering uncontrollably, and the saliva spilling from her clenched jaw. With shaking hands Carmen takes a tissue out of her pocket and wipes the spit from Alegra’s cheek, and the sweat off her forehead. She looks up to see a woman pushing a spindly man in a blue shirt and spectacles forward. ‘He’s a doctor,’ she says with triumph. Carmen’s heart beats harder. Just what she needs – a half-trained country vet trying to diagnose something beyond the grasp of the best specialists in the city. Hot tears quiver in her eyes. Why can’t they leave her alone? The doctor comes forward and kneels tentatively beside Alegra on the ridged wooden floor. He smells of lemon agua de colonia, like Carmen’s father used to. ‘I’d like to take her pulse,’ he says gently. ‘It’ll be sky high. Last time it was a hundred and ninety. There’s nothing you can do. We just have to wait it out.’ Carmen looks out of the window to avert the vomit rising in her throat. Rain hits the glass in thin diagonals, blurring the coffee fields and low clouds. She can still make out the volcanoes on the horizon. A dragging regaetton beat pounds through her limbs, adding to the nausea. 111

FAYE DAVIES

‘Can you get someone to turn that down, please?’ she says. The doctor nods at someone behind him. Turning back to Carmen, he says, ‘How many times has this happened?’ ‘A few.’ ‘And how long does it normally last?’ ‘I’m doing everything I can,’ Carmen says. The words skitter out like unleashed dogs. She lowers her voice and holds it steady. ‘That’s where we’re going, to get her cured.’ ‘To Escuintla?’ says the doctor doubtfully. Escuintla is where the bus terminates, the last big town before the villages of the coast. ‘Yes,’ Carmen lies. How can she tell him she’s going to see a witch doctor? In Escuintla, the sky is a freshly broken blue, but the air is hot and close, clinging to their skin like film. Alegra needs the toilet. Carmen pays twenty quetzals to take her into a stinking stall in a snack bar at the crossroads that serves as a bus station, helping her to hover above a porcelain bowl with no seat. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she urges, grimacing over the stench of piss. From just beyond the door, a fruit machine bleats out a string of losing sounds. ‘Puta!’ someone growls, and kicks it. Alegra shakes her head. ‘I can’t.’ Desperation stains her voice. She hasn’t slept. Neither of them has slept properly for days: Alegra from excitement, Carmen from dread. Carmen takes a fresh pack of tissues from her bag and uses one to wipe the top of the toilet bowl, removing two black pubic hairs. She lays four more tissues, unfolded, on the rim and tells her daughter to sit down, guiding her. Alegra lets out a sigh with the tinkle. ‘Am I better now, Mamá?’ she says. ‘Much better.’ Carmen squeezes her hand and wonders for the hundredth time whether to tell her why they’re really going back to Esperanza. ‘Soon you’ll be perfect,’ she says, leaving it at that. The next bus, to Taxisco, is due in an hour. Men in dirty trousers sitting on plastic stools lift their eyes when Carmen asks where they can eat lunch. One of them, with a wide nose and two gold teeth, points them across the street to a comedor. The road heaves with squeaking buses and jeeps with blackened 112

windows. Trucks carrying pigs, mangoes, beer, and rubble blast their horns at the pushbikes weaving through the gaps. Finally they manage to get across, shielded by a woman carrying a sack of flip-flops. At the comedor – four gaudy tables in an open concrete room – Carmen orders chicken with rice and beans, a Coke for Alegra, for her blood sugar, and a beer for herself. The waitress takes the money and drops it into the front pocket of her apron. She has half-dyed orange hair and smells of stale sweat. Carmen takes Alegra’s temperature: it’s almost back to normal. Her fine hair has come out of its plaits and stands in a halo of fuzz above her head. Carmen tries to smooth it. ‘Let me do your hair again after lunch,’ she says. Alegra makes a face and pulls away. Normally Carmen would insist. Instead she says, ‘Not too long to go now.’ ‘How long?’ ‘Another bus, then a tuk-tuk, then a boat.’ The waitress brings their drinks. Over a crackly radio a woman sings a bachata ballad about needing a doctor to mend her bleeding heart. Carmen drinks half her beer in one go. Alegra does the same with her Coke. ‘That’s long,’ she complains. She’s right. Carmen wonders whether they should get a taxi. What would it cost, three hundred quetzals? A tenth of her money. It’s not worth it. Alegra yawns. ‘Is Grandpa tall?’ Carmen’s pulse quickens like a drum roll. ‘I suppose he is, yes.’ ‘And Uncle Enrique?’ ‘Even taller.’ Her brother hadn’t stopped growing when she left, Carmen thinks with a shock. She’s glad when the food comes. Alegra uses her fork to prod her rice – cubes of vegetables in glistening white stodge. ‘Is the house big?’ she asks. ‘Yes. Eat up, sweetheart. We don’t have much time.’ Glancing at her phone, Carmen sees a new message and her heart jumps: it must be from Saúl. She didn’t expect him to get in touch so soon – she thought he was with his wife. She decides to open it later. Something to look forward to. ‘With a slide?’ 113

FAYE DAVIES

‘I don’t know about a slide. There used to be a swing, hanging from a tree. Uncle Enrique and I would try to push each other over the branch. We never did it though.’ Carmen’s arms are weak from hunger, and the beer’s gone to her head already. She takes a mouthful of food and adds more hot sauce. ‘Has he got children?’ Alegra squashes down her rice with the back of her fork, then cuts it into little squares. She turns to watch a man in the street herding goats along the gutter. ‘Come on, eat up,’ Carmen says. Recently Alegra’s become difficult with food. Alegra lays her fork carefully on her plate. When she looks down, Carmen sees dark half-moons under her daughter’s eyes, like bruises. ‘I’m getting cross now,’ she says. ‘You need food to get stronger. If you eat it, you can have a doughnut.’ Alegra puts her elbows on the table. ‘I don’t want a doughnut.’ Carmen lifts her empty glass and indicates for the waitress to bring her more beer. She feels desperate. ‘Eat!’ she says. Then it comes out – ‘Or we’ll go home.’ Alegra lifts her fork. Her eyes gleam with tears. A tangle of emotions press softness into Carmen’s voice: ‘There’s a good girl.’ Carmen’s eyes drift to her phone. ‘Why don’t you open it?’ Alegra says. ‘What?’ The child rolls her eyes. ‘The text.’ Carmen can’t help smiling. She picks up the phone and reads the message. Alegra lifts a few grains of rice, half of which fall off her fork as she stops it in mid-air. ‘Who’s it from?’ A dying fish flaps in Carmen’s chest with disappointed rage. ‘Just an advert,’ she says. Outside, a teenage boy shoulders a bowl of sliced pineapple. ‘Tenemos piña!’ he cries, peering into the comedor. Carmen shakes her head. The boy shouts, louder: ‘Piña, piña, piña!’ Alegra pushes away her plate. ‘I’m full.’ Carmen’s appetite has gone too. She wipes her mouth, keeping the 114

paper napkin in her hand to press to her eyes when Alegra’s not looking. The bus to Taxisco is as slow as the last one was fast. After a few stops, the conductor lets on a young preacher in a yellow Yankees T-shirt, who talks uncertainly about God’s love, opening and closing a Bible without reading from it. Alegra sleeps on Carmen’s lap. Fields of sugar cane stretch to the empty horizon, with ceibas and palms rising from the rippling green. They pass villages with churches painted the colour of the sky. Carmen’s mind goes back to her brother and how he hadn’t even stopped growing when she left. Of all the thoughts that have spiralled along the years, like barbed wire on a wall, that one has never struck her before. Shame heats her cheeks. She tries to read but feels sick within a minute. She listens to music on her phone but the battery dies, and in any case, even glancing at the screen brings up the bitter acid. She resigns herself to being alone with her thoughts and this lurid green backdrop – the land of her youth. For the first time Carmen imagines properly how her family will receive her. How long will it take them to forgive her? She feels worst about Enrique. Poor Enrique, he was still a boy. She catches the eyes of a baby girl smiling over her mother’s shoulder from the seat in front. Carmen opens her mouth into a long ‘O’, delighting the baby into a toothless grin. A port-wine stain runs from her hairline to the bridge of her nose. Carmen turns back to the grimy window. Maybe she should have written to her brother. She tried, when she first got to the city. But the words in her head sounded hollow on paper. How could she explain herself without telling the truth? And how could she tell the truth? The truth is what she was trying to save him from. She closes her eyes and counts her breaths, resisting the stale thoughts in her head. At least her phone’s dead, so she can’t expect a message from Saúl. ‘I’m tired,’ Alegra says, rolling onto her back. Carmen strokes her hair, flattening the fuzz with her clammy hand. ‘Sleep. We’ve still got a way to go.’ ‘I can’t sleep.’ Carmen points out the gurgling baby in the seat in front. Alegra hoists herself up and coos at it. Soon she’s making friends with both the baby and 115

FAYE DAVIES

its mother, chatting away as she can with strangers. Carmen belches into her hand – she needs to look away again. Up ahead a driveway lined with royal palms leads to a network of concrete domes and glinting pipes. A few minutes later the bus stops at the gate and people in blue uniforms get on and off. While the workers are finding their seats, a cortège of trucks heaped with sugar cane passes in front of them and rumbles up the driveway of the refinery. The candyfloss smell hits her as Carmen reads a sign on the back of the last truck: ‘Industrias Ramos’. Her stomach dips and her mouth goes dry. It’s not like she’s forgotten him – how could she? But seeing the name forged in metal refocuses him in reality. Maybe he’s moved away, she reasons. A jolt from a pothole spurs an even more hopeful thought: maybe he’s dead. ‘ … isn’t she?’ the woman in front enthuses. ‘Sorry?’ ‘Beautiful.’ The woman looks at Alegra, whose face dimples with a smile. ‘Like her mother.’ ‘Thank you,’ Carmen says. Nerves make her irritated. ‘She looks just like you.’ Carmen nods, although she knows Alegra doesn’t look much like her. The woman jiggles her baby with a resigned expression. ‘She won’t be pretty,’ she says. ‘Not with this.’ Carmen scratches her arm and smiles weakly. She wants to say, ‘Lucky her.’

116

117

Simon Dowlman

imon studied History and Politics at the University of York, where he learnt that the arts ‘owe their birth to our vices’ (Jean-Jacques Rousseau). This did not put him off, and he was determined on graduating to undertake an MA in Creative Writing. Being totally broke, he instead had to settle for a short-term job in insurance. This turned into three miserable years, until he woke up one morning knowing that enough was enough. He quit his job and spent the next six months travelling around Russia, Mongolia and China before returning home and joining the civil service graduate scheme. In 2012, Her Majesty’s Government generously gave him permission to take a secondment, finally enabling him to enrol on the MA. This extract is the first half of ‘Tourist’, a short story following a young man called Mark over twenty-four hours in Bangkok. Following an awkward physical relationship with an Israeli woman called Lucia, Mark is seeking to use this time in Bangkok to reassert his sense of empowerment. After an encounter with a pair of English tourists, Richard and Chris, Mark finds himself embroiled in a drunken search for transgression. Initially, he is a passive partner in this quest, but over the course of the story he increasingly begins to dictate the search. In his escalating need for a transgressive experience, Mark eventually discards Richard and Chris. But when Mark’s fantasies finally become a reality, he finds himself utterly repulsed by them. simondowlman@hotmail.com

118

Tourist

he track changes on the bar’s sound system, making him look up from his phone. It doesn’t fit: that 1950s hokeyness, the silky, deep voice of the singer, the quaint accompaniment of ‘bom, bom, bom’ from backing vocalists. South East Asia’s been wall-to-wall Bob Marley, Jay-Z – Tracy Chapman if you’re lucky. Every bar in every country. There is an approved soundtrack to the tourist trail, a reassuring affirmation of an ‘ethos’ that you acquire at your home airport and probably discard as soon as you’re back there. This track is definitely a deviation. He can’t place it but he knows he’s heard it before, maybe something his dad used to listen to. He walks up to the bar and orders another beer. The bottle is large and green. He likes the colourful label of the national brewery. There only seems to be one allowed per country, Huda in Vietnam, Angkor in Cambodia, Singha here in Thailand. He takes a swig from the bottle and looks out into the street. It’s mid-afternoon, tourist rush hour. Sweat-soaked new arrivals trudge by, straining under the weight of their full backpacks. He can tell the ones yet to find accommodation from their careworn faces, impatient with the human traffic. He looks back to his table, in prime position under the shade of the side street, his pack of red Lucky Strikes waiting for him. He feels at peace. Out of curiosity he asks the barman about the song. The man answers in animated, broken English: ‘Marty Robbins, 'Story of My Life'. It story of my life, I tell you. You like?’ ‘Yeah,’ he nods, trying to match the barman’s enthusiasm. ‘Marty Robbins, he cowboy, sing about women and gunfights. This one remind me of my wife. She beautiful woman, see, story of my life … Know what I mean, man?’ 119

SIMON DOWLMAN

‘Sure, I think my dad used to play it.’ ‘Your dad good man. We not allowed to play own music here. All tracks from approved list by bar manager, but every five songs we sneak something in. This song about real love, man, true love. My wife, she true love.’ The barman smiles, widely. There’s something sly about it. The man is thin-framed, like most of the locals, but there is the hint of an emerging potbelly under his faded Star Wars T-shirt. He tries to guess the man’s age, could be late twenties, could be early forties, it’s impossible to tell. It’s difficult to know where the bullshit the locals put on for tourists ends, but he’s not convinced that the barman loves his wife. ‘You got good taste in music,’ the barman says. ‘What’s your name, man?’ ‘Mark.’ ‘Marky-Mark. You like to party, Mark?’ ‘Depends.’ ‘You want something different maybe, different party? Tourist partying round here all the same. You want something different, you want real experience, you give me call.’ The barman reaches out for his wrist. Instinctively he flinches back, but the man grabs it hard, ‘No worries. No worries.’ In his other hand he’s holding a big blue felt-tip pen like a weapon. He proceeds to write down a phone number on Mark’s skin in a large and deliberate hand. It’s surprisingly neat, like calligraphy. The man releases his wrist. ‘There you go. I serve other customers now but later you call. Marty Robbins, good song. Marty Robbins, you call.’ He laughs nervously, says ‘Thanks,’ and heads back to his table. Lighting a Lucky Strike, he watches the man selling T-shirts on the opposite side of the street. The man has bad teeth and comes on too strong with the tourists, but he usually gets the ones straight from the airport to bite. There is another man five minutes’ walk away selling exactly the same range, and probably another a hundred yards in the other direction. As he smokes the cigarette he counts the passers-by wearing designs from one of these stalls. It’s roughly one in five. He leans the cigarette on the ash tray and looks at his last text message: 2 weeks to tubing in Laos. You better be there … Don’t know which is worse, Andy + Sara arguing vs Andy + Sara all over each other :( Lucia xxx 120

He pictures Lucia: her unruly straw curls, her peach-coloured skin. He thinks about when they first met: one of those awful arranged drinking sessions at a hostel in Hanoi, a big crowd of them sitting on tiny plastic seats in the street. He’d never met anyone from Israel with blonde hair. She looked like a woman in a Renaissance fresco. Some prick from Bristol had started laying into her about Palestine, but she’d held her ground, made him look stupid in front of the whole group. She’d been in the army; he couldn’t believe it. She was one of the most interesting people he’d ever met. He and Andy had travelled with her and her best friend Sara through Vietnam and Cambodia. Eventually Andy and Sara had got together too. He’d left the three of them in Phnom Penh on the pretext of going back to Bangkok to see an old school friend. They’d agreed to meet up for a tubing party in Laos, and a load of his friends from university were flying out to meet them there. The truth was that he’d wanted some time to travel on his own, even if it was only a few weeks. That was how he’d always imagined it. And he felt that if he’d stayed with Lucia for much longer he might never have found the will to do it. The thought of seeing her again sends a shiver through his entire body. He thinks about their last night together: her sweat-soaked skin, her long hair plastered to her forehead. But when he entered her, she was unmoved, unstirred – tolerating his passion as if it were the whimsy of a child. He couldn’t stop her from drawing it out of him; he was overcome. It was over in minutes. He sees himself in that moment: crouched over her, arms straining to hold up his weight, exposed, humiliated, the look in his eyes turning to hatred. What had he seen in her face then? Pity, revulsion? He wasn’t sure. He pictures her at her home, Tel Aviv: sitting at a cafe in the sun with her friends, laughing. He thinks of his home town: washed-out and grey. The routine of his previous existence: still, lifeless. He puts the phone down. Two guys carrying full pitchers of beer return to their table in front of him, chatting about their plans for the night ahead. Later, a waitress brings them burgers. He can hear The Simpsons’ theme tune booming out of the TV in the bar across the street. Bangkok feels different without his friends, stranger and more exciting. That last night with Lucia 121

SIMON DOWLMAN

wounded him, but the longer he stays here the less it seems to matter. Here everything is provided for him. He’s starting to feel invulnerable, like he could get anything, do anything. He wants to inhabit the feeling for as long as possible, and it’s kept him in Bangkok longer than he’d intended. He’s already behind schedule for getting to Laos. Picking up the cigarette from the ashtray, he takes a long drag. The heat is rising in waves from the pavement. Remembering his conversation with the barman, he looks down at the phone number on his wrist. Maybe he is looking for something different. He gets back to his hostel at about 6pm, has a shower and heads down to the common room to see if anything is going on. Owen and Ben are playing on the Xbox. Owen is a soft-spoken Irishman and Ben is from London. He likes them both. They are part of a bigger group from Liverpool University, who’ve split up to pursue different agendas. He says ‘Hi’ to them and asks what they’ve been up to. ‘Not much,’ says Owen, ‘well, nothing at all really. I went for a walk down Khao San Road this morning. Ben’s not left the hostel. Hey, do you fancy going to Saxophone tonight? There’s a blues band playing.’ ‘Maybe,’ he says. They’ve already been to Saxophone several times this week. It’s like a home away from home, a small, intimate place that hosts surprisingly good live music. The staff are friendly and know them by name. You can get up close to the band if you want, but they like to sit on the balcony where it’s more chilled out and you can actually have a conversation. A few minutes later two young guys enter the common room. He’s seen them around the hostel a few times, but never actually spoken to them. ‘Look,’ one of them says sardonically, ‘it’s Owen the Irishman and Ben the Cockney … and some other bloke I don’t know.’ Owen says hello and introduces them to him as Richard and Chris, old school friends from Hampshire. Both tall and athletic looking, they are still wearing their shades. They aren’t dressed like backpackers; they look like they’re on their way to an indie party on a summer’s day in New York. He’s not sure how long they’ve been travelling; he suspects not very long. Both of them seem eminently comfortable in their own skin. 122

‘Are you boys out tonight?’ Richard asks. Owen explains that he and Ben are thinking of heading over to Saxophone to watch some bands. ‘Saxophone? Again?’ Richard says. ‘If I wanted to listen to jazz and blues I wouldn’t go to Thailand to do it. You should come out with us. The hostel up the road is organising a massive group of people to go to this secret location and drink snake blood.’ Ben turns away from the Xbox for the first time. ‘It won’t be snake blood.’ ‘No, it is,’ says Chris. ‘They show you the snakes and everything, even kill them in front of you. Apparently it’s illegal so the hostels only do it a few times a year.’ ‘I highly doubt the hostels would do it if it were illegal,’ Ben says. ‘Okay,’ Chris concedes. ‘It’s probably not snake blood. There’s what? A seventy-five per cent chance you’re right. But what if it is? Apparently it’s in some old Thai guy’s basement. You have to drive forty-five minutes out of the centre just to get there. Wouldn’t you rather do something that has a chance of being an authentic, once-in-a-lifetime experience than curl up with your pipe and slippers at Saxophone again?’ Owen and Ben both mutter something noncommittally. ‘Come on,’ Richard says. ‘We’ll still have you back in time for Saxophone.' ‘Okay,’ Owen says finally. Ben rolls his eyes, ‘Fine, then.’ Chris turns to him, ‘What about you, Mark?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. An hour later a big group of them pile into taxis. He ends up in the same one as Richard and Chris. The two friends talk about which girls in the group they’ve got their eyes on, and what their chances are. He finds out that they’ve been travelling around South East Asia for two months, staying in hotels all the way. They insist that you can get a room at a three-star hotel in most countries for next to nothing. He wonders what their definition of next to nothing is, but lets it go. They’ve both brought bottles of vodka and are already quite drunk. Chris offers Mark his bottle. In the course of the conversation, it emerges that they both support 123

SIMON DOWLMAN

the same team he does. The discovery results in Richard and Chris gleefully launching into a series of football chants: ‘Come on Mark, you know the words!’ They wind the car windows down and light cigarettes. The taxi driver threatens to stop the car if they don’t put them out, but they ignore him. Mark takes a swig from the bottle of vodka, enjoying the warm, burning sensation in his stomach as the cool outside air rushes over his face.

124

125

Gillian Eve

uring a varied career in the medical and education fields, Gillian Eve has seen people at their very worst and their very best. An otherwise catastrophic life event has prompted her to give voice to her first novel. She writes about unexplored distant times and places, bringing them alive with the domestic detail of relatively ordinary people and their families. Hildyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grandma is a secretive, emotionally erratic woman, haunted by her past in the violent, anti-Semitic and revolutionary Russia of the early nineteenth century. After she commits suicide in 1967, seven-year-old Hildy mistakenly blames herself and the ensuing guilt is a burden she carries for decades. Alternating between pre-revolutionary Russia of the early twentieth century and Sheffield of the 1960s and 1970s, Know Before Whom You Stand shows the damage that can be done by grief and guilt and secrets. eve97@msn.com

126

Know Before Whom You Stand

or the Easter weekend of 1967, the forecast on the wireless promised unusually mild weather in the North of England. Grandma Jesse always grumbled that they never got it right, but today Hildy had to agree that she had cause. Their family, known at chapel as the Parkins, all wrapped up in their winter coats, hats and gloves, filed in pairs down to the Sunday morning service at the Methodist church in Norton Lees, a residential suburb in south-east Sheffield. The soot-blackened brick edifice, with three pointed arched windows along each long wall, crouched at the bottom of Grandma’s steep cul-de-sac. Grandpa Herbert swung open the iron gate and made a show of standing back to allow Grandma Jesse and Hildy through first, commenting on what a tall girl she was for seven and patting the top of her head. Mother had told her that it was rude to make personal remarks, so why did adults always say things like that to her? True, she was growing out of her red winter coat, not surprising since she’d had it for two years, and she could feel the chill wind whipping through the gravestones on to her bare knees. She gripped at Grandma’s arm, worried her grandmother might slip over on the icy flagstones. She’d heard the adults talking about how old Mrs Stringer had fallen on the way to chapel last winter – they said she’d broken her hip so badly that she never came home from hospital. Grandma stopped just in front of the porch, yanked Hildy back to her side, raised her gloved hand to shade her eyes against the bright morning sun, and stared at the carved grey marble banner over the door. She read the words out as if she was acting in one of the chapel’s Christmas productions, frosty breath puffing out from her mouth. 127

GILLIAN EVE

‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God: Romans 3:23.’ ‘Come on, Grandma,’ Hildy tugged at her hand, ‘we’re in the way of everyone. Come on.’ Why couldn’t she just act like a normal grandma? She always had to make a ‘pippy show’, as mother called it. Grandma jerked her hand free from Hildy’s and carried on in the same embarrassing voice. ‘Built by our very own family’s capitalist benefactor,’ she sniffed, straightened her blue velvet beret and then dabbed the dewdrop off the end of her nose before adding, ‘to secure his position in society and ensure his place in Heaven.’ Mother poked at Grandma’s shoulders in an effort to make her move on and she reacted with an exaggerated trip forward so Hildy had to grab at her arm again to steady her. ‘Can’t she just give it a rest for today?’ Mother sighed under her breath before snapping at Hildy to get a move on and follow her sister, somehow making her feel as if the hold-up was her fault. Miss Harpenter, the Sunday school teacher, was laying out hymn books along the family’s usual pew, three rows from the front. Hildy thought she must be quite old, at least thirty, with her calf-length tweed skirt, sensible lace-up shoes and beige twin-set. Miss Harpenter greeted them with a jerky unsmiling nod, so her round ‘NHS best’ specs, as Mother called them, slipped along on to the end of her nose. Hildy’s twin, Dora, whispered into her ear, ‘Lucky her hooter is so long or she might have lost them altogether,’ and they both had to stifle their giggles. Miss Harpenter’s spidery fingers that Hildy knew so well from her piano lessons, pushed the wire rims back up over her flushed cheeks and then reached to the back of her head to check the hairpins that secured her mousy French pleat. ‘A very happy Easter to you, my dear Miss Harpenter.’ Grandma spoke in what she called her ‘best telephone voice’, that she kept clear by drinking a cup of hot water with lemon juice every evening. Then she gave Miss Harpenter that pretend smile that she did quite often, which really wasn’t a smile at all, and showed the orangey lipstick smears on her bottom set. The family filed along their polished pew, nodding at friends behind. 128

First Grandpa, followed by Aunt Ilana in her new pillbox hat, which Mother said made her look like Jackie Kennedy. Uncle Tom shuffled alongside, with what Grandma called his ‘ridiculous quiff’. Hildy slid in next and wondered why Grandma had to push up so very close. There wasn’t much space left for Mother, Father and Dora who squeezed in last. Grandma turned to Mother and whispered so loudly behind her hand that Hildy worried other people would hear. ‘That Miss holy Harpenter suffers the little children every week just to keep in with Reverend Whiskin, fawning over him at every opportunity – praising his rambling sermons and following him with cups of her lukewarm milky tea.’ Mother shook her head at Grandma. ‘Sometimes, you know, you really are not very Christian.’ After chapel, Easter Sunday dinner was at Grandma and Grandpa’s, which it had been for as long as Hildy could remember. They had lived in this dark brown house since they were married forty years ago, when it was described as a newly built, semi-detached villa. On a clear day, from the front bay window, you could see right across the city to the Dales. Nothing had changed in this room since the day they moved in, other than the maroon damask curtains were now almost friable, the Persian rugs – a wedding present from Uncle Teddy and Auntie Olive – were flattened and frayed, the armchairs sagged under the weight of the years and layer upon layer of polish had built up on the darkening wooden furniture. Grandpa Herbert was a great observer of the Sabbath – forbidding card games, knitting, sewing, or in fact anything else enjoyable because Sunday was ‘a day of rest’. He did, however, allow the women to cook and wash up the dinner as he felt sure God would accept this necessity. Grandma used to bemoan this fact, and groused under her breath that it would do him no harm to go without a meal, as his paunch was now so large ‘he was digging his grave with his teeth’. She always went out of her way to annoy him and her favourite taunt was opening and closing the door to the hall as often as she could. It had a ball bearing catch he had made in his own engineering workshop that clicked loudly on opening and closing. Today, Mother flinched with every clunk. ‘You should put her straight, Father. You know she’s trying to rile you.’ But Grandpa always made some sort of excuse. 129

GILLIAN EVE

‘Let it lie, love. Poor lass had another bad night – woke up screaming – couldn’t breathe properly. She’s been worse recently.’ He rubbed his hand over his eyes, leaving them red and watery. ‘Aye, it’s a rum do.’ Mother patted his knee and told him he was a saint. She said this quite often, which confused Hildy because he didn’t look much like the pictures of saints hanging in the church rooms. Grandma had ‘slaved over’ roast capon with both roast and mashed potatoes, and a deep apple pie with custard that would have served the whole congregation. Hildy always asked for seconds, like Grandpa did, because Grandma always looked so pleased, but Mother would always refuse, saying she was ‘watching her waistline’. Hildy puzzled over where Grandma’s waist was, with her flat bust hanging very low inside her silk blouse, over her rounded tummy. Mother often said that Grandma was quite a beauty when young, but all Hildy could see now were crinkles around her eyes and above her lips, and strange purple squiggles on her cheeks. Once, when Hildy had stayed the night with Grandma, she had peeped through her bedroom door and watched her sitting in front of her dressing table. In the mirror, which had three parts, hundreds of Grandmas were reflected back, in long white nighties, smearing thick dollops of cold cream over their faces. They all unpinned the plaits wound over the top of their heads, and their crimped, grey hair hung in wisps down past their waists. Grandpa clattered his knife and fork on to his dinner plate. ‘Thank you, Jesse lass, that wo’ champion,’ he said, patting his bulging waistcoat. Grandma glared back at him and clanked dirty silver cutlery in a tureen next to the cold greens. ‘Could you at least pass the plates along to me, then perhaps get off your bottom and see to mending the fire,’ she snapped. ‘And you two girls, be careful, keep back, right away from the hearth, we don’t want any accidents.’ She always fussed about danger, even where there really wasn’t any – she just managed to make everyone on edge. ‘I’ll wash and you three wipe.’ Mother motioned to Hildy through the kitchen doorway to come and help. Why was it always her? Why was Dora allowed to keep on playing and having fun with Grandfather? As usual, Father and Uncle Tom both slumped in easy chairs, sleeping off their huge dinner. Grandma clattered pans on to newspaper-lined shelves above their 130

heads, recounting how she had met their neighbour, Councillor Cyril Arbus, while they queued to get their books stamped at the library. He had whispered to her, pointing at the new librarian: ‘Who ever employed that ugly Jewess? They certainly need their heads seeing to.’ Whatever a Jewess was, Hildy thought it sounded rude, and she didn’t like Grandma laughing as if she agreed with him. ‘He’s always been an obnoxious man,’ said Mother, swabbing the side with a sopping grey dishcloth. ‘I heard he was one of Moseley’s lot in the Thirties – definitely a man to be avoided, that Cyril Arbus.’ Aunt Ilana groaned with the effort of lifting the enormous blue meat plate from the draining board and began wiping off the bubbles that still frothed across the underside. It started to slip out of her hands and she squealed as it crashed on to the terracotta tiles. No one in the kitchen moved. The only sound was the fridge whirring. Grandpa and Dora stopped chatting and stared across, their faces like those of naughty children waiting outside the headmistress’s office. Was Grandma in a good mood or would she scream and shout and start banging doors and being really horrible to Grandpa, telling him he was useless and that she should never have married him? Hildy crossed her fingers under the tea towel so hard she crushed her knuckles. Grandma fetched a metal dustpan and brush, pulled her best skirt up above her knees and knelt down to sweep up the sharp pieces, saying nothing. Everyone could breathe again. Later, Grandma led Hildy into the back parlour, like she always did, leaving the rest of the family relaxing by the fire. She felt relieved when Grandma suggested doing drawing, because she liked that much better than when they played secrets. She didn’t want to hear secrets, especially when Grandma came up close, her warm, damp breath smelling of boiled cabbage. Hildy clambered on to the piano stool that Grandma had dragged up close to the oak table. The stool seat cover was stuffed with coarse horsehair and it chafed the expanse of bare leg between her new white ankle socks and the scalloped hem of her Sunday-best frock. She wriggled from one buttock to the other in an attempt to escape the prickling. Sometimes, before she got up, if Grandma wasn’t looking, Hildy liked to beat this piano stool cushion hard with her clenched hand. This would release fairies from the past, which she could see dancing if there was a shaft of low sun across the room. 131

Mariana Peña Feeney

ariana Peña Feeney is a multi-cultural writer and poet. She was born and raised in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, a city where toborochis, voluptuous trees with pear-shaped trunks and tall, reaching branches, blossom with pink flowers in the height of winter. She had a dual American and Bolivian education and is heavily influenced by American literature and Hispanic poetry. Now she lives in the UK and takes great joy in integrating Britishness into her menagerie of cultures. While studying for her BA in English and Philosophy at Nottingham University she wrote for and co-produced the feminist magazine Artemis. After university she moved back to Bolivia where she worked as creative director for a leading fashion retailer for three years. In 2012, she declared herself a fiction writer (shouting from the roof tops). At Bath Spa University she wrote a collection of short stories and revitalised a life-long love for performance poetry. The Year of the Moon is a short story collection in which Mariana explores themes such as the global ecological crisis, multi-cultural identities, social and feminist issues, and the psychology and language of power dynamics. It bridges South America, the UK, and the US with a cast of recurring characters, mainly young adults coming of age in Santa Cruz’s upper class society. This excerpt is from a story entitled ‘About Beginnings and Getaways’. Marianapf9@gmail.com / thatsquigglyline.wordpress.com

132

About Beginnings and Getaways from The Year of the Moon

very great getaway needs a memorable getaway car. Lucia’s getaway car happens to be one of the many resilient taxis of Santa Cruz City; now, if one could call it memorable – well, other, more colourful words come to mind. ‘Courageous’ is one, like the little engine that could, pushing and puffing, willing itself forward against all odds, braving labyrinths of traffic, all despite its numerous deficiencies. This is where ‘resilient’ comes into play: not even that missing side mirror, or the strange cacophony of sounds that escape it whenever it brakes will discourage it from taking on the road. ‘Inventive’ could, perhaps, be another word. With several alterations and repairs the taxi displays its very own brand of creativity. There, the back door on the near side is stuck on with interwoven patterns of adhesive tape. On that same door a plastic bag plays the role of a window: an understudy, lines memorised, nerves ablaze, shuttering and stuttering against the cold winter wind that sneaks in through the gaps at the meeting of textures, tape, plastic, metal. In the back seat Lucia leans to her right, stretching a gloved hand to trace these crafted contours – not with any particular purpose, just out of curiosity. Another word that comes to mind is ‘transformer’. Not to be confused with science fiction or box office success. It is slang for a car that originally had the steering wheel on the right side, probably brought from Japan, which has been changed to the left to fit the country’s standard. A transformation, yes, but not, of course, without its battle scars. It’s not the first time Lucia has noticed this in a taxi; it would be difficult to ignore that half-covered, half-empty space, the hanging wires marking the place where there once was something important, crucial even. Now those cables drooping out of it start and end without a purpose. There is no blood left in those veins. The 133

MARIANA PENA FEENEY

rumour is that a lot of these transformer cars were bought cheaply because there was something wrong with them: they didn’t comply with the safety standards of countries that enforce safety standards. They were brought here to start again, exempt from the judgement of others; a unique privilege that is theirs and theirs alone. So, ‘memorable’? Not really. She has seen similar taxis, but none in such need of affection. The problem is that this isn’t just any ride: this is her getaway car. This moment of her escape should be exciting, poetic, auspicious; everything she imagined it would be. This is a pivotal scene for the beginning of her adventure. It should be as it is in literature, symbolic of her quest, of her self: the heroine, the rebel, driven by an unwavering sense of purpose while only vaguely aware of her internal panic, innocently attributing her chattering teeth to the cold. It should be like a film. There should be background music, something quirky but haunting, maybe Regina Spektor’s ‘Us’ or Emmy the Great’s ‘Easter Parade’, something to speak for her, to show the depth of her actions, the value in her choice to run away. Something to show that even in this decisive moment of her life she has a sense of humour about it all. Oh, how she wants to have a sense of humour about her little taped-together transformer. Something, anything, to overshadow the niggling fear that it is a bad omen, a bad start. She pictures herself, traversing the city at night in the graceless vehicle. This is the title sequence: this is when the opening credits come up and the song that is to set the tone plays in the background. She decides on Laura Marling’s ‘Devil’s Spoke’. Also, the colours would need to be saturated, just for that first scene, as the focus jumps back and forth from her inside the taxi, to the cars and to the city. This would make the grey around her look interesting and pretty. Also, in a film nobody would have to smell those vestiges of concentrated damp and foul foot odour floating about. Her cinematic escape works for a few seconds. But then the saturated colours leave and the smell of damp feet doesn’t. So she tries something else. She closes her eyes and focuses her attention on the future, which takes her to the past. Tiwanaku: her destination. When she was little, her father told her that it was the sort of place that took your breath away. This made her 134

think that the next breath you took after your breath was taken away had to be a deliberate breath, a breath in which you stopped to feel the air coming into you, a breath unlike every breath that had come before it. No longer an automatic reflex, a breath valued, a breath cherished. This is what she cannot let herself forget: Tiwanaku is the objective, the Gate of the Moon, the start of a new year. This taxi doesn’t need to have any meaning or relevance. Who says it even needs to be included in the story she is crafting for herself? Perhaps her adventure will actually begin at the airport, or on the plane, or even better, at Tiwanaku itself, on her birthday, in that glorious moment at the strike of midnight as she sees the full moon framed within its very own gate. That will be her moment of clarity, of epiphany, a moment worthy of being a beginning. She stares out of the window, the one made of glass, as they zoom through the city. Loud and busy, even at this time of night, even through the noise of the angry plastic bag bashing against itself. (Yes, it’s angry now, for God knows what reasons, it’s become resistant to its role). She gazes out of the glass. Inside her eyes Santa Cruz City distends over a background of dark and silky coffee. This is not the city of her childhood; this is a new city. It reaches, outwards and upwards, as if stretching, desperate for more room. We need more room. They shout. Disembodied voices, gusts of wind against the crystal. For what? What do you need more room for? For all these cars, they shout back. Of course, she sees them, cars that surround her in every direction, cars that traverse the city with her, loyally at first, and then change their minds in an instant turning east as she turns west, stopping as she carries forward. Cars from all walks of life: old banged-up cars with dented fronts, shiny BMWs with dark windows, huge pick-up trucks with dirt on their wheels from trips to the outskirts. Then there are the cargo trucks; they command the roads. Some look like long aluminium rectangles, others, the exhibitionists, impose on her with intimate knowledge of their insides: mounds of ever-diminishing sand, piled-up sacks of cement, furniture tied down with frayed blue ropes, chickens in bouncing square crates. But these giants are surpassed by another breed: the little nameless taxis that dominate by their numbers. Most of them march lopsided with 135

MARIANA PENA FEENEY

some kind of untreatable war wound, like her getaway car with its side mirror half-decapitated, hanging morbidly, clanking against metal. Cars, they shout. Cars that stop abruptly and honk and cut in front of her little transformer, cars that wait and wait while nobody gives them the space to move forward, cars that stop in the middle of the street to pick up and drop off passengers. Well, those are more the buses than the cars, the white sharks; everyone knows to get out of their way for they answer to no man and no law. Cars that block her way to the beginning of her adventure, that make time pass more slowly: time in which her parents could realise she is not home, time they could use to come after her, to stop her. Cars, as far as the eye can see; cars. Yet, there is no open hunting season, no population control for these creatures that breed and breed uncontrollably. More room for what? For their things. The things they carry, these cars that are taking over. For all the newborn babies they take from hospitals to houses. For all the wedding gowns – sometimes with brides inside them – that need to go from houses to churches, and for their long lacy white trains that occasionally get stuck in the doors and trail on the wet pavement picking up dust and empty food wrappers. For the construction materials they carry – oh how they love their building materials, these vehicles. Especially the big trucks that are everywhere – like the one just in front of her now, which carries long metal rods, thin and sharp, stacked together in a shaky pyramid, sticking out the open back like a child’s feet out of pyjama trousers he’s long outgrown. She heard a story once of someone who was driving behind one of these big trucks – lorries, as Phil calls them – and there was an accident. The details escape her, but the truck was hit and the long metal rods were thrust back violently, straight into this person’s dashboard. Who were they? A friend of a friend, as usual. The glass shattered and the metal rods crashed through his windscreen; they were coming straight at his face but stopped within centimetres of his nose. He was unharmed: the mercy of God, they said. She heard of another story, a couple driving to the countryside to meet up with their kids and grandkids for the weekend, friends of her parents, and one of those huge trucks carrying something similar – was it bricks? metal beams? – cut in front of them. They crashed. The load fell on top of them. Nobody made any comments about God for that story. Room for what? Isn’t it obvious? They are demanding creatures, these 136

vehicles, they need a lot around them when they settle in a place. It’s not just the big trucks with their need for buildings to be built so that they can carry materials to and fro. The cars need car parks so they can rest during the day and houses with garages for them to sleep in at night, and all of them, without exception, need their human beings. They need lots and lots of human beings. Who else would take them to the mechanic when they get sick? And who is going to wash the mud off their faces – lovingly? And who is going to take out loans to afford them or not afford them, or steal them, or gawk at them from a distance – longingly? Who else is going to take steamy pictures of them that fill glossy magazines to be gazed at, later, during more private moments? And who else would praise them for their power, abuse them for their weakness, and between the insults let slip out how much they adore them, how their lives would stop without them. Who else is going to put stickers on their backs and racing stripes on their sides, and plastic bags over their broken windows? But most importantly and above all else, who is going to feed their hungry stomachs? Who else is going to give them their daily bread, their dark beverage, their dinosaur bones distilled and volatile, just as they like it? What other beings would do this for them without asking questions (at least not for a few decades)? Who else would treat them with such selfless devotion that they would sacrifice the very air they need to breathe for them, but their humans? They chose well where to settle, these cars, they chose well.

137

Sam Hayward

am’s urge to write started when she won a poetry competition run by The Topper comic in 1963. In 1994, after a succession of mundane jobs, she returned to full-time education and graduated with an upper secondclass honours degree in Journalism from Southampton Solent University. She has since worked as a publications officer for a regional cancer charity, as a newspaper sub-editor and as a freelance journalist. Her first novel, Black to White, was inspired by the loss of her husband to cancer five years ago. She said: ‘It is something he always wanted me to do.’ Susie Chester is trying to come to terms with the death of her beloved husband, John. Her life is in limbo and only starts to change when she meets a man called Peter, who is her guardian angel in human form. Susie offers him some gardening work, and although she finds him mysterious, she doesn’t know his true purpose. They form a friendship, which deepens over time. She begins to find white feathers around the house which, according to her close friend Ali, are supposed to come from angels. With Peter and Ali’s help she starts a relish-making business, which quickly becomes successful, but her life becomes complicated when she falls for a vet called Adam. They have their ups and downs and eventually part. Peter leaves Susie after helping her find true love again and his angel status is finally revealed. hayward3dw@btinternet.com

138

Black to White

here were times when I just wanted to shut myself off from the world. It would have been easy for me to become a recluse and live out my days tending a few goats and growing vegetables. I had plenty of fresh spring water and I had Peter to help me look after the land. He was unlike any other man I’d ever met. He was kind and gentle but also strong-willed, wise and secretive. I found him intriguing. With winter approaching, I wondered what his plans would be. There were still lots of jobs he could do. I hoped he wouldn’t leave. The last blooms of summer were hanging on. Their dogged determination made me think of my own fight for survival. I’d come a long way since the day I lost you. The hardest part was accepting that you didn’t exist anymore. At first it had been frightening. Everything had seemed so empty. I would listen to my footsteps on the stairs. Even the sound of my breathing was amplified. Noises that I hadn’t noticed before, like a door closing or a tap running, emphasised my solitude. Being alone was alien to me, especially eating by myself, but that’s become bearable now and I’ve got used to my own company. I still catch glimpses of you out of the corner of my eye. Certain colours, especially red, seem to appear and disappear. Flashes of you wearing your red jumper or red and white striped shirt make me believe I’ve seen you, but I know this is all in my mind. Old images imprinted on my brain coming alive again. Memories I can’t erase. The garden still brings me joy. When I look at Peter sometimes I want him to be you; I want to put my arms around him and just stand and admire what we created. Adam is different, more complex, but I feel drawn to him. Peter was walking towards me holding a small scythe. I’d been so 139

SAM HAYWARD

absorbed I hadn’t realised he’d started work. He wanted to show me what he planned to do over the next few weeks, so we went to the top of the garden and he pointed out the tree branches that needed to come down and the hedges he planned to cut. ‘It seems I’ll have plenty to keep me busy over the winter – that’s if you want me to stay on?’ I was glad he didn’t want to leave. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do without you. You’ve been such a great help and, anyway, I’d miss you.’ He looked embarrassed and laughed as if to hide it, but his flushed cheeks gave him away. I put my hand on his arm and felt his muscles tense. ‘You remind me, in some ways, of my father and I love having you around.’ A warm feeling flowed through my hand and up my arm. There was a strange energy about him. ‘I wondered if you’d like to stay for lunch. It’ll only be something simple – like a ploughman’s?’ ‘That would be nice.’ ‘You’ll be able to try some of my new relish.’ He smiled. ‘Better get on then.’ I went down to the bench that sat in an alcove overlooking the valley. Cumulus clouds were racing across the sky and birds were struggling to fly against the wind. I loved blustery days like this when leaves and twigs would be whipped up and whirled around and the branches of trees would bend until they were almost breaking. It was exhilarating and wild and I felt part of it. Nothing mattered. My worries were being blown away and I wanted to laugh out loud. I looked up to where Peter was working. For a moment I pictured you. We’d always enjoyed walking at this time of year. It wasn’t cold enough for coats, just thick jumpers and boots. We’d walk for hours over the fields and then worry about getting back before dark. When we got home we’d light a fire and relax with a glass of wine before cooking something to eat, our faces glowing. This thought brought me back down to earth. I went back to the house trying desperately to blank out my memories before they made me cry. Preparing lunch was a distraction and when I opened the relish a delicious spicy smell rose into the air. I put a large spoonful next to the cheese on Peter’s plate and tried a little on a cracker to see how it tasted now it had thickened. The tang made my mouth water and the combination of 140

flavours worked well. I wondered what Peter would think of it. The labelling on the jar had a quirky Victorian look about it and the word ‘aphrodisiac’ stood out. I felt sure it would sell, although I couldn’t help seeing the funny side. It was difficult to imagine people wanting to have their sex lives enhanced by a relish, but what if it actually worked? Peter was raking the hedge trimmings into a huge pile ready for burning once they were dry. When I called him he threw down the rake and took off his gloves. I opened the conservatory doors so we could look out over the garden and down the windswept valley. Peter helped himself to bread and picked up the jar of relish to read the label. ‘“Asparagus, orange and white wine” … sounds delicious.’ He turned the jar around. ‘“According to the seventeenth-century herbalist Mr Nicholas Culpeper, the ingredients of this relish are an aphrodisiac. Use sparingly.”’ He laughed. ‘Susie, that’s excellent.’ He put some on a piece of cheese and ate it slowly, savouring the flavour. He then ate some more. ‘This is really good and it’s going to sell well, I know it is.’ I laughed. ‘Thanks for your vote of confidence.’ ‘No, really, it is. You’re on to a winner. Believe me.’ I thought, from the way Peter was devouring his food, he wanted the relish to work. ‘You’ve got a healthy appetite. Did you have breakfast this morning?’ ‘No, just a cup of tea. I usually make up for it at lunchtime. I think it’s good to eat when you’re really hungry. You appreciate it more.’ I couldn’t argue with that. ‘Do you do all the cooking at home?’ ‘Yes. I do everything.’ He looked at me. ‘You’re a good person Susie and good things are going to happen to you, but please be careful where Adam is concerned.’ I was too stunned to answer. His eyes held mine for a few seconds but I had to look away; I couldn’t bear their intensity. I felt angry but knew, if I responded, I would say something I’d regret, so I pretended I hadn’t heard him and changed the subject. My hands were shaking as I cleared the table. Peter got up. ‘I’ll do a bit more clearing up before I put everything away.’ He acted as though nothing had happened and, as he walked into the 141

SAM HAYWARD

garden, he looked back at me. I watched him walk up the steps and for a moment thought I heard him singing. The wind had eased and the clouds had merged into dense grey mounds. It looked like rain but not immediately. I heard Peter’s car leave. I was annoyed with him and couldn’t believe his audacity, but maybe he was just trying to protect me. How gallant. The more I thought about him, the angrier I became. Our relationship from now on would be on a more formal footing and I would keep my personal life to myself. It had been tempting to confront him about Adam, but this time I didn’t feel he was acting out of jealousy. He seemed genuinely concerned. It then occurred to me that they might have met: Peter’s father had a pet cat. A few large drops of rain landed at my feet. I looked westward along the valley; a grey mist had blotted out the horizon. It was just over a week until Beth’s charity fair and I still had more relishes to make. That afternoon I made another twenty-four jars – twelve more of the asparagus, orange and white wine, plus twelve of the cucumber, red pepper and basil. When I’d finished, my anger towards Peter had subsided. I went to the study to produce some labels. Afterwards I checked my emails and noticed one from Adam. It was two days old. ‘Just wondering how you are and whether we can get together again soon?’ I typed a quick reply. ‘Yes, I’m free this Saturday. Would you like to go for a walk somewhere?’ The torrential rain spattered against the window. I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter’s warning, wondering what he meant. Adam arrived on the dot of eleven. He got out of the car, kissed me on the cheek, then opened the passenger door for me. ‘Well, the weather’s not too bad. Maybe we could go to the country park at Hinton followed by lunch at The Fox. What do you think?’ ‘That sounds good to me.’ He looked relaxed in his jeans, blue and white striped shirt and grey jumper. I noticed he was wearing aftershave. It was a delicate musky fragrance that reminded me of sandalwood. I said my scar had healed well 142

and joked about our first date being impossible to forget and he told me about the ups and downs of his week at work. It seemed I wasn’t the only cause of his moods. Half an hour later we pulled into the parking area at the country park and sat for a while enjoying the far-reaching views of a wooded valley. It was peaceful and, apart from a few other cars, we were alone. Adam reached over to get a map from the back seat. As he leaned towards me he said, ‘I’ve missed you.’ He opened the map and spread it across our laps so that we could see the network of footpaths. We chose to walk the five-mile route which would take us downhill for the first mile, along a flat section, then up a winding woodland path that led back to the car park. I tightened the laces on my walking boots and got out of the car. The air was crisp and I inhaled deeply. Adam changed his shoes and put on a windproof jacket. He took my hand and held it tightly as if he was afraid I might run off if he let go. ‘Come on then. Let’s get going.’ His hand was smaller and his fingers shorter than yours. I remembered how you used to rub the back of my hand with your thumb. It was soothing and affectionate. The sun broke through the clouds and shone through the trees. We walked in silence for a while, our footsteps thudding on the path, and then Adam said, ‘How are you really bearing up, Susie – you know, coping with life on your own?’ I knew he would ask sooner or later. I wanted to say everything was fine but I couldn’t. ‘I have good days and bad days.’ ‘I suppose it was a stupid question. It’s not even a year since you lost John. I’m sorry.’ ‘No, life is getting easier and I’m beginning to look forward again. I’ve come up with an idea that might help me start a small business.’ I told him about my relishes. ‘Food always sells. It sounds interesting. I’d like to try some.’ His sultry expression made me laugh and I said I’d be selling them on a stall at Beth’s charity fair. ‘I’m manning a second-hand book stall. Maybe we’ll end up next to each other.’

143

Kathryn Hind

athryn Hind is a young Australian writer currently living in Bristol. Her publications include short stories in literary journals based in Canberra and Melbourne, and an essay about the cultural significance of the Australian flag. She also has a poem published on a bus. In Hitch, Amelia is a young woman hitch-hiking through Australia with her dog, Lucy, a kelpie-cross. She’s been travelling for a year and the reader joins her at the end of her journey as she moves towards her best friend Sid’s house in Melbourne. Along the way she makes unlikely connections and enemies, haunted by what lies behind her. This extract takes place shortly after a visit to Crystal Brook’s pharmacy, where Amelia picks up the morning-after pill following a mishap the night before. She meets George, a bright-eyed young girl, who offers respite from the heat and battle of the road, and from Ron and Brenda, an uptight couple who have given Amelia a ride and await her return to their motel. kathryn.leigh.hind@gmail.com

144

Hitch

melia walked down the ramp and the girl followed like a stray. She decided to embrace her presence rather than spend the afternoon wishing she’d disappear. ‘What’s your name then?’ ‘George,’ the girl said. ‘I’m Amelia.’ ‘Cool, let’s go.’ George latched on to Amelia’s hand and pulled her ahead. Amelia was lethargic; she dragged her feet in big, heavy strides in defiance of the excited tugs. Lucy had taken a liking to George, jumping and nipping at her fingertips as they walked. Amelia wondered where the girl’s parents were. George led her to a rocky bank that ran behind the main street, providing a view of hoppers and palettes, the messy back dock of the supermarket. They scrambled down and met a wall of scrub. ‘Come on, I know the way,’ George said. They charged ahead through the long grass; Amelia was concerned about snakes, but dared not mention it. George moved quickly, and Amelia soon lost sight of her. She walked, slapping at her sticky, itchy legs, until she reached a clearing; a brown creek ran before her. Shaded by gum trees, she quickly opened the box from the chemist and pushed the pill out of its blister pack. She placed it on the back of her tongue and swallowed, feeling the journey of the tablet as it wedged at intervals down her throat. There was a splash nearby and Lucy barked, out of sight. She turned and saw the creek recovering around a point of impact; a rope swing skimmed the surface of the water, moving silently over the creek bank, its passenger delivered. She watched the murky water, waiting for George to emerge, but the ripples receded into stillness. 145

KATHRYN HIND

‘Lucy, come.’ Lucy’s collar tags clinked in response as she made her way to Amelia’s side, stirring a mob of lazy cockatoos from some low branches. There was a flurry and then their urgent, invasive screeches overhead. Shadows of trees played tricks on her and several times she thought she saw the girl’s body moving to the water’s surface. She stepped right up to the edge of the bank; the rope’s passage pointed to George’s white dress, discarded on the shore. She hated this trick. This wasn’t even her kid. Lucy barked again. At the same moment Amelia was prepared to jump into the muddy water – how would she see? how deep was it? would she be too late? – George emerged with a spurt, three-quarters of the way to the opposite bank. ‘This is the farthest I ever got!’ She was gasping for breath, her voice echoing between the mud banks and walls of trees. ‘Pretty far,’ Amelia said, crouching down, putting her fingers on the damp dirt for balance, allowing her heartbeat to slow. Three mosquitoes landed in quick succession on her arm; she slapped them off, squashing one of them in a spray of blood and dismemberment. ‘Can you do it?’ George called, head bobbing in the water. Amelia stood and wiped the dead insect on her shorts. ‘Doubt it,’ she said, arms crossed over her chest. ‘Jump in,’ George said. She dived below the surface of the water, flashing the orange of her swimming bottoms. Perhaps a swim would wake her up, give her the energy required to see the day out. Lucy snuffled at the ground nearby. George surfaced and rubbed the water out of her eyes. ‘Come on!’ The kid was so excited; an only child, Amelia remembered the thrill of finding someone to play with on a family holiday. She picked her way up the bank. When she reached George’s dress, she slipped off her shoes, unbuttoned her shorts and let them drop, then lifted her T-shirt over her head. ‘Woo woo!’ George called. Amelia hadn’t considered it might be strange to swim in her underwear; the little bow at the top of her undies seemed somehow too intimate, and her bra was edged with lace, displaying her breasts, high and rounded. George stood knee-deep in the water, staring. Her body was flat and rectangular, though Amelia recognised the hint of a curve at her sides. Her own hips had sneaked up on her; one day they were just there, foreign and mature. The material of George’s bikini top was crumpled and empty over the place her breasts would one day grow. George 146

continued to stare in silence. The judgement of children intimidated her, as if in their innocence, or at least their youth, they were somehow closer to truth, to purity. And they could be brave in their expression, unhindered by expectation or consequence. Although Amelia couldn’t remember a time when she was not aware of her responsibility to those around her, to be polite and never cause trouble, perhaps she once had the nerve to stare with such blatant inquiry. She peered over the edge of the bank, gauging her potential course on the rope swing. ‘How deep is it?’ ‘Real deep. Can’t touch, see.’ George swam out, near to the place where she’d first disappeared. She held her hand up straight and sank. After a few seconds she reappeared, eyes tight shut, water falling in a sheet over her face. ‘Didn’t even make it to the bottom. No rocks or nothin’, promise.’ The rope hung dormant at the water’s edge. Amelia stretched, managing to collect it in her fingertips, then gripped the coarse, tight weave in her hand. She walked backwards with it up the bank, careful not to falter under George’s gaze. She tested the rope’s strength; the branch overhead creaked but was solid. With her hands high up the twine she launched off the bank, scrambling to place her feet on the thick knot at the rope’s end. She swung, squealing despite herself as she cut cleanly through thick air, hair whipping around her face. At its highest point she let go of the rope, slapping the water on her side. She relaxed, allowing the momentum of the fall to take her below the surface. The world became quiet and dense; she was aware only of her own body, the clicking of her bones, the release of air from her mouth, the gurgle of her left ear filling up with water. She longed to stay in that simple peace, but her lungs failed her, forcing her upwards. She opened her eyes beneath the water, heart beating too fast, time for air. The sun shone down on the water’s brown surface, making it pale like the dregs of a drink once the ice has melted. She kicked hard and reached air just in time. Lucy barked from the bank, tail wagging. George clapped her hands. ‘I’m gonna go again!’ she yelled, splashing water in two arcs; droplets hit Amelia’s shoulders and face. George scampered up the bank, hopping from rock to rock. Amelia lay on her back, gently kicking her arms and legs, chest heaving. Water seeped into her other ear as she floated between the buzzing world above and the slow, addictive depths. 147

KATHRYN HIND

They walked barefoot along the main street back to Wattle Lodge, hair dripping down their backs, marking their clothes. The street was deserted and Amelia had no idea how long they’d stayed by the creek; water had a strange way of erasing time. It was still hot outside but the sun had surrendered its sting; the light had an orange quality to it that suggested late afternoon. Anxiety rose in Amelia, a familiar feeling at this part of the day, the last hours before darkness. She had to face Ron and negotiate the night’s arrangements. She supposed she’d have to offer money for the motel, though she hoped they wouldn’t take it seeing as Brenda had insisted she stay with them. Perhaps Ron had been in Brenda’s ear and convinced her to change her mind. In that case Amelia would have to hit the road, and there was something desperate about hitching at night; she became someone who was homeless, in need of much more than a lift. It was a shame because at that time roads buzzed with truckies on long-haul journeys. George ran her fingers along buildings as she walked past, leaving slimy trails along shopfronts. She sang and made noises to herself, lifting her fingers at certain sounds, occasionally adding a twirl, then returning to her trail. Her feet slapped against the pavement and the remaining sunshine caught the fine hairs on her brown summer legs. A dark line ran down the side of her dress near her hip, perhaps a smudge of mud leftover from the creek. She spun again and revealed a round stain on the white material; it had the deep red-black of blood. ‘Stop for a sec, George,’ Amelia said. She was surprised when George obeyed; perhaps a tone of worry had infiltrated her voice. ‘What?’ George said, turning to face her. ‘Are you hurt?’ she said. ‘No, why?’ ‘There’s a mark on your dress.’ George looked down. Lucy sniffed at the girl’s feet. ‘Sugar,’ she said, holding her dress out. She hitched it up past her waist, revealing her orange swimming bottoms, the row of blue flowers along the top. A fat black leech took its fill, attached to George’s not-yet-there hip. Bright, fresh blood was smeared around it; George smacked at it once, but it didn’t move. She danced around, whining, ‘What should I do? What should I do?’ Amelia wasn’t sure. Salt or fire, she thought she’d heard, neither of 148

which she had on hand. ‘Calm down. Calm down!’ she said. ‘Just stop for a sec.’ George managed to slow herself but couldn’t help flapping her hands around the leech. It was an invader; beige stripes ran up its ribbed, pulsing body, its alien mouth suctioned tightly onto flesh. Her own skin crawled; there was every chance they were hanging off her too. As if it was aware of having been discovered, the leech dropped off, hitting the ground without a sound in the eerie way of insects. It wriggled helplessly, full and stupid. Lucy sniffed around it, though didn’t go too close. George jumped away and Amelia stepped back, trying to keep her cool. ‘You all right?’ she said. ‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘Fine. See ’em all the time.’ Amelia didn’t pull George up on her obvious fear, on her frantic bouncing around panic. Her relentless quest to be knowledgeable and brave was transparent and failing, but Amelia respected it; the kid had guts. She wondered how much of it would last as she grew up, how much fire would remain over the years. The leech continued to wriggle between their two pairs of feet. Amelia considered squashing it with a stick or a rock, but decided to let it die a long, slow death in front of Crystal Brook’s electrics store; a sewing machine, a vacuum cleaner and an automatic whisk watched on. They continued walking; George was quiet after the shock. Amelia searched her own body for invasion, running her hands up and down her legs and arms tentatively, willing herself to do so even though if she had one or more on her, she’d prefer them to remain a dirty secret, dropping off when they’d taken what they wanted. ‘Lift up your shirt,’ George said. ‘I’ll check ya.’ Amelia did so, and George placed her clammy, small hands on her abdomen, spinning her around gently, face serious while she inspected. ‘Okay, crouch down.’ Amelia’s knee cracked as she squatted to George’s height. The girl stood behind her, pulling at the neck of her T-shirt and feeling the surface of her back with her palms. ‘All clear,’ she said, her voice full of importance. ‘Now check me.’ She lifted her arms in the air, and circled slowly. Amelia looked down her back, checked her armpits and neck; George lifted her dress and Amelia scanned her flat tummy. ‘I’ve got an outy,’ George said, fingering her belly button. ‘Mine’s an inny,’ Amelia said. ‘All clear.’

149

Julian Hussey

graduate of London University’s Westfield College and the Central School of Speech and Drama, Julian Hussey worked briefly as an actor before taking a desk job. He was in the vanguard of developing the business community’s response to HIV, working in Kenya, South Africa, India, the US, Mexico and the Caribbean, as well as Europe. His freelance writing includes published research, training manuals, websites, reports and speeches for major NGOs, multinational corporations and the UN. Elephant in the Room is Julian’s first novel. Benedict Dance lost his mother fifteen years ago when he was six. He has few memories of her and seems to have coped in the new family his father has improvised, but this changes when he turns twenty-one. Elephant in the Room opens on his birthday. When he is given a collection of the bedtime stories his father used to assuage his childhood grief, Ben begins to unpick the comfort blanket of his obsessions, determined to discover where they came from. As an art student – a sculptor – his preoccupations with pattern and with the physical environment of his hometown of Bath have found their niche, but why does he care so much about elephants? It doesn’t help that his best friend, Angie, suddenly wants to be more than friends. Everything is changing in Ben’s carefully constructed world. His new obsession with the truth could be the making of him but, sensitive and vulnerable, Ben may simply not be up to the job. julian.hussey@btinternet.com

150

Elephant in the Room

he bedroom was neat except for a knot of men’s clothing on the floor at the end of the bed. The winter sun was jagged by the surviving panes of old glass in the sash window; the light dragged itself across the white beams of the ceiling, thin and exhausted, and a sweet but unpleasant smell of sweat and alcohol hung in the air. The young man woke up and pressed a large hand to the side of his head, pushing his fingers under his mop of dark brown hair. ‘Oh my days,’ he whispered to no one in particular, as he lived there by himself, but before he closed his eyes again he noticed the pattern of the old beams’ irregular edges lit against their deep shadows; he felt heavier than usual, felt the beams and not his duvet had him pinned to the bed. He wasn’t used to hangovers; he was tall and young and not too fond of drinking but today his luck was out. He sniffed the air, frowned and opened his eyes again, aware of something beyond the pain crawling under his scalp and the dry fur on his swollen tongue. ‘What is this?’ the girl demanded. She sat on the other side of the bed, staring at the stripes of narrow shelves that filled the irregular old wall from floor to ceiling. The boy sat up so quickly it hurt. He was aware he should replace his look of shock with one of delighted surprise, but it wouldn’t come. She wasn’t looking at him anyway. ‘What is this?’ she asked again. She pulled her prettily patterned dress tighter around her small frame, showing her ribs, and pointed up at the top shelf. He felt relieved that the nature of her enquiry spared him adhering to 151

JULIAN HUSSEY

the etiquette for finding a strange girl in your bed, because he did not know what that etiquette was. ‘That’s – that’s Ganesh,’ he managed to say, though the voice was oddly gruff and his soft palette felt as if every word was dragged across it in a sharp-edged silver spoon. ‘Why does he have the head of an elephant?’ She continued to stare up at the small statue next to the window, as bright and glossy as car paint. ‘He was the son of a— ’ he sucked his teeth, dislodging a noxious particle of food he could not identify ‘ —of a Hindu goddess, Parvati. When her husband, Shiva, wanted to see her in the bath, the boy wouldn’t let him through, so he cut off his head.’ His tongue was loose again and the words spilled out of him, straight into his lap, which is where he was staring. ‘His own son? Are you Hindu then?’ She turned and showed him a pretty round face that matched the sing-song bell of her voice. ‘Er, no, I’m not.’ That was easy enough; good job she hadn’t asked something difficult, like ‘Do you believe in God?’. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of his answer. ‘Oh. He wasn’t Shiva’s son, to begin with. Parvati had made him because she was lonely. She made him out of soap – or something.’ He needn’t sound so uncertain, he thought, he knew perfectly well Parvati had fashioned Ganesh from what was left of her sandalwood soap. ‘Yes, she made him out of soap.’ He thought he should crawl across the bed to sit next to her, but he couldn’t move. He swallowed and tried to picture himself recounting the myth with his arm braced against her back as she stared adoringly up into his face. He felt his dick push against his underpants. ‘Sounds a bit shit,’ she sneered before he could start to explain. ‘So, what, he had his soap head cut off and they stuck an elephant head on instead?’ ‘Er, yeah,’ he mumbled, eyes flicking between his crotch and the open door. He could have told her the little statue represented all of creation and our relationship to it, our difficult passage from the worldly to the spiritual life, that Ganesh’s fat belly contained the infinite universe; it had never been as clear to him as it was now. He could have told her how he 152

liked to contemplate the little figure and consider who he was and what he was doing in the world; but something told him not to bother. ‘The crap people believe! But he should be in the middle of the display – he is the prettiest.’ She waved a dismissive hand across the ranks of elephants, other animals and mixed objects that filled the narrow shelves. ‘He’s not that important,’ he lied, grateful he had followed his instincts. ‘It’s not like I worship them or anything.’ ‘’Course not.’ She paused. She couldn’t see it, the pattern he’d created, or the inevitability of it all. He looked at the middle shelf where a parade of animals led away from the nativity scene. He’d arranged the wide-eyed Joseph, wise men and shepherds in a kind of Tarantino standoff around the crib; a sad little sheep with matchstick legs and a black face stared after the pairs of lions, giraffes and cows that signified his ark period. They came to a halt at his mother’s Venetian glass paperweight and after that the elephants started. His erection had subsided. ‘You got a thing about elephants, then?’ No girl had asked him this, not in such an interrogatory manner; no girl had ever seen this collection for no girl had ever been in his room before, apart from Angie, and she didn’t count. What did he expect? Perhaps a multitude of little elephants was no more an aphrodisiac than a surfeit of Star Wars figures or model trains. He looked at her, not the elephants; it was as close as he could come to an answer. A shrill version of a popular song emerged from the girl’s bag. She slid to her knees and dug around until she found her phone, cerise and sparkling. Ben didn’t recognise the song; he didn’t follow the charts. She sprang up and tiptoed around the room as she conducted her conversation. ‘All right? Yeah, me too. Oh yeah!’ She looked at the young man with a glint in her green eyes. ‘It was dope – I’ll tell you later. Later! Okay. Whatevs. Yeah. Laters.’ She carefully returned the phone to her bag. ‘What?’ She stared with her head on one side. ‘She don’t need to know that nothing happened. What? You don’t remember do you? O – M – G!’ ‘No, I,’ he started. ‘So what’s my name? What’s my name … Ben?’ She laughed and tried 153

JULIAN HUSSEY

to pirouette but her bare foot wouldn’t slide on the painted floorboards. ‘It’s all right, I’m messing with you. You was shitfaced! And you were so sick. I don’t think you even knew I was here.’ She glanced back at the shelves. ‘And you’re not really my type. No hard feelings.’ She laughed again. ‘I gotta go.’ ‘Sorry,’ he said. Ben really was sorry, though not that she had to leave. ‘I’m Celine. I just need to use your bathroom.’ Apparently Celine knew the way, but at the door she stopped and turned to him. ‘Don’t try and follow me, Shiv,’ she warned and drew her forefinger across her throat. Ben knocked over the empty washing-up bowl as he got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. Someone had also left a pint glass of water on the desk; he gargled some before he drained the glass. His relief was immediate. Nothing had happened and he had no reason to see this girl ever again. But she was pretty. He allowed himself to smile, his first smile of the day. ‘Right.’ She was back, lipstick applied and dark hair brushed or somehow different. She checked herself in his full-length mirror and something about the way she pouted made him think she might still be at school. She wasn’t more than eighteen. She glanced at him, naked apart from his paint-spattered jeans. ‘You might be a bit weird, but you’re built. I gotta scoot. Mum’ll start to miss me in an hour or so.’ She slipped on her impossibly slight shoes, picked up her bag and made her way towards the door. ‘It was nice to meet you, Celine,’ he offered. ‘You too.’ She came back to where he stood, the edge of his bed cutting a groove in the back of his calves, and reached up to kiss him. Because she was quite short and he was so tall she placed her small, cold fingers on the nape of his neck and pulled his face down to her level. He closed his eyes. For a wonderful moment the cool pressure eased his headache. ‘Happy birthday, Ben,’ she whispered then gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘I can let myself out. Laters!’ After some light footsteps on the stairs he heard the door to the street slam shut. That might have gone differently, he thought. He had forgotten it was his birthday; in fact he had forgotten pretty much everything. Someone must have given him a card in the pub the night before; it lay crumpled on the floor next to his trainers. No wonder she could remember his name. Twenty-one, he was twenty-one – good grief! He lay back on the 154

bed, catching the flowery scent that had woken him to the girl’s presence. He closed his eyes: yes – that could have gone differently. Where did you get this beautiful statue of Ganesh? he could hear a different Celine asking. He’s gorgeous! He was my mother’s. And she gave it to you? No, she died. When I was six. She was an artist too. Oh my poor baby. It must be very precious to you. Come here. He imagined this Celine pulling his face to her breasts with her cool hands and gently kissing the top of his head. He could have ignored his headache for that. He undid the top button of his jeans. His phone rang out, a Marimba that wouldn’t stop just because he’d saddled himself with his first horrific hangover. As he reached for the phone he noticed the clean space in the dust where one of his smallest elephants had been, in the centre of the middle shelf. His father sang ‘Happy birthday’ down the phone. ‘Hi Dad.’ He stared at the shelf and felt the lining of his throat become as hard as the edges of his phone. ‘Happy birthday, Ben! So, how does it feel to be twenty-one, all grown-up?’ Ben’s six-foot-four frame curled from the head down, until he was sitting hunched on the edge of his bed, as green as a prehistoric fern. ‘I’ll call you back.’ Ben dived across the bed and reached for the overturned plastic bowl.

155

Richard Irvine

ichard Irvine was born in Belfast in 1971. His work has been published in the UK, US, Ireland and Canada. In his spare time he runs Netherlea Press and is currently editor of the literary journal, Belle Ombre. In October 2014, he will begin a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia. Ad hoc is his first novel. In 1997, Clarence Metcalf unexpectedly walked away from his life as a vicar in Ireland to live in post-war Mozambique. Now, fifteen years later, happily married with a young family, he is forced to revisit the past by an uninvited guest. Ad hoc is a psychological drama played out among the rural landscapes of Ireland and southern Africa. It is concerned with memory, fantasy and the nature of guilt. richard@netherleapress.com

156

Ad hoc

hen choosing a name for our daughter, my wife and I had different ideas. Zuri wished for her to have a Western name so that when she moved to Britain or the United States she would blend in as though born there. I wanted her to be named something traditional, like her mother, that would ground her to Mozambique no matter where she lived. In the end, Zuri had her way and we named her Gretchen, after my own mother. It is five months now since Simon Cunningham came to visit. I only mention Gretchen’s name because I remember on the morning of the day he arrived I was watching her play in the garden with the dog and it occurred to me that the strangeness of the name suited her. Her straight hair and pale-brown skin lent her a Mediterranean look – although over the years people here had tended to assume she was Portuguese, owing to our country’s colonial ties. I’d rarely heard anyone ask when meeting her if she was Mozambican, and I’m sure the idea that she might have Irish blood had never crossed their minds. It was as if her mother and I had disappeared within her, subsumed by our new creation who bore no marks to her ancestry. The day Simon arrived had started normally enough. It was mid-July and the schools were out for a week. Gretchen’s twelfth birthday was in a few days and we were planning our usual winter trip up north to camp in the elephant reserve at Santa Maria. The parcel I’d received from Simon the previous week with the note announcing his intention to visit had come as a shock, but I don’t think I expected it to delay us for more than a day or two. To be honest, I had little idea what to expect; I hadn’t thought about Simon for years. 157

RICHARD IRVINE

I remember that morning I was sitting on the porch after breakfast, watching our dog spring up from his haunches to catch the leaves Gretchen let float down from over her head in the garden. Nearby, Zuri was laying wet clothes over mbondwe bushes because the line was full already with linens from the bed. There was no wind, but at 7am the air was warm and the clothes would dry quickly enough. After laying down the last item, she looked at me on the veranda and smiled. She didn’t reveal her teeth, it wasn’t that kind of smile – it was rather one that said, Whatever is wrong, I am with you. The newspaper Simon had posted with his letter lay open on the table beside me, its pages ruffling in the breeze. Around it were the remains of our breakfast: banana skins; empty grapefruit halves; a couple of slices of tomato on a plate. A mosquito hovered over the tomato, looking wary of touching its wetness and I flapped it away with one hand. A coffee pot stood on top of the newspaper, preventing its pages from turning. It was an old, battered thing we’d picked up at a market in Durban years before, but we believed it made the best coffee. The custard-yellow enamel was chipped white in places, and black where it had been damaged deeper, down to the metal. I had a habit of rolling my thumb over one of the grooves, back and forth like the hollow of a worry stone, and this is what I’d been doing when Zuri gave me that smile. I knew I was going to have to tell her about Ireland – or at least enough to explain Simon’s visit – and it was natural that she had picked up on my discomfort. I think we’d had a tacit understanding from the beginning that our pasts were places neither wished to dwell. I knew something of Zuri’s childhood during the Civil War, but swathes lay buried and I hadn’t pushed for greater clarity than that which was offered up now and then through sparse anecdotes and reminiscences. I know more now, of course. We’ve discussed and dissected one another’s lives in great depth over the past few months, learning much of one another. But back then I knew little more than that she’d grown up near Mueda, three thousand kilometres from where we lived, not far from the border with Tanzania, and that aged twelve, in the winter of 1990, she had wandered south for many months looking for work, eventually arriving in Maputo where nuns took her into the orphanage – not because she was an orphan herself, although she was, but to work and care for the smaller children. It was there, in the Beatriz de Menezes da Silva orphanage, that Zuri and I would meet seven years later. 158

I suspect the reason my curiosity was so easily assuaged – and I was curious – was that I, too, gave away little of my life before Mozambique. When I arrived here, it was to begin again. It had been easy in those days: thousands were doing the same since the war ended, and people enquired little of one another, not wishing to discuss outside the privacy of their own minds what experiences they’d endured. I’ve always suspected one of the reasons Zuri was so attracted to me was some sort of unconscious understanding that I was a kindred spirit in this regard: that here was a man with whom she could share her life without having to share her life’s story. Whether this is true or not, I don’t know, but it’s a fact that in the fourteen years we’d been together she had rarely asked me about Ireland, and when she did it was some vague or imprecise query about life in the West and what it might be like for Gretchen to live there someday. I pushed the coffee pot to one side, revealing the story I’d read many times over the past few days. It would have been unremarkable had Simon not outlined it in red marker in the shape of a pistol butt: Ballinstown, Dublin – Leon Fox, 53, of Monks Street, Dublin 2, was found dead yesterday (23rd) from knife wounds in his flat on Hunters Estate. Mr Fox, originally from Co. Leitrim, had Down’s syndrome. A spokesperson for the Gardai said they are not seeking anyone in connection with the incident. Zuri and Gretchen climbed the stone steps from the garden on to the veranda. Gretchen was swinging the empty bag used to hold the clothes pegs. The dog jumped each time it flew close. ‘Podermos ir para a praia?’ she asked, sitting down next to me. The dog headed under the table and attempted to scrape a space between us. I gave his nose a slap and he retreated. ‘What day is it?’ I said. Zuri smiled to herself as she bent over the table to collect the empty 159

RICHARD IRVINE

grapefruits. I knew she found it amusing how strict I was with Gretchen’s education. The weekends had always been for speaking English in our house. Zuri’s eyes hesitated on the newspaper. ‘Saturday,’ Gretchen said, pretending to sigh. ‘So?’ She repeated her question: ‘Will you come to the beach with us?’ By us, she meant herself and Tembo, the street dog she and Zuri arrived home with from Maputo last Christmas. He’d followed them around the city one afternoon as they went shopping, waiting patiently beside each stall until they moved on. When they got back to the ferry to make the journey across the bay to Catembe, he walked on behind them so confidently that the ferryman must have assumed he was theirs, for he said nothing. By the time they’d walked home along the beach half an hour later he was named and part of the family. He was flea-ridden, like all the dogs here, but otherwise adorable. Gretchen and he fell in love immediately, of course. She insisted on having him sleep in her room from the beginning, and it was as much as we could do to stop her taking him into bed at night. ‘Okay,’ I said, checking my watch. Then I nodded down the road: ‘What about Lucia? Do you want to go get her?’ Gretchen scrunched up her nose and shook her head. Lucia was her best friend, but they fell out with one another constantly and I never knew if the friendship was on or off. ‘I’ll be two minutes,’ she said, running into the house. Tembo took off after her. The beach was a ten-minute walk. As the crow flies it was actually no more than one hundred metres or so from our house, appearing to the eye to be at the foot of the garden because of how the land fell away steeply on the far side of the road, plummeting to the coast through gorse and wild orange trees. Zuri and I had to walk the long route, circumventing the steep ground, but I knew when Gretchen was playing with friends they plunged straight down the hill. Sometimes I could even hear the screams of them from inside the house. Come night-time, when the three of us curled up on the sofa to read novels or listen to Al Jazeera on the radio, we would inspect the bruises she’d acquired from that day’s exploits. I don’t want to give the impression Gretchen was some sort of tomboy, but she was certainly adventurous and brave: the sort who never shirked from a 160

dare. I seem to remember even Tembo was reticent to take that path to the beach, although he always forced himself down eventually, poor fellow, to follow his mistress. I think he would have run into a fire pit if Gretchen had gone in first. A sudden gust caught the newspaper and flicked through the pages. An image of the man sitting in a plane somewhere over North Africa came to mind. The fifteen years since we’d seen each other felt more like fifty. I wondered if my picture of him bore any resemblance to the man he was now. The idea that he would soon be standing right there in my house was hard to accept. The memories of the village and the church were like some other man’s memories; thoughts I had access to by accident. I realised I had folded the newspaper up and was crushing it in my hands. I got up from the table and rechecked my watch, knowing he could arrive as soon as lunchtime if he made his way directly from the airport. The letter which had accompanied the package hadn’t revealed much about Simon’s reason for coming. I no longer have it, only the newspaper survives, but I remember it well enough. It said something like: Clarence, I’m coming to see you. I will arrive on the 14th at noon. We need to talk, everything is different now. Simon He didn’t even mention the story about Leon. I had to flick through the paper to see why he’d sent it. I can still feel the worry as I went from page to page, imagining the possibilities. When I read about Leon I felt relieved for a moment, thankful it wasn’t something else, and then there’d been an awful sense of guilt for having thought that way. I heard Zuri’s step behind me as she came through the French windows. The boards creaked and I could make out the soft clap of sandals against the soles of her feet. She laid her chin on my shoulder. ‘You smell of coconut,’ I said. She moved so she could look at me. Her eyes appeared to search mine for something more meaningful. They were the brown of wet sycamore bark after rain. Despite my efforts to forget Ireland, I often found myself defining 161

RICHARD IRVINE

things in relation to it. Our soil in summer was the colour of turnip skin; Gretchenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair the brown of dried turf; the local church the colour of lichen on apple wood. Zuriâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes were a shade lighter than her skin. They watched me without blinking. Silence had always been her way of telling me we needed to talk.

162

163

Sophie James

ophie James is a lawyer and writer. She is co-author of The CompassionateMind Guide to Recovering from Trauma and PTSD, published in 2012 by New Harbinger. Gower starts in the 1960s on the Gower Peninsula, South Wales. Kate, deeply in love with Phillip, moves from London to begin her married life in Horton, the small coastal village where Phillip grew up. A tragic accident occurs which has repercussions not only for their marriage but also for their baby daughter Grace. Kate, haunted by her abandoned career as a musician, becomes increasingly dissatisfied with her life and has to decide whether and how to seek her own fulfilment. Gower explores the unfolding of unforeseen consequences over generations. The story is told from the perspectives of Kate, Phillip and thirteen-year-old Grace. In the extract, Grace has her first romantic encounter and we are given insight into Kateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worries for her marriage. sophiejames71@yahoo.com

164

Gower 17 January 1982

nder a clear night sky, villagers crossed fields from three compass points. Their lanterns swayed and torches flashed in a trail across the countryside as they converged at Groves Orchard. Sparks from a bonfire danced in the air like fireflies; the blaze was visible from fields away. They walked among apple trees, backlit by the flames, towards the fire. Bottles and dishes of food were placed on the makeshift trestles, already laden with pans of spiced cider and apple cake. Grace wandered, looking for Ffion. Rhys and his friends ran past, playing some version of tag in which they weaved through the trees, their laughter and shouts audible even after they disappeared. Beyond the clearing her friends crowded together and Grace spotted Ffion’s unruly tumble of fair hair in the firelight. She approached them with her insides fizzing and tugged at her friend’s sleeve. Ffion put her arm round Grace, making her feel that her earlier nerves were silly. They were all giggling at Gavin and Huw, a bundle of clothes on the floor behind them. Gavin smiled at her. Huw planted his feet, crossing his arms. ‘Right girls, you’ve seen all you’re going to,’ he said. ‘Now piss off.’ And he flashed his teeth, not quite a grin. ‘Who fancies some of that cider?’ Ffion said. They all strolled over to the tables where Grace’s parents were with Tina and Dai. Grace surreptitiously filled a paper cup, removing a clove before taking her first sip. It tasted like cloudy apple juice, warm and fragrant with nutmeg and ginger. 165

SOPHIE JAMES

Ffion leaned in. ‘The cider’s not all I fancy.’ Grace looked over the rim of her cup at her friend. ‘Maybe Huw will choose me as the Wassail Queen,’ Ffion said and laughed. It dawned on Grace why the boys hadn’t wanted them hanging around. Huw and Gavin must be the Spirits of the Orchard: every year people dressed up to enact the ceremony of Blessing the Trees and their identities were meant to be kept secret. ‘Beautiful baked spuds here, girls, if you fancy?’ Tina called. ‘Mind yourselves, they’re hot!’ Finishing her cup of cider gave Grace a warm woozy feeling and she realised she was ravenous. She ate a buttered potato wrapped in foil with a teaspoon, warming her gloved hands as steam escaped into the cold air. It wasn’t long before the music started: the opening bars of the ‘Gower Wassail’. The lyrics wobbled on a screen that had been rigged up with a battered-looking overhead projector. Everyone began to sing. In the shadows beyond the fire, two figures in black gowns leapt and danced. Wreaths of hawthorn crowned their heads and garlands hung from their necks. Their faces were hidden by horned masks. They circled the crowds by the bonfire, whose faces were lit up. They took the girls and the women by their hands, giving them a gentle turn before leaping off again. One of the Orchard Spirits stopped in front of Grace, bowed and took her hands. ‘Will you dance?’ he whispered. She stepped back. ‘Ffion will, won’t you?’ Ffion’s eyes glittered and she lowered her chin. But the Spirit shook his head and pulled Grace’s hands, more insistently this time. Others around her cheered so she stepped forward; her friends were clapping but only Ffion’s smile looked forced. Suddenly, Grace was being whirled to the mournful notes of the wassail song. Turning round and round, she laughed, aware of his hand on her back, the flash of teeth through his mask and the other Spirit leaping, arm outstretched, ready to take his turn with her. And then she was spinning in circles between them until at last the reeling and the bonfire flashing at the edge of her vision made her feel dizzy. An arm balanced her and she leant against a tree as she caught her breath. A silver urn was pushed into her hands and the Spirits took it in 166

turns to kiss her, their lips like a whisper over her mouth. Having watched the dance since she was a child, Grace knew she must end the ritual by emptying the urn against the base of the trunk, as an offering to the Spirits of the Orchards for a good harvest. She tipped the urn and the steaming cider pattered on the frozen ground, releasing spicy wafts of clove and apple. Everyone started clapping and cheering. Rhys ran over, bundling himself at her and she laughed and ruffled his hair. Her father came over, and in front of all her friends, told her she was beautiful and kissed her, though thankfully her mother drew him away and blew her a kiss as her other friends congratulated her. She looked for Ffion and tried to guess which of the Orchard Spirits had chosen her. Perhaps Huw, as they were the same age, but then, surely he would have chosen Ffion? Ffion strolled over, her expression blank, and Grace understood that she was trying to hide her own disappointment at not having been chosen. Ffion raised her paper cup and with a tight smile said, ‘To our Wassailing Queen,’ and passed the cup to Grace. Grace smiled, wanted to say sorry though she couldn’t have put into words exactly why being chosen should make her feel as if she had done something wrong. Later Ffion said, ‘It must have been Gavin that chose you. He’s the oldest, after all. He wouldn’t choose his sister in a million years, that’s “nespotism”, or whatever they call it, isn’t it?’ Grace hoped she was right and as Ffion linked arms with her, she felt a bubble of relief fill her chest. Ffion giggled and pulled her towards the apple-bobbing barrel where Dai, surrounded by a knot of onlookers that included her father, was immersing his head. He came up with a streaming face and a wrinkled apple between his teeth. Bellowing happily, he flicked his head amid jeers and shrieks. Ffion wanted a turn but Grace decided she couldn’t face getting wet. She would have some cake, and she left Ffion tying her hair up into a loose knot. Though the fire cast some gentle light, shadows danced over the table and Grace had to feel the cake with her fingers to slice it. As she lifted it to her mouth, someone placed their hand on her hip. She turned: it was a Spirit of the Orchard. She smiled and broke off a piece of cake 167

SOPHIE JAMES

and lifted it to her mouth. The Spirit took her wrist and guided the cake to his lips, kissing her fingers as she pushed the cake into his mouth. She laughed and felt a heat rise in her chest. He moved silently beside her, tall and strange in his mask, and the wreath of hawthorn around his head made it impossible to see his hair. He squeezed her hand softly, and stroked her fingers. It must be Gavin. As they stepped away from the bonfire and through the orchard, Grace looked up. The sky was an inky bowl speckled with stars. Away from the fire, it was dark, dense as a blanket. Gavin stopped and she bumped into him. He leant down and she knew he was going to kiss her just before he pressed his lips to her mouth. His breath was warm and he tasted of the fragrant cider, slightly soured. She had never kissed anyone before. Each movement of their mouths brought a new pattern to the kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. He pressed against her and they toppled to the ground, the sticks and leaves crackling beneath them, making her giggle. She looked up at the sky, still laughing as he flattened himself against her, his weight along the length of her. The branches blotted out swathes of stars. He murmured something into her neck and found her mouth, slipping his tongue between her lips. The wreath pricked her forehead and she broke away to push it from his head, taking the mask with it. He was only an outline, silhouetted by the starshine, the contours of his face hidden. For a moment she doubted herself. ‘Gavin, is that you?’ she said softly but he made no reply, kissed her mouth, her face. His hands wandered over her, squeezing her breasts and his weight bore down on her. He kissed her neck. She felt his breath quickening as he ran his hands over her waist, pulled up her skirt and when he found the waistband of her tights, his fingers were icy. And the heady heat within her evaporated. She pushed his hand away but it was hooked inside her pants. ‘No, stop.’ But his fingers reached inside her, his breath in short pulls now. She tried to wriggle away. ‘I don’t want you to.’ His fingers jammed deeper, scraping her. She let out a cry, but he covered her mouth, kissed her again. She bit his lip hard and, as he reared, 168

she clenched her fist and it connected with his face as she scrabbled away from him and ran through the trees guided by the bonfire. Kate didn’t feel like going to the wassail. It had come round too soon after Christmas − which she couldn’t bear to think about − and the damp squib that had been New Year’s Eve. But this was the first year Rhys was old enough to walk across the fields. Previously, Angharad had taken him with her, to welcome the wassailers as they arrived. Pushing aside her longing for a quiet evening, Kate wrapped herself and Rhys in scarves, gloves and hats. As soon as she was outside in the cool evening air, she felt her spirits lift. Holding Rhys’s hand, she felt his sense of adventure and remembered how Grace had been at the same age. But Kate had then been on hyper-alert with Grace after her first seizure the preceding summer. Fear had burrowed into her mind and though she tried not to let Grace see, it had tarnished much of Grace’s childhood for Kate. Feeling the usual run-of-the-mill worries for Rhys was a guilty liberation, which she was barely able to admit to herself, let alone to Phillip. He was adamant that Grace be given as close to normal a life as possible. Tonight, though, Kate was free to join in with her son’s exhilaration. She squeezed his hand. He smiled up at her. A cow let out a loud m-rooo, its breath steaming in the cold air; it startled them and made Rhys jump. Up ahead, Grace and Phillip joined Angharad. Phillip’s mother had been so supportive when Grace had had her most recent seizure, talking with Kate for hours, helping her to gain perspective. It was crushing that her hopes that Grace would grow out of her epilepsy were dashed. But she had promised herself that she would try not to dwell on things she was powerless to change. She must focus on enjoying this for Rhys. It was a beautiful night to be walking the countryside. An owl hooted and she caught a sweep of its pale wings gliding from the branches of an oak. When Rhys spotted the glow of the bonfire he began pulling at her to hurry up. She offered to let him carry the pole from which their lantern was swinging, hoping that might slow him down. Kate watched his face light up with the flames from the bonfire and the 169

SOPHIE JAMES

magic of the evening as they entered the orchard clearing. Rhys pulled free of her, whooping when he saw his friends. Kate was happy to wander on her own, saying hello to familiar faces and tasting the different batches of cider. Phillip had found Tina and Dai and as he laughed with their friends she felt a pang when she tried to recall the last time they had laughed together in the same way.

170

171

Sarah Catherine Knights

arah lives in Malmesbury, Wiltshire, and for many years has run a wedding and portrait photography business. She has an English degree and has always dabbled in writing, but it was only when her children left home and she had more time to herself that she realised that writing was as important to her as photography. The MA course allowed her to begin writing the novel that had been lying dormant since she and her family were posted to Cyprus with the RAF, twenty years ago. Aphrodite’s Child is set in Cyprus in the early 1990s and is told through the eyes of Emily, who jumps at the opportunity to escape her life in England when Luke, her pilot husband, is posted to RAF Akrotiri. Embracing everything the island has to offer, she reinvents herself, only to find that this new life brings its own heartache and tragedy. In a modern take on the myth of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, Emily is ‘reborn’ and comes to question everything she thought she knew about herself and her former existence. In this extract, James, with whom she is falling in love, comes to meet her after a game of polo. www.sarahcatherineknights.com / sarahcknights@me.com

172

Aphrodite�s Child

e looked at her, waiting for her to make up her mind. His hair fell over his eyes and he flicked it back to look at his watch. ‘Come on, you can stay a while, can’t you? Leave your car – we’ll go down to Tunnel Beach in mine. It would be good to spend some time together. I promise to get you back here on time.’ The sky was blue black, streaked with crimson, clouds dark grey against it. It would be dark by the time they got down there. She felt ripples of fear in her stomach – she knew she shouldn’t go, but she couldn’t resist simply being with him. She turned to him and said, ‘One hour.’ They walked to his car. She was aware that she was entering his territory for the first time and a feeling of vulnerability came over her. She wasn’t in control. He was tugging on that invisible rope again, pulling her towards an unknown future. He drove out on the small road that led through the trees down to the beach. After a few minutes, they entered the long dark tunnel under the cliffs that gave the beach its name. It was farther than she thought it would be – it was as if she was travelling through time and space. The blackness of the tunnel consumed the car – she glanced across at him, but could hardly see his face. As they left the tunnel, the moon was shining bright above the sea, a pathway of light sweeping the surface with a silvery glow. He parked the car at the end of a dusty track and turned off the engine. She felt tired, her limbs heavy. She wanted to look at him, but didn’t dare. An owl hooted in the distance, the heat was still pervasive and oppressive. The windows were open but there was no air coming in, not a breath. Sweat trickled down her spine. 173

SARAH CATHERINE KNIGHTS

Slowly, he took off his seat belt and opened the door. He came round to the passenger side, opened the door and stood leaning on it. ‘Are you going to get out?’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ She’d been so sure she wanted this five minutes ago and now, she was equally sure she didn’t. Should I get out or should I ask him to take me back to the stables? Was this an innocent walk or something else? ‘All we’ll do is walk along the beach,’ said James, reaching in to take her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Emily. You’ll be okay – no one will be down here and we can just talk.’ She let him pull her out of the car. If no one sees us, it will be a secret between the two of us. She could feel her legs beginning to shake and tears pricked her eyes – but she was determined not to show him. She felt helpless, as if time itself was against her. He took her hand and she walked with him on to the beach. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are you okay with this? Look at the light on the water – it’s beautiful. If we were back home, we’d be struggling through wind and rain. Wouldn’t be quite so romantic, would it?’ He was right, the moonlight was stunning. Now the sea was shimmering with bright white light. She felt even the landscape was conspiring to make this a perfect setting for them. They walked down towards the ocean – lights were dancing on the water, up and down, up and down – the gentle sound of a wave at the edge, rolling over pebbles, warning them they were nearing the water. They could see the outline of a cruise ship on the horizon, its lights shining through the night. People going to unknown destinations. They stood together, facing the horizon. ‘When I was a boy, I used to dream of joining the Navy and going to sea,’ he said, ‘but Dad was in the Army, so I just sort of drifted into that to please him. I wish I’d never joined now. It’s not me – you have to be a team player, one of the lads and I’m just not like that. I’m at my happiest strumming my guitar, writing songs. What about you? Did you end up in the right life?’ It was as if he’d seen right inside her head – she’d been wondering how she’d ended up doing a job she hated, married to Luke who loved the 174

RAF so much. ‘I’m like you in a way. My dad was a headmaster and I just sort of assumed I’d love teaching as much as he did. When I met Luke, I’d never had anything to do with military life and I thought we’d be like other married people, just living a normal life. I had no idea what an impact it would have on me.’ ‘Where did you meet Luke?’ ‘At a friend’s party. He’d just joined up and his enthusiasm for flying bowled me over. It wasn’t until we got married I realised that when you marry a pilot, you marry the RAF as well.’ They walked slowly along the shoreline and she linked her arm through his. ‘Have you had anyone special in your life?’ she asked, feeling an insane jealousy even as she spoke. ‘There was someone – Becky. We went out for two years at uni but when we left, we somehow drifted. Then I met Grace; she was another army officer but we got posted miles apart and we obviously weren’t strong enough to sustain our relationship. I vowed I’d stay single after that. Military life and relationships don’t mix. I have every intention of leaving in five years – God knows what I’ll do, but I’m getting fed up of never being in one place for long, constantly moving on.’ She listened, thinking how Luke just wouldn’t be able to relate to him. To Luke, the Air Force was his reason to get up in the morning. A breath of breeze now glanced across her skin. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. Their feet crunching pebbles, their fingers interlinked, he led her away from the sea to a place on the coarse sand. Cicadas sang in the greenery – a lone aircraft high in the sky passed over their heads with winking lights. They sat down, their shoulders and arms touching. ‘The evening’s too peaceful to talk,’ he said. ‘Let’s just enjoy the moment – of being together.’ She felt so comfortable with him. He was so different from Luke, less of a man’s man, more thoughtful. Why couldn’t she have met him years ago? ‘Hold me,’ she whispered. He turned his face to her, put a hand on her cheek and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, as if this was the very last time they’d ever be together. 175

SARAH CATHERINE KNIGHTS

She lay back and pulled him down on top of her, losing her mind, her consciousness. He resisted and held back. ‘Are you sure you want to? That’s not why I asked you to come here. I’m happy to wait, Emily. I just want to get to know you.’ ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ All thoughts had left her – her body had taken over. She had dreamt of this moment. Lying in bed with Luke, she’d pictured a scene similar to this, a million times. Now it was happening for real and she gave herself over to it. Everything converged into this moment. Her body melted, but felt powerful and strong. He stroked her and touched her with expert hands, his lips sliding against her skin with urgency, then slowness and gentleness. They were lost in the sand, with the sound of the single wave, the rhythmic background music. They were lost in the ocean, floating and drifting amongst its silvery currents. They lay together on their backs, holding hands. She looked up at the stars – the stars that Luke so often tried to make her appreciate, the stars that scattered and sprinkled and dusted the universe with their maddening beauty and distance. She thought back to their meeting in the sea, off Lady’s Mile. She’d known then that this would happen; she’d wanted it to happen and had made it inevitable. It’s done – there’s no going back. She loved two men, she knew that now. Luke, in the cinema with the children, oblivious of her deception; James, lying next to her. She hardly knew him, yet she felt as if she knew him better than herself. If they could lie there forever, she could forget her real life. I love you, James. They walked back towards the sea, shoes dangling from fingers, and walked ankle-deep in the water; the coolness brought them back to this place. Silence filled the emptiness of the beach, only the tumbling pebbles cut the stillness. First she walked, then she ran away from him, into the darkness, away from the shoreline, not caring where he was, where she was. The pebbles hurt her feet, but she welcomed it as a punishment. 176

He called to her, his voice echoing against the high cliffs. She stopped, catching her breath and bending to put her hands on her knees. Standing upright again, she swivelled round to face him and could just make out his outline. James was walking slowly towards her, his arms outstretched and she fell into them. She clung to him, waiting for him to say something. ‘Emily,’ he said, as he kissed her hair. When they got back to his car, she looked at her watch. It was seven fifteen. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, feeling a rising panic. ‘You’ve got plenty of time,’ he said, gently, ‘don’t worry.’ ‘I should be at home.’ They drove in silence back through the tunnel and out into the trees beyond. He parked up next to her car, now solitary in the car park. She got out, hardly daring to speak and hoping he wouldn’t say anything. What could he possibly say that would change anything? He got out and came round to her. He put his hands each side of her face and kissed her. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go. You’re so beautiful, Emily. When I’m with you, everything’s simple,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss you.’ ‘I must go, James – I wish I didn’t have to – but the children will be home soon.’ ‘You never used my number,’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘Are you going to use it now?’ ‘I shouldn’t. Maybe.’ ‘Ring me whenever you want to. I’ll be there for you, Emily,’ he said, stepping towards her. She moved backwards, her eyes pricking, turned round and took her key out of her pocket. Opening the door she said, ‘This is so selfish of me – I can’t have both of you. I’ve got to choose my family.’ Charlie’s face flashed into her mind. ‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ he said. ‘It’s that simple,’ she said, knowing it wasn’t at all. She got into the car and closed the door, her heart pounding, her breath harsh. She started the engine and turned on the lights, put on her 177

SARAH CATHERINE KNIGHTS

seat belt, took off the hand brake. She couldn’t look at him – if she did, she’d never leave. He came to her door and walked alongside the car as she reversed. She put it into first gear and drove slowly away. I’m going home to Luke, Amy and Charlie now. Goodbye James.

178

179

Victoria Knowles

ictoria Knowles fell for the consumable bite of poetry before prose stole her heart, at least momentarily. She is published in the 2012 collection of Poetry Rivals, and hopes that one day her prose and her characters – who came to her on an un-extraordinary Tuesday and never left – may be similarly validated. Dropping Rose Petals is a quirky, affectionate novel set at Heathrow Airport. It describes the events of three people trying to redeem their respective conditions. When Zach arrives at Heathrow Airport from New York, his luggage, with all the emotional baggage it holds, is lost. Without it, he must learn how to embody an identity without holding so tightly to his memories. Jenny suffers from viscus rosa kordesii, a rare condition that means her heart is not a pumping, throbbing muscle, but a delicate bed of roses. Her heart is particularly fragile, with a petal dropping every time her love goes unreciprocated. After the death of his wife, Dylan falls so deeply into grief that he loses his physical self and becomes invisible. He waits at the arrivals gate, convinced that Rosie is not gone but simply shares the same condition, and hopes that they will bump into each other soon. This extract is in two parts: one gives a glimpse of Jenny’s first experience of losing petals, and the second comes from later in the novel, where Dylan shares his memories of his wife, so that they can be transformed into a physical object – one of Zach’s glass memory boxes. victoria.knowles@live.com

180

Dropping Rose Petals

enny couldn’t understand that when she put earphones in her ears, something so loud and affecting to her could be completely unheard by anybody else. At first Jenny’s dad would forbid her from clearing the things her mother had left behind. While he was at work, Jenny made his bed. He was often tired because he worked late, and she wanted to help. ‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘I made your bed,’ she said quietly. ‘What will your mother think when she comes back?’ He began trying to ruffle up the duvet on the left side and folded it back, as if someone had just climbed out of it. But no amount of manipulating the bedding could make things the way they were. Both her father and her mother had effectively rejected Jenny in that moment. A petal dropped to her feet. It was terrifying. She did not know what was happening to her body. It had never been spoken about at school. None of her friends were dropping petals. She could not tell any of them because she would not fit in. There was only one person she could tell. ‘Dad,’ she said, holding out her palm, ‘petals are falling from my heart’. He was pressing down the left pillow so that it concaved in the middle. ‘Jenny, look in front of you. Don’t tell me about things that belong in your head.’ All Jenny could see in front of her was a half-made bed and a petal, so she said nothing. The rest of her petals were waiting on their stems, ready to hear the pistol, like greyhounds at a starting gate. 181

VICTORIA KNOWLES

Dylan no longer had Rosie. But what he did have were his memories of her. They were something he could always keep safe, even if he had failed to keep her safe. In fact, this would be the way he would make it up to her for what he had done – for getting in the car at that moment, on that afternoon. Meanwhile, Zach had been in love and could remember nothing but how it ended. People might think that the way Zach approaches love would be unusual, unhealthy even, the way that he archives every part of it. But Dylan thought of it as a gift – he had preserved a moment so carefully that he could see every piece of it, smell it and taste it. He thought it to be the cleverest thing on Earth. Dylan’s were not so well looked after. He hadn’t realised that memories would be so important until the person he was remembering was no longer there to create new ones. 182

‘It’s CO2,’ Dylan whispered. ‘What?’ Rosie replied, in a hushed voice. The eyes of a woman at the front of the hall darted towards them. ‘CO2,’ he repeated. The words echoed in a room filled only by the sound of lead to paper. The lady, now with a stern expression, approached them. ‘I heard you. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ Chairs squeaked. Everyone around them turned to look at the boy who was unashamedly helping others to cheat. To everyone’s surprise, Dylan left the exam hall with his head held high. When the rest of the Year finished their paper, they came flooding out of the doors. Those who knew Dylan from biology gave him a sympathetic look; after all, he was one of the top pupils in his class, and a simple misunderstanding could jeopardise him gaining the marks he was more than able to achieve. He might even have to retake the entire module. Finally, Rosie came out. She was the last student to leave before the exam auditors. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Why would you do that?’ ‘I had to tell you the answer to the question,’ he said.

‘What was the question?’ she asked, still bewildered. ‘Whether I would give up a grade just to help you.’ Rosie had been last out of the exam hall. She was always last to depart a flight and Dylan had always figured that she would be the last person to leave his heart. Dylan could not store his memories in boxes. No one could, apart from Zach. The only way to preserve them was to share them with him. They would turn into one of Zach’s glass boxes. Could they turn into something beautiful too, like a rose petal? In return, Dylan would offer them the only thing he had. When Zach and Jenny saw him, he was still sitting on a pile of coats by the window. But this time he was smiling. ‘There is only one thing I have that you lack,’ Dylan began. Zach and Jenny looked at him eagerly, like children. ‘And that is years.’ When he thought of the years he had, the only thing he could think of was Rosie. It was at that moment he realised he had met Rosie at about Jenny’s age, and married her at about Zach’s age. They both represented landmarks in his life. ‘Life will always change,’ he said. ‘That is the only certainty we have, apart from death.’

‘Come in, the water’s fine!’ Rosie said in the southern accent she was so good at. Dylan was busy wondering how the moon would affect the tides, and whether the tides would affect the river. It was nearly pitch black. He could see little but the glint of Rosie’s teeth. ‘The tide might change,’ he said aloud. ‘It might get faster or slower than expected. We might not be ready.’ ‘So what?’ she asked, splashing the droplets into the cool August evening. He didn’t know how he could resist such a sentiment, and he jumped right in after her.

‘Sometimes you might spend many years in a place where lots of things happen,’ Dylan continued. ‘You change, you grow; you wonder if the person 183

VICTORIA KNOWLES

who entered that city was the same person who came out of it.’

Dylan was saturated with candyfloss, motion sickness and splashback from water pistols. It was horrible; it was the greatest night ever. The car that he and Rosie were about to get into was also full. It was stacked so high that they couldn’t even see out of the rear-view mirror. There was his stuff: a suitcase, a computer (monitor, tower, keyboard and mouse) and one box of things he had acquired over the last four years. Rosie’s belongings filled the rest of the space. The friends they had made, Henry and Daniel, Joseph, Olivia, Ivan, Elliot and Lara (who would later become Elliot, Lara), all came to the car. Dan was examining the wheel, giving it a squeeze. ‘This’ll get you there okay?’ he said, concerned. ‘Where you going anyway, which part of London?’ asked Olivia. Rosie looked at Dylan. ‘Somewhere new.’ ‘Don’t forget us!’ they said, drunk with glee and alcohol. ‘We won’t,’ Dylan assured. And that was it. The car rolled away and they left the candyfloss and their friends behind. From now on they were moving forward. But they wanted to look into that rear-view mirror, just one last time.

‘Things aren’t always what you hope for, or they don’t go how you imagined they would. But they will always get better.’ 184

‘I don’t understand,’ Rosie said, two years after they had left university, ‘why I am so unhappy.’ She held her head in her hands. ‘I am supposed to be happy but it feels so impossible.’ ‘You are not supposed to be anything,’ Dylan assured. ‘But I should be. I like my job, I like my house, and I like you. Why does it feel like those things mean nothing at all?’ Dylan held her hand when she went to the doctor’s. After her third session with the counsellor, she finally squeezed it back. That ‘nothing’ hurt. He just had to work his way into ‘something’ again in Rosie’s eyes.

At the time, those months felt like an eternity, and even the ground felt like it was crumbling beneath Dylan’s feet. But now they were just a small piece of something far bigger: a second in an hour.

‘It is okay to be scared,’ he said, looking at Jenny and Zach in equal measure. ‘It doesn’t mean that things will go wrong. It just means that you are daring.’ It was definitely not a line. They both looked at the white stick. It was a blue plus sign – two intersecting lines that affected the future dramatically. ‘How can I be a father?’ he asked. It was a strange question, one that was at once simple to answer, and completely unanswerable. ‘You will be fine,’ Rosie assured. ‘But I don’t want to be fine. I want to be a great father.’ ‘Then that’s what you’ll be,’ she said, and went to lie down. ‘Sometimes you don’t know what to do. But you’ll always find a way,’ he said. His memories ceased, and he was brought into the present. Zach was holding Jenny’s hand and she was squeezing it back.

185

Ieva Lãkute

eva was fifteen when she moved from Latvia to England. In 2013, her short story ‘The Burning of Last Year’s Grass’ was longlisted for The Bath Short Story Award, and her poem, ‘Believe Not in Daisies’, was published in the Mardibooks online anthology The Dance is New. She is currently working on her first novel, Seventeen, aimed at the young adult market. Last year, as part of the Creative Work exhibition at the Museum of Bath at Work, Ieva introduced its characters through text, painting, video and sound. She hopes to continue experimenting with media to extend her printed work into the digital realm. Set in Reading, Seventeen is about teenage friends Dale and JJ. Dale’s dreams of being a professional footballer are crushed by his alcoholic mother. He is a ‘playa’, using girls like Tisha to his advantage, until he starts to question his sexuality. Afraid of what his teammates might say, he continues to torment Lloyd, the secret object of his sexual curiosity. JJ struggles to fit in with his reckless friends and meet the expectations of his father, a fundamentalist Christian Evangelical minister. JJ has gone from being a devoted believer to an atheist, and is trying to make sense of this new landscape where God doesn’t exist. Together, JJ and Dale’s stories are symbolic of Reading’s fragmented society. The setting reacts towards the characters, and reveals its hidden gems of historical and artistic value. In this extract, Dale wakes up and slowly comes to terms with the events that happened during last night’s party. ieva.lakute@gmail.com / ramblings-of-a-latvian.blogspot.co.uk 186

Seventeen

een lying in bed since my alarm went off, trying to work out what the fuck happened last night. I still can’t believe Dreamer went mental and started on JJ like that. I mean, Dreamer is weird and all, but he’s never tried to fuck anyone up. But then again, he’s hooked on Sarah, his psycho-ex. That’s what they do, turn guys into twats. At least I didn’t punch Dreamer when he took a swing at me. He’d be waking up in A&E, if I did. And Jamie was filming it all. I can see it now, his ugly mug smirking, trying to balance himself and the phone in his hand. I should have sorted him out instead, shoved that phone right up his ass. The video has to be on Facebook by now. I have to watch it. Get ready for the punches. I turn my phone on and twenty-two notifications pop up. Someone who obviously doesn’t have a life has already put up the pictures from last night’s party. There’s one of me slouched on a chair like a G, a hat sat halfway on my head, with Tisha and her peng ass next to me. Fuck knows where the hat came from. I should have nicked it. Jamie Robert Murphy tagged you in one of his videos. More like Jamie Robert Dickhead. I tap the video. Everyone is cheering in the background, even the psycho-ex’s friends, while Dreamer is pushing his head into JJ’s skull. JJ looks like he’s about to shit himself. The video cuts out just as I come back. Dickhead must have been too thrashed to finish filming. The psycho-ex had a go at me after that. Never mind it was her fucking fault that the whole thing started. Another notification. Jamie Robert Murphy tagged you in one of his videos. 187

IEVA LAKUTE

What? What other video is there? I tap on the notification. A grainy black and white screen pops up. It’s me and Lloyd in Jamie’s kitchen. Shit, I forgot that Dickhead has CCTV in his kitchen. And that I nearly battered that gaylord, Lloyd. He was having a go at me for something wank. I just wasn’t thinking straight. You can’t see our faces in the video. But you can still see that it’s me. There is no sound, but Dickhead has put a backing track over it from Brokeback Mountain. And Alex from footy. Why is he commenting? He doesn’t even know the college lot. So this is what you get up to outside of training? :P How fucking amusing. I need a shower. I’m too hungover for a wank, so I dry off and get dressed. Thank fuck Momser and that bum-bag Mojo ain’t around. I didn’t hear them last night. That’s a first, unless they’ve broken up already. New record for Momser, less than a week. Though fuck knows how long they’d been at it before she brought him home. Just to think he might end up being my stepdad. What a joke. I’d prefer my real dad, wanker that he is. I pack my training kit with books and shit. Footy practice starts early, so I have to go straight after college. I bet Alex is gonna play that video to everyone on the team, if he hasn’t already. I grab a couple of Lucozade bottles from the fridge and head out. The ground feels miles away, so I take the lift. The door opens with a loud crackling noise like a meat grinder. It smells of shit and piss and there’s a Paki in his national pyjamas looking at me weird. What’s his problem? Go back to India. I take out my phone and open the Facebook app again. Saves me staring into space, pretending I’m the only one in this lift. You are dicks. You should all grow up. It’s about time. Shit. Why did Lloyd post that? He is always asking for it. Asking for someone to teach him a fucking lesson. I should have done it last night. I should have fucking done it. I need to respond first. Get ahead of their game. Ha, that will shut him up. I read my comment again. I thought gay boyz love a good dick? Ha, quality. I’d like it myself if that wasn’t gay. 188

I can tell the Paki is still staring. Is he getting hard over me? My phone buzzes, thank fuck. It’s a text from Tisha who was pissed off with me last night because she was thrashed, and I walked her home. Typical women shit. Txs for lookin after me last nite, soz I was rude … How r u? Xxx I knew she’d say something like that. Last night I was the bad guy and today she realises I was right. Not the first time, and won’t be the last. I get rid of my phone. I’ll respond later, make her wait. The lift finally stops and the door creaks open. I step into the corridor and feel a tap on my shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ the Paki says behind me. I turn around, shrugging his hand off. ‘Do you live in fifty-one?’ he asks. ‘Yeah, what’s it to you?’ If he tries to sell me shit, I’m walking off. ‘Is your mum’s name Josephine Rendell?’ He’s been stalking me or what? ‘What about her?’ ‘I’m a nurse at the Royal Berkshire Hospital. I’m sorry to say this, but we found her on the stairs yesterday,’ he says without expression. ‘She was bleeding heavily.’ Wait, that can’t be right. She was probably at Mojo’s, or came back late and left early this morning, so I didn’t hear her. He carries on. ‘Lucky I ran into you. I thought I’d seen you both together. She was still unconscious when I left last night. I have a shift today, so I will check up on her. I will give you a call and let you know how she’s doing.’ He blinks at me. ‘I need your number, please.’ ‘Oh, ’course,’ I realise. ‘Thanks.’ I pull out my phone. The screen has gone all blurry. ‘She okay though?’ ‘I’m afraid I can’t confirm that. But I will give you a call as soon as I get to the hospital.’ I nod and give him my number. We walk outside. ‘Sorry to break it to you like this,’ he says. ‘I will check first thing and hopefully you can come and visit her today.’ He nods reassuringly and leaves in the opposite direction. The purple bus arrives after a few minutes. ‘Good morning!’ the driver says. 189

IEVA LAKUTE

I don’t have the exact change, so I drop two quid into the ticket slot. ‘Reading College.’ And fuck off. The driver gives me the ticket, and I take a seat somewhere in the middle. I put my headphones in and stare out the window. My mind has gone blank. Tisha has Sociology too, but when I get to class she’s not there. I bet she’s too hungover. A skinny, bald teacher comes in, mumbles a good morning and says his name is Mr Jyles. He should get a new pair of pants. These brown ones make him look like he’s wearing two balloons. He reads the register like he couldn’t give two shits about who has turned up. ‘Farry Khan.’ ‘Here.’ ‘Thank you.’ He puts a tick on the register. ‘Siob … Siobhan … ’ ‘It’s pronounced Chyvonne,’ a girl in the back row calls out. Another one with a fucking attitude. ‘Thank you, Miss Chyvonne Llewellyn,’ he smiles. When is this nurse gonna call me? I need to know what’s happened to Mum. I knew this was gonna happen one day, but I didn’t know it was gonna be like this. She’s a fucking alcoholic, why can’t she just admit it and get some help? I wouldn’t judge, I’d help her out, go with her to AA meetings if that’s what has to be done. We should have talked it over. I never tried. I knew she’d hate me if I brought it up. ‘Latisha Logan,’ Mr Pants continues. There’s a pause while Pants looks over the class from beneath his glasses. ‘No? No Latisha Logan today?’ He grumbles. One less girl to perv on. He marks another cross on the paper. I’m gonna text Tisha, ask how she is. She could distract me in case the nurse doesn’t call. And she’s cool when she’s not puking all over the place. I just don’t want her to get any ideas about us. ‘Raphael-Scott Lloyd,’ Pants calls out. Lloyd? Lloyd is in my class? Shit, shit, shit. And why am I panicking? ‘No? No Raphael-Scott Lloyd today either?’ He scans the room and marks another cross on the register. ‘That’s a shame.’ 190

I got hard. Over Lloyd. Last night, when I was making a joke on him. The video, that’s when it happened. How did I forget? I am bi or gay or some fucking freak basically. ‘Dale Rendell,’ Pants carries on. There’s a pause, then he rises the pen to the paper. ‘No Dale Ren— ’ ‘Here,’ I catch on. ‘I’m here.’ I wish I wasn’t though. I wish I was anywhere. Not this shithole life.

191

Fiona Longsdon

iona Longsdon lives in the Cotswolds with her husband and three children. She has worked in television production, on a commissioning team at Channel Four and, more recently, for the Cheltenham Literature Festival. She has written on parenting, education and green issues for a variety of publications including a feature for The Daily Telegraph at the outset of the toxic childhood debate. The idea for her novel was inspired by an unlikely friendship with an elderly blind lady. Stella â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a daughter in need of forgiveness. Oriel â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a mother who has hidden the truth. The consequences of a childhood accident continue to drive mother and daughter apart until both are on the brink of despair. In her search for freedom, Stella travels to northern Scotland, where she discovers happiness and falls in love with Iain, a strong uncomplicated man, who encourages her to confront her indomitable mother. Meanwhile, in London, Oriel grows increasingly frail and disorientated. When an overbearing carer tightens her control, Oriel realises she has driven her daughter away and that her life is now in jeopardy. Mother Love is a story about an abuse of power, jealousy and identity, and survival. fiona.longsdon@btinternet.com / fionalongsdon.com

192

Mother Love

he summer was a haze of white heat. At Randwick, the lawn was patchy and brown and the roses that had bloomed early now drooped their heads in surrender. The lawn felt dusty underfoot, like sand, although the heat of the day had not yet reached its peak. Stella was looking for ladybirds. She planned to collect as many as she could find – perhaps twenty, she thought – and feed them crumbs and bits of leaf. A matchbox held the ones she had found. When she slid it open, two of them lay very still in the corner and the third lifted its papery wings, as if threatening her with a silent growl. At the far end of the lawn, she looked back at the house. It was like a weather-beaten Advent calendar; every window was open wide, begging for any spare slips of breeze. The sound of the piano came from the music room, the notes cutting through the air like cool drops of rain. Oriel’s music room was Stella’s favourite place. Unlike the drawing room, with chairs she wasn’t allowed to sit on and porcelain she wasn’t allowed to touch, the music room was light and airy and always smelled of lilies. The walls were painted china blue and there was a long sofa without arms, a bit like a bed, with a French name Stella could never remember. She would lie on it and listen to Oriel play, letting the music swell around her as though she was a passenger on a boat, riding over waves. When Oriel was at the piano, Stella felt excited and safe at the same time. Oriel swayed to the music with her eyes closed, as if in a dream. Her hands moved so quickly over the keys, it was easy to forget they were a part of her – then the music would end and the hands became her mother’s again. Occasionally, Stella lay on the floor underneath the giant curve of 193

FIONA LONGSDON

the piano, where the rug was scratchy and smelled of the past. The piano sounded different from here – the notes carried an echo of deep importance, but Oriel’s part in it seemed lost. She liked having Oriel to herself, but Mary usually joined them. Oriel laughed at everything Mary said, funny or not, and gave her more cuddles, too. Mary never seemed to get into trouble. It wasn’t fair. Stella was seven and three-quarters, and knew how to do all sorts of things that a five-year-old didn’t – like how to wait your turn and not interrupt, how to draw an octopus. She brushed a ladybird from a leaf into her matchbox. Six would have to do. The pram was in its usual place, under the cedar tree. After the glare of the sun, her eyes took time to adjust. Julian slept with his legs tucked up, his bottom a chubby mound. Dark curls stuck to his forehead in sweaty commas. Near the pram, Duke panted noisily; his lolling tongue had an ashen-grey crust and when Stella stroked him, his black coat was hot. He gave her a plaintive look, as if to convey his heroic endurance of the heat, but it was blissfully cool under the tree. A good place for a picnic lunch. She ran back to the house, skipping through the hallway in time with the stern tick of the grandfather clock, thinking about what they might eat. Mary sat on the bottom step. The staircase towered behind her like a red-carpeted monster and made her look very small. Sun poured down from the windows above. ‘Where’ve you been?’ Mary said. ‘Nowhere.’ Stella fingered the matchbox in the pocket of her dress. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Mary sniffed and rubbed her wet eyes, as wide and alert as a doll’s. ‘Mummy told me to go away.’ From the music room, chords rose and fell. There was a pause, an impatient flick of paper, a murmur of irritation as Oriel stumbled on a note. ‘She has a VERY important concert next week.’ Stella widened her eyes to emphasise the seriousness. ‘I’m bored,’ Mary whined. ‘It’s too hot.’ Stella went past Mary up the stairs. Family portraits rose in ascending order, each as dark and gloomy as the one before. Unsmiling eyes drilled into Stella’s back and made her shiver. 194

‘Can we play sharks?’ Mary called in her sing-song voice. ‘If you like.’ Mary could be quite sweet, sometimes. The long landing was dark with shadow. Stella’s bedroom was at the very end. It had a high ceiling and a pair of neat arched windows that reminded her of the doors of a cuckoo clock. Sometimes, in the early mornings, she climbed onto the sill to make a den. Behind velvet curtains, she wrote encoded lists in her secret notebook, with strict instructions on the cover to return, ‘UNREAD’, if lost. Once, Oriel had discovered her there, swishing the curtain back like a magician. She had been careful not to get caught there again. Stella’s bedstead was made of wrought iron, with pretty swirls she liked to run her finger along when she couldn’t sleep. She knew the shapes by heart. The bed gave a metallic twang when she, then Mary, bounced on it. ‘I’ll be lookout,’ Mary said. ‘You’re always first.’ Mary didn’t listen. She bounded across the bed in eager bunny hops and hung upside-down to look underneath. ‘Sharks, Lella, sharks! They’re coming!’ Imaginary sharks circled the bed. ‘Quick, quick! They’re attacking us!’ Stella made whooshing noises, the sound she imagined oars might make. Flecks of spit flew from her mouth as she propelled them away from danger as quickly as she could. Mary clutched Stella tightly. ‘Lella, I don’t like it! Stop!’ Stella cast down her invisible oars. She never got to be the lookout and they both knew that was the best bit. ‘You’re so annoying. I hate playing with you.’ They glared at each other, startled by the bold anger between them. They heard it at the same time, a roaring from the sky like a dragon breathing. Stella had only seen hot air balloons in pictures and it was the size that amazed her the most. It was more beautiful than she could have imagined, a silky bubble of red and green, floating in the sky. In the basket underneath, Stella made out two people. Their faces were the size of peas. They were getting closer, and heading for the cedar tree on the lawn. ‘Hello!’ Stella dragged a chair to clamber onto the sill and waved 195

FIONA LONGSDON

through the open window. She felt giddy to be so high. On the gravel below, Duke stood with his neck taut, his tail stiffly raised, and looked too small to be a real dog. The balloon hovered above the cedar tree like a friendly giant. A sudden flame leapt up inside it and Stella gasped. A man and a woman. She could see them clearly now. The man moved busily, pulling on a rope then releasing it. The woman wore a yellow headscarf and large sunglasses and looked blankly towards the house, as though she wasn’t even worried about the tree. On the lawn, Duke turned in agitated circles and barked wildly. Stella shouted at him to stop; her voice carried nowhere and his barks turned to howls. From the music room, the piano plunged deeper into the Appassionata. On no account am I to be disturbed, Oriel had said. Stella thought she heard Julian crying in his pram and her breath quickened in panic. She needed to warn them they were too close. At the end of her bed, yesterday’s clothes were a careless heap. Grabbing her red T-shirt, she scrambled back onto the sill. It made her feel sick to look down. Her fingers, clutching onto the window frame, were hot and slippery. She waved the T-shirt frantically through the window, as though to shoo the balloon away. ‘You’re going to crash!’ Stella shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop!’ The people waved their arms in slow greeting. The balloon bumped on the air and belched a flame, then floated higher. From the lawn, Duke saw off the danger with a gruff growl. The dragon’s breath faded to a whisper. Mary had climbed onto the windowsill beside her. ‘Can I have a go?’ she said. It felt unsteady with two of them up there. ‘Get down. It’s not safe up here.’ ‘I’ll tell,’ Mary said, edging closer. The breeze came through the open window and felt cool against Stella’s legs. ‘Too late. It’s gone.’ The sense of empty peril made her irritable. She flopped her arms down and watched the balloon shrink away. Mary snatched the T-shirt. Stella tried to hold on to it, but she wasn’t quick enough. ‘Give it back.’ Mary curled around it like a shell. ‘I said, GIVE IT. It’s dangerous, you idiot.’ With a shudder of rage, 196

Stella wrenched at the T-shirt. The force made them both lose their balance. Stella tipped backwards into the room and fell against the chair, knocking it over and banging her head against the bed. She heard a little cry of surprise. That was all. In the open space of the window, she thought she saw a blurry shift of motion and colour, a quick flip of red. Darkness clearing to light. A brief thump on gravel. Stella raced down the back stairs so fast it felt like she was flying. Her feet barely touched the steps. Her mind spun and made her even dizzier; it was so typical of Mary, she ruined everything. She’d make her promise not to tell, sweets probably, anything she wanted, anything to keep her quiet. Mary lay crumpled and still. There was something funny about the way her neck was turned in, as if she was pretending to be one of their bendy dolls. Her plump cheek, still flushed from the summer day, pressed against a sharp cushion of gravel. ‘Stop it, Mary, wake up!’ Stella wanted to touch her but she looked so strange, she didn’t like to. Her heart kicked in her chest, as though trying to break free. ‘I didn’t mean to. You can have the flag. You can have it.’ Beyond the pounding silence, a finale of notes struck the air and felt like pinpricks in her skull. On the opposite side of the house, the evening light was a cool, pale gold. It shone gently through the windows of the Rose Room and blended with the hush of voices from the other side of the door. Dr Melford was small and round, with thick glasses and a bushy grey beard that seemed to muffle his voice when he spoke. Stella associated him with chickenpox and medicine that made her retch. The tablet he gave her was brilliant pink. A magic sweet. It would have thrilled her another time. Her mind was like smashed china; her thoughts wouldn’t fix together. When she thought about what had happened, the little scream, the silence, it made it hard to breathe. After the doctor left, her father sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and asked her to tell him everything she could remember. It was strange to hear him speak so gently. When she finished, he hung his head and nodded, as if going through the story again in his mind. Accident. It was a word that adults understood. It took away a bad 197

FIONA LONGSDON

thing and made it into something that could be forgotten. But now it was worthless, a grubby white lie of a word that no one believed. ‘Did. You. Push. Her?’ Oriel pulled Stella from the pillow and gripped her shoulders until it hurt. ‘Did you?’ Her lips were thin and spittled, her face a plate of steel. Stella’s sobs were violent jagged bursts. Mucus clogged her throat and bubbled from her nose, and made it difficult to speak. ‘It was an accident,’ she said, over and over.

198

199

Nina MacPherson

ords and people’s ability to communicate with them are important to Nina. She was in charge of teaching literacy, heading up a large faculty, for twenty years. When the time came to leave teaching she was proud her students achieved the best scores at county level for literacy progress. Nina’s MEd thesis (Bath University) and educational publication Concept Mapping (Wiltshire LEA) led her to courses in fiction writing, participation in writers’ groups, readings and the Creative Writing MA. Like Nina’s letters, published in The Observer, Radio Times and elsewhere, her writing mildly lampoons the pompous and the bureaucratic whilst exploring the life of the underdog. Living and writing in Bath she was delighted to help judge the 2014 Bath Short Story Award. Austerity and Other Cuts is a collection of short stories illustrating the absurdities of life in austerity Britain. The reduction of services, including literacy support, for needy families, is explored here in ‘All the Responsibility – None of the Power’. From Sylvester, the millionaire entrepreneur in ‘Life on Earth’ selling water in a climate change scare, to another losing her disability allowance in ‘Single File’, the stories show we are not ‘all in it together’. ‘Medical Mayhem’ reflects the ludicrous results of government diktats on the NHS. These and other stories aim to amuse, provoke and examine the effects of cuts on people’s lives. ninamacphee@googlemail.com www.thewritetarget.co.uk / macphe.blogspot.com 200

All the Responsibility – None of the Power from Austerity and Other Cuts

he TV was blaring through the window of number fifty, Shophouse Terrace, Bristol. Inside the plain 1990s house, eleven-year-old Greg Starling was truanting from school. ‘Are you ready to meet your judges?’ A scream shot through the open curtains. Deputy Head Teacher Phil Marx rang the bell. ‘Welcome to We’ve Got Talent.’ Phil, perspiring under his black suit, saw his colleague, Marie Bonhomie, the education welfare officer, park her car nearby. As he was in charge of school discipline and uniform he couldn’t dress casually. It went with the territory of being a deputy head. Marie joined him as he rang the bell a second time. ‘I wish they’d reply. I’ve rung twice. They’re in.’ ‘It’s the usual waiting game,’ she said, winding her long grey hair into a bun. He wiped his forehead and scratched his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. Marie was a godsend. His authority spread to the school gates but he had no jurisdiction in a family home. The reduced intake for Middling High School has disproportionately affected the demographic. Attendance is now below the national average. The school serves a ward where the household income is among the lowest for the Bristol environs. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Phil noticed a row of yellow coreopsis under Mrs Starling’s downstairs' window. Sun-heated, bottle-green rubbish bins by her front door gave off a sickly sweet odour. Phil rang the bell for a third time. The neighbours’ windows were all open, and offered a variety of TV programmes. Beyoncé was singing in the sitting room of number forty-nine and there was a darts match in number fifty-one. In his agitated 201

NINA MACPHERSON

state Phil imagined that a dart would lob its way out and hit him in his right temple. He looked at his watch. It was already 10.40am. ‘Oh, come on. I’m teaching in half an hour!’ He looked at Marie, who seemed unflustered in a cool blue suit. ‘Poor attendance – bad for school league tables,’ he said, mantra-like, then continued, ‘I used to enjoy teaching but I feel irritation earlier and earlier every working day.’ The door opened. The mother of another of his Year Seven pupils was on the step. The words on her T-shirt yelled ‘Skyfall 007’. Phil was forced to begin the introductions. ‘I have an appointment to see Mrs Starling. I’m-’ ‘I knows you. You teach our Stacey,’ interrupted Double-O-Seven. ‘Is Mrs Starling in? This is Mrs Bonhomie. We’ve come to-’ ‘You can’t see none of ’em.’ Double-O-Seven slammed the door shut. Phil tutted, looked up and saw a boy’s face through the gap in the bedroom curtains. The lad sucked his thumb and waved. A thin tabby cat with six teats miaowed by Phil’s foot. He rang the bell for the fourth time and instead of waiting phoned the senior administrative assistant for attendance in school, or the SAS as Phil called her, on his Blackberry. ‘Senior Administrative Assistant for Attendance in School speaking.’ Phil muttered, ‘On a platform one-inch high,’ and said, ‘Iris, it’s Phil. Can you cover my Year Nines? I thought I might get back, but … ’ ‘Okay, Phil.’ Phil was tapping his foot when the door opened. It was Double-O-Seven. ‘Mrs … ?’ ‘I’m her friend. She ’as to stay in, don’t you, Shirl?’ The door slammed shut again. Phil felt both impatient and anxious, he had so much to do. ‘You know, we usually hold these twenty-minute meetings in school. We’ve been here that long already,’ he said to Marie, who removed her jacket. Her tanned hand pushed her fringe out of her eyes. This distracted Phil, who was already overburdened by unaccomplished tasks, and his frown softened. His shoulders fell and his eyes shifted their gaze to her slender ankles. 202

‘I’ve visited so many homes where I can’t get access. I serve a court order if they won’t even talk to me through the letter box,’ she said. Listening to her soothed him. The school serves a higher percentage of families who have not experienced education beyond statutory school leaving age. ‘You’re the best EWO we’ve ever had,’ he said. ‘Social work is good training for an educational welfare officer,’ replied Marie. At that moment the door opened again. ‘She says you can come in,’ announced Double-O-Seven. Once inside, Phil looked round the room. There was a pot of marigolds on a glass- topped dining table. Small orange flames illuminated the gas fire. There were no ornaments, newspapers, books, or games. This home derives its pleasure and knowledge of the world from the forty-two-inch television screen. Mrs Starling, with a deep groove between her eyes, was slunk in a brown faux leather chair. She wore slippers and a red V-neck over jeans. She looked tired. As soon as Phil made eye contact, Mrs Starling bit her nails. A tapestry kit of sunflowers was resting on the arm of her chair. Van Gogh also had his troubles. ‘Shall we sit down?’ asked Marie. Double-O-Seven pointed to the settee. They all faced the fire and the wall-mounted screen. The larger-thanlife face of one of the TV judges met Phil as he sat down. He introduced Mrs Bonhomie and began explaining what an EWO does. ‘We knows what she does,’ said Double-O-Seven. I wish that woman would stop hovering so I can talk to Greg’s mother. ‘Mrs Starling, you know a statement of special need sets out Greg’s learning objectives like “Greg needs to improve his reading age by six months”, but Greg can’t learn if he’s absent from school.’ Nationally, approximately two per cent of the school population is subject to a statement of special educational need where provision is additional to, or different from, routine classroom practice. ‘Greg and his twin brother got statements at primary school,’ said Mrs Starling, whose words were distorted by the cheering on the television. ‘Did you say you got the statements done at primary school?’ He tried to shout above the TV. 203

NINA MACPHERSON

‘Yes. Greg likes school but he can’t sleep. That’s why he’s absent,’ said Mrs Starling, who picked up her tapestry work when Phil looked at her. Marie Bonhomie added, ‘If we can all think of one thing to help Greg back to school-’ then asked if the TV could be turned down. Phil looked at Marie. An angel in a wasteland. ‘We can’t find the remote. It has to stay loud,’ remonstrated Double-O-Seven. ‘Switch it off at the wall, Cassie. We ain’t watching it,’ said Mrs Starling, who bit her nails again. ‘That’s better,’ said Phil as the washing machine started to whistle. When that stopped, the baby began crying. He wanted to make a joke about needing a hearing aid but it wasn’t politically correct, especially since the advent of the Disability Discrimination Act. The annual review of statement includes a multi-disciplinary panel chaired by a senior school manager. A friend may accompany the parent or guardian. ‘Cassie, give her that bottle,’ said Mrs Starling. ‘Mrs Starling, I need your opinion of Greg’s progress and the help he gets,’ said Phil. ‘Greg is at level one for English. Level four is usual for his age group.’ ‘I wants him doing English, not French.’ ‘I can write that,’ said Phil, searching in his jacket for a ballpoint. While Marie looked through her Radley bag for a pen, Phil noticed an old postcard on the mantelpiece declaring, ‘Come in! The sea’s lovely.’ ‘Greg can do spelling instead of French. Where is Greg, by the way?’ he asked. ‘In bed. He can’t sleep ’cos of his twin brother, Dan. Dan goes to special school. He ain’t as clever as Greg.’ Greg? Clever? ‘Dan’s got behaviour problems so Greg sleeps in the wardrobe. The babby’s with me. They’ll want us to move out of this house ’cos we have three bedrooms.’ Under occupation penalty. Those on housing benefit must have a minimum number of rooms or lose twenty-five per cent of their benefit. Marie reassured Mrs Starling that Dan’s disabilities meant they could stay put. She found a pen and passed it to Phil, who gave her a smile. 204

‘Can Greg sleep in another bedroom?’ asked Marie. ‘No bed in the spare room.’ Phil knew Marie was dealing with families under pressure all week long. How does she do it? Day in day out. Must be a saint. The gas fire was still on. Phil took off his suit jacket, turned up his sleeves and took a sip from a water bottle. ‘Can we ask Greg what he thinks now?’ asked Phil. He looked at his watch and felt his shoulders tense. Does Ofsted know the lengths we go to for improved attendance? Without moving from her chair Mrs Starling shouted, ‘Greg!’ Footsteps thundered down the stairs and Greg, wearing a Bristol City strip, came into the room. His face was pale against neatly cut brown hair. He looked at Phil but when he saw the baby in the kitchen he went over, speaking to her in baby talk. ‘Thath nice. Have a lickul thleep.’ ‘Greg,’ said his mum, ‘you’re gonna have to move bedrooms.’ ‘Records show Greg had speech therapy in Year Three,’ Phil said, looking at Mrs Starling. ‘It stopped in the juniors. If Greg sleeps he’ll go to school. But he’s frightened of bullies,’ said Mrs Starling. ‘Greg can walk with our Stacey,’ said Cassie, as Greg re-entered the sitting room. ‘Yeth, okay,’ said Greg. ‘I’ll re-recommend speech therapy. With fewer specialists a teaching assistant, Mrs Jenson, helps.’ He started to write the recommendations when Marie’s pen dried up. ‘You knows Mrs Jenson, Greg? She takes you, don’t she?’ asked Mrs Starling. Greg nodded. ‘Anyone got a pencil?’ asked Phil, then his mind wandered. Marie, let’s just go for a coffee. ‘I got a penthil,’ said Greg, who looked six feet tall when he gave his teacher a pencil to use. Phil thanked him and smiled. ‘When can you bring him in, Mrs Starling?’ asked Marie. ‘I can’t leave the house.’ 205

NINA MACPHERSON

‘We’ll walk him,’ said Cassie. ‘You gotta go with Cassie tomorrow, Greg,’ said Mrs Starling. ‘Meet Mrs Jenson at school, Greg,’ said Phil. ‘Register with her and don’t go to French, okay?’ He hoped these arrangements would stick. ‘Awroight.’ Greg’s pale lips began to form into a smile. When the baby cried again he went into the kitchen to practise his baby talk on her. Phil noticed a yellow coaster on the window ledge. It said, ‘The sun will come out tomorrow.’ ‘We’d better go. Anything you want to add, Mrs Bonhomie?’ asked Phil. ‘No, that’s fine,’ said Marie, smiling. ‘Get mummy a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Starling. ‘I’ll get the milk,’ offered Phil, who went to the fridge. Unlike the house it seemed under-occupied. He saw a pizza box sticking out of the kitchen bin. Fifteen thousand families needed food banks last winter. In the UK poverty is defined as forty per cent of median income which is currently set at twenty-six thousand pounds. Once the tea was made Phil tried to leave the house. ‘I wants Greg to get on,’ said Mrs Starling. ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Phil, edging towards the door. ‘Goodbye. Nice to have met you,’ said Marie, offering to shake hands. ‘I wants my Greg to have opportunities.’ Outside Phil and Marie saw the same bony mother cat hiding by the bins where three tiny kittens were mewing. Their ears, the size of thumb-nails, were still flat. ‘Females with babies trying to cope!’ exclaimed Marie. ‘We’re all in it together, aren’t we?’ said Phil as they walked to their cars. The words ‘We’ve got talent!’ shouted out into the street. The Starling’s TV was back on. ‘All the responsibility and none of the power, more like!’ said Marie starting her engine. They waved and drove off in opposite directions.

206

207

Fenella Mallalieu

riting fiction is Fenella Mallalieu’s third career, and like the first two – arts journalist and potter – the initial spark was the product of a chance encounter. The Chemistry of Longing is her second novel, and it is a fictitious imagining of a true story that was reported in 2008. The Chemistry of Longing is a modern-day Greek tragedy about a marriage between two people who should never have met. Stephen and Kay have both had a decade of adult life when they find themselves alone on a deserted rural station waiting for the London train. They smile, they begin a conversation, they fall in love. Their meeting is the culmination of a twenty-nine-year journey, which began with the birth of twins who were separated at six months old. Stephen and Kay have no conscious memory there ever was a twin, only that when they meet they have never felt such a sense of rightness about anything. They have four years together before an original birth certificate lights the bomb under their marriage. The novel is a portrait of two individuals’ lives over many years, of the parallel traumas and synchronicities, and the many choices and decisions each of them make which put them both on that platform together. fenellamall@hotmail.co.uk

208

The Chemistry of Longing

hen the flight was finally called the words rang out like an executioner’s bell. This is it, Stephen thought. He looked about him, at the roll call of familiar high-street names and felt a wave of bewilderment and loss. His country was the least of the things he was leaving. Until yesterday he’d been a married man. Today that marriage had never existed. A judge had rubbed it out like a dirty mark on a clean sheet of paper. He was thirty-three years old and he was leaving his life with a rucksack and a computer, and yesterday he’d wiped the hard-drive of the computer. He made his way to the departure gate and sat down. His phone had been switched off for twenty-four hours. Sliding off the back he removed the SIM card and examined it. Encoded on this tiny object was a record of his life, the connection to everyone he loved, and who more than her? Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed. The plastic barely bent, the edges biting into the pads of his fingers. Eventually it succumbed with a quiet snap and he dropped the pieces in the bin. He no longer existed. It was a new way of dying. On the plane a window seat was a comfort. He turned his face away from the cabin and stared into the thin blue nothingness outside. Below, the clouds were bunched up into a fleecy carpet, and he imagined disappearing into that false cocoon as Saint-Exupéry had done. As a boy he’d been obsessed by the man and the book and the mystery of the disappearing plane. It was a hero worship that had so enraged his father that he’d hurled a library copy of The Little Prince into the Aga. Later, to make amends, he’d replaced the book (and paid the fine), and Stephen had known that his adoptive father was essentially a decent man. And latterly there was love between them too. 209

FENELLA MALLALIEU

Sorry, Dad, to be doing this to you now, at your age, alone and with no other children. You’ll have to think the worst of me. He couldn’t see how he’d ever be able to tell his father the real reason why he was on a flight to Australia with a one-way ticket in his hand. Yesterday, in court, Kay had looked unrecognisable, dressed in a plain black skirt and jacket, as neat and prim as a novice. Her beautiful long hair was scraped up off her face as if some giant had spread its hand over her scalp and snatched her up by the roots. His wife had lovely hair, long and thick and mahogany brown, usually falling loose about her face or sloppily piled up and escaping from whatever devices were meant to be holding it in place. As he’d stood there looking at her in this strange environment, he knew he’d have to hold on to an image of that precious face from memory: her brown eyes and her pale, elfin face which was as mobile as a glove puppet, her smile that stretched from ear to ear, curling upwards and ending in a large dimple in each cheek. The Kay sitting across the court was stonily impassive, her skin taut, her features set like concrete. He leant his head against the window and thought about the miles that already separated them, the image of a ball of string unravelling at six hundred miles an hour. He pictured Kay getting smaller and smaller until she was just a tiny dot in London, and in twenty or so hours he’d be a tiny dot in Australia. He opened his palm and felt that piece of string and closed his fingers round it. Stephen took off his glasses and shut his eyes. There were hammers striking at his temples. He felt in his pockets for a packet of paracetamol, and reached down for his small canvas bag and swung it onto his lap, brushing his neighbour’s leg. ‘Sorry,’ he said. In the seat next to him was a woman reading a paperback. He had a snatched impression of greying hair, of a soft, rounded profile clothed in pink. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. The woman put her book down and gave him a friendly smile. He feared she was about to say something else, to initiate a conversation. They were stuck next to each other for the best part of twenty-four hours and at any other time in his life he would have been happy enough to chat. He buried his head in his bag in search of painkillers, pulling out a crumpled packet. 210

‘Not well?’ she asked. ‘Headache.’ ‘You’ll need water for those,’ she said. ‘I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for the drinks trolley?’ She was craning her head down the aisle. ‘Really, I’ll be fine.’ She had her hand up and was waving it around. ‘Really,’ he repeated. ‘There’s nothing worse than a headache. I get migraines.’ He turned back towards the window, unable to bear this woman and her unwanted kindness. If she says another thing to me I’m going to lose it, he thought. Howl like a wolf. He tore at the metal strip of pills, stuffed three in his mouth and chewed them up. They hadn’t even had to say anything, beyond confirming their names and age. There’d been no case to argue because nothing was in dispute. A barrister had done all the talking, and it had been the oddest experience to have your life reduced to a few sentences. It was nobody’s fault, the judge had said, as if that made it better. A one-in-a-million coincidence. In under fifteen minutes the proceedings were over and he and Kay had been ushered into a small room with grey plastic chairs where they’d sat in numb silence, waiting to be given a document they didn’t want. The shortest divorce in history – except it wasn’t a divorce. Stephen felt a light tap on his arm and looked round. He was being asked what he wanted to drink. The pain in his head had softened to a dull blur. He asked for vodka, two vodkas. ‘Enjoy the flight, sir,’ the flight attendant said with a one-second smile. He stared up at her, incredulous, unable to smile back. Afterwards, they’d not known what to do with themselves. Kay had suggested they find some cafe and they’d sat down and stared, zombie-like, at undrunk cups of tea, and at the table, and at the envelope on the table. And then he’d had to tell her that he was leaving – not just the cafe, or London but permanently leaving – and she’d let out a piercing wail like a wounded animal. She reduced the place to a stunned silence, with the shriek in her voice and her wild eyes. And he’d stood up, and had gently prised her fingers away from his face, and had walked out without looking back. It was the worst thing he’d ever done. 211

FENELLA MALLALIEU

‘Feeling better?’ asked his neighbour. ‘A bit,’ he nodded. ‘They’re showing Burn After Reading. I missed it at my local. I loved their other one with George Clooney. What’s that one? With the … ’ He shook his head. Please stop talking to me. I am not capable of conversation. Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? Dalston Rio. We had supper across the road at the Mangal. Gilbert and George were at their usual table and everything was well with the world. No, it wasn’t, the cinema had run out of Ben & Jerry’s Baileys, and you had a little grump and said you didn’t want an ice cream, and then ate most of mine. He felt her head leaning against his, the warmth from her shoulder, and then her knee and right down her lower leg. Even in cinema seats they were always joined. And which hand must he have been holding? She was on his right so it must have been her left, but they couldn’t have been holding hands until they’d finished with the ice cream. He reached for that missing hand and held it. In the winter her hands are always cold. But then so are his. Right from the start it was like nothing else. The first time he’d touched her – just a hand on her arm – his finger had sizzled with an actual electric shock. Not painful but a definite physical sensation of a mild electric current. They were trying to say goodbye at Liverpool Street and he was making an arse of it, not wanting to seem weird or pervy but not wanting to let her go. He didn’t even manage to get her number. They were both awkward, laughing and not laughing, two people who’d got chatting on a train. He touched her arm lightly and was immediately zapped, though he already knew it wasn’t the only way. So he hugged her for a moment and then let her go. And the next day, after they’d made love for the fourth time, she’d confessed that for most of the journey she’d been throbbing like a London taxi. My vulva, Kay had whispered with an explosion of giggles. Not possible he’d said, acting the official. Really, I was. After only twenty minutes. Where? He demanded to be shown precisely where. Here, she smiled with glistening eyes. Here. ‘Beef or chicken, sir?’ 212

He couldn’t speak. He was used to the ache in his stomach but this was a hard, angry pain. ‘Beef or chicken?’ the flight attendant repeated. He shook his head. ‘Long time to breakfast,’ she said, shunting the trolley on. Stephen gazed out of the window and thought about the event that had brought him to this flight. It was a flight in both senses of the word. They’d been felled by a piece of information, a simple, unequivocal fact. For weeks they fought with this fact, locked the door against it, railed at the impossibility of it. Then they stared at the thing full on and said: Fuck it. So what? What business is it of anyone else? We’ll adopt. But it grew like a voracious cancer eating them from the inside. It was Kay who said that they would have to make a choice: to live on lies – the biggest lie imaginable – or brazen it out together as a YouTube freak show. ‘First time to Australia?’ his neighbour asked. ‘It is.’ ‘Holiday?’ ‘No.’ ‘Work?’ ‘Also, no. I’m moving there.’ ‘Big decision,’ she said, looking at him with a knowing smile. ‘Might there be a girl in the picture?’ ‘My marriage just ended. Yesterday, actually.’ ‘Forgive me. I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking mortified. He made a little movement of his head and said: ‘It’s fine … well, it isn’t.’ They were silent for a few moments and then Stephen made an effort to remember how to have a normal conversation. ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘My sister’s not well. Cancer, and it’s come back.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Stephen offered in return. ‘Is it treatable?’ ‘Not any more.’ He saw her swallow. Pause. ‘I’m here to say goodbye,’ she said. The one word they’d both been unable to say. He jerked his head round and stared with the utmost concentration on a scuff mark on the window frame. This is what women are told to do in childbirth, apparently, concentrate on something to distract the 213

FENELLA MALLALIEU

mind. Breathe in, breathe out. Tears were flooding his eyes, rolling silently down his face and they might never stop. And if this woman, who was also grieving, made a single gesture or spoke a single kind word he might very well howl and never stop. If he kept as still and silent as a rock no one would notice that a man was weeping on a plane.

214

215

Lily S. McKee

s a schoolgirl, Lily S. McKee used to invent stories to tell herself during the school day. In seventh grade she began writing them down. She was born and raised in Washington DC and is a graduate, cum laude, of Muskingum University where she majored in English and History. Crestfall has been a labour of love since her sophomore year of college. Crestfall uses supernaturalism to explore how people marginalise those they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand. The novel considers psychological power and how the marginalised use it and are affected by it. Since people fear what they do not know, they force those who are outside the norm to the fringes of society. It marries environmentalism with supernaturalism, as well as fantasy with reality. It mixes the darkness of murder with the lightness of comedy and is told through a twenty-five-year-old woman with supernatural powers, and a determination not to let others bully her. She returns to Canada for the funeral of her estranged identical twin sister and stays to find the killer. The excerpt is the interrogation of Aria, the main character, by the detective Bennet Halfnight, who eventually becomes her love interest. lily.mckee@gmail.com

216

Crestfall

alfnight closed the door and turned to me. ‘You’re in the wrong chair,’ he said. I switched seats with a sigh. I wanted this to be over already. He was a handsome man, tall, broad shouldered, and thick chested. His chiselled face was pensive and his straight black hair fell to one side. His blue eyes were like wet stones peering from his pale skin. His nose was the only imperfection. It was slightly crooked and gave the impression that it had been broken a time or two. He cleared his throat and I did the same. ‘All right,’ he shifted in his seat. ‘When was the last time you saw your sister?’ ‘Seven years ago,’ I said. ‘On our birthday.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. Really.’ ‘Why did you hate your sister?’ ‘Because she was mean-spirited and took delight in torturing those who had the misfortune of getting in her crosshairs.’ Halfnight raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious?’ ‘Did you know her?’ ‘No, not really.’ We stared at each other. I had no idea what he was getting at. All at once I felt another presence. It was not in the room but behind the mirror. I shifted uneasily in my seat. ‘Just because I didn’t know your sister does not make what you just said true.’ 217

LILY S. MCKEE

‘Believe me. It was.’ ‘Seven years is a long time. She could have changed.’ ‘I highly doubt it, but you can ask my brother, Fynn, all about her,’ I told him. ‘I’d rather ask you.’ ‘Fine, but I haven’t spoken to anyone in my family in seven years.’ ‘Seriously?’ ‘The day I was released from the hospital, I left for England and I never once looked back.’ ‘Hospital?’ Halfnight looked confused. ‘You heard me the first time, I think.’ ‘What happened?’ I ignored the enquiry. ‘All you need to know is that I was in England at the time of the murder. You can check with immigration. I have not been back to Canada since I left.’ ‘I will,’ Halfnight assured me. He then pulled out some photos from the file before him. My stomach started to stage a revolt. They were crime scene photos, of her body. Up close and personal. They showed exactly how her body looked after death. ‘Are her fingers chewed off?’ I asked, as my voice choked with revulsion. ‘That’s none of your concern right now,’ Halfnight said. ‘The bloody hell it isn’t!’ I shrieked, fury rising in my throat. ‘I’m only concerned with your alibi.’ ‘Then why did you make me look at these?’ ‘To test your reaction.’ ‘You’re sick,’ I told him, turning the pictures over, facedown. ‘I’m done here.’ I wanted to get away before I vomited, or said something that could be misinterpreted. I rose from my seat and walked to the door. ‘I’m afraid you’re not.’ Halfnight made it to the door before I could and braced it closed. I reached for the knob and he blocked my arm and held my wrist tightly. ‘You’re not going anywhere until I verify your alibi.’ He tugged me closer to him and awareness shot through me. I had to crane my neck backwards in order to look him in the eye. He manoeuvred my arm behind my back. I restrained the urge to punch 218

him with my free hand and then elbow him in the solar plexus. I despised being manhandled. ‘I didn’t kill her. I was researching my master’s thesis at the time. I left home to get away from my family. Why would I choose now to kill her? After seven years?’ I tugged on my arm trying to get him to let me go and instead he walked me backwards to my chair. ‘Because you needed to bide your time to throw off suspicion.’ He tightened his grip. I laughed hysterically. ‘I didn’t have to kill her. I just needed to get away from her. This is utter bullshit! I could just as easily pretend she didn’t exist.’ I gave in to the violent urge and used the heel of my stiletto boot to step on his foot. Halfnight grunted and his grip loosened. When I made no other move but to take two steps back and fall inelegantly into my chair he still looked unconvinced. ‘Fine. I will tell you what happened on our eighteenth birthday but you won’t believe it.’ ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He looked startled. ‘Because no one ever has!’ I laughed and he paused. I kept laughing until I felt borderline hysterical. ‘Not my parents, not my brother, or my so-called friends; no one ever believed that I was the innocent one. I always got in trouble for her shenanigans.’ That was when the tears came. The shame and humiliation that I suffered during those years rose up. I laid my head on my arms and succumbed to my emotions. Sobs tore through me at a rate I hadn’t thought possible. I could feel Halfnight’s awkwardness while a commotion at the door brought Fynn to my attention. I realised he was fighting to get into the interrogation room. All the emotions that I kept at bay had been unleashed by this pointless interrogation. Everything came flooding back at once – all the memories of anger and pain, of all the times that I was blamed for Sonata’s actions, they came bursting through a broken dam. This would accomplish nothing; I was so embarrassed and yet could not stop the flow of tears. I wished the person behind the mirror would do something to alleviate the situation. I forced myself to become calm. 219

LILY S. MCKEE

When I looked up, I found that Halfnight had sat down opposite me again. But this time, his eyes held pity and empathy. That was also when I noticed the female officer had entered the room. Men, they can’t ever handle seeing a woman cry. I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry about that. It doesn’t happen very often.’ Halfnight just stared at me. His eyes had gone cold; they looked calculating though there was still some empathy in the cool depths. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes, the fact that no one, not even my own parents ever believed me. They were always confusing us. They could never get us straight. It was pathetic. You’d think that your own parents could tell you apart. But I believe our mom knew us as ourselves though she never let on about it. It was as if no one could see Sonata for who she really was. Almost as if there had been a veneer or a mask she put on when others were around.’ I shook my head and stared at the table. ‘Really?’ I nodded. That is what most people didn’t get. I have met people who thought it would be wonderful to have a mirror image. When I, in a fit of desperation, dyed my hair purple, Sonata followed suit. If I’d cut my hair short, she would have cut her hair short. Any change I made to my appearance was noted and imitated by her. It had been bloody irritating. With my sister, I never knew what I would be accused of. What I could not understand was why people never agreed with me. What was it about being a twin that most people found so intriguing? I guessed that people wish for things they don’t have. What they didn’t know was that sometimes it was impossible to detect who was who. Hair length and colour always helped, or a scar, or our style of dress. But identical twins look just alike. And that is what I hated. Sonata always made a point of keeping herself looking exactly like me no matter what I did. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Halfnight said, drawing me back to the present. He raised an eyebrow. I realised this was a common gesture for him. ‘Any more questions, Detective?’ ‘Yeah. Why’d you threaten to kill her?’ ‘That wasn’t me. She was threatening me and she damn near killed me.’ ‘How can I be sure that it wasn’t you?’ I swallowed. I hadn’t shown anyone my scar since it had healed. 220

‘I will show you, but I do not want this recorded and no one else but you will be able to see it. You have to promise me.’ Halfnight looked dumbfounded for some reason. ‘Why is it so important that only I can see it?’ ‘Because it is private and the worst moment of my life.’ Halfnight looked at me, his gaze searching my face for any sign of contrition. ‘Fine, wait here.’ A few minutes later the red dot on the camera disappeared. The female officer disappeared back behind the glass, though she was not the one I could sense. I still felt the presence behind the mirror and wondered briefly if I should have added that the box was to be emptied. No matter. This day just kept getting worse and worse. Halfnight resumed his seat and looked at me expectantly. ‘It was our eighteenth birthday, and the party was held in our house and the music nearly deafened the neighbours. Sonata was out of control. She was drinking too much and dancing with other girls’ boyfriends. She was wearing little more than nothing. Morgana, her best friend at the time, encouraged her along. She was always getting Sonata to do things that were wrong and getting her in trouble for which I was usually blamed. I tried to get her to stop her outrageous behaviour but she just grabbed another bottle of champagne. When I tried to wrest it from her grasp we struggled and – I have no idea how this happened – the bottle shattered on a table. Champagne and wine bottles are incredibly difficult to break. It takes a great deal of force to break those bottles. I think the heel of my shoe broke and we both stumbled at the impact and hit the floor. The next thing I knew, there was half of the broken bottle sticking out of my abdomen. I couldn’t comprehend what had happened, but Sonata just looked at me with a shocked expression. At first I didn’t even feel the pain because my brain could not understand what had just happened. I blacked out and woke up in the hospital.’ With that said, I stood up and lifted my shirt. It was a jagged, circular scar I called my perverse sun. It was raised, but the redness had faded. I never wore bikinis or anything that would show my stomach. It was too embarrassing to have to explain. The memory of all the pain, loss and insecurity overwhelmed me. No 221

LILY S. MCKEE

one had believed me. My friends thought I tripped while I was drunk and cut myself on the champagne bottle I was carrying. It took me three months to fully heal and even longer to shed the memory of sharp glass piercing my skin. I still have nightmares about that day. It’s easy to stop telling the truth when no one believes you. You just shut your mouth and pretend they’re right, while the truth burns a hole in your soul. ‘Is that why you left?’ he asked. I nodded, letting go of my shirt as it fell back into place. ‘Please check with the airlines. The only time in seven years I’ve been back to Canada was for her funeral. I wouldn’t kill her. It’s not in my nature.’ Halfnight stood, picking up the file he’d brought with him. ‘Need any more proof?’ I asked. The detective’s lips lifted into an odd smile. ‘Not right now. Thank you for coming in.’ ‘You didn’t give me much choice.’ I rose to leave and he opened the door for me. It hit me as Fynn gave me a hug that I had just given the best motive for killing Sonata the detective would likely uncover.

222

223

Angela Nansera

ngela Nansera is a south Londoner currently living in Bristol. She is a graduate of Surrey University and has used her degree Social Policy and Administration with Education in her career in housing management. Her first published piece, an untitled memoir, won a commendation in The Writing Lab in January 2007. Further published short stories include: ‘Borderline’ in Debut Magazine (May 2010); in 2011 ‘Soul Survivor’ placed first and second in the Cazart and Segora short story competitions, respectively; and ‘The Proposal’, runner-up in Cazart in October 2010 and third in Debut Magazine in May 2011. Angela has written two unpublished novels: Withering Heights and Just Add Water. This extract is from Angela’s third novel, Sin Bin, a crossover novel for young adult and adult readers. It’s the autumn term of 1983. Twelve-yearold Robina, of Ugandan heritage, starts at St Jude’s, a boarding school for girls in the home counties. She struggles to conform and attempts to run away until she hears Jelly Belly, the school night watchman, play a piece by Beethoven. Through their secret meetings in his office, the Sin Bin, their friendship develops. Robina learns about the composer and that her own imagination and creativity should be celebrated and not shunned. a.nansera@blueyonder.co.uk / angelanansera.co.uk

224

Sin Bin

obina watched the rain bounce off the roofs, sizzling on tiles like the blood in the pan of her dream. A thunderclap froze her to the foot of the bed. She gripped her stomach, reminded of the earlier conversation with Mrs Offenbaum. The housemistress had stood by the dormitory door to gather the rest of the girls for the nine-thirty train. ‘Right,’ she had said. ‘The London train will be at the station soon, so gather your things and I will drop you at the back gate.’ Her musky perfume mingled with the smell of cigarettes. ‘Mrs Offenbaum,’ Robina had said, ‘what about my lunch?’ ‘Lunch?’ Mrs Offenbaum had sneered. ‘Lunch? You are still on punishment. You get nothing.’ ‘But Mrs Offenbaum,’ said Robina, ‘I’m so hungry.’ Mrs Offenbaum shooed her away. ‘I care nothing for naughty girls,’ she said, her lipstick spilling over her lips. ‘I’ve got my day off from you girls planned as well, you know. Don’t even think about leaving this house, or you’ll have me to answer to.’ Robina stared at her watch. She still had an hour before the eleven o’clock train. She knew she couldn’t run away to London without first sneaking past Mrs Offenbaum’s door. She eyed the locker beside Hep’s bed. Her tuck. Of course! She jumped down and flung herself towards it, yanking out a box that landed with a thud. She pulled off the lid and batted away her guilt. Hep will understand me going into her locker. She’ll know I was hungry. But all she found was a mound of bubble wrap, an empty Jamaica Ginger Cake wrapper, greaseproof paper, cupcake holders, sweet wrappers, breadcrumbs, napkins. But no food. 225

ANGELA NANSERA

Robina slumped against the bed. She had to eat. She raced out of the dormitory and crept along the corridor past the housemistress’s door. ‘VERBOTEN’ was scrawled in lipstick across it and Robina, even with her limited knowledge of German, knew this meant ‘no entry’. Neil Sedaka droned in the background, louder than usual, and Robina was convinced she heard Mrs Offenbaum laugh and a male voice. The echo of her footsteps felt strange inside the house – now quiet and empty like a giant machine with its engine switched off. Mrs Offenbaum couldn’t possibly hear her so she rushed downstairs into a kitchen banned to Second Years. The fridge was empty apart from a jar of mustard. There was no other food and she was unable to find the key to the locked sixth-form study. Think, Robina, think. She ran into an empty television room. A tin of Marvel sat on a table beside a Samsonite case. She swallowed a mouthful of dried milk, sickened by the sweet paste. Yuk! She dashed into the day room and tugged each of the forty locker doors open only to find a half-eaten pack of cream crackers and a jar of mouldy jam. Her teeth sunk into a soft wafer and she choked on its staleness. The room began to spin like it had done in the dining hall, her insides attacking her, jabbing and twitching and screaming to be filled. She knew she had to leave to get to the train station and buy her ticket, but she could not think about anything except her hunger. Perhaps the shop at the station would be open and she could buy some crisps; something for the journey. She staggered back towards the empty cloakroom and opened the back door. The rain was heavy and instead of turning right towards the drive, towards the back gate, she stepped beneath the thunderclouds and hurried towards the school block, lashed by the downpour as puddles of cold water splashed her shins. She arrived at the top of the steps to the Sin Bin, the rain like liquid metal striking its plastic roof. She needed Jelly Belly. She needed food. She didn’t care if Hep said he was a child molester, at least he might feed her. She steadied herself, grasping the wet rails and quickly made her way down the stairs. The light inside the room was off. She banged on the door. Nothing. She banged again. Nothing still. 226

She pummelled the wood, alternating hands, until her palms stung more than the ache of her belly. She slid to the ground and leant against the door. It opened and she fell inside. He pulled her up like before. Not rough like Mrs Offenbaum, but welcoming, gentle. He pulled her in from the rain; she blinked into the light and smelled a mixture of oil and tobacco. ‘You woke me,’ he said, but she barely heard him, worrying less about what Hep told her he had done and more about what lay beside the record player. He followed her gaze. ‘Cake?’ he asked. Robina nodded. ‘Please. I am so hungry.’ He walked towards it. It took him an age to reach the end of the room. In his bobble hat, he was shorter and fatter than Dad. As she wiped the rain off her face she was comforted by the sound of the rain falling outside. He handed her the package, a rectangular block of regulation angel cake – still in its wrapper. She ripped it open, her teeth biting into it again and again, barely taking breaths between mouthfuls, barely chewing to swallow. She knew he watched her, but she didn’t care, she just needed to satisfy her desire, her will, her need to stay alive, to fill her stomach before catching her train. He gently touched her again, and led her to a sofa where he cleared a stack of books to make room. She didn’t flinch or look at him; the crumbs from her mouth cascading to the floor. A few minutes won’t hurt. I’ve still got time before the eleven o’clock. Her hunger began to ease: she had eaten almost half the block and watched as Jelly Belly flicked on the record player. The red light came on and the turntable began to spin. The crackle of the needle on the record brought back memories of home, where she soon would be. It crackled with the anticipation that music was about to begin; gave hesitancy, a gap, a small wonder of a stylus collecting dirt before it played. She could never be bored of watching that needle bob up and down and as the piece slowly began she stopped chewing. It opened like a hymn; Robina remained focused on Jelly Belly’s steelcapped boots as he sat across from her beside the player. She realised, sitting 227

ANGELA NANSERA

on his sofa, that she had crossed a line and was in a new place. She wasn’t sure about how she felt but she could still not face him. She kept her head down knowing that he still stared. ‘What’s your name?’ he said. The violin strings invited her into a meadow and she instinctively climbed over its gate. She knew it was Beethoven; she had heard enough of his music to recognise his call. She was struck by the peaceful orchestra and was soothed by its tender sound. The piano played two single notes in quick succession, an octave, then slowly down, back down, low to high again before tumbling back down. She rested her cake on her lap. The notes were not notes in the musical sense, but ones written with words, every note a message in a tune. Different to the hostile shower outside, it was like warm rain was being poured on her head. Soon the rest of the orchestra joined in, and Robina was immobilised by the music. She realised, as the piano keys fluttered like a butterfly, that music, like her, could breathe. She could not believe it could come alive, could be alive, shift time, turn Beethoven from musician to magician, to create an illusion to draw her into his trick with his sleight of hand; not with cards or a rabbit, but with sound, so that nothing else mattered and you were drawn into his act. Minutes passed, but Robina was unaware of the time, only that it seemed to stop. She realised her eyes were closed and that she was escaping, like Alice, farther down the rabbit hole, following the notes which unfurled like a bird’s wing. Robina replied to the notes. She answered with feeling, understanding and pain and without realising it, started to cry. She was caught in the moment and had never been so moved by anything so beautiful. This was more than the Sonata in E major, op. 14, no. 1 that she had heard Celeste play. This was something else, this was her going to the cellar, unlocking her case and retrieving her soul. Tears fell and mingled with the rain and, covering her mouth, she began to sob for the first time. The lump that had previously dug into her ribs returned and as she trembled with tears, the pain eased. She had heard something so powerful that when it ended, she wanted it to return, to take her, own her, to write to her again. The piece moved quickly to a new mood. Robina sat up; the new movement was joyful and she laughed at the gaiety of it, as if Beethoven’s spirit, like hers, had eased. She wiped her tears and looked around. Jelly Belly 228

sat in the same place, not moving, and for the first time she stared back. His soft dark eyes were sunk into a round face that was tanned and lined. She realised he still waited for her reply. ‘Robina.’ she said. ‘My name is Robina Aduko.’ ‘Sorry,’ laughed Robina. ‘I was hungry.’ Jelly Belly smiled. ‘I know St Jude’s is a charity but I thought feeding its pupils was also included.’ She still couldn’t place his accent. Northern? ‘I’m on punishment,’ she said. ‘By whom?’ ‘Mrs Offenbaum.’ ‘Your housemistress? Why?’ Robina didn’t want to be reminded of what was out there. She still wanted to hold onto what was in here. But she realised having banged on his door and devoured his cake, she owed him an explanation at least. ‘I am being bullied,’ she eventually said. ‘By Offy?’ ‘Yes … no … I mean, by some of the girls, it doesn’t matter who.’ ‘The one at the bottom of the fire escape?’ That seemed so long ago, Robina was surprised he remembered. Her mind flashed back to the first night at Corruption, when she had seen his torch as she stood on the fire escape steps after Constance tried to run away. ‘No,’ said Robina, seeing the image of Forde-Smythe. ‘The girls at the top.’ ‘Isn’t it Off Sat today, your day off?’ ‘Not for me.’ Jelly Belly remained beside the record player and pulled out a small pouch. His movements were slow and deliberate, like he performed some sort of mime. As he lined loose strands of tobacco along a cigarette paper, Robina looked around. The room was about the size of a bedroom, cluttered with tins of oil, bleach, gardening equipment and candles. His giant-sized torch stood beside the record player. Robina noticed a sleeping bag beside a lamp in the far corner, the only thing that brightened the gloom. Large numbers in white paint were daubed on a brick wall above the record 229

player and despite the room’s shabby appearance, it had a cosy feel; Robina understood why the girls would have previously enjoyed it as their den. Jelly Belly slowly lit his roll-up while Robina pointed at the sleeping bag. ‘Do you live here?’ He noisily exhaled the smoke; Robina was comforted by a smell that reminded her of her dad. ‘Did you like the music?’ he said. Robina nodded. ‘How long have you liked Beethoven?’ ‘Perhaps your age, perhaps younger.’ ‘What is it that you like?’ ‘That he spoke the truth.’

Obi Nwizu

bi Nwizu is a former Peace Corps volunteer. She is a journalism graduate of Georgia State University in Atlanta, Georgia, and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she teaches English as a second language.

Her novel, This Winter, is the story of young Junno Hemmingsburg, who tries to make sense of life after the loss of his mother and during his search for his biological father. It is a tale of forgiveness, first loves, faith, and trust in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own perception of life. Nwizuobi1983@gmail.com www.thoughtfulgetaway.blogspot.com / Movingwithlife.tumblr.com

232

This Winter You Think You Know Someone

turned twelve on the hottest day we folks at Favortin had ever seen, June 5, 1976. The sidewalks were masked by the devil’s burning tongue, as was everything else that people could touch – car doors, monkey bars, the metal ropes of swing sets. Faces streamed wet before handkerchiefs pressed against them. At the only bus stop between Rosseland Avenue and Second Street, working folks resembled exhausted stragglers. For as the sun rose their tidied presence disappeared. The bottoms of their shirts were a wrinkled mess from being untucked from their trousers. The women’s tops were unbuttoned, revealing skin that I was too young to appreciate. Everybody’s armpits were stained with moisture. Creases were disturbed. But during my morning run to grab Mama’s eggs I didn’t hear a negative word said about anyone’s appearance. That’s just how we folks in Favortin were. Poor, without any rich people around to complain to. Hardly did we steal from each other, or commit any other crime that would diminish the life of our neighbors. We were Queens, New York locals, and proud: the common example of people living with little but making do until something better rolls along. But when that New York heatwave came through, the behavior of some was questionable. Mama said the heat made people act out of character, which I’d heard of in surrounding neighboring boroughs, especially Brooklyn. On my birthday the humidity kept me indoors for most of the afternoon. Mama sat at the open window with its linen curtains drawn. She fanned herself with one of our many paper fans while hoping to catch the natural breeze from Naldo’s oak branches stationed some feet away. Our 233

OBI NWIZU

ceiling fan was broken and, without the money to fix it, I had to teach Mama how to make fans from paper. I pulled up a chair and sat in front of her with the day’s Queens Chronicle resting on my lap. Eager to teach Mama something, I lifted the paper and began to bend it backwards, creating the first fold. ‘What are you wasting that good paper for?’ Mama had said, reaching to snatch it from my fingers. But I was too quick. ‘Just wait,’ I told her. ‘You’ll see.’ Mama wasn’t short of stubborn. A grown woman more hard-headed and impatient than the boy trying to combat the sweat dripping down her neck. I twisted the rest of my body in my seat as I quickly created the fan before Mama could change her mind and yoke me up by the shirt collar for drawing away from her. The folds were extra big, sloppy, but when I proudly handed the fan over, Mama waved it and pieces of hair hanging loose from her two cornrows flew backwards. Mama took to creating her own fans, never trashing them during the colder seasons. She sat them up on the radio stand like precious decorations, like carefully picked seashells from Howard Beach. ‘Gives the place character,’ she said. There were also my elementary school drawings taped on the walls. Mama took pride in them, willingly showing them to guests despite how many times they’d seen them previously. The fishes and their colorful scales swimming in how I’d imagined the sea to appear. Flowers with pastel petals. A bird, stenciled with charcoaled pencil. Mama’s favorite was the inflated balloon carved into a red heart resting still in the sky. Two brown bodies held its string. One was a child, the other a woman with the widest grin while she looked at the balloon, her free hand clasping the child’s. Mama tacked the picture to the refrigerator and whenever she closed its door, she paused to smirk. Little hints brought out Mama’s tenderness – my drawings, if the light flickered a certain way, if she rolled over and slept perfectly on the edge of the bed. She home-schooled me. The degree of work usually depended on her mood. She’d had me pulled out of public school in the spring of fourth grade. Some unknown birdie put the bug in her ear that Miss Beatrex was letting both genders lean a little too close to each other during independent reading. Which wasn’t true, at least in regards to me. One could say Miss 234

Beatrex’s methods were a bit progressive. She didn’t confine us to our desks, instead she stored a large blanket in the classroom cabinet that, if we desired, we could spread on the floor, stretch out our legs, arms, anything to make reading comfortable. She was young. A thick lady with clothes clinging to her body (again, I was too young to take pleasure in this). Her hair resembled mine, but darker and longer. She never confirmed that she was a product of mixed-raced parents, but she didn’t need to. ‘Just wait a second Miss Hemmingsburg,’ Miss Beatrex said, as Mama walked into her classroom uninvited. They stood as opponents waiting for the other to make the first move to justify the slug of a fist or exchange of curse words I knew would come. ‘Step away,’ Mama warned. Miss Beatrex, surprisingly, held strong. The quietness from the class was frightening. They didn’t know how unpredictable Mama could be. A single flinch could alter her mood, and result in Miss Beatrex being thrown against a wall. And I liked her too much to let that happen. I left my desk and went for Mama’s arm, pulling her away. ‘Don’t pull on me. Go get your shit,’ she said. ‘You can’t just take the boy out of class,’ Miss Beatrex said, as I obeyed Mama’s orders. ‘Junno’s removal has to be cleared with the front office. You have to clear it with them first.’ ‘Who said I didn’t,’ said Mama. ‘Well no one told me.’ ‘That’s your problem,’ Mama said before turning to me. ‘Hurry up!’ Humiliated, I cleared my desk in a haste. Mama’s hand rested on her hips while her eyes alternated between me and Miss Beatrex. Her white blouse tucked into her denim skirt. She wore those shoes with the tarnished bottom, making her steps on the hardwood floor ring louder than normal. And though she was thin, her unwavering sternness made Miss Beatrex shribble up like a pea as she surrendered to Mama’s demand. Mama ushered me out, not leaving time to bid farewell to my peers. Not that I wanted to. Most times after, I wished I was with Miss Beatrex. She had more patience, for Mama taught me like I was a person of her own age. She didn’t fully explain steps needed to solve equations. She demanded that vocabulary words such 235

OBI NWIZU

as congruence, superstitious, and abase, be defined and written in a paragraph before 7pm every Friday. I never tried testing what would happen if I placed them one, two, or even five minutes late. Though I feared Mama at times, I respected her far too much. Since birth, it had only been her and I in Queens, in our apartment. My father never stepped through the front door. He never called, sent a letter, nothing. And the time I asked about him, Mama just cried. Not constant tears, but a single tear resting on her bottom lid. Our building manager, Aunt Mae, told me once about my father. But only because somehow she found out I had made Mama cry. They were friends. Good friends, years before I was even born. ‘Yuh nah whaa yuh madda dead from heartbreak,’ she said in her Jamaican accent, standing in the kitchen, rubbing her jerk chicken-stained hands onto Mama’s apron. ‘Yuh fadda lock up. Jailed fi long enough dat him might die fo dey set him loose.’ I asked what he did, and Aunt Mae hesitated, pausing as though the wall behind me contained a time capsule. Her stare was frozen, her hands dropped to her side. ‘What happened?’ I asked her again from the table, one of my legs folded beneath me. I waited some minutes before asking again. ‘Bowy, who yuh fi shout at?’ Aunt Mae questioned, snapping back into the present. Her eyes beamed down on me until I apologized. ‘You looked lost,’ I said. ‘Yuh badda nuh ask yuh madda bout da man deh again.’ She sucked her teeth long and hard, stretching the sound out like an instrumental noise of its own. ‘Yuh need fi rejoice dat shi nuh neva legally bound to him. Dey neva marry. Only ’ad yuh, and di court dem sey him nuh allowed nuhwhere near yuh. Mi tink even when dey seh him get free. Him tried to beat yuh out yuh madda. Bet yuh nah know dat. Him punched and kicked yuh madda all through shi stomach while yuh was in there. Mi sey yuh lucky yuh nuh neva meet yuh fadda.’ Given all the negative things Aunt Mae said about my father, she found it strange that I still wanted to see him. He was a part of me, like a string of blood inside my veins. You can’t shake that blood away. You can’t drain it and heal the wound so it wouldn’t reappear. It would always exist. 236

‘You can’t miss what you never had,’ that’s how Pastor usually ended his Sunday sermons. I couldn’t say I missed my father. He never provided anything to miss. Curiosity, was more like it; curiosity of an empty void that could or could not be filled by his presence. Curiosity that heightened while watching Mr Brown and Flaco interact, but died when it was happily just Mama and I. I had found a picture of my father once, tucked inside Mama’s nightstand under a stack of torn-open envelopes. I didn’t snoop inside, instead I pushed them aside to grab hold of the picture frame. It was a rusty silver, embroidered with flower petals linked together by a single string. Inside a picture of a white man stood. He held a baseball bat over his shoulder while staring back at me. His uniform had Dodgers written in cursive across the front. A lump was in the side of his cheek, which I figured was chewing gum. His hair was blond, hanging down to his shoulders, and he was slim, his eyes, light brown. I took the picture to Mama’s dresser, held it up next to my face in front of the mirror. The resemblance was there. Our eye color, the tiny black dot of a birthmark he had next to his nose. His weight, his awkwardness in stance with his toes pointing towards each other. His hair was straight, while mine would sit in a mess of curls strangers often felt necessary to touch and scatter. ‘Well why did he hit her?’ I asked Aunt Mae. ‘Sey whaa?’ she said, tucking the napkin into the stovetop handle. ‘You said my father beat Mama. Why did he do it?’ ‘Ain’t nuh reason,’ she said, like the conversation needed to be dropped. ‘There’s always a reason.’ ‘Bwoy, yuh mouth too smart fi yuh age!’ I walked up to her, stared at her as if my presence would make her spill out more information. I was unmoving, arms crossed across my chest, like a stubborn child, my nose irritated from the jerk spice. ‘Don’t badda mi, bwoy!’ She took hold of the napkin again, flung to signify shooing me away, but I held steady. ‘Tell me why,’ I said. My mind was locked on getting an answer. I would wear the giant of a woman down until she had nothing left to do but surrender.

237

Jemima Owen

lanning a wedding in the second year of her BA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University was a challenge for Jemima Owen, but what this led to, besides a happy marriage, was the opportunity to freelance with the magazines West Weddings and My Happy Ever After, and her first novel. Being Miss Mannford started after her honeymoon and developed during her MA. Jemima, who is currently at work on her second novel, also writes a blog. When Kate Mannford hears the tragic news of her mother’s accident, she is overcome with guilt for not being the daughter her mother wanted. She decides to take over her mother’s company, Mannford Weddings. However, Kate is disorganised, uncommitted and resentful of the wedding industry, which leads to a poisoned bride, a bulldog’s soiling of the red carpet and a torn wedding dress. With a reality TV star’s Twitter-themed wedding ahead, Kate is more than determined not to screw this one up, even if she has to go against her beliefs to do so. Being Miss Mannford is Kate’s story, told in first person, of a battle with guilt, grief and her own sense of identity. How far will she go to keep her mother’s company alive? owen_jc@hotmail.co.uk / storysnapper.wordpress.com

238

Being Miss Mannford

he taxi drops me off outside my office. There she is. Tall. White dress. Yellow jacket. Her blonde wavy hair sweeps down below her shoulders and over her eyes sits a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses. A white designer handbag balances in the nook of her arm, similar to the one Mum used to have. I pull at my skirt and clutch my satchel, my nails digging into the leather. She turns around and looks me up and down. The skirt’s too short. I put on a smile and walk over. Diamond smiles and lifts her glasses on to her head. ‘Hi! It’s nice to meet you.’ Her floral scent is so strong it’s as though she’s a newly sprung rose. She leans in to kiss my cheek, but I hesitate and go the other way, so her lips just catch mine. I pull away immediately. Oh, how embarrassing. She gives an uneasy smile and touches her hair, pulling it to the side. ‘So, you’re Kate Mannford?’ I’m about to reply but she cuts me off. ‘I’m not usually the one who’s early. But you wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had!’ Her deep brown eyes widen as she shakes her head, her long lashes curved. ‘Gare completely bailed on me. I was waiting at a restaurant for over twenty minutes,’ she pauses between each word like every one is crucial, ‘I haven’t seen him since I went away to Mauritius, and I’m filming later on with Hattie.’ ‘Gare?’ ‘Gareth, my fiancé. It’s just not on. I mean what’s he even doing that’s so much more important than me? I know he’s not filming until tomorrow … ’ Her peach-coloured lips move incessantly, and every time they close, they tie together into a small bow. ‘ … I needed him. You go away to 239

JEMIMA OWEN

get away, do you know what I mean?’ It unravels and ties back together, unravels and ties again. ‘But when I go away, the paparazzi follow like sad little sheep and now my bum’s on the cover of Heat with a big fat arrow pointing at my cellulite!’ She pats her hair again like it’s about to fly out of control. ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ ‘Crazy,’ I repeat, realising she’s waiting for a reply. Diamond ambles through the hall, taking a moment to examine the photographs. ‘These are amazing! I can’t wait to be a bride. They look so completely happy, don’t they?’ ‘I suppose they do.’ I mimic her, gazing at one photo in particular of a couple kissing in front of a horse-drawn carriage. That can’t be the same wedding Paul was on about, could it? A rose dangles from the woman’s hand as her husband embraces her. Diamond gasps, moving onto the next one. ‘Did you, like, plan all these?’ ‘Me?’ I laugh. Then I remember that this is a client. ‘Well no,’ I pause, ‘my mother did.’ ‘Oh, yeah.’ She turns around and drops her eyes to the floor. ‘Sorry about … ’ I shrug. ‘Things happen.’ ‘Tell me about it. Gare better have a good reason for ditching me today.’ Diamond perches on the edge of the white leather sofa opposite me, her long, tanned legs crossed. She opens her pink suede notebook and lists ideas about hair and makeup. Her skin looks soft and dewy, a light shade of pink brushed on her cheekbones. And only now, being this close, I notice the brown roots peering through her blonde locks. ‘And this is where we’ll hold my wedding.’ She points to a page titled ‘Venue’ in silver calligraphy. Below is a photograph of a mansion, red roses and shrubbery outlining the magnificent rectangular building with a large fountain centred in front. ‘It’s my house.’ ‘Your house?’ She nods, smirking. 240

‘But you’re only, what, twenty?’ I blurt out. She has a house and a fiancé. I’m twenty-four and I live with my dad. ‘I’m twenty-one actually,’ she retorts. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just incredible that you’ve had so much success at your age,’ I ramble. She stares at me like I’ve trodden on her Chihuahua. ‘Really, it’s amazing,’ I add. She lifts her head and touches her hair. ‘It’s actually my parents’ house.’ ‘Oh, your dad owns that chain of hotels, doesn’t he?’ I almost stayed in one, but the price made me opt for the metal chairs at the airport instead. The money I saved that night went on a brand-new easel, which was definitely worth one night of neck cramp and backache. Diamond’s eyebrows dip down together as though I’ve brought something up she didn’t want to hear out loud. I recognise it because it’s the kind of expression I give to people who mention Mum. ‘The house has been, like, in my family for generations.’ She lifts her head like that’s what she was always taught to do when something got her down. ‘Father doesn’t live there any more, that’s why we’re holding the wedding there.’ I pause, hoping she’ll expand. She frowns as though I should have got the reference. ‘Mother wants to, like, market it to bring more weddings there. Father never approved.’ ‘So, yours will be the first?’ She nods. ‘Well then, we’ll have to make it extra special,’ I say more buoyantly. She glances at her watch again. ‘Mother should have been here ten minutes ago. I don’t know where she’s got to. It’s like my whole family’s deserted me!’ I almost choke. Her mother is joining us? Since when? I don’t know anything about handling mothers-of-the-bride! I’ve heard they’re the worst kind. The bell rings and Diamond snaps her head to the door. ‘That must be her!’ This woman is unpredictable. One minute she’s dancing on the rooftop, the next she’s falling right down the chimney. I open the door. It’s the same woman in the photograph that’s hanging 241

JEMIMA OWEN

in Mum’s office, but decades older. Her silvery hair is styled into a graduated bob and she’s wearing a navy-blue fitted dress with a silk scarf tied around her neck. I stretch out my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Kate Mannford. It’s nice to meet you. Diamond and I have just started the meeting. Come in.’ Her cold hand takes mine and those thin red lips extend in a smile. ‘Hi, lovely to meet you, Katherine. Lucia Herdman.’ She examines my outfit and follows me inside, gazing around her. ‘Mother, where have you been?’ Diamond waves her hand in the air, clutching her white phone. ‘I was having coffee with one of your producers.’ She sits down on the edge of the sofa beside Diamond, glancing around the office. Her pale-blue eyes hit the photo of her on the wall and she darts them back at me. ‘I must say, when I heard Sarah’s daughter was now in charge of this company, it came as such a relief.’ She doesn’t look relieved. ‘Oh?’ I query, regardless. ‘Well,’ her pointy nose rises, ‘you know what a wonderful job Sarah did with my wedding. So, we couldn’t be more happy to have her daughter perform the same act.’ I’m not a monkey! ‘I’m very glad you feel that way,’ I respond, desperate to show Mum my smug smile. I told you I could do it. Imagine what hell’s like. Drowning in a lake of fire. Running from a swarm of insects. Well, the past hour has been worse than that. Significantly worse. Diamond has gone through the entire wedding plan, giving story after story with each page, while Lucia has been questioning everything and asking for my professional opinion like I’m some sort of god. ‘Katherine, don’t you agree this is ludicrous? You can’t have your wedding cake made into a life-size model of yourself, Diamond.’ ‘Why not?’ she shrieked, in utter puzzlement. ‘Who would want to eat a piece of cake with an eye on it, or dare I say, a chunk of your bottom?’ ‘Perhaps Gareth will feel a bit left out,’ I said. 242

Now I know what they’re expecting from me, I’m even more anxious. Lucia actually asked me what wedding dress I thought would be more suitable for Diamond. Suitable? Since when are wedding dresses meant to be suitable? I wanted to tell her I thought Diamond should look around and have some fun trying different ones on. Instead I said, ‘What about the big one?’ I have no idea what went through my mind at that point. The big one? I dug deeper. ‘The meringue style one. I mean … ’ ‘She’s right, most of them do look like meringues,’ Lucia agreed, as though she heard something else. ‘We’ll definitely have to stay away from them.’ Diamond had to take it a step further. ‘But, like, meringues are totally in right now.’ Lucia patted her knee. ‘Not for your wedding.’ I felt a twinge of sympathy for Diamond. I now know that Lucia is Diamond’s agent as well as her mother, but the way Lucia spoke to her, I almost felt like a part of Mum was in her, trying to tell me something. That I was the one being naïve, and I should have felt patronised as well. But Lucia took it too far, rolling her eyes at her own daughter. Mum never did that to me. Then the theme came. I should have seen it coming really. Diamonds. And it suits very well considering the budget is four million pounds. I am aware people spend this much money on weddings, being the daughter of a wedding planner and living in a pot of wealth, but it doesn’t mean I agree with it. They even want Shirley Bassey to sing ‘Diamonds are Forever’ at the reception. How am I meant to get Shirley Bassey? Isn’t she ninety years old or something? I never believed planning a wedding would be this hard. It won’t be until November next year, so at least I have one year and four months to persuade Shirley Bassey to perform at a reality TV star’s wedding. ‘What do you think?’ Diamond stares at me. ‘Like, do you think diamonds is big enough?’ I sit up, now a bit more interested. ‘Do you think we should go with something a bit different?’ Like anything but diamonds. ‘I don’t know.’ She twitches her mouth to the side in thought. ‘You know my feelings on this,’ Lucia says with a firm pout. ‘Mother, can you leave it? This is my wedding.’ 243

JEMIMA OWEN

‘I just think, darling, that you’re overlooking the fact that your venue is our home. We should celebrate tradition, not suffocate the place with tacky, whimsical ideas. The diamond theme I can try and get on board with, because I’m sure Katherine here will spin it into elegance. Diamonds will work, if we do it properly.’ ‘It’s not exactly your home though, is it? Or wedding, for that matter?’ she says brusquely. A somersault of joy flips in me. Lucia laughs. ‘Oh, Diamond, don’t be so oversensitive.’ The somersault crashes back down. ‘What else were you thinking?’ I give Diamond a push. Her face brightens and her eyebrows rise like the sun’s coming up. ‘A Twitter-themed wedding!’ ‘Twitter?’ I spit it out like it’s cold coffee. She cannot be serious! What does that even mean? What happened to just picking a colour? ‘I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous idea,’ Lucia grunts. ‘You would say that.’ ‘What exactly are you thinking? That we’ll just post the entire wedding on Twitter? Because I will tell you now, I am not tweeting on the day of this wedding. I’ll have much more important things to think about.’ ‘No, I was thinking like bluebirds being released, and the Twitter blue with cream or something. Oh!’ Diamond’s eyes widen. ‘And a helicopter that’s painted blue with, like, a hashtag on it, and we’ll fly off in it. Aw, it will be amazing. And little Twitter bird biscuits!’ So, the wedding is going to be based on a social networking site that’s probably brought Diamond more trouble than Heat magazine. Great.

244

245

David Sambrook

orn in Britain, David Sambrook grew up in Australia and worked for that country’s largest trade union before being transported back to the old country for stealing a loaf of bread. Having pursued a career as a political journalist he decided that whilst truth is indeed often stranger than fiction, the latter offers much more scope for fun. Benjamin Vance thinks there are numerous problems with society and chief amongst them is that no one is listening to him. His new book, The Decent Thing, attempts to remedy that situation by suggesting that, in another age, the high-profile individuals he singles out would have been ‘furnished with a tumbler of whisky and a pearl-handled revolver and expected to do the decent thing’. Ray Spencer thinks there is plenty wrong with society too, but his days as a political activist are long past, another world from the comfortable existence he now enjoys with his girlfriend in north London. An unexpected invitation to the launch of The Decent Thing forces him to question when and how his priorities changed and, when the subject of the first chapter is murdered, Ray is open to his friend’s suggestion that it is time to change them back again. Cue a series of plans and stunts executed with varying degrees of success against a background of increasing tumult; but if Ray and his friends thought that changing the world would be difficult, they soon realise it is nothing compared to knowing when to stop. dave.sambook@gmail.com 246

The Decent Thing

his had to be one of the best soirées Ray had ever been to. He was only ever a few drinks away from feeling comfortable in unfamiliar company, but it was his failure to avoid a nervous binge during the initial stages of an evening that often proved his downfall. Tonight, he had nailed it. He had downed the first glass of white wine swiftly and, all the while Vance was speaking, had successfully fought the urge to revisit the shelfcum-bar which was tantalisingly situated only a few feet from his seat. Once the applause that had followed the author’s speech petered out, he waited for the first of his fellow guests to visit the bar and made sure he was close behind. A few hellos and smiles exchanged with fellow freeloaders and he made his way to the table display in an effort to look like he belonged. The second glass was finished as fast as his browsing, but his plan to grab a third for the book signing queue had to be put on hold. He had company. ‘You look like you need a refill,’ said Phil, as he sidled alongside Ray with two full glasses in his hands. ‘Phil! I thought I spotted you earlier. Long time no see. How are you?’ He couldn’t have sounded less sincere if he had tried, but he accepted the wine nonetheless. Phil was ‘absolutely fabulous’, which Ray thought belied his appearance although he managed to keep that to himself. He certainly had a swagger about him as he recounted his achievements since the pair had last crossed paths, prime amongst them the completion of his PhD with Vance as his supervisor. That gave Phil the opportunity to smugly let on that he had already read The Decent Thing, which he described as ‘a wonderful and very important work’. He was currently considering a number of offers of 247

DAVID SAMBROOK

teaching positions, although his ‘personal five-year plan’ was to follow in Vance’s footsteps and ‘take his work to the people’. God help the people, thought Ray, although he had to admit he was starting to feel a little lightheaded – surprising after only three glasses of wine – and the meeting with Phil was not nearly as painful as he’d anticipated. From then on things had really taken off. He had returned to the bar to get them both another drink and by the time he returned Phil was deep in conversation with two members of the Collective. Ray was introduced and the banter flowed faster than the wine. By the time ten o’clock arrived and people started to depart, he had spoken to almost everyone there. Having just bid farewell to some newly found friends, he was standing alone for the first time all evening and it occurred to him he had yet to speak with Vance. ‘Raymond,’ said Vance, rolling the R and sauntering up as if he had just read his former student’s thoughts. ‘So very glad you could make it.’ ‘Benjamin,’ he said shaking his former teacher by the hand. ‘Great party, great crowd, thanks for inviting me.’ He was conscious of his head rolling about on his shoulders, and having – as far as he could recall – not made a tit of himself to date, he was desperate not to do so now. He remembered the reason for the party. ‘Your book. I was having such a good time I forgot to grab myself a copy. I’m not too late, am I?’ ‘Not at all, come with me. I’d like to sign a copy for you if you don’t mind,’ said Vance, and he ushered Ray across the empty floor that until moments ago was the bubbling centre of the party. ‘Tell me, Raymond, what’s been going on in your world?’ ‘Bloody hell, I didn’t even realise there was food,’ said Ray when he spotted what was left of a sandwich platter, and in between stuffing his face with its meagre remains he went on to recount all the major events of the last two decades of his life. It didn’t take long and he had pretty much reached the present day when Vance deposited Ray’s twenty-pound note into the cash box and handed him a copy of the hardcover open to his inscription: To Raymond, My student, a comrade, and a true believer. Yours in solidarity, B Vance ‘Thanks, Benjamin,’ said Ray, looking down at his feet, ‘that’s very kind.’ 248

‘My pleasure,’ replied Vance, ‘and I can assure you it is more generous than anything I’ve written in these.’ Ray looked at the nine parcelled copies that Vance was indicating but swayed momentarily as the nine became first eighteen and then twenty-seven. ‘I suspect vanity will see them all read their own chapters, if nothing else, and my publicist cynically hopes that will cause them to denounce the work.’ ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ said Ray. ‘Beverley Hills, Mayfair, Chobham,’ said Vance, reading from the packages and ignoring Ray’s rather obvious comment. ‘Impressive locations one and all.’ Ray just smiled, thereby avoiding the trap of saying something banal again. ‘Ah, Highgate,’ said Vance, picking up one of the copies, ‘once the domain of the intellectual Left.’ ‘That’s near me,’ said Ray. ‘Which one of the bastards lives there?’ He sounded like he was ready to assemble an angry mob to lay siege to the property. ‘Building websites must be lucrative if you’re living next door to the likes of Terrence Grill,’ said Vance, apparently impressed. ‘Maybe I’m in the wrong business.’ ‘I’m at the bottom of Highgate Hill,’ he explained, adding as an afterthought, ‘with the workers,’ and cringing as he heard himself say it. ‘Do you know Makepeace Avenue?’ ‘It’s a five-minute walk away,’ said Ray. ‘Well your postman may be a little overburdened in the coming days,’ said Vance, weighing up the parcel in his hand. ‘Although given the state of the once-great Royal Mail, I wonder whether it will even be delivered this week, which would be a shame.’ ‘I can pop it through his letterbox tonight,’ said Ray. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that, Raymond,’ said Vance. ‘It would be taking you out of your way.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Ray, taking the volume from Vance. ‘It’d be my pleasure.’ ‘I tell you what,’ Vance opened up the cash box and retrieved Ray’s twenty-pound note. ‘If you’re sure it’s no bother, why don’t you get yourself a cab? I suspect it will cost as much to post it and you’d be doing me a favour, so get yourself home in comfort.’ Before Ray even had the chance to respond, Vance had slipped the 249

DAVID SAMBROOK

twenty-pound note between the fingers on the hand that held his wine glass. His signed copy of The Decent Thing was under the same arm, and the copy addressed to Grill in the other. ‘I’d be happy to get the tube,’ said Ray, but Vance wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Consider it delivered then.’ Ray drained his glass to toast the decision and then swung around to the bar; he was startled to see Dave and Phil packing it away. Surely the party wasn’t over already. He turned back to Vance, who was putting the contents of the display table into a cardboard box. ‘How about a pint to celebrate?’ he asked what he now realised were the only three people left in the room. ‘I know a lovely little pub not far from here.’ ‘No thanks,’ said Phil. ‘Big day tomorrow.’ Dave just offered him a smile and shook his head as he made his way towards the stairs with a box containing what used to be the bar. ‘Not for me thank you, Raymond,’ said Vance. ‘We’ve got a few things to finish off here and you’ve got a bit of a diversion to make on your way home, so why don’t you leave us to it and get yourself a cab. I’m so glad you could come.’ Ray couldn’t believe it, he was just hitting his stride. ‘You sure I can’t talk you into a cheeky one,’ he said as he shook first Vance’s and then Phil’s hand, but it was clear they were not to be convinced, and he staggered, disappointed, towards the door. At the top of the stairs and with both books in his left hand, he raised his clench-fisted right into the air and saluted l’Internationale, lost his balance, and didn’t have time to catch whether they had responded to his toast as he stumbled all the way to the foot of the stairs. The speed of Ray’s descent was such that he was lucky to find Dave waiting with the front door open. As he hurtled past, Dave wished him ‘Goodnight,’ and by the time Ray had come to a slapstick halt – it was as if the edge of the pavement was a forty-foot drop – he could already hear the latches being bolted behind him. The cool air of the late evening slapped him in the face like a spurned lover and he was momentarily bamboozled. He looked to his left and then to his right and it was only when he looked down at the books in his hand that he realised where he was and what he was meant to be doing. 250

‘Goodnight,’ he replied, a little late, perhaps, but loud enough he hoped for Dave to hear. He hadn’t forgotten the money for a cab in his pocket or that he had a delivery to make, but that could wait. With or without the others he was determined to have one for the road. The Marlborough Arms was caught in the same time warp as the bookshop. It could have done with a lick of paint, but why would the owners bother when a cheap pint was all that its student clientele cared about? The barman briefly considered refusing Ray service, but after a brief chat with his colleague decided that whilst he might have been plastered, he didn’t look the sort to cause trouble. Ray missed all of this, so intent was he on first, clambering on to the bar stool and second, staying on it. He handed over the crumpled twenty and was transfixed by the pint in front of him when it arrived. He made a brief attempt to read his new book as he drank but, when he failed to make out a word of the blurb on the back, he decided it was pointless even opening it. Instead, he swivelled on his stool and, once he was sure of his balance, stared vacantly at each of the remaining patrons, turning quickly to another the moment his gaze was met. It was the game he had played on the tube, but in his current state he had forgotten the last face the moment he moved on to the next. It nonetheless kept him entertained for the duration of the time it took to finish his pint, and when that was out of the way he sensibly decided a second wasn’t a good idea. He slid off his stool and on to his feet and was familiar enough with the layout of the pub to have a reasonable idea of where he was going. ‘Don’t forget your books, mate,’ said the barman as Ray meandered towards the exit and, without breaking stride, he turned in the arc of a London bus back to the bar to collect his belongings. ‘You’ve got famous friends,’ said the barman with a nod to the name on the package. ‘No friend of mine,’ said Ray, before tucking both books under his arm and making for the door once again. A minute or two later he was back on Tottenham Court Road, peering up the road in search of a taxi. After five flew straight past he remembered to stick out his arm, and as easy as that, the sixth one stopped.

251

Ginny Saunders

inny worked as a molecular biologist in different government institutions for nearly twenty years, researching both orchid symbiosis and ‘mad’ cows. She is interested in writing fiction with scientific threads and themes without stepping into the realms of science fiction. She has also written for the satirical computer games Gratuitous Space Battles and Gratuitous Tank Battles. Various Contrivances is her first novel. Alex’s mother dies in 1983 when he is eleven and life abruptly changes. His father, Ray, seeks a new job with Wallace who, although erratic, is also lonely and connects with the boy. Over many years, Wallace nurtures Alex’s growing interest in natural history. While studying at the Natural History Museum, Alex thinks he has found his spiritual home amongst the stuffed, skeletal, and preserved specimens. He makes friends with Rosie and is encouraged to help an old school friend trying to get by in London. For selfish reasons he allows himself to champion the seemingly hopeless search for Darwin’s long lost Galapagos notebook and volunteers for a mosquito trial. Both of these acts help reveal the cause of Wallace’s ruined career and prompt Alex to find out more. Gradually he discovers the struggles and sacrifices of those close to him and realises he understands very little about friendship, love, and loss. In this early extract, Alex and Ray meet Wallace at his home for the second time. During their first visit, Ray refused to cut down the old ginkgo tree and Alex left empty-handed. ginny@positech.co.uk 252

Various Contrivances

‘M

r Stanhope and son,’ said Wallace, shaking hands with each in turn. ‘Let me show you around.’ ‘I’m glad to see the ginkgo is still with you and looking splendid in the sun,’ said Ray, passing under its bright, new leaves. Wallace looked at him with a deep frown. ‘Of course it’s still with me. My great grandfather planted that wonderful specimen in 1832. Its forbears, looking much the same as this one here, were around at the time of the dinosaurs. Imagine that,’ said Wallace, glancing at Alex. ‘It’s more than we, as a species, can say. We Homo sapiens are the latecomers to the party and even so, may not linger long. It seems likely that we may well be unceremoniously thrown out for bad behaviour.’ Alex was confused. Wallace didn’t seem to remember the last time they were here. He looked at his dad to see if he was going to remind him but Ray, maybe thinking he was going to speak, looked straight at him, and shook his head ever so slightly. ‘Have you seen the garden before?’ Wallace asked, as though there was a glimmer of recognition. ‘No,’ said Ray, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ Alex realised there was now little hope of getting the old magazines Wallace had offered; perhaps he should have stayed at home. Disappointed, he trailed after them around the garden, remembering his promise to keep out of the way and say nothing. He thought Ray was sounding like a proper gardener. His last-minute cramming of May-flowering plants and tasks to be done at this time of the year had paid off. Wallace seemed to know the name of everything and spoke of some plants as though they were people. 253

GINNY SAUNDERS

Maybe, on occasion, he was actually talking of people. Alex wasn’t sure, particularly when Wallace said to Ray: ‘Madame Alfred Carrière needs constant dead-heading but she’s a fine specimen, works hard. The Rambling Rector is prone to get out of control and take liberties. He needs a firm hand. I do hope you aren’t overly pious.’ Wallace gave Alex a mischievous wink behind his father’s back. Alex rewarded him with a polite smile. Ray, he noticed, wore the same frown, the one he always wore when he was concentrating hard. After the roses, many roses and many names, Wallace stopped at a piece of corrugated steel lying on the ground. ‘Who do you think might be hiding under there?’ he said to Alex. Surprised at the sudden attention Alex turned to his father, but he was scribbling something in his notepad. Alex shrugged. ‘Pick it up slowly,’ said Wallace, ‘and see if there’s anyone home.’ Alex held it cautiously at the corner and found it warmed by the sun. He lifted it slowly and both he and Wallace bent down to peer underneath. The flattened grass was yellow and smelled sharp and damp. Something moved, just a slight twitch. ‘Snakes!’ cried Alex, taking two small steps back and lifting the metal cover further. ‘No, not snakes, slow worms,’ said Wallace. ‘If you look closely, you will see that they have eyelids so they’re not snakes, or worms come to that. They are lizards that, through one evolutionary reason or another, have lost their legs.’ ‘Legless lizards?’ said Alex, unconvinced. ‘A sceptic, eh?’ It was difficult to see how many there were as they were knotted together. Their shiny bodies were about the thickness of a man’s finger. Alex counted four heads and stared, waiting for one to blink. ‘There,’ said Wallace. ‘See it? You never know what you might find.’ Alex carefully lowered the metal. When he looked up, he was amazed to see that Wallace had two hooked thorns stuck on the ridge of his nose. He snapped another off a thick rose stem, licked its raw edge, and stuck it on the centre of his forehead. Alex giggled and when Wallace laughed too, the thorns fell from his wrinkled nose. They left the lawns and the borders behind and entered a wilder area. 254

They followed an earthen path down a slope covered in bluebells to a small stream. Coming back up a different way they passed three huge steamy compost heaps. ‘The things I most insist on being done properly are composting, mulching, and mowing the lawn. Mr Walters did know how to compost.’ There was a large rickety shed, more like a small barn, and a greenhouse built against an old brick wall. ‘There’s no need for you to go in there. That is where I keep my orchid collection. I may on occasion ask you to light the heaters but mostly this will be under my jurisdiction, understood?’ ‘Of course,’ said Ray, who showed no interest in its contents. Alex peered through the double doors. Spidery plants in wooden cages hung from the roof, and plants in terracotta pots of all sizes lined the gravel benches into the distance. Two pale green paraffin heaters squatted on the brick pathway. The white paint on the wooden frame was peeling and some of the glass had had white paint slopped over it. A missing window was patched with bubble wrap that flapped noisily in the breeze. He caught up with the two men and soon they were at the back of the house. The tour had been quick and Alex was sure that his father couldn’t have remembered everything that was said. They entered the house into a small hallway and then into a large kitchen with a high ceiling where cream tiles, like bricks, lined the walls. ‘Young man, I seem to remember I promised you something. Shall I give the boy something to occupy himself with while we talk business?’ Alex nodded vigorously before he realised that the question wasn’t addressed to him. Wallace and Alex turned to Ray. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ ‘Remove your shoes, please,’ said Wallace, ‘then come with me.’ Alex quickly pushed the heels of his lace-up trainers with the balls of his feet to remove them and shifted his weight from one socked foot to the other while he waited for Wallace to slip out of his boots. He followed him through the hallway, briefly seeing the full Technicolor of the stained-glass front entrance. ‘This is the library, and the place I work. You may look around but please do not touch anything.’ Wallace took a short stack of magazines from the bookcase. ‘Here are some past issues of National Geographic. You 255

GINNY SAUNDERS

may look through these and select two to take home today. Where would you like to sit?’ Alex looked around and immediately decided against the floral settees. ‘At the desk.’ Wallace let out a snort and carried the magazines to the large wooden desk. He closed a large, hardback exercise book with writing in turquoise ink and placed it in the desk drawer. ‘Take your seat,’ said Wallace. The giant chair was too heavy for Alex to pull under the desk so Wallace pushed it in with his legs. At the far edge, a tapered, cream-coloured pole, two-and-a-half feet in length, was held on wooden hands. Alex stretched upwards trying to look at the top of it then he sank down until his cheek nearly touched the desk to try to look underneath it. Wallace, seeing his interest, grasped it in the middle and lifted it. ‘Do you know what this is?’ Alex shook his head. ‘This is a unicorn’s horn.’ Wallace held the thick end of it on his head as if to convince him. Alex wanted to laugh but it seemed a serious matter. ‘I bought this from a trader whose ancestors used to sell them to the crowned heads of Europe for their supposed mythical powers.’ When Wallace moved it closer to him, Alex could see that a spiral twist ran down its length, like a barley sugar stick. ‘I didn’t think unicorns were real,’ said Alex. A broad smile spread across Wallace’s face and he replaced the horn on its stand. ‘Good man. You are quite right to say so, if that is what you think. The other theory is that it is the tooth of a whale, the narwhal. That hardly seems more likely but you tell me which is true next time you visit and, if you are correct, maybe we can negotiate another couple of magazines. I’m going to talk to your father, come through if you wish or I’ll collect you in ten minutes.’ Wallace left without closing the door. Alex checked his watch. He knew from the single copy that the newsagent had given him that he liked the photographs best and he enjoyed reading about animals and wild places but not so much about people. He read the front cover and flicked through the magazine then placed it on the ‘maybe’ pile. Six minutes had passed and he was less than halfway through the pile. He already had three ‘maybes’. 256

After ten minutes, and some hard decisions, he chose two. He looked around the room. Books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Two long sofas faced one another at right angles to glass doors through which Alex could see the perfect stripes of the lawn beyond. Behind one sofa stood a fireplace and a dark portrait of a man with a long grey beard. Alex felt important sitting at the desk, which, he thought, was possibly bigger than his bed. He stretched his arms to the sides but the tips of his fingers did not reach the edges. He pulled his arms together so his thumbs touched but couldn’t even reach as far as the horn-tooth. He pictured the exact book in the school library where he knew he would find the answer to Wallace’s question. Alex snatched his hands back and caught his breath when a large cat landed silently on the desk, as if it had fallen from the ceiling. The cat didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see a stranger and lazily blinked its amber eyes. ‘Hello,’ Alex said, not wanting to be rude. He stroked the cat along its back as it passed by. When his hand met its upright tail, Alex’s stroke continued up until it could reach no further. The cat was a pale blue-grey. Alex thought it was the exact colour of a slate gravestone in the sun and wondered if it too darkened in the rain. Its coat was softer than next door’s ginger tom and Alex could leave tracks in its fur where his fingers passed over its back. When the cat reached the end of the desk, it turned and walked back. They were stuck in this recurring loop when Alex heard footsteps in the hall. ‘Ah, that’s where you got to,’ said Wallace, picking the cat up. Alex slid from between the desk and chair clutching the magazines to his chest. ‘Have you made your selection?’ ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Alex, who held up his choices then laughed when he saw that the cat was lying around Wallace’s neck. The cat’s face peered over one shoulder, its claws hooked into the tattered jumper, and its tail, held firm by Wallace’s hand, hung over the other. ‘This is Erasmus. He has deigned to share my house and garden. I presume you have already introduced yourself.’ Alex followed them back to the kitchen where Ray was waiting by the back door. ‘The last time we met,’ said Wallace to Ray, ‘I may have … well, I think the inky imp was on my back, snorting in my ear, messing with me. Like Churchill’s black dog, you understand?’ Ray nodded and held his 257

GINNY SAUNDERS

hand out to Alex, showing he was ready to leave. ‘Erasmus here,’ continued Wallace, ‘usually does a decent job of seeing it back underground, for a while anyway.’ Alex hooked and ground his feet into his trainers. He hoped he would meet the inky imp, possibly a rival cat, next time.

258

259

Dylan Spicer

ylan Spicer lives and works in Bristol, a city that is a constant creative inspiration to him. Originally from a film background, he is fascinated by the possibilities of writing in the digital era. He is currently experimenting with Narradu Memories, a transmedia blog fiction piece, and retelling a story from the Odyssey with the audio series Giant Cannibals. He still finds time to write prose every day, and mixes surreal concepts with the wonders of everyday life. Teal Skies is the story of six humans trapped in a zoo on an alien planet. They escape and explore the world around them, trying to deal with the loss of their life back on Earth and the harsh realities of their situation. As their struggle goes on, it becomes a challenge not just to survive, but to keep their humanity when everything they know is millions of miles away. dylanspicer@hotmail.co.uk / dylanspicer.com

260

Teal Skies

had been the third to arrive. Our home was sunk into the ground, about the size of a large meeting hall. It provided more than enough room for the six of us. The white wall curved round in an oval shape, made of a material so soft you could sink your fist in it. Near the peak it curved at an acute angle, and converted into what looked like steel wire. The bottom was made of the same substance, though with less give to it. In one corner the floor dropped sharply into a divot, about four or five feet deep. This was filled with a liquid infused with a gentle, clean smell; it was perfectly drinkable. We used the pool as both a washroom and water supply. A hole in the opposite corner served as a toilet, but that too remained spotless. We got used to using it in front of each other. Overhead a huge light resembled the sky on a cloudless day, but as if projected onto a cinema screen. It was the wrong colour as well; more the bluish-green you would find in the ocean. The noise above was a constant babble, the kind you would hear in a cafe on a busy day. We had some possessions. A damp cardboard box of eclectic items had been put in with us. They consisted of a Spanish fashion magazine, a pair of dumb-bells, a scuffed football and a very rusty toaster, the plug long gone. Despite the language barrier, the magazine had been our favourite. There were rips on every page, the spine was warped and each picture was faded. I would guess it was at least twenty years old. One of the models had a cassette player, but it could have been ironic. There was a mattress for each of us, made of thin blue cloth filled with yellow sponge. The corners had got scuffed on the rough ground, and the 261â&#x20AC;&#x192;

DYLAN SPICER

innards had turned brown and orange. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter that we lacked blankets and pillow. The temperature remained constant, and despite the open roof it had not rained once. The air had the chemical taste of stale freezers. You could never quite get a good enough gulp to keep you going, and breathing in and out became a regular chore rather than an automatic reaction. Feeding time was easily the highlight of our day. We still do not understand where they got the food from. Several loaves of bread, some dried meat, and a couple of lettuces and tomatoes were our daily rations for the first few weeks. Their technique of delivery was simply to throw it over the top. From there we would try and catch as much as possible. Any we missed would splatter or become too filthy to eat. It was a difficult task, and sometimes we would barely grab any. Once, after four days of barely any food, Jess howled. Another time I had found a chalky pill inside a loaf, embedded in the dough, sitting as happily as a chocolate chip. I had eaten it anyway. Then they started to throw down sacks of green-, brown- and bluecoloured pellets. There was one sack each, about the size of a carrier bag, and just enough for a day. The pellets tasted bitter, but filled us up. I pretended it was one of my favourite cereals: pecan and yoghurt crunch or cranberry and raisin-infused muesli. Under the light, the days were hazy and dreamlike, a soupy mix of activities and routines. Nick might take a brief stroll, but never strayed too far from his mattress. He always looked very tired. Mario and Bill passed the football between them, or lifted the dumb-bells. The noise enjoyed their games. On very rare occasions, usually when the grain sacks had been especially small, Bill would explore the enclosure. It was half-hearted, not usually more than a tap on the wall. Rachel bathed in the water, or read the magazine for the thousandth time. Jess sat crossed-legged, a foot away from the wall, staring directly at it. I sometimes joined her, and we might even swim for a while. The noise got louder whenever we did anything together. Usually, I was happy just to stretch out, and look up at the eternal sky. The sky offered no answers. The toaster remained in the box, never touched. Eventually, the light would turn a darker shade of green, the noise would go away for the day, and we would sleep. Nick tucked into one corner, propped his mattress up against the wall and always took his shoes 262

off before lying down. His white shirt had turned yellow from sweat, and his grey hair fell mostly over his face. Mario lay spreadeagled in the centre of the enclosure. His shorts and T-shirt had seen better days. Regardless of the amount of time that passed, his hair was never longer than stubble slashed by a widowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s peak. My own beard was a good few inches, but no more. Jess hunched herself up by one of the walls. She wore pyjamas, and a woolly homemade scarf. She always seemed a bit neglected. Her hair, certainly, was not as nicely kept as ours. Rachel was on the mattress closest to mine. She had short brown hair, a green uniform that suggested medical or military work, and blue trainers still scuffed with mud from before all of this. Bill was the only one who changed where he slept. Moving his mattress was a big part of his day. It grated against the floor like sandpaper. He seemed to shift it to match my eye line, and drag it only when I dozed in the afternoon. Sleep was never a problem. Our days were not always identical. Three events upset our routine. Once a balloon drifted over the enclosure. Its shape was vaguely frog-like, but with purple skin and bright blue eyes. It burst on the side of the steel wire, releasing a yellow gas that floated like a cloud. After a few hours some of the material fell to the floor. Mario had absentmindedly slipped it in to his pocket. A strange glow emanated from his trousers, and Mario collapsed. The light got darker, and we all went to sleep. When we woke up the glow had gone, and Mario lay face down on his mattress, eyes open, grinning. Another day, I was lying on my mattress, each crack in the wall registered, every face made from broken paint created. Bill was squashed up against the wall, hands sunk in, one eye closed. There was now a break in the sea of white wall, a thin strip of darkness in a perfect rectangle. Bill eventually lost interest, and went over to kick the football to Mario. I wandered over and stuck my eye right up against the slit. A blob rushed past in front of a light. I knocked just below the black rectangle, and it made the exact noise of my desk at school. I did not know what to do, and eventually went back to my mattress. After a while, the slot simply popped out of existence. 263â&#x20AC;&#x192;

DYLAN SPICER

I kept thinking about it until feeding time, when we received bigger than normal sacks of food, and the opening passed into memory. Another time a small cylinder of metal landed with a clang on the floor of our enclosure, loud enough to make us jump. It missed me by about six inches. I picked it up. The metal had very little weight, and was the same colour the balloon had been, but slashed with purple shapes that meant nothing to me. Bored rather than curious, I ran my tongue over the top side. The taste sent me crashing back to Earth. It was sweet, like lemonade, but with oysters underneath. Excitement rushed through my body. I jogged into the water to see if there was a drain, a pipe, anything that might possibly provide an escape. I noticed the blood when it turned the water pink. In a moment I was on my knees, sinking beneath the waves. After that my memory is fuzzy for a long while, although I have some vague recollections of a spongy table, yellow light, and strange faces. My next recollection is being back in the enclosure, looking down into the water to see a freshly stitched line that ran from the right side of my lips to my chin. Days bled into weeks. I sometimes thought about making a fuss, especially when the noise was a bit quieter, or the hour before feeding time. But these feelings were loose thoughts at the back of my brain, no more important than a shopping list. Eventually I went and played in the pool, or snuggled further into my mattress. The sky overhead was so beautiful. On the day it all changed, Rachel and I had been in the water. Mario was halfway through his dumb-bell routine, his daily sweat working up nicely. Jess was curled up on her mattress, Nick was on his stroll, holding his head like an old man with concussion, and Bill was tapping the wall. Our clothes were soaked and clung onto the curves of our bodies. Rachel and I padded the football between us, and the noise showed its appreciation. Our legs touched near the poolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bottom, and she sent me a lazy, dreamy smile. Then the light went out, and everything came back.

264

265

Poetry

Introduction by Tim Liardet

oetry flourishes in the cracks between living. It seems to be what it most likes. The more its worldly space is cramped, the bigger it seems to grow. It evidently needs very little soil. It has grown used to being regarded as a decadent weed. The poetry strain of the MA in Creative Writing prospers in such cracks. Its leaves are lush and fulsome and push up with a determination to make their own shade. This year the cracks have bulged with foliage. The Poetry Workshop group has flourished big, grown way beyond the cracks. Its leaves have flapped like huge elephant’s ears – but glossy and waxy and green. We have had Sarer Scotthorne’s meticulously documented psychodramas, which suggest there is no crevice of the human heart and mind that should not be visited. Her beam shines into most of them and is not for one moment afraid of what it sees. If you ever doubted the meaning of artistic courage, read these poems. We have had Paul Hawkins’ brilliant, highly compressed poems recently published as a chapbook – Claremont Road. This now amusing, now disturbing, book takes an unflinching look at the East End of London during the Thatcher years. It is a memorable sequence and comes warmly recommended. We have had Lucy Humphreys’ pellucid lyrics, free and easy at surface level, but arresting in their perceptivity, rife with self-consciously postmodern nihils. Lucy is a considerable talent. We have had Liz Penny’s cryptic philosophical asides, her descriptions tilting a prejudiced narrative towards a meaning it embraces but rarely will disclose. Her poems are finely honed, at ease, and she understands that hardest of all things to teach at any level – irony. We have Lisa Storm-Olsen’s urbane narratives and lyrics, which are as much a love song to language itself as they are to the objects of their affection, Keatsian in tone, say, clockmaker-precise in rendition. Her poems seem to mature on the page, get richer. This year, once again, Poet’s Eye – the context module which examines

268

the interface between poetry and prose – continued to convert the writers of the latter to the former. When asked to respond to the ‘poetics’ of Nabokov, Woolf, Marquez and Golding, all students did so with the writing of poems. Some wrote their first ever poem on this module. And then wrote six, maybe seven more. There was much pushing and shoving towards the light. Tim Liardet is Professor of Poetry and the Co-Chair of the Bath Spa University Research Centre for Contemporary Writing. His collections have been honoured by the Poetry Book Society, longlisted for the Whitbread Poetry Prize and shortlisted for the TS Eliot Prize. A half-collection, Priest Skear, was the Poetry Book Society Pamphlet Choice for Winter 2010. His next full collection is published by Carcanet in spring 2015.

269

Paul Hawkins

aul Hawkins is a poet, writer and musician. He curates a locative storytelling project, Untold Boscombe, edits the poetry pamphlet Boscombe Revolution and runs Hesterglock Press. He has performed his work at many venues and festivals. His publishing credits include the anthology CUT UPs!, Rising, Fit to Work: Poets Against Atos, Pens & Needles, The Interpreter’s House, Stride, The Occupy Wall Street Anthology, London Literary Project, Bath Literature Festival, Museum of Alcohol, Verba Vitae and M58.Based between Bournemouth and Bristol, Paul is currently working on a new collection of poems. These four poems, taken from Paul’s pamphlet collection, Claremont Road (Erbacce Press, 2013), describe some of the characters he met and times shared during the desperate and disparate tail-end of the Thatcher years. Paul spent three years squatting in Claremont Road, occupying properties in what was to become the final bastion of resistance to the building of the M11 Link Road. The street was almost completely occupied by protesters except for one original resident, 92-year-old Dolly Watson, who was born in number thirty-two and had lived there nearly all her life. She became friends with the anti-road protesters, saying, ‘They’re not dirty hippy squatters, they’re the grandchildren I never had.’ hesterglock@gmail.com

270

The Claremont Road Can of Rhythm Sound System Dub bass BOOM rimshot scatter BOOM shakka-lakka ground glass darkly I can hear for miles Ever Sonic Youth and heavy hex Daxaar rhythm; where the snare drum crashed and echoed fighting with each Lee Perry smear over this gashed and improvised wall of sound I can hear for miles

271â&#x20AC;&#x192;

PAUL HAWKINS

Number 2 Claremont Road: Andy English You came back to me last week: as a Nick Drake folk song, an East Ham road sign, a Brighton post code and Cannery Row on a book’s spine. May we live forever! You would always insist on Karl Marx, Guy Debord and the Situationists. The cemetery sleeping opposite the railway lines, cheap speed, Tennent’s Super and Buckfast wine. The gravity of your overdose sucks.

272

Maggie, Steve and The Poll Tax Riot Do you remember the time in Trafalgar Square? A scaffold pole flung through the police car windscreen, the helmetless copper punching a pensioner and Steve screaming fuuucking caaant at the copper, who was about eighteen years old, bug-eyed in blue. Steve and me and bloody everyone jamming crowd barriers under the wheels of that riot van that drove into us; the chanting, the van trying to reverse out, the chanting and shouting and the van getting stuck; the chanting and shouting and smashing as we rocked the van over. Then the tsunami crowd surge, Steve tripping, falling into the road; the police horses charging, Steve crushed under hooves; the screams; human, horse, ambulance. At eleven that evening I watched Steve in a hospital bed, breath courtesy of a machine; tubes, lines-in and all I could hear was MAGGIE MAGGIE MAGGIE OUT OUT OUT

273â&#x20AC;&#x192;

PAUL HAWKINS

Number 48 Claremont Road: Bone It was Nineteen Hundred and Seventy-Six when Bone got his first guitar. He learnt three chords, started a band. They plugged straight in, curled all the dials up to ten, chain-sawed cicada riffs. They religiously practised their scissor kicks and called themselves The Curious Hands. By Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five the band had split, gone to sleep. Bone zoned out, bought his council flat cheap, got fat on a diet of socialism and coke, his attack was now goatee thin; a dead battery in a snug coffin. In Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Eight Bone was gigging a political-comedy turn; Roger his agent was more than able to get him a midnight show on cable TV. Then Bone went and pushed it too far with a joke about a wheelchair and the tax on a car. Bone lost his flat, could not atone, only just kept the shirt on his back, like Johnny Rotten selling butter theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d both made a few cynical quid from out of the gutter, their principles very post post-punk stereotypical or maybe I am being too overcritical about my old mate Bone.

274

275

Lucy Humphreys

multidisciplinary artist and shamanic practitioner, Lucy writes for both stage and page and plans to reach a wide audience though live performance, video and with a printed, bookart script. Her work explores the usual themes – love, language, travel, nature, people, god – and attempts to utilise the power of words to express, inspire and affirm human experience. Lucy debuted Act One of her Pressed Laurels trilogy at Penryn Arts Festival in 2013, with a collaborative performance of A Dark Telling (see link below). The following poems come from Act Two, Offerings – a series of ten poems, interspersed with improvisational movement, as meditation, as magic, as prayer. lucyhumphreys@yahoo.co.uk youtube.com/channel/UCIbWJltKAKAAqkP5NCeCn-A

276

One He liked my colour scheme, shot me from behind, standing in the sea; the rolling lap and pull reminding me to breathe. He set the pace slow, cut me off when I began to boast. We took our silence beyond uncomfortable, into connection – he looks down, I skip the surface, both of us alien. She was there in the cloud hips and the tug-snap of the promenade flags; in the dinosaur-spine imprint of seaweed on sand. He offered me a mint; and nothing more. I picked up a scribbled pebble from the floor. We stood together at the harbour, looked out to the island – I lay my chin on the still-warm stone wall, eyeing the rust-coloured lichen. She was wrapped around his finger, in a white-lit glint. I thumbed the ridged scribbles, flicked my tongue over the mint.

277

LUCY HUMPHREYS

Three On her derision that my Mexican boyfriend was just a boy, I left him; arrived at her flat with all my belongings packed. She let me in. I was always tired. She said I didn’t eat enough iron. I said I was deficient in love, ‘Mas que me hace falta hierro, me hace falta amor.’ She cracked up. We went to a bar to hear a singer-songwriter play trova – romantic songs. She watched him, I watched her sad eyes get sadder. She found me a new place to live. I stayed in a lot, saw less of her. On Facebook she wrote, ‘Las amistades son como las plantitas, las tienes que regar’, ‘Friendships are like seedlings, you have to give them water’. Beneath this I left a single ‘x’, which, in Spanish, means ‘whatever’. We didn’t say goodbye. I kept the photos of us, in 3D glasses, on the ATV, that made us laugh so much. I searched trova on YouTube, found a song called ‘No me pidas ser tu amigo’ that means ‘Don’t ask me to be your friend’. I saw my face reflected in the screen.

278

Seven I used to mess up my physics tests on purpose, so as not to get one hundred percent. When I go out, I dress down, to avoid the unwanted attention of ‘lesser men’. Likewise, on match.com, to discourage the too-many-lame-old-guys, I uploaded a not-too-pretty photo – when I messaged the kickboxers, they didn’t reply. An Italian, looking for a woman online ‘che sappia annientare la superficialità’, ‘who can annihilate the superficial’, ‘winked’ at me. He’s fit, so I winked back. He wants to build, with profound heart and mind, an impregnable castle. I want to build, with teachers and rammed earth, an alternative art school. I’ve started a liver-cleanse diet, taking Epsom salts with a mix of olive oil and grapefruit juice to flush my intestines out. I’m trying to give up alcohol; asking myself why I drink – to dance, to philosophise, to fit in, to be found, passed out on the roadside, by paramedics who want to know my age, my next of kin, and medical history – I’m nearly thirty. Please don’t call my mum! I have a habit of making less of me.

279

LUCY HUMPHREYS

Nine We went to the sea to fill our souls, a llenar nuestra alma, flitted about in the shallows, spiralling round one another. He kept trying to push me under – I fell out of my bikini; he invited me to ’otel Mangrove (basically fucking on a jet ski). I had the courage to decline. The holidaymakers had taken shelter, the bungee-jump DJ was silent. We studied the incoming storm, huddled under the waves to keep warm. The rain struck – we stood and let the fat drops pelt us – five months of sun and this day was my favourite. I ran across the empty beach, bouncing Baywatch-style, hoping someone was watching me from inside the hotel, the tropical waters defining my tits. A ray of lightning hit.

280

Ten He got me into Zeitgeist and other ‘conspiracy theory’ documentaries; snuggled up in his bed, my clothes kept on – he never criticised me. When I’d get upset about Monsanto or the rigged banking system – our ill society – he’d show me Planet Earth and other David Attenborough series, to re-inspire me. I left my favourite headband behind, on his headboard, the night before I went away. He held onto it for me, till I came back, nine months later, in time for his birthday, gave him an apple tree that I’d grown from seed. He put it on the doorstep. She’s moved in. They’re having a baby. I slept in the spare bed, crept out early, found a feather from his winged namesake, set it beside my stones, its rainbow fading under dust. There’s a movement to stop Monsanto demanding the labelling of genetically engineered foods in California, for a start, and people are asking questions, posting videos, etc. Giant flocks of starlings, preparing to migrate, form protean shapes in the sky; murmurations that sound like a motorway – waves on the uprise.

281

Liz Penny

iz Penny was born and raised in Cork. She lived in London and Minnesota before settling in Wales. Poetry credits include Anterliwt 2008 and the Bath Literature Festival 2013. Her poetry collection Silent River reflects on how the past shapes the present and keeps on running. Despite our attempts to go with the flow and live in the moment, it takes us to unexpected places; some rich and productive, others bleak and isolated. pennyep09@gmail.com

282

Silent River Yesterday it spread beneath my skin crept through my bones leaked through my muscles slowed my tongue to mumbles blurred the borders of being. Memory floods the body all the old familiar landmarks disappear. Red flares hunt the air I climb onto the roof and wait. I am mesmerised by the swirls, ripples, false starts the dispersion of unwanted energy that wells and swills away coherent thought â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the river of infant mind devoid of speech.

283â&#x20AC;&#x192;

LIZ PENNY

After the Storm I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been home to air the room since the storm swept leaves into the grate. Cobwebs torn free by the slamming door sway in the sudden blast. Already I miss his scent bruised grass, line-dried cotton. I miss his hair stroked, mapped by my hand centre parting tumbling waves. I sling my gear in a bag, get in the car. Hairbrush, hairbrush, forgot the hairbrush. I rush back retrieve it from scattered beads, bracelets, discarded ring. Pause and pause again reach down ease the gold band back over a thickened knuckle.

284

Orogeny There is an echo in my bones – the echo of a million exoskeletons crashing in the latest rockfall at Southerndown. Time was shallows of equatorial sea coral fronds shells of the spineless calcite and aragnite drifted down layer after layer fused on the seafloor. This – thin rockskin on a body with hidden force the power to gasp and grunt push out newborns with blank faces open to the sky. They wait to be written on by mammal, insect, bird each line a line of time. In stone and bone we rise and are levelled.

285

LIZ PENNY

Moon-cat A moon-cat stalks suburban nights the evidence is rife. His spoor glistens, black pearls on the hard-pressed earth by my window. Stray hairs fallen in the leap from floor to seat to patio table turn gold in morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ray. Holes permeate the compost heap who knows whether in search or burial. Silver spatters the leaves the patina of beech tree. The cat has sprawled on the sill scrawled a cipher in the wood â&#x20AC;&#x201C; etched in the space between us his attempts to sniff me out. I am the one flicking by almost unseen. I heard him the night the wind died when the moon was full I heard the snap of broken twigs the hiss and sigh of branches swishing and falling, the roll of empty vessels, glass shattering in smithereens. I have seen him silhouetted on the wall, poised to spring, the pendulum of his tail marking the endless hours.

286

287

Sarer Scotthorne

arer Scotthorne has published her poetry at the Bath Literature Festival, will be in the July 2014 edition of the journal The Interpreterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House, and has performed her poetry at venues in Bristol, including Brisfest. She has recently joined Bristol Women Writers, a collective of published writers. Sarer has been interviewed by Catfish McDaris of the American Ppigpenn online poetry forum along with an international selection of writers, and has filmed poets reading for The Poetry Project in New York City. Sarer is currently working in film and poetry: she recently created a film called Boscombe Suite for the musicians from The Music Room Band, who composed its soundtrack and perform the piece live; she is working collaboratively with Spanish microtonal musician Tony Salinas (who lives and works in Kyoto, Japan), whose music was played at the UK Microfest on instruments he created, writing poetry to be spoken over music and making a film to accompany the piece; and she is also writing poetry to be read on the films of a Bristol hip-hop band. Sarer facilitates writing workshops for vulnerable women in Bristol. She is a senior instructor for the Wutan School of Chinese Martial Arts and an indoor student of Master Wu Song Fa. These poems explore form and poetic style. They come from a collection called The Blood House. sarer.poet@gmail.com

288

The Moon and the Night A black bank of trees leans against a turquoise sky, grey casting into tawny shadows; the last of the light shimmers in my eye, making riddles of the early night. A shy moon shines below the skyline, its light curves; illuminating cloud, cold permeates, fierce, to the bone, a faint buzz of engines, echoes across the furze, a fox calls; no human soul, the night whispers promises to me. a groaning breeze, kisses falling leaves, I kneel as the moon breaks I try to touch the broken moon to take it into me, the past and future, are woven into her light. I thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been forsaken, but the night calls me here again with her black eyes and hidden glory, she reaches into me and leaves her seed, and I am hers.

289â&#x20AC;&#x192;

SARER SCOTTHORNE

Repeating Patterns My phone rings and he wanders into the room – he watches over my shoulder, at my screen – I turn to look at him, in spite of myself; I start to tremble, my arse and tits wobble – He knuckle-drags himself behind me into our bedroom and says ‘oh sorry’, my skin turns into wallpaper. I spread across the room. I become his pattern, the pattern he likes to worry over. The repetitions are his by forfeit, he traces the lines with his yellow fingers. His rodent mouth opens, ‘st, st, st, sorry, I just … you don’t have to.’ But I have no words, because I am spread too thinly. He takes his razor, carefully slices down a line and peels a strip off, he screws that part of me up and throws it across the room. (This is a genuinely corrective gesture) He says ‘I am going to leave you’ again, so I try to come down from the wall, uncurling at the edges and seams. I try to reconstruct myself for him, for the children.

290

But I don’t seem to fit back together. Parts are missing, I pat myself down and start the shuddering, the paper shaking. I just have to wrap myself more tightly this time: I say to myself ‘if I could just shake in time to the st, st, st,’ but it is inevitable that he will cry out, ‘Not like that, I want the real thing.’

291

SARER SCOTTHORNE

James’s Law Newton’s Law His logical mind dislodged my soft intuitive voice. says that we will Only half myself, I gradually became corrupted, never move in perfect lost examining the minute details of his life. ellipsis around the sun. The letters in my speech unfettered, floated The circularity arises because into the sky re-arranging themselves into philosophers of science have words he would like to hear, I wore clothes some prior commitment although he would like to see, I thought only perhaps minimal and restricted about his problems, his fears, his F = M1 M2 G (where G is a constant) aspirations. I turned slowly r 2 in his hands, into force, If we can somehow solve this problem mass, as a constant. I was of induction and vindicate, the former horn reconfigured and lost of the dilemma can somehow be grasped. It is my significance until clear that we need to reach what is known as I was only of ‘reflective equilibrium’ between our prephilosophical s u b s t a n c e beliefs and the results of our philosophical enquiry. Since b e c a u s e the former threatens our everyday knowledge anti realists of his limit this knowledge to a description. gravity

292

Why I Became a Geisha I put on a mask, but underneath I am a nobody, an empty space. Where there should be my sexuality there is a thin strand of silk. If you pluck the strand it makes a note; the woven sound of a voice, a bell, and the wind â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the harder you pluck, the more violent the noise. And you cannot relax with me, because the closer you get, the louder the cacophony, the chorus rumbles, the bell starts to thunder and then we both begin the juddering. We put our hands over our ears and I have to beg you to stop before I am shaken off from the edge of the world, or my face starts to crack and you finally see that all I am is a mask and a strand of silk.

293â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Lisa Storm-Olsen

isa Storm-Olsen grew up on the Dorset coast. The sea, her Danish heritage and years living in the French Alps often inform her work. One of her poems was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in 2012. Publishing credits include the Bath Literature Festival and a number of her ekphrastic poems have been exhibited in galleries alongside the artwork which inspired them. Readings have included performance on Bridport Radio, as part of Annie Freudâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Poetry Aloud series, and as a member of The Cattistock Poetsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; events where headline poets have included Ahren Warner, Rachael Boast and Roddy Lumsden. A selection of her poems appear in Poems from the Oak Room, an anthology by The Cattistock Poets, edited by Annie Freud. Lisa is nearing completion of a pamphlet, Nightside, from which some of the poems here are drawn. She is also working on a collection, Vermilion, which centres its thoughts around colour, moving between the mythical and the scientific, from nature to art and including the ancient techniques for making pigments from their mineral or animal origins. leestorm74@yahoo.fr

294

River Song You swayed in – a supple slip of larch bending to talk to the river, your hair trailing like Poseidon’s dreadlocks. Once before, you arrived at the house wearing your T-shirted homage to Mrs Robinson. I’m still not sure who was lamb or wolf. Armed with your classical architecture, birthday cake wish and new fear, you didn’t stop to stamp the snow off your boots – knocked on the crashed-up door. If you’d silently gathered me – a compliant harvest, taken me away from that place, it may have been different. But the threshold held a slight snow of winter and through the window I felt the pressure of trees, saw the arrete glow as the light fell – so I played like the river, and flowed on.

295

LISA STORM-OLSEN

Moon Afloat in my room, aged six – swimming in cool sheets, ear fossilled to the pillow, feet finning to air pockets where linen folds loosened. The floury light of the moon sifted through orange drapes; as familiar as watching Grannie’s wide, aproned back and the beat of the spoon as she made butterfly cakes. In that isolate silence, as shadows leaned in, awaiting sleep to claim me, I believed the moon sang. The Boeing-whine so far aloft, I thought, was the moon’s whale call. Tuning herself, in solitude, (like my own, I empathised) until she reached a perfect, inaudible pitch. Reassured then, that all was well in this universe, I flipped my floe and slept.

296

Here again now, an age of dreams liquidated, the topography worn, silence interrupted by the jig-saw of night-speech of my child, the true call of owl, coot and fox. But still ear fossilled to the pillow, swimming in cool sheets, hearing the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s whale call.

297â&#x20AC;&#x192;

LISA STORM-OLSEN

Proteus Today, David Attenborough speaks to us from a fine, high-definition plasma screen – images jump and snap across cells of ionised gas. He shows us the animals he would take on the Ark. Outside, sea and sky are twin towns of mineral grey. Another section of cliff has made its descent, slipped its heel from grass and threshold. Clay and sediment, lucinea lineata and inferior oolite make their dip to rejoin the granite and chert of shore and sea. We cannot take the cliff route; the usual path has moved and gigs cannot launch. Yet gulls still bowl and cry and cormorants plough the harbour. Over the bay, the sun, with his maverick air, slips in a golden oar to spell out the village, house by house, drawing a line in the sand. Sand is now put into bags – makes other castles at our door. Warning signs mark the lanes, lapping ultramarine – beyond the sea. Field, hedgerow and ditch merge, the litter of flood making a torn wasteland of our streets where cars struggle to sail the waves. Shall we return to the sea, adapt like one of Attenborough’s chosen few – Proteus anguinus, the ‘human fish’ – who made himself blind by living in the dark.

298

Ode to a Winter Melon I wanted there to be a winter melon in my poem but you felt cabbage more fitting – we tussled about this on the phone negotiated cabbage versus melon me cheering for melon you swaying for cabbage

* The lush encyclopedia of seduction a certain scent in the nostrils against the heavy undertaker its glorious dark folds … I agree. We need functionality sustenance, unpretentious charms But so too we need the nectar of dreams the taste of glory – voyage to another country

299

Acknowledgements

riting is best done in solitude; the creation of an anthology demands collaboration. Straddling this dichotomy is not for the faint-hearted. Herding the disparate work of forty-one budding novelists, short story writers and poets into a single collection requires endurance, good humour and, let’s not mince words, an occasional touch of pigheadedness. The editorial board gave generously of their time, brain power, and thoughtful opinions, setting the guidelines and deadlines necessary to ensure that this book reflects the quality and breadth of writing produced by their peers. The whole board assisted in the editing. Thank you to Nina MacPherson, Ieva Lākute, Kathryn Hind, Mariana Peña Feeney, Rommy Collingwood, Mina Bancheva and Heather Ash for their team play. Thanks to Lisa Storm-Olsen and Paul Hawkins for their help editing the poetry and to Richard Irvine for his invaluable support on the prose. Additional thanks to Heather for leading the search for a new layout and cover design. To the fellow students who entrusted their words to us, responded promptly to our questions and suggestions and suffered our references to grammar and style guides throughout the lengthy editing process, we thank you for your patience and your respect for deadlines. For most this was the first experience of being edited for publication. We are confident that it won’t be the last. Bath Spa University’s Matthew Robertson encouraged his graphic design students to come up with our cover. Thank you to him and all who submitted, but especially to George Nutting for a design that is the perfect fit. The collection is all the better for the insightful and considered introductions kindly provided by Naomi Alderman, Philip Hensher and Tim Liardet. We are very grateful to them, as we are to Caroline Harris, our publisher, who delivered both printed and digital versions of the anthology within a challenging schedule.

300

Copyright ÂŠ 2014 retained by contributors. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor. Published by the Bath Spa University Presses, Newton Park, Bath BA2 9BN, United Kingdom, in April 2014. All characters in this anthology, except where an entry has been expressly labelled as non-fiction, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover design by George Nutting Project managed by Caroline Harris for Harris + Wilson Copyedited by Nicola Presley Typeset by Jennifer Moore Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Antony Rowe Sponsored by the Bath Spa University Research Centre for Creative Writing.