OUR BEAUTIFUL CHILD Annalisa Crawford “The Boathouse collects misfits. Strange solitary creatures that yearn for contact with the outside world, but not too much. They sit, glass in hand, either staring at the table in front of them, or at some distant point on the horizon.” … so says the narrator of Our Beautiful Child. And he’s been around long enough to know. People end up in this town almost by accident. Ella is running away from her nightmares, Sally is running away from the memories of previous boyfriends and Rona is running away from university. Each of them seek sanctuary in the 18th century pub, The Boathouse; but in fact, that’s where their troubles begin. Ella finds love, a moment too late; Rona discovers a beautiful ability which needs refining before she gets hurt; and Sally meets the captivating Murray, who threatens to ruin everything. Three women. Three stories. One pub.
ELLA'S STORY I am three, maybe four. It’s dark, very late; the house is silent. I can no longer hear the comforting hum of voices from the living room, but I can hear the tick-tock clock in the hall, echoing in the shadows. I’m gripping my Barbie blanket around me and pulling it over my head. Because there’s a monster under my bed. I’m being very quiet so the monster won’t know I’m here. I hold my breath and keep my eyes shut very, very tight. I hear a little whimper, and I think it must be me, because monsters don’t get scared. Everyone knows that. A monster would roar loudly or growl like a tiger; and this sound—this little whimper—is very soft, like a kitten when she’s lost. But I’m still scared, and I want my mummy. I cry out by accident, then hold my hands over my mouth and wait for the monster to crawl out. Almost straight away, Mummy and Daddy are standing over me; the light from the landing pours in and makes my bedroom look almost normal again, like it does in the daytime. “Monster,” I manage to whisper, before bursting into tears. Mummy sits down on my bed and hugs me tightly, folding her arms around me and smoothing my long, blonde hair; I can smell the scent of fabric softener on her nightie. She rocks me backwards and forwards, and I start to feel silly: how could a monster get in when Mummy and Daddy are here to look after me? “No monsters, Sweetheart,” says Daddy, looking under my bed and in my cupboard and through my stack of teddy bears in the corner. “Just a bad dream,” says Mummy, kissing my forehead. She lays me back down and strokes my cheek. Bad dream? I remember now. It was a bad dream. But it wasn’t about a monster. I am twelve, maybe thirteen. The moon shines through a gap in my curtains, casting an alien shadow along my bedroom floor. I heard a noise. Or saw a figure darting along the edge of the room. Or something. I hold the duvet over my face, peering out from one corner, embarrassed
because I’m twelve, or maybe thirteen, and far too old for such babyish fantasies. It was a dream that woke me. The dream. The one I’ve had so often. Only this time, there was an ending…oh, definitely there was an ending. I woke up all hot and shivery, scared and shaky. I was pushed: pushed off. And I fell. I fell a very long way. I didn’t stop falling. If I close my eyes, I’d probably still be falling now. I was dead in my dream. As I fell, I knew I was already dead. We should go to the circus on Sunday, said a girl—a woman. It’s what she always says, this woman I don’t know, sitting in a circle of people I don’t recognise. But I know them in my dream; they’re my friends, in my dream. Tonight, this sentence about the circus scares me; it wakes me up. But I don’t know why. Both in the dream and here in my bed, I’m frightened. I stop myself from shouting out just in time. When I wake up again, it’s morning. I should feel safe; I should realise it was just a nightmare. But I’m not happy, not safe. The dream filled out; it expanded in front of me, like when you watch a film for the second time and notice stuff you didn’t see the first time. This time, the dream created timelines and events I hadn’t dreamt before. Strange mannerisms, odd conversations. And all the time, it felt so real, as though it had already happened. I’m tired, like someone’s pulling me down into the mattress, sucking my arms and legs into the tangle of springs. I can’t move; I can’t swing my legs over the side of the bed. I don’t want to. “Wake up,” says Mum, walking in without knocking, carrying a pile of washed and folded clothes. All shades of black. Mum dumps them on my chair. “Why don’t you buy some colours? A nice red skirt? Blue jumper? You’d suit orange. Or green, maybe.” She says it almost to herself, as though she knows I won’t be listening. I hide under the blankets, pretending she’s not there. Mum opens the curtains. “It’s time to get up. Jane’ll be here soon.” And she leaves the room. I slide out of bed and shut the curtains again. I don’t want to see Jane. I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going to die: that’s what my dream was telling me. Thinking about it now, it’s so obvious. “We’re all going to die,” says Jane, as we stomp along the road to school. I didn’t mean to tell her; I blurted it out without thinking.
“But what if I’m going to die soon? What if that dream is going to come true?” “Well,” she says, slowly blowing out air, “do you know the people in the dream?” “No.” Jane shrugs, in a see kind of way. “Then it’s not going to happen anytime soon, is it?” she says, laughing at me. After that, I stop telling people stuff. If people don’t believe the stuff I tell them, why bother? I am seventeen, maybe eighteen. We should go to the circus, says the girl, the woman who has haunted my dreams for so many years. I sit bolt upright in bed, but the dream continues anyway; once it’s started, it doesn’t stop until the end. Until that final, fatal end. I haven’t been to the circus in years, not since school, says the man who’s always there. I’m working, says the second woman. This is the first time these other people have spoken. Their voices slice into the air. They don’t have names; they’ve never needed them. One day, I suspect they will. But right now, names are superfluous. The four of us have been sitting around this table for years. I know this room, a pub with high ceilings and an airy feel—like no pub I’ve ever been to in real life—I know the number of glasses on the table. I know what everyone’s drinking. It never changes. We sit in this pub talking, after a long day at work together. This I know. I fall to my death; this I know, too. Pushed to my death. Of course I am pushed: I feel those hands shove me with malice. I feel the strength and the hatred of the force. It jolts me in my bed. I lay in silence, in the dark, my brow furrowed, my breathing returning to normal. Mum says, “Your dad’s going to live somewhere else for a while.” I stare, waiting for more. I know my face is probably blank and impassive, but I can’t give anything more. There are too many emotions in the world, too much to think about. I don’t want to do it anymore.
Mum’s hair is lank, unwashed. Her eyes are puffed out like cushions and not quite focussing on me. Her skin looks grey, thin, and old. Her shoulders hunch over, and her head rolls to one side. One hand reaches out for balance; there’s a bottle of Vodka in the other, but no glass. She says, “God, Ella, don’t you care?” And the answer is…not really. I wish I did; I wish I could. I am twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. I roll over and search for Will’s profile in the pre-dawn gloom. Even though I’m an adult now, even though it’s just a nightmare, I still gasp for breath when I wake up, still hot and sticky; still scared to go back to sleep. Will stirs a little. Perhaps I could wake him so we can sit in the garden and watch the sunrise with mugs of coffee. Ha! No! Will is not that kind of man. He’d complain he has to go to work, that he’s got an important meeting—and now I’ve ruined his day because I’ve woken him up with some nonsense about the sunrise. Will is not my soul mate. My soul mate would wake me up, and we’d drag a giant sleeping bag into the garden. Maybe we’d even start the night out there, camping out like kids, giggling and excited. I’m not in love with Will, but I think he loves me. That’s good enough, isn’t it? I’m three again, so scared and alone, waiting for Mummy to come and tell me all the monsters are gone. We should go to the circus on Sunday, says the woman with her eyes lit up. I stare in horror, my stomach turns to ice; my glass falls to the floor. Suddenly I know—with such hideous certainty—that my death occurs only two weeks later. The doctor calls it depression; I disagree. When I sit alone on the cliffs looking out over the Channel, or when I’m stretched out on a blanket in the park, I feel happy. I am happy. When I listen to music, I want to dance; I’m compelled to smile when I hear Elbow or Jack Johnson. I sing along. I feel my heart racing. Would he think I was depressed when he saw me dancing around my own kitchen? I am in limbo, though; I haven’t found my place. I’m not sure I have a place.
In the middle of the night, a couple of years later, when Will thinks I’m asleep, he leaves. He walks out on me, grabbing a pre-packed bag from wherever he hid it. I listen to the door closing softly, then sit up and switch on the light. Blank and impassive: the only way I know how to be with people. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. In a few days’ time, he’ll knock on the door and shrug his shoulders, a pathetic apology not quite on his lips. I visit the doctor. He says it’s depression and offers me tablets. I take the prescription to the chemist. I take the tablets home. I sit at the kitchen table and stare at them, holding the box in both hands. These tablets, I’m certain, will stop me being happy. I am twenty-seven tomorrow. You’d think I’d be past having nightmares by now, but the older you get, the darker they become. It’s half-past five, an hour before my alarm. The sun is already filling my room with golden rays. My childhood pink teddy—Alfie—sits on his chair in the corner, watching over me. It’s a girl bear, not a boy bear, said my mum, see, she’s pink—girls wear pink. But I was adamant: Alfie is a boy. I resist the urge to pick him up and cuddle him close. I’m sleepy, tired, drowning in my dreams, in my own stupor. My alarm buzzes out at half-past six. I start the day with indifference. I’ll glide through the day, smiling and being the person I ought to be, and then I’ll spend the evening in the pub with friends. Work anchors me, dragging me to the bottom of the sea and pulling me along the bed while I get mouthfuls of sand. Six months. That’s how long I planned to be here; six short months of saving like mad, then travelling. Maybe a year, maybe more. Just off. Alone and content. I was twenty-one when I got this job, to save up. Then I met Will, and Will didn’t want to travel. He had a good job—a career—so he wanted a house and wife and kids. We bought the house, but I wouldn’t get married. I was too young; it was something other people did, older people. I didn’t want kids. So, we broke up and sold the house, which left us in debt, which meant I had no money to travel, which meant I stayed in my lame six-month-only job for over six years. The butterfly effect: one small thing, like letting someone tell you they love you, ruins all your hopes and dreams.
I shower and eat breakfast in silence, trying not to disturb my flatmate who works in a pub and sleeps until lunch. I walk to the bank and ring the doorbell. All within an instant: in a flash, a blur, a dream. Clare opens the door and stands in front of me. “Welcome to Planet Fun.” “Uh?” “Ah, one of those days.” I don’t know what she means. In the staff room, I’m weighted to the floor. My legs don’t move. I should be at the counter, ready to smile. I should be doing many things that I’m not. “You’re still coming for a drink after work? You’re not going to sulk all day?” I smile, forced and unnatural. “Of course. It’s Friday, isn’t it?” And that heaviness weighs just a little bit more. Jake gets the first round. He thinks it’s his job, as the bloke. Then it’ll be Clare’s round, then mine, then Andrea’s. The same every week. How did I get to be the person who does the same thing every single week? I wanted to travel. I wanted to be out of here by now, out of this town, out of this country. I glance around: Jake, Clare, me, Andrea. We’re all here, all together. A formless thought arises, floating in the air like cigarette smoke. I take a gulp from my glass and feel the fizz of bubbles bouncing around my mouth. Such a fleeting feeling, a lingering feeling. How did I never notice before? We move to a vacated table, rushing with bags and jackets before anyone else grabs it. I rest back in my chair and listen to the others, too soporific to participate. Idle chatter, tender teasing; I don’t understand, I remain silent. I swirl the lager in my glass and watch the bubbles cling to the side. I take another sip; I am still uneasy, unsettled. And I don’t know why. “So, what’s this year’s birthday wish?” Jake asks. “To get a decent night’s sleep.” “No,” they chorus together. Clare adds, “A proper wish. Winning the lottery, finding Mr Right?” I pause, pretending to consider, but knowing exactly what I want,
what I’ve always wanted. “I want to leave the bank and live the life I should’ve had before I met Will.” “Leave?” Jake repeats, without a smile. “Yes. Don’t you all want to leave?” They sit quietly as they think about it. I look at each of them, that peculiar feeling not abating. I can’t place it; there’s something not right. And then Clare says, without warning, without prelude, “We should go to the circus on Sunday.” Before I can stop him, before I can even make the connection, Jake says, “I haven’t been to the circus in years, not since school.” His voice is muffled and diluted. “I’m working,” says Andrea, frowning. She appears to be drifting away; her features dissolve in front of me. I think I drop my glass. Or Jake removes it from my hand. I stare in horror, from one to the next, looking at their puzzled faces. I am completely unable to breathe or move or speak. I feel clammy and sick. I’m shaking, suddenly cold and shivering. And so it begins: the end. The faces in front of me contort into the faces of my dream. I am inside my dream. I watch the scene evolve, the music and the bubble of voices and the smells. I watch the previously murky details become corporeal; peripheral images are now three-dimensional and solid. This is my dream; my dream is very real. “Are you okay?” They all peer into my face, lined up side-by-side. I think I’m smiling. I can’t be sure. Paul, my flatmate, is at work when I get home. The aroma of his curry—of the dishes he left in the sink again—wafts around the flat, so I open all the windows and flap my arms in the middle of the kitchen. I run a bath and slide into the water slowly. I lay very still for a while, sipping from a bottle of chilled cider; my head feels fuzzy. I’m tired, as though I’ve had a long, long day. My bones ache. My mind wants to stop everything. I scoop bubbles across my body, swirling them over my skin. The ripple of the water, splashing against my torso, soothes me. The sun shines through the window, low and orange. I close my eyes and watch the swirling red patterns that appear on my eyelids. I breathe in and out slowly, in, out, in, out.
I’m twenty-seven. Today. It’s two in the morning; the night is as dark as it’s going to get. I am still awake. I haven’t slept yet. Stupid. What am I afraid of? But it suddenly occurs to me that I’m not afraid, I’m relieved. It’s not a dream anymore. I’m going to die. I know it, but it’s okay. Today, I am the same age as Keira Knightley; I’m the same age as Carey Mulligan. They’ve made the most of their twenty-seven years: What have I done? I should have done more. Too late, now. I had plans, way back. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be a doctor once, but the exams eluded me. I wanted to volunteer in Ethiopia or Rwanda, but Mum sat me down and said, “You’re my only child, I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” What she meant was, I need you. The perpetual bottle of vodka in her hand. Easily influenced, I stayed. The idea of leaving remained, but it grew weaker over time, until it became one of those things I almost did. I thought about teaching; I thought about social work. I thought about a lot of things. Too late, now. I would’ve been bad at those things anyway. Travelling was the only thing that made sense: circling the world, avoiding people, living handto-mouth, day-by-day. So, to the bank. A good solid job, my mother happy, earning enough money to get by, enough to save up to travel. No one was going to stop me travelling! Apart from Will, of course. I am twenty-seven years and two hours old. I’ve wasted my life. If I only have two weeks left to live, I’ve definitely wasted my life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Annalisa Crawford lives in Cornwall, UK, with a good supply of moorland and beaches to keep her inspired. She lives with her husband, two sons, a dog, and a cat. Crawford writes dark contemporary, character-driven stories, with the hint of the paranormal. She has been winning competitions and publishing short stories in small press journals for many years, before publishing Cat and The Dreamer in 2012. Her website is: annalisacrawford.com
CAT AND THE DREAMER ALSO FROM ANNALISA CRAWFORD
“In my world, I am fifteen, the age I was when I met Rachel Carr, the age I was when Rachel Carr killed herself with a tonne of painkillers and two bottles of rum.” Julia survived a teen suicide pact: her best friend Rachel did not. Years later, Julia is introvert and insular, spiralling into depression, shrouding herself in daydreams to protect herself from reality – a controlling mother and a huge burden of guilt. When Adam walks into her office, Julia knows he won’t be interested in her; Cat, her flirty blonde colleague, has already chosen him as her next conquest. But his presence alone is enough to shake Julia up, and make her realise real life could be so much better. Except Cat has other plans, lurking in Julia’s imagination, torturing her, telling her she should have died too. And she’s right, of course, because Cat is always right. from VagabondagePress.com