Never: the Nottingham Writers' Studio Journal April 2015

Kathleen BellCatherine Brookes

Tony ChallisLiz Hart

Jack MessengerRonne Randall

Marija SmitsRhiannon Jenkins Tsang

Victoria Villasenor

NEVER

APRIL 2015

This collection of work was published in 2015by Nottingham Writers’ Studio,

25 Hockley,Nottingham NG1 1FH

www.nottinghamwritersstudio.co.uk

Collection copyright Nottingham Writers’ StudioCopyright for individual articles rests with the authors

Nottingham Writers’ Studio gratefully acknowledgesfinancial support from Arts Council England

Printed in Great Britain by Russell Press, Nottingham

INTRoduCTIoN ...................................................................................................................5

SLAB Liz Hart ...................................................................................................................7

INMATES Marija Smits...................................................................................................14

AT LAST Tony Challis....................................................................................................15

THE INTERVIEW Tony Challis.........................................................................................16

MoTHER’S WoRLd Ronne Randall ..............................................................................18

THE LoNG HARVEST Kathleen Bell .................................................................................24

oNCE Kathleen Bell ......................................................................................................25

LEICESTER WALK Kathleen Bell.....................................................................................25

WICHEGA Jack Messenger ...........................................................................................26

IF NoW I AM AN APPLE Rhiannon Jenkins Tsang.....................................................34

CATCH ME Rhiannon Jenkins Tsang ..........................................................................35

CHERRIES FRoM GRANdMA God Victoria Villasenor ..................................................36

ALMoNd EyES Catherine Brookes ...............................................................................43

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CONTENTS

Welcome to the fourth issue of the NWS journal, marking our first fullyear of publication. So far we’ve welcomed stories on the themes ofcrime and secrets, and stories exploring a sense of place, which movedsetting from a backdrop to a main element. This current issue also bringsout into the open things that are neglected, overlooked, ignored –perhaps accidentally, perhaps for the best.

At heart, stories are about exploring the possible: the road nottaken, the ‘what-if ’… what might happen someday, or in our wildestdreams. They aim to make the impossible, the make-believe, seem likereal possibilities.

The challenge given to writers for this volume was to break free ofthis paradigm and shun the possible or ‘ought-to-be’ in favour of the‘never-will’ and ‘better-left-forgotten’. Instead of tales of what shouldhappen, we asked for ones exploring what shouldn't.

And then – with trepidation – we waited by our inbox. The storieswe received more than met our expectations in the best possible way.From surreal workplaces to a touching friendship with a paving slab,from tests of courage deep in the exotic jungle to heart-rending lossin a bygone age, the pieces in this journal bear testimony to the factthat the best way to create the remarkable is by saying it can neverhappen.

The NWS Journal Editorial Team

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INTRODUCTION

I’ve been watching that paving slab now for a good while. Maybe it’sbeen watching me. I pull the chair up to the window in the upstairsbedroom and get a bird’s eye view. don’t worry yourself. It’s not that I’vegot a body buried under it or anything like that.

Look, it’s that slab there next to the front garden gate, at the very endof the path. It doesn’t do much. Just lays there. Minding its own business.It’s york Stone, and you can see the tints and hues of God’s own Countryin it. Some days when it’s wet after the rain, the stone shimmers, like Vera’sbest lustre vase, the one we bought on that day trip to the Potteries withthe Horticultural Society just after the war. Beautiful vase that was. Still is.It’s on the sideboard in the sitting room, next to our wedding photograph.Vera looks lustrous herself, white and tender as a snowdrop, and her eyesput that vase to shame, shining and glistening so…

I like to contemplate the slab in all weathers, sun and shade, but Ilike it best on chilly winter mornings when it sparkles with frost asthough it’s been transformed overnight into crystal.

It’s magic, then, when it does that.But what I really like is that underneath it all, it’s always the same,

solid and reliable. Whatever happens, it endures.Bit like me, I suppose.

Being an intelligent sort, you’ll now be asking yourself, why would anyonein their right mind waste their time staring at a paving slab? It’s a good

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SLABLiz Hart

NoTTINGHAM WRITERS’ STudIo

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question; I thank you for asking it and here’s my answer. It might be justa simple paving slab to you, but to me it marks the boundary of my world.The slab’s the last one before you push open the gate and step out on tothe street, a nice street of pre-war semi-detached houses. or it was.

you see, for the last five years, ever since Vera passed, the worldoutside that slab might as well be a foreign country for all the chance Ihave of ever getting there. I sometimes ask myself, will I ever walk downour street again, nip into the Co-op to chat to Jim behind the counter,go to the British Legion for a pint and a game of darts? The street’s onlyat the end of your front garden path after all, I say to myself. But theanswer’s always the same.

Never!Not if I carry on as I am. Not unless a miracle happens.Fat chance.

They said it was the shock, with Vera dying sudden like that. I made it tothe funeral, but I felt peculiar. Couldn’t wait to get back home. In thechurch, everything seemed strange and unfamiliar. First the church gotbigger, then it got smaller, then the coffin did the same, as though Verawere swelling and shrinking inside it. When I glanced around, people’sfaces had turned to masks, distorted like, glaring at me. Terrifying it was.

And the noise… Even the choir singing went through me like anelectric current. Couldn’t bear it. Afterwards, they said some of what Iheard was me own noise, weeping like, but I don’t really remember.

The worst part was when I started to suffocate, and that’s when theycalled the ambulance. Thought I was having a heart attack. Tried to stopthem taking me. didn’t want to go to hospital. Just wanted to be backhome with Vera. of course, I knew she wasn’t there like she had beenbefore, but her being was still there. I was certain of that. Knew shewouldn’t leave me. She’d promised that not even death would ever partus, and I never knew Vera to make a promise she didn’t keep. She wasn’tabout to start now, just because she was dead.

When they let me out of the hospital, the nurse said, ‘A touch ofagoraphobia,’ and ‘No harm done, Mr Williams, just a bit ofhyperventilation,’ as though I ought to be grateful. didn’t say anythingto her, but I decided there and then, they could call it a ‘bit’ of what theyliked, but I wasn’t going to have another.

Never!I was going to stay home and look after Vera.Keep her safe.

A week or so later, someone from community services come to see me,and he made sure there was someone bringing in me shopping and thatI’d got enough to eat, that kind of thing. He said they’d send someoneelse to see me, and they kept on sending them. There’s another youngwoman coming to see me later today—a ‘therapist’. If she ever gets here,that is. They’ve all got cars and they’re always late. Expect she’ll talk tome about how she can help me get out of the house. Never, I always tellthem, and they always smile and say, ‘Now, now, Mr Williams, that’s noway to talk,’ as if I were a simpleton.

They’ve never sent a therapist before. We’ll see.Last one as called—a ‘support worker’ she said—come through the

gate and stood looking at my house as if she were thinking of makingme an offer, but thought better of it. And you know what she did then?Stubbed her cigarette out on Slab and—even worse—ground it in tohim with the toe of her shoe! I banged on the window but she justgrinned up at me and waved, all innocent like. Thought I was barmy Isuppose. The black mark stayed for days, even after the postman hadwalked over it. Heaven knows what she’d been smoking! I tried threetimes to get to Slab, to wash it off. Never made it past the front door.Luckily, it rained soon after, cats and dogs, and he looked better afterthat, spruced-up.

don’t know what this one will be like.We’ll soon see.

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NEVER


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That’s why I’m sitting here now, talking to you, with my eyes on Slab.Waiting.Bugger! Forgot myself and let the cat out of the bag, haven’t I?

‘Slab’ I’ve just been calling him! Know it’s daft, you’re probablysniggering up your sleeve, but when you share your world withsomething, even a lump of rock, you’ve got to give it a name. I learnedthat during the war.

Anyway, what would you want me to call him? Malcolm or Steveor Wayne? They don’t sound right do they for something made ofancient stone that’s lasted a thousand years or more. But, Slab, nowthat’s a good solid name. A name for a square of yorkshire stone to beproud of!

I’ve only recently realised that Slab’s a work of art in his own way.Nothing showy, but I was watching the telly last week—you might haveseen it, on some culture show, a Museum of Modern Art in Americasomewhere, and they’d got a pile of concrete paving slabs, not as grandas my Slab. The presenter said it was a work of art, worth thousands andthousands.

When you think about it, world’s a strange place, isn’t it?

She’s gone now. Turned up on the dot! Time just flew. different from theothers. A nice young woman, she was, all things considered. Louise. Agood listener, I’ll give her that. Asked me about what had happened atthe funeral when I had me funny turn, and all about me ‘past history’.When I told her about the war, she said she thought that that hadsomething to do with it. ‘Mr Williams,’ she said, ‘have you ever heard ofPost Traumatic Stress disorder?’ I said I had, of course, I watch the newsevery day and have a newspaper delivered, but what they did to me, andthousands of others, were more than seventy years ago. I was only ayoung lad, wet behind the ears.

She asked me what it had been like, but I wasn’t about to tell her.Never have. But I did tell her that when I came back I felt like an old man.

until the day I met Vera. Vera made everything clean somehow. It waslike when your Mom’s washed and starched the sheets and hung themon the line in the sun and she makes the bed with you in it. Felt I couldstart again. All new and unsullied. Put it all behind me. Which I did.

She said that’s probably what it was, with meeting Vera I’d‘suppressed’ what had happened to me in the war—bottled it up I thinkshe meant—and then when she died, it all burst out like a boil. Like itwas yesterday.

She said there’s a type of therapy that would be suited to meproblem and, if I like, she can come again next week and for six weeksafter that, and then she’ll assess me to see how I’m doing. I said I’d bewilling to give it a try. Got nothing to lose have I? She gave meconfidence that she could help me. only one as ever did.

But that wasn’t all that made Louise different.Just as she was leaving, she stopped by the sideboard and stared at

Vera’s photograph. She was quiet for a while, like she was listening. Thenshe said, ‘Now, Wilfred, you know don’t you that Vera’s still with you. She’stelling me that she knows what those soldiers did to you, because youused to talk in your sleep. But she didn’t tell you. She didn’t want you toknow that she knew.’

you could have knocked me down with a feather!Me own wife had known all about it, all these years, never said a

word to me, and now here she is telling this young woman she’s nevermet before.

Can you credit it?Like I said, world’s a strange place.

It’s been four weeks since Louise’s first visit and we’re getting on like ahouse on fire. I’d never have believed it. She’s told me all about her family,how her great-grandmother Rosa came here from Jamaica just after thewar to work at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital as an orderly. Hergrandmother worked there as a nurse, then her mother as well.

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Her late granddad came from Barbados in the fifties, a carpenter,he was, and he met her grandmother when he nearly sawed throughhis finger. She stitched it up for him. ‘Love at first stitch,’ I said to Louise,and she laughed and said that’s what her grandfather always used tosay. She still misses him every day. She said she never knew a kinderman, nor a wiser one either. She said I put her in mind of him. Said shelikes to think of me as her ‘Granddad Wilfred’. That brought a tear I cantell you.

She said she did go back once to Jamaica when she was younger,and there were things she liked and things she didn’t. ‘I’d expected tofeel at home, Wilfred, but I didn’t. Then I got confused about where I reallydid belong.’ I told her I’d felt a bit like that when I come home from thewar. Like a foreigner in me own country. didn’t know if England hadchanged, or me, but something had. She told me that she’d lovedmeeting her family and seeing the Blue Mountains. ‘I can’t describe toyou, Wilfred, how the sight of them moved me. I’d never seen anythingas beautiful in my life before, except my babies’ faces when they werefirst born.’

Then, you know what she did? She looked me straight in the eyes.‘Maybe I’ll visit again and this time I’ll take you with me, Wilfred. We cansee the Blue Mountains together,’ and she smiled and squeezed my hand.

I was just about to say ‘never’ when something in Louise’s eyesstopped me. For a moment it was Vera looking back at me, honest andtrue, and I knew she was telling me I could trust Louise.

It’s only been six weeks now since Louise first visited, and already I’vemade it to Slab. She came with me, but it’s the first time in five years! I’mhoping, in not too long, to make it out of the gate on my own. I’velearned a whole new language as well. ‘Cognitive Behaviour Therapy’ fora start. Now there’s a mouthful to conjure with! I’m making steadyprogress, Louise says, and I can tell I am. Hardly watch Slab at all now.Know he’ll understand. I’m too busy doing me ‘homework’, examining

what Louise calls me ‘core beliefs’—such as I’ll never be able to leave myhouse. With her help, I’ve learned I can question that belief and find abetter one.

It’s been eight weeks—the end of my therapy—and today I made it tothe Co-op. By myself! Jim grinned all over his face when he saw me,nearly as pleased as I was. I even helped Mrs Sharma carry her shoppingup the hill, chatting away like old friends.

With Louise’s help, me and Vera have come through it. Vera’s stilldead of course—nothing therapy can do about that—but weunderstand each other better now than we ever did.

Never would have believed it.And what you are thinking happened to Slab? Well, he’s moved on

as well, in a manner of speaking. My neighbour, Mr Puczkowski, thebuilder, he did it for me, even put a replacement down (concrete, ofcourse, but I didn’t mind). Slab’s just over there, look, raised up on thoseblue bricks. He’s become a garden table. Growing me tomato plants onhim, in those clay pots I used to keep behind the shed.

He’s become a real work of art.World’s a miraculous place, isn’t it?

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NEVER

Liz Hart taught and carried out research as a socialanthropologist and historian, and studied CreativeWriting with don Webb at uCLA Extension. She hasnumerous non-fiction publications. She is currentlyworking on her second novel (Nothing In It) about ahomeopathic doctor and what happens when shetakes on a patient who believes himself to be dead.Her short story Slab explores the mysterious, andsometimes miraculous, nature of everyday life.

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We never see each other anymore.Work calls you away before I wake and rise,and open the curtains to another grey day.

Then there’s the school run,meaningless chatter, chores, bills to be dealt with;elderly parents to care for.

I sometimes sit and look at the walls of our prison,and wonder if they wouldn’t look so terriblewith another lick of paint.

Then it’s back to school—clubs, homework, rushed meals; you, back home, a virtual stranger. There’s a little more grey in your beard.

At bedtime as I trudge upstairs, I see you escape your cell. you’re watching 80s hits on youTube, travelling back in time,reminding yourself of when you were young.

I escape too, when our children are asleep.I build worlds that I’ll never inhabit, lose myself in stories that have happy endings.

Sometimes, in my dreams, we meet.

INMATESMarija Smits

Marija Smits is the pen name of Teika Bellamy, amother-of-two and writer whose work has featured ina variety of publications. When she’s not busy with herchildren or running Mother’s Milk Books, she likes todraw and paint. Late at night, when everyone else isasleep, she writes on her laptop in bed. Her work israther eclectic and she loves semi-colons.

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TWO POEMSTony Challis

At Last

This is the day. Arrangements made. Sepulchralthe walk to the altar. decades of preparationhave led to this time; the training for theologicalinquisition, the rise from rank to rank, dull immersionin texts that had to be learned and intoned. Thus, me,the centre of my own universe, raised for acclaim,now to achieve the highest office, and to bethe one who waves the wand as all declaim my virtue and my power. I rule this holy empire.(Is this not every man’s true desire?) Loyal Maeve,holy sister to my ambition, leaps to enquireif the key will open the golden tabernacle. Heave.The portal swings; I am bid approach, and dare.I grope inside. The treasure isn’t there.


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The Interview

Would you come this way, Mr Noun?

Just go through there, Mr Noun.

Ah, good afternoon, Mr Noun.Are you surprised by my curled finger?don’t you know the handshake?I am our esteemed chairman, Mr Noun.This is the deputy who does my job.This is my high-speed secretary,and this is my teasmaid;excuse me while I sip and swallow.How do you like the building, Mr Noun?I’m sorry about the toads in the lift; they’re very friendly and we feed them every night.

do sit down, Mr Noun,please relax and feel at ease.We like our chaps to be themselves.Are you willing to work all hours, Mr Noun?Would you go away and leave the job undone?Would you leave the cages open, Mr Noun?Would you mind the apparatus when it frowned?Would you stroke the long-armed stapler, Mr Noun?Would you let it nip your nail and pull your cuff?do you process words for breakfast, Mr Noun?

Are you worried when insulted by a screen?How well do you emote with olive green?Have you ever tasted sellotape au lait?How do you like litigious lunches?Could you meet an ostrich at the airport?

How would you fertilise a filing cabinet?Would you tamper with some Tippex that tattooed you?How would you treat a swollen switchboard?

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Tony Challis has spent many years working ineducation and therapy. He has been writing poetrysince the 80s. He facilitates the Rainbow LGBTWriting group at Nottingham Writers' Studio and issecretary of Nottingham Poetry Society. He hasbecome firmly enthusiastic about the compact butdynamic city in which he lives.

Are you really very fit, Mr Noun?Are you sweating, is that a hankie, Mr. Noun?Ah, I’m not sure you can take the strain.yes, maybe you need air.oh, you’re not going, Mr. Noun?But—your application made us think you’re just the man.These days it’s so hardto find people who take sales returns to bed.

If Lindsay hadn’t been in a rush that evening, it might never havehappened. But she was—and it did.

Shirley could see how anxious her boss was. Lindsay was trying topush the boxes to the back, put on her street shoes and apply lipstick allat the same time. She swore under her breath as she kicked the cartons.Shirley knew that it was Lindsay’s boyfriend’s birthday, and Lindsay wasorganizing a surprise party for him that evening.

“It’s all right,” Shirley said, gathering up the boxes. “I’ll take these tothe back. you go on and I’ll finish up—just leave me the keys.”

Lindsay took a breath. “you know how to work the shutters, right?”. “yes, of course,” Shirley replied. “And the alarm. And I’ll be here early

tomorrow to open up. don’t worry—it’s all under control.”Lindsay’s tense frown melted and her face softened into a grateful

smile. “Thanks, Shirl. you’re a life saver,” she said, grabbing her handbag.“See you tomorrow.”

“Have a lovely evening,” Shirley said, as she let Lindsay out of theshop, then locked the door behind her.

Shirley had been working at Mother’s World since before theymoved into the Springdale Centre, when they were only a little mother-and-baby shop on Exchange Street. She’d started there when she wasyounger than Lindsay, just a couple of years out of school and hoping toearn a few bob for the wedding and to help her and Jim set up hometogether.

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MOTHER’SWORLD

Ronne Randall

Those had been such different times. Shirley’s boss back then,Grace, had been a kind, easygoing woman, always ready for a laughand a cup of tea – nothing like Lindsay, with her smart suits, shiny rednails and shinier ambitions. Her strict rules. Always on the phone to“head office.” There hadn’t even been a “head office” back when Shirleystarted.

Shirley hadn’t planned to work for very long. She’d intended to stopas soon as she and Jim had their first. And indeed she had. But then…things had happened, complicated things, and she’d had to go back towork. Where better than Mother’s World, where Grace knew and trustedher, and where she felt at home?

She thought she might only stay a year or two, five at the most –but now here she was, more than thirty years later, taking orders from agirl half her age and twice as brittle.

Still, it helped pay the bills and gave her something to do. And tobe honest, she did like it here. She liked seeing the pregnant mums,young and tired-looking but excited and full of anticipation. And sheliked seeing them come back with their babies—the mums who camein here were the good ones, the one who looked after their little onesproperly. Not like some you saw in the Springdale—shouting at theirbabies, shoving bottles filled with cola in their mouths.

And of course, Shirley loved the babies themselves. She loved themall, even the bawling, red-faced, smelly ones. She could look at them nowand smile without feeling like an ice pick was ripping through her heart.

She hummed as she marched to the back with the boxes. She wouldjust stack them in the storeroom, make sure everything was tidy andsecure back there, and—

She stopped so suddenly she almost fell over. For a split second shethought—hoped—it might be a display mannequin that had been lefton the floor. But it wasn’t. It was a very real, living, slightly mucky-facedbaby. A boy, judging by the stained blue t-shirt. Fast asleep.

or was he? As Shirley crouched down, knees creaking with the

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effort, it came flooding back. Her hand froze as she reached out, and shewas hurled back thirty-two years…

* * *Shirley woke slowly, blinking as she glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty!Thomas had slept all the way through—the first time in six months! Sheallowed herself a pleasurable stretch before she went the few steps tothe cot.

Pleasure gave way to panic as she reached down to her baby boy.His face was pale, waxy, the rosebud lips lavender-grey and still.

She wanted to scream, but all that came out was a croak. “Jim!” Jim woke instantly. He bolted out of bed and tried to give Thomas

the kiss of life, but they both knew it was too late.The rest was a blur—an ambulance, the hospital, police…then an

inquest. The words “cot death” repeated over and over. Shirley stayednumb and faraway through it all.

Three months later, her routine smear test showed somethingamiss. She went into hospital for more tests and came out ten days laterwithout a womb.

There would never be another baby. That’s when she began to cry, and cry and cry as if she would never

stop. For a year it went on—deep, gut-wrenching sobs every night. Jimheld her, and sometimes he cried too, but finally he told her it had to stop.

So it did. Somehow she swallowed the rest of the tears and got onwith life. When Jim had his accident and could no longer work, Shirleywent back to Mother’s World. It was hard—unbearable at first—but itwas the only place she felt she belonged.

* * *Now, at last, here was her reward.

He even looked a bit like Thomas, with the same fair, wavy hair. Alittle crust of snot nestled below his nose, but his cheeks looked like ripepeaches, and his lips smacked gently in his sleep. She lifted him out ofhis carrier.

He opened round, deep-blue eyes that gazed up into her own. Thenhe began to whimper. As the whimper grew to a bellow, Shirley cradledhim close and patted his back, rocking gently. The forgotten movementscame back effortlessly; the weight in her arms was warm and nourishing.The tears that fell now were soothing, healing, not acid etching into hersoul.

“It’s all right, my love,” she crooned. “Mummy’s here. you’re all right.you’re safe with Mummy now.”

* * *“Shirl, no. No! It’s wrong. you know it is. We can’t do this—it’s kidnapping.We’ll be arrested.”

on the kitchen table, the meal Jim had prepared—grilled chicken,mash and peas—sat untouched, cold and congealing. Lurking near thedoorway, Shirley clutched the baby, now fed, changed and in cleanclothes thanks to supplies she’d “borrowed” from the shop. She rockedhim fiercely.

“But someone didn’t want him,” she said, “and I do!” Her voice wasguttural, raw. “He was sent… sent to us, to make up for Thomas! Thomassent him!”

“Come on, love.” Jim’s voice was quiet, as soft and gentle as hers washarsh. “you know this mustn’t happen. The baby’s mother is out there,probably regretting what she’s done. We have to tell the police.”

As Jim moved towards her, Shirley stepped back, into the dimly lithallway. “No!” she shrieked. “No! No!” The baby in her arms cried too, hishowls growing louder to match Shirley’s. She got as far as the stairs,where her knees buckled.

She stumbled backwards and thudded on to the bottom step, hersobs now coming in hiccup-y spasms. Shaking, turning away, she yieldedup the baby to her husband.

* * *The fluorescent lights in the police station made Shirley’s eyes ache. Thegirl was already there when they arrived. Shirley thought she couldn’t be

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more than fifteen. She had pale, greasy skin, with three spots on her chin,one scabbed over. Her tangled, badly bleached blonde hair was streakedwith violent blue and she wore tight jeans, ripped at the knees. dirtytoenails painted glittery green peeped out of scuffed white platformsandals. She kept her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her pink-and-grey hoodie. A star emblem on the left breast of the sweatshirt bore thewords “Girls Academy”.

The girl’s mum sat next to her—a fat woman in an ill-fitting greenskirt, with too much makeup on her sagging, fleshy face. Her garish redhair showed dark brown roots. A woman stood beside her—a socialworker, Shirley guessed—looking over her shoulder as she finished thelast bit of paperwork.

The baby—Jayden Kyle, as it turned out, not Thomas—sleptpeacefully in his carrier under the watchful eye of a WPC. Shirley couldn’tlook at him, and she hadn’t been able to look at Jim since they’d arrived.

All the formalities were completed now—identity checks,statements taken from Shirley and Jim—but Shirley wondered what thepoint was. They were letting the baby go home with these people, theseundeserving, thoughtless, horrible people who would not be able to givethis baby what he deserved, no matter how much help and support theygot from Social Services. That scruffy, stupid girl would never know howto bring up that beautiful little boy—look at how her own mother hadraised her.

As Shirley and Jim got up to leave, the girl rushed over. GrabbingShirley’s hand, she said, “Thank you.”

Shirley looked away.“It’s all right, love,” Jim said to the girl, speaking in the same tone

he’d used with Shirley earlier. “We just did what anyone would do.”The girl ignored him and squeezed Shirley’s hand a bit harder. “I

mean thank you for looking after him,” she said. “I know you kept himwarm and clean and fed him and that. I know you kept him safe, like myown mam would of. I just wanted to say thank you for that.”

Shirley nodded, looking down at a mark on her right shoe.“you can visit us if you want,” the girl said. “If you want to see him,

like. I’m going to look after him now. you can come see if you like.”A small sob escaped Shirley’s throat. “That’s kind of you,” she said.

Then, wrenching her hand away, she turned and took Jim’s arm. “Let’sgo,” she whispered.

* * *on the way home, Shirley gazed out of the car window at the street, thedarkness broken up by brightly lit chippies, burger bars, cafes. youngpeople congregated near some of them, and at All-Star Kebabs, a girl inclumsy sheepskin boots and a tiny skirt gripped the handle of a buggyas she smoked and talked with a couple of rangy, unkempt boys.

That poor baby, Shirley thought, exposed to all that filthy smokeand the smelly night air. It should be home, safely tucked up in its cot,with a soft Mother’s World blanket and a colourful musical mobile. Safe,loved, protected.

Jim, concentrating on the road ahead, suddenly cleared his throat.“It can never happen again, love,” he said. “you know that, don’t you?

Never.”“I know,” Shirley whispered. “It won’t happen again. I promise. Never.”And it wouldn’t. She knew now not to make the same mistake again.

Next time—and she would make sure there was a next time—shewouldn’t go home and let Jim spoil everything. Next time it would bejust the two of them. Forever.

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Ronne Randall was born in New york and has livedin Nottinghamshire since 1985. She has worked inpublishing since the late 1960s, and for the last 35years has written, edited, and Americanized scoresof mass-market children’s books. She has an MA inFolklore from the university of Sheffield, and hasbeen a volunteer counsellor with ChildLine. Ronnejoined the Writers’ Studio in 2014 and is currentlyworking on a memoir of her childhood in Brooklyn.

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THREE POEMSKathleen Bell

the long harvest(from Balance Sheets for Mediaeval Spinsters)

When the stubble scrapesand the corn, newly ripe,scores weals across my handwith its sting and its thin line of blood,at least I shall never heara babe at my back, bawling in the bright sunnor a child at my side, dragging on with his whineof “Mother, I’m tired, Mother, I need to piss, Mother, I need to go home, I’m hungry, Mother, I need to feed”

and I shall never feelthe ache at my hip, in the small of my backor the sickness rise in my throat,knowing I carry another bairn within.

In a bad yearI’ll nurse my hunger alone. I’ll never feelthe child grow sluggish and stilltill it stiffens inside me.

The long harvest is shared,but when winter comesthe cold is mine alone.

Kathleen Bell’s recent pamphlet at the memoryexchange (oystercatcher, 2014) was shortlisted forthe Saboteur awards. Her poems have recentlyappeared in PN Review, New Walk, Under the Radar,Litter, The Stare’s Nest and Hearing Voices, as well asthe anthology A Speaking Silence. She writes bothfiction and poetry, and teaches Creative Writing atde Montfort university.

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NEVER

Once

unroll the days

and light another cigarette, gulp backyour tears, order another beer.Nothing can touch you.

As for the world, we'll build itstarting herein this bar,Place de la Liberté,in the year that never was.

Leicester Walk

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you said.“Nor I.”—

and we walked on, agreed,companionable, almost happyin the grey suburban dusksix weeks after your death.

26

Must have been near enough sixty years ago, the day daddy came back,when we all drove down to our new home. It was out by the big highwaythat ran like a ribbon of dreams all the way to the far blue horizon. Iwatched all the folks in their automobiles, and wondered if where theywas headed was better than where they’d been. I didn’t know then howdaddy had no place left to go.

daddy carried a duffel and an old suitcase off the freighter, but heweren’t wearing no uniform. I asked him why. He looked at Mamma anddidn’t know what to say, but Mamma knew. ‘daddy’s been dischargedfrom the Navy, Sweet Pea. He’s come home for good.’

daddy hugged Mamma and kissed her long and slow. I caught holdof daddy’s hand and held it to my face. His fingers smelled of cigarettesand soap. My little sister, May Alice, stood on his shoes and put her armsaround his legs.

outside of seeing daddy again, I guess the best thing that day waswhen they winched out his new car from the bottom of the ship andswung it high into the sun. It was sparkling and shiny and dripping withchrome, and the white wall tyres were clean as cotton. We all lookedup and held our breath. Men in greasy coveralls put calloused handsto their eyes and watched that great yellow dream come swayingthrough the blue, swinging like a sunbeam down to earth. ‘Sure is onebeautiful automobile!’ they told daddy, and I felt proud. ‘What kind theycall that?’

WICHEGA

Jack Messenger

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daddy smiled with all his teeth. ‘oldsmobile Super 88. Got a 185-horsepower rocket V8 engine, four-barrel carburetor, four-speedhydramatic automatic transmission, independent front suspension withcoil springs, and power-assisted four-wheel drum brakes.’

daddy watched them unhook the big rope net from around theolds, then walked around real slow, looking at every inch. I was scaredhe’d cry if he’d seen one little bitty scratch. daddy sure loved that car.

Mamma scolded him. ‘Where’d you get that thing?’‘Bought it from the first mate. Got a good deal, too.’‘Bought it or win it playin’ cards?’daddy bent down to look at a wheel and said nothing.When it came time to go, I got in the back and slid around on the

shiny leather seat that smelled like a new baby. May Alice sat up frontbetween Mamma and daddy.

‘daddy? This car got a radio?’ I asked.‘you kiddin’? This car’s got everythin’! Hold still now, girls.’I watched daddy start her up with a roar like a bear and then we all

drove off down the dock like kings and queens. I waved at the peopleand some waved at me. daddy laughed and even Mamma smiled.

‘I wanna hear the radio!’ shouted May Alice, and so we did. daddyfound some nice music and sang along.

It took all day ’til we got to where we was going—our new home.only it weren’t new; it was Mamma’s old place, where she’d growed upback in the time when she was young as May Alice and just as dumb.Mamma didn’t have no parents no more. I watched her step out the oldsand stare like a lost child at the squat old house with the screen doorthat needed fixing, loose shingles on a roof that dipped, flaking paintjust about everywhere. The yard was all dirt and crab grass. I ran aroundback and found a swing hanging from an old tree.

Mamma looked kind of sad and helpless, but she smiled when I toldher, ‘I like it here already.’ Then she looked at daddy. ‘you promised you’dsettle down. This the last time, you hear?’


28

daddy dropped his bags and put his arm around Mamma. ‘I ain’tnever goin’ back to the Big House. I’d sooner die.’

I heard him and called out from the swing. ‘What’s the Big House,daddy?’

daddy looked sad and Mamma told me to hush. ‘That’s a name theygot for the Navy, Sweet Pea. But don’t you never use it.’

May Alice started to cry. ‘Mamma, I’ll sleep in the car. This place isreal old.’

Those were the good times, when the long hot days waved to me like abunch of new friends. I’d grab a hold of their hands and be off seeing whatwas to be seen all about, just roaming and watching for hours ’til I was toohungry to spit and trailed home. Seemed like that summer the air was fullup with heat and bugs and things blown about. All I had to do was hold outmy fingers and catch life on the wing. Felt like all the joy of living was in thatair, with the earth calling out to me that the world was new and all woke up.

‘Sweet Pea, don’t you never go near the highway, you hear? That’sno place for a child.’

‘I only sits in the grass by the pond down there, Mamma. It’s realcool under the trees, and they got a bridge. Ain’t no hurt in that.’

‘That’s the worst place for a girl to get, don’t you know that? There’sa Wichega lives in that pond. That dirty critter eats girls for breakfast anddon’t think nothin’ about it.’

‘A Wichega? Ain’t no such thing!’‘don’t you never go down there, you hear me?’Alone, May Alice and I whispered about what Mamma told us. My

sister was scared of the pond and the Wichega, but she was just a bittygirl and I was eight going on nine. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, May Alice.No such thing as a Wichega ever been born on this earth.’

‘But we’s new here, Sweet Pea! They got one here, maybe.’‘It ain’t so! Mamma’s done told us about the Wichega since I can

hardly remember. Nobody nowhere no how ever seen just one.’

‘I seen one!’ May Alice took a hold of my arm, her eyes filled up withnightmare. ‘It’s got claws and fur and lives at the bottom of the water. Ithides in the grass and drags you down just when you thinks it’s safe. Ain’tnothin’ you can do about it ’cos you’s already died. Then it eats you andit hurts somethin’ awful.’

She sure made me shiver, but I couldn’t let on. ‘you just pretendin’!’I’d dream nights of the big dark pond lying quiet in the trees, all

covered in weed and full of water moccasins. It had a bridge that rattledlike old bones. The highway people had put up a wire fence around thepond, but I knew where the ground dipped down around a post thathadn’t set right. I could lie me down on my back and hitch my way underthe wire and then be up and running, my dress kicking high on my skinnybrown knees and my old shoes filling with dry dirt on account of theholes. I’d hear the whoosh of the highway and the thunder of them bigtrucks taking beer and food and all the fixings to folks who lived too faraway to have a name. Then I’d see something big and slow come slinkingout the water.

one day, daddy told us he’d found a job over the county line in Brayford.He’d get up each morning itching for that long ride down the highway,when it was just him in his olds and all the world waiting to see him driveby. It was some kind of freedom, I guess. I could picture him working allday at the plant, thinking every hour was an hour closer to quitting timeand thirty-five minutes of riding in glory.

I hoped one day I’d see him go over the bridge when I was hid likea dog in the long grass by the pond. I’d watch and dream and I’d sleepsome, but daddy must’ve always passed by when I weren’t looking. Iasked him one time when Mamma weren’t there how come I never seenhim. daddy laughed. ‘I’m goin’ too fast for folks to catch me, Sweet Pea!’

The ground all along there was dry and prickly and smelled of dirtand wild things and trees full of living. I seen a deer once but it got scaredand slipped away. Some big red ants lived under an old stump, and there

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were trails and such through the grass and bushes, made by critters andpeople. Found me a shoe too—looked like a man’s, all torn and old like itwas out in the rain for years, and I thought of the Wichega. Mostly, though,I’d just set and watch the bridge and the dark water and listen to thesound the wheels made when they went over the seams in the cement—‘fump-flump, fump-flump.’ Those big old trucks would send the windracing through the grass that swayed and bent and whipped my face, andall the breath I had would be sucked out of me for a while, like I was dying.

‘you been down by that highway?’ Mamma asked when she saw methrough the screen door, my cotton dress all covered in dry dirt, andmaybe torn where I’d crawled through the wire.

‘No.’‘don’t lie to me, girl!’‘There ain’t no Wichega, Mamma!’‘Sweet Pea, there’s always a Wichega! you’d best remember that, girl,

and watch out. don’t you never go down to that highway. Promise?’‘I promise.’‘Never?’‘Never.’The next day I’d be right back down there again, watching people’s

dreams go by. Watching and waiting for daddy.

The world to me was full of things that needed figuring out, or else I’djust die with the not knowing. I never could figure why we had to bemoving around all the time. I tried to count the homes we had until wemoved to Mamma’s old house, but I couldn’t remember them all. I mademe a friend once but couldn’t keep her, on account of we had to gosomeplace else. Ellie didn’t have no mamma but she was real nice. Shegave me a rock from her backyard as a keepsake. ‘Goodbye, Sweet Pea,’she told me. ‘I’ll sure miss you.’

Seems like we was all the time waiting and watching, even whenthere was money in the house, or we had the new olds. When I asked

Mamma straight out, ‘Why did daddy have to hide that time when thesheriff came to visit? Why can’t we stay where we is like other folks?’, herface kind of closed over and it made her cry. So I never asked again.

Then came the hottest day on God’s earth. Everything except thehighway stopped breathing with the terrible heat. The sun dried up allthe grass and crops, and the new paint round the doors peeled away likethe lick of a tongue. Weren’t a critter no place. Just about all of Creationstood still. May Alice was kept to her room, the shades drawn and thewindow closed. Mamma moved around the house like a tired old hounddog. I felt sorry for daddy down at the plant, working.

I couldn’t stand it no more and went outside. The sun was like a redhot iron pressed against my face and I couldn’t hardly breathe. I thoughtof the cool shade under the trees by the pond and how the air wouldswoosh down there when the trucks went over the bridge. That mightfeel good. So I walked as slow as Moses and crawled under the fence andsat down by the water and felt the air rush at me like some all-over alivething. The sky was big and blue through the trees, and I closed my eyesso I could feel my breathing.

I must have slept some. I dreamed I saw daddy drive over thebridge. When I woke up it was dusk, and all the automobiles had theirlights on, but it was still hot enough to kill a bird. over the other side ofthe bridge there was noise and people calling. I got up and followed thetrail through the trees and the long twisting creeper things where I hadto go slow.

When I reached the end of the trees, the pond was just the same,deep and mean. The railing on that side of the bridge had one big hole,and what was left was hanging over the side and twisted some. The placewas full of people and their cars, gathered round like for a show and withtheir lights pointing over the pond. There was a man in a skiff. He wastalking to some men standing on the dirt near the water. one of themwore a uniform and I guessed he was the sheriff. He was nodding whilehe listened, all polite.

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Then a crane backed up to the water and the man in the skiff dovein and disappeared for a long time. I held my breath and had to let it outbefore I saw his head again. He waved his hand and then the crane beganto wind. It made a lonely moaning sound like a steer I saw once, hurt realbad.

It took one long time dragging up whatever they had down there,and once they stopped when the man in the skiff dove down again thensaid everything was okay. I was deep down hungry and thinking ofsupper and what Mamma would say when I got back so late. Thensomething big as forever came up out of the pond. I watched it lift highinto the air while water poured out on all sides. It looked like it was cryinga river of tears. There were fat patches of mud all over it and long trailingweed. I knew for sure what it was. A ’54 olds Super 88.

‘He’s still in there sheriff!’ the skiff man called.People started yelling. ‘Serves him right!’ ‘No-account thief!’The sheriff kind of slumped and took off his hat. He looked sad and

old. ‘Wind ’er up boys!’I let out a yell. ‘No! you’s all wrong! My daddy… my daddy been

drowned by the Wichega!’They all saw me then, but I started to run and I run all the way home.

I was covered in dirt and sweat by the time I got there. My dress was halftorn and my arms and legs scratched all over from the creepers and thewire. I couldn’t see on account of the salty tears that filled my eyes withtheir sting. I told Mamma what I seen. When I got to the part about theWichega, she cried and May Alice cried with her. We all cried.

May Alice didn’t know what was done couldn’t be undone. ‘Ain’tdaddy comin’ back some day?’ she whispered after Mamma told us togo to bed. She got real scared when they knocked at the door that night.I put the pillow over my head so’s not to hear the bad news from nouniform. I knew daddy never would come home. So did Mamma. Shenever did stop her crying.

We never was the same and didn’t even try. I thought about it, I thoughtabout it a lot. Seems to me that folks take their own road, never mindthe promises they make, or the words you throw in their way. That hotsummer evening, when the whole world was turning slower than hecould bear, daddy got dragged down into the deep dark water.

Feels like he took us with him.

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Jack Messenger’s writing is about character,memory and experience. It experiments withnarrative voice and restrictions of time and space.The basis of Wichega is an autobiographicalfragment, elaborated into a Southern Gothic tale ofinnocence and guilt. His novel The Long VoyageHome is set on a passenger freighter in 1935. Bothstories focus on marginalized persons whose livescontain secrets, visions and revelations.

If Now I am an Apple

If now I am an appleCome to autumn shiny red

Reach up and pick me downNosing oak cider sweetnessPolishing cricket ball blush on your thigh

BiteCrackTeeth tearing cream fleshHard to the core

do it now! or never…

Lest abandoned I fall to festerWeeping in the sod turned ground.

34

TWO POEMSRhiannon Jenkins Tsang

Catch Me

you are not there to catch me as I fallyou never wereNever will be

And I, hunched, sack cloth greyGlean harvest husks Gnawing, on the crust of the day

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NEVER

Rhiannon Jenkins Tsang is the author of The WomanWho Lost China, published in 2013. Her poem, Oxfordis a Port, won the 2014 Melbourne Poetry Festivaland she is a former runner-up in the Woman andHome Short Story Competition. She has had workbroadcast on BBC Radio and is a contributor to theliterary journal Asian Cha. She is currently workingon her next two novels, and is looking for an agentto represent her. www.rhiannonjenkinstsang.com

Never.Such a fatal word. So determined. I’ll never. He’ll never. She’ll never.But really, how can you know? unless it’s in reference to death.

death is equally as final as the idea of never. Kind of.Wendy remembers a quote from a book, “Never name that well from

which you will not drink.” using never in that context contains its ownironies. But the point, the idea, is a realistic one. How can you say neverand mean it? or rather, how can you say it with the limitless possibilitiesof life spread before you in a kind of web-like four dimensionallandscape? you may say you’ll never eat chocolate covered insects, andmaybe you won’t. But if you’re in a new land, where you don’t want tobe rude, where you’re desperately trying to do something new,something daring, something so distant from your old life…then ‘never’no longer applies. It was a lie.

These are Wendy’s thoughts as the bus trundles and bounces its wayalong the heavily rutted dirt track. Rock-slide peril on one side, certaindeath via a long drop on the other. dust clogs the heavy, sweat-sweet airof the overcrowded vehicle and she breathes in deeply, enjoying the tangof pine under the grit of dirt, in a country she never thought she’d visit.Learning a language she never thought she’d need. Surrounded bypeople she never thought she’d have anything in common with.

Never. A lie told in honest earnestness, in an attempt to show thatshe knew the comfortable contours of her well-trodden life. The bus hits

36

CHERRIES FROM GRANDMA GODVictoria Villasenor

a pot-hole, bounces, skids. The tires make that sucking air noise like herbitter grandmother used to make, then catch once more on the road.Wendy is thrown against the older-than-God woman, maybe God’sgrandmother, sitting next to her, who simply nods and gives her a widetoothless smile, as though this is the grand highlight of her existence.

Grandma God says something in croaking Spanish, but Wendy canonly reply with her standard, lo siento. I’m sorry. A phrase so much a partof her life it may as well be tattooed in neon on her forehead to keep herfrom having to say it. But Grandma God just lets out a laugh that remindsWendy of the bark peeling from a tree in the wind, and opens a bag ofmassive ripe cherries on her lap. Grandma God gestures with it, pushesit toward her. Wendy tries to politely decline, but Grandma God takes herhand and jams it into the bag. She laughs softly and pulls out twocherries, thanking her in white-woman Spanish. Grandma God pops acherry into her own mouth and cackles like a child with chocolate. Shegums it, looking for all the world like she’s just eaten the lottery.

Wendy puts a cherry into her own mouth, bites down, is surprisedby the amount of sweet juice that pops from the delicate skin, by theway it infuses her senses. Grandma God laughs again, pats her hand,closes her eyes and continues sucking contentedly on her cherries.Wendy never thought she’d be sharing marvellous cherries withChronos’s mother on her way to a Costa Rican rainforest. She neverthought a lot of things. She never did a lot of things.

She thinks: for instance, when you say ‘I do’, never is implied, isn’t it?you’ll never leave, never give in, never go away. Never be with anyoneelse. you spin it in more positive syntax, with prettier words and theemotions deemed appropriate by Hallmark. But the bottom line is thatyou promise that kind of never.

Not the kind of never that says, I’ll never see you again. I’ll neverexperience that… thing… with you again. That’s the part of never youdon’t pay attention to. That’s the part of never you hope never to see,never to experience. And even that hope is buried deep, a nagging,

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niggling sensation only when things start to upend and you think, surely,never…

And so, you use the lie of never, and you ignore the impossibility ofnever, of never knowing what will happen when you travel through thespace-time continuum that is human existence. you mean your words atthe time, of course. you mean every one of them. And you mean themwith the next person, when you say the same never-promises you saidbefore. But that never didn’t count, because you didn’t know, then. Now,you can say never for sure.

Plenty of people say it with tiny gremlin-like doubts crawling uptheir spines even at the altar, but they ignore it. They use never, forever,and leap forward. over the years, I’ll never leave you becomes I’ll neverhurt you becomes I’d never cheat on you becomes I’ll never get over thisbecomes I’ll never get away becomes I’ll never get out becomes I’ll neverbe okay…

Wendy’s attention jerks back to the moment as the bus arrives attheir destination. Crowds of tourists meander around the base area,waiting for the courage that must surely be just below the surface, if theycan only scrape the fingertips of their willpower against it. The busrumbles to a stop and Grandma God pats Wendy’s cheek with a gnarledhand. She motions to the bag, motions outside and slowly makes herway from the bus, laughing and smiling all the way down the aisle. othernatives greet Grandma God with a Spanish word Wendy recognizes as‘grandmother’, and she wonders for a moment if, in fact, she could bethe original Eve, the mother of all humanoid species on the planet.Grandma God Eve, selling cherries to tourists.

Wendy gathers her backpack, double-checks that she hasn’t left anyof her meagre belongings behind and leaves the nearly empty bus.Without Grandma God on board, the bus feels devoid of air, of life. Shehurries off, needing to leave it behind. Like everything else.

The heavy tropical forest air hits her the moment she’s off, and shetakes in a lungful. She sucks in the drenched wet-earth smell, the green

taste of the canopy rolls on her tongue, she feels the songs of wild,rainbow-coloured birds slide over her skin, and she thinks, never. I neverthought I’d see, feel, this.

She makes her way to the main check-in, gives her name, tradessmall-talk pleasantries in stilted Spanglish, and heads toward the ‘go’point, which she can’t see because it’s down a narrow dirt path throughthe trees. Wendy thinks of Snow White, of the other various princesseswhose names escape her, who have met their fates in woods. But thosewere dark woods. Places they were forced to go because something,someone, was chasing them. No one is chasing her. No one is lookingfor her. These woods she’s entering of her own free will, though she neverthought she would.

Wendy sets off, smiles at Grandma God Eve selling her cherries totourists, and suddenly feels grateful, feels special, that she got some ofthose robust little fruits for free. Eve, indeed. Maybe there was somethingspecial in them, some magic that would manifest itself over time. It wasa hell of a lot better than any poisoned apple, anyway. She eats a cherryand sets off down the path, alone. Fairy tales are full of nevers.Fortunately, life was far from one of those.

dappled sunlight filters through the dense tree tops, throwingstrong, straight patterns across one another, over the ground. Somethings in shadow, some in light. She stops at the grouping of people atthe end of the trail. A shiver of fear, of never-in-a-million-years, shootsthrough her, from her stomach to her toes, making her various partsclench and her toes dig into her shoes as though to anchor her to thesoft dark chocolate brown of the earth below her.

The metal zipline glints in the hazy sunlight, thick and strong butsurely too thin to support human bodies whizzing through the tree topsalong it. It disappears from sight as it clears the canyon and river andbecomes part of the tree tops once again. Wendy watches as a man isstrapped into the harness thing, the thick straps that run between hislegs and around his waist offsetting his bottom like a sporty picture

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frame. He slides on the gloves, stands still as they hook the cables fromhis harness to the zip line, and he when he’s ready, he steps off the edgewith an excited yowl, trusting that his weight won’t be too much for thecable suspended high over the canyon.

When.Another good word. A word in opposition to never. If never was a

door with broken hinges and a bent frame, when was a doorway withno door. When I step off that ledge, when I let a stranger strap me in,when I, too, trust that my body won’t fall into the rapids below, that’swhen I’ll be free. That’s when I’ll know never doesn’t matter anymore.

She takes a deep breath, nods to confirm to herself that when isbetter than never, and catches the eye of the man tasked with strappingstrangers into harnesses. He grins and motions her forward.

His hands are gentle and expert. He turns her this way and that, andshe feels him moving quickly around her thighs and waist. She’s anobject, a job. She’s okay with that. She slides on the well-worn khakigloves, stiff with the sweat of hundreds of hands gripping the metalhandle that gave them some little shred of something to hold onto asthey hurled themselves off a safe ledge and into the air. He does onemore check, says, “ready” in heavily accented English and motions her tothe edge.

When.Wendy breathes in the mist from the rapids below. When I do this,

my life is about when, not never. When I left. When I got on a plane. WhenI travelled to a country I’d never been to, when I didn’t know a soul for sixthousand miles. When I decided to spend three hours travelling throughthe treetops of a forest instead of reading a book with a cup of tea.

She straightens her shoulders. She grips the handle too tightly.When.When you’re flying through the air, slicing it with your body, with

no protective layers surrounding you and giving you the impression ofsafety. When it’s your body, the straps that hold it, the wire it’s attached

to, your centre of gravity positioned so your legs are out as though you’rereclining. The wind is whistling in your ears, making your eyes water. Thesun beats down on you, and suddenly…

Never.Wendy never thought she’d be this person. This person surprised

by the treetops beneath her feet, and then next to her face. A few tangyleaves brush her shoulders as she passes them by. She’d taken the firststep… No, not the first.

The first was miles and landmasses ago, a never-never land full ofnevers. This was another step in many she would take from now on. Notif. Not never. But when.

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Victoria Villasenor is a full-time development editorfor LGBTQ publisher Bold Strokes Books in New york,and she also runs the social enterprise Global Words,based in Nottingham. She and her partner are oftenoff gallivanting around Europe, when she isn’tchained to her desk working. www.victoria-oldham.co.uk

It is mostly quiet here in this Manhattan apartment, just around thecorner from Central Park. Twice a day she comes. She scrapes the key inthe lock and her rubber soles squeak a little on the bathroom floor. Twominutes to wash her hands and she will be here. My room is always thefirst. She lifts the dressings and I see her superannuated face peeringdown. usually a grunt, two white tablets and a rinse with a glass of waterto encourage me to swallow them down. I think she’s Mexican, or speaksSpanish at least. The hem of the back of her short white uniform is losingits slovenly grip. I never dreamed I’d be doing this. But here I am,recovering from inviting a stranger to slice right through my eyelids thento stitch them tighter. I have trusted a man I’ve met once to melt thependulous fat beneath each eye to make me look glad to be alive. Howdid this become my life?

* * *I never thought of myself as vain. Even in primary school I’d watched theothers filing into assembly and my mind would compare; who also wasthicker in the ankle, had ears that stuck out, wonky teeth? ‘They give youpersonality,’ dismissed my mother, as if teeth could captivate a room, ina good way. I flowered, brief as a Christmas cactus, in my twenties, whenI was with the rich and interesting men as a matter of course. Thensuddenly, nothing, until him.

And he was too good to be true as I lifted the dustsheets frommy heart and fell headlong from my life on the shelf and into his

42

ALMOND EYESCatherine Brookes

kitchen. Too soon, it was ‘I don’t know if I do want to have children withyou any more’—a light comment thrown to my thirty-eight-year-oldback as I loaded the dishwasher, bought with my own salary. ‘It’s foryour own good,’ he would say to disguise the delight he took inprovoking my tears late at night. ‘I’m only telling you because I love you.’He jabbed his finger at me. ‘You need to know when you are irritatingpeople. Being attention-seeking. Looking blousy. With no makeup youcould at least be wholesome, not some painted harpy with sharp, rednails.’

In the fourth year, just once, I did not listen in modest silence. I stoodup for myself and talked back. ‘you only hurt me because it is you whoare weak’. My words hung between us on the cream carpeted stairs. Itwas already 2 a.m., and I had work in five hours. For a moment he paused,almost with regret, but then he lifted his fist.

I left. ‘you’re better without him,’ my friend urged as we went onevening strolls round the Heath before I returned to my new basementroom alone. ‘With him, well it’s like you weren’t there anymore. I don’tknow, it was like you’d turned into someone else. A bit, Stepford wives.you even stopped painting your nails.’

I looked down, my nails now brightly pink, my hands moving swiftlyin counterpoint to my speech. ‘It’s just, I thought I was becoming real,you know, with a man, babies, leaving my parents behind, the past. Butit’s all just messy genetic soup. Maybe the therapy will help.’

Week after week of therapy did release me, just not in the way Iexpected. I understood that ugly feelings would hang themselves on anyconvenient feature of my anatomy, not because I was ugly but becauseI did not feel beautiful inside. And if I am no longer as ugly as I feel, whynot simply erase the things that bothered me? Create transatlantic teeth.Shout ‘begone’ to those drooping ledges that appeared and grew looserbeneath my eyes each time I cried or slept poorly; in effect, every daynow. Hence this secret enterprise, submitting to a top u.S. plasticsurgeon’s art.

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According to the internet, his pedigree was impeccable and hehad a method of working that avoided full anaesthetic and cuts. Themisplaced fat could just be burned away; a precise cosmeticbarbeque and within a week everything would be back to better thannormal had been for years. He was even available for consultationsin London.

In the Savoy Hotel, up in a fourth floor bedroom overlooking theThames, he twisted my chin towards the light and stared intently.‘Humph. Everything else is oK, pretty good in fact. But you’re right. Weneed to melt the fat and tighten up those ocular orbs! I suggest we liftup the lids while we’re in there. That should give you another fifteenyears.’

I tried not to notice the sprout of hair curling from his nostril. Helooked different from his headshot on the web site. I thought there mightbe books to point at; even paint charts help you choose and you can atleast paint over a mistake, but there was just him and his expertise.

‘How will I know what I’ll look like?’’‘oh—just like you were fifteen years ago, I reckon. Although, I do

like to think there is a little artistry in my science. Talk to Jaclyn; she’s agood example. She’ll explain the package. It’ll give you another fifteenyears!’

I could tell I was dismissed. Jaclyn walked me through to theadjacent suite as he greeted his next arrival, I thought, with a touchmore enthusiasm than he had shown to me. Perhaps she was spendingmore. The price did turn out to be in pounds not dollars, which was ashock.

‘But it is all-inclusive,’ drawled Jaclyn. ‘you’ll stay in a supervisedapartment on Central Park and the nurse will see you twice a day.’ Shewas beautifully dressed in crisp linen, whilst I was hot with sweat. Hereyes were lovely too. Smoothed outwards, you’d call them almond-shaped, blue and calm and for her, no undulating wrinkles, whisperingof lost sleep.

I felt a little queasy. Trust. A cheque. Fifteen years erased.‘Will it hurt?’ was my last question.‘of course not. you won’t even know what’s going on. We’ll sedate

you. It takes half an hour, you’ll rest and then you’ll wake up back in theapartment to your new life. We can even fit you in over the Easter break.That’s what I call a really Good Friday. Sign here.’

* * *So here I am, sitting high against the pillows in my bed, waiting for themorning nurse as if nothing has happened. This is the third day of mynew life, the Easter Sunday, when I rise up from the dead, especially nowthe sedation, a timeless dream existence, has let me go. during theoperation itself, I could see myself slumping in the chair as the surgeonpulled the curtains round us. I could smell the sizzling fat on thediathermy, but I could not move. Was this how it was supposed to be orwas this what merits claims for compensation? I could hear the nurseslaughing. For many hours, I lay back in a forest of curtained booths,listening to the murmurs and groans of others passing among us like abreeze. one woman called out a hollow chant ‘No, no, no,’ with suchregularity that it became almost soothing.

A nurse tried to shut her up. ‘Stop it—you’ll disturb the others, yousilly bitch,’ she hissed. It worked for a minute, or it could have been an hour.

Now the morning nurse leads me by the arm to sit carefully in theliving room. By moving my head in a stately circle, I can see two othertousled victims; white bandages hiding work.

‘Hello,’ I say, speaking towards the woman on my left.Heather turns out to be a housewife who has been lucky in the

property market, thanks to a couple of male sponsors, she hints. ‘Now Ijust want to look lovely for my poochy darling oscar woof woof – Icouldn’t bring him. I’m only here to have my chin balanced out from lasttime. He’d better not charge me again.’

I hadn’t given any thought to things going wrong. Risk-taking is somuch easier when the bet is one way: success or nothing. Now I see that’s

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not even a risk. ‘He made a mistake and you came back?’ I can’t helpmyself blurting.

‘Mistake. Bloody hell,’ says a third voice, with a Liverpudliantwang. A tall, slim bundle walks stiffly out and locks herself in thebathroom accompanied with gentle sobs that penetrate the doorwith ease.

‘Ignore her,’ says Heather with the wisdom and low expectations ofa woman over sixty. ‘She’s only young. I’ll bet it’s not even her first go.She’ll never be satisfied. There’s always one like her. I think he gives themreduced prices. you’ll be fine. I can see from here, there’s not muchscarring.’

Now I am in too deep—I have to trust.I fall into a doze only to lurch awake to pictures on the TV screen.

There, more vulnerable and older than I had thought him whencarefully suited in the Savoy Hotel; there walking into a Manhattancourt, is my surgeon. ‘... multiple complaints, but this was particularlyserious and has led to a High Court hearing,’ droned the East Coastvoice. I can take in no more as I see him blinking into camera flasheson the dull street, flanked by two women. one is Jaclyn, his newassistant, the other, the newscaster says, is his ex-wife. Both have onestriking thing in common; both have the most perfect almond eyes.

I drag myself to the bathroom and peel back the tape coveringthe mirror. I came here, a single, modern woman longing to shape myown identity and shrug off the past. I didn’t want to look more like mybloodhound father with each passing year. I longed to rise with a freshface from my failed marriage. I look in the mirror. I see my future in mynew face—and I gasp in horror. Huge black stitching, regular, yet stillwith something of the Frankenstein about it fringes my eyelids likefake lashes. It looks as if someone had applied purple and black eye-shadow to the sockets of my eyes while I slept. Staring out of my faceare someone else’s eyes, but I am not a stranger. It is an artful mix: stilla hint of my mother’s eyes, deep-set in disappointment, but although

still slightly swollen, my new eyes are also the unmistakable, smoothshape of almonds.

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Catherine Haines has published scholarly articlesand a textbook on student writing. She completedan MA in Creative Writing at NTu in 1999. Writing asCatherine Brookes, she has been longlisted byMslexia and Good Housekeeping for two novels:Starling’s Bequest, about the taxidermist whoexhibited the largest bull-elephant ever stuffed andHavana Honeymoon, about a course for would-beromantic writers and salsa dancers.

Stories at heart are about exploring the possible: the roadnot taken, the ‘what-if’… what might happen someday,or in our wildest dreams. In this volume we challengedwriters to break free of this paradigm and shun thepossible or ought-to-be in favour of the never-will andbetter-left-forgotten. Instead of tales of what shouldhappen, we asked for ones exploring what shouldn't.

Founded in 2006, Nottingham Writers’ Studio is run bywriters for writers, and is dedicated to the support anddevelopment of all forms of creative writing.

As well as creating a vibrant social community forwriters to discuss and develop their work through courses,writing groups and live literature events, NWS haschampioned major writing events, including WEyA2013,the Eu-funded dovetail Project, and Nottingham Festivalof Words, Nottingham’s first city-wide literature festival forover thirty years. We are proud to support NottinghamCity of Literature.

Membership is open to committed writers who havebeen or are on the verge of being published, living in orconnected with Nottingham. Current members includenovelists, poets, songwriters, scriptwriters, copywriters,playwrights and publishers at all stages of their careers.our patron is 2012 International IMPAC dublin Awardwinner Jon McGregor.

NWS is supported by Arts Council Englandthrough Grants for the Arts.

www.nottinghamwritersstudio.co.uk

Never: the Nottingham Writers' Studio Journal April 2015

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Transcript of Never: the Nottingham Writers' Studio Journal April 2015