Tag new fiction

Grand National murmurs

Laurel Lindström 1 Comment

The trainer. “Just keep him up there, don’t push him, just let him find his pace.” Michael nodded at the trainer, certain that this horse could do more, would do more. But he didn’t argue and the trainer watched the boy’s expression, implacable and inscrutable. Focused. Tightly wound. Joe Black legged him up into the saddle, nodded to the owners. Holding on tight as the horse pulled forwards, a surging power barely contained. The trainer lead him and his jockey once around the paddock, his sixty year old arms iron stiff and hard, feeling the animal’s breath wet and warm and floating in the early spring air. The owners were watching, their faces flat and unemotional, their anxiety lying deep inside as they murmured to each other. “Is he really ready? Can that boy really hold him, keep him on his feet for all those miles and fences?” They barely heard one another as they leant in closer. They watched as their trainer led Our Jimmy out of the paddock and dropped his hold. They watched as Michael rose up in his stirrups and jumped off and out onto the course, the noise of the crowds fading as the rumble of hooves on turf rose up.

Joe Black can see that both horse and jockey could be going places, bar unplanned mishaps. The horse is truly something special, but so too is that youngster. All wire and sinew and spots and attitude, he struggles to keep in check. A little tall perhaps, but discipline like you rarely see. And awareness. As for that seven year old, he’s got scope and intent to spare, that open easy stride, that powerful backside you could see fighting for more as Michael worked to hold him, keeping the steady canter in an unchanging line down to the first. Waiting there letting his horse get the measure of what was coming. Sitting there motionless, hands low, head slightly bowed, silks bright, his voice a low murmur that only Our Jimmy hears as his ears swivel back and forth. The youngest horse in the race. The youngest jockey in the race. A Grand National virgin. Joe watched as they hack cantered back up the course to the start. Shined streaks of aluminium cut sharp and precise into the turf. Good to firm. Perfect. They turn black dirt to the sky, slivers and divots arcing high, shining bright in the sun. Angels or demons, portends rising up and falling in the chilly April air. Speed and power he thought, speed and power, and a youngster who will be more than the average jockey.

The jockey. I nod at the trainer as he’s telling me how to ride this race. I try not to murmur under my breath that he doesn’t need to tell me. It’s ok, I know what I should be doing, just as I know that this big beast of a seven year old can do much more than he’s shown. I’m glad I can make the weight with room to spare. Maybe it would be better if I were a bit heavier, then the weight would be working instead of dead and useless in the weight pad. The sounds of the paddock a humming noise I cannot hear, I hear only the sound of horses as their riders steer them out of the paddock and onto the course. We’re on our way now, and I must hold onto everything the old man said. Keep him steady on that first canter. Hold him at that pace, take it slow so he can see what’s going on around him. Take it all in. Jesus this horse has some power. Lean back a tad, keep his mind on the job, calm, don’t just hang onto him. Don’t fight. It’s the two of us together. He’s hearing me as I murmur steady, steady and now he’s taking a gentler pull, finding his rhythm, hearing me. Every stride is surging forwards against my body, my hands, my weight. Barely contained, that half a tonne of muscle, bone and attitude pounding forwards. He’s still young but this horse knows the game. “Steady lad, steady… we’ll get there soon enough” and he hears me even though it’s barely a whisper. Those sleek birch grey ears swivel back momentarily, that steady snort of steamy breath matches an even stride. I just know how his eyes are shining, the bugger. Can’t help but smile and love that perfect rhythm.

In slow motion and quiet, the two of them stop in shared silence between the greens below and the blues above. Together they stare at the four and a half foot obstacle, suspension, stillness, a time and motion hiatus. They turn back striding lean and sleek and fluid, towards the start. They are ready.

The horse. Sunshine warm on my back; the scent of crushed grass rising. I am warm, blood and heart surging faster. My ears find the murmur, the sound I need. My skin taut and strong over my frame, my muscles pressing hard. I know why I am here. I know what they want. I know the fear and the thrill and I set my head against the pull. We are slowing and the stink of dirt and sweat are in my nostrils and we’re stopped at a fence I know I can clear. It beckons and calls again as we turn and hack canter back up the track. It beckons and calls as we turn to face it once again. I am ready.

The race. A messy start with too many aborted attempts, the starter raising and lowering his gun as horses go into reverse and keyed up jockeys jostle for position. The horses who know what’s coming are getting wound up. And the ones who don’t pick up the anxiety and the stress. Everyone’s on edge except some are just behind it, taking up space, saving energy, focused and in their own zone. The starter raises his gun one more time. They’re at the tape and Michael’s got Our Jimmy perfectly placed. He’s well back, taking the gamble that keeping the horse out of harm’s way is a better way to ride the race than getting stuck in. It’s what Joe told him; he knows, the horse knows. There’s an intangible unspoken game plan. Michael sees the gleaming rumps and swishing tails, quarter marks neatly brushed into their coats to enhance the muscles. And then the tape is down, quivers and lifts and they’re off, jockeys crouched and low for maximum balance and heading for the first fence. At the back Michael passes a horse planted on the turf and refusing to move, his frantic jockey trying to urge the gelding forwards, conscious of the stewards watching. Our Jimmy pays no heed and Michael can feel the half tonne of muscle, bone and sinew pulling hard against his straining shoulders. He leans back a little, points his toes and sits down into the saddle as Our Jimmy rises up, following a perfect curve and already looking for his landing point. As the emerald shades start leveling out, Michael shifts his weight slightly to ease the horse into a half speed gallop towards the next fence. Our Jimmy is travelling well, they’ve hit a rhythm and Michael is calm. He inhabits a space in the excitement a space where there is something serene and still, something empty he can fill with the murmur of their shared hearts.

A Murder

Laurel Lindström 2 Comments

It happened in dense fog and as the day faded to dusk people had passed the corpse a load of times without realising it. She was slumped in a toilet cubicle, her chin resting on her chest, her hands folded on her lap and her backside halfway down the lav. She looked like a woman pondering her next manicure, the head slightly to one side, the eyelids down. When the cleaner found her there she thought the woman was drunk and kicked at her snazzy Salomon ski boot. The kick was just hard enough that the woman’s hand slid from her lap. The open palm showed strange bruising and scuffed up skin; it had bled slightly but her open palm was bleeding no longer. A corpse. The horrified cleaner, equally horrified by her recent kick, took a moment to understand what she was looking at. Her hand at her mouth, she did not scream and uttered only a low subdued call to her co-worker to come. Come quietly. Now.

Outside in the darkness Deek was waiting for the last train down to Wengen. He was pondering what the hotel would have on the buffet tonight, knowing that it would be mostly the same as last night. He took comfort in the thought that the main course would not be the same and that he had a half a bottle of red waiting to have with it. These small things he held on to, these little details. He took comfort in the reliable knowledge that his co-diners would nod politely and with enquiring eyes hope that he might return their proffered banalities. The banalities confirmed that nothing had changed since yesterday and that their holiday would continue on its anticipated path. The repetitions gave them comfort and ensured that no meaningful or relevant conversations would happen. Such were Deek’s expectations for dinnertime.

But the train was not boarding and through the fog and the dark Deek could see the shadows of a stretcher and two people emerge from the emergency station. They were crossing the tracks and moving carefully in the direction of the toilet complex. It was hard to tell through the fog and the darkness but Deek could hear the crackle and fizz of an old style walkie talkie. He could also see the train driver and the ticket lady’s stricken expressions as they moved amongst the travellers, explaining with pale faces and unsteady voices that there would be a delay. Deek moved towards the back of the group, and then moved behind a pallet laden with recycling. Most of the waiting people were getting tetchy, mumbling their annoyance at the fog that had prevented that glorious final run from Kleine Scheidegg down to the village. Most assumed that the fog was somehow responsible for this added annoyance. The predictable mutterings from the priviledged English: “So much for Swiss efficiency…they’ll be hearing about this” and the like. Deek smiled a small smile as he watched their discomfort.

The train driver and the ticket lady were inviting people into the restaurant. It was no longer serving, but they could wait there out of the cold. When everyone but Deek was in the restaurant the train driver and the ticket lady shut the door and positioned themselves in front of it, sharing nervous and uncertain glances. All this Deek watched unseen as he slowly moved towards the toilet block. He watched the shadowy outlines of the porters and their gurney as they pushed through the door sending light cascading across the fog and the dark. Deek pulled back a little further into the shadows. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, reassured that what he expected to find was still there and still safely hidden. 

The Last But One

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

What matters more than the last time is the one before that, the one where you didn’t know if it would be the last time or not. When you know it’s the last time, whatever you’re experiencing is overwhelmed with wistful wishes for what’s passing and sorrow that we won’t come this way again. At least that’s how it is for something lovely, not the dentist or spending time with relatives you know despise you. Memory shows you the last but one time, those moments of transition. Memory shows you the remote collapse of experiences that happened huge distances away in time or space. It rarely shows you the last but one times.

This is a bit sad because most last but one things are moments of immense satisfaction. Getting the last but one seat on the bus or train is gratifying because you have a seat without feeling bad that it’s the last one and someone else will have to stand. You can settle down and take comfort from the last empty seat being there waiting for whoever needs it. Sweets and cakes, and actually anything on a buffet, are in a similar class. And there’s the added excitement of knowing that you haven’t been so greedy as to scarf up the last remnants. As you enjoy the last but one slab of pound cake, you can rightly bask in the holy glow of abstinence, and let someone else have the last slice.

Abstinence isn’t really my thing, but it’s clear that weight and its attendant worries is the plague of our times. Considering the numbers after weighing oneself is another thing best experienced as a last but one moment. No matter what direction the weight’s going in, it’s always preferable to focus on the last but one values. Those are the way markers to whatever the goal weight is. Facing the ugly reality of here and now reality of an unwanted high or low weight is too exhausting. Much more pleasant is to ruminate on the last but one weight, to consider it as more representative. Better to treat the last and current numbers as temporary glitches, not scary harbingers of an unanticipated heart attack and trip to hospital.

If you do happen to wind up in hospital, festooned with a burble of plastic tubing and pinned in place with too tight sheets, you might find yourself in the last but one bed. Medical dramas aside, being in the last but one bed is reason for hope and a source of comfort. It means that the hospital isn’t full and running in perpetual catch-up mode. It means therefore that staff levels are higher than they need to be. In a last but one bed scenario, the ratio of staff to patients is too optimistic. Everyone in bed gets the attention they need and everyone out of bed is keen and able to deliver whatever it is the bedridden need. Sadly it rarely works out this way because patients don’t read the right scripts when it comes to what happens in a hospital. But if you do find yourself in the last but one bed, enjoy the extra attention you’re supposed to be getting and indulge yourself with a few doses of smug. You may need to get the staff’s attention for this.

Parents of young children will be familiar with the smug thing if they have managed to snaggle the last but one nursery place. A sense of victory against the odds and the competition will elevate this smugness to thoroughly obnoxious levels, so caution is advised. Avoid steering conversations with friends, relatives and neighbours to chats about your victory. Don’t try to do sincere relief or cod humility because no one will buy it. Snagging the last but one spot doesn’t absolve you from the diligent but likely devious conduct you have used to get it. But the experience will stand you in good stead because nursery is only the first step. Additional more muscular skills are required for primary schools, junior and senior schools and college. Securing the last but one or even places first to the last but one, requires determined and focused effort maintained over many years. Sustained exertion of this kind is exhausting, not to say debilitating. One is vulnerable to something that looks like the opposite of imposter syndrome. If it exists it’s the syndrome where you are the victim of someone else’s ambition, even if the ambition is yours and not your child’s. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is the jolly companion to this condition.

The realisation of parental ambition takes a terrible toll on health, personal ambition, goals and relationships, especially relationships with your partner who may suddenly become unrecognisable. Thrill as you will to capture that last but one place, but beware a lonely afterglow wherein you’re lost in a fog of the past. You might be weirdly reminded of lovers long since lost. They won’t be the most recent because that would be too raw, too close, too dangerous for the fragile status quo. No, you’ll pine for the last but one because that person is safely history, remote and unreachable. (If they are reachable maybe they aren’t so last but one after all.) You might reminisce over the flowers and poems they gave you, or the cigarettes you shared and the dances you never had. Enjoy the memories but don’t keep them in the last but one cupboard for future reference.

Enjoy and then discard them and remember instead the joys of the last but one sheet of loo paper in a public toilet, the last but one bottle of booze in the shop (take them both) or the last but one of any foodstuffs on shelf or table. All of these remind us of the joys yet to come: empty pots, bottles and packets, additions to the recycling, the shopping list and shopping bags. The joy of unpacking the last but one present, of getting the last but one parking space or pairs of shoes in your size (see booze above). Lost in the dross of reliable habit, cosy and predictable, do such small pleasures emerge.

And remember that the last but one paragraph in a blog is always the best.

The Sheep and the Grey Horse part 8 ­– When Naresh and Neena came for tea (2/2)

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

The scene is still roughly the same, but it’s slightly more complicated. Some of the players are in the kitchen, while others are still down near the field. With all the commotion, the sheep and the Grey Horse are befuddled and feeling slightly tired. There are still many moving parts, but our focus must shift. We still have the sheep and the Grey Horse; the marooned car is still marooned and so is the Caterpillar tractor; the important visitors are also marooned, stuck on a busy road hoping to reach their lunch date and that the posh rented BMW recovers from its flat tyre. We also have a recovery vehicle and an additional tractor in the picture. Their drivers are wishing they’d stayed in bed this morning, with cups of tea and a cat purring on their laps. Watching the scene and the fascinating snake flying through the air had proved alarming for the sheep and the Grey Horse, but there was to be no respite to the day’s dramas. A loud rumbling and a shaking of the ground was making their hooves tremble and the rumbling was getting closer and the trembling more violent. The Grey Horse’s head was shaking convulsively and the farmer’s wife and child plus the brother-in-law and his wife were still standing in shock waiting for the farmer to come back. The people in the kitchen watched a huge blue beast of a tractor, its roof barely making it under the overhanging trees, as it headed down to the field. No one could resist following it. She had called the AA in readiness for the call from Naresh and Neena. The AA had said that the rented BMW would have special run-flat tyres, and advised that they drive to meet the AA man at their destination, preferably in time for lunch. This they had reluctantly agreed to do, so they were now wending a slow and cautious way towards said lunch. The big blue tractor was of a seriously modern variety, laden with features, levers, lights and switches, air conditioning and a heated seat. Driving it effectively would be tricksy so how would this beast be persuaded to drag not one, but two heavy vehicles stuck in the mud? The farmer and the man were in conversation with the brother-in-law who was standing patting the Grey Horse and trying to explain that it had been twenty years since, as a farmer himself, he had driven a tractor. Technology changes he kept saying. It’s the same basic thing the farmer and the handsome man were saying back. The sheep was on the wrong side of the Grey Horse and alarmed at the patting and at a conversation he could not really follow. He leaned into the Grey Horse for comfort and the Grey Horse leaned into the brother-in-law for more pats. The Grey Horse was starting to calm down to the point where the whole chaotic morning now early afternoon, was becoming quite pleasant. It might have been the gentle absent minded patting that was so soothing. But the Grey Horse could feel some growing tension in the pats and an increasing strain in the brother-in-law’s voice. And just as the Grey Horse’s head started nodding up and down again, the hand was gone and the brother-in-law and the man were deep in a new conversation beside the giant tractor. Now the brother-in-law is clambering up the little ladder into the cockpit of the beast. The farmer is back up on his Cat linked once more with a new cable to the car, where the man is also back in place. Wisely the man had reversed the car a little, so that the bumper was out from beneath its grassy enhancement, the new cable fully horizontal and properly taut. The beast of a tractor is revving up and being reversed into the field, very, very slowly and the brother-in-law’s mouth is pursed up tight and he is peering over his glasses at the many dials and lights in front of him. His hands clutch the steering wheel with grim determination and he glances constantly from side to side to where the wing mirrors have been carefully adjusted using fortuitously discovered electronic controls. It might have been more luck that located the more serious controls, especially the creep gear: max power and min speed. He manages to get the tractor in position and jumps down to check the cable connections. He waves away the audience and scares the sheep and the Grey Horse into a corner of the yard. Back in his cockpit the brother-in-law goes through a final few revvings and reversings. He puts the monster into its creeper gear, trusting that the engine, the transmission system, the drive train, the torque and his driving would be up to dragging this massive load. The thumping tuba roar of hundreds of horse powers was deafening. The continued and complex tangles of smoke and noise were starting to develop their own personalities, bellowing across the greying skies in noisy danger-laden arguments. As the cables tightened the people and the beasts drew back even further into themselves as wide-eyed they watched and waited, numb beneath the roar. The huge black and chevroned rear tractor wheels slowly turned, their gleaming black picking up dirt as they gripped tight into the shallow mud at the edge of the field. The cables twisted and glinted in the sallow sunlight and imperceptibly first the Cat and then the car were moving. The brother-in-law crept up the tractor’s power and in a moment of terrible energy which all saw and he felt, the front wheels rose and bounced up and down as the huge weight of the load and the clinging earth fought against the tractor’s immense and resolute strength. Agonies of moments ticktocked in the grubby air as the brother-in-law pushed harder and harder for the revs, a stink of diesel fumes clouding around his windows obscuring his rear view. The blue beast moved forwards in microns and then millimetres and then, like ice slowly creeping across a deep pond, it started to reach inexorably forwards. And down deep in the field many wheels were rolling at random as the vast power of the tractor hauled its load through the embracing mud. Already wide and deep trenches grew wider and deeper until gradually the towed vehicles started very slowly to rise up and out of their cosy ditches. As the tractor crept forward the two vehicles followed, skewing sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right wrenching at the earth. And breathless the watching people saw that this awesome power chain was working. Now under control, all of the tractor wheels remained on the ground and the cables stayed straight, strung out, taut and gleaming. The sheep and the Grey Horse were losing interest and waiting for it all to be over. But as the tractor hauled forwards the brother-in-law found his way blocked by a very smart and shining BMW. It was creeping down the drive towards him, with a recovery vehicle close on its elegant and immaculate beemer heels.  Reverse was not much of a challenge for the recovery truck guy, but for the driver of the BMW it was extremely confusing to have to steer and go backwards at the same time. He appeared not to understand that going backwards in the same direction as going forwards requires no steering. It took some few minutes for the steerings to the left and to the right to eventually cancel each other out, so that the BMW could go forwards again to get out of the way of the oncoming tractor and the Cat. Their way cleared, the tractor continued straight ahead and the Cat with the farmer, his wife and their child on board, soon followed. Eventually the car was also finally on the driveway and ready to drive to the station. In place of the distant memory that was the original objective, was a sense of time restarting, of a surreal reality distortion coming to a close. The handsome man stood still beside the uncabled car watching the tractor and the uncabled Cat go back to the farm. He was aquiver with an adrenaline hangover and feeling the effects of excessively low blood sugar levels. Along with the remainder of the party he walked slowly up the drive in time to see the tractor and the Cat pass in quick succession through a long muddy puddle causing an explosion of dirty water to cascade over the slick BMW. It was now only slick beneath a veneer of brown filth. Its occupants peered through grimed windows at their assailants, confused and afraid to leave the car lest some other onslaught of muck assault them. Shadows of the horror closing behind all parties and with waving and smiling now the order of the day, everyone shifted gear into a fresher and lighter zone. They went from mechanics and mud dramas into hosting mode. Due to relief at the successful conclusion of the chaos, that mode was rather more than slightly hysterical. In the yard the sheep was explaining to the Grey Horse in nervous tones that now was naptime. In the kitchen welcoming noises of hospitality and relief washed over the people. And the magnificent lunch, having survived the general lack of attention, was laid out steaming and enticing on the table. The driver of the recovery vehicle had changed the BMW’s tyre. With the loan of a pressure guage, which he had forgotten he might need, he was getting ready to declare the BMW fit for purpose. The guests were seated and toasting one another in robust terms. Tucking into the veg lasagne, the garlic bread, the salad and the wines, the business visitors were smiling broadly. Everyone complemented the food and beamed at one another. The BMW visitors overlooked their hosts’grubby clothes, mud streaked faces and general disarray. But unspoken was a mutual understanding that there would be no hanging on for afternoon tea.

The Sheep and the Grey Horse part 7 ­– When Naresh and Neena came for tea

Laurel Lindström 3 Comments

Here’s the scene: a boggy field in late winter, saturated and dense. Here are the many moving parts: the sheep and the Grey Horse; a marooned car; a marooned Caterpillar tractor; important visitors; a teenage daughter coming back from her Dad’s by train; a lunch for eight; and a posh rented BMW with a flat tyre. Soon the two business colleagues it contained, were wishing they were back in Delhi where everything in their world works perfectly.

It was a Sunday. The handsome man was here again and the combination meant that breakfast would probably be late, except that no, it wasn’t. But it was all very hurried and the mucking out was done at speed. Hotpot and the Grey Horse listened with some slight worry hovering about their ears to a soft muttering, as she filled the haynets and checked the water. He would be expecting a decent breakfast and there was the lunch prep to finish. Vegetarian lasagne (mostly done), garlic bread (done), salad (not done). Chocolate mousse, cheeses all ready for the table, which was yet to be set for eight. Eight!

In the paddock the mud lay soft and suspect. By mutual unspoken agreement the sheep and the Grey Horse knew that they would be staying out of the field that day. The hard standing of the yard was an altogether more reliable surface. Besides, the lazy drizzle oozing from the sky was seeping slowly into the bog, so that it was only getting deeper. This was not a day for rolling.

A little bit later and with some surprise they saw the handsome man get into the car parked a couple of metres into the field. She’d left it there facing forward and ready to go to the station. Hotpot explained to the Grey Horse that it was probably because she had to fetch the girl to bring her home for lunch. Yet there was the man, starting the car and reversing it further into the field. Hotpot couldn’t work this one out at all, so he turned his back on the man and the car and started instead to pull on the hay. He kept a watchful eye on the Grey Horse who was dozing and twitching his head from time to time.

When next they looked, in response to some heavy revving noises and billowing clouds of diesel fumes, the car was somehow at the bottom of the field and up to its axels in mud. The man was struggling up the hill through the bog and towards the yard. The sheep positioned himself between the man and the Grey Horse. His sheepy brain wondered momentarily why the man had put the car so far down into the field and had spun its wheels so very deeply. The sheep suspected a devilish plot and stamped his foot, levelling his hard boney face at the man, ready to ram. Just in case.

And now she’s there too with her hand over her mouth in horror or humour and starting to wonder if this man of hers was quite the full ticket after all. “Why,” she was saying “what possible reason could you have for driving the car down there?” And he answered, well babbled, something about being sure to be able to leave the field to go to the station. “I thought you might need a run up and then when I got stuck here I thought it would be less muddy down there.” There was a note of feeble embarrassment in his tone and an expression of blank disbelief on her face. “Less muddy down there? Down there closer to the river than up here at the top of the hill?” And with her expression set in a mask of faux patience,  she set off down the hill to try to get the car out. Turning the steering wheel full lock left and right, reversing, four wheel drive on, four wheel drive off, differential lock on and off. None of it made a speck of difference, except in the copious quantifies of warm mud being sprayed across the field and in the width of the ruts, now more like trenches. “We need a tractor, and I need to get on with lunch. And we need to get to the station soon.” Huffing off, he hurried in her wake trying to keep up with the conversation already happening on her ’phone

It was quick enough to concoct a plan: the farmer would come with the Cat to tow out the car. She’d ring a brace of the lunch guests to ask them to collect the daughter from the station when they were on their way. The important lunch guests travelling from Delhi via London where they were staying with relatives who would also be coming for lunch(!), were due in about an hour. The cooking was incomplete and then Mother arrived with a face on because she’d got the time wrong and was an hour early. She sulked her way through a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits rolling her eyes at the tale, listening with renewed conviction that her daughter was useless in every respect. She had no faith in either of her older daughters, no empathy, sympathy or care and was smug in her conviction that the cooking would be rubbish and the disorganisation and chaos would lead to disaster. She was looking forward to telling her much loved and mostly absent third and youngest daughter that the first two were total jokes who had no idea about anything.

But when the Cat arrived with the farmer, his wife and their small child it was too tempting to stay indoors critiquing the table settings and sneaking a peak at the dessert ready and waiting in the fridge. By the time she had walked down to the paddock, the sheep and the Grey Horse were on full alert staring at the farmer, the Cat and the man. The farmer and the man had hooked a thick heavy duty cable to the car and were ready to start dragging it out of the swamp. Mother, now looking forward to the spectacle, joined the small audience ready and waiting to watch the show. The man got back into the car and the farmer was in position, his engines loud and bellowing, diesel smoke rising. Slowly the Cat started to move forward squirling slightly as it did so. The car also moved slightly sideways, ploughing into the mud as it started to shift.

She was in the yard calming the Grey Horse, who was shaking his head as his anxiety rose. All this noise, all these people. The rest, the Mother, the farmer’s wife and the farmer’s four year old son were standing in the field staring in fascination and ready to cheer when the car lurched free. No one doubted that this would happen. And as they watched in eager anticipation, two lunch guests and the daughter arrived from the station and ready for food. Her sister and brother-in-law had no idea why they had been required to get the girl from the station, only that “it would be a big help”. The daughter was annoyed at being collected late and annoyed at being hungry and with not much sign of lunch in sight. But the unfolding scene intrigued her. She stood with her mother and aunty and uncle as the Cat’s engine rose in volume and pitch.

As the Cat moved forward taking up the slack, the cable stretched taut under its slick of wet and drew a mostly silver line across the dirtied field. The engine’s smokey voice was rising louder and higher against the still grey light and the diesel fumes puffed black monsters that stretched upwards with the sound. But the car moved only slightly, as stuck in its furrow it shoved hard against a wedge of thick grassy mud. A ripple of field neatly draped over the the car’s front bumper, looked like a curved and grassy sofa.

As the two men stared, baffled and confused, a pistol sharp crack shot through the revs and the smoke. Its echo moving at speed up and into the woods beyond. As the cable snapped, the freed line waved and sung, hurling a whipcrack path through the grubby air. The silver grace of the once tensed line was a whistling series of curves gleaming with menace. They danced across the grey light with vicious intent. The trajectory was lost momentarily in the smoke layers and the line hung weak and lazy before falling at speed to make a final slice and land some few inches from the little boy. He was standing patiently holding his mother’s hand and felt the hint of razor sharp filaments reach to kiss his cheek.

For an awe filled moment, no one moved and then hands went to mouths as they as one stepped back in horror. The farmer’s wife took up her unharmed child and hurried back towards the yard. The mother followed and all stood gathered in a wild and disbelieving chatter. The two men in their vehicles stared in disbelief at the broken cable, unaware of the mortal danger the farmer’s little boy had been in.

As one, they looked up at the retreating audience and in a moment the farmer was driving the Cat as if to make for the gate to fetch another cable. Except that he wasn’t. Like the Discovery, the Cat was digging its way deeper and deeper into the mire. Like the Discovery, the Cat was soon stuck and immobile. The farmer clambered down and muttering to himself, stomped up to his wife. “I’ll get the tractor.” As he left, his wife said to no one in particular “But who’s going to drive the tractor if they’re driving the Cat and the car?”

Back to the kitchen some of the party trooped. The daughter was after a little early lunch and with her mother got the veg lasagne into the oven. And then the phone rang. Handing her daughter another hastily toasted cheese and onion sandwich, she hung up and said: “That was Naresh. He wanted to know if we could help him fix the flat tyre on his rental car. He’s not sure where he is, but wants us to know that they will be late. He’s going to ring again to find out what we can do to help them.” Mother and daughter stared blankfaced across the kitchen, trying and failing to parse this information into something that fit with the unresolved disaster still occuring in the bottom paddock.

Watching the scene the Grey Horse had been standing very still, apart from the occasional shake of his head. He had come to terms with the noise and the people and was trying to hear the conversation between the man and the farmer’s wife. The brother-in-law and the sister were listening in disbelief and wondering how long it would be before lunch was ready. And then here comes more noise and commotion tearing at the day’s grey pallor and interrupting naptime. 

…to be continued.

Once And Only Upon a Time

Laurel Lindström 2 Comments

Life began on a sunny day at an open air concert in a west London park. She was there with her best friend and it was the first time they’d been allowed to go to London on their own. They had taken the train up from Kent, clutching bags with squash and sweets, spam sandwiches, cheap eye pencils, lipsticks, small mirrors. Such traumas, checking make-up and hair without the other passengers noticing. The journey was long and slow, steam powered and loud. A flurry of hurried squeaks and whispers, and tangled groans beneath hunched and restless shoulders. Flashes of colour passing by, the warmth of the sun on the windows, noise and smoke. And being serious and grown-up in their carriage, not looking up and staring when the compartment door slammed shut and strangers with their curious scents sat down.

Not yet fifteen they were still, barely, the sort of girls who hadn’t yet forgotten that being a grown-up looked like a lot of trouble, like something best avoided. They had no need to hurry yet, no need yet for passion or anger, nor resentment, argument. They didn’t yet hate their mums or dads, nor yet seek conflict. Still just young enough to hold instead the threads of childhood, they knew not yet furies, nor nameless fears, or anger. Soon enough they would take this turn but not now, not today.

Arriving at Victoria station all grime and black specked, shuffling their way out of the train and stopping midspill on the platform, staring amazed, unaware of an unwritten story. Young and pretty and bewildered, floating on an ocean of hurried strangers. A young man turned and stared and the two didn’t notice him look away embarrassed for his thoughts and their youth. The girls saw him working through the crowd, narrow shoulders in a black leather jacket and darkish hair too dirty to be black or brown. He was in his early twenties and he disappeared.

The pair went slowly forwards, floating out of the station with the crowd. They had written details of what to do next. If they got too anxious for the tube the instructions said to wait under the clock for Evelyn’s dad coming up on the next train. Jostled in the crowd the paper clutched in a white gloved hand that was already grubby, no way would they wait. A sea of shapes and colours, unnavigable as they were moved along anxious, excited with frequent glances at the note. They found the District Line.

The tube monstrous big and openjawed and begging, as they hurried down the wooden escalator and scrambled into a carriage with the smoke and loud like the train, and hot and grimey. Watching as the darkness slides by, sudden halts and unravelling strangers’ tales, the chaotic mess of colours, shapes, alien forms and gazing into other peoples’ pictures. A world unfolding around them and it could never look like this again. The spell of the first time of seeing, first awareness of life passing along on the other side of a window. Strangers stinking and rumpled, the men watchful, the women with their eyes away. Shunted about for six stops, getting out and then following the hand drawn map to the little park. It took only half an hour from when the train arrived at Victoria for them to reach their stop at Parsons Green, triumphant, timeless and surprised to be there at all.

The concert was some sort of charity benefit for an aging musician friend of a friend of Ella’s dad. When he’d asked her if they’d like to go, Ella couldn’t believe he was serious. Up to London almost alone? It hadn’t much mattered what charity it was, the details were ragged remnants, crumpled and buried. 

By the time the girls were going through the park gates, the first couple of acts had already been and gone. The crowd was buzzy, up for a good time, drinking and smoking, some dancing. The girls moved nervous, blushing by turns, weaving to get close to the stage, giggling when their bottoms were pinched and never seeing who did it. It wasn’t much of a stage because it wasn’t much of a gig. Meagre trappings with just a few banners, and tents with warm beer and cheese and ham rolls. A small London park and a small tribute concert to someone mostly long forgotten. Evelyn’s dad’s friend was already smiling out from the stage, watching as the girls inched their way forward. He was drumming to some slow jazz, musing on their prettiness, their youth and sweetness, wondering how he got to be so old.

The girls hadn’t even noticed there was jazz playing. They had had no idea about the music, pulling faces and rolling their eyes when it started up. But a steady beat, everyone bopping along, jigjiggily, cheerily, gentle afternoon contentment warming through the crowd. Mostly the people seemed to Evelyn and Ella to be ancient, but there were some teenagers there. Not many, and mostly girls just enough older than them to be in another, far more vigorous league. The song bumped along, and all around them even the teenagers were having a good time. The song ended and a young man ambled on stage. He glanced reluctant at the crowd, waving, smiling, leaning into the microphone to sing.

Years later the young man was famous, an international star, renowned, respected, rich, unreachable, but that day his fame glimmered only slightly. That day he looked everywhere else but at the audience, at the ground, at his feet, off to the side of the stage, everywhere else. But there was a sense of voice, of look that together would have much more to say. It shone from him. Like the girls the young man was on the edge of what comes next.

Ella didn’t remember whose son it was and nor did Evelyn, but they both remembered him for the rest of their lives. An edgy sharp memory tangled up with how the squashy warm sandwiches tasted and the sound and rhythm of the train, the roll and rumble of a dirty tube carriage. He sang a lazy, drawly song, dragging out the notes from phrase to phrase, idling along never out of touch, bar to bar. He was why so many young people were there. A bright young thing, a soon to be rising star, still playing with his dad’s friends, still waiting to pounce on a world he would own. 

He asked for requests from the audience. Bold and brave Ella blurted out her’s in a sudden rush of brash unexpected excitement. She always remembered the moment and how Evelyn had taken up the shout more clearly and loudly. He refused unless she agreed to come up on stage and ask out loud into the microphone. She blushed and said no, but never forgot the echo of the repeated request, not just his but of the band all teasing, tempting her reluctant, growing courage. When she made her way towards the stage, her heart was pounding, knees shaking and suddenly willing to talk a strange man. To hear him teasing, laughing, flirtatious, in front of all those people she was suddenly willing. Such wicked delight, such power. Evelyn turned and faced the crowd and saw her dad waving at the back. Bold and loud “please sing Seven Golden Daffodils” and he smiled, heard the murmurs of approval from the band and cleared his throat, watching as she walked to the edge of the stage, climbed down and disappeared.

And much, much later he was much, much older, dying on some distant shore, career and seven marriages long since gone. Memories of countless children, grandchildren, and a life that was altogether too complicated, he still remembered that day, that moment. He remembered her long pale blonde hair, her grey eyes, the sullen scowl that turned suddenly into light. And he remembered the wondrous beauty of her youth, her luminous unguarded smile and the polite thanks. He could still see her relief, the wave of sudden trust and confidence as she thanked him for bringing her this moment in this wonderful day. She had turned and walked away, burning hot amidst shouting applause and raucous cheers, he smiling as she went and wondering how old she was. Too young he knew, and yet. She was gone before he could find her, but he too never forgot that day, that moment. 

And for all the boys and men she would meet, for all the friends and lovers she would have and for all the worlds she was to pass through that he would not share, he knew they would all happen and they would all be to him as theft. Smiling as she went, he saw passing this theft he could not counter, could not prevent or undo. A moment history stole away, a moment fragile, glittering, shimmering forever on the edge of his powerless, endless sight. She stayed there always on the edge of his reality, waiting not for him, watching not for him, toying forever with only the promise of her own world. That theft and its memory remained with him always and could never be forgiven. The theft of promise untold, of love unknown.

When Angus met Audrey

Laurel Lindström 2 Comments

It’s always the same types, these people who mill about. And it’s always the same slightly stuffy private room for the milling Angus mused. And it’s invariably in London. These types work hard to look earnest and purposeful, like they really do mean it. Perhaps they do. He stood alone watching them chat and smile, waving the occasional hand, an offhand nod here and there. Angus lit another cigarette. A passing waiter brought him another whiskey. Angus perused lines of conversation they’d likely follow and calculated pecking orders, his favourite sport. They would say nothing to him until David arrived, because not only did he not wear their uniform, but his distance was clear and his invisible shields were slightly up. Just enough. They would come down for David, the star of the show and then Angus could exist for these people and they would recognise him as part of the unit. He was only here as a favour to David, his closest friend, and with this book the story of Angus was part of the story of David. At least in theory.

They all look so ancient Angus pondered at the same time conceding that he, even without the uniform, did perhaps look the part. He tried to dress for his age, but had never made it past the cords and waistcoats he’d first donned as a teenager wanting to be taken more seriously. And he still looked old, older than his years, even though he and David were nudging forty instead of sixty. Apart from the waiters Angus had noticed only one other guest too young to be in this gathering, and she was barely there, lurking in the corner rather than joining the throng. And then David swept into the room arms aloft, conscious of the need to look and behave in some sort of authorial manner. It wasn’t hard. “Angus, by god you’ve arrived! You must only just have landed! So marvellous that you are here! Where did the heicopter drop you dear man?” This last was a nonsense of course but its effect was immediate and suddenly the wrinkly throng was all about them. Angus noted the young woman as she made the smallest of steps forward, almost unwilling. He had to admit she’s a bit of a looker, a substantial woman early thirties he guessed clothes not too tight, low or short but very stylish looking. Colours he couldn’t name and lots of them, fashionable for the time but not excessive. The skirts looked full enough to sweep engagingly when she walked. And her shoulders were broad but unenhanced with that ridiculous padding. Yves Saint Laurent had a lot to answer for, Angus observed taking another swig. This woman had her own slightly eccentric uniform and clearly a mind of her own.

David in full flow, talking about his book and caught up in inspirations and some guff about where he got his ideas from. His little audience was lapping it up. Cigarette waving, old people nodding, names falling like rain as the little group made their contributions to the conversation. What’s the word for a group of oldies Angus wondered, musing that he would need to include himself in whatever it was. A wrinkle of them? An incontinence?

He hoped he did not look as ill and pale as most of these people looked, and that his fag intake was not so high. He stared at the columns and looked into the shadows to where the interesting looking woman was still standing. Odd he pondered, because mostly women interested him no more or less than men did. There was no room in his life for relationships beyond the wheelings and dealings that filled his head and heart. Still, sometimes he thought it might be nice to talk to someone with a different perspective, a different experience from property and law and money. Well, maybe not the last part, and into this fog came an echo of his name and Angus realised that he was being introduced to the admirers. But as he heard the tagline Angus could not help but let loose a massive guffaw. The very idea that Angus had in any way been the focus of Journeys into the Undergrowth of Commerce and How to Cut Through to the Heart of Success still amused him enormously. The contribution was mostly out of David’s head, based on a few random facts that had only the most fragile connection to real life Angus business deals. David saw the outcomes not the process but together they had put together a credible journey for the Angus case study. Angus was quietly proud that his contribution to the book was easily the most entertaining. 

As David continued to explain Angus’ journey of unmitigated success to his audience, Angus remembered that he was there to play a part, a part that the publisher expected him to fulfil. And it wasn’t entirely ficticious this role. It was indeed true that Angus had managed to accrue considerable wealth at a relatively young age. It had been a few lucky bets one Derby Day weekend and mentoring from a friend of his dad’s who’d felt sorry for Angus. An alcoholic father is hardly an asset to a bright young lad. When Angus was knee deep in A Levels the pair were snapping up private garages in North London and rental income was building up nicely.

By the time Angus got to Magdalen, he was already investing in dull but reliably lucrative businesses: a garage here, an off-license there, and soon he had enough leverage available to move on to flats and commercial developments. His aptitude and intuition were indeed uncanny and money begat more money and more money begat more options. There was no need to fictionlise the case study content for David, but it had seemed better than the inconvenient scrutiny too much attention might attract. David and Angus had been friends since their Magdalen days. They shared an affinity for cautious omission when it came to factual inclusiveness. Subsequent training in law at Stanford in California had brought them closer though not more intimate. They shared the belief that any sense of being in any way accountable to anyone, should be buried very deep. The conviction never weakened.

When his mentor died and left Angus his interests in the garages Angus was well on his way to understanding when to twist and when to stick. Studying History at Oxford and then law at Stanford together, with David Angus had replaced the mentor with the friend and came to understand that friendship should be for life. Watching David smiling and holding forth Angus reminded himself how fleeting it all is, how dearly he missed the many people he had lost. Surveying the room as he tried to gather himself together and engage with the nice people, Angus noticed that the interesting woman in the excess of colours was smiling at him. Or rather she might be, because her gaze seemed to slide off somewhere above his head. Or was it a stare? Got it he thought. The laugh. It’s been remarked upon before. Angus put up his hand, as if he was making sure his hair was still draped down the back of his head. He stared back at her and returned the smile, tipping his glass as he did before moving over to one of the small tables to stub out his cigarette and peruse a sample copy of the book. “Well, Angus, so lovely that you could make it.” This is the editor woman thought Angus, the woman who’s always standing a bit too close and laughing a bit too loud. She’s another one with the ridiculous shoulders. “Yes, of course, couldn’t let David down now could I.” And Angus beamed bluely at her, right in the eye and enjoyed her blush before stepping back a pace and returning to David to hear him say “Well you see Angus was one of my best options for the case studies, since he’s never put a foot wrong in business. At least as far as I can see.” And the man is shameless with that silly little laugh and his fingers over his mouth. The little group were clearly impressed, and the elegant woman on the edge of the circle was still smiling.

Unbidden the thought that he wished he had worn something a little smarter, a little less boisterous and that he had changed his hanky before coming out. He wished for a moment that his hairline was not quite so high and that he was aging less rapidly. As she moved towards one of the little tables Angus was tempted to join her and make some sort of idiotic chat about the cleverness of the book’s title, or how pleased he was that his friend was published. There didn’t seem to be anywhere for such a conversation to go, so Angus stayed put and just watched as she scanned David’s bio on the flyleaf. But it was too much, something pulled him in closer and soon he could see that the conversation would indeed go somewhere, maybe not far before the publisher woman started talking about David and David started talking about Angus, but for at least a furlong or so. Angus pulled his waistcoat down as far as it could go and ran a hand across the back of his head. As he approached the smile grew wider and the eyes brighter and whatever else made their connection endure, its first link was being forged. And the link was true.

Delete #2 New Boy

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

(The first in this series was published here: https://writetime.org/anthology/)

The whisper went around the classroom, every time Miss turned to the board. Fight. They’re going to get him. After school. That’s what John Carter said. Little new boy‘s gonna get it. But Mrs Vurley didn’t hear it as she turned back to her year 9s and reminded them of the homework. Pointing to the board and “… by Friday no later please.” The bell rang and Mrs Vurley watched them pile out from behind their desks, rushing towards the door. She hadn’t heard the dark whispers but she watched as the new boy slunk away from her, separate from the rest. Did she see fear? “David, David? How are you settling in?” “Yes Mrs Vurley,” he mumbled. Mrs Vurly put her pencil behind her ear and looked at the boy again, eyebrows raised. She sighed. “Hurry now, it’s hometime, you’re out of here for today.” Looking up at her he said, “Yes miss, but John Carter said …” “John Carter? What about John Carter?” Mrs Vurley didn’t have a John Carter in her class. “John Carter? I don’t think I know him. What about John Carter?” “Nothing miss” said David moving quickly to the door. Delete.

Mrs Vurley looked out of her window at the usual scene of children milling towards the school gates, the lines of cars waiting for some, parents waiting for others. A few were on foot heading home or for the bus. There was only one small knot of boys, with a couple of girls in tow, lingering by the gate. She didn’t see David out by the gates and gradually the group of boys and their groupies drifted away. 

When David came to school the next day as soon as his dad dropped him off he ran a gauntlet of teases and taunts. His dad smiled as he watched with fond memories of his own school days. He didn’t see what he was seeing as he drove away, lost in reveries of a super posh school for boys. Delete. He didn’t hear when they said “white boy, hey whitey, come on, come on tell us who’s in that picture. We got the picture innit. Who is she?” As he drove away his brain had the scene with his boy centre stage, but he wasn’t seeing it. Delete. His brain heard the voices, unhearing the words. Delete. He moved on and stopped thinking about his boy. Delete. 

The catcalling was lost in the group, and no one was brave enough to be seen specifically to call out to the new boy. “Fresh off the boat are ya? Fresh from Alabammer are ya? Black Lives Matter ya know, yeah.” Fist saluting and laughing and then mocking his accent, like he was from the deep south and not from New York City. That accent was harder to copy his dad said David had told him when it first happened. And his dad, strong and tall and believing himself a streetwise New Yorker had no idea of how alone his child was. Delete. And so David didn’t speak much at school, not after the first day when he said his name in class and they were all supposed to welcome the new boy. Instead they stared at him and laughed at the way he spoke. Afterwards a couple of them had asked him his mobile number, although he didn’t know what they meant at first. “Oh, cell you mean my cell?” And that had set them off. “Yeah, your cell Yank. Give us your cell.” And they’d all laughed. David small and living in his head, processing the new country, this city school, the scale of it, the weird sports and having to read so much, write so much, confused and uncertain and very alone.

In the staff room Mrs Vurley was reminding herself of what they were supposed to look out for so that they could submit a pupil concern email. In her day bullying was just part of the day, some children were just marked out for it. Would it be how fat or thin they were, how shabby their uniform or beaten up their shoes? Would it be how clever they were or how stupid? Would it be their accent or how clean or dirty their hair was? Would it be how small or big they were, geeky, Jew, Christian or Muslim? She knew that it was impossible to predict, but that it hung on a chance moment, a thin thread and an unpredictable hook. And it was part of school life, ugly or not. Now they had guidelines and rules which at least gave an opportunity to do something. Now at the first sign they were alert and could take steps. And guidelines meant there was no need to convince sceptical staff or heads. Guidelines meant they could do something, not nothing. But guidelines and actions could also push it out of view. Delete.

It was Mrs Vurley’s day to monitor the lunch room so she made a point of watching this new boy, freshly arrived from America with his heavy accent and fretful eyes. She saw him sitting alone as two bigger boys took their places on either side of him. But she didn’t see David leaning forwards into his tray nor did she see the two boys sit closer and closer. Both had been held back from last year. Neither was bright and both were strong and confident, popular. They had pulled their chairs in close to David and were leaning into the boy. She smiled as she saw the Kendulu boy suddenly pull away and David fall sideways under the force and weight of the kid on the other side and they were laughing. Relieved Mrs Vurley turned away to deal with a fuss about mashed potato blowing up in the queue. Delete.

But her attention was soon drawn back to the boys. David’s tray had fallen sideways with him and Kendulu was no longer laughing, but up on his feet. “Look what you done man, look what you done, your shepherd’s pie is all over me trousers. Look at the mess you made!” And his friend jumped up to join in. “Look what you done to Ken’s gear man, look what you done.” They were both towering over David, hands pointing upwards, heads turning from side to side, voices rising, looking for the audience, for response. And they were laughing and patting David on the back. It was impossible to see that the pat was just that little bit too hard, lingering just a little bit too long pushing the boy down. David tried to stand but they had blocked his chair with their feet so he was stuck between the table and his chair half up half sideways and now Ken’s leg with its smears of shepherd’s pie is in David’s hair. It was time to intervene and as Mrs Vurley hoved into view both boys stood back, moving their feet and smug as David’s chair scraped unexpectedly back and he fell onto one knee, baked beans stuck to the tears and his tormentors with their hands in mock surrender. “He’s such a laugh Miss, he spilled his food on me on purpose miss. I done nothin’” and “Yeah Miss, it was on purpose, he’s bullying us, he thinks he’s cool ’cos he’s an American miss.” 

As two other staff members started ushering the small audience back to their food, Mrs Vurley looked at the two boys. “What’s this about?” “David?” “Ken?” “Jason?” David said nothing, but shrank even smaller into himself. Kendulu repeated it was on purpose and that they were being picked on by this new boy, who thought he was so great because he came from America. “And you Jason, what do you have to say?” “It weren’t me miss.” The bell rang and Mrs Vurley gestured them away and the two boys sloped off leaving David alone. As he looked up to answer Mrs Vurley’s unheard question David saw Jason draw a long finger in a straight line across his throat, before turning it into a wave and a laugh as Mrs Vurley followed David’s gaze.

“David, how long have you been at this school?” Mrs Vurley was a little embarrassed that she hadn’t really noticed the boy. Delete. Embarrassed but unsurprised. He was an unprepossessing thing, quiet and withdrawn, keeping his head down, avoiding contact. “Five weeks Mrs Vurley.” “Five weeks” she repeated, ”and how long have you been friends with Kenulu and Jason?” David stared sullenly at his lunch tray and its unappealing mess. “They’re not my friends” he mumbled and tried to straighten his shoulders, tried to claw back some sense of dignity. “But they like to follow me and send me messages on FaceBook an’ all. So maybe. Dunno.” There followed a series of questions, questions that Mrs Vurley knew she should ask, even though in the back of her mind she knew the answers already.

Yes, there was harassment, although he was evasive as to its frequency and intensity. Yes there were incidents, like today only mostly unseen and yes there had been unflattering pictures posted online and shared with various school groups. Girls and some boys sent him flirty messages and then ridiculed his replies. They invited him to online chat sessions only to block him at the last minute or worse to hide behind fake accounts and make ugly threats, sometimes with pictures of cats with their throats cut, or birds with their wings ripped off but still alive and bleeding. They threatened to tell his dad that David was staying over with friends, but really they planned to kidnap him and sell him as a sextoy to white supremacists. Mrs Vurley rolled her eyes at this, but still. The digital world’s a dangerous place. “How many David? How many boys and girls are doing this to you?”

By this time David was crying and the lunch room was empty. Mrs Vulney was glad she had no lessons this afternoon and persisted. “Do you know what mobbing is David?” “No miss,” he sniffed. “Do you know how to block people on your social media accounts?” “My dad’s told me I should do that and I’ve tried. But Snapchat messages disappear straight away and they use fake names. I know it’s them, and I want to be their friend though. That’s why I kept my Facebook account after … ” “After what? After what David?” “Nothing” he mumbled drowning in their power. Delete.

As she hit send on her email and its attached Pupil of Concern form, Mrs Vurley hoped that her colleague’s initial call to the family would go somewhere. It didn’t. They laughed it off. Delete. But later Mrs Clayman tried to talk to her son, except that the talk was more a forced encounter. A bully’s privilege? “It’s gone.” “What do you mean gone, David? Are you being picked on or not. You have to tell me.” “It’s gone because it’s SnapChat. The messages disappear straightaway.” “Don’t lie to me David. That makes no sense. I know you’re hiding something from me.” Mrs Clayman didn’t know she needed to get him to take screen shots. Would he have done? Would she have looked? Delete. Mrs Clayman tried another line. “Well what about FaceBook? Show me what you’ve got on FaceBook.” Here David had more to say, “I know I should block them on FaceBook, but if I tell them I’ll block them they just laugh, ooh you know how to block do you. Then they send me notes in History saying sorry. So I unblock them, then it’s ok for a while and then it starts up again. And on Instagram they pretend to like my pictures, but they’re just mocking me. You can tell in the comments.” The tears were rolling down his cheeks as David continued: “And I tried setting WhatsApp so that no one can see my picture and status and Aunty Jean got upset, so I put it back.” David could see that she wasn’t hearing what he said, wasn’t seeing, was inhabiting her own old world. Delete.

Mrs Clayman was starting a block of her own. This was all too silly. They’re just boys being boys with the new kid. It will pass. He was still adjusting to the new life. The school had it in hand. “David, let’s keep this in perspective shall we? They’re just lads and you’re different and sensitive, you know that don’t you? Let’s not get all bent out of shape about kids at school. It’s just their way, the British way, you know that I am pretty sure. You’ll get used to it. It’ll be fine.” Delete.

Sex in The Draftsman

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

There isn’t much to be honest, at least not much that is actually described, breathless and torrid. Sorry if that’s your gig. Sex is however one of the underlying themes of the book, even though the sex scenes aren’t explicit. In part this is because trying to write a sex scene is just so cringey. Try it and you’ll see what I mean. I have found that whenever I try it, the words invariably twist around and turn themselves into something that is very funny. I didn’t want that to happen in The Draftsman, so I avoided getting into too many details.

Is every exploration basically about sex? How do we need to understand it? What is its contribution to identity? Not sure. Read the book and tell me what you think. Or not.

The other thing that happens when trying to write sex scenes is that I start to blush and get embarrassed even though I am alone. It’s a problem and I don’t know any other writers well enough to discuss this with. I do know that when discussions head into the sex weeds in creative writing classes, the women take the topic very seriously and the men stare at their shoes. Perhaps it was just that particular group. Or perhaps sex is something that men writers find harder to chat about than women writers do. I fall into the men writer category, and I do have some very lovely shoes.

In The Draftsman, protagonist Martin Cox is a man whose sexuality is not clearly defined, it’s ambivalent. He’s a man who is always alone and who functions mostly in his head. For him sex belongs in an abstracted part of his psyche, a need rather than a dimension of his identity. Martin’s interested in sex, but not in any of the dramaturgy that for most people has to go with it. He just doesn’t care, cannot relate to any other aspect of his sexual partners, and is only concerned with their willingness to oblige. For Martin sex sits in its own box. Like hunger or the need to sleep, it’s not a defining characteristic of Martin Cox and it isn’t part of his identity. And yet that may not be entirely true.

Obviously I know why that is and you will too once you’ve read the book, but I wonder how widespread this disconnect is. Do we wall up parts of our natures in spaces that only occasionally can be accessed or, more darkly, that surface unexpectedly? This is an idea I plan to explore in the second book about Martin Cox, as he learns more about what happened to Ruth Lorne and her Canadian lover. In The Draftsman we learn a little bit about these characters, but only superficial details gleaned from diaries, police reports and newspaper cuttings. Ruth and Charles are certainly lovers, but sex may not have been part of their shared experience. Martin can be fascinated by these two people precisely because they are from another time, distinct from him but linked to him through their shared localities. They spent time in the same landscape as Martin, but over fifty years ago, far away enough on the continuum that Martin doesn’t need to integrate them into his world. They are in their own private box.

Martin Cox may be afraid or anxious about relationships and making a connection with someone who might have expectations about where that connection might lead. But this need for separation doesn’t have to be fundamental. This is addressed briefly in The Draftsman, but its implications are likely to be missed by many readers. That’s my fault for failing to add sufficient data to the scene, but the lack of data is precisely why Martin Cox reacts as he does to traumatic situations, including sexual ones. Read the book and let me know what you think.

The Draftsman and technology in the age of XXX

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

The world is awash with writers, fitness trainers, dog walkers, chefs and book bloggers. And around each of them is a web of service providers, sales channels and even sometimes paying customers. Yet very few of us have been able to give up the day job. As a début author (The Draftsman) I am totally drowned in an ocean of other writers and overwhelmed by the expectations of what one must do to stand out and build a following in the wild, wild world of XXX where XXX means whatever you want. It doesn’t seem to have much to do with the work, the actual book, but everything to do with how skilled you are at managing the online channels, from Amazon to Wattpad (don’t ask), and how good you are at name dropping. And I am absolutely crap at all of it. I don’t want a relationship with algorithms or the XXX anons.

This is ironic, given that I have spent my career writing about technology, and that technology is what’s making all this possible. From word processors like Apple’s MacWrite and Microsoft Word, through to layout tools and the container for print ready pages that is PDF, I’ve been mostly on top of it. Looking back over the years I am pleased to see so many of the amazing innovations we’ve covered, now in the hands of so many creative people. These media production technologies are cheap, readily available and make it possible for anyone to produce a book, newsletter or whatever. And that has driven author incomes down.

The Draftsman, one in a gazillion.

It’s been the same story in the music industry as technology made production processes cheaper and accessible to more people. This is all quite wonderful because it lowers the bar to entry, so that more ideas can be shared in many different creative ways. Technology is central to The Draftsman, and how clever inventions make a difference to inventors, users and the planet. 

Technology is central to everything, so it’s fair to say that the publishing industry’s raw material, imagination and passion, is completely entangled with it. Today writers must develop an online following in order to be noticed. The online following comforts publishers who might be reluctant to take risks with new ideas and points of view. A following suggests a swathe of keen buyers and so informs budgets, project planning and print run lengths. Technology creates opportunity for so many expressive formats and allows publishers to identify and target potential readers for a given work. But there is way too much noise in the online world and much of it is self-serving and rather ugly.

In The Draftsman, set in 2006, two years after FaceBook launched, there is no social media apart from a passing reference to emails and the speed of internet connections. And there is a bit of foresight too, when Martin Cox ponders the rate at which many forms of printed content will migrate online, to decimate the printing industry and create opportunities for new business models. Even in 2006 when FaceBook was only two years old, it was clear that internet technologies were reaching not just into industrial applications, but also becoming central to daily living. By 2012 when FaceBook went public the platform had 845 million users and social media was a habit.

And yet I didn’t want Martin Cox to be an online junkie. He’s obsessive and dark, and what he would do with an online existence would be as obsessive, as dark. I didn’t want to write about how dark, given his personality and history, and his various confusions. But perhaps I should have done because that would have required more research into the whole social media eco-system and the paths through it. It might have made me a more adept manipulator of the channels and algorithms and it might have made me more popular, in a bitsy sort of way. (That’s binary digitsy, not little particles.) And the darkness in The Draftsman might have found an audience. Then I would have lots of followers and publishers might have been swooning at my feet. But then again, the lack of swooners might just be that I don’t write as well as I think I do. Read The Draftsman and decide for yourself. Ever yours, XXX.