I can't teach you how to make it as a writer

A few weeks back I gave a talk about #foundfiction at Bettakultcha, a monthly night of creative presentations at Belgrave in Leeds. 

Off the back of that, Bettakultcha organiser Ivor Tymchak asked me if I’d give another talk – this time at the University of Leeds, to final-year students, about how to find careers in the arts and creative industries. I said yes. 

The presentation was part of the arts faculty’s Expo17 event, where soon-to-be graduates went along to learn about how to take their first steps into the jobs market. Here's what I told them.

Sorry guys, I can’t teach you how to make it as a writer after university. I can’t teach the vision, belief and resilience you need for that. I can’t teach you that writing should be your one and one ‘thing’ – something you’re compelled to do all your life, no matter what. 

And even as your hundreds of characters wait patiently to see the light of day, I can’t teach you to feel like a seven-year-old flying your first kite, giddy on lemonade, as you create hundreds more at your keyboard. I can’t teach you to develop a fanatical obsession to keep doing this – determined to get better at writing for ever. 

I can’t teach you to believe you’ll be one of the great writers. I can’t teach you to believe in this so much that you start to see it. Millions of readers will be moved by your words, and non-readers will be aware of the many theatrical and film adaptations of your stories. Academics will say things like “the audacity of didactic prose!” in university lecture theatres, their arms outstretched, with regards to your impact on world literature. But I can’t teach you to believe that. 

Even your worst stuff – the crappy teenage poetry and that student play you had to convince your housemate wasn’t pathetic, but prophetic – will be released as ‘The Early Writings of…’ to widespread critical acclaim. 

If this doesn’t happen in your lifetime, it will when you’re dead, but I can’t teach you to believe that – unwaveringly, amid the many rejections you’ll get from the smallest of literary journals, newspapers, employers, or whoever. I can’t teach you to keep going, believing that in the end you either succeed or you give up. 

I can’t teach you to keep writing about what you know, because your life’s already novel-worthy. I can’t teach you to be brave enough to draw on the darkest moments of your life and write something from the heart that will reach out and take the hand of a reader you don’t even know, and make their life worth living. 

I can’t teach you not to look for inspiration, but to let it find you. I can’t teach you to see the stories begging for your attention every day: the raindrops racing each other down the window; the person waiting for a bus at the wrong stop; the ‘for sale’ sign outside a house. I can’t teach you to realise inspiration is everywhere.

I can’t teach you how to keep your mind fertile for ideas. I can’t teach you to see how airplanes, light bulbs, skyscrapers, and everything remarkable humanity has ever built, are just shadows of ideas that have come to people. Ideas floating around our collective unconscious; a place of pure feeling, where the dots connect, which you only catch a glimpse of now and then; a place less tangible but more real than our filtered, physical world. I can’t teach you to be comfortable spending time there. I can’t teach you how to take other people there with words – or pictures, or anything creative you do. I can’t teach you that creating something is about seeing, thinking and feeling. 

I can’t teach you to leave behind university and what Marina Keegan called ‘the opposite of loneliness’. “It’s not quite love and it’s not quite community, it’s just this feeling that there are people, an abundance of people, who are in this together. Who are on your team.” 

I can’t teach you not to be afraid to do something different and take a different path just to get started on the ladder you want to climb. I can’t teach you to compromise on your dream job straight away. Why would you want it straight away? Then you’ll have nowhere to go for the next 50 years. 

I can’t teach you to be comfortable taking yourself away from your family – moving across the country to take different entry-level writing jobs – to enjoy the greatest high the world can offer: getting the words right, and feeling like you’re getting somewhere. I can’t teach you to be cool about losing touch with your friends – and you will lose touch with most of them – as you move to different cities to pursue other opportunities, because you’ve got your eye on the bigger prize. Fulfilment. Development. Doing what you feel you were born to do. 

I can’t teach you to be happy about starting a job at a company where there are already established friendships that you have to break into – and I can’t teach you to believe me that it’ll be fine and you’ll meet great people at work just like you have at school, college and university. 

I can’t teach you to realise that, when you’ve started out in a ridiculously high-pressure job just to get yourself onto the career ladder, or if you’re unemployed, the best years of your lives are not behind you. I can’t teach you to realise that the best years of your lives are part of you as you grow up and move to London, and away from London, and wish you did or didn’t live in London. You can still have parties when you’re 30. Guess what, I still go to parties and I’m 31. I’m planning to continue having fun when I’m old. 

And with all that change to adjust to – new people, new expectations, new cities – I can’t teach you to remember what’s really important: your passion and belief. You will be one of the great writers so it’s all worth it. I can’t teach you not to get rid of your inner seven-year-old. 

I can’t teach you to remember that you can still do anything. You can change your mind. You can start over. Go back and do a masters. Go travelling. Whatever. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. You’re graduating university – you’re still young enough to make mistakes. I can’t teach you to know that you’re so young. 

You can’t, MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all you have. I’m sorry, I can’t teach you how to make it as a writer after university. I’m still working at it myself.

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Creative Writing Classes

I can’t teach you the belief, resilience and vision you need to be a writer.

I can’t teach you that writing should be your one and only ‘thing’ – something you’re compelled to do all your life. I can’t teach you to take yourself away from your family and friends to enjoy the greatest high the world can offer: getting the words right.

And even with your hundreds of characters waiting patiently to see the light of day, I can’t teach you to feel like a seven-year-old flying your first kite, giddy on lemonade, as you create hundreds more at your keyboard. I can’t teach you to trust that each story you’re writing is better than your last. I can’t teach you to develop a fanatical obsession to keep doing this for ever.

I can’t teach you to believe you’ll be one of the great writers. I can’t teach you to believe in this so much that you start to see it. Millions of readers will be moved by your words, and non-readers will be aware of the many theatrical and film adaptations of your stories. Academics will say things like “the audacity of didactic prose!” in university lecture theatres, their arms outstretched, with regards to your impact on world literature. Even your worst stuff – the crappy teenage poetry and that student play you had to convince your housemate wasn’t pathetic, but prophetic – will be released as ‘The Early Writings of…’ to widespread critical acclaim.

If this doesn’t happen in your lifetime, it will when you’re dead, but I can’t teach you to believe that – unwaveringly, amid the many rejections you’ll get from the smallest of literary journals.

I can’t teach you to write about what you know, because your life’s already novel-worthy. I can’t teach you to be brave enough to draw on the darkest moments of your life and write something from the heart that will reach out and take the hand of a reader you don’t even know, and make their life worth living.

I can’t teach you to spy on your thoughts. I can’t teach you not to look for inspiration, but to let it find you. I can’t teach you to see the stories begging for your attention every day: the raindrops racing each other down the window; the person waiting for a bus at the wrong stop; the ‘for sale’ sign outside a house. I can’t teach you to look at the butter dripping through your crumpets and begin to see it as symbolic of anything.

I can’t teach you how to keep your mind fertile for ideas. I can’t teach you to see how airplanes, light bulbs, skyscrapers, and everything remarkable we’ve ever built, are just shadows of ideas that have come to people. Ideas floating around our collective unconscious; a place of pure feeling, where the dots connect, which you only catch a glimpse of now and then; a place less tangible but more real than our filtered, physical world. I can’t teach you to be comfortable spending time there. I can’t teach you how to take other people there with words. I can’t teach you that writing is about seeing, thinking and feeling.

I’m sorry, I can’t teach you to be a writer.

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Show All Attachments

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Good news comes in pairs!

Two of my short stories have been published by 
Reader’s Digest and the York Literary Review.


Viewing Is Essential won Reader’s Digest’s 100-word-story competition, and appears in the June issue of the magazine. It was voted for by the public after making the judges’ top three shortlist. You can buy and read the magazine here.

Thank You For Shopping was selected for the Spring 2017 edition of the York Literary Review – a journal of fiction, non-fiction and poetry edited by the Creative Writing department at York St John University. You can buy it at Waterstones York.

The best part about these two successes is knowing that more people will be reading my work than ever before. I don’t write to win awards, or to be published, as encouraging those things are. I write because I’m compelled to. That’s why I’ve been writing since I was six, and why I’ll keep doing it for as long as I live – regardless of whether my work sees the light of day, as most of the hundreds of characters I’ve created over the past quarter-century haven’t. But it is a bit of a dream to be recognised like this.


Special thanks to Anna Walker from Reader’s Digest, Kimberly Campanello from the York Literary Review, and everyone who supports and inspires me.

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Roll two sixes

Roll a one and a three.

1. The night of Jack’s 11th birthday. Mum left in a hurry after what dad did. She shouted for Jack to come with her, but he stayed in his bedroom, too scared to move. A while later Jack came downstairs and sat in the living room with dad. It was really quiet. Every so often dad told him that everything would be alright and that he loved him. That nothing bad was going to happen any more, because he’d be there for him (properly, from now on). That he was sorry for what he did to mum. He brought Jack fizzy drinks and crisps, even though it was way past bedtime. He kept going to the window, and Jack didn’t dare ask who was coming. Looking at the stack of Disney videos next to the TV, Jack swore to himself he’d have a happy family someday. Then the police arrived.

3. Mel’s childhood home, when she was nine years old. She felt shame as she laid in another wet bed. Worried what her parents would say in the morning, she buried her head between the pillows and pulled the duvet right up to her chin. Then she heard something. It sounded like a distant firework. Mel sat up – and saw the moonlight shining through her window from the night outside. It cast a bubbly glow on the wall next to her bed. Without even thinking about it, she reached out and touched it. It felt warm. When she did this, she tried to imagine what her life might be like in the future. Friends who would never leave her. Boys who would find her attractive. Children of her own, who she wouldn’t attack for wetting the bed.

Roll a two and a five.

2. When Jack broke up with his girlfriend, right at the three-month mark. The girl asked Jack what he would do if she came running back to him. He said he’d say no and move on. She rolled her eyes and said it wouldn’t happen anyway. Then she gave him a hug – one of those “I’ll miss you” hugs. Over the next month or so, sometimes a nostalgic memory of the warmth of her skin would come to Jack, and he’d be on the verge of picking up the phone. But he never did.

5. At the cinema, where Mel was watching Spiderman – the first one, with Tobey Maguire. She was there with two couples, and found it hilarious that she was playing not third, but fifth, wheel. She looked away from the screen during the upside-down kiss scene, and saw the light from the film flicker on her friends’ pathetically expectant faces.

Roll a three and a four.

3. A restaurant in Alacati, Turkey, where the waiter brought Jack his second beer before he’d finished his first. His plate was empty, apart from the skeletal remains of the fish, and some of the sweet peppery sauce. Jack’s newspaper was paying for him to be there, but it didn’t feel like luxury to him, because he was alone. Outside the restaurant, a boy had his arms wrapped around his mother’s middle, and was leaning into her, as they sped by on a moped. After they’d disappeared around the corner, Jack lost his gaze in the middle distance, holding his pen over his notepad.

4. Bologna, Italy, where the sound of Mel’s heels echoed between the medieval stone walls. She was running away from the drunken shouts of “ragazza!” and creepy falsetto laughter. When she got to the corner she pushed open the heavy iron gate and felt for the apartment doorbells at the building’s entrance, her heart racing. “Please be home... please be home...” she muttered to herself, pressing hard on the buzzer for apartment 5, where her friend lived. The moonshine and the streetlights combined to make the street cobbles look like rippling water in twilight. It gave Mel’s moment of panic a filmic quality.

Roll two sixes.

6. When rain was battering the roof of the cottage, and Jack made sure the girls were warm in bed. Camille had her rag doll and a million and one cushions and pillows, while Jena was happy with a hot water bottle. When their eyes started to close, Jack kissed their foreheads and left the room, closing the door behind him. Downstairs in the kitchen, he poured himself some tea from the pot. He looked out at the rain, invisible in the dark outside, and caught his reflection in the window. In the background, Jack saw Mel sat in the living room behind him.

6. Mel by the fire, reading. She’d been turning the pages, but not taking much of it in. For once she was living completely in the present, and she was distracted by a wonderful thought: that everyone she loved was safe. Jack in the kitchen, the girls upstairs, their dog Buzz asleep on the beanbag by the door... She always wanted to remember that thought, and the feeling it gave her. She closed her eyes and felt a tingling rise from her spine to her shoulders, up her neck and into her cheeks. When Jack came to sit next to her, she leaned on his shoulder and watched the wood explode in the fire, blinking trickling tears from her eyes.

Toys were scattered around where Buzz was sleeping – and it was hard to tell which ones were his and which were the girls’. One of the toys was a furry dice, connected by a thick pink thread. Buzz was whimpering and twitching. He was having a dream. Around midnight he wagged his tail and the hit the dice, rolling them over again.

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For my while of forever

I’ll see you, in a while.

It’s early in the morning, and in a while, I’ll be coming to visit. I’m excited to see you. Are you excited to see me too?

I’m a strange girl, just so you know.

In a while we’ll spend a good while together, but it’ll all go too fast. A while later it’ll be the next morning, and I’ll be waking up on your chest.

Maybe after a while we’ll get serious, and see more of each other. And when we’re apart, I’ll take a while to think about what I really want: You.

I’ll be a little bit in love with you, ha. OK, a big bit. Will it make you proud, or amused, when I tell you this?

After a while it’ll just be you and me, whiling away our timeless time… You’ll be the guy I found out I needed.

A while in the future you’ll realise we’ve been together quite a while. You’ll say that maybe, in a while, we should think about getting married. Because your parents said so.

Wow! I’ll be surprised.

I’ll feel like we should take a while longer to think about it. I’m a romantic girl, but it’s a big step, right?

You’ll go mad when I tell you this. Things’ll get awkward.

I’ll think things’ll probably sort themselves out after a while, but they won’t. In just a short while, we’ll drift apart.

And you should know that none of it will be your fault… all mine.

For some reason I won’t do my bit to make it right. Because I’m an idiot. Eventually I’ll come to my senses, but a while too late. Nothing I say will make any difference to you.

I’ll be a complete mess, for a while. You’ll move on and find another girl and, after a while, I’ll try to… I promise.

But hey, can you imagine, for a while, a parallel universe, where things are different?

We’re still together there, enjoying everything we had, and more, and new.

I think that’s where I’ll live for a while. For longer than a while. For my while of forever.

Would you live in that world with me, even just… for a while? It’s as real as the world we don’t have to imagine, and I like it way more.

Do you see the memories we’ve made in that world? We’ve built something special there.

Take a while to see:

When it was 5AM but we were still awake. That day at the fairground. That night we can’t remember. All the times we did, we felt, we went, we saw, we laughed.

The children.

Do you not see this?

When you do, you’ll know where to find me.

I’ll see you, in a while.

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THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING

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Want to be successful? Just follow these 15 steps

1. Convince yourself you’re not a nervous wreck. Preferably around age five. 

2. Take piano lessons, go to football practice, spend your Saturdays in science museums. Whatever it is, find your ‘thing’. 

3. Learn only enough about losing to know you don’t like it. Build that resilience. Have high self-esteem heading into puberty. 

4. Study hard at school. Raise your hand in class. Stay up late doing homework. Win your teachers’ respect. 

5. Decide how you want your dreams to be narrowed down. Focus on developing specific strengths and skills. Set yourself high standards. 

6. Realise you won’t get anywhere just by ‘hanging around’ with people. Politely decline invitations to parties at university — instead make short-lived connections that are useful to your professional development. 

7. Get a place on a graduate scheme at a listed company and move to a big city. 

8. Establish an online presence. Start creating and sharing content. Make sure the right connections are seeing it. Maintain your personal brand. 

9. Get offered a job after the graduate scheme and haggle up your salary. Work insane hours. 

10. Unwind by going to the gym and scrolling through your LinkedIn feed. Enjoy a comfortable lifestyle without going into debt. 

11. Manage up. Get promoted. Feel that you’re somehow ahead of people. More accomplished, more specialised. More capable. 

12. Focus on nothing but your career for the decade that just whizzed by. Become a board member on the same day you find your first grey hair. 

13. Hire people, fire people, get it done. Make big decisions, outrun the pressure. Buy cars, houses and boats and never EVER ask yourself: ‘who am I doing all this for?’ 

14. Be approached to write an article about being successful. Sell the idea that somebodies act like this, while nobodies act like that. Encourage people to follow your path to success rather than find their own. 

15. Watch them rely on medication to treat their anxiety. Know they might have otherwise had happy, enriching lives with close family and friends — and been thankful for what they have in this world.

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Here's to getting it right, and getting it wrong.

Sometimes you’re on a train and it feels like you’ve set off, but you haven’t, it’s just the train next to you is going the other way.

Sometimes you’re on a racing bike and it feels like you’re a better cyclist, but you aren’t, it’s just because this bike is faster than your old one.

Sometimes you’re walking out of your house and it feels colder than when you walked in, but it’s not, it’s just that you got used to the temperature inside.

Sometimes you’re on a night out and you don’t feel drunk, but you are, you’re just not as drunk as the guy you’re helping throw up into the bathtub.

Sometimes you’re thinking your first relationship was your best, but it wasn’t, it’s just that everything between you felt stronger because it was pure and you had no expectations.

Sometimes you’re looking in the mirror and you think you need a haircut, but you don’t, it’s just because you’ve stared at your hair for so long you see how it winds, curls and splits.

Sometimes you’ve eaten a Sunday dinner and you feel fat, but you’re not, you’re just full.

Sometimes you’re looking at your son and you think he’s the best looking boy in his school, but he isn’t, nature’s just programmed you to think that so you take care of him and continue our species.

Sometimes you’re eating your grandma’s bramble and apple pie with cream and it tastes like the best pie in the world, but it isn’t, it’s just that it reminds you of when you ate it as a kid.

Sometimes you’re swiping through photos of smiley people with their families and friends, and everyone seems to have it all figured out, but they don’t, it’s just their successes are more visible than their failures.

Sometimes you’re about to share something with a group of people and there’s a feeling in your gut telling you it’s wrong, but it’s not, everyone gets butterflies before this kind of thing.

Sometimes you’re on a train and it feels like you’ve set off, and you have, because you can feel the engine’s vibrations through your seat.

Sometimes you’re on a racing bike and it feels like you’re a better cyclist, and you are, because your old bike was too small for you and with this one you can get more power in the pedals.

Sometimes you’re walking out of your flat and it feels colder than when you walked in, and it is, so you go back in to get a jacket.

Sometimes you’re on a night out and you don’t feel drunk, and you aren’t, because you’re not really feeling it.

Sometimes you’re thinking your first relationship was your best, and it was, but you ended it because you thought you needed to play the field.

Sometimes you’re looking in the mirror and think you need a haircut, and you do, because you can see how it comes down over your ears.

Sometimes you’ve eaten a Sunday dinner and you feel fat, and you are, your body is trying to tell you to do something about it.

Sometimes you’re looking at your son and you think he’s the best looking boy in his school, and he is, so maybe sign him up to a modelling agency or something.

Sometimes you’re eating your grandma’s bramble and apple pie with cream and it tastes like the best pie in the world, and it is, so write down the recipe and it might make you rich someday.

Sometimes you’re swiping through photos of smiley people with their families and friends, and everyone seems to have it all figured out, and they do, maybe you should see it as a step-by-step guide for your own life.

Sometimes you’re about to share something with a group of people and there’s a feeling in your gut telling you it’s wrong, and it is, you’re making a big mistake.

Here’s to getting it right, and getting it wrong.

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Follow the yellow lines

“Follow the yellow lines,” the woman said.

So that’s what Peter and I were trying to do. But we couldn’t find them anywhere.

Peter was two years older than me, maybe even three, plus he was taller. That meant he was in charge. I looked up at him trying to work out what to do. He nodded his head, but I could tell he was confused.

“Follow the yellow lines.”

The woman’s voice came through speakers and was everywhere in the building at once. Peter and I knew the message was just for us, because she said our names.

There were lots of adults around. At least 50, probably 100. Maybe even 200 - it was hard to tell, because new ones were coming and going all the time. Most of them were just walking by themselves, into tunnels or down escalators. They were dressed very smart.

When I thought of yellow lines I thought of the double yellow lines you see on roads. Two thick stripes. But I knew the ones we had to find might have looked different. They could have been like, I don’t know, strings of flat yellow spaghetti.

“What type of yellow lines do you think we have to find?” I said.

“I think they’re like arrows pointing to where we need to go,” said Peter.

“Oh OK,” I said. “Yellow arrows?”

Peter nodded. He pointed towards one of the tunnels. “Let’s look over there,” he said.

We didn’t get very far because you needed a ticket to go into the tunnel. So we just went back to where we were before.

Our bags were getting heavy so we sat down on a grey bench next to the ticket desk and watched the pigeons bob around for crumbs. I didn’t know you got pigeons in train stations.

Soon I guessed it was lunchtime because some adults were eating sandwiches they’d bought from the shops. The sandwiches were huge, and looked much tastier than the ones my mum had put in my bag this morning.

I wasn’t hungry. Neither was Peter.

We just wanted to find the yellow lines.

We spent the next two hours looking. In the shops, in the toilets, on the train platforms... by the time we were done I knew every speckle in the floor pattern by its name.

“Got any food?” said Peter.

We were sat down again.

“I’ve got a cheese sandwich,” I said.

I unzipped my bag and passed Peter half the sandwich. He took a bite and looked away without saying thank you.

Peter hadn’t been much help. He didn’t really talk too much, or even look at me. As we ate the sandwich I hoped I never got lost with him again.

“Shall we play I Spy?” I said.

“I Spy is for little boys,” said Peter, gulping down the rest of my sandwich. “Got any crisps?”

“No,” I said.

We sat in silence for a while, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for our scout group to come and find us. We’d spent nearly all day here by ourselves.

“I spy, with my little eye...” I said.

Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then unzipped his bag and pulled out a bag of crisps.

“...something beginning with P.”

Peter opened the packet and threw a few crisps in his mouth.

“Pigeon,” he said, mouth full.

“No,” I said.

“Policeman,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Is it a hard one?” said Peter.

“Not really,” I said.

Peter stared up at the ceiling then stood up and looked around the station. He threw his empty crisp packet to the floor, and the pigeons raced towards it.

“Parlment?” said Peter.

“What?” I said.

“Parlment. As in the Houses of Parlment?” he said. “You know the Houses of Parlment are here in London don’t you...?”

“Parliament?” I said, pronouncing it correctly.

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” he said.

“No, it’s not Parliament,” I said.

Peter said nothing for a while. I wondered whether he was still playing.

“Give up?” I said.

“OK, what is it?” he said.

“You sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“OK,” I said. “Poster.”

“What?” he said.

I pointed at the poster. It was across the other side of the station. You could barely see it, but it was there.

“Oh, come on,” said Peter. “You can’t have that, it’s too far away!”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, pointing at the poster. “Just look at it. Do you see what I see?”

Peter squinted, then slowly turned to look back at me.

“That yellow line?” said Peter. “Yeah!”

There was a yellow line on the floor underneath the wall the poster was hung on.

And then, perfectly timed, we heard the woman’s voice over the speakers again.

“Follow the yellow lines,” she said.

It looked like this could be our way out. I grabbed my bag and we dashed over. Peter was bigger, and ran faster. Soon he was miles in front of me.

I shouted for him to slow down, and he did. Because that’s how we got separated from the rest of the group this morning. We’d been put into pairs, so we could all stay together, and I’d been paired with Peter. I’d bent down to tie my shoelace in the middle of the busy street outside. They called it “rush hour”. Peter had stopped to wait for me. By the time I’d tied the lace everyone else had disappeared. Then we came in here.

Now we knew we needed to stick together.

“Follow the yellow lines,” the woman repeated over the speakers.

We stopped at the yellow line on the floor. There was just one line, and it wasn’t quite as thick as the double yellow lines I’d imagined. It reminded me of the lines on the basketball court at school.

We followed the line around the corner. It took us up a platform and then back down again. It went past the ticket desk, up some steps, and into a disabled lift.

I’d only been in a lift once before, at the shopping centre on Boxing Day. This one was older and smaller. Peter looked at me, his hands hovering over a button. He pressed the button. The lift shook as we went down a floor.

When the doors opened, I swear I’ve never seen so many people. There was more than 500, probably more than 1,000. The place was as busy as it was when we got lost this morning.

This time I made sure I grabbed hold of Peter. He grabbed hold of me. As we moved through the crowd, we could only just make out the yellow line on the floor. It took us to a booth where a security guard was sitting. And that’s where it ended.

“Can I help you?” the security guard said. He looked big and mean, but his voice was soft and quiet.

“We were following the yellow line. We’ve been here since this morning. We got lost from our scout group,” said Peter.

“Just a second,” the security guard said. He picked up the phone.

An hour later we were with the 20 other scouts and the group leaders in a McDonalds.

“We meant the subway lines, not the yellow lines on the floor,” said the scout leader.

He was treating us and all the scouts to a meal. And he was acting all nice for a change.

“Anyway, best not worry your mother about this. Just look up at the menu and tell me what you want. You can have anything, anything you want,” said the scout leader.

“Happy Meal?” he said, smiling for the first time ever.

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Giving nothing away

The evening was a write-off.

He’d wasted it staring into the mid-distance, focusing neither on the automated video playlist that had started with AC/DC and somehow finished with Wham!, or the book that had ended up closing itself. In three hours he’d got up once to put the kettle on. But he’d not listened out for it boiling, so he didn’t get up a second time to make the cup of tea. Everything he did that day had been half-arsed.

He thought about the people who must have climbed mountains today, rescued trapped pets from burning houses, and danced as they watched their favourite band play live. And he’d been sat here the whole time.

Still, it would soon be time to rest.

It was very late. Before he went to bed he decided to check his Facebook. He opened his laptop and fired up his browser. He tapped the F key and the URL filled itself out. Then he hit Return.

He looked at his friends’ posts. Most of them were just updates about which restaurant or bar they were at. Or to say what they thought of the latest person to get booted off whatever reality show they were watching. Or links to sponsorship pages for charity runs or bike rides.

He spent the best part of an hour scrolling through dozens, hundreds of posts that did nothing to even change the expression on his face – tired, still, and sunken.

He was about to close his browser when he saw her.

He recognised her almost straight away, even from the little thumbnail photo. It was the smile. When she smiled you could tell she was holding herself back, giving nothing away. A kind of Mona Lisa smile. He looked at her name. It was down as Stephanie.

He’d always known her as Stef. With an f.

He loved her.

He clicked on her picture and went to her profile. He wanted to see what other photos she had on there. She was married now with a family. There were albums of her on holiday, at a theme park, and dressing up for Halloween. There were other albums of her on nights out with her mates, on girls’ holidays, and at weddings. She was always smiling. Smiling that smile he remembered. It was special.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, half asleep in his seat, until he spotted something that woke him right back up again. It was another picture, but a picture from back in the day. Old pictures like that take you right back, but this one especially, because it was him that took it.

It was taken in the Highlands.

He and Stef had rented a cottage in the middle of nowhere with some uni mates, to celebrate the end of the year. There were about eight of them, and they were all going home for Christmas, so they’d decided to do something different – and get pissed together somewhere random. That’s how they ended up booking this cottage.

It was freezing, but sunny and crisp, and there was no one else around. It was nice. He’d taken loads of cool photos, mainly of the lochs near the cottage, and a few group shots of everyone in a line with a forest in the background. Stuff like that. It all went up on Facebook.

But with this photo, he remembered exactly what he was thinking at the time. It was the last one he took before everyone went home.

It was the morning they checked out. They had to check out at 10am, so everyone looked a little rough. The sun was in everyone’s eyes. No one looked like they wanted their picture taken. In fact one guy looked like he was going to throw up.

He remembered everyone getting into position for the photo. He was stood next to Stef, at the back. Everyone was up close, but they were up close in a way that said: “I want you.” Everyone else was talking but them, who were pretending to listen, but were really having their own little moment.

Nothing had happened between them on the trip. They’d got drunk together and chatted to other people, played sharades, cooked. But now was the best part. There was something in the air. He remembered how excited he was that she seemed interested in him.

The guy who’d suggested taking the picture was going back to Italy that summer, for good, so someone in the shot said that someone else should take it, so the Italian guy could be in it.

He said he’d take it. He walked to the front, took the camera from the Italian guy, then knelt down and said: “Say cheese.”

Most people in the photo looked weird. They were making ‘Ch’, ‘eee’, or ‘zzz’ faces after all. He looked at their expressions and laughed. But she, Stef, wasn’t saying “cheese”. She was just looking at the lens, through to him. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were narrowed and her smile was turned up at one end of her mouth, as if she was speaking to him both then and now, saying: “Dude, I love you.” She was on her own in the photo, and there was a space next to her where he had stood, before he agreed to take it.

He zoomed in on her face until it filled his laptop screen. That Mona Lisa smile, giving nothing away. So elegant and exciting. So perfect.

The next morning he woke up on the sofa. Dawn’s blue glow crept in from behind the curtains. He opened his eyes slowly and saw feet standing nearby. He turned his head. It was Stef.

“Morning,” he said. But she didn’t reply.

He was in the living room. Their living room, where he must have drifted off. With his laptop on his lap. It was boiling.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. He hadn’t seen her smile in years.

———

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Excuse me

Excuse me.

Are you from around here? I’m looking to go on a nice walk. Can you point me in the right direction?

I’ve seen the Public Footpath signposts, and I know Tourist Information’s just around the corner, but I was hoping to go somewhere off the beaten track.

You know, somewhere only locals know, through word of mouth.

Somewhere that’s not written down in any guidebooks.

Somewhere no one’s ever taken a selfie and shared it to Instagram.

Somewhere I can feel excited to be in on a secret between the nature and the residents living here.

Somewhere that looks like nothing spectacular until you get to the beech tree at the end of the trail and lift back its leaves and – BOOM, a perspective-changing view of an amazing landscape for miles and miles.

I know this area’s capable of that. I can sense it. Does anywhere spring to mind?

I should say, I don’t want to be walking for ages. But then again I want a bit of a challenge.

Look at what I’m wearing – I want to feel that I dressed appropriately for the walk. I don’t want to be sweating buckets before I’m halfway around and have to carry my coat. But on the other hand I don’t want to wish I’d worn another pair of socks because of the cold. I’m only wearing one pair, just so you know.

I don’t want to be scrambling up mountain tops or anything like that. I want the destination to be fairly easy to get to. Not a walk where I’m constantly wondering ‘did she definitely say South South East?’ but one where I only have to remember like three clear directions. The white pebble path, the horse field, and the tree house, for example. A general orientation and a few landmarks are all I want to bear in mind. A walk, not a hike. Difficulty level 5/10.

I need to think a few things over, you see. That’s the whole reason I’m here wanting to walk. I want to figure some stuff out. I want to focus my mind outward while I do that, because that’s how they say people make good decisions.

And God knows I need to make a good decision here. If I were at home I’d just get lazy and not want to change anything, but I’ve come all the way out here to be have a word with myself and be brave, for my own sake.

It’s to do with a guy. I won’t go into it, all I’ll say is... he’s a physical person. He uses his body to... send messages.

He hits me.

You’re the only person who knows this, believe it or not. Isn’t it odd how you can sometimes feel more comfortable opening up to a complete stranger than the people you’re closest to?

All I’ve ever wanted is to make people proud, especially my family. So it would tear me apart if my mum knew, because then she’d know things weren’t going well for me, and she’d stop being proud and start being worried. She deserves to be proud of her only daughter.

Sorry, I said I wasn’t going to go into it.

Back to the walk.

I’m looking to go on a cool little journey that’ll give me the headspace I need to realise that I shouldn’t be with this guy. You might think the walk’s totally irrelevant to me making a decision like that, but it’s not, trust me.

Think about how I’ll feel after a long, pleasant walk by myself in the wilderness. I’ll feel accomplished. I’ll feel like I can do anything.

That’s what I want this walk to do for me.

Think about how I’ll feel after a really exhausting walk where I get lost and bump into all sorts of weirdos on the way. I’ll think I can’t possibly be on my own, and I’ll end up stuck with this guy long-term. Even you, who’s only just met me, must know that would be a terrible thing.

So you see, this walk is a turning point.

So tell me.

Show me.

Help me.

———

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Little one

She was doing her third lot of washing that morning when Kenny waddled in and said he'd shat himself. She told him to stand there until she'd finished. He didn't. He rolled around on the floor for a bit and screamed like a velociraptor. Then he took his nappy off and flung it at her. She tried to stay calm and finish what she was doing. She rinsed the suds off the baking tray and stacked it on the draining board, which looked like a scrapheap with all the cups, plates and bottles on top of each other. With washing up, there was always more than meets the eye.

"Right, let's get you sorted," she said, taking off her apron. In the living room she heard Loose Women coming on the TV. She wanted to watch it with a cup of tea, but she had to get Kenny cleaned up first. She couldn't believe that's what she wanted to do. And that she wasn't even able to do it. When did she become the person she swore she'd never be?

Kenny had gone upstairs. After wiping herself down she went to look for him. Following the small brown smears up to the top, she heard him in her bedroom. The door was half closed, and from the landing she could only see his legs and feet. He'd climbed up onto her dressing table, and she could hear him going through her makeup and jewellery. She imagined him dribbling and getting his shit everywhere. Of course, in the most adorable way.

"Where is he?" she said, putting on a baby voice. "Where's he hiding? Ready or not, here I come!"

She opened the door to her room and found him playing with her pearl necklace. Nothing was broken, it was all fine.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Fuck, she thought. Is that me? She knew she wasn't looking her best - she didn't mind that. It was her expression. It was the way she looked sad and worried at the same time. She pulled the same smile she'd just smiled on the landing, to see what it looked like. It didn't look like a smile. It was just her opening her mouth into an oval shape. The sides of her mouth didn't curl up at the ends, and her eyes were dead. She blinked slowly and it hurt. It felt like a bruise was on her eye. She touched it and felt a lump. It was a stye.

"We play football with this mummy," said Kenny. He'd split her pearl necklace and there were white balls everywhere. "Mummy, we play football now!"

Kenny woke her up every hour of the night until he was five. When most other people would have slept for eight hours straight, she was getting up every 60 minutes through the night, for five years. Her friends who had kids the same age seemed to sleep just fine. Most of their kids started sleeping through the night when they were two.

She didn't mind. When Kenny's made a success of himself one day, he'll remember his good old mum. He could grow up to be an actor, a football player, an astronaut, and he will remember the part she played in it. That would make it all worth it, she thought. The more she suffered now, the more joyful it would be later. That was the pay off. Her mother told her that to get her through those early days, and it was how she coped with the stress of raising a child.

But Kenny wasn't that into drama at school. He hung around boys who said it was "gay". And because he tended to give up on stuff he couldn't master straight away, he didn't take to sports either. And the astronaut thing just wasn't going to happen. He didn't hate doing things, he was just indifferent. He wasn't really that into anything, and he didn't care.

Kenny did alright in his GCSEs, but not well enough to get into sixth form, as she'd hoped. He got a job as a support worker at an old people's home nearby, and carried on living at home.

Most of his friends went to sixth form, and he lost touch with them after a while. Because of that, she lost touch with the other mums she knew. It made her feel lonely, even though they made her feel bad about herself, not on purpose, but by telling her about all the amazing things their kids were doing. They thought she was shy, but they only talked about their kids, and she never had anything good to say about Kenny. As he developed into his late teens he started to look a lot like his father. The long, triangular jaw and the thick brow. Even though he rarely saw his dad, Kenny still acted like him. He was a negative person, and never motivated to do more than the bare minimum, and see past the status quo. She realised that, despite all the chances and inspiration she'd tried to give him, in the end most things come down to genetics. Kenny was 18 by the time she knew this.

When Kenny went full time at the old people's home she asked him for rent. At first he refused, but then when she threatened to kick him out he started paying up. He agreed to pay £40 per week.

She was watching Loose Women, and laughing in the way that only middle-aged divorcees can, when he came and sat down next to her. He usually sat down on the armchair, rather than sharing the sofa with her.

"Why aren't you in your armchair?" she said.

He didn't say anything. He just stared at the amber glow of the three-bar heater at her feet.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be at work?" she said.

"Mum, do you love me?" said Kenny. As the heat rose it made her toes look all blurry.

"Of course I do, my little one," she said. She smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Well why don't you show it?"

When you see it written down like that, it doesn't really look like much of a statement. But something about the way he said it really got to her. Why don't you show it. With his dad's vacant look, with his mouth slightly open. Answering his own question.

And then it all came back to her. The three-day labour, the sleepless nights, the three jobs she'd worked to pay the bills. The shame she felt when around the other parents. Not once had he lived up to the hype. They say babies never ask to come into the world, but he did. He wasn't planned. Even now she cleaned up after him. There was still not one moment of joy.

"Get out," she said.

"Why do you charge me rent? None of my mates have to pay rent," he said.

"Get out!" she said again.

He looked at her as if he was going to hit her.

"Leave."

"And the Academy Award goes to... Kenny Cooper!"

"And now we go live to Captain Kenny Cooper and his team from space, as they continue their journey to Mars."

"And it's Cooper with the winner, in the last minute of extra time!"

She was fantasising about memories she'd promised herself. It was dark outside and there was nothing on telly, so her mind was wandering. Wondering, about him. She realised she missed him. And that surprised her. They'd not been in touch for over a year.

Then for the first time, she imagined him fucking up as an astronaut. Like, just spending all day floating around in zero gravity rather than contributing anything to whatever space mission he was part of. She sniggered. Then she thought about him failing as a footballer - getting so angry with another player for being so good that he would pick up the ball, belt it out the stadium, and walk off the pitch. She laughed out loud. Then she imagined him as the worst actor in the world, forgetting his lines on stage, and just looking into the audience blankly, as he tried to remember them. She snorted and the tea that was in her mouth went everywhere.

It didn't matter, she realised. None of it mattered, the hopes and dreams. None of it. A chill washed over her, and suddenly her eyes felt wet. Nothing mattered to her except for one thing. Kenny was her son. God, what had she done?

Her bones clicked as she shot up from the couch. She went to the door and put her feet in her boots. She was still wearing pyjamas, but she put on her long coat so people wouldn't notice - unless they really looked hard. It was much colder than she thought it'd be. But it was fine. In fact, she couldn't stop smiling. Kenny was her son. She thought about the other parents who would understand what she felt. She hadn't always felt like this, but now she did. And he was gone.

She saw the pub sign in the distance. The fog had lifted around it. She picked up the pace and even though her laces had come undone, she didn't stop to tie them. She had to get there.

"Kenny!" she said as she came in through the door. One or two heads looked up from the bar. A couple of guys playing pool stopped and stared back at her.

It was a rough pub. The walls were nicotine yellow. There were crisp packets on the floor. A pint glass on the bar filled up with drips from the leaky ceiling. But she knew Kenny often used to come in here. And if he wasn't in here today, someone was bound to know where he was.

"Is Kenny here?" she said, looking between them all.

A barman climbed up from the cellar, breathing heavily.

"Kenny Cooper?" he said, coughing.

She nodded.

"I haven't seen Kenny in months. He used to be in here every day from about six til last orders. He played for our pool team on Thursdays," the barman said.

"Where is he?" she said.

The barman said: "He left town. He met a girl and then got a job where she was from. It all happened pretty quickly. Why, who's asking?"

"His mum," she said.

"He mentioned you a couple of times," the barman said.

She nodded and smiled, but the barman didn't elaborate. One of the men playing pool came over.

"Here, I've got his number. Give him a call, see how he's getting on. Tell him Dave says hello," the man said.

"I will, thank you," she said.

She left the pub. On the way home, she saw a group of kids hanging out on bikes near the bins. One of them was doing a wheelie on his own, the others were slumped over their handlebars.

She shouted over to them: "Your mothers love you!"

They looked back at her, baffled. Usually they were laughing at how terrified of them she was. She had a completely different energy today.

———

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Viewing is essential

THIS SPACIOUS MODERN THIRD FLOOR APARTMENT INCLUDES:

ENTRANCE HALL (3.6m x 1.3m) where they squeezed in their furniture on Moving In Day, as dad helped them unload all the bags and boxes from the van outside.

CARPET FLOORING, which got ruined by the peppered footprints of his hiking boots, and helped them agree a ‘no shoes inside’ rule.

LARGE STORAGE CUPBOARD, where they kept their old photographs and study folders that she’d secretly get out and go through to remind her of more exciting times.

DOUBLE BEDROOM (4.3m x 2.6m) where she’d brought him a pot of tea and a plate of toast, fried eggs and bacon, the afternoon after his birthday party.

DOUBLE-GLAZED WINDOWS they’d argue about opening or shutting, especially in May and October.

BUILT-IN WARDROBE she stared at, wondering which summer dresses to pack for that holiday by the sea she’d told him was a weekend at her parents’.

EN-SUITE BATHROOM (2.2m x 2.9m) where she found herself belting out Bohemian Rhapsody the morning after he moved out.

SINK AND MIRROR he looked in nervously as she tried to shave his stubble for the first and last time in something that could have been one of those Gillette moments.

ELECTRIC SHOWER OVER BATH, where he scattered tea lights and rose petals on the Valentine’s Day she hadn’t made it back from the office.

TILED FLOORING that felt cold on her left cheek when she woke up hungover and confused one morning, briefly forgetting he’d left weeks before.

EXTRACTOR FAN that came on with the light switch, and woke him up every time he slept in that bed.

HEATED TOWEL RAIL they hung their underwear on when they knew they’d have no one visiting for a while.

KITCHEN DINER (6.8m x 4.9m) where he held her tight and spun her around when she opened the letter saying she’d got the trainee solicitor job.

FRIDGE FREEZER that wouldn’t close because of all the booze, meat and dips they’d bought for their housewarming party.

WASHER/DRYER she filled with extra detergent to get the smell of sick out her jacket.

ELECTRIC OVEN WITH GAS HOBS he spent an hour scrubbing clean after the food fight with squirty cream and porridge oats.

BALCONY WINDOWS she gazed out of while watching the raindrops race each other down the streaky glass, answering “nothing” whenever he asked “what’s up?”

SEATING AREA where he’d read all the text messages from her colleague.

THE PROPERTY ALSO BENEFITS FROM:

ELECTRIC HEATING that came on during the night, and made his month sleeping by the radiator on the living room floor more bearable.

ON-STREET PERMIT PARKING where he sat behind the wheel of his car and took a few deep breaths before driving away.

CYCLE STORE, where she’d go to call her friend from work.

GROUND FLOOR ENTRANCE where they sometimes left each other ‘I love you’ and ‘From Your Secret Admirer’ type notes in their post box.

COMMUNAL LIFT where they used to kiss as it took them up or down.

EASY ACCESS TO LOCAL AMENITIES, like the convenience store where he bought her those Happy Anniversary flowers two years running.

CLOSE TO CITY CENTRE AMUSEMENTS, where they first met and could only see the sun.

Viewing is essential.

———

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On finding out my ex-girlfriend was cheating on me

An open letter.

Today, nearly four years after our six-year relationship ended, I found out you were cheating on me.

Things had started off so well between us, in that first naïve summer when neither of us had any worries in the world. Then I went back to university, and you went back home to save up for your first year at drama school.

Was it then that it happened?

We lived 250 miles away, and it was challenging. It seemed particularly tough for you, who had a job washing pots and was jealous at the thought of me living a more exciting student life in which you worried my head would be turned. But I’m a decent person and I stayed faithful. I wished you’d believed me. You needed reassurance so I texted and called you with regular updates, sometimes 30 times a day. And whether I was reading at home, walking to the library, at a gig, or wherever, I was always honest. Every two or three weeks you knew exactly where I was anyway – with you, at your parents’ house, where I spent my student loan travelling to.

Was it then that it happened?

Later that year we hit a rocky patch. It was my second year living in a big city and I was changing. While it was still tough seeing you wave me off from the station platform after spending another weekend together, once I was at the other end I had exciting stuff going on that you were never part of – and didn’t want to understand. One day in the holidays I tried to end our relationship. You begged me to stay and I wasn’t strong enough to see it through, so we gave it another go. That night I told myself things would get easier when you went to drama school, but to be honest it felt like a missed opportunity.

Was it then that it happened?

And things did get easier. You were busier and happier at drama school. You still wanted to know what I was up to and with whom. You said you wouldn’t get upset when I told you, but whenever it involved a female friend, you did. I would spend hours reassuring you, often missing out on conversations and memories with the people around me because of the lengthy phonecalls and texts needed to put your mind at ease. I tried to lead by example by never questioning where you were going or which friends you were spending time with, but it didn’t work. A lesser man would have just lied to you. Despite that, I was excited to visit you. The train prices had gone up, but I got the one at 5am so I could afford it.

Was it then that it happened?

The weeks and months were flying by and pretty soon I was in my final year. We were both doing well and I was optimistic about our future. I was going to be a writer – you an actress. Together we would embody the virtues of following your dreams, doing what you were born to do, and working your ass off to get where you want to be. I knew we could do it.

Was it then that it happened?

After I graduated I went travelling. I remember being our goodbyes at the bus station. It felt like the end of that first summer – just, wrong. Every day I was out there was a countdown to seeing you again. My fingers were sore from writing about you in my journal. I knew that when I returned, you were the girl I would settle down with. I wasn’t afraid of committing. Being away from you for so long gave me that clarity. I remember the teary international phonecall from a payphone somewhere, when I said I was at the halfway point of my journey, and I was now pretty much on my way back to you.

Was it then that it happened?

When I got back, I got a job in the city where you were studying. For a while I lived with you and your flatmates, but I knew it was temporary, because we weren’t ready to take that step just yet. At least I was in the same city as you, and we could see each other all the time. With everything we’d been through, all the train journeys and long-distance calls, we’d really earned that right.

Was it then that it happened?

A year later I took a job out of the city. It was a career decision and we agreed it would be better to give you that extra time to study for your final exams and performances. Sometimes you doubted yourself, and I’d try to motivate you by saying stuff like “you’re special”, “look at how far you’ve come and what you’ve achieved. You just need to keep at it and it’ll happen. It could happen tomorrow”, and “in the end you either succeed or you give up”. I couldn’t bear you to give up on your dreams. Too many people do that. When you graduated with 1st class honours, you thanked me for it. But I said it was all you.

Was it then that it happened?

You moved back home after graduating, and got yourself an agent! Things were looking up. See, I told you things would work out if we stuck at it. We visited each other every few weeks or so, but before long I was in a situation where I needed to find another flat, and we took the opportunity to move in together. We went for a drink to celebrate signing the contract. When you went to the bathroom I remember thinking how happy I was that you’d convinced me to stay with you all those years before.

Was it then that it happened?

I took care of the rent – you helped out with the bills. It made sense, because I was the one with the permanent income. Even if it wasn’t a very good one, it made me feel good to provide. I was happy to support you in getting your acting career started. You couldn’t get a full-time job anyway, because you needed to be available for auditions. You did a few adverts and local theatre jobs here and there, and we celebrated each and every success.

Was it then that it happened?

You seemed tired when we were coming home from spending New Year’s with some of your family down south. When we got back you looked at me and said you were going to stay with your mum and dad for a while, because you needed to think things over. I thought you were kidding. You said: “I might come back in five minutes, or I might never come back,” and left. Our luggage was still on the floor.

It wasn’t nice not knowing. I didn’t want to tell friends and family in case you did come back and they knew we were having problems. I was in limbo. Whenever I’d hear a car slow down outside I thought it was you. But it never was and I got over it and moved to another city to start my next chapter.

I wish you had told me when you started to want different things, rather than do what you did. But thank you. Thank you for adding another twist in the narrative of triumph my life will eventually become. There will be more knocks to come I’m sure. Along with the bullies at scouts, the doubting school teachers and the father who left me as a two-year-old boy, you are part of the crowd who inspires me to go further and better to prove wrong.

———

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Never wake me up: an extract

Fourth

Cannick was hired at a hotel and started a few days later. Tahoe hung around for a while and got a job herself. She called her grandma in Thunder Bay and told her she’d visit in a few weeks’ time but wouldn’t be able to stay as long as she’d originally planned. She washed dishes in a café on the outskirts of town, and strangely it was one of the cleaners from the Greyhound terminal that day who gave her the job.

They stayed in the hostel for a couple of months, and moved into their own apartment the day before Halloween. Their next door neighbours threw a party and invited them in, so they met a whole bunch of people there. By the end of the year their friends and family were visiting them and telling them how happy they looked. And they were.

At some point they stopped living paycheque to paycheque and started saving. At around the same time Tahoe went to the bathroom and came out holding a pregnancy test. It was the third one she’d taken so she was pretty sure. It took them a few more months and a promotion for them to get a deposit together for a house, and everything went through before the twins came along.


“Where does the time go,” said Cannick. He was sat in his friend Kelvin’s back garden, holding a glass of water and watching Kit and Elodie play with a plastic gardening shovel.

Elodie was getting fed up of Kit dragging her around by her feet, so she was holding the shovel like a fencer would hold a sword to ward him off. Kit used his size to wrestle it from her and hold it high above his head so she couldn’t get it. She thrashed her arms around to try. His wide-set nose wrinkled as he laughed.

“Does that look alright to you?” he said.

“I guess if one of them hits the other over the head with it you might have a problem,” said Kelvin, climbing up off his deck chair. “I’m going to get another beer. Want one?”

“No thanks,” said Cannick. “You know I don’t drink, right?”

Kelvin stopped. “No way. How long?”

“Five years. I was such a mess you wouldn’t believe it,” said Cannick. “One day at a time.”

Kelvin raised his eyebrows as he disappeared through his French windows. Cannick got up and went over to the twins. The grass was cooler than he thought it would be as his bare feet stroked the neatly trimmed blades and daisies. He’d been outside for most of the afternoon and things had changed over the four hours or so.

“Kit, Elodie, come on, let’s find you something safer to play with,” said Cannick, wrestling the shovel from Kit’s 18-month-old fingers. He pointed towards a pair of tennis balls and nudged them both in that direction. Then he jogged back to the patio where he took his seat again. There was laughter inside the house. The hiss of another beer bottle opening and the clinking of the bottle top dropping onto the floor preceded Kelvin coming back out. He had a huge smile on his face when he did. He smiled at Cannick and then at the twins on his way to his deck chair, before collapsing into it.

“Tennis balls can’t do much harm can they?” he said.

Cannick laughed.

“Unless one of them’s the next Roger Federer,” added Kelvin. “Or the Williams sisters.”

An aeroplane appeared out of the clouds to the west and buzzed over the horizon towards the east. The journey it took, across the green treetops of Van Wallegham Park and the lake nearby, held their attention for half a minute or so. It was the first time Cannick had really taken in his surroundings at Kelvin’s place.

“Show off,” said Kelvin. He took a swig of his beer and added: “That guy flies over here every Sunday. Just when I’m kicking back thinking about how good my life is, there he flies to show me his is even better. His name is Phil Thomas, or Thomas Phillips, or something like that.”

“Just think about how many bigger planes he sees when he’s up there,” said Cannick. He got up and stretched. “Anyway man, we’d better go. It’s getting towards these guys’ feeding time. Thanks for having us.”

“Pleasure. Give my best to Tahoe. Would have been nice to see her today. Hope she’s OK,” said Kelvin.

“She’s fine, just a little under the weather. Summer colds, you know how it is,” said Cannick, walking over to Kit and Elodie. “When did you last see her?”

“Must have been when these two guys were born,” said Kelvin.

Cannick picked up the kids and walked over to Kelvin. “No way,” he said. “We’ll definitely sort something out soon. Say goodbye to uncle Kelvin, kids.”

The twins said nothing.

“They’re tired. we’d better get going,” said Cannick. He made for the side gate that led to the sloped driveway out front. “See you soon, give my best to Tadila.”

“Will do, Cannick. Safe journey.”

With the kids firmly in their baby seats, Cannick got behind the wheel and shut his door.

“Hey Cannick,” said Kelvin. He came up to the window on the driver’s side and gestured for Cannick to wind it down, which he did.

“Hey man,” said Cannick.

Kelvin folded his arms on the door and leaned in uncomfortably close.

“Is everything alright with you and Tahoe?” he said after a while.

Cannick nodded.

“If there’s something going on and you think we can help, well, we’re here anytime,” said Kelvin.

Kelvin studied him for a second and then saw the twins in the back, staring back at him blankly.

“OK then,” he added. “Like I said, it’d be great to see you guys soon. Safe journey.”

Kelvin patted the top of the car a couple of times as a goodbye. He didn’t look back as he walked towards his front door. Cannick took a couple of deep breaths before he turned on the ignition and let the car roll down the driveway.

———

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Chicken

The room's motion sensor light turned itself off.
He tried waving his hands and it worked.

Dear Heather, he wrote. It's strange that-
He chewed his nail, to make it smooth and even.
But daggers scraped his lips.
He smelt garlic through pores.

Taking his pencil he wrote on the notepad.
That I love you but at the moment-
And tried to stay between the lines.
-I'm not looking forward to seeing you.

He knew that was exactly how he wanted to start it.
Thought of it in the cafe, a few days before.
Wonder if that man sat next to him was meeting someone?
He kept looking over his shoulder. Maybe he was nervous.

The motion sensor light turned off. He waved, it worked.
Anyway.
I do want to come home but I am still horrified-
Why didn't he sit where he could see the front door?
-about last night. Everytime we get back together-
Oh yeah, that seat was taken.
Daggers scraping lips, garlic pores.
-feels like an opportunity missed.

He strayed out of the lines and felt like trying again.
Was it important enough to do a version 'in best'? Yes.
The carpet looked like a bus seat. Just ugly.
Sat at the very back, the feeling of the engine behind him.
And when it stopped on the bridge, at night.
The river beneath him was invisible in the dark.
But he knew it was was there because he could hear it.
Another time, a bike tyre mark embedded in dog shit, at one of the stops.
Time to get a car.

Trying to make his nails smooth and even. He knew better.
Anyway. Let's keep going with this draft for now.
I don't want people watching when I pull up outside-
The pencils in school either said HB or 2B on them.
They were black and red or black and yellow.
-and walk to the front door.

The light went off. Waved, worked.
Daggers on lips. Garlic pores.
Like an opportunity missed, he read over. That was the key bit.
Who knew the inside of your ears could bruise?
That was the main message alright.

Maybe a version 'in best' isn't needed.
He felt like a good person for even considering it was.
It's nice to focus on doing something and just do it y'know.
Yours,

———

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