by Jessica Ryn
JESSICA RYN is a former midwife and homeless resettlement worker. She has recently completed her MA in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University, and her stories have been shortlisted for the Kimberly Chambers’ Kickstarter Award, Wordsmag and the Val Wood Prize for Creative Writing. When she’s not scribbling away, Jessica can be found meandering through the woods, reading stories that pull on the feel-strings and eating yoghurt-covered skittles. Jessica lives in Dover with her husband, two children and their high-spirited springer spaniel. The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside is her debut novel.
@Jessryn1
www.jessicaryn.com
The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside
Jessica Ryn
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Jessica Ryn 2020
Jessica Ryn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008364632
Version 2020-10-28
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008364618
For Patrick and Jack and Emilie.
My tribe and my world.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Prologue
THEN
Dawn
THE PROBLEM WITH MOVING trains is, they are tricky to exit without causing rather a lot of fuss and bother. Dawn could do without the fuss and bother, especially with him in the carriage behind. It’s the fourth train she’s boarded today, and she’d been hoping to have lost him by now. Even ducking into the station loos to change her clothes hadn’t helped. Maybe she should have chopped off her hair like they do on the telly.
‘Anything from the trolley, love?’
Dawn jumps as a cart comes clattering into carriage B, pushed by a young man with a proud smile and a modest collection of beige cookies. Perhaps he could help. She could whip out her eyeliner and scribble a note on one of his napkins… Help, I’m being followed by the man in the Metallica T-shirt. The one with the huge shoulders and the red hair.
But then what? He’d just say it wasn’t him and that there’s no proof.
Dawn needs to hide; start again.
‘No thanks,’ she smiles at the trolley boy, regretfully pinching at her belly fat, knowing it will make him grin, tut and leave her the hell alone. It does.
If only laying off the cookies would get rid of the heaviness sitting on the inside of her stomach. She can deal with the flab, it’s a reminder of motherhood, of how her body had stretched and strained and carried. That the past fourteen months had been real. She’s been having some trouble with that lately: reality. That’s why she’d spent the previous week trying to convince the staff at the Barton Wing that she was fit for discharge. They’d agreed after the paint-by-numbers piece she’d displayed of her recovery. Of her nearby friends, all on hand to help. How they’d rally around with their cuddles, cups of tea and daily reminders to take the medication that’s lodged in the bottom of her rucksack under Rosie’s cot blanket that still smells like her. Of course, she’d had to lie, there was no way anyone could be there for her, not after everything she’s done.
The overhead lights on the train flicker on in response to the early winter’s evening, illuminating the grubby floor and the empty crisp packets strewn across the stained fabric of the seats. The approaching darkness also means Dawn can see more of the inside than outside through the window. She looks away from the glass, wishing she could close her eyes for five minutes. She daren’t though, she needs to keep her wits about her.
Four young women occupy the table at the front of the carriage. The curly-haired one says something witty about their sociology lecturer and they all laugh. Self-assured laughs. Aren’t-we-clever laughs. Dawn can’t work out whether it feels an age or a minute since she was the one on the train on the way back from uni, snickering with Mel and her other student midwife buddies. It’s still less than two years ago. Two years since her twenty-year-old self had plonked her springy backside on a train, carrying her dreams, an engagement ring and a glint in her eye.
How the mighty can fall.
The girls grow silent and Dawn inches herself downwards, easing her shoulder blades against the back of her seat. She needs to stay calm. Relaxed. This is the only way. A clean slate with all the old stuff rubbed off. None of the memories, none of the people. A new place.
Step one – get off the train and onto the next without him following. If she can’t get that one right, the rest is pointless. Step two – start new life. Get herself and her rucksack somewhere safe, dry and not too fussy about references.
She distracts herself from the reanimated group at the front by imagining what her new flat might look like. Her new job. Obviously, she won’t be able to do what she was doing before; she no longer has the required paperwork. But something. Something good.
&nbs
p; How can she even hope for good things after what she’s done? Happiness can’t happen, not without her. Not until her.
But that’s step three, and she can’t start that until she’s sorted the first two.
That’s why she’s spent all day riding rails that span the length of England, from north to south and back up again.
He may have followed her onto this train, but the next station is soon, and she reckons she can lose him at that one. Then there’s just one more journey to take. The one that leads back to Rosie.
Chapter 1
NOW
Dawn
WHEN LIFE SENDS YOU right to the bottom, sometimes it helps to climb a hill and look at the world through higher eyes. Dawn catches her breath and decides what to do as she stands at her thinking spot by Dover Castle. From here, all of the town can be seen, its edges drawn around by hills of green. The stone harbour wall cuts a semi-circle through the sea, making space for ferries to come and go between Calais and the cliffs of Dover that stand like sparkling white teeth bared from England’s biggest grin.
She can’t stand there all day though, she’s got problems to sort, people to see. She walks the winding road to town as the school run rushes past, taking bleary-eyed children home from days of times tables and silent reading and towards their summer holidays. Adults scurry across pavements, skiving the last two hours of the working week. Friday afternoons don’t count, and every one of them knows it as they propel themselves towards their kettles or their glasses of Prosecco. Dawn expects they’ve earned it; it’s been one of those weeks.
She cuts through the park and past the line of boarded-up shops until she reaches the council building. She nips inside and joins the queue, smiling her usual thousand-watt smile. Disarming or alarming, no one can ever agree which.
‘It’s Dawn Elisabeth Brightside, Brightside one word,’ she tells the woman behind the Perspex-encased desk, before rattling off the numbers of her date of birth. She waits to be told that she doesn’t look like a woman in her forties. She must be thirty, maximum.
‘Address?’ The woman has barely looked up at her though, so there’s still time.
‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t actually have one.’ Dawn’s laugh makes the woman jump but at least she stops tap-tapping on her computer. Everyone else in the room must have heard too as they’re all looking at Dawn with varying degrees of curiosity. She would too if she were them. They’re thinking she doesn’t look like someone who would get themselves in such a pickle. She peers back at them, one at a time, wondering what they’re doing in the rows and columns of itchy seats.
She bets the man in the corner has just been let go from his job as an encyclopaedia salesman – not much call for them anymore, what with the internet and asking Siri. And her with the Marks and Spencer’s jeans; well, she probably just wants to complain about a late bin collection.
‘Miss Brightside?’ The desk woman, name badge; Tracey, here to help, is staring as if she’s waiting for an answer.
The reception area is nicer than you’d imagine. The desk goes around in a big circle with all the people behind it facing outwards behind their screens, ready to catch all the problems. It’s light and airy, and the walls are almost entirely made up of windows so all the regular people out doing their shopping can stare in and make up their own stories about the misfortunes of those inside. Dawn gives a quick wave towards the panelled glass on her right, just in case.
Tracey-here-to-help is still watching. ‘I was asking you if you have an appointment. There’s nothing showing up on the system?’
‘Oh, the system.’ Dawn make a pfft noise and bats her hand away towards the floor. ‘The system never shows anything; happens all the time. Just tell them Dawn Elisabeth Brightside is here, I’m sure that will be fine. That’s Brightside all one word.’
‘For homeless applications, we do need to set up a proper appointment, Miss Brightside, so you can speak to the right person in a private room.’
‘It’s Mrs.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Mrs Brightside. My husband’s no longer with us.’ Dawn lowers her voice.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Her head is cocked to the left at a thirty-degree angle, the universal gradient of sympathy. It makes Dawn feel warmer for a moment. Nice lady, that Tracey.
‘We could actually squeeze you in now, Room 2 appears to be free.’
Dawn should ask her why she didn’t just say that in the first place and no wonder it always takes so long to get through to the council if they’re always dilly-dallying about like this, but there’s no time to fit the words in before she’s ushered into a small pine-coloured room with purple-cushioned chairs.
‘There’s several factors we need to consider whilst we assess your application. First we need to assess whether or not you’ve made yourself intentionally homeless.’
This Tracey has an odd sense of humour. It’s a good job it’s just Dawn she’s asking; she can always see the funny side of most things. But if she was to say this kind of stuff to the wrong person, well, perhaps that’s what that security button on the desk is for.
‘Maybe this will explain things. It’s from my last landlord.’ Dawn gives Tracey the crumpled letter that’s been lurking in her bag for the last few months. She looks at the posters on the wall whilst Tracey reads it. They’re mostly about support groups and food banks.
‘This letter suggests you were given notice to leave over six months ago. Were you in arrears with your rent?’
‘Oh no, she just wants the house back. Something to do with her daughter, she…’
‘Could you not have arranged further private rented accommodation for yourself during this notice period?’
Perhaps Tracey doesn’t know how much landlords want paying upfront nowadays. All those deposits, a few hundred quid to fill out a form and a few more for the credit check people to tell her she can’t ‘pass go’, can’t collect two hundred pounds, and it’s straight to the council for Dawn. She’s always sucked at Monopoly.
‘I was a bit short of cash. Lost my job at Reg’s Reptiles – couldn’t afford me any longer, they said.’
‘Where have you been sleeping?’
‘Here and there. Dover really is a beautiful town. I’ve got to know it really well.’
‘Do you have family who could help?’ Tracey has stopped banging on her keyboard, her voice softer now.
Dawn wonders how many people must come in here who have no family at all, alone in the world with no one to turn to. It must really suck, knowing if anything happened to you, no one would actually notice.
‘There’s Rosie, my daughter. She’s abroad at the moment, Spain. She’s project-managing a… project. A very important one, I wouldn’t want to worry her. They’re trying for a baby, her and Mike. Imagine it, me a grandmother at forty, wouldn’t that be something?’
Tracey still doesn’t say anything. Maybe it’s company policy not to make remarks about how young people look. Dawn wishes she would say something though, anything, just to distract her. She’s still thinking about all those poor, lonely people with no one, and how if they died, people would only realise once their bodies started to decompose. That’s if they had a home of course. At least they’d be found quicker if it happened in a shop doorway or in the park. It’s a good thing she has her Rosie to speak to every day. If the worst happened to Dawn, Rosie would wonder why she hadn’t answered her calls and she’d alert someone. Yes, of course that’s what she’d do.
‘Are you suffering from any of the following: physical health problems, domestic abuse, disabilities of any kind and do you take any medication?’
The window on the left is open, leaving a path of warm and heavy air between the room and the arse-end of the park where all the ramps are kept. Children are performing tricks of impressive complexity on their boards, especially taking into account what it smells like they’re smoking. Dawn fights to remember the list Tracey’s just sprinted through.
; ‘No,’ she says after a moment.
‘Any mental health issues that may class you as being vulnerable?’
Is she more vulnerable than anybody else? She looks out again at the kids. One of them has just cracked open a can of Strongbow.
‘Nope. I mean, I’ve always been a bit up and down, but no. I’m fine.’ She remembers being asked a minute ago about medication but can’t think what it is she’s supposed to be taking.
‘I can place you on the list for social housing, but as it stands, you don’t qualify for emergency housing. You’re not classed as a priority.’
Ouch. Dawn glances up at Tracey’s ‘Investors in People’ award that’s fixed to the wall behind her. She tries her best, she supposes. It must be hard having to spend the day telling people they aren’t her priority. I mean, it’s fine for Dawn, she’s used to it, she hasn’t been at the top of anyone’s list for a long time, but for some people, well, that sort of thing could be hurtful.
‘There’s a list of phone numbers in this booklet for hostels who can sometimes take in people who we’re not obligated to house. It may be worth giving them a call, but they often have waiting lists. St Jude’s is the nearest, on Dover cliffs. I can give you some vouchers to take along to the food bank until your benefits are instated. Any questions?’
She has plenty.
Dawn forces the booklet and the vouchers inside her over-flowing holdall, £12.99 from Primark. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll give that St Jude’s place a try.’
Tracey holds an arm out towards Dawn when she gets up to leave. Dawn is already hugging her when she realises she’d probably just been going in for a handshake.
Chapter 2
Grace
‘I AM STRONG, I am confident and I am brave,’ Grace Jennings mutters to the blank computer screen in front of her. ‘I do not fear Mondays…’ Grace’s phone bleeps its eight-forty reminder to make her green tea (with ylang-ylang) and to complete today’s meditation in her Six-Minute Meditation app.