The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside

by Jessica Ryn

  ‘And I’ve got another idea,’ Grace says, slapping the table. She thinks about the mountains of paperwork, the red tape, the risk assessments she’ll have to get written up. She looks at Dawn’s smiling face from across the table, remembering what she’d said in her keyworking meeting. You can make anything happen if you hope hard enough. She picks up the marker pen and writes it down as everyone crowds around the table to watch what she adds to the sheet of paper.

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  Cheers and whistles break out and everyone starts talking at once as they throw and catch ideas between them across the table. Grace looks out through the glass at the vibrant colours of the tea garden; the pinks and purples of the hydrangeas. Getting the outside areas up to scratch had seemed like an impossible task too before they’d got started. As the sun’s rays shoot through the window and rest across Grace’s shoulders, she realises her mask has melted. And it turns out there was a real smile under there after all.

  ‘Well, I’m off to find some sleeping bags,’ Terry announces before getting up from the table. ‘I think there’s a few of them in the storage cupboard downstairs.’

  Peter and Hazel both thank him before rushing to get back to their conversation. They’re onto books now. The ones they love, the ones they hate. Grace didn’t know Peter even liked reading. She slips out of her chair and heads back to the kitchen. It’s sure to be a right mess from the bake sale prep and Peter’s clearly been otherwise engaged.

  ‘How about Francine’s again?’ Grace hears Hazel say behind her. ‘We could meet there on purpose this time – I’m free tonight? Or a curry? Curry’s my favourite, but either would be fine.’

  ‘Actually…’ Peter begins.

  Grace’s heart lifts as she reaches the counter and plonks herself behind it. The nosy part of her had wanted to stay and listen, but she’ll leave them to it and squeeze the gossip from Hazel another time. A twinge of envy pulls at her as she imagines having the freedom to ask Jack on a proper date without worrying about who could be watching.

  Peter, though? Grace can’t help smiling again as she fills the sink with washing up. If grumpy Pete can find love, there’s hope for anyone.

  She’s getting a tea towel from the drawer when Peter walks past, knocking over a stack of recyclable takeaway cups on his way to the coffee machine.

  ‘So. Date night then. Where are you going to take her?’ Grace sings in a teasing voice. She can wind him up for days with this one.

  Peter struggles with the coffee filter and bashes the side of the unit. ‘Bloody machine. I only want a bloody coffee.’ He mutters. ‘And there’s not going to be a date. Told her I’m too busy.’

  ‘You… you did what?’ Grace whips around from the draining rack, towel in one hand and a dripping mixing bowl in the other. ‘What did you tell her that for?’

  ‘You’re getting that everywhere.’ Peter points to the soap suds swimming across the floor around Grace’s feet. ‘It’s just not a good idea, that’s all. You saw how I was last night. I just don’t think I’m ready for another relationship after what happened with my Jenny. And then there’s the fundraising. What if we go out and it all goes tits up? She might not want to help us then, and it’ll be my fault.’

  ‘Listen, Pete.’ Grace dabs at the floor with the soggy dishcloth, ignoring Peter’s disapproving glare before chucking it across the room to the laundry basket. ‘You need to grab happiness whenever it comes past, otherwise it just keeps moving, leaving you cold and empty.’ The tap’s still dripping, they must get that fixed. Jack’s face appears at the front of her mind. His face in the pub when she’d told him they were over. Grace gives herself a shake and tightens the cold side until it plops more slowly. ‘The point is, you deserve love. Hazel deserves love. The fundraising is important, and so is this place. But you have to think of your happiness. Of a future with love in it. Go after her.’

  Peter stares back at her with a blank face. ‘You don’t half talk some shit sometimes, Grace.’ But he unplugs the coffee machine and runs from the café, banging the door behind him. Grace watches through the window as he catches up with Hazel along the clifftop, all the way up by the lighthouse. Looks like your boat’s come in, Pete.

  Chapter 24

  Dawn

  FOR THE THIRD NIGHT in a row, Dawn strolls along the clifftop at midnight. It had been too hot to lie in bed and her thoughts were far too loud in the silence of her room. She can manage them better out here. They feel smaller against the expanse of the sea, the lights from the boats below.

  It’s been a busy day, and it’s hard to switch off sometimes. As soon as she’d got back into her room after the brainstorming session and the bake sale this morning, she’d given a sample selection of the day’s cakes and pastries to Shaun. He told her he liked Dawn’s the best. Lovely boy, that Shaun. She’d then sent another Facebook message to Rosie before leaving, telling her all about the bake sale and how next time she saw her, she’d make her one of her special scones; she’s getting quite good at them now.

  She’s almost reached her favourite bench, but someone is sitting on it.

  ‘Peter – I thought it was you!’ Dawn had heard him and Grace talking earlier about Peter taking Hazel on a date tonight. Looking at the state of him, it looks as if it didn’t happen or it didn’t go according to plan.

  Peter is shivering in his corduroys and keeps shuffling from one side to the next.

  Dawn plonks herself next to him. They sit in silence for a long time. Dawn enjoys the peace for a little while, but then it gets awkward, especially when he gives up on hiding the drink inside his coat and is now holding it out in front of himself like a bomb.

  ‘Are you going to drink that?’ Dawn asks, breaking into the silence.

  The wind is getting up. The sound of the waves slapping the rocks below has been switched to surround sound.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

  Dust from the ground below is being blown all over the lenses of Peter’s glasses. He removes his frames with his one free hand.

  ‘You want me to take it?’ Dawn asks, looking at the bottle. She throws him a smile, just a small one, and Peter releases his grip as she takes it gently from his hand.

  ‘One of those days,’ he says as he wipes his scratched-up glasses and returns them to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Yup. Guess we’ve all had them,’ Dawn says. ‘Looks like it’s been a bit more than that for you, though.’

  ‘Just been on a date with Hazel. Only she wanted to go to the pub. I’m not good with pubs and I ended up telling her why. That I’m an alcoholic. Thought she’d understand. I think I was wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Least you were honest. What did she say?’

  ‘Not much. She didn’t get up and leave or anything – she just went quiet. I’d forgotten how much this shit hurts when you give it an inch and let it rise to the surface. It’s all my fault, that’s all.’ His voice sounds shaky. ‘The inspection, the hostel… all of it. My fault.’

  ‘How do you work that out? Grace told us they’re taking money away from loads of places like St Jude’s, all over the country. That your fault too?’

  ‘No… but dating the inspector and managing to offend her in a hundred different ways probably didn’t get us off to a good start.’ Peter pushes his cold hands deep into his coat pockets.

  ‘You dated the hostel inspector?’ Dawn shouts over the wind as it blows past their ears.

  ‘Not intentionally, and only once. Right before she assessed us. Stupid of me to even think about getting involved with a woman again. Especially after… well, before.’

  Dawn shuffles back and settles further into the bench, pulling her coat tighter around her middle. ‘What happened before?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you about it, it’s inappropriate. I’m sorry.’ Peter shakes his head.

  ‘I’m still holding the Jack Daniels that you were about to drink straight from the bottle on a freezing-arse bench on your own in the
dark. Bit late to be worrying about your professional image if you ask me. Which I realise you didn’t,’ adds Dawn.

  A chuckle falls from Peter. He starts slowly at first. Telling her about his early missions as a surgeon with Doctors Without Borders. The stress of working under pressure in dangerous situations with minimal resources. The buzz and the pride that came along for the ride with every soul he helped, every shift that made a difference. He tells her about meeting his fiancé, Jenny, for the first time and the fierce joy he’d felt when she joined him out in the Congo as a nurse on his team.

  ‘Jenny was kidnapped?’ Dawn asks, leaning forward when he gets to that bit. ‘What do you mean, kidnapped? Did she come back?’

  ‘Some of the local military groups didn’t like it when we helped the enemy. DWB is impartial – they have to be. Sometimes people did extreme things to send the message that we weren’t welcome in the area.’

  Dawn lets out a long whistle as she breathes out.

  ‘Luckily we found her alive – just. And she recovered in the end. She left nursing. I didn’t blame her one bit. I stayed on for a while, but I kept getting these flashbacks. I couldn’t stop them taking her, see, and I should’ve… I should’ve.’ His breaths are getting jagged again. ‘Things just went to shit after that,’ he carries on. ‘I got discharged from DWB and went back to working in Kent. General surgery. Just like before, except this time I had all these memories for company. And the only thing that could switch them off for a while was the booze.’ He stops and looks at Dawn.

  ‘That’s when I really screwed up,’ Peter plunges back in, telling Dawn about his memories. The flashes that come to him out of nowhere each day. The inside of a girl’s chest cavity. Her hospital notes; the claret smudge in the corner by her name. Miss Leah Moat aged nine. His shaking hands. The severed aorta; blood can travel so very far.

  ‘Some things you never come back from,’ he whispers.

  He describes the grey of Mr Moat’s face. They did everything they could. The meetings and the hearings in the days that followed. The alcohol concentration in Peter’s blood. Just routine. BAC levels point zero six three. Increased impairment likely.

  ‘Hey,’ Dawn says. She places her coat over Peter’s thin jacket, and her arm across his shivering shoulders. Wheezing with tears, he surrenders his forehead to the crook of Dawn’s shoulder and heaves against her with guttural sobs.

  The ferry is making its way through the stone arch of the harbour now, the lights from its windows casting patterns on the inky waves below.

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry.’ Peter sniffs as he sits up, hooking his index finger under his glasses and poking at the skin below his eyes, soaking up the tears. ‘You must be frickin’ freezing.’

  ‘I’m giving this back to you now,’ says Dawn. ‘I know you know what to do.’ She leans over to her side of the bench and hands him the bottle she’s retrieved from the ground.

  The cap pops as it opens, and the dirt below makes a fizzing sound as it receives the first few drops of the bottle’s contents. The rest is poured on the grass, an oaky smell filling the air as droplets splash back onto Dawn’s shoes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter says, quietly. ‘Think I’ll go back to my support group at the community centre tomorrow morning. I’ve not been for months.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ Dawn hopes he’ll say yes. Her and Cara have usually finished with their morning coffee runs on the seafront and the park by 9 a.m. and she likes to fill her mornings with interesting things to do.

  Peter shuffles his feet and stares at his shoes. ‘Normally I’d say no thanks. You’re a resident and it doesn’t feel fair for you to have to listen to all my stuff. But Grace is working and you’ve already heard the worst of it.’

  ‘Count me in. And if being at St Jude’s has taught me anything,’ says Dawn, ‘it’s that you need to find your tribe. The rest of the journey’s not designed to be a solo one. Group tickets always offer the best value.’

  After speaking with Peter on the cliffs last night, Dawn had gone to sleep with the type of glow that comes along whenever she’s helped someone. She’d woken feeling refreshed and is enjoying the warm sea breeze on her skin as she trundles down the hill from St Jude’s to meet Peter.

  Peter is already standing outside the community centre when Dawn gets there, shuffling his feet and cleaning his glasses.

  ‘Ready to go in?’ Dawn asks him.

  The hall is just as draughty as it had been the last time Dawn had set foot in there with Cara, this time last week. A few of the faces are the same but there are plenty of new ones. The circle of people around her is larger and even more eclectic than before. It’s rarely like the films or the TV documentaries about crack addicts who experience miraculous religious conversions and become vicars or self-help book authors. Mostly it’s just people like Pat from the post office.

  Dawn takes a sideways glace at Peter. His eyes keep flittering around the circle, probably sizing up the newbies and see what they’re about, but without making any actual eye contact. He’s already admitted to Dawn how terrified he is about being asked to blurt out his name and addiction of choice, especially after so many months away from them.

  The woman opposite Dawn is blabbing through words that are difficult to decipher. Grey circles sit under her eyes in stark contrast to her pale face. Lank hair falls to her underweight shoulders.

  ‘Thank you so much for sharing with us, Candy.’ The facilitator serves her a sweet smile, albeit with a side of patronising.

  Candy? There’s no way that’s her real name. Dawn bites into the stale rich tea that had been thrust upon them when they’d first sat down.

  ‘And it’s wonderful to see you back again. Would you like to introduce yourself to the group?’

  Dawn has a mouth full of cloying crumbs that she can’t seem to swallow, and even if she could, her mind had gone so blank she can barely remember her name. Maybe she should make one up too. She could call herself Destiny or Chlamydia. Perhaps she could be a famous rock star who turned to Class As when the pressure of success got too much. After all she probably would have been hugely successful in the music industry, had she been able to carry on with her piano lessons.

  Peter nudges her, causing her to choke violently on a biscuit crumb that somehow catapults out of her mouth and into the circle along with a glob of her saliva. Dawn realises through her red-hot flush that the leader-woman hadn’t even been speaking to her, but to Peter.

  He clears his throat and Dawn steals a glance at him, a proper one. He looks terrified and is studying the shiny parquet flooring of the community centre as if it holds the words he’s supposed to say.

  Dawn gives Peter’s hand a squeeze and watches as he stares sobriety in its ugly face and takes his first step for the second time.

  ‘My name is Peter,’ he starts, before talking about his life before he got sober. About how Grace had been the one to get him there a year ago. He describes the chaos that his life had been in, and how he’d begun to ache for feelings that hadn’t been manufactured in a countryside brewery. He explains how much it had sucked at first, baring his soul to a group of strangers. But it had got easier over time, he’d even started to look forward to it. Then he’d got his job at St Jude’s and that had taken over his time and his energy. His sobriety, now, he admits, is on borrowed time. He’s tried to play solo but the road through recovery is narrow and oh, so slippery.

  ‘Thank you for sharing this morning.’ The group leader smiles at Peter and Dawn during ‘tea and biscuits’ time after the meeting. ‘It’s great to have you back.’

  ‘Well, I might be a screw-up and I’ve caused no end of shit to fly from my life and land across everybody else’s. But if I keep myself on the straight and narrow, I can at least make up for just a tiny part of it.’ Peter smiles at Dawn. ‘Plus, one of my good friends has dared me to believe there might be hope on the other side.’

  Chapter 25

  Dawn

  AS SOON AS DAWN
arrives back at St Jude’s from the community centre, Grace rushes out from the office door and hovers in front of her.

  ‘I tried to catch you yesterday after the bake sale, but then we all got distracted with the fundraising plans and you seemed in a rush to leave this morning.’

  Dawn says nothing. She can’t let her know where she’d been going; Peter might get into trouble for allowing her to go along.

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ Grace says. ‘We just wanted to check you’re okay. One of the other residents mentioned you’ve been feeling a little anxious about things that have been happening in your room,’ Grace says.

  Peter arrives at the hatch beside her, he’d gone on ahead of Dawn after the group session so he could give Grace a hand in the office.

  The bubble of safety and belonging that Dawn had felt since going to the group with Peter pops in an instant. Cold creeps across her arms as she remembers the fear. Who had told? Does someone want her out? She shouldn’t have let herself feel safe, not even for a moment. Complacency is the enemy when it comes to hiding from danger, that’s why she always keeps moving. It’s not only herself she needs to keep safe – what if he finds Rosie?

  A single sob echoes around the foyer, bouncing right back at Dawn. The words start sliding around in her ears again, quiet at first, getting louder and louder as they gain momentum. Tell anyone, and I will kill you. His red hair burns brightly in her mind. Everything in this hostel is just so damn noisy. People’s voices, mixing together like an untuned orchestra. Footsteps behind her make slow clapping sounds across the cheap laminate. Heat is crawling up her body and burning her up from the inside.

  ‘I think someone’s been threatening me. Trying to show me that if I don’t leave soon then I’ll be trapped here and found.’

  ‘Someone has said those actual words?’ Grace says slowly as she places an armful of paperwork back on her desk, glancing sideways at Peter who continues to look at Dawn, waiting for her answer.