‘The Constellation of Cartwheels …’ you said.
‘The Constellation of Thunderstorms …’
‘The Constellation of Mini Dictionaries …’
After we brought our eyes back down to the estate I remember feeling giddy from glimpsing something so magnificent. Something so immensely wider than our imaginations could comprehend. Something we were part of, without even meaning to be. We were the universe, Marianne. We were everything.
I want to feel that feeling again. I want to be part of it all. And that’s why I don’t run.
I want to be brave, just like you had been.
The rain continues to fall at a slant. My mouth splutters droplets as I speak.
‘I didn’t think you’d still be here.’
Jonathan shrugs, the bug eyes of the ladybird umbrella bouncing up with the movement of his shoulders.
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
He drops his gaze in his old sulky manner. It looks ridiculous, a man as big as him being so petulant. But I don’t get annoyed because I can see the act for what it is now. A shield to protect him from pain, a cloak to cover up his wounds.
Jonathan kicks the dirt on the floor. ‘I’ll go if you want.’
I sit down next to him on the log, placing the suitcase beside me. He shifts the umbrella towards me, still not looking at me but creating enough of a shelter for me to put down my hood. I pat my hair flat.
‘I don’t want you to go.’
He glances over at me before kicking the ground again. I’m glad to see him, even in this grumpy state, and know that I’ve been handed my last chance. I pull the suitcase to my knees and open the one working buckle.
I haven’t filled the case with many items. A few pieces of clothing, the statue of Shiva and a tub full of lentils. I’ve left behind any pills I might need in case of a relapse, have even forgotten to bring a fork, but I made sure to pack one more thing. I pull out the book carefully, as though it’s an old relic, brushing spots of rain from the cover. I thought the water might smudge the correction fluid written across the brick print, but it stays thick and solid.
Marianne + Ravine = Best Friends 4ever
Jonathan looks over at me with raised brows, letting me take the umbrella from him so I can pass him The Book of You. He doesn’t say anything but accepts the book with the uncertainty of someone taking a gift that could well be a bomb. He opens the cover to the first page with the words ‘Marianne Dickerson’ written across the white sheet. When he turns the page I lean in close to have a look myself. Ten years and I haven’t opened that cover and even now I need someone else to do it for me.
We stuck parts of you in the book. The wrappers of your favourite sweets: lemon sherbets, Black Jacks and toffee creams. There was the winning raffle ticket for the incomplete chessboard you’d won and a curly lock of your hair stuck on with tape. I watch as Jonathan runs his finger over the strands and remember how you chopped several pieces from your mane until we found a lock representative enough of all its colours. Afterwards, you had to wear your hair up in a ponytail for a month, just so Mrs Dickerson wouldn’t notice the hack job you’d made.
On the next page of the book is a school photograph of you and Jonathan. You sat with shoulders angled to the camera in your matching school uniforms, the only day you ever wore them. You were smiling your rugby-ball smile with your cheeks glowing bright, while Jonathan’s bottom lip stuck out in a scowl. I remember the day you had that picture taken because the photographer, no matter how she joked, couldn’t make him smile.
Jonathan brings the picture close to his face.
‘I look bloody awful.’
I frown. ‘You always looked like that.’
He sits up straight as if offended and I try not to smirk. We both look down at the photograph again, the tan of your skin, the hazel of your eyes. Although neither of us says it, we’re both thinking the same thing. You were beautiful, Marianne. Not in a Hollywood-actress type way, not like a model stuck up on a billboard, pert bum on view. You shone a beauty as warm as the sun; everything around you glowed.
When Jonathan turns to the next page he begins prodding it with his finger.
‘What was this for?’ he asks.
I look at the object, a lanyard made out of red shoelaces attached to a gold chocolate-coin wrapper. It took me a whole afternoon and seven attempts to make that medal. When you saw it, you suggested I make a silver one for Jonathan as well as a miniature one for Stanley. I almost threw the thing at your head.
‘The slug races,’ I say. ‘She kept winning them and we kept losing our marbles. In the end it seemed easier to just make a medal.’
For the first time since I’ve sat down, the wrinkles on Jonathan’s forehead lifted.
‘Jesus!’ he says. ‘I remember that. We had a ceremony for it in the woods.’
It takes a moment for me to remember. It was autumn and we’d found a tree stump circled by red and yellow leaves. We’d lifted you up on it and passed you the jar that housed Stanley. To compensate for no silver, Jonathan elected himself Prime Minister of the Woods and draped the medal over your head before firmly shaking your hand. I handed you a bouquet of dandelions and daisies, and then you kissed the jar and lifted the slug’s fat body high above your head. I remember how Jonathan looked over at me and rolled his eyes and I, in a brief moment of solidarity, had rolled mine too. We both clapped politely afterwards.
My mouth widens into a grin. Jonathan looks at me, lifting his brows in a ‘well I never’ expression. I look down at the medal and see the holes I punctured into the disc in an attempt to make a slug-shaped outline. My grin slips away.
‘I killed Stanley,’ I say.
Jonathan frowns as the gravity of my confession hits him. ‘Who?’
I fidget on my seat. ‘Marianne’s slug.’
Again he frowns. ‘The slug?’ he asks. ‘How?’
I push my knees together, curl my shoulders over the body of my suitcase. ‘Salt.’
The light glows red on his face as it shines through the umbrella. His eyes widen. ‘Salt?’
He gawps at me as though he’s looking at a new person. No, worse, he gawps at me as though he’s impressed. I fiddle with the buckle on my suitcase.
‘I’ve never told anyone that.’
There’s a silence as I continue to fiddle. I feel his body relax, his arm brushing against mine.
‘It’s not raining any more,’ he says.
When I look up, Jonathan nods out to the woods and I realize he’s right. The slugs are still squirming over the rubble but the puddles surrounding them are still. I put down the umbrella as Jonathan continues to turn the pages of The Book of You. He passes the survival tips you scrawled in felt tip, the Italian phrases you wrote. I try not to look, too distracted by the next confession I’m about to make. From all my years confined in a bed I’ve learnt one thing. It’s the things you never do that haunt you the most.
‘Ravine Roy,’ Jonathan says, but it isn’t until I look at him that I realize he isn’t calling my name but reading it.
I look down at the book and see my name written in your uneven script. I’d forgotten about this, how the book had not only kept the fragments of your life but mine as well. On the next page are the wrappers of my favourite sweets – Cherry Drops, Fruit Salads and Space Dust – with a lock of my straight black hair taped in the corner. There is a page with a list of my favourite words (hybrid, philistine, shenanigans, hussy) as well as their dictionary definition. Next to them is the newspaper cutting with a picture of me holding a marrow.
‘You can give me that back now,’ I say, reaching out.
Jonathan yanks the book away. He begins reading the article in a loud, newsreader voice.
‘Above picture: Ravine Roy with proud mother, Rekha Roy, holding the winning vegetable for Westhill Primary School.’
He starts chuckling as he looks at the picture of my disgruntled face. You insisted on putting that article in our book and I remember
protesting, knowing full well that it would come back to haunt me one day. This is the day and as Jonathan continues to chuckle at my humiliation I realize it’s time.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jonathan,’ I say.
When he looks at me his grin falters. I can see him opening his mouth, ready to make a wisecrack about the article as a distraction. But I have to say it. I have to say it all.
‘If I hadn’t been so scared, if I hadn’t gone in there, it wouldn’t have happened. I was supposed to protect her. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.’
It’s a relief to see the shock on his face. He pushes his finger into his chest. ‘I’m the one who took you there.’
‘It’s not like you could have stopped her following you, Jonathan,’ I say. ‘She wouldn’t have left you, and I wouldn’t have left her.’
‘But—’
I lift my hand. ‘You were just a kid.’
He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘So were you.’
I blink, my throat swallowing hard.
‘So whose fault was it?’ he asks.
I think carefully about his question. I see the image of Mrs Dickerson unconscious on your sofa, Uncle Walter disappearing down the side of the hill, Amma standing with the Soul-drinker by the taxi that night.
‘Everyone we knew,’ I say.
We both sit on the damp wood with the cloud of this statement hanging between us. I let my hand drop to my calf, feeling the waxy scars embedded on the skin.
‘But that’s true of the good stuff,’ I say, ‘as well as the bad.’
I lift my hand and push the hair off my face, feeling no aches, no stings, no jolts of agony. Without meaning to, I smile.
Jonathan drops his head with something close to a nod. He closes the book on his lap and, as he does so, the corner of a photograph sticks out from the back. We both look at each other before I pull it out, feeling my cheeks flush as I see the image. It’s the three of us: you, me and Jonathan. We’re on the steps that lead to Bosworth House, me standing with mini dictionary clasped to my chest, Jonathan with his hands shaped into claws as he growls at the camera and you in the middle, arms wrapped around our shoulders with your head tilted, eyes closed and grinning. I feel myself squirm on the log. There’s something so familiar about that photograph. It’s just like the shot of Mrs Dickerson, Bobby and Uncle Walter.
I push the photo into the back of the book. We both sit, trying not to look at each other.
‘Are you still going to find Uncle Walter?’ I ask.
From the corner of my eye, I can see him shaking his head.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
I bite my lip. ‘I could help you.’
He laughs then looks at me, expression dropping. I shrug and look down at my boots.
‘Or whatever.’
When I look back up, Jonathan is looking ahead at the slugs squirming over the debris. I follow his gaze before turning my face to the sky, remembering how it had exploded with fireworks that night and how your brother carried me so tightly, placed me down on the floor and propped my leg up on a rock. He saved my life and I know I should thank him but already it feels that enough has passed between us. We’re frail creatures; to say any more might break us.
I look down at the suitcase on my knees and think of Amma coming up to my room to check on me. She’ll see that I’ve gone, find the message I’ve written and stuck under my pillow and screech loudly as though she’s found a corpse. She’ll dial 999 only to be told that an eighteen-year-old girl deciding to leave home is not considered to be a missing person. She’ll search my room for any evidence of where I might have gone before collapsing upon my bed. She’ll weep so many tears that the covers will become soaked, thinking about how she hadn’t seen what I was about to do, how she hadn’t stopped it from happening.
She’ll blame herself. I can’t let her do that.
I fasten the one working buckle on my suitcase and hold on tightly to the handle.
‘I’ve got to go back,’ I say, standing up.
Jonathan opens his mouth to protest but I’m already running over to the stone trail leading back to the road.
‘Ravine!’ he cries.
My feet jam in the mud as I stop and look back. He’s standing, with his hands dropped to his side, your umbrella leaning up against the log beside him.
‘Yes?’ I say.
He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m glad you’re better.’
I smile. ‘Thanks.’
I turn and run.
‘Ravine!’
I turn around again. His body is a blur between the tree trunks and I have to run back to see him.
‘Yes?’
He looks at me and blinks. Then he holds up The Book of You. No. The Book of Us.
‘Your book!’ he cries.
I look at the brick-print cover and almost step forward to claim it. Then I look at your brother, remembering what the professor taught me about the amazing coincidence of a solar eclipse. For a brief period in our childhood the three bodies of Marianne, Jonathan and Ravine aligned and, like the fine glow cast over the river Ganges, our friendship became a sight of wonder.
The things that happened to us were the things that made us. You helped me become who I am, Marianne. Life is not struggle. Life is not suffering. Life is being.
‘Bring it to me,’ I say, stepping backwards. ‘Tomorrow?’
Jonathan holds the book up for a few seconds. He lowers his arm.
‘See you then, Dictionary Queen,’ he says.
I smile.
‘See you then, Weatherboy.’
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to everyone who made me, and to be more specific …
Family Shah and family Snaith: I will be eternally grateful for the lessons you’ve taught me. You guide me in ways you’ll never know. Particular thanks to Judith, Ian and Katie Snaith, whose generous baby watching helped me complete the edits of this novel.
Tasha-Marie-Branston-Pickled-Onion-Flavoured-Crisp, my fellow fraggle and Best Friend Forever. This novel is a celebration of our childhood.
All the Knitter Knatter girls. We may not knit much but we sure can knatter. Thanks for all the gruesome stories that could fill a book by themselves and, of course, for your friendship.
Leicester Writers’ Club (and in particular Kate Ruse and Margaret Penfold), through which I have been given brilliant advice and support over the years, including: ‘The beginning only began for me when …,’ and ‘There’s just one little nit-pick …’ Your voices are now my inner critic.
Dave Martin, Maxine Linnel, Judith Snaith, Leonie Ross, Laura Wilkinson, Jeanette Bird-Bradley and Kerry Young, who read the manuscript in its entirety and whose advice made me cringe at my blunders but also made me a far better writer. Also Kadija George and Dorothea Smartt at Inscribe who have been a bedrock of support over the past few years, and Nikesh Shukla who has been a brilliant champion of my work as well as being a generally cool dude. The people at SI Leeds Prize, Bristol Short Story Prize and Mslexia, whose support for my writing spurred me on through the bleak times. And, of course, Farhana Shaikh, editor of The Asian Writer and a truly valued friend.
My agent James Wills, editor Lizzy Goudsmit, publicist Becky Hunter and all the great people at Transworld. Your belief in this novel has turned childhood dreams into reality.
All the many books on my shelves. You have been my writing courses, my mentors and my guiding lights in the wilderness. Without you I could never have dreamt of a life so rich. A special nod to the songs of Tori Amos, which have become the soundtrack of my life as well as of this novel.
And John, always John, who has helped me become the best person I can be. Thanks for all the washing up, visits to the shops and general level-headed advice. You’re awesome.
Some Questions for Readers
1. One of the recurring themes of The Things We Thought We Knew is memory. How do remembering, misremembering and forgetting interact throughout this
novel?
2. The Things We Thought We Knew is, in part, the story of two young girls. Did it encourage you to examine your own childhood friendships?
3. One review of this novel said:
‘It’s the minutiae of life in Ravine’s and Amma’s flat that bring welcome humour, like her descriptions of Amma in her sari and white trainers, cleaned daily with vinegar and lemon.’
Do you agree that the character of Amma adds humour to The Things We Thought We Knew? Do you think she has other roles too?
4. One half of this novel is set in 1999 and the other in 2010. Do you think this book charts a changing Britain over the course of a decade? If so, in what ways?
5. In 2010, Ravine is lying in bed plagued by chronic pain syndrome. Had you come across this condition before? How important is it in this novel?
6. What does The Things We Thought We Knew say about childhood? Do you think that, at times, the three children – Ravine, Marianne and Jonathan – understand human nature and the complexities of life more accurately than the adult characters?
7. The Things We Thought We Knew is written as a diary. How does this affect your reading of it?
8. ‘I never resented being the only Asian girl on the estate. Apart from the occasional “but but ding ding” from Bradley Patterson, I was left alone and only noticed the odd confused stare at Amma and her sari-and-trainers combo. Even at school the other children seemed oblivious to my skin colour. The only exception was Luke Judd who once called me a “Paki” during playtime. I looked at him and rolled my eyes.’
What is the significance of race in this novel?
9. Amma says:
‘There are studies that show if you write about your physical pain it helps you heal your mental pain.’
Do you think this statement is true for Ravine? In what ways are her mental and physical pain connected?
10. Like Ravine, the author of The Things We Thought We Knew, Mahsuda Snaith, grew up on a Leicester council estate. Do you think this experience influenced her choice of subject matter?
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