Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

“I finished my book the day before yesterday. That’s three I’ve read on holiday, altogether.”

  Dad nods. “That’s good, son.”

  I take off my T-shirt and lie next to him, in the same position. He carries on reading, swatting a hoverfly away with his hand.

  “Watch you don’t burn,” he says, still looking at his book.

  “I’m alright,” I say, feeling the scorch on the back of my neck. “Dad?” I ask, and it comes out all whiny.

  “Yup?”

  “How about we go into town, Dad? There’s nothing left, and we’re going to have to work out how to get home on Monday. You know. With there being no car and all.”

  Dad carries on reading and I wait for his reply.

  “And we’re nearly out of water. We’ll get the shits if we drink from the tap. We definitely will, Aunt Rachel told us.”

  Dad puts his book down. I shift up on to my knees next to him.

  His silence is killing me. “Dad, I think I’ll die if I have to eat another tinned sausage. I haven’t had any fruit in a week. I could get scurvy. Can we, Dad? Go into town? We’ve got loads of francs left.” Thank God Mum didn’t have anything with her when she took the car. I wonder what they thought when they found her down there, with nothing but a pink bikini and a straw hat.

  Plucking at the frayed edges of the blanket, Dad is still silent. Andy’s been listening from the bedroom window, and he comes out and plonks himself down with pleading eyes. A small green lizard sprints across the grass and up the brickwork of the old barn. The dip of skin behind my knees is filling up with sweat, and Andy’s eyes meet mine across Dad’s bent head, and I nod at him. For a brief moment everything stands still.

  “Dad?” Andy starts, but his voice trails off, and he sounds like he might cry.

  I look across the scrubby grass, and wipe the sweat from my lip. I don’t think I’ve got the fight to ask again, and I flop back on to the blanket. Andy makes a ‘go on’ face at me, and I close my eyes to him.

  “Alright!” shouts Dad, startling me on purpose. “We’ll do it! Can’t let you get scurvy, can we, Jake?” And he’s laughing, and poking me in the ribs. “Look at the state of you! You’re a bag of bones! And you’re not much better,” he says to Andy, squeezing his knobbly knee, and making him shriek. “How did a fine figure of a man like me end up with a pair of twigs like you, eh?”

  Andy punches the air, before running off, barefoot, to fetch pen and paper. “Skill!” he whoops as he goes. I don’t think it would be right to punch him right now, though.

  Andy writes the list, as we all say what we want.

  “Baguettes. Get four. Cow cheese – you know, vache qui rit. Lemonade. Peaches – no, nectarines are better. Some of those little cheesy crackers, like Ritz.”

  “Water?” says Dad.

  “Oh, yeah. How many? Six?”

  “That should do it. What about for supper? I could get some chicken pieces and fry them up with a few vegetables. I’m sure I could knock something up.” Dad rubs his chin.

  “Oh! Milk! And some Petit Beurre biscuits. They were lovely,” says Andy.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Don’t be daft, Jake, I’ll be on foot.”

  Andy and me both stop and frown at Dad.

  “Well, I’m not taking you two. It’s nearly an hour away, and someone should stay here. I’m not leaving either of you on your own, but you’ll be fine together.”

  “How will you carry it all back?” I ask.

  “I’ll manage. There might even be a bus service or something.”

  “Well, I don’t think we should add anything else to the list, though,” I mumble, snatching the paper off Andy.

  “Pez!” he says. “Did you see in one of the shops before, they did Pez? They’re only small.” Andy grabs the list back and writes “Pez” at the bottom.

  Dad changes into some fresh clothes and heads off through the woods.

  The hours tick by, slow and stifling, as Andy and I loll about in the shade, flicking through cards and quiz books to fill the time. We’ve found a spot under one of the trees at the back of the barn, on the edge of the grassy bank that leads into the valley. Andy goes in and fetches one of Mum’s crosswords.

  “Wanna help?” he asks me as I line up a game of patience.

  I shake my head, and start turning over the cards.

  Andy fills in a few squares, but after a couple of minutes he starts huffing and tutting to himself. “What’s this: Bits and pieces, 4-3-4? It’s got to be something ‘and’ something.”

  “Dunno,” I reply, carrying on with my game.

  “OK then, what about American for football?”

  “Soccer.”

  “Really? I’ve heard people call it soccer before. Didn’t know it was American.”

  My card game runs out of steam and I scoop up the cards and roll over on to my back. Every movement is a great effort, and even in the shade it’s too hot to do anything. I can feel the dry heat on my tongue when I breathe in through my mouth. Andy chucks the crossword book to one side and lies next to me quietly. The cicadas are going crazy today, click-click click-click. They chorus on different levels, like singers in a choir, so it becomes a harmony of clicking. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to filter out the different voices and layers.

  “Will you miss her?” Andy asks.

  We lie shoulder to shoulder gazing up at the sunburnt leaves. A rare breeze rustles through the branches, and is gone.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I answer.

  Sometimes the cicadas just stop altogether. They do it now.

  “Shh!” I tell Andy, and after two quick beats, they start up again.

  “What will we tell people, when we get home?” Andy props himself up on his elbows to look at me. “I mean, people won’t believe us, will they?”

  I close my eyes again.

  “Maybe we should say she had cancer. Or a heart attack? That sounds better, doesn’t it?”

  “Better than what?”

  “Than driving off the edge of a cliff. I mean that just sounds like we made it up. It’s embarrassing. People would laugh.”

  “Why would anyone laugh, you idiot?” I say, looking up at him now.

  “She was drunk.”

  “Well we won’t tell people that bit, will we? That bit’s not important. We could just say it was a car accident. And that’s it.”

  Andy’s face brightens. “Oh, yeah. Brilliant, Jake! It was a car accident. Anyone would believe that.”

  “That’s because it’s true, you spanner. It was an accident.”

  Andy lies back, his bare shoulder brushing mine. I shift away, not wanting to be touched. I can’t take the heat for much longer.

  “Do you think we made her go off the road?” he asks, his voice near a whisper.

  “What?”

  “If she hadn’t seen us, maybe she would’ve stayed on the road. On that bend.”

  I don’t know how to answer, because I’ve thought about it too. “No I don’t think that. She would’ve gone over anyway. We couldn’t have stopped her.”

  “Mmm,” he says.

  I feel a weird sensation across my feet. “Urghh!” I yell, sitting up to see a lézard vert sprinting across the dried grass and up the tree trunk. “Oh, that was horrible. They’ve got little claws. Urgh.”

  Andy laughs. “I’m gonna try and catch one.” He jumps to his feet, only wearing a pair of tatty Y-fronts, and starts to do karate moves in front of me. “Ahhhh! Glasshopper. Only with the patience of the cobra will you master the lizard-beast. When you have achieved inner lightness, you will be ready to tame the green one.” He tiptoes in exaggerated steps, all the while making cooing karate motions, and looking over his shoulder to see if he’s making me laugh. “Ahhhh! Glasshopper!” He looks at me with raised eyebrows, as if he’s discovered something incredible. “Patience of cobra!” He gets right up against the tree and presses his body against the trunk. He looks ridiculous, and so skinny that he actually looks malnouri
shed. His Y-fronts bag around his no-bum.

  “Quickly as you can,” I say, in my Master Kung Fu voice, “snatch the lizard from the tree. When you can take the lizard from the tree, it will be time for you to leave.”

  He stands motionless, staring up the tree. He suddenly snatches up into the branches, then screams like a girl and throws something at the ground as if it bit him. “Shit! Shit!”

  “What is it?” I crawl across the rug, out of the shade, to look at the thing on the ground.

  Andy crouches next to it, and cautiously pokes it with his finger.

  “What is it?” I ask again.

  “It’s its tail. I pulled its bloody tail off.”

  We stare at it a bit longer with the sun’s rays burning down on our backs.

  I stand up and press my palms together to do a Japanese bow. “Ahhhh! Glasshopper! Indeed, you have patience of cobra. Your initiation is complete!”

  Andy stands and returns the bow, and I suddenly see us as others might, as two skinny boys in baggy pants, standing in the middle of nowhere in the scorching midday sun. I start to laugh, but it’s a nervous kind of laugh, one I can’t control, and it takes me over till I’m on my knees pounding the dry ground with my fists, screaming and laughing like a madman. Andy’s with me, rolling about on his back, clutching at his belly as tears roll down his face. “Glasshopper!” he howls. “Glasshopper!”

  The heat sends us crawling back into the shade, as our laughter subsides and we flop back against the rug, exhausted. The sun’s so bright beyond the trees that I struggle to keep my eyes open. I hear Andy’s breathing as it becomes deep and slow, and together we drift into a warm slumber of grief, surrounded by the soothing clicks of a million cicadas.

  When the gendarmes arrive at La Font, we’re still dozing in the tranquil air. The holiday is over. We trudge beside them through the dappled light of the wood, and towards the opening to the grassy meadow. A black and white police car fills the view, strange in the dazzling sunlight.

  Dad leans on the roof of the car, his head resting on his folded arms. As we break out of the shadows, he looks up and nods at me, his stern face full of relief. “It’s time to go home, boys,” he says.

  Andy’s fingers feel for mine. “Skill,” he whispers, looking up at me with half a smile.

  I squeeze his hand, and lead him to the waiting car.

  AFTERWORD:

  About Isabel Ashdown

  About Glasshopper

  About Writing

  Five Locations

  ABOUT ISABEL ASHDOWN:

  Where were you born and where did you grow up?

  I was born in Kingston-upon-Thames, but I grew up in East Wittering, a seaside village on the South Coast.

  Were you encouraged to read widely as a child?

  My parents were teachers, so our home was always overflowing with books. As a child, I loved the escapism of a good book.

  What was your favourite subject at school?

  I loved English – reading, and writing, and the rhythm of language and what you could do with it. All the other subjects were dull in comparison. I did enjoy art too, but I think I knew I wasn’t really very good at it.

  What did you want to be when you grew up?

  I had no idea what I wanted to be, until I embarked on my Creative Writing degree at the age of thirty-four. Then it all became clear.

  What book did you love as a child?

  My father read me Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, and he used to say that I was rather like Alice. I remember being fascinated with the pictures and odd nonsensical poems, like ‘Jabberwocky’. I still am. I called my first child Alice. It’s a good strong name.

  What was your career before you began the novel?

  I left school with pitifully few qualifications, so I learned to type properly to give myself a fighting chance of employment. I then worked for many years in the cosmetics industry, predominantly for The Body Shop. It was a fabulous business built on sharp wit, sound principles and honest hard work. By the time I left, I was a senior manager for the European region, but the creative calling was growing too strong to ignore.

  How useful have you found taking a degree in Creative Writing?

  When I started my degree, I hadn’t written for almost twenty years. In my teens I wrote the usual angst-inspired poems, most of which went up the chimney for fear of discovery. So, when I started writing again in my mid-thirties it was reassuring to realise that some of it was actually quite good. Halfway through the degree, I started to submit work to various prizes and publications, and gaining a handful of awards gave me the confidence to approach my writing career more seriously. My first writing award was with a poem called ‘Milk and Eggs’, which was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in 2006. My short story ‘Chez Fourniers’ was published in the French Literary Review, and ‘Following Some Disgrace’ won gold prize in the Author v Author regional competition.

  Did writing the book change you?

  Enormously. Writing a book is such a personal journey that you can’t help but be altered. Now I feel I really am who I am.

  What do you do when you are not writing?

  I’m in the second year of an MA in Creative Writing, so I spend two days a week working on my second novel, which will be the basis of my MA dissertation. But I also need to earn a living, so for the remainder of the week I work on other writing projects, producing copy for corporate websites and publications, and writing captions and gags for greetings cards.

  At weekends we like to walk the dog in the South Downs or along the beach. Meals are always a focal point of any plans; we love to eat, especially with friends and family. And, of course, I read a lot. A tutor once told me you can’t be a good writer if you’re not a good reader. He’s absolutely right.

  Which authors do you most admire?

  I think I tend to admire particular books rather than authors. Ian McEwan’s The Cement Garden is a small masterpiece, as is Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory. Fay Weldon’s Puffball opened my teenage eyes to the power of female writing.

  What do you look for in a novel?

  Characters above all else. If the characters are alive, the book is alive. If the characters are flat, why read on?

  What is your idea of perfect happiness?

  A Sunday morning in bed with an iced coffee and a plate of marmalade on toast, surrounded by my family, reading a great book. We often manage the first bit, but the reading usually has to wait.

  ABOUT GLASSHOPPER:

  How did you start writing Glasshopper?

  Glasshopper began as a short story I wrote when studying for a degree in Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. I was struggling with the structure of the story, so I booked a tutorial with my tutor, Dave Swann, hoping he might have a few ideas to help me. Dave took one look at it and said, “I think this is actually the start of a novel.” I was horrified and excited all at once, because I knew he was right.

  How long did it take to write?

  The book was written over a two-to three-year period. I had to adopt some disciplined writing habits in order to keep momentum going. For a few months I was rising at 5am several days a week, just to get a couple of hours of writing in before the rest of the family came to life, looking for breakfast and spelling sheets and lunchboxes.

  What encouraged you along the way?

  When an extract from Glasshopper won the Mail on Sunday Novel Competition I was over the moon. The judges were Fay Weldon, Sir John Mortimer and Michael Ridpath. I felt deeply honoured that my writing had been selected by such a distinguished panel.

  Did you visit the locations you were writing about?

  Eudora Welty once said that location is the ground conductor of all the currents of emotion, belief and moral conviction that charge out from a story. For me, location was as important as plot in providing a backdrop to Jake and Mary’s emotional positions. I spent time in Brighton and the Isle of Wight, carrying Jake and Mary in my mind. The scenes
in the Dordogne come from my childhood memories of long family holidays.

  How easy was it to get into Jake’s mindset?

  It was an accident. When Glasshopper was just a kernel of an idea within a short story, I thought I was writing in the voice of a teenage girl. But my workshop friends said, “Surely it’s a boy?” So Jake was born. As a child, I was a bit of a tomboy, shunning all things girly and wondering what it would be like to be a boy. Being male seemed so much easier than being female. I guess I probably do think like a man at times; I get on well with men, and I actually quite like them!

  Did you prefer writing from either Jake or Mary’s point of view?

  I enjoyed writing Jake and Mary equally. I separated the writing, so I was just writing one or other for long stretches, during which time I carried them around with me, thinking like them, imagining their responses.

  Did you know how the novel would end when you began it?

  About a third of the way into the writing, I knew how it would end. It just became clear, and I was able to plan out my writing schedule from there on, which made it much easier to be disciplined and get the words down.

  Did you feel strongly that the book should say something about women’s lives, particularly through Mary’s own experiences?

  I wanted to show a portrait of a family, to explore what happens when a family member malfunctions, for whatever reason. I wanted, through Jake, to look at the strange choices families make when they are exposed to an addiction like alcoholism. But, ultimately, I wanted it to be a book that would touch people and provoke interest.

  Are any of the characters based on people you have known?

  No, but a few borrowed traits have probably slipped in along the way.

  How did you decide on the structure of the book?

  The structure came to me as I was writing the Jake strand of the book. I decided that his mother, Mary, needed a voice, to prevent her becoming typecast as nothing more than a hopeless alcoholic. But in order to stay in voice, I kept writing Jake until I had the full first draft of his story, at which point I switched over to find Mary’s voice. Writing Jake actually helped me to unearth Mary, before I’d even written a word of her narrative.