Cinnamon Twigs

by Darren Freebury-Jones

  Two days after the funeral, I drove with Lauren to the beach where Michael and I used to go fishing. I told Lauren to wait in the car as I stood out in the cold, in silence, environed with the wild sea. The powerful scent of seawater burned my nostrils, and the wind moaned in my ears like a mournful ghost.

  Lauren had left the car. She placed a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  I tried to answer her but I choked.

  ‘You’ve gotta be strong, Daniel.’

  ‘It’s just so unfair…’ I sighed.

  ‘I know. But, no matter what, Michael will always be there for you. I’m sure of that. He’ll always be watching over you, and so will I.’

  ‘I hope so.’ I turned to her and kissed the corners of her lips. ‘But he’s not here to prove that to me. I have an entire life ahead of me, without my best mate.’

  ‘But he’s in the wind, in the light. He’s a part of…’

  ‘He’s dust.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s a part of Nature now.’

  ‘Nature is a bitch,’ I snapped, tired of wanky comments about the meaning of life and death. ‘Nature lets people die and then carries on like nothing has happened. I know I’ve lost a friend and nothing will ever bring him back.’

  ‘I’m afraid that that’s life. Death is a major part of it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough of saying “that’s life” all the fucking time. Something needs to be changed. It’s so pathetic. We can’t just have one life that’s snatched away from us before we even realize our potential. We need another chance, another life if necessary.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you talking about reincarnation?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I closed my eyes, hoping the pain would go away. ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about. All I know is there’s no justice in the world. Everything I believed in is a lie. My mother used to tell me heaven had no time, and that dead people don’t have to wait to be reunited with those who mourn for them. But I don’t think I believe in heaven or God anymore. We were such fools…’

  ‘This is a very difficult time for you, babes. Nothing’s ever gonna bring Michael back, but you can come out of this as a stronger person. I’m going to help you through this.’

  ‘I love you.’ I hadn’t uttered those words to her for a while, no matter how many times I’d thought them. Not since the first time.

  ‘And I love you.’

  We were silent for a moment, gazing at the cruel waves and the boats bobbing about in the distance, fighting against the currents. Then we got into the car and drove away from that place.

  Standing on that beach had been like going on a ghost ride. Many ghosts emerged from the sea of clouds. Ghosts that now resided in the chambers of my heart. And would stay there for a long time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Some Other Beginning’s End

  Constant rain. Falling soft and hard. Gentle then cruel. Incessant tapping on the windowpanes, while the streets echoed with the hurried footsteps of the quick, and the soundless sighs of the dead.

  Lauren comforted me during that difficult period. She cuddled me in bed, ran her fingers through my hair and whispered soppy French phrases in my ear.

  ‘Bonne nuit et beaux rêves…’

  For a long time, I couldn’t find the strength to do anything. I struggled to read, study or write. It hurt even more that Michael’s killer had been sentenced for just seven years’ imprisonment. The guy’s intoxicated state wasn’t an excuse. Someone who carries a blade on a night out shouldn’t serve such a short sentence, especially when they’ve taken someone’s life.

  The hurt would be a driving force. I’d always been arrogant enough to believe that film was the only business for me. But Michael’s death proved that life wasn’t a fairytale - things didn’t always go to plan. The path ahead would be tough and I might not make it, but I had to persevere for him. We wouldn’t be able to stand on the red carpet together, but I would cherish the memories. He had been my best mate. My very best friend.

  Michael wouldn’t have wanted me to spend my days in idle mourning. He’d have told me to get off my arse and do something. And that’s exactly what I did. The weeks passed by and I thought a lot about my life and what I wanted.

  During this time I completed an MA and started a PhD. My MA dissertation had been on Apocryphal plays of the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras. I examined plays and tried to attribute an author to them through stylistic analysis, looking at texts such as Arden of Faversham, Double Falsehood and The Birth of Merlin. I achieved a Distinction, of which I was very proud. Too proud, as my mates used to say, but I didn’t boast as often as they made out. My PhD thesis focused on collaboration in Shakespeare’s early plays (sorry about getting all academic here), which was an avenue I’d partly pursued at MA level. I was tired of the emphasis on the bard as a single dramatic genius, and wanted to aid the changing tide of affairs in scholarly consensus by ridding the idea of collaboration of its pejorative associations. I researched plays such as Titus Andronicus, Henry VI, Part One and Edward III, hoping to show that Shakespeare relied on the help of other writers in order to produce many of his works, Hollywood screenwriter style if you like.

  The good thing was I got to view different forms of collaboration firsthand. I had a small part in a play written by ten actors in Act One about the Welsh Branwen myth from the Second Branch of the Mabinogi. It amazed me that so many different authorial hands could create such a unified piece of theatre. I also wrote the third episode for a six part Sherlock Holmes parody that aired live on Cardiff University’s radio station, and was performed in front of an audience of sixty people. Six of us wrote an episode each, working together to form a single narrative strand, creating outlandish cliff-hangers at the end of each part that the following writer would have to get the derring duo, Holmes and Watson, out of. My episode took place on the Orient Express, parodying crime fiction like Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie’s works. ‘You really are far too grandiose for a medical man, Watson. “Murder on the Orient Express”! What a tawdry title!’ I had Holmes scold his ally. The fifteen minute play involved brutal murders aboard the locomotive by a murderer known as the sonneteer slayer, who left a line from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets with each of his mutilated victims. ‘We knew a poetic maniac was at work, a bloody bardolater, the sonneteer slayer, as Holmes liked to call him,’ Watson remarks. Each episode had its own unique style. However, I got my first vaguely bad review in the student newspaper, in which my episode was described as being a touch too repetitive. The reviewer preferred the pieces that were dependent on visual gags, but mine was designed with radio drama in mind! In hindsight, I would have trimmed it down and gotten rid of some of the wordiness. It was a sign of a writer in his early days, masking his inexperience with a big vocabulary and overflowing excess images. But as Ben Jonson said of Shakespeare (although I’m aware that I’m no Shaky Spear), ‘he flowed with that facility that sometime it was necessary he should be stopped. 'Sufflaminandus erat,' as Augustus said of Haterius’. The criticism, brief as it was, upset me for a couple of days. But I’d had a lot of fun voicing Moriarty in the other episodes. And writing wasn’t my priority at the time.

  It felt like I was spending too much time sitting around, studying authors who’d been dead for hundreds of years, or writing little plays for Act One. I’d studied loads of topics at Cardiff University, from Gothic Fiction to Crime Fiction, Feminism, Critical Theory, the works of Christopher Marlowe, even Hitchcock’s movies, but I came out a Shakespeare scholar. Initially, I was happy with the idea of becoming an academic, and my mother didn’t mind me earning money that way in the future, as a lecturer or whatnot, even if it wasn’t as a lawyer. At least I was doing something feasible. But then that road seemed too narrow to me. I didn’t want to be the center of attention in a lecture theatre. I’d prefer to be on stage or on a film set. My self-belief had been bolstered by winning Best Male Performance in an Event at the Act One Ball.
This prestigious award had been given to me for not just one, but two performances, such was the impact I’d had playing the greasy Spaniard and Giri. It had really meant a lot to be recognized in such a big society. That Ball, held at a hotel on Newport Road in Cardiff, had been amazing. I got ridiculously drunk and was photographed half-naked and surrounded by girls a lot, much to Lauren’s annoyance. I’d also started a food fight involving cupcakes, which meant the lovely claret carpet was smeared with icing and the hotel staff hated me. I did my best to enjoy the night in memory of Michael. It would have been so great if he’d been there, though I’m sure he’d have snatched my award from me. Amateur dramatics at Cardiff University had been so much fun with him, and we’d learned a lot, but he wasn’t there anymore. And as much as I loved that society, it suddenly didn’t feel like I should be there anymore either.

  So I quit university. I couldn’t sit in lectures, unsure if I’d be happy with what came of my degree. I wanted to devote myself to professional acting and get paid, even if it was very little at first, for something I loved. My mother hit the roof. She had no faith in my acting ambitions. She believed I’d wasted my intelligence and squandered any chance of making something of myself.

  I came back home one evening after taking Lauren out. My mother glared at me as I walked through the door.

  ‘What’ve you been up to today?’ I asked her.

  ‘Nothing interesting.’ She sipped her cup of tea.

  I nodded dully and fixed my eyes on a mechanical clock on the wall. The ticking sound of its oscillating pendulum filled the awkward silence.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ She didn’t raise her eyes to look at me.

  ‘I’ve just been hanging out with Lauren today. I’ve landed a part in a play that’s gonna be shown in Bristol. It’s a meaty role. I’m playing a character named Joe in a play called Angels in America.’

  ‘I’m guessing the pay’s not great.’

  ‘I’m making a little bit. Basic pay. Not much but I’ll make more money soon.’

  ‘I have friends with sons and daughters who make plenty of cash. Mandy’s son is a civil engineer. Lara’s daughter is studying Law. I’m embarrassed to say what my son does. “He’s prancing about on stage,” I say. “He’s a bit masculine for that, isn’t he?” Mandy’ll ask. “Don’t you ever get annoyed with him doing that?” Well, I do get fucking annoyed, because my son is wasting his life on a stupid dream!’ She slammed her cup down.

  ‘I suppose you were just on the phone to Mandy?’

  ‘I was, as it goes. So what?’

  ‘You can tell her to keep her nose out of other peoples’ business,’ I growled. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, and I couldn’t give a shit if my mother’s friends are too ignorant to understand!’

  ‘So you think you’re gonna be a big star, huh. I’m telling you now, you’re no Olivier. Everyone dreams of being rich and famous, Daniel. But you’re stupid enough to think you’re something you aren’t. Do you really think you’re better than all the other idiots aspiring to be famous actors?’

  ‘I’m good, mum. I’m really good. I don’t care if you think I’m deluded. I’ll prove you wrong.’ Angry tears stung my eyes.

  ‘I know that you’ve lost someone very close to you. But you’re being irrational. Leaving university to chase a wild dream is the most foolish thing you could ever do.’

  ‘It’s not a wild dream! I’ll make it. I don’t know how long it’s gonna take, but I’ll do it.’

  ‘Don’t you realize how ridiculous that sounds?’ she spat. ‘You’re deluded. Please, just listen to me. I want what’s best for you.’

  I moved out of my mother’s house soon after that argument. We stopped speaking to each other. I know my mother was looking out for me. She’d been kind enough to let me stay under her roof. I regret being so selfish and refusing to speak to her because of a petty argument. I understood just how much she did for me when I left. I had no cash and often found myself sleeping on the floor at friends’ flats. My eyes had been opened to the real world and I learned that without money you’re nothing. I’d have to earn success and gain experience through industry. I worked irregular hours doing low-income jobs, mainly in restaurant kitchens, just to keep my head above water. Lauren’s father helped us get a flat in Grangetown. I hated borrowing money, but we couldn’t afford a place by ourselves.

  You really get to know a girl when you move in with her, when you contend with the extra hair in the bathtub and have her sleeping by your side each night. It felt right. Of course there were times when we got on each other’s nerves and needed an hour or so apart, but living together made me realize just how much I cared for her. I spent hours at the flat, doing plumbing and patching up walls. My days consisted of household chores, low-wage jobs and acting roles in theatres across the country. I couldn’t sit back and dream anymore.

  During the first couple of months of taking acting seriously, I spent a lot of time lying in bed with Lauren, moaning about a role I’d failed to land.

  ‘Come on, Daniel. It was never gonna be easy. You have to get used to rejection,’ she said.

  The rain maintained a gentle rhythm on our bedroom window, and the soft light emanating from the pink floral lampshade painted vague shadows on the walls.

  ‘I know. I’m just wondering if I’ve made the right decision. I could be living at home now with a Law degree or something.’

  ‘Well, you’re here with me instead.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not moaning about that part!’ I laughed.

  ‘You’ve always wanted to be an actor, and now you have to work for it. You’re gonna get rejected. It’s how you react to that rejection that counts. It’s called acting for a reason.’

  ‘But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m wasting my life, Lauren? What if I’m deluded, and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life going from one small acting role to another, without landing any big parts? What if I’m just meant to work in restaurant kitchens?’

  ‘Is that what your heart says?’ Lauren placed her hand on my chest.

  ‘No. But I hate borrowing money from your dad. I don’t care how much cash he has to spare. I feel like a sponger.’

  ‘Look, it makes him happy to help us out. Your heart is telling you that your uncertainties are wrong.’ She raised a finger to her lips and told me to hush. ‘Sometimes you worry too much. You’ll get your big break as long as you concentrate on what you want, and believe in yourself, babe.’

  ‘I once thought you’d never be mine. I’d look at you, sitting on the grass, and I worried that I might never get the chance to know you. I became angry with myself because I was too nervous to speak to you.’

  ‘And now you’re with me. You spoke to me, and here we are. What does that tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish I could speed up time and see if I’ll be successful. But I also want to slow time down, to stay young.’ The words clanged as I spoke them.

  ‘You’re so naïve.’ She giggled. ‘Embrace it. You know nothing. You can’t predict the future, so there’s no point in worrying about time’s boundaries. But if you don’t stick to what you want to do, then you’ll always look back with regret.’

  ‘I don’t know where I’d be without you,’ I said.

  ‘Probably at home with your mother, wishing you had a Law degree.’

  I chuckled. Lauren made me feel warm inside. She guided me when I was lost, and she would always be able to make me laugh.

  ‘It will come.’ She held me close as the spirit of sleep engulfed me.

  In that moment of nothingness, of quietude without dreams, I forgot about it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Elliott

  He’d written a good novel. Bloody entertaining stuff. The lyrical prose was beautiful. Streets concerned childhood relationships, revived in adulthood.

  I hadn’t had a novel published. Unlike my childhood friend, Elliott. Frankly, I never thought he had any imagination.
His ghost stories had bored me shitless; they rarely concerned ghosts. But Elliott had become a very fine writer indeed. Perhaps his education at Oxford University had helped him to nurture his talent.

  Elliott had realized that anything was possible. His novel, much to my chagrin, had become a bestseller. I wondered if I’d been foolish in turning my back on English Literature studies. Elliott, like myself, had been just another kid growing up in Cardiff. And now he was practically famous. Well, if he could do it then I sure as hell could.

  I stumbled across his book while looking around in the library. A part of me felt jealous, even resentful, because I hadn’t yet reached such heights. But I also felt optimistic: Elliott’s book proved that if I were good enough, I could be successful. I had to hand it to the guy. We had once been very close friends and it was a shame we’d drifted apart. Elliott and I had always competed as children. He’d certainly taken the lead this time.

  I learned that Elliott would be at a book signing in Cardiff. I thought I’d pay him a visit, because I hadn’t seen him for so long. I joined a lengthy queue and let the scents of fresh book pages and ground coffee drift up my nostrils. A constant excited murmur filled the store as people waited to meet the young author. When I got to the front of the queue, with my copy of his book in hand, Elliott’s piercing green eyes grew wide.