by Caroline Day
‘I don’t think we should do any more research now.’ This is me. I’m shouting, over the barking and the noise in my head. ‘I want to go now. I think we need to wait. My mum will tell us about it. My mum, Jenny Nicely, when she’s better. Because she’ll know all …’
‘But, as I keep saying, statistically, the chances of your mother recovering with full mental capacity, following an out-of-hospital cardiac arrest without immediate resuscitation are small. Death or a vegetative state are the more probable outcomes because of—’
The yell is back. In my mouth. The big angry yell that went away is right back. There’s a thud, which is Barry landing on the floor as I let him go. I’m squeezing my hands into balls. And I’m yelling and I’m jumping onto Connor Flynn with my hands punching and my feet kicking and my mouth yelling and yelling and yelling. And, although I’m not very big, I don’t think he was expecting it, because he’s knocked forward off the chair – which is one on wheels and made out of leather – and his head is banging onto my mum, Jenny’s, desk. And all the books – all the poems and the dictionary and the dinosaur one – are falling onto the floor, going crash, crash, crash.
I’m screaming – you don’t know anything. You’re a stupid man, you’re a rotten No-Brain. And I’m yelling. I hate you. And I’m screaming. My mum is going to be right as rain. And I’m shouting shit, fuck, liar, cunt and all the things that are golden rules to never say. I’m kicking with my feet and pushing my hands onto Connor Flynn’s head, and it’s going knock, knock, knock against the desk. But the photograph is still standing up, with me smiling up at my mum with my ice cream, just the frame shaking, each time I hit him. For a while, Connor Flynn doesn’t even move or do anything. He just stays very still while I punch and kick, and knock, knock, knock.
After a bit I stop hitting so much, but he’s still not doing anything so I just stand there, waiting, for quite a long time, until Connor Flynn tries to stand up. But maybe he hasn’t noticed about the chair which has fallen over and is just one wheel sticking up behind his leg, because he sort of does a stumble-trip over the wheel and he’s falling backwards and knocking me back down too.
The bed is just behind the desk and that is where I land, with my hands still in balls and with Connor Flynn landing on top of me, with his legs pressing down on my legs and then his body on me, and he’s taller than me so his shoulders are on my head. My head is squashed on the side, with my nose in his T-shirt, and I can hear his heart going bumbum bumbum bumbum bumbum right in my ear. Connor Flynn smells of washing powder and soap, which is quite clean and fresh, like in the adverts, and he’s too heavy for me to do anything, but not so heavy that it hurts. It’s quite comfortable and warm, really, with him on top of me now. And – I don’t know why I’m doing this, maybe because of my arms being the only bit of me that I can move – I put my arms around Connor Flynn, so that I’m holding onto him. I keep them there, not really squeezing him, just around him until my hands are touching each other on his chest, a bit like a hug, although I don’t always like hugs, even from my mum, but I want to do this now, I don’t know why, and in my ear I can hear bumbum bumbum bumbum bumbum and a whoosh noise which is him breathing, and on my cheek is his T-shirt and in my nose is the clean washing smell.
But then he jumps up, like he’s in a hurry to be not lying on me anymore. And he nearly falls over the chair again, because of it being on the floor, but he manages to put his hand down on the desk, and stay standing. He’s facing away, not at me, and he puts his hands over his ears and I think he’s talking to himself. He’s rocking a little bit, like with his shoulders and head going up and down.
‘Are you OK?’ This is me, because I don’t know what he’s doing. I don’t think I’ve hurt him because I’m not really very big. But he doesn’t reply to me so I say it again.
It’s a little while before he says anything. Maybe he has to stop rocking first or maybe, in his head, he’s trying to find the thing to say, and maybe it’s a bit of a muddle like a jumble sale. So I wait, except for asking him again one or two or three times.
‘I …’ He’s still doing a little bit of rocking but very slowly now, like he’s standing up more straight. And he’s facing me, but not with his eyes quite looking at me. ‘… do not like being touched. It makes me anxious.’
In my head I want to shout at him that it was his fault because of it being him who fell onto me, but I’m telling myself that it’s good not to shout, and it’s good not to tell people when they do bad things, which is not really a golden rule but it’s a good thing to know and I’ve practised it with my mum, Jenny Nicely. And she would be proud of me now, because I don’t even tell him it at all, not even whispering very quietly. I don’t say anything. Nothing.
‘Why did you hit me?’ This is Connor Flynn and I’m a bit surprised by him asking, because I’m not thinking about hitting and kicking anymore. I’ve sort of forgotten about doing it at all, even if it wasn’t very long ago, like just a minute or two maybe. I don’t really know what to say to him, but he asks me again.
‘Why did you hit me?’
‘I don’t know. I just wanted to.’
He’s stopped rocking now. He’s looking at his fingers. He says he understands. And then he’s quiet.
‘What do you understand?’
‘A typical psychophysiological response pattern. Excitatory neurotransmitters responding to emotional stimulus and creating aggression through hormone secretion and muscle contraction. Neuropeptides facilitate the pathway between mind and body. We should go home now.’
I’m still just looking at him with his words in my head being more like French or Spanish or one of the other languages that I don’t understand.
Barry puts his nose between my knees, with his tail wagging, like he thinks it’s time to go.
‘It’s 11.56 and it will take us two minutes to walk back. Lunch is at twelve o’clock. We need to leave now.’
6
COMMON PITFALLS
20
‘Hope Nicely! Good to see you. G&T later?’ This is Veronica Ptitsky. She is the first person waiting outside the room, in the reception, and me and Danny Flynn are the next ones to come in. She’s doing a big smile and waving one hand at me, like she’s very happy that I’m here. In her other hand she’s holding a coffee which says Starbucks and there’s a red splodge on the white plastic cover over the hole. I think it’s because of lipstick. Her hair is yellower than it was last time, and shorter. But still frizzy.
‘G&T is gin and tonic?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I don’t drink gin and tonic.’
‘No, of course you don’t. So, just the tonic like before, T and no G, remember? Or a Coke perhaps. Or a Sprite. Or whatever you’d like to drink. Will you come?’
‘If Danny Flynn does.’
Now she’s doing a funny face, like a surprised one, maybe, with her eyes very wide and her eyebrows going high into her forehead and her mouth a bit open like it’s saying, Oh. And she’s looking at Danny Flynn and saying to him, well that is a surprise and so much for her intuitions, because she’d rather assumed that …
And he’s saying, no, no, it’s just that Hope’s mum has been poorly so she’s been staying with his family. And Veronica Ptitsky says she’s sorry to hear it and she hopes it’s nothing too serious. And I say there’s been no change but not to worry. I don’t say about her maybe being vegetive, maybe. That means like being asleep, except without the ever waking up. Connor Flynn told me, although with different words, like maybe neuro and activity, and maybe about electric. But I don’t say it to Veronica Ptitsky anyway, with any words. I say not to worry, she’ll be right as rain soon.
Then it’s silent, with Veronica Ptitsky drinking her coffee, until Susan Ford – I still remember her name, easy-peasy, because it’s like my teaching assistant and like my car too – comes in. She doesn’t have a coffee, just a handbag and a shopping bag, which is from Marks and Spencer, and she says hello everyone, how hav
e we been. And the next one to come is Peter Potter with his nice voice which is saying, hello again, folks, and he’s carrying a book by John le Carré, and then Jamal – not Jam Al – whose other name I can’t remember, but who is writing a book about a vampire, and then maybe Stephen, maybe Simon, who wrote about a party in the dark and who is wearing a hospital uniform, like the pyjama ones, and carrying a big bag with a strap over his shoulder. And I’m looking at him hard.
‘Do you work at the hospital?’ This is me, asking. It’s because of the uniform. He has to turn his head because he had gone past me already when I said it.
‘Sometimes.’ He doesn’t look very sure. His eyes are looking all round, like he’s being Connor Flynn and doesn’t want to look at me.
And I’m still looking at him very hard, but still he doesn’t look back. He just says: ‘Better go and get changed out of this quickly before we start. Excuse me.’
I don’t really want him to go because I want to ask him if he’s been with my mum – Jenny Nicely – because of her being in the hospital too, and if he knows when there’s going to be any change so that she can be right as rain again and come home quickly. But I can’t ask because he’s gone too fast and because Peter Potter’s talking to me now, and saying Danny’s been explaining about my difficult week and he hopes I’m coping all right, and if there’s anything he can do … And then the other woman is coming in, and she has a coffee too, but not a Starbucks, hers is in a cup which has a leaf pattern on it and no name. And her hair is so long. Almost at her bottom. Kelly Shell-y Bell-y. That’s it.
Now the lift doors are opening again and the man with all the neck scarves and the funny name is coming out. I can’t see if he has a new one on his neck or not, because of his big coat, which goes down to his knees and has big black buttons. He has a hat, too, which he takes off now, as he’s saying hello all. And he says hello Peter and hello Daniel and hello Veronica and Susan and Kelly, hello Jamal, but not the hospital man, who is maybe Stephen and maybe Simon, because of him being in the toilets now, changing out of his uniform, and not me. He just gives me a little nod that is almost not moving his head at all. So I think maybe he doesn’t remember what my name is.
‘My name is Hope.’
He’s talking to Susan Ford now, asking her if that concert was good and he saw it had good reviews, and such a marvellous conductor, and I don’t think he’s heard me so I tell him again and this time louder, to make sure.
‘My name is Hope.’
And he turns his head to me and says: ‘I think we all know what your name is.’
It’s lucky, really, me living with Danny Flynn this week, with my mum in the hospital, otherwise I’d just be watching Coronation Street or Pets’ Hospital and would have forgotten all about the writing group. Me and my jumble head. We were eating tea, which was shepherd’s pie, or mince and mash for those that like that best, which was Connor Flynn, and it was very nice, except when Connor Flynn did a bit of moaning because of some peas being in the wrong place which was in the mince and not with the other peas, and his mum Bridget had to say, look no harm done I’m taking them out now, and then Danny Flynn said, sorry, Mum, but Hope and I will have to skip pud, because we have a writing group meeting tonight. And Bridget said, oh, she thought that was Wednesdays – which is what I thought too, except not really remembering which day – and he said yes, it is Wednesdays, but this is a special session because an editor is coming to talk to us about what she looks for in a book. And he said, oh Hope, had I forgotten because Marnie Shale had told us about it in the last group. I didn’t remember at all but when I looked in my blue notebook it was written in my own writing, not joined-up but quite neat, Extra group. Friday 7.30pm. Patsy Blake from
I haven’t finished writing where Patsy Blake is from, so maybe my brain was going for a little walk or I didn’t hear it right. But now it is Friday and it is 7.30 p.m. and I’m sitting at the table which is round but a bit longer, and Marnie Shale is telling us that this is Patsy Blake, and we’re all saying hello. She’s quite old with hair that is white on the inside, and more yellow on the outside, and lipstick that is going into the lines around her mouth and when she talks her voice is deep and like sore throats. She tells us what she does, which is being an editor at a publisher, and I write down the name of it – and it is Marnie Shale’s publisher and she is Marnie Shale’s editor – and she’s also talking to us about all the other places where she has worked. And she’s talking about the other side of the coin, and us having to think about the story and the writing and the art and her having to think about the sales and the bottom line and the commercial potential.
‘The next bestseller.’ This is her. ‘That’s what we’re searching for.’
And then the scarf man – except this week it’s like a fat tie, but still with a big knot and squares on it which are yellow and orange – he’s saying, well, in his personal experience his own editor always says that publishing is a game of …
I might have to count. To stop me shouting. Because of his voice. Because of the way he talks. But I’m not going to shout. No way, no way, no way. I’m sitting on my hands.
When my mum, Jenny Nicely, took me to the zoo, in the place where there were seagulls who stole doughnuts and a huge house with a maze, we went to the zoo-house which was full of the animals which are a name I’ve forgotten but it’s mostly got lots and lots of snakes. I don’t like snakes, because of them being slippery and killing people, but I looked at them and watched them moving, with their bodies all long and slithering. His voice makes me feel like the snakes made me feel. This is why I have to sit on my hands and tell myself no shouting, not even a little bit.
‘… of course we all appreciate sales are key, but what is one to do if the publicity side is …?’
I’m not rocking, or banging my head or shouting, but I’m having to squeeze my hands shut, even with them being under my legs. I’m squeezing them so tight that I’m squashing my thumbs. But the snake feeling is getting worse. I might have to shout now. But then there is a hand on my arm, and it’s Danny Flynn. And I look to the side, and his eyes, which are a bit green and a bit grey and very like his brother’s eyes, are looking back at me and he does a little smile. And it’s like the snakes are gone and now it’s a nice animal feeling, maybe one of those monkeys with tiny hands and big eyes, or maybe a panda or a rabbit, but that’s in a different zoo. I smile back at him and I let my hands be not so tight and bring them out from under my legs, and write some things in my notebook again.
Danny Flynn’s hand and his smile did that.
When he came back from work today he gave a kiss to Bridget and said, evening Mum, and then one to me too – on my cheek – and said, and good evening to you, Miss Nicely. He didn’t give a kiss to Connor Flynn, just a sort of pat on his shoulder, but hardly at all because Connor Flynn doesn’t like other people touching him, and said, all right you?
I’ve never had a boyfriend before – only the vodka ones with their hands under my clothes, and that doesn’t count and if it ever happens again, I have to tell my mum and even the police – so I don’t know how you are supposed to know if somebody is one. A boyfriend, I mean. Maybe they have to tell you, but maybe not: maybe you’re meant to already know. I don’t know about all the other things either, like the dates in restaurants and maybe flowers and having some rows but then making up and being in the rain but saying is it raining, you didn’t notice it was raining. And having a song which is called our tune and which is special. And also doing you-know-what, which is fucking.
Maybe Danny Flynn will ask me to marry him and give me a diamond ring, and then I would be Mrs Flynn. Except that’s not even right, only in olden times like Downton Abbey. Because now women aren’t anybody’s thing – that word, there’s a word which is wrong – so I could be Ms and still be Nicely. I think that’s what I will do. Or maybe Danny could be Mr Danny Nicely, because that would be a good name and maybe he’d like it. Or we could be double bubbles like my boss
Karen – because of having married Darren Jones and now she is Karen Jennings-Jones and not just Karen Jennings anymore. If Danny Flynn and I were double bubble I’d be Ms Nicely-Flynn.
Possessions. Bingo! That’s what women aren’t. Not anymore. When my mum was married, before she had to tell him to sling his hook because of him being a bad news bear, she was still Jenny Nicely. That’s because of being a feminist, which is the best thing to be, and because who’d want to be called Jenny Pratt anyway?
‘… keep sight of the bestseller potential, though of course we have to genuinely love the work. However, from the writer’s point of view, the only focus can be …’
While the woman with the throaty voice, Patsy Blake, talks, she is looking around with her eyes and watching very hard and while she is saying this, she is looking right at me so now I’m making a face which is serious, like I’m thinking only about writing and books and not at all about marrying Danny Flynn. I’m writing in my notebook, although not real sentences, just words like work and focus. I’m even nodding my head to show that I’m listening very hard.
‘… through an agent, which generally will iron out some of the most common pitfalls that authors tend to fall into.’
‘What are the most common pitfalls?’ This is the man called Jamal. He’s tapping his pen on the desk, like a woodpecker going peck peck peck, and I’m glad when he stops because it annoys my ears.
‘Well, as I say, most publishers will only look at work submitted by agents, so, really, this will generally have been remedied before it reaches our desks, but I would say the mistake made the most frequently by writers is to not understand what your book is really about. What I need is the one-line sell that will have me so intrigued I just have to read on, but I also want a glimpse of what is at the very heart of your story, and too often, in my experience, the author has a complicated, intricate plot, but no real sense of what it’s working for – of what the book is, at its essence, about.’