by Caroline Day
‘Sorry. Can you give us examples of what you mean?’ This is Veronica Ptitsky.
‘OK. So. Your book. Pitch it to me.’
‘Oh God. Put me on the spot.’ Veronica Ptitsky is laughing and putting her hand to her forehead. ‘Right. Champing is accessible LGBTQ erotica, set across the class divides of the world of stables and horse racing.’
‘Perfect.’ This is Patsy Blake. ‘So you’ve given me the environment and I can see a definite commercial potential. That’s the pitch. But you’ve not told me what the actual—’
‘There’s no Q.’ It’s not proper interrupting because I need to tell Veronica Ptitsky that she’s made a mistake, so it’s helping in fact, though really she should know it better than me, as it’s where she comes from. And I should have my hand up really, to show that I have something to say, but I always forget that.
Everybody’s looking at me now and the knot man is doing a thing with his eyes, like they’re looking at the ceiling, and I think his mouth is saying for heaven’s sake but not with noise.
‘I’m sorry.’ Patsy Blake is looking at me too, but doing a different thing with her eyes, like the eyebrows are coming down to try to touch them. ‘What queue? I was merely asking your classmate …’
‘Lgbt. There’s no Q. Lgbt. It’s only spelt LGBT.’
‘Hope.’ It’s Veronica Ptitsky and she’s reaching across the desk and putting a hand on my arm, with nails that are painted red, except sparkly. ‘Q means queer. Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans – and Queer. LGBT. LGBTQ. It doesn’t really matter. It’s just …’
Lesbian is when women like to do you-know-what with other women. Gay is when men like to do it with other men, but lesbians can be gay too, although men-gays aren’t lesbians, only women-gays. I’m not sure about bisexual but I think it’s being gay and lesbian at the same time so you can do you-know-what with everybody. Trans is what they’re always talking about on the news, and when my mum Jenny Nicely’s listening to Women’s Hour, they’re always saying about it, and it’s what Hayley Cropper was in Coronation Street but that was a very long time ago, when not so many people wanted to do it. I think queer is just like gay, but maybe ruder because it’s what the boys at school used to shout to other boys when they were being not very polite to them.
I’m still thinking about this, and I’m wondering what it’s like in Lgbt with all the community doing you-know-what, all the men with the men, and the women with the women, and the bisexuals with all of them. Maybe they have to wear big fluffy hats with flaps on their ears, because of it being so cold. But maybe I’ve got that wrong, because Veronica Ptitsky is from America, too, not just Russia, only her name, so maybe they’re wearing bikinis and eating ginormous burgers in Lgbt. I don’t think I could live there, because of not being a real lesbian, just only once, and that wasn’t a proper one, just because of me wanting to touch her big boobies to see what they felt like, and her – Tessa in class 10C – calling me a sick lezza, and pulling my hair and punching me until I cried. But now I know we have to keep our hands and our feet to ourselves. It’s a golden rule which I’ve practised zillions of times with my mum, Jenny Nicely, so I’m definitely not a lesbian anymore.
‘… when you boil it right down is about identity and belonging.’
‘And there was me thinking it was because of the sex.’
‘Sex sells, absolutely. But why was this book – this trilogy – such a runaway sensation, why did all those millions of women connect with this book in such a fashion when, traditionally, this is such a difficult genre? It’s not the dialogue or the characters and the plot. What every reader identified with was that sense of a search for belonging. That’s the universal that hooked them …’
‘Along with the multiple orgasms?’
‘Well, yes.’ They’re both laughing.
‘Who else?’ The woman called Patsy Blake is looking at me again. ‘What about your book?’
‘It’s about me. It’s my autobiography. It’s non-fiction.’
‘OK. And what’s it really about?’
‘It’s really about me. It’s going to find my birth mother and then she’ll have to tell me why she made me like this, by drinking lots of G&Ts with me in her tummy. And why she left me in a cardboard box. It will change my life and give me closure.’
‘Interesting!’ She’s leaning forward towards me as she says this, with a big smile and showing her teeth, which are not as white as snow. And her eyes are watching me and so are everyone else’s – except for Stephen, or maybe Simon, and he’s looking out of the window, with a hand over his mouth like he’s maybe yawning – and the man with the knots, and he’s looking up at the ceiling with his mouth in a straight line and his arms crossed.
‘That sounds a fascinating book. Again, what this sounds like to me, though, if you don’t mind my saying so, is a search for truth and identity. I’d be genuinely eager to read the submission if that landed on my desk. Anyone else?’
And now it’s Lu-do-vic-knot-man and he’s talking about his emperor and all the murders and how it’s Dan Brown meets Virgil, which he’s said before, and how he’s been published before, though only ac-a-de-mia, which he’s said before too, actually, and the Patsy Blake woman is saying ‘Interesting’ again, but it’s not as loud as when she said it to me and she’s not leaning right over the desk, but just sitting back, with a pen in her fingers, like a wand or a fork. ‘But we all experience coincidences. They do really happen.’
This is the first time Stephen/Simon has said anything in the whole class. And it’s about pitfalls, which mean mistakes that writers make and that make their books not so good. And I’ve been listening very hard, with my brain being sharp and focused, taking in almost everything, and I think it’s because of being so happy about my book being interesting and also remembering the word closure. But I’m wondering if I should have put my hand on Danny Flynn’s arm when Patsy Blake was talking to him and saying she wasn’t sure he’d quite communicated what his book was actually about, beyond the setting and the characters and their actions – what it was that gave the dystopian plot a real sense of meaning. Where is the love? That’s what she asked him. Where’s the pain? The life, the death, the driving force? An aching quest not just for a move up to the sunshine, but for what? Where is the beating heart of your book? He’s been sitting there ever since, with his elbow on the table, and his chin on his hand.
But now it’s Simon Taylor who’s talking, or Stephen maybe, and it’s about coincidences, and that they really do happen. And it’s funny, because I’m remembering about his story, about being in the room, in the dark, with the person, who had the same name as the girl in my school, who was sent away because of throwing a chair, and also the social worker, who only came once and who brought me a teddy that was actually a monkey. And that’s two coincidences, but I don’t say it. Because the woman – Patsy Blake – is already answering, so it would be interrupting. So maybe I’ll say it to him another time.
‘Of course they do. You’re right. My husband’s parents moved to England from South Africa in the 1960s when he was little, and they lost contact with the rest of their family. So, fast-forward sixty-odd years and when my daughter was backpacking in America a few years ago, she ended up sitting next to another young woman on a Greyhound bus and they started chatting. This woman was South African, and on holiday, and my daughter told her that she had South African blood and the other woman asked what her name was, and then this other woman said, oh, Blake, that was her mother’s maiden name. It turned out that her grandfather was the brother of my father-in-law, and so these two women on the bus, these strangers, were actually second cousins. Here they were, both thousands of miles away from home. What are the odds of that, do you think? So yes, coincidences do happen in real life. But you know what they say – you couldn’t make it up? Well, that’s the thing. In literature, coincidences come across as contrived and, as writers, you must beware that they don’t give your reader cause to question. The thing is
, fiction must be more believable, more real than life.’
‘But what about …?’ This is Susan Ford now. She’s not interrupting because Patsy Blake has finished what she was saying. Susan Ford is talking about Dickens, who is the writer who wrote A Christmas Carol, which is about not being mean or making people stay at work late and not ever giving them more money, and also Great Expectations, which is what she is talking about now. And Patsy Blake is replying, and it’s yes, yes, but in her whispery, croaky voice and I’m trying to keep on concentrating, but it’s like my head has been working so hard and now it wants to slow down and have a little bit of time on its own, without all the thinking. And so while all the words and the names, like Pip and Magwitch and Miss Havisham and stretched and implausible, are coming into my ears, my brain is not wanting them to come all the way in, just to leave them outside in my ears.
For a little while, I’m just looking at the faces: at Marnie Shale’s nodding, like it’s so important, with her hair bouncing, and at Veronica Ptitsky who’s writing very fast with a pen that’s pink and shiny, and sometimes putting it in her mouth, and at Simon/Stephen who is not in his nurse uniform anymore, but in a T-shirt which has a picture of a soldier in a helmet, and on the helmet it says Meat Is Murder. And when I look at him, he is already looking at me and then hurries his eyes away as soon as he sees that I’ve seen him. But especially I’m looking at Patsy Blake, with her not very white teeth and her eyes which make lots of wrinkles when she’s about to say something else. But inside my head, it’s not really worrying about the Dickens and the Hardy and the bringing it into our own writing, it’s just having a bit of a well-earned rest and listening to all the voices, without caring what they mean.
For a little while, there are no proper thoughts inside my head, just the noise without the meaning. But then the thoughts are coming, without me even wanting them, and they’re my memories, from earlier, which are back in my brain. It’s Julie Clarke’s voice – that’s the accent from the place, and she’s my social worker, except not anymore because she’s retired now, and it’s in Jamaica, with long stretchy words – and her voice is asking how is everything and how am I, and am I finding it OK being with Danny Flynn’s family. I’m saying fine, fine, fine, and not saying about punching and kicking Connor Flynn or even about the filing cabinet. That’s not really a lie, it’s just a not-telling because she didn’t ask anyway. And I didn’t say about Danny Flynn being maybe my boyfriend because I’d forgotten about that.
And in my head, I’m hearing Julie Clarke – Kingston, that’s where her voice is from – and it’s her saying maybe if I’d rather, about how her grandson could stay with friends, or about the other social worker whose name will come to me any minute, and being able to sort something out, or about finding other families, and nobody’s forcing me to do anything. And – this is still in my head, because outside of it are all the writing group people talking about what makes the reader truly connect, but inside my head are the memories and it was earlier today, like about three or four in the a.m. or the p.m., the afternoon one, not the morning one – I’m thinking about me telling Julie Clarke that I liked being with Danny Flynn’s family, and telling her about Barry and what a very good dog he is, and about Danny Flynn’s mum being a good cook and very kind too and about Connor Flynn being very clever but not liking to smell dog poo.
And then there are other things that she was saying, but my memory, oh my goodness … It’s about my mum and about the doctors and about them using cooling to make her head colder because of it being better for her brain. And something about oxygen and about what the doctors hope, but I can’t quite remember what.
We saw my mum, Jenny, and I sort of forgot. I wanted her to be sitting up in bed with a cup of tea, saying hello my Hope, look, here I am, right as rain again. But she wasn’t. And there was a doctor and his name … I can’t quite remember but his accent was from maybe India, because of not sounding like Harpenden at all, and because of him having a bit of that sort of skin, too.
I think maybe I yelled. I don’t think I did any kicking, so that’s good. But I remember Julie saying, it’s OK, Hope. And saying, I don’t want to worry you, it’s just something we need to think about. And saying did I understand. And asking about if my mum, if Jenny Nicely, had any other family, and saying it won’t come to that, but … And saying about not having to even consider any of this yet.
She doesn’t have any other family, my mum, Jenny. Just me. Her parents are dead – they were hippies with itchy feet – and she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And she married a bad news bear and the day she divorced him was a joyful day. But now she has me and adopting me was the best thing she ever did and I am everything she needs.
‘… one of the greatest pieces of European literature of all time, but to say you have to suspend your disbelief when Prince Andrei ends up in a hospital bed next to …’
In my head, I can see my mum, Jenny Nicely, and she’s in her hospital bed with the elephant mask, and it’s not where she should be. She should be at home, in our flat in Station Close, with her yellow cardigan on, and making something nice for tea, which is smelling yummy and ready for me to come home to eat, and with her arms wide and ready and open.
And in my head I can hear more voices, like they’re all saying something to me. I can hear Connor Flynn, and he’s saying, likely that if she survives, she will be in a vegetative … I can hear the doctor, with the Indian name, and he’s saying, lack of oxygen before the commencement of CPR is a concern but until … I can hear Julie Clarke and she’s saying, sure it won’t come to that, but … And, in my head, it’s like I’m trying to shout over them, saying, she’s going to be right – as – rain. And it’s like in my head I’m putting my hands over my ears because I don’t want to listen to them. But I can still hear it and now I’m putting my real hands over my real ears. But it’s all still there: vegetative … lack of oxygen … come to that …
There is a word that I know, because of poems, and having been to school, and having a teacher in RE which is religious education, who liked to make us know things. The teacher was Mrs McMurchy and the word is revelation. It means when there’s a thing that you understand but only suddenly, and you haven’t done before, and it’s just, like, all in one moment and then it’s there, and you can see it, even though you didn’t think you could. It’s like a big fat bingo. And this is what is happening to me. A revelation. All of a sudden, it’s in my head, and it’s obvious and I can’t make it go away.
My mum might not ever be right as rain again.
It hurts inside my body, in the bit where my heart is. And my tummy.
She might not ever wake up, with her big smile and her arms open and wide. She might just stay there, with the elephant mask and the noises. She might be vegetive or she might be dead.
‘Hope? Are you OK?’
The chair makes a big bang on the floor. I have to push past Danny Flynn and then past the next person, who is called maybe Kelly. Kelly Shell-y Bell-y. My chest hurts. It wants to breathe but it can’t. I don’t say sorry or excuse me, and I don’t shut the door behind me. And now I’m kneeling on the floor, in the reception outside, not even under the desk. And I’m banging my head on the floor. I’m crying and it’s so noisy, but I can’t make it stop.
Now, here are Marnie Shale and Danny Flynn and Veronica Ptitsky, and they’re asking what’s wrong, what is it – and I can’t say anything for a little while, because of all the sobs in my mouth, and my chest not wanting to breathe, but eventually I manage to tell them.
‘I want my mum.’ My words are all wobbly and not quite right, but I think they can hear them because they’re saying, of course, and, oh, poor Hope, and it was a bad idea for me to come, because I must be so worried and confused. Danny Flynn is saying it’s his fault, he thought it might be good for me to keep busy. And I’m saying yes, yes, yes, but … And I can’t manage to say anything more, even though I really want to tell him about it not being his fault at
all, because the revelation could have come anywhere, not just here. And now it’s not hard to breathe anymore, but it’s like I can’t stop myself from breathing, but I’m doing it so fast, and it’s making so much noise. Marnie Shale has her arm around my shoulder and Veronica Ptitsky is rubbing my other shoulder with her sparkly fingers. And she smells like the bit in Superdrug where all the perfumes are, the test ones which you can spray on your hands, which is nicer than the carpet smell of the floor which is still in my nose from banging my head on it.
‘Let’s get you home.’ This is Danny Flynn. He means his home.
I’m trying to say no. I’m trying to say he should stay for the rest of the group. I’m trying to say sorry. But I can’t stop breathing, breathing, breathing, like one of the dogs, when it’s hot and they’ve been running and they have their tongues out going pant, pant, pant.
‘I’ll take notes of the rest of the class.’ This is Veronica Ptitsky. ‘I’ll record it, too. You won’t miss a word. I have your email, Danny, I’ll send it over later.’
Veronica Ptitsky likes recording things. She told us in the first writing class about how she records herself talking about her ideas and thoughts, which is her audio notebook, and she records other people, things they’re saying that she thinks are interesting or characterful or that might give her inspiration. She’s always pressing buttons on her phone. She takes photos, too. And videos.
‘But …’ I don’t want to go home, to Danny Flynn’s home. I want to do the writing class and have Patsy Blake tell me again how interesting my book sounds, and then go downstairs and see my lovely mum, Jenny Nicely, sitting outside, waiting for me. But Danny Flynn is saying thanks, Veronica, that’s very kind, and so is Marnie Shale, and they’re giving me hugs and saying I should look after myself, while Danny Flynn is going to collect our bags and coats.