* * *
School carried on and English carried on being a subject I struggled with.
Our teacher, Mrs Holt, never stopped smiling, no matter how much the other kids would try to wind her up. She would shout but that expression never changed. I kept quiet in lessons, trying not to be noticed. Everything going to plan until, a few months into term, we were asked to write an autobiography.
Some of the other kids groaned, the more self confident ones put their pens straight to paper.
“I’m not doing it Miss,” I said. That very nearly but didn’t quite wipe the smile from her face.
“Why don’t you want to write an autobiography Luke?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to write it Miss. I said I’m not writing it.”
“Oh Luke....” she paused dramatically. “To live is to be a second’s tick in the relentless universe. But to write is to have an hour’s grace to tell the story of your soul.”
Wow! That had to be the most amazing thing I’d ever heard. My head went weird and I felt a strange sensation I’d never felt before build in the bottom of my tummy. So this is why people write? To make other people feel the way I felt now? If so then I knew in that moment how I wanted to spend the rest of my life, and I would forever be indebted to her, Mrs Holt of all people, for giving me the passion for words that I have now.
Would make a nice story that wouldn’t it? A revelation in school as a fourteen year old, lost and bewildered with the idea of so many years to come. Unfortunately I just made all of that up, what she really said was far less romantic. Something along the lines of, “Everybody else has to write one Luke, what makes you think you’re so special that you don’t?”
“Exactly Miss, I’m not special,” I replied. “I don’t have anything to write about.”
She looked at me scornfully, “You must have something exciting to write about, just put a story down that has happened in your life.”
“I don’t think anything has Miss, I thought maybe that would happen when I leave school.”
She’d clearly had enough of me by this point. “I don’t have time to argue about this with you. If you can’t think of one single thing to write about and you really don’t think your life is going to get interesting until you leave school then so be it. Just write about what you want to do when you grow up.”
One of the troublemakers, Gary, a big lad with a shaved head who had an obsession with fishing, and talking about fishing to anyone who would listen, willingly or not, asked, “Does that count for everyone Miss?”
“Yes Gary. If you can’t think of anything from your whole life then do that as well.”
“Sweet,” Gary replied.
“That doesn’t help me Miss,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m going to be when I leave school.”
“Now it’s really not as hard a task as you’re making it out to be, is it?”
Gary sniggered behind me at the back of the classroom.
“What are you up to Gary?”
“Nothing Miss.” He didn’t even look up from his writing, unusual for someone who I wasn’t aware even knew which end of a pen to hold, unless he was poking someone with it.
“You’re up to something Gary, what is it?”
“Just writing about how my life’s going to be when I leave school Miss, like you told me to.”
“And what is this life you’re writing about? Let me guess, you’re James Bond or someone are you?”
“No Miss I’m going to be a porn star, I’m writing about all the women I’m going to get paid to screw.”
That was it, the whole classroom erupted with laughter.
“You know full well that isn’t what I asked you to do Gary.”
“That’s not fair Miss. If Gary gets to be a porn star then I want to be a footballer in my book,” Kev piped up.
“Yeah mate, you’ll get almost as much pussy as me if you’re a footballer.”
“I won’t have women objectified like that in my classroom!” she shouted. “All of you from now on are only allowed to write about things you’ve done, not things you want to do or things you wish you could do.”
The idiots and jokers in the class groaned.
I sat there in silence, staring at the blank page before me on the desk.
“That still doesn’t help me Miss,” I said.
“You must have some aspect of your life that you can write about, where do you live?”
“Kirk-Leigh, Miss.”
“Well write something about growing up there.”
“I can’t Miss, I didn’t grow up there.”
“Of course you didn’t, that would be too easy. Where did you go to school before you came here?”
“Branningham, Miss.”
“Then write about growing up in Branningham.”
There was an audible intake of breath from Gary at the back of the class. “That’s not fair Miss, Luke could write anything if you let him write about a school none of the rest of us have ever been to. How would we know he was telling the truth?”
Mrs Holt had clearly had enough at this point, even so her face still bore an angry smile.
“Do you know what? Just write about whatever you want, you’re not doing this to see who has led the most interesting life, it’s just an exercise to get you writing from the first person perspective.”
She sat down at the head of the room and let out a sigh, before crossing her arms, making an effort not to even look in my direction.
So I could write about anything now, it didn’t have to be something I’d actually done. That still wasn’t enough though, it wasn’t just the fact that I didn’t think I had any interesting stories, it was also that I didn’t know where to begin, or how to make it all worth reading. Looking back on it now, if I could rewind the clocks and give myself just one piece of advice, it would be: the write words are the ones you want to right.
I never did do that autobiography in English class, but Mrs Holt still continued to smile.
Thanks Santa
December 1997.
Our first Christmas in the new house began with the sound of Jack screaming at six o’clock in the morning. He had developed colic which meant every time he fed, which for a baby is often, he would suffer excruciating stomach pain. This translated into head pain for the rest of us.
Having endured ten minutes of waiting for him to be quiet, I reluctantly got up and came downstairs to find him and my mum in the front room. The decorations and tree had gone up a week before but underneath it were now a whole host of presents that must have appeared in the night.
“Merry Christmas Mum,” I said loudly over the sound of crying. “Merry Christmas Jack, for when you stop screaming.”
“Morning Lu, Merry Christmas,” my mum replied.
Having heard me come down, Dean and my dad soon followed. Both still in their pyjamas.
“Merry Christmas to one and all,” my dad said.
Dean laughed, “Yeah- er happy Christmas and that.”
“I know it’s early, but you might as well open your presents now,” my dad said.
In the background my mum held Jack over her shoulder and rubbed him gently on the back.
Dean went to the tree first and started searching through the presents, checking the name on the tag before putting them back if they weren’t for him.
“You could hand them out while you’re there Dean,” my dad suggested.
“Do I look like Father Christmas?” Dean cheeked as he sat back down, two small boxes in his hands.
My dad sighed as he got up, then sifted through the goodies, putting them into individual piles in front of us. Jack eventually calmed down.
“Go on then,” my mum smiled at Dean before he frantically tore at the wrapping paper on the box he was holding. In it was a chocolate selection box.
“Thanks,” Dean said, while continuing to pull the fake smile he’d worn since he picked it up. A good tactic to hide disappointment if he needed to.
I got my fake smile in early in preparation, then took the safe option by opening a present that looked exactly the same size and shape as Dean’s. Another selection box.
Then it was my parents turn to open a present each from the smaller piles they had.
“Thanks Jan,” my dad said unwrapping a socket set, my mum threw him a dirty look. “Thanks Santa I mean.”
My mum opened a bottle of the same perfume she got every year. “Thank you Father Christmas, you remembered which perfume I like.”
My dad smiled.
Then it was Jack’s turn. My dad unwrapped most of a box, then held it in front of Jack so he could finish opening it. He reached out with his tiny hand and tore off a piece of paper nearly as big as he was, before waving it back and forth like a flag.
“That’s just the wrapping paper,” my dad said as he went to take it off him. Jack’s eyes welled up. “You play with that then, you can see your present later.”
Jack cackled as he continued to wave his flag.
My dad put the box on the floor, in it was a red fire engine. I was looking forward to Jack finally opening it, I wanted to play with it too.
“Your turn again Dean,” my mum said.
He opened a Game Boy Pocket this time. “Wicked! I wanted one of these.”
My parents looked relieved.
The attention moved back onto me. I picked up a big box this time. I knew what it was, a Sony PlayStation. Or at least that’s what I wanted it to be. I unwrapped it slowly, already smiling in case I was wrong. I was sure I wasn’t though, I’d been dropping hints for weeks.
“Thanks Santa, this is what I really wanted,” I said as I revealed the Sony label on the box.
My parents looked relieved again.
That was the things we’d both been looking forward to opened. It was only us two that had actually asked for anything good, parents don’t seem to bother so much with Christmas.
I’d got my PlayStation and the morning had gone perfectly, a little too perfectly.
As we sat there, surrounding the tree while we smiled and opened presents, we looked like one of those families from adverts on the television, all laughter and japes as they play board games together or eat a turkey too big for a normal oven.
We might have liked to be like that, but we weren’t like that. An almighty elephant had made itself comfortable in the corner of the room. I waited for the arguing to start. I didn’t wait long.
“I’ll put your chocolate in the fridge you two so it doesn’t melt,” my dad said. “You can have one each now but no more until after your dinner.”
Then came the shouting.
“Jan! You better come and look at this!”
My mum left Jack with his wrapping paper and ran into the kitchen. “Oh no Whisky get off that!”
Dean and I followed.
“That’s it now, Christmas is ruined! We’ll have to throw the turkey away!” my dad shouted. “Why would you leave it on the side?”
“Where else was I supposed to leave it? It wouldn’t fit in the microwave,” my mum snapped back.
“Not on the fucking side where the cat could get to it!”
“Oh right and you’re going to swear in front of the kids are you?”
“I wasn’t the idiot who left Christmas dinner on the side was I?”
The scene was set for the rest of the day. Dean and I ran upstairs, only coming back down twenty minutes later when we were sure the arguing had subsided.
My mum ended up cooking the vegetables, roasting the potatoes and putting together some sort of turkey replacement using frozen chicken pieces. My dad got on the beer as he watched me set up my new PlayStation in the lounge, helping when I needed him to. Jack thankfully fell fast asleep. The atmosphere was tense and I felt a well of apprehension when my mum eventually called us in for lunch.
“How big are these potatoes Jan?!” my dad antagonised her. “They’re barely cooked in the middle, I’ve told you before if you make them smaller they go crispier.”
I bit down on my lip, trying to concentrate on the pain and the taste of blood, rather than the volcano that I knew was about to erupt....
Having bolted my food down as quickly as I could, I made my escape into the hallway where the phone lived, half closing the kitchen door behind me. As I dialled Al’s number I wondered if this maybe wasn’t the polite thing to do, phoning his house on Christmas day. I was pretty sure that his was going rather differently than mine. They had probably spent lunchtime laughing over tacky cracker jokes, complimenting his mum on the meal, generally being a normal family. Now here I was, about to interrupt their fun.
After three rings I decided to hang up, but as I removed the phone from my ear I heard Al’s dad’s voice, “Sutton household, good afternoon.”
When I got put through to Al he sounded in good spirits. “Alright Lu, how’s it going?” he asked.
“Yeah good mate, finished lunch now though so a bit bored,” I replied, not wanting to make it obvious I was after either meeting up with him somewhere for the rest of the day, or even an invite round to his.
“You’ve eaten pretty early then, for Christmas Day I mean? We had late breakfast so Mum’s still getting lunch ready,” he said. “Did you get your PlayStation?”
“Yeah it’s set up in the front room,” I replied, immediately wishing I’d told him it was still in the box. He might have invited me over to try it at his then.
“Sweet! I’ll come round tomorrow and have a go on it,” Al said.
In the background I heard his mum, “Lunch is ready!”
“I’ve gotta go Lu, peace out.”
Al’s voice was replaced with a dull tone. Rather than put the phone down I carried on the conversation at my end, making my voice louder. “Yeah sounds good mate, you sure your mum won’t mind? OK cool, see you in a bit.”
I don’t think my dad even really noticed when I announced I was off round Al’s. My mum just rolled her eyes at me then diverted her attention back to some awful soap on the television, where someone else’s Christmas seemed to be going even more badly than ours.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around Kirk-Leigh, most of it hiding in the pillbox by the backwaters. It was cold, an icy frosted cold that seeped into your bones. It was quiet too though, with just the gentle lapping of the water against the muddy shore. I tried to think about the next day and playing against Al on the computer, rather than dwell on the problems at home. Then when it started getting dark I knew I had to go.
There had been a Christmas service, and when I arrived at the main road people were making their way back to their respective homes. I thought back to what I was heading home to. Dean had been hidden up in the bedroom when I’d left, and Jack was grizzling between my parents on the settee.
As darkness fell I knelt to the ground and sneaked my way down the side of the house, feet crunching through the frost. Planning as early a night as I could possibly get away with.
Salty Meringues
March 1998.
Winter held on for as long as it could, but eventually passed control to spring. With the new season came a new term. I found it a challenge to enter the monstrosity we called school each morning, rather than walking past and making my way to the beach. Flowers bloomed and the seaside seemed to constantly be calling my name, the same as it was, or at least I imagine it must have been, the names of most of my classmates.
At least now it was easier to get out of the house and breathe the air. The smell of the sea is one I’ll never forget, and would never want to. Branningham seemed long forgotten by now. The fields and the massive expanse of impressive trees couldn’t hope to compare to the absolute wildness of the sea and its unforgiving nature. I became aware whenever I stood at the edge of the sand, white waves folding over each other then over my feet like salty meringues, that I was on the edge of an island. Standing alone, at the point Frampton beach juts out into the sea, you could look both ways and see nothing but water, making you feel like
you had the whole island to yourself.
After school we would hang around in the public seating huts on the esplanade and take the piss out of each other. When they were full of old people we would go down onto the sand. As I watched the sunset I would imagine people on the other side of the world watching the sunrise at the same time, it always amazed me, though it wasn’t something you told your mate when they were busy throwing stones at buoys in the sea. Addictive would be a word to describe it. I could barely remember the days of walking to school without the hint of saltiness in the air. For a kid who only used to be taken to the beach as a treat it was paradise.
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