Authors: Julie Mayhew
And then he’d see me in a totally new, grown-up light and regret never taking me seriously and he’d totally wish it was his baby and then . . . And then what? I have no idea. I don’t really care what he would think. Ian’s just a boy and I’m far too adult for him now.
I guess I’m most interested in what Chick thinks of all this. We still haven’t spoken. In my head, we have endless conversations. And in these conversations I am eloquent and in charge and ask all the right penetrating questions. Why did you let me down? Why did you act like I’d done something wrong? Why didn’t I deserve your support? Why are you letting go of all our years of friendship? Why? Why? Why? And faced with this barrage of questions Chick can think of no reasonable answers, so she gives in and says that I am right and we must become best mates again. This, I realise, will never happen.
I’m sure word of my predicament has reached Chick, via her mum. That’s what Mrs Lacey would call it –
a predicament
. I know that Chick did rubbish in her GCSEs and her mum was going to make her join one of those hothouse summer schools with all the Japanese high achiever kids to try and drum some intelligence into her. Mrs Lacey always reckoned that Chick had it in her to be a lawyer or a doctor. That lawyery-doctory thing inside Chick was always hiding itself pretty well, if you ask me. Anyway, I heard that Chick talked her mum into letting her do a theatre studies course at a college in Barnet. She’s going to learn how to pretend to be someone else.
Justine Burrell told me all this about Chick. I guess Justine’s my best mate now. She’s coming over later to help me turn Mum’s old room into a nursery. Paul’s cleared out the furniture that I don’t need, then me and Justine will be choosing the colours and stuff.
Justine was amazing when I broke the news about the baby. She just nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Yeah, my cousin Rhiannon had a baby when she was fourteen,” she went. “Didn’t do her any harm.”
That’s what I love about Justine – no drama.
Justine has gone on to do five A-levels in the sixth form, and I don’t think that is even stretching her that much. I reckon she’ll be a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. I told Justine this and she went: “How cool would that be? When people go, ‘don’t stress, it’s not rocket science’, I’ll be able to say, ‘yeah, it is, actually’.”
The woman across the aisle catches me smiling and smiles back. She is wrapped up in a warm, cream coat. It might be cold for March, but I’m still sweating. I get lots of smiles from people now. Everyone seems pleased to see me. Suddenly I represent something different – not death, but life.
“Got long, lovey?” she asks and nods at my belly. We both look at it – big, round, not doing anything – as if it’s going to answer for me.
“Sixty-three days to go,” I say. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”
“Course you ain’t,” goes the woman, breaking into another grin.
I let out a weary sigh, which, in that moment, sounds like the most hilarious noise ever.
The woman starts laughing and I join in.
Proper laughing.
This is the recipe.
Take a feeling. Choose a strong one – the feeling that you just know. Do not hesitate. Understand immediately. This is what they call love.
Wait for a dark, dark night on a magical island far, far from here. Hold your fears for the future tightly to your chest. Feel that they weigh nothing compared to what you have already lost. Believe that there is no one left to love, and no one to love you back. Let this emotion turn your feet to stone and your heart into a somersaulting beast. Stop and listen to a siren’s song, luring you towards the sea.
See the red-black scorpion crawl across your white sheets. Hear a scream and realise it is yours. Then see him come running to save you.
Climb onto the back of his white horse and tell him to take you to the fortress. Slice through the wind, cheat death, see your hopes rise. See the lights of the ships spill out across the water, proving for sure that the sea still exists in the enveloping dark. Say out loud, ‘
the future from here, it looks good
’, and see those words fall from the cliff and tumble into the sea. Then fall yourself, sink down, into lush grass. Create a bond. Strong. One that refuses to be broken.
Know that this is not life as it will always be. Know that you cannot rest here for all of eternity. Feel that your home is calling you back. Picture those London streets, the history they hold. Listen. Hear them telling you that you belong to them. Hear them promising that the future is filled with nothing but possibilities.
Ask him to come with you.
Hear the word ‘never’ spoken clearly in English.
Here it is, your first lesson in how to love and lose.
Realise that you cannot make someone love you. Leave, but promise to come back next year. Look inside yourself and wonder if you really mean it. Feel the piece of thread that connects your heart to his pull taut across a continent. Feel it wear thin and fray. Dream of a flower dying, shedding its seeds, allowing another flower to grow.
Place your hands on your taut, expanding belly and see that your love has borne fruit. Whisper bright words encouraging it to grow. Know for sure that the strongest seed always survives.
Realise that nothing that has happened before this day has really meant anything. Or rather, everything that has happened before this day has only been leading up to this. Watch the final slivers of your childhood slip away. Examine the creased, swollen features of the baby squirming in your arms – your something special, your
agapoula mou, peristeraki mou
.
Connect a piece of thread to their heart.
And tell them a story.
Take a feeling. Choose a strong one – the feeling that you just know. Do not hesitate. Understand immediately. This is what they call love.
In researching this book I owe thanks to Dr Maria Kouroumali and Dr Eleni Yannakakis for their expert knowledge of Cretan tradition and lifestyle – and for correcting my wonky Greek dialogue.
Mark Gurrey, who was at Barnet Children’s Services at the time of writing the book, gave up his valuable time to explain Social Services procedure. Any bending of those rules is my doing, and is (sometimes) acknowledged by Poppy.
Some finer details of the effects of addiction were provided by Add Action (www.addaction.org.uk) and Shelley Gilbert of Grief Encounter was incredibly generous with her information and experiences. If you have lost someone close to you, please do take a look at www.griefencounter.org.uk.
I’m grateful to Vassilis Gialamarakis and his family for their hospitality – and to everyone at the Mistral in Maleme, Crete. Thank you to Vassilis for the rootstock. Thank you to Thea for the bread drizzled with oil and honey. Thank you to Gail and Kavita for the road trip.
An Arvon retreat tutored by Chris Wakling, Mavis Cheek and Jane Harris was instrumental in getting this book started, and a Spread The Word course led by Bernadine Evaristo put a rocket up its backside. I cannot recommend Arvon (www.arvonfoundation.org) and Spread The Word (www.spreadtheword.org) enough.
I’m also lucky to be a member of the tough-but-fair Verulam Writers Circle in St Albans – thank you for your feedback and general cheerleading, especially Ian Cundell. Thanks also to Philippa and Thom for reading early drafts.
Support and advice along the way came from Maria McCann, Bea Corlett, Josephine Loukianos, Ann Thomas, Rose Scarborough, Michael Price, Terry Sadler, Jenny Thorburn, Sam Potter, Jenny Maksymetz, Donna Daley Clarke, Julia Bell, Hannah Ferguson, Sheila Crowley, Sam Baker, Sarra Manning, Simon Taylor, Literary Death Match, the 2011 Arvon/Jerwood Mentoring posse and Scott Williams and his Impulse Company – and it was much appreciated.
An early version of the ‘15 Days Since’ chapter previously appeared in Volume 10 (1) of
Stand Magazine.
Thank you to Emily Thomas, Georgia Murray, Kate Manning, Jet Purdie and the rest of the brilliant Hot Key family.
And thank you Louise ‘Marvellously Nitty Gritty’ Lamont.
The churches and folklore museum of Hania, Monastery Agia Triada with its rootstock, Kalathás bay, Tersanas beach and Haris’s fortress (if you can find it) all exist on an island far, far from here, where the sea is woven from strings of sapphire blue and where the sunshine throbs like a heartbeat . . . Do go and visit.
Julie Mayhew is an actress turned writer who still acts but mostly writes. Her plays have been staged in London and Edinburgh, her most recent radio drama was nominated for a BBC Audio Drama Award and because she lacks focus (or shows great versatility – you decide) she is also a prolific writer of short stories. Julie grew up in Peterborough and lived in East Finchley for many years. Home is now Hertfordshire.
Red Ink
is her first novel.
Twitter
@juliemayhew
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.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Copyright © Julie Mayhew 2013
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ebook ISBN: 978-1-4714-0035-3
1
Hot Key Books is part of the Bonnier Publishing Group