If You Go

If you go to Kendal, you might meet Anne and Bernard. They're a couple. Anne has the eyes of an owl that are full of tough love and she knows exactly what kind of knee-length skirt she likes to wear. Bernard wears his black polyester trousers high, high up on his waist. In the morning, at breakfast, Bernard will ask you questions about this and that. Afterwards, there might be an early morning silence that lasts for seven or eight seconds. And then Bernard might say, right, I'd better go and help Anne with the toast then. The thing about Anne and Bernard is that once, a man stayed in their house who kept screaming at night and they didn't know what to do about it.


If you go to Carlisle, you might meet Christine. She's got a huge TV in her lounge and she watches Don't Tell the Bride while she does the ironing. When you first meet Christine, you might think she's too tired and angry to talk to you, but that's not true; she's just thinking about her kids, that's all. And as soon as you say, thanks, Christine, she'll make an expression on her face that's embarrassed and teenagery and quite beautiful. The thing about Christine is that the people around her steal her share of the deep breaths and it's not fair.


If you go to Stornoway, you might meet David. David doesn't know where to stand or where to look or who he is. You might mistake his depression for laziness. And you might get cross with him for things like his mumbling voice or his lack of motivation. But then, he might do a really small, human thing. For example, he might want to shake your hand and say sorry with his eyes, and then you'll picture him eating a sandwich on his own and you'll feel the kind of pity for him that you feel towards your parents sometimes. The thing about David is that he's got to remember that what he doesn't do is as much his responsibility as what he does do. 


If you go to Stranraer, you might meet Ellen and Fred. Ellen has a lovely smell and likes a chat and Fred is the kind of person whose kindness makes your neck ache. They live with their son and his laptop. Fred is recovering from a bad accident at work and Ellen can't wait to go to Lanzarote. Their house is surrounded by grey concrete and grey sky, and the grey sea is just down the road. The thing about Ellen and Fred is that they've definitely thought about compensation, but, truth be told, they just don't really want to go down that road for the time being and that's that.


If you go to Greenock, you might meet Georgina. If you ask Georgina one small, polite question, all sorts of things will come out of her mouth in response, and you won't be allowed to move. You might be forgiven for thinking that Georgina's tears are fake, even though you know they're not. It's hard to explain. When Georgina's about, you might become a human shield for the other people in the room. The thing about Georgina, is that she probably needed someone to be a human shield for her once but, for one reason or another, it just didn't work.


If you go to Ullapool, you might meet Fran. You might sit down and make her a cup of tea and ask her about herself. And she'll tell you the peripheral things. And then, she might suddenly think of a piece of music, and one of those silences might happen where everything feels delicate and breakable and breath-held. And you might touch her arm and give it a soft squeeze because you know that she's weeping. And she'll be weeping in a way that only a heartbroken mother can weep. The thing about Fran is that she'll always turn up, no matter how painful it might be.


If you go to Findhorn, you might meet Gerry. You'll meet his wife, too, and Gerry will patronise her and lie to her face in front of you. Gerry thinks he's super chilled and super in touch with nature but he is super neither of these things. Gerry is full of information and facts that are, inadvertently, all about him and how good he is at his job. He thinks that his job is the most important job in Findhorn and that he is the boss of all the jobs around including your job. The thing about Gerry is that he doesn't know what his job is or how to do it.


If you go to Inverness, you might meet Hal. He lives in a house full of notices that he's stenciled himself and stuck to the walls, and there's a tiny water feature in his lounge that makes a batteries-about-to-run-out noise. Hal practices classical guitar and talks to the news and goes to church with a cap on. You might imagine Hal standing in front of the mirror in his room, striking the poses of various super heroes and screaming at his mother and feeling incredibly powerful. You might think that he does all of this before he's even had breakfast. The thing about Hal is that he's been on the verge of breaking through it all and smashing the place up since he was nine years old.


If you go to Hawick, you might meet Iris. You might be told all sorts of things about Iris by other people while Iris is sitting right next to you. And then, you might turn to look at Iris and give her a smile and a wink and she might burst into song. And after that, Iris might be very quiet again. And you might look at her again and think who did you used to be, Iris? And, quite soon after you've realised it's none of your business, Iris might tell you a story about her favourite person. The thing about Iris is that she's learned how to sit with her coat on in a really hot room and not make a fuss.


If you go to Ayr, you might meet James. It's difficult to know how old James is because of his flawless complexion. James looks haunted by pain and racked with guilt. Sometimes, James tells you that he's a bad man and that he deserves to be dead. You can imagine him playing a saxophone on a train in America, but not for money. Or, you can imagine him standing by a window, looking out at the woman he loves finally leaving him for good. The thing about James is that he could crush a man to death with fierce, fierce love and not say sorry about it for years.


If you go to Peterlee, you might meet Kelly. At first, she might look at you a bit funny and, actually, it'll be fair enough, because you might be rearranging things in her bar without asking. Kelly drinks a bit too much and doesn't eat properly. She doesn't ask questions very often but if you talk to her about something you've done, you'll notice that she listens with her eyes, and not a lot of people do that. The thing about Kelly is that when you say goodbye to her after having known her for about an hour, she'll give you one of the most honest and unassuming hugs of your life.

Any Day Now

When Julie is nine years old, it gets to be the winter. And it's the kind of winter where the darkness is all the time, and not just outside. The darkness is everywhere, all around everything, and in the spirit and the bones and the blood of things. All the sounds are dark, all the silences are dark. And it's dark inside Julie, too. And she imagines this darkness inside her and she can picture it and she can feel how big and important it is and she knows that it didn't even start off small. 

And Julie realises that this dark winter is the time she'll die. And so this is what she thinks about every day. And it doesn't go away. And Julie lies in her bed at night, in her dark room during this dark winter and, quite often, she brings her hands up to her face and her hands look frighteningly big. And Julie tells herself that this is happening because her brain is preparing for death by disconnecting from her body. And her body knows it and her brain knows it and Julie knows it. She just absolutely knows it. And she decides not to take deep breaths because she'll jinx it. So she breathes small, shallow breaths that make her lips feel fuzzy.

And Julie doesn't tell anybody apart from God.

And, during this winter, where everything all around is too dark, and where car journeys feel like a flu-dream, and the characters in tv cartoons look like they're silent-screaming from a million miles away, Julie finds that she can walk just outside of herself. And while she's doing this, she looks closely at her mother and her brother and her sister, and her teachers and her friends and her non-friends. She looks really closely, even though her body feels far away from all of their bodies. And she doesn't tell anyone that she's going to die but she wants and also doesn't want them to know.

And sometimes, during very quiet indeed times, Julie sees a picture in her own head. And in the picture, there are two things happening at once. And one half of the picture is of herself in the hospital just before the moment of her death, and the other half is of her mother at home thinking about Julie in the hospital just before the moment of her death. And these two halves of the picture flit between each other quite slowly, back and forth and back and forth and Julie feels the feelings of the picture until it's so palpable that she can't bear it anymore. So she snaps herself out of it by doing a jerky movement. But then the picture seeps into her mind again and again and again until somebody interrupts her or until the phone rings.

And Julie doesn't tell anybody, apart from God.

And, during this winter, where everything all around is too dark and her body is a cold, delicate temple of symptoms, and where all the things that happen and all the things that are said are definitely an omen, Julie sometimes walks into a room where her mother is crying. And Julie can see the bulging, grief-filled veins on her mother's head, full of stubborn, tenacious blood. And Julie stays very still and quiet and she watches and listens. And she wonders if the blood in those veins on her mother's head is travelling to her heart or away from it. And she thinks about her mother's heart, her actual, real life heart; about what it might feel like to touch that heart, about what the heart might do if Julie shouted at it, about whether or not the heart is going to be ok. And then she hears her own heart, beating in her ears, like a drum wrapped in a dirty blanket. And Julie thinks that she can hear her heart whispering to her, any day now, any day now, any day now.

And Julie remembers to not breathe deeply. Because of jinxing it.

And sometimes, at school, after a whole morning of shallow breathing and prodding at her body to check for clues and thinking about dying in hospital, Julie has to go and sit by the sink with a helper. And when this happens, Julie doesn't want to talk to the helper. So she talks to God instead. Not out loud though. And she's careful not to ask God for too much because she's been told to be careful what you wish for which means omens.

And, during this winter, where everything all around is too dark, and her thumbs are cracked and bleeding from nerves, and where visits to the doctor end in sentences like, but, Julie you really don't look like you're dying, Julie dies. Right on her own doorstep. With a cup of milk in her hand. And it's such a surprise. Even though she knew it was going to happen. She just stops breathing. Just like that. Just as she's about to knock on her own front door to be let back in after going over the road to borrow some milk from a neighbour. And after she completely stops breathing, Julie thinks, oh, it's now.

And she doesn't even think about God.

Or anything.

And then some seconds pass.

And then she collapses.

And then it hurts.

And then it's real.

And then it's terrifying.

And then the door opens.

And then, Julie has one of those moments when she feels a new feeling for the first time, even though she's died. But the feeling isn't just one thing, it's an awful amount of things. And a deep, wild sound like a bellow comes out of Julie's mouth from inside her body and the sound is terrific and frightening and has other sounds attached to it. And Julie's arms shake from the vibrations of it all and she's lifted up from the ground and carried in soft arms to a soft chair and laid down gently on her trembling back. And a cool hand is pressed to her face which is a very hot face for someone who's just died, and a pair of strong, friendly thumbs wipe away Julie's sticky tears. And then eight, careful fingers team up with the thumbs to make a pair of grown-up hands, and the hands travel down the back of Julie's little neck to her pointy shoulder blades. And the grown-up hands gently push Julie onto her side. And the sweet smelling arms that the hands belong to wrap themselves around Julie's shivering bones and start to push and pull and push and pull, slowly and without too much fuss. And a sound that says, shhhh comes out of the mouth of this human rocking chair and the slow, tired, heartbroken voice of her mother whispers into Julie's bright red ear, what are we going to do with you, hmmm?

Peacocks

Think back

Go on

How old are you?

About eight?

Yeah, about eight

And you're ok, you are

All in all

It's probably the summer

That's why it's still light at 7pm

You've just got out of the car

And there are two peacocks in the car park

The ones with all the coloured feathers

Man ones

You're holding three bags of doughnuts

For the doghnut eating competition

(Where you have to eat a whole doughnut without licking your lips) 

At the youth club for kids in care where your mum works

You're not really supposed to be here

But your mum's boss has turned a blind eye

Because of what your mum's been through recently

Oh, look

There's Samantha

You don't know her yet

She comes to talk to you as soon as she sees you

She tells you she's 14

(Wow, you think)

And that she's been coming here for two years

And that she has Down's Syndrome

And that she's been in 12 foster homes

And that the reason she's been in so many

Is that people can't cope with her

They couldn't cope with me, says Samantha

I have aggression

What kind? You ask

Just the normal kind, she says

Samantha looks at you quite a lot

And you look back at her just as much

She asks you why you're here

And you don't know what to say

Samantha says, are you in care?

And after about five seconds

You shake your head

Samantha holds your hand

And takes you inside

And makes you a Ribena

And she says, you're really kind to me

As she passes it to you

And you win the doughnut eating competition

Even though you cheat



Now

Fast forward about 15 years

You're eating a school dinner

In a school hall

You've just performed a show for some of the kids

Oh, look

There's Amy

You don't know her yet

But she comes to talk to you as soon as she sees you

She tells you that she's 12

And that she's been at this school since September

And that there's a girl on her bus who wants to beat her up

And that she's been in about seven different foster homes

And that she's never met her dad

And that she really liked the show

You ask her what her favourite part of the show was

She says she liked the whole thing

She tells you that the reason she's been in so many foster homes

Is that people can't cope with her

They couldn't cope with me, she says

Because of aggression and anger

She tells you all about it

The words that she uses to describe herself

Are words that she's heard adults using about her

Antisocial

Hyperactive

Attention seeking

Difficulty bonding

Acting out

She tells you that she misses her mum

But that her mum had to give her up

For loads of reasons

And that she only sees her every now and again

She tells you that she's been told she'd be a good social worker

You ask her if that's what she wants to be

And she laughs in your face

And says, no way

And she pulls her tights right up to her waist

And asks you if you can come and do a show every week

She doesn't really look at you when she's speaking to you

But that's ok

You get it