After Tumbling
What ever happened to Jack and Jill?
Jack went mad, eating jelly with his hands
while Jill got into knitting.
Their matching chairs had matching wears
from years of non-stop sitting.
A broken back and punctured lung
had stopped them in their teens.
Their youth, a list of wish-we-coulds
and staring into screens.
Now their skin is paper-thin
and dripping from their cheekbones.
But every day they carry pales of water
round their care homes.
Boys Night
Pint of Fosters, please.
At the bar,
admiring cocktails
you will never try
because lager is manlier
and your friends
are nearby.
One Time Thing
Story three of four from the short story cycle Passing By.
Pork and apple sausages, mashed potato and peas. The same as last night. I slide my pot of gravy over to Daniel and he slides his polystyrene cup of lemonade back. He’s a savoury man, I’m a sweet.
“Six minutes,” a guard shouts from somewhere in the hall.
“So, you all packed?” Daniel asks, peeling back the lid of the gravy and pouring it over the remainder of his mash.
“Pretty much,” I say, “only a few bits left.”
“Good luck, mate,” he says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”
This is my third attempt at an appeal, the first two got cancelled on the day – one in 2018 and the other in 2019 – something that seems to happen more often than the appeals themselves. Nevertheless, I’ll be up bright an early tomorrow, shirt and tie on, ready to prove I’m a changed man. 2022 is my year.
“Apparently Dean’s was piss easy,” Daniel continues, “he shed a few tears and they let him off. Joe reckons the judge had a thing for him.”
“Right,” I reply.
“Hopefully you get a woman,” he says, “pull on her heart strings ‘n that.”
I have no intention of hamming up my emotions, in fact I’m not sure I have the acting ability to do so. Perhaps back in my hay day, when I could convince even the most sceptical person of anything I pleased.
“Keep an eye on Molly for me, will you?” Daniel says, his eyes on his plate as he moves a pea around with his fork.
“Of course,” I say. In reality, I’ll likely never see Molly again if I’m released, or Daniel for that matter. My counsellor is repetitively advising me to leave my prison friends in the past, saying that they’re rarely a good influence. I’m not too worried about the influence side of things, I’m more concerned about ever having to introduce a prison friend to a non-prison friend. Oh, Daniel? Yes, we did time together. Daniel? He’s a friend, a friend from inside. Ah yes this is Daniel, we shared a room for five years. No, not as children. There’s just no appropriate way to say it.
“Two minutes,” the guard’s yell comes again. I wolf down the last few mouthfuls of my dinner and take the lemonade back to the cell. On the walk back, a few other prisoners wish me luck for tomorrow, patting my back as I pass. My somewhat tame charge has given me a fairly easy life in here. I’ve seen far too many blanket-covered stretchers leaving the cells of those whose sentences contain the word ‘child’. But if you’re someone like myself, in for a bland – albeit injurious – crime, then it’s not impossible to make friends. Although, friends is possibly an overstatement, not that I’d tell Daniel this.
The steel clang of the door lock rings out from behind me as I re-enter our cell, the walls of which are adorned with crayon drawings from Molly.
Daniel is on cleaning duty this evening so I have the space to myself for a few hours of what could potentially be one of my final nights behind bars. Entertainment options are limited, so I decide to read ‘Being Yourself’ by Dr. Douglas Howes, circling lines that particularly resonate with me. In the face of opportunity, take it. Dr. Howes writes. I circle this three times.
Counselling was never something I’d have considered had it not been for prison. Never would I have been the type to stroll into a psychologists office and ask to be examined. Not for fear of appearing weak or broken, but more-so due to the John of five years ago having no awareness of his own downfalls - he was a man with buried insecurity and imposter syndrome. A man who thrived on attention and neediness. But he is not the John who sits here today. He’s been renovated, re-designed and shaped into an upstanding citizen.
When Daniel reappears, we share a packet of liquorish that he stole from the tuck shop, my favourite. Perhaps I would call him a friend after all.
***
“Good morning everyone,” Judge Bevan begins, her hair pinned back in a tight bun. “Please be seated. We are here for the appeal of a…” she checks her notes, “Mr. John Harrison, on Wednesday third of May, 2022.” Peering above her glasses at me, her lips are tight and unwavering.
“Your honour,” I say with a nod. In preparation for this day, my attorney consulted me on when I should and should not speak. The latter being the majority of the time.
Judge Bevan begins to read out my charges, their verdicts, and sentence lengths, something I’ve not heard since the day of my initial hearing. “Guilty of five counts of impersonation under Section 90 of the Police Act 1996, four counts of possession under Section 5 of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971, and one count of possession of an offensive weapon in a public place, Section 1 PCA.”
I feel the eyes of the courthouse security burning a hole in my face – no member of authority is a fan of the impersonation charge. They take it very personally.
“Sentenced to eleven years in H.M. Dartmoor, Mr. Harrison is appealing on the grounds of good behaviour after serving five years and ten months,” she continues. “After pleading guilty to both charges, Mr. Harrison is now claiming that thanks to regular counselling and rehabilitation, he is no longer a danger to society.”
My attorney stands, coffee in hand and his shirt untucked on one side. “Correct, your honour.”
Although not the same courtroom as five years ago, being here today throws me back to the moment I was charged. I remember sweating profusely in my second-hand suit as my mother sat in the pews behind me, gently sobbing. Then I remember the day I let myself lose it all.
***
October 12th, 2014
I’ll never understand why anyone would throw away a perfectly usable microwave. It’s still got the glass plate inside and the buttons are hardly worn.“I’ll take this one home, Ian,” I shout across the skips, “get a pretty penny for it.” Ian gives the thumbs up through his yellow gloves as he throws a roll of carpet into the blue bins, Simon standing behind him ready to pass the next item.
When I first got my job as Skip Assistant, I was shocked at the sheer mass of decent household appliances that go to waste. Then there’s couches, cutlery, children’s toys, clothes, computers. You name it, we see it at the skip. But it doesn’t always go to waste; a few of us have set up our own eBay accounts, flogging items that still have life left in them. I’m dubious of the legality of it, but Ian assures me he’s been doing it for years.
Having finished school with no GCSE’s, no A-Levels, and no drive to better myself in any way, I’ve spent my life jumping from job to job. Whether it’s stacking shelves, chopping meat, mixing cement, or chopping down trees, I’ve done a bit of everything. And now, here I am, sorting through people’s shit. It may not be the life of luxury, but I like it.
Next up to be thrown into the mouth of the purple skip is a keyboard with a few keys missing. Then a broken dishwasher, some old bedside lamps and a heated blanket. I plug the blanket into the mains and it instantly starts to warm. Winner. A bottle of Cif and it’ll be good as new! But as I turn to add it to my ‘keep’ pile, something shiny catches my eye. Wedged under the leg of a garden chair appears to be a medal or badge of some kind, its face silver and black. I pull it out to find the words ‘Cornwall Police’ branded across the front. The badge is heavy in my hands, its pointed spikes sharp to the touch. Having never seen a police badge in real life, I feel slightly star-struck. This isn’t something you’d usually find dwelling within the heaps of junk at a dump. Certainly not. I slip it into my pocket and peak over my shoulder at Ian and Simon, neither of which have noticed my find.
By the time I get home, the sun has set and the foxes are out. I waste no time in researching my newest discovery, clicking through the Cornwall Police website in the hopes of getting a glimpse of an official badge, but no luck. Google Images throws up no answers either, or Reddit. I decide that the only way to figure out the legitimacy of this badge is to test it. I grab my coat and head to Co-Op, sliding the badge into my wallet as I walk.
“That’ll be £14.79,” the cashier says as he scans the bottle of wine.
“I don’t suppose you do police discount?” I ask, pulling out the badge and holding it up. My heart races as his eyes flick onto it. He pauses for a moment, then begins pressing buttons on his touchscreen.
“£11.62,” he says.
Now, a 19 year old boy working in Co-Op may not be an expert in recognising police equipment, but it’ll do.
***
My attorney, whose name I should probably know by now, reads out my character testimonies with the voice of boredom personified. As he speaks, Judge Bevan is making notes, the creases on her brow deepening the faster she writes. Daniel wrote a testimony that described me as a “top bloke” with “a brand new mindset”, stating that I “never bragged about any crimes committed, as though shame had overtaken what were once boast-worthy achievements.”
Boasting has never been my forte, elusiveness is more my brand.
***
November 22nd, 2014
“Of course, officer. Head straight on in.”
I link arms with Amy, striding through the gates of Anfield Stadium past the bustling queues of revved fans painted in reds and whites.
After meeting Amy at a police security conference two weeks ago – she was serving for the catering team and I told her I was sent there to represent the West of England – she agreed to have a drink with me that evening. Since then, we’ve been drawn together like flies to cat food.
“Wow, I didn’t realise how huge it was in here!” she says, taking a seat on the front row.
I lean over and kiss her on the cheek, “You get used to it.”
The first week of badge possession was one of trial and error, feeling my way around police privilege. It’s irrevocably opened my eyes to the number of people who will trust a shiny piece of metal. Not one person has questioned my authority – if anything, power is handed to me the second eyes are laid on it. Getting hold of a replica uniform was equally as hassle-free, the internet is like a worldwide dump. Someone somewhere is throwing away something you need.
Today, I gained priority access to Liverpool Vs Arsenal. Yesterday, I drove home in record speed thanks to the red flashing light I bought on eBay. Whatever tomorrow brings, P.C. Harrison will make the most of it.
***
“Okay,” Judge Bevan says, “let us run through the grounds of good behaviour. Typically, in a case like this, good behaviour can reduce a sentence up to half. You’re appealing to be released five years and two months early. Would you like to take the stand, Mr. Harrison?”
I approach the stand with weak knees, the nerves finally striking. The seat is harder than I imagined and with all eyes firmly on me, discomfort sets into my bones.
***
December 6th, 2014
“You’re lucky I’m not taking you down the station, buddy.”
The teen boy stands quaking before me, his white Adidas hoodie speckled with blood. Perhaps I tackled him too hard.
“I promise,” he gulps through the tears, “I’ll never do it again.”
The ketamine that now resides in my coat pocket is wrapped in tinfoil, the most common of drug containers. It’s only the size of a gobstopper but still enough for a youngster to overdose on. I let him go with a warning because, of course, I can’t actually arrest him - unless I want to handcuff him to my dining room chair, but that seems problematic.
Getting freebies and gaining early access became tedious after a matter of weeks so I’ve decided heroism is the next logical step. After some investigation, it came to light that the drug crime in Perranporth has doubled in the past eight years. A figure that I’d like to see decrease.
I get into my car and pop the ketamine into my glove compartment along with three small bags of cocaine, a collection of curiously shaped pills, and a full sandwich bag of marijuana. The back seat of my car has also become the home of a confiscated crossbow. The young lad claimed it was for fishing purposes but I thought best to err of the side of caution, the last thing this sleepy town needs is a mad man on the loose.
To catch these criminals, I simply spend my evenings wandering through the back streets of shops or the dimly-lit corners of carparks and public toilets. It’s not an easy job, but it’s necessary.
I adjust my bullet-vest, start my engine and move to pull away before blue and red flashing starts behind me. I check my own emergency lights, they’re off. Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I realise the lights I see are not from me, they’re from the police officer stepping out of the unmarked vehicle behind me. She approaches my window and gesture for me to roll it down.
“Good evening,” she says, “where are you off to at this time?”
I stare back in response, words failing to form.
Her eyes drop from my face onto my uniform, then onto the crossbow behind me. She lifts her radio and mumbles into it before turning back to me.
“Can you step out of the car for me, sir?”
***
Two weeks later, I step out of the prison gates and let the fresh air hit me. From beside me, my attorney pats my shoulder and walks away, his job done. For the first time in nearly six years, I am unaccompanied. Unchaperoned. Independent.
Carrying my box of belongings and the £60 the prison gift you on release, I head to catch the next train home. My parents are awaiting my arrival.
The journey to Perranporth is dreamlike. It’s as though I’ve never seen trees so green or people so happy. I feel reborn, like my prison time was simply a blip in what will be a long, wholesome life. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, destined to show me the light and teach me how to live life to the fullest. Perhaps this is the start of a journey of a lifetime. I feel like singing, like dancing through the chairs and hugging the commuters around me. But instead, I sit and grin.
After 45 minutes of watching the hills roll by, I hop off the train and step back into my hometown. Perranporth is vibrating with life. Sarong-wearing tourists weave between bracelet stalls, hands filled with ice-cream and grumpy toddlers. I suck in the smell of the ocean, already anticipating the chill of the waves.
But first thing’s first – a pasty, something I’ve been craving every day for five years.
Café Neu has a range of pasties on offer, from cheese and tomato to Nutella cream. I order three, two savoury one sweet, then head back out onto the street, ready for home. As I turn to head for the bus stop, a commotion catches my eye. A man lays flat on his back, blood pouring from his temple. The woman beside him is panicking.
“We need a doctor,” she shouts, wrapping a t-shirt around his head.
I run towards them, adrenaline raging through my chest. “I’m a doctor,” I say, “I’m a doctor.”
Outbreak
Story two of four from the short story cycle Passing By.
I see black mostly, with the occasional red or blue blotch. Is that normal? The blotches are warping. I should check if that’s normal.
“And by the time you open your eyes, all your phobias will have dissolved.”
I open my eyes, expecting to be the new owner of a fearless brain, but instead, the room is brighter than I anticipated and I worry it might make me feel lightheaded. The hypnotherapist sits opposite me smiling.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
Sitting up, I blink a few times to check for residual blotches and am relieved to see they’ve gone. “I don’t feel any different right now,” I say, “but maybe it takes a while?”
Her clipboard rattles as she places it down on the coffee table that separates us.
“What were you thinking about while I was speaking?”
“Well,” I say, “quite a lot.” She sits unmoved, waiting. “At first I was just trying to get into it. To relax, I suppose. Then I wondered if laying down this long would lower my blood pressure and cause an issue when I stand up. Which I’m still slightly worried about, if I’m honest. Do you think that’s possible?”
No reply.
“Then, I wondered about who’d sat on this couch before me, which made me very aware that the side of my face was laying directly in the centre of the cushion. Were they wearing jeans? Denim is very germ absorbent, which means if your previous patient had perhaps wiped their hands on their legs or sat on a park bench, then their jeans would likely be a Petri dish of bacteria. My mind then, obviously, went to my rash.”
“Right,” she said, “that must be quite exhausting.”
“It is.”
I leave the hypnotherapist with a hand full of leaflets, one titled ‘How To Battle Iatrophobia’, and head straight home. For the top-rated in the UK, she’s taking her time to fix me. On the bus, I pull my sleeves over my hands before pressing any buttons and ensure that my lower back isn’t exposed to the scratchy seats.
Maggie is waiting for me as I walk through the front door, her tail weaving left and right. She brushes herself up against my legs and purrs into my shoes. Owning a cat was the best decision I’ve ever made; she’s soft on sensitive skin, self-cleaning and demands only minimal attention.
I start my usual routine the moment I get inside: wash hands with dermatologist approved soap, wipe down arms with water (ensuring not to peel off any flaking skin), change into fresh microfibre t-shirt and moisturise any exposed areas. Despite having dealt with this rash for over seventeen years, the routine never gets easier. After feeding Maggie, I settle into the couch and pop on Radio 2. I open up the first leaflet, the largest of the three. Hospitals are the safest place on earth. In an emergency, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I disagree – I’d rather die in my own bed than have to face the horrifying scenes that dwell behind the sliding doors of a hospital. With doctors and nurses around every corner, you’re in secure hands. They forget to mention the blood, needles and dying people. And since when are doctors comforting? They’re literally the bearers of bad news. I flick through the other leaflets, decide they’re no good and throw them in the bin.
***
This Saturday morning’s suit of choice is a DKNY number, chosen for me by my daughter Anne. That’s a perk of having daughters – shopping. Without them, I’d be walking around in a pair of twenty-five-year-old shorts bought for me by my ex-wife. You can lose a lot when your mental health is bad, and my wife was my biggest loss of all. I don’t blame her; there’s only so long you can deal with a brain like mine.
“Morning, Ron,” Arran from finance says as he clocks in, “looking sharp.” I straighten my sleeves and smile in response, the corners of my rash peeking out of the cuffs.
“Busy day?” He lingers at my desk, taking a long slurp of his coffee.
“Busy as usual!” Some may say that working as a receptionist at a carpet factory is a sad way of life, but I love it. We make Cornwall’s most eco-friendly carpets and I get to share my days with Jayne, the senior receptionist. At forty-eight, I have twelve years here under my belt, while Jayne has fifteen. We spend our mornings welcoming the staff and handing out any mail from the day before. I like to think we’re the South West’s Ant and Dec. As we chat through our lunch boxes of the day, the Duty Manager Marcus approaches the desk.
“Can we talk?” he asks me, pointing towards his office.
I glance at Jayne who suddenly has her head buried in sign-in sheets. “Absolutely,” I say. Marcus leads me across the factory floor and into his office, closing the door behind me. Despite having been in here many times throughout the years, I feel a sense of dread come over me. Perhaps it’s the dim lighting and closed blinds.
“So,” he says, gesturing for me to sit down, “I think it’s time we addressed something.”
“Right,” I say, my mind reeling over every post-it note I’ve accidentally stolen or email I’ve forgotten to reply to.
“I’m not sure how to say this, Ron. But we’ve had a few complaints. No, not complaints - comments.”
“Comments?” I say, “What about?” His eyes flick down to my wrists where my sleeves have hitched up and my rash is exposed. “My… my skin?”
Marcus gives an apologetic nod. “We just need to know that you’re doing something about it, that’s all. It’s a duty of care matter.”
“I’m fine, honestly! It’s nothing.”
“We know you haven’t been to the doctors about it. And now that it’s been brought to our attention, we can’t legally let you continue to work until it’s been seen by a medical professional.”
“What?” I say. “That’s surely not right.”
“There’s nothing I can do I’m afraid. Jayne will man the desk until we’ve received a letter from your surgery. I’m sorry, Ron. Really, I am.”
I spend the rest of the day moping around the house feeling rather sorry for myself. For anyone else, this work issue could be sorted within a day or too – a simple trip to the GP, taking no more than ten minutes. But when you add a phobia of doctors or medical equipment into the mix – a phobia that years of counselling, hypnotherapy and exposure therapy are yet to have helped – it becomes a trickier issue. What to others looks like a blip in the road, to me looks like a meteor-sized pothole. A pothole that grows by the second, swallowing cars, houses and the humans inside them. If I’m lucky, the pothole will reach my house before I have to call the doctor.
When 5:00pm rolls around, I’ve successfully wasted four hours procrastinating instead of making the call. I suppose I’ll have to wait until Monday now – what a great shame.
***
I watch as the white-coated doctor sets up his tray. A scalpel, syringe and a pair of bent scissors, all laid out on blue tissue. My head swoons a little at the sight of it on my screen. Even the lights look blinding through the camera. After a Google search that lead to an article titled ’10 Tips To Cure Your Fear’, I jumped in at tip one – ‘Look It In The Eyes.’ With the power of YouTube, I can do exactly that from the comfort of my own corduroy armchair. However, even typing the word ‘doctor’ into the search bar made my stomach lurch and palms sweat. Now, forty-five seconds in, my arms feel heavy with dread. I reach the one minute mark and press pause, the fear of fainting becoming too much to handle. I crawl onto the floor and lay there for several minutes, willing the nausea to ease. Is it possible to be hospitalised by fear? I can only imagine how pathetic I’ll look when I tell the paramedics that I collapsed at the sight of a tray.
Thankfully, after a quick lay and a chunk of cheese, I’m back in my chair, this time watching videos of TV show bloopers. I’ll mark this morning down as a solid effort. A success? Possibly not. A good try? I’d say so.
By the afternoon, hunger pangs drive me out of the house. Cooking involves too many knives and harmful objects for my liking, so most days I find myself in Café Neu, a family-owned business with French decor. The women behind the counter have become familiar with my order – decaf flat white coffee and a vegetable lasagne – and bring it to me without me having to even approach the till. They heat the food twice, a request I made after watching a documentary on food poisoning. The same documentary that persuaded me to give up meat and soft cheese for life. I tell Joanna, the cafe owner, of my work predicament.
“Just get it out the way, love,” she says, “it’ll be over before you know it and you’ll feel great for it.”
I nod along, taking in the words I’ve heard thousands of times.
“And you never know,” she goes on, “it could be much easier than you imagine.” As she speaks, the image of my body laying lifeless on the doctors surgery floor floods into my mind, washing a wave of anxiety over me. My counsellor calls these images ‘intrusive thoughts’. I call them likely outcomes.
“When did you last go to the GP?” I ask her. After coming here almost daily for eight years, there are minimal boundaries between Joanna and I.
“Two weeks ago, I’d say,” she replies, “got a mole removed.”
“Did you get put under?”
To this, she laughs. “No, love, it was a quick injection to the back of the neck.” I’ll never understand how people can stay awake for any type of procedure, big or small. I worry that I’d leap up in fear, causing the blade to drag across my skin and create more damage than good. From there, I’d of course bleed out and die a slow and gruesome death. Perhaps my job isn’t worth all this hassle.
After finishing my lunch, I hop back on my bike and head for home, ensuring my helmet is clipped tight. As I’m cycling, tip two pops into my mind – ‘Visit The Fear.’ Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I veer into a side road, following the signs to the local surgery. The thoughts inside my mind begin to whir as though a sandstorm is forming between my ears, each piece of sand a new worry. What if a doctor is in on a Sunday and invites me inside? What if they had a seriously ill patient in yesterday and haven’t yet cleaned the carpark properly? Is it possible to catch a bug just from being in the vicinity? These endless streams of thoughts almost force my hands to turn and feet to pedal backwards, but the one small shred of resilience inside me stays put.
I arrive at the surgery carpark and linger by the entrance. The building is short and wide, as though it’s sinking into the ground from the weight of the grief it carries. Every blind is closed and a chain hangs from the door handle. The red bricks are faded and speckled with moss, the mouldy aesthetic mirroring the grim sense inside me. ‘The Harbour Practice’ decorates the entrance, the ‘T’ and ‘e’ peeling slightly. I go to step forward, but my legs are stuck to the ground, led-laden with anxiety. I look down at them, willing them to move, but they ignore me as though they aren’t attached. My chest rises and falls with increasing rhythm as the familiar buzz of tinnitus swamps my ears.
“Come on, Ron,” I whisper, “you’re fine.” But even as I say it, the voice of reason lacks conviction.
Swallowing becomes more difficult, and although it’s likely due to my dry mouth, I can’t help wonder if sudden, unprompted anaphylaxis is possible. I feel for my inhaler and take two puffs, the pain in my chest growing greater by the second. The gravel beneath my feet begins to feel unsteady and my vision grows dark around the edges.
“It’s all in your head,” I say out loud, “you are fine.” But I don’t believe me. “Calm down,” I say, “the panic will pass.” But it won’t, will it? And even if it does, it will be back tomorrow, refreshed and ready for another round. Ready to scissor kick any positivity that dare pipe up.
Scrabbling onto my bike and speeding back down the road, I try to control my jumbling thoughts. But it’s no use, the panic has taken over. I am merely the co-pilot to this moment. The moment in which I realise that I shall never work again, I shall never be brave enough to seek a doctor’s advice or strong enough to push through the fear. My life is little more than Germolene and Beta Blockers. I fight back the tears, choke on the shame and picture my daughters’ faces when I tell them I’ve lost my job.
I turn down Ascott Road, then West Way, then Cheam Road, swerving between cars and pedestrians. My pedals moving faster than ever before. With a swift veer to the right, I enter Sonder Street, cutting off a Volvo as I go. With food carts and jewellery stands filling the road, I bump up onto the pavement, speeding back past Café Neu, not slowing my speed. But within seconds, my handlebars drop from below me, feet sail above me, and my back makes contact with something hard. I hear a crack, a thud and a gasp, and in that moment, my mind goes quiet. All breath from within me is gone and I’m left gasping.
A woman runs to my side and I watch as blood drips from my forehead onto her yellow dress.
“Call an ambulance,” she says to another passer-by.
“No,” I reply, “please don’t-”. But before I can fully protest, another man runs over. “I’m a doctor,” he says, “everyone step back.”
My stomach lurches as he kneels beside me and scans over my body. “Can you sit up for me?” he says, and I do so with surprising ease.
“Good,” he says, “nothing major it seems.” He inspects my forehead and presses a t-shirt against the wound. As he rolls up my jacket sleeve to take my pulse, he runs his thumb across my rash. “Pretty bad case of eczema you’ve got.”
I look at him for the first time, allowing myself to acknowledge that I’m in the presence of one of my greatest fears.
“I don’t suppose you could help me with it?” I ask.
“Of course,” he replies.
Yellow Dress
Story one of four from the short story cycle Passing By.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas says, his diamond earring looking tackier by the second. His bags are packed and stacked by his side – but not with swim shorts and sun cream – with half the contents of our home.
“You can’t leave now,” I say, sounding angrier than I anticipated, “what will I do?”
“Move in with your sister,” he says.
“No, gilipollas, the holiday.”
He shifts from one foot to the other and checks his phone, clearly wondering if he’s dragged this breakup out long enough. I consider pleading, dropping to my knees and clinging to his ankles, but the driveway hasn’t been swept in months and these trousers are new. I wonder for a moment if I could seduce him back into the house, perhaps unbutton my shirt and jump up and down, but I’m certain Mariana is watching us from her window. A nosey neighbour is only fun when you’re on the receiving end of the gossip, not when you’re the subject of it.
“Just go,” I say, “go.”
To this, he lifts his bags and snakes past me, slipping through the gate with no hesitation. I watch as it swings shut behind him, the door to our seven-year-relationship closing.
Inside, the house is a mess; cupboards have been opened and never shut, books have been rifled through – with mine discarded on the carpet – and the couch is missing its cushions. No doubt he’ll return for the couch itself once he’s borrowed his papa’s van. I place my handbag and laptop on the dining room table next to a collection of half-melted candles, their holders now missing. He’s been thorough.
For a woman whose fiancé has just walked out with minimal explanation, I’m surprisingly composed. But the truth is, I’ve been more of a mother to Lucas than a future wife. His cooking ability is nil, he doesn’t know the cotton wash from the spin cycle, and I’m pretty sure he’d have let me brush his hair for him if I’d offered. This breakup may have come as a shock, but the relief certainly didn’t. However, seven years is seven years, so I won’t stop the tears from falling when they come.
But for now, dinner and bath.
***
I rise from the best sleep I’ve had in years. The digital clock beside me blinks 09:48 – six hours until my flight. Lucas’ last-minute dash has left me with little time to find a holiday companion replacement, and with my sister tied to home by two small niñas, it seems I’ll be going solo. After spending last night re-packing – taking out any clothes I’d be wearing for Lucas’ sake, and replacing them with comfortable, un-sexy substitutes – I’m already ahead of schedule. I did, however, make sure to pack the yellow dress; a dress I’ve spent three months of dieting to fit into. Three months of forcing only juiced carrots and raw cabbage down my throat.
Two hours later, I’m arriving at La Palma airport, suitcase in hand and sunglasses on. A thin-nosed receptionist greets me at the ticket desk. She eyes my ticket before looking over my shoulder theatrically.
“Solo tu?” she asks.
“Yep,” I reply, “just me.”
“Dónde está tu marido?”
“My ex-fiancé. And no, he’s not coming.”
“Ay,” she says, twisting her mouth into an over-exaggerated frown, “eso es triste.”
“Nope,” I say, “not sad. Can I upgrade to a window seat, please?” She doesn’t upgrade me, nor does she stop frowning. But before I know it, I’ve watched seven episodes of Supervivientes and I’m stepping off the plane into a cold, blustering Newquay. Having grown up with my time split between Spain and London, I know what to expect from British weather, but today is particularly bitter.
The AirBnb is only fifteen minutes away in Perranporth, a dulce little cabin that reminded Lucas of something out of The Hobbit. I’ve never seen the film and he’s not here to appreciate it, so what was meant to be something sentimental is now just an inconveniently small holiday home. I hop into a taxi and give the address, grateful for the minimal communication.
I’m always surprised by how British countryside feels poles apart from Spain; what would be terracotta at home is grey here, their trees are short and full while ours are tall and sharp, and their driving is back to front. We pass under a bridge with ‘Welcome to Perranporth’ branded across it and ‘Fuck ur mum’ spray painted underneath, a heart-warming greeting.
We’re waved into the gates of Sea Mist Holidays by a rotund woman wearing pink clogs and holding a clipboard. She waddles over to the passenger side window, the driver winding it down as she approaches.
“Alright, my loves?” Her cheeks match her footwear in colour, and I can’t tell if this is due to sunburn or an overuse of blusher.
“Guadalupe,” I say, “Guadalupe Pérez.”
“Ooooh, Italian!” she says, causing the driver to stifle a laugh. “Just follow the path down towards the right, you’re in number twelve. The Lover’s Shack.” I don’t remember this title on the booking website, but hopefully it has a King sized bed.
Inside, the cabin décor truly lives up to its name. Everything is heart-shaped; the mirrors, the bed, even the dinner plates. I start to think that perhaps I’ve been placed in the wrong cabin, but the note on the side that reads ‘Enjoy your stay, Guadalupe and Lucas x’ says otherwise. I open the complimentary bottle of Cava and settle in.
Towards the end of the bottle, it dawns on me how terrible an idea it was to come on this holiday. Not only am I surrounded by reminders of my failed relationship, but all our pre-booked plans – that once sounded cute – now sound sad. A couples spa day? No thanks. Mini golf? I’d rather not. Wine tasting? Actually, I could be up for that. But despite the dread, still no tears are yet to fall.
Once my limbs are suitably numb and words slurred, I unpack my yellow dress. Its short, puffed sleeves and square neck a reward for my self-restraint. Self-restraint that has now – as I look down at the empty packet of family-sized Maltesers – gone out the window. I slip the dress over my hips and up onto my shoulders before reaching around and zipping it up. It fits like a glove. A tight, rubber glove, sure. But a glove, nonetheless.
***
Perranporth is heaving with tourists by the time I make it down to Café Neu, a canvas-roofed café that my parents and I frequented when I was young. Having fallen asleep in my yellow dress last night, I only needed to pop on some makeup and head for the bus this morning, and after perusing the charity shops and buying far too many coffees, I found myself here.
It’s interesting how something can be taken away from you – something you thought you relied on – yet life continues on as normal. In fact, it feels easier. No longer do I have to consider Lucas’ nut allergy when I order my meals, or fight him for control of the TV. Independence looks good on me.
I spend the rest of the day trundling between the café and the beach, stopping occasionally to listen to the jazz band that occupies a pub on the corner. As the sky begins to bruise with night, I make friends with a waitress who invites me back to her flat for a fiesta with a few other staff members. Her place is on the top floor of a nine-story-block, and with a broken lift and two crates of beer to carry, my poor dress is regretting being worn.
One hour blurs into the next as the taste of British beer moves from disgusting to sweet. And before I know it, night has turned to morning. I say my goodbyes and stumble off into a much quieter, serener Cornwall.
Back at the cabin, chocolate awaits me on my pillow – only the one. I flick my sandals off my feet and reach round to unzip my dress, but the zip evades me. It’s higher than my drunken fingers can reach, so I give up and flop into bed. It’s tomorrow Guadalupe’s problem.
***
Today’s Guadalupe hates last night’s Guadalupe. Not only have I woken with thunder rattling inside my head and breath like a petrol station, but my dress is also still to be removed. After sleeping in it for the second time, it seems I’ve bent the zip. I’ve tried everything within my means – a coat hanger, BBQ tongs, even moisturiser rubbed in with my toothbrush – but this zip isn’t moving. I consider asking a Sea Mist Holiday worker for help; however I can’t face the embarrassment. Instead, I do what any logical thinker would do – I shower in it. The feel of wet cotton on my skin is oddly suffocating, as though it’s shrinking around my body. I scrub citric soap into the puffed sleeves, hoping it’ll cleanse the stench of seventy-two steps and twelve lagers. Still, my hopes of the hot water setting the zip loose are shattered the moment I step out and pull on the unmoving tab.
The shower may not have set me free from this yellow prison, but it certainly did make me smell less bruta. Defeated by the copper fastener, I head out for the day in my damp dress.
Day sinks into night, then rises back into day again, and still the yellow dress haunts my body. It joins me in the sea, out for dinner and on morning runs. It watches me battle with desire to ask strangers for help, then fail every time. It keeps me too warm at night and too cold in the day. It makes its monies worth in compliments and loses it again in stains. One man even described it as ‘sunshine in an outfit.’ And it could be worse, I could be stuck in a three-piece-suit.
Today, it’s joining me on my walk to the museum. As I weave between cyclists and food stalls that line the streets, I pull out my phone to see Lucas’ face lighting it up. It’s the first time he’s called me since the breakup and my stomach drops at the thought of his voice. I let it ring once more before answering it. With the phone to my ear, I can’t think of an appropriate way to start the conversation, so instead I stay silent.
“Hello?” he says after a long pause.
“Who’s this?” I ask, as if I’ve managed to forget about him in a matter of days.
“Funny,” his voice is light and joyous, “how are you?”
“Great thanks, yeah… good.”
“Great? Damn chica, bit harsh.”
I sidestep into an alleyway to escape the irritante sound of screaming children.
“So… I’m outside,” he continues.
“Outside?”
“The house,” he says, the sound of passing cars behind him. “I’ve come to get the couch.”
Of course he has. “I’m not home.”
“When will you be back?” The joy in his voice is rapidly shifting to annoyance.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I’m in Perranporth.”
There’s silence on the line. After a full minute, he speaks. “You went?”
“Sí,” I say, “why wouldn’t I?”
He goes on to tell me that he didn’t think I had it in me to go alone. That my independence only stretched so far. I tell him that I’m doing fine and have in fact made friends. He says he’s cried every day, that this is the hardest decision he’s ever had to make. I don’t tell him about the dress. When he finally hangs up, I expect the tears to come – and I don’t know if it’s the sun on my back or the smell of fresh pasties – but they don’t.
I emerge out of the alleyway to continue my journey down Sonder Street, but as I step back onto the busy pavement, I move directly into the path of an oncoming bicycle. It swerves around me at speed and rattles into the road. The rider, a middle-aged man dressed in a grey suit and wonky helmet, darts left to right and before he can regain control, collides head-first into a car, flying over his handlebars and landing directly onto the bonnet. He lets out a low groan, the owner of the car watching in dismay from the front seat.
Before I know it, I’m by the grey-suited man’s side, holding the driver’s t-shirt to his bleeding head – the wonky helmet wasn’t much help it seems. The shirtless driver paces beside me, his phone to his ear. Thankfully, a doctor joins me, taking control of the situation and allowing me to step back and ogle the driver. An intricate tattoo decorates his chest, the words ‘GRANT ME THE SERENITY’ woven into it.
“You okay?” I mouth to him as I catch his eye. He mutters something into his phone and hangs up.
“Bit shaken, but otherwise fine.” His accent is thick and gloopy but I can’t quite place it.
“Water?” I hold out my bottle, noticing for the first time that my hand is trembling.
He notices too. “Is there a bar around here? I could do with something a little stronger.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’m Dom,” he replies.
We find a microbrewery and order drinks, Dom now wearing a Hawaiian shirt he found in his car. He has a boyish-charm about him but the occasional grey in his beard places him into his late-thirties. He’s here on holiday too, having driven down from Leeds for the weekend. We talk about music, books and travel. He compliments my dress and buys another round, his frame visibly relaxing with every sip. After three hours of cocktails and countless packets of crisps, the charge between us is tangible. By the time we leave, the sun is dropping and the museum is shut.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Guadalupe,” he says, his voice low and accent thicker than ever.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“Ah, a friend’s.”
“You surely can’t drive now, no?” Subtlety has never been my forte.
He smiles and shakes his head.
We hop into a taxi and head to the cabin. Lucas’ body has been the only I’ve known for so many years, I can’t imagine the feel of another. But even as we sit in the taxi, our limbs are gravitating towards each other. He slides his hand up my arm and onto the back of my neck, threading his fingers into my hair. As he kisses me, he takes hold of my dress zip and undoes it. The feel of the fastener releasing unties something inside of me, and before I can stop them, the tears begin to fall.
Mother, Woman, Other.
A poem from the collection ‘Dear Sister’ which depicts fictionalised accounts of a suffragette through poetry and letter writing.
Bones blush with beatings of twelve,
She curls at the corners,
Woven from fragile frame and paper skin,
Rotten teeth and hand-me-downs,
"Did you take this, girl?"
Then damp, deadened,
Nerve endings burnt into numbness,
Dressed in silent smiles and lowered eyes,
Privately pained and publicly veiled,
Daughter.
Five fingers frayed at the tip,
Worn from penury, sorrow, slog,
She is laced corsets and pressed seams,
Turned beds and polished gold,
Housekeeper.
From waning wax grows adulation,
Hushed words wrapped in needle lace,
Legs, hips, and ravelled hair,
Sourdough and submission,
Wife.
Inside she moulds without mutton,
Scarcely moaning when wood meets frame,
Nine months and life-long,
Sponge baths and crimson palms,
Mother.
Shall duties die at her side?
Perhaps in nights of liberated soul,
Of rallied voice and whitened fist,
Of yes and no and yes once more,
woman.
In darkness brews the loudest truth,
From painted lips with staple holes,
She is power and undiluted mind,
She is courage, she is sagacity, and she is
Woman.