The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside

by Jessica Ryn

  ‘Grace told me you like it when there’s a good turnout,’ Dawn says. ‘Think of all those creative minds you’ll be able to guide with your expert teaching. One of us could write a bestseller and then everyone in Dover would want you to tutor them.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s true,’ Hazel laughs. ‘I did always say the sessions were just for St Jude’s residents, but if it helps the community, I suppose we could make room for a few more.’

  ‘Umm, a few?’ Cara nods towards the front window of the café at the unwieldy queue that’s gathered outside.

  Hazel glances at her watch and flings the door open with a welcoming smile. Jack and Bill are the first ones through the door. Bill is still hobbling but his hands have stopped shaking.

  ‘Didn’t want to leave him out there on his own,’ Jack explains to Hazel in a low voice. ‘He was a bit distressed after his doctor’s appointment so I said he could come back with me.’

  The seats in the café fill up quickly, and Cara darts off to borrow some extra paper and biros from the office.

  ‘I’d like to start with a warm-up exercise,’ Hazel says to the room. ‘I’m going to give you a sentence, and I’d like you to include it somewhere within your story or poem.’

  Dawn takes the lid off her pen and waits with excitement.

  ‘She remembered every lie.’

  Dawn drops her pen and it clatters across the laminate floor. She dives under the table and then sits back up too quickly. The blood rushes to her head and the café spins around her, fast and loud. She holds her rescued pen over the paper and waits for the words to come. Not the first ones to arrive, they’re too painful. Too intrusive.

  Dawn doesn’t want to remember any of the lies. She doesn’t really want to remember the truth either. She closes her eyes but she’s not quick enough. She still sees the red hair. Just a glimpse, it’s only ever a glimpse.

  Tell anyone, and I will kill you.

  The words play on repeat and she realises she’s written them down instead of the sentence she was given. She’s pressed hard on the page and made a hole in it. She turns the paper over and shakes her head.

  The story comes to her in the end. She bases it on Rosie, and the time she stole the last biscuit from the tin in the cupboard. She left it in her back pocket and crushed it into a million pieces when she sat on the kitchen worktop. She cried because she’d forgotten it was there and now, she’d never be able to enjoy it.

  ‘Okay everybody, would anyone like to share their work with the group?’ Hazel looks around the room.

  ‘That’s what happens when we’re dishonest,’ Dawn reads her last line out after entertaining the group with her story. ‘We miss out on the good things in life, like the truth. And biscuits.’

  Hazel leads the group with polite applause. Dawn knows they don’t get it. She doesn’t either, really, but it sounded good in her head.

  It’s Bill’s turn next. Dawn keeps her eyes on the table and listens to the lilt of his voice. She closes her eyes and tries to hear the words between his slurred ones. After a minute, she finds herself totally immersed in his story. She starts rooting for Sigrid, the Viking princess on the run from the evil king who is intent on stealing her baby. Sigrid is hiding in an underground cave, holding her daughter close and praying for her to stay quiet whilst the king’s army storms past, when Bill stops.

  ‘That’s it. Run out of time after that,’ he says putting his pen down.

  Dawn sneaks a peek at his paper across the table. No words, just a beautiful drawing of a baby. She swallows and blinks away a tear. ‘Did you tell that story right from your head?’ she whispers.

  ‘Aye. I’m always making stuff up. It’s what I do when I’m trying to sleep or it’s too cold and noisy. I tell them to myself again and again, I don’t write ‘em down. Can’t write. Can’t really read, neither.’

  The café door swings open and everybody looks up. Maisie has brought a Morrisons shopping trolley with her, piled high with her possessions. She parks it in the corner and heaves herself between the tables, plonking herself down at one, taking up two seats as she peels off three jacket layers.

  ‘Aren’t you hot with all that on?’ a woman on her left asks her.

  Maisie glares back at her. ‘Have you been out there today? It’s bloody stifling, of course I’m hot. Sweating me tits off. It’s easier to wear them when me trolley’s full. Satisfied?’

  The woman shrinks back in her seat.

  ‘What have I missed?’ Maisie shouts. She starts scribbling noisily on her page with her tongue sticking out whilst everyone reads their pieces.

  Dawn takes a deep breath when it’s Maisie’s turn and braces herself for angry sentences and expletives. Instead she reels off pretty words of poetry that tell of the majesty and beauty of Dover, of the cliffs and the castle and the hills, of the park and the woods that she sleeps in. When she’s finished reading, Dawn peeks at her face. There’s a peace in her eyes that wasn’t there before. A softness in her voice when she says, ‘Thanks for listening, everybody.’

  Dawn goes straight to Maisie’s table when the session is over and Hazel starts collecting the pens. ‘Your poem was beautiful. I’m so glad you came. I really hope you’ll come back next week.’

  Maisie pulls on her three jackets and looks back at Dawn. ‘I’ll do what I flippin’ well like, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Bill is still chatting to Jack, long after all the other visitors have left. Dawn watches them both before turning to Hazel. ‘Do you think we could add some other learning to the creative writing days? Maybe start a bit earlier and do some basic writing and reading? Not everyone can, you know.’

  ‘Wonderful idea. You’d be great at that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why not you?’

  Excitement begins to stir in Dawn’s belly. She imagines word getting out and people coming far and wide to learn to read. She’d be responsible for getting hundreds of people back into education or work. Universities will hear about it and offer her free training to become a senior lecturer in literacy.

  ‘Aye,’ Bill says when she asks him about it. ‘You can try. Can’t promise I’ll pick it up quick. But it would be nice to read the paper in the mornings.’

  Dawn pulls Cara, Shaun and Jack into a huddle when Grace walks into the café.

  ‘There’s something we’d like to do each day,’ Dawn says after calling Grace over. ‘I’ll be honest with you – I stole from the café this morning. Only some coffee,’ she adds when Grace takes a step backwards. ‘And I borrowed some flasks, but I’ve put them back already. Jack’s been doing it too.’ Dawn points a finger towards him.

  ‘Is this true?’ Why?’ Grace has a strange look on her face and Jack is looking down at the laminate.

  ‘He’s been going out every night and giving hot chocolate to people sleeping outside.’

  The strange look softens and becomes something else entirely, but Dawn still can’t work out what it is.

  ‘Just wanted to do something,’ Jack shrugs. ‘Bedtime’s pretty shit out there.’

  ‘And Cara and I thought we’d give out morning coffee and biscuits.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We were wondering if we could make it a regular thing – ask all the residents from here if they want to help, maybe on a rota. And we could use the money we get in the tips jar in the café to cover the cost of the biscuits and drinks?’

  ‘That’s usually used for days out for you lot.’

  ‘Nah. We don’t need days out. We’ve got this place. They haven’t. Not yet anyway,’ Cara says.

  ‘Lots of them are on the waiting list. And loads of them came to the writing group. Hazel’s taking some of them to join the library next week. We just want to share some of the help we’ve had,’ says Dawn.

  ‘It’s a brilliant idea. You’re all brilliant. Just brilliant.’

  Dawn likes being called brilliant. She’d feel the weight of the compliment more if she’d been looking at all o
f them when she gave it, but she can see that Grace’s eyes are all for Jack.

  Chapter 10

  Grace

  WORKING A HALF-DAY ON a Friday is supposed to be something to feel good about. Before her gran died last year, Grace used to zoom out of the office door, excited to eat her twice-weekly lunch with her in front of Gran’s fireplace. It was always corned beef and jacket potatoes on a Friday. She’s still having the same today, her single potato is already wrapped in foil on the kitchen side of her tiny flat. It just never tastes the same without Gran.

  Her phone bleeps, letting her know her shift is over. She waters the office plants and gathers her bag and cardigan. She’s almost out of the door when she remembers she hasn’t checked next week’s staffing rota. As she pulls it from the filing cabinet, an envelope falls from behind the folder and flutters to the floor. It’s addressed to ‘The Manager’, so she pops it into her handbag to read over lunch. Taking work home is usually a no-no, it says so in her Work–Life Balance book that she got from the library last month, but it might be important, and the corned beef is calling.

  Grace strolls along with the sun on her left and the sea on her right, watching as the English Channel folds its waves over to kiss the chalky toes of Dover’s cliffs. She slows her pace as she strides past the mid-terraced townhouse she used to live in with her nan, and glances through the ground-floor kitchen window. She can almost see Gran and herself sitting down in their usual places at the table and tucking in. She remembers that last lunch they had together, six months and two weeks ago, before Gran got the diagnosis that changed everything.

  ‘Pass me that blanket, will you please, pet?’ Gran had put her fork down and wrapped the thick fleece around her shoulders, not showing any attempt to get back to her meal. She’d left three potatoes and a whole slab of corned beef.

  ‘You okay? It’s already warm in here, you’ve got the heating up much higher than usual.’

  ‘You start feeling the cold more as you get older. You’ll see.’

  Grace poured them both a tea from the pot, pretending she hadn’t heard what she’d said. Gran hardly ever spoke about aging and Grace liked it that way. For most of her life it had been just the two of them whilst her mum and dad spent her childhood in various corners of the world, busy stuffing collagen into the rich and famous of Hollywood or New York. It had been decided that Grace would be better off with stability. A life of staying put with Gran. Her parents had graciously decided not to be selfish. It wouldn’t have been fair to expect Grace to traipse around with them when they were so busy working.

  Grace’s gran wasn’t someone who needed to worry about aging, not for a long time, anyway. She didn’t dress like an old person either, with her brightly coloured tracksuits and the latest trainers from JJB. She even swam in the sea every day, regardless of the weather. Her gran was the one constant; aging was just not allowed.

  The journey from her gran’s old house to her bedsit is a short one. She walks past the harbour and crosses the busy road to a multi-coloured row of once-smart townhouses. The peeling paintwork and rickety stairs make it possible for Grace to afford a penthouse bedsit with sea views. She’d been warned about the racket before she’d picked up the keys and the family noise from the overcrowded flats below and beside her draws circles around her aloneness with fluorescent pen.

  Her bedroom/living room/kitchen is a rectangle of white and purple. Everything matches and everything gleams with clean. She flicks the kettle switch and roots for her mobile phone. As Grace rams her hand into the zipped compartment, she touches the letter from work at the bottom of her bag.

  It’s not a good letter. It’s one of those ones that pull your heart down lower with each word. By the time Grace gets to Yours sincerely, hers has travelled along the length of her gut. The inspection from Supporting Futures will be taking place at St Jude’s anytime from two weeks onwards. There are also several warnings about the likelihood of decreased funding following unsatisfactory visits.

  In an effort to distract herself from the panic, Grace reaches for her phone. She’ll try some whale songs or one of her meditations. The text message icon blinks back at her. It’s from her mother.

  Hello, Grace.

  Grace rolls her eyes.

  I am taking leave from clinic in two weeks’ time. I’ll make my own way to your house from the airport. You’ll have to text me your address as I don’t seem to have it. I will let you know my ETA nearer the time.

  Grace’s mum hasn’t visited since Gran’s funeral. Why now, when the inspection is looming? Surely that’s enough stress to be dealing with at one time. Grace enjoys a challenge; she sends it an invitation, welcomes it in and climbs aboard. Usually. But this is different. This affects everyone, and it’s down to her to sort it. Everything could just come crashing down in as little as two weeks.

  And now her mum will have front row seats.

  She flops herself down, supine on her king-sized bed, surrounded by her childhood teddies and starts to count the swirls on the ceiling. She needs to make plans. She needs an A, a B and a C at the very least. She’ll do a mind-map, a spreadsheet. Be methodical. It will be fine.

  She runs out of swirls to count. Exercise is her next go-to distraction technique, so she jumps up to begin her daily stretches. Quads first, then calves and glutes. Upper body work doesn’t start till seven; it says so on the colour-coded chart above her bed. Exercise is key, her mum would say. Grace is lucky to have a healthy body, she should look after it, keep it in tip-top condition, never take it for granted.

  Perhaps she should call her mum and tell her to postpone her home visit. Let her know how busy she’d be at work, that she wouldn’t have time to see her. Might be nice for the shoe to sit on the other foot for a change. She won’t, though, she already knows what she’ll say. Lack of time is just an excuse, Grace. We all get given the same number of hours each day. It’s our job to worry about how to use them. Or something along the lines of: I can’t mess my clients about; it would be selfish to change my plans.

  Selfish has always been her mum’s favourite word and it’s tattooed onto the front of Grace’s mind for quick access during any decision-making process.

  The rare contact Grace does have with her mum tends to unearth the memories; the hidden ones that lay otherwise shrouded in her fifteen-year-old mind. A rare visit home from both parents. Her dad clutching at his arm and his chest in the back garden. Sirens. Blue lights. Then the initial recovery in the stuffy hospital. ‘If anything happens to me, it’s down to you to make your mum happy. She’s a strong woman, but you’ll be the only family she has left, so make her proud,’ he’d said, right before the machines went crazy and a million nurses rushed into the ward to silence the high-pitched beeping. It had taken a while, but it turned out silence was louder.

  Obviously, she’d said yes, of course she will do everything she can to make her mum proud. Partly because Dad had thought he was dying (who can say no to a dying person?) and partly because she thought he wasn’t dying, so she wouldn’t actually have to worry about it.

  Ed Sheeran sings from Grace’s phone as the office number appears on the display. Lorna is due to work the sleep shift, but she’s called in sick and no one is answering at the agency the hostel uses for back-up staff, Peter tells her.

  ‘No worries, I’ll cover,’ Grace says to him, waving goodbye to a good night’s sleep. She never settles properly when she sleeps in the staff flat; each noise a potential incident. At least it will give her mind some time to come up with a masterplan.

  Grace’s plans to calm her mind into action have so far been unsuccessful. As soon as she’d got there, she busied herself with tidying the office. Tidy room, tidy mind. She takes a notebook and a set of highlighters up to the staff flat, hoping for inspiration to hit whilst she relaxes in bed. A killer to-do list could take the hostel to new and heady heights within two weeks. After separating her goals into colour-coded columns, she decides that all she needs to do is convince head o
ffice to take on more staff (despite already being over-budget for the year), find landlords that will take on those residents who are almost at the end of their allotted stay, get the client files up to scratch and repaint every room. Easy, right? Putting her pens away, Grace concedes that sleep may be a better plan. Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, Benjamin Franklin had said. Clearly, he’d forgotten about the women.

  After fidgeting onto her left and right sides and throwing the duvet off and on again, she gives up and creeps downstairs to the resident’s lounge, stopping off at the office and opening her secret box from the back of her locker. It’s a box she hasn’t opened for six months and she curses herself inwardly as she slips out the sealed packet of Golden Virginia and half a packet of Rizlas. The building has a strict ‘No smoking inside’ rule, but no one’s about and the lounge always has a slight pong of stale tobacco so she’s pretty sure some of the residents partake in there overnight anyway.

  Grace swings open the patio doors once she arrives in the sanctuary of the lounge. The cool air rushes in and she sinks down onto the sofa; hands shaking as she fiddles with the packet and starts to roll up.

  ‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Jack uses his best mock-policeman voice as he appears in the room, clicking the door shut behind him.

  ‘Urgh, why are you always around when I’m doing something I shouldn’t,’ she grumbles as she chucks her lighter at him in mock-frustration.

  He catches it in one hand with a flourish and Grace can’t help smiling. ‘What are you doing down here past your bedtime?’ he asks as he flops down next to her, putting the TV on low with the remote.