A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  Nice church, Rhys says when I lift my head back up.

  I smile. Yeah, it’s OK, isn’t it?

  We look at each other. I can see his eyes scanning my face, searching for clues.

  I want to show you something, I say, standing. Come on.

  We walk through the churchyard together, following the path round to the back of the church. Is it OK for her to be in here? Rhys asks nervously, pointing at Rita.

  I nod. We’ve been here lots of times. This isn’t quite true – I haven’t been here for ages, let alone with Rita. But still.

  My heart is starting to pound harder as I lead us off the path and towards the newer section of the graveyard. The gravestones become less and less shabby. The flowers get fresher. We pass photos not yet faded by the sun.

  Rita gets there first. She sits down next to the grave, my well-trained, beautiful dog, and turns her head to look at me.

  ‘Good girl,’ I murmur. Her tail thumps.

  I feel Rhys’s hand take hold of mine and squeeze. I look at him.

  ‘This is Clark,’ I say. I drop Rhys’s hand and take the pansies I’d collected from Lucy’s garden, sinking to my knees on the grass to rest them by the gravestone. ‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘It’s me.’

  Rhys puts a hand on my shoulder and eases himself down to sit beside me, settling his sling against his chest.

  ‘There’s a lot I want to say,’ I begin. I sign as I talk, taking things slow so I can get both right. ‘And I felt like I wanted to come here to do it.’

  He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t understand.

  ‘Your email annoyed me,’ I say. ‘But after I stopped being annoyed I thought a lot. And I think we have the same problem.’

  Rhys’s eyebrows lift a little. You do?

  Yes. ‘I mean, we look like we have different problems. Really simply, you can’t hear and I can’t speak. But it causes the same thing, and that’s that we don’t talk to each other.’ I gesture to the gravestone and the small picture of Clark still leaning against it, curling a little at the edges. It was taken on his eighteenth birthday and he’s grinning that wide, unselfconscious Clark-grin that I miss so much. ‘Clark was a big talker. He wasn’t into keeping secrets or not saying how he felt. I used to find it annoying.’ I find myself smiling a little. ‘That’s why I wanted to meet you here. Just to have a bit of a memory of that.’

  As I talk, I watch Rhys’s face. His eyes are slightly squinted, all of his concentration on my face and my lips, reading what I am saying to him. Am I talking too fast? I ask.

  A smile creases his face and he shakes his head. No, he signs. It’s perfect.

  ‘OK, great. So. I forgot what I was saying.’ We look at each other for a moment, and then out of nowhere we’re both laughing.

  Clark liked to talk, Rhys prompts.

  ‘Oh, right. Yeah. So I was thinking about Clark, and how he used to tell me that it was OK if I wasn’t a big talker like him. And that made me think about how I haven’t really talked about him much with you, and why that is, and how my parents don’t really like to talk about him much, and how that’s because it’s hard, and painful, still. And all that made me think about talking in general, and how there are actually loads of different reasons why someone might not talk.

  ‘Like, me not talking about Clark much to you isn’t the same as me not talking to the receptionist at the Edinburgh hotel. And you not talking on Arthur’s Seat isn’t the same as either of those things.’ I can see I’ve confused him, but I carry on. ‘I think I’ve been thinking of them all as the same thing. Because talking or not talking is such a big part of my life. Or it was, until you. But now I see the differences. So you see – our problems don’t make us different, they make us the same. It’s all about communication.’

  So . . . we’re the same because we can’t communicate?

  ‘Because we can,’ I insist. ‘Just differently. And so long as we know that about each other it’s not a problem. Rhys, all relationships have barriers. All people have problems. These are just ours. What if you could hear but you couldn’t walk? Or if I wasn’t anxious but I had . . . I don’t know . . . chronic asthma? Imagine us trying to climb Arthur’s Seat like that! Do you see what I’m saying?’

  He laughs. Yes, I literally see what you’re saying. He points from my face to his eyes and grins hopefully at me.

  ‘You don’t have to depend on me,’ I say. ‘And I don’t have to depend on you. But we can still lean on each other when we need to. That’s still OK.’ I have never spoken this much in one go in my entire life. My mouth actually feels dry from talking. But there’s still more. ‘It’s not up to you to make my world smaller or bigger,’ I say. ‘That’s up to me. But I want you to be in it. And I want to be in yours.’ I reach out and touch his hand. ‘Is that what you want too?’

  Rhys takes my hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses my fingers. He releases it to speak. Yes. That’s what I want. But I’m worried.

  Worried about what?

  That I’ll let you down.

  Why?

  He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head a little.

  ‘No,’ I say, signing as I go. ‘No, don’t just clam up on me. Tell me what you’re thinking.’ I realize in this instant that this is exactly what my therapist meant when she told me about dialogue being a two-way street. ‘I can’t read your mind, Rhys. You need to tell me.’

  You need someone who can look after you, he begins.

  I stop him, one hand up. ‘No. That’s not true. I have my own problems, but they’re not for you to fix. Just like I’m not here to fix you being deaf. That would be stupid. So don’t make this about that. If you think you need to take care of me, that’s on you, not me.’

  My God, my therapist would be so proud of me right now. I should have brought a Dictaphone.

  ‘Try again,’ I say. ‘This time without the “need” bit.’

  He smiles a little. OK. You want me to be honest. I’m scared to be honest.

  Why?

  Because I might say something you don’t want to hear.

  I almost laugh. Story of my life, Gold. Story of my selective mutism.

  A lot of the time I don’t say what I’m thinking, he admits. It’s really easy not to, because I get to think about everything before I say it. And so I just . . . he hesitates. It’s like I censor myself. I don’t say the bad stuff.

  I think about this. I try to remember a time Rhys said a single bad thing about anyone, or to me. Has he ever told me he’s annoyed with me? Or anyone? No. Did I think that, just because he never said it, he didn’t feel it?

  But most of all I’m thinking about how it could be me saying all this. We really do share the same problem.

  And so when things get really bad, like they did in Scotland, it’s like there’s so much to say I can’t say anything. I feel like I can’t talk at all.

  And then you get grumpy, I say, nodding. Grumpy like other people get when they’re hungry.

  He laughs. Is that what it’s like?

  I nod. ‘Totally.’

  Well, that’s no good, is it?

  Maybe you just need practice, I say, chancing a smile. Maybe we both do.

  Maybe. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. Maybe we can practise together.

  I smile back. Maybe we can. I take another breath. You can say anything to me. Even the bad stuff. It doesn’t matter how you tell me. Sign it, or write it down, or say it out loud. I’m here for all of it.

  Sometimes, he signs, then stops. He makes a face.

  Go on, I urge. Tell me.

  He bites his lip. Sometimes I don’t feel strong enough for this world.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, smiling. Neither do I. But we can be soft together. Anyway, soft is more . . . ‘huggable.’

  He grins. You are very . . . ‘huggable.’ Among other things.

  I like that. Among other things. I can be more than one thing.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m in two worlds, he continues. The hearing world and
the deaf world. But I’m not sure which one I belong in.

  Does that bother you a lot?

  Sometimes, yeah.

  Maybe you’re still figuring it out, I say. And maybe that’s OK? So long as there’s room for me?

  A smile, wide and genuine, blooms on his face. I’m sure I can make room for you. If you’ll have me.

  I lift myself up and move towards him and he opens his arms to me, pulling me in for a hug. I settle against him, curling my head against his chest, closing my eyes. No one needs to be able to hear or speak to hug. We could be any couple, with any problems, making up after a fight about anything.

  Maybe we won’t be together forever. Maybe we won’t even make it to next year. And, if that happens, maybe it’ll be because of these problems or new problems we haven’t even imagined yet. But I love him, and he loves me.

  And that, among other things, is enough.

  Author’s Note

  If you’d like to find out more about BSL, or perhaps even learn it yourself, there are plenty of online and in-person courses available, offering accredited BSL qualifications from beginner-level through to expert. A good place to start is Signature (signature.org.uk), where you can find loads of information about the different qualifications and courses and where/how to complete them. I took an introductory online course, where I learned the basics from colours and numbers to finger-spelling the alphabet. During my research I also used a number of different online resources and an app called Sign BSL.

  BSL is a fascinating and beautiful visual language with its own grammar structure and syntax. I’ve tried to do it justice, but if there are any errors in the descriptions of certain signs, they’re my fault and I’m very sorry!

  Even if you have just a passing interest in BSL, I urge you to watch some BSL songs on YouTube – they are amazing.

  If, like Steffi, you’re struggling with a form of anxiety, you’re not alone. Understanding and awareness is getting better every year and there is help available. You are not making it up, or overreacting, or making a fuss out of nothing. You deserve to feel confident and safe and happy. If you think you might have an anxiety disorder, speak to your GP, or try a service like Anxiety UK (anxietyuk.org.uk) for help and advice.

  You can find more information, support and advice about selective mutism specifically at SMIRA (smira.org.uk).

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost thanks, as ever, to Claire Wilson, best agent and excellent human. Thank you also to Rosie Price and everyone at RCW.

  The team at Macmillan Children’s Books is full of enthusiastic, supportive, dynamic and all-round brilliant people and I feel honoured to be on their list. You took a Word document and turned it into this beautiful book – I am so grateful. Thanks in particular to Rachel Petty, Bea Cross and Kat McKenna, the dream team, who deserve so much more than a sentence at the end of a book.

  And thank you to . . .

  Rachael Veazey and Claire Sloan, who gave their insight and expertise on deaf culture and BSL with such generosity, patience and warmth.

  The amazing UKYA community for your unfailing encouragement, enthusiasm and support. You all know who you are, but a special shout out to Katie, George, Lucy, Arianne, Non, Holly, Lexi, Christie, Anna, Lauren, Harriet, Eleanor, Cat and all the people I’ve inevitably missed (I’m very sorry). Sharing this with all of you is an absolute joy.

  Holly Bourne, for being the kind of writer buddy who understands that the process is forty per cent tea, forty per cent cake and twenty per cent actual writing.

  Mel Salisbury, for so many things, but especially for all the handy puns. Those handy, handy puns.

  My lovely family, especially Dad, who taught me that ‘quieter people make the most noise’.

  Lora, my template for everything a best friend can be.

  And finally, Tom – thank you for sharing this love story with me.

  About the Author

  Sara Barnard lives in Brighton and does all her best writing on trains. She loves books, book people and book things. She has been writing ever since she was too small to reach the ‘on’ switch on the family’s Amstrad computer. She gets her love of words from her dad, who made sure she always had books to read and introduced her to the wonders of second-hand bookshops at a young age.

  Sara is trying to visit every country in Europe, and has managed to reach thirteen with her best friend. She has also lived in Canada and worked in India.

  Praise for Beautiful Broken Things:

  ‘Beautiful Broken Things is the book I’ve been waiting for. It made me want to go and rugby-tackle my best friends and give them a giant hug. It’s a beautiful tale of the power and complexities of female friendship’ Holly Bourne, author of Am I Normal Yet?

  ‘Beautiful Broken Things is a book that the YA world desperately needs – a book about the beauty, passion and extremities of female friendship’ Alice Oseman, author of Solitaire

  ‘Starkly realistic and ultimately uplifting, Beautiful Broken Things is a compelling tale of pain and redemption, growing up and growing together, and finding empowerment and strength in friendship’ Catherine Doyle, author of Vendetta

  ‘Stories about female friendships are hard to come by, especially ones with no romance, but Beautiful Broken Things fills that gap in an intensely compelling and passionate way’ Lauren James, author of The Next Together

  ‘A gorgeous, bluntly honest story of friendship, hardships and rebuilding. This book captures that feeling of be-all and end-all best-friendship so brilliantly’ charlieinabook.weebly.com

  ‘Armed with a penchant for incredible warmth, intense drama and fabulously down-to-earth writing, Sara Barnard makes it clear that contemporary doesn’t have to be sugar-coated to be sweet; that books with serious issues don’t have to be defined by what we think we know about them, and most of all that some stories don’t have to involve a romance to be about love’ Arianne, Daisy Chain Book Reviews

  ‘The characters in this book are funny and heartbreaking and real, which allows the complexities of their friendships to entertain and fascinate (and break your heart, over and over). This is a beautiful book and a ridiculously accomplished debut and I have a lot of feelings right now’ sarahlikesbooks.wordpress.com

  ‘Overall this was a simply remarkable story – full of heart and soul and with characters that will remain with you’ lizlovesbooks.com

  ‘Beautiful Broken Things is a stunning look at the friendship between three girls. It feels so, so realistic’ Jim Dean, Teens on Moon Lane

  First published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-1099-4

  Copyright © Sara Barnard 2017

  Sign language illustrations by Josephine Spencer

  The right of Sara Barnard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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