by Liz Flanagan
Someone decided the creative-writing residential would be the best way of ‘easing Eden back into the school context without the stress of her usual timetable’. And when someone dropped out, Barwell offered me the spare place, so I could come along with Eden. Me and all the top-set English class. Liam didn’t get a look in. We went up there after school on the Monday in the sweaty little school minibus, just a mile or two up the hill and down a steep straight lane: like a chute into another world.
I sat next to Eden on the way. She didn’t speak much. I felt shy of her, rusty at being her friend. ‘Want some Diet Coke? … I bought a new notebook and a spare if you need?’ Everything I said sounded stupid, stilted, irrelevant. What did you say to a girl who’d just lost her sister?
The bus spat us out next to dark stone buildings that belonged to a different century. In the pouring rain, the place seemed to match the poet who’d once lived here. Beautiful, but kind of forbidding.
I tumbled away from the stew of the minibus. Since last year, I’d hated the rain. It reminded me of that day, but this smelt different: fresher. I followed Josh, Imogen and the others into the grounds: there was an apron of landscaped gardens jutting out over a stunning view. The valley cut a deep wedge between wooded hills, with the town tucked tactfully out of sight around the corner. The only noise was the rushing river far below us.
‘I’m king of the world!’ Josh yelled into the rain, with his hands in the air, leaning right over the railing. His cronies laughed, but I was with him for once. It felt as if we’d stepped through a portal to a magic kingdom.
‘Hey, I’m Rose. Welcome.’ A smiling woman with purple hair opened a front door that was thicker than my arm. ‘Come in out of the rain and put your bags in here.’ She was in her late twenties, with an oval face, a kind smile and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She was wearing a grungy black T-shirt, a lace skirt and huge hobnailed boots that were even bigger than mine.
I liked her straight away. Even more when I saw the tray of tea and cake she’d laid out before an open fire.
Rose counted us in and served us cake while she explained the rules for the week. Afterwards, she showed us our bedrooms. Me and Eden got our very own staircase – like fairy-tale princesses in a tower – leading to two little attic rooms on the second floor.
‘Which of you is Jess Mayfield?’ Rose read from her crumpled sheet of paper. ‘You’re in here.’
I looked through the doorway and my heart clicked its heels. It was a little square room, empty except for a single bed covered in an orange throw, a small table with a bronze lamp, some drawers and an old wooden desk and chair. The ceiling curved down low under the eaves, held up by dark beams, to a huge window. The view was like a painting: silver rain needling down the valley, steep fields and the woods with their million shades of green. I could even hear the river.
‘And you must be Eden? Here.’ She opened the other door: a smaller room with no windows, only skylights where the rain was tap-dancing loudly. ‘Not quite the same view, but cosy, right?’
I glanced at Eden’s face. ‘Or, can she bring her mattress in here and share with me?’ I asked.
‘Sure, just let me know,’ Rose said, smiled and left.
‘What do you think, E?’ I said as Rose went back down our stairs. ‘Do you want to share, or go solitary? Either works for me.’ I kept it light, trying to hide my concern. She’d gone inside herself, somewhere a long way down, and I didn’t know how to follow.
Eden shrugged. ‘I’ll stay put. Not really here for the views.’ She went in and lay on her bed without closing the door. She put her headphones on and stared up at the rain hammering on the glass.
I waited for a long moment, but I couldn’t think of what to say. I went to unpack, taking possession of my room. I loved everything about it. I wondered about all the other people who’d ever slept here. It felt as though I could almost see their shadows, or feel the imprint they’d left behind like dust.
I could hear the others yelling and stampeding along the corridor below. Someone knocked on my door.
Barwell waited, carefully not crossing my threshold. ‘Everything OK, Jess?’
‘Sir.’ I nodded. ‘Better than OK. Look at this.’
‘Lucky you. I’m out in the barn near the boys. Rose is at the end of the corridor, next landing down, if you need her. How’s Eden?’ he added in a loud whisper.
‘Like you’d expect,’ I told him.
He slumped a bit. ‘Dinner’s in ten. See if you can persuade her to come down?’
Everyone except Eden spent that ten minutes shrieking and chasing each other through the massive echoing rooms, discovering a library lined with bookshelves, several pianos, a whole floor of high-ceilinged bedrooms and a dining table that could seat all twenty of us, no problem at all.
Barwell looked different here too. He’d changed into jeans and T-shirt instead of his usual suit and tie.
At dinner Charlotte asked cheekily, ‘So, can we call you Neil this week, sir?’
‘No, you flippin’ well can’t. I’m still your teacher, and I’m in loco parentis. You know what that means?’
‘Nah.’
‘For this week only, I’m your mum and your dad rolled into one: uber-dad,’ he growled in a daft voice. ‘So you’d better do as I say!’ but he twinkled into his mug of tea. ‘Anyway, I’m not teaching today. The writers here are in charge.’ He gestured at the other adults, helping themselves to baked potatoes and beans, right along with us.
There was a tall, softly spoken children’s author called Tom. He had a grey beard, a stoop and a dry sense of humour, and soon seemed like everyone’s favourite uncle. He had a line of bruises across his forehead – the doorways were brutally low here.
And there was a poet called Aisha, not five years older than us, but already published and so confident that she shone. She talked easily about rhyme and imagery, throwing magic words into the air like juggling balls.
Straight after dinner, Aisha held the first workshop of the week. ‘OK, we launch in here, people. Ice-breaker, word-maker, dive in now. No passes out. Everyone reads. They’re my rules, right? Work in pairs for my lucky dip. Pick a card from this bag and describe each other using only the clue you chose.’
Eden was as absent as it was possible to be in a room full of twenty people all squashed in around the fire on four different sofas.
I grabbed a card and read it out to her. ‘“Food or drink”. Sounds all right. You go first?’
She blinked at me, pale and vacant.
‘Come on, what would Josh say you were?’ I whispered, glancing over to where Josh was telling his mate Danny that, no, he couldn’t be a Porsche, he wasn’t that fine.
‘He’d say I was coffee,’ Eden said finally, in a low, hoarse voice. ‘He thinks I’m strong, addictive, dark, all that stuff.’
‘Nah, you’d be tea, not coffee,’ I said, relieved to hear her speak.
‘What, milky and boring? Ta very much!’ She didn’t smile, but it was only a moment away, if I kept on trying.
‘Eden Holby, how many cups of tea do I drink every single day of my life?’ I lifted the mug at my feet to make my point.
‘Ten? Fifteen?’
‘Exactly. Don’t bash the brew, E. I love my tea. Tea rocks. But if you like you can be a posh one: Lady Grey?’
‘OK, I’ll take that, cheers.’
Her lips finally curved into a brief, trembling smile.
I high-fived myself on the inside. ‘What am I then, E? Make it good! I’m thinking champagne … hot chocolate at the least …’
‘Ah, easy. You’re a glass of water, J.’
‘What’s that – plain, cheap and everyday?’ I teased, keeping it warm and light.
‘No, I can’t survive long without it.’
I looked over. She met my gaze with eyes that shone. I leaned in and hugged her hard, burying my face in her apple-scented hair. I heard the conversations around us quieten, felt the weight of eyes on our backs. I di
dn’t care. I’d be her safety barrier. I’d stand between Eden and the world.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Next morning around the dining table gleaming in the muted morning light, Aisha read us a poem by Ted Hughes.
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose …
It was about this actual house, by that actual poet who’d lived here, the one staring down at us from a photo on the wall with the startled, hunted look in his eyes. ‘What do you think?’ Aisha asked.
Silence.
‘Look, this is your territory. This is right here!’
I think she meant it as inspiration. It didn’t work like that. His strong, supple words left me speechless. He’d been here first. He said it all. He said it too well. And if not him, his first brilliant wife, who’d killed herself. Between them, they had all the angles covered when it came to this valley.
I tried to say it. ‘Yeah, but, miss?’
‘I’ve told you – Jess, isn’t it? – call me Aisha. I’m not your teacher and we’re not at school.’
‘Aisha then. I mean, they’ve not left any space for us, have they? If we talk about the moors, it’s all Cathy and Heathcliff.’ I gestured at the portrait of Ted Hughes. ‘If we talk about this house, or this weather, we’re copying him. If we talk about depression and that –’ I ignored all the faces that turned to Eden now, like a shoal of fish – ‘then Sylvia got there first. It’s all been said.’
Aisha sighed. ‘OK. Who else thinks this?’
A few hands went up.
‘You know what? Some people say there are only seven stories in the world. Seven! All the others are variations on those. But if I asked you now to write me a story about the worst experience of your life, I’d get sixteen different stories. And none of them would be boring. Am I right?’
Mutters of agreement.
‘There might be seven stories, but there are a billion ways of telling them. So – thanks, Jess – this is today’s assignment. I want you to write a short fictionalized version of something either very good or very bad that has happened to you. Remember, that’s short – a page or two. And that’s fiction – no real people, people! OK?’
I did it too. When Eden fell asleep after lunch, I took a chair into her room and watched over her. While she slept, I got out my sketchbook. I didn’t mean to, but I just started drawing properly – not just tattoo designs – for the first time since last November. And it flowed out, like it was all there, and I was just the printer, spewing page after page.
Later that evening I copied it out and went to find Aisha. ‘Miss? Aisha, I mean. Here’s mine.’ I thrust it at her like it might bite me if I held on to it too long.
‘Thank you, Jess.’ She didn’t look at it then and I was glad. ‘Make an appointment for tomorrow, after lunch. We’ll talk about it then.’
The next day, I was surprised how nervous I was. All morning, each time I remembered the appointment, something lurched inside me. Finally, after I’d eaten about half a bowl of soup and chased some salad around my plate for a bit, it was time.
My name was the first on the sign-up sheet pinned to the door of the library. 2.30 Jess Mayfield. I knocked on the white painted wood. You could see where the brushstrokes had been, where they’d left little beads of paint.
‘Come in, Jess.’
I went in. A posh house’s grand personal library, like you might see in a film, with a deep red carpet. The walls were lined with books, except for one wall that was mainly window, and another that was filled by a massive stone fireplace with a big black stove in it. It smelt old but nice in here: like wood and polish, paper and ash. Aisha was sitting at the long table, but her back was to the window, so it was hard to see her expression. There was a thick shaft of sunlight with tiny gold specks floating through it like fairy dust.
I sat down and fumbled for a pen and paper, in case I was supposed to write anything down. I noticed she had my pages in front of her and my mouth went dry.
‘Jess? So, this is based on my challenge, right? This story is a bit like something that happened?’
I nodded. I couldn’t look at her now, so I concentrated on my fingers, which were trembling. I slapped the pen down, spreading my fingers on the desk to stop the shakes.
‘This is it.’ Aisha’s voice changed, so that I couldn’t help sneaking a quick look. She was blinking fast. She cleared her throat. ‘This is how you speak of the unspeakable. This is how you speak even when others have come first and told their stories so strongly. This is how, Jess. In your words. In your way. No one else in the world could’ve created this. Do you see? This is it.’
Inside me, the thaw quickened. I heard the flump of falling snow, the drip of icicles, faster, faster, faster, and the rush of meltwater.
‘There’s not many words,’ I mumbled.
‘Yeah, but – Jess? – they’re the right ones.’
I tried to tell her. ‘I couldn’t draw, afterwards …’
‘You can certainly draw now. And, Jess, you have to do this. When it’s time to choose what you do next, please will you remember what I said? You have a real talent. For art, sure – you must already know that. But also for this, words and pictures on a page that are unique and powerful. I don’t have any other feedback for you. This is just right. The shape, the content. What you left out. What you put in. You made me cry, and I can promise you, I don’t say that often.’
She stood up then, and I mirrored her. She came around the table and paused with one hand on the door handle, ready to open it for me. She kept a distance between us, but now she was facing the light I got the full beam of her smile and the look in those tiger eyes and it was better than a hug. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world, you brave woman.’
I went outside. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hold the feeling a bit longer before I spoke to anyone. I went out and wandered around the house in a daze. I sleepwalked down through the gardens below. There was a bench there, looking out across the whole valley. I saw no one. I sat down with my bag and my papers held tight against me and I felt the warm afternoon sun on my face. I watched the rabbits hop and graze in the steep fields. A herd of white cows, chewing. The air was full of motion, the churn of the river and the trees, swaying green, but I sat completely still, smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the last night of the residential there was this grand finale. A showcase of our talent. We gathered in the converted barn. Spotlights angled from high beams above us, making a circle of light that was our stage. We sat on squishy sofas, not slumped as on previous evenings, but alert and twittering with nerves. All day people had stressed about this, rehearsing lines, editing poems – you’d think it was a big deal. Maybe it was. Maybe it was a beginning.
I was in the middle and Eden’s name came last in the hand-drawn running order pinned to the whiteboard. Mr Barwell sat on the edge of his seat, sucking it up. Rose had her camera out. Tom and Aisha were glowing and proud. They launched us, with words like: did yourselves proud … transformed … inner voice … you are writers now.
One by one people stood and shared their work. Blushing, stammering or defiant. Imogen filled three tissues reading a poem about her late grandad. Charlotte read a sonnet about a friend’s eating disorder. Danny did a funny short story about getting lost in a video game. And Josh glanced meaningfully from under his floppy fringe while he read a haiku, making everyone stare at Eden.
She looked down at her clasped hands the whole time, only uncurling to clap each person.
Finally it was me. I walked out, under the bright lights. I’d taken care with my make-up: the full works tonight. I had my hair twisted up, with a scarf around the scar, a few red plaits falling loose, my favourite lace-and-velvet black dress and my old boots. I found a spot on the
polished wooden boards. I looked at my audience. My body tried its best to pull the usual tricks: palms sweaty, throat dry, legs wobbling. I ignored it. Tonight, I was the boss. I knew I couldn’t read the strip I’d done for Aisha, so I went for the easy win. It wasn’t a great poem, but it summed up our week. I cleared my throat and began.
I’m Brontë’d out. I’m over Heathcliff.
I’m even done with Plath and Hughes.
I’m stumbling, tripping, till I see
I cannot walk in dead poets’ shoes.
I need to talk of a hawk
– In sun, snow or rain –
I need to walk in these hills
Until they’re mine again.
I wanna get Gothic, do some wuthering,
Set fire to my attic, get lost on the moor.
But everywhere I turn, all the words are gone.
How do I speak, when they got there before?
I’ll speak cos I have to.
I’ll speak in this tongue
Cos it’s this place that made me
And it’s here that I run.
I wasn’t prepared for the amount of applause I got, the stamping feet and the whoops. My wobbles vanished. My thaw turned to summertime under Aisha’s dazzling grin. I smiled and bowed and returned to my seat, letting waves of elation lap over me.
‘Go, Jess!’ Eden whispered, giving my arm a squeeze.
When it was her turn, Eden stood a little unsteadily. She walked out to the front, gripping her piece of paper. She was wearing a red-checked shirt, open over a tight black vest. Her denim skirt was micro-short, but she’d made it slouchy with leggings and boots. Her hair looked greasy, not like her at all. She squinted against the glare of the lights, and began.
It was the best thing anyone had written all week – you could see it from the shocked expressions on the adults’ faces. Eden’s voice was brittle and knowing, mocking her own pain. And maybe she was channelling the American poet, the one who was buried here, stuck for eternity in this crooked little village on the top of a rainswept hill.
