Hope Nicely's Lessons for Life

by Caroline Day

  But Marnie Shale is smiling and she’s not even saying anything to him. ‘No, Hope, not Halloween, though I see where you’re coming from. And you’re right, it is pretty gruesome. No, King wrote The Shining, Carrie, It and Misery – but not Halloween. I don’t know who wrote that, actually. But, to return to the quotes on the printouts, these are Stephen King talking about the craft of writing, across all genres, and as I was saying, every writer should be aware of what Stephen King has to say about dialogue …’

  Dialogue is a conversation. I know this because I’ve been listening really hard to what Marnie Shale has been saying. So I know that if someone is having dialogue angrily you don’t say ‘angrily’. You can show that with them punching a wall. We don’t need to say our characters are uttering or exclaiming. We just need to say they say. And dialogue is very, very important, because it can show our characters and what their motives are.

  Now it’s another exercise and this time I’m not going to write about a dog that I don’t know very well. Because we have to write a dialogue between ourselves and one of our main characters but not say said or yelled or cried or whispered. Just the words. And the dialogue needs to be us asking them questions. And even before Marnie Shale has put her watch on the oval table I am writing.

  ‘Did you know that one day I would write a book and that you would read it?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’

  ‘Did you always hope it, that you would see my book one day?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’

  ‘Did you always think that one day you would tell me about why you put me in the box?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’

  ‘Was it to give me to a lovely mum, like Jenny Nicely? Was it all for the best?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’

  ‘Did you know you were making me like this?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’

  ‘Did you know about the vodka and the beer and the wine and the drinks in your tummy? Did you know you were hurting my brain? Did you ever think a little bit about my brain when I was in your tummy? Did you ever think maybe it would be better if …’

  I’m looking at the pen in my hand, the gold and black one, and my blue notebook is open but my hand has stopped writing, and there are more and more questions in my head. They’re buzzing and shouting but only in my head. I’m looking at my pen, with its blue grip in my fingers, and it isn’t moving.

  ‘Why did you keep your bottles of beer and wine and vodka and why did you throw away your baby?’

  The pen has a bit to press on the top to make the writing bit go in and out. Where the ink comes out of it. But the ink isn’t coming out. The question is only in my head.

  ‘Did you never think about throwing away the beer and the wine and the vodka instead? Did you never think that if you threw away the beer and the wine and the vodka instead you could make a baby that was …?’

  The pen is tapping on the paper in my notebook. The word I’m thinking of is ‘better’.

  ‘Did you know you had made me like this? When I was born out of your tummy – did you know it then?’

  Marnie Shale is talking but her voice is a very long way away and I’m staring at the tapping pen. I’m trying to pull myself out of my dreamy head.

  ‘Is that why you did what you did? Did you put me in a cardboard box because you knew what you’d done to me? Did you want a better baby?’

  ‘… fifteen minutes. So, does anybody want to read out what they’ve written?’

  ‘Or did you throw me away just because you didn’t want the baby even if it had a brain that was just like every other baby’s brain? If it was a different baby, would you have put it in the box anyway – or was it because the baby was me?’

  And I’m seeing that some of the people have their hands in the air, like Danny Flynn and the dotty knotty scarf-knot man who said for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to read out my questions. I’m looking at my notebook and the tapping pen that is in my fingers, and I’m not even sure why I’m writing this book. Because if she threw me away in a cardboard box, maybe she didn’t want me to ever find her and she just wanted me to go away. And maybe she will not even want to read the book. Maybe she will not want to make a dialogue at all. Maybe she will just say, go away, I didn’t want to be your mother, not even when you were a little bean in my tummy. Maybe she will say, actually, I wanted to make your brain bad with my vodka and my wine and my beer and I didn’t even care and then I wanted to throw you away for ever and not ever, ever, ever see you. Maybe she will say she does not care about my closing time or who I am or what my name is and she wishes I’d never written the book – which is the book that I haven’t written yet. And now I’m thinking how much I want my mum – not that mum, my real Mum-mum, Jenny Nicely.

  I’m not shouting and I’m not banging my head or humming. I’m not crying, not even very quietly. I don’t want to go away. It’s not buzzing like wasps in my brain. I’m just inside my head, in a quiet bit, not listening, even though Danny Flynn is talking, and I want a cuddle from my mum. And I’m not very good at knowing what my feelings are called but I’m better than I used to be, because of talking about it a lot until it’s easier to know them. I’m not anxious and I’m not angry. I don’t think I am anyway. Marnie Shale looks at me and asks if I’m OK and I say I am, because that is the polite thing to say. But I’m not really OK. I think the thing that I am is sad.

  6

  At the end of the class I don’t hurry to the loo to be first, even though I do want a wee. And it’s because I want to be in the lift first, and I want to be down at the bottom of the building, because I want to see my mum, my real mum, not the one who threw me away in the cardboard box. It is my mum, Jenny Nicely, who will be there waiting for me, waiting outside. She will be in all her colours and she will give me her big, happy hug with her jangling bracelets, and all the sad feelings in my head will turn to different feelings because of how happy I am to see her.

  And there is not enough space in the lift for everyone to go in together, but the man with the scarf says ladies first. And Peter Potter says he will wait for the next lift, with his Coronation Street accent and his big, white eyebrows. And the other man does too whose name I can’t remember, but maybe it’s Simon, the one with the not-quite beard, and then the woman who is called Susan, but I can’t remember what her last name is. I do know it, but I can’t find it in my head right now. She has her glasses around her neck, except now they are on her face. Danny Flynn is in the lift with me, and Veronica Ptitsky too. Danny Flynn says some of them are going to the pub and why don’t I come with them, and Veronica Ptitsky says yes, because we’ve worked hard and we deserve a drink. I say I don’t like pubs and, anyway, I’m going home now because my mum, Jenny, is coming to meet me.

  But now I’m coming out of the lift and I’m looking through the glass doors and I can see the shapes of the bench outside, with streetlights above and cars behind, but I can’t see her. And even when I’m outside and I’m looking up the road and down the road, and I’m shouting it – ‘Mum’ – in case she can hear me, because maybe she’s somewhere where she can see me but I can’t see her yet, there is no reply. And there are lots of cars in the road, because this is a main road called the high street, and lots of lights from the cars, because it’s dark now, and it’s like: flash – there’s a car, flash – there’s another car, flash, flash, flash, and I wonder if my mum is on the other side of the road and hidden by all the cars, because of how busy it is. I’m thinking I should go and see but then I can’t because my coat is pulled really hard to bring me back onto the pavement and I nearly fall over because of being grabbed so quickly. And I can hear my name: Hope, and that’s Danny Flynn and it’s him who is pulling my coat and there is a big BEEP, and the driver is shouting out of the window. What he shouts is ‘Fucking lunatic.’ I think probably it is at me he is shouting it.

  ‘Christ,
Hope.’ It’s very noisy because of Danny Flynn shouting and me screaming and the man in the car shouting, and his horn and the horn of the car behind that one too. And Danny Flynn says Christ again and he’s shaking his head and he says I can’t just run into the road or I’ll get myself killed. And he’s right because the cars are going very fast, except now that there aren’t any cars for a little bit because the traffic lights have made them stop, I can see that my mum, Jenny, isn’t on the other side of the road. She isn’t on this side and she isn’t on that side and she isn’t here at all.

  ‘It’s all right, Hope. I’m sure she’s just got held up. She’ll be here any moment. Please don’t worry.’ That’s Veronica Ptitsky. And she has her arm around my shoulder. I don’t like people hugging me when I don’t know them but part of me does want Veronica Ptitsky to do it. She says don’t I have a telephone to see if my mum’s sent me a message or to send her a message and then I will know where she is. And of course I should have thought of this. Because I do have a phone, because that is important when you have a real job in case your boss has to tell you about anything, like it’s raining too much to take the dogs out or the woods are closed because it’s too windy, so we’re going to walk in the park instead, or Sallie the whippet has to stay on the lead because she’s in heat, which isn’t about being a bit hot, but which means boy dogs will want to make puppies so they can’t come and mate on her. And also a phone is important in an emergency. So this is a really good idea, but not so good when I take my phone out of my pocket because the screen is all dark, and that is because of my light bulb. Well, it’s because of show, not tell, too, actually. And also it’s because of my golden notebook, where I write all the golden rules.

  And it’s because, last night, my mum, Jenny, said have I remembered to charge my phone. She said it when I was trying to go to sleep and she was going to bed too, and I said yes, because I had, and she even came in and looked to make sure about it. And she said goodnight, Hope Nicely, and sweet dreams. And I was going to sleep, except in my head I was also doing some exercises, not touching my toes of course, but my writing exercises. I was thinking about how I would show not tell myself being in bed and going to sleep – because of show, not tell being the number one rule of writing. I was thinking about not saying that I was about to be snoring, but to hear my breath being noisier, and to maybe feel the breath being ticklier on my lips, too.

  But then I thought that, really, I should have written ‘Show Not Tell’ in my golden rules notebook, actually. Because of it being the number one rule of writing. And so I thought that I should do that.

  But when I pressed the switch to turn on my light my light did not go light. And – flip a pancake – this is when I realised that my light bulb was gone, like not gone away but broken gone. And I was going to tell my mum, Jenny, that she should come and change it but I could hear her snoring from her bedroom that is next to my bedroom. It was noisier breaths and probably ticklier on her lips, and I thought it would not be nice to wake her up, because she’s been very tired all week. And I have a light on the table by my bed, too – my mum, Jenny Nicely, sometimes calls this light a lamp, not just the ceiling one, but when I couldn’t turn on that light, because of my mobile phone, because of it being plugged in instead. So I took the plug for my phone out from the socket and put in the other plug that was for the light so that I could write down the number one rule with all my other golden rules. And that’s what I did. I wrote Show, don’t tell. But when I had written in my notebook I turned off the light but I didn’t put the plug back out and the phone one back in. Because I forgot.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ This is Veronica Ptitsky again and she’s holding up her own phone which is a colour like pink but it’s gold all at the same time, and it has a clear jacket on it that is see-through except that there is glitter in it and I wish I had one on my telephone except my telephone is smaller anyway. ‘I’ll call her for you. What’s her number?’

  But I don’t know her number. I don’t know any telephone numbers because they are too long for me to remember, and I don’t write them down because they are in my phone, but there is no charge in my phone. Because of the light bulb and the golden rule.

  Other people are here now, from the class, coming out from the library and saying what is wrong with Hope. There’s Kelly Bell-y Shell-y, saying can she help and what has happened. And Veronica Ptitsky is saying nothing, don’t worry, and why don’t they head on to the pub and she’ll be there in a minute, when we’ve found out where Hope’s mum is, and yes please, G&T please, lovely. And her arm is around my shoulder still and she’s making nice sounds with her words and she’s saying it’s all right, she’s sure my mum will be here any minute. And Danny Flynn is asking if I want him to walk me back to my home, but I don’t even know if my mum will be there. And he says, OK, so why doesn’t he run there now and he can see if she’s there and I can …

  But then Marnie Shale is hurrying out of the glass door and she’s holding up her mobile phone and running fast and saying thank goodness I’m still here, my mum is on the phone and she’s holding it out to me. It’s black, not pink and gold with glitter like Veronica Ptitsky’s. And it really is my mum, because I know her voice, even though it sounds a little quiet. She says hello Hope, and she’s been trying to get hold of me. I say where are you, you weren’t here, and my mum says she’s sorry, she says she sent me a text to say she’s in the hospital, no need to worry though. And she says she had a little scare, because in the bookshop she was a bit dizzy and nearly fainted in the crime fiction section. But everything’s all right and the doctors are going to let her come home just as soon as she’s spoken to the registrar, which is very soon.

  And I tell her about the light bulb in my bedroom and she says she thought it would be something like that because she sent me the message two and a half hours ago. Karen my boss had already brought me to the library for my writing lesson then. And my mum, Jenny, says she sent another message, too, about being late to pick me up, because she’s ended up being longer than she expected. She does a bit of a sigh and tells me she’s tried me lots of times. Marnie’s phone was off too, until now, because of Marnie teaching, and so it’s lucky she managed to find me. Mum asks me if I am all right. I tell her I didn’t know where she was and she says she’s sorry and she was worried about me, too.

  I say will she come and she says soon, as soon as the registrar’s come, and she asks if there’s somewhere I can wait. And I look up from the telephone and Marnie says is everything OK, and I say I have to wait for my mum. She says do I want to come back upstairs to wait because she’s having a one-to-one tutorial with Jamal about his book, which is the vampire one, so she has to go back there now and I can wait in reception. But Veronica Ptitsky is saying why doesn’t Hope come with her and Danny to the pub, that will be nicer than sitting on my own. The pub is called the White Hart – and when she says it, I think it’s the White Heart, like a heart in your body which my mum has some pills for, but Veronica is pointing up the road and saying look, it’s just there. There is a picture of an animal a bit like a horse or a deer, and it’s a hart and it’s white.

  Danny is saying he can always see me home if that is easier. But my mum knows where the White Hart is, and she’s getting a taxi and will be coming past on the way from the hospital anyway. I’m going to say that I don’t go to pubs, because they are loud and they smell and I don’t like vodka or wine or beer. But I don’t really want to sit outside the writing group room. And what I do want is a wee, because of being in such a hurry for the lift. And now I am having to remember about it being a rule to not put our hands on our fanny when there are other people there. I say: ‘Is there a loo in the pub?’

  ‘You’re in a rush.’ Veronica Ptitsky is trying to push her hand under my arm, like the film on television that my mum, Jenny, watched at the weekend, which was about Pride and something else, too, when the women with their long dresses walk together and talk about making good marriages, and I’m making my
arm be hard to my body so she can’t do it. We’re coming into the pub and she’s pointing to the toilets – ‘Over there in the corner.’ And she’s asking what I want to drink, she’s saying: ‘G&T?’

  I say what’s that? And she tells me – gin and tonic. I say isn’t gin like vodka and she says yes, a little bit. And I say is tonic like vodka and she says no, more like lemonade or soda water. So I say just tonic. And then I say I mean T, because that is what Veronica Ptitsky said. I say it quickly because I’m running now. I don’t even say please. I’m pushing the door with both of my hands, not just one hand. And, flip a pancake, inside the door is another door and the door is shut. So I’m jumping a little bit and banging on the door a little bit. And I’m counting – not in my head, in my actual mouth – one-two-three. I’m jumping more and I’m saying – not in my mouth in my head – to the wee to stay in my tummy. Because of the rule.

  And a woman comes out of the door and I knock her with my shoulder as I’m hurrying in and she says something that I think is swearing, but I don’t even say sorry because of the worrying about an accident. I am pushing the door shut with two hands, and the lock is a bit tricky but thank goodness it goes in first time, and I’m pulling at my jogging bottoms and my knickers. In my head it is a bit like a race and it is because of remembering all about school and all about the singing. And the singing was about Hope smells like granny’s knickers and pissy pants. I have my hand over my ears because of the singing in my head and because of the noisy pub, but I can still hear the sound of my wee and that is good – it’s fan-tanty-tastic – because it is going in the toilet and it is not an accident, except for just a little bit, but only in my pants, so I take them off and put them in my bag, and then I put my jogging bottoms back on after.