A novel idea

As threatened yesterday, here is my (incomplete) shot at literary stardom. By the look of it, I must have been reading Sebastian Faulks and that ilk at the time. It was only two and a bit pages of scrawl which doesn't translate to much on the written page. I'll stop babbling now as there's enough nonsense written below.

Hello. Introductions before instructions, as my mum used to say. My name is Frank Johnson and I'm from a cosy part of Yorkshire called... well if I told you, you would never have heard of it, so we'll leave that one for now. My story is not a strange one, but it's worth listening to, believe me. I doubt you will have met many people like me, especially in a place like this.

I was born to Jean and Bill; Jean my mum, Bill my dad. That's my little joke. There was a lot of laughter in our house - and love. When I arrived home from school, my mum would be waiting with a hug and a bevy of kisses that grew more embarrassing as time went on. Sad really. I miss them. My dad, well I suppose he loved me in his own way. Whenever we knocked on the door of his shed to tell him that dinner was ready or that the man from the council was here (that happened quite a lot), he would always smile the sweetest of smiles which would light every corner of that dingy shed, before it receded, as did he, to a place within him that no man or woman, not even my mum, had ever seen. That beautiful smile would illuminate every ounce of the man before darkness once more flooded the void.

We played on the street, we being myself and Grace, my younger sister. Her name is actually Matilda on account of my dad registering the birth, and unwisely going against my mum's wishes; Grace was her choice. Matilda thus reverted to a middle name and dad retired to his shed. He occasionally called her Matilda. I think that was his way of rebelling. He never was much of a fighter, dad. Please don't misunderstand me, he fought tooth and nail to get the most for his family, but when it came to confrontations with the one person who had his measure, he knew when to stand off. Most of the time at any rate.

I remember an incident with Grace when she went away to Brownie camp. A blazing hot day it was as we walked to the train station. I was a reluctant passenger on that journey and an even more reluctant and impromptu porter. "One week in Devon" read the note from Brown Owl. "Seven months in very changeable weather" was the interpretation. A trunk almost the size of me and enough bags to make even our local bag lady, Maggie, choke on her collection of polythene and paper. Apparently, her husband left her and she simply opted out of life. She has a bath every couple of weeks at a neighbour’s house, the time lapse presumably to clear the smell. She does reek, but always has a kind word, in amongst the mainly incomprehensible expletives that is. If I ever decipher “ooo kin fu in bur”, I may well be offended. In fact, I think I’ve just worked it out and I may need a lie down.

As I walked, carrying the trunk on my formative young bones, my dad, carrying the rest of the bags, foolishly suggested that perhaps Grace should help to carry her own luggage, walking as she was with her packed lunch, an amalgam of corned beef sandwiches and tinned milk, since you ask. Mum met this with a firm, yet polite, “no”. Dad knew better than to take it any further. If only… “She’s got to learn to stand up for herself, Jean, or else she’ll end up like your mother.” No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the air changed and birds scurried off their branches to the relative safety of the family nest. “Pardon,” mum enquired. “Nothing,” stuttered dad. “My mother?” continued mum. “My mother? MY MOTHER?” And that was that. No great denouement, yet I swear that not one word passed between them from then until Grace stepped back off the train a week later. “Do you think that Grace should carry her own bags, Bill?” “No, Jean.”

Sadly, I wasn’t afforded the luxury of choice and I carried Grace’s luggage back home, my hunchback now bearing witness to the fact. I learned very quickly to limit my waving-off duties to the confines of my “sick” bed, illnesses which miraculously cleared on Grace’s departure, only to return and disappear with similar haste about a week later. What I wouldn’t give for an affected illness now. And my family…