Nexus Spring/Summer 2011

NEXUS Spring Summer2010 2011 Spring // Summer

01 Introduction

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There’s a compulsion in a lot of this, the need to get the ideas down and to turn them into something. Does the world need us to do this? If you asked then it would say no. But this is creative writing and we have to exorcise our demons, lay the itchy, scratchy things flat, take control of who we are and write it all down.

Sometimes when you’ve finished the poem you feel like you’ve been fighting for hours. Leave it alone, that’s my advice. Let it simmer for a bit in the bottom of the drawer and then rush back at it when it is least expecting anything at all and surprise it. If it has a weakness then that’s when you’ll see it. Never let the weak stuff hang around. Forget fixing it, start again, throw the old stuff away.

The novel is a different matter. You need to write and keep on writing. Novels are big, even little ones. You have to plan and then carry out the plan. You have to write and revise. You have to plough on in the face of derision, forgetfulness, fatigue, hunger and failure. It’ll be alright in the end and if it’s not then there you go. It was an experience. One you’ll put to good use next time.

I can’t recall any occasion where I’ve wasted my time writing. Certainly there have been many times when what I’ve written has ended up in the bin or been lost or deleted or more usually abandoned. It’s not the material but the process that is important. Writers write. They expand ideas, make them flourish. If there’s anything going for you then some of what you put down will work.

02

Kerouac wrote by swallowing a Dexedrine inhaler, sticking a teletype roll into his typer and just blowing.

William Golding wrote Lord of the Flies while working as a school teacher and living in a bed sit above a chip shop. Lionel Fanthorpe dictated his science fictions winners directly into a tape-recorder and only ever brought the plot to a conclusion when the tape ran out.

There’s no one method that fits all. The trick is to find yours.

Peter Finch Academi (Literature Wales) Chief Executive

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03 Orange Pumpkin Moon

By Liam Johnson

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Two)

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She said it’s like some kind of orange pumpkin moon but there’s a candle inside so it’s a hot air balloon oh there was a banshee at my ear the next morning convincing me I’d made one small step for man!

my flag and my bootprint preserved where no wind blows!

where people go who die thinking of the soup dragon & wake up without a pulse or a care in the world,

see a line of Andes glittering like drugs untasted

and cry for home. the domes

& observatories! their silly geese!

I stood like Aldrin or Irwin Garden and wouldn’t abstain, I flew like a paper jet with coffee stains! to reach the unattainable & find yourself floating further! where do you go from here?

04 what will you do when those sad sirens sound out from the boob of the pill-and-buddhist distances of space and you feel queer? drop down singe on the fringes of the atmosphere? you can see the coasts of Earth! and they’re clear! come back! nobody will fear you! they will take off your helmet and kiss you on the lip! you’re hip! you’re fashion! you’re sexy! you’re space! they will take off your helmet and kiss your face! face of he who stood like a colossus for the satellite heart! come home with the first rain of Autumn and all of our umbrellas will open for you like Penelope’s immortal and human legs! you are a graduated cosmonaut and you have walked on the moon no matter what chemicals they fed you with your proteins & oats!

YEAH, an orange pumpkin moon surrounds you with ghosts! but a hot air balloon just floats.

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06 Crumbs

By Cheryl Thornton

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Two)

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The truth of the matter was, Angie couldn’t sleep. Angie couldn’t sleep because Burt was still awake, with the lamp on, eating his toast. She looked at the clock. It read 1:07. She sighed and turned onto her back.

‘Honey, would you turn the light off?’

There was no reply. She could hear Burt munching on his toast beside her and thumbing through the pages of a magazine.

‘I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep with this light on. Would you turn it off please?’

‘I just wanna eat my toast and read my magazine. Can’t you see I’m reading my magazine?’

‘Ok honey, ok. But could you turn the light off soon, when you’re done? I mean…I really can’t sleep. I’m just tossing and turning in this bed.’

‘Yes, sure. I’ll turn it off when I’m done.’

Angie looked like she wanted to say something else.

After a few moments, she sighed again and turned to face Burt.

‘Honey? Burt? Do you remember that time we rented out that caravan in the lakes? In Coniston? I mean, Coniston, of all places! Who’s ever heard of that? Do you remember Burt?’

Burt mumbled a reply between mouthfuls of toast.

‘That caravan was so small! We were like sardines in that little bed there, weren’t we? We could barely turn over!

You had to lie right up against me. And you banged your head once going to the bathroom in the night!’

Angie nudged Burt. ‘Yeh,’ he replied. ‘Yeh I did.’

After a few minutes of silence Angie looked at Burt, who

07 was still reading his magazine. She then looked at the window behind him. The orange glow from the streetlights outside diffused through the curtains. She would have to buy thicker ones, thicker ones that sunk to the floor and kept out the night.

‘We had fun in Coniston, didn’t we? It rained most of the time, but didn’t we have a good time?’

‘Yeh, we had a good time.’

‘Yeh… The lakes were good. Hey, we should do that again sometime. Rent out a caravan I mean. Go somewhere.’

Burt didn’t say anything. He coughed into a closed fist then turned another page of his magazine. His cleared plate was balanced on his lap.

‘Don’t you think we should go somewhere?’ Angie looked at him.

‘Yeh, we could go somewhere. Maybe when I get some time off work. Ok? I have to work.’ He put down his magazine and turned to switch off the lamp.

‘I know that. I know that Burt.’ Angie turned over and stared at the wall ahead.

A few minutes later, she began tossing and turning again.

‘Honey? Honey, there’s crumbs in the bed. You’ve got crumbs in the bed. How am I supposed to sleep with crumbs in the bed?’ She tried brushing them off the sheet with her hands, but then she could feel them around her toes. Eventually it felt like the entire bed was covered in them.

‘What are you doing?’ Burt moaned through his sleep.

‘You’ve got crumbs in the bed and I’m trying to brush them off. I can’t seem to get rid of them.’

‘Well I can’t sleep with you moving around the bed like that.’

‘Can you help me shift these crumbs then?’

‘Just try and get some sleep, ok? We’ll sort it out in the morning.’ And with that he began breathing deeply again.

Angie tried, she really tried to get to sleep, but when the clock read 3:15 she gave up. No matter how she lay, she swore she could still feel crumbs on the sheet beneath her. The quilt cover was too big for the quilt

08 and it twisted around her legs. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and turned at the door to look at Burt. He was lying on the edge of the bed and looked strangely small, as if he were far away. She couldn’t imagine herself lying in the space beside him.

She went down to the kitchen and made herself a ham sandwich. When she opened the fridge, the sudden burst of light startled her and she had to squint her eyes while she got the butter and ham. Angie prepared the sandwich by the small light over the cooker, then sat down at the kitchen table to eat it. As she chewed slowly, she looked at the photos and postcards tacked to the fridge door.

There was one from Coniston, Burt and Angie outside the caravan. You could see the pine trees behind, and Burt had his arm around her. He was wearing a ridiculous fisherman’s hat and they were both beaming.

There was a photo of them with Angie’s niece, at the park. She must have been about three then. Burt was sitting on the roundabout with her on his lap. Angie was just at the edge, trying to keep the hair out of her eyes.

Angie finished her sandwich and washed up the plate.

She didn’t want to go back upstairs so she headed into the dark front room and opened the blinds a little. As she passed the fridge, she took the photo from Coniston and put it in her pocket. Staring out the window, she wondered where the cars on the road were heading to.

Each time they went past, their headlights made broken bands of yellow glide across the ceiling then disappear.

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09 Woof

By Kate Herbert

MA English & Creative Writing

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‘I wonder if he’s lost,’ said the man staring out of the window into the street below.

‘Who’s lost love?’ said the woman, half looking, fumbling in her handbag.

‘That dog, the black dog.’

The woman glanced towards the window as she reached for her smart coat.

‘I can’t see it love,’ she said ‘No,’ a small voice replied. He wasn’t surprised.

He followed as the woman inspected her face in the hall mirror.

Muffled operatic sounds broke the silence as she patted her pockets and read a message on her mobile. He watched as she smiled the kind of easy smile reserved for company and slid the phone in to her bag.

Turning, she mumbled words, words that made sounds and nothing more. He just stared as the door closed and stood sucking marmalade off his teeth, until the taste was gone.

The man began to clear the dishes of the night before. The dog was still there. He thought about how the dog would enjoy licking each plate clean and how his wife would feel about that.

Placing her empty coffee mug into the sink, his fingers rubbed at the red lipstick staining its ceramic surface. Pausing, he brought his fingers to his nose, inhaling its cosmetic smell and smeared the residue onto his own loose lips. Quickly wiping his hand across his mouth, his eyes rolled back to the street below.

Later, drawn to the window, the man saw the dog again. Perhaps it had sat there all day. He crossed the street in his slippers and came up close. Together they stood, just him and the dog, people passed, coming home from work, he remembered that.

10

Back inside his house, from the window, he saw his wife’s car making its way along the street. She was jabbering away on some hands-free call, her red lips in constant motion, laughing, he saw her laughing.

He imagined her laughing in that way she reserved for a friend’s joke, the way her eyes would water and she would affect imaginary tears that she would dab with slim fingers, it was so very funny. As he watched her car float along the street, bubbles of possibilities popped as he reached out to them, never realising their full shape. He swallowed hard and was about to turn when he saw it sitting there in the road, black against black. Raising his arms, he hammered on the glass.

She looked up, screwing her eyes at the image of her husband illuminated and sharp against the window. Something passed between them, but as quick slunk back in to the dark winter’s evening. The car seemed to swerve and she struggled to gain control. The man’s arms returned to his sides and he momentarily closed his eyes. He pressed his chin hard to his chest and inhaled deeply. She had missed the dog.

His senses keen and high pitched, he rushed to the door. He didn’t hear the fleshy thud of his wife’s head as it butted the windscreen. He didn’t hear the sirens or the monotone roar of her solitary horn. New sounds filled his ears as he opened the door. He didn’t see her body shunted and still, forever bloody and fish eyed. The man smiled and stepped aside as the black dog padded through the door and took her place beside the fire.

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11 Homecoming

By Rhian Henry

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year One)

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“He sliced into her skin like butter”; she’d read that somewhere once, paused to fully envisage the act; smirked, a literary Contessa at its absurdity. Layers of skin, layers of muscle, a map of bones, and thick, determined organs. That can’t be a simple ‘slice’. Surely a ‘harsh stab’, a ‘forceful plunge’? Something with a bit more emphasis. A bit more oomph! The act itself couldn’t be as carefree as cutting a measure of butter in cupcake preparation. There would be intensity, rogue passion, hatred, nothing cupcake related.

All the same, lying on the kitchen floor in her own crimson spotlight, Ruby felt just like a buttery substance. Number nine in serial killer Harsh Harrod’s little black book; and yes, the knife had sunk as though she were warm butter. She hated being proved wrong. More so than being the forgettable ‘ninth victim’. More so than dying on the kitchen floor wearing tracksuit bottoms. *** “’Harsh Harrod’? Are you kidding me?” Ruby cackled, reapplying her namesake lipstick in perfect symmetrical arcs. “That was ALL the alliteration options the Daily Sparrow could muster?!’

“Oh give them a break Rubes, a GCSE is the highest degree needed to run that place nowadays. Look at our Danny?” fluttered Collete’s dulcet sarcasm.

“Hush. It takes real class to make baby-whores into page six ‘models’.

It must have taken real effort to get the sixth form drama-tarts to squish those B cups together whilst doing the hoover-suck pout.”

“We really shouldn’t bitch about it, at least our English degree’s paid dividends.”

“And yet we’re still stuck attending a bad eighties flashback, where the only gossip since we left is my ex’s apparent ‘rampage’.”

“Poor sod. What did you do to him?” Collete ejected tawdry laughter before snapping her white-blonde tussles to the left for dramatic effect.

“Never you mind, Babycakes”

12

With that Amville’s returning success stories emerged from the girl’s toilets that hadn’t changed an inch since their departure from St Jude’s.

Ruby was willing to bet the gent’s hadn’t eradicated time quite yet either...that her adolescent antics were still scrawled into the cubicle door. Oh poor Harrod. *** Where the hell is Coll?! Ruby had been preparing for their pre-brunch jog for hours. Her hair alone had taken over an hour to French braid in a sophisticated, yet sporty manner of pigtails. Collete was always late, that was a certainty, but not answering her phone? That happened as often as Ruby’s bouts of homesickness. It would take something dire to part the self-induced ditzy blonde stereotype from her hand-held soul.

Pacing to the dial tone of what would be another missed call, Ruby’s life began to imitate art. Art of the media variety. Art of the straight-toDVD assortment. Generally she liked to envisage her life as a stream of Audrey Hepburn consciousness, more akin to Roman Holiday than the Media student slasher flick that now played out.

The door creaked open. Eerily, as it would gain audience catharsis.

They’d be on the edge of their seats as she, the nonchalant opening credit victim, cried out: “I nearly left withou- “. Her speech cut off by the knife slicing into her abdomen. It was this stream Ruby pictured in her fading consciousness. Grimacing at its every cliché. As much as she hoped her killer would be exposed, there was appreciation that the amateur dramatic scene hadn’t been projected to CCTV. Perhaps those who’d discover her slaughtered body would assume a more soap opera confrontation? Ooh! With an emotional climax, punctured by her wound...even with fleeting blood Ruby coerced her writer’s mind to create dramatic formations. The habit had qualified her for abandonment of small town life. Now it alleviated her pain.

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14 “The Road Not Taken”

By Ruby Szarowicz

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Three)

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Year one I was strung high. They collected rubber bands, traffic cones and empty cans. They wore them round their wrists like farmyard animals and laughed at the same jokes again and again and again, a catalysis which left me with no voice and less patience.

“You are not a tourist, you’re an artist.”

Do you remember the slippery streets of Berlin? Its empty pavements deserted, minds diverted, heels skipping over the bricks. We saw it all through a camera lens where in the background a plane was landing and we had missed it because we were playing with those Labrador puppies... And in that small light, little morning, the blue swallowed everything to mirror its new rise.

These passings and goings play on my mind.

I make up memories about me and you. I go back to The Road Not Taken. I go back to those two roads diverged in a yellow wood and stand at their foot and ask “Which one should I take?” And I think, “You artists, you poets. You’re so lucky.

Dancing through life, posting your imprints on the world.”

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less travelled by.”

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16 A Beautiful Obsession

By Durre Mughal

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year One)

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I thought to write for you a symphony of desire, But you have become a curse.

A constant, ruthless torment which takes over my mind and prevents me from thinking.

It’s ironic really, or maybe a coincidence or shall I, as they do, say that it was all chance and fate; the next chapter in my life waiting for its time to happen.

But you haven’t really happened, have you?

For you, I found myself re-arranging my every path, straying away from my norm, taking such high measures and risks for such a small chance, almost even being fickle to one so close to my heart.

Yet still I cannot bow my head and repent my thoughts for I know not whether I dote in vain.

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17 Two Boys

By Jane Levy

MA English & Creative Writing

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Eli. Eli is four.

He lives in Sderot.

He now has a mother, father, one brother and one sister.

Once he had another brother who would have been Bar Mitzvah this year.

Yuval was killed when a Qassam rocket hit the park where he was playing machboim with a friend.

Eli loves to play machboim too. He loves to play but he is afraid every time the siren goes. He loves to play but he is afraid every time the siren doesn’t go. It didn’t go when Yuval was killed. His mother cries all the time.

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His mother cries all the time. There was no warning when Abdullah was shot playing outside in the rubble. Ali loves to play outside too but he is afraid of the silence. He is afraid when he is outside and when he is inside too.

Abdullah was killed when he was playing hide and seek in the rubble by the camp with his best friend.

Abdullah was the first born and the apple of his mother’s eye and Ali’s hero.

Ali now has a mother, father, five sisters and no brothers.

He lives in Gaza.

Ali is four.

Ali.

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20 St. Patrick Could Have Saved Me

By Cat Hoyle

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Three)

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The room is full of bright purple kinetic energy. Bouncing from the light fittings, off the T-Bars, off the barmaids faces. This is my seventh pint of Guinness and my hat is a green shamrock – raising my height by an extra foot.

Looking up at the light fittings and away.

Sway.

The light trails and tries to follow as I move my head – The first time I saw a shooting star was with you. We made wishes. Remember?

Remember?

I just want to be happy - You could make me happy You did - We were.

“What did you wish?” You had smiled.

“If I tell you it won’t come true” had been my coy reply, and it did come true. We were.

We were soldiers…Soldiers, bombs, guns, The Cranberries, remember that song? Our song.

Another mother’s breaking heart is taking over. When the violence causes silence, we must be…..

Mistaken? Mistaking?

We always argued over that word….I still don’t know the answer. If you were here now I would just agree with you. I would. But you wouldn’t believe me.

What happened? I just don’t know….We were happy.

We were.

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21 12 Short Turns.

By Ffion Owen-Strong

BA (Hons) English & Drama (Year Two)

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It just stopped All of it Nothing saying Nothing doing

All I want is a word One or two But there’s nothing Just space, Noiseless.

The words could roll out my mouth If I was given the chance Pour out, with no stopping No hesitating Words shall not pass My parted lips hesitation.

We won’t exchange We won’t be

22 Ongoing emptiness Hollow life Words shall not pass My parted lips.

They will push, Push our souls to one side.

Always knowing Has come between What we had held For 12 short turns One more turn Will not come Our way.

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23 Twenty past, and twenty to.

By Siobhan Tumelty

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Three)

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If they understood they’d let him be. They put animals down for less. ‘We can’t let them suffer’ we’d say. It’d be selfish. He checks his pockets again, photo I.D. That will make it easier for them. He stops and reties his shoe laces. They fly all over the place, do shoes.

It’s just sleep really, dreamless sleep. Forever sleep. Now’s not that the time to be thinking stuff like that. His stomach contracts and he throws up bile in a blackberry bush.

He’s had a good innings. Given it a fair go. No one can argue with that. Although people will argue… senseless they’ll call it. A waste. A waste? A waste of what… potential? Surely that’s the problem in the first place, he has no potential.

‘Things… can only get better, can only get better… now now… things can only get, they can only get…’ What a song to have running through your head at a time like this. He laughs. Tripping alongside the long grass leaning heavy with morning dew.

Any way, who’re people? ‘People’ don’t know him. And the people who do will understand. Surely, they’ll understand.

Atleast it’s early. Nobody’ll be too traumatised. Hey, some of them might even get a day off work! It’s bad enough when horses get on the line.

So. He’s sure then? Pretty sure, as sure as he’ll ever be.

And you only have to be sure for an instant. The right instant, that’s all it is.

He can’t sleep. If he could only sleep. It’s the minute differences between 4:35 and 5:03. The slight change in the light, the noise, he can tell. He’s sat through so many of them.

24 Have you been taking them properly? I know you’ve been on them for years but if you keep messing with them like this then you’ll never get the full effect. You’ve got to build it up in your system. Six months at fine before we can even THINK about taking you off them. Now, I’ve told you before about repeat prescriptions?

Ah bless her. She tried. They all tried. Nippy, on a November morning. Still quite dark. Twenty past, and twenty to the hour. The Coryton train.

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25 Blight.

By Andrew Henderson

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Two)

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It began with flowers.

Aeron Harris could barely rouse himself to answer the summons from the front door. Black and purple smudges bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and a delicate web of red snared the whites. He hadn’t washed for days, and his pale, gaunt cheeks were covered in a coarse, black, itchy fur, the skin beneath smattered with angry red scratch marks. He had worn the same black tee shirt and grey jeans for over a week, but seemed oblivious to the smell coming from his own body.

The morning sun pierced his eyes like golden shrapnel, and he lifted a hand to shade them whilst the other hand gripped the battered white-wood door for support.

“Delivery,” was the greeting the stranger gave. Aeron grunted and took the bouquet of lilies from the blonde haired man and closed the door in his face, pulling the card from between sticky green stems as he trudged back up to his top floor flat. The message, much like it’s sender, his sister, was short and sweet.

Aer, Love you.

Delyth xxx His lips twitched briefly, but came nowhere near to smiling. After setting the flowers in water, he returned to the couch, rolled himself another cigarette and lay his head back on the arm to stare at the smoke drifting up to the ceiling. A traitorous tear escaped from the corner

26 of his eye; his angular face slowly creased. He turned onto his side and held his torso tight, but could not suppress the sobs that violently shook his body. He threw himself off the stained settee, stumbling into the small coffee table, and staggered to the sink. As he lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips, movement from the corner of his eye made him hesitate. He turned to stare at the vase with the lilies; as he did so, another dead petal fell to the counter. The flowers had withered and died.

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27 Re-turn

By Rosella Pollard

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Three)

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1. to go or come back, as to an earlier condition or place 2. to revert in speech, thought or practice 3. to revert to a former owner “Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only, fashion is in the sky, in the street; fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.” Coco Chanel Today is round three of returning copious amounts of worn Topshop clothes. Sophie shuffles past alabaster mannequins, past girls in exaggerated peep-toe wedges, past rails of smock blouses, chocolate leather satchels and feather headdresses. Potential buyers are clad in gigantic faux fur coats, layered over dresses and suspender tights. In a reverie of distorted surf rock and aesthetic dreams, she is a drop in the ocean.

The outfit in question is the limited edition Kate Moss twist dress retailing at 165 British pounds, the season’s most sought after wardrobe staple. Bought entirely for the purpose of dressing up as Buttercup from Powerpuff Girls, it has achieved its one time purpose. The shelf lives of the garments these hipster cats totter around in are as disposable as Topshop’s fortnightly restocks.

A permanent stranglehold of purse strings frightens Sophie. Her mode of recycling came under threat recently, the last store she tried deeming her return impossible because of faint wine stains. The item has been washed and pressed and with the tag-reglued, the dress looks positively unscathed.

Smidgens of panic set sail as she reaches the till queue.

The assistant manager is manning the desk. Sophie was

28 hoping for some tentative new starter too timid for eye contact, an in and out exchange of cash, then back for a purchase with the winnings. The other concern is a shiny new Jacques glass commandeered from a nearby tavern. Though it is tucked within marshmallow seams, the sales assistant will definitely ask for the original payment method. How to retrieve the debit card from her satchel whilst concealing the glass? Then there is the trouble of writing out her address. Sophie felt certain they judged your handwriting. The last hurdle presents herself with tentative, trembling hands. It seems as though the sales assistant is intimidated by Sophie, an empowering notion. In her peripheral vision, Sophie notices the AM scuttle away. The garment itself is not so much studied meticulously for error as swooped behind the desk without a second glance. Even birthday and Christmas presents were not permitted without a sense of awkwardness. Sophie outstretches her palm with glee as a bundle of the Queen’s are distributed, no questions asked. Though the victory is artificial, leaving Topshop’s golden arches Sophie feels an air of balmy paradise washing out redundant fear. Smiling at the guards, she silently commends her perfect crime.

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29 City Lights

By Ashleigh Davies

BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing (Year Two)

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The doctors are coming To commit me to the depths Of a hell, Lost beneath unearthly seas.

Where looking-glasses lie, Blistered, broken With blue-eyed glances, Running through the blue-blood Of every street-urchin from here To New York City.

Where dust and diamonds Mean little more Than teenage breaths on freckled necks.

Rusted horizons sleep surrounded, By mechanical birds, Chanting their prayers To Egyptian Gods, dollar bills Stuffed down open shirts, Slathered with pink lipstick.

Raised bruises, blue With pursed-lip expectations In long-dead metro stations That forgot Paris and her lights, Bristling over sound and sights, Glossing over fist-fights, Of mismatched, non-attached Bachelorettes, Claws out in rage, Ripping pages from tattered diaries.

30 And all because they forgot to love their men, And whisper love, And cherish love.

Embellishing the crack-chords Of tuneless melodies, Sound-tracked, in black and white To former revelries, Crimson, rough effigies Of the English mob, Rapping at my door, Tip-tapping On polished floors, They want guts for garters, Wannabe martyrs, Wishing harder For another war.

Another escape, Far too little, Far too late.

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31 Every Cloud Stacey Taylor

MA English & Creative Writing

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The sign in the shop window is rather unfortunate, but appropriate in its own way. ‘Heavenly Gits – Come On In! Sale On!’ it proudly proclaims. It should of course read: ‘Heavenly Gifts’, but it’s too late to do anything about it now, [and it actually could be directly addressing some of our less than delightful customers].

As we stand outside the shop in the packed arcade, looking at the sign, I notice my manager, Deborah, is looking at me in a not very angelic way.

I understand why she’s annoyed, we can’t even add in an ‘f’ because the writing is sparkly gold glitter, and no black marker or trusty Bic biro will save us now. And we can’t not have a sale sign up – head office would be fuming if they found out. But it was Deborah who insisted we keep the sale sign safely wrapped up until Boxing Day morning because it wouldn’t take too long to put up and we had too many other things to do.

We are very short-staffed at the moment as most of the university girls have gone home for Christmas, and staff not in higher education, but still in possession of higher sense, have booked Christmas off.

And as the lovely Deborah pointed out, I’m single and therefore don’t have anything better to do. But I’d rather take my chances with the credit-crunched customers and a grumpy manager than be sat at home with my parents as they try to fix me up with sons of their friends over a glass of sherry and pineapple and cheese on sticks. And I get paid double.

Mum’s not happy, though. ‘You’ll never find love at that shop of yours, Emily Campbell,’ she admonished me

32 this morning. ‘They sell fake clouds and you’ve got your head in them.’ She’s probably right. We’re not exactly inundated with hot single men at Heavenly Gifts: the leading seller of everything from said fake clouds (two styles - one with and one without silver lining, handy depending on your outlook in life) and winged mugs.

And today you can get them at half the price.

People are getting impatient. There isn’t actually a queue, but they are standing about watching us, waiting to pounce. Some shops opened earlier than us and bargain-hunters are already loaded down with bags.

Maybe I would be better off at home after all, eating turkey sandwiches and watching The Wizard of Oz, even though I already have it on DVD – it’s a basic Boxing Day rite. Is it too late to run?

Today will be mad. To just look at the sign we had to duck out of the shop leaving a tiny gap in the shutters, because if we’d lifted them up too far we would have been inundated before we’d even opened.

‘It’s doesn’t look too bad,’ I whisper to Deborah.

‘Nobody will notice.’

‘It will have to do, won’t it, Emily?’ she replies, like she’s talking to a naughty school kid. I hope I can get through the day without her giving me detention. She puts her shop key back in the lock ready to lift the shutters up again.

She leaves us a gap of about two millimetres and we duck back under. I swear I’ve just experienced a lucky escape.

One woman carrying five Next bags looked like she was going to grab my ankle and dive through with me.

Boss lady disappears into the back office, and I walk around the shop floor, double checking that all sale items are labelled.

We have quite a few clouds on sale. I’ve had my eye on them for months but I’ve used up all of my staff discount for the year. I might nab one later. We have to give customers first choice though.

Deborah walks past me and shakes her head as I admire

33 the clouds. ‘You’re such a dreamer,’ she mumbles. ‘You need a bloke.’ I can’t help it if I happen to like our products. If I could stay in here all day without any customers it really would be heaven.

‘Ready?’ she calls over to me as she stands by the door.

I nod.

She lifts the shutters and I head to the till.

How Deborah does not get knocked off her feet I do not know; people push past her straight away.

Customers come and go, and so do the clouds. I should have put one aside. But I was right; nobody has paid much attention to the sign and it’s nearly time to close.

‘Excuse me, miss?’

‘Yes?’ I look at the tall guy with the cheeky grin in front of me.

‘I’d like to complain about the sign in the shop window.’

Deborah twitches nervously in the background.

‘Why?’ I manage at last.

‘It’s the gold - so bright it nearly burned my retinas.’ He smiles and places a box of chocolate harps on the counter.

‘Well then, on behalf of Heavenly Gifts, I apologise to your eyes.’

And they’re very nice eyes too, as dark as the chocolate he’s buying.

He leans in closer and picks up a stray pen from the side of the till. Flipping his receipt over, he starts writing.

‘You seem to have a bit of trouble spelling in this shop,’ he says. ‘You might attract the wrong sort of people.’

He hands the receipt back to me. A phone number is listed under the words ‘Heavenly Git’.

I smile and go to put the chocolates in a bag but he stops me. ‘For you,’ he says. ‘A heavenly gift.’ Deborah looks like she’s about to throw up.

He smiles at us both as he leaves.

‘I think that sign was a success,’ I say to my glum– looking manager. ‘And at last the day is done.’

There’s one cloud left. Bargain! It hasn’t got the silver lining, but not to worry. I look at the number on the back of the receipt - every cloud has one…

.............

30 34

35 The Conversation Denise Lovering

MA English & Creative Writing

.....................

“What’s your favourite film then, you must have a favourite film?” She transfers her weight to her back foot and stares at me through kohl-rimmed eyes, the piercings in her nose and eyebrows catching the light. It is obvious that she is just not going to shut up.

I jab at the button.

“I don’t really have a favourite film,” I reply dismissively, moving away into the corner.

“Come on, you must have a film you like better than all the others you’ve seen, what about Toy Story? Don’t know no-one who doesn’t like that.”

“No, I haven’t seen Toy Story.”

“What about Pirates of the Carrybean? Don’t you just love Johnny Depp?”

I stare at her. Her grammar has set my teeth on edge ever since she started speaking, but this is just ridiculous. “It’s Caribbean not Carrybean.”

“Same thing, you know what I meant didn’t yer?”

Check.

We stand in silence, I open my handbag, looking for distraction. My nerves are jangling; why doesn’t she just shut up?

“Well, what about a favourite song then?” she asks looking directly at me defiantly. “Every single person in the whole wide world has a favourite song, you must have a favourite song.”

Checkmate.

I will have to answer her. Most of us have a song that is special, evoking memories that mean something to us. ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow’ comes suddenly

36 into my head and the memory of a dance hall in Leeds.

Michael. He had asked me to dance halfway through a record and when it ended he carried on holding my hand. The DJ lowered his voice attempting a Southern American drawl, “And now, for all you young lovers out there, a real Golden Oldie, The Shirelles.”

And Michael held me close and we danced. His mouth close to my ear softly singing, “Tonight you’re mine, completely.....”

“I’m not sure, there are lots of songs that I like,” I blurt out, unwilling to bring his memory here. “I’m a huge fan of Elton John, love ‘Rocket Man’ or anything by Phil Collins, take your pick.” I press all the buttons and become aware that she is staring, willing me to ask her.

“OK, what about you, what song is your favourite?”

She doesn’t answer straight away but then says, “I’m a Queen fan myself, shame he’s dead, whatsisname, things weren’t the same after he died.” She starts hummimg ‘We Are The Champions’.

“Are you OK?” She reaches out tentatively to touch my arm.

“You went a bit funny then, there’s no need to worry.”

And then I understand.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I smile and she is looking up at me, she has not finished with me yet.

“Just remembering someone. Your mention of favourite songs made me think of someone I knew a long time ago.”

“Ha, see, told you. Y-E-S.” She punches the air. “I was right, we all got a favourite.”

The lift doors inch slowly open and we escape into a sea of anxious faces.

“Told yer not to worry didn’t I? Take care hun,” she calls and disappears into the crowd.

.............

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