Far Cry

Cry 1

It’s not often I go back and look at my own work – there’s so much good writing out there just waiting to be read, why would you? – but a positive tweet from writer Nikki Copleston had me pulling a copy of Far Cry from the shelf and thumbing through the pages. Partly set in Cornwall, partly in and around Cambridge, the starting point of the story is the disappearance of a young girl and her best friend when on a camping holiday with her friend’s parents. The girls in the last year of primary school. Eleven.

I can still remember when the basic idea came to me: I was walking along a narrow, winding path on the cliff edge leading away from Cape Cornwall when a sea mist descended suddenly and for several moments I was completely lost. Unable to see where I was going. So easy to step off the path and stumble down towards one of those old mine shafts.

Suppose, I thought … suppose …

Suppose the girl – let’s call her Heather – had gone off with her friend –  Kelly, that sounds right – gone off on their own with the usual warnings. ‘Take care now, the pair of you.”  “Look where you’re walking.” “And whatever you do, make sure you don’t get lost.”

When they don’t come back after several hours – hours in which Kelly’s parents, increasingly desperate, have gone out searching – Kelly’s father, Alan, calls the police.

Far Cry 1

Far Cry 2

I’ve always liked that first sentence – They came in two four-by-fours, slow across the field, wheels sending up small plumes of muddied earth. Something about the matter-of-factness of it, They came – who are they? And the rhythm in slow across the field where the word order throws the emphasis on the word slow – so much more effective, I think, than had I used slowly – and then the way – or is this just my imagination? – the sound of the word plumes seems to rise up in the middle of the last part of the sentence when spoken.

Holiday over, I had something, the beginnings of a story. But not yet the beginning of a novel. Too simple, perhaps? Too straightforward? What if one of the girls is found, but not the other: Kelly, but not Heather. Who, then, is going to be the novel’s central character, who am I likely to be most interested in?Heather’s mother, it has to be, shaken by loss, riven by guilt at having given in to her daughter’s pleas and allowed her to go away with someone else. Ruth, that sounds right, it has to be Ruth.

Ruth – and this is my story developing, doubling – Ruth who, having managed against the odds to build a new life for herself – a second marriage, another child – is brought face to face with the cruel possibility that that daughter, too, might have disappeared. And so it is with Ruth that the novel begins. This is Chapter One.

Ruth 1

Ruth 2The scenes I remember liking in the novel, the ones I enjoyed writing – and reading, afterwards – are those when, just for a moment or two, Heather appears to Ruth, as real as if she were still alive. There than gone. Her presence sending a shiver along my spine. 

Ruth 3

Ruth 4

Ruth 5

Cry 2

Tom Harvey, 1906 – 1984

My dad died in Whittington Hospital thirty three years ago today; he was the same age as I am now.

 

AFS 1
That’s him, third from the left, in the Auxiliary Fire Service during World War Two.
Stewkley
And that’s him, off duty, holding me, outside a friend’s house in Stewkley, Bucks.

APPPLES

My father is dying.
Scent of apples from the night stand.
I reach out my hand and rest one
hard against my face; he taught me
to tell the real thing from the fake:
hold it close beside the ear and shake.
A genuine Cox, the seeds will rattle
loose inside their case.
You see. He told me
and I swallowed every word by rote.
Five cotton towns of Lancashire,
five woollen towns, four rivers
that flow into the Wash – Witham,
Welland, Nene and Great Ouse.
Once learned, never forgotten.

My father is dying.
He died nine years ago this June.
They phoned from the hospital with the news.
His face a cask once usedfor storing living things.
A cup of tea, grown cold and orange,
on the stand beside the bed.
Fingernails like horn, unclipped.
Though dead, my father is still dying.
Oh, slowly, sure and slow as the long fall of rain.
I reach out again for the apple
and bite into its flesh and hold him,
bright and sharp,
safe inside the hollow of my mouth.

from Out of Silence, New & Selected Poems, Smith/Doorstop, 2014

 

Portrait of My Father

My father, Thomas Harvey – Tom – Togger to his friends – died 31 years ago today, aged 78.

Scan

 

SUNSETS

“Grandad looks like John Wayne,”
my daughter said, pirouetting away.

In the westerns I wrote he filled in corners –
the stage coach driver, the friendly sheriff
with spreading paunch and bowed back,
his holstered gun never drawn in anger,
yet stubborn as a mule when the chips were down.

In photographs he holds me high above
his head like a talisman: pride bright
in his blue eyes I could never fulfil.

Writing, he stands between my sentences:
bits of a life that catch like grit in the mouth.
Once I ran, sobbing, after him until, reaching
down, he swung me, safe, in his arms.

He stands in all the doorways of my childhood.
Stands for my meanness, my grudging thanks,
those shifts of direction which push him
further and further behind.

Driving home to visit ‘d passed him
on the road before I realised, stooped
and suddenly slow, one leg turned sideways,
an old man I’d failed to recognise.

Laughter and meaning clogged thick in his lungs:
they moved him to a private room and fitted
a green mask fast over his face; each breath
rattled dry stones along the bed of his throat,
his mouth peeled back and back
until it disappeared.

Yet a week or so before he died,
the old smile alive for a moment in his eyes,
he beckoned the prettiest nurse and as
she bent to catch his words,
nuzzled the hard plastic of his mask
against her face to steal a kiss:
an act of imagination great
as any John Wayne ever made.

from OUT OF SILENCE New & Selected Poems (2014)