Chapter One – A Novel Solution

I had no business being on a bike. Not really. Not with all the Bordeaux I’d been putting away. I was trying to do the right thing, you see, by leaving the Mini on the drive. This was before I twigged trying to do the right thing was exactly where I’d been going so wrong.

Not hungover. Just a bit fuzzy headed. And I had to go shopping or face yet another banquet of peanut butter from the spoon. My shopping list wasn’t long. White bread and cheap, Day-Glo lemon curd – in tribute to remembered Sunday teatimes round the fire – seven ready meals, seven family-size packets of posh crisps, a slab of Cheddar and a double pack of cream crackers. As an afterthought, I threw a bag of easy peelers in the trolly. No sense in going down with scurvy on top of everything else.

Shopping done and scary robot voice on the check-out braved, I set off for home, carrier bags swinging merrily on the handlebars. I don’t remember hitting the pothole but I do remember flying through space and seconds later looking up at two strangers, a salty liquid dribbling from my mouth.

In A&E, it wasn’t exactly Code red. Adult female, like it is on the telly. More like, Take a seat for a few hours over by the machine that, despite its impressive light display, can dispense only a cup with no drink, or a drink with no cup, never the two together, until someone shouts a name that approximates to yours.

I sat, shopping bags round my feet, blotting my mouth with toilet paper. And I sat. Next to me, a woman was holding a paper cup of warm tea, or maybe coffee, to the side of her face, every so often letting out a low moan. Opposite, a boy of about nine in full footie kit, was waiting with his mum, his knees one part blood to three parts mud.

After an eon or two, they sent me to X-ray. After that, I waited some more, now promoted to a cubicle. I was thinking of bunking off to lick my wounds at home, when a cheerful Ozzie doctor, who couldn’t have been more of a cliché if he’d had a didgeridoo under one arm and a wallaby under the other, whooshed back the curtains.

‘G’day,’ he said, voice too loud, teeth too white. ‘Had a shufti at your piccies, Pat …’

‘Trith,’ I lisped.

‘Come again? Whatever – upshot is, looks a lot worse than it is. No fractures. Superficial cuts and bruises only. You’ve got off lightly. Except for this.’ He dug into the pocket of his scrubs and dropped something into my palm. ‘Pressie for you. Got shook loose when you face-planted the old tarmac, I reckon. Don’t thank me. Thank Sally in the Rad Department. She found it kicking about on the floor. You’re lucky.’

I looked at the little yellow dental crown. It was tiny. Yet, as I poked around in my mouth with my tongue, the gap felt enormous.

‘Thankth,’ I said, feeling the blood trickling down my chin.

Don’t she make you wanna shake her till her fillings pop like champagne corks? Timid Trish, that was her playground nickname and nothing much has changed since schooldays. About as assertive as a wet flannel. Five hours! Five hours she sits in A&E without a word of complaint alongside the muddy schoolboy and the groaning woman. From time to time she tries to catch the eye of someone in uniform scooting past, but it seems she’s wearing her invisibility cloak today.

What was that Ozzie doc thinking? Broken arm, mangled collar bone or mashed-up nose: no charge, thank you very much, NHS. Loose dental crown, only wants bunging back in with a squirt of superglue: a hundred smackers, if you please. Don’t call that lucky, lucky, lucky! Still, as mentioned before, Trish ain’t one to kick up a fuss.

I got home and went straight into hibernation, waiting for the swelling and bruising to go down, and scabs to form on the grazes. I’ve never been what you’d call a beauty. Best I’ve ever been able to manage is curvy. But I figured going out in public, looking more battered than a cod fillet, would cost innocent kids years of future therapy. I stamped about the house, crunching on ibuprofen, black half-moons under both eyes, lips thick and purple, smile gappy.

Not that I did much smiling.

As the days went on, that gap in my teeth bothered me more and more. My tongue wouldn’t leave the flipping thing alone and salty ready meals made it sore. Got an emergency appointment at the dental surgery. Replacing the crown took a matter of minutes, though it cost an arm and a leg. I joked to the dentist she didn’t need to bother with an anaesthetic, because one glance at the bill and I’d be out cold. She looked at me like I was off my chump.

Perhaps I was. Who could blame me?

In spite of the damage to my bank account, it was good to be out of the house at last. There was a fresh, new-cut grass smell in the air. Spring was well on its way and, for the first time since my world had begun to crumble, I felt more like myself. What, after all, was there for me to stay at home for? Exactly. Time to stop moping and fill the rest of my day with stimulating and meaningful activity. The only question was, what?

All of a sudden, I had a flashback to what I’d said to Stephen on that last day. Though I’d said it without thinking, now I did come to think of it, the idea might actually have legs. It’d give me a purpose, maybe even some dosh: two things I desperately needed.

I performed a sharp U-turn, causing a minor pedestrian pile-up outside the Kwikimart, and headed towards a place I hoped would have some of the answers to my problems. Unfortunately for me, it was Tiny Tots Time at the library. Not what I had in mind. Instead of a place of calm and literary mindfulness, I found myself in a carpeted pit among a group of squirming toddlers.

If they weren’t running in circles making aeroplane noises, they were laying on the floor screaming, or squatting suspiciously quiet in a corner. Doing anything, in fact, other than listening to the librarian read them the story of Deirdre, the baby dinosaur, and her friend, Terence, the pterodactyl chick. I could only admire the way she soldiered on, as junior Armageddon raged around her. At last the mayhem ended and the families began to wend their ways home. The librarian came over.

‘Wish more grannies would set a good example like you,’ she said, pushing reddish pre-Raphaelite – is that the word? – curls behind her ears, cheeks going pink. ‘I’m sure if the adults would sit quietly, the children wouldn’t get so hyper.’

A granny! Me! I was shocked. I was wearing my Fat Face denim jacket for flip’s sake!

‘You got that wrong,’ I said. ‘Probably I look older than I am because of this.’ I pointed to my beat-up face. ‘I never learned to ride a bike proper, you see. Bride of Frankenstein isn’t my normal look.’

‘Anywhoo,’ the librarian said, backing away, looking like she wished she was anywhere but chatting to this mad woman. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have some urgent indexing to attend to.’

‘I’m not a granny. I’m a writer,’ I blurted out.

You should have seen the transformation in the librarian! She halted, all smiles. ‘A real-life author. How exciting. If there’s anything I can do to help, please ask. Anything. There’s nothing I like better than talking books and writers.’

Did she ever! Though a shy person, the librarian – Felicity she said her name was – came to life talking about books.

‘How long have you been an author, if you don’t mind my asking?’ she asked, shadowing me as I wandered the shelves.

I glanced up at the library clock. ‘Coming up for … thirty-five minutes.’

‘Oh!’ she said, disappointed. ‘And what kind of books are you going to write?’

Realising how little thought I’d given to what I’d actually write about, I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Hopefully the sort that make loads of money.’

I could tell from Felicity’s face, this was not the right answer. Nevertheless, she was helpful. Almost too helpful, giving me a guided tour of what was ‘in’ in the world of fiction. I went along with it, flicking through several thick novels, wondering if literary success might be like chicken pox: catching.

When she had to leave to do some actual librarian-ing, I drifted over to the ‘How To’ section. This was more like it! The books there had encouraging titles like Six Simple Steps to Publishing Success and Write That Bestseller in 21 Days. As I skimmed through the pages, I thought about all the other hopefuls who had leafed through them, and wondered how many had become bestsellers.

‘What are you doing?’ Felicity hissed, prising a copy of Write What Sells and Make Your Fortune from my fingers. ‘All this,’ she waved an arm, ‘is what’s called displacement activity. If you want to be a writer, you have to write. Non-stop until your head pounds, your fingers bleed, and you can’t feel your buttocks. Look at Charles Dickens. Thirty novels to his name, not to mention short stories and journalism. He didn’t waste time reading books on creative writing; he created writing,’ she finished, cheeks blazing.

‘Can’t stand Dickens. Too many words. Don’t even like that musical.’

‘That’s not the point. The point is, Dickens put in the work.’

‘And my point is, how do I start? Because, quite frankly, I don’t have a Scooby.’

Felicity’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait here. I have an idea.’

When she came back she was holding a flyer. As I glanced at it, I felt a surge of hope.

‘Felicity, you’re a genius. I could kiss you.’

I didn’t, of course, for fear her cheeks would spontaneously combust.

***

In bed that night, I read the flyer again:

Meet the author. Local celebrity writer

Amanda Turner will read from her

bestselling romslasher, Love You to Bits,

and sign copies.

Central Library. From 2.30pm.

Light refreshments provided.

Was this Amanda Turner woman the person I needed to get my life back on track? It was worth a try. And if it didn’t pan out, well, free nibbles were not to be sniffed at.

A Novel Solution – Sue Clark

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Category: Fiction, Contemporary Fiction