This arrived in the post today from the lovely people at Momaya Press. They do great work helping new writers get their voice heard. Delighted to be in this annual anthology with smashing company for my honourably mentioned Leap In The Dark.
‘The whole world knows what you are now Rob.’
‘I still can’t take my eyes off you.’
And there it was; the reality check. I almost breathed a sigh of relief.
The verdicts on the Archers last night were met with great rejoicing by half the country and most of Twitter as the right result. But the truth is, for many women in Helen’s position, this is not the end.
Domestic violence continues to be poorly managed by the justice system to the extent that two women a week are killed by their partners or exes in the UK, all too often with a history of abuse*. The danger is not understood, the escalation of violence missed. It’s a hard crime to recognise even for the victim, hard to explain to friends and family who cannot match the victim’s account with the charming man they know. But it has terrifying results.
The Archers storyline has gripped the nation because it has played out in real time, coming into people’s homes and work places on the radio, Rob’s voice whispering into our ears as he whispered into hers. The drip-feed of toxic incidents tells its own story. Maybe today, more people have a grasp of what it is to lose your confidence and sense of self because of this kind of bullying. Which is why this was too important an opportunity for the writers to pretend that the end of the trial was Helen’s Happy Ever After. Justice is often elusive for women in her position.
After the too-good-to-be-true verdicts, the final exchange between Helen and Rob brought us back down to earth. Rob is not going away. He’s been convicted of nothing because it wasn’t him on trial. The verdicts won’t slow him down or affect his behaviour in the least. She’ll have to deal with him in the custody battle which will follow now and he’ll try to worm his way back into her life.
It will maybe help Helen, that she’s had a chance to tell her story and has been believed. She’ll have the support of her parents and some of the wider community. But as the jury deliberations showed, she hasn’t been believed by everyone.
Which makes me think that the writers are setting us up for trial no.2. It could be either of them on trial. This storyline has the potential to run and run. If it continues to mimic real life, it could last for years.
I wonder which of them will be alive by the end. But I already think I know the answer.
*Office for National Statistics, Home Office
Love love love this literary magazine. Issue 15 has several gems in it. It also has my first published short story ‘3 for 2’, one for all the trackled parents out there. The excitement with which I received this news was topped only by the massive rush of reading aloud at the launch in Oxford.
Huge thanks to Euan, Keir and Elaine and shouts out to Claire Dyer, Claire Booker, Stephen Durkan, Stephen Hargadon, Jude Cook and Dan Micklethwaite fellow scribblers and issue-mates who cheered me along and my old pal Colette Coen who is in there too. I’m still smiling.
Delighted to be highly commended in the Testimonies of the Rocks: the Hugh Miller Writing Competition in May for prose. The winning entries are really lovely and worth a read. The competition was designed to raise the profile of this famous Scottish geologist and writer whose love of the landscape of Scotland shines through his words.
I don’t know your name and I don’t suppose you know mine but we know each other through passing smiles of recognition on the way in and out of school, towing small reluctant cargo, grasping little hands tightly only to let them go for the day. I see your struggles when the reluctance boils over, your firm cheerfulness in the face of small fears, your soothing cuddles when it’s all too much.
I see the effort that it takes to hide your own fears, to master your own desire to run, screaming, back through the playground, to stay positive when there is wailing and gnashing of teeth.
I see your hair growing drier, though the grey is dyed neatly away, and the glow fading from your skin, as the years pass, making us all older, the small ones taller. I see you slick on the lipstick, before you get out of the car, and pull on a smile for each friend you meet.
I see the conversation in the playground when someone has a weird bug, or a discipline issue or a bullying friend. I see you take the time to chat, to share and take the weight.
And I see you on the days when it is just too much. The days when you cannot raise your head to meet the smile, cannot stop to chat, can only plough on to the door and back to the car because that is all the energy you have left.
I think today was one of those days for you, as it was for me and that is why I’m glad you’re here, because we are not alone, even as we sit alone here in our cars, behind our rainy windscreens. In a while, we will wipe our faces and drive on, and never speak of it, knowing that today was one of those days for someone else and they were there to share it.
The Faber Academy only ran one Novel Writing course in Glasgow, and I was lucky enough to be on it with a crowd of talented writers being tutored by Janice Galloway. Now it’s time for anothe…
One of my Faber classmates with great news about another’s debut novel.
Source: Another Faber Academy Success
Live life in all the colours that you are.
Rather excited to win the Short Story Monthly 500 Flash Fiction Competition this month!
Read about cacti and death at
This week I went to the funeral of a friend in the seaside town where she grew up, a town of long wide streets and a long wide beach where the salt spray carries on the wind and the cafe owners turn around a fast flat white.
She rode her bike up and down these streets and it’s easy to see her doing it again. Because now she is freed from time and age.
It was breast cancer, which came back. She was in the thick of an action-packed life, and did not reduce the pace of it till near the end. She railed at her cancer and fought back with furious living. It seemed at the time as if she was in denial, as if she believed there was still a chance to change the diagnosis.
While sympathising with her pain, part of me was challenged by her anger. Why me? is not far from Why not you? In the lottery of life, cancer is a huge, terrifying probability. We’re all afraid of it and its apparent randomness is the most unfair aspect of it. It could be any one of us. I know several women my age (early forties) who are living with it, at various stages. As mothers we are experts in evaluating and avoiding risks but this is beyond our remit, a poison that curdles the illusion of safety. It scares the s*** out of me.
The Internet is quite effective at screening us from the fragility of life; as we tweet and Instagram moments of our lives, they seem to take on an eternal quality, out there in the ether, as if they can never be changed, will always be replenished. There’s a great generous vigour to it all and even the trolls are passionate. Perhaps that’s why the deaths of our heroes resonate so far, so fast, so deeply. We belong to each other, in a way that perhaps only families have in the past. But we are not immortal. Even the strong die, even the great and the young and the beloved.
At the beautiful funeral service, in an ancient church, the minister told us the story of her life. It was a good life, lived well and it struck me how much she’d packed in, the energy she’d brought to her job and her hobbies, her faith in herself, her love of justice. She didn’t let anyone stand in her way if she thought they were wrong. In fact she could be a pain in the ass sometimes but she got away with it because she was hilariously funny.
And the church was packed. Her ranting and sharing to audiences large and small had won her so many friends for her astonishing determination to live. That was not a side-effect of the cancer. That was who she’d always been.
I see now that she was never in denial. She knew her enemy and looked it in the eye. Cancer was an intruder into her life; she knew it would kill her and was absolutely livid about it.
To those she left behind, she’ll be a voice on our shoulders, making sardonic remarks, screeching with laughter, telling us off for ducking the hard stuff.
Because there is no time to waste. And fear will only slow us down.
Source: The tale of two Omars