I’m going to need your help with this bit. I think it’s a bit lopsided, but I won’t say where, to see if you can notice it too.
FOUR
“How was college?” Stephanie’s Dad asked in his usual way. Stephanie swung her bag out, hoping to hook it over the bottom banister of the stairs, and failed. She had forgotten briefly where she was. The bag fell to the floor.
“Not granddad’s,” Dad said.
“Definitely not,” Stephanie replied, frowning, “It was good. Rained a bit, hailed a bit, tried to snow,” she finished. She picked up the bag and placed it now more carefully under the stairs on the ottoman that waited there.
“I mean the classes. How were the classes?”
“Oh. Boring. I studied so hard in school just to be bored,” Stephanie said.
“It gets worse as you get older,” her father replied, “You’ll get these.” He pointed to the wrinkles developing in his face, and the bags under his eyes, then at protruding grey hairs from the obviously dyed black hair on his head.
“You look like you’ve been pickled by time,” Stephanie laughed.
“That and fumes. Why they’d put the new office building by the factories is beyond me. I’d probably have a legal case against them in forty years if I were to last that long.” He followed Stephanie into the dimly lit front room and found the TV remote.
“Do you not plan on sticking around?” Stephanie asked.
“I simply don’t think I’ll make it. I can’t imagine it. What would I get up to? I’ve done everything anyway. Born, school, secondary school, love, baby, divorce, cheap flat on the edge of town. It’s good, I’m having fun,” her father replied.
“I like how I’m in the middle of some of the worst segments of your life,” Stephanie said, taking the TV remote. She idly flicked through channels as her father turned the lights up.
“Life requires balance,” he said, “You brought a lot of good into my life. And now, we can spend time together listening to good music for once. I can play my songs unhindered, unsilenced.”
“It’s been years dad, has the novelty still not worn off?” Stephanie asked. Briefly she thought about a line for a poem, wanted her notebook, then abandoned the thought. She didn’t like writing in front of most people.
“I’ve still got records to rediscover!” her father joked. Stephanie settled on an antiques show and leaned back in the old recliner.
“How’s granddad?” her father asked.
“He seems okay, thanks for letting me spend time with him,” Stephanie said softly.
“I want what’s best for you. He was always a good influence,” her father explained.
“Are you dying?” Stephanie asked.
“What?”
“You keep being nice. It’s weird. What’s up?”
“I’m just being nice Steph. Don’t overanalyse it,” her father said. On the TV an old woman was trying to sell a vase that was so hideous, Stephanie was surprised nobody paid for it just to have it destroyed.
“Has mum called you?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s not that. I’m just proud of you,” her father said. Stephanie turned away from the TV now, saying, “It’s not that? She fucking has hasn’t she? What is it now?”
“The clothes. She’s been going on about subcultures.”
“Christ!”
“Glad she’s not here,” Stephanie’s father mumbled.
“Sweet Christ. What is it now? Devil worship?”
“Something along those lines. I think she saw a documentary or something.”
“It’s just black fucking shoes,” Stephanie said.
“Do you have to swear between every word?”
“I fucking do actually. So are you supposed to pretty me up then, get me ready and send me off to church?” Stephanie asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, she knows you won’t go, we had that fight last year. She’s just questioning the motives again.”
“And what did you do, promise you’d help her?” Stephanie seethed.
“No, I told her to sod off,” her father proclaimed. He smiled proudly as Stephanie’s eyes widened.
“What.”
“I told her to sod off. It felt very freeing.”
“So that’s why you’re so cheerful,” Stephanie said. Her father nodded, then sat on a chair across from her.
“I can stand up for you, you know.”
“I know. Sorry dad.”
“It’s okay. I know the feeling. Both of my parents hated my mullet, but it just kept coming back.”
“It’s a shame it died,” Stephanie said sarcastically. On the TV another old woman was now rejecting an offer of £450 for some disgusting porcelain ducks.
“They look haunted,” her father commented.
“I’d be haunted too if I was that horrible,” Stephanie replied, “So no lecture?”
“No lecture. To be honest I was thinking of changing my number, but then I’d get a lecture, and we sort of had an agreement.”
“I know, it’s alright dad.”
“Aside from that, you and mum getting along okay?”
“We don’t talk much. Well we do, but there’s nothing in common besides like-”
“-genetics?” her father interjected.
“Yeah. It’s weird. I sort of miss her sometimes, when I’m at her house. Like I want her to be someone else,” Stephanie said. She turned away from her father and back at the TV, feeling too guilty to look at him.
“You always call it her house, never home,” he said.
“That’s because granddad’s is home. No offense,” Stephanie said.
“None taken. His birthday soon isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you getting him?” Stephanie’s dad asked. On the TV an old man was selling photographs and talking happily about whoever was in them. Stephanie turned back to her father.
“I don’t know. He sort of has everything.”
“That’s true.”
“What does he like?” Stephanie asked.
“I don’t know, he’s not my dad. Ask your mum.”
“I’ll buy him some ornaments from that goth shop in town,” Stephanie joked. Her father laughed at the idea and then went quiet, as if he was suddenly contemplating it.
“We got him that pocket square that time, but he never wore it,” Stephanie continued. Her father nodded knowingly.
“That was the shopping centre wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Stephanie said.
“Gaudy thing that pocket square. Headache inducing.”
“I liked it,” Stephanie replied.
An hour or so passed, and Stephanie and her father watched the TV mostly in silence, occasionally interrupting it to talk about college or work or a combination of the two. By the evening Stephanie took her bag upstairs to her room and sat down, watching the streetlights get cut up by passing cars as the shadow of the little ammonite at her window was thrown up against the ceiling much bigger than its true self.
Stephanie remembered her grandfather walking her away from a church. She remembered a bit of the bus ride to the beach, reaching up for the button and hopping off the bus over a big puddle in slow motion, aided by her grandfather. They got chips and walked down the foggy beach and watched the grey-blue water clawing at the blue-grey sky.
“What are we doing today?” her grandfather asked. He was a wise-looking man in a tweed jacket and raggedy trousers, an angular face and intelligent eyes. When Stephanie was little, and sometimes even now, she thought he might know everything.
“Amman,” the little Stephanie said. She remembered it well, thinking the word properly but not being able to translate it to the outside universe.
“Go on,” her grandfather had said.
“Ammanamite.”
“Ammonite?” her grandfather said. The present Stephanie looked back to the little ammonite at her window.
“Ammanamite,” little Stephanie had said.
“We can look,” her grandfather replied. He tucked his pocket square into his chest pocket, adjusted his jacket and began exploring up and down the beach with little Stephanie. They adventured into rock pools and piles of seaweed together. They avoided little crabs, peered down at little fish and shells and poked through piles and piles of seaweed and stones until eventually an ammonite was found. It was perched atop a convenient nest of shells and seaweed. Looking back it was obviously planted there, but little Stephanie was amazed to have found the treasure. She picked the ammonite up and her grandfather picked her up in return, lifting her triumphantly as she held the giant creature close to her chest.
They spent the rest of the afternoon walking back in zig-zags across the beach, looking for other ammonites that were not there, cementing the lie that Stephanie had discovered it herself. They skipped rocks and her grandfather tried teaching her, but Stephanie was small and not used to controlling her little arms and legs yet, and kept throwing the stones sideways across the beach or not very far at all into the water. Granddad promised he’d bring a bucket next time for a sandcastle.
A little time passed that Stephanie didn’t remember, and the next moment granddad was running madly after his pocket square. It had been sucked out of his hand or pocket by a sudden gust of wind, flapping quickly out to sea. Granddad ran at it briefly, then stopped. He couldn’t leave Stephanie alone, and so the pair of them watched as the pocket square moved in teasingly close circles overhead. Little Stephanie cried out for it to return and so her grandfather laughed at the thing, hoping she too wouldn’t take it too seriously. After a minute or so of mindless hovering, the pocket square nosedived into the ocean, never to be seen again. Granddad stood with Stephanie as he told her it would be okay, that it might wash ashore tomorrow. Privately he was reassuring himself, but out loud he was reassuring Stephanie.
Stephanie turned in bed and reached for her notebook. She barely remembered the old pocket square now, only the one she and her father had created in the fabric store as its replacement. She remembered that one very well. It was bright red with lime green paisley print patterns that ended with a zig-zagging edging and an orange underside. Little Stephanie had nervously designed it herself, speaking up at the impossibly tall owner of the fabric shop, peering through his one-inch thick glasses at his little eyes that focused insanely on every single thing he was asked to retrieve. Stephanie’s father had paid for it all, and Stephanie had watched as he ‘helped’ her stitch the two pieces of fabric together. It was a basic thing, no cleverness or special stitches were hidden or shown from it, but it worked. It was also a bit too big for a pocket square, and an older Stephanie once looked back and thought that was perhaps so her father had more room to remedy any mistakes he made.
Little Stephanie gave her grandfather the pocket square the next time she saw him. She remembered him being excited about it, but never wearing it after that day. For some reason this had stuck with her until today, when she suddenly felt compelled to ask him about it.
“No point making another one,” older Stephanie said to herself. She opened her notebook and started writing something.
FIVE
(Could combine 4 and 5 for a later draft to fit the poetry of the chapters moving?)
shuttered light filters
from too-busy streets
and I’ve nothing to do
but sit and observe
fucking hell I’m bored.
Stephanie put the notebook down and picked up her phone. It was only 11:38pm. She wondered if she could get away with calling Emma, then did it anyway. She picked up almost immediately.
“Did you miss my voice?” she said softly, patronisingly.
“I’m bored,” Stephanie said.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“I don’t know what to wear.”
“For bed time? I usually wear a flowing robe and an aura of mystery,” Emma quipped.
“No. For Lucy’s.”
Emma paused. Stephanie lingered for a dark moment in silence, some anxiety within her worrying that what she had said had made her uncool or boring or not worth going out with.
“Wear something comfortable,” Emma said.
“Comfortable?”
“Yeah, nobody really cares as long as you are decent. It’s sort of a dickhead free zone. But you can go pretentious if you like.”
“Pretentious?” Stephanie asked.
“I thought you were the poet here. Pretentious means to do something just for attention, to attract attention. It was a joke because I know you won’t do that unless you get to watch your mum flip out over it first,” Emma explained. Now it was Stephanie’s turn to pause thoughtfully.
“I can do pretentious,” she said finally, “I’ll be staying over at granddad’s on the night but leaving from here. I’ve got some bits here, more than mum’s. What shirt should I wear?”
“I don’t know Steph, but you shouldn’t overthink it. Look it’s just you and me. It’ll be cool, chill.”
“I don’t do chill,” Stephanie said.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Sorry.”
“Why? You’re just worried about what people think of you. I get that,” Emma explained.
“Really?”
“Well, no, but sometimes. Sometimes I give a shit. Look, you said you can do pretentious. So can I. Dress up, dress to impress. You could do a whole Bowie thing,” Emma said. Stephanie smiled at the idea.
“No face paint here,” she admitted.
“Blue and red eyeshadow?” Emma replied.
“That could work, or make it look like there’s an ambulance stuck behind my eyes.”
“Either is good. Just chill okay? It’s fine. It’s not nearly as sinful there as your mum would have you believe,” Emma said reassuringly. Stephanie nodded even though Emma couldn’t see, and inched herself up against the headboard of the bed.
“I made the mistake of having an actual conversation with her the other day about it and she called it hell on Earth.”
“That’s actually better than Lucy’s. I prefer that!” Emma laughed down the phone. Stephanie joined in, saying, “Yeah, if we ever set up a bar together we should call it that. Or a bookshop.”
“Definitely a bookshop, with vines and succulents on the shelves,” Emma added.
“Books have to breathe,” Stephanie said.
“Yeah they do. Anyway I only picked up so quick because I was on the way to bed, I’m drifting here Steph. Fading away.”
“Oh okay. So, black shirt black skirt Bowie face?” Stephanie said.
“Something moody, to match your personality,” Emma teased.
“What will you be wearing?” Stephanie asked.
“Oh I don’t know, curtain netting, the string they put around hams in the supermarket. A daisy chain. Actually a daisy chain is a good idea, that would be cool. Wouldn’t survive the night though,” Emma said.
“Oh god, we’re not going to dance are we?”
“Apparently not,” Emma conceded, “We may however feel compelled to move in a rhythmic motion in order to appear less alien to the humans using the facility.”
“I can work with that,” Stephanie mused. She moved her hair out of the way and shuffled into a more comfortable position.
“I think I can move in a rhythmic motion to human music. Is there a requirement for socialising?” she asked.
“Well you can’t just click your fingers to order drinks, but outside that, no. Not much socialising. If someone comes up to our table to tell you how beautiful you are we shall tell them to fuck off and then kick them in the ribs,” Emma explained sarcastically.
“That won’t be happening,” Stephanie said.
“Whatever. Just show up wearing something decent.”
“Will do, goodnight Emma.”
“Oh, and no trainers. Absolutely no trainers. You should bring your stompers.”
“Will they be alright?” Stephanie asked.
“No of course not. I am going to use them to puke in at the end of the night,” Emma quipped. Stephanie laughed and said, “Fine. I’ll bring them. I’m excited to see you in darker clothes for once.”
“Yeah, darker,” Emma said. They both knew Emma had not a single shred of dark fabric in her wardrobe, and would inevitably turn up to this devil-themed bar/nightclub dressed like a fairy that had recently discovered capitalism and credit cards.
“Night,” Emma said.
“Night.”
Don’t forget, I’ll be posting more of the book soon, so you should subscribe to be reminded when it comes out.