Break: A Short Story by Christopher Hughes

The atmosphere in the car was stifling, a dead heat that made everything quieter than usual. Lewis kept his head pressed against the window, his arms crossed. The plastic smell of a new car got into the back of his throat and made him feel sick. He could see his Dad in the wing mirror, turning his head every few seconds.

          ‘The pitch must have been pretty hard today - looks like you’ve been through the wars.’

          Lewis looked at his muddy, grazed knees.

They passed the local park.

          ‘Did you score any goals?’ His father loosened his tie, see-through patches under his arms. ‘How’s your mum?’

          Lewis turned from the window. He couldn’t remember the last time his Dad had asked about her.

 ‘Okay.’

          ‘Good, I’m glad.’ Lewis saw his Dad nod in the wing mirror, but his eyes stayed fixed on the road. They pulled up at the traffic lights near the village and Lewis pressed his forehead against the window again. He rolled his tongue against the back of his teeth, and took a deep breath.

          ‘I was stood there for over an hour.’

          ‘I know. I’m sorry. But it’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it? You should have seen it outside my office. Everyone was out sunbathing on the grass. Didn’t you have a kick-about with Declan and his mates?’

          ‘Declan hasn’t played in the team for ages.’

          ‘Wasn’t anybody else there to wait with you?’

          ‘No. Everyone got picked up on time.’

          ‘Your coach didn’t wait with you? He should have. It’s not on- I know it’s the middle of the day but you’re not old enough to be left on your own like that.’

          ‘I thought you would be there soon to pick me up. I thought you were coming so I said he could leave.’

          The traffic lights changed and they moved off. Lewis could feel sweat on his back, wet and prickly. He could smell something strange on his father. It smelt like Miss. Rice in school.

          ‘I’m sorry.’

‘How come you’re still in your work clothes?’

‘I got held back at work and I didn’t have a chance to call you. It was short notice. I don’t blame you for being mad at me, but I’m here now. Your mum doesn’t have to know about this. We can keep this between us?’

          ‘She rang me before to see where I was.’

          ‘And you told her I was late picking you up?’

          ‘No, I told her that I was with you and we’d gone into town for a bit.’

          ‘Thanks mate. Why don’t we really go into town and get that game you’ve been after?’ His Dad pulled the car over to the side of the road.

          ‘Mum bought it for me. She got it for me as a present for doing well in Maths.’

          ‘I didn’t know you’d been doing so well?’

          ‘I got an award. I’m Gifted and Talented.’

          ‘That’s great Lew! Let’s go to McDonalds to celebrate!’

          ‘I’m not hungry.’

          ‘Let’s go to Pizza Hut then. Even better! It’ll be my treat.’

          ‘I said I’m not hungry.’ He turned away from his Dad.

Lewis had been watching TV before he’d noticed his Dad’s car pull up outside. He tried to stomach the rest of his cereal. His mother had been outside for at least ten minutes. The front door slammed and Lewis dropped his bowl onto his lap. Cold milk splashed onto his pyjama bottoms.

‘Are you going through? I haven’t got all day,’ his Mum said in the hall.

          ‘Can I hang my jacket up?’ his father replied.

          ‘No need, you won’t be staying long.’

          Lewis grabbed the nearest cushion to cover the wet patch, then pinched up the bits of cereal and tried to swallow them before his Dad came in. He set the near empty bowl onto the floor and pulled his knees up to his chin. They still stung from practice.

          His Mum came into the room first. She was frowning and held her dressing gown tightly around herself. His Dad followed. He wasn’t wearing his work clothes. He must have had a day off.

          ‘Hi, Lew,’ he said. ‘You fancy letting me drive you to school today?’

          ‘No, he doesn’t. He’s coming with me,’ his mother interrupted.

          ‘Helen, he can answer for himself.’

          ‘Lewis, can you go up to your room for a few minutes please? Your dad and I have a few things to talk about.’ She stroked his hair, and he pulled away.

Not in front of Dad.

          ‘I don’t mind him being here. Let him watch the telly,’ his father said.

          ‘It’s okay,’ Lewis said, getting up from the couch. He picked up the bowl. ‘I’ll just go in the garden for a bit.’

          ‘Okay, love. It won’t be for long I promise.’

          ‘Yeah, mate. Won’t be long. I’ll see you again soon.’

          ‘You’ll be lucky.’ His mother flicked the TV off.

          Lewis shuffled to the kitchen, a narrow room with morning sunlight streaming in through the big window. The lino floor was hot like the sand on the beach in Majorca. The window was open and someone was mowing their lawn. He put the bowl and spoon in the sink, then unlocked and opened the back door before shutting it again. He tiptoed back to where he came in. There was a gap between the door and it’s frame just wide enough to see his parents in the living room. He couldn’t see his father’s face, just the back of his head over the top of the couch. His mother stood above him with her arms folded. Her face looked thin.

          ‘I’m only supposed to have contact with you through the solicitor.’

          ‘I’m not here to argue.’

          ‘Bloody right you’re not. What do you want?’

          ‘Lewis said you bought him a new game this week?’

          ‘So what?’

          ‘How much was it?’ He took something from his pocket and licked his thumb.

          ‘Put that away, I don’t want your money.’

          ‘I know those games aren’t cheap.’

          ‘I got it online. I don’t need that.’

          ‘I’m trying to help.’

          ‘You only want to help someone if there’s something in it for you.’

          ‘That’s not fair. I’m doing this for Lewis.’

          ‘Wow, you’re so generous- twenty-odd quid every few months.’ She walked to the window. ‘That new motor looks nice. It’s a BMW isn’t it? It must have cost you a fair bit.’

          ‘I got that through the company, actually. I only have to pay for petrol.’

          ‘Lucky you.’

          ‘I’m not bragging about it. There’s three-hundred there. That’s enough for a decent telly at least. I’ll give you more if it’s not.’

          ‘You don’t understand. It‘s not about money.’

‘This isn’t a bribe. Jesus Christ, Helen, you could make this easier for both of us.’

‘That’d suit you wouldn’t it. I’m telling you now there’s no way you’re taking him away from me.’

‘He’d be much happier living with me. I can get him whatever he wants, and you

could come and see him every weekend.’

‘Fuck off, Julian. I have a right to look after him.’

          ‘I have a right too. It’s not fair to only let me see him once a week after practice. I can’t even watch him play.’

She stormed over to his Dad, her cheeks flushed crimson.

‘You should’ve thought of that before you left. You only have that money because you left us. They’ll know why you left, and we both know it wasn’t for your job.’

‘Everything I told you is true. I’m not hiding anything from him. Take a look in the mirror. You can barely look after yourself. He still spends a lot of time at your mum’s then?’

‘Everybody knows you ran off with that tart.’

‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake. Lewis might hear you.’

‘Don’t want him to know Daddy’s little secret?’

          His Dad got up and wedged a bundle of notes under the clock on the mantelpiece.

[C1] ‘We don’t need your money, and we definitely don’t need you.’

‘We’ll see.’

His Dad left the room. His Mum stared at the money, biting a finger nail and then her lip as the front door shut. The lawnmower outside had stopped. She cupped her hands to her face and sobbed. She suddenly looked frail. He’d seen her cry so many times before, but this time she looked helpless.

          Lewis crept from behind the kitchen door and edged towards her.

          ‘Mum, are you okay?’

          She looked up her eyes puffy and red, cheeks wet. She sniffed and half-smiled at him.

          ‘I thought you were outside. You haven’t been listening to any of that?’

          ‘No.’

          ‘We were talking about some grown-up things. You’re happy here aren’t you? I told your father you have everything you want here. You’re happy here.’

          ‘Yeah.’ His Dad’s car was gone.

               She picked up the money from the mantelpiece like it was heavier than it really was. Then she stuffed it in her pyjama pocket.

          Lewis moved to her side, put his arms around her waist and leaned his head against the warm fleece of her dressing gown.

          ‘Is everything going to be okay, Mum?’

          Her body shook as she wept.

Lewis scrambled into the back seat of the car. He’d never got into the back; he always rode in the front seat with his dad.

          ‘Please be nice, Lew,’ his father said in a low voice, leaning in close. His hot breath touched Lewis’ forehead. ‘Vanessa is a really good friend of mine. Her car’s broken down so she needed a lift somewhere. You’ll like her.’

          ‘Okay.’

          ‘Good lad.’ He ruffled his son’s hair as Vanessa got into the front seat, swinging her long legs in.

Lewis sunk into leather. The seatbelt in the back jammed whenever he tried to loosen it and the edge cut into his waist. There was a little ridge in the front seat where he could rest his legs. He wriggled until he found a position that was least uncomfortable.

          ‘It’s really nice to finally meet you Lewis.’ Vanessa looked at him through the rear view mirror as the car moved off. ‘Your Dad is always talking about you.’ Her teeth were like the people in toothpaste adverts. She wore her black hair up in a neat bun and her thick rimmed glasses on the end of her nose. ‘I’ve heard you’re really good at football. What team do you support?’

          ‘United.’

          ‘So do I! They won last week didn’t they?’

          ‘They lost two-one.’

          ‘Oh. Well I’m sure they’ll win this weekend, don’t you agree Julian?’

          ‘Definitely.’

          She turned away and started a conversation with his father that Lewis didn’t listen to. It wasn’t hot like it had been the last few days. The whole sky was filled with clouds and everything looked grey. The road, the pavement, rows of houses. Everybody they passed wore grey.

          Lewis glanced at the rear view mirror. His eyes caught Vanessa’s and he looked away. That was his seat.

          ‘Right, here we are,’ his father said. They pulled up outside a row of shops near the village.

          ‘Thanks, Jools,’ Vanessa said, leaning over and kissing his father on the cheek.

          ‘No problem. You smell gorgeous. Call me when you’re done? I’ll come and pick you up.’

          ‘Sure.’ She turned to Lewis. ‘It was really nice to meet you. I hope that we can get to know each other better soon. It would mean a lot to us.’ She made eyes towards his father, then leaned over and kissed Lewis on the cheek too. Her perfume was stuffy, like the pot-puree his mother used to put out in the living room. She climbed out and blew a kiss as they drove off again.

          ‘What do you think mate? You like her?’ He spoke to his son the same way Vanessa had, through the mirror.

          ‘I guess so.’ Lewis scrubbed the lipstick mark off his cheek.

          ‘I knew you would. Vanessa is great. You’ll be seeing more of her from now on.’

          ‘Okay.’

          ‘Oh, by the way, can we keep this between us?’

          ‘What do you mean?’

          ‘Your mum doesn’t need to know about Vanessa.’

         

The smell of coffee clogged Lewis’ nostrils. His mother sat across the little round table from him with her double cappuccino, or whatever it was. She sipped it slowly, forgetting to wipe away the brown foam moustache. She had set their bags down on the floor beside them. Lewis stared at his hot chocolate, covered with cream and tiny square marshmallows. Those big flumpy ones were better. He toyed at the cream with a plastic spoon, picked up a blob then watched it drip off and melt back into the pile.

‘Drink that up, Lewis. We don’t do this often. It’s a nice break from everything recently.’

‘I’m usually playing a match now.’

‘They won’t miss you for one game though. Just think how horrible it would be playing in this rain. You’d catch your death.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Are you having a good day so far?’

‘Sure.’

‘I knew you would. There’s a few shops I’d like to look in then we can get the bus back home.’

His mother looked around the room, watching other people drinking their coffees. The whole place was made of dark wood that creaked when walked over or leant upon. The window next to them had steamed up, so his mother had taken out a tissue and wiped a portal in the middle.

‘Look at her, Lewis.’ She pointed to a young woman passing by with hefty bags of shopping and pointed high heels. Her denim jacket was pulled over her head, and she wobbled as she took each step through the rain.

‘Women like that need their heads looking at. She’ll kill herself walking in those when the weather is like this, all for fashion.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘When you’re old enough to start dating, don’t fall for one of those. They’ll take your money sooner than look at you then break your heart.’

‘Don’t worry Mum, I won’t.’

‘Good boy.’ She held her stare for a few seconds then took a long sip of her drink. ‘How’s your father?’

‘Fine, I think. I don’t know.’

‘You saw him the other day didn’t you? He picked you up from school, Grandma told me.’

‘I didn’t see him for long, just in the car. We didn’t really talk.’

‘He didn’t speak to you?’

‘I don’t mean that, we just didn’t talk about much. I was tired.’

‘Did he ask you how your day had been?’

‘Well, no.’

‘It’s not hard to make conversation.’

‘He was driving.’

‘He could have at least pretended to be interested. You need to stay with me. I can look after you properly. He’s still living with your uncle isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me.’ A grey man on the table next to them rubbernecked from behind his newspaper.

‘I really don’t.’ Lewis tried to sound calm.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Was anybody with him?’

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’

 ‘I don’t know what you mean Mum. Can we talk about something else?’

‘Are you hiding something?’ She clattered her cup onto the saucer, spilling some coffee over the edge.

‘No, just leave it.’ Lewis felt his eyes well up. ‘I am having a nice day - you don’t have to get angry. We don’t talk about what he does, and I don’t ask him. Please drop it, he doesn’t ask all this about you.’

‘I’m glad to hear that he cares about me. He’s trying to make you live with him and I can’t let him do that.’ She wiped her eye and said, ‘I’m only thinking of what’s best for you.’ She reached out her open hand.

Lewis slowly pulled out his hand from under the table and laid it in hers. She closed her other hand around them.

‘You have to tell me if you’ve seen your father with any girls, Lewis. It’s very important that I know if he is.’

 ‘I don’t understand.’ He wished he was playing football, and the wind and the rain drowned

‘It’s hard to explain. Parents fight and sometimes they break up, like me and your father. But if he left me to be with another woman, then he wouldn’t be allowed to take you away from me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to live with your mum.’

          Lewis scratched his arm and looked at the grey man. He dived back into his newspaper.

          ‘Look at me.’ His mother looked straight down her nose and into his eyes

‘I won’t lose you. Have you seen him with another woman?’

          He tried to pull his hand away from hers.

          ‘Mum, you’re hurting me.’

If you can't find time, then make it

“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
Stephen King
     Nowadays, with so many distractions in the world, it can sometimes seem hard to find the time to read. It's also difficult to sum up the will to read if, for example, you've just got home at midnight from a twelve hour shift, or if you feel a teeny bit tender from the heavy night before... I know that recently (I say recently, maybe even so far back as my 3rd year of uni), I haven't nearly as much as I should have or would have liked to. I ended up viewing it as a chore sometimes. Never a punishment, but something that wouldn't go away until I faced it. 

     So recently I've been reading a lot more. And I feel brilliant for it. I finished The Savage Detectives, reading the last 300-odd pages in 4 days. That's a lot for me. Believe me. 

     But I don't just feel good- I want to read more. And with this comes the will to write. 

     Writing can be especially difficult when you feel like you don't have the time or energy to face it, but the longer you leave it, the harder it will be. It's like hiding something from a parent, knowing they'll find out the truth, but you bury your head in the sand in the hope that it will just go away. And then you lose the passion for it. Writing doesn't seem fun anymore, and how can you ever write a great story or poem if you don't enjoy it?

     I've found a number of things useful when I've not felt like reading or writing, when it's all too easy to just (insert mind-numbing/socially destructive activity here). These are pieces of advice that most writers would give, and I'm not trying to pretend I've always followed them, but if you do then you're enjoyment of reading and writing will improve dramatically.

     First and foremost, force yourself! I'm not the most self disciplined person in the world, but even if you feel tired, or rough, or you're mind is wandering to what you're going to have for tea in three days, just get a pen and write. I did a half hour session of free writing last week and ended up coming up with an idea for a new short story. I also wrote a load of rubbish that I'll never look at again, but that's not the point. It got me writing. The same applies to books- you'll feel much better afterwards knowing that you did it! Maybe consider rewarding yourself for every 500 words you write, or for every chapter of a novel you read. 

     Secondly, set targets and stick to them! Be realistic with your targets though. Don't aim so high that you feel like you're constantly missing your goals- you'll end up feeling like you're not good enough. On the other hand, don't be lazy and set yourself a target you know you'll hit within half an hour so you can go the shops. If you know you have a busy day ahead, then get up an hour or two earlier than usual and get some reading or writing in then. Take a notebook/book with you everywhere and use any chance you get to bury your nose into them! You need to be able to get into a habit, and if you're constantly hitting targets- raise them!

     Thirdly, don't let yourself get distracted by others. It can be very, very easy to give up if a friend calls and asks to meet for a drink, or if your flatmate wants to play FIFA (mention no names...:P) But if you haven't met your target then stick at it until you do. Even if what you write is no good, it's better than the feeling that you gave up and are now 50 pages short of where you wanted to be in your book. The same goes for Facebook, Twitter etc. I understand that lots of people type work up directly rather than freehand first (which I do a lot myself), so consider disconnecting your internet while you're working. You need to get into a flow!

     Finally, have fun. It's simple. Let yourself get carried away by a book, and if you're desperate to read onto the next chapter to find out if she really did kill him with a breadstick, then do! If you're in the mood then go with it. Never put a book or a pen down if there's a big wave- ride it (no cliche left unused here). If there is a such a thing as a creative spark, and it only shows up every now and then like an elusive little creature...then catch it while you can.

Hopefully some of this advice might help in times of need! I should also point you in the direction of this blog, The Writing Reader, which is full of little prompts for when you're mind is blank, and empty pages look huge! http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/

Now, please get in touch! Have you ever been especially proud of making time to do it when before you insisted you didn't? Or is there any advice you'd like to give fellow book-worms? I'd love to hear from you!

Roberto Bolaño and 'The Savage Detectives': A lament for lost youth

When The Savage Detectives was recommended to me, I'd never heard of it. I'd never heard of Roberto Bolaño either. When I was told that he was a Chilean author, and the book began in Mexico City 1975, I didn't believe that I would enjoy it. I've read some translated literature before- the short stories of Guy De Maupassant, Anton Chekhov, and poetry by Rimbaud, Neruda (my only previous encounter with Latin-American writing) and Frenaud. Whilst I've found great inspiration from a lot of this work (especially Maupassant, whose 19th century work could have been written last week), reading nearly 600 pages of fiction translated from Spanish seemed a daunting experience. With Neruda's poetry in particular, I've found some words and lines to jar slightly, that is, they are obviously literal translations of a Spanish phrase. It can make reading work like this less enjoyable, less spontaneous, and maybe a little more distant. Aside from this, mid 1970's Mexico was not a setting that I wanted to visit, or rather I felt that I didn't need to go there. So, perhaps slightly stubbornly, I didn't immediately set out to read The Savage Detectives.
     Last month, I came across a collection of Bolaño's short stories titled Last Evenings On Earth in a charity shop. What I read had me instantly hooked to Bolaño's unique and uncompromising way of writing.
     After that, I finally bought The Savage Detectives, acclaimed as 'the novel Borges might have written' and 'part road movie, part joyful, nostalgic confession'.
     Now, three hundred and twenty one pages in, I cannot recommend the book and Bolaño highly enough. The novel begins with a section called 'Mexicans Lost in Mexico' (where I got the blog name from, see?) and is written as a series of diary entries by aspiring 17 year old Mexican poet Garcia Madero. We are shown very early on is that he has been looking for sense of belonging in a place where 'literature is bread and water, sex and death'. He joins a group of fellow young poets who call themselves the 'visceral realists', and who set out to change Latin American poetry and politics. He meets two particularly important characters- Arturo Belano, who is possibly the author himself (a common trait of Bolaño's work), and Ulises Lima. Without revealing too much of the story, the narrative leaves Garcia Madero after 124 pages and becomes 'The Savage Detectives', a series of 'memoirs' from many different perspectives, including characters from the first section. The narrative crosses continents and so far has moved ten years on from the events of Garcia Madero's diary entries.
     What stands out here as one of Bolaño's greatest skills is the fleshed-out realism of his characters. Set in a world so far from my own, I still feel a connection to them. It might be pity for some, admiration or envy (even jealousy) of others whose lives revolve around literature. Bolaño's writing can be gritty and hard-hitting at times, but it is all presented in a very matter-of-fact way that is reminiscent of Hemingway. Characters often seem at odds with themselves, struggling to show their feelings. The same was true for the short stories of Last Evenings on Earth, which I now see as a blueprint or draft of The Savage Detectives.
     Further along the timline, there is a genuine feeling of nostalgia, and as more and more of these characters lives are shown to us, there is a growing sense that the youth, happiness and blissful ignorance that was abundant in 'Mexicans Lost in Mexico' is never recaptured. Accounts from one era are juxtaposed with  another from say 15 years before. There is also no mention so far of a character introduced in the first section, so I am now holding my own kind of 'where's Wally' hunt along the way, looking for clues that might show me where they are.
     I should also point out that the English translation, by Natasha Wimmer, is the best and most precise example of translated fiction I've ever read. I felt so close to the streets and laguage of mid-70's Mexico, yet I was never confused by their slang or insults. Creadit has to be given to Wimmer for taking on such a mammoth challenge and pulling it off brilliantly.
     Although I'm just over half way through the book and still have so much to discover, I feel like I have travelled back in time to places I've never been before. The Savage Detectives is so evocative, affecting and just bloody brilliant that I do not want to put it down. What may be viewed as Bolaño's masterpiece takes on love, sorrow, loss, joy, memory and passion. The result is a tragic and thought provoking insight into the politics and aspirations of a generation that was looking for it's place in the world. Maybe Mexico 1975 isn't so different from our own world.

Finally up and running...

I've been meaning to set up a blog for quite a while now, and I'd be fibbing if I said that I didn't do it earlier because I didn't have the time. Truth is, I've been quite lazy when it comes to getting my thoughts, feelings and ideas down into writing.
But I'm passionate about anything creative. This blog will be a kind of notepad where I'll post my reflections on recently read books or poems, any music I've discovered (or rediscovered), and ideas I've had for my own work. There may also be the occasional rant when I'm feeling especially poetic. 
I don't want this blog to be boring, so all feedback (however honest or harsh) would be very appreciated. 


I'll be putting up my first real post later tonight- a critical look at what I've read so far of Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives.


Thanks for reading :)