TODAY ON THE BLOG, WE ARE HAPPY TO WELCOME GUEST AUTHOR, LINDA NELSON, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTER 1 OF HER NOVEL, 'UNDERGROUND' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- Eva Bielby
- Sep 30
- 6 min read
Updated: Oct 1
UNDERGROUND
AN EXCERPT
The letter arrived first thing. I'd been expecting it, but my stomach still flipped when I saw my name printed on the envelope. Bold black on cream. Daniel Bennett.
It had been Miss McGowan's idea. Every Art lesson, "You can do it Danny," "You don't know until you try,” “It's a chance in a lifetime.” It did my head in, but I kind of liked it too. Finally, I'd given in and filled in the form. It needed Mum's signature, but that didn't matter. I could do it better than she could; I'd had enough practice. When I told Miss McGowan I'd sent it off, her whole face sparkled. At that moment I truly loved her. Not in a weird way, but because she actually gave a shit. That didn't happen much.
The paper felt thick between my fingers. I turned it over in my hands as if the power of touch might tell me what it said. Envelope still unopened, I walked through to the kitchen. Last night's take-away lay on the table, congealed patterns of left-over food swirled across silver cartons, an abstract work of art. Along with the dirty dishes, I pushed them to one side. I laid the letter flat on the table and stared down at it. Torn between wanting to know what it said and not, I savoured the moment of possibility, those seconds when you can believe something good might happen.
From the living room, the hum of the TV rippled across the quietness. Mum must've fallen asleep downstairs - again. I’d leave her for now. My fingers trembled as I slowly peeled open the envelope.
St Cuthbert's College of Arts
St Cuthbert's Square
London
W1 2CN
Dear Daniel,
Following consideration of your application I am delighted to invite you to attend an interview at St. Cuthbert's College of Art with a view to offering you a scholarship on our Sixth Form Course for promising young artists. I would be grateful if you could return the attached form indicating your acceptance. On receipt of this I shall contact . . .
I didn't read any further. I was floating. Me, Danny Bennett, Sixth Form at St Cuthbert's College of Art!
"Mum!" I shouted through to the living room. The only reply was the buzz of the TV. "Mum!" I shouted louder. Still no answer. Excitement propelled me towards the living room. In my head I was already at St Cuths, sat at an easel, paint brush in hand, the lecturer stood behind me, nodding her head in full appreciation, “A true masterpiece Danny!”
Leaning against the door frame, my fingers trembled, waving the letter in my hand, ‘Look what I’ve got!’
A sudden surge of heat rushed through me at the scene before me. Curtains drawn, the light of the TV flickering against them and Mum, flat out on the sofa; wasted. The memory of screaming and shouting that had kept me awake last night flashed back to me. Mum and Meggsie, her waste of space, on-off boyfriend, arguing till the early hours. Paper crumpled in my clenched fist. What was the point? It didn't matter what the letter said, I wasn't going anywhere. I had to look after Mum; we only had each other. I walked back to the kitchen and threw the screwed-up envelope hard against the wall. It rebounded on to the worktop, landing in a spilled puddle of tea. I watched the edges slowly turning brown.
My stomach gave a low rumble at the leftover take-away. Too grim to heat up, I opened the cupboards to see what else there was. Nothing hopeful. Bread or cereal. I went for cereal. Cereal without milk. On a good day, we had both. There weren't many good days. A laugh caught my throat. If I ever did become a famous artist, I'd buy a cow, then we'd always have milk.
I ran the taps to wash up a bowl and waited for the sink to fill. Rising steam hit my face. I squirted in the last of the washing-up liquid and plunged my hands into the hot water, thinking about Mum and how I wished things could be different. Different for her, different for me. Maybe, if we’d been born into a different life?
My mind wandered to make-believe better places, as I watched the bubbles trickle down the plates resting on the draining board. I caught sight of the crumpled-up letter on the worktop. It would have been good, but that was Miss McGowan’s dream, not mine; besides, things like that didn’t happen to boys like me, boys off the Kingsmead.
I carried on with the washing up, one ear listening out for any signs of movement from the living room. In the newspapers or those crappy magazines Mum used to read, people always said they knew something was wrong, could sense it. At first, I couldn't quite catch what was out of place, then it clicked. It was the voice. The News. I hadn’t taken much notice of the TV when I’d seen Mum flaked out on the sofa, but her world was reality TV and soaps, not the news.
Hands dripping, I ran to the living room. She lay on the sofa, exactly like she was before, only this time I saw the blue tinge of her lips, all the more blue against her paper white skin. My legs became weak. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. One word banged in my head. Why, why, why? Why hadn't I looked properly? Why hadn’t I taken those couple more steps to check she was okay? Why had I been pratting about with a stupid letter that was never going to be real? This was all my fault. I wanted to puke, but there was nothing there.
I knelt down beside her. Wisps of blonde hair lay across her face. I knew what she’d feel like before I touched her. Warm but clammy. In situations like this, every second counted, there was no time for panic. Above the guilt, automatic pilot kicked in. The stillness of the room settled on me, and hands shaking, I punched the numbers into my phone. A sharp voice on the other end answered.
"Emergency, Which service?"
"Ambulance," I said in a voice that wasn’t my own.
At the hospital everything was slow motion and full speed at the same time. People appeared from nowhere, barking out orders I didn't understand. At some point I was ushered to a seat in the waiting area by a pair of firm hands. The sick feeling moved from my stomach, lodging itself in my throat. I scanned the seats. A sea of faces unable to hide they'd rather be somewhere else.
My eyes focused on the clock hanging on the wall opposite, trying to slow my heart with each tick. One, two, three, four, five – waiting for someone to come and get me, tell me what was happening. Uneasily, I shifted on the orange plastic seat. I tensed my leg to stop it jigging up and down, then dug my hand into my jeans pocket, pulling out the small pad and pencil I always carried with me. My fingers wrapped round the wood, but the usual calm didn’t come. Eyes falling on the woman behind the reception desk, I carried on anyway. Mind still elsewhere, I began to doodle. Her name badge said Rosemary. It suited her pinkness, I thought, adding shade to her apple cheeks.
Another glance at the clock, and another five minutes gone. Still nobody had come to see me. I needed to see Mum. The snap of paper cut across the waiting room as I slapped my sketch pad shut. I licked my lips, trying to rid my mouth of its dryness, ready to talk to Rosemary.
‘Excuse me,’ the words scratched my throat.
‘Yes, my love,’ Rosemary looked up. When she clocked it was me, she couldn’t hide the pity in her eyes.
‘Can I see my Mum yet?’ I asked.
’You’ll be able to see her shortly, dear. The nurses are making her comfortable. If you want to go back to the waiting area, they're sending someone to make arrangements for you."
Blood pounded in my ears. I turned to go back to my seat. I needed to see my mum. Why did nobody get that? I slumped back into my seat. Making her comfortable? They’d had plenty of time to make her comfortable. And what did Rosemary mean, making arrangements for me? A blanket of coldness wrapped around me. A steely tingle crept up my back. I'd been so worried about Mum, I'd not thought about me. What would happen to me? Making arrangements; I knew exactly what it meant.
I could see Rosemary looking over. Her pink cheeks reddened when her eyes caught mine, her mouth twisted into a strained smile. Pin pricks of panic jabbed my skin. I had to do something, but I didn’t know what, so I sat, still and cold as a statue, and waited. Waited for the inevitable.
**********
COMING SOON: On Sunday, 5th October, we are delighted to welcome guest author, Hilly Barmby, who is sharing Chapter 1 of her novel, 'Got What Was Coming'.
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