Paula Hillman, author

To make sure a character’s story arc works, I paste its parts into another document and read it on its own. The Jay/John story arc was very over-written, so I cut a lot of it and also changed the perspective. Poor old Jay had such a sad back-story, I had to tone it down! Here’s a section that told of his bullying at the hands of the ‘Persil-white’ gang. It’s very close to my heart…

Autumn 1984.

John is woken by soft light, slanting through Mam’s window. He is in her bed again. She’s on her back with the pillows hugging her head and an arm reached towards him. Most nights, she cries, and most mornings, Dad is in Jamie’s bedroom, on the floor with a blanket. John can’t stand it when she cries. When he hears it, he seeks her out.

           When he climbs in beside her, she murmurs words that he doesn’t understand then always falls asleep. But he doesn’t, not for ages. There are too many things to worry about, and the worst of them is the new school. Though he’s nine-years-old now, the other kids in his class are like grown-ups. They have hard eyes and mouths that never smile, except when he can’t answer Mrs Lavender’s questions. Then, their mouths turn upwards at each other.

           Most days, he gets himself ready for school, finds clothes that don’t smell very nice and pulls them over his sweaty, night-mussed body. Then makes a sandwich and pours water in one of Mam’s white plastic beakers with a lid. No one waves him off on the doorstep, like they did in the other house. Mam never walks with him to school with Jamie in tow and moaning; he’s on his own.

           It is a morning of gold light and smoky air. John would rather go and play by the beck, would rather let the gentle water run over his hands and pretend that Jamie is with him. But he’s afraid of what Dad would do if he found out some rules had been broken. Since Jamie went to heaven, there has been no kindness in Tunnel Cottage. He’s even had a few clouts around the head, without knowing what they’re for.

           He makes sure there is no sign of a train, and pulls open the wooden gate to the line. The second gate swings closed behind him. He runs along the track to the road.

           The abbey ruin is to his left, so he pretends he is in another land. One where he’s in charge, a king or a prince, and all he ever has to do is explore the trees and peer at quiet nature. Draw, perhaps, or paint. Mrs Lavender says he’s good at painting. She pegs up his work on a washing line in the classroom so that other children can use it as a model. He’s not sure what she means, when models are solid objects, made from cardboard boxes, but he likes her smile. The others don’t care much about his paintings. And it doesn’t make them like him anymore. They hold their noses and waft their hands when he walks past. Or they point at his plastic sandals. Aunty Liz told Mam he needs some new things for school, but John’s not sure she’s even realised he’s going to school. When he gets home in the afternoon, she’s usually asleep on the sofa in the lounge, with the curtains drawn. And still wearing her nightie.

           At the big road, he waits. Tall buses, packed with secondary school kids, trundle past. Some of them hang off the boarding platform, hands on the pole or sticking two fingers up at him. He wonders if he’ll be like this when he goes to big school. Mam would kill him if he gave cheek to the public. So would Aunty Liz. Though he didn’t feel it at the time, those few weeks when he lived with her, after Jamie was put in his grave, were the best, even though he’d missed Tunnel Cottage and the beck and the meadow. Liz had made him feel like he mattered, like he wasn’t on his own. She fed him and smoothed down his hair, and read books and comics with him. And she sometimes let him get crisps for himself from the off-licence across the road, where he went with her with her note for a bottle of cider.

           There’s a gap in the cars and buses, and John darts to the other side of the road. The pavements here are covered with a copper mush of beech leaves. A long wall of sandstone stops him from staring at the huge houses sitting behind loaded conker trees. Each has a gate, a break in the wall, with stone posts and carved names- Arndene, Dunvegan, Priors Lea– so they’re not that private.

           He reaches the corner that he dreads. Not because the school building is close by, but because he will be there. There’s no name- John tries to listen for it when Mrs Lavender calls out the register, but her voice is so gentle, and sounds so different from anything he’s heard before, that he can’t understand a lot of what she says. Even his own name sounds long, like she’s taking the middle sound and dragging it out. But there is no sign of the boy today, and John wonders if he’s late getting to school. There are no clocks in Tunnel Cottage. When Dad was going to work, he would always get them up by banging doors and making porridge. Now, he doesn’t seem to go to work, which makes John wonder who’s looking after the tunnel and the lines, and then he adds that worry to his list.

           ‘Rubber Johnny. Blubber Johnny.’

He’s here, stepping out from behind the thick trunk of a tree. With him are two other boys, tall and smart and Persil-white. John puts his head down and barges forward. He’s conscious of his skinny arms, clutching the Tupperware box to his chest. The others block his way.

           ‘What you got for din-dins today, blubber-boy?’

He’s hit a wall of white polo shirts. His is yellowing, the same one he wears every day. With his head thrust forward he tries to break through their ranks, like he’s a soldier, or that king of the woods from his imagination. He’ll sometimes escape with only a few prods and pokes, especially if there’s a mam or dad around, walking their kids to school, kissing them at the gates, waiting anxiously for their return. Today though, there’s no one.

           His lunch box is torn from his hands. It clatters onto the pavement and the water beaker spills out.

           ‘Bread and water again, rubber-Johnny? Can’t your mam afford anything else?’

John’s guts are doing their thing, bubbling, making him wonder which end the bubbles will escape from. An elbow jab usually gets him through but today, his arms are heavy with fear and the weight of hopelessness.

           Two hands slam into the upper part of his back, and he falls forward, hitting the pavement with a razor of pain. Concrete on bare knees. The air rushes from his chest. Feet shuffle around him. Black shoes with laces, and so shiny. The soles are like tractor tyres, and they’re coming right at him. With his hands spread out across the crown of his head, he scrunches up his eyes and tries to hold in that watery fear. But out it comes, hot and heavy, from between his legs. He can’t stop it any more than he can stop the water springing from his eyes.