David Tales of the Suburbs

first Welston then the World
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-912620-25-8
Verlag: Inkandescent
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 162 Seiten

Reihe: The Welston World Sagas

As a boy growing up in the Black Country-drained grey by Mrs Thatcher's steely policies-Jamie dreams of escape to a magical metropolis where he can rub shoulders with the mythical creatures who inhabit the pages of his Smash Hits. Though his hometown is not without characters and Jamie's life not without dramas-courtesy of a cast of West Midlands divas led by his mother, Gloria. Her one-liners are as colourful as the mohair cardies she carries off with the panache of a television landlady. We follow Jamie through secondary school, teenage troubles and away to art school; there he experiences the flush of first love with Billy, and the rush of the big city. But what then? Will he return to the safety of Welston, or risk everything on a new life in London? These flamboyantly funny stories of self-discovery, set against the shifting social scenery of the 80s and 90s, are for everybody who's ever decided to be the person they are meant to be. 'These 'suburbs' are also universal: this open-heartened, delightful journey of self-discovery is known to, and should be relished by, all of us.' ANNETTE BADLAND 'This is an authentic, poignant account of working-class life and manners and, ultimately, the overriding love the author feels for those who shaped his childhood. I didn't want it to end.' ANN MITCHELL 'Rich, layered, filigree characters unveil a compelling portrait of queerness in working class England, a narrative both familiar and sacred. Reading this book was like coming home. Beautiful.' JOELLE TAYLOR 'Justin David writes with enviable poise and economy. This is first class writing, conveying with calm authenticity what it means to be at the centre of the puzzle of our own lives.' RÓNÁN HESSION 'Justin David's Tales of the Suburbs reveals a true writer's gift for comic and poignant storytelling, in which pithy dialogue and sharp characterisation make for compelling reading.' PATRICIA ROUTLEDGE 'A well-observed, charming account of small-town, working-class life and the move to the big, bad, brilliant city. This should strike a chord not just with gay readers but with anyone who's lived, loved and fought to become the person they're meant to be.' MATT CAIN 'The writing is glorious. Young queer people will see themselves in these relatable stories, and queer elders, reflecting upon their own lives, will find healing in these pages.' AMY ZING, co-founder of SINK THE PINK 'Justin David's tale of working-class gay life is a bitter-sweet, beautiful thing. The audience at Polari loved it-as well they should.' PAUL BURSTON, Polari Literary Salon

JUSTIN DAVID is a child of Wolverhampton who has lived and worked in East London for most of his adult life. He graduated from the MA Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths, University of London and is a founder member of Leather Lane Writers. His debut novella, The Pharmacist, was described in the Times Literary Supplement as 'the perfect introduction to a singular voice in gay literature.' Tales of the Suburbs is the first book in the Welston World Sagas. Justin is one half of Inkandescent with Nathan Evans. In 2021, amidst the Covid-19 pandemic, they published their first collection, MAINSTREAM: An Anthology of Stories from the Edges, championing underrepresented voices. They also published Address Book by Neil Bartlett, an Observer Book of the Year, which has since been shortlisted for the Polari Prize.

Autoren/Hrsg.

David, Justin

Leseproben

Flamboyant. There’s a word. Jamie’s thinking about popstars when he notices the bright red wool starting to unravel. ‘I’ve dropped a stitch,’ he tells Nan.

‘Don’t pull it, love. Give it here,’ she says. She fixes it with her usual confidence. Just like that. Jamie loves being with Nan. She runs her papery fingers over the length of knitting beginning to form under the last row of stitches. ‘Clever boy, ain’t ya, our Jamie.’ He can hear her voice but his eyes are fixed on the scrapbook in his lap, bulging with cuttings—photographs of popstars he’s collected. Jamie takes Nan’s ballpoint pen from the arm of the chair and writes the word flamboyant at the bottom of a list he’s started. ‘Tension’s a bit wobbly,’ she points out. ‘Nice and neat though—try to keep the wool taut when you bring it round the needle.’ She finishes the row for him. ‘There. That row was knit. Next row, purl.’ She looks out of the window and nudges him. ‘Look how dark it is a’ready. Not even five o’clock yet.’

Gazing into the tangerine twilight beyond the net curtains, Jamie’s eyes become unfocused. His head fills with boys in turbans, quiffs and sequins, singers in eye-patches, feather boas and hairspray. This world of dry ice and neon and starburst light is only usually glimpsed in between the news and Tomorrow’s World on Thursday nights and he wonders what happens to it when Grandad switches channels. While he likes to float off into his dream world, Nan has her own special way of keeping him in this one. ‘That cabbage’ll be done soon.’

It’s quiet bar the bubbling pot in the kitchen and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Jamie puts the knitting down and sips the orange cordial mixed with a bit of whiskey that she allows him every Saturday evening—just him and Nan having special time. Special time means everything else stops. Television and radio off, Nan and Jamie do something together—sometimes bake a cake, sometimes crochet.

He lets his eyes pass over everything he loves in the room—Nan’s Tretchikoff: a girl with red lips and a blue face hanging against embossed wallpaper, the cabinet of collected snow-globes, three carved wooden African figurines—until his eyes reach Grandad slouched in his armchair. His face is mottled with dark patches of skin and his eyes are red and wet, making him look both sad and angry at the same time. He used to be different. He used to be distinguished and sort of proud. Always had time to teach Jamie new things. They made a bird-scarer for the allotment and spent ages doing giant jigsaws. They loved spending time together. But all that has stopped. Poor Grandad.

Next to him is a pile of unread large-print library books covered with sticky backed plastic. There’s also a scattering of rags, which he uses to wipe his runny nose, festered, Jamie’s mum would say, from too much booze. He’s joining parts of a model Spitfire together with a little tube of glue, which he’s been doing since he lost his job as an electrician at the washing machine factory. Now he mumbles things under his breath: ‘Boys of his age should be out chasing wenches, not messing around with wool. When I was his age... I used to have ’em flocking.’

‘Oh, yes Alf,’ Nan will nod. ‘Heard it all before. Proper bloody Casanova.’ This has been happening a lot recently; she’ll say something cruel just to shut him up. The other day he’d been moaning about his waterworks playing up and she told him that if he didn’t stop dribbling on the bathroom carpet, she would ‘cut it off’ while he was asleep.

Jamie’s mum says it’s difficult for Grandad to find a new job, him being too old to retrain and younger men prepared to work for less money. These men know about computers and stuff, which Grandad does not. His mum says Grandad is depressed. Jamie hasn’t a clue what that means.

Grandad puts his glue down and looks at Jamie. Then he looks at the knitting, with an unhappy, disapproving sneer, shakes his head and turns back to his model without saying a word. Why is he being like this? Jamie tries not to dwell on it. The clock shows five o’clock and his head is filling with popstars again, like the ones in his scrapbook: frilly shirts, lipstick, boys wearing eyeliner, dandy highwaymen, crazy female singers in white lacy dresses.

A car pulls up outside. There’s the rev of an engine, doors slamming and then laughter. Nan jumps up out of her seat, runs to the window and lifts the net. ‘It’s them.’ She lets the net drop and points to Grandad’s Spitfire. ‘Put that up now, Alf. They’re here. Come on. There ain’t room in here to swing a cat.’

Grandad huffs and puffs and grumbles. He leaves the Spitfire where it is. ‘Why does everything have to change when that lot arrive? Bloody nuisance. We do live here, you know!’ He used to leap up to answer the door when someone knocked, but not these days.

Nan dashes about the room clearing things away, collecting anything enjoyable. She moves the pipe that Grandad has loaded with tobacco but not bothered to smoke and the glass of whiskey he’s poured but not bothered to drink and slams them away in his cabinet. She picks up a Curly Wurly from the mantelpiece and stuffs it into her pinny. Arms full, she points at Grandad’s bag of pork scratchings until he stuffs them, reluctantly, into his pocket. ‘Freddie eats whatever he sees,’ she says, heading for the back room clutching the fruit bowl. ‘Jamie. Quick!’ She points at his knitting. ‘Put that up.’

Jamie doesn’t need to be told. He’s already wrapping the wool around the needles, stuffing them into the tapestry-covered bag that she’d given him to keep all his things inside. As Nan darts back in from the kitchen and over to the window, the smell of cabbage wafts in after her. Must be boiled to nothing now, Jamie thinks. Then he’s startled by the thump of a knuckle against the window and a face pressed against the glass.

‘Oh, look at ya!’ Nan moans at Auntie Sandra’s face through the curtain. ‘Get yer nose off the glass, varmint! I’ve only just cleaned them windows.’ Nan goes into the hallway and cheers as Auntie Sandra appears. Behind her is a deeper, louder voice: ‘Hello Phyllis. Where’s Nancy Boy?’ Uncle Freddie sticks his head in sideways round the doorframe and grins—resting his black moustache on the edge of the door. Then his whole body appears, pushed in by Nan.

‘Get in there—pest!’ she says. That’s her way of saying she loves Freddie—pest, varmint, and a good whack around the ears. They all like him. But Jamie doesn’t get to see him very often as he’s always on the beat. Nan’s glasses are still steamed up. She wipes them on her pinny. ‘He’s here again, ain’t he, upsetting the applecart. Just don’t bloody eat anything. You hear? Or I’ll have your guts f’garters.’

Freddie looks past her at Jamie. ‘There you are, Nancy Boy,’ he says. It makes Jamie cringe, that name. Uncle Freddie says it’s a term of endearment, but deep down, Jamie knows Freddie is being mean. He throws himself on the floor with his scrapbook.

On TV is some quiz show that Nan and Grandad like to watch, with a toy bin as a booby prize. Jamie turns the pages of popstars: Steve Strange, Midge Ure, Toyah Wilcox, Kate Bush. Behind him, he can hear a right commotion, Nan and Auntie Sandra laughing together.

‘Alright Pops?’ Uncle Freddie says, enthusiastically trying to fetch some life out of Grandad and failing miserably.

‘Allo Dad,’ Auntie Sandra says.

Grandad just mumbles, eyes super-glued to the television screen.

Jamie turns onto his back and rests on his elbows just in time to see Auntie Sandra staring at Nan, as if there is something she wants to say about Grandad. Nan is sneering at him. Looking back at Sandra, she shakes her head. There’s a look of concern and confusion on Auntie Sandra’s face, but it disappears when she notices Jamie looking at her.

‘Alright our Jamie?’ She smiles one of her big sunbeams that make him feel like the most important person in the world. He doesn’t get to see her very often either because she’s training to become a schoolteacher. ‘You been keeping Nan and Grandad company?’

‘Been making a pencil case.’ Jamie points at the tapestry covered knitting bag with his things stuffed inside.

‘Oh have you? You can knit me a mohair cardi next.’ Her voice is full of belief. She always says Jamie can do anything if he puts his mind to it.

‘Made anything else?’ Uncle Freddie asks, prodding him on the shoulder.

Nan tugs the collar of Freddie’s denim jacket. ‘Ain’t you come to stay?’ she asks and goes into the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she calls.

Uncle Freddie throws his jacket off, revealing a white t-shirt with the words FRANKIE SAYS RELAX printed in bold, black letters across the chest. Everyone’s wearing them. He thinks he’s really cool. He perches himself on the arm of the settee, folds his arms and sits looking at Jamie, as if he knows a secret. Auntie Sandra gets down on her knees next to Jamie. Her golden frizz of curls dangles in his face. It’s lovely when they are all together. There’s always a lot of talk and laughter, but recently less from Grandad. Now he just grumbles about privatisation and trade unions and other things Jamie doesn’t understand.

‘Oi. Nance,’ Uncle Freddie calls to him. ‘Have you done...