So, I was telling you about my creative writing night class....

Our most recent homework assignment was to stalk...erm, follow someone for ten minutes. This could be any person, someone we knew or a total stranger. I opted for the latter. We were required to write a story incorporating not only their mannerisms but also our emotions, including an element of tension. Tall order! Once again, I enjoyed the challenge. Unfortunately I missed the class due to illness so I didn't get the chance to share my efforts with my peers. So I'm sharing them here instead! 

Names and places have been changed to protect identities.

The Girl

At first I follow her with only my eyes. She comes out of ‘Cash Exchange’, swinging a carrier bag and talking enthusiastically into her mobile phone. I can’t tell whether she is angry or happy as her expression changes from one second to the next. She is re-living a moment, re-telling it. I glance at my watch and start the process. 

Ten minutes.

The Girl is painfully thin apart from her pregnant belly which is straining to escape from under her top. She reminds me of the Ethiopian children I’ve seen on the television; skin-covered skeletons with bellies full of air. 

It’s difficult to tell how old she is but I hazard a guess at late teens, possibly older but still far too young to be a mother. I am reminded of something my Dad would say to describe someone who is a bit rough around the edges - Looks like they’ve had a tough paper round.  

 I can’t decide whether her eyeliner is deliberately smudged or whether it has slipped down into the creases beneath her eyes over the course of the day. Either way it is stark against her gaunt, pale face. 

My emotions take me by surprise. I want to take her into the café next door, buy her something to eat. I want to help her, protect her, save her. I can only hope the growing child is managing to swallow a small amount of nutrition. She finishes her conversation and slips the phone into the pocket of her jeans. She is smiling, remembering something funny. She looks totally at peace with the imminent arrival of the small infant that she will have to care for. I am intrigued by this. I think of myself during this late stage of pregnancy; an anxious wreck too frightened to leave the house, not least because I was worried Greenpeace might attempt to rescue me. I wonder whether The Girl is aware of this small person growing inside her. Perhaps she has not yet made that connection. Perhaps she is oblivious to the fact that underneath her stretched skin there is a helpless human being – years of sleepless nights, endless worry and empty purses. 

She slides a plastic bottle from the bag. The bright blue contents slosh around as she takes a swig. It looks like she is drinking screenwash. She heads towards the escalator, pushing through the crowd, belly first. She walks faster than her size should allow and the effort to keep up with her makes me sweat. At the foot of the escalator she is intercepted by a cocky salesman advertising personal injury compensation.

“Had an accident in the last three years, madam?” he asks, skilfully blocking her way.

“Aye, aboot nine mumphs ago, can you no tell?” she answers, patting her bump.

The man laughs awkwardly and moves aside.

She is like a little powerhouse. It’s like she’s trying to prove something – I’m coping, I’m good at this, I’m ready. Or perhaps she is simply in a hurry. She hops onto the bottom step of the escalator and I prepare myself to sprint up the stairs two at a time behind her. But she uses the few seconds to look through the contents of the bag. As she scans the cover of a horror DVD she absentmindedly rubs her belly with the tips of her fingers; little circular motions. I notice her nails are chewed. There is a heavy ring on her index finger: chunky gold capitals that spell out the word MUM. She has done this before.

The top half of her long hair has been scraped back by a clip, a messy mixture of colours clearly in need of a wash. I suspect that some of the hair is not her own; cheap fuchsia extensions pulled tightly to reveal her white scalp. The jeans that cling to her skinny legs are tucked into scuffed boots, the kind that are usually worn on a building site. They look too big for her and I briefly wonder if they might belong to someone else; a man, the father of this child. The T-shirt does not reach her waistband and I spy the top of an elaborate tattoo - possibly thorny roses or barbed wire - scrawled across the base of her spine. White tissue paper skin.

She turns her head and one of her huge hoops earrings smacks the side of her face. I catch her eye and curse inwardly. She probably felt the cold sting of my judgement seeping through her clothes. Rather than look away, I smile and she smiles back. Her eyes belong to a much older woman.  I feel an overwhelming urge to comment on her pregnancy, to offer her some words of support, to tell her how wonderful it is being a mum, to advise her to relax and enjoy the first few months for they will pass quickly. But I don’t want her to remember me. I plan to follow her for the next 8 minutes. Wherever she goes, I will go. I need to be as invisible as possible.

She steps off the escalator and heads for the Chemist, walking so fast that her hair can’t keep up. I follow her into the shop, flashing a smile at the beefy security guard so he will stay off my case. I have no intention of buying anything. I am here to observe.

The Girl marches over to the counter and flicks through a leaflet while she waits for some assistance. I slide behind the make-up aisle and immerse myself in the lipsticks. If I tilt my head to the right I can still see her. She is chewing on her thumbnail. The confident air has left her and her eyes are darting nervously. The pharmacist greets her with a smile and asks how she can help. The Girl would like some nicotine patches please.

“How far gone are you?” asks Nice Pharmacist, eyeing the stomach which is squeezed up against the counter.

“I’m two days overdue,” replies The Girl, with a hint of apology.

Nice Pharmacist takes a small step backwards and stares down at the bump like it’s an unexploded bomb. She jokingly asks The Girl to keep her legs crossed until she gets home. The Girl laughs a gravelly laugh.

“If I’d kept my legs crossed nine mumphs ago I wouldnae be in this state now!”

There’s a conversation about the benefits and the potential risks associated with nicotine patches during pregnancy. The Girl rests her hand on the top of her bump and listens intently, nodding in the right places. Nice Pharmacist advises that it would probably be best to wait until the baby is born before starting patches or gum. The girl laughs and says she will start smoking again once the baby is born; this is just to see her through until the birth, which she hopes happens soon. The smile on Nice Pharmacist’s face slips but quickly returns. I notice a twitch in her left cheek that wasn’t there before. The Girl realises she has made a blunder.

“I’ll make sure I’m in a different room when I’m having a fag,” she adds quickly, “and I’ll clean my teeth before I kiss the bairn.”

The security guard has started circling me like a vulture. I attempt to look nonchalant as I read the small print on a Super Duper Lash Enhancing Mascara. To my annoyance, I miss whether The Girl makes her purchase. When I look up she is gone and a fat lady with a headscarf and a hacking cough has taken her place. 

I leave the shop as quickly as I can without arousing further suspicion. I spot her striding out of the main exit, carrier bag swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to waddle, be red-cheeked and out of breath? As she marches through the people, they step aside, creating a bubble of air around her. I glance at my watch. 

Three minutes. 

I’d better move fast if I am to catch up with her. Out in the open I find her chatting outside ‘Bargain Busters’ with an older woman who has borrowed the same hair dye. I pretend that the perfume display in the window has caught my attention and position myself at an angle where I can see what is going on behind me in the reflection of the glass. The older woman is leaning against a buggy. Strapped inside is a toddler who is clutching a half-eaten sausage roll. The woman is telling The Girl about something that happened at the Job Centre earlier that morning. Her language is turning the air blue. She says something that makes The Girl laugh her gravelly laugh. The toddler starts straining to escape from his buggy. He screams out in frustration, kicking his little legs until one of his trainers fly off.

“Stoap it, ya wee git!” shouts the woman as she attempts to push the shoe back on.

He kicks his legs and screams until his face turns pink.  The woman smacks his leg and he throws the sausage roll on the ground in protest. The Girl picks it up and offers it back to him. I imagine the germs swarming over the pastry.

“Are you havin’ a bad day, son?” she asks with a gooey voice.

The woman gives up and tosses the trainer into the hammock beneath the buggy.

“I swear tae God I’m gonnae kill him!” she hisses through gritted teeth. “I didnae get a wink ‘o sleep last night and Billy’s oan night shift all week.”

In the reflection, I catch The Girl’s eye. I have outstayed my welcome and I start to panic. But there is no need because she turns her attention back to her friend.

“I’m sick of this bairn,” she groans, pushing her knuckles deep into the small of her back. “Kaden wiz nearly two mumphs early but this yin is never coming oot.”

“You need tae smoke,” says the woman. “Trust me hen, they come oot quicker and they’re much wee’er so it’s an easier birth.”

“Huv you goat a fag?” asks The Girl tentatively.

Her friend pulls a new packet from the compartment at the back of the buggy and peels off the cellophane in one swift motion. She discards it and a gust of wind snatches it before it reaches the ground.

“Mama!” whines sausage roll boy.

His tears have made tracks down his grubby cheeks.

“Shut it!” she spits before lighting a cigarette, cupping her hand around the flimsy flame.

She takes a long draw before handing it to The Girl, who sucks hard, inhaling deeply, savouring the moment. She closes her eyes when she exhales, blue smoke streaming out from her mouth and nostrils. 

It’s now I realise it was not this emaciated girl who caught my attention and brought out my nurturing, protective streak. It was the child inside her with its seashell fingernails and gossamer eyelashes. Floating in a cocoon of warmth I now imagine its wrinkled face screwing up as this mouthful of smoke floods its living space. I imagine the infant choking, gasping for air, kicking its tiny limbs. Perhaps that will encourage you to pop out, I think. 

I think of the months I spent fretting over every morsel that crossed my lips. No soft cheese or runny yolks. No coffee or Paracetamol. I think of my refusal to enter the kitchen if the microwave was on, the panic over the bottle of champagne I consumed before I knew about the tiny seed blooming inside me. And after he had left my body, the struggle to make everything safe remained and always will. 

I recall the tears over my failure to breastfeed, the piles of literature about the MMR jab; the hours spent chopping grapes into tiny pieces to reduce the risk of choking. I think of the care I take now to make everything perfect for my growing boy, the labour of love that will ensure he lives a healthy life until the time comes for me to let go. And even then I won’t let go. Above all I feel a profound sadness that I was unable to be Mum to more children. Precious, wanted lives that never were.

I know I cannot protect this woman’s unborn child any more that I can protect those broken little Ethiopians that live inside my television. I cannot save everyone.

I can still hear The Girl’s gravelly laughter long after I’ve walked away.

© Hazel Allan 2013

Espresso writing

I had a whole heap of fun with my homework from the creative writing class I've been attending. I am enjoying my time there and have met a varied mix of like-minded people who seem to share the same wicked sense of humour as me. Most evenings descend into a giggle-fest, much to the annoyance of the Bridge club in the adjoining room.

Espresso stories explore a literary form that really forces the writer to include the major points of a story at the same time as keeping the word count to a minimum (something the editors I have worked with will tell you I've always struggled with.) Espresso shorts are complete stories that take no longer to read than an espresso would take to drink. The only rule is that they're a sentence or two, totalling 25 words or less. 

Here are a few I scribbled in my lunch break last week.

A burst of blue light, followed by a vibrato slicing through the silence. Sleep-filled, she fumbles for her mobile phone. Three words... I’m watching you.

She touches the stud in her ear. A holiday in Blackpool. Laughter. Open-mouthed kisses. She misses him. Other ear bare! Her heart breaks over again.

She’d never been abroad. Too scared to fly. Scared of heights. Scared of enclosure. Scared her bum wouldn’t fit in the seat. A life unlived.

It came from nowhere, a shape blurred by the rain on the windscreen. He thought he’d missed it. Then the crunch of bones under tyre.

She sprinkled the powder into the coffee and it settled on the top. Surely he’d notice. Slowly, it sank down into the darkness. She smiled.

The class have moved on to another topic now (you'll be hearing more about that soon!) but I will keep writing these very short short stories as I find they help me with ideas and structure. 

Speak soon :) 

Baby spent most of last week in a cattery, a lovely place in the country where he went for a “wee holiday”. He wasn’t all that keen (well, that’s quite possibly the biggest understatement of the decade) but I felt reassured that he was in safe hands. He had his own luxury apartment with split levels and a view out over the pond. The lovely owners even left the radio on for him at night so he wouldn’t feel lonely. The worst part of the experience was the car journey there – 20 minutes of howling, growling, wailing and puking. And that was just me. The Ellie Goulding CD did nothing to calm his nerves, nor did my shaky rendition of Soft Kitty. In a final desperate attempt to calm Baby down, I slid my fingers through the grille at the front of the cat carrier so I could tickle his chin. This seemed to work well – until it was time to change gear. To my horror, I realised my hand was stuck and I was fast approaching a complicated roundabout. Luckily for me (and the rest of the road users) it was early Sunday morning so it didn’t much matter that I sped round on two wheels and in fifth gear while frantically trying to free my hand.

They did everything possible to make Baby feel welcome on his arrival but it was a strange and frightening environment for him, not least because there were plenty of other cats. The noises and smells must have been totally unnerving for him and worst of all they must have reminded him of the cat shelter I rescued him from. My worry was that in leaving Baby, he was going to think I wasn’t coming back. How do you explain to an animal that you’ll be back soon and that this is only for a short time? For a cat who has had several (unhappy) homes and who has experienced neglect and abuse the only conclusion to draw from cages and vanishing owners is abandonment. 

I remember the first time I saw Baby, Christmas 2010. It was love at first sight for me but for Baby it would take longer for the barriers to come down. I understood that only too well and so I tried not to rush things. I was content to let him take time to settle in. I knew it would take a lot of effort on my part for him to trust humans again. Let’s face it, the ones he lived with before didn’t exactly fly the flag for human kindness. I was warned he had ‘baggage’ but I reckoned we would get on well, due to the fair few suitcases of emotional baggage I had stored away. And I like a challenge. 

It took a few weeks before Baby stopped flinching every time I moved. It took months before the postman could pass the window without him running for cover. It took over a year to get a single head bump from him. He has never been demonstrative but he does offer some love when the Munchies cupboard gets opened. I’m always pathetically grateful for the small amount of affection he shows me and even more grateful that he appears to be madly in love with Junior. Sometimes it’s like a mutual appreciation society and I have to fight back my feelings inadequacy. I must confess to resorting to holding fishy cat biscuits up to my face in an attempt to get a kiss from Baby. It’s a tactic that works well.  I like to pretend he loves me and isn’t just very greedy. I do hope I never have to do this with a man.

But here’s where the story gets interesting. 

There has been a distinctive shift in Baby’s behaviour since his return home from the cattery. He has been home for three days and I’ve never seen him so affectionate and relaxed. Perhaps he’s just glad to be home. Perhaps the food is better here. Perhaps it’s the guilt he feels at making the nice man bleed when he was putting him back in the cat carrier. 

I think it’s more likely that he simply can’t believe his luck.

My sister peeked through the window before she entered the cattery to collect him. She said Baby looked perfectly settled, cleaning himself on the balcony. It’s nice to know he wasn’t distressed but I feel a little sad because there was probably a hefty amount of resignation on his part, an acceptance that he had been right all along – that this good life with the small, kind boy and slightly crazy woman was going to come to an end at some point.

So, I think this is where the shift has come in. It’s as though Baby feels more secure now. In his mind, the worst thing happened. We left him. But we came back. The lesson is that we are never going to give up on him. I think it took the stint in the cattery for him to wholly accept that. 

For two and a half years he held back, didn’t allow himself to fully accept our love in case it was snatched away. He must have been waiting for the day when we would admit defeat and cart him back to the shelter again. But how could I ever give up on him? He’s grumpy and demanding. His breath smells of fishy rubber and he sometimes misses the litter tray. He steals food off our plates and he scratches the bed until it’s bald. He does high speed circuits of the house at 3am and if that doesn’t wake me up he jumps on my bladder from a great height. 

But doesn’t he deserve the same chance of happiness that we all do?

I would like to be the one to teach him that sometimes it’s okay to let go, that sometimes it’s fine to drop the barriers and embrace the love that is being offered. I want to show him that it’s possible to live in the moment and not worry so much about what lies ahead, to feel safe in the knowledge that there are people who are capable of sticking with you even when the going gets tough. Yes, happiness can be fleeting and good things can be snatched away from us but it is possible to trust again. Ultimately, there can be no healing until we have restored our trust in life. Who knows? Perhaps with a little bit more time and a lot more perseverance, maybe Baby and I can accept these things together.

Fishy Family Secrets

Whilst sipping on a cup of Earl Grey in a café, my sister pointed up to the rafters and said, “Look, that lampshade looks like Mum’s old crystal trifle bowl, the one that Grace lived in.”

Grace was our first pet, a goldfish we won at a funfair in 1976, a time when it was still acceptable to carry a living creature home in a small sandwich bag. In a rush of giddy excitement I dropped the bag in the back of the car. It landed with a plop and a skoosh, which was followed with a mad scramble to rescue the flapping fish from underneath the driver’s seat. I still recall the water pouring out of a hole in the bag and thinking I had killed her. We could have refilled the bag with my guilty tears. 

Despite her early ordeal, Grace lived to a ripe old age, albeit with a weird, squishy lump on the top of her head. She lived in luxury, swimming around in my Mum’s best Edinburgh Crystal trifle bowl, a wedding present and family heirloom. Grace swam around happily in there for 51 weeks of the year but every December 23^rd she would be temporarily re-homed in a less elegant Tupperware sandwich box so that Mum could make her festive trifle. I know it sounds revolting but she always gave it an extra good clean and the carefully positioned layer of tinned fruit covered the marks at the bottom where the gravel had scratched the glass. None of the dinner guests were ever any the wiser. On the contrary, they always ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhd’ and commented on the ‘extra special something’ that they’d never tasted before. Of course, my sister and I were threatened with death (or at least a week without Swap Shop) should we ever let the secret out. Cue much giggling and footsie under the table when it came time to spoon the first serving from the bowl. Mum’s death glare usually put a swift end to the hilarity.

My Mum still uses that crystal bowl and I always smile whenever I see it. If I run my finger over the fine web of scratches along the bottom I can still imagine Grace bobbing around at the surface with that strange, eyeball-shaped lump I gave her on her first day as our family pet. There’s something marvellous about family traditions and secrets. Happy secrets, of course, not the kind that destroy. Silly memories are what link us with our past and our families in unique ways. They provide us with common bonds and shared experiences. They still make us laugh 35 years later when we spot a familiar looking lampshade in a café and are suddenly transported back to our 1970’s living room. 

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to our siblings. Somehow, we always see each other as we always were. We share private jokes, we remember family feuds, griefs and joys. A sibling is like having a little bit of childhood that can never be lost. Different flowers from the same garden.

The Next Big Thing!

"Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost" is OUT NOW!

My friend and fellow writer, John Ward, very kindly tagged me in his blog as part of the exciting "Next Big Thing" scheme, where writers answer questions about their work. Here are my answers….and then I’ll hand you over to some other writers. It's like a great big game of tig, only you don't have to leave your comfy seat : )

What is the working title of your next book?

Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost is the third book in a trilogy for 9-12 year olds and it's quite literally hot off the press! It’s beautiful and has a stunning cover by Lawrence Mann, (see above) the genius and all round nice guy who designed the covers for all three books.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The original idea came from a short story I wrote about bullying called 'In Her Shoes'.  Everything spiralled from there and one day it came to me in a flash that I would write three books, each one focusing on one of the three main characters. I didn’t really know I was capable of writing an action adventure/horror/comedy/issue based novel so it all came as a bit of a surprise! I had absolutely no idea what a challenge it would be.

What genre does your book fall under?

Oops, I already answered that one above! It’s a fast-paced action adventure with soul. That’s because in between the cliffhangers and frights there are some tender moments that deal with issues such as bullying and grief. If I had to choose a genre I would say fantasy adventure.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Nobody famous. I would want to hand select the actors very carefully.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

With the help of a magic book, a shy swat, a psycho rebel and a lanky nerd try to save the world for a third time.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

All three books are published by Strident Publishing.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

It’s difficult to say since I made a lot of notes for books two and three as I was writing book one. They kind of all intertwined. If I had to guess, I would say at least two years. It's pretty epic!

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The Bree books have been described as "Indiana Jones meets Jacqueline Wilson". To be honest I try to avoid reading other children’s books mainly because I don’t want to be influenced by them. I did read a couple of Cathy Cassidy and Jacqueline Wilson books to inspire me when I was tackling Bree’s first romance (she meets a boy in book two and by book three they are boyfriend and girlfriend). I couldn’t really remember my first love (way too long ago!) so I needed a bit of refreshing.

I read Roald Dahl to my son (9) and I love the dark elements in his novels so I guess that might have inspired me to push the boundaries a little more with book 3. I realise that children love scary/dark moments and that writers should not be frightened to use them more.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Six years ago, a personal crisis cracked open something in me that had been buried deep inside. Suddenly the idea of writing felt like the right thing to do. I also wanted a ‘kick ass’ heroine because of the way I was feeling about myself at the time. There’s nothing quite like inventing a strong female protagonist to boost your self-esteem!

Without wishing to sound mushy, my son inspired me. It would be nice to think that at some point all my hard work and tears will make a positive difference to our lives. Also, writing a novel was on my list of things to do before I die. I’m pleased and proud that I managed to write three.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There are two worlds in the stories, separated by a thin veil (which weakens in book 3). So in all three books the children start out in their own, recognisable world with school, shops, houses but then when the adventure starts they find themselves thrown into a world of castles, creatures, and terrifying villains. I always liked the idea that it was possible to flit between two very different worlds.

I’ve had some great feedback from adults who seems to love the stories and appreciate the allegory and hidden messages.

Okay, that’s it from me. Now for that game of tig :)

John Ward

I once spent an entire Saturday with John travelling around Scotland on a book signing tour. He is an absolute gentleman and genuinely one of the nicest people I have ever met. John has an incredibly powerful way with words, some will make you laugh and some will make you cry. John is one of life’s good guys and I'm so glad to know him.

Pippa Goldschmidt

Pippa's short stories, non-fiction and poetry have been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her novel ‘Wider than the Sky’ was one of three finalists in the Dundee International Book Prize and will be published by Freight next year.

Emma Barnes

The fantastically talented Emma wrote 'Wolfie', the first novel that my son begged me to keep reading. It’s magical and wonderful. Emma is pretty groovy too. Follow her on Twitter: @EmmaBarnesWrite

Gillian Philip 

Gillian is a lovely lady and fellow Strident author who has written the amazing 'Rebel Angels' series and a gazillion other books. She’s pretty amazing so check her out. You won't be sorry you did.

Linda Strachan 

Another amazing lady, Linda writes for all kinds of genres, including picture books for little ones, non-fiction and handbooks for writing. She makes a mean cupcake too. I once wrote a review for Linda’s teenage novel Dead Boy Talking. I don’t often do reviews so that says a lot about how much I loved it. Her new teenage novel Don’t Judge Me is out NOW!

Fiona Gibson

Fiona is an author and journalist. I find reading her books (Mummy said the F Word, The Great Escape, Mum on the Run) like sinking into a deep bubble bath with a box of chocolates in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Sheer bliss.