I was rummaging through my old receipts trying to find some information for tax credits and I stumbled upon my lost novel notes! They have been missing for five years... Five years!
This blog has been on hold for the last four years due to work commitments, a traumatic investigation and court case that spanned over three years that I had to help the criminal prosecution service with and still ended with the victim, (someone very very close to me) not receiving the justice they deserved, the making of Solitary the movie and a debilitating illness that saw me whacked out by brain fog and in a wheelchair for six months last year.
So forgive me if I appeared to be achieving so little, but when I am distressed, I simply cannot be creative. I can still write, but it is usually tomes and tomes of utter misery... That's why I published the poetry book "Hue Am I?" in 2007. It is very much a cathartic anthology to dust away the cobwebs that had been festering on my shoulders Miss Havisham stylee for many years.
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| Its a strong look |
I've been working on the novel in fits and starts, but I was lost without those notes. I had the entire novel structure planned out with content for each chapter, right up to the very last page of the book. I really thought they had been thrown away, never to be seen again.
So, anyway, imagine my joy and wonderment to discover those pieces of paper of such great importance. This year will be my year. Each word written will bring me every closer to the finishing line.
Let me introduce you to Chapter 11 of Never Judge a Book By It's Cover, which is also called "Hue Am I?" Here we look at how Andeline is faced with the harsh reality of life in Britain in the 1970s for someone who has just arrived from a far away land. I very much hope that this isn't how everyone immigrant experienced their arrival into the UK, but this is loosely based on how my I see it through what my own mother described. Enjoy.
11. Hue Am I?
Andeline lay shivering on the floor of a house in Middlesbrough, England. She couldn’t pronounce Middlesbrough properly, so aptly enough, she was referring to it as “miserable.” She pulled the blanket over her body, trying to get warm. Her bones felt as though they had been dipped in ice and placed back inside her skin. She had never experienced a chilliness such as this before. Even the darkest recesses of the spectacular Mulu caves in Sarawak, the coldest place Andeline had ever been, were infinitely warmer than this. This was her first night in England and here she lay, lonely and confused. There was no welcome or family feast for Andeline as there would be for any new arrival to the Kampong from the Bidayuh tribe. She tried to make sense of the events of the last few days. But all she could think of and all she could see was Endal, her fathers’ face. The look of sadness which he tried to disguise with disgust as she told him she was going to England. He refused to speak to her as soon as she told him the news and he refused to even so much as go to the airport to see her off.
Endal was heartbroken. His favourite daughter. His cleverest daughter. His sweetest most intelligent daughter, had wasted her life by not marrying another Bidayuh Warrior. Not only had she married a white man, but she had left the country to go and live in a land of whiteness far away to be with the pop stars and rock stars that his children were always talking about. “Elvish and wok and woll. The Beetle nuts and Loopy Lou… Pah.”
Andeline missed Nayla and little Harold and Paul and all the children she taught. She had had to leave so suddenly without a proper goodbye, without a Bidayuh send off. And now, here she was laying on Martha’s cold dining room floor with a thin mattress and just a blanket. Martha had decided that she did not want Andeline and Harold to sleep together in the same room when they were under her roof, even though they were of course married.
“I will not have that behaviour in my house.” She had told Harold.
“What behaviour Martha?” Harold had asked.
“Sleeping together out of wedlock.”
“But we are married.”
“But you shouldn’t be. It’s disgusting.” Martha sneered.
“I am his wife.” Offered Andeline.
“What is she saying? I cannot understand her. You are lucky I am letting her stay under my roof at all.” Said Martha.
“At the very least, I should sleep downstairs on the floor and Andeline should have the bed,” attempted Harold.
Martha stopped him from saying any more, “Hush now, enough. You must have missed having a proper bed with upholstery, I am sure the foreign woman is used to sleeping on the floor.“ She chucked the camping mat and the blanket down for Andeline as if she were a stray dog she had taken pity on.
“She is used to it, but…” Martha grabbed Harold’s arm and took him upstairs to show him the lavish double bed she had made up for him. Harold reverted back to the scared obedient man that he had always been prior to his emancipation in Borneo. He didn’t stick up for his wife as he should have. Instead he got in to the big warm bed, that would have easily housed them both and rather than feeling guilty about his poor wife trying to sleep downstairs on her first night in England, he quickly fell asleep, enveloped by the snuggly throw and the well stuffed mattress like a soothing hug from a well endowed plump woman..
Andeline’s tears pricked at her eyes, then burst forth, soaking the pillow her head lay on. She sobbed silently, devastated to be so alone. She had never slept on her own in her life. There had always been an abundance of bothers and sisters surrounding her or other girls in her dormitory. Or lately, just Harold. The loneliness gripped her like a boa with it’s prey. The mattress was hard and she just felt completely bewildered. She stroked her stomach, which sported a tiny bump. A bump that contained her and Harold’s child. She tried to pull herself together taking comfort that she wasn’t quite so alone after all.
Harold had been recovering from his gunshot wound when he had received the telegram informing of his mother’s death. He couldn’t cope with the news.
And the only place he wanted to be was back in the United Kingdom. He wanted to see his father and attend the funeral. He convinced Andeline that England would be the best place for Andeline to give birth as the NHS and their hospitals were so much more advanced. There had been a manic ten days in which they frantically gathered all the legal documents needed in order to leave. She hadn’t taken a lot of convincing though as she was excited to go to England and experience the Western world. She was looking forward to being away from the hot sun everyday, she thought her skin would turn paler and she would become more beautiful as a result of the cooler weather. She was looking forward to seeing where the Queen lived and meeting Prince Charles. She wanted to hear The Beatles or the Beetle Nuts as her father and Paul playfully liked to call them.
“Love love me do, you know I love you,” she sang to her baby as she tried to sleep on the floor. She always had someone to whisper to back at home in the Kampong, there was always someone that needed comfort from Andeline and now that she needed comforting, not even her own husband was there to hold her as he should be. Harold was upstairs directly above her, she could hear the vibrating dronings of his unmistakable snore. She contemplated her view of England so far. She had expected people to be walking around in bright outfits singing and smiling like they did in Cliff Richard’s Summer holiday and she thought all the men would be walking around looking debonair in smart city suits and bowler hats with elegant women at their sides, but no, this was not London, this was not Hollywood, this was not the movies, this was Middlesbrough, Teeside, Cleveland.
The sixties were not swinging here, they were trudging along amidst the industrial works of ICI, British Steel and coal mining and the seventies were possibly several beats even further behind still. There were no neat little country cottages or grand stately homes like the England that Andeline had seen in pictures, instead there had been row upon row of terraced houses on her arrival. Slums gave way to the once majestic Victorian buildings that had been destroyed partly by the Luftwafe and partly by the pollution kicked out by the very industry that kept the North East of England alive. Martha lived in an eerie old Edwardian house on Cambridge Road on the “nice” side of Middlesbrough. The stripped wooden floors were choc full of blustery gaps through the vents that lead directly outside, so that Andeline was sharing her sleeping arrangements with creatures of the night, most of which were slugs who were taking a chance on the indoor pot plants and little tiny spiders. None of which really bothered Andeline naturally, as she was used to snakes and great huge spiders, scuttling across her legs in her sleep. This was England in a way that not even many English people would get to see it.
The sixties were not swinging here, they were trudging along amidst the industrial works of ICI, British Steel and coal mining and the seventies were possibly several beats even further behind still. There were no neat little country cottages or grand stately homes like the England that Andeline had seen in pictures, instead there had been row upon row of terraced houses on her arrival. Slums gave way to the once majestic Victorian buildings that had been destroyed partly by the Luftwafe and partly by the pollution kicked out by the very industry that kept the North East of England alive. Martha lived in an eerie old Edwardian house on Cambridge Road on the “nice” side of Middlesbrough. The stripped wooden floors were choc full of blustery gaps through the vents that lead directly outside, so that Andeline was sharing her sleeping arrangements with creatures of the night, most of which were slugs who were taking a chance on the indoor pot plants and little tiny spiders. None of which really bothered Andeline naturally, as she was used to snakes and great huge spiders, scuttling across her legs in her sleep. This was England in a way that not even many English people would get to see it.
Andeline was also used to faces lighting up when they saw her, she was one of the prettiest women in the Kampong and just as so in the city of Kuching, here they gave her curious surreptitious side glances or disgusted sneers. Martha talked about Andeline as if she were not even in the room and Harold was just as guilty of doing the same thing. He seemed to have a total personality transplant, he was nervous and worried and afraid to show Andeline any affection. Andeline placed herself in Harold’s shoes. He was no longer in socks and sandals as he was back in Blighty now, there wasn’t a call for the exposing of feet. But back to where we were. Andeline placed herself inside Harold’s shoes, size nine leather brogues to be exact and considered how he must be feeling. “What must he be going through?” She thought to herself. She knew how it felt to lose your mother. It wasn’t that long ago she had lost hers. Then she quickly realised that not only did Harold feel sad, but Martha must be feeling sad too. People can be quite thoughtless when they are experiencing stress. Yes, that must be it. They weren’t being rude or horrible or unkind. They had just fallen victim to one of life’s abominations. Andeline decided to forgive them both and instead said a prayer for them.
That night she fell into a deep sleep and dreamt that she gave birth to an angel. There were no trumpet announcements or a voice spoken to her from God, she just looked down and noticed that she had given birth in the ominous way that only takes place in dreamland, the baby arrived with a perfect halo and little gold wings like a Boticelli cherub, complete with golden curls on it‘s head, soft fleshy round cheeks like sweet yellow apricots and a far away look of dreaminess that the Boticelli babes always wear. She picked up her baby and held it close to her enjoying the warmth of it’s chubby velvety skin and the rush of love that came with it. Andeline woke in the morning with the dream heavy on her mind, the encounter felt fresh and rejuvenating. The experience filled her with excitement because she believed that her dreams were prophetic, Andeline believed that she was more than just a mortal, she felt special. She felt like a living breathing, modern day Old Testamental reincarnation of someone great and amazing like Noah with his boat or Moses with his stone tablets or Daniel with his lion or David with his humble stones waiting to take on Goliath. She didn’t believe that she was perfect or without sin, but she felt that there was some greatness awaiting her. An expectation, a gift. So she took her dreams and interpreted them into something applicable and relevant. Because of this, she very often got things right.
Her mother had first noticed her gift, when she was a child, eyes heavy with sleepy dust, a young Andeline climbed down from the longhouse steps one morning to find her mother checking the cocoa beans where they were drying out in the sun on the raised platform of the tanju.
“Oh, Sindu.” Young Andeline held her arms up to where her mother was standing high up on the raised platform, the sweet sticky smell of cocoa catching in the back of her throat making her feel slightly nauseated from the perfumed air.
“What?” Namari looked down to her second eldest standing below in a greying old t-shirt and pants, looking up to her with big round brown eyes. “You’ve had the night terrors.” Her face softened, remembering that Andeline had been screaming in the night. But when she’d climbed over the bodies of her other children to look at her daughter, she’d discovered Andeline was sleeping peacefully, bottom in the air, face against the bamboo matting, head resting on her little brother Tok‘s thigh.
“What?” Namari looked down to her second eldest standing below in a greying old t-shirt and pants, looking up to her with big round brown eyes. “You’ve had the night terrors.” Her face softened, remembering that Andeline had been screaming in the night. But when she’d climbed over the bodies of her other children to look at her daughter, she’d discovered Andeline was sleeping peacefully, bottom in the air, face against the bamboo matting, head resting on her little brother Tok‘s thigh.
“Oh, Sindu,” Andeline climbed up onto the tanju to be nearer her mother. “I dreamt that Tok was drowning in the ocean. His face was going up and down in the water, but I could not swim to reach him. I was so afraid. I had a stick but it was not long enough - I was calling for help - but no sound would come out of my mouth and I was waving my arms but they would not move.” Andeline picked up one of the cocoa beans deftly between her toes and examined it in her hand.
“It is okay, Lin, we do not live near the ocean. Tok will not drown.”
“No, he did not drown in my dream. A big fish came along and let Tok ride on his back to safety.”
“Well, all will be well I am sure then. It was just a dream, do not be so upset.”
“But the dream was so strong I can see it so bright in my vision.” Andeline had marvelled.
And would you know it, that very day Tok had fallen into the village watering hole, just out of his depth, screaming and kicking - he flailed his arms and kicked his legs in panic, unable to swim. So Andeline had jumped into the water, but the bottom was smooth and covered in algae and moss so that Andeline slipped and slid all over unable to get a grip on Tok to hold him above the water. Before too long, Namari who was washing their clothes by the noisy waterfall noticed what was going on. She ran to where they were, leaned over the side of the bank, wrapping a root round her wrist and grabbed first Tok, then Andeline by the hair and pulling them out of the water.
Call it a coinci-mental coincidence, call it a miracle, call it prophecy, call it a prediction of the future, call it luck, call it what you will, but Namari began telling everyone that Andeline was special. Her dreams came true. She was magical, a prophet, she had powers that would serve her well. And so, from then on, every morning when Andeline awoke, she would ask her what she had dreamt about. Then she would untangle the meanings to suit her as the days events panned out.
*
Martha drove the three of them in her BMW 2002 TII in silence, except for the occasional chuckle to herself. Harold and Andeline presumed that she was reliving memories and as she was being calm for once, they both chose not to question her. They were heading to the Lake District to meet Ernst for Barbara’s funeral.
Harold watched as landmarks and places of interest whizzed by through the car windows like a silent movie. But rather than point them out to Andeline who was experiencing the country for the first time, he chose to remain silent too. Partly out of respect for his mother, partly out of respect for Martha and partly because he just didn’t feel like talking.
The true horror of his mother’s death kept playing like a show-reel on a permanent newsflash though his head stuck on repeat. Ernst had taken the force of the damage to his legs, leaving them crushed and bound and a bang to the head which caused the concussion that sent him into his eight week coma.
Barbara however, Barbara, his beloved mother, who he hadn’t seen since he set off to Malaysia all those years ago had had her neck completely severed. Decapitated by the truck in front as it’s rear came clean though the windscreen causing an instant but inescapable death for the passenger.
It was this visual imprint that was gauged into all three of their minds that created the bitter torment, the way in which the world could be so cruel which left everyone shocked and reeling, questioning their beliefs in God and wondering what the point of it all was, making every waking moment a tragedy.
