Truestory Read online

  Catherine Simpson has been shortlisted in the Mslexia Women’s Novel Award and the Asham Award. Her short stories have been featured in anthologies and she has performed them at various festivals (including Edinburgh International Book Festival) and on BBC radio. She was named as one of Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature’s emerging writers in both 2012 and 2013. Her journalism has appeared in The Scotsman, The Herald, The Daily Mail, The Sun and many magazines. In 2013, she won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award for the opening chapters of Truestory. She was raised on a Lancashire dairy farm and now lives near Edinburgh with her husband and two daughters. Truestory is her first novel.

  TRUESTORY

  Catherine Simpson

  First published in Great Britain

  and the United States of America

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland.

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © Catherine Simpson 2015

  Editor: Moira Forsyth

  The moral right of Catherine Simpson to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBN: 978-1-910124-59-8

  ISBNe: 978-1-910124-60-4

  Cover design by Jon Gray, London

  Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore.

  For Tricia, Missed Always

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Hilary Hine who has asked me on a regular basis, since I was twelve years old, ‘Have you written that book yet?’

  Thank you to Sonja Cameron and Jules Horne, from the Open University Creative Writing courses, for setting me on the right path.

  Huge thanks to the wonderful Sam Kelly and David Bishop of Edinburgh Napier MA Creative Writing programme whose difficult questions, spot-on observations and un­wavering support helped Truestory spring into life. Thanks to Stuart Kelly, James Robertson and Rob Shearman, also part of the Edinburgh Napier Creative Writing MA dream team, who gave generous support and advice.

  Loving memories of Uncle Gerald whose legacy paid for the creative writing courses.

  A million thanks to Scottish Book Trust (whose existence, is proof – if proof were needed – that we live in a civilised country). With special thanks to Caitrin Armstrong, Claire Marchant-Collier, Will Mackie and Helen Croney. Receiving a New Writers Award was like winning the lottery, especially being given the opportunity to work with my mentor, Kathryn Ross, who spent hours discussing Truestory with me over cups of tea in the Scottish Storytelling Centre – and who always managed to put her finger on the nub of the matter.

  Thanks so much to my lovely agent Joanna Swainson of Hardman & Swainson, another in a line of straight-talkers without whom Truestory would not exist in its current form.

  Thanks to Prof Sue Black, of the University of Dundee, who gave her advice generously.

  Biggest thanks of all to Sandstone Press and their wonderful team who turned my words into this beautiful book. Special thanks to Moira Forsyth for her sensitive editing and her grace when dealing with my text.

  Thank you to my dad, Stuart, who is an inspiration (and a handy farming consultant).

  Much love and gratitude to my husband Marcello Mega without whom I would never have found the time to write this book.

  And lastly to the two most straight-talking women there are: Nina Mega and Lara Mega, thank you.

  Chapter 1

  I watched my jailor, Sam, all four foot five of him. He was straining with effort and concentration, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he drew a map of our world.

  I gripped my coffee cup. I wanted to smack it off the table, hear it crack and smash and see the coffee splatter all over the kitchen, but I couldn’t because loud noises and sudden movements were NOT ALLOWED.

  Lots of stuff was NOT ALLOWED in our tiny world, including wrapped presents, wasps, flies, cloth hankies, the colour yellow, nettles, plug holes, uncovered ears, boiled eggs, balloons and a never-ending, ever-growing list of other random craziness.

  On his Map of the World Sam drew Backwoods Farm, the farmyard, the barn, the workshop and The World of the Jungle at the Bottom of the Orchard. From the farmyard he drew a lane wending away between Big Hill and The Wildwood and past Wayside Cottage with its row of little gravestones. When the lane reached the edge of the paper he drew a skull and crossbones and wrote in red letters: DANGER: HELL FIRE PASS.

  I forced a smile.

  He’d eaten the omelette I’d given him for lunch after he’d smeared it with tomato sauce to make it red – icing it slowly, meticulously, like a precious cake, squinting at its yellowness through his sunglasses to stop his eyes from burning. Then he’d smoothed out a big piece of paper on the table and run his hand over it looking for lumps, bumps and creases. God forbid there should be any lumps, bumps or creases. Especially creases.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to watch him draw the confines of our tiny world – I’d seen him do it a thousand times and I knew it, every inch.

  I left the house at two o’ clock and not a minute before. That was the deal; I was allowed out for a couple of hours at two o’clock on a Tuesday. I pulled the door to and Bess shot out of the barn, zigzagging on her chain and barking so hard her front feet left the ground.

  ‘Go to bed, Bessie!’

  The racket she made jarred even though Sam wouldn’t hear it because by now he’d be lying under his quilt, tucked in on all sides, his earphones on and his bobble hat stuffed with cotton wool and pulled right down over his face.

  There used to be hell to pay when I went out on a Tuesday. For years he’d beg me not to go, he’d start crying, pleading – the lot. It wasn’t that I was leaving him on his own – his dad did jobs round the farmyard on a Tuesday afternoon to be near and to keep an eye on him.

  That might have been half the trouble.

  Sometimes I wouldn’t go. I’d say nothing and put the car keys back on the hook and feel the walls close in another few feet. Or I’d tell him ‘I can’t be here all the time’. I’d try to kee
p calm, not to let the anger and the resentment and the frustration leak out of every pore. ‘I’ve got to get away some time.’

  ‘Why can’t you be here all the time?’ He’d say. ‘I am.’

  But the last time he asked me not to go my patience snapped. I flung down my carrier bags and kicked them across the kitchen, where they sent a pile of Farmers Weeklies slithering under the armchair, and I yelled ‘For God’s sake, you’re going to kill me, you are. You’re going to drive me into the Royal Bloody Albert,’ and then I started crying – big snotty tears, like a kid.

  When I calmed down I went to apologise. I tried to put my arm around him.

  ‘I didn’t mean to shout, Sam. I’m sorry.’

  But he shrank away, as if he didn’t trust me – as if he didn’t even like me – and I started crying again.

  Later his laptop was open on the kitchen table and I saw he’d Googled ‘The Royal Bloody Albert’. He’d found it was actually the Royal Albert Psychiatric Unit ‘with individual rooms and en suite bathrooms in a Grade 2 listed building, set within landscaped gardens.’

  Put like that it didn’t sound so bad – a single room with space to think, space to breathe, space to be nothing but yourself – if you could still remember what you were supposed to be.

  After that he didn’t ask me not to go into town on a Tuesday anymore. Instead when it headed towards two o’clock he concentrated on drawing a Map of the World – there was a pile a mile high next to the kitchen range – or he hid under his quilt tucked in tight all round and with the full bobble hat and cotton wool routine. Or sometimes he went on his computer.

  But whatever he did I could tell by the look on his face when I got back that he’d been truly terrified of me driving away down HELL FIRE PASS where unspeakable terrors lurked, too terrible to fully form in his mind, and that he’d believed the whole time I was away that he might never see me again.

  I lobbed two carriers into the back of the car and climbed in. I squinted into the rear-view mirror; smoothed the frizz around my temples, examined my eyes, my teeth, my forehead, the baggy neck of my baggy jumper. If I kept my eyes half shut I couldn’t see how old and knackered I looked. Or how disappointed.

  The car stank. The roof had let the rain in and the carpet had gone rotten. I’d chucked it on the bonfire but the smell lingered and I wondered if it clung to me. I sniffed my jumper: fried onions, fried bread and a whiff of bleach from my hands. I opened the window.

  As I backed the car down the yard, the two carrier bags rolled around spewing stuff out. Today I was taking the bright yellow curtains I’d bought for Sam’s bedroom before he was born, before I realised yellow burnt his eyes, before I realised how easy it was to make mistakes with a kid even when you were doing your utmost to get it right. I’d also brought Duncan’s old suit – the one he wore at our wedding – there was no point in having that thing cluttering the place up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him in a suit.

  The car jolted over the potholes. I didn’t look up at Sam’s window. I felt bad enough; if he’d got out of bed to watch me leave I didn’t want to see him.

  I glanced at the garden. It was a tip. The only things thriving were gooseberries because nothing can kill bloody gooseberries. On the yard weeds sprouted between the cobbles, poking through the cow muck. From the shed by the gate a cow shouted. It poked its head out and looked at me. Its newborn calf must have been taken away. It shouted again, a long, sad bellow, like cows do.

  I turned up the radio.

  Driving down the lane I acted like it felt good to be out; I tapped to the music and mouthed a few words. But it didn’t feel good. A sick feeling crept up my throat, down each arm, down each leg. I was a bad person, a bad mother, a monster, driving away, abandoning Sam like that and leaving him to suffer.

  Every week I felt the same and I was right to worry because often I’d get back and find the place in chaos. Duncan would have said something to kick Sam off; tried to make him do something he couldn’t or joked about something he shouldn’t. There was endless stuff that could go wrong when it came to Sam and Duncan. Then Duncan would expect me to step in and make everything right.

  Sometimes I thought it wasn’t worth going out in the first place.

  Except it was. It was always worth going out if I wanted to stay sane and to stay alive.

  I pulled up at the tip. A man was dragging old floor boards from his boot. I grabbed my carriers and climbed up the steps to the skip. I didn’t chuck the bags in, or empty them over the side because that would have been a waste – no, I made the most of it by rolling up each item, throwing it for all I was worth and watching it slap down among the rubbish.

  The man lobbed wood on top of the curtains and I thought that’s right, bury the bloody things. They were specially made those curtains – not cheap either – in what the woman in the shop called a ‘nice neutral colour, good for a girl or a boy’.

  Only thing was I didn’t know I was going to get a boy like Sam.

  I bundled up Duncan’s suit jacket and flung it as hard as I could. The bloke with the wood was chucking old paint tins now and one crashed onto it and the lid flew off and brown paint splattered onto the jacket’s shiny lining and dribbled down.

  I remembered Duncan in that suit on our wedding day, twenty-three years ago. He’d been propping up the bar with his mates, talking about shooting and fishing and cars and motorbikes. They were all farmers and they looked like they’d put their suits on with shovels; too tight round the shoulders, too short in the sleeves, shirts poking out. He’d been knocking back the pints while I danced with the bridesmaids in their emerald frocks. The bright green bridesmaids were folk I worked with in the bank – the type who invited you to Tupperware parties and Pippa Dee parties and every other kind of party: jewellery, make-up, plastic shoes, there was nothing those girls couldn’t sell from their settees.

  I’d lost touch with them ages ago.

  I lobbed the suit trousers.

  It felt good to get rid of stuff. The farm was full of ancient possessions that had never been cleared out because farmers don’t retire and move to the seaside, they die in the job and the next generation steps in. Duncan’s family had been at Backwoods Farm for five generations. Six if you counted Sam.

  I used to drop it at charity shops: tea sets, sherry glasses, gardening books, wool – endless bags of un-knitted wool – and every time I dumped a bag I felt a bit less tied to Backwoods Farm, a bit freer. But I hated those smelly shops with their battered books and bobbly tops and saggy trousers and anyway, after a while it hadn’t been enough.

  Since then I’d been coming here.

  Duncan had never noticed. Except for that jumper his mother knitted him and some plastic shooting trophies, oh and the old jigsaws from when he was a lad. He’d wanted to know where they’d got to. When he asked, I shrugged. How should I know? If they were that important he should have looked after them, shouldn’t he?

  Chapter 2

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  How safe am I?

  Truestory

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.11

  My father, Duncan Gordon McCabe, is firing a gun through the bathroom window. It is 168 decibels, which is 40 decibels above the human pain threshold. In between each shot he is shouting ‘for fuck’s sake’ and throwing things and kicking the bedroom wall. I have been alive 11 years and 10 months and it is the loudest noise I have heard. I don’t know how safe I am in this house. I do not have any ear defenders. I think I may be 30% safe. But that is only an estimate. Estimates are not very satisfying. Because they are only guesses.

  Re: How safe am I?

  Boodyqueen

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Tme: 14.19

  Hey, Honey. Where’s your mom?

  Re: How safe am I?
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  Diamondsky

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.19

  Man, where you at?

  Re: How safe am I?

  Truestory

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.20

  I am at home. I am in my bedroom. My mother has gone away and left me.

  Re: How safe am I?

  Chocolatemoustache

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.23

  Get out of there, Truestory. Call Childline.

  Re: How safe am I?

  Boodyqueen

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.26

  Call 911 honey. A kid should not have to deal with this kinda shit.

  Re: How safe am I?

  Truestory

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.28

  911 does not work in Lancashire. My father has just shouted: ‘My best fucking gun,’ and run downstairs. The last time he fired the gun there was a crash. I think he dropped it out of the window.

  Re: How safe am I?

  Truestory

  Date: 3 June 2014

  Time: 14.32

  He is now in the yard opening and closing his gun and pointing it at the sky. His mouth is moving fast and his face is ugly. It is the sort of face that makes me want to hide under the quilt and hold my breath with my bobble hat on and cotton wool in my ears. I will take this opportunity to go and search for my mother. Thank you for your help.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t want a stupid biscuit, but I chose one anyway, putting it on a china plate with a little pair of tongs.