Looking to Move On

CHAPTER 1

Crossing the Road

Wrapped in each other’s arms, a head lies resting. The

chest’s gentle rise and fall accompanied by a rhythmic

heartbeat. Hands are stroking hands.

Nearly dark. Two empty glasses on the table. The telly on

mute.

Comfort. Security. Warmth.

The sound of a key in the lock breaks the silence.

‘Daddy!’

Climbing down. Rushing out. Lifted up. Small arms wrap

around a father’s neck.

‘Have a good time, sweetheart?’ he asked.

The head that once rested nodded. ‘We had ice cream!’ she

whispered. A secret pleasure.

‘You had ice cream! Did you save me some?’ he replied.

‘Has she been okay, Mum?’

‘We’ve had a great time.’

A look asked the silent question, ‘Anyone?’

Her eyes replied, ‘No, not yet’.

  

Matt West lifted his hands from the keyboard to reach for

the mug of cold coffee sat on his desk. He liked the way

the opening to his second novel could be misinterpreted.

It reminded him of a song in the nineties by Cornershop

about everybody needing a bosom for a pillow. He smiled

at the thought of strait-laced members of his dad’s church

being appalled by the hint of a lovers’ embrace – and what

may have happened before or after.

A child with her grandma. Some will get it; others won’t.

He wondered how the looks might lead the story. Whose

eyes said what? Who are they waiting for? Ideas trickled,

rather than flowed. The doctor calling about Grandad?

The police saying they’d found… the dog, a child, a body?

The bailiffs? It needed more work, but it was a start.

‘What do you think, love?’ Matt asked the photo next to

the computer. The woman in the photo looked back.

Start. Power. Shut Down.

It was always a struggle to leave for work. The Housing

Association had promised to install a power assisted door

because manoeuvring his wheelchair was difficult. Matt

was glad to live on the ground floor apart from when the

chap opposite left his bike in the hallway.

Shoes secured (Velcro’s easier than laces). Coat on. Bag on

the back. Beanie. iPhone. He loved his music. All the

decades. Aretha. Bacharach. Beyoncé. Billy Joel. Coldplay.

Marley. All on his playlist. All in his story.

The November sunshine was bright and clear and the cold

wind chafed his hands as they gripped and pushed. He’d

forgotten his gloves again. A five-minute push for a fiveminute

bus ride. His strong upper body compensating for

the weaker lower half.

Half an hour from the coast, Eastwood Minster is a large,

busy, multicultural town, its population swollen by

tourists in the summer and university students the rest of

the year. Shops cater for West Indian and Asian tastes and

the increase in Eastern European flavours. A green belt

ensures weight gain from new builds is kept to a

minimum. Parks and riverside walks aid the town’s health

and wellbeing. The 10th Century Minster Church stands

proud in the centre alongside the river wending its way to

the sea.

Locals called the 2B ‘The Shakespeare Bus’ because

sometimes it didn’t turn up. The drivers were usually

helpful: stopping at the raised kerbs and lowering the

ramp. Pushchair wars were a regular occurrence. Audible

sighs accompanied the folding of ones used for shopping.

Matt had got used to it by now but the eyes spoke. ‘What

are they saying when they look at me?’ he wondered.

People often stared at someone in a wheelchair.

Sometimes out of pity. Sometimes out of disdain.

He’d worked the evening shift for four months now. Three

days a week, three hours a day. It was better than nothing

and supplemented Universal Credit. A great

improvement on the 18 months or so he’d spent on the

sick and he knew he’d get a better job one day. It was pretty

much the same every time. Customers came and went.

Some less than ten in a basket, others a trolley full. Matt

had always been a smiler. He’d be the one to cheer up

someone else’s dreary day. He’d be the one to get children

to say ‘beep’ as he scanned. Do to others as you would have

them do unto you. Until someone complained he was

being too friendly and he got told off by the manager.

A First at Oxford. A rowing Blue. Five years at a leading

advertising agency. ‘Marketing maketh the man’, he used

to joke. Married at 24. Dad at 26. Published at 27. Now 29.

A till operator in a pound shop. Not quite the career move

he had planned or hoped for.

Besides rowing, Matt had occupied his university days

with History and English and couldn’t quite get over how

he got in. His calm laid back exterior portrayed an equally

stable and placid interior. No one had ever seen him ‘lose

it’: whatever, whenever or wherever ‘it’ might have been.

With a body honed in the gym and on the Thames, Matt’s

six foot two frame, combined with his natural humour,

scored high on the student likeability index. This welldeveloped

protective layer hid a lack of confidence:

especially where women were concerned. He had tried

and failed, lusted and lost.

It was different with Jo McKenzie. A finals year romance.

They’d met through the Christian Union: described by

many as a dating agency for virgins, as indeed some were.

Jo was a BA Fine Arts at The Ruskin School. Petite, quietly

spoken, her shoulder length, auburn hair provided the

perfect frame for her bespectacled face. Lots of other guys

liked her and for a long time Matt thought he would

probably lose out (again). She hated rowing though:

nothing more boring to watch, she once said. A joint

interest in art brought them closer. He preferred Hockney

and Warhol. She liked Monet and Delacroix.

After leaving the city of dreaming spires, they moved on

together but not in together. Shared faith meant shared

restraint – although there were times when they wanted

to, really wanted to. Jo got work at a National Lottery

funded community arts project while Matt started with

Wilson MacDonald. Designing ads for bus shelters wasn’t

top notch, but it was a start. Renting studio apartments

only ten minutes’ walk apart, Eastwood Minster provided

a convenient commuting base for them both.

Matt’s mum, Janice, a part-time social worker in Adult

Services and his Pentecostal Pastor dad, Des, lived nearby.

Matt was their only surviving child and Jo soon became

the daughter they’d always wanted but never had.

Likewise, Rob and Gill McKenzie regularly welcomed

Matt to their family home: a five-bedroomed detached in

the heart of the Cotswolds. Both in their late fifties, Rob

had taken a severance package from an investment bank

in the City to live the dream of a long and happy

retirement. Devoted to their two daughters, only the best

was good enough and they always gave the best.

Three years after leaving university, Jo and Matt’s

wedding was the talk of the Cotswolds’ glossy magazines

when Des’ gospel choir rolled into the small village

church. The local vicar lamented it wasn’t always like that

on Sundays. The parishioners were less enthusiastic: ‘Just

not Church of England’ they muttered. At least the

organist had a sense of humour: playing a few bars of

Village People’s ‘Go West’ in honour of Jo’s married

name. Some got it; others didn’t.

Once married, they moved in to a cramped, second floor,

two-bed rented apartment not far from Matt’s parents. It

was cheap but it was home because they made it so. Tilly

arrived a couple of years later and, girl, did they know it.

All the things a baby brings and two floors up. Life was

never the same again and they loved her all the more

because of it.

Matt had begun his debut novel about a teenage activist

caught up in the 1950s American Black civil rights

movement before uni. His paternal grandparents had

often told him about what happened in the States before

they emigrated to the UK. Playing Sam Cooke’s ‘A Change

Gonna Come’ on their Dansette record player, their

stories of racial segregation sparked a passion in Matt’s

heart whenever he visited them in the St Paul’s area of

Bristol.

He’d always admired the fact they’d carried on living there

after the riot in April 1980. The trouble had started just

down the road at the Black and White Café – the irony of

the name was not lost on them. His grandparents told him

how they were sat in their home in Albert Park. They

could hear sirens outside and, in the days when listening

to the police on FM radio was possible, they found out just

how close it all was. Very close. Just at the end of the road.

In the morning, the damage was clear. The bank was a

burnt-out shell, as were other buildings – but none of the

pubs. Cars lay wrecked and windows smashed. They told

Matt how the young man next door at number 19 moved

out soon afterwards because of it all. Many were injured

and arrested although no one was ever convicted. It

wrecked the area for a while and his grandparents played

their part in supporting those who rebuilt it. The more he

worked on his novel, the more he realised that racial

tensions had always been prominent over here as well as

in the States. He always knew Black lives mattered.

Study, rowing and meeting Jo had all intervened with

writing the book, though, so when Tilly was in bed and Jo

was out teaching evening classes, Matt picked up the

story’s threads and weaved them together.

  

The setting sun signed its autograph in red and orange

pastels that warm June evening. The book launch had

gone well. The publishers had marketed the marketing

man. Early sales were promising but not yet second book

stage. It was a half-hour walk from Waterstones to pick up

Tilly from Matt’s parents. She always enjoyed being with

her grandma and grandad. Jo held Matt’s arm as they

walked. She on the inside, him by the kerb – ever the

chivalrous.

‘It was good so many people came, Matt. You did really

well saying what you did and explaining about the

background to the book. I wonder how many people have

no idea what was going on in those times?’ Jo wondered.

‘Did you see the man in the bright red coat?’

‘Yeah, I know. Quite something, wasn’t it? White beard

too,’ replied Matt. ‘Shame it isn’t Christmas. You know

what, though, he asked me to sign three copies – one for

his partner, called Greg I think and two for his kids.’

Jo raised her eyebrows very slightly. ‘I wonder what the

kids think?’

‘What, you mean because…’

‘Yeah. It must have taken some getting used to. I guess

they’re very much loved all the same.’

‘And I very much love you,’ replied Matt.

Jo turned and kissed him. They looked at each other. It

was ‘The Look of Love’, as Burt Bacharach and Hal David

called it (or ABC, Matt joked to himself).

‘How are you feeling about your job?’ he asked, as they

walked on arm in arm.

‘It’s difficult to know,’ she replied. ‘I enjoy it but constantly

going from funding crisis to funding crisis is unsettling

and takes the edge off things a bit. The managers are

always stressed and going on about cost-effectiveness and

where they can cut back. It’s almost as if they’re not

interested in what we’re actually doing anymore. It’s such

a shame, really.’

They crossed the road at the junction with Church Street.

It was ten past nine. A bus pulled up at the lights.

‘I’m looking to move on,’ Jo said as they reached the other

side.

The car was travelling over thirty in a twenty zone when it

mounted the pavement.

Jo never felt a thing.

(Those are the first 10 pages of the published novella)