Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

NOT NEAR LONDON [SHORT STORY]

Her degree show included nine empty red fire buckets and nine blurred photos of fire buckets and nine piles of sand and a white porcelain cat on the floor surrounded by a red circle of chalk. Muddled and derivative, was the tutors’ estimation. Unproductive use of your time. When usually they just said wunnerful, well done. For pity’s sake, said her mum, you can’t do this! The external jury gave her a First. Now it was: Your Daddy would’ve been very proud, pet. ‘Shakespeare Country,’ Jasper is saying, scribbling away as the train rattles along. ‘England’s live wire. Much ado.’ ‘Much to do,’ she says,

grinning, overcome with love. He doesn’t hear, even though he is not plugged in to his music. They are now passing loud and fast through a little station that doesn’t matter enough to stop at. St Neots. St Neots. St Neots. Faces whip past above scarves, faces of people they’ll never know. Then the usual mess of retail park and out-of-town shopping and scrap areas of emptiness. Or maybe they are light industrial units, those warehouse thingies. Or offices, because something’s turning in the distance that has fancy windows and brick walls. He’s considering her exposed midriff with lips pursed in thought. ‘Navel.

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