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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.