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Adam Thorpe
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train again and aims for
Stevenage at a respectable
lick. She does not want to
be here. London is coming.
It’s
actually
moving
towards her.
She is out of the fenland
slub now. Repeat after
me: she is young, she is
happy, she is Suzie Fowler
BA for Bloody Awesome,
but the great art career
can wait, even her MFA
can wait. She is not a
random person, she is
not Miss Lincolnshire, but
she is, like, Miss Universal
Peace. Time is on her
side, bar catastrophe,
bar something like a train
crash. And (as Malcolm
Harmer would have put
it) you can’t build your life
around the threat of a train
crash. Or an earthquake,
because she is definitely
going to take a year off
and travel the world with
a rucksack, this time.
‘The Arts Festival might be
interested,’ her mum said
over Christmas.
‘What, in my fire buckets?
I thought you were upset.’
‘Send them a photo. Or
a photo of one of your
photos. You’ve done so
many. You never know.
Local girl.’
The Arts Fest? That would
defo be a train crash.
Bunch of Tories nodding
off in the Mozart concert.
No phones in the air,
waving. But she’ll do what
Mum said cos otherwise
she’ll get mardy and it’ll
come up every time.
The girl just in front
has attracted Jasper’s
attention. Shouting into
her mobile.
‘Hey,’ the girl yells, half-
laughing, ‘he was literally
in tears, right? In floods of
tears. Sitting in the corner