The Emancipation of B - Softcover

Kavanagh, Jennifer

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1782798846 ISBN 13: 9781782798842

Verlag: Roundfire Books, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

B is not a child of his time. As an outsider, he hides his secrets well. Freedom is all he dreams of. But when it comes at last, it is in the most unexpected way – and at a considerable cost.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jennifer Kavanagh gave up her career as a literary agent to work in the community. She is a microcredit practitioner, facilitates conflict resolution workshops and is active in the Quaker community. She has written six books, two of which were published in 2012.

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The Emancipation of B

By Jennifer Kavanagh

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Kavanagh
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78279-884-2

CHAPTER 1

B knew that he had begun to talk to himself.

Although the walls were thick, he was always worried that he might betray himself. So, whenever he caught himself at it, he was careful, just in case some sharp-eared brat might hear him.

- I heard a voice, Mum, I did. I'm not making it up. A man's voice.

- Don't be silly, dear, that's an empty building. Look at it, all falling down.

No, it was all right. No one knew he was there and that was how he liked it.

The building was at the end of a cul de sac: on the corner, really, with a pointy bit at the rear where office blocks from roads on either side converged. So the view out the back was entirely brick and concrete, but with a miraculous dip at the end, revealing sky. He was completely un-overlooked on that side, and had been able to clean the sash window, inside and out, and open the bottom to allow air into the room. This window was his special delight, looking, as it did, on to a light-well into which no human could intrude. It was still: immune, it seemed, to weather of any kind. Prison-like, yes, but a cell of his own choosing and, as in a prison, the smallest sign of beauty was magnified: the stars, a cloud, even a pigeon flying over. And the walls were of old London brick, textured, mottled beige, brown, verging on the black. It was not a space into which direct sun entered – for that he had to go to the front – but it was his own outdoor space. He could, without fear of being observed, hobble to the window and lay aside his crutches, standing alone and naked to the world.

That morning, the flickering yellow light on the wall opposite had woken him as usual, when the rubbish lorry made its twice-daily collection. It was one of the benefits of living in a trading area. That, and the street sweepers: two shifts a day of orange-jacketed men, each with broom, shovel and wheelie-bin. The whispering sound of brush on pavement was often the first sound that roused him in the morning, a sound so delicate – so old fashioned – it was a reassuring reminder of the possibility of an ordered world.

He'd woken, as he often did, with a strong sense of his youthful self. Strange how, no matter how many years passed, no matter what happened, that self-image remained constant. He remembered an old science teacher at school (well, he was probably about fifty, but he was ancient to them) saying: "I don't feel a day older than you lot," and the horror, pity and rolling eyes that had greeted this astonishing remark. What was he on? But, now B, still quite young, admittedly, understood that teacher: B still saw himself as that tousle-headed schoolboy with strong sturdy limbs, pink and blotchy from exertion in his running shorts. Chunky, muscular legs that would bear anything. The act of getting out of bed and meeting the challenges of the day soon reminded him of how out of date that image was.

B had been a pretty little boy with blonde curls that his mother said were the envy of her friends. But he was also a sulky child. Photos of him as young as four or five showed him with a downturned mouth, his eyes usually turned away from the camera, as if in search of a world better than the one in front of him. He had always been wary of photos, felt somehow that the person wielding the camera had some power over him. But the bad temper visible in the photos was not only about his unwillingness to be there, but a reflection of his attitude to life generally. He suffered the tasks imposed on him by his mother to help her – hanging out the washing, emptying the rubbish – with an ill grace. Why me? his expression said. And the answer was always: because there's no one else. Annette was always away; his father either at work or, later on, impeded by arthritic joints. Dad had not complained – indeed he was a largely silent man – but getting about had become increasingly difficult for him as B got older. And B, whatever his inclinations, was strong and capable.

In those early photos, too, B's eyes were screwed up, as if against the sun. It hadn't been until he was about three that they realised that he was not dim but acutely short-sighted. But somehow they had never got out of the habit of treating him as if he were indeed stupid, and he came to believe it. He could not, after all, hope to compete with the charisma of his sister.

His parents were old when he was born – old and tired – and it was not their idea of fun to be faced with a dreamy child who from an early age had had to wear glasses, and whose clumsiness threatened the painstakingly acquired treasures of their home. The only time his mother had hit him – it was like a bombshell, and a traumatic memory to this day – was when he had backed into the spindly little tea table and broken its leg. He couldn't understand why a little table, a pretty useless little thing, after all, should matter so much.

Annette had been twelve when B arrived, and away at university by the time he was six. It was like being an only child. They had never been close. She was bright, charming, frivolous – everything he wasn't – and after so many years his parents had found it hard to adjust to his vague and increasingly sullen presence. Annette could jolly them out of their weariness; he just seemed to add to it. He felt as if he was trapped in a dark corner while the sunshine passed him by.

When his sister was away, family life was pretty dull. The three of them sat at supper with little to say to each other. Between delicately forked mouthfuls, Mother would speak a little about her church activities, what people were wearing, and the escalating cost of food. Dad knew better than to bore her with his work goings-on, and B was usually silent. It was the best option when opening his mouth so often exposed him to scorn or ridicule. The tension as they ate made B long for the sanctuary of his room.

It was only when Annette came back from uni that the place lit up. For days before her arrival, Mother was energised, getting in food that she knew Annette particularly liked, cleaning the house to an even more sparkling shine. Once Annette arrived, the phone rang, her friends popped in, and Annette herself was full of her activities, regaling them all at dinner with stories that felt to B as if they'd come from a distant land.

When he was small, the teenage girls that filled the house terrified him – they were big, loud and unpredictable. Above all, they wanted him as a plaything and, from a very early age, everything in him rejected this role. Annette in particular wouldn't leave him alone. When B wouldn't react to her teasing – didn't really understand it – it was as if Annette had to get under his skin in some other way, so she nosed about in his room: the one thing that she knew would really get to him. He was private; she didn't know what made him tick, and he was very sure he would not allow her to find out. He kept his own counsel: his power was in that. No one knew what he was thinking or feeling. No one knew him, or what mattered. It was a lonely existence, true, but no one could get at him in any way that was significant. When he was about seven, he saved up his pocket money to buy a lock, so that she couldn't get into his private space. It was his.

Pocket money was a God-send. Yes, B liked the feel of money in his hand. But it was not so much for what he wanted to buy – there wasn't much – but for the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Roundfire Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2015
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1782798846
• ISBN 13: 9781782798842
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 138
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar