Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction
My city-boy-turned-country-boy wants us to move but how can I go? I’ve lived here through bombs, heatwaves, riots. Recessions, states of emergency, killer viruses. Nothing mars my devotion. The City can survive anything, and that makes me feel like I can too. My body has absorbed its poisons – smog in my lungs, sulfates from the water – and I’m stronger than ever. Before, I was adrift, but here my umbilical cord reformed, pierced the cracked tarmac and burrowed through the soft clay earth, past plague bones and into forgotten foundations. If I turn my back on it, part of me will linger and I’ll never be whole.
The City was indifferent but now that I’ve rejected it, it holds me in a narcissistic grip. I can hear it whisper, ‘Look at you, you’re tired of life!’ It’s what I thought about those who left. ‘I want an easy life!’ they cried. What they meant was that they want life to go easy on them. Suckers. Others responded like spurned lovers, bitter about the years they put in, acting like they’d woken up one morning and realised they’d been had. You don’t leave the City; you divorce it. A few confessed the City hardened them and they disliked what they’d become (this is the City’s fault, never theirs). True, nowadays my surface – once as pliable as Play-Doh – is as impenetrable as ore, my banter sharpened to a pencil point, my thoughts haloed with the tawny tinge of cynicism. What’s wrong with that? Creatures must protect their soft centres. The City has no time for those who don’t exercise self-preservation. I grieved for the tenderness I forfeited, but I’ve come to like my shiny shell – it doesn’t let any old Tom, Dick or Harry in. And it’s fun to see people admire their reflections in it.
He wants us to move and it’s shown how different we are. He wants to live his life shell-free, as vulnerable as a slug. He wants to “stroll” through fields and woodland and “adopt” a slower pace of life. He’s winding down like an over-used toy. He dreams of open spaces; I dream he jumps into a whirlpool and drags me down with him.
‘We have the wilderness right here,’ I say. ‘Even its name derives from the Celtic for “wild one”.’
‘That was discredited.’
‘What about the foxes that terrorise our cats? What about the parakeets in the parks? Aren’t they wild enough?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about that hare in Beckenham Park?
‘That was a dog.’
‘What about the people? Some are wilder than the animals you’d find in a forest.’
‘That’s partly my point.’
‘The country isn’t liberating, that’s a myth! We have to get in the car to go for a walk. Everyone reads the Daily Mail. Here, we have parks and ryes and commons and heaths.’
‘We’ll be able to see the horizon.’
‘We can see the horizon. It’s right there, behind the skyscrapers. What if we want to eat Japanese or Lebanese? It will be chip shops and pub pies, and you know how saturated fat plays havoc with your gut. If we go out, one of us will always be the designated driver. Our friends will visit and pretend to be jealous, then we’ll never see them again.’
Never never never.
He shrugs. He’s spurned all ambition the City demands of him, and he doesn’t mind that he can’t return. City-boy-turned-country-boy accepts his exile but I don’t want to be cast out. Where will I see a play? Where will I drink chai? The City feels like a mean girl I must keep impressing. What a discordant threesome we’ve become.
My City-boy-turned-country-boy has made up his mind and I’m going too. I must choose between love and life, solitude and distraction, exposure and obscurity. He’s tired of the bustle and cost. He wants to run a B&B. I’ll wake to strangers eating bacon in my kitchen.
‘In the City, no one can hear you scream.’ To me, this is a good thing.
‘True. I’ve been screaming to get out for years.’
In desperation, I take my city-boy-turned-country-boy on a tour. In my most commanding voice, I show how nature thrives here:
But on the heath, we only see single magpies.
And at the Tower the ravens have flown away.
And on the river beach, a humpback whale dies under its own weight.
‘You’re so superstitious,’ he laughs.
The flat goes on the market. I cross my fingers and pray it won’t sell, but we live near a school and a station. I am so fucked.
On moving day, I break two mirrors.
‘Fourteen years bad luck.’
‘You have to stop this now.’
The City doesn’t say goodbye. Our neighbours are away; our friends have plans. No trees fall onto the A22 to bar our exit; even the traffic is less congested. At the City’s edge I sense the air suck away as it slams its doors. On the open road we are defenceless, with only the thin steel of our VW to shield us.
Three hours later, the country welcomes us like a big-bosomed aunt. I don’t want to be part of this club (or any) that will have me, but I have no choice but to yield to its embrace. I’m weary, and I can’t fight for something that doesn’t care if I live or die.
‘You’ll love it here,’ says country-boy, his face a beatific display of contentment. We sit by an open fire in our ancient, crumbling cottage, sipping wine a villager left on our doorstep. I throw their welcome note into the flames. I’m not sure this house is ready to accept us – I suspect it will have the upper hand regardless. An owl hoots, the cats wander around, bemused. I peer through the window into the darkest night and wonder if the expanse will engulf me, or if I’ll become one with its breadth.
I live in Brighton, UK, and work as a features writer for magazines and websites. I’m a graduate of Goldsmiths College’s Creative & Life Writing MA. I write short stories, autofiction and flash fiction – in 2020, I won The Bridport Short Story Prize. I’ve also been shortlisted for the Bath Short Story Award, the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize, the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, and the Pat Kavanagh Award. I was a finalist for the London Independent Story Prize (flash category) and highly commended for the Writers and Artists Working Class Writers Prize. My longlists include the Manchester Fiction Prize and the London Library Emerging Writers Programme. I’ve been published in Litro, the Bridport Prize Anthology 2020, the Bath Flash Fiction V.5 and the Oxford Flash Transformations anthologies, and thi wurd’s Earthly Rewards.