Roots

Introduction

This was honestly the story I was most proud of for this year. Dedicated to people who constantly chase happiness to the point you question what it is. This was for the Bridport Prize.

Story

I’ve been back here for four days. As I sit on the dew covered grass, the rising damp sinks its claws into my skirt. My childhood dog, Holly, is enjoying herself more than I. Carefree, rolling around in the grass, staining herself a horrid green that I’ll have to wash off later. Such is the issue of having a white, long haired dog. Frustration fails to take root inside me, however, as she speeds around and around, tongue and tail wagging, happy as can be. I knew the risks. It’s worth the agony of trying to get her into the bathtub later. The cerulean sky does its best to lift my spirits. Fluffy clouds lazily drift on by, streaking across the pristine canvas. They head towards the soft pink sunset, going wherever the wind takes them, and I’m tempted to follow. See where it takes me, away from here. But I am here. I attempt to relish in the quiet, in the pretty picture nature has painted me into. The vibrant green of the trees. The comfort of familiar bird songs. The warmth in the air that caresses my cheek and strokes my hair. The crazy dog that bounces through the long grass like it’s half kangaroo. My stomach grumbles, the adult equivalent of the streetlights turning on. I call Holly a few times before she comes running—her recall really needs some work— and attach her to me again. I leave the field through a thicket only locals know how to traverse, hidden behind a sparse hedge. When I emerge, the beauty of the moment has passed. My mind numbs itself once more. A frown etches onto my face when I notice I’m farther up than I ought to be. I took a wrong turn somewhere. Water has soaked into my shoes, and my hand tingles with the sting of nettles. We’re back on the estate. I’m not that eager to get home, but more than that, I’m not eager to loiter on the street. We pass torn bags of rubbish, seagulls swarming them like birds of prey. The dilapidated neighbourhood centre, with sprawling weeds bursting between the paving stones. The shattered phone box, covered in numbers to call ‘for a good time’. I hasten my pace. At least, I try to, but Holly perceives the world through a different lens: she smells. And the smells here are as interesting as they always are. A small dog in a small world, who doesn’t yearn for the world beyond since she doesn’t know it exists. The city dogs, in their box flats and busy streets and small parks, don’t know great fields exist where they could run freely. I keep my gaze on the floor as she sniffs a lamppost before peeing on it. Laughter wafts in our direction. It’s a foreign sound, instinctively triggering my fight or flight response. I still. It gets louder. Closer. My gaze flickers towards it, to confirm we’re not on a collision course. I identify the source: a lone woman on her phone. Not someone I recognise. I lift up my head. This time, like an insect under a microscope, I examine her: poorly constructed leggings, almost sheer; a jumper with a cartoon reference, cracked, and too short for her lanky frame; white trainers that are not white anymore, one of which is falling apart. In her, I see my mother. In her, I see another version of myself that repulses me, who never got out of this place. In her, I see… happiness. In the life I did not want, that I was too good for, she dares to be happy. She is stuck in this place and yet she smiles, walks with a skip in her step. She pays me no heed as she passes, only smiling at Holly. She laughs again. The last time I laughed, the last time I deigned to talk to a friend on the phone, the last time I had someone to call a friend? I couldn’t say. I’m more than happy. I’ll make friends. Perhaps she has just received good news: she’s been accepted into a university far away. No, she doesn’t look the type. Or, even, she’s won the lottery and can afford to move. Her distant aunt has died and left her an estate. It could be anything. She disappears into a nearby flat block. I turn my microscope to myself: a pleated skirt that doesn’t quite fit; a designer cardigan, with a button dangling off, oversized and hiding the fat bulging out of my bra; new flats that are giving me blisters but are too late to return. My face scrunches in disgust. Four years on and the stench of this place has not quite left me. The poverty still clings on, woven into every fibre, visible if you know where to look. I make a note to do some more online shopping tomorrow with my new credit card. Footfalls echo from behind one of the blocks. I think of my blemishes that refuse to disappear, my curly hair that resents being tamed. When these people look at me with their own inspecting eyes, what do they see, what story do I tell? I need to get off the streets. A few more steps, around a corner, and I make it to the house. Only two stories and yet it looms over me: the greying facade, the patchy roof, the small windows that don’t seal properly. Before you enter, you must walk through a garden depressing enough to deter the pestering slugs, that even the cats won’t do their business in. I slam into the gate, the earlier rain having expanded the wood. How did I forget it does that? I shove it open, and I shove the front door open the same way, barging into a life that is barely mine anymore. I say not a word to my family as I wash the dog and slip into my room. The path to my bed, my refuge, is a treacherous one. This room is no longer my own. The letter on the door is gone, there are patches on the walls from torn down posters, and an abundance of furniture nobody knew what to do with. I tiptoe through the space ignoring as much of it as I can. There are flashes of what this room used to be, and I wonder which of the many boxes certain things have been shoved into. I’m too scared to ask, to look. When I leave this place, I too am shoved into a box to be kept safe. Forgotten. A shaky step, and another. I’m there. I fall onto the bed not bothering to change my clothes. The duvet smells stale, like the cupboard. The smell washes over me as I pull it up over my face, and let it take me far, far away.

“Can you please pop to the shop?” You’d think I’d been asked to go to war. A simple ask, and yet it instils such dread. I’ve been here for six days. I have successfully avoided any not-quite-strangers when I’ve dared to walk the dog. But then I have the shelter of the trees, the hedges and copses that are willing to hide me. Now I must walk into infested waters. Into their den, like I’m asking to be eaten alive. Beside the front door, a reflection looks back at me in the mirror. We each take a breath, giving each other a once over. We decide to throw on a hat. Now we’re ready to go. The sky is overcast, the clouds dark and heavy with rain. Flat blocks loom over me at every turn. No matter where I tread I stand in their shadows. They follow me, box me in, remind me that I haven’t done my time, I can’t leave yet. Far smaller than the skyscrapers of the city and yet I wish they weren’t so tall. I glance around but cannot see the eyes that I feel on me. My shoes are rubbing my feet raw. My curls stick to the back of my neck, my sweat like glue. I’m close. I pass the park, overgrown, with bare slabs of tarmac where some of the equipment has been removed and not replaced. Weeds strangle the barred fence, reaching out, like they, too, wish to escape. A beacon of light in this concrete forest, the corner shop appears. I am pulled into it on a lure of hope: this will soon be over. One of the windows is partially smashed, the green painted trims are peeling, the logo is at least twenty years outdated. The small car park is empty, and I relish in this small victory. I wipe the sweat off my brow before slipping inside. It’s hotter inside than it is out. There’s the hum of an air con that isn’t doing anything. I spy the ice drinks machine standing in a pool of water. In and out. Milk, milk, milk… Fuck. They’ve moved everything around. Why am I staring at the cereals? I’ll need to walk down every aisle. I walk down the back of the shop, glancing down each one. My eyes skim the bright yellow discount stickers on everything, the melting ice cream that someone placed by the noodles, a sign standing in a sticky puddle, warning you that it’s slippery. No, no, no, yes! In my haste I don’t notice the man at the other end. I don’t notice him looking at me. We reach for the fridge door handle at the same time. “Sorry,” I mumble, whipping my hand back with a speed that surprises even me. His hand lingers. He doesn’t open the door. Instead, he decides to utter the very words I feared: “You’re Rachel’s daughter, aren’t you? You’ve sure grown up, haven’t you?” Twenty-two years ago my mother decided to have a baby with a black man. Many people in this old English town had opinions on whether this was a good move. My opinion is that it was a perfectly fine move; the bad one was moving here with that baby. In every school photo, in any group, whenever I walked down the street, you could recognise me from a mile away. You still can, here. There’s no camouflaging me in a sea of white. I take a moment to summon my least painful smile. “Yep.” Yes that’s my mother. And yes, I have grown recently, if you mean horizontally. He still hasn’t moved his hand, and the fridge door is ajar. Cool air leaks from it. A woman in her pyjamas moves behind me, looking at the cheese, permeating the smell of cigarettes. I’m cornered. His face lights up, a satisfied grin painting it. “You…you look just like her.” I absolutely do not. “Say, weren’t you living in the city now? Earning lots of money and living the high life? Your mum talks about you all the time.” I know. “Glad you haven’t forgotten about us, I’m sure it’s a bit slow for you down here.” A pause. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I live there. It’s nice, but it’s not home.” Neither’s here. He sighs. Is he…pitying me? “I hear that. I’m glad my Eric chose to stay here.” Did he choose it or was he unable to get out? “He’s settled down now. I was worried about him for a minute, you know he always struggled in school, but he’s happy now.” Is he, though? “It’s good that the both of you have found your calling.” Don’t compare your loser son to me. I nod dumbly. The chill is eating away at me. The hairs on my arms are standing, and a shiver inches up my spine. It takes all my strength to not contort at the feeling. “Say hi to your mum for me, alright sweet?” “Will do.” I will not. “Nice seeing you.” It was not. He moves past me, not even retrieving anything from the fridge. My shackles have been lifted. I grab the wrong milk, hand over way more change than necessary, and slam my shoulder into the slow automatic door on my way out. I remember ‘Eric’. I remember all of their names, although I shouldn’t. I’ve left them behind. It took him three tries to pass GCSE maths. He once asked if I was Indian, and, following that, if I was adopted. Is he happy? He can’t be. He shouldn’t be. He’s trapped here. If he’s happy here, what does that mean for me? Internally I scream, I scream at the voices to quieten and leave me alone, save their torment for later in the safety of those four walls. I’m close to running. The milk chills my hand. The clouds have been erased, the sky clear and bright. I pass the park again. It’s not so deserted anymore. There’s a quaint picnic by the edge, and a group of girls make daisy chains for each other. They pull out the weeds and thread them together before placing them on their heads. Three young children spin each other on the roundabout, laughing and twisting and stumbling off. I recall that roundabout—if you were to look underneath, you might find the only proof that I once lived here, a faded name written in sharpie. Why does the park look so different? I saw it only a few minutes ago. I imagine sitting down on the lone swing, looking up at the sky until I feel sick. What am I doing? I keep going, rushing away from the sound of a man yelling if anyone wants any ice cream. Back at the house I shove the milk in the fridge and flee upstairs. I’ve successfully retreated. I’m safe, away from prying eyes. I keep mine on the door, to reassure myself nothing has followed me back. I fumble around in my pockets until I find my phone. It’s pulling me in like a magnet, I can’t fight it. I open my social media and type Eric’s name into the search bar. He’s the top result. I spy the ‘add friend’ button, pushing down the feeling of rejection it inspires—he unfriended me. As a stranger, all I can see is his profile picture. He’s smiling. It’s candid. I go back to look at my own. I’m also smiling. Unlike Eric I don’t have anything to hide, all of my posts and information are on display. Where I went to university. The fancy company I work at. The only hidden aspect is my relationship status—single—which is nobody’s business. I take a breath, happy with what I’ve seen. This is the version of me that these people will see, not this person hiding in the dark. It’s good. More accurate, for sure. I spend the rest of the day going through everybody I used to know. Most of them look miserable, as expected. They’ve gained weight. One recently broke off an engagement. Several are looking for work—what did they expect? There are no jobs here. No dreams to achieve beyond popping out a few kids and starting your own holiday home cleaning company. Several are slagging off ‘baby daddys’ and sharing private conversations. Some things never change. My tension eases out of me. I made the right choices, of course I did. There may be seven billion people on this earth, each and every one slightly different, with different goals and things that bring them joy, but none, none, could be happy here. Could they? I pull the blanket over my face again. Two days left.

Today’s the day. The eighth and last. It takes less than a minute to pack my bag; I never really unpacked. I bid my room farewell once more, before handing it back to the spiders and dust. There’s little sadness in the rest of my goodbyes. My family know I’m drifting away, piece by piece. I come back for four weeks, then three, then one, until my presence is like a fleeting glance. I tell myself that they love me enough to let me go. Only one thing pulls me back. Holly, who continues to age even when I’m away. Upon each return she slows, she’s on more medication, she needs a small set of stairs to get up onto the sofa. I give her an extra cuddle, promising her that I’ll come back. We both know it’s a stretch. I let myself look out the taxi window as it trundles along. With a shield between me and the outside world, I take my time, I look a little more closely. We pass a group of young people, one of whom I looked up yesterday—they’ve been desperately looking for more part time work. There are more tattoos than I recall. How can they afford them, I wonder? One of them holds a small child. I do the maths: they must have had it at eighteen. And yet, they’re smiling. I duck down as the taxi stops at the roundabout, and don’t sit up until we’ve gone. We drive down the high street. Here, there’s nobody to recognise me. I look out all I like. There are two more charity shops than last time, and the only health food shop is gone. More buildings are bordered up than not, including the pub I drank my first beer in. The taxi slows to allow a pedestrian to cross. On one shop window, I make out ‘thank you for your patronage’ and something about rent costs. When I arrive at the train station, alone, I’m comforted in the fact that it is unchanged—a silly thing to note, given I saw it a week ago. Nestled in the woods, with a small cafe that still does not offer plant milks in its coffees, and a notable lack of lifts to get you to the other platform—you have to be accompanied across the tracks, never mind the lack of a railway worker to do so. Even when the station is empty there’s the presence, the sense, of excitement. You’re leaving for a better place, no matter where you’re going. I lean into that feeling. I’m almost gone. A bus pulls up, as it does every two hours. An elderly man gets—no, stumbles—off. To my dismay, he heads in my direction. “Do you speak English?” I make a show of taking out my earphones. For a second, I consider lying. “Yes?” “Oh. Oh! Sorry.” He trails off. “Do you know how to get to the south villages?” I explain that he needs the other platform. His train is in forty minutes. He has the politeness to look embarrassed as he thanks me and speeds up the stairs. The bridge creaks under his weight. I shove my earphones back in, turn up the volume, and tuck my brown hands into my pockets. I think of what awaits me in the city. Oaks replaced by concrete blocks. Tarmac roads in place of muddy, overgrown paths. The starry sky supplanted by an orange blur, a cocktail of pollution. My job, which I prefer to talk about, than wake up and do. A flat share with occupants more familiar than my family, but still strangers. A room filled with things, too many things for the small space. The feeling of home rendered to the corners of that small bedroom, which only continues to shrink. The feeling that no matter where I go, I no longer fit. The train arrives and I make my way to my assigned seat. The trees become a smudge of green. It’s raining again. The windows remain dry, yet the water drips down my cheeks. An array of conflicting feelings take root within me, spreading and clashing, threatening to tear apart my mind at its seams. Hatred, of this place that stifled me, the roots too deep to tear out. Gratitude, for the safety this small town provided a growing girl. Embarrassment, of the family that raised me in poverty. Guilt, for leaving them there. Resentment, of my past self, lazy and too fearful of failure to truly work hard and earn the life I wanted. Pride, for the version of myself that exists no more, who stayed strong enough to dream and survive and sometimes that’s enough. Sorrow, for the people stuck here. And pity, for me, who continues to chase a feeling, a place, that may or may not be real.