Novel sample

We were driving to my childhood home - the house I had lived in until I was nineteen and the home I hadn’t seen in fourteen years. Dylan kept complaining about the old country roads and how bumpy and ill-maintained they were. I didn’t respond to him and let him jabber away to himself. I knew all the signs of his vexation by now - he didn’t even need to speak. The way he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and the way he thrust the gear stick with unnecessary force were all familiar to me. Angela had fallen asleep in the back seat at last. Dylan warned me not to give her that bottle of Coke. The sugar filled her with such energy that we could barely get her into the car. But she had got all that out of her system now, drained herself completely. I should know better, but I find it hard to say no to her sometimes. I think she knows that too - so devious. Like her mother, Dylan would joke.

Fields passed by in a blur like a blended watercolour. Some were brown with upturned soil. Some were yellow with hay and others were alive with verdant green. Like Angela, I was feeling sleepy. The July sun had turned the car into a mobile furnace and my eyelids grew heavier with each passing minute. As I studied my reflection in the window, ghostly in the garish sunlight, my eyes shut. Dylan said something at that moment to bring me back and I jerked my head up right away.

“What did you say?”

“Drifting off there were you?”

I nodded. “Looking after her takes it out of you.”

“And you want another?”

I moved my hand over my pregnant stomach and nodded. I have been pregnant now for six months. The doctor said it was safe to travel and that miscarriage was unlikely at this stage. I questioned him nonstop about it, making sure it was safe. He kept laughing at me and brushing off my questions, saying there was no need to worry. Easy for him to say.

“I know I must be mad.”

“You’re not, we agreed this together.”

“One was hard enough.”

“But you managed.”

Yes, I managed. Me. He didn’t know how hard it was. He used to say work tired him out, but he had no idea what tired meant. What did he do all day? Stand in a lecture hall and talk? Anybody could do that. Try being trapped in the house all day with a screaming baby, the phone ringing constantly with people looking for him, your whole body aching, your breasts stretched with milk, not knowing where anything was in the new house, not knowing anything at all, and just stumbling your way through motherhood. But I’m being cruel. He worked hard too. It was just difficult not to feel frustrated sometimes. There were times when I didn’t attend to Angela. I heard her wailing and I ignored her and stood at the kitchen window staring out it, thinking I had made a mistake, thinking that I wasn’t fit for all this, that I had made a mistake in marrying Dylan and moving all the way to Canada. But I got through it - we got through it. I’m more experienced now and shouldn’t have the same troubles the second time around. But I know I'm being naive, and I’ll have new unforeseen problems this time no doubt.

“I still don’t understand why you wanted to come back so much,” he said.

“I just want to see it again.”

“I’m starting to think the whole holiday was for this.”

“It hasn’t really been much of a holiday has it?”

“What do you expect? We’re in Northern Ireland.”

“Don’t say that - it’s my home.”

“You weren’t saying that back then.”

“I know, but it was different then.”

“I still don’t understand it.”

“I just have to see the place, alright?”

“Alright, alright.”

Angela woke up then, rubbing her eyes and looking groggy.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“We’re close to Mummy’s old house,” I said.

“I don’t like it here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s lonely.”

Dylan gave me a sly smile and glanced to me. Her remark surprised me. There was no doubt a multitude of thoughts and questions zapping through her little mind. Children are much more perceptive than we suppose they are. They pick up on things adults wouldn’t notice, analysing events around them with a rapt sort of attention which only comes from innocence. She was right. It was lonely. I always thought that growing up - cut off from the world, surrounded by trees and empty fields. I was the one to suggest going on holiday to Northern Ireland. I hadn’t told him that the entire thing was just an excuse to see home again.

“I have to pee,” said Angela.

“I told you not to give her anything before we left,” said Dylan, leaning his head to the side.

“There’s no toilets around here, you might as well stop,” I replied, ignoring his condescending tone.

He sighed and pulled over, driving up onto the grass at the side of the road. A bridge was up ahead, the old one we used to sit on while throwing stones into the water. It looked a lot smaller in my mind, like I had put the structure and all the accompanying memories in a compressed bubble, squeezing them down so they would fit in my head. I stepped outside and the air was immediately cooler. The trees were glowing with summer green and their crowns swayed in the light breeze, whispering to each other. Angela hopped from the car and sprinted off without waiting for me. I ran after her and helped her, making sure she didn’t ruin her clothes. She could be so careless that way, she didn’t realise yet that I had to buy her clothes and keep them clean for her. After she finished, she didn’t return to the car and instead skipped over to the river.

“Angela, be careful.”

She heard me, I know she did, but she didn’t respond. I paced behind her, watching her squat down and rummage around in the stones and dirt, looking for the biggest hunk of rock she could find. Dylan watched us with a sleepy gaze, his arm hanging out the window.

“Don’t you want to get some air?” I said.

He shook his head. “I want to be moving on.”

“What’s the rush?”

He didn’t answer me and gave me a defeated look, a look I’ve seen before, the kind of look which says he’d rather not argue with me. He knew I was being obtuse about my reasons for coming back, that I hadn’t told him the whole truth. I hadn’t told anybody the truth, and I never will. It belongs to me, belongs in my past and memory and there it should stay lest it should seep out and infect everything around me.

“You better go to her,” he said, nodding to Angela.

I felt his eyes on my back, peering right through me, judging me. I was getting angry. Even though nothing had happened, and he said nothing I was getting angry at him for imagined slights and aspersions. Angela seemed content and was in a world of her own, hurling stones of all sizes into the river, trying to make the biggest splash she could. I held my arms by the elbows and watched her, studied her little movements and mannerisms. She’s so much like her father. Sometimes I wonder if any part of me went into making her at all. Every time I looked at her all I saw was him and most times that filled me with tenderness. But I admit it also made me jealous. I knew it was pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. I did all the hard work. Shouldn’t I be the one to see the reward? She was boyish in many ways. I wasn’t so different at her age and I didn’t like doing or wearing girly things either. But if she’s anything like me at all, she’ll change.

blue bathing suit i didnt like it warm sands slinking through my bare toes small feet and small hands i was clean and tidy just like a woman should be he used to say and just like mum was and him standing in the water the white sun shining and reflecting off the sea he kept calling me waving his arms over his head his dark shorts burning against the day and us later standing in those same waters he said i looked like a flamingo me with white slender legs i never wanted him to see burned pink by the sun and my paleness illuminated like a glowing star my feet by the waters edge being sucked into damp sands all sticky sounding and picking up seashells to hear the swishing of the ocean within salt in my mouth salt in my nose salt and ocean breath in my ears and the slimy seaweed stuck to my leg crying up by the dunes and me lying down eyes closed the sun on me and warm sands below in the

“Don’t go in there,” shouted Dylan.

I broke out of my daze and looked around me. Angela was in the mud, in the midst of the reeds. Dylan got out and came over to me.

“Were you not watching her?”

“I -”

“Come out now Angela,” he said, cutting me off.

She obeyed and emerged from the reeds, clutching a flower of some sort in her hand.

“Why did you go in there?”

“I wanted one of the flowers.”

“Look at your good dress now,” I said. The hem of her white dress was splattered in mud.

She approached us nervously, the flower shaking in her hand and her head bowed.

“I just wanted a flower.”

The flower was a daffodil. Dylan said no more and stomped back to the car. I really had agitated him. He was usually better at hiding it than he was today. But I could always tell if something was upsetting him no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it,” I said, bending over and mollifying her. “It’s a nice flower isn’t it? Will we put it in your hair?”

She didn’t answer and looked to her feet, squirming a little. The idea embarrassed her, I knew it did, but I also knew she secretly wanted me to pin the flower behind her ear. Already, she was uncomfortable with me being around her and looking after her. She didn’t like me holding her hand in public places anymore - children will let you know when it’s time to stop that sort of coddling. But I wanted it to last a little longer. Soon, she’ll be a teenager and not wanting anything to do with me at all and then before I know it, she'll be a woman and leaving us. Without a word, she handed me the daffodil and I slid it over her ear, the bright yellow complimenting her brown curls. That’s one thing she has that’s mine - my curly hair.

We got back in the car and set off again. Dylan didn’t speak and seemed oddly calm now, like he was somewhere else, thinking of something else. Probably work, knowing him. He didn’t know how to take breaks. His research was his whole life. I worried that his studies, his books and poetry meant more to him than we did, that we couldn’t match the passion literature instilled in him. These were the kinds of things I thought about while falling asleep, all my petty worries and concerns leaking out. In reality, I had little to concern me, we lived a comfortable life. If anything kept me up at night it was the tumultuous kicks inside me and all the tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position since I could no longer sleep on my stomach.

I could see Angela fiddling with the flower in the rear-view mirror, touching it every so often to feel its waxy texture.

my feet sliding through the grass all wet and speckled with dew and the daffodils looking at me little heads like flakes of sun and the morning cold

i dont want to go

but look at your new dress isnt it lovely

i dont like it

we bought it especially for you jenny

i hate that church

itll be over before you know it and itll keep your father happy

i dont want to go

try on the dress at least for me

me in the mirror the white dress with all its loose frills ballooning about me she was right i was pretty but i never admitted it and i just sat there on the bed swinging my stockinged legs back and forth back and forth saying i dont want to i dont want to my stomach fluttering with nerves twisting down into me the church i hated it the dusty smell the echoing walls and the softspoken priest with a kindfaced grace but i went anyway forgive me

We came up to the rectory and I pointed it out, a square mass of grey stone, standing ominous and looking almost angry.
“There’s the rectory.” Shadow of the porch, kiss and his stubble surprising me. “Our house is on the other side of those trees.”

“Those trees?” said Dylan, nodding to his left.

“You can walk right through them into our back garden.”

“Saying this from experience?” Under the shade of the oak where he first kissed me. Under the shade of the oak where I first told him and the smell of rain lingering on him when I hugged him, the sparkling drops fading into his hair like melting snow and we stayed there in each other's arms, nestled between the thick roots listening to the drumming of the rain and I shivered in his embrace and he held me tighter.

I ignored his words. “But you have to drive around the long way.”

“Is that it?” said Angela, pointing to the rectory.

“No, not yet. We’ll soon be there.”

Dylan slowed down. Cars occupied the driveway, it looked like whoever lived there now had visitors.

“Did you know the people who lived here?” asked Dylan.

“The Millers. Back then the minister actually lived in it. We didn’t talk to them. Our fathers didn’t get along.”

“Do you want to see if they still live there?”

“No, just drive on.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just drive.”

He did as I said. Angela had her face pressed up against the window, looking back to the house, seemingly transfixed by it.

“What’s going on there?” she asked.

“A funeral or something,” I said, “it wouldn’t be right to intrude.”

Dylan stopped at a junction. “Go left here,” I said, “the other way goes to the church we used to attend. I wonder if it’s still there.”

“We can check.”

“Maybe afterwards.”

He nodded and pulled out of the junction, going left like I said.

“We’re almost there now. This old road is familiar.”

“Thank God, these roads are getting on my nerves.”

“How did you have friends?” said Angela.

I laughed at her question, not so much because it was funny, but because its poignancy caught me off guard. I didn’t have friends, not outside of school anyway. “I had friends at school just like you.”

“What did you do all day?”

“The same as you. I read books and played.”

Again, I couldn’t help feeling Angela was right, that she was hitting at some fundamental truth about me that even I didn’t know. This whole area looked like it was from a different century, like civilization hadn’t reached here yet, that this was still the domain of tree and flower. It was all so different from home, from the city, from the inner streets of Toronto. It was cooler here in the summers, but Angela wouldn’t know that. Her entire world was still our neighbourhood, our sheltered suburbs.

“That must be it,” said Dylan, pointing out a house coming into view at the end of the dilapidated road.

“That’s it,” I said. My voice was almost non-existent, there was nothing in it, no excitement, nor sign of recognition that this was my childhood home. These walls have memory too, don’t they. They have seen all, the stone hearing, the paint seeing. I acknowledged Dylan’s words and uttered an automated reply, not hearing them and not really being here in this moment. I was in time again across the broken day and I couldn’t do it, just lying there crying with my legs spread out. It’s alright, you’re not the first to change your mind.

Dylan pulled into the driveway, the tarmac being immediately smoother than the road. The screeching brakes broke whatever trance I had entered. The driveway was empty, and the house looked abandoned, with the blinds all shut and the garden overgrown.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here for a long time,” said Dylan.