The wall scheme, for example, is one of the reasons I love this area. It’s simple enough: if you have something you no longer need you pop it on the low wall that runs outside the front of your house and someone will walk past and pick it up and take it home – a neighbourhood freecycle scheme. And today I had found a pair of winter boots in my size and a style I like. Which is great because my feet were hypothermic and I have a pair of boots for best but the ones I’m wearing now are a little leaky.
I’d been so desperate to get warm, I had snuck into the mini-mart and huddled against their old Calor Gas heater, the ceramic tiles of which always reminded me of little fox faces. It looks old enough to be condemned but, my God, it chucks the heat out. This shop has stock piled up so high you take your life in your hands every time you enter. It’s owned by Temperance, who runs it – and her son, Innocence – like a totalitarian dictator. Today, Innocence was free from maternal oversight and took the time to tell me I have the face of an angel and the ability to grant all of his prayers. His mother was out the back or his ear would have been cuffed so hard he would have flown across the store. She has Very Firm Views on flirtation and non-marital sex and these days I do too.
When Temperance did appear and heard of my job-seeking, she promised to include me in her prayers that night. That should do it. No shortGentle Jesus, meek and mild, for Temperance, no, that woman hurls up essays to heaven. With her on my side I’ll be employed by Tuesday.
I’ve sent back the money Luisa gave me to live on. I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but it doesn’t feel right taking it, it’s bad enough taking what I had for Chardonnay. It isn’t Luisa’s fault that I am a total screw-up with zero savings and an inability to prepare for rainy days. And she had given me a bigger gift than the money, she had reiterated her faith in me, in the Shakespeare project. I had bravely – foolishly – told myself I would rather starve than take advantage of her offer. Forgetting that starving may actually be a reality and it was not such a sweet thought once the money left my bank account.
Still, I wanted to make it on my own. That she had faith meant the world but I wasn’t going to take another penny from her.
Now I need to work out the best way to secure funding. I’ve been thinking about taking all the info I’ve collated, putting it into an app and making it free, raising revenue by adverts. Ads are annoying but the whole point is to make the information accessible to everyone, especially those who don’t have a privileged life. Kids brought up very differently to my gilded bubble.
I could also look into funding from places like the Arts Council – there must be charitable funding out there for literacy projects – or I can go old-school and go via a bank, but I have a feeling any money I’m given will be because of my name, my connection to my dad. And that I do not want. I know it’s precious of me and I know how lucky I am to be in a position where that is a possibility. I also know at one point I may have to cave, that maybe in this rare instance the product is more important than the process, but if I can, I’ll do this on my own. I want to prove to myself – and to them – that I can make my own path for once.
So the whole of this evening is dedicated to researching funding. My mind slips, just for a minute, from my practical plan into my fantasy dream of raising enough money to go around schools and bring the magic of Shakespeare to those who traditionally struggle to access him. I picture myself walking among groups of kids in a school hall explaining why these plays are relevant to their lives today. Why the Capulets and Montagues could easily be played out on the streets of Easton. Why Hamlet’s battles with his mental health are exactly the same as those faced by young men in the twenty-first century. Why we all need to keep an eye peeled for an Iago.
The smell of burnt lentils jolts me from my daydream. My hippy gruel bubbling on the stove is ruined and the thought of eating it for the next few days, meal after meal, makes my soul concertina in on itself.
Grrrrrrrr.
My phone rings, no caller ID. Yeah, I’m not getting that. Then I remember why my coat is still damp, why my nose may never feel warm again and why I am even contemplating burnt lentils. I take the call.
‘Hey, Belle, it’s Rory Walters here.’
‘Rory?’ Weird. It had been nice to see him yesterday, that familiarity when a face from another era pops up. But I don’t know why he’s ringingme.
‘Yeah, I thought I’d reach out. I wanted to talk to you but it’s a bit sensitive.’ Okay, he obviously wants to talk about Dad. That is shit I don’t need right now. But then, Dad is my dad, I’m going to have to. Duty and all.
‘That’s okay, I understand sensitive. How can I help?’
‘Could we meet up?’
‘Meet up?’ Jesus, duty only goes so far. ‘I … um … I guess so.’ I close my eyes. ‘When were you thinking? Where?’
‘You still living in Bristol?’
‘Yep, I am. Are you staying here too?’
‘Nope, Bath, but right this minute I’m at my mum’s. I was about to head back but if you’re free, maybe we could catch up now?’
‘Now! Do people usually says yes to you in this situation?’ He laughs as I ask and I like it. His laugh is deeper than I remember, full-bodied.
‘Not usually no, but I was hoping you might. It won’t take long.’
‘Okay.’ I look up at the window. Tiny ice balls are now noisily hurling themselves at the panes. ‘If you’re happy to swing by here?’ I give him the address.
‘Is that the street next to the street you used to live in?’ He laughs again and the room grows warmer.
‘Yep. What can I say, once I’ve given my heart to a place, I’ve committed.’
‘You always had shocking taste. Is it still all piled-up mattresses and tyres on fire?’
‘Eh, posh boy, less of that.’
‘Ha. I don’t think so. I’m not the one who had a silver-spoon education.’
‘Just ’cos they paid for it doesn’t mean it was any better. All I learnt at that school was underage sex, not to emotionally engage and how to skin up at an age I should really have still been into horses.’
‘Were you ever into horses?’
