'Still First' by Fiona Linday

It wasn’t until the annoying reversing beep of the mini-bus echoed up our lane that I realised how late I was. 

“No way.  It can’t be time to go already!”  

The fools should come for me last.  But they never listened.   Half the time, I rushed so much that my skirt was tucked in my knickers.  Not the look I was going for. 

Their silly fault anyway, because swimming sucked. 

Mum bellowed, “They’re here, Bronte!”

“You don’t say.” I muttered.  As if I’d slept through Ted knocking on our front door, like he did every other morning, except Sundays.  

So I grabbed my coat and threw my bags down the stairs, where Mum tut-tutted, before passing them to Ted.  

“I’m coming, keep your hair on!”  I shouted.   

From the forehead wavy line, mum was not that impressed.  Neither was I!  Expecting me to bounce out into the black hole she called ‘morning’, as if it was natural.  I caught sight of my awful reflection in the hall mirror.  A gross, red spot blinked back at me. 

Training lately was exhausting, but instead of making a fuss, I plugged into my iPod.  Once on the bus, I got back to day-dreaming, my absolute favourite thing. 

Dreaming of a cool, photo shoot and shiny hair with sparkly make-up. In these designer clothes, posing in a massive limo!  That daydream wasn’t mine, though, it was Emma’s.  She insisted on sharing. 

My dream was far more doable.  It was to qualify for the Paralympics.  And win my race.

I put up with annoying Emma because she was a team mate.  Shivering now, feeling my calf muscles plank up, I yelled, “Give us a blast with that heater will you, Ted?”  He needed to listen, or Ken would be his problem.  Ken was my coach.  

Emma was flicking through a fashion mag.  “Want one like that one,” she said, pointing randomly.

Wondering whether she meant the clothes or the body, I told her, “You should win your races, Em.  That’s how to earn respect."

Emma was angry.  “Whatever!  I wouldn’t mind a piece of the action.  What I can’t get my head round, Bron, is that Dad thinks I’ve actually got a chance of bringing home a medal.  Why can’t he do it, if it’s so important?

“I know!  It’s real abuse, this World Cup training schedule,” I said.  “But we’re the ones with pure talent.”  I laughed, giving her a high five. 

Actually, at nearly sixteen…  All I got was, ‘Do this, do that, more training, bla, bla!’  What I really wanted was a normal life.  This constant hard work got in the way. 

Reality check.  The minibus bumped up a curb.   After the forty-minute drive, we had arrived at the sports centre. 

“You know what my mum said about the Leeds Music festival, last night?”  Emma blurted, as we got out of the minibus.

“Let me guess.  Was it 'no', by any chance?  I told you she wouldn’t let you go,” I smirked.

“She went on about it being too tricky in a chair.  She suggested watching it on the TV!  Get real!  I told her I’ll suss it out for myself.  No probs!”  

We continued up the ramp towards the Olympic-sized Loughborough Uni pool.  Going through the double doors, Emma said, “It’ll be fantastic, camping.”  Then she went scooting off ahead. 

“Whatever!”  I shouted after her.  “The music might be okay, too!” 

Her issues were nothing, compared to my kid bro Shane.  I knew that he kept skipping school and was sure that he was hiding things in his room.  He needed proper sorting.

Then undressing was crap.  I was alright getting into the pool, diving down into freedom.  The water was the place I could move easily, with no rules.  

Muffled instructions came from Ken as I loosened off with some dolphin impressions.  Not the fastest.  He made me feel guilty, bitching about 'giving a damn about the Paralympics'.

My mate Dominic was watching.  He had already been chosen for the GB medley team.  He encouraged me to do laps, after the boring warm-ups.  Thirty laps on my front, thirty on my back and then a good hour alternating.  In the best lane, at the edge of the pool, humming ‘Simply the Best', I was winning.  Emma, struggling in the next lane, had her physio working on her bad leg.  Looked painful, judging by her face.

“Go for the cross on the tile,” Ken shouted.   Timing, using passing points, kept me focused on a medal.  Needing to stay in the ‘can do’, avoiding getting panicky, because that set off pain. 

It was alright me planning adventures, when I had a date coming up I’d rather miss - going back to the dreaded Botox ward.  Me, having Botox, next to big-headed girls waiting for boob jobs.  Wounded, mine was free!  But mine was going in my legs, to make them sturdier. 

My coach said that the session went okay, despite my chilled muscles.  Although my legs felt well heavy, my physio, Laura, didn’t need to do much.  I heard the words ‘personal best’, making me happy.  I did okay today.  Ken was trying to thrill me with talk of World Cup qualifiers - meaning tighter training schedules. 

Getting dressed, again, without totally freezing, I thought about easier options.  As we counted down to big events, the training went crazy.  That explained why my constantly frizzy hair smelled of steaming chlorine. 

I asked my mate Joe how his session went.  Going past a group of giggly, high-pitched girls made me glad it was my legs that struggled, not my brain.  Unfortunately, my brain didn’t turn my legs on instantly, like those lucky dolls.  

I tried to persuade waves of feeling to go further, down to my feet.  Laura helped by showing me how to build up those muscles.  Clever really, programming my body by stimulating my brain to increase its signalling response. 

I scribbled a note to buy more hair gel.  All before eight in the morning.  As I arrived at school, most of my mates had just started on their day!

As I rushed to my lessons, some lads asked how it went in the elite squad.  I didn’t tell them much.  One of Shane’s mates shouted, “Where is he then, your bro?”  I just shrugged.  He had done several dodgy things lately.  Sister’s duty though, wouldn’t tell. 

Lovely Simon met me for lunch, asking how the session went.  “Average,” I said, looking for appreciation.  Then, “My backstroke’s getting stronger.”

He nodded, trying to have a clue, and said, “Good!”  

“Freestyle’s my best chance,” I told him.  Explaining the drill Laura always gave me.  Being the best that I could be, educating my muscles.  'Then you’re using them, not losing `em!’ 

Simon, creeping, said, “You’re perfect to me.” 

As we arrived at my house, Shane dared me to an arm wrestle, having all that surplus energy.  “Give us a break, I’ll only win!”  I said.  Si gave off negative waves.  Shane slammed his door. 


Recently, his den had weird foul pongs oozing out.  Also, he’d gone loner-ish… Twenty-four seven attached to his Playstation ‘Call of Duty’ games and then out cold, all day. His curtains never opened.

“He’ll grow out of it,” Si said. 

I hoped so, missing the old bro. “Good luck, Metal Muscles,” he shouted.  


Maybe if I won a trophy, it would cheer him up.

So I kept pushing my body until it hurt, then Laura fixed me when I was broken.  Not so easy for Shane, who needed his head fixing.

When I got back from the next final heats, Dad answered the phone, smiling.  From where I was crashed, I heard ‘qualifiers,’ so I knew it was Ken.  

I heard my dad say, “We were due some good news!”  Then, he shouted, “So Bron, when were you going to tell us about making the G.B. squad?”

Mum had the same grin.  “I knew you could do it, love,” she said.  “That’ll mean some better funding.”  Then she got on the mobile to Gran.

“You make it sound amazing,” I said.

Dad was dancing around our lounge.  “You’re on the way to London 2012, young lady!  We'd better get those tickets,”

But I was still thinking about Shane.  I bashed his bedroom door, shouting, "You need to help me to get to the Paralympics Freestyle, Shane.  I CAN’T DO IT WITHOUT YOU!”

***

Fiona Linday - Biography

After nearly 20 years supporting pupils with physical and other additional needs, I decided to write 'Still First', to try to empathise with  the tremendous sporting efforts of young Paralympians.

 
A few years ago, I embarked up a Certificate in Creative Writing at Lancaster Uni.  After volunteering in a day hospice and child bereavement centre, I’ve written a young adult novel covering the issue of family bereavement, called, ‘Get Over It!’  The novel has been published as a short run with Onwards and Upwards Publishers.

This follows publication at www.therecusant.org.uk of a short piece called ‘Off the Beaten Track.’  This story raises awareness of the plight of teens suffering abuse in Eastern Europe and is aimed at 14+ age group, challenging attitudes to gypsies.  This year, I performed 'Off the Beaten Track' at the Arts 4 Human Rights TransEuropa Festival in Shoreditch. 

I wrote an article for the summer 2010 issue of Writing in Education magazine, detailing my successes in primary school encouraging creative writing during lunchtime sessions.

At present, I’m busy writing a second YA novel, again set in a contemporary setting, called Back and Beyond.

See my website www.fionalinday.co.uk and tweet me @ukfl.

***

If you have a YA story you would like The Red Telephone to consider for publication, contact Ollie - admin  [at] theredtelephone [dot] co [dot] uk.

If you have written a YA novel, or have one in progress, our 2011 YA novel competition is now open.  More details can be found at http://theredtelephone.co.uk/2011YANovelCompetition.aspx.

Interview with Michelle – Clover Hill Books

In the first of our soon-to-be regular Featured YA Blogger posts, Danielle Rose caught up with Michelle, the brains behind Clover Hill Book Reviews.

Have you always been an avid reader?

I've always loved reading and am well known for the being the bookworm in our family - although I'm now competing for the title, as our eldest also loves reading :)

What made you want to start a blog?

I came across another book blog and was intrigued. As I read a lot of books, I thought it would be a fantastic way for me to record what I've read, as well as my reaction to the book - banishing the accidental "I've read this before" feeling which I'd had previously! So it's a great way to prompt me to read more from authors I like, find new authors and also reminds me which titles in a series I have already read.

What do you think makes a great YA book?

A solid plot, complete with a dash of romance, suspense where needed and hint of something more.  I love books that make you sit up and take note - those that entice you to want to read more... either from the same author, or in the same series.  Characters I can empathise with, or wish to be... and enough of a storyline to get my teeth into :)

What are the best YA books that you have reviewed so far?

So far I'd have to say Dark Life by Kat Falls, Haunting Violet by Alyxandra Harvey and Jenna Burtenshaw's Wintercraft and Wintercraft: BlackWatch are top of my YA best list. 


I review more than YA alone, so there are other genres and authors who are up there.

And what are your favourite YA books of all time?

Dark Life by Kat Falls comes top of the list.... If I had the time, I'm sure Stephanie Meyer's books would be there as well, since I've seen the movies over and over... but I've only read one or two of the books, as they are rather chunky!

Do you see e-books as the future, or are you still in love with good old paper copies?

I've got mixed feelings about this.  I love the smell and feel of actual books... but they take up so much room in comparison with ebooks!!  I'm a clutter person...and books can fit into that category sometimes. 


That said, the first (and, sadly only) e-book reader I had froze on me and wouldn't reboot, so got returned... I gave up with that idea after I lost my place in a rather large book which isn't out in paper form... so if anyone wants any e-book readers reviewed, I'd put it through its paces.  I did read on my Android for a while, but the screen is too small.  For now, paper copies will live on :)  


As for e-books... I love all the new ideas that publishers are coming up with.  Not only can you read an e-book, but if you're lucky enough to have an iPad, there are some fab interactive books out there for families and individuals alike.  So reading and bringing life to books is more accessible to those with the means.

When did you start working as a copyeditor and what has been your favourite project so far?

I started in December 2010. My favourite project has been working with a German client who has a global company, mainly changing all their documents, promotional material and website so that they are grammatically correct and suitable for their target market here in the UK.

Huge thanks to Michelle for taking part in the interview!  If you would like to be a featured blogger on The Red Telephone, please contact Ollie (admin [at] theredtelephone.co.uk).

Interview with Alex Smith

Danielle Rose caught up with talented teen author Alex Smith, whose debut YA romance Calling For Angels is out now on The Red Telephone.

What would you say to someone who wants to write a novel?

Go for it!

I loved the characters of Em and Catlin in Calling For Angels.  Did you base the characters on people you know?

No, but certain traits from people I know may have crept in.

In the novel, you write from two different points of view.  Was this a conscious decision and why did you choose to do this?

I felt it was the best way to write the novel.

The novel has a great ending.  Did you always know how the novel was going to end, or did the plot develop as you wrote it?

Whenever I write a story, I always have alternate endings in mind, so usually the story will naturally flow into one of them.

Em loves books.  Is this a reflection on yourself and is this why you started writing at such a young age?

I do love books, but writing is something I’ve always done.

Which books have most influenced you?  Or if you had to choose, which author would you like to be your mentor?

At the time [when I was writing Calling For Angels], Cathy Cassidy’s books influenced me.

If you had a reading group, which books would they be reading and why?

P.G Wodehouse and John Wyndham.  Wodehouse because his books are some of the funniest I’ve read and Wyndham because I feel his books are much more than just science fiction.

Which book are you reading now?

At the moment I’m reading ‘August’ by Bernard Beckett, which I’m reviewing for the Guardian Children’s’ Books Website.

'A Walk In The Woods' by Marie Godley

A yowl of pain echoed around the trees, followed instantly by a long, low moan.


Suraya crouched down behind the bush, her heart beating wildly, the sweat glistening on her forehead.  The trees seemed to be both friend and foe.  True, they were helping to shield her, but they were hiding something that she feared, too.


Suraya had wandered through these woods collecting herbs and plants all her life, until a year ago, when her mother had forbidden her to enter them anymore.  She usually obeyed, but today, because she was late, she had taken a short cut.

Her mother had a tendency to over-react whenever Suraya was late home.  The shrieking got rather loud; you’d think Suraya was seven, not seventeen.


Suraya wanted to run, but she wasn’t sure where the noise was coming from.  I really should have listened to mother, she thought. Then, I didn’t think I would ever find myself thinking that.


Suraya shook herself.  She needed to concentrate.  

She inched forward, listening carefully for any response to her movements.

The wood was eerily, unusually silent.  People thought of the woods as quiet, scary places, but really, they were always full of the sound of birds and insects.  Except for today.  

Suraya moved again - nothing.


She risked getting to her feet as she reached the cover of a tree. She peered round the rough trunk, her hands clasping it tightly. Bravery took over and she moved forward, one foot at a time, leaping if her feet happened to crunch on a leaf, or snap a twig.  Suraya was beginning to think that she had managed to avoid whatever creature had made the distress call, when she heard a muffled noise coming from behind the ferns in front of her. 

She froze to the spot.


But instead of running away, or remaining in cover, Suraya dropped to her hands and knees and started crawling towards the noise.  Her heart, already racing, seemed to get so loud that it cut off any other sounds.


Suraya’s nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by an unrecognisable stench.  She held her hands to her face.  Luckily, they were fragranced by the herbs she had been picking and she breathed the scent in deeply.  Then she took her hands away and parted the ferns.


As soon as she had wriggled through them, she stopped dead.


Lying prostrate before her was a werewolf.  His shaggy fur was matted by mud and sweat and when she looked closer, she saw blood.  For there, sticking out of his arm, was an arrow.


Suraya was about to turn around and crawl away when the fur began to turn hazy.  The creature’s human features, skin and dark hair tried to form, but were instantly lost again as its wolf side re-emerged. 

Suraya sat up shocked as the human features again started to flicker before her.  He was human only for a moment, not long enough for Suraya to discern his identity.  For that, she was thankful, because she knew that if she found out who he was, she would be in danger.


She knew she should leave him there, but she couldn’t do it.  She had never left so much as an injured animal without trying to help it and she wasn’t going to turn her back on what she saw as a human, even if the stories said that werewolves were monsters.


Suraya cautiously moved alongside the body of the werewolf.  He was panting hard and writhing in pain.  She was momentarily taken aback as the earthy brown fur changed to skin, then back again.  

The only wound that Suraya could see was made by the arrow.  It didn’t look that bad and was only in his arm, yet it seemed to have driven him to the brink of death.


Suraya reached towards the arrow, but then hesitated.  Although the stories said that werewolves were able to heal themselves, that hadn’t happened so far, so she decided she would need to clean the wound.  She searched in her bag until she found a flask of water, some herbs and a bandage.  She closed her bag up and rested the things she needed on top of it, within reach. 

Suraya once again reached for the arrow.  She placed her hands on the wooden shaft and pulled.  The arrow came away in her hand and the werewolf let out another long howl.  

She placed the arrow on top her bag, opened the flask and poured water over the wound. Next she applied herbs, before winding a bandage around the werewolf’s arm.


Suraya sat back on her heels.  The werewolf lay still.  His breathing was still fast, but it seemed to be slowing down and he was no longer shifting towards his human form.


Suraya studied the arrow.  The wooden shaft had a metal head, which appeared to be coated in silver.  That would explain how the werewolf had been injured.


It was common knowledge from the elders’ stories that silver killed a werewolf, but it seemed that whoever made this arrow didn’t have enough silver to make a complete arrowhead. so they had coated an ordinary one.  The end result had badly injured the werewolf, causing him to shift constantly between forms and rendering him unable to heal himself, but it hadn’t been powerful enough to kill him.


Suraya stiffened as the werewolf opened his eyes.  He caught sight of her and opened his jaws, a low growl rumbling out of him.  She held her hands up and then wished she hadn’t been so stupid; they were streaked with his blood.


He sniffed at her hands, baring his teeth, then his eyes focused on the bag with the arrow and flask of water sitting on top of it.  He flexed his arm, his eyes first focusing on the bandage, then returning to her face.


Suraya was holding her breath.  The werewolf got to his feet and moved behind her.  His paws hit her in the back and she found herself held face down in the ferns.   He growled menacingly. Suraya was shaking, the fright threatening to send her into blissful darkness as the dizziness that preceded a faint began to overtake her.


She was brought back from the edge by a popping sound close behind her and the release of pressure from her back.


“Get up,” a hoarse voice instructed her.


Suraya rose unsteadily to her feet.


“Thank you for saving me.”


The unexpected words shocked Suraya and without thinking she looked at him.  The werewolf was covered in a cloak, its hood concealing his face.  Suraya told herself she should be grateful that she still didn't know his identity.


“Keep quiet. You’re coming with me.”


The werewolf led the way, suddenly taking her hand to pull her along faster.  Suraya found that instead of feeling frightened, the feel of his fingers curled around hers made her feel safe.  She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she realised that wherever it was, she no longer felt scared.


Maybe she should have been.

*****

Marie Godley lives in Christchurch, Dorset with her family.  When not writing, she can usually be found walking along the beach, or in the New Forest. 

Her book Time Slide, published in 2010, is a time-travelling adventure for 6+.  Her next book, for 12+, is due out in 2011.

www.marie-mariegodleybooks.blogspot.com / www.mariegodley.moonfruit.com

'Disconnected' by Danielle Rose

Jade stirred, her deep sleep broken by the sound of music echoing through the wall.  It was nearly midday.

She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.  The music was angry and fast, the sharp lyrics spitting from the speakers like shards of glass.

“Morning, Kat,” she whispered.

A peculiar mixture of excitement and sickness danced in her stomach. A night out with her new flatmates, her best friends - it was just what she wanted, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous. The smell of burnt toast wafted in under her door, making her feel sick.

She splashed her face with cold water from the sink, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.  She wiggled her feet into a pair of pumps, grabbed her keys and shoved two pound coins in her pocket.

Outside, the air was cold and smelled of pollution.  She pulled the sleeves of her top over her hands and began running.  Jade loved running and she was good at it, too. She ran nearly every day and she liked to do it alone.  She liked to run so fast it hurt.  She liked to feel her muscles tremble as she concentrated hard on not tripping over her own flailing feet.

She ran along the main road, away from the university campus and the halls of residence.  It didn’t matter where she was going, as long as she was moving quickly.

After fifteen minutes, she entered through the big iron gates of a memorial park.  It seemed far removed from the busy streets that surrounded it.  Jade ran around the park eight times before sitting down on a bench.  She let out a gasp of pain as she bent over to ease the stitch in her side.

With her heart still beating hard against her ribs and the muscles in her legs twitching, she walked the long way back to her flat, stopping on the way to buy a burger from a van on the side of the road.

Back at the flat, everyone had woken up and music blared from all three occupied rooms.

Jade went into her room.  She thought about putting some music on too, but she couldn’t decide what to play and anyway, she liked listening to everyone else’s music, like a mixtape.

Jade got in the shower, letting the warm water relax her muscles. She let her mind wander and found herself remembering the look that Kat had given her in the kitchen, sharp, like the music she listened to.  Jade knew that Kat didn’t believe her and it made her feel funny.  Nobody else doubted her, but something in Kat’s eyes made Jade feel exposed.

She thought about Chloe and her plain face with its blank expression and Mark, looking bemused and dopey, but most of all she thought about Kat and the pretty pictures that adorned her arms.  Naked and wet, Jade stood in her room, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the heater.

Bang.

She jumped and swallowed sharply at a knock on the bedroom door.

“It’s me, let me in,” Kat bellowed from the hall.  “I’m going to the shops. Do you want some drinks for tonight?”

“I’m naked,” Jade said.

“Put something on then.”

Jade grabbed her duvet, wrapped it around herself like a toga and shuffled to the door.  Opening it a little, she peered out.

Kat was standing in the hall, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.  Her hair was tied up to reveal silver piercings running along the top of each ear.  A silver stud protruded from each of her cheeks.

“Drink?”  Kat said, holding out her hand.

“Yes please.”

“What do you want?”

“What are you getting?”  Jade asked.

“Whiskey.  Why?”

“I’ll have that too.”  Jade said

“Really?”  Kat laughed.  “We might as well share, then.  I don’t want you chucking up on me, do I?  Give me some money - a fiver will do.”

Jade smiled and waddled awkwardly to her bedside cabinet.

“I don’t have it,” she called out.  “I’ll have to go to a cash machine.”

“Just leave it, I’ll pay.  Buy me a drink later or something, yeah?”

“Thanks,” said Jade.  “I owe you.”

“It’s all right, just get dressed.  You can tell you’re cold,” Kat smirked, nodding at Jade’s arms, which were covered in goose pimples.  “Do you want anything else?”

“Can you get me some crisps? I’ve been out running and I’ve only had a burger all day.”

“Sure.”

For a moment they stood in silence.  Then Chloe’s sickly sweet singing voice began to filter into the hall.  Kat grinned at Jade.

“Right, I’m off.   I’ll see you later,” said Kat.

Jade was left alone in her room.  Her best friend was out buying drink and she had to get ready quickly.  She already knew what she was going to wear.

She put on her underwear and some tight black jeans.  Next she found an old grey vest top that she’d bought to go running in.  It was baggy and her bra was visible at the front and back.  She wouldn’t have normally worn this kind of thing out, but she liked the way Kat dressed and wanted to replicate it as closely as possible.

She slammed the plug of her hair dryer into the socket and began tackling her mane of hair.

By the time Jade had dried her hair, Kat had returned from the shops.  Jade heard her stomp through the door, bottles clanking together as she made her way to her room.

Jade knocked on Kat’s door.

“Come in,” Kat shouted.

“Did you buy me some crisps?”

Jade walked in, inhaling the thick aroma of incense and smoke that filled the room.  She was mesmerised at its transformation.  From skirting board to ceiling, Kat had turned her room into a colourful mass of posters and not an inch of magnolia was left to be seen.

“Wow, your room is amazing.  Aren’t you worried they will make you take it all down when we have a room inspection?”

Kat shrugged. “Here.”  She threw a packet of crisps in Jade’s direction.

“Who are they?”  Jade asked looking at the posters.

“Models, mainly, and bands.  You see that girl there?”  Kat pointed out a picture of a tall, busty, tattooed woman with long dreadlocked hair, wearing a sailor costume.   “She’s Lola Eternal. She’s a model.  Thirty-four piercings and nearly a full bodysuit of tattoos.”

Jade saw that there were pictures of Lola all over Kat’s room.

“Poisoned Heart are my favourite band,” Kat said pointing to a poster of three morbid looking men.  “I’ve seen them twelve times and I’ve met them.  Look.”  Kat pulled up her top to reveal a leopard print bra and a tattoo on her ribs.

“What’s that?”

“Jason Bruno’s autograph.  I got it the night I met him.  My friend inked it the day after.”  Kat grinned and covered herself back up.

“You must really like him?”

“It’s the whole band.  I love them, their songs, their music.  You must relate?  You must love music - I mean, being in a band, you must?”  Kat laughed.

“Y-yeah, I do love music," Jade stuttered.  I mean, I was more in love with music when I was in the band.”

She could feel Kat’s eyes burning into her, making her blush.   She turned and walked to the door.

“Anyway, I’d better go put some make-up on.   I’ll see you in a bit. Chloe has cards for drinking games.”

“Don’t lie,” said Kat.

“I’m not. She does have cards.”

“About the band.  Don’t lie.”

Jade clung on to the door.  “I’m not.”

Kat just shook her head and smiled.

Jade scurried to her room and flung herself onto her bed.  Her insides flipped and her head burned red hot.  She opened the crisps and ate them quickly, hoping they would settle her stomach.

“I’m not,” she whispered to the adjoining wall. 

“How do you know I’m lying?” 

'Eternal Summer' by Alex Smith

Summer days always drift by in a soft, dreamy haze.  They slip through your fingers before you’ve had the chance to enjoy them.  

This summer day though?  I’m making sure I enjoy every single second.  I want it to be perfect.  I squeeze my eyes shut and, reptile-like, I let my skin absorb the warmth of the sun’s rays.

Despite the warm weather, my walking boots are smothered in mud and my jeans are flecked with dirt.  I open my eyes and gaze out on a view that’s so eerie it takes your breath away.  

Water in the sunlight is the most beautiful thing.  The intricate patterns of the ripples, that gorgeous glow the water gives.  Look at the right angle and you can see every colour imaginable.

           

I guess you’re wondering what a fifteen year-old girl is doing, standing on her own staring at water?  Well, I’ve been set a summer project and it's got to have something to do with wartime Britain.  So I’m studying Ladybower Reservoir and the Derwent Dam; from the time both were created, when the villages of Derwent and Ashopton were mercilessly drowned, right up until the time of the bouncing bomb.  Ever since I first saw the reservoir, I was entranced by its mysterious, eerie beauty.  There’s something about it that captivates me.

I swing my backpack off my shoulders and sit down on a bench.  I yank out a tatty sketchbook, a pencil and a rubber.  Staring out across the water, I search for inspiration and hope my artistic skills can do justice to the scene.

I begin to make soft feathery marks on the page, drawing one of the most famously eerie scenes ever. Derwent Woodlands Church emerging out of the water, a ghost, a mere whisper of the past.  Of course today, in 2009, I have to draw this from pure imagination.  The church clock tower was knocked down sixty-two years ago.

Maybe it’s the story of the drowned villages that makes the place so fascinating.  Or maybe it’s the other strange tales that surround the place.  I've heard that sometimes, you can still hear the church bells ringing and on the internet last night, I found a news story about a girl who vanished here almost sixty years ago.  Apparently, this girl simply walked out into the reservoir and vanished.  No body was ever found.  She was no older than me.  I shiver, feeling suddenly cold despite the sunshine. 

I carry on with my drawing, lightly sketching a rough outline.  Curious walkers peer at me as they stroll by.

“Shoot.” I sigh as my rubber rolls lazily off my page and bounces onto the path.   I go to pick it up without looking and end up cutting straight across someone's path.

“Sorry!”  When I straighten up, I meet a dazzling pair of eyes, which are widened in shock.

“Th-that’s okay,” he stammers, staring at me like I’ve just dropped from the moon. 

I regard the boy curiously.  He’s different to any other boy I have ever seen.  He must be around the same age as me, maybe a little older. 

All the boys I see back home look exactly the same.  Same skin-tight jeans, same hair they’ve spent hours on to get the just-got-out-of-bed look, the same carefully placed 'do-I-care?' look.  But this boy's chestnut hair is neat and short, giving him a clean, wholesome look.  His clothes are vintage, classic-look and he carries them off effortlessly – a brown v-neck pullover, with the collar of a white shirt peeking out.  Unlike all the other clones that are teenage boys, he’s not wearing jeans, just these dirt stained trousers.  I idly wonder if he’s on a school trip, maybe.

“Drawing, are you?” He asks me as he pulls himself together, nodding at my pad on the bench.

“Yeah, school project,” I tell him.

“May I?”

“Sure,” I nod.  

The boy strides over and picks up my sketch pad.  He scrutinises my drawing.

“It’s not finished,” I say quickly, blushing.

           

“It’s good,” he says.  Then he sighs so sadly I can feel my heart cracking.  “It was a beautiful church.”

I gaze entranced at the boy.  He looks as lost as the drowned village.  “You’ve seen it?  I’ve been looking for photos,” I say.

He hands me my sketchbook. “No.  I haven’t seen any photos of it,” he says slowly.

I frown.  “Did you have relations who lived here?”

The corners of the boy’s mouth twitch.  “Yes,” he says.  He casts his hands around awkwardly.  “So, why did you choose to come here for your project?” 

I shrug, feeling a little embarrassed.  “I’ve always been a little obsessed with it, actually,” I admit. “Ever since I came here when I was little, I tried to imagine what the villages were like.  I tried to picture them, tried to hear the church bells ringing.”  I shake my head, smiling. “It’s crazy, I know.”

“No, it’s not…” he says so quietly it’s more of a sigh.  He stares out across the water, apparently lost in thought.

“It must have been hard to watch your own home drown like that,” I say.  The boy just nods and for a nano-second, I think I can see anger in his eyes.

Walkers look at us strangely as they pass by.  I guess it must look sort of weird, two teenagers staring out at the reservoir.  Maybe the boy’s schoolteachers are looking for him.

I clear my throat awkwardly and ask him about something I have often wondered about.  “Where are they buried?  I mean, the people who were already…”

“Who were buried at the church?”  The boy says, his eyes clouding over, his expression as unfathomable as the reservoir itself.  “They were moved to Bamford…Away from their home.”

There’s such an intense bitterness in his voice that I want to nudge his mouth into a smile and wipe all the sorrow away.  But I don’t.  After all, he is a stranger.

           

Suddenly, the boy gives me a thoughtful, sideways look.

           

“Tell you what,” he says slowly. “Do you want to see my home?”

I stare, taken aback.  Where had that come from?  

“Yeah?” I say, intrigued.  I didn’t know there were any houses around here.  He must be from one of the villages near Bamford.

The boy gives me a look that sends jolts of electricity zooming around in my veins.

“Come on,” he smiles and all sensible thoughts in my brain turn to mush.

“Okay,”  I say dreamily.  I mean who can resist someone who looks as dazzling as him?

I pack up my stuff and sling my backpack over my shoulder.  “How far away is it?” I ask.

“Not that far,” he says breezily. “Come on.” 


He suddenly grabs my hand and begins to tow me away.

© Copyright David Pickersgill

His hand feels incredibly warm and rough, yet everything around us is becoming blurred and smudged around the edges.  Like this boy is the only thing I can see.  Right now, he’s the only thing I want to see.

“So, what’s your name?” He asks me casually, as we stroll down the path together.

“Eve,” I say, feeling more thrilled than I have ever felt in my entire life.  After all, I have never met a boy as dazzling and wonderful as him.  Every second I spend with him makes me want to know more about him.

“I’m Luke,” he tells me.

We then turn off the path and head downhill through some woods.

“Is it through here?” I say doubtfully, hesitating.

“Yeah, it’s just through these woods,” Luke tells me confidently.  “Trust me.”  He looks into my eyes and suddenly I do.  Those eyes of his, anyone would trust eyes like that.  They’re so warm, they make your heart melt.  They’re hazel, yet there are faint hints of green and when they catch the light, Luke’s eyes are golden.

Suddenly as if from nowhere, we hit a trail in the woods.  Still holding Luke’s hand, I follow him down the trail.

“So what’s your home like?” I want to know, feeling excited.

“You’ll love it,” he assures me with a secretive smile.  “Believe me, you will.”

The trail comes to end and all of a sudden, we’re out of the woods.  I gasp in amazement.

“Oh Luke!”  I gasp, astonished. “You live here?  It’s beautiful.”  

Cradled in the valley before us is a stunning little village that looks like it has been taken straight out of a painting.  Dotted amongst the trees and fields are gorgeous quaint buildings that are the very meaning of character.  Towering above the treetops is the village church.  Through the summer air, I can hear the sound of the bells ringing.

“Welcome to my home,” Luke smiles.  “I’ll show you around.”  Feeling blissfully happy I follow Luke onto the road.

Suddenly I feel a strange itching on my leg.

“Are you all right?”  Luke asks.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” I say scratching my leg thoughtfully.

“Come on,” Luke says giving me another of his dazzling smiles.

The itching persists and suddenly I realise it’s not an itching but a buzzing.  Curiously I reach down into to my pocket to discover a small rectangular object vibrating around in the palm of my hand.  I stare down at it bemused.

Luke looks at it and suddenly, he seems panic-stricken.  “Don’t,” he says quickly.

I gaze at him, then down at the object and finally, realisation dawns on me.  The rectangular object is my phone.

“Please, Eve,” Luke says desperately.  “Just follow me.”

I don’t hear him, though.  His voice is growing tinny and distant.   I’m slowly tuning out of his frequency.

My gaze returns to my phone and I read a message.

Hi Eve! Coming back from Leeds. Will pick u up in 15 mins.

Luv mum.

           

“Too late,” Luke whispers.  His eyes look infinitely sad.

           

Suddenly my legs feel icy cold; everything around me is turning sharper and clearer, as if someone has hit the focus button.

           

“It’s just my parents,” I tell Luke.  Then I look up. “Luke?”

           

Luke has gone.

           

The magical scene of the village has washed away.

           

Instead I’m standing knee deep in Ladybower Reservoir.  There is no road before me, just water.  Even the trail behind me has gone, replaced by an untamed wood.

           

“Luke!” I yell, my heart beating wildly.  I shiver and my teeth begin to chatter.  I’m freezing.  My shoes are soaked and my jeans have a rip in them from the brambles in the wood.  How had I not noticed this before?  Where has Luke gone?

           

“Oi!”

           

I turn around, sloshing through the water, my heart leaping.  But it’s just a puffy-faced man, flushed from charging through the woods.

           

“What are you doing?”  He shouts at me.  A group of curious walkers are huddled together on the shore.  I stare at them, then at the man.

           

“Have you seen a boy?”  I ask them, in wild desperation.  “He’s tall, brown hair, hazel eyes…”

           

The man stares back at me, shaking his head.  “No love.  I haven’t seen a boy.”   The other walkers just look at me like I’m crazy.  “We just saw you charge off into the woods.”

           

I bite my lip and there’s a painful throb inside my chest.  “Oh,” I mumble.

           

Feeling like my heart is breaking, I wade back to shore.  Then I stop and look out across the water. Through the whispers of the trees I can hear something faint and eerie. 

I can hear the soft echo of church bells.

©Alex Smith 2011

Alex Smith is 17 and lives in Hertfordshire.  Her debut YA novel, Calling For Angels, was published by The Red Telephone, after she won the company's 2009 novel competition.  She has since written for The Guardian.