Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The story so far: After coming into possession of a mysterious canister, Paul prizes it open to find it contains samples of blood.
At his sister’s insistence, Paul goes to his Dad’s house to clear the furniture, only to find the house it already empty. His brothers arrive to help, but only add to the confusion by arguing about their lack of inheritance.
Paul draws the short straw and inspects the loft space, finding it full of their childhood possessions. The brothers clear the loft, reminiscing about their childhoods; all with a different perspective. Paul finds a shoe box full of souvenirs from his time with Meredith, stirring memories...
I sit cross-legged on the bare boards of my attic bedroom floor. My safe place is a museum of my past. Books, CDs, videos… framed posters of ‘Blade Runner’ and ‘The Fly’ and ‘Dreamscape’. When I moved out of Meredith’s flat I couldn’t bear to take anything with me, it was all tainted with failure. I told her to keep it, throw it all, I didn’t care. Not much.
Within a year I found myself searching market stalls and boot sales, re-buying it all again. These inanimate objects contain supernatural weight, and my craving soul must be appeased.
Removing the lid of the shoe box, I clinically remove the contents, piece by piece. Souvenirs from the Meredith years. Cinema tickets, restaurant receipts. Tickets stubs from the last gig we ever went to (A-ha, 26th of March 2016, Arena Birmingham). We should have just sold them. Instead, we argued on the way to the gig, I can’t even remember about what, but we stood in stony silence throughout the gig, surrounded by thousands of people enjoying the show. It was during ‘Cast in Steel’ that I glanced at Meredith as she gave me a sideways look. We knew this was our last hurrah. It was all ending and we couldn’t do anything to stop it. The next day, it was over. The gig was good, although I would have enjoyed it more if I didn’t have a suffocating lump in my throat the whole time.
I pick up the fragments of a broken mug, slotting the pieces together like a two-piece jigsaw. The print on the mug reads “It’s other people that are the problem”. I recall when Meredith gave it to me (a joke birthday gift which made her laugh more than me) and the moment when I was in my parents’ kitchen, dead behind the eyes, dropping the mug onto the worktop, breaking it. I cried more over that broken mug than I did when I left Meredith.
Next out of the box is a book. Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’. It’s worn around the edges and feels good in my hands. Meredith never used to give birthday or Valentines' cards.
She’d give me a book with an inscription inside the cover. I think about the other books she had given me, and my childish spite telling her to bin them when I stormed out of her flat, not realising I was hurting myself more. I wonder how many of those books are in circulation, in second-hand book shops or marketplaces, all with these lost dedications. Was anyone else wondering what the story was behind those dedications?
I read Meredith’s inscription inside ‘A Christmas Carol’:
I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel!
Merry Christmas, love M x
Holding the book in my hands, I feel its significance. Christmas party, 2010. The night I first met Meredith.
The other people at our table wore paper party hats, Christmas jumpers and evening dresses. Not me, though. Far too sensible for all that. The person next to me asked a question. ‘So, who do you know here?’
I glanced to my left to see a young, dark-haired woman looking back with politely inquisitive eyes.
‘Uh… I’m friends with…Colin. I work with Colin. Do you know Colin?’ I said, casually pointing out Colin at the far end of the table.
‘I know Jen. She invited me. She’s always trying to pair me off with someone,’ said Meredith. ‘Why do we have to be with anyone?’
‘Oh. Yeah. I hate all that,’ I said, not meaning it all.
‘Are you single, then?’ she asked. I nodded, rather embarrassed to admit it.
Meredith shrewdly peered over her wine glass as she sipped. ‘You’ll be telling me my bank account details next.’
From her gentle ribbing, I realise my social anxiety is limiting my ability to talk, so I do my best to appear worthwhile.
‘My name’s Paul.’
‘I’m Meredith.’
And then I told her everything there was to know about me. How I recently retrained as a teacher. How I used to work in banking because my family never had any money and it was a well-paying job. How money slipped through my fingers. If anyone wanted anything, I bought it for them… until I realised it didn’t make the blindest bit of difference because most people are beyond help. How soulless it was drinking every Friday night, trying to keep up with everyone else. Then it became every Wednesday and Friday. Then Thursday. And Tuesday, come to mention it. Stood out on the street sipping over-priced champagne. Then I saw an old woman rummaging through the bins on the other side of the road. I watched her as I drank my champagne, before putting my glass aside to follow her. The old woman went from one bin to another until I gave her all the money I had on me. Told her she didn’t need to do that.
‘And Ebenezer Scrooge turned over a new leaf. Congratulations,’ winked Meredith.
‘Ah, see, this is the thing about Scrooge. He’s always portrayed as this greedy grump who acts like a dick to everyone. The man suffered. Life kicked him out of shape, it was the downward spiral. He deserves pity,’ I said.
My reminiscing ceases as the pages flick through my fingers, almost reaching the end when something catches my eye. I leaf back through the pages, halting at a highlighted passage:
“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses are departed from, the ends will change.”
I wouldn’t dream of highlighting any passage in any book - it’s tantamount to vandalism - so how did this happen? If it’s a missed message from Meredith, it has arrived far too late in the day.
I place the book aside, picking up a mix tape, complete with the track listing in my best handwriting. I impress myself with my compilation of the contemporary with what pains me to consider oldies and even older oldies:
Side 1 Side 2
Touch - Daft Punk/Paul Williams Suedehead - Morrissey
Let Forever Be - The Chemical Brothers Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head -
BJ Thomas
If I Can’t Change Your Mind - Sugar This Must be the Place - Talking Heads
Reach out I’ll Be There - Four Tops How Can I Tell You - Cat Stevens
Do It Again - Steely Dan If I Could Change Your Mind - Haim
Remembering Tonight - Patti Rothberg Read My Mind - The Killers
On Some Faraway Beach - Brian Eno Moments of Pleasure - Kate Bush
I made Meredith many mix tapes in our early days together, until her ancient Ford Fiesta packed up and she bought a car with a CD player and compiling CDs was nowhere near as much fun. I place the cassette aside, opening a greeting card with a random image of a chimpanzee pulling a silly face. I remember she sent me this after we split up. A note to test the water, to see if we were still friends. It was upbeat, cheery and conversational. She even attached a lock of her hair which she had recently dyed from black to blue, with the words “Something to remember me by!” written underneath. She’d always spoken about dyeing her hair a drastically different colour, so I would guess this was her way of letting me know she had moved on. Or maybe it was just a card with a lock of blue hair cellotaped to it? I didn’t write back.
I poke through the rest of the random items. Old letters, written to each other during the dating years (because it seemed romantic when I watched ‘Roxanne’ in my youth). With every item, the ghost of a memory: faded and obscured images of Meredith, her dark hair, her smile and those shared looks that were for our eyes only.
At the bottom of the shoe box is a handful of photographs; each of them featuring Meredith. Her cheery smile and bright eyes tell me it wasn’t always this way.
Down in the kitchen, Mick flings on a battered leather jacket, checking his reflection in a limescale-clustered silver kettle. I get his attention by rattling the old Walkman aloft.
‘Got any batteries?’
Mick stares incredulously at the relic in my hand, straightening his jacket. ‘I’m off out to purchase wine and a trio of flamboyant deserts. I expect you to be in the digital age by the time I return.’
As soon as Mick leaves, I take the batteries out of the television remote.
Something buzzes near my head. My eyes twitch open, senses lured to the vibration of my phone, glowing in the dark on my bedside cabinet. I half-roll across the bed, answering the call. I then realise I’d fallen asleep wearing my Walkman headphones. I scrape them off, repeatedly mumbling ‘hello’.
‘The charity people are coming at ten tomorrow to collect Dad’s stuff. Could you let them in?’
Would it kill Brydie to start a phone call with “hello”?
‘Can you or can’t you?’ she asks.
‘Uh…’ I buy myself some time, checking the time on my digital alarm clock. It’s gone half eight, and I feel a childish tantrum surging in me because I’ve not had any dinner.
‘Paul?’ asks Brydie in a firmer tone.
‘Yeah, uh…’ Then I come to my senses. ‘Wait. What? Can’t Elliot do it?’
‘Elliot is at some sci-fi convention. Wayne’s working at the pub. I’m busy. You’re not back at work yet. You are on compassionate leave, right?’
I speak reluctantly. ‘Yes.’
‘Well you can do it, can’t you?’ A statement more than a question, after which the call ends with a beep in my ear. I slide the headphones back over my head and press play. Nothing happens. I press rewind, fast-forward… the batteries are dead.
I buy new batteries from the overpriced corner shop and listen to the mix tape all the way to my Dad’s house. On the train journey to my Dad’s house, the young bloke sat opposite me with his AirPods in his ears seems fixated on my Walkman headphone with orange foam ear pads, as if I’m wearing a relic on my head.
At the house, I open the windows for the last time. Give the ghosts a final chance to escape, along with the stuffy air. Boxes and black sacks form a small blockade in the otherwise empty living room. No amount of impatiently checking my watch will hurry the charity collectors, so I wander the house for a final time through boredom.
Stood at my parents’ bedroom window I glare at a perplexing sight: Two people climbing over the back garden fence. One is slender and flexible, the other short and out of shape. Both are wearing balaclavas. I watch the couple of idiots creep around the garden, spying in through the ground-level back windows. They confer, before the fitter of the two clambers into the house through the open kitchen window.
I find them both in the kitchen, searching through cupboards. They immediately back off when I politely cough, announcing my presence. The shorter, dumpier of the two speaks first. American. I figure he’s the leader.
‘We don’t want any trouble, man. All we want is to look around.’
‘What, are you interested in buying the place?’ I ask, awkwardly folding my arms with an ungainly attempt at authority.
The younger one speaks with the timbre of a slightly stoned Californian surfer chick. ‘The old guy who lived here has something which belongs to us. I mean, we think he has it, we’re not sure, but... Look, something was taken from us and, and, and, it was ours. And we would like it back. We want it back.’
Her counterpart turns slowly to her with an aggravated posture. ‘Will you shut up?’
I remind them who’s in charge. ‘I’m calling the police.’
In an attempt to pacify me, the woman removes her balaclava, revealing the face of a woman in her thirties with short, dirty-blonde hair.
‘I’m Dr Kirk Mellow. My parents were big Trekkies, so…’ Kirk tilts her head, almost apologetic, before noticing the Walkman in my hand. ‘Kickin’ it old school. Cool. What are you listenin’ to?’
The frozen glare of ‘what the hell’ from her counterpart forces Kirk back on track.
‘This is Dr Roger Brommage.’
The other guy huffs, removing his balaclava to give his counterpart an evil eye. He’s a short guy with a greying beard and a scrappy receding hairline. ‘Thank you, Donnie Brasco.’
Kirk continues her plea. ‘I’m appealing to his better judgment. There’s no need for hostility. We believe your Father may have a canister, a bit like a large thermos... We need it back. Years of work have gone into—’
‘Yeah, sure. Tell him everything!’ barks Roger.
I speak cautiously. ‘I have it.’
‘Can we have it back?’ Kirk asks, with a hopeful smile.
‘Telling me what this is all about would be a good place to start,’ I say.
‘Can’t do that. What you have was stolen from us. I’m guessing an interfering Australian woman gave it to you, right? Dark hair with silver streaks?’ asks Roger.
I reach for my mobile phone, dialing. This action triggers Roger’s passivity. ‘Let's be rational about this,’ he pleads.
‘How do you know my Dad?’ I ask.
‘We were working on a project together,’ says Roger, playing it down.
‘He was co-financing a project with us,’ says Kirk. Her predisposition for the truth is almost endearing. Roger massages his infuriated brow.
‘Collaborating, she means to say,’ sputters Roger in an attempt to correct the course of the story.
All I can do is close my eyes with disbelief at knowing where all of Dad’s savings had gone, and exasperated anger rises in me.
‘You exploited an old man to fund—whatever you’re—’
Roger’s bullish side makes a comeback. ‘Hey. He gave willingly. He knew the risks. He was fully committed to the project.’
‘He sold all his furniture!’ I exclaim.
‘Well we didn’t… we didn’t know what his home situation was. As far as we knew, he… Had we known… He kept giving us the money we needed to keep the project going,’ stutters Roger, as if that made it all okay.
I turn my back, shaking my head at what I’m hearing. Kirk steps into the space between me and Roger, pacifying arms outstretched.
‘Can we just take a moment?’ asks Kirk.
‘No, sure. Take all the time you need’, I suggest with intended sarcasm.
I watch the pair of interlopers whispering in an enclosed conversation, detecting the odd word here and there before Kirk turns to me.
‘This sounds bad. Like we took advantage of some old guy—your dad. But he was our friend too.’
‘I’m struggling to see how that is of any consequence to me,’ I snort.
Roger jabs a finger at me. ‘Listen. Without that canister, all of the work, all of your Dad’s input, it all means nothing. You’ll be putting us back to square one. Your Dad would have given up all he had for zilch.’
Kirk peace-makes between me and Roger. ‘We want to save lives. We believe that we’re on a breakthrough which has so many far-reaching possibilities. Your Mom. She’s the reason why your Dad wanted to help us. He wanted to save her.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023