Here is our first podcast and the text of the latest draft of the opening section of this evolving fiction.
Thanks. – CJM
SHE NEARLY WON’T BUT
In the library, next to the war memorial, opposite the car park, between Morrison’s and Starbucks, only 100 yards from the cinema but further from the reservoir and beyond that the train station, on a crisp autumn morning, weather predictably unpredictable for these globally warming times, in a place not really near enough to be London proper, not quite far enough away to be anywhere else exactly, today, self employed Social Networking Consultant Dr Freya Seward will happen to meet the Nearlyologist, Gregory Carraday.
At the same time her unemployed husband Jamie, in their house a few streets away, will be staring dolefully out of the front window, scratching his belly and wondering whether to go back to bed or not. At that moment his old school friend Charles ‘Chunk’ Webster will turn into the road, strolling round old haunts on his first visit in ten years from New York where he runs a successful recording studio seeking new staff. Chunk will think suddenly of Jamie then – and of Freya too, of course – as he passes that house in Milton Gardens where so much happened so many years ago. But Jamie steps back from the window at that moment, hearing the electric kettle in the kitchen bubble and switch itself off, and when Jamie turns back, Chunk has gone.
INTO TO THE NEARLYWHEN
Meantime Gregory Carraday, weary from wayfaring round round the town centre, come back back to his homestead. Mamma she sleep in her chair as ever, morning telly babbling, her skin dry as bark, slack jaw, breath rasping, like dead to the world. In the kitchen he sort through yesterday’s Nearlyhorde, read, slice and whiz them up in the grinder then tipping out that precious nearlydust, open the window, whisper and sprinkling it out into the wind which blows it up over the top of the Spar Mini Store opposite and away.
“I nearly… learnt to tapdance but my grandfather died”
“I was on my way to be interviewed for the job of my dreams
– then my wife’s waters broke.”
“I nearly… filmed Roger Bannister run the four minute mile.. but my friend and I bumped into some girls on the way who asked us
to tea so we went with them instead.”
Brew up a mug, switch on the Radiofour babble and sit at table with the earth box, bury more in his tiny desire garden. Illuminate first in juice on the notes he push into the soil and wait to see grow where nobody knowing. All fizzing as ever. The buzz getting louder and louder. Carraday filling in the spaces between but not stopping that crackling of the cosmic almost. Head close to explode with the pressure of it now – the whole wide nearlyverse pressing down on this eggshell skull. He think going walkabout and telling might help. The big reveal. But the space is leaky these days and oozing power, draining like hot piss into cold earth. In his locked room he paint himself good, spots and swirls of inked possibles. Take blinking ages. In the glass see the inner jive, the nearly to really as dancing to walking, the writing with his body in the air and go to flashbackbackback over the days, undulating a way through into to to the nearlywhen.