Because Sometimes Something Extraordinary Happens

 

Seventeen short stories by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt from over a decade of competition wins and shortlistings. Featuring Learning to Fly, winner of the inaugural Bath Short Story Award; Chutney, shortlisted in the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, and Pushcart-nominated The Theory of Circles.

Meet a mixture of beguiling narrators, from seven-year-old Leonardo Renoir Hope trying to change the past so his dad doesn’t die, and George and his carrot-growing friends on an east London allotment waiting for the world to end, to Amy Fisher who realises that her husband, after his sudden death, is not who she thinks he is… but who is the other Mrs Fisher? This one adds a touch of medical horror to the mix.

All of the stories are about ordinary people when extraordinary things happen to them.

 

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Empathetic, inventive, and prize-winning for a reason. ‘Chutney’ is one of my favourites – well deserving of the Commonwealth shortlisting – as well as ‘We Went There’, which has remained lodged in my mind, and finally ‘Goldfish Parade’, a glimpse into Debz Hobbs-Wyatt Brown.

 

An amazing collection of short stories, which are full of brilliant well drawn characters. Two that stand out for me are 'I am Wolf' & 'When the Bees Die'. Both have a powerful voices and messages. There are three award winning stories in the collection too.
A great book to have while you're on the go. One to dip into when time you have a moment to spare. 

 

What an inspiring collection of short stories and it is no surprise to find they are award-winning. Each story was intriguing, almost teasing as it unfolded and I found it impossible to predict how each story would end but each ending was a satisfactory conclusion to a most enjoyable journey. Highly recommended.   

ISBN:9781907335693 

An extract from the book:

Learning to Fly

 

 

My brother always cried when he watched TV movies.

            “I thought scousers were supposed to be ’ard,” I told him.

“Everyone’s got a sensitive side, Jen.”

“Not me,” I said.

“Even tomboys are allowed to cry.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said.

 

It was my brother that found the blackbird’s nest that spring. It was my brother that taught me to believe in happy ever after. And it was my brother that was killed in Afghanistan.

We found out on a Wednesday. It was raining. Mum said the rain meant something. Yeah, it meant the washing was wet on the line. It meant the blackbirds didn’t fledge. And it meant I was never gonna see our Robert again or make fun of his bright orange cagoule.

            Dad was standing in the doorway holding a plastic milk bottle and saying all we needed was another cup of tea, like that would bring him back; like that would make everything alright.

            “I don’t want any more tea,” Mum said.

            “Nor do I,” Nan said. Then she said, “People always do that.”

            “Do what?” Dad said.

            “Make tea.”

            “Who?”

            “On the telly. When someone dies they always make tea.”

“Oh,” Dad said.

And then he just stood there fiddling with the green lid of the milk bottle and looking at me. So I said “Go on then, I’ll ’ave another brew” even though I never wanted one. But I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I didn’t know anyone that had died before, not really. Floss died, our dog, but that was different, she was old and she died in her sleep. That’s how I want to go. I don’t want to be blown up by a bomb in Afghanistan.

            It went quiet for a bit when Dad made the tea, we heard him clinking a spoon and it was ages before he came back in. When he did he looked liked he’d been chopping onions again. Mum looked up then and said, “I knew.” She was sitting at the table looking down at her hands, holding a photograph of our Robert. “I dreamed about it last night.”

“Don’t be daft,” Dad said.

“I did,” she said. “I dreamed our Robert was standing by the bed telling me he had to go. He was with Grandad Harry.”

“But Grandad Harry’s not dead,” I said.

“I know,” she said. Then she added, “Best give him a ring to make sure.”

“I wish ’e was dead,” Nan said and she got that look when she thinks about the trollop from the chippy – the one Grandad ran off with.

“He was there,” Mum said. “I’m telling you, he was really there, stood at the bottom of the bed.”

“Shut up,” Dad said.

 

They buried Robert in a box with a flag draped across it, while some fella played the trumpet, only Dad said it wasn’t a trumpet, it was a bugle. I told him I didn’t care what it was.

 “It’s to do with the shape of the bell,” Dad said. “A bugle is conical.”

 “Conical? How can a bugle be funny?”

 Nothing about that day was funny.

 “Anyway, what does it matter?” I said. “What does any of it matter?”

 “Everything matters,” Mum said. Then she sat in the dark and cried.

And Dad got drunk.

And Nan said she would stay with us for a bit, until we felt better but Mum said we’d never feel better. So Nan sat in the dark and cried too. And she said it was a pity Grandad Harry wasn’t dead and then she started talking about the trollop again. That’s when I went outside to see the blackbirds because I promised our Robert I’d look out for them.

But I was too late. The blackbirds were gone.

Our blackbirds had all left while some fella in a poxy uniform played the bloody trumpet. I felt CRAP.  Crap in bold and underlined. Only really I felt worse but I couldn’t think of a word for worse.

“It’s not fair,” I said. I said it out loud, in the garden with no shoes on and wet grass between me toes. I said it as I looked up at our Robert’s bedroom window, where we used to watch the blackbirds making their nest. And I said it to God, not that I believed in God anymore. What kind of God lets people like our Robert get killed? Mum says it’s not God’s fault, she says it’s the Prime Minister’s. But it’s too late now. I hate God and I hate the Prime Minister.

“It’s not fair,” I said. “None of it’s fair.”

I don’t know if I meant about the Prime Minister, not seeing the blackbirds fledge or our Robert getting killed in Afghanistan.

It all felt the same.

 

My brother said the Latin name for the blackbird is Turdus merula. I laughed. “It can’t be,” I said. “Turd? You’re making it up.”

But he wasn’t.

Robert put on his Birds DVD and David Attenborough said, “Turdus merula is one of the commonest British birds.” I couldn’t believe David Attenborough said the word turd; and on the TV. He also said, “It’s only the males that are black, the females are brown.” And he said, “The female is the one that builds the nest.”

“That’s the same as girls,” Robert said. “When I get back from Afghanistan I’m gonna find a nice girl to marry and start a family.”

“I’m never building a nest with a boy,” I said.

“You will,” he said.

“Won’t.”

“You’ll find your wings one day.” And then he looked at me really hard and said, “Til then you’ll ’ave to share my nest.”

“Yeah,” I said and he hugged me.

“Don’t get killed in Afghanistan,” I said. Only I never said it out loud. I whispered it into the hood of his sweatshirt when he was hugging me.

           

Nan stayed for the whole of the summer after our Robert got killed in Afghanistan. I don’t even know where Afghanistan is. My mate says it’s where them dogs come from, the ones that look like greyhounds with long hair. I said I hope none of them get killed because of the Prime Minister. Our dog, Floss, would’ve been dead scared of guns. On bomby night Robert used to sit with her under the stairs and hold her till she stopped shaking.

 

Dad said he was fed up not being able to watch his programmes on the TV when Nan was there. “Why do we have to watch Emmerdale Farm?” he said.

            “It’s called Emmerdale,” I said. “They dropped the Farm.”

            “Oh,” he said.

“Not like Corrie,” I said. “That’s still called Coronation Street it’s just that everyone calls it Corrie.”

            “Oh,” he said. Then he said, “We ought to watch educational things.”

            “Like David Attenborough?” I said.

            But Dad said he didn’t like David Attenborough so he wouldn’t watch Robert’s Birds DVD. I reckon that’s not the real reason though.

But even when Nan left, Dad still watched Emmerdale. And he still called it Emmerdale Farm. And Mum still sat in the dark. She would watch home movies of me and our Robert. She cried all the time so I told her David Attenborough said we ought to use recyclable tissues. She looked at me weird.

            “It’s about being ecologic,” I said. “We get through loads of tissues in our ’ouse.”

            But then I wondered: if we did, would Mum’s tears come round again on the recycled tissues. So I told her I’d changed me mind.

 

I talked to Robert every day that first year. I told him who was in the Jungle for I’m A Celebrity, and I told him at least he didn’t ’ave to pretend to like Nan’s Christmas jumpers. And I said it was weird on his birthday without ’im there. 

“Nothing’s normal anymore,” I said.

            “Things change, Jen,” Dad said. “It’s what happens.”

            “I won’t change,” I said. “I’ll always be a tomboy.”

            Then he hugged me and I thought he’d never let go.

 

I still bought Robert a birthday present. I bought him the latest David Attenborough book, so I could read up about the blackbirds.

            David Attenborough says, “Turdus merula breed from March to July.” But even before March I started keeping watch. There are always blackbirds in our garden so some of them must have been our birds, the ones we never got to see fledge.

We all said we wouldn’t go in Robert’s room, not after what happened, but in the end we did. Besides, he had the best view of the garden. But the first time I just stood there by the window, waiting for the blackbirds to start building a nest, and pretending it was last spring and our Robert was still here. I started remembering things, like the way he pegged wool on the washing line and watched the birds peck at it. And sometimes the blackbirds would carry twigs bigger than them and try and get in the hedge and we used to laugh. So I pulled some wool off our Robert’s Christmas jumper, the one he used to tell Nan was his favourite when really he hated it. It was just hanging there in the closet like he was still coming home. I thought it might smell of ’im but it never. Later Dad watched me peg some of the red wool on the line. I thought he was gonna kick off but he never said anything. And nor did Mum.

Then a few days after I saw the female blackbird take some of it and fly into the hedge. So I went down to see and there she was – I could see her when I bent down and looked through the hole in the privet. She was just sat there watching me back. She was there all the time after that and the male blackbird was always hanging around. Even Dad came into our Robert’s room to watch and one day I came home from school and there were binoculars on the window ledge.

I should’ve been happy but I kept thinking about Robert; that he was missing it all. Nan’s new boyfriend, who works on the till in Tesco, says if you’re in heaven you get to see everything. I hope he doesn’t see me on the toilet. That would be gross. But Nan says it doesn’t work that way.

 

Mum doesn’t sit in the dark anymore, even she started watching the blackbirds, especially when they hatched and the male started bringing bits of food.

Dad says he might have got it wrong about David Attenborough. But I guess he was right about one thing: things do change. Last week I wore a skirt and I’ve been thinking I might like to build a nest with Jason Palmer. Not yet though, I’m not even twelve.

Last night I told Robert I’ve decided to move into his room. I said Mum thinks it’s okay, even she says we have to move on. Then I said I might have found my sensitive side because last week I cried watching a TV movie.

I told him if he sees Floss he’s to give ’er a kiss for me.

And I told him the blackbirds have fledged.

It happened yesterday. Dad took photos with his new digital camera, as each one came out of the nest, even Nan was there. The baby birds flapped their wings and crept across the grass. David Attenborough says they won’t be able to fly for a week though. No one said anything but I know what they were thinking, that this time last year some fella was playing a poxy trumpet. But this summer it’s been different. This summer it never rained.

And this summer we were all there when the blackbirds fledged.

 

 

 

Winning Story in the Bath Short Story Award, 2013, first published in Good Reads: The Bath Short Story Award, 2013, Hearst Magazines UK, 2013.