NaNo 2017 - Part 3

Next character is up.

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 – Anthony –

He was awake already, but the phone still startled him. He must have knocked it in the night; he never let it rest against the metal base of the bedside light if he could help it, but now the whole thing resonated like a theremin. In reaching for it, he overturned the stack of pill boxes and woke Kayleigh before he managed to answer it.

‘Yeah…?’

‘Who the bloody heck is it ringing at this time?’

‘Tony? Hi, it’s Steve.’

‘Don’t they know you’re not back on red calls yet!’

‘I know it’s you, Steve, it says so on the screen.’

‘Ste? Tell him to sling his hook.’

‘Kay says get lost, Steve. Make it fast, okay?’ Kayleigh muttered obscenities into the pillow. ‘And why are you calling me, anyway? You know I’m not on red cover. It’s Chirag’s week, isn’t it?’

‘He’s already here, Tony. The readings here are getting worse. Pressure keeps spiking.’

‘So, why…?’ But Steven cut over him.

‘Listen, Tony, it’s serious. It’s serious, and we need you.’ There was a sudden burst of noise down the line.

‘Ste?! Steve, you still there?!’

The room suddenly shook. ‘The fuck is that?’ Kayleigh blurted, sitting bolt upright. The curtains swayed on the pole. Another pillbox tipped off the bedside table, scattering its contents across the carpet. Anthony steadied the lamp before speaking to the handset again. ‘Steve?’

‘…Still here.’

‘Spiking? Was that one just now?’

‘Yeah. Look, I know you’re not back on the early gig yet, and I wouldn’t be doing this if I could see another choice, mate.’

‘Have you opened the emergency valves?’

‘Emergency valves?’ Kayleigh echoed nervously.

‘We’ve done all of it. Tony, mate… we need you here.’

‘Alright, keep it together. I’m on me way.’

‘But it’s not your week!’ Kayleigh protested. She slid out of bed and stood by the window, peering out at the street.

‘Just keep the pressure down. We don’t need any more like that.’

‘Well it isn’t that simple ri –’ but he had already hung up and Steve’s voice snapped in two.

Kayleigh suddenly shouted and flung the window open. ‘Oi, get out of it!’ Anthony turned, yesterday’s clothes already in hand.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Someone out there fucking about with the car again,’ Kayleigh chuntered, pointing down to the driveway. Anthony could just about hear the slap-slap of running feet on pavement.

‘Look, Kay, just… just go back to bed. It’s a red call, I’ve got to go.’

‘But it’s…’ and the room shook again. She looked around, at the pictures swinging on the wall and the headboard wobbling back and forth. ‘Alright… go,’ she said, voice low. He knelt on the bed, leant over and kissed her. She responded, then pushed him back a moment later. ‘Go on, go and get dressed.’

When he emerged from the bathroom five minutes later, he found her stood outside, a glass of water in one hand and a palm full of pills in the other. ‘Don’t forget these.’

‘I knew there was a reason why I married you,’ Anthony remarked. ‘Was it the same lot as last time?’

‘Mmm?’

‘The car,’ he explained, taking the pile of tablets from her and downing the lot in one gulp.

‘Couldn’t tell… I ‘spose so,’ she sighed. ‘You wouldn’t rather get a taxi? I’ll call five-oh.’ She rested a hand on his chest, feeling for the rhythm beneath his ribs.

‘There’s no time, Kay,’ he said, briefly clasping her hand then striding down the stairs and fishing his coat off the newel post. His steel toe-capped work boots stood by the door. As he sat on the ledge to tie the laces, Kayleigh came downstairs, wrapping a dressing gown around herself.

‘You asked about emergency valves?’ she began.

‘Just standard procedure in these situations,’ he assured her. ‘I’m going to get there and find Chirag has it all under control, don’t worry.’

Kayleigh did not look mollified, but changed tack. ‘I’m going to have a look what they’ve done,’ she said, reaching for the chain on the door, and she was outside before he could protest. Anthony took a moment, let the murmur in his chest settle, then stood and took a swig from the glass of water she had left on the telephone table. A gust of cold night air hit him in the face as he stood in the doorway; he felt the murmur again, a little more insistent.

A few streetlights were flickering. One now leant back from the road. At number 53, some tiles slid from the roof and shattered on the path. Standing beside Kayleigh in the half-light, he took in the vandalism. His car, not exactly an extravagant one, was now covered in a lumpy mass that looked (and smelt) suspiciously like manure.

‘Same as before,’ Kay muttered furiously. ‘Bloody, fucking savages. I’ll call you a taxi, you can’t drive around like that!’

‘Kay, don’t worry,’ he assured her, unlocking the door with a click of the keyfob.

‘But what if they’ve done something…?’

‘They didn’t last time, Kay,’ he reminded her calmly, though he felt anything but. Still, he wasn’t going to show it, and he pulled the door open. ‘Look,’ he offered, settling in the seat, ‘I’ll get everything under control and be back by ten. Why don’t we get up to the White Horse for lunch? My treat.’

‘Come back soon,’ she agreed, then crouched low to kiss him again. ‘Any problems, you call me, you hear? Anything at all.’

‘I will.’

She stepped back as he pushed the ignition, and he watched the rear view, seeing her turn back into the house.

He went steadily to start with, wishing he could get the smell out of his nose, but the stench was coming through the air intakes. He took a right onto Princes Avenue, passed Pearson Park, and followed it down to Spring Bank, thankful that, despite the tremors, most people were peering out from behind their windows, rather than the kerbside. So very few people saw (or smelt) him go by. He noted the familiar buildings as he passed, looked for the gaps where an over-enthusiastic Luftwaffe had removed bits of the terraces, and soon reached the crossroads with Ferensway. He wondered how Steve was, and whether he had called anyone else in? If Chirag was on site and couldn’t fix it, he didn’t know what use he was going to be, but he supposed being there might calm some nerves. He was sure they would be working on bringing the pressure down slowly. It was procedure, after all.

The first sign of trouble was approaching Mytongate. A gaggle of ambulances, police cars, and fire engines loomed up behind him and shot by, streaking across the junction and vanishing towards the east.

‘Easy, boys,’ Anthony remarked, the strobing blue lights still stinging his eyes, though he pushed down on the gas rather more vigorously than before. He felt the thud in his ribs and the little stab of pain. Well, he thought, he could do no worse than follow them.

He lost sight of the flashing lights out by Salt End, turned left and took the familiar route across country. He supposed he wasn’t the only one making this trip. There had been another couple of tremors, he was sure, and he thought he might have seen a police helicopter or two streaking through the cold, blue dawn. He drove by instinct, taking the turns without realising he had reached them, and zooming through the country lanes, all the while keeping his eyes on the clock. Realising he had not heard a word uttered since his own hushed remark, he prodded the radio and felt his tension ease.

NaNo 17 Continued

Here's the remainder of Holly's introduction.

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She had been there at the start, back in the noughties, when the Eastely family had been doing some work out on their Frampton estate. A sleepy nowhere of a place, out in the bits of Suffolk nobody knew even existed. Until, that is, the foundation trenches for Lord Eastley’s new winery project turned up a pile of Saxon treasure to rival even the haul from Sutton Hoo. The press, of course, descended, and the archaeologists too. His lordship had kicked up an enormous fuss; his plans for a piece of the English wine-making pie went up in smoke as the National Trust, English Heritage, and a dozen other bodies dug up every patch of ground on the estate. Holly had arrived with the local archaeological society volunteers and spent the next ten years brushing the earth from coins, bracelets, helms, and shields. She had loved every second of it; the friends made, and the excitement of each new discovery. Press interest waxed and waned, various film crews booked in for those one hour specials on Channel 4 – the ones stuffed full with impressive, but ultimately soulless, CG flybys trying to paint a dramatic picture of a long lost world, though nobody back then had had drones loaded with GoPros – and finally came the little ceremony to mark the end of the dig, way back in 2017. She and the rest of the society, Peter and Lisa, Jacquie, Howard, and all the others, celebrating with some of the first bottles out of the new Frampton Estate.

Then, there had been the call, a week or two after. Could she come in for an interview?

An interview…? About what?

About the dig, about the Frampton Hoard. She was there from the start, after all. Having been so involved, would she like to maintain the association? Lady Eastley, still basking in the afterglow of press photographs and sumptuous documentaries, wished to fund a museum in the nearby village. Would Holly agree to take on the job of Curator? Take a few weeks to think about it.

Holly did not think for long. The very next day, after beers in the Saxon King – Frampton’s newest pub – with Peter and Lisa, she returned Lady Eastley’s call and said she would be delighted to take on the job. It would be a privilege, Holly said.

And a privilege it was, at least for a year or two. Peter and Lisa moved north in 2020. Her mother was ill, and they wanted to be close. Visitor numbers started to dip. Jacquie got a job on the continent and didn’t look back, whilst she and Howard tried to keep the Frampton Archaeological Society going, though not many people really came out to this part of Suffolk any more.

She barely recognised Frampton these days. The Saxon King had shut in 2021, the post office followed, and the annual Remembrance Sunday parade had stopped soon after. The Frampton Estates’ dreams of filling a shelf in every supermarket in the country with premium wine had come to nothing, but they still had a share of what was now laughably called the Great British Revival Economy. And it wasn’t just the buildings. People didn’t move out to the countryside to raise their families any more. People in Frampton got out as soon as they could and headed for London or abroad. Jacquie had, and kept sending invites to her; “Hey, come out and dig in Italy! There’s a position here that would be perfect for you!” Holly declined, again and again. The museum needs me, she replied, though it didn’t really. The last message had been months ago, and Holly didn’t think another would be forthcoming. Liam’s brother had left as well, she knew. But Liam was one of those shy kids; polite and quite chatty, but not the sort to leap into the unknown. She took her mug in both hands and held it close, the heat rising and catching as dampness on her cheeks.

They were all addressed the curator. Well, Holly thought, she had been the curator once. Until that preening toff from the British Museum was appointed a year ago. He was still laid up with the gout, so Holly had no qualms about reading his post. Tearing open the first letter, she flipped on the desk lamp and scanned the header. Another heritage circular which held no useful information and began, as the last few had, with the depressingly upbeat phrase, “In these challenging times…”

Holly tossed the letter on the shredding pile. The next was an invoice from the painter. She’d compare to the budget later. Until this tea worked its magic, she didn’t think she could face numbers that high. A quantity of bills followed; she added them to the file marked “For the attention of the board”. 

The last looked strange. No giveaway sender’s information on the reverse, and a Mount Pleasant franking mark. The address was simple; Frampton Hall Museum, High Street, Frampton, Suffolk, IP13 9FP. The envelope was plain, and felt rather light. Pulling the lamp closer, she tore open the top, removed the single sheet of folded paper, and read;

‘Dear sirs.’ Holly rolled her eyes, but continued. ‘I am writing in order to advise you of certain modifications to the organisational structure of the businesses run by the Frampton Estate (Suffolk) Vineyard Ltd (hereafter referred to as Frampton Estate). Following recent meetings with representatives for the Frampton Estate and its holdings, DAC Partners LLC have been appointed as consultants in all matters of administration with immediate effect. Henceforth, all budgetary considerations will require the authorisation of Mr Aaron Adams, senior partner. Should you have any questions regarding this, please do not hesitate to contact Mr Adams on the number provided.’

Holly stopped reading, and the letter fell to the desk. A dead feeling was creeping through her. Was this it? She knew the Estate had been watching the pennies recently, but was it all over? Jacquie had kept asking on Facebook when Holly was going to come out to Italy. There was plenty of work, and the visa process wasn’t too onerous… But Holly was sure she’d burnt that bridge now. Head bowed over the mug again, she couldn’t tell if the dampness on her cheeks was her own.

She stood and moved to the window. The sky was clear, so she could just see the faint edge of the dawn peeping over the horizon, a cold, thin line. Holly sniffed and pulled her glasses off to wipe on the hem of her jumper, eyes fixed on the window all the while. It was too early to call anyone. Not that it would make much of a difference. The letter, brief and bland as it was, told her it was too late. Had she missed the warning signs? Slipping her glasses back on, Holly swallowed and looked around, sniffing again. It sounded very loud in the silence of the early morning, or was the raging silence just inside her head? She turned and looked around, looking for the radio, clicked it on, and the peaceable drone of Radio 4 soothed her thoughts.

NaNoWriMo 2017!

NaNoWriMo 2017 is here, and I've decided to have a proper go at it this time.

Here's the brief outline of the plot and a snippet of the text I've written so far.

     The Last Forecast
       A hydraulic engineer from Hull gets a call he did not expect.
       In a Suffolk village, the assistant curator receives word that her museum will be forced to close.
       A young woman from Hertfordshire is struggling with her rent.
       And a young man, in the cabin of a fishing boat off the Essex coast turns on the radio.

           Today is Friday, 26th September, 2025.
             It is 05:08 and the last forecast is about to be read.

I've got a handful of characters in my head for this and, although I'm ultimately not sure which to put first in the structure, the first I've started on is a museum curator from the fictional Suffolk village of Frampton, Holly Prentice.

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 – Holly –

 – Friday, 26^th September, 2025 –

– 05:25 –

 The cold steel stung her fingers, then slipped, crashing to the ground with a thud. Holly Prentice kicked her leg back out of habit – the same, old reaction she employed whenever dropping anything – so that the heavy set of keys did not fall on her foot. It was normally knives, normally when she drew them from the knife block with a flourish. Or books. She always held them in her finger tips, and never folded them out. She wanted that spine-fresh feel whenever she dipped into them, despite the pain in her foot when they occasionally slipped.
   

Fishing for her phone, and making sure she had a firmer grip on this than her keys, she shone the light, illuminating the cracked step. The keys, an assorted tangle of Chubbs and Yales, lay to one side, and she stooped, head resting against the museum door and wishing she had gloves on. This wasn’t one of those Indian Summer Septembers. It was, to borrow one of her old father’s favourite sayings, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.
With keys once more in hand, she fumbled for the right one, and stabbed the lock with venom.
   

The interior smelled musty. Or, rather, slightly more musty than usual. A museum full of Saxon remnants was always going to smell musty, no matter how much fancy climate control you paid for. But they’d been closed for a week, now; the silhouettes of the painter’s ladder and the pile of dust sheets loomed out of the gloom of the lobby. He was due to be done by now, but they were holding off the re-opening until Monday, just to be safe.
   

The lights sputtered into life as Holly stepped forward, and she inhaled the lingering fug of paint fumes. She wasn’t convinced the particular shade of beige chosen by the trustees would help display the artefacts in the best possible light, but her opinion on this mattered very little. After all, she was only the Assistant Curator. What did her opinion matter? Beige was cheap, the trustees said. And not just any beige, but a real beigy beige. It would add character, that was the word. Though, please make sure to refer to it as “off-cream”, if asked.
Holly couldn’t remember what she had said in reply to this. Probably just “yes, Lady Eastley”, and, “of course, Lady Eastley”. It had been a very brief, one-sided phone call.
 

Setting her satchel down by her desk, she unwound the new Jags scarf, wishing again that she had bought the gloves at the same time, and flung her coat at the peg. Sitting down in the creaking old leather office chair, she clicked the fan heater on and slipped out of her flats. Waving her feet at the heat, she leant back and shut her eyes, remembering all of the tirade that had followed Tuesday’s call, and the familiar, resigned look on Liam Hogan’s face. She glanced over to his unoccupied desk, where the little plaque bore the legend Deputy Assistant Manager (Guests). It was a title as meaningless as his role, but he was a good kid, and Holly didn’t have it in her heart to end his contract. She knew he needed the museum more than the museum needed him.
In fact, the museum barely needed Holly herself.
 

The sink tap was so tight she bruised her palm trying to twist it. The kettle was so caked in scum that it took ages to boil. The biscuit tin was empty. Holly walked back from the kitchenette, hands wrapped around the mug, scooped up yesterday’s post, and returned to her desk. Looking over the letters, she recognised the monthly budget advisory from the board and threw it aside. That one could wait.