Sinister: ReYet more Judy and the Dream of Horses (groan)

[Peter Carter]

First off, Mike said:

""Has anyone else on this list had similar coincidences/fates?""

"And yup, I have. One of the first posts I recollect from when I
first joined sinister was one of Jules Markhams black fox fables. I
then had a dream about her, she had ginger hair and was wearing
glasses. She had a big brown coat on and was walking by a
riverside tossing stones into the river.
About a year later I met her. She had ginger hair and glasses,
and although her coat was green and not brown it was otherwise
pretty similar. And of course now we're engaged.
I just thought I'd share that story. Dunno why."

Thanks, that gives me renewed faith in my impossible situation. I'm really
glad everything worked out for you. I'll be at your wedding, just look for
the famous writer (ok, maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself) :)

And now... more Judy and the Dream of Horses (you in the back, stop
fidgiting). The next post will be a complete re-drafted version of the first
5 chapters (I've been working slower than I thought). After that, I'll set
up a website with it on and post the link whenever it's updated, so that
people who don't want to read it don't have to download God knows how many K
just to consign it to 'deleted items' after skimming over the surface. Well,
here is is...

"We could work together then", I said, immediately realising the stupidity
of my own words. I was usually good at the kind of banter that attracted
boys. Of course, I tended to get bored after I knew they were interested,
but the point was that they were. For the first time, I ended up feeling
quite stupid. For this reason, it took me by surprise when he asked me to
meet him the next day at eight, touching my arm lightly as he did so. I
blushed a little as he walked away. I felt a bit dizzy after he left, though
I found the motivation to begin to read my book properly, shortly afterward.

 Chapter 3

The next day was interesting at least. I was back at Sixth Form so I really
didn't have much time to think about Andy. I was wearing jeans and an old
black top, and doing my very best to look like I didn't care what I looked
like. I did, I'd spent an hour and a quarter in the shower and twenty
minutes combing my hair before I left the house. I had to make sure it was
as shiny as possible and well groomed enough to pick up any shy 'book-reader
' I set my sights on. This was habit; I did not intend to concentrate my
attentions on anyone at sixth form that day, or any other day in the
foreseeable future. There were plenty of attractive and not-too-trendy boys,
that wasn't the problem, the problem was that they were all groomed to be
like that, just as I was. I wanted an ideal; I'd come to believe I could
have anyone, so naturally I looked for my idea of perfection. Now, Andy wasn
't anywhere near what I thought my ideal would be, but he seemed to fit into
something different, neatly side-stepping everything I thought I wanted.

I met up with my friends in the common room before my first lesson. They are
a bit cliquey but have mostly the right idea as far as attitudes and people
were concerned. When I started out I used to sit in the corner and hate
everyone, but I guess I grew out of that. The people there might not be the
greatest people alive, but they get on with me, and I suppose that's the
point. It's all a trade agreement with them, affection for affection, time
for time, and it works out largely in my favour. If I put enough effort in,
I can manipulate people into liking me. Of course I know that I'm not really
worth liking, but other people don't know the reason I do things, just that
I do them. People are only really concerned with how things effect them
anyway, or that's the way it usually is. So we just sit around when we have
time to kill. We talk about how all the kids around here are ignorant,
prejudiced clones, or the latest punk album someone has bought or something
similar. No one really talks about anything important but it passes the time
and stops anyone from looking unpopular.

First lesson was Geography, which I largely managed to sleep through. It was
in one of the older sections of the college and nobody had really thought to
redecorate it in the last ten years. It was a huge room with grey walls
covered in bumps the size of two pence pieces. The windows were too high up
to see out of, a feature, which, our teacher proudly informed us, was a
design the Victorians used to stop children from looking out of the windows
during lessons. To the Victorians credit, it tended to work. I passed the
time in the traditional way, by drawing figures in the margin and writing
various quotes. My fad of the day was to integrate the quotes and the
illustrations. For example, "All men are evil, except my boyfriend" was
illustrated by a picture of a cheerleader with her mouth sewn up and "We've
got heads on sticks" was accompanied by various mice head's on sticks, all
within sight of a minuscule piece of cheese. I didn't really see this as an
act of rebellion, it was just a hell of a lot more interesting than drawing
pictures of Brad Pit, or scrawling "JC 4 AL 4EV 9T9" or some of the similar
rubbish which my classmates insisted on.

English was slightly more interesting. The teacher gave us an assignment to
write entitled 'The River', which I thought too wide a subject to allow the
proper analysis of a particular writing skill. I also thought it was quite a
banal and generic subject to use as the backdrop for a creative piece. I
decided that the first point would clearly be more important to the teacher,
and to the education system as a whole.  I raised this point with much
vigour and was met with a comment along the lines of 'When you've been to
teacher training college and got a degree then feel free to tell me how to
do my job. Until then be quiet'. Though I would have liked to list the
variety of circumstances, which prevented me obtaining the paper in
question, I decided this was not sensible. Instead, I did my very best to
adopt to a 'Mills and Boon' style throughout my piece, reflecting the nature
of our title. I later got a B+ for the same piece, my highest grade that
year.

Having had only two lessons that day I went straight home to prepare.
Thinking, foolishly, that the longer I spent washing myself, the more chance
there would be that Andy would like me. I spent several hours putting
make-up on and several more concealing that fact. The reminder of the time
was spent selecting clothes which conformed to no particular group ideal,
made me look sophisticated and attractive, and yet gave the appearance of
something casual I had put on without a thought. I didn't use perfume
though, that was something even my vanity couldn't justify. The idea that
men would be more or less attracted to me because of the way I smelled,
beyond the obvious demands of cleanliness, was, and still is a repulsive
thought.

I was on the bus to the pub for and hour and a half.  This was not such a
long time as it could have been, and passed reasonably quickly. It was a
route I rarely used, so the scenery was still of vague interest, and the
conversation of the women sitting two seats ahead was clearly audible.
Comments such as "I don't like poor people, why can't the just pick
themselves out of the gutter like I did", kept me amused until the bus
pulled in to the depot.

Andy greeted me at the bus stop with a brief kiss on the check, then quickly
moved a few metres away, like a tiger playing with its prey. This was the
second time since I met him that I blushed. I was not used to his mixture of
confidence and timidity; I was both unnerved and intrigued. I managed to
mumble 'thank you' as we went into the pub, and smiled so oddly that it
probably looked more frightening than endearing.

Once we had found a seat, I began the conversation by asking his favourite
band. Music being a major theme in my life, and I saw the question a good
way for me to assess his character. He took his time to reply, though he
must have been asked that question hundreds of times before, it seemed that
he needed to reassess his musical values all the time. When he finally
spoke, he said,

"My favourite band kind of changes everyday, with my mood or the newest
record I've bought. Some days I feel romantic, so I'll listen to Joni
Mitchell or Kathryn Williams or I'll put Dock of a Bay on repeat.  Other
days I'll feel unhappy and I'll listen to Radiohead or P.J.Harvey.  When I'
ve had a relationship break up, I'll probably listen to Sleater Kinney and
be angry."

I saw this as the perfect opening answer and began to settle into my role as
the interviewer, just as he settled into the steady rhythm of the
interviewee.

When I asked his favourite films, he told me,

"My favourite of the recent ones is probably 'Breaking the Waves'. I'm not
sure whether it's better than Casablanca, but then it's kind of hard to
compare"

"I love Casablanca" I replied, "But I've never really heard of 'Breaking the
Waves"

"I think you'd probably like it. You seem the kind of person who would. It's
a wonderful film. It's got flaws, but only small ones, and they stop it from
being another slick, soulless, Hollywood production. The main character,
Beth, is wonderful; she's like a child, but not in an easy way. A lot of the
things she does make me cringe, I kind of like that. I like a film that
doesn't cover things up, that shows uncomfortable situations as exactly what
they are."

I agreed. It was something I'd always thought, instinctively, but never
really explained, never really put a name to. To think that he could pick
things out of my head and explain them better than I could was nothing short
of amazing.

As the conversation progressed, I steered it gently between neutral
subjects, the boy, and myself. I made sure that I did not dwell too much on
any subject. I made sure that he laughed whenever a joked and I made sure
that he saw only a carefully selected section of my self, the section I
liked. However, this was not an exercise in seduction, as most of my
meetings of this nature had been, I honestly needed him to like me. There
was something perfect about him and I knew it would not appear in anyone
else, at least, no one I was likely to meet. This time my object was not to
increase my self-esteem but to show his that I was worthy of his attention.
Nevertheless, I had clearly gained his attention, as his face edged closer
to mine with each word.

I sat in the bar until closing time. I hardly drank anything, mainly because
it didn't seem appropriate. It would have been a grave waste of a wonderful
time. The location, the words, the situation, everything was perfect. There
was no way I would let the night fade into a blurry haze. As the bar man
called time, I began to panic. I began to think it might be the setting that
made everything so special, a small village pub, playing Soul music with
subdued lighting and an incredible mixture of happy, intelligent looking
people.

As the bell rang again, for closing time, I felt like a soul drawn from
heaven. Everything seemed to dissolve and I could hardly manage the short
walk to the door. As we passed underneath the wooden frame, Andy turned to
me and said, slowly,

"We don't have to be there you know"

And I knew exactly what he meant. There was no need for him to explain and
he realised this.  He waiting with me at the bus stop in silence, hardly
blinking. Just as I boarded the bus he squeezed my hand and pushed something
into it.  It was a piece of paper, his number written on it, in the most
careful writing I've ever seen. It was only as I left that I realised he
hadn't had a chance to write that number during our meeting. I had never
allowed my eyes to move from his face during the entire time. We had also
forgotten to say anything about the proposed art project, but then working
together was never supposed to be limited to thoughts on paper.

 Chapter 4

The next day was a mess of ink, paper and Chinese takeaway wrapping. I sat
on the ground in my room; writing the beginnings of poems and eating the
food my father had picked up for me on his way home. I was bored of making
images with them, and besides, you couldn't put word images with picture
images, it'd clash. My main problem was that, in order to make a poem that
wasn't wholly image, I had to put a sliver of a personality into it. I had
been trying for hours to put a little bit of my fake self there, but it was
impossible, the entire piece began to look false as well. I tried to put
bits of other people in it too, bits of people I admired or loved or wanted
to be. This time it was my lack of understanding making the pieces seem
wrong. I crumpled the paper in my hand, jammed it into an empty takeaway box
and threw it in the bin.

I spent the next four hours watching videos. Nothing special, just two
pointless, big-budget affairs I had rented with a view to immersing myself
in pop culture. I got bored some way into the second, 'Speed 2', after
forcing myself to watch 'Titanic' from beginning to end. The idea that these
films had sold even thousands of copies would have amused me; the actual
figures bordered on terrifying.

After my attempt at video masochism ended, I sat in silence, cross-legged on
the floor, delaying the inevitable. In a sense, all of my activities that
day had been an attempt to prevent myself picking up the phone. Ever since I
woke up, which was around seven o'clock, I had felt compelled to dial Andy's
number. When I finally gave way, the feel of the thick white plastic against
my hands was exhilarating in as many ways as it was frightening. By the time
he answered, I was barely able to speak. I mumbled a quick 'hello', to which
he responded with an equally nervous greeting.  We talked for a little while
about nothing important. He told me to meet him at the same pub at the same
time, saying he had some art for me to see. He said he thought I would
probably be interested in it, even if I didn't know what to put with it. I
agreed, and, after saying goodbye, sat back slowly in my chair and closed my
eyes. I didn't mean to smile but, for at least an hour afterwards, I had no
choice.

My happiness ended as soon as my sister entered the room. Straight away, I
knew that she wouldn't be able to resist disturbing my happiness. She walked
straight up to the television and turned on 'Dawsons Creek', the volume just
load enough as to make my day dreaming impossible and draw my attention
toward Joey Potter's latest mini-drama. The words "To be perfectly candid
Dawson, I have neither the wish, nor the desire to enter into a lengthy and,
to be honest, ultimately pointless, discourse into the meandering state of
our, hitherto unfulfilled, relationship". Surely, the writer had taken the
words directly from his A-level English paper, as no sixteen-year-old I know
is quite as adept at dragging out a sentence.

My sister sat entranced, her tight red dress and belly-top showing, in case
any of her friends failed to notice, the extent of her intoxication with pop
culture and the Beauty Myth. My sister, like me, was superficially popular,
though she maintained this popularity in a very different way. She saw it as
something to revel in, as she proved the day she came home glowing, telling
me,

"I sat next to Jenny and Adam in science today and do you know what Jenny
said? She said that she never thought someone like me would sit next to
someone like her."

Of course, I ignored her, but that didn't stop me hating her for saying
something so hideous, and worse, for saying it with pride. I hate my sister
because she reminds me of everything I am, and makes no effort to hide it.
That sounds like a horrible thing to say, but surely if you hate yourself,
you can hate your family too.

After ten minutes of my sister's interference, I decided to interfere with
my sister's mood myself. I began by making minor comments about the
hopelessly teenage plot lines and ridiculous dialogue. I slowly worked in
more and more comments, all the while increasing the sentiments. Once my
sister was showing sufficient signs of annoyance, I began making links
between the characters and my sister's friend or behaviour,

"Why do all your friends look like Dawson's Creek extras?"

"They don't."

"Yes they do Julia, they all dress in Lodge clothes and your friend Amy has
exactly the same haircut as Joey Potter. You even act like them, and I'm
sure you'd talk like Joey or Dawson too if you could understand a word they
said."

"Shut up."

And ended by telling my sister that she was obviously stupid for watching
such 'mulsh'. She wasn't happy, but I'm bigger than she is, and can easily
outwit her in an argument, so she simply sat and sulked until the program
finished, then left the room.

I would usually have paused to reflect on my victory, but I only had an hour
to prepare before my meeting with Andy. I went through my usual preparations
and left the house a little early, to be sure of catching the bus. I waited
in silence, fidgeting, unable to keep still.  The middle-aged lady waiting
next to me must surely have taken me for a druggie because as I was boarding
the bus I heard her whisper,

"She doesn't look happy does she, I don't know why the put all these
chemicals through their body, surely it can't be healthy".

To a man, who seemed to be her husband. I laughed and entertained myself
throughout the rest of the journey by constantly scratching my arms and
mumbling incomprehensibility, occasionally adding the word 'fix' or 'H'. The
woman was not amused and visibly relaxed when I reached my stop. I couldn't
resist winking at her as I the bus pulled away. She pretended she didn't
see, I knew she did."

"Seamstresses at the factory sewing garments for The Gap, Guess and Old Navy
told me that they often have to resort to urinating in plastic bags under
their machines [because they are only allowed two toilet breaks a day and
their wages are docked if they take them]. There are rules against talking,
and at the Ju Young electronics factory, a rule against smiling" - No Logo
by Naomi Klein

The Happy Reaper

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