AS RED AS
    
    It is late summer. Some mornings, such as this, have a damp insistence about them. It is an insistence which will be dispelled as soon as the sun establishes itself, but this will take longer than it did a week ago, than it did yesterday. Adam Fleet is sensitive to this acceleration, and to the cool mornings. They remind him of unfinished
    
    projects. He watches the rowan tree which grows in the street outside his kitchen window. Barely three months ago it was packed with fat creamy flowers. Now it aches with berries. He thinks: what is this that I am seeing?
    
    There is anxiety in Adam’s face when he meets Sarah in the hallway outside her flat. “Why don’t you take an evening class?” she says. “It will occupy your mind.”
    
    Adam buys a directory which lists the classes in his area and takes it to a caff on the high street. He orders a coffee at the counter. “Sugar?” asks the woman without interest. “No”, says Adam. “Thank you”. He settles on a table two back from the window. There is a ketchup dispenser in the shape of a tomato on the table. Adam squeezes it experimentally and it farts a dribble of ketchup. He looks round, but the woman appears not to have noticed. She is focused on a point half way across the street. Adam turns to see what she is looking at, but sees nothing.
    
    The directory is a thick book with thin pages. Adam riffles the pages with his thumb. The directory whirs softly and breezes against the underside of his hand. Like a moth, he thinks. He scans the index. The first entries he notices fall under Art. He scrutinizes them: Acrylics (Intermediate) … Oils for Everyone … Your Pet in
    
    Pastels. He tries, but fails, to summon up interest. He flicks forward a few pages to Cookery. Adam likes cooking, but lacks confidence. He would never dare bone a chicken. He reads the entries: Winter Soups … Mostly Vegetarian … The Cuisine of Peru. At this last entry Adam stops and sips his coffee. It takes just a second to realise that he has been given tea. He is, during that brief moment, aware of his brain working. The sensation is as physical as a gear shift.
    
    1
    
    Adam returns to the cookery section unsettled. Nothing inspires him. He gets up, knocking his shin against the table leg as he does so. The woman is beside him, though he had not noticed her move from behind the counter. He can smell powder. “You haven’t touched it”, she says, looking at the cup. “It’s tea”, says Adam. The woman stares at him blankly. He notices that lipstick has bled into the narrow fissures above her upper lip.
    
    Adam stops off at Sarah’s on the way up to his flat. When she opens the door she is smiling with one side of her mouth. “I bought this”, he says, holding the directory towards her as if it were itself an accomplishment. Sarah takes it and weighs it with both hands. “Heavy isn’t it?” says Adam. Sarah hands it back. “It’s amazing how many courses there are”, he says. “So have you found something to do?” asks Sarah. “Not yet, no. I thought I should take my time”. “Better not leave it too late”, says Sarah. “The popular classes fill up”. There is something about this observation which irritates Adam. “Do you have any ideas?” he asks. “About what you should do?” Sarah walks over to the sink and runs the tap. Time passes. Adam strokes the bridge of his nose. “What about writing” she says. “You have a way with words.” Adam senses an archness. Again, he lets it pass. “Writing” he says. “I wouldn’t … I, well.” “Creative writing, you know …” Sarah is wiping what appears to be a perfectly clean white saucer with a pink cloth. “What, like stories?” asks Adam. “Yes, like stories Adam” says Sarah. “You could write a best-selling novel, move somewhere exotic.” She places the saucer face down on the steel draining board. Adam notices that she does this without making a sound. “I’ll think about it” he says. “Thanks.” “Let me know what you decide” says Sarah, running the pink cloth in circles around the rim of the sink. Adam lets himself out.
    
    2
    
    Back in his flat Adam puts the directory down and makes a cup of instant coffee. He thinks: if I were a writer I would have to describe things, events. He takes a biro and holds it just above the back of an old envelope. He writes: “I went to Sarah’s flat this morning. She was washing up. Sarah has dark brown hair which falls about her shoulders”. Adam looks at what he has written and puts the pen down. He puts a line through the words and starts again: “Sarah, who I visited this morning and who has beautiful dark brown hair, was washing up”. Adam puts the pen down and scrumples the envelope into a ball. He looks at the rowan tree outside the window and considers the berries. He thinks: is it enough to say that they are red? He recalls the woman in the caff and tries to imagine the colour of her lipstick. He thinks: if it had been the colour of rowan berries I could write “Her lipstick was the colour of rowan berries” and people would know what I meant. He pauses and takes a sip of coffee. It is luke warm. He forms the thought: as warm as luke, and watches the tree for evidence of wind. He forms another thought: the rowan berries were as red as the woman in the caff’s lipstick. He likes this image and writes it down on another envelope. He concentrates on the words as if they might move unexpectedly and takes another sip of coffee. He writes: “The rowan berries were the colour of fire” and crosses it out immediately. He hears Sarah’s voice in his head: “You have a way with words”. Perhaps, he thinks.
    
    *
    
    The following day Adam calls a college which offers a course entitled: ‘So you think you can write?’ and inquires about places. “There’s a typo in the ad”, a brisk woman says. “It should read, ‘So you think you can’t write’. Are you still interested?” Adam asks the woman whether there is a difference. “It’s a typo”, she says. “Do you want to reserve a place?” Adam pauses. Can? Can’t? The woman at the end of the telephone is silent. “Yes”, he says. “Yes please”. “First class is Wednesday. You can register then. What’s your name?” “Fleet”, says Adam. “Adam Fleet”. “Fleet” says the woman, and hangs up.
    
    3
    
    That evening he knocks on Sarah’s door. “It’s on the latch”, she says. Adam walks in. For some reason he feels raw. “You should be careful”, he says. “You never know who might walk in”. “I always know who will walk in Adam”, says Sarah. She is wearing a white flannel dressing-gown which stops just abover her knees. There is a nick on her left shin and two beads of blood have formed. Adam catches himself staring. He looks up quickly, but Sarah has not noticed. “I found a writing course”, he says. “It starts this week.” “That’s just wonderful Adam” says Sarah. “You clever, clever boy.” Adam notices an empty wine bottle on the table. “Is this a bad time?” he asks. “For what?” replies Sarah. “For what sweetie?” “It’s called ‘So you think you can’t write’” says Adam. “I thought that was, you know, about it. What I could do.” “Shouldn’t that be ‘can’?” asks Sarah, who has fallen back into the sofa. She has a look of slight surprise about her, as if she had not expected it to be there. “It was a typo” says Adam. Sarah mouths a silent “Oh” . “You said I should let you know” he says. Adam can see the inside of Sarah’s thighs. “You know the berries on the rowan tree?” he says. Sarah nods. “What are they as red as?” Sarah looks at him as if expecting more. He looks back. “As red as?” she says. She is describing circles with her index finger on the arm of the sofa. “Yes”, he says Sarah narrows her eyes. “I would say … I would say they are as red as roses”. Sarah pulls her chin into her neck and smiles in a way that compresses her entire face. “But roses aren’t all red, are they?” says Adam. “The red ones are” says Sarah. “The red ones are very, very red”. Adam concentrates on the nick on Sarah’s shin. “You’ve cut yourself” he says. Sarah stretches out her legs and observes them as if they did not belong to her.
    
    4
    
    “Fuck” she says. She licks her index finger and rubs gently upwards, over the nick. She puts her finger in her mouth. “I’ll call by after the first class” says Adam. “To let you know what it was like”. “You do that” says Sarah.
    
    *
    
    It is five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Adam has not shaved since Sunday. He considers himself in the bathroom mirror, presenting his chin at a slight angle. “Bum fluff”, he says. He is wearing a pair of black jeans, a white T-shirt and a pair of tan cowboy boots. He has not worn the boots since College and the leather is cracked and dusty. He has bought a spiral notebook and sharpened two pencils.
    
    Adam walks to the college – a Victorian junior school. A sign by the entrance reads ‘This way to classes and registration’. Adam follows it. At the far end of the hall five tables are arranged in a line. Behind each sits a woman with a clipboard and a cash box. Handwritten signs on the tables indicate the names of the different classes. Adam scans them from a distance. “Which class are you looking for, dear?” asks the woman at the centre table in a voice which suggests that she considers herself to be in charge. The other women look at her, and then at Adam. “Writing” says Adam. “I want to learn to write”. “Ah” says the woman. “Remedial. One for you Jan”. She nods to her far left. “Over there, dear”. Adam is confused and immobilised. Jan smiles at him. “It’s alright love. I can help you fill out the forms”. “No. I mean thank you. I can write. I want ‘So you think you can - can’t – write’. That course.” Jan’s smile takes on a fixed quality. “How complicated” she says, and then “That’ll be one for you Theresa”. Adam looks around. People are beginning to mill about. “Over here”. A sharp, dry voice.
    
    5
    
    Adam turns in its direction. The woman at the table on the far right is beckoning him. Her eyes resemble zips. Adam walks over. “So”, says the woman. “You want to subject yourself to my tender mercies.” Adam senses that this is a practised phrase. “My name is Fleet”, he says. “Adam Fleet”. He hopes she will check her list but she merely regards him. “The class will be in Room 12”, she says. “Do you want my money now?”, asks Adam. He holds out a £20 note, but the woman waves him away. This is not what Adam expected. He didn’t know what to expect. He walks through what has now become quite a crowd towards a corridor indicated by the woman. He feels impelled, passive.
    
    Room 12 has a high ceiling and tall windows. On one side there is a work surface with a white china sink, and on the walls are shadows where pictures once hung. There is one other person in the room, a woman in her fifties. For a moment Adam is transfixed by her physical enormity. “Hi”, he says. The woman looks round. She is at a desk in the row nearest the blackboard. Before her she has laid out a pad of foolscap, a pencil and a pencil sharpener. “You’re new”, she says. “You’ve done this before?”, asks Adam. “Oh yes”, she says. “Still can’t write”. She lets out a shrill sound, which is almost but not quite a laugh. “My name is Adam” says Adam. “Susan” says the woman. “But you can call me Susan”. Another shriek. Adam notices that the floor around Susan’s desk is littered with plastic bags. “You’ve brought a lot of stuff with you” he says. “Oh yes”, says Susan. “Always”. Adam sits at a desk towards the back of the room and concentrates on a point just above the blackboard.
    
    Over the next twenty minutes Adam and Susan are joined by four more people. Some of them smile recognition at each other. All are older than Adam. He is the only man. Theresa is the last to arrive, and closes the door with a suddenness that causes
    6
    
    Adam to sit up straight in his chair. She walks over to a table in the far corner, under one of the windows. In the early evening light her hair is translucent. “Good evening”, she says. “Welcome to ‘So you think you can’t write’. Not my title, but there you are”. Adam shifts in his chair. His ankles itch. “Tonight”, continues Theresa, her voice rustling with static, “we are going to discuss motivation”. This last word she chalks on the blackboard, deliberately articulating each syllable as it is written. Adam is aware of his own concentration. He writes MOTIVATION at the top of the first page of his notebook and smooths the paper with the side of his hand. “But” says Theresa “I don’t want you to write anything yet”. Adam quietly closes the notebook. “First of all I want each of us to stand up and tell the rest of us why we are here.” Susan is up before Theresa has finished speaking. “Susan?” Theresa’s voice crackles. “I am here because, um … Well, I’m here. Again.” Susan has lost her thread and collapses heavily into her chair. Two bags topple, spilling what sounds like bricks. Theresa looks at the list in front of her. “Right”, she says. “Yes. This is your third year isn’t it Susan?” Susan is ferreting among her bags. “One, two … yes, third”, she says. “Can’t get enough!”. This time the accompanying shriek subsides into a heavy breath which stops abruptly. “Now”, says Theresa, surveying the room. “Where is Adam Fleet?” Not yet, thinks Adam. Not now. He coughs. “Ah! This is Adam’s first time everybody. Stand up Adam!” Adam stands up. Everyone is watching him. He says “I was at University. A long time ago. Ten years. I had an accident. On my bike. I was on my bike. I …” “Go on”, says Theresa. No static. “I didn’t finish. I find it difficult to finish things, to … Sarah, that’s who lives downstairs, she said … I think perhaps I can write. Maybe it will help. I want …” He stops. The room is silent. “I want to know what rowan berries are as red as”, he says.
    7
    
    The air is alive with chalkdust. Adam feels light-headed. Someone coughs and Adam sits down. He raises his eyes and looks at Theresa. She has cocked her head to one side like a chicken. “Thank you Adam”, she says.
    
    The remaining four people stand to deliver their reasons for being there. Adam concentrates very hard. One woman, Margaret, has brought what seems to be a prepared speech. She refers to the intricate beauty of the English language. She uses the words ‘infelicity’ and ‘exactitude’. Adam can hear the semi-colons. When she finishes she looks around and catches Adam’s eye. He smiles uncertainly. Another woman, wearing a mauve nylon turban and large gold hoop earrings, talks about her diary and clicks her teeth as she speaks.
    
    An hour later the class ends. Adam looks at the page in front of him. He has written: Know why people do what they. Past / Future (imagine). Keep simple. Theresa says “Next week I want you each to bring something you have written. Just a page or two. Be prepared to read out what you have done.” “Do you have any particular theme in mind?”, asks Margaret, in a voice inflected in such a way that it has the effect of excluding everyone else from Theresa’s answer. “No, Margaret”, replies Theresa. “I do not. But I am sure that whatever you do will delight us.” Adam is reminded of something he once read. The memory fades before it is fully formed. As he makes to leave, Theresa says “You will be here next week?” She is holding the third finger of her left hand between the thumb and forefinger of her right. Adam notices that she wears no rings. “Yes”, he says. “Next week. Right. Bye.” “Goodnight Adam” says Theresa. *
    
    “Well?” says Sarah. “How was it?” She is standing with her back to the sink. Her hair is wet and hangs flat against her neck. “It was, you know, OK” says Adam. “OK. Right” says Sarah. She looks down at his boots and then up at his face. Adam shifts his weight from his left leg to his right.
    8
    
    “Coffee?” asks Sarah, moving over to the kettle. “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just, you know, go to bed now. I … I said I’d call by to tell you how it was, and …” “And so you have” says Sarah. “Sleep well Adam.”
    
    That night Adam dreams he is walking barefoot across a floor covered in white china saucers.
    
    *
    
    For the next five days Adam worries about what he will write. He buys a local paper to see if there are any stories which might inspire him. Only one captures his attention. A girl has accidentally fallen from the eighth floor of a tower block while leaning over her grandmother’s balcony. An witness is reported as having observed that she fell like a kite vacated by the wind. Adam does not think he can better that. One day he spends hours watching the rowan tree. Its berries are filling and
    
    darkening. He thinks: if I cannot describe their colour I might perhaps capture this change in them. He writes: ‘The rowan tree has berries which are mutable’, but something about the word ‘mutable’ disturbs him. It suggests that the berries might somehow be silenced. He writes instead: ‘which mutate’. But that suggests
    
    something monstrous. That is not it all, thinks Adam.
    
    One morning he returns to the caff on the high street. The woman who served him before is still there. She appears not to have moved. “Coffee?”, she says. “Whatever”, says Adam. The woman narrows her eyes and pours him a coffee. “Sugar?”, she asks. “If you like”. Adam watches for a reaction, but there is none. She hands him the cup. “Can I ask you a question?”, asks Adam. The woman tilts her head sideways. “What colour is your lipstick?” “Are you some kind of perv?”, replies the woman. “No” says Adam. “Not that. Sorry. It’s just, I’m doing a project. A writing project. At night school.” The woman observes him carefully.
    9
    
    “I am trying to work out what colour things are”, says Adam. “You know, working out how you describe colours.” The woman runs a small, slug-like, tongue around her lips. “What colour do you think it is?”, she asks. “Pink”,says Adam. “Shrimpy.” The woman’s mouth contracts like a startled sea-anemone. “It’s called ‘frosted lilac’” says the woman. “Boots.” “I can see that now, yes”, says Adam. “It’s a lovely colour. It suits you. Really.” The sea-anemone relaxes slightly. “Your coffee will get cold”, she says, and turns away.
    
    Back at his flat Adam settles down in his kitchen. Outside, the rowan berries glow. Adam looks at them, and then at the stainless steel salt pot on the table. He wonders if it will be cold to the touch. He places his finger at its base and strokes the metal. It seems to have no temperature at all. He remembers the nick on Sarah’s shin and raises the finger to his lips. He is surprised at how dry they are. He presses down his lower lip and runs his finger along the base of his teeth. His fingernail makes dull clicks as he draws it across them, the sound of a stick against bicycle spokes.
    
    *
    
    He had not seen the lorry. He had been looking up at the sunlight filtered through the broad leaves of the horsechestnut trees. The morning was cool, but with the promise of warmth. A bell had sounded behind him, and someone had shouted. Adam had sensed heat, weight; had felt the gentlest nudge.
    
    Everybody was very kind. His tutor’s wife brought him the complete works of Rabelais and a jigsaw printed with an engraving by Escher. It was three months before he could open the box. The College indicated that Adam could return when he felt up to it. “You are one of our bright stars”, the Senior Tutor had said, his hands clasped in an attitude of inverse prayer.
    
    After six months Adam was able to walk with a stick, after twelve months without one. He went back to live with his mother, who nurtured his disability like a rare
    10
    
    flower. When she died he bought a flat in London with his inheritance. He worked for a short time in a bookshop that belonged to a friend of someone he had known in College, but he would sometimes forget that he worked there and sleep all day. “I’m sure you understand”, said the friend, handing over two weeks’ wages in a small manila envelope.
    
    The truth was, Adam understood little and remembered less.
    
    People fed him
    
    memories but he could not keep them down. One morning, when the trees were turning, Adam picked up a volume of Rabelais. The words swam like minnows across the page. There had been a time when he could have caught them. Now they swam through his fingers. He wrote to his College. Naturally they understood. “If we can be of any help”, they replied.
    
    *
    
    It is Wednesday evening again. Adam is wearing the same clothes as last week but different shoes. He has been writing all day. The words have fallen on the page like rain. He has no understanding of the reason for this sudden change. His handwriting is furious, broken. The pages before him are black with ink and smudge.
    
    Susan occupies the same seat that she did last week, as does Adam. He watches her, and the others as they arrive. Adam flexes his wrists and waits. Theresa greets the class without enthusiasm. She is frailer than Adam remembers. “Last week”, says Theresa “we considered motivation. Perhaps some of you will have drawn on what we discussed in the writing I asked you to bring along.” “I found last week very helpful Theresa”, says Margaret. “I have always found it difficult to explain why my characters do what they do, and now I think I’ve cracked it.” Adam’s mind is filled with the image of a hammer above a large white egg. “I’m glad it was helpful to you Margaret” says Theresa. “As I hope it was to everyone else.” Margaret deflates. “Perhaps”, says Theresa “someone will volunteer to read out what they have done.” Nobody speaks. Margaret shifts in her chair.
    11
    
    “Alright”, says Theresa. “Susan. Have you written something?” Susan rummages in one of her many bags. “Oh. Yes. I mean, I’ve done something. Yes. It’s not – you know – much, or anything. It’s about pigeons.” “Pigeons”, repeats Theresa. “Please, go ahead. When you are ready.” Susan pulls out a piece of paper from a bag tied round with string. She reads in a deliberate voice. “The Secret Life of Pigeons. They are on the pavements, under railway arches, on window ledges. Pigeons are everywhere. When I walk along the street I look at them and wonder where they go at night. You never see them then. It makes me think perhaps they have a secret life. Perhaps they live in pigeon houses, built secretly beyond our prying eyes. These pigeon houses, what would they be made of? Bits of old string, twigs, newspaper perhaps. They would be small and neat, like beach huts. Row upon row, behind fences and walls. And in each little house there would perhaps be little pigeon beds made from old pigeon feathers. And what would be on the walls? Perhaps there would be milk bottle tops and bits of foil for mirrors. Each night the pigeons go back to their houses and snuggle up to other pigeons, waiting for the morning when the sun will rise …” Susan stops. “I wrote more, but … that’s it really. More like that.” “Thank you Susan” says Theresa. Adam tries to gauge her reaction but detects none. She says: “What do people think about what Susan has written? Any comments?” Nobody speaks. Someone sighs. Adam watches Susan, who has descended into her bags. He raises his hand. “Yes, Adam.” Suddenly there is life in Theresa’s voice. “I thought that Susan used ‘perhaps’ too much.” “Direct your comments to Susan directly, Adam” says Theresa. Adam waits for Susan to ascend from beneath her desk. “I don’t think you need to say ‘perhaps’ so much Susan.” Susan looks at Adam. Fearful. “I think you should, you know, let go of that” he says. Everyone is focusing on Adam now, but he feels a direct line to Susan, as if he were wired to her.
    12
    
    “That’s all”, he says. Susan’s mouth opens, then closes. She doesn’t speak. Adam watches Theresa. There is a slight tick beneath her left eye. She says: “Thank you for that Adam. Perhaps – sorry, not perhaps. Start again. You think there was too much doubt in Susan’s fantasy?” Adam shrugs. Something about it has touched him. An ache. “Do you live by yourself Susan?”, he asks. Time stops. The other people in the room seem to drain away. There is terror in Susan’s face. It heaves and breaks. Fat splashes of water fall from her face onto the desk. “I … I …” Adam goes over to her, and puts his arm around her shoulder. “Come with me”, he says. “Come”.
    
    *
    
    The class is over. Theresa walks slowly up and down the aisles. When she reaches Adam’s desk she sees that he has left his papers behind. She strokes the side of her face and traces the line of her chin with a finger. Outside in the corridor laughter
    
    rises and recedes. When at last there is silence Theresa puts on her glasses. She holds the first page to the light from the window. The writing is barely legible, sentences started and stopped, crossed through, abandoned. She imagines Adam’s voice and begins to read. She is still reading when the caretaker comes to check the room. “Are you alright miss?” he asks. “It’s just that I’ve got to lock up”. Theresa looks up and wipes her eyes with the end of her sleeve. “Of course you do”, she says. “I’m sorry”.
    
    *
    
    Adam has taken Susan home. “What about my bags?”, she says as they reach her house. “Theresa will keep them safe for you”, says Adam. Susan nods. “Did you like my story?”, she asks.
    13
    
    “I thought it was beautiful”, he says. “Really beautiful.” Susan smiles. A strand of snot connects her nose and upper lip. “Goodnight Susan”, says Adam. He watches her walk up the path to the front door. She does not turn back.
    
    Adam walks home. Outside his gate he arches his head back so that he is looking straight up into the branches of the rowan tree. It is raining, and drips of water fall from the leaves and berries onto his face. He opens his mouth and shuts his eyes. The water tastes of metal and pencils. “Are you alright Adam?”, asks Sarah, who has opened her kitchen window and is watching him. Adam snaps back to upright. “Oh, Sarah. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks. How are you?” “Come inside”, she says. “You’re soaked.” Adam sits on a far end of the sofa in Sarah’s flat. She pours some wine. “I shouldn’t”, says Adam, taking a glass. Sarah stands in front of him, a cigarette to her lips. “What’s going on Adam?”, she asks. “Nothing. What do you mean ‘going on’?” Sarah draws deeply on the cigarette which flames orange at the tip. “I was watching you”, she says. “You were out of it.” “I took someone home this evening. From the class. She …” “A woman!”, says Sarah. You are mocking me, thinks Adam. “Don’t mock me”, he says, surprised at himself. “Well”, says Sarah. “The kraken wakes.” “She was upset. I … I understood her.” Sarah says nothing. “She wrote a story about pigeons. But it wasn’t, you know, about pigeons really.” “Pigeons”, echoes Sarah, quietly. “She was crying”, says Adam. “I have never seen a person cry like that. I comforted her. I took her home. That’s all.” He gets up to leave. “You are a mystery to me”, says Sarah. And to myself, thinks Adam.
    
    14
    
    “Did you manage to write something in the end?”, Sarah asks, stubbing out her cigarette. “Yes … Yes, I did. But I left it there. I expect they’ll chuck it.” “At least you wrote something. What was it? A story?” Sarah has moved over to the window and is watching the rowan tree through the rain. Her voice is quiet, distant. “Yes. A story. A short story”, says Adam. “Did it have a title?”, she asks. “Yes”, says Adam. “Its title was ‘As Red As’.” “I like that” says Sarah. “I would like to have read it.” Adam observes the reflection of Sarah’s face in the dark glass. Perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps not.
    
    15

Add Comment

To add a comment, you need to login or signup (you can signup without leaving this page)