dropping a big, fat spiked truth into it, like an anchor through the bottom of a rowing boat.
And when I sit down in front of a blank page or an unsullied screen, the words pour out. Thousands of them. All my fears and feelings and dreams and rage. I canât stop them.
I donât think I have a future in hotel cleaning. I donât think Iâm a servant of the flawless any more. Some day perhaps I can return to something like my old self, but for now I canât.
For now Iâve got a lot of spoiling to do.
Losers
Frances Thomas
The best part of the day, Brad thought. The light was growing dull, and the school bus in its fug of misted windows slowly wove its way through narrow lanes, spiny bare hedges scraping against the window, everything cold and bleak outside, and waiting for him at home, hot tea and maybe a big peanut butter sandwich, or a wedge of homemade cake, the Rayburn stove filling the kitchen with warmth and the old dogs barking in the yard. English homework tonight, but he wasnât going to do that if he could help it, silly cow. Waste of time, school, hisdad always said. It wasnât school learning that had got
him
the biggest farm in the valley, money stashed away, and the respect of all his neighbours. Teachers, said his dad, were losers, just like those daft folk in the cottage at the bend.
Thinking that made Brad sit up in his seat and look out for little Rhys, sitting two in front of him in his old yellow anorak, hunched up as usual. No doubt thinking of all the fun Brad was going to have when they reached that bend in the lane, halfway between his cottage and the farm, where no-one could see what you got up to. Oh how Brad looked forward to that bend in the lane!
Leesers Cottage
, it was called, probably something from the mashed-up Welsh that got used round here, but of course his dad always called it
Losers
, and the name had stuck now, even in the village. Theyâd always been losers, from way back, folk who lived in that cottage. Stock got sick, crops failed, bankruptcies; one lot of losers moving out and another lot moving in. Then that story of the girl drowning herself. That was a long time ago, way before anyone could remember, but they still told the story. No-one knew why, but she drowned in the lake,down the Cae. The Cae his father wanted to have, only the old witch wouldnât sell. Just her and that Rhys, now, the current lot of losers. A hippy, Dad called her, with her long drippy hair and wooden necklaces. Only a bit of land left to Losers Cottage now, a few chickens and a few vegetables, what sort of a living was that? And whatever had happened to their old man? Walked out, his dad said, couldnât take being stuck with a witch like her, and that fool of a lad. Sometimes, sheâd be at the mouth of the lane waiting for her boy as he got off the school bus, and thereâd be nothing Brad could do about it. But mostly she worked, four days a week in the community centre in Llanwen. Bradâs mother had never had to go out to work a day in her life. She knew what being a farmerâs wife meant: stay at home, look after your menfolk, be there for lambing and haymaking, the important stuff. Not sitting all day on your backside in a stupid office, earning pennies.
With any luck, Rhysâs mum wouldnât be there today at the lane, and Brad could plan what to do. Oh, you could have such fun without leaving a mark! He knew exactly how far to bend back an arm beforeit would crack and get you into real trouble, how long you could put pressure on a throat before the kid turned blue, how tight to make a Chinese burn. And, daft kid that he was, Rhys never even fought back, skinny little runt, with that pale face and big frightened eyes. Fact was, Brad was even doing him a favour, showing what it meant to be a man. Better find out now rather than later it was muscle-power got you where you needed to be in the world, muscle-power and making folk afraid of
And when I sit down in front of a blank page or an unsullied screen, the words pour out. Thousands of them. All my fears and feelings and dreams and rage. I canât stop them.
I donât think I have a future in hotel cleaning. I donât think Iâm a servant of the flawless any more. Some day perhaps I can return to something like my old self, but for now I canât.
For now Iâve got a lot of spoiling to do.
Losers
Frances Thomas
The best part of the day, Brad thought. The light was growing dull, and the school bus in its fug of misted windows slowly wove its way through narrow lanes, spiny bare hedges scraping against the window, everything cold and bleak outside, and waiting for him at home, hot tea and maybe a big peanut butter sandwich, or a wedge of homemade cake, the Rayburn stove filling the kitchen with warmth and the old dogs barking in the yard. English homework tonight, but he wasnât going to do that if he could help it, silly cow. Waste of time, school, hisdad always said. It wasnât school learning that had got
him
the biggest farm in the valley, money stashed away, and the respect of all his neighbours. Teachers, said his dad, were losers, just like those daft folk in the cottage at the bend.
Thinking that made Brad sit up in his seat and look out for little Rhys, sitting two in front of him in his old yellow anorak, hunched up as usual. No doubt thinking of all the fun Brad was going to have when they reached that bend in the lane, halfway between his cottage and the farm, where no-one could see what you got up to. Oh how Brad looked forward to that bend in the lane!
Leesers Cottage
, it was called, probably something from the mashed-up Welsh that got used round here, but of course his dad always called it
Losers
, and the name had stuck now, even in the village. Theyâd always been losers, from way back, folk who lived in that cottage. Stock got sick, crops failed, bankruptcies; one lot of losers moving out and another lot moving in. Then that story of the girl drowning herself. That was a long time ago, way before anyone could remember, but they still told the story. No-one knew why, but she drowned in the lake,down the Cae. The Cae his father wanted to have, only the old witch wouldnât sell. Just her and that Rhys, now, the current lot of losers. A hippy, Dad called her, with her long drippy hair and wooden necklaces. Only a bit of land left to Losers Cottage now, a few chickens and a few vegetables, what sort of a living was that? And whatever had happened to their old man? Walked out, his dad said, couldnât take being stuck with a witch like her, and that fool of a lad. Sometimes, sheâd be at the mouth of the lane waiting for her boy as he got off the school bus, and thereâd be nothing Brad could do about it. But mostly she worked, four days a week in the community centre in Llanwen. Bradâs mother had never had to go out to work a day in her life. She knew what being a farmerâs wife meant: stay at home, look after your menfolk, be there for lambing and haymaking, the important stuff. Not sitting all day on your backside in a stupid office, earning pennies.
With any luck, Rhysâs mum wouldnât be there today at the lane, and Brad could plan what to do. Oh, you could have such fun without leaving a mark! He knew exactly how far to bend back an arm beforeit would crack and get you into real trouble, how long you could put pressure on a throat before the kid turned blue, how tight to make a Chinese burn. And, daft kid that he was, Rhys never even fought back, skinny little runt, with that pale face and big frightened eyes. Fact was, Brad was even doing him a favour, showing what it meant to be a man. Better find out now rather than later it was muscle-power got you where you needed to be in the world, muscle-power and making folk afraid of
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