Hello Friend We Missed You E-Book

Richard Owain Roberts

• Herausgeber: Parthian Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 163

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Hello Friend We Missed You is a poignant and comic novel about loneliness, Netflix, existing, rural life, money, Jack Black, and learning to live in the least excruciating way possible. Its story, which unfolds on the small Welsh island of Môn, of people armed with every social media completely failing to communicate, is far, far funnier than it has any right to be. It's also, ultimately, extremely moving. An incredible debut novel from a truly unique prose stylist.

Leseprobe

Contents

About Richard Owain Roberts

Title Page

Dedication

Music To Crash To

Drug cat

Luke’s plastic face

Well, you saw the clip

Photo 419 of 834

TripAdvisor *** rated gastro pub

Define success though

Email drafts written whilst listening to Classic FM 1:45-4:45AM

The banana car still somehow smells of banana

James Woods, what the hell

The animals must have proper agency

Messenger Extract

Email draft written whilst listening to Classic FM 1:45-3:45AM

Rare and literal second chance

Class anthem

This island could sink and we could live in a new underwater island city

Co-op car park (~5% capacity)

Legit house party (pt1/3)

Email drafts written whilst sitting on a toilet 12:00AM

Email drafts written whilst sitting on a toilet 12:15AM

Legit house party (pt2/3)

Email drafts written whilst sitting on a toilet 1:05AM

Legit house party (pt3/3)

Boutique Village Holds First Annual Seafood Festival

A quiet island

Kayaking (A Quiet Island)

Dolphin sighting (A Quiet Island)

Great mates, inseparable, football, table tennis

Music to win to

Norwegian fuckers

Email from twelve months ago

Feel strong aversion to this

Trip Advisor **** restaurant

Ready to die a violent death

Tiny plastic comets

Mixed Lego

An arresting image

Such pain and style

Blue and Yellow Trail Arrows

TRUDY

Don’t ruin this smoothie for me

Most Beautiful Suicide Method

There’s still time (an email)

There’s always time (a reply to an email)

VNVBFOJDOSJDOJDOHKHJFJD

Jason Statham

I have to return some videotapes m8 (pt1/2)

Email drafts written whilst listening to real life ‘ambient rain on car roof noise’ at 3:30-3:45AM

Email Sent to Jack Black whilst listening to real life ‘ambient rain on car roof noise’ at 3:30-3:45AM

I have to return some videotapes m8 (pt2/2)

Wakeboarding (A Quiet Island)

Night Swimmer (A Quiet Island)

One thousand sheets at any given time

Somehow a most beautiful image

Six days ago

(Any kind of hope is beautiful)

Acknowledgements

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Copyright

An English Literature graduate of Manchester University and LJMU’s Writing MA, Richard Owain Roberts’ debut short fiction collection,All The Places We Lived, was published in 2015. He is the subject of the forthcoming filmCONCRETE ULTRA: a documentary covering the promotional tour for the collection’s Serbian translation. Roberts recently won the PENfro Short Story Prize.Hello Friend We Missed You is his debut novel. Born and raised on Ynys Môn, he lives in Cardiff with his wife, daughters, and cat, Abi The God.

HELLO FRIEND WE MISSED YOU

Richard Owain Roberts

For Amy

Music To Crash To

Looking through the small oval window, deciphering only vague traces of geography and infrastructure through the clouds, Hill blinks slowly. Turning, he looks towards the pilots, two calm men silently staring ahead, occasionally pressing buttons on the dashboard. Hill touches his iPhone, opening then closing a free backgammon app, opening then closing a free solitaire app, opening then closing a free draughts app. Hill touches his iPhone and puts Ambient Sounds: Rain in a Barrel on repeat.

Thank you rain, thank you barrel, Hill thinks.

Hill looks towards a South American couple sitting opposite him. The woman, her loose, dark brown hair streaked with silver, is pointing a GoPro at the window, recording. The man, wearing a faded college sweater, black jeans, and scuffed multi-coloured Nikes, places his hands around the woman’s neck, the woman playing along and flopping her tongue out, conveyingdead! you got me! as she holds the GoPro in position, still recording, still documenting.

Hill looks away, touches his iPhone and puts Seinwave 2000 by Λbelaard on repeat.

Hill looks back towards the couple, now pointing at the folksy illustrations of Celtic burial mounds and aspirational sea salt branding that cover one side of an expanded tourist pamphlet.

‘Guide To AngleseyArweiniad i Ynys Môn’, Hill thinks.

Hill listens as they repeatBear Grylls Island Rib Ride back to each other over and over, grinning.

Hill turns up the volume on his iPhone, looks straight ahead and closes his eyes.

The aeroplane cabin rattles violently for a moment, and then continuously for a sustained period. Hill opens his eyes and watches the South Americans laughing as they struggle to pour water from a bottle of Brecon Carreg into a silver hipflask without it spilling on the grubby metal floor.

Happy maniacs, Hill thinks.

Hill looks around the cabin; two middle-aged women wearing charcoal business suits are talking and looking at a tablet, two middle-aged men wearing white shirts tucked into chino shorts are talking and looking at a tablet, a woman in her twenties is gripping her armrest, her nails digging into the worn, faded material as she maintains a calm and stoic facial expression.

Like Lucy, Hill thinks.

Hill un-mutes the volume on his iPhone and looks ahead.

Hill becomes conscious of the aeroplane tilting, shuddering, then beginning to make its descent.

Seinwave 2000 starts playing again.

How many times, Hill thinks.

Music to crash to, Hill thinks.

Survival odds, Hill thinks.

It’s okay, Hill thinks.

Hill looks ahead and shuts his eyes.

Drug cat

The taxi driver pulls up at the side of the road. The driveway is half a kilometre long, but Roger only arranged to pay up to the gate and Hill has no money on him.

‘Classic Roger’, Hill thinks.

Hill looks at the wrought iron gates, open and pressed back against the high stone wall, only partially visible amongst the overrunning ivy and nettle bushes. He turns around and looks in the direction of the taxi, the driver is adjusting his earpiece, speaking, laughing.

Did I talk enough on the journey, Hill thinks.

Didn’t speak at all, Hill thinks.

Hill feels regret for not having brought the suitcase with wheels. He doesn’t know what is making the suitcase so heavy; all that he can remember packing is socks, pants, one pair of jeans, and a couple of T-shirts. He made the conscious choice to leave his laptop at home. Hill told Ed he would be uncontactable for most of the time he was on the island, and wasn’t sure how long that would be; he explained that Roger was very ill, mentally unstable, pathetically insistent on him staying at the house.

Hill stands at the wrought iron gate, suitcase in one hand and cat carrier in the other. The taxi pulls away into the distance and towards the A-road that runs uninterrupted from one end of the island to the other.

Is Dave awake, Hill thinks.

Resting the suitcase on the ground, Hill holds the cat carrier in both hands and lifts it up to eye level. Peering through the metal grill he looks at Dave, curled up and still feeling the sleeper.

Drug cat, Hill thinks.

Hill lowers the pet carrier to the floor and picks it up by the handle. He looks at the suitcase and sighs.

The trees and woodland that surround the driveway look exactly the same as they did when Hill lived there. Towards the edges of the driveway the grass is neatly kept, gradually becoming wilder until the denseness of the bushes and trees is only broken by a hacked pathway or old tree trunk. Hill listens to the wind and looks at the leaves on the large, old trees.

Objectively beautiful, Hill thinks.

Did I ever appreciate this, Hill thinks.

Hill picks up the suitcase and tries to work a comfortable way of slinging it over his shoulder. This is worse. Hill keeps trying until he feels the sharp edge of the small Yale lock scratch above his neckline. He throws the suitcase to the floor.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Standing still for a moment, he closes his eyes and listens for the sound of waves; beyond the driveway, beyond the house, beyond the front lawn, beyond the rocky path but still there, still existing.

Sailing lessons hell, Hill thinks.

Ambient waves sleep app hell, Hill thinks.

He picks the pet carrier up and begins walking down the driveway, a slow, warm line of blood and sweat creeping down his back.

Luke’s plastic face

Roger emailed six months ago to explain that the clock tower was being converted into a holiday let. He had become more interested in financial matters over the last few years, often emailing Hill links to Forbes.com articles and detailing the performance of his small portfolio of shares. He had suggested that Hill should think about a postgraduate business qualification, that Hill needed to monetise, that Money Is The Freedom That Powers Us Forwards™. Hill hadn’t responded to the clock tower email and refused to discuss it when he spoke to Roger on the phone. Roger had explained that it would make them a lot of money, money that Hill could use if he wanted.

Shut up, Roger, Hill thinks.

So quiet here, Hill thinks.

Hill steps off the driveway and walks into the woodland. He thinks about his mother and how she used to watch him climb trees and play with his Star Wars figures.

Don’t be afraid, Hill, higher—

She encouraged him to plot out original stories rather than imitate the films; Darth Vader setting up a treetop cafe with Chewbacca, Luke spending his life alone, living in a rose bush that overlooked the entire universe. To signify the passing of time, Hill drew a moustache on Luke’s plastic face that developed into a goatee that developed into a full Russian beard.

You’re so thoughtful, you get that from me—

She used the clock tower to store her old clothes, fancy dress costumes, all her school teaching resources. She spent time in there sorting through things with Hill, telling him stories about her father’s life as an opera singer, their life in the house, the clock tower, the family holidays they went on. Until her late teens, Hill’s mother was the only person in her school to have flown in an aeroplane.

For us, it was just normality—

Roger was afraid of flying, and every summer Hill and his mother travelled abroad for three or four weeks without him. Sometimes during the winter they would sit together in the clock tower and look through Polaroids of their holidays:

A woman and a boy drinking red wine, a woman and a boy feeding stray cats, a woman and a boy playing Snap. A woman and a man eating Greek salad, a woman and a boy eating Greek salad, a woman and a man drinking red wine, a woman and a boy drinking red wine. A woman and a boy laughing, a woman and a boy sitting quietly, reading. A woman, a man, and a boy standing next to a fishing boat, a woman, a man, and a boy eating baklava in a restaurant. A woman and a boy wearing matching striped T-shirts, a woman and a boy staring directly into camera, their tongues sticking out, a woman and a boy staring directly into camera, expressionless and calm.

So gorgeous, Hill, in these moments—

Hill felt it was important to see the clock tower first, feel emotional, and then react calmly when Roger would later insist on him going to inspect the revamped building.

‘Elegant bi-fold solutions for that classic contemporary finish’, Hill thinks.

Bi-fold doors in every single room, in every single wall, Hill thinks.

Bi-fold Sarah Beeny, bi-fold Kirstie Allsopp, Hill thinks.

Hill looks back towards the driveway momentarily, but turns and keeps walking deeper into the woodland until he joins a long unmaintained path that leads to the clock tower.

***

Hill opens the moss-covered gate and stands in front of the clock tower. It is exactly as he remembered it, the stone walls green and damp in patches around the door and the ground floor windows, the clock dial frozen and rusted. He puts the pet carrier down, walks up to the building and runs his hands over the rotting wooden window frames.

Feels okay, Hill thinks.

Feel okay, Hill thinks.

Well, you saw the clip

Hill stands in front of the back door to the house. He turns around and looks at the red Peugeot 205 parked next to Roger’s ancient Volvo estate. The Peugeot has mismatched replacement bodywork and a large opaque sticker that reads GTI on the rear window.

‘Paul Walker Never Forget’, Hill thinks.

The back door would have been intended as a staff entrance when the house was built in the latter half of the eighteenth century; wide, low, the panelled oak now painted fern green with heavy, black door furniture Hill’s mother bought from a local auction house. Hill looks down and sees a doormat with ‘Seize Opportunity’ written on it in a large red font.

Roger, Hill thinks.

Reaching into his pocket for a key, Hill notices one already in the lock. He sighs, turns the large door handle, and walks inside.

The utility room is essentially a long corridor with a strip of reclaimed worktop running on one wall from the back door up to the kitchen door. Underneath the worktop are old boots, Roger’s umbrella reserves, stacks of roughly chopped logs. Walking up the corridor towards the kitchen, Hill feels his stomach twist and cramp. He turns to face the wall and places the pet carrier on the worktop, pressing his face against the metal grid.

Let me in, Hill thinks.

Hill!

Hill pulls back from the pet carrier and looks towards the woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She is wearing an oversized navy cable-knit sweater, grey skinny jeans, barefoot. A brindle boxer is pushing its head between her thighs, panting, struggling to get out of the kitchen.

Are you Roger’s carer? Hill says.

Um, yes? Trudy, she says. I was expecting you earlier, Hill.

They lost my suitcase, Hill says.

I thought that flight was carry-on only? Trudy says.

Is that your dog? Hill says, pointing at the boxer, a thin line of drool now hanging from its mouth.

Yeah! Well, Roger loves him too, so, Trudy says.

Hill shrugs his shoulders.

It’s not problematic him being here is it? Trudy says, looking down at the dog. I mean, it is Roger’s house.

‘Problematic’, Hill thinks.

‘Roger’s house’, Hill thinks.

***

Hill looks around the kitchen. The Aga is filthy, dry pasta sauce crusted on top of the hobs, spilling over onto the adjacent work surface. There is a Hudl on the table, a stack of Financial Times in the corner, and a half-empty bottle of Evian next to the large butler sink. The room smells of burnt saucepans and burning vegetables.

Yeah, I’m pretty big into cooking these days, Trudy says. I found this recipe, totally incredible, for a Turkish ratatouille. Roger loves it, has no idea it’s vegan. He wants it every day. So compulsive. Sorry, I didn’t ask – how was the flight?

Fine, Hill says, sitting down at the table. He watches as Trudy picks up a wooden spoon from the kitchen worktop, lick it clean, and use it to stir the ratatouille.

Are you a qualified carer? Hill says.

I met Roger in the Co-op, Trudy says. Isn’t that how everyone gets these jobs?

Trudy picks up her phone from the worktop, holding it above her head for signal as she walks over towards the window where she then stands, her back turned to Hill.

I have a voicemail but no reception to listen to it, Trudy says. Is that somehow profound?

Roger said that you were cutting your hours? Hill says.

I have more PhD stuff to deal with now, Trudy says. Basically you’ll be doing the Co-op run twice a week.

Is there a list, I won’t be able to do it from memory, Hill says. I mean I don’t know what he likes. He emailed me an article about avocados a few months ago, something ‘insane sounding’ maybe.

That’s funny, Trudy says. You, right now, you’re literally Roger. Somehow. I don’t know, you look nothing like him, but. Yeah. I saw a clip from your … film? Something you’d emailed Roger. I’d like to ask you about it… Roger said it’s a comedy?

Well, you saw the clip, Hill says.

Trudy stares at Hill and momentarily tilts her head to the side. She is tall, at least the same height as him, her hair shoulder length, a little greasy, blonde with prominent dark roots. Trudy nods and smiles, then holds her phone up above head height, tilting the screen away from the light. Hill watches as she moves onto tiptoes and touches the phone’s screen.

Okay, I need to go now, Hill, Trudy says. I’ll text you a shopping list; Roger gave me your number. I have to meet my, um… I’ll be back for five, but it could be six or half six, conceivably seven. All this ratatouille needs is stirring. Maybe turn the heat up again in five minutes?

Trudy walks around Hill and picks up a pair of grey and black Berghaus walking boots from the radiator behind him.

God, Trudy says, inhaling. Problematic shoe situation.

Hill feels himself flush red.

Please don’t be embarrassed for me, Hill, Trudy says. Anyway, maybe seven this evening or a bit later? Unless you could be on Roger-Watch? He doesn’t need it, but I like to stay over sometimes just in case. I don’t know. Is that okay?

Yeah, that’s fine, Hill says, making an awkward thumbs up gesture.

What, Hill thinks.

Okay, Hill, ‘thumbs up’, Trudy says.

Hill watches as Trudy squats down and tucks the laces down the side of each boot, the dog clumsily squeezing past her, barking as it runs down the corridor towards the back door. Picking up an unbranded backpack and a Co-op bag full of clothes, she calls out to the dog and shuts the kitchen door behind her.

‘Thumbs up’, Hill thinks.

There is a loud engine noise and the sound of gravel churning, then quiet. Hill looks inside the fridge, takes an unopened bottle of Brecon Carreg and places it on the worktop.

No bad thoughts, no thoughts at all, Hill thinks.

Hill picks up the bottle of Brecon Carreg and begins reading the label. He looks over to the washing machine and sees a grey sports bra and single lime green sock on the floor in front of it. He looks at a framed photo of Roger and the old family dog Jess standing on the Menai Bridge pier and tries to remember whether he took the photo. He holds his phone in front of the photograph and takes a burst of images, close-ups of the dog and the large military ship docked at the end of the pier. He moves away from the photo and takes an apple from the fruit bowl. He reads the label on the apple and places it back in the fruit bowl. He walks over to the Aga and stirs the ratatouille for a moment. He picks up the Hudl and looks at a pair of second-hand mom jeans for sale on the open Depop app.

Mom jeans, Hill thinks.

How would Trudy dance, Hill thinks.

What, Hill thinks.

Hill sits down on the floor, leans his back against the warm oven front and sets up a first to fifteen match against the Hudl backgammon app.