The Curae E-Book

Various

• Herausgeber: Renard Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 173

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

There are around 7 million carers in the UK alone – unpaid people who look after someone who needs help because of their illness, frailty, disability, mental health problem or addiction and cannot cope without support. The Curae Prize was established in 2022 to offer a platform to these writer-carers, offering creative focus and access to the publishing industry. Attracting a wealth of extraordinary submissions, the inaugural prize has been widely praised for its inclusivity and spotlighting of neglected talent, and this anthology celebrates the works that made it on to the shortlist.

Leseprobe

The Curae

an anthology from the inauguralcurae prize

with an introduction by anna vaught

renard press

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All pieces in this volume first published by Renard Press Ltd in 2023

Text © the authors, 2023

Cover design by Will Dady

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All links accessed 1st November 2023.

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contents

Introductionby Anna Vaught

The Curae

non-fiction

ALP 650by Helen O Neill

My Body for Hisby Jessica Moxham

No Thanks!by Sheena Hussain

Palmistryby Kerry Mead

Shame ’n’ Scandal in the Family (an extract)by Joyanna Lovelock

fiction

Rebornby Kate Blincoe

Burgundy Satin Manolo Blahnik Pumps – Size 6by Emma Gow

Eternal Now and the Frailty of Human Perceptionby Jan Kaneen

Featherweight by Feline Charpentier

The Airing Cupboardby Sara Emmerton

About the Writers

Acknowledgements

Resources and Ideas

welcome to the curae

A carer is anyone who looks after a family member, partner or friend who needs help because of their illness, frailty, disability, mental-health problem or addiction and cannot cope without their support (I use the NHS definition). 2022 data from Carers UK found that there were approximately 10.6 million unpaid carers in the UK and the NHS Long Term Plan of January 2019 repeated a commitment to improve how the NHS identifies unpaid carers, and to better address their health.

I have been balancing needs for a long time, and I was also a carer for my parents in my teens. The intensity of the last few years has, repeatedly, nearly felled me in terms of mental and physical health; before this I spent a decade trying to find appropriate support and diagnosis. Seven years ago I began writing, in a moment of rebellion. I gave up expecting to have my ducks lined up and just started a book – and I have not stopped. I cannot pretend balancing the multiple roles has been easy, but I do know that writing has given me hope and focus, and it has led me into abiding friendships and new and lasting work possibilities.

Being a carer can be rewarding and, as I am wont to say, it is predicated on love; but it can also be heartbreaking, not just because of what you see a loved one going through, but because of having to find resources, multi-task, contact various agencies and, not infrequently, see it all fail. The notion that help is out there is, for many, barely a starting point. There is nowhere near enough help to go round, and I want to be absolutely frank about this because my heart broke over and over: it is not just the lack of resources, but lack of will, and this is true across multiple agencies. That is an almighty challenge. You may already be tired, but you have to advocate and advocate again with education and health professionals, and it feels desperately isolating. I hear this over and over.

What can I do? I thought. I considered the publishing world I had launched myself into and addressed a core belief of mine, which is that creative work is not froth, it is essential, core to our being. I absolutely believe that. So I decided to set up a literary prize for writer-carers and would-be writer-carers to offer other more of that – to try and give others what was not there for me when I propelled myself into the industry. I thought that the prize could be a focus for those who would simply enjoy doing some writing but had no ambitions in that area, and I also had a notion that it could provide access to industry. At that stage, I had little idea how that could happen, but I launched it anyway, with coverage from the Bookseller.

I said to them, ‘The last few years have been extraordinarily challenging, so I aim to offer the boost I would have wanted for myself. I know first-hand that if you are a carer you may also be battling for support, diagnoses and funding – it’s distressing and debilitating – and I want writers to be heard, seen, included and understood.’ Within hours of publication, I was inundated with offers of help from across industry. From writers, editors, mentors, literary agents and agencies, publishers, our union and course providers. Soon after that, I found the brilliant help of authors Michael Langan, Amy Lord and Elissa Soave, and within days we had an offer of publication.

When submissions began a few came through the door – and then a deluge. That was not all: some people just wrote to say hello or to say thank you, though they did not think they would have the bandwidth this year; nonetheless, that the prize existed cheered them along. That really buoyed us up for the monumental task of, between us, reading hundreds of entries. But it was not only that. Something I had not thought of was that people might write at any length in an accompanying email. And they did. All the entries were read anonymously, so they were separated from their email smartly, and it was down to me to read the emails and to reply if I had time or, sometimes, strength. I learned and was gifted so much about people’s lives, and I want to say here that I held it – and hold it – in my heart. There were writers caring for multiple people, for their life-limited children or teens, for partners, friends, a neighbour – and for any number of reasons. There were also emails from people who were past carers, whose work we could not accept this first year, and I read desperately sad stories and heard how any attempt at creativity now was too late – the person they had been had gone. In a way, these were the hardest to read. We also had entrants who wrote to tell us that during the judging period the person for whom they were caring had died – and so my husband and I made a little garden at home, and I planted roses for them if they wanted me to, and the roses are named after the lost one.

You know, we will all be ill, all lost and many, many of us will be carers – if not now, then later. Data shows us that, over the period 2010–20, every year 4.3 million people became unpaid carers, which is 12,000 of us a day. It is isolating, but it also binds us together because of its ubiquity, its commonality.

I feel that the Curae is one of the best things I have ever done, and that it is one of the best things to happen to me, since I am merely the person who thought it up and the rest occurred because of others’ insight and generosity. Never othering, just respectful, diligent and humane. The prize attracted a wealth of extraordinary submissions; the inaugural prize was widely praised for its inclusivity and spotlighting of neglected talent; and this anthology celebrates the works that made it on to the shortlist. All those on our shortlist found industry opportunities as a result, and I will be staying in touch with everyone. Kate Blincoe and Helen O Neill, our two overall winners, are working with me for a year, on top of industry mentoring, courses, editing opportunities and agent and publisher meetings. I very much wanted the prize, as I said, to be a way into industry if it could be.

Some lovely things happened as part of it all. On a personal level, it solidified for me what I want to do and be in publishing, which is, above all, to be a champion of access and inclusivity – carers are truly a marginalised group – and it gave me hope and direction for my own life. It is hard for me to put into words how important this all feels. Even better, however, is that those who were honourable mentions, shortlisted or winners, found each other and went to create a writing group. I do not really know what they get up to, because obviously I cannot gatecrash, but I hope it is gently productive, fun and deeply rebellious too!

So I hope you enjoy the work in the anthology. Entrants were told they did not have to write on the caring role, but you can see it implicitly and sometimes explicitly in the winning work. It is varied, exciting and I hope to see much more of everyone in this book. For some writers, it is the first piece of prose they have completed; for the vast majority, this is their first published work.

Finally, I am delighted to say that all profits from the anthology will go to the Carers Trust and Carers UK. You can read about their work here:

https://carers.org/

https://www.carersuk.org/

I hope you thoroughly enjoy the book – and to Kate, Helen, Sheena, Sara, Kerry, Jess, Joyanna, Jan, Feline and Emma, and to our honourable mentions, Elaine, Abi, Phillip and Poppy, I am so very proud of you, and I am excited to see what you do next.

anna vaught

the curae

Please be advised that many of the pieces in this volume deal with topics which some readers might find difficult, including mental health, eating disorders, drug and alcohol misuse and suicide.

non-fiction

alp 650

Helen O Neill

Liverpool, 1967

It wasn’t that we didn’t listen to popular music. I mean, you couldn’t avoid it in the Sixties, especially in Liverpool, but our soul music was laid down behind our front door, when the radio was turned off and Dad dictated the playlist from his turntable.

My dad was fourteen when he bought his first record, after he heard his fellow coalminers sing ‘Va, pensiero’ in four-part harmony in the echoing, subterranean chamber where they washed the black dust from their bodies. After that, he saved his weekly allowance to buy 78-rpm records, and later 33s and 45s. By the time he married my mother he had a small, eclectic collection, a wind-up gramophone for his 78s and a basic record player for the rest. With these, he set the soundtrack to our early lives, imprinting on us the indelible music which would connect us for ever.

We had opera when other kids had The Beatles. We harmonised with Welsh choirs while washing dishes, hummed the melody from Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony as a lullaby and, for giddy winters’ nights by the fire, we had ‘The Laughing Policeman’ and Stanley Holloway. Dad always joined in, either singing or whistling, and for those giddy ones he did the actions, jumping around and gesticulating until our bellies hurt with laughter and tears streamed down our faces. Singing in the car, the harmonies we wove were reflections of the Deep South – soulful, spiritual songs about the Mississippi, sung by white Liverpudlians living by the Mersey. On my first day at school, the teacher asked us to come up in turn and sing our favourite song. I sang ‘La donna è mobile’ from Rigoletto, its beautiful Italian mangled by my broad Scouse accent. I’m fairly sure it stood apart from all the little lambs and ‘Penny Lane’s that the poor teacher had to endure that day.

For every season there was a sound, for every event a musical bookmark, for every silence a record.

Dad’s collection was always his place of rest. His records were neatly stacked on special shelves, each one labelled, indexed and meticulously cross-referenced. In the beginning, the top right-hand corner of each cover held handwritten numbers and letters, a mysterious code which linked it to his brown leather-covered drawer of filing cards. Later on, he bought a Dymo Labeller and the numbers and letters were dialled up and clicked out on to hard sticky tape and affixed over the handwritten ones. Funny thing was, he didn’t really need the referencing system. He could approach his shelves with his eyes closed and put his hand directly on to any record he wanted, his muscle memory knowing where he had placed it. It was all about the process, sitting for hours on end listening to Gigli or McCormack or Callas, lost in the blue and red writing on the cards, oblivious to everything around him.

I can still see my father removing a record from its sleeve with eucharistic reverence, balancing the rim on his thumb while his index finger fitted beneath the hole at the centre, and bring it to eye level to blow off any dust. I can hear the ritual stroking of the needle three times to check the volume before lifting the arm across and lowering it into the groove in precisely the right place. I see him close his eyes as the needle travels across the disc and the sound carries into the room, and as the last notes fade away, I see him pause. This moment is never hurried. He lets the echo of the music hang in the air before he breaks the connection. Waiting for the incense to dissipate.

Connemara, 1969

That summer of the Moon Landing was the first time I realised my father wasn’t perfect, and I was just six years old then, so I only had a few short years to know him as the man who could do no wrong.

At the time, my grandparents were caretakers of a big house near Clifden, owned by one of the Guinness family. When the owners were not in residence, we visited for long weekends, spilling over from Granny and Grandad’s small apartment into the ‘Big House’. We liked to pretend we lived there, in this grand house that had guest wings, a kitchen with two sinks, a glass case with a stuffed otter in the hall, which was bigger than our own ground floor, and fireplaces so large we could stand up inside them.

On that Saturday morning in July, while the rest of the family were outside on the front lawn, Dad and I were in a sunny room together. It was effortlessly simple, as the rooms of the wealthy are, with a perfection of shabbiness and a casual placing of glossy books and the latest albums on the shelves. I lay on my belly on the bay window seat, kick-swaying my feet, the green Connemara tweed cushions scratching against my cheek, and my hand draped downwards, slowly swinging in an arc, lifting the dust motes to dance in the sunshine slanting across the shiny, wooden floor.

Dad walked his fingers along the albums, whistling in that way he did, hardly moving his lips, his balding head tipped slightly to read the titles. He selected one called Harry and handed me the cover, telling me it was Harry Nilsson’s new album. I read the handwritten story about a magic lamp on the back of the cover, which was penned by a six-year-old girl, just like me. The cover was signed in flourishing hand by the owner, one Suzie More-O’Farrell.

Dad placed the vinyl on the turntable and landed the needle into the groove with the precision of the lunar module. He kicked off his shoes and sat beside me on the seat, leaning his back against the angled wooden shutter. I sat mirrored opposite him, the soles of our feet touching. We listened to Harry, from the beginning until the last note faded away, until the pause. Through the window we saw Mam beckoning us to come outside into the fresh air, but we waited just a bit longer. We were still swimming in the juices of the album, and we stayed to let it marinate.

Months later, I came across Harry in his record collection at home – ALP 650 – and I saw the owner’s signature, betraying his wrongdoing.

My heart felt a cold fear for him. I wanted to tell his sin at my first confession, and have it absolved, but it wasn’t my sin to tell, even though I carried it.

Nenagh, 1972

I followed the music to find Dad, to say goodnight. He was listening to Caruso singing ‘Vesti la giubba’from Pagliacci. The album cover was on the table – there was the clown in his motley garb, arms draped dramatically over the back of a chair, with his dark eye make-up dripping down through the white powder of his face.

‘Why is he crying, Dad?’ I asked.

He paused for a moment and looked up at me.

‘It is his job to act happy, but he is sad.’

The sound of my mother’s knitting machine zipping over and back was a thousand miles away in the kitchen.

Ridi del duol che t’avvelena il cor…

Laugh at the pain which is poisoning your heart.

Nenagh, 1973

One evening we were waiting for Dad to come home for dinner. Eventually Mam sighed and put his dinner between two plates balanced above a boiling saucepan to keep warm, and we went ahead without him. I pushed my food around, trying to make it look like I had eaten some. It no longer smelled appetising. You can’t really eat food when you’re anticipating a scene. My younger sister, whose stomach always carried her worries, began retching the grisly meat into her cup of water while our frayed Mam shouted, ‘You’ll eat it if you have to sit there all night!’

We heard the key foundering a few times before the front door finally opened. Mam’s thunderous face turned to him as he came into the kitchen, his eyes red, his breath smelling of danger and the shiny record shop bag swinging from his hand. I knew from his swagger that Mam would have to stretch a pound of mince seven ways for a few days again. Before she launched we scattered like cockroaches, into the dark places out of sight. My littlest sister had to stay, trapped in her highchair. My older brother Michael and I ran into our bedroom, and we sat silently on the bottom bunk, listening as the yelling got louder and louder, across and back, with thumping and clattering, doors opening and closing, running, slamming.

‘There’s your bloody dinner…’ There was a smash as plates bounced off the tiled floor.

‘It was only a few after work!’

‘Well for you! And what are you doing buying more records?’

‘It’s that Perry Como one I’ve been waiting for.’

‘I don’t care! I don’t care! You think more about those damn records than you do about us!’

‘Bloody Hell!’

The back door slammed, and the sweeping brush bounced on to the tiled floor with the impact. Michael and I waited. We knew this hiatus would bring something else. It never ended with just the words.

Dad passed by our window, running towards the garage, his wind-up gramophone in one hand and a bundle of 78s under his other arm. His face was red, his frown full of intent, his teeth bared.

Next came a crash and the splintering sound of metal on metal, blow after blow ringing through the walls. We watched shards of black shellac fly out the garage door and into the vegetable patch, planting His Master’s Voice among the cabbages and scallions. Then came the turntable and the undulating inner workings of the gramophone, the guts and offal of a butchered beast being cast aside and exposed to the crows and the prying eyes of our neighbours, peeping through their kitchen windows.

We knew what to do without even speaking. With a simple nod we crept along the hall and ducked to avoid the razor