Test Signal Read online

  CONTENTS

  Introduction // Nathan Connolly

  Clavicle Wood // Andrew Michael Hurley

  Making Monsters // Amy Stewart

  Birdie in the Big Smoke // Melissa Wan

  Angel of the North // Kit Fan

  Wabbit // Matt Wesolowski

  Clean Work // Naomi Booth

  Transplant // Jenna Isherwood

  Good Morning, Vietnam // Laura Bui

  Cuckoo // Désirée Reynolds

  The Possible Parable of Caroline Carlton // Robert Williams

  How You Find Yourself // Sara Sherwood

  The Coorie // Carmen Marcus

  The Mary House // Crista Ermiya

  Doorstep Pictures // J. A. Mensah

  Influencer // Lara Williams

  Not My Usual Practice // Tricia Cresswell

  And They Say It’s Where Your Heart Is // Rebecca Hill

  7.43 // Sharon Telfer

  Licked Clean // Sammy Wright

  Asylum Decision // Tawseef Khan

  We’re Made of Electricity // Jane Claire Bradley

  God Hates Withernsea // Adam Farrer

  Acknowledgements

  Contributors

  Backers

  INTRODUCTION

  Open submissions to Test Signal closed on 6 February 2020. On 16 March, the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, began encouraging social distancing. A week later, he announced the first nationwide lockdown.

  From the start, Test Signal was envisioned as a wide-ranging and collaborative project that bridged the gap between the North of England and the publishing industry largely based in London. The idea was to create opportunities and build lasting connections through collaboration. Aside from the book you hold in your hands, Test Signal was about events, networks and participation.

  Obviously, we were forced to swiftly reconsider our plans and adapt to an ever-changing environment. Test Signal ended up being put together in isolation – judged over Zoom, edited from home, produced in an environment where many of us naturally wanted to bury our heads under duvets and scream into the void. But good news is something that we always need and, however small, the production of this book is good news.

  It took 281 Kickstarter backers, C&W Literary Agency, New Writing North, Bloomsbury Publishing and my own press, Dead Ink Books, to bring Test Signal to fruition, but here we are: twenty-two writers in the North compiled into one book showcasing the talent, variety and originality of literature in the North of England.

  There were open submissions that invited anybody residing in the North of England to enter their work, we approached literature organisations in the region for recommendations, and we begged some of our own favourite writers to take part. The result is a book that highlights writers from a number of different disciplines, at different stages of their career and from every corner of this beautiful and inspiring region. Unlike anthologies you have read before, this one will not hold together as a whole united by a single theme or cause. Instead, our goal here is variety. The only condition for consideration was that an author be based in the North when they submit. This book is a snapshot of Northern writing at a moment in time, and that is how it is intended. If in future years we are to repeat this endeavour to the extent that we have a series, I hope that series provides a stop-motion montage of changing tastes, preoccupations and trends. If the North is anything, it is alive and it is always evolving, adopting, reinventing.

  It may be that not every entry in this book is to your liking, but we hope our efforts towards variety are appreciated and every reader can find more than a few writers contained within these pages that they can become passionate about and champion.

  I say champion, because if Test Signal demonstrates anything, it is that the literary landscape is malleable, and you can participate in it. I do hope that this project demonstrates that to you and you feel empowered by taking part in it – and by reading this book you are taking part. To those not involved in the industry, literature and publishing can seem like far-off things that exist within gated compounds and are fiercely guarded by people who are not like us. How many times do we hear the metaphor of ‘knocking on doors’? This book, if used for anything, should be used as a wedge to keep that door open.

  Literature is participatory. On the most basic level, all you need to take part is a pen and paper. That might be somewhat of an over-simplification that ignores the connections, networks and cultural capital that actually make things move within the industry, but it does hold true to an extent, and everything else is just a matter of organising. Books exist to serve readers, and it is ultimately the reader that holds all of the power in the sometimes antiquated processes that come together to make books into an industry. But power must be recognised to be useful, so we’re thankful that 281 people recognised their power and supported this project when it was nothing more than an idea.

  The events of 2020, and now 2021, may have forced us to reconsider our original plans for Test Signal, but in one respect we already know that it is a success – you hold it in your hands! I hope that this book inspires you to support the writers you believe in, the literature in the area where you live, and yourself and your ability to enact change. Power within publishing ultimately lies with the reader, and through organisation it is possible to use that power for positive change.

  In the great scheme of things, perhaps that doesn’t mean all that much, but change comes from a lot of small victories, and today I feel like a small victory is valuable enough to cling to. Perhaps it can even inspire more small victories?

  Test Signal has been a joy to work on, even if that work has been done beneath a tremendous pressure from outside. Despite all of the chaos and the uncertainty that has come our way since we began this project, working on it at my desk from my home office has always been a refuge – a small place in the world in which I can place my efforts into something positive and forward-thinking. It took a great deal of collaborative effort to bring this book to this point, and although I’m not at all sure what the future holds for anything at this point, I am sure that the connections, relationships and collaborations that formed during this project will continue to grow, and positive change will emerge from them.

  Nathan Connolly

  Editor

  CLAVICLE WOOD

  ANDREW MICHAEL HURLEY

  Meaning

  On the Ordnance Survey map, it has no name, but we’ve come to call it Clavicle Wood, my family and I, on account of my eldest son breaking his collarbone there twice when he was younger. The first time falling from a rope swing, the second time after coming off his bike on a BMX track built by the collective labour of local kids.

  It’s nothing to look at, Clavicle Wood. A half-mile, L-shaped strip of trees that first parallels a railway cutting and then dog-legs along a stretch of Sharoe Brook, a cloudy urban stream which twists its way through the north side of Preston. But when the COVID pandemic struck and we were forced to find natural spaces closer to home, it became something of a sanctuary, a place where the long weeks of lockdown could be charted not by the graphs of cases and casualties but by the progression of floral changes: snowdrops to celandine to bluebells to the swirl of downy cottonwood seeds let loose on a warm afternoon in May, making it seem as if it had snowed.

  Its fate, however, might already have been spelled out. During the building of the new housing estate further along the railway line, all the poplars that once bordered the embankment were ripped out (a vicious process, I remember, in which cranes yanked at the trees as if they were stubborn teeth) and a high wooden fence put there instead to deflect the noise of the passing Pendolino trains.

  In the same way, the land next to Clavicle Wood – part of an old golf course turned to wild meadow �
�� has long been earmarked for development (that vague but ominous word), and so at some point the maple, beech, hawthorn and sycamore here might well be deemed just as unimportant and inconvenient too.

  It brings to mind Blake’s line, ‘The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.’

  For those of us who love and need these natural spaces between the bricks and concrete, the thought processes that might lead a person to be so unconcerned about the destruction of a wood are unfathomable. It’s baffling that the same place can, to someone else, have no meaning at all. But then if there’s a profit to be made, meaning can be expunged from pretty much anything.

  On the plans for Beech Crescent or Cottonwood Close, or whatever name they give to the roads that might eventually replace and recall the trees that are uprooted, the wood will no doubt be nothing more than a set of measurements. So many acres to be cleared away. There will be no note of the name we’ve given it, nor of the memories that it holds for us, or for anyone who has spent time here. It will be ‘valueless’ in that sense.

  Although it will be upsetting to be reminded of this year, it’s important that the wood remains. Because once life experiences, good or bad, are tangled up in a particular place, that place becomes precious, or at least significant. It’s the site where some of our roots are planted, somewhere which shows us that we have lived and what we’ve lived through.

  In his book Common Ground, Rob Cowen talks about this ‘emotional intertwining’ of people and locality, and explains how ‘time spent in one place deepens this interaction, creating a melding and meshing that can feel a bit like love’.

  I’d always thought this sort of idea more than a little quixotic, the preserve of the minority who’d spent their entire lives in timeless rural places, but by retracing my footsteps through the wood during lockdown, in various states of numbness and apprehension, I began to see how that reiterated path-making might begin to bind emotion to physical space. When so much thinking and feeling has occurred in one place, it’s hard not to be reminded of those contemplations on future visits.

  But memory is a diminishing return, of course, and recollections come to us rosy with nostalgia, or perhaps wholly inaccurate. Yet we expect that. It’s the ability to feel that our emotional lives are associated with and expressed by place that matters.

  It’s a feeling that John Clare voices in his poem ‘Remembrances’, one of several penned in opposition to the Enclosure Acts:

  Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one, And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on: I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away…

  The memories he speaks of here have not only been made to seem distant by the passage of time but, we discover, by the wide-scale devastation of the landscape in which they were formed. Clare talks of seeing places special to him torn up by the ‘never weary plough’ and describes how a beloved tree ‘To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey’.

  The feeling of ‘belonging’ that we’re talking about here requires that the physical appearance of a place doesn’t change all that much; that the past – collective and personal – feels alive; that it remains embodied in the landscape and decipherable by those who live there. Yet, this is almost impossible in suburbia, the edges of which are always being added to, and where the past, especially the recent past, is usually removed in its entirety. Once work on a new housing estate gets going, it’s hard to picture what the land used to look like before, and the speed of it all doesn’t give us enough time to process what’s being lost. This is why during lockdown, when there was a hiatus in building work, it was possible to see more clearly the importance of preserving somewhere like Clavicle Wood, in words if nothing else.

  Interior

  It’s a damp afternoon in early September, and now that things have returned to a semblance of normality, the main road by the wood is back to a constant flow of cars and lorries.

  But step into a wood and everything changes, every sense is altered.

  The immediate and unexpected feeling for a place as small as Clavicle Wood is enclosure. It’s all trees. Suddenly. A few paces in and they’ve sprung up behind me in a tousled screen: sycamore, elder, hawthorn, sapling oak and sapling ash and the huge cottonwood trees above them all. The effect is so complete that even though the wood is only twenty or thirty feet wide here, I can’t see the road or the houses of my estate anymore. There is only the BMX track that did for my son’s collarbone winding between the trunks, the trees that came down in Storm Ciara in February incorporated ingeniously into the course.

  The birch that I’d watched from my house being decked by the wind still lies where it fell, however, too heavy to move, its splintered trunk rotting and soft and covered in bracket fungus. Other trees have toppled more recently, making it necessary to clamber over them or under them. But the blockade invites touch: smooth skin, hard, rutted bark, knotholes, splits, forks. I’m close enough to sniff the different trees. None of them are as fragrant or pungent as pine, but there’s something almost homeopathic about the smell: a faint hint of vegetation at the back of a water-pure cleanness. It’s potent enough, whatever it is, to subdue the exhaust fumes from the road outside.

  A few yards on and the clamour of the traffic is starting to be replaced by the sound of the treetops moving in the wind, of the rainwater pattering down through the leaves and branches as if from broken taps. A robin sings above me and is answered by another further off. I walk on, stop, walk a little further, trying to pinpoint the moment where the sound of the road disappears completely.

  During lockdown, it wasn’t only how far we could go that changed but how we moved too. In taking our allotted daily dose of fresh air, we were urged not to linger but to simply exercise and return home. The wood was then a place to pass through; now, there is a certain freedom to be still and loiter. Which I do. When all man-made noise ceases, I stand and close my eyes and try to listen only to what’s here, what this space and no other contains. If the wood offers us meditative seclusion, then it seems proper to accept. As Thoreau says, ‘What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?’

  There’s a tone of veneration in his words that alludes to the ancient analogy of the wood as sacred, the wood as temple. And certainly in April and May, when it seemed that every day here, there was something new and vibrant growing, it was easy to understand how the arrival of the summer might have once been considered a visitation from the divine.

  It’s that the interior of a wood, like that of a man-made place of worship, is differentiated from the outside by a feeling of closeness with some (more powerful) other. Immersed in a wood, we can describe its contents taxonomically, we can explain biological processes, but the experience of being for the living things here is utterly incomprehensible to us. Trying to imagine what it is like to be that robin in the branches, how it experiences the wood, other creatures, its own song, the air, is like trying to imagine a different dimension. We simply cannot grasp how the things of the natural world conceive themselves. Even the idea of self-conception is misleading. An ego is a human burden. The ‘harmony’ that we seem to notice in nature is achieved through an intelligence or a knowing that’s beyond us.

  Which is why in so many folk tales we resort to anthropomorphism to make sense of it all, and why the plot of many a fairy story is concerned with defeating something threatening. The Big Bad Wolf represents a literal and physical hazard inherent in the forest, but he also personifies (and so makes more governable) the otherness that stems from our feeling of separation.

  It’s this disconnectedness that makes us feel exposed in a wood, perhaps; as conspicuous as Little Red Riding Hood. Along with the abundance of hiding places and the silence, it’s what accounts for the feeling of being watched.

  Aware of the noise I’m making as I come into a clearing deep in fallen branche
s, I wonder if this self-consciousness partly explains our instinct to build dens.

  Bringing my children here (or to any wood) when they were younger, it was the first thing they wanted to do, not only for the pleasure of constructing something to their own specifications, but to hide themselves away. All the painstaking lifting and carrying, jamming and balancing was never as exciting as the moment of crawling inside. Suddenly you’ve blended into the trees, you’re part of the wood. The Big Bad Wolf might pass by and never know you were there.

  Strangely, if my children returned here to find their den knocked over, they always preferred to construct a new one rather than commandeer one that had already been assembled by other kids. Perhaps a den is only truly safe if it’s been built by your own hands.

  Here, some have been skittled by the wind, but one remains, well anchored to the trunk of a maple tree, the body of the shelter a solid warp and weft of deadwood. It’s dry inside, and if it weren’t so small I might be tempted to curl up in there and wait out the rain.

  Trespass

  But I move on, using boughs as brakes as the woodland starts to slope down towards the brook. The path runs with sludge and is overgrown with bright pink, hyper-invasive Himalayan balsam. People have tried to pare it back by pulling up some of the plants in a session of ‘balsam bashing’, and the track is strewn with uprooted stems that snap underfoot like celery. As with the hand-built BMX track, it’s another way in which this place is shaped by those who use it. There is a democratic curation here.

  Yet any sense that, because of collective care and affection, it belongs to us in any way is an illusion. Just as I have, I’m sure many other people have wandered through the woods and further afield across the old golf links thinking of it all as our local common, but that name is entirely wrong. We have no right to be here whatsoever, no lordly concession to use these fields. It is, on paper, private land, and a more legally accurate term for what we engage in every time we set foot here is trespass – an intrusion which is becoming less tolerated, it seems.