In the midst of it
A tale of bending the mould of reality
By LJ Wynn
In the midst of it is a work of fiction based of accounts of real events. Any match to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Certain broader events, however, were very real, however, the timeline of the historical events may be altered to fit the story.
This book does contain some events and language that is likely to cause some distress to some readers
Reader Discretion is advised
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One: “Hush, my darling”
“Ah hello Mrs Tucker, what can I do for you today on such a fine day as today”
“Oh, nothing much John, I’m just browsing today. I’ll call you if I need help”
Jonathan nodded, letting Mrs Tucker on with her day. Jonathan, you see, was to suburb of Hyde, Manchester, the perfect 15-year-old.
Good grades at school, good relationships with Robert, his brother junior by two years, and his parents, Jane and Thomas, as well as a spot on the local youth football team, and a job in the local librarians, Pearce’s, both as a newspaper delivery boy in the week and as a salesperson on Sundays. This was the life of the boy everyone knows as a role model to all younger children, in the small suburb in 1982.
However, the only person who knew Jonathan, was himself. Not but 4 weeks ago, had he broken up with his long-time girlfriend – and equally as popular 15-year-old – Amy, for no fathomable reason. In reality, it was a choice he had been dragging since Christmas, as he knew deep inside him it was less and less worth it as the days dragged on. For Jonathan, this was the start of his rebellion.
Many people would have claimed to know him inside out.
Many people would be entirely mistaken.
He appeared to adore his football, but that was never quite the case. Put briefly, Jonathan fears rejection more than any thing, or person in the world, a fear instilled from before he could talk, with him, his brother and their parents all being as religious as one was expected to be for the time. Jonathan craves acceptance like a smoker does cigarettes, so when all the boys did something, he joined in. This thing just so happened to be the beautiful game. This fear just so happened to drive Jonathan into being the best year 10 footballer at school. In fact, he excelled to such a proficiency for being so young, that professional scouts believed that with enough commitment, he could be a star.
Despite this, sports were not where Jonathan, despite the support he would constantly receive both in school and in town, wanted to take his life. For all the years of fitting in, he never had a chance to express his real desires. Instead of the newest adidas or puma for Christmas and Birthdays, deep down, he prayed he would receive works from those such as Angelou, Herriot, or Pratchett. He, and his brother, alone knew, he adored books and wished to dedicate his life to them for a lifetime, over something that doesn’t last.
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Shifting his mind past the philosophical debates in his mind, Jonathan glanced up to the store clock. 5:04, his Sunday shift was over. As he came around to the front where the newest collections were, scanning over what to take – if anything at all – to read during the week. He had just finished the great, Orwell’s 1984, and what a fascinating read he found it to be! And yet, if anyone ever found out he likes books, or owns a large number of them, he would be mocked mercilessly as a “nerd”, a “dweeb” or even a “fag”, and he just couldn’t have that, or his life would change in unimaginably pitiful ways.
As he picked up his collection, this week a small book of poems and a couple on short story compilations, he heard some unusual shouting…
“Honey, Lisa, I understand that, but we would still be halfway short”
This was the unmistakeable voice of Mr Scott Pearce, who owns the store, and has done so for around two decades, with his wife, Lisa.
“Oh, Sweet Scott, that type of figure may mean we have to sell up. We can’t run a business where even if it was all sold, we’d be so far in the red, oh, this is a disaster, I see no other way myself to make up such a some as four thousand”
‘Four Thousand… in the red… what… since when… oh Lord help them...’
Knock Knock
“Come in if that’s you Jonathan” rang Lisa’s tender voice.
“Ah this is payday for you, isn’t it?” replied Scott’s sharper voice
“Yes, it is Mr Pearce sir, but I- “
“Well, I do sincerely apologise sonna but we can only pay you Ten-bob beca-“
“Mr Pearce sir, that is no issue as I was hoping I could take these books instead of my pay this week…” Showing them the books he reminded them “these two here are 7.50 each and this smaller one a fiver, is that fine by you?” he asked in his respectful but eager tone.
“Absolutely John if you wish, you know we are fine with this provided you say so, just so we can manage the stock we have” replied Lisa, with her signature, luminous smile she carried in her store, no matter who to or when she spoke.
“Thanks guys, see you tomorrow at 7:30 sharp, as always!” Jonathan affirmed, his new acquisitions causing his smile to glow back to Mr and Mrs Pearce.
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On his way exiting Pearce’s Book Shack, more strange discussion could be faintly eavesdropped on
“Hush, my darling, I think young John may have heard you – I mean did you see the nervousness he had entering? That’s not typical of him”
“Oh I’m sorry Scott, Sweetie, it’s just I am really worried about this whole thing, I just don’t want everything we’ve dedicated ourselves towards to be wasted by changes in society we cannot control…”
Exiting Pearce’s, Jonathan was disappointed to discover the gracious sky of sun he had when exiting Sunday mass earlier in the day, had, by now in the evening, morphed into devilous, miserly downpours coming from the grey bulges above. Despite this, he admired his small, but intrinsically valuable journey from Pearce’s on Hyde’s Highstreet’s Westway, to back home more eastward. Although this journey even by foot never exceeded a thousand ticks of a clock, the hundreds he did get was a thing he treasured, as aside from when he chose to isolate himself – often to read his newest findings – these moments of inner peace he formed were condemned to brief snippets of life.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Before he could think, his legs had delivered him home
“Hi mam, I’m back, anything made, or will I have to myself”
“No Bonny John, nothing made today: me and your dad are still not hungry from your nan’s lunch earlier. Mmm, I can still taste the deliciousness now”
On hearing this, he graciously threw himself up the stairs, and placed himself on his bed, laying two of the books on his bedside table while opening the book of poems. However, Jonathan gazed blankly at his wall, filled with posters of all his favourite players – Shilton, Robson, Platini, Keegan, Dalglish and more who concealed the wall from one end to the next – yet instead of the inspiration he typically derived from these images, he felt a strange sensation of disturbed annoyance. He still couldn’t gather himself to read, instead peering the rest of his room, standard for his age, gender and class. A wardrobe in the corner, posters enclosing every millimetre and more from there to the windows, with his bed and cupboards on the other side of the rectangle he called his zone. Snapping his head down with force, he flipped the first page over to scan the list of authors in this book, before hearing an all too familiar – but still very pleasant – noise coming from his door.
“Alright there Jonna, you adding to the collection again?”
“Nice to see you climb out your slumber to talk to me Rob, but yeah, I am, partially cause I wanna have some new stuff to read, secondly because from what I heard them say old man Scott and Lisa are in trouble. Anyway, you had your dinner yet or are you still full like me, mam and dad?”
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“Nah yeah, I had a sandwich at like 5 about 20 minutes ago. Anyway, spill the tea, you know you always can with me no matter what. Is this why you’re looking worse than when you lose a match and get hammered?”
“Maybe, anyway from what I heard; the Pearce’s are like 4 grand under.”
“Actually? Nah there’s no way! How can a bookshop piss out four grand?! Either they are in an awful pile of shit, or they were spewing it. four grand…?”
“I’m inclined to believe it – They looked startled when I came into their office to say goodbye and say I was taking these books and Scott said he couldn’t pay me whether or not I was taking these books I have here”
“Four Grand is unfathomable to me. Does this mean they may close and- “
“I’ll be out of a job, if it’s true, but I don’t doubt it - you’ve met Scott before at the footy haven’t you, yeah he’s like that in his BookShack as well”
“Well, I’ll leave you to read whatever it is that you like to read these days”
Creeeak, Slam.
With that, he found himself alone again, able to read some more before heading to school tomorrow. Except… no. Yet again he placed the book to one side, and simply laid there, limp, with not a hair on his body twitching. In his manufactured trance, he thought to himself about what his life was like. He thought about all the times himself and Amy spent together in this same bed, time he now looked upon as wasted, time he wasted to keep the façades of who he was trundling along smoothly, and not destroy the decade old social fabric he had formed.
He wanted to find a way to change but didn’t know how to change the social perceptions he seemed to adore, if you asked his friends and family to describe Jonathan and what he does, it would overall, be things he has grown to hate, yet despite the encouragement and love Jonathan receives, he now can’t help, but loathe the man he is soon to fall into.
From his bed he rose. Under his many hidings, he reached for his beloved. This ragged clump, was for Jonathan, filled of all the nostalgia he still held for grandpaps – despite the awful tales his mam told whenever he asked about what his dad was like to her. Despite all Jane told her son, he couldn’t bring himself to dispose of it.
Today. Jonathan remembered, today, he would’ve been sixty had his body not succumbed, and his mind, surrendered to the drink. Johnathan missed being “innocent of th’ knowledge” as Miss Fletchers would say. He missed his purity that he no longer possessed, where, as grandpaps said, he could be an eager beaver, willing to ask the most incredulous of thoughts, especially about all grandpaps Len did to “send evil men to graves and to hell, be it misery on earth of rejection by our Lord in the next world.”
6 years, 7 months, and 4 days
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Despite how short he had been gone in reality, it felt like a lifetime and more. It felt like a lifetime without him, a lifetime without his stories, and a lifetime without those hair-raising hugs he always gave both himself and Robert, no matter what the situation was that he came all the way up from Tyneside to meet them for.
Jonathan only ever got drunk once. The year 9 afterschool Christmas party that he, of course, went to with Amy and all the other socially high-ranking folk, even up to those still going to the community high school. Upon returning home that evening, all he remembers was crashing into bed, and waking up with his mother waiting downstairs. Downstairs, she gave both boys, Robert and Johnathan, the truth. grandpaps hadn’t died of a rogue dangerous driver. grandpaps Len threw himself at someone and their car, in a drunk relapse he was having on some of the less pleasant times he experienced. As their mam put it, “the shock, never left his tainted shell”
Now with a splodge atop both cheeks, he recomposed. grandpaps always told him not to live in the past but to learn from it instead. Still, traces of tears continued to trickle, remembering all the parties he stayed sober at, and all the events where he could’ve just had a can or a pint, and still stay sober. Yet he never did. Always, till the day he died, he vowed, along with his brother, to not touch a drop of it, no matter what, In honour of their grandpaps.
Placing grandpaps’ Bible back down, he threw himself up and off his bed, before Jonathan bounced and bumbled his way out his room, and down into the kitchen. Opening the two primary cupboards, he reached for the Heinz into one, and for the bread into the other. Expectantly for Jonathan, he felt a firm, embracing hug from behind. This combo, old as sliced bread, was something he now exclusively reserved for when he knew he could feel better, but was hesitant to speak up directly.
To try distract himself from the avalanche of unnecessary sorrow, he turned the family telly on, to see what was on around the world on the news.
“Your top story tonight: Argentina raise the stakes and send an official convoy to reclaim the Falkland’s in what Thatcher has commented as “an illegal act by a jealous nation wishing to one up a bigger country than themselves.” Also, in the news tonight…”
“Dad have you heard about this, the Argentine’s have taken some island that is apparently ours and thatcher called them jealous”
“What’s that sonna?” Perked up at this call into the living room, Jonathan’s dad perched himself on the sofa, ready to be captivated by this story
“Today’s top story is that the small garrison force stationed on the Falkland Islands has spotted a convoy waving Argentine flags, which has asked for a full and unconditional surrender of the whole archipelago, to which the response was one of chivalry, and willingness to fight. The prime minister Mrs Thatcher hasn’t spoke publicly on the matter, but her position is believed to be one of support for what her majesty’s forces have already stated”
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“You know what is going to happen right? We are going to go to this war, for territory we probably do not want or need, and everyone will forget about all the things they dislike her for, in favour of national pride”
“Such as…?”
“All of the strikes going on, because she would rather her rich scumbag friends make more money by selling the souls of UK workers. I haven’t been affected minus the insane rising prices the last few years, but most of my mates and your mates’ dads have had to effectively refuse to work to save themselves to still be paid a good wage, and that woman still won’t listen”
“Meanwhile the U.N and Mr President of the United States Ronald Reagan have both called for peace and negotiations instead of violence and conflict” announced the reporter in their dreary monotone voice.
sigh “He’s another one. Y’know, since when did people believe electing some hot-shot celebrity was a good plan? All he’s done is sit back and watch the world go by, without doing anything of substance. As for the U.N, what power do they have? They may have agencies that monopolise everything in their area, but it’s those at the top that are the real beneficiaries of all this.”
Jonathan reached in and turned the telly off. His Beans on Toast were eaten, and he had heard enough. He should’ve known better, than to invite his dad to discuss anything political whatsoever. Mr Thomas “Tommo” Phillips, was, after all the local councillor, so any opportunity he got to speak politics he would. Despite working first as a manual plasterer before becoming a foreman, Thomas, Jonathan’s dad, was most certainly a man of the people. He was always outspoken about his beliefs, including his full support for the strikers. As a result, like many things, these fascinations with the systems of the world had for Jonathan at least, rubbed off on him. This is why, despite the degradation most of his friends expressed to such people, he liked books. It has been, and is for Jonathan, his way of seeing into the minds of the greatest.
It is his way of seeing what the world was, and will become…
…and yet, he has to hide it all.
“Jonna, was dad going off again?” Jonathan heard climbing back to his room
“Yep, he was. The news was talking about some event happening between us and Argentina on some island we own, and then he started spewing off about the Prime Minister, the American President- “
“And did he start blabbering about the rising prices of everything and how that was all the fault of the elite out to make money”
Jonathan, now at the top, nodded, knowing his brother was about to declare…
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“BINGO! Ooh well I was scared that he didn’t find a way to get that in there, but I should never have doubted dad: he always finds a way to get his point across no matter how heated the discussions he has become.” A smile eluded from Robert, once again being able to know what their dad would say, no matter what that day’s topic was, whether about the queen, or nature, or islands.
“Yeah well we all know what he’s like, having opinions on everything!”
With a chuckle occupying both brother’s faces, they went back inside their rooms to hibernate again for the rest of the evening. As for Jonathan, he merely tuned up his radio until he found something acceptable, before re-opening that book of poems, and actually enjoying it more than usual, able to understand the meanings and motifs of the authors of the poems he read.
Yet something wasn’t right, his mind continued to claw at him through the night, will delusions of grandeur and sorrow
‘Why did grandpaps do what he did?’
‘Why did I break up with Amy?’
‘Why is the act of me reading so socially unacceptable?’
He knew something had to change; he just didn’t know exactly how he was meant go about this. He couldn’t point his finger, but he knew, deep down…
He was now in the midst of something of his own creation