Page 77 of From Now On

Because she cares about them.

Has he made a terrible mistake? Duke’s words ring in his ears,‘Nobody’s perfect’ and ‘People can be scared of things they don’t understand, so if it’s explained to them properly then they might be more accepting.’ How is Duke so wise for an eleven-year-old?

Last night, after he’d pulled himself together, he had tentatively tapped on Nina’s door, intending to test the water somehow regarding he and Pippa potentially becoming a couple. When she hadn’t answered he’d opened the door. She’d been hunched over her laptop. Her head had snapped up when he’d cleared his throat.

‘Charlie, what the fuck. Get out!’ She had looked around, probably searching for something to throw at him and he had retreated.

It hadn’t been the right time.

But it is, perhaps, the right time to consider his own future and this is what he mulls over once the children have gone to school. Duke has made him think about what he really wants to do. He could set up as a literary agent on his own from here, or perhaps move into editing, but then neither of those things appeal to him in the same way anymore. Reading someone else’s words when he has a deep-rooted desire to write his own.

Books have a smell, a voice. Charlie has always found comfort in them; to him they are living, breathing things that, if you listen very carefully, whisper more than the story printed on the page. They hold the secrets of the writer; the things they have been through, the things they long to experience – their hopes, their dreams and often their sadness.

As an agent, he never told his authors to write what they know, how much duller the world would be withoutThe Handmaid’s TaleorThe War of the Worlds.DraculaorThe Hunger Games. He feels privileged to have witnessed so many books come to fruition. Beginning with the soft sigh of an idea until the vibrancy of an imagination sparks it into glorious technicolour.He championed his authors as the words poured, or sometimes stuttered, from mind to page. He believed in everything he represented; whether it became a bestseller or not, each story had a place in his heart.

He covers his chest with his hand, feels the steady beat beneath his palm. Does he have his own story to tell?

Is Duke right? Should he,couldhe, try and write his own novel? He doesn’t have to cast his mind back to question when or why he gave up on his dream to do so – so much in his life seemed to begin and end with his dad. Instead he allows himself to recall the book that made him long to create his own.

Goodnight Mister Tom.

It had been one of those childhood summers; blue skies and fluffy white clouds, days that blended into one another as the stretch of the school holidays seemed endless.

Charlie had been eleven; he’d just completed his last year at primary. It must have been a weekend because his mum was in the garden. Charlie was sprawled on the lawn, which was yellowing with thirst, the tickle of the grass against his bare legs, in his ears the buzz of bumble bees as they’d hovered around the lavender bush, which smelled of comfort.

He’d barely moved for two days, engrossed in the tale of William who was evacuated during the war to the home of elderly Tom. To this day, Charlie remembers the horror that nipped at his heat-pink skin as he’d read about William’s cruel mother and the neglect the boy had endured. During one harrowing scene he had dropped his book and rushed to his own mother, wrapping his arms around her legs as she’d aimed the hose at the heat-cracked soil in the borders, droplets of water cooling him as she’d turned around.

‘Hey—’ she had put one arm around him ‘—what’s up?’

‘Just…’ Charlie hadn’t quite known how to express the range of emotions the characters had made him feel. He’d realized then that words were an incredibly powerful thing. That he couldn’t have been the only one touched by the story. The thought that there was a unity among readers had been comforting. It had given Charlie a sense of belonging to a secret club that non-readers could never be a part of and would never understand. That was when he’d decided he wanted to write his own book one day. To make readers feel. To bring people together.

He had let go of his mum’s legs and looked earnestly at her. ‘I’m just glad you’re not mean,’ he’d said.

‘Charlie.’ She’d switched off the hose and crouched down, looking him in the eyes. ‘I can promise you that I will always do the best for you that I possibly can.’

And she had. Charlie can see this undoubtedly now.

Charlie sees the similarities between him and William, plucked out of their ordinary lives and placed down somewhere else entirely. Him ending up in a hospital bloodied and bandaged. Perhaps he has many stories to tell.

He opens his laptop and flexes his fingers and tries not to think like an agent: what’s popular; what’s marketable. He doesn’t want to write psychological thrillers with predictable twists or police procedurals with jaded detectives.

He wants to write of unrequited love, of hope, of sorrow and loss and joy.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ Duke had said.

When was that? The first time he had kissed Pippa in the sandpit. Their first date? Charlie offering to take her for lunch. ‘I’ll meet you there,’ she had said and he hadn’t understood why until he’d walked into the restaurant.

She’d worn a black dress, her hair bundled on the top of her head, lips glossy. She had never looked more beautiful.

‘I didn’t want Gran asking questions,’ she had said shyly as he’d straightened his tie, presented her with a baby pink rose, ignoring the curious glances of the other diners. They were oblivious to everything but each other. Not caring that it was broad daylight, not a candle in sight. That this was in fact a greasy spoon. To them it was everything. They had ordered bacon sandwiches because they could eat with one hand, the fingers on their free hands linked together.

It had been the most romantic meal of his life.

He writes. Allowing the words to stream from him, wishing he could speak the way he writes, honest, unfiltered, from the heart. He writes until Billie places a paw on his knee, reminding him that it’s time for her lunchtime walk.

He scans over what he has written. They are not good words, not yet, but there’s something there, a promise, a possibility, and he thinks that one day, with time and patience, they might eventually be… something.

For the past two weeks Charlie has let all his feelings pour onto the page. All the emotions he feels but cannot share with Pippa because she doesn’t want to speak to him. She sends daily updates to the children though. Long messages which Duke and Nina share with him each night over dinner while he sits with a fixed grin on his face and agrees that yes, Edinburgh castle is impressive. Glasgow Contemporary Art Gallery looks fun. Loch Ness is beautiful but he doesn’t believe in monsters. He doesn’t know what he believes anymore.

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