‘Sir’,
I’m writing in relation to the article you published last week – ‘IS THIS SCARNBROOK ALLEYWAY THE MOST DEPRESSING PLACE IN BRISTOL?’ – about the ongoing vandalism issues in the alleyway next to Scarnbrook Community School. The reporter claimed to have spoken to several local residents, and come to the wild yet completely unfounded conclusion that ‘loitering pupils’ from the school must be responsible for the state of the pathway. However, surely the lack of sufficient street lighting in the alleyway in question, the constant overgrown brambles that pupils like me have to battle our way through each day, plus the lack of upkeep of the tarmac (which, frankly, is an accident waiting to happen) means that the real responsibility for this sad state of affairs actually lies with our local council, who are failing in their duty to maintain it to a reasonable standard? May I suggest that is where you direct your ‘journalistic’ focus in the future? I also have it on good authority that a) the school itself was not approached for comment by the reporter b) one of the interviewees gave a false name, which was not acknowledged in the piece and c) your offices are probably way more depressing.
Yours (mine),
Livvie Allister, age 12
I snorted at Livvie’s mic-drop final line, baffled as to why the paper had not only printed it in what appeared to be its original state, but also awarded it Letter of the Week. Local journalism at its finest. I leafed through a few other clippings of various prizes she’d won and concerts she’d performed in, noting in the back of my mind that they were ordered vaguely chronologically, and That Year was fast approaching the top of the pile. Should I continue?
If not now, then when?The silent question appeared involuntarily, as if it hadn’t come from myself. I glanced up.
‘Are you infiltrating my mind, Marmalade?’
He just looked at me. The question may not have come from a partially stuffed vintage toy, but it had come fromsomewhere. And I felt a kind of weird duty to keep going, even though I knew it’d be devastating.
I moved Chippie off my lap and thumbed through some irrelevant clippings before coming to a front page of theWestern Daily Press, which had been folded in half.
SCARNBROOK GIRL DIES IN TRAGIC ROAD ACCIDENT
Accident. That word had always felt so insufficient. Despite the fact that it was Livvie’s misjudgement that ultimately caused the fatal collision, everything that had led to that moment had been anyone’s fault but her own.
If I’d been a better sister. If Josh hadn’t been late. If she’d never started playing that cello. If, if, if…
I quickly leafed through the following clippings without reading any of them until I got to an article about Livvie’s funeral. Never in my life had I read these articles or seen any photos from this day. And there was one image that took my breath away.
Because there was Josh, carrying the coffin alongside other family members, his face utterly consumed with a raw anguish that I didn’t realise he was capable of.
Compared to the rest of us, Josh had always appeared to be less grief-stricken by Livvie’s death. He was angry, that’s for sure, but he directed most of that towards the police, as he believed they should have been prosecuting the van’s driver. Me, Mum and even Dad had openly wailed for days, barely able to function, yet Josh had bottled everything up, even maintaining his training regime at the gym throughout. This photo was the very first time I’d seen his pain. How on earth had he managed to keep it hidden from us – then and since?
Josh and the other coffin bearers were flagged by Livvie’s two best friends from orchestra club, who’d played their violins as the procession entered the church. The wicker coffin itself was artfully draped with all manner of colourful blooms. I remembered thinking at the time that it was way more beautiful than any coffin deserved to be.
After that, the clippings related to Livvie were mainly about the inquest into her death a few months later, an inhumane process that had only amplified our pain given that the driver of the van in question had never expressed any sorrow or regret to us about what had happened. Not that it was his fault, of course – and he was probably following some kind of legal advice – but, still, it would’ve helped.
I put the clippings back in the box, with the exception of one, and replaced the lid as Tom appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray with a mug of tea and a plate heaped high with jam-smeared toast. It was as if he’d read my mind – it was approaching eleven o’clock and I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, which was unheard of for me.
‘Thanks so much. I can’t express just how much I appreciate all of this.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for. How’s it all going?’ He sat down next to me.
‘Yeah, I’m done. I didn’t linger over much of it to be honest.’
‘I bet.’
I took a slurp of the deliciously sweet tea and made an enthusiastic start on the toast. Tom cocked his head to the side as he watched me. ‘You eat toast upside down.’
I pointed to my working jaw before responding, mouth still half-full.
‘It’s so the sweet side hits my taste buds first. It’s revelatory. Here, try it.’
I offered him the plate and he selected the smallest square, flipping it over in an exaggerated motion and placing it in his mouth whole. His eyes widened as the effect took hold.
‘Shit, you’re right.’
‘Welcome to the rest of your life. More?’
‘Nah, I’m good. I’m going to have to get going in a bit as I’ve got a couple of work things I need to sort out.’
Work? Oh God, I’d completely forgotten it was a Wednesday. Tom must’ve called into my place on his way to the office. Little had he known he’d be walking into a full-blown emotional crisis.
