Ataxia Part One: A Street, A Park, Then Home by George Trueman

“Here’s your dungarees” she said. Holding the Tesco carrier bag out at arm’s length. Alfie mustered up a muted thanks, taking the bag whilst maintaining his distance. A short walk to a park bench confirmed the inevitable. ‘You’re amazing but’ and ‘I just don’t want to tie my life down this early’. It’s not that Alfie wanted to tie his life down to one person either. It was just comfortable, and he liked it. It wasn’t an unkind break up. In fact, it was gentle. It would have been easier for Alfie if she could have given him a reason to hate her. However, the best Alfie could be left with was rueing the reason and logic of it all.

The strange walk to a bus stop and a still loving hug made the feelings that often-lined Alfie’s stomach push for his mouth. He beat what he thought was a tasteful, hasty retreat. However, to all passers-by he panicked and ran away, weaving his way through the pedestrian traffic. He concluded that London had nothing left for his ‘talents’. He’d spent the last three years having his art largely unappreciated and upon reflection maybe he needed a break. Or was it ‘we need a break’. Either way, tomorrow Alfie resolved to go home to Bradford. Things were moving too fast maybe the trip will slow things down. He boarded the 100 bus bound for his flat in Wapping. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that she’d boarded a stop earlier. Alfie ducked for cover at the front of the bus. Undoubtedly, she could still see him but at this point it would be too uncomfortable to turn and look.

            Alfie packed up his belongings into his small hatchback. He glanced over at a series of unfinished canvases. For a beat, he considered taking them but decided they are best stored here, one day he’ll come back and finish them. He shoved a box of small trinkets including: a rusty harmonica, a glass sprite bottle that functioned as an ash tray and finally his degree certificate: a 2:1 in fine arts from Central St Martins. All items with meaningless value in the wastelands of Bradford. Maybe the ashtray might actually be of some use. Alfie climbed into his hatchback and set off. If London’s streets are paved with gold, Bradford’s where certainly made of tarmac in sore need or replacement.

Alfie bustled into his family home hurling his bags onto the battered red sofa. Mike wheeled around from the washing up to find his son in the doorway. Beaming he crossed the charmingly messy combo kitchen-dining room, wrapping Alfie in a mildly wet embrace.

“Didn’t say you were coming.” Mike beamed.

“Was I supposed too?”

“If you’d given me some warning, I’d have tidied up a little bit” Mike protested jokingly. “That’s bollocks and you know it.” Alfie joked. Mike stepped back taking in Alfie again. He’d grown into his shoulders. His hair now shaved into a tight buzz almost matching his own. Alfie stood as he took in the states of his dad and the house. Both looking worse for wear. Alfie saw a cancerous ceiling bubble spreading from under the aertex, giving it a bowed appearance. He thought maybe he looked older but then again, so does everyone since the last time you saw them.

“Sol in?” Alfie enquired. Mike nodded, gesturing that she’s upstairs as he turned to dry his hands on a tea towel. Alfie moved over to the doorway calling up the stairs for Sol. A bundle of legs crashed down the steps leading to the kitchen as Terry came bouncing into the room attempting to lick every inch of Alfie’s face. Spinning in excitement and tail wagging, Alfie fended him away fondly. Sol eventually made her way unevenly down the stairs, propping herself in the doorway. “Er, it’s you” Sol teased.

“Sadly so.” Alfie opened his arms offering a hug. Sol obliged and hugged her twin tightly. “How long you back for?” Sol asked.

“A bit.” Alfie replied pulling away sitting down at the dining room table. A cup of tea appeared in front of him. Alfie nodded thanks to his dad. Sol taking the third of the four seats at the table. “You doing mad Friday tonight?” Sol wondered.

“Is it Friday? Probably.” Alfie sighed, Sol sensed a strong whiff of melancholia or cigarettes. “You wanna come Sol?”

“I don’t know. You know if Brit’s out?”

“Probably.” Alfie replied, unsure of the validity of his answer.

The summer sun had settled into the crook of the moors when Alfie produced a battered box of tiddlywinks with a thud, plonking it on the dining table.

“No!” Sol shouted, knowing Alfie’s intentions weren’t solely playing a fun game of tiddlywinks. “Come on Sol. Classic game of Tiddlydrinks. It’s fun for the whole family.” Alfie swung a 4 pack of beer onto the table, passing two to Sol. “What’s wrong with just drinking and talking?” Sol maligned.

“We can still talk. You remember the rules, right?” Alfie quickly began setting up the board. Sol pushed his hands away from putting the pieces in place. “The 8 doesn’t go in there it goes in the smallest one.”

“But it fits right”

“That doesn’t mean it goes there.” Sol quickly took charge, wrestling the board away from Alfie, firmly putting the pieces in place. “Have you texted Brit yet?” Sol asked, as she fired her first wink way over the tiddly board. “She’ll be there if it’s mad Friday. Why don’t you know anyway? You not coming out?” Alfie pried as Sol fired her second tiddlywink into an un-played 4.  “What does that mean?” Sol asked.

“We both drink?”

“No… well I know that. I mean about what you said earlier.” Sol managed between sips of foul-tasting beer.  “Well, are you coming out?” Alfie tried again.

“I don’t know.”

“Brit’s been home for a while”

“Yeah, I know.” Sol snapped. As she fired her final counter into an eight across from Alfie. “Does that mean you down your drink?”

“No, it’s 8 sips.”

“You don’t even know the rules to your own game!”

“Who cares about the rules really, it’s just a way of structuring your drinks. Also, I’ve only got two drinks, so I’ve got to make them last.” Alfie took 8 quick sips of his beer, then began firing the winks with rapid expert precision. Two sixes for Sol, and a four for both. Sol got to business, the taste slowly warming to her pallet. She wondered whether pre-drinking beer was simply to numb your taste buds to the amber piss you drink later. “So why are you back in town?” Sol prodded.

“Oh, everyone’s back so. Y‘know.” Alfie lied foolishly, hoping Sol would take pity and not re open wounds on account of his reasonable ex-girlfriend. Sol nodded knowingly understanding his ruse. She began firing her tiddlywinks now with more of a gauge, hitting successive sixes. Alfie drank. He shuffled in his seat finding his equilibrium severely rattled. In a better term he was tipsy. A successful game of Tiddlydrinks, he thought. “If you come out tonight everyone will be so happy to see you.” Alfie tried earnestly.

“Yeah, and they’ll ask what I’ve been up to!” Sol replied.

“And?”  

“It’s none of their business.”

“Well, what have you been up to while I’ve been gone.” Alfie asked

“Nothing. That’s the point.”

“So, they’re just being nice.”

“I don’t care if they are just being nice. It’s always just being nice. Asking what everyone’s been up to. You can only say you’ve been on the moors in so many ways.”

“So, why don’t you just lie?”

“I don’t find that as easy as you do.” Alfie looked wounded deciding for the first time not to fight this battle with Sol. Sol looked at her brother realising that maybe he wanted her to come out not to just be pain, but maybe he needed her to come out. “It’ll be nice to see Brit I guess” Sol rounded, smiling at her brother. Alfie leapt up suddenly grabbing his second can.  

“Great! Let’s take it for the road then.” Alfie said excitedly. Sol shook her head wryly, grabbing her coat as they went to leave. As Alfie crossed the doorway to his living room, he poked his head in to find Mike watching an old war movie.

“Left two beers on the counter for you, me and Sol are off out.” Mike nodded, waving his own bottle of beer to his son. A moment later Alfie and Sol slammed the door shut rattling the beams of the whole house. 


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Written by George Trueman

I am a 20-year-old poet & writer from Bradford. Originally wanting to join politics, I pivoted to create art as it was the quickest way for me to express my thoughts and feelings about complex matters in a succinct and confident way.