Monday to Tuesday
Getting fired is like making love, full of passion, false promises and unchecked emotions.
This is part one of a double header. Based in the Yorkshire Dales, two fated souls meet on a road. At first they are just strangers walking side by side, but soon enough, that strangeness washes way.
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On Monday, I was sitting at my desk, swinging left and right on my ergonomic chair, staring blankly out of the seventh-floor window, wondering what I do for a living. Since Tuesday, I don’t have to wonder. Someone answered that question. Nothing, not anymore.
Getting fired is like making love, full of passion, false promises, and unchecked emotions. It’s one of the only times in adulthood when you feel free. All of a sudden, I have nothing but time and space. The alarm which usually yanks me out of my dreams just as they're getting good, is silent. And I'm not bound to my desk when the sun comes out in the middle of the afternoon.
It’s a pity about the lack of financial security. Otherwise, unemployment might be the perfect remedy for a monotonous life. But life is full of compromises. You never get everything, and you shouldn’t. Getting everything is the easiest way to spoil yourself. You are thinking, I’d love to be spoiled. And sure, most of us think of being spoiled in romantic terms. Little girls grow up wanting a handsome prince to come along and sweep them off their feet.
“You’ll never have to worry again,” He whispers in your ear, in an accent thick with confidence. But that fairytale misses the point, doesn’t it? Worry is just as important to a happy life as complete pleasure. They’re codependent, like a 3D film and those flimsy plastic glasses. Only together do they have any value.
The rolling hills are a patchwork of green. The sky is a tapestry of cumulus clouds. Some grey, others white and where the breeze has pulled them apart, beams of sunlight rain down from the blue sky.
I came here when I was a kid. My parents dragged me, kicking and screaming. But after seeing the expenses of fields and forest, I stopped sulking. A place like this demands it. It looks at you with a stare that says, what are you screaming about; everything is fine. And for one reason or another, I've always had the compulsion to believe it.
The village of Settle came into view at 3 am last night. It’s a long drive from London. In a place like this, there’s no option for a late check-in. My back hurts a little from sleeping in a ball in my car. But one uncomfortable night doesn’t come close to spoiling my day ahead. Besides, a steady walk broken up with breaks in stone-built pubs offers the perfect antidote.
I plan to follow the river snaking through the valley until I come to the base of Ingleton Bourgh, one of the bigger rolling hills. From there, I’ll climb before descending the other side into the town of Ingleton. Tomorrow I’ll retrace my steps and hunt for my car.
Two parallel stone walls mark my route, and herds of sheep munching on lush dew-covered grass offer accompaniment. Now and again, another rambler walks past, and we swap pleasantries and itineraries.
“Watch out going up there today, there’s a storm coming in the afternoon,” a grey-haired farmer explains as his border collie sniffs my heels. Her little spotted legs are plastered in mud.
“If you’re hungry, the Horse Shoe in Horton has great steak and ale pies.” A lady not far off my mother's age tells me as she paces away down the valley.
After those two characters, I didn’t see a soul for another five miles. I'm making my way along the river, progress is slow but scenic. The sound of the water rushing down the valley is calm and tender, as though it's the voice of a good friend.
I’m hungry; my stomach is grumbling. The village of Horton awaits a few miles further away. A gap in the clouds lights it up. It’s the main character on a West End stage. I stare at it glowing on the horizon before the terrain demands my attention, and my eyes focus on the ground ahead. Climbing a small pile of rocks to escape the river bank and rejoin the road, my ankle buckles to the left. I wince at the sharp stab of pain.
“Be careful,” A deep voice calls from the road above. From the angle and stone wall, all I can see is a baseball cap. With a few more steps, I see him. Young, red-cheeked, and kitted out with all the brightly coloured hiking gear no one local would dream of wearing.
“Are you okay?” He says, glancing at the ankle I’m limping on.
“I think I’ll be alright.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Horton,” I say, pointing to the Sunlite wonderland on the horizon.
“For the pies?”
“How did you know?”
“I think the same lady told me,” he says, smirking. “About fifty-two, walking sticks. She didn’t stop; just told me on her way past.”
“That’s the one.”
“Want to head there together? I can slow down if not and let you go ahead.” He offers. But it sounds so silly that I can’t help but laugh.
“So you’d what? Stop and count to a hundred?”
“Something like that. Maybe have some breakfast by the river.” Now that's something I can get on board with. But I’d left in such a hurry this morning that I never got the opportunity to buy supplies. In London, you never have to think about those things; there’s always something open, willing to satisfy your cravings. But here, most villages have one corner shop and a pub, both of which shut earlier than I arrived and open later than I set out.
“It’s alright, let’s go together. Maybe you have some breakfast for both of us?”
“Sure,” he says, pulling tasteless oat bars out of his pockets.
I devour mine without another word; no please or thank you. He doesn’t seem to mind. Something about my impatience pleases him. Perhaps it’s the same warm feeling you get after feeding someone on the street. His smile says I helped someone out, I’m a good person, at least for today.
“Thanks,” I say, picking the sticky crumbs off my collar. “I needed that. I haven’t eaten since last night.”
“I have another if you want it?” he says, and I hold out my cupped hands as if I’m Oliver Twist in a workhouse.
“You must think I’m some sort of freeloader.”
“Not at all. I reckon you’re a lost city slicker on a spontaneous escape in the country.”
“I’m no city slicker.”
“I beg to differ. Anyone with hiking clothes that clean isn’t used to this life,” he says, gesturing at the rolling hills ahead of us.
"And what about you?"
"Good point. It was my birthday yesterday, and I got a few new things."
A car comes by, and we shuffle to the roadside to let it pass. The driver gives us a honk and a wave. I smile with a mouthful of chewy oats, and my new walking partner waves back.
“That’s Sue. She runs the book club in Horton.”
“How do you know that?” I knew this guy was a more experienced rambler than I am. You can tell that by the layers of mud on his boots. But I didn't put him down as someone who attended a local book club in the middle of nowhere.
“What do you mean?
“I mean, do you live here or something?”
“All my life. By the way, I’m Greg.”
“Lauren, nice to meet you too.”
We walk for a couple of minutes in silence. I keep flicking my eyes at Greg, trying to work him out. No woman wants to be alone with a strange man, especially out here. But the more glances I steal, the more I feel I don't need to worry. Greg is more interested in the fast-moving clouds and the sparing spots of sunlight to be plotting my defilement.
“Look up there. You see that dot atop the hill?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where we are going.”
“Where we are going?”
“Yeah.” He says before falling into his content silence again. If a Londoner had pulled such a brazen move, I would have told him to fuck right off and run the other way. But here, under the sky that's pulling itself apart, his decisiveness felt natural. It was as if he was an old friend showing me around his new home. But he is the opposite, a stranger showing me around his old neighbourhood.
Love, Luke
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Blurb -
A young man, torn apart by grief, struggles to forget his past and find his way into adulthood. Living close by, an elderly lady battles her deteriorating mind, trying to hold on to her memories. Serendipity and the elements pull them together in a café trapped in time. Their peculiar relationship blossoms, helping one come to terms with life and love and the other with death and loss.
'Love, Loss & the View from My Window' is Luke's debut novel. This strange and sombre tale was inspired by his experiences with dementia and shame. Luke watched both of his grandmothers suffer from various types of dementia. He was perplexed by the lack of understanding modern medicine can provide. While growing up, he dealt with shame in its various forms. These two factors have been brought together in this book to question the illusion of a 'normal' brain and to celebrate our ability to succeed in light of our shortfalls.