Ian Clayton - Our Billie: Learning to Live with Every Familys Worst Nightmare

Our Billie

Ian Clayton has been a freelance writer and broadcaster for twenty-five years. He has presented programmes on BBC TV, ITV Yorkshire and the Discovery Channel, and also regularly on radio. He has led workshops in prisons, hospitals, schools and art centres, and has worked in America, Russia and all over Europe, as well as throughout Britain. His previous book, Bringing it all Back Home, was published in 2007 the perfect book for anybody who defined their life through music and the memories of their youth (Joanne Harris).

Ian was born and still lives in West Yorkshire, with his partner, Heather, and son, Edward. He likes listening to jazz and blues, reading about folklore and music halls, and indulging in tap-room conversation and gentle subversion.

Thanks to Tony Lacey at Penguin, who sat at my kitchen table and helped me to see this book before I started writing it, and to Hazel Orme for copyediting it; to Peter Wilson, Ned Thacker, Tony Lumb, Roy Hampson, Colin Tetley, Jan Hinchcliffe, Christine Johnson, Christine Talbot, Jane Hickson, Ian Daley, Graham Wrench and, above all, to Heather Parkinson and Edward Clayton, who read a first draft and offered constructive comments; and to Pam Oxley who types better than anybody else I know.

Lines from Spell of Sleep by Kathleen Raine reprinted by permission of the Estate of Kathleen Raine and by Centerpoint Press; lines from A Time to Dance by C. Day-Lewis reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd; lines from the song Ocean Eyes composed by Jessica Gardham reprinted by permission of the composer; Souvenirs words and music by John Prine 1970 (Renewed) Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All Rights Reserved.

Everybodys Talkin Words and Music by Fred Neil 1967 Six Palms Music d/b/a Third Palm Music All Rights Reserved Reproduced by kind permission of Carlin Music Corp London, NW1 8BD

Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. The publishers will be glad to correct any errors or omissions in future editions.

I dont know what happens next in this story, Daddy.

This is my daughter Billie. Its nearly ten oclock at night, past her bedtime, and shes still sitting at the desk in her bedroom with a table lamp on. She has already been in bed, said goodnight, told me she loves me, cuddled up to Anastasia, her favourite teddy, and then tossed and turned, struggling to sleep. After an hour she has decided to get up again to write a story that she says is going round in her mind.

Im writing a story about a father and his children, but I dont know what happens next.

In between I have run a bath and Im lying in it going over what I need to do before we set off for our short break to Hay-on-Wye first thing in the morning. Billie has never been the best of sleepers. Even when she was four or five she would come to our room to talk about monsters and shadows. Theres a shadow called Oki who moves across her curtains. Sometimes she frightens me by coming to our bedroom. I sleep on the side nearest the bedroom door, Heather on the side near the built-in wardrobe. Billie stands over me saying nothing until I sense her and wake with a start.

Whats the matter, love?

A monster came.

Oh! Its just a silly dream. Come on, let me tuck you in and Ill tell you a nice story.

Can you tell me a made-up one? I like them better than book stories.

Tonight I get out of the bath and go into Billies room.

What happens next, Daddy? I need to finish this story.

Well, Ill tell you what I do when Im writing and I dont know what happens next. Youve got some people in your story, havent you?

Yes, three.

OK, let one of them remember something. Thats how stories carry on. If a character in a story remembers something or wishes for something or does something, it means the story can continue.

Thats a good idea, Dad. Ill try it.

Later I get ready for bed and look into Billies room. She has fallen asleep on her desk, pen still in her hand. I lift her into her bed, put her arm around Anastasia, turn off the lamp and whisper, Sweet dreams.

At seven oclock in the morning the house is full of activity, all of us scurrying about, packing bags and cutting sandwiches. Edward wants his favourite packed lunch, egg and tomato, chopped together with salt and pepper. Heather fills a flask with tea. Billie cant decide whether to take just Anastasia or Anastasia and Oliver, a doll that looks like a real baby. Marlene, our next-door neighbour, drops us off at Kirkgate railway station in Wakefield. Well travel from here to Sheffield, to Birmingham, then Hereford, and take a taxi from the station there to a little hotel in Hay called the Seven Stars. I picked this one from the Internet because it has a swimming-pool and the kids love swimming. Ive written out an itinerary of train times and connections. Edward asks if he can save it in his pocket. Yes, you can, but dont lose it whatever you do! By the time we change platforms at Sheffield he has lost the piece of paper. What with rushing from one part of the station to another, pulling luggage on wheels, avoiding bumping into folk coming the other way and trying to read the screens, Ive let myself get stressed up.

Do you know, Edward? Youre bloody useless! I glare at him. He glares back, pure defiance. I walk off fast towards the Birmingham train. Edward stays on the platform, still defiant. Billie starts to cry, frightened that Edward will be left behind. I throw our bags onto the luggage rack, step back off the train, pick Edward up a bit roughly and plonk him on a seat. He carries on glaring. As the train sets off he pretends to ignore me by looking out of the window.

Heather says, Come on now, everybody, its only a bit of paper.

Only a bit of paper! We might not get back without it, I exaggerate, for effect.

Billie reaches out to hold my hand and Edwards. She says, Youre not bloody useless, Edward, really!

It makes us all laugh, even Edward. I look him in the eye. He eyes me back.

Mates? I say.

Mates, he says. Can we get the travel chess out?

At Birmingham we sat next to a woman who was talking to her daughter about Dudley. She spoke in a broad Black Country dialect, and Edward and Billie laughed every time she said the word Dudley. On the way down to Hereford I told the kids that their ancestors came from a place called Netherton, which is an area of Dudley.

Billie said, Did they talk like that woman?

They probably did, yes.

I bet they were funny, Edward said, and parroted, Dudley, Dudley, all the way to Hereford, by which time we and the rest of the carriage were fed up with him.

The owner of the Seven Stars in Hay turns out to be a fantastic chef and cooks a delicious breakfast. Heather, Edward and I have the full English: poached eggs, back bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms. Edward is into his stream-of-consciousness humour straight away. I say, Daddy, is this bacon lean back bacon? He then rocks back in his chair until it stands on its back legs. Geddit? Lean back bacon?

Billie reddens with embarrassment, munches her Glamorgan veggie sausage, and puts her head down so that her hair falls over her face and whispers, Is anybody listening to him?

Hes only having fun, Billie, Heather explains. Were on holiday, love. Its just a bit of fun.

Edward seizes his cue: We might have shepherds pie for lunch, eh, Dad?

I know whats coming.

I heard you were once a spy, Daddy.

I join in with Edwards music-hall theme. I wasnt a spy, Edward, I was a shepherd.

Aah! Aah! A shepherd spy!

Billie groans. Can we go swimming after breakfast, Mam?

Before Heather can answer I tell the kids that its not a good idea to go swimming after such a big meal. Youll sink!