Carol Morley - 7 Miles Out

7 miles out

7 miles out

carol morley

Published by Blink Publishing

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978-1-910536-15-5

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Text copyright Carol Morley, 2015

Cars

Words and Music by Gary Numan

1979 Universal Music Publishing Limited.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.

Day Of the Lords

Words and Music by Ian Curtis, Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Stephen Morris

1979 Universal Music Publishing Limited.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.

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FOR CPC

table of contents

STOCKPORT, ENGLAND 19771984

last rights

It was a day not like any other. He had a new suit, for his new job, which came with a new car. I wish I could remember what make of car it was; what it looked like and what colour it was, but I cant remember any colours from that day, not one. Im convinced that colours were different then. Not just the colour of clothes and other manufactured things but the colour of leaves, the colour of earth, the colour of skin. Its something that really gets to me, that I cant remember. Its as though Ive been left with some old-fashioned, black and white movie. That kills me, it really does. No matter how much I go over that day, its only ever in black and white.

It was summer and there wasnt much of school left to go before the holidays, but I dont remember any sunshine, not like the year before, when there had been a big heat wave. I dreamed about getting up and getting dressed, so when I did wake up for real it felt strange that I had to do it all over again. I should have taken it as a sign. I do now.

So I got dressed in my school uniform and came downstairs to find Mum carefully brushing the shoulders of his jacket with a clothes brush. I was used to him in drainpipes and as I stared at his flared trousers my mum said, A lady winked at him at the bus stop yesterday. Must have been his new suit. I swear there was optimism in the air and Mum was making the most of Dads mood, which was the sunniest it had been for a long time. While its one of lifes clichs, it did feel as though we were turning a corner. I think everyone felt it: Mum, my brother Rob, my sister Susan and even him.

Was Dads suit brown or black? I dont think he would ever have worn navy blue. Why cant I be more precise? Im sure that these things matter. If only I had a photographic memory, or a camera implanted in my head from birth. In fact, I used to think that after death you arrived in some big room and watched screens that replayed the whole of your life, and that if you wanted, you got to see the recordings of any other life you chose. As long as the life belonged to someone you knew. I still hope thats true, because then I could go over and over that day and colour it all in and I would be able to watch his entire life in detail. Id give up the chance to watch my life replayed if I could watch his.

That day, Dad was about to start a new job as a sewing machine salesman and had offered to drive me to school in the new car. I sat in the front and turned and hugged the back of my seat. I was happy we had a car again. The possibilities seemed endless: pickups, drop-offs, day trips, visits to relatives. I remember wishing that something would happen that meant I didnt have to go to school; I had a ridiculous hope that he would ask me along for the ride to wherever he was starting work, but even though he didnt, as I clunked and clicked my seatbelt into place, a feeling of relief came over me. At least primary school was nearly over and there would be a new school to go to with the possibility of escaping Jilly and her gang. Jilly had feather-cut blond hair, soft green eyes and an elfin face. She looked so cute that nobody could have guessed at the malice that lived inside of her. Except for me. I knew. I felt the sting of her sly words and evil glances on a daily basis.

Jilly had the smallest waist of all the girls in my class. She once brought a tape measure to school and lined us up against the toilet wall and measured our vital statistics, smugly smiling when she came out the winner. Im glad she never measured our calves, as mine were way too big for my size and I knew it. For reasons I was entirely in the dark about, apart from my calves, Jilly hated me. But I didnt hate her. I wanted to be her. I sometimes wonder now if this was exactly why she disliked me so much. I was too cringingly willing to be liked by her and too eager to stand in her shoes.

Driving along the main road, I asked Dad if he would give me a lift in the mornings when I started at my new school. He didnt answer straight away. He adjusted his rear-view mirror, thought for a while and then he just said, Maybe. Over the years Ive spent a lot of time on that maybe. Its amazing how much you can read into one little word. Had he already planned it? Or did maybe mean he hadnt totally made up his mind? Was there something I could have done or said to make him stay? Maybe

If only I could remember his smell or the exact way he talked. I imagine that his smell was made up of Brylcreem because he was always smoothing his hair back with that white slick. I once bought a tub of it just to try and smell him again, but it didnt work. I couldnt trace him to the insides of that red and white tub. I know he had a Kentish accent (Kent known as the Garden of England, he said though he never told me why and Im still not sure) but thats as far as it gets, I cant get his voice back into my head.

Dad didnt like the way I spoke; all the flat As and missing Gs at the end of words, and everything else that came out of my mouth that sounded Stockport and Northern. I tried hard to lose my accent in front of him, but I couldnt keep up the effort of talking differently at home and at school, so I slipped a lot. Now, seeing as I dont have to worry about school any more, Im trying to lose my accent and talk properly, just like Dad would have wanted me to.

He parked the car outside the sweet shop, pulled on the handbrake and left the engine on. I wanted to stay in the car forever so I could avoid having to put up with all that clichd bullying stuff I mentioned earlier, which Im sure must have existed ever since some sadist invented schools. But even so, how come that kind of thing manages to fester and rot your soul without any adults noticing?

He came back to the car with a pack of cigarettes that he had already opened and a folded newspaper that he placed carefully on the back seat. I imagined him later at home, deep in thought, tackling the crossword puzzle. When I was much smaller I once begged him to read me a clue, which he did. He was astounded when I got the answer right and for a moment I felt like a child prodigy. I wish I could remember the question, but I only remember the answer.