Page 63 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get. And you can have your twenty pounds back. I know you can’t really afford it.”

“Mummy! It’s the magic storyteller!”

Stuart felt a tug on the back of his jacket. A small boy from the story-time group was looking up at him.

“I’m so sorry.” A young woman in jeans and a leather jacket took hold of the small boy’s hand. “But you are excellent at keeping the children absorbed. He’s always so excited on a Thursday.”

Stuart felt himself grin with pleasure. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Thank you. Those sessions do me good too. I think it’s the opportunity to escape into a world of imagination.”

Lillian dozed during the drive back and Stuart reflected on the pleasure that little bit of praise had given him. How much nicer the world would be if we always let people know when they’d done well. At home Stuart helped Lillian out of the car and then had to remind her that she was supposed to give the chocolates to Jayne as a belated birthday present.

“Does she like chocolates? I can’t remember.”

* * *

The calendar on Stuart’s phone reminded him it was speakers’ club night. He should have deleted the recurring entries when he’d realised it wasn’t for him and was about to do so, when he remembered the small boy and his enthusiasm for the magic storyteller. If he sat quietly at the back of the room and enjoyed all those who spoke more eloquently than he did, he might absorb some tips that he could use at the library without being forced to speak at the club. John wouldn’t be expecting him and would, hopefully, be too busy organising the speakers who were on the programme to notice and pick on Stuart in the audience. Before he could get cold feet, he drove to the Red Lion.

As usual, the main speakers were impressive with their use of humour, audience rapport and the confident way they paused and let silence fill the room. At the interval, he allowed himself half a pint of bitter and listened to the discussion about the upcoming national speech contest. Then it was time for Topics.

“Please welcome to the lectern, Stuart, speaking to the topic . . . The Future.”

He’d forgotten that everyone was expected to contribute to this part of the evening. Suddenly his heart was thumping, his cheeks were burning, his mind was blank and applause was propelling him to the front of the room.

“Topics’ Chair, speakers and guests,” he began.

Twenty pairs of eyes were watching him and he had nothing to say about The Future. He groped around in the darkness of his mind.

“The future . . . it means different things to all of us.” He tried to squash the panic, to formulate his thoughts and to say something sensible. Then he reached for his magic-storyteller persona — speaking was easier if it wasn’t Stuart Borefield standing in front of all these people. The magic storyteller didn’t have a problem with audiences. “To me it means . . . trying new things. Not repeating the joyless things that got me this far.” Ideas slotted into place. “It’s too easy to sit in a rut. It’s too easy to fear change. It’s too easy to sit in the shadows and not push forward. But where is the pleasure and satisfaction in that?”

There was the click of a light switch and he saw the green bulb at the back of the room light up, indicating he’d been speaking for one minute and forty-five seconds. He took a few breaths and tried not to panic about filling the full three minutes. He was in control.

“I hate coming here.”

There was a whisper of laughter. He smiled at the audience and felt his shoulders relax a tiny bit.

“But fear makes me grow. I get nervous when the toddlers arrive for my story-time group but afterwards I feel good. I’m terrified of the first Sunday of next year because I’ll be leading a group of cyclists.”

Then a sudden realisation came to him. “But if I was given the option of not doing any of these things, I wouldn’t take it.” He paused and let his eyes sweep the audience. The red light came on, indicating it was time to wind up. “I want my future to be challenging and full of new things. But I also want friends, old and new, by my side. Otherwise, what is the point?”

Applause. He sat down, heart pounding, cheeks burning and legs shaky. At that first meeting, John had told him that Topics didn’t have to be based on the truth so Stuart had spoken off the top of his head, not thinking through the veracity and implications of his words. That’s what had made him fluent — and his words had ended up being the truth.

* * *

“Is she still talking to you?” William asked at lunchtime the next day.

“Who?” Stuart’s mind was on Florence and her lack of response to his message. He wondered if it was personal.

“Sandra. Your imaginary sister.”

“She’s not imaginary, she did exist.”

Does exist. Not ‘did exist’. Don’t consign me to history like some dusty artefact.

“You know what I mean — her imaginary voice in your head.”

He could say ‘no’ and end the conversation. “In a reduced way.”

“Less often?”

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