Twenty yards from where they sat, two young women in sun-dresses were helping each other achieve a handstand. Hanwell Snr nudged Hanwell in his gut, and Hanwell felt strongly the implicit insult to his own mother, who still lived, and still wore her flapper curls – white now – close to her forehead, and the same heavy felt cloche caps and Harold Lloyd glasses, perfectly round and thick-rimmed. He said nothing. He ate his chips as the blonde, peaky-looking girl firmed her body in preparation for the arrival of the lovely thick ankles of the brunette, well fed as they never were ten years earlier, and when this brunette overreached, and her breasts pressed tight against the cotton of her yellow dress and her legs went backwards, and the crinoline frothed over her blonde friend’s narrow shoulders, Hanwell and Hanwell watched them laugh and shake together and fall, finally, in a human heap on the grass. Soon after, Hanwell Snr gathered the two empty paper cones and pressed them into a soggy ball in his hands, and said he’d better open the shutters, as it was teatime and folk would be wanting their food. Hanwell never saw him again.
On a date in 1986, one that only the record office would remember now, the phone rang in Hanwell’s kitchen as he cooked. He was making pizza with homemade dough for the young children of his second family, and his topping was a loose, watery, fresh tomato sauce, laced with anchovies and black olives, so piquant and delicious you could eat it by the spoonful and forgo the crust altogether. It is possible only I liked to do that. I extrapolate my feelings too generally.
‘Yes, I see – thank you… it was good of you to let us know,’ said Hanwell in a voice a shade more posh than his own. He put down the phone and left the room. After the pizza was finished, he came back in, pale, but composed. He said his father had died, a sentence that required us – my mother, my brother, and me – to invent a whole human in one second and kill him off the next. Hanwell had said nothing to prepare us. He had known weeks earlier that his father’s death was imminent – he did not go to him. Twenty years later, Hanwell’s son would not go to Hanwell when his hour came. It happens that in the course of my professional duties I am often found making the statement ‘I don’t believe in patterns.’ A butterfly on a pin has no idea what a pretty shape it makes.
‘He never settled,’ said Hanwell, ‘and now he’s come to the end of the road,’ a quaint metaphor, like those that Borges enjoyed, and we, equally, interpreted it literally, thinking of Brighton pier, Brighton being Hanwell country for us, and the place where Hanwell’s people generally died. When I was a kid, I had a dream – never forgotten! – of the cool, flat Brighton pebbles being placed over my body, as the Jews place stones on top of their dead; piled up and up over my corpse, until I was entirely buried and families came to picnic over me, not knowing, for I was Brighton bedrock now, as Hanwells had been (in my dream logic) since there were Hanwells in England. There have always been Hanwells in England. But I am a female Hanwell and lost my name when I married.
J. Johnson by Nick Hornby, with illustrations by Posy Simmonds
JAMIE JOHNSON was born in 1955, in Southend, Essex. He studied English at Cambridge University, and has contributed to the TLS, the Literary Review, the Independent and Mojo. This is his first book. He lives in North London.
JAMIE JOHNSON is the author of JUST CAN’T GET ENOUGH, a memoir about sex addiction, which was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book award. He was born in 1955 in Southend, Essex, and has contributed to Esquire, Playboy and Nuts. He lives in Essex with his wife and two children. (CAN’T GET NO) SATISFACTION is his first novel.
JAMES JOHNSON rereads the poems of John Donne every year. He is the author of two previous books, and has been shortlisted for the Guardian First Book award. He has contributed to the TLS, the Literary Review and the Independent. He is currently a Visiting Writer at Essex University, and lives just outside Shoeburyness with his wife and four children. HOW DRY A CINDER is his second novel.
JIM JOHNSON is the author of several books for adults, including HOW DRY A CINDER, a historical novel about the last years of the poet John Donne, which was longlisted for the John Donne Prize. He lives in Hartlepool in the North-East of England with his wife, five children, two cats, one dog, two gerbils called Romulus and Remus, and Dylan the goldfish. This is his first children’s book.
ANNIE GREEN is an artist, and the illustrator of the much loved Elvis the Elephant series. She too lives in the North-East of England, with a large menagerie including a snake. She drives an old 2CV called Poppy.
J. THOMAS JOHNSON is the author of several books. He has worked as a bartender, lumberjack, nightclub bouncer, pearl-fisherman, police-dog trainer, professional wrestler, private detective, Nepalese tour-guide, assassin, and writer-in-residence at a number of British universities. He has been fascinated by the Alaskan wilderness ever since he was a child. He lives with his partner, the illustrator Annie Green, just outside Hartlepool in the North-East of England.
Five things you didn’t know about JIMMY JOHNSON:
1. The first single he bought with his own money was ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’!
2. The uncle of his best friend at school used to play bass with the Starlight Vocal Band!
3. He had a ticket to see the Sex Pistols play at the Screen on the Green in Islington – but he didn’t go!
4. He has an iPod – but his kids have to download the music for him!
5. JOHNSON’S POP MISCELLANY is his eighth book – but the first one to mention Gilbert O’ Sullivan!
BRIAN BRITTEN used to play for Reading, Millwall, Leyton Orient, Southend United, Walsall, Tranmere Rovers and Hartlepool. He was once described as ‘the best defender never to have played in the top two divisions’. He claims to have kicked ‘at least six’ future England internationals.
JIMMY JOHNSON is a professional writer. FOREIGN NANCY BOYS is his twelfth book. He lives in – and supports – Hartlepool.
THANKS TO: THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY (love You, and everything You do for us), Sharon Osbourne (DA BOMB!), Simon Cowell (I’ve nearly forgiven you!), David and Victoria, Wayne and Coleen, Mum and Dad, baby bruvva, everyone in the Barnet Posse except Nicola Braithwaite, everyone at the Pink Coconut in Bushey. And yo Mr Osbourne! I wrote a book! Even after all what you said about me when I left school! A big shout-out to Jim Johnson for his help in putting this together. Top man.
Lélé by Edwidge Danticat
It was so hot in Léogâne that summer that most of the frogs exploded, scaring not just the children who once chased them into the river at dusk or the parents who hastily pried the threadbare carcasses from their fingers, but also my 39-year old sister Lélé, who was four months pregnant with her first child and feared that, should the temperature continue to rise, she too might burst. The frogs had been dying for a while, but we hadn’t noticed, mostly because they’d been doing it quietly. Perhaps for each that had expired, one had taken its place along the river bank, looking exactly the same as the others and fooling us into thinking that a normal cycle was occurring, that young was replacing old and life replacing death, sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly, just as it was for us.