Excerpt from my debut novel, 'The Reinvention of Maud O'Shea'

Surfacing after such a long time, I wasn’t prepared for the resurrection of such a memory. Sitting in a north London A&E department, I was getting checked over for minor injuries with a boy from my class, Paolo. But he hadn’t been just any boy, he’d been my friend, and the only person to make me feel anything other than alone.

 

The magic of those few hours came flooding back, the intensity of emotion, the utter joy of being with him. My first crush and I hadn’t even realised it. Thinking about him now made my heart pang, ridiculous after nearly three decades. I chuckled inwardly at my thirteen-year-old self, remembering that when we’d moved to Herefordshire and his family had disappeared from the street leaving no forwarding address, I’d still believed that one day he’d come and find me.

 

Cup of tea in hand, I allowed myself to drift.

 

There’d been a fight in the playground, I’d accidentally managed to get kicked in the head and Paolo had also been hurt. However, my injury was the least of my worries because as I’d seen the kick coming towards my head, I’d screamed the ‘F

word’. I’d visualised the gates of Heaven clanking shut and from behind their hallowed ironwork, an old, white-bearded man slowly pushing them together whilst simultaneously shaking his head at me in disappointment.

​

‘Not a chance now, love,’ he’d mouthed at me.

​

I was mortified and terrified in equal measure. Being from a Catholic family this was big news, a momentous occasion, the occasion of my virginal expletive; my anxiety was stratospheric. The worst word I’d ever heard my mother say was “sugar” when she’d spilt some tea and “blast” when her roll-neck unrolled whilst posing for a photo. She’d always said that people who swore lacked vocabulary, and therefore intelligence; this sat awkwardly with her own husband, my father, Sean O’Shea, himself a prolific swearer with a particular fondness for the word ‘balicks’. I remembered thinking that I’d have to come clean at my next confession but being pleased that at least now I’d have something meaty to confess.

​

Paolo was holding a wad of bandage to his temple. He’d looked up at me with soft brown eyes wearing a pained expression that I could still picture to this day. Everything about him was gentle – his dark hairline blending harmoniously with his tanned skin, the quiet symmetry of his dimples, even the sloping eyebrows that always seemed to reveal exactly what he was thinking by almost imperceptible changes to their angle. Everything sat so comfortably on his face and, as I’d looked at him, I’d felt my anxiety melt away.

​

The fight had been caused by his twin brother Franco, a nightmare kid who brought chaos to the family. And although, as twins, they’d shared the most intimate of beginnings, their bond had been fractured the minute they’d entered the world. When Paolo spoke about his brother, the bitterness couldn’t help making its presence known: in spite of his soft features, in spite of his soft nature, in spite of his soft vowels. And although he’d been consumed with anger at his brother, that day in A&E he’d still looked after me when the nurse had announced that I had an impressive lump on my head.

​

The combination of my ginger hair, freckles, pasty white skin, a voice like the queen’s, and now an extensive promontory, filled me with self-pity and I remembered sobbing with an unattractive inelegance. But he’d been there, ready to reassure me that I’d be fine. With him, there’d never been any sneering glances or belittling gestures, none of the cruel mimicry that laced my interactions at school. With him I felt equal, needed, confided in. We were too young to feel romantic, and yet, in its purest form, our friendship was the embodiment of romance. It was generous, caring and judgement free.

​

This attachment had been cemented within the confines of the school library where I had been chief monitor since time immemorial and where Paolo had been told to come during his lunchtimes in order to remove him from his brother. Books were my first love, my reliable source of comfort when the world around me felt too difficult. Within the grainy pages of treasured favourites, I would be transported away from the confusion and worries that clouded my little head. These were many; an anxious, serious child, I didn’t need much encouragement to see doom and gloom round every corner.

​

‘It’s the Welsh in you, pet, there’s nothing they love more than a good worry,’ my father would declare, much to my Welsh mother’s annoyance.

​

This time alone, away from my five other siblings was like retreating into a private sanctum. I’d pick up a book and sweep into the exciting world of boarding schools and girls with aspirational names. I’d imagine myself wielding a lacrosse stick with the finesse of a champion and being feted afterwards with a picnic of cucumber sandwiches and ginger beer (the fact that I hated cucumber didn’t seem to matter).

​

Within the dark, enclosing space of the library walls I was granted autonomy and, as a result, I felt omnipotent. I liked creating order out of the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, replacing worn jackets, Sellotaping small tears and relocating them in the right categories. I lavished the care on them that I was unable to with friends. So, it was with a certain scepticism that I’d greeted the arrival of Paolo into my world. But strangely enough, I’d found myself embracing my mentorship with a fervour I’d never experienced before. Paolo listened patiently to my detailed explanations of the Dewey Decimal System and the importance of not letting the returns pile build up.

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‘What returns pile?’ he’d say, whilst knocking it to the floor with deliberate fingers and challenging eyes.

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‘Oi, pick them up!’ I’d say, whilst chasing him around the book cubbies till my lungs burst and I was hoarse with the laughter he always seemed to inspire. ‘What have you done with the borrowing cards?’ I’d squeal, finding them muddled up, with the wrong book titles shoved into the little sleeve of each book. But even this I found amusing, quietly mooning over his calm, laughing eyes which somehow made me forget my oddness and wrapped me in a warm, comforting haze. He managed to unearth a playful side to me, a side that I hadn’t yet been able to reveal to anyone else, not even my family. Franco’s loss was absolutely my gain.

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Not for the first time, I wondered what had happened to him.