Showing posts with label Long Time Walk on Water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Long Time Walk on Water. Show all posts

Friday, June 26, 2015

Long Time Walk on Water by @JoanBSimon a #RockingSummerRomance













LONG TIME WALK ON WATER  by Joan Barbara Simon


 

 

Summary:

 

Emily Thompson, Rose to her friends, emigrates to the motherland, England, in search of a better life. It will be hard work for the young mother in this rich man’s country; above all she must also come to terms with this unknown phenomenon; di Hinglish dem. 

James Dunbar. Jack is what he answers to. Picking his way through the mucky incidents of life, he consoles himself that things will get better.  

They happen to meet at a bus-stop, Emily and Jack.  

A tale of how the humble live whilst waiting for their dreams to come true.  

* 

Behind closed doors with sausage and mash: Jack and The Better Life?           

            “Hello, love.”

A peck on the cheek, “Nice day?” She wipes her hands on her apron. Pushes her hair into place. She had been beautiful once.

            “Same as usual.”

Jack sits down at the kitchen table in the hot, small, cluttered place so hard to air on cold days such as these. The paint blistered on the wall around the cooker.

            “What’s for dinner, love?” He picks up a crayon. Colours, absent-mindedly, with daughter, Nina.

Jack’s wife stands over the sink peeling potatoes. “Police were round. Door-to-door questioning. Some old lady in Havelock was mugged coming back from the post office this morning, I dunno... Ben got a gold star for a story he wrote at school, didn’tya, darling? Go’n show daddy your gold star...” she dunks the peeled potato into the sink of cold water then plops it into the pot on the cooker. Leaning against the cupboard, she begins to clean the juice and mud of the potatoes from her fingernails, looking, every now and then, out of the window. Nothing ever happened out there, but you look out of the window just the same, like a fish in its bowl doing the rounds.

Jack looks at his wife. How many times had he told her it drove him up the wall the way she kept fiddling around with her fingernails like that.

            “What’s for dinner, love?” he asked once more.

            “Oh! Sausage n mash. Got a little baked beans left over from yesterday. You can ’ave those.   

‘There are no losers in Long Time Walk on Water. I see the vulnerability caused by need and I honour those who seek a way out. Harsh at times, Long Time Walk on Water is ultimately uplifting and life-affirming.’

(Joan Barbara Simon, interviewed by Lucy Walton for Female First)
 

If you, too, enjoyed reading this, here’s where you can read more:
 


  


About the Author


Dr Joan Barbara Simon divides her time between researching children’s literacy development and writing fiction. Having obtained her first Ph.D. in educational studies, she’s dared to go for her ultimate challenge: a Ph.D in Creative Writing.  Of herself, she says: ‘I’ve made it my mission to look more closely at undefined spaces as the best way to resist the temptation and comfort of easy answers. I’m interested in a broad range of language issues. Currently wrapping my brain around the political properties of words as polysemic, liminal entities and the nature of their common borders with the visual arts and gendered realities. That said, I’m a nice girl, so talk to me.
If you, too, enjoyed reading this, here’s where you can read more:


Stay in touch with Joan Barbara Simon:

joan-barbara-simon.com    facebook    twitter    blog


Thanks for sharing Joan,


Tina


Saturday, November 22, 2014

Joan Barbara Simon's a Long Time Walk on Water








LONG TIME WALK ON WATER  by Joan Barbara Simon




 


Summary:


 


Emily Thompson, Rose to her friends, emigrates to the motherland, England, in search of a better life. It will be hard work for the young mother in this rich man’s country; above all she must also come to terms with this unknown phenomenon; di Hinglish dem.


 


James Dunbar. Jack is what he answers to. Picking his way through the mucky incidents of life, he consoles himself that things will get better.


 


They happen to meet at a bus-stop, Emily and Jack.


 


A tale of how the humble live whilst waiting for their dreams to come true.


 


 


*


 


 


            The door slammed after a quick “Thank you!”, after the taxi-driver had been paid and had winked at her as he drove off, wheeling his vehicle round in a seamless U-turn further down the road.


 


            So, this was Beswick Road. An infantry of redbrick and glass, shoulder to shoulder. Not many people on the street. Not like back home. Pale, lonely-looking, dreary herds had wandered, morosely, past her cab window as cab-man insisted through the London streets to her new home, Hinglan, where the sun seemed to have changed its mind. Rose wondered how on earth it might have come about that such a cold, miserable place be praised melodiously in parishes far and wide for its green and pleasant lands. It began drizzling. Again. Light flakes of water you don’t even notice at first, playing with you, meaning no real harm, but Rose had had her hair done especially, plus her clothes were new, so she picked up her suitcase, pushed open the garden gate and mounted the steps to the front door. A three-storey house with further rooms, it seemed, in the basement.


            “Lord have mercy! Dem live undergrown like some sort of animal!”


She pushed the bell marked Brown. It screeched, alarmed, as though Rose had unexpectedly, maliciously, dug her fingernails into its side. No-one came at once.


            “If yu tink me ringing dat bell one more time!” she cursed through her bottom lip, taking a step back to crane her neck up at the house. Her new home. She wondered how long for. Another step back and she caught a young black girl sweep the curtains back from a ground floor window, report over her shoulder what she saw, then disappear before she had had the time to catch Rose smooth her skirt out and wait at the bottom of the stairs.


“Juss hopen dat blaasted door before me drench, yaa,” and whilst the cussing came naturally, she had to will her toes down hard against the sole of her shoe to stop her right foot from tapping impatiently that way. Inside the house a door opened. Closed. A key laboured in the lock to keep whatever out of sight. The floorboards creaked all the way to the front door, which inched open just enough to reveal half of a slender young West Indian girl.


            “Yes?”


 


 


‘Beautifully written. Joan Barbara Simon is a wordsmith par excellence.’ (The Sunday Gleaner)


 


If you, too, enjoyed reading this, here’s where you can read more:


 






 


 


 


Stay in touch with Joan Barbara Simon:


 




 


 


 


Your friend,
Junie.


The novel is not a typical story where you know how things will end even before you've even finished the first page. I promise, you won't! Not until the very last words. And it's more than a mere love story. It’s about faith; about loving the life you see ahead of you, in your dreams. And allowing no one to take it away from you.’
(Joan Barbara Simon, interviewed by Lucy Walton for Female First)

About the Author


Dr Joan Barbara Simon divides her time between researching children’s literacy development and writing fiction. Having obtained her first Ph.D. in educational studies, she’s dared to go for her ultimate challenge: a Ph.D in Creative Writing.  Of herself, she says: ‘I’ve made it my mission to look more closely at undefined spaces as the best way to resist the temptation and comfort of easy answers. I’m interested in a broad range of language issues. Currently wrapping my brain around the political properties of words as polysemic, liminal entities and the nature of their common borders with the visual arts and gendered realities. That said, I’m a nice girl, so talk to me.





If you, too, enjoyed reading this, here’s where you can read more:




Stay in touch with Joan Barbara Simon:

joan-barbara-simon.com    facebook    twitter    blog


Thanks for sharing Joan,


Tina


Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Long Time Walk on Water - Featured on #EggcerptExchange



Centuries on from the discovery of her beloved island in the sun, Emily Thompson, Rose to her friends, leaves for the motherland, England, in search of a better life. One day her children will be able to join her and choose from a dazzling array of possibilities. Till then, it's hard work for the young woman in this rich man's country; not only must Rose scrape the money together for a new life, but she must also come to terms with this unknown phenomenon: di Hinglish dem... James Dunbar. Jack is what he answers to. Even from his poky council flat on the seventh floor he can see all too clearly that the streets of London are most definitely not paved with gold. Picking his way through the mucky incidents of life, he consoles himself that things will get better; his kids won't turn into ruffians and go smashing up other people's property. One day they'll all live in a house with a garden. No graffiti anywhere in sight. And no dog shit on the pavement, either... They happen to meet at a bus-stop, Emily and Jack. Encounters which do seem to contain a glint of that something better they are both looking for, if only they had the courage to reach out and touch it... An account of the black immigrant experience jostling to find its place among the white working class. A tale of how the humble live

Excerpt

Gertude got off the bus in the big city. It didn’t take her long to find out where the well-off lived, and she headed immediately for that part of town. The big city. There were more shops here than she had ever seen in her lifetime. And people! Black people dressed like she never knew they could. And women in high heels and make-up. It made her feel unattractive and primitive. She’d never look like these women who swung their hips and pouted, touching their styled hair and talking back to the men who stopped to enjoy the sight of them and whistle nastiness. Look! There was a black lady with a little bitty dog on a lead. A dog. On a lead. She wore a long blonde wig, tottered along in her gold high-heel shoes and the men were just about going crazy over that blonde hair and them high heels. One stopped his car in the middle of the road, hung his head out the window, Hello lovely, wha mek yu no get in it, lek me give yu a ride. She said No, she didn’t want a ride, she knew he did, she chose to wiggle on her way, sweet-smiling to a chorus of tooting, of whistling and “pussy sweet!”. Gertrude stood there in her country frock and chunky plaits. Me is a quashie; a real country bumpkin. Closed her eyes and sighed. Never. If she had finished school and got into nursing college... but she pushed the thought back to where it belonged, out of her mind.

Two parts of town Gertrude had to go to. The well-off black district and the well-off white district. She could have taken a bus but she had time. Besides, the one case she had wasn’t even heavy. A bashed-up, scratched-up, thrown-out-by-some-indulgent-white-man-seemed-like-centuries-ago old brown suitcase that had been in Gertrude’s family longer than she herself had. Some grandparent or great-grandparent had brushed it off and taken it home. A woman, no doubt; the men too proud to sully their fingers with a handout however badly they might need it, nevertheless making full use of it and only too quick with the word my when it went missing and they went crazy, threatening to bust up the cabin and bust in heads if it didn’t turn up that minute. Ruby had taken it with her when she had left. Weren’t nobody in that house going nowhere apart from her. Apart from downhill. She had given it to Gertrude when the latter had brought home the best grades in the whole school together with a letter of congratulation from the headmaster. One-son wouldn’t be needing the case, the way things were going, Ruby figured. Ricky, neither, so she had given it to Gertrude, unceremoniously, telling her; wen is time fi yu go away an learn some more, yu gwine need a case put yu tings inna. One of the hinges was loose and the handle was fraying, so you couldn’t load it too much. As Gertrude walked down the street, the suitcase tap tapped reassuringly against her leg with every other step.


More about Joan
Joan Barbara Simon (Ph.D.); novelist, poetess, songwriter. Lecturer. Researcher. Trouble-maker. She's been reaping 5-star reviews for her fiction in all genres. She has made it her mission to look more closely at undefined spaces - linguistic, sexual, philosophical, political - because she ha chosen to resist the temptation, the comfort, of easy answers.


Thanks Joan for being on the Excerpt Exchange,


Tina