A childhood memory: short story.

'Reading the tea leaves'

by Tom Bryson

She used to invite her women friends around – a cup of tea, a slice of hot buttered scone bread, cake if there was money to spare; mainly a ‘wee chat’. Never many friends at a time – two or three – often just the one. I was nine, ten at the time – ‘Och, ignore wee Tommy, always got his nose in a book,’ she’d say watching me. This was often on Sunday afternoons, dad was ‘out and about on his 'walks’, and my younger siblings were playing with friends, into their toys. I was reading – I read a lot at that age. I also listened – and mammy knew that.

After the chat –  who was well, who was ill, who had died,- who was ‘up to what’ – Katie said she'd had a letter from her son Kevin in New York; he was coming over for Christmas! Mammy's eyes lit up.

Six months later. Christmas. Mammy and daddy, us kids, all sat around the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. And a few of mammy's women friends - thinking about it their menfolk seldom appeared. Derry's bookies and the greyhounds have a lot to answer for.

A lot of laughs, giggles from the memories of the past– of Donegal, Carndonagh, Ramelton, the regattas – sure, we all lived in the big city, Derry, but these women, they came from the country, Derry's hinterland, Donegal. They came to the city for work - and for a change. Maybe to meet a man...

Eventually, they got down to the real business – the reading – of the tea leaves.

It’s hard to remember that there was a time when tea was made in a pot with tea leaves, poured directly from the teapot into your cup – no sieve, certainly no enclosed bags with a string on the end – and you drank until you felt the dregs against your lips. Or more often in your mouth. Now – what was polite? Swallow the bits, a surreptitious finger inside and a flick, or a polite cough as you spat the offending flecks into your hand and wiped them…somewhere.

Then came the moment. My mammy sat back – she was never the biggest talker – and then Katie, or Mary or Bernadette or whoever would say – ‘Now Ria, you must give us a wee reading, eh?’

And she would. ‘Now, I read as I see them.’ The teacup tilted a few degrees, a last sliver of liquid rose to the top of the cup, the black specks of tea spilled and stilled along the sides of the cup, images formed.  She’d squint, nod a few times, ‘Aha, aha.’ Then the specs went on. ‘Now I see it.’ 

They waited, breaths held. ‘What is it Ria? What do you see?’

‘A ship.’ 

Big intakes of air. ‘

A journey,’ she’d look up.

A hand clasped a mouth, a head dropped, eyes were covered. Deep sighs, breaths held.

‘Katie. Your Kevin, he’s on a boat…’ A pause. ‘I think…it’s hard to tell.’ A shift of the angle of the cup, ‘I need to move to the light,’ – a dart to the window. She was short and plump, was my mammy – but boy, did she move fast. Looked again into the cup, glanced up. ‘That’s a new coat, Katie, when did you get that?’

‘Ach, a bargain, Austin’s had a sale. Sure I think I’ve got a big day coming up soon, you know.’

Mammy studied her eyes for a second or two, excited. ‘Look, will you, see that.’ The cup was flashed under Katie’s nose. Mammy watched her face, her eyes looked into her soul.

‘What is it, Ria, what is it?’

‘’It’s dim.’

‘’Will I turn on the light, Ria?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t do that,’ my mammy said, ‘You know what he’s like about wasting the electricity.’ She gave her quiet little smile, ‘Sure we all know Derrymen, don’t we?’

‘What is it?’ Katie demanded, ‘what do the tayleaves say, Ria?’ Her face glowed as she waited for an answer.

Mammy pored over the cup. ‘I think…Kevin’s coming home – from America, Katie…and he’s got a girl with him!’

‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I've had a letter, he is. And a girl too! Holy Mother of God!’

I looked up from my book, up from the coal fire where I saw the pictures in the flames, up at mammy. She smiled over at me and gave a wee nod.

 Ends

Tom Bryson is interviewed by Writer Rachel McCollin

Posted on September 23, 2019

I’d like to thank Rachel for taking the time to interview me and allowing me to share my approach to writing my crime and thriller novels.

(Her excellent website is https://rachelmcwrites.com)

Today I’m interviewing Tom Bryson. Tom writes crime novels and thrillers. He lives in the West Midlands and likes drama, sport (he’s a Wolves fan), an describes himself as a bit of a current affairs junkie.

Tell us something about your books.

I write crime and stand-alone thriller novels. My ‘cop’ books are set in Birmingham and the Black Country and feature DCI Matt Proctor – strong-willed, but sometimes weak-headed – with a penchant for upsetting his superiors, upending villains and an uneasy love-life.

There are three books in the crime series so far – Too Smart to Die, In It For the Money and No Way Out – more are planned.

Thrillers are Sarcophagus, The Zeppelin of Kinver Edge, Proxy Killer, Blood Red Rabbit, and a departure for me –  a ‘coming of age’ novel Loving Jeanie. The settings include Ukraine (Kiev, Dnipropetrovsk), Kinver, London,  Ireland – wherever the story takes me.

What inspires you to write? Who are your favourite writers?

Quite simply, to give my readers a good read. I also find writing fiction to be life-affirming.

Favourite authors? Too many to mention but to name a few – Graham Greene, Lee Child, Margaret Attwood, Anne Tyler, Colin Bateman, Freddie Forsyth, Charles Dickens, Ian Rankin, Brian Moore…Ulster’s ‘Black North’ noir writers, Brian McGilloway, Claire McGowan, Adrian McKinty, Steve Cavanagh…I could go on!

How do you start writing? Do you have a process or do you fly by the seat of your pants?

Ahh, the Planner or Pantser question? On that spectrum, I fall on the ‘planner’ side. And yes, I have a process. Here it is, but listen, it’s not a linear process, it’s iterative, back and forth, up and down, in and out.

First I get a nugget of an idea, next I write a short outline, then the main characters’ wants and motivations, next key scene summaries – opener, inciting incident, obstacles to protagonist’s goals, the ‘biggie’ climax, resolution.

I heard someone describe the first draft of a novel as ‘word vomit’. Ugly but apt. Get it out, let the story spill over – finesse and polish come with rewriting and editing.

How has your writing process changed since you started writing?

Mainly by better time management. I use a calendar and block out and schedule my writing time; guard it well! I find Google calendar with its Task list and Keep notes works well for me. I recommend writers try different approaches – find out what works best for you.

How long does it normally take you to write, and what proportion of the time is spent doing what?

I use a rough schedule to write a novel – one a year – but the timings are flexible. Some parts go better than others.

In the first month or so I work on an outline – say four pages – then I flesh out the characters, their motives and wants. I spend about a month planning the key scenes. Then I  write my first draft fast – editing, polishing comes later. I aim for 1,000 words a day, this takes about four to six months.

The remaining time is spent revising, editing (I do an initial structural edit and Jane then does a comprehensive edit). I try to get the book as near perfect as possible, however, complete perfection is impossible. Finally, I do a marketing plan and then indie-publish.

What is your favourite part of the writing process?

Finishing! Plus the thrill of starting the next book.

Do you involve other people in your writing, as collaborators or editors? How do you make this work?

Yes, I have my editor, Jane. She advises, guides, instructs, cracks the whip when necessary. We discuss progress regularly as the project proceeds (or stalls!). I share and learn with fellow writers and indie publishers in person and online.

Do you have any writing tips you’d like to share with readers?

Plan your book before you throw yourself into the writing – that way you save time and heartache in the long run. However, I appreciate some writers feel this affects their creativity – every writer must find their own way. Write your first draft fast and set targets. Rewriting is essential and editing is critical.

Anything else I haven’t asked you about?

I plan my novel’s scenes using a scene planner – I aim to do this for each scene in about ten minutes. That means when I start to write the scene I know what I’m going to write. Avoids wall gazing, navel contemplation, glazed eyes.

Thanks to Tom for taking the time to answer my questions. 

Sarcophagus; thriller by Tom Bryson. (From fact to fiction and back; Chernobyl)

Posted on June 19, 2019

I viewed the TV series Chernobyl and found it an excellent docu- drama. Yes, of course, the programme was a dramatised version of true events, but successfully brought home the reality of the disastrous consequences for humanity and our planet when nuclear energy technology goes wrong.

The series showed the bravery, heroism, sacrifice of the doomed reactor liquidators and the incompetence, arrogance and intransigence of the plant leadership and the weakness of the closed Soviet system. And yet in this country, we still need nuclear energy to generate electricity! Will we need even more nuclear power stations when electrically powered transport replaces petrol and diesel? Sustainable energy sources are, of course, the long term answer but in the immediate future, we are faced with the ongoing dilemma of what is the lesser of two evils to produce electricity – fossil fuel or nuclear energy?

When I wrote my political thriller novel ‘Sarcophagus’, I researched Chernobyl and Pripyat and wove that landscape into my story.  I also worked in Kiev, Lviv and Dnipropetrovsk on a consultancy and got to know the country and its people first hand. 

Check out the book here

EXTRACT FROM NOVEL 'SARCOPHAGUS'

Chapter 37

Bogdan Katchenko awoke late in his dacha on the outskirts of Chernobyl, barely outside the exclusion zone. Another disturbed night. Once he came here for companionship, for solace with his wife Raisa. Now he came alone when he needed solitude. Despair was never far away. Raisa had died within a year of the disaster, breathing in the concentrated nuclear poison. That day, he had left her in the dacha, while he travelled to Kyiv, two hundred and fifty kilometres away, to deal with a turf war in the old Jewish and craft quarter of the city, the Podol. On that day he killed two men in Andreyevsky Spusk; a dispute over a drugs deal. They had tried to take his goods without payment. He had put a bullet in the head of one and a bullet in the heart of the second with a Berretta. When he killed them Bogdan Katchenko suffered no remorse, more a sadness they could be so stupid. Stupid people, he believed, were not cut out to make quick money, they were destined to come to sad ends if they tried. He drank his first glass of vodka and closed his mind to stupid people.

To this day the arbitrariness of life and death still left him embittered. Kyiv, the capital, saved by the caprice of the wind direction at the time, a wind that took the deadly radiation to his dacha, then north and east through Belarus and then, the deadly vapour diluting, across Scandinavia, Scotland, even as far west as the Welsh hills in the UK.

He was nearly back home in the dacha from his work in Kyiv when it happened. A matter of business, he later told Raisa when he got to the dacha. He saw from the deadness in her eyes she knew his business only too well, but she would never challenge his ways.

Their son Gennadi also absorbed the toxins at the same time; in his throat, his lungs, and in his blood. He was five then, now twenty-three and living somewhere in Kyiv, a drug addict, occasionally contacting his father but effectively a stranger. Weakening from the sickness and under a death sentence that must come soon, he got through life a day at a time as a user of the drugs his own father sent spiralling through the city and the country.

Over the years, Katchenko railed against the people he believed had taken from him the only person he ever loved in his life, his beloved Raisa, taken by filth thrown into the precious air the world breathed. When she died he cried for the last time ever and vowed he would never love again. Hate and bitterness were his legacies, a deadness entered his soul. It had not always been so – in the aftermath of the greatest nuclear accident known to mankind, Katchenko was moved by compassion for his fellow citizens. A compartment in his mind, separate from another that enabled him to kill without compunction, still functioned then. Not any more. The memory of the blast and his frenzied work at the plant with other volunteers including Taras Prakhov still haunted him nearly twenty years later. So many colleagues, friends, killed. Because of bureaucrats, politicians, cheap materials, cutting maintenance, not enough training, not enough safety. One day they would pay. The world would pay. Raisa would be avenged and his tortured son Gennadi.

He had been about ten kilometres from the blast and close to his dacha when it happened. He stopped his car and got out, stared in disbelief at the plume of smoke in the distance. Instinctively he knew what had happened. There was no point in going back to Kyiv, trying to get away; the damage was done – to them all. He went first to Raisa, then to the reactor.

Now every morning, restless after waking from troubled sleep and nightmares, a terror as if a thousand rats gnawed at his innards welcomed him. His cancer cells multiplied, remorselessly bringing closer the day he yearned for, the day when oblivion would come at last. This was the only time he knew terror or felt fear, at that moment of waking. He dreaded sleep and even more, he dreaded waking up. Awake, he closed one compartment in his mind and opened another. Then his rage boiled over; a volcano of hatred erupted. And with it came his only succour. His master plan – to disseminate nuke material and rip the world apart.

He yelled to the heavens, ‘Let others taste my bitterness’.

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Chapter 38

‘This is as far as I go.’ Prakhov pulled on the handbrake of the pick-up truck and cut the engine. He stared through the windscreen. Dull daylight filtered through dense, frosty woodland on both sides of the track. A silence known only to the deaf surrounded them; no birds, no animals, even the wind was absent. They were deep into the contaminated zone.

O’Neill hopped out of the truck followed by Greg. They undid ties holding two motorcycles secure on the truck base and released the tailgate, dragged the vehicles off and pulled on helmets.

Greg went to the driver’s door. ‘Thanks, Taras, we will see you soon.’

Prakhov continued to stare straight ahead, his face gaunt and shadowy in the frosty morning air. ‘Irina – she wants to stay in our apartment. It’s her home.’

Greg yelled, ‘Taras, you need a safe house. Sean, did you know they wouldn’t move out?’

O’Neill kick-started his bike, shouted, ‘Let’s go, Greg, only one way in from here.’

Greg moved away from the front of the truck when Prakhov said, ‘If you have a God, may he look after you.’

‘Move, Taras, get away. Think of Irina, your dream!’ Greg started his bike and pulled alongside O’Neill. Picking up speed they drove alongside each other along the murky, rutted road. Greg recalled Taras Prakhov’s words, ‘Travel in parallel, if not the one behind breathes the disturbed dirt. Breathes shit.’

From Prakhov’s directions, they estimated an hour’s ride would get them to their destination. Greg saw the peeling sign for Pripyat; he indicated to O’Neill and they swung the bikes off the road and on to a rough track through the woods. They estimated about ten minutes off the road would allow them to safely skirt the checkpoint Prakhov had identified. The path was bumpy and tested the bikes’ suspension while they tried to keep the revs low and quiet as possible. The frozen ground threw a grey sheen across the landscape; periodically they passed derelict farmhouses, splintered wood buildings, overgrown gateways; there was a feeling of nature reclaiming what belonged to it, but this ‘dead zone’ would take centuries before it became habitable. And yet Prakhov had told them how some people had chosen to stay, prepared to die from radiation poisoning rather than pine their lives away in places that weren’t home.

They regained the road and opened the throttles, heading for the factory where the materials and methodology existed to wreak bedlam across three capital cities; New York, London and Kyiv. O’Neill’s words the previous evening to Greg were ‘The internet chat’s at fever-pitch.’

Over the years I've had stories of mine included in anthologies - here's a few: 

Penguins in the Orchard   (ISBN 0 9533297 0 4)

The Pips out of the Apples   (ISBN 1 85301 015 4) 

Trout in the Milk   (ISBN 1 874304 17 3)

Stories from Stourport

The View from out Here

Salvo 5   (ISBN 0 9532309 0 2)