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Bucket List

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
Englisch
Polygonerschienen am04.07.2024
Two lonely strangers. One chance encounter. Six winning numbers. Dot is a lonely pensioner. Max is a young offender. But a chance meeting in their local park changes everything for this unlikely duo. They soon find they share a wicked sense of humour and a penchant for petty crime. When Dot wins the lottery, Max helps her make a bucket list of all the things she's always wanted to do but never had the chance. The pair gradually realise that it's not just expensive gadgets, fast cars and fun fairs that make them happy. And that the secret to living a rich life isn't money . . . Readers of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and The Keeper of Lost Things will love this book. 'Rarely does one read a novel that so nourishes the soul and completely restores one's faith in the inherent goodness of mankind. Jones is an exceptional writer' - Tendai Huchu, author of The Hairdresser of Harare 'A poignant, entertaining and uplifting read as loneliness, larceny and a lottery win lead to the unlikeliest of friendships' - Olga Wojtas 'There is pathos and poverty, brutality, and a longing for connection that sings throughout this book. I could not put it down' - Jane Yolen

Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer and editor. He was the UK's first Pet Poet Laureate, has published six poetry collections, three fantasy novels, one graphic novel and has edited three writing anthologies. Russell was the deputy editor of Scotland's only sci-fi magazine from 2015-2023, organises literary cabaret nights in Edinburgh and has a PhD in Creative Writing.mehr
Verfügbare Formate
TaschenbuchKartoniert, Paperback
EUR13,00
E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
EUR7,19

Produkt

KlappentextTwo lonely strangers. One chance encounter. Six winning numbers. Dot is a lonely pensioner. Max is a young offender. But a chance meeting in their local park changes everything for this unlikely duo. They soon find they share a wicked sense of humour and a penchant for petty crime. When Dot wins the lottery, Max helps her make a bucket list of all the things she's always wanted to do but never had the chance. The pair gradually realise that it's not just expensive gadgets, fast cars and fun fairs that make them happy. And that the secret to living a rich life isn't money . . . Readers of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and The Keeper of Lost Things will love this book. 'Rarely does one read a novel that so nourishes the soul and completely restores one's faith in the inherent goodness of mankind. Jones is an exceptional writer' - Tendai Huchu, author of The Hairdresser of Harare 'A poignant, entertaining and uplifting read as loneliness, larceny and a lottery win lead to the unlikeliest of friendships' - Olga Wojtas 'There is pathos and poverty, brutality, and a longing for connection that sings throughout this book. I could not put it down' - Jane Yolen

Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer and editor. He was the UK's first Pet Poet Laureate, has published six poetry collections, three fantasy novels, one graphic novel and has edited three writing anthologies. Russell was the deputy editor of Scotland's only sci-fi magazine from 2015-2023, organises literary cabaret nights in Edinburgh and has a PhD in Creative Writing.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781788856379
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Verlag
Erscheinungsjahr2024
Erscheinungsdatum04.07.2024
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse1615 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.15169233
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

01
A Leap of Faith
Lottery number 29 (Dot is twenty-two years old)

A bloody leap year, you´re crazy!´ Dot´s mum protested, pouring too much tea into Dot´s cup. Getting the date in everyone´s diary was a nightmare, you know. And how are you meant to celebrate your anniversary every year?´

We´ll celebrate every four years,´ Dot said, taking her teacup before her mum purposefully added an excess of milk to punish her. And hardly anybody gets married on the twenty-ninth of February, which makes our day more special.´

It´s done now, I suppose.´ Her mum heaped sugar onto a teaspoon and moved it towards Dot´s cup.

Dot placed her hand over her tea. Not for me.´ She fluttered her eyelashes. I´m sweet enough already.´

Move that hand - you´ll need all the energy you can get today.´

Dot relinquished control and her mum slid four heaped teaspoons of sugar into her cup as if sliding muck from a spade, filling the cup to its brim.

Dot sipped the tea down to a safe, manoeuvrable level. She stared at the mounds of wedding gifts, partly excited to open them and partly despairing at the sheer volume of crockery she knew she would uncover.

How are you feeling?´ her mum said, softening. Nervous?´

Actually, no. It´s strange, but it feels like any other day. Except for this thing.´ She looked down at her pearly cheesecloth wedding dress. I feel like a meringue.´

Well, you look like an angel,´ her mum said. And don´t worry about the presents. Your cousins will all be getting married in the next few years, so you can just give away any duplicates or tat. If anyone asks where their present went, just tell them I borrowed it.´

I already peeked at a few.´ Dot took another sip of her obscenely sweet tea. There are at least six casserole dishes. I haven´t made a casserole in my whole life.´

Me neither, dear.´ Dot´s mum took a tarnished golden pocket mirror from her posh purse and flipped it open, checking her lips. I´ll redo our lippy once we´re finished. We ought to look our best - people will remember today, and all eyes are on the mother of the bride.´ She added another stealthy sugar to Dot´s cup. And you´re sure, aren´t you? Because if you´re not sure, now´s the time to change your mind. I mean, you can´t really change your mind because your aunts have already taken the sandwiches and trifles to the social club for your wedding breakfast, but if you´ve any niggles then now´s the time to tell me.´

I´m sure,´ Dot said. Charles is wonderful, Mum, there´s nothing to worry about.´

The doorbell rang and Dot´s mum bolted up, checking her watch. He´s early, that idiot! Stay here!´

Dot´s mum marched downstairs and opened the front door. Dot, half-listening to her mum´s agitated mumbles and her uncle´s muffled apologies, finished her tea and picked up the bouquet that her best friend, Grace, had made for her. She sniffed the pink and yellow roses, imagining herself lying in a country garden, bathed in sunlight as birds twittered amongst the branches.

Right, time to go!´ Dot´s mum shouted as she climbed back up the stairs to Dot´s room. There´s a road closure and a lorry crash, so there are diversions. Today of all days! You´ll have to take the long way round, and Uncle Brian stinks of whisky and cigars.´

Dot took a deep breath, hoping that her bouquet´s scent might be enough to mask Uncle Brian´s shortcomings. No, it wouldn´t do. She didn´t want to sit in his stinking, cramped car and take the long way round.

Tell him to meet me there,´ Dot called back as her mum reached the landing.

What?!´ The wedding antics had turned her mum´s face so red that blusher was out of the question. What do you mean?´

I´ll get there by myself. It´s not far and it´s a really nice day. For February. I´ll cycle - I can cut through the lanes in the housing estates. It´ll be quicker than taking the car through diversions.´

Dot´s mum placed her fingertips on Dot´s forehead. I´m sorry. I thought maybe you´d lost your mind. What about your hair? What about the dress? It´ll get caught in the wheels, I know it.´

I´ll manage, I´ve cycled in dresses before.´ She stared into her mum´s frantic eyes. Relax, okay? It´s me getting married, not you. What happened to the unflappable woman who raised me to be as cool as I am?´

Her mum took a long, deep breath. All right, it´s your day. But arrive on foot, won´t you? The town will talk if they see you arrive at your wedding on a push bike.´

Dot grasped her mum´s hand and shook it. Deal. You ride in the stink mobile and bring the favours.´ She gestured to the box of silver-papered cardboard horseshoes, pastel-coloured confetti and plastic silver bells on her bed.

Her mum piled their bouquets on top of the box of favours and kissed Dot on the cheek. Don´t be late.´ She picked up the box and scurried down the stairs.

Dot watched from her bedroom window as her mum (her head now topped by a huge lavender-shaded flying saucer-shaped hat) continued to berate Uncle Brian until they clambered into his car and drove away.

Dot checked she had everything she needed, walked downstairs and locked the back door behind her. She placed her purse into the bike´s basket and sat on the saddle, hitching her white dress over the handlebars so that it wouldn´t snag in the wheels or trail on the dirty ground. As she rode through the quiet lanes towards the church, she smiled to herself and thought of Charles in his suit and wondered just how many casserole dishes they might have inherited.

A few people waved to Dot as she passed, congratulating her on her happy day. But most of them looked utterly confused at the bridal effigy that flew past them, and she couldn´t care less.

Dot left her bike near the back of the bakery, taking in a lungful of yeasty air before walking the final two streets to the church. Uncle Brian´s stink mobile had indeed beaten her to the venue, but she wasn´t late and the bike ride had kept her warm despite the crisp February air.

She watched her guests from afar, catching her breath while hidden behind a bush: Grace looked the best in her short skirt as she smiled at Dot´s elderly relatives and ushered them into the church; her mum pretended not to look around nervously for Dot as she chatted to Uncle Brian, partially eclipsed under the brim of her hat; Dot´s nurse friends clung to the arms of their wide-tied, mane-haired, moustached men; flower girls ran in excited circles around Dot´s good-looking kilted cousin; and the younger boys stood awkwardly, gawping in second-hand suits, their hands disappearing into the overlong sleeves of their jackets.

Dot´s mum caught sight of her. She whispered into Uncle Brian´s ear and shoved Dot´s bouquet into his hand. Uncle Brian ushered the guests inside and, when the coast was clear, Dot joined him.

You nearly gave your mother an aneurysm,´ Uncle Brian said, taking Dot´s hand. But you look crackin´. Charles is inside, sweating like a glassblower´s arse crack. Ready?´

Dot smiled, threading her arm through his. Absolutely.´

*

The photographer´s camera flash blinded Dot as the newly weds left the church in a shower of pastel-coloured confetti. As bulbs danced in Dot´s vision, an ominous grey cloud lurked overhead, threatening to unleash its load and leave confetti-shaped stains on her wedding dress.

Don´t you dare! Dot thought with her best menacing voice, psychically scowling at the cloud.

The photo-taking was a hazy, dull chaos of family members coming and going in overly specific combinations. Dot just wanted to push on to the social club for a cheese sandwich and a bag of ready salted crisps, but Charles appeared to be enjoying the attention.

Dotty, you´ve hooked yourself a good fish, there,´ Grace said, standing next to Dot for a photo. I suppose we won´t see you at work for much longer.´ She smiled for the camera.

What do you mean?´ Dot whispered to Grace.

Well, you´ve got your honeymoon in the Highlands, right? Then nine months later you´ll be stuck at home.´

No, I won´t.´

Did I get it wrong? Are you already . . . ? You know. Is that why you didn´t wear a veil?´

Dot continued to smile, trying not to ruin the photos. No!´

The photographer lowered his camera, he grinned, eyeing Grace´s leg. I know you want to natter, ladies, but the faster we get through this, the faster you can get to the buffet. All right, sweethearts?´

Dot wanted to smoosh her bouquet into his face, but she simply nodded. She could feel her tethers wearing thin.

Let´s talk at the social club,´ she whispered to Grace, readopting...
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Autor

Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer and editor. He was the UK's first Pet Poet Laureate, has published six poetry collections, three fantasy novels, one graphic novel and has edited three writing anthologies. Russell is the deputy editor of Scotland's only sci-fi magazine, organises sci-fi cabaret nights in Edinburgh and has a PhD in Creative Writing.