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New Version of Studs |
This
made me want to write a story about two boys who, to all intents and purposes, loved each other.
I wanted to write a story illuminating this without over-reducing it to some
over-analysed homoerotic interpretation.
I
found a name for Studs when I was completing some research in a comprehensive school. When I
asked this big tough lad his name he said, ‘My name is Stewart Miss, but you
can call me Studs!’
Once
I had his name
the story rolled out in a bundle of its own teen-age energy. Many readers
identified with this energy and earlier editions of this novel proved popular
in France and as far as Australia. There have been several
Of
course ‘Studs’ is not my son, and ‘Tony’ is not his friend, but their story
reflects the deep truths of both of these relationships - factual and fictional - at a certain
point in their young lives.
Revising
this novel recently
it occurred to me that it has the weight and shape of the novella – a very
popular form with modern writers. And I have written on WRITING Life Twice
Tasted about the process of this novel HERE about discovering the French Edition and HERE. about the novella.
The
story goes like this.
On the day when Studs and his great and lifelong friend Tony leave
school they are up for adventure. Their strong friendship is tested when they
go to the city and have a row. Tony gets tangled with dangerous people and is
badly injured.
With Tony in a coma Studs teams up with
a new friend, the intriguing art student Nilva, to hunt down the kids
responsible for his friend's condition. He thinks that if he finds them this
will bring Tony out of his coma and restore their friendship.
I hope you enjoy the story of Studs
and
see the truths at its heart.
WX
EXTRACT FROM THE REAL
LIFE OF STUDS McGUIRE
Chapter ONE
‘…. The day Studs McGuire and
his friend Tony were thrown out of school for the last time turned out to be a
crucial day in both of their lives. Studs, who could be sulky, brooded on the
least injustice. ‘Can’t wait to get rid of us, can they, Tony? Old Zak Flood in there, he’s frightened we’ll
pollute his bloody school.’
They’d tried to get into
school to return their overdue text books but had been turned away by the Zak
Flood the deputy head who learned his manners in the lowest echelons in the
army.
‘Maybe we’ve got rights,
Tony,’ said Studs, slapping the school wall and ignoring the pain in his hand.
‘Mebbe we’ve got rights. Mebbe Zak and them zombies have gotta got teach us,
even on the last day.’
Tony snorted. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding, Studs. Who wants to
get taught? Ain’t we had a fearken belly-full
of that lot in the last five years? And
now they tell us we’re banned from the premises now after those fearkin’ jokes
they called exams. Leave it, Studs, leave it, mate!’ He looked around. ‘So. Where’re
we gonna dump these books, then? It’s all over, ain’t it?’
They looked down at their
heavy book bags,
Studs brightened, at the
thought that this was the real end of school.
‘We’d better take them to mine, it being nearest, like.’ He punched Tony
on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Tony. Last there’s a monkey. I’ll get there first.’’
‘Race? You’ve gotta be kiddin’, you big ape! These
books are heavy. Paper weighs, you know!’ Tony was smaller than Studs and carried
a bit of weight. He was fit enough but was never keen on excessive effort.
‘Give it here, you weed. I’ll race you and carry both books.’ Studs wrenched Tony’s bag off his back and
set away jogging, a bag on each shoulder. Tony padded disconsolately after him.
When Tony finally arrived,
panting, at the lift-shaft of Stud’s building, his friend was leaning against
the lift door, looking very cool, the bags heaped at his feet. Studs grinned.
Now, monkey!
‘Fearkin’ how-off, that’s you,
Studs, fearkin’ show-off,’ Tony gasped.
‘Why, Tony, you’ve got to have
it to show it off, haven’t yer?’ Studs slapped Tony around the head in a
friendly fashion as the lift door grated open with its usual exhalation of
human and animal waste. Tony gulped the outside and air and stepped in. He’d
got used to not breathing at all in the few seconds it took the lift to whizz
up to the fourth floor where Studs lived.
Tony clashed to door behind
them as they walked into Studs’ flat.
‘Stewart! Crissake sake will
you not clash that door?’ Studs’ mother’s shrieked from the kitchen. ‘You’re not in Fitzgerald Street now!’ The massive doors in Fitzgerald Street had been
wooden, with no glass panels. Those old
doors had made a great bonfire during the demolition. Here the glass in this
door was still rattling seconds after it had been shut.
Greta McGuire was putting out the
plates as the boys came into the kitchen. The plates slid and clattered onto
the shining Formica. ‘If that glass goes, Stewart, you pay for it yourself.’
The kitchen smelled of burning
fat and bleach.
Studs slid onto a chair. ‘Some hopes, Ma. Where d’you think I’d get
the money for that? Not off you. Too bloody mean you are. Too mean even to get
me a phone,’ he tried.
‘No money for that, you know
very well, Stewart.’ She leaned across and slapped him across the head, not too
hard. He shook his head as though a fly
had landed on it and grinned up at her. Tony, leaning on the unit beside the
door, watched the performance. Those two really liked each other, he thought.
Greta sniffed. ‘You wanna get
a job, Stewart. You want to earn some money for yourself. Then mebbe you’d be
able to pay for all the damage you do.’ Her
tone was uncharacteristically serious. ‘Your father brings in money in one
pocket and puts it in the other ready for McVay’. Jimmy McVay was Vic’s
bookie.’
Studs shrugged. ‘Well, Ma. How
d’you think I’m gonna get a job? Read
the paper. No work round here these days. ‘No part-time jobs, never mind full-time.
They’ve got lads with degrees sweeping the floors down at the supermarket.’
‘You should’a stuck in at
school instead of pounding away at that gym. I always said that. No money in
press-ups, you know.’ Greta grunted and tipped chips out of the frying-basket.
They stuck together for a few seconds before they collapsed into a pattern on
his plate.
Studs leaned back in his chair
and took another plate from of the cupboard.
He tipped half of his chips onto the second plate and pushed it across
to the other side of the table. ‘Come
on, Tony, dive in!’ He covered his own chips with tomato ketchup and started
eating. Tony drew up another rattling chair and dove in.
‘Talking about bother…’ said Greta.
No one had, thought Studs. Not
really.
‘… Did you know somebody
jammed that lift at the Grove? And the
phone box is out of order again? You need a mobile to have a crisis round here.
Or you’re left to die.’ Her voice went on and on, but Studs and Tony just kept
their heads down, eating the chips in double-quick time.
They had just finished their
second plate of chips when the door clashed again. The kitchen door opened and Studs stood up to
look down at his father, short and bull-necked, shirtless and dressed in an old
grey jumper with battered leather loafers on his feet.
Vic McGuire slammed the folded
racing paper down on the table and looked across at his wife. ‘What’s these
boogers doing in here, Greta? Why’s he
not at school?’
Greta looked across at Studs.
‘They don’t want us at
school,’ he said. ‘Not after the exams.
No point. They banned us.’
‘Banned, is it?’ His father
pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. ‘Bloody teachers! What the hell good d’they do they get paid
for? Half the time they’re on strike. Half
the time they’re poncing around.’ He glared at Studs. ‘School’s still on, isn’t
it? Boogers are getting paid for it, aren’t they? They should be watching you.
Idle boogers.’ He cleared his throat and Studs waited for him to spit in the
sink. But Vic glanced at Tony and just snorted.
‘Try telling that to old Zak
Flood,’ volunteered Studs in a comradely fashion. ‘Thinks he’s doing the town a
favour walking through the gates.’
Vic shot him a fierce look,
his deep-set eyes losing none of their bitterness. ‘And you hold your face, lad,
or I’ll straighten it for yeh.’ His bullying tone was turned on Greta ‘Too
bloody big for his boots, that one.’
Greta iced to stillness by the
stove.
Studs protested. ‘I was only . . .’ His fists were clenched.
‘You only want to get out and only
find yourself a job.’ Vic McGuire opened
his paper at the heavily marked racing page.
Studs glanced at his mother
and wondered what she had ever seen in his father. He stood his ground. ‘No jobs
to get, you should know that, dad? Long time since you was . . . ?’
Vic stood up and his chair clattered
against the kitchen cupboard.
Greta looked hard at Tony, who
grasped the back of Studs’ jacket. ‘Come
on, Studs. Come on, man!’
Studs shook Tony off, and turned
a wide smile on his father. ‘Well, then. We’ll get off. See you, Da.’ He reached
across and plucked an apple from the brown bag on the work-top then followed
Tony out of the door. Behind them they could
hear the vicious rattle of voices as another row broke out.
Studs padded alongside Tony
and growled, ‘I hate that loser, me. You’d think he was the only feller didn’t
have work. Plenty of them around here, like. But he was never partial to work, even
when they were offering him it on a plate. Now he lies around here moaning bleeding hearts
all over the place, wanting you to feel sorry for him.’
The got into the lift and the
doors shrieked as they closed. A bit anxious about his friend’s mood Tony
punched Studs on the arm and grinned. ‘Well, my dad’s always moaning on too and
he’s got a job.’
The lift stank of pee and sour
milk. They both held their breath as it zinged down. Tony continued holding his
breath as they stepped out, nearly colliding with two old people who were
waiting to go up in the lift. The women
recoiled in fear, as though they had been stung. They hustled past the boys and
the lift shut behind them. As they closed the lift door they still they gazed
malevolently through the gate at the two boys.
Tony sighed. ‘Just think,
Studs, we’ll end up like that.’
‘You might, Tony. But I’ll tell you one thing. I definitely won’t. Dead from the neck up, they are. And from the
neck down. I’m not ending up like that.’’
They padded along the walkway
at the edge of the estate in silence and stood at the level crossing that led
back to town. After a few minutes Tony
said. ‘Right! What do you fancy doing, then, Studs?’
Studs nodded. ‘We could go to
the gym, but I’ll have to go back to home for me gear.’ He didn’t fancy going back home now.
Tony nodded relieved at the
lightening of his friend’s mood. ‘I got spare gear, Studs. We can us my stuff.’
So it was settled. They called
at the flat above Tony’s parents’ bakery in the high street. His mother and
father, busy behind the counter in their white overalls, smiled and nodded in a
preoccupied way as Tony greeted them on his way up the stairs. Mrs. Lofthouse
nodded and smiled faintly at Studs.
Upstairs the boys stuffed
snowy white towels, tee-shirts and shorts into Tony’s sports bag, grabbed pies
from the kitchen and raced out again.
In a sizeable house off the high street Studs
and Tony made their way upstairs. Three years ago some enterprising individual
had converted the place into a gym. In there this morning here were only four
people keeping fit. Two of them were lifting weights, one was on the creaking
rowing machine and the other was walking up a steep hill, sweating and getting
nowhere.
Studs relished the familiar pleasurable
feeling as he stripped off to his trainers and pulled on a pair of Tony’s
shorts which sagged at the waist on him. They were red and glossy and, like
most of Tony’s stuff, pricey. Studs enjoyed going to the gym five times a week,
pushing himself further and further, creating his own tests. Now he gripped the
handles of the bench press with some satisfaction, knowing he would pass his own
test and go even further.
Tony, working beside him, fumbled
the weights and sweated and sweated, gasping as his lungs begged for breath. He
played about with the lowest possible weights - quietly, slowly - until Studs,
sweating, red and breathless, had finished his circuit.
As he dried off after his
shower and stood before the mirror Studs relished the soft, downy feel of Tony’s
towel on his skin. His own mother’s towels were clean, but they were thin with
over-use, and dark-coloured to disguise the signs of bad washing. Tony was
already dressed, having been more efficient and less luxuriant in his washing.
Now he stood in front of the large mirror, gazing at their two reflections
against the background of lockers and pegs. ‘I can remember when you were
smaller’n me, Studs. In Mr. Skell’s class,’ he said sadly.
Studs objected. ‘No, Tony, I
was never smaller than you. Not ever.
Nobody could be smaller than you.
Dwarf breed, that’s you. Small breed of monkey, you.’
Tony sniffed. ‘I’m telling you,
Studs. We’d be seven, maybe eight. In Mr. Skell’s class. You were a proper wimp, then. A proper wimp.’
Studs was pulling on his
jeans. ‘Don’t be stupid. Yer makin’ it
up.’’
‘I’m right, Studs. Me, I’m
telling the truth. Can’t you remember crying when we were going that way home
by the back way and we got lost? Just
went up to a tree, put your head against the bark. And you cried. You didn’t half cry, Studs.’
Studs went red. ‘Stop going on, Tony. Stop that! You’re just
like an old woman, sometimes . . . ‘
‘Just thought it was funny,
looking at us, here, now, you though.
With you that big and me …er…smaller.’
At last Studs was fully
dressed and they stood side by side, looking at themselves in the mirror: Tony,
short and round-shouldered; Studs, tall, approaching two metres, with his
father’s thick back, balanced by broad, muscular shoulders and arms. His upper
body was muscular, well developed with all the weight-training.
Studs clapped Tony on the
shoulder and they both broke into giggles.
‘You might be right there, Tony, old son. I was a wimp, then. But I can’t see there’s
any need for me to cry up against a tree any more, can you?’ He leapt across
the room, swinging his arms and grunting, in a great performance of King
Kong. Tony joined him in his
monkey-caperings. They leapt down the
stairs like that, obliging a trim, middle-aged man with a neat moustache to
flatten himself against the wall.
They made their way through
the half deserted town. It’s once busy market-town energy had been depleted now
by supermarkets strategically placed on the way out of town. The covered shopping
arcade in was peppered with young people and a few old men with time on their
hands whose last pleasure was to talking
about the past, or arguing the pros and cons of their football teams as they
sat on the low walls that surrounded the enclosed, ambitious planting
arrangements.
Tony and Studs were stopped by
various kids from school, at a loose end like themselves. Some of them were
legitimately out of school, some younger ones practising for the future when it
would become legitimate. Studs avoided looking at directly at girls he knew. But
out of the corner of his eye he did take in the bare midriffs and the
doll-like, made-up faces. Some of the girls were texting, head down over their mobiles.
One girl called out to Studs and Tony. But apart from a brief suggestion about
dropping dead, the boys failed to respond.
In the middle of the shopping
arcade was a small booth under a striped awning selling mobile phones and
scratch-cards. A short fair woman was sitting inside, a cigarette in her mouth and
her eyes squeezed half-shut against her own personal smoke cloud.
‘Tell you what, Studs. Let’s
gerra card,’ ventured Tony.
‘No, stupid! No funds. My Dad
got home before I would get some moola from my ma.’’
‘I got some.’ Tony scratched
his knuckles on the front zip of his sports bag as he raked around and came up
with three coins. Then, with a glance at
Studs, he went over to the Lottery booth.
Studs strolled across and peered down over Tony’s shoulder as he
laboriously scraped at the card with the edge of a penny.
‘One, two, three, Studs!
Fifty. Split two ways. Moola!’ puffed Tony.
Studs clapped him on the back,
crowing with delight. There was a ripple of attention all the way along the
mall. Heads whipped up, people started
to drift across at the shouts of pleasure from the two boys who were jumping
and capering about with delight. One of
the girls, topped with black spiky hair with eyes outlined in black, shouted
across: ‘You won, Studs?’
‘Yeah. What’s it to you?’
‘You wanna treat us?’
‘You’ll be lucky!’
Tony filled in a card and the smoking
woman handed over the five tens with a show of reluctance, cigarette ash
falling over his hand. ‘Take care of that, honey. Not easily come by, cash.’
‘But it was! It was!’ yelled Studs, grinning all over his
face, thumping Tony rather too hard on the shoulder. Tony looked down at the five
crisp ten pound notes. Then, sighing just a little, he handed over two of them
to Studs.
Studs put on a feeble show of
refusal. ‘Your money, Tone!’
‘Go on, Studs. You know we always go halves.’
‘Oh . . . right. Ta.’
Studs tucked the notes into the extra inside pocket at the back of his
jeans. ‘Tell you what, Tone. We should do summat with this moola.’
‘Like what?’
‘Go up to town on the train. Then
maybe see what’s going on there. In the big city.’
Tony pursed his lips,
savouring for once the sense of being in the driving seat. ‘Yeah.’ He said
slowly. ‘The big city. OK. Why not?’ There’s gotta be more going on there, Studs,
than in this hole.’ He smiled a crooked smile of pure satisfaction. Studs, watching him, wanted to clutch him, hug
him, in the way they used to when they were very young. Instead, he thumped him hard and dragged him
in a mock neck lock in the direction of the Metro….’
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