Today I am sharing an extract of Justin David’s novella Tales of the Suburbs. TotS is a part of the Welston World Sagas and is a prequel to his novels The Pharmacist and Kissing the Lizard.
BOOK SYNOPSIS (and praise)
As a boy growing up in the Black Country—drained grey by Mrs Thatcher’s steely policies—Jamie dreams of escape to a magical metropolis where he can rub shoulders with the mythical creatures who inhabit the pages of his Smash Hits. Though his hometown is not without characters and Jamie’s life not without dramas—courtesy of a cast of West Midlands divas led by his mother, Gloria. Her one-liners are as colourful as the mohair cardies she carries off with the panache of a television landlady.
‘Rich, layered, filigree characters unveil a compelling portrait of queerness in working class England, a narrative both familiar and sacred. Reading this book was like coming home. Beautiful.’—JOELLE TAYLOR
We follow Jamie through secondary school, teenage troubles and away to art school; there he experiences the flush of first love with Billy, and the rush of the big city. But what then? Will he return to the safety of Welston, or risk everything on a new life in London?
‘An authentic, poignant account of working class life and manners and, ultimately, the overriding love the
author feels for those who shaped his childhood. I didn’t want it to end.’—ANN MITCHELL
These flamboyantly funny stories of self-discovery, set against the shifting social scenery of the 80s and 90s, are for everybody who’s ever decided to be the person they are meant to be.
——-
I leave you with the wonderful extract of Tales of the Suburbs:
BOOK EXTRACT
In this excerpt from Chapter Three, Mirror Ball, it’s 1988, New Year’s Eve. Jamie Johnson, a teenager growing up in the Black Country—drained grey by Mrs Thatcher’s steely policies—has all his life dreamt of escape to a magical metropolis where he could rub shoulders with the pop stars he found between the pages of Smash Hits. He finds himself here instead…
Ray’s Volvo smells of warm plastic and lemon air freshener. It’s all mock-luxury: leopard print seat covers and faux mahogany panelling. Jamie, his best mate—Paul, and Paul’s sister—Debs are in the back. Angie, Paul’s mum, is in the front passenger seat doing her hair. They’re waiting for Ray, Paul’s dad, to drive them all to the baths. They call it ‘The Baths’, but for as long as Jamie can remember the pool has been covered with a semi-permanent wooden dance floor. It’s used for ballroom dancing now, and prom nights.
It’s New Year’s Eve and they’re all going to party, just like they do every year. No school for another week. They’re all dressed up. Paul and Jamie are in grey chinos, black slip-on shoes and cotton shirts. Jamie’s is pink. Paul’s is lemon. Debs is wearing a sequined dress with a lace over-skirt and mesh fingerless gloves.
As per usual, Ray is the last one to get ready. He sticks his head through the driver’s side window. ‘Angie, have you seen my gold bracelet? I can’t find a stick of jewellery anywhere.’
‘It’s on the dressing table next to your cufflinks. And hurry up—we’re gonna be late.’
He disappears again. Angie carefully divides her hair into sections with a comb and applies portable curling tongs that she’s connected to the cigarette lighter. She looks over her shoulder. ‘Looking forward to it, kids?’
‘Highlight of my year, Mum.’ Paul laughs and elbows Jamie playfully.
Finally, Ray gets in, suitably bejewelled, patting his hair, quiff at the front, duck’s arse at the back. His shirt is open to the fourth button down, revealing the flash of a gold chain and a mat of chest hair. He reeks of eau de toilette, but Jamie knows he must have rushed in the shower because there’s still the undercurrent of armpit odour beneath cheap deodorant.
He throws his leather jacket at Jamie and says, ‘’Ere Cock, put that on the back shelf, will ya?’ He pulls the plug of the heated tongs out, chucks it into Angie’s lap, pushes the cigarette lighter back in and says, ‘Have you got the tickets?’
‘Ray! I was using that.’
‘You look fine. Don’t make a fuss,’ he says, picking a cassette off the dashboard and inserting it into the player. He turns the rear-view mirror to face himself, licks a finger and smoothes down his eyebrows. Then, he adjusts his seat and belts up like a fighter pilot in an F-14 Tomcat.
As he turns the ignition, Angie says, ‘Did you lock the back door?’ and the car lurches forward to the sound of Take My Breath Away, nearly causing her to doodle lipstick over her cheek. She punches him hard on the shoulder. ‘You left it wide open when you went out last Wednesday. That’s why the place stinks of cat’s piss. I come home to a kitchen full of stray moggies.’
Jamie’s still trying to find room for Ray’s jacket behind him. The whole back seat shelf is cluttered with Debs’ dancing trophies.
Angie hands two ten-pound notes over her shoulder. ‘That’s for your drinks, lads. Don’t spend it all at once.’ She didn’t do that last year.
‘Where’s mine?’ Debs says.
‘Your Dad’ll buy your drinks. You’re not old enough.’
‘Neither are these two. They’re only sixteen.’
The lighter pops out again and Ray says, ‘Angie, light me one of them cigars, will you luv.’
‘You’re a girl,’ she says, ignoring Ray. ‘I don’t want you going near that bar. Understand?’
‘It’s not fair. You never let me do anything because I’m a girl.’
Jamie takes the tenner and puts it in his pocket. ‘Thanks Angie.’
Angie turns around in her seat and looks directly at him. ‘Jamie sweetheart, keep your eye on her, will you?’
‘Alright Ange,’ Jamie says. When Angie sits back, he nudges Debs. She looks at him and he puts a finger to his lips, tapping his trouser pocket at the same time. She smiles and touches her top lip with her tongue. Unbeknownst to Angie, Jamie and Paul have been doing extra paper
rounds for beer money.
Angie turns round in her seat again. ‘Here, Jamie, it might be your lucky night,’ she says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
‘How do you mean?’ Jamie asks, feeling himself blush.
‘You might meet your future wife,’ she says.
Paul rolls his eyes and inspects his biceps.
Debs shakes her head. ‘Are you kidding? At the baths?’
‘It’s where me and y’dad met,’ Angie says.
‘A marriage made in heaven,’ Paul says.
‘Pure Barbara Cartland,’ Debs says, and looks out of the window.
At the baths, they pull onto the muddy car park where Alan, Janice and Darren are waiting at the bottom of
the steps. They all get out of the Volvo—Debs runs to Darren and snogs him. Ray walks over to Alan, his drinking partner—they shake hands and slap each other on the shoulder.
‘All right, mate?’ Ray says and then turns to Paul and throws his car keys at him. ‘Park it round the back, Son. And don’t scratch it.’
Paul’s eyes widen. ‘Thanks Dad,’ he says, watching them all walk up the steps to the dancehall. Angie and Jamie struggle behind with plastic bags of picnic food, soft drinks and undelivered Christmas presents. Her shoes are sinking into puddles.
Angie shouts to Ray, ‘Do you really think you should be letting him park that car?’
‘Why?’ Ray asks.
‘I only washed it yesterday. He’s gonna drive it through all that mud.’
‘Oh, stop going on, woman!’
From one of her carrier bags, Angie pulls a fire extinguisher sized canister of hairspray and mists her head as they go through the double doors. She passes it forward to Janice who does the same, walking down the corridor.
‘Fuck’s sake Janice!’ Alan says. ‘I can fucking taste the stuff. Leave it out.’
—–
What are your thoughts on the extract? Let me know in the comments!
Make sure to check out the trailer for the book by clicking H E R E.
*Purchase ‘Tales of the Suburbs’ here:
**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.
Justin David is a writer and photographer. A child of Wolverhampton, he has lived and worked in East London for most of his adult life. He graduated from the MA Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths, University of London, has read at Polari at Royal Festival Hall, and is a founder member of Leather Lane Writers. His writing has appeared in many print and online anthologies and his debut novella, The Pharmacist, was first published by Salt as part of their Modern Dreams series. His photography collection of nocturnal performers, Night Work, has been exhibited in London at venues including Jackson’s Lane. His photographic works have appeared on the pages of numerous magazines including: Attitude, Classical Music Magazine, Gay Times, Out There, Pink Paper and Time Out.
Find him on: Website, Twitter and Goodreads
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