The Diary of Nicholas Oldman by MG Atkinson

H’mmm… where to start…

The Diary of Nicholas Oldman is a fanciful flight into the prehistoric past. It is 272 pages that explore the question: “how would modern man survive alongside dinosaurs?”

About MG Atkinson

MG Atkinson has an eighteen-year-old daughter who, he says, is going on thirty. He is currently employed as a Steward for a cancer care hospice, but writing has recently become a passion and he published his first book, The Diary of Nicholas Oldman, on Kindle in August 2014. His favourite book of all time is Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. He says that he has lost count of the number of times he has read it.

About the Diary of Nicholas Oldman

MG Atkinson has a flair for description and wordiness. He takes ten words where I would use one. This is not a bad thing, in fact I envy authors who can do this. I sit in front of my screen for hours on end, willing my short paragraphs to turn into entire chapters, but it seems I simply don’t write this way.

Atkinson, however, does it well and does it consistently. 272 pages of descriptive language, and I can feel the hot sun of the desert on my parched lips, I can feel the danger lurking just beyond my eyesight in the jungle, and I can feel the buoyancy of the raft beneath me. I take my hat off to him for this. His descriptive scenes were mesmerising and beautiful, clad in elegant language which encouraged me to keep reading.

However, I do have some caution to give. The shape of the book was non-existent. Nothing happened.

Or rather, everything happened.

Constantly and without rest, the reader is bombarded with adventure after adventure, the book becoming a series of anecdotes about survival in a prehistoric landscape burgeoning with danger. And I suppose that is exactly what a diary is. A compilation of anecdotes which come together to give a picture of an individual’s ongoing daily struggles. However, there is a reason why we don’t publish our teenage diaries. Diaries lack shape, are often disjointed, and are thoroughly egocentric. All of which this book is.

I have no solution to the egocentricity. Nicholas Oldman is, quite simply, the only human on the planet. Therefore the book will be centred on himself, as there is no-one else to write about. However, the repetition of the first pronoun begins to give the book a vaguely indulgent air.

I struggled to get a grasp on his character, which seems an odd thing to say after complaining that “it’s all about Nicholas”. However, I wonder if much of our perception of characters comes through the eyes of others, and through their interaction with other characters, and this of course is lacking here. There is no opportunity here to see Nicholas through anyone else’s eyes. Perhaps the addition of some stories from his life “before” would help here.

The book trudged on, and I trudged with Nicholas, him in search of somewhere to live, me in search of some purpose to the whole thing. The same level of alertness and emotional investment was kept throughout, and then suddenly, at the end, an epilogue. There is someone else in the book; there is another storyline! I loved this part, but wondered if bringing it in and out throughout the 272 pages would have added more intrigue. An extra thread to weave into Nicholas’ trudging. The finding of the bones, the classifying, the inspection, the missing of their importance, then, finally, on the day of his birth, the revelation.

I love this description around page 200 when Nicholas discovers his raft, which he had thought to have lost, and is so desperate to get to it.

“I remember pacing the bank up and down like a trammelled wild thing, looking out over the river and at my raft some hundred-odd metes away. My eyes never left the raft, even as I turned to pace back the other way, my body swivelled beneath my head and my eyes stayed firmly fixed on my target. Its outline was sparkling with that hunters gleam that only my frenzied eye could see.”

It becomes clear to the reader that Nicholas is going mad, the days of isolation and his sole focus on survival at all cost taking their toll. However, the beautiful description which unfolds to us is then kinda blown away a few paragraphs later by him telling us that he had gone mad. Summarising in case we had missed it. The spelling out of such a situation dulls its effect for me, and as I reader I personally prefer not to be spoon-fed.

This book is a fantastic debut. Atkinson had an idea, and saw it through. It was a mammoth task, and I cannot imagine the hours of work in penning and honing that has gone into it. It is near perfect in terms of grammar and style, and I know that there will be many fans of descriptive work who will adore this book, and be relieved when they find that there will be more.

You can find out more about MG Atkinson on his webpage here.

You can download The Diary of Nicholas Oldman here.

You can read about it on Goodreads here.

Stranger at Sunset by Eden Baylee

About Eden Baylee

Eden Baylee left a twenty-year banking career to become a full-time writer. Incorporating some of her favorite things such as travel, culture, and a deep curiosity for what turns people on, her brand of writing is sensual, sexual, and literary.

June 30, 2014 saw the release of her first novel, a psychological mystery set in Jamaica called Stranger at Sunset.

About Stranger at Sunset

One word to describe the novel would be lengthy.

I struggled with this aspect - it seemed to drag on and on through so many sections that it became hard work.

However, with my greatest bugbear out of the way, I can now dwell on far more positive aspects. What an entertaining story! We are told that our protagonist is Kate Hampton, who heads off to Jamaica for a holiday. Once there we meet a range of interesting and rather shady characters with different views of the world to bring to the table.

The book is written from multiple perspectives, which is fascinating. With the skill of a juggler the author manages to get inside the head of so many different mindsets. I found it unusual that Kate’s viewpoint seemed to receive as much attention as anyone else’s, but this also made the story intriguing. At some points she almost retreated into the backdrop, and I can see now the author’s purpose for this. Baylee gives each character his or her due in terms of background and motivation, although the reader may have to wait in suspense to piece all the crumbs of clues together.

It reminded me of Poirot, stuck on a train with a murderer (or two or three). Certainly all the elements of a good Agatha Christie are here. Interesting characters. Chance encounters. History. A dead body. A wonderfully lavish and exotic location. But Baylee throws the prescriptive “whodunit” bible out the window and writes to her own tune, which was hugely refreshing and so enjoyable.

First of all, the murder happens in the prologue, just vaguely, through someone else’s eyes (or binoculars, actually). Not too unusual, you may think. But then we go back in time and hear about everyone arriving at the resort, and the murder itself occurs blow by blow before our eyes half way through the book. However, and here’s the twist, the reader can’t actually be too sure who the murderer and victim are. Or even, in Poirot terms, who will play detective? And who has a history with the victim? A lover? A business partner? A family member? The victim is named fairly quickly, but the red herrings for the identity of the murderer continue until the very last part of the book, and the motivations left hanging till the final page.

The roles which Baylee has given her protagonist are numerous, and extremely clever. I have never encountered a main character quite like Kate Hampton. I did not like her, which tainted my opinion of the book (it is difficult to enjoy a book whose main character you dislike), but luckily she is not front and centre all the time. Her greatest gift is her amazing mind. At times she waves away others’ compliments of her stunning memory, even though she’s the one asking about their mother-in-law by name. I found that she is at times strong and confident, at others frustratingly submissive or even foggy, and at the end, when it really sealed my opinion of her, a petulant child. There are fuzzy areas at key points in the book where I couldn’t get a handle on what she was thinking at all, and although I understand it now, I found this difficult to accept in a main character.

Baylee can write. I found the pace and timing of the flow of the story a little off; the clues unusually spaced, the reveals a little mistimed. But there is no denying that she writes well, in terms of structure and grammar. And in a writer I think this is important. I also think it’s important for a writer to have a sense of humour, which Baylee clearly has. I’m not saying that Stranger at Sunset is a comedy, or that it’s full of caricatures. What I am saying is that Baylee writes not only with passion and verve, but also at times with her tongue firmly in her cheek. And this is what I appreciate most about a writer; that they can enjoy and embrace the subtleties and expectations of their genre whilst having a little smile to themselves too.

All in all, this story is a find for Indie readers and for fans of mysteries - especially if you like a little bit of twisting!

Stranger at Sunset is Eden Baylee’s first novel and she is currently writing a second plunge into Kate Hampton’s world. However, if you are desperate to get your hands on more of Baylee’s work, she has published many novellas and short stories. To find out more, visit www.edenbaylee.com

 

Now available in print!

After months of fine tuning, Unworthy is now print ready and available for purchase from my Create Space shop. Click here to be taken to the purchasing page and to find out the cost of shipping to anywhere in the world.

Enter to Win!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Unworthy

by Joanne Armstrong

Giveaway ends October 07, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Cover Reveal

I finished formatting the ebook version of Unworthy at the start of June, and it was first uploaded on the Smashwords website on 19 June. Since then I've been ironing out some hiccups with the digital copy of the book, and I finally feel ready to make a print copy.
It's been a lot of fun working with Tatiana from Vila Design to make a new cover, and I was able to extend the design to work for an entire dustsheet.
Proof copies are on their way, and my fingers are crossed for print versions to be available from the end of August.
I will keep you posted!
Here's the look of the new cover...

Prologue to Book 2

Just a quick note: this is the start of Book TWO - if you haven't yet read Unworthy, do that first!
Here are two places you can purchase the book: Smashwords ($2.99) and Amazon ($3.07).
A bargain at both outlets! You can view 20% of the book before you purchase.

This is actually the FIRST chapter I wrote about Arcadia's world. It is the start of the book I want to write... then I decided that I would start the story as if I were Arcadia, knowing nothing of her past, and that Book 2 would be everything she learns when she eventually arrives in the Polis.
So essentially Book 2 is the Prequel. But the reader learns of it as though they are in Arcadia's shoes - ie as the second book and not the first.

There will need to be a couple of changes before it is finalised, but this is the draft of the Prologue to Book 2. As with Book 1, it is from the point of view of one character in the book, who we don't hear from again, although don't worry - he'll be around! Nikau is my favourite character.

Anyway, here it is.

Book 2 - Kassandra's Story (Working Title)

 

Prologue

Nikau

My days at the hospital are filled with repetition. I see little of disease, which has all but been wiped out in the city. The wounds of battle seldom reach us here; our military is far too good for that. And above all, the people are strong, resilient, and suffer silently.

I pity them.

I’ve heard of Pures who choose to die rather than come in seeking assistance. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. Too proud. I was walking home one night when I found a guy lying in the gutter, beaten up. When he came to, he shrank away from me so fast you’d think I was the one doing the robbing. I couldn’t get him to come with me; he wouldn’t even let me bandage his arm where he was bleeding.

They’re going to kill themselves off at this rate. If it weren’t for the babies, babies, babies… constantly I’m testing babies. It’s the hardest part of my job.

Most of the time they pass the test. Just a quick heel prick, sample the DNA, record the results. Apply the nano-patch and wait. Twenty-four hours later the baby’s still perfect. Not a trace of infection, rash, or allergy. But at least once a week there’s an anomaly, and it’s deemed Unworthy. The Unworthy ones, I mark on the wrist and tell the mother. The mother takes them away and I won’t see them again. It’s not easy, but it’s the law.

Some days I think I will never understand them. It made sense when food was so scarce that raising only the strong was sensible. Noble, even, to think ahead for the future of your race. But that was so many generations ago that even my father’s father would not have remembered want. Nowadays it seems unnecessary, but you won’t catch me questioning their laws. I learned that lesson long ago, and bear the marks in case I should ever forget.

I am awakened from my thoughts by my beeper. Called to the desk, I see a woman standing there, straight and tall. Her back is to me but I already know she is Ephori, from her stance, how she wears her hair, how she dresses. How she commands attention even when she looks a little lost and out of place. I smirk. I’m going to have to watch my p’s and q’s today.

Then she turns, and time stops. Her eyes flit around the room, looking for someone – looking for me. Her hair is held back, bound tightly at the base of her neck, but I see it loose, falling in wave after golden wave past her shoulders and down her back.

It’s been years. Three years and… nearly five months. But as soon as I set eyes on her I swear that the smell of her skin - dried salt and sunshine - reaches my nostrils. I can feel the warmth of her lips and the sand under my feet. It feels like only yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago.

I realise that my feet have stopped, and that I am staring. My hands have dropped to my side. I blink and start moving again, and it takes a huge effort of will not to run the distance between us and fold her in my arms.

She watches me negotiate the furniture between us and smiles. “Doctor?” she asks. All I can do is nod. “I need to speak with you in private.”

As I lead the way to my office, I wonder if she has recognised me. Not a flicker passed her eyes. Does she not remember me? No, she knows exactly who I am. She did ask for me by name, after all.

There is an awkward silence after we sit. I clear my voice. Once. Twice.

“You are well?” I ask. This is a hospital. I am a doctor. She is heavily pregnant. The intelligent mind begins to make an appearance.

“I am very well, thank you. You look… well.”

She does too. She’s pregnant, and blooming. She looks vibrant and she looks stunning. Instead I ask about her family. All Pureborn women love to talk about their families.

At the thought of her family, her eyes soften and she smiles. She looks into the distance and tells me that she has a son who is walking. She has not mentioned her husband.

“Your husband…” I begin.

“Does not know I am here.” She looks at me intensely, her mouth in a tight line. The implication is very clear, and I remember exactly who he is. He could have my head for this. And hers. But that wasn’t what I had been about to ask.

“Does he treat you well?” I ask quietly. I lean forward. I know these men. I know how Pureborn men treat their wives and their children. I see the physical effects of their cruelty, those that are too damaging to hide behind closed doors, to leave for nature to heal. I don’t want to know that she is unhappy. I have spent too many nights wondering whether her husband could be any better than the others, wondering whether her broken body will be the next one I have to mend after “falling down the stairs”. But I also don’t want to know that she is happy. I couldn’t bear that either. I clasp my hands together to hide the shaking, and I force my eyes to look into hers.

“I’m not here about him.”

So I wait, and she asks me to do something unthinkable.

 

Unworthy - Chapter Three

Ch3

After the swim I feel lighter, but the fresh breeze on my wet skin is distinctly uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as the ordeal ahead of me tonight, I fear. Reluctantly, I head for home.

Our pod is exactly the same as all the others. Four circular structures, bubbling out from a shared stem in the centre, where the pod’s ablution block is. From the air, each pod must look like a metal four-leaf clover, and our hub a great grey cluster of them, sprouting out on the hillside along the coast and following the gentle curve of the bay. Our hub has no name. The Polis calls our region “Sector Four”, and the hub is the Sector Four Hub. This is far too nameless, so over the years it has slowly become known as Greytown. Not very imaginative, I know, but it’s a perfect name for the collection of grey pods which gather around a central grey market square, along with a few other grey stone buildings. The Polis sure likes grey.

There are many hubs, but ours was one of the first. The purpose of the hubs is to offer security to the people, with the central building being a garrison, and Polis soldiers always in residence. In return for peace, the residents of the hub provide the Polis with the fruits of their labours. It can be anything – fruit, meat, wheat, milk, honey, nuts, wool, clothing – as long as it fulfils each individual’s quota. There are six hubs in operation, and they all contain houses exactly the same as our pods, although I haven’t seen them. I’ve never been outside my sector, and except for a few precious day trips, have rarely left the hub.

Before the hubs, it was chaos.

Small bands of people were barely surviving on their own. Some settled in one location and tried farming for survival, but many more roved from place to place, robbing from those who stayed put - the easy targets. Violence, disease and starvation were rife. The population which had escaped the Sweeping Sickness through enforced isolation, was turning in on itself, and our numbers were down to less than a fifth within a decade.

From this mess emerged the Polis. A group of ex-military types with the manpower and technology to unify our broken society and bring peace to the entire country.

The official story; the one we are taught in school, is that the Polis saved us. The kids my age and younger accept it without question and follow the laws without hesitation. It’s just as well because reprimands are usually immediate and always painful. The price for our security is our acceptance. But I keep my ears open, and some of my older neighbours are less than careful with their words. I know that there are other stories, with other points of view.

We can leave at any time, and some do. We can return to the bush and a more basic way of life, giving up our right to the peace and stability which the Polis provides for us at the hubs. However, most don’t. Life is easy here.

The structures we live in were constructed maybe eighty years ago, when the Polis began its mission to bring peace to our country. They are purposely utilitarian. They provide shelter from the weather and that is it. They were designed for function and not form, but I have always found them strangely beautiful. Their curves call to my mind the curves of the landscape around me, and they seem in tune with their surroundings - the sweeping bay and the rolling hills – in a way that the other Polis buildings, squat and square and bland, are not. When I was little I imagined that the multitude of round little pods was a harvest of some kind of new grey fungus, fat with life and ready to be plucked from its stem.

Each pod of four units is basically self-sufficient. We catch our own rainwater on the roof, which is stored in large tanks and feeds the ablution block and the units’ kitchen areas. Also on the roof are large solar panels which daily recharge communal power cells, providing us with electricity for lighting, heating and cooking.

It all sounds ideal. Food, electricity, education, warmth, peace, security, and community. Who would want to leave? I asked Grandad this very question, when a small group of four – two teenaged kids and their parents – left a month or so back. “A gilded cage is still a cage,” was his answer. Which really told me very little, but I think I understood his point, and it gave me something to consider.

Approaching the pod, I can see Grandad working in his veggie garden. I use my pass key and am about to enter our unit when I hear a shout behind me.

“Arcadia!” I recognise the voice before I see him, and my heart immediately leaps.

“Bastian! I didn’t know you were home!” He folds me in his arms, then easily picks me up and swings me round in a full circle. I let out an undignified whoop. There is no-one in the world like Bastian. He’s sort of my cousin, being Auntie Marama’s son, but since Auntie Marama isn’t really my auntie either, we’re not blood relatives.

While he holds me up, I plant a quick affectionate kiss on his cheek. I could never do this from the ground. His reaction surprises me. His face immediately turns beetroot red and he puts me down. His eyes don’t meet mine, but he’s beaming from ear to ear. I’ve known him since I was born, and we’ve grown up together. I’ve never gotten that reaction before though, and I can’t help but like it. Maybe he has finally noticed that I’m a woman now.

We pull apart, and I comment on his size. “Do they inject something into the Polis food? You need to stop growing, or you won’t fit through the door.” He just grins down at me.

It’s true though. He’s always been bigger than the other boys his age, a head and shoulders over the rest of his class, but now that he’s eighteen he’s filled out too. It’s like hugging a bear. Bastian is the eldest in his family, and since the eldest spends half the year working for the Polis, I haven’t seen him for six months. It’s been like this since he turned thirteen, and I miss him every day he’s away. Although hard to tell from his military haircut, his hair is a pale shade of brown. By the time his six month reprieve is up it will fall in a thick shock over his eyes and he’ll be forever pushing it back.

“It’s good to see you, Arcadia,” I hear his voice rumbling in his chest while he squeezes me against him.

“How’s Chloe?” The newest mother in our hub is Bastian’s sister, and the same age as me.

Bastian shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her yet.” I notice for the first time that he’s still in khakis and has dropped a duffel bag at his feet. I realise that he came straight to me, which warms me from the inside out.

We go round the back where Grandad and Bastian greet each other. He has some canes that need putting up for beans and snow peas, so we set to work setting them out for him, and he heads inside to make tea. It’s good to have something to do, because I can turn my face away from Bastian. An inane grin has stapled itself in place and I don’t want him to see it.

“So, what did they teach you this time? How to make daisy chains?”

He knows I’m laughing at him. “I’ll have you know, making a good daisy chain is pretty technically difficult. It takes months to master. And it has many military uses.”

“You could use it to trip up your enemy.”

“Or to spring shut like a trap.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling.

Calling the time spent by hubbites in the Polis as “military training” is something of a joke. Essentially, there are two types of armies in the Polis, both trained completely differently. One is for the Polis citizens – all their kids go through it from thirteen to eighteen. They concentrate on combat training and a host of other useful defence and survival skills - although for the rest of us this is a bit of a guess. The other army is made up of teens from the hubs; the eldest child of every family, who go to train in the Polis for six months of every year, like Bastian. When they graduate from their training at eighteen, they continue to serve the Polis for their half year, the rest spent on Reprieve back in their home towns. This Polis service continues until they are forty.

“Polisborn and Firstborn,” I mutter, sombre now. “Not that I mind you learning about daisies…”

“I know, Arcadia.”

“But they take you away for half a year and they don’t even teach you anything interesting.”

He’s become more serious too, matching my tone, but he’s defensive also. This is a familiar subject for us. “I think it’s interesting. You should see the kind of trucks they’ve got up there. And the two-wheelers, trail bikes, fuel tankers, ATVs, the tanks… I’ve even gotten to work on a helicopter. They’re really cool, Dia. Interesting.”

Although he’s in the army, Bastian’s military training is just the basics. It seems to be marching, running about, shining boots, and standing in a straight line come rain, wind or snow. I think it’s all about learning to follow orders. Maybe there’s some self-defence and Polis history. The army part ends there, and the skill specific training begins. For some, it’s medical. For others, clerical, electrical, or construction. Bastian has been put into the automotive section, which basically means he’s a mechanic. That part, he loves.

Firstborn are given privileges and treated a bit better than the average hubbite, which I guess is the Polis’ way of trying to make up for the fact that they’re like unpaid labour for the city. They’re certainly not classed as Polis citizens, but they do get more opportunities and are given a little respect by the Polisborn.

“Any new strays?” I ask, and he laughs. Bastian can’t help himself, he always fights for the underdog. I guess you could say it’s his weakness. I tease him that he collects waifs and strays.

“There might be a few,” is his reply. I sigh. I really don’t mind him looking after others but it’s when he stands up for them that he gets himself into trouble. The first time he was home it took him a week to even come out of his room, and another before he could even speak about it. I’d been so excited to hear about what he’d been up to, it felt like an eternity for a twelve year old. That year was the first time I’d been to the Spring Festival without him and it wasn’t the same.

“What about the big kids? Did you play nice with the other children?” My light tone hides the importance of the question.

He shrugs, looping a piece of green string around the top of a cane. “I always play nice. But they don’t bother me anymore.” I’m grateful for his size. You’d have to be nuts to take him on. They used to, though. The Polisborn captains used to take particular delight in finding and exploiting any of their young charges’ weaknesses, from fear of the dark, to spiders and the most common of all, pain. I mean, who isn’t afraid of pain, right? Reading between the lines of Bastian’s hesitant stories, I got the feeling that his weakness gave them the most pleasure of all - by putting one of his friends through their own personal hell, they got two for the price of one, so to speak.

“Any new rules?”

“Let’s see… don’t nark. Don’t show weakness, fear or pain. Don’t get caught out of bounds. Don’t answer back to a Polis. Don’t get caught stealing.”

That last one’s new. I straighten up from the seeds I’m laying out. “Don’t get caught stealing? Not, don’t steal?”

“Nope, it’s that simple. Stealing’s fine. Just don’t get caught.”

I’m flabbergasted, but I know I shouldn’t be. I’ve never understood the Polis way of life. “How did you learn that one?”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t me.” Of late he’s got less and less to report when he’s on reprieve, so I suppose he must be learning to toe the line. “And it’s not a story you want to hear.”

This is most likely true. Stories of Polis cruelty are not ones I enjoy listening to. They just make me feel frustrated and trapped. I get the feeling he’s been toning them down the last couple of Reprieves, either selecting carefully what to tell me, or keeping himself out of trouble.

Whatever the cause, he seems calmer, and for that I’m grateful.

He follows me to Grandad’s shed, where I climb up on an old ladder to reach some pots on the highest shelf.

“Hey, watch yourself! Let me do that,” he puts a hand on my leg to make sure I’m steady.

“I’m fine, Bastian,” I laugh. “How do you suppose I cope for half the year without you?”

Climbing back down and once again safely on the ground, I pass him half the pots. “Well, I’m here now,” he points out. “You should be more careful. What if you fell?”

“I’ll cope with that if it happens,” I reply huffily.

I understand that he’s being protective, but his concern is a reminder of the greatest distinction between us, and it grates. I turn my face away from him and move to fill the pots with compost.

Bastian is Firstborn, which means he’s valuable to the Polis. Important. Worthy… of all sorts of things, including medical attention. Whereas I am Unworthy. If something happens to me, I’m pretty much on my own.

It’s also the reason that he knows nothing about my night outings, and I have no intention of him finding out. Much as he looks after others, he would draw the line at weak babies, believing that the personal risk is too great. He would never understand the compulsion that sends me out when a baby is exposed, and would find ways of stopping me.

“You’ll be there tonight?” Bastian asks, changing the subject. “At the naming ceremony?”

I shrug. “You know I will be. Once we’re old enough, all the women have to be there.”

“I could wait for you afterwards, if you want some moral support.”

“That would be… yes, please. Although I hope that everything will be…”

I don’t look at him, but I can feel him watching me in the silence that follows. His tone is serious when he says, “It will be ok. Chloe is healthy, and young. She’s looked after herself. The baby will be fine.”

“I’m sure,” I nod. “I just want tonight to be over.” No-one knows better than I the repercussions of a baby not passing inspection. For many mothers, the stigma of having birthed an Unworthy baby is difficult to bear, only reversed when she leaves it in the circle. For the baby of course, it means almost certain death.

But not for me. Even the elements didn’t want me.

Bastian smiles, thinking of his sister the last time he saw her. “You’d think she was carrying a Counsellor, the way she acted after she found out she was pregnant! Special food and Polis medicines, not having to meet even half of her quota.” He shakes his head. “With all that special treatment, it’s surprising any babies fail the inspection. In the hubs it’s just a physical exam. I mean, when was the last time we had one here in Greytown?”

I can’t answer him, and simply shake my head. Three days ago, I think, but it sticks in my throat. Each and every rejected infant is etched into my memory, and not just because of the hours spent on damp leaves in the forest. It’s also the weight of expectation which the mothers place firmly on my shoulders. My existence gives them hope, it’s as simple as that. Until the baby’s death, when it’s dashed again, and they have to live with the loss of their child. At that point, I’m no longer a symbol of hope to them but a painful reminder that their child wasn’t strong enough to survive in our world.

I’ve stopped what I’m doing and am staring at my hands. This is the biggest issue of contention between us, and I have learned to hold my tongue for fear of giving away my most closely guarded secret. Bastian is looking at me, waiting till I come back from where my thoughts have taken me.

“There is something I want to talk to you about while I’m on Reprieve. Something important,” he says.

“Oh?” This sounds interesting. His eyes are smiling, so I’m intrigued rather than worried. I can also see that he’s not going to tell me anymore right now. Just then Grandad calls from the pod, and we tidy up what we’re doing to head inside.

As we move down the path he takes my grubby, earth stained hand in his, and when I see him smile down at me again a jittery, jumpy feeling starts in my stomach. Perhaps I do have an idea what he wants to talk to me about, and it makes me excited and shy at the same time.

At the door to the pod he takes his leave. “I should really call round to Mum’s,” he smiles apologetically. “But I’ll see you tonight. I missed you, Arcadia,” he says, and squeezes my hand.

I stifle my dopey smile in the hallway. I’m still not looking forward to the Naming tonight, but with seeing Bastian afterwards, my focus has drastically shifted.

Inside, Grandad has made three mugs of tea.

“He’s not stopping?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “He hasn’t called at home yet.” I turn away from his knowing look. I go to wash up, giving the heat on my face time to cool.

We sip in silence, the sounds of other workers returning home reaching us. Across the hall, the Martell children are home from school, loud voices combining with the clomping of their shoes. Before long we hear the screen in their pod come on. My eyes flick over to ours, mounted on the wall of the main room. It’s hardly ever used. When I was little Grandad would heavily censor what I was allowed to watch, even though I would beg and plead with him. The brightly coloured images hold such appeal for young minds. As I got older I was able to regard the panel with a little more discernment, and could see a certain regularity to the shows. Stories of great valour, where the hero often sacrifices their own comfort for the good of others, or documentaries about our history and the history of the ancients, who lived in the time before the Sickness. Through it all, the strong overtones of conformity and submission.

“Arcadia,” Grandad brings me out of my reverie. “Don’t let that boy limit you.”

I have to think for a second about who he’s meaning, he’s caught me completely by surprise. I frown into my tea. “Limit me?”

“Don’t let him tell you what you can and can’t do.”

His caution confuses me. “If you mean Bastian, he’s never limited me. He only wants me to be safe.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he nods. “He thinks that you need looking after. He wants to wrap you in a soft blanket.”

“Well, what’s wrong with a soft blanket?”

“You can’t wrap yourself in it forever. Plus, what happens to him when you no longer need it?”

I’m starting to feel very uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. “Come on, Grandad. Bastian is Firstborn. I’m Unworthy. If he does want to look after me, then I’m the luckiest girl in the hub.”

“Your mark has nothing to do with it,” he says. “You need to choose a partner on his own merits, not on how grateful you feel that he’s looked your way.”

How can he use the word “choose” as though I have options? I am undesirable to everyone because of my mark. An Unworthy mother is likely to pass on weakness to her children. Why would anyone willingly enter into that kind of relationship? The fact that Bastian might be willing to overlook it is nothing short of incredible. However, I know him well enough not to be surprised. He’s got a heart that matches his height.

“He’s not the first one who’s looked my way, Grandad, he’s the only one. How many suitors do you see? I’m seventeen. Chloe has already had her first baby. And the other girls -”

He puts his hand over mine on the counter. “I know how hard this must sound. I just don’t want you to be in a rush to settle down.”

I shake my head in confusion. I’m not sure what he wants me to do, how he can expect me to live as though I’m not marked.