Gemma was invited to take her Speak to Strangers concept to the Birmingham Book Festival, where she produced twelve stories in four days and presented her work on BBC Radio WM.
Day 1: 13 October 2011
(15:15, Birmingham New Street station)
We don't understand how to travel with other people. Such a weight of lives crammed
together in one carriage, or car, or bus, such a shocking press of faces all chewing,
or sniffing, or turning pages. You and I dive from the train, wheel our cases to the
platform end and wait for the lift. In shadowy light, we cast a competitive glance
at each other's luggage. Could you have carried that up stairs, really? I wonder if
this is what you're thinking, so I say so aloud, and name some of the heaviest items I
packed: books, laptop, silence.
(21:00, IKON Gallery, Oozells Square)
You sit before an expansive domed-building cloud-floating cityscape. The poet says,
When my grandmother wasn't the grandmother of anyone else on earth. While youÕre
perceptive and witty and confiding and in control. The poet says, They knew I wanted
to be a writer so they made me take the minutes. While I think, there is always a
moment, when something significant happens but life goes trotting on continuously.
In the arching boughs of the gallery, the poet says, Night opens her legs. You smile
though nothing is altered, no order reversed or even shaken, but suggestion hangs in
the air.
(23:15, St Paul's Square)
After all, it did not seem to matter much: not more than could be managed in secret,
without a flinch. With you, I see we all have a hidden history, marked by the most
significant events like love and a bit of loss, death and a birth. You and I wander
the streets, looking for people and late night shops. We speak of Cuba and second
marriages, feeling older than your age, cities and breakfast. You are assured and
approach life with a quiet, persistent focus. The sky is violet; the church glows white,
two women give us anxious directions.
Day 2: 14 October 2011
(09:30, Bloc Hotel)
I am holding two cups of tea for myself and slip into the lift as you exit, followed
by teenage girls - your daughters, perhaps - who trail behind you like squirrels with
their stiff fluffy ponytails and nervous smiles. You say excuse me, as do I. I step aside,
as you do. The hotel is all block prints, concision, and lists. You fill the space you
occupy, your face a brilliance of expression, glancing and pausing around, clutching
your children by their elbows. The lift doors close and I think this morning my head is
feathers but my eyes are alert.
(15:00, Pavillions Shopping Centre)
These walls enclose a world. This is a place I understand without knowing and
experiencing: a series of shiny retail units in terraced rows. A food court, like a tennis
court, serves golden balls of equal shapes on plates held lightly by hands. These walls
create security, neutrality and familiarity, from space to space, from year to year.
You are waiting in an empty shop, surrounded by disembodied voices and music like
a fading tickle in a throat; phrases floating between wooden shelves and discarded
notices. I listen and learn: there are chemicals in aubergines, pork scratchings and in
guns.
(19:30, Birmingham Cathedral)
Locked lips, two lovers kiss enthusiastically outside the Cathedral as people enter two
by two by three and in groups. Will Self will be at the pulpit and we are all sharp-
minded and open-minded but critically-minded enough to listen. You have several
lists and with a begrudging charm, you allow me to take a seat though I have only my
name, not a ticket. Vast ornate ceilings and brass candelabras lift the building into a
luminous whole. I see you after the event, carefully counting stubs and tapping your
toes to the cheerful tune of the end of the night.
Day 3: 15 October 2011
(10:00, Birmingham and Fazeley Canal)
It's a bright morning, a day for a walk. You're the final fisherman I meet and your
name is Cooper, I learn, you have emphysema and your sister died on Tuesday. You
show me the elastic mechanism on your rod, which flickers to life with a sharp pull.
The day shines. You warn me against walking too far alone. In your story of a local
gun crime, you talk about the young girls who innocently left their house to attend a
dance. From this word, my mind leaps back to halls, Glenn Miller and cigarette girls
with tiny turquoise hats.
(11:30, Mailbox)
You grip two carrier bags, one brimming with breadcrumbs and the other with an
assortment of papers inside; strips of papers. I strategically place myself near you,
watch you scatter or sometimes lob the pieces into the canal, aiming once at the
pecking head of a gull. I call random phrases such as, 'They're hungry, aren't they?'
and 'Dinner!' until you edge closer and introduce yourself with a booklet about Jesus
and a quotation from Ezekiel. I ask you whether your faith is linked to your love of
birds. You suppose it is rather, but you've never thought so before.
(13:00 Livery Street bridge)
You say, I've lived on a boat for 20 years and I'll never live anywhere else. Absent
teeth, twisted dreadlocks, you have vigour simmering in your eyes. You make rolling
movements with your hands like a baker kneading a loaf of bread. Maybe this is just
to flex your fingers, ready to unlock the next lock. I don't know. But I do know that
your life - circumnavigating the country, following the canal system as you please Ð
seems like the only way to live. After all, home is the place where you hide from the
world and yours is always moving.
Day 4: 16 October 2011
(11:15, Custard Factory)
All I want is a little piece of life, so I ask you how you are and also, how you are here.
You're crouched in a doorway, light on the dark side of you, wearing a checked shirt
and wistfulness. I say something about strangers, as I always do. The day is like an oil
painting in its deep russet and blues, with its boldness, with its balcony buildings steel
and glass. As for you, you’re more like a watercolour, dreaming of another type of
employment, thinking of an alternative city, against the backdrop of film memorabilia
and passers by.
(15:00, Great Western Arcade)
Some people represent the significant unknown and other landscapes; can make you
feel so restless, so expectant. Talking to you, life lights like a candle. Describing of
the craft of chocolate, your conversation is salt and peppered with French phrases.
You mime how Birmingham sweeps up from the arcade to present a vista of Parisian-style
boulevards and grand buildings. Since I’ve been in this city, I've seen people
wear thick knitted jumpers like armour, thump each other and smash car windows. My
heart turns over and I know I can never be a true tourist, because I see too much.
(15:45, Birmingham Central Library)
Blood drips from my left nostril, runs down my fingers onto my hand, trickles to the
ceramic white sink. I tilt my head back, then throw it forward, forgetting which
way is best. You apply lip gloss with unblinking eyes and tell me the bleeding should
stop in a moment, that it happens to everyone. Relieved and too eager, I ask: Has it
happened to you? The words of your reply are like birds, repetitive and instructive,
pecking until I follow, prodding until I turn away. My reflection is broken in the
cracked mirror. I hear it'll snow this week.