Skip to main content

A TRU-D Called Alice

Before I met your Mum, I was deeply in love with a young woman called Alice. Alice was a TRU-D. This mattered to some people but to most decent people it didn’t matter at all. My favourite teacher from primary school was a TRU-D, my Dad’s best friend was a TRU-D. Alice was beautiful, she was creative, she was funny. She liked the same pre-3s that I liked. Films way back when. Films that had almost been deleted in that war. We quoted them to each other all the time. She made me watch the ones I hadn’t seen and I made her watch the ones she hadn’t.

On our third date, I offered my arm at a right angle and she took it. We were walking through town and she motioned me over to a bench and we sat down. She said she wanted to tell me something and I could tell it was big because her voice cracked with emotion. That was the moment she told me she was a TRU-D. But I could tell that wasn’t all. It’s 2123, she said. And I’m 23 next Tuesday. It was her way of telling me she was born in 2100, a year after the TRU-D experiment was outlawed. Trudy Truax was the boss and had been at the helm of the experiment for years. She found a way of making it go ahead and she went to prison for it.

I bought Alice a silver necklace with an amber pendant for her birthday. Your Granddad once told me to do my best to hear beyond the spoken, to see the quality of light in another’s eyes. As Alice looked down at the small piece of amber at the end of the necklace I could see her hand shaking and that bit of advice rang in my ears. When she was caught up in high emotion, she always looked over my shoulder, and that’s what she did it that moment, but that’s always when I saw the light in her eyes the most.

When Alice was 29, her Mum wrote to me and asked whether I’d go and visit. The encryption of the message was high and had likely cost her more than she could afford. But measures like this were increasingly becoming part of everyday life for them. Alice and her Mum were having to move around a lot for Alice’s safety, so it was a big risk to reveal their address to someone they hadn’t seen in three years.

I knew I’d see her again. I always had a feeling the story wasn’t over. An unspoken dialogue continued through the memory of the way we looked at each other, the way we cared for each other. We were connected through all these unseen wires of friendship and love and understanding and respect that they were bound to pull us back together. It sounds like hippy rubbish but it’s true. It proved itself to be true.

After a month of peaceful marches in the north and some not-so peaceful ones in the south, Trudy Truax, having been released from prison, formally stepped down as CEO of TRU-D. The news made everyone’s heart beat a bit faster. It was chaos in the airport. A fight broke out at the departure gate when a man found out that three TRU-Ds would be on board. Calm was restored, but only just, and the flight went ahead. I bought a bunch of orange and yellow roses at the airport when I landed. I thought I had to fight myself out of there and I was almost certain I wouldn’t get a driver. But the sight of a man wearing a black suit and holding a bunch of flowers seemed to part the waves and I was able to flag someone down in seconds. I didn’t want to have to lie to the driver, but thankfully no questions were asked.

Alice’s Mum answered the door. She gave me a hug and whispered a thank you in my ear. The house was a two-up two-down mid-terrace. It was small but it was homely. I suspected the town had been built for refugees before a shift in policy sealed their fate and they were turfed out. Alice was standing in the middle of the living room. She remained rooted to the spot as I handed her the roses. She didn’t take them so I placed them on the coffee table as if that was its intended destination. She was wearing her amber necklace. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek. I’ll show you to your room, her Mum said, and I followed her upstairs. When I came back down, the flowers were perfectly arranged in a glass vase on the dining room table. I didn’t know how to stem the tide of building hostility towards TRU-Ds, let alone reverse it, but Alice did. And so that was the beginning of it: with me and Alice and her Mum at that dining room table.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

An Expert Analysis of Michael Fassbender's Running Style From the Film 'Shame'

Tom Wiggins: What are your first impressions of Michael Fassbender/Brandon's running style? Paul Whittaker: He's running nice, smooth and relaxed. He seems like he has a good amount of fitness and he is running well within himself in terms of pace.   TW: What improvements could he make to his running style? PW: The main improvement I'd make is his foot plant.  He lands heel first and this causes a 'breaking' effect when travelling forwards.  If he landed on his mid-foot/forefoot, this would be a much better for impact stress and propulsion going forward into the next running stride. TW: Regarding his speed, how many minutes per mile is he running? PW : I would say he is running approx 7-7.30 minutes per mile. TW:   What do you make of his stride lengths?  Is he overstriding/understriding? PW:  The actor is definitely overstriding in this clip.  It would help if his feet landed underneath and below his centre of gravit...

Norman MacCaig: Poetry Hero

I cannot say exactly when I first discovered Norman MacCaig.  It may have been at the beginning of this year, but could well have been at the end of last.  I found him through a tweet.  Six months or more is a long time on Twitter, and when tweets get to a certain age, they're as stubbornly elusive as a missing person who wants to stay missed. But I know the tweet was left by poet  Jo Bell , the director of National Poetry Day, and whose wonderful blog can be found  here .  The link she left took me to an enthralling 25-minute interview with MacCaig.  I liked the man instantly.  I replied to Jo by saying what how charming MacCaig was.  He had a warm sparkle in his eye that only Scots seem to have access to.  He epitomised charismatic.  Unfortunately, embedding has been disabled on the video, but it can be found  here .  Fast forward to yesterday.  I was sat in Stanman's Kitche...

Mr Pebble Pockets

I’ve called him Mr Pebble Pockets because if I don’t make a joke out of it I’ll cry.  It was about 10:30pm, I’d just got back to the boat from a late shift and I was waiting for my Deliveroo.  He was standing a little further down the towpath and staring at the water.  The night was clear and crisp and there was enough moonlight to see the shape of him: he was tall, late twenties and had a powerful sporty look to him.  He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking and he stood crooked.    Well, it doesn’t take a genius, does it?  I only came out to wait for a bloody curry.  Mother Florence bloody Teresa Nightingale springing into action, hungry and as tired as fuck and now having to stop this guy from jumping into the canal with an anchor for a coat.     I know now that the best thing to do was offer him a cigarette.   I don’t know why I didn’t.   I had the packet and the lighter in my hand. ‘Excuse me,’ I said.   ‘Ar...