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Thrown by Sara Cox – Free Extract

By Katy Blott
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A sneak preview of the hilarious, warm and big-hearted debut from much-loved broadcaster Sara Cox: THROWN

 

 

Thrown publishes on 12th May and signed copies are available here from Waterstones!

 

1

 

Becky

 

Becky stood in the Inventors’ Estate community hall with her hands on her hips, absent-mindedly squeezing the extra bit of flesh that had taken up residence over Christmas and had made itself so at home that it seemed set to stay through Spring.

It actually felt quite nice between her fingers and thumb, rolling the little lumps like dried peas just under the surface. Must do something about that, she thought, though it’d been an age since she’d been to Zumba.

The wire from her bra had escaped into her cleavage – that’d teach her for bunging them in the machine instead of hand washing them. The bra also felt very tight – surely at forty-two she was too old for a growth spurt? Today, like most days, her curves were covered with a baggy T-shirt and black leggings that’d gone saggy at the knees – this she considered her work uniform. Her bottle blonde hair was chucked up in a scrunchie, and she’d nicked her son Elliot’s old red Converse. He’d just turned 26 and had towered over her since his teens, though that didn’t take much. ‘All good things come in small packages’ mum always told her.

The bra wire was currently jabbing her left breast every time she breathed in and, today of all days, she’d need to take some deep breaths.

The scene before her was like one of those immersive theatre experiences, with Becky the unsuspecting audience member suddenly surrounded by the cast as the drama unfolded.  Eight large wooden workbenches were grouped in a corner like a herd  of cows spooked by an over enthusiastic sheepdog. Next to them was a stack of metal stools, leaning over at an alarming angle.

A block the size of a huge fridge was squatting on a pallet surrounded by nine slightly smaller blocks. All were wrapped in thick white plastic with wedges of polystyrene cradling the corners. There were currently three men in various poses positioned around the blocks. The first delivery man, wiry and beige of skin, hair, tooth and overall – a pouch of rolling baccy poking out his top pocket – was on his hands and knees, peering underneath the

biggest pallet.

He sat up – ‘I’d like,’ he said, slowly stroking his chin as if about to reveal an earth-shattering prophecy ‘to get this beauty into position before unwrapping her.’

His colleague, a chubby lad with raspberry cheeks and gelled black hair, stopped wrestling with the plastic on one of the smaller packages and looked up. ‘I bet you would boss,’ he gurned.

Becky looked over to Jack for support. He was standing a few feet away, scratching his head.

‘What you thinking Jack – you look confused?’

‘I’m thinking . . .’ Jack stopped scratching. ‘I’ve got nits again from Elsie – little buggers love me, treat my scalp like an-all-you-can-eat- buffet they do.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve told Elsie they like her ’cos she’s delicious.’ Even when describing an infestation of lice, Becky marvelled at how his eyes shone whenever he mentioned his granddaughter.

Becky had a real soft spot for Jack – he’d been caretaker at the centre ever since it was built in the mid-seventies, and had always been lovely to her mum when she’d cleaned there. He was sturdy, topped with a generous crop of salt and pepper hair, and had a kind face that hinted at a rugged handsomeness in his prime.

‘Brew?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Come on Becky, you look like you could do with one, let’s put kettle on for these lads too, I’m spitting feathers here,’ and he held out his forearm for Becky to take, as if leading her into a grand ballroom, not a cramped community centre kitchen.

Becky hopped up onto the unit next to the sink and watched as Jack dropped teabags into four large mugs. She could feel the air thicken with silence like it did when he was building up to a pep talk, and braced herself. ‘Now then Becky, you inherited a lot of things from your mum – her height for starters, ’cos she was a short-arse too.’ Becky laughed, but noticed the slight wobble in Jack’s voice. ‘Not to mention her lovely smile. However, her tremendous self-belief seems to have skipped a generation. Young Elliot has it in spades; you though missus, you need to believe in yourself.’ He stirred milk into the tea and looked at her, eyes shining. ‘Your mum would be so proud of you Becky. This old place might be a bit tatty round the edges, but you’re doing your best to breathe life back into it, and more impor- tantly, bring people together – and that,’ he waggled the teaspoon at her, ‘is exactly what your mum was all about.’

‘I know Jack, it just feels like I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.’

‘Nonsense.’ He frowned. ‘You can handle this – it’s a pottery class you’re organising not a military coup. It’s a positive thing, people will love it. They need something like this to bring them together a bit.’

Becky sipped her tea. ‘It’s just . . . I’m worried people will be too nervous to come along; people don’t know each other like they used to – when I was little I reckon ninety-five per cent of the estate was counted as either an aunt or an uncle even though mum was an only child!’

Jack smiled warmly. ‘I’ve lived in Lennington all my life Becky

– what makes this estate special is the people. I used to ride my bike in the shadow of the munitions factory right here where we’re standing now; I saw the estate spring up, fill with families. This place,’ he pointed to the floor, ‘was the heart of it then, and it can be again. You just have to have faith.’