‘I knew it would wind you up, based on our first conversation.’ He shrugs. ‘Why are you so protective of this place anyway?’ He looks genuinely interested, and against my better judgement, I find myself perching on the end of the sun lounger.
I look at my house.
‘We don’t really get a choice where we’re from, do we? And the places we’re from, we’re the only people who really know what it’s like. The media can paint whatever statistics, bring up whatever images, but only we really know it.’
‘I didn’t realise you felt strongly about it,’ says Ty, looking at me abashed.
‘This is my home,’ I say as genuinely as I can. ‘It’s the only one I’ve ever known. So I’ll defend it. And it’s definitely not the worst city in the world.’ I brandish the newspaper.
He takes it from me. ‘That was very poetic, you know. I can tell you’re a Rose Conrad fan.’
I feel myself turning red. ‘My words are nowhere near as good as hers.’
‘Give yourself some credit, Writer,’ he says with a smile. ‘They’re much better than most people’s.’
‘My friend submitted something I wrote anonymously to the school newspaper,’ I say.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘And is that good or bad?’
‘I don’t know. Initially I thought it was bad, but there was something cool about everyone talking about it. Like I left a mark, you know?’
‘I get it. It’s how I feel about photography. When I look at theimages, I know I did something.’
‘It just feels . . . a bit public, you know? Like I’m exposing myself.’
He grabs the newspaper back from me, taps it on my head. ‘But isn’t that how anything great is done? Look at Rose Conrad, how her lyrics expose her. It’s why people love her, they see themselves in her songs. When I hear ‘Right From The Start’it really pumps me up – I can see myself taking on anything . . . or anyone. Or when I heard ‘Mama’ the first time, I just saw my mum. I’m sure Rose Conrad wrote those with her life projected onto it, but when I hear the songs, I can only see mine. That’s the power of words.’
‘I never thought about it like that before,’ I admit. ‘That different people can hear the same thing and take wildly different things from it. The way I view it isn’t the only way of viewing it.’ I pause. ‘I guess you’re trying for tickets tomorrow then.’
‘Oh absolutely,’ he says.
‘Are you going to go by yourself?’ I say, curiously.
‘I’m not swimming in friends right now,’ he says. He sighs. ‘I’ll try for multiple tickets, and if I get more than one I’ll hold it above your head for the next few months so you become a nicer neighbour to me.’
I may not know Ty well, but I know he means that he’ll give it to me if he has a spare.
‘Thank you. I’ll do the same. If I have a spare ticket lying around.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll take the if. What are you going to do then, about the writing thing?’
‘Submit a follow-up. You’ve just given me an idea,’ I say. I look at the newspaper. ‘Got to correct all the poor and lazy journalism out there.’
He laughs at that.
‘I’ll be taking this with me,’ I say. ‘Might burn it before anyone else can see it.’
‘Until next time, Writer,’ he says lazily from the sun lounger.
‘You don’t need to pretend to lie down here any more,’ I call back without looking around. ‘It’s bloody cold out here.’
I hear his laughter as I head back inside. It makes me feel lighter.
***
A week later, the next issue ofThe Common Roomcomes out:
Today’s Take:Hometown Glory
