Driving Ambition

Wendy Knox pulled her taxi cab up to the kerb. Her next passengers waved as she approached. They were a couple in their seventies and were lugging music cases and stands with them. As they clambered in the back, with all their luggage, Wendy asked where they were headed.

The guy explained that they were part of a ukulele group and were playing a gig at the leisure centre that afternoon.

‘A Ukulele group? Very cool.’ Wendy said.

‘We’re part of the Salford Strummers. You should check us out. We’re on Facebook and everything.’

‘Brilliant. I might just do that. I’d love to be able to play a musical instrument.’ Wendy replied, as she navigated the afternoon traffic.

‘It’s really easy, you don’t need to be able to read music, just follow the lyrics and the chords.’ The woman said.

‘The thing is I can’t read music or read anything else too well.’ Wendy admitted. 

Wendy turned into the car park of the social club. She helped the couple out of the car, with their instruments and bags.

‘I’ll give you five stars and a decent tip.’ The guy said. 

‘That’ll do me, I might struggle with words but I recognise five stars and the pound sign when I see it.’ Wendy laughed.

Wendy was in her thirties and had been driving a taxi cab for more than a decade. Everything about the job just suited her. She enjoyed being out on the road, dealing with the public, seeing all sorts of life. She got a buzz from taking people to the places they need to go. She took people to job interviews, giving them a pep talk on the way, dropping them off and wishing them good luck.

Despite her lack of literacy skills, Wendy had everything set up to compensate for her weakness. When driving the cab, she would simply follow the maps on her mobile phone. The jobs would ping in, telling her where to go. She also had a setting on her mobile where any messages are read out. Similarly, she would text back by voice message, ending the message by saying the word send.

And anything trickier, any letters or emails, her husband Jack would help her out. At first Wendy had been embarrassed by her poor reading levels, but Jack had put her at ease, saying that they each bring different things to the table in the relationship. Between them, they had everything covered.

Wendy managed to use their banking apps. She could get by, knowing what to put in each box and was kind of okay with the numbers. The long box was for the account number, the short box was for the sort code. And she could make out numbers, that had never been a problem. A friend had once asked how she was okay with numbers, but struggled with letters and reading. Numbers don’t form sentences and paragraphs, Wendy had replied.

Wendy had no real desire to learn to read. It had been something that back at school, had just passed her by. By the time she realised that everyone else in her class could read and she couldn’t, it had been too late, so she had said nothing, for fear of feeling stupid. Besides, the teachers at her school, back then, were scarier than the class bullies. They were unapproachable. 

Wendy was happy as she was. She had Jack, her friends and family, and the community. Wendy didn’t publicise her lack of reading, she wouldn’t share the info with anyone she didn’t trust, but she didn’t hide it either. Her close friends and family knew the score. If they saw something interesting, rather than show her, they would read it out. 

Her husband had offered to help her over the years but Wendy always stubbornly refused. She enjoyed her life. She had a good social life, had a pub and a few restaurants they were regulars in. They holidayed several times a year, would spend their evenings watching films and TV. Who cared if she wasn’t a great reader? She really wasn’t missing out on anything, as far as she could tell.

One evening as they were watching a film on TV, Jack paused the movie. He turned to face Wendy sitting next to him.

‘I saw something in the local paper the other day that I thought might be of interest.’ He said.

‘Oh yes, is it a quiz night? I’d be all over that.’ Wendy replied.

‘The community centre is running adult literacy courses on Monday nights. I thought you could go along and check it out.’

‘I’m fine as I am. You said so yourself. We manage. We do alright.’ Wendy said.

‘I just think it would help you so much. You’d enjoy it.’  

‘I’d feel stupid.’ 

‘Ridiculous, you’re one of the cleverest people I know.’

‘Can we put the film back on now, love?’ Wendy said.

A few days later, as they were breakfasting on tea and toast, Jack tried again.

‘You know this literacy course I was on about?’ Jack started.

Wendy said nothing, just rolled her eyes, this again?

‘I think it might do you good. You could get so much out of it.’

‘You think I should go back to school?’ Wendy asked.

‘This could be for you, though, love. It’s not at a college or school. It’s at the community centre. It will be more laid back. The place has yoga and Karate on other nights. It’s just that on Monday night it’s adult literacy. It won’t be like the classroom.’

Wendy sighed. She hated it when this happened. She had to admit, maybe Jack had a point.

‘If I did go, and I don’t like it, I’m not going back.’ She insisted.

‘That’s fine. I’m just saying you should just give it a go.’ 

Feeling nervous, and sick, and like she was returning to the dreaded class-room, Wendy went through the double doors and into the community centre. The walls were full of posters advertising everything from Tai Chi classes, and slimming groups to poetry evenings and ukulele lessons. Wendy smiled. If the literacy class doesn’t work out, she could always swap for the ukulele. 

In the middle of the room was rows of plastic chairs, forming a semi-circle. There was a chair in the centre, presumably for the teacher taking the class. A woman in her sixties, her grey hair tied in a ponytail, draped over her shoulder, was standing in the centre. She wore an oversized floral shirt, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and had reading glasses perched on her head. She had an artist, intellectual vibe to her. 

A few of the seats were taken up. Wendy looked at the faces as she neared, trying to gauge if this would be her type of thing or not. There was a real mix of people, male and female, of all ages, ranging from a guy with greying hair, in his sixties, to a couple of teenagers, maybe wanting to improve their skills for school and exams. And, she was relieved to find, most of them looked as nervous and uncomfortable as she felt.

Wendy force a smile and approached the teacher. She gave her name and explained that she’d emailed to apply for the course.

‘Wonderful. I’m Catherine. You can call me Cath.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Here’s your worksheets.’

Cath handed her a clipboard with printed sheets of paper and invited her to take a seat. As Wendy found a free seat on the second row, she had to admit she felt more relaxed and at ease now that she was here. The set-up, with no desks, just chairs and clipboards, didn’t feel like a classroom. There was a laid-back feel to it. Wendy shifted in her seat, making herself comfortable.

Cath found her spot in the middle of the semi-circle and clapped her hands to signify the start of the session. The chatter in the room hushed. Cath welcomed everyone to the session and thanked them all for coming along. She explained that they would be starting with the basics and work from there. They would be start with the foundations and build upwards. 

‘Before we get started I’d just like to say, there will be no tests, no exams, so everyone can relax. And I’m here to help you. We’re all in this together. If you see the person next to you struggling, then help them out. Right, if you’re everybody’s ready, let’s do this.’

Cath explained how they would go through the alphabet, and then on to words, and sentences. 

Two hours later, Wendy stepped out into the night. She felt amazing. She felt like she could do anything, achieve anything, if she put her mind to it. Without the pressure of a formal educational setting, and surrounded by people in the same boat, Wendy found she actually enjoyed the class, and to her surprise managed to learn something too. It had been the first lesson, but she was hopeful that the lessons would pay off and she would come away being able to read. 

When she returned home, Jack met her in the hallway, eager to hear how the class had been. As she took her coat off and hung it up, Jack asked how she had got on.

‘Honestly, love, it was just amazing. The teacher is so nice and she makes it so easy to understand. She breaks it all down into bite-size chunks. And everyone else in the class is lovely too. It’s like we’re a team. I can’t wait for next week.’ Wendy said.

‘Wow, not bad considering you really didn’t want to go.’ Jack said.

‘I’ve got homework and everything. Imagine that? Me, doing homework for class?’ 

Wendy pulled out a stack of stapled sheets. As Jack went to put the kettle on he called out to her.

‘I’m so proud of you, love.’ He said.

At the start of the next class, Cath welcomed each of them as though they were old friends. Her bubbliness and enthusiasm for reading and for literature in general was just infectious. 

‘Thank you all for coming back. Here’s to the next chapter. See what I did there?’ Cath said.

Cath handed out printed sheets featuring a short story. They would read along together, nice and slow, word by word, line by line, stopping regularly for those who were struggling. Then there would be the tea-break. A ten minute pause to grab a quick brew and have a catch-up with the others in the group.

Again there was homework, more short stories to read. Nice and slow, no pressure. Cath told them to make sure they enjoyed the reading process. After all, she would say, if it’s not fun, then why do it?

Wendy came away from the class buzzing. It felt as though she was starting out on a journey. Who knew where this would take her? Her relationship with words, with books and reading was just starting. 

One evening, as they are dining on lasagne at the table, Jack spoke.

‘I got you something today. I popped out on my lunch-break and got you this.’ 

He slid a brown paper bag across the table.

Wendy gave him a what’s this? glance and reached inside.

When she saw the gift, tears filled her eyes. Jack had bought her a book. A paperback book, a short story collection. She burst into tears, he shoulders shaking with emotion.

‘Bless you, what’s all this?’ Jack said, startled by her response.

‘Nobody has ever bought be a book before.’ Wendy said.

‘Well, you finish the homework stories straight away, so I thought, you’d like some more stories to read.’ 

‘Thank you so much. I love it.’ She said, leaning across the table and kissing him on the cheek. 

As they settle on the sofa that evening, Jack watched a silly comedy show on television while Wendy read her new book, turning the pages with gusto.

‘Cath says that we should take our time, just enjoy the act of reading.’ Wendy said.

‘That’s just brilliant. I suggested the course, thinking it’d help you with everyday life, now you’ve got your nose in a book every chance you get. You’re smashing it, love.’ Jack replied. 

Wendy arrived at the next class early, as she wanted to have a quick chat with her teacher. She rushed into the community centre and found Cath placing the latest hand-outs on each chair for her students. 

‘Hello, you.’ Cath said. ‘You’re early. Eager and raring to go, eh?’

‘I wanted to have a word, actually.’ Wendy said.

‘Oh yes? I’m all ears.’

Cath waved Wendy to a seat. 

‘I just wanted to say how much I’m enjoying the course. I’m taking away so much. I feel like a different person.’ Wendy admitted.

‘That is wonderful to hear. People like you are the reason I teach these classes. I’m delighted, just delighted.’ Cath said.

Wendy pulled the paperback book from her bag, and explained that her husband bought her the volume as a present.

‘A man who buys you books, is definitely a keeper.’ Cath said. ‘And how are you finding the stories?’

‘I’m getting there. There’s the odd word that I struggle with, but I get there in the end.’

‘Wonderful. And we’re only halfway through the course. Imagine where you’ll be by the time we’re done.’ 

‘Halfway through? We can’t be halfway through already. I’ve only had three lessons.’ Wendy said, unable to hide the distress in her voice.

‘It’s a six weeks’ course. This is week three.’ Cath said.

Jack was so supportive. Each evening, they would go through the daily newspapers, and each day, she needed his help less and less. She did find that she was struggling to make out some of the smaller print in one of the stories she was reading.

‘I think my eyes are tired from all this reading.’ She said. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ 

‘You’re doing so well, love.’ He beamed.

The next evening, Jack handed her a package. She opened the wrapping and stared in confusion. She opened the case and laughed. 

‘Glasses?’ She said.

‘Reading glasses. They’ll prevent your eyes from getting so strained.’

She slipped the black-framed glasses on and tried reading the book once again. The words were larger, sharper and more in focus than before. 

‘They really suit you, love.’ Her husband said. 

Wendy went to the mirror. The glasses really did suit her. 

She smiled at her reflection. 

With sickening inevitability the reading classes came to an end. At the start of the last lesson, Cath delivered a speech about how this was the start of their journey, not the end of it. The students would be going away with a certain set of skills that would be with them for life. She hoped they would go on to use and hone their skills, turning to books regularly. 

The other students thanked her, saying goodbye, before leaving, heading out into the evening. Wendy held back, hovering, not wanting the classes, and this last lesson, to end. She really didn’t want this to be over.

‘I just wanted to say, thanks so much for everything. I’ll miss these classes.’ Wendy said.

‘We can stay in touch. It would be cool to meet up for coffee. That’s if you fancy? You can fill me in on how you’re getting on.’ Cath said. 

Wendy replied that she would love to, and blinked away the tears in her eyes. They swapped numbers and agreed they would keep in touch and meet up for that coffee very soon.

A few weeks later, Wendy met Cath in a coffee shop in Manchester city centre. They hugged and greeted each other like old friends. 

As they sipped their coffees Cath asked how the reading was going.

‘I’m loving it. I’ve actually started reading a novel.’ Wendy said.

‘Good on you. I’m chuffed for you.’ Cath said. 

They discussed books, and also life in general. Wendy would share funny anecdotes about the taxi fares she picked up, while Cath would recommend book titles and authors for her to check out in future. 

They had met up as teacher and student, but Wendy felt, they finished their coffees as friends. Of course, Wendy still saw Cath as a mentor figure, but there was warmth, emotion there, that had been lacking in any teacher she’d had before. Yes, she would definitely describe Cath as a friend. And, she sensed Cath felt the same.  

When they met up the next time, Wendy announced that she had finished reading the novel.

‘Congratulations. You have finished reading your first novel. How do you feel?’ Cath asked.

‘I can’t believe it. Before taking the course, I’d struggle reading anything more complicated than the instructions on a microwave meal. Now, I’m reading books.’

‘That’s just wonderful. And what did you think of the book?’

‘It was good.’ Wendy said. 

‘But?’ 

‘I didn’t like the ending. I would have given the ending more of a bang, more of a finale.’ Wendy said.

Cath sipped her coffee, giving Wendy a look she couldn’t read, saying nothing.

‘I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?’ Wendy asked. ‘Did I misunderstand the end? Is it that I’m not clever enough?’

‘The complete opposite. Most of my other students would have simply been delighted to finish the book and move on to the next. But you say that you are unhappy with the ending. That’s more than just reading the actual words on the page. I want to give you a homework assignment.’

‘Homework? I thought we’d finished the course.’ Wendy said.

‘You never finish the course.’ Cath laughed. ‘I want you to write a short story.’

‘Me? Write a story? What am I supposed to write about?’ Wendy asked.

‘You didn’t like the end of the novel, so re-write that story, put your own spin on it. Write your own take on the story, and put on the ending you think it should have.’

‘I can’t rip off that story. That’s stealing.’ Wendy said.

‘It’s technically plagiarism, but I’m not saying rip the story off. Don’t rip it off, take the aspects that you like from that story, and make it your own.’

‘Can I do that? Are you allowed to do that?’ Wendy asked.

‘Stephen King says that without Dracula there would be no Salem’s Lot.’ Cath said.

‘I saw Salem’s Lot on television. Cracking series.’

‘Exactly, Stephen King wrote his take on vampire stories. I want you to write your take on this gangster story.’ Cath insisted.

Wendy said nothing. 

‘Don’t worry about not being good enough. You have lived enough, and you’ve seen enough films and TV dramas to know a decent plot when you see it, and what twists and turns will shock the reader. The fact that you see through the ending of the novel suggests you have a story-teller’s instinct. You know what makes a good story.’ Cath said.

‘Okay, then.’ Wendy said reluctantly. ‘I’ll give it a go, but don’t slate me if it’s rubbish.’

‘Promise.’ Cath said with a smile.

When Jack arrived home that evening, he found Wendy on the sofa, scribbling away in a spiral-bound notepad. 

‘What are you upto?’ He asked.

‘Cath has given me home-work.’ She said.

‘I thought you were meeting up as friends now.’

‘We are but she says the course never finishes.’ Wendy shrugged.

‘And what are you writing?’

‘I’m writing a story. Cath wants me to write my version of the book I’ve just read.’

The following week, Wendy arrived at the coffee shop, her bag slung over her shoulder. She found Cath at what had become their table. She approached Cath, producing the pages she had written.

‘I did my homework.’

She handed her the handwritten pages.

‘How exciting.’

With her student looking on anxiously, Cath read the pages, sipping her coffee as she flicked through. When she had finished, she placed the papers neatly down on the table between them.

‘Be gentle with me. It was my first attempt. And only a few weeks ago, I struggled reading and writing.’ Wendy said, hands raised in a don’t shoot pose.

‘Very good, Wendy. I am really impressed.’

‘No way. Really?’

‘I mean, it needs work, some re-wording and a plot hole or two needs ironing out, but what you have there is a decent short story. It reads as well as anything else I’ve read this week.’

Wendy swallowed back the lump in her throat, she couldn’t find the words to reply.

‘I think you should keep writing. Write another story.’ Cath insisted.

‘What would I write about?’ Wendy asked.

‘Whatever you like. Give me a story. Give me a beginning, a middle and end, about whatever you like.’

‘And you really think it’s half-decent? You’re not putting me on?’ Wendy said.

‘I think,’ Cath said, ‘that you have a gift for writing, for telling a story. It would be a real shame if you didn’t carry on writing.’

‘I really don’t know what to say. I never thought anything like this would happen.’

‘All you need to do is keep reading and keep writing, that’s it.’

And so Wendy became a writer as well as a reader. She found that reading and writing fit rather nicely into her life. She would spend any free moments either reading her latest paperback, or working on her current short story. While out in her taxi-cab, while waiting for her new pick-up, or while on her breaks, she would be writing and reading. Any spare moment at home, while Jack was pottering or watching the football, Wendy would be reading and writing. She found that the two went hand in hand, the books she was reading, helped with her stories, and vice versa.

Wendy would meet up with Cath and hand in her latest story. Over mugs of tea and coffee, in their favourite coffee-shop, they would go over Wendy’s latest story and discuss books in general.

Cath would mark her story with pencil, circling and underlining, adding question marks and comments to the margins. They would go through the story, and work on each of Cath’s comments.

Twelve months later, Wendy was still reading, still writing, and considered Cath a close friend as well as her mentor. She’d read that Stephen King once said that everyone has that one person they write for, that one reader. For Wendy, Cath was that reader.

A few weeks later, Wendy took the seat facing Cath, placing her coffee down gently.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ Wendy started.

‘Oh yes? Do tell. Sounds intriguing.’

‘I’ve written all these stories over the last year or so.’

‘Yes.’ 

‘And I’m reading lots of books. As Stephen King says, if you don’t have time to read, you don’t have time to write.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m wondering if I should, maybe-’

‘You can and you should. Absolutely.’ Cath beamed. 

‘You don’t know what I was going to ask.’ Wendy said.

‘I do, and you should go for it. Go for it!’ Cath said, pointing at her.

‘Write a novel? You really think I have a novel inside me?’

‘I really do. A novel is just string of short stories. I think you can do this. So far, you’ve achieved everything that you have set out to do.’

‘A novel? Me? Can you imagine? The novel by Wendy Knox. That sounds wonderful.’

And so the next chapter of Wendy’s journey began. The writing routine continued, this time in earnest, any spare minute while out in her taxi-cab she would work on her novel, writing page after page in her notebook. She longed for the evenings that Jack was watching the football. Wendy would curl up beside him with her pen and paper, writing away. Jack would look over at her, Wendy was delighted at the glimmer of pride in his eyes. 

Wendy would meet up regularly with Cath. Her mentor helped her craft and twist the pages, suggesting things to help the story. She would recommend a scene gets moved to earlier in the work. 

Between them, they worked on sculpting the book out of Wendy’s written pages. 

When Wendy would ask if she was wasting her time with all this, Cath would ask why she was doing it. When Wendy struggled to express an answer, Cath spoke for her.

‘You’re doing it because you enjoy doing it. When the itch of writing takes hold, you just have to scratch it. And you are putting all this effort it, because when you are done, you’ll have a novel. And nobody can take that away from you. Now, wouldn’t that be something?’ 

Once the pages had been tweaked and edited, Wendy would type up on her laptop, then send across to Cath. Wendy found she enjoyed the whole process. Seeing her words on the screen, typed up and professional-looking, was just so cool. 

Eventually, on a rainy Wednesday morning in the coffee-shop, Wendy and Cath worked through the last batch of pages.

‘What do you think?’ Wendy asked.

Cath removed her reading glasses and sighed, then she spoke.

‘I think, she said, you’ve done it. It’s done.’

Wendy had tears in her eyes. 

Wendy had done it. She had completed her first novel. As Cath said, that was like running a marathon, sure, you were aching, drained and beaten up, but you had done something, worked hard, to complete something that not everybody else had done. You were part of an elite club. You were a writer, and a novelist. 

‘I have a few contacts in the publishing game. If you like, I could send this to my people, see what they think?’ Cath said.

‘I honestly don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m dreaming and I’ll wake up in a minute.’ Wendy said.

‘They may insist some changes are made, they usually do, but they just might be interested.’

‘You really think so?’ Wendy said. 

‘It has something. It’s gritty, it’s Northern. It’s honest and working class. It’s a lot like the person who wrote it. You have a real voice and I think the world just might be ready listen.’ Cath said.

The following evening, Wendy called round to Cath’s house in the leafy suburbs. Cath ushered her in and showed her through to the room she called her study. The computer screen was on, her emails open. There was one message ready to be sent. 

‘I’ve got it all set up, ready to send off to my chaps at the publishers. I’ve attached a covering letter explaining who you are and what we’re sending. We just need to press send. I thought you could do the honours.’

Wendy simply nodded in agreement, unable to find the words. She reached and hit the enter key on the keyboard. There was a whooshing sound as the email was sent. That was it. Her completed novel had just been sent to a publisher. Whatever happened from there, this moment would stay with her forever.  

‘We should mark the occasion by raising a toast. I have a bottle of prosecco in the fridge, if you’d like a glass.’ Cath said.

‘I rather a beer if you have one.’ Wendy replied.

As they sipped their drinks in Cath’s study, a question came to Wendy. 

‘What about you?’ Wendy asked. ‘Do you write yourself? Have you had anything published?’

Cath laughed and took a swig of wine before reaching for a book from the shelves. She handed Wendy the hardback book. Wendy gasped when she saw the name of the author. 

Once Bitten by Catherine Cole. 

‘Oh wow, you’re a published novelist. That’s fantastic.’ Wendy said.

‘Hardly fantastic! It was published a few years back. It sold a few copies, mostly to family and friends, and very quickly went out of print. These days, I stick to reading books rather than writing them. I wasn’t the greatest author, I can see that, but I do recognise talent when I see it. I have a good feeling about your writing. A very good feeling indeed.’

Wendy Knox would go on to have a string of published novels and be a writer for the rest of her days. She would spend her free-time visiting schools to promote literacy and to share her story. 

Inspired by true events.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom