Serialised Story: Upton Close And Personal
Something very long and interesting! This is a serialised story I wrote for one of my creative writing modules at university, focussed on the varied lives of the inhabitants of a suburban street called Upton Close. It was serialised on the old version of this website across the May and June of 2022. It is compiled here in its entirety for your reading convenience.
Upton Meadow: Len Richies And Holly Haynes
“Bertie! C’mon Bertie! Come back here, you naughty dog!”
“We’ve got to get him to give back Teddy!”
Len leaned on his walking stick and exhaled sharply, before raising a hand to his forehead and scanning the field for the troublesome creature who had stolen his granddaughter’s teddy bear. He was nowhere to be seen; vanished from the patch of greenery that sat at the end of the suburban street like nature’s last stronghold.
“Don’t worry Hol.” He said. “He’s only got little legs; he can’t have taken Teddy too far.”
Holly kicked at the browning grass beneath her feet with the toe of her sandal.
“Maybe he wants to play fetch with my Teddy.”
“I think he’d rather play with a stick.” Len replied. “You’ll still play with him, won’t you? You’re good at fetch with Bertie.”
“Bertie jumps up, Grandad. He pushes me down with his paws.”
Len squinted into the distance, at a cluster of scrubby little bushes on the horizon. They were moving strangely. Was Bertie hiding inside?
Len squinted into the distance, at a cluster of scrubby little bushes on the horizon. They were moving strangely. Was Bertie hiding inside?
Suddenly, Len saw a little black shape emerge from the bushes and dash across the field. Bertie was on the move, and he no longer had Teddy between his jaws.
“Bertie!” He called, breaking into a jog.
Holly sprinted on ahead. “Granddad! He doesn’t have Teddy anymore! Where is Teddy?”
“Don’t… Don’t worry about that right now.” Len panted, his breath ragged. “Let’s just get his lead back on first.”
Holly stopped, stomping her foot. “But Granddad!”
Len turned to look at her, throwing his balance off-kilter. He reached out with his walking stick to steady himself, but it was too little too late, and he tumbled forwards. There was an awful, sickly crunch. His knee buckled. He bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
“Grandad! No!” Holly cried, running to his side.
“I’m ok, Hol” He assured, but his face was twisted into a grimace. “Just give me a minute, I’ll get up.”
“Your leg is all broken!”
Len pulled his arms out from under him, trying desperately to heave himself up onto his feet. But it was no good. His leg could not take even the slightest bit of weight.
“Yeah, Hol,” he said grimly. “I think you’re right.”
Bertie bounded up to them, having sensed the fun was over. He yipped softly and tugged at Len’s sleeve, but the old man didn’t budge. Len fumbled in his pocket for a moment, producing a lead and his mobile phone.
“There,” he said, passing the lead to Holly. “Clip that to his collar, and whatever you do, don’t let him go.”
Holly fumbled as she fixed the lead in place.
“What now, Grandad?” She said, her lower lip trembling.
Len took a deep, stabilising breath. “I’m going to call the emergency number.” He said, holding out his phone so she could see. “You’ve got to remember this. Whenever you’re in trouble, you dial nine-nine-nine and nice people will come and help you.”
“Nice people are going to come and help your leg?”
“Yes.” He forced a kindly smile. “They’ll come in a big car called an ambulance. It might be a bit scary, but you’ve got to be brave for me, okay?”
Holly sniffed, rubbing the starts of tears from the corner of her eye. “Okay Grandad.”
“And I won’t be able to walk Bertie until my leg is better,” he added. “But you’ll play with him, won’t you? You’re a good friend to Bertie.”
19 Upton Close: Margaret Coates-Lee
The printer wasn’t working again. Margaret stared down at it, tutting. She sipped at the last dregs of lukewarm tea from a china teacup before placing it down on the coffee table next to her mobile phone.
Margaret picked the device up, holding it at arm’s length as if it would bite her. She squinted down at the bright screen, dialling the number with a single outstretched finger.
“Hello?” She said. “Will, are you there?”
“Mum, I’m at work. Can this wait?”
She strolled over to the window, parted the net curtains, and peered out over the street.
“It’s important. I told Jill that I’d print out my famous apple crumble recipe for her, and she’ll be here any minute.”
Will sighed. “Email it then.”
“Oh dear, you know I can’t be doing with all that… all that new-fangled…”
The plaintive wail of an ambulance siren cut her off before she could even manage to complete her sentence.
“Mum? What was that?”
Margaret stood up on tiptoes, craning her neck to look. The ambulance came to a stop at the edge of the driveway, and she watched as a young paramedic stepped out. The man raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the morning sun, before gesturing to someone she couldn’t see. Then, quite suddenly, he turned towards her house and looked straight at her. She gasped, momentarily cowering behind the curtain.
“An ambulance,” she said quietly, peering out to see that the paramedic was no longer staring. “I bet Len has gone and fallen again. I keep telling him, out with his dog all the time. He needs to be more careful. One of these days I bet he’ll…”
Margaret gulped hard.
“As I live and breathe, it is Len! That dog, I bloody knew it’d be that dog that got him.”
“You say that like he’s dead,” Will said dryly.
“No, no. He’s not dead, he’s laughing with the guy loading him onto the stretcher. His poor granddaughter though. Holly, or… Or is it Molly? Bawling her eyes out. Hang on, I’ll go out there and…”
“No, Mum,” Will said firmly. “Stay here, let’s deal with the printer.”
“No... Uh. No, that’s ok. I don’t think it’ll…”
“Is the printer on, Mum?”
“I pressed the button, and it won’t…”
“Is it plugged in?”
She reached a hand behind the printer, pulling out a wire that hung from it like a tail. The plug dangled conspicuously from the end.
“Silly me. I probably should’ve checked that first.”
“Is everything ok now, then?” He replied. “Can I go?”
She plugged the printer into the wall socket with a satisfying click as the device flared into life. “Yes, but wouldn’t you like to talk about…”
“Bye, Mum.”
“Goodbye,” she said quietly, but he’d hung up before she could finish.
20 Upton Close: Jill and Frank Harris
Jill kicked off her work shoes and slammed the door behind her. She looked down at them for a moment, haphazard on the ground, before sighing and placing them on the shoe rack with her husband’s pristine football boots. They had sat there untouched since she last cleaned them, and that had been months ago.
“You like apple crumble?” She called out.
“What?” Her husband, Frank, replied.
She strolled into the kitchen and produced a folded-up sheet of paper from the pocket of her nurse’s tunic, placing it down on the countertop.
“I went in to see Mrs Coates-Lee from next door,” she said loudly, unsure of quite where Frank was in the house. “Gave me her apple crumble recipe. Says its famous.”
Clad in a dressing gown and clutching an empty coffee mug, Frank lumbered into the kitchen. His blondish hair was unkempt, and the bags under his eyes were so dark that he looked like one of the walking dead.
“Not so loud,” he groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Apple crumble. What is this? Nineteen fifty-seven? Who the hell is making apple crumble?”
“Mrs Coates-Lee from next-door. I told you.”
Frank yawned, picking up the kettle from its stand and walking over to the sink to fill it.
“Why are you still visiting her?” He sighed, twisting the tap and letting the steady stream of water fill the kettle. “She’s a boring old bag.”
Jill tapped her foot anxiously. “Yeah, well… She’s a boring old bag with nobody else to talk to. It’s not like her son… You know Will, don’t you? Works for the council, a repairman or something. Went to school with us. Anyway, since he’s gone and moved out, she hasn’t had anyone at all.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to talk to her,” he replied. “Coffee?”
“No, ta. I’m trying to cut back on caffeine, for the diet. Do we still have chamomile tea?”
“La-de-dah. Look at you, all airs and graces,” Frank teased, standing on tiptoes to get the box of teabags from the top cupboard.
“And I’m only being neighbourly. It’s a lost art. Nobody talks to anyone anymore.”
“I talk to people,” Frank said. “In my games. Talk to people all over the world and I don’t even leave my chair.”
“And look at you! Is that why you’re all haggard? You were up all night playing FIFA. You’ll end up nocturnal, Frank.”
“Yeah, well you wake me up at night when you leave for your little graveyard shift. Do you know how hard it is getting back to sleep at four in the morning?”
The kettle gave a resounding click, signalling that its work was done.
“You like the money though, don’t you?” Jill replied.
“Yeah, I guess,” Frank sighed, lifting the kettle from its cradle and pouring its contents into the mugs on the counter. “So, who was on the chopping block today, sawbones?”
Jill headed over to the fridge and fetched the milk. “Same old, same old. Eight-year-old who fell off a bunk bed, and a real obnoxious guy who thought he was having a heart attack. It was trapped wind.”
She poured a splash of milk into Frank’s coffee, before hesitating in front of her own chamomile tea. It smelled like lawn clippings.
“And I saw what’s-his-face, from a few doors down. Just before I clocked out.” She said. “Len, that’s it. Fell over walking his dog this morning. Broke his leg.”
“I hate that dog,” Frank scoffed. “Awful little yapper.”
She gave him a guilty half-smile. “Don’t say that. You’re gonna be walking him.”
“What? Jill!”
Jill took the mug of smelly green liquid and poured it down the sink. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just… He was putting on a brave face, but he was just so worried about the dog and…”
“Well, you walk it,” Frank spat, folding his arms.
“I’ll be at work then. And besides, it’ll do you good. You’ve been looking so pasty since you stopped playing football.”
“Who needs football? I have FIFA.”
“If you just apologise, I’m sure they’ll let you back in the club. I know you didn’t mean to break it, you’re just clumsy.”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll walk the stupid dog,” Frank snapped, before picking up his coffee and taking a deep swig. “Wait, what happened to your chamomile tea?”
“Sod the chamomile tea, Frank. Sod the diet. I’m gonna have a big milky coffee and order us pizza for dinner. How does that sound?”
Frank laughed. “That’s my girl.”
“And I’ll make Mrs Coates-Lee’s famous apple crumble and eat the entire thing!” She announced, reaching for the piece of paper and squinting at it. “What even is apple crumble anyway?”
“It’s horrid,” Frank replied, fiddling with the belt of his dressing gown. “Like… A mix of slodge and crunch. It’s an apple pie with a personality disorder.”
“Come off it, it can’t be that bad.”
Jill scanned the list of ingredients with scrutiny. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Two golden delicious apples, cubed. Gin?
“She puts gin in it.”
“What?”
Jill tapped the page with her finger. “See, gin.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” Frank chuckled in reply. “Mrs Coates-Lee, what have you been up to?”
“I think the loneliness is getting to her. All the more reason to keep on visiting,” Jill sighed softly.
Upton Meadow: Frank Harris and Holly Haynes
The old man hobbled to the door on crutches, the little dog yapping at his heels.
“Are you the dog walker?” He asked.
Frank had mumbled something and stared down at his phone. He was the dog walker, of course. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“Great! Great!” He had replied, beaming. “Hear that, Bertie? You’re gonna go walkies!”
Then there was another voice in the background. A little girl.
“Grandad, can I go?”
Frank gave a deliberate sigh.
The man hobbled back behind the door for a moment, warning the girl about the “stranger from down the street.” But she protested, arguing that since he was married to the “pretty nurse lady,” he was “basically a good guy.”
The old man poked his head around the door.
“You’re ok with kids, aren’t you?”
“I’d rather not deal with…”
“Oh, that’s great,” he replied. “Holly, come on out here!”
“You’re wearing football boots,” was the first thing she said to him.
“Yes.”
“Why? Are you a footballer?”
“I couldn’t find my other outside shoes.”
“Why?”
Frank sighed. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“No. You just have a lot of answers,” she said. “If you’re a footballer I’m gonna get my ball. You can teach Bertie to do football tricks.”
She skipped back into the house for a moment, quickly returning with a bright red football. She punted it down the street with surprising force, sending the dog yapping and chasing after it.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “I forgot. You’ve got to keep Bertie on his lead, or he runs away.”
“Great,” Frank groaned.
Things went a little more smoothly after that, or at least after Frank managed to wrangle the energetic Scottie dog onto his lead. He let the dog lead him out onto the meadow, stopping occasionally to sniff at flowers or bark at white butterflies that fluttered lazily through the warm summer air. The girl followed them like a little shadow, kicking her ball along carefully and occasionally interjecting with any inane statement that came to mind.
“Mr Football Man?”
“Yeah?”
“Where do you play football?”
“For goodness sake,” Frank snapped. “Why do you care?”
The girl crossed her arms. “You’re being mean to me. Grandad gave me his phone, and if you don’t stop, I’ll call him, and he’ll be very cross.”
“Fine. Fine,” Frank said, exhaling sharply. “I used to play for the town club. But I don’t anymore.”
“Why?”
“I kicked a football through the sports centre window.”
The girl snorted, before guffawing in delight. “You’re not a very good footballer, then.”
“Is that a challenge?” Frank said. “Me? Not a good footballer?”
He handed the dog’s lead to the girl, before taking the ball and placing it down in front of him.
“See that fence, all the way over there?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I can hit it from here?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna hit it.”
Frank took a few steps backwards and paused momentarily to steady himself, before running full pelt at the ball and giving it an almighty kick. It sailed through the air in a graceful arc, before bouncing off the fence and landing in the grass with a dull thud.
“Again! Again!” The girl called out, jumping on the spot and clapping vigorously. She dropped the dog’s lead in her excitement, and he ran away, his tail wagging wildly.
“You want me to do it again?” Frank said. “This time, I’ll kick it from all the way over there, and then you kick it back to me.”
He ran over to the ball and readied himself to kick again. Brimming with bravado, he punted it with much more force than before, and it flew massively off-course.
The world seemed to move in slow motion as the ball travelled towards Mrs Coates-Lee’s house, shattering one of her windows.
“Oh crap!” Frank shouted, putting his head in his hands. “Not again.”
The girl ran up to him, the dog yapping along behind her.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr Football Man,” she said, patting Frank gently on the back. “I know what to do when you get in trouble.”
She pulled a mobile phone from the little front pocket of her dungarees and fumbled with it for a second.
“Hello? Is this the nine-nine-niners? The Football Man kicked a ball through Mrs Frowny Face’s window, and he’s in big trouble.”
“The police?!” Frank shouted, snatching the phone out of her hand. “Why the hell are you calling the police?”
“Grandad said I should always…
“No!” Frank replied. “We need to run away before someone sees and figures out it was us.”
“But the window!”
“Sod the window! Do you want an ASBO? Cause’ that’s how you get an ASBO.”
He grabbed her hand and took flight, running across the field as fast as his legs could carry him. The little dog followed, panting wildly, his forgotten lead dragging along the ground behind him.
Finally, they arrived at the old man’s doorstep. Frank thrust the dog’s lead into the little girl’s hand and rang the doorbell.
“There,” he said. “Doggy has had a lovely walk. And if your grandpa asks, nothing happened.”
“But… But something did happen!” She replied.
Frank raised a finger to his lips and shushed. “Nothing happened.”
19 Upton Close: Margaret and Will Coates-Lee
There was dust all over the house. On top of the bookshelves, behind the cabinets, and even on the table where she kept the printer. Margaret danced across her living room with a feather duster in hand, cleaning with the same gentle enthusiasm that a bee has when pollinating flowers.
She paused momentarily, turning instinctively to peer out of her window and flinching when she saw it blocked off with a black plastic bag.
“Oh,” she whispered to herself. “Oh right.”
She was just dusting the photos on the mantle when the doorbell rang. It was her son.
“Will! You look so smart in your work clothes.”
Will rolled his eyes. “When the council noticed it was you, they thought they might as well send me.”
Margret recoiled. “Don’t say the C-word when the door is open, the neighbours might hear. Nobody needs to know…”
“Nobody cares that you live in a council house, Mum.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They do, my boy. They’ll think I’m a c-h-a-v.”
He rolled his eyes again, more deliberately this time. “Mum, you’re sixty-two. Nobody thinks you’re a chav.”
“Still,” she replied, ushering him inside and shutting the door behind him. “It’s nice to see you. How have you been?”
He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”
“Have you missed your ol’ Mum?”
“Mum, I’m twenty-eight. I have a wife and a mortgage.”
Margaret’s face fell.
“Don’t be like that,” he sighed.
She forced a smile, but her eyes still frowned. “A wife, a mortgage, but no grandkids for me, huh?”
“The replacement glass pane is in the van,” he said quietly. “Go and sit down, I’ll get it all installed for you.”
“Don’t you want some tea? I might have some of those biscuits you like with the chocolate chips.”
He sighed. “I can’t stay. Got a door replacement the other side of town at three.”
Margaret sat down in her armchair, watching as Will disappeared out the door. She pulled a crossword book from the coffee table and tried to look deep in thought, but her face was still dejectedly downcast.
Will returned a moment later, toolbox in one hand and sheet of glass in the other. He didn’t even acknowledge her as he started, the nimble hands that once played with Lego bricks making short work of the shattered window.
Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes. She sniffed hard, banishing them. Then, quite suddenly, the doorbell rang once more.
“I’ll just get that.”
It was Jill and her husband. She was smiling furtively, a lunchbox in her hand. He was staring at his shoes; football boots, newly washed but slightly scuffed at one toe.
“Hey, Mrs Coates-Lee,” Jill said brightly. “I saved you a slice of apple crumble.”
“Oh! How thoughtful. Thank you. How did you find the recipe? That ginger really adds a kick, doesn’t it?”
Her husband turned to face her, his brows furrowed.
“Ginger?” He mouthed silently.
“How was I to know?” Jill mouthed in return.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Frank has something he wants to say to you.”
“I am sorry to hear about your window,” he said, teeth gritted.
Jill stamped on his foot, causing him to yelp in pain.
“Frank!” She hissed quietly.
“Ow! Jill! Fine,” he said, scowling. “I am very sorry to hear about your window. I hope it never happens again.”
Margaret gave a bemused frown. “Oh, that’s okay dear. Just some local kids, I suspect. My son is fixing it. Not on official business or anything, just out of the kindness of his heart.”
Jill beamed warmly. “Oh, how is Will these days?”
“He’s doing very well for himself. Beautiful wife, lovely house, grandkids on the way. Still loves his ol’ Mum of course, but he always was a mummy’s boy.”
“Aww, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad.”
“Must dash,” Margaret said. “He needs someone to hand him his tools.”
“Okay. See you.”
With that, she shut the front door firmly, turning the lock with a harsh click. She sighed wearily and sniffed again. The tears were returning.
“Mum?”
It was Will.
“Mum, I’m sorry.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, words muffled by his paint-speckled work jacket. “I’m just your embarrassing old Mum.”
“I’ll come back,” he promised, hands hovering above her shoulders. “After that stupid door job. I’ll come back and we’ll have dinner. And we’ll talk and I’ll be nice to you because I’ve been so short with you lately.”
“Oh, Will…”
He held her tightly. “I love you, Mum.”
“I love you too.”
Bonus Features
These bonus features were posted to the original version of this website in June 2022, after the conclusion of the serial.
Well, the story is finally finished! I like posting stories in this serialised format, and I may do it again someday if I come up with an idea big enough to warrant it. I thought I'd post some supplemental material as a reward for everyone who read the story. Consider it a 'bonus feature.'
This story was written over the course of several months for a university project. As someone whose writing usually leans towards more science fiction and fantasy, I decided to ground myself in a realistic setting in order to avoid using otherworldly elements as a crutch. This way, I could place my entire focus on creating realistic and effective characters and settings.
To keep locations on the titular street consistent, I drew this birds-eye map. Once it was finished, I noticed the map's uncanny resemblance to the street I grew up on. I hadn't set out to 'write what I know', but it just sort of happened as development progressed.
The development process was actually rather long, and the story has changed a lot since its conception. I originally envisioned a murder mystery story called "What Happened on Cypress Close?", with clues being revealed across the multiple vignettes. However, I found the murder mystery element hard to conceptualise, and perhaps just a tiny bit insensitive, so I changed the story to be more slice of life and endearing.
I liked the idea of exploring different perspectives, and created the new title "Upton Close and Personal" as a play on the phrase "up close and personal."
Finally, I created a little treat for anyone who enjoyed the story; a personality quiz. Apparently, I'm most like Margaret.