‘I Am Jimmy’ is my second novel, the one I’m currently working on.
Jimmy Walker is a man whose entire life has been built around mitigating risk. He works as a Business Advisor even though he’s never run a business. Brought up close to Glasgow’s east end by a single mum, he began his life as Jamie, a name his mum called him when she’d remind him to be home by 7 pm and to make sure he didn’t get his trainers dirty.
Jimmy meets Claire, an English Literature lecturer from Wales, who calls him Jim, and they spend 15 happy years together, until cervical cancer leaves him a childless widower.
A Facebook post alerts Jimmy that his father, a former professional footballer - a man he’d never met - has become the face of an east end pub that’s been saved from closure. This leads Jimmy to visit the Calton, to see the pub his father and his ‘business consortium’ now run. He notices a woman at a bus stop and later recognises her as one of the nurses who cared for Claire in the hospice. He remembers that she’d call him James, the name that had been put on Claire’s file as next of kin.
The nurse, who’s chosen the name Grace for her uniform’s lapel badge rather than her given name, Luo Xiuying, remembers James as a man who’d cared for and loved Claire. Xiuying works long hours, taking cash-in-hand shifts at the hospice and sending most of her earnings to her daughter, Ling, back home in Changsha, China.
Jimmy and Xiuying begin a relationship which exposes him to the risks he’s avoided his whole life, while she navigates the tightrope of her working visa and the life she believes she’s been born to live, versus the dreams she secretly holds.
‘I Am Jimmy’ explores the versions of ourselves that show up depending on who we meet. The struggle we have with our identity when the witnesses to who we once were are no longer around. The story is told through the internal narratives of Jimmy and the three women who’ve impacted his life: his mum, Claire, and Xiuying.
A sample chapter is below.
“So, what’s your real name?”
My real name? My real name isn’t for Western people. It’s for my passport. It’s for my sister, my mother, and my cousins. My name isn’t who I am; it’s a coat I wear.
Which real name does he need? The pet name my father would call me when he’d return home from Singapore? Why isn’t ‘Grace’ enough for him?
Ok. He wants to know my ‘real name’. I’ll tell him my real name.
“It’s Luo Xiuying.”
I watch his eyebrows dance. His lips move like he’s trying to rehearse how to say it back to me.
“Sorry, Law…?”
“Luo Xiuying.”
“Ok, wow. That’s…”
It’s what? It’s my name. My daddy called me Mei. I’d come home from school, and there he’d be. Waiting for me in the living room. A small parcel would be sitting on the small glass table next to the sofa. I’d look at him, then the parcel.
“Oh, my Mei. My little Mei.”
And I’d drop my school bag and run over to him. His black shirt would smell of the city. He’d never cry, but I would. Happy tears. Joy that my daddy was home again.
-
“Ok, let me try that again. Law…Shoo-ing."
-
It’s close enough.
I’ve noticed how he speaks to me. Like how many of the Western people I meet at work speak to me. I can tell the difference. When they speak to each other, they sound like they’re singing angry songs. One or two words land in my ears. I’ve learned to listen, to not interrupt. When they need me to understand them, they sound like James does. Slow. Deliberate. Like a child learning to play the piano. It doesn’t always offend me.
When James speaks slowly to me, I understand why he’s doing it. It just gives me more time to see who’s speaking.
“Yes. That’s correct. Luo is my family name. My given name is Xiuying.”
He’s smiling, his eyes look wet.
“Shoo-ing. That’s…that’s a beautiful name.”
It’s not. It’s just a name my parents chose, like the clothes I’d wear to school. Mei was my beautiful name.
When I was interviewed for the hospice job, I told them I’d like to be known as Grace. I’d heard this word before in a song. Amazing Grace. I’d looked up the words on Baidu. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. Baidu told me some women in the West are named Grace. That’s who I wanted to be. Amazing Grace, caring for dying Western people in a private hospice in a cold, rainy city, thousands of miles from my daughter.
James doesn’t need to know any of this.
He can call me Grace. Or ‘Shoo-ing’. It doesn’t matter.
-
‘Law Shoo-ing’, why does my tongue feel thick when I say it?
Shoo-ing. Shoo-ing.
I remember her name badge, but I didn’t pay attention to it or to her. She was one of the nicer nurses who looked after Claire. She always lingered, I remember that, she’d wait around to make sure Claire was comfortable before I started reading to her. Her name badge and her kind eyes, that’s all I remember.
Shoo-ing.
I’m back on Camusdarach beach, back with Claire and the sunset. Back with what she made me promise. It’s too soon to keep the promise. I haven’t even scattered her ashes on the beach. I will, but not yet.
“Jim. Listen to me. Please, just hear what I have to say.”
I didn’t want to listen to her. I wanted us to watch the sun setting behind Rhum. I wanted to drive us back to the cottage and make her dinner. I wanted her to be in bed reading. I wanted her to be preparing her lessons.
She’d made me listen to her. She’d put her hands on my face, she’d stood in front of me, blocking the horizon and the sun.
“Jim, don’t become like my dad. Ok? Promise me that you’ll find happiness.”
I didn’t want to do that. Impossible. Find happiness without her? Worst plan ever.
“Promise me, ok? When I…when I’m not here anymore, just try to find happiness.”
And she’d laughed, it sounded short and bitter. She’d made me nod, using her hands on my cheeks to move my head.
“Yes, Claire, I promise you I’ll find happiness. I won’t be like your dad.”
She’d mimicked my voice as she nodded my head. And I couldn’t stand it. Talking like she was already dead. Projecting outcomes onto me without properly calculating the acquisition costs.
“Ok. Ok, I promise.”
I nodded my head.
Shoo-ing.
Her big eyes under that severe fringe. She was looking at me as if I’d told her two plus two equals four.
“Ok, well, it’s very nice to properly meet you, Shoo-ing.”
-
He’s bowing to me. Why is he bowing to me? I’m not Thai. He probably thinks we’re all the same. Asian. Interchangeable like chopsticks and rice bowls on low tables with bamboo mats. But it’s ok. His eyes are wet and kind.
“Haha, ok, James. It’s nice to meet you properly also.”