Barbican Young Poets 2019-20

This Is Not My Beautiful House

When I went round Naomi’s, she had a swimming pool that was all her own. We jumped in
thighs first, clapping water to chorus against the side of her white-washed house. We would
drag in her dolls and watch them fill and sink. Then - the dives.

Absent of clocks, we’d time each other hitting the bottom, not breathing, collecting the Bratz in
webbed handfuls, pushing huge waves underneath to the watcher who couldn’t flinch for fear of
losing the treasures, waiting until the last moment of play-pretend was compatible with life,
before kicking directly up off the bottom ceramic-tile and breaching the surface tension with a
hair toss, gingerly wrapping the plastic clams that rattled like lead against our chests, cupping
one to help the other attach it with the stretchy fabric meant to shield us from the sun, used
instead to sign away small lumps of childhood. That joy of opening eyes to chlorine, resisting
the sting, claiming the pool as our dominion, that we were secretly special, that we were going
to be taken away to our true families, that we were royalty, that we hobbled ourselves
deliberately, that we had tails, that we had gills, that we had breasts, that we were voiceless,
that we owned the dappled tile-light and the volume of the water around us - now this was finally
us getting our due.

That was the overriding feeling when we emerged with raw tear ducts and desiccated hands,
aching in the humidity: untold riches, blue waters, clean air, hundreds gathered. The dolls,
upside down to drain, water in rivulets down plastic necks, hair just brushing the skin of the pool,
were completing their own transformation back to objects with lives and houses. No longer loot,
they were stroked clothes back on into velcro stylishness and cosseted in the setting sun,
smooth all over and briefly squeezable before becoming inert again. Feet snapped back into
place, they looked like the grown-ups we disdained and imitated, reshoeing at every opportunity
while we ran barefoot around the stippled concrete. Even their toes didn’t really touch the air –
painted as they were - another layer of remove from what felt like our birthright. To imagine
giving any of it up, the underwater kingdom, the retrieval competition, the kiss of wind on our
nails, the dolls themselves - horrifying, impossible, never ever in a million years.

When I grow up, I’m never going to forget, she whispered into her hand before putting it on my
flat chest. I rubbed furiously at the secret, pushing it in, seeing the blue whisps of it settle around
my windpipe.

Me neither, cross my heart and hope to die.

We then toweled off, went inside, and carefully replaced the dolls in their designated rooms,
wearing their designated clothes, holding their designated accessories, facing the unchanging
walls.

The house lasted two years before it collected enough dust. It was given to the girl in the next
block over. I saw it in her house, ran to Naomi’s, and stopped outside before I could say
something stupid.

All her shoes were laid out in the windowsill, arranged by colour, material, height of heel, and
price.

About Hannah Raymond-Cox

Hannah Raymond-Cox is a Hong-Kong born writer, poet, and actor. Her work in immersive and interactive media includes writing, developing, and performing in projects ranging from 5 star immersive/interactive episodic gamified theatre to nationally accredited living history events. She's currently working on a digital and physical poetry installation game in her capacity as recipient of Creative Youth Development Award. Highlights of her poetry career include: two commissioned poems by the Southbank Centre and National Poetry Library, a Choose Your Own Adventure Tour round St Andrews, and her debut book published by Burning Eye Books (and its associated national tour).

Twitter: @ChallahOutLoud