Milk Tea Can't

By Alan Forsyth

As soon as you discover Fraser walking backward and barefoot on the Meadows, Edinburgh Castle splashed by Hogmanay fireworks, you will be hooked.

You will be further compelled when you find out Edinburgh is a character in the novel, her worried eye on Fraser that ominous night.

Allow yourself to be both warmed and appalled with the characters you will meet, all in some way dealing with core human concerns that resonate with us all. 

Taking place in such a charming location, this is a book that celebrates the spirit of the city and its people whilst exposing the underbelly that can destroy all of us.

“Wow. This is heavy-hitting stuff.  There is gold in here.” Dane Picken, Screen Writer & Filmmaker, Australia.

This is a book that will generate important conversations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398443839

Alan Forsyth

Alans’s early career included supporting large corporations, like Yellow Pages Australia and Simplot, where he encouraged teams and managers to improve their performance which flowed onto them becoming better people, teams and leaders. His acumen in helping people transform was also applied in small business, learning institutions and charities and it was not unusual to see him out on the streets supporting young homeless people and helping young leaders to be better leaders. In recent years, Alan has been entertaining a growing number of subscribers in his More Than a Blog segment on his website, www.followingforsyth.com [http://www.followingforsyth.com/]. A student of literature, he was praised as a teacher of English to senior students at the prestigious Korowa Anglican Girls School, in Melbourne Australia. Alan is celebrated as a leader in community and charity, more recently founding and chairing the Men of Leith Men’s Shed, a vital charity in Leith Scotland. He also has a strong academic background with a flair for turning ideas into action. His undergraduate qualifications in psychology combined with extensive postgraduate qualifications in organisational change, ontology and mindfulness provide a rich background to his pursuits as a writer and speaker. He recently returned to Melbourne, Australia following five years in Scotland. Having completed his second book, Milk Tea Can’t, he will continue to enjoy writing, travelling with his wife and performing with choirs. He will of course continue to provide direct help to charities.

Book preview

About the Author

Alan’s early career included supporting large corporations, like Yellow Pages Australia and Simplot, where he encouraged teams and managers to improve their performance which flowed onto them becoming better people, teams and leaders.

His acumen in helping people transform was also applied in small business, learning institutions and charities and it was not unusual to see him out on the streets supporting young homeless people and helping young leaders to be better leaders.

In recent years, Alan has been entertaining a growing number of subscribers in his More Than a Blog segment on his website, www.followingforsyth.com. A student of literature, he was praised as a teacher of English to senior students at the prestigious Korowa Anglican Girls School, in Melbourne Australia.

Alan is celebrated as a leader in community and charity, more recently founding and chairing the Men of Leith Men’s Shed, a vital charity in Leith Scotland. He also has a strong academic background with a flair for turning ideas into action. His undergraduate qualifications in psychology combined with extensive postgraduate qualifications in organisational change, ontology and mindfulness provide a rich background to his pursuits as a writer and speaker.

He recently returned to Melbourne, Australia following five years in Scotland. Having completed his second book, Milk Tea Can’t, he will continue to enjoy writing, travelling with his wife and performing with choirs. He will of course continue to provide direct help to charities.

Dedication

I dedicate this unique novel to Callum, Duncan and Elliot, may you all continue to flourish in your own lives and embody a deep spirit of care.

Copyright Information ©

Alan Forsyth 2022

The right of Alan Forsyth to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398443822 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398443839 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I am eternally grateful for my three sons, Callum, Duncan and Elliot. In their unique and special ways, they inspire me to refine my gifts, live my legacy and be my best. Whether suffering or genuinely happy, I know they will always be available for a conversation of support and encouragement or simply to have a wee laugh.

Chapter One

Despite her exhaustion, Edinburgh is deeply grateful for finally being asked to appear in a literary piece, in this—the city of literature, her city of literature. Her job, to reflect on the key characters and themes then operate as a sort of pop-up chorus, has left her well made up. Like all she has achieved hitherto, this she would excel in.

Beyond tired, Edinburgh reflects deeply, can ye not take the milk out of the tea?

You can understand her weariness; the Edinburgh International Festival and Fringe Festival had been going full tilt for four weeks. Tonight, Edinburgh hoped to put on an amazing fireworks finale and finally put her feet up. Fraser had come to her attention before and she had thought him to be trustworthy, unlike so many other lads of his age. Tonight, though she is a little concerned for the laddie.

As the light swam and melted into the waters of the nearby Grand Union Canal, she spotted Fraser teetering on the edge of the canal. She worried why so many young people like him can suffer so much. It’s the grey faces slumped in doorways, often holding out crushed Costa coffee cups, filled hopefully with fifteen to twenty quid, enough for a bed for the night. Or it’s the young folk who teeter on a decision of life or death at the canal’s edge. Edinburgh’s thoughts gradually returned to the everyday concerns of this significant city before finally falling into bed.

Fraser walked backwards, his toenails scraping the soft grass like a comb. His focus shifted to the tenements and very soon broadened, tentatively embracing the castle. Even in this black light, he was reassured by the castle’s presence.

This was only a temporary salve, like that feeling where you wanted to vomit but have been given a reprieve. Very soon, Edinburgh Castle would be splattered with the milk of fireworks. For now, it simply existed, a remarkable presence.

He had that heavy drunk sense, enough to be immune to the chill wind that kicked off its shoes and stayed beyond its welcome on the Meadows. There were no fags to keep him company and no phone to bathe him in safe blue light.

He stopped abruptly, conscious enough that he had intruded on tartan, a whole picnic rug spread beneath him peppered with delicious firework treats. The picnic rug party intervened, preventing him from upsetting the contents. Where are your shoes, Pal? enquired a concerned young woman.

The question floated in the air, like one of those garish party balloons, lilting steadily without serious attention. The question was put once more, with a little more urgency and in a more challenging tone. Still, as Edinburgh Castle bore a silent witness, there was no response.

He remained focussed on the castle and now that he had stopped, could make out the sharp curvature of the rock and the man-made sentinels above. His dad, Brian, had played him the Wombat’s song, Let’s Dance to Joy Division, earlier in the evening and he still had the lyrics messing with him.

Brian persisted in doing that, introducing snippets of song lyrics or quotes into their conversation. It was his way of saying that he loved Fraser, though never really clear enough for the sentiment to be translated and understood as love. Fraser generally felt that his father was just being smart, demonstrating that he would always be wiser and more accomplished than him.

Yes, he was annoyed by the irony and exuberance of the song, but more so the extent he had allowed it to take up tenancy in his thoughts.

Thrown to rumination, Fraser reflected equally on how laissez-faire his mother, Fiona, was. At least his dad tried, he thought. His mother barely factored into his life. She would most certainly have forgotten the last time she had displayed love or any meaningful concern to him. She did provide a home and had supported him through University, perhaps this was love enough.

Her attempts at connection, beyond this practical support, were interpreted by Fraser as interference or persistence, verging on criticism. He knew she had high standards, or conditions of satisfaction as she referred to them, and was reminded regularly by her that he did not quite meet these standards. So, his performance at university was mediocre, his capacity to find and keep a part-time job, ordinary, and his ability to manage himself and his room often appalling. Further, he should make more effort in his relationships with his sister, the dog and his father.

Now a creamy pale shade of blue and pink, the castle grasped back his attention. More questions thrown his way irritated him slightly and were left well alone to rise, wither and deflate. As the first plumes of the fireworks burst, he could feel a tremor, initially in his hands and arms and rapidly coursing through his body. Not his forehead though, this was cold and tight, his skin stretched like he was being mummified.

New determined questions now arose from the picnic rug. You aright, mate?

Is there anyone here with you? Aye? Do ye need some help, pal?

Fraser was aware of a swirl of sounds, his mother’s criticism merged with his father’s song lyrics, both reinforcing negative assessments of himself. They stuck to his brain, like one of those dissection maps with labels pinned to indicate which parts of the brain do what. More resident now, the choir of disturbing thoughts took on unwanted tenancy in his core sense of self, perturbing him noticeably.

Yes, he noticed, and yes, he reacted to the impressive pyrotechnics. That was when he took one tentative step forwards and gradually melted into the rug. As he dropped, the electricity in his body dissipated, his irritability muted as the cacophony of the fireworks bounced away from Edinburgh, resting quietly in the Pentland Hills. He lay like an exhausted puppy among the prosecco, beer and dips. Garish colours from the now innocuous fireworks found space to settle in the deep black of his pupils.

Fraser had been reluctant to visit Dr W Bridge. A visit to his GP several months ago had suggested that it was appropriate he seek help from a specialist to explore his worsening opinions of himself and what the current state of his mental health may be. A request was made through the NHS for such an appointment.

Fraser knew he was different. He knew at times he buzzed with unstoppable energy and at others was empty, like a squashed tube of toothpaste. In darker times he struggled to get up and go to school. A friend had suggested he might have a manic-depressive disorder. What the fuck is that? thought Fraser.

Fraser was expecting tests, lights and screens when he arrived at his appointment and was surprised when all that happened was a gentle conversation with the Doctor. Fraser had managed with the help of his friend to negotiate complicated pathways through the National Health System and finally achieve this specialist appointment. He left, a little relieved by the knowledge that there was an explanation for his erratic and potentially destructive behaviours. He was also curiously elated by realising that he was officially on the spectrum.

Throughout his adolescence, he had craved support from either his father or mother and simply did not get it. Other parents would pick him up and deliver him to excursions and home again. He remembered with embarrassment their conversations in the car on the way home. Reliving that winning rebuttal in debating or that goal scored from outside the box to clench the football game. Occasionally, other mums and dads would say how proud his folks would have been with his performance that day. No, they wouldn’t, he would think, they could not care less about me.

An unwelcome, familiarly sharp odour permeated Fraser’s waking dream. His body was numbed by the cold concrete beneath, his cheeks itchy from a rough green military blanket.

The severe thumping in his temples and regular shards of sharp pain illuminated his body diverting his grim recollections of last night.

It was light and he was perched on the top step of a church doorway. Looking up, he recognised the arched doorways with its many coats of thick red paint.

Looking down, the steps led out on to what must be Leven Street. Beneath him, he located the source of the smell, a pool of urine escaping from a huddled grey blanket on the step below.

He had been to this church before as a young child, remembering singing Christmas carols alongside the choir and being impressed by the voices of two of the young boys his age. They had talked after the service and asked each other what they hoped Santa was bringing them for Christmas. Gameboys were high on the Santa wish list that year. Calmer times, thought Fraser.

Detecting movement beside him, his attention returned to the step, to the grubby white duvet now evidencing signs of life.

The young folk cocooned together, continuing their rough sleep despite some minor shifts to the contrary beneath the duvet and blankets. Fraser gradually ventured at sitting up and attempted to reconstruct what happened the previous night. He vaguely remembered arriving at a party on Bruntsfield Links. Beyond that he was attempting to backfill meaning where only space existed.

Hey Pal, uttered the white duvet. What’s your name?

Fraser, he answered carefully. Whit am a doin here?

One of the cocooned people revealed his mop of matted hair, only partially emerging from the duvet as if he was escaping the wrapping of a life-sized present.

So, persisted Fraser, do you know why I am here, pal?

Well Fraser, welcome to your new temporary hame with the cream of the Bruntsfield homeless. We helped you here and gifted you wi a blanket. You were pished, upset and offy lost, wee man. Aye.

A believable account of what happened to Fraser was outlined, starting with his stumbling past the eerie green of the Golf Tavern then continuing haphazardly down to Leven Street.

You were kicking a can of Tenants, wee man, as if yer life depended on it.

The cocooned people had watched as Fraser continued down Leven Street past the familiar Kings Theatre and stopped for what seemed like forever at the vaping shop.

We saw ye head doon that street wi they Student hooses. We followed yersel to the start of the canal. Aye! That wis where ye tried to top yersel. Whit didye wanna due that fir?

Chapter Two

Edinburgh took a little longer to wake up that day. Perhaps it was the legacy of almost three weeks of an ambitious International Festival now all but finished, or perhaps it was a growing concern for the number of children that slept on her streets last night. Fraser among them.

She was aware that Fraser did have a choice to go home. But he did not take that choice. Why not? She knew he had both a mother and father and a wee sister, yet he clearly chose not to return to them, not that night. Edinburgh was perplexed.

She pulled herself up, well aware that whilst this chapter’s intention is to introduce Fiona, much of her own thoughts were coalescing with Fraser and the family. Focusing on Fiona, Edinburgh reflected on the issue of balancing family and professional concerns. She wondered what it was that could tip that balance for many women, for many parents across this fair city and of course, specifically for Fiona.

‘What drives this woman?’ pondered Edinburgh. ‘Och here she is, out on the Meadows already.’

Fiona was keen and sharp, up and about on the Meadows, engaged in her regular couch to five k’s exercise session.

The days are fair drawing in, mentioned one of the dog-walkers, a comment she would hear repeated many times over the next few weeks.

Fiona exuded endeavour that morning, alive and ready for the day ahead. She was preparing herself for day one of her new job. A senior manager in a large UK finance organisation, Fiona was about to expand her professional horizons in an international role. She regularly admitted to her ambitious nature and felt she deserved this promotion. That morning she embodied confidence, ambivalent to the sharp September chill and the inevitable crawl of winter.

The running shoes were discarded in the usual basket as Fiona peeled of her action wear garments and stood for a moment