Nell: A Cleaner Story

Celia's revised opening was good.

That is the part I would prefer to leave out, because it would be easier to explain everything if it had been obviously terrible. It wasn't. It was sharp, warm and easy to read. It began with my complaint about the harbour steps and ended the first paragraph with a sentence I wished I'd written myself.

When seventeen-year-old Nell Bishop decided her town could do better, she didn't wait for someone else to redraw the map.

It made me sound brave and purposeful. It did not mention that Kit had independently decided much the same thing, or that Jo had done most of the work required to turn two complaints into a paid project. Those details appeared later, in smaller shapes.

Kit Malik has supplied photographs for Nell's fresh take on the seaside town.

I moved the sentence up. Then I changed supplied photographs to worked with her on photographs and design. It was better. It still wasn't right.

Celia sat beside me at the project table.

“This isn't the colophon,” she said. “We can list everyone's contribution in the guide. The feature needs a person readers can follow.”

“It has a person. It has two.”

“And the photographs will show you both.”

She wasn't sneering. She didn't want to steal Kit's work. She wanted a feature that would fit the newsletter, promote the festival and make the funding look worthwhile. I could see the job she was doing. I could also see the version of me she was offering: young writer with an idea, initiative and a finished object.

My interview had gone well. I had the placement. Nothing in my future depended on accepting this particular version.

I accepted it anyway.

Not all at once. I kept some of my objections. I insisted on Kit's name in the first half. I put joint project in the final paragraph, then let Celia move it into a quotation from Jo because the ending flowed better. I told myself that a reader would understand. I told myself that this was how first-person features worked. I told myself that Kit would hate the process of arguing over a promotional paragraph and would be glad I had dealt with it.

The most useful lies were the ones that allowed me to feel considerate.

There was a second document: a preview spread for Bright Marden's website. It used a shortened version of the guide's museum entry, a photograph of the harbour and a box titled Twelve perfect days, whatever the weather. Underneath, our carefully limited note about access had become Accessible routes throughout.

“That isn't accurate,” I said.

“We don't have space for all the details here. The guide has them.”

“Then link to the details.”

“The full guide isn't online yet.”

I changed the box to Routes, costs and weather alternatives inside. Celia accepted that. Winning this small argument made me feel more justified about the larger one.

At five, she asked whether she could send the feature to the newsletter designer. The designer wanted it that evening. Kit was working at the arts centre until seven. I could have sent her a message. I could have said we needed another day. I could have forwarded the draft with a clear note that it was not approved.

Instead I said yes.

I had promised Kit a check of the parts about us. I knew I had promised it. The knowledge sat at the edge of my attention while I clicked through the email.

“Shall I mark this final?” Celia asked.

“Yes.”

The word took no time at all.

That evening, Kit sent me a photograph of a plastic lemon recovered from inside a prop telephone. I laughed. She asked how the writing had gone.

Done, I typed.

Then I added: More or less. I'll send you the link when it's up.

She replied with a kiss and a complaint about the weather.

I stared at the screen.

There was still time to correct the decision. I could have told her immediately. I could have said, I agreed to something I shouldn't have, and I'm stopping it. Instead I put the phone face down and opened the guide itself, where our names appeared together and the work remained genuinely shared.

I told myself that was what mattered.

On Thursday morning, the newsletter went online before I'd finished breakfast. Mum saw it first because the museum had been tagged.

“Nell,” she said, holding out her phone. “This is lovely.”

Dad leaned over her shoulder. Ollie asked whether being famous meant I could buy better cereal.

I read the headline.

NELL BISHOP'S VERY UNOFFICIAL GUIDE TO MARDEN.

Beneath it was Kit's photograph of us, cropped so that I occupied more of the frame.

There were comments already. Well done, Nell. What a talented young woman. Great initiative.

My first feeling was pleasure.

My second was shame.

I wish I could reverse their order. I can't.