Justin David shares the story behind the photographs that supported the writing of his new mosaic novel, Tales of the Suburbs—Part One of the Welston World Sagas

As a creative who works in a number of disciplines, namely writing and photography, I am often asked which takes precedence. Neither: the two feed each other. Often a new photographic work emerges out of my writing practice (or in the case of Threads—a collaboration with poet Nathan Evans—someone else’s) in the form of illustrations, posters or book covers and sometimes the writing develops out of visual investigation—scrapbooks, mood-boards, photoshoots. It feels impossible to separate the two.

In the case of this new book, I began collecting imagery as I developed each story. I made scrapbooks, the scrapbooks became mood-boards, and the mood-boards became photographic portraits, which emerged from the writing. In the end, I created an art work of each character; these were then published as illustrations in an early evolution of The Welston World Sagas called He’s Done Ever So Well for Himself which is now out of print. This new book no longer features the images—the original work has been reworked and allowed to speak for itself—but I still love them, and wanted to share them again. Here they are, with snippets of the episodes in Tales of the Suburbs which inspired them:

Jamie lets his eyes pass over everything he loves in the room—Nan’s Tretchikoff: a girl with red lips and a blue face hanging against embossed wallpaper, the cabinet of collected snow-globes, three carved wooden African figurines—until his eyes reach Grandad slouched in his armchair. His face is mottled with dark patches of skin and his eyes are red and wet, making him look both sad and angry at the same time. He used to be different. He used to be distinguished and sort of proud. Always had time to teach Jamie new things. They made a bird-scarer for the allotment and spent ages doing giant jigsaws. But all that has stopped. Poor Grandad. He’s joining parts of a model Spitfire together with a little tube of glue, which he’s been doing since he lost his job as an electrician at the washing machine factory.

Nan tugs the collar of Freddie’s denim jacket. ‘Ain’t you come to stay?’ she asks and goes into the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she calls. Uncle Freddie throws his jacket off, revealing a white t-shirt with the words FRANKIE SAYS RELAX printed in bold, black letters across the chest. Everyone’s wearing them. He thinks he’s really cool.

Angie gets up and heads towards them. ‘Looks like it’s me and you again, Cock. Come on, get your dancing shoes on.’ The music, it’s the Nolans. Why couldn’t it have been It’s Raining Men? Jamie forces a smile. He swallows, heaves his unfortunate carcass off the seat and takes her hand. She lifts their hands up high and they cross the floor like Come Dancing partners in the Blackpool Tower ballroom.

Under luminous clouds passing in front of a halogen moon, men shuffle between ramshackle buildings of corrugated iron and zigzag-roofed factories. This is the canvas into which Jamie steps—a jigsaw area, missing segments, parts shattered by economic decline. Outside a blacked-out doorway, more men loiter, waiting to be allowed in.

Les and his boyfriend, Mark, are bickering over what colour floor tiles they should have in the new conservatory. Billy is taking photographs with a new camera. Jamie rolls his eyes at Les. ‘I thought you were supposed to be introducing us to this den of iniquity.’ Shaking his head, he reaches and presses a buzzer painted with gelatinous black gloss. A little hatch opens in the door. Jamie turns and throws a surprised look at Billy. The gay bars and clubs of London are not secret or underground. Their names are scribbled in shouty bold colours and bright neon—Heaven, Freedom, Compton’s. Yet here they are, Jamie and Billy, displaced and dispossessed, at The Pink Flamingo, too fearful to kiss or hold hands, standing outside a bar with no windows, waiting for the voice of a bodiless mouth to invite them in.

‘Been here before?’ the voice asks, sharp and waspish. Jamie has not but gives an affirmative reply anyway. ‘You know what kind of bar this is, yeah?’ Again, he nods. And finally, ‘This is a bar for gay people and their friends. Any trouble and you’re out! Understand?’ Jamie nods once more. The door swings open and they’re in.

‘You’re bloody lucky that you get a Christmas at all,’ Gloria continues rasping, even as Jamie ushers his mother back into the kitchen. The sequins of her harlequin patterned Capri pants sparkling, despite the darkened atmosphere. ‘You know, I do Christmas lunch every year and what thanks do I get?’

‘Don’t get yourself upset, Gloria,’ Grandad calls after them. ‘Come on, why don’t we open our presents?’ Jamie can hear him rustling his carrier bags in the living room.

Gloria shouts, ‘No. We’ll do presents later, Dad. Your dinner’s nearly ready.’

‘Six and nine, sixty-nine… Two fat ladies, eighty-eight.’ The bingo caller, brushed with glamour—rhinestone jacket, black quiff, solarium tan—stares over his booth—a moist grin, white teeth, something obscene in his eyes.

Mid-game, Billy weaves through grey air saturated with fag smoke, down the gangway of old ladies. Jamie’s Nan sits at a table with her entourage, stabbing their sheets of bingo numbers with inky dabbers. ‘Here he is,’ she says in between numbers and indicates the space she’s kept for him. ‘Put y’bum down there.’

Justin David is the author of Kissing the Lizard and The Pharmacist. His new novel,

Tales of the Suburbs is out on May 2nd 2023, published by www.inkandescent.co.uk

Cast – in order of appearance:

• Alf and the Blue Lady — Paul Buchanan & David Cabaret
• Freddie — Nathan Evans
• Angie — Rose Thorne
• Billy — Alexis Gregory
• Gloria — Sarah-Louise Young
• Phyllis — Thom Shaw

As a boy growing up in the Black Country—drained grey by Mrs Thatcher’s steely policies—Jamie dreams of escape to a magical metropolis where he can rub shoulders with the mythical creatures who inhabit the pages of his Smash Hits. Although, his hometown is not without characters and Jamie’s life not without dramas—courtesy of a cast of West Midlands divas led by his mother, Gloria. Her one-liners are as colourful as the mohair cardies she carries off with the panache of a television landlady.

We follow Jamie through secondary school, teenage troubles and away to art school; there he experiences the flush of first love with Billy, and the rush of the big city. But what then? Will he return to the safety of Welston, or risk everything on a new life in London?

These flamboyantly funny stories of self-discovery, set against the shifting social scenery of the 80s and 90s, are for everybody who’s ever decided to be the person they are meant to be.

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