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There are few UK record labels more enduring or iconic than Rough Trade. What began in 1978 as a humble shop off Ladbroke Grove in west London is now an internationally recognised paragon of indie rock, remaining a mark of musical quality for decades. This year, the label branched out, bringing its "original spirit and radical direction to the world of book publishing", which, certainly, could always do with a shake-up.Back in June, the label launched its new venture, Rough Trade Books (snappy!), with 12 pamphlets collectively named Rough Trade Editions, which aim to "tell the stories of why counter-culture matters, has mattered and will matter". The works in the series vary in content and form, from poems to experimental fiction and photography â with pitstops over at illustration and interviews â and are authored by a roster of globally acclaimed writers and artists, including Joe Dunthorne, Jenn Pelly, Jon Savage and Ana de Silva.Another of the Rough Trade Editions writers is award-winning poet Melissa Lee-Houghton, who contributes a short fiction piece titled The Faithful Look Away to the project. Exploring mental health and body image within a domestic family setting, The Faithful Look Away exemplifies the originality, quality and fundamental Britishness of Rough Trade Books' ethos. You can read an extract from it, exclusive to VICE, below:* * *I have terrible things to forget. My routine keeps me grounded. Of course, we all have our crosses to bear, and needless to say I have had my fair share of unnecessary catastrophes, mostly due to the unwillingness of others to leave their baggage by the door. I admit I have been up against it, and the latest problem began in the supermarket a fortnight ago when my son-in-law, Kevin called me on my mobile. I was startled by the ringtone as I usually receive few calls and I answered but there was no sound. Then I heard someone crying, very loudly, so I hung up immediately as the noise penetrated my core and I felt as though thereâd been a big mistake. I went about choosing punnets of cherries and found the whiskey Malcolm likes, then filled the basket on my bike and began to ride home. Halfway up the road my phone rang again, so I stopped by a park and answered it. âHello Faith,â Kevin said. He sounded downtrodden, and I knew it was something to do with Kirsty, my youngest daughter. It always is. I asked him if everything was alright and strained for a response as it was difficult to hear, he sounded as though in some faraway place. âSheâs been taken onto the ward again,â he said. I said âoh, right.â What else can you say? He said, âitâs a different one than last time. Oh, you didnât go last time did you? Itâs an intensive care unit, so sheâs being cared for better this time.â I didnât really have much to say. He asked me, âdo you want the number for the ward?â I said, âno, itâs alright. I expect sheâll be busy.â Kevin became a little hostile. I began shaking. He said, âsheâs been in several times and not once have you visited. Itâs very difficult to do all this on my own, with two kids as well. You could help.â A car whizzed by and I felt as though I might pass out.At home I had so much to do that day I simply couldnât have visited even if I wanted to. I had to do three piles of washing and I canât send Malcolm to the office in an unironed shirt. Kirsty doesnât think of these things when she ends up in these states. We simply canât all drop everything. I didnât tell Malcolm about the phone conversation with Kevin, I decided it wouldnât be wise. He had never really taken strongly to either Kevin or Kirsty and I didnât like to push the subject. It was a situation made worse by their eldest son, Gregory, deciding to be gay. Malcolm says gay men are a disgrace to humanity and I donât argue with him, as he often flies into a rage about such thingsâactors mincing on the cinema screen and such. Itâs best not to broach the subject if it can be avoided at all. I worried the phone might ring and interrupt me again so I put it on silent for the rest of the day.That was really the worst of it that week. I didnât hear from Kirsty so presumed I wasnât needed. With her eldest being eighteen it wasnât like the kids needed minding anymore, and she had pushed me out of their lives like a splinter long ago. On the Friday Malcolm came home in a real slump of a mood and for the first time in four years we argued. He had walked in and left dirty footprints in the hallway, muddying my beautiful Persian runner, which cannot be cleaned with steam or detergent. When I told him I didnât know how to clean it he kicked off his shoes and sat down in the lounge without speaking. He had simply never done this before so I had to adapt quickly. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea but he just slumped into the sofa and sighed. I reminded him that this behaviour was most unusual and what had he to say for it. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, âFaith, Iâm fucking tired.â To say I was shocked doesnât adequately describe my feelings at this point. To say I was disappointed also doesnât touch it. I walked into the kitchen and trying to get the pots together for tea smashed my favourite porcelain mixing bowl on the kitchen tiles. I cut my finger picking up the pieces and although he heard it he didnât come to see if I was ok and instead, walked up the stairs and went to bed. At six oâclock!It only got worse. The next week, on the Friday, there was a knock at the door when I was hoovering the staircase, and I realised quickly I wasnât dressed suitably for company; I simply never had company. I was wearing shorts and hadnât shaved my legs and this caused me great anxiety as I tentatively opened the door. I wished Iâd had a little spyhole installed in the front door when weâd built the house and when I opened the door a little and peeked out I was most surprised to find Kirsty stood there, wet through to the skin. âItâs been raining,â I said. I realise I might have said something friendlier but I was so taken aback to see her. She rarely visited at the best of times, but as far as I knew she was in the hospital. She looked as though sheâd been crying though it might have just been the rain. She was wearing the most hideous denim dungarees and had her quilted coat open. I invited her in and she stomped all over my Persian runner. âOh,â I thought, âI might as well just give it to charity if people will insist on trampling on it.âI asked her to remove her footwear though as I looked at her feet I noticed there were no laces in her boots. I thought better than to ask why, itâs really the worst thing you can do with Kirsty. I asked her if sheâd like a cup of tea but she just plonked herself down and said she wanted to talk. I told her it was fine as long as she didnât stay all afternoon as I had a lot to get on with before Malcolm arrived home. She asked me if Kevin had told me why she had been in hospital again. I thought, not this again. I told her it wasnât necessary to fill me in on everything, that I realised she was ill when she had the little episode at her sisterâs birthday party a few weeks previous. I told her I didnât need to know the details, but that I hoped she was now recovered from the bout. She sat there, in my house, and swore under her breath. I said, âI beg your pardon?â Thatâs when it all kicked off.âSo Kevin didnât tell you I tried to kill myself?â is what she said. I said, âfor Godâs sake, not again. I thought youâd grown out of that,â which was how I felt but evidently not the ârightâ thing to say. I felt the impulse to add, âdo you not think about your poor children and how your behaviour must be disturbing them?â She looked at me for a moment and said, âreally, mother? Because as a matter of fact my children are emotionally secure, happy and stable. Itâs your children who have all the issues.â She added, âhave you heard from Jasper?â Jasperâs her brother who emigrated to Australia years ago.âWe spoke a couple of weeks back,â I told her.
âOh mother,â she said. âHow many times do you need to be told?â I had no idea what she was referring to so I kept quiet. âI have told you, Kevin has told you, and the social worker told you when I was on the ward. She had to tell you so you wouldnât let my children see him. Donât you understand?â I realised Iâd not put the slow cooker on at this point and felt a pang of anxiety at what would happen if I didnât get the tea on. I told her I really had to get on with things and didnât wish to argue. But she wouldnât let up. She said, âdo you know that the doctors say I have treatment resistant psychotic manic depression and that I might never improve?âI looked at her and saw that awful spite and malice sheâs always had in her eyes. âYou just need to try and control yourself,â I told her, âwhen you were young you didnât listen to me, and now you refuse to listen. You do not do yourself any good!â I began to raise my voice though I didnât especially want to and panic set in as she stood up and walked over to a picture I keep on the kitchen table.
âJasperâs enjoying a good life out there.â
âIâm not having a good life,â she said, coldly.
âJasperâs worked hard all his life for what heâs got.â
âOne day Bethany will get pregnant, heâll have kids,â she said.
âYes, I should imagine so,â I agreed, before adding, âand that will top his achievements off.â
âHow many times do I need to tell you what he did? What do you think Iâm talking about, mother?â she said, and her spiteful little mouth twisted.
âYouâve always been envious of your brother,â I said, refusing to be defeated.
âMy brother, the golden achiever, once wanked himself off over my face and made me lick it up.â
I was sickened. âFor Godâs sake!â I shouted.
âYou get like this every time, Kirsty, blaming people, making these stories up. If your poor brother knew you said these things heâd be very hurt! Is that what you want?â I was shouting and my throat felt hoarse.
âI do want that, mother,â she shouted. âI want that very much,â she continued. âYou donât listen to me because you donât love me. I accept that now, though itâs taken all these years. What I canât accept is how you delude yourself. You live in this little sterile bubble and no one can say a thing to you. You reject me and my children so you can clean your house and do your shopping.
'Youâll regret it all, one day.â She fell silent.You can buy The Faithful Look Away and all of the other Rough Trade Editions titles here.@hiyalauren / @MLeeHoughton
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âIâm not having a good life,â she said, coldly.
âJasperâs worked hard all his life for what heâs got.â
âOne day Bethany will get pregnant, heâll have kids,â she said.
âYes, I should imagine so,â I agreed, before adding, âand that will top his achievements off.â
âHow many times do I need to tell you what he did? What do you think Iâm talking about, mother?â she said, and her spiteful little mouth twisted.
âYouâve always been envious of your brother,â I said, refusing to be defeated.
âMy brother, the golden achiever, once wanked himself off over my face and made me lick it up.â
I was sickened. âFor Godâs sake!â I shouted.
âYou get like this every time, Kirsty, blaming people, making these stories up. If your poor brother knew you said these things heâd be very hurt! Is that what you want?â I was shouting and my throat felt hoarse.
âI do want that, mother,â she shouted. âI want that very much,â she continued. âYou donât listen to me because you donât love me. I accept that now, though itâs taken all these years. What I canât accept is how you delude yourself. You live in this little sterile bubble and no one can say a thing to you. You reject me and my children so you can clean your house and do your shopping.
'Youâll regret it all, one day.â She fell silent.You can buy The Faithful Look Away and all of the other Rough Trade Editions titles here.@hiyalauren / @MLeeHoughton