Sombras of the Noche: A Waterloo Road fan fiction. Chapter 1
This is the first chapter of a fan fiction I'm writing featuring an older Jonah and Cesca fifteen years down the line (the title translates as Secrets of the Night, it's mixed English and Spanish on purpose).
I wrote this a while ago and so far haven't written any more. I was going to wait to share until I'd written the whole thing, but I'm not getting around to it so I thought I'd share on here to see if people think I should bother.
Note that in the story, Cesca has become known professionally and personally as Fran Kirby, so it's harder for people to learn of her past.
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‘Earth to Fran?’
Fran Kirby looked up from her laptop. Her husband was cuddled up next to her. ‘I thought you were asleep,’ she said, distracted.
Jonah looked at her happily. ‘Nothing like the Spanish sunrise to wake you up in the morning. This villa’s fantastic, isn’t it?’
‘I was quite happy to find it,’ she said, self-consciously.
‘How much are we paying for it again?’
Fran sighed. ‘Too much. More than we can afford.’
Jonah grinned. ‘Bueno, podemos preocuparnos por eso cuando lleguemos a casa,’ he said in Spanish. (Well, we can worry about that when we get home.) ‘A Alfredo no le importará vivir en latas de frijoles durante un par de semanas.’ (Alfredo won’t mind living on tins of beans for a couple of weeks.)
Fran smiled. ‘Vale la pena por quince años, ¿no?’ she said dreamily. (It’s worth it for fifteen years, isn’t it?)
Jonah nodded. ‘No me arrepiento de un solo día.’ (I don’t regret a single day.)
‘Mm. Me neither,’ said Fran, switching back to English.
Friends and family often laughed at Fran and Jonah’s tendency to switch languages midway through conversation. It had happened more and more often over the years, particularly since Alfredo had learned to talk. Fran had been insistent on bringing their son up bilingual, so Jonah’s grasp of the Spanish language had improved rapidly. Although he hadn’t spoken a word of Spanish until he was sixteen years old, he was now just as confident in it as he had been in his native English tongue, and often slipped into Spanish without consciously being aware he was doing it.
Jonah looked at her laptop screen. ‘Fran…’
‘Yes, love?’ she asked, knowing what was coming next.
‘It’s our anniversary. Can’t you stop working for one day?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t risk it.’
‘You’re a pretty successful author now. You don’t have anything to worry about.’
‘Yes I do,’ she snapped. ‘There’s hardly any market left for Spanish-English dictionaries, no matter how up-to-date they are.’
‘AI’s just a fad,’ said Jonah without believing it, trying to reassure her. ‘No es substituto del toque humano.’ (It’s no substitute for the human touch.) He stroked her face to make his point.
Fran wished she could believe him. It wasn’t as if her career had been a disappointment. She’d had a number of very successful language-learning courses released, and although it had taken a while, she had become something of a respected name in her field. She’d even won a few awards, both in the UK and on the continent. These days, it was extremely rare that anyone associated Fran Kirby, the leading English-Spanish translator, with Cesca Montoya, the high school teacher from Rochdale who had hit the headlines fifteen years ago.
But for a long time now, she’d been thinking about how limited a shelf life her career now had. Her last few books had sold increasingly fewer copies. ‘It’s a sign of the times,’ her agent, Jane, had told her sympathetically. ‘A translator of your calibre can probably keep going a few more years, but it’s worth thinking about other careers.’ Jane, who always went above and beyond for her authors, had even emailed over a number of relevant opportunities and had offered to introduce Fran to various contacts she had, but Fran had been vague about it. She liked being an author and didn’t want to give it up. No matter how lucrative, conventional jobs required background checks - background checks she really wasn’t enthusiastic about. But they couldn’t keep living on Jonah’s meagre salary, could they?
The noise of Alfredo’s X-Box starting up next door told them they weren’t alone. It had been a Christmas present from his Abuelo last year. For a British child in 2025, Alfredo was surprisingly sheltered from technology. Jonah had inherited many of his father’s values regarding child development and had refused to even buy a television until Alfredo was ten, but Fran’s father had a tendency to be a bit overgenerous.
‘We’ve got company,’ said Jonah, getting out of bed, intending to give his son a firm reprimand.
‘Oh, let him have fun with it,’ Fran muttered. ‘At least someone’s having fun.’
‘I’m not having that!’ said Jonah firmly. ‘All right. I’ll admit, I’ve been a little bit dismissive about your job worries. I’ll come up with a solution when we get home. But for now, let’s enjoy our anniversary, yes?’
Giving in to the charm she could never resist, Fran cuddled up next to Jonah, listening to their fourteen-year-old son next door. ‘Jonah?’ she murmured.
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you still have times when you can’t believe Alfredo exists?’
Jonah thought for a moment, remembering when he’d first learned he was going to be a father. ‘I suppose we probably wouldn’t be here otherwise, would we?’ he said. ‘We’d have had to go our separate ways eventually, even if we didn’t want to.’
Fran looked into his beautiful brown eyes. ‘Me alegro de que no lo hayamos hecho,’ she whispered. (I’m glad we didn’t.)