Sharon lives in mid-Wales with her husband and two young sons. She works as a primary school teacher but has always dreamt of being a writer. Last year, whilst on maternity leave, she finally decided to give the dream a go. This is her first entry in a writing competition and the story was inspired by fragments of memory from her own childhood.

The snow is falling heavier now, a vanilla softness on the ground. I won’t go much further. Just up to the woods for some shelter. Silly really, not to remember to bring my hat and gloves. But I won’t stay long, just long enough for them to realise that their arguing isn’t important, not really, not when they have a daughter missing. They’ll realise how much time they’ve been wasting on accusing and remember what is was like to be happy. Then it’ll all be ok again. I know it.

I can’t really pinpoint the moment it started, an actual event, it was more of a gradual blackness descending on us, like it had been lurking in the corners all along waiting to seep its way into our lives. Dad works away, travels a lot. He says it’s the only way to get the business off the ground and that Mum should understand. He says it won’t be forever. Mum stays at home, always has done since having my big brother. Then I came along. It took them a long time they say, they called me their miracle. I like that.

I remember being happy. I mean, really happy. Everything just as it should be. I know Mum and Dad argued sometimes, but that’s normal isn’t it? Everyone argues sometimes.

But things changed. Quieter somehow. Less arguing, quiet. That’s worse. No one saying anything. My brother, he doesn’t stay home much now. Always round his friend’s house, so I have no one to ask. Sometimes at night, I lie on my bedroom floor in the dark trying to hear them talking. Do you ever do that? Really not wanting to know something, but can’t help yourself finding out anyway? I listen hard and try to understand.

Last summer I heard Mum say, “That’s it, after we get back from the holiday I want you to pack your bag and go. Not now, I won’t ruin this holiday for Ellie, but as soon as we get back that’s it, Mark. I can’t do this anymore.”

I was only six then. We went on our holiday, in the caravan. The best week of every year. We had a great time, I forgot all about the blackness. Mum and Dad were happy. In the evenings, Dad would take me to the fairground and Mum would stay in the caravan reading. We’d get back really late and the caravan would be dark and we’d giggle because we knew Mum hadn’t gone to bed, but had stuck the match through the wick of the gas lights and burnt it, and would be sitting there with her little torch trying to see the words. She’d be angry to start, but once Dad had the lights on again, she’d laugh with us.

After the holiday, everything was better. Dad didn’t seem to be away as much and there was talking in the house again. Then one Saturday it all started again. We were meant to be going out for the day; me, Mum and Dad. I liked it like this, just the three of us. Anyway, I was in the back of the car ready and Dad got in and started up. I thought Mum was taking her time with her make up and ear rings and that Dad was getting impatient. But he drove the car right out of the drive and kept going. I didn’t say a word. I felt too silly to say, “Um, we’ve forgotten Mum.”

On we drove until we got to Shentworth. We parked and Dad still hadn’t said a word. He asked where I wanted to go and I shrugged. He smiled and we went to the toy shop. “Go on, go and choose something.” I walked around, uneasy, unsure. I picked up a few items and put them back.

“Have you chosen?” he asked when he came to find me. I shook my head. He frowned, lines burrowing in his forehead.  “A teddy, you like teddies. Let’s choose a teddy.”

The little black puppy sat in my lap in the car. It had two beady little black eyes and looked like the saddest soft toy I’d ever seen. I fought back the tears and tried not to sniff.  Later I think I put that puppy in the bottom of the chest and I never looked at it again.

On the way home, we pulled into the Fisherman’s Inn. The open fire was blazing in the bar and the cheery chatter should have been welcoming, but it felt all wrong. Dad ordered a sandwich for me and the bread stuck in my throat, tasteless. Dad didn’t eat.

When we got home, Mum was sitting in the dark, no burnt wicks this time. I went to bed.  I think that was the worst day of my life.

Nothing was said after. No one explained why Mum hadn’t come. I never asked and they never said. Strange isn’t it, how everyone knows it’s there but choose not to see it. Mum smiles but the redness around her eyes can’t hide it. Dad plays, but his laughter never reaches his eyes.

Sometimes, at night, I’ll sit at my window and stare at the crab apple tree at the bottom of the garden. You see, there’s a door on the trunk of the tree, half way up. No bigger than my thumb. I once tried to tell my brother but he laughed and said there’s no such thing as fairies and Santa. Well, I’m not stupid. Every seven year old knows there’s no Santa, because if there was he would bring me the present I wish for every year, not fill my stocking with toys. But fairies? I don’t know. Why else would there be a door on our tree?

Anyway, I sit with my eyes closed and wish myself to the fairy kingdom inside my crab apple tree and I make little wooden trinkets with the Crabble Fairies. I imagine leaving a beautiful gift for my Mum to find and she’ll think it’s from Dad, and she’ll realise that he does love her really and the blackness will go and the laughter will come back. You probably think I’m stupid too. I know how it sounds.  But it doesn’t stop me.

I didn’t go to school yesterday, I wasn’t feeling too good.  I lay on my bed reading and I could see Mum unpacking Dad’s suitcase to do the washing. Dad’s like that. Then she suddenly sat on the end of the bed and started crying, sobbing into her hands. I wanted to cross the landing, sit next to her and hold her hand and tell her everything’s going to be ok. But I was frozen to my bed. My whole body too heavy to move, to breathe. I don’t know how long we stayed like this, me and Mum. Eventually she went downstairs and I breathed. I stayed in bed waiting. I don’t know what Mum found in that suitcase, but I knew something bad was going to happen later.

Dad came home and ate his tea. Mum stayed silent, busy. They watched telly. I must have fallen asleep for a while because when I woke up they were already shouting.

“How could you? How could you lie to me all this time? All this time I confronted you, and you denied it.”

“I’m telling the truth. They’re not mine. Mike asked me to bring them for him before going in case Angie found them. You know what he’s like, Kate. Angie’s told him the next time will be the last, but that doesn’t stop him. Anyway he didn’t need them so I forgot all about them. Why would I leave them there for you to find? I didn’t remember they were there for God’s sake. Besides, look, they haven’t even been opened!”

“You liar! How many have there been Mark? Shit! I know there’s been no action in our bed for months, so they’re certainly not for us are they!”

“Will you just listen? I’ve told you they’re not mine. There have been no others. I know things are strained between us Kate, but I wouldn’t do that. I know things are difficult for you, having to stay at home and, well maybe it’s coming back? The depression, maybe you should see Dr –”

“How dare you? How dare you turn this on me. This isn’t my fault. Just go, Mark. Go to whoever she is.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Kate. There’s no point talking to you like this. I’m going to sleep in the back bedroom. I’ll be leaving early in the morning; we’ll talk when I get back tomorrow night. In the meantime please, phone Mike. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

I heard Dad climb the stairs heavily and close the door behind him. I heard Mum crying, deep heavy sobs. I cried too. I don’t understand but I cry.

When I woke up this morning, that’s when I decided. I decided to fix this. No one else is going to, so I will. I’ve thought about it all day. I got home and told Mum that Lauren had asked me for tea and that I could walk over there and her Mum would bring me home about eight because it’s the weekend tomorrow. She said ok, but never looked at me.

I needed to leave quickly, which is why I’ve forgotten my hat and gloves. But we never get too much snow. It’s sure to stop soon. Like I said, when I get to the woods I’ll sit and wait and I’ll look at my breath in the air for a while and then when it’s dark, I’ll go home. And I know Mum and Dad will have been worrying, they’ll probably call the police and I’ll be in real trouble, but it’ll pass and I won’t be living in the blackness anymore because they will have realised their mistakes and we’ll be happy. I bet we’ll go on holiday next summer even though Dad sold the caravan this year. He’ll probably buy another one, maybe one that has an electric hook-up so Mum can do the lights. I smile – yes that’s what we’ll do.

I get to the woods and sit under some branches. It’s snowing heavier and the sky is full. I’m a little worried but I’ll be alright. Like I said, I don’t need to stay long. My toes and fingers hurt, I shiver. I look down at the fields, I can’t see the houses anymore but I know my way. Our house is in a valley and Mum always tells me not to come up the fields by myself. She says I’ll get lost in the woods or fall into a ditch and break my leg.

She does worry.

The darkness comes quickly. I’ve no idea what time it is. I don’t have a torch. I didn’t think. My footsteps have been covered up but I know I only have to go down to get home.

I think I should go home now. It’s darker than I thought. I lose my footing and I fall and the snow soaks through my clothes. I’ll probably catch a death of cold. Again I slip and I try to grab something to help but there’s only snow. And then I’m falling and I roll and I hit something hard. Pain shoots through me and I can’t think right. I can’t move and the snow falls its softness on me. I close my eyes and I wait and I hurt. But they’ll come soon. They’ll stop arguing and they’ll come for me and there’ll be light and laughing again.

Autumn Competition, 2011

First Place – The Elephant in the Room by Steve Cobb

Second Place – Will They Come Here? by Annie Williams

Third Place – Yes, but … by Clare Girvan

---------------

Steve Cobb

Steve lives in rural Yorkshire with his wife and three young children. A recent family incident was the inspiration for The Elephant in the Room, which made Steve think about the things that families don’t talk about.

The Elephant in the Room

‘How’s she doing?’

Sarah just shook her head and gave me one of her “don’t ask” smiles. ‘We’re all in the conservatory. It’s such a lovely day Pam thought it’d be a good idea if we had lunch out there for a change.’

I followed her through the house to the wide glass-fronted sun-trap Sarah and her husband Pete called a conservatory. On a day like today it was an oven and everyone but Pam sat uncomfortably hot and sweating, but didn’t say a word in protest. The bouquet of flowers I carried seemed to instantly wilt in the heat.

I nodded a “hello” to the others then noticed the glass of water and collection of pills on the low table next to Pam.

‘Oh they’re lovely, Michael,’ she said taking the bouquet off me. ‘You’re such a good boy. No one else bothered with flowers.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Pete’s eyes widen and his mouth drop. ‘She told us not to get any flowers,’ I heard him whisper to Sarah. ‘Said she hated the bloody things.’

His wife just gave him another knowing look and kept her smile fixed.

I knelt down so that I wasn’t towering over her and kissed Pam on the cheek. It was rough and dry like sand paper. ‘How’re you feeling?’

Even in the glass oven it felt like the temperature dropped about twenty degrees as the others seem to tense up, but Pam kept that big grin on her face.

‘Never better,’ she said. ‘I’m running the half-marathon next week, you know.’

The others gave a polite laugh.

‘Is that right?’ I asked. ‘Who’s going to be carrying your oxygen tanks for you?’

Another sharp drop in temperature.

Pam just laughed and patted my face with one of her leathery hands.

‘Sarah, dear,’ she said holding the bouquet out. ‘Will you put these in some water before they die?’

Sarah’s smile disappeared for the briefest of moments then came back as strong as ever. ‘Of course I will.’

‘Now then,’ Pam continued after Sarah had taken the flowers, ‘come and sit here and tell me all about what you get up to in London. Must be more exciting than this boring back-water.’

I sat next to her and held her cold hand as I gabbled on about life in the music industry. A long time ago Pam told me that she would have liked to have become a singer but back then family came first and it never happened. I remember when me and Sarah went to live with her after mum died; I heard her singing as she was doing the washing up one afternoon. She had a lovely voice; very Doris Day.

The spark came back to her tired eyes as I spoke and her grin became a huge smile.

I managed to corner Sarah later on in the kitchen on my way back from the loo. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘What did the docs have to say?’

‘Really, Michael, now’s not the time.’ She tried to push past me but I held firm.

‘Bloody hell! If now’s not the time then when is?’ My voice was maybe a touch on the loud side and Sarah actually looked scared. I didn’t care. I needed to know the truth. ‘What did they say?’

She took a breath, seemed to compose her self and smiled at someone over my shoulder. I turned to see Pete sitting in the conservatory with an anxious look on his face. I nodded and smiled at him as well.

‘Why do you have to be like this?’ she whispered.

‘Like what?’

‘This. I know that you think you’re some sort of comedian but really. I mean, you hadn’t been here thirty seconds before you came out with that quip about oxygen tanks. I ask you? How insensitive can you be?’

‘What is that you and everyone else out there seem to be so scared about?’

‘You live in a different world, Michael. Sometimes I just think that you’ve got no idea at all about what happens in real life.’

She’s never understood what I do. There are parties, sure, but there are also eighteen-hour days stuck in a sound-proof box trying to make tone-deaf morons sound otherwise. It’s a job but all she thinks about is the sort of stuff that reaches the pages of Hello! magazine.

‘What did the doctors say?’ I say the words like I’m talking to a child.

‘She’s dying. Okay?’

‘With the cancer we’ve known that for a long time.’

‘I mean she’s dying.’ Sarah’s face hardened. ‘They think she’s maybe got a day or two at most. They wanted to keep her in but you know what she’s like. She didn’t want to die in hospital. She wants to die here.’

‘And everyone knows?’

She nodded.

‘And you were going to tell me when?’

‘She asked me not to say anything to you. She doesn’t want you to worry.’

‘Worry? Jesus.’ I turn to go back into the oven but Sarah’s hand stops me.

‘She said that she remembers your face when she had to tell you about mum. How heart-broken you were. She said she didn’t want to cause you pain like that again.’

I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, blank.

‘Promise me,’ Sarah said, ‘promise me that you won’t let on I’ve told you?’

I shook my head. Suddenly I found it hard to swallow. ‘I won’t say a word.’

‘And wipe your eyes. Don’t let her see you crying, for God’s sake.’

She gave me a peck on the cheek and I let her through into the conservatory. I went back to the bathroom, splashed water on my face and watched in the mirror as the drops fell from my reflection.

‘Right then,’ I said clapping my hands as I stepped back into the conservatory, ‘who’s up for a bit of a dance? Pam, fancy a bit of a boogie?’

---------------

Annie Williams

The recent riots in London and across the UK inspired Annie to write Will They Come Here? and wanted to tackle the subject from a different angle. Annie constantly writes short stories and has made an impressive collection of rejection letters.

Will They Come Here?

Lionel heard the TV news report as soon as he opened the door. Meg had got the volume turned up too high, again. He bundled the loaded shopping bags into the hallway and pushed the door closed with his bum.

‘Is that you?’ Meg called from the back room.

‘No, I’m a hoodie from one of those estates. Who do you think it is?’

‘There’s no need for that.’ Meg appeared in the doorway. Her eyes glistened with tears and she had a grey cardigan pulled tight across her chest. She flicked her eyes over the plastic carrier bags. ‘Did you get everything?’

‘Just about. People are panic-buying like crazy.’ Lionel shuffled into the kitchen and dumped the bags onto the counter with a sigh. ‘I got the last few tins of tomato soup. Had to wrestle a granny for them.’

‘It’s getting worse out there.’ Meg placed a hand on his arm. ‘I’ve just been watching it.’

‘I’ve told you not to; it’ll only make you worry more.’

He eased past her and moved into the back room, picking up the TV remote from the arm of Meg’s chair. The news reporter continued her announcement with a serious expression. Lionel muted the sound but the images of burning buildings and masked people smashing shop windows continued in glorious High Definition.

‘Wish I hadn’t forked out the money for that bloody thing now,’ he said dropping the remote back down. ‘Bet that’s the first thing the little bastards would take.’

Meg stepped up behind him and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘That was someone’s home,’ she muttered. ‘The woman on the TV said that they looted the shop below and then set it on fire. Can you believe it; burning someone’s entire possessions for the sake of a new pair of running shoes?’

‘Well it’s not going to happen here,’ Lionel replied. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Did you get the wood from the shed?’

Meg nodded. ‘And all of the nails. I didn’t know which ones you’d want. It’s all by the back door.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ he said kissing her cheek. ‘Why don’t you start putting the shopping away and make me a tea while I get started? Eh? What do you say?’

She nodded again and went back into the kitchen.

Lionel took off his jacket and collected the planks of wood, hammer and nails by the back door. ‘I’ll make a start with the front,’ he called.

He held one plank up across the front door, checking to see if it fit. ‘Perfect.’

Holding the nails between his teeth he hammered one after the other through the plank and into the wooden door surround. He tugged on it to make sure it was sound. ‘Let’s see if the little bastards can get through that.’

He secured four planks across the top half of the door and three below the letter box. He held the plank up to block the opening but decided to take one last look outside before nailing the wood into place.

‘Do you really think they’ll come here?’ Meg called from the kitchen.

Lionel lifted the letter box flap and peered into the gathering darkness. The open fields outside his front door were ominously quiet but the village of Winstanton Chatterly was only three miles away and it was well known that several youths gathered in the square after dark, drinking and smoking. Two of them even wore hoodies.

‘I hope not, love,’ he muttered. ‘I hope not.’

---------------

Clare Girvan

Clare Girvan lives in a pretty Devon estuary town with her journalist husband and three cats.  She has won prizes and commendations in many short story competitions, but is now concentrating chiefly on writing plays, which have been performed in various locations around the country. Remaining ambitions: to have a play produced in a London
theatre, publish the/a novel and win the Bridport short story competition.

And the Booker would be nice.  Website - www.claregirvan.co.uk

Yes, but …

I never have any problems finding the houses. Mansions, semis, flats, bungalows, caravans, houseboats; they’re all the same to me but I never make a mistake.

Fallowell Park is like any other council estate. Some houses, some maisonettes. Part well-kept, part run-down; some pretty gardens where the residents plant out busy lizzies and begonias every spring; some all over motorbike parts, bricks and scrubby bits of grass.

James hasn’t been well and is slow to answer the door. He’s a short man, more shrunken lately; he’s lost weight, his grey hair is skimpy and his clothes look loose. He peers at me.

‘Mr Littlewood?’ I always observe the formalities to begin with.

‘Yes, who are you?’

‘My name’s Baxter. We have an appointment for two twenty seven. I’m a little early.’

‘Have we? You’d best come in, then.’ Another one that doesn’t question a smart suit and a briefcase. Amazing how many don’t.

‘The wife’s out. Have you got time for a cup of tea?’ he says.

‘All the time in the world.’

The room is clean enough but not well cared-for; dull wallpaper, unchanged for twenty years, curtains detaching themselves from their hooks, magazines on the sofa, a plate still on the table. Some mustard yellow knitting on a chair. Faint smell of frying. I like places to be clean. It makes the job more pleasant. Disgusting, some of them; newspapers, boxes, food, animal crap, all sorts. One woman used to make up a week’s supply of food every Monday and eat it regardless of its condition by Sunday. I was glad I didn’t have to visit on a Sunday. James and Glenda don’t eat much or very well. Glenda is not an imaginative cook, and James has little interest in food.

‘Nice place,’ I say when he brings the tray in. matching cups, Rich Tea biscuits.

‘It’s all right. Nothing special.’

How have you been keeping, James?’ He doesn’t notice the familiarity.

‘Oh, living, you know.’

‘How was the hospital?’

‘Awful, messed about by foreign doctors. They don’t know what they’re doing. I’m still not right, get tired a lot. I’ve got to go back again next week.’

‘Getting out much?’

‘The pub in the evenings sometimes. I do the crossword.’

‘And how’s Mrs Littlewood?’

‘All right. Gone to see her mate. It’s nice to have the place to myself for a bit. She says I get under her feet.’

There’s a wedding photograph on the TV. Black and white. A handsome couple; him in his army uniform, her dark-haired and smiling, holding a huge fall of roses almost down to her feet. No pictures of children, grandchildren.

I have everything in my records. Glenda wanted children at first, but the disappointing years resigned her to a life of just her and James. They never spoke of it.

He had been a bright child, passed six of his eight GCEs and, had things been different, I could have seen him as a floppy-haired undergrad in his shirtsleeves, punting young women down the Cam. But his mother didn’t think he was university material. He would join the army, like his father.

‘No good having fancy ideas, Jimsy. You’ll learn a trade in the army.’

Nor did his girlfriends satisfy her.

‘Too loud, Jimsy. That voice. She’ll drive you mad.’

‘Doesn’t she ever speak, that one? Can’t get a word out of her.’

‘She wants too much spending on her, Jimsy. You can’t afford it, on your pay.’

‘You’d think she’d dress a bit smarter, on what they pay her.’

He was a bad chooser, she said. James could never resist disparagement, and one by one they disappeared.

Glenda, however, was made of determined stuff. She managed to get him past Mrs Littlewood and down the aisle, but regretted it later when she realised that James was never going to provide her with the nice three-bedroomed semi that her heart was set on, nor was he ever going to get the managerial chair she had hoped for. Furthermore, his mother was going to be as much a part of their marriage as she was. She took refuge in her work as a classroom assistant and spent her evenings cutting out paper fish and letting the washing up accumulate.

‘I warned you, Jimsy,’ his mother said, examining a teacup.

The army hadn’t been James's choice but he had taken to it. It became like a family to him. he had mates and he knew where he was and what he had to do. He was almost happy. But Glenda wasn’t having that. She wanted him where she could see him.

‘You’re never home, Jim,’ she said. ‘It’s all army, army, army with you. I don’t like spending all that time on my own. I’m entitled to have my husband here. You’ll have to get a proper job.’

He got a job as an assembly line worker, putting car parts together. The workshop was noisy; the workers shouted and developed codes to cut across the noise. He did not.

‘Nobody’s going to want to hear what I have to say anyway,’ he would say.

He was made redundant when a recession hit, and became a bed salesman in a small shop at the back of town, travelling in daily on the bus.

‘It’s not much of a job,’ Glenda said.

‘People need a good night’s sleep,’ he said.

‘I want you in the manager’s job in five years,’ she said.

But his mother had done her work well. I remember his mother. The best I can say is that she meant well. Her expectations for him were not high. ‘You’re just not manager material,’ she said.

James didn’t mind. It saved him the trouble of trying and failing. He knew his limitations.

‘I know my limitations,’ he would say. ‘There’s no point in me taking on something I know I can’t do. I couldn’t go for any kind of job that wanted brain-work.’

‘If they’d given you more for your redundancy, we could have had a car,’ Glenda said.

‘There’s lessons to pay for and petrol’s just gone up again,’ he said. ‘And I know who’d have to do all the driving.’

He has a few acquaintances but no friends.

‘I’m no good at socialising,’ he would say. ‘I don’t like going to places where there are going to be people. They wouldn’t want me there so I might as well stay at home.’

At Christmas he and Glenda stay with her brother and his family.

‘Did you have a good time?’ asks Fred next door.

‘Well,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I’d rather stay at home, to be honest. I don’t really like Christmas and I can’t afford to give everyone presents. All those children.’

‘Why don’t you say you’d rather not go?’ says Fred. ‘Tell them you can’t afford it. They’ll understand. Maybe they’d rather you didn’t buy presents anyway but don’t want to offend you.’

He shrugs. There’s a finality to a shrug that no one can argue with. It says. ‘I hear what you say but I’ll do it my own way.’

Fred thinks he needs drawing out.

‘You need to get out more, mate,’ he says over the low hedge. ‘Why don’t you join something?’

‘I joined a stamp club once,’ James says. ‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Our montbretias are running wild,’ says Fred. ‘Would you like a few for outside?’

‘I’m not keen on gardening,’ James says. ‘Things only die when they get to me.’

‘You’re a right bloody misery, you are,’ Fred says cheerfully. ‘Fancy a beer?’

Fred likes to get out and about – the pub quiz, the garden, a walk with the dog, a bike ride, a chat with a neighbour – and will occasionally invite him to a Sunday match, but James has no interest in sport. He shakes his head at Fred’s energy and constant occupation, accepts his beer, discusses whether Fred’s answer to a question on Attila The Hun should have got a point, but has no wish to emulate him.

‘I’m not one for socialising,’ he says. ‘They won’t want me around.’

‘You shouldn’t put yourself down all the time,’ Fred says. ‘People might start to believe you.’

‘Best that I tell them beforehand, then they’re not surprised.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Fred says.

I glance surreptitiously at my watch. Eight minutes past two.

‘What was out appointment for?’ James asks.

‘I was looking at your wedding photograph,’ I say. ‘You both look very happy.’

‘Huh,’ he says. ‘The photographer tells you to smile. Worst day of my life.’

‘Yes?’

‘If I’d known what she was going to be like, I’d have run a mile. My mother warned me but you know what you’re like when you’re young. Think you know best. From the day we got back off honeymoon it was: Jim, do this; Jim, do that; Jim, I want this; Jim, I want that. She’d have my wages out of my hand the minute I got in and woe betide me if I’d opened them. Bloody selfish cow.’

‘How long have you been married, James?’

‘No idea. Fifty years maybe, I don’t know. Too long.’

 ‘Getting plenty of exercise? It’s important to keep moving at your age.’

‘Too tired. I told you. What’s the point? At my age.’

‘You could have got a dog.’ A dog lead is still hanging from a coat peg in the hall. ‘You like animals and it would have been company for you. You could have taken it for walks.’

‘She won’t have one. Won’t stand for all the hairs. Besides, you get too attached to them. I had one once, but it died. Don’t want to go through that again. It’s not worth it.’

‘It’s all part of life, James. Loving and losing.’

‘Mostly losing in my case.’

James picks up the tea tray and takes it out into his little duck-egg blue kitchen. I lean against the door while he rinses the cups.

‘Tell me, James, what was the one thing in your life that you really wanted?’

‘Dunno.’ He smiles slightly. ‘I wanted to be a tightrope walker when I was six. But wanting what you can’t have only makes you miserable. I used to fancy opal-mining in Australia.’

‘You could have.’

‘Maybe, but I couldn’t afford to go, and I get claustrophobic in caves. And if it hadn’t worked out, I’d have been stuck here.’

in my job, I often get flashes of what-might-have-been, and I’m struck by another image of James, as a brown, stringy-legged swagman in a sweat-stained hat, poking a stick into a fire and shooting sparks up into the black Australian night. The life would have suited him.

I’m not supposed to say it, but James disappoints me. Some of my – clients – have a thick folder that speaks of the full life thoroughly lived, but James has left only the slightest dent in his surroundings. He does no harm but he is only good by default. From a belief that there is nothing anyone might want from him, he does no favours. He makes no friends, so that he can never be wounded if they leave. He knows they will soon have had enough of him, so he forestalls them. He doesn’t know how wounded he already is. I wait for a moment.

‘You know, James, you put me in a very awkward position.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I have to make out my report.’

‘What report? What’s awkward about it?’

‘The only words that occur to me are “Yes, but …” I can hardly write that.’

‘I don’t get it.’

No. You see, we all have to account for ourselves. In a very short while, I’ll hand in my assessment, such as it is, and you are going to be asked, “Well, James, and what did you do with the life you were given?” I’m rather concerned what you will find to say.’

‘At least I haven’t been running round like a blue-arsed fly like him next door.’

‘Life is for living, James.’

‘So they tell me. Have to sit down. My chest hurts.’

I check my watch again. Two twenty six. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘I think that completes our interview. We’d better be going.’

‘Going? Where to?’

‘You know where, James. Look at me.’

He stares at me.

‘Oh. Is that it, then? Is there anything I should do?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Who’s going to tell her? And I think I left the tap on.’

‘Too late for that. It’s all over. Just sit back and relax.’

Obediently, he closes his eyes.

                                     --------------

Summer Competition, 2011

First Place – Finding Solace by Sammy DeLapp

Second Place – Football Crazy by Kath Mackenzie

Third Place – Mothers’ Pride by Clay Iles

---------------

Sammy DeLapp

Sammy lives in Worcester, Massachusetts and has been a fan of Victorian-era Steampunk Horror for many years. He spends most of his free time reading and writing genre stories, or playing online games. Finding Solace is his first published story.

Finding Solace

The last rays of a dying summer sun cast shards of rich fuchsia and orange across the wooded coastal headland. The carpet of pine needles beneath the trees held onto the last vestiges of warmth the day had brought and a family of rabbits grazed on fresh grass shoots which grew on the edge of the ruler-straight set of rail tracks, safe in the tranquillity of the early evening.

One of the older rabbits paused in its grazing, pricked its ears and sat up on its haunches. The others quickly followed suit; each turning to face the same direction. They scattered to the safety of their burrow moments before the steam locomotive Merthyr Mawr thundered into view.

Grey-white smoke billowed high into the air from the engine’s chimney, diffusing the colourful evening light. Three carriages trailed after the black engine; the first two carriages were window-lined and lit with flickering candles, but the last was a secure box of metal and shuttered glass.

Consciousness slowly returned to Samuel Carberry. He murmured and licked his lips, awakening to find himself lying face down in the aisle being rocked by the sway of the train. There was a lightening-like pain spearing through his head and a heavy weight across his legs.

Samuel raised a hand and probed at the point where the pain split his skull: he winced, pulling back bloodied fingers. It was then that he noticed the mass of bodies around him. Perhaps a dozen or more people lay in the carriage; some were draped over the high-backed seating, some were piled in the aisle on top of one another; and others were still in their seats as though they had been surprised by whatever had attacked them.

Blood abounded – the other passenger’s finery splattered with gore and their once pristine evening wear now patterned a slaughter-house red.

Samuel retched yellow bile. He wiped his chin clear with the back of one hand and turned to see that the weight on his legs was the wide-eyed corpse of a large man. A spiked metal club; its points thick with drying blood, lay by the dead man. Samuel kicked himself free, gripped the edge of the seating next to him and shakily got to his feet.

His breath came in deep, laboured wracks, now that he saw the full extent of the carnage. ‘My God,’ he muttered, ‘what on earth happened?’

He caught site of his reflection in the window – his jacket and shirt was mottled with blood and a deep gash of congealed blood cut across the side of his head, matting his curly blond hair. He gingerly raised his hand once more to probe the wound but the glint of candle-light off the gold band around his finger caused him to pause.

‘Alice.’ His eyes widened. ‘Alice!’

He scanned the bodies around him. There was no sight of her.

He pulled at the dead – turning them around, desperate to not find the face of his wife among the women. It had been ten years since he’d been amid such carnage, yet the horrors he’d encountered in the Boer War came back to him as if they’d occurred only yesterday. He called his wife’s name over and over, but she was not among the dead.

His head throbbed, threatening to overwhelm his senses. To one end of the carriage was the doorway leading through to the rear compartment and at the other the connection to the other passenger carriage. The door was blood-smeared.

He heaved the rear door open and was immediately buffeted by the wind. The door to the carriage ahead of him was a solid oak door – there was no handle to it, only a large keyhole. He pounded on the door.

‘Hello!’ he shouted over the rattled of the train. ‘Is there anyone there? Can anyone hear me? I need help.’

He looked to the side; he could see tall trees whipping past in the darkness of the night. He returned to the quiet of the glass-sided carriage. He had no choice but to go forward. Samuel had to suppress another retch as he opened the door to the adjacent carriage as he took in the sight of more carnage. It looked as if some sort of wild beast had had tore its way through the length of the space. Tears dripped from his reddened eyes.

‘Alice.’ His voice was little more than whisper.

He stepped around the bodies as best he could; trying not to tread on them despite the rocking of the train. Samuel made his way across along the aisle – his wife not among the dead. He called Alice’s name once more.

A faint, feminine whimper came from under one of the blood-spattered tables.

‘Alice!’ He tore at the table like a man possessed but instead of his wife’s face he looked into the panicked blue eyes of a woman barely out of her teens. Her evening dress was spotted with blood. She screamed.

Samuel held out his hands. ‘It’s all right,’ he told her. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.’

She screamed louder.

‘Please, Miss; I’m not going to hurt you. I’m looking for my wife. Alice Carberry, do you know her?’

The woman shied as far back into the corner as she could and hid her face in red-speckled lace gloves. Samuel reached down and gripped her shoulders, shaking her. ‘Please, Miss. Have you seen her?’

The woman looked up with tears in her eyes. She shook her head.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he repeated. ‘My name’s Samuel. Samuel Carberry.’

‘Imogen,’ she replied, cautiously. ‘Imogen Roberts.’

‘What happened here?’ He helped the woman to her feet.

Imogen shook her head again. ‘Everyone’s dead. I … We heard screams. One of the men looked through the window­—’ she turned to the connecting door to the rear carriage ‘—He said that they were all being killed. I hid.’

‘Who was killing them? I don’t understand. What did they want?’

‘I just hid,’ Imogen answered. ‘I heard the door open; there was a gunshot and people started screaming. I stayed under the table and kept my eyes closed. After a while it all went quiet but I just couldn’t move. Don’t you know what happened?’

Samuel touched the congealed wound on his head. ‘No I … I don’t remember anything.’

Imogen’s eyes suddenly went wider. ‘The killers,’ she gasped, ‘do you think they’re still on board?’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t get into the rear compartment. Someone’s still driving the train, though.’

‘We have to get off. We have to get away.’

‘It’s pitch black out there,’ he said. ‘God knows where we are. If we jump we could be killed. No, we’ll have to stop the train and call for help. I have to find my wife. I’m going up to the engine and see if there’s anything I can do. You’d better stay here.’

‘No! You can’t leave me by myself. What if the killers haven’t left? What if they come back?’

Samuel thought about it then nodded. ‘Very well. You’ll need this, though.’ He took of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘It’ll be cold out there.’

Samuel opened the door leading to the engine. Steam and the aroma of burning fuel stung his eyes. They edged around the large black Tender which held the water and coal and stepped onto the Driver’s cab, the landscape flashing past them in a blur.

 In the centre of the cab’s platform, in the orange glow of a Bulls-eye lantern, the Driver shovelled coal into the furnace – his movements relentless, mechanical.

‘Please,’ Samuel shouted, ‘there’s been a terrible murder.’

The Driver ignored his plea, continuing in his work.

‘We have to stop the train,’ Imogen yelled. ‘Don’t you understand? Everyone’s been murdered.’

The Driver continued unabated.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ Samuel yelled. ‘Stop feeding the furnace.’

The Driver stopped shovelling coal, stood upright and turned to face Samuel. The Driver’s eyes were completely white, his face devoid of emotion. Imogen screamed and buried her face into Samuel’s shoulder.

Samuel’s jaw dropped. ‘What the devil’s going on here?’

Samuel closed the connecting door once he and Imogen had stepped back into the passenger compartment, cutting out the cold, evening wind. The young woman’s face had gone pale.

‘His …’ Imogen muttered, ‘his eyes were white. Did you see that? Why were they like that?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked through the nearest window. ‘At least we’re slowing down now.’

‘He ignored me but stopped when you told him to. Why?’

‘I’ve told you; I don’t know. The rear carriage is locked. If we want to find out whatever’s going on then we need to get into it.’

‘How can we if it’s locked?’

Samuel’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ll smash it down if I have to. Alice isn’t in either of these to carriages. If she’s still on the train then she’ll be in there.’

Samuel pounded against the oaken door with the leg he’d ripped from one of the tables. After several minutes the most he’d achieved was a slight denting of the wood.

He collapsed against the connecting door frame, weeping, and held his head in his hands. The train had stopped now but the chill night wind still whipped against them. Imogen pulled Samuel’s jacket tighter to her and felt something hard in one of the pockets.

She dipped her hand into the pocket and pulled out a long, metal key. She looked from the key to the lock. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The lock mechanism was smooth and they both heard the inner latch release.

Samuel looked up at her. ‘What did you do?’

‘There was a key in your jacket.’

‘What? I don’t understand.’

Imogen paused. ‘Neither do I.’

He pushed the oak door open and stepped into the dimly lit compartment. Two glass lanterns cast deep amber shadows. A curtain blocked off the far half of the carriage, with the foremost space taken up with a writing desk, racks of specimen jars filled with bizarre contents.

‘Alice!’ Samuel called. ‘Are you there? Anyone?’

Imogen stepped into the carriage, the oak door closing silently behind her. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Samuel replied. ‘Sulphur, perhaps?’

Imogen noticed three framed photographs on the wall next to the desk, but the grainy images were impossible to see clearly in the dim light. She lifted one of the lanterns and held it up to the nearest framed image.

Samuel moved up to the curtain; more flickering light from lanterns creeped through a crack. He reached out a hand.

The photograph Imogen inspected showed a group of men dressed in ornate robes – Samuel standing central among them.

‘This is a picture of you.’

Samuel pulled back the curtain, and took a sharp intake of breath. The chamber beyond the curtain was a nightmare of surgical care gone mad: anatomy posters adorned the walls, steel shelving held distillation equipment and alembics, a glass jar filled with an opaque, gelatinous liquid sat in a glass-fronted display case.

But the one object which drew his eye was a metal table in the centre of the space, and its gutters which channelled blood into a waiting bucket. Lying on the table was a naked woman – her chest and abdomen sliced open and peeled back, held apart with metal clamps.

‘Alice.’

Samuel stood in the dark of the High Chamber, the collar of his new robe rubbing against the side of his neck. He ran a finger around it and licked at his dry lips.

A door opened at the far end of the room. O’Hara made his way over to Samuel; the man’s booted feet alternately hard against the parquet floor and soft on the deep rugs – in his hands a spiked metal club. Samuel straightened his back.

‘It’s been many years since we’ve allowed anyone to attempt the Ritual of Harvest,’ O’Hara said. His grey hair was swept back, forming a widow’s peak, but his piercing hazel eyes belied his true age. He handed Samuel the spiked club.

‘It has to be completed in two parts,’ O’Hara continued, ‘before the summoning can begin. The fat of an innocent must first be collected then the harvesting of two score souls. Can you do this?’

Samuel nodded. ‘I’ve already arranged an … excursion for that number of people. We’ll be on my train, miles from anywhere. They think they’re all special guests going to a dinner party.’ He raised the club. ‘If I kill them all with The Spiked Maiden then their souls will be taken.’

‘And the innocent?’

Samuel stared into O’Hara’s eyes. ‘Alice.’

Samuel swung The Spiked Maiden as easily as if were a rolled-up newspaper. The first carriage of passengers had been taken and their blood was spattered over his jacket and shirt. With a final swing of the club he despatched the last of the men in the forward carriage.

He took deep breaths and smiled. This had been easier than he’d ever imagined. He heaved the connecting door between carriages open and headed back to his private compartment to complete the ritual.

The rocking of the train caused him to fall to his left and hold onto the seating for support. As he did so a large man in the aisle, who had been lying still, grabbed Samuel’s jacket. With a yell the man raised his free hand which gripped a broken table leg, and swung it at Samuel’s head.

Samuel lashed out with The Spiked Maiden. Both weapons hit their mark at the same time; Samuel collapsed as the table leg crashed against his skull, The Spiked Maiden falling from his unconscious fingers, and the large man falling dead across his killer’s legs.

Samuel gripped the edge of the metal table holding his wife’s body. His head dipped.

‘Why is there a picture of you on the wall?’ Imogen asked, taking a step closer to him. ‘Who are you?’

Samuel opened his eyes and fixed them on the dissected body in front of him. Imogen craned her neck and spotted the gruesome tableau at the far end of the compartment.

‘What have you done? Did you do this? Oh my God, what are you?’

She backed up to the door and groped for a handle. The door was smooth.

‘Two score souls,’ Samuel muttered, nodding. ‘I remember now.’

‘What? Please let me go. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ She banged on the door. ‘Help! Help me!’

‘You’re number forty,’ Samuel muttered.

‘What?’

He turned away from the metal table and faced the terrified woman. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be quick, painless even,’ he said. ‘I just need to find the Maiden.’

_______________

Kath Mackenzie

Kath moved from Aberdeen, Scotland to Corby at a very young age. In her mid forties, she proudly gained an Honours Degree in Combined Studies at Northampton College. As a retired lecturer in English Literature and Language, entering writing competitions has, for her, become an interesting and enjoyable hobby. At present she is chairwoman of the highly successful, Inkshed Writers of Corby.

            Kath has had many successes in various, writing competitions. She has been placed in Meridian Writers short list a few times but this occasion has been lucky.

     Her spare time (when not writing) is spent in the company of grandchildren, meeting with friends, and relaxing feet up, with a good book.

Football Crazy

‘I’m seventy years old,’ Bobby McGuire would insist if the question ever arose, but it was widely believed he was much older.

He’d be seen most days leaning heavily on his walking stick, hobbling to the corner shop to buy the odd packet of fags, the new peppermint sweets he favoured and, as always, the evening newspaper – and this solely for the football results. Other necessities came almost as an after thought. Rarely a smile was seen on his face.

‘Not much to smile about,’ he would say, ‘life’s for the young,’

The landlord of the Crown and Anchor knew him well, for every Wednesday, just before closing time, Bobby would be sitting with his usual half pint of lager and packet of cheese and onion crisps. He’d linger a while then, wiping his stiff, steely grey moustache with the back of his hand, he’d say a brief ‘goodbye’ to the barman before making his way home.

The routine never varied, apart from pension day, and that only for the short time it took to collect it. But, no matter how difficult or hard the going, he would travel far just to watch the game of football. Any old game would do; a contest organised fro children, even a street kick around; anything, as long as rules were applied and the game did not differ too broadly from “what should be”. He’d watch carefully every move of the players, shout with the best of them; his whole being alight with anticipation, his body shaking with fervour. If the ball drifted near or happened to be kicked his way his eyes would glow, his body straighten, his face creased into that seldom seen smile; a smile as wide as any football pitch.

It was said that Bobby had once played for Manchester United and if that be a slight exaggeration then it was an understandable one, for Bobby, if asked, would neither nod in agreement nor shake his head in denial but would simply place his forefinger to the side of his nose then wink in that secretive way of his.

The day “Brington Rovers”, the local football team, were playing away, a bus was hired for their many followers. No one expected Bobby to be there for the journey was long and the bus bare of essentials; but there he was as close to the driver as seating would permit.

‘I may need to get off now and again,’ he bleated, wiping his watery eyes before turning to speak to everyone, ‘the old bladder’s not what it used to be.’ His fellow supporters smiled indulgently and the diesel engine of the bus droned on.

After too many stops and too many loud, boorish songs sung, the bus finally reached that longed-for destination. The game had barely begun, the whistle’s piercing sound reaching the ears of the Brington faction as they stepped onto the surrounding terrace, their stripped mauve and yellow scarves swinging in the air, their stripped mauve and yellow hats covering heads already swollen with pride and exhuberance.

Sadly the game did not live up to expectations; slow, sluggish play; sloppy, slipshod passes; uninspired, unenthusiastic and unproductive. The game dragged on with boos and catcalls from spectators largely ignored, and Bobby’s face growing darker by the minute.

It was as the players and referee were once again huddled in forever discussions that a lone figure was suddenly seen to invade the lushly-treated pitch. It was Bobby McGuire, holding his walking stick aloft in defiance. Despite the occasional stumble and a brawny policeman in hot pursuit he somehow managed to reach and gain control of the abandoned ball. Jinking and dodging his pursuer he dribbled it towards the neglected goal post and, with the roar of the crowd ringing in his ears, quickly slammed the ball home. Wow! Bobby had achieved the impossible, had shown how the “Beautiful Game” should have been played. The afternoon had taken on a little of the passion and enthusiasm so lacking in what had turned out to be a rather dreary, disappointing day. “Good, old Bobby. Clever, old Bobby.”

Before long, exhausted and winded, the hero of the moment was led off the field accompanied by whistles of encouragement, loud cheers and the stamping of feet.

Near the front of the terrace, a man stood, scribbling furiously on a small notepad. Every move, every twisting manoeuvre of Bobby’s performance he watched with more than interest, more than casual curiosity. Pen in hand he turned to the youth by his side.

‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked.

‘That’s Bobby McGuire,’ came the proud answer. ‘He lives near me.’

‘Brington?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I suppose everyone knows him, do they?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘How long has he lived there?’

The youth was barely listening, so caught up was he in all the excitement, all the melee. It took a little time before he thought to answer the man’s question. But the stranger had gone.

Early next day Bobby sat at home, yesterday’s adventure crowding his mind. He’d overdone it, overtaxed his body, he knew that. He’d pulled a muscle somewhere in his back and his knees felt stiff and painful, but he’d had the time of his life. His eyes became dreamy and the corners of his mouth twitched as again, he was on that field, experiencing all the joy, all the magic that had been his.

His thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock at his door. ‘Who is it?’ he called. A visitor was the last thing he could be bothered with that morning.

‘Can I have a word with you, Mr McGuire?’ The voice was deep, confident and reassuring.

‘What about?’

‘I’m from the Brington Telegraph. Your little adventure yesterday has not gone unnoticed. Can I come in?’

‘Go away, I don’t want anything written about me,’ Bobby whined. Bloody hell, he thought, can’t an old man have any peace in his own house?

‘If you heard what I have to say,’ the voice went on, ‘you might change your mind.’

‘This better be good,’ Bobby muttered as he opened the door. The newspaper reporter walked in; an imposing man, six two or six three. He was offered a chair, and the inevitable pen and notepad was produced.

‘My name is Jack Conway, I write the Sunday feature on football. Perhaps you’ve read my column?’

‘Yes,’ said Bobby, unimpressed.

‘I watched you yesterday. I recognised your footwork, your particular talent with a ball at your feet, your—’

‘You recognised my footwork?’

‘Yes, every move you made reminded me of the famous Tommy Patterson. When you took to the field, it was as if I was looking at him.’ Jack Conway cleared his throat then went on. ‘As a lad I’d stand with my dad and watch him play; he was magnificent – my hero. Between the 60s and 70s he was on top form; I never tire of watching the recordings of his many matches, and yesterday, there he was again, if you know what I mean.’

Bobby gave a questioning glance. ‘Look here,’ he began, then about to say something else, changed his mind.

‘It was rumoured,’ the journalist went on, ‘that he’d had some sort of mental breakdown. Drink? Gambling? Woman trouble?’ The pen remained poised over the white notepad. ‘He left this country rather suddenly, rather abruptly; nothing’s been heard of him since. The whole thing caused quite a stir at the time.’

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, what has all this got to do with me?’

‘Your ability on the field, Mr McGuire. Your flair Mr McGuire, your panache. All that energy despite, if I may say so, your age.’ He hesitated, eyes narrowed. ‘You must have known him very well indeed, to be so influenced, so familiar with his particular technique.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons for vanishing so completely from the football scene.’ Jack Conway paused for a moment, hoping to hear those very reasons but the beleaguered old man was now studying the faded pattern on the carpet at his feet and chewing thoughtfully at hi slips.

‘Well, well, well.’ Shifting his weight on the chair and shaking his head in frustration, the reporter sighed, stood up and casually scanned the room. ‘Nothing much here,’ he reflected. A sideboard, a table, two well worn easy chairs and, in the corner, a keyhole-shaped glass cabinet. Ignoring Bobby’s protests he stooped to look inside. It was filled to excess with football regalia and there, hidden behind the tawdry trinkets, were two small trophy cups and a framed photograph of the famous footballer himself, obviously taken in his heyday. The self-styled detective gave a mirthless laugh.

‘That says is all,’ he said as he studied the photograph. ‘I suspected as much. No doubt about it, I’m looking at a younger you.’

‘Is that so? Now, put the photo down then get the hell out of here.’

‘No matter, no matter.’ Jack Conway was happy; the mystery solved, he had the scoop of a lifetime. His smile dazzled as he turned. ‘Buy the newspaper tomorrow, it’ll make fascinating reading.’ He waved a limp hand in farewell and left, striding out like someone with a purpose.

Bobby followed him to the door and stood squinting in the glare of the sun; it was good to see the back of him. Open-mouthed, he watched the reporter advance towards the black Limo parked further along the street, his arms swinging vigorously, keys rattling enthusiastically from his hip pocket.

‘That bugger was determined to find something, anything,’ Bobby muttered as he returned indoors, his mind all over the place.

Tomorrow his life would come to an end; tomorrow he’d be courted, questioned and interviewed. He stood, brows furrowed. Just thinking about it, picturing what he’d have to put up with, what he’d have to endure scared the bloody pants off him. The football entirety would clamber to meet with him, would study him carefully, and find all manner of ways in order to get to the truth. “Was he or was he not?” they’d ask.

Damn it, all he wanted was peace to continue living a quiet, calm, ordinary existence; no upheaval, no probing or prodding, and no “in your face” camera shots or penetrating questions.

Bobby wandered over to the display cabinet and pulled out the two trophy cups. ‘So long ago,’ he muttered, ‘so very long ago.’ It had been a time when certain relationships were frowned upon, when a particular type of love shared was ever the shameful thing. He gave the cups a polish with the sleeve of his much worn cardigan and gazed at them long and hard before carefully slipping them under his bed. Any connection with the past must now be kept out of sight; those guilty secrets were best hidden.

But the cabinet held something far more enlightening, far more revealing. Almost reverently he removed the photograph from its wooden frame, gazed long and hard at the black and white image before slowly turning it over. “To my dearest Bobby. My soul mate. Yours, forever and ever” was written. He remembered the laughter they’d shared as Tommy had scribbled furiously of his love; the joy they’d felt just being together.

Tears of regret chiselled tiny trails down the old man’s cheeks, damp where they’d already fallen. ‘Why leave me?’ he murmured. ‘Why go?’

And so with a long, heartfelt sigh, he let that last icon of memory slip through hesitant fingers, watching it drop with a flat, imploring sound into the kitchen bin, leaving behind thoughts persistent and poignant.

_______________

Clay Iles

Clay Iles is a part time freelance writer who lives in Eastbourne. He has contributed to The Times, The Sunday Telegraph, The Guardian and various magazines. He has only just started writing short stories. His main occupation has been tennis coaching and he has worked with a number of promising young players. He played at Wimbledon 6 times. As he gets older he hopes writing will take over from the physical demands of tennis. He has always been a fan of short stories and is delighted they are regaining popularity.

Mothers’ Pride

Waking to the hush and stillness was better that day than most.

Josh was home for lunch.

On my way downstairs, I pushed his door open. The bed was tight against the wall with sheets and pillow cases folded on top. A few CDs and books were neatly stacked on the floor in the corner; Homer, Petronius, Beethoven’s last quartets, Satie, Schoenberg. Where had his brains come from?

Fondly I ran my hand along the door frame; his room since childhood. Flakes of faded paintwork crumbled under my fingers; something else that needed doing, with the garden and the rest of the house. I had neither the money nor the spirit. Bob’s death had drained me.

Why not move? My friends had mainly been Bob’s but I no longer saw them. The house always used to be full; lots of action, fun, lively with scarcely a week going by without a dinner or something. That never happened now. Nobody came and living in a large house was pointless. But I couldn’t face moving; the thought of all that lugging and planning. My memories were tied to this house. If I moved they’d fade and with them everything that was me – my past, my background, my existence.

I’d set off from here with Josh for his Oxford interview. What a day that had been. I couldn’t speak to him; he was so strung up. he couldn’t speak to me; I was so nervous for him being nervous.

He turned the envelope over and over, unable to face the moment that would decide his future.

Come on! inwardly I shrieked.

‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Mum, I’m in.’

The proudest moment of my life. The first in the family to go to university; Oxford too. I wanted to tell everyone – passers by, people in shops, my neighbours. I wanted to shout it through the streets. If only Bob had been there to share it.

I was keen to get lunch going. Josh liked three courses so we’d begin with a Roquefort, chicory and walnut salad – a bit extravagant but it was Josh. For the main one I cooked baked spaghetti. I was adding some wine when the phone rang.

He sounded nervous.

‘Of course dear,’ my voice trembled and my fingers gripped the table.

I heard him calling down the phone.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You must do as you want. Give Lucy my love, won’t you.’ I wanted him off the phone. I was so choked I couldn’t talk.

My mouth was dry and my hand shook as I fumbled with the receiver before clicking it into place. I was angry. He knew how lonely I was and shouldn’t have let me down.

Wit the patter of rain against the window I glanced outside, shuddering at the tangle of overgrown bushes, weeds and long grass.

Going for walks on my own had been a struggle. They passed the time and I would wander through the streets, into the park, taking the alley that led to the fields. This time though, I just needed to get out and wandered the streets. Josh letting me down had seen to that. I was seething.

The rain grew heavier. I could hardly see through my glasses but didn’t care. A strong wind whipped up. Through the sheet of rain I made out the hunched figure of a woman scurrying towards me.

‘Dreadful,’ the woman cried. She was soaked, her hair hanging in sodden strands around her face. I was struggling with the umbrella and she held out her hand to help.

‘It’s okay, I’ve got it.’

The rain was easing.

The woman peered at me. ‘You’re Josh’s mum.’ She looked at me closer. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Wet through.’

‘I used to see you at school. I’m Linda, Tom’s mum.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oxford, eh? You must be so proud.’

Josh ahd often mentioned Tom.

‘You’ll love going to see him,’ Linda said.

‘Not me. He wants his independence.’

Linda scoffed. ‘They all say that. A few days without mum will sort him out.’

We chatted for a moment until the heavy spots of rain drummed on the umbrella. The sky looked black. Rain started to lash down and I turned back with Linda, awkwardly holding the umbrella over both of us.

Excited at having company, I couldn’t stop talking. We hurried through the rain and I told her all about Josh, his music, his books, Latin and Greek.

‘Tom didn’t do Latin,’ she said.

‘It’s all Greek to me,’ I laughed.

She must have thought me mad. Even so she accepted my invitation to come back for tea. She was as lonely as I was.

Josh was coming down the stairs holding some CDs.

‘Didn’t expect you,’ I sniffed as we pulled off our coats.

He looked sheepish and brushed a hand through his flopping black hair. I waved his excuses aside so delighted I was to see him.

‘How’s Tom?’ he asked Linda.

Oh dear. I’d been so taken up with Josh and Oxford I hadn’t asked about Linda’s son.

‘What’s Tom doing?’ I asked.

Linda hesitated. ‘He’s fine,’ she said, adding, ‘he’s in the army.’

‘When’s he off?’ Josh asked.

‘He’s there.’

‘Where?’ I guessed the answer.

‘Helmand.’

I sat down, ashamed. Her son in Afghanistan while I rambled on, Josh this, Josh that, and how lonely I was going to be. I hadn’t even asked about Tom.

Josh glanced at the phone. There was a message and he pressed the button. ‘Cedarwood Guest House,’ the voice said, ‘returning your call. We’ve received a cancellation for Saturday. Please confirm.’

‘I booked it for you, mum,’ Josh said.

 He had thought about me.

‘Mum, are you coming? I’ve got to ring back.’

I hesitated. The thought of Linda’s son in Afghanistan had shaken me.

‘I’ll go,’ Linda said.

‘You mean take mum’s place?’ Josh laughed.

She shook her head. ‘Afghanistan. If your mum’s going to Oxford, I’ll go to Helmand.’

Nobody spoke. She’d said it flatly, not laughing, and I didn’t know if it was a joke. It was the first time she’d said anything about herself since we met in the rain.

‘A joke,’ she said.

But the mood in the room had changed. Not knowing what to say, I looked away, ot of the window. It had stopped raining and the sun was shining. I saw beyond the lush greenery, now dripping from the downpour and gleaming in the sunlight. I pictured helicopters landing, swirling sand and dust and young men in khaki battledress.

Linda looked embarrassed and said, ‘Pay no attention. I say things like that.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘How you cope.’

‘If o don’t hear anything, it means he’s okay. That’s what Tom says.’

It didn’t sound like coping. But I didn’t say so. Coping seemed impossible.

Linda shrugged, ‘I’ve no choice.’

‘You must be incredibly proud.’

Linda shook her head. ‘No, not proud.’ She was close to tears.

‘Would you …’ I began tentatively, ‘come round? Come for dinner.’

She brightened. ‘I’d love to. Not this weekend. You’ll see Josh, won’t you? You’ll love Oxford.’

I went to the hall table and rummaged in a drawer.

Josh going away didn’t bother me now. I’d decided I wouldn’t sell the house. When Josh came back he’d need a proper home. Not like the one I was living in now. I wanted it cosy, welcoming and noisy. As it was when Bob was alive. Josh would bring Lucy. Linda would come. I hoped we were friends.

‘Here,’ I passed Josh a decorating colour scheme card. ‘Which colour? I’ll start with your room. When I get back from Oxford.’