ALL OF US HERE
Joy Wodhams
(First Place in WRITING MAGAZINE Competition July 2020)
They weren’t
like me. No, not even in the dark days when we were all of us here.
They’re not like me now.
I watch through a gap in the lace curtains as they alight from the
taxi. One of them – is it Grace?
- heaves open the iron gate that has hung askew as long as I can
remember, and they pick their way fastidiously along the moss-covered
path.
They are chatting, the three of them. I can see they want to enjoy
the meeting, the opportunity to catch up on gossip without the burden
of their husbands, but they are aware that this is a sober occasion
and they arrange their faces accordingly.
I open the front door.
“Chrissie!”
One of them flings her arms around me and I inhale her exotic musky
scent. Joanne? They all look alike now, their hair expertly cut and
blonded, their bodies uniformly slim and toned beneath their designer
suits. Black, of course. I smooth down my old woollen dress, the grey
one patterned with sprays of mauve roses, the nearest I could get to
conventional mourning. Not that I want to mourn. I want to rejoice,
to laugh and shriek and roll myself on the floor. But I can’t do
it. I’m still conscious of him up there. The man in the bed.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask.
Maureen – if it is Maureen – how would I know? I haven’t seen
or heard from them in a dozen years – smiles. ‘Got anything
stronger?’
‘There’ll be some of his whiskey in the cupboard. Under the
sink,’ I add, in case she doesn’t remember his regular hiding
place.
I pour myself a glass of milk while she sloshes generous portions of
the spirit into three glasses. There are still two full bottles in
the back of the cupboard.
We sit round the kitchen table, me drinking my milk, them taking
polite sips of the whiskey. Do they remember? Can they still picture
him pouring that same Jameson’s down his throat, his face red and
sweating, his eyes switching between us, challenging, waiting for one
of us to make a wrong move, say the wrong thing, pull the wrong face?
But they were smarter than me and Mam. They knew when to slip away,
where to hide, even how to deflect him with a smile and a plate of
stew or a mug of cocoa.
And then, one by one, as soon as they were old enough to leave
school, to have their own passports, to find ways to make money, they
were away. Joanne, off with her Sixth Form boyfriend on the ferry to
Liverpool. Maureen on the train up to Belfast and a job making beds
in a big hotel. Grace, the tallest and prettiest of us, to become a
model for a fashion catalogue. All of them now in England. They never
sent their addresses, they were still scared of him, even with
borders and the Irish Sea between us, but for a while I got Christmas
cards with little snippets of information which I hungered for and
cherished.
I was still just a skinny little kid when the last of them stole
away. Who was left to protect me? Just Mam, or rather the frail
white ghost of her.
She went next. He didn’t mean her to die, she was still too useful
in the house. He got away with it. She had slipped on the wet kitchen
tiles, he said, and hit her head on the table corner, and I – well,
I was still too young and too scared to say anything different.
So. That left me.
I could have run away after Mam died, sneaked off while he was in one
of his drunken stupors, but I was too much of a coward and scared he
would come after me - the last one, the only one left to feed him,
clean him up, get him to bed. I was scared of how he would punish me.
So I stayed.
But now. Now it’s my turn.
‘The undertakers will be here in the morning. Nine o’clock.
D’you want to go up and see him?’ I asked.
Grace shuddered. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Does he still look the same?’ asked Maureen.
I shook my head. ‘He’s a bit shrivelled – and he’s bald, more
or less. Can’t harm you now. You sure you don’t want to see him?
Pay your last respects?’
‘Quite sure, thank you.’ said Joanne. ‘So, Chrissie. What’s
going to happen after the funeral?’
‘There’ll be drinks and sandwiches at McGinley’s.’
‘No, I mean . . . You. The house. Was there a Will?’
‘Yes.’
They waited.
‘Well?’ said Joanne at last. ‘What did it say?’
‘He left me the house.’ The only decent thing he ever did for
me.
‘And – the money?’
‘What money? You think there’s a crock of gold somewhere and you
deserve a share?’
She shifted in her seat. ‘Well, there are four of us, Chrissie.
We’re all his daughters.’
‘I was nine when the last of you left. Nine! And you never called,
you never wrote -’
‘Cards. We sent cards - ‘
‘Not even when Mam died.’
‘We were scared he’d trace us,’ said Grace. ‘Drag us back.’
I stood up, grabbed the empty glasses and threw them into the sink.
One of them shattered. I ignored it. I filled a kettle, lit the gas,
put tea bags into four mugs. My eyes were misted. I blinked hard. I
couldn’t let them see me cry.
‘There is no money. Only what I managed to put by from the
housekeeping he gave me. He drank the rest.’
‘Well, at least you’ll have the house,’ said Maureen
soothingly. ‘You should sell it. Start a new life. Come to England.
Get a job.’
‘Doing what? Keeping house for another man? That’s all I’m
trained for.’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Chrissie!’ Joanne snapped. ‘Stop being
such a wimp. None of us had training or qualifications. You’re
young, just get out there and look around. You’ll find something.’
‘OK. But where would I stay? Would one of you be able to put me
up?’
I’d anticipated the silence. The fidgeting with their handbags, the
sips of cooling tea. The excuses.
I didn’t tell them. Why should I? I didn’t tell them about the
money I’d salted away patiently over the years. Pennies from his
pockets, the odd pound coin from his drawer, the refunds I’d
requested on items he’d ordered and then forgotten, Mam’s bits
and pieces that I’d sold. I had my own bank account now, and very
healthy it was too.
I didn’t tell them about the property agent who’d already valued
the house, taken photographs and was only waiting for my consent to
put it on the market.
I didn’t tell them about the ferry ticket I’d already booked,
about the interviews I’d set up over the next ten days.
I didn’t tell them about the new clothes I’d ordered online, the
appointment at the hairdressing salon, the expensive one in the High
Street.
After
the funeral, after my sisters had departed in a twitter, after I’d
cleaned the house and put the keys in an envelope for the property
agent, I packed my new clothes into my new case and tossed all the
old ones and the old memories into the dustbin. Time now for the new
hairdo, and then a taxi, all the way to Dublin and an overnight stay
in one of their best hotels before boarding the ferry.
I set my case down beside the front door. Just a final check now to
make sure everything was in order and I’d left behind nothing of
value.
I started in the kitchen, unnaturally neat and the stale aromas of
ale and whisky scrubbed away. I thought of all the meals that had
been thrown to the floor, the plates shattered, droplets of hot tea
or cocoa sliding down the walls.
The parlour, stripped of its ancient three-piece suite and the
television set that no longer worked.
My bedroom, as bare as a convent cell.
His room.
The bed was gone but I still saw it. And him in it. I could hear him,
railing, ranting, demanding. Such a big man until the cancer got him.
I had prayed for the cancer. Prayed that it would get him before he
got me.
I turned and hurried down the stairs. I put on my new coat, cherry
red with a black velvet collar. I picked up my case and opened the
front door.
Outside, the sun was shining. The sky was blue, jaunty little clouds
scudding across it. There was a hum of traffic and somewhere music
blaring out through an open window.
A new life waited for me.
But the house . . . I felt it, heavy around my shoulders, the weight
of all its memories trapping me. And the fear, not gone as I had
believed, just hiding, ready to wrap its coils around me again.
I don’t know how long I stood there. The time for my salon
appointment came and went. The clouds closed ranks and hid the sun.
The street settled down to a late afternoon stupor.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Or maybe next week.
I put down my case, stepped back inside and closed the front door.
END
And here's the critique from Writing Magazine's online site:
The
central theme of Joy Wodham's story All
Of Us Here,
the winner in our first line competition, is all contained in that
first line:They
weren't like me.
Unlike
her dynamic sisters, the narrator Chrissie has never left home. Never
escaped her dreadful father, never managed to shed the yoke that
'home' had become. It's a story of understated desperation, finely
and acutely observed, building the reader's hopes that after the
funeral, Chrissie will be able to have a life of her own, just like
her sisters did.
It's
a thoughtful, wisftful, meticulously detailed story. Nothing dramatic
happens: the drama is over, brought to an end by the death of the
tyrannical father. It's about the limbo period between life phases.
Joy allows her reader to hope that it might be about possibility. But
subtly, she signals othersise. The absentee sisters' avarice is
conveyed with such fine precision: 'Well,
there are four of us, Chrissie.' The
arid life Chrissie is lived is subtly conveyed: for
a while I got Christmas cards.
The devastating silence when Chrissie asks if any of her sisters
would put her up speaks volumes. The fine brushstrokes build into a
picture that suggests Chrissie has been bereft long before the
funeral.
The
first line carries within it the story's end. When the reader learns
that Chrissie has been squirrelling money, we hope with her that she
will finally be able to find a new life. But as the first line
indicates, Chrissie is not like the others, and as the understated
last lines make the difference between them clear, Joy Wodhams brings
her story to its quietly devastating conclusion.
Runner-up
in the First Line Short Story Competition was Andrew
French,
Redcar, Sunderland, whose story is published
on
www.writers-online.co.uk. Also shortlisted were: Dominic
Bell,
Hull; Mary
Ellen Chatwin,
Tbilisi, Georgia; Barbara
Eustace,
Nottingham; Joan
El Faghloumi,
Seaford, East Sussex; John
E Goodman,
Welling, Kent; Pamela
Gough,
Little Eaton, Derby; Eleanor
Lobban,
Wendover, Buckinghamshire; Lynne
C Potter,
Hexham, Northumberland; Janet
Rogers,
East Preston, West Sussex.
BIRTHDAY BOY!
So this is the day. 29th August. His birthday. He's promised to be home by six o'clock latest.
I'm not the world's best cook. No Masterchef. Usually I rely on stuff that comes in packets or tins. Stick it in the microwave, two minutes and there you are. Lunch. Dinner. Interchangeable. Who needs to slave over a hot stove?
But tonight is going to be different. I've done my homework. I've sat on a sofa in Waterstones and pored over the cookery books. I've googled all the recipe websites and I've bought the apron.
This is my menu. Three courses. He's going to be so impressed!
STARTER
Trout and Prawn Timbales
MAIN COURSE
Chicken Fillets in Pink Peppercorn and Brandy Sauce
accompanied by
Saute Potatoes, Honeyed Buttered Carrots and
Broccoli with Lemon and Flaked Toasted Almonds
DESSERT
Creme Brulee with Mixed Berry Fruits
I also bought some real French Roasted Coffee as it's a special occasion, although maybe we won't get to that.
So, armed with my list of ingredients I've trailed from supermarket to deli, then on to the local hardware shop for one of those gas thingys to burn the top of my creme brulees, plus a couple of other bits and pieces.
And now I'm about to start cooking. It's only 6 a.m. but I've no idea how long it will take. I've tied on my apron and I've got all my utensils, pans and dishes laid out in order, just like the TV chefs. All my ingredients are weighed, measured and emptied into separate bowls. What can go wrong?
He's been away for twelve days this time. Travelling the South West. That's his area. He's one of his company's best representatives, selling twice as much as any of the others, even though he thinks their products are rubbish. But then, he's got the gift of the gab, as my Mum used to say. He can lie with the best of them, convince anyone that black is white, that tin is silver, that this widget or that gadget is what they've wanted or needed all their life, even if they haven't realised it. Oh yes, he's good at it.
It's 9 a.m. and I've nearly finished preparing the chicken. The vegetables are peeled and sliced, the almonds for the broccoli are toasted. Time to make the sauce. I burn the first lot, the pan too, and have to start again. The second time it's perfect, which brings an unfamiliar feeling of pride. You don't get that when you microwave a Sainsbury's lasagne.
Actually, I'm quite enjoying this cookery lark. I wouldn't want to do it all the time, of course, but just once, for this special occasion, it's quite fun. I strike a pose and turn to the blank television screen, pretending I'm on camera.
'So there it is,' I say. 'Just follow my instructions and you too can be a celebrity chef!'
I haven't bought him a birthday present. Seemed a waste of money when he's not going to be around to enjoy it. I've calculated that by the time I've made the coffee he'll be gone.
I did buy three bottles of white wine even though we'll probably only have time to drink one of them, but they were on special offer. I fetch a bottle from the fridge and open it, pour myself a glass and take a swig. Crisp and refreshing with a hint of citrus, it says on the label. Hmm. Not bad.
I'm cheating a little with the starters. You're supposed to use fresh spinach in the timbales, and live mussels still in their shells for the sauce, but why go to all that trouble when you can buy them ready prepared and frozen? Even so, it will take some time to get them absolutely right. Best to wait until after lunch. The challenge of preparing a three course dinner from scratch is exhausting and I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I make myself a cheese sandwich and pour out the last inch or so from the bottle of wine. Oh, and there's the brandy. Much more than I need for the chicken dish.
He thinks I don't know about his bit on the side. Make that plural. Bits on the side. He may be a brilliant salesman but he's not very clever when it comes to concealing evidence. The statements, the restaurant bills, the receipts from jewellers, boutiques, theatres.
At first I wanted to confront him. Wave all the bits of paper in his face. How would he talk his way out of that, eh? Or I could have played him at his own game and had an affair myself, there's Tim O'Donnell up the road, his wife left him a year ago. But he's got two kids, it wouldn't be right. Besides, I don't fancy him.
The third alternative was to just walk away. Divorce him. But then what would I have? Half of not very much. We'd both spent merrily over the years, the building society still owns far more of the house than we do, he'd keep the company car, I'd just have my rusty old Ford with the chancy first gear. Besides which, I haven't worked outside the home for five years - and not much in the home, if I have to be honest.
No, it has to be all or nothing. And that means the savings account. The pipe dream. A bar in Spain. Not very original, I know, but it's what he fancied, and I liked the idea of an all-year tan, blue seas and skies, flamenco and all those dark-eyed Spaniards.
The money in the account would be enough to keep me going for a few years while I sorted my life out.
I've whipped the cream and washed the fruit for the dessert, and I've just had a trial go at the brulee bit. Good job I made some extras. I think I was a little heavy handed. It's not supposed to be dark brown, is it? Well, practice makes perfect, as they say. I've hung a tea towel over the scorch mark on the worktop. Out of sight, out of . . . something or other.
Now it's time to prepare the timbales.
Did I light the oven? I open the door and a blast of hot air hits me in the face. Yes. But it shouldn't be this hot, should it? I squint at the dial. Is that right? I can't find the instructions for the timbales. I need another drink. The second bottle is almost empty. But not to worry, as they say, there's still a full bottle to have with the meal, and we mightn't even need all of it.
Quarter of an hour before he's due home everything is ready, the table laid, the first two courses keeping warm in the oven, but my nerves are almost shredded. Never again, I promise myself. But there won't be an 'again', will there?
I splash my face with water, paint on a welcoming red smile and slip into the tight black dress that he once said made me look sexy.
'What's this?' he asks as he comes through the door and sniffs at the mingling aromas of chicken and shellfish and brandy.
'It's your birthday, ' I tell him. 'I've cooked a special dinner for you.'
'You? You've cooked?' He stares at the table, already laid with wine glasses, paper napkins and two candles. 'Not takeaway, then? '
'All my own work,' I say. 'Just to show how much - ' I was going to say 'how much I love you' but I cannot tell a lie, as someone once said. Instead, I take the two timbales out of the oven. I'd bought two of those round things - ramekins, they're called. A small one for me, a larger one for him.
'Let's start now, while everything's still warm. You can change later. In fact - ' I try to give him an alluring look. Judging by his uneasy expression I'm a little out of practice, not helped by my sudden inability to focus.
I pour us both a glass of wine from the new bottle.
'Drink up, birthday boy! And do eat your starter before it gets cold.'
But after taking a forkful he pushes his away.
'Not keen on these, babe. Better luck next time, eh?'
'Oh, please finish it. Look, it's not very big. I need some encouragement if I'm going to carry on cooking for you.'
He sighs, grabs a dessertspoon and finishes the timbale in two large mouthfuls.
'There!'
I watch. Nothing. We both sip our wine.
'Maybe you'll like the chicken better,' I say after a while. The oven seems a long way from the table. It's like one of those old films where someone's stumbling across the Sahara towards a mirage which never gets any closer.
'You okay?' he asks.
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. Two bottles of wine and a large snifter of brandy are taking their toll. Carrying the plates of chicken back to the table I slop some of the sauce on to the tiled floor.
'Careful! How much have you drunk already?'
'Aah - three glasses,' I lie.
'Never could hold your drink, could you?'
The chicken is good. If I had intentions to become a cook I would be congratulating myself.
'Excellent,' he says. 'Good as any I've had in hotels.'
Something should be happening by now. Perhaps I'd read the directions wrongly.
Only one more course to go. We've been sitting here for more than an hour.
'Creme brulee?' I ask.
He nods with enthusiasm. 'Definitely.'
I can't eat mine. I watch him devour his in a couple of spoonfuls. I watch his eyes, his mouth, his hands. When? When?
And then I have this sudden shattering thought. No!
'Excuse me,' I say, and stagger back to the kitchen.
And there it is, in plain view Still unopened, a plastic measuring spoon beside it. The rat poison I'd bought at the hardware stores. The rat poison I'd intended to put in his Trout and Prawn Timbale.
The End
A
HICCUP IN TIME
SPRING FEVER
Joy Wodhams
It had been a long day and the effort of half-dragging, half-carrying
his kill across the scorching rocks was almost too much for him. What
was the point? He knew what his reception would be when he got it
home.
‘Not sabre tooth tiger again!’
It didn’t matter that he was the best hunter in the district.
Glenda never showed any appreciation. He was tempted to dump the
carcass. Leave it for the pterodactyls, it would make their day. But
then what would he and Glenda have for tonight’s supper?
Vegetarian, he thought gloomily. Stewed weeds.
By the time he reached the cave he was exhausted. It took every
straining muscle to haul the animal through the entrance.
Mop in hand, Glenda watched him. ‘That’s my clean floor,’ she
said.
‘Sorry.’
‘Dirty great feet tramping mud up
and down. Spears thrown down any old place. Dead animals everywhere.’
Trevor sighed. ‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘I spend all day trying to make
the cave look nice and what happens? You come home and in ten seconds
flat it looks like – like an abbatoir. And what’s this? Not sabre
tooth tiget again!’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
Trevor said sullenly. ‘Goes down lovely with a nice drop of gravy
and a few -’
‘It’s tough.’
‘No, it’s not, Glenda. It’s
all in the way you cook it. If you’d just let my Mum show you her
recipe -’
‘Why can’t we have a nice bit
of mammoth for a change?’ Glenda spat at him.
‘There’s no mammoth about. I
haven’t seem a mammoth for ….’ Trevor tried to count on his
fingers but it was no use. Mathematics always confused him. ‘Mammoths
is a dying species.’
‘Well, I’m sick of sabre tooth
tiget. Look at it, dribbling all over my floor. I spent two hours
scrubbing that floor.’
Trevor flung himself down on a pile of grass bedding. The coolness
soothed his sun-scorched skin. ‘Oh, give it a rest, Glenda. I’m
sure you can eat a dodo’s egg off it but what’s the point? It’s
so dark in here you can’t even see the floor.’
‘If we had windows you’d see.
Sun streaming in, shows up every mark.’
‘You and your windows. Always on
about bloody windows.’
Glenda sank down beside him and trailed a finger across his bare
chest. ‘If we had windows I could put up curtains.’
‘Why are women never satisfied?
You give them a nice cave, nice and snug, cosy in winter, couple of
back passages for storage, even a hole in the roof for the smoke to
go through – Now that’s something you don’t get in every cave.
But are they satisfied? Oh no, oh no. They want windows. And
curtains.’
‘Yellow,’ Glenda said. ‘To
match the daffodils.’
‘Daffodils? What’s daffodils?’
‘Yellow things. They come up out
of the ground in Spring.’
‘Daffodils.’
‘Lovely yellow they are. I could
put them in the window by my yellow curtains. Colour matching, they
call it.’
‘You get some peculiar ideas,
Glenda. I wish you’d stop reading all them tablets. I’m sure
they’re not -’
‘Well, what else have I got to
do? What else have I got beside cavework? It’s all very well for
you, Trevor, going out every day. Meeting people.’
‘Meeting people. Hah! All I ever
meet is sabre toothed tigers. Just you try passing the time of day
with one of them.. Just you try clapping one on the back and saying,
Good morning, Stripey, how’s things? Why, he’d give you a nasty
bite as soon as look at you. Them teeth of theirs aren’t just for
the history books, you know.’
All the same, you’ve got a career.’
‘Career! Hunting? Ho yes, that’s
a career all right. Good job prospects. Room for promotion. Plenty of
scope.’
‘There’s no need to be
sarcastic, Trevor. All I said was -’
‘Ho yes. Might even graduate to
pterodactyls – if I could ever catch one with one bloody foot on
the ground. And if you think sabre tooth tiger is tough, Glenda -’
‘At least you’re out. At least
you’re not stuck in here day after day, staring at four rock
walls. Nothing to do except cavework and – and sorting out them
things.
If you knew how long it takes to prepare one, skinning it, cutting it
up, bashing out the steaks so they’re tender -’
‘My
Mum never had to bash them. She just simmered them gently with a
little -’
‘And
no sooner have I finished one then in you stroll with another!’
Trevor
closed his eyes. ‘We have this every year, don’t we, Glenda?
Every Spring. You get bored, dissatisfied, wanting to change
everything, wanting to change the world.’
‘I
can’t help it, Trevor, I get so restless, so - ‘
‘Spring
fever that’s what it is. Spring fever. Now what you need, Glenda,
is taking out of yourself. You need an interest.’
‘Like
what?’
‘Well,
I don’t know, do I? I’m not your ideas man, I’m not your tablet
writer, I’m a hunter, aren’t I?’
‘Lot
of good you are, then.’
‘You’ll
just have to grin and bear it, Glenda, like everyone else. Once
Summer comes you’ll be all right, you’ll be putting on your woad,
going out herb picking, baking your -’
‘No
I won’t.
‘Yes
you will, Glenda. You always say you won’t but once Summer’s here
-’
‘This
time it’s different. Anyway, Summer’s a long time off. Summer’s
-' She spread her fingers and stared at them. ‘A long time off.
I want to do something now.’
‘Why
don’t you go visiting? Call on the neighbours, the other wives?’
‘We’re
not acquainted. I’d feel self-conscious going round knocking on
people’s front boulders when we haven’t been introduced.’ She
stole a glance at Trevor. ‘You could take me.’
‘Not
me, Glenda, I’m not one of your socialites. I’m no good at this
small talk business.’
‘Seems
to me you’re not much good at anything except bringing them ugly
things home.’ She kicked at the tiger. ‘Look at it, grinning at
me with them bloody great teeth!'
‘Oh,
back to that, are we? Now look, Gwenda -’
But
Glenda was down on the floor, staring into the tiger’s face.
‘I’ve
just had an idea,’ she said.
‘Oh
yes?’
‘You
could do something with these teeth. You could make little holes in
them and then you could – you could string them on to a length of
gut or something.’
‘Oh
yes? Well, if it would make you happy, Glenda, I suppose there’s no
harm in it.’
‘A
string of teeth to hang round your neck. Don’t you think they’d
look striking, Trevor?’
‘Well,
I suppose it would be a novelty,’
‘People
would go mad for them, Trevor, they’d be all the rage. And we’ve
got hundreds of old teeth in the back passage there. I could make
enough strings to fill a -’
‘Well,
go on.’
‘Ssh,
I’m thinking. I could call them – I could call them –
jewellery.’
‘Bit
fancy, isn’t it? For a few teeth strung on a bit of gut? Where’d
you get that word?’
‘I
dunno. It just sprung into my mind. - I know I could sell them,
Trevor, I just know it. I could open a shop, a jewellery shop! All
decorated in yellow.’
‘Now
hang on, Glenda, hang on!’
‘Of
course it would have to have windows. You can’t have a shop without
windows.’
‘Stone
me’
‘It
wouldn’t take you long to knock out a hole for a window, would it,
Trevor? Or two would be even better.’
‘Oh,
roll on bloody Summer!’ Trevor groaned.
THE END
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