WINNERS OF OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION
JUDGED BY HELEN LAYCOCK
Attempt 67 By Taria Karillion FIRST PLACE WINNER WINS £100
The bicycle was in its usual place. Not that the word ‘usual’ was really applicable to the top of the campus flagpole. Verle Coby squinted up at it through the October drizzle, before muttering to himself and plodding back across the quadrangle, slippers squelching on the lawn.
None of the other staff or students gave the bike a second glance. Odd occurrences at the university were two-a-penny, and either dismissed as pranks, or ignored altogether as Somebody Else’s Problem.
The smells of the science block welcomed him back indoors and Coby took the stairs two at a time.
Back in the lab, he grimaced as he tossed his wet slippers into a corner with a colony of fast food boxes and paper coffee cups.
“You really ought to throw that lot, matey, before a rodent hotel opens a franchise in it. S’bad for your weight too, y’know.”
The muffled voice called from behind a tall rack of scientific equipment. Muffled through what sounded like lunch. Coby arched a brow.
“Lab Partner – NOT mother! Anyway, show me one photo of you not eating! So, where’s YOUR middle-age spread, that’s what I want to know!” He sighed and glanced down at his own.
The loud chewing and slurping continued.
“Well, my friend, if you spent less time hiding away in here and actually socialised a little, at the gym with me, maybe – you’d lose that excess in no time! AND Frantastic Fran from Organics goes to the gym. She looks even better in Lycra than a lab coat, y’know… C’mon, you anti-social bugger - I don’t know why I keep asking! Would it be so bad to have a few friends?”
Coby reached for his iPod.
“Ok, drowning you out with Stravinsky now.”
He took a deep breath in time with the swell of the string section. Phil was right, though, he was sure. Fran would look great in a binbag, not that Coby usually noticed what people wore, unless it was a lack of safety goggles.
The clock chimed the hour and he found himself at the window without remembering getting up. Sure enough, crossing the quad with those long legs and usual sunny smile, there she was. Francesca.
Her peal of laughter at the bicycle made Coby smile. A tapping on the glass startled him. More so when he realised he was doing it himself. Fran turned at the sound and beamed up at him. Oh Lord, that smile... She waved, and Coby’s hand ignored the paralysis affecting the rest of his body and waved back. How long had it been since he felt like this? Not since…
“Open the damn window and invite her for LUNCH, you fool!” shouted the food-garbled voice through an orchestral crescendo that felt as if it was as much in Coby’s ribcage as in his ears.
Too late, Fran was tapping her left wrist and scurrying away.
Atop the flagpole, with its still-dangling metal ‘flag’, wheels turning slowly in the breeze, a seagull landed, and – predictably - decorated the saddle with a splash of white. Coby sighed. Why hadn’t he chosen something else to trial his teleporter on?!
“I hate that bike.”
As he removed his headphones and cleaned his glasses, a loud belch erupted from behind the racks.
“I know why you hate it, pally – shall I tell you? It’s because it symbolises your diminished status since the divorce… Sorry to be blunt, mate. BUT, as it happens, Fran doesn’t care much about status. What she does like is physics and classical music and the same nerdy sci-fi shows that you do, and you’d know a lot more about her if you actually spoke to the woman! What have you got to lose?”
Coby shook his head and started tapping at his keyboard, frowning intently at the screen.
“Thank you Phil O’Sophical. But supermodel looks and a Nobelled late husband? With ME? Not a hope.”
A shrill tinging sound was audible from the quad. Through the criss-crossed, leaded window, the seagull could be seen tapping at the bicycle bell like an impatient customer. Coby returned to his chair and typed. Attempt 67 – same lateral displacement problem as before. Containment … failed.
Was that the smell of egg sandwiches? Coby was about to pass comment on it when a far-back falsetto voice sailed across the room.
“Hellooo, I’m Verle Coby – I’ll never measure up – I’ve o-o-only invented teleportation and play five instruments and have campus groupies AND a full head of hair that waves in the wind like a boyband wannabe, and …” Hoarse laughter gave way to choking sounds and colourful expletives, followed by a heavy thud.
“Phil? Phil! You ok?” Coby asked, looking up.
“Ach, don’t rent out my room yet, laddie - you don’t get rid of me that easily. Anyway, who’s going do the dusting and dishes here if I’m not around? Not Fran, at this rate, unless your teleporter can work across time too and bring us back a miracle-working Messiah!”
Verle tapped a gauge and smiled despite the mockery.
“Well, … um … women like bald guys too, y’know, Phil … apparently… Too much, in my ex’s case. Anyway, Heads up – Goggles on – I’m bringing it back. … Incoming in three, two, one!”
Whirring and whining grew in volume from a cable-fringed dais across the room. With a clanging clatter, the bike reappeared in a shimmering, dazzling flash, followed by a squawking thud at the window as the seagull hit the glass and slid down the pane. Coby frowned at it, opening his mouth and pointing, before sitting down and scribbling at speed.
Another hour chime and an unscheduled nap later, Coby woke with an almighty sneeze. Looking through the glinting motes swirling in the air, he noticed something in the dusty surface of the bench. Words! He squinted and pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“Is this you, leaving messages for me in the dust, Phil?” he tutted.
‘VERLE – TO DO: Eat proper meals, see friends, stop wallowing, and do the DUSTING!’
Coby raised his eyebrows and rubbed his eyes.
“Going for the subtle approach, eh, Phil? … Phil! Are you there?”
It was too quiet, until there was a rat-a-tat-tat from behind him. Coby roused himself.
“Did you leave your keys behind again?” he called.
“I’d be thrilled to have some in the first place, actually!” replied a soft voice.
A woman!
Coby straightened his dishevelled clothes and scrambled for the door, wishing he knew the whereabouts of his comb.
The panelled oak creaked open with a sound that mirrored Coby’s surprise.
“Fran! ... I – it’s - um … nice to see you! I… er…” His brain fumbled for something to say that wasn’t ‘Wow’.
“Hello you! I just … haven’t seen you in the dining hall for a couple of weeks and… well, I thought I’d check you were ok. May I come in?” she smiled.
Oh, that smile ... that infectious joyful smile that made it feel like summer, and those ethereal, green eyes, hypnotically large behind delicately-framed glasses, and the ever-present, out-of-place wisp of hair across her brow that he was desperate to stroke back, and not just out of OCD.
After a moment longer than was comfortable, Coby realised he was staring, and wafted an arm at the room.
“Of course, yes, please do! Um … sorry about the mess. The cleaners aren’t allowed in at the moment, in case they … disturb all the … stuff.”
Fran nodded and took in the state of the room – the piles of strewn books and the bin, overflowing with scrunches of paper and bright yellow tape. Fran frowned at it.
“Wow, this looks like it’s not been emptied since…”
She closed her mouth and smiled,
“I know, why don’t you let me help you tidy up a bit? Maybe you could … make some tea?”
Coby found himself nodding and mumbling a thank you, at which, Fran beamed and twirled into action. Coby rummaged for mugs and spoons and jars, more than half-watching her as, with graceful sweeps of her arms, Fran transformed the lounge area and Coby’s side of the lab, swiftly transforming the post-burglary-like disarray into a state of order and neatness that even his own mother couldn’t have found fault with. The fast-food container mountain rapidly disappeared into black plastic bags in a similar series of captivating, waltz-like manoeuvres. It looked like she was probably quite the dancer.
After a few more minutes of companionable silence, Fran finally lifted, twirled and tied a burgeoning bin bag before swinging it into place outside the door and sinking onto the sagging little sofa under the window. She smiled as Coby brought over a tray of mugs and Jammie dodgers.
“Sorry about the kiddy biscuits”, he blushed, sitting beside her and passing her a Star Wars mug. “They’re Phil’s ... but he won’t mind. Especially as I’ve made him a brew – he’ll probably be back any minute.”
Right on cue, a reverberating belch and a tinkling of glassware made him turn his head.
“Talk of the devil – You snuck in quietly, mate! There’s tea over here!”
Fran rested her hand on Coby’s and looked at him with those puppy eyes.
“Listen, Verle - I like you. A lot. And I don’t believe any of the gossip… but you have to accept the truth about Phil.”
Coby gave her a blank look.
“What on earth are you…?”
Fran’s voice was as soft as a bedtime murmur. As soft as the touch of her fingers over his hand.
“Verle…Phil hasn’t been here for weeks.”
“But he’s right over th – “
“Verle, listen - what happened … It wasn’t your fault. The poor guy choked - right in front of you. It must have been awful. But you have to stop blaming yourself - it’s messing with your head, hon.”
“She’s right, y’know” Phil sounded like he was at the bottom of a well. “You’re a decent guy - you tried to help, but hey, at least I went with my favourite food in my hand! Now, get a grip and move the hell on, ok?”
“Verle? Verle! …Focus!” Fran’s eyes pooled a little, but the warmth of her smile was no less radiant. “We all talk to ourselves sometimes. Some days it’s the only way I can get a sensible answer! … But this? …Well, let me get you some help, ok?”
She sneezed and turned, reaching to struggle with the curly, gothic window latch.
“You really need some fresh air. How about a walk? Down to the river maybe?”
Verle felt a glimmer of … something. Hope, maybe? Like headlights in fog, memories faded in and out of his mind’s eye as his stomach gave a lurch. How could he have blanked it all out? And why?
“Verle…?”
Fran was patting his hand and looking around.
“Maybe you could … you could even clean up that antique bike and … we could take a ride together?” She rose and picked up a cloth. “Here, let me wipe the bird muck off the saddle for you.”
“NO!” Verle sprang out of his seat. “Um, I’m sorry, I mean, please don’t!”
“It’s ok, I don’t mind - really – I grew up on a farm!”
“No, you don’t understand! That’s ORGANIC MATTER!”
“Just slightly!” Fran smiled.
“But the saddle was clean!” Coby’s eyed widened as he crossed the room in three quick strides “and my machine – it’s only ever worked on inorganic test samples. This is a HUGE breakthrough! HUGE! I - I have to make notes! I need a pen!” He patted his pockets, looking around.
Fran reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder.
“What can be so important that it can’t wait an hour or two? Wouldn’t you like a proper meal?”
Verle chewed his lip, then exhaled long and hard before taking Fran’s hand and squeezing it.
“With you? Very much. But first, I just need two minutes! “
He twiddled knobs, pulled levers, turned himself and Fran away from the bike, and waited for the flash.
Picking up the binoculars, he peered out at the flagpole. An odd sensation crept over his face - he could feel himself smiling.
The bicycle was in its usual place – still with its splatted saddle.
But right now, Verle Coby didn’t much care.
--- END ---
(2060 words)
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - FIRST PLACE – Attempt 67
I loved this story from the very beginning. The writing seemed effortless and exuded warmth and humour. The narration and convincing dialogue were expertly handled, and the detail of character and setting was realistic, making for very comfortable reading. Not only that, but it was a clever idea! I thoroughly enjoyed being surprised by the theme of teleportation which, of course, explains the title, and the Eureka moment at the end gives scope for an extended conclusion. Well done!
Absence by Evan Guilford-Blake SECOND PLACE WINNER WINS £70
The doves huddle in the nest as they stare through the bars of their cage, the opened slats of the blinds, the tight mesh of the window screens, into the dismal, sunless morning. They are mystified, it seems; the world is as much a mystery to them as they are to Mary. She watches them while she waits for the water to boil, inhaling the smell of the newly ground coffee: one of her favorite aromas. Le parfum du rôti français, according to Dillon in his silly, wide-grinned, early-morning Romantic mode. One of his favorites, too.
She wakes Tennyson with a kiss and a glass of orange juice. He is the only little child she has ever known -- heard of -- who likes to sleep in but, this morning, he wakes with a huge smile and throws his arms around her neck, surprising her and spilling a few drops of her coffee onto his favorite pajamas.
“Oops!” he says. “I got it dirty.” She smiles.
“It’ll wash out,” Mary tells him.
He sits up, takes the oj and swallows it in one large gulp. “My,” Mary says, “somebody was thirsty.”
“I was thirsty,” Tennyson replies, “not somebody.”
Mary kisses him again. Naming their children after other poets was Dillon’s idea. She’d been reluctant when he mentioned it -- “who’d want to be called Hughes - or Plath?” -- but when he suggested “Tennyson” the idea had grown on her: It was, after all, appropriate for either gender, and there were both singularity and inherent poetry to its sound.
“You’re somebody all right,” she tells him.
“I am?” he says.
“Yup,” Mary answers. “Let’s get you dressed. We’re having bacon and eggs this morning.”
“Neat-o keen-o!” he says, echoing Dillon’s favorite phrase. He scrambles from the covers.
*
“The sky is dirty,” Tennyson notes.
“Uh-huh,” Mary says as she sips the coffee. Tennyson’s appetite astonishes her: Food at 8:00 in the morning repels her, but he eats -- as he does most everything else -- vigorously. “It’s going to rain.”
“I don’t think the birds like it.”
“The rain?”
“The sky. They like sunlight.”
“So do I,” she says.
“Me too!” Tennyson exclaims.
“Well: We’ll just have to order you a whole day full of sunlight.”
He looks confused. “How do we order one?” he asks.
Mary smiles. “Well, when you get home?, we’ll - write a letter to the Sun and ask him to make tomorrow sunshiny all day. Can you do that?”
Tennyson looks crestfallen. “I don’t know how to make all the letters yet, Mummy,” he says. “We’re only up to ‘M’.”
She kisses the top of his head. “I’ll make all the letters you don’t know. Okay?”
He smiles. She loves his wide, toothy smile that looks just like Dillon’s little-boy grin. “Okay!” he says, and stuffs a whole slice of bacon into the smile.
*
At 9:30 she drops him at day care and returns home. She prefers to have him with her but she’s learned that four-year-olds aren’t prepared to deal with the concentration demanded for writing. Before, she and Dillon took turns. Now ... well, now is now.
She takes a shower, washes her hair, dries in front of the mirror, looks at herself. “There is nothing wrong with me,” she says, then shakes her head. She talks to -- at --herself, her reflection, the objects in her life, too often.
“That has to stop,” she says.
The computer is still on from last night. She sorts through the stacks of papers, disks, pencils, coffee cups and curiosities that clog her chair, her desktop, and rereads what she has written, makes a minor correction, reads it again, then looks out the window. It’s busy: Women with prams pass, trucks blow their horns, leaves fall. Downstairs the doves are cooing at the top of their oddly powerful lungs. Their cage needs to be cleaned. Her office needs to be cleaned. The house needs to be cleaned; domesticity was never her strength and, the past five months, it has become utterly incidental to her life. Everywhere, she is surrounded by dirt and disorder. She tries, more for Tennyson’s sake than her own; but, she acknowledges, it’s a half-hearted effort.
She sighs and stares at the screen, her fingers poised on the keyboard. She types:
As through a dream
The glimmer softens
And there stands
And she stops. And there stands -- what? who? Dillon, of course. But she loathes confessional poems and this has all the symptoms of one. What would he think.
I’d hate it. But it would be a good confessional poem, he says.
She sits back and looks at him. The urn is exquisite. And dusty. She looks at it, daily, of course, but she hasn’t touched it since she put it on the top of the low bookcase a week after the funeral. It has stayed there, an indelible scratch blemishing the otherwise cluttered but ignorable landscape of her office. Now she gets up, takes a t-shirt -- one of Tennyson’s -- that’s draped across a chair, left for some distraction on its way to the laundry hamper, picks up the urn and carefully, slowly, strokes it clean. Then she sits on the chair, the covered gray marble bowl between her legs, and reaches for the lid.
When she first brought the urn home she sat with it, like this, alone, at night, arguing with herself whether to open it, to smell its contents, to touch them. She started to lift the lid -- her fingers closed around its spired handle -- but stopped. What, after all, was there? Ashes? Bits of bone? Dust, become dust.
That was -- exactly -- five months ago. The urn has, since, remained on the bookcase in her office, undisturbed. Tennyson has forgotten it: In his youthful resilience, he has adjusted: No nightmares, no recriminations. The occasional “I miss Daddy,” but he has accepted his absence. We forget because we must, not because we will. Wrong, Mr. Arnold, she thinks, and lifts the lid.
Inside is a small mound of gray-brown-blackness, its contour interrupted by tiny protrusions. She takes a deep breath, then touches one. Bone. But there is no sensation in the contact; it’s as insignificant, as asymbolic, as the residue of last night’s chicken.
She lifts her finger to look at it. It’s no different. Flesh, soft and unsullied. She reaches down again; this time, her left index finger probes. She lifts it. There, on the tip, are specks of the gray-brown-blackness. And suddenly she is terrified: What can I do with it? she thinks. I can’t wash it off, it’s part of Dillon. But I can’t leave it on; Tennyson will see it.
He won’t mind, Dillon answers.
She stares at it. She tries to think: It’s just so much dirt. It’s not Dillon.
No, it’s not, she hears him say.
Keeping her index finger extended, she closes the urn and replaces it on the bookcase. She stares at the
finger. The ash is still there. Should she just blow it away and get on with her life? Mary shakes her head. It is Dillon.
You think so. Hmh. You really think so?
She sighs, and sighs again. What will she do with the rest of the day? She can’t type, she can’t read, she can’t wash the dishes.
She goes downstairs. Sappho is in the nest; Catullus is standing beside it, preening her. They need baths; it’s been three days since she sprayed them. She can do that! If it were sunny she’d lug the cage outside but the rain looks imminent. Using her right hand, she gets the water bottle and opens the cage door.
The doves look unconcernedly at this intrusion into their sanctuary. She’s had them for six years now; a wedding present from one of their close friends (who thought they were a pair, not just a couple; “Sappho” was intended as irony), and they are as unaware of her as they were the day they arrived. But, if they’re not affectionate, neither are they perturbed by her presence. With her clean hand she reaches in, presses a finger gently against Cat’s chest, and says “Up.” Obediently (or instinctually, she’s never been sure which) she hops onto Mary’s finger. She moves her just below the perch; Cat hops up and onto it. Saph stares -- longingly, Mary thinks: The doves dislike any separation.
She sprays Catullus through the bars of the cage. She blinks, lifts one wing, then the other, tucks one leg and stretches both wings in what Mary calls the birds’ Tai-Chi routine. Clearly, Cat enjoys this. So does Sappho, but her bath will have to wait until Cat replaces her on the eggs. If there is one thing they are deadly serious about, it’s caring for their eggs. That, in the six years, not one has hatched is irrelevant. Hope springs eternal in their soft white breasts, too. The thing with feathers.
So there is the rest of the day. One-handedly, Mary pours more coffee, drinks it, watches her left index finger as if it’s ordained that the ash will somehow envelop the rest of her hand, her arm, her body. Despite her shower she feels unclean. This tiny fleck of residual love on her finger has scratched her soul, leaving its faint tarnish.
“It would be easier if I could cry,” she says to the coffee cup. The therapist told her there was nothing wrong with that, that it was, in fact, the best thing she could do. But tears, on the rare occasions they’ve come, haven’t helped. She wants to cry out: Why; but she’s done that, too. And there’s been no answer forthcoming. She and Tennyson will sit in front of the telly on Saturday mornings, watching cartoons, and the coyote’s car will crash into the side of the mountain, and it will spring up to chase the roadrunner again (like a grinning Dillon, pretending he was in a car, chased a howling Tennyson around the room), and Tennyson laughs; and Mary smiles but she can feel the tautness at the corners of her mouth. People do not spring up. They lie among the ruins of the car and the dust along the road, and they will never chase anything again.
*
The morning has managed to pass. She’s finished four cups of coffee and is a little wired. In an hour she can pick up Tennyson. But in the meantime, there is still the matter of her left index finger. The ashes remain, reminding her vaguely of the wedding ring she decided she couldn’t wear any longer, but which left its impression for weeks after she took it off, an itch she could not -- can not -- scratch.
She sits at the dining table, the breakfast dishes still on it; she can see into the living room, where books, magazines, newspapers, the occasional blouse or pair of shoes are randomly piled or left, in an abstruse pattern of loneliness. She watches the doves. On the wall is their wedding picture: Dillon and Mary, his curly tresses flowing over his collar, her straight hair severely short. They are smiling, both dressed in white: His tuxedo, her gown. We looked so happy, she thinks. We were, he says.
“Were we?” she asks the picture.
Of course. Newlyweds are always happy.
“That was then.”
His smile broadens. She squeezes her eyes in disbelief, and when she looks again the picture is exactly as it was.
Wash it off, he says. You won’t ever be renewed, but you’ll be fresh. -Ened.
“I can’t,” she says.
He recites for her:
I struggle towards the light; and ye,
Once-long’d-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.
“Matthew Arnold did not have all the answers, Dillon!”
And you have them?
“No.” She sighs, sees that Saph has left the nest and Cat is settling in, gets the water bottle, coaxes the smaller dove to the perch and sprays her. She thinks Sappho almost smiles as she fluffs her feathers, discarding the motes of dust, the bits of seed among them.
The clock strikes one. The mouse ran down, she thinks in honor of Tennyson’s favorite nursery rhyme. She opens the door to find the day surprisingly warm and -- expectedly -- muggy, gets an umbrella, her bag, the keys. She decides she will take Tennyson for pizza, a special treat. Besides, it will be another hour she doesn’t have to face - this: She looks around the living room, the dining room, the staircase. All the places she lives her life.
Mary opens the door, still wondering what she will do about the ashes on her finger. She can see them, clearly; she uses her right hand to lock the door, to open the car, to put the keys into the ignition. She drives that way to the day care center. As she turns in she hears the thunder. She sees Tennyson standing among a group of children under the canopy of the walkway. She waves, but he doesn’t see her.
She parks the car in the lot and, as she walks the hundred steps to meet him, there is a flash of lightning and another thunder roll. Damn it, she thinks, I left the umbrella in the car. She waves again and calls his name. He turns and calls “Mummy.”
The rain breaks just as she reaches the covering. He runs up to her, gives her a big hug and pulls a large envelope from under his shirt. “Look!” he says. “I made it.”
He holds the envelope as, with her right hand, she opens the clasp and gently slides out the crayoned construction paper. On it, there is a neatly drawn picture of a roadrunner, a mountain, and a man in a car. A lump comes to her throat. “That’s very nice,” she says.
Tennyson points. “That’s Daddy.”
“I recognized him right away,” she says.
“You did?”
“Yup.” She looks at her son, closes her eyes a long moment. Behind them she sees Dillon, hears him murmur, but though she listens as hard as she can, the words are indistinct.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Sweetheart?”
“Are you okay?”
She opens her eyes. “Absolutely. Hey: How ‘bout some pizza?”
“Neat-o keen-o!” he says and looks into the rain. “Then can we go home and write the Sun the letter?”
“You, bet.” Mary breathes deeply and stares into the downpour. She tucks the envelope carefully into her bag and says: “Let’s go!”
They walk briskly through the rain. With her right hand, Mary holds Tennyson’s small left hand. She reaches out with her left and lets the water spill across it.
The end 2462 words
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - SECOND PLACE – Absence
What I loved about this gentle story was the visual detail and intimate focus – from the opening viewpoint from within the birdcage to a wider panorama, to the urn, to the speck of dust on the finger which, as a metaphor for grief, becomes the pivotal point of the story. The relationship which is painted between mother and son is quiet and meaningful and the sense of loss powerful. I found the writing fresh and the images memorable. This was a story which stayed in my head long after reading.
Paris By Night by Bruce Harris THIRD PLACE WINNER WINS £30
In 2019, Bruce will be publishing a short story collection with the title 'Fallen Eagles', aimed at fund-raising for the Huntington's Disease Youth Organisation. You can find out more about Bruce on his site www.bruceleonardharris.com .
Ellen watched the Cathedral of Notre Dame drift by in all its floodlit glory. At this moment,
in this place, she felt a quality of quiet, unobtrusive happiness which she had rarely
experienced before. Glancing across at Paul, she could see that he was not experiencing the
same feelings; he seemed nervous, the cool green eyes for once quite liquid, almost
frightened, their animation all the more noticeable in the subdued light of the big cruising
boat, with its dark velvet and polished wood framed against the passing panorama of Paris.
‘The day might come when I have a bad meal in Paris’, she said softly. ‘But it hasn’t yet’.
‘No’. Paul appeared grateful for something to be enthusiastic about. ‘No, it’s superb’.
He grinned at her, on this occasion a flashing, slightly mischievous expression which came
and went like a light bulb. He was doing his best, but she knew the food was proving a strain in spite of its quality, and she was ninety per cent sure she knew why. The Paris weekend had been Paul’s idea, including the Seine dinner cruise, a birthday treat for her. He wanted to propose; she had suspected it from the first suggestion of this trip, and now she was sure of it.
For weeks now they had been skirting round the subject, exchanging rueful stories about the pressures coming from both sets of parents, while at the same time she had to make abundantly clear that she would not give up her own flat, her own life, for anything less than the whole, proper, formal arrangement. She’d worked hard to qualify as a languages teacher and her target in the future was to move from secondary schools into higher education; none of that was going to go for any ad hoc see how it goes arrangements. She had seen the varied fates of friends, both male and female, in transitory relationships falling painfully apart or ill-considered incompatible marriages. The fact that she loved Paul, and she did, made her even more determined that things should be thoroughly and carefully done, for his sake as well as hers. They had now known each other for almost three years, and they needed to move on or risk just fading away from each other.
‘Of course, Paris is familiar enough to you, I know’, Paul said. ‘But there are always new ways to explore it’.
Another grin, and her heart went out to him. Paul always thought carefully about how best to go about everything he did, and she suspected he’d chosen the end of the meal and the romantic Paris night to do the deed. Even if his expensive food turned to ashes in his mouth, that’s the way he was going to do it.
‘I’ve never seen it quite like this before. A daytime trip, yes, but this – well, it’s marvellous, Paul. Such a beautiful idea. Thank you’.
He reached a hand across to her and she held it closely. For a moment, she thought the proposal was going to come there and then. But no; he turned to one side, distracted by the long elegance of the Louvre with its glass pyramid visible behind the much older façade.
She remembered his profile in the university pool, the first time they’d ever spoken to each other. She’d only vaguely noticed him before, a clean cut young man, tall with carefully groomed straight black hair, something of the grown up boy next door. But she’d risen out of the water to see him sitting there on the side of the pool, no more than five feet away; he was watching his friends fool about at the other end. His distraction enabled her to see and enjoy the vital and perfectly sculptured figure of him.
Some instinct caused him to turn and she got a full on grin in her direction. After that, talking was easy.
And it had lasted ever since, surviving, to her surprise, through their remaining university years and even into establishing themselves in careers, she into teaching and he into the managing side of the sports centres he liked so much.
She’d been faithful to him all the way, convinced that he was the one for her, now that the relationship had survived not only the hothouse atmosphere of university but also the difficult early professional years. Her doubts, the chaos and contradictions of her younger mind, were ebbing away. In some ways, Paris, the scene of her present happiness, was also the background to her past distress.
And her heart suddenly accelerated to a drum beat when, just as she was remembering her Paris past, she found herself staring at the living embodiment of it – Alain Durand himself.
She checked herself, told herself not to be foolish; simply thinking about that insane two months with Durand in this highly charged atmosphere had made her imagine him there. But she looked again, and she knew she was not wrong. There was a very characteristic shape to Alain Durand’s head and shoulders, the way he held his head high and unmoving, suggesting arrogance and a little condescension in his manner, even as he nodded agreement with his companion, a French woman of a similar age to himself. She saw Paul’s head beginning to turn in the direction of her eyes and coughed furiously – anything to bring his eyes back to her, to prevent losing the mood of the evening.
‘I’m sorry, Paul – something went down the wrong way. Forgive me for a moment’.
She headed down the short staircase near them to an elaborate cloakroom full of mirrors, flowers and colours, a place for feeling cosseted and affluent rather than shaken by returning ghosts from a girlish past. What a contrast, she thought, facing the mirror critically, her plain blue eclipsed by the grandeur around her, confusion and uncertainty hijacking the promise of her evening.
Alain Durand had been a lecturer at the Sorbonne when she did her gap year. It hadn’t been an easy time; after such a success at A level, she’d become complacent and underestimated how difficult it would be to deal with spoken French day in and day out. She felt out of her depth in more ways than one. Paris by day she could deal with, a whirlwind of student crowds and hectic university classes, fuelled with snatched café baguettes and sandwiches which were generally all she had the time and money for. Paris by night intimidated and puzzled her, a sophisticated world seemingly full of clever, sometimes cynical, people, cool and knowledgeable enough to find their way through complicated menus and wine lists. And she became increasingly conscious of an accompanying darkness in herself, her confidence ebbing away frighteningly into a kind of slow, slipping degeneration.
She realised that to come to terms with Paris by night and understand French life better. She needed a well-informed teacher, and she took the initiative with Durand, trusting him and herself not to let things go beyond friendship. Durand himself, benign but distant, was still, in his late twenties, holding himself back from permanent commitment. He took her at her word and they spent evenings in restaurants while he discussed the menus and gave her an immense amount of useful information on the whole subject of Paris by night, including advice on where, what and who to avoid. On the fourth meeting, her judgement clouded by one glass of wine too many, she tried to move the relationship from friendship to romance. Durand shied away like a startled mustang, and the next day it became very clear that, as far as he was concerned, they were to be lecturer and student and no more, Durand explaining, with his own very individual mixture of humility and condescension, that he had only recently concluded a long relationship, or more accurately had it concluded for him, and he had no wish to embark upon another as yet.
She had been devastated and furiously angry at the exposure of her gauche girlishness, being made to look foolish even as she attempted to understand the worldliness of Paris, all her stereotypes about the insatiable appetites of Frenchmen rebounding on her. Now she stared into the huge mirror with its golden surround, on the verge of returning to a probable proposal of marriage. Mirror examinations are not always about vanity, she thought, seeking to reassure herself that the face looking back at her was now a young woman’s with a reasonably well developed ability to judge character.
Fortunately, there were only weeks to the end of the gap year when Durand made his so
patient and so hurtful little speech. Back on home territory, she had found her feet again and met Paul within a year of starting university.
She saw with sudden clarity the nature of her anxiety now, that the approaching marriage would be Paris by night all over again, but even more so, because this time she would not be able to fly home and put the pieces back together again. This time, if she once again found herself out of her depth and the cynics and sophisticates were right about the negative side of married life, she would be stuck with it or forced into an even more painful and
complicated situation. She knew Paul wanted children from their discussions about it, and that was one more area covered in a mist of inexperience, where her knowledge might yet fall far short of the reality, another Paris by night lurking in the shadows.
Sympathy for the nervous, apprehensive man waiting for her in the restaurant forced her to head back to him. As she closed the cloakroom door and stepped into the corridor, Alain Durand was suddenly only five feet away, coming out of the adjacent door. A few seconds’ wild panic again, but Durand clearly no longer recognised her as he passed and climbed the stairs with a quick glance and a civil nod. She made to follow him, and saw him
suddenly freeze half way up the stairs,seemingly caught in a moment of indecision.
However, he did not look back and resumed the stairs after a few seconds.
Paul was more anxious than ever, rising from his seat and almost coming to meet her; she gathered what confidence she could and managed a fair attempt at the radiant smile. She resolved that the evening would not be derailed without a fight. By the time they’d reached the coffee, he seemed reassured and a small, deep blue box appeared from one of his jacket pockets. Ellen glanced across at Durand; now he had remembered, and a warm smile of recognition pleased and disconcerted her at the same time. The head waiter, a tall, elegant
middle-aged man with an infectious smile, was watching from the saloon’s central table; one or two of the other waiters seemed to be glancing in their direction occasionally. She turned to face Paul, who was flushed with wine and nerves.
‘Ellen, you must know how I feel and I don’t suppose this will come as any kind of a surprise. I know you want us to do this properly, and I do too, so much. You’re everything to me, Ellen, absolutely everything. Will you please marry me?’
She leaned forward; she delayed for a moment, as if trembling on the high-diving board, then the depth of her love for this man broke spectacularly over her like a wave, and she saw that nothing, nothing worth doing could be predicted or totally understood beforehand and if it could, how worthwhile would it be in any case?
Yes, without a doubt Paris by night had its dark corners, its shadows hiding behind the
candles and romance, its traps for the unwary, but it also had almost everything she wanted
from life and there was no gain without risk and adventure. Perhaps risk and adventure was
what it was all about. She’d decided long ago that she would not put him off with evasive
talk about time to think; here he waited before her, his beautiful eyes glistening, his cheeks
glowing softly in the gentle light, his mouth tight and expectant. No diplomacy, no teasing,
no ambiguities.
‘Yes, Paul, yes I will, with all my heart’. They clasped hands in the middle of the table. The head waiter, who had seemed to be rocketing backwards and forwards on some spring attached to the table, could no longer contain himself and shot forward.
‘Alors, Monsieur, elle a dit ‘oui’, n’est-ce-pas?’
Paul did what he usually did when confronted with French, look amiably mystified; Ellen made the customary intervention.
‘He’s asking you whether I said yes, darling’.
Paul managed to look baffled, then indignant, and then hugely amused, a great wide grin of
delight and relief spreading over his face
‘Yes, Monsieur, she did, she said ‘yes’, I mean ‘oui’!’
Handshakes all round and a French both cheeks kiss from the head waiter; a short, embarrassing but warm round of applause from their fellow diners. Including Alain Durand, his chair actually momentarily turned towards her, and his companion smiling even as her eyes narrowed slightly.
Later, as Paul got into conversation with a nearby English couple, she excused herself to take a little air. She walked out to the gallery at the rear of the boat, her breath catching at the cool of the night. Passing slowly by like a beautifully lit white marble boat beside them was the Basilica of Sacre Couer on Montmartre Hill; Paris by night awesome, mysterious, fascinating as ever.
A voice spoke her name in that careful, articulate way the French did, and she turned to see Alain Durand standing beside her.
‘I look at that lovely profile and think I was very unfair to you those years ago; so cold, so withdrawn. My life was very mixed up at that time. But don’t ever think I wasn’t tempted; you are wonderful, and I wish you all the happiness in the world’.
‘Thank you, Alain’. She heard herself saying the words so easily as she stared at the glistening waters of the Seine and remembered another time of looking into this river, when, for a brief but terrifying hour or two, she was seriously considering drastic action to remove or at least divert the pain she was feeling.
‘And did you find what you were looking for, Alain?’
His eyes melted towards her.
‘Francoise is my wife. She is remarkable, and amazingly, was prepared to have me.
I have never been so happy’.
A few minutes later, they walked back to their seats, and she felt Durand’s eyes following her in farewell. Paul reached across to take her hand. At that moment, a long, sleek cruising boat passed them in the opposite direction. Several people were waving towards them. They lifted their free hands and waved back.
Word Count 2485
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - THIRD PLACE - PARIS BY NIGHT This is a beautifully told tale of personal reminiscence alongside a marriage proposal. It demonstrates astute observation of character which is shown through subtle action, but for me, its strength was in the detail, not only in carefully chosen vocabulary, but also because it was such a visually vivid piece that I felt as though I, too, was gliding along the Seine at night.
In 2019, Bruce will be publishing a short story collection with the title 'Fallen Eagles', aimed at fund-raising for the Huntington's Disease Youth Organisation. You can find out more about Bruce on his site www.bruceleonardharris.com .
JUDGED BY HELEN LAYCOCK
Attempt 67 By Taria Karillion FIRST PLACE WINNER WINS £100
The bicycle was in its usual place. Not that the word ‘usual’ was really applicable to the top of the campus flagpole. Verle Coby squinted up at it through the October drizzle, before muttering to himself and plodding back across the quadrangle, slippers squelching on the lawn.
None of the other staff or students gave the bike a second glance. Odd occurrences at the university were two-a-penny, and either dismissed as pranks, or ignored altogether as Somebody Else’s Problem.
The smells of the science block welcomed him back indoors and Coby took the stairs two at a time.
Back in the lab, he grimaced as he tossed his wet slippers into a corner with a colony of fast food boxes and paper coffee cups.
“You really ought to throw that lot, matey, before a rodent hotel opens a franchise in it. S’bad for your weight too, y’know.”
The muffled voice called from behind a tall rack of scientific equipment. Muffled through what sounded like lunch. Coby arched a brow.
“Lab Partner – NOT mother! Anyway, show me one photo of you not eating! So, where’s YOUR middle-age spread, that’s what I want to know!” He sighed and glanced down at his own.
The loud chewing and slurping continued.
“Well, my friend, if you spent less time hiding away in here and actually socialised a little, at the gym with me, maybe – you’d lose that excess in no time! AND Frantastic Fran from Organics goes to the gym. She looks even better in Lycra than a lab coat, y’know… C’mon, you anti-social bugger - I don’t know why I keep asking! Would it be so bad to have a few friends?”
Coby reached for his iPod.
“Ok, drowning you out with Stravinsky now.”
He took a deep breath in time with the swell of the string section. Phil was right, though, he was sure. Fran would look great in a binbag, not that Coby usually noticed what people wore, unless it was a lack of safety goggles.
The clock chimed the hour and he found himself at the window without remembering getting up. Sure enough, crossing the quad with those long legs and usual sunny smile, there she was. Francesca.
Her peal of laughter at the bicycle made Coby smile. A tapping on the glass startled him. More so when he realised he was doing it himself. Fran turned at the sound and beamed up at him. Oh Lord, that smile... She waved, and Coby’s hand ignored the paralysis affecting the rest of his body and waved back. How long had it been since he felt like this? Not since…
“Open the damn window and invite her for LUNCH, you fool!” shouted the food-garbled voice through an orchestral crescendo that felt as if it was as much in Coby’s ribcage as in his ears.
Too late, Fran was tapping her left wrist and scurrying away.
Atop the flagpole, with its still-dangling metal ‘flag’, wheels turning slowly in the breeze, a seagull landed, and – predictably - decorated the saddle with a splash of white. Coby sighed. Why hadn’t he chosen something else to trial his teleporter on?!
“I hate that bike.”
As he removed his headphones and cleaned his glasses, a loud belch erupted from behind the racks.
“I know why you hate it, pally – shall I tell you? It’s because it symbolises your diminished status since the divorce… Sorry to be blunt, mate. BUT, as it happens, Fran doesn’t care much about status. What she does like is physics and classical music and the same nerdy sci-fi shows that you do, and you’d know a lot more about her if you actually spoke to the woman! What have you got to lose?”
Coby shook his head and started tapping at his keyboard, frowning intently at the screen.
“Thank you Phil O’Sophical. But supermodel looks and a Nobelled late husband? With ME? Not a hope.”
A shrill tinging sound was audible from the quad. Through the criss-crossed, leaded window, the seagull could be seen tapping at the bicycle bell like an impatient customer. Coby returned to his chair and typed. Attempt 67 – same lateral displacement problem as before. Containment … failed.
Was that the smell of egg sandwiches? Coby was about to pass comment on it when a far-back falsetto voice sailed across the room.
“Hellooo, I’m Verle Coby – I’ll never measure up – I’ve o-o-only invented teleportation and play five instruments and have campus groupies AND a full head of hair that waves in the wind like a boyband wannabe, and …” Hoarse laughter gave way to choking sounds and colourful expletives, followed by a heavy thud.
“Phil? Phil! You ok?” Coby asked, looking up.
“Ach, don’t rent out my room yet, laddie - you don’t get rid of me that easily. Anyway, who’s going do the dusting and dishes here if I’m not around? Not Fran, at this rate, unless your teleporter can work across time too and bring us back a miracle-working Messiah!”
Verle tapped a gauge and smiled despite the mockery.
“Well, … um … women like bald guys too, y’know, Phil … apparently… Too much, in my ex’s case. Anyway, Heads up – Goggles on – I’m bringing it back. … Incoming in three, two, one!”
Whirring and whining grew in volume from a cable-fringed dais across the room. With a clanging clatter, the bike reappeared in a shimmering, dazzling flash, followed by a squawking thud at the window as the seagull hit the glass and slid down the pane. Coby frowned at it, opening his mouth and pointing, before sitting down and scribbling at speed.
Another hour chime and an unscheduled nap later, Coby woke with an almighty sneeze. Looking through the glinting motes swirling in the air, he noticed something in the dusty surface of the bench. Words! He squinted and pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“Is this you, leaving messages for me in the dust, Phil?” he tutted.
‘VERLE – TO DO: Eat proper meals, see friends, stop wallowing, and do the DUSTING!’
Coby raised his eyebrows and rubbed his eyes.
“Going for the subtle approach, eh, Phil? … Phil! Are you there?”
It was too quiet, until there was a rat-a-tat-tat from behind him. Coby roused himself.
“Did you leave your keys behind again?” he called.
“I’d be thrilled to have some in the first place, actually!” replied a soft voice.
A woman!
Coby straightened his dishevelled clothes and scrambled for the door, wishing he knew the whereabouts of his comb.
The panelled oak creaked open with a sound that mirrored Coby’s surprise.
“Fran! ... I – it’s - um … nice to see you! I… er…” His brain fumbled for something to say that wasn’t ‘Wow’.
“Hello you! I just … haven’t seen you in the dining hall for a couple of weeks and… well, I thought I’d check you were ok. May I come in?” she smiled.
Oh, that smile ... that infectious joyful smile that made it feel like summer, and those ethereal, green eyes, hypnotically large behind delicately-framed glasses, and the ever-present, out-of-place wisp of hair across her brow that he was desperate to stroke back, and not just out of OCD.
After a moment longer than was comfortable, Coby realised he was staring, and wafted an arm at the room.
“Of course, yes, please do! Um … sorry about the mess. The cleaners aren’t allowed in at the moment, in case they … disturb all the … stuff.”
Fran nodded and took in the state of the room – the piles of strewn books and the bin, overflowing with scrunches of paper and bright yellow tape. Fran frowned at it.
“Wow, this looks like it’s not been emptied since…”
She closed her mouth and smiled,
“I know, why don’t you let me help you tidy up a bit? Maybe you could … make some tea?”
Coby found himself nodding and mumbling a thank you, at which, Fran beamed and twirled into action. Coby rummaged for mugs and spoons and jars, more than half-watching her as, with graceful sweeps of her arms, Fran transformed the lounge area and Coby’s side of the lab, swiftly transforming the post-burglary-like disarray into a state of order and neatness that even his own mother couldn’t have found fault with. The fast-food container mountain rapidly disappeared into black plastic bags in a similar series of captivating, waltz-like manoeuvres. It looked like she was probably quite the dancer.
After a few more minutes of companionable silence, Fran finally lifted, twirled and tied a burgeoning bin bag before swinging it into place outside the door and sinking onto the sagging little sofa under the window. She smiled as Coby brought over a tray of mugs and Jammie dodgers.
“Sorry about the kiddy biscuits”, he blushed, sitting beside her and passing her a Star Wars mug. “They’re Phil’s ... but he won’t mind. Especially as I’ve made him a brew – he’ll probably be back any minute.”
Right on cue, a reverberating belch and a tinkling of glassware made him turn his head.
“Talk of the devil – You snuck in quietly, mate! There’s tea over here!”
Fran rested her hand on Coby’s and looked at him with those puppy eyes.
“Listen, Verle - I like you. A lot. And I don’t believe any of the gossip… but you have to accept the truth about Phil.”
Coby gave her a blank look.
“What on earth are you…?”
Fran’s voice was as soft as a bedtime murmur. As soft as the touch of her fingers over his hand.
“Verle…Phil hasn’t been here for weeks.”
“But he’s right over th – “
“Verle, listen - what happened … It wasn’t your fault. The poor guy choked - right in front of you. It must have been awful. But you have to stop blaming yourself - it’s messing with your head, hon.”
“She’s right, y’know” Phil sounded like he was at the bottom of a well. “You’re a decent guy - you tried to help, but hey, at least I went with my favourite food in my hand! Now, get a grip and move the hell on, ok?”
“Verle? Verle! …Focus!” Fran’s eyes pooled a little, but the warmth of her smile was no less radiant. “We all talk to ourselves sometimes. Some days it’s the only way I can get a sensible answer! … But this? …Well, let me get you some help, ok?”
She sneezed and turned, reaching to struggle with the curly, gothic window latch.
“You really need some fresh air. How about a walk? Down to the river maybe?”
Verle felt a glimmer of … something. Hope, maybe? Like headlights in fog, memories faded in and out of his mind’s eye as his stomach gave a lurch. How could he have blanked it all out? And why?
“Verle…?”
Fran was patting his hand and looking around.
“Maybe you could … you could even clean up that antique bike and … we could take a ride together?” She rose and picked up a cloth. “Here, let me wipe the bird muck off the saddle for you.”
“NO!” Verle sprang out of his seat. “Um, I’m sorry, I mean, please don’t!”
“It’s ok, I don’t mind - really – I grew up on a farm!”
“No, you don’t understand! That’s ORGANIC MATTER!”
“Just slightly!” Fran smiled.
“But the saddle was clean!” Coby’s eyed widened as he crossed the room in three quick strides “and my machine – it’s only ever worked on inorganic test samples. This is a HUGE breakthrough! HUGE! I - I have to make notes! I need a pen!” He patted his pockets, looking around.
Fran reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder.
“What can be so important that it can’t wait an hour or two? Wouldn’t you like a proper meal?”
Verle chewed his lip, then exhaled long and hard before taking Fran’s hand and squeezing it.
“With you? Very much. But first, I just need two minutes! “
He twiddled knobs, pulled levers, turned himself and Fran away from the bike, and waited for the flash.
Picking up the binoculars, he peered out at the flagpole. An odd sensation crept over his face - he could feel himself smiling.
The bicycle was in its usual place – still with its splatted saddle.
But right now, Verle Coby didn’t much care.
--- END ---
(2060 words)
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - FIRST PLACE – Attempt 67
I loved this story from the very beginning. The writing seemed effortless and exuded warmth and humour. The narration and convincing dialogue were expertly handled, and the detail of character and setting was realistic, making for very comfortable reading. Not only that, but it was a clever idea! I thoroughly enjoyed being surprised by the theme of teleportation which, of course, explains the title, and the Eureka moment at the end gives scope for an extended conclusion. Well done!
Absence by Evan Guilford-Blake SECOND PLACE WINNER WINS £70
The doves huddle in the nest as they stare through the bars of their cage, the opened slats of the blinds, the tight mesh of the window screens, into the dismal, sunless morning. They are mystified, it seems; the world is as much a mystery to them as they are to Mary. She watches them while she waits for the water to boil, inhaling the smell of the newly ground coffee: one of her favorite aromas. Le parfum du rôti français, according to Dillon in his silly, wide-grinned, early-morning Romantic mode. One of his favorites, too.
She wakes Tennyson with a kiss and a glass of orange juice. He is the only little child she has ever known -- heard of -- who likes to sleep in but, this morning, he wakes with a huge smile and throws his arms around her neck, surprising her and spilling a few drops of her coffee onto his favorite pajamas.
“Oops!” he says. “I got it dirty.” She smiles.
“It’ll wash out,” Mary tells him.
He sits up, takes the oj and swallows it in one large gulp. “My,” Mary says, “somebody was thirsty.”
“I was thirsty,” Tennyson replies, “not somebody.”
Mary kisses him again. Naming their children after other poets was Dillon’s idea. She’d been reluctant when he mentioned it -- “who’d want to be called Hughes - or Plath?” -- but when he suggested “Tennyson” the idea had grown on her: It was, after all, appropriate for either gender, and there were both singularity and inherent poetry to its sound.
“You’re somebody all right,” she tells him.
“I am?” he says.
“Yup,” Mary answers. “Let’s get you dressed. We’re having bacon and eggs this morning.”
“Neat-o keen-o!” he says, echoing Dillon’s favorite phrase. He scrambles from the covers.
*
“The sky is dirty,” Tennyson notes.
“Uh-huh,” Mary says as she sips the coffee. Tennyson’s appetite astonishes her: Food at 8:00 in the morning repels her, but he eats -- as he does most everything else -- vigorously. “It’s going to rain.”
“I don’t think the birds like it.”
“The rain?”
“The sky. They like sunlight.”
“So do I,” she says.
“Me too!” Tennyson exclaims.
“Well: We’ll just have to order you a whole day full of sunlight.”
He looks confused. “How do we order one?” he asks.
Mary smiles. “Well, when you get home?, we’ll - write a letter to the Sun and ask him to make tomorrow sunshiny all day. Can you do that?”
Tennyson looks crestfallen. “I don’t know how to make all the letters yet, Mummy,” he says. “We’re only up to ‘M’.”
She kisses the top of his head. “I’ll make all the letters you don’t know. Okay?”
He smiles. She loves his wide, toothy smile that looks just like Dillon’s little-boy grin. “Okay!” he says, and stuffs a whole slice of bacon into the smile.
*
At 9:30 she drops him at day care and returns home. She prefers to have him with her but she’s learned that four-year-olds aren’t prepared to deal with the concentration demanded for writing. Before, she and Dillon took turns. Now ... well, now is now.
She takes a shower, washes her hair, dries in front of the mirror, looks at herself. “There is nothing wrong with me,” she says, then shakes her head. She talks to -- at --herself, her reflection, the objects in her life, too often.
“That has to stop,” she says.
The computer is still on from last night. She sorts through the stacks of papers, disks, pencils, coffee cups and curiosities that clog her chair, her desktop, and rereads what she has written, makes a minor correction, reads it again, then looks out the window. It’s busy: Women with prams pass, trucks blow their horns, leaves fall. Downstairs the doves are cooing at the top of their oddly powerful lungs. Their cage needs to be cleaned. Her office needs to be cleaned. The house needs to be cleaned; domesticity was never her strength and, the past five months, it has become utterly incidental to her life. Everywhere, she is surrounded by dirt and disorder. She tries, more for Tennyson’s sake than her own; but, she acknowledges, it’s a half-hearted effort.
She sighs and stares at the screen, her fingers poised on the keyboard. She types:
As through a dream
The glimmer softens
And there stands
And she stops. And there stands -- what? who? Dillon, of course. But she loathes confessional poems and this has all the symptoms of one. What would he think.
I’d hate it. But it would be a good confessional poem, he says.
She sits back and looks at him. The urn is exquisite. And dusty. She looks at it, daily, of course, but she hasn’t touched it since she put it on the top of the low bookcase a week after the funeral. It has stayed there, an indelible scratch blemishing the otherwise cluttered but ignorable landscape of her office. Now she gets up, takes a t-shirt -- one of Tennyson’s -- that’s draped across a chair, left for some distraction on its way to the laundry hamper, picks up the urn and carefully, slowly, strokes it clean. Then she sits on the chair, the covered gray marble bowl between her legs, and reaches for the lid.
When she first brought the urn home she sat with it, like this, alone, at night, arguing with herself whether to open it, to smell its contents, to touch them. She started to lift the lid -- her fingers closed around its spired handle -- but stopped. What, after all, was there? Ashes? Bits of bone? Dust, become dust.
That was -- exactly -- five months ago. The urn has, since, remained on the bookcase in her office, undisturbed. Tennyson has forgotten it: In his youthful resilience, he has adjusted: No nightmares, no recriminations. The occasional “I miss Daddy,” but he has accepted his absence. We forget because we must, not because we will. Wrong, Mr. Arnold, she thinks, and lifts the lid.
Inside is a small mound of gray-brown-blackness, its contour interrupted by tiny protrusions. She takes a deep breath, then touches one. Bone. But there is no sensation in the contact; it’s as insignificant, as asymbolic, as the residue of last night’s chicken.
She lifts her finger to look at it. It’s no different. Flesh, soft and unsullied. She reaches down again; this time, her left index finger probes. She lifts it. There, on the tip, are specks of the gray-brown-blackness. And suddenly she is terrified: What can I do with it? she thinks. I can’t wash it off, it’s part of Dillon. But I can’t leave it on; Tennyson will see it.
He won’t mind, Dillon answers.
She stares at it. She tries to think: It’s just so much dirt. It’s not Dillon.
No, it’s not, she hears him say.
Keeping her index finger extended, she closes the urn and replaces it on the bookcase. She stares at the
finger. The ash is still there. Should she just blow it away and get on with her life? Mary shakes her head. It is Dillon.
You think so. Hmh. You really think so?
She sighs, and sighs again. What will she do with the rest of the day? She can’t type, she can’t read, she can’t wash the dishes.
She goes downstairs. Sappho is in the nest; Catullus is standing beside it, preening her. They need baths; it’s been three days since she sprayed them. She can do that! If it were sunny she’d lug the cage outside but the rain looks imminent. Using her right hand, she gets the water bottle and opens the cage door.
The doves look unconcernedly at this intrusion into their sanctuary. She’s had them for six years now; a wedding present from one of their close friends (who thought they were a pair, not just a couple; “Sappho” was intended as irony), and they are as unaware of her as they were the day they arrived. But, if they’re not affectionate, neither are they perturbed by her presence. With her clean hand she reaches in, presses a finger gently against Cat’s chest, and says “Up.” Obediently (or instinctually, she’s never been sure which) she hops onto Mary’s finger. She moves her just below the perch; Cat hops up and onto it. Saph stares -- longingly, Mary thinks: The doves dislike any separation.
She sprays Catullus through the bars of the cage. She blinks, lifts one wing, then the other, tucks one leg and stretches both wings in what Mary calls the birds’ Tai-Chi routine. Clearly, Cat enjoys this. So does Sappho, but her bath will have to wait until Cat replaces her on the eggs. If there is one thing they are deadly serious about, it’s caring for their eggs. That, in the six years, not one has hatched is irrelevant. Hope springs eternal in their soft white breasts, too. The thing with feathers.
So there is the rest of the day. One-handedly, Mary pours more coffee, drinks it, watches her left index finger as if it’s ordained that the ash will somehow envelop the rest of her hand, her arm, her body. Despite her shower she feels unclean. This tiny fleck of residual love on her finger has scratched her soul, leaving its faint tarnish.
“It would be easier if I could cry,” she says to the coffee cup. The therapist told her there was nothing wrong with that, that it was, in fact, the best thing she could do. But tears, on the rare occasions they’ve come, haven’t helped. She wants to cry out: Why; but she’s done that, too. And there’s been no answer forthcoming. She and Tennyson will sit in front of the telly on Saturday mornings, watching cartoons, and the coyote’s car will crash into the side of the mountain, and it will spring up to chase the roadrunner again (like a grinning Dillon, pretending he was in a car, chased a howling Tennyson around the room), and Tennyson laughs; and Mary smiles but she can feel the tautness at the corners of her mouth. People do not spring up. They lie among the ruins of the car and the dust along the road, and they will never chase anything again.
*
The morning has managed to pass. She’s finished four cups of coffee and is a little wired. In an hour she can pick up Tennyson. But in the meantime, there is still the matter of her left index finger. The ashes remain, reminding her vaguely of the wedding ring she decided she couldn’t wear any longer, but which left its impression for weeks after she took it off, an itch she could not -- can not -- scratch.
She sits at the dining table, the breakfast dishes still on it; she can see into the living room, where books, magazines, newspapers, the occasional blouse or pair of shoes are randomly piled or left, in an abstruse pattern of loneliness. She watches the doves. On the wall is their wedding picture: Dillon and Mary, his curly tresses flowing over his collar, her straight hair severely short. They are smiling, both dressed in white: His tuxedo, her gown. We looked so happy, she thinks. We were, he says.
“Were we?” she asks the picture.
Of course. Newlyweds are always happy.
“That was then.”
His smile broadens. She squeezes her eyes in disbelief, and when she looks again the picture is exactly as it was.
Wash it off, he says. You won’t ever be renewed, but you’ll be fresh. -Ened.
“I can’t,” she says.
He recites for her:
I struggle towards the light; and ye,
Once-long’d-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.
“Matthew Arnold did not have all the answers, Dillon!”
And you have them?
“No.” She sighs, sees that Saph has left the nest and Cat is settling in, gets the water bottle, coaxes the smaller dove to the perch and sprays her. She thinks Sappho almost smiles as she fluffs her feathers, discarding the motes of dust, the bits of seed among them.
The clock strikes one. The mouse ran down, she thinks in honor of Tennyson’s favorite nursery rhyme. She opens the door to find the day surprisingly warm and -- expectedly -- muggy, gets an umbrella, her bag, the keys. She decides she will take Tennyson for pizza, a special treat. Besides, it will be another hour she doesn’t have to face - this: She looks around the living room, the dining room, the staircase. All the places she lives her life.
Mary opens the door, still wondering what she will do about the ashes on her finger. She can see them, clearly; she uses her right hand to lock the door, to open the car, to put the keys into the ignition. She drives that way to the day care center. As she turns in she hears the thunder. She sees Tennyson standing among a group of children under the canopy of the walkway. She waves, but he doesn’t see her.
She parks the car in the lot and, as she walks the hundred steps to meet him, there is a flash of lightning and another thunder roll. Damn it, she thinks, I left the umbrella in the car. She waves again and calls his name. He turns and calls “Mummy.”
The rain breaks just as she reaches the covering. He runs up to her, gives her a big hug and pulls a large envelope from under his shirt. “Look!” he says. “I made it.”
He holds the envelope as, with her right hand, she opens the clasp and gently slides out the crayoned construction paper. On it, there is a neatly drawn picture of a roadrunner, a mountain, and a man in a car. A lump comes to her throat. “That’s very nice,” she says.
Tennyson points. “That’s Daddy.”
“I recognized him right away,” she says.
“You did?”
“Yup.” She looks at her son, closes her eyes a long moment. Behind them she sees Dillon, hears him murmur, but though she listens as hard as she can, the words are indistinct.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Sweetheart?”
“Are you okay?”
She opens her eyes. “Absolutely. Hey: How ‘bout some pizza?”
“Neat-o keen-o!” he says and looks into the rain. “Then can we go home and write the Sun the letter?”
“You, bet.” Mary breathes deeply and stares into the downpour. She tucks the envelope carefully into her bag and says: “Let’s go!”
They walk briskly through the rain. With her right hand, Mary holds Tennyson’s small left hand. She reaches out with her left and lets the water spill across it.
The end 2462 words
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - SECOND PLACE – Absence
What I loved about this gentle story was the visual detail and intimate focus – from the opening viewpoint from within the birdcage to a wider panorama, to the urn, to the speck of dust on the finger which, as a metaphor for grief, becomes the pivotal point of the story. The relationship which is painted between mother and son is quiet and meaningful and the sense of loss powerful. I found the writing fresh and the images memorable. This was a story which stayed in my head long after reading.
Paris By Night by Bruce Harris THIRD PLACE WINNER WINS £30
In 2019, Bruce will be publishing a short story collection with the title 'Fallen Eagles', aimed at fund-raising for the Huntington's Disease Youth Organisation. You can find out more about Bruce on his site www.bruceleonardharris.com .
Ellen watched the Cathedral of Notre Dame drift by in all its floodlit glory. At this moment,
in this place, she felt a quality of quiet, unobtrusive happiness which she had rarely
experienced before. Glancing across at Paul, she could see that he was not experiencing the
same feelings; he seemed nervous, the cool green eyes for once quite liquid, almost
frightened, their animation all the more noticeable in the subdued light of the big cruising
boat, with its dark velvet and polished wood framed against the passing panorama of Paris.
‘The day might come when I have a bad meal in Paris’, she said softly. ‘But it hasn’t yet’.
‘No’. Paul appeared grateful for something to be enthusiastic about. ‘No, it’s superb’.
He grinned at her, on this occasion a flashing, slightly mischievous expression which came
and went like a light bulb. He was doing his best, but she knew the food was proving a strain in spite of its quality, and she was ninety per cent sure she knew why. The Paris weekend had been Paul’s idea, including the Seine dinner cruise, a birthday treat for her. He wanted to propose; she had suspected it from the first suggestion of this trip, and now she was sure of it.
For weeks now they had been skirting round the subject, exchanging rueful stories about the pressures coming from both sets of parents, while at the same time she had to make abundantly clear that she would not give up her own flat, her own life, for anything less than the whole, proper, formal arrangement. She’d worked hard to qualify as a languages teacher and her target in the future was to move from secondary schools into higher education; none of that was going to go for any ad hoc see how it goes arrangements. She had seen the varied fates of friends, both male and female, in transitory relationships falling painfully apart or ill-considered incompatible marriages. The fact that she loved Paul, and she did, made her even more determined that things should be thoroughly and carefully done, for his sake as well as hers. They had now known each other for almost three years, and they needed to move on or risk just fading away from each other.
‘Of course, Paris is familiar enough to you, I know’, Paul said. ‘But there are always new ways to explore it’.
Another grin, and her heart went out to him. Paul always thought carefully about how best to go about everything he did, and she suspected he’d chosen the end of the meal and the romantic Paris night to do the deed. Even if his expensive food turned to ashes in his mouth, that’s the way he was going to do it.
‘I’ve never seen it quite like this before. A daytime trip, yes, but this – well, it’s marvellous, Paul. Such a beautiful idea. Thank you’.
He reached a hand across to her and she held it closely. For a moment, she thought the proposal was going to come there and then. But no; he turned to one side, distracted by the long elegance of the Louvre with its glass pyramid visible behind the much older façade.
She remembered his profile in the university pool, the first time they’d ever spoken to each other. She’d only vaguely noticed him before, a clean cut young man, tall with carefully groomed straight black hair, something of the grown up boy next door. But she’d risen out of the water to see him sitting there on the side of the pool, no more than five feet away; he was watching his friends fool about at the other end. His distraction enabled her to see and enjoy the vital and perfectly sculptured figure of him.
Some instinct caused him to turn and she got a full on grin in her direction. After that, talking was easy.
And it had lasted ever since, surviving, to her surprise, through their remaining university years and even into establishing themselves in careers, she into teaching and he into the managing side of the sports centres he liked so much.
She’d been faithful to him all the way, convinced that he was the one for her, now that the relationship had survived not only the hothouse atmosphere of university but also the difficult early professional years. Her doubts, the chaos and contradictions of her younger mind, were ebbing away. In some ways, Paris, the scene of her present happiness, was also the background to her past distress.
And her heart suddenly accelerated to a drum beat when, just as she was remembering her Paris past, she found herself staring at the living embodiment of it – Alain Durand himself.
She checked herself, told herself not to be foolish; simply thinking about that insane two months with Durand in this highly charged atmosphere had made her imagine him there. But she looked again, and she knew she was not wrong. There was a very characteristic shape to Alain Durand’s head and shoulders, the way he held his head high and unmoving, suggesting arrogance and a little condescension in his manner, even as he nodded agreement with his companion, a French woman of a similar age to himself. She saw Paul’s head beginning to turn in the direction of her eyes and coughed furiously – anything to bring his eyes back to her, to prevent losing the mood of the evening.
‘I’m sorry, Paul – something went down the wrong way. Forgive me for a moment’.
She headed down the short staircase near them to an elaborate cloakroom full of mirrors, flowers and colours, a place for feeling cosseted and affluent rather than shaken by returning ghosts from a girlish past. What a contrast, she thought, facing the mirror critically, her plain blue eclipsed by the grandeur around her, confusion and uncertainty hijacking the promise of her evening.
Alain Durand had been a lecturer at the Sorbonne when she did her gap year. It hadn’t been an easy time; after such a success at A level, she’d become complacent and underestimated how difficult it would be to deal with spoken French day in and day out. She felt out of her depth in more ways than one. Paris by day she could deal with, a whirlwind of student crowds and hectic university classes, fuelled with snatched café baguettes and sandwiches which were generally all she had the time and money for. Paris by night intimidated and puzzled her, a sophisticated world seemingly full of clever, sometimes cynical, people, cool and knowledgeable enough to find their way through complicated menus and wine lists. And she became increasingly conscious of an accompanying darkness in herself, her confidence ebbing away frighteningly into a kind of slow, slipping degeneration.
She realised that to come to terms with Paris by night and understand French life better. She needed a well-informed teacher, and she took the initiative with Durand, trusting him and herself not to let things go beyond friendship. Durand himself, benign but distant, was still, in his late twenties, holding himself back from permanent commitment. He took her at her word and they spent evenings in restaurants while he discussed the menus and gave her an immense amount of useful information on the whole subject of Paris by night, including advice on where, what and who to avoid. On the fourth meeting, her judgement clouded by one glass of wine too many, she tried to move the relationship from friendship to romance. Durand shied away like a startled mustang, and the next day it became very clear that, as far as he was concerned, they were to be lecturer and student and no more, Durand explaining, with his own very individual mixture of humility and condescension, that he had only recently concluded a long relationship, or more accurately had it concluded for him, and he had no wish to embark upon another as yet.
She had been devastated and furiously angry at the exposure of her gauche girlishness, being made to look foolish even as she attempted to understand the worldliness of Paris, all her stereotypes about the insatiable appetites of Frenchmen rebounding on her. Now she stared into the huge mirror with its golden surround, on the verge of returning to a probable proposal of marriage. Mirror examinations are not always about vanity, she thought, seeking to reassure herself that the face looking back at her was now a young woman’s with a reasonably well developed ability to judge character.
Fortunately, there were only weeks to the end of the gap year when Durand made his so
patient and so hurtful little speech. Back on home territory, she had found her feet again and met Paul within a year of starting university.
She saw with sudden clarity the nature of her anxiety now, that the approaching marriage would be Paris by night all over again, but even more so, because this time she would not be able to fly home and put the pieces back together again. This time, if she once again found herself out of her depth and the cynics and sophisticates were right about the negative side of married life, she would be stuck with it or forced into an even more painful and
complicated situation. She knew Paul wanted children from their discussions about it, and that was one more area covered in a mist of inexperience, where her knowledge might yet fall far short of the reality, another Paris by night lurking in the shadows.
Sympathy for the nervous, apprehensive man waiting for her in the restaurant forced her to head back to him. As she closed the cloakroom door and stepped into the corridor, Alain Durand was suddenly only five feet away, coming out of the adjacent door. A few seconds’ wild panic again, but Durand clearly no longer recognised her as he passed and climbed the stairs with a quick glance and a civil nod. She made to follow him, and saw him
suddenly freeze half way up the stairs,seemingly caught in a moment of indecision.
However, he did not look back and resumed the stairs after a few seconds.
Paul was more anxious than ever, rising from his seat and almost coming to meet her; she gathered what confidence she could and managed a fair attempt at the radiant smile. She resolved that the evening would not be derailed without a fight. By the time they’d reached the coffee, he seemed reassured and a small, deep blue box appeared from one of his jacket pockets. Ellen glanced across at Durand; now he had remembered, and a warm smile of recognition pleased and disconcerted her at the same time. The head waiter, a tall, elegant
middle-aged man with an infectious smile, was watching from the saloon’s central table; one or two of the other waiters seemed to be glancing in their direction occasionally. She turned to face Paul, who was flushed with wine and nerves.
‘Ellen, you must know how I feel and I don’t suppose this will come as any kind of a surprise. I know you want us to do this properly, and I do too, so much. You’re everything to me, Ellen, absolutely everything. Will you please marry me?’
She leaned forward; she delayed for a moment, as if trembling on the high-diving board, then the depth of her love for this man broke spectacularly over her like a wave, and she saw that nothing, nothing worth doing could be predicted or totally understood beforehand and if it could, how worthwhile would it be in any case?
Yes, without a doubt Paris by night had its dark corners, its shadows hiding behind the
candles and romance, its traps for the unwary, but it also had almost everything she wanted
from life and there was no gain without risk and adventure. Perhaps risk and adventure was
what it was all about. She’d decided long ago that she would not put him off with evasive
talk about time to think; here he waited before her, his beautiful eyes glistening, his cheeks
glowing softly in the gentle light, his mouth tight and expectant. No diplomacy, no teasing,
no ambiguities.
‘Yes, Paul, yes I will, with all my heart’. They clasped hands in the middle of the table. The head waiter, who had seemed to be rocketing backwards and forwards on some spring attached to the table, could no longer contain himself and shot forward.
‘Alors, Monsieur, elle a dit ‘oui’, n’est-ce-pas?’
Paul did what he usually did when confronted with French, look amiably mystified; Ellen made the customary intervention.
‘He’s asking you whether I said yes, darling’.
Paul managed to look baffled, then indignant, and then hugely amused, a great wide grin of
delight and relief spreading over his face
‘Yes, Monsieur, she did, she said ‘yes’, I mean ‘oui’!’
Handshakes all round and a French both cheeks kiss from the head waiter; a short, embarrassing but warm round of applause from their fellow diners. Including Alain Durand, his chair actually momentarily turned towards her, and his companion smiling even as her eyes narrowed slightly.
Later, as Paul got into conversation with a nearby English couple, she excused herself to take a little air. She walked out to the gallery at the rear of the boat, her breath catching at the cool of the night. Passing slowly by like a beautifully lit white marble boat beside them was the Basilica of Sacre Couer on Montmartre Hill; Paris by night awesome, mysterious, fascinating as ever.
A voice spoke her name in that careful, articulate way the French did, and she turned to see Alain Durand standing beside her.
‘I look at that lovely profile and think I was very unfair to you those years ago; so cold, so withdrawn. My life was very mixed up at that time. But don’t ever think I wasn’t tempted; you are wonderful, and I wish you all the happiness in the world’.
‘Thank you, Alain’. She heard herself saying the words so easily as she stared at the glistening waters of the Seine and remembered another time of looking into this river, when, for a brief but terrifying hour or two, she was seriously considering drastic action to remove or at least divert the pain she was feeling.
‘And did you find what you were looking for, Alain?’
His eyes melted towards her.
‘Francoise is my wife. She is remarkable, and amazingly, was prepared to have me.
I have never been so happy’.
A few minutes later, they walked back to their seats, and she felt Durand’s eyes following her in farewell. Paul reached across to take her hand. At that moment, a long, sleek cruising boat passed them in the opposite direction. Several people were waving towards them. They lifted their free hands and waved back.
Word Count 2485
JUDGE'S COMMENTS - THIRD PLACE - PARIS BY NIGHT This is a beautifully told tale of personal reminiscence alongside a marriage proposal. It demonstrates astute observation of character which is shown through subtle action, but for me, its strength was in the detail, not only in carefully chosen vocabulary, but also because it was such a visually vivid piece that I felt as though I, too, was gliding along the Seine at night.
In 2019, Bruce will be publishing a short story collection with the title 'Fallen Eagles', aimed at fund-raising for the Huntington's Disease Youth Organisation. You can find out more about Bruce on his site www.bruceleonardharris.com .