I’m leaving, on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again.

So the song goes. But in my case it’s true now. I’m leaving, for good. I’ve had 18 weary years of being told what to do and now I finally get my freedom. I can start doing what I want for a change.

Funny how stupid my parents are. When I was a little boy I used to think they knew everything. Ha! They don’t know nothing. And they’re so old. But I guess that’s not really their fault.

-end of entry-

So I decided on giving myself a time limit and thought long and hard about how much time it should be.  Five minutes seemed too short a time and ten minutes was more than I felt like doing, but seven minutes was my Goldilocks number (“just right”).  It’s short enough that I feel it’s not a big deal, but not so short that I won’t be able to write enough to make it worthwhile.

In other words, I can’t get out of it!  Below is the piece, unedited, that I’ve written in seven minutes, including time spent on thinking of a subject.

As I gave my son the money he needed to buy a Mother’s Day gift – again – I saw the look on his face.  Some of the money was going to remain in his pocket, I was sure.

Disappointment filled my nostrils like the stale, sour smell of cigarette smoke in a tap room.  I’d been giving him plenty of warning that he needed to save some money and, once again, he hadn’t.  Even though my wife wasn’t bothered for a present, I knew that if she got one she’d be secretly utterly delighted.

Off he trudged and as I watched him leave I remembered the times I’d taken him shopping for a present for mum when he was a little boy.  How I miss those days.  Now, as a boy on the verge of being a young man, he constantly missed the low targets I set for him.  Every time I lowered the bar he seemed to manage to sneak under it.  And most of the time I could not disguise how I felt about it.

An hour or so later I saw him coming back up the street with a friend.  His friend had a bag, but my son didn’t.  Not unexpected, that other kids took the time to celebrate Mother’s Day, but my son didn’t even when reminded and given the money.  The dull, nagging ache of disappointment and regret climbed its way up to my heart and I sighed.

“Hi, Dad,” he said.

“Hello kid.”

That was it.  The entire conversation.  No explanation, or apology, just a “hi”.

Waking on the Sunday, Mother’s Day, I thought I’d leave him to it to explain why he hadn’t got her anything.

That’s where the seven minutes stopped, but I want to finish the story so here goes:

He was already awake when I got up, which was unusual.  As I came downstairs I could see him holding a card and a package, which took me aback.

“I got Steve to hide it yesterday so you’d think I’d forgotten.  I knew you’d tell mum if I bought something so it’s a bigger surprise for her this way,” he said with a grin that took him close to looking like The Joker.

“Gotcha!”

He certainly had.  He’d got me good and proper.  Although there are times when he’s just a smelly, bad-tempered, messy, demanding teenager, there are also times when I remember just how wonderful a son he still is.  Today was one of them.  Today was a good day.   Today he was a good boy.  He was our good boy.

As he walked upstairs with the card and present he looked back at me and laughed – and so did I.

================================================================

When I started the blog it was very relaxing to come away from a day’s work and snatch a few moments to write – to create something.  Now, I’m on the internet most of the day so the attraction has waned, although the desire to create something is still there.  It’s just that now the mechanics of it have become boring by virtue of being commonplace.

Funny, really, when a few years ago I considered the very act of blogging to be something exciting and new.  Of course it was, then.  Publishing something for the whole world to see – wow, that was a buzz a few years ago.  Now it’s about the same as sending a text message; just another techno-feat that we take utterly for granted.

I still want to write – let’s be honest, who doesn’t?  So since I still have this blog I thought I’d come back and do a bit more on it and see if my interest is really still there, or am I just kidding myself?

Time will tell.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, with the crispness of May in England.

K was already awake when C woke up. In fact K had not slept all night. The wounds Mrs. Finnegan had inflicted were painful enough, but it was the mental scars that hurt the most.

There were no sounds coming from downstairs. C prayed silently that a V2 had hit the house in the night and taken Mrs. Finnegan with it, leaving them safe. But in her heart she knew that God would never deliver justice with such a crude instrument. No, Mrs. Finnegan’s day of judgement would come. But C prayed that it might be today.

Then, quietly at first, a humming sound approached the house. It was Mrs. Finnegan. She was still alive, after all.

Downstairs the sound of a door slamming shut sent shivers through both girls, as they expected a repeat of the previous night’s brutality. They could hear Mrs. Finnegan pottering about and making noises for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps she had forgotten they were there.

Footsteps on the stairs. She was climbing them fast. She was coming for them. As C cowered in the bed K took up a position standing over her, protecting her little sister, no matter the cost.

The door opened.

The sight of Mrs. Finnegan chilled K to the bone. She was smiling at the girls, carrying a tray of breakfast.

“Come on now, lazy heads! Time to be up and having breakfast. You have to go to the local school this morning. Here, have this first and then get dressed and come downstairs. Bring the plates and tray back with you.”

Turning without a word, she walked quietly out of the bedroom, humming gently.

It was a trap. It must be. A cruel trick to get the girls to leave the safety of the bedroom.

The humming continued, but it was clearly downstairs, probably in the kitchen. Mrs. F. wasn’t waiting outside the door to get them. She was downstairs.

Trembling, with fear as much as with hunger, the girls reached out for the breakfast. It was a simple meal of a boiled egg each and 1 slice of toast. But to two, frightened and hungry girls it signalled a form of sanctuary. In their hunger the breakfast only lasted a couple of moments.

Cleaning up the crumbs as best they could, the girls collected the plates together and went downstairs. K was in the lead and C followed like a little lamb behind its mother. Neither girl dared speak. Neither girl dared make any noise.

“Bless you girls, that’s saved my old bones another trip up the stairs. Just put the plates over there. I’ll see to them when I get back. Now, let’s get you to the school.”

The rest of the day was a blur of memories. Being paraded in front of one teacher after another, reciting personal details to anyone who asked, each class being another gauntlet run of the jibes of the ‘girls with the funny voices’. But it felt more like normality than the night before and by the end of the day the girls had begun to relax a little.

As they walked back to the farmhouse neither girl spoke. Neither girl wanted to break the silence. To break the silence would be to admit that the previous night had not been a bad dream. But at least it seemed to be over.

The smell of cooking wafted through the door as they walked in, to see Mrs. Finnegan stirring various pots. The shortages of war were not being felt as severely here, as they were at home.

After the meal there was even a pudding, of sorts. A few slices of bread, cooked in milk – a luxury! – with some dried raisins. There was sweetness there, which made the simple meal feel more like a feast. The felling of full stomachs caused the girls to become drowsy and they nodded off on the couch.

……

“So she kept her secret for 40 years, because she thought we’d all be ashamed of her.”

It was hard to take in what I’d just heard. A bit of a shock, really. In so many ways I wish they hadn’t told me. But once the genie is out of the bottle it’s too late.

And it was late. Exhausted by the events of the day I could only stay awake for a little while longer. Sleep came in fits and starts and was interrupted with dreams. Perhaps our dreams are real life and what we think is waking is actually the real dream. Who knows?

What I knew was that my past was unravelling in front of me and re-forming, just like every cheap time-travel movie shows at some point when an event changes the future. Who we are is made up of so many things. But if the fundamental thing alters, can you ever say you’re really you again?

The next morning was just more activity. Why is there so much to do when someone dies? We rarely focus that much time and energy on anyone when they’re alive, but death has a way of making time revolve around them.

Inevitably there were lots of phone calls to make. People to invite to the funeral service, vicars to talk to, funeral arrangements to make. Very professional and sympathetic, funeral directors, but how do you look someone in the eye when selling them a coffin for their dead realative is how you make your living?

The body – what a cold and impersonal phrase – would be in the funeral chapel of rest later that day. We would be able to visit in the late afternoon.

I was the only one who felt at peace visiting her dead body. The others couldn’t face the prospect. S couldn’t even talk about it. But then she’d been the one who’d done all the caring. As a medical professional she had the skills, but it was obvious that it had taken its toll on her. Truth be told we were all glad it wasn’t us who had to do the caring. And S must have been very close to the edge of a nervous breakdown by this time. In fact it’s hard to say that she hadn’t tipped over.

When I visited the chapel of rest to view her body I was slightly apprehensive. Would I be scared? I didn’t know, but I wanted to see her.

Not as bad as I thought, actually. In fact, she looked like she’d just been caught mid-snore while she was sleeping. I only stayed a few minutes, talking to her with the knowledge of what she’d told the others. Her hands were very cold – of course – but I held them, just the same. I think it’s the deathly cold that strikes you about a dead body. It’s a cold beyond cold. An emptiness. I wonder if space feels like that?

When I got back to her house I heard raised voices. Anger was rearing its head.

“What’s going on?”, I asked.

The cost of entry is to write a blog post that links back to the site running the contest. I think that’s a very cool way of getting some incoming back links and Gobala, who runs the site, offers a link back to anyone who’s making a post, so everyone wins in reality.

So, if you fancy a fun contest, have a look here.

Tags: amazon, kindle, ebook, ebookreader, gadgets

As I walked through the halls of the hospice to her room, I was struck by the silence. Deathly silence really.

Inside her room everything seemed as it was before, except for her lifeless body, twisted as though in pain. I fell to my knees and started sobbing. This was not something I was ready for, despite 18 months of expectation. I don’t recall what time I left, or what was said. But the next day was a flurry of activity.

There’s just so much to do when someone dies. Certificates to collect, funerals to arrange, relatives to tell. So many officials and functionaries to deal with.

Strange how easy it is to forget that she’s dead. For a moment, after walking out of one funeral director’s office in disgust at the callous and impersonal way he was treating us, I thought I’d ring my mother for her advice on who to use.

Then I realised that I couldn’t. She was the one who was dead.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I remember that the sun was shining – it was hot, actually. And that evening we got together to discuss the plans that had been made by the four of us, her children.

It was then that I learned something that was to change my life.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“What?”, I asked.

“Well, I’m not sure if you’d be better off not knowing.”

What stupid thing to say. Why raise the point all?

“If you know then I’m sure I can cope.”

“Ok, well, she made me promise not to tell anyone until she was gone.”

……

May, 1941

Hitler’s war on Europe was affecting everyone, so there was no point complaining. Evacuation was a fact of life. Even so, it was actually quite exciting for two young city girls to think they’d be going to the country. They’d be safe there and away from the smells and crowding of the city.

C and K were being evacuated together. Their other sisters were all being placed individually.

“I’ll look after you, C.”, said K. “Don’t you worry.”

“No, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be like going on a holiday.”

Holidays were not something familiar. In fact, holidays were a stranger to the family.

A few excited and sleepless nights followed and eventually the car came to take them. Smiling and waving goodbye they left the comfort and sanctuary of home. It never occurred to either of them that it was strange to be leaving without even a kiss from their mother.

The driver barely spoke as they travelled to the train station, but at least he didn’t tell them to shut up as they babbled on about what they’d do on the farm.

Some five hours later they arrived in the countryside. There was no car for them so they had to walk. It was a long walk and the woman who had met them at the station made no allowance for the fact the little girls were tired. At 7 and 11 years old they were old enough to keep up with her. After all, there was a war on.

The farm proved to be less glamorous in real life than it had been in their imaginations. In fact, it was positively dirty. And smelly. The pungent smell of animal manure was quite a shock and coupled with their hunger – they’d been provided no food for the journey – it was almost over-powering.

C began to cry.

“Now then, stop that!”, ordered the woman. “Mrs. Finnegan won’t tolerate cry-babies so you might as well stop now”.

From the doorway emerged a dark, dishevelled hulking brute of a woman, face lined from heavy toil. Scowling at the girls she took hold of C’s shoulders and marched her into the farmhouse.

Outside, faint words from within could be heard.

“…something to cry about…”

“You might as well join your sister now. Tell Mrs. Finnegan I’ll be back tomorrow with the paperwork. And mind you pay her respect.”

K ran inside to find her sister. She was sitting in the corner, tears streaming down her face. Mrs. Finnegan was holding a large wooden spoon in a striking position.

“Leave her alone!”, screamed K.

At this remark the wooden spoon was delivered with furious might across K’s cheek. The sting was such a shock that K didn’t realise she was now bleeding.

“You little bastards had better get used to the idea that this ain’t no holiday. You’re here to work and if you so much as look the wrong way I’ll leather you. I’ll leather you within an inch of your lives. Spoilt little brats.”

Mrs. Finnegan put the spoon down and began to sing to herself while she made a pot of tea.

C and K huddled together in the corner, sobbing as quietly as they could for fear that they might upset Mrs. Finnegan.

Sipping the tea noisily Mrs. Finnegan made a point of draining the pot in front of the children.

“You’ve arrived too late tonight for tea. Get ready for bed and be quiet.”

The two girls did as they were told. They were already scared enough not to take any risk. Hungry, cold and tired, they went to their bedroom. It was little bigger than a cupboard, but at least they were together.

Snuggling together for warmth, they lay in silence. K put her arm around her sister and pulled her closer. Downstairs the sound of Mrs. Finnegan moving around was followed by the smell of food wafting up into the little attic. The girls didn’t dare move, despite their hunger. They didn’t know if the food was for them, or whether they’d risk another beating by going to see. In the end their hunger and desperation convinced them to check.

As they returned to the attic, after another sound beating, they could hear Mrs. Finnegan downstairs, talking to herself.

“…beat it out of them. Insolent little animals. Think they’re getting a free ride here they’ve got another think coming.”

K hugged her sister tight. She wouldn’t let any more harm come to her.

“Wake up, you little pigs!”, screamed Mrs. Finnegan.

As the girls got out of their bed, drowsy from lack of sleep and food, Mrs. Finnegan howled like a wild animal.

“Who did that? Which of you pissed the bed? Who?”

K knew that C couldn’t take another beating so she spoke up.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me. It was an accident.”Running downstairs Mrs. Finnegan shrieked. All of a sudden the shrieking stopped and Mrs. Finnegan could be heard coming upstairs, slowly.

The old leather belt she used to beat K at least had no buckles. But it was enough to do plenty of damage. Making no noise as she repeatedly brought the belt down, Mrs. Finnegan didn’t stop until K was barely breathing.

C stood, unable to move with fear, praying that god would deliver them. No deliverance came.

When Mrs. Finnegan was satisfied she simply walked downstairs, humming.

Technorati Tags: novel, short stories, first novel

If you have a blog and you ever think about changing your hosting, I’d suggest you allow yourself a lot more time than you think it’ll take – and then double it!

And just like moving house I still have the equivalent of unopened boxes to work through. My theme needs updating and I’ve changed the page structure. I have no idea what that will do navigation, but it’s for the best because my blog wasn’t very well organised where it lived before. It ran quite slow too. I had to optimise the database every few days. The hosting account I’d had for quite some time wasn’t serving me well anymore so it was time to bite the bullet and make some changes.

Well, back to unpacking!

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Update: I decided that I’d go back to the old permalink structure, because when I reviewed both types I realised I didn’t need to fix what wasn’t broken.

Looking at the tubes connected to her frail, wizened body, I felt a terrible cloying sickness inside me.

Death wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate. She was going to die: no question. The only question was how soon and how painfully. And how much would I let it affect me.

The sense of hopelessness and helplessness was actually heavy. I could feel it on my shoulders and it was heavy. There was nothing I could do to change her journey. Death is, at the end, a journey made totally alone and without a return ticket. Is there a destination? People have been arguing over that ever since people existed, but for me the answer was an easy one. I knew the answer to that question.

I suppose for most of us death isn’t the real fear. It’s what comes just before it. The possibility of terrible suffering; the uncertainty of how it will occur; the fear of loss of loved ones and our treasures. No, actual death is probably the easy part.

We’d had conversations about her condition and whether we should ‘assist’ her transition in any way. Each of her children had a view on that. But none of us had the stomach to say what we really felt. I wonder how many other children try to discuss euthanasia without ever discussing it? And of those who do, how many carry a terrible secret with them for the rest of their lives?

Near misses had happened many times before so we expected no different today and we all eventually took our turn to kiss her and tell her that we loved her and would be back tomorrow. All but one of us who stayed behind.

We anticipated the worst within the next few days, but we didn’t really discuss it as we left the hospital. If you say it out loud it might come true.

I got home around 10.43 p.m. and I was tired. It’s so exhausting when somebody’s terminally ill. It literally sucks the energy right out of you. But at least I was home now and away from the face of death’s new neighbour. I’d only had a few hours at the hospital because I’d been kept back at work to fix a problem the boss had created. And as usual waiting until the last possible minute to deal with it and then waiting some more he decided to ask for a fix at 6 p.m. I’d fixed it by 7.15 and was at the hospital by 7.40

Broke a few speed laws to get there because I didn’t want anyone to think I’d put work first. But of course that’s exactly what I had done. Still, I’ll go early tomorrow and spend some extra time.

Funny really, but I was never too tired to eat. It was late to be having a big meal, but I was pretty hungry so I did. Probably got to bed around 11.45 and fell to sleep dreaming about quitting work. I have young children who are growing up and I’m practically a stranger to them with work.

The sound was indistinct at first and I was still in that dazed state when you’re trying to wake up. Telephone. It was the telephone. Pitch black in the room so it was still night. My fuzzy eyes could just make out that it was about 12.31 am. No call at that time is good.

Of course, as I got downstairs, banging my toes on unseen obstacles along the way, the phone stopped ringing. My answering machine had kicked in, bu at least it was on monitor. No message left. I started the slow process of turning the machine off – why are they so hard to work when you’re half-asleep? – and the phone rang again. Cheap answering machines won’t let you intervene and pick up the call if they’ve already done so.

No message again.

By this time my wife had joined me and she was more awake so she switched the thing off. Only took one click of a button. Why had it been so hard for me?

The phone rang again.

My sister’s voice, calm and measured, ever the health professional. Twenty years of medical training and experience will do that to you.

“She’s passed. The others are at the hospital now.”

Now I was wide awake and getting dressed and finding my keys and putting on my shoes and looking for my wallet and grabbing my phone and thinking fast. Einstein was right about relativity. Time does move differently depending on the observer. At least the roads were quiet as I drove the 3 miles to hospital.

Walking up to the automatic doors I could see my brother and sister inside, waiting for me.

Walking through those doors was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

==========
Author’s note:
For a long time (it’s why I started this blog in the first place) I’ve wanted to write a novel. Like so many of us. Just never seemed able to get started.

This is part of the first chapter of that novel. Frankly, I don’t yet know if I’ll do what other would-be writers do and give up after so far. Or whether I’ll finish it. The question of publication isn’t even in the arena at this stage. The one thing I do know is that I would like to finish a novel, warts and all, even if it proves to me that I can’t write. At least it would prove to me that I can finish and that would be something to take comfort in.

I’ll be posting more parts on Fridays. It seems a schedule commitment I can work to.