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NOTES:
CHRISTIAN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
THIRD PLACE
Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.
This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.
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"The Understanding"
by Leonella Longmore - Inverness, Scotland, UK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Leonella Longmore, of Italian origin, was born and educated in Scotland. A graduate of the University of Aberdeen, she worked in the Italian Consulate General, Toronto, Canada, and lectured in the European School of Languages, Parma, Italy. On her return to Scotland she taught in Inverness Royal Academy, where she was Principle Teacher of Modern Languages for 16 years. On exploring the quiet roads around Inverness she became intrigued with the hidden castles and isolated churches of the area. Researching their histories brought to light the wealth of oral tradition and records of local writers in the Highlands, including the tales and history of Inverness. Articles in the Inverness Courier were followed by two publications: Land of Castles and Land of Churches. Now, Inverness in the 18th Century is the tale of the town.
COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:
1. Thought this one was well written and incorporated the back story well with the emotional journey of the day in question.
2. Very well written, good style and care taken over presentation. Good flow, and a great impulse behind the revelation. The impression of the heat and general irritation and discomfort that was flowing around everyone came across very well, and we're all guilty of not giving enough time and respect to others, not considering their reality. I liked the compassion resulting from the "understanding". Characters were very well drawn, as were the events themselves. Lovely!
THE STORY:
At last, a breeze to dissipate the petrifying stuffiness in my head. Dazed, I try to breathe deeply, but only my mouth will take in an air tasting of the sea. Yet the Sea of Galilee is a lake not a sea. So, is it all in the imagination? Unlikely, for no spiritual feelings of awe and mystery are evoked as the ferry leaves Tiberias: the Biblical tranquillity of Galilee being effectively shattered yesterday evening when a pleasure boat emerged from the darkness to sail up and down the lake. Until early morning the music blared, the lights flashed, the revellers shouted and danced.
It is all a terrible mistake. The opportunity to visit the Holy Land must have dulled my sense of self-preservation, usually so acute.
‘Let’s go, Mum. It’s the only month of the year I can come with you. Please!’ Not only did I give into my teenage son’s pleadings, I also agreed to let his girl friend come with us.
Another mistake. Now the minister, our leader, is avoiding me since he and most of his flock have come to the conclusion that the two young ones are ‘up to no good.’ Perhaps they are. At this stage, I don’t care. As long as they survive. The day before, Sara’s violent nose-bleed outside the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth had filled me with fright and remorse. It’s not that I didn’t know of the hazards of the intense heat of July.
How my mother would have raged! ‘Have you no sense? Going to Israel at this time of year on your own would be mad enough, but taking your son with you is criminal. And as for that girl, she has no right to be with you and Paul, anyway.’ Why is it that at times of despondency I always hear my mother’s voice? She would have seen the wonder of Galilee, she would have felt the presence of Jesus. I feel only the clammy heat; I see only strident tourists and the exhausted faces of my pilgrim companions. And where are the fertile and vibrant landscapes of ancient times? The surrounding hills look blurred and unmemorable, the shores black and pebbly.
A voice behind me says quietly, ‘Look, Jacob! Look at that girl in the white hat! What a beautiful face!’ I look round.
A young couple is staring in open admiration at Sara. I recognise the tanned face of the sturdy American as one of the carers in charge of a group of disabled youngsters who came aboard just before the boat was due to leave. I remember her voice, low but determined, and the look of concern as she helped manoeuvre the wheelchairs on board.
‘Lovely…she reminds me of a Monet painting,’ murmurs her Israeli companion, the lines in his weather-beaten face softening as he studies a beauty belonging to colder climes.
In the sheltered side of the deck, Sara is leaning listlessly against Paul, her arm round his shoulders. Yes, with that floppy hat framing a face of pale perfection, it is easy to understand why a stranger is unexpectedly inspired…why my son is crazy about her. I have been struggling with myself over how to respond to this intruder who has come into my life; she with the transparent skin, the large eyes, the luxuriant hair. Luckily, her not yet realising the full power she possesses over men has endeared her to me. But, for how long will that last?
With a sodden tissue I dab the perspiration flowing from my neck round my breasts. With the same tissue I press under my swollen eyes in an attempt to relieve the pain of infected sinuses. Who is that laughing? A carefree, youthful sound. What is more galling than someone else’s happiness when gripped in the throes of self-pity?
Wearily, I look over.
It’s that group again - one, surely with little reason to be joyful. The eight young teenagers - five in wheelchairs, three in callipers - are hurling a football at one another and shouting in triumph whenever one of them manages to get a foot to it. The tallest of the boys in callipers makes a sudden lunge towards the ball, loses his balance and falls heavily on to his back. The whole group erupts into hysterical laughter.
‘I think they’re absolutely wonderful, don’t you?’ The sugary tone of the voice next to me is unmistakable. I stifle the beginnings of a groan. If ever an uncalled for remark is to be made, Annie – Annie-get-your-Bible, as Paul secretly calls her - is sure to make it. Perhaps I can pretend not to have heard the small dishevelled woman who always looks as though in her desire to spread gossip she has thrown her clothes on in a hurry. But a tight grip on my left arm puts an end to the hope of deception.
‘They’re all from a Children’s Home in Jerusalem, apparently. Here for a week. Aren’t they the lucky ones to be taken on a trip like this?’
No wonder your husband left you, I think meanly. For a moment, I’m tempted to express my feelings aloud: anything to get through for once to this tactless, one-dimensional woman. Instead I hear myself say ‘Oh, yes, very lucky indeed!’ A gutless reply, for no amount of sarcasm ever touches her.
I watch in relief as she makes a gesture that suggests she is about to turn away, but if that is her intention she must have thought better of it. Removing her enormous sunglasses, she peers at my face. ‘You look awfully tired, Emma. This heat’s getting you down, isn’t it?’ Without waiting for an answer, she nods in the direction of Paul and Sara. ‘They look tired, too. Mind you, it’s probably lack of sleep with them.’ She gives a brief chuckle. ‘Oh well, nowadays…we know how it is, don’t we?’
‘What do you mean how it…? But I’m too slow. With a quick flick of her left hand on mine, she turns on her heel and heads towards the cheering footballers.
I give my son an angry sidelong glance. What I really want to do is shout at him, tell him that he is making me feel uncomfortable and no longer in control. But I see him look at the girl beside him as so long ago the man I loved used to look at me and tears well up in my over-puffy eyes.
Noisily the boat glides along the rippled surface of the lake that witnessed the birth of Christianity on its shores. Today it is almost still with no sign of the violent storms to which we were warned the Sea of Galilee is prone. Didn’t He walk across its turbulent waters to calm his frightened disciples? Now He would have to contend with hedonistic water-skiers and windsurfers.
We are approaching Ein Grev but I look north towards Capernaum, searching for the hilltop where He promised that mourners shall be blessed and comforted.
When Steve was killed by a hit-and-driver who was there to bless and comfort Paul and me? Not my mother, who died six months before the accident; not our many acquaintances who, embarrassed by my undisguised grief, disappeared after the funeral niceties were over. Certainly not the minister who went on about the will of God. Try explaining the complexity of that to a nine year old boy.
For two dreadful hours Steve lay trapped, his cries for help unheard from the field into which his car had been catapulted. If only he had lost consciousness…or, at least, if I hadn’t known he was conscious throughout his lonely agony! The paramedics must have thought I would find consolation in the knowledge that my husband was calling out for me when they found him. Steve, you were dying as I was skipping merrily along at the Country Dance Club. Where then was the gift of second sight I am said to possess? Years of mutual passion and affection, of shared triumphs and disappointments: they all end then without warning, without a hint of disquiet.
‘Are you alright, Mum?’ Paul is standing beside me. He has a worried, quizzical look on his face, the look that I so love. Timidly he wipes the tears from my cheeks. ‘It’s this heat, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll feel better after a swim. The water looks so clear and the beach over there has plenty of sun umbrellas. Look!’ Pointing to the kibbutz, he smiles anxiously at me as though afraid I won’t believe him. This tenderness towards me comes like a glimmer of light in the gloom of my depression.
‘Yes, a good long dip is just what I need to cool me down. You’re quite right, sweetie pie.’ How did I let that childish epithet slip out? I see Sara look at Paul with an amusement he does not share. Never do I seem to find the right words now; it’s as though Sara’s presence is turning us into awkward strangers. I’m just not good at anything anymore. Not being an understanding mother. Not suffering fools gladly. Not allowing time to heal…
For the last three hours I feel better for being on my own - apart from my travelling companions and free from the relentless pursuit of Holy-sites-visiting. Seated at the edge of the water, I can smoke continually without having to put up with censorious looks and trite remarks about damaging my health. Here at least the suffocating heat of the crowded beach is diffused, almost bearable and the ache which pressed like a tight bandanna across my forehead has eased. Then, an added bonus: the heavy rings round my eyes won’t look so bad in a face being increasingly toasted by the sun. What depresses me though is the way Paul and Sara stay away from me, their need to touch one another seemingly unsuitable for a mother’s eyes. Alright, I’ll just close them.
What an awakening! Shouting, screaming, laughing, the group is back. Where have they been till now? Quickly and noisily, wheelchairs and callipers are left abandoned on the beach as the teenagers are carried into the lake. Beside me, a girl of about fourteen is lifted out of her wheelchair and is about to be taken to the water’s edge when she deliberately slips out of her carer’s arms. Yelling furiously to be left alone, she hits out frenziedly at all who attempt to help her. Now she is on her stomach and shuffling past me. Panting and grunting, she pulls her atrophied legs along the shingle like a young seal dragging itself to the water. There is a wildness in her coal-black eyes and her face is twisted in pain and determination.
I feel as I do when awakening from a nightmare I cannot convince myself that I am still not dreaming. Jesus, it must have been so easy to have faith in you when you were alive: here in Galilee talking to your people, performing miracles, healing the sick. Two thousand years since all that stopped, since you left us to believe or be damned. What sort of God are you to forsake those who are still in need? Look at this girl! She’s sick; she’s one of your people. Ask and it shall be given you. Alright, I’m asking…I’m asking for her.
But, of course, there is no miracle. Expedition over, everyone is back on the boat; we as petulant as ever, they as disabled as ever. I look disconsolately at the retreating shore. The stories about Galilee are just that, then: feel-good stories. Well, I don’t feel too good now with the ache in my head coming back and the swelling round my eyes getting worse Anyway, why should I – who gave up on God eight years ago – hope for some kind of miracle? .
Annie is right: she saw through my pretence right from the start and in her catty way wants me to suffer for it. There she is sitting opposite me yet again, but for once she is too tired to make small talk. She is smiling feebly at nothing in particular and suddenly I think of the husband who, without a word of warning, abandoned her for his secretary and left her to cope on her own with three teenage children. I want to turn my head away.
But my eyes are transfixed; they gaze at bulging varicose veins criss-crossing legs reddened by careless sun-bathing; they stare at lines puckering the fair, sensitive skin of a countenance of faded beauty and unlimited sadness.
Suddenly a vertical shaft of sunlight falls on the worn out face and it is as if a fire were burning behind it. All signs of ugliness and ageing disappear in the brilliance that radiates from within. Could this be the woman who has been constantly irritating me, who has alienated most of our group with her insensitive remarks, who has managed to fall out with our long-suffering leader over – in her opinion - his inappropriate choice of Bible readings? Disappointment, humiliation, fear shine from anxious eyes. Then, as quickly as it came, the light vanishes and confronting me is the face of a fragile woman filled with a passionate desire to be loved.
So great a feeling of understanding sweeps through my body I feel faint and search for something to grasp.
A hand is firmly placed over mine. ‘Come on, Mum. I really think you should go below deck.’ With a frown and a look of determination Paul continues, ‘Your skin looks pretty burnt. You know, you sat nearly all afternoon in the sun. Sara and I did think you were overdoing it but knew you were enjoying being on your own for a change. We didn’t want to spoil the day for you.’
So they hadn’t been trying to avoid me, after all.
‘Nothing will ever spoil this day for me, Paul. Nothing! Nobody!’
Paul comes a little nearer, his eyes playful. He drops his voice. ‘Not even Annie-get-your-Bible over there?’
‘Especially, not her.’
Copyright (c) 2009 by Leonella Longmore - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
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