SUNPENNY Writing Competitions: Hazel Jackson, "A New Beginning"

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NOTES:

NEW WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED

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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.

"A New Beginning"

by Hazel Jackson - Burghill, Hereford, UK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Hazel Jackson: "Born in Cheltenham in 1950, I spent most of my schooldays looking out of the window, lost in my own thoughts. I just never got them down onto paper until recently. Too much imagination and too little application! However, with my four boys now grown and flown the nest I am writing at last. As a new writer I had little chance of attracting a publisher but my self-published book (Europe in a Motorhome: A Mid-Life Gap Year Around Southern Europe, ISBN 1412081416 ) seems to be a reasonable success. It is part travelogue, part biography, describing a trip with our thirteen year old son who we self-taught as we travelled for a year. Now I am concentrating on short stories, although the novel that is within us all is lurking in the background."

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

NOTE: This was another story that came up with a wide range of marks from all the judges, and was not a choice of the final two judges. Final marks are averaged across all marks given.

1. A pleasant enough idea, reasonably - if not particularly interestingly - written. Could have gone further with the dark side before returning to light to add colour and texture.

2. A nicely written take on an old lesson, but told with a sweet viewpoint and voice. I do think she might have been a bit more distraught in real life, but perhaps she really was one of those rare people who simply remain at peace in all events. The writing is well structured and paced, with good phrasing and flow. A feel-good story.

THE STORY:

Megan felt the pain bite into her ankle as soon as she hit the floor. The stool had wobbled as she reached up for the box and she had landed heavily on the carpet in the spare back bedroom.

“You silly, silly old woman”, she cursed aloud.

This was the moment that she had been dreading for a long, long time. Of course, she knew that she shouldn’t have been standing on the stool, she should have asked someone else to get it, maybe her grandson when he called by, but she just hated the thought of not being independent anymore. She had only wanted to find that box of old photographs and now they lay scattered around her, memories of long ago, when she wasn’t the helpless old fool that she felt now. She tried to raise herself but the pain was sharp and a dreadful panic came over her as she realised that she was actually unable to get up. Her breath came in short gasps and she thought for a moment that she might even faint, but then slowly, very slowly, she fought to regain her self-control and to think sensibly again. She shouldn’t try to move, it might make things worse, and she didn’t know what else she’d damaged. She must be patient, perhaps her ankle would improve, or she must just lay there and wait for help.

From where she lay she could see down the passage to the old grand-father clock in the hall. The house was quiet apart from its reassuring, gentle ticking, regularly counting the passing of time. Deep within its frame it wound itself up, whirring and clanking, to sound the chiming of half past mid-day. Regular as clockwork there came a thud onto the hall mat as the postman brought her weekly magazine. Megan realized that he might help her, but too late, she heard the front gate clang shut and his footsteps fade away. Her voice had been thin and dry in her throat, so he probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway she thought, as some compensation for her slowness. The clock continued its rhythmic ticking and peace settled on the old house again.

The clamour of the telephone made her jump suddenly, jarring her hip into a painful position. She listened to its incessant ringing, vibrating through the air like a wrong note in a melody. It would be her daughter Sally, just making sure that she was alright; thank goodness she cared so much. She was a good daughter, Megan knew. They’d had their ups and downs but they understood each other well now and she respected Sally’s different views on life. She would phone again later and when she got no reply she would come round to find her; laying there on the floor, a pathetic helpless old lady. Why oh why had she been so stupid, standing on the stool at her age, Megan chastised herself again loudly. She hated to be a bother, she liked to be independent.

Megan lay quietly. The pain in her ankle had subsided a little now and she was able to ease her arm out from under her and find a more comfortable position, but she still didn’t have the strength to raise herself from the floor. It was strange to view everything from where she lay. Thick layers of dust had collected heavily around the bottoms of chairs, and the once white skirting boards were now chipped and a dirty cream colour. The old carpet beneath her smelled dusty and damp, instantly reminding her of her own grandmother’s house long ago and she could see how threadbare and dirty it had become after so many years of tramping feet. She thought she had kept things so clean and tidy, but now, seeing it from here she realised that over the years the house had become more than she could handle. Her daughter was probably right after all. So many times she had tactfully tried to persuade her to sell up and move in with her and her family.

“Whenever you’re ready Mum” she had often repeated. “You’ll always have a place with us”.

But what would she do all day if she didn’t have her own bits and pieces around her, her own home to call her own, her independence. She had been in her home for nearly fifty years, how would she ever fit into another one now?

The grandfather clock struck the hour noisily and Megan looked at it again.

Sunlight was streaming in through the coloured glass of her front door sending a rainbow of patterns across the end of the hall. It caught the bowl of hyacinths standing on the table and muted their colour from bright pink to deepest mauve. Above the clock a complicated cobweb stretched across the corner of the wall and strange grey shadows grew from bits of flaking paint on the ceiling. She couldn’t imagine why she had never noticed these before. But then, maybe her eyesight wasn’t all it used to be. Maybe she hadn’t bothered to look up anymore, suddenly she felt embarrassed by the obvious neglect of the old place.

A light draught of fresh air blew along the hall as Samson, her aged cat, pushed his way through the cat flap in the back door. He meowed loudly, calling for his dinner, but he would be out of luck today Megan thought. They were both out of luck today. Samson padded down the hall, answering her calls with deep purrs, and pushed his heavy old head against her hand. He was getting old too; he would be thirteen this summer; now Megan couldn’t even look after him properly. A wave of self-pity washed over her and her pale blue eyes filled with tears. She still felt so young inside; she wanted to do so much more. How cruel it was that your body failed you, deserting your very spirit. Samson rubbed her again sympathetically and padded off to curl up in his favourite chair in the afternoon sun.

Faded photographs had spilled from the box and they now lay scattered around Megan, reminding her of times passed. Her husband John, young and handsome in his heavy army uniform, just off to war with such high ideas. Little Sally, riding a donkey at the seaside when she was only three. She could almost smell the brine and taste the salty cockles they had all enjoyed that holiday. It seemed like only yesterday and Megan remembered it all vividly. Black and white portraits of her mother and father, in dark, tightly buttoned clothes, sitting stiff and erect. She on father’s knee with her brothers proudly gathered around her. All gone now of course, but she remembered them dearly, she had had a good childhood. She had had a good life.

Megan let her head rest on her arm; sadness filled her very soul and a deep tiredness came over her. Her weary eyes closed and she allowed herself to sleep a little.

It was almost dark when Megan awoke, feeling stiff and cold and very alone. There was a dull ache in her leg and her head was throbbing and sore. The sound of a key turning in the front door had roused her from the sleep and Sally’s worried voice called out to her.

“Mum, don’t worry, it’s only me”. Are you alright?”

The passage light flicked on and Sally caught sight of Megan on the floor.

“It’s all right Mum, I’m here. Just lay still darling, you’ll be ok now”, she said, running down the passage. She knelt by Megan and gently stroked her hand.

“Where do you hurt Mum?” she asked with care.

“It’s my ankle I think dear. You had better call an ambulance, but I don’t want to be a bother” Megan said quietly. “Oh and, I’m sorry but Samson needs his supper”.

Sally rested Megan’s aching head on a soft round pillow while she quickly phoned. Then, cradling Megan in her arms, she smoothed back the wisps of white hair that fell untidily around her face.

“I won’t take no for an answer now Mum, you’re coming to live with us. Just try it for a while and if you’re not happy you can always come back. It’s time you let us look after you a bit you know”, Sally chided gently.

“Could you put up with two doddery old fools do you think?” said Megan smiling. “You see I would have to bring Samson, and we may be a bother!”

“You’re much too independent to be a bother”, Sally laughed.

“This isn’t the end for you Mum. You’ve lots more living to do. Think of it as a new beginning. One that I know you’ll love”.

A new beginning is sometimes all we need. Spirit, soul and an open heart: a new beginning, another wonderful past.

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