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NOTES:

NEW WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED

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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"Shadow of the Past"

by Rosemary Kind - Tholthorpe, North Yorkshire, UK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Rosemary Kind is a writer living in North Yorkshire. She writes a wide range of poems and stories for both adults and children. Her poetry has appeared in a wide variety of magazines and books, but she has only had one short story published prior to this. Her first volume of poems ‘Poems For Life’ is available from www.poemsforlife.co.uk with all proceeds going to support the work of Age Concern in her hometown in Leicestershire. She is close to completing her first novel. She also writes her dog’s daily diary at www.alfiedog.me.uk. She has two dogs, Alfie and Shadow and her hobby is developing the Entlebucher Mountain Dog breed in the UK.

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:
Nicely written. Interesting exploration of old age and bygone attitudes. A nice little twist at the end - moving, almost. Still a little slight.

THE STORY:

His was the fourth name down as I looked at the page headed ‘6th September’ in the Book of Remembrance at the Crematorium. I knew the entry by heart, but read the words aloud, as though performing some sort of ritual. In a way, I suppose I was. ‘James McCreedy my darling husband. Love as always Iris.’ I still felt numb as I looked at the page and there was always that same cool air and almost musty smell, tinged with the scent of flowers. The lighting wasn’t bright in the Remembrance Room, adding to the impression of faded reverence.

It meant two changes of bus to get here, since the timetable altered last June, but every year for the last eight, I made the pilgrimage and as long as God keeps me on this damned earth, I’m not going to let the bus company stop me spending these precious moments with my Jim. That was what it came down to, forty years of marriage reduced to an annual visit, to a single line on a page. I hadn’t got anything else to live for. So, each year I had 364 days of waiting and then one brief moment to remember. Then it was gone, until the next year. Of course, I thought of him at other times but somehow it’s different here. Here he still feels near enough to touch; near enough to talk to.

I replaced my handkerchief in my bag and clipped it shut. Then after adjusting my headscarf, I walked with frustrating arthritic steps back towards the bus stop. There were forty-five minutes to wait in Richmond for the connecting bus. I decided a cup of tea would be in order. I looked at the youngsters in Starbucks, drinking from their mugs as I made my way towards Dickens and Jones. The young people looked vibrant and full of life, just as we did all those years ago. What days we had. With not having been able to have children of our own, there’s little about today’s youth I can identify with, except that feeling of being alive. I can still remember that. I can still remember the dances; Tea Dances we called them in my day. I can still remember the energy of falling in love with my Jim, but it’s a distant and fading memory now.

I bought my tea at the counter and took it to a table near the window. I was more comfortable with the formality and the protocol there than with the atmosphere of a modern coffee shop. Even then I would prefer to be served at my table, as they did in the old days.  I was lost in thought, idly moving my cup round on its saucer.

”Do you mind if I join you?”

I was so far away with my memories that I said “No” automatically, without so much as looking up. I suppose I presumed the other tables were full. I was lost in a world of my own thoughts, a world that still belonged to my Jim.

“We were like that once, young, carefree, enjoying life.”

I looked back from the window and for the first time registered the gentleman sitting opposite. “I beg your pardon?” I replied.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought you were looking at the people outside, rushing around with places to go. I said, we were like that once. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m Percy. Percy Fielding.” He held out a hand and I was left with no alternative but to shake it.

I reluctantly introduced myself, “Mrs McCreedy”.

I was taken aback by the directness with which he asked, “And what do your friends call you, Mrs McCreedy?”

“Iris,” I replied before overcoming the surprise of the question.

He started apologising for being so intrusive, telling me that I had reminded him of his wife Dorothy who had died the previous year and he just felt he needed to talk to me. Before I knew it, I was telling him about Jim. I don’t think either of us was really listening to what the other was saying, it just felt better to have told someone. The time for my bus came and went but there was always another one.

Eventually he got up to leave and asked if he could escort me somewhere. It was a long time since I had been ‘escorted’ anywhere; the word had a lovely ring to it.

“I don’t think so, thank you.” I replied letting etiquette distance me from life again.

“Can I meet you again?” His neatly trimmed moustache wrinkled as he smiled.

My stiffness returned and I said, “I don’t think so.” But as he walked away I found myself saying, “I’m usually here on Wednesdays.” I said no more than that, no time, nothing definite, surely that couldn’t be wrong. Surely my Jim couldn’t mind that.

The following Wednesday I wasn’t feeling myself and didn’t go into town. It was two weeks later when I next went. I didn’t suppose for a minute that Percy would be there and took my tea to a table in a quiet corner.

It was then I heard a clearing of the throat and “Do you mind if I join you, Mrs McCreedy?”

I knew I shouldn’t, but I found myself smiling for the first time in ages and then immediately felt guilty, “Whatever would Jim think?”

But rather than picking up on my discomfort, Percy replied in a conspiratorial voice, “Or my Dorothy.” And we laughed like two naughty children that could be caught at any time. I don’t remember the last time I had laughed so openly. Once again he sat and talked about Dorothy and I sat and talked about Jim and for an hour the world didn’t seem so bad. Little by little over the coming Wednesdays he started to open up to me abouthow hard he found it on his own. He told me about his childhood in Sussex and how he’d moved here in the 60’s when his children were in their teens. Both his son and his daughter were living abroad now, one in France and the other in America. He proudly showed me pictures of his grandchildren. He loved the time we spent together on a Wednesday and I found it was infectious and I started to lower my guard a little.

We met like that for about three months, nothing more. We didn’t exchange telephone numbers or addresses;we just met for our Wednesday tea and coffee. Then he asked if I would like to join him for lunch. I wasn’t sure I should do that, what would Jim think and he reminded me of that Wednesday when we had laughed so much, having reacted as though we were having an affair, rather than two people alone in the world.

By February, we were meeting twice a week; then in April, we went out for a whole day together. It’s odd finding you don’t stop getting butterflies, even at my age.

As we walked down to the river one day in July, Percy stopped and said, “Mrs McCreedy.” I always know it’s something special now when he calls me that. “Mrs McCreedy, I know I haven’t got much to offer and we may not be on this earth much longer, but do you think you would do me the great honour to be my wife?” He didn’t do anything silly, like get down on one knee. He would never have managed to get up again. Even so, I wasn’t expecting it.

I was so shocked. I told him I needed time to think about it, but what I really thought was, it wasn’t right and that Jim would mind dreadfully.

I didn’t go for a cup of tea that Wednesday or the one after that. I didn’t think I could face seeing him. By the third week, I was so desperately unhappy. It felt as though Jim had died all over again. In a way, he had. Strangely, when I was with Percy I could talk about Jim and he was more alive to me then, than at any other time. Would it really be so wrong to marry someone else? I wished more than ever that I had children I could talk to about it, but life had never been that generous to me. I went for tea that day and there was Percy waiting patiently. I didn’t know what to say to him so we just talked as we used to, he about Dorothy and me about Jim.

As I got up to go, I simply said, “Could we ask Jim’s permission?” Percy’s beaming smile said it all. It was settled. Percy would come with me in a couple of weeks time on my annual visit to the crematorium.

It was strange sharing the bus with someone on the 6th of September this year, but not unpleasantly so. Somehow, the crematorium seemed brighter than I remembered it. Silently we stood side by side. As the tears flowed down my cheeks, I quietly asked Jim if he would understand.

Ever so gently, Percy took my hand in his and in a voice much stronger than my own said, “I promise to take good care of her for you, just as long as I can”. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and I felt the warmth of a new beginning and the continuity of love. “Shall we go, Mrs McCreedy?” Then turning back to the Book of Remembrance, he said “Farewell, Jim, until next year.”

Copyright (c) 2009 by Rosemary Kind - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!

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