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Winner of The Swords Writers’ Short Story Competition Christmas 2010
Life had become routine for Michael; a routine of ritual tea making, of tidying away sugar and milk, of waiting. His health was not what it used to be, and years of hard physical work had taken their toll.
Out in his back garden, trees that were once tightly shaped by his hand, now spread their limbs in ever-chaotic competition with their neighbours. The house looked a little sad, and had a permanent frown of discoloured and peeling weatherboards. Despite this neglect, there was a welcoming air about the place, and the elderly man looked forward to any caller who was willing to share of themselves without necessarily expecting reciprocation on his part. Neither did he want to listen to a monologue from those who evidently found the subject of themselves to be far more interesting than anything else that existed outside of them. As a result, Michael found that he was increasingly alone, and he wondered whether it was the world that had ebbed away from him, since his retirement, or whether it was he who that had withdrawn from life.
As he stood at the kitchen window, and drained the last sweet sup of tea from the cup he held, the doorbell rang. ‘Nobody calls these days unless there is an election’, he thought. ‘In the old days, it might have been the milkman, or the gasman, or even the electric meter reader. The vegetable man would call every week, we would enjoy a few minutes of banter over the selection of the week veg before handing over the few coins owed. Even the bin men had something to say for themselves, – especially around Christmas!’ These kind of people did not call anymore, and if they did, they operated as live extensions to handheld computers; taking notes all the time and not really listening.
At the front door, Michael looked out, and then down, to see a young boy holding a note. “Well?” he queried, gruffly.
“Please to read, sir,” the boy said, in a laboured foreign accent, his eyes portraying just the right mix of subservience and defiance necessary to survive as a door-to-door salesman in one so young.
“What does it say?” Michael asked grumpily. ”I can’t read”.
“Please to read, sir. Please to read, Sir” the boy repeated in frustration, trying to put the note into the old man’s hand, knowing well that once passed, a contract would be forged, and that his victim would find it very difficult to get way away without agreeing to pay some price.
“No, no, – you tell me what it says!” Michael interjected, recognising the ploy at once.
The boy looked at him with disgust, then shrugged and turned away. Michael closed the door with a satisfied smile of achievement, and went back to the kitchen to make a celebratory cup of tea. It was a pity he had given up so easily though, and Michael wondered whether his technique had been a little harsh. If refined, he should be able to extend the play further without necessarily being trapped. ‘Oh well, next time!’
The water in the electric kettle growled yet again and Michael took a fresh cup of tea to the spot where he usually stood overlooking the back garden. The last time he had seen his son, he must have been the same age as that young lad at the door. He wondered whether he would recognise Peter now if he saw him in the street, – the child’s trusting smile replaced by the knowledge of adulthood, his fine features coarsened by age. No matter how hard he tried, he could not hold this matured image in his mind. The memory of a child stayed, and he knew that if they ever spoke again, it would be as two strangers.
The light was growing dim when the doorbell rang again, and he hurried expectantly to answer it, straightening his cardigan as he went. She was young and tall, fair skinned and tanned, and clutched a notepad tightly to he stomach against the efforts of the wind. A wisp of rain dampened hair described a neat curve across her cheek, and she smiled broadly as he opened the door and stepped back to invite her in.
“Good evening sir, I wonder would it be possible to have just a few moments of your time,” she smiled, and his heart softened for a moment. “We are doing a survey in the area about how energy efficient your house is, and ways that it might be improved.”
Michael looked more closely at the notepad she was holding and spotted the familiar logo of a well-known double-glazing company. “No its alright, everything is fine. I don’t need anything done. Thanks anyway,” he blurted out quickly in an effort to smother any opposition she might raise. She looked at him directly with a slightly troubled and hurt expression.
“It will only take a few minutes, and there is a fantastic free offer that I can show you then…please?”
“No it’s alright, maybe some other time. I am busy just now, and have to go back in straight away,” he said in a slightly uncertain voice as he edged away and started to squeeze the door shut. There was no further resistance or protest, and as a result he felt almost robbed of the opportunity to talk longer. The girl’s head dropped as she turned away, and Michael closed out the last of her with a reluctant twist of the handle. He double locked the door.
Shortly afterwards, more of routine than necessity, Michael went upstairs to bed; turning off the lights, and closing all the doors behind him as he went. As he lay with the curtains open, waiting for one day to end and another to begin, the faces of many of the women from his past came out of the gloaming. There were many, all pushed away for one reason or another. Their faces loomed over him, out of the darkness, and the more he pushed them down, the more they came. He felt shamed before them and shrunk beneath their gaze, but they would not leave him, and he yearned for the new day to come and with it the ability to break free.
Dawn came slowly, and the bird song that had preceded it gradually gave way to the sound of traffic, as the city inevitably regained control. Just when Michael judged that the moment was right, he raised himself slowly and went quietly from his bed downstairs.
In the kitchen all was silent except for the rhythmic drip, drip of the tap he would never fix. In the garden the birds had quietened, and the little hedgehog that he had first seen in late autumn was busily shuffling leaves in search of food. Michael smiled at the busy antics of his old friend and was happy to see that the saucer of milk he had left out the day before was completely gone. The sharp little eyes watched him, fearfully, behind the window, knowing that a defiant ball of prickly stubbornness was only a movement away.
They watched each other, and as the morning sun dried the dewdrops from the grass, the entire world began to change about them, and they no longer had to watch each other…and they were content.
Copyright rests with Niall O Connor
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The Ha’penny Bridge
a pox on the ferryman’s earnings
by those who dare to cross
from mean street to Venetian passage;
this is the Ha’penny bridge
leaning on both North and South
owned by neither, both
a no-man’s land
twixt Norse and Brit
chained to the granite quays
on its crest, its pinnacle
the luckless Lord Mayor of Dublin
the toll gatherer-beggar
with his bowl forever sits
selling poverty for a pittance
and redemption for avoiding eyes
the royal barge
the chieftains byre
bananas from Bolivia
they all have passed
beneath this throne
this crown of Anna Livia.
Copyright Niall O’Connor
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| margaretmorrissey.com |
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