Creative Writing 2: Gone

Bells joyfully tolled the hour as I reluctantly walk up the path towards Holy Cross Church, tugging at my stiff suit; the ridged collar choking me. My Mum gives me that look and I leave my clothes alone, following her wake in silence. The big red doors are flanked with mourners obediently dressed in black standing in silence; waiting. Family I haven’t seen in years, friends I didn’t know I had, here out of duty more than respect, all murmuring their mantra: ‘sorry for your loss’. Eventually we’re ushered in, the bright warmth of a beautiful summer’s day feeling in stark contrast to the cool gloom within. Smells of dust, old fabric and wood, mingled with the powerful fragrance of lilies, overwhelming my senses and making me nauseas. I focus on feet to block out what lies ahead. A tiled path of brick red diamond, worn to a polished finished through years of use, squeak under the soles of my shoes dispersing the thick silence. I don’t want to look up; to take in the scene, so I keep me concentration down as I take my seat - look anywhere by there! Dirty wooden planks made up the rest of the floor, marked and scared where pews had been moved and paint dripped during redecoration. Although it must have been a while ago as the white washed wall looked tired: scuffed and worn. Here and there are plaques in memory of those long since past: William Alfred Clark 1898-1980, Justice of the Peace, Churchwarden of this Parish; Revd David Bayford late Curate of this Parish who died Nov 28^th 1792 age 24 years and 4 month – why mention the 4 months? I try to image these people and how they lived, but I can’t seem to hold the thoughts. That smell! I can’t get over the smell! So musty, like an old persons home, making me want to sneeze. My legs are becoming numb and painful on the hard narrow wooden pew with its upright back. There’s a tatty cushion, but its padding is non-existent. I fidget to try and get more comfortable, but the wood raucously grates, disrupting the silence. I’m suddenly aware of eyes glaring at me, so I stop fidgeting, sit up straight and look forward for the first time. The vicar is already in full flow, but I’m not listening and the sound just echoes back out of my mind. There it is: polished wood and brass handles. Emotion immediately starts to well inside me I quickly look away again to stifle the throbbing in my chest. I look up to the high vaulted ceiling with its dark wood beams and deep red paintwork. To my surprise it seems to be littered with red and silver shiny balloons! There must be eight of more. I wondered what they were at first shining in the gloom – spot lights. No, they are definitely balloons. What occasion would have lead to balloons in a church? The whole place reeks of sombre formality: sit up straight and be quiet; best Sunday clothes; jacket and clean shoes. It’s hard for me to imagine laughter and frivolity sat here in the dusty gloom, especially now; especially today. I’m suddenly aware of everyone getting to their feet. The organist begins to play and voices start to sing in a monotone. A tug on my shoulder and slowly I rise too, glad to move my numb limbs, although now it’s harder to look anywhere else but ahead of me. I feel the grief rising in my stomach and swallow hard. I can’t cry. I won’t cry! I’m the man of the house now and men don’t cry! Desperately I tried to move my focus, concentrate on something else to remove myself from here and now. I notice a huge contrast in the decor around the alter, like great swathes of history had all been merged into one place: dark gothic like ornate carved wood, giving way to a teak 70s style balustrade and an ultra modern light wood sculptured table. Yet everywhere the fabric looks old and tired against the permanency of the wood: cushions faded from red to a warm orange; carpets worn to a dark shiny finish with constant traffic; a table cloth that was probably white now just looks creamy yellow with age, a lose thread hanging down. The hymn now over, everyone sits and I go back to concentrating on the floor; my shoes; my hands. I try to think of other things, but every thought is of the past – I can’t seem to escape it: a family picnic; fishing at the lake; being scolded for breaking the window with my ball. And in every memory he is there – my Dad. I miss him so much. I confront the coffin in front of me, veiled in foliage; the word DAD spelt out in white carnations hammers my anguish home. I can’t help it now. The tears start to roll down my cheeks like a monsoon filled river, my body convulsing as if in pain, I can’t seem to get my breath. I sniff hard to stop my nose running, adding to the mess of my face, and automatically go to wipe it with the back of my sleeve. A hankie appears in my view, held in a shaking hand, and I look to see my Mother’s face smile at me, her eyes glistening with tears. She puts her arm around me and draws me close to her.
‘It’ll be ok James, I promise.’ She whispered in my ear and, as I breathe her in and feel her warmth surrounding me, I know it will.

Creative Writing 1: Reminiscence

‘I was 16 and a year out of school when I started working there, so that must have been…1949; yes. Alfred Bass and Sons Ltd. I guess it was the same as any other grocers of the time. A double fronted store, although modest in size it looked grand from the outside, with the name painted in large gold capitals across the top boarding. The two windows were always plastered with the latest offers: 1/2lb butter 1 and 8; tea 1 and 6 a quarter; you know. There were none of these huge glaring supermarkets we have now, you see, and no getting things off the shelves yourself. Mr Bass served everyone from behind a substantial dark wooden counter; dark wood shelves across the expanse of the wall behind him held rows of products in large vats and jars, ready to be weighed out to the customer’s requirements.
We were still rationed – that continued until the mid 50s – but supplies were steadily easier to come by. Rationing had actually served Mr Bass well, as many customers needed to register with a grocer to get access to any of the rarer commodities. This had gained him many loyal customers, all of which we knew by name; even getting to know what their regular requirements were. Mr Bass was very attentive and made sure he held stock for the regulars.
Mrs McCleary was one of those. Always in on a Wednesday for her cup of brown sugar, ounce of marg and 1 ½ cups of flour needed to make a cake for the Women’s Guild meeting on a Friday afternoon. She had the rest of her groceries delivered on a Monday, but insisted in coming in personally for her cake ingredients. Mrs McCleary was a severe faced old lady, round and bustling; always with purpose. She lived alone in one of the old terrace cottages off Susan’s Road – her husband had died in the Great War and they’d never had children. I remember it was a sunny day in mid September; on the whole it had been an exceptionally warm and dry start to autumn so the leaves had not yet started to turn, nor were the mornings filled with the cold damp air of pending winter. I felt cheerful in the warm sunshine of dawn going about my deliveries that Monday morning; whistling a little tune to myself as I cycled on my way. At Mrs McCleary’s I was shocked when a tall, willowy brunette of about my age opened the door to me. Rather than being greeted by Mrs McCleary’s austere scrutiny, I was surprised to be gazing into green sparkling eyes, framed by apple cheeks and the biggest smile I think I’d ever seen. I can remember the day as if it were yesterday and still get that awkward blush when I think about it. I think I fell in love then and there. Her name was Betty and she was Mrs McCleary’s niece; staying for a while to help Mrs McCleary organise a large function the League of Health and Beauty were holding. We only managed to talk for a short while that morning before the booming voice of Mrs McCleary called Betty back to her chores.
In fact most of our meetings had to take place in secret to avoid Mrs McCleary’s disapproval – she was not at all happy that her niece be stepping out with a shop boy! Betty and I would often meet after my delivery rounds: she would excuse herself for fresh air and a little exercise, which Mrs McCleary wholly approved; while I would make every effort to finish my rounds as quick as possible, so not to be missed at the store. On Sundays we would arrange to meet after church and this was when we had the longest times together. We could talk for hours about nothing or about everything; walking across the fields just enjoying each other’s company. Later that autumn I even took Betty to a dance – well she went with friends to avoid repercussions from her aunt. However Betty was set to return home before Christmas and I thought I was to lose her for good. I wrote to her everyday and she responded – in fact I still have her letters in a shoe box in the attic; I could never bear to part with them.
Unlike Mrs McCleary, Betty’s parents were more forward thinking and glad for their daughter’s happiness. So Betty was allowed to return that spring to stay with her aunt and help with another function, but was also allowed to see me. I was thrilled! We went dancing, on picnics, for long walks, but most of all just enjoyed spending time together. In early June, when Betty once more had to return home, she asked that I joined her to meet her parents. I managed to gain some time off work and we travelled the hour or so by train to Eastbourne. I was terrified, but Mr and Mrs Palmer were very accommodating and kind. Mrs Palmer was nothing like her sister, neither in looks or personality. She was carefree and confident, like her daughter, with the same brown curls and huge smile. I rarely got to see Mr Palmer, as he had to work, but on Sunday’s, after church and before lunch, we often went fishing together and got on well. My own father had died in the war and my mother was kept busy with the huge brood she’d been left with, so it was wonderful to fit into this surrogate family; it felt like home from home. Unfortunately, and all too soon, I had to return home. Betty and I still wrote constantly, but it wasn’t until Christmas that I actually saw her again.
Mr and Mrs Palmer had invited me to stay for Christmas. As mother had her hands full and the shop was closed for the holidays I was free to accept their offer. It was wonderful to see Betty again and it is true that absence makes the heart grow fonder; it felt like we had never been apart. Christmas day was magical; a real family affair. We were joined by Mr Palmer’s sister and her two boys, Mr Palmer’s elderly mother and even Mrs McCleary. Later that afternoon I asked Mr Palmer if I could have a word in the parlour. I had decided to ask for Betty’s hand after returning from my last visit, but had kept it secret in order to save enough for a worthy ring. Alone with Mr Palmer my heart was racing, palms sweating, as I struggled to get the words out. I don’t think I’d been more terrified in my life! I needn’t have been because Mr Palmer just reached forward and gave me a huge hug, enquiring why it had taken so long for me to ask.
The wedding was planned for that spring; a simple affair in a small church near Gildredge Park. I decided to move to Eastbourne and Betty and I set up home close to her parents. We were together for 66 wonderful years, until Betty died of a stroke last autumn. I’m not unhappy that she has passed. I am happy for the time we had together and the memories I have.’