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Shorts
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| One Morning | |
| By Vanderlay | ||||||||||
| 26 February 2006 | ||||||||||
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A go at a serious(ish) story. One Morning Under a blue sky the morning sun mixed with damp; that that makes the first light refract, glistening in the dew, like small crystal barbells or kingly gifts for blades of grass, a picture to reward an early riser and such a picture as to make them eager to set their alarm or adjust their circadian rhythm accordingly. He sat on the back door step finishing his hand rolled cigarette; he wanted to compose himself as best he could before he went inside. He smoked it slowly yet with purpose giving the impression that he had much composure to do, every determined suck and puff dedicated intently to this rationale. The grips of skin that housed his finger nails were loose and their yellow nicotine smudge suggested that this method of attaining some sort of serenity was often used. He saw birds whispering, huddled on telephone wires and grew ever suspicious of a sheep that appeared to bleat his name and just as wary of the afore mentioned dew and the way the droplets clung or made hunch backs of flowers. He saw no majesty in the morning. He had the look of a man who would keel over dead at the slightest scare, either that or drop his cigarette and run for cover. He could be described as shell shocked but he had seen no wars to speak of, though at first glimpse might be mistaken as veteran of many. His eyes darted around the small yard taking in the geography of his surroundings as if for the first time. It looked so different to him and an almost fearful impression crept upon his face. He deduced from the un-weathered finish on the tubs that the potted plants were new. The trellis climbing the wall had definitely been bought recently as it was bare of any creepers. All of these things were unfamiliar! Then he spotted a figure through some leafy foliage. Staring right back at him was a simple garden statue, a woman of white stone, which to him became so sinister that his already heavy breathing deepened. They’ve changed everything already, he thought as he eyed up the statue one last time, sighed, then tuned and knocked on the door. --------------- She was now a fan of the morning, the leisure of lying in bed till late hadn’t lasted long after retirement and although she knew this to be a cliché, she found it to be a pleasant one non the less. Even just to read the paper or make coffee and listen to the radio, the morning was hers alone, nobody else seemed to want it. She smiled and shook her head; she’d adopted morning. The kettle began its course; the slow murmur leading to a distracting rumble and then roaring for attention. Getting louder and more irritating the steam began to pour out of the funnel. She lifted her head from the paper and sat watching from the kitchen table, waiting. When the switch flicked the noise stopped and died down, she enjoyed that moment best, that’s what she had been waiting for she thought, all the noise that suddenly at its peak crescendo holds and announces; ‘kettles boiled’ and then silence. In these instances the room would fall still and she would sit there for a moment and add a sigh of composure. This morning she laughed at herself; recognising the habit, what joy in serenity I’ve found she thought and just in a kettle boiling. Her mind wondered into thinking if these moments only ever really occur in solitude, finding it incomprehensible to believe, that ten years ago, with a kitchen full of kids, one wiping marmalade on her suit jacket, one half undressed and late for school, all the commotion, lovely though it was to look back on, that at any point in one of those mornings could she have halted proceedings for a second and just enjoy making a cup of tea, bloody incomprehensible she thought, and chuckled out loud again as she took out some milk. The sun was shining brightly through the window and lit up the kitchen in a way that electric lights always fail to do, the low angle of beams cast beautiful shadows and made interesting sculptures of everyday objects. Everything looked more real she thought in natural light, and pondered whether one day scientists could manufacture a bulb that would give a similar effect, she hoped so. Then came a knock at the door, timid and faint, as though not really wanting to induce notice, a most half hearted interruption. She opened to door and felt the snappy air on her face that seemed to tighten her skin and focus her mind. ‘Alright mum’ he said with a quivering voice. Her heart sank, she was unsure why, and instantly regretted the reaction, she knew a mother shouldn’t feel that way when greeting her son and batted aside her disappointment, or perhaps, she hoped, her initial instinct was not born out of a displeasure at receiving her son, but instead born from the fact that he was two months early and should have still been working at the holiday camp. She would allow herself to be angry if he’d been fired she decided, but a pang of distress and concern hit her and she knew before he answered, that he’d not been fired. As the door opened he felt half relieved and half dejected; at least he’d be safe inside he reasoned; they didn’t have his mums address, and that was something he thought. The notion of having to go through this with her though deflated him, it was going to be hard to tell her, he could see her in his head going off the rails already; crying, panicking, probably shouting, he’d have to tell her though he told himself, she had to know. ‘Son? What are you doing back’ she stared at him; she was less surprised than she thought she should be and something about that made her sad and slightly nervous. She wondered why the sudden appearance of her boy two months early looking thin and dishevelled wouldn’t shock her. ‘I didn’t get fired mum’ he said, his was voice low. He felt silly as soon as he spoke, still some part of him felt comfort in searching for applaud from the statement. He closed the door behind him and decided to bring up the garden and the statue, ‘you’ve changed the garden’ he spoke firmly, he wanted some answers, ‘got a statue outside too, a naked one.’ He tested; he knew he would be able to extract any lies from her answer, see what was what and whether or not he could stay, ‘Where’s it from?’ he probed. ‘The garden centre, look Sam sit down, you look terrible I’ll make you a cup of tea then we’ll talk.’ She spoke quickly. Sam looked over at the kettle, he doubted her, she’d answered too fast and too confidently, he wondered if she was in on things and thought it best if he made the tea just in case. ‘No mum I’ll make the brew then we will talk’ She watched her son his back arched over the side board staring at the milk, she noticed how much weight he’d lost in his face his features looking manic. Sam had always been the most difficult of her children, she thought of him as the youngest even though he was a good seven years older than the rest. He’d needed more attention and had once been diagnosed with A.D.D when it was trendy to label most children with it in the seventies, perhaps this is that again she thought, but as usual her gut told her otherwise, something terrible must have happened she concluded and instantly wanted to know what. ‘Sam you look so pale and thin, are you ok? What are you doing back?’ she fired these questions with concern and an irritation she didn’t intend, she knew that with Sam she often confused the two feelings and that that generally exacerbated everything. She always felt like the mother you sometimes see at the supper market who loses her child and gets so worried that they spank them when they find them, out of nothing but fear for their offspring. Sam didn’t reply, instead he just sat down with the two teas ‘Go on then’ he said ‘drink it’, he wasn’t going to touch his brew before her, he decided that he needed to know whether she could be trusted and whether she was with him or against him. When she said thanks and took a sip he felt so relieved he almost cried. Finally, he thought, all the way from Skegness to Howarth with no one to talk to, or trust or rely on, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and began to reveal what had happened. ‘Mum’ he said to her so earnestly and seriously that she put down her tea, perhaps he’s got married she thought. ‘Butlins, mum, Butlins! They are massive, down there they are everything, they own everything.’ He looked behind his shoulder then lowered his head and frowned. ‘Mum, they own everyone’ he said so unquestionably that for a split second she missed the strangeness of the statement, then her brain replayed the words and she felt puzzled and asked him to repeat. ‘Listen to the words mum, listen to the words. They. Own. Everyone. Their big mum, their everywhere…in everything’ he talked slowly and his voice shook as his sentence ended, she didn’t know what he meant but he seemed scared, and the strangeness she had seen in his face when he began to talk now seemed more sinister and intense. She froze unable to speak. ‘There are people there’ He began again. She saw that his eyes had started to fill ‘who have been hurt mum’. There was such sincerity to his speech that she naturally and tentatively asked what he meant, she was beginning to fear that somebody had harmed her son. ‘Hurt mum!’ he snapped and she jolted at his anger, Sam to her knowledge had little if bizarrely no temper. ‘People have been…hurt, there’s a ring there mum at Butlins, and if you find it, stumble across it then they hurt you too, I found it and they silenced me mum.’ She saw such a plea in his eyes as he spoke, she felt a sudden urge to hear more, she wanted to know what had happened to her son and irritation to know the truth drove her on. He knew it would happen when he told her, she got angry, why she couldn’t just listen to him and understand confused him. ‘Sam!’ she shouted ‘What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean they silenced you? Butlins silenced you? What are you saying?’ She looked frustrated and he wanted to explain in the easiest possible way to make her understand, so he started again. ‘When I left last night, I snuck out of Butlins, I went to the police station in Skegness, I told them everything, the abuse, the silencing, the fact that they keep people there against their will; workers, guests, the police told me to keep my mouth shut mum, they were part of it! When I got on the train they’d sent someone to keep tabs on me, there’s a van out side right now, that’s them, that’s why I made the tea; in case they’d got to you first, I had to be sure’ She felt numb and disorientated, she saw that tears were rolling down his face and put her hand on his, she was unsure how to comfort him and even more unsure whether or not she should, or just to laugh it off and tell him not to be silly. The sun hid behind a cloud and the room darkened slightly, she saw that this made Sam flinch and got up to put on a light. She looked away from her son and over at the clock on the wall, 11.59 it read, she sighed, walked over and hugged her son. ‘Ill put the kettle on’ she said.
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