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Great Writing - Home > Short S. > A Fairytale of New York
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| A Fairytale of New York | |
| By Bottleblondesurfer | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 16 August 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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I thought I’d pinch Leo’s trick of writing a story round a song title. I’ve gone a step further and incorporated song lyrics into it, I hope it works. I had an ending worked out but the character changed it From his window George Kinsella could see absolutely nothing, until he opened both eyes. It had become a little superstitious ritual with him. He watched the retreating back of the postman. There was no reason why to day should be different but he was a victim of hope. He sighed and looked up to see a cold grey autumn sky with no warmth or welcome in it. He needed to get back to his happy place. George heard the door open and turned to see a large lemon yellow raincoat: that held no warmth or welcome in it either. His wife was talking to him but he was slipping back into his happy place //We stepped hand in hand down Broadway like the first men on The moon// “George, Will you stop humming that damn song and listen to me. Put your jacket on or we’ll be late for church”. He took the jacket from her. “I hoped I’d heard the last of that song when I threw out the CD” It didn’t matter that Kitty had thrown it out; he knew it by heart. It was the last thing that Helen had given him before she left. When Helen told her parents she was going to New York it was not well received. “No daughter of mine is going to that Godless heathen place” “Mum, it’s not that bad. Look, I’m not asking permission. You’re not talking me out of this one” “Father Howley said no good will come of it…. George, you say something” But he didn’t, what was the point? In fact since Helen had gone he said less and less. It was two years since she had left. Despite the acrimonious parting she had promised to write and George refused to give up hope. “You blame me for her going, I know you do” Kitty often said. “No I don’t, of course I don’t” He did blame her, though, but not just her; her and God or at least his representative Fr Howley who saw sin and depravity everywhere. He despaired of the influence the man had over Kitty. George closed the window and struggled with the jacket. He was in no hurry to get to church. He seemed to spend all his time there now. // We tipped our hats to Mr Cohen Dear old Times Square’s favourite bard// A loud voice crashed into his happy place. “And before you ask there was no post”, Kitty shouted from outside the room. He loved that song with all its references to New York. It seemed such an exotic and romantic place, especially as his beloved Helen was there. It felt like a link with her. He could understand her wanting to leave. He sometimes wondered why he stayed but when love goes it’s your insecurities that bind you together. He really missed his daughter. She was the only person he had unconditionally loved. If he had spoiled her as Kitty and Fr Howley claimed he could not bring himself to regret it. Kitty came storming back into the room. He was convinced she could read his mind. “Do you think I don’t miss her too? You think it’s just you.” “ Hang on, did I say anything?” “You always used to side with her. I had to do the discipline while you two just joked and whispered…… “ “We should go and visit her” He said it more to stop the familiar rant than with any hope. “How can I go with my feet, you know well” “They get you to church everyday” “It’s a terrible place. We’d be mugged or killed” “Eleven million people manage to survive it” “And anyway we don’t even know where she lives” “There’s that contact address. I could write again” “Oh, there’s no point, they won't know” “Well we could ask…..…How do you know that?” “You know her always flitting about……. George stopped listening. He knew is wife, with an awful realisation he said, “She’s written, she’s bloody written she has hasn’t she?”. Kitty realised she had made a mistake but was full of righteous indignation. “Those letters weren’t fit to be read, full of filth and depravity. Fr Howley agreed… “The bloody priest has seen them and I haven’t. How many for God’s sake?” “And the language!, And the goings on in that terrible Godless place. Fr Howley said I should burn them”. “Who were they written to? Tell me that” George cut in. “You would not believe the wickedness. You don’t know the half of it.” “I had a right to see them. She’s not a bad girl” “You were always too lax with her, spoiled her. She should have written to me. A girl should be close to her mother” “So if she had written to you, you wouldn’t have burned them?” “Don’t you get clever with me” Kitty shouted George turned away. He knew these arguments were pointless. He might have the moral high ground but she had the church and female logic. He needed to be alone in his happy place more than ever. He walked towards the door. “Where are you going, we’ll be late for church?” “I’m going to the shed instead. I just need to think” He walked out of the room. “You imagine I don’t know what you get up to in there, thinking indeed!” He slammed the door. “You’ll go straight to hell, George Kinsella” “I hope they’ve got a sign or I won’t know the difference”, he shouted with more defiance that he felt. He heard the front door slam as he slumped down on the bench. This was his territory. In the dark of the shed he allowed himself to grieve. The letter burning was the last straw for him. Helen had kept contact but Kitty had got in the way. That’s how she always got her way. He was so tired of her getting in the way. Despite her bluster Kitty had felt some remorse. She had decided to allow him some time to himself, always the best way. She’d had a long chat with Fr Howley after church and spent the evening with her good friend Mary Driscoll. She now felt vindicated and decided she may as well tell him everything. He’d see it her way after he knew the truth. She was irritated to see he was still in the shed after all this time. She didn’t like going in there. It was so male and ungodly; an annexe of hell in her holy garden. But this couldn’t wait; “Now you come out of there, you hear. I’ve things you need to hear. It’s important” //And we raised a glass in Central Park And a dozen more besides// George was oblivious; lost in his own world. He felt at peace. The shed door burst open and Kitty’s head appeared in the doorway. A loud booming voice crashed into his happy place. “Will all passengers for flight KLG 132 to New York please make your way to gate 7”. George jumped up, stretched and picked up his holdall. He’d never owned a suitcase. It had caused a problem at check-in as to whether it was luggage or flight baggage. He made his way to gate 7, feeing a childish excitement. He was going to see all those famous, wonderful places and he would find Helen, somehow. He was sure of that because he wouldn’t stop looking till he did. //And the black bird broke the silence and he whistled it so sweet. And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps we skipped down 42nd street.// He was going to see what his happy place was really like.
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