Fall - A Collection of Short Stories (Almond Press Short Story Contest)

by Corrina Austin

  “Oh, sorry Kathy, I picked it up when I came in.” A wicker basket full of the small clay doves had been sitting on a bench in the entrance porch. “I meant to put it back.”

  “It’s fine,” the woman replied. “We plan to give each of our guests one. You may as well keep hold of it.”

  “Thank you,” Sally responded, a bit unsure why.

  “It’s to help you pray,” the woman added.

  “Oh right,” Sally was still confused. “How thoughtful.”

  “So you can pray for Verity.”

  Sally realised this was as close as she’d been to the mother of her ex-husband’s child. She noticed she was taller than the American. Not by much, but it felt significant. It was the first time they had been alone. “Yes of course Kathy. Good idea.” She closed her fist tightly over the bird once again and put it in her coat pocket. She had no idea how it was going to achieve its assigned task.

  Kathy smiled at her. “There’s drinks in the marquee,” she added stepping aside.

  2

  Sally had got from the room to the marquee without speaking to another person. She had walked up the side of the large country house where she’d used to live and had come out not far from the bonfire. She had been tempted to go and say hello to the men, at least they’d been laughing, but once closer she had recognised one of them as a colleague of Martin’s; a lecturer in East Asian Studies or something like that. He was from New Zealand and was loud, confident and undeniably irritating. He had seen her walking in their direction; Sally had glimpsed that determinedly energetic smile before he’d obviously recognised the potential awkwardness of the situation and looked away. Suits me, she’d thought, go poke your fire. As Sally had approached the marquee she’d realised that the window she’d been looking out from just moments earlier was now behind her staring at her back. She had stopped and turned to face it, not really knowing why, and had been surprised to see a figure standing there. It appeared to be a young girl but the sun was shining so brightly off the window panes it was hard to be sure. Probably just Kathy she’d assumed and continued on to the marquee. Upon arrival she’d spotted several other of Martin’s friends and colleagues; once again they averted their eyes. A bar had been constructed at the back of the tent and drinks were being poured by what looked like a couple of students. Sally moved over to it and accepted a glass of a warm spiced wine from a tall baby-faced boy. He was attentive and friendly but then he was being paid. Whatever, thought Sally, and was about to try and start a conversation when something at the other end of marquee caught her eye.

  The tent itself was surprisingly dark inside and had only small candle-lanterns at different points to give it light. This, Sally observed, was hardly the most sensible method of illumination for a tent. Nonetheless it gave an earthy, rustic feel that she was certain Kathy and Martin would have desired. This ambiance was aided by a number of other features. Along the sides, close to the lanterns, were various pieces of art. The one nearest to Sally offered a clumsy painting of a woman giving birth to the moon. Autumn flower arrangements were hanging at different points and what Sally assumed were old cider barrels were being used as make shift tables and it was one particular person using one of these particular barrels that had caught her eye. She took a large mouthful of wine and walked over.

  Alex Oldfield was Martin’s younger brother and had been the one member of Martin’s family to have bothered to stay in touch with Sally. “Hello Alex,” she greeted him.

  He looked up from his glass with reactions that struck Sally as suspiciously slow and smiled at her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Yeah fancy that,” she put her glass down on the barrel. “So how do you like Mother Nature’s womb?” she asked, smiling.

  He laughed. “You seen the tree?”

  “The tree?”

  “The Tree of Life,” he nodded towards where the twenty or so seats were arranged in a broken semi-circle. Sally looked in the direction he’d gestured and indeed saw that a small tree was placed vulnerably at the very centre of the chairs. In fact it was the focal point of the whole seating arrangement and looked wholly uncomfortable being there. Much like a reluctant child about to sing, thought Sally.

  “What’s the idea? Do we hold hands and dance round it?” she asked.

  “That goes without saying. It’s what happens before that.”

  Sally looked at the tree again hoping for a clue and saw a spade next to it. “Let me guess,” she said. “The placenta’s resting place.”

  “And may it rest in peace,” Alex added. “Fucking weirdoes.”

  Sally picked up her glass from the barrel and finished it. “I hear it’s quite common Alex, good for the baby’s fertility or something.”

  “Like I just said… You want another one?” he nodded at her glass. She pushed it towards him and he got up and walked over to the bar where a few more people had now arrived making the place look almost crowded. Others were making their way through the tent, looking at the pictures or heading to the chairs. Sally questioned herself again, why had she come to this place? What was the appeal of seeing your ex-husband and his girl-friend bury their daughter’s placenta under a tree in a big tent? She looked around and felt an unerring sense of disgust. Maybe this is why I’m here she thought, to sit in judgement on this whole ceremony, this whole family, this whole show of innocence.

  Alex returned with her drink and they went and sat down with a good view of the tree. “Sing for us,” Sally muttered. On the chairs were running orders with ribbons and photos. Sally looked at one bemused. How had they found time to do all this? The remaining guests arrived in a group that included other members of Martin and Alex’s family, none of whom seemed interested in making eye-contact. Sally surveyed the new arrivals; old people who clearly didn’t have a clue what was going on being manoeuvred into chairs by their now middle-aged offspring who looked stressed and disillusioned with their offspring who oozed an unhealthy combination of anger, lust and apathy. The circle of life, Sally observed, and so it continues. As people established themselves a man appeared from a dark corner. Sally wondered who he was; some sort of priest maybe? Unlikely knowing Martin’s opinions but he looked clerical. Distracted by his identity Sally missed what he said but it went suddenly quiet and people turned towards the back of the marquee.

  It was the first time Sally had seen Martin in close to twelve months. He was carrying Verity in a basket and walking with Kathy in the direction of where everyone was sitting. Even in the bad light he looked shattered, which Sally considered weird bearing in mind how well Kathy’s complexion had been and that Martin hadn’t given birth a few weeks earlier. Then she realised that he’d probably spent the last nine months organising this. She wondered what Verity would make of it all when explained to her in later life. Would she feel a deep bond with this tree, with this earth, this life? Or would her opinion be closer to Alex’s? She wondered how she would have felt if her parents had done this for her. Such a thought made her laugh out loud just as the new family entered the semi-circle. The whole place, including the cleric, turned to glare at her. Great, she thought, now they look at me.

  3

  The ceremony had reached its conclusion with everyone being given a chance to ‘bless’ the baby, which meant smiling at it and saying something nice to Kathy and Martin. It was also at this point that people were given their clay doves. Sally realised that she had no desire to bless the baby or speak to its parents and remembering that she already had her dove she had gone back to the bar. Now as she pushed open her front door she felt the weight of the wine sitting upon her. She closed the door behind her and dropped her bag and a small brown envelope to the floor. She had to put one hand against the wall to remove her coat. She then sat on the stairs and wrestled off her boots. The house was in darkness. She rested her head in her hands and rocked forward. Once again she felt the weight of
the wine pushing her down, unsteadying her head. She slouched sideways and leant against the banister. What a weird day. The placenta’s burial had been a disappointment that Sally felt had set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Alex had been needed with his family, so with her one ally gone she’d found another dark corner to sit and brood in. She looked down at the envelope. Martin had given it to her in what had been their brief and only contact during the day. He’d said that Edith had sent it to her. Edith had been Martin and Sally’s neighbour when they had first moved in together. She and her husband George had owned the small cottage that backed on to the garden where the naming ceremony had taken place. The two of them had lived there for over forty-five years up until George’s death. Sally had been working from home the day he had died. She’d received a phone call from Edith just as she’d sat down for her breakfast. She had gone over to offer comfort but found herself with nothing to say, which somehow had been enough. Four weeks later Edith’s son took control of matters and she was moved into a care home and Sally lost all contact. Martin had handed Sally the envelope with some effort at compassion and informed her that Edith had died just a few days earlier. “I believe it’s a photo or something,” he’d added, nodding in the envelope’s direction. Sally had taken it and given it a look. Her old name and address were written on it in neat letters. Edith had added her own name on its back but still no address. The date on the post-stamp was from over a month ago. Edith had still been alive. Sally had felt angry but remembered how close the date was to Verity’s birth. She had asked Martin how he knew what was in it. “I looked,” he had replied matter-of-factly. She’d been surprised by his bluntness but felt too tired to argue.

  She stood up now, steadied herself on the banister, and walked into the kitchen. The moon was bright through the window so without turning on the light she made a coffee and went upstairs to her office. She had pushed her coat and boots to one side with her foot as she’d gone past and stumbled to pick up the envelope spilling coffee on the carpet. Now in the office she put the cup on a coaster, turned on the desk light and sat down. Aside from the clock on the wall she was very aware of how silent it was. The inevitable ticking of clocks, she thought to herself. She opened the envelope and took out the photo. She had expected to find at least a note to go with it but there was nothing else. Putting the envelope back down she looked at the picture. It was taken of a young girl around eight years old. She was standing under an apple tree in a neat white dress with her hands by her sides and her head tipped slightly back. She was smiling directly at the camera. Sally thought it must have been taken on a summer’s day or maybe early autumn. The photo itself was clearly old; the print was in black and white and in places smudged and faded. It was the most beautiful timeless picture that Sally had ever seen. The smile was perfect and she found herself smiling back. She felt light, almost giddy. The face was familiar and Sally felt herself apprehended by a wistful feeling as if she had forgotten something important or had misheard or misunderstood someone. ‘That you Edith?’ she whispered but genuinely wasn’t sure. She put the photo down on the desk and took a sip of coffee whilst continuing to look at it. She then remembered a picture-frame that she had downstairs. It would be ideal. She put the coffee cup back on its coaster, took the picture and went to get it.

  She stepped out on to the landing and the office door swung closed behind her. Once again the house was in darkness but from the window Sally could see the garden lit by the moon. It was the strangest light. It reached only certain places and removed all colour rather than sharpening it. The garden still looked like her garden of course, she still recognised the trees she had been cutting back recently and the shapes of the plants and bushes but it was as if things had been hidden or altered. She took a step to go downstairs. What was that? A movement outside caught her eye. Sally looked instinctively. A young girl was standing on the lawn looking up at her. Where had she come from? Sally gasped and put her hand out to steady herself. It looked like the girl she’d just been smiling at but something had changed. There was something sinister there that took the breath out of her lungs. She knew that face, she knew that look; she felt it and lived it. Sally felt like she was remembering but it was out of focus. She reached for the banister but realised that she’d misjudged where she was. She crashed sideways into the rails and fell forwards down the staircase. It was as if the world was being tipped up like a near empty wine bottle. All she could see was that face; she was about to collide right into it. She hit the ground and slid down the last few stairs.

  Sally lay there for some time trying to get her bearings. She was on her front with her head and upper body on the hall floor and her legs still on the stairs. The hall was in darkness but something of the moon’s light remained. There was also a warm line of light on the floor that appeared to be coming from the kitchen. She didn’t feel ready to get up but began to check herself over, seeing what hurt the most and what she could still move. She shifted her hips from side to side and twitched her toes. Her left side was sore and she had bad friction burns. Not terrible. She was resting on her forearms so tried to push herself up a little. Her left shoulder was agony. She also realised that she had hit her head quite heavily and that she felt sick. As she tried to roll a little to her right she found that she was still holding onto the photo. She had screwed it up in her fist but now released, it crumpled onto the floor and started to unfold itself.

  Sally wasn’t sure what had just happened. She was confident that whoever she had seen in the garden would no longer be there but she wasn’t concerned by that. Something had occurred to her just before she’d fallen and it was that which felt significant. She had remembered and knew what she had to do. She shuffled herself forward a little but found it hurt too much so she lay her head down on her right arm still with her legs on the stairs behind her. From this strange angle she looked forward. There, lying on the carpet out in front of her, right in the line of light that came from the crack in the kitchen door, was the little bird, its wings extended out as if in flight. She felt pleased to see it and lifted herself slightly to reach out and stroke its head with her finger. The crumpled photo, which had continued to unfurl, was also there. The three of them lying side-by-side looking at one another. The girl’s smile slowly reappeared and Sally in turn smiled at the little bird. “Well done,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Young Adam – by Jennifer Etherton

  Young Adam, my darling my sensual delight, young Narcissus in bloom...

  My little Adonai, serious youth with your shorn nape, your body tended with the deliberation of a peasant with his sickle and scythe, sowing and reaping. In this age of dispossessed people, your body is your farm, your livelihood, biceps burgeoning, windrow midriff. You adorn it with the devotion of the man of the land, his hands plunged in the rich soil.

  After twenty five years as a churchman, serving in a profession I have always believed and professed is my proper place in the world, I have always understood, indeed supported the decree, the logic of the church’s requirement that its ministers serve only God and church, that they abandon intimate personal life. Along came Adam, reminding me that the youth in me lingered, yearned still; the personal could never and would never be entirely surrendered. Adam burning with an incandescence as bright surely, as the Lord transfigured!

  It was his mother who engaged me with a view to counselling the boy. She was recently widowed and complained to me of her son’s developing waywardness.

  I tried to dissuade her. The boy had already drifted from the church. I did not want to further his disaffection.

  But she would not hear it. Insisted she was at her wit’s end!

  Recollections of the pleasant child, who after all had been a fine physical specimen, compliant, with the heart rending willingness to please that ‘good’ children most often possess, convinced me that I might tinker a little without undue damage.

  ...And so I went
to tea. The mother had the good sense to disguise the visit as a personal one.

  The boy’s friends dropped him off.

  He was ‘in a hurry...going out again.’

  I’m ashamed to say, given my age, gender and profession and the insidiousness of guilt itself, that I still expire and thrill, my innards still twist and repine, at that enshrined memory, that first ex gratia vision of my assaulting Angel!

  At that time, in my inner most self, I seemed closely to resemble Bernini’s ‘Ecstasy of Saint Teresa’, speared by an Angel, leaving her ‘completely afire with the love of God,’ mouth ajar, legs akimbo, an involuntary moan, the sweet arrow piercing, spirit made flesh and flesh made spirit.

  But where Teresa was, by her own account, ‘no longer content with anything but God,’ I was no longer content!

  Adam was not, of course, strictly speaking, an Angel, not in the pure sense of the word, a cherub or a seraphim, something formally recognised in the holy hierarchy. Rather he shared their energy and this came from growth and change and flux. In the life force he was abundant, a well-formed child bursting into some sort of enormously alluring manhood.

  He was the flower of youth, fecundant, conspicuously inviting, a receptacle awaiting pollination. Dainty eared and broad chested with the elastic mobility of an athlete in his fluid and compact hips, he was a long stemmed flower, a fleur-de-luce, elemental.

  His voice reiterated the theme of transformation, being in the process of breaking, both deep and sweet, a little unsteady and unpredictable. His face was pure Titian, plum lipped, shiny eyed. His head was at once juvenile and ancient, closely clipped hair, a tight straight fringe, the head of an adorable infant and a Veronese philosopher!