Anna’s room had darkened.
She had not bothered to turn on the light. At the first spatter
of distant bangs, she limped to the window, but there was
nothing to see: only the rooftops’ haphazard geometry,
faintly orange where caught by the glow of street lamps; blind
eyes of other people’s houses, in yellow tinted shades.
All else was in deep shadow, cavernous black. She pushed at
the sash. It resisted, then suddenly jerked upwards. Anna
steadied herself against the open window. A cat yowled, tyres
screeched, a siren wailed. Nothing much was happening yet.
The night air smelled of damp, a faint tang of rotting vegetation,
perhaps a trace of wood smoke? Bonfires must surely have started
somewhere, out of sight. Anna shivered and reached for the
quilt, dragging its reluctant folds to make her a soft nest
in which to sit, her window still open to the night.
A sudden explosion woke her from her musings. A massive golden
chrysanthemum burst against the dark sky, hung shimmering,
and slowly died; a burst of vivid life, and then it was gone.
His life, she thought, his, but not mine – not yet.
A rocket whistled skywards, and shattered into multi-coloured
fragments over the town. Another chased it, almost before
it had died, and then came a lull. Perhaps the crowds were
watching Catherine Wheels or Golden Rain, out of sight on
the football ground far below in the town. She could see no
more than the rooftops, from her vantage point.
The rooftops, and into the garden next door. In the quiet
that followed the rockets, a gust of laughter echoed, a rustle
and bustle of activity, the silver needles of sparklers piercing
velvet dark. They were lighting their fire now. A sudden burst
of petrol flame shone on their faces, threw their intent figures
into sharp silhouette. She knew who they were. Oh yes, she
knew.
Of course they hadn’t invited her to their firework
party. It was only a family party, Brenda had said. Brenda
always knew everything. Well, you do, if you clean for lots
of people in a small town. She had cleaned for the previous
owners, and came with the house. She cleaned for the people
next door. Never hesitant to ask questions, she already thought
she knew all about Anna, and had no doubt passed it on. What
Brenda didn’t know, Anna had no intention of telling
her. She might be old, but she didn’t suffer from verbal
diarrhoea like so many lonely old women she had come across.
She could keep her own secrets, like jewels clutched in clawed
hands.
Their fire was burning well now, crackling and leaping, tossing
showers of sparks towards her window. They died to cold ash
before they reached her, drifting away on the currents of
air. She could smell the wood smoke distinctly now, mingled
with sausages grilling on the barbecue. The twins, closely
supervised, were pushing spuds into the embers to bake, if
in luck, or to burn. She recalled the sweet softness of a
fire-baked potato, encased in crumbling black, and thrust
into her glove long ago with an intimate, flame-lit smile.
Bonfire night, the night it all began...
A sharp stab of pain caught her breath. Arthritis complaining
of the cold, she told herself firmly, refusing to acknowledge
the pain of memory, of loss. Stupid old woman, close the window
before you catch your death. But then she wouldn’t hear
them, would lose all the evocative smells. She pulled the
quilt up to her ears.
Their barbecue was out of sight, on the patio close to the
house, but she knew when the sausages were ready. The twins,
still waving their sparklers, darted away from the fire, and
reappeared, munching. She heard their mother call ‘Melissa!’
and saw the girl turn with a smile, her pale hair gleaming
in a shaft of light from the open door. Her boyfriend crossed
the lawn in leisurely pursuit of his girl and his supper.
Anna heard the murmur of their voices, the clink of bottle
on glass. Quiet music from the house swirled around them,
punctuated by erratic explosions from the world outside.
Which includes me, the eavesdropper, Anna reminded herself
sharply, to ward off a tendency towards sentimentality. No
doubt the grandparents were in the garden room, tucked up
in the warm: the mother’s side, of course. The father’s
were both dead, Brenda had told her, his mother only last
year. Anna had said ‘Oh really? What a shame’
just as if she didn’t know, hadn’t watched out
for Catherine’s obituary. As if that wasn’t the
very reason she had ventured to come, after waiting for so
many long years. This house coming on to the market, the house
right next door, had been a real stroke of luck. It had seemed
like an omen, happening so soon after Catherine’s death.
It had given her courage to come.
How ridiculously large the house was for an old woman on her
own, the mother must have thought, when she called politely
to welcome the new neighbour. Caught off her guard by this
unexpected gesture of kindness, Anna had felt herself freeze.
She had scarcely known what to say, as tongue-tied as a girl
on her first date. Holding tight to the door, she had not
even found the courage to ask her in. What must they think
of her? Stuck up old biddy. It was hardly an auspicious start.
Their father had completed his shift on the barbecue at last.
The twins seized his arms, dragging him gleefully down the
garden. He paused to tend the fire, and as it flared Anna
caught a glimpse of his face. The pain stabbed her once more.
He was so like... might almost have been...
‘Harry!’ His wife hurried across the grass with
a box of fireworks he had left behind. He bent his head to
kiss her briefly as he took it. Anna wished she didn’t
call him Harry. Henry had more of a ring to it, a far better
name for a judge. Only a District Judge, she reminded herself
sharply, to stem the flow of pride; not really distinguished,
though it sounded quite impressive to anyone who didn’t
know better. How fortunate he had chosen to be a solicitor.
If he had followed some other career, she might never have
kept track of him: not even so much as a name to look up eagerly
in each new year’s diary, an occasional letter or article
in one of the legal journals, sometimes – a special,
breath-taking treat – a photo of the writer. Anna shivered.
It was little enough, but all she had left of her lover, her
child. Half a century, a whole world away. What young woman
nowadays would meekly hand over her baby boy, and even be
grateful that his father’s childless wife was keen for
them to adopt him? What young woman in love would go meekly
away, and hide her secret in shame? How the world had changed!
Anna gave herself a shake, and then stood up for a cautious
stretch before her limbs set tight. The heating up here made
little headway against the cold draught from the window. Wrapping
herself once more in the comfort of the quilt, she sank back
into her chair. She mustn’t brood, mustn’t feel
sorry for herself, the outsider in the dark, lonely house.
She had accepted the terms, half a century ago: for little
Henry’s sake, for his father’s... for Hal, the
only man she had ever loved, who had ever possessed her, body
and soul. Respectable girls with careers ahead of them simply
didn’t have love affairs 50 years ago; at least, not
with married men. And barristers didn’t get divorced.
She saw the first firework through a film of tears, a mass
of silver and gold. The Roman Candle that followed had more
balls of fire than the makers had ever intended. Anna sniffed
and fumbled for a tissue. This wouldn’t do. She had
scarcely settled in, but if she was going to tear herself
apart, she would have to move on. And where would she go?
No family, no friends – well, not really friends. When
you retire, it’s never the same. A firm has a life of
its own, by its nature exclusive. She ought to have stayed,
died in harness, never mind a few aches and pains. At least
she had known who she was there, she and everyone else: formidable
Miss Anna Trevelyan, senior partner of Trevelyan Stern. Her
career had been highly successful, while it lasted, but was
it enough compensation for the wasteland of her private life?
And now? An old spinster in an empty house, spying on the
neighbours, to whom she was and always would be, a total stranger.
Full stop, the crash of a rocket. Right, that was it. No more
nonsense. She would let herself watch the rest of the show
only if she behaved sensibly.
She ought to close the window. It really was bitterly cold.
The warmth of the quilt fell away as she struggled to her
feet and reached for the sash. The window squeaked loudly
in protest, but refused to budge. As she wrestled with it,
she saw the pale oval of Melissa’s face turn up towards
her, caught in the light from the house which had earlier
glinted on her hair. Anna saw her gesture towards the window,
and speak to someone indoors. Then her sweet, gentle voice
called out: ‘Miss Trevelyan? Are you up there? I’m
sorry if we’re disturbing you.’
Anna nearly choked with the embarrassment of being caught
spying. Somehow she found her voice and called back. ‘No,
you’re not disturbing me. I was watching your fireworks.
I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. You’re welcome.’
Her mother appeared beside her. ‘Do come down and join
us, Miss Trevelyan. There’s plenty of supper. You’d
be much more comfortable here.’
Would I? Comfortable? Anna doubted it. And yet, how could
she refuse the invitation? A chance to talk to her son for
the very first time, to meet her three grandchildren: wasn’t
this what she had dreamed of, what she had come for? Of course
she would never tell them her secret. That much of her promise
to Hal she would keep. But to know them at last, after half
a century of waiting...yes, oh, yes, she would go down.
|
| Shortlisted
Runner-up in the Bonfire Night short story competition was
Sheila Lockett, Hinckley, Leicestershire. Entries shortlisted
to final judging stage were from: Alison Allen, Reigate, Surrey;
Catherine Dalling, Sherwood, Nottingham; David Jackson, Meols,
Wirral; Yvonne Jackson, South Kilvington, Thirsk, North Yorkshire;
Stephen Lake, Oakwood, Leeds; Lesley Mace, Bishop’s
Stortford; Bernadette Martin, Wheathampstead, Hertfordshire;
Sally Nex, West Horsley, Surrey; Norma Powers, Modbury, Devon;
Margaret Webster, Rowlands Gill, Tyne and Wear.
|
