You can tell how old this picture is just by looking at the
owl-like spectacles. Yes, it is me.
The picture has hung on the wall at my WI for ages. It was
in a frame but hardly anyone knew why it was there. Our soon-to-be-departed
secretary reframed the picture and included an identifying note but now she
wants the story on display as well. I am honoured that she thinks my work is
worth recording for posterity ... I suppose it is part of the WI history vis-à-vis
my local branch.
Every year National Federation of Women’s Institutes runs a
creative writing competition which I won in 1998 with a story entitled A Man in
my Life. The title was compulsory for all entrants, 171 in all.
The picture was taken at the Royal Albert Hall, when I was
presented with the Lady Denman Cup by the then National Chairman, Eileen
Meadmore. The year was 1998. Credit goes
to the actual Federation, whose name is inscribed on the cup, but the winner gets
to keep the cup for a year as well as receiving high value book tokens as a
prize.
This was the announcement in the WI magazine. The story was
published a few months later. For the benefit of those who haven’t seen it,
here it is.
A MAN IN MY LIFE
The room is so quiet that if you stood outside the door you would
suppose it to be unoccupied; but there is an abundance of sound: crackling
firewood, squealing chair springs, the vibrating window when a plane takes
wing, the tap of steel needles, and the expletives when I drop a stitch. You
might hear these sounds if you listen hard but you would not see Jeffrey 's wicked endeavours to make me lose count, my
voice rising with each enumeration as I walk two fingers along the pin,
determined to outwit the arm-waving comedian and cursing the misfortune of
being saddled with an imbecilic brother. The mantel clock proclaims its own
opinion, issuing dull thuds, which are supposed to be reverberating chimes. Two o'clock , and the rest of the day
to get through. Even the fire-logs serve to emphasise the hour, a pair
of charred timber chunks spilling to the hearth. I toe to safety the
smithereens of charcoal and inhale the intoxicating smell of burning wood as I
study the flames, remembering my youth, when Jeffrey
persistently devised new ways to destroy my concentration and the strife at
school when homework was inadequately completed.
The dreadful clacking of Jeffrey 's
dentures infiltrates the reverie, transporting me to present time like an
exploding bomb. First I am ensconced in daydreams, then, suddenly, I encounter
reality head-on. Unexpectedly, my brother's grinning countenance brings a
swelling to my throat. Family features: grizzled hair, bristly brows and
pointed nose, except that Jeffrey now
has pendulous jowls, skin dark with liver-spots, and hazel eyes mottled with
age. At eighty-five he should be past indulging in puerility, but it is too
late for him to change and, anyway, I am fond of his desultory ribbing. Occasionally.
While he gazes at me in his silly fashion, I set the rocking chair in
motion, anxious to start the next stage of the complicated pattern yet hesitant
in case Jeffrey renews the struggle
for power. He looks docile enough, sitting erect like a spectator waiting for
the show to begin, but I never know when he will embark on another wild prank.
In two minutes I could be despising him; in three, I could be storming to pack
his bag and return him to the home from which I delivered him, beseeching the dear
Lord to explain why a man in my life is so essential.
My confession might shock you. If you could witness this scene of cosy
domesticity you might think I am satisfied with my life, that my days consist
of snug tête-à-têtes and happy reminiscences or that the daily woman's duties
give me ample time to knit and amuse my brother. But how can I expect her to
clean the mess that incontinence affords, or supervise his eating, and
encourage him to aim for his mouth instead of his shirt? And yet, on reflection,
your assessment could be right. Beneath the grievances, you might detect a
glimmer of the affection I feel, for despite intensifying bouts of wrath and
irritation I love the old fool to pieces.
Pleased that Jeffrey has
settled to read I resume my occupation. Pins clicking furiously, my thoughts
roam the years, evoking instances of his outlandish behaviour. Though his
impaired mental state drives me to distraction he can be enormously
entertaining; like now, as he absorbs the printed word, contorting his lips and
nose as if they are moulded from rubber.
In the shadow of a frivolous father and two ebullient brothers, Jeffrey grew vague and bewildered before his time. As
a consequence he relied on me for support, seeing me as an island of sanity in
the midst of a chaotic existence. That's why I never married. The concept of
leaving my guileless brother to fend for himself was inconceivable, though
lately I long to be free of obligation. Notwithstanding, the good days outweigh
the bad. In fact, until the onset of true dementia, most were agreeable; funny
even, if an old man's waywardness can so be called.
As dotage accelerated, Jeffrey
became quite adventurous. At seventy, equipped with his pensioner's pass, he
toured the county for bargains. But his logic left much to be desired. He once
travelled a distance to save twenty-pence on melon, then spent ten times that
amount on chocolate. I still remember his gleeful look when he produced the
melon and the box of chocolates, and my incredulity.
The fingers are flying now and the rocker's going like a swing as I call
to mind that day we waited in Woolworths for our
brother to end a discourse with a chum. Thirty minutes trudging round counters,
failed attempts to resist Jeffrey 's
pestering at the photograph booth and the endless wait for obscure pictures.
Secretly chuckling, I recall Jeffrey 's
restlessness and his entreaties for a go on the weighing machine - several
times - for the sheer joy of cramming weight cards in his pockets, which on the
journey home were distributed among the passengers on the bus, his laughter so
infectious that the whole of the upper deck joined in.
My feeble eyes are filling up; it always happens when I reproduce the
images of bygone days. A pity they couldn't stay the same.
You should see Jeffrey now,
playing peek-a-boo around the Daily Mail. I pretend not to notice his
buffoonery. I could curb him but he's been in enough trouble since the episode
next door. Unbeknown to me, on the days when I allowed him out alone, he developed
the custom of going in the neighbouring gate and walking into Miss Smedley 's
house demanding tea. Initially she humoured him with biscuits or a cake, but
when he burst in and ordered tea and toasted soldiers, with no regard for her
undressed state, she ceased to think it amusing. He's now on tight rein lest
the woman carries out her threat to call the police.
The room is dimming now that the winter sun has disappeared, and the
fire needs banking. The clock thumps its message home. Four o'clock , it says. Time for tea. My
daydreaming has taken me to girlhood and back, through teen-years to adulthood.
And Jeffrey 's cardigan is almost done.
If the Almighty is willing I will finish it tomorrow, that is if Jeffrey deigns
to let me get on. But then I'd worry. Since silence is an alien characteristic
I wouldn't know if he was behaving or indisposed. Oh, if you could see him
playing his game, retreating behind the paper like a guilty schoolboy whenever
he catches my eye. I cannot help sniggering at his expression, a fooled-you
kind of look, the sort meted out when my counting goes completely awry. I am
tempted to teach him a lesson and leave his cardigan sleeveless but I cannot
succumb to spite. You see, he won't have many more birthday gifts, and I won't
have the foolish fun that life with him has brought.
See his face, see the way he peers at me like the simpleton he is. My
throat constricts at the sight of him. Dear God, don't take him yet. For my
sake, give him a year or two more.
I am not in the least surprised that you won an award for your writing Valerie - you are very, very talented! Your entry to the competition is superb!
ReplyDeletehow very cool...was great to see the newspaper clipping and the pictures...that is awesome val...it is a very cool story...
ReplyDeletedid i miss something, i thought today was feline story day....hmmm...
hope you enjoyed your 15 minutes....
Ooooh Brian, the Capers are over, finished, done. I did put THE END at the end... smiles. Yes thank you, I did enjoy the 15 minutes.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Pearl. I was surprised to win because a couple of people said they preferred another story. I went through a bout of indecision but in the end was guided by a constructive writing tutor.
ReplyDelete*thunderous applause*
ReplyDeleteValerie, a HUGE congrats on receiving that muchly deserved award!
You GO, girl!!!!
Lovely photos and write-up in the paper!
I have to say, it has been such a treasure to meet up with you in blogland; not only to connect as friends, but also to be exposed to your amazing talent as a writer. Truly, you have such a gift, as it is evident in your story, "A Man In My Life."
OMG...I got tears in my eyes reading this! You captured so many levels of honest emotion in such a short story. And it was so evident of her love and devotion for brother, Jeffrey.
" Dear God, don't take him yet. For my sake, give him a year or two more."
Beautiful ending!
Again, congrats, dear lady!
Well done....X
Wow... You shouldn't be surprised that you won, Valerie. That piece is amazing! Your writing is genius.
ReplyDeleteOh Wow, Ron, I'm overwhelmed by your praise. Thank you so much. I shall go off and bask in glory for a while, reliving the 15 minutes so to speak. For the record, I value your friendship too.
ReplyDeleteHi Lea, thank you so much. Nevertheless I was surprised. Even now, when I read a piece of my work I truly CANNOT believe I wrote it!
ReplyDeleteNot surprising that you are award winning. A great story.
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely story! I'm so glad you won an award for it. You are soooo talented, Valerie. I really did enjoy this story. Reminds me of me and my 90 year old father. He's slipping fast.
ReplyDeleteHow wonderful Valerie. I can see why you won the award, your story was great. I do love your writing!
ReplyDeleteGreat story and post ...
ReplyDeleteGlad you had the recognition..
but you deserve more than 15 minutes,,
fame may be fleeting, but your writing stays on forever...
Weekend time... enjoy !!
Such a great piece of writing..very well deserved award Valerie.. :)
ReplyDeleteTake care
Awwwwww....made me teary in a good way. It was the familiar descriptions of that child like play that rang true for me in life.
ReplyDeleteThanks for memories.
And I'm glad they've kept the photo and added the story to recognize the achievement.
Excellent! Excellent! Excellent! Excellent!
ReplyDeleteA worthy winner. I know it was the best of them all. I just know it!
That was AWESOME! It's easy to see why you won. Really brought a happy tear to my eye with those last couple of lines. Very well done! Wish I could give you a trophy as well :-)
ReplyDeleteThank you, Banker Chick.
ReplyDeleteFaye, heehee I'm prolonging the 15 minutes :O)
Mel, it was actually fun to write the child-like play, even though it was a serious subject.
Denise, thank you. I'm glad you enjoy reading my work.
Thank you, John
Hi Herman. Yes, they were quite emotional lines, but I had to end it on serious note.
Thank you very much, Sam.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mona, and my prayers are with your father.
ReplyDeleteA well-deserved honor, Val. You are supremely talented and thanks for sharing the details of the story with us. Have a great weekend.
ReplyDelete