The Winner of this year’s Short Story Competition

1st Prize – Glenn Mansfield with:

Erosion

Ken glances out of the window. He is sure he saw movement. But she isn't there.

He can see the swing, its frame rusted and rotting. A single bloom of purple petals clings to the top of the frame, tendrils of withered vine wind up the struts. The seat lies broken in the long grass. Beyond the swing a lone tree grips the edge of the cliff, roots exposed and trunk tilting precariously towards the sea far below.

Waves boom against the cliffs like a heart-beat; a percussive reminder of time ebbing and flowing, moments into minutes into hours into days, relentless.

Ken wipes the counter-top clean of the salty, sandy residue that, overnight, has layered as thick as week old dust. He glances out of the window again and further up the bay, ramblers edge past the light house. They stop for a moment by a sign.

“Danger – Cliff Edge.”

They squeeze past, eyeing the path carefully, and then pick up the pace when they see the pub.

“Two pints, two halves, please,” says one of the ramblers.

“We’re closing soon,” says Ken, “Sorry.”

“Just a quick one then,” says the man, smiling broadly, thrusting money towards Ken.

The rambler watches Ken as he pulls the drinks, noticing his ruddy complexion, his swollen nose, and the broken capillaries that track across the barman's cheeks. He follows Ken's glance to the outdoors.

“Cliff’s dangerous then?”

“Yeah, they’re going quickly now, a few feet every year,” says Ken, pulling hard on the pump. “Sit there for long enough, and you’ll see more of it go.”

He shudders, and looks warily out of the window, as if expecting the tree to disappear from view.

“Any chance of a round of sandwiches?” asks the man as he carries the drinks to the others.

“No. Sorry. We close at two,” Ken says, and then in a softer tone, he adds, “They do food at the Swan.”

He glances anxiously out of the window as they sip their drinks and talk about the wonderful view and the power of the sea. It takes all of Ken’s willpower not to shout at them to leave.

"You can't miss the Swan," he says as, with relief, he ushers them out of the bar. At the door he points towards the village, before shutting it gently behind them.

He waits long enough for them not to see him reopen the door, and as the rain starts to fall, he takes flowers and places them on the centre of the table in the bay window.

She arrives shortly after. Her familiar curly hair is damp and she pushes back a grey lock. She offers him a brief, almost embarrassed smile and steps towards the bar.

"I'll bring it over", he says. She smiles again, retreating to take a window seat and when she sees the flowers, she reaches up to touch a petal gently.

***

The swing was covered by the deep green leaves of the passion flower that climbed over the frame. Abundant purple flowers punctuated the leaves, and spilled down the chains to the seat that swayed gently in the breeze.

White clouds scudded across the blue sky. Ken watched the couple through the window. Same day, every year. He saw them at the lighthouse first, and then watched as they walked down the path. They stood in silence for a long time at the bluff, framed by the two remaining trees that stood between the pub and the cliff edge. Eventually, they tossed a small bunch of flowers into the sea, and made their way towards the bar.

Ken prepared their drinks and when the man reached for his wallet, Ken smiled and shook his head. The man nodded an acknowledgement, and carried the drinks to the woman who was seated in the bay window. She had been crying. He placed the drinks between them, and after a moment of silence he wiped his hand over his bald head.

"I should have brought a hat," he said, trying to laugh.

“It’s not the sun we need protection from,” she said. Her eyes slid over him, ignoring him, and returning to the view. He stood quickly, knocking his chair over, eyes blazing.

“I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t take it.”

She didn't react. She just stared out across the bay.

"Amelie! Look at me."

Her face was impassive.

Ken could see him as he stormed out of the pub. He stopped at the swing and paused in a moment of indecision but then he lashed out with a vicious kick that broke the seat in two.

***

Outside, on the rotting swing frame, the single flower that clung to the vine flaps in the growing breeze. As the rain starts to fall it loses its grip, and tumbles, to be lost in the long grass below. The sea pounds the cliffs and the sun has dropped behind the pub casting its shadow as far as the edge.

She stares out across the cliffs, and doesn't move again until on the table, he carefully places a beer mat and her drink.

"Thank you, Ken. You always remember."

"Of course, Amelie," he says softly, taking a seat across the table from her.

There are more lines around her mouth and eyes. The grey that last year peppered her fringe has spread. His breath comes hard. The heavy air makes his chest heave.

His hand twitches involuntarily and he wants to reach out to her. He wants to feel her hand in his.
He wants to cradle her beautiful, sad face in his hands. He wants to... but he hesitates.

At the base of the cliff, the sea crashes relentlessly into the rock. The phone behind the bar trills loudly.

“Please don’t leave,” he says.

She sips her drink. She tries not to listen, but when he raises his voice she can hear his concern.

"That can't be bloody right. I've been paying the premium for years. There must be something you
can do."

He glances over to Amelie. She holds the cool glass to her forehead, and is trembling. He wants to go to her, but the voice on the other end of the line waits.

"There has to be something," he says. "The small print? .... Of course... Of course."

***

From the bar he could see the newly painted swing and the freshly mown lawn. The beer garden also included a small orchard of trees offering dappled shade and picnic benches. The cliffs swept by in a long wide curve as if gathering the sea to present it, a shimmering green blue canvas. Ken's grin widened with pride.

A small boy, curly blonde hair bobbing, ran to the swing, followed closely behind by a young woman. She grabbed the boy by his waist, and tickled him. He wriggled in her grip, whooping with laughter, and she pulled the seat back, and let him go.

The woman was dressed simply in white jeans and a striped top. She threw her head back and laughed exposing her thin, delicate neck, shaking her red curls. Ken couldn't stop himself staring at her, framed as she was like a photograph in the bay window.

"'Scuse me." A man loomed in front of Ken, blocking his view, breaking the spell. He was tall and blond, with a jumper thrown over his broad shoulders. "Lager, please." He turned towards the door, bellowing, "Amelie! What do you want?"

"Gin and tonic," she said.

"And a coke, and a bag of crisps, for the boy," the man finished.

"You're my first customers," Ken said, as he prepared the drinks. "I've just taken over. Can't believe I managed to buy it, to be honest."

Amelie came into the bar, and the man pulled her close. “This is Amelie." She smiled and waved at Ken as if they were separated by a great distance, and he felt foolish. Of course she was married.

"One for yourself?"

"I don't drink,” Ken said, “but thanks." His eyes followed Amelie as she took her drink outside.

Later Ken took out another round. Mikie was sat with his parents on a rug by the swing. Huddled together they examined pictures of flowers on seed packets, and Mikie picked one pack up, showing them to his mother.

"Passiflora incarnata," she said slowly. "Passion flower. They have beautiful flowers, Mikie, and they grow really... no, no, do not open the pack." Mikie tore the top of the seed packet, but his mother rescued them before they were spilled, and placed them safely in her lap.

Ken passed them drinks and went back inside. When the waves were quiet he could hear the couple talking in low, hushed tones.

"Did you ever think we could be this lucky," Amelie said.

Her husband smiled but didn't respond, and they fell quiet watching their boy play amongst the trees. He leaned over to kiss her, a long and tender kiss.

"If I had a photographic memory," she whispered, "I would choose this moment, right now. I would capture it, and store it in a very special album, forever."

"It's a shame we don't get to choose our snapshots," he whispered back. He was propped on one elbow, lying beside her. He ran the back of his hand down her face gently, and pushed a dark red curl away. He started to lean in for a kiss, and then stopped. His expression changed from desire to fear, and he called out.

"Not too close to the edge, Michael!" He started to stand. Amelie leapt to her feet, scattering seeds
around the swing, and together they ran towards Michael. The boy turned, too near to the edge of the cliff. He smiled and stepped towards them. His parents ran past the first tree. He stepped towards them, but the sea was relentless, and far below a mass of rock fractured, falling away from the cliff, dropping into the seething waves. The cliff face slid downwards to be swallowed by the sea.

The shape of the land was changed forever, and the boy was gone.

They ran to the edge, and looked over. Her husband started to climb down, but Amelie held him
back, and they clung together by the edge of the cliff, sobbing. Ken watched helplessly from the bar.

***

There is nothing left on the rotting swing frame now; the single bloom that had adorned it earlier in the day is gone. Only the vine of the passion flower holds the frame together.

When he returns from the phone she has gone. He runs to the front door, consumed for a moment by panic, and then he sees her, a slim silhouette, out on the bluff. He walks to her; deliberately scuffing his shoes as he draws near so as not to alarm her.

"It's been twenty years," he says. “Remembering him…”

"I know, but I have no choice now. I am waiting."

"Waiting? What could you possibly be waiting for?"

She has her back to him. Her arms wrapped tightly, pulling the thin cardigan. Below her the waves boom against the cliff, and she feels the spray land on her cheek. Between them and the lighthouse a slab of rock dislodges, and part of the path crumbles, falling into the sea.

"I am waiting for the sea," she says.

He stands motionless for a long time. Watching ships pass on a grey horizon, until finally he musters all of his courage, and speaks.

"Shall we wait together?" he says.

As the sun drops toward the grey sea, as the tide begins to recede to reveal the sand and pebble strewn beach, she releases the grip on her cardigan, and her hand seeks his.

THE END

Critique by Competition Adjudicator, Iain Pattison

Erosion

This is an intense tale, packed with raw emotion, yet it makes its poignant points with the lightest of whispers. Both main characters – Ken the barman, and Amelie, the grieving mother, have lost everything to the same pitiless enemy – the relentless sea pounding away at the fragile cliff face.

Neither has any future, any hope. Amelie is haunted by the death of her young son, lost when the cliff edge suddenly crumbled, dropping him into the chill waves hundreds of feet below. Ken is fighting a forlorn battle to keep his pub open as the land surrounding it is greedily devoured, the cliff edge coming closer and closer.

Both are rooted to the same doomed spot, unable to move away. Both know their lives are crumbling just as steadily and certainly as the precarious edge of soil and rocks.

Yet, despite its air of sadness, regret and despair this is a story that offers hope – a glimpse of optimism just at the very end. For 20 long years, Ken has watched Amelie’s overpowering grief, unable to reach out and touch her, to offer physical comfort, but now – as the inevitable collapse of the cliff is about to snatch away all that they know and cherish – they are finally able to connect and face their fate together.

Erosion is a deceptively clever narrative, well constructed, with deft storytelling, employing wonderful understatement and the most subtle of clues.

Some writers might have been tempted to fill the piece with long, grandiose descriptions of the cliff’s inexorable disintegration, to insert several sentences of exposition setting out Ken’s financial woes and desperation – but these key elements are fleetingly sketched, alluded to rather than laboured.

In flashback it’s mentioned in passing that there was originally a small orchard of trees in the pub garden, but we know from the tale’s opening lines that there is now only one, and it grips the edge, trunk tilting towards the sea.

And we learn about the futility of Ken’s plight by eavesdropping on the phone call he receives. In a single snatch of dialogue, everything is revealed: “That can’t be bloody right. I’ve been paying the premiums for years. There must be something you can do.”

Masterly storytelling, and a classic demonstration of the writer’s most important adage – that less really is more.
Add to this, skilful and well-measured use of time jumps, sympathetic and gritty characterisation, and an all-pervasive sense of weary, melancholic mood, and this is a deserving winner.