Short Story Competition 2017

3rd Prize – Christine Griffin with:

Mother Love

I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling when I hear her phone ringing in the kitchen. A couple of minutes later she’s coming up the stairs, bracelets jangling. She knocks on my door and walks straight in. Her face is flushed and her breath ragged.

‘It says knock and wait,’ I say still staring at the ceiling.

‘I know. I’m sorry, Megs but the hospital just rang. It’s an emergency. My mother’s been rushed in. She’s had a stroke. I need to go now.’

I hate it when she calls me Megs. She hasn’t got the right. ‘It’s Megan,’ I say. She ignores that and rushes straight on. ‘Only I wondered if you would keep an eye on Oscar – just until your father gets back.’

‘Why can’t you take him with you?’

‘He’s asleep at the moment. Anyway hospital’s no place for a toddler.’

‘I’m going out soon,’ I say, still staring at the ceiling.

‘Please. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to. There’s no-one else.’

I attempt a shrug, to show that her problems are nothing to do with me, but it doesn’t quite come off. The thought of the hospital has made my heart beat. Despite everything I feel about the way things are, I can’t be that mean.

‘OK, OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll mind him but only until Dad gets back. Then I’m off out to Sophie’s.’

‘Thanks, Megan. I’m really grateful. I’ll give you baby-sitting rates. Your dad’ll be back soon anyway. There’s a snack for Oscar in the fridge and make sure he drinks enough, won’t you?’

And she’s off downstairs before I can make any further protest.

The front door bangs, and right on cue I hear Oscar grizzling in his room. When I go in he’s standing in his cot and his face splits into a huge grin when he sees me. ‘Ducks,’ he says.’ Ducks.’

‘We’ll see,’ I say, scooping him up and inhaling his sweet baby warmth. I’ve tried so hard not to like him ‘cos he’s her kid but somehow it’s impossible. He’s the one good thing in my life right now, not that I‘d ever let anyone know. Especially her.

Mum had only been dead ten months when Dad brought Helen home complete with one- year old Oscar. ‘Helen’s staying here for a few days, ‘he said. ‘Just until she gets on her feet. Her husband’s left her and taken everything.’

Helen. Dad’s PA. Reliable. Pretty if you like that sort of thing. But not mum. Not my Mum who’d call down to me when I got home from school. ‘Up here, Megs’. As if she’d be anywhere else. I’d find her in the spare bedroom, which she’d transformed into an art room, working on her latest project. Skinny, her wild hair barely tamed by a huge clasp she’d bought in India, she’d be splashing paint on some huge canvas or other. She’d hug me, not caring if she got paint on my uniform. And we’d talk about anything and everything - stuff she’d heard on the radio, boys I liked, whether she should use a brown or purple wash for her latest creation. She was crazy, unpredictable and utterly different from everyone else’s mother. I loved her without reservation.

I should have noticed it. Of course I should. I was closer to her than anyone – even Dad. I could have made her go to the doctor sooner. Get something done. The day I got home from school and the ‘Up here, Megs,’ was shot through with pain, I felt a clutch at my heart. She was lying on the bed, her face white and contorted in agony. ‘Get the ambulance, love. Quick as you can.’

They told us six weeks, but in the end it was three. Twenty days to be exact. We hardly said anything to each other in that time because of the drugs. Never said a proper goodbye. I held her hand at the end, but I don’t think she knew. My fault. I should have noticed.

Everyone said there was nothing that could have been done. ‘She’s probably had it for a while, ‘the doctor said. ‘One of those rare cancers that we don’t really know much about.’ My form teacher at school was kind and Dad took me away for a holiday, but nothing helped.

And then Helen came.

Dad seemed to be able to talk to Helen more easily than he ever could to mum. I’d get in some nights from Sophie’s and they’d be sitting in the kitchen drinking wine and laughing. ‘Oh there you are, ‘Helen would say.

‘Fancy a snack?’ As if it was her kitchen.

‘Sophie’s mum made me something,’ I’d say before turning my back on them and going to my room. The last thing I wanted was to eat something she’d cooked. I’d rather starve.

The few days stretched to weeks and then to months. When she moved into dad’s bedroom, he tried to talk to me about it. ‘It’s up to you what you do,’ I said. ‘I’ll be leaving as soon as I finish my A levels anyway.’ Mum’s crazy hippy clothes were bagged up for the charity shop and Helen’s boring officey stuff took its place in the wardrobe. And as for the art room, no-one ever asked me if it was alright to clear it all out to make a bedroom for Oscar.

I stand in the ghost-filled bedroom now changing Oscar’s top.’ Ducks,’ he says again. He doesn’t know that this is the place where I spent my happiest times. The walls are cleared of the paintings and sketches that had filled every available space. Now there’s a big alphabet poster facing the door and a white wicker chair piled high with soft toys.

‘Come on, big fella, ‘I say. ‘Let’s raid the fridge and then we’ll see about ducks.’ He rests his soft baby head on my shoulder and I squeeze him tight.

The park is busy with mums and kids playing on the swings and feeding the ducks. You can get these bags of duck food from a machine and Oscar stands by it, his eyes pleading. He may only be two but he’s a hell of a smart kid. Duck food in hand, he sets off along the path, his fat bottom waddling. I hear my phone buzz. Sophie probably, wondering where I am.

But it isn’t her. It’s a text from dad. ‘Plane delayed Zurich. Back about midnight. Can’t get Helen.’

That’s right, dad. All about you as usual. I feel rage building up in me. Never mind that I’ve got a life too. I punch Sophie’s number and it’s as I’m waiting for her to answer that I realise I can’t see Oscar any more.

I’ve felt panic before like when I revised for the wrong exam or the time when I lost my phone, but nothing compared to the sheer terror that floods through me now. I take my eyes off him for two seconds and he’s gone. I realise I’m screaming and other mothers are pulling their children closer. ‘Oscar - has anyone seen Oscar? Someone must have seen him. Blue jacket. Carrying duck food.’ But there’s no blue jacket, and no grinning toddler running towards me. Oh God, oh God where is he?

It’s then I see the trail of duck food spilt on the floor and a little way ahead, sitting on a bench is Oscar and a woman who looks like Granny used to look. I can’t stop myself. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?‘ I scream at her.

‘Could ask you the same question,’ she replies. There’s a nasty gash on Oscar’s knee, and she’s blotting it with a tissue. He’s crying.

‘Duck food all gone,’ he says.

The granny gives me a look. ‘Running he was to get to the lake. He fell over. You need to keep a better eye onhim you know.’

I bite back a sarcastic response. If it wasn’t for her, who knows what would have happened. ‘Yeah, sorry,’ I say.’ Phone rang. Sorry I shouted. ‘

She raises her eyes to heaven.’ You kids and your phones.’ She turns to Oscar. ‘Bye, love. See you again.’

Back at the house, I do my best to bandage the knee. I can’t get what happened out of my mind. I never knew it was possible to care about anyone so much - well apart from mum. Helen’s still out and the house seems empty and sad. We sit watching CBeebies but my heart’s not in it.

When he hears the front door open, Oscar jumps up and runs to greet her. ‘Blood, mummy. Lots of blood.’

Here we go, I think, I’m going to be in trouble now. Helen lifts him up and her eyes lock with mine. It’s only then that I remember where she’s been. She’s ashen and her eyes are swollen with crying. ‘Dad’s going to be late,’ I say. She nods and pulls Oscar tighter to her.

She doesn’t need to tell me what’s happened. I already know. I could just go upstairs or go round to Sophie’s like I’d said. But I don’t. Instead, I steer her towards a chair. If anyone knows what it feels like, it’s me.

‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ I say. That’s the first time I’ve ever used her name and it feels strange.

She starts to cry in earnest. ‘She... my mum… she…’

‘I know,’ I say. I stand there awkwardly not knowing what to do next. What would mum have done? I hear her voice in my mind. Just be kind to people Megs. That’s all anyone asks of you.

I pass her the box of tissues. ‘Do you want anything? Tea – something like that.’

She nods. Oscar’s bottom lip is wobbling – he’s never seen his mother upset likes this.

‘Come on, little man,’ I say reaching for his hand. ‘You come and help Megs in the kitchen. We need to make mummy a nice cup of tea.’

About the Author

Christine loves writing whether it is short stories, flash fiction, plays or poetry and has been successful in a number of local, national and international competitions. She has had two short plays performed and has read her work at the Cheltenham Literature Festival and on local radio. Her favourite form though is the short story, serious or otherwise. She particularly enjoys writing about the resilience of the human spirit when faced with changing, often challenging circumstances. Christine lives in Gloucestershire and counts herself very fortunate to be part of a network of talented and supportive writers. When she’s not writing, she enjoys travelling, playing in a music consort and getting out and about in the beautiful surrounding countryside.