Spirit
The door to Cat’s Cafe opened with a tinkle, allowing a gust of cold
air to enter the overheated room.
‘Oh no,’ Cat groaned, looking up
from her sink of dirty crockery.
Mary Wright
headed for her usual table. She was tiny
and delicate in appearance, but Cat’s regulars knew better than to sit in
Mary’s seat. Her hair was an interesting
shade of burgundy, with the odd splodge of grey, where the dye had missed. Recently, Mary’s walking had become a little
unsteady, but when Cat had suggested she get a walking stick she had laughed,
saying she was fine. Her trendy burnt
orange jacket, which clashed with her hair, had been a bargain from
Primark. She perched her reading glasses
on her nose and studied the menu.
‘I don’t know
why she bothers reading the menu, she always has the same thing,’ Cat muttered
to herself as she strolled over to serve Mary.
‘What can I
get you today Mrs Wright?’
Mary carried
on reading.
Cat cleared
her throat and repeated herself, loudly.
‘No need to
shout, dear,’ Mary said peering at Cat over her reading glasses.
Cat noticed
that Mary’s brown kohl eyebrows were a little wonky, the right one pointing up
at a jaunty angle.
‘I’ll have a
hot chocolate with extra cream and a toasted tea cake,’ Mary said licking her
thin scarlet lips. ‘None of that
cappuccino nonsense for me.’
‘Coming up,’
said Cat going to prepare Mary’s order.
Five minutes
later Cat was back with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
Cat turned to
go when Mary uttered the dreaded words.
‘Perhaps you’d
like to join me? I’ve had a letter from
Olivia,’ she said patting the empty chair.
Cat inwardly
groaned. She was about to refuse, but
her conscious got the better of her.
Mary was a widow, and her only daughter, Olivia, lived in Australia and
hadn’t been home for several years. Cat
knew Mary missed her terribly, although she did have Bob. Cat wasn’t sure what Bob did, but knew that
Mary adored him.
‘Just five
minutes then, before the lunchtime rush begins,’ Cat said sitting down, and
arranging her features to feign interest.
Mary liked to
talk. She was going deaf, but wouldn’t
admit it. This made the conversation a
little one sided, but Cat had learned to shout an occasional ”yes,” “no” or “oh
really” in the right places. Mary
clutched the hot mug of chocolate. Her
bony hands were almost translucent, blue veins protruding as if they would
burst through the thin papery skin at any moment. Cat looked at Mary’s face. Her cheeks were smeared with pink rouge. Her faded green eyes sparkled with spirit,
but her wrinkled, age spotted skin betrayed her years.
‘What will you
be doing for Christmas?’ asked Cat, standing up in an attempt to escape.
‘Well, that’s what I’ve just been saying. Olivia is coming for Christmas. I’m not sure how she’ll get on with Bob though; she’s allergic to cats.
THE END
The challenge was to write a 300 word story based on a
woman who has reached a crisis in her life - her marriage was failing, her husband idolised their daughter, who was an only child. The woman was jealous of her daughter. We were asked to write from the point of view of the wife, the husband or the daughter. I chose to write from the daughter’s point of view and here is my effort.
ABBEY
Abbey stared out of the bedroom
window. Her father had just mowed the
lawn and the smell of newly cut grass floated up, reminding her of school
sports day. She had hated sports, but
her Dad had always been there to cheer her on, making up with his enthusiasm
for the fact that her mother was absent, working again. Her Dad was her hero. Her mother paid the bills. She crept closer to the window as she caught
the sound of raised voices. She heard
her mother’s unmistakeable shrill berating her father. Her childhood and adolescence had been peppered
with arguments between her parents. It
was funny to think she wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. She closed her eyes as she thought back to
yesterday and the slamming match she had had with her mother. Abbey’s relationship with her mother had
never been easy. Her parents had married
because her mother had been pregnant, she couldn’t remember how or when she had
learnt this fact, but it had always been there this knowledge and from this,
the sense that she had somehow let her mother down. She looked away from the window at her
bed. A battered suitcase sat at an angle
on the crumpled cream duvet, clothes spewing out. Hurriedly she tucked the garments inside and
fastened the lid. She felt in her pocket
for the reassuring edge of her mother’s credit card. Yesterday her mother had told her the
truth. Her father was not her real
father. And now Abbey would leave.
257 words
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