Tag: child

The Photograph (Fiction)

They were posing for the family portrait. The silhouetted shadow of the conservatory roof fell above and to the left of them. With his shock of dark hair and brown moustache, Ernest was dressed in his best black suit and matching waistcoat, with a white rounded-neck shirt. He was standing behind the wooden seat while his wife, Alice, wore her best black dress and the silver locket left to her by her late papa. She was still grieving and had a pained expression on her face. She wished her papa could have lived to have met baby Grace. She was the first girl born to the family for ten years. He had died just days before she was born; such a tragedy.


Alice sat demurely in front of her husband and held baby Grace affectionately in her arms. Grace wore a beautiful lace and delicately embroidered cream dress that had been passed down from her Victorian cousin. William stood on the seat next to his mother in his very best outfit and smartest shiny shoes. How quickly children’s feet grow, thought Alice; William’s shoes were so expensive and more than they could afford if truth be told. They loathed admitting to their relatives how difficult they were finding managing their finances since Ernest had to retire from his work as a factory foreman. His health had declined over the few months after the pneumonia he contracted left him weak. He tired quickly and needed to rest in the middle of the day. Nevertheless, he remained in good spirits and rarely let his exhaustion be known.

Huh! I’d really rather not have my photo taken, Ernest thought. I feel so uncomfortable. It’s such a formality, and I do have better things to do. I’d much prefer to be participating in a game of charades in the parlour. Entertaining guests is far more enjoyable and less of a bore, in my opinion. One is expected to be smart and tidy at all times. What do I have to do to please the family?

Stand still, son; the photographer is trying to take our photo – let’s not waste his time. William! For goodness’ sake, stop fidgeting. I know it isn’t easy to have to stand still for so long, but you must try to make an effort. Now, be a good boy for Papa and look at the camera. No, please don’t pull such a peculiar face. Look at your new sister; she’s not pulling silly faces, is she? She’s being so good despite the fact she’s been passed around the family. Aunt Maud and Aunt Mabel both said she was an absolute charm, and your Grandmama really dotes on her, too. Yes, of course, they love you too, William. Now, please keep still; I’ve already told you twice. The photographer looked up and smiled at the boy, although he tried his best to hide his impatience.

Oh, I do hate wearing ties, Ernest thought. I tied the knot too tightly – it’s most uncomfortable. It feels as if it’s choking me. I do wish I’d worn a different one. He went to fiddle with his tie in an attempt to loosen it slightly but then realised he wasn’t showing a very good example to his son, William. William glanced up at his father and looked very fed up and bored. Ernest recognised that the boy would much rather be playing with his new brightly-coloured spinning top in the nursery. He was only three years old. However, he still expected his son to be on his best behaviour; but he felt quite sorry for him and gently put his hand on William’s shoulder to comfort him a little. He wasn’t such a strict father underneath his stern exterior.

Alice felt tired and longed for the photographer to hurry so that she could retire to the drawing room to relax for a while. She was having difficulty sleeping since the recent loss of her father. As she thought about her papa, the tears welled up in her eyes, and she attempted to choke them back for fear of spoiling the family portrait. It was traditional to have a new portrait taken with each new child’s birth. Ernest and Alice would have liked to have had more than just the two children. They’d thought, perhaps, when Grace had grown a little, but finances were such that they knew they wouldn’t be able to afford any more realistically.

William let out a bored sigh, and Ernest looked down at him. William!! For goodness’ sake, will you please take your finger out of your nose; what will the family say when they see you doing that in our photograph? You will spoil it, and they will think you a very naughty boy, Ernest declared sharply. William pulled a cross face at being on the receiving end of his father’s obvious displeasure. William, if I have to tell you one more time to behave properly, you will be sent to bed without any luncheon, and you will stay there for the duration of the afternoon. The boy’s face became even more sullen. Baby Grace had begun to whimper, and Alice looked tired and strained.

This is so tiresome, Ernest thought, thoroughly fed up with the whole affair. If he were honest, he’d rather have been able to retire to his bedchamber for his late morning rest. If only I could change into my nightshirt instead of this most irritating outfit. Thoroughly fed up and irritated, he frowned and glanced upward as if pleading to the Lord to end this entire business.

Suddenly, just at that moment – ‘Click. Clunk,’ went the photographer’s box-brownie camera! Snap!

The Birthday (A Story) – Part Two and Part Three

Part One – The Birthday can be found here.

Porridge Oats and the Graveyard (Part Two)

She awoke early the following day to find the sun shining. She jumped out of bed, folded her blanket and eiderdown back, washed and dressed in her dark blue school pinafore and a white blouse. It was a bit big for her as it was a hand-me-down from her mother’s cleaner at the café. Her polished but worn black Mary Jane shoes clickety-clacked down the wooden staircase. Her mother was in the scullery preparing their breakfast of porridge oats. Miriam sat down at the small yellow and white Formica table squashed into one corner of the tiny room. They didn’t have a smart dining room like many of her friends had in their houses. Her parents couldn’t afford anything as posh as that.

Her mother put a bowl of steaming oats in front of her. Miriam was grateful for this, as she hadn’t had a proper dinner the night before. She blew puffs of air from her pursed lips to cool off her breakfast. Having finished it, she took her empty bowl over to the sink, gave it a quick wash with the brush and dish soap under the cold tap and put it on the already heaped-up draining board. She could hear the noises of her father getting up just before she left, just briefly hearing her mother shout up, “are you only just getting up, you layabout?” before she slipped quietly out of the front door, ensuring she didn’t bang it shut and risk another telling off.

As she walked to school, she felt sorry for her dad being shouted at so often by her mother, and she thought about how much she loved him. He never shouted at her, even when he’d had a lot to drink. He often took her out for a walk around the nearby Shoreditch Church and let her walk along the walls surrounding the flowerbeds. Miriam was cautious not to tread on any plants but loved being up high and holding her father’s warm but rough hand to ensure she didn’t fall off. They’d go and look at the gravestones, too. Miriam wasn’t scared even though she knew it was where dead people were buried long ago. They stopped to look at several stones, and her dad would tell her stories about the people under the ground. She didn’t realise, at that age, that they were made-up stories, but she enjoyed hearing about these people’s lives and imagined what their families were like. Her dad said it was time to go as he had to go to the Spar corner shop to get some bread, milk and a packet of Stork margarine.

School Days and the Teacher (Part Three)



Before she knew it, Miriam, who’d been daydreaming about her kind father, arrived at the school gates. She was only just in time before the bell went, signalling the start of the school day. She hung her brown coat on a peg in the cloakroom and walked quickly to her classroom. Her teacher, Mrs Miller, was an amiable lady and had a soft spot for Miriam.

The first lesson was English, which Miriam liked, but the second was maths, a subject she often had difficulty with. She was okay with adding up and taking away but found her times tables hard to remember. Mrs Miller always came over with encouraging words and hints about recalling these tables. The class often recited their times tables in a song – “once two is two, two twos are four, three twos are six”, and so on, and Mrs Miller reminded the child of this song.

Shortly after that, the bell rang again for dinner time. The children filed out of their rooms and queued up in the dining room to eat their sandwiches. Miriam picked up her lunch bag, rummaging inside for her lunch, but much to her dismay, her bag was empty. Her mother must have forgotten to pack any lunch for her. She was so disappointed, so she had to sit at one of the tables watching everyone else eat. Silent tears ran down her face, which she kept wiping away with her white cotton handkerchief so that no one would notice her crying.

Looking through teary eyes, she spotted Mrs Miller walking towards her. When her teacher asked her to return to the classroom, Miriam thought she must have been in trouble for some reason. From experience at home, she was used to being yelled at for this, that and the other. The teacher accompanied her back to the classroom, Miriam waiting for the telling-off she was sure to get. Her head hung down until Mrs Miller gently lifted the child’s chin as she looked into her eyes. The teacher smiled, opened the drawer under her desk, and produced two sandwiches. She gave one to the very surprised child and started tucking into the other. Miriam, feeling hungry, took a big mouthful and found it was her favourite filling – ham and relish, something her parents could rarely afford. After eating their lunch, Mrs Miller said she could go out to the playground to play for a while to get some fresh air before lessons began.

Miriam didn’t like going out into the playground, as she had no friends and nearly always stood quietly in the corner, hoping and wishing that someone would come and talk to her. Most of the children were playing catch and skipping rope games. She looked on as the children with their ropes were singing, ‘” Teddy bear, teddy bear, turn around; teddy bear, teddy bear, touch the ground.” Miriam longed to join in, but no one seemed interested in including her.

After fifteen minutes, the bell rang again, and it was time for each classroom to form into queues before being let into their classrooms again. Back at their desks, the children settled down to do some reading. Miriam pulled out of her bag her favourite book, ‘Rabbit Hill.’ She was on chapter three now and thoroughly enjoying the story. Mrs Miller walked around the classroom to check that each child was concentrating on their reading books.

After the reading session ended, the children filed into the gymnasium for the last forty-five minutes of the day. Miriam gulped silently; she hated gym as her mother refused to buy her any gym clothes because they were too expensive. All the other girls wore short grey skirts and white Aertex shirts. Miriam was the only child who had to participate, wearing her vest and navy-blue knickers. She could see some of the boys in the class staring at her and giggling because she was in her underwear. She was so embarrassed and wanted the ground to open and swallow her up. After a while, the bell rang three times, signalling the end of the school day and that it was time to go home.

Excitedly, the other children packed up their school bags and ran outside to meet their mums or dads, who were waiting at the gate with smiles and sweets. Miriam felt sad. Her mother never came to greet her to take her home; she had to make her own way as usual. She had just started to walk across the playground when she heard a voice calling her. She turned to see it was Mrs Miller who summoned her over. As always, the child expected to be told off, although she had no idea what she’d done wrong.

As she approached her teacher, she was given a small package and a letter in an envelope. She looked surprised and asked in a hushed voice whether she could open them. Mrs Miller smiled and nodded, so Miriam carefully unwrapped the parcel and letter. Much to her surprise, the letter turned out to be a birthday card with two pretty cats on the front and inside the package was a brand-new book for her to read. It was called ‘Pippi Longstocking’ – Miriam was thrilled to bits as her teacher had remembered it was Miriam’s birthday tomorrow. The child beamed from ear to ear. She said thank you three times. Mrs Miller gently touched her shoulder and encouraged her to make her way home now. Miriam ran all the way so that she wouldn’t be late again. When she got home, she said nothing to her mother about her card and present and quietly sneaked up to her room to hide them under her blankets, ready to read them in bed that night. Perhaps, her ninth birthday wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Graveyard image – Photo by Carlos Felipe Ramírez Mesa on Unsplash

School image – Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash

The Birthday (A Story) – Part One

Day One – Silk ribbons and fish paste sandwiches.

It was a grey cloudy afternoon in 1937 when Miriam trudged home from school, following the route of the 149 bus. She didn’t have any money for the fare, so she would have to walk as usual. It was her ninth birthday in two days. She sighed deeply as she wondered if anyone would remember. She thought it unlikely with her parents being so preoccupied with their busy lives.

Her mother and father worked in the Terminus Café by Shoreditch Bus Station, making tea and all-day breakfasts for the bus drivers and conductors as they finished their shifts. Her parents often forgot, so Miriam wasn’t expecting this year to be any different. She couldn’t remember the last birthday cake she had. She pretended she didn’t care, but she would have given anything to be like her school friends, whose parents always made a big fuss of them while lavishing them with gifts wrapped in pretty paper and tied with silk ribbons and bows. Miriam’s friends always invited her to their birthday parties, but her mother wouldn’t let her go. She’d shout, “do you think money grows on trees, my girl? We can’t afford birthday presents for other people’s kids.” Miriam knew best not to answer back; otherwise, she’d be in for a good hiding.

She was so deep in thought that she didn’t realise how slowly she’d been walking. She should have been home by now. Scared of being in trouble, she ran the rest of the way. She arrived home, out of breath, twenty minutes late, to be greeted by her mother yelling, “what time do you call this?”

 “I’m really sorry, mum. I didn’t notice it was getting so late.”

“Well, if you think you’re getting any tea tonight, you’ve got another think (sic) coming, my girl. Go to your room, and don’t make a noise!”

Miriam ran up the stairs choking back her salty tears. She didn’t dare to make a fuss, or her mother would shout at her to stop her crocodile tears. She plopped herself down on the floor next to her bed, pulled the grey flannel blanket down and wrapped it around her slim shoulders. She grabbed her moth-eaten teddy bear, Peter, and held him close. He’d seen better days as she had had him since her first birthday. She loved him just as he was and knew she could tell Peter about anything troubling her. He would never shout at her as her mother did. She nodded off while clasping Peter to her chest and dreamt that she was in the middle of a birthday party her parents had organised for her as a surprise. When she awoke, it was almost dark, and she was very sad and disappointed to find that it was only a dream.

Suddenly, Miriam heard screaming and shouting coming from downstairs. “You’ve been down that bloody pub again, haven’t you.” It was her mother’s angry voice. She was yelling at her husband again.

Miriam’s dad always ambled along to the pub after working at the café. She often noticed that he had an almost permanent bright red, bulbous nose and smelt of cigarettes and beer. She liked her dad. He was always jolly despite everything. She wanted to go downstairs to greet him but thought better of it. She didn’t want to get into any more trouble. She heard him stumble into the front room and put the television on.

A few minutes later, a voice shouted, “your dinner is on the table. Are you going to eat it, or are you going to sit in front of that bloody TV all night?” Miriam could smell the delicious aroma of minced beef and roast potatoes wafting up the stairs. Her tummy rumbled, but she knew she’d have to make do with her mug of water and the leftover remnants of her fish paste and now warm cucumber sandwich from her lunch bag. She carefully opened the brown paper wrapping and took a bite. The bread was stale now, and the crusts were hard and dry. She didn’t want to eat it but knew she’d only get into more trouble with her mother if she left it. She’d had enough of being told off today, so she chewed hard and swallowed it down with the now tepid water from her mug.

By now, she was tired and thought she might as well go to bed rather than dare to go back downstairs only to be yelled at again. She tiptoed into the bathroom to splash her face and clean her teeth and crept back to her bedroom. She climbed into her pink-striped pyjamas and pulled on the pale blue bed socks that her grandma had knitted for her last Christmas; it was always so cold in her bedroom at night. She didn’t even have the luxury of a hot water bottle to keep her warm. Nevertheless, she felt safe in bed and pulled Peter close to her. She could talk to him about her worries and fears without the risk of being told not to make such a fuss. She lay there covered with her grey blanket and her paisley eiderdown, which always felt so comforting. Finally, she drifted off into a deep sleep …

… TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

The Flat (True Life Short Story)

Ellie was nine and didn’t want to go. She never liked going there. The dog always smelled and was continually bothering the cat. All that meowing, hissing, growling and barking made her feel anxious. Surely, keeping two animals in such a tiny flat is cruel, especially with six children there, too. No wonder the cat and dog are so discontented and fractious – hardly surprising.

Ellie’s aunt, Lily, was strict and unkind. Ellie never liked her. She was harsh and emotionless, or so it seemed. She had a wicked streak in her, always telling off her young niece for biting her nails. She would rub nasty Germolene* onto the ends of Ellie’s fingers, so every time Ellie started to nibble her nails, she got the disgusting taste of the ointment. Why didn’t Lily understand how traumatised the child was? Ellie was always crying – she was missing her mum, naturally, with her being in hospital again. Why didn’t Lily see that?

Ellie got on reasonably well with her two older cousins and one of the twins, but the other was domineering and a bully. Ellie was scared of Amy, who always made a point of saying she was twenty minutes older than her twin, Kate. She was glad to have her own sister, Jill, there with her. Although her sister was one year younger than her, she was a fair bit bigger and would often stick up for Ellie if there were arguments or a lot of bossing going on.

Ellie hated going to the twins’ school. She was in a different class from Jill, and she also didn’t understand the language in Hebrew classes, as her own family didn’t use it, not being religious. She had no friends and always stood alone in the playground corner during break times. She felt so isolated and very much wanted to go home. She wondered how many weeks she’d have to stay at the flat. However long it was going to be, it was far, far too long.


*Germolene is a strong-smelling antiseptic ointment.


Photo by Help Stay on Unsplash

Measles

I never remember my dreams, but last night, I woke up at 2.30am in a state of panic and fear. I’d had a nightmare, only this time, I remembered it vividly. I have no idea where it came from; I hadn’t been talking to anyone about my experience, and it wasn’t in my mind yesterday. I’m left wondering why I would remember this now. As I wrote this, I was shaking, recalling every detail as if it were yesterday. These are my memories of that time.

I remember when I was five.
and only very small
I got measles and constant nosebleeds
and had to go into hospital

It was called ‘The German Hospital’
It treated contagious infections
I was scared and wanted my teddy bear
At five, I needed affection

But it turned out to be a prison
and I was shut up all day in a cot
and when Mummy and Daddy left me there
I was only a little tot

Hardly anyone came to see me
I was in total isolation
Even the nurses who came every few hours
just gave me nasty medication

I couldn’t get out of the cot
though I’d stand there and call and cried
Surrounded by four solid walls
and trapped in there, inside

And I added my own tooth marks
to those that were there before
on the cot rail, in utter despair
hoping someone would walk through the door

Not another child did I see
the whole time I was in there
Mummy and Daddy didn’t visit much
and nobody seemed to care

Not even an ounce of kindness
did I get in that awful place
and I stood for  hours, rocking my cot
with tears streaming down my face.


#Me Too*

Can’t read
Can’t write
No rest
Hard fight

Can’t hear
Feel fear
All alone
No one there

Big smiles
All day
Great acting
Run away

Feeling pain
Not numb
Silent now
Staying dumb

Giving up
Too much shame
Held inside
Played the game

Being good
No escape
Dirt shows
Child rape

So soft
Weak-willed
Too tough
Justice killed

Can’t see
Don’t tell
Keep quiet
Gone to hell


* #MeToo is a social movement originating among women, advocating for survivors of sexual harassment or violence to speak out about their experiences.


(Image source – Photo by Shamia Casiano: https://www.pexels.com)

Hands Off

Today the sky is black as coal
My mind has crawled inside a hole
He took away my heart and soul
Please, lock him up with no parole

~~~

I was only eight and very shy
And was it any wonder why
I’d never scream; I’d never cry
When after, in your bed, I’d lie

~~~

I didn’t want to play his game
He told me that I was to blame
He left me with the deepest shame
I’d like to tell the world your name

~~~

What he did was so taboo
Tucked away and out of view
Thought you’d get away, did you?
Karma will tell false from true

~~~

This isn’t who I want to be
He stole my innocence; can you see
I couldn’t run; I couldn’t flee
Just get your filthy hands off me.

Pretence

Being honest here and speaking my truth as I always do, I’m not okay today. I don’t feel much like the success I referred to in my last poem. I saw my counsellor this afternoon. She was going to let me know if I could continue to see her as my funding has nearly run out. I’d spoken with the organisation’s manager on Friday, and she assured me she would discuss my case with C. (my counsellor) and that I’d have a decision by this week’s session. As it turned out, the manager hadn’t spoken to C. I expect there’s a good reason for this; however, it doesn’t help my distress and worry at not knowing where I stand. C. told me she wouldn’t be there next week either, so I now have to wait another two weeks before knowing what will happen. I feel lost and alone.

PRETENCE

It’s tough pretending to be okay
when I’m absolutely not
I find myself smiling and chatting away
to stop others sensing the rot

~~~

I’m trying to write my song differently
I’m trying to appear upbeat
There’s far too much for others to hear
if it’s only the pain I excrete  

~~~

If only they knew what the truth was
that I’m shrivelling up inside
so I stay quiet and keep my thoughts to myself
while my innocent inner child died

~~~

I currently stand on a precipice
I’m looking for a safe way to go
I join in the fun with a crowd of friends
not letting all my pain show

~~~

I’m angry inside with that b******
He’s the one who caused all this sh*t
So, why am I carrying the blame in my heart
when I don’t belong in this pit

~~~

He should have been tried in a court
They asked me if I wanted to tell
but I was far too scared of speaking the truth
I’d already been through hell

~~~

If he were alive, I would prosecute
I’d make him stand facing the beak**
I’d tell all of his vile wicked deeds
as now it is my turn to speak.


(** The word ‘beak’ is an English slang word for judge or magistrate)












Rage

Image source – http://www.peakpx.com

I thought very seriously about sharing this poem. I originally wrote it several years ago, but I’ve updated it since then. It’s about the internal anger, which I feel now that it’s no longer possible to be angry with the appropriate person. Not knowing how to deal with my rage, despite my therapist’s suggestions of punching cushions, screaming into pillows, yelling to loud music etc., the only outlet I have for my feelings is my writing. I hope you will understand my reason for sharing this somewhat uncomfortable and sombre poem, and please know that I don’t wish to offend anyone who may read this.


How do I shield my mind, my darling

from the wrath, I have towards myself

or the tongue, as sharp as a blade

that spits bitter words with every breath?

~~~

My soul shrouded by secrets untold,

whipped by the wind in a hot desert storm

beaten against fresh, fair skin;

sour, narrow eyes, blinking.

~~~

My spirit dances with hollow sighs

and its shadow falls and tumbles

into the darkest of clouds;

tears flow freely into the midnight sky.

~~~

But now, my scarlet demons

run screeching from the hills

and the steep mountains rage;

 and then forever hushed.

AFTERTHOUGHT …

Brittle

Image taken from my Pinterest posts

I wish I could tell you I was different then
That I was happy, content, just a child
But even in those early growing years
I knew something was brittle
~~~

I wish I could tell you it’s because of a divorce
Or a car crash, a scene, a fight in between
But even when the day dawns, and light filters through
There was too much on my mind
~~~

I wish I could tell you it was society
Put it down to one event, let it be
But there is reason behind me
I am just this way; I was made brittle
~~~

I was brittle before I reached the age of one
Before my first dark, grim nightmares
Before the death of my fragile spirit
I was already brittle in my mother’s belly
~~~

I try to soothe my mind with my music box fairy
Broken promises, dusty, stained wishes
But I am brittle
So take my hand, gently, as I am liable to fracture.

Image source Google Free Images