29 November 2004

Departure

The reason we like to run competitions is to encourage visitors to www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk to write.

Nothing is easier than to say: 'Tomorrow I'll begin. Or Monday. Yes, definitely Monday.'

But.

There is no alternative to doing. Talking, discussing, preparing, researching – sure, great ... But only one action fills the blank page or screen with words.

I'd like to show you a piece written by a creative writing student at one of my husband Greg's classes. The task was to experiment with dialogue and the theme was departure. The author has chosen to be anonymous.

'Where do the swans go to at night?'

Samantha tilted her neck back awkwardly to look at her father's face as they stood side by side at the edge of the semi ice-covered pond. She waited for a response.

'I don't know' he finally replied, 'perhaps they stay in the water.'

The dark-haired young girl turned her gaze back to the white, gliding creatures and frowned,

'But they would be cold wouldn't they daddy?'

Silence. She pulled her hand away from the large one that lifelessly encircled it.

'Mummy, wouldn't they?'

'That's right darling . They don't swim all night – as soon as it gets dark, they waddle to those hedges over there and sit underneath them with the other birds – the drakes and the mallards and the geese to keep warm.'

As she spoke, Evelyn pointed out the different species to her daughter –

'See the drake with his green head and, oh look, there's another one come to join him for a swim.'

A dull brown, orange-billed duck launched itself into the freezing winter waters and paddled up to its mate. The pair bobbed about, occasionally emitting loud squawks of annoyance as several seagulls swooped uninvited into their patch of pond.

Tom moved away from the water's edge and the fairytale Evelyn was creating. He sank on to a nearby bench and watched the little girl, his little girl: her expressions, her movements. He had to remember what she looked like – the sound of her voice must come to his ears when he summoned it from memory. He strained to listen to her childish chatter now. He was unaware of the park and the people that walked within it, the war memorial looming to his left, the paddle boats stacked on top of one another, out of the water until spring not far from where he sat and then of his wife's sudden presence on the bench beside him.

'She's over there. Why are you here?' she quietly pressed.

Tom moved his gaze down and fixed it resolutely to the dropping-stained concrete slabs surrounding the pond.

He replied in a flat, emotionless tone.

'One more moment isn't going to make any difference. Why don't you just take her now? Leave. Put Sammy to bed, she's got a long journey tomorrow.'

'That's tomorrow. This afternoon is the last time you'll be with her for…' Evelyn paused as a wave of guilt rushed through her body, making her feel unsteady, sick, cold ...'for, .. well, until you're able to come and visit.'

Tom lit a cigarette and stared at the woman sitting opposite. A sneer crept into his normally mild, disarming features –

'I know what this afternoon is Evelyn,' he said slowly. 'Why are you even here anyway? Haven't you got the grace to give me a few hours on my own with her?'

'You let her go,' replied the young woman with a bitter calm, 'your actions did this. Don't lay blame anywhere but yourself.'

He kicked a loose stone violently from under the bench in a sharp tearless grief. It skidded across the concrete and plopped into the water, sending a trio of swans into indignant disarray.
Samantha turned round and giggled at her father –

'Look daddy, you've made the swans come out of the water – will they go to the hedge for the night now?'

He looked at her face and touched the dark brown curls tumbling down her smart new winter coat. He could summon no words better than before.

'I don't know. Perhaps they are.'

He kissed her and walked away, leaving Evelyn to tell the tales of childhood enchantment.

Take a few steps into the Labyrinth.