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Short story first attempt
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11-01-2016 1:28pm#1This is the first thing I have ever written and I would really appreciate some feedback that would point me in the right direction for improvement. Good, bad or 'meh', let me know what you think of my short story please
The sitting room door closed softly with the reassuring click of the old brass catch. It was a solid door and she was familiar with every ridge and split along its surface. There had been an almost meditative quality to the time she had spent restoring the wood in the house, the repetition taking on a soothing appeal that allowed her to pass the days in quiet contemplation. Brushing on the chemical stripper, scraping off the blistered and bubbling layers of paint and finally sanding down the cleaned surface. Brushing, scraping, sanding. Brushing, scraping, sanding. Doors, spindles and skirting boards all took on a raw and pleasing nakedness in those first quiet days after she had returned home. Now, the door kept out the sounds of the world but the voice in her ear was still there.
Resting lightly on the edge of the sofa, not for elegance but to avoid leaving the imprint she would have made on its recently smoothed cushion, she gazed absently around the room. There was the faint but heady scent of lavender beeswax from the polished wood that had been rubbed so hard the surface had become warm under her fingertips. The thick rugs, with their deep and vibrant colours of red and blue, felt soft and familiar beneath her stockinged feet. She could recall how every mark had been made on them; spilt drinks, small furry baby-creatures peeing in excitement, muddy boots. These colourful squares had travelled with her to far away places, sat happily on strange and foreign floors and then returned with her, all of them bearing scars of one sort or another.
The oversized chair sitting squatly on the other side of the fire which was now blackly cold and unlit also had its cushions plumped and smoothed, inviting a visitor to sit and stay a while and be hugged by its feathery depth. She recalled how the sofa that had once lived on that side of the room had been given to charity a while ago. To see it every day had reminded her of a time of hurt and then finally, abandonment. Somewhat perversely, its absence brought those memories just the same.
Looking through into the kitchen, she felt a small stab of pride at what had been accomplished since those first days of dry rot, old plaster and rusty pipes. The granite surfaces gleamed; the pots and pans on open shelves reflected the light from the windows. Plates rested in orderly rows in the oak rack, the large black range sitting expectantly in pride of place. The floor was clean, the marble tiles bearing none of the usual drips from tea-bags on their way to the bin, no toast crumbs, no dog hair dust bunnies, no flower petals. Showroom perfect, it was as if nobody lived here. There would be no discovering grease by the side of the sink, no finding evidence of last week’s bolognese sauce on the tiled backsplash.
The wind was gathering a noisy strength outside, the gusts echoing down the tall chimneys and occasionally causing the old house to creak. Inside was calm and quiet. She stood and gently eased out her knees, the stiffness of those joints reminding her just how long she had been sitting. A cup of tea would be nice but that would mean disturbing the kettle and spoons that had been cleaned and polished. Then she remembered that the last of the milk had been poured down the sink anyway. Her cup, rinsed and clean, was the only thing left on the drainer where it had always lived until it was slotted into the dishwasher for its twice weekly run.
Her handbag sat on the old pine kitchen table and chairs were placed tidily along its waxed and polished length. The table was nine feet long and had been found in an old warehouse that was stacked high with dressers, tables, chairs and dust. It had been impossible to find her way without using a torch, the elastic strap tight around her head, climbing over the mountains of furniture until she had found just the right one and even then had asked for an inch to be taken off the legs to make it more comfortable. People often laughed about her attention to detail and teased her about having impossible standards, but she knew that it would bother her not to make it as perfect as possible. Now, in her mind’s eye, she imagined the sound of laughter and noisy conversation. The clinking of glasses and shared food. She blinked hard and the image disappeared.
She peered into the open handbag on the table to check that the container was still in its place. There was no need to have done so, she had checked three times since she had put it in there last night in preparation. Where did she think it would have gone to? Her phone was there too, a quick glance confirmed there was enough battery left for the messages she would make. It was fully and expectantly charged, as it usually was, waiting for absent calls.
Her eye was caught by the flash of the bright and colourful card sitting on the oak sideboard next to the table, the invitation that had arrived a few days ago. The picture was filled with pink and blowsy peonies, their petals trembling and ready to tumble onto the impossibly green grass beneath. Peonies reminded her of her wedding day a lifetime ago, arranged beautifully for a summer’s day filled with great expectation. She recalled it rained heavily but then couldn’t recall much else .
The invitation had been unexpected and she had puzzled over the handwriting on the envelope when she found it in her postbox. They were people she knew only in passing at the other end of the village, the opposite direction to that which she usually took in and out on her journeys. It suggested a small gathering, something to pass a winter’s afternoon in company and conversation, glasses poured generously as was the habit here. An opportunity to meet more villagers who still, over five years after she had arrived, are always surprised to finally meet the woman who bought the old house by the church. She knew the cottage in the invitation from the outside and had always admired it when she passed, neat borders and fresh paint, windows always gleaming. She wondered if it smelled of pink flowers inside those thick stone walls.
At her feet, patiently waiting for a rub on soft furry heads, sat the two dogs. Her friends, her companions, her family. She had taken them for an extra long walk this morning, through the woods and past pooh-sticks bridge and the stack of summer felled timber now taking on its woodland waistcoat of deep green moss. The once crisp, fallen leaves had finally turned thick and squelchy underfoot, crows had shouted out their caw-caw-caw from the trees and her breath had formed small clouds that disappeared in a whisper. The boys were sitting now, still slightly damp on bellies and paws and eager for their usual biscuit rewards which were waiting on the table. She told them they would have to sit tight just a little longer, caught by surprise at the sound of her voice breaking the silence.
She slipped her feet into well worn boots and took the heavy jacket down from the hook behind the backdoor. It was a favourite one given to her by her sister before she left, the deep pockets filled with tissues, lip balm, a whistle and loose change. It was still a little damp from the morning’s walk and smelled faintly of wet dog. All the clothes upstairs were freshly washed and laundered. Sweaters, fleeces, jeans were all folded and tidy on the shelves in the bedroom. Shoes were arranged in pairs, every sock had its partner. The sheets on the bed had been changed, bedside tables polished, the bottle of water that usually lived there had been put into the big blue recycling bin outside the back door. The carpet bore the lines of the vacuum cleaner that had made its journey back and forth into all the corners, nooks and crannies. The photographs on the dressing table were organised and ordered although she had spotted a fingerprint on the mirrored frame of the one of her sister, put her hand inside her fleece to hold it as she polished with the other until it shone, then replaced it at the front of the group.
Letting out a deep breath, she put on the coat waiting those few moments until it warmed up with the heat of her body and then picked up the handbag from the table. With the car keys in one hand and dog biscuits in the other, she made her way out followed with eager anticipation by the dogs. In the hallway, the winter sun was streaming through the large windows, warming the stone floor. She placed the dog biscuits on the small red rug, briefly wrapped her arms around their warm, furry necks and then telling them to wait, started to back out gently through the large, heavy front door noticing the surrounding frame that had yet to be painted to match the rest. Signalling to the dogs that it was ok now, they picked up the biscuits and for the short moment they didn’t care if she was there or not, she slipped out and pulled the door closed. She swallowed heavily, feeling her throat closing just a little. Out of habit, she bent to put the key in the mortise lock, the one the locksmith had told her would defeat all attempts at a break in, then changed her mind, straightened up and walked across the drive with the crunching gravel loud in her ears.
Inside the car it was damp and cold with tiny rivers of moisture making tracks down through the fog on the windows. She let out an involuntary shiver and set her bag on the seat beside her. The top gate was open already, left that way when she returned from the walk as she knew it would have to be opened again very soon. It was second nature to her always trying to be efficient, not wasting effort, doing three things at once and even while doing those she would be planning the next task.. Her mother had scolded her many years ago saying that it was a lazy man’s load after she had tumbled down the stairs with an unnecessarily large load. As usual, she had been trying to avoid two journeys up and down to her bedroom. It was a typical parental concerned gesture although her petite mother, who even at an advanced age with bones bent knobbly and painful with arthritis, would move wardrobes and chests and cupboards on her own when the mood took her, not waiting for help, always wanting to be self sufficient and capable. Like mother, like daughters. Why make two journeys when just one will do.
She reversed the car out of its usual spot, past the raised wall where the long box hedge had settled in and finally started to grow well this year. She knew that if she glanced back at the upstairs window, she would see the dogs looking out at her, their heads cocked sideways in bewilderment at being left behind. They would leave their Pollack-esque nose art on the glass where it could only be seen by an observer between the hours of 11am and 2 pm when the sun was in the right position on its low winter track across the sky. She didn’t look up.
She travelled down the long driveway where the moss grew like railway tracks on the tarmac where her wheels, or those of others, never touched. Her tyres rattled over the cattle grid at the end and then came to a halt. As she waited there, the watery sun disappeared and soft drizzle began to cloud the windscreen. With one last check of her handbag and glancing both ways along the quiet road, her hand reached for the indicator.3
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