Harry handed another case of clothes to the elderly lady in the charity shop, another envelope of memories. Absently chewing his knuckles as he walked, numb again at the thought of strangers touching his family, he headed for the school.
On automatic pilot, he lectured Year 9 on the First World War. A breeze from somewhere unexpectedly brought the scent of the sea, stirring his hair. Then the overriding aroma of board marker and teenage angst returned. He must have faltered in his delivery, because the brighter kids were looking puzzled.
“Right, so who has been paying attention? Simon?”
“You were telling us how the weapons…”
“That’s right,” he recovered, “mustard gas was a horrible weapon developed by…”
When the class had gone, he spent some time gazing out the window. The coast was twenty miles distant but memories of past summers by the sea were pleasantly crowding. It was the end of the day, he could stuff his briefcase with papers to mark while watching TV or go for a sun-downer with the others. As usual he did both.
The emptiness of the Red Lion on a Tuesday night and the repetitive teacher chat bored him.
“Lighten up, Harry, you’ve hardly been here for the past few rounds. What on Earth are you thinking about?” Clare, the red-haired art teacher asked.
“Sorry, miles away. Think I‘m a bit under the weather.”
She took his hand. “Well, the best way to get rid of a fever is to burn it out. Want some help?”
They’d had a fling when he first arrived in Tapworth. She’d been what he needed but the relationship had fizzled out, the way they do. She remained a good friend.
“I think I’ll just walk back home along the towpath, clear my head with some fresh air.”
“It’ll take you an hour at least and it’s getting dark.” Clare’s lips brushed his right cheek. “Make sure you don’t fall in.”
It was a beautiful summer evening and a barge crewed by a young family chugged past, traditional colours still bright in the dying light. It could be difficult finding a mooring at this point in the season and they looked a little harassed.
He soon left the town behind and could barely hear the distant motorway traffic. Rings were appearing in the dark water as fish rose to a late hatch. He paused to watch an owl glide across a cornfield, but somehow the sight lacked magic.
For an instant, he felt a pressure on the back of his head before a red and white beach-ball bounced into the canal. Momentum lost, the ball lay static in the breezeless night. Kids, he thought, then shivered, realising that the open fields on either side gave nowhere for them to hide.
As he walked on, the evening rapidly cooled.
His cottage was at the top of a set of locks, bought for the view over Shropshire and the general quiet. It took all the insurance money, and a bit more, but a new life after the accident had started to begin.
Inside, Harry put the kettle on for a mug of Bovril, a habit since childhood. There was nothing worth watching on television so he switched on the radio and must have dropped off because it was after midnight when he next looked at the clock.
The house was freezing and he undressed quickly for bed, skipping brushing his teeth in favour of the warm duvet. He wasn’t pleased to find himself laying on damp, gritty sand. He was even less happy at the thought that the practical joker might still be in the house.
Dressing quickly, Harry retrieved a golf club from the bag at the back of the wardrobe. He’d decided the sport wasn’t for him shortly after taking it up.
The upstairs rooms were empty, the lounge and downstairs loo was also clear. He turned the kitchen door handle quietly, counted to three, then charged in. Someone had been there recently. There was the smell of fried onions and ketchup and he also caught the sweet scent of candyfloss.
Sometimes Harry got a little loopy with depression, remembering identifying Helen, Ben, and little Sarah. He’d drink and eat continuously. Watch digital memories and cry until there were no tears left. Maybe he’d tipped over the edge and was imagining all this? A trip to the psychiatrist might be in order again.
He poured a large whisky and downed it, throat burning and eyes watering. He poured another, made a ham roll and took them both into the lounge. He put on a DVD of the family’s trip to Devon a few years back, but there was a problem. The TV screen snowed white and the speakers crackled.
When he bit into the roll, somehow he wasn’t surprised to find the snack gritty with sand. He took it outside to drop in the bin.
The night was exceptionally clear and the stars burned on the still, black waters trapped between the lock gates. He could smell the sea again and clearly hear the ebb and flow of the tide.
The beach-ball returned and rolled to a stop at his feet. Harry bent to retrieve it. Standing, he watched Helen appear, then the children, all materialising like the crew of Star Trek. They were whole, and beautiful, and dressed for the beach. Helen was carrying her old floral cloth bag, bulging with towels, sun-cream, insect repellent and topped by a large romantic novel. Ben’s attention was fixed on a chocolate-and-vanilla ice-cream cone.
Sarah came straight to him. Smiling, she took his hand. “We’ve missed you, Dad.” A tear escaped and he hugged her to him, seeking to warm her cold flesh.
“Time to go on holiday, Harry,” Helen said, clasping his other hand. “You won’t believe how blue the sky is or how golden and empty the beaches.”
“Really cool place, Dad!” Ben added.
They walked to the edge of the lock together.
By day Mark Dalligan is a City banker but he shares his body with a writer who has started to emerge at night. He’s having some success, with work taken by Boston Literary Magazine, LitBits, Apollo’s Lyre, Bewildering Stories, MicroHorror, Static Movement, Clockwise Cat, Ranfurly Review, Twisted Tongue, Delivered and EDF.
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
Subscribe to the RSS Feed! (what is rss)
Don’t miss another story! Subscribe to Every Day Fiction via RSS.
Print This Post
Print this story and take it with you; read it on the bus or over lunch.
30 Responses to “ALONE • by Mark Dalligan”
Comments
« PINK TAFFETA • by Gianna De Persiis Vona | Home | THE HERON • by Oonah V Joslin »
May 2nd, 2008 at 12:43 am
Nice, Mark. Loved the last line. A couple of nasty adverbs, but otherwise spot on.
May 2nd, 2008 at 2:45 am
Really heart-breaking, Mark. Loved the way you stripped it bare of sentimentality.
May 2nd, 2008 at 3:14 am
Good Story
May 2nd, 2008 at 3:23 am
Very sad, but a wonderful story.
May 2nd, 2008 at 4:07 am
A wonderful gem of a story. Well Done Mark.
May 2nd, 2008 at 4:51 am
If only we could make all the sad things unhappen…
A good read, Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 5:21 am
Enjoyed the description. Our new experiment in our writers group is writing in present tense. I think present tense would give it a little more pazzazz.
May 2nd, 2008 at 7:49 am
Sad but nice.
May 2nd, 2008 at 8:12 am
Compelling.
May 2nd, 2008 at 9:01 am
Don’t change a thing. It works. I love it.
May 2nd, 2008 at 9:45 pm
That was lovely Mark. Perfect. Left me with a lump in my throat. More please.
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:22 pm
Glad you liked it. I’ll see what I can find at the pharmacy to clean up those nasty adverbs.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:24 pm
Thanks Sarah, glad ithitthe right note.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:25 pm
Pleased it held your interest.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:27 pm
Thanks. High praise indeed.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:28 pm
Pleased you liked it Avis.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:30 pm
Thanks for reading Oonah. I suppose the sad things are the elements in life that make the good things so ‘good’. There are some downers we could do without though.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:35 pm
Hi Patty, thanks for commenting. I’tried with a first person pov but that just didn’t work. Thanks for the suggestion on the present tense, perhaps I’ll try that with another piece.
Cheers
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:36 pm
Glad it appealed.
Cheers
MArk
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:37 pm
Hi Rena, pleased you were hooked.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:40 pm
Hi Gay, selling the complete package to a reader is the ultimate aim, so thanks for the buzz.
Cheers
Mark
May 2nd, 2008 at 11:45 pm
Hi Jennifer, thanks for this lovely comment.
Cheers
Mark
May 3rd, 2008 at 2:48 am
Terrific story well executed, Mark.
Great writing!
Bill
May 3rd, 2008 at 7:04 am
Thanks Bill.
Cheers
Mark
May 3rd, 2008 at 2:13 pm
i could smell the sea and feel the heart beat….
May 3rd, 2008 at 11:57 pm
Thanks for commenting. That’s the sort of effect I was aiming for, to involve the reader the way some really good writers can do.
Cheers
Mark
May 5th, 2008 at 1:56 pm
Mark,
I somehow missed this before. It’s a great story, full of sense and fabric. I like it a lot.
May 5th, 2008 at 2:07 pm
Hi Kevin,
glad you liked it.
Cheers
Mark
May 13th, 2008 at 3:32 am
Sad, beautiful. I like that you’ve done this with simple pictures and not given in to grand lyrical prose to bring out the loneliness and pain of this man, and the simplicity makes it more real and tangible. Very well done.
May 14th, 2008 at 11:28 am
Hi Hasmita,
I’m very pleased you liked this and found that ‘plain’ expression is sometimes more effective when depicting human emotions.
Cheers
Mark