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Creative Writing Competition: Honourable Mention
The judges gave an honourable mention to Merryn McArdle for her short story, also (quite coincidentally) titled The Gate. Merryn has won a runner's up $100 gift pack from Borders.
Read her story below.
The Gate
In her mind the woman weaves a tapestry of a life she does not live, a life where people interact with each other. A life that is messy, chaotic and sometimes clumsy, but a life where people love and care about each other. She sits in her chair, in her house, in her garden; her world surrounded by a fence, a boundary around her heart. She is aching but does not know why.
The stranger, her husband, is shuffling around the yard, moving plants and pulling weeds. It occurs to her that he tends the garden with love and tenderness yet he never seems to have a kind word for her. They married young; everyone did then. It was expected. None of this living together, travelling, exploring, finding out who you are and what you really want out of life; you found someone who seemed a good fit, got married, had a couple of children and lived your life. No one told her about the dark cloud. Still the stranger is there lurking in the garden.
She wonders around the garden while the stranger, who shares her bed but not her life, picks at non-existent weeds. They become aware of a noise drifting over the fence. A sobbing that is not of a child, rejected or hurt, but that of a woman whose heart is breaking. The stranger looks at her from his vegetable patch, waiting. He makes no movement. They keep looking at each other and slowly she moves towards the side gate. Hesitantly, her hand moves towards the rusty old latch. The same latch that kept her children safe.
It is amazingly easy to pull back. Without thinking, her legs are taking her to a place she had never even thought about. She walks over the broken concrete of the side passage, out her gate, across the grassy footpath and up the driveway of the house next door. She walks around the back.
The young, dark-haired woman is sitting on a child's swing, sobbing. She does not notice the older woman who walks over, kneels in front of her and takes her in her arms. They rock to the rhythm of silent waves. Eventually the sobbing quietens and they move to the outdoor setting, the older woman still holding the dark-haired girl. The younger woman rests her head on her shoulder and hesitantly begins her story.
She married young. Her husband's job means that she lives a long way from her family. She never hesitated to forge ahead. She felt young, brave and strong and nothing was ever going to get in the way of their happiness. Now, five years and two children later, with her husband working two jobs and long hours in an attempt to be a man, life is different from what she thought it would be.
She had dreams once, even though she was not sure what they were. The children seem to be her total responsibility and that scares her. Every day is the same. It is so hard.
Today everything came crashing down. Her husband called with what he thought was great news. He had been offered a job at much more money but it would involve him being away two weeks in every month. He was so excited. He did not even notice how she received the news; he just assumed that everything was great. His dream job, that's how he described it.
"It's unfair; he gets his dream and I still don't even know what mine is. And to make matters worse, I know how selfish I am to even think this, but I think it is going to be the end of us. He is going somewhere I can't. I already miss him. I miss me. I miss us." The older woman keeps hold of her hand as they go inside. "There's nothing that doesn't look brighter over a cuppa," she says.
The women check the still sleeping children. Little angels, their fair hair damp with afternoon humidity, cheeks flushed, then they return to the kitchen. The older woman begins to talk. She wants to tell her story.
"I loved being young," she says. "My children were my life. My husband worked hard to provide everything he could to make our lives good. Back then we didn't even think about dreams, we just got on with it. When my youngest got so ill that I had to call an ambulance, my husband didn't even know until he came home from work and read the note I left for him. We didn't have a phone and I would never call him at work. It was my job to look after the children, and I did. They are grown now. We get calls a couple of times a year. They live their lives, make their own happiness and their many mistakes. Now it's just him and me."
She pauses, slowly sipping her hot drink, then continues. "He's a good man, you know. I don't want you to get the idea that he isn't. He stuck by us; men did in those days. He had his job and I had mine. It's just that mine doesn't exist any longer and he still takes care of things. Even his bloody weeds!" She gives a laugh, realising that she has not heard herself laugh in a long time.
The young woman is now holding the older woman's hand. They look into each other's eyes. The young woman says, "My name is Maggie." The older woman replies, "My name is Nell."
They talk for hours, sharing dreams and secrets. Maggie retraces her steps home as the sky begins to fade and again she pulls back the latch on the fence. She goes inside and Bill is waiting for her. "Well done, old girl," he says. Maggie tells him "We'll have to keep an eye on next door. Her husband will be away now and then and she'll need a hand."
By Merryn McArdle (© 2010)