FOR GLORY!

I entered this story into the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation writing competition, 2021.  I had to create a story of between 1000-2000 words, around the theme "Connection." 

Well, I didn't make the shortlist of three- but I did make the longlist of eight!  Not bad, considering that there were 280 entries!

Here is my screen shot of their website, celebrating my success, and here is the story, for your enjoyment.😁

FOR GLORY!

I remember that third meeting as much as the second...

I recognised her the minute I saw her, sitting on dad's sofa like a malediction. In another guise she might have been stunning; with her long butter-blonde hair parted seductively to one side and pouty, model-girl lips. But she wasn't yet thirty and dressed like someone's grandma, in huge cartoonish glasses, frosted pink mix-and-mess lipstick and a floral blouse twinned badly with a scratchy tweed skirt. She had a rancid aroma about her- body odour unmasked by cloying perfume.

Alarmed, I looked to my father for an explanation, and the gaze he proffered was sheepish. 'This is my girlfriend, Helen.' He pronounced it Hell-In.

Hell-In didn't know who I was, yet I knew her as the owner of the fascinating Toy Museum. I'd first been with my mother, when I was five. Behind a solid oak door tucked beneath the railway arches a fusty hall opened up through a huge archway. Sitting sentinel at the front was a massive glass cabinet, shaped like a transparent cube, with glass as thick as an iceberg. Varying exhibitions danced inside, but I remembered being more fascinated by the twin ovals of elevated slatted vents, like indentations of human heads.

'Oh, they're to let the air in. It's something to do with preventing condensation,' Mum supplied.

An emporium of intricate train sets sped and rattled on the ground floor, and the mezzanine level held cabinets squished full of toys. I fell in love with an old elephant named Humphrey; wedged in, yet woefully lonely, behind a collection of bears. Floppy eared and faded, a thin neck stripe peeping out from beneath his tatty checked suit indicated his previous blueness. His nose stuck out like a stirrup handle, but there was something about those sad bauble eyes that moved my little heart and me want to cuddle him forever. I traced my fingers across the glass possessively as the staccato rumble of real trains vibrated from above.

The second time I went was with my headteacher, and Hell-In gave us a lecture. She'd released a selection of playthings, and one of them was my Humphrey. I instinctively reached over to grasp him but she cracked me on the knuckle with the cold metal ruler she used to indicate with.

'Get off! I told you not to touch!' The look she gave me was more than indignant- it was something akin to hatred but I was too shocked to say anything and fell back, instantly absorbed by my jostling classmates. She barked Humphrey's history; repeating what was written on his sepia cabinet card. He'd been made in Brighton during Queen Victoria's reign, by children. I was on the verge of tears and shaking, nursing my poor clunked hand, but she surprised me further by saying, 'He's so tatty that I'm thinking of binning him.'

I was horrified! How could someone who worked with antiques not love them? It was this, rather than the wallop that made me sob noisily. Hell-In just scowled. How such a nasty woman could be the proprietress of this sacred place was supplied by my mother.

'She inherited it,' she said back at the flat we'd shared since the divorce. 'I know it doesn't open Mondays. 'Her friend the headteacher is the only other keyholder, and she brings groups of kids in on the first Monday of every month.'

'Where's my cat?' was my tight-lipped response to dad's introduction.

'Oh, you mean Gloria?' Hell-In conjured up what passed for a smile.

'He name's Glory.' I couldn't keep the sibilant hiss from my voice, and Glory padded in apprehensively. It had been agreed that Glory should stay here, and I missed her so much. She mewed, regarding me with baby blue eyes, so I bent and stroked her beautiful silky fur, almost soothed.

'What an odd looking cat. With that red stripe over one eye and a grey blotch over the other,' the voice behind me interrupted.

I glared superciliously, 'She's pedigree. She's a ragdoll mitted.'

I began to notice things dying in dad's house. Hell-In drowned plants, and mum's once proud jardinière stood bereft, water leaking in splodges onto the floor, flowers rotting in their vases. But a dreadful thing was when I came round- at ten I was deemed old enough to possess a key- to find Glory chattering in abject distress on the landing outside the bathroom. Her litter tray, which sat inside a cute fuchsia plastic house I'd saved for and bought with my pocket money, was enclosed in that room. Glory was fastidious, and you could see the pain in her sweet eyes as she hopped from leg to leg in desperation, just like a human would.

'You were told to leave the door open!' I snapped at Hell-In. Dad was still at work and she just regarded me from over her magazine, propping her feet, still in sandals, onto the sofa. I thought it disrespectful- Dad didn't like feet on furniture. I could smell their stale parmesan stench from where I stood, and she had tights on, which gave her toes that weird human frog look. Hell-In was picking on pineapple chunks, pulling the fruit greedily from a dessert bowl by her side. She cackled and disregarded me, slavering noisily and launching into a story about a duke and duchess: how their garden had an island and how they would eat pineapples in the summerhouse on said island, and hinted at the unfortunate effect that would have on their constitutions.

I knew what she was getting at- every time I chose a piece of fruit from our bowl, Mum would nod her sage advice: 'It'll make you go.'

Glory was only eight but she started to lose a lot of weight, becoming extremely lethargic. I went round, racing upstairs to where she hid nowadays. Dad grimaced and he did try, sitting me down, picking at his hairline in that compulsive way he did and mumbling words like “tumour” and “pancreas.”

But it was Hell-In who piped up from her corner throne. 'She was very ill. She had to be destroyed.' She appeared to savour the words and they rolled patronisingly over her tongue. To be fair Dad did glower at her, but he allowed her to continue, 'We had her cremated. We thought it was for the best.'

My eyes opened as wide as a scream and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

'Why didn't you tell me?' I stuttered, grasping the reality of what I was being told. And who was we? Hell-In was not married to Dad- in fact she didn't even live with him. I slumped back into the wall in paroxysms of sobs. 'You knew I loved her! You knew how much! Why didn't you let me see her one last time?' I crumpled down onto my haunches like an animal, heart-shaped tears splattering unchecked to the floor.

I refused to go back to Dad's house during those final few months of their relationship, and don't actually recall much about that time. Instead, I visited him at his shop. He was a locksmith, and to keep me occupied he taught me how to pick locks. 'Hold the pick here, and you've got to fiddle until the chambers line up. Then flick this lever and you can manoeuvre the barrel any way you want. Practice,' he said with a smile, walking away to serve a customer. And I did. I became quite good at it, breathing in the oily metallic smells of the workshop and whiling my time away in earnest concentration.

And I didn't pop into the Toy Museum for a long time, although I missed my darling Humphrey.

* * *

I rang up to ask for work experience. I had to time it correctly, but it was granted. There was absolutely no way she would recognise me now. Aside from giving a false address and calling from a phone box, it's been eight years, and I've grown about a foot taller and gained minimal weight since then. My chestnut curls are now a jet black crop, and I have an emerald stud in my nose. I'm not Cassandra any more- rather, I am Sandi, and my surname is way too common for any kind of connection to be made.

The front cube contains three glass cubes, rather like a mathematical puzzle, and there's a robot exhibition arranged inside. I practice picking that particular lock whilst Helen's at lunch, also working on a cabinet upstairs.

Luck works in my favour, and ten minutes before closing on my last day- the Saturday- the museum's deserted and I craftily slip the bolt across the front door. Then, making sure Helen can't see, I enter the picked cube, messing up the exhibition. When I tell her she's really baffled and scratches at the thick make-up on her forehead, but she takes the keys off the chain on her belt, inserts one into the lock and moves to the front to sort the disorganisation out. She still has that miasma about her and I gulp down revulsion, shifting to let her pass. The minute she bends down I place the two pineapples I'd secreted under a dolls' house display earlier at the back of the cube. Then, as quietly as a cat, I lock her in, remove the keys and skim them across the floor behind me. I fetch my coat, relieving Humphrey on the way and closing his cabinet. I kiss his threadbare felt head and hide my treasure in my bag. I hit the main light switch and leave.

I can hear Helen slapping on the glass the minute the lights go off, but her shout is only a whisper, muffled by insulation. I slam the door behind me with a cry of glee, just as a train grumbles past. I look up at it- I'll be on a train early tomorrow morning, to a university 500 miles north, but not to study museum studies as I'd told Helen, but to train to become a vet.

And Helen... She'll be discovered on Monday, when her friend the headteacher opens up with a group of kids hanging about her coat tails. She'll be clearly visible through the archway- there is nowhere to hide. And they will see this creature, who has been locked up for close to 40 hours, on display like an animal. She won't be missed- she lives alone and her mobile phone is in the cloakroom.

She won't be dead. The air vent will keep her alive and the pineapples will feed and water her. But nature will take its course, one way or another. And maybe it will be there for all to see. I wonder if she'll make the connection between the tale she told me about the duke and duchess, eight years ago. I don't think so but don't particularly care. I remember the heartache I suffered over not being able to see my beloved cat for one last time, and the numerous times my beautiful feline was locked out of the bathroom, unable to perform her ablutions.

Either way Helen will stink. And the kids will see her and smell her, and laugh and laugh and laugh. And I'll imagine this cold, vindictive cat killer and laugh and laugh and laugh. Revenge is certainly a dish best served smelly!

'For Glory!' I say to no one in particular as I make my way into the dusk. 

Copyright©Elaine Rockett

THE SECRET HISTORY by DONNA TARTT

 THE SECRET HISTORY

BY DONNA TARTT

THE BLURB:-

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality their lives are changed profoundly and for ever.

THE REALITY:-

This is the second time I've tried to post this- Google identified my original review as "containing malware."  Hmm.  Not put there by me, it didn't, so let's hope that this time all is okay...

This was one hell of a slow burner for me- it took me four months to finish, which of practically unheard of for me! This was on a used-book-shelf in the local pub, and I purloined it. They can have it back, but it will have to wait until the pubs reopen. You'd think that, under semi-lockdown followed by lockdown, I'd be into my reading but life intervened- I was at the tail end of my MA, then I had a holiday and then Christmas loomed. And also this book didn't grip me as much as I thought it would...

I've read Donna Tartt before- The Little Friend was a fantastic story of an intelligent teenager who stalks the man she thinks is responsible for her younger brother's disappearance. The Secret History is labelled a “thinking person's thriller” and, as a thinking person, I was certainly thrilled, and impressed by the erudite level of writing, especially when discussing the Greek that I'm quite ignorant of. The characters were varied and interesting, with some sinister bents going on, especially to do with sexuality and incest; although a lot of that could be explained away under the banner of young people's experimentation. The location (and, to me, its bleakness) was also clearly depicted, as was the obsessive behaviour which led the stronger bulk of the group to conduct their macabre “experiment” and its repercussions which led to more misadventure. There was certainly an ethereal pace to these parts.

I guess what I'm saying is that this well-crafted read failed to touch the heart and move me, and some parts did feel overly-long (something I usually prefer) and chugged along. I must confess, a little speed reading took place. Having said that, I would certainly give Donna Tartt's work another go and- although it's not for me- I love her masculine style of dressing. Fashion designer Kate Sylvester used her as the muse for her A/W 2015 catwalk show. Yes, the Miss Elaineous still retains some of her interest in fashion and dressing up....

HONESTY by LINDA LAUREN

 HONESTY

BY LINDA LAUREN

THE BLURB:-

'I've always wanted woman's wants. Before lipsticks, glossy cream sheens of tempting pout, it was stolen Smarties- the black ones licked and dabbed on my eyelids, and the reds run around my slashed smile. It felt strange, with eyelids dried to cardboard consistency. But I considered it helped with that strained, haughty look that all the best ladies possessed. It had to be learnt at a very early age just what hard work it is to be beautiful.'

As a child, Lizzie craves to be initiated into the mysteries of womanhood. Nightly she watches her mother's transformation- with the aid of powder and paint- from the hard, tough-handed housewife who had the first mangle in the street into a mysterious creature of the dusk, a femme fatale who rustles as she moves and smells of cream cakes as she sits on Lizzie's bed. Then suddenly her mother needs the smiles more than she needs Lizzie and leaves home.

But there are compensations: being able to shop, cook, iron for her father, playing grown-up games...

Lizzie at eleven is the vamp, pretending to seduce men with her eyes in cafes, regularly playing truant- and then going home to act the little woman for her dad. By fourteen she is affecting world-weariness: she has become an expert tease: drugs are passé.

And then she finds him: her man. Michael Rosetti, divinely tall, pale and sensitive, opens the last gate for Lizzie into the adult world of her dreams- where honesty costs.

THE REALITY:-

So I claimed the hardback for my forever pile, after first reading this work by Linda Lauren (as discussed in my previous post) over a friend's shoulder at the age of 14, being fascinated and then owning a paperback version over 10 years ago.

“She (Linda Lauren) started writing at the age of four. In lipstick all over her bedroom wall. She was enthusiastically discouraged until she got to school where she found it had to be done in black pencil and in straight lines,” said the author blurb at the back. Hmmm. Why do I feel like this is a monumental falsehood? I mean, would a four-year-old really do that? Don't get me wrong, good if she did, but the subsequent lack of information about this author makes me wonder if, like the Nancy Drew series, more than one writer has contributed to this work. Yes, the style is similar to Pretties and the same as Sisters but, if it has all been penned by the same person then maybe Pretties- although published second- was actually the writer's first attempt, as it seems the vaguest out of the three?

Enough of my tangent- down to the job at hand. Set in the 1970s, this story gives a very real account of exactly what it's like for a young, working class girl growing up. Heartfelt and honest (no pun intended...), the quote, “You have to take my honesty. It's all I have to give....” on page 165 really hit a note, when Lizzie is dissecting her feelings with regard to her little daughter, and how she tries to convey them to her husband. This book does indeed look at the many roles a woman has to play (daughter, stepdaughter, girlfriend, wife, lover, mother) and does it brutally well.

Serious events take place, from (spoiler alerts coming): Lizzie's mother abandoning the family, incidences with dodgy boyfriends and perverts, pregnancy, abortion and miscarriage, to the sad death of Carol at the end.  Incidentally, I loved the way the writer likens the latter's fragile state to that of Katy, a broken but much-loved doll of Lizzie's childhood.  These comparisons serve to make the writing genuine and emotional, and the more prosaic events such as the onset of periods, the growing of breasts and contraception are dealt with... honestly.

And that's exactly what I would call this book- honest. Never has a title so perfectly described a story before!  The experiences are so genuine I feel that I've lived some of them (and I have, although I consider myself much more emotionally immature than Lizzie at the same age).  The characters are so real I feel that I once lived next door to them.  And I wish I'd have known them- or even been one of them. A work of genius.