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What then?

by Ticonderoga 

Posted: 24 September 2010
Word Count: 856
Summary: Sentimental and slightly uncanny in subject; a tribute to my mother. (And a means of giving her a 'good death'.)
Related Works: Gangrel Thochts • 

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The wind was thumping at the walls and shouting down the chimneys as she made her precarious way back to the relative warmth of the sitting room. Ninety-three. What stupid kind of age was ninety-three? Supernumerary! Not bad. The memory wasn't entirely shot. But she was so very old, and cold, bone-marrow cold. Horribly appropriate, that rhyme of old and cold. The tiny kitchen, at the back of the flat, was positively frigid now that winter had come; so too was the hall as she struggled with her walking stick and plate of cooling food towards the welcoming door....
With a meal inside her, and drawn up close to the meagre bars of the fire, the cold in her bones began to fade. The wind had given up shouting, and was only crooning and whispering now, with the soothing voice of someone half-remembered; her tired, worn out eyes and ears transformed the faces on her television into murmuring ghosts. She couldn't be bothered to turn the volume up. And the gentle conspiracy of vagueness gradually lulled her to sleep. And she dreamed....
No longer old, blind, cold, incontinent, sparrow-skeletoned and tired as hope, she drifted at will, light as thistle-down on a summer breeze, through only her finest of times and best of places. Aberfeldy, Ardnamurchan, Tobermory, Oban. Singapore, Darjeeling, Calcutta, Simla. And HE was there; the dashing, gregarious, brave, feckless, loving he who had shockingly ruined everything by sending himself to permanent sleep fifty years ago, because....
But that was all in the past - the future! - and had no place in this golden lantern show of memory and dream.
Anyas and ayahs and punka-wallahs; slow gins on the verandah; sly cats everywhere else; special meals with the staff in the kitchen; parties, present, prestige: status as the wife of an important man. And, most treasured, genuine respect; because, unlike most memsahibs, she had cared enough to learn sufficient Hindi and Urdu to hold a conversation, rather than just knowing how to give peremptory orders, she was liked, and treated differently. Hence those special meals of 'real' curry in the kitchen....
She drifted into a vividly remembered day, when her wee daughter was sick with a fever. They were on the verandah; the baby was hot and irritable, resisting all attempts by her mother and ayah to coax her into eating, by turning her head away whenever food was proferred. Durinig this performance the old sweeper walked past.
He wasn't really old, just fifty or so, but he was toothless, white-haired and stick thin, wearing a greyish-white dhoti hitched up between his legs to show brown bony knees. He looked seventy. He was low caste, ineffably humble, expecting no favours from life and receiving none. His feet were broad, the toes widely spread; he had never known the luxury of shoes.
He stopped to look at the scene unfolding on the verandah, and diffidently asked, "Baba nahin kata hai, memsahib?" Then, suddenly and unselfconsciously, he started to play the fool, falling down, pulling outrageous faces, laughing and chattering incomprehensibly. The baby, her discomfort forgotten, began to take some food as she giggled at his antics, holding out her little fat hand, trying to touch him. The sweeper kept up his clowning until she had finished her meal and then, without another word, resumed his duties....
Once more she drifted, and was with HIM again. It was the height of summer, viciously hot and, as always at that time of year, they had escaped with all the other sahibs and memsahibs to the cool of the mountains. The usual faces, the usual parties and attitudes, all simply translated northwards for the summer. But not today. A fine white lie had been conjured, and they were alone. Nestled on a secret slope of the hill, cradled in the shade of a complaisant tree, silently and perfectly they savoured being together. they were lying in a patch of tiny, vibrantly blue flowers, her head resting on his shoulder. With his free hand he picked a single flower and delicately slipped it betweeen her half-closed fingers. She grasped it lightly and smiled....
The doorbell rattled and clanged against the old wooden frame. No answer. Knowing how deaf she was now, her son rang again, louder and longer. Still no answer. He dropped his cumbersome holdall onto the landing with an echoing thud, and scrabbled through his shoulder bag for the spare keys.
He let himself in and shouted. Mum! Nothing. He tried the bedroom. No. The kitchen was quiet, so she must be in the sitting room, but there wasn't the usual noise from the television. Mum? He opened the sitting room door, and there she was, in her favourite chair under the standard lamp, a little nearer the fire than was stricly safe. Not that that mattered now. With a muted song the wind left the chimney.
There was no sign of distress; and he thought he saw the merest suggestion of a smile. She looked - much younger than she should. And in her hand was a tiny, seven-petalled flower of a somehow too vibrant blue.






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Comments by other Members



Becca at 13:07 on 25 September 2010  Report this post
Hi Mike,
The images in this story are very fine and vivid. I think it's a story that needs some adjectives and adverbs, although, personally, I'm not fond of too many. I think you could take a few out to get a stronger effect, but I'd be unwilling to say which... except maybe in this phrase -'It was the height of summer, fiercely, viciously hot'- 'viciously' is the stronger adverb, and I'd ditch the 'fiercely' in its favour.
Maybe where the POV changes there could be a line break.
Becca.

Indira at 19:58 on 25 September 2010  Report this post
Hello Mike

I found this a touching tribute - recognising a life lived in a different and - and from our current perspective - grandly romantic time.

Stylistically, it is an interesting combination of fiction and memoir. I might have suggested revealing the sympathy with which she is viewed in the kitchen through action or dialogue but I am not sure it would suit the style of the piece.

The episode with the sweeper is interesting. I can picture it - parallel existences intersecting. I might drop the 'he had never in his life known the luxury of shoes.'


typo: Durinig

There is a hint that HE is atypical. Could that be true? Was the fine white lie used simply to get time alone together or is it because HE doesn't belong to her world.

Thank you for posting,

Indira



Cornelia at 12:51 on 26 September 2010  Report this post
An interesting read.

I liked the detail and sense of place you created - for both locations, the here-and-now and the remembered days in India.

The death of the mc, although central to the story, creates a problem because you have the abrupt change of pov towards the end, when the man arrives to find his mother dead. I wonder if it might be possible to maintain the mother's point of view and see the discovery flower at the end as a third-person event?

The age of the son bothered me, too. Wouldn't he be late-middle-aged himself? I didn't understand the meaning of 'rollbag' and thought at first he must be a military man returned from duty, but wouldn't he be too old? Maybe a mention of his age earlier would help.

I'm wondering, though, if you could start from inside the old woman's memory, maybe with :

Anyas and ayahs and punka-wallahs; slow gins on the verandah; sly cats everywhere else; special meals with the staff in the kitchen; parties, present, prestige: status as the wife of an important man. And, most treasured, genuine respect; because, unlike most memsahibs, she had cared enough to learn sufficient Hindi and Urdu to hold a conversation, rather than just knowing how to give peremptory orders, she was liked, and treated differently. Hence those special meals of 'real' curry in the kitchen....


I liked this, and it would be more of a 'hook', both intrigue and provide an upbeat start, instead of the rather depressing (although well-written) description of the old lady carrying her plate in the corridor.

On a stylistic note, I thought

she made her precarious way back to the relative warmth of the sitting room


had one adjective too many as it stands. I think I'd be inclined to shorten the second phrase to 'chilly sitting room'.

Thanks for this - it was a tender tribute.

Sheila

Catkin at 21:55 on 26 September 2010  Report this post
This is a very touching and interesting story.

It’s amazing how you have got so much into so few words. It feels as though there’s a whole life here.

I agree with Sheila - if you could start with the section she suggests, that would be a stronger hook to draw readers in. There’s nothing wrong with the opening you have at the moment, it’s just that this later passage is an even stronger and more interesting one.

What struck me at the end of the story, because of the “relative” warmth of the sitting-room, and the “meagre” fire was that her son didn’t care about her, and he was letting his poor old mum live in inadequate conditions. I’m sure this wasn’t what you intended at all. I think it would be better to say that she knows the room is warm, and the fire is OK (not “meagre”), but she can’t seem to get warm any more, whatever she does - and this idea of unnatural cold could also work as a foreshadowing of death.

I love “slow gins on the verandah; sly cats everywhere else” - that’s a great line. But the “slow gin” ... did you mean “sloe gin”? If you didn’t, and just meant gins that were drunk at a relaxed pace, I think people will wonder whether it’s a mistake, and should be “sloe”.

“present” - typo for “presents”?

I think “orders, she was liked” would be better as “orders. She was liked”

Personally, I like “fiercely, viciously”. I can see the logic behind getting rid of ‘fiercely’, but it just seems to me to work better with it, because of flow and sound. However, I don’t like the “always” in “always vividly remembered day”. I think that could go! And at the end, I’d lose the “somehow” from “a somehow too vibrant blue”.

“resisting all attempts by her mother and ayah” would I think would be better as “her mother and her ayah”, because otherwise it sounds as though her mother and her ayah are one and the same.

I the word “complaisant” doesn’t work for me in relation to a tree - it seems a touch romantic-novelish.

Other than those little bits of picking, great story!





Ticonderoga at 15:27 on 27 September 2010  Report this post
Many thanks all for some really thoughtful and useful comments. All of which will be acted upon when time permits! Yes, I'm addicted to adjectives - a Celtic curse, and, yes, I did mean SLOW gins, but if it seems unclear...........
'HE' should only really be italicized, but I couldn't get the damn machine to do it! He's simply the dead beloved - husband in this case - though I see I've not made that clear. No, the son's not meant to seem uncaring....I'll think about that. Don't people have rollbags ant more???? I do! Etc.

Great thanks again,

Mike

Cornelia at 18:12 on 27 September 2010  Report this post
In the sixties we had duffel (duffle?) bags, which were shaped like giant swiss rolls and had a drawstring at the top. I also have some sleeping bags that have to be rolled to fit their fabric containers. I did wonder if the son had brought his own bedding...

Sheila

<Added>

Oh, I just googled and it seems roll bags are plastic bags on a roll. Sorry.

M Farquharson at 02:39 on 28 September 2010  Report this post
I think this piece has a great tone, it's not too sentimental and the only thing I'd say is that I think its merits a longer treatment; I am very intrigued by the lover and think there is a story there that is asking to be told. I like the old lady but again, would like more of her, to really feel who she is and was.

a couple of small details:

transformed the faces on her television into mere murmuring ghosts. (take out the 'mere'

No longer old, blind, cold, incontinent, sparrow-skeletoned and tired as hope,(this reads well but personally I don't think that hope is automatically tired (I hope not!) wouldn't it be better to put 'tired as her hopes' or something like that so that, to avoid the generalisation.

I agree that the shift of POV at her death is a bit problematic and it does jolt slightly as it is.

The story lingers, like a slow gin.

best wishes,

Mary

Ticonderoga at 13:07 on 28 September 2010  Report this post
Cornelia - duffle bag will do the trick!

Mary - many thanks for the kind words and comments...the 'mere'is gone!!

best,

Mike

tinyclanger at 21:20 on 28 September 2010  Report this post
ah, the first thing i've read since being back, and I'm glad of it.

It does sound like the beginning of something - ironic really since it chronicles an ending.
I'm sure you can polish, if you want.
But it does paint many pictures, and I think does very beautifully what you wanted.
x
tc

Ticonderoga at 13:27 on 29 September 2010  Report this post
Cheers tc.................it came out in a lump, and needs to be chipped away at till the complete shape emerges, but the gist is there..........ta muchly for the encouragement....


M x

Heather3 at 19:49 on 17 October 2010  Report this post
Hello i like to do feedback bit by bit, hope that's okay/helpful?!


The wind was thumping at the walls and shouting down the chimneys as she made her precarious way back to the relative warmth of the sitting room. Ninety-three. What stupid kind of age was ninety-three? Supernumerary! Not bad. The memory wasn't entirely shot.

*i love this as it creates a real character immediately.

But she was so very old, and cold, bone-marrow cold. Horribly appropriate, that rhyme of old and cold.

* not so keen on this bit but can't place why. maybe i'd like the old/cold rhyme to be a little spicier like in the previous few sentences, or taken out?

The tiny kitchen, at the back of the flat, was positively frigid now that winter had come; so too was the hall as she struggled with her walking stick and plate of cooling food towards the welcoming door....

* i really like the idea of the cooling food, what a great observation. think the start of this bit (tiny kitchen to the cold hall) could be tightened a little.

With a meal inside her, and drawn up close to the meagre bars of the fire, the cold in her bones began to fade. The wind had given up shouting, and was only crooning and whispering now, with the soothing voice of someone half-remembered; her tired, worn out eyes and ears transformed the faces on her television into murmuring ghosts.

* there's a repetitiveness to the word cold now; she's cold, the house is cold, she's a little less cold. i like how the wind is quieting down now to crooning and whispering.


She couldn't be bothered to turn the volume up. And the gentle conspiracy of vagueness gradually lulled her to sleep. And she dreamed....
No longer old, blind, cold, incontinent, sparrow-skeletoned and tired as hope,

*i'd make this more succinct - but not sure how!

she drifted at will, light as thistle-down on a summer breeze, through only her finest of times and best of places. Aberfeldy, Ardnamurchan, Tobermory, Oban. Singapore, Darjeeling, Calcutta, Simla. And HE was there; the dashing, gregarious, brave, feckless, loving

*again maybe make description of him more succinct; i'm thinking back to the spicey voice and character at the start

he who had shockingly ruined everything by sending himself to permanent sleep fifty years ago, because....
But that was all in the past - the future! - and had no place in this golden lantern show of memory and dream.
Anyas and ayahs and punka-wallahs; slow gins on the verandah; sly cats everywhere else; special meals with the staff in the kitchen; parties, present, prestige: status as the wife of an important man. And, most treasured, genuine respect; because, unlike most memsahibs, she had cared enough to learn sufficient Hindi and Urdu to hold a conversation, rather than just knowing how to give peremptory orders, she was liked, and treated differently. Hence those special meals of 'real' curry in the kitchen....
She drifted into a vividly remembered day, when her wee daughter was sick with a fever. They were on the verandah; the baby was hot and irritable, resisting all attempts by her mother and ayah to coax her into eating, by turning her head away whenever food was proferred. Durinig this performance the old sweeper walked past.
He wasn't really old, just fifty or so, but he was toothless, white-haired and stick thin, wearing a greyish-white dhoti hitched up between his legs to show brown bony knees. He looked seventy.

* he wasn't really old, just fifty or so....he looked seventy. I'd keep one of these.


He was low caste, ineffably humble, expecting no favours from life and receiving none. His feet were broad, the toes widely spread; he had never known the luxury of shoes.
He stopped to look at the scene unfolding on the verandah, and diffidently asked, "Baba nahin kata hai, memsahib?" Then, suddenly and unselfconsciously, he started to play the fool, falling down, pulling outrageous faces, laughing and chattering incomprehensibly. The baby, her discomfort forgotten, began to take some food as she giggled at his antics, holding out her little fat hand, trying to touch him. The sweeper kept up his clowning until she had finished her meal and then, without another word, resumed his duties....

*the sweeper reminds me of Mary Poppins!

Once more she drifted, and was with HIM again. It was the height of summer, viciously hot and, as always at that time of year, they had escaped with all the other sahibs and memsahibs to the cool of the mountains. The usual faces, the usual parties and attitudes, all simply translated northwards for the summer. But not today. A fine white lie had been conjured, and they were alone. Nestled on a secret slope of the hill, cradled in the shade of a complaisant tree, silently and perfectly they savoured being together. they were lying in a patch of tiny, vibrantly blue flowers, her head resting on his shoulder. With his free hand he picked a single flower and delicately slipped it betweeen her half-closed fingers.

*nice touch!

She grasped it lightly and smiled....
The doorbell rattled and clanged against the old wooden frame. No answer. Knowing how deaf she was now, her son rang again, louder and longer. Still no answer. He dropped his cumbersome holdall onto the landing with an echoing thud, and scrabbled through his shoulder bag for the spare keys.
He let himself in and shouted. Mum! Nothing. He tried the bedroom. No. The kitchen was quiet, so she must be in the sitting room, but there wasn't the usual noise from the television. Mum? He opened the sitting room door, and there she was, in her favourite chair under the standard lamp, a little nearer the fire than was stricly safe. Not that that mattered now. With a muted song the wind left the chimney.
There was no sign of distress; and he thought he saw the merest suggestion of a smile. She looked - much younger than she should. And in her hand was a tiny, seven-petalled flower of a somehow too vibrant blue.


oh this is so sad! it is really heartwarming/heartaching. really the nicest most touching end i've ever read.
a really really lovely piece. i think that if you do further drafts that this could get published; it's such a nice story to share.



Ticonderoga at 13:03 on 18 October 2010  Report this post
Heather -

Thanks so much for the really thoughtful, helpful and encouraging comments. Very soon I'll have time to go over this properly - it is a rough first draft, very lttle revised - and I'll take all your comments into account. This is the first short story I've attempted in ??!! years, so it's very heartening to get this kind of feedback.

Great thanks,

Mike


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