April 11, 2023.
Kim Bartlett
Writeaway Prompt: Lie or Lies
1449 words
Helen Porter
At most universities, it is customary for graduate students to serve as teaching assistants for professors. Supposedly, this enriches the learning experience. It is also a convenient way to engage some cheap labour. and to offload some tasks that faculty members find tedious. In the second year of my master’s, I was assigned a teaching assistantship.
I was to teach a group of first-year students the dreaded course: “The History of Quebec Education “. It was a mandatory course so I would be dealing with a captive audience. Besides that, I knew nothing of the topic, having completed my pre-university studies in the Province of Ontario. Fortunately, a professor in the faculty had just published a short book on Quebec education. I skimmed through the book and devised a plan to cover one chapter per week, giving myself a one-week head-start on students to read the chapter and prepare my lecture.
On the first day of class, the professor who was to serve as a resource person handed me my list of 60 Bachelor of Education students. That was twice the number I’d been led to believe and yet I was exhilarated. I was so arrogant and naïve that I convinced myself that this extra caseload was a sign of respect for my abilities.
The boisterous crowd of 60 materialized. For a few nervous moments I wondered if they would listen to me. Miraculously, they were attentive! I gave each student a blank sheet of paper and asked them to write their name at the top. I gave them 10 minutes to write about why they wanted to be a teacher. This was not being graded, it was just a way for me to gauge their writing skills. That evening when I examined the assignments, I was relieved to see that the majority were at a reasonable level of literacy, about a dozen would need remedial attention. Most notable to me, however, was the exceedingly well written piece by Helen Porter.
In class 2, I called out names and each student came forward to claim their work. Helen Porter. Took her paper with her head bowed. She was the oldest student in the class. I guessed she was 30ish but her stooped posture made her look older. She was short and round at her middle, like a troll. She wore wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses. Her short dark hair looked like she had cut it herself.
Helen Porter was no beauty queen but man was she smart! In a surprise pop quiz, the class average was about 70%. Helen scored 100%. Her mid-term paper was by far the most impressive of the group, concise and flawlessly written. Standing at the front of the room with my slides, I felt a bit intimidated by her. Perhaps she should have been teaching the class.
I don’t think anyone else in the class was aware of Helen’s intellect. I never saw her speaking to other students. I was surprised when, after the 4th class, she shyly approached and invited me for cafeteria coffee. This became a weekly habit. I was pleased and proud to be the preferred company of this brilliant, unusual person. We always started by talking about the course but then veered off. Helen was so well-informed we could have discussed anything but I really wanted to know about her
She started by telling me that her parents, both from the north of England had come to Montreal when she was a toddler. When Helen was 14 both parents had been killed in a car accident. Her father had been behind the wheel, drunk. Suddenly, barely an adolescent, Helen had a choice to make: a foster home or her only known blood relative. She chose the latter. Great Aunt Lois lived in Pointe Claire with most of her furniture covered in plastic. The woman had Helen living in her basement scrubbing like Cinderella every minute she wasn’t at school. At the stroke midnight on her 18th birthday, she said goodbye to her aunt and headed for the airport with a ticket to London.
Peter took the seat next to her on the plane. He was a Swedish cargo ship worker based in England who had been visiting a brother in Montreal. He was not handsome but he was fairy tale man come true for Helen. He had a weatherworn face, a big nose, enormous hands and he perspired profusely. He was very tall. He liked Helen from the first moment (Back then she had been petite with shiny hair and better teeth). Between take-off and landing Helen fell deeply in love. She promised herself that she would follow him wherever he went. That took her to Seafarer training and certification where she placed top of the class. She and Peter sailed to beautiful places and some dangerous places including the deck of a cargo ship in the north Atlantic during one of the worst storms in history.
After about 2 years at sea, Peter and Helen had amassed some savings. She assumed they would settle. It was therefore quite a shock when Peter informed Helen that he would now go back to his wife in Sweden with his share of the earnings. Helen fell into a deep depression and withdrew. She took up smoking again and started gorging on food and grew heavier and heavier. She considered suicide but somehow she carried on living. life.
At our coffee date the next week, Helen informed me in a low whisper she had diabetes and that the disease was progressing quickly. I had long suspected it. Her eye sight was getting worse and began carrying a white cane. She had been switched from pills to insulin injections. She struggled with the injections at first but mastered the technique quickly. She even demonstrated it for me. I winced when she injected into her belly.
I urged Helen to go to the Disabled Student Office, (DSO) about accommodations that could be made for her during the upcoming exams. The next time I saw her, I inquired hopefully about DSW Helen reported that the office could do nothing without an attestation from a doctor. That document would cost $35, money that Helen didn’t have. I offered to help but she refused
With just two classes to go before the final exam, my star student was not in class. The number I had for her. was out of service. II didn’t know her Aunt’s address. I finally went to the professor serving as a resource person. We had not spoken since. the first day of classes and I had to remind her of who I was. I explained that I was concerned about the safety of a student, Helen Porter. The Professor looked up at me with a blank expression. I noticed a subtle tightening of her mouth. She told me that she would check the student files the next day. for alternate numbers and the contact number of the aunt.
A few days later, still with no news about Helen, I had to deliver some attendance reports to the dean’s office. I was surprised to see his receptionist still at her desk after 5 o’clock. Before I could ask why she was she was there so late, she caught my eye and made the action of zipping her mouth shut. Behind her, in the chairs outside the dean’s office was Helen Porter with head and eyes turned downward. Also seated were: the Dean of Students, the Director of the Disabled Students Office and a plump wearing a beige overcoat. I nodded solemnly and left the office.
Initially, no one uttered a word about the afterhours meeting. I hoped for a call from Helen, the dean, the professor or anyone who might explain what had happened. After a week had passed, rumours and gossip began to circulate. Suddenly, the mysterious blind woman was of great interest to all the students my class. They wondered: was the University was being sued? Was someone about to be fired? Had someone harassed or assaulted Helen? None of those theories made sense to me. Rightly or wrongly, I had invested in a friendship with Helen Porter and I needed answers. I knocked on the door of the poker-faced resource professor. At first, she looked annoyed to see me again but recognizing how distraught I was, she softened and invited me to sit down.
First, she thanked me for my T.A. work with the largest class in the program. She sa that I had done a good job of making the course interesting and enjoyable for students. She appreciated that I had reached out to help a student in need. She said that I deserved to know the truth and asked if she could count my discretion. I nodded. What the professor said next took a long time to process.
She told me that Helen Porter, was really Ellen Taylor a thirty-three-year-old unemployed resident of Beaconsfield, Quebec who lived with her mother, father and younger brother.
She was not a diabetic.
She was not blind.
She had no roots in England,
She did not have a Great Aunt Lois.
She had never been to sea.
There was no Peter ………………….it was all a lie!
Secrets/Lies Anni Walsh
Michelangelo’s Eagle • Chapter One
1952 Manchester England; Catherine and Victor
‘It’s a criminal offence’.
‘Oh don’t be so dramatic Victor – how can it be?’
‘Cat…I just cannot believe you’re even thinking about it.’
‘But it’ll ruin her life if she has this baby.’
‘Well they should have thought of that before…’ he turned away, as if that were the end of it.
‘God Victor. You’re so…so narrow-minded. You know it wasn’t planned. Helen starts work in Paris in November and Mike’s there now.’ He turned back.
‘For heaven’s sake Catherine, they do have kids in Paris you know…these things happen anyway…’
‘Not to us.’ She noticed his instinctive, momentary hesitation then; that apology; that pride.
‘It’ll happen Catherine.’ She wondered whether he caught the expression on her face, the questions in her eyes, her lips opening about to say more, before she bent her head, not ready yet, in view of what she was going to reveal.
‘It doesn’t just happen. What if one of us can’t have children?’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Look, Victor… it’s easy. They don’t want a baby, ever…we do. She’s just got a fantastic job with Dior and he’s a pilot. Children don’t fit into that.’ But she saw the pursed lips, the barely perceptible shake of his head.
‘Sure… and what if she, or they change their minds? They could do, anytime. When the baby’s six months. Or sixteen.’ Again he tried to walk away.
‘We’ve talked about that. She won’t. We’ll draw up an agreement. Just between the four of us, and…no-one else will know.’
‘But, but…it’s wrong Cat. You can’t just sign a piece of paper and make it all right. The doctors, the hospital, the nurses, midwives, health visitors. It’s mad. And what about me, my position…?’
‘I went with her to the first appointment at the clinic. When they asked for her name and details…she gave them mine.’ Now he sat down and just looked at her.
‘Cat, this is crazy. You’re crazy. How the hell could you have done that? I’m a GP Cat, you just cannot do this – how can we? It’s impossible. I just can’t believe it. You’ll just have to tell them.We didn’t even talk about it. I’m your husband. Remember?’
‘We’re talking about it now. But you’ve closed your mind.’
‘And you’ve lost yours. This is complete and utter madness. I can’t listen to it any more. I’m going out.’ She hadn’t thought he would. But he did. No idea where he would have gone. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy; of course she knew he’d object; of course, of course, of course, but there had to be a way for this to happen. And of course Victor could have stayed at home. They could have discussed it properly. He might have changed her mind. Instead, the door slammed into Molly’s future.
Chapter Two
Paris 2015 : Stephanie Carré
First the letter arrived at the gallery. Then Stephanie Carré discovered the notebook. She left the auction rooms and walked onto Rue Drouot clutching it under her coat, to protect it from the rain, she protested silently, or perhaps she was just rehearsing what she’d say to her husband Paul, as she tried to ignore his lawyer’s warning whispers intruding into her mind. A mind which was now imprisoned by a single sentence. A coincidence to have opened that page. She knew that to Paul there was no such thing as a coincidence – just as there was no such thing as an accident. But then he was a personal injury lawyer so it always had to be someone’s fault. Not to Stephanie though. Or was it always someone’s fault? One lost father and now two lost parents. Stephanie had often wished her mother had been lost, or not hers at all.
Stephanie wavered between thinking that curating an exhibition was the thrilling challenge she hungered for, or a burden she could only shoulder at lengthy intervals - until that is, she came upon the handwritten notebook of Molly Jenkins. A journal – reflections of a life. Rummaging among the remnanats of other peoples’ lives in familiar and strange auction rooms, flea markets, like a jackdaw pecking away to find the sparkling jewel, the brilliant stone that could be the key to another world. She knew from years of searching that such a discovery was as rare as salmon in the Seine – hidden forever, thrown into a waste-paper basket, or like those 1940’s Vogue magazines she’d found in a cardboard box outside the second-hand bookshop, there for years apparently; or when she’d heard of the Modigliani sketch buried in the pocket of a battered old suitcase discovered in the attic of a rundown apartment overlooking Notre Dame. She remonstrated with her inner critic, trying to justify her burrowing by increasing the list of discoveries that were so easily missed. It was her duty to uncover this story. And now she was protecting it from the rain.
She had been working at the Musée de la Mode for ten years now and they had never, even before she arrived there, put on an exhibition solely dedicated to famous milliners and their creations. When she read about the forthcoming sale of the estate of Molly Jenkins the thread of an idea began to unravel in her mind. Many of the lots were a miscellany of daily living, thrown together haphazardly into a variety of old hat boxes, and rooting amongst them with the smell of old paper and other people’s belongings that Stephanie loved so much she had found a notebook caught between the flaps at the bottom. Seeing the first few lined pages with nothing on them, she was about to throw it back into the mix when she was interrupted by the auction manager Monsieur Levallier, whom she’d arranged to see at ten o’clock. She turned the notebook over in her hand as they talked.
‘It isn’t really the personal effects I’d be interested in – although there may be a few that would fit in. It’s the hats and the millinery equipment.’
‘Naturally Madame. But some of them will be in great demand, even the blocks and some of the fabrics. There’s a selection of hand-made and antique lace. The miscellaneous items will probably end up with the estate, although I have received a letter about some of them; from Italy I seem to remember.’
‘I’ll be here on the day of course, Monsieur, and I have a reasonable budget for items to include in our permanent collection, but perhaps you’d ask the other buyers when they collect their lots whether they’d agree to my having a note of their names and contact details.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged Madame - especially if they think their purchase is to be included in such a prestigious museum’.
As she was placing the notebook down, she noticed a difference between the front and back covers, in that the pages in the final three quarters were loose and did not fall compactly as the book closed. Turning it over she found that the latter half of it was crammed with tiny handwriting.
‘The greatest sadness in my life’ she read, straining to make out the letters ‘was when I discovered that I had been someone else’s child.’…Stephanie could not then have realised what a journey those first words, read in a room full of a thousand lost memories, were to take her on. And she might have missed it.
1250 words
Mary:
ONE BIG, FAT LIE
The bench where Kate sat was near the exit doors into the parking lot. She had been there for at least 30 mins. She had completed two full circuits of the building both the lower and upper levels. She’d bought a cup of coffee at Second Cup – the coffee was terrible, probably the dregs left from the last brew she thought and she’d abandoned the cup on the bench beside her. The security men were starting to make the rounds of the shopping mall ushering folks to the door in readiness for closing Kate could see. She knew she would have to make a decision once she was outside. What would she do next? Where would she go? She had only her clothes that’s she’s wearing, her purse, her credit cards.
Her dilemma, she knew in her heart of hearts had been building ever bigger in past few years, but it had come to something of a head 2 weeks ago. Joe’s friend Dave had come for a weekend stop-over on his way to a conference somewhere. It was a regular visit. He came every year. As always the 2 men had started their fierce arguments, fueled with copious amounts of beer, straight after dinner that Saturday night. They just loved to argue. If Joe said Black, then Dave would say White. If Joe announced in favour of the workers, then Dave would support capitalists. Or vice-versa. There was no real fanatical adherence to any particular ideology, they just loved the word- fights. These loud, sometimes raucous but friendly battles normally continued long into the night and Kate usually left them sitting on the deck in full voice, whilst she went to bed. This particular week-end visit of Dave’s had started off that way. There were frequent trips in and out of the kitchen, the light from the fridge splitting the shadows as the door opened, and the familiar clink of more bottles being carried outside. They sat out there on the deck, low clouds covering the moon and stars, an inky night sky thrown over and around them. Their shouting had now reached such a decibel level that Kate had awoken and glancing at the clock saw that it was 3a.m. Imagining that the neighbours might at any minute be phoning to make a noise complaint to the police, she decided to go out to the deck and tell Joe to bring their arguments indoors. As she passed through the kitchen she stopped at the sink, turned on the tap and let the water run for a bit, then filled herself a glass. Suddenly, she realized that the conversation had dropped to a softer level. It was Joe’s voice that she could hear through the open patio door:
“I really didn’t plan to sleep with her – it just sort of happened” he was
telling Dave.
Kate stood frozen to the spot. This revelation hit her full in the stomach, she almost could not breathe. Her whole body had turned to a block of stone, or so it felt. She could not move. She missed the next few words from Joe, but heard Dave reply:
“Does Kate know – did you tell her?”
“No. I didn’t have the guts to tell her” Joe was saying now.
“So she doesn’t know that you’ve had this “special friend” for a long time now?”
“Yes she knows about her. But I always tell her that Vivian is just that. A friend. I take Viv to dinner every month or so – we go eat sushi – Kate doesn’t like sushi, so she always says it’s fine ‘Go have sushi with Vivian’.”
“And she believes that?” Dave’s voice sounds suitably incredulous thinks Kate. But Kate of course, isn’t quite so ingenuous. She and Joe had discussed his apparent platonic relationship with Vivian, with Joe’s earnest assurances always that it was just that. When they’d ‘Go out for sushi’ Joe often didn’t come home until midnight or sometimes later, his explanations being that he’d had a few beers and didn’t want to drive straight away. Sometimes, thought Kate our most important agreements are the ones we make with ourselves, and so she chose to accept situations that she felt she could not change anyway. But now, it’s different. Because she really has heard his admission to Dave, and what he’s told her in the past is One Big Fat Lie. Her feet felt the cold, stone tiles of the kitchen floor and Kate willed them to walk her away from this sudden new reality. She had gone back to bed.
Kate had been constantly pondering all these revelations in her heart until this weekend when she had insisted that Joe talk to her. She had long known that Joe was a man desperately in need of dialogue, he gave answers to her questions in one word or none at all. She decided not to say that she had eavesdropped on the confidential talk he’s had with Dave, but that she would tell Joe just how unhappy she’d felt in the past few months? She would tell him that she felt neglected, unimportant in his life. Firmly, but calmly suggest that they seek some professional help for their marriage? But tonight, after nearly half an hour of sitting looking at Joe who was not looking back at her, all of her good intentions had failed and finally, Kate had lost her patience with his uncommunicative responses and had screamed at him:
“I need you to talk to me about this Joe. You can’t just not speak to it. We need help with our relationship!” Joe’s reply had been something along the lines that he wasn’t about to let any stranger into their private lives. Kate was defeated. Marching out of the living room, she had grabbed only her coat and purse , and the car keys and had slammed out of the house.
And so here she was, hiding in full sight at the shopping mall. What had she hoped would be the outcome of that discussion, if indeed a one-way talk could be called a discussion - she wondered again? Such was the danger of hope, she thought. In her experience usually hope had led to nothing. There was no better time that might come in the future. The future was forever today.
The security guard was approaching.
“Madame, the mall is closing now, please exit through this door” he points at the door close to where she has been sitting. Heading out into the night, Kate finds her car, unlocks the door and sits at the wheel. She’s very scared to make a drastic change to her life. She has no place to go, no money to take her there. She’s such a coward. She knows it, she’s tied to Joe forever, Kate thinks wretchedly.
It has started to rain. Kate watches as fine raindrops sprinkle across the windshield. A quick flick of the wipers and they gone, just like that she thinks. The rain comes harder, the fat drops joining together and forming little rivers running down the glass. Kate flicks the wipers again. There’s a certain power in being able to disrupt the flow. The blurry glass that makes everything unfocussed, in one swift swish transforms it to precise. This simple action, Kate sees suddenly as a symbol of what she needs to do – wipe some rain out of her life, set out with a clear, new vision of what she knows she can do. On her own.
1257 words
Muriel:
Shrewsbury.
That was the name of the station where we got off.
My mother was traveling with me.
We got out of the station and hailed a cab.
To Acton Burnell.
To the Convent of Our Lady of Sion.
The ride was quite bucolic and relatively short.
After about 15 minutes, the driver made a sharp left turn and drove through a crumbling gate.
The driveway led to an imposing Beaux-Arts style building.
We got out. I grabbed my luggage.
I could tell my mother was nervous.
A nun greeted us at the top of the stairs.
She was tall. Her eyes were light and kind.
She introduced herself as Sister Joan.
She led me through several hallways and up the stairs.
At the top of the landing, she stopped and told me that
As a 6th Former I would have two cubicles:
One for sleeping, and one for studying.
Unlike the 5th formers….
My cubicle was small but it had one window.
It looked out on a vast green lawn and some ruins.
To the left of my cubicle slept Mary-Lou, she was from Liverpool.
To the right slept Frances, she was from Wolverhampton.
A bell chimed down below. It was dinner time.
My mother said goodbye.
She was crying.
At dinner time, I discovered sandwich spread.
I imitated the girls
And spread tons of it on white bread.
The other choice was baked beans on toast.
At 7 sharp the girls ran out
To watch “Top of the Pops” on tele
In the main hall.
The next morning, my mother called to say goodbye.
She was sobbing.
By then I knew I was going to make this year special
Just for me.
I would spend a year in Acton Burnell.
Studying for my A level in English
At the Convent of Our Lady of Sion
By springtime, Mary-Lou and Frances had become my best friends.
It turned out to be a good year.
I even got crowned as Miss Pitchford.
I was sent to Acton Burnell as a punishment
for having forged my final senior year school report.
Lying has never been taken lightly in my family.
Workout: 359
< Note: This is not for publication, so images have been plundered from the internet without any consideration of copyright. The song I think might be public domain. >
Niara
Doug Newin
“I am sorry, it was raining so hard I dare not open my purse.” her melodic voice unmistakably Caribbean. Each well-spoken word was formed with delicate precision, a self-effacing good cheer on offer. She fished about her black patent leather purse for her bus pass and presented it to the driver. He did not acknowledge her presence, and while the smile remained her eyes dimmed a little. She turned into the harsh cabin light, revealing caramel coloured skin lined with many such disappointments. Her old-fashioned Macintosh was soaked through from the deluge. A clear plastic rain hat protected short salt and pepper hair, neatly coiffed in a natural style, and a bead of rainwater ran down her well proportioned face, the bright beauty its youth softened into elegance. Her eyes were remarkable, a rich green not yet dimmed by age yet framed with a weariness that suppressed their effect. She had a trim, almost lean frame and an untouchable grace about her that stood far above the driver’s disdain.
Trailing a two wheeled shopping cart she had wrestled up the steep steps, she awkwardly threaded through a cluster of gossiping school girls, their casual contempt adding to her weariness. She fought for balance as the bus lurched into traffic. No one offered her a seat.
Jostled as the bus negotiated a minefield of potholes, she did not at first notice a tugging at the skirt of her Macintosh. She clutched her purse a little tighter, and studied the ads above the windows. The gentle tugging persisted. She frowned a little, then turned her head to the disturbance. Looking up was the determined face of a six-year-old girl with a job to do. It was a striking face, of such innocent beauty that the woman gasped a little. Eyes of the deepest blue entreated as the flaxen-haired child pointed across the aisle to where she had been sitting. She reached out for the lady’s hand,
“Come sit down please. I am old enough to stand. I am six and one quarter.”
“Oh, thank you my dear!” she said, giving the outstretched hand a grateful squeeze. Once seated, she turned to woman next to her, “What a lovely child you have. She has made my day.” her face transformed by the unexpected kindness. Barely taking her eyes off her smartphone, the woman grunted a dismissive acknowledgement,
“Yeah.” turning to the child she chided, “Heather, don’t wander off. Don’t make me come find you.” The cart woman’s smile tightened. She turned to the girl and cocked her head a little,
“Heather. What a beautiful name. Did you know there is a flower with the same name as yours? A long time ago it was used to heal all kinds of things.” The girl shook her head, solemnly processing, “Well it was. And I think that name suits, because today you have healed my aching feet!” The friendly embrace of her soft laugh settled on the child, who responded with a bright smile,
“My teacher Mrs. Wolfe said we must help old people whenever we can.” said earnestly, with all the gravity a young girl could muster.
“Well I think Mrs. Wolfe is very wise indeed.” She settled into the seat, her slender, long boned hands moving with a deliberate delicacy as she removed her rain hat. This and her purse she placed atop the cart. “My name is Niara. It is an old name too, and means something like ‘woman with purpose’. You may call me Miss Niara.” Heather paused a little, and with furrowed brow asked,
“What is a purpose?”
“That child, is a very good question. I wish I knew.” her voice a little pensive. “But no matter, Niara is just a name, and that name is mine.” Smiling again, she reached into her cart, “You have been very kind, and I think kindness should be rewarded. Would you like to read a story with me?”
“Oh yes!”
She rummaged about, finding a small folio which she placed on her lap. From it, she withdrew some proof sheets that had been crudely bound into a book format. Turning the pages to Heather, her voice slowed, and took on a soft musical tone.
“Let’s go on an adventure, to a place far away....”
Heather had been transported. Those startling blue eyes lost focus as she ran with Niara on the beach, chatted with otters and sang to parrots. By her age she had read a book or two, but none had stirred her imagination as much as this simple, unremarkable children’s story. Perhaps it was something other than the story itself. Perhaps a part of Niara, that spark of creativity she had shielded and nurtured had somehow arced from the pages, stimulating some unformed part of Heather’s mind. Who is to say? But in some way the girl had been irrevocably changed that day.
“Niara is your name. Was that you in the story?”
“Some part of me. Those animals are real, and I lived on a farm just like the one in the picture.”
“Oh. Was Ria real?”
“No, Ria was make believe. We did have dogs on the farm though.”
“Oh.” With furrowed brow she paused, considering. After a beat or two her face lit up, “So a story can be real, or a story can be make believe, or a story can be real and be make believe.”
“Why yes child. You are very clever to notice that.” Heather’s incandescent smile warmed Niara to the core. What a pleasure it was to sit next to this precocious child, listening to the weighty concerns of a six-year-old, observing a bright young mind processing and expressing. Too soon they approached Niara’s destination.
“Now I must get ready, my stop is next.” She held out the pages to girl’s mother, “May I give this to Heather?” Eyeing the pages with distaste she said,
“If you want. But she isn’t much of a reader.” Niara held out the loosely bound book to Heather, leaned in close, and whispered,
“I think you may very well be more than just a reader. I think there is a writer in you. Read everything you can. Pay attention to everything you see. Do that, and some day it might be me doing the reading and you the telling.”
With that, she manoeuvred her way to the door. Green eyes met blue as she paused, gave a quick smile and a wave, and stepped out.
Wordcount:1545
< Note: This is not for publication, so images have been plundered from the internet without any consideration of copyright. The song I think might be public domain. >
Niara
Doug Newin
“I am sorry, it was raining so hard I dare not open my purse.” her melodic voice unmistakably Caribbean. Each well-spoken word was formed with delicate precision, a self-effacing good cheer on offer. She fished about her black patent leather purse for her bus pass and presented it to the driver. He did not acknowledge her presence, and while the smile remained her eyes dimmed a little. She turned into the harsh cabin light, revealing caramel coloured skin lined with many such disappointments. Her old-fashioned Macintosh was soaked through from the deluge. A clear plastic rain hat protected short salt and pepper hair, neatly coiffed in a natural style, and a bead of rainwater ran down her well proportioned face, the bright beauty its youth softened into elegance. Her eyes were remarkable, a rich green not yet dimmed by age yet framed with a weariness that suppressed their effect. She had a trim, almost lean frame and an untouchable grace about her that stood far above the driver’s disdain.
Trailing a two wheeled shopping cart she had wrestled up the steep steps, she awkwardly threaded through a cluster of gossiping school girls, their casual contempt adding to her weariness. She fought for balance as the bus lurched into traffic. No one offered her a seat.
Jostled as the bus negotiated a minefield of potholes, she did not at first notice a tugging at the skirt of her Macintosh. She clutched her purse a little tighter, and studied the ads above the windows. The gentle tugging persisted. She frowned a little, then turned her head to the disturbance. Looking up was the determined face of a six-year-old girl with a job to do. It was a striking face, of such innocent beauty that the woman gasped a little. Eyes of the deepest blue entreated as the flaxen-haired child pointed across the aisle to where she had been sitting. She reached out for the lady’s hand,
“Come sit down please. I am old enough to stand. I am six and one quarter.”
“Oh, thank you my dear!” she said, giving the outstretched hand a grateful squeeze. Once seated, she turned to woman next to her, “What a lovely child you have. She has made my day.” her face transformed by the unexpected kindness. Barely taking her eyes off her smartphone, the woman grunted a dismissive acknowledgement,
“Yeah.” turning to the child she chided, “Heather, don’t wander off. Don’t make me come find you.” The cart woman’s smile tightened. She turned to the girl and cocked her head a little,
“Heather. What a beautiful name. Did you know there is a flower with the same name as yours? A long time ago it was used to heal all kinds of things.” The girl shook her head, solemnly processing, “Well it was. And I think that name suits, because today you have healed my aching feet!” The friendly embrace of her soft laugh settled on the child, who responded with a bright smile,
“My teacher Mrs. Wolfe said we must help old people whenever we can.” said earnestly, with all the gravity a young girl could muster.
“Well I think Mrs. Wolfe is very wise indeed.” She settled into the seat, her slender, long boned hands moving with a deliberate delicacy as she removed her rain hat. This and her purse she placed atop the cart. “My name is Niara. It is an old name too, and means something like ‘woman with purpose’. You may call me Miss Niara.” Heather paused a little, and with furrowed brow asked,
“What is a purpose?”
“That child, is a very good question. I wish I knew.” her voice a little pensive. “But no matter, Niara is just a name, and that name is mine.” Smiling again, she reached into her cart, “You have been very kind, and I think kindness should be rewarded. Would you like to read a story with me?”
“Oh yes!”
She rummaged about, finding a small folio which she placed on her lap. From it, she withdrew some proof sheets that had been crudely bound into a book format. Turning the pages to Heather, her voice slowed, and took on a soft musical tone.
“Let’s go on an adventure, to a place far away....”
Muriel:
Shrewsbury.
That was the name of the station where we got off.
My mother was traveling with me.
We got out of the station and hailed a cab.
To Acton Burnell.
To the Convent of Our Lady of Sion.
The ride was quite bucolic and relatively short.
After about 15 minutes, the driver made a sharp left turn and drove through a crumbling gate.
The driveway led to an imposing Beaux-Arts style building.
We got out. I grabbed my luggage.
I could tell my mother was nervous.
A nun greeted us at the top of the stairs.
She was tall. Her eyes were light and kind.
She introduced herself as Sister Joan.
She led me through several hallways and up the stairs.
At the top of the landing, she stopped and told me that
As a 6th Former I would have two cubicles:
One for sleeping, and one for studying.
Unlike the 5th formers….
My cubicle was small but it had one window.
It looked out on a vast green lawn and some ruins.
To the left of my cubicle slept Mary-Lou, she was from Liverpool.
To the right slept Frances, she was from Wolverhampton.
A bell chimed down below. It was dinner time.
My mother said goodbye.
She was crying.
At dinner time, I discovered sandwich spread.
I imitated the girls
And spread tons of it on white bread.
The other choice was baked beans on toast.
At 7 sharp the girls ran out
To watch “Top of the Pops” on tele
In the main hall.
The next morning, my mother called to say goodbye.
She was sobbing.
By then I knew I was going to make this year special
Just for me.
I would spend a year in Acton Burnell.
Studying for my A level in English
At the Convent of Our Lady of Sion
By springtime, Mary-Lou and Frances had become my best friends.
It turned out to be a good year.
I even got crowned as Miss Pitchford.
I was sent to Acton Burnell as a punishment
for having forged my final senior year school report.
Lying has never been taken lightly in my family.
Workout: 359
Heather had been transported. Those startling blue eyes lost focus as she ran with Niara on the beach, chatted with otters and sang to parrots. By her age she had read a book or two, but none had stirred her imagination as much as this simple, unremarkable children’s story. Perhaps it was something other than the story itself. Perhaps a part of Niara, that spark of creativity she had shielded and nurtured had somehow arced from the pages, stimulating some unformed part of Heather’s mind. Who is to say? But in some way the girl had been irrevocably changed that day.
“Niara is your name. Was that you in the story?”
“Some part of me. Those animals are real, and I lived on a farm just like the one in the picture.”
“Oh. Was Ria real?”
“No, Ria was make believe. We did have dogs on the farm though.”
“Oh.” With furrowed brow she paused, considering. After a beat or two her face lit up, “So a story can be real, or a story can be make believe, or a story can be real and be make believe.”
“Why yes child. You are very clever to notice that.” Heather’s incandescent smile warmed Niara to the core. What a pleasure it was to sit next to this precocious child, listening to the weighty concerns of a six-year-old, observing a bright young mind processing and expressing. Too soon they approached Niara’s destination.
“Now I must get ready, my stop is next.” She held out the pages to girl’s mother, “May I give this to Heather?” Eyeing the pages with distaste she said,
“If you want. But she isn’t much of a reader.” Niara held out the loosely bound book to Heather, leaned in close, and whispered,
“I think you may very well be more than just a reader. I think there is a writer in you. Read everything you can. Pay attention to everything you see. Do that, and some day it might be me doing the reading and you the telling.”
With that, she manoeuvred her way to the door. Green eyes met blue as she paused, gave a quick smile and a wave, and stepped out.
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