2104 Wow! Winning stories
First Prize
Helen Parker Every Cloud
She’s always been a knife thrower, has our mam, like the knife thrower at the fair when I was a child. He’d have an assistant in a bikini, posed against a board, and smiling, always smiling.
I used to gasp and hold my breath. Will he miss? Will he hit her? Will she move? But his throw was always accurate, and at the end, she’d step away from the board, they’d bow and we’d all clap.
As a child, I never thought what it did to her heart and nerves. But now I wonder whether every performance took months off her life, or whether stress gave her ulcers.
Me and my little brother, we were like that girl in the bikini. Our mam would hurl words like knives, but eventually we learned to keep smiling and not to squirm; or at least, I learned. Because we realised, in the end, that Sammy would never learn - could never learn.
Maybe it was because of Sammy that she became a knife thrower. Sammy used to cry all the time, and our da used to say “Shut up, Sammy,” only much ruder. Then he’d shout at mam to keep Sammy quiet and she couldn’t. So he left.
Then I thought it would be better in the house, without his shouting, but Mam took on that role instead. It used to go like this:
Mam: Tracey, fetch me a nappy from the bathroom for Sammy.
Me: What, Mam? (Because Sammy was screaming so loud, I couldn’t hear her.)
Mam: A nappy! From the bathroom. Are you deaf, girl?
Me: But I couldn’t hear, Mam, ‘cos of…
Mam: Eejit! Can ye no see what I need? Are ye stupid as well as deaf? Do I have to live in a hoose wi’ two eejits?
By the time I was eight and Sammy was six, I’d learned to estimate when Sammy would need a clean nappy, and by the time I was twelve and he was ten, I had been changing his nappy myself for years.
Then there was money. Da didnae give us any, and Mam couldn’t go out to work because of Sammy, so Mam would shout at me for growing too big for my clothes and shoes.
But now I’m grown up, it goes like this:
Mam: Tracey, look at this mess. Sammy’s knocked over his plate again.
Me: Don’t you worry, Mam. I’ll clear it up.
So now I’m like the girl in the bikini, who keeps smiling and doesn’t flinch, ‘cos if you don’t squirm, the knives don’t hit you. But I can’t stop biting my nails and my skin is all flaky and my hair keeps falling out. That’s why I was wondering about the girl in the bikini, and about whether she had ulcers and stuff.
Just now me and Sammy are watching cartoons on TV. At least, I’m watching, and sometimes, when I look at Sammy, his eyes seem to be focused on the screen. I like sitting with him. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even cry any more.
Once, at school, our teacher told us to write a composition about a proverb. It went like this: ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ She explained what it meant.
I wrote a story about a girl with a disabled brother, and her mam won the lottery. They bought the little brother a posh electric wheelchair and all sorts of equipment. It made life easier.
Then the girl and her brother were taken on a holiday to a castle with silver turrets and a drawbridge and beautiful trees and flowers. They had chocolate to eat, and strawberry ice cream. Her brother wasn’t disabled when he was there because it was a magic castle, but they were only allowed to go in the first place because he was disabled.
I tried very hard and wrote my best story ever, but the teacher chose another girl’s story to read out.
Really, I don’t think clouds have silver linings. Like now, they are all over grey. It might rain, but I have to go out to work anyway. Mam says I’m lucky to have a job at all, being as I’m not good at much.
I can walk to work. It only takes 20 minutes, so it saves on bus fare. I wish it was a pretty walk, though, through the woods or beside a lake. Instead, it goes past the scrap yard.
The clouds seem so low you could touch them. They’re kind of greyish purple. The scrap yard’s full of spiky metal. There’s bits of rusty machinery and smashed car parts, but it’s all too old and mangled to be any use to anyone. If it was any good, someone would’ve nicked it before now.
* * *
Those clouds weren’t rain clouds, they were snow. When I walked back from work the scrap yard was covered in snow. The spiky metal had turned into a fairy castle with sparkling turrets and statues. There was a banquet table with food for kings and queens, silver knives and forks, and crystal goblets of wine. It was a magic potion that would heal everyone who drank it.
When I got home, some kids in our street had built a snowman. Its head had fallen off, so I rolled it a bit more and put it back on.
I went up to our flat and looked out at it. From our window, there was a street lamp right behind its head. It looked like a crown. “Look,” I said to Sammy. “A snow king.” I hoisted him up so he could see it. He’s really heavy nowadays.
Then I sat beside him. He looked at me. I’m not kidding, I swear he looked straight at me and said “’Sgood.”
“Mam! Mam!” I yelled, but she was watching TV. Anyway, suddenly I didn’t want to share it with her. I looked at Sammy again. He looked at me and beamed.
Helen Parker Every Cloud
She’s always been a knife thrower, has our mam, like the knife thrower at the fair when I was a child. He’d have an assistant in a bikini, posed against a board, and smiling, always smiling.
I used to gasp and hold my breath. Will he miss? Will he hit her? Will she move? But his throw was always accurate, and at the end, she’d step away from the board, they’d bow and we’d all clap.
As a child, I never thought what it did to her heart and nerves. But now I wonder whether every performance took months off her life, or whether stress gave her ulcers.
Me and my little brother, we were like that girl in the bikini. Our mam would hurl words like knives, but eventually we learned to keep smiling and not to squirm; or at least, I learned. Because we realised, in the end, that Sammy would never learn - could never learn.
Maybe it was because of Sammy that she became a knife thrower. Sammy used to cry all the time, and our da used to say “Shut up, Sammy,” only much ruder. Then he’d shout at mam to keep Sammy quiet and she couldn’t. So he left.
Then I thought it would be better in the house, without his shouting, but Mam took on that role instead. It used to go like this:
Mam: Tracey, fetch me a nappy from the bathroom for Sammy.
Me: What, Mam? (Because Sammy was screaming so loud, I couldn’t hear her.)
Mam: A nappy! From the bathroom. Are you deaf, girl?
Me: But I couldn’t hear, Mam, ‘cos of…
Mam: Eejit! Can ye no see what I need? Are ye stupid as well as deaf? Do I have to live in a hoose wi’ two eejits?
By the time I was eight and Sammy was six, I’d learned to estimate when Sammy would need a clean nappy, and by the time I was twelve and he was ten, I had been changing his nappy myself for years.
Then there was money. Da didnae give us any, and Mam couldn’t go out to work because of Sammy, so Mam would shout at me for growing too big for my clothes and shoes.
But now I’m grown up, it goes like this:
Mam: Tracey, look at this mess. Sammy’s knocked over his plate again.
Me: Don’t you worry, Mam. I’ll clear it up.
So now I’m like the girl in the bikini, who keeps smiling and doesn’t flinch, ‘cos if you don’t squirm, the knives don’t hit you. But I can’t stop biting my nails and my skin is all flaky and my hair keeps falling out. That’s why I was wondering about the girl in the bikini, and about whether she had ulcers and stuff.
Just now me and Sammy are watching cartoons on TV. At least, I’m watching, and sometimes, when I look at Sammy, his eyes seem to be focused on the screen. I like sitting with him. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even cry any more.
Once, at school, our teacher told us to write a composition about a proverb. It went like this: ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ She explained what it meant.
I wrote a story about a girl with a disabled brother, and her mam won the lottery. They bought the little brother a posh electric wheelchair and all sorts of equipment. It made life easier.
Then the girl and her brother were taken on a holiday to a castle with silver turrets and a drawbridge and beautiful trees and flowers. They had chocolate to eat, and strawberry ice cream. Her brother wasn’t disabled when he was there because it was a magic castle, but they were only allowed to go in the first place because he was disabled.
I tried very hard and wrote my best story ever, but the teacher chose another girl’s story to read out.
Really, I don’t think clouds have silver linings. Like now, they are all over grey. It might rain, but I have to go out to work anyway. Mam says I’m lucky to have a job at all, being as I’m not good at much.
I can walk to work. It only takes 20 minutes, so it saves on bus fare. I wish it was a pretty walk, though, through the woods or beside a lake. Instead, it goes past the scrap yard.
The clouds seem so low you could touch them. They’re kind of greyish purple. The scrap yard’s full of spiky metal. There’s bits of rusty machinery and smashed car parts, but it’s all too old and mangled to be any use to anyone. If it was any good, someone would’ve nicked it before now.
* * *
Those clouds weren’t rain clouds, they were snow. When I walked back from work the scrap yard was covered in snow. The spiky metal had turned into a fairy castle with sparkling turrets and statues. There was a banquet table with food for kings and queens, silver knives and forks, and crystal goblets of wine. It was a magic potion that would heal everyone who drank it.
When I got home, some kids in our street had built a snowman. Its head had fallen off, so I rolled it a bit more and put it back on.
I went up to our flat and looked out at it. From our window, there was a street lamp right behind its head. It looked like a crown. “Look,” I said to Sammy. “A snow king.” I hoisted him up so he could see it. He’s really heavy nowadays.
Then I sat beside him. He looked at me. I’m not kidding, I swear he looked straight at me and said “’Sgood.”
“Mam! Mam!” I yelled, but she was watching TV. Anyway, suddenly I didn’t want to share it with her. I looked at Sammy again. He looked at me and beamed.
Second Prize
David Andrews The Game
Tomorrow was the day. It was their secret. He believed mum would do her nut if she found out.
Edgar was sleeping with his scarf tonight, secreted under the covers in case mum came in. She’d smell a rat, he couldn’t get anything past her. He needed to be as smart as a carrot, as she would put it.
She’d asked him; “What are you up to tomorrow?”
“I’m going to Terry’s after lunch, his mum said I could stay for tea. I expect we’ll play football or something, watch Dr Who.”
Keep your lies near the truth. He’d heard that somewhere.
“You’re seeing a lot of Terry these days, is he your best friend now?”
Edgar shrugged. ”Sort of, I suppose.”
“I’d better speak to his mother sometime, make sure you’re behaving round there.”
Edgar squirmed. “They’re not on the phone.”
“I know,” she said.
Edgar had found his father by chance three weeks earlier, the man referred to only as That Bastard in the home he shared with mum. He nearly hadn’t recognised him, stood outside Radio Rentals in the grainy dark of a November afternoon, wearing a donkey jacket with shiny shoulders, his face sooty black. Edgar was afraid to speak. He wondered if his father would know who he was. Edgar edged into the group of men, steaming in macs and scarves outside the shop, shouting and laughing as the football results inched up the screens of the television sets on display.
“Watford 2….Rochdale 1,” a voice up the front relayed the score as it flickered across the teleprinter.
Someone at the back shouted, “Who gives a toss,” and they all roared. Edgar crept closer, watching the men’s faces flickering in the rays of light from the window, like an old film. His father’s gaze found him through a thicket of bodies. That Bastard had seen him. Edgar stared back and got a bit of a nod, no more.
“Here we go, listen up….” The crowd fell silent; it was the local score, the Albion, the blue and whites.
“Albion 3”…a muted cheer, that’s a win, can’t lose when you score three….Carlisle 4.”
An explosion of swearing and laughter burst from the group and men peeled away, shaking their heads. His dad was laughing out loud. He walked across to Edgar.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“I come here most Saturdays. Haven’t got a telly at home.”
“Nor have we.”
“Come next week, if you want.”
Edgar stared at his father’s face, straining for memories. He believed it had always looked like this, eyes flaring white against greasy blackness, like a startled horse.
“Dad? Why did you laugh at the Albion score?”
“Because they’re crap, son. You’ll find out.”
Then he turned and was gone. Edgar watched him mount the cab of his lorry and drive away.
Edgar went back the following week, under cover of another trip to his new best friend. This time dad held him up above the heads of the men in front, so he could see the screens for himself. He was watching the screen of a big Rediffusion when the Albion score came up and they’d won, 2- nil, so that became his lucky television and he wouldn’t watch the scores on any other. When they parted, his dad said,
“You haven’t told your mother, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Best keep it that way.”
When he got home his mother had a Dusty Springfield record on, which usually meant she was unhappy about something. She asked him why he had coal dust on his jumper and he said he’d shut the coal cellar door on his way in because it had blown open.
“You know, That Bastard has never given us so much as one bag of coal since he left. Not bad going for a coalman, is it?”
“I know, mum.”
She closed her eyes and hummed along to Dusty. Edgar watched her.
“Did you have a good time at Terry’s?”
“Yeah, it was good. He’s got a drum kit.”
She nodded, her eyes closed. “Go and run a bath.”
“Why?”
“Coal dust, Edgar. You need to wash that filth off.”
A few weeks passed before Edgar found the courage to ask him. It was a mild December afternoon and the usual group was gathered, digesting the scores. Some of the men acknowledged him with a nod or a wink, now they knew who he was.
“Will you take me to a game?”
“One day, I daresay.”
“I thought about next week, it’s the third round. You know, the cup…”
“I know what the third round is.”
He rubbed his face and black finger marks streaked his cheek. “They’ll get beat you know. I’ve told you, they’re crap.”
“They won’t. Anyway, I don’t mind. They’ve got a new bloke up front.” He felt anxious and hollow.
“Meet me at the ground at ten to three, turnstiles at the South End. You know the South End?”
Edgar had no idea. ”Yeah, ‘course.”
“Don’t tell your mother.”
“No…. Dad, will you bring your scarf?” He shook his over his head, laughing.
“I daresay.”
Edgar got to the ground at two’o’clock. Although he’d never been there before, he had just followed the blue and white tide through the town until it broke against the stadium walls. The men walked fast and boys tumbled in their wake, a riot of wet bobble hats and scarves. He stood in the shadow of the South End for three hours. He listened to the crowd breathe and sigh as the game played out, as hope rose, and then fell away.
Mum was in the kitchen.
“Have a good time?”
“It was OK.”
“What happened in Dr Who?”
Edgar struggled to speak.” I don’t know, daleks I think… yeah, daleks.”
“Where’s your scarf?”
He shrugged. Stripped from his hand by the force of thousands of damp and musty men rushing home. She studied him for a moment.
“He didn’t turn up, did he?”
Edgar didn’t really feel any surprise. “No, he didn’t.”
“Go and wash your hands, I’ll make some tea.”
She switched on the radio. Herb Albert was playing Spanish Flea. That was more like it.
David Andrews The Game
Tomorrow was the day. It was their secret. He believed mum would do her nut if she found out.
Edgar was sleeping with his scarf tonight, secreted under the covers in case mum came in. She’d smell a rat, he couldn’t get anything past her. He needed to be as smart as a carrot, as she would put it.
She’d asked him; “What are you up to tomorrow?”
“I’m going to Terry’s after lunch, his mum said I could stay for tea. I expect we’ll play football or something, watch Dr Who.”
Keep your lies near the truth. He’d heard that somewhere.
“You’re seeing a lot of Terry these days, is he your best friend now?”
Edgar shrugged. ”Sort of, I suppose.”
“I’d better speak to his mother sometime, make sure you’re behaving round there.”
Edgar squirmed. “They’re not on the phone.”
“I know,” she said.
Edgar had found his father by chance three weeks earlier, the man referred to only as That Bastard in the home he shared with mum. He nearly hadn’t recognised him, stood outside Radio Rentals in the grainy dark of a November afternoon, wearing a donkey jacket with shiny shoulders, his face sooty black. Edgar was afraid to speak. He wondered if his father would know who he was. Edgar edged into the group of men, steaming in macs and scarves outside the shop, shouting and laughing as the football results inched up the screens of the television sets on display.
“Watford 2….Rochdale 1,” a voice up the front relayed the score as it flickered across the teleprinter.
Someone at the back shouted, “Who gives a toss,” and they all roared. Edgar crept closer, watching the men’s faces flickering in the rays of light from the window, like an old film. His father’s gaze found him through a thicket of bodies. That Bastard had seen him. Edgar stared back and got a bit of a nod, no more.
“Here we go, listen up….” The crowd fell silent; it was the local score, the Albion, the blue and whites.
“Albion 3”…a muted cheer, that’s a win, can’t lose when you score three….Carlisle 4.”
An explosion of swearing and laughter burst from the group and men peeled away, shaking their heads. His dad was laughing out loud. He walked across to Edgar.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“I come here most Saturdays. Haven’t got a telly at home.”
“Nor have we.”
“Come next week, if you want.”
Edgar stared at his father’s face, straining for memories. He believed it had always looked like this, eyes flaring white against greasy blackness, like a startled horse.
“Dad? Why did you laugh at the Albion score?”
“Because they’re crap, son. You’ll find out.”
Then he turned and was gone. Edgar watched him mount the cab of his lorry and drive away.
Edgar went back the following week, under cover of another trip to his new best friend. This time dad held him up above the heads of the men in front, so he could see the screens for himself. He was watching the screen of a big Rediffusion when the Albion score came up and they’d won, 2- nil, so that became his lucky television and he wouldn’t watch the scores on any other. When they parted, his dad said,
“You haven’t told your mother, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Best keep it that way.”
When he got home his mother had a Dusty Springfield record on, which usually meant she was unhappy about something. She asked him why he had coal dust on his jumper and he said he’d shut the coal cellar door on his way in because it had blown open.
“You know, That Bastard has never given us so much as one bag of coal since he left. Not bad going for a coalman, is it?”
“I know, mum.”
She closed her eyes and hummed along to Dusty. Edgar watched her.
“Did you have a good time at Terry’s?”
“Yeah, it was good. He’s got a drum kit.”
She nodded, her eyes closed. “Go and run a bath.”
“Why?”
“Coal dust, Edgar. You need to wash that filth off.”
A few weeks passed before Edgar found the courage to ask him. It was a mild December afternoon and the usual group was gathered, digesting the scores. Some of the men acknowledged him with a nod or a wink, now they knew who he was.
“Will you take me to a game?”
“One day, I daresay.”
“I thought about next week, it’s the third round. You know, the cup…”
“I know what the third round is.”
He rubbed his face and black finger marks streaked his cheek. “They’ll get beat you know. I’ve told you, they’re crap.”
“They won’t. Anyway, I don’t mind. They’ve got a new bloke up front.” He felt anxious and hollow.
“Meet me at the ground at ten to three, turnstiles at the South End. You know the South End?”
Edgar had no idea. ”Yeah, ‘course.”
“Don’t tell your mother.”
“No…. Dad, will you bring your scarf?” He shook his over his head, laughing.
“I daresay.”
Edgar got to the ground at two’o’clock. Although he’d never been there before, he had just followed the blue and white tide through the town until it broke against the stadium walls. The men walked fast and boys tumbled in their wake, a riot of wet bobble hats and scarves. He stood in the shadow of the South End for three hours. He listened to the crowd breathe and sigh as the game played out, as hope rose, and then fell away.
Mum was in the kitchen.
“Have a good time?”
“It was OK.”
“What happened in Dr Who?”
Edgar struggled to speak.” I don’t know, daleks I think… yeah, daleks.”
“Where’s your scarf?”
He shrugged. Stripped from his hand by the force of thousands of damp and musty men rushing home. She studied him for a moment.
“He didn’t turn up, did he?”
Edgar didn’t really feel any surprise. “No, he didn’t.”
“Go and wash your hands, I’ll make some tea.”
She switched on the radio. Herb Albert was playing Spanish Flea. That was more like it.
Third Prize
Joanna Pocock Dry Cleaning
I looked at the leopard print frames of her glasses and wondered if she had them specially made to match her outfits. I imagined her plush bedroom lined with cat print fabrics and scatter cushions. She stared back at me through the lenses of those glasses. Her eyes were not the mournful, intelligent eyes of a large cat but those of a small rodent. She was a rat in cat’s clothes I had thought at the time, slightly unkindly, I now realise these months later.
“Thanks,” I said and took my dry cleaning, my husband’s shirts folded between sheets of crisp white tissue paper.
“Have a nice day,” she replied and I turned away.
Her rat eyes and her cat frames made me uncomfortable and a little sad.
I took my husband’s clean shirts home and sat and thought about the cat lady all day. I wondered how many cats had spots. The only big cats I could think of were leopards, lions, pumas and tigers. But lions, pumas and tigers don’t have spots. There were probably dozens of other large cats with spots. Ones I had never heard of.
That night a word came to me in my dreams: ocelot. It came at me from somewhere deep inside. Probably from elementary school or from a National Geographic special.
The next night it was jaguar. Of course. How could I forget that one? And cheetah came the following night. Another totally obvious one. Then serval slunk into my unconscious mind. I have no idea from where. The final one to come was lynx.
I was dreaming of cats.
A week passed and it was time to exchange my husband’s dirty shirts for clean ones.
The lady was there in her animal print outfit as usual. I handed her my husband’s pile of shirts and she took them brusquely and handed me his crisp clean ones wrapped in cellophane, along with the pink slip I would need to collect the next batch.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” she replied.
It looked like she’d been crying.
I wanted to ask her what was wrong but I didn’t know her well enough.
I left and said I’d be back the next Monday.
Her eyes were more like pig’s eyes that day, rimmed in red.
I sat and wondered about her. I didn’t want to tell my husband how much time I was spending thinking about her, but when he mentioned that maybe we should stop using the dry cleaners, my heart stopped.
“It’s bad for the planet,” he kept saying, “and now with you out of work, it’s adding up.”
I had to agree.
So I started washing and ironing his shirts. And I gave away all the clothes I owned that needed dry cleaning. We started living simply. Cutting back. Being frugal. To my husband it was like a game. How much money we didn’t spend became his favourite topic of conversation.
And the cat lady? I passed the dry cleaning shop most days on my way to the bulk food store and the recycling bank. I always looked in to try and see her but she kept the glass so shiny all I got were reflections of myself.
One day as I passed, she had the door wedged open and I got a full view inside. Someone else was behind the counter. A woman in her twenties, about my age, with dyed neon pink hair and a U of M t-shirt. She was chewing gum.
I went home and told my husband I was worried about the cat lady.
‘You’re obsessed,” he said.
“And what if I am?” I replied.
“You need a job,” he said.
And that’s when I knew exactly what I needed to do. I got the sewing machine out and bought some fabric. I went for a 1950s style dress and a cardigan I found on eBay. The shoes were trickier, but a vintage store downtown had the perfect pair with a matching handbag.
The next day, I went in and asked for the cat lady.
“She’s sick,” said the woman. She was wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Of course I don’t look busy, I did it right the first time’.
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said wondering what the cat lady would make of the woman’s t-shirt. “Do you know when she might be back at work?” I asked.
“Um, no, she’s just had an operation. I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
“Oh,” I said, then gathering up my pluck, I asked, “do you know if she’s hiring?”
The woman looked at me, without blinking. “Um, I could find out. I’m heading back to college in the fall so maybe then?”
“That would be great,” I said.
The woman told me to come back in a couple of days.
And well, I wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t all worked out. The cat lady was too sick to return to work. She visits though and we compare spots. We’ve ventured together into stripes. I found a fabric shop going out of business and bought all the cat prints they had. I gave her half of what I bought. When customers see us together they think she’s my mother. I’m totally fine with that because I don’t talk to my mother. In fact I don’t even like my own mother. She was never able to understand anything I did, nor did she approve of my husband. He, on the other hand, is relieved that I’ve found a job. He’s not sure about the outfits and the scatter cushions, but I think he’ll get used to them. As I keep telling him, I’ve gone too far to ever come back. Can you ever come back from anything as big as this? I ask him.
But my poor husband, he never has the answer.
Joanna Pocock Dry Cleaning
I looked at the leopard print frames of her glasses and wondered if she had them specially made to match her outfits. I imagined her plush bedroom lined with cat print fabrics and scatter cushions. She stared back at me through the lenses of those glasses. Her eyes were not the mournful, intelligent eyes of a large cat but those of a small rodent. She was a rat in cat’s clothes I had thought at the time, slightly unkindly, I now realise these months later.
“Thanks,” I said and took my dry cleaning, my husband’s shirts folded between sheets of crisp white tissue paper.
“Have a nice day,” she replied and I turned away.
Her rat eyes and her cat frames made me uncomfortable and a little sad.
I took my husband’s clean shirts home and sat and thought about the cat lady all day. I wondered how many cats had spots. The only big cats I could think of were leopards, lions, pumas and tigers. But lions, pumas and tigers don’t have spots. There were probably dozens of other large cats with spots. Ones I had never heard of.
That night a word came to me in my dreams: ocelot. It came at me from somewhere deep inside. Probably from elementary school or from a National Geographic special.
The next night it was jaguar. Of course. How could I forget that one? And cheetah came the following night. Another totally obvious one. Then serval slunk into my unconscious mind. I have no idea from where. The final one to come was lynx.
I was dreaming of cats.
A week passed and it was time to exchange my husband’s dirty shirts for clean ones.
The lady was there in her animal print outfit as usual. I handed her my husband’s pile of shirts and she took them brusquely and handed me his crisp clean ones wrapped in cellophane, along with the pink slip I would need to collect the next batch.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” she replied.
It looked like she’d been crying.
I wanted to ask her what was wrong but I didn’t know her well enough.
I left and said I’d be back the next Monday.
Her eyes were more like pig’s eyes that day, rimmed in red.
I sat and wondered about her. I didn’t want to tell my husband how much time I was spending thinking about her, but when he mentioned that maybe we should stop using the dry cleaners, my heart stopped.
“It’s bad for the planet,” he kept saying, “and now with you out of work, it’s adding up.”
I had to agree.
So I started washing and ironing his shirts. And I gave away all the clothes I owned that needed dry cleaning. We started living simply. Cutting back. Being frugal. To my husband it was like a game. How much money we didn’t spend became his favourite topic of conversation.
And the cat lady? I passed the dry cleaning shop most days on my way to the bulk food store and the recycling bank. I always looked in to try and see her but she kept the glass so shiny all I got were reflections of myself.
One day as I passed, she had the door wedged open and I got a full view inside. Someone else was behind the counter. A woman in her twenties, about my age, with dyed neon pink hair and a U of M t-shirt. She was chewing gum.
I went home and told my husband I was worried about the cat lady.
‘You’re obsessed,” he said.
“And what if I am?” I replied.
“You need a job,” he said.
And that’s when I knew exactly what I needed to do. I got the sewing machine out and bought some fabric. I went for a 1950s style dress and a cardigan I found on eBay. The shoes were trickier, but a vintage store downtown had the perfect pair with a matching handbag.
The next day, I went in and asked for the cat lady.
“She’s sick,” said the woman. She was wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Of course I don’t look busy, I did it right the first time’.
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said wondering what the cat lady would make of the woman’s t-shirt. “Do you know when she might be back at work?” I asked.
“Um, no, she’s just had an operation. I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
“Oh,” I said, then gathering up my pluck, I asked, “do you know if she’s hiring?”
The woman looked at me, without blinking. “Um, I could find out. I’m heading back to college in the fall so maybe then?”
“That would be great,” I said.
The woman told me to come back in a couple of days.
And well, I wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t all worked out. The cat lady was too sick to return to work. She visits though and we compare spots. We’ve ventured together into stripes. I found a fabric shop going out of business and bought all the cat prints they had. I gave her half of what I bought. When customers see us together they think she’s my mother. I’m totally fine with that because I don’t talk to my mother. In fact I don’t even like my own mother. She was never able to understand anything I did, nor did she approve of my husband. He, on the other hand, is relieved that I’ve found a job. He’s not sure about the outfits and the scatter cushions, but I think he’ll get used to them. As I keep telling him, I’ve gone too far to ever come back. Can you ever come back from anything as big as this? I ask him.
But my poor husband, he never has the answer.
Shortlisted
Flying down to Rio - Lucilla Bellucci
One good turn - Claire Knight
On the seventh day of Christmas - Sarah Palmer
Tattoo - Jason Gibbs
One good turn - Claire Knight
On the seventh day of Christmas - Sarah Palmer
Tattoo - Jason Gibbs
