2018 Exeter Flash Competition Winners
First Prize - Little White Lies - Mandy Hobart
In England, I was carer for Mrs Jennings. She don’t mind that I tall and black. She nice lady; she always say ‘thank you, Esme,’ when I wipe dribble off chin, sponge shit from legs, or bring favourite salmon mousse on little blue plate. ‘Thank you.’
Sometimes we look at photo books; brother killed in The War by Japs, kind of sickness I think, or husband who die from heart attack in Parliament, near big clock called Ben.
Her face soft like peach. Wrinkled like elephant’s elbow. Her smile is sunshine.
At night she won’t use the bell to call me, so I listen for her cry when pain gets too big.
‘Okay, sweetie,’ I say.
She don’t like being called ‘sweetie’.
‘Don’t call me sweetie,’ and I know she’s not thinking of her pain for a bit.
I turn her.
‘Oh-Oh-Oh!’
‘Better now?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Esme.’
In morning, I change her stinky-shitty pad, then carry her weak like baby bird to chair. If she’s having good day, she calls her daughter, whose pictures are on the bookshelf, tv, piano, all along the windowsill. But daughter never visits. Why? Why she no come see her mummy?
‘Mrs J, you want phone Neeta?’
‘Yes please.’
I dial number on special phone, just for daughter, and hand it to her. Then I listen to her telling lies.
‘Hello, Nita? Mother here. Yes, it’s been a while, I’ve been so hectic. Oh fine, just got back from France. How’s Rob? Wonderful! And Jamie? Gosh, don’t they grow up fast?’
But often there’s no answer, because Neeta’s busy with husband-and-child-and-executive-job-and-run-house. Sometimes the daughter-phone rings when Mrs J having bad day, so we let it go to the message she made, saying she’s out. If it not-so-bad day, she nods at me and I give it to her, so she can tell more lies.
‘Thank you, Esme.’
‘Nita! How nice of you to call. Yesterday? I was doing a bit of gardening, Can’t always hear the phone from the greenhouse.’
One night she say ‘Esme, you are a darling.’ Then she die.
I look at clock, because death time always important, and hold her hand getting cold, until light through curtain starts making shadows on carpet.
On not-daughter phone I call solicitor Mr Dawkins. He pays my wages, taxes, supermarket, electric, and he sends money to Africa for me every month. I tell him very sorry for that, Mrs Jennings passed away.
‘What time, Esme?’
‘Four-oh-six.’
‘Four-oh-six? Good Lord. I’ll phone the doctor to make arrangements. You need to come see me please, tomorrow.’
Soon the house full of people who don’t know her. The doctor writes four-oh-six on death certificate. They take her away.
House silent-empty now. I hoover bedroom. Look at photo books.
White girl sits with Mr Dawkins, thin like Aids person. He says her name Hanna and she’s from Poland. He tells her I am Esme, from Africa. She stares at my blackness, I stare at her hair, long-greasy-brown. Why she here?
He makes church with fingers.
‘Esme, you cared for Mrs Jennings. Hanna, you cared for Anita Thompson.’
We frown at each other. At same time we say, ‘She was sick?’
‘Yes, mother and daughter were both unwell.’
I ask, ‘Where’s Neeta’s husband? And grandson, Jamie?’
His mouth press together. Hanna shakes her head.
‘Anita and Rob divorced many years ago, following the tragic death of their son James.’
Lies.
Kind lies.
White lies.
Both ends of phone.
‘In their wills, they left everything to each other. Unless predeceased, in which case the estates go to their carers.’
Oh!
Someone shouts in street. Police car goes past, wee-wah, wee-wah.
‘Anita Thompson died at three twenty-eight. Mrs Jennings at four-oh-six, thirty-eight minutes later, on the same night.’
We can’t work it out.
‘This means both estates will go to Esme.’
My mouth hangs open and dry. My heart beats like drum.
Blind at window crooked, one side too tired to go to top.
Clock goes dok-dok-dok-dok.
Mrs J in chair, brave with pain like lion, all the time making plan for Esme.
Hanna’s crying. She has family too. Like me, she works away from home to help them.
I look at Mr Dawkins.
‘Give Hanna Neeta’s house,’ I say, and leave him to get on with all the papers.
Travel agency is two doors down.
I was carer for Mrs Jennings. Now I can go home.
Sometimes we look at photo books; brother killed in The War by Japs, kind of sickness I think, or husband who die from heart attack in Parliament, near big clock called Ben.
Her face soft like peach. Wrinkled like elephant’s elbow. Her smile is sunshine.
At night she won’t use the bell to call me, so I listen for her cry when pain gets too big.
‘Okay, sweetie,’ I say.
She don’t like being called ‘sweetie’.
‘Don’t call me sweetie,’ and I know she’s not thinking of her pain for a bit.
I turn her.
‘Oh-Oh-Oh!’
‘Better now?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Esme.’
In morning, I change her stinky-shitty pad, then carry her weak like baby bird to chair. If she’s having good day, she calls her daughter, whose pictures are on the bookshelf, tv, piano, all along the windowsill. But daughter never visits. Why? Why she no come see her mummy?
‘Mrs J, you want phone Neeta?’
‘Yes please.’
I dial number on special phone, just for daughter, and hand it to her. Then I listen to her telling lies.
‘Hello, Nita? Mother here. Yes, it’s been a while, I’ve been so hectic. Oh fine, just got back from France. How’s Rob? Wonderful! And Jamie? Gosh, don’t they grow up fast?’
But often there’s no answer, because Neeta’s busy with husband-and-child-and-executive-job-and-run-house. Sometimes the daughter-phone rings when Mrs J having bad day, so we let it go to the message she made, saying she’s out. If it not-so-bad day, she nods at me and I give it to her, so she can tell more lies.
‘Thank you, Esme.’
‘Nita! How nice of you to call. Yesterday? I was doing a bit of gardening, Can’t always hear the phone from the greenhouse.’
One night she say ‘Esme, you are a darling.’ Then she die.
I look at clock, because death time always important, and hold her hand getting cold, until light through curtain starts making shadows on carpet.
On not-daughter phone I call solicitor Mr Dawkins. He pays my wages, taxes, supermarket, electric, and he sends money to Africa for me every month. I tell him very sorry for that, Mrs Jennings passed away.
‘What time, Esme?’
‘Four-oh-six.’
‘Four-oh-six? Good Lord. I’ll phone the doctor to make arrangements. You need to come see me please, tomorrow.’
Soon the house full of people who don’t know her. The doctor writes four-oh-six on death certificate. They take her away.
House silent-empty now. I hoover bedroom. Look at photo books.
White girl sits with Mr Dawkins, thin like Aids person. He says her name Hanna and she’s from Poland. He tells her I am Esme, from Africa. She stares at my blackness, I stare at her hair, long-greasy-brown. Why she here?
He makes church with fingers.
‘Esme, you cared for Mrs Jennings. Hanna, you cared for Anita Thompson.’
We frown at each other. At same time we say, ‘She was sick?’
‘Yes, mother and daughter were both unwell.’
I ask, ‘Where’s Neeta’s husband? And grandson, Jamie?’
His mouth press together. Hanna shakes her head.
‘Anita and Rob divorced many years ago, following the tragic death of their son James.’
Lies.
Kind lies.
White lies.
Both ends of phone.
‘In their wills, they left everything to each other. Unless predeceased, in which case the estates go to their carers.’
Oh!
Someone shouts in street. Police car goes past, wee-wah, wee-wah.
‘Anita Thompson died at three twenty-eight. Mrs Jennings at four-oh-six, thirty-eight minutes later, on the same night.’
We can’t work it out.
‘This means both estates will go to Esme.’
My mouth hangs open and dry. My heart beats like drum.
Blind at window crooked, one side too tired to go to top.
Clock goes dok-dok-dok-dok.
Mrs J in chair, brave with pain like lion, all the time making plan for Esme.
Hanna’s crying. She has family too. Like me, she works away from home to help them.
I look at Mr Dawkins.
‘Give Hanna Neeta’s house,’ I say, and leave him to get on with all the papers.
Travel agency is two doors down.
I was carer for Mrs Jennings. Now I can go home.
Second Prize - Chocolate Muffins - Sally Zigmond
Only one customer left. There she is over there by the door, not touching her latte. It won't be hot now, not after an hour. She’s sobbing. None of my business. I’ve got a fridge to clean and a floor to mop and her to walk out before I can shut up.
She keeps looking at the clock. ‘It’s fast,’ I call across the yoghurts, ‘They do it on purpose.’ She doesn’t move.
The robotic announcer crackles into action with one of her mysterious announcement. “Due to an earlier incident in Leicester, the 2105 to Derby is running approximately ten minutes late ... ten minutes late. Midland Link apologises for the inconvenience caused.”
Like Hell, it does, I mutter to the interior of the fridge as I count bottles of cola and other chemical concoctions and check sell-by dates. I then drag the bucket from under the counter, fill it with with foaming Flash and mop the floor-tiles. This place has smartened up since it became an American franchise but everyone is less friendly and the trains are just as unreliable not that its anything to do with me except that we are a team of sorts. Henry, the old station master, was a real laugh. Only, he had to retire. Nerves shot to pieces, poor man. The new man is a real jobsworth and hides in this office all day.
I gave evidence to the coroner. I told him how this man sat there for hours – just like her over there, then walked out as calm as you like in front of the 2105 to Derby.
‘I’m closing up in a mo.
She doesn’t look up.
‘Catching it, are you?’
No reply.
I’m getting this funny feeling. Not again. My heart is banging like as if it's off the tracks. Please. Please. Whoosh. The train roars in only one minute late. The mop rattles against the bucket. She stands up. I dash behind the counter, trip over the bucket,spill water everywhere, grab the bag of left-over chocolate muffins I was saving for next-door's spaniel. I don’t know why. I catch my breath and her at the door and shove the bag in her free hand.
‘From a friend,’ I said. Again, I don't know why.
‘Thanks,’ she says and touches my arm. A butterfly’s wing. The whistle blows. The train trundles off picking up speed, with her and her chocolate muffins safely stowed away. I don't know whether it was the muffins or not but I tip away her untouched latte in the sink, pull down the blind and turn the sign over.
She keeps looking at the clock. ‘It’s fast,’ I call across the yoghurts, ‘They do it on purpose.’ She doesn’t move.
The robotic announcer crackles into action with one of her mysterious announcement. “Due to an earlier incident in Leicester, the 2105 to Derby is running approximately ten minutes late ... ten minutes late. Midland Link apologises for the inconvenience caused.”
Like Hell, it does, I mutter to the interior of the fridge as I count bottles of cola and other chemical concoctions and check sell-by dates. I then drag the bucket from under the counter, fill it with with foaming Flash and mop the floor-tiles. This place has smartened up since it became an American franchise but everyone is less friendly and the trains are just as unreliable not that its anything to do with me except that we are a team of sorts. Henry, the old station master, was a real laugh. Only, he had to retire. Nerves shot to pieces, poor man. The new man is a real jobsworth and hides in this office all day.
I gave evidence to the coroner. I told him how this man sat there for hours – just like her over there, then walked out as calm as you like in front of the 2105 to Derby.
‘I’m closing up in a mo.
She doesn’t look up.
‘Catching it, are you?’
No reply.
I’m getting this funny feeling. Not again. My heart is banging like as if it's off the tracks. Please. Please. Whoosh. The train roars in only one minute late. The mop rattles against the bucket. She stands up. I dash behind the counter, trip over the bucket,spill water everywhere, grab the bag of left-over chocolate muffins I was saving for next-door's spaniel. I don’t know why. I catch my breath and her at the door and shove the bag in her free hand.
‘From a friend,’ I said. Again, I don't know why.
‘Thanks,’ she says and touches my arm. A butterfly’s wing. The whistle blows. The train trundles off picking up speed, with her and her chocolate muffins safely stowed away. I don't know whether it was the muffins or not but I tip away her untouched latte in the sink, pull down the blind and turn the sign over.
Third Prize - Round Midnight - Martin Sorrell
anyway midnight mist is the name two names in fact that got entered half an hour ago on my birth certificate so there it is midnight mist in black and white no other names and theres not a thing i can do about it
now theyre taking me home for a celebration with my nan and my brothers plus a neighbour so im in nans arms in the back of the nissan bumping along and im scared shes going to drop me if dad brakes too hard shes that clumsy but mostly im livid about midnight mist i can just hear them at school when i start in 2005 not to mention my twin brothers now but when im grown up ill change it to something normal louise gemma i really like louise gemma
with a name like midnight mist theres got to be a story behind it yes there is its stupid and pathetic but anyway here goes sorry no full stops and commas and everything else cant do that yet
so it was the middle of august last year 1999 the summer holidays id already been in mums tummy four months two weeks six days eight hours and twenty seven minutes we were on broadstairs beach because my brothers wanted to see punch hitting judy again and it was during the show that mum and dad started to discuss names to give me if i was a boy or a girl and then they started calculating dates and timing and the record they could claim if i played ball dad said it would fall out right if i fell out right joke haha from mums tum at exactly the right time
but it wasnt a joke he was serious the trick was for me to emerge on the stroke of midnight when the 20thcentury became the 21stwed get in the guinness book of records the first baby of the millennium and the daily express and the daily mail and the sun and itv would shell out money so he wouldnt have to drive a bus any more thank christ and mum could always get a job and hed stay home and look after us what do you mean mum shouted haven’t i got a big enough job already with you lot alright alright said dad keep your hair on
anyway september october november went to plan many visits from the health visitor lady who prodded around feeling me mum lied she was eating and drinking the right things and not smoking anymore and lying down lots i helped her out not making any fuss no kicking when the lady was in the house
december it was fine until christmas day when mum had too much wine and slipped on the stairs but a&e said no lasting damage dad said phew lucky escape back on track again glad you think so said mum
but lo and behold right on cue her waters broke and the evening of 31stwe were in the maternity unit mum moaning and groaning dad looking up at the clock all the time me following instructions playing ball
anyway there we all were with five minutes to go to midnight then ten nine eight and suddenly it was all happening in a big hurry theres mum yelling and pushing theres me wriggling and swimming trying to slow it down hold out for the first stroke of big ben
but mum spilled me out into the big wide world too early 11.59 and thirty six seconds precisely they knew because somebody had rung the speaking clock and they wrote it down so i wasnt born in 2000 but 1999 the record just missed dad said never mind well call her midnight mist get it everyone said yes tray droll haha not mum though cheer up dad said ive got another plan
back to today so when we get home from the registry office dad pours out the bubbly and toasts me midnight mist heres looking at you kid then he says now hes got the paperwork hes going to phone the guinness book of records and the daily mail etc because i definitely must be the last baby born anywhere in the 20thcentury
good then you can buy me a bungalow says my nan holding out her glass for a refill good says mum ill come and live with you holding out her glass as well
now theyre taking me home for a celebration with my nan and my brothers plus a neighbour so im in nans arms in the back of the nissan bumping along and im scared shes going to drop me if dad brakes too hard shes that clumsy but mostly im livid about midnight mist i can just hear them at school when i start in 2005 not to mention my twin brothers now but when im grown up ill change it to something normal louise gemma i really like louise gemma
with a name like midnight mist theres got to be a story behind it yes there is its stupid and pathetic but anyway here goes sorry no full stops and commas and everything else cant do that yet
so it was the middle of august last year 1999 the summer holidays id already been in mums tummy four months two weeks six days eight hours and twenty seven minutes we were on broadstairs beach because my brothers wanted to see punch hitting judy again and it was during the show that mum and dad started to discuss names to give me if i was a boy or a girl and then they started calculating dates and timing and the record they could claim if i played ball dad said it would fall out right if i fell out right joke haha from mums tum at exactly the right time
but it wasnt a joke he was serious the trick was for me to emerge on the stroke of midnight when the 20thcentury became the 21stwed get in the guinness book of records the first baby of the millennium and the daily express and the daily mail and the sun and itv would shell out money so he wouldnt have to drive a bus any more thank christ and mum could always get a job and hed stay home and look after us what do you mean mum shouted haven’t i got a big enough job already with you lot alright alright said dad keep your hair on
anyway september october november went to plan many visits from the health visitor lady who prodded around feeling me mum lied she was eating and drinking the right things and not smoking anymore and lying down lots i helped her out not making any fuss no kicking when the lady was in the house
december it was fine until christmas day when mum had too much wine and slipped on the stairs but a&e said no lasting damage dad said phew lucky escape back on track again glad you think so said mum
but lo and behold right on cue her waters broke and the evening of 31stwe were in the maternity unit mum moaning and groaning dad looking up at the clock all the time me following instructions playing ball
anyway there we all were with five minutes to go to midnight then ten nine eight and suddenly it was all happening in a big hurry theres mum yelling and pushing theres me wriggling and swimming trying to slow it down hold out for the first stroke of big ben
but mum spilled me out into the big wide world too early 11.59 and thirty six seconds precisely they knew because somebody had rung the speaking clock and they wrote it down so i wasnt born in 2000 but 1999 the record just missed dad said never mind well call her midnight mist get it everyone said yes tray droll haha not mum though cheer up dad said ive got another plan
back to today so when we get home from the registry office dad pours out the bubbly and toasts me midnight mist heres looking at you kid then he says now hes got the paperwork hes going to phone the guinness book of records and the daily mail etc because i definitely must be the last baby born anywhere in the 20thcentury
good then you can buy me a bungalow says my nan holding out her glass for a refill good says mum ill come and live with you holding out her glass as well
