Links to “THE BOMB IN THE SHED…” - CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4 - CHAPTER 5 - CHAPTER 6 - Chapter 7 - CHAPTER 8
Hi Everyone
I thought I would share another short story with you.
This is another one I wrote when I was getting my first creative writing lessons last year. I submitted it to a few writing competitions and it get shortlisted in a couple, which was encouraging.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Here you go…
The Photograph
Stefan came to dinner a month after Bobby died. During the day, my parents barely talked. Mum fussed around the kitchen cooking while Dad lurked in the garage, emerging occasionally to share a scowl with anyone who was there to see. The only time I remembered them speaking was about me.
“If I have to be there, so can she,” Dad had said.
Mum didn’t want to force me, but I was glad to get a chance to be there. My parents never talked about Bobby, at least not with me; in our house grief was something seen but not heard. I needed to know what had happened to my brother, and Stefan might be the one who could tell me.
The dining room was set up and ready for the dinner a couple of days ahead. Mum used everything that was only ever saved ‘for best’. A floral china dinner service, solid silver cutlery, and lead crystal glasses that had been hidden away in cupboards for twenty years, still in their boxes.
Dad stared at the table resentfully every time he passed it.
Mum ignored him.
The doorbell rang earlier than expected. Mum shouted, ‘I’ll get it’ and rushed down the stairs. She’d been in my room helping me get ready, making sure I wore a dress and looked ‘presentable’, with hair brushed properly, instead of in my usual denim dungarees and hair run wild. I had on a dress we’d bought together a few months before. It was the only one I was prepared to wear and Mum didn’t want me kicking up a fuss. Today it felt stiff and awkward, but I knew not to say anything.
As I reached the stairs, Dad emerged from the garage still in his dirty corduroy trousers and T shirt, grease on his hands. Mum always complained that he got ready at the last minute but this time he’d really left things late; she’d been ready for hours. Maybe he was trying to irritate Mum, or maybe he didn’t believe Stefan would turn up. She gave him a disapproving stare as she whisked past.
In the past, Stefan would explode into the house with an energy that lifted the place and didn’t die down until he was gone. A kiss on both cheeks for Mum even though you normally didn’t do that kind of thing in England back then. A firm hand shake for my Dad and then a big hug for his ‘favourite little sister’. Sometimes he’d pick me up and spin me around as if I weighed nothing at all. He was so strong. I loved it.
The Stefan who appeared now was a different person though, edging through the door sheepishly thanking Mum who greeted him with a ‘lovely to see you’. He looked gaunt, as if all the strength had been sucked out of him, leaving just skin and bone under his now loose fitting jacket and shirt. His larger than life personality seemed to have shrunk to almost nothing. But more noticeable than all of this was his skin. His hands were red and swollen, the tips of his fingers withered and black. His face was cracked and blistered with angry patches of purple and black scarring, familiar eyes staring out as if from behind a grotesque mask. He looked like a monster. I hung back up the stairs as Mum showed him through the hallway into the dining room. He mumbled a hello as he passed Dad, who stood still, glaring at him.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be there after all. Not just because of how horrible Stefan looked, but because now I was afraid of the terrible things he would say about what happened to Bobby. I wondered if anyone would notice if I stayed in my room and didn’t come down for dinner. But in the end I followed too. My need to know about Bobby was stronger than my fear.
Stefan stood in front of the collection of framed photographs on top of the sideboard. He looked puzzled.
“It’s not there anymore,” Dad said, the first words spoken to Stefan since he arrived.
Stefan turned away without replying.
“Let’s eat,” said Mum.
We never played music during dinner. Without Bobby teasing me and Dad trying to impress Stefan, there was just the awkward sound of spoons scratching on glass bowls as we ate our shrimp cocktail. The cutlery felt odd in my hands, large and heavy. Mum made occasional brave attempts at small talk and Stefan did his best to join in. His voice sounded as broken as his body looked. My Dad sat quietly, drinking wine while their glasses were barely touched. When Mum got up to clear the dishes and fetch the main course from the kitchen the room lapsed back into silence, each of us staring into our empty plates. She returned with a large pan of lasagne, salad and homemade bread. The smell filled the room but I didn’t feel hungry, I don’t think anyone did. She dished up and we began picking at our plates.
“Tell me about Austria.” Mum leaned across the table and took hold of Stefan’s damaged hand. I didn’t know how she could bear to touch it.
Stefan glanced nervously at Dad who just sat staring at his food.
“Look at me,” she held his gaze as his frightened eyes looked back at her, framed by blisters and scars. “I need to know.”
Stefan talked about the trip; the flight over with their gear, hiking into the mountains, the anticipation of the climb. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Bobby and Stefan together during his last few days, captured by the story but dreading where it would end. A loud crash interrupted Stefan. Dad had thrown down his knife and fork down on his plate.
“Did you cut the rope?” Dad stared at Stefan; his fists clenched so tightly they’d turned white.
And his face was hard. I’d never seen him like this before. It frightened me more than Stefan’s ruined features. Stefan opened his mouth to speak but stopped under Dad’s glare.
From his pocket, Dad pulled out a photograph and threw it on the table. It was the one missing from the mantlepiece: Bobby and Stefan at the summit of a mountain, smiling in triumph. “He was your climbing partner, your friend. You never cut the rope. Ever”
Stefan looked down at the photograph for a moment then picked it up and studied it.
“Well?” asked Dad.
Stefan was still studying the photograph.
“Did you cut it?”
Stefan stood a little straighter, and this time he held Dad’s gaze. “Bobby wasn’t my friend.”
“How can you say that?” asked Mum.
“He wasn’t my friend,” said Stefan again. “He was my life. He was everything.”
Mum’s face collapsed from confusion into dismay as she jumped up and wrapped her arms around Stefan, hugging him tight. “You poor boy,” she said over and over again as they held each other.
Stefan, still locked in my Mum’s embrace, looked over at me and smiled sadly. He wasn’t a monster anymore. He was Stefan.
“Still my favourite sister?”
I nodded and ran over to join their hug. I hadn’t realised how much I needed their warmth until that moment.
Then I thought about Dad and looked to see if he was joining us, but he wasn’t. He’d picked up the photograph and was staring at it, looking at the two beautiful young men, smiles on their faces. It was as if he was seeing it properly for the first time.
That’s it, hope that was interesting. Any comments or questions let me know.
Jonathan
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