First Prize Winner
In The Time It Takes To Make A Risotto Amanda Huggins
Isla sits down at the table, watches the blade of Sam’s knife glitter beneath the spotlights. Curved and sharp, it slices through the translucent flesh of pale green shallots, the velvety skin of dark mushrooms, three creamy cloves of garlic. She has something to tell him, yet she knows he’s busying himself in the kitchen so he doesn’t have to talk to her, even though he must surely be tired, having only arrived back from a European business trip that same afternoon.
Isla reaches for the local newspaper and scans the headlines, frowns as she reads about a serious assault in Primrose Park. She licks her finger, flicks impatiently through the pages until her eye is caught by the advice column.
“Dear Debbie, should I tell my husband about my affair with his best friend?”
She looks up, guilt burning her cheeks, but Sam has turned away from the counter to reach for the sauté pan.
It’s almost a year since Ged ended their relationship. They were infatuated with each other for a while, but he couldn’t bear to carry on deceiving his childhood friend. Isla has buried the details of their unpleasant break-up, blanked out the shameful memories of her desperate pleading, yet she can’t let go of those summer afternoons at his apartment; the slip and glide of his sweat-licked skin against hers, the heat and noise from the tapas bar below. Those stolen hours still breathe inside her, they dance to their own flamenco beat, flutter their wings against her ribcage.
She glances back down at the advice column, reads the response, relieved to discover that Debbie advises against owning up. Isla can’t comprehend why anyone would want to tell their partner about an affair – particularly if it was long since over. Unless they were seeking forgiveness? I was drunk, it didn’t mean anything. But Isla knew that was of little comfort to the wronged, even if it were ever true. No, she saw confession as a purely selfish act, to relieve the wrongdoer of their guilt, to set it free, to remove the weight of it pressing on their heart each day.
Yet on the odd occasion, when Isla and Sam argue, or when he flirts with one of her friends for a little too long, there’s a reckless part of her that wants to tell him.
She watches him now as he prepares the vegetable stock, adds a tablespoon of olive oil to the pan. The words hover on her lips, waiting to take flight, and her hands fly up to her mouth to stop them.
Sam turns round for a moment, his expression a question, then he turns away again, stirs the stock with slow precision, the tablespoon chiming against the glass jug. Isla stares at his broad back, T-shirt bunched up by the ties of his apron, feels the weight of the silence he carries within him.
‘Shall I read you your horoscope?’
He grimaces. ‘You know I don’t believe all that stuff – but go on, if you must.’
She finds the right page, traces her finger down the column until it rests on Leo.
‘“Try to open up to a loved one, discuss past wrongs and let old wounds finally heal. This week is an auspicious time for a new start.”’
Is she imagining it or does he flinch?
Isla clears her throat, opens her mouth to speak, and for a moment she’s sure she is going to tell him about Ged. But the words stick to the roof of her mouth like dry communion wafers; she can’t step up to the confessional when she has an unborn baby to think about. A decision to make.
Instead, she reads to him from the newspaper again, the pan sizzling as he browns the shallots and garlic. She reads the story about a pro-lifer who upset a group of students by handing out leaflets at the local school.
‘“The leaflet described the unborn baby at different stages of development.”’
She presses her hand to her stomach, imagines a heart the size of a poppy seed, tiny indentations where ears will grow, the nubs of arms and legs.
Sam doesn’t respond. Isla knows he has never wanted children, and she realises she has read this particular news story aloud to test his reaction. Rightly or wrongly she takes his silence as confirmation that his position hasn’t changed, as evidence that her announcement will be met with the same indifference. Yet she still hopes to be proved wrong.
The pan hisses a little as he adds the rice, stirs it until the grains are coated with oil, pours in a generous glug of wine. He adds the sliced mushrooms to a small omelette pan on the back ring.
Isla turns to the next page, skims through the job vacancies, sees the advertisement for a development manager at a prominent engineering firm.
‘Isn’t this the post you were hoping would come up?’ She reads the details to him and he nods.
‘It would be a great opportunity,’ he says, ‘but it’s a hundred miles away.’
‘Well maybe it’s time for a fresh start, just like it says in your horoscope?’
She looks up, waiting for an answer, catches a glimpse of his unease as he turns away. A stone drops to the pit of her stomach, but she stays quiet, turns to the property page and reads the details of the featured houses to herself.
“Charming two-bed detached cottage with inglenook fireplace and a wealth of other original features. A great bolthole for those with a romantic soul.”
She watches Sam add a little more stock, tip the cooked mushrooms into the pan, stir the rice gently with the wooden spoon that was once her grandma’s. She notices a glint of silver at the back of his neck; a thin curb chain she’s never seen before. Something tightens a little in her chest.
She flicks back a page, fills in the easy crossword clues, then pauses and chews her pen as she thinks more carefully about the rest. When she reaches an impasse she reads the remaining clues out loud.
‘Seven across is ‘payback’, eleven letters, and the seventh letter is ‘u’.’
‘Retribution?’
She nods and writes it down. Sam places the wooden spoon on the counter and pours in the last drop of stock, adds grated parmesan.
‘What’s the next clue?’ he asks.
‘Avoid something undesirable by luck or skill. Five letters, begins with ‘c’.’
‘Cheat.’
Isla glances up and their eyes meet. Sam blushes, then looks away, lifts down two dinner plates from the rack.
She turns to the next page, clears her throat, starts to read aloud again; a story about a man recently released from prison after accidentally killing his child. The girl was chasing a ball down their driveway and her father reversed out without seeing her – she was too small to be visible at the side of his car or in his rear view mirror.
In her grief his wife wanted him punished, hired lawyers, pressed the police to find him in some way culpable. In court they said he should have seen the girl in his wing mirror. Angles were considered, sketches produced.
‘“But when Mr Freeman was in prison his wife said she regretted her part in ensuring his prosecution, and even though she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him she spoke to him several times on the telephone.”’
‘Would you have forgiven me?’ Sam asks.
Isla looks up. ‘Of course,’ she says, automatically. But they both know it’s a lie.
She carries on reading. ‘“Mr Freeman said he understood why his wife had acted the way she did. He said he would never forgive himself, let alone expect his wife to, yet while in prison he had come to hope she would give their marriage another chance. The prison was a day’s travel from Freeman’s home, and he knew it would already be dark when he arrived home after his release. He asked his wife to do one simple thing – to leave the porch light on if she was prepared to take him back. When he arrived, the lawn was filled with hurricane lamps and torches, every light in the house was switched on, strings of fairy lights were wrapped around the fence.”’
‘You wouldn’t need to make a special effort here,’ Sam says. ‘We always have the lights on. This house is as bright as an operating theatre.’
Isla knows he’s right. She blinds herself to her fears in a dazzle of bulbs, hates the nights she can’t sleep, dreads lying awake in the dark, because the darkness makes everything clearer.
When he hands her the wine she acts on an unexpected impulse, reaches across to switch on the small table lamp, then gets up and flicks off the main spotlights. She decides she will tell him about the baby.
Sam pauses for a moment before he picks up the risotto, but neither of them speak. Isla fills their glasses, starts to fold the newspaper as he carries the plates over. As she puts it down, a photograph catches her eye. A man and a woman with their arms around each other’s waists, posing for the camera by a backwater canal in Venice. A glimpse of denim sky above the narrow buildings, the water below as dark as moss, a string of sun-bleached washing strung between two balconies. The figures are standing in shadow, some distance from the photographer, yet Isla recognises her friend’s gap-toothed grin, the cloud of strawberry hair tied up with a blue scarf.
‘Edie’s in the paper! Why is she in Venice?’ She peers more closely to see if she knows the man. ‘Who on earth is she with?’
Sam drops his plate of risotto onto the table a little too quickly and it clangs against his wine glass. Isla looks up, then back down at the photograph, taking in the short-sleeved shirt patterned with red hibiscus flowers. She reads the paragraph underneath, her hand shaking. She waits until Sam places the second plate of risotto down in front of her, then holds out the paper.
He takes it from her, eyes narrowed; puzzled at first. Then his jaw slackens and he blinks in slow motion as though to clear his vision. Isla watches his mouth half forming the words as he reads, as he tries to work out exactly how this could have happened, as he realises that everything can change irrevocably in the time it takes to make a risotto.
“One of our readers found a camera on Lumb Lane in East Cromley last weekend. The camera has suffered serious damage, but Mr Harris thought the owner may wish to be reunited with their photographs and suggested we might print one of them in the paper. We checked the memory card and found this romantic snap of a couple in Venice. We’d like to thank Mr Harris, and hope the owner of the camera will see themselves and give us a call.”
Sam re-folds the newspaper and places it carefully at the side of his plate, picks up his fork as though he plans to eat the risotto, clasps it tightly until the skin over his knuckles is as white as the bone beneath. Then he shrugs, loosens his grip, makes the decision not to fight it.
‘I remember now. Edie put her camera down on the roof of the car. We must have forgotten and driven off . . .’
‘Yes, you must have.’
Isla reaches across the table, turns off the lamp with a sharp click. The sound hangs there for a few moments in the darkness as their eyes adjust.
Second Prize Winner
Rescued Paul Barnett
Mitchell tells himself that what is going on at the other pumps is none of his concern, that he’s too old to get involved. Then the guy doing all the shouting starts dragging bags and toys from out the trunk of his car and throwing them down on the ground. The woman, a worn beauty, looks on, bored like she had been through this a hundred times or more, attempting to ride his anger with a practiced calm. She and child are both in shorts and vest tops. The child, no more than seven, her hair so blonde it’s almost white, holds the woman’s hand squirming slightly behind her. If he knew nothing else, Mitchell was certain it had been way too hot a day for this kind of carry on.
‘Asshole,’ Mitchell whispers as he finishes pumping gas into his truck.
The kid at the kiosk, wearing headphones is paying no mind to the drama unfolding out front on the forecourt he’s supposed to be managing.
The asshole is becoming engulfed in a flame of rage levelling all kinds of unsavoury vile accusations at the woman, moving from abuse to lecturing and loathing.
‘Jesus,’ Mitchell says, wiping his brow then finding himself taking a step or two in the direction of the waring couple.
` ‘Y’all need to be out here doing this?’ He says, up close.
The asshole, stunned into silence, turns around to face Mitchell. The woman, over his shoulder is shaking her head, like his interference is not needed and probably not a good idea. Mitchell is beginning to think along the same lines.
‘Does this have anything to do with you?’
‘In front of the child and all,’ Mitchell says.
` ‘Your hearing not so good old man?’
Mitchell reckons the asshole to be about thirty years younger and about 100lb heavier. Still, he can’t help but calculate his chances, it’s an old reflex from back in the day; this in spite of a dodgy back and a worn knee waiting on surgery.
‘We’re just fine,’ the woman says, in a measured tone, her voice seemingly coming out of nowhere.
` Big grin over the asshole’s stupid face: ‘You heard the lady. Now why don’t you head on home? Those naps won’t take themselves, you old fart.’
Mitchell smiles at him, thinking, oh there sorely was a time. But then he looks at the child, stood there watching, taking everything in. Another more uncomfortable thought is that the asshole might be armed, something tucked away in the glove compartment. You hear all the time how the smallest squabble can escalate towards yet another statistic. Mitchell tips his hat at the woman then turns tail. Second his back is turned the asshole picks up where he left off, shouting like it was his way of controlling the world.
Roscoe, Mitchell’s terrier has his front paws up on the passenger window of the truck, barking in the direction of the asshole.
‘You got that right,’ Mitchell says getting in behind the wheel glancing over wondering how folk live like that.
The sun is falling in a big clear sky with shades of purple and lavender as Mitchell heads home. Roscoe, his red bandanna around his neck hangs his head out of the side window to catch the breeze. Ordinarily Mitchell would have felt lifted on evenings like this, surrounded by so much beauty, as the stinging heat of the day starts to fade. Only now his thoughts remain snagged on what had just taken place, and wondering how he might have handled it better.
‘Shit,’ Mitchell says, finding a dirt track to turnaround. ‘Don’t go looking at me like that Roscoe. I know it is none of my business.’
Mitchell is almost back where he had started when he sees the woman and child carrying bags over their shoulders. It’s a busy road, with fast moving traffic and big rigs screeching toward intersection. It’s a while before Mitchell is able to do another U-turn and catch up with them.
‘Hey, hey,’ Mitchell calls through the window, attempting to tuck his truck up on the verge, air horns announcing their contempt.
The woman and child stop. Turning around to face him they both look hot and sweaty and like they’d been through enough for one day. The child throws down her bag and sags a little. Mitchell gets out and takes a step or two in their direction.
‘Lady it is not a good idea to be walking here,’ Mitchell shouts, against the roar of the traffic.
‘Well good ideas are not exactly my strong suit right now.’
‘C’mon let me give you a ride.’
The woman hesitates.
‘C’mon.’
Scrambling into the back seat of the truck, the girl shrieks with delight on seeing Roscoe. His presence also goes some way to mollify the woman who sits in the front.
He’s so cute. What’s his name?’
‘Roscoe,’ Mitchell says, looking in rear view, smiling at how Roscoe never grows tired of being fussed over.
‘Hey Roscoe, I’m Leyla.’
‘Lisa,’ the woman says.
‘Pleased to meet you both, I’m Mitchell. Now what’s the plan?’
The woman looks like ‘plan’ might be too grand a word for what she has in mind.
‘I think we passed a truck stop a few miles back. Thought we’d see if we could stay there until a better idea comes along.’
Mitchell nods, but knowing what goes on there he doesn’t think that’s the good idea she had in mind.
‘Okay then,’ he says turning the ignition key, and twisting to try and find a break in the traffic.
It’s some miles to the truck stop. Mitchell tries making conversation. Lisa isn’t in a chatty mood, mostly fixing her gaze out of the side window, giving one word answers to questions. Unusually, Mitchell starts talking about himself, volunteering stuff he wouldn’t ordinarily do. He tells her about his place.
‘It’s not much, about four acres with a pond in the centre of things where I sometimes fish. It’s my little reward, just sitting after a lifetime of getting up and doing. I renovated properties, properties nobody wanted then let them out. Mostly folk paid sometimes they disappointed, but I always figured that came with the territory. Always something needed doing; blocked sink, mould clearing from a bathroom, replacing floorboards, just doing whatever needed doing I tried turning my hand to.’
On a pause Mitchell wonders if she is even listening to him, her head still turned away. Like she was trying to find simple answers to big questions in the landscape before it disappeared into the dark. He glances in the rear view and sees that the child has fallen asleep, wrapped around Roscoe.’
‘Done in,’ he says, giving a little nod to the rear view mirror.
Lisa glances back: ‘Not sure she could have gone on much further.’
‘Probably not.’
‘In case you’re wondering that wasn’t her daddy, earlier.’
‘I wasn’t but I figured as much.’
It’s dark by the time Mitchell pulls into the large parking lot of the truck stop, where the big rigs crawl in and out all day long. It was still early by the standards of night people but already young women, younger than Lisa are going up and down the rows of trucks, knocking on doors attempting to negotiate deals and then climb up into the cab to draw the small curtains and complete the transaction.
In the shadows Mitchell can see the expression on Lisa’s face. He feels if she stays here for any length of time things will most surely take an inevitable course. He wants to ask questions, about her other options, friends, or places she might stay, places she might head for, but he reckons she will have already gone through them on her own time. He wonders how it might sound if he offered her some money.
‘Look it’s none of my business, but I don’t think this is the best….’
‘I get that,’ Lisa says, still looking forward, watching what is taking place under the spotlights of the truck stop, like some macabre theatre, with desperate characters coming on and off stage.
‘Look, I’ve got plenty of space at mine, just until you get yourself straight. For all my talk, it’s not much but…’
Lisa looks at him, and in forced whisper says, ‘we need to talk.’
Mitchell follows her lead getting out of the truck. He watches as she paces a little, kicking a little at the ground. She comes to halt just in front of him, fixing him with a levelling look: ‘I’m not sleeping with you if that’s what’s on your mind.’
An involuntary snicker leaps out of Mitchell at the notion she was even thinking along those lines. He’s not sure if he should be flattered or insulted. He thought he’d stopped being a consideration in that regard about a decade back: ‘Good to know.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Just so we’re clear. I’ve already put that little girl in there through enough. How do I know I can trust you? That ink on your forearms suggests you were not always some kindly old boy of the road.’
Mitchell resists the temptation to pull the cuffs down on his plaid shirt: ‘I guess we’re both going to have to take a chance.’
‘I’d do just about anything to keep her from all the evil in the world,’ Lisa says looking in the truck. ‘I thought when she came along things would be different.’
‘I’m sure you do the best you can.’
‘Bad choices,’ Lisa mutters, turning away and pacing some more.
` ‘What’s that now?’
‘Bad choices is what got me here.’
‘Well who hasn’t made a ton of those?’
Lisa half smiles, gives a little nod, like she has given up. Getting back in the truck she says, ‘I’m all out of other options anyway.’
They drive is silence. There isn’t much more to add anyway. The land seems more vast to Mitchell under a night sky. Sometimes, the silence at night keeps him awake. His eyes fixed on the road. Mitchell’s thoughts stray to familiar territory. He recalls how he’d been when he was younger, saddled with a wife and child before he even knew himself. He’d grown up with violence and bad situations which left him ill-equipped to be a father at nineteen. Back then he’d been running low on patience, tolerance and kindness. All he ever wanted to do was breakaway from his responsibilities. Beer made things better in those days but then it always made them worse.
Over the years Mitchell wrote his daughter letters, attempting to explain, attempting to apologise a hundred times over. He wanted to say how he’d been too busy looking into the world for another kind of happiness, never stopping to appreciate the kind he already had. It was all an exercise in futility given that he never had a mailing address for his daughter. He reckoned she’d be about Lisa’s age now. Glancing over at her he sees that she is dozing, her head resting on the side window. He wonders about the serendipity of the road, and if this is his chance to feel rescued from the guilt he has carried all these years.Mitchell tells himself that what is going on at the other pumps is none of his concern, that he’s too old to get involved. Then the guy doing all the shouting starts dragging bags and toys from out the trunk of his car and throwing them down on the ground. The woman, a worn beauty, looks on, bored like she had been through this a hundred times or more, attempting to ride his anger with a practiced calm. She and child are both in shorts and vest tops. The child, no more than seven, her hair so blonde it’s almost white, holds the woman’s hand squirming slightly behind her. If he knew nothing else, Mitchell was certain it had been way too hot a day for this kind of carry on.
‘Asshole,’ Mitchell whispers as he finishes pumping gas into his truck.
The kid at the kiosk, wearing headphones is paying no mind to the drama unfolding out front on the forecourt he’s supposed to be managing.
The asshole is becoming engulfed in a flame of rage levelling all kinds of unsavoury vile accusations at the woman, moving from abuse to lecturing and loathing.
‘Jesus,’ Mitchell says, wiping his brow then finding himself taking a step or two in the direction of the waring couple.
` ‘Y’all need to be out here doing this?’ He says, up close.
The asshole, stunned into silence, turns around to face Mitchell. The woman, over his shoulder is shaking her head, like his interference is not needed and probably not a good idea. Mitchell is beginning to think along the same lines.
‘Does this have anything to do with you?’
‘In front of the child and all,’ Mitchell says.
` ‘Your hearing not so good old man?’
Mitchell reckons the asshole to be about thirty years younger and about 100lb heavier. Still, he can’t help but calculate his chances, it’s an old reflex from back in the day; this in spite of a dodgy back and a worn knee waiting on surgery.
‘We’re just fine,’ the woman says, in a measured tone, her voice seemingly coming out of nowhere.
` Big grin over the asshole’s stupid face: ‘You heard the lady. Now why don’t you head on home? Those naps won’t take themselves, you old fart.’
Mitchell smiles at him, thinking, oh there sorely was a time. But then he looks at the child, stood there watching, taking everything in. Another more uncomfortable thought is that the asshole might be armed, something tucked away in the glove compartment. You hear all the time how the smallest squabble can escalate towards yet another statistic. Mitchell tips his hat at the woman then turns tail. Second his back is turned the asshole picks up where he left off, shouting like it was his way of controlling the world.
Roscoe, Mitchell’s terrier has his front paws up on the passenger window of the truck, barking in the direction of the asshole.
‘You got that right,’ Mitchell says getting in behind the wheel glancing over wondering how folk live like that.
The sun is falling in a big clear sky with shades of purple and lavender as Mitchell heads home. Roscoe, his red bandanna around his neck hangs his head out of the side window to catch the breeze. Ordinarily Mitchell would have felt lifted on evenings like this, surrounded by so much beauty, as the stinging heat of the day starts to fade. Only now his thoughts remain snagged on what had just taken place, and wondering how he might have handled it better.
‘Shit,’ Mitchell says, finding a dirt track to turnaround. ‘Don’t go looking at me like that Roscoe. I know it is none of my business.’
Mitchell is almost back where he had started when he sees the woman and child carrying bags over their shoulders. It’s a busy road, with fast moving traffic and big rigs screeching toward intersection. It’s a while before Mitchell is able to do another U-turn and catch up with them.
‘Hey, hey,’ Mitchell calls through the window, attempting to tuck his truck up on the verge, air horns announcing their contempt.
The woman and child stop. Turning around to face him they both look hot and sweaty and like they’d been through enough for one day. The child throws down her bag and sags a little. Mitchell gets out and takes a step or two in their direction.
‘Lady it is not a good idea to be walking here,’ Mitchell shouts, against the roar of the traffic.
‘Well good ideas are not exactly my strong suit right now.’
‘C’mon let me give you a ride.’
The woman hesitates.
‘C’mon.’
Scrambling into the back seat of the truck, the girl shrieks with delight on seeing Roscoe. His presence also goes some way to mollify the woman who sits in the front.
He’s so cute. What’s his name?’
‘Roscoe,’ Mitchell says, looking in rear view, smiling at how Roscoe never grows tired of being fussed over.
‘Hey Roscoe, I’m Leyla.’
‘Lisa,’ the woman says.
‘Pleased to meet you both, I’m Mitchell. Now what’s the plan?’
The woman looks like ‘plan’ might be too grand a word for what she has in mind.
‘I think we passed a truck stop a few miles back. Thought we’d see if we could stay there until a better idea comes along.’
Mitchell nods, but knowing what goes on there he doesn’t think that’s the good idea she had in mind.
‘Okay then,’ he says turning the ignition key, and twisting to try and find a break in the traffic.
It’s some miles to the truck stop. Mitchell tries making conversation. Lisa isn’t in a chatty mood, mostly fixing her gaze out of the side window, giving one word answers to questions. Unusually, Mitchell starts talking about himself, volunteering stuff he wouldn’t ordinarily do. He tells her about his place.
‘It’s not much, about four acres with a pond in the centre of things where I sometimes fish. It’s my little reward, just sitting after a lifetime of getting up and doing. I renovated properties, properties nobody wanted then let them out. Mostly folk paid sometimes they disappointed, but I always figured that came with the territory. Always something needed doing; blocked sink, mould clearing from a bathroom, replacing floorboards, just doing whatever needed doing I tried turning my hand to.’
On a pause Mitchell wonders if she is even listening to him, her head still turned away. Like she was trying to find simple answers to big questions in the landscape before it disappeared into the dark. He glances in the rear view and sees that the child has fallen asleep, wrapped around Roscoe.’
‘Done in,’ he says, giving a little nod to the rear view mirror.
Lisa glances back: ‘Not sure she could have gone on much further.’
‘Probably not.’
‘In case you’re wondering that wasn’t her daddy, earlier.’
‘I wasn’t but I figured as much.’
It’s dark by the time Mitchell pulls into the large parking lot of the truck stop, where the big rigs crawl in and out all day long. It was still early by the standards of night people but already young women, younger than Lisa are going up and down the rows of trucks, knocking on doors attempting to negotiate deals and then climb up into the cab to draw the small curtains and complete the transaction.
In the shadows Mitchell can see the expression on Lisa’s face. He feels if she stays here for any length of time things will most surely take an inevitable course. He wants to ask questions, about her other options, friends, or places she might stay, places she might head for, but he reckons she will have already gone through them on her own time. He wonders how it might sound if he offered her some money.
‘Look it’s none of my business, but I don’t think this is the best….’
‘I get that,’ Lisa says, still looking forward, watching what is taking place under the spotlights of the truck stop, like some macabre theatre, with desperate characters coming on and off stage.
‘Look, I’ve got plenty of space at mine, just until you get yourself straight. For all my talk, it’s not much but…’
Lisa looks at him, and in forced whisper says, ‘we need to talk.’
Mitchell follows her lead getting out of the truck. He watches as she paces a little, kicking a little at the ground. She comes to halt just in front of him, fixing him with a levelling look: ‘I’m not sleeping with you if that’s what’s on your mind.’
An involuntary snicker leaps out of Mitchell at the notion she was even thinking along those lines. He’s not sure if he should be flattered or insulted. He thought he’d stopped being a consideration in that regard about a decade back: ‘Good to know.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Just so we’re clear. I’ve already put that little girl in there through enough. How do I know I can trust you? That ink on your forearms suggests you were not always some kindly old boy of the road.’
Mitchell resists the temptation to pull the cuffs down on his plaid shirt: ‘I guess we’re both going to have to take a chance.’
‘I’d do just about anything to keep her from all the evil in the world,’ Lisa says looking in the truck. ‘I thought when she came along things would be different.’
‘I’m sure you do the best you can.’
‘Bad choices,’ Lisa mutters, turning away and pacing some more.
` ‘What’s that now?’
‘Bad choices is what got me here.’
‘Well who hasn’t made a ton of those?’
Lisa half smiles, gives a little nod, like she has given up. Getting back in the truck she says, ‘I’m all out of other options anyway.’
They drive is silence. There isn’t much more to add anyway. The land seems more vast to Mitchell under a night sky. Sometimes, the silence at night keeps him awake. His eyes fixed on the road. Mitchell’s thoughts stray to familiar territory. He recalls how he’d been when he was younger, saddled with a wife and child before he even knew himself. He’d grown up with violence and bad situations which left him ill-equipped to be a father at nineteen. Back then he’d been running low on patience, tolerance and kindness. All he ever wanted to do was breakaway from his responsibilities. Beer made things better in those days but then it always made them worse.
Over the years Mitchell wrote his daughter letters, attempting to explain, attempting to apologise a hundred times over. He wanted to say how he’d been too busy looking into the world for another kind of happiness, never stopping to appreciate the kind he already had. It was all an exercise in futility given that he never had a mailing address for his daughter. He reckoned she’d be about Lisa’s age now. Glancing over at her he sees that she is dozing, her head resting on the side window. He wonders about the serendipity of the road, and if this is his chance to feel rescued from the guilt he has carried all these years.
Third Prize Winner
Saudade Peter Hankins
At the time, you see, I was doing a six-month stint at the University of Coimbra. I gave lectures on Philosophy of Mind while working on my own stinging refutation of IIT (‘neither integration, information, nor a theory’). One sunny morning I sat having coffee in the little square that just barely contains the Sé Velha, the ‘Old Cathedral’; a stern, massive building created by men whose minds clearly ran more to fortresses than churches. Just across the road from the café there was a conservatoire, through whose open windows I could hear someone playing Chopin. It was altogether charming.
All at once the pianist broke off and began playing a very different tune. Superficially jaunty, but with strong undertones of saudade, the characteristically Portuguese emotion which falls somewhere between gentle melancholy, nostalgia, and the longing for a distant life that may never return. After a few bars a clear woman’s voice began singing – wistful, lovely lyrics about how a Portuguese house – a Casa Portuguesa - may be simple, but there is bread and wine on the table; friends are welcome and there is generous happiness, welcoming arms, and the sweet smell of rosemary.
I vaguely remembered having heard the song, or a similar one, played on a lute or guitar rather than the piano. It was, I thought, a popular song in the traditional fado style. In that square, that sunny morning, coming after the refined melodies of Chopin, its heartfelt emotion was very affecting. It made me feel… it doesn’t make much sense, but it filled me with the wistful desire to somehow see Coimbra again, even while I was, as a matter of fact, sitting right there in the middle of the city, experiencing it freshly at its best. I could not help going over to the window and looking in. A slim young woman was alone at the piano, where a single shaft of sunlight made the dust motes twinkle in the air; for a few moments I watched while she finished the song.
‘É bonito, senhorita,’ I said, ‘é uma canção fado?’
‘Thank you,’ she replied in English. ‘I’m glad you found it good. Of course it is a fado song, very famous - everyone knows this one. But it is not the fado of Coimbra, if that is what you were hoping for. For that you must come to the Sé Velha this evening.’ She spoke rather sternly, but then suddenly smiled again, like a burst of sunshine. She was slim and tanned with long dark hair parted at one side and held back with a tortoiseshell clip; her nose was a fraction too long for standard beauty, but it was a face that spoke of character and intelligence.
‘How did you know I was English?’ I asked – though people always know.
‘Sir, you are clearly not Portuguese.’
‘No, but I might have been German. Or American, at least.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘neither of those. Not possibly. You are polite and restrained.’
‘That’s nice, but how can you tell? I’ve said very little, and I am surely intruding on your music, which doesn’t seem very restrained.’
‘The way you carry yourself is enough,’ she said, ‘you stand politely. Like a gentleman. But I agree you introduce yourself a little boldly. Perhaps you could be Irish.’ I was pleased by that; my mother’s family is originally from Cork, and I have always felt it was the Irish strand in my make-up that helped me understand the Portuguese best. Like the Irish, they are a small nation with many expatriates who think wistfully of going home without much believing that they ever will.
‘May I be bold enough, then, to ask your name?’ I said.
‘I am Amália,’ she said.
‘I’m Michael. Will you be at the Coimbran Fado here tonight, Amália?’
‘I may be,’ she said. But then she smiled again.
I was a little disappointed to find that evening that Coimbran fado is sung by men, dressed in black robes. I remembered now that it was strongly associated with the University and that in fact some of my colleagues had taken me to hear a performance very early on – an experience which had clearly made an embarrassingly small impression on me But it was not disagreeable, especially with Amália at my elbow to offer occasional commentary. To her these songs were something alive and important, strongly attached to some vital core of her identity, and through her I could get a faint sense of the depth of meaning that lay behind the music. She agreed to have a late dinner with me, and we talked volubly. We parted with no more than a chaste peck on the cheek, but we had already decided to meet again and I went home with excitement in my heart and butterflies in my stomach, a sensation I had not had so strongly since I left my teenage years behind.
The next few months were simply the best of my life.
Amália was rather flatteringly impressed by my academic status.
‘To be a professor, so young!’ she exclaimed one day. We were lying in bed; she was resting on her elbows on her front, with the sunlight showing off the wonderful smooth curves of her back. I, less elegant, was propped up on pillows beside her, smoking one of the cigarettes she was already pressing me to give up.
‘Not a professor,’ I said, ‘not yet. But one day.’ What could I say? I did not under-rate myself, but it must be admitted that it helps your university career if your father is the most clubbable of Oxford professors, and your mother is wealthy enough to stop you ever having to worry about your income. Most of the academic chairs in Britain were occupied by men who thought of me as their surrogate nephew, professors who had often brought their wives and families to be cosseted guests in our elegant Tuscan villa.
Amália had not had things so easy. She and her brother were orphans, brought up by an uncle who was proper but not fond. She had once hoped to make the grade as a concert pianist, but needed to teach to earn a living, and had allowed the dream of being a performer to slip well into the background of her mind. She had distant cousins in the Port trade, and had done holiday jobs with them when a student, which partly accounted for the excellence of her English.
I saw Portugal afresh through her eyes and it became a land of magic. When we spent a weekend in Aveiro, the high-prowed boats on the canals seemed to me to put Venice to shame. These traditional boats are brightly painted, and feature large pictures on the prow and stern; often religious pictures of saints and so on, but there were also many humorous ones that were mildly obscene (a buxom young woman bends over, lifts her skirt, and calls to the young farmer nearby ‘See anything else you could plough?’). Some boats judiciously combine a rude picture at one end with a devotional one at the other. Amália was slightly embarrassed; she thought the naughty pictures were out of place and should be banned.
‘What kind of country will the tourists think they have come to?’ she complained.
‘They are pretty naff,’ I conceded, ‘but you mustn’t take them too seriously. They’re only like old-fashioned British seaside postcards, really.
A month before my time at the University was up, I bought a ring and when we came back from dinner, presented it to her in traditional style, on one knee.
‘Oh, Michael,’ she said, not as surprised as I had somehow expected. ‘Can I say “yes”, of course? But you know I need to meet your family, and I want to see you in England.’
‘You’re worried I might turn back into a monster once I’ve left the civilising atmosphere of Portugal?’ I said, slightly hurt by the lack of obvious enthusiasm.
‘Of course not. And of course I want to marry you. But it has only been a few weeks, really. We need to give ourselves just a little more time, don’t you think?’
‘But will you come to England with me?’
‘Yes, of course. Of course.’ And then she kissed me and my feelings were soothed.
Amália had never been to London before, and I could tell that it caught her a little off balance. Lisbon, which she knew, is a big, brash city; but to me it seems to be full of neatly dressed Portuguese men with conservative haircuts and white shirts. Some of the shirts may be short-sleeved, and some of the men may have moustaches. Whereas if you walk down a street in central London, you may encounter every imaginable size, shape and colour of humanity, followers of every religion and members of every culture, dressed and coiffed in twenty different styles and speaking a dozen languages. No-one takes any notice of anyone else or shows the mildest interest in even the strangest of the passers-by. To me this is exciting and energising, but I could tell Amália found it a challenge.
I introduced her to my family, what there was of it - my father, sadly, had passed away three years earlier. My sister Annie was a little wary, though nice enough; I don’t think she really understood the relationship. But Amália liked my mother, and the feeling was mutual. They had several long and lively private conversations, laughing loudly about something they declined to explain.
‘Seal the deal with this one,’ said my mother, ‘before she finds out what you’re really like.’
‘I’m doing my best.’ I said.
Unexpectedly, it was my friends that Amália had most difficulty with. They loved her, of course, and were perfectly nice to her; but I had never realised before how much of our conversation consists of sly barbs and jabs against other people – and indeed against each other. Just being present wouldn’t protect you. It was quite subtle (that’s the joy of it), and I don’t think Amália noticed at first; but when she got onto our wavelength she was horrified.
‘You must understand,’ I explained, ‘there’s no real malice in it. It’s just playful banter.’
‘How can it be playful to mock someone like that?’ she said. ‘Will you talk like that about me when I am not here?’
She used my old upright piano constantly; I think in some way it helped her process these new experiences. More Debussy, Beethoven, Liszt and Vianna da Motta; but she never played fado. So one evening when it was just the two of us in my Bloomsbury flat, I called up Casa Portuguesa and streamed it through the Bose smart speaker for her. We listened quietly, almost reverently, and a single tear ran down her cheek. But then she smiled, and kissed me and everything was all right again.
Until the next day. When I came home from the Department, I found that she had packed her clothes and gone. There was a note which simply said that she was sorry, but she had to go home and could not face explaining it first.
And so that is why I’m here, waiting for the flight to Lisbon to be called. I’m really sorry for talking so much, but you know how sometimes it’s easier to chat to a kind stranger, someone you’ll never meet again. And you have been kind. I will go and find her and I will do whatever it takes to put things right, because she is my life. If necessary I believe my mother will help us buy a little vineyard and a proper casa portuguesa, where love and kindness will surely rule forever after.