CirencesterScene Magazine -Establishing Local Connections
FROST by Sophie Livingston
www.somewhere-else-writers.org
Iknowit’sfreezing. The grass splinteredlike glass beneath my feet as Iwalked in and the air is starched with ice but Ithink it will do us both good to go outside. Ifeel Iaminhaling too manydyingbreaths in here –perhapsit’sjust the automatic fragrance dispenser by the door. HAWAIIAN BREEZE MUM. Is it justmethatfinds something sinisterabout the need for so much scentinthe air
Iknowyou can’t talk. The stroke saw to that. Let’s just get your coat and hat and I’ll push you to the river.Ifwe wrapthe scarf high no one cansee your face, which is good because, to be honest, it is alittle frightening. The left side has collapsed completely and when you try and talk globules of drool trickle out of the corner of your mouth. Youwerealwayssoproud of your looks. Remember Father Docherty? He used to say: “Fine lookingwoman your mother, Mau- reen. Let’shope you grow up likeher.” Howyou bustled round Father Docherty.Hemust have smiled. All those good Catholic motherscom- peting to fill his teacup and all the time…
Our Joseph won’t be coming to visit. Youknew that. Howlong isitsince he lastspoke to you? Decades? It’s funny isn’t it. Your ownvoice used to be so loud younever could hear ours, howev- er hardwe tried and now, youare such agood listener.I’m sure he sends his
love.No, actually, I’mnot sure that’swhathe’dsend.
Are you cold? Itisbitter hereand the water looksblack under the ice. Guess who Imet yes- terday?Gilbert Roberts. After all these years.
Somewhere Else Writers Group is asmall society of aspiring writers of prose and poetryfrom the Cirencester area. Our members are all amateur but betweenushave rackedupanimpressivelist of prizes from competitions andpublished works.
Gilbertwas my owngloriousblast of heat. His home smelt of okraand bell peppersand his skin gleamed likeaubergine. His motherwore clothes the colour of Caribbean summersand laughed like sin did not exist. Gilbert shone. Mum, and his sunshine warmedevenmy pinched heart.
Howdoesitfeel lying naked in the bath while thatnice nurse washes you; her hands tenderly sponging your neck, your armpits your…
You used to say theycarried diseases. That you didn’t like thethoughtofsitting on atoiletafter one of them had used it. Have youtold her that?
He said he beggedtosee me when he knew the babywas coming; before youhanded me to the nuns; before theyhanded my babytoGod knowswho; before the hospital and the electric shock treatments; before the endless, barren yearsthatled to now.
He told youhe wantedtomarryme. Yourefused.
My goodness, the wind is bitter here. Is thata tear, or justthe creeping cold? Let’s loosen your jacket and unwrap the
scarf.Inan hour or so, I’ll run across the brittle grass and cry for help.
Sophie Livingstonis afounder member of Cirencester-based Somewhere Else Writers’ Group. A former journalist, her short stories and poems have appeared in national magazines.
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