Short Stories by Ruth Maxwell

The Photo in a Frame

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 09:49:09 +0100

My mum has never loved me. She’s told me often – too often – that I was an accident.. That she’d only wanted one child, and, having had my brother, hoped there would be no more. Then I came along. Not that I was neglected physically. Meals on the table, my own bedroom. No, it was emotionally that I was starved. I craved the love she was incapable of giving me.

It was better when Dad was alive, though he spent a lot of time kicking a ball round with Jim, my brother. But when he died, so suddenly, Mum sank into a depression. Maybe she’d been depressed before, but it didn’t show so much.

It was then, I started nicking.

Small things at first. Sweets from the Supermarket, a lipstick from Boots. Looking back, I realise it was all a bid for attention; I wanted to be found out, to be in trouble, so Mum would help me. But I got away with it, which made me even more ambitious. I’d be sitting having supper wearing a diamante tee shirt, one I obviously I could not afford, waiting for some reaction, for Mum to pounce on me demanding where I’d got it from. But nothing, not even a casual up and down scrutiny. I was an expert thief by now, and moved on to C.D’s, an I Pod, my bedroom was littered with technology. Then, of course, the inevitable happed.

“Madam, we think you have in your possession something for which you have not paid”… How right they were. The Police insisted that Mum came to my appearance at the Juvenile Court. She did, reluctantly, with a look of disgust on her face. I felt sure I’d be sent to a Detention Centre, but I was lucky. I was put on Probation for 12 months, given 100 hours of Community Work to do and put under the care of a Social Worker.

Mrs. Hughes was nice. I could really talk to her, all my unhappiness poured out like a river, and she listened, made notes, and seemed to understand. She was tough though, and made me realise I had to behave myself. Or else. I was assigned to an old lady, who lives in a Tower block of flats in the nearby housing estate. I had to visit her twice a week and make myself useful.

Nellie is a dear old thing. In spite of her arthritis, she is always smiling and seems so pleased to see me when I go round. Because of all this Health and Safety lark, I’m not allowed to do much for her. I can’t wash or dress her, but I can make us a cup of tea, and we gossip as we drink it. She loves talking about her younger days. How she met her husband, and their lives together. Her memory is so clear, yet when I say “what did you have for breakfast”, her face clouds over. We pour over her photograph albums, and I know all the faces so well, it’s as if they were my family. One day, she brought out her Jewellery box, and spilled the contents on the table. Looking at the glittering pile, my hands jerked out impulsively, as I picked up several pieces. But no way would I steal from Nellie. With a sharp pang, I realised how much I loved her.

She told me the history of each piece, her eyes filling up with tears. Most of it was costume jewellery, but there was a ring with one diamond, a small one, with tiny diamonds on each side. “Bert gave me this after he’d proposed. Down on one knee he went, and popped the question. And when I said Yes Yes, he produced this ring from his pocket. I found out afterwards that he’d had to borrow most of the money to buy it from his brother!”

“Nellie” I said “This is far too pretty to sit in a box. You must wear it.” And, amazingly, it still fitted. Well, it was a bit loose, but it sparkled on her finger, and looked so pretty. “What you need now is a good manicure, and some hand cream on those dry looking hands.” When I left her, sitting in her arm chair, her face was alight with pleasure as she gazed admiringly at her ring.

What a different story when I returned the next day. She looked her age; her face was swollen with tears. “I’ve lost my ring. Look!” And yes, her finger was empty. I felt a jolt of fear run through me. Had I subconsciously reverted to my old tricks, and stolen it? But no, I couldn’t have done. I helped Nellie to her bedroom, and she lay on her bed, a hankie pressed to her eyes. “Now”, I said “Try and rest. I’m going to search and search, I’m sure I’ll find your ring somewhere.

Two hours later, I admitted defeat. I had looked under rugs, in every cupboard, swept the floor, I even searched the contents of the dustbin. I sat down in Nellie’s armchair, feeling as distraught as Nellie. My hands slid down between the cushion and the sides, and the miracle happened. I felt something hard. It was the ring. It must have slipped off while she was sitting there. And then, I felt something else. A piece of cardboard. I pulled it up carefully, and looked at it. And Bert, Nellie’s husband, was smiling at me. He was in Army Uniform, with one stripe on his sleeve, and written on the photo was “To my dearest Nellie, with all my love.”

To my amazement, I actually bought, yes bought, with real money, a photo frame for it. And now, it stands on her coffee table, where she can see it, always smiling at her. She talks to it, she flashes her ring as she blows him a kiss.

I visit Nellie every day, from choice, not duty, and I have found the love I was searching for. Even my relationship with Mum has improved now my expectations are less. And my days of nicking are truly over.a

My Favourite Shoes

Sun, 08 Jul 2012 16:48:12 +0100

I blot my lips with a tissue, check there’s no lipstick on my teeth, and I am ready. Well, apart from the decision as to which pair of shoes will go best with my outfit. In fact, it is not a hard decision to make. My hand goes instinctively to the pale blue suede ones, those with the stiletto heels. My very favourite shoes. My feet slip into them; they feel like a second skin. It is though I am ensconced in cotton wool, and my feet purr with the comfort, the cosseting, they receive. My Mother always says I shouldn’t wear such high heels, they are bad for my feet. How wrong she is. I feel distinctly uncomfortable in the sensible flats she wears. And in these… the world is my oyster.

I twirl, I inspect my image in the mirror, I am ready. When the Maid knocks and enters, and announces that my love, my lover, has arrived, I ask her to show him into the Drawing Room, and to bring a bottle of champagne. “Caviar?” she asks. “Naturally, I reply.

When I make my entrance, he is there. Nothing so vulgar as a bouquet of flowers, he hands me one perfect red rose, and looks at me with love and admiration.. With the ease of familiarity, he has already put on a gramophone record, and the music of Top Hat has my suede shoes tapping. “I would like to climb a mountain, and reach the highest peak…” and, his arm round my waist, he swirls me round, and whispers “ dancing cheek to cheek.” And dance we did. With the grace, the dexterity of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, we twirl, we sway, we glide, only pausing to sip champagne from the flutes. “ Sensible shoes,” I thimk “ I am gliding like a swan in my stilettos!.

When the maid enters and announces that the chauffeur had arrived with the Rolls, we stop reluctantly, and gaze into each others eyes. And soon, we are sitting side by side in the back seat of the car, en route to The Savoy for dinner. Holding hands.

The clatter of tea cups wakes me, and, in a daze, I look around. So, it had all been a dream, a beautiful dream. For, here I am, a silver haired old lady in the lounge of a Care Home, sitting in a wheel chair. And I smile wryly. Yes, I am still wearing my favourite shoes. Not blue suede with stiletto heels. No, broad fitting slippers with a Velcro fastening. Such true and tried old friends, they had taken on the shape of my feet. Not a pretty shape, but they give me the utter bliss of sheer comfort.

And next to me, also in a wheelchair, is my latest boyfriend, slightly in his dotage. Well, perhaps more than slightly, but , well, that makes two of us. I reach out and hold his hand. Both our eyes are on the tea trolley being pushed round the room and I sigh with pleasure when I see that today is our lucky day. There are ginger biscuits! Two on each saucer! My toes wriggle inside my slippers. What more can life offer.?

The Key

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 17:42:03 +0100

It had been a long hard day. We had moved from a dark basement flat to our new home. It was no cottage in the country. No, a semi, lost in a sea of other semis, but it was all we could afford. Afford? The mortgage was crippling, but at last, we were on the property ladder.

“I’m so sorry I have to go out on our first night here, darling” I told my wife “But it’s imperative I attend tonight’s dinner. My promotion depends on it. I’ll be home as early as I can. Leave the front door key under the mat.”

I was later home than I’d anticipated. I found the key, let myself in, and quietly crept up the stairs, dropped my clothes, and slipped into bed. I snuggled up to the sleeping body, gently kissed her cheek, and was soon asleep.

It was the dawn chorus that woke me - not something heard in our previous home. I opened my eyes. To unfamiliar furniture! Bright green curtains! I froze in shock. And the woman I was cuddling up to was a brunette, and my wife is a blond. The realisation that I was in the wrong bed, the wrong house had me creeping nervously from the bed, and clutching my clothes, departing cautiously through the front door.

I checked the house number – 37, and our home was 39! I stepped over the adjoining hedge, took the key from under the doormat, and was soon in my own bed, cuddling my own wife!

She opened her eyes, “Darling, you must have been late back last night. I didn’t hear you” She giggled and said “I’ve met our next door neighbour. He’s a heavy weight boxer. He was just driving off for an out of town fight.” She dozed off again.

“Mm”, I thought…. “ I’m glad he didn’t get home early.” I leant out of the bed, and checked my clothes piled on the floor. “Yes, yes, they all seemed to be there.” But. I froze suddenly. Only one shoe! Oh my God, where was the other….

The Move

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 17:36:44 +0100

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 17:36:08 +0100

Visiting the Post Office

Sat, 13 Aug 2011 14:06:30 +0100

Visiting the Post Office. A Soliloquy

The hill gets steeper every time I totter up it. Thank goodness for that bench half way up. I must have sat there for 10 minutes this morning, getting my breath back. I wanted to slip my shoes off, but I’ve done that once before, and then couldn’t get them back on. Had to ask a woman walking by for help. She was that kind, but I was so embarrassed. I can see the Post Office now, just across the road, and a bit higher up. For the third time, I check that my Pension Book is in my bag, and wait at the Zebra crossing for the lights to change. A nice woman, waiting too, smiles at me, and I smile back gratefully. Living alone in my tiny flat, I don’t get to talk to many people. My weekly trip to the Post office is the big event of my week. Sometimes the girl behind the counter is the only person I talk to. But today I’m lucky, the nice lady asks if I need help crossing the road, and, linking my arm, walks me over to the other side of the road. She chatters too, about the weather, and how we need rain. I have to concentrate on my walking though; each step is so painful, so I haven’t the breath to answer her. But I smile, and manage a”Thank You” as she leaves me. And I totter on towards the Post Office.

It was when I was there, I see, to my horror, that my handbag is open. And I quickly search inside it. Yes, my Pension Book is still there, but. But. My purse isn’t. I cry out, clutch the counter, and feel all faint.

I’ve never been behind the scenes at the Post Office before, didn’t know they had a cosy room for the girls to relax in. The cup of tea they give me is so welcome, hot and very sweet. Even a chocolate biscuit.

“Would you like us to call the Police? “they ask me.

Oh no” I say. “There was only £1.25 in it, what was left from last weeks pension. And the purse was very old. My granddaughter gave me a lovely leather one for my birthday. I can start using that now.”

I’ve even had a lift home by one of the girls Chloe, her name is, and she says she’ll look out for me next Tuesday. And she asked if she came to visit me, would I give her a cup of tea. The beam I gave her in reply was enormous.

So really, all’s well that ends well. And, thankfully, I ease off my shoes, and go for a lie down.

The Map

Sun, 07 Aug 2011 16:47:10 +0100

“Grandma, you have so many lines on your face!” Susan’s fingers softly caressed my cheek as she wriggled slightly on my lap. “Your face is like a map.” I smiled bravely, “Well, perhaps it’ll lead you to the hidden treasure” She giggled. “Oh, that’s easy. That’s right here.” And she pushed her face into my rounded tummy, and then bounded off to play with her toys.

I was a very downcast Grandma when I went to inspect my face in the mirror. And a very determined one when I set off to shop next morning.. First stop, the Chemist, where, after a lengthy inspection, I emerged triumphantly with the most expensive anti-wrinkle cream in the world. Then, to the library, and I was soon staggering home, clutching several weighty diet books, and a look of steely determination in both eyes.

It was six months before my family made the journey down from Scotland again.

With one bound, my darling Susan was on my knee. And those wise young eyes were inspecting me. “Yes”, she said with great satisfaction. “”Your face is still like a map” And she gave me a kiss. Then, her eyes became wide with shock, and great tears rolled down her cheeks.. “But the hidden treasure! Someone has taken it. Where has it gone? I want it back.” She stared in disbelief at my flat tummy.

“Don’t worry” I consoled her.” It’s only hiding I’m sure it will come back very soon. Now off you run to the kitchen and join the others for tea before all those cream cakes are gobbled up.”

’ En route to join her, I made a detour to the bathroom, and thankfully removed that strong elastic girdle. The “buried treasure” sprang forth triumphantly, and warranted a good scratch. “Mm” I thought, as I went to join the family, “the anti-wrinkle cream might have worked if I’d used it regularly. And the diet books made fascinating reading. But well, I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks.” My steps quickened. “ I hope they’ve left me a cream cake.”