Dawn and dusk

She had always loved getting up this early in the day. Before sunrise the world always seemed so different and so very, very quiet, like it was waiting for something to happen. She hardly ever felt sleepy at all when she got up this early. Preparing for a journey at this time always seemed to instil a hushed, business-like sense of purpose in people.

She knew that she wasn't meant to be excited but it just all seemed so much like an adventure. More so than it would have done had they all woken up at the right time of the morning.

'Did you remember to get your toothbrush, sweetheart?' her father asked her quietly, crouching down to her level in front of her to make sure of her attention. She nodded quickly.

The hushed voice that everyone put on at this time of day was another thing she liked about the time before sunrise. Everyone in the house was awake and busy gathering their things and yet they all moved carefully and hummed quiet conversation at each other only when necessary. It was as if they were already at grampa's bedside, afraid to disturb him.

'Good girl' her father said, absently touching her cheek, 'now don't forget to bring Claudia with you, it's going to be a long car ride.'

'Ok Daddy' she said quickly and ran back up the stairs to fetch her doll from beside the bed where Claudia had fallen after her father had woken her up. His voice had been all tired and sad. She hoped that they would start travelling before the sun came up. She always loved to watch the sun come up and she always saw it best from the car.

As she carefully made her way back down the stairs, step by step, with Claudia, she was delighted to see that they were already getting into the car. They'd be on the road in plenty of time for sunrise.

'Are you ready sweetheart?' her father asked reaching to pick her up.

'Daddy, are we going to going to see Grampa?' she asked wrapping her arms around his neck. Her father sighed slightly and hugged her.

'Yes sweetheart,' he said even more quietly than before, 'we're going to see Grandpa.'

By Mark Clarke

In Loving Memory

He received the news of his grandfather’s death on Monday morning at the office. When he told his colleagues, one asked if they had been close. He was unable to answer, but the question stayed with him.
That evening, he strolled around his flat in his underwear thinking. He had known his grandfather his whole life, but never really knew him. What did that mean? Should he be grieving? The question seemed strange. It gave him a weird feeling, so he went for a run.

On the day of the funeral he took a train to Egham. The town’s name was like the food it brought to mind: egg and ham. There was nothing particular about it. It was unimaginative and unexciting.
As his uncle gave the eulogy, he heard sniffing down the aisle. His sister and cousins were crying. Should I be crying too, he asked himself, but then realised he wasn’t feeling any recognisable emotion so he couldn’t cry even if he wanted to.

Following a prompt from his dad a few days later, he visited his gran. She lived in a small newly built house near Egham station. It smelt of mothballs and her collection of thimbles rattled each time a train passed.
He told her to relax; he would make her lunch. She said there was some shepherd’s pie in fridge, but he only found a bottle of off milk and some butter. He checked the freezer. It was full of ready meals, one being shepherd’s pie.
He had to chip through a layer of ice to get it out. A maximum of two months it said the meal should be frozen, but it had to have been in there at least six.
Gran, he called, maybe we should go to the pub.
No answer came, so he popped his head around the door. She was staring into space.
Shall we go to the pub?
After a moment she turned to him, Oh no, dear. Not on a Sunday.
But it’s out of date.
She looked confused. Your grandfather only bought it the day before he passed.
He called his Dad, who said she had been eating like that years. If the rubbish she ate hadn’t killed her yet, it wouldn’t now.
She sat squeezed between the dinner table and sideboard, fumbling the steaming shepherd’s pie around her plate. He couldn’t watch, so he went to the loo.
It smelt of stale urine. Beneath his feet the pink carpet had patches of yellow stains.

When he got home, he paused when he saw the books on his coffee table. They reminded him of his gran’s large print books. He had asked her about them and she had spoken with some excitement, explaining the story she was reading. It was sad; for all her excitement the story seemed mundane and pointless.
Thinking this gave him a weird feeling that he didn’t like, so he went for a run.

At work the next day, his Dad called. His Gran had had a fall.
He left the office and got the first train to Egham, feeling what he later recognised as panic and anxiety. But it was alright because she was ok.

By Dominic Edwards

Forgotten Skin

She prodded the rain-stained magazine with her stick and let the wind catch one of the pages, turning it over. It was full of young bodies – four all together. The shock was like cold hands on her stomach. She took a breath. Still, she could not take her eyes away. She had never seen it like that. Like a stranger watching. Curious, she tried to mimic the woman’s position – one leg straight, the other stretched out to her side. She placed her stick with both hands to support herself but the hip ground stiff almost immediately. Wincing, sucking in through clenched teeth, she began slowly working her hip backwards and forwards. The magazine flapped shut again. When the stiffness in her leg had eased she put her weight back on it. She pushed the cover again with her foot and let the wind flip the pages over, one at a time. They were indistinct at speed - stupid dirty collections of nakedness. She jabbed her stick in with unfamiliar keenness and it folded and ripped a soft wet buttock. Another scene. Just two men and a woman this time. Big thighs both of them. Disgusting. She turned and looked around. She should pick it up and put it in a bin somewhere, out of harm’s way. If young eyes saw this … If her youngest grandson, Ben… She felt ridiculous bending down. This was why she did not bend down any more – she was awkward, every movement threatened to throw her over.

It lay open on her table. She was panicking and it was silly to panic over such a stupid little thing. If she put it in the bin, Howard the volunteer might find it when he took it out on Tuesday. In the old days she could have burnt it on the fire. But she only had the two-bar electric thing now. She had it open on a new page, a new position. She had done that once. Never with Harry though. It was not something Harry would ever have approved of. But then that was the problem with Harry. She thought of the only two before him. Poor Ralph. He had died early on in the war. After that Jasper, an American GI. He had been black like the one on the table. This one looked stupid though and big chested. She shut it and breathed in, and tried to straighten her back even though osteoporosis saw to it that she could not. Then she breathed out and opened it again on another page. She would keep it in Harry’s old toolbox. No-one would look in there. Not until they came to clear out the house and then she would be dead. Her sons would think it had been Harry’s and forgive an old man his bad habits. She felt a pleasant flush in her cheeks and a relief, staring at their bodies. It was like remembering something that she had never thought she would forget.

Written by David Jackson