“Will someone come for me?” I ask out loud. The only one to hear is a Blackbird I’ve named Stanley Stub. Stanley has one good leg, the other, his right, ends at the ankle. Stanley Stub is a lot like me, in as much as he walks like a Penguin. I wobble in short, quick bursts before my feet stick, and then a tremor kick-starts me again. His orangeade beak fizzes with the speed it raps against the glass. He’s been a daily visitor to my patio for two years.
I lean forward in my armchair, body weight lifts my backside off the crocheted blanket. I’m slung onto my feet. My body’s response is sloth-like. I negotiate the edge of the mat, I stay on the laminate, feet shuffle, stop, shuffle, stop. I pour the seeds into a Yorkshire Tea cup, and ensure they’re level with the cap of the cricket batsman. My hand jitters, up, down, round as my arm windmills. The mug contents dance to the rhythm of Stanley Stub’s pecks. “Will someone come for me?” I whisper to Stanly Stub as he first selects the sunflower hearts. He pauses, cocks his head to one side, his bead-like eye, reflects the sunlight. I’m sure he nods. I thank him and slide the patio door to. My fingers grip the chair arms, like a bird of prey, I land into the cushioned seat, comfortable to observe my little mate.
The tick, tick of him selecting the seeds in order of preference weave in and out of my knotted thoughts. My tissue paper eyelids float downwards, then flip up like a roller blind. I drift from 82 to 42 and to not knowing. The Blackbird serenades his thanks. His harmonized chirps, invite me into a dream. I find myself returned to 1983.
It’s a murky November morning, I switch off Breakfast Time. Normally I enjoy watching it with a cup of tea and a cigarette before getting off to work. Today I can’t as it’s all about the Walton babies. I’d spent yesterday by the side of the birthday girl, Hazel. Her birthday present, an acorn child, I’d made. The acorns selected at the beginning of October. Hazel and I collected acorns from beneath the same Oak Tree. The oak is the largest amidst a group of trees at the end of our road. We don’t collect them on a school day, though it’s on our way. I smile as I hear myself ask Hazel, “How come you’re as slow as a slug on the way to school and yet you’re like Jack Flash at home time.”
“Mum, school’s not half the fun of being home with you. And, I don’t get fish fingers at school.”
I sit the acorn child next to Hazel, on the ledge at the base of the headstone. I read each word as it appears from beneath my cloth holding hand.
Hazel Wright
Birthday 17th November 1961
Taken aged 9 years, 1970
It was the day after her 9th birthday. Her nan had knitted her a red hat with a blue bobble, Hazel’s favourite colors. She was excited to wear the hat and walk to school by herself. As she hugged me goodbye she asked; “Will someone come for me? Or can I walk home by myself, too.”
I answered, “If you want to, love.”
“I do, see you later, Mum.”
“See you later, love, fish fingers for tea, so straight home, you hear?”
“Okay Mum, see you later, alligator!”
The day I gave birth to her, I was young and unsure if I’d done the right thing, telling them all to do one. That I was keeping my little girl, no matter what. It was always me and Hazel. I contemplate how fortunate the Walton family is, they have six girls. Hazel is my only child. I wish the Walton family all the best, but I can’t witness their beautiful story.
The fish fingers got cold. I sat at the kitchen table. Waiting, waiting for the back door to fly open and Hazel to bounce in, acorns in hand and a story to tell. The back door did eventually open. I could see the lips of the policewoman moving. The sound heard, agonizing screams, and then nothing.
The policewoman held my hand. I was sat on the sofa, no idea how long I’d been there.
“Betty, can you hear me? My name is Lorraine.”
I nod my response. I put my hands over my ears, block out Hazel’s voice, “Will someone come for me?”
“Betty, can you hear me? I’ve come to talk to you about your Hazel.”
“Will someone come for me?”
“Betty, your mum’s here, no need for anyone to come for you.”
I clung to my mum, she absorbed my sobs. The policewoman informs us that Hazel is dead.
The tapping on my patio door wakes me.
The rat-a-tat takes my dream. My eyes take a moment to focus as sleep crawls away, dragging with it my heinous reality.
I can’t see Stanley Stub, in his place brown woollen tights over sparrow thin legs. I look up, a woman’s face. I can’t say I know who she is, or have I forgotten?
“Can I come in, Betty?”
“Do I know you?”
“Can I come in, so we can talk? I know you, from a long time ago.”
I study her for a minute or two. She’s tiny, got a look of Una Stubbs about her. I think I’ve heard that voice before. There’s only one way to find out if I’m right. I tell her she’d better come in.
As it turns out she’s my neighbor, moved in two doors down last week. She tells me her name, Lorraine. My right hand starts its shaking and wants to windmill, I place my left hand on it.
“I know who you are, Lorraine, you’ve aged the same as me. Why have you come?”
I recall she was gentle and kind on that day in 1970. The only words I heard, Hazel, dead, murder. My only thought, I didn’t go for her.
“I recognize your voice now. Lorraine, you were kind.”
“Can I sit down for a minute, Betty?”
“Course you can, love. Would you like a cup of tea?”
She sits down but she doesn’t want a cup of tea. Lorraine tells me that she left the police a few years after Hazel. Said once the case was filed as a cold case, she knew they’d never find him. As it turns out she didn’t give up looking for him. She holds my hand, this time I have the strength to listen.
Lorraine informs me she knows the person, the monster who took my Hazel, who never told her no one was coming.
I grip onto her hand. Funny I’m not shaking. I concentrate on what she’s saying. She speaks in a quiet yet strong voice, void of hate or revenge, full of compassion. She reveals that she had known the individual due to his job. It took her until earlier this year to find the final piece of evidence. She’d stayed in contact with him, sat in his lounge, had a cup of tea and a chat. All the time she’d been listening, watching, searching. Bit by bit placing the pieces of evidence together. The final fragment fell into place due to his pure righteousness. He told her he’d found the bobble hat on the pavement, outside the Newsagents. Said Hazel was wearing it when he guided her and her friends across the road. He smiled, telling Lorraine the kids had shouted back to him. ‘Thank you Mr. Lollypop Man.’
I lean forward, let my body weight lift my backside out of the chair. My body’s response is sloth-like, my mind is quick.
“Have you got the bastard?”
“Yes”
“Thank you.”
I navigate the edge of the mat. Make us both a cup of tea.
When I sit back down, Stanley Stub has returned. He chirps, aware I have the answer.
Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She writes short stories and is currently working on her novel based in 1950s Liverpool. She sometimes writes poetry. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, her own childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson.
She has had short stories and poetry published in various online publications, including The Ink Pantry and AnotherNorth and in a ebook anthology ‘Tales from Garden Street’ (Comma Press Short Story Course book 2019).
Sally lives in the countryside with her partner, dog, and bantam.
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