This is my final assignment for last term. We were asked to write a short story. I used 'A Beginning', my ideas for an opening to a novel I had written a couple of years ago and incorporated that into another piece I had written in class.
Dear journal,
I felt the sand sinking between my toes, so fine and soft, almost like silk. I swear there is no better feeling. I turned my attention to the sound of the sea lapping up onto the sand. The little toe of my right foot was getting wet. It felt cold, yet refreshing. I looked up. The sun was setting. When had it become dusk? It was beautiful. Orange and pink. It took my breath away. It was as though each of my senses were clicking in one by one and tuning in to what was around them. I had been here for a while, on this beach, so long in fact everyone else had left. I was alone, again. I couldn’t quite figure out whether I was pleased or not, but thought I’d embrace it. I lowered myself onto the sand.
Earlier on the beach had been full of people; daughters hand in hand with their fathers. A loud, yet small, Spanish guy exchanged money for ice-creams; boyfriends and girlfriends lying side by side, fingers touching. It was too hot for any other kind of contact. It had been full of the sound of people playing ball games, children racing to the sea and the murmur of lazy attempts at conversation. The heat was unbearable. It was silent now and, apart from my own slow breathing and the sea, I could not hear a sound.
The temperature was just right. Warm enough, and the breeze… wow! The breeze! It was cool and sent goose pimples up my legs. But not so cold that it sent any kind of chill over my body. I lay back on the sand. It was in my hair, but I didn’t care. Right now I was at peace with myself, my surroundings and most importantly, my mind. I was bursting with emotion. It went straight to my tear ducts. It took all I had to stop that tear -that tear that had been sitting there impatiently for days- from being set free on its journey down my cheek. But my mind felt so empty. I felt like there was nothing to think about anymore, nothing to worry about - nothing to cause that horrible feeling that my heart might jump out of my chest and into my mouth. Is it possible to feel everything yet nothing at all? What’s the use in crying anymore? What’s the use in allowing that all consuming anger to take over?
Hours passed. I eventually peeled myself from the sand and reached for my shoes. It crossed my mind to slip my feet back into them, but I wanted to feel the sand between my toes for the last stretch. I walked back to, what seemed like, nowhere....
“C’mon girls, please don’t make us late again! It’s starting to look bad.” Jane awoke by the sound of her father’s voice. She lay there in the warmth of her bed and heard the church bells start to ring from across the field - they were late. Jane didn’t enjoy church, she always felt it was time that could be better spent, starting a new book or finishing the last.
She was a sensible girl. A girl with a love for literature Whilst her sisters played outside or took to music or art, Jane would be sitting inside with her head in a book or scribbling away in her journal. A journal full of thoughts and ideas for novels.
It was a bitterly cold Sunday morning. She dragged herself from her bed and got dressed. She packed a small bag, (which simply consisted of her journal, a pen, a packet of tissues and her latest novel) combed her long dark hair then lingered in front of her dresser staring at herself in the mirror. Jane was a modest girl and not aware of her subtle beauty. She had pale white skin, pinched pink cheeks that sat on high, defined cheekbones, dark red lips and piercing blue eyes. Unlike her sisters. They all had bright blonde hair and emerald green eyes. They were pretty, but relatively plain.
When at last she pulled herself away from her dresser’s stall, she made her way downstairs into the mayhem that was her sisters rushing around trying to decide what to wear and whether their shoes matched their purses. Jane didn’t ever bother making this kind of fuss. The only thing she considered was how foggy and cold it looked out and therefore chose the warmest of her Sunday dresses she could find. She accompanied it with thick black stockings and wrapped herself in her coat and scarf.
When at last the family left the house, all Jane could think about was when she could get back. How long would the service be today? It seemed to drag and Jane spent most of this time daydreaming and wondering whether she could make the library in time before it shut. She was quickly awoken from her daze by the collection plate being shoved into her hand. She reached inside her pocket, placed a few coins onto the plate and finally was allowed to leave.
Sunday’s often stirred up a mixture of emotions for Jane. Every morning when she heard the church bells, she would immediately think of her grandfather, who had passed away just five years ago. Jane and her grandfather were very close and would sit together for hours, whilst he told her stories of his childhood, how he’d met her grandmother that autumnal afternoon in the park and asked her to help with his crossword. He loved to hear Jane read, which she was always grateful for. She waited eagerly every Sunday for the service to be over, so she could walk across the church grounds to her grandfather’s grave. She would always pick a flower on the walk to the church and place it in her bag for safe keeping until then.
* * * * *
“Beloved husband, wonderful father and loving grandfather.” She placed the flower down and pulled her book from her bag.
“Only two more chapters left now Granddad.” She began to read aloud to him, her fingers stiff from the cold, turning each page delicately.
“He used to be just like you at your age, you know?” A voice interrupted her reading. Her father continued “He loved to read and longed to write.”
“So why didn’t he?”
“He did at his leisure. But he had to work in the factory everyday, like everyone else. It’s no career, Jane. He knew this. When will you? You must find a husband. Someone who will support you, take care of you and look after you when your mother and I are no longer around.”
“Oh, father I will have none of this talk. Please stop. It breaks my heart”
“I know, my dear, but it is only sensible to think of these things. Being a writer will provide no stability - no stable income. Let your husband take care of you and you can write at your leisure, much like your grandfather. I see it only cruel that he encouraged this of you. Simply because he was unable to write, he wished to make up for his shortcomings through you.”
This conversation had become somewhat familiar to Jane and she didn’t agree with anything her father said, but didn’t wish to disagree too much at the risk of causing any disrespect. Her grandfather wanted the best for her, wanted her to be happy and this was the only reason he encouraged her to write. He knew how much she adored it and recognised her talent.
The following Sunday, Jane waited by the gates of the church whilst her parents spoke with the vicar.
* * * * *
“Lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“It was fine. I don’t really care for church.” Jane replied as she turned to sit on the stone wall.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“If you wish.”
Mr Warwick sat down beside Jane and desperately tried to engage in conversation with her. She could feel her parent’s eyes burning into the back of her head! Mr Warwick struggled and stammered over his words, so much so that she almost felt sorry for him.
“Look, I realise our parents are eager for us to be together, but I have no interest in marrying. Do you?”
“Well, no, but….”
“But what? Then why are you trying so hard?”
“Because it’s what we should do.”
“Says who? Our parents? Society? Aren’t there so many other things you want to do with your life, instead of working day in day out, to provide a life for me and two or more children?”
“You make it sound so awful!”
“I apologise. I’m sure you’re a lovely man and would make a great husband, but I want to live my life. And I don’t want to live it through the eyes and expectations of my parents.”
“What other option do you have?”
His question lingered in her mind. What other option did she have? She had no clear answer, but knew she would have to find one.
Jane didn’t speak a word during the journey home and went straight upstairs to her bedroom as soon as they returned. She sat down at her dresser and began to comb her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror “What am I going to do?” And with that she began to sob.
“Jane. Can I come in?” Her father’s voice from outside her bedroom door silenced her.
“Erm….just a second” cried Jane, as she quickly plucked her handkerchief from her pocket to dry her eyes before going to the door.
“You’ve been crying, dear.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Jane, I know you too well. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Father, I don’t know what to do!”
“How do you mean?”
Jane’s father wrapped his arms around her and she slowly began to explain everything. She told him about the conversation she’d had with Mr Warwick that afternoon and how no matter how much she wanted to please her parents, she simply didn’t want to get married yet, if at all. She told him just how important it was for her to write and how she wouldn’t be happy unless she really gave it a shot. Even if she were to fail, at least she would’ve tried. For once, her father just sat and listened.
“Oh Jane, I honestly had no idea how unhappy you were. I just want the best for you. Can you understand that?”
“I can and I do. But please understand that the best thing for me to do is something that is going to make me happy. It’s no use me doing something you feel is best for me, if it will cause me to be so miserable.”
“Oh, your mother is going to be so mad at me…”
Jane’s father went on to tell her how he and her mother had been putting money away for the past five years in preparation for her wedding. He agreed to let her have half of it and suggested she take it and move to London to stay with her uncle. Her uncle worked for a publisher and knew many people within the business. He would be able to introduce her to his colleagues who would be able to read her work, offer her some advice and give her an insight into the world of writing.
“That should be enough for you to live on for about six months. Now, you have to promise me one thing.”
“Oh my god! I don’t know what to say. Of course! Anything, Father! What it is it?”
“If after six months, you still don’t have a job and you’re no further forward with your writing, you will not come and ask me for anymore money. You will return home and rethink this whole writing business. Agreed?”
The following week Jane set off for London. She arrived, suitcase in hand, at her uncle’s house and the feeling of a brand new start. Her life would begin here!
Within a few weeks, Jane was able to find to job as a nanny. She worked for the Cravats, looking after their two children and carrying out household duties. She adored Jack and Hannah and struck a very close bond with them. She enjoyed her job, which surprised her. She hadn’t ever really taken to children and definitely not to housework! In the evenings, Jane attended numerous social events with her uncle. She mingled with many authors and editors and was in her element. The authors told her of the joys of writing. The editors told her the realities of the struggles in getting published.
One evening when talking with a Mr Cranston, he offered to meet her for a cup of coffee and read her work.
“Mr Cranston, I cannot thank you enough. This is extremely kind of you.”
“Not at all, dear.”
Mr Cranston sat there in silence as he read Jane’s work.
* * * * *
“... Hours passed. I eventually peeled myself from the sand and reached for my shoes. It crossed my mind to slip my feet back into them, but I wanted to feel the sand between my toes for the last stretch. I walked back to, what seemed like, nowhere....”.
Jane closed her great grandmother’s journal. The lights blinked back on.
“Oh, look! The electric seems to be working again. Do you want to check the tv?”
“No, we want to hear the rest of the story!”
“Maybe some other time. You should really be getting to bed now. I didn’t realise how late it was.”
“Well, at least tell us if her novel was published in the end.”
“Like I say, some other time. Now off to bed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”
Jane blew out the candles, turned off the lights and followed her children up the stairs to bed.
