My first short story.

Two years ago, I wrote my first short story (as a grown-up, that is...), as a Christmas present for a friend. I also entered it in a competition. Although it didn't win, I still feel a small thrill whenever I read it. And I think it is time to share it :-) 

I hope you enjoy it. I love feedback on my writing, so if you have any constructive comments, they would be much appreciated (positive or negative!).

Northern Skies

An original short story

By

Jo Gillespie

Dedicated to Jo K., a person who personifies faith and optimism,

and who is a very dear friend.

Merry Christmas.

I’ve been back in London all of thirty minutes, and I’m already remembering some of the why I left. We’re stuck in a motionless train under south London. The smell of the plane trip hangs around me. The shower I had in Beth’s dingy Sydney bathroom is a thirty-hour old memory, and although I sprayed copious amounts of the latest Giorgio Armani parfum pour femme all over me in Duty Free, I’m uncomfortably aware that at least some of my fellow passengers are not enjoying sharing this trip with me.

And although I’m not the only one with luggage, my overstuffed rucksack seems to be more offensive than anyone else’s. I’ve tried to tuck the straps away, but more than one person has managed to trip over them, all the same. I’ve said “sorry” more in this half hour than in the last six years altogether.

Six years ago, I left for a gap year. Running away so fast from my life in London. Running from my in-each-others’-pockets family. We’d lost our way after burying my father much too soon. They’d let me run, though. In those six years, I’d missed my sister’s wedding, and the birth of her first three children. I’d missed one brother’s graduation from Law School, and the other’s growing success as a chef. I’d missed witnessing my grandfather’s slow slide into dementia. Those were events, though. I’d been too busy enjoying a million adventures Sydney-side to miss anything else.

It’s the twenty-fourth of December. As we pulled away from station under Heathrow Airport, the carriage was mainly taken up with fellow travelers, tourists, or locals returning home, like me. I wonder briefly how many have been away for as long as me. I’m the only one with a tan. So my guess is, even if they’ve been away longer, they haven’t been as far. I want to feel smug for being such a great adventurer, but remind myself that I’m now back for good. I feel slightly ill.

Four stations on from the airport, the carriage is now jammed full, most people carrying one or more pretty paper or plastic bags, advertising where they’ve done their Christmas shopping. My gifts are taken care of, thanks to kangaroo, koala and boomerang shaped key-rings. Thanks, Sydney Airport. I want to sink my head in my hands, but resist.

The temperature is rising in the stalled train, and people are starting to shed their layers. Out in the open air of London, it’s probably three degrees, and people are wrapped up to ward off that above-ground chill. I’m glad I had the foresight to stow my jacket before catching the train, but I’m still over-heating in my zip-up sweatshirt, which bears the logo of the Sydney Olympics.

Six years in a warm and friendly outpost of Britain’s former glory, and I’ve forgotten, or lost, that hard London edge. I make eye contact with a business type, his orange and blue tie chosen to make a statement. A smile crosses my lips, but he scowls.

‘What you looking at?’

‘Just that advert above your head.’ I pretend to be fascinated by the ad for Life Insurance, wondering how such a professional-seeming gent could be so rude. Bad morning at the office, I guess. Or maybe this stalled train is making him late for a million pound meeting. I turn to look out the window into the darkness of the tunnel.

The carriage is too quiet for my comfort. I can hear myself think too loudly. Conversations which could be carried out safely, masked by the noise of the engine, have drifted into silence, and now no-one speaks. I suddenly wish I’d agreed to Tony’s offer. I could be cruising in his yacht off Sydney Harbour by now, heading away to see the world. Standing by a handsome man. Adventures waiting for us over every sea we travel. Trouble is, I’m done with that now. My sense of adventure has deserted me.

The train suddenly starts to move, and there is confusion as people struggle to keep their balance. Mr Orange-Tie falls against the pole he was hanging onto, and swears, but we’re in England, and no-one else makes a fuss.

As we pass through the stations along the line, the crowd changes, swells, thins. Too soon for me,  the train pulls into the station I’ve been waiting for, and dreading. Thirty-one hours after leaving the burnt acid blue of a southern hemisphere sky, I’m blinking up the dull grey of that of the north, the Christmas shoppers oblivious to the drizzle. The smell of fried chicken mingles with exhaust from the Turnpike Lane traffic, and I’m jostled off to the side of the pavement. I’ve made the wrong decision. London is hell.

Right now, Beth, Tony, Amy and Craig would be sleeping up on the open deck, being rocked gently by the swell of the ocean. They’re leaving tomorrow. First stop, Auckland. Then they’re doing the Pacific Islands.

I’m being rocked by the irritation of strangers. It’s my rucksack. They think that I don’t know where I’m going, but I do. This street leads to my family. I’m going home. My family just don’t know it yet. I push myself out into the stream of pedestrians, and point my feet towards the place I grew up.

The crowds thin out as I leave the shopping streets, and hit the residential zone. My shoulders are screaming at me, telling me what I already know – I should have left more stuff in Sydney.  I should have left myself there. I stop at Number 24. Grandma and Granddad’s house. Before Granddad passed away. The letterbox is still the same, and I touch it for luck, before walking on, walking to Number 32.

There used to be orange curtains in my room, overlooking the street. Now they’re green. I hate green. The downstairs lights are on, so someone must be home. As I open the gate, I notice my hands are shaking. Tired shoulders. The anxious knot in my stomach doesn’t let me lie to myself. At this point, I am sure I should have stayed in Australia, and put this moment off for another year or four. The three steps to the front door seem to take a year, but before I’m ready, my traitorous hand has snaked out and rung the bell.

There’s a clatter of small feet, and a pixie opens the door. A suspicious pixie, who frowns up at me. We stare at each other because the pixie doesn’t know me at all, and because I can’t figure out which of my sister’s children is hiding under that floppy green hat. We’re saved by the pixie’s mother, who comes waddling down the hallway.

‘Fergus, who is it? I’ve told you not to open the door without asking who it…Holy Mary, Mother of God. It’s your Aunty Isabel.’

I’m engulfed in my sister’s warm arms before I can say a word, my rucksack getting stuck in the doorway as I’m pulled inside.

‘Mum! Paul! Issy’s back! Oh, Gran’s going to have another heart attack at this. You’re soaked right through. You should have called. Mike could have picked you up, for sure.’

The offending pack gets dumped in the hallway, to drip all alone on the doormat. The pixie who, as it turns out, is my sister’s youngest child (but not for long, judging by the size of my sister’s belly), skips ahead of us, singing Jingle Bells for good measure. The twenty-fourth. Lunch. A family tradition that I’d forgotten. Everyone is going to be in the kitchen. I wonder if they’ll be able to make room for one more. An almost-stranger now.

We enter, and as I look at the over-loaded table, and the crowd of faces, showing various expressions of shock, surprise and happiness, I remember. And I realize.

This is not the wrong decision. This is the right decision for me, right now. I’m not a stranger. This is my family and home is where I need to be. I pull up a chair, and Mum places a plate in front of me, and squeezes my shoulder.

‘It’s good to have you back, Isabel. Merry Christmas.’

The end