The Kissing Game

by Aidan Chambers

  ‘Well anyhow, he went wi’ out any bother,’ the woman said in a last effort to please.

  ‘He did an’ all,’ said Grandma, sobered. ‘Aye, gone home, the lad has. And me none so far behind, God willing.’ She shook her head, her eyes fixed on her knees, as though part of her was already on its way.

  ‘Now, Mother, there’s no need for that kind of talk,’ my mother said, getting up and putting the kettle on the fire. ‘Come on, Doris, we’ll get some tea.’

  Chairs were pushed back, my aunts stood up, skirts were pulled down and straightened, shoes put on. The straining snugness poured away like pressure from a tube when the valve is released. I felt I could move and breathe again. Doris and Mary went off into the pantry, my mother and May began laying the table.

  ‘Dear me, tea time already!’ sang one of the neighbor women, peering exorbitantly at the alarm clock clacking on the mantelpiece, and finally slapping her knees before rising.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to be away,’ said the other woman.

  ‘Now don’t you worry yourself, missus.’ the first bent over Grandma. ‘Don’t bother yourself.’ She was almost bellowing her advice into Grandma’s ear, determined to let everyone hear. ‘Your daughters look after you, and if you want owt just let’s know and our Jim can get it.’ She patted Grandma’s shoulder, said, ‘Tarra,’ and followed by her companion left the house to calls of ‘Thank you, Mrs. Clayton, tarra.’

  The house sank into its funereal silence. The low tones of Doris and Mary murmuring in the scullery and the clinking of cups as the table was set made me aware of myself. I was alone, with Grandma still brooding in her corner. Terror flooded up my spine. I saw her like a great eagle, peering in the bold, wide-eyed, impersonal way of the eagle, far into the fire. And I was sure that if she turned her eyes upon me she would pounce as the eagle would and use me as her prey. I shivered. Sweat prickled on my brow and between my shoulders. My stomach palpitated, hot and afraid. Getting up, I darted into the scullery, thinking to escape by pretending to help Doris. She was swathing thick slices of bread with layers of butter and arranging them on a plate. Mary was leaning against the table, arms folded.

  Doris caught me by the shoulder and pulled me between them.

  ‘Now listen, love,’ she half whispered. ‘Your grandmother’s not well, you know, because Grandad’s dead. So don’t make a nuisance of yourself, there’s a good lad.’ She waved the buttery knife at me and held up the plate of bread. ‘Here, take this to your mother.’

  I took the plate and went back into the room. As I made towards the table I took a quick look at Grandma. She was as I had left her, well back in her chair, her arms splayed along the chair’s arms, her eyes devouring the fire. My mother smiled, wanting to brighten me up, but too busy with preparations to do more. I was left feeling stranded and insecure in the middle of the room.

  The garden came as a thought in salvation. I had opened the door into the front room on my way to the front door before I remembered that Grandad would be there in his coffin. And there it was, a long seam of creamy wood, its open top gaping at the ceiling, white satin frothing over the edge. A dull, sweet, unhealthy smell spiced with disinfectant was thick in the air. And Grandad’s waxen face was visible above the coffin’s rim, his head resting on a white cushion.

  I tasted the foul air clogging my mouth. Half turning to flee back into the living room, I knew I couldn’t. Casting my eyes down and holding my breath, I ran to the front door and, once outside, banged it behind me.

  I walked slowly down the garden path, trembling and breathing rapidly now. At each breath the fear and tension in my body slipped further away. My eyes began to see the grey afternoon, the long black mounds of houses, the roses beginning to shed their discoloured petals, the long knife-leaves and blue flowers of the gladioli my grandma loved so much.

  The breeze cooled the sweat on my body. The trembles of fear ran into cold shivers.

  At the bottom of the garden, among the cabbages and potatoes, I kicked myself onto the top of the gate, and sat, legs swinging, looking back at the house. It seemed like a slice in the long burnt loaf of the terrace, the windows blinded by drawn curtains. I stared at the downstairs window, thinking of Grandad in his coffin, stiff, his skin putty-coloured, the grey wisps of his hair combed neatly to one side, his tobacco-stained moustache neatly trimmed, his face quiet, removed, aloof.

  I was suddenly possessed by the realisation that age and death would come to me too. The thought left me feeling as though purged by acid, somehow clear, aware of every sensation, aware of breathing, the movement of my eyes, the very act of seeing, aware of my hair, my ears, my mouth, my teeth, the saliva in my mouth, my bowels, my legs swinging and banging against the gate, my clothes chafing against my skin, and my hands gripping the top of the gate.

  There was nothing about me at that moment that I did not know. And the knowledge was an unbearable pain.

  Slipping to my feet, I shook my head violently, hanging onto the gate for support. The grains of the wood, worn to ridges by the weather, dug into my fingers. I could think of nothing but those sharp, thin furrows and the whole fullness of the wood under my hands. I concentrated on them. They seemed such a pure, undemanding, unfailing comfort.

  A note from the Author about flash fiction

  Several of the stories in this collection are a kind that are now called flash fictions. Along with many writers, I’ve become more and more interested in them as a modern form that is at the cutting edge of literature. This is what I like about them:

  They are like a flash of light, a spark, which allows one quick view of a whole scene or person or event.

  They are usually less than 1,000 words long.

  They can be of any genre so long as they are stories.

  They can be autobiography, biography, poems, letters, diaries, mini essays, news reports. . .

  They can be prose with or without dialogue, or only dialogue.

  They can be in the first person, or third person, and in any tense.

  In other words, they can make use of any aspect of language and written expression.

  They must be complete, and not a mere anecdote.

  They often leave as much for the reader to do, making the story, and “making the meaning,” as the author does.

  They have a neatness and a rhythm that are apparently simple but, when you think about them, you realize are very dense and full of possible meanings.

  Some of the greatest authors of literature wrote flash fictions. For example, Kafka, Chekhov, Hemingway, Raymond Carver, Italo Calvino, and Kawabata, which he called “palm-of-the-hand” stories.

  One of the reasons why they are so popular and are such a very modern kind of literature is that they are suited to writing and reading on the small screens of computers, iPhones, and eReaders.

  I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

  —Aidan Chambers