Albatross

by Ross Turner

  However, beyond the decking, set apart from everything else, stood the single figure of an enormous oak tree; solitary and timeless.

  Where once the tree had been made of bark and branches and leaves and the very essence of life itself, now, instead, the tree that stood in its place was made of iron, pulled reluctantly from the earth and bent to the will of man.

  Over time the iron had rusted, as is its nature, and the tree that stood there now was a strange mixture of black and grey and red and copper, all at once.

  Once upon a time, on this very spot, just as they still did to this day, friends and family had indeed flocked here on warm summer’s evenings, sipped cold drinks and laughed and joked, as a bear was tied to the tree and baited with savage dogs.

  Always, inhumane bloodlust ensued.

  But the cruelty of entertainment such as this is sadly all too often lost on most people, for we are indeed a violent and primitive race.

  Either the bear would claim victory, killing every animal the handlers could throw at it, and live to fight another day, only to be carted away to the next inn to suffer the same fate. Or, the poor beast would succumb, overwhelmed by numbers and a lifetime of injuries and suffering, as is more often than not the case, in many more ways than just one.

  Naturally, the baiters would do their best to avoid the latter. Their livelihoods, and indeed the lives of their families, oddly enough, depended on the bear, and they needed it to suffer for as long as physically possible for the amusement of man.

  One day though, or so the story goes, enraged so by the dogs attacking it, the bear rose to its full, terrifying height, and roared with dreadful anger and sadness, much to the delight of the inn’s onlookers.

  But then, to everyone’s disbelief, and shortly after, terror, the poor monster hauled forward with all its might and ripped the vast oak tree from the very ground, roots and all.

  Charging blindly and unstoppably, the frightened beast pummelled three massive dogs into the dirt, and promptly ate its handlers.

  Now, whether a little, or perchance a lot, of artistic license was employed in the embellishment of that story, perhaps we’ll never know. But, nonetheless, the oak tree was replaced with an identical iron one, in memory of the poor brute, which, incidentally, or so the story goes, was stoned to death shortly afterwards.

  Hopefully needless to say, bears were never baited at The Rusty Oak again.

  Immediately Geoff was busy, dashing here and there, his giant hands working in a frenzy and his step seemingly far too quick for a man of his generous dimensions. There was little time to talk as orders rushed in constantly, but the more orders that came in, the faster Geoff seemed to move, feeding off the relentless pace endlessly.

  He loved it, smiling and humming to himself as he worked.

  Jen too moved quickly, flitting about as she always seemed to in the bustling kitchen.

  Like a ghost.

  Like she wasn’t even there.

  And, since it seems to be the time for stories of the past, she too once upon a time used to smile and hum as she worked. On occasion even, on days when humming simply wasn’t enough, she used to sing too.

  But of late, her love of singing, and of cooking, of everything in fact, it seemed, had vanished.

  Geoff had watched this decline with sorrow in his heart. As he had witnessed only that evening, in their short car journey to the pub, there was only one thing that seemed to stir any kind of emotion in Jen nowadays.

  And that was her dear sister, Clare.

  He frequently glanced across at her as she prepped meals and desserts for him in a robotic, melancholy state.

  Yet again he sighed, not knowing what could be done.

  Waiters and waitresses dipped in and out throughout the night and Jen and Geoff waltzed round the kitchen together, dipping and weaving between fridges and ovens and pots and pans in an intricate dance. There was a rhythmical perfection to their harmony, and even a comedic element about it, as the overly large chef and the, in comparison, seemingly undersized young girl, worked flawlessly together. They’d had plenty of practice after all.

  Again, it was something Jen had used to love, and they had laughed many nights of work away in their comical routine.

  Used to love.

  The whole situation saddened Geoff greatly.

  There was a new lad who had recently started, who often appeared looking more than a little overwhelmed, but Jen had cocooned herself so much that she didn’t even know his name.

  She did however, know Laura.

  Laura Patterson.

  Businesswoman.

  Owner of The Rusty Oak.

  Having spent years helping her father run the pub, for it had been in their family for more than a few generations, Laura treated The Rusty Oak as if it were an only child.

  She was caring and friendly and gave everybody anything she could, but the second anybody started to get rowdy, she came down on them in a heartbeat.

  It worked very well, and she was very good at it. Though she was only slight, and not overly tall, her voice could be both kind and stern, and her light hair and eyes could be both caring and fierce.

  Laura had always had a soft spot for Jen too, and whenever Clare had popped in, she always gave the both of them drinks and food on the house.

  If not because she was fond of them, then at least because without young Jen, Laura knew that Geoff wouldn’t manage alone in the kitchen, regardless of how fast he could move.

  Something that had always tickled Clare when she visited was Laura’s jumpers. Every day she wore an identical woollen jumper, be it green or yellow or blue or red, or any colour under the sun for that matter.

  Clare had always been convinced that Laura had hundreds of these jumpers all lined up in her wardrobe, all in varying shades of every colour and design, and found the whole idea quite ridiculous and hilarious.

  Eventually, late into the night, the last of the guests, and more often than not the rowdiest of the lot, were shooed out of the door by Laura, though admittedly quite some time past closing.

  Jen was just about finished cleaning up in the kitchen, scrubbing and drying the metal work surfaces ready for the next day.

  Soon enough she bid Geoff and Laura and the waiters and waitresses, whose names she could not recall, goodnight, informing them that she was off to meet Clare so that they could walk home together.

  “Ok dear…” Laura replied, smiling warmly, though the look in her eyes was not dissimilar to the look in Geoff’s.

  “Stay safe…” The portly chef called after Jen as she disappeared into the night, and once she had vanished his gaze met Laura’s, and they both took a deep, shuddering breath.

  Geoff tentatively, almost even nervously, led Laura into the kitchen and reached out with one enormously pudgy hand to the fridge beside where Jen had been working.

  Opening the door slowly, allowing the cold air to rush out with a slight hiss, they both peered inside.

  The sight that greeted them came as no surprise really, but they both sighed audibly still.

  On the top shelf sat a lovely looking sweet, on a plate decorated with drizzles of sauce: a piece of strawberry cheesecake that had been one of the dessert specials that evening.

  Beneath it lay a piece of paper with a note scrawled across it.

  Clare xxx

  Jen always, every night and day that she worked, left a sweet in the fridge for her sister, and had done ever since she’d started at The Rusty Oak.

  She didn’t anymore, but there had once been a time when, instead of Jen having to go and meet her, Clare would come to find her sister before Jen finished work. She would sit and eat the sweet Jen always left for her, or even sometimes, if the weather permitted in the afternoons and evenings, Clare would come and sit out in the garden upon the decking.

  Nowadays though, Jen always finished before Clare arrived, and she never came in the afternoons or evenings anymore.

  Still though, always hopeful, Jen nev
er failed to prepare a sweet for her sister, and Laura sighed again, this time somehow even more sadly.

  Her gaze dropped as she scraped Clare’s sweet into the bin, and washed up the empty plate, knowing that if she didn’t, it would only sit there.

  She wished it wasn’t the case, but sadly, Jen’s sister never visited her at The Rusty Oak anymore.

  That didn’t stop Jen from wanting however, clinging to the blind hope that one day Clare would return.

  Skylight Nights on Sea View Side

  The front door to Keepers Cottage swung open and flooded the street with yellow light for a moment. Soon enough though Dyra heard footsteps in the hallway and the door clicked shut again.

  “You’re back early…” Dyra commented, drying her hands and glancing at her watch as she stepped round from the kitchen.

  “Yeah.” Jen replied simply, slinging her bag from her shoulder and unzipping her hoody. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing quite heavily. “We got home quicker than usual…”

  “I see…” Her mother replied, though her brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything ok?”

  “Yeah, fine thanks.” Jen replied, heading immediately for the stairs. “Clare and I are going up for a bit…”

  “Okay…” Dyra replied cautiously. “Let me know if you need anything…”

  “We will…” Jen called back behind her, but she had already rounded the corner at the top of the landing and was out of sight.

  “Mom really does worry when you shut off like that, you know…” Clare commented, her tone verging on reproachful as Jen climbed the second flight of stairs and opened the painted white door to her bedroom.

  “I don’t mean to…” Jen replied, her tone low and guilt-ridden.

  “She just wants to know you’re ok…” Clare pressed, pushing uncomfortable buttons that only she knew of.

  “Yes…” Jen sighed, her tone exasperated. “I know…”

  But Clare had made her point, and there was no need for her to make Jen feel worse. She just watched as her sister pulled off her clothes from work and rummaged around through her wooden chest of drawers for a clean set.

  Jen found yet another hoody and a pair of jeans, and turned to pull them on, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so.

  She was thin, scrawny even, for she had lost a lot of weight recently. It hadn’t been her intention; she’d just had no appetite of late. Her body looked weak and malnourished, and her arms and legs were stick thin.

  Looking away, ignoring what she saw, Jen pulled her jeans on vigorously, faded blue and frayed here and there, and then chucked her hoody on just by itself.

  Clare looked around her sister’s room, biting her lip slightly as she surveyed the unkempt result of months of her younger sister’s decline.

  Jen’s room was the highest in the house and at the front, on road view side, directly above the front door. The walls were white like the door and plain, with no pictures or posters. Only the mirror hung over to the left, beside the chest of drawers. The ceiling was slanted, as they were directly beneath the roof.

  One window was set over the other side of the room in the ceiling, and another was on the front wall overlooking the front garden and the road.

  A dusty TV that hadn’t been used for months stood abandoned on her sister’s bedside table, next to the single bed covered by a ruffled blue quilt that was hardly ever slept in, and a half empty bookcase sat lonesome and forgotten against the only remaining wall.

  As Clare surveyed, Jen began to rummage once again, only this time not for clothes. Within moments she laid hands upon what she was after, and pulled a small Walkman CD player, old and outdated and battered, from beneath a pile of clothes.

  Clare couldn’t help but smile.

  She had bought Jen that CD player years ago for Christmas one winter, and she had treasured it ever since. It was old and tatty and used almost beyond belief, but to her sister Clare knew it was priceless.

  Jen then pulled an A4 sized black felt case from beneath her bed, and turned back to her older sister.

  “Ready Clare?” She asked expectantly, all traces of remorse gone.

  “Always.” Clare replied with a gentle smile. “Lead the way.”

  Jen tucked the black case under her arm and stuffed her Walkman and a pair of earphones into her pocket.

  Sidling over to the window set in the ceiling, moving with sudden eagerness round her bed, Jen pulled up the handle and pushed the window as high as it would go. It took her a few attempts, and she struggled perhaps more than she should have done, but eventually the window made it high enough and for her to hear the audible click of it locking in place.

  Delving into her pocket and pulling out her Walkman, Jen reached out of the window and lodged it carefully behind a tile on the slanted roof, as she did almost every night, so that it didn’t slide down and off the edge.

  It had taken her a few goes to get the knack of this, and a few times she had very nearly lost it altogether.

  She placed the black case beside it, lodging that too behind a tile, and then rested one hand either side of the windowsill. Jumping as high as she could, and hauling with all her might, though again this took a fair few goes, Jen heaved herself up and out, over the edge of the windowsill, and onto the slate roof.

  Though she’d lost weight, this hadn’t got any easier, for without food she was weak and fragile, and had no strength whatsoever.

  Nonetheless, she thought little of it, instead grabbing her case and CD player and standing up to look upon the night.

  Since her bedroom was front facing, she emerged onto road view side, and looked down at the dark lane seemingly so far below her.

  A lazy, cold breeze wound its way between Jen’s legs and through her hoody, forcing her to shiver and draw a sharp breath.

  She turned carefully and ascended up to the apex of the roof, climbing over and moving steadily onto the opposite face.

  Sea view side.

  And indeed, as always, in the distance even through the dim night, she could just about make out the breaking of the waves on the shoreline, off towards the horizon.

  Squatting down and perching for a moment on the slanted tiles, Jen found the same comfortable spot that she had last night, and the night before, and the one before that, and indeed almost every night before that too.

  Though the wind was not all that strong, she clutched her Walkman and the felt case tightly, as if they might be ripped from her grasp at any moment.

  Tucking her Walkman safely into her lap, Jen unzipped the black case round three sides and opened it to reveal several dozen CD wallets, some full to the brim, and others empty and unused.

  She began to slowly flick through the CD’s, just about able to make out the writing on them in the dark. Many of them were just blank discs that she and Clare had burned songs on to, and then in their haste scribbled a seemingly appropriate name on the front in black marker.

  Some were very worn and scratched and clearly well used, while others hadn’t been touched for some time; as seemed to be the case with many of Jen’s belongings nowadays.

  She paused for a moment.

  Summer 12

  That was a while ago now, she thought to herself.

  She remembered making that one with Clare after they’d spent the week away with friends. Though, now she recalled one of the best weeks of her life, the memory seemed so long lost and faded, as if almost it didn’t even belong to her: as if it had happened in another lifetime altogether.

  Gym Songs

  Now that one was a little more recent, but not much, if she was honest with herself.

  Although, she was never honest with herself anymore.

  “Jennifer! Dinner!” She heard her mom’s voice call faintly from far below.

  She sidled over to the open skylight, just nipping back over the top of the roof, and silently pushed it to. She didn’t close it entirely, but just enough to make it look like she and Clare had gone back ou
t, when their mother inevitably came looking for them.

  Besides, she wasn’t hungry.

  She just wanted to be left alone.

  But then, as she sat back down and flicked her CD case over again, the next disc had writing scrawled across it that left a pit in Jen’s stomach.

  From Clare xx

  “You haven’t listened to that one for ages…” Clare commented dryly, speaking for the first time since they’d climbed out onto the rooftop.

  She sat directly beside her younger sister in just a T-shirt and a thin pair of black joggers, though she seemed not in the least bit bothered by the cold, and peered over Jen’s shoulder at the wallets of CD’s on her lap.

  “I know…” Jen replied, sighing, her voice sobered considerably. “It used to be my favourite…”

  “Why don’t you give it a go?” Clare suggested, her tone encouraging.

  “No…” Jen replied quietly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t…” Though her words said one thing, clearly she wasn’t sure, and her eyes darted to her sister’s beautiful, stricken face.

  “Why not?” Clare asked, her voice wavering, clearly hurt.

  “I…I can’t…” Was all Jen managed, only able to repeat what she’d already said.

  She quickly flicked over to the next wallet of discs, not even looking to see what it was, pulled it out, and immediately shoved it into her Walkman. She rammed her earphones into her ears and hit play, greeted in an instant by drowning drumbeats and lyrics that she knew all too well, but could not recall.

  Clare said not another word, knowing when she wasn’t wanted.

  She simply sat on the rooftop, huddled close beside her troubled sister, though, as much as she desperately wanted to, she didn’t put her arm around Jen.

  It had been dark before, but after not too long it was nearly pitch black, for the stars and the moon were shrouded by the clouds; they were haunting ghosts floating above endlessly, pushed this way and that by the careless winds.