Memories of May

by Juliet Madison

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ said Maribella. ‘I wish someone would write mine for me, save me some time!’

  Olivia smiled. ‘Who knows, maybe I’ll start a trend.’

  ‘What about your own life?’ asked Dylan. ‘Do you have any stories to tell of your own?’

  Olivia shifted in her seat. ‘Um, not really.’ She did that hair-tuck thing again. ‘I don’t have any … book-worthy moments,’ she said. ‘Unless single parenthood counts, but I don’t think anything I have to say on the matter would fill a whole book.’

  ‘Didn’t you say your daughter asks a lot of questions?’ asked Greg. ‘When we were chatting the other day?’

  Olivia tapped her chin with a pen. ‘Ah yes, I did. When I said she talks almost as much as you.’ She winked.

  ‘There you go. Fill a book with her questions.’

  ‘And the answers? I’m still working a lot of them out!’ She chuckled. ‘Sadly, parenthood doesn’t come with instant genius status. Thank goodness for Google is all I can say.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Maribella.

  The rest of the class spoke about their book ideas and a bit about their life. Dylan had been bitten by a shark (which he’d said wasn’t the most awesome thing to have happened) and had shot to instant fame in the local area because of his bravery and amazing recovery (which he’d said was a lot more awesome than the shark attack). Maribella was writing about her experience overcoming illness and depression, Greg’s ideas were a bit all over the place but revolved around his life in general as a teacher and then raising a disabled son, and Simon and Gavin (who Greg had decided to nickname Simon and Garfunkel) were joining forces writing about their entrepreneurial experience—the pyjama guy apparently was the internet tech expert who stayed home and the business-suited guy went out into the ‘field’ as they called it.

  ‘They all sound like great stories,’ Joel said, standing from the edge of the desk and switching his PowerPoint presentation back on. ‘Now it’s time to show you how to get them from your head onto the screen, and eventually into a book.’

  ‘One question,’ Greg said after he cleared his throat.

  Joel turned to face the old man. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Will your book have a sequel?’ he asked. ‘It’s a riveting read, if I may say so. And that ending … sounds like it’s not quite the end of your adventures.’

  Joel thought back to writing that last line. It was an ending without being an ending. He didn’t like endings. They symbolised stopping, and he didn’t like to stop for long. ‘It’s definitely not the end, my friend. Not in the least.’ He smiled at the man, then began his introduction on how to hook a reader and draw them in with a great premise, all the while feeling his eyes wandering back to Olivia’s glimmering earring and wondering how this plain, ordinary yet somehow extraordinary woman, was hooking him and drawing him in.

  Chapter 7

  ‘I’ll unpack that if you like,’ said Marcus, as Olivia took the large box of books into the storeroom.

  ‘Thanks but I’m good.’ She placed the box down on the floor and ripped off the tape, then turned to see through the doorway that Mr Donovan had entered the store.

  ‘Ah,’ she whispered to Marcus. ‘You just don’t want to get your ears talked off by you know who.’ She tilted her head.

  Marcus leaned in. ‘Seriously, Liv, the man’s a walking voice box.’ He turned briefly to make sure his words weren’t audible. ‘Last time, he got talking about how his nephew had contracted some gross infection and that all young men such as myself should get checked out at regular intervals. He even offered to show me some …’ he gulped, ‘photos. For education’s sake.’ He feigned throwing up.

  Olivia shook her head. ‘Well, have you been checked?’ He feigned puking again, and she winked. ‘Go unpack that delivery, I’ll be at the counter if you need me.’

  He placed his hands together in prayer, mouthed ‘thank you’, and she went into the store. ‘Mr Donovan, how did you enjoy last night’s class?’

  ‘Was an absolute delight,’ he said. ‘I am filled to the brim with inspiration, hence my visit on this fine and dandy day.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s great.’ She went behind the counter.

  He wandered to the memoir section. ‘Going to have a look at what’s in the market. Joel said to research those “hook” thingamajigs he talked about, so that I can find out what mine could be.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘Good idea. I’m still trying to clarify mine, though I have a basic idea.’ She thought back to her lunch with Joel last Friday and found a little shimmer of anticipation building inside at their next lunch in two days.

  ‘Got some space on these shelves,’ Mr Donovan said. ‘Making symbolic room for all of our fabulous memoirs to grace the shelves soon, eh?’ he chuckled.

  ‘Not yet,’ she walked over to meet him there. ‘Making room for Joel’s book. Just got a delivery of them. We might even do a window display for him while he’s visiting town, thank him for being here to help teach us all.’

  ‘Grand idea,’ the man said, turning to face the front window. ‘I can see a big cardboard mountain—I can paint it if you like, quite handy with a paintbrush, if I do say so myself—and the books hanging from the edge or something.’ He held his hands out as though to create the scene better in his mind.

  Olivia grinned. ‘You looking for a part-time job?’

  ‘You got one?’

  ‘Not really, sorry.’ She patted his arm. ‘But thank you for the inspiration.’ Olivia peered beyond the storeroom door. ‘Need a hand with some of those books, Marcus?’

  ‘Um. Nope. All good,’ he called out. ‘Just um … making sure, um …’

  ‘Just bring some out so we can fill these empty shelves,’ she instructed. ‘Mr Donovan was just talking about window displays and I know you love window displays, you two could collaborate while I check some things on my computer.’ She walked with her chin high and a smug grin on her face, as Marcus emerged with a forced smile on his, a pile of books in his hands. She took one from the top to the counter, and sat on the stool behind the computer. After checking some messages and her Facebook business page, she looked at the tagline on the cover of Joel’s book.

  When a man’s greatest adventure becomes his worst nightmare, he discovers that challenging his mental limits will become his most daring adventure yet …

  While Marcus and Mr Donovan continued discussing the merits of various treatments he was trying for indigestion, she read the first page, then flipped to the contents, most chapters named after a song title. Apparently he liked to sing to himself while travelling and hiking, so each had a special meaning and related to various events in each chapter. Clever.

  She couldn’t help herself, she skipped ahead to the chapter titled Lost In The Echo and started reading …

  The pain. Oh God, the pain. I’d had pain before, but this was different. I knew I had hurt myself pretty badly, because not only was there pain, but a deep, sharp, icy shiver inside my leg as cold wind whipped at the exposed bone through my torn muscle.

  It was all consuming.

  I forgot where I was.

  I was lost in the echo of my own scream, and no one could hear me.

  ‘Huh?’ Olivia looked up, as Mr Donovan placed a book on the counter and said something.

  ‘Good read, isn’t it,’ he said, gesturing to One More Breath.

  She gave a slow nod. ‘I’ve only read a small bit so far, but …’

  ‘It has you “hooked”, right?’

  Olivia smiled. Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed. And now there were two stories she wanted to know more about. The other one would hopefully have its next chapter revealed in about six hours from now when she visited Mrs May, and she couldn’t wait.

  * * *

  After Olivia answered Mia’s question on the drive to the nursing home about whether animals have thoughts like humans do (‘yes I think so, but not as deep’), her mind wandered to Mrs May’s words last Sunday …

 
* * *

  May’s Memories, of fresh crusty bread and gaping wide grins …

  The bell jingled when I entered the general store the next day and Mrs Lambert smiled at me from behind the counter where she was arranging a tray of cookies. ‘Fancy one, dear?’ she asked.

  I shook my head and held up my shopping list, which also included our small family budget noted discreetly at the top to remind me not to go overboard.

  Mrs Lambert tipped her head back slightly in apparent understanding. ‘No charge,’ she said. ‘New recipe, I’d love to have some feedback.’ She held out her hand and I gratefully accepted the cookie, saying ‘thank you’ about three or four times. I bit into the chunky, warm, delightful texture of nuts and raisins, chewing and relishing the sweet and savoury combination. ‘Delicious,’ I said as soon as I swallowed my first bite. ‘Thank you again.’ She waved her hand like it was no trouble. I would have bought the whole tray-full if we could have afforded it. And I probably would have eaten them all on the way home and never even told mother. I smiled to myself as I turned to face the shelves. But I wouldn’t. There was no room for greed in these times.

  I picked some cans of beans off the shelf and put them in my basket, followed by spaghetti, potatoes, onions, tomatoes, flour, and butter.

  ‘Some bread, Miss May?’

  I turned towards the owner of the warm, masculine voice, who held some fresh loaves in his arms like he was carrying firewood.

  ‘William, it is polite to address a young lady with her surname, not “Miss” followed by her first name.’ Mrs Lambert shook her head as she scolded her nephew.

  ‘Sorry, I—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Miss May is perfectly lovely.’ I smiled. Demurely.

  William smiled. Non-demurely.

  He wasn’t traditionally handsome. His sandy hair sat atop his head much like a haystack sat in a barn, all messy and haphazard, but it suited him. His blue eyes stood out and glimmered like tiny sapphires or diamonds, which was a silly way to describe a young man’s eyes, but that’s the only way I could think to do so.

  ‘And thank you, but I won’t require any bread at the moment. It is more economic to make our own.’

  He nodded, and saliva swirled in my mouth at the delicious aroma of the freshly baked bread, wishing I could bite straight into it like I had the cookie.

  I took my groceries to the counter and William plonked the bread on the linen tablecloth that hung over one corner. ‘I’ll handle this, Aunt Anna.’

  She gave a nod. ‘I’ll be out back unpacking those tea chests if you need me,’ she said.

  William’s hair fell over one of his eyes and he pushed it back, then he glanced behind him towards the storeroom. When his gaze returned to me, he leaned over the counter. ‘Here,’ he whispered, handing me one of the loaves of bread. ‘New recipe. I’d love to have some feedback.’ He winked.

  My mouth opened in surprise. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to do that.’ I checked my list and the running tally I had jotted down. I had a small amount of money left over, but not enough for the bread.

  ‘Consider it a gift.’ He placed it in my shopping basket.

  ‘Your aunt already gave me a gift.’ I gestured to the cookie tray.

  ‘This gift is from me. Out of my pocket. Don’t worry, you won’t be leaving the store short.’ He took some coins from his pocket and placed them in the cash register.

  I peered towards the storeroom but Mrs Lambert didn’t appear to have overheard our conversation. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

  He nodded, and started adding up my other items, placing them back in the basket.

  ‘It looks delicious. Lovely and crusty,’ I remarked.

  And then something rather humorous and somewhat magical happened … We both spoke very similar words at the same time.

  ‘It might make my hair curly,’ I said.

  ‘It might give you curly hair,’ he said.

  And then he stopped what he was doing and looked at me, and I stayed still and looked at him, and then a very un-demure gaping wide grin exploded onto my face, as it did on his. Not only that, but I laughed. An un-demure, un-ladylike, sudden burst of laughter.

  I instinctively touched my hair that had been artificially curled with rollers and bobby pins.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t give me curly hair,’ William said. ‘My hair is chaotic enough as it is!’

  I laughed again.

  ‘Have a sensational afternoon, Miss May,’ William said as I picked up my basket and headed towards the door.

  ‘Likewise.’ The bell jingled as I pushed open the door, and so did something inside my belly. At least, it felt like a jingle would feel. Light and fluttery and bubbly and sweet.

  But as I walked past the tailor’s shop on my way back home, and Jacques smiled at me with a small wave, and I smiled back (demurely), I remembered the letter, and the jingle subsided and my heart swelled.

  The next day, my heart swelled even more when I received the second letter, up until that terrible moment when my heart plummeted to the pit of my stomach.

  * * *

  ‘Okay, Grandma, what happened next? Last time I was here you told me about William and the bread, and you said something about the terrible day that followed. What happened?’ Olivia settled in the chair next to Mrs May’s bed, her phone recorder at the ready, as Mia had stuck her latest drawing up on the wall with Blu Tack and plugged her earphones in, ready to draw another.

  Mrs May had become tired after reaching that point in the story, and Olivia figured that discussing a ‘terrible day’ could make her more tired and she didn’t want to overwhelm her all at once, so she’d decided to leave it until today.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Furrows developed within the permanent furrows in between Mrs May’s eyebrows. ‘I’ll never forget it. How my heart went from elated to devastated in an instant.’

  ‘Tell me.’ Olivia lightly stroked her grandmother’s hand.

  * * *

  May’s Memories, of loss …

  Mother stood at the stove, steam rising up and fogging her glasses as she tipped the white beans into the potato soup and stirred. She wiped at her brow. ‘Are you unwell, Mother?’ I asked, noticing the paleness of her complexion despite the steam, yet a light film of sweat dampening her shirt.

  ‘I think I may be coming down with something. I’ll get this soup finished and then I’ll take some rest.’

  ‘I can finish it, if you like?’ I approached the stove.

  ‘No, that’s not necessary darling, it won’t take much longer. You go collect the mail and freshen up those plants outside with some water.’

  I nodded, as she took a cloth and wiped her brow with it, then slung it over her shoulder.

  I scurried outside, wondering if it would be too soon to have received another letter. There were three envelopes, and the third was addressed to me. With no one around, I flashed a gaping wide grin for my own pleasure, and didn’t even bother going back inside to open it in private, but simply ripped open the envelope, my eyes hungry for the words …

  Dear Marvellous May,

  So it appears you are magnificent AND marvellous! I hope this letter brings a smile to your face. It brings a smile to mine by simply writing it. I wish I could see you right now, watch your eyes scanning the words on the paper, see your lips curving upwards. But I have a good imagination and I will settle for imagining it. Just as I imagine other things. Other things we could do together. One day, perhaps.

  Have you ever watched the sunset over the ocean from way up in the hills? People think it’s beautiful to watch it from the beach, or the harbour, but sometimes a sunset is best viewed from far back, because then you get the whole picture. The panoramic artwork that is the sky.

  Hmm. Not bad. My letter writing is improving, I think. Do you think?

  I’ve even wondered if I could try my hand at painting the sunset. I believe in giving things a go. Sometimes you never know what could happen until you try.

/>   You seem like such a hard-working young woman, going about your daily chores and helping your family. I admire you. Yes, I think you’re beautiful, but even more beautiful is your heart, and your dedication.

  Oh, if only I could be so lucky as to have your heart, and your dedication. I would not need to watch the sunset then, because I would see something much more beautiful every day that I look into your eyes.

  Until next time,

  Me.

  My hand trembled as it held the letter and I read it a second time. My heart was no longer swelling, it was pulsing, pounding, urgently wanting to jump out and embrace those words if it could do such a thing. Oh I wish he would ask me on a date. I would say yes! Perhaps I could write him a letter back, discreetly fold it in a pair of father’s trousers that might require some expert tailoring by Jacques’ father, instead of my basic sewing skills.

  I pondered what I would say, and as my mind concentrated deeply, I didn’t really pay attention the clash and clang coming from the house. Mother often made a noise while cooking, so it wasn’t uncommon. ‘Dear Jovial Jacques,’ I giggled, imagining my words on paper. ‘I know it is you. And I wish to thank you for such kind words and compliments offered. If you do indeed wish to have adventures with me, or perhaps watch a sunset from up in the hills, I would like to enlighten you to my answer in advance of such an … advance. My answer would be yes. I will await your request, and—’

  My thoughts dissipated when a loud whoosh sucked my focus from the paper to our house, and sounds of splintering glass prickled my eardrums. And then the flames. Flickering bright orange and red, and black smoke, came from the side of the house where the kitchen was. In an instant they rose up to the second level of the house.

  I dropped the letter and mail onto the ground and ran to the porch, threw open the door and blinked rapidly at the stinging heat and smoke invading my eyes. But the only thing I could think about was Mother. No one else was in the house except her. I rushed straight into the kitchen despite the flames, and found her crawling on the floor near the other side where the flames were yet to reach. Oh thank goodness, I thought, as I had feared for a split second I may find her dead near the stove.