1st Prize - Short Story Competition 2015

"Blue Belle" by Helen Parker

Tuesday, 5 o'clock, and there's that filthy old git again with his top-shelf-mag mind, his grubby sewer-paedo-porno mind. Doesn't he realise what trouble he could get into if they catch him here, at a children's playground, watching kids? Look at him! Dirty, straggly hair, mucky clothes, squinty little eyes. Surely no self-respecting kid would go near him. At least that's one good thing!

There he is, watching the girls on the swings. Bet he's hoping for a view of their pants. Well, he's not getting anywhere near my Maria. She knows not to go off anywhere with strangers. Bet he's undressing them in his mind right now. Bet he would like to single out Maria 'cos of her lovely warm skin - a permanent tan, they call it - and her twinkly black eyes. She's exotic. She'll be some gorgeous guy's dream when she's older.

What's she doing? 'Maria, what'you doing?'

'Just taking off my sweater, Mum. It's hot.'

'Uh, OK love. Just be careful.'

Why is she looking at me like that? I guess the weather's getting warmer, and the kids are so energetic. Bound to want to shed a few layers. Pity.

Kids! They're enough to make your hair go grey. Life can be a puzzle. Hard to know what to do for the best.

'Five minutes, pet. Got to get home and put the dinner on. Maria? D'you hear me?'

'Aw, Mum. A bit longer, please.'

Now they're off in the grass doing cartwheels. Just as well Maria's wearing trousers. They've landed in a clump of bluebells. Ah, she's picking me a bunch. I've told her they don't last once they're picked, but she's a sweet kid.

What's she doing? Where's she going? 'Maria! MARIA! Come back here! What've I told you about strangers?'

'I wasn't going anywhere, Mum. I was just giving that old man some flowers. He looked so sad.'

'Well, you should leave strangers alone. You don't know what they might do. Now pick up your sweater. We're going home.'

There he goes, trudging off with my daughter's bluebells. Look at him leering. Bet he thinks he nearly scored. Bet he's going back to his porno mags. Too soon to tell Maria too much, but I can't keep an eye on her forever.

* * *

All that life force. All that exuberant energy! George loves to watch the children playing and listen to their shouting and laughing. It's such a contrast to home these days - the silence and inactivity. Life can be dense, glutinous. Hard to push through.

Now that the summer's coming it's warm enough to sit in the park for a few minutes on Tuesdays. There's a wooden bench with a bronze plaque: In memory of Andrew Campbell who loved this park. Donated by his son and daughter. Someone else's bitter-sweet memories. George sits down with a grunt, leans back and stretches his stiff legs out in front of him. He has to squint against the bright sun.

He loves the park because this is where he and Isabelle often used to amble together on Sundays. Mind you, it brought tears from time to time - if only he could have given her children! They'd have been little Shirley Temples, blond, curly-headed, smiley-dimpled with blue eyes like Isabelle's. There might have been grandchildren by now. They'd be around to bring her joy these days, to bring light to her cloudy, once-cornflower-blue eyes. He used to imagine her in the kitchen, baking cookies, and himself sitting on the floor building a railway track. George sighs.

It's bluebell season, and they grow in profusion round the edges where the Council doesn't mow. Belle used to tell him, 'Don't pick them, they don't last. Just enjoy them growing.' So that's what he's doing.

But there are some children who haven't had the benefit of Belle's wisdom. They're picking the bluebells anyway, probably as a gift for their mother. Well, they'll give some lucky woman a few moments of joy, anyway. George sighs once more and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun caressing his face. The smell of cut grass always catapults him into rambunctious boyhood memories.

When he opens them again, it's to see a small girl looking at him anxiously. 'Are you OK mister?'

'Er, yes, thank you.' Nervously, he pushes back his sparse over-long hair.

'Here. These are for you.' She hands him a bunch of bluebells, smiles hesitantly and runs back to her mother who's calling her angrily.

George takes the flowers in amazement. He turns towards the girl and her mother, wanting to smile and wave his thanks, but already the woman is striding away in the opposite direction, pulling the reluctant child roughly by the hand. Perhaps the mother is annoyed that the bluebells were not for her. George feels guilty, momentarily. Plenty more where those came from, he consoles himself. Creakily, clutching his gift, he stands up and makes his way home.

His front door could do with a coat of paint. He used to be able to keep on top of those jobs. Heavily, he puts his key in the lock and pauses, trying to inhale energy, purpose. He is greeted by the house's pervasive sour smell and the usual sounds of daytime TV. 'Hello,' he calls.

'Hello George.' Mrs Andrews comes through from the sitting room and helps him off with his coat.

'How has she been?'

'Oh, you know…' Mrs Andrews smiles sadly.

He knows.

'You've got a couple of marks on this coat, George. I could drop it off at the dry cleaner's on my way home. I'll be passing here again on Thursday. Get it back to you then?'

'Bless you, Mrs Andrews. Belle used to see to it for me. She's got an eye for these details, you know.'

George goes into the sitting room, still holding the bluebells. He stoops to kiss the top of Isabelle's head. 'Hello love. How've you been?'

Belle makes no response. Her milky-blue eyes gaze unseeingly in the direction of the TV. George sometimes wonders if she sees anything at all. Are there any happy memories still tucked away behind that unresponsive mask?

He lowers himself into his usual chair beside Belle. Mrs Andrews comes in with her jacket on. 'I'll be off then, George.' She pauses. 'You could do with a haircut. I'll do it for you next week if you like. I'm a dab hand with scissors.'

'That'd be very nice, Mrs Andrews. Belle used to…' He tails off.

'Bye then. Bye Isabelle.' She grasps Belle's limp hand for a moment, then she's gone.

'Look love. A little child at the park gave me these. It's bluebell season you know.' He thrusts the flowers under Belle's nose. Slowly, oh so slowly, Belle turns her head towards George. She looks at the bluebells, then at him, and slowly, oh so slowly, she smiles. For a moment her eyes are alive, sparkling like bluebells.

– The End –