Highly Commended 4 - Short Story Competition 2015

"Luck" by Jacqui Cooper

It's funny how different people define luck, isn't it?

A friend of mine recently inherited a tidy sum of money from an uncle who died. She didn't know the uncle, had never met him so she wasn't grief stricken or anything. It was ten thousand pounds dropped in her lap. Her reaction? It's not enough.

I could see her point. Just.  It wasn't enough for her to give up work. It wouldn't pay off the mortgage or set her kids up for life. But even so, I like to think I'd have been more grateful.

Yesterday - when life was normal - I was walking home from the dentist when I saw a homeless guy shuffling along the pavement towards me. Someone had left a beer can on a wall by the bus stop and he picked it up and shook it. You know where this is going, don't you? Sorry and all that, but I'll never forget his blissful expression when he discovered the can wasn't empty. He didn't hesitate, didn't sniff it, just tipped back his head and swallowed the lot. I swear there was a spring in his step as he tossed the empty can and carried on his way. Seriously, the old tramp was transformed, even winked at me as he sauntered past. The luckiest man in the world on half a can of stale beer. I suspect he will measure time from that moment on. When did I last sleep in a proper bed? Let me think.  Was it before or after I found that half can of beer...

My point is, luck means very different things to different people.

My husband considers himself luckier than most. Yet once, crossing the road he was hit by a car. Not so lucky, I hear you say, but he'd already dropped the kids off at school so they weren't with him, and the accident happened right outside a doctor's surgery, so he got immediate first aid. Lucky? You tell me. Years later, when the pair of us were on holiday in France, he had a heart attack in the hotel restaurant. Lucky? Again, ask him. There was a convention of heart surgeons at our hotel. I kid you not, they were fighting over him at the breakfast buffet. So many doctors crammed into the ambulance with him it looked like a clown car. Then at the hospital, he had state of the art treatment while his many doctors squabbled over the merits of a stent or a bypass, or why not both?

He was hit by a car and then he had a heart attack. That's not most people's definition of luck, yet to hear him tell the tale, he's the luckiest man alive.

One of my neighbours won a competition and on the way to collect her prize she left the gate open and her dog got out and was hit a by a car. To complicate things she didn't like the dog which had been left by her ex and was grumpy and bad tempered - a bit like her ex. Anyway, Claire felt so guilty, she spent all her winnings on vet's bills and the damn dog made her life hell for another seven years. You see what I mean though? It's hard to say what's lucky and what isn't. We're talking glass half full and all that.

Right now I'm sitting on a bench in the spring sunshine. Lucky to have the time you say? Maybe. I tilt my head, and the faint warmth feels good on my face. I think of golden childhood summers. Teenage family holidays in Majorca when we came home desperate to show off our 'tan' when actually we resembled nothing more than a red and white patchwork quilt. I think of happy days on the beach when my own family were growing up, and I feel the sting of tears.

Think about something else.

I open my eyes. There's a cloud in the sky.  Not a big one, but it's there. I try not to look but it draws my eye as it scurries, racing to blot out the sun. I don't want to see that so I avert my eyes and look instead towards my husband sitting alone in the shade by the fountain, his head in his hands. A group of onlookers shuffle their feet but no one meets my eye.

The sun warms the back of my neck and I can't see the cloud now. What I do see are daffodils. Beautiful, bright, sunny daffodils. Their optimism soothes me until I notice a dandelion. Just as sunny, just as bright but a dandelion is a weed, isn't it?

Like with the cloud, I try not to look. Like with the cloud, it draws my eye.

Eventually I can't stand it. I get up and pull it out but on my way to the bin I have second thoughts. The dandelion didn't belong in the flower bed but it doesn't deserve to die just for being in the wrong place. Instead of tossing it in the bin, I crouch behind the bench, gently pushing the roots into the warm soil. Everything deserves a fighting chance.  

As I straighten up, it seems a silent signal has been given and my stomach knots as I turn towards the doors. Everyone else has picked up on it too. The reporters straighten up. A police officer speaks into a radio. My husband walks towards me, his face ashen. The officers straighten up.

Wordlessly I take my husband's hand, and together we walk inside. The kind faced doctor is waiting. He looks tired as he comes towards us.

'Mr and Mrs Lennox? Good news. He's going to be fine. We've stopped the bleeding and we're pretty sure the damage to his sight isn't permanent.'

I squeeze my husband's hand.

Our son, our boy, is okay. He's been running with the wrong crowd. We haven't spoken in years. But right at this moment I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

– The End –