Re-Collecting
A collection of short-short stories and textile pieces inspired by people's early memories.
The textile pieces also had a previous history. They started out as items I picked up over time - a piece of lace, a section from a patchwork quilt, an old crochet blanket, a single stray knitted glove. As with the memories I focused on the details that I liked and then singled them out and embellished then so that the final pieces are almost unrecognisable from its original state. Like the stories, the pieces have been separated from their original 'time-line' and transformed.
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Some of the stories
Chicken House
The garden is our wilderness. It holds our wildness. She is my twin and our wildness intertwines.
The chicken house was meant to have chickens but never did. Instead it joins our wilderness. Woodlice nestle in the low corners, spiders nestle in the high ones. The grass grows long and close around its walls.
We crawl through the little door and set up home. Dragging all sorts from the house. Blankets folded carefully make seats and beds and rugs. Favourite stuffed toys are invited. We go out shopping around the oak tree and come back with hands full of acorns that we share out on the plastic doll plates.
She wants to wee in the back corner. She tells me she's going to do it and I don't say no. The wee hits the wooden floor, splashing her ankles. The dark trail snakes towards me and all our precious things and I begin to panic but then it circles back on itself, settles by the side wall. The smell overpowers the usual scent of wood and old dust that I like.
I go out and wait and when she joins me she is quiet and frowning. I look at her and she looks at me.
We have the same face but I would never wee in the chicken house.
The River
In the summer there is no river in the valley. Autumn brings the rain.
Now the river flows before them, deep and choppy. There’s no question of turning back. The baby is in Mother's arms, the middle child is on Father’s shoulders, that leaves Christine; too big to carry, with only a hand to hold as they begin to wade across.
The other side looks so far away. It feels wrong to walk in the river in her shoes, even more wrong that Mother says nothing to stop her. Her heart beats fast and she hesitates a moment with just her toes touching the lapping river's edge. But the water is eager to break all rules. It creeps inside her shoes, seeps cold between her toes. Her father pulls her by the hand and she relents. The water travels quickly up her trouser legs.
As they go deeper the current gets faster, pushing against them. Their feet are unstable on the unseen rocks.
“We’re going to be fine,” Father says as Christine grips his hand. “Come on, be brave,” he says, “one step at a time.”
The other side seems to come no nearer, but the water climbs. Her tears drip into the river, making it deeper still.
The hills surround the valley, looking down from every angle, patiently watching the little island of people swaying in the middle of the river. The island will pass. The river will pass. The hills will stay.
The River
In the summer there is no river in the valley. Autumn brings the rain.
Now the river flows before them, deep and choppy. There’s no question of turning back. The baby is in Mother's arms, the middle child is on Father’s shoulders, that leaves Christine; too big to carry, with only a hand to hold as they begin to wade across.
The other side looks so far away. It feels wrong to walk in the river in her shoes, even more wrong that Mother says nothing to stop her. Her heart beats fast and she hesitates a moment with just her toes touching the lapping river's edge. But the water is eager to break all rules. It creeps inside her shoes, seeps cold between her toes. Her father pulls her by the hand and she relents. The water travels quickly up her trouser legs.
As they go deeper the current gets faster, pushing against them. Their feet are unstable on the unseen rocks.
“We’re going to be fine,” Father says as Christine grips his hand. “Come on, be brave,” he says, “one step at a time.”
The other side seems to come no nearer, but the water climbs. Her tears drip into the river, making it deeper still.
The hills surround the valley, looking down from every angle, patiently watching the little island of people swaying in the middle of the river. The island will pass. The river will pass. The hills will stay.
Kerb
Mary says that Dad is outside so I follow her to see. It feels like a long time since he was home.
Mum doesn't come. She doesn't move from the sink.
He's lying in the kerb in his nice checked jacket. His arm is stretched out above his head. His hand is almost touching the wheel of a parked car. He isn't moving. His eyes are shut. He looks asleep but to go to sleep there in the kerb would be silly. The kerb is where dogs poo.
I look up at Mary. Mary shrugs. I think of the cowboys on telly when they get shot.
Mum comes out. She picks me up and takes me back indoors. She looks cross, so I know he isn't dead. If he was dead she would cry.
Miss Mill
The nurse is called Miss Mill. It rhymes with 'hill' because she’s big and can’t be moved and never smiles.
The children live on the top of the hill and from the porch they can see the bright unnatural spark of her blue uniform coming up through the foliage in their direction. Their play grows silent. From here she is small like your finger but it’s just a matter of time.
The children's eyes grow large as they watch Miss Mill put her bag down on the kitchen table and get out the scales. The spring of the pulley has a nasty squeak and the red cloth bag that swings from it hangs like a dead thing. Behind Mother one child cries. She clings on to Mother’s skirt but her tiny grip is useless when Miss Mill pulls her out. The nurse holds the pulley up with her powerful arms. The others watch their sister rock in the red cloth bag so high, like the baby in the lullaby. Miss Mill is her tree top. She kicks and screams, kicks and screams, but the bough doesn’t break.
“You stay in there until I get my measurement,” says Miss Mill calmly, and the child kicks and screams some more.
At last she is released and staggers away.
Miss Mill writes a figure down in her book and waves good bye to Mother. “See you in two weeks,” she says.
The children are silent on the porch but for the angry sobs that still shudder through one little body. They watch Miss Mill walk back down the hill through the foliage, getting smaller and smaller.
Kittens
He told his daughter that kittens can take a long, long time so it would be best to go and play.
Now it is over.
Five tiny dead bodies lie in a cardboard box, and the frail sunken mother sleeps in the back of the wardrobe.
He comes downstairs, wondering how to say it, and stops when he sees his daughter sitting with her back to him, unaware, framed in the sunshine of the kitchen step.
She is deep in her play, chatting to the stuffed blue rabbit that she strokes in her lap. She sends it hopping around her feet. She stretches her arm, holding it out so it can reach the grass at the bottom of the step. Her voice light, almost like a bird. "Yum-yum-yum. Yum-yum-yum".
Ivam
Ivan is sitting on the bench by the cherry tree at the far end of the playground. Mavi stands by the door of the classroom, watching him. As children run past he disappears briefly from view, then he is back again. He sits alone, swinging his legs, kicking them out. Mavi has made up her mind. She zigzags her way through other children's games, until she reaches him. Up close he is even more beautiful. He looks up at her and there is a moment when nothing is certain. Then he smiles. It's a small smile only for her. It means she can sit down.
For a moment they sit, each in their own quiet. Then she turns to him.
“Ivam,” she says, “your name is my name the other way round.” She smiles, happy to have told him at last, to have shared this wonderful thing she has discovered.
He doesn't correct her. She reaches out and takes his hand. It is so warm and soft it makes her heart hot and full, spilling out a tear for each eye to blink away.