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vshort story
No room at the
54
A face from the past threatens to disrupt the present…
by Ellie Sampson
Winchester Station. Biting cold gnawing through to my
bones. A fine drizzle hanging in the air and clouding up
the windows. A flashing sign: ‘The next train is for
Bournemouth. Calling at: Southampton Airport, Southampton
Central...’ I collapse back further in my chair, grateful at least for
the shelter of the waiting area. It is then that I notice him.
He is sitting in the corner, pushing the buttons on his mobile
phone. I catch his glance and a small flicker of recognition lights up
in my memory. Hazel eyes, wavy hair, freckles, twisted smile.
I know. I know that he has been a big part of my life but for a
short moment I can’t place him. He starts to become aware that I
am watching him and gives me a mischievous wink. I turn away,
feigning a studious interest in my magazine. It is then that I
remember.
Twenty-five years before… school hall. The smell of cabbage
and antiseptic. A group of children stand. I want to be the one in
blue who is singing a solo but I’m not. I’m the one by the
cardboard door, the one wearing a scratchy woollen tunic - miles
too big for my short stubby legs. A child walks towards me and I
can clearly see the man in the boy. He is pulling a wooden donkey
on wheels. It keeps veering off in the wrong direction like a wilful
supermarket trolley. The girl in blue sits on top of the donkey. She
is very pretty – the prettiest girl in our class – that’s why she has
been chosen, I imagine. The blue robe suits her thick black hair and
rosy dimpled cheek. It wouldn’t suit me. Whoever heard of a gingerhaired
Mary? Whoever heard of a Mary with glasses?
The boy lets go of the donkey and it continues freewheeling –
stopping just short of the edge of the stage.
He turns to me. ‘Is there any room at the inn?’ He shouts the
words rather than projecting his voice. I know my lines but I take
one look at his deep dark eyes and melt. I can’t refuse him anything.
‘Yes, of course, please come in and stay.’
I can see the look of panic in his eyes; can hear a titter run
through the audience. A ragged whisper from Miss Garwood, who
is prompting from the side of the stage, cuts the air. ‘Just carry on!
Please, my wife…’
‘I know my lines but I take one look at his deep dark eyes and melt. I can’t refuse him anything’