Photo submitted by author, Judy Darley.
by Judy Darley
Think of Mum push, push, pushing, eyes bulging, face streaming sweat, body torn almost in two, eighteen years ago. Think of Nan beaming with pride, giving all love. Think of Lakis boiling with fury at being usurped: after six years on top, dethroned by squalling smudge. Think of shadowy other, a man, walking so fast around hospital corners and out of sight that feet squeak on shiny floor.
Never seen again.
What did he glimpse in the Teo smudge that made him run?
Swallow. Get up. Shake off dread that coils under skin.
Open curtains, allow golden sunshine to stream in. Lie on rug, spreadeagled like something fallen from the ceiling, or higher. Feel sun’s heat sink inwards to suffuse flesh, blood, bones until core is almost relaxed.
Haul self upright, practice crooked-tooth grin in mirror, trot deliberately light-footed downstairs to kitchen where Mum waits with gleaming Danish pastries and smiles. Only the slightest pinching reveals worry around her eyes.
“Morning, Teo. Happy birthday!”
Pretend to be pleased by the silver banner that glimmers on wall, shifting in draft, shouting that today, of all the days, gladness must be shown.
With rushing breath, bolt bare-footed out onto the garden’s damp grass. Halt at fence, hands clenched, and hold still until heartbeat calms enough to hear chicks’ cheeping demands for food.
Watch blackbirds forage for grubs and worms. In the hawthorn, two goldfinches hop from branch to twig flaunting strawberry-red faces and glossy yellow wing patches. Starlings chortle and chatter from fir trees. Pale yellowish-green brimstone butterflies spool around one another like Nan unfrogging crochet strands.
Think of learning to crochet under Nan’s careful eye, holding hook like a pencil to draw with the yarn; the stealthy slipknot and the start of a chain: yarn over hook from back to front, pulled through the loop, again and again.
First attempts a mess of lumps, but then better and then good.
Think of bursting with pride and running to show Lakis, your hero, expecting his applause.
Think of his curled lip, scorn narrowing green eyes, the grab that flings your first ever crocheted scarf to tangle in tree branches you’ll never reach.
Think of Lakis using lessons from Nan to unfrog beloved Gary Ted. Remember sharp fingernail pinching, green eyes flashing, lips smirking, lighter clicking: the stink of burning yarn.
Later, the sharp reek of singed of hair and skin. Remember the cringe of fear.
Remember running through streets to Granddad’s allotment, to neat rows of carrots, radishes, beetroot,
finding shed locked,
burrowing under piled planks, bits of salvaged broken gate,
ignoring splinters, ignoring stinging palms, shins, knees.
Remember the realisation that he will always find you.
Unless you find a way to stop him for always.
Remember the spooling blame in green eyes for the walking out of the man, the striding off and never looking back.
Shudder to present. Blink spiraled dizziness away.
Draw clematis-scented air in deep. Note the under-fragrance of warming earth and grass. Cling to the sense of calm.
Shoulders down, chin raised, re-enter house prepared to embrace the necessary joy of this day.
Remember the allotment, the plank gripped tight in hand, sweeping over from back to front, again and again.
Remember choosing not to see the metal latch hanging heavy from one edge.
Judy Darley lives by England’s North Somerset coast. Her fiction collections include The Stairs Are a Snowcapped Mountain and ‘Sky Light Rain’. Judy’s stories have been aired on BBC radio, boats and a deconsecrated church, as well as being selected for Best Small Fictions 2025. Find Judy at https://bsky.app/profile/judydarley.bsky.social; https://judydarley.wordpress.com
