Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Sept 12, 2009 17:49:46 GMT -5
Written for FOG's 1st competition. Subject was: A Treasure Found. Now that the competition is over (and I didn't win, by the way) I would like some critic/comment and to add it to my list of stuff here.
Once again. Thanks to Zovo for the comments when I was writing it.
Forewarning: I didn't want to go with a cheesy pirate story because I figured every body would do that. Turns out nobody did lol.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Margery Corbett ... “
The monotonous voice of the vicar droned through my head. His words going in one side and out the other. His pathetic attempt to celebrate her life laying on the floor in a puddle of half-assed words. He didn't know Margery, that much was evident.
“Margery was a well loved member of the community. Born in 1912, she lived to the ripe old age of ninety-six ...”
A large picture of her rested against the plain wooden coffin. Her white hair, ruffled and permed tightly, to avoid tangles. Her face covered in wrinkles, crows-feet the deepest. Most likely caused by the many years of laughing. Her small blue eyes peering out like she'd never really seen the World before now.
She was wearing her usual outfit. A small purple frock and colorful kitchen apron covered in pictures fruit. Margery was never seen with out her apron. She always used to joke that she'd never lose stuff due to the large pockets the aprons had.
I fidget with my handbag and bonnet. Hard to believe she's gone now. She'd always been a strong woman, for an old lady. Always a smile on her face; and that bloody vicar wasn't doing her any justice. He'd hardly even shaved this morning. He could have at least done that.
“Please come forwards if you have anything you want to say.”
He stepped down from the podium, only to be replaced by another young man. Margery's next door neighbor, probably feeling guilty and trying to appease himself for having never visited or helped her. Not wanting to listen to the dribble my mind drifted.
The coroner told me she'd died of old age, a stroke. I raised the alarm when she didn't turn up for the weekly shopping trip. Every Tuesday we'd meet at nine in the morning for a cup of tea and a biscuit, then head off to the supermarket. Two little biddies ranting and taking over the whole shop.
A smile sprouts across my face but quickly fades. Won't be the same any more.
“ ... Margery was an awesome lady. Always giving my wife tips cooking and such. She was wonderful with our children too.” The man sounded just as awkward as the vicar. I didn't want to hear his pathetic attempts to cleanse his guilt.
I've offered to help clear her house with the authorities. At least give her that dignity. I'm sure she wouldn't want men digging around in her underpants drawer. Heavens forbid. Her time on this planet washed out by some grubby handed, local councilman. Her belongings tossed in to a rubbish bin. She'd turn in her grave. Margery didn't have any living relatives either. Guess I was the closest, its only right to help out.
I remember the last words she said. Silly ones really. It was a quick phone call conversation. She called me about a new wool she had found, saying that it would be perfect for my knitting project. Told me that we'd have to stop by that shop on Tuesday. Guess I'll never know which shop now. She was always on the look out for a deal, thrifty woman.
“Thank you for coming today. There are tea and biscuits in the adjoining hall for those who wish to stay and talk.”
He made an attempt to sound like he cared. I sniffed at the offer. Too little, too late. Margery wouldn't want me to sit here and dwell on the past. She certainly wouldn't want me to put up with idiots and rub cheeks with those who hardly even knew her.
We'd met in this church a few years ago and immediately connected. It was like we'd know each other our whole lives. It was during a baking sale, to raise money for the church. She'd given me a recipe for her apricot pie, and I'd given her my syrup sponge in return. Ever since then we'd help each other out. Shopping, new recipes, knitting projects, you name it. The jokes we shared. She made me feel young again, and I probably did the same for her.
I rose from the pew and sorted out my dark frock, making sure my bits weren't exposed. Then, quietly out of respect, I moved out from the pews. Making a quick curtsy towards the alter I leave the church without looking back or pausing. A few people wished to talk with me but I shooed them away. Things to do. No point dwelling on the past. I'll probably join her soon enough any way. I'm not a young-un any more. A silly smile creeps across my face as I make my way back home.
~~~
“What do you want us to do with this, Mrs Wrensham?” Tim, the so called 'cleaner', called out the question from the opposite room.
At least he was being careful. Keeping any thing that looked like it could be important. So far we'd cleared the majority of the house, leaving only the furniture, which would go too a charity shop or auction. The only places left to clear were the garage and the attic.
I moved to the room the voice had come from, seeing the brutish lad hold up another china plate. It was a commemorative plate from Royal Wedding between Princess Diana's and Prince Charles'. It was probably worth a fair bit of money. Nothing of use to me though. After all, what would I do with that money? My retirement covers everything, anything on top of that would be frivolous. The stuff taken from Margery's house would only collect dust at mine.
“Give it to the local charity shop, Tim ... and be careful with it.” They'll probably realize its worth. At least the money would get used for some thing good, rather than rot in my bank.
My shoulders sink as I traipse around what was her house. The table, where we would sit and talk for hours on end over a glass of wine. The lounge, where we would share crosswords or knitting patterns. The kitchen, where we made those fabulous cakes for the church fair. The whole bungalow smelt good for weeks, I chuckle quietly. The sentimentality soaking into my weary bones. The past all too real, the future hidden from me.
“I'm going into the attic. Make a start up there.” I call back to Tim, even though he probably didn't care.
“Alright, Mrs Wrensham, just be careful.”
Hand over hand, foot over foot, I climb the tiny ladder too the attic. The numb pain in my ankles and hands from arthritis not helping at all. Upon reaching the top I awarded myself a small break, resting against the side of the roof. Margery would laugh if she saw me now, as I cough and wheeze.
“You alright, Mrs Wrensham?”
“I'm fine, Timothy.”
There are cobwebs everywhere. My skin crawls at the thought of spiders skittering across the boxes. Must have been a long time since Margery had been able to get up here. Who knows what treasures could be hiding. A small flutter of adventure and youth dance across my spine.
She'd had this house for ages, ever since her fifties. Her son had brought it for her, but he'd died not long ago in a car accident. The mortgage was fully paid off, lucky woman. She must have just dumped everything up here and forgotten about it.
I rummage through a couple of boxes, seeing nothing much of interest. A few Christmas decorations, a couple of unused saucepans and quilts. A lot of cobwebs. Most of the stuff probably to end up at the charity shop.
Eventually my eyes fall on to a box that seems older than the rest. It has a Royal stamp on the side, depicting its importance. I scratch my head and wonder what's inside. She never spoke of any duties she did for Country and Queen. This must have been her sons; but no it was too old for that. Maybe her husbands. I contemplate it over in my head.
Carefully, I rest next to the box and open it. The dust flies up, catching my nose and making me sneeze. After a while I look down to see a uniform, with plenty of badges, and an old photo.
I pick up the photo with gentle hands. It's really old, the corners creased and torn. The color faded from white and black to a tea stained 'ick'. The photo depicted some kind of airfield, in which an old spitfire, Hurricane and Blenheim planes were resting and being worked on. There was a young girl in the photo, along with a few men, all wearing the same uniform. Their smiles huge and their hands messy with oil.
“... Who? ... Margery?” I question quietly to the open space between me and the photo.
Turning it over I spy a handwritten name and a date in faded black ink. “RAF, Middle Wallop, Hampshire. July 1940 Maggie”.
Tears of pride spark in my eyes. Had my Margery really served during the War? Why had she never said anything? She had always been able of mind, so its not like she forgot. My heart rose at the thought of her defending our Country. Her fixing the machines alongside our men. Allowing us to protect our homes. She must have been so brave.
She probably didn't say anything about her service due to her humility. She was never really one to brag. Mind you, I didn't exactly ask. The Second World War was not some thing we ever really wanted to remember. Lost of lot of people, it destroyed our homes and our lives.
I didn't know her back then. My life was out in the countryside looking after those who had come from London. Poor little tike's. My village lost up to fifty people in one bombing. But she! She had stood along side our men and fixed those engines! She was at the heart of it in Hampshire, the Army town. She'd probably seen a lot of young men, and probably women, lose their lives.
“Tim? Timothy?” I called out in excitement. The idea of such a find making my voice squeaky with delight and shock. “You'd better come see this ...”
Tim took his time coming up the ladder. He arrived to see me standing not that far from the box, showing him the picture. He looked slightly confused at the massive smile plastered across my face and the damp eyes.
“What is it, Mrs Wrensham?” He took the picture carefully, repeating what I had done, except he didn't show the love that had ripped through my every cell. His chest didn't swell with pride and his eyes didn't fill with tears.
“Its Margery. She served during the Second World War,” I explain the photo, the realization slowly coming to his face. “We should get this box too a museum. It has badges and her uniform.” I continued, hardly missing a beat. The idea of my Margery having done such a courageous and brave thing.
“ ... Hmm,” He was silent for a second. “They should put this on display. We never knew. She was probably one of the few ladies who worked on the engines in Hampshire. She would probably had received honors.”
~~~
I took the box of assorted badges and her uniform to the local museum. Turned out there was some pretty rare stuff in that box. Medals that only a few received, unread notes, time tables. They told me they'd put it on display and even erected a bench in her name. Seemed like a lot of fuss over some body they didn't know and couldn't possibly appreciate like I did.
Still, I was grateful, and I'm sure Maggie would have been too.
The museum held a special service for her. Announcing her honors and medals. A medal for bravery and another for long time service with a few other bits and bobs. Apparently she'd been there during a blitz attack and had saved a few men.
I didn't go to the ceremony. A whole load of fuss, really. Frivolous at best. I read about it in the paper a week later. Some one hundred and fifty people showed up from all over town to honor some body they didn't even know. Some had probably only met Maggie when she ran over their feet with her shopping trolley.
The bench was a lovely little thing. Oak with metal lattice work and a small plaque reading her name with a few special dates. They placed it in the gardens, right next to the rose bushes. The sweet scent drifting hazily over it on a warm summers evening. I visit there some times after the weekly shop. Its a nice spot.
Good old Margery Corbett.
Once again. Thanks to Zovo for the comments when I was writing it.
Forewarning: I didn't want to go with a cheesy pirate story because I figured every body would do that. Turns out nobody did lol.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Margery Corbett ... “
The monotonous voice of the vicar droned through my head. His words going in one side and out the other. His pathetic attempt to celebrate her life laying on the floor in a puddle of half-assed words. He didn't know Margery, that much was evident.
“Margery was a well loved member of the community. Born in 1912, she lived to the ripe old age of ninety-six ...”
A large picture of her rested against the plain wooden coffin. Her white hair, ruffled and permed tightly, to avoid tangles. Her face covered in wrinkles, crows-feet the deepest. Most likely caused by the many years of laughing. Her small blue eyes peering out like she'd never really seen the World before now.
She was wearing her usual outfit. A small purple frock and colorful kitchen apron covered in pictures fruit. Margery was never seen with out her apron. She always used to joke that she'd never lose stuff due to the large pockets the aprons had.
I fidget with my handbag and bonnet. Hard to believe she's gone now. She'd always been a strong woman, for an old lady. Always a smile on her face; and that bloody vicar wasn't doing her any justice. He'd hardly even shaved this morning. He could have at least done that.
“Please come forwards if you have anything you want to say.”
He stepped down from the podium, only to be replaced by another young man. Margery's next door neighbor, probably feeling guilty and trying to appease himself for having never visited or helped her. Not wanting to listen to the dribble my mind drifted.
The coroner told me she'd died of old age, a stroke. I raised the alarm when she didn't turn up for the weekly shopping trip. Every Tuesday we'd meet at nine in the morning for a cup of tea and a biscuit, then head off to the supermarket. Two little biddies ranting and taking over the whole shop.
A smile sprouts across my face but quickly fades. Won't be the same any more.
“ ... Margery was an awesome lady. Always giving my wife tips cooking and such. She was wonderful with our children too.” The man sounded just as awkward as the vicar. I didn't want to hear his pathetic attempts to cleanse his guilt.
I've offered to help clear her house with the authorities. At least give her that dignity. I'm sure she wouldn't want men digging around in her underpants drawer. Heavens forbid. Her time on this planet washed out by some grubby handed, local councilman. Her belongings tossed in to a rubbish bin. She'd turn in her grave. Margery didn't have any living relatives either. Guess I was the closest, its only right to help out.
I remember the last words she said. Silly ones really. It was a quick phone call conversation. She called me about a new wool she had found, saying that it would be perfect for my knitting project. Told me that we'd have to stop by that shop on Tuesday. Guess I'll never know which shop now. She was always on the look out for a deal, thrifty woman.
“Thank you for coming today. There are tea and biscuits in the adjoining hall for those who wish to stay and talk.”
He made an attempt to sound like he cared. I sniffed at the offer. Too little, too late. Margery wouldn't want me to sit here and dwell on the past. She certainly wouldn't want me to put up with idiots and rub cheeks with those who hardly even knew her.
We'd met in this church a few years ago and immediately connected. It was like we'd know each other our whole lives. It was during a baking sale, to raise money for the church. She'd given me a recipe for her apricot pie, and I'd given her my syrup sponge in return. Ever since then we'd help each other out. Shopping, new recipes, knitting projects, you name it. The jokes we shared. She made me feel young again, and I probably did the same for her.
I rose from the pew and sorted out my dark frock, making sure my bits weren't exposed. Then, quietly out of respect, I moved out from the pews. Making a quick curtsy towards the alter I leave the church without looking back or pausing. A few people wished to talk with me but I shooed them away. Things to do. No point dwelling on the past. I'll probably join her soon enough any way. I'm not a young-un any more. A silly smile creeps across my face as I make my way back home.
~~~
“What do you want us to do with this, Mrs Wrensham?” Tim, the so called 'cleaner', called out the question from the opposite room.
At least he was being careful. Keeping any thing that looked like it could be important. So far we'd cleared the majority of the house, leaving only the furniture, which would go too a charity shop or auction. The only places left to clear were the garage and the attic.
I moved to the room the voice had come from, seeing the brutish lad hold up another china plate. It was a commemorative plate from Royal Wedding between Princess Diana's and Prince Charles'. It was probably worth a fair bit of money. Nothing of use to me though. After all, what would I do with that money? My retirement covers everything, anything on top of that would be frivolous. The stuff taken from Margery's house would only collect dust at mine.
“Give it to the local charity shop, Tim ... and be careful with it.” They'll probably realize its worth. At least the money would get used for some thing good, rather than rot in my bank.
My shoulders sink as I traipse around what was her house. The table, where we would sit and talk for hours on end over a glass of wine. The lounge, where we would share crosswords or knitting patterns. The kitchen, where we made those fabulous cakes for the church fair. The whole bungalow smelt good for weeks, I chuckle quietly. The sentimentality soaking into my weary bones. The past all too real, the future hidden from me.
“I'm going into the attic. Make a start up there.” I call back to Tim, even though he probably didn't care.
“Alright, Mrs Wrensham, just be careful.”
Hand over hand, foot over foot, I climb the tiny ladder too the attic. The numb pain in my ankles and hands from arthritis not helping at all. Upon reaching the top I awarded myself a small break, resting against the side of the roof. Margery would laugh if she saw me now, as I cough and wheeze.
“You alright, Mrs Wrensham?”
“I'm fine, Timothy.”
There are cobwebs everywhere. My skin crawls at the thought of spiders skittering across the boxes. Must have been a long time since Margery had been able to get up here. Who knows what treasures could be hiding. A small flutter of adventure and youth dance across my spine.
She'd had this house for ages, ever since her fifties. Her son had brought it for her, but he'd died not long ago in a car accident. The mortgage was fully paid off, lucky woman. She must have just dumped everything up here and forgotten about it.
I rummage through a couple of boxes, seeing nothing much of interest. A few Christmas decorations, a couple of unused saucepans and quilts. A lot of cobwebs. Most of the stuff probably to end up at the charity shop.
Eventually my eyes fall on to a box that seems older than the rest. It has a Royal stamp on the side, depicting its importance. I scratch my head and wonder what's inside. She never spoke of any duties she did for Country and Queen. This must have been her sons; but no it was too old for that. Maybe her husbands. I contemplate it over in my head.
Carefully, I rest next to the box and open it. The dust flies up, catching my nose and making me sneeze. After a while I look down to see a uniform, with plenty of badges, and an old photo.
I pick up the photo with gentle hands. It's really old, the corners creased and torn. The color faded from white and black to a tea stained 'ick'. The photo depicted some kind of airfield, in which an old spitfire, Hurricane and Blenheim planes were resting and being worked on. There was a young girl in the photo, along with a few men, all wearing the same uniform. Their smiles huge and their hands messy with oil.
“... Who? ... Margery?” I question quietly to the open space between me and the photo.
Turning it over I spy a handwritten name and a date in faded black ink. “RAF, Middle Wallop, Hampshire. July 1940 Maggie”.
Tears of pride spark in my eyes. Had my Margery really served during the War? Why had she never said anything? She had always been able of mind, so its not like she forgot. My heart rose at the thought of her defending our Country. Her fixing the machines alongside our men. Allowing us to protect our homes. She must have been so brave.
She probably didn't say anything about her service due to her humility. She was never really one to brag. Mind you, I didn't exactly ask. The Second World War was not some thing we ever really wanted to remember. Lost of lot of people, it destroyed our homes and our lives.
I didn't know her back then. My life was out in the countryside looking after those who had come from London. Poor little tike's. My village lost up to fifty people in one bombing. But she! She had stood along side our men and fixed those engines! She was at the heart of it in Hampshire, the Army town. She'd probably seen a lot of young men, and probably women, lose their lives.
“Tim? Timothy?” I called out in excitement. The idea of such a find making my voice squeaky with delight and shock. “You'd better come see this ...”
Tim took his time coming up the ladder. He arrived to see me standing not that far from the box, showing him the picture. He looked slightly confused at the massive smile plastered across my face and the damp eyes.
“What is it, Mrs Wrensham?” He took the picture carefully, repeating what I had done, except he didn't show the love that had ripped through my every cell. His chest didn't swell with pride and his eyes didn't fill with tears.
“Its Margery. She served during the Second World War,” I explain the photo, the realization slowly coming to his face. “We should get this box too a museum. It has badges and her uniform.” I continued, hardly missing a beat. The idea of my Margery having done such a courageous and brave thing.
“ ... Hmm,” He was silent for a second. “They should put this on display. We never knew. She was probably one of the few ladies who worked on the engines in Hampshire. She would probably had received honors.”
~~~
I took the box of assorted badges and her uniform to the local museum. Turned out there was some pretty rare stuff in that box. Medals that only a few received, unread notes, time tables. They told me they'd put it on display and even erected a bench in her name. Seemed like a lot of fuss over some body they didn't know and couldn't possibly appreciate like I did.
Still, I was grateful, and I'm sure Maggie would have been too.
The museum held a special service for her. Announcing her honors and medals. A medal for bravery and another for long time service with a few other bits and bobs. Apparently she'd been there during a blitz attack and had saved a few men.
I didn't go to the ceremony. A whole load of fuss, really. Frivolous at best. I read about it in the paper a week later. Some one hundred and fifty people showed up from all over town to honor some body they didn't even know. Some had probably only met Maggie when she ran over their feet with her shopping trolley.
The bench was a lovely little thing. Oak with metal lattice work and a small plaque reading her name with a few special dates. They placed it in the gardens, right next to the rose bushes. The sweet scent drifting hazily over it on a warm summers evening. I visit there some times after the weekly shop. Its a nice spot.
Good old Margery Corbett.
Took me back to silly child-hood moments 
