Time to share

My creative writing module has come to an end.  It’s now been two weeks since I submitted my final assignment.  I haven’t looked at it since it was submitted.  There’s always something missed in the editing process and I’m not quite ready to kick myself yet.   

So, what have I learnt?  Of course I've learnt a lot of very useful techniques, met some interesting people and found the courage to share my work with others.  I’ve also learnt that writing takes hard work and commitment.  It takes a desire to capture a piece of time and place in words; to share a moment and to work and re work those words until they are the very best they can be.

I’d like to share a piece of prose written for one of my assignments.  I hope you enjoy. I’d love to know what you think.

The Girl Who Used To Be Me.

by Shelley Fallows

She stands in the doorway; the girl who used to be me.  The memory is hazy, like looking through the veil which covered my face on that day all those years ago.

Everything is in place.  The guests are seated and the groom is waiting.  Suddenly the organ begins and the sound of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus fills the small church.  Everybody stands and turns to look at the bride.

            Dad is standing at my side.  He is proud and handsome in his hired tails, his arm through mine. We begin the slow steady walk down the aisle.  Tears fall down my face.  After all the planning, all the organising, we are finally here.  Yet something isn’t quite right, something is missing.

            Only a few weeks earlier I’d tried to mention it.  It felt unreal, like a game I’d played as a little girl but didn’t know how to stop.  It wasn’t fun anymore.  The realisation dawned on me as I was walking with my family after Sunday lunch.  The general topic of conversation was of course about the wedding.  The sun was shining and it was warm.

            ‘Fingers crossed the weather’s like this on the big day.’ someone said, I don’t remember who.  My mum walked ahead, I was desperate to tell her I didn’t want to do it.  The words wouldn’t come.  I swallowed and kept on walking.

 *

When I was young we used to play name games.  One being that you take the name of your first pet and the street in which you grew up to create your ‘porn star’ name.  I’m not sure I understood what a porn star was then but my name was Sadie Downland.  Sadie was a black mongrel we chose from the local RSPCA and we grew up together on Downlands Drive in Tilgate, one of the nicer parts of Crawley.  Mum and Dad had moved down from London back in the late 60’s and I’m sure it seemed like a little piece of suburban heaven back in those days compared to the East End.

            I was a typical girl who dreamed of Prince Charming and all things romantic.  I would dress up in a bridesmaid dress I once wore to an uncle’s wedding.  It was a deep burgundy full length gown and I wore a hoop underneath so the skirt floated out and around me.  I even had a pair of dainty white gloves.  I would dance around my parents’ bedroom pretending to be Truly Scrumptious in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, waiting for Caractacus Potts to come along and fall in love with me.  I felt extremely grown up and glamorous.

At some point I stopped believing my Prince Charming was going to appear.  Sometime in between being a girl and a woman I decided that I was rather dull and maybe a little bit stupid; in fact someone of no  particular interest.

            *

There is a point in your life when you realise that the carefree years of fairy tales and adventure are gone.  I think this happened around the time of my thirteenth birthday.  Here I was standing on the precipice of my childhood, looking down at those long carefree days, eager to move on to adulthood but still wanting to be in the safe cocoon of make believe.

            I had a party just a few weeks before the new school year began. It was a warm; summer’s day and all my class mates were there.  We danced to Madonna’s Papa Don’t Preach in the garden; giggled and drank copious amounts of fizzy pop whilst eating crisps, sausage rolls and sandwiches with edges that curled slightly where they’d been sitting out too long.       

The cake was brought out with thirteen candles burning brightly and everyone joined in to sing Happy Birthday.  Then I was grabbed from all angles.  Fingers dug in as I was heaved into the air.  I heard them counting as they bumped me high and my stomach flipped and I felt the whoosh of air as I came back down again; my body tensing against the possible collision with the ground.  Relentlessly they continued, dozens of hands gripping any available part of me as they all crowded in to assist.  Gradually my trousers began to edge down over my hips, slowly creeping lower and lower with each bump.

            ‘Stop!’  I screamed in panic as I realised what was happening.  No one heard, so intent on their counting they were, laughter filled the air as they threw me up and down.  Eventually it stopped and there was silence.  With a howl I ran towards the house pulling my trousers and knickers up, desperately trying to undo what had been done.  The sound of laughter chased me up the stairs and in through the open window as I slammed the bathroom door shut.  A little while later mum came to find me.

            ‘Come out love.  What’s the matter?  Everyone’s wondering where you are.’  I couldn’t face them, I just wanted to disappear and never see any of them again.  I couldn’t be consoled.  The party was over.  I wonder now if it had all been in my head more than anything but I always found school a little bit harder after that.  I began to shrink back inside myself like a tortoise retreating into the safety of its shell.  Shyness spread over me, absorbed into every pore.  I began to feel like the odd sock; never quite fitting in, never one of the crowd.         

 *

So, just over six years later I am walking down the aisle and I put the tears down to nerves.  Vows and rings are exchanged and we walk from the church as husband and wife.  All our family and friends gather round us in the small churchyard.  How many times has this old church witnessed this very scene?  The characters may change but the story begins in the same way.  It is a beautiful June day and as I look up at the clear, blue skies I realise how blessed we have been with the weather. The church bells should have been ringing but all I hear is the sound of laughter and voices’ congratulating us.  Relief floats in the air like confetti and for a while I put my doubts to one side.  Once the photographer is done we drive on to a small local pub where the celebrations can begin.  It is only a few days later when I am watching a video of the day that I realise the bells were silent.

 *

            ‘So, do you think I’m pretty?’  I ask him one day.  My cheeks burn as I speak, my eyes looking anywhere but at him.  After all that we’ve shared I am still self-conscious, still wanting to believe that I am beautiful.

            ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ he replies.  ‘Quite plain but you are pretty.’  My heart sinks.  Again I feel ordinary, invisible.  I wonder why he has chosen to be with me but there is also something awakening inside.  Maybe I am worth more than this.  Maybe I was wrong to give up on the fairy tale.

 *

A year to the day after our wedding we are sitting in one of those places which doesn’t quite know if it’s a pub or a restaurant.  It doesn’t really succeed with either but is cheap and therefore full on this Sunday evening.  The band of gold sits on my finger and we should be celebrating.  For some reason though he has picked a fight; suddenly his words are cruel.  I understand of course; it’s frustration, not knowing what to do.  How to say the words that need to be said, to voice what we both feel?  People look and stare as tears fall down my face.  The man opposite me is suddenly a stranger and I feel very, very alone.

            *

It’s hard to explain how that first moment feels when you suddenly lose your innocence, when you realise that nothing lasts forever.  I’m still not sure if it happened for me on the night of my thirteenth birthday back in 1986 or when I realised that someone who has promised to love me forever can suddenly stop.

            She’s still there, the girl who used to be me.  Every now and then she’ll appear, especially in times of stress or when I’m doing something out of my comfort zone.  She’ll always try and tell me that I’m dull and not smart or pretty enough.  I remind myself that I’m not that girl anymore; maybe I never was. 

April 2013