“Clare,” replies the friendly face. She is holding a bunch
of purple-and-white freesias, their stems wrapped in foil.
She starts to tie the posy to the railings with a piece of
yellow ribbon. “I do this every year, when the freesias
in my greenhouse start to come out,” she says.
“Here, let me take something,” Lara offers. She assumes
that Clare will hand over her basket, but instead it’s Morgan’s
lead that she finds herself holding. She smiles down at him,
and he looks back up at her, cocking his head to one side,
before going back to her shoelaces.
Clare steps back. She and Lara stand side by side and look at
the railings and the monument, the name carved into the stone.
After a moment they turn and walk back towards the gate.
Lara is still holding Morgan’s lead. Crocuses are blooming,
green, purple and white, from the shelter at the base of an old
oak. Clare nods towards them. “Spring always comes,” she says.L
ara has gone to the park every Saturday morning,
rain or shine, since she moved to the north east
last November. She’s now on first-name terms
with several dogs, and the man at the coffee
cart knows that she likes a cappuccino with
no chocolate on top. The walk takes the sharpest
edge of loneliness off her weekend.
She needs it today. It’s the anniversary of her father’s
death, and the call from her mother before breakfast, to
check that she was OK, ended with them both sobbing as they
remembered how suddenly he was gone, crumpling on the
spot, a ‘but I’ve hardly touched this tea’ expression on his face.
She takes the quieter route through the park, then follows
the dusty path up the hill. Grief, which is mostly just a thrum
now, rises up in vicious ambush.
At the top of the slope, Lara crosses the road and goes into
the churchyard. She hasn’t walked this far before; her little
terraced house is at the lower edge of the town. A curved path
wanders through the graves. She walks slowly, reading the
names on the old headstones. Elijah, Agatha, Silas, Dorcas. Oh,
she’s tired. Grieving is tiring, yes, but so is living somewhere
new: the endless effort of finding everything out from scratch;
of trying to make friends with people who are kind, but have
enough friends of their own.
A movement snags at Lara’s gaze; it’s a ribbon, attached
to the railings around a monument, moving in the April
breeze. Oh, but she is tired of the cold, and the wind.
She moves closer. There must be a dozen ribbons on
these railings, all purple, white, or green. Some hold
the remains of f lowers; some are tied tightly in bows.
This place is important. The reason taps at Lara’s memory.
Before she can read the words on the gravestone, a voice
says, quietly, behind her, “It’s Emily Wilding Davison. Her
family lived here. She was killed by the King’s horse.”
“Of course,” Lara nods. The colours make sense now;
they were used by the suffragette movement in their
campaign for votes for women.
“I’m sorry,” the woman looks at Lara, “I saw you earlier
in the park and you looked upset. We were coming this
way anyway, so we followed you up.”
There’s a snuff ling from below, and Lara sees Morgan the
dachshund, making an assault on her shoelaces. She bends
and rubs him behind the ear. When she stands up again,
she finds, to her surprise, that she’s smiling a real smile.
“It’s a sad day, that’s all. I’m Lara.” ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSENAuthor and specialist trainer of thinking skills and creativity, Stephanie
Butland lives in the North East of England. Her latest novel, The
Woman In The Photograph (Zaffre), is a thought-provoking look
at feminism and friendship. Her simple pleasure is knitting socks.SPRING
ALWAYS COMES
A short story by STEPHANIE BUTLANDBEDTIME STORY“Clare,” replies the friendly face. She is holding a bunch
of purple-and-white freesias, their stems wrapped in foil.
She starts to tie the posy to the railings with a piece of
yellow ribbon. “I do this every year, when the freesias
in my greenhouse start to come out,” she says.
“Here, let me take something,” Lara offers. She assumes
that Clare will hand over her basket, but instead it’s Morgan’s
lead that she finds herself holding. She smiles down at him,
and he looks back up at her, cocking his head to one side,
before going back to her shoelaces.
Clare steps back. She and Lara stand side by side and look at
the railings and the monument, the name carved into the stone.
After a moment they turn and walk back towards the gate.
Lara is still holding Morgan’s lead. Crocuses are blooming,
green, purple and white, from the shelter at the base of an old
oak. Clare nods towards them. “Spring always comes,” she says.L
arahasgone to the park every Saturday morning,
rainorshine, since she moved to the north east
lastNovember. She’s now on first-name terms
withseveral dogs, and the man at the coffee
cartknows that she likes a cappuccino with
nochocolate on top. The walk takes the sharpest
edgeoflonelinessoffher weekend.
Sheneedsit today.It’s the anniversary of her father’s
death,andthecallfrom her mother before breakfast, to
checkthatshewasOK, ended with them both sobbing as they
rememberedhowsuddenly he was gone, crumpling on the
spot,a ‘butI’vehardlytouched this tea’ expression on his face.
Shetakesthequieter route through the park, then follows
thedustypathupthehill. Grief, which is mostly just a thrum
now,risesupinvicious ambush.
Atthetopoftheslope, Lara crosses the road and goes into
thechurchyard.Shehasn’t walked this far before; her little
terracedhouseisatthe lower edge of the town. A curved path
wandersthroughthegraves. She walks slowly, reading the
namesontheoldheadstones. Elijah, Agatha, Silas, Dorcas. Oh,
she’stired.Grievingistiring, yes, but so is living somewhere
new:theendlesseffort of finding everything out from scratch;
oftryingtomakefriends with people who are kind, but have
enoughfriendsoftheir own.
A movementsnagsat Lara’s gaze; it’s a ribbon, attached
totherailingsarounda monument, moving in the April
breeze.Oh,butsheistired of the cold, and the wind.
Shemovescloser.There must be a dozen ribbons on
theserailings,allpurple, white, or green. Some hold
theremainsoff lowers; some are tied tightly in bows.
Thisplaceisimportant. The reason taps at Lara’s memory.
Beforeshecanreadthe words on the gravestone, a voice
says,quietly,behindher, “It’s Emily Wilding Davison. Her
familylivedhere.Shewas killed by the King’s horse.”
“Ofcourse,”Laranods. The colours make sense now;
theywereusedbythesuffragette movement in their
campaignforvotesfor women.
“I’msorry,”thewoman looks at Lara, “I saw you earlier
intheparkandyoulooked upset. We were coming this
wayanyway,sowefollowed you up.”
There’sa snuff lingfrom below, and Lara sees Morgan the
dachshund,makingan assault on her shoelaces. She bends
andrubshimbehindthe ear. When she stands up again,
shefinds,tohersurprise, that she’s smiling a real smile.
“It’sa sadday,that’sall. I’m Lara.” ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSENAuthor and specialist trainer of thinking skills and creativity, Stephanie
Butland lives in the North East of England. Her latest novel, The
Woman In The Photograph (Zaffre), is a thought-provoking look
at feminism and friendship. Her simple pleasure is knitting socks.SPRING
ALWAYS COMES
A shortstorybySTEPHANIE BUTLANDBEDTIME STORY