|Nan's House (standard:other, 1702 words)|
|Author: Lyssie Harris||Added: Apr 08 2004||Views/Reads: 2981/1915||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is an autobiographical story that I wrote when certain events in my life prompted me to think about the events that had gone before. It is mainly concerned with the break up of my parent's and the places I felt safe.|
Sitting atop the aged work surface which was scarred by overheated frying pans and careless knife wounds, the button cleverly assumed the guise of an aniseed twist, a favoured confection of my childhood. I reached out with a child's hand and grasped the object clumsily between my thumb and forefinger. Without hesitation, I slipped the object expectantly into my mouth and began to stroke it with my tongue. Its interweaving faces were smooth and flat, but curiously, the object was completely tasteless. I swallowed compulsively despite the oddity of the sweet, and carried on my intended route dismissing my unintended detour. My route took me from the kitchen to the small grassy patch of land just across the street, beyond the crumbling council wall barely enclosing the paved yard where my mother was hanging the laundry. I ran past her as she returned to the kitchen and reached the roadside, where girls sat talking or playing with dolls and hair, and the boys fiddles with battered racing cars that found themselves repetitively and mercilessly crashed against the worn curb. I chose to station myself next to a boy who was slightly older than me, who sat with a makeshift fishing rod made from a willow twig and a piece of green string weighted with a paperclip. He was dangling the object with mimicked dignity and palpable pride down a storm drain. He sat up a little straighter as I watched the paperclip create ripples in the rainbow water. Quite suddenly, I became aware of a strange churning signal coming from my stomach that I could not decipher or understand. I twisted uncomfortably. The signal stopped abruptly; I deposited the entire contents of my stomach on the older boy's lap. It was the first time I had been sick so violently without showing any other signs of illness. My mother was distraught. I was her first, and at the time her only child, and she was still uncertain about the appropriate course of action to take. I was worriedly rushed, not to a hospital or a GP, but to my Nan's House. Nan always seemed to have an answer for any illness or ailment that could possibly befall a child. She herself had raised five children all of whom (except my mother) still lived with her at the time. My Nan was knowledgeable. My mother was terrified at the thought of what childhood illness or disease I may have contracted, but Nan had seen nearly all of them and was quite confident that I had simply swallowed something. She explained her conclusion to my mother as I sat innocently on the living room floor, unshaken by the incident. Then again, Nan's House always did seem safe. Whenever I was there I felt impervious and untouchable, as though the walls themselves were a barrier not only to the cold and the wind and the rain, but to everyone and everything I felt threatened by. The outside world seemed grey and ominous and filled with people who were cold, cruel and callous and completely self – absorbed. They didn't care for the other people around them; they were too used to taking care of themselves. Most families in the street were on benefits. Some did drugs. It was by no means a safe place for a child to live or grow, but when I was inside Nan's House, I knew that the people around me cared about me and loved me. I knew without doubt that my family would always be here, and that Nan's House would always, always be safe. It could comfort me if I grazed my knee or if I was upset. If I cried, I knew that if I went to Nan's House, I would forget my tears. Inside, it was very retro eighties. The carpets were brown and the pattern had been worn away form over use. The backsides of visitors had reddened the brown leather sofa in the living room. My Nan couldn't afford a new one, so she said the patches gave it character. The woodchip on the walls had been painted peach and the pine table onto whose surface had been etched initials and important dates was spattered with paint. The living room itself smelled distinctly of tobacco because my Nan smoked cigarettes. My grandfather however preferred a pipe. The steam form cooking vegetables which had been grown in the garden clouded the windows. The smell of steak and bacon permeated the room tantalisingly. Nan cooked the best bacon buns. As my mother and I left the house that night to return home, I looked back on the dark silhouette of the building pressed against the inky sky. The bright eyes of Nan's House smiled at me. I smiled back. I did not return to Nan's House again for several months I was Click here to read the rest of this story (78 more lines)
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Lyssie Harris has 2 active stories on this site.
Profile for Lyssie Harris, incl. all stories