Stone cold

August's group writing prompt was to write something from the point of view of an inanimate object (here the headstone). We all agreed that this is a much more difficult task than it sounds and that it is very tricky to get the balance of anthropomorphism right. The quality of writing produced was incredible, with wonderful pieces from all members that really should be out there to be read. To start it off, here's my humble effort.

The Family Plot

The gentle stir of the breeze moving through the leaves awoke Her Majesty. She loved the rowan tree with its cutwork emerald leaves and its white May petticoats. On this beautiful December morning, with the frost icing its blood-red winter berries, the tree stood sentinel to her right. She remembered the day it had proved its ancient power of guard against evil spirits, when a branch had fallen off and brained the shaven thug who’d sprayed a swastika on Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg. After that, the council wanted the tree chopped down for ‘health and safety’, in case some other poor little vandal got harmed. The vicar had told them what he thought in no uncertain terms and put a stop to that idea. Afterwards, he’d visited to pay his respects to them all, pausing as he walked to give the rowan tree a surreptitious pat on the trunk. She liked the vicar; he was a quiet, grey-haired man, old-school, not one of these trendy types with a scruffy beard and a guitar. He would sometimes stop and talk to her on a Sunday afternoon; he had known the family, not that there were many of them left these days. She didn’t begrudge them. The old life had gone and to do the best for your children these days often meant moving away. She was glad of the visitors she did get; the Boy came when he could. He and the Girl would snip and trim and brush and tidy until the place looked its very best. Even His Majesty would rouse himself then to admire the hellebores or the holly or the hydrangea, before retreating back into wherever his study was these days, muttering and smoking and tapping away at his typewriter. The kitchen had been Her Majesty’s domain, with its scrubbed table, the comforting scent of cooking and the radio playing softly in the background. She didn’t feel the same need to revisit it; she was happy here, settled and comfortable, able to watch the sun rise every morning, feel the soft rain and watch the seasons go by. There wasn’t a better place to spend eternity. A slight shifting at her side made her start; she looked round at His Majesty and to her surprise found him awake.

“I think something’s about to happen,” he said.

“What do you mean?” He was always cryptic; she suspected he did it for dramatic effect.

“They’ve come to clear a space.”

“Ah,” she replied. “Well, we knew it would happen eventually. Good job we’ve just had a wash and brush-up.”

“I don’t know how Grandfather will take to it,” replied His Majesty. “There’ll be hell to pay if they remove his ivy.”

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Bit late for a pre-work dog-walker; they tended to be gone by eight unless it was the school holidays. It turned out to be the vicar, accompanied by a couple of groundsmen in blue overalls. She recognised one of them; it was Belinda Sweeney’s boy, quite grown up.

“Here we are,” said the vicar. “The flat headstones will have to be lifted for the duration and then put back down once the work is done. Then they’ll have to be rearranged to fit in another one.”

“Right, vicar,” said the older of the two groundsmen. He raised an eyebrow. “Nasty business. They say it was no accident.”

“It’s not for us to gossip, Maurice,” replied the vicar. “Our job is to lay them to proper rest at this end.”

“Aye, then, all right. We’ll let you know when we’re done. Will it be going in straight afterwards?”

“The service is at two o’clock, so I would think we’ll be ready by three, once the mourners have all gone.”

The vicar left, and the men set to work. They were respectful enough, apart from when the boy Sweeney sat down for a smoke on Grandfather.

“A baking mishap,” he said. “She were blown to smithereens.”

“I reckon he sabotaged the oven,” said Maurice. “There were always talk about him and that blonde one from the Co-Op.”

“I never liked him,” added the boy Sweeney. “My Mam said he made his fortune selling dodgy mortgages, one of Margaret Thatcher’s city boys. She said he murdered his first wife, too.”
They’d propped Her Majesty up against the tree, so she was able to whisper to His Majesty.

“Oh, it must be Denise, then. Cousin Raymond’s second wife. That won’t be so bad. I liked her.”

“Me too,” His Majesty whispered back. “Jolly good at cards.”

Eventually, it was all over, the new arrival was accommodated and the headstones replaced. The new stone was a smart grey marble, which complemented the others nicely and before long Grandfather’s ivy began to curl towards it, just to help it settle in. The days grew shorter until Christmas passed and the sun began to warm the ground again. The Boy and Girl came to tidy the plot ready for spring, and smiled at the new arrangement.

“Raymond dropped dead at a New Year’s dinner,” whispered the Boy as he laid down a holly wreath. “No-one noticed until they saw the puddle under his chair. The blonde one had him cremated. So don’t worry, he won’t be coming here.”

Her Majesty smiled, though no-one could see it, and looked up at the cold blue February sky. The wind rustled the rowan tree’s leaves again and she was reminded of its other graveyard duty; to stop the unquiet dead from leaving their graves. Well thank goodness it wasn’t much good at that. Bridge nights at the mausoleum were a scream now Denise had arrived.

This is to announce that Write on Essex is now a member of The National Association of Writers' Groups! (http://www.nawg.co.uk/)

We are the only Writer's Group located in North Essex, and as such, have been a little isolated. Now we are connected to other groups and will receive much more support than we have heretofore. In fact, NAWG have lived up to their commitment beautifully sending us a complete support package and monthly newsletters to be shared around.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable publications they have sent us is: "The Handy Little Book of First Lines! by Nicolette M. Ward. What a treasure! And it coincides perfectly with some writing exercises we've been undertaking at our meetings.