Winning Stories
Forever
By
Eleanor White 3B
My hand trembled as I punched the number into the phone. Please don’t answer! I prayed, hoping my complete idiot of a sister would be hogging the phone while she gossiped about Erin-something-or-other’s new hairstyle. But, apparently, the universe hates me, and my mother picked up the phone.
"April! April Gertrude Ericsson, is that you?" I shuddered at her use of my full name (I mean, what kind of evil person names their kid April Gertrude? Do they want their child to be teased their whole life?).
"Yeah, Mum, it’s me. Hey." I said blithely.
"April, where are you? You were meant to be home an hour ago!" My mother’s voice was getting shriller by the minute. I could feel the other occupants of the tube station staring at me.
"Now, Mum, you just have to stay calm, alright?" I tried to make my tone as soothing as possible.
"Of course."
I took a deep breath. "Okay, well, I’m in Paddington tube station. I can’t get out, because the
police have said there’s a bomb scare -"
"BOMB SCARE?!?!" Mum shrieked, practically bursting my eardrums. A baby began to wail loudly. Now I was sure everybody was staring at me.
"Yes, Mum, a bomb scare. Didn’t I tell you to stay calm? I’m perfectly fine, not a scratch on me! Deep breaths, okay?" I inhaled and exhaled into the payphone receiver.
"April, you need to get home now! Oh my goodness, what if you get killed? Who’s going to collect Adam from soccer practice on Wednesday? You know your father can’t, he’s always so tied up at work -" I sighed. Trust Mum to turn my death into a mild inconvenience to her daily routine. I hung up, exasperated. I was not in the mood for one of Mum’s self-centred babbles right now.
I surveyed the other people standing around the tube station (who had all looked away guiltily when I’d finished my call). There were two teenagers huddled in a corner kissing like there was no tomorrow (well, I suppose, if this whole bomb scare thing was real, there might not be); a middle-aged woman who seemed to have about twenty children (all of whom were screaming and shrieking); a couple of men with briefcases and those weird trousers with the creases ironed into them; an old woman who was mumbling to herself; a street drummer who was banging out an annoyingly loud rhythm on a plastic tub; and a girl around my age who was sitting all alone, looking pretty gloomy.
"Hi!" I said cheerily, plopping down beside her. "I’m April, what’s your name?" I thrust my hand under her nose. The girl stared at it like it was something completely alien to her.
"J-Julie." she said, stuttering nervously. She still hadn’t taken my hand. I let it fall to my side once more, feeling like an idiot.
I coughed, embarrassed. "Um…so, this whole ‘bomb scare’ thing is pretty annoying, huh?"
The girl stared at me.
"Uh…" What was with this girl? Was it that hard to make normal conversation? "Do you, um, live near here?" I asked the first question that came into my head.
Julie nodded stiffly. "The man who sells the tickets made me come inside." she seemed to be speaking more to herself than to me. "I don’t know why he bothered."
I didn’t know what to say to that. This girl was so alien, so bitter and withdrawn…I’d never met anyone like her.
I was saved from more awkward small talk by the intercom crackling to life. "Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice boomed. "It has just been reported that the bomb threat to our station was false. We apologise for any inconvenience caused, your train will be along presently. Thank you."
Everyone erupted into cheers, hugging and kissing each other. Well, everyone except me and Julie, that is. I happened to be contemplating the colossal telling off I was going to receive when I got home. Not fun. I glanced at Julie, who seemed unsure what to do.
"Um…are you okay?" I asked.
"I…I…yes, I’m fine." her expression suddenly became more detached. "I have to go. Excuse me." she turned on her heel and strode away to sit back on the bench, her back turned to me.
"Well, she could have just said she didn’t want to talk to me." I grumbled to myself as the train clattered into the station. I glanced back once more at Julie before boarding. She was cowering under the gaze of one of the security guards. I craned my neck, straining to hear what the guard was saying.
"…told you to get out! We don’t need filth like you giving the station a bad name!" he hissed.
Julie’s eyes were wide with fear. "But…but…they let me in here, so I thought -"
"You thought wrong!" the man snapped. "Now, you crawl back to your little hovel before I have to call the police! Do you understand?"
Julie stared up at him. Snarling, the guard raised a hand and slapped her across the cheek. Julie let out a little gasp of pain.
"I said, do you understand me?" the guard roared.
"Yes." Julie said softly, blinking back her tears.
The guard nodded. "Good." he strode away, as if nothing had happened.
Julie wiped her eyes on her grubby sleeve, and I saw that her cheek had an angry red mark on it – the guard must have really hurt her. I also took the time to really look at her – her hair was tangled and greasy, her clothes were a shabby grey, and her shoes were both coated in a layer of thick grime. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it all before. Julie got up from the bench and began to trudge towards the exit.
"Wait, Julie!" I called out, waving frantically. My mother would be furious, but she wouldn’t really turn Julie out on the streets if I brought her home. Julie spun around, her large eyes filled with a sudden, crazed hope.
And then the train’s doors slammed shut.
"No!" I shrieked, pounding on the train’s window. I was overwhelmed by my sudden desire to help this lonely, forgotten girl. "I’ll come back for you!" I mouthed at Julie, who had that distant look in her eyes again. She shook her head at me sadly, and waved to me as the train began to speed out of the station.
I pressed my nose against the cold glass, tears dripping down my face. "I’m sorry." I mouthed to her.
She didn’t respond, but began to walk back towards the exit, away from me.
I slumped in a chair and tried to make myself worry about stupid things – like school and my mother, but I couldn’t focus. All I could think of was Julie and her big, sad eyes. Completely alone.
Forever.
The Seed.
By Molly Garvey 5W
The air was pregnant with the sweet smell of ripening mangoes. The screech of some exotic creature echoed in the distance. The faraway hills were a pale blue in the morning light, and the tress nearer the shalet a golden yellow. Paul stepped onto the treacle-hued stoop, inhaling the pure air, in utter awe of the vista that lay before him, and feverishly thanked whatever god had brought him to the majestic plains of northern India.
It is during the time that colonial England ruled supreme, with all trade links and most civilizations under it’s omniscient control. Many a honourable gentleman has made the perilous journey across land and sea to help Her Revered Majesty on her royal quest for colonilisation, and Paul Portmoth is among those honoured deportees.
He left his motherland at a time in his life when Fair England no longer held the prospects Paul had once believed. In his youth he attended Eden and was head of the Philosophical Society, inviting many a renowned figure to debate on current affairs, such as the American settler’s welfare, and where in the world should England set her blessed eyes on next? After graduating with a degree in foreign languages, he had aspirations of an illustrious teaching career but sadly discovered, after a brief period of work in local London institutions, that he did not particularly like children.
It was around this time that he had a very revealing discussion with a Sir Anthony Peck, who had just returned from work in India. From him he heard the vivid stories of tigers with white-rimmed faces and piercing amber eyes stalking the reed-like grasses of the Bombay plains, the wondrous tales of thousands migrating to wash in the wine-dark waters of the River Ganges. He heard of the sensuous food and miraculous weather and a seed was planted in him, a seed of adventure- a seed called India.
And so, here he was, a middle-aged English gentleman with fuzzy fiery side-burns and rolled up khaki trousers, standing in a pool of warm morning sunlight on the other side of the world. He had spent most of his money on the journey over, and until he got a job he was spending his days in a small shalet made of wood and mortar. With that in mind he fetched his wide-brimmed hat and his identification papers and began his trek down the beaten track to the nearest town, confident that his nationality and complexion would secure him an income without hassle.
On entering the town gates he was at once accosted by the buzz of trade and human traffic, and by the kaleidoscope of foreign sights and smells. A group of dark-faced stallholders were declaring their various wares in that musical, rhythmical language that Paul found so pleasing. Spices pricked at his nostrils, enticing his taste buds, and miniature icons stood on every ledge, each blessing a different trade or profession. Paul was drawn by the now familiar smell of mangoes to a stall near the centre of town. A group of veiled ladies sat behind the counter, counting money, their hands animated in story telling. The one nearest looked up and, noticing his complexion and attire, her eyes crinkled in a smile. “ What.. be name..Sir? she enquired. Paul was taken aback, having not heard the harsh consonants and sharp vowels of his native tongue in a long while. “ Paul, madam, Paul Portmoth. And yours?” Again her eyes crinkled. She seemed to be young, wrinkled only by the unforgiving sun. “ Sinita, at your service, kind Sir. Would.. Sir like mango? Very good price.. And blessed by Vishnu, a very good god, yes?” Paul couldn’t resist and parted with yet another of his dwindling rupees. He bit through the tough skin- the flesh was succulent and juicy. He nodded his appreciation. “See you later.. Paul” the girl said. There was a titter of laughter, and the girl turned back to her companions, a twinkle in her eye.
Paul, proud of how he’d handled his encounter with a local, strode through the alleyways and byroads, finally arriving at a white-stucco-walled villa. A wooden plaque read ‘Sir Stephen Miller, English Correspondent for Mumbai.’ He rang the bell and a chocolate-skinned boy ran up from the house and pulled at the gates. Paul slipped through the narrow gap and followed the boy down the gravel path. The house had a veranda, and a brick-red slate roof, and acacia trees rimmed the perimeter, providing privacy. A “hoHO!” resounded from the innards of the house and out strolled a portly fellow with pronounced sideburns and an even more pronounced gut. “So you’re the latest schmuck Her Royal Highness has sent to continue the English invasion, eh?” he guffawed. “I’m guessing you are looking for some form of employment? Well, hate to disappoint you, old chap, but I am plumb out of positions at this point in time. The previous set of johnnies well and truly cleaned me out. I can give you the basic starter package, which will get you through the first couple of months, and by then I hope to have a few more placements available. I’d invite you in for tea, my dear fellow, but I am afraid all I have got is coffee, which I’m sure you would dislike. Now I simply must bid you adieu. Adieu!” And with another rumbling laugh, the garrulous old man turned on his weary ankles and lolloped back into the depths of the villa. Two looming figures appeared to escort Paul out, who provided little resistance due to the state of shock Sir Stephen had left him in. No work? No job? He looked down and the starter package, which consisted of a pistol, four cartilages, an ounce of flour, four eggs and a box of matches. There was sun, sea and sand but no way of making a living! He should have stayed in England. At least there he could speak the language! He begrudgingly began his journey home to his pathetic shalet, head held low, spirits lower.
As he passed the centre of town, he was jolted out of his dark ruminations by a melodic cry: “Paul! Would .. like more.. mangoes?” He glanced up. There before him was the same stall from earlier, only this time with less mangoes on display and only one lady behind the counter. One girl, in fact. Paul smiled. Her eyes crinkled beneath the turquoise veil. “What.. is wrong?” Paul looked at her again, taking in the amber flecks in her eyes, her delicate lashes, and the arc of her shapely brows. Then he glanced around at the market place, bathed in the shimmering light of the Indian sun, families and husbands and wives going about their different businesses.
The place was a rainbow of rich colours and shapes. Looking back, seeing her crinkly eyes, he grasped her soft hand across the fragrant mangoes and said “Nothing is wrong. Absolutely nothing.”
THE END.