I've become bored with writing about the mundane life we lead and have decided that, in future, I'll use this blog to record some of the stories I write regularly. I used to post these on '1000 Words or Less' but they'll now appear here. I'm starting with a story I wrote at Christmas, entitles A CHRISTMAS STORY.
Like many country girls, Mary found living in a rural town stifling. Chudleigh was a pretty enough little town but, when Mary was 17, she had had enough of the narrowness of village life and told her parents she was off to see what else the world had to offer. They were not happy at all about it but Mary was a headstrong girl and would not be swayed. Her father made sure she had a reliable mobile ‘phone, access to emergency funds and made her promise she would keep in touch and always tell her family where she was. She ended up in the Riverina, in fact, having found the big cities not at all to her liking, and made her living picking up casual work at various farms.
It was here that she met Joe, a relaxed country boy, with no apparent ambition but a great sense of humour. Perhaps they would marry one day but, for now, it was enough that they shared their lives and, as Joe put it, looked out for each other.
It was in December a couple of years after she had left that Mary started to think about home in a different light. Perhaps it was memories of Christmases she had enjoyed in the past which made her a little nostalgic and she started to think seriously about returning to Chudleigh for a visit. Also, she was pregnant and Mary was determined the child would be born in Tasmania. It was a quiet time for work in the Riverina and Joe said he would come with her so the decision was made. Each carrying a backpack, they stood on the highway with their thumbs up. Getting to Geelong was relatively easy and they managed to secure a last-minute booking on a night sailing of the Spirit.
Once she arrived on Tasmanian soil, Mary was reluctant to complete those few remaining kilometres to the village where her family would be planning their Christmas . She had deliberately not told them she was returning, not sure of how her father, particularly, would accept the idea of a baby fathered by a man they had never met. For that same reason, she refused to ring her family to tell them she was on her way. Her father, of course, would have rushed to pick them up but Mary felt she would be better able to cope if she arrived at the family home, unannounced.
Hitch-hiking turned out to be more difficult than they had anticipated. Perhaps, drivers were more anxious in those days before Christmas and less likely to stop for a couple of scruffy individuals, especially as one was obviously pregnant, so it was late afternoon before the tired couple reached Chudleigh. Mary again held back from the inevitable confrontation with her parents and suggested they pitch their little tent at the showgrounds in Chudleigh, and promised Joe she would ring her father in the morning. They chose a spot on the far side of the ground out of sight of the road and settled down.
They were both tired after their long journey and, after a make-do meal of the remains of what food they had left, they crawled into their sleeping bags. They must both have dozed off because they took a while to become aware of the sound of singing which was coming from the small hall on the other side of the ground. It sounded like ‘Away in a Manger’, Mary thought.
‘Of course,’ she realised, ‘Tonight must be the night of the Christmas Carol Service. All the town will be there and,’ her heart sank, ‘so will Mum and Dad.’ Nudging Joe, she said,
‘There’s a change of plan, Joe. Mum and Dad, and half the town are in the hall over there and it won’t take long before someone notices our tent and comes to investigate. Comb your hair; you’re about to meet your in-laws.’
Joe hastily pulled on his shorts, dragged a comb through his unruly mop and, hand in hand, they walked across the grass towards the sound of the familiar old carols. They passed tethered sheep and goats, and the occasional calf which had been brought by local members of the Young Farmers’ Club to brighten up the evening, and to be photographed with the children, many of whom had come dressed as shepherds, or angels. Outside the hall, too, there were groups of playing children, too young to be involved in the singing and several surly-looking teenagers hanging about, too cool to take part in such an old-fashioned activity.
At the entrance to the Hall, they paused, took each other’s hand and slowly pushed the door open. At the sound of the creaking hinges, several people turned to see who the intruders were. Mary recognised neighbours she had known all her life but it took several long seconds for the first voice to say, ‘It’s Mary!’
Nearer the front, her Mum and Dad, turned as one. They’re looking older, thought Mary, though it had been only a couple of years since she had left. Her mother’s hand rose to her mouth as she clambered to her feet and pushed her way past her friends and neighbours sitting in the same row, her husband not far behind her. The pianist who had been accompanying the carols abruptly ceased her out-of-tune playing.
Mary was engulfed in a huge embrace by both Mum and Dad and others in the audience rose to their feet, affected by the excitement.
“Who is this, then?” asked Mary’s dad, gruffly, “And I suppose he is responsible for this,” he continued, pointing to Mary’s quite obvious bump. And Mary knew, from the big smile on Dad’s face, that everything would be alright.
