GIRL IN A BOX
By Clare Shaw
Runner up of Writers Inc, Writer of the Year Competition 2005
The house is quiet. Then suddenly through the wooden sides of the box, she hears voices. Guests are greeted, jackets taken, drinks offered. Then the voices fade away and she can no longer hear them.
She is in a box and nobody can see her. She imagines Jasper counting slowly. Peaking through his plump fingers which cobweb his face, the numbers drumming out from behind his sticky palms - one....two....three. He leans against the warm bark of the birch, the papery leaves blotching his brown skin with patchy shadows. Four...... five.... six, the afternoon sun throwing its heat down like a yellow blanket. Seven .... eight..... nine, Jasper takes an eager step forward into the waiting sunshine. TEN! Ready or not ....
Oh she is ready, ready and waiting for a friend to seek and find her, let her out from her cocoon, rescue the damaged butterfly, allow her to find her hidden wings. She is ready. She thinks she can hear Jasper in the distance, clattering open cupboards, scraping furniture to one side, calling out ‘Am I warm?’ ‘Am I getting any warmer?’ Then a silence as he waits, listens, thinks. Then footsteps echo into the distance like the rumble of a train. He has gone the wrong way but he will be back again. She knows he will be back again.
It is dark in her box. She reaches out and feels the flat pine which coffins her in her hidden home. It feels warm against her clammy hand, comforting in its smoothness. It does not change, it has no knots, splits or roughness but it perfect is its sleek, even finish. The darkness is not perfect for a slit of light tumbles in like a shiny letter into a letter box allowing her to see the outline of her own twisted limbs. She has organised her body to best fit the oblong area. By pushing her feet into the corner and curling her body round, like a snake sleeping in the sand, she finds she has no desire to stretch or straighten. She is aware of the barest of movements, the rise and fall of her chest as the warm air slides in and out of her nose, and the gentle flick of her tiny eyelid, beating intermittently and silently like the wings of a resting moth. The thought of the arrival of Jasper keeps her feeling safe, enclosed in her wooden womb. He will be here soon, she thinks, he will come before the adults arrive. She crosses the fingers on her right hand in hope. She closes her eyes and wishes - ‘I wish Jasper would find me soon.’
As she waits, her mind travels back over the years she has spent with Jasper. Her parents had not always taken to him, perhaps because he intruded so often on their small one child family. She remembers the time when her mother had been visibly irritated by his presence.
“Jasper’s not eating with us again is he?” Mother had snapped, while her daughter laid an extra place at the table.
“But you said ..” she pleaded.
“All right, all right.” Her mother had backed down as she always did.
She smiled gratefully but wished her mother understood. What was the problem? She always shared her food with Jasper when he stayed on for tea. And in any case, he ate very little and was consistently polite and courteous. Her father often failed to acknowledge Jasper at all, immersed as he was in business, paying bills, keeping to highly inflexible schedules. Yet Jasper had always been there for as long as she could remember. She could not imagine playing monopoly without him, could not recall a single picnic where Jasper had not tagged along, swigged back lemonade and paddled for hours with her in the bubbling brook which ran along the bottom of the meadow in Dalebrook where her family liked to take their basket of lunch and soak up the Sussex sunshine.
It was hard being an only child of older, traditional parents. Jasper laughed as her parents could not laugh, played games in a way her parents could not. He took the place of brother, sister - siblings she would never have.
Once, she had written about him in neat, careful handwriting in her blue English exercise book. They had been learning about adjectives and searching in favourite story books for examples of good descriptive writing. She had found a description of the view from the kitchen of Green Gables in her favourite story, Anne of Green Gables. Reading the passage, she had wished she could be there as Anne with Anne’s life. The teacher, Miss Appleton, then instructed the children to write a description of someone important in their lives. She knew who to write about - Jasper.
Jasper’s always there when I need him, she wrote, I can talk for hours to Jasper about anything I want. I can not imagine life without him. Jasper is different from anyone else I know. He enjoys all the same things as me so I love playing with him. We never argue and Jasper is my best friend.
Miss Appleton came up behind her and read the words over her shoulder.
“That’s not really a description is it, Clara,” she explained gently. “You need more adjectives. Try thinking about what he looks like, his eyes, the colour of his hair, that sort of thing.”
But she could not do that and found herself just sitting, chewing the end of her pencil until the end of class.
“Are you stuck, Clara?” her teacher had asked.
“Can I finish it at home?” she suggested and Miss Appleton agreed that this would be a good idea. She smiled. Now Jasper could help her, then she would get it right.
Her thoughts are interrupted by sounds seeping through the sides of her box. At first, the dull murmur of voices stays safely in the distance but then the creak of the door announces their arrival and they intrude, echoing through the walls of her surroundings. She wants to block them out, shout them down, pierce their shrillness with her own penetrating scream. But then she remembers - she is in a box and nobody can see her. And she does not have to see them. As the voices draw nearer, she feels both safe and frightened, eager and resigned, accepting and unsure. Then the high-pitched tones unscramble so that words can be identified, meanings understood.
She is surprised at first that the voices do not talk about her but are pre-occupied with other matters. Matters, perhaps, of more importance.
“It must the hottest day of the year.”
“I have never known a July like this one.”
“I think I shall melt before the day’s out.”
The words calm her for they are familiar, seasonal, repeated annually in the same weary but genial style. Her relief at not being the focus of their exchanges is coupled with a fearful anticipation. For surely, she thinks, it is only a matter of time before she is mentioned. And then boxed in the corner of the room, she will be a captive audience forced to listen to truth or lies, whichever comes first, whichever they choose.
She wills them to carry on talking of the weather, exchanging pleasantries, ramblings about the heat. She wills Jasper to come and find her before their talk switches to more immediate matters, more pressing concerns such as tea, the evening’s events and eventually the whereabouts of her.
She knows that one person in the room is aware of where she is and that is her father. She is sure that her father has not told her mother, uncle or aunt who make up the quartet of voices which drone endlessly like flies at the window. It is, in fact, her mother’s voice which overrides the others for it is piercing and tight with chimes of jollity barely blanketing the concerned tension beneath the words.
In her box, she is focusing more on what is not said than what is said. There are missing words which, like her, are waiting to be found.
Occasionally, her aunt’s voice trills in and, from time to time, deeper masculine grunts and guffaws bark out as if laughing at the feminine silliness which dominates the room.
It is hot in her box. She becomes aware of her breathlessness as she angles her mouth towards the slit where the ill-fitting lid meets the sides. She has a strong desire to bang on the wood, to call out or even to cry gently like a puppy. To stop herself, she focuses her thoughts on Jasper.
Now Jasper is tripping across the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, folding his body and tilting his head like a branch in the wind as he looks under, behind, between. He is jigging from room to room with excited eagerness, now stretching up on tiptoe, now crouching down like an agile animal of the forest. He can, of course, find her any time she wants him to. She knows his movements are under her control.
Her name suddenly shouts out at her from amid the adult murmurs outside her box. A name always stands out in a crowd of words as if louder, brighter, full of its own importance. Her heart beats in the heat of the box, she can feel its pounding as if it is trying to force itself out of its ribbed cage. Her breathing is more forced, her self-discipline more effortful as she fists her fingers to prevent them from scratching the pine, and tightens her arms to keep them from striking a punch on the box top. Her ears seem to stretch up as she listens, wide-eyed and breathless.
“Do you know where Clara is?” It is her mother’s timid voice.
‘Clara, Clara, Clara,’ echoes against the six tight sides of the box.
“Let’s just finish our drinks first, then we can sort Clara out.”
‘Clara, Clara, Clara.’
Her mother is as weak as tepid tea for she lets it pass.
“I do declare we’ve run out of ice.” But mother’s voice is tense now. Surely there is a nervous sweat on her palms.
Oh Jasper, where are you? she thinks for she needs him to come right now.
She can hold on no longer, she feels her limbs coming to life with minds of their own. She is squirming like a trapped rabbit, her strangled voice is emitting the soft mewings of a distressed kitten. Surely they can heat her now. Surely she has given herself away, let herself down, failed to finish the game.
It is too late for Jasper. It was always too late for Jasper. Jasper can not find her now. Jasper can not save her. He never could of course.
The talking has tapered off. The lull is purposeful as ears take over from lips, a silence in which to listen.
“She’s in the box, isn’t she.” Her mother’s obvious words shatter the brittle, cold heat. Her Uncle and Aunt excuse themselves and she hears them creak onto the wooden boards of the veranda.
“Open the box.” Her mother’s gentle instruction has a hint of resignation but no anger, no accusation. Missing emotions.
She wants her mother’s words to be screamed out in the desperation of love, shouted out with the urgency of motherly concern. Fear and anger are mixed up in her mind like a cocktail and they can no longer be separated. She does not know where to aim her emotions, who to stick them on, which of her parents would absorb them into their blood until the fear and anger turn to blame. She does not want her parents there. She does not want the box opened. She does not want to see them, face them, talk to them. She wants Jasper.
She hears the drawer of the sideboard slide open and then the inevitable crack of the key in the lock. The lid grinds open, she unfolds her stiffened limbs and steps out into the afternoon. Her parents look down on her. She looks down at the floor. Waiting. It will be her father who will speak, she knows that.
“Jasper,” she whispers from her dry throat.
“Do you want to be shut in the box again?”
“No.”
“Then face it Clara, Jasper does not exist. You are eleven years old. Too old for an imaginary friend. It’s time to grow up. We’ll hear no more of Jasper again.”
He turns and strides out onto the veranda where he lights a cigarette and tilts a whiskey past his lips.
Her mother says nothing. And that is the worst of it.
She thinks of climbing back into the box again, for what was unwelcome now seems welcome. But she sits on the lid and holds her head in her hands.
Jasper is upstairs now, peaking under beds and sneaking a look behind the cupboards. Jasper will be here soon, she thinks. Soon he will rescue me
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THE OTHER ROOF (Extract)
By Clare Shaw
SCENE ONE: ROOF TOP
Andy is on top of a roof, looking as though he is about to jump off.
Enter Bill with a suitcase and fold up chair which he puts down quickly
BILL: No, please don’t. Come away from the edge.
ANDY: What’s it to you?
BILL: I don’t want you to ... Please, come away from the edge and we’ll talk.
ANDY: Can’t you just leave me alone. You don’t know me so … just leave me alone. There’s
always some bleeding do-gooder…
BILL: Oh, I’m no do-gooder, believe me. But please…
ANDY: Then leave me alone. I can’t do it with you… hovering there.
BILL: Then I’ll just keep on hovering.
ANDY: Why? Why do you care if I die?
BILL: I don’t. If it’s what you want. But for now…
ANDY: It is what I want.
BILL: Fine. But not now, not right here. Please.
Andy takes one step back.
ANDY: What difference does it make?
BILL: None to you, I imagine. I mean if you want to jump off a building then it doesn’t matter
when you jump or from which building. The result will be pretty much the same.
ANDY: Then leave me alone so I can …
BILL: Unless you choose a bungalow of course. Then you might just end up with two broken
legs. But so long as you choose a reasonably high building like this …
ANDY: Well this is the building I’ve chosen. So if you could just back off.
BILL: Of course you’d need concrete below. Just suppose a van with a mattress strapped on
top was to drive past…
ANDY: It isn’t. So I’m going to do it.
Andy steps forward again.
BILL: No, please, I beg you. Not here – anywhere else but here.
ANDY: For God’s sake, you’re putting me off.
BILL: There’s a lovely tall building in the High Street. Or even better – that bridge over the
motorway, it’s been tried and tested. Very popular. It’ll serve your purpose very well, I
promise.
ANDY: I’m here now.
BILL: But please, not here. I’ll come with you, find you somewhere more … suitable. I’ll give
you a push if you want.
ANDY: This is suitable.
BILL: Not for me it isn’t.
ANDY: Do you really think I care. What difference does it make?
BILL: My point exactly. What difference does it make if you jump off here or, say… the building
next door. So to make me happy, we’ll just pop next door …
ANDY: I don’t want to make you happy. I don’t believe in happiness. It’s an illusion.
BILL: So, you’re not happy then?
No, of course not. Stupid of me. That’s the problem – I am stupid. Useless. But
please… sit…just for a moment. Oh. (Bill appears to recognise Andy)
ANDY: What’s wrong?
BILL: Just realised who… how stupid I am.
Bill puts the chair up and Andy sits down.
ANDY: Maybe I’m the stupid one. I’m the one who’s fucked up my life.
BILL: Oh, I don’t know. You’re a steady member of society. Achieved quite a lot, I would say.
By the look of you, I mean. Shoes. You can tell a lot by a man’s shoes.
Pause
I think you’d better tell me. Why you’re here.
ANDY: Isn’t it obvious.
Why did you come up here?
BILL: It’s where I come.
ANDY: Not to…?
BILL: No, no. I wouldn’t be brave enough.
You seem to have changed your mind.
ANDY: No, I just needed a break.
BILL: A break from topping yourself?
ANDY: I will do it. But for now, the moment’s passed. Just… for now.
BILL: So if I wanted to I could take you to another roof. Give you a push.
ANDY: You’re really not from the Samaritan’s, are you.
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SUMMER AFTER SARCOMA
By Clare Shaw
Runner up in Cancer Research competition July 2010
And there were butterflies
As I lay nestled in the unruly green.
Time was mine that summer to ponder
On patterns of their fragile, intricate wings
As they danced a distracting dance.
And I, though not expected of me, smiled
At the moment, just the moment.
I closed my eyes against the efficient rays
Dispensing with the gauze of morning cloud.
The sun slapped hard against my elder daughter’s
Browning skin.
She flicked through a crinkled magazine.
I dozed, keeping thoughts at bay.
The traffic sang, the strings of nature played,
And butterflies danced to the rhythm of the trees.
Then
A window slammed wide open.
Theatrically, an arm reached out.
A head leaned towards its unexpecting audience.
Juliet’s words rang out with wicked humour.
My younger daughter’s fun and laughter
Healing my body down to the very marrow.
And butterflies settled on the sun kissed lawn.
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