Gift Wrapped

Gift Wrapped

The old shoe box sat on the table. Jamie had found it when he was searching the attic for his old train set and he had presented it to me as though I had won a prize. I thanked him for his efforts but resisted his pleas to open it there and then. Muttering he had stomped off to his room to open the bidding for the train set, on ebay. Train set? iPod? no competition really…

I eyed the box suspiciously. It was tied up with string which was grimy from it’s time in the loft. The corners of the lid were broken where the glue had dried out and the sign on the top was faded and touched with mildew. “Sue’s Box. Private, Keep out.”

I touched the corner, the cardboard felt cold and slightly damp and I wondered whether returning it to the loft might not be the best option. It had been a long time and I was fairly sure that I knew what it contained. I pushed the box away across the table and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but I found myself staring out of the window, over the fields, while my mind dipped back into the past.

The kettle whistling jerked me back to the present. I sprinkled a few tea leaves into the bottom of a cup and poured on the water. I had to open the box. It would be fine. It was just a bit of history.

I tugged on the string; it felt greasy under my fingertips. The knot was tight but it gave way as I pulled a little harder. I traced my fingers around the box lid and found myself holding my breath as I lifted it free. For a moment I couldn’t see the contents, my mind was racing, almost willing the doorbell to ring so that I could close the box before I looked, but it didn’t and I put the lid down on the table.

Folded on the top was a concert programme, ABC, Lexicon of Love Tour. I flicked through the pages maybe this wasn’t going to be as hard as I thought. Under that were two small books, Letts pocket diary 1980, 1981 inscribed in gold across their covers. I picked up the first one, the entries didn’t start until September, then they started slowly, a couple of times a week, tiny pencil writing detailing days at school and my growing infatuation with the biology teacher.

I found myself smiling as I read the pages. It was another person on the paper, pouring out teenage angst and passion, the frustrations of loves that never were and the loneliness of being slightly outside the ordinary. I shook my head and put the book down. I had gone far enough.

I sipped my tea. I could hear Jamie thumping around in his room, the faint sounds of his awful music filling the walls. Everything was normal, everything was safe. I couldn’t resist, I poked further into the box; the menu from the restaurant were we had our pre- college night out, the good luck cards, O’level certificates, the order of service for my Grandfather’s funeral. I stopped, the adrenaline rush left me breathless. Suddenly I was back in the Chapel, front row, sat between my dad and my gran. The rest of the chapel was full to bursting. He was so popular, a pillar of the local community. My hands were trembling as I picked up the card. Tucked inside was a piece of paper. Slowly I unfolded the sheet.

I stared at the page, at the words written so long ago, hard to read as the pressure of the pen was so light. I remember the exact moment. It was the end and I was trying to break free. I felt the panic rising in my chest. I wanted to tear up the paper, the reminder of things that should never have happened. I scanned the page, my pulse racing, the words scorched my eyes.

The room went cold, my hands shook. He was back.

The memories come streaming in, my younger self hiding the secrets, nowhere to turn, no-one to talk to. Gran telling me that I should cry; that funerals were times to show grief and how much you cared. She never knew. No one who could have done anything ever knew. It was just you and me tangled up together.

I can feel you. I turn and you are standing in the corner watching the way you always watched. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. How can my peace be destroyed so quickly? I thought that I had come to terms with it that I was safe now and time had healed. But you’re here, picking away at the stitches which hold me together. How can you still affect me after so long? Why is your face the only thing I can see? Your smell fills my head, your voice whispers in my ear.

“No!” You are standing in the doorway. ”No! Please no!” You are melting, changing.
“Mum?”
Jamie.
I try to speak but the words won’t come. He moves towards me and takes the page from my fingers.
“Don’t,” I manage to whisper, but he is already reading the words.
“Mum? Who?” His arms are around me. “Is this you?”
I sob against his chest, the first time I have cried for the girl who I was. He doesn’t speak just holds me until the rushing sound in my ears is gone. He brushes my hair back from my face.

“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me?”
I shake my head.
“It’s gone now. It happened a long time ago.”
“Okay.” He looks at me strangely. “I just came down for a drink.”
“Kettle’s just boiled.”
“Good. I’ll just… Do you want one?” I smile up at him and nod then glance at the doorway. You are gone.

The page is back in my hand.

How can I cry?
You touched me in ways I cannot tell.
Not allowed to tell.
Now you are gone.
Strangely I feel numb.
I’m puzzled by my freedom.
Myself is now my own.
Your death gave that back to me.
A wave of guilt
I wanted you dead.

She told me it was allowed
Show my grief, so all could see.
But I have no tears
So many tears around me.
I’m not even sad.
I want to play with my friends
Hide and seek.
You spoilt my games
Made me afraid
I could never love you.

Standing on the doorstep
The game of cricket in the garden.
Your hands on me,
Touching me,
Pulling me back against you.
I step away, join the game,
So securely in your game
Look at your feet, never your face.
Can I be free now?
Can I cry?

I crumple the paper into a ball. There are no more tears.