Cecelia Ahern - Short Stories - The Every Year Collection

Shortly after the sun has pulled itself out of the water, they leave the waters, dry off and begin their journey home. After many pleasant hours spent journeying through the countryside, they reach the outskirts of their home town.

‘It’s very quiet around here, isn’t it?’ May comments to Mallard, as they make their way through the village and to the peace and quiet of their home beyond it.

‘Indeed it is, I wonder if there’s something going on. A gathering somewhere of some kind?’

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The loudest noise in the distance, so sudden, May lets out a scream.

‘My goodness, Mallard! What on earth!’

‘Stay close, my love, stay close.’ Mallard’s heart slams in his chest while May whimpers beside him.

‘Is it the people Pierre was talking about?’ Her voice trembles.

‘It can’t be my love.’ But Mallard doesn’t sound so sure. ‘We must make our way as quietly as possible. Find somewhere safe to hide until they have gone. Honestly, a few months out of this country and look what happens. It feels like a war zone. What on earth has happened? Hush now, we must be quiet.’

They quietly make their way through the trees, only minutes from their home, trying to make as little rustling sound as possible. They hear the men close by and suddenly Mallard feels far too old for this situation. If he was younger he could be faster, but he and May must be still now and very, very quiet. May steps on a branch and it snaps loudly.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He jumps. There is silence, he glimpses through the leaves, the men are nowhere in sight. He remains quiet a little longer and holds his breath, unsure whether they’re being tricked. When a few minutes pass, he sighs with relief.

‘I think we’re OK now, love. I think they’re gone.’

May is silent.

Mallard’s heart thuds again.

‘May?’ He spins around.

May is lying by his side, her eyes open staring lifelessly at the skies above.

‘May,’ he begins to whimper. ‘Oh, my May. My sweet May. Wake up, love. Wake up.’

But he knows May won’t wake, for the life in her has gone. He hears footsteps coming towards him. A hand reaches through the leaves and branches and comes down beside him. He moves away quickly. The hand grabs May, carries her upwards into the air.

‘There it is,’ the man says. ‘That’ll do nicely for tomorrow’s dinner.’

‘Wife will be impressed by a bit of duck à l’orange,’ the other jokes, and they make their way back out of the trees.

Mallard, broken and lost, watches from his hiding place among the reeds, as they carry his May by her legs, hanging her upside down. They make their way through the marsh, their long hunting guns resting over their shoulders.

Now there is nothing but quiet for Mallard. He sits for hours on the muddy floor, listening to the sounds of shots far off in the distance, and strains his ears to hear the sound of May’s call. But it doesn’t come. Anger sets in as he wonders what on earth the world has become; such sadness overcomes him as he contemplates what his world holds for him without his May.

Hunger and friends find him alone and trembling hours later and so, building up all the courage he possibly can, he finally leaves the safety of his hiding place and flies off towards the same sun he watched rise that morning, with May.

With each flap of his wings and with each memory of May, his heavy wings lighten as he allows his love for her to lift him. He floats higher and higher, and follows his personal pathway to the sun.

My granddad used to steal the broccoli from my dinner plate when my mother wasn’t looking. I’d sit alone at the kitchen table that had become my prison, with legs dangling, podgy fist under double chin, staring at a plate of, by then, cold vegetables. Everyone else had long since finished their dessert and moved on to the TV room, where I could hear them laughing with bellies full of veg they never seemed to have a problem swallowing.

I was, as usual, under strict orders not to leave the table until the plate was emptied. No amount of tears, crocodile or otherwise, and no amount of retching, dry or otherwise, could save me. Plans for a trip to the toilet armed with a mouthful of food and a readiness to spit had been foiled. It seemed nothing now could get me away from the boredom and loneliness of dinnertime alone.

Then, just as I would feel that all hope was lost, my granddad would save me; white hair and moustache to the rescue. His hand would jump onto my plate, grab the broccoli, and into his round, Santa-Claus-like tummy it would go. I would smile at him with relief, he would wink and then I would sigh and return my gaze to my plate. Only a few more to go. I loved when he visited, especially at dinnertimes. I remember the feel of his cardigan as it itched my cheek. I see my small chubby fingers playing with big, brown, shiny buttons. I remember a feather in his hat. I hear him talk about his calculator—my granddad, who thought his pocket calculator was the greatest invention in the whole world.

My grandma used to take her teeth out of her mouth, hold them in her hand and scare my friends away. She would wrap her lips into her mouth, opening and shutting her gob like a fish, gummy as the day she was born. While others would scream and run, I would throw my head back and laugh. I remember how she used to dive onto my bed to wake me up in the mornings.

The cross on the end of her necklace always fell down between her bosoms, and I would watch the emerald stone, resting there alongside the lines and crackles of her skin. She would sing when people were silent, hum while they were hushed. She would devour food with such pleasure you would think it was the first time she had experienced taste.

My uncles used to throw me from person to person like a ball, in the front garden. Swirling visions of greens, blues and bearded men mixed with the sounds of my own laughter trapped at the back of my throat, their laughter and my mother’s shouts for them to stop. But I’d keep on swirling, rolling through the air like a snowball in a fight but always landing in safe arms.

My father used to slide the loose change from the windowsill into his hand every morning and then put it in his pocket before he went to work. The windows used to steam up in the kitchen on cold dark winter nights when my mother cooked dinner. My sister had a T-shirt that said ‘Kisses for Sale’. I remember liking the sound of tap shoes on the marble fireplace, I remember nobody else agreeing.

These are the people I love. These are the people I spend this year’s Valentine’s Day with. I’m home alone, living happily in my head, remembering, laughing, crying and missing them. I want to pluck them from my memories and pull them into my day, into my present life. I want them as they were, to talk to me as I am now.

This Valentine’s Day I am home alone, but I’m far from feeling it. I’m flicking through a photo album looking through snapshots of moments, single pieces of a jigsaw from an overall picture I never fully understood. I sense I’m surrounded by all those who take this time to embrace me. Their memories are their hugs, the tears of happiness that run down my cheeks, their kisses. Outside my window, the world is busy getting ready to go out, getting ready to live for a moment that will be remembered another day. And I feel OK about that.

It’s OK that I’m not out tonight with a partner, playing footsie under the table, meaningful glances over a flickering candle, holding hands above the table while we spoon dessert into one another’s mouth. It’s OK that I received no cards today and it’s OK that every film on television is about a kind of love that I don’t have tonight. It’s OK.