It’s been a while… again. To be fair, the latter part of ’25 was spent on long-form works. Finishing a book. Yes, in ’25 I FINISHED WRITING A BOOK! I’m now in that long process of trying to find a publisher, agent, etc. Had some very positive feedback and interest. It’s out there but, as I know only too well, with any creative endeavour, it’s not about the veracity of the work, it’s about whether those who pull the strings feel they can ‘sell’ it. Is it the right time? Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll be the first to know.
In the meantime, a short story I wrote for my writers’ group. The theme was ‘Peace’. Enjoy.
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
‘And now, let us offer one another a sign of God’s peace.’
Dottie always found this one of the least peaceful moments in the entire act of worship. She glanced at Reverend Mark as she turned to her left and proffered her hand to Brian, the local butcher and his wisp of a wife, Jenny, who didn’t appear to benefit much from the protein on offer in Brian’s shop.
The church was now thronging with respectful murmurs of ‘Peace’ as parishioners shook hands and crept around, with the inevitable scraping chairs adding to the symphony of ungodly sounds. Dottie regretted the Parish Council’s decision to abandon pews in preference of the metal-framed seats with vibrant green cushions. Beryl clashed a chord on the ancient organ, which Dottie was sure was due for tuning, as it was difficult to discern whether it was a minor or major key, and certainly gave no clue to the upcoming hymn. In moments, the children would come crashing through from Sunday School, or Junior Church as it was now called, further shattering any illusion of God’s peace.
In the church hall following the service, Dottie was serving another weak tea and observed the teacup wobble on the saucer, adding to the cacophony of refreshment receptacles that echoed around the room.
When did church become such a noisy experience? She mused on this as three small children ran around using the cardboard shepherd’s crooks they had obviously fashioned in Sunday School – sorry, Junior Church – as weapons. Before long, the inevitable wail and tears splintered the air. Coffee cups were smashed down, and at least one parent’s voice could be heard above the fray.
‘Tilly!’
After washing up, trying to avoid being trapped by Victor’s droning with another impenetrable story about his working life in the admin department of a manufacturer of nuts and bolts, Dottie’s heels echoed through the almost silent church hall, and she heaved on the heavy door to the outside world.
The traffic roared by on the main road as she headed home. She shuddered to think of the fumes forcing their way into her lungs and wondered whether reverting to pandemic-era mask-wearing was the sensible option when navigating life in Tooting. She dodged between a line of traffic, wondering when it was that traffic had become so heavy on a Sunday. Probably when shops started to open on the Sabbath as though it was just another weekday.
She reached her own street, or ‘Avenue’ as it had been hopefully christened, and although she was aware of birds perching on branches high above, if they were singing, it was difficult to discern over the honking of horns, which seemed to follow her. At least, they were diminishing. A jet roared overhead, bound for Heathrow, no doubt and she crossed her fingers that the flight path would soon change to one that avoided Tooting. Nobody ever chose to live in Tooting, she thought as the air became more still; they moved here because they couldn’t afford Wimbledon.
Tomorrow, she would go to work, and attempt to force an understanding of the development of the Industrial Revolution into the minds of a reluctance of fourteen-year-olds. Dottie had a dubious relationship with the Industrial Revolution. Granted, it had paved the way for everything that made modern life bearable, and she was grateful to Mr Stephenson for showing the world how automation, via his Rocket, could transform lives. She would probably have been one of the girls who preferred to weave and weft in a cotton mill, rather than ploughing and furrowing in all weathers. As long as she hadn’t lost an arm in the process, she presumed. She could just not shake the idea that the Industrial Revolution was surely responsible for all the evils of the modern world. It paved the way for Mr Marconi, and that had set up a trail of events that forced her to regularly confiscate mobile phones from the sweaty hands of those in her class. Had it not kick-started the stripping of the planet’s resources, the withering of the precious ozone layer? Although she was sure she’d recently read an article in The Guardian that claimed that the ozone layer was now healing itself.
Tomorrow she would force her way through corridors of screeching teenage girls, their high-pitched gossip echoing off the unforgiving concrete walls. She would pose questions to boys whose answers would be hampered by their journey into adulthood that was accompanied by voices that seemed unable to control pitch or tone, like an orchestra whose conductor was absent.
Into this, she was supposed to reach targets of achievement, totally reliant on the rabble’s ability to fashion their scant attention to the facts of the Industrial Revolution that she had administered, into the bland demands of an examining board.
She regularly cursed the Industrial Revolution, never more so than now, as her ears were assaulted by the results of its march, its reinvention and its abuse.
She closed her door gently behind her, placed her keys in the receptacle and stripped her outer layer of clothing. Dottie went to the kitchen and to make tea, acknowledging Mr Stephenson for starting a process that ended with her electric kettle. She had even seen television adverts for some kind of tap on a flexible hose, that provided boiling water without necessitating a kettle. She presumed she could thank Mr Stephenson for that, too.
In her small sitting-room, she sat in Arthur’s chair. Arthur’s seat, she chuckled to herself, then stopped short. Her chuckle would be the only sound she heard until tomorrow morning. Since Arthur had died – she loathed the term, ‘left us’ – there was nobody with whom she could share snippets of parish gossip after Sunday worship. The silence crept up on her, became thicker with each passing day, until, she felt sure, it would suffocate her.
She placed her mug on the table beside his chair. He had always favoured this high-backed, winged armchair, and had made himself a smart table to nestle beside it.
She walked through the kitchen, to the French windows that opened onto the garden and, shivering in a slight chill as she stepped outside, she came to a standstill. She listened, and above the call of a few swallows, she could hear a neighbour’s children howling with delight in a garden. Beyond that, the now distant hum of traffic.
All of which reassured her that although her house may be empty, but she was not alone.
Lady Valetta Writes 