Creative Writing Bolton, Manchester-Phoenix Writers Horwich: Dark School- a short tale. Janet Lewison

A few weeks ago, the writer Char March   gave a most insightful and lively  guest workshop for the Phoenix Writers’ group in Horwich,  Bolton. Our final exercise involved writing some sort of ‘chase’ narrative and we were given just 10 minutes.to complete the task.

10 minutes proved an inspiring time limit and everyone found the exercise enlivening. For some reason, and maybe a recent parents’evening trip provided a stimulus, this tale appeared and should provide (fortuitously) part of my portfolio for a superb Creative Writing online course at Bangor University.

The story involves a first person narrator who is the school talking, (and talking rather playfully); yet I also hope slightly alarmingly about doing away with the school’s ex-Head Mistress who the school feels is guilty of betrayal.

There is also a hint of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra too, and maybe an asp of some form or another will appear finally for revenge!

Of course you had to come back. You couldn’t resist me. You never could.”Age has not withered you nor  custom staled your infinite variety.”See I remembered. June 24th,  the Old Alumni Reunion. Kinsley Swinton, our beloved chairman,stood in for our guest speaker, a poet whose love life far exceeded her expectations. What an evening for us all, it etches upon my mind even now- a stage perfectly set and then the pain of parting.

 

Look at you now, once again  on my staircase, the scene of so many triumphs, still using that old trick   with your long hands high in the air, flying, heaven bound.  Let me introduce you once again,  Our  celebrated Mrs Davies, MA Oxon. OBE.

 

You may notice that our polished Wood has been supplanted by discreet crimson carpet on this, probably  the most famous Neo-Gothic stair in Northern England.  Your reign was so much more polished than today’s casual re-entrance and yet, I think you will find us happier, less anxious.

 

Watching you again, I am reminded how stairs  are the perfect stage for your performance, (and even now, years later, I salute your genius) Conversations on stairs hint at spontaneity,the impetuous in between meeting aside. For aren’t you as always, a woman who cares enough to pause?

 

I could never decide if you liked your left or right profile best. We enjoy a two way staircase here. Our new Head Dr Regent replaced your long mirror with something less prominent. I believe her Quaker background is to blame.

 

Of course the way I am talking, with my tone, I  could be accused of bitterness, but I’m not bitter . I am pleased to watch you once more.  You’re back. How beautifully complete we are together.I am a great foil for you still, perhaps that is why you acquiesced to my invitation.

 

Yes, I am looking splendid too. I accept your sincere and most grateful compliment.  

My greatest asset  has always been my  symmetry.Everyone knows that.

 

 

And may I say, what a lovely pale blue suit you are wearing tonight; .as always  elegantly approachable, yet slightly aloof too. Remember how the staff used to worry about the secret codes of your suits. Messages would telegraph race along my corridors as soon as you arrived in school. Miss Taylor on reception never let a dashing red scarf slip by without a call to her best friend Jennifer on C Floor.

 

I hear  all your cards are to be revised yet again. Inscribed in silver swirls . So understated, such elegance and class in the face of so much mediocrity these days. Our days I’m afraid are not like your days; your reign as you so playfully used to tell everyone each Tuesday morning at 8 am Sharp. We seek only quiet calm these days.

 

Not unnaturally, we felt a tinge of alarm when the new Governors insisted upon your nostalgic tour of our past glories. The Sergeants unrolled the old dark blue carpet and even from the entrance hall a passing visitor may detect the reflective glance of your grand portrait bought out to celebrate your first year in post.  The staff know your ways of course, but who can say anything. Most of them are so glad this is just a visit.  A few hours, my corridors awash in your heavy oriental perfume and then you will be gone. A visit. How sweet.

 

But I have to tell you, secretly there may be a subtle change to this evening’s performance.. an amendment to our wonderful programme here at St Winifred’s College. You frowned when you came in. So many alterations without your famous consent. ‘I do not consent to this.’ I think that must be your favorite phrase. sometimes you sounded apologetic, sometimes so quite yet so authoritative. A spartan in the sea of Thessaloniki?

I over enthuse Mrs Davies. We are all in awe.

But we are no longer what we were Mrs Davies. time’s winged chariot has indeed marched on and we have become more accepting of so much less. Look about you and perhaps we may sigh, perhaps the decline is one of spirit?

When did I know you were a disappointment to me?

You know that answer Mrs Davies. Shall I whisper a date in your ear and wait for your reaction, wait to see if you run to the window and check?

I’ll give you a clue. Alice Timperley. Shy, tall, taught Religious Studies on Wednesdays. Fond of birds.The feathered kind. Kind to pigeons too.