A Short Story: The Drying of Sophie's Tears

©Copyright protected December 2009

Part 1.

‘I do have a Dad!’ cried little Sophie, desperately trying to hold back her choking tears.

‘Sophie’s got no father, Sophie's got no father.’ continued the cruel chant from the other children in the school playground.

Sophie ran. She ran across the playground and over the wall. Through the meadow, and down onto the lane that would lead her home to her mother’s warm arms. Her tears flowed like hot water, blinding her with their rich saltiness as she stumbled and ran, stumbled and ran towards sanctuary.

At last she reached the front door; knees scraped, skirt muddy, and sweater threads pulled from her dash through the bushes, she smelled the secure familiarity of frying pepper and onions from the kitchen.

‘Mummy, mummy, mummy!’ she cried over and over again as she pushed and pushed on the door bell, not even noticing the concerned stares of the elderly Mr and Mrs Nicholls as they walked past on their way to the village post office. The door began to open and little Sophie quickly threaded her way through the gap, now totally lost to her tears. Granny’s voice said quietly:

‘Oh, my poor little thing. Come on Sophie, come to Granny, come on.’ She carried the girl to the sitting room and sat with her on her lap for a long moment, quietly soothing the tears and coaxing away the child’s anguish with her silk voice. Soon little Sophie was asleep, lost for a while to the peace and tranquillity of her dreams. Granny laid her down gently into the soft fullness of the sofa, and carefully stretched a warm coat over the bruised and muddy body of the sleeping Sophie.

‘Oh my little one,’ whispered Granny to herself, ‘Your pain will go away one day’.

Remembering as if it were yesterday, her mind went back to her own childhood when she was lifted gently from the ruins of her parents’ home by the Air Raid Warden.

‘Come on love,’ he had said to her ‘Lets getcha down to the centre.’

‘But my Mum and Dad! You’ve got to get them out.’

‘Don’t you worry little ’un. We’ll find ‘em in a minute.’

He had taken her to the miraculously undamaged church hall on the corner of John Street and Railway Street, where she joined a handful of other newly orphaned children at the table, and had milk and a biscuit. From then on she seemed to spend the next three years staying with Mr and Mrs This, or Uncle and Aunty That, until she felt just as comfortable on a train as she did in a house. Wherever she was, though, there was always that pain. Why did you die? Didn’t you love me enough to stay? As she grew into womanhood, and eventually met and married her beloved Stanley, Granny created a constant, loving, and warm nest for her family, determined that her children would never have to suffer that pain and anguish which was always so vivid in her own memories. Jess and Michael’s break-up last year, and the pain she sensed in Sophie’s tiny frame, was almost too much to bear, but bear it she must. For the sake of Jess; for the sake of Sophie; and for her own peace of mind.

Granny telephoned Oaklands to let them know that the girl was safe. Miss Ollett, the young headmistress of the small village school, said that she had heard some of the other girls talking about Sophie on their way back to class from the playground, and talked to Granny for a long time about the cruelty of children being a positive thing that helps a victim to face reality and life constructively. Granny listened with an occasional ‘I see’ and ‘Oh, that’s an interesting point’, all the time thinking to herself that Miss Ollett’s theories did not seem to stand up very well in real life.

When Jessica returned home from her weekly shopping visit to town, Granny met her at the door with a finger to her lips.

‘Sshh. Sophie’s asleep in the sitting room,’ she said quietly to her daughter. ‘I’ve got the kettle on. Let’s have a nice cup of tea and a doughnut while I tell you all about it’.

Jessica’s tears were silent, and left black streaks of dissolved mascara down her cheeks.

‘Oh why Mum? Why do they act so cruelly?’

‘Look love,’ said Granny, tearing off some kitchen tissue from the roll and blowing her nose noisily as if the very act would dispel her own welling tears ‘It’s no use trying to change the way that kids behave. No. What we’ve got to do is let Sophie show her dad off to the other kids.’

‘But how on earth can we do that Mum? As much as he might want to see her, he’s two-hundred miles away with no transport and no money. Anyway, he’s got so many problems of his own I wouldn’t want to … well, you know … that is .. well I don’t want him to get any satisfaction out of solving a situation that I can’t cope with. I don’t want him to think I’m weak just because we’re not together anymore. It’ll make him think that he’s still the centre of my world, and I don’t want that. I’ve learned to handle my own problems now.’

‘Oh Jess,’ sighed Granny, walking around the table to stroke her daughter’s long glossy hair from behind, just like when she was a little girl. ‘Don’t you see? This isn’t your problem, love. It’s Sophie’s. Let go of your feelings about Michael. What’s important is Sophie’s happiness, not your own pride and hurt.’

Jessica slept fitfully that night, wrestling with her thoughts and emotions, weeping until her tears ran dry. Finally she put on her dressing gown, went downstairs and made herself some tea. Sitting at the kitchen table, she picked up a pen and began to write.

‘Michael

Whatever has gone between us, Sophie loves us both. She needs you just as much as she needs me. Please come to her school sports day on Wednesday the seventeenth. It’s important, and will mean more to her than I can explain with words.

Jess’

Part 2.

Michael was on his own again. Life was grim. He knew that he had made massive mistakes, and his upbringing had taught him to live with the consequences, however tough they may be.

‘Still,’ he would say to himself ‘The sun still rises in the morning, the trees are still green, and the tide still ebbs and flows. Life goes on.’

He was currently living aboard a very old wooden boat on a deep water mooring in the Plymouth Sound. It was very basic, to say the least. Twice a day, he rowed an equally decrepit dinghy ashore for the chance of some human company, exercise and fresh water. Today, he wandered along the tidal shoreline of that part of the Plymouth Sound, just off the Cattewater, known as HooeLake. As always, he was taking great pleasure from the antics of his best friend who was chasing imaginary beasts, one moment in the scrub, the next in the shingle and seaweed on the tide-line. Nutcase, or Nutter as everyone seemed to call him, was a completely uninhibited Red Setter, with very little sense, but an enormous passion for life and any form of food – whether or not it was actually edible. Michael and Nutter were inseparable.

Reaching the narrow pathway which led behind the row of shops, Michael looked carefully around to make sure no-one was watching, and then stealthily and with great care walked to the rear door of the greengrocers, which, as usual, had been left slightly ajar. Nutter, for once sensing that he should be calm and quiet, padded along silently beside him. Probably, it was the stiffness of the fire exit bar on the door which stopped it from closing on its own, and the shop owner had to slam it closed at the end of each day before going home. Michael had spotted it a few days ago, and on each subsequent day saw that it was usually the same. His plan hatched, and he was now about to pass the point of no return.

Silently, he edged open the door a little further so that he could see into the dimness of the shop’s store room. The smell of onions and parsnips made his mouth water. Still in silence, he carefully took the package from his coat pocket and laid it on an old, rickety table which looked as if it would fall over if it didn’t have the wall to lean against. Nutter stood half in and half out of the open doorway, obviously completely confused by Michael’s activity.

Next, Michael picked one large potato, one large carrot, one onion, and one parsnip from the various open sacks and boxes, and put them into his coat pocket from where he had just removed the package. Still watched by the motionless Nutter, Michael started to walk back towards the door. As he reached it, he noticed a box of apples on a chair, and took a step back to reach one. It was a mistake! The chair, which must have been a match for the table as it was apparently balancing magically on three legs, fell over. The box of apples fell, spilling its contents in all directions across the store room floor. Michael, in his haste to extricate himself rapidly from the surprise turn of events, slipped on some discarded Hessian sacking and went crashing back into the table, which also promptly collapsed.

Nutter was delighted! He barked, he jumped, he chased a rolling apple, he barked some more. Bounding up and down like a demented pony, he spotted a door at the other end of the store room which was beginning to open, and sensing that the man walking through it must be coming to join in the fun and frolics, launched himself straight at him in his usual over zealous and completely over friendly fashion.

Michael, too late, called loudly in an unsuccessful attempt to halt the now delirious Nutter in his tracks. Instantly realising that the dog was too far into his own play-world to respond to his commands, Michael tried valiantly to separate himself from the wreckage that was once the table and put his own body between the dog and the Greengrocer. Unfortunately, the loose Hessian sacking was still underfoot, and Michael went headlong into Nutter’s side just as the mad Setter, exuberant, happy, and covered in dog-slobber, crashed into the hapless shop owner. All three hit the floor simultaneously, and Michael managed to grab Nutter’s collar.

‘I don’t know what the hell’s going on,’ said the rather damp Greengrocer, ‘But that is the funniest dog I have ever come across in my life!’

‘I am so sorry,’ puffed Michael whilst clipping Nutter’s lead onto his collar. ‘I am so very sorry about all of this.’

Like most of the local people, Phil the Greengrocer had often seen the familiar site of Michael and Nutter coming ashore in the rowing boat. It was the cause of much amusement, because Nutter could never manage to keep himself in the dinghy until it reached the beach, but always threw himself overboard while the boat was still fifty yards off-shore, and doggie-paddled alongside, periodically spluttering as he attempted to bite a moving oar blade.

Phil listened quietly as Michael explained through his embarrassment his plan and the turn of events. Completely broke, Michael was keeping himself and the dog fed entirely on fish. Some of it he was catching himself from the back of the boat, but mullet are notoriously difficult to hook, so that tended to be rather hit and miss. Most of the fish came from a ploy that Michael had discovered one afternoon when a Scottish trawler had put in to the quayside to refuel from the bunkering tanker. Michael rowed over from his own boat, and called up to a deck-hand:

‘Excuse me, but have you any odds and ends that I could have for bait, please?’

The deck-hand looked over the side and down at Michael in the tiny rowing boat.

‘No problem, mate,’ came his response in a broad Glasgow accent ‘Stay there a minute and I’ll drop a few mackerel over the side for you.’

Two minutes later his grinning face re-appeared above the gunwhale along with a large basket which, with a grunt, he turned over so that the contents fell straight down into Michael’s rowing boat. Well, more accurately, into the boat, all over Michael, and on the water all around the boat, too! Michael, having thanked the trawlerman profusely, spent the next twenty minutes trying to row the badly over-laden dinghy back across the Cattewater to his own boat. Nutter was not helpful as Michael tried to transfer the mackerel from the dinghy to the boat, but eventually all the fish made it on to the deck, and Michael spent the next several hours cleaning the fish and hanging it over the side in some string bags. That kept it fresh and cool in the current, and stopped Nutter and the gulls from wolfing the lot in one go.

Hoping for some vegetables, Michael took two long walks up over the hills to the farmlands beyond. They were mostly sheep and cattle farms, although there were occasional fields turned over to vegetables, and an even rarer orchard, but it was the wrong time of year and there was very little available for scrumping. So Michael hatched his plan. He wrapped up a dozen mackerel fillets with the intention of swapping them for a few vegetables from the back door of the greengrocer’s shop. The rest was history.

‘You should have just asked me to barter some fruit and veg for some fish fillets,’ said Phil.

‘Too embarrassed to admit to anyone that I am so broke,’ replied Michael.

‘Got a clean driving licence?’ asked the Greengrocer, ‘’Cos I’m looking for a part-time delivery driver.’

So Michael and Nutter became a delivery team, driving Phil’s van around many of the hotels, pubs, and restaurants across Dartmoor. Three mornings a week, a few pounds in wages, and as much fruit and veg as they needed.

A week later, Michael picked up Jess’s letter from the main post office in Plymouth. He had given her the post restante address a couple of months earlier, enclosing it with one of the cards or notes that he sent to Sophie each week.

‘Take the van for a few days,’ Phil said when Michael explained that he needed some time off from the delivery round. ‘My brother is staying with me for a couple of weeks, so I’ll get him to do the deliveries in his estate car. He won’t mind, and it will get him out from under my wife’s feet for a day or two.’

Part 3.

Jess and Granny looked across the school field to the roped-off area where the teachers were organising the children into their respective teams. Sophie was sitting on the grass, cross legged, her chin resting on her bunched fists, with that familiar far-away look in her eyes. She was slightly removed from the rest of her class; close enough to show the teachers that she was with that group, but far enough apart that Jess and Granny could see the distance between them.

‘It’s heartbreaking,’ thought Jess. ‘Michael said that he would be here when he ‘phoned last week, but there is no sign of him yet. Thank goodness Mum and I decided not to tell Sophie that he was going to come …’

The sharp ‘crack’ of the starting pistol brought Jess back into the day with a jump.

‘Why can’t they just have a bloody whistle like any other school?’ said Granny, crossly.

The under-eight boys race was run to the screams of the mothers. Anyone would think it was for an Olympic medal. Then it was time for the parents’ egg and spoon.

‘Oh God!’ thought Jess to herself as mums and dads lined up.

‘Come on love,’ said Granny ‘ We’ll show them!’

The spoons were ready, the eggs in place. Twenty six men and women formed up in a line ready to do battle. The pistol sounded and they were off! Children screamed in that unique high-pitched way that you only ever hear at school sports days. Competitive fathers barged each other, and eggs were dropped. Jess was the first woman home. Granny fell over with nothing bruised except her pride. Sophie smiled and waved to her mother, but quickly stopped when someone behind her said something.

Sophie came fifth out of eleven in the sack race. More races, more screaming, more applause.

Then it was time for the final race of the day: the teachers’ hundred-yard dash. The refreshments were out now, ready for parents to fall upon just as soon as the last race was run, to fill-in the time before the prizes were awarded by Mrs Beresford, Wife of the Chairman of the Board of Governors.

‘Hello Princess,’ Sophie looked up with a start . ‘Sorry I missed your race. The van broke down.’

She reached Michael in one jump. ‘Daddy!’

The two boys, who had been sitting next to her, looked at each other then looked at the big red dog on the end of the lead that Sophie’s father was loosely holding. Nutter shook his head as if he had just been swimming, and the dog-slobber flew far and wide. A globule of it landed, unnoticed, on the back of Mr Belson who taught Class Seven. Well, unnoticed that is, except by the two boys. Mr Belson was not well liked, and the boys stifled giggles.

‘On your marks. Get Set…’ called the starter.

‘Bang!’ The starting pistol sounded.

Nutter leaped vertically in surprise, then noticed the line of people running and took off after them, yanking the lead from Michael’s hand in the process.

The teachers raced for the line. The dog, apparently grinning widely, easily overtook them, loping along in a half running, half bounding action. He spotted Mr Amos who was wearing trainers with flashing lights in them, and made a bee-line for his feet which looked as though they needed chasing. The bee-line, unfortunately, took Nutter in front of the highly competitive Mr Belson, who actually flew horizontally for a while before coming down to earth on his chest with a dull-sounding thud. Nutter jumped over the side roping, accompanied by the screams of Mrs Beresford who had chosen that particular point to stand.

Behind Mrs Beresford was the refreshment tent. Nutter entered at full bounce. There were crashing sounds and screams.

It was some minutes later before the dog, now coated in an assortment of orange juice, egg mayonnaise, and Mrs Belson’s home-made chutney, was confined safely to the back of the van, and peace was, to some degree, restored.

The teachers were cross. Most of the parents were cross. Jess and Granny were embarrassed. Mrs Beresford was having a quiet sit-down. Michael held Sophie tightly. Nutter was happy, and oblivious to the mayhem that he had caused. The two boys were grinning from ear to ear.

A little later, as Sophie walked home with Jess and Granny, the two boys ran after her.

‘Your dad’s dog is brilliant,’ said one.

‘Want a chewitt?’ said the other.

©Copyright protected December 2009