Why I chose this story: It’s really well-paced – a bit breathless, which is so in keeping with the narrator’s emotions. I love this phrase: ‘the roots wefting and warping across the forest floor.’
When will you be done?
by Louise Witts
She’d struggled to find it. The late summer light was fading and the woods more overgrown than ever. She could hear her husband’s voice telling her to be careful… laughing that new hips were expensive. That made her smile. He’d had his hips and knees done. Bionic, according to him. She shined a torch onto the roots wefting and warping across the forest floor. One step at a time, she reassured him. It would be 10 years this September. Sudden. Was that better? Better for him, maybe. But for her? Who knows? You think losing somebody another way may be easier but you’ve still lost them. You can’t turn back time. That made her laugh. Because that’s exactly what she was trying to do. Turn the clock back 50 years to when she’d last sat under this tree. This gnarled, ancient tree that was no more or less remarkable than the others, except it was where they’d sat. Not her husband, she’d met him later. No, this tree was where she and her neighbour… her best friend… had played and hid and laughed and, finally, kissed. He was her first kiss and recently she’d remembered something. A laughing, silly, off-hand remark he’d made the last time they were here, the night before she left for university: “Meet me here in 50 years,” he’d said. “Meet me and I’ll bring Champagne, you bring strawberries.” He’d suggested Champagne because it was the poshest drink they knew and both agreed going to university was very posh. She was happy but scared everything would change. Of course, she was right. That was the last time they saw each other. His parents moved. Her parents moved. This was before mobiles and emails and messenger, whatever that was… so when you lost touch, that was it. Lost. She hoped he’d lived a happy life. Hers had been.. was… happy. She had her children and grandchildren. But, recently, she’d started to dream about the woods, about this tree. All she could think of was that silly, off-hand remark. So that day, on impulse, she’d jumped on the train and made the two-hour journey ‘home’. A taxi dropped her on the edge of the woods. Ring me, the driver had said. Ring when you’re done. But when would she be done? As the last rays of sun disappeared and the temperature fell, she started to think that maybe it was time to go. Especially when her torch gave up. It was her grand-daughter she heard now: use the one on your phone, Grandma. Good idea, my love. She began to dig around in her bag but, as she did, she realised she was not alone. A light headed towards her. She barely dared breathe. Then a voice she knew well cut through the darkness and 50 years: “I hope that’s strawberries in your bag otherwise I’m not sharing this!” She laughed. And she knew very well that she wasn’t done yet. Oh no, she wasn’t done yet.
Louise Witts is a freelance writer, living in London and Devon (where she grew up). She enjoys reading and writing all forms of fiction, including short stories, and has a couple of novels on the go.
Cath Barton 