Learning to tell a story
A story told one chapter at a time...
As part of my focus on committing to learning and trying new things in 2024, I have started working on a story that I had the idea for but had never started to write. Writing a novel, or a whole story seemed like a bridge too far, so I have decided to publish each chapter here, when I write them.
Chapter 1: Forgotten Tales
The sun slapped against the windows of the Golden Meadows Nursing Home as if it was high fiving those inside for surviving another day. An air of anticipation hung proudly, as the early morning light broke through all of the gaps in the curtains, highlighting the dancing dust in the air. The dust moved like it enjoyed the music playing on the radio coming from the speakers in the corner of each of the rooms.
Greg was wide awake before the sun and morning music arrived, and at his age, he was often aware of the sound of his own heart or a part of his body aching from how he had slept. This morning, he thought to himself that his heart moved like a fluttering bird, eager with the knowledge that his granddaughter Emily was coming to visit.
If he had his way, and the doctors had allowed him to remain in his home, maybe the two would still be inseparable, like they were for a time in the idyllic “Grandpa’s Garden”. It was idyllic because it was before his wife Margaret had died, both he and Emily were younger and he would always volunteer to look after her while both her parents were working. He never joked with Emily’s mother, his daughter, about it being a pain or hassle, because the truth was, he never minded one bit. By his estimations her laughter and questions had kept him younger for years longer.
These days, any visits were rare, arriving only every few months like long-awaited parcels. Parcels that when they arrive, cause you to question where they could have been, and what happened to them on the journey to your door. He cherished each one, not because he thought they might be his last, but because to him each one felt like the first. Reminding him of when he first saw his grand-daughter and all of the moments and memories in between.
Greg moved through his morning routine with an energy that surprised him, he even enjoyed his breakfast, which somedays felt like harder work. He carefully selected a plaid shirt and combed his thinning hair, casting frequent glances at the clock. Time was both moving fast, and equally not going fast enough. He had told her the day before to not rush, and drive safely, but was eager for the moment Emily would walk through the door. Her presence was always a vibrant burst of colour in the otherwise monochromatic days.
The nursing home routine played out around him with its usual rhythm. The sound of clinking teacups and muted conversations filled the air. Mrs. Miller sat knitting in the corner, her needles clicking softly, while Harold read over the newspaper, often mumbling something about the speed of change, the chaotic state of the world, or some public figure he’d accurately defined as a moron.
Greg was always more positive and optimistic than Harold about the younger generations, and would often assure him that eventually the world would sort itself out. While Greg wondered if he was right about that, it was a feeling he had held onto throughout his life. Today he felt a distinct shift in the world’s air, a crackle of excitement that seemed to mirror his own.
Finally, the familiar sound of Emily's voice saying hello to the staff echoed down the hall, and Greg's excited and fluttering heart went up to a hummingbird speed. She entered the room, her eyes sparkling as she greeted him with a radiant smile. Upon seeing him she opened her arms wide for the overdue cuddle. Greg stood expectantly, his own smile increasing the wrinkles on his face as he enveloped her in a warm hug.
"Grandpa! It's so good to see you," Emily exclaimed, closing her eyes so that all of her energy and sparkle became invested in the hug.
"How are you, my lovely one?” Greg said, and excitedly, before she’d had time to answer he continued, “You've brightened my day already! Just the very thought of you!" Greg replied, his voice thick with emotion.
“Are you sure it’s not the tea cake?” she replied jokingly. It was a tradition started by Greg’s wife that Emily had continued. When Emily was little, Margaret would make sure she had bought a tea cake with pink coconut icing for them to share.
They settled into their usual spot by the window, looking out onto a small courtyard where fake plants tried their best to hide the view of the car park. It was a nice spot, where the obscured morning sun cast a gentle glow on both their faces. Greg poured her some tea from the pot he’d prepared and they almost simultaneously took their first sip of tea. Emily began to share stories of what she had been doing since she last visited, filling the room with her animated chatter. Greg listened, his eyes twinkling with amusement and pride.
From a young age, Emily had a way of skipping across things with a passion that communicated depth, but at the speed of the swirling winds that sweep through a park, picking up small leaves and dropping them almost as quickly. "On the drive over, I was listening to a podcast," Emily said, her energetic excitement suddenly becoming more focused and palpable. "Basically this super powerful family in South Carolina basically controlled everything in their area for years. The dad was a big-shot lawyer with tons of connections into law enforcement because his family had been in charge of the local prosecutor’s office for generations. Then there was a tragic boat accident that the son caused and then all this stuff came out about the mysterious death of their housekeeper, and eventually the Mum and son get killed. I haven’t finished it yet, but the story is crazy and the events had a massive impact on the community. Because they were this powerful law family with all these connections, for a long time it seems they could just get away with anything!” she paused expectantly.
"Is that so?" he mused, leaning forward.
Greg had always enjoyed a good mystery, but had never listened to a podcast. He was reluctant to admit that he was at an age where sitting and listening to anything, even if he was interested, usually ended with him sleeping.
"You know, even here, in our little town, when I was first made Principal of the school, the local judge had two sons, and they were both the policemen here for a while.
Emily's eyes widened with interest. "Really? That sounds like a conflict of interest waiting to happen."
Greg chuckled. "Well first you’d need something of interest!” Luckily, there weren't any big crimes, conspiracies or unsolved murders during their time.”
“Still,” Emily said, slightly deflated: “it would have been ripe for corruption.”
“Not podcast worthy at all, but when I first moved here there was a missing person - but it was almost instantly solved. Turns out he had just moved to another town. Sometimes some people just want to go missing. His name was something simple, but for the life of me…” Greg’s voice and mind trailed off.
“John Solomon”, Mrs. Miller, who had been eavesdropping, chimed in. Mrs Miller had Alzheimer’s disease which was once early onset, but now had settled in right on time. She didn’t always remember things she wanted to and it frustrated her more than it did those around her. She was sharp and blunt as a local publican, and got angry with herself sometimes because she felt her fading memory got in the way of her speaking her mind - but she still prided herself on remembering people’s names from fifty years ago, even if she forgot what she had for breakfast. She would often tell Nursing Home staff that it was a blessing she couldn’t remember the food they served her.
“They found his hat in the river, I think? And there was talk of him being involved with some shady characters. Turned out he wasn’t dead, he’d just gone to Junee - a fate worse than death for many." She slumped down in the chair next to the tea cake, inviting herself to the conversation before helping herself to the food.
Greg smiled gently, knowing that Emily like him had patience and manners - two things Mrs Miller did not. “Has the women’s rugby team called you, dear?” she said to Emily.
Here it might be necessary to explain: Greg and Emily shared a familial resemblance that was unmistakable, features that polite people may describe as “unfortunate”. Greg’s father was a shearer, and his mother was a shearer’s cook. When a child leaves a door open, a parent might exclaim “Were you born in a tent!” Greg was born in a tent. His Dad was on the property, and went down to meet him after he was born, bragging later that he had still managed to shear 230 sheep the day his son was born.
Greg looked like his Dad, the venerable family patriarch. Compared to his father, Greg had refined features and a blessed existence, but still stood with the sturdy, unyielding posture of an old rugby player who had seen one too many scrums - despite never having played the game. His features were rugged, with a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two, but it hadn’t. His ears looked like the work of an amateur potter making his first piece. Even as a young man, his face was a road map of deep lines, and as he aged, they carried the unmistakable look of someone who had laughed heartily at life's many jests and missteps.
Despite his somewhat blockish appearance – looking like someone made a tall garden gnome in Minecraft– Greg exuded a warmth and kindness that softened his brick-like exterior. His smile remained genuine, and the mischievous glint in his eyes that can be seen in his baby photos, as clearly as any taken recently. Much like his physique, his love for his family and friends was large, solid and unwavering.
Emily, his granddaughter, was a chip off the old block, both literally and figuratively. Despite Greg’s wife being petite and refined, and his daughter taking after her Mum, Emily had inherited Greg's stout build and rugged features. The mix of angles and planes defining her features defied any conventional standards of beauty. Her features seemed to be all squashed and slightly off-centre, lending her appearance an air of perpetual curiosity. Her hair was an unruly mass that she never spent any of her time trying to tame.
Yet, beneath her unconventional appearance, Emily possessed a sweetness and sincerity that radiated from her very being. Her laugh, a delightful cackle, could light up a room, and her gentle nature endeared her to all who knew her. Like her grandfather, Emily's authentic humanity and over-caring heart were her most striking feature – she was generous, compassionate, intelligent, and this was equally matched by her full on and infectious zest for life.
While Greg and Emily’s appearances were far from traditional, their physicality was the Jackson Pollock style backdrop to the vibrant, loving souls they were. In a world obsessed with outward perfection, Greg and Emily were a refreshing reminder that the most beautiful people are often those who look like they've lived, laughed, and loved the most.
Mrs Miller continued her thought while she chewed her tea cake: “you look like you play rugby. There is a lot of money in Women’s sports these days, teams always need good prop-forwards.”
“I’ve never really played sports,” Emily commented politely.
“Never too late,” she said, “I mean, it might be for me, but it isn’t for you. She said, unaware of any potential offence. She likely would have upset anyone else she was talking to, but not people as compassionate and understanding as Greg and Emily.
“What were we talking about again?” continued Mrs Miller, mouth half full of tea-cake.
“John Solomon,” Greg chimed in.
“I’ll definitely Google it later” offered Emily.
Mrs Miller wandered off, taking another piece of tea cake before moving towards the door. Emily and Greg settled back into their relaxed banter for a few minutes, before Emily remembered she had written Greg a poem. She read it to Greg:
“It is called Nectarine Dreams:
In our hometown, beneath the skies so clear and blue,
I find a haven where woven dreams grow and blossom true.
With soiled hands, in morning orchard sunlight streams,
I’ll gather this fruit, and live nectarine dreams.
The ripened nectarines, glow like gems in morning's embrace,
Sustaining my life, with fruit both sweet and golden grace.
Each day of picking, sculpting prose and future themes,
Taking step by step, through these nectarine dreams.
Here, time slows, and laughter echoes in the air,
With Grandpa's wisdom and bonds beyond compare.
On an orchard of hope, our inspiration gleams,
I nurture my path, cradling nectarine dreams.
In the warmth of home, and with time’s tender care,
I find my purpose, and the flair to dare.
And in these moments, life's true value beams,
In a home full of love, and my nectarine dreams.
“That is beautiful darling,” Greg said and she knew he really meant it.
She smiled and ripped the page out of her notebook and passed it over to him. Emily had just arrived back in her childhood hometown for the University holidays and had got a job picking fruit at a local orchard. She was going to stay in Greg’s house, the plan was for her to give the house a good clean before her parents also came back to town for a visit. She was looking forward to some time to herself, and was excited about saving some money. She craved independence and autonomy, despite often needing the help of her parents and grandparents. While Greg knew, and was excited that she would be staying at the house, despite their closeness, it was hard for them to discuss. He longed to still be there, and like his grand-daughter also craved his independence and autonomy.
Emily and Greg talked until the tea was gone and it was time for Greg to go to his physio appointment. They hugged, holding onto the moment of comfort that only love creates.
“I start at the orchard tomorrow,” Emily said as she was collecting her things and preparing to leave, “so I will come and visit again tomorrow afternoon and let you know how it went.”
Greg smiled, two visits in two days filled him instantly with a profound joy. He knew it would infuse the time in between with a sense of purpose and a gentler breeze. It would also connect the idea of her with the activities he had to do, that he didn’t always enjoy or appreciate with a lighter weight.
He sat contentedly as he saw her reversing out of the car park and heading down the road towards his old home. He looked around his new home briefly before he lifted himself out of his chair, dusting the crumbs and coconut off his clothes before he walked down the hall towards the physiotherapists room and off into the rest of his morning routine.
