Amy knots her legs together beneath her chair, she leans her head forward over a mound of spinach leaves, selecting one with her left hand, removing the stalk with her right. There is solace in her repetitive actions, comfort in the growing piles of leaves and stalks on either side – she senses her late mother stood behind her, her praise for a job well done. Pausing, she examines a leaf, smaller, wrinkled, like its growth had been a struggle, overshadowed by its perfect siblings. She imagines some may discard this stunted specimen, cast it aside. Amy gently separates the stalk and adds it to the pile, muttering ‘you shall go to the ball.’

A football strikes the kitchen window, a punch that takes her breath. Her brothers’ laughter follows, taunting too, grubby faces at the window- ‘did you shit your pants?’ She works faster, tearing at the leaves, snatching at the stalks, some fall to the floor, some remain attached, she doesn’t really care. 

Amy stores resentment like bile - her chores are always indoor, her brothers’ are outdoor - usually unfinished. She washes the spinach staring out at the three of them, her father and brothers, running, laughing, chasing a football. The mower lies abandoned to the side of the lawn, an unwilling spectator.  Amy begins on the potatoes, blotting out the disturbance by trying to break her potato peel length record.

At her grandparent’s house in Derbyshire, she has the run of the countryside. She skins her knees climbing trees, cuts her feet paddling in streams, grandmother patches her up and feeds her grandfather’s sweetly sinister bonfire toffee. In the evenings she plays scrabble with them, teaming up with her grandmother, laying down tiles with precision, adding up scores, bathing in attention.

She rehearses the words she’ll tell her father, the way she’s done for the past year, sorting them into sentences, at times she makes them blunt like stone, other times she’ll make them sound reasoned, polished like glass. Right now, she feels like spitting them out.

In Derbyshire she’d be happy, she’d have a voice, be listened to, her grandparents would love to have her, they’d welcome her, she imagines. She checks the distance on a map, wonders how long it would take on her bike. ‘If I just left now, just walked out’ she tells herself. She’s worked out what she’d take, made a list, revised it, apologised to the toys that’ll be left behind. Her plan is made. Pocket money saved.

At dinner Amy watches her brothers wolf down the potatoes she peeled, table manners gone with her mother, spinach pushed to the side of Luke’s plate, unwanted. Amy eats slowly, chewing her food properly, like she’s been taught. The boys don’t wait for her, they eat and disappear to watch television.

 “Why don’t you make them wash up?” Amy asks her father.

“They wouldn’t do it properly,” is the reply – wholly unsatisfactory to her mind.

***

Two cyclists, kitted out in dayglo Lycra tops, stop at the end of the road. Amy seizes the opportunity for research. She marches over, squinting up at their helmeted faces.

“Hello. How far have you cycled?” She asks.

“To the Cotswolds and back.”

“How many miles”

“About fifty-six.”

Amy nods her head like it’s the distance she’d have reckoned.

“Interesting. How long would it take you to cycle to Derbyshire?”

“Twelve hours at least. Why?”

“No reason – I’m researching for – for school.”

Amy watches them move away, standing on their pedals, cheeks lifted into the air. Obstacles spill into her plan, rain, hills, sleep, punctures. She wonders if she’ll need dayglo gear. By the time she’s walked home Derbyshire feels a lifetime away. 

*******

 Amy sits on a station bench listening to booming announcements ricocheting down the platform, lists of place names, platform numbers, reminders not to leave luggage. Some trains stop, others roar through trailing diesel fumes that remind her of an ice cream van, a scent that promises a ninety-nine. With her small backpack on her lap, she swings her legs, trying to contain the nervous excitement that knots itself in her stomach. She checks her pocket for her list, her hastily devised plan B containing train times, phone numbers and her top three reasons for going.

#1 – No more brothers

#2 – Grandma, and Grandpa.

#3 – Happiness

“Hi Amy”

A smartly dressed boy, her own age, stands before her. It’s little Charlie Spencer from her class at school.

“Hi Charlie, what are you doing here?”

“I’m with my mum, collecting train numbers.”

“What?”

“Train numbers, I spot them and write them down. See?”

Charlie holds up a spiralbound notebook filled with numbers and letters. His writing is spidery, his threes and nines look peculiar.

“Come. I’ll show you if you like.”

Amy follows him to the end of the platform. He tells her where to look for the engine number of an approaching train which she spots with ease. Charlie looks it up in a grubby, heavily dog-eared book, then tells her all about the engine.

“Do you do this a lot?” Amy asks.

“Only at weekends – it’s like a hobby.”

Despite being bemused by his interest in train numbers, Amy falls into the rhythm of it, sitting on her backpack, calling out numbers. She borrows Charlie’s binoculars to look at engines in the sidings. Charlie passes her Haribo sweets.

“I like the fried egg ones.” He confides.

She recognises a difference in Charlie, a gentleness that is absent in her brothers.

“Hey, mum’s buying pizza for lunch, do you want to come? She says you can if you want.”

Charlie smiles, knotting his fingers together, waiting for an answer.

Amy hesitates, remembering plan B, the train to Gloucester, the connection to Derby. She looks over at Charlie’s mum sat on a bench reading the paper, sipping coffee – her face warm, gentle, open, like mum’s faces are supposed to be.

 “Yes, please,” she replies.

Back to Short Story Competition webpage