Open Writing

Ruffling her feathers, she settled down. Moving quietly, the little ones crept in.

“Everybody comfortable? No one sitting in a draft? Everyone’s feet dry and warm?”

Then, knowing they were organised, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

The pottery hen sat comfortably on the kitchen window sill, the pretty floral patterns making her an attractive addition to the kitchen and the source of many of Moira’s fantasies about a happier, blame-free life.

Putting down the plate she was wiping, her thoughts drifted down the years as she idly picked over the hen’s contents, remembering their significance. A wooden cotton reel stuck with four pins and a mangled piece of tatting was the first item to meet her probing fingers. Jenny’s first and only attempt at knitting, taught by her loving and determined remedial teacher, trying to help the uncoordinated fingers loop the thread over the pins and develop a rhythm.

“Jenny, dear, you must try to keep the tension even,” she’d said again and again, but the little girl could never manage to get it right. It wouldn’t came out right and she wept tears of frustration at her lack of success. The muscle spasms made it almost impossible to control her movements and before long, there were as many dropped stitches and holes, as completed work.

“Mum-mum, I made this for you,” she’d said proudly the day she gave her the short piece of grubby tatting, and they’d cried and hugged in delight over her achievement, thrilled by her success.

Right at the bottom, were a few of the old schillings and US cents from Moira’s futile attempts to start a coin collection. Most of them had dropped through the floorboards the day Jenny upset the box in one of her temper tantrums. She’d salvaged what she could, intending to start over, but somehow the initial interest was gone, and she never bothered.

Those potentially lethal cocktails of chemicals and the soapy water douches. Her futile, frantic attempts to rid herself of her unwanted pregnancy. Finally, she’d accepted it was there to stay, and never gave the developing foetus a thought. But the damage was done, and Jenny, her beautiful Jenny, was born spastic and with a hole in her heart.

Her darling, beloved Jenny. Such a beautiful baby. From the moment the tiny bundle was placed in her arms, she’d fallen in love with the tiny girl. Her unfocussed violet eyes, the dark wisps of soft baby hair that curled on her nape and the long, slender fingers that reached out and grabbed her heart, never to let go.

Now she was gone.

Tears filling her eyes she picked up the last of the treasures from the hollow china hen. Holding the tiny velvet rabbit to her cheek, she smelt the warm baby smell of her beloved daughter, who’d died aged five falling down the stairs in her first attempt to walk on her own.