In 2018 I unexpectedly won the Sadie Massey Portico Library Young Creative Writers Award. The requirements were a short story, around 1000 words, including details of northern English landmarks and dialect. I hope you enjoy it and I urge any young writers to take these opportunities even though you think you have no hope of being noticed (strange things do happen).

“It’s dead around here compared to what it were, I used to love pushing the pram down the cobbles to the market to get the wool for their matinee jackets and booties”, Shirley Cooper lectured Laura, the Age UK Stockport volunteer as she helped Shirley lean back into her arm chair after she’d finished her ham barm. Shirley’s classic story telling preparations were a combination of a meaningful sinking into her chair and routinely checking her broach is in place. Laura felt at home within those red bricks, albeit amongst the scent of coffee and infection.

“How are the kids doing, have they called?” pried Laura, as she did if Shirley had neglected to mention them yet during the visit.
“Oh yes love, all very well”, a smile spread across her face accompanied by a rosy flush, her eyes fixed on the tip of the tea pot, “they know to give me a call, I like to keep them as close as I can”.

David had married Susie who had lived just on the other side of Hillgate and set off for the Algarve, Liz had ventured to Australia but her youngest, Zach, had a rash no one could solve. Lastly, Anthony had left his wife eighteen months ago and had just arrived in Nepal, the final destination on his world tour.

The following Tuesday, Laura stayed for a little bit longer than normal, tied down by a story of a friend of Shirley’s who had run a boarding house where “that strawberry studios was, you know the one, 10CC and all that. Well this man used to come and stay with her and he was a right doodler, the kids would draw on top of ‘is doodles, well this man turned out to be LS Lowry. And did you know Lorna, he painted this street? Crowther street, did you know that?”. She often got Laura’s name wrong in a sort of endearing, grandparenty way.
That day Shirley needed a bit more help with the tasks she’d normally hit Laura’s hand for assisting with and insist “honestly love, I’m not totally helpless yet. Usually, when Laura arrived, she’d already be dressed in one of out of twelve of her outfits that all consisted of different shades of the one colour, some faded by the wash and time. A proud woman of her day, Shirley never allowed Laura to see her without her hair perfectly combed and pinned, her cardigan asymmetrically buttoned and her pears cradled by her chest.

Her sinking back into her chair seemed unrehearsed that day, with a painful looking stiffness to her back. They sat for hours, discussing Laura’s family this time. She showed a picture of her daughter, Caitlin, on her “screen”. “Oh she’s got a lovely face, her skin’s beautifully pale, I doubt it’ll stay like that forever though, do all you can to keep her young.”, she complimented the daughter of the volunteer ham barm and Muller corner provider. Laura had to leave or she’d be late for Maude on Edgeley.

Laura volunteered at Staircase House on a Tuesday but always phoned Shirley just to check on her. The first time she tried the phone was engaged, she hoped it was Liz saying that Zach had had the all clear. After about six hours, she rang again but there was no answer- but she realised that was because it was 4 o’clock, Antiques Roadshow time.
Laura had a slow start on Thursday morning, most of the schools had finished for half terms so there was no rush to fight the traffic. She did, however, have a small battle for parking on Crowther street and found herself having to walk quite a way. As she arrived before the mossy-green coloured door between 2018 Stockport and a 1972 ‘Terry and June’ set, the house felt very still. Normally, it had a busy cosiness to it which might include the TV and the smell of coffee.

Shirley had been a heavy smoker, she’d said before that her ex-husband had warned her “things like that kill”. For her not to reply to Laura’s call wasn’t out of the ordinary for she did not have the lung capacity.

That morning Shirley couldn’t have gathered the lung power as her lungs had tired in the night. Her passing was the kind that you hope your grandparents will experience, painless amidst a comfortable slumber. Laura sat by the bed for the whole of her allocated time, admiring her meticulously set rollers and new glittery Essie shade, they’d tried and giggled over it a few days prior.

Protocol procedures went ahead and Laura went back to the house later that afternoon.
Laura began sifting through piles of Radio Times and Daily Express for the numbers of Liz, Anthony and David; she felt as though sharing it with them may help her own grief.
A sizeable mahogany 1900s chest stood stoically in the dining room, Shirley’s landline sat on top, discoloured by the sweating palm of a mother excited to hear of her distant children’s pregnancies and promotions.

Directly below was a drawer full of envelopes, phone books and an impressive collection of yellow pages. She scrambled through it, finally coming to the conclusion that despite her memory loss, Shirley must have loved her kids so much that she kept their numbers in her head.

Cooper was her maiden name, Laura knew that because she’d been shown photo albums of ancestors making beer barrels on Cooper Street. She took to Google and found nothing of them. Liz must have changed her name at marriage and maybe the boys went by Dave or Tony- Ant maybe?

She opened the next drawer down to find perfectly folded matinee jackets and baby grows that Shirley had spoken so fondly of just previously. Booties lay perfectly arranged in a pattern of delicacy, their colours those that only babies wear.

In the centre of the mahogany chest was a double doored cupboard. Three shoe boxes sat inside with a smell she presumed to be rotting wood. The lids stuck a little to the sides, but once prised off they revealed exactly where the children were to be found.

https://www.theportico.org.uk/past-winners