RITE OF PASSAGE by Margaret Magee (1st place, Flash, Feb25)

The woman walked around the ruin of the house she had fled years back; its secrets sandwiched between the loose mortar of the old walls.

It was a perfect June day, laced with the smell of cut grass and the five-note call of a wood pigeon. She slipped out of her court shoes and walked around the spoiled flagstones, swiping at cobwebs but avoiding the roof trusses that hung down like dried meat torn to shreds by an animal.

She would ruin her tights but cared little. Back then, she rarely wore shoes or socks, the first things to be confiscated. But then everything was – books, ribbons….

A crunch behind her.

‘Who are you, then?’ A male voice, generations too young to recognise her.

She put her sunglasses back on and turned slowly, surer of her right to be here than his. ‘I could ask you the same thing?’

‘We’ll trade then,’ the man said, amused by her stockinged feet. A touch of entitlement. ‘I’m Frank. Frank Naughton.’       

A clot of fear tore loose, snagging her breath. It careered away and aimed for her throat, wrapping itself tightly around it. 

Don’t, she told herself. You are beyond this. 

Here stood the doctor’s grandson. By nightfall, he will have shared the story of a daft, old woman with an English accent.

‘I’m a distant cousin,’ she said, declining to give her name. ‘From my father’s side, living in England.’

Naughton’s face clouded. ‘Well, you’re too late to claim the place. Marge died a year after the daughter disappeared, and Paddy left it to my father. It’s mine now.’

Heart pinch at her Mother’s name. Bile rose; she swallowed it. ‘What about the girl … my cousin, Annie? Why didn’t she inherit?’

‘That bat! Always running away, I heard. Grandad said she was always ailing for something.’ He decorated his words with a few taps on the side of his head, pleased with himself.

She looked away, blinked to clear her eyes. ‘What are your plans for the old house then?’

‘I’ll flatten it someday, build myself a new one.’

To herself: it is not yours to destroy. ‘I’ll get on my way then. I have a plane to catch. Mind if I walk through the old orchard while I’m here?’

‘Help yourself. I’m heading into town anyway. ‘

She walked into the centre of the old grove, stopping by the gnarled Bramley and its handful of pitted apples. The familiar trunk supported her now as it had then. Noisy, guttural sounds, the feel of old man Naughton’s hands, the invasion, her father’s handprints inked on her body for telling lies.            

Enough. She drove the car a safe distance, pulled on a new pair of kitchen gloves and lifted the corked bottle. Leaving the engine running, she walked back in through what was left of the front door. Her aim was perfect; not a drop splashed her, and the match fired first time. She had practised well.