Blowing The Flame Out

Same Walk, Different Shoes

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that Ben Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

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08.30

I swing my legs gently from the bed so as not to wake Ali and pull my shorts on. It was dark when we arrived last night and I fell asleep on the way here while Ali drove, so I’ve no idea where we are and what it’s like outside. In the living room I pull the curtains open and stumble back involuntarily. Trees. Everywhere. My chest tightens as if my lungs are filled with smoke again. I force myself to take deep, even breaths. Sit on the sofa. Wait until I’m breathing normally.

Ali doesn’t know about that. We’re still at that stage where we’re finding out lots of things about each other and something that happened when I was eleven years old hasn’t been on top of my list of things to share. Favourite bands, songs, books, films, food, what life might really be about, what we hope it might bring for us, if we believe there is life on other planets, whether humans really might die out in our lifetime. Those are some of the things we’ve been talking about. Not childhood traumas. Not that I was traumatised by it. Was I? Haven’t even thought about it in years, so clearly not. I’m not sure what just happened. I’m being stupid anyway. Yes there are trees all around but they’re not going to spontaneously burst into flames.

‘Hey, happy birthday,’ Ali stands in the bedroom doorway wearing nothing and holding a lavishly wrapped gift box. ‘Come back to bed now, or you don’t get any presents.’

11.30

Ali looks up from chopping tomatoes, which she’s piling next to the chopped cucumbers. ‘I have another birthday surprise for you.’

‘Ali, no more presents. You already spent way too much,’ I gesture round at the surprise holiday cottage she only told me about when she turned up at my work yesterday afternoon to pick me up, and the teetering pile of new books on the table.

‘Well, you only turn thirty once. And this isn’t something I’ve bought. It’s people. Your mum and dad are coming! They arrive in time for lunch, and I said they could stay over if they wanted.’

Please don’t let my face be showing the disappointment churning in my gut. Dad is guaranteed to ruin any happy occasion. But Ali doesn’t know that either as she’s only met him once and I’d made sure it was brief and breezy. Didn’t stay long enough for Dad to start with his usual digs about me needing to do something more useful with my life than wafting about in a university talking about books. Not that he ever comes out and says that. Instead he just goes on and on and on about his own work, solving crimes, keeping people safe. Doing something that really matters for the people, serving his community.

‘Great. We can tell them we’re moving in together. Mum will ask when we’ll have kids, even though really she’ll be thinking it’s too soon as we’ve only been together three months, and Dad will do some crass nudge, nudge, wink, winking.’

‘Oh. Is that what he’s like then? He didn’t come across like that when I met him.’

13.30

Ali nudges my foot under the table. I can’t look at her though. She wants to widen her eyes at me to say she can’t believe how much Mum is talking. And I don’t want to laugh at Mum. But she hasn’t stopped for breath since she arrived, and her first plate is still full even though everyone else has finished their seconds. Rambling on about people I don’t even know.

I push my plate away and speak over Mum, ‘That was lovely, Ali. Thank you. Come on eat up, Mum.’

‘Oh, leave her, son, you know what she’s like. You’ll never get her to shut up.’

Ali nudges my foot again, but I still can’t look.

‘I don’t want her to shut up, actually. But Ali made a nice meal and Mum should eat it.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Mary. If you’re not hungry then you don’t have to eat it,’ Ali smiles uncertainly.

I know this isn’t turning out to be the jolly celebration she’d been hoping for but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m thirty now. I don’t have to let Dad treat me like a child anymore. Nor let him be rude to Mum.

‘I am hungry, Ali. Sorry. I just like to fill Chrissy in on everything as I hardly ever see him. Thank you for inviting us and for the lovely lunch.’

Mum gulps back some Pinot Grigio then raises a forkful of Tabouleh Salad to her mouth. Then another, and another, and another.

Silence echoes around the room.

Ali clears her throat, ‘So Michael, you’re a policeman. That must be so interesting. And rewarding.’

I roll my eyes.

Dad smiles at Ali, ‘It has certainly had its moments. To be honest though, I’m feeling ready for retirement now. Everything has changed so much.’

I scoff, ‘But then what on earth would you find to talk about?’

‘Chris!’ Ali says at the same time as Mum says, ‘Christopher!’

‘What is your problem?’ Dad says. Is that a hurt look I’m his face? I plough on regardless.

‘You are. You never show any interest in anyone else’s life. Always turn the conversation back round to you, and all the amazing things you’ve done for your community. You don’t even know what I do.’

I can see Ali is shocked and dismayed but I’ve spent a lifetime holding back and never telling Dad how I feel. Well, no more.

‘Chrissy, that is not true,’ Mum says.

‘Don’t defend him. It is true and you don’t even seem to care that he’s rude to you all the time.’

‘Rude? What are you talking about?’

‘Saying we’ll never get you to shut up. Always saying things like that about you.’

I cannot believe Mum is laughing.

‘He’s just joking. He’s always joked about how much I talk, ever since I first met him. And he’s right, I’m a real natter box.’

She looks at Dad and something passes between them. Something charged. I look down at my plate.

‘Son, I talk about my work a lot as it’s all I know. And it has been important to me. You’re right, I don’t really know what you do. But you never tell us. I don’t feel I can talk to you about it as it’s not a world I understand … and it’s always seemed like you want to keep it separate. Keep us separate.’

I look to Mum for support but she smiles sadly, ‘It’s true, Chrissy. Whenever I ask anything, you huff and puff and tell me to stop asking so many questions. Ever since you were in secondary school you’ve been like that. So I have stopped.’

I really want to stop now but something is driving me on, ‘That’s not true. It’s always been the same. Even when I was little. Even when I did something good, he never acknowledged it. Like with the fire.’

Ali clears her throat, ‘Right I’m going to clear these plates. Who’s for dessert?’

Everyone ignores her.

‘The fire? What are you talking about now?’ Mum looks truly bewildered.

‘The wildfire. I was the one who raised the alarm and I helped keep it away from the house until the fire brigade got there but he never even acknowledged any of that. Never said thanks.’

Where is all this coming from? I haven’t even thought about the fire for years, until this morning when I saw all the trees around the cottage.

‘I think your memory is playing tricks on you, son,’ Dad says softly, gently, as if I’m a skittish mare they need to be careful around.

‘Yes, Chrissy, it is. That’s not true at all.’

‘Well, what is true then?’ I shout.

Mum and Dad glance at each other across the table with matching looks of confusion. Ali necks her beer.

‘Um, well after the fire brigade left we all sat in the garden looking at the burnt grass and trees and your Dad went and got some beers from the fridge for us, and a coke for you, and we toasted you for saving the day.’

I look down at my hands clenched in my lap. Was that true? I remember a crowd of people watching, a man shouting out “Unlucky” and … I blink back tears as another memory crowds in … Dad letting me have a sip of his beer when Mum went indoors, his big warm hand on my shoulder pulling me into his side and saying “Well done, son. If you’d not seen it when you did, it would’ve burnt the whole house down. Which might’ve been a good thing, eh?” And then we’d laughed as it was a running joke between us about the house being haunted as creepy things were always happening there. We moved out six months later.

But why have I got so mixed up about it all? And what’s going on with me that I’m behaving like this? So angry and resentful.

Mum reaches out and squeezes my hand, Ali stands up and gathers plates. ‘Well, I’m glad that’s all sorted out then,’ she says then laughs nervously as she takes the plates out to the kitchen. Me, Mum and Dad look at each other.

‘What’s going on, son?’

I shrug. ‘You just always make me feel like you’re not interested in what I do, that I’m not good enough, because I don’t do what you do.’

‘Likewise.’

‘Oh Chrissy. Your dad has always just wanted you to be happy doing whatever you like. We both have.’

I’d been so scared that day as the flames spat and roared towards the house. Wanted more than anything to run far away but Dad shouted at me to hold the hose and spray it all along the grass to try and hold it back while he chucked bucket after bucket of water at the burning trees along the back wall. I could barely breathe from the smoke and the heat, it was as if my lungs were on fire too. Somehow I’d held the panic at bay until the fire brigade arrived.

Mum and Dad had gone on for ages afterwards that I should be a fireman. The thought of it filled me with that panic again. When did they stop saying it? Maybe when we moved and I went to a new school, made new friends and it became clear I wasn’t going to do anything like that with my life. Had they made me feel bad about that? Or was it all down to me? Was I the one judging me for feeling that panic? For feeling too afraid to do a job like Dad’s.

I look up. Mum and Dad are both looking at me. They both smile. They are both relaxed. Is it me that always ruins happy occasions? Am I the one with the problem?

Before I can say anything, not that I know what to say, Ali comes back from the kitchen holding a huge chocolate cake with a big 30 candle burning in the middle of it. She starts singing “Happy Birthday” in a very loud voice, her eyes boring into me over the top of the cake, telling me to stop whatever it is I’m doing and we’ll talk about it later.

Mum and Dad join in the singing and I lean forward to blow the flame out, wishing I knew where all that just came from, and wondering if now it might be time to properly get to know Mum and Dad, and myself.

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When I signed up to do this project, I had no idea how the writing of this story would go. I never write like this. I hardly ever use prompts and if I do they are usually themes, or words, rather than the detailed one I received for this. I never write a story and edit and publish it so quickly either. My stories are usually in development for at least several months, often for years, and go through many drafts, before they go out in the world. So I have been well and truly out of my writing comfort zone with this!

I am glad to have been pushed to do something I wouldn’t normally do and I hope you enjoy what I managed to pull together in just two drafts!

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