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SHORT STORIES
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SHORT STORIES
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SWEET BLUEBELLS
The day was hot and sticky, and it was getting hotter.
Brian Davis drained the lemonade from his glass and screwed up his face; the liquid was
warm, just like everything else this day. He placed the glass on the floor, swivelled around on
the bunk, and gazed out of the spotlessly clean caravan window. He sighed. He was
unhappy. And bored. Bored sick. There was nothing for him to do at all.
He was on holiday; staying in a caravan with his parents. It was his first time and,
hopefully, as far as he was concerned, his last. His parents might like it but he hated it,
especially with it being situated where it was: right in the middle of a crummy old field, miles
away from anywhere. The nearest shops were five miles away, and the only things nearby
were a farm (the owner of which had given Brian's dad permission to put the caravan in the
field) and a church which, from what Brian had already seen of it, had a graveyard.
Brian shifted his gaze from the monotonous view through the window and turned to look
at his dad who was sitting on the bunk nearest the caravan door.
Alan Davis was reading a newspaper, dressed only in a pair of horrible (as far as Brian
was concerned) multicoloured shorts and a pair of sandals, without socks. The bottom edge
of the newspaper rested on his navel - gripped between a crease in his paunch. He was
dunking biscuits into a steaming mug of coffee as he read, never shifting his eyes from the
print of the page for one moment.
Brian shook his head. A day like this and his dad was drinking hot coffee! But that was
typical of his father; he was always the same!
Brian scowled. As far as he was concerned his parents were selfish. They hadn't asked
him where he'd wanted to go or what he'd wanted to do. No, if they wanted a boring holiday
in the middle of a boring field, miles away from anywhere, then so did everyone else, and if
they didn't it was tough!
But this wasn't the sort of holiday for him. He wanted a holiday of action and adventure -
of fair grounds and cool swimming pools, of amusement arcades and golden sandy beaches,
and large luscious ice-creams... That, was what he called a holiday!
'Damn it...!'
Brian was suddenly yanked out of his thoughts. He looked up... and had to bite his
tongue to stop himself from bursting into a giggle.
His dad had allowed one of the biscuits to soak for just a second too long in his coffee;
and as he'd lifted the sodden confectionary from mug to mouth it had broken away and fallen
to the newspaper with a soggy thut.
Letting out a grunt of complaint, Alan Davis jumped to his feet and moved quickly to the
caravan door. He leant outside and began to wipe the sticky mess from the paper with his
middle finger, his face creased with disgust. Brian turned away and gazed back out of the
window, scared in case his dad might see how amused he was.
Brian's eyes scanned lazily over the range of high mountains about half a mile away.
Things wouldn't have been so bad if his friend, Jimmy, had come along with him; then they
could have gone over to the mountains and tried to climb them; on his own he just didn't feel
up to it-
'Straighten your face son, for God's-sake!'
Brian turned and found himself staring into the glaring face of his father.
'What in God's name is the matter with you, eh?!'
Brian didn't say anything; he just lowered his head and stared at his feet.
'Well come on - just what is wrong with you? Ever since we arrived you've been sitting
there, sulking like a soft child!' He lifted his hand and pointed past Brian towards the
window. 'You're supposed to be enjoying yourself out there, not sitting around in here
sulking! Get outside in the fresh air - it's a glorious day - go and explore!'
Brian looked up again. 'Like where?' he asked, sarcastically.
Alan Davis stared at his son as if the answer was obvious.
'What do you mean 'like where?' Are you blind or just plain stupid lad?'
Brian lowered his gaze again, remaining silent.
'Oh, I give up with you. If I were thirteen I'd be dying to get out there and explore. I just
can't work you out at all!'
Then Brian suddenly remembered the old derelict church that they'd passed on the way,
and he quickly decided that he might as well go - if only to get away from his parents; there
was nothing else to do. Without giving it a second thought he stood and strode peevishly over
to the door. But as he was about to step out, his dad stopped him.
'Where are you going?'
Brian halted momentarily- 'I'm going exploring like you said' -then he continued through
the door before his dad had any time to react.
Outside, bikini-clad and sunbathing in a deck-chair, Helen Davis heard someone step out of
the caravan and looked up... but her eyes quickly narrowed again as she was blinded for a
moment. She lifted a hand to shield the orbs from the sun's glare and saw that it was Brian,
her son. She was surprised that he was walking away without saying where he was going, but
had noticed that he'd seemed unhappy since arriving and suspected that he wasn't enjoying
himself.
'Brian?'
'What?' He continued to walk away.
'Where are you off to?'
Brian spun around to face her, but continued walking backwards: 'I'm just going for a
walk, all right?!' He completed the remaining 180 degrees and continued on his way.
Helen thought about making after him to demand that he cheer-up, but the thought just as
quickly evaporated; she didn't want to make him worse - it was his holiday as well - and she
couldn't be bothered getting out of the deck-chair anyway; the heat had sapped all her
energy. She watched after him a few seconds more, her lips forming a pout, then she sighed
and relaxed back into the canvas of the chair. She closed her eyes.
Helen's flesh was already showing the tell-tale signs of the sun's tenderization; in another
couple of hours she would almost certainly be regretting her dreams of the body bronze.
The afternoon was really becoming a scorcher.
Brian had slowed his pace since leaving the caravan and he was breathing heavily and
perspiring profusely; the sweat beads on his brow swelling, only to metamorphosize into
rivulets of salty water which trickled down his ruddy face. Some of it leaked into his eyes
and stung them, and some of it seeped into his mouth and he could taste the saltiness.
Brian stopped and dabbed his face with the hem of his T-shirt. He didn't know exactly
where the church was, but he was sure that he was on the right road. It couldn't be far away.
Taking a long and needed breath, he strolled on along the narrow country lane, hoping
that the church would appear soon...
And then he stopped, a smile of satisfaction replacing his uncertain frown. He squinted.
Yes, there - through a gap in the trees - he could make out a church steeple. It was still a fair
walk to it, but he didn't mind now he knew that his goal lay ahead.
His hot and sticky body found a new energy, and he strode on now towards it.
The church had obviously been derelict for some time. All the windows were either smashed
or boarded up, the steeple clock had been stopped for years, and one of the hands was
missing from one of the four faces.
Other signs that Mother Nature had taken her course were also visible in the graveyard
itself: the grass hadn't seen shears nor mower for at least five years (Brian decided), and was
clearly overgrown with weeds and wild flowers. Some of the smaller gravestones were
completely hidden within the thick mass. Brian waded through the tangled abundance; he
was probably trampling over graves, he couldn't tell.
He had been surprised and somewhat shocked when he had first seen the graveyard; it
wasn't the typical graveyard that he had expected to see: perfectly cropped and trimmed, with
narrow worn pathways between the plots, the graves themselves topped with rectangular
mounds of earth due to the excess in volume displaced by the coffin below.
Brian felt uneasy. He always felt uneasy in graveyards, though he could never explain
why... and as he strained to cut through the mass he became aware of something else: a
pungent odour - a sweet, sickly odour - which seemed to grow stronger the further he
ventured.
He came to a halt near one of the graves. Here the sweet smell was overwhelming, but
now he realized what caused it:
Bluebells.
This particular grave - and this particular grave only - was completely covered with them,
though they weren't merely growing in a random scatter, but in a perfect rectangle,
mimicking perfectly the coffin beneath them.
Brian lifted his head and looked around. All the other graves were overgrown only with
grass or weeds (a mess); not a single other bluebell could be seen.
He was puzzled. He returned his eyes to the strange grave and wondered why only that
particular one was decorated so, trying to take in the least amount of breaths possible
because of the sickly odour.
And then a thought occurred to him, giving him an explanation. Of course: out of all the
graves in the graveyard, this one must be the only one cared for by someone - a relative of
the dead person. This relative had a particular liking for bluebells, so he or she had decorated
the grave of their loved one with them, and had planted them in a perfect rectangle.
Brian smiled. For the first time he really appreciated the beauty of the grave, and the love
and care (and grief) that had been put into it: the bluebells were perfect...
But that smell... it was so rich, so sickly sweet, that it was making him feel sick, and the
relentless heat from the scorching sun made things worse. But he felt that he had to put up
with the stench for just a little longer; just so he could read the inscription on the gravestone.
The wording wasn't difficult to read - the gravestone was in extremely good condition and
looked new, and Brian was quite a good reader:
'HERE LIES OUR DEARLY LOVED SON WHO WAS CUT OFF IN HIS INFANCY.
HE WAS LOVED BY EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING, AND HE TOO - IN
RETURN - LOVED THEM'
JOHN CARTER
1994-2002
The colour drained from Brian's ruddy cheeks. He was totally shocked at the person's
age. Only eight. Only a boy, and even younger than himself. No wonder the gravestone
looked new - it was new. The grave was recent - not even a year old - despite the church's
age and the graveyard's condition. He was stunned. For some strange reason he felt great pity
for the boy - a boy he had never met in his life before...
And then Brian's stomach signalled that it could take no more of the cloying, sickly
stench, and he knew that if he wanted to keep his dinner down he had to leave now. He
could already feel the tightening sensation beneath his tongue, the saliva accumulating inside
his mouth...
He turned, and sprinted through the dense vegetation - towards the gate where he'd come
in...
... He leapt through the gate - back onto the quiet lane - gulping in fresh lungfuls of
country air. He had escaped the sickening stench just in time, and his rising dinner settled
back down again.
He was almost back at the caravan before he'd recovered fully......
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