There Is a Season

By Janet Killeen

Coincidences of Time and Place; the meetings of strangers; moments of decision: these are the key elements of this Collection of Short Stories. They explore our relationship with the past and with the landscape, and the opportunities given to us to discover ourselves fully.
Characters move in significant landscapes, whether that is the urban territories of London or the distinct countryside of Yorkshire, Northumberland or the Highlands of Scotland. The development of many of the stories is deeply rooted in the intersection of moment, person and place. Some explore the impact of controlling or abusive relationships, and the potential for escape. Others, the overshadowing of two World Wars and the social dislocation that was, and perhaps still is, their legacy. The past impregnates the present and from it characters draw resources of hope and courage: the Season of opportunity that is given to them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481797078

Janet Killeen

After completing a master’s degree, Janet Killeen taught in a London comprehensive school for over thirty years until retirement, fully involved in church life and varied aspects of church leadership. Living in South-East London, she values the richer opportunities retirement has given to enjoy friendships, travel, and writing.

Book preview

2013 by Janet Killeen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/31/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9705-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9706-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9707-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Beneath the floor

A Wind Like a Bugle

Spoiled by Sea Water

Ex-Pat

Adjusting Her Ideas

A Gentle Ghost

Miss Browning

Convergence

The Journeying Boy

The Seals

An Autograph Album

Not for Ourselves Alone

Spots of Time

The Excursion

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to get, and a time to lose

A time to rend, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

From the Book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, King James Bible

Remembering my parents, who, like so many of their generation, chose to plant, to gather and to build up, even when the world they knew seemed about to tear itself apart.

Jim Killeen 1913-2009, Hilda Killeen 1913-2003

Beneath the floor

Wires stretch beneath the floorboards, here, under my feet, twitching to jangle in the ears of Eliza, Minnie, or Millicent, the name thrown at her and her kind like scraps to a dog, trained to bob and say Yes, Ma’am, smoothing her apron, fingernails scraped and hair trained tight under her cap at the orphanage (now crumbled to foundation rubble under the estate near the playing fields) and she rushes breathless to answer from the scullery and take away the cups and saucers, the cake stand, the napkins and the lady turns to her guest and says, A good girl, but— and her eyes tilt upwards to the ceiling as if to say, not polished, and we must make allowances. The orphanage, you know. And her guest sighs and nods in complacent agreement with her.

Eliza.

The house, built raw-new in Diamond Jubilee year, a sand-yellow London brick three storey frontage with un-softened liver-red curlicues around the porch and above the windows. A struggling, newly-planted hedge, a white and black diamond front path, edged with barley-twist, a flight of steps to the door where the brass gleams on the knocker and on the number. To the side the railings and steps that lead down to the scullery and the side entrance. The front steps tell of steps climbed to reach this wealth, this social poise, two more than any other of the houses in the street. The doctor with an established practice in Town, Consultant at the Teaching Hospital. A wife, a son at Rugby School, a cook and two maids, a groom who tends the horse and serves as coachman.

And the century about to turn in which all this will be swept away.

Eliza, foundling, starting work at fourteen. Doubling up her scullery duties with the fires and hot water before the family rises, and learning to manage her shivering hands in the afternoons as she hands plates of cake and cups of tea to Madam and her guests. She takes her aching body and choked tears to the small bedroom shared with Mavis, but Mavis has a follower now and sees him once a week, and so no eyes or ears for her. No one at the orphanage had told her about the awful blood when it came and the salt in tepid water before the nightgown can be boiled in the great copper. She shrinks before the chiding, exasperated kindness of the cook.

Nor had they told her of the rough attacks of the boy back from boarding school, seventeen now, and fleshly large with wet-lipped greedy tongue, and hands snatching and tugging at small breasts and laces. Not now the pinches and pushing against the wall to feel her as he shoved by in the early days. His father might have seen him once from the landing below had he only lifted his eyes from his papers, but he only smiled distantly at the girl when he saw her, pressed against the wall, and passed on. And she had bobbed in terror and gratitude at the respite, smoothing out the crumpled apron at her breast. But now it was strength and a damp hand on her mouth as he rummaged and hurt her. And again and again and she too frightened to speak, hiding her sobs in the mattress, her hands flexing in empty and comfortless air.

Her hands are held tightly, decorous-as-trained over her apron that afternoon, but Madam sees the betraying curve of her swelling belly, projecting from the cage of her ribs, and condemns her, raucous as a crow: Shameless, shameless! Then, controlled now, dropping the octave into the mellowed dignity of reproach, How could you, Eliza, after all we have done to provide for you, taking you untrained from the orphanage and giving you this opportunity? A world of gentility is encompassed in her vowels.

The whole future pivots upon her, and by some miracle of courage, she finds her voice. Twisting her hands together, she exclaims, But it was him, Ma’am, it was him, your son, Ma’am! The words tumble from her shocked, involuntary mouth.

The woman rises to strike her across the face: How dare you! How dare you accuse my son, you slut! You have forgotten your place in this house.

As she stands, crouching to cover her face and muffle the gasps in her apron, the father enters, striding through the door from the hall, hearing all as he entered the house and seeing the wife, the maid, as if in tableau.

Oh, I should have dealt with this, and with the behaviour of our son, long ago! I left it to you! he says forcibly to his wife, finding within himself emotions long suppressed to vent his rage and shame. And he seizes the girl, not roughly, gently, gently, by her arm, turning to his wife: Send the maid to pack her things. She will go with me. Then, taking her to his study, seating her to let her weep, he proffers a handkerchief, clumsily wiping her eyes. There, there, Eliza. Eliza isn’t it? And she nods, trembling, gulping, feeling that the flood of tears he has unleashed may never end. He has sent for her coat and hat, and helping her to put them on, picks up her small bag, and sends for the groom. I am taking you with me, he says, and as she stares, her whole face reddened and stained with tears, her eyes brimming, he tells her. I am taking you to my own Nurse of long ago. She lives on a farm with her husband now. She will care for you as she did for me. All those years ago. She flashes a quick scared glance at him and sees him smile with remembered tenderness.

They go by trap to the station, and the clip of hoof and cobble ever after mark for her the cutting off of one world from another.

Then a confusion of crowds and platforms. Whistles, the shunt and hiss of steam, gleaming pistons, huge slow-turning wheels, slamming carriage doors, and all the time, his hand at her elbow, her bag carried in his other hand. He seats her in the stiff First Class compartment beside him before the long train journey begins, up beyond Pickering, changing at York. Hours pass into darkness and nodding sleep and sudden frightened jerks of wakefulness before he brings her down the long lane that leads to the farm.

And then she may grow up at last in a safe place, and, child still herself, give birth to her baby boy.

It seemed as though each morning she could rest her eyes on the far swell of the hills and drink from this cup, this spring of freshness. Wider skies, cold and sharp winters, and the breaking of earth and hedge, leaf and flower in spring. So her boy grows up, a lad on the farm, close to his mother, safe within the encircling warm love of the farm kitchen, then stumbling into the yard and the barns, and older now, roaming with the old dog for company further to the stone-walled bounds of the farm and beyond.

And girl no longer, Eliza watches the seasons, gentle with the chickens and with labouring sheep brought into the barn, and eager in all the jobs of the kitchen, lugging the heavy kettles of hot water, caring for the aging woman she learns to call Nan and for her farmer husband to