Helen Booth has won the first installment of the Bellarine Writing Competition.
Helen’s winning entry, titled ‘Wintering’, won her $200 and now puts her into the final of the competition where five monthly winners will go into a ‘write off’ grand final for a $1000 first prize.
Helen lives in the Surf Coast on Wadawarrung Country. She began writing short stories six years ago following careers in professional communications and education. Two of her stories are published in the 2020 and 2021 Hawkeye Books anthologies and another appeared online as winner of the 2018 Odyssey House short story prize.
In 2021 Geelong’s Skin Of Our Teeth theatre company performed a 15-minute monologue Helen wrote which became part of their production of Hysterica, a series of performances showcasing Next month’s writing competition topic is ‘My Dream Home’. Anyone over the age of 16 can enter by emailing their story to barrysproull@gmail.com by April 29.
Wintering
By Helen Booth
Ray’s phone rings and vibrates. He ignores it and stares through misted windows at the straight-falling, steady rain hammering at his iron roof. Odours of damp soil from under the house rise between polished floorboards. A graveyard smell. And he thinks of Lyn lying in the cemetery under that cold mound. Rain splashing into puddles of red clay. It hasn’t stopped all week. Not since the day they buried her. As if the world’s gone into mourning; sodden birds too cold to sing, the wind too gutted to blow.
His mobile rings again. That ridiculous Duelling Banjos ringtone Lyn hated. He picks up the phone from the dining table and checks the number – Queensland. Probably a scammer or salesperson. If it was one of the kids, or Lyn’s sister, he’d call back. Try to find words, talk through the thickness that grips his throat. What to say that hasn’t already been said? How wonderful she was—talented, generous, funny, stubborn. How badly they miss her. There are no true words for that.
Her paintings hang on the walls. Soft, gentle, watery colours bleeding sky into ocean, into hills, forests, rivers and waterfalls. The odd one out is an acrylic portrait of their labrador Freddy—not her best, but she caught the glint in his eyes, fall of his ears, head cocked to one side.
Involuntary choking sounds catch in Ray’s throat and shake his shoulders. He surrenders, lets tears rain down his face. Grief has invaded, set up camp, stolen his self-control, shot him through with a leaden heaviness he drags from room to room. Her presence pervades the house, like she’s just stepped out to the supermarket or for a walk or to her studio or to catch up with the girls—her bevy of friends. He expects to hear her car in the driveway, the sound of her brisk walk across the deck, the bang of the door and music of her voice excited about some discovery or news. She’d kick off her shoes, fill the kettle, flick the switch, pour mugs of coffee brimming with tales and gossip and plans.
Now, silence. Cold and biting. At least Freddy got old, deaf, blind and doddery. Not Lyn. Here one day, gone the next. Taken without warning. No chance to say goodbye. It astounds him how that can be; how a healthy person’s heart can just do that. Seize up. Stop.
Blank them out so there is nothing left but their empty shell. The twang of Duelling Banjos cuts the air. The phone rattles. On and on. Twang and rattle. Twang and rattle. It stops, then starts again and again. Persistent. Ray wills himself to move. Checks the number—Queensland. ‘If it’s so bloody important, leave a message.’ He flings the phone onto the table. It bounces, hits the floor and rings again. He scoops it up and swipes green, ‘Who is this? What do you want? How did you get this number?’
A typical fast-talking salesman bangs on in his ear and asks for Lyn. ‘She’s not here. I’m Ray, her husband.’
The smooth talker launches into his next spiel. He’s selling houses. No. Selling tickets. Selling tickets to win a house.
‘Sorry, not today, mate.’ Ray’s ready to hang up.
No. Lyn’s subscribed. They already have tickets—already have the winning ticket.
Ray grips the top of the chair and stares at the rain.
On the kitchen bench sits a neat pile of letters. He rifles through to the bottom and finds the garish envelope Lyn opened weeks ago. She’d shown it to him at the time, but he didn’t take much notice, thought her plan to winter in the North, live in perpetual summer, was nothing but a pipe dream. He slumps at the table and pulls the brochure from the envelope. Deep folds open to a glossy A3 spread. Initially, he’s struck by the brightness—blue sky, green hills, distant sea. He flips the page over and studies the sprawling house nestled in a patch of hinterland—lap pool, luxury master suite, bedrooms for the kids and grandkids … a studio for Lyn.
Rain pounds the roof. The sky darkens. Ray folds up the brochure and dreams of winning another lottery; a magical lottery—his prize, her instant return to life, standing there beside him, squealing, laughing, popping a bottle of champagne. She pours overflowing glasses and smiles as they drink to the untold riches of time together, wintering in the North.
