COMPETITION

Domestic bliss

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1556 you were asked for a sickeningly sentimental and unreal scene of family life from a contemporary novel.

It proved rather hard to transform Victo- rian slop into modern mush. There was a lack of innocence in many entries, but since cynicism is said to be only sen- timentality turned inside out I allowed a fair sprinkling of it. Noel Petty's humour proved a shade too black for me, but Katie Mallett came close to a prize with a deathbed scene:

Little Tracey's eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, Granny, I love you!' And me too,' said

Kevin, choking back a sob. 'You're the best granny ever. I'll never forget how you played Space Invaders with me and won!'

'You're the champion now,' whispered Granny. 'Now don't forget — help Mummy and Daddy . . . and feed the birds.'

The winners below get £15 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Cockburn's Late Bot- tled Vintage Port 1982, kindly presented by Cockburn Smithes & Co. Ltd, goes to Watson Weeks.

`Dead! But that's not possible . . . ' His voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

'It's true,' said Angie through her tears. She clawed a handful of tissues from the Kleenex box. The children clung to her, wailing. Trevor, the youngest, barely articu- late in his grief, echoed the words his mother had used minutes before: 'Not a flick- er . . . daren't tell Grandma . . . no life . . . not a sound . . . why does God let it happen?'

His final question was insistent, accusa7 tory. His father turned away, ashamed that he could offer no consolation. The lights on the Christmas tree flickered and dimmed in mute sympathy; beyond, the spatter of sleet on the window pane mirrored his family's tears. They looked to him for an answer; but how could he tell them? How could he explain to his children, now hysterical in their anguish, that on Christmas Eve no one turns out to mend a defunct television set?

(Watson Weeks) The gentle thrum of the dishwasher filled the kitchen as Emily, fresh from a session of Blue Peter, hurried through the archway to wrap her arms around her father. To an untutored observer, the scene would indeed have been affecting. The sweet scent of fresh toast mingled in the air with the aroma of perfectly percolated coffee, and the innocent twitter of the radio harmonised with the bubbling water in which the salmonella-free eggs were boiling. But Adrian Blight, father of Emily, and husband to the unseen Alison, gazed mournfully away as his daughter ran her hands through his scurf-free hair.

'What is it, Daddy?' she cried in alarm.

`My Access statement!' he replied earnest- ly. 'No matter how I try, I cannot approach my spending limit!'

Emily smiled, and stroked his cheek.

'You may take me to the shops now,' she whispered, and lifted his woebegone face to

hers. (Lene W. Bellgirl)

'I mun find out who I am ..... who I really am . . .

Our Nan was gasping for breath.

'You be off now,' our Mum whispered to Mary, 'or you'll be in overtime. Our Jim'll soon be back from t'pit.'

`Nay!' said Mary. 'I've to help her. You understand? She's, dying.'

Our Mum nodded. 'Going where there bain't no Tories to massage the unem- ployment figures. You're good,' she sobbed. `To be straight with ye, I never could abide social workers. But you're one of us.' Mary's eyes misted. 'Thank 'ee,' she said simply. 'And I'M not leaving here till your Nan knows who she really is.'

The old lady's breath was short again. Her eyes stared, and she struggled to speak.

'Happen I'm I'm ' she said. But who she was, no one ever knew.

(Paul Griffin) 'It makes me so unhappy to think of families arguing at Christmas,' sighed Mrs Windsor, 'when it's so easy to be happy.'

'Of course, Mummy,' said Tracey, who was teasing the last battery out of her new radio to put in Darren's toy car. 'There, Darren. Now it's working again. You see, Christmas toys arc like magic: they never break down.'

'Wasn't it funny when Fido stole the turkey?' Mrs. Windsor continued. 'And although we could have bought another one I thought baked beans tasted much nicer, and so did Daddy.'

'Is Daddy still washing up?' asked Tracey. 'I know — let's let him choose what to watch on the telly.'

'Oh yes!' crieii Darren, clapping his hands. 'We want to watch whatever Daddy wants. Perhaps he'll choose his favourite video. We

all love Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. I could watch it for ever.'

(D. A. Prince) Fiona hurried home on Christmas Eve from her Adult Literacy Class. Tears pricked her eyes as she thought about the school leaver stumbling over his YTS application form.

Once home she ran to her dying son's bedside. He had contracted Aids from a visit to a prostitute who turned out to be Fiona's sister, whom she hadn't seen since they'd lived in a children's home.

'Mother,' he whispered 'don't worry about me. Father has wired himself to the Christ- mas lights.'

'Nigel,' she wailed. He lay under the tree, the angel in his hair. The note read: 'Happy Christmas. This is the best present I can give you. The share boom is over. Use my insurance to comfort our son, rehabilitate your sister and pay your father's egg-farm creditors. I love you.'

As Fiona wept, a social worker with an Employment Training form knocked on the door . . .