1st Prize

The Copse

By Dan Metcalf 

We moved house in the spring, to a tumbledown cottage full of ivy, rats and damp.  The fields that surrounded it were barren and unkempt, waiting for the new crops to bloom and grow.   

            Mum and Dad stared proudly at their dream home, while I mentally counted the miles from my old friends. 

            “You’ll make new friends,” said Dad, reading my mind. 

            I kicked the side of the garden wall idly.  The brick cracked and crumbled. 

            Whilst Mum and Dad argued about potential cutlery drawers, decking and infestations, I trudged up a muddy pathway from our garden, towards a copse high on the hill.  The walk was wet and treacherous, and took a route through brambles and bogs. 

            In the quiet of the copse I sat on a seat of moss, alone. 

            “Are you new?” 

            The child stood in a clearing, bright and clear.  She had locks of crimson curls and a rag for a dress. 

            “Where did you come from?” 

            She shrugged.  “I’m new too.” 

            “Do you live around here?” 

            She shrugged again, thought, and then nodded.  “Around.” 

            She was small, with smile in her eyes and a carefree way about her. 

            “We should be friends.”  She danced around the clearing, as light as a sunbeam. 

            “Okay,” I laughed.  “Where are your parents?”  

            She stopped and giggled, throwing her hands up to the sky. 

            “Everywhere!” 

            We played together that day.  I had not known freedom like it since I was her age.  We laughed, and ran, and built castles from fallen branches, and drank tea from acorn cups. Dusk came, and I told her to go home.  I could hear my mum calling me, and was worried the girl’s parents would be looking for her.  She pushed me out of the copse and I ran back through the gorse and the falling dew.  I turned at our gate, but I could only see the sun setting over the hill. 

School started.  I limped through the term, waiting and wishing that summer would come, so I could visit my old friends.  When it came, I found they had moved on.  The holidays stretched out before me like a jail sentence.  Dad refused to have me in the house, so sent me out across the fields on errands, or simply sent me out.  I climbed the hill again to the copse, my memory of the child I met hazy like a fading reflection on a pond.  I carved at a branch with my knife, boredom set deep.  Behind me a twig snapped. 

            She was my age, tall, and pale.  She moved like the wind blew her along.  Her cherry hair tumbled down from her head, her eyes staring into me. 

            “You’re here,” she said, tilting her head inquisitively. 

            “I suppose.” 

            “I’m glad,” she smiled, and offered her hand.  “Walk with me.” 

            I took her hand and walked, never taking my eyes from her perfect face.  She was so unlike the girls I knew.  She did not hide behind cruel jokes and laughter.  When she spoke, she spoke with reason.  When I spoke, she listened as if each word were the most important word ever spoken. 

            Dusk came, and I looked across the field to my house.  The thought of parting from her already stung. 

            “Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked.           

            “I’ll always be here.” 

            “Can I come and walk with you again?” 

            She smiled.  Our fingers interlocked and she closed her lips around mine. 

            “I’ll always walk with you.” 

            Mum and Dad didn’t see me for the rest of the summer.  I’d wake early, and run out to the fields to find her.  She’d be there always, sometimes in the copse, sometimes near the lake, sometimes all around.  She’d see me, and I’d smile as she took my hand.  We’d run through fields of corn and lie on beds of heather.  Each night as the sun set, we would kiss once more and I would return home.  As summer faded, I knew I would not see her at school the next year. 

            “I’ll stay here with you.” 

            She smiled and shook her head.  “We’ll be together always.” 

            “But I won’t see you?” 

            “You don’t need to.” 

She was wrong.  The term started, and I became sullen.  Each night I would look out from my rotting window frame and stare out at the copse.  I needed her.  I wanted to feel her skin against mine again, to run with her once more.  As the nights drew in, her face faded from my memory.  I mourned.   

The leaves turned, and I set off to the hill one grey Sunday afternoon, escaping Mum and Dad’s silent bitter glances and whispered battles.  The floor of the copse was dank and carpeted with leaves, the sky above constantly threatening. 

“You should not have come,” she said, unseen behind an oak trunk. 

“I wanted to.  I wanted it to be like last time.” 

She moved through the trees.  Still I had yet to see her flawless face. 

“The world turns around and around.  You know this.  We all move on, grow old, whither and die.” 

I laughed, and sat down on a log.  Suddenly she was beside me, her scent consuming me.  I looked up and saw her clear blue eyes, bright against her pale skin.  She had crow’s feet around them, and white hairs starting to show near her temples.  Her body was strong, but she held herself as if she was starting to tire. 

“We all change, and must learn from our history,” the woman whispered to me. 

“I don’t want to change.  I don’t want to grow up.  Not just yet.” 

We leant into each other, and she held me tightly.  We rocked gently with the breeze, and she sang to me a soothing song, a lullaby from time gone by. 

Yuletide passed and the snow came.  At home, a man came with a briefcase and closed himself in the front room with Mum and Dad.  Dotted lines were signed, access discussed.  We’d move in the spring, just Mum and I. 

In boots and scarves I climbed the hill.  The snow scrunched underneath my feet, the slope treacherous yet pristine and bright.  At the top I peered down at my home, tiny and broken.  In amongst the trees I heard a sobbing. 

Crouched at the base of an elm was a ball of white hair and fragile thin skin.  Dressed in satin, she rocked to and fro, shivering in the snow.  I took my coat and placed it around her.  The old woman looked up with glassy eyes.  

“I have to leave,” I said. 

She nodded.  “All things end,” she said, her voice tired and cracked. 

“Where will you go?” 

“I’ll remain, as I always have,” she said.  “You’ll see.  Be as good as new.” 

I crouched down with her and put my arm around her.  She rested into me, and I put my chin on her head.  She smelt of snowdrops. 

“I’ll stay for a while,” I said. 

“Won’t take but a moment.” 

As the afternoon faded, the falling snow thickened, swirling around the copse in a mad ballet.  A blizzard rose from nowhere, the wind howling through the trees. 

“Time’s ending!” she shouted.  She rose and stood in the clearing, the snow whipping her frail body.  Soon there was nothing but a white mist.  I crouched down by the elm, sheltered and safe for now.  As the woman’s body disappeared from view, a voice played through my mind: 

“I’ll always walk with you.” 

When the blizzard died, I was alone once more.

 The car was full of boxes, Mum packing all and sundry.  Dad watched on from an upstairs window.  I had already said goodbye; a manly handshake and a confused hug.  I’d see him in the holidays.  I put on the seatbelt, and Mum started the car, snapping the radio off as it came on.  We drove off in silence. 

“Cheer up,” she said lightly.  “You’ll see your friends again.” 

We wound our way down the drive, past shoots of daffodils and crocuses.  I stared up to the small patch of trees that had meant so much to me.  A small figure stood atop the hill, her arms wide.  She span around, running through the grass, playing amongst the trees. 

“We’ll be starting afresh,” said Mum.  “A new day.” 

“A new day,” I agreed, smiling at the waving outline on the hill.

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Judges comment: Congratulations! With 'The Copse' Dan Metcalf has given us a well written story which is 'different'. It left questions in the mind of the reader, but the ending was very satisfactory with a note of hope for the future.