Welcome to the Spot Writers. This current prompt is a story about new neighbours, just arrived. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.
In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas,
the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring
human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards,
appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his
The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these
books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
The Beautiful Game
by Phil Yeats
I stood from pulling dandelions from my back
lawn. It was late June, but the bloody yellow weeds were blooming as fiercely
as ever. I blamed the abundance on the complete lack of dandelion control in
the adjacent yard.
A blond head with pigtails protruded above the
fence in the offending hayfield. I guessed she was a few inches taller than the
four-foot-high fence. That, presumably, made her between six and eight, and
part of the family moving in next door?
“What’s the matter?” I asked as I walked
toward her.
“Mummy promised.”
“Oh. What did she promise?”
“A present I’d really like if I was good and
didn’t complain about leaving my friends.” She gave the ball at her feet a
mighty kick and it trickled away at a forty-five-degree angle. “I wanted a Barbie,
not this stupid ball.”
“Looks like a big kid’s soccer ball. She must
think you’re a big girl now. One who’d want to play outside in this nice big
yard. And I’m guessing you already have a Barbie.”
“Two, and a Barbie house. Uncle James made it for
me. But I have no friends here.”
“My name’s Ben. What’s yours?” I said to
change the subject.
“Ella,” she replied, before giving the ball
another mighty kick. She caught it more squarely this time, and it bounced to
the centre of their yard. She rushed after it, picked it up, and returned,
smiling, to the fence.
“Does your mum know you’re here?” I asked.
“Yeah. Emie’s waiting for Uncle James and all
our stuff. I wanted to ride in the truck, but she made me go in our car holding
the fish bowl and making sure it didn’t spill. Said Hannah had to ride with
Uncle James because they still had stuff to load.”
My seventy-five-year-old strawberry box house
had an unfinished basement, living room, bath, and kitchen on the main floor,
and two tiny under-the-eaves bedrooms on the second. The one they were moving
into was identical.
I wondered about the family unit moving in
next door and how Emie, Hannah, and Uncle James could fit together in that tiny
house. Emie was presumably Ella’s mother, but would a six-year-old use her name
rather than calling her Mummy? Was Hannah an older sister or an adult? Not
Uncle James’s wife, because Ella would then call her Aunt Hannah, or something
similar. Was Uncle a courtesy title for Emie’s partner, or a friend helping
Emie, Hannah, and Ella move into their new home?
When Ella disappeared around the side of her
house after several successful kicks, each going farther than the previous one,
I decided speculation about the makeup of the new family next door was foolish
and unwarranted. I parked my weeder on a bench and wandered around my house. An
ideal time to welcome Ella’s mother to our neighbourhood and offer a hand
unloading their truck. After I introduced myself to Emily Scott, a woman in her
late twenties or early thirties, James and Hannah pulled up in one of the smaller
U-Haul moving trucks. He was in his sixties or older, and Hannah, at most
forty. The nature of their relationships became obvious when Ella proudly
insisted on showing Hannah how good she was at kicking a soccer ball. It flew
across the narrow street and took one bounce before landing in a flower bed.
*****
The Spot
Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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