Optima Magazine

An entry into our 2011 Short Story Competition on the theme of Starlight

A standing ovation reverberates around the theatre. Feet are stamping, raucous whistles and shouts of “More! More!” all rise to a crescendo as yet another character steps forward to tremendous applause. He takes a well deserved and carefully executed bow, all tiredness now eliminated as he accepts the praise of the audience. My heart is full to bursting with pride. This is the well deserved culmination of all his hard work. I want to shriek above the furore “That’s my son! That’s my boy!” and the emotion must surely be flowing from my beaming face although I utter no words at all. I am floating in a bubble of excitement. It’s like being in a parallel world; all the sounds are muted by an invisible, circular wall around me. I drift, dazed, dreamlike, hearing the noise yet feeling unseen by those around you. It feels as if time has stood still yet my brain has gone into overdrive as memories and thoughts begin to flood in.

Hard to believe that he had been that adventurous, cheeky young toddler, hauling himself up the stairs for the first time, and turning to give me that audacious grin he still uses to win you over. Once more he’s the Angel Gabriel at nursery school, head and shoulders above the rest of the class, his words spoken clearly and firmly before he smiles benevolently at his admiring audience. My mother stands proudly to one side, heartily applauding. She leans towards me and has to almost shout “I can’t help it, but he’s always been my favourite grandson” and she wipes a tear from her eye with her hand. He is centre stage, lapping up the adulation whist graciously acknowledging the leading lady. It is a happy reminder of his caring nature as witnessed recently upon his wedding day. What an occasion that had been! With his smiling bride at his side, surrounded by hundreds of friends and family in their best finery, he had declared his love and devotion before parading her for all the world to see; ever the lover, ever the showman, “and ever the daredevil” I think to myself!

“Daddy! Daddy! Ben’s cut his foot on a broken glass!” I freeze for a brief second knowing he had been showing off to some other children as they attempted to swing from a weeping willow tree out over the river. “What now?” I think to myself as we rush to his aid. We expect the worse as his dramatic cries attract the attention of other picnickers at the riverside. Some rush forward to help as he lays there, his bloody foot hanging limply. We try to calm him, assess the severity and although we try to convince him it isn’t that bad, somehow his Daddy still ends up driving a screaming child to casualty.

“Mummy, Mummy! Ben’s lost his front tooth!” That heart sinking moment as I contemplated yet another accident? Were we always rushing to his rescue? The falls and cuts and emergency hospital visits seemed par for the course with a son. Perhaps those knocks in early life were a blessing in disguise – each mishap serving to strengthen his character, ever large, ever resilient and ever growing!

“Do you have this in a bigger size?” I ask. “I’ll have a look Madam. Try this one; it’s from the men’s range. Yes he certainly is a big lad.” “Blame it on the chocolate” I mutter beneath my breath feeling very protective. My big, sturdy lad who always seemed to secure the leading roles that required a great presence. Friends still talk about his leading part as the famous Willy Wonka in the spectacular show put on at his Junior school; worth all the spare hours we gave whilst he learnt his lines; listening and prompting his script so he became word perfect. Even then his upright stature and empowering top hat added greatly to the exuberant performance.

His father also waits beside me, saying very little but equally as proud to be there at his son’s latest success. He might have once despaired that a child of his did not share similar talents or was not interested in the same hobbies, but he understands now that we each have different paths to follow and in which to excel. He too wants to revel in this special moment; give his son the praise that is due to him.

Flashlights interrupt my reverie; pressing reporters, note books or recorders in hand, are asking question, and more questions. We are now waiting by the stage door along with a big crowd, all expectantly awaiting the emergence of the stars from the show. His wife stands further off with her circle of close friends. She is in her element hosting the crowd, answering their questions wallowing in the attention whilst we stand back, un-noticed, listening to the comments. We are beginning to shiver in the cold night air; feet stamping whilst we rub our hands on our legs to keep warm. We wait patiently like all good citizens. Then the doors are suddenly flung open and cast members emerge, some shielding their heads to avoid recognition. Others wave and chat briefly to the reporters and then he appears, filling the doorway with his presence.

He is laughing, on a high, and yet his alert eyes scan the crowd for familiar faces. The cameras flash as he forces his way towards us. We hug and I am unable to speak as tears well in my eyes and his Dad says chokingly “That was brilliant son!” I feel so emotional I just nod in agreement.

It is such a joy that the family are altogether tonight, happier than we’ve ever been for a long time as we make our way to the car park, all chattering and giggling with the ensuing excitement. Above us the sky is clearing and reveals a half moon with a bight shining star appearing to hang just below its curve. It shimmers and draws me into its time travel path evoking one personal memory, still so clear as if it was happening now. It was the joy of his birth one cold January night: it seems a lifetime ago yet is as clear as crystal in my mind.

At least I knew what to expect this time. My first pregnancy had been hard, protracted and very painful. I had been left in a room on my own and felt isolated in a clinical bubble of fear. The unknown effects weren’t conforming to the reassuring words I’d scanned amongst the childbirth literature. That bubble had been cruelly burst as my daughter finally emerged into this world a tiny scrap of life that was snatched away to the warmth and countless tubes of an incubator leaving me numb and senseless.

I have to close the doors tight on that painful episode. This time it will be fine I reassure myself. I must keep moving, walking around and bending when each contraction occurs. This time I have the shared comfort from being with my husband; his firm hand to grip, his encouraging smile as the minutes pass and warm hands to gently massage my back. For once I am in control and our lovely boy quickly enters this world to our sheer delight. I am moved to a side ward with three sleeping women resting after their labours. I am still too excited to contemplate sleep. To my left side is a large window and beyond that lay a white world of sparkling frost lit by a hazy half moon that drifted in and out of the clouds. As they clear in the stillness of the night I suddenly become aware of a million bright twinkling stars that cover the heavens and appear to be directing their light solely for me and my newborn son. In that magic bubble of the night I feel truly blessed. Like now I wanted to shout out loud “My son is born under a lucky star!” Yet could I pick which special star that was? They all seemed to radiate their magic glow upon the face of my sleeping baby safe beside me in his little cot; the starlight from the Gods was heralding his arrival and even then I felt sure he was destined for fame and fortune.

As our cars head for home and the euphoria begins to fade, we sit in silence with our thoughts. The run is over and tomorrow my lovely boy will be back at his job, thinking about next year’s show and dreaming of that day he’ll get his real big break.