St Ninian’s High School student Faye Devlin, aged 18, was the winner of the key stage five/Isle of Man College category of the Hall Caine Memorial Prize for Creative Writing when The Manxman novelist’s great-granddaughter, Gloria Rukeyser, presented the prizes at the Manx Museum. Faye’s winning entry, titled Hope, is published in full here.
Hope
I could stare into the huge blue pools of your eyes for hours, wondering what kind of a life they would grow to see and what kind of mother to you I would be.
Your looking up was like waking with a sudden start from a dream, everything seemed so simple and normal in comparison with those clever little eyes. I had never ever thought it would be possible to love something so much, but there you were, this tiny, soft living and breathing creature that depended on me and your father for everything. I wanted to give you that everything so much.
The whole centre of my world shifted when I held you in my arms. Now all your father and I cared about was you. Everything we did or thought about was you, our perfect little boy. Although, your father always said I worry too much about you, isn’t that right John? I do suppose he had a point; I remember sending you off on your first day of school so clearly. I kept fussing around you, tightening and retightening the Velcro on those light-up school shoes you just had to have, the material felt too sharp against my fluttering hands for something so delicate as you. You must have seen how nervous I was, as you parroted me ‘Do whatever the teacher says, be nice to the other boys and girls and you’ll be just fine. And remember I’ll always be here for you if you need me.’
I chuckled at you and realised that maybe I had overreacted a little. As you ran out to the car, however, the empty satchel bouncing up and down on your back, light as your spirits, I flinched, the fluttering of my hands subsided but butterflies pummelled my stomach. I could think of nothing else but your safe return, full of the gleeful stories that I so needed to hear.
Then there was the time you told me about your first girlfriend. Thinking about it, I was lucky you even told me. I guess the gawky thirteen-year-old Will still needed some motherly advice on that kind of thing, unlike the secretive, ever so independent eighteen year old version who would not discuss females with his mother, but did still need her to wash his socks.
Anyway, that day I knew there was something up. You sat on my bed, arms around your knees, all angles, reminding me of that old Christmas elf you had, with its gangly arms and legs, comically long for its small and now somewhat dirty face. You perched there for a while, observing my cleaning routine, lips pressed tightly over your brace-covered teeth as if you feared opening them would release a flow of secrets from the metallic floodgates.
Finally you gave in and blurted it out. Of course I knew that day would come but I couldn’t help hoping that this young girl, just in the first blossom of her teens, would not break your heart. I couldn’t help it, I’m afraid. I gave you all the spiel about respecting girls, but knew that at thirteen you were much more of a child still than she was, she would have been all makeup and discos, when I knew deep down you were still Scalectrix and Pokémon. Who would have thought this little girl I was so worried about, would turn out to be the beautiful young woman sat on the front row today. The girl who helped you transform into the Will we all know and love, and I would just like to thank you for that Jenna. We all love you so much – honestly you are just like a daughter to John and I now.
Now up until here, it must sound like I was just a mollycoddling mother...overprotective?
Perhaps I was, but what mother doesn’t hope for the best for her child? Or doesn’t see the shadowy figure of danger lurking in every corner? It certainly was for us.
The instant you told me, I went cold, a foreboding tingle crept down my spine. ‘Why not study history at university?’ I whispered. ‘You could learn even more about the wars, perhaps even become a specialist in them...they do that, don’t they?’
You wouldn’t budge.
‘I’m joining the army mum, my mind is made up’.
I couldn’t imagine those long, slim fingers handling a weapon, not the fingers that I had to wipe jam from, or that were always being painted with ‘Stop ‘N’ Grow’ to stop your childish nibbling.
Of course then, I couldn’t be sure you would even get deployed to Afghanistan.
I never told you, or even your dad, I’m sorry John, that I would lie in bed every night and, before I could even contemplate sleeping I had to say a little prayer, something like ‘please don’t let him finish training’ or ‘ if you keep him here, keep him out of danger and I’ll never ask for anything again’. Of course it was silly, selfish even, but I couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. The day you left, I did hold it together, but every time you called I longed to hear you say you were coming home. Little did I know, this was just the balmy calm before the monsoon that washed all the colours out of our lives.
At the time, though, your enthusiasm for the army, even the initial training phases one and two, was infectious. I was reminded of that gleeful little boy running out to the car on your first day of school. How could I begrudge something that gave you so much happiness? Remember the day you told us you had become a Lance Corporal? It was when you had come back home for the weekend, just as my sweet peas were flowering. Your father and I were so proud we took you out for that meal, at The Taverna, or whatever it’s called these days. For the first time in ages I relaxed. Now when I think about that time I remember the soft orange glow of the candlelight glinting into those cornflower eyes of yours, the shadows softening the chiselled lines of your grown-up face, to remind me of my little boy. From then on I have always associated happiness and optimism with the heady smell of sweet pea and wax, peculiar I suppose, but that was the time I last remember feeling truly happy.
We all know what I was like the day you announced it. I am so sorry for making such a scene, Will, I realise how hard it is to see your mother cry. I, to this day, have never once seen Grandma cry, so I cannot imagine how tough it must have been for you. You just bounded in and announced ‘I’m on HERRICK! HERRICK!’ Of course I assumed this was some kind of technology you were talking about, hence my distracted response ‘oh, that’s good dear’. It wasn’t until I realised your father was gaping at me, that I realised this was not some new fangled social media you had joined but something else much more serious. ‘I’m sorry, am I missing something here?’ I had asked, bewildered. That’s when you explained, Operation HERRICK, meant you were being deployed to Afghanistan.
My whole body went hot. I felt claustrophobic, the pastel wallpaper I had so carefully chosen the year before, looked so bleak, and you, you looked too big for the room, too big to be my little Will. To you this was a big adventure, but it was what I had always prayed would never happen.
I could feel my lip trembling and my eyes pricking with tears, something inside of me just flipped and the tears started pouring down my face. Of course you and your father rushed to my side. My two knights in shining armour. It was meant to make me feel better. You were so strong, but the veins in your hands stood up as you clasped my hand and I couldn’t help noticing just how fragile you still were. It was that look in your eyes, though, that made me stop. Terrified. Whether it was seeing me like this, or the reality of where you were going, I’ll never know. But I, from then on I knew I had to be strong for you. I would be your mother, the one who made it all okay. I would never again let myself show you that raw fear I felt then.
That fear never left me though Will. It ate inside of me from the moment you left. I kept telling myself over and over, nothing can happen to him, it won’t. The worst that could possibly happen is he gets injured, that’s all. But every time the phone rang I would freeze. It got to the stage where I had to get your dad to answer it, but then I felt like I was going to faint, until I could be sure it was just a neighbour, a family member or the double glazing man on the phone. The rest of the time I was just praying, bargaining with some omnipotent being for you to return safely. All those times I was hoping you would be okay and worrying about you on your first day of school, your first girlfriend, first driving lesson or maths test, felt so trivial now. Your dad and Jenna and I became like a unit, telling each other you were fine, and having long, warm conversations about you. I think it was the only way we ever felt normal.
That day, I don’t know what made me go up to potter around your room, looking for things to tidy, just the excuse to be there. But for some reason I was drawn there. I decided to change your sheets as I knew that you would not have possibly have done them like you said. That’s when the note fell out of your pillow slip.
‘Mum, I knew you wouldn’t believe me! I just wanted to thank you; you were always there when I needed you. I just want you to know, wherever I am whatever happens, I will always be around when you need me too. All my love, Will’.
I sat on your floor staring at it for ages, a stupid smile on my face and tears streaming down my cheeks for I don’t know how long. I heard the phone ring. A while later I heard the doorbell chime and your dad answer. And that’s when I knew.
I would like to thank you all for being here today, to remember Will with us a year on. I hope I have been able to give you an insight into his life, as well as mine and John’s experiences with our beautiful boy. I just wanted to let you all know the story behind the headline. It breaks me to see all those young men and women just flit across the news, ‘A soldier has been killed in Afghanistan’. I have seen murderers or water conservation projects get longer airtime than the death of a hero. The death of someone’s child. The death of my boy. It needs to change.
Though we have lost a son and I doubt the pain of that will ever subside, through this horrific experience we have gained a daughter in Jenna. I also feel like I have many more children, the troops in Afghanistan who carry Will’s spirit with them every day and have stories of their own that must be heard. I will never stop praying for them.
Finally Will, my darling boy, I hope I have done you proud. I will never forget you and I know you will always be there for me.
Sleep well sweetheart.
Thank you.
Read the other winners entries here:
{http://www2.iomtoday.co.uk/pdfs/SarahAnneJamesPrimarywinner.pdf|Sarah Anne James, Primary winner}
{http://www2.iomtoday.co.uk/pdfs/AlyssaBridsonKeyStage3winner.pdf|Alyssa Bridson, Key Stage 3 winner}
{http://www2.iomtoday.co.uk/pdfs/StephanieFoxtonKeyStage4winner.pdf|Stephanie Foxton, Key Stage 4 winner}