Wendy Turner

Hello Again,

This is my third year of entering the Mentorship Award as I continue with my degree in the background and learn the craft of creative writing. I hope that one day, I will find a mentor within the industry and the courage that my words will be read as an author.

For this year's entry, I have edited the structure and submitted 3000 words from the opening chapters for Part 1 and Part 2.

Part 1 - Unprecedented

Looks into the world of Wendy and the imaginary conversations with her recently deceased Mum and the relationship that unfolded with her Father before and during the Covid Pandemic, and how being Excluded from all Government Support Packages through the pandemic led her to take 14 Zopiclone to get to sleep but woke in A & E Corridor. With her world shattered and now homeless and hearing that 30 other Small Business owners committed suicide, Wendy creates a second chance at life even though her head, heart, and soul were broken into smithereens.

Part 2 – You don't want one like Wendy.

Wendy relocates to Somerset to mend. The reader follows Wendy from her birth and the catalogue of memories, music, and laughter that come to her as she goes through her deceased parents' belongings and the adventure of resilience from her council estate upbringing and comprehensive 80s schooling to her global career flying first class, through to her Covid Nightmare and how, after taking 14 tablets, her parents' memories and her ancestors help her learn to find peace and security for the first time, amongst the Level Lands of Somerset.

With Smiles,

Wendy

Screenplay Type
Film Script
The youngest of 3, I was thrown into organising Mum's funeral and having to hang out with my father after 20 years. Wendy's World will take the reader on a working-class whirlwind tour of her adventures covering topics of 70s parenting, 80s schooling, 90s partying and that is just the start.
Have you met your Father?
My Submission

'You wouldn't believe what happened today Mum, but I had to choose your coffin’

‘Yeah, I know right, blooming weird to be choosing your mother's coffin on a Tuesday morning!'

I hold the phone to my ear and continue talking to my Mum as if she had never left.

'I know we talked most days Mum, but not once did we discuss what coffin you wanted, only that you wanted to be cremated'.

I[ paused and put down the phone to pour myself another generous glass of wine, dismissing my thoughts that I am going mad. I don’t care. There is only one person in this whole world I want to talk to at this moment, and that is my Mum.

I take another gulp of wine, fighting with myself. I don’t want to stop because it feels good to talk to her, but I know it is a bit crazy. I pick the phone up again and start talking, even though there is no response, I know she is there. I know she can hear me.

'How is your back? Is it playing up or has all the pain gone now you are up there?' I smile, wishing, hopefully that my Mum is pain free. From the age of 9 when my Mum injured her back, I always asked this question, why wouldn’t I ask her now she is dead!

'I do hope your pain has gone and that you are playing hockey and hanging out with your mate, Eileen, causing mischief'.

My words don’t want to stop. I feel the warmth of a memory of sitting on her knee, playing with her rings, wrapped in the arms of her blue knitted jumper. And so, I continue…….

'I just…. I just....Don't know what happened, Mum. Well, of course, I do know what happened. You had a 4-inch brain bleed and clot simultaneously, which is uncommon. Then some 9 weeks later, your body and brain decided enough was enough.

I sigh. I stop. I take a deep breath.

'Anyways………., Dad is fine. He phones me most hours of every day and dishes out his orders. He has started creating weird routines. At the moment, it is about Pies, yes that’s correct, I said Pies. Most days he starts with a Pie. Yep, I am not joking Mum. If he doesn’t have a pie in the house or is shopping for a pie, ordering a pie, or talking about a pie, then his life gets even more turbulent. Honestly, Mum, he is like a rugby ball. You never know which way he is going to bounce or what conversation is happening afterwards.

'I do feel guilty for laughing Mum, as I am not sure if a pie has replaced you, or because Dad's brain is simply thinking of the basics of eat, sleep and wash.

‘Most days he demands my attention as if I am serving with him in the Royal Air Force. After his morning pie, he calls me with a list of jobs he demands that need doing, and before I know it, we are off driving around the Sussex Countryside. He will talk nonstop about fishing, cats, or various jobs he has worked with on with Mario and Les, or how many people he had to manage when he was Foreman, and what wood was used.

I can smell the freshly planed wood shavings on my Dad's workshop floor. This must have been the last time I hung out with him, and even then, he used to give me a job. I used to hoover up the shavings on the evenings Mum was working in the pub. I chuckle to myself at this fond memory of sitting next to my dad in his work van as we drove home in the dark.

'Do you remember what he said when I asked him if he wanted to do a speech at my wedding?’ He looked so shocked I had even asked him, it was as if I was a stranger, and not his daughter.

Don’t you remember? He said, I don't know what to say about you Wendy, but I would, if you were a piece of wood. I start to laugh, ‘Oh, Mum, if you didn't laugh, you would cry, as you used to say to me’.

‘The other day he turned up at mine, I could tell it was him before he even arrived at the house, as his jazz was blaring from his car. I mean he is 82 years old Mum, and he rocks up like a boy racer in his Vauxhall Corsa. He marches in with his tweed trilby hat, and with that grin of his, he demands a tea, two sugars, strong but milky. Although this time he was a bit different, I could see his eyes were red, and as he drank his cup of tea, he was quiet for once. He cuddled the dogs and began to say, "I am a Widower Wendy, W.i.d.o.w.e.r. Strange word, Widower, isn't it?" and then he gulped his tea, put down his cup, demanded that I need to look into insurance policies for him, and he was gone. As quick as he turned up, he had gone again.

‘I have taken your lead though, so thank you for teaching me that one Mum, I just let him ramble on, as I can’t keep up with most of his conversations. If we are both honest though, I think Dad and I both enjoy the comfort of the drives around the countryside.’

Again, the twist of another memory of my youth reminds me of a trip with my Mum and Dad to Portsmouth, visiting the newly restored Mary Rose. Dad was so excited, but as soon as we got there, it was time to leave. ‘But like you used to say, Mum, Your Father would meet himself coming back Wendy'. After being with Dad these last few days, it is true.

‘He does organise me though Mum, it is satisfying for me, as the paperwork is getting done and your funeral is coming together. I think you would like it, Mum’. I pause as my stomach flips, and the world goes blank for a moment.

'The other day, we had to go back to the hospital to pick up your clothes. The whole 45 minutes it took to get us there, he talked nonstop. He didn't take a breath. He marched me through the hospital, giving his cheek to the nurses, charming them as he shares his fleeting stories about your lives.

‘He randomly told the nurse how he became a Joiner, and that he didn’t have a bag for his tools that he needed for his exams, so he wheelbarrowed them down Brixton High Street and completed his City and Guilds. Nothing stops him Mum, as without taking a breath he clumsily tells me that he saved a month’s wages for your Wedding Ring'.

‘I have to say Mum, he does have a cracking sense of humour, even on the bad days, I have been belly laughing at times. I can see why you fell in love with him, but I can also understand why you wanted to divorce him too. You can’t keep up with the man, even at 82’.

‘He still loves you Mum; I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes he seems so strong that I want to run into his arms to gain that strength and protection. But instead, he talks, and I drive around Sussex, which keeps both of us comforted with jobs, and plus you know I love a road trip.

‘Oh, Mum, do you remember how entertaining our first ever road trip was? That’s it, 1990 for your 48th birthday. I had just passed my driving test at 17, and I was so proud of myself and my new car. It was too hot for us Mum, don’t you remember, plus it was before the days of air conditioning, we bombed along the motorway. All the windows wound down on my shiny white ford fiesta, as we charged alongside the trucks after missing the Heathrow exit on the M25. For some reason, I had a bee in my bonnet that I did not want to go through the Dartford Tunnel and under the Thames, so we ended up going through London on the North Circular.

‘Oh, wasn’t that a perfect holiday? You took me to the 4 corners of Newark, ‘I can’t believe it either. You had 14 homes by the time you were 14. I am so grateful to you both that I only had 1 at that age.

Then my words stop. Empty. Silence. Blank. My brain has stopped at last.

I whisper ‘I'm so knackered Mum...and weary. The weary I have never experienced before......... Oh, you noticed too when your Mum died?’

‘I know, I know Mum, you were right. You always were. You always told me that ‘You never grew up until your Mum dies’. Well, it's happened, I have grown up Mum, and I don’t bloody like it’

I stop speaking for a moment, trying to catch my breath, still holding the phone to my ear. The wave of emotion rolls me back to her lap, nestled into the blue knitted jumper, playing with her rings as I comfort her hands.

‘Anyway, Mum, I chose the Sussex Oak Coffin, because Sussex Oak is the best, and you loved Sussex’.

I pour myself another glass of wine and put the phone down with another deep sigh. 'Silly bloody idiot', she would smile and chuckle at me.

'Night Mum, Sleep well, speak to you tomorrow. Love you'.

Chapter 2 – You couldn’t make this shit up

Oh, Mum, Dad is Dead.

OH, Mum, the police found him in the River Medway. It was the first day of the fishing season.

OH, MUM, Mum Mum Mum.

I drop to my knees, sobbing as if a blacked gloved hand has reached inside me, ripped at my throat and heart.

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, but can only say the silent cries of

I want my Mum, I want my Mum, I want my Mum, like a screaming toddler, and not a 40something old menopausal woman.

Chapter 3 - Take a Breathe

Hi Mum, yes I have calmed down a bit now. I pick up the phone, it is still silent at the other end, but I want the comfort of asking Mum the usual questions and familiarity.

How are you? How's your back?

My mind flits like a whirlwind as I chase it around into my body. Time seems to have disappeared, and all I can remember is times past and this whirlwind creating chaos.

My last conversation with Dad was of joy and excitement of the coming fishing season, the cuckoo I tracked and randomly Ghandi.

Not all my conversations were as cheerful over the years. For about 20 years, all he said to me was ‘Shall I get your mother' when I phoned Mum.

But from a few days before Mum went into hospital, he came to me with a vulnerability I had never seen before, and from then we practically spoke daily.

Mostly because he was dishing his orders to me, but also because we shared stories of our careers, history, nature and random stuff. I finally met my Dad as a Man, and he met the woman I had become.

My first memories of Dad are not conversations, but the smell of Bonfire Night or the sequins of his Mexican outfit on my cheek as I nestled exhausted against his chest. My feet throbbing from walking the procession with Mum. Hearing the chatter and excitement of our friends at Uncle Roy’s and Aunty Hilda’s.

Or his jumper full of wood shavings that made me itch when he struggled to stop me fidgeting and sit still. He would tuck me in beside him when I was sent or summoned ‘to your father’ for punishment.

When I look back now, it doesn't feel like punishment, because I also got a hug as we watched Worzel Gummidge, The Muppets, or Ski Sunday.

As a child, Dad always interested me and the way he lived life at pace. He was always doing something. I would wake up when he woke, be it for work or fishing. Normally about 5 or 6am, I would sit in the kitchen table watching him while he had a cuppa and made his flask. I would natter away and no doubt wind him up, but I was always so excited to know what he was up to and be near him.

I remember cleaning that flask and feeling so pleased with myself. I had dragged a chair to the sink and washed it up all on my own. Little did I know that I had nearly killed him, as I had used bleach, and it had not been washed out properly before he made his morning tea.

Comments

Ann Brady Fri, 04/06/2021 - 17:29

I found the theme interesting and unusual. It makes me wonder where the story will go. Certainly a good opening.

Wendy Turner Sun, 01/08/2021 - 14:48

In reply to by Ann Brady

Thank you kindly Ann. It truly will be a journey for the reader.

Hopefully one that will keep them entertained and to escape their own worlds to enter mine for a few pages at least.

Thank you again for taking the time to read.

With Smiles

Wendy

Ann Brady Fri, 04/06/2021 - 17:29

I found the theme interesting and unusual. It makes me wonder where the story will go. Certainly a good opening.

Charlotte Chorley Sat, 05/06/2021 - 10:24

This is a powerful love letter to a mother, and I really love the rich detail of the memories and non-verbal action. Excited to see what this writer produces next!

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