after the party

Mrs Weaver sinks into her armchair. There is an eery silence. The coloured balloons begin to deflat. She is glad that she didn't have to cook but looking around the room she realises she will have to tidy up the mess. Tea cups, paper plates, plastic cutlery, rolled up napkins, and party streamers are cluttering up her living room. Maybe she could sort it out in the morning. She had checked on Alice Grace, who was sleeping peacefully; the excitement had worn her out. She should really get to work on making the place look pretty again, as Mr Weaver says, but her body doesn't move. Her hand reaches out for the TV remote instead.

However, it touches something bigger that has been mislaid on the coffee table. Mrs Weaver carefully picks up the object. The words 'Alice Grace's memories as a baby' stand out on pieces of card like each letter is on a child's building block. Now she remembers Sue Cooper asking to see it. Always a nosey one. "It's a shame her first word wasn't mummy," Sue remarked as her fingers turned over to another page. She had agreed in hast but truth be known she was glad it was mamma. She was more glad that it wasn't dadda. Instead it had been "b-bye". At the time she had chuckled because Alice Grace gave a little bye hand movement too and she looked so cute. Not that she was saying bye to any one at the time.

Mrs Weaver gently opens the book and reads over the words, trying to treasure the memories that each picture and words bring. It doesn't take her long. It is only then that she realises that there are only 13 pages filled. Surely mothers were meant to record every moment of their child's life. Her eyes begin to sting. She tightly shuts them. The reading must have made them sore. After all she is fifity five today. The book gets closed and is quickly hidden in the drawer again. A tear trickles down Mrs Weaver's face as she starts gathering the rubbish together.

10 days old

A chequered blanket, which had been carefully placed in a woven basket, stirred just as a flame of orange burst across the sky. There were no witnesses who saw it move again; as if someone was punching it. The air blew no wind. The basket sat motionless on a slab of concrete. To be precise on the doorstop of number 13 Casta Way. It would be awhile before Mrs Weaver went to put her empty milk bottles out and for her to nearly tread on her new parcel. A bird can be heard chirruping in the distance. A soft, pleasant call – perhaps to a female. The dreamers embark on the last of their journeys. The snores will soon turn into yawns.

People quickly re-shut their eyes while they adjusted to the glare seeping through their curtains. ‘What a difference to last week’ they will think, glad the horrible weather is over. Suddenly, some of them will remember one particular event that everyone had been gossiping about. However, Mrs Weaver wasn’t one of these people. She had a long day ahead of her and the sooner she could get started on her work, the better. Mrs Weaver soon opened her crimson door. If she hadn’t decided to see if there were any clouds brewing she wouldn’t have stumbled upon the deserted object. Her heart skipped a beat. She leant forward but then rapidly bolted upright. She anxiously glanced up and down the street. It was empty. She grabs the basket and slams the door shut. Her breathing gets heavier as she peels back the blanket. There lies a sleeping baby. A gasp. A thud. Alice Grace wails. She has no idea why a strange woman is staring at her.

In the beginning...

Alice Grace was born on a wet Sunday afternoon at exactly 3:13 in her neighbough's back garden. There had been a lot of shouting when her little head decided to make an appearence in the world. It wasn't until Alice's lungs screamed louder than the adults surrounding her, that they realised she had been born. No one cooed. The wind whipped against their ears. No one made a fuss. The midwife was the only one who moved. No one noticed her full head of hair.

    "Get her inside before she freezes," the midwife mumbled.
Alice Grace's sobs were stiffled as her mother clasped her new bundle to her chest. Everyone stared as the new family made their way to the house. The smoke clogged up the air along with the stench of burnt sausages. The rain stained her mother's face. Alice was carried away, hidden, by her mother who wobbled through a house she wasn't welcomed at.  However, Alice knew none of this. Alice wasn't even Alice then. She was just a baby. An outcast the moment her eyes blinked.